Haus of Rhi

Despite the fact that I'm an obsessive realist, I tend to focus (most of the time!) on the positive. This has been a good year. A year of changes (thanks, Chinese Metal Tiger) that haven't quite ended just yet (another six weeks) that have all proven to be for the better despite the difficulties they present.  A year of challenges, to the way I think. The way I see myself.  And my writing.  A year of new relationships -- friends, acquaintances, both personal and professional. I feel as if this single year has been the condensed version of a decade. Other times it has felt like it couldn't possibly end soon enough. I'm looking forward to the coming year (the Metal Rabbit), of peace and introspection as a time to engage more fully in my writing. There will be more to come. A lot more. This, this is just the beginning. I hope you enjoy taking this journey with me. Beginning the first week of January (to be posted on the 7th) the next Muse in the series will be Black.

Getting Konaton to sit down with me wasn't all that difficult. It was the conversation itself I found to be the most difficult. Not the most uncomfortable muse discussion I've had, by far, but short of a jackhammer and a pair of draft horses, I knew I wouldn't be getting anything more from him than he was feeling generous enough to give. Konaton and generous are antonyms in the New World Dictionary. I'm now convinced of it. Everything about him is dark, as he sits staring at me with a sullen expression from the opposite side of the living room. The hint of color covering his scalp in a shadow of fuzz. The circles smudged around his eyes. The complexion of his skin, too cafe au lait to pass for a tan, especially in the dead of winter. I tap my pen against the notebook with its carefully worded list of questions. I knew from the inception this wouldn't be easy.  Konaton jiggles a leg, solid black cargo pants bloused military-style into black Goretex boots. He ar

There are as many techniques for successful productivity as a writer, as many schools of thought on the subject, as there are writers out there. Some writers insist that focusing on a single project, and devoting all your energies to it, is the best approach. The only approach to take. That dividing your energies between multiple projects lessens the quality of energies devoted to any one single writing project. Although there is some measure of truth in this philosophy, I don't adhere to it at all. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a story is walk away from it, let it rest, give your mind another project to work on, so that you can work through whatever block you're struggling with—on a subconscious level. The solution will come with time, when it's ready. At which point, the story will return to the top of the to-do list, ready to cooperate fully. Optimally. Personally, I adhere to the school of belief that when a writer has "block", it's the mind'

I thought it might be best to start out slowly, with a character that isn't yet engaged in actively telling his story. Not that I haven't tried, of course. Konaton is ... not the chatty sort. As you'll no doubt get to see firsthand.  That's next week.    The origins alone, the sheer span of time it has taken me to get him even this far out of his shell, totally boggles my mind. I was trolling search engines, looking for names for secondary characters. Unique, but viable, spellings. I hate nonsense names, and I hate to arbitrarily just change the way something is spelled just for the sake of differentiation. Especially not without verifying any meaning or source it may have. There are so many cultures out there in the world, varied and rich, one tends to sometimes stumble upon unintentional meanings. From the US Geological Survey, Geographic Dictionary of Alaska. This name caught my eye, and immediately sparked a muse in my head. That photo in the Excerp

Toward the goal of delving into the facets of the soldier's psyche, I've been wanting to watch the film "Restrepo" for some time. Limited theater engagements meant waiting until the movie released to dvd. It was a long wait, but well worth it. Ironic that, as with CSM Prosser's valiance being witnessed and recorded by embedded journalist Michael Yon in 2005 , and subsequently recognized and rewarded, Giunta's actions were likewise witnessed and recorded. The Sal Giunta Story from SebastianJunger/TimHetherington on Vimeo . Giunta makes a very valid statement in this interview. "Fuck you," he says. Every soldier he's served with, he explains, deserves the recognition for their service that he's received. I watched the movie, earlier today. Many poignant moments trapped on film, and no doubt I'll watch it many more times, to view them again and again. The movie isn't filled with graphic gun-fighting though. And that's not

I've the climactic scenes roughly outlined for the end of "Black". It's not making the actual writing of the words any easier. I have this *waves hands* vague mental concept of what's going to happen.  The main antagonists are coming front and center to the stage for the first time in the story... at the end. I don't know if this technique will work at ALL. Have you ever gone walking down a the line of a large television display? LED's have phenomenal contrast ratios. Beyond anything a standard LCD is capable of. And let's not even bother with standard Plasma. You look at the picture quality of one compared to the next. From 10k:1 contrast ratio, to 100k:1 in the LCD models. Big difference, right? The sharp image, the clarity. This is what the initial stages of writing is like. You get the detail, the greater focus. Yeah, this is great, it's beautiful. The quality of the colors excites the eye. Then walk on down the line to the LED models, and

Nah, I'm not talking about snow. The torrential rains and temporary 60-degree weather (that dropped 30 degrees by nightfall) was bad enough. I cannot think of any other reason why I spent the past two days feeling, in turn, restless and lethargic. Trying to churn out 90 pages in two days is a monumental task, for me. Needless to say, it didn't happen. I did, however, manage to outline the remaining scenes for the plot. So I know what's going to happen now -- thank you, Black, for finally bothering to share that with me -- and all that remains is to flesh them out. And then maybe go back through and plug in a few scenes that got cut into other areas of the story. Because only two sex scenes? Damn that's sparse. No worries, that Steaming Couch Scene made the cut. Although I may need to fluff one in at the end, because as things stand the story will end without Black's gender being much clearer than mud, really. I think. Might need some beta feedback on that. It'

The colors they see, I’ll never appreciate. Where I lost one sense, I gained another. The darkness others see, I’ve never known. And it’s made all the difference over the years. Few snipers are forcibly decommissioned – like bullets, you don’t dismantle them. You put them in the rifle and pull the trigger. They’re tools, meant to be used. Expended. Nobody cares much about the empty shell that hits the ground, so long as the bullet’s on target. One shot, one kill. The cool steel of the rifle feels alive beneath my touch. Not living and breathing, not like that. More like me. Chilled, dead and still inside. A corporeal manifestation of my soul, visible, tangible. Strictly functional, stripped down to the fundamentals, to the core of its being. Flat, unpolished, giving no surface for even the faint light of moon, stars, or stray beam of streetlight to refract off of. No scope – don’t need one, not with my vision. Just gets in the way. Can put flying metal through

A very interesting blog article written by my Rather Stellar Co-Writer, Aleks. Discussing the finer points of plot development, tension, character flaws, and antagonists. Not saying every screenwriter gets it right; daytime soap operas are evidence of that, clearly. But when one gets it right like the writers of Burn Notice do, it's a slam dunk. And, ultimately, that's what I aspire to write. Don't know about the majority of professional writers out there, but I'm not willing to let go of a story until it's everything it is capable of being. Everything it should be. Which is why the trunk novel still sits collecting dust in the trunk. *lol* But Aleks tells me I'm not allowed to nab a copy of the series and start watching it just yet.  Because then I'll disappear from the internets for a few weeks and that's just not acceptable. And of course, I agree with that.  Really need to get Black finished. Can't do that if I'm vegging on the couch

...what I hope is the last for this ms, to be honest. Black is coming along. It's the homestretch, and I've still a lot of work to do. 295 of 363 pages. 97.4k word count. That's with a total of 43 pages of content cut, so far. Most of that will be recovered in the rewriting of scenes, the reordering and reworking of the plot climax and resolution. I can see where it's going, I just can't see how smoothly its going to get there. The picture lacks the clarity of detail -- but it likely will until I get to the scenes and work through them one by one. Some of the smexxing is gone. I don't mourn the loss, but all the sudden this book is more intrigue and thriller than "hawt manluv" ... which doesn't surprise me, because I think that's what it was intended to be all along. Black's relationship with Garthelle isn't the main plot thread. It's secondary, and it's finally coming out that way. I suck at the "when all else fails

I set myself a deadline to have the "Black" manuscript edited/revised completely by the beginning of December. So that I can focus on some other projects floating around in the ether. The current state of the ms sits at 278 of 401 pages, with a 106.5k-word count. This last section has a few sections in need of heavy revision and/or rewrite, in order to pull the story together properly. Day job and general funk working against me, but I've a few mornings and two full days off in which to tackle this story and beat the antagonists into submission. And thus far the rewrites have come along nicely... or so I think. And so... to wrap up the pre-Turkey Day editing frenzy, I've a snippet to share. This scene made it through the edits with only a few tweaks, mostly because I just like it too much the way it stands: “Don’t you feel it?”  He whispers, mouth hovering just a fraction from mine.  “Please, tell me you feel it.”  The words come out rushed, almost hoarse.  A

Not really. Promise. It just sounded catchy. And grabbing the reader's attention is what it's all about, right? Of course, I'm just now starting my second cup of coffee so anything I write can be construed as, and likely is, lacking any inherent value. My brain is rarely in gear before Cup Number Three. Writer's block. One of those things that everyone who writes either mentions or whines about or even uses as an excuse or avoidance tactic at one point or another. Hell, I've certainly encountered it enough times over the years. This isn't a psych eval though, and I'm not your shrink. =) Lack of ideas. Lack of emotional engagement in the story content. Lack of direction. Lack of motivation, intrinsic or otherwise. In each case, the issue revolves around the surge of energy. Artistic energy. Creative energy. It's a resource that ebbs and flows like the tides of the ocean. Endless, but the presence at any given point in the process of writing is no

Been waiting  for roughly ten days to hear back from the publisher regarding deal sheet. Waiting rather impatiently, I might add. Then again, I don't have patience for my own tendency to procrastinate. So... Deal sheet came today, though. Yay! Giddiness all over again. I spent the past week in a dreamlike limbo, the mindset of "You were imagining things, Rhi! You dreamed it, vividly. It wasn't real."  It was impetus to keep me working on other projects. Keep me writing, editing. Keep that giddiness momentum going, ride it as long as possible. Yes, I know. That logic has a distinct rational flaw. It's okay. It worked. That's all that matters. Deal sheet, though! Haha, take that you devious psyche.  The vivid dreams are never the ones I remember. If I'm lucky. I stumbled over a few of the details in the deal sheet, though. Found myself reconsidering the prospect of locating an agent. I'm not going to do it right this moment; the contract detai

Readers always ask where the characters come from. The inspiration, the source, the process... how does one get from intangible fog-bank of concepts, ideas, to the person who comes to life with a few words on the page.  The truly fascinating characters I read -- I share that obsession. How did  that one get birthed, anyways? Toward that end, I thought I would begin a once-monthly series of posts. Each one highlighting a specific muse or character. Introduce them. Try to, when possible, explain how it was they came into existence.  For each muse, there will be three once-weekly posts. The first will include a short excerpt of prose to introduce the character to the audience.  The second will consist of an explanation of how they came to be. And the third week will involve an active interview sequence with the muse. I do agree with the sentiment that art in its truest form shouldn't be over-analyzed, but instead appreciated for the depth and richness of its beauty. Writing is, wit

Good morning, world. I'm sitting here with my Sumatran Blend and my additive-free nicotine, pondering the philosophical implications of "blank" ink. And working up the intestinal fortitude and determination to tackle a few chapters of Black today. Elderly gentleman with silver hair comes up to me yesterday evening, with a small crumbled piece of paper ripped from a larger sheet. It has some writing scrawled in barely legible penmanship. "Hi there, can you help me? I need an ink cartridge for an Epson printer." I walk him to the printer aisle, where the replacement cartridges are arrayed on the shelf.  He tells me the number jotted on the paper, and I point out the correct replacements.  "Did you need a black or color cartridge?" I ask. "Oh, this says blank ink cartridge. You don't carry blank ink?" "I'm sorry, sir, the printers only use black or color ink. I've never heard of blank ink. What does one use that for?

I have every intention of completing edits/rewrites to "Black" by the end of the month. It's just going to require a bit of pep-talk. That guy from the Adam Sandler movies comes to mind: "Yoooo can doooooo eet!" Yeah. While I still hold a distilled essence of that renewed vigor -- I did it once, I can do it again, dammit -- I've reached that point where I'm getting sick of looking at it. It sucks. All of it sucks, and I should just scrap the whole damned thing and be done with it. Start over from scratch with a fresh and invigorating idea and -- Right about here is where I tell myself to shut the fuck up and get my sorry ass back to editing. Whining about it doesn't get it finished. There are other projects out there, other stories that want written, need told.  This one comes first, though. I refuse to give up on it. I have that -- what would one call it, precisely?  Bulldog mentality. I don't give up even when I know I probably should. I d

Or, a day in the life of a writer. The mundane little things that make the larger picture actually come together. My day began about two hours ago. Sitting here in my Writer Corner (it's horridly cluttered, no I won't take a picture of it right now, maybe some other time) with my cup of joe, poking around the internets. Just the daily wake-up routine to get the brain out of neutral before I get started. And the Wee Racy Red (my Aspire One, the procrastination tool) starts having keyboard spasms. I know  I'm hitting the space bar. It's just not registering. *eyeroll* This is what comes of multi-tasking. Technology and crumbs do not make a good combination, as most people are aware. I happen to know for a fact that the local superstore retailer doesn't carry keyboard protectors of any kind. Not for standard desktop keyboards, let alone laptop skins. They're a relatively cheap product, only cost a couple bucks. But no! I would either have to drive to ... god

After completing the zero draft of FOAT back in September, my co-writer and I spent approximately one week doing a round of edits. I hate editing. I have this compulsive obsession, this love/hate relationship, with editing. It takes conscious effort to restrain myself from performing the task indefinitely. Perfection is unattainable; that doesn't deter me from striving for it. Being the co-writer with decidedly less experience in the publishing industry (i.e. none, thus far) I deferred to his suggestions for submission location. He sent it off around the 15th of September. Imagine my shock when I opened my email on November 9th to discover an email from the editor at Carina Press, offering a publishing contract for FOAT with a tentative release date of August 2011. There were a few moments of response lag, during which I stared at the words on the screen, reread the ones compiled into such key phrasing. And then I screamed. Really, really loud. Let me just clarify, here. I do

Sergei Stolkov and Andrew "Mike" Villanova officially have their story. Just shy of 95k, the zero draft is complete. I'd have to troll back through the annals of my LJ to see just how long it's actually taken.  Less than three months, I think. Given the length, I think that's ... astounding, personally. Okay, fine. Mind-boggling. Especially given that it has a complete plot arc. w00t. That's the real feat, from my perspective. It is, in every way, a complete book. The ends aren't all tied up neatly, or anything, but... given the serious consideration to an additional novel, a companion, it's not strictly necessary.  And as far as the two main characters are concerned, the story is done.  Which is, really, all that matters. So now... back to slaving on the Black edits. Fixing the plot, largely. I have one month to do it. That is my self-imposed deadline.

In the throes of first-pass editing on one project and a co-write on another. Yet all it takes is a generalized comment to birth a new one. Some people walk through their lives as if they aren't there. Just... existing, and nothing more. My sister made a similar comment some years ago, when she was in her early twenties. Something to the effect that life felt like a dream, and her dreams felt more vivid than waking life did.  As if she led an entirely separate existence, and this reality  was, in actuality, the dream. An extraneous muse character, who's been lurking in the shadows of my mind for close to a year without making a single effort to grab my attention, sat up and took notice of these mental threads. "This," says Konaton, "is the direction my story will lead you." While I'm in the midst of a tandem-write. Yes, thanks Konaton. *pats head* Go back to sleep now. Please. I'll wake you when September ends. And you can gear up for NanoWrimo. Neve