Fabulist Update

Hey all you Ink Splattered Fabulists!

I’m currently working on a spreadsheet to put all y’all in there nice and cozy, then I’ll be emailing you some information on how we’re going to continue. And don’t worry. We ARE continuing. It may not be pretty, but it’ll happen. Watch your email box.

You are a nasty virus that infects your writing

Picture by Vintaga Posters – BY NC ND

CASE STUDY 1–So I had two kids at the back of the bus. A demon was in the seat across the aisle and it wanted those kids. The kids had no special demon fighting powers. I was at a loss as to how they could get away from the demon without having it simply follow them.

“She had no idea what to do,” I wrote.

CASE STUDY 2– Two characters were on a late night train, talking, info-dump style. (Yeah, it has to happen sometimes. Sue me.) I was reaching the end of my wordcount, and it was late, and I was tired.

“She yawned and said, ‘Let’s talk about this over coffee in the morning.'”


Dudes.

I just wrote myself into my novel. Twice.

I’m not doing a Mary Sue in that my characters are me, only BETTER. Instead, they’re me, inept, confused, and tired. Ruby didn’t know what to do because *I* didn’t know what to do. Zoe was tired and wanted to continue the discussion tomorrow because that’s how *I* feel right now.

I will be fixing these things on rewrite. Do you do this? Be aware of your emotions making your characters confused, angry, tired, horny, sad, or whatever you’re feeling at the time. Sometimes it’s good to tap into those emotions. Other times, at least for me, it’s just damn lazy.

Look at the thing! It’s a thing!

Look over there! The thing! On the sidebar!

Yeah. I’m trying NaNoWriMo. Again. This time I’m breaking the rules and going for a books on an existing project. My book, tentatively titled Ghost Train to New Orleans (sequel to The Shambling Guide to New York City), is 8k in, and I am using NaNoWriMo in hopes to get to 60k. My wordcount there at the right is the honest NaNo count, starting with the words I wrote today. I’m cheating in that the project is started, but I am NOT considering I have an 8k word start. I donated to NaNoWriMo, got my donor halo, and I’m off and running.

Who’s with me?

ISBW #264 – Feedback – I HAVE RETURNED

photo by motyka_sfa – BY NC

I’ve returned with a feedback show I recorded in September before my online world fell apart. I’ll have another one for you tomorrow!

I’m also doing NaNoWriMo, and am working on a blog post, but the site is down (as it is every Nov. 1) so that might not go up till tomorrow. Still! Wordcount for today needs to be 1667! Get to it!)

If It’s Good Enough For Wil Wheaton…

Welcome to the Murverse Annex.

This is me waving the white flag.

I give up.

The site has had problems for over a year, and I’m frankly exhausted. It’s been little more than a “yes, I still exist” footprint for a month. I’ve posted no new content. I’m so damn tired of it, I’m not even going to explain the problems I’ve been having.

So welcome to the new Mur homepage. What will you find here? Information about me, yes. Links to podcasts, yes. My old blog from Murverse, ISBW, and Princess Scientist? No. That’s gone.

Well. Not gone. I’ve got XML and SQL and LMNOP files with that information, and perhaps when I Make It Big (TM) I will be able to afford a webmaster and I can just throw the content at them and say, “here, fix it.” In fact, my awesome hubby of 14 years might help me out with it. It’s not erased forever.

But I’m done fiddling with it. It’s defeated me. I’m tired of fussing over the site instead of the content within it.

Considering I’ve been coming up on my 8 (!!) year podcast anniversary, there’s a lot of content to deal with. So here’s the info you need.

  • My ISBW feed is hosted through Libsyn, those lovely people. That will not change at all.
  • The Murverse feed is hosted through Feedburner, and I hear rumors that it’s dying a slow death. I recommend subscribing to this site’s feed.
  • I’ll have archives of all content posted soon.
  • If you are a Fabulist subscriber, I will be in touch via email. That program will NOT stop, I just need to figure out how to keep that going.

Thanks for all your patience here. I’m going to punch a gin bottle after I get this thing going.

Apologies to Wil Wheaton for stealing his idea of running away and starting a new site.

 

Dear Daughter [repost]

[I posted this on the old, lost site in April, and it was lost when the site went down. Luckily BlogHer syndicated it, so I’m reposting it here.]

“You know spies; they’re a bunch of bitchy little girls.” — Burn Notice

Dear Daughter:

You should know that you are hated. I’m not sure why they hate you. You didn’t do anything to them. You don your princess crown, take up your sword, and pretend at Pokemon. You read your books and you learn how to draw comics and dragons and you play piano and practice kung fu. You delight in pretty dresses and weaponry. You love me when I nurture you as a mom, train with you as a warrior, and play video games and card games with you.

“You throw like a GIRL!” Obnoxious drunk asshole behind us at a Durham Bulls game (Apparently he threw 75mph)

There is nothing worse than being a girl. I’m not saying this as a former girl — I quite liked being a girl. I’m saying this from the POV of the entire rest of the world. There was a lovely feminist TED talk — A Call To Men — where a man discussed his conversation with a twelve-year-old boy, and the boy said he would rather die than be called a girl. And the man thought, Good Lord, how do these boys view girls, if being compared to them is the worst thing in the world?

“What did Jesus do, when they put nails through his hands? Did he scream like a GIRL, or did he take it like a man?” — The Book of Mormon (the musical, not the holy book), “Man Up”

I’ve seen boys cry when injured. Frustrated. Feelings hurt. Blocked out of play. Denied something. It’s what kids do as they learn the world around them. The world is tough; before you learn to cope, you cry, whether you sport the penis or the fallopian tubes. It’s fucking lesson #1 after you take your first breath. I cried. You did too.

So. The world hates you. You are considered the worst thing to be compared to. Throw like a girl. Talk like a girl. Cry like a girl. God forbid we ever be girls. No, we wouldn’t want to take utter delight in beauty and love. We wouldn’t want to carefully watch and study something to learn. We wouldn’t want to look at the world and for just one second think that we have as many opportunities as boys. That we can play sports. Play the drums or saxophone. Play video games. Excel at science/math. And for that second, before something or someone starts opening their shit-hole to put down little girls, we can fly.

So what can we do, dear daughter? When you get a little older, I will be honest with you and tell you–fuck ’em. You will not change their mind by arguing, by telling them they are wrong. You change their mind by showing them how being a girl is awesome. You show them by not hiding, by not being demure.

“I gotta say, you are the prettiest little girl I ever did see!”

“Thanks!”

“‘Thanks’? You’re awfully matter-of-fact about that. I guess when a boy tells you how pretty you are, you’ll come home and be like, ‘Oh MOM! He said I was PRETTY!'”

“…”

— An older man and my daughter, this weekend

You show them by being more than your looks, even if that’s all people comment on. You show them by your independence. You show them by being more than they expect to see. You show them by not taking their shit.

When I think of little girls, I think of you. I think of perfect math scores, a passion for science, a love of My Little Pony, swords, dressing up as Cleopatra, and having absolutely no shyness or fear. I think of someone with a sharp wit, and frightening skills with a stunt kite. I think of someone with determination — even if you don’t know it yet, I’ve seen it. Whatever you’re determined to do, you manage to do it. I also think of someone who suffers confusion when kids make fun of her for liking “boy things” at school, but hearing that “girl things” are bad. You like them both. You like anything that interests you, the rest of the world be damned.

I hope someday I can fly a kite like a girl. And do kung fu like a girl. And draw like a girl. And you know what? I wish I could cry like a girl. You get it all out, and then you look for the next thing, bouncing back with amazing speed. You don’t do like me, hold it inside as long as possible, letting it fester, bringing me down for days. You are not bitter.

So they hate you. But fuck ’em. Because you are a force of nature, a powerhouse of emotion and talent and stubbornness and potential.

You’re worth a billion of them.