Some stories are like hearts falling heavily into love - they cannot be stopped once they have been started.
Granted, the history of this phrase is far, far longer than I've been listening to The Adventure Zone, but I'll always hear Griffin McElroy as Pan, answering Merle's summons.
In unrelated news, I have refreshed my website and this is me confirming the blog feature is functional.
Confirmed.
I've got a thing for tragic bastards. I should clarify, my desire is purely for dudes of a fictional variety. I have exactly zero time for the bullshit of living, breathing disasters. But I have been thinking a lot lately about the themes and sorts of characters that resonate with me, what I'm drawn to read and write. As silly as it is, my recent experiences playing Dragon Age: Inquisition have made this pretty clear to me. I've always appreciated Bioware's nuanced characters and the ability players have to befriend or isolate or irritate them, and this installment in the series is, in my opinion, the best in terms of executing this particular hallmark of the studio.
My first two play-throughs, I barely spoke a word to Solas, became absolute besties with Dorian and Cassandra, and romanced Cullen, whose awkward word vomit and head scratching endeared him completely. But, I kept seeing folks talking about the draw of the Solas romance and how it tied in with the game's overall narrative - which is spectacular - so I decided to give it a try and rolled an elven Inquisitor.
And now I'll never look back.
What is it about colossal fuck-ups that is so appealing?
While the charming, well-intentioned dude may at first secure my attention, it just doesn't last. Perhaps this is why your average romantic comedy can't hold my attention - I love a good love story but I need even more than space and elves to complicate things for my weird little heart. I need world-shattering mistakes.
There are other fictional fellas in here. Not surprisingly:
As I am writing the final book in my series and contending with some of the choices and realizations in The Dread Goddess, I am trying to feel my way forward with Gannet and Eiren - without giving anything away, certainly things between them have never been easy, and there are new troubles now. In earlier drafts of the first few chapters, something just didn't feel right. The forgiveness, the comfort, the ease with which they were moving forward, together. Because something is wedged between them still, and Gannet is, of course, claiming responsibility. Given what he knows and doesn't know about himself, and what's at stake, there was a tension and a distance that wasn't at play yet in that draft.
So, I had to make some changes.
In each book, we've learned something new about Eiren and Gannet and about their world, and now that they're presumably holding all of the pieces, they're finding that their shapes are strange, sharp, fragile. I feel as much at Gannet's mercy as Eiren does, sometimes. Even though I'm technically steering this ship, there are storms in their characterizations that even I underestimate, or miss alltogether.
But, take heart. I may enjoy tragic bastards, but I do not enjoy tragedy.
So, last year I had some lofty goals for 34. Now I'm 35 and this year I just have a lot of excuses.
You might be an icon if you feel feelings. Or if you don't. But there's really only one way to find out.
I will not tell you how many hours I spent putting this very simple Buzzfeed quiz together, which uses total guesswork science to determine whose icon you would be, if you were an icon. It was worth every minute to not have to cheat to get exactly who I wanted on my first try.
Though I suppose knowing how to answer in advance is the signature definition of cheating.
But, I won't spoil you provided you promise to tell me who you got.
When I read Felicia Day’s You’re Never Weird on the Internet I was so delighted by her descriptions of how she approached marketing and promotion for The Guild, how everything was genuine, personal, and obsessively orchestrated by Day herself. As I stalked around my city on my lunch breaks hanging flyers in Cincinnati’s many coffee spots and libraries about my book's launch and signing earlier this month, or when I still stubbornly respond to every RT and send thank you emails, I like how close to the work that I feel. I enjoy being a part of a community of writers and readers and dreamers, and growing that community all the time.
There are a lot of demands around how to market oneself online and create a personal brand, and I feel grateful to have gotten first involved in an internet before this was a thing. I started blogging in 2001 on Diaryland. I was 18 and it was then, at least for me, about cultivating a voice and entering a conversation. I made friends then that I treasure still now, as I did in subsequent years on Livejournal. At some point, blogging became less about play and more about product, and I’ve always been a little sorry for the change. But social media came along to fill the void at just the right time, and for a few years Myspace, and later Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr, allowed for the same informal socializing online. We shared things. We got giddy about things, and sad, and silly.
The medium changes, but my approach doesn’t.
Thinking about Day, again. She has always felt so authentic to me, and so kind, and that’s exactly what I’ve endeavored to be on the internet. I want people to feel as heard as they would if we were sitting across from each other over coffee. I didn’t grow up with the internet, but it’s been part of my adult life for my entire adult life, which is probably why I balk at folks who are just a few years older than I am, in some cases, acting like the conversations and speculations we’re having online are any less real than the ones we’d have in person. If I’m engaging with you, I’m engaging with you. The same goes, I imagine, for so much of my peer group and folks much younger than me, too. I’m just barely a Millennial – I remember when I was growing up, we were called Generation Y, and I’ve always felt there’s a subtle difference for those of us born in the early 80s, old enough to remember the world before the World Wide Web, young enough to appreciate both worlds as they are.
As a writer and a human with stories to share, I am always going to want to talk to you, learn about you, learn from you. I am going to pursue honesty and whimsy and friendship as ardently in a virtual space as I would in a real one – because both are real.
Don’t you think?
I stared out my bedroom window as a kid and watched a running woman pursued at night down my rural street by a car with its brights on. I memorized her appearance – athletic build, white tank, grey shorts, fair hair in a ponytail – lying in bed repeating the details to myself long after I couldn’t see her or the car anymore. I figured, based on what I’d witnessed binge-watching Unsolved Mysteries before binge-watching was a thing, that the police would come to my house the next day to question me about this mysterious occurrence.
In retrospect, twenty plus years on, this woman was probably training for a marathon. The car was going very slowly, and she was jogging – maintaining her pace. But I was 10 or 11 at the time and had an extremely overactive imagination fed by conspiracy theories on television and reading too much. I had previously been convinced that the deadened indentations left in our yard by barrels were crop circles, and would in years to come hear indistinct music coming from our woods and assume there was a fairy circle I hadn’t discovered yet. There was magic in the world. There was mystery. And eventually, I would find myself at the center of it.
That day hasn’t come yet, but I’m still dreaming of it. It is the nature of the human mind to seek patterns, to organize and make sense of what we see and hear and touch, and when that’s coupled with a love of the fantastic and the supernatural, I think there’s always going to be a little room for wonder. When I was struggling with anxiety a few months ago, I recall a moment listening to Lore – a podcast I’ve admitted my love for before and not one I would necessarily call inspiring – where the magic of the unexplained came as such a relief to me. No matter how certain or how certainly terrible things seem, I want to always believe in the unbelievable. There’s plenty of beauty in the known and the comfortable, and I treasure the worn-smooth edges of my life. But I never want to say no to the unknown.
Can you blame me?
My second book has been out for a week, officially. Pretty weird, right? Here's how I've celebrated. On Tuesday, I shared a kids' chocolate shake with my littles. Because there's no not sharing something sweet when your children are awake.
On Wednesday, my husband went out of town for work, so I ferried and fed and bathed my children sans backup. We watched Reading Rainbow and ate leftovers and I stole a few moments to write after they were asleep.
On Thursday, I read a whole graphic novel before bed.
On Friday, my husband came home. We drank coffee, played video games, and did some writing and reading, respectively, before bed.
On Saturday, I mailed copies of both my first and second books to my parents, along with a late Mother's Day card and an early Father's Day card.
On Sunday, I folded a whole lot of laundry. We blew bubbles on the porch, watered the vegetable garden, and went to our girls' first baseball game.
On Monday, I balanced an unpleasant but necessary errand in the morning by taking myself to see Wonder Woman.
And today, I'm thinking that for as momentous as it seems and as it really is to be authoring, not much has changed or is likely to change for me. I work. I mother. I help take care of my family and my home. I don't spend enough time nurturing relationships with friends, I don't read enough books, I never write enough. I will waste time on Twitter. I will never see the end of little socks and undies vomited forth from the dryer. I will bake things and eat them even when I know that I shouldn't. I will be inspired to write on my commute only to have my ideas flee when I have a moment to devote to them.
I'll live and love and daydream of living and loving differently.
I'll always want to be and do better.
I feel like the question comes up a lot, why do you write? And my answer is always the same. I can't not write. There are days when I wish I didn't feel the pressure to create, because I'm usually exhausted and only want to relax like a normal human. Watch television. Play Skyrim. Pursue any number of leisure activities without guilt. But that's not who I am, perhaps especially on days when I wish that's who I could be.
So, my second book has been out for a full week, and my life goes on. I'm working on something new. I'm obsessively checking for reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. I'm cooking and cleaning up and putting in my 40 hours a week. I am trying.
And that's okay.
Am I writing all of these posts just for the puns? Maybe. Today we're visiting one of my favorite fictional worlds, which I believe could use a little cheer after its latest installment. Which isn't to say I didn't love Rogue One, it's just, my heart resembles something like a crushed up candy cane after seeing it.
I have to admit that I've never actually seen the real Star Wars Holiday Special. It was before my time, though with the internet I suppose there's no real excuse. I still think, based on what I've read, that I prefer this one.
And another for laughs. This isn't the worst Christmas song ever - I reserve that accolade for anything by The Carpenters and this melancholy number - but it's close.
Building on yesterday's frivolity, I have some similarly foolish things to share today. This one's a real oldie but an absolute goodie - especially now that I am grown up enough that I listen to NPR, and it would be easy to mistake Lynne Rossetto Kasper for Molly Shannon or Ana Gasteyer. In fact, I think I'd be far more likely to listen to The Delicious Dish than I ever am to stay tuned in to The Splendid Table. Even without Alec Baldwin's sonorous tones.
And of course Bustle has gathered an assortment of festive and hilarious SNL sketches, if you're into that sort of thing. Because of course you are.
In no particular order, here are some things that I would like for Christmas.
Please read a book. Let me know which one and I'll try to read it, too. Then we can talk about it, maybe over coffee? But please don't make me leave my house. It's cold outside and I like my jammies.
Something you've made. We can trade - I write a mean short-short story. Or, at least a mildly amusing one. Shall I eviscerate someone in fiction for you?
A mid-afternoon .gif war. I'm most in need of stimulation around 2:00 PM, but as napping at work is definitely out, something to keep my neurons firing would be most appreciated.
An honest review of my work. Here's a little secret: this writer would rather you shared my books than buy them. I mean, buying is excellent, but if I had to choose between the cup of coffee I can buy with my share of the royalties versus the priceless word of mouth recommendation, I know which one I would prefer. I've even got a few copies of my books floating about that I'd be willing to provide for your reading pleasure.
A book recommendation. These are surprisingly challenging to come by, or they're too general and don't feel like they're really for me. I am diligent about what I like, though. Maybe we like some of the same things?
I've got some early gifts for you, too. Beginning this coming Sunday, December 18, I'll be counting down to Christmas with the seven silliest and best things about celebrating in the age of the internet. I'm as nostalgic as the next person for the holidays of my youth, but there's plenty to appreciate about being able to connect with fellow twinkling-light obsessed nerds at the speed of a tweet. If you don't want to have to check back here for frivolity, sign up for my email newsletter and nerd out at your leisure in your inbox.