RUMORS OF MY DEMISE ARE GREATLY EXAGGERATED

The wee hours of our monthly AgentQuery Connect, Speculative Fiction group chat produce the most interesting writing exercises. My collegues decided it would be fun to write a funny eulogy or death scene for fellow members (wish I hadn't gone to bed early that night). 
 
The first hint that I had "died" came in the form of an apologetic email from Michelle Hauck. The subject line read, "Sorry I took advantage of you,"  and ended with, "Don't be mad, okay?"
 
Then I read the post:

 
I’m stunned to announce the passing of Angie Sandro, beloved wife, mother, critique partner, and lately popular actress in Korean soap-opera dramas. In lieu of flowers, please follow her blog or like her Facebook page. (I’m not kidding, folks. Get someone to Like her page or Angie will seriously haunt us forever, hurling hoodoo curses at us.)

In what some are calling a bizarre accident, Angie was taking a long bike ride with her father-in-law. While pedaling, trying to watch the Lizzie Bennett Diaries on her phone, and composing the blurb for the unwritten fifteenth sequel to Juju’s Curse, she swerved off the path and into a swamp-like area to be immediately snapped up, bike and all, by a gator. Fortunately, Angie was too thick-skinned due to all the summer marathon sessions at her favorite spot, Speculative Fiction Group on AQC. The gator, believed by authorities to be released into the wild by the fringe environmental group, Make California Florida, spat her out. Unfortunately, it had great aim and launched her into a pit of quicksand.

Glub, glup, glub, that’s all she wrote.

Angie will be greatly missed by her legions of fans, living and ghost, her CP partners, family, and of course creators of Korean dramas, which she tirelessly promoted through her charity, “I Don’t Understand the Language, But I Can’t Stop Watching.” Now what are you waiting for? Like that page!
 

I've always wondered how I would pass. I just never realized how freaking dramatic it would be. Thanks to Michelle, I get a little taste of the other side. I also have a warm fuzzy (slightly terrified) feeling inside at how well she knows me.

Thanks, Michelle.

In lieu of flowers, please leave a comment. And you know, follow my blog so I won't haunt you--FOREVER, muwahaahaa (cough)haa!

SHARING OUR VOICES- IAN ISARO

"What is snow like?"

I didn't expect that question, though maybe I should have. I'd just been in the United States, and people who had never left Tanzania were naturally curious. So I did my best. "Cold and wet."

"That sounds great. If you got hot, you could rub some on yourself to get cool!"



That conversation (very loosely translated from Swahili) is one of my favorite demonstrations of worldview. It's the assumptions we don't consider that get to us, limiting what we can imagine of the world. Even though our ability to travel or get information is unparalleled in human history, all too often we don't venture very far beyond what we know and understand.

Books are the antidote for that. They tell us that reality is stranger, more terrible, and more wonderful than we know.

That's why I write fiction. Fiction exercises our ability to consider things that are new and unfamiliar, to reconsider our beliefs, to listen instead of judge. Non-fiction prepares us for specific things that exist, but fiction prepares us for anything that could exist.
 

So when I write, I try to show the diversity of the world. That means I end up writing a wide variety. You can see many different points of inspiration in Sorcery and Scholarships, which is packed with different things. Arguably too many.

One is globalization. The world is increasingly interconnected and I wanted my story to reflect that. All too often, stories about supposedly global conflicts center on one country and the rest of the world just sort of floats in undefined space. It's fine for fey/wizards/vampires/whatever to be based in Europe, but are we supposed to believe that they just ignore rising powers in South America and Southeast Asia? Is it too much to ask for Africa to... well, exist?

Not that stories shouldn't have focus. Two countries in particular fueled mine. One is Japan, which exported many elements of anime and manga to me. The ability to have action without the limitations of a special effects budget is something that it does well, and there's no reason fiction can't do the same.

Another is the cultural perspective of the US. There's something very valuable in the irreverence toward tradition that you find there. Since I assume most of you are Americans, you may take this for granted. In all too many parts of the world, "Why?" is a question that simply isn't asked, and "Because it's always been this way" is considered an adequate explanation for anything. Tradition has much to offer as well, but I find attitudes that question far more fascinating.

One last thing that inspires my writing is the breadth of human morality. We tend to assume that everyone believes what we believe, which makes discussion difficult even within one country, much less between them.

For example, I've commonly heard people say that all human societies believe that murder is wrong. That would be nice, but it isn't exactly true because "murder" has slippery definitions. This can get ethically tricky, so let me skip to one end of the continuum: I know cultures that believe murder is only killing a member of your nuclear family - killing anyone else is fine or even expected. That's not hypothetical, either. Less than half an hour's drive from where I'm typing this, there's an ugly conflict over water rights that has left dozens dead, with no moral judgment from anyone in either community.

That exists. So do hundreds of other things that are important, and in-depth discussion of them would probably make everyone angry eventually. Justifiably so, because our beliefs about the world matter.

Therefore fiction matters. Especially with fantasy, where we can encounter things even more radically alien than anything on Earth. I may have waxed philosophic above, but there's another part of me that just loves writing about crazy new things. You can have everything from fey with slightly different moral codes to creatures that exist in completely different modes from humans and fail to comprehend the difference between a living and dead body.

So for me, the same thing that makes fiction fun makes it important. We spend most of the day within our own homes, cultures, and understandings. But eventually, you'll run into your equivalent of snow, and what you've read will determine how likely you are to understand.

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SHARING OUR VOICES- E.B. BLACK

I'd like to welcome a special guest who is not afraid to share her inspiration with you today. I appreciate that she agreed to come on.

Welcome to the blog, E.B.

Thank you, Angie, for having me on your blog!

The thing that inspires me the most as an author is fear. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. I have enough fears without having to chase them and those are always at the forefront of my mind when I write.

When I created my blog, the url name “ebblack” was already taken, so I had to create something else. I’ve been afraid of death since I was a young child. It’s typical of me to wonder on a daily basis where people will go when they die and what happened to those I loved who are gone. I used to have nightmares about it every night as a little girl.

So of course, I thought it would be a good idea to pick “Death Author.” In fact, it has become a nickname of mine among people who know about my blog.

I also thought it would be fun to write about necromancers, which is something I regularly do. Why? Because what sounds more amazing than people who have power over death? The thing that scares me most is the thing they’ve learned to master.

When I wrote my novel, Medusa’s Desire, I was struggling with body image issues. This is not unusual for many women, but it can be crippling. I fear that I’m too ugly to be loved sometimes or refuse to look in the mirror because I’ll start criticizing my reflection.

I thought about Medusa. She’s so repulsive that people literally die when they look at her, yet as a human, she was once beautiful. How would it feel as a woman to go from being one of the most beautiful women in the world to the very ugliest? I had to write her story.

When I write, I can take every bad thing about the world, everything that has hurt me or others I’ve cared about, and gain control over it. I can struggle to make sense of an issue or just find a character who is sympathetic to something I or a loved one has gone through.

Writing is an escape for me, but also a coping mechanism. It’s no wonder that many writers become addicted to their craft.

-E.B. Black

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It all started the day her god raped her.

She transformed into an abomination through his touch. Her skin grew scales. Her eyes turned red. She screamed for help, but all who saw her became stone.

Medusa thought she would be alone forever, until the day a man came to kill her and fell in love instead. Now Perseus is running from those who hired him as he continues to love a girl who could kill him with a glance.

SHARING OUR VOICES- RICHARD PIETERS

I'd like to extend a special SOV welcome to someone whose writing has the ability to transport me into his world, to make me cry, to make me think.

Thank you for coming on the blog,

Many thanks to Angie for her invitation to talk about what inspires my writing.

Short answer: the magic of words.

 I began reading early, and early discovered the power of words to transport me, to show me the world in new ways, to take me to places unknown. I didn't begin churning out stories as a kid, as many seem to do. I absorbed and observed. I read, not just for the stories, but for the magic of the words themselves.

I've always read slowly. To me, a joy of reading is in the rhythm and color of beautifully constructed sentences, of images that startle me with their clarity, that cause me to read a sentence or paragraph over again just to immerse myself in it. I always will stop to smell the roses.

My early years as the son of a Presbyterian minister whose father had been a missionary to Korea, where my father was born, exposed me to a world of music, art, and spirituality. I played piano, and later, guitar and other folk instruments. I learned the power of art in its many forms to move people. And I learned, as I grew through school, that I had a talent with words.

For a brief time, I taught high school English, and my greatest reward (maybe the only one) came from seeing my kids awaken to their own power with words. I assigned controversial topics for essays and drew stories out of them. Convince me, I said. Make me believe.

Somewhere along the way, in college (isn't that where it always happens?) I began to question dogma.  New possibilities, worlds beyond worlds, unseen forces teased me to look, to wonder.

I wrote songs. Love songs. Songs of social protest. I used the power of words to influence, to move, and to entertain. I wrote poetry, unstudied, free, spontaneous, and the world around me became a live canvas from which to draw.

I'm moved to write because I can. Because the world is a huge, fascinating, terrifying place. A place of ecstasy and sorrow, of heroism and cowardice, of generosity and love and cold, hard malice.  And I've come to feel that we who write have a power to inspire the better aspects of our humanity while seeing all the colors and shying from none. We can entertain. We can offer distraction from pain. We can paint with words. We can show the strength of love in the unlikeliest circumstances.

If, with my use of words, I can transport a reader to a new place, make her look up from the page in an "oh, wow" moment, or cringe in horror, or laugh, or cry, then I've worked a bit of magic.

The pen may well be mightier than the sword. In good hands, it's a magician's wand.

To follow Rick on his journey, please check out his BLOG, TWITTER, FACEBOOK
 

SHARING OUR VOICES- CATERINA TORRES

I would like to welcome a special guest to Sharing Our Voices. Her source of inspiration is apocalyptic in nature...or, I guess in opposition to nature would be a better description since the natural order does not apply in this case. Please say hello to Caterina Torres.
 

First I just want to say thanks for letting me guest post on your blog. It’s so great to share my experiences as a writer with others, especially what inspires me to write what I write about. What do I write about? Oh, you didn’t hear?

ZOMBIES!

 

I’m sure you’re probably expecting some sort of deep, heartfelt reason behind what pushes me to write. But honestly, I write because I want to. Plain and simple. I love imagining a life outside my own; something that’s different from the daily grind of working 9-5, cooking dinner, cleaning the house, being a wife, etc. And I want to evoke an emotion from my readers. I want them to be so engrossed in the story, they forget about their own lives.

I didn’t experience something life changing. I don’t live in poverty. I have a great husband, a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and loving family and friends. I hope this post doesn’t come off as rude, but I got bored with regular life and thought, “Wouldn’t it be cool if the apocalypse hit and zombies took over?” Truly, it would be a horrendous and scary experience, but the thought also excites me. No rules, no laws, no reason to go to work anymore. People’s true selves would come out as we band together to survive.

So I guess what inspired me to write my first book, Zombie Whisperer, was because real life wasn’t exciting enough. I kept coming to work, expecting something different, but getting the same old, same old: People sitting at their desks, typing away, ignoring everyone else, and waiting until it’s time to go home so they can repeat the entire thing the next day.

And if you really think about it, we’re already zombies in this world. We go through the same motions day in and day out until…what? My books help me escape that reality so I can create my own and share it with others.

Ciao-Cat
 

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She can speak to the dead. Only problem is, they’re still walking around.

After enduring a week-long flu, Jane Smith wakes to find out a terrorist organization has spread a deadly virus over the nation, changing anyone who’s infected into the walking dead. With no choice but to flee her home, Jane teams up with her boyfriend, Josh Williams, as they venture to find something better than the desolate land that was once called the home of the brave and the land of the free.

Driving across the country, Jane encounters some of the newly turned and finds she can hear their thoughts inside her head. Before she can understand her link to the undead, Jane and Josh are captured by the terrorists responsible for the virus because of one special reason: they know she can communicate with the infected and they want her to be a part of their fight to take down the rest of the world.

Afraid for their lives, Jane must decide if she should join the terrorists or use her new found powers to stop them.

Blog/Website, Facebook, Twitter, and Zombie Whisperer.

 

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SHARING OUR VOICES- JOYCE R. ALTON aka

Clippership, super mod for the AQC Speculative Fiction Group, and a woman who I, and many others, consider a friend has graciously agreed to post about her inspiration for today's SOV.

 

The blog is yours, Joyce. 

 

Once upon a time a little girl went out for recess. Her classmates streamed past her, split up, and rushed to their favorite corners of the school yard. The girl hung back, uncertain. It was the middle of the school year and the start of her third school. Big kids dominated the fields and courts, starting up large games of soccer and basketball. The small kids infested the playground equipment like a swarm. There were groups playing double-dutch or hopscotch along the school walls. The teacher patrolling the scene looked cross and tired. The little girl skittered down the steps and out into the chaos.

Wandering around for several minutes, it wasn't until a strong breeze tossed up the ends of her hair that she smiled. The tight ache in her chest eased a bit. She broke into a run, rushing for the back fields, arms held out against the wind. Schools might come and go but the winds were everywhere. She knew them. She named them. They followed her to the fourth school she attended that year. They stayed with her through the last three years of elementary school, whenever she didn't have human companionship.

To this day, she still knows their names and directions.

From about the age of ten on, she lost the ability to sleep well. Bedtime came. She lay in bed, tossing about, wishing her thoughts would turn off. Then one night, she learned to override the random thoughts. She began to create story adventures. Daring, silly, sentimental, horrifying, fantastical stories! The emotional lift eventually knocked her out each night. But the adventures didn't end there. Her subconscious mind wanted to play too, often picking up where her conscious mind left off. On some nights her conscious and subconscious went back and forth, weaving together a complex tale.

In the morning, the girl woke up, grabbed a notebook, and wrote the best of these adventures down.

In junior high, she learned how to disappear. Her school was overcrowded, with dark brick hallways, dark windows, and teachers teetering on the brink of nervous breakdowns. She avoided attention. Long stretches of time passed between friendly faces. In English class, the girl read A Tale of Two Cities and adopted the brooding Sydney Carton as her next friend. He walked by her between classes, stood behind her during lunch, and with his unique voice challenged her to do better with her class work. She didn't worry as much about the boys gleeking in the hallways after that, or the clusters of girls who moved in a pack, pushing everyone out of their way. When the girl didn't need him, Sydney lived inside one of her necklaces with his wife, the little seamstress.

The girl still has that necklace.
 

Her family liked to go on long drives for vacations. Eight people squeezed into the station wagon or van, the kids empty-handed usually. Her mom always brought music to listen to. They passed mesas, rolling plains, through hilly forests, along the edges of reservoirs, rivers, and canyons. Sometimes the sky filled with flat, gray clouds. Sometimes it was a brilliant blue dome, the clouds formed into shapes with an obvious 3-D effect. The girl leaned on the car window, picturing armies on horseback rushing through the sagebrush, griffins played hide-and-seek in the clouds, tall castles rising from the edges of the plateaus and mountains.

Long drives remain one of her favorite things to do.

In quieter moments, she sat at her desk, turned on some music, and drew. Her people and creatures came out cartoonish--although she did pretty well with fashion design. Then one day, she took a piece of poster board and drew a map of where her stories happened. Ah hah! She loved to study maps. Creating maps of fictional worlds came naturally. It relaxed her.

Today, she can paper the walls of her office with her largest maps.

It doesn't take much to inspire this girl: a phrase, part of a picture, someone's expression, reading of real-life sacrifices and bravery, a song, a color, or a dream. Moving from place to place, meeting many different people, experiencing acceptance and loneliness, and especially discovering herself have shaped her eccentric perspective. She learns from everything. And hopefully, she has something to share to inspire others.

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