Books. Progress. Negligible.

So, The Wind-Up Terrier has been written for a while but I'm just not happy with it. I may have to do the unthinkable, for me, and just start from the beginning and redo it, taking things from the old version.

Snow Sands; Through the wormhole, is stalled.

I have a children's book I finished but I don't have a cover.

I have a bunch of things partially written and several short stories fully written.

The lesson here, buckle down and do it. I had been gradually doing things a little bit at a time but I think that locking myself in a closet and working for several hours until I reach a frothing frenzy may be the only way to complete things. Maybe if my work was fine after a couple drafts I could just work slowly but at this pace I'm not sure which way is up anymore when it comes to my plots.

I need to clean out my closet.

People

So, people.
People say they do things because they make decisions about things.
This is not true.

People often get impressions about things, usually unconciously and then make decisions with those impressions weighting the scale down. It's why a company will decide that red is a much better color for a product package than blue and they might spend a whole lot of money determining this. This is why being yourself if you just naturally have the wrong body language doesn't work. Also, only be yourself if yourself isn't too aggressive or opinionated. I can't generally be a lot of the mes that are in my head, when first meeting people. I have to be the friendly, bland me that doesn't overstep. That's professional me, not actually me.

People also say to treat others as you would wish to be treated.
That may be true, but only if you have common expectations.

If you're a person who likes having long conversations about lint or, I don't know, dog breeding and wouldn't mind having them with a complete stranger that phrase doesn't completely apply to you.

Apparently you stay verrrry superficial with initial reactions to find out what way the other person wants to be treated. It has nothing to do with how you want to be treated, it's all them.

I know the phrase often means to be nice but nice doesn't mean the same thing to everyone.

I wish someone had told me that a long, long time ago. It would have saved me some trouble.

This applies to book writing because, for one thing, shiny covers are important, regardless of if they quite match the book. It's also important because writing a book in such a way that, despite any mistakes, the reader likes it because of content they identify with, might be a very good thing. I'm not sure how to do it yet but I am working on it. I know romance novels use formulas for such a purpose. Describing an every-woman main character is a thing, though what you think appeals to everyone can cause some to reject her completely.

It's food for thought, anyway. At least it is for me.

Exposure!

I'm on Patreon now under the name Kaijuurabbit. I've got a thing for large monsters, so sue me.
I'm also on tumblr under the same name.
Patreon is for stories, mostly futuristic or about some sort of conflict.
tumblr is for poetry and rants.

:)

Prey

I've been reading sites that have to do with dating. They deal a lot with hunting behaviors in men and women. They're not entirely wrong or right but they do seem to fly in the face women's magazines. The male sites urge for dominance, though not too much and the women's sites urge that you should make him pursue you.
I don't like being prey unless it's all in good fun so a lot of this stuff wouldn't work very well on me on a first or second meeting. I think it's good to know to put in romance novels, though. It explains a few things I've read.

Murderous Chihuahuas

I've decided to write a book.

The working title is; Murderous Chihuahuas.

For some reason I like the idea of having a pack of Chihuahuas patrol around the neighborhood punishing wrongdoers with their pearly white teeth and doggy jaws of justice.

The book is going to be a series of comedic essays and thoughts and like most of it's kind it may be semiautobiographical.

I think it will be fun, but I do like to spread the insanity around like extra thick peanut butter on a table. I don't know why I want to do it but now I really do want to see a peanut butter covered table.

Hiiiiiii

Hi. Hi, hi, hi, hi, hi!

I forgot my email account. I've been stuck out of this blog for aaaaages.

It feels good to be back.

I'll be doing some real work again.
In the time I wasn't on, I started college. I'm not a teenager but I figured better late than never.

I don't really like college. I'm agoraphobic. Still, we do what we can, right? Also, there're lots of classes online which makes things easier.

I took Theatre and Speech online. Heck, I've taken honors classes online. It boggles the mind.

I'm back on track. Publish date, sometime in...a year, maybe.

The Wind-Up Terrier is on it's way. I'm back to work on the thing and happy with the new approach. Hopefully there will be a finished book in the next year. I know that sounds really optimistic (I'm kidding) but that's all you'll get.

As small recompense, here's the rewritten beginning for the book. Careful of expectations. It is only a rough draft.

We live in intriguing times. The nineteenth century is one of advances in every conceivable arena, of science and commerce, convenience and lifestyle. Think of our grandparents. Those that we are still blessed with can hardly conceive of such strange things as these motor carts, seeming roaring dragons with hard-

Miss Euphemia Hatter closed the book in disgust. This was a primer for dabblers. She sighed. It had been a bit much to hope her brother would have ordered a proper engineering book. 

She placed the book beneath the foldup table beside her and picked up her spyglasses which lay beside a fine camellia patterned bone china cup still half filled with tepid tea and set upon a matching saucer. It was time to engage in one of her favorite breakfast activities, dirigible watching. It was more reward than bird watching. The volatile gas bags that were currently all the rage even exploded occasionally, though she’d yet to see one do so. The papers usually covered the incidents which tended to occur in the cities. The victims were usually well to do, or the servants of the well to do, so there was often some mention in the society pages of some London dandy or a lesser lord “perishing in a terrible tragedy.” Euphemia thought they couldn’t expect much better given how so many floated about willy nilly and didn’t bother to read the operating manual. 

She caught sight of two dirigibles, small cruising models putting across the sky and she flicked down another set of lenses to see them better. She leaned forward in her chair, lips pursed but the two vehicles passed harmlessly by. They’d probably only gotten so close to hail each other or some such. That lot was always so keen to out show one another. An accident was unlikely to happen over Swallow’s . Most occurred above much greater urban centres. London or Paris or, most often of all above Belfast as many dirigibles were made within its limits and, Euphemia had to wonder if the great new toys were whisked off the assembly line not more than moments after completion and driven into each other by foolhardy lords and gentleman. That lot were much too eager to show off and not at all interested in taking care to read the manual or have a turn around an isolated hamlet.  She flicked the lenses back up and the world returned to its customary proportions, the bustling town of Swallow’s Field laying spread before her scant miles in the distance with the small cottages and modest houses of the village her family’s manor and factory watched over spanning part of the way between.

Euphemia sat back and drank the tepid dregs of her tea. It would not be nice to see an accident. She would not wish such a volatile death on even the most vapid lord but, good god, for something of interest to happen in her life. Anything at all! She stood and made her way off the platform, boots ringing out against the metal steps and echoing tinily on the tile of the roof. Work beckoned and she must not disappoint. What would her governess have said? At the door to the stairs down into the manor, Euphemia paused and glanced unconsciously from side to side, though she was clearly alone. She reached back behind her and carefully felt her bustle to make sure it was entirely in its proper place. It certainly didn’t do to leave such things to chance. Secure in that, at least, she patted her pale blue skirts and descended.

She fetched her satchel, full of odds and ends she liked not to be without and closed the manor door behind her though she didn’t bother to lock it, there was no point. She walked down the dirt path in front of the manor careful not disturb her maid and the cook who were busy gossiping in the kitchen garden. They had better things to do than curtsy to her. The walk along the road which terminated square in front of the great big block of a building that her family had earned their fortune from was a pleasant one. She felt it did her good to get the old arms and legs moving before she had to sit at a desk for half the day, besides that, the country side was nice early before the air had got time to sour and it was far quieter than the factory.

The factory was alive with workers, mostly women in their matching dove grey work shifts and crisp white pinafores, working the machines or cutting the felt or gluing and sorting decorations. There was movement everywhere within building and the chatter of voices blended with the clatter of the apparatus. Euphemia navigated the work floor, dodging and dipping where necessary until she reached the great iron stair case that lead up to a platform and office which overlooked the production floor, or at least the landing in front of the office did. Euphemia had a desk on the landing and her brother worked within the office. They barely saw each other, if Euphemia was lucky.

Euphemia settled into her chair, hard and proper as it was. It was the sort of chair her former governess would approve of. She would not have approved of the smile that accompanied the thought. Fortunately, miss Leigh had been bundled off to Bath for the last nine months and, save the dreaded but required correspondence, Euphemia no longer had to maintain the appropriate appearance, she straightened the lace picots of one sleeve, though with enough training, even the most difficult lessons had a tendency to take hold.  She did wish though, that a governess hadn’t been needed. Mother had been gone for five years and father for two. Her brother Benton was the head of the family and had acting in such capacity ever since father had started to decline which had been for a while now. Euphemia sighed. She wondered what would become of her.