In Which Emmie Plots a Murder
If I had to make a theme for 2012 at this stage in its fledgling development, I would say that it has been difficult choices.
Right out of the New Year’s Gate, fresh on my celebratory phlegm and spat with bronchitis, I realized that Spouse and I couldn’t make it to Scotland this year. I’ve already written about that decision, so I won’t rehash it here. I’ve started the query process and thought long and hard about my professional goals for this year.
Something an told me at the Writer’s Digest Conference sobered me up about my books. She told me that four years ago, she could have sold my trilogy in a hot minute, but now editors bristle at the v-word. My book was finished in 2008 — four years ago. I sat on it. It’s now a hard sell in a changing market.
Yep. Gentle viewers, this is for real.
For the last month, I’ve been taking a long, hard look at my book series. Do I think it is ultimately salable? Yes. Do I think it’s salable now? Not really. It’s a disturbing bit of reality that wriggled in through her words. I don’t think she meant to be discouraging — and I still need to submit her requested partial now that I’ve karate-chopped 20,000 words from it — but she knows the markets better than I do.
While I still want to sell this trilogy, I don’t know if it’s feasible at the moment. That’s terrifying to think and even more frightening to admit publicly. I have two completed books that I’m thinking I might have to murder. At least temporarily.
In order to feel like I’m doing my job and not giving up, I’ve begun to formulate a plan for this year. I’m going to continue to query this trilogy, but while I’m doing that, I am going to bang out the last book by April. After that, I am going to start a new project, which I want to finish by June. By the end of July, I want to have a revised draft of the new project to query and get the ball rolling there. If something transpires for either, it can only help the other.
While I’m not exactly killing my darlings, I’m operating on the assumption that it might become necessary. I realized yesterday that the reason I haven’t gone back to working on book three is because I’m afraid I won’t be able to sell something with vampires — even if they’re outside the fangy norm.
I think that this awareness is a sign of maturity if nothing else — to recognize that I might have something good that won’t sell in the current market. That’s okay. It might also be the big ole stinky fear talking. I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
Until then, I’m going to keep writing.
What do you think, gentle viewers? Have you ever had a major goal or project (writing or otherwise) that you had to put on hold for the sake of pragmatism?
Related articles
- An Open Letter to New York Publishing (emmiemears.com)
- Sunday My Prints Will Come (emmiemears.com)
- Emmie’s Salacious New York Adventure (emmiemears.com)
Willow Kitty is Home!
Well, gentle viewers, today our clan gained a four-legged furball!
Willow Kitty is home! She arrived a couple hours ago, very peaceful in her kitty carrier. She ventured out and took the apartment by storm! Spouse made her a veritable jungle gym of cardboard boxes, which she immediately decided was home.
We showed her where her litter box and food were — and mid-play she bolted down the hall and used her litter box without us doing anything! She already knows the drill.
So far her favorite toy is the fishing pole with the purple and turquoise feathers. She spent an hour and a half going nuts over it. She also looooved the soft chicken treats we got her after we broke it into little pieces for her. Willow Kitty is making herself right at home.
She is a gorgeous kitty — she has glorious tiger stripes down her body, and leopard rosettes on the sides of her tummy with a white strip down the middle of her belly. Her green eyes are so pretty, and she has a solid little motor on her, which is rumbling against my foot where she’s leaning right now.
She has had a big day, and now she’s taking a wee nap.
I have a bunch of pictures to share with you, but right now I can’t bear to move away from her warm little self to upload them from my camera.
Instead, here is a video of Willow in action. Enjoy!
EDIT: Here are some pictures of Willow for you to enjoy while she has a nap!
We Interrupt Your Scheduled Programming
They say that life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. In spite of the cliche, I can attest to the validity of the statement.
I’ve been thinking a lot about distractions lately.
I meant to send out a bunch more query letters yesterday, but I didn’t get to it. Sunday I meant to write a couple of overdue guest blog posts for friends and didn’t get to it. Today I meant to return to Wednesday Woman and didn’t get to it.
Kittens, taxes, doctors appointments, late buses — all of these things sometimes get in the way of what we mean to do. It happens. It’s understandable. As a writer, though, I feel like these distractions multiply. There’s always something clamoring for your attention, and when you’re yet unpublished (and unpaid), sometimes we feel like we lack the clout to say no to them.
What’s a couple more days before sending out that new query? Okay, so the dog is super energetic today and really needs a long walk. I’ll get back to my writing schedule tomorrow.
I really should work out. I need to go over the budget. I need to take a day off. All of these things are familiar to me. Except the dog thing, but I can see that coming in a couple weeks.
I’ve blogged every day since October. Part of this was an exercise in discipline, in training myself to write every day no matter what, no matter how tired or uninspired I felt. Over three and a half months into this, I feel like I’ve made my point. But what I need to do is get back to business.
I haven’t been working on my manuscript. I haven’t been writing anything new. I’ve sent out a total of four queries. It’s time to buckle down.
For the next week, I will continue to blog every day, but come March, I will be choosing three days a week to blog. I can already feel the loss — I love this community and I love hearing all of your thoughts and comments daily. I love that people subscribe knowing that I will pop my head up in their inbox every day, and it humbles me to think that you’re okay with that.
But with a growing list of distractions and interruptions (and two four-legged, furry additions to the clan), I need to hone my focus a little. I need to get back to creating. I’ve proven that I can write every day — what do you think I can manage when I put that work into my manuscripts? Something awesome, I hope.
In an effort to punt my momentum into the fiction craft, I need to make a schedule and stick to it. And don’t worry, I’ll still be around here lurking and talking Buffy. I’ll have to nurse my addiction a little, I’m sure — so you still might see me more than 3 days a week.
It’s time to get focused and move forward. I hope you’ll all come along for the ride.
What do you do to hone your focus? What distractions pull you from writing the most? How do you get on track?
Rustle
The following is an entry for the Fairy Ring Flash Fiction Contest over at Anna Meade’s blog, Yearning for Wonderland. I’m a horrible procrastina-pod, and I waited till the last second — or more accurately, the last twenty-eight minutes. But here you go!
I didn’t expect it to be so wet.
Oh, I knew it rained in Scotland. How else would everything be such a virulent shade of green? Somehow when I pictured majestic mountains shrouded with twilit silver mist, that mist lacked the power to turn my hair into a fro.
Right now the expanding mass of curls atop my head didn’t make number one on my list of problems, but it also didn’t help my visibility as I squinted into the engine of my rental.
Steam rose from the metal, along with the acrid tang of seared rubber. One end of the betraying belt flopped against the oil dipstick.
I’d come here looking for magic. I’d found wet feet and a fro. Two hours to wait for AA – that’s what I got for picking a nameless glen in Sutherland over a pub in Fort William. My brain taunted me with the memory of malt vinegar over chips and Glen Ord scotch.
The forest to the west looked drier and less cramped than the tiny car. I squished into the underbrush and picked my way to an oak tree, sitting on the cushion of moss to wait for my rescuers.
The air smelled of peat and crystal water, clean. A deep breath afforded a small comfort against the damp seeping through the seat of my pants.
Bright in the gloaming, eyes met mine through the trees. Breath held tight, I pushed my back against the tree, feeling the bark crease my skin. Eyes. Deep green-gold set into a face of leaves. The pat of the misting rain fell silent as I stared across the clearing.
Someone called my name.
My head swiveled toward the road and the flash of reflective yellow jacket. When I turned back, only the rustle of leaves remained.
More Than a Vessel: Women of The Walking Dead
I’m a huge Walking Dead fan. Spouse and I watch it every week, and we both read the graphic novels. We watch Talking Dead after the show and both coo at Chris Hardwick‘s charm and geekery, and we laugh at the “pause face” that inevitably happens at some point during the show.
Last night irked me, though.
I’ve had a few peeves with both the comics and with the show in regards to the portrayal of women, and a couple this season that have sat like an expanding pebble in my shoe. Last night I was able to put my finger on the problem and pry it out of of my shoe.
Within one episode, a formerly abused widow got bashed by the man who is apparently her new love interest, Lori (who is pregnant) managed to fight off two walkers after a car accident only to have Shane swoop in and lie to her, Shane then pulled the classic “You know you have feelings for me” litany, and then at the end of the episode, Lori was portrayed as the manipulative shrew.
Not to mention that pretty much every bad decision made by the men on the show got blamed on the women. “I love you, and it made me freeze when the menfolk needed me and almost got everyone killed!” “I love you, so I murdered living people in a world of zombies!” “I love you, so I lied to you!”
I’m sorry. What?
In the previous episode, a human outsider who stumbles across Rick, Hershel, and Glenn asks lecherously if they “have women” at their camp, like you might ask someone if they have any beer in their fridge.
As disturbing as it is in the context of the show, what disturbs me more is that it doesn’t seem so far-fetched for things to revert to the “caveman-esque” sort of thinking. “Me man! You woman!”
*Bonk.*
….at least that the macho men would do that.
What I find utterly unbelievable and irksome in the show is that most of the women just swallow it. In the graphic novels, they went as far as to justify keeping the women out of the decision-making by saying that the women didn’t want to be involved.
Uh-huh.
Without trying to slip any spoilers into the mix here (though if you’re not caught up…uh, here be spoilers), let me describe a couple of the scenes that got under my skin and explain why it affected me. At this point, Lori and Shane carried on together for a time because Shane had told her that her husband Rick was dead. Rick wasn’t dead, and when he showed back up, Lori rightly ended the relationship with Shane and eventually told Rick (who seemed to already know). This pissed Shane off in a mighty fashion, to the point where he got drunk and tried to rape Lori. He’s also convinced that her baby is his. He’s also off his handle and shot a guy in the knee as zombie bait.
So when Lori survives the car accident (how that came about is another beef to be discussed later) and saves herself from walkers, Shane shows up and tells her that Rick is safe at home to get her to come back. Rick, of course, is no such thing as safe or at home. When Lori gets back, Shane’s lie is obvious, and he sits her down to try and justify it.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there on your own. You’re pregnant. I had to get you to come back somehow.”
He then goes on to say that what they had was real and should still be their future, while she denies it. And he ignores her, insisting that she loves him like he loves her, and that her husband is just in the way. He ignores that, too. Including the thousand-yard stare going on in the region of her face.
The episode ends with Lori telling Rick about this conversation and surmising (correctly) that Shane murdered Otis (the guy he shot in the leg and left for zombie bait).
Here are the reasons all of this rubbed my fur backwards:
1. Lying to someone “for their own good” is morally reprehensible in my opinion.
What it says to me, essentially, is that the liar in this situation has decided they know better than the person they’re lying to. With children involved, sometimes they don’t need certain information, but when you look an adult in the eyes and lie to them because you’ve decided the truth is too painful or dangerous, your actions say that that fully sentient adult has no ability to deal with the truth.
It strips them of their choice in the matter, especially if it is information that directly pertains to them or may influence their actions or behavior — like telling Lori her husband was alive and safe when at the time that was in question. Yes, she would have wanted to go after Rick. But considering they had guns and Rick at the time was getting surrounded by walkers? He could have used the backup.
My issue with this scene is because I’ve seen it so many times in regards to women. That women don’t know what’s best for them or can’t handle themselves — especially if they are pregnant. Everyone seems to take it upon themselves to protect her baby, when that’s her job. And part of Lori’s job to bear that child is to protect Rick, too. But of course Shane just thinks it’s Lori who needs protecting, so he tries to invalidate her fury at his lies by saying he did it for her and the baby. He blames her for his moral lapse, which we all know has ulterior motives.
2. It espouses the concept that women are incapable of acting alone.
This was part of the issue I took with Lori’s car accident as well. When the women of the Walking Dead go haring off after someone who’s in trouble, they get punished. When Andrea saw what she thought was a walker coming, she shot at him against all the men’s advice. It turned out to be Daryl, and she clipped his head. That was her punishment, a not-so-subtle way of saying that the men know best and that women are irrational. Don’t try to fight zombies, Andrea — you might shoot your friend. The sharp-shooter couldn’t tell it was Daryl? Okay. Sure.
Lori asks Daryl to go after Rick and Hershel, but he refuses because he’s having a hissy fit. So she goes after them, and what does the show depict? A brainless woman trying to read a map who ends up hitting a walker and rolling her car.
Then when she alone manages to fight off both that walker and the other who tries to force his face through the broken windshield, her ability to take care of herself is immediately called into question by Shane when he arrives — he essentially calls her stupid for going off alone and makes no mention of the fact that she killed two walkers at point blank range — one with a screwdriver. No. She’s told she can’t decide for herself, he lies to her (bonk), and takes her back to the cave farm.
3. It says that women don’t really know their feelings.
I’ve seen this trope countless times in media. (And to be fair, I’ve seen its reverse as well — though not as much.) The trope is this: big macho man gets his feelings hurt because the object of his affection chooses someone else or just plain dumps him. He decides she doesn’t really want him to go away, so he pushes himself into her life and tells her that he knows she loves him. She says no, go away, you’re stupid and I don’t love you. And he says she can’t admit her own feelings. And on and on and on. If someone says no, it doesn’t mean keep trying. It means back off.
4. Women are portrayed as manipulators who risk the lives of others.
The last scene this week showed Lori whispering Iago-like in her husband’s ear about her conversation with Shane. Why do I have a problem with this? Because had they just positioned the actors differently in the scene, the entire feel would have been different. They could have showed it as a conversation, and instead they chose to make her into a trope.
Every single thing Lori said was true. Shane is in love with her. Rick killed the living to protect himself for his family, so Shane might be willing to do the same if he thought it would gain him Lori and her son (and unborn child). She thinks Shane killed Otis (which he did). She thinks Shane is dangerous — great galumphy Zeus, of course he is! He unleashed an entire barn of walkers a couple episodes ago! He’s nuts and obsessed with her, and that’s not hot, sports fans. That’s creepy and dangerous, and she is right to tell her husband.
But instead, they had her whispering it in his ears like Iago to Othello, or like some shrew trying to come between two bros a la Lady MacBeth. And all they could talk about on Talking Dead after the show was her being manipulative? Excuse me? Not Shane for lying to her. Not Shane for trying to re-start his affair with his best friend’s wife. Not anyone else in the show — Lori. The woman who keeps fighting to show her strength when the writers of the show keep conspiring to undermine her. (To Chris Hardwick’s defense, he did try to say that others were being manipulative, but he got cut off due to time constraints.)
And to ice the cake, when Glenn returns he goes off on the woman who confessed her love to him, saying that her love for him made him freeze in combat and endanger himself as well as Rick and Hershel. Right. Let’s make that Maggie’s fault.
Even if they don’t mean to do it, this show is seriously demeaning women and reinforcing the stereotypes that women can’t fight (except Andrea, who keeps getting punished for fighting because the men try to take her guns away from her), that women are emotional and weak, that women can’t decide for themselves. I love the characters of this show, but the biggest weakness of the books for me seems to be leaking onto the show, and that’s the portrayal of women as either spineless weaklings or manipulative home-wreckers.
There is much, much more to women than that, just as there is much more to men than bonking a girl over the head to drag back to a cave. For a show so determined to focus on a character-driven story in a zombie apocalypse, they’re neglecting half of the depths they have to plumb: women.
Why couldn’t Lori have hared off in the car, had a close run-in with the walker but missed him, gotten to Rick, and saved his ass right as the horde closed in on Rick, Hershel, and Glenn?
Because she’s a woman.
What do you think? Do you watch The Walking Dead? Have you noticed this stuff at all, and does it bother you? Why do you suppose writers of shows like this don’t generally depict women as equals?
Introducing Willow Kitty!
We were approved for our kitten! This is Willow — I know she isn’t a ginger cat, but she is quite precious. Total cuddle bug with a strong little motor on
her!

There’s Something About…
Ironic that yesterday was about putting yourself out there. Mmm, kismet.
I got home from work at about 3:30 in the morning last night to find an addressed envelope in my own hand writing sitting next to my husband. The name on it was my top choice agent. It contained my second rejection.
It was a form rejection of about two lines total. This agent has a “very full client list” and can only take on projects that are a “perfect fit.” Fair enough.
Something about being rejected by this particular agent feels somewhat liberating.
Yeah, yeah, you heard me right. I said liberating.
Am I rationalizing and trying to punt disappointment into the endzone like Ahmad Bradshaw‘s butt? Yes. But it’s also more or less true.
Finding an agent is like dating, and a good relationship with your agent is like a marriage.
I remember high school. After ping-ponging back and forth through different elementary schools, I landed in rural Montana. From sixth grade through the first half of my junior year, I went to school in a tiny town twenty miles south of Missoula. I had a couple fruitless crushes in those early years there, but when high school rolled around, I got my first major crush on a boy who, till that point, had contented himself with throwing snowballs at me and chewing on any object I left sitting within reach in our science class. I think I still have the plastic Winnie-the-Pooh toy with deformed ears.
(Thanks, doofus. <3)
I nursed this crush for over a year until I invited him to go to homecoming with me, and he said yes.
Except it was just platonic. The dance was all there was, and I still have our pictures somewhere. I ended up a wee bit heartbroken.
If you look in the dictionary under “late bloomer,” you’ll find my 2nd grade school picture, complete with missing front teeth and my chin pulled double in a maniacal grin. If I had it, I would share it with you for the lolz. I went through several years of rejection in dating — there were plenty before my homecoming date, and there were plenty after.
What I needed was the right fit. If I’d somehow married the first boy I had a crush on back in preschool, it most likely would have turned into a complete and utter disaster.
So while this agent was the first crush I had in the agent world, getting rejected by her allows me to explore options that might be better for me. Might make a better marriage.
And you never know what can happen from rejection, gentle viewers. That homecoming date went on to become the start of one of my longest friendships — he’s even one of the two people I went to high school with to have met my husband. He ended up taking me to prom senior year after I changed schools, and we’ve stayed in touch for over ten years.
Not that I’m going to be BFFs with this agent, but no bridges got set alight, so the future is full of possibility.
Time to get querying.
How have rejections spurred you onward? Have you ever desired something that turned out not to be your best option? Let’s paddle the rejection pool today!
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Call Me George!
Today, I did the kitten dance.
After a long day of work yesterday (15 hours broken only with some sushi and plum wine on my break — just one glass, mind you), I poured myself into the bathtub and then into bed around 4:30 a.m. only to wake up at 9:30 for…the kitten interview.
Spouse and I are looking for a kitten, and we have applications at a couple of shelters. Today I had my first interview.
It took an hour.
This made it the longest interview I have ever done. I answered questions about kitten-proofing the house, cat-training techniques, how I would respond to inappropriate kitteh behavior, how I felt about declawing (and could I describe the actual procedure used to declaw cats), whether or not the kitty would be allowed outside, how I would introduce the kitty to Buffy Puppy, and more. I answered questions about what might make me give a kitty back to the shelter. I told stories about my family’s cats and our history with animals in general. How much money I expected to spend per year.
And that was only the first interview!
Tomorrow, Spouse and I will go to an adoption event to talk to people in person about our future kitten experience. I feel like we’re adopting a child. They might even do a home visit.
I never thought I’d feel this nervous about getting a cat.
We don’t have any vet references, but I promise we’ll be good kitten parents.
I feel like a lot of my life lately has been just sending bits of me out into the ether going, “Oh, please! Pick me! Pick me!” Query letters. Adoption applications. All trying to sell myself as someone to be involved with, be it representing my writing or welcoming a little furball into the family.
What I’m longing for is for those decision-makers to look through their slush pile of queries and applications and reach out a paw.
Sure, all those ducklings look alike. I look at that picture, and I imagine all the little ducklings quacky-squeaking around, trying to be the best darned duckling they can be, hoping someone will pick them. I floss. I avoid adverbs. I will keep my kitten’s phalanges intact.
I hope the time is coming where I get to be someone’s George. I’m in a basket in the sun, trying to show off my golden fuzzy down and my ability to grow into a fine specimen, and I’m just waiting for the paw to come down and tap me into the game.
So. All you agents and shelter volunteers out there: I’m here. I’m the one you want.
Call me George!
Now. Who wants to see a real kitten dance?
Have you ever felt like a duckling in a basket? Have you ever felt like your life was dependent upon the choices of others? Do tell!
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Buffy Wedding Lessons
Today I am hosting the lovely Friday Fellow Kristin McFarland with some hilarity about life, love, and getting married with Buffy as your guide. You can find Kristin at her blog or on Twitter – and you should! Because I said so.
Take it away, Kristin!
I am planning a June wedding. I’m not a girly-girl or your typical blushing bride, so I have to admit that a lot of my wedding advice has come from watching the nuptial-related disasters in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. First, a spell goes awry in “Something Blue” and Buffy briefly thinks she’s engaged to pre-soul, pre-naughty-buddy Spike. Then, in “Hell’s Bells,” Anya and Xander plan and celebrate what may have been the worst wedding ever shown on television.
I think it’s a pretty good idea to take some preventative steps to avoid any similar demon-filled disasters.
Make sure you’re marrying the guy for the right reasons. In other words, ask a friend to confirm that you’re not in fact under some freaky love spell. Accidents happen, spells go awry, we all fall prey to the sexy aura of a badboy with peroxide-bleached hair and a British accent. You should probably take this step before you even get to the engagement stage, though, because no one will want to tell you how crazy you’re acting when you’re weeping over wedding dresses.
Be nice to your bridesmaids. You never know when you’re going to need a bridesmaid to help adjust your veil or to kick some demon’s ass, so you’d better treat them nicely. While burlap and blood larva may be traditional, you’re definitely doing no one any favors if you abide by horrifying conventions. Do the ladies a favor and dress them nicely… and not in sea-green mermaid-skirted atrocities.
Practice your vows ahead of time. While you may want to be your groom’s sex poodle for life, your grandparents probably don’t want to hear you make that vow. Of course you should say how you really feel about your groom, but some things are best said in private. Run your vows by your girlfriends at least a few weeks before your wedding so they can figure out a tactful way to tell you that you’re liable to TMI your relatives into red-faced, tittering oblivion.
Should she appear, don’t listen to your future self. This is the fantasy equivalent of cold feet. If your future self tells you not to marry your groom, ask for proof. Don’t just let Future-You show you your worst nightmares and call them prophecy: demand to see a future driver’s license, a newspaper from the future, a letter from your future husband, or some kind of professional fortune teller’s business-card. Bottom line, don’t let your fears manipulate you.
Do not allow anyone to make a drunken toast. Some people get sentimental when they drink. Others get giggly. Still others get strangely confessional. Weddings are not the time for parents to admit disappointment in their own marriage, nor is it the time to get brutally honest about future in-laws. This is where those bridesmaids you’ve been nice to can come in handy: they can swoop in and drag off your stammering drunk uncle before he can start talking about how your new in-laws look more like circus freaks than circus folks.
Know that a blended family is not always a happy family. Your family wanted a traditional church wedding, hers wanted a traditional skyclad Wiccan wedding. Your family is human, his is demon. Sometimes when you blend completely random ingredients, you get rocky road ice cream… and other times you get failed stir-fry the dog won’t eat. Anya’s and Xander’s families do not belong together, and that may be true for you and your in-laws, as well. That’s okay–but only if the pair of you know you belong together, even if your families clash more than a polka-dot shirt with plaid pants.
Sometimes the monsters are humans, not demons. Just because a man has horns or a woman exacts vengeance for a living, that doesn’t make them bad people. Xander’s drunk, bitter dad behaves far more cruelly than any of the demons present at the wedding. Know that other people’s happiness can bring out the worst in some, and you should be prepared to do some heavyweight, first-class, hardcore smiling, nodding, and ignoring. Also know that every now and then, people can exceed your expectations–let them, and your wedding will go far more smoothly than any wedding in the Buffyverse.
Now, if only Buffy could give me marriage advice as well as wedding advice.
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