On Being A Killer

Holy Crap!

I came to a realization the other day.

I kill people.

A lot.

In all different ways.

I'm a murderer.

Possibly a mass murderer.

A serial killer?

Does this make me deranged?

How do I feel about this?

Pretty good, actually.

I guess as long as it's in writing, even if the people might possibly share a resemblance to someone who might actually exist... it's not a big deal, right?

I'm not going to prison?

I really wouldn't do well in prison.

The beds are really small.

The food isn't great.

Oh, and I'd have to deal with a large population of women.

All. The. Time.

Yeah, prison...so not for me.

Good thing I only WRITE about murder and haven't ACTUALLY murdered anyone.

How many people have you killed recently?

Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.


R.S.

On the Conclusion to the Cabin: A Short

In order to truly understand and appreciate this story you need to read this post first.

Now for the dramatic conclusion to K.K. Sierra's short, the Cabin.

Written, by, yours truly.

The Cabin II: A Short 

The assassin watched from the shadow of the woods, breath steady, body lying prone in the cold, white snow.  The woman had stepped inside moments earlier, and the assassin waited patiently for her inevitable exit.

It wouldn't take long. The man she was married to was snuggled up inside with one of her male cousins and two girls young enough to have watched and enjoyed that annoying show with the dancing creatures that spoke gibberish at each other.  

A patch of orange light illuminated the darkness as the door opened and the woman stepped onto the slick wooden porch. The assassin heard enough of the woman's words to understand the position she'd found her husband in.

A smile curved lips too often serious.  The woman wouldn't have to worry long, the assassin thought.

"Babe, wait. " A man, her husband, the assassin knew, ran out behind her. "It's not what it looked like. I can explain."

"Actions speak louder than any words you'll ever say."

"But, honey, you know I love you."

"No. What I do know is first thing tomorrow morning I'm going to my attorney's office. We're over."

"You don't mean that. Think of the children."

The woman laughed, and the sound traveled over the silent yard to the assassin.

"Funny thing, I am thinking of the children. One of us has to."

"I always--" the man's words were cut off, and his eyes widened in shock as a perfectly round hole appeared in his forehead.

The woman screamed, maybe in fear, possibly in shock, but the assassin preferred to think the scream was one of relief. Relief that she'd been spared--not that she'd ever had to worry, or relief that her nightmare marriage was truly and finally over.

When the authorities arrived the assassin was long gone, and there was no sign that a presence had been lying in wait in the woods outside the cabin.

If the woman knew who'd pulled the trigger, she never let on, but she did send her best friend a bottle of her favorite wine with a note attached that simply read, I heart you.

On The Nautical Wench...or How I Met Karie

           The other day I read a blog post a friend of mine posted. It reminded me of short stories we wrote several months ago about the fictional way we met each other. This is how I met her...sort of. 

           In the eighteenth century the high seas were terrorized by a vile sea captain known only as the Douche Pirate Adam. He sailed the seas pillaging and plundering unsuspecting ships sailing along the Isle of Kalandra. Every ship Captain knew the tales of this man's heinous deeds, but few believed them.

            It was a balmy night with calm seas when the Saoirse came upon the Douche Pirate Adam, and his crew of morally corrupt, mentally confused scofflaws. The Saoirse's captain, Marc O'Reallious, knowing the stories, plotted with his First Mate.

            Captain Marc, along with his First Mate, and the rest of his crew boarded the enemy pirate ship; scaling the sides under the cover of darkness. Mysterious fog was beginning to roll in as they converged on the wasteful and wanton men lounging around the deck.

            The battle was over before it had truly begun. While Captain Marc went in search of Adam he sent his First Mate to verify whether there were any hostages on board before he gave the order to sink the ship to the bottom. It would after all, be a fitting ending for the former captain and crew to join the silent world of Davy Jones' Locker.

            Deep in the bowels of the ship, locked behind a rusted door of iron bars a woman struggled with the shackles that bound her wrists. Her long brown hair was fashioned into a crude braid, and her face was marred with filth. The rags she wore did nothing to hide the royal way she held her head when the First Mate opened her prison.

            Her biting words, and scathing remarks brought a smile to the First Mate's face. “Hello, Princess, I believe there are people looking for you.”

            “What would you know of that? You're nothing but a pirate hussy.”

            “Do you kiss your subjects with that mouth?” The princess said nothing, just glared at the First Mate. “Besides, I prefer the term, nautical wench—but you may call me First Mate for as long as you're aboard the Saoirse.”

            “That won't be long. By rules of the sea you're to return me to the Kingdom of Ezmaha. For my safe return you'll be greatly rewarded.”

            “Or we'll be hanged,” the First Mate said, unlocking the chains that bound the princess. “It's up to Captain Marc to decide your fate.”

            “My fate is no one's to decide but my own,” she said head held high, eyes flashing fire.

            “As you wish, Princess. Let's not keep the Captain waiting. Shame to be on board when he sinks it to Davy's Locker.” With a quick tug the princess was dragged out of the cell and tossed unceremoniously onto the decks of the Saoirse.

***

                Princess Karie stayed on board the Saoirse for the remainder of her life; choosing the Pirate life we afforded her, rather than returning to the dull, mundane life she was expected to live in her kingdom.

            That folks, is how I met Karie, one balmy evening as she spit fire and venom at me. It wasn't long before she too was preferring the term nautical wench... but that is a story for another time. 

On Learning the Art of Self-Promotion

I remember the first time I had to stand in front of a room full of my peers. It was kindergarten, and it was show-in-tell.

It sucked.

Embarrassment flamed through my body like it should have been a vintage race car a la Grease, and we were racing for pink slips.

I hate being in front of people, explaining something, talking about myself, or in other words, pretending to seem intelligent and interesting.

Most of the time I don't feel like I'm any of those things, and I especially never felt that way as a kid.

Now, I'm an adult, a mother, a wife, a photographer, and an author of two separate novels. One YA and one contemporary.

And I have to promote myself.

That means I have to put myself out there, stand up in front of the proverbial class and explain something, share something, and this time it's even more important and embarrassing than it was the first time all those years ago. Now it's done not just in person, but across dozens of different Social Network platforms. It's done via blog, Twitter, Facebook, Myspace, Email, LinkedIn, and others I can't even remember.

I'm not just sharing something I was given or bought. I'm sharing a part of myself. Hours of worry, sleepless nights, late dinners, and sweat. A part of my soul, my heart, my hopes and dreams, all combined into something a person could say, 'Eh, not interested. Not good enough."

 It's a terrifying prospect.

But, I have to do it, and do it well.

I don't want to push myself on people who won't be interested or will be turned off by the salesman's approach, but I don't want to be so lax nobody will take me seriously. There is such a fine line, and I'm not sure where it even begins, but I know I'll find it.

When I do, I'm going to rock that line like an Earthquake.

So where do I begin?

Any ideas? I'm open to suggestions.


R.S.

Writer's Associations and the Power of the Mighty Visa

I admit it. It was me. (Remember the part in Liar Liar where Jim Carrey rips one in the elevator? Yeah, that's the expression crossing my face here. Same type of thing.)

I did it.

I joined something.

I became a joiner.

I gave up my independent little life-as-an-island existence by joining a writer's group.

The Mighty Visa has done its job; has flexed its check card muscles.

I'm officially a member of SinC or Sisters in Crime. I'm pretty excited to have joined it, and as soon as I get around to actually turning on my desk top I will print out the application for RWA... and join the other 10,000 romance writers who belong to it. 

 Then my Visa card will really feel the burn.

It's exciting.

I'm taking steps.

This will happen.

I will make it.

I am a Fictzophrenic. Hear me roar.

Or would it be see me roar?

It's all relative, I'm sure.

Writer's Ass and the 5K Day

I've got one more chapter to write before I will be putting my first YA novel to rest. That's right... one more chapter until I can theoretically write the words "The End". Not that it's really the end. There are still three more books to the series.

Today however, was a good day. I managed to blaze through five thousand words, and they're not bad words either. ;) Though, now I'm suffering from every writer's constant companion. You know the one I'm talking about.

That's right...

Writer's Ass.

I'm pretty sure that mine managed to spread out in the last few hours. It's sore, and feels like I was sitting on a stone instead of a futon all day. Not that there is much difference between the two if we want to compare. Then again, everything gets hard if you sit on it for too long. I don't care if you're sitting on a freaking cloud. After ten hours your ass is going to be numb and complaining about being mistreated.

Mine will live.

Tomorrow is another day, and along with my mass amounts of errands, I've got a date with my daughter, and a date with a pushy Immortal and her equally pushy Guardian. It's going to be a busy day.

Chocolate Chip Cookies, Immortals, and Mat Kearney

Some days just call for you to skip out on anything resembling healthy food, and go straight for things not likely found on the food pyramid.

Then again, my food pyramid is different than others'. 

Today is a chocolate chip cookie and sweet tea kind of day. The kind of day where you want to hide away in a dark cave--far, far, far away from everyone-- and listen to Mat Kearney on repeat. Especially his song, Closer to Love.

Closer to Love

I don't get to hide in a cave, but I have been hiding behind my laptop for most of the day. It could almost be the same thing. If you tip your head to the side and squint a little.

Immortals and their Guardians aren't known for being the patient sort so I haven't been left alone today either. Even while my dog, Caesar, and my daughter were napping.

My first YA novel is almost completed (which could explain why I'm being harassed), and it's coming along great. I'm excited about the series. It was originally planned to be a series of short stories (approx 10k), but it became apparent early on during the writing of this first novel that wasn't going to happen. They'll still be relatively short when it comes to novels, but they'll be closer to novel length than short story length.

Writing this first book has made me extremely happy, and I look forward to writing the rest of the series.

Well, there are some chocolate chip cookies and sweet tea calling my name...and I'm pretty sure I'm being paged by an Immortal and her Guardian...


R.S