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‘The Coffin Blind’ Excerpt

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“Is that Gaven?” Ingrid lifted a pale hand to shade her equally pale blue eyes and stared into the setting sun’s light.

Irritated, Elijah only nodded.

“He shouldn’t force the emissaries to act. They’ll just send him to the Farm,” Ingrid said.

Elijah squirmed uncomfortably. He couldn’t let Ingrid know how close he had come to crying. “Should we say something?”

She thought for a moment. “He lost his family today… leave him alone.”

Elijah was grateful for her empathy—a rare trait among a culture where deep emotions were deemed distasteful. The chastisement of Gaven’s actions was nothing more than rote; one of the strange laws they’d followed compliantly since the End nearly thirteen cycles prior.

Elijah often wondered what it had been like before the End, but he couldn’t picture it since he’d been born into the new world. Now, all he had to imagine the lives of his parents and siblings were pictures and remnants. He wondered if it was harder for the others who knew both, or for him not to have known it at all. The way they mentioned it was almost reverential; he was sad he would never understand.

In the village behind them, hushed whispers announced the coming of the emissaries.

At her hip, Ingrid’s hand tightened on the pommel of her short sword, and Elijah followed suit. Did someone already call them? He wondered. After a few minutes of fearful expectation, he forced his hand to unclench.

After all we’ve seen today, Elijah pondered as survivors turned and dissipated into the dark houses of the settlement, maybe they don’t want to cause more pain?

It wouldn’t last, though.

It never did.

Why “Limited Edition” Video Game Stuff Sucks

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These days, video game consoles are well renowned, recognizable, and in a crap ton of homes across the globe. Chances are good you have at least one in your house, if not two. My husband and I have a nice collection of various consoles that are sometimes in duplicate, like our Wiis, or triplicate, in the case of our PS2s, since we each had one before we got married, and now they sit on the shelves and hang out together.

Most titles created these days span platforms, meaning that they are accessible for all systems, from console to handheld to PC. Getting a game for your system is easier than ever, too. You go to the store, check out the section for whichever console you’re trying to get the title on, and voila, you buy that baby and bring it on home. There are, of course, titles that are limited to one system, but I mean hell, I just finished playing the new Tomb Raider on my 360 a couple months ago. I have my original Playstation copies of some of the older games and even a bundle of EVERY Tomb Raider game that I got on Steam when it was on sale—

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Oh, how the wallet groans at the mere mention of a Steam sale.

 —which means that I have digital and physical copies of the same games across four different consoles. In the not too distant past, such a thing would have been absolutely preposterous. When a game had its run, it ran for ONE console, one developer, and if you didn’t have that system, you better hope to hell your rich kid friend’s dad bought it for Christmas just so you could watch it get played, because you got socks and a sweater, mister.

Video games are prolific these days… So why do developers bother with limited edition runs?

The first part of course, is easy to answer: Cha-ching, baby.

Like any human with a predilection for collecting anything, video game collectors want to believe the hoard we’re amassing is important and holds value, even if we never plan on selling any of it. Limited edition runs appeals to us on those levels, certainly, because hey, we’ve got something that they only sold 500 copies of and you don’t, and we don’t have a problem paying the cushy price!

One of the games infamous for this very thing is a little title called Earthbound for the SNES.

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For those of you who don’t immediately recognize it, this series introduced the character Ness that you’re not planning on using in Super Smash Bros. but want to unlock anyway.

Earthbound’s run was pretty limited in the US at first because Americans didn’t really care for it. A couple different things like bad marketing and lack of interest in the ‘simple’ graphics were blamed for its poor reception, so America only ended up selling about half as many copies as Japan did of the same title.

America… always complaining… this is why we didn’t get Super Mario Bros. 2: The Lost Levels, and got Doki Doki Panic instead, guys.

Later on, everyone turned around and basically said, “We love Earthbound!” and then bought the pixelated graphics out of it on the Nintendo Wii Virtual Console.

“But,” you’re probably asking, “what does this have to do with limited edition?”

Good question, astute reader! You know how America only sold half as many original cartridge copies of the game? Guess how much they go for now that it has critical acclaim?

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Free shipping? I’m sold!

That, my friend, is a copy sold by Nintendo itself, and that’s not smudge on your screen. You’ll see that used versions are selling for less, but its still a pretty hefty price tag for a 21 year old game. That’s right guys, if that game were a person, it could totally buy alcohol. Feel old yet?

That particular limited run was an accident, because I guess people were pickier about their pixels then, but limited it is, and expensive as all get out because of it.

Now, a limited run isn’t always a shite situation… sometimes getting that edition is really great because it honestly adds to the game you’re purchasing.

Skyrim’s legendary edition had that amazing dragon sculpture, and Mass Effect 3 had a nifty lithograph and N7 patch that came with it, and in general, people who play the games love the art books and maps and other goods that come with such a purchase. Limited edition stuff makes it special, and we like special. I still display my N7 patch on my bookshelf, as a matter of fact, and I proudly have a limited edition Skyrim poster and at least four maps from the Elder Scroll games displayed in frames. What could be so wrong with that then?

The second part is also easy to answer and is remarkably similar to the first: Cha-ching, baby!

There was (probably) once a time when people bought limited edition goods because they genuinely enjoyed what came in said bundle. These days, the Internet has changed that perspective, however, and buying limited edition has gone from genuine buyers to a grotesquely large group of scalpers who purchase multiple copies of the items just to sell them at higher prices online. They have no intention of playing, enjoying, or gifting them—it all goes immediately online at sometimes double or triple the original price, just so that the people who actually want the item but couldn’t a) get it in time, or b) afford it during its run are screwed over and forced to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers who have no love of the items they’re selling. This doesn’t just affect video games, of course, but they do suffer from it quite a bit.

Recently, Nintendo (yeah, we’re back at you, buddy, even though I love you) released a series of figures for the Wii U called Amiibos. These were plastic Nintendo characters similar to Disney Infinity or Skylanders.

The problem?

Apart from there being confusion over where to buy certain characters or when they were being released, they also immediately started discontinuing certain characters–that’s right, discontinuing them all together. This, of course, caused a run on every store that sold the Amiibos, sending scalpers and collectors alike into a frenzy. Keep in mind that the Wii U itself is about $250-$300 and the games are $60. There was barely any time between the release of the new Super Smash Bros. game before you had to immediately dash back out and spend $12.99 apiece on figures if you didn’t want to miss out on them before they went bye-bye.

Scalpers, on the other hand, ate that shit up. Now, if you go and look online, you’ll see some Amiibos are as high as $45.

This is a constant problem, destroying true fans’ opportunities to get the goods they’re after and giving money to a bunch of asshats on Amazon and eBay who make more selling that stuff per figure than the company that made them did.

Does this mean the limited edition item should die before it wears out its fans? Nah, not really. It does mean that companies are going to have to get tougher on making certain that limited runs reach a wider variety of people in a bit larger numbers, but it could be a while (or never) before that happens. Companies probably aren’t going to be interested in policing the releases more than they have to, because hey, first and foremost, they want to make certain that their product sells, and those d-bag scalpers are definitely buying them up. It’s not like they’re purposely screwing over fans… just creating the scenario that allows their fans to be screwed over, and then letting it happen.

And scalpers? Pssht. Just… just do me a favor, people, and don’t purchase from them.

Oh, and to the creepy old dude at Walmart buying the hell out of those Amiibos to sell online? Eff you.

It’s not like I–I mean some kid wanted them for Christmas… or something…

Devil

Poetry

I’m like an urging in your blood
A rush of speed inside your head
And you’ll never win against it,
We’ll just decide when we’re both dead

I’m a beast inside your soul
A fiendish frenzy through your veins
A smile to cause your heart break,
With the hands to soothe the pain

Intrigue and delight,
A source of wonder and chagrin,
Remember dear, remember!
That I’m the devil you let in.

And remember that you chose
To love the animal in me
A vicarious atonement
for the pain you’ll always need

And father bless the wicked
But let the innocents prevail
Amidst your journey through the fire
And the sins that you exhale

Smile because you want it
(Cry because you’ll never win)
And if you’re saddened, just remember:

I’m the devil you let in,
Yeah, I’m the devil you let in…

Minimum wage? More Like Slave Labor

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On the Internet, you find a lot of people willing to spew hatred. It’s just a fact. Whether it’s an honest opinion or general trolling, you typically run into a bunch of people who are simply willing to go out of their way to put you down because

*GASP*

You disagreed with them.

The Internet has always been the home of porn addicts and compulsive spenders, but now thanks to social media, you have an outlet for people who say stupid crap when they’re by themselves to go online and say stupid crap for hundreds and hundreds of thousands to see.

Every. Day.

The problem with this is that, as a whole, the people who are willing to spew these kind of violent outbursts of righteous anger with their noses so high in the air they can’t even see the keyboard are almost always speaking purely from an opinionated point of view… or at least one that is purely decorated with other people’s voices who share the exact same opinion.

(If you get all of your news from a single channel and don’t change your mind about a topic when facts and evidence are presented in the contrary, you are not as well-rounded as you think.)

It’s like a crazy farm. For crazy people. Only, every single one of them thinks that they’re right. I was on Facebook when I came across this gem in my newsfeed:

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This lady, we’ll call her “J”… well, she starts off pretty strong. From the get-go, we know it’s a rant. That in and of itself is not bad. People rant on social media all the time, and it’s become a fairly accepted pastime for most people. Bad day at work? School? You’re sick? Post it to social media! I mean, hell, this blog is basically a giant tribute to my opinion, so clearly, the rant is something that I’m not only familiar with, but chill with pretty frequently.

By the first sentence, I already knew that I was in for a bad time. It’s one of those things that you can just tell by the vibe before you even read it. Someone’s about to blast you with an opinion, and you just. can’t. look. away. It’s like the friggin’ Ark in Raiders. You know it’s gonna be filled with bad shit, and you can either face it or close your eyes and pretend it’s not there.

J starts off immediately by demeaning fast food workers. Immediately. It was almost as if she had been personally offended by a McDonald’s employee who DARED to ask for more money. Was this a personal vendetta? Did she go to said restaurant only to be turned away by a picket line? Who knows? What we do know is that J is really, really, pissed at Johnny Fry-Boy, Baconator (That one’s not so creative, J), and Sally McBurgerFlipper. She is righteously indignant that a fast food worker would request a pay increase to a decent living wage.

I mean, I have no idea how someone could get so angry over someone asking for more when they don’t have enough…. Oh wait.

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Not pictured: J standing off screen yelling at him.

Apparently, if a fast food worker was paid the same amount as someone in the military, it somehow lessens the amount of pay for said soldier. J’s got a bone to pick with those poor employees, and she’s not afraid to show it. Given her utter horror at the idea, and her in-depth knowledge of pay scales in the military, I’d venture a guess that J is married to a soldier and isn’t happy about the money. I can understand that. I actually have a few friends in the military, and I know that things can get tight trying to support their families. I know that there is the issue of them not being paid, being given less than they’re worth, and generally being screwed over if the government is wearing their “Dunce” caps that day (Hint: they are ALWAYS wearing them).

I get it, J. I totally understand that you are angry over the poor pay of men who are willing to sacrifice their lives for us and be apart from their families for long periods of time. I get that it’s unfair, but that’s why all minimum wage should change. Attacking a fast food worker who wants more isn’t the answer.

Dealing all of your fury against people who not only make up a large portion of our economy but also fill necessary jobs so you can feed your kids when you don’t feel like making dinner before a ball game is not going to help. Your rage is misplaced. You should be angry at the government: not at Johnny, Baconator, and Sally. They’re doing their jobs, just like anyone else. They might be putting themselves through school. Did you think of that? They might be trying to pay some increasingly high student debts so they can get a better job. They might be teens trying to work part-time, or even older people who can’t retire because they can’t live on social security. Designed for kids in high school? Honey, this is 2014. I see 60 year olds at Walmart and Subway and Burger King all the time. We have an increasingly pinched middle class and we’re recovering from a recession and the highest unemployment rates since the Great Depression.

I think you need to redefine “jobs for high schoolers” because I can even name some people with fantastic degrees working in retail, in grocery stores, customer service, and yes, even fast food. Do they want to do those jobs? No, I’m sure they don’t. But they need to work to eat, and they deserve to be able to live on the wages that they’ve worked so hard for.

Never mind that a large portion of our fast food workers are on food stamps to support their families. Never mind that they are continually thought of as the scum of the earth, regardless of the fact that McDonald’s sells billions of burgers to people just like J. Never mind that they are given ridiculous tasks and can’t go over on their hours. Or that they are frequently victims of wage theft and being forced to work off the clock or threatened with termination. Never mind that they are people who are trying to support themselves on $7.25 an hour when the burgers that they are “flipping” almost cost more than they make.

Yeah J. You have clearly done your research on this topic.

Mus(e)ic?

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It’s hard to get your muse in gear and actually get your work done by and by. Whether that work is writing or anything else in life that requires even a modicum of attention and energy, there are times when procrastination is key and my best friend and keeper. I know that I sometimes procrastinate without reason, even if the only one I’m disappointing is myself and a perhaps overly large pile of laundry that I’ve meant to fold and/or hang up for like, three days now.

Ahem.

During my writing, editing, or basically anytime I’m in front of the computer, you can guarantee one of two things. One, I will have a word document open in the potential that I will get writing done, and two, that I will have music playing. Doesn’t matter what music, unless I’m in a routine obsession with a particular song—you know, the ones that you play over and over until you’re sick of them?

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They literally almost couldn’t fit all of the 80s in there into this picture. 

Pandora will be coasting through everything from classical music to dubstep like my own personal tunage fairy that constantly batters me with ads. (PAY for music? Please, Internet. I grew up in the Napster and Limewire era, friend.)

While I absolutely love listening to music as I work, I know that the wrong music can be utterly devastating to writing. For instance, sometimes it’s impossible to be able to write while a song with lyrics that you know plays. I have occasionally found myself typing the words to the songs, completely oblivious that I’m doing so until it’s too late and I’ve lost my original train of thought.

I once attended a school for graphic design before switching my degree to creative writing, and I had a lovely Russian art teacher for a semester whose job it was to teach some kids who had no formal training how to draw still-lifes and use shadowing and that weird thumb-and-pencil thing to measure objects that I never quite got around to perfecting. (Or using… ever.) To this day, whenever I pick up the pencil to sketch anything, I still hear her voice in my head telling me to “Drah sroo za shape.” She was very keen on using music to stimulate creativity while drawing, and was a fan of techno beats and discotheque European music. Occasionally, we heard a cool song or two, but what I remember her for most was when she’d forget to change a library from repeating one song to repeating them all, and so we’d hear that self-same wub-wub house music song for about two hours of our four hour long class before she’d realize it was repeating and change it. By the end of two hours of Eastern European techno, you’re about ready to shoot yourself in the head to make it stop. Needless to say, some days were more productive than others.

It’s kind of a given that things that are catchy and upbeat have a tendency to capture the attention, and I definitely can’t write a sad scene to happy music, or vice versa. I find my own moods often mirror my character’s scenario as I think, and there’s no way that I can write a sad scene listening to a tune that makes me smile.

Ever try to kill someone to pop music? Can’t be done.

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There are of course, always exceptions.

If only that grimace was early-onset cardiac arrest.

Music is a strange creation in that it has the ability to regulate our moods and flood our brains as we speak or try to communicate. It’s pretty unique in that it can be both inspiring and ungodly awful with only the difference of maybe a few notes between your favorites and least favorites. Used properly, it does in fact stimulate the brain to work more creatively, or throw you into mind-numbing bouts of self-depression… (Especially if that music is country).

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Look, she didn’t get rich on a long lasting, healthy and fulfilling relationship, is all I’m saying, okay?

NaNoWriMo hangovers, anyone?

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I’ve been AWOL for a bit because I’ve been swamped with other writing and editing work, which is a good thing, and an insane undertaking at the same time.

When November started, I actually had this crazy idea in mind to take a break from novel writing for a while, because, well, I worked on my two fantasy novels an awful lot, and dammit if I didn’t want a break. So what did I end up doing?

If you guessed that I completely ignored the opportunity to take a rest from writing by writing at a more furious pace than ever, then… wow, you know me pretty well.

And for the record, get out of my head.

I decided on day 5 that I was going to take a crack at NaNoWriMo, because hey, I had a book idea, and two, “Why not?” It was only after the ridiculously grueling pace for myself cut in that I realized I had written my 50,000 word quota by the 23rd of November, thus making myself slightly more insane than usual, and even squirrely-er than ever.

(Do other people not hiss when daylight hits their eyes?)

After getting myself to 60,000 words by the end of November, I know that I am dying to take a break from it all. How did everyone else fare? Did you get your word count, or close to?

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I’m hoping to have this latest book, The Death of Narcissus finished within maybe two months, and then I’ll start trying to get that beastie pared down and beefed up, dependent on whatever it needs. This is a rush job, so I’m not going to kid myself… it’s GOING to need some work. 

(And of course I’ll have a sneak preview for you guys later on!)

In the meantime, I’ve also recently gotten the opportunity to apply to be an editor for a publishing house, which is very exciting stuff. The opportunity came just a day or so after I received my diploma in the mail, which seemed like a pretty life-choice affirming coincidence, if you ask me. Between my writing, editing, and the work I’m doing in the industry, I’m hoping that my big payoff is going to come any day now. I could use a vacation… maybe go to a tropical island paradise to… I don’t know. Read and write, probably.

That’s the only way we bookworms know how to enjoy ourselves, apparently.

You drive me wild…ly into insanity.

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Writing is one of those art forms that only looks easy. From the outside perspective, it’s me, sitting at my computer, typing onto a page.

People who do not write will never understand the daunting, niggling fear of the blank page. The emptiness that represents every unfilled opportunity that you had to fill that void and make something out of the nothing that stares at you, and you couldn’t do it.

(Even if that something is shit, which most writers also tend to think of their work at some point.)

Writing is not exactly a physical art. You’re not going to see my effort, you’re not going to see me break a sweat (unless there’s a deadline due!), and you’re probably not going to understand how much work and dedication is going into that baleful stare toward my computer screen. You’re certainly never going to know the nights that I’ve broken down and sworn to never write again, and the times that I’ve deleted whole manuscripts because I got pissy with a character or plot that wasn’t working out the way I had initially envisioned.

For those of you who don’t know, one of the hats I wear is that of an on-call nanny, which is different from the traditional one family nanny, which I have also done. This means that at any time I get a job, I am going into (most likely) a new situation, with new people, a new place, and new rules to abide by each time. Almost all of these people want to get more information about me, having just met me and realizing that they’re about to leave their child with a stranger, and one of the first things I’m typically asked is,

“So what do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m a writer,” I reply.

Being that I’m a recent graduate, I no longer have the option to tell people that I go to school for writing, so now I just have to wear that badge proudly. The entire time I was at school, I got to tell people that I was “studying to become a writer”. It seems like a cop out, because hey, writing makes you a writer, and countless lost hours of my life were spent on research, papers and scripts. Now that I’m out, I simply have to say it: I’m a writer, and I write. Prolifically.

Some people are slightly interested. Some ask me what I write, and then launch into tirades of someone that they know who knows someone who’s a writer. Exactly zero of these people have ever asked me if I have work published. I suppose that could be considered polite, since we both know they have no intention of reading it, and don’t want to waste my time or get my hopes up.

Usually, however, at this point the conversation can go one of two ways. The first one is usually something unenthusiastic or nonplussed along the lines of:

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

Or, my least, most puke-worthy, awful response, which is down and out condescending:

“A writer and a nanny? It must be nice to not have to work in a real job.”

To which I wish I could reply to you, but it’s all illiterate, nonsensical screaming sounds and random curse words while I simultaneously imagine your face having an intimate meeting with my fist while I sob uncontrollably.

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This is actually pretty accurate.

People often don’t understand that writing is an INSANE practice that requires years of work to hone and perfect, and even then, we all stand a 50/50 chance of wanting to burn our manuscripts at some point because we still think they’re shit. To some, a fiction writer is nothing more than a dreamer who sits in front of their computer drinking lattes and madly typing words onto a screen before proudly announcing to anyone within hearing range, “IT’S A TOLKIEN-ESQUE MASTERPIECE!” and immediately sending it away to be published.

People who don’t write (and I’m also looking at you, people who don’t read, although you’ll never know it because you won’t read this) will never understand that I’m not just writing… I’m juggling the lives of people that I’ve created, in a world that I dreamed up that I’m freaking making up as I go along and I’m pulling it out of thin air and vague associations like a g.d. magician pulling rabbits outta the hat. Meanwhile, the whole while I’m trying to convince myself that it’s as good as other people assure me it is, because I’m a constant negative force acting on my own self-esteem like a freight train going 70 towards a crumbly brick wall.

Ahem.

I don’t know if it’s out of blatant ignorance, or perhaps just spite that people associate writing with laziness. The truth is, on any given day, my brain is in eighteen different modes. In the past year, I have managed to graduate from college, write a book, nearly complete a second book, get my work published numerous times, work as a freelance editor, write video game scripts, perform as an editing intern, and still somehow manage to send my fiancé off to work everyday with lunch and a kiss—all while taking care of your children at my ‘not a real job’ while you’ve been punching corporate numbers.

You may not understand the toil of a writer; the constant mental anguish that we put ourselves through, and the quiet efforts that go into creating our work, but that doesn’t mean you should demean it. What I do isn’t “quaint”. It’s not “cute”, and no, it may not be a traditional job, but it’s what I chose to do, and it’s a hell of a lot better than being a desk jockey for a soulless corporation any day of the week. I would also like to remind you that women used to be institutionalized for reading novels—imagine how dangerous my writing ‘not a job’ is now.

A real job?

Fella, you don’t know what a real job is.

 

 

The Waiting Game…

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I recently submitted a query, and I’m nervous as hell. 

One of the SCARIEST THINGS about submitting a query is the waiting. I cannot even begin to tell you how long I stared at that word file on my computer before I finally decided to do it and just send it.

Why is querying such a scary thing? Imagine that you are a shy, introverted individual and in groups of people, you tend to get a little panicky.

Now imagine that you’re being forced to put yourself on a pedestal.

They hand you the ladder and you climb on up, and you stand there with an awkward smile on your face explaining all of the reasons that YOU are fantastic and wonderful, and deserve to have a publisher or agent represent you.

(Did I mention that you’re secretly praying that you don’t vomit onto the upturned faces of the people below you?)

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Apparently, I’m not the only one who has this nightmare.

It’s not because I don’t think they’ll like my book—I have every confidence in my book—what I don’t have, however, is confidence that I sold myself.

The thing is, actually getting people to read your work and like it is not the hardest part—the hardest part is convincing them that you deserve the representation MORE than anyone else in their rather large stack of hopefuls. 

When you first realize that you’ve finished your book, you may leap with joy, but you can’t sit back and think that you’re done, because you are far from it. 

You’ll have to write your own professional query/bio letter. In that case, you’ll need to snazz it up as much as possible, and the best thing to do is to look to those who have successfully completed one before.  

MAKE SURE TO DO YOUR HOMEWORK. 

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Choose the examples that best suit your needs to make the best impression possible. There are different parameters per your genre, the type of material, whether they want physical or electronic submissions, and even what the agency you’re submitting to require as far as formatting goes. You must make certain that you’ve got the correct formatting so that your submission doesn’t immediately end up in the trash bin. 

Terrifying? Yes. Worth it? I guess we’ll have to wait and see. 

Pitiful

Poetry

stock-footage-night-moon-and-moonbeam-in-sea

you believe that you are weak.

because at night you rock yourself

whisper that tomorrow will be better
even though yesterday’s tomorrow has failed you

still, there is a dim hope burning in your eyes

you are stronger than you think

But every evening,
you will lift your battered wrists to the heavens

Hoping that the pale scars will be like a roadmap to god

if you wait long enough, they will guide him to you

down the thin path that you have set for him
because you once heard that his path is narrow-

but god is not in the air
he is not in the trees outside of your window
he is not in the places that you can see him,
because you have looked there-

god is in the breath that you have forsaken

in the life that you have given up on

now there is more remembrance than hope in you
there is now more thought of the past
less belief in a future, but

your hands are burgeoned. They grasp at the memories
your mouth is dry,
it holds only bitterness (but it recalls the sweetness far more profoundly.)

sadly, you know
your hands have held love. These hands have known happiness-
have molded and shaped it between their careful fingers.

still, they have forgotten the motion. Now they can only clench in awkwardness

find nothing to grasp, because comfort has left them frail-

your eyes have known darkness, and they understand it far better
because they have seen the light as well

you will sleep because you have to
you will sleep because it takes you away

you will lie in this echo, waiting for a distant star
to watch it fall on the horizon, close enough to wish,
but far enough to remind you-

that in the morning
repetition is all you know
time is painful,

and your scars have failed you, because your scars will never forget

but

you are lulled back to sleep…

by the sound of your heart beating,
by the sound of your heart breaking-