We’re not gone for good!
The QC gals are taking the rest of August off, but look for us again in September!
Open Call for Guest Bloggers
Victoria’s swamped, so she’s asked to take an extended away, leaving me as a one man show until her inevitable return.
This isn’t a problem except, jeez, I don’t know what to do with this thing. I mean, we’re four months into a group blog and it’s no longer a group blog–it’s Jinky talking to herself. How is that different from Friday night dinner? IT ISN’T. And at the same time, I would hate to just give it up, too. What would be the fun in that?
So now I’m not sure what to do. Talk to myself twice a week until she comes back (if she comes back)? Start a project and hope others tag along? Grovel for guest bloggers? Replace–gasp!–Victoria with 2 (or 3 or 4) other bloggers?
I’m open to suggestions. In the meantime, if you want to offer up a guest blog, be it a one-time thing or on an ongoing basis, don’t be shy. I don’t bite…hard.
When Ice Weasels Attack
When it comes to writing, there’s one rule I try very hard not to break, and that’s the rule about the ice weasels.
What is an ice weasel, you ask? Here, I’ll tell you.
Or better yet, I’ll let Meg Cabot tell you:
“…when you ‘have the weasels’ or are ‘weaseling,’ it means you’re worrying about things like ‘Why Did I Say That Bad Word In Front of My Grandma at Brunch Last Week?’ or ‘Should I Have Held Onto the Film Rights to That Book?’”
You know how sometimes you only think about certain things because you’re trying so hard to NOT think about them? Those are ice weasels.
And they totally suck.
Which is why every time I send something out for submission, I make sure I don’t read it again until I’ve heard back, that way I’m not weaseling for however long it takes for whoever-it-is to get back to me.
Instead, I move on to something new. Something weasel-free. Something I can send out on submission and then forget about. Otherwise, I would be so worried about potentially looking stupid that I would never write more than 3 pages of anything ever again.
(Those of you who never get past page 3 because by that point you think you look stupid know I’m telling the truth.)
It’s a rule that’s served me well for many years. Until last week, when I broke it.
And now I’m weaseling like you would not believe.
Fortunately, ice weasels will usually go away if you give them something else to gnaw at.
For example, whenever I cringe at the scene where Frank uses his cell phone as a flashlight (which is admittedly lame, even though I do it a lot), all I have to do is remind myself that just because I think it’s stupid doesn’t mean everyone else will. And besides, it’s not as stupid as when I wrote the book about the girl werewolf who did not like to get wet:
“I do not mean to be ungreatful but fear I must go before the rain falls,” Mayrnagh said as she looked grimly toward the mouth of the wide open cave.
“Yes child, if you must.” said Wolfguard understandingly in his nature. “For I know you do not like to get wet.”
In my defense, I was thirteen years old when I wrote that. Unlike when I wrote this gem, after having read Ben Bova’s MARS:
Do not fear me, for I am from the planet MALIFON…
Do I even need to complete that sentence? I DID NOT THINK SO.
Here’s another doozie:
Doug was sitting at his desk, drinking expensive whiskey out of a glass made of elaborate crystal. It had come in a set of four, along with a longneck decanter and a complimentary bottle of Crown Royal. He was halfway through the bottle when Rupert knocked on his office door.
“Go away,” Doug slurred, his motor functions slowed by his recent intake of high quality alcohol.
“It’s me man,” Rupert said. “Don’t make me break the door down or I will.”
All of a sudden, using a cell phone as a flashlight doesn’t look so stupid anymore. At least, not compared to all of the OTHER stupid things I’ve written.
Because the thing is, if you embarrass yourself enough, eventually you won’t be embarrassed anymore. I learned that the hard way, when I was sixteen and lost my shirt in front of a gymnasium full of people.
And that’s a story you will NOT get to hear.
