I have a confession, my friends. I… I have been remiss in reading for the past few years.

Please, don’t judge me. I’ve been busy! I’ve lived in two hundred places! (Okay, maybe just seven. Wait, no, eight!) I’ve… I’ve… um…

Okay, so there’s no good excuse for a writer to not read. I hang my head in shame.

That’s why I’m here today. I need your help.

Please, take thirty seconds and comment with one long series (5+ books), two short series (2-5 books), or five stand-alone books that you consider must-reads. Fiction only, please! Make sure to include the author, and if you could summarize them in a sentence, that would be excellent. (Also, please read the comments above yours so you don’t recommend something already mentioned. Just assume I’ve read absolutely nothing; if I’ve already read it, I’ll let you know, and you can recommend something else.)

Thanks so much in advance, folks – I need to increase my awesome quotient broaden my literary horizons!

Image Credit: Yuri Arcurs.

Today, boys and girls, I’m here to talk to you about drugs.

–wait, don’t hit the X. I said talk, not lecture. This is a blog about fiction! C’mon.

For the purpose of this post, I’m going to define ‘drug’ as any ingestible substance with physiological and/or psychological effects. Medicine, alcohol, and marijuana all fall under the drug heading here.

Almost every single person has an opinion about at least one drug. Drug A should be illegal, or Drug B should be legalized. Doing or distributing Drug C should put someone on death row, while doing or distributing Drug D should be considered saint’s work. Drug E should be used carefully; Drug F can be used willy-nilly. Drug G isn’t all that bad, but Drug H is hardcore. People who do Drug I are just looking to relax, but people who do Drug J are dangerous addicts. It’s socially acceptable to partake of Drug K at an event, but someone imbibing Drug L in public should get arrested. Drug M should always be done around people to be safe, while Drug N should only be done alone. Keep Drug O in the house, but Drug P can go on the streets, and Drug Q can even be done in the car without anyone dying.

You get my point.

Nearly every human culture has found a way to make alcohol, medicine, and narcotics. There’s a rich and fascinating history on drug production and use. My question to you is not a moral one, but a creative one: How do fictional cultures treat drugs? Not only fictional human cultures, but humanoid and non-human ones as well?

Is drug use so honed a science that the entire culture takes a variety of drugs for their every need, every day? Is drug use so horrifying a concept – loss of self-control a phobia – that the culture won’t even use medicine when it’s desperately needed? Which drugs are acceptable, and in what ways? Which drugs are unacceptable, and how is illegal use of them treated? What’s considered medicinal, and what’s considered recreational? Are drugs used for religious or spiritual purposes? Does military training include developing a high tolerance to certain common drugs, or even poisons?

How do the people in your stories deal with drugs? Get creative! Even human cultures have vastly different relationships with and opinions of mind-altering substances. You can drive home the alienness of a culture or race very easily by tweaking the place drugs have in that society.

Image Credit: Royalty Free Images.

[Author's Note: This is a longer short story, set in Gurhai, and one of few such things that I've actually finished. I'm notoriously bad about capturing an entire story arc in less than ten thousand words, but this one is only 6600-some. I wrote it in four parts, hence the sectioning-off. Also, the title is ... unofficial, but true to the story contents. . Enjoy!]

“Captain Exemplar!”

Arista Reenla opened her eyes and stared into the shadowed rafters, which were untouched by the light thrown from the open doorway. “Report,” she growled, propping herself up on one elbow and squinting as she tried to peer past the torch to identify the man who’d woken her.

“Milady,” the man said, his very tone begging for forgiveness for his intrusion, “we have sighted an unknown ship off the port bow. The ship’s captain requests an audience with you immediately.”

She tried not to sigh as she recognized the face of one of her newest men, a knight named Padryk Vessus. “Where is Captain Keng?”

“He’s– well, right now he’s up in the observation nest, but he said he’d meet you on first deck, milady.” Padryk hovered nervously in the doorway. “Shall I tell him…?”

“Yes, yes,” Arista muttered. “I’ll be up momentarily. Leave me be to dress.”

“Milady!” the knight acknowledged sharply, drawing his shoulders square in a bodily salute before stepping backwards and shutting the door, leaving her in welcome darkness.

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This is a writing blog, so this post doesn’t really belong.

But if it weren’t for the heart behind what I’m writing here, this blog wouldn’t exist.

Welcome to the roots of the tree giving you air.

In early October, I discovered the Freak Revolution, a change-the-world project headed by two self-professed freaks, Pace and Kyeli. They were trying to get a million people to read their Manifesto. I downloaded it, read it, and promptly spread it among my friends. You already know I’m not your normal writer – if such a thing even exists. I could identify with being a freak, especially with the term reclaimed in a more positive and dynamic light.

That site, along with Tiny Buddha, got my wheels spinning. What’s it worth to you to be yourself? What would you give? How hard would you work?

Do you even realize it’s possible?

It took me most of my life to realize that, if I wanted to be truly happy, I needed to stop trying to be some theoretical ideal and start being me. We’re all inherently imperfect – perfection is an impossibility in a dynamic universe – and it felt like defeat to no longer strive to be flawless. As though I should be able to be perfect, and the fact that I wasn’t made me worth less than some anonymous other person who had managed the feat.

Bull.

In truth, the choice to be me instead of trying to be perfect was not failure, but success. I had to acknowledge that who and what I am, with all my quirks and flaws, is not a bad person to be. Instead of going against my own grain, I could strive to be the best me I could be. I had to realize that I’m not responsible for other people’s expectations and perceptions; I’m only responsible for my own actions, words, path, and happiness.

Man, what a load off. I could stop trying to be interested in political history? I didn’t have to pretend to care about pop culture? Suddenly, I felt free. I could opt out of most things considered “the norm” in this society, since the majority of what’s me and mine isn’t in the general pool of common interests and characteristics. I could stop apologizing for being me, once I realized it wasn’t a bad thing to be so individualized. Acknowledging my imperfection, letting go of unrealistic expectation, and looking within to see where I wanted to go – not should go, but wanted to go – have made even the hard things possible.

I let myself believe that it’s not just okay to be me, but that I have a right to it, and I can step up to defend my right to be me, while letting myself be nebulous and transitory, mid-evolution between birth and death.

I’m still imperfect. I still fall back on old habits, outmoded assumptions. I still take the easy way out. I still forget the new and remember the old in its place.

But I surround myself with brilliant, creative people for a reason. I hear them talking, and I remember where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m going. I remember that I’ve already opted out of the negativity and stress and obligations plaguing me. I have more personal power than I’m laying claim to in this moment.

So I think free, and the burring noise of happiness (a hum, a purr) starts thrumming in my chest again.

And I keep writing, because I want to, because I can, and so I will.

Image Credit: Royalty Free Images.

Can’t blog, must write!

(Plus, I just moved to a new, lovely duplex with J! It does not have internet yet, so blog posts may be less regular than usual for a week or two. Bear with me!)

In honor of awesomeness and a bit of creepiness for the death of the sun, I give you The Raven by Omnia:

I’ve been mindspewing creature-designing and worldbuilding ideas in preparation for writing Oh, The Inhumanity!, and I think I feel the tiny little flicker of a would-be rant guttering in my chest.

See, I have a pet peeve. Non-humans should be non-humans. In science fiction and fantasy alike, most of your non-humans are what I would consider humanoids – symmetrical bipedal races with human-parallel physiology and psychology. Some different clothing, a bit taller or shorter (or skinnier or wider – hi, elves and dwarves), pointy ears, colorful skin, and an accented version of the common tongue, and voilà! You have a humanoid. We, as human readers, can relate to the humanity of the race and its individuals, while (hopefully) appreciating the differences in body and culture.

That’s fine, that’s cool. That’s a distinct class of non-humans that are purposefully similar to humans for very understandable reasons. They’re the easiest to work with in fiction and most relatable for our audience.

When a book introduces a giant quadrupedal predator who still thinks like a civilized, social human, I get my hackles up. C’mon, guys. They aren’t human. Give them a difference. Let’s broaden our minds, shall we?

Imagine, if you will, a human being born with a set of animal behaviors and instincts. This is still a human in body and will be raised as a human, in human society, but its base instincts are some animal instead of evolved monkey. This person – we’ll call him Bob – is inherently, innately, undeniably inhuman. If he’s a tiger, he’s going to have to balance social tendencies from his human rearing with completely antisocial tendencies from being a lone predator. There will be immutable qualities in the core of his psyche that are not human.

Imagine, if you will, a humanoid born into a human society. Even if she’s raised as a human, she’s going to have different base instincts and behavioral tendencies, as well as some moderately different physiological needs, depending on her specific race. Even though she will be effectively multicultural, she won’t lose her innate inhumanity that is her birthright as a non-human. She’ll likely experience internal (and possibly external) conflict over her adopted culture and her instinctual heritage.

Now, imagine a humanoid culture in its infancy. This species is now at the apex of their physical evolution and progressing into civilization and probably technology. For the sake of this example, say they have never met humans – they’re in a secluded land, or on a different planet. They don’t have our monkey instincts; they have their own. How differently would they develop, even if they have human-parallel bodies and neurological structures, when their core is unshakably inhuman?

Do I really need to ask you to imagine how different a non-humanoid race would be from us?

A Korat is not human. They do not have opposable thumbs; they do not stand on two legs. They have fur, claws, sharp teeth, and a predator’s set of movement-oriented senses. A human can gaze into a sunset and marvel at the incredible masterpiece of color and light; a Korat will look at a sunset and notice far less of the stationary detail. A human will see a blur of dull color in the underbrush and wonder if he imagined it; a Korat will watch a rabbit run and be able to count its strides out of the corner of his eye without even focusing. A human has different social needs than a Korat, different emotional and instinctual reactions to pain and fear and anger and sadness, and different ways of expressing himself. A human may react to danger with noisy aggression or cowering fear, while a Korat may react to the same situation by becoming completely still, alert, and poised to move – without any emotional investment.

Even when I find inhuman non-humans in fiction, I often find cases of human-envy. We are humans, so it’s natural that we’re human-centric. But Korats don’t pine for opposable thumbs or a bipedal gait. Korats don’t wish they were technologically advanced. In fact, Korats are Korat-centric – surprise! – and have a lot of racial pride. They like how their species is, and they don’t feel any inclination to become less like a Korat and more like anything else.

Humanoids certainly have a strong place in fiction, but I’d love to see more non-humanoids take a shining role with their differences and, yes, their incomprehensible alienness.

Have you ever created a non-human race that was truly inhuman? If not, why?

Of all the people in the world, a fiction writer seems to be one of the least qualified to tell you to live in your body. Especially one who works as a computer geek. I spend my work and play hours on a computer, sitting down and trying to avoid numb-butt syndrome by stretching every now and then. I type 119 words per minute without any particular effort. I can tell when a graphic-in-progress in Photoshop is a pixel or two off. I’m a certifiable dork.

Who am I to ask if you’re present in your physical flesh?

(Well, I’m A, but if you’re here, you know that already, right?)

Since we’re asking questions, how about this one: If you’re writing any sort of physical motion, how will you describe how it feels if you haven’t lived as a spine-flexing, muscle-contracting, blood-pumping body?

Everyone knows that writers can and do write things they haven’t personally experienced. “Write what you know” is a common adage, seemingly in contradiction to our immense imaginations. Take them both in moderation and consider this: how different would a short story about drag-racing be if the author had never even gotten his driver’s license? How would you write about a long cross-country journey if you’ve never walked through the woods? Sure, research and second-hand stories are great, but do they really replace personal experience?

Stephen R. Boyett wrote a great article about The One True Thing. He writes fantasy, but he gathers as much real-life experience pertaining to that fantasy as possible, so that he can include genuine details that make the unbelievable a little more real. Tiny things like road signs, the oft-overlooked decorations on large buildings, and that one tree that juts up from that hill over there when you’re driving down the highway. As a result of these True Things, his readers can suspend disbelief all the more easily.

And, really, can you write a story without ever having a physical body moving?

Are you present enough in your own skin to make it believable?

Give me the one true thing. The sudden rush of heat following a sharp pain; the sensitivity of your fingertip when a long nail is suddenly chopped short; the itch of a necklace chain on your collarbone. Make me believe that your character is just as alive as me – even if he’s the farthest thing from human you can get.

Live it, and let your stories benefit from your life.

I am a private person. I have locked and filtered my livejournals in the past and used an alias to firmly separate my name from my online presence. I’m still taking measures to keep that alias separated from this online presence, although anyone with some Google-fu could figure me out fairly easily. (No, that is not an invitation, thank you very much. I’m still talkin’ here! Put the search engine down and step away slowly…)

I’m a marketer, among other things. I understand personal branding, which is why my alias is so hard to cleave cleanly. I’ve been online since 2000. My fiction and worldbuilding is spattered all over the place, cohesively branded as me and mine – but I don’t link that name to this one.

I’m a bit of a weird person. A freak, if you will. I’d rather not have my legal name associated with my personal quirks, especially when it comes to employers and coworkers wandering the internet and potentially discovering too much. (I’m not talking about anything illegal or sexual here, just so you know.) I am not mainstream when it comes to religion and spirituality, to interpersonal relationships and humanity, to worldview and philosophy, or to hobbies and interests. I am a perfectly functional adult who leads an awesome life and does some good for people, and I certainly don’t lie about who and what I am, but I also don’t blatantly advertise it in settings where people might not want to know that I have sworn by the Flying Spaghetti Monster before.

Starting this blog and taking the first step towards professional authordom is making that balancing act increasingly difficult. I’ve showed a coworker this site (she asked about conlangs!) and put this site’s design on my resume, so I have a vested interest in blending personality and professionalism. All the same, I refuse to not be me. I’m a writer, for godssakes, and my eccentricity and imagination are absolutely vital to any success I have in storytelling.

At this point in my life, I don’t think conformity is worth it for me. Certainly not here, as a fiction writer, and not really in the 9-5 workforce, either. I’ve come a long way, and I’m done apologizing for being my own person. I’m living my life my way, and I love it – and if I can serve as proof that it can be done, maybe more people will follow their hearts and put away the plastic masks so many of us wear. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I’m not afraid of whatever results my individualism earns.

This ain’t your mama’s fiction, kids, and I ain’t your typical author.

Image Credit: Royalty Free Images.

“What is that?”

The grey-furred Nila looked up, no expression crossing his flattened face. Yellow eyes sought the origin of the inquisitive voice, but the forest greenery was thick and concealing. He drew his brows low to express disapproval. “It is a drum,” he answered flatly, four-fingered hands stilled on the wooden carving. He had been binding the head of the drum, made of Leasheas hide, to the mouth.

“What’s a … drum?” the voice asked, carefully pronouncing the new word. “What’s it do?”

The Nila identified the general direction of the speaker and shifted his position to face it, black claws carefully resuming the tedious stitch-and-wrap. “A drum is this,” he answered impassively. “It makes noise.”

“Wood and skin and–” There was a pause, then the faint sound of sniffing, “–gut-rope? How does that make noise?”

The Nila sighed. He really had no need to humor his invisible watcher, so he stayed silent and completed the very last bindings. Tufts of silver and violet fur still ringed the edge of the drumhead, and the wood had been carefully carved to preserve the grain-patterns. Even the gut-rope had been skillfully braided. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he drew a dyed leather strip from the pouch at his hip and wound it about the waist of the small drum.

“What’s that for?” the voice pestered.

“Do you not have anything better to do?” the Nila countered peevishly, removing a few strings of braided cords from the same pouch. These were decorated with teeth, claws, and feathers, and twined in the weave were long hairs from the same Leasheas that gave its skin for the drum’s head. The wood’s rich red-brown color was well-complimented by the silver, violet, and deep blue of the decorations.

“Not really,” the voice responded. It sounded cheerful, and a few leaves whispered a warning of movement. The Nila looked up as the speaker poked its dark face through the canopy, a fanged grin stretching open a long, sleek muzzle. “I noticed the reek of Leasheas blood. Tell me, did you actually eat it?”

“It was a sacrifice,” the Nila replied, frowning up at the black Korat. “We do not eat sacrifices. Its flesh was burned.”

“Food is scarce on the best of days, and you don’t eat what you kill?” The Korat snorted, nostrils flaring wide. It descended to a lower bough, the sturdy branch five feet thick, then sprawled languorously. “Even if Leasheas are sentient, no sense in wasting meat. You could have at least left it for the Chitters or something.”

The Nila huffed, then lifted the drum reverently to study it from all angles. It was a good work of craftsmanship, and he was proud of it. Far better than his first two.

“Why do you even need a noise-maker like that?” the Korat asked conversationally. Its blue eyes remained trained on the Nila below.

The Nila didn’t reply, shifting his weight on the log that had served as his workbench. He had to lean forward, his ankles pressed against the rotting bark and his knees jutting out, and his tail got in the way and bent awkwardly upwards–but he managed to settle the drum between his knees and hold it there with his legs alone. It was a good fit, a good solid feeling – not too heavy, not light enough to be fragile.

“That looks uncomfortable,” the Korat commented from thirty feet above. “I didn’t know your tail could twist like that. Your tail is short and fat – I don’t think you’re supposed to–”

The Nila slapped the head of the drum with one flattened hand, and the resulting bark of noise silenced the Korat. The forest was too dense to allow an echo, but the sound was satisfyingly loud nonetheless. The Nila allowed himself one more tiny smile, then lifted his yellow gaze to the lounging Korat.

The Korat blinked down at him. “Uh,” it mumbled, looking uncertain.

The Nila flattened his other hand in the same way, careful to keep his claws from piercing the head, and slapped the drum three times. Left-right-left. The last note was the deepest, and it rang a shade longer than the other two. He curled one hand and extended his long thumb, then slapped the drum with the side of his thumb. It produced a deeper, shorter note when he struck the center of the head, and a lighter one when he struck near the rim.

“Hey,” the Korat said, drawing its limbs beneath its body into a crouch, “do that again.”

Feeling pleased enough with his work to oblige, the Nila repeated the notes. Short-short-long, deep-light. He kept his right hand flat and alternated the slap with the thumb-strike from his left hand. Short-deep-short-light-long.

The black Korat stood on its branch and swayed, as though it were going to topple. The Nila eyed it, then repeated the rhythm. The Korat seemed to be moving in time to the beat. “That’s catchy,” the Korat said, its muzzle creasing in a grin. “Keep it up.”

The Nila continued to drum as the Korat began to dance.