Not A Winner; Gypsy Moon

Thanks to Lily Childs, who tweeted about Janet Reid's fast and furious comment-fic contest, I wrote a drabble. Did not win. WTF! LOL. Nah, JK! The finalists were all clever, clever, clever. If you know me, you know I am clever -1. So, yeah. Not a winner. Don't you hate when you buy something, say, a box of cereal, because there is a contest and You Might Be A Winner! and then you open it, and there, printed in bold black ink, is Not A Winner? Don't you feel like it's a judgment on you as a person? I do. That's a horrible thing to say to a person. So visual, it sticks in my head all day. Not A Winner. Not A Winner.

I try not to buy things like that. The disappointment is immense every time. Well. Er, did I mention a drabble? Here it is!

Ghosts

Bruja, he says, as she digs in the dirt to chase away ghosts. She looks up, sees him standing in the doorway, watching. She could tell him he stands in another doorway, too, but which is the bleaker prospect? Right now she is "witch," and filthy besides, but "crazy" has a full belly in a lonely building, twenty miles away.

She buries the page with his name on it, just as something taps the back of her neck. Which entity wishes her harm now? But it is only him. He breaches her protective shields with a word. Madre.

She cries.

*

Thank you for reading. If you are also interested, I wrote a story for my friend asuqi. She prompted me with some words, and I wrote Gypsy Moon. She is an excellent prompter, and an excellent friend. The link goes to my DA, as I had been researching places to submit this strange fantasy fic and couldn't find a good match. It's approximately 1200 words, and isn't too awfully dark. For once. *ETA: The story has a "mature content" rating, which on DA means you can't read if you aren't a member with an age statement. :( Sorry about that, folks. There's only subtle sex, but I do want to keep the kiddies out.

If you've got the time and still feel like reading, may I suggest the top entry at asuqi's blog, which is her 3WW contribution, Trial With Time? One of the best pieces of spec fic I've read in a while, with literary aspersions all over the place. (I may have heard Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries in my head while reading, but just for a moment)

DA Contest; Dead Folks Up On That Thar Mountain

My short story, Flame and Ash, has won first place in the contest of the same name on DA. For the other winners and honorable mentions, go here.

The story is 1500 words, and it had to be based on a specific sculpture. At the end of my story, there is a link where you can see the sculpture and an interview with the artist. I got a one-year paid sub, but the best part? The story now becomes the subject of its own contest, which will be art-related. What a lovely idea! I can't wait to see what people come up with.

*

Via, this article on climbing Everest, specifically, something most climbers are not prepared for: the open graveyard, which is a stretch of the hike which has killed more hikers than any other.

And their bodies are left there. Trying to remove them has resulted in the deaths of others. You can read more on this here. Titled, "Abandoned On Everest," it will certainly get you thinking about willpower. No one knows exactly why each person stopped, sat down, and never moved again, but theories abound. Mine? They merely stopped moving. Be warned, there are pics. Lots of them.

Unrelated sidenote: Everest has never called me, but the Appalachian Trail has. know I've mentioned it before, but B and I are walking now. Up to four miles a day. Someday, when the time is right, I'm doing it.

Christmas Present; Book review: Lord of Misrule by Jaimy Gordon

A pair of tiny feet, encased in red sleeping slippers, was outlined by the bedcovers. Her legs were crossed and entangled under a single coverlet, with the curve of her thighs enticingly revealed. Shih-chung was amazed that her thighs were so voluptuous and large. He stared at them thinking: "How hard it must be for tiny feet to support those thighs!" He couldn't help feeling compassion for her lower extremities. Compressing the feet in order to thicken the thighs must have been the invention of a genius. And of course the inventor must have been a woman...

You must have guessed by now that for Christmas, my beloved went back to the used bookstore and got me the copy of Chinese Footbinding: The History of a Curious Erotic Custom. B has become known in my family as the best gift-giver ever, and this is just more evidence. I love it, although it means for poor B that I am occasionally following him around, reading passages from the book. It's fascinating, with fairy tales and myths, personal accounts, folklore, scientific study, photographs and drawings, etc. And yes, there is a fair amount of eroticism within the pages. Why the bound foot (or Golden Lotus, as it is euphemistically known) is more lust-inducing than the breasts, for instance. (Apparently, one must mess around with the breasts and it is more difficult to get to the private parts; whereas, when one starts fondling a bound foot, it is a straight line to the private parts -- I paraphrase, but most accurately)

It has been a most taxing holiday season, and I'm glad to see the back end of Christmas. There have been some truly lovely moments, though, such as the lobster tails we steamed for dinner last night, and it's quite wintery out, though my sister in CT tells me the blizzard has failed to make an appearance as of yet. It was cold last night -- two-cats-cold, as both of them were curled between us. The dogs wanted up, too, but I explained that at 70+ pounds, there simply wasn't room. And today, we start back on a course of healthy eating, as we were before Christmas Eve. We're going out for sushi tonight. Unagi! Yeah!

So before I start end-of-the-year blatherings about where I'm going next with writing (later on this week, if I can tame my normal rambling and make it fit for you to read), a book review:

Lord of Misrule by Jaimy Gordon

When the National Book Award deadline was fast approaching -- as in, five days away -- Gordon's book arrived on the scene. And then, shocking nearly everyone, it won. The list of contenders is mighty, the story of the book's release and immediate win is one for the ages, and Gordon is a professor at a Michigan university. Aaaand the book is about racetrackin'. I had to get it, you can plainly see.

It would be too easy to fall into the trap of every other gushing reviewer and talk about "dark horses" and "longshots," so I'll avoid that. But unfortunately, I am falling into another trap. I can't help but compare it, again and again, to one of my very favorite books of all time, Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand. If this book has any flaws, it is only one: that it is not Seabiscuit.

This is completely unfair of me, I realize. I can only defend myself by saying that in the past ten years, I've read Seabiscuit three times, and each time is better than the last. I find the characters beyond fascinating, and the races drawn so well that I have, embarrassingly and more than once, found myself jumped up on the sofa, clutching an imaginary whip in my hand. GO, SEABISCUIT, GO!

(and no, I have not seen the film, nor do I want to, as I fear it will spoil it for me)

There are no such moments in LoM; however, that is not actually a fault. Gordon writes with deft, understated gorgeousness, nearly poetic and -- dare I say -- magical ability. This is a tale of losers, losers all around, horses and people, both. But never have such a cast of losers in such a pittyful backstage backwater dump been raised to the sublime.

I use "pittyful" on purpose. Gordon writes in the vernacular of the track, the language of these losers, and it gives her deep insight into them. That she pulls this off -- and in omniscient pov -- is a testament to her skill. This isn't hokey, this isn't pretentious. This is the real deal.

Watch Maggie watching everything and everyone, watch Medicine Ed make one last bet with powers bigger than him (and ain't everything bigger than him), watch Tommy Hansel invoke mad Irish gods in his pursuit of all that is rightfully his from birth. And watch some folks get what theys got coming. And others, not so much. And amongst it all, watch the noble horses living tragic, pittyful lives.

I tore apart Koja's Under the Poppy a while back. All I can say is that everything I hated about that book (including her filly's nervousness of The Sex Scene) is done here to perfection. This was a beautiful, thumpin' long ride down a muddy track.

But may I suggest that if you get this, you also get Seabiscuit. Just... read Seabiscuit second. They are vastly different stories, told vastly different ways, but for myself, I can say it was hard not to compare them.

Twas a Rum-Soaked Evening...

Once upon a time, a girl bartended whilst making her dainty way through this world. She was quite good at it, and sometimes, she misses those days. Later on, this girl grew enamored of a darling pair of men called The Fabulous Beekman Boys, and she found that, despite herself, she was intrigued by their fruitcake recipe. One day, she decided to combine a lost passion and a new intrigue and see what would happen.

It was this! A Rum-filled Evening With Fruitcake and Music!

There are many recipes for Rum Runners, but this is a classic and how I made mine (note that I eyeball these things when actually making them, and don't measure):

Rum Runner

1 ounce Rum (I used Captain Morgan, since I was already using it for the fruitcake)


1/2 ounce Banana Liqueur

1/2 ounce Blackberry Brandy

teaspoon Grenadine

5 ounces pineapple and orange juice

You could substitute sweet and sour mix for the juice, but bah. Just don't. Anyway, mix, drink, smack your lips and call me Sheba.

While I was drinking this sinful concoction, I made fruitcake, using the Beekman Boys' Generous Fruitcake Recipe. Note that this is a two-night endeavor, though really fairly easy. The first night is just chopping the dried fruit (and eating a good amount) and then pouring the rum over it to soak a day. Stir occasionally.

I call this picture, "Haf made fruitcake, runned out of rum, haf gone to bar to find more."

The fruitcake recipe made a generous THREE fruitcakes, which are delightful and moist and have converted this former fruitcake-despiser. Highly recommended. Oh, music? I don't recall much except for a lot of Live and Bush's "Mouth," played extremely loudly.

*

Guess what? Just in time for Christmas, my flash fic horror story, Under the Boardwalk, has been posted for your enjoyment! I am fiddling with the microphone to see if I can read this one aloud, but my speaking voice is not my favorite thing in the world. I think I sound sultry and sexy, but I really sound like a broken clarinet in need of serious work.

While you are over at TKnC, may I recommend the story there I read earlier? The Blood Makes Me Whole by Dorothy Davies, which is AWESOME, not least because it is about Strange Thing From Outer Space.

Last but not least, over at the Vintage Photo community on LJ, this terrific shot of Stan and Olly Horsin' Around. When I was little, I watched a lot of t.v., especially on Saturday mornings and afternoon. Oh, the Monkees on Saturday afternoon! Huge crush. I also watched lots of old comedies. Not the Three Stooges -- no, no, NO. Ick. Abbott and Costello could occasionally catch my attention. But Laurel and Hardy? Oh, my. How I loved them. Love, love, loved them. I would giggle and fall over on the floor, and I just ate up everything single thing they did. Ain't they just the best?

If I am not around til after Christmas, may you all find in your stocking exactly what you wish for. I hear Santa is very generous this year. And know that I will be toasting all of you with a rum runner on that day.

"Unseen" -- Lily's Friday Prediction

Unseen

She sat before the mirror, spreading herself carefully. Dark purple, deflated: is this what he saw? Is this why he refused…?


She let a hand drop, covering herself, a chain of memories melting into one another: knickers on the floor, his odd look, lights being turned off, the warm firmness at her open lips, the bed’s silent shaking. A kiss on the forehead before he left again.

Summer months crawling by. Now autumn’s dried leaves on the pavement outside, curved and brown, whispering her self-doubt. She closed her eyes, imagining green shoots bursting forth from the dark earth, deep underground.

*

Runner-up in Lily's Friday Prediction. Each week, Lily gives you three words, and you write a story in no more than 100 words in the comments. This community of writers is simply stellar. They blow the roof off the place each week, and the variety of genres is wonderful. Makes for varied and interesting reading.

Inspiration comes from everything, everywhere. In this case, I had read Hayley Campbell's blog about her experience with the creator of the Wall of Vagina (yes, you read that correctly).
I do believe this is a valuable art project, one which has merit. The cons have been argued by a friend, and while I respect their position, I firmly believe in the power of this to heal -- wounded thoughts, wounded self-image.

3ww: The Glass Alligator

It's Three Word Wednesday!

The Glass Alligator

The glass alligator had survived two hundred years in the basement, broken crystal eyes staring gray into the void above the highest shelf. King of petrified apples and preserved raspberries a hundred generations removed from the bitter, crooked weeds growing in the yard, it sat cloaked in dust, alone, waiting for Reese's hand to find it.

We'd removed our masks a day past, the air being an utter disgrace of smells but, according to the read-out, fine to breathe. This house, alone on a high hill, was dark when we came, but our lanterns flashed over its flaking bones and showed us a veritable bounty. Metal, nails and cans and spoons and knives. My pack was full. Reese went into the basement looking for "treasure," his pack sagging. He'd put items in his shoes, beneath his cap. He'd carried a ring once inside his mask, pressed into the skin below his left eye. Three days it had been there. He said he could still feel it.

We'd dabbled long enough, I thought. Night falling fast, and a strange, floating dust blew out from the forest. I checked my gauge. Read-out said within parameters. I called to him in the basement.

He came up slow, the alligator in his hand. He told me where he'd found it, and he took off his other glove so that he could run a finger down its grimy glass side.

"It's not metal," I said.

"I think I want it."

"We won't get any money for it."

"Don't matter."

And he put a finger in the open jaws of the glass alligator, sighed, and the alligator shattered. He screamed, and I stood frozen. The alligator was gone. Glittering glass dust littered the floor, and Reese's hand was covered with it, mingling with the blood.

"Stop," I said, dropping my pack and rummaging until I found a threadbare towel. Purified water from my own supplies to wash his hand off, and I wrapped the hand and helped him gingerly place it back in the glove.

"Oh god, oh god," he said.

"Stop," I said. "Let's get out of here."

It was dark then, dark on a terribly lonely hill in a region which had been inhabited by men once. Now we were visitors here, and I thought I tasted their loneliness, their terror, on that night wind, a breath of our ancestors. A warning. I hurried Reese away from that house, and by morning, we were back across the line. Reese gave me his pack and went to bed, locking his door.

It has been two days since the glass alligator and the house on the hill. The money from the metal is in my pocket, and Reese is just now rising from his bed. I hear him in there. I hear his feet, dragging across the floorboards. Scraping. I hear the heavy swish of something else, something I know is not a tail. It is not a tail. I imagine his lean body, rested, strong. His hand, healed.

The door opens. I leave the comforting flicker of the vid to say, "Reese? Are you all right?"

In the dim light, I see him smile. "I am just fine, Max." It is a croak, a growl.

His teeth are made of glass.

*

Thank you to everyone from 3WW for stopping by and reading. Con-crit welcome. For some reason, I think I used "dabble" incorrectly, but I can't put my finger on it. Pfft. Brain dead. Tis the season.

Book Review: "the dead birth, itself" by Betsy Adams

Throughout this year, I've scoured used book stores for chapbooks and small print books. This has yielded more than a few gems, and "the dead birth, itself" is probably the strangest and also, by far, the most affecting of the books I've picked up.

Spectacular Diseases, a small press out of England, published 500 copies in 1993. As both press and Adams seem to have no internet presence, both apparently having disappeared (the last known book published by SD, that I can find, is 1996), you will no doubt have a great deal of trouble finding this, if my review seems to indicate it would appeal to you. I have located one or two used copies on the internet.

SD publishes poetry, and they call this book "long poetry." I break it down like this: two short stories, one story told as poetry but still very much a "story" and less "poem," and then a few long poems of which I  honestly cannot decipher. But the first three stories, well, those I can undertstand. And I found them not only distinctive and beautiful in their own unique way, but the first one was absolutely devastating.

The publisher's note at the beginning explains that Adams was a student of biology at Wayne State University in Detroit during the seventies, and it is clear that this experience vastly affected her. The work as a whole explores the issues of animal experimentation and testing, death, the search for beauty in all things (and I do mean, in all things), and our choices regarding each of those. It explores another issue as well, but I cannot give that away without destroying some of the integrity of the work. I will say that Adams has an unconventional and wholly heartrending view of the above subjects, and the reader cannot fail but to be touched by her disclosures.

While many works are forthright treatises on their given subject, this book approaches from a different perspective, luring you in with beauty and sickness both, with uncommon language, and gently persuades you to consider alternatives. It well and truly did so for me.

As much as I loved the first three stories, I was lost on the poetry that came afterwards. I do not claim to be a poetry expert; as I always say, I only know what I like or dislike. In this case, I simply could not comprehend, and it felt as if it came from a different mind than that which had penned the stories. A fragmented, wretched mind, one that implored the reader (or God? I somehow doubt Adams believes in a God of any kind) to understand and, possibly, to help.

Having said that, this is worth it for the first story alone, "On Her Off Days," and the other two are incredible additions. Do be warned that Adams's scientific background plainly shows through, and I notoriously have a weak stomach. There were moments when I wanted, desperately, to look away. But could not.

If you have ever thought that your scientific, logical mind could not quite find the answers to certain things, I think you will find Adams's book a help, if only, as I said, to give the reader alternatives.

Nothing is set in stone in this world. Nothing. If you can find this, I highly recommend it.

And as a sidenote: I cannot find anything about her other than the publisher's note that she currently resides on a huge tract of land north of Detroit, where she has a sort of animal rescue (though, again, this was in 1993, and I know just about every dog and cat rescue in the state today and do not know Adams). The cover to "the dead birth, itself" is a collage that is a collaboration between herself and Dr. Hiroshi Mizukami, who has been with the Wayne State U faculty since 1965. If anyone reading this does have any information, I'd be much obliged.

ATON: Exit

Up at A Twist of Noir, my "deeply and darkly depraved" story Exit. Thank you, Michael Solender, as I'm still beaming over that! And big thanks to Christopher Grant for allowing me to add my sick two cents to the awesome 600-700 challenge. I'm 638, and A.S. is right after me with 639 and her elegant, gorgeous debut noir, "Remember Paris."

I'd honestly forgotten this one. Christopher sent an email yesterday, and I went over to read and was all like, "Seriously? I wrote this? COOL!"

For once. LOL.

*

Rachelle Gardner asks in today's post if anyone has ever told you not to write, that it's a waste a time.

Indeed. My first husband, who told me I couldn't do a lot of things.

In some ways, I regret those years. He held me back from an education, and from experiencing and doing things I wanted to do. Things I was passionate about. But I have been known to dwell on that time in passing shades in my writing today, and I'd rather be a woman with a rotten past and glorious future than a spoiled little brat who's always had it all and doesn't know the meaning of hardship, or the true bleakness of existence.

I wanted to slap Paris Hilton across the face when she went to jail and cried incessantly and then got out early. At least Lindsay was stoic and accepted her sentence. And Martha Stewart? Strength. And that strength is born out of a difficult life. So sign me up to do it all over again, if I must. No pampered princess here.

If anyone's told you writing is a waste of time, go to Rachelle's post and talk about it.

Lily's Friday Prediction; Used Books and Dogs, a spectacular combination

Lily's Friday Prediction: What can you do with only 100 words? Mimi, A.S., and I have got the goods. Darkness x3. Must be something in the water. Play along.

*



On Saturday, B and I were Christmas shopping in Berkley, MI when we found the BEST USED BOOKSTORE EVER.

First, we were greeted by Marconi (see above), a corgi/husky mix who looks like a husky with its legs chopped off. Marconi gave a friendly hello and then immediately dropped onto his back for belly rubs. Then ambled up to us an ancient shih-tzu with one eye named Billy Bones, after the pirate, of course. The shop owner is an older gentleman who apparently believes in exceptionally well-categorized and chosen used books, but not heat. Twas chilly. To a bibliophile, it wasn't anything. I was lost in his world of dark wood shelves and fabulous choices. Everywhere I turned, something beckoned. The only item I didn't buy was Chinese Footbinding: A History of a Curious Erotic Art, which was behind glass. I wanted to. But that would have meant asking, and, well, I can barely talk to strangers about mundane things such as the weather, so asking for the book on Chinese Footbinding was certainly out of the question.

He also repairs antique radios in the shop, hence the dog in the chair above's name. And he rescues rabbits. Loved everything about this shop, and I have been in many used bookstores. Will be back. Dressed appropriately.

Writing!

Writing is hard work. A clear sentence is no accident. Very few sentences come out right the first time, or even the third time. Remember this in moments of despair. If you find that writing is hard, it's because it is hard. It's one of the hardest things people do.

--- William Zinsser

William Zinsser, author of the classic "On Writing Well." Coincidentally, this is exactly what I thought all writers looked like when I was growing up. This is what I thought I should look like, should I be crazy enough to want to be one. I managed to get the trash-compactor-sized typewriter by age 11, due to circumstances beyond anyone's control and that are still somewhat of a mystery. I forget what I first typed. I think it was, "The boy went to the " TO THE WHAT? THE BOY WENT TO THE WHAT? We found this sheet years later, but sadly, my dad's house then burned down, taking with it this sheet of paper, my refrigerator box packed full of Breyer horses and all their accoutrements, and the green strapless dress that I wore to my senior prom and which appears to have been made of tin foil.

It should be noted that I had the glasses from an early age. Little RS was blind as a bat. She somehow thought that thick, dark-colored frames (oh, maroon glasses of infamy! where have you gone? incinerated as well?) would be less noticeable, or maybe were cool. They were neither. Also, I stole my boyfriend's tie in 1989 and wore it. A LOT. It was a skinny tie, which was all the rage back then. Huey Lewis was to blame, if I recall correctly, and did you know that he is reputed to have the biggest cock in rock n' roll? Peter Frampton, smallest. So I have heard.

AND THUS ENDETH ENTRY OF LITTLE USE. YOU ARE WELCOME.

Hugs? Hell no

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's people who constantly are negative, who always have some sort of complaint. I hold my tongue, but when I see people complain about some things, I want to slap them. I want to say, "Really? You think this is so awful? Why don't you come live my life for one day, and then we'll talk."

I pride myself on being tough, on handling situations. I take care of things, and I generally react to stress by being very productive. My motto: What's the problem? Here's the solution. I have no time for complaining about something when there is a viable solution or when there is no solution and one must simply deal with it.

In other words, shut up and get on with it.

Having said that, I recently mentioned in brief that things have been very difficult for me lately. Unfortunately, I am dealing with two separate situations with people close to me that have reached a truly heartbreaking place. Combined with the day-to-day nonsense of running one's own business and every other little thing, it's just about wrecked me. I don't see what I can do to "fix" either of these situations, because it would mean "fixing" broken people, and that is something I am simply not able to handle. And these are not merely friends or acquaintances that I can walk away from.

What can I do? I've made attempts to talk to these people, but their behavior is impacting severely negatively on my life.

I have watched the tv show "Intervention" since it began. That and "Hoarders," two shows that freak me the fuck out. But now I'm glad, because at one point, I got very frustrated while watching "Intervention." I wanted to scream at the screen: WHY are you doing this? You are ruining your life and making those around you miserable!

And now I know that it's not the people, it's their disease. When they say something hurtful or do something awful, it's their disease. It's not them. And without professional help and the person's willingness to accept it, there is nothing else to be done.

This is causing me such great despair that I am not sleeping and barely functioning. You must also understand that I am a person of action, and if there is nothing I can do, I feel useless. Useless, and as if I am watching people throw their lives away. Possibly literally.

My personal life is something that is usually off-limits, except for things of little consequence or things that might entertain. But I feel compelled to write this because I know that I am not the only one. I know that there are people out there who are dealing with the same issues, and who love deeply certain people, and who feel that their love is not being returned. But I know that I am loved. Just... not by the alcoholism. Which wants me to go away and leave it alone, so it can exist in peace.

I should note, though, that I am taking my own advice in this situation. I've often counselled people, when they are feeling horrible, that they should write. And so I am. I've polished and submitted two pieces that were languishing in the "unsubmitted" folder, and I've been quietly escaping to another world, where a man meets a dragon of little fire but much heart.

Yes. A story with dragons. What, did you think I'd write about the terribleness of addiction or neurotic personality? Ha! You're out of your freakin' minds, my friends. Every time things gets too much, I open up this one file, and I am pulled down a dark alley and up a set of stairs to a barren apartment where a man in threadbare clothes goes eye-to-reptilian-eye with a tiny green dragon. It's a Christmas story. And it makes me feel snuggly and good.

I rarely feel snuggly. Ask B. I am the anti-snuggler. Hugs? Nooooooo!

So that is all for today. You're a kind group to read. No need to offer sympathy, because I know many of you are dealing with either similar issues or your own demons, unrelated to addiction. Perhaps, for example, you have a teenager.

In that case, my sympathies.

Book pr0n; The Walking Dead final review

I may have promised porn yesterday. And I will not disappoint you, friends and bibliophiles. Here it is.

This is from Bookshelf Porn. That's right. Bookshelf. Porn. Yes. Yes. Yes. There are so many images at this Tumblr-hosted site, I really had a difficult time choosing. And I could've chosen just about any of them. Go. Drool. Plan on moving in, secretly, and bringing a backpack with sandwiches. Do not, under any circumstances, give me away should you happen upon my cheerfully-ensconced person.

*

So this is not the review I promised when I spoke of a collection of short stories and poetry that was "devastating, in a good way." But you still like me, right? YES YOU DO. BY THE POWER OF ALL THAT IS UNDEAD, I COMMAND YOU.

I've finished "The Walking Dead." That is to say, I've caught up on everything there is to read, and the next issue comes out next Wednesday, and I will be there in line with my three dollars, just like the rest of the suckers.

Should you have forgotten: The Walking Dead takes us on a journey with a group of ever-changing survivors (get attached to NO ONE), centered by former sheriff's deputy, Rick Grimes, as they navigate in the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse. I don't even want to tell you anymore. Instead, I'm going to say a few things about my reaction to this series.

I don't think I have actually jumped up -- literally, jumped up, out of my cozy seat on the couch -- and gone, "Oh my god!!! Holy shit!!!" and then immediately sat back down and read like a crazy person. And I did this several times over the course of reading this.

The last graphic novel I read was Chris Thompson's "Blankets," a coming-of-age, small-town story. I loved it.

THIS IS WAY BETTER.

I have, for the first time ever, ventued into a comic book shop. Wow! That is an entirely different world, right there! And now I have a club card with them!

I don't think I've spent this much time discussing a book since my days of Harry Potter infatuation. Seriously. I've logged hours and hours, sitting by my computer with whatever volume I'm talking about so I can reference things.

I love zombies, we all know this. This is not about zombies, I swear to you. It is subtly written, complicated, occasionally heartwrenching, highly intelligent, thrilling and an absolute joy.




This link is to the Compendium. It covers about half the issues currently out. From there, you will want to buy: books 5 and 6, volume 13, and then the individual trades. Current issue is 79, and 80 is next week. That will take you seamlessly from start to... obsession.

Word of warning: AMC is currently showing the six episodes they tout as season one. Except for episode four, which TWD author Robert Kirkman himself wrote, they fucking suck balls. Another thing I have spent hours doing, lamenting the shit they call TWD on AMC. Having said that, it seems that people who have never read the comic think the show is fantastic. While those of us who have read it uniformly dislike it. Greatly.

Sentence fragments. I like them.

ALSO ZOMBIES.

Get it. I admit that I nearly didn't. I was kind of like, "Yeah, sure, buddy..." But I got the first issue, all by its lonesome.

And went out directly afterwards and got the Compendium. And then tried to read the rest slowly, which didn't go as planned. Hooked. I'm hooked.

So will you. If you're not a comic book reader, as I am not, then I can assure you that you will still find this enjoyable. Look at me. Enjoying.

And also wanting more people to talk to about this. :)

There is a kick-ass bitch with a katana and two zombies on leashes. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Channeling my rage; thanks, Cee Lo Green

Thank god for the Grammys, bringing this to my attention.

Ain't that some shit. And yeah, you'll have this in your head all day.

Do you know how many people I think of when I'm singing along to this song? MANY. Like A. Yeah, you, A. If you're reading this blog, let me let you in on a little secret: big muscles and a pretty face ain't all that, you barely five-inched prick who didn't even know how to use it. There's more to fucking than the missionary position and OH YEAH girls get to have orgasms too, you fucking dick. And "kissing" does not mean to pry open the girl's mouth and ram your tongue down her mouth. Also, we've got multiple ways to remove back hair these days. I mean, a little fuzz, yeah, I can deal with that. But you're a fucking gorilla. No wonder you hated to remove your shirt. To think I was following your sorry ass around like a little puppy dog. And fucking my best friend at the end of it? Yeah. Fuck you. And fuck her too.

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I feel like I have lost the ability to write. Like it's gone. Now, in fairness, I am just climbing out after a serious two month depression, which I am not going to complain about because, hey, that's my life sometimes and I deal with it. But I cannot write anything that doesn't sound like utter shit. And now I have made myself this crazy promise, or deal, or something, and I think I am setting myself up for the biggest failure ever. My heart starts to race when I think of it, and I know that when the day comes to fulfill this promise, I am going to crash and burn. And then what do I do? I'm not sure. Sometimes I think, maybe I should really hit rock bottom with this depression thing. Maybe I struggle to stay afloat, and maybe I should let myself sink all the way down down down instead. Maybe if I really become a fucking mess and ruin my entire life, then nothing else bad could ever happen that could be that bad, so the rest would be cake.

I don't know if that makes sense. It seems to make sense right now. I wish I could have a glass of wine right now, but aside from it being quarter after nine in the morning, I am worried about someone's alcoholism and so I feel like I can't even have a drink now. But maybe that fucks up the universe. Maybe if I drink something, she'll have one less. Maybe if I drink nothing when normally, I would have a glass of wine, she then must have extra. Which she don't need, trust me.

I'm going to listen to Cee Lo one more time, or ten, and see what he says. I think, being as he is one half of Gnarls Barkley, that he has got some serious wisdom yo. I think that. Ain't that some shit.

Blogs of interest; asuqi; wallpapers

Rachelle Gardner was asked what about a writer's blog turns her off, and does it affect whether or not she chooses to represent the person. Her brief answer and your turn at answering the question here:

Blogs we don't like

Since her post is about blogs written by writers and agents, my own comment stuck to that. But let me add that I've dropped bloggers that rec books when it becomes clear that they receive a lot of books for free and they review them all positively.

If I can't trust the reviewer, I no longer follow them. I sometimes dislike a book I've read, and I will say so here. If you've known me for a while, as many of you have, then you have a sense of my personality and tastes, and if we mesh in some way, then you can usually trust if I say, "Loved this book!" And you can save your hard-earned money when I say, "I fucking hated it."

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What I love this morning: Asuqi's winning entry over at Lily's Friday Prediction! From the moment I read the title, I loved it. You'll have to scroll down through the comments to find it -- that's how Lily's contest plays -- but it's well worth it. And check out her blog. Asuqi is a brilliant writer.

I had something in the race, too. A little piece about Vegas. Will I play again this week? Who knows. But Lily's got three new words up, so wander over and see what you make of them.

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I've got a new wallpaper from artist Ryan McGinness. Find all of his downloadable art here.

I absolutely love it. Best one I've had... ever? Maybe. Found via SuperPunch.

Women writers, rejoice!

Luna Station Quarterly is a genre zine which solely publishes women writers. For issue 004, they wanted drabbles. You'll find three of mine, including my favorite, Fox-boy. Romance a la RS.

Even more exciting? I bugged a few friends, and my work is alongside theirs! Find Mimi Gregor's signature darkness all out on display for you, and A.S.'s delicately troubling psychological beauties. AND OMG THERE IS A ROBOT I LOVE ROBOTS.

Ahem. Find it all HERE!

And this recent art, Winterplanet by *caw, received a well-deserved DD and also perfectly synthesizes everything great about LSQ, I think: an android crashes on a distant planet. Yours...?