In My Opinion, Everyone Thinks You're an Idiot

There are certain types of people I hate. And, as an author, and as a human being, I know that stereotypes aren't 100% accurate. People just can't be fit into tiny boxes and labeled. People need many boxes and many labels, and sometimes, many different colors of labels.

That being said, here are a few types of people that make my skin crawl:

1. The Good Guy- The kind of guy that is always there for you, when he doesn't have something else better to do. He's kind and considerate, when time allows. He's even a dotting boyfriend, if he's getting something out of it. He wishes you well and wishes there was something he could do to make you feel better, but you just really wish he would shut up. For a while, The Good Guy may fool you into thinking he is the perfect man. But when you realize that The Good Guy is really full of shit, every time he smiles and hopes you feel better, you  want to smash his face into the sidewalk.

2. The Ritualist- I am all for good hygiene, but there are some people that take it a little too far. They bleach the color out of their hair, only to add in six shades of blonde that no one would ever think could be natural. They tan their skin, wax off every ounce of body hair, and feel terrible if they don't run their six miles before dashing to spin class. These are the kind of people that really could be beautiful, if they weren't so busy trying to make themselves into someone else. It's sad and annoying all at the same time.

3. The Competitor- "Anything you can do, I can do better. I can do anything better than you. " The people who take competition to a pathological level. They are smarter than you, better dressed than you, much sexier, and they live their lives with stunning accuracy and style. It doesn't matter what you do, they have thought of it first, done it better, and claimed a spot in the record books for the rest of eternity. They are also exceedingly accomplished at being the biggest ass at every conference table.

4. The Fine Fibber- The girl who is always "fine." Nothing is ever wrong. Nothing could touch her perky attitude and dazzling smile. She is the kind of person who remains upbeat in a crisis, and heals with love. She is also the person you know will someday snap and kill everyone within a hundred foot radius.

5. The Silver Spoon- The one who has it all. All the friends, all the money, all the class. They are intelligent, beautiful, musically inclined, and a champion of athletics. They conquer any hurdle set before them, and celebrate with a little world travel. You secretly know that there is no way their life could be that perfect, but you wouldn't mind if they took a spill down the staircase anyway.

That's all that immediately came to mind. I use these people in my writing, because I see them in real life. Though, sometimes, I wish I didn't.


-Liz

Walking Crooked Lines

Time lines, that is. 

 

Do your stories ever get the best of you? Every once in a while, I stop to think about my novels and wonder how I, the author, could have absolutely NO freaking idea what's going on.

 

But I don't.

 

Today it had to do with ages. It shouldn't be complicated, right? A lot of novels don't fully describe characters, and sometimes never comment on the narrator at all. So, you wouldn't think this would be a big issue. But I must make everything way more difficult than it needs to be. And I'm not talking head-scratching confusion, here. I'm talking major WTF moments.

 

The series that I'm working on now has three main races: the Dari, the Albion, and the Ushi. And they all age differently, for a variety of reasons. The Dari age like humans do, 1:1. The Albion age 7:1. So, every seven years, they look like they've aged one year. The Ushi are 10:1. And really, that isn't that complicated. You just take the age someone looks and multiply it by seven and there you go. That's their age. 

 

But here's where it gets tricky. There are four books in the series, and they don't take place one right after the other. They actually stretch over two decades. And not in equal intervals, either. We've got twelve years here, four years there, six months in between this and this. That's not counting how much time passes in the actual novel, which could be anywhere from two weeks to a year or more.

 

Do you see my problem?

 

It's a clusterfuck. 

 

But it makes for good reading.

 

And I guess that's all that really matters, eh?

 

 

 

-Liz

Falling From the Sky Like a Blazing Lizard

I don't condone lighting lizards on fire and throwing them in the air, but I hear the weather gets pretty hot down in San Antonio, Texas, so I figured it wasn't impossible for it to happen naturally (and therefore without being arrested).

Speaking of San Antonio... (in my totally graceful, not-at-all obvious segway) I want to give a shout out to Cyrus Keith. He is the well-deserving winner of the 2012 EPIC ebook award for best thriller for his first novel, Becoming NADIA. His first two books of the NADIA Project series are available through MuseItUp Publishing. You can find more info on his work here. You can also see his Blogger page here. And if you want to keep up with his daily antics, feel free to check out is Facebook page.

He's new on the publishing scene and full of surprises. I can't wait to see what he comes up with next.

Great job, Cyrus. Keep it up!



-Liz

Heart-Shaped Stickers of Horror

I have four tattoos and sixteen piercings. I like black nail polish, but also calypso blue and hot pink. I'm short and round and I wear glasses. My hair never makes it much further than my shoulders before I chop it off and I've been at least six different hair colors in the last two months. In high school I was a bookworm, but I didn't go to college. I was an administrative assistant to someone important at a hospital, but I quit the high-paying gig because it made me crazy. I have an unnatural obsession with scarves, leather-bound journals, and fedoras. I believe firmly in glitter and hair bows; preferably when put together. I walk like an old woman because of a chronic pain problem from a nasty horseback riding incident. But I still ride.

Most importantly, I am a writer. And no matter how often the other things change, that fact never does. I haven't written in months. I haven't done any serious writing in longer than that. And if you asked me when I was going to get the ten novels hiding on my hard drive into daylight, I honestly couldn't tell you. To me, it doesn't matter. But I'm still a writer.

Today is a day people are identified. Married, divorced, single, dating, committed, widowed, or some combination of these. Their identities are put into boxes and wrapped with bows, or shoved into vases, or pulled from a section of the greeting card aisle. They are crammed into heart-shaped containers of chocolate or printed on thousands of grocery store valentines. And people are okay with this because it only happens one day a year. But if you asked any of the thousands of people that smiled when they opened their mass-personalized gift next week what they were, the answer wouldn't be so simple. Some people might even get offended.

Today I'm a writer. I'm also single. Tomorrow I will still be a writer. And probably single. I don't hate Valentine's Day. I think that if you have someone you love, you should express that. I'm also not bitter that I don't have anyone to romantically express my love to. It's just another day for me. And I'm pretty sure that even if I did have someone, it would be just another day. Because when you love someone, you should express it every day.

But I'm just a writer. What do I know?



-Liz

Little Bit of Love

I'm pretty sure that if I met someone who would build me a tree house so wonderful I'd want to live in it, I'd marry them. Seriously. Building someone a tree house is like an epic expression of love. It takes time and money and possibly broken fingers. And for someone to put that kind of effort into a project for a twenty-two year old, well, it would be pretty damn awesome. A box of chocolate just can't compare. And I'd take a tree house over a diamond engagement ring any day. What better way to prove you can provide for someone than to build them a house?

I was thinking about my characters and they're relationships in the shower today. I've really put them through a lot. People who could never love before, learn to trust, and people who finally have it all suddenly die. Ridiculous. But if you think about it, real life relationships are kind of ridiculous. I don't know of anyone that's been on more than four dates and not had at least one horror story. People who have been married for decades should be sainted. So, I really shouldn't feel bad when I make someone wait twenty years for the love of their life, right?

At the same time, I sort of feel like I'm writing a Greek tragedy. Sometimes I get to the point that if one more thing goes wrong, I might as well go all out and kill everyone Romeo and Juliet style. I don't mean I'm going Oedipus or anything, but there certainly is a lot of drama.

I guess there's no real way to know if you're doing it right. At least, that's the impression I get. You think it, you write it, and pray to whatever higher being you recognize that you don't have to offer it up as a sacrificial lamb later on. Sometimes it works. And sometimes the cops pick you up for talking to the toothpaste in Walmart.

Everything in life has risks, eh?



-Liz

Hurts So Good

Writing is for masochists. Normally, my mind would go straight to sadist instead, especially given the horrible, horrible things I've done to my characters in the last decade, but no. Masochists. And why are writers masochists? Because we're crazy enough to want to do this for a living.

Writing is evil. Rewrites are inhumane. And editing, oh editing. There's a special place in hell for editing. And an even darker place for professional editors. We could bathe a nation in the blood, sweat, and tears cast forth from editing. You know, except for the fact that it would be really disgusting. And an excellent way to torture one's characters.

I'm sort of writing, by sort of editing. I'm hoping that eventually I'll be really writing and then really editing. But for the moment, I'm still set apart from the whole thing. I haven't hit my stride. I'm not feeling that cannibalistic craze that hits somewhere between your first great paragraph and three chapters without stopping. It's a feeling that makes you want to devour your own work, regurgitate it, share it with the world, and devour it again. Like cows. Although, I'm pretty sure cows don't think of cud that way.

Right now, I'm really loving my work. I look at paragraphs or lines of dialogue and laugh. It's the best thing I've written in years. I want everyone else to read it. I fall asleep plotting future chapters in my head. But I'm not quite to the point of writing it down for real. Soon, though.

Then I'll be fierce.

Like the cows.


-Liz

That Man's Got My Gun!

I need a good kick in the pants. Well, maybe not an actual kick in the pants, because that could lead to damage, and for the most part, I like my pants. No, I need a figurative kick in the pants. And I need it in several areas of my life.

So, I quit my job. You know, the one that gave me money for the hours I thought about the novels I wasn't writing. Now that I'm home with hours to spare, I'm not writing. Do I have a good excuse?

No.

Okay, well, I was just in a car accident (several weeks ago) and I got sick (a couple of weeks ago) and it turned into bronchitis (last week), but up until this point, coughing hasn't made me incapable of using my fingers. I'm just being lazy. Or difficult. Or difficult in a lazy fashion. I don't know. Whichever way you look at it, I'm not writing and I should be.

What gives?

It's not that I can't write. I just don't want to. I can sit here and make myself write, but it doesn't end well. You could argue that anything is better than nothing, but I have high standards. I can't write crap. I won't stand for it. And while people have told me that what I think is "crap" is actually better than some final drafts, to me, it's crap. And I just can't have that.

I also want to go back to Colorado. But now that I don't have a job, I'm afraid that if I go, I won't come back. That's a little awkward. I mean, I came back once because I had a job and stuff waiting for me here. But now I don't. And my family has told me multiple times that if Colorado will make me happy, go to Colorado. So, why the hell am I not going?

I have no idea.

And I don't want to write.

Ugh.



-Liz