Beta Readers

The other day, I was farting around on the website of one of my favsie authors, C.S. Friedman. Because her website says that no one can link to the "essay" I was reading without written permission, I'll do the wink-wink-nudge-nudge-say-no-more thing an only vaguely refer to it in Opposite Land terms: she totally didn't write a blogo-post on her idea on the types of secondary readers (commonly not referred to as Beta Readers), and I'm totally not referring to this essay/blog post/whatever in anyway. I'm also totally not mocking the lack of sharing and linking on what is read freely on the Intarwebz. 

Still heart you mightily, C.S.

Anyhoo, with that out of the way, the idea got me wondering about Beta Readers.

I guess I should first define "Beta Reader." Commonly, it's someone (or someones) who read your shiny new piece o' work, usually novel length, after you're done with it and give you feedback. Yep, that's it. Hence, the Beta part. I guess that makes the author part of the Alpha wolf pack.

Some writers have different types of Betas. Like Betas that are connected to you by friendship, or like your mom, or sig other and who can tell you "that was brilliant and keep it going. You're a shiny snowflake of awesomeness." Or Betas that're also doing this writing thing, and are part of a serious critique group, to give you serious feedback, and serious suggestions on how to seriously kick more writing ass. But that's only for good critique groups. And really, I've been in both good and bad ones. One so bad that they suck out your soul because it isn't how they would've written it and obviously if it's not what they would've written then it's complete and utter shit and you should just kill yourself now. 

I'm paraphrasing.

So why do writers need Betas? Really, it's because we're too close to the work. It's like staring at an Impressionist painting with your nose inches away from it. All you can see are the brush strokes and colors. Somewhere along the way we obsess over using a bold blue swatch or a dark green one, and we lose the ability to step away. Betas are those people who stare at the whole painting, er, novel. They see that the ocean you've been painting looks more like the sky, and can tell you that.

Does every writer need a Beta, or Betas? Probably not, but we're a needy lot, we authors. Maybe a tad overwhelmed by the whole picture.

My first Beta experience was by hounding my younger sister to read whatever tiny blurb of crap writing I'd farted out when I was a grade schooler...er, up to high school. Eventually, even the bonds of love and sisterhood were not enough. She said something I should've heard long before, "You never finish anything! I don't want to read it if you can't finish it."

Taking this writing thing more seriously my first year of college, I decided that I would only show my writing to serious critique groups, and/or my creative writing classes. After all, I thought, real writers don't show their writing to anyone else. If you're serious, you don't need pep talks. You need to be slammed head first into a brick wall of how wrong everything is. And that's precisely what I got. In my creative writing classes, I watched as everyone's work was mercilessly torn to shreds by ravenous English majors. It wasn't like, "This part didn't work for me." It was more like, "This part is stupid. WTF?" (I actually had WTF written in the margins of one story).

Limping away from it with my fragile writerly soul barely intact, I'd decided simply not to show anyone my work until I was good enough. How was I to know when I was good enough? Obviously, I hadn't worked that part out. I joined another critique group and learned how preciousssss a good critique can be. I tried submitting for the first time ever and received excellent feedback from editors. I also learned that yes, I sometimes just need to hear "that was cool and keep going." Somehow, I'd skipped that part of my Beta experience. But I believe every now and then a nice pep talk isn't a bad thing. 

Here's to stepping back and seeing those paint strokes turn into an ocean.

On Writing Alternate History

Ah, good day my little turtledoves. Alas I have been neglecting you. I know. I tend to get brain-frazzled whenever I'm knee-hip-eye-deep into whatever obsessive project is going down. Namely, the steampunk novel.

While re-writing the last half, I changed around the time period from 1890s to the 1850s. And what did this lead to? More research. Why in the hell does anyone ever decide to write alternate history, or historical novels at all? I think it's a form of self abuse, is what it is. Or love of history. And wanting to mess with it. HISTORY. No longer just a Michael Jackson album, but something you have to look up. Not that I didn't do research before jumping into this Victorian thing, it's just that little things you didn't think of in the first draft now you have to double-check if that shit was around back in the day.

In re-writing one line: "Eliza could see a group of people gathered in the middle of Pont Neuf," this spawned like an hour of reading about the bridge in Paris, despite the fact that I've physically walked over it, went under it on a boat, and took pictures of the damned thing. Why? Because history, man. Was it even there in the mid-19th century? (Why yes it was, and it was under re-construction, but history could've made it like a modern thing without me knowing).

Of course, I tend to get a little detail obsessive about the history thing. Mostly with words, and if they were used during the time period I'm writing about. So: www.etymonline.com is an online etymological dictionary that I've been using since my History of the English Language professor suggested it for all of the Old English nonsense I soaked up that semester (and apparently according to that prof, I speak Old English with a bit of an Irish accent. How I managed that I will never know). Now, I'm obsessively checking if some of the diction I'm using was around at all. Which actually makes it more fun to make up words for something that didn't exist yet, but totally does nowadays. Plus, it's fun to see where some curse words originated.

So, in addition to re-writing, I've been reading about the history of medicine in the 1800s, medical gadgets, the introduction of germ theory, the history of anesthesia, the history of surgery and midwifery, outbreaks of cholera, Baron Haussmann's rebuilding of Paris and adding sewer systems, absinthe (let's get drunk!), and yet more reading on mental asylums. Makes me glad I live in a time with modern medicine. 

Of course, I have to remind myself that if all else fails: make shit up. This is fiction after all. I mean, there weren't really automatons, aeroships, empaths, and half-man half-machines running around like I wrote about. I sometimes have to tell myself: Dude, it's time to mess with yo' history a bit.

Also: women's undergarments are ridiculous in this time period. Seriously. How did a lady ever bone down through all those layers? Well, if you were rich...methinks it was easier if you were poor. I got so fed up with figuring out how to get one my female characters out of her dresses for a bit of sexy fun time, that I just decided to have her cross dress. Which fits her character actually. But men's fashion was a ridiculous too, though easier to de-trouser yourself in order to get jiggy 'wit it*.

Which brings me to Doctor Who. How did I get from crinolines to The Doctor? Since half of my characters are British, and I'm well...not, sometimes I forget there are differences in how we of the former colonies speak. And since actually writing 1850s Queen's English would be clunky to write, I've been doing it more subtly. Luckily, I made sure in the first draft that they say rubbish and not trash. And clever and not smart. Don't get me started on my Parisian characters. They only remind me that my French is atrocious, and perhaps I should just stick to the English translation of what they're saying.

So, what's the most interesting and random bit of history that you've ever come across? I'm always surprised by weird quirks of culture and tradition. Regale me. 

*I have been informed by my lawyer to rescind the jiggy 'wit it reference, as no one has used this phrase since the 1990s and is no longer "cool" or "in."

Current Projects 2013

I feel a little like anyone who lists out their current work(s) in progress should be given a medal. Or maybe those crazy writers should get a superhero outfit, with tight 80's neon-yellow spandex, a long blue cape, and some badass leg warmers that spit out acid into the evildoer's face. Evil in this case being laziness. Or procrastination.

HELLA' PROJEKTS.

Hmm, not procrastinating with this topic. Not at all.

In an effort to become more prolific than one novel like every four years, I've set my sights on working on several projects at once, rather than my super monogamous stance on previous projects. Though at this point it's really difficult with the all encompassing glow of novel-love happening. I feel like I should really indulge in some writing polyamory and spread 'round the love to multiple writing goals at one time. Yep that's right, fellow writers. Here's how it should go:

Phase #1: Write more

Phase #3: Something about a loss of underpants

So here are my current swingin' projects (sans pants):

1. Beginning edits for the Behemoth Steampunk Novel: And depending on how I'm feeling that day, it's either titled The Fragile Spiral, or Of Automatons, Monsters, and Men. This was my 2012 NaNo book, which because 50K is nowhere near the end for how I write, it wound up at 160K. I finished it in January. I think the ground work is fairly solid, but because I'm a pantser, it'll take some serious work. Seeing as I've decided the last 1/3 of the book doesn't work and went in a shitty direction, I'll be re-writing a bunch. I printed it out and it's a whopping 540 pages...

2. New Novel Project: I've been absolutely determined to both edit a novel rough draft, and outline a new one. There've been three ideas I've bandied around, but I think I might settle on expanding one of my short story ideas into novel length. It'll involve troubadour-spies, singer-assassins, space stations, coup d'etats, political backstabbing, and hopefully a space battle or two. Hell, three. Four? But we'll see if I can lean away from the Steampunk project just a little...

3. Editing and writing more short stories: I'm a terrible short story writer. I don't mean that my short stories are terrible (at least not all of them), it's just that they're some of my weakest writing skills. Short is not my forte. It's not in my superhero kit yet, though I keep trying. Seeing as 90% of my novel projects start out as a short story, it's not a bad idea to keep writing them.

4. ACTUALLY SUBMIT STUFF: Ahem. I've pretty much only sub'd out one horror short so far, but at least the editors requested a hold on it. So that's nice. I tend to kind of fade out when I'm submitting stuff because it's so tedious and boring. And did I mention tedious? Like I have to track all my submitting shit like it's a piece of lost luggage at multiple airports. Not my favorite part of being a writer, but I realize a necessary one.

Anyhoo, there you have it. Spandex, leotard, cape, and all.

This topic brought to you by the superheroes of the Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour, where you can fly through the air with your cape, and change into your super secret suit in phone booths (if you can find one these days). Up next is Gillroy Cullens on the tour.

Short Story Based On the Poxy Boggards

This was painted entirely with Infinite Painter on my tablet

This is one of the last suggested songs, and I've been sitting on it for a while. "She's A Whore" by the Poxy Boggards is a rousing sea-chanty like song of well...good old dockside ladies of the even'in. Since I didn't want to write about any real kind of sexual prostitution (I'm not squeamish, it just didn't click for me), I decided to settle on another type of selling.

The selling of childhood memories.

While writing this, I mostly listened to a folksy singer-songwriter I came across: Laura Gibson. Give her a listen. Seriously.

For the Price of a Memory

I'd started out busking in the loud echoing halls of the subway, letting the strains of my guitar reverberate over the graffiti-lined tiles and pitching my voice to sing over the bustle and clickity-clack of commuters. That much I remembered. But the longer I busked, the more I noticed averted gazes, as if I'd become some unmentionable invisible person, no matter what I wound up singing about. If I sang about love, the scrabble of bored tourists only seemed to fly by me quicker. Some kids jumped pylons even as they tried to dip from the money in my guitar case. If I dared to sing about hopelessness and death, it at least garnered a few scowls. Whenever I nodded to a donor, they always looked away as if afraid they'd get caught being generous.

But when busking wasn't enough, I'd had to think of other ways for money. When that wasn't enough, I had begged, but the scorn in people's gazes had made me think of pawning my guitar instead. But I couldn't. Not the guitar my dad had given me. The one with the wonky tuning pin that groaned every time I tuned the high E string and the bridge that felt like it would fly off the body at any moment to slap me clean in the forehead. The red enamel had long flaked off of the outside leaving it a sort of faded woody blonde with smatters of fingernail polish-like red. But it was mine. It was all I had.

Turning to hooking at the time had seemed like worse than begging. My memory now was so fuzzy in places, that I was certain I'd Sold bits of my memory of how I'd turned to the life.

Funny Rejected Book Cover Art: Dune

While combing through the vast catacombs of all the publishing house's Secret Room of Book Covers, I've finally found many, many rejected ones. This one for Dune seems to have been nixed because it gives away a main plot point: The Spice Must Flow.

Albums That Tell A Story

A while ago I had a conversation about concept albums, and I insisted that a friend of mine listen to my favorite album: The Wall by Pink Floyd (and also by Roger Water's Raging Ego, aka "Apologies for Spiting In Your Face, Audience").

The conversation migrated to his lament that concept albums, or at least albums with an overarching theme or good story telling seemed to have gone the wayside since the 70's, with a smattering here and there in the 90's. At first I was stymied, because all of the albums that instantly prang to mind happened to be 90's and prior. Like oh crap, what about Nine Inch Nails? Er, or like the Moody Blues. And uh, crap. Like more Pink Floyd? And...Bowie...ah shit.

But then I started scrolling through my massive iPod collection of music, and realized that there are some great thematic albums that are post 90's.

Here are my favorites:

6. Pretty much anything by The Decemberists: The Decemberists are clever story tellers, and 90% of their songs involve actual events from history, centuries old tales, or faintly melancholic tales of life lived before modernity. I heart The Decemberists for their rock folksy vibe, Colin Meloy's strong yet warbly voice, and eclectic lyrics.

Some favsie songs to check out are:

"O Valencia!" A Romeo and Juliet styled song of love and feuding families.

 "The Rake's Song" is a dark tale of a Rake who decides to rid himself of his own children in order to become a playa' again.

"Leslie Ann Levine" A child's ghost haunts the hills where she was birthed prematurely.

5. Muse – The Resistance: I am an unabashed Muse fan, and going to see them in concert was a mind-bending experience of just how ridiculously talented musically they are. While The Resistance is not my favorite Muse album, still it blew me away. With strains of Orwellian uber-goverments taking control of the masses, the songs fight with all the power of a sonic boom. With the lead singer Bellamy's soaring rock opera shit-kick-you-in-the-ear-drums falsetto, and symphonic strings and classical piano mixed in with bass thumping anthems, this thematic album will have you fist pumping for an uprising.

4. Arcade Fire – Neon Bible: Or you know, pretty much every Arcade Fire album. And yet, Neon Bible is my favorite. Though I feel their theme is a little cynical and heavy handed, Neon Bible chronicles stories of television's mind-control of the masses, including religious/ridiculous televangelists, the widening gaps of the rich and poor, and all of the problems of middle America. While I find the theme completely cynical for a Canadian indie rock band, the songs soar with wild accompaniments, including a large church organ (you must absolutely listen to "Intervention" for the organ alone), choirs, strings and good old acoustic guitars.    

3. The Killers – Sam's Town: I've purchased every Killers album when it comes out, and they remain one of my very few exclusive instant buys. Sam's Town is still my favorite, because it has that sort of instant nostalgia as the album winds its way through a childhood growing up in good old town America, spending the afternoons being reckless and young. Where Arcade Fire's Neon Bible is cynical, Sam's Town is an unabashed ode to growing up in Middle America and going back home.

2. Bloc Party – Weekend in the City: This is my favorite Bloc Party album, and I've honestly written more than a few stories to its tracks. The powerhouse behind the theme is Kele Okereke, who ruminates on living in the bustling hubbub of a modern city, with all of its pains and promises, from "Where Is Home?" which questions the concept of race and hatred, to "I Still Remember" which floats with crisp chimes about a simpler time of adolescence and learning to love. As usual, many of the tracks are imbued with a break neck ferocity of energy.  

1. Neutral Milk Hotel – In The Aeroplane Over the Sea: This one is a tiny bit of a cheat, in that it actually came out in 1998, but I didn't stumble across it until the early 2000s. So there. NMH is one of those strange entities that people either absolutely love and admire, or judiciously despise as the hipstery dregs of indie, lo-fi nonsense noise. Arrangements are spare, and Jeff Mangum's voice is raw, emotional, unflinchingly honest, and often off from the notes his voice struggles to reach. Mangum admitted in a couple of interviews that he wrote In the Aeroplane Over the Sea after reading The Diary of Anne Frank. The lyrics of any NHM song are so full of surreal imagery that it almost feels like reading a description of a series of circus freak-like photographs.

The first time I listened to In The Aeroplane Over the Sea, it took me a day or two to fully digest it. It wasn't like anything else I'd heard before.

If you listen to one song at all from this, I'd suggest "Two-Headed Boy." Ack, what am I saying? Listen to it all.

Listen. To. It. Now.

Any of you out there have any favorite story/concept albums?  

Friday's Flash (AHHH! AHHH!) Fiction: Computers

Carrie could never get into computers, and she couldn't use them for her spells either. Books had always held the power of words, and words were used in spells. Every bookish wizardess from damn near the beginning of time and speech had known that. Pictograms were stories on cave walls. Chants and songs were stories with spoken power. But down on parchment they held the strength of ages. One with the Power could glean and feed on a hundred spells, from poetry to fiction.

But with computers...

Carrie prowled about the public library and fussed with a new stack of incoming donated books, as only a librarian wizardess could.

Damn computer wizards. Jobs had been a glutton. That FaceNovel or FacePaper or whatever guy was obviously a data wizard out of control. How many millions could he feed on now?

Damned computers.

One of the computers in the library—her library damnit—was on the fritz. One of those SpamBot spells no doubt, phishing for power in people's personal information. The middle aged woman at the computer blinked at the screen and tapped it. Mrs. Eldon was one of the library's regulars and was clueless about technology.

I have be pleased to give to you the sum of my inheritance as I be a young prince of Nigeria.

PENIS PILLS MAKE HER SCREAM

24 yo Russian lady bride

"Miss Warner," Mrs. Eldon said, poking the screen. "Can you fix this?"

Carrie had to fix this the only way possible. SpamBots were named by data wizards for a reason. Quickly, she dipped behind her desk and took out the can she had tucked behind the shelf. Holding her breath, she opened up the can of spam. Then with a wicked curse she hurled the contents at the computer.

The spam fizzled as the SpamBot's emails disappeared from the screen.

Mrs. Eldon stared at Carrie in astonishment and wiped a sticky bit of spam from her cheek.

Carrie cleared her throat in embarrassment.

Mrs. Eldon said, "Do you have anything to fix all those chain emails?"

Carrie nodded.

This time she warned Mrs. Eldon when she swung the chains at the computer.

346 words

_________________

Obviously, I was annoyed at all the freakin' spam I've had to go through lately...

Poem In Your Pocket Day

Apparently, though I had no idea until I saw it mentioned in passing, that today is "Poem in Your Pocket Day." I didn't have a ready poem hanging out in my jeans all day being precariously close to my naughty bits, which I feel was a lost opportunity to get asked "is that a poem in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? That's. What. She. Said."

Poetry and I have a wonky relationship with one another. I insist that my high school and college poetry experiences left me feeling it was all lame, pretentious, and all non-story like, and Poetry is always all like: "Really? That's what you think? Well, fuck you. BOOM, Ima' drop some muthalovin' sexy-time Whitman on you son, and after that Ima' Def Poetry Van Damme Slam yo' ass."

So, I wracked my brain for a poem worthy enough to stick in my pocket along with that stupid green-fuzzy penny, the inevitable creep of dog hair caught up in lint, and a cap o' plain chapstick.

So, what about all that Dickinson what with her funerals in the brain, and the lack of stopping for Death? I'll admit I have a soft spot for old Emily.

Sometimes I forget that poetry is meant to be heard, and read, and performed. Def Poetry Jams was really the only way I'd ever been able to feel anything other than drooling boredom with poetry before. When I used to come home at 1:30am from work at Wal-Mart as a youngin' and I couldn't sleep, I'd watch Def Poetry Jams. And I'd watch this before my brain melted into a puddle of post-hellishly-annoying-customer haze.

So stick this poem in your pocket:

The Evil Dead Re-Make: Blood, Blood, Blood!

I make no bones about the fact that I am an Evil Dead fan. I grew up watching and quoting Army of Darkness, and every time that I actually used to shop smart at S-Mart I would run around the store, flailing my arms and scream, "Yo, she-bitch! Let's go!" After being escorted out of several local S-Marts and with the people in housewares generally giving me a wide berth, I decided I'd just go watch the remake of the first movie.

Things that were awesome about the re-make:

1. The ultra violence: This was as violent, and gut-wrenchingly gory as the original, but with a bigger, better budget. The original Evil Dead was one of the few horror films that actually had me writhing uncomfortably at the sheer amount of grotesquery. And this one did an excellent job of doing just that. From dead cats suspended in barbed wire to slashed-in-half-tongue forced make-out scenes...that was some of the milder fare. I have to say that the sheer blood-and-guts factor stayed true to the original, and it is now one of the bloodiest movies I've ever seen.

2. The characters have more of a backstory: Or you know, a backstory at all. The original has little to no character story arcs, or anything that made them interesting (we'll ignore Bruce Campbell's awesomeness factor and ultimate chin-power). At least in the new re-make, there is a little something there. Mia is a heroine-addict whose close group of childhood friends have taken her to the cabin to detox her. Her brother, David (the semi-Ash like character) had skipped out on their mom's final delirious moments in a mental institution and blames himself for his little sister's downfall. All of this connects us to the bro-and-sis duo before the shit hits the fan...or the arterial spray fountains against a wall. Or gushes from a severed limb. Or rains from the sky. For real.

3. The Necromicon-Ex-Mortis: The Book of the Dead got a new look on the inside, with many more tantalizing and creepy clues that spelled out the oncoming horror (spell, you get it? See what I did there?). I have to admit though, that I missed the creepy fleshy face on the outside of the book.    

4. Did I mention the ultra-violence? And gore?  

So, Deadities. Go see this. And try hard not to compare and contrast it too much to the low budget schlocky awesomeness of the original. There are plenty of nods to the original that will leave any fan amused. But I think that the remake can stand on its own as a testimony to gore and its uncomfortable squickiness. 

Writing Routines: 1, 2, 3, 4, Paradiddle, Paradiddle

I'm a creature of hobbit...er, I mean habit (though I also occasionally like to eat six large meals a day too). I'm the type of person who parks in the same spot, sits in a classroom in the same back row, and busts out with a Jets and Sharks style dance-fight rumble if someone steals my seat in the breakroom at the Day Job.

Obviously, I'm a person who's a big fan of routine.

But I'm also...really friggin' lazy. As in: strap me to an old recliner while I hang out in my Forever Lazy eating Cheetos as I watch endless re-runs of Star Trek: TNG. Or at least all the ones about Data.

Which is why routine is a good thing for us lazy types.

Routine is something that honestly was beaten into my skull when I started playing music as a wee one. One to two hours of my day, every day was devoted to practicing. I started with the basics, which were sometimes frustrating in their outward simplicity. Single stroke rolls. Double stroke rolls. Paradiddles. Basic 4/4 rock beat. Scales. Chords. Tuning. Do it so often that your mind can be focused on other sounds and your body and soul still knows what it's doing by feel and intuition alone. But no matter what put aside one to two hours for all this. Even if I wound up throwing down the metronome, putting on my headphones, and wildly playing to "Manic Depression." Even if I sucked at it. Especially 'cause I sucked at it. The drum line is crazy awesome.

You need a routine in order to practice. You practice in order to get better. Unless you're some genius wunderkind who just sucks up knowledge via osmosis.

Funny that it took me years, nay decades to stick the idea of a practice routine to writing. When I first started this writing dealio, I did it whenever I felt like it. Usually that meant when that bitchy, finicky Muse decided to show up and slap me o'er the back of the head. Most of the time She was just on vacay, getting plotzed on the beach while I was at home scratching my head in front of a blank page.

Then I started to take this shiz seriously. Like for real.

I started to stick to a regimented writing routine in the midst of the chaos of college. I wrote around finals, wrote in the middle of reading textbooks, around deconstructing the literary cannon of Old Dead White Dudes, and writing a bazillion essays per week. It started pretty simply as: write 500 words per day, five days a week. In the beginning, those 500 words became my basics, my scales, my double-stroke rolls. Those 500 words were also frustrating in their seeming simplicity. Yet, it was damned hard.

Eventually, I upped the ante on the word count goals. I tried NaNo for the first time and didn't make it anywhere close to the 50K mark. But above all else, I stuck to the write five days a week thing. When I got a real job in the real world, I became fanatical about my writing regiment. Every break I would write, or edit, or outline. Every lunch period I would do the same. It became less about word counts, and more about treating it like unpaid Job #2.

But I eventually only put time and effort into "serious" projects like an endless, obsessive Black Swan-esque rehearsal. Paradiddle, paradiddle, paradiddle...(oh, look there's a shard of glass where?) I monogamously stuck to novel projects, even when my brain seemed willing to explore other writerly avenues, I told it to back off and FOCUS on one thing at a time. Knowing how easily distracted I am, and how likely I am to drop things in the middle, I insisted on focusing on one thing, and only one thing. FOCUS DAMNIT, I told myself. And I crafted a routine around that.

Eventually I got to the point where I threw up my hands at my regiment, threw the pages down, and did the writer's equivalent of wildly playing to Jimi Hendrix. I realized that my regiment was too strict. Not just in where and when I wrote, but how I was writing. Strict enough goals and routines that I felt like a complete failure if I didn't meet them. Strict enough that I was losing opportunities to expand my craft and knowledge of short stories, blogging, and different genres. I took a break from "serious" overly focused novel projects, and decided to fart around with the ones just for shits and giggles.

Eventually, I expanded my routine to work on multiple things at one time, even if it meant a lack of focus. To bust out the Hendrix and just jam on it.

So far, it hasn't meant a complete collapse of my writer's life. It hasn't meant that I'm wasting time on not-so serious projects (no writing time is wasted!). It hasn't meant quitting in the middle of everything I write, though there were a few half-finished half-assed short stories that didn't quite make it.

Anyone else have regiments that were too rigid?

This topic was brought to you by the Merry-Go-Round Blog Tour. Hang out with other writers and see their take on the topic of the month. Chill with some cool cats, from noobs to published authors. Up next is the always invincible: Gilroy Cullen at Swords vs. Pens.