Saturday, April 30, 2005

Baby Got Name

The puppy's name is Tiger Lily, called Lily. She says she's cool with that. Why? Tiger Lily sounds vaguely Oriental and she looks vaguely Oriental around the eyes. Also, her coat looks somewhat tiger-ish with suggestions of black strips on a brown background.

Aren't we being specific this morning? Hey, it's 8am on Saturday morning. You're lucky I can speak at all without cussing.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Today's Search Results

Actually from the past few days:

Dangers of nair again. Beat you, Michelle! I was #1, you were #36. Nyaaahhh! This third time mentioning it should keep me on top for some time to come. I'm still going to get you for that, though.

zen masters and teachings on pain and silence. In Taiwanese, no less.

young girls naked. Not here. Go away.

noive. En Espanol.

I'm getting popular for all the wrong reasons, it looks like.

One Step Forward, One Step Back

Got the query on "Naked With My Hair on Fire" sent out to Writer's Digest. Snail mail, so it will be a while before I hear back.

Got a rejection back from The Writer on "21st Century Libraries". 24-hour turn-around (the wonders of email). Ouch. They actually said they liked the idea, but had run a similar article withing the past few years. I'll have to go back through my index. I don't remember seeing anything in the past 5 years.

Is Everybody Really This Stupid?

So the prosecutors in the Michael Jackson trial put Debbie Rowe on the stand and she sold them out. Everybody is buzzing around in confusion wondering why. Let's take a look.

1.) This woman married Michael Jackson and had 2 children for him (I won't say by him because I really don't want to see that picture). This fact alone speaks volumes about her stability and judgement. Not a good risk.

2.) She is involved in a bitter court battle with Jackson over visitation rights. She has not seen her children since 1999. Her testimony clearly shows that she made the infamous video as quid pro quo for a visit with her children (which she hasn't gotten). She is desperate enough to do anything at all to see her children again.

3.) She and Jackson exchanged mouthed messages before her testimony began yesterday.

So what do you think? Can you put these pieces together? Should we draw everybody else a picture? I have crayons.

Jesus, people! He bought her! As long as he has her children and controls visitation, he owns her. Get a clue!

Thursday, April 28, 2005

LGD Redux

Read this. Then pre-order Last Girl Dancing.

We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.
--Ben Franklin upon signing the Declaration of Independence

"What Dreams May Come" 2.0

Previous caveats apply. Make that a double.


I don't want her to go, but I can't let her stay. She can't live with me; I can't live without her.

The thought chased its tail through David Bennett's mind as he lay still in the dark. Leah was spooned against him, soft and round and warm. They fit together like puzzle-pieces. Her sleep-breathing did not disturb the dark, dead early-morning hours that she had made not quite so lonely.

I can't let her stay" he thought. If she leaves, it will break my heart. If she stays, she dies, just like Gloria. No contest.

His eyes stung as he eased out of the comfort of her arms. She stirred, reached for him, then settled back into her dreams. He pulled on his sweat pants and slippers and shuffled into the living room. The little radio on the end table screamed "3:06" in glaring, bloody letters.

Her dreams. Her dreams were not the problem. His dreams were. They were back. He had hoped that after Gloria...but now they were back. Back and getting worse. He had to act soon if he was going to save Leah's life, but how would he tell her? How would he tell the woman he loved deeply and forever that she had to leave?

Dave stopped by a cabinet long enough to retrieve a square bottle half-full of brown whiskey, then sank into his recliner and lifted the footrest. Gentleman Jack had seen him through a lot of times, both good and bad. He hoped the Man from Tennessee wouldn't let him down this time either. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to his mouth. The fire in his throat was accompanied by a gurgle from the bottle. Jack was laughing at him again. He lowered the bottle and smiled. Good friends were hard to come by.

He watched a silver sliver of moonlight creep across the floor. Two hours until dawn. A long time. A long, long, lonely time. He soon found that whiskey at three A.M. was a mistake. His head bobbed, drooped, hung heavily, finally came to rest on his chest as his heavy breathing filled the quiet.


Leah in the sunlight, laughing. Her short, brown hair gleamed as if lit from within. Her green eyes sparkled. Her laugh excited him, filled him with joy, saturated his mind with love. Her teeth were white, square, and strong between her luscious pink lips. Laughing.

The knife she held seemed to laugh, too, the sinister silver curve of its blade a Satanic grin. Laughing even as the blade slid in. Bright, molten pain filled him as the knife explored his inner-most secrets. He screamed loud and high, but no sound came out. No one would hear. No one ever did.

Laughing as she pulled the knife free. Laughing as his blood fountained against her. Her nipples hardened, stretching the fabric of the already too-tight tee-shirt over her round breasts. Her tongue darted in and out, playing, licking her teeth so they shone. Even through the pain, even through his horror, he grew hard at the sight of her excitement.

Laughing as she slashed. Laughing as he tried to catch his slimy, bloody bowels in blood-slicked hands. Laughing as he failed, sank to his knees in a tangled, steaming mess of death. Laughing as she bent over and slashed again, amputating intestines and genitals with a single snake-quick strike.


Dave woke on his knees. Vomit pooled on the carpet in front of him, and the smell brought another heaving spasm. The whiskey burned more coming back up thanit had going down. He grabbed his stomach with both hands, expecting fiery pain and blood, but finding only unbroken skin. Tears streamed down his face as he retched miserably. His abs ached fiercely.

"Honey?" Her voice twisted in his mind like a giant steel spring. He heaved and retched again, dribbling bile.

"Dave?" Her hand touched his forehead, cool, healing. He tried to jerk away, fell over on his side. "What's wrong, Dave? What's wrong?"

What's wrong? If he could only speak. If he could only tell her to get the Hell out of his sight, his house, his life. Get out! Run! Goddamnit, Leah, get away! All he could do was gasp and gurgle and choke. He had to tell her. She had to leave. Now. The next dream would be the last. Her last.

He drew a quavery breath.

[to be continued]

The Query Two-Step

Sent off a query to The Writer on the article "21st Century Libraries: Information Services on Demand" that covers some of the valuable and little-known services libraries offer that would be of particular interest to writers.

Got the query to Writer's Digest together on "Naked With My Hair on Fire". I'm letting it sit for a little bit. The red pen will come out later this afternoon, and it will go out tomorrow.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Last Girl Dancing

Got a sneak preview of Last Girl Dancing at Silent Bounce. Oh. My. God!!! I can't wait 'til July! I want it now! Do you hear? I want it now!

Have you pre-ordered your copy yet?

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Latest Appearance of the Mary

I guess you see what's most on your mind, huh?

The Blog That Ate My Brain

Demented Michelle and Paperback Writer are both metablogging today (that's blogging about blogging for the Greek-challenged). Who am I to avoid putting my nose in where it doesn't belong?

For me, blogging is a semi-social event. I get to exercise my (God-given) right to express my (dumbass) opinions in public, and visitors here can post their responses if they should think it's worthwhile. I get both catharsis and feedback, a pretty good deal for a few minutes a day. The down side, of course, is that I probably have driven off quite a few potential readers. That's the price I have to pay for speaking my mind.

If I just wanted to vent, couldn't I do that better in a private diary? Yes, and I do write about those things that are not public knowledge or anyone else's business. Blogging is a tool that I use to help me organize my thoughts on a subject and make sure that they are at least minimally cohesive and coherent. As a side benefit, Noise in the Attic readers get a look inside my head. I know it's often not pretty and sometimes needs to be rated X, but it's who I am. Warts and all, as they say.

Will blogging help my writing career? It certainly has so far. By giving me writing practice and exercising my brain, this blog has been a great benefit so far. Will it help me sell books? Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. First, I have to have a book...

Monday, April 25, 2005

Yahoo Perverts

The latest interesting path to this blog was through Yahoo! Germany. The query was for 14-16 years naked girls. I came in at #461 on that hit parade.

Sorry guys, no joy for you here. Try your local police precinct. I have heard they might be interested.

More Thoughts on "What Dreams May Come"

Thanks for the comments, Michelle and Mik! Much appreciated. My thoughts about your thoughts generated more thoughts which led to this post.

Mik, I agree. The whole Chiclets thing is really bad. This is an illustration of the dangers in reaching too hard for an image. Sometimes, you overbalance and wind up face down in the latrine. It's often better to just stay with the mundane and let the reader make the picture. Oh, and creepy is good. I like creepy. Maybe because I am creppy? Heh, heh.

Michelle (the Demented one, I mean), the ending is forced and hurried. This is not at all the ending that it will eventually have, though what's there suggests some interesting directions to explore. The reason for the quick-and-dirty ending is because this is just the roughest of rough drafts. When I got to that point, Real Life Issues called me away (work, etc. Bleh), and I just had to wrap it up.

See, this snippet is an example of the things I've been moaning about for the past couple of weeks. I have worked myself into a corner. I have spent many hours "learning to write" and forgotten how to really write. I've stifled my Muse with all my worries about mechanics, at the same time giving even more strength to the Dreaded Internal Editor. I finally find myself unable to write. Not blocked, just doubtful and afraid.

This snippet is an attempt to get back what I have lost -- the spontaeity, freshness, the flow of words bubbling up out of the ground like Jed Clampett's oil. I really miss that.

I originally write the first paragraph some months back and put in my "Ideas" file for future reference. At my ever-so-often review, this paragraph clicked with something, and I deceided to let it run and see what happened. Overall, I'm pretty pleased.

Future considerations for this particular story include the fact that this has happened to him before. Once the dreams start, they get worse and worse and finally end tragically. He lost one wife/love/SO/whatever before and doesn't want to lose Leah the same way. I don't understand the way this works, so I may just have to "let loose the dogs of war" and follow them wherever they may lead. At least that's usually fun.

Anyway, that's just a quick glimpse inside the mind of an insane write-wannabe. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Dumpster Diving as an Humanitarian Event

Saturday, April 23, 2005. Took the trash to the dump. Came home with a dog. What?

Someone had abandoned a half-grown puppy. We asked the attendant, and he said the puppy had been there for a couple of weeks. He'd been feeding her, but if we wanted her... If? Are you kidding? We're the ones with the neon sign in the yard that only stray dogs can see: "Here be Suckers".

So now we have a new addition to our formerly small, but growing family. She's about 6 months old, brindle with white toes and a white blaze on her nose and forehead. She appears to have pit bull in her family tree -- bluntish nose, snorts a lot, squarish head -- but is certainly nowhere near full-blooded. If it weren't for mongrels, we wouldn't have dogs at all.

No name yet, though she answers to "Puppy". We've tried Posey and Deenie (Gardenia), but none of us are happy with them. She'll tell us her name in due time. In the meantime, she fits right in. The 2 existing dogs and the cat have informed her of her place in the pecking order (she's the new peckee). She also likes belly rubs and sit in my lap and snuggle. I always wonder how someone could just throw away a puppy this sweet. I'd like to meet them one night...

Have to get her to the vet this week for shots and other stuff. Ain't gonna be no puppies around this house!

Sunday, April 24, 2005

The Sound of Silence

Well, since my little snippet seems to have drawn a great big nothing, I can only assume that it is either:

A) Abysmal

B) Too shocking for words

C) All of the above

heh heh heh

OK. FWIW, here are my thoughts:

There's a story buried in there, though not quite what the snippet would indicate. The MC obviously has issues with women that would make a Freudian multi-orgasmic. The deeper issues have to do with the nature of reality.

Our dreams and our waking reality do influence each other. In most people most of the time, the feedback is self-damping. What would happen if the controls failed and the cycle started self-reinforcing. As the two realities slopped over into each other, what would be the effect on the MC? What would be the effect as the line between sleeping and waking blurred into nothing?

Another consideration would be the effect this would have on others. Would they see him as merely psychotic, or would his troubles affect them as well. In other words, is "reality" a concrete absolute, or is it, as implied by quantum physics, as shared fantasy?