WOTF Q108

Well, The Third Rule had undergone some changes. Of these Changes the smallest is the name. The plot has been restructured, the antagonist has been given some depth, and even the minor character has grown. Though it perilously close to "Time" to send, If the critiques I'm waiting on on come back with only small problems, it'll fly.

The Downside is that I've caught some kind of virus and it's MAKING ME MISERABLE. You know the kind--everybody does: My glads want to fight over everything I swallow, and the drinks my body hunkers for hurt my ears, and I'm experiencing the add ache and pain. I can't stand not being able to come to work--hate it even worse that illness is holding me back. It gets me whiny; I don't like bed rest...At All!

Those faithful few who visit this blog, say a prayer for me: that I'll get better, that the story is almost ready, and that I'll be able to polish it up in time to send it in.

Live 12/01/07

Just a quick update to say Flash Fiction Online (http://flashfictiononline.com) is live tomorrow. A forum, three short-short fictions (illustrated by yours truly), a writing contest, tips for writers, links to other short fiction sites, workshops, Oliver House's cutting blog, and soon a staff blog will all be available...for free!

See you there.

Flash Fiction Online

Flash Fiction Online is very close to being up and running. Jake just needs to clean a few details up and presto, we're a force to contend with. Bruce Holland Rogers will be the first professional flash featured, Suzanne Vincent will share the table of contents as the semi-pro, and the classic story--the Flash From The Past--will be H. P. Lovecraft. What an inagural line-up, eh? I just finished the second of three illustrations for the flash stories (Suzanne Vincent's I Speak the Master's Will), and am going to be pushing it to get the third one in. But, as everyone knows, I'm not one to let the job go unfinished. Unless it's a personal painting, LOL, then it can go up to a year without being signed. I think everyone involved is excited--I know I am--and the buzz has been injected into Liberty Hall, too.

FFO is sponsoring Mike's Liberty Hall Year End Contest (which is usually for a prize), with the possibility of publication. It's looking to have the making of some stiff competition. I think that, were it left to the slush readers, it would be a difficult choice. I'm glad (as one of said readers) that the contest will produce a winner first.

Mike has also put a new face on Liberty Hall, along with an online store.

There is a forum on FFO, that Jake got up and running today. Though there are still a couple of bugs to work out, it's pretty cool. I have no doubt that it will be a virtual beehive of activity, once things kick off (the tentative date is Dec 1). So, come Saturday, look for it at http://flashfictiononline.com . And enjoy.

All writers will benefit from a visit.

Exclusivity

Just a quick update, since I have once again been remiss:

I am the exclusive artist (bearing the title "Art Director") for Flash Fiction Online. Eventually, I'd like to be an accredited author also, but the widening of my art credentials is a small ego boost. I need all of those I can get.

Meanwhile, the collaboration has picked back up. The both of us have had other projects, but now--on my end, at least--that's clearing up. My own work-in-progress (the expanded Pantroth story) is on hold. I have had a burst of ideas, but, I'm allowing them to coalesce during the first draft of my share of the collaboration.

I'm letting The Third Rule cool off. When I hit that again, I want to go in fresh--and with no predispositions. I've had a lot of valuable feedback, and have to step away before applying it (or figuring out how to apply it). I still believe in the story, though, now I'm intending to look at it as more of a detailed outline. Hey those are the breaks.

As for Magnum Opus, I'm going to give that an overhaul, too. I think I'm going to focus on some fantasy elements and then send it out to RoF. Wish me luck.

Rejected

Like the title says, Magnum Opus got the standard email rejection from WOTF. I wasn't surprised--it had no monsters or magic. I'm debating either putting those elements into it (they're in that world), or combining it with another story to create a larger tale--one that is undeniably speculative. I wanted to make a couple of minor changes anyway.

As for The Third Rule, I just got a critique back that knocks the legs from under it. He (the critiquer) did me a favor by being thorough. As always, the first taste of the critique is as bitter as baking chocolate--you know it will flavor the finished product intensely, and you can't wait to get into it, but it's not to be devoured raw. I'm dealing with the fact that I have to rewrite most of it around a more thought-out ending. My critquer asked valid questions that I have to consider the answers to before the rewrite. It's good because I'm learning something new.

My collaboration is suffering for it, though. I think my co-author and I have bitten off more than we had thought we did. I think we just jumped at the first idea proposed, with no more thought to it than that. And now, it's catching up with us.

To think: I used to write just because I loved to imagine different stories. Now I write because I'm not going to let it beat me. I guess sometimes I can just be a stubborn @$$.

On a positive note, I illustrated an H. P. Lovecraft piece--What the Moon Brings--for Flash Fiction Online. It's colored pencils, but not too bad for an hour-or-two sketch. (And that was broken up into two nights and three locations.) Now, I'm just waiting for conformation on the other two stories I'm going to do the illustrations for.

The Third Rule

After a week of floundering and inspiration, I've finished a new short story entitled The Third Rule. I break away from the norm here in two ways: I don't normally write in 1st person, and I don't usually focus on characters so young. At first, it was easy to slip into the early-teen character, but it was difficult to have the P.O.V. character not be the protagonist. And then, I had a sudden burst of inspiration. I don't know where it came from, but I knew it needed a early-teen girl to make my P.O.V. character miserable. So I asked my daughter what her favorite girls' name was, and created some tension.

That did it. The story became about the interaction between the boy and the girl. Simple, right? Well, not quite. But, I think this is some of my best work to date.

It all started at Hatrack. I was babbling in a thread called "Your Favorite Apocalypse" when I coined the phrase Apocalyptic Taco Mix. Another Hatracker-and-LHer, Deb, was inspired to write a short called Meatloaf of the Apocalypse. Another with dual-membership, KayTi, said it would make an interesting trigger for a writing challenge. Hatrack Writers Forum Administrator, Kathleen Dalton Woodbury (AKA: KDW and SWMBO, which is She Who Must Be Obeyed), asked me to make it an official challenge. Since we hadn't had a rewrite challenge in a while, I acquiesced. Initially, two other Hatrackers accepted the challenge--neither of them was KayTi. So, I posted the fact that we had a challenge on the discussion board and Wallah!, we had eleven more challengers.

While this was going on--or just slightly before--I joined a Writers of the Future group. Amazingly, no one else from that group (also at Hatrack) was in the Apocalyptic Taco Mix challenge. I realized, about the time I was fully consumed in Jackie-boy's P.O.V., that I wouldn't have time to come up with another story by the agreed upon due-date. Since my WOTF goal was 5-7000 words, my Apocalyptic Taco Mix challenge would fit nicely. When things work out like they are meant to be, it's awesome! Hopefully, I'll have 9 or 10 critiques before the WOTF group submission. If that's the case, I should have enough info to clean it up enough to have a second edit. Then I'll be way ahead of the game for the December deadline.

Right now my wife (God bless my harshest critic) has it. As soon as she digs into it, I really know I'll have some work to do.

A Little Bit of Everything

So, the kids didn't have school this morning--they're off Monday, too--and, as usual, that automatically makes the morning hectic. My daughter was the first one up. It's funny: when she dresses for the day, she almost always chooses something filthy first. She picked a baby-blue pair of gym pants and a once-was-white T-shirt. It looked as if she had slid into all four bases, and then did it again the other way to make it even. So, I point it out. She says "So?" Then the oldest boy gets up, at his parents' beck and scream, and fumbled around for twenty minutes finding pants and taking his morning whizz. My wife's going around like a shark that just knows it scented blood, trying to find the cubscouts manual--which I asked her a question about. (Foolish me, I should know better when her powers are not yet at full capacity.) Then I pry the oldest off of his @$$ and make him go outside and play catch with me for an hour. Now my shoulder's feeling it. I played catch with my wife the day before and she has an arm on her! Now, the daughter's gone off to Mass. for the weekend (Yayyy!), the little one's having a typical day (either screaming his head-off or laughing hysterically), and the oldest is back on his butt, watching Mythbusters. The wife's approaching maximum strength (and she's found the bloody handbook), probably playing Runescape.

I have sent a more characterized first chapter/prologue off to my collaborator, Nancy Greene (She says I can use her name), though I'm waiting to hear back. And she has yet to send me her first chapter. (Think I'm nudging her with the guilt-stick?)

I've got a challenge up at Hatrack: the "Apocalyptic Taco Mix" short-story-challenge, that I'm writing a story for. Rules are simple: come up with a story--inspired by said phrase--that has a word count between 500 and 7000 words. 14 of us are going at it. I only have about 700 words at the moment, but I've had an idea brewing. I might even polish it for my WOTF 1st-quarter entry. It has an interesting flavor.

Artistically, I've been working on a painting of a pheonix for the last couple of days. I think it's almost done. Of course, I could show my wife--maybe get another "What is it?"--before I claim I'm done. I always love that. As usual, it's been a love-hate process, and I'm not sure where I stand, yet. It's not signed yet, so it's not done.

Collaboration

Well, I have begun a collaboration with a fellow Hatracker. I will leave her unnamed, in case she doesn't want to admit it. For the better part of a week, we've been trading emails., plotting, defining the necessary boundaries, choosing names--generally whittling the details down to a clear image.

So far, so good.

I have managed a little over 2,500 words, so far. I've found myself delving into the research, and including a fair amount of it as the world-building portion of the story so far. I will probably end up going back into it and pouring more character into the mold. It's tentative because my cohort hasn't yet seen it. What started off as a prologue, though, is truly beginning to feel like the makings of an historic parallel to the original story. Maybe it's just me... Sometimes that happens.

In other news, there is a Hatrack conspiracy to create a flash fiction e-zine, led by Jake Freivald. Another collaborative effort, though it consists mainly of a group of aspiring writers. There are plans in the making, and hopefully the result will showcase the best new and established talents in speculative fiction. Hopefully the Hatrackers and Liberty Hall Members will unite to create an explosive e-zine that will spread short-short-fiction support to new corners of the world-wide-web.

Message Board Madness

One thing I can't stand about message boards is you cannot address someone's comments in real-time. Sometimes, it really boils my groin! I'm never a bully. Never. Though I am strongly opinionated, I am never deliberately condescending to -- or intentionally excluding of -- anyone. When I am critiquing something, I do it honestly. I make no effort to sugar-coat it because sugar-coating is lying. I find it hard to pretend, given the time I have. Most of the time, I try to mention what I like, as well as what I find wrong.

When I am critiqued, I never argue about anyone's opinion. If I think they a wrong about something, I say what and explain why. If I don't, they won't benefit from it. Likewise, if I'm wrong about something, I will admit it. Lord knows I've been wrong enough times. But, it's useless to argue. Right or wrong, neither you nor I can change anyone's first impression.

If the punctuation is wrong; if details are left out because you know what your characters are doing and where; if a typo really spells another word...then a reader has every right to misinterpret what you're saying.

How can they not? Every writer fumbles, from the award-winning/bestseller/Pulitzer Prize winner to the Kindergartner. That's what it means to be human and why they put erasers on pencils. But, to expect everyone one to say, "Well, I know what you meant..." or "Huh?" and just continue to read on -- and compliment your prose to boot -- well that's not only unrealistic, it's conceited. Hell, some people just aren't going to be your audience.

Now, I've had my exchanges. Good or bad, I hold no grudges. And I believe I can hold my own. (You can't tell me what I believe}=p) But, I've learned something from every encounter, and would even venture to say I've made a few friends along the way. A few posts ago, I expressed feeling like I wanted to drop out of these workshops completely, but a few friends (or co-posters if they'd prefer not associating too closely with me }=}) have asked me not to quit. And I thought no one reads this thing! So, I have decided not to.

Perhaps people like me are needed to cut through the thickly glazed turds that goody-two-shoe sycophants regularly cough up! Now, I'm not saying that I'm going to be mean, but I'm going to keep-on-keeping-on. @$$holes like me are what keep the integrity in the critique.

The Purple Nightmare

I've really got to start keeping this updated.

Started my day off with everyone rushing around like bumper cars. It's lucky that one of the little ones weren't crushed underfoot. (Sigh. All we can do is try.) Fortunately the abominable doofus was already out. I can imagine the pile-up that would have occurred in his wake! Anyway, the reason for all the chaos was a friend's wedding (one of the wife's best friends) was this morning. It was like the culmination of a dark prophecy.

Just the beginning of this week is when the wedding party decided to deliver the dress pattern. So, my wife (recall she's irritable in the daylight) has to make this dress -- be mom to three (9&1/2, 7, and a special-needs 4 year old) children, deal with the abominable doofus, care for her aging father (almost another child sometimes), prepare for a Boy Scouts shin-dig (of which she's the area leader), not to mention deal with me -- in less than a week. (Amazing, ain't she?) Kind of sounds like the biblical signs of apocalypse, right? The similarities are remarkable.

• Snag no. 1: The pattern is not the right size. No big deal. She makes a run to Wal Mart and remedies that.
• Snag no. 2: I had an emergency room visit (false alarm), but it kept us out until 4:00 am!
• Snag no. 3: She sees what it actually looks like! It looks like a big, shiny, purple, v-necked, BIB. It was like seeing her try on a shiny pillow case. No matter how she turned, tapered, pinched, shuffled, or belted it didn't change.

Now, my wife is a real trooper. As much as she hated the Purple Nightmare; as much as she knew it made her look like a pretty sack of potatoes; as much as every grain of her being wanted to set the offending object afire, she kept at it. She repaired an iron-burn (which I'm not entirely sure was an accident), bought the proper support for a strapless smock, and wore it to the wedding. When I saw the tears well up last night, I knew the size of the sacrifice that she was making, and admired her so much more for it. She not only kept a straight face (which I barely could), she pretended it was the most beautiful dress she'd ever had the privilege to touch. Smooth, baby.

Of course, when she had to leave to bring me to work, she did the quickest change I've seen her pull-off in a while. The slip gave her a little trouble though. As I write this, I wonder -- now that her powers are at full capacity -- if she is dancing around a shiny purple fire.

So, hats off to Missus Babbler, she kicks @$$!

Writers of the Future (Quarter 4)

Well. After writing a 10,000 short story, having the first draft critiqued at Hatrack, editing it, editing it again, having my wife go over it (And people think I'm brutal with a critique!), and editing it a third time, I finally typed those two words at its bottom: The End. Pantroth has had his first adventure.

Though it probably doesn't show, I have developed this realm for years. Everything you could want is there, except for guns and peace -- the former is long extinct, the latter is keeping it real. Since finishing the story, Magnum Opus, Pantroth has decided to expand his tale. Since he's not the type to settle for a "maybe", I've started his expanded tale.

While I'm committing Pantroth's story to print, Magnum Opus has been sent off to the Writers of the Future Contest (WOTF). The day I sent it out, I learned that they may not consider it fantasy. They may reject it based on the lack of magic or mythical beasts -- more's the pity. It's certainly not historical. Fortunately, Magnum Opus was not written for them. If it makes the grade, awesome; if not, it has a home. I would not have changed it to fit them, even if I had the chance to. There are other stories and other quarters. But, I'm hoping they take it. I'm hoping it goes all the way. I'm hoping...just like every other author.

I'm already planning on which of my short stories could be expanded and polished for the next quarter...

Mom's Story

I've started the story that is a dedication to my mom. It's a hard piece to write, for a number of reasons: A) The theme is cliche (alien falls in love with lovely old woman) B) The alien is supposed to be a form of vampire C) She had myriad visions ofr the story, but she only expressed a limited few D) It's all based on a vague memory from a decade ago.

After a long period of wondering how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-this, I determined that the heart of the story lay in the dynamic between the old lady and her faithful friend. The friend was more of a live-in-nurse type in the original tale. I beat my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit all the elements that I could remember into something cohesive (and wasn't a copy of Starman). Eventually, I came to the decision that I would have to add my spin on things; I promisd to write the story, not write it true to her vision.

So, I took her outline as a trigger. I determined that they dynamic would be best shown in racial differences and in a specific milieu: Civil War era. Research on a couple of battles of the Civil War led me to another story, one that some southerners have not entirely recovered from. I just hope I can do it justice. My main goal is to get this story published. Yeah, I know that should be most writers' goals in everything they commit to words, but most of what I've written has been with the purpose of learning. I have a few ideas about the alien element, but nothing set in stone, yet.

A few friends friends have opined against my withdrawal from the writers workshops I frequent. Duly noted. I'll give it a bit longer. That's just to show I can take advice too. It's still a hard time, but I'm forging through it. This story is my way of getting some closure and remember my mother for who she was.

A New Year

My birthday was Saturday.

Normally, this is the harbinger for a completely miserable day. I'm never depressed because of my age; the day is just a magnet for calamity. It's like Murphy's Law was invented on my birthday.

This year began typically: I woke up; made my breakfast; did my hour-long aerobic workout; then fed the dog and fish (which are supposed to be my oldest two children's chores). During my workout, as usual, my youngest threw a fit (which we lovingly refer to as "Nutties"). He's developementally challenged, and throws a temper tantrum that shifts a bright day into a postapocalyptic negative in the snap of a finger -- like the beginning of the old T.V. show: Tales from the Darkside. He smashed the dog-gate down and freed the Abominable Doofus from his confines. Now, our dog is a German-Blockhead Rottweiller mixed with a Chow and Black Labrador; he's got the size of a Big Rottweiller, the playfulness of a Labrador, and the recalcitrance of a Chow : he's a giant, slobbering, barking, nipping, jackass of a dog that is sometimes outsmarted by our (black) Goldfish, named Life. Yeah, I know. The kids named him. As it turned out, it was an appropriate name. Of our three original fish, Life is the only survivor -- that's how my wife learned that air filter have screens to prevent the fish from being sucked up. I digress. So the Abominable Doofus is drooling in random cirlces, Eli's throwing a nutty, Cait (my seven-year-old daughter) is thumping downstairs one step at a time, wrapped in a comforter, looking like something that was born of the unholy coupling of a lion and a slug, and my wife is waiting for the sun to set before rousing from her coffin. It's a good thing Logan, our oldest son, was spending the night at a friend's, or he'd have been screaming like a girl in a film-noir horror flick. ( The dog's playfulness scares him; along with insects, cobwebs, the water bubbles that form in the tub drain -- which he thinks look like fish eyes, although, I still don't know why that's scary -- and certain kinds of cooked meat.) No stress or anything...

Then, quite shockingly, things got better. While I was struggling to get the Abominable Doofus back into his gated community, my wife proved Bram Stoker right: Although they are considerably weaker, vampires can walk around in the daylight. The nutty gave way to a litany of "eat-eat" and the North American Giant Wild-Haired Slug gradually shed her thick, segmented coating and proved that she had metamorphosized into a cute, hyperspastic girl. However, the transformation did nothing for the hair that even rats would find to messy to nest in.

We traded the oldest child for the youngest, dropped the oldest two off with "Grampy" -- like they wanted -- and did the cake thing. My wife made a scrumptious cake. Then, we went to Topsham (the most peaceful trip we've had in quite a spell) to shop for clothes. Next we went to Borders (bookstores are high on my list of favorites), where I picked up a couple of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe novels, a Mario Puzo, a Patrick O'Brian, and found Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind -- a book which I have been wanting to get my hands on a copy of. Rothfuss's debut novel comes very highly recommended by some of my favorite authors, one that I had to finish before delving into The Name of the Wind today...

I took my wife to dinner at a restaurant that she hadn't been to. The meal was splendid and we both had our fill. (It was at dusk, so her powers were full capacity.) By the time we returned home, we had traipsed curcuitously about the state. The kids had been excellent for their grandfather, which is always nice (though rare), and were ready for bed, when I was ready to read to them. They went to sleep relatively easy.

It hadn't been the equivalent of the Windsor Fair for the kids, but it was a milestone in calamity-free birthdays, and one of the most enjoyable days that I've spent with wy wife in a long time.

Brain Belches

This is one of those days that nothing seems to go right. Business has been dead -- the perfect time for a photographer to show up to shoot me (not with a gun) at work.

I'm feeling pretty beat up.

The writers forums I frequent seem to profess that they would be better off without me -- which is a shame, because that's one of the few things I derive joy from. I'm not one to stick around where I am not needed or wanted, so that may lead to my leaving.

The thing that sucks about depression (temporary, not clinical) is that it flavors everything. Even when it's a bright, sunny day, everything looks like rain.

Solitude

A week before my birthday, and I'm miserable. Except for Mom's passing, I shouldn't be. Business is good. I'm making good money. My wife's attracted to me at present, which fades in and out (at times, admittedly, I giver her "just cause" to be repulsed). I find the kids are behaving -- for me, at least -- better than normal. Holli (my best -- and only -- salesperson and biggest fan) is back to work, after almost a month out, so my crew is full again.

What more could a man ask for, right?

It's strange. I feel utterly alone. Every good thing that I have listed comes with a price: Business being good takes me away from my family, and it keeps me away for long hours. My kids loose out their nightly story and I loose that bonding time that is so precious to me. (Not to mention, my wife looses her much-needed break from the human-zoo.) Long hours mean I'm tired or exhausted by the time I tread through the door, and (by the time I put the kids down) I can't match my wife's enthusiasm. Holli is distracted by personal drama, and letting that tint her work-world.

Ironically, I can usually find a bright side to things. But, right now, I only see shadows. I can't seem to taste any flavors, everything goes plain so fast. The work I'm willing to volunteer (the time consuming work of an experienced craftsman) is unwanted. My prose is dull; it's just as well that no one really reads this. All arguments seem petty and trivial.

It's not that I want attention. Attention (so long as you're not picky about whether it's good or bad) is easy to achieve. I don't want somebody to dote on me -- I have a few fans. But, I long for the simplest of companions. What I really want is someone to hang-out with. Someone who I share interests in common with. These days, that's a rare commodity. I hardly see either of my two best friends, anymore: Dan has M.S. and doesn't come out much; Eugene lives 1300 miles away.

Well, back to the grind...before I gnaw my own ear off.

In the Wake of Her Passing...

It's been rough since my last entry, as most people can imagine. The trip down, the cleaning out of her things, and settling her affairs has been unimpressive. When I accepted her remains... Oh. I didn't accept her remains? That's right. The funeral home was too incompetent to fill out the death certificate and prepare her ashes (which are now apparently called "cremains") for travel, in the week that I had allotted . From the look on the woman's face, it amused them to delay. The day before we left, they told us -- via telephone -- that everything was arranged. My wife made a point of asking if there was anything else they needed from us. "No. No," they said. "Everything is in order." Then, Friday morning, they informed us that "...everything will be ready Monday..."; until Monday arrived, then it was, "We didn't know where she was born, so we couldn't fill the certificate out".

She would probably have had a better sense of humor about the situation. (You reading this. Mom?) She could find humor in anything, given enough time.

It was grueling sifting through the pictures. It wasn't bad enough to have her history pieced together in snapshot, but there had to be enormous gaps, too. Her possessions were few enough -- damn little to represent an entire life -- but momentos were everywhere. Sentiment always outweighed monetary value in her eyes. Her heart shone through in many things.

It's the busy season for work, so my time in Florida was short. I had to be back in Maine by the 3rd of August. We got back 1:00am on August 2nd. My wife garnered her first speeding ticket in South Carolina, which she earned by doing 90mph in a 70mph zone. That's my Amanda! She once jumped a road (launching from the stop sign that she'd blown past and landing four driveways down the block, in front of a police cruiser) with my mom in the back of the car. Mom's reaction was priceless. In my mind, I can still see the death-grip she had on our headrests. Later on, we all had a laugh. I still rib Amanda that the cattle aren't saying, "Moo."; they're saying, "Mooove!" She has a good sense of humor about it, too. (Obviously. She married me, didn't she?) So I got back to a backup of clientele, and had to bust @$$ ever since. Yesterday slacked off a bit, but there was drama of another kind to fill the gap.

When we walked through the door, there was a manila envelope waiting for me. It was from my Uncle Jimmy. His visits, throughout my childhood, helped inspire the creative juices that were beneath my flesh. I hadn't spoken to him in -- at the very least -- twelve years. It was sad that it took this to break the silence (sort of). There wasn't a single word in that envelope. It was filled, instead, with pictures. Some of those pictures were of her and I (as a child, shudder), and some were of her. Most of them were black-and-whites of her youth. It was very touching. There was a specific photo -- one that was completely new to me -- of her as (I would guess) a teen. It was that picture that stopped me. I'd seen her as a toddler and little girl, but never as an adolescent. Maybe it was the emotion-of-the-moment, but I could see hopes and dreams in her young eyes. I spent a miserable moment realizing the enormity of what she sacrificed for me. It was the first picture that I could see the woman I knew peeking out of (though it was just a shade of what was to be), and is very precious to me. If you read this, Uncle Jimmy, thanks. Thank you very much.

I want to say thanks to my friends at LH for their reassurances, thoughts, and prayers. They reminded me that we're only "alone" if we choose to be.

'Til next time...

She Was My Mom

Woke up today and got the bad phone call. This morning, somewhere near an hour before I dragged my butt out of bed, my Mom passed away.

She had been suffering lately, and she had grown tired of fighting. I can't blame her, she'd had several heart attacks and stroke, was hit by a truck last summer, and just last week had part of her bowls removed to cancer.

She was...

She was a hard woman that had to fight for every inch she got. There were only a few things that made her happy, and she loved to share those...with anyone who cared to let her. If she had anything (and she never had much) she'd share it with any who needed it. Her temperance was sometimes harsh, but always well-meaning. She made sacrifice after sacrifice, without complaint, to better the lives of everyone around her. I will miss her laugh, so heady and genuine, and the smile that would spring unbidden to her eyes.

We butted heads so very much. She made me headstrong and resilient and gave me true tenacity. She made me strong. My father died when I was a little over a year old, and she tried to play both parts. It must have been so hard for her: not being able to lean on anyone; having to answer the tough questions, alone; trying to understand boy problems when she had never experienced them; and above all, being honest when it hurt. Like most mothers, she put me first, but she did so to the exclusion of everything else. Even when she was dying, she didn't want anyone to worry, or trouble themselves. She did good. There's no way I can adequately express what she was -- or was to me -- but something needs to be said, and I can't form the words with my mouth. She was so strong...

All that I am, she made me. For good or ill, I'm the result of her efforts. I have won 147 awards with the determination and tenacity that she instilled in me. Somewhere inside, I was trying to make her proud. She was always adamant that I use what talents God gave me, talents that she claimed that she lacked. I wish I had some of her talents, the world -- at least the little corner of it that surrounded her -- will miss them.

I know I can never repay her -- she wouldn't ever expect me to -- but this is my small way of honoring her. She taught me that sacrifice is its own blessing; that love is the greatest gift; and that all things material are trivial. It is my sincere hope that I can pass on just an inkling of her (and her indomitable spirit) to my own children.

It's funny how you never realize how crafty or clever someone is until it's in hindsight. She made me independent by holding me too close. She taught me to make the right decisions (and to strengthen my convictions) by making some bad ones. She taught me to stay true to myself and my friends -- with a fierceness -- no matter what the hurt: True friends and impostors will both reveal themselves, given enough time. She taught me that true love is buried deep within a person, and sometimes must be sifted out. Only someone that you truly love can hurt you, she often said, if you don't love them, it won't matter what they think. I carry these lessons ingrained within me for all time, this mortal gift from one so selfless. She taught me what love is.

She was my Mom.

I love you Mom. Now, you can finally rest.

Initial Warning

Those of you that know me were probably dreading this. Bwahahahahaha (maniacal laughter)! But, I've broken in and am stealing Squatter's Rights. I needed a home that was beyond the real-world and the madhouse in which I dwell; some place to call my own; to infect with my horrid artistic visions and beautiful nightmares; somewhere to save the abominations I create. In other words, I'm going to post some of my artwork and prose.

Now, enough of the nonsense.

Rise up in the verbocracy and stab them with your freshly-sharpened no.2s. Hack at the principals of the literate hierarchy and burn them all with swift erasers. Appall them with improper grammar and let them suffer a barrage of slangshot from your vociferous cannonade. Never give up. Never give in. Ever onward with the Bungholian Uprising.