My Dog is Gone

You know Jager, the dog who inspired Bubble's Ordeal and Ode to Jager?
He passed away rather horribly on Monday. It was too early for him and we're feeling very guilty and horrible. This is just after he finished his four month heart worm treatment. He was worm free. He was also refusing to eat and losing weight. My guy had been laid off from his job, again and we hoped that getting him to eat and getting his tapeworms, which he seemed to get every single time he went outside, would be enough. It wasn't.
A little after noon on Monday, October 21 2013, Jager collapsed in the back of the SUV after he'd been carried there from the grass where he'd lain down and refused to stand. He stopped breathing immediately.
We'd been worrying so much that it's a relief. It's also quite painful. He should have lived longer. He could have lived longer if we'd chosen differently.

We are dealing with it and I have decided that for my NaNoWriMo book, I will write about the death of a dog and his bonding with a dog mecha. It sounds silly but I promise you it will be epic. Jager's picture will be in the beginning and the book will be dedicated to him and to my guy.
I will finish this one. I need to.

What Do You See? Wordy Wednesday

Today, I want to talk about perception. It's why my mother insists that many things are green when I know they are blue and why not everybody likes the same art.Things look and feel different to different people.
That's why you can't write for everybody. You have to write for people who like certain subjects and your pacing, descriptions and characters will reflect that as much or more so than your plot.

Of course, you can have relatively flat characters and a great story. Some people like that and other people will accept that if they identify with the tale you're telling, even if your mains are little more than cardboard cutouts of standard archetypes.

My point is, there's a lot of different things that go into a story and a little bit of focus to conform to a certain interest pool is good for satisfying a group of people.
Not everybody likes exactly the same things, even in a group of like minded individuals, but if you try to please one interest, you alienate the others.

I will say though, that you have to write for yourself, if you want to enjoy your work and finish as this is overwhelmingly true for many people, humans often lacking focus for boring tasks in this day and age. But, people have done quite well writing about what they hate.

This all boils down to something I'm sure everyone has heard, though not put quite the way I have said it. You should know your audience, whether that audience includes you and you love your stories or the audience is far removed from your interests and you're just in it for cash.

I don't mind people writing for the moolah, as long as they do it well, and don't make fun of the people who read their crap, at least not too much.

Some genres are like little Debbie snack cakes. They aren't exactly the best canvas to try and paint a work of art but what everyone should understand is that just because people read something you think is dumb, doesn't mean they are defined by it. There's something that calls to them but that is not all they are. Also, good artists can paint wherever they like and create something beautiful, even if it's a cheap pastry.

We all need a little reassurance or something to put zip in our lives. Just because plots are unrealistic and characters are bland cut-outs does not mean that there isn't heart to a book and to inspire feelings of contentment, love, anger, ecstasy and excitement, that's all you need.

All sorts of books are important, not just "literature." Some people may see it differently but that's what it's all about. Opinions, perception, heart and at the base of it all, hard work.

Picture Day, not Wordy at all

I've gotten back into reading, and writing and drawing.
In place of a story, here's a picture I drew and then colored in with crayon.
Man, crayons are way more fun when I actually have the fine motor skills to get them in and out of the box without breaking them.
Also, ya know, to color.

I can't center. I know, I suck.
So, here we are. Rainbow Serpent, Quetzalcoatl mash-up, done in crayon, by me. Cait. It's mine and it's pretty.

Wordy Wednesday; Characters That Make Readers Feel Good

The Heroes of Olympus by Rick Riordan
Young Wizard series by Diane Duane
Harry Potter by J.K.Rowling
Twilight

What do all of these have in common?
Characters with interesting flaws, or hobbies who come from unpleasant, though somewhat mundane situations.
That's what I've decided.

In the YA books by Rick Riordin, both the Percy Jackson series and the Heroes of Olympus series, (I prefer the later, probably because I identify with the characters.) there are all these kids from single parent families who mostly didn't even know who the other parent was. They were trouble makers who'd been kicked out of multiple schools. Kids diagnosed with learning disabilities, dyslexia and ADHD. But all of that is okay. It's just part of being a demigod. It's actually better senses and reflexes as well as a brain hard wired for Greek (or Latin). There's more depth to it than that. They aren't Mary Sues and, frankly, I'd have liked to slap some of the godly parents but that's sort of what the main characters get to do which causes me a squee of satisfaction and glee. They also get to go on quests, so adventure, albeit dangerous, and they get to spend their time in summer camp learning cool things, like sword fighting and making stuff like statues.

In the Wizard series by Diane Duane, kids become wizards. The younger they are, the more powerful they are. Kids who are curious and read a bunch become wizards. They do have to complete an ordeal, a sort of quest against a big baddy called the Lone Power but that's satisfying too, as well as kinda terrifying at times. Living dangerously through characters is pretty cool.

As for Harry Potter, his life sucks at the beginning and then he becomes the special boy, gets to learn cool things and gets to leave his horrible relatives far behind for a decent chunk of each year. What's not to envy?

Twilight, well, Bella's life is kinda blah. Edward certainly fixes that though even then it's a bit bleach. There's also romance and the ultimate bad boy who can't help what he is, if you're into that.

There we are. I don't think this is a great revelation but the thing that ties popular young adult fiction together is identifying with the characters and gaining a burst of emotion from living vicariously through them.

Wordy Day, Bubble's Ordeal, Part 2

He could hear screams from the other side of the wall. Bubbles lifted his head and looked around warily, his ears swishing gently. He must have fallen asleep. He stared suspiciously at the water. It really had been drugged! But he had been thirsty. In fact he still was. He barked irritably at the yelping screams on the other side of the wall. Damned dog couldn't take a little pain. It was probably only a shot. As the dog was only yelling, Ow, ow ow, it wasn't as though he could tell anything useful. Gosh, what a disruptive racket. Bubbles wanted to be in the same room so he could glare down whatever puppy it was and explain how you should behave properly.
He began to lower his head but raised it again and turned towards the door. The same horrible person who had brought him into the room lead a gangly brown Great Dane inside, the tech must have tugged a little too hard on the leash because the Great Dane stumbled and let out a high pitched "Ow!"

Bubbles realized he'd stood and retreated to the back of the cage. He forced himself to step forward. That was the dog who'd been doing all that yelling? What a wimp. He watched the other dog carefully as he was stuffed into a floor level cage across the room. After the tech left, he leaped forward in his cage.

"What was that all about?" he demanded with a series of short, sharp barks.

The Great Dane jumped and then turned wide, moist golden- brown eyes up to him. "They caused me pain. There was something sharp that one of them stuck in my hind," the dog said reproachfully. As the scent of the new dog wafted around the room, Bubbles had time to analyze it. This was a puppy, a female, though it hardly mattered quite yet. She was un-neutered but still a few months from being in heat. Still, dogs that big were mostly good for blocking out the light, bitch or dog.

Bubbles watched the larger dog and then laid down, letting out a little whuff of air. "You'll get used to it as you get older," he said with an air of world weariness. It happens at least once a year and biting is something you never do." He remembered when as a small puppy he'd nipped and held on. His breeder had been extraordinarily displeased and right then Bubbles had realized that he should be careful. Even if he was very important, wounding people caused him to lose height on his pedestal with the humans.

The Great Dane whined and hung her head.

"So, first vet visit, huh?"

Bubble couldn't see where the other voice was coming from, it was probably from one of the cages on his side of the room as he could see the others and the cages surrounding the Great Dane bitch were all empty.
The great Dane looked up and to one side.

"Who is that!" said Bubbles, bouncing on his paws and looking from one side of the cage ceiling to the other in frustration.

"Oh, don't get your hackles all tangled up, groaned another voice gently. "It's just me, and old terrier without even a bone to my name. Hey, y'all. My masters call me Purdy."

"I'm Dai-sy," said the Great Dane with evident pleasure as she loled her tongue right after giving her moniker.

"I'm-Bubbles," said Bubbles reluctantly. He was displeased to be exchanging given names with dogs who could have come from anywhere in Austin. He was not here to make friends. He was not here willingly, at all.

Wordy Wednesday, Feet Really Aren't Hands

Now, I know you know this, or you should, unless, perhaps you are a tiny baby, but feet really aren't hands.
They don't move the same way or look the same way or feel the same way. This is because they are at the end of your legs, farther from your heart, and they support your weight. I don't think hands can do that so easily, even gymnast's hands.

Course, if you look at a human skeleton or even that of a horse, you'll see the framework for hands. Same goes for an otter, though they actually have hands, but I'm not sure if their feet are hands. Huh, I wonder if otters will be the next race to reach sentience. I thought it would be racoons or cats. I once had a very disturbing dream about the beginning of sentience in cats. It eventually led to them trying to talk. Let me be the first to tell you, a cat's voice is pretty damn devilish.

So, feet could sort of be hands, if we didn't' have the flesh slabs that encase them. I guess they aren't because we lost the bid with the Orangutans.

This is what I say.

Feet that are hands would be cool.

Working on a New Cover and Wordy Wednesday, Success?

You know, things may be looking up for me.
I have a scanner now.
All I need is to get a decent sketch together and then scan it into the computer and do some magic to make it into a better cover.

To tell the truth, the cover I have now for Snow Sands, Book 1 is the problem.


I am proud of it, there's no doubt of that, but it's not right. Being unique is cool and all but the cover needs to tell what to expect, at least a bit. There's a reason to do something similar to what others do. It helps people who might like your stuff to locate it since it looks similar to other stuff they liked. So, I'm going to do that sketch and I'm going to use The Enchanted Forest Chronicles, by Patricia C, Wrede as a model because I like the books and they fit somewhat with what I did.

I leave you with a, sorta, poem that I wrote free hand a little earlier when I was feeling a bit blue.
Success?
Does success mean much if success doesn't mean much? Does it matter to try and feel if you can't even get feeling from a bloody stubbed toe? 
Is there a point when your resolve has dulled?
At what time do things just begin to matter?
When does the world sparkle, the sky glow, the air fill with music and the ground begin to shake? 
What do you do to live, to sing, to write, to paint? 
At what point do the fates just say, "okay," and let the milk of inspiration flow?
Why do they just say "no?"
Or, is it just me? Is that it all it takes? I must say yes, despite all the grey, despite the dull pain, despite a tired brain?
Is that it?