Ridding the bird's eye in my writing

I've been collaborating with a few friends over the past few weeks. And it's been loads of fun. What I like most about our collaboration is the maturity of our friendships. We haven't actually seen each other in years, but the bonds of fellowship we created more than a decade ago remain strong.

The setting we've been developing as backdrop for the stories we're hoping to collect into an anthology is nothing short than the best we want it to be.

There's something in it for each of us, and we're working hard at making it interesting for any fantasy reader.

The more we develop the setting the more I start to realize that what we've done is create a playground. There's so much to explore. Heroes. Villains. Myths. Legends. Artifacts. Geography. Culture. Quests. A boy. A girl. A fantasy setting... (:

As I craft my first story I also realize that I have spent so much time fleshing out the setting that my writer's eye needs glasses. I'm too far sighted. Writer peeps refer to this storytelling stigma in need of editor optometry as the voyeur.

I'm too busy telling the story. I'm not owning it, not showing it.

There is but one cure for this bird's eye view in my writing.

I have to be "in" the characters, in their mannerisms, their hopes, their motives, their actions; "in" the air, the storms, the trees, the flowers, the seeds; "in" every aspect of the story until the veil between my mind and my word is transparent.

I've been working on this everyday. In many ways blogging has helped me to erase that gap. Blogging is all about me. Me. Me... ME!

As egocentric as that sounds, its true for characters in a story. Keeping the characters always in the center of the story is what keeps a story from turning into checkers, moving pieces with no sense of identity or a will of their own, controlled by some invisible omnipotent hand.

There is one more thing. The most important lifeline. I have to care about the characters, whether morally just or vacant, trusting or cautious, altruistic or power hungry, philosopher or tyrant... If I'm not pumping my imagination into that character, he or she has to be reworked until the character means something more than a shell of words.

We're moving. Yeah, again... But guess what I found?!

We're moving in a few weeks, again. North from the place we never thought we would leave.

If you've ever had a chance to hang out with us, we say that a lot. We've said that at least eight times in the last seven years. We've moved, oh, what six times in the last four years? I hate moving, but moving is like job hunting. We transplant across town to where living within our means is just another day.

We thought we'd never leave the apartment we've been renting since only January, but here we are, moving once more.

In the last five months a lot has changed. Some changes were expected. Some changes were not. Job changed. Interests changed. Diaper changes. Shan is almost finished with her undergrad courses. Then it's off to grad school. Her daughter changed schools. The toddlers are older. I've dived head first into app development and fiction writing. We've all changed with the changes in the economy...

But, we never thought we would be changing addresses, again, so soon.

We suspected we would at some point. Shan has career goals. She's been talking about what her options are for practicum hours and opportunities she would have after earning her master's degree. Plus the kids will be older. There's five of us. Lots of mouths to feed. Lots of room needed to play. Lots of challenges to undertake. Lots and lots more.

In the meantime, we're moving.

We're moving into the family house where her mom spent the last years of her life raising her three daughters, where we'll be responsible for our share of the utilities, some garden work (which I'm looking forward to, now that cooking is as natural to me as drawing), and some other TLC around the house.

That's it.

No more rent.

No more security deposits.

No more sleepless nights because someone is trying to break into the apartment for the fifth time this week!

But who knows. We'll probably uproot sometime down the road just when we think everything is going well. We'll pack just to unpack...again.

Over the last few weeks we've been taking inventory of our things. There isn't much room for our stuff. We'll be renting a garage for whatever can't fit into the house. Although Shan's sister made a really good point today at lunch: What's the point of storing it for a long time? You won't get any use out of it.

Duh--

We're so used to moving, the process has been engrained. We want to keep our stuff safe until we need it again. But when is that? In a few months? Years? Why not yard sale it? Well, that's when we realized we would need some storage in the rooms for our things. So, we started touring second hand stores.

Our first stop was Goodwill. We strolled around the store thinking about our plans for the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the kids room, the bathroom... the usual adventure in decorating, when we stumbled upon a few interesting items.

Shan's been in a French country mood lately. Anything that fits that design theme she wants to look at it and store a picture in her cell phone. She's got the bedroom mostly mapped out and now is starting to put together some of the visual details. I like her style choices. Now, it's just a matter of finding the right paint, creating the right mood, and finally settling down for a long time.

We want the kids to grow up in a house. Not an apartment. Apartment living has passed its expiration date. Our upstairs neighbors clean at 2 a.m. Can we complain? Sure. But why? We know the woman of the house works odd hours and the man of the house works even stranger hours.

The neighborhood isn't really all that bad. We're just home a lot. I've heard the conversations. Do they have money? They must. They never work. He never leaves. He's always home. The conversations are spoken in Spanish. I understand what they're saying. So, what? I work too. Just from home. I'm a graphic artist. I have a computer. Just because I'm not the typical worker bee, doesn't mean I don't work. But that's what started the rash of attempted break-ins. No, we're not rich. If we were would we be living in a densely populated city? Uh, no. It's time to move.

At the Goodwill, everything was color-coordinated. Clothes. Flatware. Shoes. Bowls. Candleholders. Shan noticed that and pointed it out. She also saw something that fit her French country motif and was set on buying it. It's a few bucks. Not a bank breaker. Meanwhile I was looking at some kitchen stuff. Most of it was used. I examined a few pieces not sure if I really wanted to add more cookery to the kitchen since what I'm really after is a server. But no luck on that front, so far.

My eyes suddenly fell onto a stack of trays. Hand-fashioned aluminum tea and serving trays. I lifted each one, admiring, examining the condition of each piece, and then I stumbled upon THE find.

I knew it wasn't aluminum. The plate was heavier. It was decorated with flowers in relief. My heart starts racing. I know vintage when I see it. I turn the plate over. Towle scrolled on the underside. 1967. The stock number... I look at the sticker price. I couldn't believe it. I felt transported. My imagination wrote an entire story with this plate as its centerpiece.

I know exactly what I'm going to do with this plate. Shan's mom enjoyed life the way few people do. When she went on her SoCal tag sales and flea market strolls she would often return home with some interesting piece of history. Sometimes that treasure held a lingering smile, like a tea pot or a blanket, the perfect conversation piece. Sometimes it was a pair of worn shoes that had some mileage on its heels. This plate would be used for holiday meals. It was vintage, just like her soul.

All because we were moving...

Writing a zombie short story is not so easy

I decided to try to write a short story about zombies.

Then I gave myself a word limit.

What the hell was I thinking?

It's not that easy to write a post-apoc story about a survivor struggling with life and death and humanity and a fractured mind in oh, I don't know, less than a few thousand words. There's so much to figure out. What was this person like before the end of the world? What kind of things did this person care about? Family? Friends? What shaped this person's life? Then there's the survivor story in itself. Then, there's the what happens next...

It was much more difficult than I thought.

But I like this challenge. I have to write the story tight.

No crap.

No long exposition.

Right to the heart of the story. Fast.

It's been a good exercise so far.

My girlfriend is a die-hard zombie fan. If she could take a minor in Zombie Lit she would. She knows a lot. Not just the stories. How they're constructed. The nuances. The metaphors.

I asked her to read the story.

She did.

The next two hours were spent talking about the human condition under crisis.

She's a psych major.

We had an amazing conversation about what makes the mind tick. What makes the mind splinter. What shapes personality. What readers expect to see in a zombie movie and what they expect to read in a zombie story.

So, I have to rewrite. I have to throw the story out entirely.

She made a great point: A zombie movie isn't so much about the zombies. It's about the survivors and how they cope. That's where a zombie plot really begins. What carries the story is a survivor meeting another survivor. Without that meeting there's no zombie story.

Well there you have it.

I'm starting over.

Have to.

The story I wrote was a zombie fairytale. There where parts of the story that were decent. But just parts. I was just trying too hard to make the story fit to a word count. This happens sometimes. I was cutting corners, essentially. I wasn't focusing on showing the protagonist's struggle. Well, that's being too harsh a critic. I was. Just not enough.

I know I can do it.

I'm going to crunch the story until I get it down to its bare bones and then add just a little bit more... Not much more. Can't put too much life back into a zombie plot. Humanity's been wiped out. What's left? I have the protagonist. I have to think about him some more. I rushed it.... Time to slow him down.

Tick...

Tock...

... tick...

...

Sometimes I journal in character

A friend asked me how I come up with ideas for roleplaying campaigns. The honest answer is that I don't create a plot line, encounters and maps to populate until I have the entire villain cast firmly in my head. Without him or her and those menacing, power-hungry underlings, the plot would have little, if any, triumph.

Sure, the players could roll dice from dawn to dusk. And, yes, one of the players undoubtedly would have either made, bought, traded, stole, or just outright inherited some ridiculous ego-fueld bastard sword powered with the undeniable forces of sunlight and righteousness; but how often can he brandish that sword? CONSTANTLY...!

Whenever he entered a tavern, a temple, a den... every time.

I can see the group throwing up their arms and groaning--again!--as I'm typing this blog post, smirking. Some real funny shit came out of those sessions. We still talk about the player who said, with his thief, "I motion to the dragon to come over here." The audacity. Everyone roared with laughter. Well, you can imagine what happened next. No, fire didn't race around the dragon's teeth and over its outstretched tongue to incinerate the fop. The damned thing was bored. It hadn't laughed so hard in ages...

But I knew this ahead of time, and was playing around with various concepts of dragon personalities. Not types, like the classic metallic or chromatic breeds of AD&D dragons. I was toying around ideas like do dragons have a funny bone? Are they always jaded lizards ready and willing to kill for sport? Some, perhaps, but then they'd just be bull sharks with wings and furnaces. If they're intelligent might as well go the distance, right?

So, I did.

In the end, the dragon perished, sort of. If I remember correctly, the ranger and the archer fired a stream of arrows at the dragon's neck. He swung his neck back, too high, enraged with the shift in civility. The dragon smacks the cavern roof with his head and loosens stalactites, which come crashing down around the players. The mage-thief among the group predicted this possibility. It was epic. The rumbling cavern. Towering cones of earth. Sweeping gouts of fire. The players were hard pressed and barely escaped...

But in order to role-play the dragon properly, I had to journal the old creaky lizard, in character.

I was so engrained with the traditional concept of the RPG dragon, I wasn't sure where to begin. So, the journaling began.

What was the red death like in his prime? Did he venture far? Did he forge alliances, and if so, with who? He recalled an unfortunate experience with a dragon hunter. He grappled with his own imperfections among his fellow kin. He was embarrassed by his flatulence, which caused him great belly pains and produced even more breaths of fire.

He discovered a farming village and preyed upon them. They grew something that soothed his belly aches. Yup, you guessed it, ginger.

All of this I journaled. So that when the time came I knew exactly how the dragon would think, what his mannerisms were, and most importantly, how he would respond to the players' characters.

Journaling helped me free the dragon from the trappings of stereotypes. And, it gave me a character I have enjoyed thinking about from time to time. I may reconstruct his journals someday. They're long gone, somewhere in a landfill, buried among other adventurous tales. Who knows, I may fully resurrect him. I did, in the campaign, though. He swore to hunt the players down, and finish what they had started...

Three storytellers sharing ideas? Oh, the possibilities!

Over the last few weeks two of my good friends have been blogging about world settings.

How to create them.

How to map them out.

Regions and their inhabitants, all as building blocks for storytelling.

Well, now its gone into a whole new area, and we're creating settings together.

We're seasoned RPG players enough to know what each wants to see, what each wants to develop. Each brings his own flare for storytelling and for characterization, naming conventions and style.

We've been roleplaying for so long now it seems only natural that we're sharing ideas. Chris, I think, has been roleplaying the longest. He was playing with his older brother and father, dungeon crawling and temple toppling long before I cracked open my first D&D Red Box.

Chris has an amazing collection of RPG settings and rule books. If he wanted to he could write a grant to house his books for rental in some office space. He organizes an annual RPG convention in San Diego, HyphenCon, a few years in the running now.

Tom is knee deep in anything that suits his fancy.

Just the other day we set up a Facebook group.

Now, from the one group, there are two groups.

After reading the first setting Tom created, originally a Sword & Sorcery realm ruled by desert kings and dueling nomads, the mystical, magical, and mighty elements just blossomed in my head. My imagination kind of went supernova.

Sometimes it's difficult to rein in my imagination. Its provided a wealthy resource of distraction. As a kid I would often be found in my room, quiet, invested, building castles, robots, dragons, starships, whatever with my buckets of Legos could construct.

Guess nothing has really changed since then. I've just exchanged blocks for a keyboard.

I enjoy creating. I enjoy the process of creating. Then we talked about writing short stories.

Bam!

The floodgate broke like toothpicks buckling against a rushing river.

Over the course of two days I drafted five story summaries. They're basic. Just shells. One of them I'm crafting, gently, as always.

I'm a slow writer. Very slow. Very, very slow...

Writing doesn't come easy. I mold it, work it, edit it probably 10 or 15 times until the story is right.

Drives me crazy that my friends, especially my girlfriend, can crank out an essay in two hours. Me? I need a week to write a 5 pager. She can bang it out in an afternoon. She's been thinking about it, of course, for days. She's going about her days, like Hemingway swinging on his porch, letting his eyes wander from sunset to field, drinking iced tea.

Suddenly, the essay is due. She walks over to the laptop, awakens it, opens Word, and click, click, click. The essay just flows. Does she edit? No. Does she read it aloud? Yes. Just to make sure it flows. But of course it flows. That's her gift. Language comes naturally to her. Like breathing. Like a heart beating.

Me? Takes me a while. Like I'm running up hill. Inhale too fast and I've got to slow down, or even stop.

For me the words conjure the visuals. I'm an artist, remember. I see the words before I hear them. So, when I'm crafting my stories, the visual element is always there, in some form, first.

It's been fun letting my imagination just go hog wild. I have to careful, though. My enthusiasm can be zealous. And I know that zeal can lead to a sudden lack of sleep. It's just the creator in me. I know my limits. Kids, girlfriend, meals, bills... You know. All the things that matter. Some more than others. Daily scheds just can't get tossed out with the trash. But, again, it's about muse management.

Chris posted a flash fiction for the second, sci-fi setting. Great, tight, short short.

Can't wait to see what we cook up next.

I like to call this creative endeavor company fit for crafting.

Managing Muse: Rust and Roses in the New Marketplace

America is a different place since the Recession; the world is a different place.

Jobs. Money. The fact that we're communicating to each other more often on Facebook and on blogs should be an indication that the fundamental way we talk to each other is different.

Different how? Different why?

Who knows, really... I suspect it has to do with the Internet. In some ways its less personal, in other ways its more personal. We can Check-In through Yelp. We can sync all kinds of apps to our Facebook account. We can Tweet. We can Text. We can Blog. GPS is like Zeus reaching for a clay mold. It knows where to find our pulse and nudge us. Most importantly, friends, near and far, can locate us, where ever our feet may land.

I stumbled upon Amanda Hocking's blog a few months ago and learned that she's doing pretty good for herself. She's in her mid-20s. She's got a blog. She writes stories about supernatural heroes and villains. And she's made more than 2 million bucks because she managed her muse for the Kindle market.

A few years ago if someone would have asked me if I had a Kindle, I would have said, "No, I don't have a fireplace, so why would I need kindling."

Chuckle all you want. Like Apple when it open sourced its software and kickstarted iTunes into the money-making cow ranch that it is, the e-Reader market is going through a very similar growth, thanks to artists like Amanda Hocking.

The artist must create, I wrote on a Facebook post.

So, what is she doing that I'm not?

Managing the muse.

She worked some random job before reaching her acclaim. She typed as often as she wanted to, as often as she could stand to write. Between parties. Between visits with friends. After paying her bills, rent, cell phone, a quick bite somewhere, and getting ready for work all over again...

She's proven that if you don't manage your muse, the artist inside rusts. It remains restless and without expression fades. She's managed her muse so well she's nurtured a dedicated following of readers and also the recent eye of St. Martin's Press. She got a book deal.

Damn good for a writer published on the Kindle.

I have no illusions about her success either.

She has incredible timing.

The Twilight Saga isn't over. The series has two more movies left in its franchise. That's two more years.

If Amanda manages her muse and her talent right she could land a movie deal. That could go either way. On the film scale she could receive acceptance or dismissal. Viewers are harsher critics, I think, than book readers. Reading is patience, is personal, is investment of more than a few hours in a darkened room.

What I've learned from Amanda is the same thing I've learned from every other artist out there. If I don't continue developing my artist talent, my craft will rust.

And I have been developing that craft. For many years I designed newspaper layouts, advertising, magazine covers, mailers... just about anything that can be printed I have experience with.

But jobs in America have changed. I can't design web sites. Can't code. Can't re-code. Can't make the thing tick likes it running on fuel. I can, however, make it sparkle like a Hollywood starlet.

So, here I am, talented...

Almost rusting.

Until I stumbled across Amanda Hocking.

In this new marketplace, Apple and Kindle have thrived. An app can cost $1.99. An e-book can cost $4.99. Most are the product of entrepreneurs, small business peeps turned artists in a short amount of time.

In this new marketplace, though, the expectations can be high, especially if I compare myself to Amanda. But I won't. And I shouldn't. That's just plain hubris.

What I am interested in doing is writing for the Kindle market. A few novellas a year. Maybe even a compilation of short stories. A full-lengthed novel? I don't have time to write something of that length. I'm developing apps too. Got one in the cooker. Two more in the hopper.

Perhaps my efforts will turn into a rose garden. Who knows, really?

Only time will tell.

Here's to managing muse.

I wish all of you success.

A day with a Mexican (Buzz Lightyear)

OMG!

The funniest scene in a movie I have ever seen. Sure, I'm way behind the curve on this one, but hey, better late than never, right?

Barbie grabs the screwdriver DIY-style and spins the tool at blinding speed.

Screws fly...

The lid pops off.

Hampton rifles through the instruction manual searching for the How To Reset.

He finds it.

Suddenly he's warning Rex not to hold his finger inside the hole for more than 5 seconds because--

Zzzzt!

Jiggle-jiggle. Ping...

Buzz reawakens. Hecho en Mexico!

OMG, again!

I laughed so hard I near pissed myself. But that's just the beginning.

The machismo starts flying, Buzz starts twirling, whirling, laser-pointing on tiptoe, speaking in Spanish.

Seriously, I thought Star Trek with Spanish dub was the highlight of my multicultural geekdom. You know what I'm talking about. Hearing Kirk speaking in Spanish is just money.

Until that moment.

I haven't laughed quite like that in a long time -- since the Princess Bride. And that's saying something because hearing Wallace Shawn (Vizzini ) also the voice of Rex, blurting out, "The cliffs of insanity" with that lisp of his is priceless. He played a Ferengi, too, on Deep Space 9. All the more reason to add this talented actor to the list of my favorite artists.

I'm not talking to myself, right?

You've all seen this movie?

Tell me you've seen this movie! Pixar created something magical. Alchemical, really.

After a series of near-death experiences, as though the Pixar team was channeling Armageddon with its series of impossible challenges under 12 minutes, the movie ends... with such grace and humility, the passing of a torch, the reminder that even in a coming of age story, Andy, like all of us, bridges two worlds, if we so choose to keep that torch alive.

Live life with childlike enthusiasm.

Ahhh... Moments like these remind me war and famine can be overcome with the human heart.

The credits begin to roll...

Newman sings.

Then, wait, what's this? A coda--the extra scene at the end of a movie? And, is that... Spanish guitar? Buzz's hips start swinging like Elvis.

I just lost it. The laughter, the tears; I was hysterical with mirth. Ah, what a day.

I recognized The Gypsy Kings immediately as they begin singing You Have a Friend in Me in Spanish.

That's it. That was totally it. My stomach hurt so hard.

I flew over to the computer and dove into a search for the song on iTunes...

The best shit ever...

Our beach ball is possessed!

True story...

A few weeks ago we noticed the smoky patterned purple ball rolling back and forth, over the patch of dirt in the backyard.

We had gathered around the sliding door, curious, pointing, muttering at the entertaining spectacle.

At first no one thought much of it.

But then it rolled back, striking the edge of the concrete, then back and forward again, deliberately with an unexpected, eerie determination.

The teenager immediately reached for her mother, tightly griping the loose folds of her flowing shirt, clinging to her bosom, muttering, "It's rolling... The purple beach ball is rolling--against the wind!"

That set our hairs on end.

Mind you, we're not a superstitious lot, but having nothing else to do in the kitchen, clutching each other tightly came very natural all the sudden.

The dark prose of Poe flashed across my mind.

Worried the beach ball might turn on us, we took a few steps back, seeking refuge deeper into the kitchen, toward the half wall.

The ball rolled back, again, attempting to mount concrete.

Someone squeaked.

"Oh my god!"

"Did you see that?--Did you see it?"

Gulp. Yeah...

"It's trying to roll over the lip!"

"--And onto the patio." 

Stunned, fixed on the pendulous ballet, we watched, wondering if this ominous orb was the servant of a terrifying thing waiting for nightfall.

"That's it. We're taking Paranormal Activity off the instant cue."

A few days later, on the way to the grocery store we discovered the ball securely lodged under the bumper of the minivan, inches from the garage door.

Later that week, the ball had relocated to the opposite corner, corralled with empty milk jugs and cardboard boxes, underneath the sliding glass door. How the ball managed to get inside that moat we would never know.

By Sunday afternoon, the next day, the ball was lingering near the back gate, bobbing, insisting, anxious. The portal was slightly ajar. We looked at each other. "Did you unlatch it?" No, each said in turn.

Then someone gasped, raising hand to mouth. "It's trying to break free. Look--"

"Oh, Jesus."

We leaned inward, huddling. The beach ball rolled forward, pushing the gate. The teenager screamed. There was no breeze that day.

"Seriously, it's trying to get out. It's trying to break free."

A few days ago, while collecting the trash for a dumpster run we noticed the ball had disappeared. Had it finally shed its patio shackle? Where did it roll away to, and in what direction? We were relieved and concerned all at once, worried for the family that would eventually cross paths with the purple orb.

Gone now, we dare few glimpses toward the patio, for if our luck holds, the accursed globe might return like a hellhound to pace our backyard once more...

Dishes, roaches, and M. Night

Washing dishes sucks.

The last thing I want to do is spend time scraping and scrubbing under the faucet.

But it has to be done, or the roaches could swarm the kitchen.

Soldiers rushing across an ivory lawn, they are, coordinating a candlelit siege from afar. The few, brave frontrunners know I will show them no mercy, and will crush their advance swiftly, smashing their carapace hide into the mesa overlooking the sink, with the bottom of my fist. Yet onward they press. Sheer volume may turn the tide and success will prove that I may run and hide, fearing their near bulletproof vests.

I must show no mercy, or they may sense my irrational fear and overtake me instead.

Not with anger or vengeance seated in my heart, I simply despise these scrambling oval-shaped villains for they remind me that laziness is rewarded with finger-width insects lured by the scent of leftovers.

There I was, running plates under hot water, plunging a green and yellow rectangle into dish soap, when my girlfriend walks into the kitchen.

I suddenly hear the odd and chilly score of a familiar M. Night film. I wasn't sure, but could it be?

"Is that The Village," I ask.

"Yes," she says.

Inspiration, my many artist friends say comes and goes.

One friend among them says writers are like MMA fighters. They train constantly. They train for the fight; they train for the discipline; they train because at any given moment they can lose their focus. If you lose your focus as a writer, my friend goes on to explain, you can lose a lot of ground in the meantime. So writers have to train for the between time, when they're not writing, to make the time they have time to write, count.

Powerful stuff, if you listen closely.

So I listened. And tonight, following last night's M. Night flick, I cranked out 1,000 words in less than an hour.

Never have my hands scaled that wall before. As I sat there, gazing at the backlit screen of my iMac, a sense of accomplishment washed over me. A confidence I had known reassessed itself, and found a new tier of fulfillment.

So, to you, Oh blog follower, whenever you have the urge to create, to produce, to continue a project, heed his words: Train, for rain or for shine.

Adventures in fatherhood, Sunday morning

This morning has been interesting to say the least. I think I clocked in about three hours of Facebook time, and it's not even noon yet, which seems like a lot for an AM check-in, but I'm a night owl. Most of my Facebook hours are logged in between the hours of 7:30 p.m. and 2 a.m. when I'm plugging away at my side scroll app.

My pixie daughter decided to flutter around the house, as she always does, looking for activities because as every parent knows, toddlers are the most adventurous. Everything is new. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, temperatures, surfaces, textures, everything. Meanwhile they're learning words, pronouncing everything, repeating all. No word is left unattempted. Every experience soaked up.

Sometime in the late morning my mom had called as well. She was rescheduling her visit from the previous night to stop by for a slice of freshly baked banana bread, and fresh coffee. So, I figured, what the heck. The tiny tot needed an activity. Why not give her crayons and paper to draw something for Ya-ya? Might as well have given my daughter fireworks to launch at a Hobbit Birthday Party celebrating someone's Elevendy-One years of age.

She plunged into the drawing and within a very short amount of time had scrolled the most beautiful twist of lines yet. I saw the magic flow through her hands, the intensely furrowed looks, tongue outstretched as she traced the crayon into swirls and curly-cues. A moment later, she handed me the drawing and said with great elation, "Ya-ya!"

Drawing completed, she immediately rode out on her next great big adventure, this time into the Land of Cheese and Spices.

Gathering the Pizza Hut packets of cheese and spices from last night's meal she set sail for uncharted land, tearing through the paper containers with the zeal of a treasure hunter searching for the Lost Treasure of Yore.

After mixing what seemed like four table spoons of crumbled cheese and cracked pepper into a bowl, she proceeded to add water. Naturally, every concoction needs some form of liquid, right? She dragged a chair over to the sink, turned on the tap, filled the bowl, climbed back down, carried the sloshing bowl to the table, returned for the chair and dragged it back to its point of origin. What else could I do but watch the calculated event with stunned eyes?

But one splash of water wasn't enough...

So, she poured some more water, and again, more water which she transported inside a second bowl, pouring its contents into the first until sea level was just right.

Then she grabbed a few spoons from the kiddie drawer. One for mixing, a second for stirring, and a third with which she used to offer taste tests to her little brother, himself entering toddlerhood. He was glad to offer his taste buds. He usually was oh so willing.

Suffice it to say, my love of fantasy genre came through, and all I could think about while watching the epic event unfold between these two wonderful little beings was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, the mischievous adorable Kender from the Dragonlance saga. Kender are no taller than a toddler, actually. Bright, cheerful, childlike beings with a love for all things adventure. They're always in a creative mood and have an uncanny ability to problem solve even though their journey through it seems illogical and ill-suited for earth-shattering adventurers; and they never miss an opportunity to open purses, backpacks, treasure chests, closets, pockets, cloaks, drawers... Their unchallenged curiosity is a wondrous exploration of everything within reach.

My kitchen was a Kender-home today.

And I loved every minute of it.

Sure, I could see the messes multiply, and at any moment I could have been transformed into a muggle. But I resisted that terrible urge. I was fascinated by my two kiddo-Kenders turn the kitchen on its head. Just as Tasslehoff made me laugh, my kids brought out the best smiles and belly rolling laughs I have had in quite a long time.

I love my kids. Today, I loved them even more.

Of course, with the Cheese and Pepper stew brewing nicely on the kitchen table, what else could I do but lean over the chemist and ask the most basic question? It seemed the polite thing to do.

And with that an explanation burst from my daughter's mouth as she sang along with Beauty and Beast  on the television in the background.

Four plates, three bowls, three spoons, ten packets, and one grand adventure to recall, the morning came to a gentle close.

My little boy went down for his morning nap. My daughter set up her spot on the living room floor and settled in for what seemed a long and glorious lounge to finish the tale of a spoiled young prince and his newfound love, Belle.

A few minutes later my daughter leaped off her Tinkerbell blanket and set her sights on yet another incredible adventure of mischief and curiosity, kender-style.

My girlfriend REALLY LIKES zombies

She does.

She's nuts over them.

So enthralled by their frivolous, gratuitous gore fest and silly, at times political, dark humor her fanaticism has long passed the border of survivor to obsessed, crazed, flesh-rotting delight.

I never suspected. It's not as though she wraps herself with a decomposing pashmina to keep the other flesh-eaters at bay, or keeps a clip of zombie killer bullets in a drawer. Although--Hold on, let me check...

I wouldn't put it passed her to tease those unearthly stumblers with such a snubbing taunt.

This latent interest manifested itself when on a lark we decided to catch a late-night showing of George A. Romero's, Land of the Dead. We double-dated with some friends, and meeting at the theater, grabbed the usual rounds of popcorn, licorice and Mr. Pibb (when it was served and then replaced by that no good imposter, Dr. Pepper.)

Don't ge me wrong, I really enjoy Romero's slick, artsy, politically charged zombie films, but for me that's where the obsession with the creepy stumblers ends.

I like me a good slow marcher post-apoc horror flick just like the next guy, but her like for zombies is equal to my like of sci-fi/fantasy genres, she says.

Meh, I can relate on that level.

When Chewbacca hits that guttural roar you know he's about to tear some Stormtroopers apart.

Watching a zombie flick with Shan is like watching Sex In The City. She starts rooting for the zombies. Not the humans. The zombies.

If I was ever heard rooting for the Stormtroopers I might have a bounty on my head. Might be the only way I could ever meet Fett, but hey, who's complaining.

If I have to go out in the Star Wars Universe, getting offed by Boba is no where nearly as bad as getting shut out by Captain Needa, "preparing to ah," he gasps.

Gasping zombies on the other hand is just part of the endless noise. Like laser blasters, groaning zombies do the film make.

Over time, I learned to sympathize for the zombie. They're kind of helpless underdogs. I like rooting for the underdog, even if the underdog is crawling after my drumsticks.

Still, not all zombies are stumbling, likable, groaning buffoons. Some are downright mean beasts hellbent on world domination. All they want to do is eat. Like jocks after football practice. All they want to do is stuff their faces with pizza. Human pizza, in the zombie's case. The entire deadly lot is the evil twin of Pac-Man, chomping away at the nearest Person-Pill.

Does it surprise you to learn she proudly joined the millions of viewers who tuned into AMC's, The Walking Dead, last season, and that she downloaded the entire series from iTunes, which gobbled up something like a few gigabytes on her iPhone?

Wherever she goes she takes the zombie apoc TV show with her like a membership card into an elite group of fans who appreciate survivors teetering on the edge of sanity.

I just wish I could get her a promo poster or a copy of the graphic novel or even one of those posters. She would really like it, I think. I support her tame, geeky addiction of zombies. But, really, do I have any legs to stand on? I was the first one in the house to buy Zombieville for my iPod.

Yeah, I admit it, I'm a bandwagon zombie fan.

Around here, it's fright or fight.

I think about a story until it has a thunderous pulse.

I enjoy novellas.

I enjoy the plot urgency; intimate length; sometimes lack of chapters; optional titles and art; and the excitement of completing a story without facing the effort of a novel.

When it comes to story crafting, I like to think. A LOT. And think, and think some more, and continue to think until the setting is alive and thriving in my imagination and the characters are walking, talking, breathing, and whatever else may be pertinent to the time and place.

It's what I do. And then I think some more. I think about the characters: their feelings, wants, needs, sexuality, hobbies, lifestyles, hopes, fears, habits, and most importantly motives. Through these exercises I discover the story.

(It's kind of like squeezing oranges with a juicer.)

Through the characters I begin to see the conflict. Why the conflict exists. Its origin, and why the conflict continues to exist. The conflict may be as simple as a lover's quarrel over a misplaced shared treasure. The conflict may be as difficult as a son faced with watching his mother degenerate into a zombie.

I think about the characters as friends, family, neighbors, as random encounters at Costco or at Disneyland, at a red light, waiting in line on the way to work for a cup of coffee at the local coffee house, because, after all, a story without people is just sugarless gum. The first rush is pregnant with curiosity, then after a few chews the flavor wanes, replaced with boredom and disappointment: Sugarless gum.

Who cares about sugarless gum? Yuck! I certainly don't.

I want my readers to care about the characters I have created, to cheer them on, to wonder what's in store in the resolution.

In the first novella I'm crafting, the conflict is based on a true experience of life and death. Its sudden and imminent confirmation, the specter of death, the celebration of life, the horrors of pain. I am still unpacking the emotions. My kids will never truly experience their grandma. She was a powerful woman. Spicy, hot-headed, opinionated Italian. Flawed like all of us, yet a wonderful spirit who cared so deeply and passionately about her friends and family that she was an unwavering giant.

I have been unpacking the emotions for so long now that I know I may never finish unpacking them. Something will always remind me of her and remind me of the simple fact that my kids will not have a chance to grow up with her. Never paint Easter eggs with her. Never rush into her house on Christmas morning in their pajamas. Never hear her sing Happy Birthday. In these experiences, in these memories I found a story, and it's almost finished. She gave so much to so many people. In those final months she was surrounded by the people how cared about her most. The men in her life? Nowhere in sight.

There's never a dull moment inside the mind of a creative person

It's been a few months since I last touched a piece of fiction writing and, I gotta say, I miss it.

Feels like an age between.

For a while now I've been talking to a close friend about getting back into a writing groove.

And while I have always enjoyed writing in some form: creating fantasy settings and sometimes whole worlds for my gaming groups, writing for myself, crafting stories... I never did break out beyond a very intimate space.

Well, that's not true, but it certainly feels true at times. I took a creative writing class in college and considered applying to the program where Sena Jeter Naslund teaches but that was a lifetime ago.

Transporting myself into the worlds I created for my gaming groups has been one of the most creative moments in my life. At times it was spontaneous. Other times I let the players shape the story. I'd create NPCs that they could interact with and challenge. Sometimes the players surprised me and offed the guy that should have been around for a little while longer but wasn't because I role-played him with just a little bit too much bravado. Silly me. Made for some interesting on-the-fly plot rewrites.

Still, they were some great times. I have all the maps, notes and monster sheets collected in binders  somewhere, and after recently getting in touch with some of the gaming group again realized that I wasn't the only one holding onto those memories. Some of my high school friends still have those character sheets tucked away in a drawer where a quick pull could release nostalgia into the room when called upon.

Indeed, those sessions were magical times.

With some free time suddenly in my lap I'm devoting some of those hours to crafting stories again and submitting them to the Kindle market. Check back when you can. Hope to hear from you. (: