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I said I wouldn't do it. I didn't have time. I didn't have an outline. I never work without outlines. I didn't know what to write. I was busy at work and stressed out. There was absolutely no way.

Accidental NaNoWriMo.

Current word count: About 28,000


Anyone else NaNoing? How's it going? I figure I needed to hit 25,000 by Nov. 16, so I'm feeling pretty smug about my word count right about now.


Friday Flas: 8.10.13

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This is how it works: You wake up in a field or wood. Everything seems strange. The trees don't quite smell like trees. The grass doesn't quite smell like grass. And the sun is just slightly the wrong shade of yellow, like you're looking at the world through a dirty glass. You're bewildered and alone until a beautiful/handsome stranger finds you.

And that's how it starts. Learn their language, their culture. Become the king/queen/president/dictator/leader's pet curiosity.

Sometimes you kill him (rarely, her) in his sleep. Sometimes it's subtle: poison, an accident, disease. Sometimes it's blunt: a knife, a gun, if they have them. Once, for fun, you convinced someone else to do it for you.

It doesn't really matter how. Only that the job is done and whatever reality you innocently awoke in is rebuilt.

There are always more waiting to be reshaped.

Suddenly... progress?

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And all of a sudden I'm halfway-ish through my edits. What?

It's amazing what you can accomplish when you just sit down and work without thinking about starting and ending points.

Friday Flash: 7.26.13

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Birds and Bees

I learned about the birds and the bees when I got woken up one night by a light in the barn. I crept out of bed to investigate. There was no one inside but my brother and the pigs.

Work it

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I went to a meeting of a local writer's group last week. Since then, I've actually begun work on revisions. Crazy talk, I know.

So here's where I am:

- Wrote the damn thing
- Edited the damn thing
- Had the damn thing read by someone else
- Got their feedback
- Re-edit

The re-edit has been slow going. Frankly, I haven't done jack shit nothin' in the past year. So it goes.

But I've gotten a spark of inspiration, seen the solution to some of the questions brought up by the reviewer. And now I have a document called "added chapters" that's being spliced together like Frankenstein's monster with "Book 1_Full Manuscript."

Other projects:

- FridayFlash (cuz I love me some flash)
- Serial for JukePop in need of heavy editing before being submitted.

What have y'all been up to? It's been approximately forever. Apologies.

Friday Flash: 7.19.13

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"This will hurt."

Cay laid back in the salon chair, gripping the armrests. The stylist wheeled over a tray table. The pointy instruments on it clinked against each other. They looked like a piranha's teeth, sinister edges in a cold, bloodless mouth.

The stylist lifted a tool in a hand criss-crossed with delicate scars.

"Wait," Cay said. "Wait... I-I don't think I can do it."

The stylist patted her arm. "Oh, sweetie. You'll do fine. I haven't had anyone leap out of the chair screaming yet."

Cay scanned the room. It was true. All around her young men and women laid back peacefully in their chairs, letting stylists design their flesh. Some grimaced or frowned, but no one protested.

"It'll be worth it," the stylist said with a smile that pulled the scars around her mouth. One side was a flower. "This is the future of fashion."

Story post

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I'm going to stop calling this "story a day" as I clearly don't do it every day, despite my best intensions.


The high kicked in during day three. That's when he really started seeing changes. Through translucent skin, he saw his stomach shrivel up, his eyes grow bloodshot, his hair thin out. He watched his lungs struggle for breath and saw his bones fade to the yellow of dying leaves and forgotten books.

Yeah, that's when the high really started to hit him. He smiled at himself in the mirror.


Story a day: 11.10.12

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Easing into some play writing with a simple prompt: You decide to run for president of your high school class.


Most people voted for the angel because she was pretty. Not just pretty, heavenly. Long blonde hair that floated around her as though buoyed by a constant breeze, eyes so blue they seemed to glow, skin like a doll's, the whole bit. The wings helped, too.

The first week, the angel took away their hamburgers during lunch. Overindulgence, she said. The second, she disbanded the LGBT club, sci-fi club, debate team and literary magazine. Unnatural, she said. The third week, the angel faced a revolution.

Story a day: 11.9.12

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I usually start my day by reading Daily Science Fiction. Today's story is exceptionally good. Unfortunately, it's not online yet (the stories are distributed via e-mail). I will try to remember to repost it when it goes online though.


This is a really tough prompt I wanted to try out: Write a paragraph where every sentence contains at least one five+ syllable word. Begin with “Hypothetically speaking…”

Hypothetically speaking, she thought, this isn't even murder - no weapon, no blame. She looked at the body in the water, all traces of animosity gone now. She had merely taken advantage of an opportunity, she told herself, and what was so wrong about that? Was it her fault if electricity traveled so easily through water? She loitered beside the body, waiting for forgiveness, but the burned coprse stank of culpability, and she left instead, lightning still sparking along her fingers.

Story a day: 11.7.12

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A man in red, white and blue lycra climbed through my television screen and hopped into my living room. I set my remote down, no longer concerned about flipping away from weight loss infomercials.

It was stupid, but the only thing I could think to say was, "Uh... hi?"

The man straightened, pressing his fists onto his hips to strike a dramatic figure against the static hissing on the television behind him. He lifted his square chin. "I am Captain Justice and I'm here to defeat you at last, Doom Girl."

"Excuse me?"


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