The Wordsmith Shop

I Measure My Life In Dog Years ...

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 18:04:03 GMT

In 1983, I met the man I would one day marry. In 1984, we got our first dog.

We acquired Cub as an 8-week-old puppy, while visiting a friend who was Animal Control officer in the tiny town of Bridgeport, CA. He got a call someone found a dog at the dump, but it turned out to be a fat, healthy Australian shepherd pup - with a tail. When the pup cried in her kennel, I took her in my lap where she fell right to asleep. When it came time to leave, our friend said, "Well, you three better go on home."

Cub became our constant companion for the next eleven years. She was beautiful to behold, black and tan with a blue merle collar around her neck, copper on her cheeks and eyebrows, and a glorious plume for a tail. Yet however eye-catching her appearance, (and people often remarked) it was her spirit that shined the most. As a puppy, Cub was silly, happy, and playful. As an adult, she was silly, happy and filled with the joy of life. She could put timid dogs at ease, soothe dominant dogs' anxieties, and she greeted everyone she ever met with a beaming, loose-tongued smile.

This beautiful girl accompanied us on countless miles while we rode cattle ranges and mountain trails. She had almost no skills as a herding dog, but she was a splendid trail dog, tireless and wise, and she did have one great skill. Cub could bark a herd of cows out of a willow thicket like nobody's business, and she wouldn't quit until the last one came out.

We honestly had no idea how extraordinary she was, as a physical type. We thought it normal to ride 15 to 40 miles a day and Cub would not only keep up, but she would almost double the mileage. Yet when we brought her in for vet checks, the vets would sometimes call in their assistants to admire Cub's iron-hard musculature, or the rawhide toughness of her feet. She was just our dog, our partner and pal, who loved playing stick and chasing balls, going swimming, pouncing after fish in the streams, and following the wild trails with us.

In all, Cub lived the perfect dog's life. She never knew a chain, rarely felt a leash, and lived a life of near-total canine freedom on the cattle ranges and amongst the peaks. We lost Cub to illness in October of 1995, and our vet wept with us, as he administered his final mercy.

We got our next dog the following year, ostensibly as a companion for Nikki, the spaniel-border collie rescue we'd acquired along the way, who fell into depression after Cub's passing. Born on St. Patrick's Day, 1996, Della was a Border Collie-Aussie mix from a rancher friend's breeding. Della proved to be a worthy successor to Cub, a delightful personality full of bounce, happiness, and playfulness and she absolutely lived to be with us. She was not much of a working dog, either, but who cared? Della filled our lives with joy and laughter.

However, poor Nikki never recovered from the loss of her mate, and refused to have a thing to do with Della. So, we bought Dolly from the same breeder in 1997, a puppy for our puppy.

Though full sisters, Dolly was Della's opposite in almost every way. The only things they really had in common were parents, pointed ears, and black-and-white coats. Dolly was serious, oh, so serious, and had a poker face, to boot. Oh, she'd play and chase sticks and loved a game of tug-of-war, but she did these things with a powerful sense of competition. Dolly ruled the back of the pickup truck and when strangers came to our gate, she'd stand off and eye them with a cool lupine stare that could mean anything or nothing at all.

As with Cub, Della and Dolly were our companions of the trail, logging innumerable miles in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and on ranches in southern Cali and Nevada. They proved a good team on cattle, a one-two punch that convinced most cows to get a move on, and together, they bolstered each other's confidence. Dolly was tough as an old used boot, one time colliding with Della at full speed, whilst they both went after the same cow. Dolly hit her sister hard enough to crack one shoulder blade, and she tumbled on impact, but came up screaming - mad as hell and trying to catch and eat that cow on only three legs. Dolly healed up just fine, though, and continued on her butch and stoic career.

Della retired herself from herding at about age 8, just lying down in an arena one day when Dolly brought in a group of sheep. Della only worked to please us, not because it was her calling in life, and she thought it much better to stay home and play pampered house pet.

However, our lifestyle changed and we only cowboyed or packed mules part time, and the sisters settled gracefully into retirement. We lost Dolly on December 8, 2008, a victim of lymphoma. The doctors gave her 2-3 months to live. The tough old thing stuck it out for almost 5.

Nor can we forget Rose, my first purebred Border Collie. She was born on Easter Sunday, April 12, 1998, from a nice pair of working dogs owned by our good friend, Chris Rigali. We were packing mules in the Sierras in those days, so Rose kind of grew up like a canine Tom Sawyer, playing with our older dogs, chasing squeaky critters, and rolling in whatever stinky stuff she could find. By six months old, she was going up the trail with us, a little black coyote slinking among the rockslides and flying across the alpine meadows.

I found a sheepdog trainer here in Gardnerville when Rose was about 10 months, but ... I had me a bit of trouble. Our sweet, fluffy, mild-mannered Rose turned out to be a Tasmanian devil on sheep: driven, direct, independent, hard-willed and way too much dog for me. My trainer did the best she could, but I simply lacked the skills to manage a dog as tough and headstrong as Rose. Then at about age 3 and a half, she had a fall, injured her hip - and X-rays revealed she had severe hip dysplasia. She'd held herself together this far by little more than muscle tone and willpower.

Our vet performed a femoral ostectomy, but Rose never recovered to 100%. Eventually, I had to concede that my tough little girl's career as a sheepdog was essentially over. It broke my heart, and I've never shed the idea that somehow, I failed her, I should have been more careful; I should have known something was wrong before she got hurt. But Rose lived out her days as our beloved friend, as quiet and gentle at home, as she was hell on wheels with sheep.

We lost Rose to cancer just this June, four months after Dolly.

Now ... we look at one more loss. Today at 4:00 p.m., we send our sweet, cute, funny little Della beyond the Rainbow Bridge. That's easier to say than that we're hauling her down to be killed. I don't know if it's three deaths so close together, or if it's the fact she's the eldest of the three, but this time is so much harder.

Della is terminally ill. They first diagnosed her with a raging bladder infection, which we treated with medication and she seemed to recover. But within 4 days of finishing her meds, she began a steep decline, and stronger medications have done nothing at all. She's stopped eating, she's lost weight, she's weak, she sleeps 23 hours out of 24, and most of all, our loving little Velcro dog, who yips insistently if we shut her out of our sight, wants nothing but to be left alone. Last night, we brought Della upstairs to bed, but when we started turning out the lights, she just walked outside, went downstairs, and spent the night out sleeping under the juniper bush that's become her den.

It's time. She's tired, she's sick, all that sparkle and joy is gone, and she's done. But I'm not ready, even if she is.

Oh, I still have Jesse, my brilliant Border Collie partner, who came to us as a rescue eight years ago and inadvertently filled the void Rose's lameness created. He turned 10 in February and while he's a bit slower these days, he still loves and lives to work sheep. We still have Scruffy, Tye's corgi-border collie rescue who, now at age 9, is pretty much Tye's shadow. Plus, I've young Nick, my gifted, beautiful border boy in whom I've placed such hopes. Further, I've put in for a pup, a full sister to Nick, whom I hope to get in early fall.

But when it comes to Della, I want to grab and hold her and weep into the fragrance of her fur, crying, "Not yet! Don't leave! Don't go!"

This time, for whatever reason, I'm not at all prepared to say goodbye. Maybe it's the history, the miles and the years. Maybe it's that we have loved her so well and so long. There will always be dogs in our life. Since Cub fell asleep in my lap twenty-five years ago, we can't imagine it any other way.

However, Kipling was not wrong when he wrote this verse, which I will leave with you:

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

~*~

It lives!

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 07:10:37 GMT

Yeah, like anyone follows this LJ any more, or remembers who it is. *g*

Still, rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I've only been stuck in the belly of fan fiction. I am so in trouble for playing this much hooky ... But hey! I've updated my writerly website thingie: http://www.gm-atwater.com/

It's still utterly pointless, but all things being relevant, I'm planning on using my summer time (betwixt the gazillion, healthy, productive, physical things that keep me off my computer) to get back to writing, or more rightly, revising the hell out of Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer. Oh, I am such a bad writer! So ... if you notice me loafing, feel free to poke me with a sharp stick. No, really!

Looking Back ...

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 03:34:24 GMT

Twenty years ago, northern Nevada came out of one of the coldest winters on record. Temps hit well below zero (-40 to -50) a foot of snow never melted, and barely an automobile ran that couldn't tolerate a cold start. At one point, the National Guard air-lifted hay to herds stranded on the Idaho range. That year, 1989, hubby and I worked for a million acre cow outfit, the IL Ranch in Elko County, Nevada. It was a bitter winter but spring came on like glory, with grass growing to the horses' knees, pools of lupines blooming on the hills, and the perfume of wild chokecherries filled the canyons as we rode.

1989 was also the year a remarkable TV mini-series aired: "Lonesome Dove." I remember the boys in the bunkhouse huddled each evening around that grainy little TV they had, and they'd debate the authenticity of every scene, every buckle and bullet, over meals in the cookhouse where I presided. Come spring, the chuck wagon rolled out, the cattle were moved to summer range, and hubby and I were stationed in an itty bitty camp trailer out in the middle of nowhere, bearing responsibility for a thousand yearling heifers.

We were younger then, and wild, and we had all the great, open range to claim as our own. Ranch headquarters was 70 miles from town, and if we rode anywhere out there, we went at a spanking trot. When we hit town, it was with all bells ringing, and oh, good lord, the hangovers. I loved that big country with all my soul, and if I'd tipped over dead one day whilst sitting horseback atop some windy ridge, I wouldn't have regretted it, nor lacked for a single thing.

Those were simpler days, and it's not just nostalgia that makes it so. Everything we owned fit in Tye's 1972 Ford F-250, which we fitted with a cabover camper shell and dubbed the "Ford Closet", and in my '73 Buick Skylark sedan. Put studded mud-n-snow tires on that Buick, and she'd claw her way up roads some pickups couldn't manage. We made about $750 a month, near as I can recall. I know we never made more than $15,000 a year. Didn't need much more than that. After all, if we had food, gas, pizza money, a little horse jewelry, and every so often a bottle of whiskey and a new cinch or saddle blanket, we were pretty well set. Sometimes we'd find a twenty dollar bill in our wallets that we'd forgotten we had, and that would actually be worth something.

It was hard life, a good life, the best life, but really a not much of a living. Somewhere along the line, times changed and so did we. I'll be 47 years old, this July. Back then, I never even considered whether I'd be here to say that. Neither Tye nor I can take the hits or falls like we used to, but most of all ... there just wasn't any money in it. Hubby is like a chameleon, able to put on lives like some folks change hats: he's been a marine, a cop, a cowboy, a cook, a miner, a mule packer and a private eye. He led and I followed to the changes in our lives, and now winters on the open range are things of the past.

But I still cling with fierce devotion to the things that make me feel settled inside, including a few good friends and a little piece of rented ground where I can plant a garden, keep some chickens, train my dogs, and not have too many neighbors. I've never learned Tye's tolerance for towns and folks and bustle, but even he needs to come home to peace and quiet. We both still own our saddles. Won't ever sell 'em. We still dust 'em off sometimes and go day-work for local outfits, moving cows or packing mules. We're older and more cautious and more thoughtful than we used to be, but ...

... It don't leave you, that country. All it takes is an old song or the scent of rain on the sagebrush, and we're back. Back twenty years to a day when we were pretty much poor all the time, but when we could sit up there on our handmade saddles, and revel in the sort of benign arrogance that belongs only to those who make a living on horseback. Hard to be humble when you see the world from a vantage point ten feet tall.

I don't know that I'd want to go back, or any chances to do anything over. But I'm glad we were there. I'm glad that part of life was ours. I'm glad we can one day sit, old and bent and gray, and look at photo albums of a place and time that might one day be gone, that has already changed, and we can remember our places in it.

It's a good feeling. Now I'm going back upstairs to watch "Lonesome Dove," and to remember where I come from and where my roots will always cling. Blessings to you all, those whom I call Friends. You are part of my peace. :-)
Cheers ~

~ Me

Still kicking ... Me in my writer's hat

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 17:50:27 GMT

Where, oh where, did the past year and three months go?

It's been a busy year, including a return to fan fiction, (oh, joy, someone combined horror with classic rock, a classic car, and handsome spook hunters - catch "Supernatural" Thursday nights on The CW) raising and losing a beautiful new Border Collie pup, moving to a new house with acreage (renting), and working my freakin' arse off so's to support my new-found travel habit.

Yup, took a 6-day road trip to see my parents near Seattle last October, went to a fan convention in Orlando in April (EyeCon), went on an 8-day Moot/road trip to New Mexico and Arizona as my annual ladies' escape with friends, competed in some out of town sheepdog trials, and I'm fixing to go to another fan convention in September. The height of hurricane season. Pray for me. :-p

Work-wise, I clean dog kennels and sheep pens two days a week, help a friend work her horses, help another friend with odd jobs around her property, and pick up other under-the-table work, all involving labor and/or livestock, whenever the chance permits. It's cash, baby, and I'd rather work outside than in an office. :-) I don't fare well in captivity ...

With the loss of my beautiful 1-1/2 year old pup, Flynn, to accident in early May, my dog-training pals went together and got me a new pup. Nick is a completely different dog from joyful, elegant, grey-hound fast Flynn, but he's impeccably bred, smart to the point of scariness, wonderfully level-headed, and at only 4 months, I can tell he's going to be a helluva dog. I will mourn Flynn until time spins down, but Nick has filled my heart. Yes, I am blessed in friends.

This morning I awoke from the satisfying exhaustion of a weekend sheepdog trial, and discovered summer had momentarily given way to the sharp, clean bite of autumn. From mornings of 65 desert degrees, the mercury dropped to a startling 40. The day will warm, even here at 6500 feet among the pinion pines, but it reminds me that Fall is fast approaching. It's coming time to reorder my time. Less play, more work - and more writing. I'm giving myself September to finish playing hooky, but I've manuscripts in need of the knife and words in need of whittling. Time indeed to call the muses back from their summer among leaves and sunlight.

Until then ... to whomever should chance to read this ... may you find crisp apples and rosy tomatoes and thick green zucchini as your part of the harvest bounty, and watch you for the cheery faces of pumpkins among the vines. :-)

The road goes ever on ...

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 02:55:25 GMT

So, I've actually completed my second novel. Yup, it's done, and I didn't even rush over here to blow bugles and beat drums about it.

Not sure why, other than I think the work of writing has finally hit home. Telling the story is only part of the job. Sure, it's fun, it's a passion, it's what I do - but it's also a business. The tedious part begins *after* one types "The End". All the editing, polishing, revising, and in my case, desperately hunting out words, sentences, phrases and scenes that I can bloody do away with!

Yup, brevity continues to elude me. But I've finished the tale of Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer. It went places I didn't expect, showed me things I wasn't looking for, and fought me tooth and nail to reach its conclusion. Yet I'm happy with it. I think it's a good story. I think it's a more marketable story than Oak and Stone simply because ... it's dragons. And it's shorter. And I'm trying to make it shorter yet, LOL!

That's the hard part. That's where I am now. Sticking the thing back in the forge to hammer it to that perfect shape. *face-palm* omgwtfbbq, that's work! However, if I'm gonna be a writer, this is what it's all about. Tenacity, perseverance, cowboying up. ;-)

Meanwhile, summertime is kicking. my. ass. But in a good way. It's great to be so active that I have to keep a tatty little day-planner. ;-) Plus it's good for my body and my brain. Winter may be more condusive for writing, but yegads, it just drains the color out of my world, literally and emotionally. So maybe it's harder to find creative time in summer, but I think it's recharging the fuel cells for when my time must be spent indoors. Hope so, anyhow. I'll let you know along about December. *G*

Well, plus I've played a bit of hooky with fan fiction, but shhh, we're not supposed to talk about that. ;-)

Anyroad, so that's that. Both novels are complete, both are in revisions, and I believe I'm going to push Morgan's tale first and hardest, when I resume submissions. Meanwhile, here's hoping my muses will flitter in and sit down at least once in a while, because, yanno, I've got to have more tales to tell. Got to. It's what I do. ;-)

Hope everyone is having a good summer - or winter, if you're at the bottom of the world. Peace and blessings to you all. I'll see you 'round the ethernet. :-)
Cheers ~

Gloria / Erin

Thinky-ness

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 01:46:02 GMT

Sometimes I want to write just to feel the words flow, to capture a thought like bugs in amber to turn and hold to the light. Sometimes I want to simply let ideas take wing and shape words into things no one has seen before. Sometimes, oh sometimes it's like a hunger that clutches and cries, and I can feel words batting in gossamer-winged legions against the shutters of my mind.

Aye, but I also know that once words take shape, there is alway, always the work of it, the slaving and shaving and struggle of it. And that's the hardest part to endure.

~ P.S. No, I'm not dead, merely resting. *G*

Here be dragons ... finally!

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 18:36:36 GMT

This morning when I woke up, my first conscious thought was of ... dragons.

Weird, you say.

No, good. Really, really good! Good enough that my little heart got all skippety-happy, because I think this means my muses have finally come back from their long hiatus. I kid you not, I haven't been stuck with writer's block, I've been hitting the freakin' writer's Berlin Wall! But the bricks are starting to fall, and today I'm gonna try and beat that sucker down. There have been little creative mutters and mumbles the last couple weeks, but I think - I hope - this is me finally back to work.

Yeesh. Willpower, self discipline anyone? Clearly I need a minder. ;-) Anyroad, enough wasting words, on to better things!
Cheers ~

Gloria / Erin

yeah....

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 02:51:59 GMT

Today I sat on my front porch. I sat on my porch and I listened to my neighborhood and I let the soft breeze kiss my cheek. I heard children playing and neighbors visting. I heard cars rush by out on the highway and random dogs idly barked. I smelled charcoal briquets and barbeque, and my stomach soon began growling. And when hubby came home we threw our own hamburgers on our grill, and the aromas of onions and burger still hang in the air.

Now the windows are open and I'm drinking wine, and I don't even care that it will freeze and snow at least once again before summer. Today it was finally spring. :-)

Yeah. Simple pleasures.

Oy ....

Sun, 11 Mar 2007 04:05:13 GMT

Geez, I sure hope nobody looking at my LJ decides I'm prone to mood swings. I don't think I am ... but then again, maybe I am.

My whine for today is that lately I am creatively stuck. I am 9/10's finished with Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer, I only have one more climactic scene to write, and then it's just wrap-up ... and I've been bogged to the axels. I guess it's Real Life chewing holes in my brain, and probably a good dose of performance anxiety, too, all stewed up together with garlic and carpet tacks. I mean, this is the end of Morgan's tale, the "reward" my (hoped-for) readers will get for following the thing all the way through. So yeah, it spooks me that I might banjax it all up. And thus the muses cringe hiding under the bed, and RL whispers insideous little nasty things that totally don't have a thing to do with writing, and the end result is ... nothing.

*sighhh* I guess this is where I take my own advice and just start bloody writing until something comes out, and remember that the Delete key is my friend. Does anyone else out there do that, find excuses to panic and procrastinate over finishing a story?

Anyhow. That's me for today. Now I'm gonna go see about pushing some words onto paper. Or pixel. Whatever. ;-)
Cheers ~

Erin / Gloria

Writers are deranged: the proof

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 23:50:49 GMT

Some folks have already heard this tale, but I'm gonna post it here, too. You know that snow we didn't get all winter, here in northern Nevada?

It arrived about 6pm Sunday evening, just when I was going to a friend's house on a ranch about 20 miles away. No big deal at the time, I thought, just a few flakes, probably a passing flurry. It does that this time of year.

By the time I left their house an hour and a half later, I realised I had just screwed up. It was no longer flurrying. Boys and girls, can you say "white out"?

I drove that whole 20 miles at freakin' 25 miles per hour, in the dark, in a blizzard! For a little bit there was a white pickup in front of me, but he soon pulled off the road. I thought he was simply turning off home - lucky devil - but then his headlights swung back onto the road behind me. And it dawned on me ... he just didn't want to go first. Within 5 seconds I found out why. I COULDN'T FRIGGIN' SEE!

I kid you not, my visibility was between 15 and 30 feet, the wind was ripping, and gales of humongous white snowflakes were whirling in front of my headlights and windshield. It was like driving into a tunnel of blowing snow, all rushing in torrents right at me. I had to make my way by watching for the roadside reflector posts - and when there were none of those, I had to squint for the (swiftly fading) tire tracks ahead of me. Sometimes it got so bad I couldn't see anything but swirling white, and I'd ease off the gas. My shadow in the white pickup did the same, evidently taking my cues. Two or three times I sort of wandered off on the shoulder - thank God for the "wake-up bumps" they grind onto the sides of the roads out here. But I couldn't STOP in the middle of the highway, nowhere to pull off, hubby is out of town so I couldn't call even if my cell phone did work, which it doesn't out there ... and there was that silly bastard behind me who was now counting on me to not run us both off into the ditch.

Man, I've driven in all sorts of winter conditions, and that was the longest 20 miles in my life. I finally got to the point where, if I wasn't scared, I was sure as heck pumping some major adrenaline, and I did me some praying. Which made me feel better, but every nerve I owned was still firing about 100,000 volts a second. Mile by mile, minute by minute, and of course I could see no hint landmarks out there, so I had NO clue where I was. After an eternity or two I began seeing familiar road signs - and I could have cried. I'M NOT HOME YET! Mommy ...

But finally ... me and the poor sucker behind me limped our way out to Hwy 395, and I have never been so glad to see the lights of home. The other guy went on past - I pity him if he had to go up over the top to town, as it would be at least as bad if not worse, up there. Yet I made it. I burned off all that overcooked adrenaline by shoveling the porch and sidewalk and the roof of our storage shed. In the dark. In a blizzard. But hey, it was that or climb the freakin' walls! And the dogs thought it was a bang-up Saturday night to play in the snow while their Mom sweated and swore.

The really sick, sad part of it?

Even while I was crouched peering over the steering wheel into a blinding black snowstorm with my pulse rate at 700 rpms, a little voice in my head kept analytically ticking off the details, saying, "Hey, this is cool! We could use this in a story sometime!"

*face-palm*

Oh well. Nobody really thought I was sane, right? Though if I ever catch that rotton little groundhog, he is one dead rodent.

~ Erin / Gloria

I'm Inspired!

Thu, 08 Feb 2007 21:26:10 GMT

I've been mildly worrying about what I'll write next, after my current novel is finished. LOL, I know, I know, finish what I'm doing, first, and then get focused on submitting the blasted thing - but it's sort of an addiction! What will my next story be? Egads, I've got to have one!

So, I've been toying with the idea of a scrivener, a scribe, who has his own shop and does his own thing - and somehow those abilities get him drawn into a Grand Adventure. Well. Inspiration ambushed me in the shower just half an hour ago. (Don't worry, I'm not writing this naked!)

I think his name is Liam. He was discovered at about age 12 when the parish priest caught him copying illuminated letters out of a gospel (or a similar illuminated religous text) with a piece of charcoal. Liam did it so *well* - especially for a boy who'd never had a minute's schooling - that he was sent off to learn his letters and apprentice to be a scribe. (I think his father is a miller, so the family can afford this.) Once Liam completed his apprenticship, he informally continued his education, seeking knowledge from scholars of all sorts, including the monks at the local monastary, who produce beautiful religious manuscripts such as the one that first got him started.

Now he's about age 23 and has his own little shop in this seaport city. It's a bustling, busy place and he stays busy doing everything from penning poetry for lovelorn swains, to copying rare or important manuscripts for rich patrons. There's always work for a man of letters, and he enjoys what he does, and is slowly compiling the beginnings of a library of his own. He loves words, loves books, even has sea captains bringing him back literary curiosities from far places, which he buys at a fair price.

Then one day Sir Someone Important shows up, wanting to hire Liam. Sir S.I. is heading off on some sort of Voyage Of Discovery - (I don't know what, yet) - and he wants someone to chronicle the expedition. Maybe Sir S.I. is engaged by the Queen to find a new trade route or some such - that's a relatively common event in our actual human history. And since the money is good, plus the chance to see new lands is enticing, and the opportunity to maybe find even more rare manuscripts is even better, Liam agrees.

And off they go. To what ... I have no faintest clue, LOL! But maybe ... maybe it will develop into an actual real live story. I hope. Now I just need to think of a plot! *G*

Anyhow, don't anybody get too excited: it may take me months to a year before this gels into something workable. But it's an IDEA! I won't have to withdraw cold turkey from writing after all! *G*
Cheers ~

Erin / Gloria

.

Shhhh ....

Sat, 03 Feb 2007 20:19:04 GMT

Don't let on I'm happy about this, but my story, "Bladesmith" has made the shortlist for editorial consideration by Andomeda Spaceways magazine! They say it will take them two or three months to make a final decision, and only 1 of 3 stories is selected ... but hey! This is closer than I've gotten so far! Wish me luck! *bounce*

~ Gloria / Erin

Bam! Pow! Sock!

Thu, 25 Jan 2007 04:52:08 GMT

I love writing action.

I do. I absolutely love writing a wall-smashing, window-bashing, rip-roaring action scene. Something about it makes the evil little kid in me leap up and down screeching, "Yeah! Yeah! YEAH!"

I think maybe because it's a challenge to myself. I love watching/reading good action scenes, but I am so disappointed when they just ... fizzle. If someone is going to choreograph a first rate chase or fight or life-and-death-omg-do-something-now scene for public amusement, I want to end up breathless, windblown, and my fingernails stuck in the upholstry. Which means I want to write action scenes that I enjoy reading, and that hopefully others would enjoy as well.

It's also fun because I am a highly visual writer, meaning I often picture scenes like a film playing in my head. I can see what's going on, see my character running and leaping and diving over hedges, just as if I were in a theatre seat. So ... my challenge to myself is to try and write at a pace and tempo that jerks the reader into the scene and catapults them along with the action. Pacing is everything, the rhythm of the words, so my challenge is to hit a pace that moves as fast as the action. But without, of course, leaving the reader hopelessly confused as to what the heck just happened. ;-)

As I said, it's a challenge. But damn, I love doing it! *G*

That is all. As you were. Carry on.
Cheers ~

Erin / Gloria

Whew...!!!

Mon, 22 Jan 2007 06:41:38 GMT

Well, after more agonising than any would-be sane person likes to admit, I think I've finally got my query letters for "Oak and Stone" revised to ... well, something that's not entirely suckage. (That's both the long and short versions.) I'm truly convinced that my rejections so far have primarily been because I could not find the words to sell my own bloody product! But after much angsting and anguish, and much writing of sentence fragments and use of ellipses ... I think I've got it.

And boy does it feel good! A nice, solid, warm-in-the-tummy kind of good. I can't decide if it's like having a big glass of warm milk with cookies, or more like the blessed relief of finally becoming un-constipated. *G* Anyhow, gad, if I can just win a couple requests for partial manuscripts, I'll feel less like a total loser in the submissions business.
Cheers ~

Erin / Gloria
P.S.
Now back to Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer. I think the baby dragon just incinerated a badguy. Ewww.

Hm

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 03:35:13 GMT

And then there are the times when I'm trying like hell to get something written, and I'm having to drag each word out of my brain, leaving pitiful wails and long, screeching claw marks behind 'em ... and it dawns on me. Hey, stupid, this scene doesn't fit! And then the right idea shows up and it's ever so much more interesting and adventurous and clever, and all I can say is ...

Duh.

Sometimes I can't brain cuz I have the dumb. ;-)
Cheers ~

Erin / Gloria

Oy ...

Fri, 29 Dec 2006 07:23:32 GMT

There are few things more unsettling than to sit down facing a blank, fresh page ... and realise you have absolutely no idea what words are supposed to come next.

*head, desk, repeat*

Speaking of ...

Fri, 15 Dec 2006 00:45:43 GMT

Here's the beauty of an English longbow in all its glory.

This is my girl, Elanor, made by Pip Bickerstaffe of Derbyshire, England, and a gift to me from a lovely gentleman who appreciated that I wanted to learn to shoot. She is 35lbs at 28", so just a light thing, but ooh, is she ever suh-weet! (I just came in from shooting about 40 minutes ago, given that we have a rare day of WARM! - and she shoots better than I do!)

The quiver and bracer/armguard are handmade by Goldflight Archery and the arrows are custom-ordered Port Orford cedar crested in my colors of green and white.

Dismissed! *G*

Elves as Archers - a short essay

Thu, 14 Dec 2006 21:10:19 GMT

*blink* Did LJ just do something to change our formatting here? Anyroad ...

As a break from all my submissions angsting, today I'm pondering the fantasy-genre phenomenon of elves depicted as archers. Why archers? Why not elves as elegantly deadly swordsmen or kick-ass mounted lancers or hell, brilliant concert pianists? (Music as weaponry: soothe the savage breast...)

Heck, I'm for all the above! And elves as archers could be, and probably sometimes are, dismissed as author laziness. But I'm here to argue that elven archery is actually a sound premise.

Foremost: a skilled medieval longbowman was the Carlos Hathcock of his day. He could reach out and touch someone at ranges to and beyond 200 yards. A bow is silent: the archer need not even show his face. A longbow is deadly: a bodkin point can demonstratably penetrate chain mail. If it finds a chink in plate armor, somebody's hurtin', too. A bow is also a tool that serves purposes beyond that of war, being a handy way to bring meat to the table as well as have a little Sunday afternoon fun. (Or whatever day of the week elves take off...) Finally, a bow is something ANYbody can learn. If you've two good arms and decent eyesight, and reasonable coordination of the two, you can learn to shoot a bow.

So - elves as archers is practical.

Another point. Elves are often depicted as secretive, hidden folk. A bow is perfect for that. An archer is the most mobile and silent weapons platform available for the times. No need to engage an enemy or confront trespassers at close hand. Just zip a shaft out there and watch things change in a quick hurry. By the time the foe has figured out what happened, he's either stuck full of 32-inch toothpicks or he's removing himself to another locale. Message delivered, nice and stealthy: "Go away."

Point the third: bows are inexpensive to build and maintain. Yes, one needs a certain level of skill to build good longbows and make straight-shooting arrows, but the materials are all natural: the staves and arrow shafts are wood and the string is linen. The only metal involved in medieval longbows are the arrowheads. A company of archers can be outfitted far less expensively than a company of armored knights. Heck, a guy could build a bow and forge his points while living in a cabin in the woods. Further, his arrowheads can be customizes for the need at hand: broadheads for hunting, bodkins or barbed points for war, smaller points for small game, birds and fish, etc.

Again, archery is practical.

Finally, an experienced longbowman is himself a lethal commodity. A strong man drawing a bow of 60 to 100+ pounds can really sling some wood out there. 200 yards was a common range, and 300 not unheard-of. A proficient archer can shoot 15 aimed arrows a minute, and 10 arrows is no big deal. In massed volleys, 300 archers shooting an arrow every 4-to-6 seconds could wreak unimaginable havoc on a formation of cavalry or foot soldiers. Granted, one would need a good supply of arrows to keep up with such a demand for any length of time, but arrows are disposable ammunition designed to be replaced.

In the final outlook, a bow weighs almost nothing, arrows the same, so there is no great weight involved in keeping an archer's equipage. Light, mobile, quiet, efficient - an archer is truly a thing of deadly magnificence.

Therefore, I maintain that depicting elven archers in fantasy fiction is not a bad thing at all - providing one does their research into the art of archery. Which one should do anyway, regardless of the weapons systems you choose to give your characters. (Along with knowing your horses, but that's a topic for another day.) ;-)

In closing, should anyone wander through here and wonder what's good to read on archery, here are some books:

"The Witchery of Archery" by Maurice Thompson. Originally published in 1878, it remains a classic tretise on the longbow.

"Archery: Its Theory and Practice" by Horace A. Ford. Another foundation-stock treatment of archery by one of the finest early target archers, first printed circa 1870's.

"Become the Arrow" by Byron Ferguson. A modern work aimed at hunting, but containing much on the psychology and methodology of barebow shooting.

"Fundamentals of Recurve Target Archery" by Ruth Rowe. As noted, it is geared towards recurves rather than longbows, but her photo-illustrated instructions on proper form and shooting are excellent.

"Longbow: A Social and Military History" by Robert Hardy. All about the longbow, its history, use and development, by English actor Robert Hardy who is also a longbow expert.

And there you have it! Fare well and good shooting - and beware when next you tread the secret woods ... ;-)

Hmm

Tue, 12 Dec 2006 03:47:51 GMT

Upon reflection and after much research I have come to this conclusion:

There is no consensus about anything in regards to submitting to agents, other than be polite and use 1-inch margins. Everything else ... will just fry those little hamsters scampering in your head.

That is all. As you were. Carry on. ;-)
Cheers ~

Gloria / Erin

Still kickin'!

Wed, 06 Dec 2006 05:13:49 GMT

First, I apologise to readers for my lapse in mood last week. I may have managed a few witty things, amongst my blather, but ... Anyhow. Real Life has somewhat loosened its grip and I found my sense of humor huddled shivering under the bed. So I'm good. ;-)

The news with me is the other day I decided to set myself up for a bruising. I sent my query letter for "Oak and Stone" over to Evil Editor. (See links over there on the lower sidebar.) There one can send in query letters to be publically posted for critique and dismemberment, subject to the Evil Editor's evil whims and those of his evil minions. It's marvelously irreverent and rather savage, but amongst the satire and ego-shredding, there are some genuine gems of worth. Which is why I diddit.

LOL, and boy, I caught it right on the chin! However, I learned a couple things. Foremost, my query letter was DULL. Vague and lacking an indication of the plot, I believe was the primary complaint. And someone else said it sounded like I was trying too hard to be formal, and a couple others that it lacked enthusiasm. But mainly it was just ... meh.

Now that's a helluva feeling! Here I've been sending out my submissions in all hope and anticipation - and I've been shooting myself in the foot every time! Because you know, they were right. LOL, makes me wish I could re-submit to the agents who've rejected so far, and say, "No, no! I didn't mean it, here's the real one!"

So that's that. I just need to create an enthusiastic, go-gettem, gosh-I-love-my-story query letter - and flaunt that sucker all to hell!

Directly after which I'll swim from San Francisco to Baja, but that's another story. ;-)

Evil Editor and minions also went into heart palpitations over the novel's length, but I'm taking care of that. *G* A lean, mean, sleek and deadly, elegantly aerodynamic helluva damn good tale. Yeah. That's what it's gonna be. I hope. ;-)

Meanwhile, Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer is tapping his fingers, muttering about what I'm doing with Mr. Fancy-pants and elf magic, when there's a townhouse to burgle and plots to foil over in his realm! So I'd best go attend to that. Happy holidays to everyone! Even if I do mumble the occasional "humbug". *G*
Cheers ~

~ Gloria / Erin

Humbug

Thu, 30 Nov 2006 01:19:00 GMT

That's going to be my mantra for about the next 30 days. Don't ho-ho at me or I'm liable to bite your kneecaps off.

The most obvious thing a writer must do is write. Often. Persistantly. Daily if at all possible. And that can be plain damned hard. Not just because the words won't flow, or you're stuck on a plot point, or your muses are flittering around the lightbulb in giggling clouds just begging to be shot with a BB gun. But because sometimes Real Life bites. Sometimes it's just hard to shake the monkey off your back and the demon off your shoulder long enough to create anything but a microwave dinner.

Yeah, I'm getting a head start on my mid-winter blahs. I'll live. But it does make me think that if one really wants to be a writer, at some point, one has to develop a plain dog stubborness that responds to every adversity with, "Hell no, just watch me" ... or one doesn't get anywhere. Though there's no guarantee you'll get anywhere even then. (Tip: avoid reading blogs and LJ entries about the tough state of the publishing world, or you'll crawl under the bed and never comeout.)

So that's the trick. Dig in. Push. Don't quit. It's not that I'm having any particular problems with my current project. Morgan the reluctant dragonslayer survived (as spectator) the debate about the place of dragons in God's plan, LOL. He's now about to become a burglar. So it's working, just ... not ... very ... fast. There's static in my head that's interrupting my muse-signal and that irritates the piss out of me. But ... even a crappy radio picks up a few words, and I'm gathering those as they come.

I've found an odd sort of cathartic - or perhaps neurotic - activity for when the rejection slips come in on "Oak and Stone". (Only 5 so far.) I dig out my query letter draft and my synopsis, both the 1-page and 6-page versions, and pick them apart. What could be better? How can I sell this? How can I word my pitch or frame my synopsis so that an agent - or more rightly the agent's assistant - will at least pause and think a small, "Ooh"? I guess I figure if I do this often enough, I'll eventually have the perfect query letter. Or the perfect pitch. Or something. But I send out my queries in groups of 4, so when those come back, I'll have a new, improved, more aerodynamic package ready to go on the next group. It makes me feel better. And maybe it will work.

I hope. Though anybody who says don't sweat query letters must not submit to many agents who won't take anything but - meaning not even a 1-page synopsis unless the agent asks for it. *sighhh* But yes, I still must make time to actually like, write. Even if Real Life occasionally sux.
Over and out.

~ Gloria / Erin

Ergh

Mon, 13 Nov 2006 06:19:05 GMT

Displacement activities: That which one does to avoid doing something else.

For example, this evening I changed the wallpaper on my website. I kept thinking the original was sort of gaudy and didn't quite go with the other two pages, and anyhow, I think it's more pretty, now. :-)

But seriously ... I need to get back to Morgan and the baby dragon. What am I avoiding? I need to gather enough brain cells to frame a philosophical (but somewhat humorous) discussion between an abbot and a wizard, regarding natural religion and the inherent natures of that which is created by the Divine - which, by argument, includes dragons, hitherto thought by the church to be inherently evil. But since dragons *are* a part of God's creation, and thus by definition can only have those attributes given by their creator, and because God being inherently good does not create evil ...

Ouch. I think I sprained my brain.
.

Progress report

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 03:40:48 GMT

So, what have we been up to, lately?

I've gotten 3 responses to my first 4 submissions of "Oak and Stone" - rejections, obviously, or I would have super-heated LJ to the point of self combustion with the force of my glee! They were form letters, nothing in the way of feedback, but then again, these are some of the biggest agencies out there, and their stacks of submissions are monstrous.

Which means I'm digging in and continuing on. Spent hours agonising over, tweaking and polishing my query letter. Went over my synopsi - (there are two versions, a 1-page and a 6-page) - with tweezers and sticky tape, trying to remove any superfluous verbiage. Went back over the manuscript itself page by page, for no particular reason other than my obsessive-compulsive tendancies were raging in full force. And somehow I've got my next set of query letters and submission packets ready to go out on Monday. Tally ho, carry on, pip-pip.

Meanwhile, in the realm of writing, Morgan the grouchy dragon slayer continues on his not-so-merry-way. Things Are Going Wrong - again. And he's got a cold. *at-tchoo!* But why not? I mean, seriously! The heroes in books almost never get head colds or hangovers, like real people. No, they only get ill or injured if it's a Necessary Plot Device. And that seems wrong. I mean, in real life, things like colds, flus and flatulence show up just when we least need them. Thus, I figured what the hell, I had a cold myself at the time, so I might as well make poor Morgan sick as well as grumpy. *G*

And that's all for now. Yesterday I had an idea for a witty, introspective and clever LJ post, but danged if I can remember what it was ...

Over and out ~

Gloria / Erin

Poo

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 01:13:41 GMT

Well, the first rejection is in on "Oak and Stone." Submission mailed on the 16th, rejection received on the 24th. Zoom.

I'm trying to decide if that's a good thing. Maybe the agent endeavors to answer promptly so authors aren't left hanging indefinitely. Or, maybe the agent thought my manuscript was so awful he rejected it on the first paragraph. Erks.

I know, I know, grow up and be glad it was handled expediently. Three more submissions yet to hear from, then on down the list I go.

Oh, did I mention ...

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 04:47:17 GMT

... I've created a wee little "official" authorly website? Yup, not much to see on it, really no purpose for it, but at least it's there, if I ever have need of it. ;-) Many thanks to my dear friend Celebsul for hosting it!

www.gm-atwater.com - It's still subject to some tweakage, but ... well, there it is!