WordPlay

…Monday

You’re my only hope!

So here’s the thing. I’m putting these backlist works up for electronic availability, right? Short stories and then we’ll see.

On the one hand, it’s a blast.

On the other hand…Dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a marketing department! I’m a moonlighting graphic twiddler, not a design team! And I’m mixing up my nostalgic media references!

The spooky river. Ooooh...

And so I find myself faced with…

Decisions.

So guess what! Yes! I want you to make them FOR me! Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Sometimes I don’t have much choice with cover concepts or ideas–I’m working with stock photos, yes I am, even when I sometimes, er, twiddle with them.   So when I started looking for a Deep River Reckoning cover–the short story from the Reckoners universe just now available on Kindle, and which I’ll actually talk more about on Wednesday–I went hunting a really spooky river.

And hunting. And hunting…

Well, I was really happy with the end result, but now that I’ve had a chance to ponder it–and get a bit of feedback…I wonder if it’s not just plain too…

Serene.

You know. Pretty, but not grabby. Maybe not quite the right balance for a fiction world that’s contemporary, smart-ass, full of ghosties, full of magical action, and yah…has quite the little romance thing going for it, too?

So I played with a couple of other things, and then I realized…wow. I have no idea what to do.

Which cover would make YOU think about “picking up the book”?

AKA, “Hellllp MEEEEEE!”

(PS yes, there are watermarks on the bottom two. These are comp versions of the images for now…)

Ahh, the haunted woman. Evocative!

Scary stuff happening here! Run away! No, pick me up!

…Monday

Yup, this is what we’ve been doing the past couple weekends.  Flying dogs.

Seriously!

Sometimes they don’t fly. Sometimes they get cocky, and crash and burn.  Sometimes they get worried, and then it’s more like a “meander” around the course–that happens to both of them, as Belle is a natural worrier and Connery still stresses when he’s not sure he’s safe (due to those horrifying giant-breed attacks when he was younger).

And then there are the courses. Sometimes the timing is awfully tight. Sometimes it’s just not physically possible to get from Here to There as a handler, when There is the spot that will tell the dog exactly what to do. Sometimes they’re just wicked, twisty, tricky…you look at the course map and go, “Buh..?” And maybe drool a little in stupefaction.

So on a course like that, I’ve got to handle on time, with my feet in exactly the right place, my hands in the right place (hands indicate a myriad of things, from direction to distance from handler), my verbals just soon enough to give guidance while not distracting the dog from obstacle performance. And the dog has to be appropriately focused–a balance of handler and obstacle focus–ready to listen while at the same time committing to the next obstacle with enough energy to navigate it.

All as fast as possible, of course. (PS and don’t get LOST!)

My guys tend to be careful and attentive, which means we Q on accuracy more than we blow out on speed. But every now and then it all comes together and we get the right course and the right level of canine cockiness and the right handler timing…

And that’s when dogs fly.

Belle takes on the tire with her little legs flung high out of the way. You can just see the glint of the blue speck inside her left brown eye. (This, and all of these pics, were taken by Bruce at BAMFoto)

She's not panting here--that's her happy running mouth. You can see it in most of her photos.

This one's got it all--the little blue eye dot, the happy mouth, the little front leg fling... Go, Belle, Go!

Connery hits those same weaves with fierce concentration (and the cutest little face!)

Typical Connery waiting at the start line. "HURRY MYMOM HURRY!"

…Monday

Or, in Duncan’s case, the call of the modest fenced pasture.

He. Wants. It.

Duncan loves his pasture. Doesn’t matter how scarce those grass blades or how studded with prickly pear. He has a south flat shared with agility equipment and junipers and one gorgeous piñon, a north flat of yucca and prickly pear in which we sometimes ride, and a rugged, offset connection corridor curving around behind the house–the little arroyo, full of piñon, juniper, snags, and cactus.

Beyond that fence line, he can only gaze upon the plunging deep true arroyo, which is really just as well.

The paddock itself is plenty generous–different shade choices, flats and slopes and the barn. Zones for winter hang-out, zones for summer hang-out. Room to cut loose now and then.

Say, when he has a serious case of Pasture Wannit.

Because it doesn’t matter how dry, it doesn’t matter how sparse. He loves his pasture.

Unfortunately for him, although this land is meant to be grazed–by antelope, deer, elk, and bunnies–it isn’t meant for heavy use. It’s meant for animals who wander through, nibbling along the way. So that means while he’s good for this land, he’s also bad for it. (If he wasn’t a barefoot horse, he’d be even worse for it.) And in this dry, pre-monsoon season, that means he has only a few hours out, every other day or so.

This is, he says, not nearly enough. So he has a procedure through which to satisfy his Wannit.

First up: The determined and steely stare over the gate.

DuncanHorse: You. Will. OPEN.

When this fails, a quick circle around to glare with stare part 2:

DuncanHorse: Feel my wrath building! SNORT!

I have to say the gate is seldom impressed. Even the universe seems to have other things to do.

Next? Pawing at the gate. He doesn’t do this for any other reason, and he’s not pawing the ground. He lifts his front leg remarkably high and scrapes his hoove along the metal.

DuncanHorse: Must. Develop. Opposable. Digits.

Sadly, he does not.

And so the fun begins.

DuncanHorse: Wrath! SNORT! FLING MY HEELS! SPURT AWAY WITH AMAZING POWER! STOMP! STAMPEDE! LEVITAAAAATE!

Somewhere in that process, I often amble out to enjoy the show. Somewhere in this process, he becomes bored with himself, but doesn’t want to admit it. There follows a great spate of snort! Snorty snort!

And then suddenly, it’s…

Flirt. Flirt flirt flirt.

DuncanHorse: Am I handsome?

DuncanHorse: See my eyelashes?

DuncanHorse: See my curvy neck?

DuncanHorse: The gate is right there beside you…

Nice try, Duncan. Here’s a hug, a pat, and a cookie.

DuncanHorse: Kiss my nose?

Always!

The Power Snit: That there is the Lippie Engine at work. Also, that is what we call "the Neck of Annoyance."

The Power Snit Sprint upon take-off. Not a great angle, but that is one hard-workin' butt

Proof of the butt: Suddenly--full gallop! In rather tight quarters, you may notice.

"See? See my flirty neck?"

"My super flirty neck! Here I come! Time to kiss my nose!"

…Monday

Because YES, I have cover!

Holy cow, do I have cover!

*pause to  gaze upon COVER*

Waiting for the book cover is one of the hardest things for me.  Will it suit the book?  Will it be accurate?  Will people like it?  Will it SELL the book?  Will it speak to me?

Lots of my covers speak to my AuthorSelf.  But what makes my AuthorSelf happy and what makes a good book cover are generally two different things (and kinda in a big way).  So once I see the cover, I still wonder about all that stuff.  And my various inner selves argue about it.

MarketingSelf: Holy cow!  Lookit that guy!

AuthorSelf: Can we convince people that Trevarr has his hair pulled back?

MarketingSelf: Holy Cow!  Lookit that guy!

AuthorSelf: …Because Trevarr is just the sort to rip his shirt off and amble around without, he who finds your average perfect summer day to be “brisk”?

MarketingSelf:  Holy Cow!  Lookit that guy!

AuthorSelf: *desperately losing the battle*  The belt…no clan symbol…

MarketingSelf: Holy Cow!  Lookit the not-tattoos!  Lookit the leather!  Lookit the sword!

AuthorSelf: I do kinda like the sword, in fact.

MarketingSelf: And hel-LO, pouty fussy AuthorSelf.  Did you happen to notice it is THE “paranormal romance” cover?  It has a sexy guy with otherworldly markings.  It has leather, brooding, and introspective smolder.  It says, “Pick me up for a good paranormal read!”  So what’s the deal here?  What’s the important thing?  That you get your picky little  trivia bits just right, or that the cover entices people to learn about your picky little trivia bits in the first place?

AuthorSelf: …

AuthorSelf:  Holy Cow!  Lookit that guy!

MarketingSelf: That’s what I thought.

…Monday

Yes! It’s true! I have a genre auto-adjust function in my brain!

And it comes in REALLY handy. Because everything I write, I also read. (I mean…duh, right?) And without the auto-adjust, there might be some ugly genre gap issues.

Ug-LEE, I tell you.

Okay, not for mysteries–two of them so far for me. Easy to tell apart from the rest, and obvious what to expect.

The tie-in books…well, those are pretty much self-defined.

And the Bombshells. No question about that marketing. Kick-Ass Chick books. Jane Bond. Alias. Sums it up right there.

The confusing part?

The fantasies. The different flavors thereof.

SF/Fantasy vs Silhouette Nocturne category vs single title paranormal. All fantasy–but all entirely different.

With my first fantasy books–of the SF/F variety–I had a lot of freedom. Of course there were relationships in these books–our lives are made of relationships. But the books were structured around plot, and built primarily on worlds, magic, and character. I could and did hit from between 90K to 150K words.

The Silhouette Nocturnes are contemporary, relationship-driven category romance fantasies. World building and plot are vital–the pieces always have to be there!–but the book grows around the relationship. And the length is 70K words or less. That means the developing relationship takes priority over extensive world building and layered plot lines (and it means there are pages of Sentinel notes, history, and factoids that haven’t ever made it to print).

Single title paranormals–like those in the Reckoners series–are a blend of both worlds. They’ve got the world building, the relationship, the characters, the layering, and a whole cast of supporting characters. At 120k words, they’re crammed in tight!

But here’s where it gets tricky. Because the expectations formed by reading any one of these sibling genres won’t match the reading experience in the others. Picking up a fantasy won’t fulfill the yen for a relationship-driven story. Picking up a Nocturne won’t provide deep world building and multi-layered plots–and it’s not meant to. Picking up a paranormal single-title provides a great balance of both–but the specific focus of neither.

So picking up one of these genres and blaming it for not being like one of the others? Well, it feels odd to say this about fantasies, but…that’s not exactly realistic. Or, thank you (and here comes the opinionated part), fair.

In fact, the key to a happy read while genre-surfng turns out to be pretty basic. Know what you’re reading. Set expectations accordingly. Voila!

In which case it’s really handy to have an auto-adjust function.

…Memorial Day Monday

With thanks to our Neighbors from the North:

(and thanks to our canine soldiers, as well!)

…Monday

Not quite the Rainbow Connection, but we’ll make do.

You’re there, I’m here.

I don’t hit many conventions; I don’t travel well. (If I did, then ConneryBeagle would have his chance at a lot more agility trials!)

So if you happen to want to ask a question or make a comment..? Besides here at the blog? Well, hey! It’s still your lucky day! Because I am freakishly easy to find.

Most days, I visit my SFF Newsgroup a couple times. There we chat in the most informal way, and anyone’s welcome to start a new topic of conversation. Here, it’s 100% okay to express your opinion on just about anything and 0% okay to make others feel unsafe as you do so.

And there’s my webstead, sadly in need of some facelift work (like the cobbler’s barefoot child). New books and such are on the front page; so are my Twitter feeds. There’s a place to sign up for the newsletter, older piccies of the dogs and such, excerpts…all the good authorish stuff.

And of COURSE I’m on FaceBook.

The Fan page is one way have these blogs come to you, plus there are regular smart remarks and updates from moi. The profile icon for this account is one of my latest bookcovers.

The personal page receives my Twitter posts, GoodReads, and random conversational masterpieces. The profile icon for this account is me with Duncan. Or Duncan with me.

So also, obviously there’s TWITTER.

Less obviously, ConneryBeagle has a TWITTER account, too. (And LiveJournal, if you want a neat package delivery of the Twitter posts, although sometimes he or Belle stop by to post an exclusive blog.)

And what else? Newsletters! Everyone has one, right? Mine goes out more or less quarterly, looks more or less like this, and has an opt-in mailing list.

That means once you sign up, you’ll get a confirming email. I can’t send newsletters your way until you return that email. So if you don’t see it, check your junk folder!

So, seriously, want to reach across the phosphors? Me too! And glad to see you!

…Monday

Lonely Hummingbird Feeders

Or not, as it might happen.

It is the Spring of Waiting. The first spring. The one when I don’t really know what’s going to happen, when.

Like…when do the hummingbirds find us?

We have three feeders now, ready and waiting. One very pretty but impractical, and two silly plastic red things that are SO EASY to use, keep the ants away, don’t drip…

Heeeere, leetle hummingbirds! Come have a pleasant little sip!

Well. As of today, I know they’re here. I saw a black-chinned over in the dead tree…heard a broad-tail slicing the air overhead…

FIND MY FEEDERS, DAMMIT!

Oops. Did I say that out loud?

Um.

And then there’s the front yard. I use the term “yard” loosely. It’ll be xeriscaped, but right now…well, actually, dirt counts as xeriscaping, right?

Almost two weeks ago, my visiting maternal unit and I planted wildflower seeds straight from the seed heads. And since then I’ve watered and waited and…

Well. Here we go. Uh huh.

Maybe a little more time? Maybe I over-watered them? Maybe I under-watered them?

At least the native grass and other wild little green things are happy…

Fortunately, out and about on the land, there’s plenty to see. Not that I’ve identified it all, mind you. Just vaguely. A recent beautifully calm morning gave me the ubiquitous house finch, a Bullock’s oriole, the two hummingbirds, and two scrub jays giving a crow a very hard time, coincidentally right outside my office where the arroyo drops away and the tree tops are barely taller than I am. Skulking around the bottom of the big arroyo gave me a new PURPLE FLOWER POWER! to identify, along with others, and more of the existing and currently flourishing evening primrose–a gift of our wicked winter.  W00t!

Have camera! Have binoculars! Have feet! Have arroyo and flats! Go, me!

Poppies! Poppies! Poppies! (Well. Not. But who could resist that line?)

…Monday

Yes, you heard me.

Pish.

Pishing, it turns out, is a birder thing.  Which I know because this past weekend was International Migratory Bird Day, and it happens that there was a big bird doin’s  just less than an hour from here, at Salinas Pueblo Missions National Park at Quarai.

TOTALLY COOL Northern Waterthrush, a warbler. Yes, we saw it by the edge of a small pond/large puddle.

It just so happens that I love watching birdies.

For sure I need to learn the resident birds of this area, which are different from the birds in the valley I saw last year (including the niftymost flock of nighthawks, the wonderful gobbling sandhill cranes,  and a gorgeous black phoebe).   Here up against the east side of the Sandias, so much of what I’ve seen is new to me.  This flycatcher, that nuthatch, a different variety of the junco…

After the bird drought I found while living east of Flagstaff for a decade, it is a veritable feast.   So add in International Migratory Bird Day and…  Well.  I swoon!

On this particular IMBD,  we had not only the birds, but the guides–birding gurus Hart Schwarz  and Tyler Huning.  Inevitably the birding group–thinned somewhat by a cold, cloudy day and high regional winds that manifested as only a brisk breeze in the birding zone–spread out, and I ended up with Hart Schwartz, futilely and not too stealthily trying to siphon his brain.  (sadly, my brain is not nearly big enough to hold all that knowledge).

It was Hart, after a discussion of the ethics of pishing,  who declared mankind’s inalienable right to pish.

Piiishhhh psh psh psh!

Yup, like that. Apparently sometimes–say when you’ve had a bird singing and it’s gone quiet–you can spur it back into activity by pishing it. There was some discussion over whether this was “okay,” (birding ethics lesson!) and in short order, all was settled. It is, I have learned, a basic right of mankind to pish!

Something oddly reassuring about that.

Plus, of course, it was the perfect opportunity to make all the expected puns.

Not that I would do anything like that. Puns. No no, not me. Certainly not a cheap and easy pun.

Never.

*coff*

Anyway! The official bird count will be up on the Park’s event page, and I’m sure it’ll be much longer than my own list.  Off the top of my head?  (And not counting the ones we heard but didn’t see): Wilson’s warbler, northern waterthrush, lark sparrow, spotted towhee, violet green swallow, lazuli bunting, dusky flycatcher, yellow warbler, kinglet(?), catbird, turkey vulture, raven (not sure which), crow, bushtit(?), ladder-backed woodpecker, morning and collared doves…  Oh, I am running out of brain again!

(And that’s not counting the Swainson’s hawk we saw on the way, or the summer tanager we saw on the way back! Also, total bonus:  going through the teensy no-intersection townlets as we trundled along the bottom edge of the Manzano mountains, we came across Ray’s One Stop:  Gas-Groceries-Liquor-Woodyard. Indeed, something for everyone!)

But mostly, I just plain had fun with a group of complete strangers who quietly and amiably had instant fun together, in Pursuit of  Bird.  Boy, I hope I can go to this event again next year!

Wilson's warber. Totally adorable. Flit! Flit!

The violet-green swallow, who finally perched at the top of a juniper and posed for us after teasing us for hours

Lazuli Bunting--the final bird of my outing, and how perfect is that, to cap off the day?

PS: And at the homestead…brown-headed cowbird, house finch, and Cassin’s flycatcher…
PPS: Those piccies are from (and linked to) their respective pages on the Audubon Guide site!

…Monday

I am the quiet sort of activist. Mainly, I live it. I don’t go out and shout it.

I started out being more forward. When I say “started out,” I mean…you know, way back when! Because my mom was actively involved in the civil rights movement, some of my earliest memories are of marches and rallies…people gathering together, believing in a better world and working to make it happen. In many ways, it became part of who I am.

However, because I turned into a quiet-seeking hermit sort of person, I no longer end up in the middle of the loud voices. I do what I do as a single person, and not part of a boisterious entity.

Yesterday turned out to be a marvelous exception.

Yesterday, with my mom visiting from afar, she and my sister and I went forth for scenic drive up along the back side of the Sandias and through some stunningly picturesque country to Santa Fe. We stopped for lunch in Madrid (an…interesting…place), and drove a twisty path through the Santa Fe downtown maze, guided by my sister’s GPS. (We can all now time the seconds between taking the wrong turn and GPS Woman’s resigned declaration of “Re-calculating” so we can join in chorus.) We intended to putter through the Plaza, happily touristy.

What we did instead was wind up in the middle of a rally against Arizona’s new SB1070.  (Here’s another video…with the conch!)

You’ve heard of it. The damaging, racist bill that mandates Arizona’s “peace” officers to request papers of anyone who looks like an illegal immigrant.

You know. That would be anyone who’s kind of brown. (For ultimate irony, want to bet how many people with indigenous blood will also be stopped?)

(But hey, on the other hand, how convenient! Skin color! We don’t even have to make them wear symbols!)

Anyway. The rally marched into the Plaza, and we joined in. We didn’t have signs, but we had voices and we had clapping hands, and we had ears. It was a wildly diverse bilingual rally led by representatives from all the city’s clergy–every faith you could care to name–and inspired by traditional Aztec dancers.

Every person who took the microphone spoke to the positive. To what they wanted to build. Not blaming or nastifying or holding up effigies, but supporting a vision: Immigration reform. Sensible, realistic immigration reform that works for everyone.

Imagine.

So we were accidental activists, but very happy ones. The immigration law had been part of the conversation approaching Santa Fe, while the day didn’t turn out as planned, it couldn’t have turned out better.

Peace out, man.