Getting Set on Fire and Eaten by a Dragon Sounds… Appealing?

Two weeks ago, I ranted against Marvel’s Agents of Shield. Today, I’m taking on an even more popular show, Game of Thrones.

Dun. Dun. Dun. Dun…!

 Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I could discuss the show, which I have a definite opinion of, but why bother? Those of you who love it are going to love it regardless, and those of you who find it a lame, unimaginative, misogynistic waste of time will doubtlessly continue doing so too.

I’ll let you guess what camp I fall into.

What I’ll be much more blunt about is what I think about writers. Which, I guess I’ve already addressed, come to think of it. In ranting against Agents of Shield, I believe my exact description was they were “equivalent to sociopaths” and “totally high on their own art.”

But I forgot to add my reaction after reading a recap of Game of Thrones back in May. So let me backtrack and add that they’re dumb as dirt too. Like really, exceptionally, unbelievably stupid.

I’m not even talking about the show’s writers. I don’t watch the show. I’ve never so much as taken in a whole episode, just a smattering of clips. But for some odd reason, I find myself drawn to the recaps that Yahoo posts, which is why I got to read one particular writer’s death-wish list.

This was after the apparently epic episode, “Kill the Boy,” where some guy got set on fire by dragons and then eaten alive. Sounds like a rotten way to die, right?

Duh! Unless you’re a moron writer with way too much time stuck in unreality. That’s the only reason to write the following after watching someone flailing around, screaming in horrific pain:

“Morbid but appropriate question: How do you want to die? Your first choice is probably something along the lines of, “In my sleep, of old age, surrounded by four hundred smiling grandchildren,” but come on. What’s fun about that? Literally billions of people have passed away under those circumstances! We should all hope and pray for an interesting death that’ll keep people talking long after the memories of our actual accomplishments have faded. “I’ll never forget Bill Wilson and how he crashed his catamaran into a garbage island.” Or “Not a day goes by I don’t think of Linda Schwartzman getting attacked by those coyotes in the Macy’s parking lot.” These are the ways we should hope people talk about us when we’re dead. So when you see an overly ridiculous or violent death on TV, don’t be shocked. Be jealous.

“This week’s episode of Game of Thrones featured one of its most ludicrous and amazing kills in its entire run. Yes, I’m talking about the guy who was both set on fire and then torn apart by dragons. We all cringed and perhaps even clapped when it happened but part of me was like, “Damn. That’s how I want to go.” You know? It’s the main reason I hope cloning becomes a real thing someday… It would make the possibility of me getting eaten by a dinosaur that much more real. Fingers-crossed!”

Here’s the thing… I’m sure (or maybe I just really hope) the writer is partially kidding. But I’m even more positive that he’s partially not.

Which makes him about as stupid as they come.

As for this little writer? She’ll take the boring death with her four hundred smiling grandchildren around her, thank you very much.

President Obama Isn’t a Reptilian but Faeries Do Exist

Did you know President Barack Obama is an alien intent on subjugating the human race?

 

If you’re a liberal, hold the hate comments… Because so is former President George W. Bush. And British Prime Minister David Cameron. And Hollywood actress Angelina Jolie.

Actually, the same can be said of most powerful people throughout the ages, be they politicians or entertainers.

Think I’m insane yet? Well, I’m not. I’m just repeating what actual crazy people believe.

Crazy people like David Icke, a conspiracy theorist who says the planet is controlled by “reptilians,” shape-shifting aliens bent on global domination.

Oh yeah, and they like to drink our blood.

I learned about this from an ex (not the British one), who liked researching conspiracy theories. When he told me about reptilians, I thought it was hysterically entertaining to the point where I probably went a little overboard learning more.

My love affair with such ridiculousness ended abruptly after I discovered that David Icke based it all on a supposed vision he had. Greatly disappointed with what I deemed a total lack of imagination, I dropped the subject altogether.

Until I got 144 pages into Farietales Book #4 (which still doesn’t have a name).

No, Sabrina and her fellow faeries don’t co-exist with reptilians. Nor do they believe in them. I came up with a much cleverer, more logical and – dare I say – amusing way of incorporating the supposedly scaly, sinister aliens. And I grinned the whole entire way through.

I’m smirking right now just thinking about it. With the hope that you smirk too, here’s a snippet from the rough draft. I’m really hoping it makes the final cut…

(My most sincere thanks to my ex for providing me with such entertaining fodder!)

Five HPAC employees and two Scottish faeries were dead after the joint raid they’d conducted on Katharine’s house. So were twelve perpetrators. The firefight had been intense enough to alert the authorities upstairs, yet brief enough to maintain the anonymity of everyone involved. The only thing the cops found when they arrived was a fight scene with no fighters anywhere. Kenneth and Sabrina’s forces, along with the HPAC team, had extracted everyone, even the corpses.

International tabloids were already running their takes on what had happened, and conspiracy theories were running wild, though none of them mentioned faeries.

Alien abductions were high on the list. British conspiracy theorist David Icke’s group was going nuts about it. Those people had long-since claimed that reptilians – also known as reptoids, reptiloids, saurians or draconians – were out there X-files style. Though the aliens in question were significantly larger than the average human in their real forms, they were also shape-shifters, capable of looking like whatever average man or woman they wanted to.

Except, with that kind of power, who would want to be average? Certainly not the reptilians, who had a long history of messing with earthling governments. Strangely both political and apolitical at the same time, David Icke managed to both delight and irritate almost every political group ever. Because according to him and his followers, George W. Bush was an evil alien. As was Barack Obama. The same went for the UK’s Tony Blair and David Cameron, Germany’s Angela Merkel and the highest factions of Hollywood. Just about anyone with any iota of power throughout the ages was an extraterrestrial with a taste for human flesh.

Sabrina had learned about the group years ago thanks to a former boyfriend with an enormous IQ and matching nerd proclivities that had him reading anything and everything sci-fi related. It seemed to be her type, she supposed, which was working to her advantage now.

Justin Hills hadn’t actually believed in reptilians; he just liked researching them and other conspiracy theories. Since she’d found them fascinating as well, she’d listened with delight to his explanations about the cult, doing her own investigations on the side. As a result, she found the tabloid material exceptionally diverting.

Being a former newscaster himself, David Icke knew how to milk attention from any story presented to him. So he claimed to have video footage of reptilians sneaking away from the premises, holding onto limp human bodies. As expected, the documentation wasn’t high-quality, but the conclusion was solid nonetheless: The victims were headed for the dinner table.

This Month’s Big Publishing Reveal Is…

Today’s the 24th, and I have nothing to publish.

For the last seven months, I’ve announced the publishing of a book every time the 24th rolled around. I picked that number specifically because, once upon a time in a magical land called Moonachie, New Jersey, I was born one freezing February 24th.

So I thought it’d be kinda fun to run with it.

In January, I published Maiden America. In February, I debuted my Faerietales series with Not So Human, followed by To Err Is Faerie in March and Up in the Air in April.

Next was my Dirty Politics series. The Politician’s Pawn came out in May, Moves and Countermoves in June, and Amateurs Play Elsewhere was what I debuted for July.

Now it’s August. August 24th. And I’ve got nothing.

I’m not upset. All good runs have to end, and I’m having a blast editing the recently completed manuscript for Faerietales #4, even if I still have no clue what to call it. I’m also researching the siege of Yorktown for Maiden America #2, which does have a name: Designing America.

Both are fascinating and fulfilling, and I can’t wait to get them to the point where they’re publishable. Though that won’t be until next year, I’m sure.

That gives me another however many months’ worth of 24ths where I have no big announcements to make and nothing amazing to share. And considering that I don’t have another seven books lying around, I suppose I’ll never experience that particular kind of run again.

Oh well. Moving on.

I’m sure there are plenty more paths out there to explore!

A Writer’s Reality Check That Readers Should Note

I wrote Monday’s blogpost in the heat of the hour after finishing up that fateful Agents of Shield episode where Hydra is unmasked and true colors show through.

It was also about 2:00 in the morning, which rarely lends well to cool heads and calm emotions. So here I am at 11:13 the next morning, a much more rational human being.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still annoyed with the writers. And I still think they chortled some while they plotted the storyline out, knowing full well what emotions they’d be foisting on their audience. But I can analyze that now instead of creating my own plots of shoving stuff down their throats.

Writers are powerful people. Not in the change-the-world kind of way. Despite what most braggadocios creative types want to claim, art rarely has a societal impact like that. Most of it is more reactionary than revolutionary, and even the pieces that are original and avant-garde don’t often change anyone’s opinions or spur any great evolutionary steps.

I’m not saying it can’t happen. I’m just saying it’s not the norm.

Yet that doesn’t diminish writer’s power per se. While we’re not likely to reshape society, we have so much control over people’s emotions. It’s their choice to pick up one of our books or turn on our shows, but we own them after they’re hooked. And once we own them, we can treat them however nicely or badly we want to.

That kind of power can be fun. Even thrilling, as I’ve admitted before…

Until we’re on the other side of it.

So writers, keep that in mind next time you want to do something rotten.

As for readers? Be careful what you invest in. And never trust a writer. 

I Am So Mad at Writers Right Now, I Want to Cry!

I was supposed to write about this topic next week. (Yes, I have a calendar of subject matter, but it’s not because I’m controlling; it’s because I’m forgetful.) But I’m too traumatized at the moment, so I'm moving up the timeline.

I hate writers.

Not writers like me. I love writers like me. Do you know why? We care about our audience more than we care about our delusions of godhood.

It’s now 1:28 on Saturday morning, and I feel like crying. This is after watching episode one-too-many of the Marvel comic book-based Agents of Shield.

I wish I could say I’m feeling despondent over the writers killing someone off. But they didn’t. That would have been a mercy in comparison. What they did is so much worse than death.

After some twenty episodes of building up bonds between the six main characters, they made one of them a turncoat. Like a MAJOR turncoat.

Worse yet, I am completely convinced they thought themselves oh-so-clever about it. That’s the only reason to do what they did... to have the following smug conversation around the boardroom:

“Look at us. We’re so clever and in control. We’ll make our audience get emotionally invested and then stab them in the back!”

I’m sure they chortled about it too. And then they hailed Hydra. (That's an inside snark for anyone who follows Agents of Shield or any of the other Marvel comic book movies,)

That attitude makes them equivalent to sociopaths. They literally (pun intended) plot out how to make people – real people: as in their audience, not their characters – suffer, and they enjoy it! Take it from someone who's spent too much time with this kind of person: They’re totally high on their own art, and they get even higher when their art brings people down.

This is why I don’t like so many writers. They’re bad people, with no consideration for anyone but themselves.

Sorry to say it, but whoever’s writing Agents of Shield is now officially in that category.

I'm going to go sob quietly in a corner now.

Playing God Isn’t Always All It’s Cracked Up to Be

I love a good series.

Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files (fantasy fiction), Kate Quinn’s tale of Rome (historical fiction), Lauren Willig’s bouquet of flowery spies (historical fiction meets chicklit), Kyra Davis’  Sophie Katz (straight-up chicklit), Dee Henderson’s O’Malleys (Christian fiction), Seanan McGuire’s October Daye (fantasy fiction)…

My shelves are filled with them. There’s something about following a made-up character from book to book, seeing them grow, journeying with them as they struggle and cheering for them when they win that mimics real-life friendships. And friendship is a beautiful thing.

Yet reading a series and writing one are two very different experiences. At least, that’s how I felt while constructing the Dirty Politics trilogy. I was so happy I wrote them all before publishing them, seeing as how all the details I changed in The Politician’s Pawn while writing Moves and Countermoves, and Moves and Countermoves while writing Amateurs Play Elsewhere.

To me, it seemed unbelievable that an author could keep plot points and character development and themes running from novel to novel without taking some serious time to first map them out.

And who knows. Maybe that’s how Butcher and Quinn and Henderson do it. I don’t know.

But in writing Faerietales Book #4 after publishing the first three, this little pantser is learning that it might not be so intimidating after all. It can be a giant, intriguing puzzle that makes your brain swell and your eyes sparkle as you rise to the challenge.

Really, it’s a lot more like living life instead of playing God.

You see, someone who writes a single book is the deity of her created world. Her final word is law. End of story.

Until she publishes it and writes a sequel. Then, all of a sudden, she’s bound by the same rules as her characters.

I’m not gonna lie. It’s kinda scary letting that control go!

Yet it’s also totally doable. I’ve managed to turn minor characters from the original trilogy into much bigger players, develop details I’d intentionally left fuzzy, and revive old plots I thought I was done with.

Sure, I’ve also had to take different roads when my original brilliant ideas clashed with my canon. But overall, I have to say I’m enjoying this new journey with Sabrina instead of above her.

I guess that makes her one of my fictional friends.

What I Got Out of Being in a Carefully Crafted Harem

Normally, I’m difficult to phase emotionally. To a casual observer, I often come across as either a sweetie pie or a tongue-tied spaz case; but behind that cover, my snark stays undefeated.

Try treating me like I’m stupid, my opinion isn’t valid, or I’m just your next piece of you-know-what. It doesn’t affect me. Because you’ve already displayed how little I should care about your opinion.

Not to say I don’t get angry, sad, irritated or bewildered. I’m not a drone, after all. But off the top of my head, I can honestly think of just two men who got past those defenses to make me feel like trash: my creepy ex-coworker, Robert K., and my manipulative ex-friend, Damon W.

I already turned the former into a character in Maiden America, uncreatively naming him Lieutenant Robert Caverish. I also gave him the same disconcerting blue eyes, long lashes and bad habit of staring at his desired object until she wanted to disappear into the floor.

Ew. Yet as much as I can’t say the experience was worth it, I did enjoy getting back at him through my storyline.

These days, I’m getting the chance to do the same to Damon in the so-far unnamed and unfinished Faerietales Book #4. And yes, I'm loving it.

You see, I met Damon at college, where I quickly came to consider him as the big brother I’d never had but always wanted. He teased me, made me laugh, taught me drinking games and naughty words, but still gave a completely convincing impression that he cared about me.

Until the day he found out I fell for someone. My British boy, to be exact.

Unbeknownst to me, I had become part of Damon’s carefully crafted harem of women he used to make himself feel better about life. I belonged to him; and as such, I wasn’t allowed to date anyone else. Which he let me know by trying to seduce me.

He never did. Never even got a kiss. I take great pride in the fact that I'm one of the few women on this planet Damon tried and failed with. But he did manage to make me feel helpless and small and uncertain… for months on end.

If you asked me why I didn't dump him as a friend right on the spot, I'd have to tell you that he got into my head enough that I made excuses for him. I concluded that he was more damaged than I'd originally realized, that it was a one-time screw-up on his part, that he wasn't really "like that." So I have plenty more Damon stories to tell after that low point in life, not that they fit into Sabrina's faerietale at all.

What does fit in, however, is the larger theme of him being one of the greatest emotional con-artists you’ve never heard of.

Until you read Book #4, of course.

Can’t wait ‘til it’s done!

My Crazy, Crazy Thoughts While Stuck on Route 95 Waiting for a Tow Truck

Right now, I’m sitting in my car on the side of Route 95, waiting for a tow truck.

I should clarify… By the time I actually post this blog, months will have gone by since my fateful non-adventure. I’m probably sitting at work instead, hitting the “publish” button and getting myself mentally situated for the work day. Or maybe I’m lounging on a sandy beach with a Long Island iced tea in my hand.

Wouldn’t that be nice…

But I digress.

Sitting here, with my $50 worth of groceries hopefully not dying around me, and my phone charging in my car for a few minutes so that it doesn’t die altogether, I’m very grateful for my laptop. I just finished Kindle-izing “Up in the Air,” the third – but not the last – book in my Faerietales series (available on Amazon in print too.  Hint. Hint), and now I’m blogging.

How much fun is that!

When I called my friendly State Farm helpline, the woman on the other end very kindly warned me to be careful about interacting with anyone who might stop to give me assistance.

My reply? “Oh, don’t worry. I’m a creative writer. I can think up plenty of ways that can go bad.”

She laughed, which is what I intended. (Hey, if you can’t laugh at life, then you’re probably gonna cry.)

Nonetheless, I do have to wonder what would happen if I was one of the hapless characters in my stories. Since I don’t write romance, I suppose there’s no way some gorgeous tall man with dark hair, green eyes and wide shoulders is going to rescue me.

Drat.

More likely I’ll have someone come and kidnap me by mistake for a political plot. After all, I am on 95… a route that Kayla took twice in “The Politician’s Pawn.”

That’s why, when a man with a tow truck that I didn’t order came knocking on my window half an hour ago, offering to give me a cheap tow, I rolled down my window just a little bit and told him thanks, but no thanks.

He was probably harmless. I didn’t get a single creeper-vibe from him. But if my stories have taught me one thing… You can never be too careful.

My momma would be so proud of me.

Stranger Than Fiction: What If My Characters Weren’t Characters at All!?!

There’s this movie with Will Ferrell called Stranger Than Fiction.

I’d say it’s really good for a Will Ferrell movie except that it’s really good for any movie.

Plot, characters, acting, opportunities for introspection: This film has it all. And it’s original too! As far as I know, anyway.

The storyline follows Harold Crick, a thirty-something IRS agent who leads the most monotonous life ever until he’s assigned to Ana Pascal, a bakery-store owner who’s intentionally not filed her taxes properly for years. Naturally, the unlikely pair falls in love, but that’s not why Stranger Than Fiction is so brilliant.

It’s brilliant because of the backstory, which follows Karen Eiffel, a famous novelist who always kills her main characters off at the end of her books. And this time around, her main character is Harold Crick. Only she doesn’t know she’s writing about a real live person.

I own the movie. It’s good enough to watch repeatedly. But it always makes me wonder…

What if my characters were real?

When Karen Eiffel learns that she’s been essentially murdering real people – that she’s a serial killer – she’s horrified. As well she should be. And while I don’t normally kill off the good guys (if she was reading this, my darling mother would point out – with a disapproving air – the three exceptions to that rule), I do a lot of other horrid things to them.

I mean, in the Faerietales series, Sabrina gets terrorized mentally, emotionally, physically, psychologically… and by multiple characters. If some poor young woman was really chained to an evil shrink’s couch being questioned at the end of an electric baton because I dictated it?

Than, pretty much, I’m a horrible human being.

The same applies to Kayla in the Dirty Politics series. Evans brought some of the torture on himself, but I still gave him a rotten backstory to explain why he went rogue. (I’m so sorry, Sarah!) And I’ll even admit I’d feel bad for putting Rod through what I did. It’s amusing if he’s just fictional; not so much if he was an actual human being.

When it comes to my historical and Christian fiction stories, I did some serious research for those two. They’re based off of too much verifiable documentation for me to blame my imagination.

But as for my fantasy and political thrillers? Well, I would like to take this moment to express my most sincere hope that reality really isn’t stranger than fiction.