Friday, November 20, 2015

Wrotes Quotes

All of these, m'kay? Because every once in awhile I need a kick in the arse that makes me go, "Oh, yeah! That's right...I didn't think about that." And then I dig in and write harder.

link to original

Friday, August 7, 2015

Monday, July 13, 2015

Regency Mimsy

I'm thinking of writing some Regency stories. We shall see. Meanwhile, a lot of my research is coming up with links I can't pin on Pinterest because they're lacking in lovely pictures. So, I'm listing those links here so I have easy listy access.

original link
Extremely Detailed Map of London 1818: Map of London in 1818 Pre-John Snow

Primer on Peers: A Primer on Regency Peerage and Precedence

Fantastic Regency World Glossary: Candice Hern Regency Glossary

Regency Slang from the Pages of Georgette Heyer: Regency Cant and Expressions

Quick info on the "neo-urban race of high-class, flamboyant Bengali gentlemen": The Babu Culture of Kolkata

General Weather for England 1800-1849: No Title

Info on Gun Powder: Saltpeter Manufacturing and Marketing and It's Relation to the Gun Powder Industry...During the Nineteenth Century

Classic English Love Poetry: Study Guide to Classic Poems

Discourse on long distance travel: Passage East

Little bit of pre-regency research: Romanticism and Mary Tighe's "Psyche": Peering at the Hem of her Blue Stockings

Tighe's Psyche poem: Psyche; or, the Legend of Love

Details about daily routine: The London Season

This one is excellent: Pride and Prejudice--notes on education, marriage, status of women, etc

Essay on cultural debates about the Grand Tour: Unnationalized Englishmen in Mary Shelley's Fiction

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

Gesture Crutches

Looking forward to participating in this webinar tonight by Jordan McMollum. Crutches suck. Avoidum.

Let's figure out the magic, shall we?

Updates soon.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Two Dollar Ten

Story time. Because sometimes you just can't get the voices to stop yapping their stories...

original link
 Two Dollar Ten

Jancey slid her phone into her back pocket and stepped forward in the café checkout line. Butter melted over the side of her thick chunk of warm bread. She held it up so the cashier could see what she was buying. He swept his red bangs aside with the back of his wrist and nodded, poking his register. A green $2.10 blinked on the machine’s screen in response. 

He sighed heavy as she dug one-handed in her purse for change. Jancey chuckled under her breath. Pennies were the worst, weren’t they?

“You know,” Ginger-guy said, as if he just couldn’t stand the silence of her searching, “you could buy a whole loaf for the price of that slice.”

Jancey paused and arched a brow at him, then forced her glare away. She glanced at the generic café clock over his shoulder. Seven minutes til Save the World Go Time and she needed to be at her badass best. Cosmic powers at the ready. 

But she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and research showed breakfast mattered most. Better long-term performance, blah, blah. 

Putting her bread down on the counter, Jancey delved into her purse with both hands. She replied to Ginger without looking up, “Mmm-hmm. I was actually just paying for the convenience of the thing, and the fact that it’s probably a lot healthier than the other assorted sweets you’ve got stocked back there. All of which I thought was obvious.”

Ginger muttered something. 

Jancey's phone buzzed. She tisked. Eyed the clock. Six minutes. 

“But you’re right.” She pulled the last of her coins out and snapped her purse shut. “Screw the world. They can save themselves, yeah? I’m totally just going to walk a couple miles to the nearest grocery store so I can buy an entire loaf of bread instead. Maybe I’ll eat the one slice I wanted, and then feed the rest to the ducks in Centroa Park while everything else burns down around us.”

Ginger frowned.

"Cause, you know, pond. Water. Burning. But hey, we've got lots of bread."

Five minutes. 

Jancey emptied her cupped hand on his counter, the coins making a muted chink-chink against the tile. She separated them into easy-to-count groups. Her phone buzzed again. 

“Thanks for your sage input—“ she squinted at Ginger’s name tag “—Todd. Nice. Here’s two dollar ten for your advice.”

Without scooping up the bread, she spun and wiped excess butter from her palm onto her jeans as she pulled her again-buzzing phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” She eyed Ginger-Todd and backed out the pinging front exit. “Can’t guarantee any certain amount of badassery, though. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

Thursday, May 28, 2015


Because I love 300 words or less, here's an old piece of my heart:


An echo of coal
still glows orange and red,
softly round, inside my soul.
Is it too much?
Not yet. When it is,
I'll let you know.

And this is what helps me wakey-wakey at 4 am, because that's the only time I can chunk out to write during this chunk of my life:

Monday, April 27, 2015

Sacrificing Identity

Thinking about this post today, especially the bit here:

“It can be exciting, but also painful or sad, to relinquish an identity. Sometimes it’s necessary, to allow important changes to occur. The more aware we are of a clash between the identity we have and the habits we seek, the more we can shape our actions to reflect our true values.”

Because, see, there are these things I want to do in my life. With my life.

These things that I’ve always wanted to do. But there’s just not enough time. So habits need to be reassessed and reorganized and redirected. 

And that’s all for today. A golden child needs some attention. 

Leave me some thoughts on change and identity. What bits of yourself have you had to sacrifice, in order to make yourself more who you want to be?  

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Unsuspecting Bones

I'm way behind on Leah's prompts. Such is, life is, and so it is that I'm smooshing some together today because I want to. So here are the three (including the picture) that brought this little thing about: 

Write a scene that takes place in a rose garden at night.
Write about what happened when she least expected it. Use the word “hen.”

original link

                                               Unsuspecting Bones
Winnie stared down the gravel path and thought, Now, who could have opened the rose garden gate?

     Listening into the night, she moved silently through the fog. She paused at the gate, resting her fingertips on the cold iron. The rusted hinges hadn’t been moved in years. 

     She was slight enough to slip sideways through the bars—wartime would do that, turn a person to bone—and she was want to do so as often as she could. Roses continued to smell heady no matter who fought or why. 

     A rustle in the hedges made her clutch the gate more firmly. She ought to back out slowly. Ought to head back to the old manor house. What was left of it. War would turn a home to bone as well. 

     “Please, miss.” A voice called from the darkness, cracked and dry. “Have you something to eat? A hen or some oats. Water.”

     Leaning forward, as if that would help Winnie see into the wild growth of the garden, she replied, “Who’s there?” 

     She snapped her hand from the gate and stumbled back as a man stepped hesitantly out of the shadows. His shoulders slumped, his face was covered in a ragged beard, and the point of his riffle dragged on the ground behind him. 

     His uniform was the wrong cut, the wrong color. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Ghost in the House

There was talk of ghosts and hauntings, so Leah said I must do today's prompt. And I'm so glad I did. This scene would take place right after 'Quiet Awakening' and lead us into what I ingeniously call 'Quiet Awakening Two.'

I hope someday there will be a 'Two.' Meanwhile:

Writing prompt for January 24, 2015: Write a scene that starts with the line, "There's a ghost in this house."

original link

            “There’s a ghost in this house,” Chancey whispered, a mock-quiver in his voice.

            Wynn didn’t even smile at the pun as he opened the large door from inside the ancient chateau. He stepped aside and ushered the other two across the stone threshold.

           “Get it?” Daimon chuckled and elbowed Wynn as he passed. “A ghost? Good one Chance.”

           “Don’t be an ass.” Wynn ignored them both and moved further into the foyer, intent on his goal. “The cellar should be this way.”

           Once known for its violent hauntings, Chateau de Reims had been put on the Astraelles’ radar until any hint of ethereal clogging had been removed. No, ghosts didn’t reside here any longer. But legend said there was still wine.

           Very old wine.

           Hopefully old enough to tempt a zealot king.     

           Wynn didn’t slow til he’d hit the stairway at rear of the chateau leading down. He rested his hand against the stone wall and sighed, letting the earth’s power slowly seep through into his palm. He was tired. And he missed Aimee.

           “Back of the kitchen,” Wynn hollered up the stairs.

           He heard Daimon and Chancey’s boots redirect overhead and the sounds of their banter echoing closer. The bouncing beam of Chancey’s flashlight skimmed past the cellar door, then moved back.

           “Here we are.” Chancey grinned down at Wynn. He shouldered his pick axe again and beckoned to Daimon. “Hell henchmen first.”

           Daimon spun the handle of his sledge hammer and bowed, then turned down the steps after Wynn. Finding the bricked up chiller room was easy enough. Smashing through the wall without damaging bottles on the other side was another matter.

           “That’s good,” Wynn said when they’d made a hole the size of a head, kicking debris aside. “We don’t need to take the entire thing down. I’ll just trace in and hand you a bottle of whatever I find.”
           Chancey pointed his flashlight through and a ray of light gleamed off row upon row of dusty bottles.

           Daimon whistled. “Looks like we hit the winepot.”

           “We’ll just take one,” Wynn said, laying a bottle into the hole.

           The glass rang low on the stone as Chancey slid it through. He focused his flashlight to find a marking or label, rubbing at the dust with his thumb. Wynn reappeared behind him and leaned over his shoulder.

           Daimon looked skeptical. “You sure this'll work? Maybe we should bring the big guy more.”

           “No.” Wynn shook his head. The zealot king still negotiated by old-world rules—a hand for a hand, an eye for an eye. “That would make him suspicious. All we need is this. One bottle of aged wine for one bottle of aged djinn.”

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