Nevets.QST

Blogsclusive: "Life Support"

2011-12-04T12:57:00.000-05:00

"Life Support"

by C. N. Nevets

Di-di-di-di-di-di-dit. “Attention, Medic Unit. Attention, Medic Unit. Medic Unit, respond to 1179 North Sunnydale Drive. For a seizure a patient.”

Even at 1am the November sky seems thick and woolen, like a heavy grave blanket over top our small town. The air is chilly, but it’s not crisp; it’s dull and ashen. The fall leaves lay on the ground, wet and matted, clay-rich much dulling the smell of their decay.

The house looks like Midwestern suburbia. Clean, pretty, cookie-cutter. Two stories, four bedrooms, three baths. Attached garage. Shutters. The yard is mowed. The hedges trimmed to perfect, flat-sided cubes.

Outside, a mother. A woman. Mid-forties in jeans and a sweat-shirt, hair pulled pack. Her face is marked with concern. She flags me down.

“—I don’t really know the boy, but he’s staying here tonight. I guess he has a history of seizures but it’s been a long time since he had one. I don’t know what’s going on.”

A boy with a history seizures. I think 7 or 8 years old. I think his parents should have left his meds. I think his parents should have left a note and some instructions with what to do. I think his parents should have left him with someone who knew him. I think Wednesday night during the school year is a strange night for a sleep-over.

The enter the house into a living room. There are no lights on. There is a couch, and an arm chair. There is a lawn chair. There are some empty boxes. There are also four adults, sitting in the dark, fully-clothed, saying nothing and doing nothing. Off to the right is a hallway, even darker. Off the left, a hallway, with a hint of yellow light. Through to the other side is an open doorway into a kitchen with a nightlight illuminating three children. Two girls and a boy, the oldest fourteen and the youngest seven. None of them are seizing.

The middle girl raises her arm and points down the hallway to the left.

It’s a short hallway. There’s a bathroom at the end. There’s a bedroom door on the left with light slipping out from under the door. I open it and step in.

The room reeks. Cigarette smoke. Marijuana. Alcohol. Sweat. Urine. There are three high school boys, two of them in shorts and muscle shirts. One of them has pupils the size of saucers. The other has pupils the size of pinpricks. The third is on the floor, face-down, stretched out, wearing jeans, socks, two shirts, and a jacket. A cop is in the corner, tall and stern with his arms crossed. When he sees me, he kneels down and rolls the kid on the floor to his back.

“—This is the one.”

The kid’s eyes are unfocused.

“What happened?”

The kid says he doesn’t know.

“He fell.”

“How?”

“He was just sitting on the couch and fell and started shaking. His head was in that shelf. We held him and had him bite on a wallet.”

“He was just sitting?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you hurt?”

The kid says no, but he presses a hand to his abdomen.

“Is your stomach hurt?”

The kid says yes.

I examine his abdomen. No signs of injury. He’s not sensitive to touch.

“Did you hit your head?”

The kid says no.

“Can you stand up?”

The kid says yes and he tries and it’s like watching a fish try to stand up and its tail except that he’s even less successful.

On the floor there’s a pile of cigarette butts. There are half a dozen gas station fountain drinks, spiked with something amber that the kids probably call whiskey. One of them has cigarette butts floating in it. Another has cigarillo stubs.

“—What were you guys doing right before this happened?”

“Just sitting.”

“Drinking anything?”

“No.”

“Smoking at all?”

“No.”

“Take any drugs?”

“No.”

“Smoke a little weed?”

“No.”

The cop rolls his eyes.

One of the kids hands me an orange pill bottle only slightly smaller than a pop can.

“—These are his meds.”

Justin Gris. Seizure meds. Dr. Colle, a pediatrician.

“—Justin, you wanna go to the hospital and get checked out?”

The kid asks why.

“You had a seizure.”

The kid says he didn’t.

“Then what happened?”

The kid says he had a seizure.

His friends both try to convince him to go. The mom-type woman walks back to the living room. The cop tells the kid he wants to go the hospital. The kid finally agrees.

“—Can you stand up?”

The kid tries. He can’t make it. The cop, me, my helper – we assist him to his feet and keep him steady. We help him to the cot, which the ambulance driver is holding steady. It’s like we’re helping the Little Mermaid take her first steps. We’re doing the walking. He’s just along for the ride. His spine sags. His legs wobble.

“—You sure didn’t have anything to drink?”

The kid says he’s sure.

“No drugs either?”

The kid says no.

We get him on the got, secure him, load him onto the ambulance. His vitals are normal. His pupils are jacked open and when I shine a penlight in them, they tighten just a bit, slowly, and then they saucer out again.

“ – Are you sure you didn’t do any drugs, Justin?”

The kid says he smoked one blunt.

“Are you sure you only smoked one?”

He says yeah.

“Because earlier you told me you were sure you didn’t smoke any.”

He says yeah.

“Was that blunt dipped in any alcohol?”

He says no.

“Laced with any other drugs?”

He says no.

We start to the hospital, no lights, no siren, but quickly. His vitals are stable. He stinks of BO, smoke, and his own urine.

“—How old are you?”

Eighteen.

“You go to school, Justin?”

No.

“You work?”

No.

“What do you do?”

I don’t know.

“Those your friends back there?”

I guess.

“We’re going to get you to the hospital, Justin. The doctors will check you out. Make sure you’re okay.”

Outside, there are no stars in the densely shrouded November sky. The heater does what it can to fend off the chill in the air. The ambulance speeds along the road, cruising over a thick blanket of wet, moldering leaves.

Self Your Esteem

2011-10-30T11:49:00.000-04:00

All---

It was a simple exercise. Teacher Mark called Teacher Joann and myself to the front of the room so that our literacy-level ESL students could practice describing us.

"Teacher Mark is a man. Teacher Nevets is a man. Teacher Joann is a woman."

"Teacher Mark is tall. Teacher Joann is short. Teacher Nevets is average."

"Teacher Mark has short hair. Teacher Joann has long hair. Teacher Nevets has average hair."

Teacher Mark didn't realize that he was about to shock and confuse me.

***

As a young teen I was overcome with allergies and asthma that severely impacted my ability to exercise during parts of the year. At the same time I was also given a lengthy regimen of steroid medication that through off my body's ability to get any weight-related benefit from the exercise I was able to do. I spent over twenty years being heavy, after being a scrawny, monkey of a kid.

I never quite shifted my mental image of myself. At my heaviest, I was 240 lbs at about 5'9", but I never quite felt like I was as overweight as I was. Some folks have remarked since losing weight that they hadn't realized I'd been 240. Even when I was that heavy people would sometimes remark, "You're hard to figure, because you're overweight, but you just keep going." My weight didn't stop me from doing forensics in tight spaces, from doing archaeology, or from throwing my all into whatever sporting activity I was trying my hand at.

While my mental image of myself probably underestimated my weight, I wasn't blind of stupid and I knew I was overweight and that I had a lot to lose.

Over the past 18 months or so, I've managed to lose quite a bit of weight. At the beginning of October, I was down to 164 lbs.

***

"Who's fat?" asked Teacher Mark.

"Teacher Mark is fat," the class answered with no prompting.

"That's right. Who's average?" asked Teacher Mark.

"Teacher Joann is average," the class answered with no prompting.

"That's right. Who's skinny or thin?" asked Teacher Mark.

"Teacher Nevets is skinny," the class answered with no prompting.

"That's right."

***

I was completely thrown-off. As soon as Teacher Mark has started that exercise, I had already cast myself as the model for the average descriptor. I think I actually made a googly-eyed expression of surprise.

***

I'm not going to say that the words of others are unimportant. There are few words for how angry I get when I see others actively undermining the self esteem of others and destroying their belief in their dreams and aspirations. It's also true that we all sometimes need a little validation, an outside check to assure us that our estimation of ourselves and our work is accurate. And, yes, the encouraging words of others can be a valuable and powerful buoy to a flagging spirit.

But, to me, the lesson I learned the other night in class was this:

It's all too easy to undermine your own own self-esteem.

People who've known me compliment me for my weight loss. Teacher Mark and the class were all in agreement that I'm thin, even though they never knew me at near my heaviest. If anyone isn't sure that I'm thin, if anyone is uncomfortable describing me as thin -- it's me.

Just me.

It's my own body image.

It's my own willingness to compliment myself and accept my own success.

***

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?
-- Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

So here's the point of all this. This isn't about weight loss. This isn't even really about me. This is me saying to all of you, to any of you who happen to be reading this, Own your self esteem. Yes, others will have an impact on how you see yourself and how you feel about yourself, but your self esteem is, by definition your own. Step up to the plate and claim it.

I'm not selling the power of positive thinking or self-actualization. What I'm doing is asking you to consider these questions --

Are you an author, trapped in a self-image of "trying to be a writer"?

Are you an artist, keeping your paintings to yourself until they're "good enough"?

Are you a guy, not asking out out that girl who you think might like you, because you can't imagine why she would?

Are you a woman, afraid to step out after your dream because of a parent who told you that you wouldn't be able to cut it?

You may have been wounded by others, but maybe it's time you re-cast how you think of yourself, because maybe your self-image is lagging behind reality. Even if others are getting you down, there's no reason for you to pile on to yourself.

.Nevets.

Sublimation - The Scoop

2011-10-22T10:27:00.000-04:00

All---

So, what's the latest on Sublimation?

The latest is that I'm doing one more round of revisions prior to proofing for queries. The overall feedback I've gotten from my readers has been very positive, and I'm very encouraged about the book. That said, there were a few minor tweaks suggested that I think will improve the quality of the book, and so I want to take care of those.

There were also two slightly more fundamental points that one reader struck on that resonated with two of my own concerns, and I'm addressing them, as well. I think the book will be a little more sound for one, and the characters a lot richer for the other. Neither fix should take a tremendous amount of time, but do require some careful consideration.

Here's hoping for quick, but quality fixing!

.Nevets.

When The Going Gets Tough...

2011-10-21T16:55:00.000-04:00

All---

As so often happens in life, I must admit I cannot live up to the standards set forth by Billy Ocean.

'Cos when the going gets tough
The tough get going
When the going gets rough
The tough get rough

(Billy Ocean, "When the Going Gets Tough")

I have been, as you all know, crushed of late by the volume of work and what having that volume of work means for the other things that are part of life.

The good news is, as of today, there is a very visible break in the storm in clouds, and I almost feel human again today for the first time in a long while. A backlog that has been over our heads for an incredibly long time has finally been reduced. Not only does that mean the volume of work should be normalizing, but the stress of work should also be normalizing.

Even so, I'm having to face up to reality. I am, by nature, an all-in kind of guy. Whatever I'm doing, I want to be as absolutely close to 100% effort as I can be. That sounds admirable, but only when tempered by rational thought and an honest evaluation of time, health, and energy. I lack that tempering.

And so, even in the best of times, it is in my nature to try and give 100% of myself to my job, to my writing, to my volunteer work, and so forth. Of course, this is mathematically impossible. It is also physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually impossible.

I'm looking forward to being able to get back to writing, but also realizing with some sadness that I do not relate to people can hold down jobs and pursue their writing diligently. That's too bad, because I'm someone who does have to hold down a job, and this means that my writing will always suffer some because of it.

On the other hand, being honest about this also has something of a relieving quality, as it means I probably don't need to beat myself up over it quite as much as I tend to.

I'm hoping that for the moment the easing of craziness at work will allow me to finally write and be human again. Please look up my page on Facebook, if haven't (https://www.facebook.com/c.n.nevets). I'll be probably be micro-blogging there a bit more, as that can be done in easy snippets.

.Nevets.

Group Projects: The Bane of My Existence / The Future of My Career

2011-08-11T23:48:00.000-04:00

All---

My hatred of group projects began in the third grade. I can be very precise about this because it was one of the most traumatic developmental moments of my life. Like my traumatic moments, stripped to its bare bones, it was pretty silly. But to third-grade-me it world-shattering. It shaped how I felt about projects, but more than that it shaped I perceived other people and developed my sense of ownership over that in which I have invested.

Here's the scheme.

It's third grade. Social studies project. I love history, far more than any other kid in the class. We're supposed to build some sort of diorama or model. Another kid and I hit on the idea of making a model of an aztec city. We divide up the labor based on parts. Per usual, I did most of the work, all of the research, and my parents purchased most of the supplies. The other kid who'd helped develop the idea helped a little. Another contributed a plastic motorcycle. Yes, a plastic motorcycle for a model Aztec city. I worked hard to turn it into a bicycle which, I reasoned, was at least a little more plausible. The others did nothing.

At the end of project day, we got to take our projects home, and I was deliberately squeezed out by the other kids who developed a plan for taking a few pieces separate and having a rotation of having the model at home. I got no turn in the rotation. They got the teacher's blessing by taking all the credit for the work, while I stood to the side. Stunned. Crying.

From then on, group projects were to be avoided at all costs.

Over time, the sting of that experience softened, and by the time I was in college I didn't hate them with quite the same passion, but I still dreaded them. Rather than credit or ownership, it was carrying the load that wore me down. I remember a series of group geography projects in which I was the only one in my group who knew roughly where London and Paris were and knew that Egypt was still a country, not just something "from Bible times." I wasn't just producing the work, I was having to remediate their education.

Group projects, it seems, are either hateful or wearying.

Grad school forced me to change that, though. A research project cannot be a one-person job. A thesis is the work of the entire committee. Solitary work was a non-starter. Avoiding group edits or contributions to to my thesis was a non-option. In the end, my thesis had my name on it. In the end, it defined my academic career. In the end, it established my foothold in the world of scholarship.

And yet, in the end, it was no longer the research I had done or the thesis I had written.

It was the research we had done, and the thesis we had produced.

Sometimes the contributions were valuable. Sometimes the edits, corrections, and suggestions made sense. Sometimes the shifting of my theoretical framework were welcome. Being forced to soften my conclusion? Not welcome. Neither was getting back an entire chapter back with one comment: "This is too poorly written for me to even read and comment on." Neither was being forced to include data from researchers I didn't know or didn't trust.

I had to learn to separate my work from our work. I had control over my research, and I had to learn to be satisfied in that. I could write the thesis the way I wanted to before giving it to my committee, and I could be proud of that. Once I had done my part, and it was in the group's hands, I had to to realize that it was no longer mine. It was ours.

And, in the end, I'm proud of the thesis we produced, too. Is it the thesis I would have written on my own? No, not entirely. Is it true to my essential vision for the project, though? Yes. Is it better? Maybe; they think so. And the truth is, it doesn't matter if it's better or if it's worse. Because, even though it's my name on it, it's the product of all our combined efforts.

Now, as I prepare to query Sublimation to agents, I'm glad that I've had that experience. A novel that is published out of a publishing house is a group project, too. I can write the novel I want and be proud of it. But, in the end, the novel that hits the shelves will be the product of our combined efforts, even though it's my name on it.

.Nevets.

Swimming in the Syrup, Grabbing for Minnows

2011-08-09T19:32:00.000-04:00

All---

This is not whining. This is not complaining. This is just me, describing what I see, as I sit here at the bottom of this goldfish bowl full of syrup, staring at a phantom of the room light, my arms flailing around trying to grasp at the tails of all the dozens of minnows that are swimming by. I'm not sure what I want to do with them if I catch them. Eat them? Examine them? Ride them up to the surface? All I know is that I do want to catch them. If only I could see them more clearly. Move my arms more swiftly. Anticipate their movements as well as I can see the tracks left in the syrup.

But I can't.

And that's what it feels like these days.

If you were to stereotype me as a character, I think one of the main traits you would jot down would be, "curious." I won't belabor the list of things I've studied, done, or experienced. There are few things that don't grab my interest in some way, shape or form. There are few things in the world which don't spark some little bit of curiosity in me.

I don't have a passive curiosity, however. If you were to jot down a second trait in that notebook, it might be, "driven." I don't mean that in an Alex P. Keaton sort of way. Some time ago, a three-trait personality test classified me as a Visionary-Visionary-Visionary. What all that means is that when I have an interest that captures me, I feel compelled to realize that interest. I have no static ideas. Every notion is propulsion.

That can be an amazing thing when you have focus.

Combine that with curiosity, and you're being propelled in a million directions. Every direction feels mandatory. Every direction feels important. Every direction makes sense.

Family. Work. EMS. Teaching. Anthropology. Studying Mandarin. Studying Thai. Studying Japanese. Gardening. Photography.

Oh, yeah. Writing.

It's a tricky balancing act in the best of times. When I'm exhausted by work, allergies, or anything else, that's when I end up at the bottom of the goldfish bowl, grasping at minnow tails.

I used to stress about it. I don't stress about it as much. I know it's how I am, and beating myself up over it isn't going to help. Instead, I get this restless feeling as my mind races in too many directions, desperately begging me to keep up. Feeling restless doesn't help combat exhaustion.

The downside?

When work is going crazy or my allergies are kicking my butt -- or both -- the writing slows down too much for my own taste. My brain just can't stay in multi-direction over-drive. And, please understand, it's not about task discipline; it's about what all the corners of my brain are doing. Five or six streams of thought are okay. Full steam ahead? Harder, but maybe okay. Unfiltered and overlapping? Unmanageable.

The upside?

My writing and my authorial voice directly reflect this personality. My writing is voice-heavy and driven. My narrative is multi-stream. My stories often reflect the reification of some philosophical idea. Everything that distinguishes my writing (whether you like it or you hate it) can be credited to (or blamed on) my curious, driven brain.

Happens a lot doesn't it?

The things which make the going tough also give our particular way of going its unique charm.

If only I could see those minnows a little more clearly, move my arms a little more swiftly...

.Nevets.

The 3 AM Call: An EMT's-Eye View

2011-08-04T19:42:00.001-04:00

All---

Some volunteer EMT's don't mind being woken by a page in the middle of the night. Some can't stand it. No one goes to bed and thinks, "I sure I hope get woken up." But it happens. A lot.

You go to bed and some nights you think, "Uh, I really hope I can just sleep through this night." Some nights you think, "Well, I'd love to get a run tonight, and I feel pretty good, so it'd be alright to get toned out tonight." Until you've been doing it a while and start to get jaded, you feel a little guilty about it even being a question. After all, if you're needed, you're needed. You volunteered. It seems petty to even think about complaining.

But sleep. Sleep is good. And when you have a job, and you're tired, and you have to go to work the next day, too -- sleep is very, very good.

When it happens --

When the pager goes off --

When you're rattled abruptly out of your sleep cycle by the sharp, piercing, rapid-fire beeps, you don't know what's going on. You look at your alarm clock first. The numbers don't register, but you get the sense it's still late. Early. Whichever. Not the time to wake up.

Suddenly your mind half-tunes in the words, already in progress, "Attention Medic Unit, Attention Medic Unit. Respond to 303 E Raymond Street, Apartment B." She speaks in a droning monotone, unnatural pauses forcing her words into rhythm that feels even more awkward as you rise from the dead of sleep. "For a patient with breathing difficulties."

You remember then what the noise is, why it's waking you, what you're supposed to do. You remember you're an EMT. It's your job to help that person.

"This is a Lifeline call."

You rise swiftly.

"Be advised that an officer is en route."

Perhaps you sleep naked and need to pull on your clothes. Perhaps you sleep fully dressed, head to toe. If you're like me, you sleep in the shirt, pants, and socks, but not the rest. You move out to the living room, stopping yourself from turning on the lights because your wife is still asleep.

You slip your feet into your shoes.

You think about tying them, but then you remember that takes too much time.

You pull a hat on.

Grab your watch.

Pat your pockets to make sure you're wearing the pants with your medical tools in them.

Suddenly, you feel slow, and you hurry up and finish. On the way to the station, your mind starting to clear as soon as you back the car out onto the road, you start thinking about how to prepare. Maybe you remind yourself of some of the acronyms and mnemonics. Maybe you think about the last breathing difficulty patient you had. Maybe you remember the last time you went to 303 E Raymond Street, Apartment B.

By the time the second tones go off, two minutes after the first, you're afraid you're running late, even though it's only been two clock minutes since the first tones went off. It's not two minutes. It's when the minute hand is two minutes further along than it was. From 3:26:58 to 3:28:00 is two minutes.

But in the dark of 3:30am, even as you shake your dreams off and focus on the real world, you still worry about it.

A minute later, you're in the ambulance and on the way.

After the run, after the patient has been transported. After the patient has been delivered to the hospital with an open airway, and as good a vital set as possible. After care of the patient has been handed over to the emergency room nursing staff, and the paperwork has been filled out, and the truck has been cleaned up, and your driver has finished off his cigarette, you hop in and ride home, unwinding, along the way. The longer the ride home, the better off you are, the looser the grip of adrenaline on your wakefulness. That's when you can go home, crash, and go to sleep.

But you don't always get a full run. You don't always get to see a patient through. You don't always get that long wind-down. Sometimes. Many times. For stretches, most times. You get a signal 9, a disregard. Woken up and possibly amped, you hear her voice again. Her droning monotone. The awkward rhythm.

"Attention Medic Unit, Attention Medic Unit. Per County. You can. Disregard."

"Medic Unit clear."

And then it's back home. A short ride. You never got to use the adrenaline that was required to wake you up from the depths of your sleep. You never get a chance to wind down and let the adrenaline ease off. As quick as you made it to the station, you're back. And then you're home. Wide awake. It's 3:40 in the morning. You know you're tired. You know you want to sleep.

You know it's going to be a while.

And you think, "Well, at this point, we might as well get another run."

.Nevets.

Making Evil Too Exciting

2011-08-01T18:00:00.000-04:00

All---

If you've been familiar with my blog for any length of time, you'll know I talk about evil a lot, mostly about the writer's relationship to the portrayal of evil. If you're familiar with my stories, you'll know that my interest in exploring the nature of evil is core to what I do. The past few days what's been niggling at me is the notion that we (writers, TV producers, movie directors, playwrights) make evil pretty exciting. In truth, most of the time, evil is an uncomfortable sort of boring.

When I think back to my time doing forensics, it's pretty apparent that facing evil is not a hot rush of adrenaline. It is a cold, empty ache in the belly. It's not a thrill ride, heart pounding as you wonder what's around the next corner. It's a dull, weepy mood as you realize that you know what's around the next corner for someone. Maybe you. Maybe a loved one. Maybe a stranger.

Despite all the wild, intriguing motivations we right about -- and which occasionally do exist in reality -- most murderers are a lot more boring. On one case we were involved with the murderer explained his motivation as, "They made me mad. When I get mad, I shoot people." On another case, the killer was too drunk to remember why he kicked a man's head in. On a cold case I was part of, we identified a woman as the victim of a serial killer who himself was long dead, and it all happened as if we were sorting mail.

Is there interesting psychology and human drama in these stories? Yes, to be sure. Is there adrenaline? Excitement? Not much, at least not the kind we usually write about or portray.

I suppose this isn't news, but it's something that weighs on me sometimes as I write. My stories are surreal and larger than life. I want them to be exciting. I want them to be compelling and memorable. I think, in some ways, they are effective because of that.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I'm doing a disservice to real evil, or injustice to the people who confront or fall victim to real evil in the world. Their experiences aren't exciting. They're devastating. They're destructive. They're dramatic. But their lives aren't thrillers; they're just miserable.

.Nevets.

The Humans are Dead

2011-07-31T13:34:00.001-04:00

All---

In case you've not noticed before, I've added some news feeds to the blog, about topics related to themes in this blog. (There's a tab up top!) As I was glancing through this afternoon, I came across this article from the York Daily Record about the county looking for a more accurate way to track EMS (ambulance) response times.

This, I think is one of those things that I think most people assume is far more technical and precise than it is. If I were to ask ten people on the street how EMS responses were recorded and reported, both in real time and for statistical purposes, I'm not sure what they would say. I doubt many would say, "It's based on what you say on the radio."

Here's how it works in our area, and it's somewhat similar in most places. This process holds true for both volunteer and professional EMS units, though the professional units are usually stationed at their ambulances and so don't require a second alert tone.

Dispatch receives an alarm (e.g., a 911 call or a Life Alert).
Dispatch sends alert tones to an EMS unit.
After two minutes, Dispatch sends second alert tones to EMS unit.
EMS crew assembles, and reports on the radio that they are responding.
Ambulance drives to scene.
When ambulance arrives at scene, driver reports on the radio that the unit is on scene.
When the ambulance is ready to leave the scene, the driver reports that, as well as the current mileage on the odometer.
Ambulance drives to hospital.
When the ambulance arrives at hospital, driver reports on the radio that the unit is arriving at destination, and reports the ending mileage.

Seems simple and reasonable when you see it spelled out like that, and it typically works pretty well. For better or worse, though, it depends on humans. Someone must report and someone must hear. Someone must speak clearly and someone must understand correctly. No one can forget a step, or the entire record is essentially meaningless.

For instance, in our area, we are permitted to take a patient to an out-of-county hospital if they request, but we are required to report on the radio our time leaving the county and our time back in the county. (Among other reasons, so that dispatch doesn't try to divert us to another call, but also so that our response can be accurately timed and recorded.) It's an easy thing to overlook while on a run.

Even if the calls are made as they should be and understood as they should be, the information has to be recorded and input.

Things get even murkier when it comes to recording which district the response is in. It's important for a number of reasons to know how often our EMS unit covers a call in another territory. This information comes entirely from two sources: a note made by the dispatcher, based on their understanding of the geography; and a note made by the EMT who fills out the reports, based on their understanding of the territories.

Some areas have begun using GPS, RFID, and other technologies to track the real time movements of emergency personnel, but these tools are expensive -- not to mention invasive. In our area, GPS systems are used to record the speed of ambulances, but not to actively monitor locations or to track response times or route efficiency.

This is an interesting topic specifically, but I think it also plays into a broader conversation about relying on humans in this increased technical era. We have come to expect mathematical precision in everything, and every year that passes increases the needle-point fineness of the precision we expect. When we don't have the precision, we fear we are wasting money. We fear we are jeopardizing public safety. People will cry about government waste and the safety of the children.

The humans are dead.

And, then, when technological solutions reduce the number of employees required to conduct business, we lament lost jobs. When humans are replaced by machines, we weep over the dehumanization of our civilization. When we track people's movements and record their performance to the millisecond and millimeter, we object to the invasion of privacy and grumble about micromanagement.

And, yet, we want precision. We want accuracy. We want what we call scientific certainty.

But we want it with a human face.

'Tis a pickle, my friends. 'Tis a pickle.

.Nevets.

Brambles Form a Dense Cover

2011-07-29T18:38:00.000-04:00

All---

If you follow my Twitter, you'll gather that I dig Mandarin Chinese. If you like my Facebook page, you'll see how silly I can get over it. Seems like I should share a bit of my love of language on my blog, too. Lest you mistake my expertise, I am very much learning. I have never been, but I have studied and observed and I have known several people from China. It's a distant knowledge, I admit, but there are a great many things I love about Chinese culture and the language (especially Mandarin) really resonates with me.

One of the ways I both learn and explore is through music. I especially love Zhao Peng. He's a Mandarin pop singer with a bass voice and clean, crisp delivery. It's the kind of voice I like listening too anyway, but it's also great for learning. Like anyone, he slurs some things, and sometimes his accent is a little tricky. He's from Guangzhou, so I assume Cantonese is more natural to him. Still, it's great stuff.

Here's an example of one of the songs he sings, together with the Pinyin and my own very much in-progress translation.

When Zhao sings this, especially in the chorus, he really brings out the rhythm and tones of spoken Mandarin, without losing the music.

Zài huíshǒu

Zài huíshǒu
Yún zhēduàn guītú
Zài huíshǒu
Jīngjí mìbù
Jīnyè bù huì zài yǒu
Nán shě de jiùmèng
Céngjīng yǔ nǐ gòngyǒu de mèng
Jīnhòu yào xiàng shuí sùshuō

Zài huíshǒu
Bèiyǐng yǐ yuǎn zǒu
Zài huíshǒu
Lèiyǎn ménglóng
Liú xià nǐ de zhùfú
Hán yè wēnnuǎn wǒ
Bùguǎn míngtiān yào miàn duì
Duōshǎo shāng tòng hé míhuò
Céngjīng zài yōuyōu ànàn fǎn fǎnfù fù zhōng zhuīwèn
Cái zhīdào píngpíng dàndàn cóng cóngróng róng cái shì zhēn
Zài huíshǒu huǎngrán rú mèng
Zài huíshǒu wǒ xīn yījiù
Zhǐyǒu nà wújìn de cháng lù bàn zhe wǒ

Zài huíshǒu
Bèiyǐng yǐ yuǎn zǒu
Zài huíshǒu
Lèiyǎn ménglóng
Liú xià nǐ de zhùfú
Hán yè wēnnuǎn wǒ
Bùguǎn míngtiān yào miàn duì
Duōshǎo shāng tòng hé míhuò
Céngjīng zài yōuyōu ànàn fǎn fǎnfù fù zhōng zhuīwèn
Cái zhīdào píngpíng dàndàn cóng cóngróng róng cái shì zhēn
Zài huíshǒu huǎngrán rú mèng
Zài huíshǒu wǒ xīn yījiù
Zhǐyǒu nà wújìn de cháng lù bàn zhe wǒ
Céngjīng zài yōuyōu ànàn fǎn fǎnfù fù zhōng zhuīwèn
Cái zhīdào píngpíng dàndàn cóng cóngróng róng cái shì zhēn
Zài huíshǒu huǎngrán rú mèng
Zài huíshǒu wǒ xīn yījiù
Zhǐyǒu nà wújìn de cháng lù bàn zhe wǒ
Zài huíshǒu huǎngrán rú mèng
Zài huíshǒu wǒ xīn yījiù
Zhǐyǒu nà wújìn de cháng lù bàn zhe wǒ

***

“Looking Back”

Looking back
Clouds cut off the way back
Looking back
Brambles form a dense cover
Tonight they will not be again
It is difficult to give up on old dreams
One, together with you, I shared a dream
Hereafter, who may I turn to tell them to?

Looking back
What is behind, I've already walked far from
Looking back
Tears make my eyes hazy
Your blessings stay behind
I shiver on a warm night
No matter what, I must face tomorrow
How much sorrow and confusion
Once, far far away, I inwardly flipped – was flipped – capsized while looking too closely
Only then did I know it was mediocre and indifferent, all in good time, only then was true
Looking back, suddenly as if a dream
Looking back, my heart is as it was before
Only that endlessly long road, my companion, will show me

Looking back
Back has to flee
Looking back
Misty eyes
Leave your blessings
Warm,cold night I
Regardless of tomorrow to face
How much pain and confusion
Once in the faint secretly asked repeatedly in the
Know nothing exciting is really from the leisurely
Looking back suddenly dream
Looking back my heart is still
Once in the faint secretly asked repeatedly in the
Know nothing exciting is really from the leisurely
Looking back suddenly dream
Looking back my heart is still
Only the long road that accompanied me endless
Only the long road that accompanied me endless
Looking back suddenly dream
Looking back my heart is still
Only the long road that accompanied me endless

***

If you don't care for the music or the language, that's fine, but, hey, this is all part of the tapestry that lies at the background of Nevets. :)

.Nevets.

Review: Creep by Jennifer Hillier

2011-07-27T17:39:00.000-04:00

Author: Jennifer Hillier
Title: Creep
Publisher: Gallery / Simon & Schuster
Date: 2011
Editions: Hardcover and eBook

Well-written contemporary thrillers come in more than one flavor. RJ Ellory and Ryan David Jahn challenge and embrace readers with almost literary narrative. Jeffrey Deaver and Brad Thor use pace and adrenaline to push through details and tightly packed prose. Mary Higgins Clark and Dean Koontz use a light touch to allow the reader to glide along story effortlessly. Over time, Kathy Reichs has picked up much of that latter quality. Right out of the gate, that's the kind of reading Jennifer Hillier displays: simple, clean writing that belies a complex and engrossing story so that the pages just slip on by.

That story is the tale of psychology professor Sheila Tao, her fiance, and the obsessive grad student who seems to want her all to himself. It is a story of love, lust, and something that is neither It is about revenge and control. It is a psychological thriller that will pull you in on the first page and leave you licking your lips for more on the last.

Creep walks a fine line which is appropriate for, if surprising in a debut novel. It is at times graphic, at other times shocking, and in some moments intimate enough that the reader might feel like apologizing for invading a character's personal space. Yet, Creep does not feel gratuitous. The reader does not feel manipulated by easy button-pushing, shock jock writing. The characters never seem to wince at their exposure on the pages, nor to be paraded around and exploited. They are simply told boldly and without reservation.

In large part, this is a testament to the greyness of the protagonists. If you prefer your victims clean, your heroes in white, and protagonists on a pedestal, you might struggle with Creep. The book in no way destroys ideas of good over evil; neither does it muddy the lines so much that a hero and a villain cannot be told apart. But the victim is a real, fractured person. The co-protagonist is a real, fractured person. Neither of them make consistently good choices. Each of them makes potentially destructive choices.

And yet they are clearly good.

I think this is one reason that Creep resonates so much with me as a reader. While it is an entirely different book from Michelle Davidson Argyle's Cinders, and I would draw no more than this one comparison between two, I will, at least draw this one: I appreciate the emphasis on choices, mistakes, and consequences. I appreciate the acknowledgment that good intentions and being a good person do not always lead to ideal actions, but that goodness itself is much deeper and more complicated. That, in some ways, it eludes even the heroes. To me, this suggests the promise that if it eludes the heroic, it might one day be attained by the villainous.

Creep is not a cops-and-robbers story. Creep is not a roller coaster thrill ride. Creep is not a subtle and poetic exploration of philosophical ideas. Instead, the Creep that Jennifer Hillier has created is the dark story of Dr. Sheila Tao, her struggle up from rock bottom, and the forces that work to keep her there to their own devastating ends. It is the sort of debut novel that has me looking for Hillier's back-catalog under another name.

.Nevets.

Northern Michigan

2011-07-26T21:05:00.000-04:00

For B. E. Sanderson, by request...

The stretch between Angola, Indiana and Coldwater, Michigan is bit of no-man's land. No longer quite Indiana, not quite yet Michigan. Maybe the state police cars or lottery tickets look different on one side or the other. Maybe the license plate ratio shifts a little one direction on one side. But mostly, it's flat, open farm land filled with flat, open folks, under a flat, open sky that's usually dull grey or a muted, cottony blue.

As you head north toward and around Lansing, though, you start to see a sort of post-industrial flailing you don't see much in Indiana. When the factories closed and the jobs left in Indiana, the towns either scrambled for a new identity or just gave up and let themselves die. In Michigan, those same kind of towns shake their fists at heaven and say, "By God, it's factory jobs or we die trying!"

North of Lansing the apple orchards and cider mills ushers you toward Ithica and Claire. The further north you go, the more beer and home-made jerky you say at gas stations. The more apple cider -- cherry pie -- homemade ice cream shops you pass, so many you wonder how they can all stay open year, after year, after year. And they do.

Before, long, rolling orchards turn into denser woods, thick with pine trees and birch and a feisty undergrowth of fern and maple. The pine tower over the others, though, and the undergrowth only find maturity when their elders pass along. The bright green fern and maples seem to know this, for they grow with wild exuberance, not as if to say, "Hey, let me see how tall I can get!" but instead to say, "Hey, let me just get the most of the year I have."

Towns like Grayling, Frederic, and Mancelona aren't post-industrial. Maybe post-logging. Maybe pre-tourism. Maybe just small towns that were always going to be small towns. They have bars, but most of those close early. Same with the gas stations, some of which also sell savory pastries called pasties. They have friendly, small town people who might wish for better economic times, but not so they can move out of their small town homes -- so they can fix up their canoes, their snowmobiles, their campers. So they can get as much enjoyment out of the land where they live as the summer residents do. But economic times are bad. Their canoes are rusted, their snowmobiles jammed up, and their campers leak. And the friendly small town, folks, smile and nod as the summer residents come through to gas up their cars, motorboats, and jet skis.

The cottage is a summer residence.

They call it a cottage, not because it's small and quaint, but because it is a retreat from the world. No cellphones. No internet. No cellphone-based internet. There's a phone with a number almost no one knows, and a mailing address that gets no mail, but one year did get a census form. There are neighbors, and sometimes you hear their power tools or their grand kids through the thick wall of woods that surrounds the cottage, but if you see them it's only on the open road between retreats, or because you want to.

The cottage is steeped in evolving traditions, the active memory-making of four generations. The generation that built the cottage has passed, but their spirit has saturated every bit of wood, stained glass, and well-loved furniture in the place. Gramma's place has been taken over by a parliament of ceramic owls. Grampa's place been filled by an array of photographs representing the evolving and changing family over the years. It's not the same, but it's enough to remind the rest of us to tell the fourth generation about those they will never really know.

I'm part of the third generation, by marriage.

And this is the northern Michigan I have been very privileged to know over the past ten years.

.Nevets.

Reading Davin Malasarn in the Waves

2011-07-25T22:42:00.001-04:00

All---

While on my trip, I did a lot of reading, and after reading one Davin Malasarn story in Stories for Sendai, since we were still in the land of cell signals, I tweeted that I enjoyed how Davin's writing leaves the reader uncertain what's obvious and what's subtle.

I immediately knew I owed folks a blog post about what I meant. Let me first offer the essence: Davin Malasarn uses bold language and large characters to reach into the most tiny nuances of human life, and to do so in a gentle, quiet way that you at first think, "Wow, that was subtle," and then when you look at the bold language and the large characters you find yourself thinking, "Or should it have been obvious all along?

I'm not a Buddhist, and I'm not giving you crystal images to tell you 'bout a brighter day, but there I think this passage from, "There is a Mountain," by Donovan, sort of sums up the Malasarn reading experience:

First there is a mountain

Then there is no mountain

Then there is

This is true in his shorts stories and in his novella Bread, which I have had the privilege of reading. The first thing that always strikes me is just how strong everything is. Stark language, with a very striking intentionality about pace of structure. Characters who are complex, but easily apprehended when they first step onto stage. Everything he wants you to know, he makes sure you know; he writes in a way that everything is accessible.

And yet, at the same time, as I read, I am struck by the subtle and clever -- even sneaky -- ways in which he uses those strong elements. While they might be accessible, Davin uses that accessibility to bring the reader into a deeper view of life that the reader even realizes until the very end. Then, the reader is suddenly breathless, looking back and saying, "Wait, how did that happen?" We're talking about my own soul? My own life? The nature of the people I love? The strangers I pass? How did we get there?

But that's not where it stops, because then, when you look at those bold elements you began with, you're left thinking, "Oh, wait, it's right there." Or, "Hold on, he said everything right at the beginning of the story." And often he did. But you didn't catch it, because you didn't understand it yet. Then, after he's worked his sneaky word magic on your brain, you begin to understand it, and suddenly what was a hidden, subtle shadow in the beginning now seems easy to grasp.

It is the sign of a master writer and a master teacher.

Let me describe the experience in another way, one less explicit but perhaps more instructive. Davin has talked often of the importance of reading circumstances. It struck me, as I took my half-read copy of The Wild Grass down to the lakeside, that I was in the perfect opportunity to read Malasarn the only way that makes sense to me.

There were constant, gentle waves in the lake. Nothing overpowering, but enough to keep the water in motion. I took The Wild Grass out, and set seiza in the waves. I read like that. Embraced by the water in which I feel more at home than I feel on land. Rocked about, struggling for balance against the same water. Keeping the precious book elevated enough that it would stay dry. Searching for the perfect reading angle in the high sun. Working hard, even as I was perfectly comfortable, at ease and yet constantly engaged. I could not think of a place I would rather be, and yet it took constant effort to maintain myself.

.Nevets.

Random Bits of Friday

2011-07-22T19:00:00.002-04:00

All---

As write this post, I'm loading my iPod with audiobooks for a trip Rose and I are taking to northern Michigan. It's only a 5 to 6 hour drive, but the A/C doesn't work and it's record heat, so distractions are in order. I picked up Pigs Have Wings by P. G. Wodehouse and A Quiet Belief in Angels by R. J. Ellory. Almost makes me wish we were driving even longer so we could listen more.

We'll be going to a cabin with some of Rose's family, and that means lots of reading. As such, I hope to catch up with reading Creep by Jennifer Hillier, The Wild Grass by Davin Malasarn, and Dancing in the Shadows of Love by Judy Croome. At the top of the list, though, is Stories for Sendai. I can't believe I haven't had a chance to read it yet; it's driving me crazy.

A little bit of random news, for those who want more ways to keep tabs on me. I've created an author page on Amazon.com. There are still a lot of kinks to work out, but they've been a pleasure to work with so I'm confident that will happen. I also have a new, professional author page on Facebook: http://www.facebook/com/c.n.nevets. Please like it if you get a chance! In case you're unaware, I'm also pretty active on Twitter.

Okay, to wrap up, some crazy facts about the blog this week:

As of the writing of this post (Thursday night), the most popular post has been this post on the nature of help and the drive toward helpfulness.

I'm not surprised that, as usual, my audience is mostly from the US. My UK readership has gone down a bit lately, which is somewhat disappointing, but they're still in second. I know some of my blog readers from Australia, South Africa, Canada, and India -- so I'm not surprised to see them on the list, but none of them are third. The third most popular nationality for hits on my blog is Brazil. If any you Brazilians are reading this, it would make my day for you to say hello in the comments! I love meeting people all over the world!

One of the top searches that brings people to the blog lately is "takoyaki," which is awesome. If you don't know that this is, read here about portable octopus. Probably the most disappointed person to reach my blog by Google search this week was the one who searched, "how to defeat aikido master." Afraid I'm not near that level.

The coolest searches, though?

"genre wars by c. n. nevets"

"notes from underground anthology by c. n. nevets"

Awesome to have people coming here on purpose to find out about things I've written!

Okay, time to wrap up the scatter-shot update with this good news: I've started to get some of the feedback on my manuscript Sublimation, and it's been very encouraging so far. I'm thrilled!

See you all soon. I probably won't have live blogging access until early next week. Chat amongst yourselves. :)

.Nevets.

Those Who Come Later

2011-07-21T21:37:00.001-04:00

All---

Author of psychological suspense, Jennifer Hillier blogged recently about the mixed emotions, the highs and lows, the ecstasy and the fear of having her book finally out there. Her hardcover debut novel, Creep, is now on the shelves of stores and in the hands of readers.

As I thought about this, and imagined how it might feel someday to have my own novel out there, it put to mind a day when I was doing CRM archaeology in Alaska.

We were doing a fairly routine survey in advance of some railroad work. We were definitely out in the back country. Every day we'd drive out to the middle of nowhere, hop on a helicopter, and get dropped off even further out in the middle of nowhere. Then, we would hike in, even yet further from anywhere to the official project corridor.

Each day would cover somewhere between 3km and 6km of official project territory, with quite a bit more hiking to get from one part of the project to another. We saw a lot of country. We were walking in places that hadn't been walked in a very long time, sometimes perhaps even generations.

One day, in one of the deepest spots, just off the project corridor, we came upon an old, abandoned cabin. It was a simple log cabin, the material brown and weathered. The tiny windows had thin, plate glass, mostly broken, and permanently marked with dust.

We were curious, and we tried to open the door. It barely swung open wide enough for a person to slide through sideways. A beam of wood on the floor deliberately blocked the door from widening any further. Bear-proofing.

Entry wasn't as simple as sliding sideways, though. On the floor was a board with up-turned six-inch nails, rusty from years of exposure. More bear-proofing.

After a sideways hop, we were in a world that hadn't been seen for years. There were newspapers from the early 20th century. Boxes and cans of food from around the same time. The bed wasn't made, but there old, rough cottons on it.

The door might have stayed firm, but winter had broken through the windows long ago, and blasted between logs years before. There were more nails inside the windows to prevent bears from entering, but that hadn't stopped cold and snow. Most perishable material was ruined, and barely recognizable.

We had enough of an impression to understand that this had been a cabin that had seen a lot of use. It had been made and refined over the years, and with great care. It had been abandoned with hope of return.

But had the owner of the cabin simply left on a hunting trip one day and died in the wilderness? Or had the owner gone home after a season and never made a return trip? Or had the owner taken ill, been transported into town, and never returned? It was up to us to fill in the gaps.

That cabin haunts me a little, and there's a lot more to be said about it, but today it struck me that anything we produce is like that. Whether it's a book, a work of art, or a cabin in the woods, we pour our thoughts, feelings, and energy into it. We turn stuff into part of our story. And then, at some point, it's our of our hands.

The owner of that cabin never will never know that we were there that day. He'll never know what we talked about, what we thought about. He'll never be able to tell us how right or how wrong we were. He'll never know that our thoughts and interpretations were influenced by. He'll never even know what I've chosen to tell you about it today. And, yet, that cabin was his story. It was his investment. It was a big piece of him, just sitting out there in the back country of Alaska, ready for us to happen upon and encounter.

The difference is that Jennifer may not know what readers are doing with her book, but she's well aware that her book is out there in the wilderness and that readers are encountering it. But that's about all she knows.

Whether you're a writer, an artist, a homeowner, or just a person that does anything at all, it seems like a lot to think about.

.Nevets.

The Reason I Blog

2011-07-20T21:43:00.000-04:00

All---

If you walk away with one thing today, let it be this message, shared by Michelle Davidson Argyle from her publishers at Rhemalda:

Your writing is not going to fail or succeed because of your blog.

I've been involved in online communities since before forums and message boards, let alone blogs, Facebook, or twitter. Since before AIM, ICQ, or even IRC. I started interacting with others on bulletin boards. I had a 300/1200 baud external modem that I used to dial in to BBS's that were mostly run out of guys' houses. This wasn't internet. This wasn't on-line. This was me downloading message content and running applications on a computer in a guy's house, and he was downloading messages and content from a bigger computer in someone else's house. I met some really great people, made come good connections, learned some things, developed some interests. The next step, once I got internet e-mail (still pre- most of those other things I mentioned) was e-mail list serves. I met more people, developed some more interests.

This is the background I bring to social media. I used it to make a few friends, exchange ideas, engage in sometimes witty banter, and create opportunities. At least one internship and my entire masters thesis research project are direct results of my use of these tools.

When I started to blog and engage with the internet as a writer, that's the context I was in. I'd never even heard of building a platform. I wasn't looking for support. I wasn't looking for an on-line crit group. I wasn't looking for an outlet for my writing. I was trying to meet people, exchange ideas, engage in some witty conversation, make some connections, and maybe make some opportunities.

While I know that in the modern world, an active blog and Twitter presence may help my cause in advancing my professional presence, I don't blog to make myself a successful writer in any way.

Then why do I blog?

One look at the comments on yesterday's blog post shows one main reason. I threw up a post about a personal reflection, and several of you chimed in with your own thoughts on the topic. I love that. It's the main reason I blog. Your comments. The exchange of ideas. The interaction. That's my the my thing.

Another reason I blog and Twitter is this sequence:

I read Misha Gerricke's post on South African braai food.

And then this takes place on Twitter:

CNNevets
Read this if you're hungry or prepared to be! @MishaMFB TCoML: South African food, Part 1 http://bit.ly/qYGvXe

JakeHenegan
My country's food.RT @cnnevets Read this if you're hungry or prepared to be! @MishaMFB TCoML: South African food, Part 1 bit.ly/qYGvXe

MishaMFB
@JakeHenegan @cnnevets Another South African. Hello! ;-)
about 10 hours ago via web in reply to JakeHenegan

JakeHenegan
@MishaMFB @cnnevets Another South African that writes fantasy. *follows*
about 5 hours ago via web in reply to MishaMFB

Voila. Networking. I love this stuff.

That's it. I just wanted to share my silly excitement. No real moral. If you want a moral, go back up to the top and re-read the tip I opened with. But for me the tip is incidental.

.Nevets.

What is Help?

2011-07-19T19:41:00.001-04:00

All---

I suppose it's a strange question, but I sometimes wonder about what "help" really means. On obvious reason for this is that my day job is in customer support, and we often have to determine what course of action is truly the most helpful. We also struggle with trying to feel like our "help" is meaningful and rewarding. More than that, though, it's my personality to want to help people.

The Shoveller: Lucille, God gave me a gift. I shovel well. I shovel very well.
Lucille: Oh, honey, you shovel better than any man I've ever known, but that does not make you a super hero . . . Listen to me. You're a good husband, and a good father. But that's all. Nothing more.
The Shoveller's Son: I believe in you, Daddy!
Lucille: Roland, do not encourage your father.

""We struck down evil with the mighty sword of teamwork and the hammer of not-bickering."
Mystery Men

Part of the reason that I became an EMT was a desire to feel helpful in what felt like a direct and meaningful way. Supporting clients with their computer use is pretty detached, and writing is about planting seeds on the wind. As an EMT, I would be helping people in ways that were obvious, immediate, and vital.

I never suffered from some of the delusions that get some EMT's in trouble. I'm not a trauma junkie. I'm not in it to save lives. I don't see myself as a battlefield medic. But, even the most minimal view of what we do on the ambulance seems helpful: making sure that people get to the hospital with an open airway and a pulse, hopefully feeling a little less panicked than when they called us.

Being an EMT, though, I get to see a lot of different pictures of being helpful, and it's often thought-provoking.

Last night, for instance, we were called to be on stand-by for a structure fire. What that means is that there's a building on fire that might have people in it and might take a while to put out. We go the scene, park the ambulance near the fire, and set up a help station. We make ourselves available to any patients who might have been injured in or overheated by the fire, and we provide rehab for the firefighters. Rehab consists of bottles of water, cooling damp towels or ice packs, and a quick check of vital signs to make sure they're still healthy enough to continue.

So here's the scene last night: a house fire on a wooded country road, ~ 23:00. It's a trailer home and there are four people inside.

We respond pretty quickly as an ambulance. On our way to the scene, the first fire unit on scene radios that all four people are safely out of the home, no worse for wear. There aren't even enough fire trucks on the scene to start fighting the fire or truly rescuing people. Basically, the people got out of the building on their own. (We were very relieved they made it so easily!)

The rest of the time, about two hours, was about putting the fire out. With dozens of people there to help. There are something like half a dozen fire trucks on the scene. Our three-person ambulance crew is there. A two-person fire and rescue team from a nearby town is there. A police unit is there. Some neighbors are there. A couple utility crew are there.

At any given time, there were about half a dozen fire fighters actively battling the blaze. Others were in support or taking breaks to drink water. There were never any patients. Three fire fighters asked for their blood pressures to be taken, but no other vitals or full rehab. There were more bottles of water than any of us knew what to do with. The police really had no task, as there were not rubber-neckers, and there was no crime in the fire.

Then, at about 01:00, as we were all pulling out, the Red Cross team arrived to see if any of us needed water and to make sure the occupants of the home were okay.

A lot of people, on hand. Doing a few things, for sure. But mostly just being there. Just in case.

Do I doubt that any of us were being helpful? No. But it does make me realize that being helpful isn't necessarily about doing something.

Blue Raja: Well, there's the Sphinx.

The Shoveller: Yeah, I've heard of this guy. He's a big crime-fighter down east.

Mr. Furious: What's his power?

Blue Raja: Well, he's terribly mysterious.

Mr. Furious: That's it? That's his power? He's mysterious?

Blue Raja: Well, terribly mysterious.

The Shoveller: Yeah, plus he can cut guns in half with his mind.

Sometimes, I think, being helpful is about being present and making yourself available. As humans, it's in our nature to sometimes feel like we're wasting our time or that we should somehow be doing more.

But do you feel led to tell any of the people from the fire last night they weren't being helpful?

Me neither.

.Nevets.

Writing from a One Point: The Thing Steven Seagal Taught Bill Shakespeare

2011-07-18T18:33:00.000-04:00

All---

This afternoon, I was smarting off to author Roni Loren on Twitter. She had expressed a very real authorial frustration with not knowing where to start her current novella project. I offered her some #CannedWritingAdvice. When she asked for a a can opener, I spouted off deep-sounding drivel, drawing on my old radio improv skills:

Start with the voice and let the narrative flow in all directions from that one point.

While a fair summation of how I right, and how I structure stories, and reflecting some of the resonance of Scott GF Bailey's unified theory of writing, I meant this to be flip.

Only.

My word choice tripped me up, and I haven't stopped thinking about it ever since.

You see, in aikido, we talk about a one point. Your one point, thought of as the center of the energy which the martial art draws on, is somewhere between two and four inches below your navel, depending on your physique, health, mindset, etc... Sometimes, you also work around an extension of the one point, a point in space measured out from the point in your physical body.

The idea of the one point is complex. Here are a couple of examples.

First is me, in a rusty aikido ready stance. Most of it's not terrible, given my dress, circumstances, and rustiness. If I were doing this properly, my arms would be drawing from my one point and extending the energy out through my fingertips, directly at my target.

Next is Steven Seagal, using the one point to lever his

opponent down. He first drew his attacker in, and then controlled him, essentially like bending a flexible rod over his knee -- except bending his opponent over the one point, in stead.

Sometimes you redirect energy from the one point. Sometimes you redirect your subject around the one point. The one point is the center of a dynamic sphere of activity at the heart of everything in aikido.

Now, back to what I said to Roni when I was smarting off: Start with the voice and let the narrative flow in all directions from that one point.

I'll be darned if that's not true to how I write. The voice really is my one point. It is the center of energy withint he body of what I'm writing. Everything else I do is to redirect that energy or to redirect my readers around it. The voice is the one point at the center of the dynamic sphere of my writing. It is the thing which I extend out into the universe, and the thing which provides the lever point for whatever impact I hope to have on the reader. The rest of the narrative really does flow from there.

Perhaps it's a little thing this analogy, but it helps me embrace the idea even further. Because I love working with analogy, it also helps me understand other things. Aikido disciplines suddenly seem directly applicable. Focus and directionality in my ready stance tells me about preparing for writing. It's about deliberate extension of voice, not about character and plot notes. Aikido exercises suddenly seem instructive. Routines in which we practice complex circular motions while pinned to one point give me insights in how to perceive my story as revolving around the voice.

Love those epiphanies...

.Nevets.

Sublimation - It's Nearly a Book!

2011-07-17T00:12:00.000-04:00

All---

Just quick post to let everyone know that Sublimation, the psychological suspense novel I've been working on for far too long, has reached the next milestone. I've completed my writing and main revising, and have sent the 99K manuscript to a couple of key readers and my personal editor. When I get all that feedback in, it's one last round of revisions, and then (assuming the revisions aren't too major), it will finally be time to begin querying.

In brief, Sublimation is a psychological thriller about good and evil, order and chaos, a woman who loves the rules and man who loves finding ways around them. There's plenty of action and suspense as the surreal narrative winds through the personal history of two people: a business man who bluffs his way through every situation and an agent who who clings to the order provided by the law. Beginning with a high stakes poker game that turns into a bombing, Alec Smith quickly finds out that he can't bluff his way through the blood on his hands. Grey Kinjou stakes her reputation, her job, and her family on stopping Smith. And in the corner, in the darkness, one man cackles and fiddles with the pearl choker around his neck, hoping for their mutual destruction.

You can read more about Sublimation, including an excerpt on my new Books tab.

In the mean time, I'm shelving the MS until I start getting back solid feedback, even though there are still formatting issues to take care of and other little details I want to wrap up. I'll be using this time to tidy up and submit some of the huge stack of short stories that are sitting here, just about complete.

Maybe soon you'll hear news about a new Nevets story of psychological self-destruction -- of twisted action on an inherited houseboat -- or about a forensic anthropologist in the old west.

Stay tuned!

.Nevets.

The Life of Brian Paradox

2011-07-15T15:22:00.000-04:00

All---

From Monty Python's The Life of Brian

Brian:You've got to think for your selves! You're ALL individuals!
The Crowd: Yes! We're all individuals!
Brian: You're all different!
The Crowd: Yes, we ARE all different!
Man in crowd: I'm not...
The Crowd: Shhhhhh!

While I am hardly what one would call an extreme individualist, there are some ways in which I struggle with a rebellion against conformity.

Top Gun? I've never seen it, and I can't bring myself to, simply because of its popularity and buzz among my generation.

The Atlanta Braves? I loved rooting for them when nobody cared about them, but once they become a national craze, it was harder to stomach calling myself a fan. (Not such a problem anymore, but I also don't really follow MLB anymore.)

Harry Potter? The Hunger Games? Part of the reason I've never read either series is simply -- and childishly! -- because I can't bear the thought of following in the crowd's wake.

I recognize the pettiness of all this, and I recognize that sometimes I am probably robbing myself of some things I would actually enjoy. Pop culture, though, is only the gentlest way in which this impacts my life. It impacts me in other ways, too.

For instance, my writing.

I like the fact that my genre, psychological suspense, is a bit of a borderland, and while I hope for success for myself and my fellow writers, another part of me dreads a day when perhaps the market will be saturated with psychological suspense authors. I have entire TV shows scripts I've abandoned once I ran across a project someone else was working on that was remotely similar. There was some talk about True Grit's success opening up doors for western fiction. Good for me, since I want to write some western fiction, but I'll confess to a dark sort of relief that such did not happen because I want my western fiction (when and if I write it) to be accepted on its own, not because it's part of a trend.

Most pernicious, though, are the little things. Little, tiny voices that creep in while I'm actually engaged in writing. And they sound so noble. So very noble. It's hard to put up a proper defense against them.

I've learned how to be brave in my writing in many ways, but the one thing I still shirk in fear from is conformity.

I have literally, no exaggeration done the following in recent writing projects:

Changed my entire plan for a character because I didn't want to be "another" writer who throws twist after twist into my books.
Taken out entire scenes because I didn't want to be "another" writer who packs violent action into his thrillers.
Fretted over the course of a plot simply because I was afraid it might be too predictable.

Those all sound like fine things in their own way. Even as I write them here, I find myself thinking, "Good call, taking action on those, Nevets."

But none of those things are more important than the narrative. If the narrative ends up violent, so be it. If the narrative ends up twisty, so be it. If the narrative ends up predictable, so be it. Perhaps the damage of things things might be muted in other ways. But the story is the story.

I can't be the guy who sits there saying, "Nope, I'm the one person who's not different," out of simple defiance. I'm not a four year-old. I need to not act like one. No, it's not good to simply go with the crowd. No, it's also not good to simply go against the crowd. Sometimes, you're just being silly.

But I'm still not sure I can bring myself to watch Top Gun.

.Nevets.

The Things You Miss

2011-07-14T22:38:00.000-04:00

All---

Sometimes, when you're at a different place in life, you expect to miss certain things -- aspects of a job or a place you might have lived that were wonderful in some way or another. More often than not, though I find myself missing the strangest things.

For example:

The feel of old human bones.
The intricacies of dead folks' rotten teeth.
The smell of decomp.
The misery of a long march in hot weather, burdened with a shovel, a backpack, and a screen.
The smell of dirt.
Crashing in the hotel from exhaustion after a day in the field.

These are things I never expected to miss.

Then again, I've seen some of the stories I write, so maybe it's not surprising.

What about the rest of you? Do you sometimes miss the things you might have thought you'd rather be done with -- sometimes even more than the things you knew you would miss? Or is this is just Nevetsized nostalgia?

.Nevets.

What I Learned from Clive Cussler or His Clone

2011-07-13T18:39:00.002-04:00

All---

A few years ago, I met Clive Cussler.

Actually, I'm not sure it was Clive Cussler. I didn't even connect the dots until very recently. In case you're not familiar, Clive Cussler is a huge, blockbuster best-selling author, best known for his series of thrillers about diver, treasure-hunter, and lady's man Dirk Pitt. His books incorporate history and science with a James Bond sort of playfulness and a Robert Ludlum pace. He has sold more millions of books than even seems like a real number.

None of that came up when I met him. Or his clone.

I was on a domestic flight at the time, sitting next to an older gentleman, whose general fitness and charisma spoke of an active, rich life. As we got talking, he told me stories about places he'd been and things he'd seen. He had a great eye for detail in the stories, which were engagingly told. He was less detailed and less engaging about what exactly had brought him to those places or exposed him to those things. He'd been around the world. He'd grown up in California, he lived in Arizona. He loved classic cars. He was pretty clear that what he did now was collect cars, but not about much else.

I'm not an expert on Cussler's biography, and I was just enjoying the conversation with the man on the plane, not probing him for information, but given his appearance, age, personality, and the few general facts I have, I like to think there's a good chance it was Cussler himself.

But this isn't a story about meeting a famous writer. This is a story about how I met Clive Cussler and one of the few things we didn't talk about was books or writing. Sometimes as writers, I think it's easy to focus so much on our writing, that it's all we talk about and all we think about, and the next thing you know Amazon.com has close to 12,000 eBooks self-pubbed in which writers are writing about writing. If you're writing or have written a book about writing, I'm not criticizing that. It's a a fine thing to do. But I wonder if it's what you wanted to write when you started writing?

We blog about writing. We tweet about writing. We FB about writing. We make friends with writers. We go to writing conventions. We join writers' social groups.

All fine things, all things I do or have done.

But it narrows the world frightfully.

Romance writer Roni Loren, writes terrific blog posts about writing, but she also talks about hot guys and family life and healthy eating. Zimbabwean ex-pat Andrea Eames blogs about fashion and style as much as more than she blogs about writing. Literary craftsman Scott G. F. Bailey blogs about writing, but he also blogs about whatever he's reading, as well as plays he's seen, and whatever else is on his mind. Darkly comic literary writer Aliya Whitely blogs about her writing, but also about vegetables and video games and she tweets ridiculously sharp verbal humor. Writer of published crime novels and women's short fiction, Frances Garrood blogs about horses, shopping dollies, houses, politics, the elderly, and the entire tapestry of life.

There are other writers who maintain a diverse activity set, but I run into more and more of us who get dragged into the LaBrea tar pits of writing.

Ben Sisko said it, and I've repeated it, and I'll repeat it again: "I'm no writer; but if I were, it seems to me I'd want to poke my head up every once in a while and take a look around; see what's going on. It's life, Jake! You can miss it if you don't open your eyes."

Assuming it was Clive Cussler I met, and not his clone, that's the kind of writer he is. The kind who can tell stories about China and Mexico. The kind who has stories about boats and bicycles, about hunting and kidnappings. The kind who can fill a flight with entertaining stories, without ever once talking about books or writing.

That's the kind of writer I try to be. I don't usually make it.

.Nevets.

What's an Archaeological Thriller? Chime in!

2011-07-07T18:32:00.000-04:00

All---

In case you missed it, yesterday I posted about the Top Ten Things You Never Knew About Archaeology. In reply, historical mystery author Gary Corby asked if I'd given thought to writing an archaeological thriller. I have, and I mentioned that.

I've been thinking about it since then, and I think one of the reasons I haven't written one yet, is that I'm not quite sure what an archaeological thriller would look like. Would it look like Indiana Jones -- or would it look like John Darton's Neanderthal? Would archaeology inform a prehistorical context, or would it provide the vehicle for the narrative. Would the hero be like bioarchaeologist Temperance Brennan or like aquatic treasure-hunter Dirk Pitt?

I really don't know.

So I'm curious. I'd love to hear what you all think. What would constitute an archaeological thriller? When you hear the phrase, what, if anything, pops into your mind? I'd love to hear from everyone!

.Nevets.

Top Ten Things You Never Knew About Archaeology

2011-07-06T19:42:00.000-04:00

All---

As you might or might not know, I have a background in archaeology. I've been on digs in Alaska, Indiana, Iowa, Kentucky, Ohio, Oklahoma, and Mexico. It sounds extensive, but for true shovel bums, that's really nothing. (Honest.) Still, it's a lot of experience that others don't have and I feel fortunate to have had. In honor of that, I present two top ten lists tonight.

Top Ten Things You Might Know About Archaeology: Quick Hits

10. Archaeologists do not dig for dinosaur bones. Paleontologists do.

9. Archaeologists do not dig for gold. Crotchety old miners do.

8. Archaeologists are given to substance abuse.

Indiana Jones

7. Archaeologists are usually geeks who also like the outdoors.

6. Archaeologists do find pottery and sometimes "treasure," but mostly they find the trash that people left behind.

5. Archaeology is a science.

4. Archaeology is not a science.

3. We don't name our shovels like cowboys named their rifles, but we really, really wish we did.

2. It's all about walking and digging.

1. We do wear hats, but we don't usually carry whips and guns.

And now, another list, a little more serious, and a lot more detailed:

Artifact from Site MA-52 in Jalisco
(Original photo.)

Top Ten Things You Never Knew About Archaeology

10. Most archaeology in the US isn't done where we think there might be something; it's done where we need to demonstrate there isn't something that might be disrupted by major construction project.

9. There are a lot of specialties within archaeology. Georchaeology, which looks at the geology of archaeological sites; zooarchaeology, which deals with animal remains; and bioarchaeology, which deals with human remains within archaeological sites, are three of the most important.

8. Archaeology proper is the study of the material culture of prehistoric people. Historic archaeology is the archaeology of more recent people.

7. Archaeology is very conscious of scales. A feature is found within a test unit (or "test pit"), which is part of a site, which is situated within a region.

6. Archaeological survey takes place in phases. First, there's a ground survey, where the area is just walked, and the ground inspected for surface artifacts or features. Second, there are random test units (often 500cm X 500cm or 1m x 1m) dug to sample beneath the surface. Third, areas are identified that might be come to archaeological sites or artifacts, more systematic, and perhaps larger and deeper test units are dug. Fourth, any well-developed sites may be exposed to a high level of detail.

5. Most archaeological field crews internationally are comprised of poor, local workers with very little training. Most archaeological field crews in the US, Canada, and the UK (and probably some other places) are comprised of undergraduate college students. Most contract archaeology is overseen by crew chiefs who hold masters degrees in archaeology or anthropology. Most academic archaeology is overseen by faculty members with PhD's. In the contract world, PhD's stay in the office and run the business.

4. There are different colors of dirt, even brown dirt, and archaeologists care about that -- a lot. It helps give a sense of the how the soil, and the artifacts found within it, fit within the regional chronology. It also helps explain what natural factors might have impacted a site.

3. While it does happen, archaeologists don't actually carbon date artifacts very often. (Most artifacts recovered aren't organic, and carbon dating is a destructive test.) Most often, when carbon dating is used, it's used to establish "no earlier" than type chronological brackets.

2. Archaeological test units and sites are described in layers called strata. One of the fundamental principles that archaeology is based on is the idea that strata which are lower in the earth represent earlier time. Also, strata that are lower than others, are earlier than those. Therefore, an artifact found 40cm below the surface is usually presumed to be older than one found 15cm below the surface.

1. The most important thing: It's not just about how many test units you get through in a day. It's also about how clean your profile walls are.

.Nevets.

Step Into My Parlor

2011-07-05T18:09:00.000-04:00

Romo Lampkin, Battlestar Galactica

All---

Feels like a day with enough swirling good and bad around me that it's probably a good time to share a few likes and dislikes, and let you get to know a bit more about the quirks behind the Nevets.

First, the really exciting news: I've completed Sublimation, just shy of 100K words at this point. I'm in the middle of one final solo revision, and then I'll be handing it over to a few readers and an editor. Then, assuming there's not too much major work to be done, I'll begin querying agents. I'm incredibly excited about this book, a dark psycho-philosophical thriller about rules and gamesmanship in a surreal vortex of violence and personal collapse.

Another good thing going on right now is improved health. I've not really talked about it or made a big deal, and I will continue to do neither, but I wanted to share this as an encouragement. Over the course of the past eighteen months or so I've lost about sixty pounds. I'm still not at my ideal weight, but I already feel much better, and while I still suffer from terrible allergies and some other health issues, there's no question that I have more energy and stamina to get through the day.

On the other hand, something that frustrates me more than it should. Things should just do what they're supposed to do. When a door doesn't open, a container holds food other than it's labelled for, or a video glitches and fails, it really jars me. Even worse, when a book is interrupted by another book . . .

What's that?

Yes, today I received my copy of Stories for Sendai. I asked Rose to take my picture with it when she had a chance, and then, as I was flipping through the pages I started to get confused. Apparently Michelle and JC had used some excerpts of Thomas Paine's Common Sense and Lewis Caroll's Alice in Wonderland in among the stories. Strange choices, but editors will be editors. It seemed extra strange that they included artwork. Even stranger, that there was a table of contents for Common Sense. Then, I realized that these weren't excerpts. They were entire books. A book nested within a book, nested within a book. And the interruption was right in the middle of a story. Jarring. Frustrating. Agonizing.

But after a quick conversation with Michelle to confirm that not all the printed volumes were shipping like that, I was able to use the pains-free, questions-free Amazon replacement process and I have a corrected book shipping to me already. It's being well handled, but it definitely played straight into a hangup of mine.

On a more ambiguous note, without reference to any specifics, I will also say that the past few days (between Battlestar Galactica and the news), I've been once again reminded just how much I get into jurisprudence. I don't mean trial news or courtroom drama. I mean the actual legal, philosophical, and ethical nuances which go into the operations of a legal system, especially our American adversarial system. Always gets my heart beating just a little faster. Even when I was just tutoring students in comm law, which is pretty dang boring. Jurisprudence really is, in its own right, a battle between rules and gamesmanship, both of which I adore.

Little known fact: There was a time I was thinking seriously about law school, but was frightened off mostly by the money.

Less known fact: When I was thirteen or so, I checked out several volumes of the Indiana code and read through them so that I could understand the difference in nuance between larceny, burglary, and grand theft.

And then, ending on a really positive note: I got to have a brief exchange with writer and Twitter-friend Shopgirl about the Chinese langauge today and how cool the Beijing accent is. Makes me grin. I really don't understand it, but there's no denying it: as much as I enjoy other languages, there's something about Mandarin Chinese that just hits deep inside me and resonates from head to toe.

.Nevets.

Just Another Brick in the Japanese Wall

2011-06-30T12:45:00.000-04:00

All---

Ikuta Toma from Maou, TBS 2008

Things like cultural heritage, tradition, and family are interesting things. For some, these things bring with them warmth, nostalgia, and a grounding for everything they have become. For others, the same things are prisons, tying them down and restricting their freedom and growth. In America, we tend (broad brush here) to circumvent this problem by shrugging off our heritage and traditions and downsizing our meaning of family. In other cultural contexts, this isn't an option.

Tanaka Jun is a young Japanese man struggling with the weight of this. Torn between pressures to celebrate his heritage and pressures to shake off, as Ben Folds might say, his redneck past, he exists in a shell that he has created for himself. Then, he starts receiving text messages on his cellphone. A menacing countdown to an evil he does not know.

Tanaka Jun popped a takoyaki into his mouth, took the toothpick which had speared it, and flicked it over his shoulder. As he slowly savored the fried octopus, he set the container of remaining treats on the counter and, to the chef’s confusion, walked slowly away. The slim young man adjusted his dark sunglasses, pulled down his hat and, even though it was a hot Osaka summer day, he wrapped a knit scarf around his mouth.

In his pocket, the last mail his cellphone had received still shone with a single character: the stark cross-shaped mark that meant 10.

Since, my friend, you have revealed your

Deepest fear,

I sentence you to be exposed before

Your peers.

Tear down the wall!

The anthology Stories for Sendai is now available for purchase on Amazon.com. The costs is $7.99 for the print release with nineteen stories and a poem. Featuring Michelle Davidson Argyle, Phil Loring, Davin Malasarn, JC Martin, JR McRae, C. N. Nevets, and many more.

International readers and fans of e-reading, the Kindle edition will be available very soon. I will make sure to keep you posted, but you can also follow the Stories for Sendai blog for more information.

Stories for Sendai

Old Folks Playing Ping Pong but not on Horses

2011-06-29T20:47:00.001-04:00

as dared by Frances Garrood

"Between the Stars"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011

Everyone knew Effie. Effie was the one who went into the common yard every morning, sitting with her back to the sunrise. Effie was the one who was full after eating half a dozen of the tapioca seeds from her pudding. Effie was the one who lamed her tooth loss on soft bristles, her hair loss on hard bristles, and her loneliness on a bristly daughter-in-law. Effie was also the one who was convinced that if she put butter on her peas, her belly would swell until it burst.

A man’s face in the clouds had told her so.

“You gonna play ping pong tonight, Effie?” Vince liked Effie despite all that. There was a prettiness about her eyes that shone when she was being cantankerous, and a vitality in her voice that came out when she talked about Sherlock Holmes or cats.

“Nope.”

“There’s gonna be prizes!”

“Don’t want a ribbon for beating old folks at a game. Don’t want a book that I don’t have someone to read to me. Don’t want a picture frame. Ain’t got a picture.” Effie’s mouth curled up. “Prizes. Hmmph.”

“Come on, Eff, everyone’s playing. It’s a tournament! It’s gonna be a lotta fun! We’ll all be there, laughing and having a good time.”

She looked at Vince sharply and then looked outside a small window, toward the clouds. When she looked back at him, her expression was more vague. “If I play . . .” Her voice trailed off into an extended pause before she finally said, in a serious but quite matter-of-fact tone, “I will die.”

“Die? What?”

Effie looked back out the window. “He told me.”

“Who did?” Vince was puzzled. He was indulgent of Effie’s quirks, but that did not mean he understood them.

Effie shifted around and adjusted herself, as if pulling herself more cozily under a blanket or shawl, albeit without actually being under a blanket or shawl. After a moment she nodded toward the window. “He did.”

“The face in the clouds?”

“Yes.” Her voice caught in her throat. “He told me.” Her gaze slid back to Vince, though she did not turn her face from the window. “You might die, too.”

Vince huffed and tapped his chest twice. “Good as gold, Effie, you know that. Never had the high pressure, never had the cholesterol, never had the arterio-scoleosis . Whiskey and sea air keeps the heart strong and the blood clean. No ping pong’s gonna take me down.”

Effie shrugged her right shoulder, and looked back out the window. There was the foreshadowing of a smirk on her lips, and a glint in her eyes. “He’s never wrong.”

“Will you at least watch?”

A shadow fell over her. “I would rather not.”

“Come on, Eff, cheer me on, at least.”

“If you wish.”

He did wish, and he gave her hearty thanks for her concession. She took his thanks graciously and then retreated into her room. She closed the blinds and turned out the lights, but left the door open onto the hallway. She then pulled the blankets and sheets off the bed, and arranged them into a nest on the floor. She curled up in the nest – eyes open – staring into the darkness – it was the only way she could not see the man’s face in the clouds.

Effie did not emerge from her room for lunch. Effie did not emerge from her room for afternoon crafts. Effie did not emerge from her room for dinner or desert. When she heard groups of people moving through the hallway, she listened for the end of their shuffling feet, their thumping gates, their loud, insensible chatter. Then, finally, Effie emerged.

“Old folks,” she muttered with distaste.

She oozed through the Z of hallways until she wound up in the multipurpose room. It was a large room that resembled an elementary school gym from 1978. Two ping pong tables were set up. A group of volunteers were opening boxes of ping pong balls and emptying them into a couple of large bowls. They were counting on lots of lost balls, and not many people wanting to scramble around and collect them.

The balls dripped out of their cartons and pik’ed and ping’ed against the other balls in the bowl until they settled into place. It was nearly hypnotic.

One, then another, then another, then another.

Effie's chin dipped with each ball that dropped, rebounded as it settled.

One, then another, then another, then another.

Perfectly white spheres. Hard. Firm. Hollow. Each one the same as the one before it.

One, then another, then another, then –

But there was one that was different. She didn't know why, but Effie was sure –

Then another, then another, then another.

And the ball that seemed different was lost. It hadn't looked different. It hadn't bounced different. Effie could never have said a single thing that was actually different about it. She just knew it was. She turned her head, looking for a window that might look at at the night sky where the clouds were hidden between stars, taking the man's face with them.

There were no surprises in how play began. The volunteers had been right. There were plenty of lost balls, and none of the old folks were inclined to go chasing after ping pong balls. Vince had also been right. The old folks were having a lot of fun. The women were easily embarrassed over their lack of skill. The men were easily frustrated over their loss of former skills. But both the women and the men were laughing and smiling more than anything else.

Ellie pulled her arms and legs in, tucking herself into a metal and plastic chair that had never seen better days. Her face drooped. Her eyes turned down. She just listened. Listened to the pings and pongs of the table tennis balls. Paddle to table. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.

A ball skipped off the surface of the table and skittered across the floor, where no one wanted to fetch it.

Another ball from the bowl. Ping, then pong. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.

Effie wondered if that ball – the different one – if it would sound different. Maybe it would pong before it pinged. Maybe it buzz off the paddle, rattle at it hit the table.

Skid – skitter.

Another ball. Ping, then pong. Paddle, table. Paddle, table.

She knew it was different, but she didn't know how different or why it was different. She was sure she would know it if she saw it. She wondered if she would know it if she heard it. She wondered if it mattered. Different didn't always matter.

Effie wondered.

Skid – skitter.

Effie felt cold.

She looked up. It was Vince playing.

Her heart began to pound. She didn't know why.

Vince reached into the bowl for another ball.

Vince, she wanted to say, but her mouth was too dry to get the words out.

Vince pulled out a new ball. That ball.

Effie half-rose from her seat. She started to take a step, but froze as she saw Vince eying the ball. Perhaps he noticed that it was different. Perhaps he would put put it back. Perhaps –

But no.

Vince lined the ball and paddle carefully up for his serve.

Would it ping? Would it then pong?

Ball in left hand. Paddle in right. A subtle movement. A little arm. A lot of wrist.

The ball burst in a flash of white.

Effie's pupils constricted so rapidly that she couldn't see for several minutes. But she heard. She heard the bustling and panic of old folks.

As the dimness gave way to vision, she saw Vince, lying on the floor. She looked for a window. A window that might have looked out onto the sky, where the man's face would be hidden in the black between stars,
waiting to emerge with the morning clouds.

This story was written as a flash in three sittings. As a flash, I didn't edit it. That's Heather Hansen's rule, and I'm sticking to it. The original conceit which I was kinda sorta dared to right was supposed to be old people playing ping pong on horseback. I forgot that once I started writing. Oops. Maybe I'll have to do another go at the concept sometime.

.Nevets.

"Between the Stars"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011

Everyone knew Effie. Effie was the one who went into the common yard every morning, sitting with her back to the sunrise. Effie was the one who was full after eating half a dozen of the tapioca seeds from her pudding. Effie was the one who lamed her tooth loss on soft bristles, her hair loss on hard bristles, and her loneliness on a bristly daughter-in-law. Effie was also the one who was convinced that if she put butter on her peas, her belly would swell until it burst.

A man’s face in the clouds had told her so.

“You gonna play ping pong tonight, Effie?” Vince liked Effie despite all that. There was a prettiness about her eyes that shone when she was being cantankerous, and a vitality in her voice that came out when she talked about Sherlock Holmes or cats.

“Nope.”

“There’s gonna be prizes!”

“Don’t want a ribbon for beating old folks at a game. Don’t want a book that I don’t have someone to read to me. Don’t want a picture frame. Ain’t got a picture.” Effie’s mouth curled up. “Prizes. Hmmph.”

“Come on, Eff, everyone’s playing. It’s a tournament! It’s gonna be a lotta fun! We’ll all be there, laughing and having a good time.”

She looked at Vince sharply and then looked outside a small window, toward the clouds. When she looked back at him, her expression was more vague. “If I play . . .” Her voice trailed off into an extended pause before she finally said, in a serious but quite matter-of-fact tone, “I will die.”

“Die? What?”

Effie looked back out the window. “He told me.”

“Who did?” Vince was puzzled. He was indulgent of Effie’s quirks, but that did not mean he understood them.

Effie shifted around and adjusted herself, as if pulling herself more cozily under a blanket or shawl, albeit without actually being under a blanket or shawl. After a moment she nodded toward the window. “He did.”

“The face in the clouds?”

“Yes.” Her voice caught in her throat. “He told me.” Her gaze slid back to Vince, though she did not turn her face from the window. “You might die, too.”

Vince huffed and tapped his chest twice. “Good as gold, Effie, you know that. Never had the high pressure, never had the cholesterol, never had the arterio-scoleosis . Whiskey and sea air keeps the heart strong and the blood clean. No ping pong’s gonna take me down.”

Effie shrugged her right shoulder, and looked back out the window. There was the foreshadowing of a smirk on her lips, and a glint in her eyes. “He’s never wrong.”

“Will you at least watch?”

A shadow fell over her. “I would rather not.”

“Come on, Eff, cheer me on, at least.”

“If you wish.”

He did wish, and he gave her hearty thanks for her concession. She took his thanks graciously and then retreated into her room. She closed the blinds and turned out the lights, but left the door open onto the hallway. She then pulled the blankets and sheets off the bed, and arranged them into a nest on the floor. She curled up in the nest – eyes open – staring into the darkness – it was the only way she could not see the man’s face in the clouds.

Effie did not emerge from her room for lunch. Effie did not emerge from her room for afternoon crafts. Effie did not emerge from her room for dinner or desert. When she heard groups of people moving through the hallway, she listened for the end of their shuffling feet, their thumping gates, their loud, insensible chatter. Then, finally, Effie emerged.

“Old folks,” she muttered with distaste.

She oozed through the Z of hallways until she wound up in the multipurpose room. It was a large room that resembled an elementary school gym from 1978. Two ping pong tables were set up. A group of volunteers were opening boxes of ping pong balls and emptying them into a couple of large bowls. They were counting on lots of lost balls, and not many people wanting to scramble around and collect them.

The balls dripped out of their cartons and pik’ed and ping’ed against the other balls in the bowl until they settled into place. It was nearly hypnotic.

One, then another, then another, then another.

Effie's chin dipped with each ball that dropped, rebounded as it settled.

One, then another, then another, then another.

Perfectly white spheres. Hard. Firm. Hollow. Each one the same as the one before it.

One, then another, then another, then –

But there was one that was different. She didn't know why, but Effie was sure –

Then another, then another, then another.

And the ball that seemed different was lost. It hadn't looked different. It hadn't bounced different. Effie could never have said a single thing that was actually different about it. She just knew it was. She turned her head, looking for a window that might look at at the night sky where the clouds were hidden between stars, taking the man's face with them.

There were no surprises in how play began. The volunteers had been right. There were plenty of lost balls, and none of the old folks were inclined to go chasing after ping pong balls. Vince had also been right. The old folks were having a lot of fun. The women were easily embarrassed over their lack of skill. The men were easily frustrated over their loss of former skills. But both the women and the men were laughing and smiling more than anything else.

Ellie pulled her arms and legs in, tucking herself into a metal and plastic chair that had never seen better days. Her face drooped. Her eyes turned down. She just listened. Listened to the pings and pongs of the table tennis balls. Paddle to table. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.

A ball skipped off the surface of the table and skittered across the floor, where no one wanted to fetch it.

Another ball from the bowl. Ping, then pong. Paddle to table. Paddle to table.

Effie wondered if that ball – the different one – if it would sound different. Maybe it would pong before it pinged. Maybe it buzz off the paddle, rattle at it hit the table.

Skid – skitter.

Another ball. Ping, then pong. Paddle, table. Paddle, table.

She knew it was different, but she didn't know how different or why it was different. She was sure she would know it if she saw it. She wondered if she would know it if she heard it. She wondered if it mattered. Different didn't always matter.

Effie wondered.

Skid – skitter.

Effie felt cold.

She looked up. It was Vince playing.

Her heart began to pound. She didn't know why.

Vince reached into the bowl for another ball.

Vince, she wanted to say, but her mouth was too dry to get the words out.

Vince pulled out a new ball. That ball.

Effie half-rose from her seat. She started to take a step, but froze as she saw Vince eying the ball. Perhaps he noticed that it was different. Perhaps he would put put it back. Perhaps –

But no.

Vince lined the ball and paddle carefully up for his serve.

Would it ping? Would it then pong?

Ball in left hand. Paddle in right. A subtle movement. A little arm. A lot of wrist.

The ball burst in a flash of white.

Effie's pupils constricted so rapidly that she couldn't see for several minutes. But she heard. She heard the bustling and panic of old folks.

As the dimness gave way to vision, she saw Vince, lying on the floor. She looked for a window. A window that might have looked out onto the sky, where the man's face would be hidden in the black between stars,
waiting to emerge with the morning clouds.

This story was written as a flash in three sittings. As a flash, I didn't edit it. That's Heather Hansen's rule, and I'm sticking to it. The original conceit which I was kinda sorta dared to right was supposed to be old people playing ping pong on horseback. I forgot that once I started writing. Oops. Maybe I'll have to do another go at the concept sometime.

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for Sendai: Music for Kansai Oniisan

2011-06-29T12:00:00.045-04:00

All---

Are you excited yet? We're almost at the official release date for Stories for Sendai! I know I am incredibly excited. I've heard authors say that their first stories to see print were their most exciting. For me, given my more cynical turn, I'm always afraid that the last story will be, well, my last story. Every story that I write not only gets stronger, but also becomes more rewarding. To celebrate my story, "Kansai Oniisan," I'm offering you a soundtrack.

I frequently listen to music when I'm writing, and often times I develop a sort of leitmotif, in which certain songs represent certain characters. I rarely, however, develop an actual soundtrack for what I'm writing. In fact, this is less of a soundtrack and more of a musical preview. At the risk of sounding professorial, I think it might be fun to watch these videos, sometime before you read the story, and then perhaps again after. If I've done my job as a writer properly, you will appreciate the music and culture represented in a different way.

So, without spoilers as to context in the story, here's the outline:

The bulk of the story is covered by three songs by Japanese pop artists using English titles. The video, "Loveless," by Yamashita Tomohisa, captures some of the tone of the opening of the story, perhaps the first half or so. As things hit a moment of normalcy and comradeship, I would recommend the video, "Weeeek," by NEWS. Once things suddenly turn dark and heavy, go to, "Truth," by Arashi.

At the end, though, it's all about this song, "Nani wa Iro ha Bushi," by Kanjani8. If you watch none of the other videos I've linked, at least watch this one. It will really give you a sense of the Kansai cultural personality, which lies at the heart of story.

Hope this helps get you all pumped up for the anthology!

.Nevets.

Cheers, Mates

2011-06-28T11:32:00.000-04:00

All---

Among the many things that have lapsed by the wayside while I've been too busy to keep up with this blog, is the need to congratulate a lot of my writing friends on recent milestones, and to, at the same time, let you readers know about some great new reading opportunities. In my defense, I also haven't had time to keep up with their blogs, and am still catching up on the news myself.

Here's my best attempt at some highlights. If I've missed something, please let me know! I will be happy to edit and modify. Going in roughly alphabetical order by author's first name (arbitrary -- holla) . . .

Davin Malasarn just published an anthology of short stories entitled, Wild Grass (also available in Kindle format). If you're not familiar with Domey's writing, he writes literary fiction, though he sometimes wonders why it's called that. In his case it's clear: the mark of literary fiction is the painful attention to craft that goes into every word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph. His writing is shot through with sharp details poke and prod the reader until, in the end, all the details fade away into some something more bigger and more true than you realized you were reading.

Jennifer Hillier's news may have me the most excited. No offense to any of my other writing friends, but the fact that Jennifer's debut thriller Creep (also available in the UK) is about to hit the shelves (July 5th!) from Simon & Schuster has me bouncing up and down. (In a dark, sinister, introspective kind of way, of course.) I am so excited for my sister in the shadowy places of American genre fiction. I can't wait to get my hands on her book, and I look forward to watching it explode onto the scene! July 5th! Can you believe it? I can't!

Michelle Davidson Argyle is just full of writing news. Her short story, "Signs," was picked up by Suspense Magazine. ARC's are hitting the street for her September 2011 release Monarch, and the book is now available for pre-order. Monarch is soft psychological suspense at its best; I cannot recommend this book enough. As if that weren't enough, her self-published novella Cinders is having a $0.99 celebration event, and has had its best month of sales. If you like literary fantasy with a dark, character-driven engine, you need to read Cinders. After you have, we can argue about whether it has a happy ending or not. (I vote yes.) On top of all that, of course, she and JC Martin have just edited the Stories for Sendai anthology.

RJ Ellory's A Simple Act of Violence is now available in US markets. If you're not tied down to US Markets, you should also know that the paperback release of Saints of New York (due in September) is now available for pre-order, as is the hardcover debut of Ellory's newest novel, Bad Signs (due in October). If you're not familiar with his writing, RJ Ellory writes psychological suspense with an incredibly human voice and a deep investment in the humanity of humanity. He and I write very differently, and from very different perspectives, but if I ever feel a kindred authorial spirit when reading another author's work in my genre, it's when I read Ellory. He sets the mark of quality psychological suspense to which I aspire.

Ryan David Jahn's UK award-winning thriller, Acts of Violence is now available in the US, where is has been released as Good Neighbors. I read the UK release and still, to this day, cannot shake this book from my head. Told in a voice-rich, intimate third person POV, the brutal physical and emotional violence in this story is not for everyone. It's worth the read, though, for its unlikely bleakness and its even unlikelier hope.

Tim Stretton, whom you may may remember I consider a master of fantasy world-building, has at long last published The Last Free City, the sequel to The Dog of the North, and it's available on Amazon.com in the US or Amazon.co.UK across the pond. Shortly before time slipped completely through my fingers, I ordered an early LuLu release of the book. Rose pounced on, devoured, and enjoyed the read, so even though I haven't had a chance to catch up with my TBR pile yet, she would attest to its quality.

If you have writing news that should be shared with the world, the only reason I haven't done so is that I missed it. Please, let me know about it, and I'll be happy to update the post with your scoop.

Readers, if you've read any of these releases and would like to chime in about what you thought, please do so! For that matter, readers, if you know about a new or upcoming release that you think plays well in the Nevets universe, let me know!

.Nevets.

MC Escher's Evil Identical Cousin Cathy

2011-06-27T17:15:00.001-04:00

All---

I don't have time to catalog all the writing myths I've run into over the years. I don't even have an interest in doing so right now. But here's one that I think is especially pernicious because it just makes so much sense that it resonates without explanation: write what you like to read.

I'm not disputing the value of being familiar with and well read in the genre you're publishing in. I think even that can be made a little too much of, but I have experienced its value first hand so I at least get it.

But that's not the same as writing what you like to read. New writers sometimes ask, "I want to write, but I'm not sure what to write." Developing writers sometimes ask, "I feel like I should settle on a genre for this story, but I'm not sure which." Readers sometimes ask writers, "How did you decide what to write?" And too often the answer is, "Write what you like to read."

But, as the saying going, here's the thing. I read sci fi. I read westerns. I read mysteries. I read fantasy and historical fiction. I read literature with very internal story lines. I read spy thrillers and psychological suspense. Most of the time, what I read isn't telling the stories I want to tell. Most of the time, authors I read aren't telling the stories in the way I would. When I'm writing I take human psychology, brutally force it through a sieve that distorts reality, and then chunk it violently together with philosophy.

And every time I try to step away from my role as Escher's verbal dark side, the stories break. They don't work. They don't click. No matter how much I might appreciate the story if told another way.

Truth be told, I'm already reading people who tell the stories I want to read. I'm telling stories to tell them, not to read them. And, strangely, in the end, I don't like stories that I write how I might like to read them. But I love the stories that I write how I like to tell them.

And so, when I want to tell an existential story about the need to matter, it includes a shotgun and a man in a chicken suit ("The Best Medicine," Genre Wars). When I want to write a story about coping with death, it centers on a forensic anthropologist reveling in gore ("Death, Be Not Me," Genre Wars). When I want to tell the sweet love story of a man breaking free of isolation, its course runs through the imagery of serial killing and dead insects ("Terminal Instar," Notes from Underground). When I want to tell the story of the two-edged sword that is heritage, I take a main character with an attitude problem and throw a ticking bomb in his pocket ("Kansai Oniisan," Stores for Sendai).

And when I try to write about the human struggle for patience in a busy world, employing airport observations as partial metaphors (see my last blog post), it doesn't click until I wrap it around a revenge plot turned mercy killing.

So here's my verdict:

Write the story you want to tell, and write it the way you want to tell it -- and the way only you can.

.Nevets.

p.s. Someday maybe I will take a stab at what, "and the way only you can," means.

When Reality Makes No Sense

2011-06-23T08:30:00.042-04:00

All---

A lot of my writing over the years has focused on paradox, worldview, distortion of perspective, and things like that. In fact, my college years' chap book, Kyrie Eleison, contained a series of psychologically-driven sci fi stories very much on that theme. Because it wasn't published, I also emblazoned the cover with artwork by MC Escher and continued hitting the theme in a few clip art illustrations.

The trick with writing paradox is that it needs verisimilitude in order to be believed. For instance, the Pink Floyd album Ummagumma has a cover that at first looks like simple recursion -- a picture in picture in a picture. Then, as you look more directly at the artwork, you realize that it's not recursive. The band members swap places and poses. Somehow, it evokes the feeling of a paradox, when it is in fact quite reasonable.

I need to get back to my book this book, but over my conference I was working on a short story about patience. It's a good story, and there are some moments in it which really resonate with me. Unfortunately, part of why they resonate is because they are inspired by a few things I observed on my trip. Things which were so outlandish I had to write about them.

Thanks which are so outlandish I'm not sure I can use them in a story. Readers might not be able to relate to them or believe them enough to accept. Not to mention the typewritten letters from professionals saying, "We would never do that." So I'm not sure, yet...

.Nevets.

Portable Octopus

2011-06-13T18:36:00.000-04:00

All---

Tanaka Jun popped a takoyaki into his mouth, took the toothpick which had speared it, and flicked it over his shoulder. from "Kansai Oniisan," (c) C. N. Nevets, 2011

Picture from yaysunshine.tumblr.com.

At the open of my story, "Kansai Oniisan," from the upcoming anthology Stories for Sendai, the main character partakes of a snack-sized Japanese food called takoyaki. What exactly is takoyaki?

Takoyaki is the answer to the age old question:

So you got a hankering for some octopus, but you don't feel like lugging the whole thing around, what're you gonna do?

You're going to get Takoyaki.

Often compared to dumplings, takoyaki (tako = octopus; yaki = a frying technique) are essentially pan-fried spheres of bread, filled with octopus and a variety of strong Japanese flavorings.

The octopus part of the dish can be anything from a small cutting of boiled octopus to an entire baby octopus, preferably in the center. The batter is flavored in a typical Japanese fashion -- infused with dashi stock and shot through with bits of pickled ginger, green onion, aonori seaweed, katsuobushi flakes, even red shrimp. There is a lot of variety in the filling and flavoring, but there is even more variety in the topping. Some takoyaki are eaten essentially plain or with a thin dipping sauce. Others are topped more complexly with daikon and mayonnaise or more.

The dish seems to have originated in Osaka, the Kansai town where my story takes place. As is characteristic of Osaka food variety is encouraged, as long as the end product is a full-on sensory experience of taste, aroma, and (literal) heat. It is served all over Japan, but in the minds of many, it is strongly characteristic of Osaka.

Takoyaki stand from Gokusen (NTV).

There are a lot of cultural and social trapping that go along with takoyaki. Most often, it is perceived as a street snack, and is commonly purchased at stands harken more to old county fair booths than they do to hot dog stands. The takoyaki are actually prepared in the stand, cooked on in fry-pants that are reminiscent of muffin tins. Typical of Asian street food, there are often a couple of small seats around the stand and perhaps a bar to stand at, but the food is also easily served up into portable, plastic containers or paper baskets. The stands serve as easy, casual meeting places for couples who are not yet ready for public dating or private meetings together. They can serve as neighborhood anchor points. They also serve as places to get some snack food, especially in food-crazed Osaka, whose Dotonbori district is often characteristics by a motto that can be translated as, "Eat yourself to ruin with joyful gluttony."

Takoyaki preparation in At Home Dad (Fuji TV).

While they are rarely served in restaurants, Takoyaki are not limited to street vendors, of course, and can be prepared at home, though I'm not clear if they would be prepared as a personal snack, a family snack, or more as a party food. They are, however, a common food at neighborhood and club festivals, where they are not prepared by professional chefs but brought and prepared by individuals, rather like the man at church who makes the cotton candy or the lady at the PTA who brings her own popcorn cart.

As with most Japanese arts, clean presentation and intentional design are important. Smooth sphere sheers with clean edges are valued. Efforts are taken to minimize the waffle-iron batter effect so that when the balls are topped and presented, the person who is about to eat feels as if they are receiving a gift, something that shows appreciation and respect for them and which demands that they show appreciation and respect back to the preparer.

They can be eaten with small sticks, similar to toothpicks, or with chopsticks in the usual way. Takoyaki may also be served up like a kabab, a group of them skewered on a chopstick. (Apparently not every street vendor in Japan has read the etiquette books which tell us to never, ever use our chopsticks as a spear!)

So the next time you want the yumminess of octopus without all the hassle of lugging around a full-grown animal, you know what to do: grab some takoyaki.

.Nevets.

Writing News - Stories for Sendai Anthology

2011-06-12T14:24:00.000-04:00

All---

You may have already heard the news, if you're following the Stories for Sendai blog, or if you keep up with either of the upcoming anthology's authors, JC Martin or Michelle Davidson Argyle. In case you haven't heard, though, my short story, "Kansai Oniisan" was selected for inclusion in Stories for Sendai. The anthology will features twenty works of fiction or poetry and is scheduled for publication at the end of June. It is an incredibly deep, diverse field of writers, and I am truly honored to be included alongside authors such as Domey Malasarn, Phil Loring, Roland Yeomans, Michelle Davidson Argyle, and JC Martin.

There's a lot going on with this story and this publication that make it extra meaningful for me.

Phil Loring is a very good friend of mine from grad school. Some of our best memories of Alaska are times that my wife and I spent with Phil and his wife. Some of my own best memories of grad school are the widely-ranging, no-holds-barred intellectual, philosophical, political, anthropological, and speculative conversations held in the grad school bull pen between Phil and myself on everything from real-world concerns to science fiction geekery. I am very excited to share space with Phil's, "Population 1," in this anthology.

After learning from and being inspired by Michelle Davidson Argyle and Domey Malasarn for a long time, it's also a treat to be published alongside them. Domey and I write in very different ways, but we have both found interesting parallels and connections in our writing from time to time. I can't tell you how much I smiled when I say that, like my own, "Kansai Oniisan," his story, "Obaachan," is titled with a Japanese family word packed with all sorts of implications that would have been lost if presented in English. Michelle is the author of two of my favorite books I read last year: the literary fantasy Cinders, whose main character resonated with me more than virtually any other I've read; and the soft psychological thriller Monarch, set to be released this September by Rhemalda.

The anthology itself is also important. You should read the entire mission statement, but here is an excerpt summary of the excellent work this anthology is doing, as presented on their blog:

We are compiling an anthology of inspirational short stories loosely themed around the strength of the human spirit. All proceeds will be donated to GlobalGiving in aid of victims of the earthquake and tsunami. GlobalGiving will disburse the funds to relief organisations and emergency services on the ground, including International Medical Corps and Save the Children.

I am excited to playing even a small part in that relief effort, and I hope you all will help spread the word, too. This anthology is a great way for readers and writers to do something bigger than stories, and to connect in a real and not only figurative way to the broader world.

But, at the end of the day, what's most meaningful to me is my story itself, "Kansai Oniisan." Like any story, there are things I think I did well, things I wish I'd done better, and things I can't decide whether I like or not. One of the things I think I accomplished was transporting the reader to a context with which they might be unfamiliar. When I used to write fantasy and science fiction, that was a big part of what I did. Now that I write psychological suspense, it's something I go to less frequently. In, "Saturation Point," I loved the opportunity to transport the reader to the crowded Delhi markets. In, "Kansai Oniisan," I really wanted to take the reader to Osaka, Japan.

I've mentioned before that I have a lot of connections of varying depth and seriousness to Japan. It was really important to me that I use this opportunity, not to represent Japan, but to convey some of complex layers of Japanese culture and society which are compelling to me and which make Japan an important and special part of our world. While that's a very challenge for a short story, I believe that, whatever else I accomplished with, "Kansai Oniisan," I did capture some of the tension and hope which are uniquely Japanese.

And, so, with no further ado, the opening to, "Kansai Oniisan," (c) 2011 by C. N. Nevets:

Tanaka Jun popped a takoyaki into his mouth, took the toothpick which had speared it, and flicked it over his shoulder. As he slowly savored the fried octopus, he set the container of remaining treats on the counter and, to the chef’s confusion, walked slowly away. The slim young man adjusted his dark sunglasses, pulled down his hat and, even though it was a hot Osaka summer day, he wrapped a knit scarf around his mouth.

In his pocket, the last mail his cellphone had received still shone with a single character: the stark cross-shaped mark that meant 10.

Watch the Stories for Sendai blog for updates on when the anthology will be available, so you can read the rest of this, as well as all the other stories!

.Nevets.

The Moral of the Story

2011-06-09T11:32:00.000-04:00

All---

Good news: I'm alive!

Bad news: I still don't have my head above water...

Good news: But it's getting closer!

Bad news: Close, not no cigar.

I'm sorry I've been away for so long. I miss interacting with you all. Unfortunately, I've continued to battle workload and exhaustion since my job transition in the spring. I still believe the job transition was the right move, both for our organization and for myself, but none of us really anticipated what the transition was going to entail. I won't belabor that anymore.

I have some great news to share with you all, and I want to update you on writing projects, but I hope to be able to post again within the next couple of days. Today, I want to spell out a few things I've learned in my absence. The horrible truth is that in this time I have been absent, I have gotten no writing and really no reading done. And that's with a book almost finished and a book sitting on my night stand by the great Domey Malasarn, that I am so excited to read. So here, for me anyway, are the morals of the story:

1) I can approach writing in a professional manner. I can present myself in public as an author worth of respect. I cannot, however, truly approach writing as a job as long as I am working a 40 - 60 hour job and volunteering 10 - 20 hours a week and hoping to actually be a decent husband, son, brother, friend, and human being. There are probably people who can pull it off. I'm not one. As soon as I call it a job, I need to give it the same dedication and effort as I do another job, and that's just too much. Professional, yes; job, no.

But here's the thing: until I have a contract it really isn't a job so THAT'S OKAY.

2) Writing talk can be preposterously silly. I have not really been able to keep up much with blogs, because I haven't had the time, brain power, or eye strength. I have seen enough on the margins to know that some of my friends and other I hold in high esteem have continued to come up with creative perspectives and to find ingenious moments of enlightenment. But, I'll be honest. As I look out at writing blogs and writing twitter feeds, after not being truly in the loop, I'm a little embarrassed by how narrow our focus, how petty our concerns, and how irrelevant some of our great controversies seem to really be. I'm not sure what to make of that or how to respond to it.

But here's the thing: I DON'T HAVE TO talk that way myself, and I DON'T HAVE TO read other people who are talking that way.

3) Confession time. Seriously. I say this not out of self-pity, but out of empathy with the many others in my same position. Let's face it, in frank terms, being a writer with diverse interests and training and using up all you energy in pursuit of neither writing nor your interests or training is really, really depressing. And that creates a pretty horrible spiral as depression and exhaustion feed off one another. There are plenty of easy and pithy things to say about that. I don't feel like saying any of them, just admitting the truth, and saying to everyone else out there in the same boat...

"Hey, I get it, brothers and sisters."

4) I still don't have a lot of time. I still don't have a lot of energy. I still don't have a lot of brain power or eye strength. But I have more than I did yesterday, and more than I did a week ago, and more than a month ago. They say to go in baby steps. They say every little bit counts. I'm an all-in or it doesn't count kind of guy, so baby steps and little bits feel like nothing.

But here's the thing: I'm wrong and I'm trying to stop being stupid about that.

The good news is that my workload is finally starting to level out. It's summer so my wife's work schedule has shifted so we can actually spend time together. I'm beating my head against all new doors, rather than the same old doors, which is at least a change.

More very soon on some great writing news, but I thought after this long an absence, I owed you all a personal post first.

.Nevets.

And Now For Something Completely Different... The Synonym Game

2011-04-06T21:42:00.006-04:00

All---

So after last night's sort of weighty post (and thank you so very much to every one who joined the conversation, and please check over there if you haven't already), I thought I'd change up the pace a little bit.

I've suggested a few times that I will likely never be a truly literary writer for one main reason: I can never bring myself to pick the words I use more for their sound or their rhythm or their structure than for their meaning. I'm a meanings guy and a precision guy. I always have been, and I always be.

When I was a kid, my parents told me not to run though the puddle. I jumped in it. And I was bewildered when they were annoyed with me. I wasn't smarting off; I just didn't understand how the two were supposed to convey the same essence.

I hope that I've gotten a little better over time, but I know it's not a whole lot. It's taken my wife me most of our ten years to figure out how to talk about things in the kitchen. To me, a pot and a pan are different. A cup, mug, and a glass are all different. And I would never use them interchangeably, and I still sometimes get confused when people do so in the casual rush of the day.

The flip-side of that is that, unfortunately, my precise definitions aren't always predictable. That is to say, it's not quite the same taking everything literally in the way people usually mean. For instance, a wooden spoon can be plastic and silver tape can be green. In my mind, when I was forming definitions of the language, I didn't connect wood + spoon = wooden spoon. Instead, I connected large, flat spoon for mixing in bowls and stirring while cooking = wooden spoon. Likewise, we used to call duct tape, "silver tape." In my mind that was not tape that is silver; it was tape that is broad, tough, and extra sticky and good for a lot of utility projects.

When it comes to writing, though, the important thing for me is that there are no true synonyms. Every word has nuances that make it different from other words. Most people will readily admit to that -- but to me those nuances are nonnegotiable.

Synonymy Monster

I was thinking it would be fun if y'all would post some synonyms in the comments that seem fairly interchangeable to you. I'll explain what are the important differences between them in my goofy mind up here in the post. If anyone ends up pointing out some that I agree are pretty interchangeable, my next post will include a one line, Nevetsized story featuring them.

So have it!

And, it's okay to laugh at me. :)

First up: February Grace -- "Geek. Nerd. Brainiac. Poindexter."

A geek is obsessed with something that's pop-culture-y or hobby-ish, but either his obsession is over-the-top or the subject matter is out-of-the mainstream. A nerd is someone who is smart, but socially awkward and tends to be someone who is clumsy and presents themselves poorly. A braniac is someone who is as smart as a nerd, but need not be quite as clumsy -- but they're generally a smart Alec or a know-it-all. A poindexter is a lot like a geek, except they're as smart as a nerd and their obsession is typically something academic rather than pop-culture-y.

Next up: SC -- "Grieve and mourn. Quickly and speedily. Careless and sloppy. Code, develop, and engineer."

For me you can grieve any time you're sad, but you only mourn death or a loss that take's death's metaphorical role. To something quickly implies not only speed but some measure of alacrity. It also suggests that individual steps are brief and efficient. To something speedily feels broader to me, and does not imply any deftness or skill in execution, nor any efficiency in the particulars. Careless requires an attitude specifically of not caring. Sloppiness does not require that attitude. The results of careless and sloppy work can look similar, but their genesis is very different. As a 90% outsider on the word of software development, I doubt my definitions on the last three are correct, but to me coding is grinding through the lines; developing adds a layer of planning onto the coding; and engineering deals with the planning of the pieces and the cobbling together of discrete units of unit.

Back for a return visit: SC -- "elf, dwarf, sprite., fairy, gnome, brownie, goblin"

I'm usually on my own with these, but an elf is slender with pointy ears, a bit of green in the skin, and can be human-sized. A dwarf in the same context is short, fat, ugly, surly, and essentially a tough human with the build of a woodstove. Dwarves live in mountains and underground. A fairy is tiny and has wings and lives among plants. A gnome is smaller than a dwarf but much larger than a fairy. It, like a dwarf, varies from humans by little other than its size. Gnomes only live underground. Brownies are gnome-sized or slightly smaller, usually have wings, but not may, and live nearer to people and human structures than fairies do. Goblins are usually the size of dwarves or slightly larger. They're fat. They also don't look much like humans in the face. They're usually green, brown, or cobalt. They live underground but come out at night to raid.

Next at the plate: Samantha Sotto-Yambao -- "Agree. Concur. Yes. Okay."

The words yes and okay differ in formality (which is part of meaning in English, we just don't admit it). But, more than that yes implies an affirmation, while okay merely serves as an acknowledgment. I'll admit there's a lot of overlap between agree and concur. For me, though, concur is between two parties or two propositions; it also suggests that one party is showing deference or respect to the other other party. Agree can be between multiple parties and suggests more of an egalitarian resolution.

Also, y'all, click over to Samantha's blog and check out her new galleys!

Next up: ShannonLeigh1976 -- "Couch. Sofa. Davenport. Chesterfield."

Okay, so this is the first definite, clear winner here. I've never really gotten my head around Davenport or Chesterfield, and in my mind I don't have much of a distinction between couch and sofa apart from age, region, and maybe a little touch of formality. But, honestly, I have to concede on this one. Well done, Shannon!

Next to try: Michelle Davidson Argyle -- "Writer, author."

Part of me thinks I would be best off just declaring myself stumped so that I don't get in trouble with anyone, but instead I'll just beg everyone's indulgence and ask them to take no offense. Because I do view these words very differently. Importantly, I make no value different between the two, however. That established, writer is a broader term and includes columnists, journalists, novelists, playwrights, passionate letter writers, and dedicated diarists -- among others. It's simply someone for whom writing plays some significant role. In that sense, it's a more casual word, as well. An author is someone crafts complete prose pieces with an intention that they be presented to a readership.

.Nevets.

The Blogosphere Isn't Broken: It Never Existed in the First Place

2011-04-05T19:32:00.001-04:00

All---

From Flickr

If you ever see or hear me use the word blogosphere again, please throw ice cream in face or something.

Why?

Because there really is no such thing as the or a blogosphere, and using the word perpetuates the myth and compounds the problems.

If you follow many writing blogs, you've probably notices a lot of hub-bub this week. From responses to negative reviews, organized punking of supposed trolls, and controversies over bogfests -- it seems that a great number of blogging writers this week have expressed their sadness and frustration with the blogosphere. Some find it too given to a mob mentality. Some find it too cliquish. Some find it shallow. Some find it cruel.

But the truth is that the blogosphere does not exist. From a practical perspective, blogs are not contained or bounded in any way. They are linked to one another, but they are also cross-linked with Facebook, Flickr, Panroa, YouTube, CNN -- everything else on the internet. Sure, there are trends among similar blogs, but that's not surprising. Bloggers with similar interests are going to show trends. A trend is (essentially) a coincidence of membership, not a delimiter of membership. By using the word blogosphere we create the false impression of a bounded space, like a message board, a BBS, or an old-school AOL / CompuServe / Prodigy community. It's nothing like that.

But more importantly, people refer to the blogosphere as if it were a community. From an anthropological perspective, I'm here to tell you, it's not. Not really.

Now, hold on. Don't misunderstand.

I'm a huge believer in the power of social media and virtual relationships. Skype let me talk to my brother-in-law on Christmas, even though he's at war overseas. One of my oldest friends is someone I met on-line and have never met in person. My wife and I, while most of our relationship developed face-to-face, had several important conversations in our relationship -- both serious and flirtatious -- through AIM. Through Twitter and this blog, I have met several people that I consider great friends. And, yes, through them, I am part of circles of friendship.

So don't think I'm saying something I'm not.

On-line relationships, both personal and professional, can be very helpful. Very beneficial. Very satisfying. And very, very real.

But that does not mean that a bunch of blogs constitute a community.

In social science, an articulation is a point of contact. There are several people with whom I have articulations on multiple blogs. It's kind of lack having class with a lot of the same kids. You can form relationship with some of those people -- though, in many cases, they are context-dependent relationships, and if you take away the context (the classes or the blogs), you also take away the relationships.

A community, though, is a social group, and there's more to a social group than points of articulation. There's no simple definition of a community -- or of a social group -- but for the sake of ease I'm going to focus on aspect: in a community, the different people and their different relationships, serve different functions and perform different roles for one another, contributing as a sum to each member's overall life and well-being (or lack thereof).

Blogs aren't like that. They cover a limited scope of interest, and impact a small piece of life. Most people play pretty much the same role. And everyone except the blog host/s occupy the same structure. At it's worst, interconnected writing blogs are a a club. At it's best, a peer group.

Anyone who has been a teenager knows that peer groups can be great, but they're not the same a community.

There's a last point to be made, too. Blogs are not bloggers. Just as you do not know a celebrity because of her performance, or an author because of his writing, or a band because of their songs, you do not know a blogger because of her blog. You can learn about the blogger. You may even use the blog as a launching point for further development of a relationship, in which you do know the blogger. But knowing someone's blog really well, is not the same as knowing them. I may get along with you great when you invite me to share a meal around your fire, but when you put the fire out and walk away, you feel no further relationship obligation to me. My relationship is with your food and your fire, not with you.

Here's the point of all this:

Many of us expect too much out of blogs and out of bloggers.

1. Blogs are not part of a closed or even a defined system.

2. Blogs are not a community.

3. Having a relationship with a blog does not give you a relationship with the blogger.

If you want relationships with people you meet through blogs, that's awesome. I am all in favor of using blogs as launching pads for meaningful professional and personal relationships. But if you don't take the time to make a one-on-one relationship, you don't really have a relationship. There's no social role or function to create the relationship like there is in a community. The only way to create relationships is to seek them out, build them, and nurture them. One on one.

.Nevets.

HEA or DOA?

2011-04-03T19:46:00.001-04:00

All---

Okay, so, I know several of you have read "Terminal Instar," my story in Notes from Underground. There's something I'm dying to know. Does it have a happy ending?

I'm seriously, very curious about that.

For everyone else -- get the anthology, read all the stories, go friend and follow all the other authors, and then come back and tell me if you think "Terminal Instar" has a happy ending or not.

In the mean time, I'd like to start an open conversation about what you all think (as writers or as readers) makes an ending happy?

This is on my mind all the time, but more than ever as I worked up, "Kansai Oniisan," the story I'll be submitting to Stories for Sendai. In my first draft, I thought it was a really clear, unequivocally happy ending. For this piece, that's definitely what I wanted.

But then I actually had my wife read the story, and she was willing to go as far as, "Well, I definitely know that's a happy ending for you."

I have my own thoughts, but I don't want to spoil the conversation, so please, readers and writers alike, chime in: what makes an ending happy?

.Nevets.

How the Nothing Ate the Western and is Coming for Your Genre Next

2011-03-30T20:26:00.000-04:00

All---

I've made no secret of the fact that among my projects is a Western short story, hopefully the first of a series featuring circuit-riding lawyer Solomon Matthews, called by some the Death Reader because of his ability to interpret the facts of a person's demise from close inspection of the remains. I've also freely admitted that the Western is, as a genre, a bit of a no-go in the publishing world these days.

The reasons for this are many. Some of it has to do with writers. Some to do with publishers. Some to do with simple trends in taste. But I think the Western has also been attacked by Bastien's Scourge, Atreyu's Bane, the Mocker of the Princess: The Nothing.

At its core, Western fiction is myth. It is the American equivalent of wu xia fiction or medieval European ballads: larger than life tales of adventure in a romantic past, told in part to stir and inspire the human spirit and in part to cause general reflection. They are part fairy tale, part parable, part diversion.

Unfortunately, as such, the Western has suffered greatly from the development of a readership that knows better. By and large, the American people have traded in their sense of wonder for their sense of guilt -- their imagination for their intellect. The Western doesn't take place in American history; it takes people in Fantasia. And Fantasia is dying.

One of the first knocks on the Western was a generalized sense of guilt over the treatment of non-whites in American history. To be sure, many dime store Westerns reflected stereotypes of cowboys versus Indians and relegated Asians to the laundry and African Americans to ... well, nowhere. To be equally sure, many Westerns have risen above those stereotypes to portray a much more diverse West.

Unfortunately, the second knock on the Western attacked both the stereotypical portrayals and many of those which showed alternatives. It attacked with a resounding, "That wasn't what it was like." Many readers rejected the very idea of showing anything other than "The West the way it really was." Unfortunately, none of the readers in the late 20th century were particularly active during the Civil War or reconstruction era, and so they were inclined to reject any portrayal.

And this has led into the third knock on the Western: in order to satisfy readers, they should be specifically and factually accurate. In order to navigate general frustrations with the genre, it's easiest to find simply demand historical accuracy. If the facts are accurate, the idea goes, then the story will feel more true.

And so the Western has largely split into two streams: that which includes contemporary cowboy romance stories, and that which has merged with historical fiction. Unfortunately, neither of those strands really allows the Western to function as myth. By being anchored to real places, real times, and real people, the story has lost its transcendence.

I don't mean to make the Western sound lofty by speaking of its transcendence, but one of the important qualities of mythic literature is often that it rises above and exists outside of a particular time and place. Fable and fairy tales, wu xia and Western -- they cannot tell timeless stories of the human spirit if the most important thing about them is their factual content. They may still be good stories, but their not the same stories.

And if you're the writer or reader of another genre, don't feel safe. Science Fiction is criticized if its science smacks of magic or techno-babble. The police procedural, the forensic detective, and the legal thriller have largely supplanted the traditional mystery, and the contemporary cozy is gritty and real. Fantasy editors beg for fantasy that doesn't include dragons, talking animals, or questing elves.

I'm as guilty as anyone of this.

And I mourn the loss of my sense of wonder every day.

But I can do things about it. I can write psychological suspense that communicates realistic human experience within a surreal context. I can write Western fiction that, while perhaps still darker and more fact-driven than I would like, is not concerned with time or place or history. I can try to kick myself in the teeth every time I cringe at the science on Star Trek or goofy design of the BBC Narnia miniseries.

The Nothing has eaten the Western.

But Fantasia can still be saved.

If anyone really wants to.

If you want to protect your genre. If you want to protect fiction and stop the march from story-telling to ripped-from-the-headlines. If you want to protect wonder. If you want to protect imagination itself.

All you have to do is say her name.

.Nevets.

Kansai Oniisan

2011-03-28T19:31:00.000-04:00

All---

So I managed to grab some time this weekend to work on the story I plan on submitting to Stories for Sendai, an anthology edited by JC Martin and Michelle Davidson Argyle than plans to raise money to support recovery efforts in devastated Japan.

My story is called, "Kansai Oniisan." It is a literary thriller in short form, erring a little more to the psychological side than the suspense side, though both are present. I think the story fits in nicely with the rest of my work, and in some ways will give readers a bit of a bit more taste for how my long form fiction feels in some ways. If, "Kansai Oniisan." is not accepted into the anthology, I will likely post it directly to to my website as a Websclusive.

If you've followed any of my conversation about writing, you know that I don't always follow the best advice out there, and this is a case in which I have mostly violated one of the wisest principles of fiction writing: don't write with a point in mind. I routinely violate this rule in varying ways. In this case, because I am answering the call for stories that emphasize the triumph of the human spirit not by finding an appropriate story from my stash, but by writing one from scratch. Which means I'm writing with a very definite point.

That said, I'm also taking a a little bit of a chance and I'm sticking to my guns on it, sink or swim. I don't write very well on the community or cultural level. I'm all about individuals. I'm also less interesting in prevailing against external forces than I am in conquest against the forces within the individual. "Kansai Oniisan" is the story of one young man, under anonymous threat, and how his personal character fares when passed the crucible of the horrible. For me, it's definitely the triumph of the human spirit. It may not fit the tone and mode of Stories of Sendai, however, and I'm willing to let my story fit or be rejected on its own terms rather than try to turn it into a story it's not.

I like to think my being brave makes up for my other failings in this particular pursuit...

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for this blogpost provided by Alaap, Daler Mendhi, and Sardool Sikander!

Six Rings on One Hand

2011-03-22T13:20:00.000-04:00

All---

I apologize for being such a lame blogger lately. The newish job is settling in pretty well, but it's also keeping me on my toes right now. I feel like I'm close to back to normal.

I also apologize for being one of those bloggers who apologizes for being a lame blogger.

Seems like a good time to update you all on my writing, at least.

If you haven't already, please be sure to pick up a copy of the Notes from Underground anthology in print or for Kindle. You can read a bunch of good stories, including my "Terminal Instar," and the proceeds all benefit charity. If you're even further behind the curve, then be sure to pick up Genre Wars, which includes two of my stories and which also benefits charity.

Speaking of charity, I'm thinking about submitting a story for possible inclusion in the upcoming Stories for Sendai anthology, which will raise funds to help support efforts in Japan. The editors are JC Martin and Michelle Davidson Argyle. We have several friends in Japan and my wife and I are long-time consumers of Japanese culture in many different ways. It's amazing how, even apart from our friends, simply followings bands closely and things like that really inspires us to feel like we have ties to place that neither of us has ever been. The way connections form in our new world is amazing. While I am still undecided because of time, if you have any interest in submitting a story about the triumph of the human spirit, please do follow up. It's a tremendous cause.

(And I already sort of have a story in mind that I would be writing specially for submission, if the deadline permits.)

Then there's my short story about a forensic anthropologist in the old west. The nearly complete draft is written out long-hand, and the pages had been missing for ages, so I want to type that up and see how close it is to submission. Then I have the big debate about whether to submit as CN Nevets or under another pen name. While it's a crime piece and has a pretty strong Nevets feel, I hope someday to do more with the Western genre (America's wu xia), and I know the genre remains something of a scarlet letter among much of the publishing world.

Of course, the big project remains Sublimation. I feel terrible that it's not finished yet, because it's been so close for so long. I really need to find a way to bullet proof my writing time. My other commitments are too variable for me to be able to just say, "Okay, this time on this day is always writing time and nothing else may intrude." Theoretically, there is vacation time and requesting to be unavailable to the ambulance on certain days, but as a manager my vacation days are never totally my own, and when the ambulance needs you, even if you said you were unavailable, it's hard to justify saying no. One way or another, though, I need to claim some time and then shelter it so I can get that book wrapped up. Once I've finished fleshing out the pieces that need it, there will be one last read-through revision and then it will go to three readers and an editor, and then finally be on submission.

Alrighty, speaking of the day job, I need to get back to it.

.Nevets.

Guest Post: Marilyn Meredith on Place

2011-03-17T09:42:00.000-04:00

Marilyn Merdith, Author of Angel Lost

"A pervert threatens women joggers on the beach, a robber threatens wealthy homes on the bluff, and an angel watches over over the townspeople from a downtown window. F. M. Merediths' latest Rocky Bluff P. D. novel is a gentle human drama about loneliness and change, through which the reader is pulled, page after page, by an assortment of compelling criminal curiosities." -- C. N. Nevets

In the past few weeks, I’ve read some books by fairly new authors. In a few there has been an important element missing, the sense of place. Some of my favorite books are those that I feel like I know exactly what the area looks like where the characters are living, working, talking, and experiencing the things that are going on with and around them.

What I try to do when I’m writing a scene is to see it through the eyes of my point-of-view character. (In my Rocky Bluff P.D. series the POV character may change from scene to scene.) I want to be sure that the reader knows where that character is, what the place is like, perhaps the smells, and of course the weather.

In Angel Lost a lot of the action takes place during foggy mornings. Fog is wonderful for setting a mysterious scene. It swirls around, it hides what’s coming, and it can be frustrating. I’ve lived in a beach community much like Rocky Bluff and the fog is relentless at certain times of the year as it rolls in from the ocean and sometime seems to swallow up everything around.

Rocky Bluff is a beach community. The heroine of this story, Stacey Wilbur, must jog along the beach in the fog in an effort to catch a man who exposes himself to female runners. One of the members of my critique group gave me suggestions about how that would feel. And of course, anytime you’re near the ocean you’re going to smell the saltiness and hear the waves crashing against the shore. The sound of the waves blurs other noises, including if anyone is coming towards you on the beach.

The town of Rocky Bluff is not a real town, but I can see what it looks like in my imagination. A stream bed runs beside a rocky bluff that rises up like a cliff. On top of the bluff are expensive homes. They have no beach access, but many have spectacular ocean views.

In the older part of town, beach cottages, many in disrepair, are closest to the shore. The downtown areas with the shops and restaurants are located on the main drag, Valley Blvd. The rest of the town rises up the hillside with the freeway passing over. Orange groves and ranches are on the other side.

The police department is not only understaffed but hasn’t been upgraded with any of the new equipment the larger police departments have access to. Even the Chief’s Office is shabby, furnished with items the Chief has brought from his own home. (This whole situation makes it necessary for the RBPD to solve crimes in the old fashioned way—investigating and asking lots of questions. When necessary, outsiders will be called in to help.

When Stacey and her fiancé, Detective Doug Milligan, marry, they plan to live in Doug’s small Victorian, with its enclosed front porch and only two upstairs bedrooms. This means Doug’s renter, Officer Gordon Butler must find a new place to live as Stacey’s young son, Davey will need his own room.

Stacey has her dress for the wedding, a light blue gown of material that she describes as gossamer. Her dream for the ceremony includes the decorations for the church.

As things happen in the story, I hope that I’ve given enough of a description of the places that the reader can imagine much the same as what I envisioned in my mind as I wrote.

Even if an author is writing about a real place, not everyone has visited so it’s necessary to describe enough that the reader can visualize what the area looks like the characters inhabit. Sometimes, the setting can almost seem like another character. I hope that’s what I’ve done in Angel Lost.

Angel Lost will be available this month at the usual places, and for an autographed copy from my website http://fictionforyou.com/ and it will soon be available on Kindle and for other e-book readers.

F.M. Meredith aka Marilyn Meredith

Angel Lost

As plans for her perfect wedding fill her mind, Officer Stacey Wilbur is sent to trap a flasher, the new hire realizes Rocky Bluff P.D. is not the answer to his problems, Abel Navarro’s can’t concentrate on the job because of worry about his mother, Officer Gordon Butler has his usual upsets, the sudden appearance of an angel in the window of a furniture store captures everyone’s imagination and causes problems for RBPD, and then the worst possible happens—will Stacey and Doug’s wedding take place?

F.M. Meredith, also known as Marilyn Meredith, is the author of nearly thirty published novels. Her latest in the Rocky Bluff P.D. crime series, from Oak Tree Press, is Angel Lost. Marilyn is a member of Writers of Kern, EPIC, Four chapters of Sisters in Crime, including the Internet chapter, Mystery Writers of America, and on the board of the Public Safety Writers of America. Visit her at http://fictionforyou.com and her blog at http://marilynmeredith.blogspot.com.

Actual Downtime

2011-03-16T22:55:00.000-04:00

All---

The good news is, while the recent changes in my job have kept me busy, things are starting to settle down and I'm starting to find a new routine. The past few nights I've even gotten some good writing done. All the "hard" stuff in Sublimation is actually done, and there are still some words to be produced, but it's mostly the "easy" stuff. Of course, the challenge is to not race through the easy stuff, lest it become terribly written stuff.

Actually the other challenge is I'm learning the need for downtime. Many of you know what it's like. Many of you have your own variations on the theme. I've got the dayjob which accounts, in a quiet week, for 45 or 50 hours of time. I volunteer as an EMT, which either keeps me busy or at least limited for two or three nights a week. There are things that need done around the house and part of life.

When I'm not doing those things, or spending some set-aside time with my wife, I feel like I should be writing.

Do I want to be writing?

Yes.

But more than that: I feel like I should.

I'm a huge believer in the value or writing lots when you're a writer. I'm also a major proponent of approaching writing like a job.

Unfortunately, that means I also tend to cut myself out of all downtime.

And so then there are nights like tonight when, if I weren't on call as an EMT and as a IT manager, I would probably have just gone to bed at 7pm, because honestly I can barely stay awake.

This is the danger zone for me. This is how I drive myself to breakdowns and shutdowns.

I've never really known how to relax. I mean, honestly, as a teenager my main hobby was historical and archaeological research.

Honestly.

So I don't do the just sitting there and being quiet thing. My brain feels restless and on edge when I do that.

This makes it even easier for me to say, "Well, then you should be writing."

And I want to be. I want to finish Sublimation. I want to work on some short stories. I want to get back to Ennui and Malaise.

But I need downtime. That doesn't mean a break from writing. I'm not sure what it means, in terms of actual use of my time. At a minimum, it means I need to take the should out of the equation. I need to feel less guilty if I want to sit and learn languages for a while, or study martial arts for a while, or refine the categorization of tracks in my iTunes library for a while.

Thing is, I live on shoulds. I don't always do what I should, but the shoulds weigh me down and crush me, and when I try to shoo them away, I just find another.

I'm not really sure what I'm saying in this post. Partly, just an explosion of words. A good friend in college who appreciated my writing used to say that I'm a verbal processor and half of what I write out is just to help my own self think. Partly, it's so that you know you're not alone in this struggle. Partly it's because you guys are such a sharp group, you always turn bits of wisdom out of the blue.

But honestly, if I think about it... it's because I felt like I should do a blog post tonight.

.Nevets.

What Will the Reader Remember?

2011-03-14T20:42:00.000-04:00

All---

So I set out today to write another post about books you might be surprised to learn influenced my writing -- even bigger surprises like Bridge to Terabithia and Rifles for Watie. Only, as I started to come up with the list, I ran into a roadblock:

Books that made huge impacts on me and my writing, but which I can barely remember well enough to identity.

For instance:

I wanted to tell you about Terror in Yellowknife. I think I might have between twelve when I read it, but I'm not sure. We got it at the used bookstore in Wabash, Indiana. It was a western. A mass-market paperback. In fact, the edition I had was a double book, paired with some other western with a happier, Down the Long Hills type of feel. The book I remember, though, Terror in Yellowknife, was the first thing I ever read that was a true suspense novel. A crazed Indian, seeking revenge held the town under siege. I remember the picture on the cover of the angry Indian in the shadows, holding a knife. I remember being vaguely offended by what even then I took as some uncomfortable playing to stereotypes. But mostly I remember this book at the feeling it gave me of needing to read the rest of the story ever time I sit down to write my own suspense fiction.

But apparently I do not remember the title. Because Terror in Yellowknife does not seem to exist. Neither does Blood in Yellowknife. Or Siege, Savage, or Renegade of Yellowknife. Odds are, it's not even Yellowknife at this rate. I've looked through a couple lists of old double-print westerns, but nothing sounds right.

Then two there was a book I read when I was ten. Some kind of fantasy novel. Talking animals, adventure, and warfare. What I mostly remember is that there was a character called Bern. He was one of the bears. And he got killed. And the book essentially celebrated his death as a villain. I couldn't handle it. It traumatized me. I literally had a break-down about it. I felt that bear had deserved a chance at redemption and it killed me inside that he didn't have that chance. I mean, I was crying and hurting inside just about as bad as I ever have my entire life. It still gets me when I remember it. And I guarantee that reading experience is one of the main why every single thing I write grapples in some way with the idea of redemption. Every. Single. Thing. It's there. I promise you. Usually I'm quite aware of it. Sometimes it doesn't hit me until after. But it's in everything.

And yet, despite that strong experience -- or perhaps because of it -- I can recall nothing else about the book. I think it was part of a series. But I don't have a guess about title or author, or about any other characters, or even about the overall plot.

Now, I think I may have finally found this one tonight. I think it might be Niel Hancock's Wilderness of Four series. I remember that we had Dragonwinter, and a couple of the covers in that series look familiar, and apparently book one at least features bears. I found a reference to Bern the red Bear on a fan's comments on the fourth book in the series. So I think that's probably it.

But nothing about the series really rings a bell. I don't think I finished it once Bern was killed, because I hated it so much, but I had read a good chunk.

And then there was a book I read a little later in life. I think fourteen or fifteen. It was a fantasy novel, also part of a series. I think the author was British. Maybe Michael something? Honestly, I didn't even finish the novel, let alone the series. I couldn't get into the writing style at the time. Probably that's why I don't remember the particulars. But I do strongly remember the world the author created. Everything was built around light, and lights, and candles. It was part of the setting, part of the plot, and part of the symbolism. It was rich and it felt unique. It crosses my mind often, and has greatly influenced how I think about a book as an integrated whole, not a collection of pieces.

But that's all I remember.

And so, rather than give you a list of books that have influenced me, I give you those three puzzles, and the following reminder: No matter what you write, you have no control over what the reader is going to remember, and you cannot predict what impact it will have on another human being.

It's humbling and sobering to think about. It's also confounding. And exhilarating.

.Nevets.

You're Still a Writer, Bub

2011-03-11T15:20:00.000-05:00

Hey, Nevets, you cynical, whiny, give-upper.

Heard you the other day. Talkin' to someone who didn't know nothin' so you thought no one who knew somethin' would hear. Well, I heard. And I'm calling you on the carpet, and this isn't the nice, friendly, hey have a piece of cake kind of calling you on the carpet, and it's not even the not-so-bad pouring applesauce on your head kind of calling you on the carpet. This is the, What were thinking? kind of calling you on the carpet -- the kind that comes with a slap on the face and a kick in the rear.

"A writer, well, yeah, I'm trying to be."

That's what you said.

Yes, it is.

Yes.

It is.

You may not have said it out loud. You may not have said in print. You may not have said it telepathically to the alien mother of your best friend from the galaxy of telepathic people. But you said it.

Punk.

Whatever happened to, "One of the most important things steps in being a writer is just saying you're a writer." Whatever happened to, "If you're writing, you're a writer -- not an aspiring writer, but a writer." Whatever happened to, "Trying to be published doesn't mean you're trying to be a writer; writing means being a writer."

Notice no question marks.

Because those weren't really questions.

I know the answer as much as you do.

What happened it that you copped out. Because it's easier to say, "I'm trying to be a writer," then it is to say, "I'm a writer who's not getting much writing done." Because that sounds like failure. That sounds like it's some how your fault. Like you're falling short of the mark. But if you're trying, then, hey, that's a frickin' A for Effort and a parade down-town with ice cream and confetti and elephants and you're so full of it.

Yeah, you're really busy right now. Yeah, you're sick again. Yeah, you can't get your head clear or your emotions straight or your brain awake or your fingers on the dang keyboard.

Waaaaaaaaah.

Maybe you don't have the hours in your day right now. Maybe your creative juices are flowing like the tears of a tar-pit mammoth. Maybe you can barely stay awake or keep from crying or stop yourself from coughing.

So flipping what?

Seriously, bro. So what?

Oh, I know. If you say you're a writer then you feel guilty for not writing. Guilt means pressure and stress and crying and sleeping and coughing.

Sometimes people don't do the thing they want to do or need to do or feel like they should do. Sometimes, people can only do what they can do. In any walk of life.

So you don't get off the hook. A guy isn't "Trying to be a manager," because he his boss has him working on a project rather than managing. Or "Trying to be a baseball player," because he's laid up with an injury. Or "Trying to be a painter," because she's just had eye surgery and can't see right now.

You're not trying to be a writer. You are a writer.

So shut it.

And stop stressing.

Go for the Throat

2011-03-09T09:14:00.000-05:00

All---

I hope to avoid making this post either corny or bittersweet, but please forgive me if I'm able to avoid neither perfectly. What I want to do today is simply this: to encourage you to look your dreams and your goals in the eye and then go for their throat.

As someone with an overly complex philosophical and theological outlook, I try not to live with regrets. Except when I'm suffering from exhaustion or general malaise, I usually manage that pretty well. But while I do not regret the choices I've made in my life, I can still encourage others to make different choices. Rather than wallow in memoirs and rambling advice, let me boil down my thoughts for today to points and examples:

If you're young, so what? I know some impressive, productive young people who are involved in writing, such as Tiffany Cole and Golden Eagle, and some who are not much older than them such as Misha Gericke. These writers are energetic and enthusiastic, and I hope every day that they manage to keep up being aggressive. I know when I was in junior high, high school, and even college I often thought to myself, "But who's going to publish a guy who's only ___ years old?" Don't think that way. Just write well. If your writing makes your age irrelevant then, well, your age is irrelevant.

Don't procrastinate.  I've written hundreds of short stories. I've probably submitted about a dozen of them. There are dozens more, at least, that are worthy of submission. And most of the ones that have been rejected have only been rejected once -- and are certainly worthy of re-submission. But for much of my writing life I've had this habit of lazy planning. Ugh, I need to find a way to print this, and then I need to get stamps and mail it. Oh, and I need to make a SASE. I'll get to that this weekend. Or, um, next weekend. Or maybe the weekend after. Or... perhaps... never.

Perfection is a goal, not an expectation.  So don't wait until you've written something perfect to start submitting. Write something good. Write something of quality. But it's trap to try and wait until you've perfected the craft of writing or until you feel like there's nothing left to improve about a story. No one perfects the craft of writing, and there is always something left to improve about a story.

Health is not irrelevant.  Your emotional, physical, and social health are important for your functioning as a productive, creative being. Do not neglect them, even in favor of pursuing of your dream, because when they suffer, your pursuit will suffer, too.

Take the time while you have it.  This is a hard one for most people to respond to, because everyone feels busy and you always feel like you have pressures to meet. And you are busy -- and you do have pressures. But life rarely gets simpler between the ages of sixteen and thirty-mumble, and it doesn't look like it gets simpler by forty-mumble or fifty-mumble either. Find ways to maximize the time you have now, because a year from now, you're probably going to have more and more complicated pressures for your time than what you have now.

Be smarter than me. Writing and getting published are challenging enough without creating your own obstacles. So don't do it.

.Nevets.

Eerie Silence

2011-03-04T08:50:00.000-05:00

All---

In case you're wondering why I'm unusually quiet on all fronts, on Tuesday afternoon, we had a meeting with our boss and his boss and a plan for a departmental realignment was announced and we were told to have it up and running by Monday morning. And I'm out of town all weekend.

It's a huge shift, in which my current team is having a portion cut off and assigned to the other manager, and I'm picking up what had been his entire team and keeping the rest of mine. And the functions of my new team is changing dramatically. Plus, we're swapping offices.

Been working until bedtime the past few days.

Hopefully you will here more from soon, but for the moment, the day job is consuming all my waking hours...

.Nevets.

Zoe Winters: Burn-out and Author-comparitis

2011-03-02T08:21:00.000-05:00

All---

With the increased exposure of self-publishing and small presses, many authors increasingly see "dropping out of the system" as an instant cure-all for the headaches and heart-breaks of publishing. Veteran independent authors like Zoe Winters can attest, however, that no path to publication is stress-free.

Two of the major struggles I've faced as an indie (and which I think are probably common in a lot of indies) is becoming burnt out from constant social interaction on the Internet, as well as comparing myself to other authors. We all know how important marketing is, but sometimes getting your name out there can be such an energy drain. Plus, the more opinionated you are, the more someone, somewhere hates you and feels the need to either tell you, or all their friends about it. With the burn-out issue, I started to back off some and take more frequent Internet breaks.

Whenever I feel the big bag of crazy coming on, I sometimes back off from the Internet for a few weeks at a time and dive into the work instead. I've become a lot more "Zen" about publishing as a result. The other issue, comparing myself... I put so much pressure on myself sometimes to achieve and succeed. And, while I know many consider me a success, there is always someone doing better. So it's easy to get frustrated and discouraged by that. To help myself through that, I started to look at some of the reasons why some people were doing a lot better than me. When I started to understand some of the issues: frequent release dates and large backlist, I calmed down about it some. We're all on our own unique publishing journey. And it was about 18 months before I started making more than a couple hundred bucks a month. This stuff takes time. Since my last release, I've decided not to spaz out over my numbers but to focus on engaging with the readers I have and building my fan base one reader at a time.

Zoe Winters

Zoe Winters is a top-selling author of paranormal romances. Her most recent release is Save My Soul. She has also written the popular three-novella work Blood Lust and the highly-influential guide to indie success, Smart Self Publishing: Becoming an Indie Author.

Terminal Instar - Notes from Underground

2011-03-01T10:26:00.001-05:00

All---

You know the invisible hand of capitalism? Yeah, that's me. I mean, it must be. These hands move a lot of money in the course of the day and I don't think one person notices me. My own mother bought a Redbook and a bottle of Snapple from me the other day and didn’t say Hi.

- excerpt from, "Terminal Instar," (c) C. N. Nevets, 2011

I hope you all visit the Literary Lab to read all the details on this year's anthology, Notes from Underground. Not only are there are a lot of truly great pieces in there, but all the "profits" go to charity. The book is available for $4.99 for Kindle (or Kindle-app) and $10 in print form at Amazon.com and CreateSpace, where there is a larger profit margin and so more money for the charity. Check out the LitLab's post for details on how to get a discount code, too!

My piece is a 3,600 word short story of psychological suspense, told in the fashion of a quiet, literary thriller. Other pieces in the anthology include work by regular blog visitors J. B. Chicoine, Loren Eaton, Lavanya Krishnan, Jean Michelle Miernek, Yvonne Osborne, Summer Ross, Twitter-comrade Simon C. Larter and more.

We were selected for the anthology through blind-judging of free-writing pieces, and then given a certain amount of real-estate within the pages to do with as we wished. The work submitted includes some very experimental pieces, some novel excerpts, some groups of flash writing, more traditional stories, and a whole lot of writing that is as fun to read from a technical perspective as it is for the content.

Please don't miss this opportunity!

.Nevets.

Write with MOPLO!

2011-02-28T22:52:00.000-05:00

All---

So I'm typically a lucid dreamer. When I dream there are almost always at least two streams of consciousness going: the dream and my reflection on the dream. And most of my dreams are excruciatingly boring and endlessly monotonous -- typically I'm at work, I'm shopping, or I'm driving around a campground. Put the two together and sleep is pretty exhausting.

But every once in a while it gets interesting.

Albeit in a boring way.

On Saturday night I was dreaming, and I don't recall the main body of the dream, but one point there was an interjection. An older person, wise and experienced, with a voice like a genderless Statler or Waldorf. the person was on a balcony with red curtains, and sat to me, while gesturing with a pen, "Write with MOPLO!"

(Both O's are long, incidentally.)

The dream state part of me understood it as an acronym and, moreover, took it to heart as sound advice.

The part of my mind that was reflecting on the dream was so confused it woke me up so I could try to figure out what on earth MOPLO might stand for. And, in all candor, I couldn't stop thinking about it and never really got back to sleep.

So, I want to pass along this same advice all my writer friends: Write with MOPLO!

But then I want to ask all of you out there...

Um....

What's MOPLO?

The best I've been able to come up with is this:

Write with More Power / Less Obfuscation.

Sound advice, to be sure, and I'm trying to take that to heart.

Any other ideas?

.Nevets.

The General

2011-02-27T19:07:00.000-05:00

"The General"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011

The General sat on the floor his living room –

General. Hardly. In name only. He was no general any longer. Perhaps once he'd been.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory –

War. Not glory. Battle. Bloodshed. Justice. Lawfulness. Many noble things, but not glory.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness –

Traces? Books and photographs and keepsakes and locks of hair. More than traces.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness. Before him, the proof of futility –

Evil unstopped by war. Loved ones unprotected by strength. Cherished people, suffering despite his sacrifice.

Before him, the proof of futility, and behind him, the proof of vacancy.

The emptiness which he could not face. The emptiness of powerlessness and acceptance.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness. Before him, the proof of futility, and behind him, the proof of vacancy.

And on his face a look of passivity –

Not contentment. Not peacefulness. Simply abandonment of passion. Acceptance.

And on his face a look of passivity, as I pressed my gun to his head and squeezed the trigger –

His final order.

My obedience.

“Yes, sir.”

The General lay on the floor of his living room. Near his head were the tools of his life's work. Near his feet were the mementos of his life's loves. He was bathed in an aura of lapsed utility.

And on his face was a quiet smile, as if the first contractions before the birth of a laugh.

The Searing of the Shire

2011-02-24T19:53:00.003-05:00

All---

This post really has nothing to do with the searing of the shire, but at the end I'm going to announce the winners of some of the Hobbit's Birthday contests and so it just seemed like an appropriate wrap-up title.

Before that, though! Fellow author of psychological suspense and comrade in the darkness, Jennifer Hillier tagged me in a blog-post, and I thought it was about time I did one of these things again. So, here we go. Your chance to get to know the mind of Nevets.

19 Questions, and my 19 answers!

1). If you have pets, do you see them as animals, or are they members of the family?
I have a cat, and, of course she's an animal. In some ways she's also part of the family. In some ways, she's obviously not. I suppose I tend to insert myself into her kinship diagram more than I incorporate her into mine.

2). If you can have a dream come true, what would it be?
I don't prioritize one dream over another, really, and I live with the intent to do everything possible to realize all my dreams.

3). What is the one thing most hated by you?
People who sneak-attack the self-esteem of others and undermine their dreams and their belief in themselves.

4). What would you do with a billion dollars?
Move to a country house somewhere I wasn't allergic to. Live, write, support family members and friends.

5). What helps to pull you out of a bad mood?
The necessity to act on behalf of someone else.

6). Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?
Something about this question bothers or annoys me.

7). What is your bedtime routine?
Shower, brush my teeth, annoy my wife while she's making the bed, maybe read a little.

8). If you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet your partner?
I met my wife through a mutual friend. I had recently sworn off women. Rose had recently sworn off mine. Our friend said, "Hey, you've gotta meet. You'll love each other!" We did. :)

9). If you could watch a creative person in the act of the creative process, who would it be?
The creative process of other people really, really, really bores me to tears.

10). What kinds of books do you read?
Thrillers, mysteries, sci fi, fantasy, wu xia, historical fiction, westerns, literary fiction, and others. And that's just the fiction.

11). How would you see yourself in ten years time?
If I think to much about this I'll get ill. So I'm gonna pass.

12). What's your fear?
Well, I already opened this can of worms elsewhere today, so I'll try to avoid a repeat fiasco, and just say, "living an unfulfilled life without having met my purpose, whatever that may be."

13). Would you give up all the junk food for the rest of your life for the opportunity to visit space?
I don't do questions that hypothetical. They don't make any sense to me.

14). Would you rather be single and rich, or married and poor?
Married and whatever. What with loving my wife and all.

15). What's the first thing you do when you wake up?
Feed the cat...

16). If you could change one thing about your spouse/partner, what would it be?
Pfft. For those of you are still single, here's some advice: find someone you love because of, not in spite of.

17). If you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?
I'll let you know after Yat-Yee's had some time to cook something up for me.

18). Would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?
I'll forgive just about anything. I can't forget anything at all, no matter how much I may want to.

19). If you could only eat one thing for the next six months, what would it be?
Speaking of hypothetical questions that don't make any sense to me....

haha

So now that I've spoiled the fun of the tag by being a curmudgeon, here's some news about prizes!

The winner of the signed copy of my story, "I Need this," the piece that got me into Notes from Underground is Jennifer Hillier! Jennifer, e-mail me your address, and I will get this out to you!

The winner of her choice of either Tim Stretton's Dog of the North or R. N. Morris' A Razor Wrapped in Silk is... Misha! Misha, take a look at the books and then send me an e-mail at c dot n dot nevets at gmail dot com, letting me know your choice and whether you want a print a copy or an eBook and then we'll work out the details on getting it to you!

Now, don't forget! You have until tomorrow to add me as a friend on Facebook maybe a week or two to comment on author profile pieces for the remaining two contests.

.Nevets.

Ryne D. Pearson: The 139 Steps

2011-02-23T08:40:00.000-05:00

All---

Rejection slips are the butt of jokes made by authors in bleak humor. Snoopy used to make quilts out of them. We hate them so much that laughing at them helps us cope. But those of us looking toward the querying process still dread the day we start getting cold, heartless form rejections.

Successful thriller writer Ryne D. Pearson might have preferred cold, heartless form rejections at the start of his career. What he got instead were personally crafted letters that disparaged his talent and his book.

One hundred and thirty nine.

That is how many rejections my first novel received before it found an agent. Three weeks later he sold it.

I keep those rejections in an old cardboard manuscript box, tucked in the envelopes in which they came. Each addressed by me as was the norm back in the early 90’s when I was trying to break in. In essence, with each SASE (how I came to hate that acronym) I was facilitating a bit of my soul to be chipped away every time the mailman arrived at my house.

Because, you see, among the standard ‘not right for me at this time’ type of reply, there were many gems that were, well, particularly nasty. Shall I share?

‘You are not talented enough to compete with the thousands of professional writers in this industry...’

‘This is not my type of book, and if it were I would hate it.’

‘Your efforts would be better directed toward other endeavors.’

‘Who do you think you are sending this to me?’

‘Do you have a fireplace?’

‘I am insulted by the violence in this. I do not represent trash.’

Now, there were a few more, but those were the best. And these were not from fringe agencies. All were from respected literary agents, three of whom still work in the industry today.

What did I learn from these responses? Mostly that, in at least a few peoples’ eyes, I suck. But I also learned to take it. To swallow the vitriol and keep going. Why?

Because I didn’t believe them. I believed in myself.

The night after I received rejection #139 I decided to dig back into the novel and see if there was anything more I could do to it. The next morning I pulled out all those neatly typed and stacked pages and began flipping through. Reading it for the hundredth time, it seemed.

Then the phone rang. It was an agent at Curtis Brown who wanted to know if the novel was still available. I set the pages in my hand aside, clicked my pen shut, and sat down.

I was right, and they were wrong.

Ryne Douglas Pearson

Ryne D. Pearson is the author of several thrillers, including Top Ten, All For One, and Simple Simon, the novel that was the basis for the Bruce Willis / Alec Baldwin movie Mercury Rising. He also wrote the screenplay for the 2009 sci fi movie Knowing. Coming soon, Pearson will be releasing a science fiction short story, "Specimen," and will be releasing two novels this year. You can follow him on Twitter, where he talks about writing, life, and bacon.

.Nevets.

When an Outline Isn't an Outline: Plotting From the Seat of Your Pants

2011-02-21T21:46:00.000-05:00

All---

Long-time readers of this blog will recall that while I now use an outline for my long-form fiction, I used to rebel against the very notion of outlining. When I was a teenager, especially, I preferred to think of the author's role as something like an archaeologist excavating the blank page to reveal the story. Sure, I'm in charge of the process, but that doesn't mean I know what's going to happen.

Over time, though, I realized that I needed an outline. Why? Essentially because as a working adult it helps me not forget what the heck I'm doing when I'm kept away from my writing for days or weeks at a time.

But I don't really outline in a traditional sense. To do so feels very forced and drums the creativity out of my process. Plus, for me there's no escaping it: as I flesh out details, I do change my mind about what's going to happen. A proper outline isn't very forgiving of that.

So instead I do what I call a chapter run outline. Because this has been so helpful to me, let me walk you through the chapter run outline of a hypothetical novel, Puffin Magnus.

Because of the way I write, I know how it's going to end, or at least, how I think I'm going to end it. Because I know that's not the case for many other writers, I'll assume I don't actually know this time.

The process always begins by identifying a starting and an ending point:

Start: Dr. Cavern builds a fish oil-powered time machine
End: Details uncertain, but there is a Roman Cult of the Puffin and the world has changed from that which we know.

Then I'll flesh it out into general chaptery bits, using completely arbitrary numbers:

1) Dr. Cavern builds a fish oil-powered time machine
2) Dr. Cavern travels back to the time of the Roman Republic -- brings along accidental puffin -- confused puffin flies into someone, interrupting an assassination
20) Details uncertain, but there is a Roman Cult of the Puffin and the world has changed from that which we know.

Then I figure out any major plot points and insert them, again with arbitrary numbers, based on roughly whereabouts in the story line I want them to happen. So, for instance, if I want this to happen around the middle, I will call it chapter ten:

10) The romans realize it was the puffin who stopped the assassination, not Dr. Cavern.

At that point it's a matter of running through connect-the-dots iterations, inserting the plot points that seem necessary to get from one point to another:

2) Dr. Cavern travels back to the time of the Roman Republic -- brings along accidental puffin -- confused puffin flies into someone, interrupting an assassination
3) The Romans assume it was Dr. Cavern who stopped the assassination.
6) Confused and on-the-run, Dr. Cavern seeks shelter near cliffs haunted by a single puffin.
10) The romans realize it was the puffin who stopped the assassination, not Dr. Cavern.
15) All the Romans unite against Dr. Cavern.
20) Details uncertain, but there is a Roman Cult of the Puffin and the world has changed from that which we know.

Rinse. Repeat.

6) Confused and on-the-run, Dr. Cavern seeks shelter near cliffs haunted by a single puffin.

8) Dr. Cavern bonds spiritually with the puffin

10) The romans realize it was the puffin who stopped the assassination, not Dr. Cavern.

13) Romans begin resented Dr. Cavern's special relationship with the puffin.

15) All the Romans unite against Dr. Cavern.
16) Dr. Cavern appeals to the puffin for mercy.

And so so on, until I have what feels roughly like a plot.

1) Dr. Cavern builds a fish oil-powered time machine

2) Dr. Cavern travels back to the time of the Roman Republic -- brings along accidental puffin -- confused puffin flies into someone, interrupting an assassination

3) The Romans assume it was Dr. Cavern who stopped the assassination.

4) Factions develop, one idolizing Dr. Cavern and the other resenting her.

5) While being honored by one faction, Dr. Cavern's life is threatened by the other.

6) Confused and on-the-run, Dr. Cavern seeks shelter near cliffs haunted by a single puffin.

7) Dr. Cavern tries to secure fish oil for a return time travel trip, but fails.

8) Dr. Cavern bonds spiritually with the puffin

9) Dr. Cavern takes to walking with and dwelling beside the puffin.

10) The romans realize it was the puffin who stopped the assassination, not Dr. Cavern.

11) The cult of the puffin begins to develop.

12) Dr. Cavern becomes inconsequential to both factions.

13) Romans begin resented Dr. Cavern's special relationship with the puffin.

14) Dr. Cavern tries to take advantage of the puffin's persuasive aura to secure her own safety and prestige.

15) All the Romans unite against Dr. Cavern.

16) Dr. Cavern appeals to the puffin for mercy.

17) Two groups of Romans encircle Dr. Cavern to kill her, but the puffin tried to intervene

18) Details uncertain, but there is a Roman Cult of the Puffin and the world has changed from that which we know

You'll notice that I'm not concerned about details of action, character, setting, or historical research. I'm just laying out the foundation for my story so that I have a coherent vision -- a foundation from which to attack those details, and a guideline to which I can appeal when I get lost or confused.

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for writing the post provided by Metallica, Fleetwood Mac, Yngwie Malmsteen, TV on the Radio.

This, Too, is Good

2011-02-19T22:19:00.000-05:00

"This, Too, is Good"

Flash Fiction by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2010

I slipped into the bathtub and cried out as my body stung.

All I could see was her, walking out of the house, taking our daughter with her. The woman I loved, the girl I would have given my life for if my life were only good enough.

All I could hear was the sound of my boss on the phone, giving my hours for next week – plenty of hours. Plenty more time punching the clock.

All I would think of were all the things that could never be. The modest dreams that were out of reach. The simple desires that could never be fulfilled.

As if I sat on a dock, drifting ever further away from a sailboat that gleamed white with hope.

As if I sat at a table, reaching for my glass, only to find my reach never quite making it.

As if I sat in a concert hall, listening to a symphony of men and women living out their passion while I sat in my three-button self-loathing.

All I could could hear was a scratch –

a crack –

a pop.

All I could smell was rich and bitter.

As if the world was too

good

for me.

As if I just weren't

good

enough.

As if I were a child sitting in a high-chair while all the grown-ups danced, painted, discovered the mysteries of the universe, crossed another item off their list with a while, looking at it, and seeing that it was

good.

All I could feel was heat, as I dropped the burning match into the bathtub full of gasoline.

Hobbit Birthday's Eve

2011-02-17T19:59:00.001-05:00

All---

As we all know, on their birthdays, Hobbits hand out presents to their party guests. Tomorrow's my birthday, and so I'm going to hand out presents. Seriously cool presents.

But, hey, tomorrow is more than my birthday. It's also the birthday of writing and blogging friend Frances Garrood, author of Dead Earnest and The Birds, The Bees, and Other Secrets. When we found out we shared a birthday, Frances suggested we throw a blog party -- and we are! So be sure to stop at Frances' blog and join the fun on the 18th. Come and your favorite literary character and give us a brief reading! Join the fun!

Now for the presents!

First of all the winners of the prizes from my Reader Feedback contest!

The winner of an item from the Cafe Press Store is... Summer Ross! Summer, I know you had mentioned liking the bear once before, so I thought I'd send that you, but if you have an alternate choice, just let me know! We've e-mailed before, so just drop me a line with a shipping address!

The winner of the Nevetsized Aesop's fable, printed and signed is... Domey Malasarn! Domey, just let me know know either in comments or e-mail or whatever what Aesop's fable you'd like me to Nevetsize for you!

But what kind of birthday presents would they be if the only presents were prizes from a contest that was already established? That would be ridiculous.

So there's more!

Way more!

I randomly selected one of my blog followers... The mice were with us. The number that popped up was Number 42. I counted back that number of followers, and.... Anthony Pacheco, you've won your choice of items from the Cafe Press Store. Take a look, see what suits your fancy, and then drop me an e-mail with your choice and a shipping address!

But that's not all either.

Four more prizes!

The quick version:

1) Comment here for a chance at, "I Need This."
2) Comment on author profile stories for increased chances at Notes from Underground.
3) Friend me on Facebook for a chance at Genre Wars.
4) Comment here and at Frances Garrood's blog during the party on the 18th for a chance at The Dog of the North and/or A Razor Wrapped in Silk!

The details:

In honor of the upcoming Notes from Underground anthology, including my story "Terminal Instar" and a whole lot of other, excellent pieces, every one who comments on this post between now until the end of the weekend will be entered in a drawing for a signed, printed copy of "I Need This," the story I wrote which won my inclusion in the anthology.

Anyone who has commented on any of the author profiles in overcoming will be entered to win a copy of the Notes from Underground anthology, signed by me, once it is released in early March. One entry for every story you've commented on! In case you've missed any, check out the list: RJ Ellory, Gary Corby, Marilyn Meredith, RN Morris, Michael Malone, Ryan David Jahn, Deborah Swift, Jennifer Hillier, and Aliyah Whiteley. You want to have read these anyway!

Trying to catch my breath here. It's not easy being a Hobbit.

Okay, two more!

Anyone who friends me on Facebook (or is already a friend) by a week from my birthday will be entered to win an electronic copy of Genre Wars, the first Literary Lab presents anthology which included two of my stories, "The Best Medicine" and "Death, Be Not Me."

And finally.

Anyone who comments on this post or joins the birthday at Frances Garood's will be entered to win either electronic or new print copies of Tim Stretton's Dog of the North or R. N. Morris' A Razor Wrapped in Silk, because I just think it's insane that more of the world doesn't know these books. Comment in both places and if you win you will win both books!

Quick recap:

1) Comment here for a chance at, "I Need This."
2) Comment on author profile stories for increased chances at Notes from Underground.
3) Friend me on Facebook for a chance at Genre Wars.
4) Comment here and at Frances Garrood's blog during the party on the 18th for a chance at The Dog of the North and/or A Razor Wrapped in Silk!

And now this Hobbit is worn out. Happy Birthday Eve, everyone!

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for this crazy party has been provided by Metallica, because that's how Hobbits roll.

Aliya Whiteley: You're Not Always Brilliant

2011-02-16T08:27:00.001-05:00

All---

Most writers know the sting of criticism. We know it's going to come. When we believe in our writing, we also want to believe in everything we've written. Historical fiction novelist Deborah Swift has talked here about the importance of developing a thick skin. As avant-garde blackly comic crime author Aliya Whiteley discovered, though, that no matter how good a writer you are, you need to be open to criticism. You can be a good writer and still need to change what you're currently writing:

Before I was a crime writer I was a sci-fi writer. Before that, when my first novella was published, I was an experimental writer. And before that I was a writer of terrible romances.

I'm glad to say this romantic claptrap stage did not last long, but it did give birth to three particularly ugly manuscripts which I'm determined to keep locked up in a cupboard forever-more. But writing terrible romances taught me a lot about pace, and structure, and character; the form of the romance novel is not flexible, so I learned the craft of telling a story in which the hero must kiss the heroine by chapter two and they have to have moved on to at least third base by the end of novel, while having some sort of reason to keep bumping into each other that doesn't overshadow the kissie bits.

One of these horrible efforts actually made it to the acceptance stage. Caught By The Cougar (I told you it was terrible) got picked up by a brand new E-Book publisher back in the days when nobody bought E-Books. And a professional editor got her mitts on my ugly baby. She ripped it to shreds, and rightly so, but boy, did it hurt. I seriously considered ignoring her thousands of comments - after all, I had written a book and someone was going to publish it, so it had to be brilliant already, right? - but in the end, common sense overcame my ego and I got down to the business of making all my passive sentences active, and taking out most of the awful adverbs, and tightening up the pace where it flagged, and slowing it down when the hero and heroine got to the making out stage. I learned a huge amount from that experience, and I am undoubtedly a better writer because of it. I spent months making changes, and at the end of it, I had a book that wasn't bad. It still wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. Of course, my careful editing took so long that by the time I returned the manuscript the E-publisher had already folded.

When someone really criticises your baby, you want to put your hands over your ears and pretend that they're an idiot who didn't understand the first thing about your writing. But learning to be open to criticism and to act on it when necessary - this is what turns an amateur into a professional, I think. It's a painful process. But I'm glad I went through it.

I'm also glad it was never published. But that's a retrospective gladness.

Aliya Whiteley

Aliya Whiteley is the author of Three Things About Me and Light Reading, both also available in the US after-market. Light Reading is also available on Kindle.

EMS 301: What an EMT Actually Does

2011-02-14T22:33:00.000-05:00

All---

No matter what color an ambulance is, it's something of a black box to folks who don't work in EMS. I thought perhaps one of the most helpful things I could do as an EMT would be to simply lay out for you what an EMT does. While there are variations on the way an individual EMT processes these tasks, based on the situation and personal experience, these basic steps are the way every site visit should begin, per national standards. Understanding this recipe will help you understand what an EMT does.

Before treating the patient, the EMT must...

1) Ensure that the scene is safe. An EMS crew is of no use to a patient if the scene puts the patient or the crew in danger.

2) Confirm the number of patients.  Many times a dispatch is vague, e.g., "for a medical problem." There's nothing worse than driving away from a scene with a family left behind wondering, "Well that's great for gramma, but what about Sally?"

3) Determine the basic nature of the illness or mechanism of injury.  In other words, what's wrong with the patient or patients and what's the short version of what happened?

4) Based on the patient and the mechanism of injury, Decide if precautions should be taken to immobilize and protect the cervical spine.  Because damage to the vertebrae in the neck can be life-threatening, the EMT needs to take care to protect that part of the body before any further treatment is undertaken.

5) Given the patient, the scene, and all the other factors, Evaluate the need for additional help.  Will the crew need a lift assist for a heavy patient? Does the patient need to be extracted by the fire department? Should the police be called toe secure the scene? As a basic life support unit, do you need to call for advanced life support?

6) Be protected by appropriate BSI ("body/substance isolation") measures.  The crew should always be gloved, and may need to wear gowns, masks, or safety glasses depending on the scene and patient.

Once this "scene size-up" has been completed, the initial assessment of the patient may begin along these lines:

1) General Impression.  The EMT needs to have a basic idea of the patient and the situation as the foundation for the rest of the assessment. For instance, "A male, middle-aged patient complaining of chest pain." Nothing more complicated than that.

2) Obvious Life Threats.  Is a patient has an obviously life-threatening injury or condition, the EMT doesn't need to and shouldn't fret about the rest of the detail until that life threat has been dealt with.

3) Level of Consciousness.  Is the patient alert? Is the patient responsive? Often times, this is taken care of right away by simply saying something like, "Hi, I'm Nevets, and I'm with the ambulance. What can I help you with tonight?" If the patience responds appropriately, you know they are responsive to verbal stimuli, and you can move on. If there are problems with the LOC, then steps should be taken to correct these problems.

The next steps are the ABC's:

4) Airway.  Does the patient have a patent, or open airway? Is there a working pathway for air to move from outside the body into the lungs and back out? The EMT needs to be concerned about obstructions, wounds, and other things that compromise this. The good news is that, since the movement of air is required to speak, if the patient answered the question in Step 1, you know there is an open airway. In some cases, airway maintenance is so complicated that the EMT never moves beyond this until the patient is at the hospital. There's a common saying: We never deliver a patient without an airway.

5) Breathing.  Okay, so there's an airway. That's great! But how's their breathing? The EMT will get a respiration rate (how quickly the patient is breathing), check for unusual breath sounds, ensure that both sides of the chest are rising and falling about the same, and evaluate the quality of the breaths.

6) Circulation.  Only at this point should the EMT worry about things like blood pressure, pulse, bleeding and other signs of circulatory distress. To many people it's surprising that we wait this long, but the truth is if a patient as an altered level of consciousness or is not breathing, it doesn't matter how well their heart is working: they may die with a perfectly good heart. Without oxygen, the heart can do no good. If the brain is damaged, it may not matter if the heart gets it blood.

At this point, the EMT makes a Decision for rapid transport ("priority") or for further assessment on-scene.  Look for another post soon about the further assessment process -- but in the meantime I was this was either helpful or interesting. If you have any questions, please let me know!

p.s., If you haven't already, please do go back and read EMS 101 and EMS 201.

.Nevets.

When The Invincible System Breaks Down

2011-02-13T21:15:00.000-05:00

All---

I've talked before on the blog about one of my favorite benefits from outlining, even the coarse and vague way I do it: I'm not dependent on being in a zone or in a particular mood to write. I have the guideline there, so if I don't "feel it," it doesn't matter. I can just sit down and discipline myself to write.

As much as I'd like to think this makes my writing invincible, it is not so.

Like any other offer, there are the "ordinary" challenges of time, energy, and and health, all of which can wreak havoc upon the ability to properly chase a project. More than those, though, what makes my writing really start to become a shore is when my own emotions are strong are conflicted.

I've written many times about how I approach writing by getting into character and more or less roleplaying them or acting them out on paper. It's great for voice, development, and reader experience. But when my own emotions battling for my attention, it's much more difficult to be able to drown them out with my characters.

This is something that I have to work on. Right now, Sublimation is very close to being finished, but I'm really struggling with the middle of the end. The end is written. The beginning and middle are written. The middle of the end is a jumbled up skeleton. And getting it into shape is really a beat right now, because of the "intrusion" of my outside life.

Once I have a book contract, that's not going to fly. While I do respond well to deadlines, it will require some major tinkering with my internal writing process. After all, you don't tell your publisher, "Sorry, things at the day job are weighing me down, and there's some other stuff going on that I'm trying to sort through." It's not an option. Professionals push through and perform anyway.

I'm not yet sure how to make it work, how to find that switch when a psychological fog prevents me from seeing it clearly.

But I'll try to distill my experience down to some takeaways that you might think about.

No matter what your system or approach, it will break down sometimes. Every writer needs to be aware of this, and every professional writer needs to have a way to manage their writing projects when it happens.
It's not easy to treat your writing like a job when you have another job. We all know this, but I think sometimes it's also an elephant in the room, like we're ashamed to admit it's a struggle. Well, it is a struggle, and there's no point in acting tough about it.
Just as you should never depend on external motivators and evaluators for your writing, you can't depend entirely on internal strength either, for it comes and goes. At some point, something else may have to pull you through, if it's truly important that you get through.

What do you guys think? What do you do when when your invincible system breaks down? When your immortal muse gets its head lopped off?

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for writing this post provided by Queen.

Approach Your Goals Like an Aikido Master

2011-02-10T20:31:00.000-05:00

All---

If you haven't, please do check out the post I did over at the Literary Lab today. It was entitled, "Write like a Sword-Wielding Martial Artist," The topic was writing bravely, and we had an amazingly open conversation about our fears in the comments thread, too.

I got a couple of private responses, as well, and one of those addressed something I'd actually like to go ahead and answer tonight. Think of this as a companion post to this morning's. The comment I got from my friend had a lot of window dressing on it, but boiled down to this (apologies to my friend for the coarse paraphrase):

"It's all well and good to be brave, but I can't bear to have the publishing industry break my heart again. I care too much, and it just cuts too deeply."

On the first day of aikido class, our master told us, "You want to know how to avoid getting beat up in the bar at ten o'clock tonight? An aikido master will tell you to stay at home at ten o'clock tonight."

Later on, when we were practicing the defensive application of some foundation movements, he had us work in pairs. As half of us took blows to the face he said, "You know to avoid getting punched in the face? Don't put your face where his fist is heading."

What I said to my friend was significantly less pithy, but perhaps got to the same point: There's a difference between being brave and being reckless. If you're an athlete with a lot of concussions, and it's at that point where they're getting worse and more frequent, it's not brave to submit yourself to situations that make another one likely. It's just reckless.

Likewise, if you're a writer whose spirit is crushed by rejection, it's not necessarily brave to submit yourself to that. It might just be reckless. Especially if you are writing mainly for the sheer pleasure of doing so, and do not have a strong drive to be published.

I went on to suggest that people treat ailments of the body very differently than ailments of the spirit. We think the quarterback and the fighter who get concussions every outing are stupid if they don't retire. But so often we think a person who opts to not pursue public acclaim for their creativity is weak. In the way way, many of us are smart enough to protect our bodies when we're physically injured, but feel ashamed if we try to take care of our spirits in the same way.

That's not brave; it's reckless.

Bravery should always be exercised within boundaries of what you want to accomplish and what is a price that you are willing to pay.

I absolutely believe that bravery in writing is essential for the development of your writing. Here's a quick hit-list, though, of what that does not mean:

That any given fear of mine has any particular relevance to any one else.
That anything that seems ill-advised is something which must be conquered.
That every writer needs to fully develop their writing.
That each of us is equipped right now to face confront every fear or obstacle.
That bravery in publishing has anything to do with bravery in writing.

Yes, I want every writer I know to be brave in their writing, because I want them all to be the best writers they can possibly be. But I know that this is a lifelong process that takes steps. We all have things we need to protect, and it's just as bad to brutally expose our vulnerabilities to wound after wound as it is to bottle up our writing. And heaven forbid I ever equate bravery in writing with any part of the submission, querying, or publication process. They are completely different.

So, dear writers, you need to look at yourself. Know your goals. Know the prices you're willing to pay. Know what your fears are. And then look at your writing and be brave, but not don't treat your own spirit with careless disregard.

.Nevets.

Soundtrack for writing this post provided by S. H. E. (Taiwan) and Chen Guo.

Today is Lab Day!

2011-02-10T10:09:00.001-05:00

All---

Just a quick heads-up.

If you haven't yet, make sure you read yesterday's post with Jennifer Hillier's excellent profile in overcoming her struggles of query hell and beyond.

I wanted to put up a quick post today to let you know that I've written a guest post over at the Literary Lab today: "Write Like a Sword-Wielding Martial Artist." Please be sure to visit and let me know what you think!

.Nevets.

Jennifer Hillier: Defining Your Writing Career

2011-02-09T08:26:00.002-05:00

All---

First of all, I'd like to announce that Roberta Walker won last week's contest hosted by guest author Deborah Swift. Roberta, as a reminder to never give up on your publication path, Deborah would like to send you a signed copy of her book, The Lady's Slipper. Please visit Deborah Swift's website to get her e-mail address and contact her to arrange for shipping. Congratulations!

Now, on to this week's profile.

Every author can relate to this: you're written a project, you believe in it, and you hope with everything you've got that it's going to be accepted. If you're not self-publishing, you hope it's accepted by someone who wants to publish it. And you hope and hope and hope until you're going to bust. Debut author of psychological suspense Jennifer Hillier reminds us that any one project does not define a career.

I experienced a few dark weeks while I was on submission last spring. My agent started subbing to a handful of editors last May, and by mid-June, three rejections had come in. I thought I'd be a pro at handling them, because after all, I'd survived Query Hell (where I racked up 48 rejections from agents), but I wasn't prepared for what it would feel like to be rejected by big-name editors at big-name publishing houses. Unlike agents, who mainly rejected my queries, these editors were rejecting my book. And while their rejections were kind and personal, they were also very specific, and they really, really stung.

Intellectually I knew not to take it to heart, but every time someone rejects you – for any reason – it sort of chips away at your self-esteem. I knew the odds of selling a debut novel in this market were slim – my agent had made damned sure my expectations were realistic – but still, I hoped. And with hope comes disappointment.

Then one day, after a particularly great writing session on a new novel, it suddenly hit me that whether CREEP got published or not, I was still a writer. I had as many chances at this as I was willing to write books. And I did want to write books – lots of them – because that's what writers do. We write. This realization made me feel so much better. I felt like a weight had been lifted. No matter what, I was going to be okay.

Two weeks later, my book sold.

Jennifer Hillier

Jennifer Hillier's debut novel Creep will be published by Simon & Schuster in July 2011. Best-selling author Jeffrey Deaver says, "Jennifer Hillier's Creep is top-of-the-line thriller writing. You better call in sick, because you're not going anywhere until you finish reading. Oh, and you might want to lock the door too. Just to be safe."