It's my 500th post! Woohoo!
I made
my first posts in February, 2011. Now, over 3 years later, here we are. I've published my first book,
Into the Tides--which, okay, was not the first one I've written, just the first one I've published. I know a lot more now (for instance, mailing myself a copy of my manuscript isn't considered adequate copyright protection; however, registering the copyright is). And a few of my life goals are different: for example, I've since decided that self-publishing is more advantageous for me.
It's been a wonderful, crazy, delicious few years. I've made fantastic new friends, while keeping my oldest friends close to my heart. Turns out, following my dreams--as terrifying as it was--seems to be working out all right for me.
And the blog has grown, too. I
looked at the stats in 2012 and was pretty blown away by how much it had grown. It's kept growing since. No, not the million-hit-a-day kind of popular, but I'd call it fairly respectable. Here's a clip from today's stats!
Here's a toast to everyone who has joined me on my blog, and helped me grow it!
Thanks, guys, you rock! :D
The most popular post now, in case you're wondering, is the
Sapience vs Sentience post. #2 is
"How to tie a perfect bow."
As a major-blog-post-number celebration, I'm going to share a (sort of) deleted scene: the original opening to
Into the Tides. This is the beginning that enraptured me so hard I had to keep writing the story, the writing exercise that took on a life of its own and superseded an outlined plot to become a book I couldn't stop writing until I finished.
Eventually, I replaced it with the current opening, but I kept as much as possible at a later point in the novel (You'll recognize it if you see it!). Still, much was also deleted.
The original, since-deleted opening:
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The best hours of
my youth were those I spent watching my mother work.
As an editor, she
would spend hours working on the computer, tump-tump-tumping
away, or else sitting with her eyes dancing and her mouse click-click-clicking. When it was “Mommy’s
work time,” she’d place my brother and me in our play zone with crayons and
paper, put in a pair of earbuds connecting to her cranky old iPod, turn the
volume to midway, and start tapping out the tune of the music on her collarbone
as she read.
As I got older, I
discovered that I could judge her clients’ work by that tapping. Tump-tump-tump,
regularly to a beat I couldn’t hear, meant they were doing well, that she
didn’t need much concentration because there wasn’t much that needed fixing.
When the beat dissolved into a rapid flutter, I knew she was enraptured, on the
edge of her seat as the novel gripped her and wouldn’t let her go. When that
happened, sometimes she wouldn’t remember to make dinner, or hear Dad come in.
She’d always hear us if we cried, though; she never forgot her kids.
When she ran into
something that made her think, the beat would lapse into silence, and her lips
would curl into a moue. These were the moments she loved the best, even more
than being swallowed by the story. Mom liked a good challenge, and so when she
found a passage that came so close to
being perfect, if only she could figure out what it needed… Sometimes, if she
really had to think, she’d pull the earbuds out and stare at the screen in
silence. Her nose would scrunch and scrinch and squirm around her face, and her
eyes would take turns squinting and rolling around. She was always in a good
mood after a day like that.
I could tell she’d
be in a bad mood if the rhythm slowed without stopping. Tump… Tump… Tump… it was the Imperial Death March, the ominous
sound of funeral drums. But worse were the occasional e-mails—the ones she
despised more than anything, when a once-favored writer was snatched away by a
larger publisher. That usually led to squeaky vituperation and the dramatic crack of Mom mercilessly kicking the
tiny, battered trashcan under her desk. This was usually followed by more
high-pitched cursing, as Mom rarely wore shoes, and the trashcan sensibly chose
to fight back by being metal. We typically ate out on those nights, because Dad
was a terrible cook.
In actuality, Dad
watched us more often than Mom did. Mom’s job might let her take her work home
on Monday and Tuesday afternoons, but she often had to travel, seeking out new
clients for her company. Dad’s job was a little more flexible. As a
fourth-class music Power, he went from clinic to clinic, hiring himself out by
the hour to sing away patients’ pains. As a subcontractor, he got to choose his
hours; he tried to keep his schedule as regular as possible for the patients’
sakes, but his own kids came first.
Trax and I never
doubted that our parents were deeply in love, improbable as other people found
their relationship. Mom was a book editor; Dad read stop signs and movie
posters. Dad was a fantastic musician and Powered; Mom was tone-deaf and as
magical as a rock. I think their differences may well have been the secret to
their success, as much as it bewildered Dad’s die-hard fans after he’d traded
in the search for fame for a house and two kids.
Dad’s account of
how they met was much more dramatic than Mom’s, but hers was probably more
accurate. Mom had been at a battle-of-the-bands concert, celebrating her
acceptance as an intern at the publishing house. Dad overheard her talking
about an agent whose client had been turned down, and just like that, he was
all over her. Fortunately, he was decent enough to keep the date, even after
realizing she’d been talking about a literary
agent. Over the course of dinner, they discovered that she hated his music, he
read as often as he shaved his cat, she thought that Powers were mostly
useless, and he didn’t approve of anyone who couldn’t play at least one kind of
instrument.
Trax and I were
born five and half years later.
My brother took
after Dad in musical skill, but I got Mom’s complete tone-deafness. I mean, I’m
not just tone-deaf, I’m literally
tone-deaf, as in physically incapable of identifying a single note by itself,
due to a neurological misconnection. That’s what made it so crazy when I hit
puberty and discovered I’d inherited Dad’s Powers, while my brother stayed as
mundane as Mom.
For a while, Dad
thought he might be able to train me, anyway. The problem is, musical-based
Powers actually require the user to be able to hit a note. The right note.
Music Powers are supposed to be able to hear every nuance of every sound, the
tones of the world around us. I couldn’t. So he tried to teach me accompaniment
instead. Sounds just fine; I have a pretty enough voice when I try and even if
I can’t carry a tune, I make an interesting counter-melody, but… well, let’s
just say it’s sort of disaster magically.
My brother, on the
other hand, took full advantage of his lack of Powers to do what Dad never
could: he started a band, and at 17 sold his first record. Dad was really proud
of him for accomplishing what he couldn’t. It’s not that Dad wasn’t as good as
my brother, but he was Powered. Everyone expects the Powered to do something—not just entertain. Dad
thought he could get away with it, being only 4th-class, but if
you’re more than a 6th, fame’s a dead-end road.
While my brother
was getting famous, I was getting shuttled off to Mechany’s School for the
Magically Disabled, which is sort of a super-intensive school for fixing
magical learning disabilities that accepted students as young as twelve and as
old as college. Dad’s attempts at tutoring me through it put me with the
college prep kids. I wasn’t powerful enough to be dangerous, but I was powerful
enough that I could be useful—if I
could use my magic.
I managed to
escape the barrage of researchers, since the source of my disability was pretty
obvious, but it meant I never got a lot of one-on-one attention. Rogers’ Research Institute
only granted funds when researchers asked for them; being tone-deaf didn’t
qualify as interesting, so no private tutors for me. During my freshman college
year, though, my professors had some marginal success. I’m not your typical
Powered, but we found a way for me to somewhat use my Power. Still, they
downgraded my talent classification to 6th, because while I had the
power for 4th-class, I was pretty limited in what I could actually
do.
I transferred to a
regular college with the understanding that I’d never make a living off my
Power. Being a music Power without musical ability pretty much strikes that
profession off the charts. But I was able to get a pretty good job in the
editorial department of an online magazine—‘pretty good’ meaning that I had a
job, not that it paid well. I moved to Madison, WI, and not too long after, my brother moved to New York to appease his
career manager.
Mom and Dad stayed
in the South. When the Tides hit, we lost them—we lost our grandparents and our
cousins—we lost everyone south of Virginia and
east of Texas.
Trax moved in with
me as soon as the road bans were lifted. I was all he had left. The rent went
up shortly thereafter, but thanks to his career, we had more than enough, even
though the housing market was sky-high.
Nobody wanted to
live on the coast anymore.
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Being tone deaf, Kelly always considered her music magic useless. But when her neighbor Derik invites her on a salvage mission in the magic-devastated American South, she discovers she can hear the voices of the people lost.Now, hoping to save the family she lost, she'll seek out a way to collapse the bubble of magic drowning most of the region. But Derik and her only surviving relative--her twin brother--aren't about to let her face being trapped forever in the magic herself, or death by its monsters.Trying to get back everyone she's lost might just cost her everyone she has left.
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