Things to do and things I shouldn't do

Things to do: Foremost, send in the donations to Gai Écoute. Yes, as of midnight tonight, my royalty donations to Gai Écoute comes to a close. I'll be getting with Marci on that. After she gives me the sales figures from the last quarter to this point, I'll send in a payment to the charity. I'll post the results here as soon as I have them. I have five manuscripts to edit, one of which is the mm anthology. I'm hoping to have one novella released this month. As soon as it goes up, I can take another manuscript for editing, and I need to because I have a waiting list. For my own writing, can't seem to get anything new done. Lately, I get burned out very easily. I don't think authors, at least not all of them, really know just how much thought and time goes into editing. And when you have to go over a manuscript many, many times, the process can be extra draining, to the point that I haven't written anything new for my I/P series for over a year. I did write that wee story for Faith's fairy anthology, though. That was good. Quickly written and it has a definite end. No worries about continuing the story with a sequel (although I did think of one). What I shouldn't do: I'm going to digress a bit. What I thought I should do, or what I thought editors should do, back before I became one for Freya's Bower and Wild Child, was to insert words in a manuscript for the writer. You know: writer uses the same word ten times in a page, so editor inserts other options. Or writer neglects using commas, capitals, periods where definite rules of punctuation exist, writer does this multiple times every page--I put the punctuation in. Right? Wrong. Very wrong. Think about it. If you fix punctuation screw ups that are littered throughout a novel--same errors, over and over--what are you doing as an editor? You're letting that writer know he or she can continue to be sloppy the next time they submit. You're letting them know you think being unprofessional is fine. You're signing yourself up for headaches because you'll get a manuscript designed to give them. Change the words around too often, fix up the passive voice, the repetitive syntax, the repeats, entire sentences that twist a reader into mental knots, and you've started doing the author's job, which is writing, isn't it? When did editing become writing? This actually gets worse if you let it. Here's how: point out common writing errors, after having pointed them out multiple times already, and then point them out all over the manuscript. Leave a patchwork quilt of comments, highlights and color-changed font. What have you done? You've become the brain, the mind. You're this wonderful pointer, a smart lazer beam that leaves a visible trail so that the author doesn't actually have to look, really look at his/her writing. And what does the author really learn if he/she doesn't really look? Nothing. Once again, next manuscript you get from that author will be littered with the same stuff you discussed many times before. Author never learned to look for him/herself. Don't get the wrong impression here. I like working with new authors. I like teaching them how to get their writing smoothed out and more finished. But at some point in the editing process, I have to pull back and let the author use his/her eyes to find the flaws. And after the author sees, really sees, what has to be fixed, then I hope to find improvement in that manuscript that had nothing to do with me dabbling in it personally. Sounds harsh? Maybe. But this is how it is. Do the revision and you're still the author. Let someone else do it and what are you? A co-author. Sure, you started the story, but when you let someone else polish it to the point it no longer resembles the original, then that someone else finished the story, didn't they? Editors are not supposed to finish your story. They're supposed to guide you, fix the occasional screw up, prod you when they see a repeated screw up, and point out plot holes and character incongruity. They should give advice and, ultimately, make sure that story is readable and understandable. They should not revise it for you. Absolutely not. I get burned out, you know, not just from working on a manuscript that comes back with the same mistakes, but because I worry how to explain this stuff to the author again, how to encourage the author to get the revision done right. I don't always succeed. Sometimes I do. The end result of success is well worth the effort. I love it when I see improvement in someone's writing. I really love it. Ok, so this post seems to have become another whiny lecture on the travails of editing. Not how I meant it, but I guess I needed to let that out. If any of you wonder how an editor can get behind on editing, bogged down on a manuscript, burned out, now you know at least one reason. Editing is really tough on the noggin. Hey, want to hear the opposite problem, what happens when the author does write well? I friggin forget to edit and start reading like a reader. You wouldn't believe how many small goofs I've missed, how many small goofs a proofreader will miss, when your writing is good already. (I'm pointing at you, Debbie, lol. How's the next story in the Sorcha series coming along?) I have to whomp my mental butt when I catch myself reading a manuscripts for fun. It's a compliment to the writer, but it's disaster when it comes to properly editing and proofreading. But it's a good disaster. :-) Here's hoping for a lot more of those this coming year. I'm raising a glass to all writers. Happy writing.

Extending deadline for mm anthology

Reposted part: Freya's Bower invites you to submit your short stories with mm content for an all mm anthology. Any genre story: fantasy, western, contemporary, science fiction,horror, historical. We'd like to have a nice mix of genres for this anth. Stories should be between 6,000 to 10,000 words, but we will consider manuscripts a little shorter or a little longer. For submission guidelines as to what Freya's Bower will accept as story content, please visit http://www.freyasbower.com/content/view/12/59/ Double-space your manuscript. Include a header with the title of the story, your name and numbered pages. Indent each new paragraph .5 inches. If there is a scene break, indicate it with a centered***. All submissions must include: 1. your full name, a pseudonym if used, 2. a brief synopsis, subject or genre, 3. the story attached 4. 'Submission to mm anthology' must be in the subject line, 5. Mail submissions and/or direct queries to kmfrontain@yahoo.ca Updated part: Submissions for the anthology closes January 31, 2007. Links to help writers who want to sub: http://sgold.members.sonic.net/verb_power.htm http://www.sfwa.org/writing/chadvce.htm

Reviews, anths, edits...

...and Christmas. I don't have my tree up. I did not send cards yet. But the shopping is done. Yep. All done. No presents to buy. That, in itself, is a big relief, because shopping for regular stuff has become crazy. I really dislike wading through people to get to the shampoo aisle, but this year wading is obligatory. I have a theory about how people shop and how people drive. I think you can tell how people drive based on their "in the aisle" habits. If they stand in the centre of the aisle and hold everybody up, before and behind, while staring at some store item without moving, or if they chat with someone without giving a shit that everyone is waiting for them to get their asses in gear and take the chat to a less travelled location, then those people are likely the same idiots who tailgate or cut you off when you have right of way. They're also the type that don't let you into traffic. Ever. If ever a fairy should exist, or an elf, it should be the store zapper. The electro brownie of the aisles. You hold up traffic, ZAP! Right in the toes. If you have steel-toed workboots rated for electrical safety, then the winged electro raider shall smite ye with a quick zap to the bottom. That'll free up your case of aisle constipation. Aisle constipators. Yes. That's what they are. Aisle constipators need enemas. Right. So it's the aisle enema fairies what'll get ya. On with the list (see blog title). Reviews, just one actually, for Omos of the Ether. Pretty picture coming up. Pretty because of nice bottom on man with nice backside. And there's the nice picture. Here's the review link. Another wonderful review from Sabella over at Joyfully Reviewed. Thank you, Sabella. Anths. The mm anth is closing on the official cut off for subs, but I might extend it past the holiday season. I've had two queries concerning subs that were not strictly mm (both were mmf, which I happen to like reading and writing). The bosses have given me the go ahead to do another submission call for a menage anth with a focus on male bisexuality. There we go, ladies and gents. Time to get our favourite fence sitters eye deep in muffs and studs. Fence sitting is great. You can see over here and you can see over there and you can pick the daisies on either side and... What's next? Edits. I'll be starting the mm anthology edits after Christmas. I'll post the next anthology submission call soon. I'm behind on current edits, as usual. Behind on my own writing targets. Can't seem to concentrate well on writing while I have to edit. But I did manage to write about 13k for Faith for her In the Gloaming fairy anthology. Took a couple of days to whip it off, and despite the plot pinholes I missed, Faith liked the story, said it made her laugh, but felt totally ripped that I fuzzy floatied two orgasms. Yep. I didn't describe the orgasms in two sex scenes. Fuzzied away from them real quick. They just...didn't seem that important to me for some reason. I know. Weird. Why I think that, hunh? Brain damage from staring at computer screen too long, probably. So I'm under orders to give Faith those orgasms. Coming right up, Faith. Two orgasms for you. Heh heh heh. I'm going to give you a small excerpt from that story. Guess what it's called after. Warning, offensive language. “There’s an icicle hanging from the eave of the sauna, just on the corner where we run out to chill off in the snow.” Elli’s mother trudged three steps further before pausing and turning about. “What’s that?” she said. “There’s an icicle—” “Are you coming or not?” David shouted from somewhere at the front of the lodge. A trickle of snow pattered off the steep slope of the roof. Then a huge sheet slid down the incline and plopped on the side path Glen had shovelled earlier that day. Elli eyed it and reserved a small gloat for later when her stepbrother returned from the village. For now, she hid the amusement behind a bored expression. Didn’t matter. Her mother wouldn’t have noticed an open gloat anyhow. “That man will start an avalanche,” Susan Erickson-Waite grumbled, facing front again. “A real one. That almost landed on my head.” “It’s just coincidence, Mom. It’s a myth that loud noises cause avalanches.” “That was no coincidence,” Susan said. She took a step forward. “Wait! Mom, someone should break the icicle. It could fall on a head…or something.” Something that might hurt worse than a head. What the heck was she thinking? What else would it fall on but a head? Her family didn’t slide down the path like otters. Well, Glen did once, but not after he’d hurt his penis on an icy, lumpy patch despite the swimsuit around his middle. That had been hilarious. “The icicle can wait a few hours until we’re back from the village,” her mother said, glancing back. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Shit, yes! “Yeah, I’m staying here to use the sauna and the whirlpool without Glen sneering at how stupid I look with this cast sticking out of the water.” And staring at her crotch because she had a leg raised. Susan cast a suspicious glare at the roof, which had yet to shed the full complement of that week’s snowfall. “Well, I think it’s safe. I’m off. Don’t get the cast wet, Elli.” “Mom! I know already. I’ll put a garbage bag around it. I’ll use duct tape to seal it and I’ll keep it out of the water too.” I’m an adult now, Mom. Look at me clearly, please. Her mother tested the snow pile with one foot. She sank in to the calf of her black winter boot. “Damn…! All right, use a garbage bag, but stay away from the icicle.” Adult, Mom! “Yeah, sure,” Elli said. But as if she could stay away from it. The beaten path, a four foot deep trench Glen never bothered to widen, passed directly under the icicle to the snow bed they used for chilling down. The other side of the sauna building had bushes, an old oak that dropped twigs, and fir trees that littered needles and cones everywhere. And there was scat. Squirrel scat, probably, though she seldom saw the pesky little poops actually commit their atrocity on the pristine snow after a blizzard. Even if she rolled in pristine snow, she’d uncover the foul snow beneath. Susan buried her second leg up to the calf in snow. “Don’t stay in the sauna too long,” she called. “I know, Mom.” “But stay in there if you trip and hurt your leg again! Crawl in if you have to, especially if you’re closer to the sauna than the lodge.” “Mom, I’m not going to trip.” “Don’t shut the door all the way if that happens. I don’t want you dying of heat exhaustion. A second broken leg we can fix.” “Mom! Go already!” Her mother looked back, frowning with disapproval. “Don’t be so impatient. It’s your impatience that put you in the cast to begin with.” God! Elli scowled. “I know, Mom. Please don’t harp about it.” Her mother’s scowl deepened. “I do not harp.” She hugged the front of her fur coat tighter together, turned away, trudged through the detritus of the mini-avalanche and disappeared around the corner of the house. “Thank you, God,” Elli whispered. “Bye, Essie!” Glen hollered. Essie, short of E.S.E. or Elli Sol Erickson. But sometimes Glen called her Nessie, short for beached sea monster, this despite she'd lost the thirty-two extra pounds she'd been hauling about when they'd been teens. “Good bye!” she shouted back. “Don’t get your cast wet! Keep your leg up!” “Shut up!” Glen laughed. Elli’s mother barked for a return of manners. Car doors slammed and the engine revved to a higher pitch. And another mini-avalanche grumbled against the roof and woofed onto the first pile. “Snow, you sound like a crotchety old dog that failed to get up,” Elli said. “And you’re still a coincidence.” The red SUV edged backward into view. Her stepfather waved. Elli waved back, smiling and meaning it. In the back seat, Glen gave her the finger and made a swirling motion with his hand. “Not on your life, Glen,” Elli said, still smiling. “Go fuck yourself, you twat glomper.” Her stepbrother was such a perverted asshole. “And yet somehow Mom thinks he’s perfect.” The boy she never had. “Good fucking thing or someone would be in jail right now.” The SUV rolled behind trees and slipped in and out of view. Tree trunk, red flash, tree trunk, red flash, tree trunk…. Elli turned and faced the sauna. And the icicle. So you know what I called this story, right? I is being lazy, I guess. I is messing with grammar now. I needs to muss up words sometimes fer fun. I is ramblergating. I is done talking. Off I go to edits. Woe be to poor authors what have me. Bleh. Before midnight silliness. I'll be almost normal again in a few minutes when I really do start editing. Almost normal. Icicle! It's called The Icicle. Just in case you were still wondering.

Golden advice

Here. You need this if you write: http://sgold.members.sonic.net/verb_power.htm This guy wrote about one of the most common things I have to get people to fix in their prose. I wrote him a thank-you email a week back. He has examples. I love examples. He's thorough. I worship thorough. He's a writing advice god. Ok, I'll stop with the adulation before you all run for the hills. Visit his website. Check out his advice pages. He has another besides the one I linked. And for those of you who want a bit more, here: http://www.sfwa.org/writing/chadvce.htm That one has been the advice I've tried to follow for the last five or so years. Everything I've written, I've written with Cherryh's advice in mind. Doesn't mean I follow it exactly. Read Cherryh's law at the end. Very important.

You rock, Debbie!

Debbie had her first review come in for Sorcha's Children: Dragons' Choice. This happened quite a few days ago, but I've been bogged down with things and didn't get around to posting. Belated WHOOOOT! Here's the link: Cocktail Reviews And here's a wee quote: Summary: A rich and delightful read. Ms. Mumford has an exceptional talent in making fantasy reality. Nothing is unbelievable; my mind accepted everything as fact, without question. Well done to Ms. Mumford in yet again making me believe that dragons do exist. Fantastic imagery, very good word use—a tale written with superb aplomb. I highly recommend Sorcha’s Children: Dragons’ Choice. A magnificent novel that I wished had gone on and on and on… Again, WHOOOT! Hey, this was last year's Nano story, btw. Debbie used her Nano time to write this sequel. Hopefully, the third installment in the Sorcha series will leave her desk and hit mine soon. *pokes Debbie* Click the cover to visit the book page for an excerpt. :-)

A little wisdom on style

Yesterday, Marci Baun wrote on the subject of style and put into words what I've often struggled to describe. I have her permission to quote: Style is how you string the words together, not relying on the same words over and over again. That is lazy writing. And: I was reading an MS the other day where, within two pages, the author described two different people's clothes by "she wore/he wore". It's expedient. It's easy. It's boring. And when everyone else does it, everyone sounds the same. And then she gave some excerpts to show different writing styles that didn't overuse syntax/words or go for the lazy common denominator sort of writing that makes for a passive/boring reading experience. I'm going to cut and paste those excerpts. They're all from Freya's Bower published authors (I'll have to track down the author names and book titles and add them into the post later): Excerpt 1: Cora jerked from nightmare to nightmare, leaving dreams only to find her image reflected in a monster’s eyes. Dragon eyes. They glistened gem-red in the dim glow of the bathroom nightlight. She screamed. Da’ar Es Saleem covered her mouth. “You’re needed,” he said. Sharp, wicked teeth caught a gleam of light. She couldn’t process the shape of him, the very human sound of his voice, the fact of his presence in her Hartford, Connecticut bedroom. Dragons were in New York. She was in Connecticut. She left New York to establish distance—them in one place, her in another. That’s the way she wanted it to stay. “Go away,” she said. His palm was warm and dry against her lips. Damn it. His form was solid. She sighed. That couldn’t possibly be good. “You’re not safe here, and we need you,” he reiterated. His gaze moved away. He settled back on his haunches. The floorboards beside her bed creaked. Cora couldn’t make out small details of his appearance in this unfamiliar form and decided not to push her luck by turning on the bedside lamp. She didn’t need dragon visuals right now. His eyes were startling enough. Excerpt 2: Sorcha knotted her fists so tightly her knuckles whitened. She glared at her mother across the rough oak worktable. “When are you going to acknowledge me as a fully capable wizard? I’m not an apprentice anymore. I don’t need your permission to seek the Heart of Fire.” “Fine,” Elspeth shot back, “but I’m warning you this is a mistake. The Heart of Fire is dangerous.” The small, compact woman stretched to reach the braid of garlic hanging from the beam above her head, yanked a bulb loose and tossed it to her daughter. “So is this war!” Sorcha caught the bulb by reflex, slammed it on the table and separated out three cloves for the strengthening potion. Her gaze never left her mother. “Don’t you realize how powerful dragons are? If Leofric continues on his present course, he’ll push them too far. They’ll wipe us off the face of the earth.” Fear flashed across Elspeth’s face, and Sorcha knew that her mother agreed; the King’s recent aggressive actions could have serious repercussions. Sorcha’s mood softened. She picked up her paring knife and began to chop the cloves, pondering the enigma of the woman who had given her not only life, but a heritage of magic. Because of that heritage, strangers often assumed they were sisters rather than mother and child. Elspeth’s long, dark hair sported only an occasional strand of gray. Trim, active, healthy. These words described both her and her mother. Neither of them possessed the lush curves so desired by other women at court, but neither really noted the lack, being too concerned with the practice of magic to worry about attracting the opposite sex. Different styles, different authors, similar genres. Both dragon stories. (quoting Marci again) Excerpt 3 -- different genres follow: “Think about it, Tammy. Two whole weeks of hot men in skimpy clothes on the white beaches in Tahiti. Now if that doesn’t appeal to you, you’re dead,” my sister said. Her hands planted firmly on her hips, she smirked at me, daring me to say, “No.” Water bottle clutched firmly in my hands, I glared at her from my seat at my kitchen table. “No.” I couldn’t help myself. Any scheme concocted by Cassandra always spelled trouble for me. The answer was reflexive and utter self-preservation. Irritation, and peevishness, crackled around her. Most people succumbed to her charms, but not me. I’d lived with them for too many years, and experienced too many negative repercussions, to be phased by a pretty smile or a cute pout on her too perfect lips. Let her pout…and find another victim. “Oh, come on. This time will be different. Besides, what native could resist a tall, lithe, red-headed woman?” “Plenty. If I remember correctly, that’s what you said the time we went to Hawaii.” I lost my favorite pair of shoes and all of the brand new beach clothes I’d bought to go on that trip. On top of that, the lovely beachfront community she’d promised we were staying in was actually a nudist colony. My eyes were scarred for life after some of the things I’d seen there. Trust me when I say that ugly comes in many shapes and ages. Just the thought of it made me shudder. “And what about the time you claimed the trip to Idaho was a relaxing ski vacation. What happened?” “We spent the time roping cattle, but the men were hot.” She smiled at me; her blue eyes twinkled. With a flick of her head, her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in glorious, envy-inducing waves. What I wouldn’t give for her sable hair and honey complexion. The only thing we shared, besides parents, were the color of our eyes: cornflower blue. Excerpt 4: A sharp horn blast over the loading docks announced the shift change. Dean punched out and made his way through the employees coming and going. He descended the steps of a loading platform, strode across a parking lot, and out onto the sidewalk. An angry sky loomed overhead. Thunder rumbled with a promise of rain, and a moist wind blew in from the nearby river. He managed to walk half of the ten blocks to his apartment before a fine mist began. Within minutes, it transformed into a torrential downpour. Dean muttered a choice profanity and quickened his pace. He passed a ramshackle building known as a flophouse for prostitutes and druggies. In the doorway, a gaunt, gangly built man stood leaning against the threshold. A black duster that had seen better days hung on his spindly frame. Dirty white-blonde hair hung out of the hood drawn over his head and down the open front of his coat in a mass of gnarled locks. He met Dean’s gaze as he passed. An arrow of unease skewered Dean’s insides at seeing the loiterer’s strange eye color and wide, over-slanted eyes. The vagrant smiled—or was that a leer?—startling Dean with the mass of pointed and broken green-yellow teeth in his broad, thin-lipped mouth. He wondered if the man was diseased. Breaking eye contact, Dean hurried on his way and hoped that the rain didn’t fall any harder. Excerpt 5: Every port has its odour. Verdant’s odour tainted the sea air before a ship reached the harbour. It created a light vapour over the city, settled on the water, floated over surf, enveloped ship and crew. It sank into the awareness and did not leave. Each change of the breeze would sail the stench aloft, but seconds after, the reek would ooze down to assault the nose again. It was never so strong as to provoke illness. It just remained at the front of awareness, the eternal alchemy of Verdant: sea and air and paint. On the day the schooner stalled before the harbour mouth like a fly caught in a web, the chemical stench did not influence the air as usual, and I frowned at the docks across the water, wondering what had happened to Verdant’s primary industry. In the hold, terebinth resin awaited unloading, destined for turpentine production and, therefore, the thinning of paint, but the cargo couldn’t be delivered while the ship played odd games with the wind. The sails filled, but wooden notes of protest sounded, as if the bow pressed into solid matter. First Mate shouted from below. I sat on a yard high up the mainmast—a favourite position—and glanced down to watch sailors run by, intent on adjusting the sheets. I looked out again, toward the invisible that had halted the ship, and wanted it gone, just gone. Now. Naturally, nothing changed, and the ship screamed all the louder, spoke of warping wood and impending breakage. Kima bellowed more stridently, and I contemplated the port we could not reach. I wanted there, and I would go there, before Kima altered course and sailed the ship back out to sea. I touched the mainmast and prayed. Excerpt 6: Jezren laughed and reached across the table to grasp her lover’s hand. His flesh felt hot under her hand, his skin a dark gray compared to the pale tint of her own. She admired her recently acquired steel-tipped nails. Razor sharp, they were a weapon no one could take from her. Unless they sliced her fingers from her body. “And just how would I wear such a thing?” Din’arik’s deep voice floated across the table. She traced one of his fingers with the tip of her thumbnail—the steel didn’t even scratch the surface of his flesh. His fingers weren’t much longer than hers—but his hands were webbed to the first joint. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Among humans, it means a marriage vow has been given and accepted,” she told him, putting her best pout into her words. He dipped his head, hiding the slight grin she knew he wore. The play fighting between them ranged from the loud and rowdy to this play act of spoiled brat versus ever patient mentor. She often started such a game when she knew he would object to something she wanted—something he thought foolish. Today, the play fight had started in the market. She’d tried to get him to visit a booth that sold adult toys. He’d refused and had actually walked away from her. It was all the invitation she’d needed to tease him. Later, they’d passed a booth that sold all manner of wedding rings, shackles, brands, tattoos—if it meant you were joined to the person you were with, the heckler sold it. (Heh heh. She picked an excerpt from one of my stories.) After the excerpts, she wrote this: The authors use different language. They use similar tools, but string words together differently. They have their own cadence within the rhythm of their writing styles. The writing is concise, clean, and moves the story along. Cadence, rhythm. There it is, the thing I've always known but couldn't quite formulate into words. Even in prose, there's rhythm. Style is about that. It's not about mucking up that rhythm with robotic overuse of same syntax, same words, same concepts, same clichés. A writer has to know when to repeat and when not. A writer has to grow an "ear" for that rhythm and hear when he/she violates it with sloppy choices. Thanks, Marci, for putting it into words for me. :-) Addendum: Author names and book titles in order of appearance: Emily Ryan-Davis' from the Dragon Queen series Debbie Mumford's from Sorcha's Heart Tahitian Nights Chapbook I by Alyce Brown Bedevilled Chapbook I by J. Emberglass My title, Loved Him to Death 1 The Forge: Book I, Discoveries by Shaunna Wolf.