Hello, I Must Be Going

Hey there. I’m back, but not for long. This is my last post on Title Magic. After years of sharing blog space, I’ve decided it’s time I moved out of my parents’ basement and got my own place. So I’ve set up a blog of my own, Off the Top of My Head, on display at www.pterosnest.blogspot.com. That’s where I’ll be ranting, raving, scratching my head and pimping my books from now on.

I may even get ambitious and set up a web page. Or maybe this counts as a web page. I’m still figuring out this pesky technology stuff.

I’m still not on Facebook, but I’m thinking about it.

I figure the new blog will go through several incarnations before it finally settles down. If you jump in now, at the beginning, you can watch me smash my thumb with the hammer and jump around screaming obscenities. Won’t that be fun?

This has been a fun ride too, but it’s time to move on. What you’re used to seeing from me here, you’ll see over on the new blog. Maybe literally. I just realized I can rewrite or reuse a bunch of my old posts from here and repurpose them for a whole new audience. I know a columnist who recently retired from his newspaper job. He got a similar, part-time job at our local weekly paper. When he gets stuck for an idea, he recycles a long-forgotten column from years gone by. We writers are lazy beasts at heart.

J. J. Collins may also drop by from time to time, to share her thoughts and promote her latest book. Bitch writes faster than I do. I need to get my ass in gear.

And so it goes. That’s Off the Top of My Head, at www.pterosnest.blogspot.com. Hope to see you there!

Not Today

Dealing with personal issues this week, so no post. I may have an announcement next week. Stay tuned.

Oh, and JJ Collins just sold another M/M short story to Evernight. Girl's on a tear!

That's it. Keep watching the skies! (There's a meteor shower this week.)

A Different Kind of Ghost Story

Last week, among other topics, I talked about those ads on Craigslist where writers advertise for other writers to write their books for them in a work-for-hire arrangement. It got me to wondering why someone would do that. If you consider yourself a writer, shouldn’t you be writing your own books?

I indirectly got an answer to that question while following a different story. In short, it’s good, old-fashioned ghost writing, and it’s been around for decades. You didn’t really think all those celebrity “authors” like Vanna White or William Shatner wrote their own books, did you?

Ebook publishing has opened up a whole new market for this, especially in the romance genre. That explains why so many of these ads are looking for romance writers. That also explains how some romance writers appear to be so prolific.

If you want to make a living in ebook publishing, it helps if you write fast. Some writers have a new release every freakin’ month. I kid you not. Granted, the definition of “book” among romance e-publishers includes word counts as low at 15,000, which makes it a lot easier. I once did the math and determined it really is possible to write a book a month. If you write a minimum of 1000 words a day—doable even if you’ve got a day job—by the end of a month you’ve got 30,000 words. That’s enough for a romance ebook. Or two, if you’re writing short stories.

A romance writer working full-time can easily hit this target, and in theory have a minimum of twelve releases a year. Those of us who aren’t that fast and can only manage half that output (or less, for us true slowpokes) can still build up an impressive backlist and its attendant sales. All it takes is an ad on Craigslist, and a willing ghost.

I never thought about that before, but it does make sense. Romance epublishing favors speed. It keeps your name in front of fickle readers. Can’t keep up with reader demand for your work? Hire somebody online. For $500-$1000 or so you can get a subcontractor to write your novel for you. That way a book with your byline on it will appear on the market every month. If you’ve got a big enough following, you’ll make your outlay back in the first week. There’s certainly no shortage of hungry writers out there. Like I mentioned last week, $500 is more than I made with my last release. It’s just that I know I’d be pissed if a book I wrote made a ton of money for somebody else. That’s the only reason I haven’t skewed off in this direction.

I’m not saying everybody with a huge body of work is doing this, but it does make me wonder. I’ve heard rumors James Patterson works this way, so it isn’t only romance or epublishing.

There’s another way a writer can hit the book-a-month deadline, which is how I heard about this in the first place. Since we’re coming up on Halloween, here’s a horror story for you.

I’ve been following a breaking story over on the Absolute Write site regarding a “prolific” writer of M/M romances. She’s had something like 75 books come out in the last five years, or roughly 15 books a year. How can somebody write that many in so short a time? Well, maybe she has a husband with a good-paying job and kids who do all the housework.

Or she was plagiarizing other writers. Which turned out to be the case. It’s easy to write quickly if somebody else has already written most if not all of the book for you.

Even worse, she was taking M/F books and changing pronouns as well as character names to turn them into M/M stories. Since M/F readers don’t normally wander into M/M territory and vice versa, she probably figured she wouldn’t be found out.

Except one omnivorous reader did figure it out and contacted the plagiarized M/F author. Now the M/M writer’s entire backlist is under scrutiny, and more examples of blatant theft are appearing almost daily.

What does this have to do with my discussion of ghosting up there? Well, someone in the comments tried to defend the plagiarist by suggesting maybe she’d hired a ghost to write some of her novels for her. That it was the ghost, not the author herself, who rewrote somebody else’s book and sold it to the author, who in turn sold it to a publisher, or self-published, which I think was the case. Either way, the books got sold to unsuspecting readers at the original author’s expense. Man, this sure gets complicated, doesn’t it?

If you’re one of those genuinely-fast full-time writers who actually produces all that wordage every month, I salute you. If you’re not quite that fast and are bolstering your backlist with ghost-written works, hey, okay. Everybody has to make a living. If you’re stealing someone else’s work and passing it off as your own, shame on you. It will come back to bite you. I recommend you find another line of work, like politics or something.

Me, I’m gonna keep slogging along, writing my own works at my own glacial pace. It doesn’t count as ghosting or plagiarism if I put a pen name on something I wrote myself. The inspirations for some of my stories—well, that gets a little spotty. It’s all original by the time I’m done with it, I swear. And that’s all I’ll admit to. Happy Halloween!

Creators Wronged

I think I may have come up with a plot for a mystery novel. If you’re a freelance writer skimming Elance or Craigslist for work, you’ll come across ads from people who’ll pay you to write stories for them. For a flat fee, you produce anywhere from 1000 to 30,000 words, which your client can then do whatever they want with—run it on their blog, sell it, self-pub it under their byline. In some cases the client provides the plot and characters; in other ads, this much input from the buyer isn’t mentioned. You write a story, you get paid, which is how it’s supposed to work.

The trouble with this scenario is, you have no rights to your work. You agree to give those to the client in exchange for an agreed-upon sum. This is known as “work for hire.” Remember that term.

Here’s what I got to thinking: suppose you answered one of these ads and wrote a romance novel. You whip out 30,000 words of steamy passion, whipped cream and Brazil nuts and receive $1000 for your efforts. Actually, that’s not bad. I think it’s more than my last release through my publisher earned. Here’s another term to remember: “self-promotion.”

Then your client turns around and sells your work, now their work, to a publisher. And against all odds, it takes off. You didn’t know it at the time, but you wrote the next 50 Shades. Checks with lots of zeros on them are fired off to the “writer’s” bank account. Agents and publishers who’ve rejected your work for years are now falling all over each other, trying to sign the Next Big Bestselling Author. If the writer milks this puppy right, they’ll never have to write another thing.

You? You’ve got your thousand bucks, no rights to the story you wrote, and no legal leg to stand on, all of which you agreed to when you signed the contract. Sure, go ahead, make a stink. See what it gets you. You’ll be laughed out of court.

(Disclaimer: this isn’t the same as working with a book packager. Usually the packager provides the background, characters and general plot they want to see fleshed out. The flesh-out part is what they pay the writer for. Everybody knows this going in. Some writers even get royalties for writing licensed properties. It all depends on the kind of deal you or your agent negotiates.)

Back at my plotline, the “author” is found murdered. The writer who raised all the ruckus is suddenly the number-one suspect. The rest of the book would be the hapless writer trying to clear their name by rooting out the real killer. These are the stories my brain comes up with when I’m not keeping a closer eye on it.

Dunno if I’ll ever write this. I haven’t decided yet. Here’s a variation you can use if you want, ripped from Real Life: the plight of comic book writers and artists currently getting the shaft.

Comic books heroes are big business in movies and TV these days. Disney (owner of Marvel) and Time-Warner (owner of DC) are cashing in big time. Because that’s not all they own. They own those characters up on the screen, the ones that got their start in comic books. The characters created by writers and artists who don’t see a penny of the millions their brainchildren are raking in.

For an easy example, let’s take the Avengers. Almost all those characters were created or co-created by legendary artist Jack Kirby. Iron Man? Kirby. Thor and Loki? Kirby. The Hulk? Kirby. Captain America? Kirby, all the way back in the 1940s. Before he became a spy, Nick Fury starred in a war comic set in WWII, drawn by three guesses who. I’m not sure who created Hawkeye and the Black Widow, but they first appeared in the Iron Man strip.

I don’t recall seeing Kirby’s name in the credits of the Avengers movie, or in the credits of any of the films that led up to it. I didn’t see Chris Claremont or John Byrne’s names in the credits for any of the X-Men films either, and at least two of those drew their plots directly from the comics. (Also missing was Kirby’s name; he co-created the X-Men.) The billions earned by those characters and stories are going into the pockets of everyone except the writers who initially created them.

Why? Because up until around the 1960s and ‘70s, comic books were cheap, disposable entertainment for kids. The artists and writers who produced them did so as work-for-hire. In those days the paychecks came with a stamp on the back, a contract whereby the worker agreed to waive all rights to their work. If you wanted your money you signed on the dotted line and gave up your rights to whatever you created. Which they did. It was just a comic book. Who knew?

Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster didn’t know. They sold the rights to Superman for $130 back in the 1940s. Their heirs have since won judgments from DC/Time-Warner, but it took decades of legal wrangling. Ditto for Kirby's estate, which recently settled with Marvel. Sometimes there’s a measure of justice.

And sometimes it just gets ridiculous. Check out this article on Alan Brennert, who accidentally created an important (and lucrative) character in one of his Batman stories. Go ahead and read it. I’ll be here when you get back.

(…)

Nuts, huh? We’re talking $45 here. Chump change to a behemoth like Time-Warner. I guess they don’t want to set a precedent. Imagine if they paid out royalties to everybody who deserved them. Why, someone in a corner office might have to forego a new Porsche. Or (shudder) send their kids to public school.

The moral of the story is, if you’re a writer, artist, singer, or anyone else in the arts, read your contracts carefully. If you see the words “work for hire” run, do not walk, to the exit. Nobody knows what’s going to become huge somewhere down the line. Wouldn’t you rather be the one who owns the rights to it?

Now I have to decide if I want to write that murder mystery. What the hell, NaNoWriMo’s coming up.

Quickies

Miniblogs today. I’ll just ramble until I hit the word count. Select whichever ones appeal to you.

# # #

First, the big news: is Stray Kitty back from the dead? He vanished abruptly last January, after coming to my door for breakfast for well over a year. I kept watch for three months before I donated my remaining cans of cat food to the ASPCA. Nobody’s seen him around since then.

Until now. Once again we’ve got a black-and-white cat back roaming the neighborhood. He’s been down at my end of the street, but seems to hang out more at the other end. Other neighbors have seen him, so it’s not just my eyes going bad. But is it really him?

Could be. Or not. The most popular theory is, somebody caught him last winter and was keeping him indoors. That’s entirely possible. I tried more than once to entice him into the house and out of the subzero temps, but he wouldn’t go for it, even when tempted with food. There was no way I’d get close enough to grab him without a net. Our hypothetical cat lover may have used a live trap. However, if this was the case, whoever caught him never informed the neighbors. If he was indoors, he must have escaped and returned to his old haunts. I haven’t checked the porch since March and nobody else was putting food out, so it’s no wonder he doesn’t frequent our end of the street.

Personally, I don’t think it’s him. I got an extended look at him the other day when I spotted him crossing the street. This cat looks smaller, definitely thinner, and doesn’t move the way Stray Kitty did. SK stalked like a scale-model tiger. He moved like a wild animal. This new version moves like a regular cat. I’m inclined to believe this is a descendant, a kitten or grandkitten. Stray Kitty roamed the streets for three years, and he’d never been fixed. There’s a farm on the other side of Route 272, so unaltered females would have been available.

Or this could be history repeating itself, somebody’s pet who got loose. Black and white cats with his markings aren’t exactly scarce. The only way to be sure would be to get close to him. Good luck with that.

# # #

The new TV season is now well underway, and I haven’t watched a single one of the new shows. I’ve even dropped some of my returning shows. I’m pretty much down to Bar Rescue, The Flash, Supernatural, America’s Next Top Model and Project Runway at this point. I’ll switch over to Sleepy Hollow when Project Runway wraps up. Not sure what I’ll do when Grimm comes back. That’s scheduled opposite ANTM, and I don’t have a working recording device. As usual, there are only a few shows I want to see, and they’re scheduled for the same time. Somebody somewhere really wants to piss me off.

The only new shows I want to check out are Supergirl (CBS attempts to hop onto the superhero bandwagon), and Legends of Tomorrow, the superhero group show on the CW spun off from Arrow and Flash. I’m turning into a fan of Wentworth Miller, who always steals the show as Captain Cold. Somebody else must like him, because they put him in a Yoplait commercial that’s a hoot. I shouldn’t skip the commercials. A lot of time they’re better than the shows they interrupt.

# # #

Speaking of superheroes, comics and TV, Tuesday’s Flash episode was loaded with Easter eggs for us long-time comics fans. Not only did they do a live-action recreation of the cover where Barry Allen meets Jay Garrick, the Flash from the 1940s, but they introduced the concept of parallel universes. The Flash crew discovered 52 possible alternate worlds, a nod to DC’s “New 52” company-wide revamp of a few years ago. Back in the ‘80s DC had so many alternate worlds they ran a twelve-issue maxiseries (Crisis on Infinite Earths) and destroyed all the extras. Then they brought a few back. Then a few more. Then they rebooted the whole thing and started over with the New 52. Which they’ve had to reboot yet again because nobody liked the new versions of the characters. I don’t know how many alternate universes they have now, or care. I know they’re trying to make Superman edgy. Like trying to get close to a stray cat, good luck with that.

Now that DC has officially undone Crisis on Infinite Earths, Marvel just had their own version and wiped out a lot of their parallel universes. Now they’ve rebooted and are starting over with a slew of new first issues. Their motivation appears to be to downplay the Fantastic Four and X-Men, because Fox won’t give back the movie rights. Comic books, once cheap, disposable entertainment for kids, have bloated into a corporate cash cow under the control of CEOs and stockholders. At one time I wanted to be a comic book writer. I’m glad now I didn’t go in that direction.

Hmmm … between me dropping TV shows and comics, I’ll have more time to write. If I learn how to draw, I can make my own comics. Who needs you, Time-Warner? I’ve got paper and a pen! Enjoy your day, folks.

Interview with J. J. Collins

Great news! As of this writing, Lost and Found has made it onto All Romance E-books' Top 50 bestsellers list! I was able to get hold of writer J. J. Collins and sit her down at the keyboard for an email interview. Take it away, J. J. --

Collins: Hey! My name's Jen Collins and I live in northern New Jersey with my wonderful husband Chuck and a garden tortoise named Toby. No dogs or cats. We're holding off on kids.

I hear the tale of how you met your husband is quite the romance story in itself.

I'll say! We met at a science fiction convention. We were both in the costume contest. We're both fans of Elfquest. I was Ember, he was Teir. It was Recognition.

Have the Pinis okayed this?

We've never met them, but I'm sure they'd approve. After all, they met through the letters page of the old Silver Surfer comic. It has symmetry.

What got you into writing?

Oh my. I've been writing since I learned how to hold a pencil. My dad used to read to me from those Disney storybooks, only he'd do funny voices and go off script and make up his own endings. In his version of Snow White, the dwarfs opened a car parts dealership--Manny, Moe, Jack, Grumpy, Sneezy, Dopey and Al--and the Evil Queen got her own talk show. The Magic Mirror was her announcer. My dad was a storyteller. I wanted to be a storyteller too.

So you set out to make a living as a writer?

I set out to make a living. I've been a secretary, a costume designer for a local theater group, a proofreader for a small publisher and a telemarketer. A lot of you reading this have probably hung up on me. Fortunately Chuck has a great job so if I happen to be between employment opportunities we can still skate by.

Does he write?

He writes science fiction, but he hasn't been published yet. I keep telling him to get off the fan fiction sites and write his own stuff.

Why romance? And why M/M?

Because in all those comic books and all those fantasy stories I read, I was never happy unless there was a girl and a guy getting together while slaying dragons and saving the world from aliens. I didn't even think about writing M/M until Chuck pointed out all my favorite fanfics were slash. There's just something soooo sexy about two hot men falling for each other. I love writing about how they get together.

What does your husband think of that?

He thinks I should be writing lesbian porn. I told him if that's what he wants to read, he can write it himself. Then I told him if he ever did, I'd divorce him.

Do you have a novel in the works?

Not yet. I have a ton of unfinished books cluttering up the closet. For now, I want to concentrate on short stories. That way I can focus on the romance and not get distracted by subplots.

Is Lost and Found your first published story? How did it come about?

Yes, it's my first professionally published story! Yay! I saw Evernight was looking for anthology stories about bad-boy alpha shapeshifters and immediately thought, "That's for me." Unfortunately, the story I wrote was too long for their word count. I also missed the deadline. Finally I decided to heck with it, just finish it the way it wants to be and see what they say. They said yes. I have some ideas for M/M stories that I want to send to their Romance on the Go line. Maybe I'll think about a novel in the future. It's just that they take so long to write. Stories are quicker. I can plot a story during Dancing with the Stars if I get bored.

Any chance you and Chuck might collaborate on a book?

We've thought about it. It would probably be science fiction, He'd do the world-building, I'd do the relationships. I don't think he'd let me write an M/M SF novel. But none of the women in it are going to have huge tits. That's my only rule.

Any advice to the aspiring writers in the audience?

Never give up! Persistence and patience are two of the most important writing skills you can develop.

Lost and Found is available from Evernight Publishing at
http://www.evernightpublishing.com/lost-and-found-by-j-j-collins/

Release Day!

This is the kind of blog I like: when an author has a new release and wants to promote it, and all I have to do is run the article. Today I’m featuring J. J. Collins, who shares my love for M/M stories and all things Supernatural. Her first release, Lost and Found, comes out today from Evernight Publishing. Collins writes shorter works than my preferred novella/novel lengths, and if she’s smarter than I am, she’ll write faster.

Lost and Found is a paranormal tale of two shifters, an arrogant alpha wolf and a freewheeling hawk, who come together and learn to rely on each other. There’s sex between two guys in this one. Be warned.

This story had its start over on Shapeshifter Seductions; you can read the original opening here. You can check out the book page at Evernight at this link. Maybe next week I’ll have J. J. do an interview. Take two weeks off in a row. I am evil. And lazy.

Blurb

Injured and driven out of his forest pack, wolf-shifter Declan escapes to the prairies. Here he encounters hawk-shifter Killian. The hawk is snarky and annoying, but he's Declan's only hope for survival. Alpha Declan needs a pack. Solitary Killian doesn't need anyone. The two form a partnership, based on hunting and their unacknowledged mutual loneliness. The relationship quickly deepens into something stronger, maybe something lasting. Then Declan gets the chance to regain control of the wolves. Will he return to the pack he lost, and give up the love he's just found?

Excerpt

 After fish and mice and rabbits, the antelope—proper wolf food, finally—tasted like the venison of the gods. Declan crammed in as much as he could before he even thought about talking. “This is how a wolf pack eats.” He patted his belly contentedly. “How do you like it so far?”

Killian didn’t answer. He couldn’t, with his mouth stuffed with antelope. Declan chuckled and waited him out. Killian chewed hurriedly, gulped, and said, “I’ve never tasted anything like this.”

“Hell, this is nothing. There’s this herb in the woods…the she-wolves know where to find it. You get some of that, some mushrooms, make a sauce from the blood…damn.” He licked the drool from his lips. “Told you I wasn’t a savage.”

“No. No, you most definitely aren’t.” He leaned back against the earthen support of the bluff, where Declan already reclined with his legs stretched out before him. Their kilts made rounded humps over their full bellies.

Not only their bellies, Declan noticed idly. That little bump on Killian’s thigh wasn’t a twig. It wasn’t all that little, either. Declan had romped with wolves who had less, and wolves who had more but few ideas on what to do with their bounty. His own kilt tented as his wolf raised its head in a tentative howl.

“Your she-wolves cook for you, then? Of course they would. You’re the alpha,” Killian answered his own question. “Or does being alpha mean you cook for them?”

“The women do most of the preparation. Those who are good at hunting, hunt. The rest forage. Some have learned how to grow things. I think that’s a good idea. Even when there’s no meat, there’s still something. No, I don’t cook, but I can. I pay attention to everything the she-wolves do with the food. I like to eat, and I like to eat well.” He flashed a hearty grin. “Do you cook? You carry flint.”

“Not often. I just don’t take the time. Too hungry. Bird. High metabolism.” Killian whistled a happy sigh. “Though not just now. I won’t be flying for hours."

Grounded, eh? Good to know. Declan wondered if Killian was aware of how close he was sitting to the wolf. Or how absolutely lovely he looked—full-fed, his lazy smile at last devoid of snark, his nervous energy momentarily calmed. Even the wild ferocity in his eyes had mellowed. Perhaps he might be in the mood for a little after-breakfast fun. Nothing ventured…

Recalling how the man had flinched at even a casual touch, Declan made his move slow and easy. His tentative rub of Killian’s shoulder sparked another flinch, though not a violent one. Killian slanted a wary look at him through hooded eyes but said nothing. More importantly, he didn’t move away.

Emboldened, Declan slid his hand from Killian’s shoulder to the back of his neck. Dammit, he was stiff as rock back there. He rubbed and kneaded until he coaxed a bit of grudging relaxation out of Killian’s muscles. “So tense,” he teased. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.” He took a risk and leaned in closer. “Do you bite?”

For answer, Killian rested his hand on Declan’s leg. His nails pricked the skin of Declan’s thigh, even through the protection of the kilt. “I’m more of a scratcher. You might want to remember that.”

“Oh, I will. And you’re going to remember this for nights to come.”

Their lips were barely a breath apart. He closed that tiny gap and laid claim to Killian’s mouth.

Killian stiffened but didn’t pull away. Nor did he respond, not at first. Declan nibbled at his lips. Killian seemed to reach a decision and kissed back.

Great gods above and below. Kissing the hawk was like putting his lips to a lightning storm. The man was pure energy, electric and wild, like some primal god of the sky. Desire shot through Declan’s entire body as he drank it in, this fierce font of passion that was Killian. All of a sudden he wanted—no, needed—to climb aboard this feathered whirlwind and ride to its end, all the way to the clouds if need be.

Encouraged by Killian’s reaction, Declan pulled the smaller man into his brawny arms. His hands explored the angular geography of Killian’s narrow body, mapping every wiry inch. That downy not-hair covering extended from his clavicles downward, where it formed a dark, cozy nest for his dick. Similar down coated his arms, his legs, and—oh fuck yeah, his balls. Its enticing softness, contrasted with the rocklike solidity of Killian’s muscles, was driving Declan over the edge.

Most of all, he wanted to ram his mighty wolf into the hawk-shifter’s hole. He had no doubts what he’d find in there: wet heat and a grip like talons. He almost came right then just thinking about it.

Break the Bank

The only good thing about bureaucracies is that their idiocy provides great fodder for blogs. Case in point:

When I moved into the trailer park about ten years ago, I had to pay a security deposit, just like you do with an apartment. The park owner set up an escrow account to hang on to the deposit. I don’t have access to this money. The account is with his bank, in his name as the escrow agent. When/if I move out of the park, I get the money back, plus any accrued interest.

Every month I get a statement from the landlord’s bank, informing me of how little interest “my” account is earning. Usually I just date these and toss them into my filing cabinet. This month, for reasons unknown, I decided to look at it. Good thing. It wasn’t a statement. It was a letter from the bank informing me “my” account had been declared dormant because there’d been no activity on it for two years. If an account sits dormant too long, the bank can take the money. Nice scam.

So I hied myself over to the nearest Fulton Bank branch (yes, I’m outing you guys. Live with it.) to get some answers. First off, why send this to me? I’m not their customer. The landlord is. The letter should have gone to him. Yeah, but it’s my name and address on the monthly statement. He’s only listed as the escrow agent. I get the statement, I get the letter. And somebody tell me how an escrow account can be declared dormant in the first place. Escrow accounts are holding actions for things like security deposits. They’re supposed to sit there. That’s the point. Well, the teller told me, the government has new regulations. If they say it’s inactive, it’s inactive. This includes accounts that are inactive by definition. Your tax dollars at work.

There was an easy out, however. Either put some money in the account, or take some out. Prove it’s still active. Or sign the form on the letter they sent me, verifying my address. That would get me off the hook. Piece of cake.

Except no. I’m not a Fulton Bank customer. I didn’t set up the account. I have no access to it. If I did I’d shut it down and take my money back. However, I don’t have the account number. My landlord does. He’s their customer. He’s the only one authorized to sign the form. The teller informed me I’d have to get in touch with him and have him sign it to set things right.

To sum up: government regs have declared an account you’re not supposed to touch can be made dormant if you don’t touch it. The bank sent the notice to me even though I’m not their customer. But it’s still my money in there, which I stand to lose because I can’t access the account I didn’t set up. I’m not allowed to sign the form they sent me. And now it’s up to me, says the bank, to straighten everything out.

This was Friday afternoon. I called the landlord. He has an answering machine. You call him and you leave a message and wait for him to get back to you. He didn’t get back to me. Luckily he lives in the general area, so I used his name and phone number to get his home address off Google. When I didn’t hear back after 24 hours I drove out to his house. He wasn’t home. I spent the weekend stewing in my juices. I couldn’t even blow off steam on a road trip because my 20-year-old car, which just passed inspection, started making clunking noises Friday morning. I road-tested it on that trip to the landlord’s house. Only he wasn’t there and I can’t reach him by phone and everything’s closed until Monday anyway. Aren’t weekends the days you’re supposed to kick back and relax?

I did get the chance to think things over. Monday I went out and did things right. I went to a different Fulton branch and asked to talk to a manager. Managers have to be nice to people because they can’t afford to offend current or potential customers, unlike some harried, low-paid teller. After a phone consultation with somebody else up the ladder, he determined I could sign the form. All the home office wanted was verification of the address. As long as the signature approximated one of the names up top, they’d be satisfied. Bureaucracy, remember?

So I slapped my sig on the dotted line and turned the form over to the manager and we were hunky-dory once again. Though I’ll never open any accounts at Fulton Bank. They don’t even know who their customers are and the tellers just want to get rid of you. If they get gobbled up in a merger somewhere down the line, I won’t be surprised.

Not two hours after I settled matters on my own, the landlord called. I told him I’d taken care of things. I also verified his home address, for backup. You better answer your phone from now on, bub. I know where you live.

And don’t worry about the car. The garage had to replace a wheel rod so it would pass inspection. One of the bolts had worked itself loose. That’s what caused the clunking. The mechanic tightened it up and now the car’s quiet again. Because it was their error, I didn’t have to pay for it. I took a road trip yesterday and I’m feeling much better now. Though I might start stuffing money in my mattress after this. You never know what a bureaucracy might try to pull on you next.

A Day in the Life

Ahhh, the life of a writer. Nothing but glamour and raking in money. Bet that’s what you’re thinking. Yeah, I wish. Maybe if you’re James Patterson. I hesitate to say Stephen King in the same sentence as “glamour,” though he’s still raking in the money.

I am a writer. I live in a mobile home. I’m writing this in bed, on my laptop, wearing a nightie. I’ve got a clothes rack in the corner where my underwear’s drying because I did laundry the other day. Glamorous enough for you?

I’m sure my lifestyle is the reason I haven’t hit the Patterson or King levels of income yet. What am I doing wrong? Let’s have a look.

How a writer’s life should go—You get up early, ready to rock. You only get dressed if you feel like it. You grab your coffee and something for breakfast and then you go to work. That means parking your butt in front of a keyboard for however long it takes to meet your quota of pages or words, whatever you’re aiming for. That can go anywhere from three to twelve hours. In addition to the actual writing, you’ve got edits to work on and queries to send to publishers and agents. The money’s not phenomenal, but you’ve got enough coming in to cover the bills and occasionally take a vacation. It still beats the hell out of dealing with bosses and co-workers. If you’re imaginative, driven, and anti-social, this is the job for you.

How a writer’s life usually goes—You get up and go to your day job. If you have a family, first you get the kids off to school. Then it’s eight-nine hours of doing what pays the bills. You might be able to get some writing in before you go to work, and maybe a little over your lunch break. When you get home you fix dinner, play with the kids, maybe pay attention to the spouse. While the rest of the family’s watching TV, you’re at your table in the corner, writing like mad. You’ve got a bunch of things on the market but nothing’s sold yet. No response from the dozen agents you queried last month.

That’s okay. You have faith in your latest endeavor. The plot excites your imagination and the characters have started acting in ways you never expected. All you have to do is finish it. This could be the one!

How my day goes—Up some time between 5 and 6 a.m. Some days I’m up earlier because I took a pee break around 3 a.m. and couldn’t fall back to sleep. Might as well get up. Get my cup of tea and maybe a banana. Dammit, have to write a blog today. Okay, that’s done. Write or play computer games? Maybe I’ll read a bit.

9 a.m.—time for breakfast. Eat something while parked on the couch watching the Supernatural reruns on TNT. Write during commercials. Or read. I haven’t vacuumed in at least two weeks. Do the dishes? Nah, let ‘em sit.

Oh hell, I’m running low on milk. Better make a grocery run. Gotta post the blog first. Go to the library because I don’t have home internet. Post the blog, check emails, then fiddle around for two hours. Get groceries before I go home. I should take a shower.

We’re into the afternoon now. Time for a nap. Or I could write a bit. Let’s see what’s on TV first. Flip channels for awhile. Eat lunch while watching American Pickers. If I make my characters antiques dealers, I can call this research.

Hit the library again to re-check up on emails. Sales are pathetic. Think about doing marketing. Go home and eat dinner. Mow the lawn if it needs it. See if anything’s on TV. If not, read. Go to bed until around 3 a.m., when the bladder gets me up again.

Did you see a lot of writing in there? Me either. Now we both know why I’m not very successful at this.

It’s not always as bad as I made it sound. Some days, when I’m hot on a project, I can go for four-five hours. Other days, zip. I go off on aimless road trips or get caught up in cleaning the bathroom. It’s amazing how fast you can use up a day doing nothing.

These days I have the freelance stuff, which comes with deadlines and regular pay. I’ve already devoted full days to that. Call it my day job. I’ve been on a bit of a block lately, but I still manage to squeeze out at least part of a page before I go to “work.” I’ve never been very fast or prolific.

Maybe I should just give up on novels and go into scriptwriting. Then when I turn on the TV, it’s “research.” Or I could cancel cable. No, I’d only read.

Because writing is damned hard work, no matter how much or how little time you spend at it. Creating whole worlds and putting believable people in them wears you out. You spend all day in your head. Just when you get into the groove, you have to stop and answer the phone or go to the bathroom or deal with your family or eat something. Looked at your butt in the mirror lately? Oy.

But you still get to choose your own hours, and you don’t have to leave the house or even get dressed if you don’t feel like it. I’ll take that over glamour any day of the week. Now all I need is a steady income and I’ll have the perfect life. How about it, folks? Who wants to send me a dollar?

True Confessions

It’s another one of those weeks. I don’t have a topic for today. I just typed 600 words about the days when the September premiere of the new TV season actually mattered, then deleted it because it sucked. Now I have nothing to blog about. Although that’s never stopped me before.

To take up space, I’ve decided to bare my soul. I just hope Serena forgives me.

First, background. If you drop in here even sporadically, you’ll have figured out by now that I’m obsessed with the show Supernatural. I’ve got three of the seasons on disk. I watch the reruns on TNT. I read the occasional fanfic. I’m hiding filthy, fan-made (at least I hope they are) pics of the stars on my computer. And I’ve written so many stories “starring” the actors, it’s easier to list the books that don’t have them as characters than it is the ones that do.

In fact, I’ll have another story coming out shortly, under a different name and from a different publisher, but with the same familiar faces. This one’s Destiel. That’s Dean and Castiel getting it on, for those of you unfamiliar with the show. I’ve got a whole series of those planned, if I can get myself to sit at the computer.

All this in spite of—hold on, Serena, here it comes—

Jensen Ackles does nothing for me. Nada. Nothing at all.

I don’t know why. He’s cute. He can act, when given good material. He’s demonstrated a flair for comedy. I’d love to see him in a romcom. I have no doubts he could pull it off. There’s a rumor he was up for the role of Captain America. Bet he could have batted that one out of the park as well.

But a sex symbol? For millions of fangirls worldwide, maybe. Just don’t count me among them.

Here’s my true confession. There was a time when I watched Smallville religiously. If you’re familiar with the 1978 Superman movie, the one with Christopher Reeve, you might agree with this assessment: it’s almost like two separate films. There’s the first part, where Clark’s growing up on the farm, which has its own rhythm and tone. Then he goes to Metropolis and the tone of the movie shifts. Now it’s a superhero comic-book movie. I always wanted to see the movie that went with the first part. Smallville, though a TV show, was that movie.

In Season Four Jensen joined the Smallville cast. He was Lana’s boyfriend. Supposedly he was meant to be in Season Five but he got the Supernatural gig so they had to kill off his character.

I watched every episode of Smallville Season Four. I remember a lot of the stories and some of the scenes. I watched a few minutes of Supernatural when it debuted, and tuned in sporadically until I got hooked by Season Five. I knew Jensen had gone directly from Smallville to his new job, but I didn’t watch the show to see him. In fact, I have no memories whatsoever of Jensen on Smallville.

I know intellectually he was on there. I watched the show. But I can’t remember him at all. Not one scene. It’s like my brain was scrubbed Jensen-free. He made absolutely no impression on me.

About a year or so ago I got Smallville Season Four from the library and binge-watched it. I remembered a lot of the plots clearly. It was a pretty good season, overall. But Jensen? Nope. Still a blank. It could have been any actor filling that space and saying those lines. He was just another piece of set dressing.

To be fair, I was never that into Tom Welling, either, and he was the star of the show. Ditto for William Shatner on Star Trek. Kirk was the designated sex symbol, but not in my opinion. Ten-year-old me was busy lusting after Spock. At least I could remember Shatner being on the show.

I may have been similarly distracted during Smallville as well. At the time I had a serious double crush on Michael Rosenbaum and John Glover (Lex and Lionel Luthor, respectively). They had on-screen presence. They got the good lines and the meaty storylines. Next to them, even Tom Welling risked getting shoved into the background. No wonder Jensen faded from my inner view.

It’s gotten a little better, but not much. Dean Winchester is a far better character than What’shisname on Smallville, but to me Dean’s just the guy standing next to Sam and Castiel. Castiel is the reason I became obsessed with the show. I fell in love with him in two episodes. But then, I’ve always been drawn to the offbeat characters. And tall guys, which explains my Sam fixation.

Maybe that’s Jensen’s problem. He’s a generic pretty boy. Throw a stick at any beach in California and you’ll hit ten of him. He’s finally got a role with some meat on it, which might have made him interesting to me if it wasn’t for Misha and Jared. I'm so busy staring at them, it's easy to forget Jensen's there.

Now, Dean’s interactions with Sam, or his (ahem) relationship with Castiel, those are plot generators. Those are the stories I’ve been writing. And it still hasn’t worked. The one I’m trying to finish right now has Dean and Cas in it. Dean is presented as the ultimate sex partner. The character who threatened to take over the story? Crowley. I seriously need to rethink my priorities.

T Minus 36 and Counting

Last month I went cruising the online want ads for work. And wonder of wonders, I found something. I’m now doing freelance work from home, of a type and for a customer I’d rather not disclose for fear I’ll jinx it. The pay sucks, but when you’re not earning anything, even a little’s an upgrade. Besides, I’m hoping the experience I amass now will help me land something more lucrative down the line.

Because sooner or later, this job’s going to end, most likely abruptly and with no warning. How do I know? I don’t. I’m going by my previous experience, which hasn’t been the best.

In other words, today’s blog is going to be a vent. If that’s not your thing, bail now. For the rest of you, better buckle in, Spanky. The seas are about to get choppy.

# # #

My first full-time, non-temp office job after graduation was as a file clerk for an engineering firm. I’d done temp work for them off and on for a year or so. They always needed somebody. They were always busy. They finally hired me. I now had a steady job, a guaranteed weekly paycheck, and benefits. Hooray!

This lasted a year and a half.

What happened? Well, the engineering firm that hired me specialized in designing and building nuclear power plants. As I learned decades later, no new nuclear power plants have been built in the United States since Three Mile Island had its meltdown in 1979. The company hired me in 1981. It was already a dead business walking, but I didn’t know that. I’m not sure anyone did, except maybe the folks at the top. Not that they would have told us, of course.

They were busy as hell when I was hired, wrapping up their existing projects. As those wound down, so did the workload. No new projects replaced them, and none were going to. Again, we in the trenches didn’t know that at the time. As the most recent hire in my department, I was the one they cut when the layoffs started. This was my first layoff. It would not be the last.

# # #

After enjoying the benefits of unemployment, I found another job at a typesetting firm. Computer typesetting was just coming into vogue, so I actually got training. It also meant a move. That’s how I wound up in Ephrata. A week after I signed my rental lease, the company announced it was relocating to a larger building in Lancaster, 25 minutes away. Well, gas was still cheap back then.

A week after I accepted this job, my old job called and asked me if I wanted to come back. I politely declined. Just as well; the engineering firm got bought out by some out-of-state power company, still couldn’t make a go of it, and eventually went out of business. Had I gone back, I would have been laid off again within a year. Instead I stuck with the new job. The typesetting firm doubled their employees when business picked up, then moved to the larger building. Then business dropped off and they cut their staff in half again. I was shown the door. That’s two layoffs in roughly two years, from two different jobs in two different industries. My negative outlook on the world of gainful employment had begun.

# # #

I was on another paper-pushing temp job at a company that manufactured farming equipment when I landed a job at one of the two magazine printing firms in the Ephrata-Akron area. The very next day, the folks at my temp job offered me a long-term position. The job with the printing firm was located closer to home and paid more. I explained that I was leaving and went on to better things.

The “better things” didn’t pan out. After a promising start, I switched departments and found myself working for the only person in the company I couldn’t get along with. I did everything I could to fix the situation, to no avail. So I stuck it out long enough to stick a year’s salary in the bank and then quit. I’d already started writing articles for a small weekly paper and I had my fiction writing, so I wasn’t worried.

Should I have accepted that other offer from the other company? Turns out, no. One of my assignments for the paper was to interview their CEO. During those three years I was at the printing firm, the bottom dropped out of the global farm machinery market. The huge workload they’d been expecting never materialized. The company was bought out at least once in that period, and had a round of layoffs. As a recent hire and a low-level support staffer, I would have been among the first to go.

# # #

The newspaper job turned out to be the second-best job I’ve ever had … while it lasted. I started out as a stringer, then became a part-time editor, then finally a full-time editor. Once again I had a weekly salary, steady work, and benefits. Not to mention the flexible hours and option to work mostly at home. My idea of heaven.

You already know where this is going, right?

When I was hired, we had a gung-ho publisher and a go-getter editor. A month later, the publisher got promoted and the editor quit. The new publisher was a bottom-line bean counter and the new editor was an idiot. Between the two of them, over the next two years they proceeded to run the paper into the ground.

This was around the mid-90s. You may recall what happened to print journalism in the mid-90s. The price of paper abruptly quadrupled. Newspapers across the country, the ones that couldn’t support themselves, either cut back or folded. Mine was among the folders, thanks to the incompetence of our fearless leaders. I don’t know what happened to the publisher, but the editor got fired. Too late to save my job, unfortunately.

Last year I was reading an article about the future of print news. It included a chart showing newspaper revenues since the 1930s. The red line climbs steadily until around 1994, when it takes a sudden sharp dip. Then it starts climbing again. That dip occurred during my premier stint at a newspaper. I have got to work on my timing.

# # #

After a few more abortive jobs and more temp work I returned to editorial—same company that had laid me off, except at a different paper. One of the guys in the paste-up department had done work for TSR, the Dungeons and Dragons company. He was still in contact with a bunch of those people, including their editors. This was my chance. TSR published a line of novels based on their games and characters. Somebody had to write those books. Why not me?

I got names from the paste-up guy and sent a query letter, including one of my published fantasy stories. They actually replied, saying they had no openings at the moment but they had projects coming up and might need some writers in the spring. No prob. I could wait.

Two things happened before spring rolled around. One, I quit the newspaper job over a pay dispute. Two, TSR went bankrupt. The company that led the gaming industry for 20 years, that made D&D a household word, hit a financial speed bump right about the time I contacted them. They got bought out by a rival gaming company. All the contacts my contact knew were fired. I found a back door into the company and they not only bricked it up, they blew up the building. Did I offend some god somewhere or something?

# # #

Leaving the paper turned out to be a blessing. I landed a home typing job at the other printing firm in my neighborhood. At the time I lived about two blocks away. I could walk up the street, pick up my work, type at home in my underwear with the stereo blasting, and pretty much set my own hours without having to worry about idiot co-workers and micromanaging bosses. The typing job paid more than I’d been earning as an editor. That’s pretty pathetic when you think about it.

During our training period one of the managers took us on the company tour. Up to this point, no job I’d ever had, regardless of position, company or industry, had lasted more than 3-4 years. Three was my average. For every job I’d quit, two had laid me off. This was my experience when the manager warned us that the nature of the job we’d just been hired for was changing. More articles were coming in on disk. “This job’s going to change over the next five to ten years,” he announced.

And I thought: “It doesn’t matter. One way or another, I won’t be here that long.”

I was right. A year to the day after I was hired, the other printing firm, the one I used to work for, bought us out. They used a different software program. Overnight our training and experience became worthless. Our work was given to their typists. Management assured us we’d be retrained, once the consolidation process was done.

Management didn’t tell us they were building a new facility overseas. They saved that little tidbit until right before Thanksgiving, after letting us dangle all summer, wondering what would happen to our jobs. Here’s what happened: they were being sent to India. The entire home typing department was being shut down.

Two weeks after the meeting, I got my layoff notice in the mail. I didn’t even last the five years promised by the guy during the tour. On what would have been my three-year anniversary, I was once again looking for work.

# # #

My last full-time office job echoed my first. I was back at the printing firm, this time as an editorial assistant/copy editor. They were busy as hell when I started. “This department’s going places,” the manager told me.

A month after I started, work suddenly slammed to a halt. Nothing was coming in. Management blamed a glitch in the computer system. It picked up again after a couple weeks, but I started to notice things. The annual raises were postponed from April to July. People who left weren’t replaced. Changes were made to streamline the production system, which eliminated at least one job. And the workload had started to drop.

I was not at all surprised when management called a company-wide meeting for all employees. “You’re a great bunch of workers,” they kicked off the speech. “We’re proud to have you working for us. However, with costs and the global economy, blah blah blah … ”

Upshot: Our biggest client had decided to have all editorial work done in India. Instead of scouring for new customers, those in charge had tried to squeeze more work out of customers who already had one foot out the door. I have no proof, but I suspect that abrupt slowdown around the time I started was them doing a test run of the system that would funnel our work to India. The subsequent months were used to work out the bugs. Layoffs were announced, to begin the following month.

I didn’t even get that long. One of the regulars had gone out for maternity leave two months before. She was supposed to be gone until September. She returned unexpectedly in August. I showed up for work one morning and there she was at her desk. By lunchtime I was once more out of a job. I'd been working there less than a year.

The company limped along with a skeleton crew for another two years before it finally went belly-up for good. The type of jobs that brought me to Lancaster County to begin with no longer exist in this area. Maybe not even in this country. Commuting to India isn't an option. The pay's not that great anyway.

# # #

This pattern even applies to jobs I don’t take. Some time back I saw a want ad for an adult bookstore on Rt. 272 outside of Shillington. I thought about applying, just so I could see the looks on the faces of people when I told them what I did for a living. In the end I didn’t. Just as well. About a year after the ad appeared, PennDOT decided to widen that stretch of 272 from a two-lane to a four-lane. Almost every business along the road was bought out through eminent domain and razed, including the adult bookstore. Had I gotten the job, it would have ended within two years, tops. Last I heard, the owners were still trying to find somebody to rent a building to them, without success.

# # #

I’m posting this now to mark the date. Now that I’ve started my latest endeavor, that means the company's doomed. Sometime within the next three years they’re going to go out of business. I have no idea what their financial situation is at the moment. Doesn’t matter. I work for them now. The clock is ticking.

On my end, I intend to keep looking for freelance work and build myself a client list, so if one goes down I’ll have backup. I’ll also be writing. It’d be nice if I sold a book that did well so I wouldn’t have to rely on employers. Provided the publisher doesn’t go out of business. Oy vey.

Cheese and Crackers

I’m in the mood for a nice, cleansing whine. What goes good with whine? Cheese, of course. I never seem to run out of things that cheese me off. As long as the rest of the world exists, I’ll always have a blog.

# # #

I’m sure you’ve heard a version of this one: “When I was your age, we had to walk five miles to school. Barefoot. In the snow. And it was uphill both ways.” I can’t speak for the five miles or the barefoot part, but I can vouch for the rest.

It’s not school, though. It’s the library. I still can’t quite afford home Internet, so I get my connections at the library. Fortunately for me, the library is right up the street, less than a quarter mile away. I can see it from my yard. I could see it from the house if the bathroom window faced that way.

I could walk straight across the field and be there in five minutes except for one little obstruction: the 20-foot-wide stretch of water known as Cocalico Creek.

Y’see, I live in a river valley. Cocalico Creek runs through the entire western end of Ephrata, and the land runs downhill accordingly. It’s nearly impossible to get out of town without going up a steep hill. The Cocalico Creek flows precisely down the middle between the mobile home park and the library, which sits on top of a hill. In order to get there, I walk downhill, cross the bridge, then climb up the steep drive to the library at the top. I’m overweight and out of shape and toting a twenty-pound laptop. I haven’t had a heart attack yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

But wait, I hear you say. Wouldn’t it be all downhill going home? Nope, just halfway. Once I cross the bridge over the creek, the land begins its gradual upward slope again. So I do indeed have to walk uphill both ways. Though not always in the snow, because if it’s bad the library closes and all the ups and downs become moot.

I could walk the other road to the library, but that’s Route 272, the old highway. That one’s level. It’s also traffic-heavy, with no sidewalk and not much of a shoulder. And I’d still have to climb the hill to reach the library. I’d rather trudge up the other road than take my chances with drivers re-enacting the Indy 500.

As for school, I went to grade school at the Jersey shore. We had to swim five miles. Against the tide. Both ways.

# # #

Being lazy as well as out of shape, and unwilling to lug the laptop to the summit of Everest, I usually just take the car. This comes with its own set of problems. When I’m in a parking lot, I try to find a pull-through, so I can see oncoming cars when I go to leave. My car’s been hit twice, both times in a parking lot by cars directly behind me backing out at the same time I was. One of those accidents happened at the library. You’ll forgive me for being paranoid.

The library doesn’t have any pull-through parking, but it does have a single line of spaces near the door. I always hope for one of these, not because they’re closer, but because there won’t be any cars parked behind me. When I back out I only have to worry about incoming traffic, and they’re usually nice enough to stop.

Here’s the part that cheeses me: motoring up the road to that long, steep drive, only to see another car turn in from the other direction. Watching that car trundle up the hill and knowing if there’s only one open spot in my chosen parking lane, he’s going to get it, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

If I drive up and all the spots are taken, that’s life. I just drive to the other side of the lot and hope the person parked directly behind me doesn’t decide to leave at the exact same moment I do. But seeing another car pull in just as I’m approaching the drive, knowing I’ve missed a prime parking space literally by seconds, that’s a hefty shot of Gorgonzola.

I try not to let it bug me. I should think instead about finding a job so I can get WiFi at home. Then none of this will be a problem any more.

# # #

Home WiFi … easier said than bought. I took the car in for inspection last week and it just barely squeezed by. The Jetta will be celebrating its twentieth birthday next year. It’s only got 153,000 miles on it—I didn’t drive this one across the country like I did the last one—but the bottom’s rusting out. Fortunately it’s mostly cosmetic, except for the wheel rod that’s rusting through and the better-than-average possibility I’ll end up with a hole in the floor. Even with that I can probably get another year of driving out of it. Hey, if no floor was good enough for Fred Flintstone, it’s good enough for me.

Only now I’ll have to start saving my pennies, because at some point before this time next year I’ll have to plunk ‘em down for a car that’s not rusted. There goes the WiFi fund. I might be able to stretch the car’s life if I suck it up and walk up that goddamn hill to the library. It would even do my body some good. If I have a heart attack, I won’t need a car because I won’t be driving. Always try to find the silver lining.

Catch and Release

It’s August here in farm country, and that means peaches. I love peaches, which is weird because I never really ate them growing up. I’ve always been more into bananas and apples. (“You should see me climb trees,” as the old joke goes.) I didn’t try peaches until I was into my 30s and had a brush with anemia. The doctor suggested I eat more fruit, so I experimented in the produce department and discovered the joys of peaches, plums and apricots. I still draw the line at citrus fruit. Won’t eat it, though I’ll drink the juice. On the vegetable side, I actually like broccoli and asparagus. I’ll only eat cauliflower raw, never cooked. My taste buds are a strange set of cells.

Of course, all good things come at a price. With peaches, that price is fruit flies.

Until I went fruit happy, my only experience with fruit flies was high school bio class, where we raised colonies in tubes and learned about genetics. Fruit flies are great for this because they’re tiny and they reproduce faster than rats. You can have three generations in a week. They die off just as fast, which makes cleanup a snap.

Unfortunately, that’s under classroom conditions. In the wild, or in your kitchen, not so much.

My reintroduction to the common fruit fly coincided with my discovery that peaches are tasty. I’d had bananas, apples and pears sitting out on the counter for years and never had any problems. I brought peaches into the house and all of a sudden there are these little black bugs flitting around. Once in the kitchen, they found my trash can and my sink full of dirty dishes. I was forcefully reminded of how fast the little buggers reproduce.

Believe me, I tried everything. I kept the trash covered. I did dishes more often. I sprayed. I didn’t like spraying because this was the kitchen. I have food and dishes in there. It really didn’t work anyway. I’d wipe out one troop and a day or so later the next generation would rise. For all I know, I was breeding fruit flies resistant to bug spray. That was never part of bio class.

The only thing that cleared out the problem was temperature. October accomplished what bug spray couldn’t. After that the house was fine until the following peach season, when we did the dance all over again.

This situation persisted after I moved into the mobile home. The house is bug-free until August arrives and I start bringing the peaches home. The trailer’s even worse in terms of spraying. The bugs congregate around the sink. I will not release poison into the air so close to my sugar bowl. If I put the peaches in the fridge, they get all wrinkly and bad. What’s a fruit-eater to do?

It took me forever, but the solution finally hit me: catch and release.

It’s so simple I could kick myself. I take those little plastic containers dried fruit and other bulk foods come in. Anything fruity works for bait; my favorite is banana peels. I rip up peel pieces and dump them in the container and give the flies ample time to congregate. Every couple of hours I go to the counter, slam the lid on the container, take the captured flies outside and release them back into the wild. The birds and the spiders take it from there. At the end of the day I dump the bait outside, where it either gets eaten by skunks or dissolves into the soil.

This method worked fine for the first couple of years. Usually I’d be fruit flyless within three days, or at least until I brought more peaches home. The last two years, however … it’s not working so well. Days go by and I’m still dumping large container-fulls of fruit flies into the wind. Either they’re breeding even faster these days, or the ones I let go are crawling back in through the screens. I might be catching and releasing the same group of flies over and over and not be aware of it.

I won’t spray, though. Doesn’t help. Guess the flies and I can share the peaches. October will be here soon enough.

Flirting With Murphy

Here we go again. I just never learn.

A couple weeks back I caught an announcement for an open call from a UK SF publisher. They’re looking for anything with a science fiction, fantasy, or horror flavor. Young Adult is okay, as long as it has crossover appeal. Self-published is okay. Partially written/unfinished works are okay. No agents required. In fact, if you’ve got an agent, they ask that you have said agent submit your work through the usual channels. This open call is meant for the unagented only.

Perfect. I don’t have an agent. I do have an old urban fantasy/horror book I wrote way back when. It’s already been through several open calls, without success. Ditto for queries to publishers. But hope springs eternal. Maybe its time has passed, but it could be its time hasn’t come around yet. Sooner or later it’s bound to hit the right desk at the right time. Is this that desk and time? I sent my synopsis and chapters last week. We’ll know in a couple of months.

Then there’s that YA book I’ve been screwing around with. It’s science fiction, alien invasion of Earth division. It’s definitely YA, but is it crossover enough to satisfy these people? I sent that one too. I figured I’d let them decide.

Here’s the problem: the urban fantasy’s completed. The YA isn’t. I’m maybe a third of the way through, longhand in a spiral notebook. I know vaguely how it ends, but how I’m supposed to get there from where I am, that’s a little sketchy. Make that a lot sketchy. I’m like Indiana Jones trying to steal back the Ark: “I’m making this up as I go.”

I wish they hadn’t said it was okay to send in unfinished works. Because you know what’s going to happen now. If they’re going to say yes to one of my two entries, Murphy’s Law dictates it’ll be the one that isn’t ready. I know. I’ve been through this before.

Several years back I entered the American Title writing contest, sponsored by Dorchester Publishing and Romantic Times magazine. When I entered, I had a finished book, of sorts. It was a handwritten first draft. I sent in what the contest asked for and then went on with my life. I kept meaning to type up the manuscript, just in case. But then again, why bother? They must have gotten hundreds of entries. What are the odds they’d ask for mine?

Pretty damn good. I got the email while at work. I’d been chosen as a finalist. They wanted my complete manuscript.

Eek.

Massive panic followed. I told the job I had an emergency and had to leave. I went home and for the next day and a half typed like a maniac. Dorchester wanted an email version, but I didn’t have the laptop then. I got them to agree to accept printed pages. I FedEx’d the book to them in batches. I was red-eyed and exhausted at the end, but I got it done.

Then I got cut in the first round. Yeah well. I got fired from the job, too, but that wasn’t as big of a deal. It was temp and I didn’t like it anyway. Dorchester went out of business about three years later, so they didn’t fare any better.

The point is, never think, “It won’t happen to me.” It will. Murphy’s got a vicious sense of humor, and he’s always on the lookout for unsuspecting schlubs to lay down his law on. If I don’t finish the book, the publishers will want it. If I do finish the book, I’ll get a “thanks but no thanks.” Although if I finish the book, I’ll have something to query YA publishers with, so that’s a win for me.

Fortunately, I have plenty of time. They’ve told us we should all hear back by the end of September at the latest. That gives me over a month to finish a first draft. More than that, I’m willing to bet. My past experience with open calls has taught me to add a minimum of six months to any done-by date the publisher gives us. The last one I entered, for Harper Voyager, was supposed to run three months. We waited for over a year before they made a final decision. England’s a smaller country. Maybe they work faster.

At least this time around I have the laptop. I can type up the manuscript directly into the computer if I have to, so it (or however much I have done) will be ready to go at the touch of a finger. Of course, if I’m done by the end of September, they’ll say no. With Murphy, you just can’t win.

But wait! There’s that story I sent to Evernight, the one that got accepted. If I get those edits with a short turnaround, that’s the week I’ll get the response from the UK publisher. I forgot to factor in all the variables.

Best-case scenario: I get the book done and almost completely typed before I get a go-ahead. Worst case: I just covered that up there. I suppose it could be even worse. This time I don’t have a job.

Story Time

(Came up empty for a topic today, so I rooted through my WIPs and found a snippet. This is M/M, but in a genre new to me: contemporary. No shapeshifters, no vampires, nothing (ahem) supernatural. Just two guys dating. Maybe that's why it stalled on me. I think I may have a few ideas to get it going again. We'll see what the future brings. In the meantime, here's the opening.)

Ryan Barnes was sitting in his favorite coffee bar with a French vanilla and a chocolate cake donut when the man of his dreams walked in. He froze with the donut halfway to his mouth and watched the man stroll from the door to the counter. His walk showcased a trim build and khaki slacks wrapped around the proverbial ass to die for. The man reached the counter and murmured to the barista. Ryan couldn't see his face, but he pictured a smile that could launch a thousand hard-ons without breaking a sweat.

Starting with the one in Ryan's pants.

The man raised his voice slightly. He had a pleasant tenor. That voice screaming Ryan's name in the throes of hot sex would sound like birdsong. Ryan set his donut down with a little worshipful groan.

"I have got to hit that," he told his cousin Jordan, seated across the table from him. "Like, right this minute."

"Forget it." Jordy sipped his own mint-mocha with a blasé disregard for the dream come true at the counter. "He's not your type."

"Says who?"

"All the laws of nature. I've seen that guy around. He teaches at the community college. He reads books. Rumor has it he's writing one. The man has a brain, Ry. He's out of your league."

"I read. A lot of sex happens in the brain. I read that in a book once."

"You work with a band saw."

"I make furniture. That's practically an artist. An artist is practically up there with a teacher." All the while he continued to stare at the MOHD's fine khaki'd ass. Teacher or not, the guy must work out. Had there been any hint of a belly under his pullover sweater? Ryan hadn't noticed one. He hadn't noticed any flaws at all.

He couldn't hear precisely what was said, but when the barista put two chocolate cake donuts into a bag he knew Fate had arranged this. The MOHD could drink crappy English tea and read depressing Russian novels and it wouldn't make a difference. The chocolate cake donuts had spoken.

Ryan got to his feet. Jordy grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare."

"What? I need a refill." He tipped his cup. Coffee sloshed near the bottom. Ryan hastily chugged it. He winked at his cousin. "Wish me luck."

"No."

Ryan shook off Jordy's hand and sauntered up to the counter. The barista flicked a glance his way from over by the urns. The MOHD didn't even look around. Ryan took note of the coffee she was drawing for him. Basic black. No mocha, no latte, no frappe, no frills. Just straight up, bitter caffeine. Okay, he could work with that. The man ate chocolate cake donuts.

He clacked his mug on the counter to get the barista's, and the dream's, attention. "Can I get a refill here?"

"Just a minute, sir. Be right with you."

Ryan waved to let her know she could take her time. He turned his head to flash a smile at the man of his dreams. The MOHD was looking at him.

Ryan's smile, throat and brain dried to sawdust.

About a dozen years ago, right after he'd got out of high school and before he landed his first job at Craig's Custom Furniture, Ryan had taken his savings, graduation and birthday money, refurbished a van, and gone on a six-month tour of the States as a gift to himself. One of his unplanned stops had been at Crater Lake in Oregon. He remembered the deep, inviting blue of the water, so cool and pristine in its volcanic caldera. This man's eyes surpassed the lake in both hue and depth. Ryan was convinced if he moved so much as a toe he'd fall into them and drown.

Slowly the rest of Mr. Dream's features came into focus. Average height, three, maybe four inches shorter than Ryan's six-one. Dark hair, probably combed early on but now tousled by the wind outside. Skin that saw more fluorescents than sun, with a touch of stubble already reasserting itself after the morning's shave. Moist lips in a firm but almost pretty face. Those lips were frowning slightly. He blinked but didn't speak.

"Hey," Ryan said. It was all his tongue could manage.

"Here you go." The barista returned with the dream's coffee in a tall, lidded Styrofoam cup. The MOHD flashed a brief smile. Ryan's dick throbbed with wanting. The man thanked her, paid for his coffee and donuts and walked out of the shop, all without a word or another look at Ryan. The wind gave his hair another artful toss. He ducked his head against it, stepped beyond the view of the front windows and was gone.

Inside the shop, inside his brain, Ryan kicked himself in the balls.

The barista tugged his empty mug out of his hand, yanking Ryan's awareness back to the now-empty and colorless world around him. "Make it a black," he said on impulse. "What he had. The guy who was just here." He fumbled for his wallet, and an excuse. "Y'know, I swear I've seen him around before. Doesn't he teach at WACC?"

"Mr. St. James? Yeah, I think so. History. Or bio. Some science." She shrugged. Her interest in the customers stopped after they ordered. "You want another donut?"

"Maybe on the way out." Ryan paid and stumbled back to his table in a daze.

"Smooth," Jordy welcomed him back. "I should have taken notes."

"Screw you, stringbean. At least I know what I like. You can't even make up your mind. What are you on this week? Men or women?"

"I don't believe in limiting myself."

"Right. You date women who look like men and men who look like women. Why don't you just hook up with brother-sister twins? Make it easy on yourself."

"You didn't even get his name, did you?"

"I got a name. And you were right. He teaches at the college." Ryan took a gulp of coffee and almost spit it out. Strong. This was good. This was a good thing. A man who drank this on a regular basis wouldn't hesitate to swallow anything waved at his mouth.

He took a more cautious sip. Jordy watched in silent amusement. "You're going to make a total idiot out of yourself, aren't you? Yet again."

"You want to find out what else a band saw's good for? Didn't think so." Ryan dumped sugar into the coffee until he could stand it. Yeah. That'd get a man's motor running. He flashed a cocky grin at his cousin. "I think it's time I went back to school."

License to Steal

Last week during our discussion of AU fan fiction, we briefly touched on the subject of plagiarism. I insisted what I was doing—writing stories while picturing certain actors/characters as the leads, with nothing else in common with the original TV show/inspiration—wasn't stealing. I don't see how it could be, given those parameters, but I'm not a lawyer and I don't think like one. Both DC and Marvel Comics say you can't call your costumed characters "superheroes" any more, and don't get me started on Disney. I'm not taking any chances of getting slapped with a cease-and-desist.

Except for what I'm about to discuss.

I've noticed a form of plagiarism that appears to be okay. You're still taking somebody else's words and using them as yours, but people shrug and look the other way. I've seen it done on TV, in movies, and in print. I've done it myself. Nobody's come banging on my door in the middle of the night. Yet.

Here's my personal tale of filching: My first published novel (as opposed to short story or novella) was the romance A London Werewolf in America. My werewolf hero came to Philadelphia and fell in love with a (human) witch. It was established right from the get-go that the werewolves referred to humans as monkeys, apes, simians, primates, and words of that nature. Shapeshifter speciesism. You get the picture.

Then I got to the part where an alpha wolf's brother gets shot. The brother's dying. The alpha's going berserk. The witch tries to help. She's human, and the shooter was human. The alpha's on the brink of attacking her.

And all of a sudden that famous line from Planet of the Apes lodges in my brain and won't go away. I couldn't help it. I had to put it in. The witch is up to her wrists in werewolf blood and the alpha screams at her, "Take your stinking paws off him, you damn dirty ape!"

What the hell. It fit in context. I figured if there was a problem, the editor would let me know about it.

The editor did mention it, but it was more of a "I see what you did here" than a "take that the hell out, you bloody thief." We had a laugh over it. I left it in. So did the editor. The book came out, got good reviews, and nobody brought it up, least of all the lawyers for 20th Century Fox.

Later in that same book the witch and her werewolf boyfriend capture and question one of the bad guys. "Bite me, chickie," he tells her. "And your little dog, too." The editor didn't even comment on that one. Neither did anyone else.

But it's still stealing, right? Those aren't my words. They are obviously not my words. I think that's one of the reasons I was able to get away with it.

The other reason is, the book under discussion was intended as a comedy. That seems to be the magic Get Out of Jail Free card in these circumstances. If you're writing a comedy, a spoof, or a satire, you can get away with almost anything. There were enough original gags, one-liners, setups and humorous situations in London Werewolf (even the title is a play on John Landis's movie title, An American Werewolf in London) that the Apes line came across as just another punchline. Because it and the Wizard of Oz line are so well-known, there's no question I lifted them. Everybody already knows from where. I'm not trying to put anything over on anybody. My thievery is right out there in the open for all to see, and I'm using it to get laughs. Make people laugh and they'll forgive you for a little literary snatch-and-grab.

I think the winner of the Pilferage Sweepstakes has to be the classic "Do you feel lucky?" speech from Dirty Harry. One time I saw variations on it on two different TV shows in the same week. One was a cartoon. (Specifically, the old '90s X-Men cartoon show. Specifically, Wolverine. Wolverine was born to sneer, "Do you feel lucky?" at people. Batman was born to growl, "Go ahead. Make my day." Which he did, in an issue of Batman and the Outsiders.) I even saw a version of it used, with dragons, in a Discworld novel by the late, great Sir Terry Pratchett. Pratchett was a satiric genius. Are you going to try to convince me he was a plagiarist?

Of course he wasn't. Neither am I or any of the other writers whose works I noted above. Neither was the guy who used the Wizard of Oz line before I did, in a Dungeons and Dragons novel, of all places. Yes, it was a humorous one. Yes, we all knew what he was referring to. That's what makes the joke funny.

It's when you take other writers' words—sometimes by the paragraph—and deliberately try to pass them off as your own that the law has to step in. 50 Shades of Grey was not plagiarism, in spite of its origins. E. L. James lifted Stephenie Meyer's storytelling techniques, not her words. She changed the characters before she changed their names. That guy who wrote a spy novel by cobbling together scenes and sometimes whole chapters from other, published spy novels, including some James Bond books, was a plagiarist. The people who lift entire books off Amazon or fanfic sites, change the character names and then slap their own bylines on them and try to sell them are not only plagiarists, they should be burned at the stake. And their little dogs, too.

Meanwhile, I've been toying with the idea of whether or not it's possible to write an entire novel using only movie quotes. It would have to be a humor book, of course. One of those novelty books where you see how many of the quotes you can guess the origin of. Which means every single line in the book would need to be identified in the back, so you can check your answers. Which pretty much defeats the purpose of plagiarism.

Forget it. That's way too much trouble. Somebody else can do it. I'm going to go write something original. And don't even think about stealing it, you damn dirty ape.

Aw, It's AU

I'm liable to get crucified for this, but I'm going to say it anyway: I just don't get some fan fiction.

Before you start hefting that brick, let me clarify. I love to read fanfic. Those Star Trek and Star Wars novels glutting the bookstore shelves? Authorized fanfic. My definition of fan fiction: stories set in a specific universe that aren't written by the original creator. So yeah, I say media tie-in novels and comic book continuations count. The only difference is, those writers get paid. We'll get back to that in a minute.

The stuff produced by actual fans, available for free on sites like FanFiction.net and Archive of Our Own, ain't all that bad either. Sure, some of it sucks, but according to Sturgeon's Law 90% of everything sucks. In the ten percent that doesn't suck you'll find the bestselling authors of tomorrow, honing their skills in their favorite universe. I'm surprised some of them aren't writing professionally already. Maybe some of them are. Pro writers do write fanfic. Why not? It's fun.

I've written my share of fanfic in my time. Back in high school I wrote a whole series starring the X-Men. None of it saw print, thank God, but some concepts I developed in those stories later made their way into my first professional SF story sale. I also discovered I had a taste for writing M/M, long before I knew it even existed as a genre. My book Temptation and Tights was my M/M tribute to those old superhero stories.

Two of my fanfic stories that did see print (actual print; this was pre-Internet) were set in the Star Trek: The Next Generation universe. One was a crossover with Alien; the other featured Q because I love Q. Put him in a scene with Data and the story writes itself.

A couple years back I discovered Supernatural and became obsessed with Cas, Sam and Dean, in that order. Again, none of my fanfic scribblings saw print and again, thank God.

Or did they?

I haven't made any secret that most of my recent books wouldn't have existed without Supernatural's influence. Belonging was a tribute to Wincest. Jessalina's Pets was inspired by the Season 9 publicity photos of Sam and Dean in cages. Just last week I sold a story to an ebook publisher; it's Destiel in all its glory, and I have a couple others in the works. The question is, are these fan fiction?

Fanfic writers, get ready to hurl those bricks. Here's where we diverge.

I say they're not, and not just because I want to avoid plagiarism charges. The stories mentioned above and the others I've written/am writing/hope to write do not take place in the Supernatural universe, and do not star Sam, Dean and Castiel. The plots do not involve two brothers hunting monsters. The closest I've come in that regard so far was Belonging, where the "Dean" character was a vampire slayer. These stories take place in different milieus, with different characters who have different personalities. They just happen to look like the actors, if only in my head.

When fanfic writers do this, it's called alternate universe, or AU. If you know anything about the genesis of 50 Shades of Grey, then you're familiar with this. 50 Shades was originally a fanfic story starring Bella and Edward and all the sex they never had in the Twilight series. E. L. James took the characters and put them in a different world and different situations and let them go to town. Later she changed their names to Ana and Christian and got the book published, and the rest is history.

Personally, I don't see the point of AU. In my mind, fanfic is stories written by fans using their favorite characters and set in the milieu of the book or TV show or whatever. It's stories that take place between books or broadcast episodes, the untold stories, the "good stuff" we're not getting from the official product, or "canon." Like Destiel. C'mon, you guys. Dean and Cas belong together. Everybody knows it. So what if Jensen and Misha are two straight married guys? Too bad. The fans want to see it, if the tons of Destiel fanfic out there are any indication. You're actors and you're under contract. Suck it up.

Stories that explore things like this I don't mind at all. It's when you start switching things around, moving characters out of their universe and changing everything but the names that I question it. You want Bella and Edward to have a BDSM relationship? Go for it. But change them into a businessman and his assistant with nary a vampire in sight? Why? Or Dean and Castiel getting it on? I'm all for it. Oh wait, they're both in high school now, and Castiel's not an angel. It's not Twilight or Supernatural any more so really, why even bother?

I guess it's because you love these characters and you want to play with them in different situations. I can dig it. Playing with a fascinating character is what makes writing fun. What I can't dig is changing everything about the characters and the universe that pulled you into that particular fandom in the first place. If you're going to do that, why not just write an original story with original characters, and imagine your favorite actors playing these new roles?

Which is what I'm doing, for a practical reason: I want to get paid but not sued. I have bills. I have expenses. I need to work for a living. I'd like to make a living as a writer. I don't have time to write free stuff. (I had a day job when I wrote the ST:TNG stories, so I didn't mind giving them away.) If I was writing real Supernatural fanfic, it would be with those characters as defined on the show, set in that particular universe. And it would have to be for free, because I don't own the copyrights. "Free" doesn't fill up my gas tank or pay my utility bills.

That's why it's Christian and Ana and not Edward and Bella doing kinky stuff for three novels. That's why it's not Ginny Weasley getting snuggly with Draco Malfoy in Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments series. And that's why those two guys in the pic up there aren't Dean and Castiel. When I write that story they'll be two different people, living in a world far different from the Supernatural universe. Or at least different enough to keep me out of court.

There will not be a fan fiction version. My stories are not repurposed fanfic. I skipped that step in the progression and went right for the legal, saleable stuff. I also skipped the fanbase, and therefore the sales, James and Clare built up with their original fanfic stories. It's a tradeoff.

Meanwhile, I'm keeping a close eye on Amazon's Kindle Worlds program. Amazon's got the tie-in rights to a number of properties, like Vampire Diaries and the Valiant Comics characters. Fans can write their own stories in these selected universes and earn royalties for them. Yes, you can get paid for writing certain fanfic. If they ever get the rights to Supernatural, I'm gonna be all over that so fast your head will spin. I've already got a couple stories in mind—stories set in that particular universe, starring those particular characters. The AU stuff I save for my original fiction. Those are concepts I own. If one of my "AU" books takes off, I'm in the catbird seat.

I leave you with this bit of irony: I hear 50 Shades has its own fan fiction. Wrap your head around that one, folks, and happy reading!