Study From A Famous Stud (Old Photo)

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Sketch of a beautiful horse built on a very rough quick impression of a photo for you to bask in. I’m experiencing a lot of panic surrounding art, still, but it’s a different kind of emotion than it used to be. In the past, I was feeling a kind of dead, numb terror, and now, with all the gradual effort I’ve been putting in to change my approach, the panic is a kind of ‘Oh no! I’m late!’ feeling, which is much more manageable, I find.

Have you ever had a seemingly insurmountable emotional reaction that you navigated over time? I am starting to enjoy sketching now, which is a huge relief. (Yay!)

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

The song-fest was a magical event occurring once every thirty-two years. During the festival, the group would link hands and sing the duplicating song, and each soul would divide and become an echo of the original person. Each member of the singing festival had a chain of these shadow-souls, parts of themselves they could send on errands or set simple tasks. Extra copies of the original served a useful purpose, and one person’s hands could be at work on many projects.

Harkel had the most souls at fifteen, and he was growing very near death. Nemass, who was just under him with thirteen shadow-selves, was very excited for Harkel to die, as his passing would elevate her to leader of the song-fest. As Harkel sensed himself growing towards the end, his original soul warped and he grew greedy, and he called Nemass into his rooms for a private meeting.

“I must teach you the ways of our people so that you may lead our souls with sobriety and wisdom,” Harkel told Nemass, and then he led her into a dark and disharmonic song that jumbled three of her souls and made her original self shiver for a moment into disparate parts. “Ha!” Harkel murmured, sending six of his fifteen echoes into the spaces made by this brief disharmony. Harkel’s extra selves settled into Nemass’ original soul, and with a crack of her voice, she broke the song.

“What have you done?” Nemass asked, her tone shuddering with the hint of Harkel’s graveled baritone.

“I have made you my echo, stupid one. Now you are my sixteenth soul, and when my body dies my original will flock into your heart. Go and tell what I’ve done, if you dare. They will beat and curse you as a heretic. Your body is mine,” Harkel said, looking rather like a snake, and Nemass, who could feel the twining of his life within her form, ran from his rooms with cold fear in her heart and disgust in her mouth from the ugly song.

Bad Writing

Oh, the singing people who sing. How pretty and sensible they are, to sing and sing and sing among the trees. La la la. The people who sing have so many good songs. They have songs about weather and ditties about the coming of winter, and then when enough of them are in a really good mood, they sing about fruitful harvests and the kind of really excellent cider that the old man under the apple tree makes when he starts talking about the days when there were more goats and the mountains had snow on their tops all year round. Oh, the snow on the mountains, he says, it used to stay on the slopes of the mountains all year.

And then when it is time to sing, they join hands and stand together anywhere if they can get a little moonlight, or a shadow from some really near planets, and they try to do magic with their songs but the magic wasn’t the way it had been far away and long ago. That magic was excellent and made the grass greener, and the flowers bloom in the middle of the song, even when it was night, but this music only made shadows of the singers appear behind them, like echoes of their bodies, and when the whole group makes a strong harmony, then there will be more souls chaining out from behind the first and they can run errands or be useful messengers between the song-makers and their distant relatives.

The songs are beautiful and feel like wind in the pretty night, and there are other harmonies about flowers that they mix in sometimes. Flowers, weather, and snow on the mountains. That’s really all there is to say about the snow-singing harmonic people, because they always get along and never have any conflict with each other at all. The end.

And Then…

Whew, that was sorta intense for me. Creepy music! Now let’s turn the very metaphorical page, okay? Here is Diana:


The Fight on the Roof

“You never left me alone when I hid from you, Stu. Turnabout’s fair play, and you are a very obedient, docile, and well-trained young husband to your disgusting cretin of a father,” Diana quipped.

Stuart’s fists got clenched, and Diana recognized in the young man all the signs of a violent person about to lose control of himself. Following her instincts and feeling fairly pleased with herself, Diana scampered up the rest of the ladder, lay down on the roof, and spread her arms.

“Go ahead and kill me, Stu, or at least beat my face in. Your dad did that to your mom all the time. He’d be so proud,” Diana said, closing her eyes and smiling a lot. She heard a very angry shout and the distant impact of a body on the ground. “Did you break yourself, Stu? I’m not done needling at you, and you’re supposed to be punching me, not tossing yourself here and there. Come up here again. There’s a ladder,” Diana called. She heard a sound that seemed to be mixture of a groan of pain and an unwilling laugh, and in a few moments, a bruised and disheveled Stuart appeared on the ladder. “Did you seriously throw yourself off a roof to get away from me?” Diana asked, watching Stuart stand up on the roof.

“I did. Stop telling me my dad’s gay. He’s not. I should know,” Stuart said.

“Why, because he confides in you like he would normally confide in a wife?” Diana asked. Stuart got angry again and retreated to the ladder. “We can do this all day, Stu. Up and down, back and forth. You’re functionally married to your abusive dad. That’s why you have such a hot-and-cold relationship to me right now, because you think you’re doing a whole, cute, high school senior falling for a freshman deal, but what’s really going on is that you’re very tempted to have an affair and cheat on your controlling husband with me,” Diana said.

“That’s disgusting,” Stuart said, but he’d gotten sort of transfixed at the top of the ladder and wasn’t running away again.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, Evie the kidnapped woman has experienced an interpersonal breakthrough with her captor and is very excited (and planning her escape).


Bedtime For Kids Has Been Going Well Lately (Which Is A Huge Relief)

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Character sketch of Mary for you to gaze upon. Bedtime for little humans at my house used to be this epic battle every night, but I have put my metaphorical iron fist down and, after much effort, established a routine.

Everything is so much better now. I love Grown-Up Time, which is the magical golden hour immediately following Official Bedtime. Do you have any schedule-type routines that make you happy? Aaah, bedtime.

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

So you know how sometimes in stories there’s this super evil guy who rises up and tries to destroy the world? Well, that happened to my world, and he did very nearly succeed, and I’m the louse who made a bargain with him in order to be spared.

I know, I know, everyone else was about to go kaboom in the big end fight, or were going to be enslaved to be part of his whole war machine deal, but—and this is the part where I hope you’re sympathetic to my position—before the big battle started, I got the evil dude’s permission to sit out and be a kind of record keeper.

You know, be the last voice of humanity and all that.

What I wasn’t expecting when I signed up for the gig was that I would turn out to be the only one who could save everybody. I hadn’t prepared myself for that kind of pressure, and—well, I’ll just start at the beginning and tell you what happened. I am the record-keeper, after all.

Bad Writing

When the evil wizard rose up with his black cloak and magic sword drenched in blood, all the poor people cried and the knights got on their horses and tried to take him out, but he won against all of them. One mid-level bureaucrat felt he could save his skin by offering his kid to the cause, and he trussed up his youngest daughter and sent her along to the evil wizard with a note: Spare me and mine. Thanks.

What a creep, the wizard proclaimed, and he killed the bureaucrat and taught the girl how to work magic. She turned out to be even better at evil workings than he was and soon murdered him. Everyone lauded the girl as the savior of the masses and she was appointed princess-companion and married off to a really handsome lord. The king said she wasn’t pretty enough to merit a prince or a duke.

She kept all of the evil magician’s books and studied, and when she was old and had lived a full life, she unveiled her own ambitions, which were, in fact, to rule the whole world and possibly reduce the population. No one saw it coming and she killed everyone except for her godson, whom she was particularly fond of.

‘Ask me to be made record keeper,’ the now-evil old witch commanded.

‘But I don’t want to be a record keeper, grandam. I want my mother,’ the boy replied.

‘Do as I say, kid,’ the witch said, rolling her eyes.

‘What do I get out of this?’ the boy demanded, folding his arms. After a long bargain and the exchange of a few sweets, the boy asked to be made record keeper and was spared.

‘Have fun commemorating humanity, darling. Enjoy solitude,’ the old witch said, and she turned herself into a spark of light and fled into the ether of general magic to live forever without the encumbrance of her fleshy shell.

Huh, what am I going to do now? the boy thought, and he went downstairs to see if the witch’s magic plague had left any puppies alive in the stable.

Well, Victor Poole!

I had fun writing that sample, and I hope you enjoyed reading along with me. Here is Diana’s next move:


Stuart the Man-Nanny

“Were you ever treated like a kid, instead of like the hired help?” Diana asked.

“But I’m not. My dad acts like we’re on the same team, you know, and I’m just—I’m older, so I have to help,” Stuart said.

“Cynthie’s just about the same age as you,” Diana said.

“Yeah, she is,” Stuart said, his face getting all sorts of miserable and doldrumy.

“Does your dad confide in you?” Diana said. Stuart sat down on the closed toilet and nudged at the cleaning spray with the toe of his sneaker.

“Yeah,” Stuart said in a small voice.

“Kinda like he would confide in your mom before they broke up?” Diana asked.

“These are a lot of leading questions, though. I mean, you’re telling me what to think,” Stuart said, fiddling with the book in his hands.

“Do you respect me, Stu?” Diana asked. He was silent for a moment and flipped through the top corner of the book, making the pages fwip softly against each other.

“No, probably not. I mean, the right answer is that I don’t, because you’re telling me I don’t, so I guess you’re right, or you have an idea of where you’re going with this. Do I respect anybody, then?” Stuart asked.

“I think you respect your dad, in an obedient young husband sort of way,” Diana said.

Stuart, once again, felt that this was a direct affront to his dignity as a person and stood up before storming out of the bathroom. Diana dropped her cleaning supplies and followed him.

“Don’t chase me again, Di. I’m calming down,” Stuart said, rushing out the front door and slamming it behind him. Diana waited a moment and then opened the door, slipping out and following Stuart, who was pacing along the edge of their encasing bubble. “I said no,” Stuart said, his voice growling. Diana felt that he sounded pretty violent, and she didn’t want the aliens to interrupt at all, so she turned her eyes up towards the roof of the translucent bubble, through which she could see pleasant, fluffy clouds and a bright blue sky.

“He’s fine. He’s processing betrayal and cognitive dissonance. Please don’t interfere,” Diana said.

“Are you talking to them?” Stuart demanded, shooting a death-glare over his shoulder at Diana, who was following him at a brisk pace.

“Husband, husband, husband,” Diana said in what she was perfectly aware would be an irritating chirrup, and Stuart let out a small roar and ran to get away from her. Diana laughed and followed, and they made a fruitless loop around and around the circumference of the ice until Stuart made another infuriated yell and scrambled towards the house. Showing an athleticism that Diana found admirable, Stuart gripped the edge of a window sill and hoisted himself up until he could reach the eaves. He pulled himself onto the roof, shot another scathing glare in Diana’s direction, and walked to the opposite side of the roof, where Diana presumed he was going to sit down and ignore her.

She went to the garden shed and produced an economical ladder. When she set it against the roof and began to climb, Stuart, who had come over the top of the roof to find out what had made the sound, made a soft howl of irritation.

“Leave me alone, Diana!” Stuart exclaimed, sounding pushed past the bounds of all patience.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, Mitch is waiting for the banker to come back from a very important (and scary!) personal errand.

Seeewper Rough Sketch (And Boy, I Feel Nervous Putting This On My Blog!)


Pencil sketch of some foundational concept characterizations for you to look at this morning. My nervousness is that I want this drawing to come out well, and I’m really worried that I’ll flub it up in the middle of the process. Have you ever worked on a huge project that terrified you? Drawing this particular picture feels that way to me! Aaaaaargh.

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

The big ship came about five hundred years ago, and we still haven’t been able to crack into it. It’s just been up there, acting like a benign satellite and having no apparent purpose at all. There’s an energy shield, and we can’t even get light to reflect off the surface of the ship, or sound to bounce back. Science teams have been sending up messages in every conceivable language to no avail, and a few different governments got irritated and tried to blow it up. Nothing gets through or makes a dent, and nobody’s been stupid enough to nuke the thing. The cities underneath got evacuated right after the ship arrived, but after nothing happened, and then after nothing went on happening for what seemed like forever, people moved back in and now it’s actually a tourist destination.

This morning, just after the sun rose, the ship turned on. Everybody immediately in view of the vessel got pretty quiet when the hum started up, and we’ve been standing underneath it for a couple of hours now, waiting. I mean, five hundred years, you know? What’s in there? And are they coming out?

Bad Writing

Silence, hovering, sliding through the air for hours, consecutively, like a kite above the clouds, flowing along noiselessly and being mys-trious. For so many, many long years. Hovering. Alone. Noiselessly!

Science notes: we can’t figure out what it is or where it is coming from. Why is it here? And won’t they come out and say hello?!

Message sent: come out and communicate!

No answer.


More waiting. A lot of waiting!

Five years later, and the whole scene has calmed down so much. We gave up on the messages. Now, bombs! That’s a good idea! Bomb the ship that is up there! Kill the machine, etcetera, because of sinister motives we haven’t been able to discern.

Still no response, and we haven’t even gotten to the end of the shrouded question, of why.

Well, soon we hope we will find out, and until then, we’ll just stay here and wait.

Ten years, and twenty. Two hundred.

New scientist rise up where the others have mouldered into dust, and they convey new greetings, still going unanswered after all these years. Oh, why? It’s nearly a staple of the landscape, and no one can see why it came or what its purpose is. Observation? An accident? Oh, well.

Gosh, What A Fun Good/Bad Sample!

Here’s our next installment of Diana:


Stuart’s Evil Dad

“How do you mean, coming after her?” Diana said.

“Like, he would harass her on the weekends or just drive around her house to freak her out, or go through her garbage and try to find out details between her and Jim. Standard annoy-your-ex stuff,” Stuart said.

“That’s disgusting. Jim’s your mom’s boyfriend, right?” Diana asked.

“Yeah. Is that actually disgusting? It seems kind of normal to me,” Stuart said.

“Yes, it’s horrible and gross to stalk your ex-wife and try to ruin her life. That’s evil,” Diana said.

“Huh. Do you think I learned how to be mean to you from my dad?” Stuart asked. Diana, feeling this connection was so extremely obvious as to be worthy an eye roll or a sarcastic remark, contained herself in the interests of being a polite person and nodded in a thoughtful manner.

“I think you’re on to something there, Stu,” Diana said. Stuart finished the dishes and turned off the water, turning to face her.

“Do you hate me?” he asked, and he sounded so relaxed and open to hearing the truth that Diana felt fairly comfortable being partly honest.

“Sometimes,” she said.

“Like, when? When do you feel hate, and what do you think about when you do hate me?” Stuart asked. Diana sensed another bout of Stuart attempting to therapize her, and left the kitchen to find something useful to clean elsewhere in the house. Stuart came after her, snatching up the slim book on domestic abuse as he did so. “So you asked what my dad talks like, when he does talk to me. Um, he says stuff in this really gruff way, like, monosyllabic, I guess, or he’ll avoid looking at me,” Stuart said.

“So your dad acts like you’re a boy? There’s no girliness going on?” Diana asked, digging in a closet for rubber gloves and scouring pads.

“Well, yeah, he acts like I’m male. I am. I’m straight. He’s straight,” Stuart said.

“But he treats you like a spouse, Stu, and if he also acts like you’re male, then he’s making a functional homosexual liaison with you, which is probably why you’re so freaked out about me saying stuff like that,” Diana said. “Because it sounds like it’s true,” she added.

“You’re just throwing big words around, though. I mean, what would—what would the feminizing thing look like?” Stuart asked, rubbing the back of his head.

“Does your dad expect Cynthie do to household stuff for him?” Diana asked, taking her cleaning supplies to the nearest bathroom and sitting down to scrub the baseboards.

“No, she’s like a regular kid. All my cousins have always been treated like kids, and I’m supposed to help,” Stuart said.

“You’re like the parent and the wife for your dad?” Diana asked.

Stuart started to look sort of depressed. Diana was excited about this, as she felt it heralded a little bit of progress.

“Well, yeah. I mean, for fixing food or cleaning stuff, that’s me. Running errands or taking them everywhere, I do most of that. Um, yeah,” Stuart said.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, the big man’s temporary secretary got to make the resident old man feel better about himself for ten minutes (she was pleased about this, because she’s been looking for ways to be useful).

Mark Kistler Says This Will Be Great Practice (And I Hope He Is Right; Also, I Feel Completely Worn Out)


What you’re seeing here is a pencil tracing of the David to study the human form. Tracing old masters is a suggested exercise in a drawing book I got.

I am worn out because I’ve been parenting my children constantly. They have to break some really disrespectful habits, and it’s exhausting to follow through every second to train them into having manners. (!!!) Have you ever needed to follow through every three seconds on a kid? Geesh.

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

I really didn’t expect Leora to turn out so badly when I built her. I mean, she was only going to be a kind of permanent housekeeper and moving statuary, and I thought I might use her to hand round the tea from time to time when I had guests. You know, a sort of robot maid who looked pretty.

I worked really hard on her exterior, and didn’t skimp at all for materials. I expected her to last forever, or at any rate for a good three thousand years or so, and I wanted her to be a sort of family heirloom to pass down. I had no intention of the future Mrs. Drefán objecting to the machine on the grounds of it being poorly built or anything like that, so once I’d perfected the insides and finished obsessing over the outsides, I turned on Leora for the first time.

Boy, did that ever go badly for the human race.

Bad Writing

[I wrote a bad example of this passage, guys, but it’s so bad that I won’t share it with you. It was abhorrent. Shudder-worthy. Yicky.]

And Now…

Well, here’s what comes next for Diana:



Stuart grinned and took his time getting his mouth pressed against Diana, who took a brief vacation from taking care of both of them in light of their captivity and turned herself over for excellent kisses, which Stuart gave her in great numbers.

“Mm, now more talking,” Diana said at last, stroking along Stuart’s chest.

“But then we can talk and snuggle after I do the dishes, right? I could hold you in bed?” Stuart asked, planting a few ‘let’s kiss more instead of talking’ sorts of overtures along her cheek with his mouth.

“Nope. I’m not sleeping with you, Stu. So how do you and your dad communicate, if you don’t talk?” Diana asked, squirming free of Stuart’s reluctant-to-let-go arms and leaning back against the table. Stuart cast a few come-hither glances at Diana, mixed together with a couple of endearing sighs, and when neither brought her back to his embrace, he grumbled and started the dishes.

“Well, he just expects things, and then I do them, and if he’s happy with me, I can tell, and if he’s mad at me, he slams things around or takes my car so I’ll be stranded. I’m not allowed to drive his, or his truck,” Stuart said.

“What things does he expect you to do?” Diana asked.

“Oh, chores. Homework for my cousins,” Stuart said, sounding as if he was prepared to go on and impart a hefty list.

“You do homework for your cousins? Why?” Diana interrupted.

“They don’t want to and my dad gets really mad if their grades drop, so he expects me to help them, but they refuse to do any of the work, so if they have significant projects or any assignments they don’t think are any fun, I do it and they turn it in,” Stuart said.

“Wow,” Diana said.

“Their homework isn’t hard, and Cynthie got serious about having money and a good job, so she does her own work now. It’s just Beamer and Jox, and they have kid stuff. My dad doesn’t care if they learn anything, because he’ll just have them join one of his roofing crews when they’re older. They’ll probably live with him until he dies, honestly, unless they get grown up and want kids or something, but even then my dad would just try to get the girlfriends or wives to move in. That’s what he intends for me,” Stuart said.

“Ew,” Diana said.

“Yeah, I know. My plan was to get out to college and then just—find a way to disappear. I hate my dad,” Stuart said.

“You said you loved him before,” Diana pointed out.

“Yeah, but that was before we talked about all this other stuff, and my mom. I’m kind of glad my mom’s dead, sometimes, because my dad never stopping coming after her. So it’s nice that she’s free,” Stuart said.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, the former military man has waxed poetic about his currently long-distance girlfriend (and is telling the others about her financial genius). : ) (I’m having fun writing this part!)

So Far January Is *Phenomenal* (And I Feel Excited!)

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Pencil sketch of a Saroyan merchant’s wastrel son for you to enjoy. My excitement is about some long-awaited developments in my personal life that are sort of thrilling. Have you ever worked on a relationship for ages and then finally turned the corner and reaped the rewards? That’s what I’m excited about right now. Boo-yah!

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing About A Fantasy Murder Mystery:

My dad was scheduled for his renewal shot last week, but he didn’t take it. His housekeeper went in early in the morning and he’d taken the charm off and was lying like a piece of waxwork in his bed. She said it looked like he’d pretty much killed himself the night before, sometime in the evening, and had been gradually sinking back towards his start-age since then. I say ‘killed himself’ because it was very clear from the way the room was set up, according to the municipal investigation, that no one had taken his Lyfe4Ever charm off, and that he’d pulled it away and set it aside himself. Which sucks.

I mean, not only is my dad—was—not only was my dad my daycare replacement—and thanks for leaving me in the lurch without any warning like that, dad—but the Lyfekeepers instigated an evaluation on our entire family, to see if anyone else was in danger of—in their words—”Wasting our investment.”

So, thanks to my dad, I not only now have to pay triple rates to a last-minute nanny for two weeks until the nearest daycare slot opens up, but I have a really obnoxious gnome following me around at work, taking my emotional temperature and applying mood-evaluations every three hours. This sucks.

And—and, he didn’t even leave a note. I haven’t started crying or exhibiting grief yet, which is making my Lyfe gnome really suspicious. I’m too angry to feel sad. Maybe after things calm down, I guess, but—yeah. Right now I’m just really, really angry.

TERRIBLE, Bad Writing (Don’t read this; it’s sooo bad!)

Seriously, this is awful.

My poor, dear, wandering-minded father, in his absence of acuity, laid aside the magical charm keeping him alive past his natural due-date with the Grim reaper. I’m, like, upset about it. It’s only really a bad thing, since I assume he’s in a better place now, because, well, my kids miss dear old grandpa. It is really inconvenient that my father didn’t let me know he was likely to get absent-minded and die of lack of magic last week, because he was scheduled to babysit my little boys for two different double-shifts, but I just can’t get over how sad the whole thing is.

I had a mom, too, but she’s across the world having an adventure and she will certainly come home in time for the funeral, poor guy, there isn’t much to bury.

The guys at the Lyfe plant say his original death day was scheduled, before intervention, sometime about a couple hundred years ago, and he shouldn’t have expired for another three thousand. They’re pretty mad about the way the magic dissipated, since he left the charm unfastened after he had taken it off and let the magic dribble out on his bedstand, which also made the housekeeper really angry, too. She was mad, too, and the furniture dealer who said he’d auction the house contents for us this month, because they were all mad that the magic basically melted a big yellow hole in the bedstand, which would have been worth some money otherwise.

It was a good funeral. Everyone said nice things about him, and several among the viewing party cried tears down their faces and wore black, but not everybody because Cousin Tammy is really tacky and wore a loud sundress.

(Blerg, that was the worst bit of writing I’ve done for months or years and now I feel like I need to wash my hands or something. Yech.)

Not That You Want My Excuses, But I’ve Had Poor-to-no Internet The Last Four Days

Ergo, the temporary lack of posting. But here we are again, and now let’s find out together what happens next to Diana!


Diana’s Diagnosis

“I don’t like either of those things. I’m sure there are, like, more than two options for things being screwed up between me and my dad,” Stuart said.

“Are you suggesting that your dad has psychologically erased your gender in his treatment of you as a functional spouse?” Diana asked.

“Oh my gosh! Stop talking like that!” Stuart said, blushing wildly.

“Nope. I won’t. If you need some help getting to a place where you can ask me for help in fixing on one option or the other, you should say something like, ‘Diana, help me,’ or words in that vein. I respond well to polite appeals for assistance,” Diana said.

Stuart stared at her.

“Di, will you help me?” Stuart asked.

“Sure. How does your dad talk to you?” Diana asked.

Stuart, for the first time, started to think about this.

“Um,” he said. Diana came over to start the dishes, as Stuart was looking not at all prepared to turn on the water, and he frowned and blocked her from reaching the sink. “I’m doing them,” he said, looking quite territorial.

“You were standing there and saying ‘Um.’ If you’re going to do them, be my guest. Answer my question,” Diana said.

“Well, it’s hard to say how my dad speaks to me because we don’t really talk,” Stuart said, staring at the plates and failing to turn on the water, as he had lost himself in thought. Diana reached past him and Stuart uttered a soft noise of disapproval and started the water. “Stop pushing. I want to do the dishes,” he said, in genuinely the softest and gentlest voice she had ever heard out of him. Diana felt this tone required a reward, and pulled Stuart around to face her before snuggling in against his chest.

Stuart, who had been on the verge of snipping at Diana for getting handsy, changed in an instant into his most cuddly self and nuzzled in a hopeful manner against her cheek, as if to say, ‘May I steal a kiss, fair one?’

“Mm-hm,” Diana said, nuzzling Stuart back.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current novel, the banker is set to meet a very old friend from high school. He feels about ready to throw up with nerves.

A Mnemonic Chart for the Fresh Year (Today I Feel . . . Bubbly)


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This is a mnemonic sketch I made to help me remember the punctation of that super famous Hamlet speech. You might like looking at it, because it’s like a busy map of scrawls. I’m bubbly because I’m taking risks in my personal life, and according to one of my latest fortune cookies, they will pay off. You’ve gotten great prognostications from fortune cookies before, right? : )

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

Seth was obsessed with himself, Georgia reflected with a sour and jealous heart. She’d set up a high-powered telescope in her parents’ attic and had been spying on Seth for nigh on three months now. She knew everything about him that a person could know from a view of one-fifth of Seth’s bedroom, and Georgia was determined to break through his wall of isolation and pure loneliness and get into the excellent boyfriend material she suspected hid within the pleasing exterior of Seth Mumbano.

I’m going to get you, Georgia told herself for the fifteenth time that week, peering through her telescope at Seth, who was making muscular poses at himself in the mirror.

Two weeks later, Georgia made her first move. Having commissioned the local artsy guy to compose several odes to masculine beauty and fineness of character, Georgia signed one of these pieces with her own name and dropped it inside Seth’s locker. She repeated this treatment over the course of five days, and on the sixth day, which was a Saturday, she presented herself at Seth’s front door.

“Oh, that was you?” Seth demanded, his face glowing with the positive effects five days’ worth of poetic admiration had wrought in him.

“Yes, and now I want to ask you on a date,” Georgia said, the eager glint of the entrepreneur in her eyes.

“Oh, I haven’t time for a girlfriend, Miss Eupan. I have to go on being—um, ‘as earnest in self-worship as God’s gentle lily, springing with perfections from the field.’ That’s one of my favorite lines, Miss Eupan. Keep up the excellent work. I’m sure you’ll be published someday, and I’ll come and sign all your books with you, since I’m your—ah, ‘muse of every hour, and angelic dream through every night.’ Brilliant writing, Miss Eupan. I look forward to next week’s efforts,” Seth said, and he shut the door in her face.

Georgia glowered at the door and told herself that Seth was a shallow, irritating turd.

“Phooey,” she muttered, kicking at a loose pebble on the front walk, and she went home and restored the telescope to its original home in the study before going out to the public pool to scan for a worthier target of her romantic ambitions.

Bad Writing

Georgia Eupan, who had grown up in the regular way and suffered two broken arms, though at different times, was occupied for a long time with butterflies. She collected them and pinned them to little pieces of cardboard, and when the science fair came and went, she had a blue ribbon for ‘Best Improved in Science’ for her efforts.

Georgia often went to a local roller skating rink and circled the big wooden oval with her friends, Margery and Celeste, who loved horses more than anything. Georgie also liked to go to the library. Sometimes she would spend a whole two hours sitting in the library and reading a book. She was a regular bookworm, and kept up with all the new arrivals in the young adult section of the library. She even made friends with Agatha Morise, the part-time librarian who repaired torn children’s books with that special tape for the library-edition picture books. Georgia would try to check out in Agatha’s line whenever she was able. They were good friends. Sometimes they talked about books.

When Georgia got older, her father got a new job and they moved houses. Georgia did not like her new room. It looked out on the backyard and there was a tree that cast shade in the summer and looked bare and cold in the window. Georgie did not enjoy her new bedroom one bit. It seemed less to her than her first bedroom had been in the house she’d grown up in until the point when she moved. They were still in the neighborhood, so she did not have to make new friends.

Georgia developed a crush on a boy, but he didn’t notice her at all, and when she tried to get his attention with some poetry, he was just flattered and blew her off as she tried to get his attention. Georgia didn’t like the boy at all after that, and she went swimming and looked around at the boys there. Celeste had found a boyfriend and Georgia wanted one too. She’d wanted her poetry boy, but he didn’t have time for her. Georgia didn’t want to be the kind of girl who pined after a boy who didn’t care about her at all in return, so she decided to forget him and have new adventures.

Wow, That Bad One Was Wandering All Over The Place!

That was intense! Let’s find out what happens next to Diana:


The Rest of Stuart’s Explanation

“Well, those kids, my not-siblings, are all children that my dad tried to force my mom to raise. They’re the unwanted kids my aunt had because she was too lazy or something to think about what happens after sex, and the older three, Cynthie, Beamer, and Jox, are a little younger than me. Um, I’m seventeen, and Cynthie’s sixteen now. Beamer’s fourteen, and Jox is thirteen. The last one I mentioned, baby Karen, is only eight, and her mom, aunt Sammie, got her act together a few years ago and got custody of her. Sammie started dating a dentist who has his life together and wanted a kid, so Sammie used the dentist’s money and got a lawyer, and now they have Karen,” Stuart said.

“Great. I’m glad you realized they aren’t your siblings. That’s probably nice for you,” Diana said.

“Yeah! Is that enough of an explanation?” Stuart asked, looking up at the ceiling.

George appeared.

“Your turn,” the holographic alien said, looking at Diana. Stuart let out a ‘Ha!’ of victory and squirmed in his chair. Diana lifted her eyebrows at him.

“I’m an only child,” Diana said. George nodded and vanished. Stuart’s mouth dropped open.

“That’s not fair! I want to hear about your—” Stuart protested. Diana could hear that he was about to ask about her biological father, and she cut him off.

“So, there are three things we were going to work on, remember? First, we checked in to see how you felt about your mother, and then I wanted you to decide whether or not your dad spousified you as a feminine object or in a homosexual sense,” Diana said.

“You can’t say stuff like that, Di. That’s just shocking and weird,” Stuart said, shivering as he got up and carried their dishes to the sink.

“Are you performing domestic chores, Mr. McTate?” Diana asked. Stuart paused and looked around at her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion at her mild tone.

“Yeah. I live here,” Stuart said.

“This is my house,” Diana said. Stuart set the dishes down in the sink and turned to glare fully at Diana.

“Where are you going with this, Vassel?” Stuart asked.

“Are you trying to match me? Me with my interesting and therapeutic way of speaking?” Diana asked, smirking a little. Stuart let out a fragment of a snarl and then closed his eyes and took several deep and calming breaths.

“Yeah, I was doing that, actually, Di. Are you arguing that I don’t live here right now?” Stuart asked.

“Gay or feminized, Stu? I’d really like to know,” Diana repeated, a sweet and enduring smile on her face. Stuart’s face twisted with ire, and his hands curled into fists.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current book, the hunting group is going through a nuanced exercise to prepare for the last great pursuit on a distant world.

A 2019 Doodle (And I Feel Cheerful!)

sketch 136

Airbrush doodle complete with labels just for you to look at this morning. The cheeriness going about just now is because I finished some daunting tasks. You know that pleasant sensation of having won out against chaos? Have you had that feeling before? I have it now. Hopefully it lasts for a while, ’cause it feels good. Yay!

Good/Bad Writing Example

Good Writing

The magic mirror seemed like a really good investment at the time, until I unwrapped it. Man, right away it was ‘Hang me over there,’ and ‘The light is too much in this corner,’ and ‘Boy, someone needs to shave.’ It was like owning a really talkative parrot who thought I was a loser.

The brochure talked about pleasant companionship, and this was not it. I called the customer service line and they told me to do a factory reset.

“How do I do that?” I asked. Well, the lady talked me through this really complicated spell, and I hung up and tried it. Yeah, it didn’t work. Well, it did give my magic mirror what I think is an Armenian accent and a little bit of a lisp, but it certainly didn’t cut down on the chatter or the personal remarks, and let me tell you, until you’ve heard a large oval of glass tell you in an Armenian lisp that you need to do your laundry and throw out your favorite sweater because it makes you look like a pile of fuzz a caterpillar vomited, you have not experienced truly personal remarks.

I called customer service again, and they told me the same rigamarole about a factory reset spell, which I wasn’t interested in. I’d dropped a load of money on the mirror, and the company strongly discouraged refunds, so I was dogged and loud and I worked my way up the call-center food chain until I got a manager on the phone.

“Let me hear a sample,” the manager directed. I, accordingly, took my cell phone over to the mirror, which launched into a long diatribe about my awkward way of breathing too loudly. “Is that an Armenian accent?” the manager asked, sounding somewhat awestruck.

“Yes, and there’s a lisp. This thing’s been telling me for the last two days that ‘my breath thmells like thauerkraut,’ which is ridiculous. I don’t eat sauerkraut, you see,” I told her.

“No, yes, I can see how that would be irritating. Walk away from the mirror, would you?” the manager asked.

“Yeah, gladly,” I said, beating a retreat in the face of yet another lecture from the mirror on the unsatisfactory state of my eyebrows. The magic mirror had strong opinions about personal grooming, and wanted me to pluck mine. No thank you! When I was out of earshot, I told the manager to go ahead.

“Well, have you tried threatening it?” the manager asked in a soft voice.

“Pardon?” I asked, frowning across my workshop at the mirror, which, deprived of my immediate company, had taken up a lisping Armenian folk song that sounded like a tipsy lullaby.

“You know, pick up a cleaver or a really impressive hammer and wave it about near the mirror, exclaiming about your superiority as a conscious being,” the manager explained. I blinked several times, for this sounded both savage and undignified.

“That sounds very odd,” I said.

“Well, try it, and if it doesn’t solve your problem, feel free to call the help line at any time,” the manager said, and she hung up before I could protest further.

I held out for another two days until the mirror broke me. It began to make the most uncalled-for remarks about my dear mother, and in desperation I snatched up a heavy chopping knife I kept on hand for slicing toadstools and brandished it near the surface of the mirror. I thought I looked pretty silly, but the mirror, which had been describing what it theorized my mother had gotten up to the previous evening, broke suddenly off.

The silence was so welcome that I paused in my knife shaking and looked at myself in the mirror.

“Are you finished?” I asked. To my total surprise, the mirror replied in a most clear, civil tone, without a hint of an accent or a lisp.

“I’m so sorry, sir. How can I help you?” the mirror asked.

We’ve since had a fairly productive relationship. Every once in a while, my mirror starts to develop an uppity Canadian accent—I’ve no idea why—and I casually heft a large pot or a mallet near the mirror in a vaguely threatening way. That clears up the problem, and back my mirror goes to reliable, civil behavior.

Bad Writing
(This one is really, really bad!)

Theopold is the name I have given my mirror. He’s an excellent, helpful mirror, always at hand when I require a distant look at some far off party of adventurers in the wild or if I am looking up some criminal to send a creature following in the night, which is very dark. Ah, but I recall in the olden days, last year sometime, or perhaps seven months ago, when Lucy, my magic mirror, first came to live in my magical, magic den where I work magic. It’s such a magical place. I do magic there. Did I mention that it’s like a laboratory for magic? And Lucy, my magic mirror, hangs upon the wall and looks magical.

Then, about eight months ago when I first acquired Lucy—I bought Theopold at a bazaar for clever wizard-types, and they had some awesome pocket protectors there, too.

My magical pocket protector keeps all the ink away from my shirt. Oh, I am going to mention, though—and this is a really funny story, I think—but my magical pocket protector is actually just a regular plain old piece of plastic. It isn’t magical except in the way that it keeps ink out of my shirt, so that’s hilarious. Oftentimes I’ll be introducing myself at parties and I’ll say, here is my magical pocket protector, and all the admiring people wil shout, in a chorus, ‘What does it do?’

Because of course they expect that it’s magic, right? And I string them along for a little while, saying things like, ‘Look at this,’ and ‘Wait until you see!’ and then after ten minutes I reveal that it’s actually just a piece of plastic. That always goes over well.

I’m pretty much the funniest person you’ll ever meet. Ha ha. But Lucy, my mirror, I got her at a bazaar and she was hanging up in the back, behind a whole lot of other pictures and mirrors, and I dug through every one because I hate buying anything that’s at the front of the shelf—you know, one time, I purchased milk that was at the front of the refrigerated shelf in the coffee shop that’s just by my house, and—but that’s another story that I’ll have to tell some other time.

“Ah, heck, I’ll let you know now!”

The milk was expired, and when I went back to complain at the coffee shop, the person who had put the milk in in the first place had put the freshest containers all the way at the back of the line, almost like they were trying to pawn off the older stuff on guys like me. I always choose my milk from the back of whatever stack is there, and everything else, pretty much.

I got Lucy at the bazaar and she’s the best mirror. I use her all the time to find criminals or look up distant scenes for adventure groups I’m supposed to be helping from afar in my magic, magic workshop.

And Now!

The good example was a lot of fun, but wow, that mess with Lucy/Theopold made me tired! Did the inconsistency bother you? Here is what comes next for our Diana adventure:


A Useful Epiphany

“You asked for the names of people in my family, and I’ve been including way too many people, because they aren’t my siblings at all. They’re my cousins and awkward foster people that were forced on me. I’m sure I’d like them fine if we’d actually been cousins, but I pretty much hate all four of them, those three and then baby Karen. I hate what they did to my family,” Stuart said.

He glanced up at Diana, his expression darkening.

“Are you going to tell me all that crap people say about how it wasn’t their fault and they didn’t ask for it?” Stuart demanded. Diana shook her head, spearing another purple cube. “How come? Everyone says stupid garbage like that,” Stuart said, looking brooding and irritable.

“That was really disgusting of your dad to do that to your mom,” Diana commented.

“Yeah! Yeah, it was. I used to hate my dad, you know, before my mom died. Everything got kind of—twisted around, I guess, after she was gone. Just—my insides went dark, and my dad was still there, you know?” Stuart asked, wiping suddenly at his eyes, as if to keep back the hint of tears, though he wasn’t crying yet.

“I don’t mind, Stu,” Diana said.

“What?! What does that mean?” Stuart asked.

The hologram of George appeared between their plates.

“Normal circumstance, we remove the companion for violent intent,” George said, looking at Diana.

“No, he’s fine. He’s processing grief. That’s a violent emotion. He’s mad at his father, and he’s sad,” Diana told the small white figure of an alien, which nodded and disappeared.

“Are you handling them the way you’re working your way around me?” Stuart asked, sniffling a little and scrubbing a hand over his face.

“They wanted to hear about that list of people you gave me, Stu. Finish that,” Diana said. Stuart, to her surprise, nodded and let out a heavy sigh.

“Okay. Finishing things is important, I guess,” Stuart said. It was the first time he’d shown positive forward motion in an emotional sense, with the effort coming from inside his deep self, and Diana was tempted to stand up and do a little victory dance. Her heart raced with excitement and she kept her face calm as she munched on the purple fruit chunks.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and in my current book, the unhatched man is nearing the moment of crisis (meaning he’s about to come to life).