As they approached, moving like two racewalkers in a crowded race where the starting gun has just gone off and the front racers are racewalking their way down the street but the racers at the back where these two are still can't do more than shuffle along, the huge body, looking very much like a beached whale that had evolved for a few hundred million years and now sported fur, four legs and horns, resolved itself into one of the wooly rhinos. The rhinos hadn’t looked too healthy to begin with, Donna remembered, sort of like a herd of cattle after a long night of cow tipping. And the wildfire that had burned across the praire in precisely the same way a large, out-of-control fire burns across a large plain of grassland almost certainly contributed to this one’s death in precisely the same way a tipped-over cow hadn't.
--Phoenix
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Bad Analogies Scene 5
Dear Neighbour
Cat food, chopped into hideous chunks like the mangled remains of a troll fed to a teething baby dragon, in cupboard under the sink, litter in scullery.
Half a tin morning and night should be enough. If not, I'm as confused about feline protein intake as a drunk guru on a pint of methylated spirits a day likely is regarding strategies for prolonging both long life and erection.
Unless you wish me to hurl you into a pit of vipers for neglecting your duties with the laissez-faire of mayo dribbling down a stick of celery, don't let her get stuck upstairs.
Back Monday, which is like Black Monday, only minus the 'l' and accompanying late-80s financial meltdown.
Will be round for key then, clad in a sombrero from my vacation in the spirit of some latter-day spaghetti western villain climbing headfirst into a pizza.
Whirl
--Whirlochre
Cat food, chopped into hideous chunks like the mangled remains of a troll fed to a teething baby dragon, in cupboard under the sink, litter in scullery.
Half a tin morning and night should be enough. If not, I'm as confused about feline protein intake as a drunk guru on a pint of methylated spirits a day likely is regarding strategies for prolonging both long life and erection.
Unless you wish me to hurl you into a pit of vipers for neglecting your duties with the laissez-faire of mayo dribbling down a stick of celery, don't let her get stuck upstairs.
Back Monday, which is like Black Monday, only minus the 'l' and accompanying late-80s financial meltdown.
Will be round for key then, clad in a sombrero from my vacation in the spirit of some latter-day spaghetti western villain climbing headfirst into a pizza.
Whirl
--Whirlochre
Bad Analogies Scene 4
“I’m going to die soon,” I told him.
He turned to look at me like a pointer on the scent of a down pillow.
“It’s genetic. My genes are going to hunt me down and kill me.”
“Shouldn’t you be in a hospital, then?”
“Oh, no. I’ll be perfectly healthy, and then bang! Fate carries a P220 in her purse.”
Kevin’s voice was soft. “That’s it, then—why you didn’t want to talk to me.”
I laughed, and it wasn’t a funny laugh. “I’m a losing investment, Kevin, just like betting on whether or not a dorm room needs more cleaning than a barrel full of roaches. And nothing you can say will change that.”
“We all die in the end, like a bad writer’s prose. Just because you don’t have as long, does that mean your time is worth less than anyone else’s?”
His hand was on the bench between us, halfway like a politician who’s dumber than a chicken because he won’t finish crossing the road. I considered it for a moment, and laid mine next to it.
The streetlights blurred in hot, yellow, salty streaks, like corn on the cob, and I squeezed his hand more tightly.
--_*rachel*_
He turned to look at me like a pointer on the scent of a down pillow.
“It’s genetic. My genes are going to hunt me down and kill me.”
“Shouldn’t you be in a hospital, then?”
“Oh, no. I’ll be perfectly healthy, and then bang! Fate carries a P220 in her purse.”
Kevin’s voice was soft. “That’s it, then—why you didn’t want to talk to me.”
I laughed, and it wasn’t a funny laugh. “I’m a losing investment, Kevin, just like betting on whether or not a dorm room needs more cleaning than a barrel full of roaches. And nothing you can say will change that.”
“We all die in the end, like a bad writer’s prose. Just because you don’t have as long, does that mean your time is worth less than anyone else’s?”
His hand was on the bench between us, halfway like a politician who’s dumber than a chicken because he won’t finish crossing the road. I considered it for a moment, and laid mine next to it.
The streetlights blurred in hot, yellow, salty streaks, like corn on the cob, and I squeezed his hand more tightly.
--_*rachel*_
Bad Analogies Scene 3
Iz grabbed a moist wash cloth out of the shower and used it to wipe down the sink and the toilet like a guy cleaning your windshield at a red light even though you don't want it cleaned and expecting you to pay him. Then he rinsed it in the toilet water and hung it back in the shower like a Mapplethorpe. No time to clean the tub, so he closed the shower curtain, gambling that Tricia wouldn’t look behind it. No toilet bowl cleaner, but there was a full bottle of mint-flavored Scope. He took a mouthful, gargled, and spit it in the sink like a wino puking in the puke-filled back alley behind an opera house. Then he poured the rest of the bottle into the toilet like a horse urinating green urine into a toilet, swished it around with his hand, and flushed. A quick check to make sure there was enough toilet paper. Then he rinsed his hands, dried them, replaced the hand towel with a clean one, tossed the dirty one out the window like a panicked guy tossing out his mistress's bra that she left behind an hour ago, and now his wife just got home, and he was done. Less than two minutes. He felt like he was on a NASCAR pit crew.
--Evil Editor
--Evil Editor
Bad Analogies Scene 2
Then it came into view, cresting one of the massive waves like a 336 bus leaving High Wycombe, and his faint hopes were dashed.
The ghost ship glowed with a ragged phosphorescence. It was an old square-rigged sailing ship, and its sails hung like mildewed shower curtains from rotting spars. The hull was slimy, the timbers warped and warty with barnacles. There were things moving on its decks, things that might once have been the ship’s crew, each one surrounded by its own fitful greenish glow, as if spotlighted by an inept lighting technician. They seemed unaffected by the cold; indeed, the whole vessel seemed unaffected by the turmoil around her, as if she was sailing in other seas, driven by other winds and currents, from those around the Waylander. Maitland stared aghast as the thing swept past them like a misshapen but still regal Queen Victoria. As it reached its closest point, he thought he could hear, even above the roaring of wind and sea, a shrieking triumphant manic laugh carried on the gales. Then the thing passed them by, moving at what seemed to be an impossible clip, its damned crew of undead dancing on the deck, like a very unsexy version of Pan's People.
--Steve Wright
The ghost ship glowed with a ragged phosphorescence. It was an old square-rigged sailing ship, and its sails hung like mildewed shower curtains from rotting spars. The hull was slimy, the timbers warped and warty with barnacles. There were things moving on its decks, things that might once have been the ship’s crew, each one surrounded by its own fitful greenish glow, as if spotlighted by an inept lighting technician. They seemed unaffected by the cold; indeed, the whole vessel seemed unaffected by the turmoil around her, as if she was sailing in other seas, driven by other winds and currents, from those around the Waylander. Maitland stared aghast as the thing swept past them like a misshapen but still regal Queen Victoria. As it reached its closest point, he thought he could hear, even above the roaring of wind and sea, a shrieking triumphant manic laugh carried on the gales. Then the thing passed them by, moving at what seemed to be an impossible clip, its damned crew of undead dancing on the deck, like a very unsexy version of Pan's People.
--Steve Wright
Bad Analogies Scene 1
Judgment day -- unseen by the lone spaceship orbiting the planet like a ripe, peach-colored melon, all plump and juicy -- a black iron meteor crossed from the wrong side of the solar system into the wrong part of the sky. Wrong like your daughter's last boyfriend with the goatee that resembled your butt hairs and the suspicious pepperoni-like bulge that wasn't his wallet.
The meteor moved over the ocean, crossed the demarcator from night to day, hid behind the sun and passed like a silent but deadly vaporous emission, like a 100-ton kidney stone and remained out of sight like leftovers in the back of the fridge.
After crossing the ocean, it met atmosphere and burned like cubic zirconia on a cheap date's finger. A beacon, a reminder of the vast array of dreams cast to the stars like pennies into a poisoned well, like wishbones broken at dinner, like dice breathed on in Vegas. By the time human eyes saw the fireball trailing smoke and flame like a giant burning jack-o-lantern sneering, all their mouths could say was "balls to the wall, every man for himself."
The meteor, a mass like several mountains, shattered the center of the continent, depressing the earth like a whore depresses a mattress, cracking the crust like makeup on Joan River's face, exposing the mantle like a teenage boy reading playboy. The impact sent waves rippling though the rocky surface like rings expanding around the toilet bowl as a little boy aims at the paper boat.
The planet rebounded, quivering like canned pork brains in milk sauce, splitting like crispy bacon and shattering like a glass casserole on the kitchen floor.
--Dave F.
The meteor moved over the ocean, crossed the demarcator from night to day, hid behind the sun and passed like a silent but deadly vaporous emission, like a 100-ton kidney stone and remained out of sight like leftovers in the back of the fridge.
After crossing the ocean, it met atmosphere and burned like cubic zirconia on a cheap date's finger. A beacon, a reminder of the vast array of dreams cast to the stars like pennies into a poisoned well, like wishbones broken at dinner, like dice breathed on in Vegas. By the time human eyes saw the fireball trailing smoke and flame like a giant burning jack-o-lantern sneering, all their mouths could say was "balls to the wall, every man for himself."
The meteor, a mass like several mountains, shattered the center of the continent, depressing the earth like a whore depresses a mattress, cracking the crust like makeup on Joan River's face, exposing the mantle like a teenage boy reading playboy. The impact sent waves rippling though the rocky surface like rings expanding around the toilet bowl as a little boy aims at the paper boat.
The planet rebounded, quivering like canned pork brains in milk sauce, splitting like crispy bacon and shattering like a glass casserole on the kitchen floor.
--Dave F.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The 2nd Annual Evie Awards
Last Year the Evies was broadcast at the same time as the Oscars, leading to many complaints, not only from people who wanted to watch both productions, but also from Hollywood stars who were nominated for Oscars and thus couldn't be at home in front of their computers (though word on the street is that most of those at the Academy Awards were keeping up with the Evies on their i-phones). So this year I scheduled the Evies before the Oscars. Happy now, Sandra, Meryl, Angelina?
I wish I could put all the winners into one film as I did last year, but several of this year's winners were produced on a computer that has been retired. So . . . the Evies go to:
Best Best Boy
Stephen Spielberg, Reunion
(1st film of the double feature)
Best Musical Accompaniment
Kevin MacLeod, The Wisdom of Solomon
(1st film of the double feature)
Best Screenplay
Whirlochre, Taxi Driver
Best Actress
Angelina Jolie, Beef Addict
(2nd film of the double feature)
Best Actor
Evil Editor, The Phone Call
Best Picture
The Art Gallery
(1st film of the double feature)
Friday, February 26, 2010
WTF?
It appears the first two to three weeks of every month has disappeared from my blog archives. I can still access those posts by searching for, say, Face-lift 602. So they exist. So my question is, is the problem just with my computer, and you guys can click on February, 2008 and see the entire month? Is this happening to anyone else's blog archives?
New Beginning 731
Twas the Night Before Christmas…
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse. . .
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse. . .
Obviously, the author who penned this poem never made it to my house tonight because the noise was deafening, and the creatures causing the ruckus were a lot smaller than a mouse.
Oh, the brouhaha didn’t start out that way. First, it was a single flash of light as a faerie flew into my room, and then another flash joined the first. Once you get two faeries together, whispers started.
You would think creatures as tiny as faeries would be quiet, but once a group of faeries gathered, it soon developed into a gaggle. And the gaggle became a swarm—a swarm of dive-bombing, chittering, light-flashing little heathens, similar to prehistoric mosquitoes.
I pretended to sleep, but cracked one eye to see what was the matter.
My bedroom had turned into a Clark Griswold Christmas with about a bazillion lights flitting around my twelve-by-twelve space. Normally, I liked my cozy hole, but when you add a gazillion faeries—a few more arrived since my previous thought—well, it became a mite crowded. Faeries zipped and zoomed, hovered and floated, and played mid-air poker.
It was quite pretty . . . until the collision.
"The collision, you say."
"That's right. The, uh, collision."
"You see, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, not only does the accused show no remorse, no sense that she has done anything remotely wrong, she refers to the events of that night, the carnage, as merely a collision.
"Your Honor, the prosecution would like to introduce Exhibit 2, the weapon commonly referred to as the Fly Swatter."
The defendant closed her eyes as an audible gasp ran through the Seelie court.
Opening: Magolla.....Continuation: ril
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Book Chat 24
Book Chat 24: Claudia Dain/The Courtesan's Secret
fairyhedgehog said...I can't make the chat tonight (I have to go to bed at an unreasonably early hour because of my CFS/ME) but I did read the book and enjoy it. It's a long way from Georgette Heyer! Her books were never so racy. What struck me most was that I guessed who Louisa would end up with from early on but that in no way spoilt my pleasure in the book. I hope you all have a good chat and that others enjoyed the book too.
sylvia said...Like Fairyhedgehog, it seemed clear to me at the start that Louisa and Henry were meant for each other. But Henry was so likeable, I found that it didn't bother me as I thought it might. Rather, it was fun to cheer him on and hope that he didn't turn out to be a jerk (he didn't).
Claudia Dain said...I liked Henry a lot myself. He's turned into a favorite character of mine.
Dave F. said...I didn't think I'd enjoy "The Courtesan's Secret" but it was more like Dangerous Liaisons than than mere romance. It had some bite.
Robin S. said...I want to go on record - I am always for bite. Hi, Claudia.
Claudia Dain said...Dave, thank you. I agree with you completely. These books lean very hard in the Dan. Lia. direction.
Evil Editor said...So how many courtesan books are there now?
Claudia Dain said...EE, as of July 2010, there will be five full length courtesan novels and one novella.
Robin S. said...EE, have you read the series?
Evil Editor said...I've read only this one. So far.
Evil Editor said...So, in each book Sophia helps a woman get a man, but the main character is the woman and Sophia is a major supporting character?
Claudia Dain said...EE, each book (including the novella) has Sophia as the hub of the action. She is the spur for much of the action. The story is about the h/h finding each other; the plot is their love story. It's an unusual way to structure a romance novel, but I wanted to play with something a bit different.
Evil Editor said...She's like the star of a TV show that has different guest stars each week. Louisa is a great character. Will we like the other women Sophia helps just as much?
Claudia Dain said...EE, each heroine is different, so I'm not sure you'll like each one as much. I do! But what do I know? The one constant for each heroine is that she's not afraid to ask for what she wants---a message I am very intentionally promoting in each of the books of the series.
Evil Editor said...Amelia wants a Duke; she makes that clear and it's not even her book yet. Book 3 is hers, I assume?
Claudia Dain said...EE, yes, book 3--The Courtesan's Wager--is Amelia's book. Book 4--How to Dazzle a Duke--is Penelope's book. Penelope has a small part in Louisa's book, a bigger part in Amelia's book, then her own. Book 5--Daring a Duke--takes place at Penelope's wedding.
Evil Editor said...How to Dazzle a Duke sounds like it should have been Amelia's book. What, does everyone want a duke?
Robin S. said...Well, hell, EE, of course they do. I would have wanted a Duke if there'd been any around.
Dave F. said...Do they go after "Dukes" because there are so few "princes" and I will resist insulting the current British crop of Princes.
Claudia Dain said...Ah, but Dave, everyone knows that princes have no ready money. Why want a duke? Money, power, privilege. The same old reasons anyone wants to marry the Donald Trumps of the world.
Evil Editor said...Fix me up with a duke. Any duke will do.
Claudia Dain said...I should mention that in the July book, Daring a Duke, it's a man who asks Sophia for help in getting the woman he wants, a very fun twist that I enjoyed a lot.
Dave F. said...I think there are stories in the "savage" boys. Was that a hint about the next novel?
Claudia Dain said...Dave, the "savages" are in novels 1, 2, 3, a bit in 4, not at all in 5.
sylvia said...I was concerned when I realised this was the second in the series - I wasn't sure that it made sense. It took me some time to warm to Sophia which I think would have been faster if I'd read the Courtesan's Daughter first. But the book worked fine as a standalone.
Claudia Dain said...Sylvia, I'm glad you warmed to Sophia eventually. I adore her, so I'm no judge. She's a very complex character with a long and tangled backstory. First and foremost, she's a survivor. Second and equally important, she's a fighter for the weak and disadvantaged--in this culture: women. For those two reasons alone, I'll love her till I die.
Robin S. said...Hmmm. That does sound good - does Sophia ever get who she wants - permanently, you know?
Claudia Dain said...Robin, Sophia's story has yet to be written! But I have great plans for her.
Robin S. said...Oooh, good! Glad to know that about Sophia. And I like the idea of empowering the powerless.
Dave F. said...I can't write all that internal dialog and thought. I wish I could.
Claudia Dain said...Dave, thank you again. I confess to absolutely having the time of my life writing these books. The difference between what the characters think and what they say is the soil for a lot of humorous situations.
sylvia said...In terms of message: I liked how it was made very clear that Henry was intrigued by Louisa because she was interesting, rather than despite her "flaws".
Claudia Dain said...Yes, I liked that Henry loved Louisa in spite of her flaws and that he wasn't intimidated by her. I also liked that he was the mushy romantic of the pair.
Evil Editor said...So to write a regency romance, you have to set it during this period. And I take it it's largely about the society and its rules and how they affect relationships. But do you have to alter your writing style? This style seems appropriate for this type of book. Is it your usual style, or is it different from what you use when writing a contemporary romance?
Claudia Dain said...EE, oh I definitely altered my writing style for this setting. These books are nothing like my medievals in tone or overall voice. However, I like to play with writing, like to be challenged, so this voice is a fun fit for me.
Dave F. said...I like the setting in London on that year it lends itself to the comedy of manners that works so well for lovers to miss and then meet each other.
Claudia Dain said...Dave, such a great point. I kept thinking I'd move the action to a country estate, but just couldn't make myself give up all the social action of a Season in Town. I have the floor plans of all their individual estates!! And no chance to use any of that yet. LOL Ah, well.
sylvia said...Is Daring a Duke already complete?
Claudia Dain said...Yes, Daring a Duke is complete and will be out July 2010.
Claudia Dain said...Nobody's asked me, but I don't plan out the books in the series. I just start writing and interesting characters pop up. When Louisa and Amelia showed up in Sophia's white salon in book 1, they grabbed me and I wrote Louisa's book practically in a dream state--she was so powerfully realized as a character for me that the book nearly wrote itself. In that way, I don't create secondary characters so that I can write future books about them; I write a book, characters show up, and then if they grab me they get their own book. Lots more characters than books to go around.
Robin S. said...I like that idea about the characters growing organically. Claudia, Hope you don't mind my asking, but how did you get your start, writing novels? Was it hard breaking in?
Claudia Dain said...Hard! Oh, so hard. My first book came out ten years ago; it was hard then and it's still hard. If there's an easy way to get published, I wish someone would tell me about it.
Robin S. said...Shoot, Claudia - I was hoping you had the secret to this publishing thing! (Kidding.) You write really well- I admire a good story, well told.
Claudia Dain said...Robin, thank you so much!
Dave F. said...I liked the scenes in the opera house because I've been to a few of those awfully staged and poorly sung operas. Who cares what's on stage if the audience provides alternative entertainment.
Evil Editor said...I thought they were going to strip down and go at it in the opera house.
Claudia Dain said...Dave, you should hunt down a copy of the anthology PRIVATE PLACES; the entire novella of mine takes place in an opera house in the Georgian Age--the night Sophia meets the Earl of Dalby, her future husband. We also meet the Duke of Aldreth--Amelia's father as a young man.
Dave F. said...There's a few arias that would improve with bare buns. (sorry, I couldn't resist.)
sylvia said...Regarding the Opera House...I had no idea that Regency Romances could be so racy! I thought it would be more Jane Austen-ish, to be honest.
Claudia Dain said...Oh, Sylvia, I'm sorry if I shocked you! My books are very mild compared to most. But as to the general raciness of Regency London, I picked the year 1802 for this reason--we weren't actually in the Regency yet, and it was still very wild and woolly Georgian. One of the tensions in the books is the difference in perspective between the characters Sophia's age and those of the heroines--different social mores for each. By the 1830s things had really settled down.
sylvia said...It's OK, I wasn't shocked - just surprised! I've never paid much attention to Regency Romance and had made a number of broad assumptions about the genre. :)
Dave F. said...I enjoyed the verbal back and forth. I'm not sure I wanted to read heaving bosoms and pulsing rods and an explicit (what can I say that isn't rude?)
Claudia Dain said...Dave, I prefer reading about the verbal skirmishes more than heaving bosoms as well--I find it more entertaining and more stimulating (no pun intended--though it does fit!).
Whirlochre said...Sorry to butt in without having read the book, followed the comments — or even relied on myself to be suitably dressed, but (picking up from the last few lucid drops) at what point do the characters begin to run away with things (Claudia, All)? If we've moved on to another topic by the time I've typed this out, fine by me.
Claudia Dain said...Whirl, that's a tough one to answer. I like to think that all my characters are real, but some characters just have the sort of personalities that leap up and grab me. If they do, then I want to write their book. If they don't, then they fade away for me. It's like being at a party--some people you want to spend more time with and some you don't. It's not that they're not all nice people, but not everyone grabs you.
Evil Editor said...Though in fact, they're not all nice people.
Robin S. said...I like that party analogy - explains a lot about why some parts of a novel are easier to write - they flow.
Claudia Dain said...Robin, someone very famous (can't remember who) said about writing, "Skip the boring parts." It's good advice. If, as the writer, you find the scene boring, then don't bother to write it. It makes writing a whole lot easier when you're only writing the stuff you like.
Whirlochre said...Ok — continuing the party analogy...When you're grabbed, do you listen, solely? And if you wish to elicit information, how do you force the issue without having your guest turn away?
Claudia Dain said...Whirl, I'm not sure what you're asking. Could you rephrase?
Evil Editor said...I never know what Whirl's talking about.
Whirlochre said...Ouch! That makes my butt smarter than yours, you fiend! I suppose it's about characters leading you in a direction that's unresolvable. Fiction resolves in a way life doesn't, and sometimes you have to step in, a la heavy hand, which always seems to me kind of obvious when I do this as a writer. Apologies for being opaque.
Claudia Dain said...Whirl, ah okay. So far, my characters have never led in a direction that was unresolvable, but that may be because as the author I'm not set on resolving =everything.= For example, in Louisa's book, her relationship with her father is not resolved, and will never be resolved. He was a lousy father (and a lousy human being) and he will remain so. That relationship is not going to magically heal.
Evil Editor said...Have her kill him. She can frame the Indians.
Claudia Dain said...But Louisa isn't a killer. She doesn't have the heart for it. Now Sophia on the other hand...
sylvia said...Yes, Sophia is much more believable as a murderess than Louisa!
Robin S. said...I'm not Claudia (big surprise) but Whirl, I see what you mean. Some characters simply are difficult, and they still need to be there. I sometimes think the more difficult ones are being difficult for a reason - you haven't gotten all you're gonna get out of them, yet. BTW, I think that author was Elmore Leonard, Claudia, wasn't it?
Claudia Dain said...Honestly, I can't remember who said not to write the boring parts. It could certainly be Elmore Leonard, but I couldn't swear to it.
Evil Editor said...I think there was an error on page 256, next to last paragraph, which I mention on the off chance you aren't aware of it and because they might let you change it in the many future printings to come.
Robin S. said...EE, you are an editor to the bone, son.
Evil Editor said...Just making my play to become Claudia's editor.
Robin S. said...As long as you can still be my editor, too.
Claudia Dain said...EE, thank you!! I will definitely bring that to their attention. You never know--it could get fixed. Though I don't want to bet the house on that.
Dave F. said...BTW - is "Ton" a Regency or Georgian substitution for "Town"...
Claudia Dain said...Ton is an abbreviation, sort of a slurring, of the top ten thousand---the upper upper reaches of British society.
Evil Editor said...I've run into Ton in many books, but there were a couple terms in here I didn't know. One was for being drunk.
Dave F. said..."Foxed" is slang for drunk.
Claudia Dain said...Cup-shot is another one for being drunk. I love learning new expressions! One of the truly entertaining things about any age.
Whirlochre said...I always assumed 'foxed' implied 'to outwit'. Not come across it in the inebriated context. Makes you wonder how many such familiar expressions are not similarly "on the chimp" (and I'm proposing this one as a future runner, just for the sake of it).
Claudia Dain said...Whirl, only when it's phrased "out foxed" does it mean to outwit, to get the better of someone. It seems to me that the most energetic and fast-paced changes to language are related to being drunk, doesn't it? There's always a new way to say it!
Whirlochre said...Thanks for responding, Claudia — I've been the most spurious of operatives.
Dave F. said...Was Sophia just a courtesan or did she run a house if ill repute? I sensed there was more to her than just simply a courtesan.
Claudia Dain said...Dave, no. Sophia was strictly a courtesan and she wasn't one for very long, a couple of years.
Evil Editor said...Did Louisa have her pearls at the end?
Claudia Dain said...EE, great question. No, Louisa doesn't have her pearls; she has Henry instead. A very important distinction. Will she get her pearls? I'm sure she will. But having got (Brit phrasing) Henry, she doesn't want for anything more.
Evil Editor said...Wait a minute, is that Louisa on the cover? Because she's got her pearls. I think that was the courtesan's secret--SHE ended up with the pearls.
Robin S. said...This was great, visting with you, Claudia. If you're coming to the DC RWA thing this year, I'll cab over and say hi.
Claudia Dain said...Thank you all! I've had such a great time. Thanks for letting me come to your party! I hope you'll read and enjoy all the other books in the courtesan series. The list is on my website so you can determine the order. (Except I haven't put the July book up yet---oops.) Thanks again!
Whirlochre said...Thanks for hosting, EE. Goodnight all...
Evil Editor said...Night all. Order the next book before you forget.
Chris Eldin said...Anyone still here? Ahh, blog owner approval. damn. I wanted to come to this one.
Jeb said...Fairyhedgehog, I too am a Heyer fan (and have ME/CFS). I also missed the chat but it's because I was seduced by the women's hockey final. My favourite period expression for drunkenness is 'jug-bitten'. I didn't mind the book, although it didn't thrill me to the point where I'd seek out others. I found it reminiscent of Jo Beverly's 'Rogues' series, a couple of which I read on the insistance of my daughter. Those center on men finding the right woman and cover a wider geography (including the New World) than the Courtesan books, which center on women in London during the Season.
On the whole, I prefer the freer expression people indulge in when they don't think the author will be listening in. Plus people talk to her rather than discussing their own reactions to the book. But, since I almost never make it to the book discussions, don't let my opinion weigh with anyone. Back to the Olympics.
fairyhedgehog said...This was an interesting read. Thank you EE for hosting, Claudia Dain for writing the book and coming along to chat, and everyone else who joined in!
Oh, and nice to meet you, Jeb! I hope there'll be other chats that we can both make!
I can see your point about authors joining in chats but I feel rather differently about it. I like author chats because there's something special about being able to ask an author what they were thinking when they wrote something. People may feel less able to make negative comments (or not, depending on the person!) but for me it's worth it to be able to hear from the person who created the book. Thinking about it, you never know when an author might come on something you've said about their work. That's a bit of a sobering thought!
stacy said...My take is that you can still critique the book. I think Dave critiqued the book in a polite manner that spurred conversation. That's good practice in any forum. Sorry I had to miss this chat. Looks like a good one.
New Beginning 730
Rune stepped over a limestone-laden stream of cold water running across the floor of the cavern. Above him, bat-like creatures twitched and squeaked. He pointed his flashlight at the ceiling thirty feet overhead and fluffed the back of Steve's hair, laughing. Steve hunched over, pulling the hood over his head and neck to prevent any guano from getting on his body.
"Think of each all those flying critters up there like raptors wanting to land ammoniated poo on your head. Don't you just love it?" Rune squeaked, flapped his hands.
"Whoever said caves are for contemplation was a fool," Steve said. Charlene pushed Rune onto a stalagmite.
"I don't know why the settlers are fascinated these dung heaps. There's nothing special about caves on this world." She attached a Vid-Cam and light to the wall and aimed it at Rune. "Any clown who can scratch his name into the wall thinks they'll be famous. The Twelve Cities ought to be ashamed to let shit like this be posted," Charlene ranted. Both men shrugged their best I don't care if I left the toilet seat up, who cares attitude.
Charlene gave Rune another playful shove onto the stalagmite, this time impaling him.
Two million bats, perhaps offended by the blood now polluting their Stream of Cold Running Water, took turns depositing guano on Rune as he slowly bled to death.
Charlene recorded the event. "Now that is how you become famous," she said.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Anon.
"Think of each all those flying critters up there like raptors wanting to land ammoniated poo on your head. Don't you just love it?" Rune squeaked, flapped his hands.
"Whoever said caves are for contemplation was a fool," Steve said. Charlene pushed Rune onto a stalagmite.
"I don't know why the settlers are fascinated these dung heaps. There's nothing special about caves on this world." She attached a Vid-Cam and light to the wall and aimed it at Rune. "Any clown who can scratch his name into the wall thinks they'll be famous. The Twelve Cities ought to be ashamed to let shit like this be posted," Charlene ranted. Both men shrugged their best I don't care if I left the toilet seat up, who cares attitude.
Charlene gave Rune another playful shove onto the stalagmite, this time impaling him.
Two million bats, perhaps offended by the blood now polluting their Stream of Cold Running Water, took turns depositing guano on Rune as he slowly bled to death.
Charlene recorded the event. "Now that is how you become famous," she said.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Anon.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Queries and Openings Needed
We're down to one opening (no continuations received so far) and zero queries. Isn't it about time you sent something in?
Face-Lift 734
Guess the Plot
Where the Doves Fly
1. In the sky.
2. Johann Nowitski is an airport ramp attendant, charged with cleaning the dove entrails out of the engines. When he finds a human finger amidst the carnage, it seems murder is afoot.
3. "Go where the doves fly," was the last thing Raymond said before leaving to liberate France from Hitler. Every day Sarah waits patiently by the fountain. Will he ever return? Will she recognize him? And what did he mean about the doves?
4. 1980. Anna Sokolowska's career creating anti-communist paintings (you know, like doves flying into the air) is going nowhere in communist-controlled Poland. So she escapes in search of an art gallery that will show her work. Unfortunately, she escapes to East Berlin. Apparently commies and artistic genius don't mix anywhere.
5. The Doves: a family of four who hang glide off of Mt. Riaze. When the volcano unexpectedly erupts, Mr. Dove watches his family fly from his hydroponic squash farm that had been built on the north face, which now lies in lava ashed ruins. Can he find the other three members of his family before the next bilateral moon triangulation?
6. 2098. United Nations President, Apartheid Vance, has a problem. Expecting the whole world to be at peace for the first time since stun guns were legalized, a massive celebration is planned for the upcoming millennium. However, Apartheid cannot keep a single dove alive in captivity. Is the problem zoological or an omen?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
When 17-year-old artist Anna Sokolowska learns the Communist regime in Poland may implement martial law, she chooses to escape to East Berlin—unwilling to let the government stifle her artistic voice, eager to use her anti-Communist paintings as a tool for change. [Shouldn't she escape to somewhere that doesn't have a communist regime? Where's she heading next, Cuba?]
The one thing that she fails to consider before leaving is that her abused mother and young brother need her more than she thinks they do.
Over the following twelve months Anna struggles against governmental corruption that has spread beyond Polish borders as she searches for an art gallery in which to showcase her set of genius anti-Communist-themed paintings. [Genius in whose opinion?] In the end, Anna must decide how she wishes to balance the harsh reality of poverty in the 1980’s with a passion for art, the Polish Solidarity movement, and her family.
WHERE THE DOVES FLY is a literary YA at approximately 76,000 words.
My articles and short stories have been featured in New Moon, Teen Ink, Alive, multiple e-zines, and two Creative Communications anthologies. Last year I received a YoungArts 2010 Merit Award (top 5%) and interned with [editor; redacted], and now I intern with [agent; redacted]. [Have you taken advantage of your connections?] In addition to writing and interning, I am a full-time student.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Notes
Is she in contact with her family? What's happening with them? If we know that, we'll have a better understanding of her dilemma.
Was she under the impression that only Poland's government would be bothered by her anti-communist art?
Instead of concluding by telling us what Anna must decide, tell us what she decides. Perhaps she realizes that while the communist machine is too powerful to take on, she can do her own small part by starting an underground art movement. Or whatever. Give us a sense of where the story goes.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Face-Lift 733
Guess the Plot
Morgantown
1. Chased by a werewolf named Simon, Rachel, a werewolf, ends up in Morgantown where she joins a local pack of werewolves and begins to wonder if it's really that bad to be a werewolf when pretty much everyone is a werewolf.
2. Movie producer Barry Steinman's career is at an all time low. Soaked in gin, suicide note in his suit pocket, Barry puts the noose around his neck. After he awakens in the afterlife and bargains with the devil, Barry's soulless shell goes on to make hit after hit starring Morgan Freeman.
3. Charlie Burrows is sent by his newspaper to a small town out in the sticks to follow up on reports of the menfolk disappearing. When he arrives, he is horrified to find that every one of the women is Morgan Fairchild. Can he get to the bottom of this before the town's vamps suck him dry?
4. Big Daddy Morgan is dying and needs an heir--a puppet whose strings he can pull from the other side. His own kids are useless. He needs fresh blood to put his plan in place, and he finds it in a sad little waif who can be easily molded into Morgantown's next king.
5. Zalinda was kicked as a child by a mugger named Morgan. The resulting concussion tricked her into believing a Morgan horse was responsible because she was reading Black Beauty at the time of her mugging. Just another day on the streets of . . . Morgantown.
6. 1872. Morgantown is home to rising coal magnate Elliot Spinner. His arch rival, "Boss" Hardley, is also in the coal business. Between them is Pansy McBride, the red-haired, strong-willed daughter of a Georgia planter. Can Elliot get control of the Morgantown mines while winning the heart of the fiery Pansy?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
Rachel was going to graduate from a good college, settle down with her boyfriend, Michael, and live in Northern California, the only place that ever felt like home.
But three days after she's kidnapped by Simon, a werewolf with a grudge against her family, Rachel finds that things rarely go as planned. [It takes her three days to realize things aren't going as planned? I don't care what my Plan A is, the moment I get kidnapped by a werewolf, I'm aware that Plan B is now in effect.] Now she's a werewolf too, changed by Simon for his own purposes, and Michael is dead.
Rachel escapes and runs as far from Simon as she can get; Morgantown, West Virginia. When the leader of the local pack of werewolves shows up in her hotel room, [Do werewolves really use hotel rooms?
I'd like a room for the night.
Errr . . . yes, and may I point out that our day spa specializes in laser hair removal.
Room service, may I help you?
Yes, could you send up a maid?
I think you want housekeeping.
No, I want dinner.]
she reluctantly takes up his offer to join his pack in exchange for safety. [Is there anyone in this book who isn't a werewolf?]
Getting friendly with werewolves is the last thing Rachel wants to do, but [everyone she meets turns out to be a werewolf. Plus,] with Simon on the hunt, she doesn't have much of a choice. She begins to learn to defend herself, and come to terms with what has happened. The pack leader tries to show her that though she has been treated like one, Rachel is not an animal. It's an idea that Rachel has trouble grasping, because [the two of them are dining on a bellman at the time, and also because] the truth is that Michael didn't just die. He was murdered. By Rachel.
Morgantown is a completed 98,000-word urban fantasy young adult novel. Though it can stand alone, I have begun a sequel [in which Rachel sees a psychiatrist who's a werewolf and tears his throat out right after he tells her she's really a good person], and have planned out two to three more books in the series. This is my first novel.
Thanks so much for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you soon!
Notes
Does Rachel run from California to West Virginia? That's a lot of running.
What's so special about Rachel that Simon chases her to West Virginia after she escapes? Wouldn't it be easier for Simon to just turn someone else into a werewolf? Can't he take his revenge on her family without her help? It would help if we knew what he wants her to do.
Why is Morgantown, West Virginia the farthest from Simon that Rachel can get? Assuming Simon is in North America, there have to be places farther from him than Morgantown.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Winter Olympics Photo Caption Contest Winners
1.
Caption: Anon.2.
Caption: Anon. 3.
Caption: Evil Editor4.
Caption: Steve Wright
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Blog Vacation 5
Oh, hey, you're, uh, back early. Nice tan. How was the beach? Really? That had to sting. Yeah, I bet; that's why I don't do the naturalist thing. What? Oh, no worries, everything was fine. Like you were never away. Face lifts and cartoons and beginnings and stuff. Sweet. No probs. Just one thing. No biggie, put the suitcase down. Did you want to get changed first, I can wait. No, just you look tired. Long journey, right. How about I make a nice cup of tea, that'll set you right. No, actually there's none of that left, and it's a bit early anyway. Good flight? I always wanted to try first-- No, it was nothing, just one of those Blogger things. Well, you know, when you go to the dashboard to check up on the blogs and there's that big button that says "Delete Blog?" Just, you might not want to press that one. Again. Don't worry, I rewrote what I could. From memory. It's almost the same. Just shorter. More efficient, really. No, don't thank me, it was the least I could do. Anyway, must be off, sitting for Nathan Bransford for a few days. Pass me that surfboard, got to get in character. Method, you know. No, really, just put the cheque in the post, it'll be fine. You might want to get some cream, you're awful red...
--ril
--ril
Blog Vacation 4
I'm back. How'd it go?
Great.
No huge drop-off in readers?
Hope not. I haven't been looking at the stats.
Hmm. I'd better check the hits. Let's see, yesterday we had . . . ZERO!?
Hey, it was Saturday. People have better things to do.
Friday . . . zero. Thursday . . . Zero. What's going on? Did you post the cartoons I left you?
Yes. Well, sort of. I changed the captions. I didn't get yours. Actually, I seldom get yours. Here's one with my caption: whattaya think?
What's the joke?
It's a squirrel wearing glasses!
Christ. Did you do any Face-Lifts or New Beginnings?
Nah, there are hundreds of those already. I started some new features.
Such as?
Mondays we do foreign language cryptograms. Tuesday is rejection letters for credit card application junk mail. Wednesdays we post one of my trunk novels for the minions to proofread. Thursday we auction off one of your most valuable possessions.
That would explain why my desk is missing, I take it?
And Friday some guy from Uruguay takes over the blog with a column he calls "Rants from Javier." It's pretty funny. Well, not funny, but you get the idea.
And on the weekend?
You have the weekend off. No films, no writing exercises.
I like it. Say, how would you like to be my permanent blog consultant. I can only offer you low six figures.
Health insurance?
Of course.
Deal.
--Evil Editor
Great.
No huge drop-off in readers?
Hope not. I haven't been looking at the stats.
Hmm. I'd better check the hits. Let's see, yesterday we had . . . ZERO!?
Hey, it was Saturday. People have better things to do.
Friday . . . zero. Thursday . . . Zero. What's going on? Did you post the cartoons I left you?
Yes. Well, sort of. I changed the captions. I didn't get yours. Actually, I seldom get yours. Here's one with my caption: whattaya think?
What's the joke?
It's a squirrel wearing glasses!
Christ. Did you do any Face-Lifts or New Beginnings?
Nah, there are hundreds of those already. I started some new features.
Such as?
Mondays we do foreign language cryptograms. Tuesday is rejection letters for credit card application junk mail. Wednesdays we post one of my trunk novels for the minions to proofread. Thursday we auction off one of your most valuable possessions.
That would explain why my desk is missing, I take it?
And Friday some guy from Uruguay takes over the blog with a column he calls "Rants from Javier." It's pretty funny. Well, not funny, but you get the idea.
And on the weekend?
You have the weekend off. No films, no writing exercises.
I like it. Say, how would you like to be my permanent blog consultant. I can only offer you low six figures.
Health insurance?
Of course.
Deal.
--Evil Editor
Blog Vacation 3
So, how was Hawaii?
Um, great. Why are you in my house?
Long story.
You write novels.
Point taken…. So, I don’t write much humor. Not one-liners, anyway—I like to think I’m good at subtle irony. So I asked Robin for a little help.
Robin.
She’s funny, you know? And I didn’t know if she’d get back to me soon enough, so I emailed Buffy and Blogless and Dave and a couple others.
How many others?
Most of the regulars, most of the semi-regulars. Word gets around, you know? I even think Anon slipped in the back door with Ril and 150.
Back door.
Someone had this idea of doing the slush for you while you were gone—a thank you present. I can’t remember how we found your house, but then someone thought of searching your address book for Miss Snark’s number, so we could thank her, too. And we got hungry and there were these cookies, and if you give fairyhedgehog a cookie she’s going to ask for a glass of milk. When you give her the milk, she’s—
How does the TP fit into this?
Uh. Well, I was upstairs trying to figure out your computer—that’s one ooooold computer—so I could do the day’s Face-Lift, when the party started. I’m, uh, not much of a party person, so I waited it out.
Where’s everybody now?
Well, Dave’s probably still at the store looking at chemicals in cleaning stuff, trying to figure out which one’s best and if he can make his own batch cheaper. More cheaply. Whichever. Robin’s in the corner with a lampshade on her head. VKW’s actually cleaning. Oh, and I think Anon is trying to drunk-dial Miss Snark.
Did the slush get done?
Uh….
--_*rachel*_
Um, great. Why are you in my house?
Long story.
You write novels.
Point taken…. So, I don’t write much humor. Not one-liners, anyway—I like to think I’m good at subtle irony. So I asked Robin for a little help.
Robin.
She’s funny, you know? And I didn’t know if she’d get back to me soon enough, so I emailed Buffy and Blogless and Dave and a couple others.
How many others?
Most of the regulars, most of the semi-regulars. Word gets around, you know? I even think Anon slipped in the back door with Ril and 150.
Back door.
Someone had this idea of doing the slush for you while you were gone—a thank you present. I can’t remember how we found your house, but then someone thought of searching your address book for Miss Snark’s number, so we could thank her, too. And we got hungry and there were these cookies, and if you give fairyhedgehog a cookie she’s going to ask for a glass of milk. When you give her the milk, she’s—
How does the TP fit into this?
Uh. Well, I was upstairs trying to figure out your computer—that’s one ooooold computer—so I could do the day’s Face-Lift, when the party started. I’m, uh, not much of a party person, so I waited it out.
Where’s everybody now?
Well, Dave’s probably still at the store looking at chemicals in cleaning stuff, trying to figure out which one’s best and if he can make his own batch cheaper. More cheaply. Whichever. Robin’s in the corner with a lampshade on her head. VKW’s actually cleaning. Oh, and I think Anon is trying to drunk-dial Miss Snark.
Did the slush get done?
Uh….
--_*rachel*_
Blog Vacation 2
The Evil one stroked his whiskers and glared at me across his cluttered desk. I hurried to reassure him.
"It all went brilliantly," I said. I fidgeted on the hard chair, wishing I was still sitting in his place. "I got rid of the spam as soon as I saw it."
"Spam? What spam?" He really should watch his blood pressure. His face goes all red when he's annoyed.
"Oh, just the usual sort but there was no harm done. None of your minions is stupid enough to follow a link in Chinese; or one left by a hot, hot, hot Latvian girl who likes to cook; or one that promises to enlarge their-"
"You shouldn't have turned comment moderation off!" he roared, banging his fists down hard enough to dislodge a landslide of slush onto the floor. His eyes never left my face.
"I didn't."
"You can't get spam when you've got comment moderation on!"
"It wasn't in the comments, it was in the posts."
"In the posts!" His voice rattled the windows. I wondered what a burst blood vessel looked like and what I'd need to do about it.
I tried for nonchalance. "Oh, I opened the blog up for anonymous posting. I thought you needed a bit of democracy in here."
"You filled my whole blog with spam?" Not a burst blood vessel, it was going to be a heart attack. Either that or he was going to hit me. I needed to calm him down fast.
"It's OK! I've got rid of all of it now! Except for the hot, hot Latvian girl. I think one of your minions is sweet on her."
--Fairy Hedgehog
"It all went brilliantly," I said. I fidgeted on the hard chair, wishing I was still sitting in his place. "I got rid of the spam as soon as I saw it."
"Spam? What spam?" He really should watch his blood pressure. His face goes all red when he's annoyed.
"Oh, just the usual sort but there was no harm done. None of your minions is stupid enough to follow a link in Chinese; or one left by a hot, hot, hot Latvian girl who likes to cook; or one that promises to enlarge their-"
"You shouldn't have turned comment moderation off!" he roared, banging his fists down hard enough to dislodge a landslide of slush onto the floor. His eyes never left my face.
"I didn't."
"You can't get spam when you've got comment moderation on!"
"It wasn't in the comments, it was in the posts."
"In the posts!" His voice rattled the windows. I wondered what a burst blood vessel looked like and what I'd need to do about it.
I tried for nonchalance. "Oh, I opened the blog up for anonymous posting. I thought you needed a bit of democracy in here."
"You filled my whole blog with spam?" Not a burst blood vessel, it was going to be a heart attack. Either that or he was going to hit me. I needed to calm him down fast.
"It's OK! I've got rid of all of it now! Except for the hot, hot Latvian girl. I think one of your minions is sweet on her."
--Fairy Hedgehog
Blog Vacation 1
“Welcome Back!” EE’s apprentice gushed as EE busted open his office door.
In a full tirade, EE roared, “You call 5000 emails in my inbox a welcome back?”
The apprentice bowed his head and somberly said, “At least you know you’re wanted.”
EE scoffed, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself…for god’s sake you’re…Conan O'Brien.”
A few sniffles later, Conan said, “You’re right, EE. What would I do without you?
Giving me this gig… while I’m on hiatus…poised to make my next several millions.”
EE grunted “Oh you…celebrity types…making everyone feel sorry for you…despite all your millions too?” EE, marveling at the skill, unknowingly asked “You wouldn’t by chance know John Grisham?”
“No.” Conan said dryly.
“Huh? Never mind” EE said, “OK then, do tell me…why oh why did you choose, Little House on the Prairie for New Beginnings?
Conan defended, “I know it’s been done before, but…I thought it’d be fun.”
“It’s practically American folklore. Poor, Laura Ingalls Wilder…you’ve done her a great injustice.”
“Hey…I’m Canadian. And as far we’re concerned, Laura’s the diabolical one, not that rich, spoiled chit, Nellie Oleson.” Conan jested.
With eyes closed, EE prayed for patience then retorted, “And the Writing Exercises – you had people write my…eulogy?”
“Brilliant idea, eh? That had the biggest interest by far…well over 1000 participants” Conan replied.
“Good God!” EE cried, and then thought…He’s right…it’s quite brilliant.
“I know. Far too many haters than I anticipated.” Conan muttered.
“I’ll say,” replied EE.
“You’re your own celebrity now, EE. All thanks to me,” Conan said.
Visions of grandeur danced in EE’s head; parties with P. Diddy, rumors of him up shack’n up with Lindsay Lohan, a stint or two in rehab…the possibilities were endless.
After careful consideration, EE said “You’re right. Care to stay on for another week?”
--Mina B.
In a full tirade, EE roared, “You call 5000 emails in my inbox a welcome back?”
The apprentice bowed his head and somberly said, “At least you know you’re wanted.”
EE scoffed, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself…for god’s sake you’re…Conan O'Brien.”
A few sniffles later, Conan said, “You’re right, EE. What would I do without you?
Giving me this gig… while I’m on hiatus…poised to make my next several millions.”
EE grunted “Oh you…celebrity types…making everyone feel sorry for you…despite all your millions too?” EE, marveling at the skill, unknowingly asked “You wouldn’t by chance know John Grisham?”
“No.” Conan said dryly.
“Huh? Never mind” EE said, “OK then, do tell me…why oh why did you choose, Little House on the Prairie for New Beginnings?
Conan defended, “I know it’s been done before, but…I thought it’d be fun.”
“It’s practically American folklore. Poor, Laura Ingalls Wilder…you’ve done her a great injustice.”
“Hey…I’m Canadian. And as far we’re concerned, Laura’s the diabolical one, not that rich, spoiled chit, Nellie Oleson.” Conan jested.
With eyes closed, EE prayed for patience then retorted, “And the Writing Exercises – you had people write my…eulogy?”
“Brilliant idea, eh? That had the biggest interest by far…well over 1000 participants” Conan replied.
“Good God!” EE cried, and then thought…He’s right…it’s quite brilliant.
“I know. Far too many haters than I anticipated.” Conan muttered.
“I’ll say,” replied EE.
“You’re your own celebrity now, EE. All thanks to me,” Conan said.
Visions of grandeur danced in EE’s head; parties with P. Diddy, rumors of him up shack’n up with Lindsay Lohan, a stint or two in rehab…the possibilities were endless.
After careful consideration, EE said “You’re right. Care to stay on for another week?”
--Mina B.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Face-Lift 732
Guess the Plot
Embero: The Last Dragon
1. The last dragon embryo on earth is about to be used in a stem-cell research experiment. Can Pat Robertson save it, or will the godless heathens of the Democratic party win the day?
2. Nadine reluctantly accepts the task of protecting the Last Dragon from the bloodthirsty armies of the kingdom of Embero. But as Nadine gets better acquainted with the dragon, she falls in love with him and dreams of a future together--if they can survive that long.
3. Embero's sad, lonely fate as the world's last remaining dragon seems inevitable until he meets talent scout Babs Truffaut Kantrowitz. She promises to book him in Vegas...but first, that pathetic name has to go. How about Conflagratio? Or Inferno? Something with a little more spark. Come on, work with me, people!
4. Embero witnesses the murder of his parents by Vincezne, a Dragonslayer from the south of France. Raised by a blind poet who believes he is a large dog with a knack for making campfires, Embero's sole goal is to see Vincezne burn in hell. Literally.
5. Harley Morgan is a small-time pot dealer with even smaller aspirations. Then he inherits Embero, a failing Chinese restaurant. Between the disgruntled employees, suspicious police, and his freegan girlfriend accusing him of selling out to The Man, Harley finds a surprising chance to become the man he didn't know he wanted to be.
6. Embero has a gimpy wing, a lazy eye, and scales that look more like a skin disease. He's the last dragon anybody would consider fierce. But when a blind girl begs him to come save her village from evil occupying soldiers, how can he refuse?
Original Version
Dear [Agent Name],
When the all-powerful King Joseph of Embero informs Nadine, a headstrong seventeen-year-old girl, that she must marry the ruthless prince to satisfy the queen’s dying wish, she decides to flee.
Tool of prophecy, armed with the Divine Art of controlling water, Nadine is summoned by the White Witch Evangeline. Nadine reluctantly accepts the task of protecting the Rebellion’s greatest treasure, the Last Dragon, against the bloodthirsty armies of Embero. [A 17-year-old girl is supposed to thwart bloodthirsty armies?
Rebel scout: Bloodthirsty armies are heading our way. Shall I call the men to arms?
Rebel leader: No, let's just send out Nadine.
What is this water controlling power? Can she cause tsunamis and hurricanes?] Aided by an aspiring soldier and his sister, Nadine begins her perilous journey across the world of Earthea to join the Rebellion. [I seems like it would be hard to run a decent rebellion from the other side of the world.]
As Nadine gets better acquainted with the dragon, she discovers that he has a human soul and falls in love with him. [How does she determine this? Is it a talking dragon?] She dreams of a future with the man behind the beast--if they can survive that long.
Nadine’s love for the dragon is rivaled in intensity only by King Joseph’s fear of death. He burns a path across the world of men to obtain the dragon’s golden vein--a filament in the dragon’s heart--that has the power to grant its consumer immortality.
Directed by his father, Prince Kellan is given the singular task of capturing the girl and the dragon she loves. But the prince has secrets and aspirations of his own: by day he may be his father’s right hand man, but by night he accompanies Nadine in the form of the Last Dragon.
EMBERO: THE LAST DRAGON, a YA fantasy novel is complete at 100,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Best regards,
Notes
Why is it that Last Dragon is capitalized but dragon isn't? In fact, why are Divine Art and White Witch and Rebellion capitalized?
Nadine takes a journey across the world after fleeing the king. The king has to burn a path across the world of men to get to Nadine. In between these trips, how is the prince able to be with Nadine when he's a dragon and with the king when he isn't? Where does Nadine think the dragon is all day long when she's supposed to be protecting him?
Unless you tell us how it comes in handy, we don't need to know Nadine controls water.
Why, since they don't use the dragon's golden vein for immortality, does the rebellion consider the dragon their greatest treasure?
Why is Embero part of the title?
Earthea?
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Face-Lift 731
Guess the Plot
After the Apocalypse
1. It's dark, it smells bad, and it's impossible to get a decent cup of coffee.
2. Having successfully wiped out most of humankind, the devils throw the best party of all time, themed “After the Apocalypse”. Party favors? Charred human remains. Then the last human survivors, riding elephants a la Alexander the Great, crash the party with disastrous precision. Can Moorpunchspikeeg save her party and her devilmates?
3. For centuries the tribes have been dying out, partly because they continue sending their best warriors into battle against killer robots on behalf of purple-haired people that don't even know the tribes exist. It's kind of like if a pocket of French soldiers were still fighting the Napoleonic wars. Against robots.
4. The world should have ended in zombies, kudzu, and cockroaches. Then came Harry Swatski's dreidelmeister6000 -- the 'it' item for Christmas. Now 99.9999% of the population is under the age of seven, fruit-flavored rain and marshmallow men dominate the streets, and Harry just found the last chocolate AK-47.
5. The TV show "After the Apocalypse" pairs clumsy, earnest, Hollywood has-been Axl Hudson with brusque Cherokee poet-turned-survivalist Dana “Singing Blackbird” Davis, and drops them in the middle of nowhere with a camcorder and a Bowie knife. Adventure (and maybe romance) will ensue! Well, that was the plan, anyway...
6. Rictor Steinwick is insane. The last returning MIA from Vietnam, he has been forced to listen the lyrics of the 1976 song “After The Lovin'” by Engelbert Humperdinck, every day all day long. Now, returning to his post at NORAD Rictor has the power to end the world as we know it. But what will he do . . . after the apocalypse?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
Abandoning someone injured is a death sentence under tribe law, but Naranja still almost doesn't help a plane crash survivor. The injured girl has unnatural purple hair, enough evidence to condemn her as a country person. That's more than enough reason for Naranja Verde, leader of Fourth Tribe, to abandon her, death penalty be damned. Though the countries haven't interfered in tribe affairs for two hundred years, the hungry summers, cold winters, and deaths caused by their 'help' live on in tribe memory. Besides, [Besides what?] the Challenge is soon: an annual event where the oldest and strongest tribe members fight metal monsters for their right to exist- and the right of the country they represent, by proxy. It's the reason war ended. The last thing they need is complications. [If the tribes hate country people, and the countries haven't been interfering with tribes for 200 years, I don't see why tribe members represent countries in these fights with metal monsters. What's in it for them?]
But complications are all they get when the country girl's bones are set and they learn the countries have forgotten the tribes exist. [If the tribes believed that the Challenge results determined whether the countries they represented had the right to exist, didn't it occur to them that the countries would at least send some observers to the Challenge?] When Naranja's tribe sends the girl back to her country, she carries with her the news of five tribes, at least one made up entirely of children living in caves. Worse, [Worse than what?] due to an ancient system and high death rates, tribes don't have kids naturally; the tribes are formed from kidnapped babies, some of them royalty with colorful tattoos. Like Naranja's green 'birthmark.'
This year, Fourth Tribe has to deal with more than the usual wood shortages and wild animals as the countries decide the tribes need to come home. Naranja's only sixteen, and right now she's sure any of the dead- from the former Naranja Prendo to her closest friend Listo- could do better than her. [If the dead can do better at something than you can, you need to find a new trade.] But as she struggles with bears, countries, and the ever-present complaints of her tribe, she is determined only that no more will die.
After the Apocalypse is a complete 70,000 word YA novel. It should appeal to fans of The Hunger Games and The Other Side of the Island. May I send the complete manuscript?
Sincerely,
Notes
If the countries don't know the tribes exist, who is providing the metal monsters? Does each tribe build a battle-bot for the Challenge? Wouldn't it be more fair and more humane if the metal monsters fought each other instead of the oldest tribe members?
~~~
Okay, I'm back. I just spent three hours on YouTube watching Battlebots and Robot Wars videos.
This information isn't well-organized, but as it's mostly setup, it's better to condense it into a three-sentence paragraph than to rework the whole thing. Then, once you've set up the situation, you'll have plenty of room for the plot. The situation appears to be that for 200 years the tribes have been sending their best warriors into battle against killer robots on behalf of the countries. Then they discover the countries know nothing about this.
The plot involves Naranja's goal. Is it to end the Challenge? Is it to maintain the tribal existence rather than returning to the countries? How does she go about achieving her goal, who/what's she up against, what's at stake, what's her plan? The tattoo would make a good finish for the plot summary.
I'm not crazy about referring to the countries as "the countries." Are they actual countries? Do they have names? Do the tribes live inside the countries?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
New Beginning 729
Six weeks earlier, a doctor had given me less than two months to live. It wasn’t a formal diagnosis, as such -- more of a threat. His wife was beside me at the time, and neither of us had expected him home so early.
I'm the type to sleep right through the alarm, dead to the world, but there's something about the cool, dry click of a hammer being pulled back that cuts right through the sweetest of dreams and it had me instantly awake. It was still dark. I could smell cigar smoke and whisky -- a good brand. I could hear breathing, shallow, much faster than it should be -- that was me.
“I don’t usually make house calls,” he said. “But for you, a special exception. Why don’t you turn on the light?”
I did as I was told. I did it slowly. I’m no fool.
“I pride myself on an accurate prognosis,” the doctor told me, while I watched the maw of his revolver.
“No chance of a second opinion, I suppose?”
He shook his head. The gun didn’t waver. He must have been an excellent surgeon: he had a very steady hand.
“However,” he continued, “I believe your condition may not be completely incurable. I have a proposal for you.”
The good doctor reached down and pulled a bag from the floor. Never taking his eyes off me -- good decision -- he emptied the contents onto my belly, temporarily winding me. It was several hundred pages of closely typed text. "This is the proposal," he said.
I leaned forward and looked at the first page: Short Title: America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009.
"Shit." I said as my heart sank. "Okay, okay. Just shoot me now."
Opening: Anon......Continuation: Iago
I'm the type to sleep right through the alarm, dead to the world, but there's something about the cool, dry click of a hammer being pulled back that cuts right through the sweetest of dreams and it had me instantly awake. It was still dark. I could smell cigar smoke and whisky -- a good brand. I could hear breathing, shallow, much faster than it should be -- that was me.
“I don’t usually make house calls,” he said. “But for you, a special exception. Why don’t you turn on the light?”
I did as I was told. I did it slowly. I’m no fool.
“I pride myself on an accurate prognosis,” the doctor told me, while I watched the maw of his revolver.
“No chance of a second opinion, I suppose?”
He shook his head. The gun didn’t waver. He must have been an excellent surgeon: he had a very steady hand.
“However,” he continued, “I believe your condition may not be completely incurable. I have a proposal for you.”
The good doctor reached down and pulled a bag from the floor. Never taking his eyes off me -- good decision -- he emptied the contents onto my belly, temporarily winding me. It was several hundred pages of closely typed text. "This is the proposal," he said.
I leaned forward and looked at the first page: Short Title: America's Affordable Health Choices Act of 2009.
"Shit." I said as my heart sank. "Okay, okay. Just shoot me now."
Opening: Anon......Continuation: Iago
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Face-Lift 730
Guess the Plot
The Minion and the Mistress
1. Miss Snark. Dave. Mrs. V. Khazar. Buffysquirrel. Anon. 150. Their lives, loves and personal perversions are all laid bare in Evil Editor's memoirs.
2. Fearing that the girl he wants as a mistress will run away, the demon king assigns one of his minions--a giant troll--to guard her. But he didn't count on the girl falling in love with the troll! Will she bash the troll's head in and flee, or will she stick around for true love?
3. When chef and part-time dominatrix Lizzie Whippersnap concocts an army of mutant broccoli monsters, she decides to fulfill her life-long dream of taking over the Food Network. But true love strikes when she finds one of her creations, Dirk Carrot, appealing. Is there room in this veggie-phobic world for romance between a mistress and her orange-tinted minion?
4. Evil Wizard Golgorlemoy has turned his minion into an onion and his mistress into a waitress. At dinner, the waitress will serve onions to the king and queen causing them to inadvertently break their vegetarian vows. When the kingdom finds out that their royalty are cannibals, the wizard and the mistress can become emperor and empress.
5. A Terrrible Misunderstanding (TM) causes the Chief of Minions (CoM) to elope with the Evil Overlord's Mistress (EOM). They hate each other, but in order to save the Evil Overlord (EO), the two must stop fighting long enough to destroy the invading Good Guy Army (GGA).
6. Taurg, captain of a Charruvian starship, has gone too far, throwing his simpering thrall, Trach'n in the brig for sleeping with Taurg's human mistress--and unless the mistress can help the minion escape and lead a mutiny, Taurg will take out his frustrations on the nearest planet . . . Earth.
Original Version
Dear Famous ePublisher,
I am seeking a publisher for The Minion and the Mistress, a fun and fast-paced story of heroic trolls, supernatural mobsters and an unlikely true love. The Minion and the Mistress is a romance with fantasy elements complete at 25,000 words.
Since her earliest childhood, when she was kidnapped by fairies, Annith has lived under the protection of the Demon King. A small-time crime lord who rules a small pocket of fae-folk hiding in the mortal realm, the King’s always treated Annith as his beloved daughter. Now, though, she’s grown up, rounded out, and the Demon King’s acquired some hungry eyes— and wandering hands. [Hey, he's only human.] As his advances turn forceful, Annith becomes increasingly frantic to escape the only home she’s ever known. [I can't tell if the Demon King has forced himself on her, or if she wants to escape before he does. It seems unlikely she managed to thwart a demon's forceful advances.]
The King, fearing she’ll escape him, assigns a massive troll, Ruuk, to be her “bodyguard.” Annith is ready to bash Ruuk’s head in if it will get her away from the King, but as she gets to know the soft-spoken troll, she finds he’s kind and funny— sweet even. [A troll? Gotta be Stockholm Syndrome.] The seven-foot lug might even be in over his head. He seems to be losing himself bit by bit with every job he works for the King, and she’s worried about what’ll be left of him if he keeps this up.
But when it comes down to achieving her freedom or saving the troll she’s increasingly come to care for, Annith has to decide if she really will do anything (and sacrifice anyone) to get herself away from the Demon King. [That sentence pretty much says the same thing twice.]
Thank you for taking the time to consider my work.
Sincerely,
Notes
When a book has demons, trolls, fairies, supernatural mobsters, fae people, etc., I'd call it a fantasy with romantic elements rather than a romance with fantasy elements.
This is awfully short. As e-publishers don't have to worry about the spine being so thin you can't read the title, maybe that's not a problem, but I wouldn't assume this is long enough to attract a publisher that doesn't specifically say 25,000 words is in the range they're seeking.
Has Annith considered suggesting to Ruuk that he escape with her? Or that he lead a coup against the demon king? She seems to have concluded without much thought that there are only two choices.
"Demon King" and "small-time crime lord" don't seem like two names that would be applied to the same being. How powerful is the demon king? If he were attacked by a seven-foot troll, who would win?
Monday, February 15, 2010
New Beginning 728
Today is Tart day. I pull the sheet over my head in my pathetic attempt to ward off the hot Bangkok morning streaming through the window and the reality of this day banging into my brain. I don’t want to teach the Tarts. I curl in tighter, the fetal position is helping me gird myself for the experience of being in the same room with the Tarts for fifty-five minutes, assuming they show. Cruel and unusual punishment comes in many forms and this is an excruciating torturous piece of suffering I can not avoid. The Tarts are a group of female senior students who have somehow managed to stay in school, haven’t maimed anyone to my knowledge but that could change because each class they are getting more aggressive with each other and their classmates.
Last lesson I had with them, they all sat with their backs to me, flipping through magazines and text messaging each other while I tried to get the simple present tense out of the rest of the class. That was after the Queen of Tarts jumped to her feet and screamed she had to piss as she ground her hands into her groin. Her hench ladies followed suit. I ground my teeth while they ground their, well, you know.
Knowing that I shouldn't expect the Queen's crew back anytime soon, I turn my attention to the rest of my class, the Tarts in Waiting. I don't much want to teach them either, I swallow a couple of pills I got from yesterday's Druggies class. They taste not unlike the chalk I hold in my other hand.
With a shrug, I turn to the board. "Okay, who can tell me what is wrong with this sentence," I say as I scribble, Only ten dollar, me love you long time, sailor.
Opening: Bibi.....Continuation: Anon.
Last lesson I had with them, they all sat with their backs to me, flipping through magazines and text messaging each other while I tried to get the simple present tense out of the rest of the class. That was after the Queen of Tarts jumped to her feet and screamed she had to piss as she ground her hands into her groin. Her hench ladies followed suit. I ground my teeth while they ground their, well, you know.
Knowing that I shouldn't expect the Queen's crew back anytime soon, I turn my attention to the rest of my class, the Tarts in Waiting. I don't much want to teach them either, I swallow a couple of pills I got from yesterday's Druggies class. They taste not unlike the chalk I hold in my other hand.
With a shrug, I turn to the board. "Okay, who can tell me what is wrong with this sentence," I say as I scribble, Only ten dollar, me love you long time, sailor.
Opening: Bibi.....Continuation: Anon.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine 7
The poodle-shaped cell phone yappity-yap-yapped.
Miss Snark checked the number — bliss! — and kicked off her stilettoes. "Snookums?"
"Ooky-pooky-wookums," replied Evil, his voice a mixture of honey and moisturising cream for rich elderly ladies.
"So where are you taking me tonight, Big Boy?"
A pause. Pregnant. 8 months. Complications. Quads. Elephants. Straining to trumpet for their lives. Their trunks lashed together by rope. Their Never Forget bodies inflating rapidly like impossible bellows ready to burst burst BURST! "Well," replied Evil. "Let's, ah, let's see..."
Miss Snark clapped her hands. "Ooooh! Ooooh! A surprise! It's that Italian place isn't it? Where you punched the waiter for mispronouncing Pina Colada! Or what about Pierre Gastrique? Wow. I could murder a nice juicy Coq au Vin, if you get my meaning. Or is it sushi? Romantic sushi, made for two-she? Jeez. Listen to me. I'm gushing. You really got me, Snookums. In Mommy's special hot place. I dunno how you do it, but I'm on fire, baby. Hey listen, let's skip the meal. Whatever you had planned, we can do next weekend. Get over here RIGHT NOW. I want you, baby, want it all. On the rug. This minute. To AC/DC."
Evil sighed with relief — then did the biggest, silentest Snoopy dance EVER. "OK, Ooky-pooky-wookums. I'll be round in five minutes in your favourite leotard..."
--Whirlochre
Miss Snark checked the number — bliss! — and kicked off her stilettoes. "Snookums?"
"Ooky-pooky-wookums," replied Evil, his voice a mixture of honey and moisturising cream for rich elderly ladies.
"So where are you taking me tonight, Big Boy?"
A pause. Pregnant. 8 months. Complications. Quads. Elephants. Straining to trumpet for their lives. Their trunks lashed together by rope. Their Never Forget bodies inflating rapidly like impossible bellows ready to burst burst BURST! "Well," replied Evil. "Let's, ah, let's see..."
Miss Snark clapped her hands. "Ooooh! Ooooh! A surprise! It's that Italian place isn't it? Where you punched the waiter for mispronouncing Pina Colada! Or what about Pierre Gastrique? Wow. I could murder a nice juicy Coq au Vin, if you get my meaning. Or is it sushi? Romantic sushi, made for two-she? Jeez. Listen to me. I'm gushing. You really got me, Snookums. In Mommy's special hot place. I dunno how you do it, but I'm on fire, baby. Hey listen, let's skip the meal. Whatever you had planned, we can do next weekend. Get over here RIGHT NOW. I want you, baby, want it all. On the rug. This minute. To AC/DC."
Evil sighed with relief — then did the biggest, silentest Snoopy dance EVER. "OK, Ooky-pooky-wookums. I'll be round in five minutes in your favourite leotard..."
--Whirlochre
Valentine 6
“What are you doing?”
Evil Editor looked puzzled at the question. “I’m holding your hand.”
“Please don’t. It makes me uncomfortable.” She took it from him. EE fidgeted they walked; it was the first time he had dated anyone with a prosthesis.
“So,” he said, desperate to fill the awkward silence with small talk. “When did you quit being a juggler?”
Saffron glared at him. “Take a wild guess.”
Shit.
“Sorry. I-- Listen, you’re going to love this place. It’s my one of my favorites.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Don’t know how you managed to get a reservation on such short notice on Valentine’s day.”
“No reservations needed. I’m a regular there, they all know me.”
“So, what kind of place is it?”
“It’s mostly ethnic dishes, with a few local specialties. They do things with ladyfinger you--”
Shit.
His date sighed. “Listen. I’m over it, okay?”
“You’re very brave. Heck, I can’t juggle bean bags, let alone chainsaws. That must have been quite a show.”
“That last one was. A little lapse of concentration and my hand is flying off into the audience.”
“What a shock that must have been. All I’ve ever caught is a foul ball at a Redsox game.”
“I’m over it,” she repeated in a tone of voice that suggested, but not that over it.
“Incredible. I mean, I’ve got to hand it to--”
Shit.
“There it is.” EE pointed to a lighted window nestled in a row of darkened shops. “It’s called Kali, named after the many-armed--”
Shit.
“Okay.” Saffron’s voice had just the kind of edge you don’t want to hear from an (ex-) chainsaw juggler. “How about you stop talking and we go in and eat. I hope it’s a good table. If we’re not stuck by the kitchen, this date may be salvageable.”
“Don’t worry, everything’s in hand,” EE said as they entered the Kali Indian Takeaway.
--Anonymous
Evil Editor looked puzzled at the question. “I’m holding your hand.”
“Please don’t. It makes me uncomfortable.” She took it from him. EE fidgeted they walked; it was the first time he had dated anyone with a prosthesis.
“So,” he said, desperate to fill the awkward silence with small talk. “When did you quit being a juggler?”
Saffron glared at him. “Take a wild guess.”
Shit.
“Sorry. I-- Listen, you’re going to love this place. It’s my one of my favorites.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Don’t know how you managed to get a reservation on such short notice on Valentine’s day.”
“No reservations needed. I’m a regular there, they all know me.”
“So, what kind of place is it?”
“It’s mostly ethnic dishes, with a few local specialties. They do things with ladyfinger you--”
Shit.
His date sighed. “Listen. I’m over it, okay?”
“You’re very brave. Heck, I can’t juggle bean bags, let alone chainsaws. That must have been quite a show.”
“That last one was. A little lapse of concentration and my hand is flying off into the audience.”
“What a shock that must have been. All I’ve ever caught is a foul ball at a Redsox game.”
“I’m over it,” she repeated in a tone of voice that suggested, but not that over it.
“Incredible. I mean, I’ve got to hand it to--”
Shit.
“There it is.” EE pointed to a lighted window nestled in a row of darkened shops. “It’s called Kali, named after the many-armed--”
Shit.
“Okay.” Saffron’s voice had just the kind of edge you don’t want to hear from an (ex-) chainsaw juggler. “How about you stop talking and we go in and eat. I hope it’s a good table. If we’re not stuck by the kitchen, this date may be salvageable.”
“Don’t worry, everything’s in hand,” EE said as they entered the Kali Indian Takeaway.
--Anonymous
Valentine 5
Hi EE. Sorry, no hello kiss, because I know you asked me out only because none of your writers and none of the Hooters waitresses will have anything to do with you.
And I know you agreed to this date only because no one will go out with you ever since Mr. V. died three years ago under highly suspicious circumstances.
You might at least have picked me up in a limo. Who'd you buy this thing from, Al Capone?
The classics never go out of style.
Where are you taking me?
I had reservations at le porc énorme, but at the last minute I canceled. I was hit by a wave of nostalgia.
Uh oh. Here it comes.
Hear me out. Imagine we're twelve years old. We both have a crush on each other, but neither of us has ever said so. I finally work up the nerve to ask you out for Valentine's Day.
Sounds like a sappy McDonald's advertise-- You better not be taking me to McDonald's!
Don't be ridiculous. Burger King.
--Evil Editor
And I know you agreed to this date only because no one will go out with you ever since Mr. V. died three years ago under highly suspicious circumstances.
You might at least have picked me up in a limo. Who'd you buy this thing from, Al Capone?
The classics never go out of style.
Where are you taking me?
I had reservations at le porc énorme, but at the last minute I canceled. I was hit by a wave of nostalgia.
Uh oh. Here it comes.
Hear me out. Imagine we're twelve years old. We both have a crush on each other, but neither of us has ever said so. I finally work up the nerve to ask you out for Valentine's Day.
Sounds like a sappy McDonald's advertise-- You better not be taking me to McDonald's!
Don't be ridiculous. Burger King.
--Evil Editor
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