Make me stop!

Wow. I can see the light reflecting from the floor tiles three back from the end of the tunnel!

If you're not a writer, let me explain. The work is NEVER done. Even after something has been published, I can go back and skim through it and wince. "Gee, maybe I should have reworked that sentence; it's a little awkward." And before I know it, presto! I'm rewriting something that ostensibly is done.

I am soooooooooooooo close to being done with Asphodel. Sooooooooooooooo close to being able to close the book on it (ha ha! made a funny!) and move on to another project. I'm writing the last 15k of the last book. I'm doing the final proofs on book one as it gets ready for publication. I have PRESS KITS for god's sake! BUT I STILL TWEAK THE DARN THING DAILY.

*sigh* Rewriting for me isn't a sit down and bang it out kind of venture. Rewriting for me occurs as follows: I sit down to read my manuscript. If I'm into the story, then obviously there are no mistakes (until the next time I read it.) If something makes my engrossment stumble, there's a problem. I ran the grammar check on Asphodel last night (I hit ignore on it usually. Some of its 'errors' aren't and I will use sentence fragments, damnit!) and the manuscript has a Fleisch-Kincaid grade level of 4.9 and a reading ease level of 80.7. That's pretty good, I think. It means my younger brother might be able to read half of the first page.

So yes...hopefully my editor can pry the manuscript out of my sweaty, desperately clutching hands before I rewrite the whole darn thing. I'm sure she will; she's quite forceful. Make me stop!! I'll be good....I promise.

Spoilers and Buttholes

You know, I'm surprised it took this long for someone to leak Harry Potter.

Here we are, some scant three days away from the resolution of a series that single-handedly is responsible for dragging kids away from the Wii and Playstation and back into books, and some yehaw moron decides to swipe a copy of Deathly Hallows, scan it, and post it online.

Aside from the fact that it's PIRACY which is ILLEGAL, it's absolutely a cold-blooded thing to do. I mean, yeah, I've had my moments of assholishness. the one that immediately pops to mind happened about ten years ago when I was doing summer stock. Another actor was reading "Of Mice and Men". I walked up and asked, "Is this the first time you've read that book?"

"Yeah, it is."

"How cool. By the way, Lenny dies."

He was on page seven. Granted, I didn't like him that much. But, by that point the book had been out for decades. It's not like I broke into Steinbeck's house, stole his manuscript, and spammed it to the world.

Whoever this cheese-eater is, he's in for a world of hurt. As stringent as Bloomsbury has been about protecting the Harry Potter manuscript and its secrets, there's going to be a slew of lawyers descending on this second-rate bookstore employee with lots and lots of papers that will deprive him of all of the comfort he's enjoyed in his mother's basement for the past ten years. Even hear of wage garnishment, pal? Your crap's going to Rowling for a looooooooong, looooooooooong, time.

Dumbass.

You know, it's amazing to me that so many people derive so much pleasure out of ruining it for everyone else. I really, really hope this guy gets what is coming to him. Running his toes through a woodchipper comes to mind. As a reader, and a fan of Rowling and her work, I am very, very angry. I'm an adult, so I can deal with it; I just hate to think of how this makes the kids who've been eagerly waiting for this feel.

As a writer it really pisses me off. Rowling, too, has been waiting for this release for ten years. The excitement she must feel at bringing her quest to conclusion is incomprehensible to me, mostly because I can't imagine anyone wanting to know the end of MY series on this level. So some anonymous slimeball thought it was funny to ruin it for her too.

Pitiful.

So, I hope you got your rocks off, pal. I hope you're getting a big old chuckle out of this. you won't be laughing for long.

And if anyone thinks that my rants about e-piracy were ridiculous, think about how ten million children worldwide must feel tonight. The glory, the curiosity, the fascination, the anticipation of these last few days has now been ruined for them--and all because someone thought that freedom of speech extended to thievery.

Stream of Conciousness

Well, life is never dull, is it? After going to fight with a fly-by-night car dealer who defrauded my daughter (I told the kid not to buy the car...) my fangs are totally itching. I just want to beat somebody.

Good thing I'm tending bar tonight.

We just got wifi here at the Fariview so now I can entertain myself during slow periods. My trusty laptop comes to work with me every day anyway, and I have lately discovered the joys of showing people my video trailers while I'm at work. Hopefully , some of them will BUY MY BOOK...you know, just to be different.

Promo would be very easy if all I had to do was spam the world with the words BUY MY BOOK. Shame it doesn't work that way. I'm getting my press kits (gasp! press kits? Are you KIDDING me?) ready for Asphodel. Apparently, I need a picture. *grin* Guess you guys finally get to find out what I look like. Oh dear.

Four more days until Harry Potter! yay!

So I'm sitting in the bar (I work in an hour) and all of the guy regulars are looking at me as if I'm bizarre. *sigh* Why do laptops scare the elderly? I'm not hacking into the FBI computer, guys, honest I'm not.

Went to my back doctor last week. I'm back on meds again. *sigh* It does make the bartending easier, but isn't doing a heck of a lot for my ability to see straight. I have to remind myself, however, that the first drafts of the Asphodel books were written on Percocet. maybe my muse is a secret pill popper. Maybe that's the secret! Maybe, just maybe, I NEED to keep her medicated in order for her to produce!

Wait a second...has she been undergoing DTs since I've been off medication? Is THAT why she's been so snippy? Hmm.....point to consider.

Oh well.

And life interferes again

You know if I could have a one month period where nothing went wrong, I'd be a much happier person.

And I'd drink less.

After yet another week spent in hospitals and dealing with family crap I am back online again. Hopefully, it will remain calm for a while, since Asphodel is about to be released and I'm waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay behind on writing once more. Stay tuned--I'll be announcing some BIG news later this week.

Mega-Rant-Warning! Danger ahead!

I hate the weekends.

Friday through Sunday my days are not my own. Having reached the decision to cram a week's worth of work into 2 1/2 days so I can do unimportant things like...oh, I don't know--pay my bills...it is absolutely driving me nuts to be trapped in the same space with a whole slew of drunks when I could be working.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.

Let me just tell you all first thing that no matter how funny you THINK you are when you're drunk, the only sober person in the room is invariably NOT amused.

Ever.

Particularly if aforesaid sober person is trying to work through a plot snag on her notepad secreted in the back corner of the bar while you whine and bitch on your barstool. Oh? And tapping that empty beer bottle on the bar to get the sober person's attention does NOT equate "Excuse me, Celina, I'm sorry to bother you but can I have another beer?"

No. It's Morse Code for "I am an asshole." After about three taps it becomes permanent Morse Code for "I am a THIRSTY asshole."

I mean seriously! You guys think I'm vindictive when I blog? You should see me when I tend bar! Geesch.

THEN, imagine my surprise to discover that not only is my weekend screwed up but that not one but two bartenders are 'unavailable to work this week.' Yep--you guessed it. I get to work the Fourth of July when the carnival and fireworks are across the street from the bar. Huh? Okay, well there goes another day of work this week. Freaking lovely. I should be in bed right now hoping for a few hours of sleep. Instead I have to get myself kicked into high gear on the off-chance that I have to produce 80,000 words in the next week. Just to add insult to injury I have to work open to close next Sunday. Just to put that into perspective, that's 11 a.m. Sunday morning to 2:30 am Monday morning.

*sigh*

How lovely. At any rate, I'm sitting at a fairly comfortable 37,691 words at the moment. If push comes to shove I can do a quick cleanup of the first three chapters and write a final chapter to submit. Still, it's a grind. *grin* Story's fun to write though.

In other news, the first beta reader is about halfway through the anthology. So far the response is fairly positive. The second beta should have his response in some time this week. Hopefully, it will exceed our expectations.

Oh well. Back to the millstone. I'll let you guys know if I survive it.

And the theme of the week is...

...critiques.

My fellow Dragon's Den writers know that I have slacked off seriously in the critique department as of late. I'm so busy correcting my own work that I haven't had much time to get to other people's. Still, I try to eke out some time every once in a while to get it done. On another writers' forum I participate in, there have been no fewer than five or six threads started on critiquing.

Some of them complain. Some of them are about writers who can't handle the criticism. Some of them are writers telling other people to stop whining. And yet others display a sense of entitlement that's really quite disturbing. The thing that really gets me? MOST OF THEM DON'T CRITIQUE.

So here's my definitive take on it: if you post work to be critiqued, you must critique in return. It is your responsibility as a critic to respect the other writer's work, while still pointing out problem areas in the plot and technique as a service to him or her. If you get critiqued, suck it up, say thank you, and take a good, hard look at the points the critic brought up.

How hard is that?

Yes, I whine about my edits. That doesn't mean I don't DO them. I'm just horrified that that I still have so many errors. That's natural. But to take it to an extreme? Ridiculous.

What of published authors who receive unfavorable reviews? I've seen several posts this week bitching about reviews Uh, excuse me....you're published. It's kind of stupid to generate bad will with someone who is paid to read and evaluate your work. Are all reviewers infallible?

*snort!*

Of course not, but for god's sake at least you were reviewed!

Moving on again: reading an agent's blog this week, I saw three or four people that were complaining on the blog about rejections they had received. Isn't that just a wee bit stupid? Isn't that a lot likesuing the company you're trying to get to hire you?

*hmmph*

The internet has many uses. It is a tool I use and enjoy every day. Unfortunately, one of the greatest uses of the online community as of late is the ability for any asshole to bitch about something. There is a difference between a professional and an amateur author. The biggest difference?

The ability to keep your mouth shut. Get over it and channel that energy into writing--and critiquing--something. Then it will have been spent in a useful fashion.

Celina rant, over and out.

Distractions

I can't concentrate today. I've been too concerned with why the Pepto doesn't work. So, in response to my intestinal agitation, I meandered on over to the Smart Bitches site and took a gander at what they have going on.

Uh oh. More cover snarkiness.

*snicker*

Sad but true, I laughed until I cried. It wasn't so much the covers as the comments they make on them. I can't even really describe it without stomping on some formidable toes...and gods forbid any of MY covers get honked. It did make me wonder, though, how I'd react if one of my covers DID get snarked upon over there.

*snicker*

Probably just about like that. Book covers are supposed to sell books, right? Well, I have to admit I popped on over to the Lady Aibell site and checked out the alien book. I couldn't help myself. I just had to know.

At any rate, the book is listed under a section called Hillbilly Haven--oh dear!--and you can read the blurb for it here. Granted, it's not my cup of tea, but it DID get me to go look. It sounds like something I would write for one of my crit group's Friday Night Writes--on purpose to be a smartass.

Now, a friend of mine did comment that Eros looked like a psycho killer on the cover of my first book Goddess' Revenge--and I agreed with him. He did. But I thought it was funny. *grin* guess where I'm trying to go with this is simply this: no need to get your knickers in a knot if someone snarks your cover. Even a bad cover (particularly a VERY bad cover) might get people to go look at your book and if your blurb is well-written and has a nice hook, they might buy your book regardless.

For example, this recent comment I got on an email from someone who bought Goddess' Revenge:

I don't usually buy stuff from Changeling because I don't like their
covers, but this is definitely one example of 'don't judge a book by its cover' ,because your story was fabulous.

See? So snark away at my demon-eyed stalker covers! I think the shit is funny. *grin* Just don't laugh at my adverbs--then I might have to kill you.

The Reckoning of Asphodel Excerpt

As promised...

Prelude


My life is divided into two parts: before, and after. My memories of before are almost sacred to me, with all of the poignant wistfulness most people lend only to their dreams or ambitions.


I have driven my memories of after away from my consciousness in some desperate attempt to recapture the untroubled serenity of before. Squarely between the two halves of my life is a single day.


I will never truly understand what happened that day. If I did not weep then, I do now. The gods never grant omniscience to us at these times, and they never grant forgetfulness in the dark days that follow.


Memory is a chancy thing, and I must rely upon mine to tell me what came to pass in my father’s orchard. Ultimately, the remembrance brings me nothing but the thought of death and the taste of fear. It hangs like a painting in the hall of my dreams: frothy pink blossoms tumbling against the black and green clouds as a brutal wind shreds them from the trees, the whispering touch of the snow pelting against my bare skin, and the profound malodor of ruin and devastation and death. The smell returns to me most vividly, still hovering in my nostrils, more than the pain or the grief or the fury. I will carry the stench with me to my tomb. Snow was once a joy to me, child of the northern forests that I am, but now it bears me into the abyss of horror that forever dwells for me in the winter clouds.


The sun rose upon a lovely early spring day. Its rays streamed through my windows and awakened me with the promise of another day in the meadows. I lay in my bed, watching the new light brush beauty along the trees. My family’s orchards were renowned, and this spring they were particularly lovely.


I was a girl just coming into herself: twelve years old, skinny knees, unruly hair and all. Where my mother had the fair beauty of the oceans, and my father the earthiness of the orchards, I was a different matter. My hair was deep black, and my eyes were so light a blue some people called them silver.


I jumped out of bed that morning before my nurse came to wake me, scrambling into my clothes and pulling my hair roughly from my face. The day called to me so I snatched a chunk of warm bread from the kitchen and ran outdoors. I darted into the orchard for my favorite pastime­--annoying the workers. I was happy as I slipped through the new grass that was just tall enough to brush the sides of my feet after the long winter’s reign.

I don’t remember how long I remained in my contented reverie that day, or what finally jarred me from it. I was perched about ten feet up in one of the cherry trees when an abrupt shift of wind caught my attention. I looked up.

The sky was lurid, a swirling greenish-purple, suspended from the heavens with a chain of wind. Then, the wind blew cold and my dangling feet became instantly chilled. Mindful of all of the repeated admonitions against cold-catching that I received from my nurse, I carefully climbed down the tree. A sudden electric charge whirred past my head, making the hair rise from my scalp, and I turned to look at the terrace.


My mother stood in the center of the courtyard, the basket she used for her weekly rounds of the laborers’ cottage spilled at her feet. Six men confronted her. Five wore the plain garb of soldiers and the sixth unrecognizable in a long, dark cloak. As if something warned me to stay hidden I slid behind the broad, gnarled trunk of the tree, crouched close to the ground and watched.


The cloaked man spoke to my mother. I couldn’t hear what he said; the wind snatched his voice away and spun it into the swirling clouds. A sudden shout rose from my right and I saw my father run toward the tangle of men on the terrace.

The stranger turned and gestured. His dark cloak billowed and a flash of lightning suddenly streaked down from the clouds. My horrified eyes saw a jagged bolt of blue-white fire strike--oh, so slowly--and cleave Prosper de Asphodel’s sturdy frame. He stiffened in the split second before the searing flash sundered his body, and he fell without a sound, rolling into a blackening heap on the grass.


My mother swayed strongly, her eyes widening and her mouth opening in a silent cry of anguish. My hands tightened on the bark of the old tree, and sparks flew before my eyes. My first impulse was to run to my mother, but even as I thought it Solange de Asphodel’s jaws snapped shut and she jerked herself straight. Her face suddenly fell into a blank, shuttered expression and her lips pressed tightly into a thin line.


The man laughed and I saw him clearly for the first time. He was tall and slender, with blond hair the same chameleon shade as my mother’s that whipped around his arrogant, strongly-cut face. He grasped her throat in one hand and drove her to her knees. The capricious wind died down for a moment and I heard what he said. “You will not live beyond this day. Your small powers cannot harm me, as you know. I will grant you an easy death if you give me the child.”

“I have no child,” she said, her voice roughened by the pressure against his throat.


“You lie,” he replied as her hands curved around his wrist.


“You will have to kill me, brother!”


“Brother!” he spat. “I am no brother to a half-Elven bastard! Your death is a certainty, Solange. If you give me the brat, I will make it an easy one.”

“I will not,” she said simply.

He struck her then and she crumpled to the flagstones of the terrace, stunned. She put her hands, those long, elegant hands that soothed me to sleep every night, to her bruised throat and looked up at him.


“I have a prophecy for you, my brother,” she said and the words sounded in my ears as if I were right next to her. “You will kill me, on the order of the usurper, but you will not find my child. She will find you. You will lead this kingdom into war, and your name will be Death. You will fear many things; treachery, revelation, and betrayal. Nevertheless, in the end it will be your name that you fear the most, for it will mean all three.”


He stared down at her, a frown stretching his cold, handsome face.


She drew her knees up to her chest, dropped her head, and closed her eyes. I saw a small, hidden smile creep across her face. “You don’t know what your actions have created this day, my brother,” she finished and I detected a thrill of triumph in her voice. “Your doom watches you even now.”


He turned his back on her and peered into the orchards and fields around the house. I did not move, knowing if I did he would see me. Once again he turned back to my mother, who huddled in that defensive and submissive position with an obscurely exultant smile on her concealed face.


“So be it, my sister,” he replied, gesturing behind him. “My doom may be watching me, but yours is already here.”


Two more men approached from the stable yard. Without looking at them, he said, “Kill the people. Burn the house but leave the orchards. I will deal with them.”


My mother didn’t move but her eyelids flickered just once. The man’s back was to me so I edged closer to the orchard wall. The hard winter had tumbled some of the stones from it and in my mind I felt the urgent order to get out of the orchard and beyond the wall. Cautiously, I slid through the early spring debris of fallen branches and exposed roots and sped toward the breach.


I tumbled through the gap, panting with fear for my mother. Rolling to my knees, I turned back to the scene on the terrace. As my desperation grew so did the wind, as if it somehow fed upon my emotions and it sliced through the thrashing trees. A squad of heavily armed soldiers ran into the castle, drawing their swords as they did so.


“Solange de Asphodel, I convict you as a traitor and a renegade sorceress. Your half-spawned brat will pay the ultimate cost of your treachery.” The man smiled as he drew his long sword from the sheath at his side.


“Fine treachery, Gabril. You convict me for the blood I bear.”

She looked beautiful in that moment as she knelt before his naked sword without a tremor, her back straight and her eyes unwaveringly fixed upon his face.


He stared at her for a long moment, apparently searching for something in her eyes. “Just so,” he said mildly and without another word or extraneous gesture ran the blade through her throat.


The blood fell onto her simple blue gown, splashed onto the long, pale rope of her hair, and then cascaded down to burst upon the stones of the terrace. She fell with a terrible gurgling rasp into the rapidly widening pool of her blood. He wiped his blade clean on her skirt. Her breath bubbled in her throat as she drowned in her own blood. An evil gleam of light glanced off the blade as he brought it up and sliced off the long braid that coiled around her in the blood.


The wind howled and without knowing why I turned my tear-streaked face to the sky. It swirled faster now, green-black and boiling with fury over the castle. Smoke gyrated over the orchard like a twisted, gnarled finger. I screamed out my anguish at the heavens and a sudden chill slashed through my body.


The murderer in the courtyard whipped around, his cloak snarled around his upper body. He scanned the orchards and his face burned into my memory. I felt hatred, hot and vengeful, fill my mouth like blood.


The blood of Solange and Prosper de Asphodel.


The clouds screamed. Snow howled from the skies, obliterating the terrace from my sight in seconds and screening me from the evil that was my uncle and the destruction of my home. The cherry blossoms, delicate and frothy against the black spindles of the trees, writhed as if in pain. They looked blood-red as they were torn away by the wall of punishing snow.


I clambered to my feet, ran into the forest and never saw the men leave. I never knew when the house finally succumbed to the torches set to its wooden parts, collapsing in upon itself and my world. Instead, I ran, barefoot and mindless, through the thickening trees while the snow began to mound on the ground. It seemed like endless, numbed hours, with slender branches slapping across my face and roots tripping my purple feet as I headed deep into the woods.
I must have fallen. Gentle hands lifted me from the ground, wrapping me in a heavy cloak. Some unknown person cradled me next to a warm, solid body and carried me away.


The last image of this memory is the snow, crisply sparkling as it drove through the orchards under that evil, angry sky. The smells of roasted flesh and fresh blood, the sulfuric reek of the lightning and the sharp tang of the snow, the taste of fear and hatred all mingled with the clean scent of the flowering orchards and blended irrevocably in my mind.


This is the origin of the dreams that haunt me. Everything that I am, or became, spawned from that spring day. My childhood was over, relegated to the memories of before. My real purpose started with the death of my parents and my world. The gods sealed my destiny, locked in the undying embrace of hatred, fear, and revenge.


When I sleep, I dream.


When I dream, I kill.


My name is Tamsen Ka’antira de Asphodel.

all rights reserved--Celina Summers 2007

Bad night

oooooooooooooh.......stomach flu. After posting a blog last night late and in a fairly good mood, I am now shall we say somewhat less than well. I have managed to get to 22k on Requiem. Hopefully by tonight I can hit 40k.

Someone hand me the pepto, please.

It never fails either. Anytime I'm awake in the middle of the night because I don't feel well the cats decide it's time for a little exercise. Gargggggh. Lying in bed, queasy, shooting cats with a water gun as they gallop up the stairs is NOT a good way to spend the night.

Anyway, here'a little treat for you. Enjoy.

It just keeps getting better and better

Ah yes, the joys of summertime.

Shame I don't get to share them.

I've been writing non-stop for a few days now. Finding myself in over my head (what else is new?) I've been scramblingto get all of my various projects up to date. The good news is that I'm now 18k into Requiem!

Yay!

The bad news is that I might have to have 80k done in ten days.

Boo!

A word of advice: if you ever enter a best first line contest, make sure you have more than 500 of those lines written. I'm so stupid. If you want to check out the progress of the contest, go to this link . Mine would be the one that mentions Mozart.

*sigh*

In other news, Asphodel is progressing swimmingly. Edits are speeding by, the release date is getting nearer, and I have a brand spanking new book trailer out. You can check it out at the bottom of this page. As for the post-apocalyptic vampire novel....well.....

I think the vampires blew up when the asteroid hit. I have hopes of resurrecting them just as soon as I can spell my own name.

Oh and thanks for all of the suggestions for music for my wake. I particularly enjoyed the one where "Losing my Religion" plays as I rise from the coffin and yell at the priest my predominately Catholic family brings to bless my sinner's carcass. Very nice. Although I must admit that "Sex on Wheels" by My Life With The Thrill Kill Cult might actually be a lot more fun.

Necrophilia, anyone?

At any rate, this is just a driveby with updates. I really need to try and get 5k more written tonight. I'll be back by tomorrow. I think it's time for an Asphodel excerpt.

The World's Most Obnoxious Wake--or Rock Lobsters to Night Music, a Dissertation on the Weirdness of Death

One of the benefits (okay, the only one) to tending bar for fun and profit is drunk people who think they're clever. I had a girl (use the term loosely) come into the bar last night and try to impress me with her intelligence.

Yeah, like that worked.

At any rate, she told us a story about how her dad had played a Nazareth song at his own wake. After I pointed out that this was probably impossible (since guitars rarely fit into coffins) I was overwhelmed with the desire to create the plans for the world's most obnoxious wake--mine.

Bwahahahaha!

So here we go. Consider these the orders for my final disposition (yes, I entertained scores of semi-functional alcoholics for hours with this, which included 'research' on the jukebox and the invention of a new shot called Celina's Wake) and remember accordingly. And DON'T get peeved about this post--this is entirely smartass and not meant to be taken seriously. I can't believe I have to put in a disclaimer for this.

The first song that will be played as my wake begins is "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead." I will be in an open casket (hell yeah!) and had better be laid out (regardless of age or condition) in a black evening gown and ruby slippers. Think of it as vampire meets Dorothy.

Under no circumstances am I to be laid to rest in Kansas.

The first part of the wake will be reserved for people who hate my guts. We assume that will be the lengthiest portion of the affair. Music: "Rock Lobster" by the B52s and "Albequerque" by Weird Al Yankovic in endless repetition. *grin* Oh just think of it! "Rock Lobster! screechscreechscreechscreechscreechscreech" Mwahahahaha. Won't the funeral director be pissed?

In lieu of flowers, please take a cat. No, we don't want donations, just please.....take a cat. And there will be NO food. They didn't like me; it's safe to say that I didn't like them either. Nyah.

The second part of the wake will be reserved for people that buy my books. We anticipate this to be the shortest portion of my funeral, musically accompanied by "Hello, I Love You" but the cover by the Cure, not the original by the Doors. Refreshments will be served--but alas! Only PB on Ritz crackers. If there were MORE of you guys maybe my estate could spring for bologna.

The third part of the wake is the barfly portion of the entertainment. Margaritas will be served. A friend of mine has agreed to set up a cocktail bar in front of my coffin, so that I can criticize from whatever afterlife I'm involved in. Music: "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" by David Allen Coe, "Girlfriend" by the Pussycat Dolls, at least one Journey song TBA, and darnstupidstinkingGodIhatethatsong "Margaritaville" by Jimmy Buffet. This is my postmortem attempt at revenge upon the drunks who ALWAYS feel obligated to play these songs at 1 a.m.

The final part of the funeral is for everyone else. This is the part where everyone plays Twister, euchre, and drinks lot of wine from my private stash. The music you ask?

*grin*

Show music. Think "Phantom of the Opera" with some "Assassins" thrown in for fun.

Feel bad for my family. They qualify for all four sections of the wake. "Rock Lobster" to "Music of the Night." sigh...................only in Celinaland.

Asphodel Contest

Hey everyone--details to the right on my Asphodel release contest! Enter today!

Writing what you read, and reading what you write

What to think, what to think...

I sat down over the last couple of days and read the Asphodel series from beginning to end. It started when I went over my line edits for book one with a fine-toothed comb. Once I'd done that, I thought, "Hmm....I wonder how the rest of the story reads now that I've been away from it so long?

(A little background--although I'm well into book seven, I've taken about a year and half away from the whole project so I could concentrate on other things)

At any rate, so I read. And not wishing to toot my own horn, but I enjoyed it. Sure, there were boo-boos that really drove me nuts (my favorite at the moment is trying to "clam a horse". I'm not sure that's possible...) but for the most part I was able to put aside my writer's eye and view it from a reader's eye.

I was pleased. J.K. Rowling it ain't, but it worked for me.

I then started to think seriously about that. Why is it that I could read my own work and enjoy it? I should be horrified every time I pick up one of my stories. Other authors are. And, granted, nothing I write is ever *good enough*. Even in my published stuff, I'll run across phrases and cringe or get into a storyline and think to myself, "Where in the hell did that come from?" This was different. I actually was pulled in by the story. Lately, reading my own work has been a chore because of all of the little editing comments in the margins.

But that's work. That's polishing and refining in order to make the story better. Just reading for the fun of it should be different, right? Right?

Maybe it all boils down to this: I write what I like to read. The type of story I craft is instinctively the sort of story that, if I read the blurb on a book jacket in the bookstore, I would buy. Yes, so I'm sort of plebian in my tastes but what difference does that make? If the story is good, the cliches of the genre don't bother me. When you get right down to it, I actually embrace the cliches. After all, I was raised on Greek mythology--and that's where the cliches originated. I'm not out to impress the reader (and by proxy, myself) with my brilliance and my intellectual standards, although I daresay if I wanted to I could. I'm out to tell a story, a story that I find entertaining and hope that other people are entertained by as well. I'm not saying this is some sort of writing epiphany, but it does sort of box in my opinions about it.

Perhaps we should consider that the Celina Words Of Wisdom Du Jour.

And in other news, rereading Asphodel has reinspired me. Yesterday, I wrote 11k on Book 7. Another 30k should finish it, and then it's on to Book 8 for the grand finale.

And yes. nothing is as it seems.