Eden Moore books, by Cherie Priest. Flora Segunda, by Ysabeau Wilce. — There’s dark fantasy all over the place. Vampires! Werewolves! Tattoos! Sex! Did I Mention the Vampires?!? Cherie Priest’s Eden Moore books aren’t dark fantasy. They’re ghost stories. I love ghost stories, which may or may not contain ghosts but at least contain something […]
So here’s improv writing: No critiquing (especially in read-aloud situations). No censoring anything on paper. If necessary, say “bleep” when reading out loud. The prompts are just prompts, not binding. First prompt: The door wouldn’t open. The door wouldn’t open. The window wouldn’t close. The cat wouldn’t scratch. The snatch had been stolen. And we
Today was a good day, but a hard one. It started out with not making the first cut on the ABNA award, which is never an easy way to start the day, being impersonally notified of your not-brilliance. But then it did a quick segue into being accused of something I didn’t do, but would
There will be no ABNA news for you tonight! HAHAHAHA! Still no news yet… Update: I didn’t make it to the quarterfinals (500), but I got to the 2000 that had excerpts reviewed. The reviews haven’t been sent out yet, though.
I’m trying to put a finger on the fiction writing period from about 1900-1914. It’s difficult. I’m not a historian, so please don’t take all this as intended as authoritative, just throwing ideas around. And granted, there were pulp magazines at this time (Argosy started in 1896), but this just wasn’t the Great Age of
The joke itself wasn’t funny, just the punchline: “…banging that woman like a screen door in a tornado.”
Meetings are good for me. I get a lot of brainstorming done, a lot of networking. Like the other day. I was in a meeting and sat next to someone I don’t talk to much. We spent the meeting passing notes back and forth making fun of the people on the other side of the
Blogging is easy when you’re supposed to be working from home.
I used to have dreams about showing up at high school naked, but they never really bothered me. Pfft. Those idiots were nothing compared to junior high. Or fifth grade, for that matter. The dreams that would bother me were the ones where I would show up somewhere and someone would say, “You’re late! You’re
