Donations

I'm a charitable guy. I don't always give, or give voluntarily, but my heart lives in a charitable house; the doors are always open. For me, giving is private. I rarely mention that I give at all. Charity is to serve others, not broadcast what a great guy I am.

I have blogs that do that.

In this blog I'll be talking about my great of charity and how wonderfully giving I am.

Last Weekend I gave of Rob twice:

On Saturday, Enchanted Makeovers enjoyed the benefits of my service. If you're unfamiliar with Enchanted Makeovers, let me start by saying they have nothing to do with beauty tips for the home-bound writer. Lord know we writers need such a group, but Enchanted Makeovers is not that charity: these givers heed a different call.

Enchanted Makeovers is a volunteer organization led by Terry Grahl, a focus and force dedicated to enriching lives. Terry's mission is to transform the world, one shelter at a time. She takes the industrial sparse space of a women's shelter and turns it into a welcome environment.

Terry organizes the day

 

A home, where battered and abused women, and their children, can feel safe and nurtured within a network of care. A place to rebuild and restart with skills and training, often offered by Enchanted Makeovers volunteers.

It's not just a paint-job band-aid with a handshake photo op. Terry elevates every aspect of their living conditions: whether it's home made bed covers,

Every donation a message of hope.

 hand built cribs for children, or tables assembled for classrooms.

A space to learn

Every item is personal and donated.

This desk was collected from an old office building.

 If you spend any time with Terry, she'll entertain you the story behind every gift with pride—not in herself, but in the giving spirit of those who gather to her.

Two volunteers at the end of the day.

Thank you Enchanted Makeovers for blessing me with an opportunity to serve.


My second act of giving took place a day later in my own neighborhood. Someone aquired my bank card number and used it for groceries and a nice hotel in Pennsylvania.

Yup, that Rob. He is a giver.

Stars

It's 4/20 everybody. You know what that means!

Yup, that's right! It's the day you all celebrate my anniversary!

WOOT! WOOT!

Three years ago today, The Pirate Queen walked the aisle with a mere mortal punk. My life has not been the same since.  And that's a good thing.

How has it changed?

Well I lost 5 pounds in my diet. Thanks for asking.

I've also lost half my body weight in ego. I am not my sun, I am a circling satellite. Accepting light can come from others is a pretty big thing. Especially for me. I used to be my North Star striving to burn every other world with my radiance.  When I was in school I quit theatre after the epiphany that I was not chiseled from Hollywood lead steel. If I were to continue acting, I would only ever fill the roles labeled "character," not "star."

"The winner for this years best supporting actor is Ro—"
"Screw that, give it to someone who thinks lesser of themselves!"

My ego was brilliant, but the Queen changed that. Yes, you all owe her a great debt.

It's not that I feel smaller or less amazing, it's just that I've found someone who shines brighter, who is more deserving. Someone who makes me want to be accountable.

So today, do what
you do to celebrate us. Party in our honor, and when you do, remember that in her light I'm reflected as a better person. And that's something we can all be thankful for.

Nuts!

Nuts! I screwed up.

I know! I know! I said I'd write every week. I also said I'd prioritize and last week, self pity took the front seat to self-indulgence. Sorry: at least I'm honest.

What ruffled my pity feathers? I blame the Pirate Queen.

The previous Friday she said, "We should diet." When the Queen uses the word "we" it's never figurative and it's results are always expected as immediate. What else is there to say?

"Sure!" Nuts!

I'd like to say I diet strictly to support my wife, but the scale tells a different story. My Queen thinks I should stop cursing when I stomp on the thing and listen to what it's telling me:

GET OFF YOU FAT BASTARD!

I get it. Writers aren't know for their athletic prowess. FINE!

So, last Monday we started our diet. The South Beach Diet to be exact.  Why South Beach? Primarily because I hate diets. I don't believe in them. Diets don't fix the problem, they just attack the symptoms. They're a quick fix that sets you up to fail. The South Beach Diet agrees with me. I find that refreshing.

South Beach approaches weight loss as a lifestyle change. I'm not just changing my now, I'm making choices for the rest of my life.

Alright...

So Monday began stage one of the diet: eliminate sugars. Stage one lasts two weeks allowing for an eventual return of my sweet friends in the distant future. This is just a system cleanse. I get it. I wave goodbye. I know it's not forever. Life was happy and great. That is until Wednesday when I discover a harsh truth: sugar and I have a complex relationship. It's hold is actually pretty strong and it's not going anywhere. I'm not hungry, but...Let's just say, if my sugar addiction and I made a movie, it would be "The Exorcist."

I'll rip the head off of any man who stands between me and a donut.

"The power of South Beach compels you!"

I'm not speaking figuratively either. I really would, if all my carb energy hadn't been depleted by this stupid diet. Oh, I'm not hungry; I can eat all I want—as long as it's the right things.

Nuts.

The power of South Beach depletes you.

 My Queen says, "You're just not eating enough."

Let me tell you something; I'm eating plenty: celery, lettuce, non-fat cheese,  cauliflower. I am one veggie stuffed pepper from sprouting greens. What I'm not getting is my Rob Daily Allowance of  saturated calories slathered in sugary goodness.

And fat.  I miss fat too.

Saturday a commercial for Carl's Jr. came on TV. You know the ones: multiple nearly naked models devouring the burger de jour for 60 seconds of advertising proof that sex sells.

"Really Rob?" My Queen airs her disappointment. "You're going to drool at the girls on TV when I'm sitting right here?"

I blink. "Girls?" All I saw was a jalapeno popper burger. Two fists of burning burger love screaming my name with pleasure. Girls? Sure, I suppose that could have been what Carls used as a pedestal.

Oh jalapeno burger, you will be mine...

My Queen doesn't listen. She's irritated because she'is dieting her own demons. She doesn't crave sugar, but she's missing something and it  makes her snappy. Yes, our house is a house of joy. Come visit, we're a pleasure to be around while we sit across the couch from each other, trying to avoid each others trap-triggers.

"How's this dress look on me?"
"Take that off! You're stretching my clothes again, fat-boy!"

she's getting mean.

So far the only thing I've found  the only joy in my diet day are the nuts. I get one serving daily as a snack. It's great energy before working out. What's more, Trader Joes packages these great individually wrapped servings. It's perfect.  Come mid afternoon, when I feel a little twitchy, I grab the nuts. They calm me down. And this is my life for two weeks.

I'm dieting. I'm nuts. Welcome to my world.

Shower Thoughts and Shelf Lives

What is the shelf life of a luffa? I have no idea. The Pirate Queen does.

"We're buying a new luffa. The old one is dead."

I never argue with My Queen over items of ships or safety. She knows both.  So out with the old, in with the new.

Our latest luffa purchase leads to my new morning scrub down with a rainbow-tribble of cleanliness. I suds it up, and have to admit, halfway through the first chorus of A-Ha's "Take on Me," the new luffa does feel less scratchy.

I wonder, though, "Is that better?" How can a luffa work if it doesn't scratch? I try posing my question to My Queen, but she only dismisses me with a, "Get inside. Finish your shower and get dressed. You're too old to stand outside in the cold, naked."

A shelf life on my public nudity too? Who knew?

Obedient, I slosh back to my shower to consider my questions alone but for the Norsemen of A-Ha.

Halfway through a thigh scrub and second "Take on Me" verse I lament the Thompson Twins. What ever happened to their songs and why is it four out of five shower singers croon A-Ha instead?

Perfect for scrubbing my manly parts

Shelf life?

A lather and a rinse and I repeat my previous question: does everything have a shelf life?

Yesterday The Pirate Queen and I discussed how some of my family still hardly stomach thoughts of MyEx. Their distaste lasted longer than my marriage shelf life. Me, I've given the marriage and divorce their time, but let them go after the expiration. There are no leftovers in my fridge, good or bad, just memories.

"Remember that pulled pork?"
"Yeah..."

Some people still keep their bundles of bad vibe-meat tightly packed way beyond their shelf life. Why do that? It only makes you sick. My problem isn't letting go. My problem is over analyzing before I throw things out.

"The old luffa was a little scratchy, but the color was nice. I like how it held the suds without losing the lather. Do you think that will ever happen again? I may never have another luffa like that..."

It's like serving a sentence of self abuse. On it goes for the prescribed time, then I'm free.

The Pirate Queen is like me in that she lets go. Her problem isn't over analysis of what's past, though: instead she monitors the shelf life of things she hasn't bought.

"What if the pumice stone makes me  bleed?"
"Do you need a pumice stone?"
"No, but if I bought it, it could contaminate the pork in the fridge."
"You're going to use it on the pork?"
"No. I'm just worried what could happen."
"Why don't we worry about the luffa for now?"
"The luffa can't contaminate pork, silly."
"You're right. I am silly."

And I'm silly in love with a Queen who worries over things she can't control. What's an over analyzer to do? Well, if it weren't for shelf life, this superfluous analyst would analyze why she worries about the shelf life of a pumice stone that she will never buy and eventually come to the conclusion that it must have something to do with me...

See? shelf life serves two purposes:

1.  It lets us move on.
2. It keeps us from adding subtext and creating new problems.

Shelf life frees us to revel in the mini-miracles of the now, by cutting off the past and restraining the future.

So as I hit that final "Take on me!" falsetto I'm glad for my new luffa. I'm in love with the reality I have someone who cares enough to protect me from things expired. Most of all, I'm overjoyed at glorious moments like this that have no shelf life at all.

Reboot

 

When I was 16 my dad made me quit my burger job because of my grades. In his mind, Rob's flippin'  time was better spent passing chemistry.  I didn't fight him. I was working too hard to think about priorities. Sure, I was disappointed; I'm Rob. I don't quit. But at 16, Dad's house was Dad's rules, and Dad had prioritized not failing over not quitting.

I made sure this was just a temporary setback. At the end of the quarter, my grades had returned to normal and I was allowed to return to my polyester uniform and plastic smile.

"Welcome to Generic Burger Emporium! May I help you?"

In college, the supervisor for my on-campus job sat me down.  

"Rob, I notice that you're arriving late to the mail room. What's going on?"

"Great question!" I wanted to reply, "Have you ever carried 3 jobs, 20 units and maintained a 3.8 GPA? Do you think Football Bob is worried about waiting 15 more minutes for his black-plastic wrapped magazine? How about I show you where to punch in your 15 minutes?"

After a breath, my lips edited the words worthy of publication: "Nothing," they said.

It was the right choice. My boss Howard had priorities. Getting the mail out on time was key to achieving them. Three months later, I adjusted my priorities and quit the mail room. 

If my dad had been in charge, he'd have made me quit a lot sooner.  That's the problem: I'm not a quitter. I'll dig my hole until I can't climb out. That said, I have created some amazing holes.

I've learned a lot since then. I still dig holes, but I also have better command over what's important. I've learned to climb out when it's time. I've got three dead blogs that could attest to that, if I were still writing them.

Right now, my priority is Steamtopia. My underground empire requires razing with some bulldozer quality editing. To accomplish this, I'm refortifying the literary foundation using Stuart Horwitz's Book Architecture method. That process requires a lot of reading and writing and reevaluation.

Unfortunately, my presence here has suffered. And that's not fair, because this is neither the Generic Burger Emporium or the College of BS mail room. This is my window to the world.

"Hi!"

I think this is important place, but if I don't want to turn it to a subterranean abyss with fancy furnishings, I need to realistically prioritize it. So, to that endeavor, I promise to show up. But you won't see me here every day. And that's why the reboot. Rather than me not showing up daily, let's make sure I arrive once a week, okay?

My dad would be so proud.

Boot

New YA Fiction

This week's YA book release includes 1 sci-fi/Fantasy title, "Zero Hour."

It's the fourth installment in the Department 19 series. Dracula's forces multiply against a human resistance striving to cure vampirism and, well, survive. All things seem to be going Dracula's way, but an ancient power hidden deep in Easter Europe might prove to be the Miracle humanity needs.
If you like adventures and vampires who don't sparkle, this is probably one to check out.

If you're a Department 19 series reader, let me know what you think.  I'm always on the lookout for a good story.

Valantines and Writers, Part 1: A Brief Fantasy.

Writers totally make out on Valentine's Day!

Who started that myth? It could have been a writer trying to get lucky but I doubt it. Writer's know there's no such thing as luck. Unless it's that hack blogger who just got a six-figure publishing deal.

He got lucky.

In love, there is only fantasy. Whether your fantasy comes in Princess Leah bikini gold or Fabio-licious oils, there are more than fifty shades to tell the tale, and every writer has lived enough heartache to fabricate them all.

Writers are students of the art of the heart, and great practitioners of the what not to do. That's why I'm so surprised to find people actually believe we've mastered the dark arts of "woo."

If I had to guess, (and lets face it, in must things love I'm always guessing) I'd say this misconception started with romantic poets, and was fueled by romance novelists. Probably even earlier than that, though, because ever since Shakespeare slammed some "You are" iamb into his flowery pentameter the writer's myth was writ.

The reality writer bachelor is a little more pathetic.

In school the writer never got the girl. He only wrote that story cuz something—anything—had to be better than crying alone into his pillow. Writing down dreams felt good. It took his mind off the reality that Jock, his French roommate, was enjoying a Valentines date with the muse for whom our writer penned his dreams.

Ask any scribe and he'll tell you: all the women he's known ended up with the wrong guy—except the last one. She got it right.

For me that's my PirateQueen. She's the reason I take heart on Valentines, but is the homemade amateur movie as good as the book? If you're the lucky PriateQueen bagging a writer booty, is it everything you've read about?

Like I said, there is no such thing as luck. Fantasy and reality are never the same thing. For the rest of the week I'll look at love and writing. For today I'll leave you with this tease and tickle to tomorrow's promise and "book 2."

Back to Work

Finally starting to dig my brain out of the cold. Today I'm digging my soul free of last week's obligations. I'll write something more meaningful when I can see my desk. 

Otherwise, the Robert Boyd Starbucks office is open for business and it's good to be back!

Sick Day

Last week, the PirateQueen had a head cold. As is the duty of the first mate, I nursed her back to health. 

And yes, this week the cold belongs to me. 

I'm doing my best. I'm trying to work, but my brain has sprung a leak. All firing synapses lie beneath a pool of mucus. 

There's an infomercial on now. Maybe I should buy something. 

Yay me!

At least I have the cats...

They want me to open the tuna closet. Maybe I should. 

This Week in YA

Not much on the fantasy scifi front. 

Cat Hellisen's third novel length work is out this week:

If you like new and novel takes on classic fairytale structure, this book may be your enchanted forest read. It comes complete with curses, monsters, and a young girl coming to grips with a dark legacy. Read it and let me know what you think!

What's in a name?

"I love the name of your book!" said one agent to me this weekend.

Steamtopia Rising.

It's funny. Other agents ran the gamut from "Meh," to "Look!  The line at the bar is gone!"

This agent loved it. That's what she said. In my own special way, I love her back. She loves the name of my baby.  Funny thing, (Cuz this blog seems to be filled with unfunny funny): I always thought Steamtopia Rising was more of a nickname. It's what I called my manuscript till I found something better. I still have a list of options that includes things like "Crafters of Chaos" and "Harrow's Opus." I dunno. Naming a book can be a bottomless rabbit hole from which there is no return.

"Eat me."

Lord knows I love me some rabbit hole.

The problem is, rascally rabbit, it just doesn't matter. By the time an agent and an editor give everything the official okey doikey, it could be called "Beavis Rising."

Ok, not that, but you get the idea. So I don't even think right now.

Just like Beavis.

On a promising note, there's a Detroit Steampunk conference. Guess what it's called.

Go ahead guess...

You're no fun.  The glorious gala is called Steamtopia!  Ask me, that just rocks.

So now I share titles with a steam function. So maybe Steamtopia Rising will stick. Maybe it won't, so long as I  avoid Beavis Rising I'm a happy writer. Until it's published, the only title that's sure is "Completed Manuscript." And for that, I'm grateful.

Soundtrack

Do you soundtrack? Is there a needle traveling the surface of your soul; playing heartsongs to your head, even if your ears aren't tuned to it?

There was an LA radio station in the 70s that claimed to be a soundtrack to the California day. I always liked that. I pictured my self a gritty narrator setting the scene. That's why I soundtrack. My day is filled with music. It helps my mood and even puts me in character.

I read an interview, ages ago, Sandra Bullock said that sometimes she smoked flavored cigarettes to get into character. Something about the flavor helped her identify. I like to think I'm doing the same thing. I'm not nearly as attractive doing it, but in my way, I'm trying to find the soul of a character through sensation.

While writing Steamtopia, I set a playlist on my iPhone. When I worked out dialogue, I used smaller lists. Songs that gave me the attitude and verbal cadence of the character. It wasn't exhaustive, just enough to put me in a place.

This is the playlist I created for for Rowena, my Morlock girl wrestling with others' expectations vs. her heart's sense of justice. The songs don't say all that, but they moved me to a place that put me in mind of her goals.


What about you?
Do you soundtrack?
What puts you in your creative space?

Living the Dream

Ever had a lucid dream? That's the dream where you mid-dream realize that you're asleep. You start messing with your mind by taking charge. I've had them. Usually, those dreams are job dreams. I'm doing something retail-like in nature in my Superman Underoos: giving a guy a Walkman, selling an elephant squirrels for peanuts, extending a twelve-year old's warranty on grandparents.
"You know, he's gonna give out some time. When he does, you bring him back, we'll replace him. Free of charge..."

In a dream, it's a living.

But it's not my living. I think that's why I usually wake up to the fact that I'm asleep.  I look down at my Big Boy undies and think "Weren't these Superman before..." They were, but Bob and his burger logo boxers are hardly my beef.  What translates my panties to a bunch is that I'm back in retail.

That's where I make my subconscious conscious effort. "STOP THIS!"

The dream freezes. 

That's better. "Bring me my laptop!" I yell. After all, if this is a dream job, I want my work tools. Out comes my manager: suit, tie, laptop in one hand,  strangled squirrel in the other, looking at me like I'm nuts.

"Stop that, squirrel!" The squirrel disappears and manager Shakira powers up my laptop. This is where I'm sure my dream is lucid: everything now makes sense.

That's how my SDSU experience felt. No, Shakira wasn't there, and six figures of amaze-balls contract bliss did not drop down my boxers. In fact, if there were a SDSU show and tell I wouldn't have much more to show than one  bright orange book bag.

But I do have a lot to tell.

Before this weekend, my life was a chaos clutter of writer adages.
"I write cuz I have to."
"Doubt kills more dreams than failure."
"To err is human, to blog about it is brilliant! Nobody's ever done that before."

It's so hard to form a clear thought from all my jumble word cliches. I know more than I understand   I might as well sell squirrels for nuts.

This year at SDSU, I saw people using the same nuts of knowledge I'd squirreled away. I can't explain it all. You had to be there, but you can't. This is my dream. Your dreams are your reality. If they're not, they should be.

That's one of the most important lessons I took from San Diego. Another is that a dream is just a dream until I wake up and take action. There's no such thing as sleeping in wait for the perfect dream. The only perfect dream is the one I shape. For that, I need to make a conscious effort in my dream now.

I'm taking my SDSU experience and I'm putting it into writing. That's my dream.

Day 3

It was a short but sweet day. 

Great wrapup keynote by Jonathan Maberry, who's written a lot more than I realized...

Spent my airport time following some great advice by Karen Karbo

And back to Detroit, to my love, my Queen. 

Tomorrow I'll give the short story of my long weekend.

SDSU Day 2

Texted the Pirate Queen. Time to face the day. 

I've got two advance readings and a consultation. Time to kick butt!

SDSU Day 1.

WTFam:

Nothing like an empty airport. Too bad I gotta get up so early to see it. 

Denver:

Just here to see the airport, then onto San Diego. 

So far, a beautiful flight.

Plane shadow rainbow:

Avoid the wet spot:

At last:  

I have pants! No, that's not always a gaurantee. 

Getting the PirateQueen's dress code approval. 

This must be the place. 

Let the games begin!

Mixer session:

And now, as the long day punches me in the face, it's time to crash...see you tomorrow. 

The Time Had Come. The Time is Now.

Tomorrow we see if all my prep work has paid off. It's SDSU time. Hopefully I can make some quality contacts. 

I'll keep you posted!

For now, it's early to bed, early to rise, cuz I got a plane to catch before the sunrise. 

Yah, now you see why I'm a novelist, not a poet. 

See you on the SoCal side!

The Other Half

Today I'm in the office. Not my office: my wife's. My home-time Pirate Queen is a day time marketing admiral. Her vessel: GalaxE Solutions. So she's a space pirate. 

But that's not why I'm here. It's just part of what makes her cool. That and her wicked smile. Oh, and her nachos...

No, I'm here because we have personal business mixing in our daily business. While I normally soak up the Starbucks, today our two cat one car family sops in the corporate--sans cats. All while handling personal stuff.  

It's life. 

And today I watch hers in action. My Queen dances from meeting to meeting to phone meeting to conference table. I jitter just following the frenzy with my eyes. Or, maybe that's the coffee. 

Either way, I'm amazed. She could power a laptop with that motion. I suggested that to her. She gave me a suggestion of her own. 

I explained that if I could do what she suggested, I wouldn't have time to write. 

She just gave me a pirate scowl. 

I think it's time to write now. 

Of Broccoli and Chocolate

Inspiration. We all have it. Whether we write books, paint figures, or arrange numbers into balanced rows of black and red; someone, something, or some ethereal force struck against us and sparked a flame. Elizabeth Gilbert talks about her muse, not as an origins story, but as an inner voice piloting her from project to project. Okay, I'm oversimplifying her words just a bit, but for my purposes, this version will lead you through the hanging jungle of Rob-thoughts without dangerous distraction.

Distraction is the serial killer—murdering many one-offs as well. 

Four out of five creative spirits agree: for every amazing inspiration, there's an even better distraction awaiting fruition. The fifth spirit? He's chasing the siren swell of his other voice—a new genius; he can't be bothered with silly questions about inspiration. 

So what keeps the creative spirit tethered? After our initial "AHA!" moment, what stokes the fire, inks the pen and brings us back to the well until mission accomplished?

For me, it's two things:

1. Responsibility.  I'm sharing a vision that no one can see until my work is complete.
2. Surprise. Even though I've plotted the path, every day characters still bring something new. 

Responsibility is the job; surprise is the calling.

It's broccoli and chocolate and most of us hate vegetables. That's why we're so easily distracted in air a waft with sweet scents. Only an altruistic creator can foster life from responsibility. I'm not that good. Yes, responsibility is one of my return reasons, but it's only the tug on my guilt strings; those ties can always be cut when sweet will is weak.

Surprise. That's what keeps me tethered and grounded. It's finding something new. It's seeing how things turn out. Its when Hypnomatons corner Michael on Inspiration Point, and not knowing how he escapes, despite the three page outline I already wrote. That's my chocolate for writing all the in-between broccoli.

But that's me. We all answer our own call. What's your broccoli? Your chocolate? What inspires passion in you and draws you back day after day to do what you do?

Day in the Life.

I read a platform site that said that good author webpages share personal experiences. They give insight to creative process, making me more real. Okay, I'll bleed for my craft. Here goes.

First, let me preface a few Rob Boyd fun-facts you don't know and probably should (at least for the purposes of this post—you can scrub them from your mind without harmful side effects later):

• I walk two miles a day. I leave the house, write, work out at the gym, then return home to greet my wife with an exhausted sweaty kiss at the end of each day.
• My daily needs accompany me in an overstuffed (also sweaty) grass-green  LL Bean backpack.
• I live in the north Midwest. Winter night temps peak around 10 degrees when it's balmy.
• In college, a police officer pulled me over and, after blasting a flashlight in my face, requested backup before searching my car.

Hopefully these Rob snapshots will enhance your experience. Now, let's continue. 

My walk home from the gym is about 3/4 mile. Most of that is without sidewalk, but, even in snow, I can trudge the berm without stepping into traffic. The only exception is a 10 yard stretch following a T-intersection. There, the T-base dips beneath a concrete railroad bridge, leaving room one car, each direction, and one skinny pedestrian to pass without overlapping.

Overlapping is bad, especially for the pedestrian. As said pedestrian, I am fastidiously careful crossing under the bridge as I am also very un-thin. I walk on the left side, hugging the wall and gauge oncoming traffic for overlapping potential. Not much I can do if there is. I'm a writer, not Spiderman. I can't climb to safety, but still I watch—and pray.

Last night I prayed and crossed under the bridge. I wound out and off and up the road, working along a snowdrift when a polished black Escalade approached from behind and stopped. The front window was even with my shoulder.

Not knowing how to prepare, I stopped too.

Was this a ride?

A mugging?

Questions for directions?

The window whined down and Ms. Mother-of-the-world pressed her face against the cold. "We can barely see you!" The icy wind is a burden born by the vigilant reprimander. From the looks, I'm not too worried about her burden: the ice across her face is far warmer than the stuff in her veins.

Muttered amongst my previous prayers for not getting run down were also pleas about not hurling sarcasm at crazy people. God has heard, and here he tests my resolve. Thoughts like, Well if you stay on your side of the road you'll miss me for sure, and I can strip down if you'd like to see more, race down from my brain.

A simple, "okay..?" is what wins my lips, sounding like, "and you expect me to do what about this?"

Her post-PTA hair-nest ruffles with rats of exasperation. Rob the street pedestrian has not paid proper homage. She continues."Black, is not a good color."

I know millions of Americans who would disagree.

I consider turning the reprimand to a mirror. Why not ask what sane person stops their car in the middle of the night to confront a stranger in the street? Are those kids in the car with her? I am not the face of evil, but in the light of a street-side dressing-down that doesn't matter. If I were armed with more than the burn of facial scruff and a tired leer, I could drive away in her prestigious automobile, warming her face with exhaust fumes from the SUV.

Not Rutger Hauer from the Hitcher, but enough to frighten a wayward Hobbit.

Instead, I shook my head as the window rose, hiding my ignorance. Either silence or my refusal to change clothes bored her. The engine revved and the world's mother accelerated her brood away.

When I arrived home, my Pirate Queen shrugged. "You thought they only existed in California?"

No, apparently not. I quickly jotted the experience in my notebook. Now she also exists amongst my character profiles too.

Gambol of Words

I hate the salesmanship of writing. I mean, I get the necessity, I just wish somebody else did the work. You know, a designated pitcher.

"Step right up! Come, marvel at Rob and his magical Morlocks!"

I left sales to create worlds—not create sales. Selling a TV to Ray Parker Jr., that's just a bit-o-stress in a day's work; selling two-years of my soul to an agent? That's an emotional twerk in a rejection minefield. I'm begging experts to love Steamtopia based on thirty seconds of verbal illusion.

It's more than Steamtopia Rising, I'm risking that they'll love me! I'm one junior high dance floor away from getting published.

"Here dear agent, would you care to twirl an ungainly tangle-tango with 125,000 of my favorite words? No? That's okay, it didn't work with a seventh-grade Gina Robbins either. sigh..."

Obviously, like junior high, I need to start with confidence. Time for big boy panties. I wore them to my first dance, I can wear them now. This time,  I'll put them on, one leg-hole at a time, and  inside my pants.


The other thing that makes this tough is translating the pitch from written to verbal. It's common practice to open a letter with, "Steamtopia Rising is a 125,000 word YA alternate history, fantasy novel. As Harry Potter introduced the wizarding world to muggles, Steamtopia Rising introduces steampunk Morlocks to ELOI." Try leading a conversation with those words. They'll only confuse, and Gina Robbins still won't want to dance.

So that's where I am this week: perfecting the conversational query. Working words of character and charm, so that next Saturday I'm my Friday-night best.

"Would you like to dance?"

A Morlock By any other Name

Manuscript housekeeping day!  Today I worked through my Glossary. Not really part of the book, just the way I keep track of names and characters. I'd love to use something like Tinderbox, but I'm a starving writer: I can't afford the fancy china.

Instead, I do this:

The next step begins next week: analyze my notes, and start plotting book 2.

Horse Collides into Cart: Film at Eleven.

Is it pretentious to geek-out on a world you've created? I hope not. I've spent hours crafting a "Steamtopia Rising" home screen for my iPhone. Everyone who looks at my iPhone will gasp at my fanboy cred. I'd hate for them to think I'm crazy too.

Eh, who am I kidding? They already know I'm crazy: I create worlds in my head!

I know. I know. I'm cart-before-horsing this. I don't have a book deal—not yet; no cool illustrator mocking up cover art (although, if I had a choice, I love Kirbi Fagan's work). Yet I'm obsessed. I've built a font over graphic cart to share Steamtopian pride.

"See my baby!"

The horse will come later.

What do you think?

It's Official!

I'm registered for the 2015 SDSU Writers' Conference. 

This year I'm offering up the first pages of "Steamtopia Rising" for advanced reading. Two agents will read, then talk about what works and what doesn't. I've also signed up for a "consultation" appointment. What's a consultation? Think speed dating for manuscripts, only there's one person, one chance, no pre-read--just ten minutes of stress to impress.

 Hopefully "Steamtopia Rising" can gain the same interest that DTTR did. I mean Steamtopia did place at Detroit Working Writers, but writers are one thing; agents and publishers are a different monster all-together.

I'm so excited! This January 23-25, look out San Diego: Robby's back in town!

Wish me luck!