Hell and Wheels

I’m a people person. Well, not really. What I mean is, I’m a character person. I love to fill my pretend worlds with pretend people.

It started when I was a child. I’d read books (my three favorites: Little Women, A Little Princess, and The Secret Garden) and envision myself there with the characters. But, I was never satisfied playing the part of Beth March or Sara Crew. I’d think of ways someone else would handle their situations, someone with different personality traits. That would lead me to fabricating another character. I’d name her and weave her into the storyline, editing the existing plot so she’d fit. Eventually, the story would evolve so the plot centered on her alone. Then, I’d play pretend – glorying in the world I’d altered to not only fit, but also revolve around, my newest character. As I grew older, I began to do it with TV shows and movies, always turning my creation into the heroine of the piece.

I no longer need the crutch of other people’s stories. I make my own. But the love of characterization still lives in me. I begin with a few traits – what will become their most dominant habits or qualities. Then, I scour the Internet for images of people who have similar physical characteristics as I envision for them. Once I have the basics down, I flesh out those principals of height, weight and hair color with the more subtle details. Even though most of it never touches the actual story, I need to know what they eat, what time they get up, what they dream about, if they shower or take baths…everything. From the major, traumatic event in kindergarten that made my heroine distrustful of men, to the reason why she thought paste might be tasty — it’s all important.

Of course, nothing is perfect the first time around. I find as I write more, my characters take on their own lives. My preconceived notions of them are sometimes disproved when they refuse to do a certain scene the way I wanted. I have to go back and consider if that idea of them is flawed, or if the scene is not right. Usually, it’s because that character has become something other than I’d originally planned for him or her to be.

I had that problem recently with Quinn. Initially, Quinn was a miniature of his uncle, always wanting to do the right thing, always wanting to be at peace with everyone. But, when tragedy struck, Quinn became rigid. He refused to accept what had happened and became impervious to reason. I didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t acting how I’d envisioned. The scene was crucial to the plot and had to stay, so I was forced to go back and look at his background. What I found was that Quinn wasn’t such a malleable guy, after all. In fact, he saw things as pretty much black and white, right and wrong. He couldn’t step outside himself and see a situation objectively, and certainly couldn’t view events from someone else’s perspective. He took me by surprise. And I learned that’s the way creating characters goes, it’s a growing process for everyone.

So, in the spirit of celebrating characters, I’ll finish this with a message from Resonance herself:

Hey guys,

Happy Fourth! Since tomorrow’s Independence Day, I’d like everyone who feels somehow trapped to declare their own mini day of independence. If you hate your job – leave it. If you think your style could do with a little liberating – do it. Take hold of your life and be yourself because there’s nothing worse than living in a free country and still being under the control of others.

In the U.S. we can do pretty much anything with our lives and no can stop us. So, why is it that we let ourselves be blended into one giant mass of sameness? Why do we feel pressured to conform? Why do we let our hairstyles and clothing choices be dictated by a handful of people scattered across the planet we’ve never even met?

In the spirit of independence, I want you to decide enough’s enough. For all the fathers who quit their dreams to support their kids; for all the women who ‘toned down’ their rebellious styles to get along better with the hoardes of soccer moms in their neighborhood; and for all the kids out there who are fucking sick and tired of wearing the same shit as everyone else, tomorrow is the day to take it all back.

Be different. Be yourself. Be free.

And don’t blame me if you get in trouble.

Later,
Res

I have been slowly working my way through ‘Resonance’. I still haven’t figured out the ending. I’m sick of, “good girl beats the big bad in classic all-out brawl,” so I’m trying to think outside the box. I’ve considered a good many ideas, and have thrown out just as many. I’ve resorted to indirect thinking – keeping it always in the back of my mind, but not concentrating on it too much. I find when I attempt to force ideas, my brain locks up. Instead, I keep a nice neutral hum in my head — now thankfully facilitated by having my eardrums blown by standing front and center at a

Ministry show last night.

I’ve had some good ideas for other parts of the novel, which I’ve gone back and edited. I’ve made Quinn and Wyatt more active and tried to make Resonance a little more sympathetic, which was difficult. She’s somewhat of a bitch, and needs to be for the story’s sake. It doesn’t help her win reader sympathy too fast, though. So, I’ve tried to give a glimmer of insight into her issues to help keep the readers interested in her long enough to see how she evolves. But, kids, that’s all I’m going to say about her, here. If you want to know her better, and maybe discover some hints about the plot of ‘Resonance,’ you can check out her MySpace blog. The link is on this page.

The plans for my sequel, ‘Harmony’ and my stand-alone novel, ‘Green Dahlia’ are also coming along well. I have basic character outlines for all major characters as well as the bare bones laid out for each of their plots. I have piles of index cards by my desk, as well as upstairs near the bathroom since the shower is an incredible place for ideas, I’ve found. More than once I’ve dashed out in just a towel to write a drippy note to myself about some revelation I’ve just had about one of the stories.

This post is a little sloppier than my others. Again, I’ll blame it on getting in at four in the morning and on this crazy buzzing in my ears – which is truly distracting. I can’t complain though. I was ten feet from Al Jourgensen and managed to catch a pick thrown expressly to me by the Revolting Cock’s guitarist. I felt special.

Anyway, tomorrow means back to the drawing board.

Well, a few weeks ago I submitted my grand finale to my writing partner. It was promptly shot down.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. What really happened was I got questions. And more questions, and then confusion. Not exactly the mental picture I had when I presented my greatest accomplishment to my peer.

So, I pouted. Then, I dismissed his critique outright. Ten minutes later, I agreed with him. After I was able to put away my bruised ego, I realized every discrepancy he’d pointed out was dead on. This wasn’t his fault. It was mine.

With so many issues staring me in the face, I did what any determined, hard-nosed writer would do. I rented Kingdom Hearts II – which I now realize would be much easier to maneuver if I’d bothered to play the first one (It was Jack Sparrow who did it to me. I had to play with my very own mini Johnny Depp). I’ve cleaned out my attic and worked in my yard. I’ve done everything and anything to avoid dealing with the major problem — the ending.

It’s not like I haven’t done any work, though. I actually changed a few earlier chapters to make Quinn (the antagonist) and Wyatt (his uncle) more proactive. I’ve made notes on how to address the easier complications my partner pointed out. I just can’t fathom wrangling that ending.

The problem is, telling a story is like pouring something into a funnel. You start with this wide-open space with limitless room to move. Then, as you get nearer to the end, the space constricts, and those particles of information become closer, and eventually blend together. But, if one particle doesn’t fit, not much will be coming out the other side. So, that’s what I have right now – a funnel full of sand with a couple of Legos chucked in there. The damn Legos are jamming up the works.

Taking a step back, though, and viewing my situation objectively, it’s safe to say this is not the end of the world. After all, I’m a writer. I play make-believe for a living (well, I would if I were getting paid right now). I get to invent entire worlds and populate them with anyone I want. It’s not so bad. In fact, most people would probably want to smack me for the amount of complaining I’ve done thus far.

I’ve done the “real world” and held (however briefly) many of its unappetizing occupations. I remember what it’s like to struggle through a day of boredom or stress or contention. And I’m grateful every day that I’m here, doing this. Still, there are moments when this job is pretty tough. But, they’re only moments. And “tough” is definitely a relative term.

I’ll get it. It may take me a couple more weeks to get back into it (and not because of Kingdom Hearts, either, because if that dude with the water-shooting guitar smacks me down one more time, I’m chucking the entire machine out the nearest window), but I will finish. And this time my ending will be the one I’d imagined it to be.

So, I’ve come clean on MySpace. I’d originally set up the page with a few hints Resonance wasn’t real, but without actually saying it. Then, when some kick-ass bands starting asking to be my friend, I felt really bad. Hence, the Brady Guilt.

I’ve always had it. My parents said I even told on myself when I was little. I’d do something wrong, and announce it. Not out of pride, but out of an unbearable feeling of wrongness. I’m a Brady.

But, if you compare our profiles, it’s easy to see Resonance didn’t fall far from the proverbial tree. My love of punk and industrial just happens to be her love, as well. There aren’t many novels out there that explore these worlds. Odds are, I didn’t do them enough justice.

I’m an old punk. Not to say I came from the golden days of punk, but that I came into punk-dom late in life. I didn’t get to spend my crucial teen years enmeshed in the culture. I had to do a little research, and then speculate how it would draw in, and affect an angry girl. Lucky for me, I had a sibling who managed to have a true D.C., alternative young adulthood. While I wore flipped up collars and sweater vests, she wore…God knows what, really. She helped guide me in the correct direction. Anything else – good or bad – I’m solely responsible for.

Still, the love for the music is there. If I butchered the rest, then, at least that will stand out as truth. Which is why I had to come clean to my new band friends – the boys who live the life every single day, playing in dives and screaming their black little hearts out.

God save the mohawk.

Monsters and demons are what I write about. I’m not sure when the fascination started. Maybe it was when I began to worry vampires lived under the covers at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to uncurl my legs so they could bite my toes. Or, maybe it was when I found the Time Life series on the occult when I was in middle school, checking out the book on ghosts fifteen times in one year, scaring the crap out of myself with imaginings of a run-in with my doppelganger. But, whatever the catalyst, I became fascinated by monsters.

I’ve read enough books to understand the basic principle that all societies have their share of creatures who lurk at the fringes of desolate places, forbidden areas, and the edges of reason and logic, providing an outlet for our primeval fears – darkness, death, and even being eaten alive. Most people in our modern society go on about their lives, only occasionally aware of the possible existence of these denizens of the dark (usually occurring right after a spectacularly gory horror flick). But I did take notice and found something inexplicably comforting in the potential existence of monsters.

As a child, my hopes of participating in a magical world were shot down – Santa, the Easter Bunny, trolls, unicorns, and mythical lands of happily-ever-after all fell to the wayside as my belief in their existence was explained away by reality. Even as I write, there are the crypto zoologists trying to spoil my delusions, attempting to justify the existence of Bigfoot and Ogopogo through evolution. These specialists say monsters are simply animals yet to be classified. What they don’t understand is, as soon as Bigfoot gets a scientific name, it will become just another animal. No longer a fearsome monster. Nothing special.

I long for the special, the incredible — the supernatural. I don’t want to walk in a world of just humans. I want to step down a dark street, instantly on the alert for vampires lurking in dark alleys, or hike into an eerie wood, ever watchful for werewolves tracking me through dense thickets, or walk on the shores of a dark river, eyes sweeping the sandy edge for kelpies waiting to pull me down. I want to believe there are things our eyes can’t see until they wish us to (which would probably be just about five seconds after “too late”).

But, there are problems with my wishes. The foremost is, in reality, I’d be food. I’m fairly certain there’s no vampire on the face of the earth who’d want me hanging around for eternity. So, there goes the idea of being bitten and turned into one. The second is, I have no means by which to destroy my demonic attacker in an epic battle of good vs. evil – no matter how nice the notion sounds to my ego.

No. I’d be a giant, walking appetizer.

So, I exist with monsters the only way I can; I write them into my stories. There, I have control over them. I bring them to life and, just for a moment, they inhabit the same time and space as I do. They do their demonic worst, and I manufacture the heroine who can kick their collective asses. She puts a hurting on them, and I put them away.

But, they continue to walk with me, my monsters. I hope they always will.

In school, I used to dread essays. Most kids did. But, while other children feared the seemingly unachievable word count, I feared the limit.

Yep. I’m one of those. I was the kid asking if it was okay to turn in twenty pages instead of fifteen. I’m the one you used to throw wads of paper at and threaten to take care of after class.

It wasn’t that I loved writing more content; it was just easier. My big, bad demon was – and still is – editing myself. For all the other writers out there that struggle to fill those blank pages with words, I’m sweating bullets trying to make them go away.

Most first novels run between 100,000 and 150,000 words. Mine is upwards of 250,000. This isn’t a mere case of deleting a few adjectives and making sentences smaller; it’s hacking, chopping, and rending my story and then sewing it back together like Frankenstein’s monster, hoping it, too, still has life at the end.

First go the superfluous scenes – the intermittent pieces of fluff I once thought charming. Then I started in on the chapters themselves, demolishing whole scenes in order to skim a few hundred words here and there. But, I was nowhere near my goal. So, I’ve turned on entire chapters, once again playing that “what if” game with myself that I thought I was done with when plot outlining was finished. “What if I cut out the part of the story where she finds out…?” and “What if I make her do this, instead of that? That way, I can consolidate two chapters into one, much shorter, chapter.”

I’ve been forced into minimalism.

The gleaming jewel that seemed so perfect when it originally flowed from my fingers is now a giant hunk of beef slapped down on the cutting board. Problem is, I don’t just have to trim the fat; I need to turn a Porterhouse into a Filet.

That’s a lot of cow.

What do you do when you wake up one day and realize you’ve given up? That at some point an invisible contract had been signed, saying you waive your rights to do better, to be better? That settling is enough, and maybe, just maybe, you’re not really any better off than your parents were before you?

Well, if you’re me, you put red, then blue, then pink and platinum in your black hair. You wear knee-high shitkickers and too much eyeliner.

You rebel.

Just like the gothlings before me – those who had sense enough to buck the system before it swallowed them whole – I became all that my parents found unacceptable.

It wasn’t a juvenile attempt at revenge, or the blame game. It was simply my declaration of gaining back the future I’d signed away in that moment I accepted the possibility of being mediocre.

In high school, I was as idealistically naive as anyone could be. I wanted to become a forest ranger – despite my abhorrence of insects, my loathing of sleeping on the ground (particularly when that surface had any chance of turning into mud), and a general concern with being shot at. Still, the idea of being nature’s protector called to me. Of course, it never happened.

After that flash of brilliance came teaching, and then nursing. But, my math skills were abysmal and my patience limited. Again with the unattainable goals.

Oh yeah, I also wanted to be a writer. Funny, the only profession that called to me was the one I shied away from the most. If something came easily to me – as writing did – then it couldn’t be worth having, right? I needed a profession in which I had to struggle, cry every other day, and nearly kill myself studying for in order to feel worthy of the end result.

But, I have yet another quality – inherent laziness. Too frustrated for advanced algebra, too dumb for chemistry, and too ready to snap little necks rather than see the innocent wonder in acts of impishness, I just left school.

I hopped from job to job, entertaining the most ridiculous ideas of where my life was going and how I was going to get there. In the meantime, I settled in. I became accustomed to the trained monkey work. I got used to not having to think, of having zero inspiration. The writing dried up. My happiness dwindled. Ten years passed, and I was mired in complacency.

How did I manage to find my way back out? Not by any act of heroism on my part. Not by genius or determination. Only by luck, and love.

It’s taken me the better part of two years, but I’ve finished my first novel, a dark fantasy called “Resonance.” In my new quest for publication, I find myself on the unknown path. I’ve checked my complacency at the door.

I’ve stopped railing against ghost enemies.

This space contains the playlist I created for the novel, as well as a few cut scenes.  Enjoy.

PLAYLIST

I created this playlist with the novel in mind. It is meant to be listened to, of course. But, if you’ve read the novel you should be able to follow the arc of the story from the track names alone. The artists listed below were monumental inspiration and influence in writing the story of the nihilistic, angry young woman who eventually finds she has everything to lose. And I would like to thank them all. Please check out the songs, then click the links below to go to the artists’ page.

http://assets.mixpod.com/swf/mp3/mixpod.swf?myid=76596022&path=2011/02/03

Create a playlist at MixPod.com

THE FULL PLAYLIST, SONGS AND ARTISTS, WITH LINKS:

To Hell With you                    Sister Machine Gun
Pretty When You Cry             VAST
Thursday’s Child                   David Bowie
Caught in a Jar                     Dropkick Murphys
AntiSocial                              Lars Frederiksen & The Bastards
Waiting                                  Ministry
Zerospace                            Kidneythieves
Today We Are All Demons   Combichrist
Share This Poison                Razed in Black
Desperate                            The Distillers
Heart-Shaped Tumor           De/Vision
Winter in My Heart               VAST
Walking With Strangers        The Birthday Massacre
Beautiful                               Tapping the Vein
Vapour                                 Aleah
I am a Revenant                  The Distillers
Free Your Hate                    K.M.F.D.M.
Familiar Taste of Poison      Halestorm
I Am the Rain                       Assemblage 23
Welcome to the End            Bif Naked
My Way                               (Sid Vicious)The Sex Pistols

CUT SCENES


As with any work, sometimes changes have to be made.  Oftentimes it’s because a better idea came along later.  Sometimes, though, a scene may be amusing, but serve no other real purpose.  Whatever the reason, a good chunk of one’s body of work ends up in the “archived” folder.  Here are a few scenes from Resonance that never made it to publication.

This scene is from the first incarnation of the novel. It made it through one or two editing rounds, and then I cut it out, mostly for brevity’s sake, but also because I didn’t like the tone it set for Res and Wyatt’s relationship. But, it’s an amusing read on its own. It takes place just after the Massawangee Cypress Swamp Stone trial when Resonance is talking to the necromancers about her mother’s growing interest in Doug, and dissipating trust in her daughter.

************

“I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do,” Wyatt said.

“You can give me a paycheck,” Resonance said.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Wyatt’s eyes widened.

“You know what I said.” She gave a cool shrug. “I’ve kinda been telling Mom I’ve been coming here for on-the-job-training for the past two weeks. I told her it was without pay, which she flipped over, but then I told her it would be given to me in back pay after the three month probation period.” She paused to gauge Wyatt’s reaction–which took the form of a bulging vein in the middle of his forehead. “Soon, though,” she continued, biting back a smile, “she’s going to start harping on me about bringing home a check, so I thought you could just write me one. Eight hundred ought to cover it.”

“I–don’t, I…” Wyatt stammered.

“Come on, I won’t even cash it. I just need to show her something to get her off my back.”

“I can’t just… Why didn’t you…?” He turned an accusatory stare on Quinn. “Did you know about this?”

Quinn looked nonplussed.

“We haven’t been talking too much lately,” she answered, voice flat, eyes daring Quinn to speak. She shrugged again. “It’s no big deal, really. You don’t have to do it. Of course, Mom might come knocking on your door, demanding to know why I haven’t gotten paid. She would, you know. She thinks I’m a drooling idiot. Even worse, she’ll accuse me of funneling it all up my arm and turn me over to some rehab clinic in upstate New York, which would severely hamper my saving the world and all.”

“Are you always this manipulative?” Wyatt asked, the first hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Pretty much.” She flashed a wolfish grin.

“Why don’t you just get a job?”

“Please. I can barely look at people, let alone work with them. Besides, you’d rather have me here, memorizing all of your family journals and magic books and becoming your personal reference set, right?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wyatt said, shaking his head. “You are a little extortionist aren’t you?”

“If I was that bad, I’d make you give me cash.”

“Thanks so much,” Wyatt replied dryly. “If your mother has questions”–he sighed audibly–“tell her to call me.”

A roller derby bout consists of two thirty-minute periods.  Each period has an unlimited number of up to two minute “jams.”  There are always two teams on the track.  Each team is made up of one jammer, one pivot, and three blockers.

The first whistle blows and the pack (the pivots and blockers of both teams skating in close proximity) takes off, keeping the pace set by the pivot.  When the last member of the pack crosses the pivot line, the second whistle blows and the jammers take off.  Roller derby is essentially a race, with each jammer juking, dodging and sprinting her way through the pack.  Her team’s blockers help her get through the pack and attempt to knock out of bounds or stall the opposing jammer, while the opposing blockers try to do the same.  The first jammer to make it through the pack is “lead jammer” and can call off the jam at any point by placing her hands repeatedly on her hips.  The jammers will not score points on their first pass through the pack, but instead have to sprint around and re-enter the pack again.  This time, they earn a point for every opposing blocker they pass.  The jam runs for two minutes, or until the lead jammer calls it off.

I am primarily a blocker, meaning I do my best to keep the other team’s jammers from scoring points.  I have been an occasional Pivot in scrimmages, and am always up to play recreational Jammer.  Check out the FAQ section of the first link below for more rules of the game:

Women’s Flat Track Derby Association — Home of everything roller derby.

Think You’re Clever?  Odds are someone already has that derby name you thought up last week in that bar with your friends after watching “Whip It.”

Back in the Day — Roller Derby History — Everything you want to know about the game as it was, and how it got to be what it is.

Keep checking back here.  I’ll probably post some good photos of yours truly bouting throughout the season.

This is my derby face.  You don’t want to get in it.