Xander made his way over to a rotting tree with a fallen log across it, half-dragging Raina as he went. He shoved her under the log and up into the cavernous tree then followed her in. He lowered himself to sitting and pulled his injured legs up around him, letting Raina climb into his lap and burrow her face into his shirt. He put his arms around her awkwardly, unsure how good manners would dictate comforting an unfamiliar little girl in the face of dozens of dead people swaying from trees, their arms and legs askew like so many wind chimes. Xander wished there were someone to cradle him in a comforting hug.
Raina eventually slept in his arms but Xander stayed awake for the next several hours, listening to the sounds around him. Every movement of the leaves or crunch of a twig outside the tree caused him to sit up straighter and prick his ears in that direction.
Which wine should I serve with this? White or red?
So if you didn’t accidentally find this blog by typing “stuff my cat ate” on Google, you might already know that I’m ignoring your humor needs completely as I write my fifth book. Everything is, in fact, all about me.
But yesterday I learned one of the great things about being a writer, even an unloved/unpaid one. We get to search for the craziest shit online and call it research. The only downside is we have to make sure all of our searches are spelled correctly or we get sent to porn websites. And I defy anyone to tell me that my hour and a half reading up on bugs was not research.
Step One: Google the question, “What do bugs taste like?”
Step Two: Find a search result called InsectsAreFood.com and read everything on their site. NOTE: wipe tongue with a dry washcloth the whole time you’re reading that site because you’re going to start imagining insect legs stuck to the roof of your mouth.
Step Three: Decide the all-encompassing website on eating bugs wasn’t quite all-encompassing enough, and go to the Contact Us tab to email them with several bizarre questions, making sure to mention that you’re not just a weirdo or that you’re not mocking them, you’re actually writing a book and thank you very much.
Step Four: Wait until the owner of the website gets off work (he has other monetary needs besides food, since his foods needs have been met by crickets) and emails you a lovely response:
Hi Lorca Damon
Interesting questions. Allow me….
1) In a society without electricity, running water, etc. (think Mad Max), how would they “grow” bugs (ie, housing needs, water needs)? What would I feed them?
Bugs don’t need what humans need – they don’t need electricity or running water. Insects suck nutrients (water) from a wide range of flora. Plants and trees grow in even the most arid of regions. There will always be life. Where there is life there is water. The bugs will find it. They burrow inside bark and other forms of flora. They don’t need us to feed them. I imagine in a society without electricity or running water it would be vital to keep moving and searching for water and food, so it wouldn’t be prudent or productive to farm (anything), unless one were to harness wind to produce power from rain water. But that’s stretching one’s chances.
2) How would they be prepared in order to get the most nutrition out of them? I know about toasting them, but wouldn’t that deplete any water left inside them? In the setting of my novel, wouldn’t my characters see that as a waste of water?
Eat bugs raw. In the time your novel is set, eating bugs will be where sushi was thirty years ago. Raw is the new cooked.
3) I’ve got my more resourceful characters grinding insects into a paste and mixing it with animal fat and broth to make it as palatable as possible. Is that a likely scenario? And is that a nutritious way to eat insects? (this particular group of characters are the more sensible, survivalist people)
Insects can be incorporated into any type food stuff. The fresher and least cooked, the more nutritious. If one wishes to truly survive in an era of Mad Max type climate and social upheaval and potential violence, one rule of thumb that all humans must be aware of is that it is best to avoid brightly colored and spiny/barbed insects. They are likely a death knell.
Good luck. When (notice I did not say “if”) you finish the novel, thank me somewhere in some way, if you feel my responses were effective. I wish you well.
I particularly appreciated Mr. Dennis pointing out that neither my characters nor I should ever come in contact with anything that is either pretty or stabby. That advice applies on so many levels.
Due in large part to having two of the worst math teachers ever, having a brother who regularly used to receive phone calls from Stephen Hawking asking him to clear up a few fine points on worm holes, and due to one parent being so good at math that he couldn’t explain it and the other one barely even able to handle enough geometry to drive the car in a square by making four right hand turns, I suck at math. See how I didn’t take any of the blame on myself?
The weird thing is I really enjoyed algebra class. I never knew what was going on, but it was pleasant to be there.
So thanks to being so inept at basic addition and subtraction (or in this case it might be multiplication, I don’t even know which math tool to use here), I am way behind on my NaNo novel. No, I didn’t get sidetracked or have a lazy moment, I thought I was right on target with my daily goal. Turns out, I forgot to carry the one. A couple of times.
The clicking of the guards’ heels on the pristine tile floors was the only noise as the trio made their way through twisting hallways under the glare of industrial lighting. Xander wanted to look back to make sure no one else had joined them. Obviously someone would have to be coming to stop them. This had all been too easy, or easier than he had been told to expect.
The last time he had walked a gleaming hallway like this between two armed guards in crisp uniforms, it hadn’t gone well at all. At least this time he wasn’t wearing handcuffs. Still, he couldn’t help clenching and unclenching his fists as if preparing to fight off the two soldiers flanking him.
“Aren’t there any guards from their side coming to meet us? Don’t I need to show my paperwork to someone over there?” Xander asked, trying to make small talk with the soldiers who had been strangely quiet ever since his approval for escort.
Forget a coffee mug, I want this as my state-issued license plate.
I did it. I set out to see if I had the willpower and the brain cells to blog every single day in October and the end result is, yup, I do. It wasn’t always brilliant, and occasionally I cheated by taking a picture of something stupid and writing a few sentences that made fun of the picture, but it was the effort that counted.
Sadly, this blog will be abandoned for a while as I investigate whether or not I have the willpower and the brain cells to write a full-length novel in November. That’s writing almost 1700 words per day, and apparently the rules very clearly state that you can’t keep using the word “very” over and over. I overuse that word even when I’m NOT trying to stretch a word count.
I’ve had a run in with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in the past and I am proud to say that last year I completed my full novel with very few “verys.” But I wasn’t a blogger to distract me. This year I’m worried that my dedication to my forty-five fans will keep me from finishing my book. I hope all of you can live with yourselves.
Essentially, there probably won’t be a blog-post-a-day in November (you’re welcome), and when I am here I’ll be really bitchy and snarky, and probably whining about the book I’m trying to write. I’ll make it up to you with sneak peeks at what’s happening in the book, for which I’d love comments on the plot line that MIGHT even make their way into the story! Just use all your brain cells and not a lot of “verys.” Thanks.
So much has been written—mostly by women—about the inequality that women still face in this society and in countries around the world. I write this today to be the great equalizer, to help women everywhere feel better about their status, or lack thereof.
This picture below is too daring for children to stumble on, so if you have children present (or a boss who is just an absolute craphead…(doesn’t that word look like craph-e’-ad?)), exit out immediately and erase the history on this computer. Just don’t forget to come back later on your own time.
Exhibit A: The sexy woman.
I’m just about as un-lesbian as you can get. I’m not bicurious, I never “experimented” with a sorority sister in college after one really alcohol-infused frat party, and I wouldn’t even be gay for Angelina Jolie like all those closeted soccer moms claim to be. There, I said it. I’m a heterosexual.
However, I am fully capable of saying (out loud) that the woman in this picture is sexy in a really, “Oh my gosh, she’s going to beat me with that whip,” kind of way. She has a beautiful face, gorgeous hair, and a lovely figure that almost makes me wish I had the willpower to cut out carbs. The crazy outfit? Okay, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing.
Now, Exhibit B. The pathetic sex god gone wrong.
Not a chance. I was laughing before the picture finished loading on my screen. He looks like he’s ready to be hanged from the ceiling to do some electrical work, if only he had pants on. I feel bad for him, alternating saying, “Oh that poor man,” with gales of side-clenching laughter. I tried imagining what I would do if my wonderful husband appeared in the bedroom wearing that outfit. I think I would literally wet myself from laughter, and when I finally caught my breath, he and the strappy outfit would have fled.
And that’s where there is still a measure of equality. A woman can douse herself in any number of beauty enhancing products, and she’s gorgeous. A man so much as changes brands of shaving cream to an imported product, and he’s too fruity to mess with. Women can wear crazy costumes with funky stilt-like high heels and they’re considered fashion forward. A man tries it, and they make movies about him with titles like The Hangover.The sweet young lady in the photo above looks hot and men worship at her feet, the freak-show guy in the picture needs to be run out of town, the lousy pervert. She’s sexy, he’s a comedic whipping boy.
It’s not exactly equal-pay-for-equal-work, but it’s step in the evening-out direction.
It’s really awesome that people send me funny stuff to write about, OR, they really suck for thinking that I’m not funny enough on my own. My own sister tried to get me killed this week by having me write a funny blog post about two MAJOR rival motorcycle gangs, one of whom rhymes with Bells Pangels, getting into a turf war that ended in three deaths over who got to use that neighborhood’s Starbucks. Seriously, people, thanks but no thanks. I like my lattes and my pulse.
But someone sent me this one and it just cannot be ignored. I will shut up now and let you enjoy it. If you’re eating a meal right now, feel free to go play Angry Birds on your iPhone and come back after you’ve digested.
Isn't she adorable? I want to punch her a little bit.
I have a stunningly fantastic child. Actually, I have two of them, but this post is just about one of them. Oh stop it, nobody’s gonna be damaged by this. They’re not allowed to read my blog and not just because I have a potty mouth.
Stunningly Fantastic Child the First has a few flaws that as a proud mother I overlook on a daily basis, not the least of which is her inability to protect herself from junior high school bullying by being as weird as possible. For example, every year she opts to dress as a literary character for Halloween, and as an English teacher I should be pressing a hand to my heart while beaming. But she picks characters no one has EVER heard of then gets upset when no one knows what her costume is supposed to be.
Last year, we worked it out so she could be Hermione Granger, and she actually looked shockingly like the character. No one got it wrong except a drunk man who gave out rolls of Scotch tape he’d stolen from work, so he doesn’t count. However, when she dragged the costume out of the storage closet to wear it to the mall when the next movie came out, I had to put my foot down. She was upset with me, and I still don’t think she understood why I would not let her do that to herself. How do you lovingly tell an innocent child that she has a future of girl-on-girl hate crimes and cutting ahead of her if her fifth grade friends see her in the food court dressed as a girl wizard?
So this morning, when I reminded her that she needed to straighten up her bedroom before her sleepover tonight, she said words to me that I will treasure until my dying day: “Can I put my wizard chess set in your office? I don’t want Amy to see it.” A great weight had been lifted from my weary shoulders…my child was probably going to live through high school.
I do have to say to the kind and intelligent readers of this blog who would like to suggest that I should foster her sense of independence and relish in her quirkiness, “Have you been to a cluster-fuck that is a public high school lately?”
Forget the 80s movies where the jocks and cheerleaders walk past the nerds’ table and fling a French fry or two, those days are long gone. Now it’s cyberbullying and Facebook posts that go out to thousands of “friends” instantaneously. It’s sexting, where a picture gets snapped in the girls’ locker room and it’s sent out to hundreds of cell phones amongst the student body before the victim even has her shirt buttoned. Stuffing the science club president in his own locker? Amateur hour. Try any screenshot from the popular video game, Bully: Scholarship Edition.
No, with the teensiest sense of shame that I’ve been able to instill in my child, I’ve just increased her chances of living to become an adult. There will be plenty of time to play Harry Potter dress-up as she’s trying to prevent her own child from wearing his Power Rangers costume in public.
If it just had a built-in fridge and minibar, I'd never have to leave the bathroom.
Every so often, I have a bad day at work. It happens to everyone, right? We all have those days when we want to chunk it all and live in a tree house on a mountaintop overlooking a scenic valley, except in my case I’d get so bored looking at the valley that I would start to envision a giant tidal wave washing away all the homes, while panic-stricken townspeople scramble like ants to escape the tsunami of death. Just ignore me.
But the problem with having a bad day at work is that no one has just one job anymore. On any given day, my job as a teacher might be awesome but I come home to my job as a mom to discover that the dog we’ve had for years has forgotten how to use the bathroom outside and that one of the kids has also forgotten where the poop goes. Or I have one of those award-winning Mom days when I make it look freakin’ easy, then I start working on my job as a writer and realize that I cannot spell liaison anymore, no matter how hard I try.
Walking away starts to look really good sometimes.
What really stops me from quitting my job as a writer is NOT the desperate hope I cling to that someday I’ll be a famous published author who flies from book signing to book signing, pausing to approve the screenplay and attend Julia Roberts’ audition for the lead role.
It’s my dream toilet.
I don’t dream about being a famous enough writer (ahem…wealthy enough writer) to quit my day job. I actually really love my day job. I just want to be rich enough to own my dream potty, specifically the $6000 one I saw in a magazine.
This potty has it all. It has foot warmer vents, ambient lighting embedded in the base, an automatic seat warmer, even speakers so you can plug in your MP3 player to enjoy some soothing music. Or drown out the, um…sound. This potty-from-above even has a sensor that can tell whether the user is standing or sitting, and therefore will flush accordingly from either the Number One tank (less water) or Number Two tank (more water), all automatically, of course. It has an automatic deadly-accurate bidet feature! It has an iPad dock and desktop! It is poo-nirvana!
Even though I write fiction, I write enough non-fiction to realize this potty is not likely to happen in my bathroom any time soon. There are so many things we need before we need an ergonomic toilet with lumbar support. Right now I’d settle for a bathroom door that locks for those times I’m utilizing when my children suddenly remember where the poop goes.
How am I supposed to have a great idea with THOSE hanging over my head?
I read an article in Wired magazine last month that said light bulbs are about to be banned, by order of the government. No, I wasn’t drinking. At the time. Apparently, back in 2007 some energy committee banned light bulbs, probably while we were asleep. I think I would remember seeing news reports that light bulbs had been declared as illegal as weed (that’s pot, to people born before 1970…the young people call it weed now), although with enough weed you kind of don’t need light bulbs anymore.
My really burning question that has been bothering me ever since reading that article is this: how are cartoon characters supposed to get ideas now? Wil E. Coyote has had a hard enough time catching that friggin’ bird as it is, and now you want him to do it with a spiral tube over his head? The whole point of light bulbs is that they actually give off light, but you want him to come up with a brilliant plan and signify it by having a slow flicker eventually achieve full brightness?
I think we’re not supposed to panic about this congressional energy bill. We’re supposed to all happily make the transition to the $4 swirly bulbs by 2015 as the government and bulb people slowly start phasing out light bulbs. Hording has been discouraged, as has looting. Outright stealing of light bulbs from the supply closet at work is still okay.
The article actually was about the newfangled light bulbs that scientists and lightbulbologists have been working on, a design concept based on row upon ugly row of LEDs wedged inside a bulbous thing. Working on? As in, haven’t perfected yet? As in, what the hell are we supposed to do in 2015 for light? Yes, according to the article, the government went ahead and banned light bulbs (I really hope I read that wrong) without a working replacement invention in place. Maybe if they’d had an incandescent bulb over their heads instead of a swirly bulb, they would have had a better idea.
Lorca Damon 