Plot Problems (Are There Any Other Kinds?)

Well, maybe it's not a problem, but it's certainly thrown me off track. I mean really, what is my subconscious thinking tossing that idea my way this afternoon? I'm 60,000 words into this new novel—from here to the end was even outlined—and this idea comes out of nowhere and smacks me upside the head. The ninja block turned out to be way to slow, and I got it full force.

Bam!

I said, “What?” Well, this happened during lunch at work, so I didn't actually talk out loud. They all think I'm slowly meandering down the path to crazy anyway, so I try not to give them any additional excuses to commit me. So in my mind I had this little argument.

*Plot twist thought occurred*
“What?”
“You heard me,” my subconscious said.
“I'm ignoring you.” I went on typing.
“It's not working.”
“Yes it is,” I insisted. “I'm totally ignoring you and your insane, twisted ideas.”
Dramatic, internal sigh. “You'll come around.”
“Still typing.” Tap, tap, tap. (How would one describe the sound of typing?)
“It'll be great for the story.”
“No,” I'm sure I frowned. “No, it's too dark for YA.”
“Uh . . . you were there when we read the Hunger Games, right?”
“You are not to speak of that series.”
Subconscious smells victory. “You wanted an active protagonist; this plot twist will help with that. Not like that main character in the series we do not speak of.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
“lalalalalalala...”
“It's not like I can go anywhere else. Kind of stuck in here.”
I tried to ignore.
“Typing louder will not make this go away,” my subconscious said in a droll voice.
“It might.”
“It won't.”
I stopped typing. Glared at the screen. Hovered my fingers over the keyboard, lowered them. “Drat.”
“Told you so.”

Lucky for me, this doesn't change too much of the story before this. It was actually good timing for the plot twist. Now I just have to re-outline to the end and then fix everything else.

One thing at a time.

But first, I need to find my subconscious a shinny object to go after so it will stop pestering me.

Being Good

That could refer to so many things. Being good, I mean. And I know the answer to my next question, but I'm going to rant about it anyway.

Why is it that when I decide I'm going to “be good” in regards to going off of my see food diet (see it, eat it) cookies appear, chocolate throws itself at my feet and people start talking about bacon wrapped whatever?

The answer—cruel irony.

The same force of the universe that tosses all of the family obligations on the same weekend, sends rain when I leave my car windows down and refuses to cough up a recycle bin when I've got an aluminum can that I want to throw away.

What I did, precisely, to irk this bit of the universe is beyond me. I mean, it's not like I've gone around trying to send the balance of the cosmos askew by forcing angry people to listen to uplifting audio files about self esteem, or poking babies with pencils to make them cry in church. I even did something nice today.

Wait, maybe that's what happened.

No, that doesn't make sense. The irony has been lingering around me for years. This one act of niceness couldn't be the cause of all the times I wore a white shirt and been served spaghetti for dinner. Could it?

But I've digressed. Cruel irony. Being good. Yes, I've vowed to eat more healthy at least a dozen times since the beginning of the year. It usually lasts until 10am when our HR lady comes to work, opens her office and releases the chocolate. She's naughty. I'm trying to be good. Why would she sabotage me like that!?! What kind of HR person makes people feel bad about themselves? Why?

I've wronged the healthy gods at some point in my existence. I'm thinking that this injustice can never be repaired, and that I will go on being sabotaged from now until the day I die—not as healthy as I'd like, but certainly happy with the last bit of chocolate I ate.

I think I hear a cookie container being crinkled open in the next room. I go, responding to the call of ripping plastic and the smell of crunchy preservatives. Hello cruel irony, I've missed you.

Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille

Synopsis: (borrowed) Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille serves the best matzoh ball soup in the Galaxy, and hires some of the best musicians you'll ever hear. It's a great place to visit, but it tends to move around-just one step ahead of whatever mysterious conspiracy is reducing whole worlds to radioactive ash. And Cowboy Feng's may be humanity's last hope for survival.

A couple of good friends of mine recommended this book to me a few weeks ago. They laughed about it and said how great it was. One of them read me some of the opening lines, and I laughed too. So I expected reading the book to be a romp through the plot, with lots of bad puns and interesting humor.

Okay, so I got all of that, but even more, I got an unexpectedly deep plot and (wait for it) a book that made me think.

Yes, I typed think.

I don't normally go for thinking books. I prefer my fiction light and fun. Sure, some depth is expected, but if I'm having a bad day I plow through it to get back to the action. I'm sure there are several derogatory terms for my fiction habits, but hey, they're my habits, so back off!

Oh, that reminds me, the other day at work I almost changed the signature at the bottom of my e-mails to “Yes, I'm still cranky”. A co-worker decided she might change hers to “Back Off!” I suggested BOMB for Back Off Monkey Boy (movie reference, anyone get it?). She laughed. I had my clever moment for the week. We moved on.

And that's what this book is like. Random (but enjoyable) tangents and deep thoughts thrown in at every twist and turn. Not like my thoughts, but real ones.

My favorite line was “I laughed, I cried, I fell over, it changed my life.” Or something like that. Sorry, I returned the book to it's owner earlier today and a six second Google search did not pull it up. It's probably everyone's favorite line, but that's okay. It's good. I loved it. I haven't fallen over about it, but that could still be coming.

So anyway, I was expecting a lighthearted romp and got a very cool, rather deep, character rich read that left me feeling sad and glad all at the same time. I guess deep is okay. Maybe, someday, I'll write a deep novel and be remembered for my quirky and realistic look into our world.

Yeah.

Right.

Home Again and What's New

I have no idea how it happens, but the ride home from Reno takes at least twice as long as the drive out. Space time continum, worm hole, alien abduction distracted by shinny object. Or something.

WorldCON turned out to be a very interesting, very educational experience. Right now I'm in the midst of my second Young Adult book. This one is dystopia (sort of) and therefore leans in the Science Fiction direction. However, the publishers at WorldCON were looking for the hard core, adult sci-fi. I did talk to a couple of editors that take YA, which I count as a huge plus. Thanks go to my writing group for tossing me out of my comfort zone like a baker tosses pizza. I've sent my query to one editor, and have three to go.

What's new? Yesterday I had the most bizarre thing happen to me. As I sat in my writing chair, one leg up over a wobbly arm and my laptop balanced on the other, I poised my fingers above the keyboard and dropped them in anticipation of writing a kick butt action scene.

Nothing happened.

Hello? Fingers? Go fingers!

Nothing.

Type! Type like the wind! Use those short sentences. Let the blood fly. Be free!

Still nothing.

I'm sure I scrunched up my brow and stared down the white screen before me. Glancing away, only to watch the keyboard out of the side of my eye had no discernible effect. Affect? Whatever, it didn't help. Neither did sitting there, checking my e-mail, getting snack or changing my laundry.

I wondered if I'd caught some rare anti-action disease in Reno. Action is my fun time in writing. Bring on the fight. And yet, last night, I finally sat down to type again, and found myself ready to write the emotional backlash that follows said action scene. Shock, death, betrayal, anger and (yes, believe it Melissa) crying.

What? What's wrong with me? (No, it's not “that time” so don't even start.)

Is this a turn in my writing? Will I ever be able to type an explosive, exciting, action packed fight scene again? Or will my writing from now on be restricted to brutal emotion and sappy angst?

If so, will someone please smack me? Oh wait, Sensei promised an “epic” work out tonight. He had that smile on his face that makes me wonder if I should just go to bed instead of class. Unfortunately, I promised I'd come back. If you don't hear from me for a while, it's because I can't lift my arms.

Oh, 48,500 words down!

WordCON Day Whatever

Ooh! Today I saw lots of cool things.

First off, I sat in line with a friend for a Kaffenklatch something or other for about an hour this morning. After we turned around in our spot a few times, kicked up the carpet and sat down, a handful of budding, hopeful authors came and sat down behind us. (I am not a budding anything—too old. These were children. Children in twenty year old bodies with far too much intellect and a lack of personal hygiene.)

Their conversations were, to say the least, hysterically absurd. One of them, I am happy to report, has been living off the free food in the CON suite and all of the parties at night for the entire week. The smell he emitted led me to wonder if he'd been sleeping under someone's bed. Go geeks.

Once that, er, ordeal came to a close, I went to a weapons class. Normally the people demonstrating with weapons are amateurs that have done a little bit of play sword fighting at Renescance fairs. This guy, however, knew his stuff. He had some really cool weapons, including an 18lb, 6 ½ foot tall sword that made me want to jump up and take it from him. No matter that it's over a foot taller than me. Or that the guy outweighed me by at least 100lbs. Nope, I just wanted to play with the sword.

Seriously though, he really knew his stuff. I only know some hand to hand fighting, but he applied pretty much the same techniques I would when going against a tall/long opponent when he talked about defending against this giant sword. Very cool.

Let me think, what else? I actually pitched to an agent while I was standing in the hall. That was a fun. I managed to pull off a good pitch as well, which made me feel better.

I met a few other hopeful, Utah writers and we had dinner at the pub. Not very nice of us to bring twenty people to the pub and not buy one alcoholic beverage. That would probably explain the horrible service.

Tonight we went to the Hugo Awards Ceremony. I'm sorry to say, that without being extremely familiar with all of the nominees and their work the ceremony got boring very fast. Plus, to a few of the winners it didn't feel like they much cared. None of the Utah people that were nominated won, which made me sad. So I probably won't go to that again. Unless someone from the writing group I'm here with gets nominated. That's the pact.

Then, after the after party we felt like we needed some ice cream, so we walked through the Carl's Junior drive through and begged them for a shake. Our pitiful cries for chocolate broke down their resistant walls, and we soon had happiness in our hands, and straws to deliver it to our mouths.

Tomorrow, the drive home . . .

WorldCON 2011, Friday Report

Lessons learned:

Convention center chairs are made for nymphs and are not, in fact, meant to be sat in.
Some writers should never read their work aloud.
Others should not be allowed to appear in public.
CON food induces horrible flatulence in a large number of older men.
Editors are people too.
There are individuals who really do believe that their idea is the best story an editor will ever hear . . . and they share this fact with a great deal of gusto.
CON parties are stinky, crowded and full of people who have no idea how to communicate to one another on a normal level. Or any level for that matter.
People do stupid things when they're drunk, but it's kind of fun to watch.
Free food is good food. Until the older men have too much of it.
Any panel that involves romance will deteriorate into an exposition about sex. Things go awry quickly at a Science Fiction convention. Think about it . . . or not.
Book stores are scary places when a CON is in town.
Telling your pitch to an editor is scary.
Plucky pirates should not exist.
Steampunk costumes are very cool.
Leather corsets—discuss.
Casino hotel bathrooms are really nice, and they smell good.
There are a lot of really great story ideas out there. I just hope mine is soon one of them!

WorldCON 2011, Thursday Report

Attending any event that caters to hard core Sci-Fi fans is an interesting experience. A friend pointed out that in any other crowd, just one of them would stick out like a sore thumb. However, here, they are safe. They are secret. Wait, there are no secrets. Yes, everyone here is a geek in one way or another. I may not look the part as some other people do, but my inner geek is just as healthy as most. Not as crazy as some, but just as healthy.

This is the first convention that I've been to in which actual publishers have been represented. I've met a few agents before, and one editor, but never anyone from one of the big publishers. So that's been cool! I attended three publisher panels today, stalked an editor from a big publishing house and I talked to another editor, but he doesn't represent Young Adult. As a matter of fact, he told us specifically that the books his publishing company printed were not for children. Yeah, after going to his panel, I can see that. Cool stories, not exactly kid friendly.

So what did I learn today? Well, first off, I'd still really, really like to go the traditional way of publishing for my first book/series. Having someone commission a cover and do all the nasty work is a very appealing offer. No, I won't make as much money on the novel/novels as I could self publishing (maybe) but I'll be published. There is something to be said for that. A big something.

Second, I learned (through watching someone else) that an elevator pitch is important. An editor I spoke with (the non YA fellow) graciously allowed someone to pitch their novel to him. He said, “Give me a paragraph.” When the aspiring author went on for well more than a paragraph, the editor did not seem impressed and I don't think he asked for the manuscript. My friend kept his pitch to a short paragraph and the editor said to send the manuscript! So listen and obey. I can do that.

Third, I found out that casinos are, in fact, designed to get you lost. I took one wrong turn out of the bathroom after lunch and ended up a good three blocks away from the convention center. Without going outside. Now that's talent. I even tried to follow the signs, but failed. Epically.

What will tomorrow bring? Who knows. More stalking. Perhaps some readings. More casino adventures. One can never tell.