Okay, it really isn't a new job, it's the same job I've had for the longest time, maybe longer than some of you have been alive.
And it's the same company I worked for five years ago.
Yep, I sold my soul again. And it's fun. And freeing. Souls are heavy and dreary and make you cwyyyyyyyy. (I'm making this up but of course, you knew that.)
Wish me luck. I hope this gives me time to write more. Or at least, sleep.
Sleep is good.
They're going to show it this month. Presscon is on Monday, and could I come?
I said I'd check schedules. Truth is, I have nothing to wear. :)
Trailers are here:
We, of course, refused. The future fifteen-minute emperor does not deal with oathbreakers, and we have still not forgotten the betrayal that has caused our father to die of heartbreak and our mother be driven away to exile. We are also not interested in an alliance of the clans, only their swift and immediate destruction. They are no longer kin, and one day, when the empire has been built and strengthened, they will be driven away from those stolen lands.
But in the meantime, the fifteen-minute emperor must write eight more scrolls of five hundred words. This is how empires a built, after all, a word at a time.
Taera wasn't surprised by what her father said. The high priest, her six uncles, and her older brother were all standing beside her father, and she already had an idea of what they had been saying.
( Clean as you go. )
He is a taong-grasa (grease man), the generic term we have for those homeless bag people who are covered with grease and dirt and carry all their possessions around in big plastic grocery bags. I don't think he's homeless, though, he's a little too clean, and his hair seems to have been combed and cut recently (though maybe not today) and his shirt is white. Sort of.
I can't decide if he looks like my dad, back in the last days of Alzheimer's, when he would walk around the village finding treasures of thrown away flowers from the flower shops, broken toys to fix and random VHS tapes of classic films thrown away by people who don't know how to fix a stuck tangled tape, treasures for me that he would rummage around for in the grassy heaps all day, until some kindhearted tricycle driver who knew him from way back when ("Oh he's still the smartest man around, ma'am! I always love talking to him about books!") would convince him to take his tricycle home; or Jesus.
He just took three mangoes and said the world is ending but I would be emperor for the last fifteen minutes.
Not a bad deal for three mangoes.
I've been there, and I know what's possible. I had a tighter deadline than that three years ago, and people came through, so I know it's doable.
Thanks so much!
p.s. Each donation to that cause counts as a birthday present to me and gains 1000 karma points. (Hehe!)
He knows I can't afford things like that, but he does this kind of thing all the time that I don't really mind anymore. I've been wanting a tablet-type thing for the longest time to read ebooks and manga and such. A Kindle would be perfect, or a Nook, but I figured if I was going to buy a device, a tablet would be more practical, since Kindles here cost 400 USD anyway, and the iPad is 499.
My first birthday prezzie (a very, very early one) got delivered this morning. Nice shiny new Kindle, with a nice red leather lighted cover. They just announced that iPad2 here comes out next Friday. At exacttly the same price as the old.
Life is good.
just a little violence
*in case anyone who reads this actually read my previous inkstains entry, the one with Nurian, (which I actually wrote as a one-off, but then I got to thinking " I spose I could do this" and things you think when people say nice things about what you write ), this is the other lead character in the novel which I may or may not write depending on whether I can scrounge up some decent sentences.
It was a dark and stormy night when Sander finally saw.
( Read more... )
704 words, implied violence
It was all black and terrible in the hole. And ick, Nurian thought. ‘Terrible” was Nurian’s vocabulary word for the week, and he still had a little trouble figuring out what it meant exactly. His sister Kolana said it meant worse than bad. Scarier than scary. Uglier than ugly. If you make it into an adverb, take away the letter E at the end and change it into a Y, it does exactly that, make things worse than they are. The pit was terribly black, Nurian thought. There. That seemed right. It still didn’t mean anything to him, but at least it seemed right.
He wasn’t scared of the dark, of course, not since daddy took him into the basement level and showed him that it was all exactly the same whether the lights were on or not. “I’ll be here, and even when I’m not, just stay put, and I’ll come to get you,“ his daddy had said, carrying him and letting him turn the lights on and off several times, until he was satisfied that the only difference between dark and light was that you just couldn’t see things.
Daddy wasn’t there, but he was pretty sure he’d be there soon. He wasn’t scared, but it was really tight and stuffy in the hole, and there was something terribly slishy-sloshy by his feet. And it smelled bad. Smelled terrible, he corrected himself, just like the bins outside the meat market.
He sat hunched into one little corner, because the other side had the slishy-sloshy gooky things on the floor, and besides, he’d gone number one and number two there earlier. He told the men he needed to go to the bathroom, but they just laughed and said to go right there, the meanies. He had tried to hold it in for as long as he could, but he finally had to, because he was a big boy and big boys don’t go in their pants.
He could hear the meanies laughing outside, making lopsided sounds, and one of them made a loud thud falling while everyone else laughed. A loud creak, and he saw little sliver of yellow, like the tip of a nail where the cover of the pit had been shaken loose by the drunken man’s fall.
“This is no fun, “ one of the men said. “Why doesn’t he cry?”
“ He’ll cry later, “ another voice said. “You’ll have your fun.“
“Maybe he’s dead, “ another one said. “What if he’s dead?”
“It doesn’t matter, “ the first voice said. “He’ll cry later. “
Someone banged on the steel cover overhead and yelled, “Hey, are you dead?”
“No, “ he answered. “Where’s my daddy?”
“He’s not coming,“ one of them said, then laughed. The others laughed too.
He felt like crying, not that he was scared, no, he knew they were lying, daddy would come, he said he would, and daddy always came to get him. But he was a little hungry and really sleepy, and it had been so long and daddy wasn’t there yet. He willed himself not to cry; his daddy would frown if he found Nurian crying when he got there, so he just stared up at the sliver of yellow, trying not to think of the slishy-sloshy gooky things by his feet, or whatever it was that went crunch when he stepped on it, or those things that felt like clammy jelly on the walls.
Staring at the yellow sliver made his eyes tired and sleepy, and he closed his eyes a little, ignoring the rumbling hungry sounds his stomach made.
A loud sound jolted him awake. Something crashed, and he could hear glass breaking overhead. He heard the sound of leathery flapping, and the yellow sliver disappeared, making everything around him black again. He could hear loud screaming, terrible screaming for what seemed to be a long, long timeand then suddenly, everything was quiet.
He heard the grating sound of the steel cover being removed, and he blinked as a leathery claw reached down, the black nails sharp and glistening as they closed around his little arm, pulling him up.
“Daddy, “ Nurian said, holding on tightly. “You took so long! Terribly long!”
"Sorry, " his daddy said. "You weren't scared, were you?"
It's an argument with your internal critic, so it's a bit mpd-ish, is that a trigger?
Tsk.There it was again, that unmistakable, universal sound of disapproval, that of tongue going clack against the soft palate. It came from somewhere over my left shoulder, so it couldn't possibly have been an angel, unless it was the fallen kind. Nah. I was a nonpracticing Buddhist, and t didn't believe in those anyway.
I stared harder at the computer screen every time I heard the 'tsk' or the 'uh-oh', but the only reflection I saw was the end of a bookshelf, nothing more, which made my hesitant to turn around and look. I decided to ignore it, and just concentrate on my writing. I deleted a line and went back to my typing.
I deleted an entire paragraph this time, then another, then a sentence, faster and faster, one after another trying to write and rewrite fast enough so there wouldn't be any time to make those velaric sounds that were getting really, really annoying.
Oh, goody, I outwrote it, I thought, then proceed to work on the next chapter.
Then it came. Not a tsk, a click or a clack, but a long drawn-out sigh, the kind that comes from more exasperation than a mere ' tsk' can express.
That was it. I lost it. "What the hell is your problem? So you don't like my work, fine! Go away and leave me alone!"
I wasn't really expecting an answer, except maybe the computer flying right through my or a dozen pencils pinning my bleeding carcass to the wall, like they do in fun Thai horror movies.
"Oh no, I like your work, " the disembodied voice said. "Except..."
"Ummm, I'm not really supposed to tell you this, but ..."
"Okay, it's like this. You only get to write ninety-three million nine hundred thousand and forty-seven words in your lifetime-- are you sure you want to waste them all on robot zombie pandas? “
If I had been younger I would have cried. Most likely deleted everything, swearing to never write again. But by now, I'd been through worse critics than this-- people who actually weren't me, so I kinda knew a bit about what to do by then. Don't cry. Don't scream. Don't bargain.
I raised an eyebrow, and answer calmly. "You got any better ideas?"
I typed one word, just to test. Nothing.
I started typing for real, going back to work, and I'm up to maybe 600 words when I heard the voice, smaller, this time. “Uh, sparkly robot pandas?”
Challenge 20 - Rewrite a fairy tale
Silly Queen was wailing again.
If she didn’t shut up, she was going to wake the baby, and it would be MY problem. I’d be annoyed, except I get paid well, and I do like taking care of the baby. Except for the part where I have to change diapers, of course. Do you have any idea how hard it is trying to change a diaper made of silk and gold thread?