Bathroom Monologue: Making Her

It’s too early. Go back to sleep.

Stand up. Come on, stand up.

Walk to Mommy.

You’re too old for diapers. Big girls use the potty.

Say, “Thank you.”

It’s 8:00. Time to go to this school.

Wear these skirts. They’re just like Mommy’s.

Who wears that anymore? Micros are in.

Didn’t I tell you to wear your new skirts? Why can’t you be grateful?

You dress like an old woman. What are you, a conformist?

Lighten up.

Stand up for yourself.

Do you really want to graduate a virgin?

Turn your essays in Friday.

Fold this laundry.

Love this man.

A part-time job never hurt anybody. Just ‘till my unemployment kicks in.

Can you pick up beer?

Can’t you get out of bed without making so much noise?

Is there anything that doesn’t make you nauseous?

Fill out these. Sign here.

It’s not like I asked for a kid. Maybe in a few years, but not now, right?

Make sure you take these twice a day.

Where are you going?

Breathe like this.

Why don’t you return my calls?

Why don’t you return your mother’s calls? She’s scared witless for you.

Push.

Would you like to hold him?

Are you alright, ma’am? I was asking if you’d like to hold him.

“It’s a boy?”

Yes. Would you like to hold him? I swear, he’s all cleaned up.

“…Yes, I think I would.”

Some people are waiting outside. Should I let them in?

“No. Let them wait a while longer. I have some stuff to figure out.”

Now I Get a Liebster Award

Last week Joshua "Judge Whisky" Londero bestowed the Libester Blog Award upon my person. He said it was the least he could do after I'd entertained him for so long, which is one of the more flattering things anybody's said to me in quite a while. I'd like to thank him both for the compliment and the award.

I'm a little disappointed that this one doesn't come with fun rules like "admit seven embarrassing things about yourself" or "post a picture of you and the sharpest object in your house." However, it does prescribe passing itself on to folks who, presumably, you like. The description goes:

The Liebster Blog Award originated in Germany

(Liebster means “favourite” or “dearest” in German)

In accepting this award, the recipient agrees to:
1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.
2. Reveal your top 5 picks for the award and let them know.
3. Post the award on your blog.
4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people in the blogosphere.
5. And, lastly – have fun and spread the karma!

I think my recipients posting pictures of themselves with the sharpest object in their homes would fit the definition of me "having fun." Regardless, I'm only command to pass it on, and since I didn't pass on my recent redundant awards, I'll dust off my Bookmarks for this one. Here goes.


1. Mark Kerstetter's The Bricoleur is the first blog that came to mind. Mark is in the process of figuring out what e-book project he'll take, and the blog is a great jumping-off point for content, as he's shared essays, thoughts on literature, poetry, stories and photos there. He is one of the most candid essayists I know.

2. Holt Right There has one of my favorite titles on the internet. It's run by young Jack Holt, who writes some of the weirder stuff I consume weekly, including occasional flash fiction based on movie titles (like "Shark Knight").

3. Inkstained is the blog of TS Bazelli, one of my beta readers. She's had a couple of very strong running features, including the current international bestiary "Creature Compendium." I'd never heard of The Church Grim before, had you?

4. Tim Van Sant is one fine man, and a pillar of the #fridayflash community. He writes at the OTOH, and creates a lot of the riskier and cheekier stories in the community. A stand-up guy.


5. Lastly, I bestow the Liebster upon Cathy Webster of Life on the Muskoka River. She's had a rough time lately between eye surgery and a lack of junk food. Presently she's been running a "letters from friends" event that's quite pleasant, and features at least one of the above writers.

Now, none of the above are technically obligated to photograph themselves with particularly sharp objects. I will say, though, that whomever poses with the sharpest object will win something special in my heart.

EDIT: This is actually open to all my readers and fellow writers. Snap a photo with the sharpest thing in your house. If enough people do it, we might run a formal competition.

Bathroom Monologue: Yesterday was a Holiday

"Yes, yesterday was a holiday for the Red Brigadiers. It was the day marking when the Risen Man inducted his first ministers in the Sunset Cliffs. That's why today is a holiday.

"Today marks when the Risen Man's first ministers embarked and disseminated from the Sunset Cliffs and through the archipelago, to spread his words. We're keen on spreading his news. So yes, yesterday was a holiday, and today is a holiday, and tomorrow the Red Brigadiers may observe another.

"Tomorrow marks the signing of the armistice with the Munenori. You remember that treaty? You bastards broke it five seasons ago - or it will have been five seasons ago, in about eight more days. That'll be a holiday, too, to memorialize those lost in the horrific slaughter. The day after will also be a holiday, commemorating how badly we spanked the Munenori in the Battle of the Flattenings.

"We celebrate that one with copious alcohol, because at dawn the following day begins a three-day fast commemorating the Risen Man's teachings of tolerance - or 'temperance,' if you're orthodox like my mother.

"You've got to have caught on by now: every day is a holiday for us. It's a benefit to having a religion with history. We are blessed with such heritage that any day that needs taking off, or introspection, or particular care, shall be. This way a Red Brigadier is always rested well enough to do good work, and thereby add another holiday and still more tradition to our annals, so that when the known history fades, it may be replaced by what we now do. Like in two days, when the Munenori storm these trenches again? My kids will celebrate how heroically we kicked their teeth in by taking the afternoon off."

On My Beta Readers

I’ve just finished reading the last beta reader’s manuscript on The House That Nobody Built. It was the longest, with over 1.700 comments, and by the end I taped an envelope with the page numbers of each chapter to my computer tower. I crossed them off to encourage myself to continue.

Using six beta readers drew surprise from most of the authors I know. Most only used a couple. Two concerned friends kindly e-mailed me saying they thought more would be too much work for me, and they feared I’d overwhelm myself. After a month of self-imposed deadlines and legitimately fearing for my eyesight, I’m glad I stuck with my six. Here’s why.

470-odd pages look better when broken down.

My six covered more ranges of experience. I get multiple men, multiple women, multiple ethnicities and regions represented. Some were writers and novelists, at least one works in a related craft, and two were simply passionate Genre readers. The professional zoologist knew things my linguist-nut friend didn't, and vice versa.

The bigger the population, the easier it was to discern whether something was actually functional or problematic. One of six beta readers hating a joke was not so bad, but if he’d been one of two, I’d have an exaggerated sense of the importance.

As Stephen King covered in his On Writing, having more betas also let opposing opinions go up against each other. If 1/6 was terrified by a scene and another 1/6 thought it was trite, with the others being neutral, then the tie can go to the runner.

Alternatively, as was usually my approach, I could e-mail the two outliers and find out more about the nature of their reactions, using the answers from one to form probing questions for the other, and figure out broader functionality. With only a couple betas, I’d have less of a chance of catching these instances, and at least three times during the crit such ping-ponging seriously helped balance the plot.

There were smaller boons, too. Only the third beta reader to turn in her copy noticed the following typo.

Click to resolve Blogspot's awful resolution issues!

One typo’s not so much, but only one of the six pointed out that people were eating the carcass of what had previously been identified as a poisonous creature. Only one caught a reference to Douglas Adams, and had the guts to say it was too bald and, as a fellow fan, it should go. And while I enjoyed their specialties, just as important were their ignorances; what people didn’t know or misbelieved about typical con-men or prisons had to be compensated for every bit as much as my errors.

Then there were the consensuses. When the death of one character left 3/6 readers deeply afraid for the safety of the rest of the cast, I knew I was on to something. That case was particularly relieving because of how hard it’d been for me to kill that character in the first place. There were many reasons for it to happen and I’ll likely write about it another time – but in this case, the reader pool’s reactions let me know the hard choice was the right choice. As much as I trust certain individuals, one out of two people can’t convince the way a majority of a pool can.

This is not disembodied data or focus-tested art. I know these beta readers personally or professionally, trust them, and have corresponded after they turned in their copies. I’m not looking to score 73% approval for a fight scene; I’m comparing human reactions on the page and checking in-depth as to how folks differ in experiencing my work. It may be that I’m too artsy for pure scientism. Whatever you call this, it’s the process that’s yielded my best work in the past. It’s the one I’ve got to rely on now, as I strive to produce the best thing I’ve ever written. Like I tell you every time, my beloved readers, I will not put this out unless it’s worth your time. I’m very grateful to these six for helping me get this far, as I will be to the theta readers next.

Bathroom Monologue: Deceptions of Love

"When did I stop popping breath mints before we kissed? When did you stop shaving your legs, and start picking your teeth with your pinky nail like that? Tonight I sat down next to you and didn't even think to suck in my gut. When did we become... ourselves? Ourselves in front of each other? We're not pretending so we can impress each other anymore. Last night, I used your toothbrush because I simply didn't care. I shouldn't feel okay telling you that. I should be terrified you'd catch on. The same way you should be terrified that I'll realize you don't actually like football. I saw you rolling your eyes last night. Two years ago, you would have gouged them out sooner than let me catch that. We're starting to be honest with each other, and it's indecent. It's sick. What did you do to make me love you so much that I didn't mind being unimpressive around you?"

Bathroom Monologue: Can't Beat Them Audio Redux

To hear Nat Sylva narrate today's monologue, click here.

"Two years he’s turned us out of the playoffs. Their training camp looks even sharper this year. You’re going to have to do something more than trade for a draft pick. And I’ve got something to think about. Something to keep in your pocket, in your office safe. Something you should burn before November, whether or not we do it.

"I know a woman at an escort service. She's not from here or their town. I think she’s from Baton Rouge. We met once. She's… frightening in how persuasive she gets.

“We can hire her through an intermediary who will have no direct connections to you or our team.

"Now, if he's too good a few weeks into the season, we call an innocuous disposable cell. She'll single him out at a club. Get him alone. He's already had so many indiscretions that he practically has this coming. He’s had so many that whatever she claims, people will suspect. ESPN will discuss. Blogs will believe. The bruising will be artificial. The photographs convincing. The distractions? Perpetual. Even if her suit folds, he will miss at least one game against us. In all likelihood, he'll miss the season and wind up on a crap team next year, possibly in the other conference.

"It will cost us less than any of our defensive linemen make. Her life will be pulled apart by media and she won't care, because she doesn’t like her life. You wouldn’t agree to this if you did. With this money, she can make another one somewhere she likes better than Baton Rouge. And we hamstring the biggest team in our division.

"It's a thing you can do."

Bathroom Monologue: Generations of Windows

Two generations ago, they spent all day cleaning windows to afford bread.

A generation ago, they cutely joked, “I don’t do windows.”

The current generation doesn’t know that windows are something you clean.

Bathroom Monologue: Shakespeare and a Ziplock Bag

 

They sat together with the lights off for half an hour before either of them spoke. Prewitt kept a towel over his face for good measure, left hand securing a Ziplock bag of ice cubes over his knee. Castle didn’t have any war wounds like that, but he couldn’t stand up from his chair. It creaked under his bulk.

“I need something slower,” Prewitt told him from under the towel. “I can’t keep up.”

“Yeah?” Castle gave a one-note laugh. “Like what?”

“I was thinking about stabbing you in the back.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“I mean like Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare didn’t stab anybody in the back.”

“We’ll start as best friends, see.” Prewitt unironically raised his hands in front of his covered face, drawing thumbs and forefingers into the shape of a picture frame. “We’ve already run together before. That time The Dragon tried to throw you off the roof, I ran in and helped save you.”

“I said ‘Thank you,’ right?”

Prewitt would not be deterred. One hand raised the towel so he could look his best-friend-slash-victim in the eyes. “Every week we’ll have some girls come out with us. We’ll be a team, and you do half the work, and I do the other half. After a few weeks, we find a girl you really like. You pretty much fall in love with her. We phase out the other valets, and she’s your one-and-only.”

“Why would any man turn this down?”

“But you’re all shy. After a month, every time we appear, she’s leaning towards me. I get grabby and possessive. Some weeks you work alone with her and me outside, and I’m clearly hitting on her. You can’t tell her how you feel, so you tell me to back off. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose, because what’s going on between us is more interesting.”

“I would like to win more.”

“Maybe that’s your frustration, right? Because you keep losing, even when we’re teaming together, and I’m always walking off with your girl. And you snap and toss me to the ground, maybe even sock me one.” Prewitt punched the end of his towel, letting it flap in defeat. “And I seem all devastated because I didn’t know you cared that much.”

“We should talk more. Communication is important in relationships.”

“The next week, I’m all business. We win for sure. We win three weeks in a row, the pay days are huge, and you’re telling me if we take gold, then you’re going to tell her how you feel. I’m all excited for you.”

“Except you’re not.”

“Except I’m not!” Prewitt slapped his bag of ice, then jolted from the realization of pain. His voice calmed as he laid both hands over the bag, massaging himself with cold. “We go to a title match, and we fight hard, and you come from behind, and you’re about to win, and I stab you right in the back.”

Castle made fists of his gnarled hands. “I swear vengeance. Like Shakespeare.”

“You bet your ass you do. But that valet you’re sweet on comes out with both of us. She has such a hard time choosing sides. One week she’s with me, the next with you, and she asks you not to hurt me too bad. Then when we finally fight, she trips you. Costs you the fight. You’re heartbroken. You leave wrestling forever.”

“Forever?” Castle scoffed and moved to sit up, except his back was still locked up. He grunted in horrid pain.

“For a couple months while you rest your sciatica. I drum up as much hatred as I can as the jerk who stabbed his friend in the back and stole his girl. Wrestle all lazy since I’m a scumbag bad guy. Maybe take a title. When you’re ready?”

“I come back and chase you,” Castle said to the ceiling, unable to adjust and face his nemesis this instant. “I’m going to rip your head off for what you did to me.”

Prewitt leaned over, one hand on his Ziplock bag, the other searching until he clasped Castle’s. They shook. It was guaranteed money and it would only cost them their friendship.

Bathroom Monologue: Introducing Wartsinol

It’s done. The missus has brought your little bundle of joy into the world, and you’ve driven them home. Now the joys of parenting wear on you: the crying without cause, the shrieks for feeding at 2:00 AM, and the vomiting on suits that cost you two weeks salary. Gradually you’ve realized that, as adorable as your mother thinks her new grandchild is, this thing is loud, lumpy, and largely ungrateful.

But there’s help. There’s Wartsinol. By affecting the brain’s dopamine and oxytocin centers, twice-daily Wartsinol will force you into loving this thing that shares your genetic code. In just three weeks you won’t mind driving the store for the second time in one day because it keeps spitting up strained peas. You’ll be happy, and so will your family. Your wife wants you to love it. If you’ve put up a good act, your parents already think you do. But think about your parents. Think about your cold, distant father, five hours late to pick you up from softball practice, and you’ll reckon that Wartsinol will make the world better.

There are side-effects. Mild rash and aching joints are the most common. Not so bad, right? Other side effects include drowsiness, loss of appetite and intestinal lesions, but those happen with everything, so settle down. The worst thing, which I’m paid to tell you in a calm voice, is that twice-daily Wartsinol may cause heart disorders. But I’m not going to say it in a calm voice. I’m going to tell you straight-up that it’s been linked to fewer heart disorders than the fast food you cave into weekly. Also, one in two hundred subjects went sterile, which would disconcert other men, but this little bundle of joy wasn’t entirely planned either, was it, champ? So it’s less of a “side effect” than a “bonus.”

Twice-daily Wartsinol. Think about it.

Bathroom Monologue: My Last Three Nights

Update: I’ll break at Charlie Rose. I should probably check the blogs then anyway. Writing a novel is making me a bad internet buddy.

Update: I'll break at midnight. It’s too late to drop into a Rose interview anyway.

Update: 12:30? How can it be 12:30 when I'm behind? I'll just go to bed at 1:00. Let’s see how much I can get done.

Update: How have I only finished five pages? Jesus. I'll go to bed at 2:00. Just an hour. And hour of solid effort and this chapter will be perfect.

Update: 2:10 is pretty much 2:00.

Update: I can do 2:30.

Update: My eyes are now too bleary to read a clock.

#National Novel Reading Month Ends

Today ends the first #NaNoReMo. This month we congregated on Twitter and blogs to read those classic books we’ve been putting off. If you’re like me then you’re perpetually discovering additional vacancies in your canon. My entry was the suitably famous Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

My reading is a tale of hubris. It began with me asking a ladyfriend if I should, and her saying I’d hate it, and me saying I was more open-minded than that. So I asked my readers if I should read this or Mikhael Bulgakov’s Master & Margarita. They responded, generally, that Pride & Prejudice was great but that I’d hate it, and I responded that I was more open-minded than that.

Three hundred pages of telling an English classic to “Shut up” later, I’m still trying to blame others. I’ve been told that this is great literature and that I’m crass; that this is ChickLit and I’m unfair; that Austen was a rebel and that I’m a chauvinist; and that I can sleep on the sofa. If you’re clever enough, you can still troll me on Twitter about this book. Theresa Sanchez, I’m looking at you.

In part I read it to prove that I can enjoy Romances. There are even photos somewhere of me getting very emotional at the end of a movie that I’m not going to publicly admit I watched. Mark Twain’s Adam and Eve, Jonathan Swift’s Celia, and my disturbing soft spot for Joker and Harley. The point is, I’m not made of stone. Jane Austen’s narrative progress was. I even made up for the incident by jumping through Ursula K. LeGuin’s A Wizard of Earthsea last week, which is an utter delight.

So what did you learn from your classic? Did you finish it? You’ve still got a few hours.

Edit: and fine, if you guess the movie in the Comments, I’ll admit it.

Bathroom Monologue: Mummy Elaborated

The agent adjusted his cufflinks and looked the mummy over again.

“You won’t do anything about the bandages? Not even around the face? People connect more when they see faces.”

The mummy loosened his head wrappings. They unraveled and revealed strands of dry flesh, which constricted into a frown.

“I don’t have much of a face as it is. Without these wrappings I’m… just a zombie.”

The agent tilted his head.

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m royalty,” replied the mummy, wrapping his head back up.

“That is a problem.”

“You’re not kidding. I didn’t stuff a pyramid with jewels and scented oils to go shambling with a gas jockey who got bit on the neck.”

“No, I mean democracy is in fashion today. Royalty is going out of style where it isn’t photogenic. Have you considered running for office instead of holding onto your kinghood?”

“Nobody would vote for me. My religious values are thousand years out of touch and I’m not even a naturalized citizen of any of the easily scared countries.”

The agent looked out the window. If he squinted, the casino across the street could be a pyramid.

“And you don’t want to go back home?”

“I think being a monster in a country where blood pressure and playing too many videogames are serious problems will be easier on me, at least as I start back up again.”

“There are terrible things to be scared of in this country, you know.”

“Every country has things to be scared of, but I’m a luxury fear. I need a luxury market.”

The agent sighed.

“I just don’t think we can re-launch you this year as an undead product. Vampires are sexy. Pretty faces, no bandages, and they move faster. And you don’t want to get into the shambling market. Zombies have overflowed so badly that some of them are running now. It is not the same world it used to be.”

The mummy tugged at his bandages.

“Democracy changes things. That’s why I hoped it would die in Athens.”

“It’s a tough business.”

The mummy looked out the window for a while, staring at the casino. Then he perked.

“All those zombies? Do they have a president yet?”

Bathroom Monologue: Americans Hate Science

Americans hate science. This is why there are mandatory Science classes in public school. This is why Mythbusters attracts so many viewers. This is why Scientific American has lasted decades. This is why millions of hours are spent on American computers editing Wikipedia entries on Biology and Physics.

This is why the 'M' in 'M.I.T.' stands for “Massachusetts.” This is why Harvard, Berkley and Yale yield so many keen minds. This is why millions of people watch the TED Talks and the lectures of Walter Lewin. This is why President Obama does photo ops with Francis Collins. This is why Stephen Hawking is a rockstar and Albert Einstein is on motivational posters.

Americans hate science. That is why so many houses have electricity and so many kids whine for cell phones. This is why Apple products have created a glossy white cult. This is why Americans drive so many combustion engines and emit so many terabytes per second. This is why some kid somewhere can’t wait for her first campus visit, or her first experiment with live corrosives, or for the next Symphony of Science song to finish downloading. Because of science, she doesn’t have to wait long. She pays for that science. Her people pay billions per year for that science. Her people have been paying for a long time, for crushing Polio, and for putting boots on the moon, and for cartography of the human brain.

I don’t know when “Americans” became “other people.” As an American who was excited for the LHC, who would pay higher taxes to help NASA, who has many friends and a sister in the sciences, and who wonders at both inner and outer space, I don’t much appreciate it.

Bathroom Monologue: Ghost Rant

“What, you think I want you to be at peace? I want you to mourn. I want you to rake your skin, and thrash on the floor, and weep that I’m dead! Why in the hell would I want you to be okay with me dying? ‘Oh, his suffering is over.’ Bullshit. That’s my concern! You? I want you to miss me. I want you to selfishly desire that my chemo went on for eternity so I could still be around. I want you to want more me. Tons more me. You’re feeling closure? Then your ass is getting haunted.”