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Tue, Jul. 9th, 2013, 09:04 pm
Writing

I'm still trying to be a writer.
Stay tuned. And be really patient. 

Tue, Apr. 9th, 2013, 04:27 pm

Hello
Just a reminder that I'm not blogging here, and rarely remember to look at it anymore.
I'm over at tmthomas.com now.

I get a lot of bot comments but nothing real. Please visit and encourage me to write more.

Tue, Sep. 25th, 2012, 01:24 pm
Teaser Tuesday

            I never got into the throne room itself. I’m not sure if it was Sheryl’s preference or something out of the ancient prophecy that made the priests twitchy around me. This time we met in a small room with a scarred and burnt wooden throne at one end and an even more damaged wooden table pushed up against the far wall. The walls were bare stone and there were only a couple of candles burning near her chair.

            The Queen of the Fae looked up from whatever novel she had in her hand with a bit of an angry look. “Was it really necessary for you to request a formal audience?”

            “For this it is, my Queen,” I said, with a little bow. She marked her page and set the paperback down on her lap. She was wearing the official white robes of her office, although I could see the rolled up cuff of her jeans poking out on one leg.

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Sun, Aug. 19th, 2012, 11:52 am
Looking Down

He looks down. In a couple of different ways.
He’s tall and runner lean. A stereotypical fleece vest over a checked shirt over khakis. All yuppie branded. He’s probably almost a foot taller than me, making him at least six foot five.
His face doesn’t hold much in the way of secrets. There’s some flash of brief familiarity. A patient, a client, maybe his gardener. I can guess those are what cross his mind. I’m wearing a shirt with buttons today, so the choices are more upscale than usual. Not of greeting or recognition. Just the taking of basic notice. A hairy little man barely worth his notice.
He just looks in response to my hello. Maybe a curt nod in there, between looking at me, swiping his bank card and taking his receipt from the kid behind the register. Not worth his time.
I try not to get mad about it. It stings, though. I keep trying very hard to fight those instincts. A temper is a bad thing.
He’s looking at a paint smudge on the side of his white luxury SUV as I leave the store. He doesn’t see me.
He doesn’t see that the angle where he’s standing leaves him out of sight of the store and most of the road. Bad things could happen in that space. I learned spaces and angles and sightlines before I left my mother’s little warren. He doesn’t see that his only escape, if someone charges, is into the decorative woodlot landscaping. His runner’s build and stamina will be useless among the dense trees and exposed roots. His height will mean nothing when surrounded by evergreens that are a natural curtain. Such places were meant for the short and sturdy, with hair looking like pine needles and years of playing with the rest of the litter in the woods.
I put my two twelve packs of soda into the car, watching him curse silently under his breath. It’s yellow paint on his car, but there are probably ten yellow cars in the lot, all in other rows. My guess would be the Cavalier where the woman is watching him in the mirror, about two rows away. But he doesn’t see that. He doesn’t see a lot of what’s around him.
I wonder if the LL Bean fleece means he’d be able to follow a path in the woods, or if he’d get turned around and lost. The shiny tasseled loafers tend to make me think the latter.
He wouldn’t see it. Smug and superior, looking down on the world. I’d guarantee he’d run for the trees instead of trying to get to a populated area. The sort that thinks he can handle anything, because he has success in his world. His height wouldn’t matter once he was on the ground. Probably not even if he was standing. His glasses would go first. Maybe his eyeballs with them. Depends on how much he looked down on me, mixed with his fear. Would he call me names or finally stand to fight?
Not that it mattered. Just idle speculation. Just because my teeth are sharp enough to shave with and I know which arteries bleed out the fastest, I’m not an animal or a monster to be looked down upon. I control my temper and instincts. It’s how I can leave the warrens and spend time among men.
The woman in the yellow car goes into the store. She looks back once at him, half hidden by his car as she walks, before she disappears into the slightly clanky automatic door.
Just me and him. I could chase him. Enjoy the hunt. Enjoy the feeling of knowing that he judges me on my look. I’m shorter and heavier. I’m not styled and stylish. I could bite out his throat, although that’s not meaty. Better to take out the carotid and get something in the bite worth chewing.
But I’m not a monster. I’m not a creature of instinct that has to be aggressive just because something challenges me. I’m not some street thug that sees disrespect in every glance.
So instead I just stick to the edges of the lot, enjoying a little pine cone soccer as I walk over, dribbling it foot to foot as I walk.
“Hello,” I say. “Need some help?”
He looks down again. Shrugs and turns away, with a wave of his hand telling me to go away. “Get lost, bum,” he mutters.
“Okay,” I say. I turn and walk away.
After shoving the corpse into the driver’s seat. Even a tame dog bites if you treat it bad, I guess.

Fri, Jul. 13th, 2012, 01:28 pm

Fri, Jun. 15th, 2012, 08:26 am

I just cancelled my paid LJ account. But really, it's not you...it's me.

I'm rarely checking in and ever more rarely writing anything. The sense of community that I used to feel here doesn't hold up when most people I connected with have left. But more so, I am struggling with the continual issues that come from the dream of being a writer and the reality of repeated rejection. I know to keep it up, etc, etc., but the pressures on my time are cutting into the extraneous things, like interacting with the voices that come from outside my head.

It's also the money. $20 is nothing, really, until you're involved in a big kerfluffle with your student loan company about who screwed up paperwork when, which results in big debits from a small account. I'd basically knife you and/or eat your face, bath salts style, for $20 right now. I wish the writing thing had worked out faster so I'd have that income stream, or the name recognition to try a kickstarter or something to fund a project.

So that's the update from here. Not really doom and gloom, but just a need to refocus.

Tue, May. 29th, 2012, 07:03 am

It's been slow of late in the writing world, so I haven't had a lost to post. LJ has also drifted from the "sites I check regularly" because it seems so few regular posters are still using it. I probably ought to consider if I'll keep paying if the trend continues. I'd really like to set up a wordpress blog on my personal website, with RSS feed capability and magic updates and...okay, maybe I made that last part up. But the time to learn it all in order to do it myself eludes me.

Mon, May. 7th, 2012, 05:33 am

I've been on a family vacation for two weeks. I'll have something to say soon, although it's likely to be the usual blather.

Sun, Apr. 15th, 2012, 10:42 am
Story Sunday

String, Sealing Wax and Automated Missile Defense Systems
***
            “All systems go,” the quiet voice said through the earpiece tight in my left ear.

            “Calm down, doc,” Burge said with a little smile at me. “Your excitement is deafening.”

            “Keep it down, please,” the professor responded.

            Burge smiled again. He needled the professor. Burge was former Special Forces or something like it, although the round belly hanging over his belt sort of did away with some of the danger. As did the little mincing penguin walk. The professor swore by him, though, so he was leader. They’d worked together a long time, as Burge told it, although neither ever said much. Burge was the only one I’d ever heard use something other than “Professor” or “Doctor.”

          


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Wed, Apr. 11th, 2012, 08:13 am
Autobiography of the unknown random guy

This morning, I was thinking about writing (but not actually writing) and somehow I accessed the memory of a Young Writers conference I attended as a kid. It was held at the local college and students (grades 7-9, maybe?) from the various schools in the area sent a student or two.

There are two main things I remember: the first memory is that the guest speaker, Bruce Coville, brought with him a banker's box full of manuscript drafts...for one recently published novel. It sort of blew my young teen brain that professionals didn't just sit and write a book. I think my English teacher, who I was sitting with me as a friendless nerd, was sort of surprised by the sheer volume of effort that went into it, as I remember her commenting something about her own lack of success selling poetry and the number of rejections she'd received.

That's the heartening memory. Professionals don't just sit and turn out a finished novel in a matter of days. It takes effort, sometimes over years. Funny how I learned that at 12 or 13 and still need reminders.

The other memory just makes me feel old and embarrassed. Turns out I hadn't prepared a writing sample to bring, as each Young Author (or whatever capitalized thing we were called) was supposed to bring one to be shared. When we broke into small groups, we received the work of our groupmates for reading and some discussion. Mine was, frankly, awful. Worse than awful. I handwrote it in ten or fifteen minutes, because this was before computers and we didn't have a typewriter either. My dad then had to drive me around until we found a place that made copies, because there wasn't such a thing as a Kinko's in our small town. We ended up at an auto mechanic with a copier, I think. What bugs me the most is making my dad go through all sort of parental contortions because I'm absentminded (to this day) but a close second is the missed opportunity. I doubt, looking at it objectively, that feedback of any sort back then would have kept me writing and helped me reach success at an early age. But there's still that blown opportunity and I'm the sort of person that obsesses about such things.

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