WordPlay

Well, we’d LIKE to be #1.

The truth is, right now, that’s hard for both of us.  Because, you know, the whole “how things change” gestalt.

Change is messy.

For writers, the ongoing technological change means increased uncertainty in an already uncertain career.  It means shifting responsibilities and skillsets and costs, as publishers push us to take up the burden of publicity.  It means stress beyond endurance, sometimes.

For readers, it means watching publishers fumble with how to best manage books/prices/formats.  It means falling in love with an author only to discover s/he’s been dropped/pushed to another genre/opted out.  It means reading partial story arcs when publishers decline to pick up book three of a trilogy because books 1 & 2 weren’t blockbusters from the start.  It means watching bookstores shrink and the struggle to find new sources–reliable sources–of quality reading.  (Clickie for some more thoughts on that.)

So now, I will reveal to you the answers to all of these dilemmas and more!

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

*coff*

Maybe not.

Maybe I’ll just point out the obvious. We’re in this together.  And in order to reach the best possible outcome, we need to stay in it together, with awareness and an understanding that our interests do, in fact, coincide.  We’re each going to explore different paradigms to fill our needs, but my gut feeling is that the ones that are successful will be the ones where we BOTH get to be number one.

And because I’m both reader and writer, and because I’m incorrigibly persistent (which is how the reader got to be a writer), I happen to think it can be done.

…Monday

“Doranna LIKES Julie Czerneda!

“Doranna LIKES Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America!”

And, on a particular day, “Doranna LIKES Doranna Durgin!”

Yes, it’s the wonderful world of FaceBook.

Actually, I enjoy FaceBook. I’ve met people there and reconnected with people there, and of course I have the Fan Page there (thus the oddball third example, and YES, I would love to see you there!). And there are still FaceBook functions that mystify and defy me, but…well, that happens. Heh.

But I really, really don’t LIKE being forced into the role of a giggling fourth grader, passing virtual notes across the aisles.

“Doranna subscribes to Doranna Durgin.”

Okay, it’s  a little multiple personality-ish. Hmm.  Yes.

But the meaning is obvious. And not one that people will feel compelled to razz me about, because yes! Hello! I want to be able to see my Fan Page posts on my regular FB page!

“Doranna SUBSCRIBES TO Julie Czerneda!

Okay. Maybe it still needs some work. But I’ll take it!

FaceBook, are you listening? Dignity, please?

…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!)

…Friday

Okay, really I just wanted to have a title with the word SEX in it. But hello, TV Land? The Moonlighting Curse?

Get. OVER. It.

Once upon a time, a great show with witty dialogue and sizzlingly unfulfilled romantic tension went forth into uncharted territory.

And pfffffffffft, all the air went out of it.

But you know, it shouldn’t have been any huge surprise. Because when the dynamic changes so critically, the character stakes change as well–and the writing has to be prepared for that. Not only anticipate it, but plan for it–have all the pieces in place to continue the bigger story arc, introducing new external conflicts to drive the internal issues. You know–big picture storytelling.

It really wasn’t about what they did. It was about how they did it. (Says I.)

But they did it so very resoundingly that the consequences are still being felt. Too many shows, afraid to take the plunge.

Afraid of The Curse.

Yeah, you all know why I’m writing this. I won’t name any names, but the shows start with the letter BONES and the letter CASTLE.

Both, as it happens, witty crime-solving shows. Bones has dodged the bed bullet so many times that they’ve had to send Bones and Booth to separate corners of the world to get a reboot effect. And Castle? HULLO! GO FOR IT! USE IT OR LOSE IT!

So I say to these TV Land people, go for it. It’s been done, and done well, and it can be done again. Think Farscape. Think characters who can be true to themselves and their deeply driven commitments even while being true to each other. Think external conflict, think conflicting needs and goals. Think, in written fiction, J.D. Robb.

Because there’s only so long you can toy with us before we start to lose faith in the veracity of the characters, and in the value of their feelings for one another.

Tick tick tick tick tick…

And look. I offer you a sunset. Layered, gorgeous, and replete with all sorts of metaphorical meaning. Have fun with that.

…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.

Posted on Friday

Yeah, just one of those philosophically meaningful things that cross my mind now and then. As in, every time I see a LOL caption that makes it clear we’re in a permanent Pick on Miley Cyrus season.

‘Cause, y’know, I don’t get it.

She’s a kid.

Maybe it’s the lineage? After all, dad Billy Ray’s instant saturation with Achy Breaky–yeah, I got my fill of that in about twelve hours, living in a one-station country-listening county–sets a precedent of sorts.

But still. One teenaged kid, species: Disney Star. Hardly the first. Heavily managed–I mean, seriously–and threading her way through difficult and public choices. Not all of them perfect, but none of them…well, say, in the category of shaving her hair off. Not the most stunning talent ever, far from the worst. And anyway, those songs aren’t meant for you or for me.

(Er. Unless I have a lot more chronologically youthful readers than I can imagine. Says the author of a certain number of steamy Nocturnes.)

So why Miley? Why the sneer, the nasty, the scorn?

Nope. Don’t get it.

Well, that’s okay. Maybe I’m better off that way!

This especially profound post brought to you courtesy of Tax Week

Wow, it’s going around. Some people have a severe case of Stars on Thars.

(I’m not sure where these stars reside, exactly, but I have a really good idea.)

Stars on Thars means “I am righteously entitled,” and “I therefore want my own way.” Add these together and…yow.

Bad behavior.

Because somehow, if you have this condition of SoT, and you don’t get what you want–what you’re entitled to–then it’s okay to…

Well.

Behave like a three-year-old.

It’s okay to shout at people. It’s okay to spit at them. They should know better than to disagree with you, right?

It’s also totally okay to threaten, vandalize, destroy, lie to get your way–and oh, hey. Effigies are especially cool.

And if, perhaps, a majority of those around you feel differently about an issue than you do–you know, that thing called democracy?–and therefore you really don’t get your way?

Shout louder. Spit farther. Be totally sure to throw bricks and call names.

Because, you know, frightening and offending people is the most effective strategy to convince them that your way is the best way.

(Or no.  Wait.  Maybe it’s just called “throwing a tantrum.”)

Hmm.

The problem is…if anyone of us is entitled to Stars, then we’re all entitled.

And that means that we all get to shout and spit and threaten and frighten (oy vey)–or none of us do, and we’d better sit down and learn how to deal with things like adults.

In the meantime, Dear Entitled: the hard truth is that an individual can do all the right things, make all the smart and responsible decisions, and still fall victim–still lose their Stars.  Maybe to someone else’s failure. Maybe to chance.  Maybe because the system isn’t quite as fair as you’d like to think.

It’s too bad there are people–those who are so very sure of their personal Stars–who won’t ever understand that. Not until they experience it. Maybe then they’ll be willing to trade those Stars for a dab of civil humanity.

I know which I’d rather have.
============

A Friday Piccie!

It could be total coincidence that I thought of this recent shot of a storm coming in over the Sandias.

Maaaaybe.

posted on Friday

So who knew?  There’s a Holcy Dance, named after Steve Holcomb, Olympic Gold Bobsled medalist.  (Don’t do what I do and think it’s pronounced “holsie”–it’s not.  It’s “holkie,” as one can readily learn from watching the video, because the camera guy sings “Do the Holcy” over and over and…  And anyway, once you figure out he’s not singing, “Do the Hokey” as in “Hokey-Pokey,” it eventually all makes sense.)

Steve apparently did this little dance (captured on video) wherever he traveled on the World Cup Tour.  Sort of a little shuffle thing.

(Pretty much about what I’d accomplish if I was on camera.)

It’s cute! It’s a great way to document his sports journey. But ooh, it’s missing one important thing.  Something that came long before the Holcy Dance.  By quite a doggone number of years.

It’s missing Matt.

Matt, who made me smile broadly during some very trying times, and who can still do that very thing, just with the spontaneous glee inspired by that dance as it traveled the world.  Stylistically, not a whole lot different–but more than a little shuffle thing in every way.

Where the Hell is Matt? I’m not sure, at the moment. But here…let me spread the joy of wondering:

This is my soapbox of the week.

Just because PETA says “breeders kill shelter dogs” doesn’t mean they’re right.

Me, I don’t listen to anything touted by a group whose stated end goal is to end pet ownership (and who kill, according to their own records, 95% of the pets they “rescue.”) But they do like to shout, which makes it hard to not-hear them sometimes. And this time, here’s their logic: If breeders didn’t make new purebred dogs, people would get all their dogs at the shelter and thus save those dogs, so the corollary is that breeders are killing dogs.

Okay, let’s leave aside the twisted nature of that corollary.  And let’s leave aside the  fact that not all shelter dogs are adoptable–some are too damaged; some are too ill.

Aside from that. You know what’s true? People want what they want.

I’ve had many a mixed-breed/rescue dog. Most of mine were true rescues, and by that I mean we took them off the mountain where they’d been abandoned. Or from the dump. Or the UPS driver dropped them off because we’d gotten a reputation for helping dogs in that area where there was no shelter or humane society. Obviously, we didn’t keep them all; we padded their bellies, gave them some manners, and rehomed them. Or sometimes we gave them mercy, because sometimes that was the way it was.

So yes, I know the way of the mixed-breed dog. The dog of my heart, of my life, was one of these dogs.

But eventually my life changed, and I was in the position of needing a certain kind of dog. A puppy I knew would grow up to be that certain kind of dog. And now I’m hooked on certain kinds of dogs, and I love them, too. I now know the way of the purebred dog.

And I know this: People want what they want.

Sometimes that’s a wonderful pet from the shelter–a particular dog that will suit the necessary lifestyle. Sometimes it’s purebred–a specific dog bred to do a specific thing or to be a specific way. Either way, it’s good. Either way, people make their own choices for their own reasons, and that’s all good, too. But they don’t want one thing and then go looking for another. No.

They want what they want.

That’s why United States shelters import (yes, you read me correctly) dogs into shelters. (Here’s a great summary of things.) Small dogs are in special demand–perfect little companions, easily fitting into many different lifestyles. Not to mention celebrity purses…

That’s why people created breeds in the first place. Specific characteristics, reliably produced over the generations. A puppy that grows to be of predictable size, temperament, and basic skillset.

That’s why even now, dog folks are redefining certain breeds to fill performance niches–such as in agility, where people are currently finding the perfect combination of size, speed, and obsessiveness to dominate every jump height in every venue. Where they don’t redefine, they create mixed breeds to suit, taking their chances that a particular combination of dogs will result in what they want (because until you actually have the breed established and solidified and demonstrably repeatable, every litter is roulette–and not all breeds combine gracefully or predictably).

That’s why, given a paucity of dogs of a certain predictable and desirable characteristic, it does not follow that people will then go to the shelter and say, “Well, I’ll take this totally different kind of dog instead, because that’s what’s here.” No. They will go out and they will MAKE MORE of what they want.

Or they’ll import them.

(Well, you know. Unless PETA succeeds with that end goal of eliminating pet ownership.)

Good breeders, as it happens, are dedicated to the welfare of dogkind. Genetic testing, careful planning, limited and specific breeding with the distinct goal of producing the better dog. But you won’t find their dogs in shelters, because they welcome back their dogs in need–and if those dogs aren’t good candidates for rehoming, then they stay with the breeder pack.

Beyond that, those wicked breeders (and many other breed lovers) band together to create breed rescue groups for those dogs in need who have fallen through the cracks, and who would otherwise end up at shelters.

NOT THAT I HAVE ANY FAVORITES.

Do you?