Bathroom Monologue: Sweet Potato Revolution

Sweet potato soup, sweet potato casserole and sweet potato pie. You can get everything sweet potatoes make at the festival, the fourth annum of the revolution. Sweet potato toast in the morning, and sweet potato shakes for the health-conscious. There are sweet potato fries served hot from dawn to dusk, though some sweet potatoes dislike that they're fried in mammal fat. Others decry that as a bit of a hypocrisy and against the spirit of the festival. Most sweet potatoes savor the flavor, and they experiment in realms culinary with their livestock. It's said to be like what Thanksgiving was for humans, though since the revolution it's sweet potatoes that eat humans, and in so many ways.

12 Questions for SF/F/H Readers

John DeNardo of SF Signal introduced (and possibly created) a little questionnaire for SciFi, Fantasy and Horror readers. They're interesting questions because, as common as most are, they split people in huge ways. I'm sharing them and my answers here; if you're interested, please follow suit in the Comments, or link back here on your own blogs. 

1.         The last sf/f/h book I read and enjoyed was:

Roger Zelazny's The Doors of His Face, The Lamps of His Mouth. Incredible short story collection; "Divine Madness" has one of the most affecting endings I've ever read.

2.         The last sf/f/h book I read and did not enjoy was:

Diana Wynne Jones's Howl's Moving Castle. The characterization and prose style just were not for me. Didn't help that I read it while insanely ill.

3.         A sf/f/h book that I would recommend to new sf/f/h readers is:

J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit. What the hell? You're not exposed to any of the genres, so give this a shot and see if the roots of Fantasy are for you. If it is, then we can have many happy chats.

4.         A sf/f/h book that I would recommend to seasoned sf/f/h readers is:

Bathroom Monologue: Thinking over what to say when Mom says she wants to date again, Redux

"Date me? No? Then it sounds fine. It’s been years! And the woman next door was totally looking you over. If you go lesbian it’ll take care of any Daddy Issues I might have. I hear women are more sensitive than men anyway. Don’t have any empirical evidence of it, but it’s a rumor. You can date any woman you want, but leave the under-25’s for me. Men? Well, if he mows the lawn. And make sure he’s rich. And generous to his step-children."

Bathroom Monologue: Anton and Anton

Anton sits on his knees before the grave of Anton. For a while, Emil and Yulia's son holds Anton's left hand and does his impression of prayer; at three years old, he no better understands prayer than he does who is buried beneath his soles.

"Amen," Emil and Yulia's son mutters, releasing Anton's hand to rub at his eyes. The drive here has made him drowsy, and Yulia stoops to pick him up. She bows a quarter of the way she normally would, dipping herself and her child toward the headstone.

Instead of 'Amen,' she says, "Thank you for saving my husband, Anton." She says nothing more, and ends her bow. She did not think much of Anton, the drunken shadow of her Emil. She is two paces behind Anton when he checks her, her gaze already on the car.

It is four years to the Saturday since Anton Behrs was blown up pulling Emil from a foundry. That is what everyone knows. They commemorate it on Saturdays because Emil Behrs has never in eleven years missed a day at the exchange, and Anton will not let Emil fail now. He misses absinthe.

No E-Book of Joyland, and Shut Up About It

Too much is being made of Stephen King's Joyland going print-only. So his initial run will be paper-exclusive, intended to help bookstores and accentuate some nostalgia for the pulp presses that inspired his detective novel. He is now being misquoted as thinking e-books aren't real books and decried as a luddite.

Bathroom Monologue: Refugee Camp Regrets, Redux

"I don't regret why I'm in here. They can starve me, beat me. Call me a traitor. I'm not one. What I did was for the good. I was a General in name only, put in charge of the children and the lame. A sea of starving, helpless people, with less than a dozen armed guards, all of whom were routinely called away for more glorious service. I couldn't lead my charges to safety. The raiders would find us in any cave or stronghold I managed to reach. We were ransacked weekly. We lost our supplies and the youngest starved. When the raiders returned to find no more food, they took the near-pubescent girls as slaves. No number of missing or dead on a report changed the minds of those in command.

"I remember the fifth attack most clearly. The smoke from tents they burned out of malice. The lamentations of young and feeble. A crippled mother crawling after them escaping raiders, barking for them to return her daughter. I watched her legs drag in the sand behind her, like a split fishtail. It didn’t even flop around. Other men would have found it heartbreaking. I found it inspiring, and I am not sorry for the idea it gave me.

"I took arms. Only one per child. I took a couple of hands, but that wouldn’t be enough. I took no legs – every one of those children would grow up to walk. I even mailed them one of the limbs along with the reports and testimonials from children who could no longer write themselves. I packed it in salt. Six mutilated children and one arm were somehow harder to ignore than thirty dead parents.

"The next week we had a brigade defending our camp. The raiders were rebuffed by bronze shields and long lances. Able-bodied men did their duty by the meekest.

"Which of them gave me away? I don’t know. From the looks, I think it was some of the same children who had sworn by my testimonials. You can’t trust children, even parentless ones, to keep up your stories. I can understand the juvenile mind begrudging me my work. I don’t blame them. But I’m not sorry. Those one-armed children will live behind shielded camps because of me. If my story is spoiled and Command withdraws the brigade, then I’m still here, in a prison twenty days away from whatever carnage happens, with nothing but the story that they are safe. I have no regrets."

After Three Years, John Finally Goes Book Shopping Again

In April, I finally did it. After three years of reading as hard as my Little Engine of a brain could, I knocked my To-Read list down to double digits. Despite constantly piling up with gifts and loans from friends, and copies seemingly materializing out of boxes, I defeated the tide. Friends know I was banned from deliberately purchasing any more books until I was out of the hundreds, a rule I followed as best I possibly could. Thanks to my victory, I got to freely wander around a book store and grab whatever I wanted for the first time in three years. My girlfriend was so proud she even gave me a giftcard to help.

It didn’t take long for me to empty that giftcard, because my Hoped-For list is enormous. Sales definitely helped me pick most of what I grabbed, while two driven by desperate desires to see what they were like. It’s the first batch of books I’ve bought in over two years. I figured I'd share the things I came home with (or that are shipping from Amazon).

C.S. Friedman’s Black Sun Rising

Her Coldfire Trilogy has been popular in my college-circle of friends for years. Two of those friends say its one of their favorite trilogies of all time, and recently I’ve seen Friedman come up in more discussions about the great dark fantasists. Given that grimdark isn’t my thing, I’m tempted to push at it and see what spills out.

Tom Holt’s The Portable Door

Another legacy purchase. I discovered Holt’s wonderful Blonde Bombshell (easily the best novel that could ever be written with such a title), and enjoyed its humorous take on SciFi so much that I leapt to try his Fantasy. I’m told it’s about bureaucracy handling and perhaps marketing the impossible, which is a pregnant premise. High anticipation for more good humorous Fantasy.

Jeff Smith’s RASL

This is the next big work from the author and artist of Bone, which is one of my favorite comics I’ve ever read. RASL is obviously very different, as skimming it revealed graphic violence, booze and partial nudity. While those things don’t typically attract me, Smith has more than earned my interest for experimenting in something radically different than the amazing adventures out of Boneville. He was on my list so hard after Bone that I actually read his Monster Society of Evil by accident at a friend’s house. Seriously – slipped, fell and read four hundred pages.

"This is a bathtub-in-the-kitchen apartment, right?” –Jennifer Egan, A Visit from the Goon Squad

"This is a bathtub-in-the-kitchen apartment. The four of us share a fold-out bed, tucked underneath cheap sofa cushions, and when it's a sofa, at least one of us has to sit an arm-rest. I've gotten good at balancing up there. This is an oven-is-also-a-space-heater apartment, whether you want it or not, winter or summer. This is a the-only-window-is-our-air-conditioner apartment. We don't have wifi, we don't have cable, and our musical selection is whatever the guy upstairs plays too loud, a station that broadcasts all night. He loves Thrash Metal and we're trying to learn to appreciate it. We love it here. If you pity our bathtub in the kitchen apartment, then you must not know where we came from."

Consumed Podcast 17: Star Trek Into Darkness

The Consumed Podcast rose from the dead this weekend for a double-feature. Max Cantor and I gathered in New York for the opening of Star Trek Into Darkness and spent over half an hour hashing Bad Robot's franchise. We start off questioning if this is really a reboot, which leads to the many ways the company has changed the franchise.

But the big stuff lies in the Spoiled section, where we get to discuss the mystery villain, villainy in Star Trek, and most interesting of all, Into Darkness as an action movie that attempts to condemn revenge and violence. It's a conversation I'd love to expand on. You can join us in the Comments and download the MP3 of the podcast right here.

The second half of our double-feature, discussing Iron Man 3, ought to be out in the next week. With good luck the podcast may get up and running routinely afterward. We're deeply looking forward to some episodes about Naoki Urasawa's Monster, which you can watch for free on Hulu.

Bathroom Monologue: Regarding Submissions

Dear Expurgated Press,

I am finding your detailed submissions guidelines very helpful. Your "What We Don't Want" section lasting a screen and a half showed your devotion to craft, and I am picking up from other sections all the time.

For instance, had I not scrutinized the eighteen bullet points on "What Your Format Must Be," I would have had my submission immediately rejected for not applying the mandatory 0.6" margins. I have printed the guidelines page (it actually comes to five pages in your formatting choice) to carry with me at all times, to refer to as an e-zine bible. I am still working through your "Common Mistakes" opus.

Yet as meticulous as your Submissions Page is, and though I cannot admit to having read all five printed pages of your guidelines yet, I cannot help feeling something is missing.

Where is the "Payment" section?

Yours in adoration,

John Wiswell

Bathroom Monologue: Do Not Hug the Golem

A golem is the best friend you could have. Forget sexy succubae. Forget conniving imps. Just because they're your species, or have blood in their veins, or hopes and dreams, does not make them good friends or reliable business partners. In fact, all those features make them distinctly bad business partners on any important business.

One reason you want the golem as a best friend is that it'll never hog the seats during travel. If there's only room for one on the carriage, it'll let you sit. If you only have one steer, it'll let you ride it. It will walk. It will pull the carriage.

Another reason you want the golem as your best friend is that when you're stranded in the middle of The Frontier, it won't kill the carriage’s steer for food. It doesn't eat except when it's confused, and then it'll usually eat you by mistake. Succubae eat you out of boredom.

Once the steer has been cooked and gone rotten, your golem best friend won't turn on you. It won't try to cannibalize your left arm under the rationalization that you're a righty. Unlike imps, the golem best friend also won't run off in the middle of the night, abandoning you once it's obvious that it can't eat you in your sleep.

The golem is a better friend because it will actually carry you back to civilization. You’ll be sick from hunger, utterly useless to it, and it’ll cradle you to its craggy flank until chimneys are in sight. Even when the villagers run at it with pitchforks and torches, it'll stay with you until you get a hot meal.

Now after that, it will run away. It will run like a sissy. To be fair though, all best friends will run away once you're safe and people are stabbing them with farm equipment.

However, very few best friends will then loiter on the city outskirts, hiding behind the biggest tree available, until you're healthy and ready to disembark.

The only downside to the golem best friend is that it'll break your ribs when it hugs you upon seeing you again.

Do not hug the golem.

Very Inspirational Blogger Award 2013

Franny Stevenson recently gifted me with her latest blog game. The Very Inspirational Blogger Award. It's been a couple of years since this one has come to The Bathroom Monologues, so I was curious how the rules had changed. They are:

1.) Display the award logo on your blog.  
2.) Link back to the person who nominated you. 
3.) State 7 things about yourself.
4.) Nominate several other bloggers for the award.
5.) Notify those bloggers of the nomination via comments.

Not too complicated. These "state things about yourself" rules have gotten trickier, as by now I believe I've revealed at least a hundred things for various awards. I've decided to go with seven reading facts in anticipation of my first book shopping spree in three years, coming up this weekend. I'm very excited.

1. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World was the first book where I stopped fearing for first person narrators. Though being chased by terrifying dinosaurs, I realized he had to survive in order to tell me the story. Teen revelations, man.

Bathroom Monologue: I'm Your Boyfriend from the Future

"Bullshit."

"You don't swear as much in the future, but you do so much more creatively."

"You've been here two minutes and already you're trying to change me?"

"You try to pick no-loss fights like that in the future, too."

"Do I believe your bullshit time travel story in the future?"

"You'll find out if you go on a date with me."

Monologue for a male theologian who is somehow hired to do the commencement speech for an all-girls college

Thank you for inviting me. I’m not sure exactly why you invited me; perhaps “Jens” sounds feminine to American ears.

Uhm. Yes.

Well, I’ve always felt Christianity had more feminism to it than churches let on. I think they were intimidated. I grew up Irish Catholic and there was no stronger force in the world than my mother. My father was a distant second place. The local priest, somewhere in third. Sometimes she would even speak up during services, if she disagreed with the theme. One Sunday she and the priest got into such an argument over whether or not God could make a rock that He Himself could not lift that the services ended before the matter was resolved.

I hope that won’t happen today. It may be why I’m so nervous.

Bathroom Monologue: "Why can't the computer just take the novel out of my brain instead of me having to write it?" –Anonymous Friend

Soon it will! With the march of progress, the innovations of neuroscience and tidy monthly fee, you too will never type again. You'll be jacked in to an industrial word processor, an air tube running up one nostril and a food tube down the other, fed a steady drip of chemicals to stimulate the parts of your brain that crank out ideas. You'll be held in an eternal sleep of pre-selected, pre-programmed dreams, free to enjoy them without the pesky freedom to recognize they're happening, all while your unconsciousness is milked of stories by the latest Microsoft Notepad, which will translate your imagination into immaculate blocks of text and tropes. You'll never have to worry about writing again. You won't be allowed to, either.

Mother's Day Redux: In the Car Wash

Little Sal clutched his action figure as his mother drove them into the car wash. It was dank and blue rubber strips hung down like giant teeth. They slapped wetly against the windshield and clung on, making him sink into his cushioned seat. White foam sprayed over all the windows. His mother put it in Park and the car jerked as the conveyor treads began pulling them in.

Little Sal pulled his Green Lantern to his chest, as though to protect the superhero from this onslaught. His mother patted his shoulder.

“Do they scare you? It’ll just be a minute. It’s been forever since we got a wash on this rust bucket.”

“It’s not them, Mom.”

The conveyer drew them further down the mechanical gullet. What had once been a whirring was now like sitting inside a jet engine. They couldn’t hear outside the car, and the windows were all covered in foam and spinning rubber strips. What little light made it through the foam looked yellow. Little Sal squeezed his eyelids closed.

“What is it, honey? The noise?”

Bathroom Monologue: Comfort is a Tricky Thing

Chishee wasn't comfortable with the staff's scheme. She hired succubae because of the cultural biases against them, not so they could eat the hotel's clientele for tips. The only reason she hid their covert buffet of debauchery was that, if exposed, she'd go to prison with them. The succubae rationalized to Chishee that they only took on suicidal clients, giving them the happy endings they all craved. They let her keep all the room fees, and when she still deliberated on turning them in, offered her a cut of their blood money. That, she flatly refused. Attendance rose from its prior flatness, though, so that she could barely keep rooms open, or the dumpsters out back empty. It was a moral quagmire for the intrepid hotel owner. Her reservations had truly grown.

Bathroom Monologue: Suspect

The story makes no sense if you look at the whole picture – the land lady's perfect bill of health, the suspect holding the knife, the ex-husband everyone thought would come after her. That stuff is distraction. If you had been in the car with me on the ride to the station, you'd know. Our suspect is something unreal.

Our suspect suffers from something weakly diagnosed as high-functioning autism. That he lived alone with such an acute condition was unfortunate, a failure of the system. His father should have been there, but he died in Iraq. His mother should have been there, but two years after her husband died, she had a catastrophic psychotic meltdown, seemingly out of nowhere. The suspect's sister took care of him for a year before she had a catastrophic psychotic meltdown, also seemingly out of nowhere. This family had no history of mental illness before the last decade. He got extremely close with these two people before they lost their minds.

It was the sister's apartment where the suspect was living, occasionally looked in on by the land lady. According to another tenant, she didn't want him to go homeless.

You need to take the week of March 3^rd as Week One. That's probably when the land lady leaves a book in his apartment, or somehow he walks off with it. That is The Portable Jung. I've fingerprinted it, and he read this thing. He even tore some pages.

Week Two, he purchases four books on psychology. He can't talk or write, but apparently can read and browse for books. Tell me how that works. I'm going interview the bookseller tonight. Of these books he bought, it appears only three were ever opened. Passages were torn from their bindings, mostly relating to one subject that makes sense in Week Three.

Week Three: he purchases six books on neuroscience. He reads the first half of two of these, again tearing out sections, making the collage that covered up his bathroom mirror. It's all about brain chemistry.

Week Four: he buys eleven books on chemistry. He tears passages relating to cell structure from all of them and collages his shower walls.

Week Five: nine books on molecular physics. It's as though he read a couple of chapters out of four of them, but removes nothing. This is the same week his land lady has a psychotic episode, out of the blue, and kills herself. And he's in her apartment when she does it.

I'm not saying he stabbed her. That theory was always bunk, and the two tenants who discovered him say the knife he picked up, he was trying to turn on himself. That's what he says, too.

Driving him to the station, I heard him. I turned around at a stop light, and his lips weren't moving. The guy can't talk with his mouth, but he was crying inside my head, so loud that tears were spilling down my cheeks. He kept apologizing and begging me in this garbled nonsense, and I actually ditched the car for a few minutes just to get my bearings. I thought my head was going to burst. I had to radio another officer to take him the rest of the way, and when I call her, she hasn't answered any of my messages. I bet she had a wild ride.

Look. He started with Jung, then he went from psychology to what made up our brains and how, skimming the whole thing because none of it was new to him. He only needed missing bits/ He didn't have to read that much because he'd always intuited it. He cracked our code because he's desperate to talk to someone, but his voice is dangerous. I'm pretty sure what he kept asking was for help.

So either this is some kind of horrible telepathy case, or I've gone crazy. And given the history, if I've gone crazy being around him, that's just more evidence that he's the real deal, and he definitely needs someone's help.

Bathroom List: 6 Unused Gun Arguments

1. Nobody ever ate so many handguns that he died of heart disease. Why don’t we ban McDonalds?

2. Nobody ever fell into a gun show and was bitten to death by AK-47s. How come we don’t ban zoos?

3. Nobody ever got too close to a bag of guns and found himself swarmed by pistols until he was stung to death. Why don’t we ban bees?

4. Nobody ever drowned in a pile of guns. How come we don’t ban oceans?

5. Nobody ever jumped off the top of a sniper rifle because his stock portfolio tanked. Why don’t we ban skyscrapers?

6. Nobody ever got skin cancer from a rocket launcher being too bright. Why don’t we ban the sun?

Interview with author Emma Newman

I've known Emma Newman for years through the Friday Flash group. Meeting her in person was one of my highlights of 2012's WorldCon. A busy lady, she's not only written copious flash fiction in her world, but thrust into a deep series of novels called The Split Worlds. The first, Between Two Thorns, is already out through Angry Robot Books. I'm very happy to have her over today.

John: What is the premise of Between Two Thorns? And where is the series headed?

Emma: I've previously described the book as "Urban fantasy - and a dash of noir - with feuding dynastic families, supernatural patrons, mad sorcerers, evil faeries and nice cups of tea." As the author, I feel like I'm the worst person to be asked what it's about – I just want to wave my arms and describe all of it.

Where is the series headed? I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, and that seems rather rude. I hate giving things away about future books, as I'm one of those people who wants to experience stories as the storyteller intended – it's why I avoid film trailers these days. I like to find out in the world, rather than hearing snippets out of context.

Oh dear, I'm not doing very well here, am I? Let's move on!

Bathroom Monologue: Mercy, Kind of Mind

"No, you go on. I'll wait here. I don’t mean to drag you down."

"You never do! Sometimes you remind me to slow up. I need that. Here."

"Thanks. I just get tired so easily. I hate it."

"I don’t. You’re comfy to lean on when we sit together. Like this."

"Ow. Hey, ow."

"Sorry, did that hurt?"

"I bruise too easily, too… And the acne? At my age? How do you even look at me?"

"Because those aren’t the things I stare at. Honey, I’ve never even noticed."

"People are always judging at me when we walk together. You have to notice that. It has to weigh on you."

"I haven’t noticed it weighing. But it bothers you?"

"Really. What would you change about me?"

"Well… Some of your anxieties could go."

"Only some? My bitching alone--"

"—could be scaled back. I couldn’t get rid of all the flaws altogether, though. Then you wouldn’t be you anymore."

Bathroom Monologue: Djinn Deals

I run a very simple business, for I’m a very simple djinn. It’s how I’ve outlasted so much of my competition. I welcome anyone of any language and any creed. Rich? Poor? You can pay, and I can sell the world. I’ll change things in any way, great or small, to my suitor's desire.

Change the king.

Change the tides.

Add a moon.

Subtract a war.

I’ll draw the curtains and erase poverty. The world can be any way you want it to, and it will only cost yourself. You won’t see how things will change, for you’ll have been the change you wanted. That’s my method and my price; I’ll change the world to whatever you want, but you can’t be in it.

Some customers suffer pangs of selfishness at the terms, but think it over on your way to the door. You’ll turn around. You know there’s something worth no longer being for.

I Won Two More Liebsters!

So I've been bad about awards in the last couple of months, given all my health problems and family distractions. Last night I made a point of making good on at least two blogger goodies handed to me by very considerate people who didn't deserve to have me take this long. I've won a pair of Liebsters, which require you to answer eleven questions, reveal eleven personal facts, and tag eleven more bloggers. Given that I've won this at least three times before, I'm going to track down even more people. I will, however, give you the darned dirt.

The more recent came from Franny Stevenson, a buddy from the A-to-Z Challenge. She had these eleven questions for me:

1. Do you have a nickname?

People play around with my last name; "The Wiz," or Monica Marier calls me "Wisard," which I like. But mostly people just call me "John."

2. Who’s your favourite writer?

I don't have a singular favorite author; what inspires and entertains me changes so often. But some of my favorites are Homer, J.R.R. Tolkien, Shirley Jackson, Douglas Adams, Mark Twain, Dante Alighieri, Eudora Welty, Gail Simone, Akira Toriyama, Hiroaki Samura and Stephen King.

3. If you could switch life with someone who’d you choose? And why?

Bathroom Monologue: What were they building?

Two jars of rarified air

Two jars of common air

One jar of the wind untamed

The unused speech for Richard Nixon if the moon landing failed

The left knee of an acclaimed diplomat

My seven favorite episodes of Gigantor from when I was six years and two months old

Three locks of an Amazon leader’s hair

Four handfuls of earth from the Underground Railroad

One pinhead of angels

My father’s unconditional love

My mother’s borscht recipe

One willing test subject/heir

Bathroom Monologue: Message for Mona Liddel

"Hi, I’m calling for Mona Liddel. I just wanted you to know that I’m your son.

"This isn’t a crank call. You put me up for adoption in Raleigh, North Carolina in 1995. You left me a toy airplane, which I kept until we lost our house in a factory accident. I… I’m your son. I’m not crazy. I got your information from the adoption center.

"We’ve met three times. You think my name is ‘Jesse’ – it’s not, it was my dog’s name as a kid, and I panicked when you asked that time while we were waiting in line. I don’t even know why I had to see you. I’m not a stalker. I just recognized you in this coffee shop, and came by the next day at lunch to see if you’d return, and got lucky. And then I promised I wouldn’t go back again today, but I got a call from the hospital. That’s why I’m actually in town – there’s a great oncologist who specializes in kidneys only eleven blocks from here. Howard Kleinman, he smells like fish food. After they called, I couldn’t help it, and I almost came over to your table today. I’m actually sitting across from where you were having lunch.

"Damn it, I sound crazy. Mo… Mrs. Liddel, I’m dying. It’s my kidneys. I’m not looking for an organ transplant or anything—Kleinman says the onset was too rapid anyway. It’s a freak problem that might have had to do with where I grew up. There was a factory nearby that processed a lot of chemicals, and it exploded, and really, you don’t need to know about that, because I’m not calling you because I’m dying.

"I guess I’m calling because I’m not brave enough to walk up to you. This is easier, and I need a little easiness right now. I’ll be at this table for at least another hour if you want to come back. See me, yell at me, or whatever.

"You’re beautiful, by the way, when you don’t think anyone is looking. All three days now you’ve gotten that way, with the long stare, like something big is on your mind. If you wanted somebody to talk to about that… I don’t know.

"I wish I’d inherited your cheekbones.

"Okay? Okay. I hope I see you again some time. Otherwise, I guess, goodbye.

"Yeah, goodbye.

"Oh God, my name’s Kevin. Your son’s name is Kevin.

"Okay, goodbye."

Reflections Post for the A-to-Z Challenge

Well that wasn't as hard as I expected. Blogging every day for years strengthened the parts of the mind that do this kind of work, but I anticipated it to be more challenging to keep up, especially after I caught my lung infection. There's probably something to be said for writing about a world you've spent years making up and can keep making up minutes before going live.

No, I didn't fudge. Everything I posted pertained to fiction I've written, or that is on the docket.
  

There were definitely shortcomings. I look back at several days with many interesting comments that I simply didn't have the ability to answer, choosing instead to lie in a coughing heap on my bed. And I know there are many Fantasy-oriented blogs that participated in the challenge that I simply never found. Hopefully next year will have more specified sorting options when people sign up; the "Writing" tab only helped so much.

As the only downsides, though, the blog hop was great fun. I seldom write explicit world-building like my twenty-six posts, and found that kind of irreverent prose very fun to write. Sometimes it was a challenge to keep things short; especially after a week of reading thirty entries a day, I know I cherished people who could keep their posts to one screen-length. I wonder how many people felt I was slacking off, and how many were annoyed when my entries grew huge, like on W-day. Commenters were very polite, as expected. I've yet to run into a proper blog hop troll.

What I wanted most was to meet some passionate and interesting bloggers, and I got that. Dan Miller  and Jenelle Schmidt were total pleasures to talk to at all times, and the bloghop got me talking to Laura Eno again, which was long overdue. At one point I think Jean Yates offered to be my new mom. I even got lucky late in the game, crossing paths with people like Samantha Geary, who had the most narratively ambitious A-to-Z's. Her and Shell Flower - I just can't imagine writing and sharing a big on-going story like that. Maybe that means it's what I have to try next year.

The question now is how many people keep chatting after the event has ended. If all those relationships evaporate in May, then all was for naught. Any who've lasted with me this far know they can find me here, still plugging away daily, and on Twitter.

Bathroom Monologue: 6 Simple Health Tips for Writers

1. We all like to mix something in with our yogurt. But have you considered mixing in raisins or cranberries instead of Skittles?

2. Recent studies show that a sizable percentage of athletes get out of bed before noon. See if you can match their records by rising at 11:59 at least three days per week. Try to space these days out, though, so as to not injure yourself.

3. Many authors suspect all the exercise they need is walking the mailbox to pick up their fat checks. However, push your limits. See if you want stand up a few times per day, or even walk to the bathroom rather than using the rope-drawn pail system erected beside your desk.

4. Many authors find podcasts encouraging for their struggling processes. But did you know you don’t have to listen to them while sobbing in the bathtub? They’re also suitable while sitting at a desk, making coffee, or walking to your therapy session. Experiment!

5. Many authors celebrate hitting their word count goals with a snack, the most popular being a cheap bowl of cereal. Don’t worry, we health nuts won’t take away your sugary reason for living. Instead, simply try 2% milk in your cereal instead of gravy.

6. Spend a mere one third of the time you would be complaining about writer’s block by instead lifting weights. You’ll likely turn into an Olympic champion, or a prolific novelist.

‘Z’ is for ‘The Z,’ the world’s only zombie reservation.

‘Z’ is for ‘The Z,’ the world’s only zombie reservation. It’s the farthest thing from appearing in any of my scheduled books, at present the tentative setting for my seventh down the line, and so it’s closing out the A-to-Z challenge.

The Z lies deep in the north-west of The Frontier (see ‘F’), and is the only place in the world that still experiences zombieism. Zombies are very old hat for this world, a vestige of an apocalypse so old there is no record of it. It’s widely believed that zombieism is caused by magical bacteria, which is why The Z is such a quizzical place. That the infected only spawn from this place seems more like a curse.

A nice place to keep your undead.

The geographic area is a mild plateau featuring jungle flora and extreme humidity. Anyone who dies there rises, yet people who spend significant time there and die elsewhere do not rise. Zombies exported from The Z can spread the condition through fluid transfers, yet the infection spreads much less quickly in such cases. This has been documented by Red Brigadier Wisemen (see ‘R’) who were willing to subject themselves to the condition for the betterment of common knowledge. Searching for the cause is impractical do to the myriad flesh-hungry beings that live there, and because of The Z’s wardens.

Regardless of the cause, The Red Brigade has set up a barrier around the entire plateau, and thousands of believers spend their entire lives there, ensuring no zombies escape. They do not begrudge the risen, seeing it as merely the final change and likely one coming from The Fifth, their most feared god. A zombie is a fellow to be respected, just as a farmer who turns into a scholar is. What the Red Brigade do they view as both in service to the rest of the world, and ensuring peace to their undead brothers and sisters. The task is so great that many zealots seek other infections, such as vampirism and tentacalia, to assist in keeping zombies away from their borders.

The Red Brigade also serve to prevent other creatures from entering ‘The Z,’ as zombiefied humans and triclopes are bad enough. A zombie centaur or hadrosaur is much worse. The apex zombie predators are stuff of legend, roaming in the very depths of the plateau, along with a lost tribe of scientists who were allegedly seeking to weaponize the area’s unique bacteria.

‘Y’ is for ‘Yegg.’

'Y’ is for ‘yegg,’ individuals particularly interested in safes. Their particular interest is getting inside them and taking their insides elsewhere, or if the safe is small enough, taking the entire endeavor elsewhere. Preferably to a workshop with good sound-proofing.

Yeggs are common because safes are common, having been left behind by so many civilizations that thought they were going to live longer. Apocalypses destroyed many possessions, but a sturdy box has outlasted many an owner. Most of the known history (and the better part of the gossiped and unreliable history) are from documents found in safes.

Of course, so are the few functional guns and most of the powerful magic items in circulation. Any worthwhile scavenger has to know how to crack safes, and the really good ones get famous. In The Frontier, Kazh Anzhel gained fame for cracking two gremlin vaults, the only person ever known to perform the feat twice. Being human, he was a pride of the Empire of Gold and Jade, even though he was known to rob them as well. His skill with locks was so great that it was rumored to merge all-chemistry, forging keys that opened doors not only in walls, but in the ground, in the earth, and within gravity itself.

Kazh Anzhel quit the safe-cracking business a few years ago on account of apparent death. His daughter, Ninx Anzhel, has done an excellent job honoring his memory by outdoing him. All of her targets are deemed impossible, like a life-sized statue of a tyrannosaur and the stage from the world’s first theatre. She recently stole the ceiling from The Empire of Gold and Jade’s royal palace. Anyone who knows how she did that should contact their nearest magistrate.

Ninx is one of the main characters of Last House in the Sky.

And no, I didn't make up the word 'yegg.'

Close to the Close

I’m sitting pretty. The last two posts for the A-to-Z Challenge are in the queue, Y taking us into a risky line of work, and Z taking us to the deadest place on the planet. It’s been fun and surprisingly easy to blog like this. It turns out having a common theme between a month’s posts, especially one I’ve worked on for so long, kicks on my novel-senses and makes it easier than thirty unrelated posts. I’d say I’ve missed the random fiction, but I’ve been too busy being half-dead for most of the month.

Aside from #fridayflash, the site saw very few true Bathroom Monologues in the last month. That’ll change this week. I might do a wrap-up post on Wednesday, but there will be at least one non-Fantasy Bathroom Monologue before May 3^rd’s #fridayflash.

Constant readers: what kinds of Bathroom Monologues have you missed in April? The really short ones? Dialogue-driven? Monologue-only stories? The really goofy ones? I’m very curious what readers hankered for during the April experiment.

I’m also grateful, to readers old and faithful, and new and minty. You’re why I’ve kept this up for years.