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Waking up with a migraine doesn’t help get the creativity flowing.  Were my muses beating me in my sleep?  I wouldn’t put it passed them.

This is one of those days where I know my writing is going to be abysmal, so I may as well just get it over with and move on.  Or I could go do some laundry.

Hmm, that’s pretty sad when I’d rather do housework than write.  Maybe I’ll just leave you with an excerpt from a novel I’ve had on the back burner for a while.

The setting is rural Missouri, incidentally where I grew up.

Burn Out

I dragged my eyes open.  The side of my face was still smarting from where I’d whacked into the wall as I’d tried to roll over.  The first pale rays of sun light were struggling to penetrate the frosted glass of the window overhead.  A tan arm smacked me across the bridge of my nose before thumping the wall.  I lay there blinking tears out of my eyes for a moment.

“Jeeze, Tabby.”  Shoving the limb off my head I struggled to sit up.  No wonder I had been trying to climb the wall in my sleep.

Tabby slept sprawled across the rest of the twin bed, her short blonde hair rumpled.  One muscular leg flung over mine.  A faded band t-shirt was hiked up around her midriff.  To top it off she was wearing a pair of my boxers.  Sighing I bit back the desire to yell at her.  She’d either beat the crap out of me or laugh if I made too big a deal of it.  Shaking her shoulder, I tried to wake her.  She’d made a habit of climbing into bed with me the week her dad moved in with my mom and me, almost ten years ago.  She’d been eight and I was six at the time.  I hadn’t liked it then, and I still didn’t like it even if she didn’t do it every night now.  Something must have happened last night or she would’ve slept in her own bed.  Hoping it didn’t have anything to do with what I thought it did, I tried to wake her.

“Tabby, hey Tabitha wake up.  Go get in your own bed.  Come on.”  Shoving had little effect and just when I’d decided to forget it and go to her room she opened one eye.

Stretching so that the t-shirt threatened to reveal way too much she grinned at me mumbling, “Mornin’ sleepin’ beauty.”

“Get the hell out of my bed you freaking weirdo.”

“That’s not how you say good morning to your loving sister.”  She yawned through half the sentence, rubbing mascara nearly to her temples.

“Step-sister and since when have you been loving?  And why in the freaking hell are you wearing my boxers.”

“They’re comfy.” The pout lasted all of two seconds.

“Ooof.” I shoved at her shoulder as she flopped over on me.  She was entirely too warm and heavy, not that I would tell her that.  Her weight made it difficult to breathe.

“Besides you are so cute and cuddly when you are sleeping.”  She mumbled into my ear sending chills down my neck.

“You are creeping me out Tab.  We need to get up.”  I didn’t need to tell her why.  She sighed and I tried to ignore the feel of her against me.  Step-sister or not, she had a nice body.

“Creeps you out, huh?  You never used to mind.  Besides, it’s not like we are related or anything.”  Hugging me to her she snuggled closer.

Pushing her away I propped myself up on an elbow. “Do you have any idea how crazy you sound right now?”

“What?  I can’t think my step-brother is cute?”

“No!  No you can’t.”  That pissed her off.  Shifting around she sat up, pulling the shirt down.  She glanced at me over her shoulder.

“You know for being a football player, you sure are a wimp.”  Shoving my head down into the pillow she got up.  “I get dibbs on the shower.  Unless you want to share?”

“Get out you sicko.”

She disappeared in the direction of the bathroom and I buried my head in the pillow.  Soon the sound of running water could be heard.  She was getting weirder by the day, used to be she was disgusted by me like any proper sister.  She needs boyfriend, was my next thought, her and Jasper split six months ago.  The last thing I needed was Gunner thinking I’d hooked up with his precious daughter.  Grossed out by the thought I decided I was going to have to get a lock for my door, as soon as I got a door.  Gunner had broken it last year in one of his drunken rages, or rather had used me to break it.  We didn’t have the money to replace it, so I went without.  Shoving that thought to the dark reaches of my mind with the rest of the painful memories, I made myself get up.

The carpet, matted into a nondescript brown was cold, must be pretty chilly outside then.   Trailers aren’t exactly known for being well insulated.  Without Tabby’s body heat the room was decidedly nippy.  Best to get dressed.  Stripping off the pajama pants I found a pair of jeans that were still decent, no holes in improper places at least.  Socks were another matter.  After a ten minute search I found a mismatched pair and threw a t-shirt and hoodie on.

Avoiding piles of clothes, clean and dirty piled in the narrow hall, I headed for the kitchen.  The living room had been relatively clean yesterday, until Gunner came home.  Now the coffee table, end tables and the floor were covered with beer bottles and cans and the occasional liquor bottle.  The ashtray was overflowing onto the table and there were three empty packs of Camel’s mixed in among the bottles.  At least the alcohol and cigarette smoke smell kind of covered the lingering cold greasy smell of last night’s dinner.  My mom, Alicia wasn’t known for her cooking ability.  Not cooking food anyway.

I stopped in the living room watching her through the pass-through window as she got her breakfast in the kitchen.  Her personal cupboard was padlocked so we couldn’t raid it when she was gone.  As always she looked completely out of place in our dump of a single-wide.  Long blonde hair swung from a ponytail down to the middle of her back.  Anytime she showed up for a football game all the guys would stare at her.  She was pretty if not downright beautiful and she knew it.  Why she’d ever hooked up with Gunner was beyond me.  Maybe it had been desperation or something else, I didn’t pretend to understand it.  She glanced up and I felt my pulse quicken.  Please let her be in a good mood this morning, I begged whatever god cared to listen.

“Mornin’,” I ventured.

“Good morning Corentin.  Make sure you fix Gunner’s breakfast before you leave for school.  I’ll be gone all day, there is a realtor’s meeting in Springfield that I’m going to attend.  Don’t expect me home before ten tonight.  You and Tabitha are in charge of getting dinner on and make sure you clean the kitchen this time.”

I nodded as I headed to the refrigerator hoping there was something edible in it.  As usual she was lying.  I knew her real reason for going to Springfield.  It hadn’t been much of a shock to find out the realtor bit was a cover for her drug running for Gunner.  It was just really disappointing.  I guess it had stopped being a shock when Gunner had made me help him at a couple of his meth labs.  I hated it with a passion; it was hard, dangerous and smelly work.  I’d rather do something legal and safe.  My refusal to help often started many of our fights.  They normally ended with me bleeding on the floor.  Distracting myself with the task at hand I opened the fridge, almost welcoming the stench of rotting food.  Half a dozen eggs and a nearly empty gallon of milk meant breakfast wasn’t going to be much.  I’d have to see if we had enough money to go by the Save-A-Lot after school.

“Morning Alicia,” Tabby’s voice was muffled, probably by a towel.  Grabbing the eggs and milk I shut the door with my foot.  Sure enough Tabby was toweling her hair dry as she stood in the living room.  I rolled my eyes and set the food down on the counter.  She always pretended to be so polite, but I knew what she really thought of Alicia.  I agreed with her too.

“Good morning Tabitha.  Mrs. Coontz said they have a job opening at the Pizza Hut in Camdenton.  You should go apply today.”  Today was stressed in a tone that meant you did it or you suffered major consequences.

Tabby’s smile was as fake as they come, “I’ll check it out after I drive Ren to school since he missed the bus.”

“I was going to take my bike.”

“No,” They chorused glaring at me.

“It’s getting too late in the year and I don’t like you riding it anyway.”  I almost snorted, she didn’t like me riding it ‘cause it meant I had wheels faster than hers.

“It’s a lot cheaper on gas than the Dodge.” I countered.

The Dodge was a 1978 Ram Charger more suited to off-roading or mudding than driving down the road.  At least it was it better shape than the Chevy Gunner drove.  He’d nearly totaled it last year running from the cops.   Alicia drove a new Beamer that none of us were allowed to even look at much less touch.  If she really cared why didn’t she use some of that drug money to make our lives a little easier?  I knew the answer even as I thought the question.  She don’t care ‘bout us, not any more than me and Tabby are tax deductions.

“Tabitha has to go into town anyway.  No more discussion Corentin.”

I flinched at the tone.  Cringing as she walked behind me I was not spared the smack to the back of my head.  She was the only person who ever used my full name and I hated it.

“Tabitha, I want him home immediately after football practice.  You are not to go anywhere else.”

“Okay.”  Tabitha’s false meekness wouldn’t have worked on anyone else, but Alicia never seemed to notice.

One last check in the mirror by the door and she was gone.  Rubbing the back of my head I set about making breakfast for the rest of us.  Scrambled eggs and toast just isn’t filling especially when we had to leave half of it for Gunner.  Tabby came up behind me ruffling my hair.

“You know you shouldn’t argue with her.  Now she’ll think about it all day and be totally pissed by the time she gets home.”

I shifted away from her, cracking the eggs into the skillet.  “Doesn’t matter.  She’ll come home in a bad mood anyway, like she always does.”

“So you shouldn’t make it worse, shorty.”

“Hey, it’s too early for name calling.”

Tabby and I were cleaning up the mess when there were several thumps from the back of the trailer where the master bedroom was.

“We’d better hurry.”  Her voice was low and shook a bit.  “He had to move another lab yesterday.”

Swearing under my breath I hurried to put the dishes away.  Tabby, white lipped and silent wiped the counters clean with swift economical movements.  Moving a meth lab was always risky especially with the local highway patrol already watching Gunner like a hawk on a snake.

 

Well, it’s a start anyway.

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Guest Post: Going Pro with Your Writing

This week I am super excited to have Pauline Jones as a guest poster.

 

Going Pro with your Writing

by Pauline Baird Jones

 

Writing is easy:  All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead

~Gene Fowler

 

This is an exciting time to be a writer. It is hard to miss the Fifty Shades of Grey phenomenon, or not feel why not me? Digital publishing has forever changed the landscape for writers, opening up a direct conduit from author to reader. Now fan fiction authors have been talking direct to their readers for years, so they have an important edge—as evidenced by Fifty Shades—when taking their writing from fun hobby to professional business.

But there are some important differences that can trip the unwary and turn going pro into an exercise in miserable.

 

I love being a writer.  What I can’t stand is the paperwork

~Peter De Vries

 

Because there are so many options, it has become even more important for the savvy writer to understand the various options, the upside and downside of each, and what’s best for your work. That means you need a basic understanding of intellectual property rights before you sign anything. If you don’t know what IP is, then that’s a good place to start doing your research.

 

Here are a couple of good places to start:

 

The Business Rusch (Kristine Kathryn Rusch)

Dean Wesley Smith (her husband)

The Passive Voice (an intellectual property lawyer)

Joe Konrath (writer and voice for indie authors)

 

Most of these blogs will open you up to more resources and information. Information is power. Don’t fear knowledge. One of the biggest problems writers have is mixing fiction with their reality. They hear or believe what they want to hear, what feels comfortable, or what will let them continue in happy ignorance.

Happy ignorance will not last if you get published. Truth will slap you around. It can cost you time and sometimes control of your intellectual property.

Be in charge of your own business.

Yes, you are, or will become, a small business if you decide to begin selling your work. How much responsibility you take on will depend, in some part, on which form of publishing you choose to pursue. But even if you choose to use a publisher, you will sign legal contracts that will affect your rights to control your work.

And no matter who publishes your work, ultimately you will be responsible for your author brand. Your author brand is your name, or the name that will be on the cover of your published work.

Your published work is your product. Each book is a package that you hope to sell to readers. When you are writing for friends and/or family, story telling is king. And friends and family tend to love you, so they love what you write. They read it without a critical eye. They can overlook typos and badly constructed sentences and meandering plots.

When you are asking readers to pay money for your writing, storytelling is still king—but craft is the queen. If you don’t believe me, just peruse some reader reviews on Amazon, paying particular attention to the 1-2 star reviews.

Whenever I see comments like, “This could have been so much better with the help of a good editor,” you know the author didn’t respect their story or their reader enough to do the hard work of learning the craft. Authors who know they are running a business will hire the best people for their business, so that they protect their brand.

The first law of protecting your brand is to make sure your story is the best it can be before money changes hands.

 

When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing

~Enrique Jardiel Poncela

 

Let me repeat that: when you are asking readers to exchange money for your story, you need to deliver the best story possible.

Once a reader pays for your product, they have a right to comment on their experience with it. Reviews are hard. Rejection is really hard. But understand that readers who aren’t related to us, or who aren’t our friends, aren’t going to love us unless we do our job.

One of the hardest lessons for me to learn, as a beginning-going-professional writer, was how important it was to be patient, to take the time to get the story right. For many readers, you only get one shot at making a good impression. You fail with them, they are gone.

 

Doing it right the first time is part of protecting your brand.

~Almost Every Successful Author

 

Our job is to deliver a well-written, satisfying story. There is too much competition to drive off readers who wanted to like your book. Because there will be readers who don’t engage with your story no matter what you do. “This just didn’t work for me” is very different from “needs a better editor,” or “an editor.”

When you collect reviews like that you ready to face the second rule of protecting your brand: don’t go bat crap crazy on people who don’t like what you write. Even if they are wrong, don’t engage. Take the long view, drive the high road, bite your tongue, step away from the computer—whatever it takes. There are people out there who like to see authors melt down, lose control, whatever. It’s reality Internet for them. Don’t let them play you.

Who you are, what you did, what you wrote, what you didn’t do, will follow you around like a whining dog/child/reader. If you can’t handle bad reviews, don’t read them. For some authors, bad reviews don’t just hit their ego. They stomp on their Muse. Which brings me back to: protect your brand. Yes, your Muse is part of your brand. Writing more books is the most important part of your business.

Let me repeat that: writing books is the most important part of your business. It is the reason you have a business. If readers love your books, the first thing they will do after “the end,” is to go looking for more.

I promise you there will be times when it is harder to write for money than it was to write for nothing. If that seems counterintuitive, welcome to the publishing business.

 

So, to recap: 

 

  1. Quantity of words does not equal quality. Writing is rewriting and rewriting some more.
  2. If you want to be a professional writer, find where professional writers hang out and talk to them, learn from them, pick their brains, read their blogs, learn.
  3. Protect your brand. Put your best writing foot forward in your books and your best self forward when you promote. Learn from others how to do this. (See a pattern emerging here?)
  4. Be nice. (I don’t have to explain this, do I?)
  5. Learn the business of writing. Craft, contracts, rights management, promotion and publicity–all of it. If you don’t manage it, it will manage you. If you’re not savvy, you risk losing time, money and control of your intellectual property.
  6. Grow a thick skin. You’ll need it when the first rejections and/or reviews start coming in. Realize that not everyone likes chocolate and not everyone will like what you write. When you go pro, that means putting on the big girl/boy pants.
  7. Keep writing. If you write a book that readers like, they will look for the next one and the next one and the one after that.
  8. Don’t take your readers for granted.  Don’t disappoint them or yourself by being less than your best.
  9. Love the process, love the writing, love the story telling.

 

Many books require no thought from those who read them, and for a very simple reason; they made no demand on those who wrote them.

~Charles Caleb Colton

 

Every business, from widgets to frozen waffles, is in it for the money, but they start with a passion to provide a service or product that people are willing to pay for. People who make widgets love making them. I know, seems crazy, but to people who don’t write, we’re the crazies and widgets are normal.

If you are only in it for the money, it will show in your writing and readers will know. Books aren’t widgets. They are a deeply personal experience to readers. You know when a book isn’t quite right, don’t you? And your job is to convince a reader to pick your story over the millions and millions of books out there.

We all know the stories of the overnight success, the authors who cut corners and struck gold their first time out of the gate. It happens. Lightning strikes sometimes. And if you don’t get out there, it sure won’t strike.

But the authors who endure, who build a readership that comes back for more, are the authors who respect themselves and those readers. They are in it for the long haul. They are in it because they love telling stories. They are the ones who bring their passion for great storytelling to the process and not just a longing to strike it rich. These writers create fans, not cash cows.

I’ve been in this business a long time. I delighted over my first sale and I still get a thrill when I release a new novel. But the deep satisfaction, and the will to keep going, does not come from the money. I am amazed and delighted when a reader takes the time to write to me, or to write a review about how much they liked something I wrote. When I realize they get what I was trying to do with the story, knowing they took the journey into my imaginary world and had a great time—well, there’s nothing quite like that glow. It feeds my Muse and keeps me going through recalcitrant characters, tricky plots and even the not-so-nice reviews.

Is it hard? Absolutely.

Is it worth it? In my humble opinion, without a doubt.

But then, I don’t want to make widgets. I want to write books.

 

 

Pauline Baird Jones had a tough time with reality from the get-go. After “schooling” from four, yes FOUR brothers, she knew that some people needed love and others needed killing. Pauline figured she could do both. Romantic suspense was the logical starting point, but there were more worlds to explore, more rules to break and minds to bend. She grabbed her pocket watch and time travel device and dove through the wormhole into the world of science fiction and even some Steampunk.

Now she wanders among the genres, trying a little of this and a lot of that, rampaging through her characters’ lives like Godzilla because she does love her peril (when it’s not happening to her). Never fear, she gives her characters happy endings. Well, the good characters. The bad ones get justice. 

She is currently at work on her fourteenth novel and has twelve audio books in production. Her publisher will release three collections of her short stories in the upcoming months: Project Enterprise: The short stories, The Romances and The Mysteries. For more information about Pauline, her books and to check out her blog, visit: www.paulinebjones.com

 

Books · Characters · Movies · Uncategorized · Writing FUNdamentals

Kill Me Softly


This is how I remember first meeting Boba Fett.  He was mysterious, dangerous and didn’t back down from one of the meanest villains in any genre.  It was love at first sight.  Then came the prequels.  The utter horror and dismay on my part as one of my all time favorite characters was reduced to a mere clone has stuck with me for years now.  I used to collect anything and everything Fett.  No longer.  His image and his very essence had been tainted.  By the  man who created him.  And why?  To satisfy fans.

I’m a fan and I did not ask for this travesty.  Yet over and over I see characters get slaughtered by their own writers.   The comic book industry is rife with examples.  (Deadpool being one of the foremost, more on that in a few.) Literature doesn’t escape it either.  I recently finished the Hunger Games series.  I was severely disappointed by how Katniss changed over the three books.  She went from being a total badass to basically reinstating the very regime she’d fought to take down.  How is that character progression?  Is it meant to be an ironic statement by the author?

Then there is the Anita Blake series by Laurell K. Hamilton.  I loved the first book.  Anita was a total kick ass woman who knew who she was and who she didn’t want to be.  I was appalled and disgusted by the end of the series.   Anita was no longer kick ass and amazing, she was a whore.  She had gone from untouchable to just another bimbo sleeping with vampires.  Is it no wonder I rarely read books with a female protagonist?

So what happened?  Fans.  Fans happened.  Fans are awesome.  I wish I had fans.  But just like the electric kind they can be refreshing or they can blow shit all over the place.  Letting your character get caught by fans reduces them to a bloody splatter on the wall, unrecognizable as the person you brought into existence.  I’m a fan myself.  I’m a huge fan of certain series and characters as you’ve probably noticed.  I’m also a writer.  (Another fact that I hope hasn’t escaped your notice.)  As a writer watching another writer as they let fans dictate how a character evolves puzzles me.

I’m all for fan input, commentary, discussion and whathaveyou, but when it starts to affect how I view my own character it’s time to step back.  I know my characters more intimately than I probably know myself.  Does that mean I need to let you, my dear, dear reader know all those facts?  No.  Does that mean I don’t listen when people remark on certain attributes of my characters?  No.  Does that mean I write to please my readers?  No.  I write to please myself.  If you like it awesome, great, fantastic we’ve got something in common.  If not, no big.

So why do some writers get caught up in trying to please fans?  Maybe they are afraid of what people will say if they don’t.  Maybe they think that appealing to the lowest common denominator will gain them more sales.  Which, while sometimes true, I think betrays the core reason for writing.  Writers write to entertain, to educate and illuminate.  Few single works do all three.  Some can barely manage one.

It is my firm belief that writers have a duty to their story and their characters first, readers second.  If the story and characters are sound, well crafted and compelling the readers will come.  Being consistent when writing a character is paramount.  And that point brings me to Deadpool.

Sure there are other comic book characters who have been rewritten by various writers.  Each writer for a run has their own take on the character and the universe.  A lot like fanfiction really.  Look at Batman or Spider-Man.  Though they essentially stay the same type of character, their core personalities don’t change.  Deadpool aka Wade Wilson has no such luck.  In his first appearance nothing is known about him, his actions and his verbage speak for themselves.  We didn’t need to know his background at that point.  We got it.  He was a killer who enjoyed his job very much and also loved to talk.  He was quite menacing and very obviously a bad guy.

Deadpool’s first appearance in New Mutants #98 published Feb 1991.

After his first appearance he cropped up a few months later in X-Force #1 but only as a character profile.  Slowly but surely he built a fandom and starting getting more appearances.   Finally in 1993 he got to be a headliner in his own one-shot series Deadpool: The Circle Chase.   That series ended and he was back to making short appearances until 1997 when he got his own title.  This started off the Joe Kelly era of Deadpool which is considered by most fans to be the definitive version of the character.  Then we come down to 2008 and a new writer by the name of Daniel Way.  He’d worked on Wolverine: Origins and Ghost Rider, he’s legit.  So why has his take on Deadpool has seen the most virulent derision from the loyal fans who have followed Deadpool from the early 90’s?

Deadpool began as a wise cracking mercenary who shot first and never thought to ask questions and acted as if the fourth wall was merely a suggestion.  By the end of the Secret Invasion arc things are very clearly leaning in a different direction.   Then came Dark Reign and Monkey Business.  The wise cracking is still there but the wise is slipping.  Instead of real humor there are inane refrences to (then) current entertainment news/gossip.  And Deadpool has lost a whole bucket full of IQ points.  He seems to have traded in his quirky talent for being painfully obvious yet obscure for being painfully dimwitted and trite.  He’s still mouthy, but instead of being funny it comes across more as though a fourteen year old sat in his room dreaming up one liners and who then creates situations in which to use them.

The progression of Wade as a character has stalled.  There is no internal conflict that was present in the earlier series and all the external conflict feels contrived.  There is a fixation on being  a ‘hero,’ but no real motive for this fixation other than wanting to be liked and this isn’t even explored or exploited as well as it could be.  He tries to join the X-Men, of course that fails miserably, he’s not a ‘true’ mutant.  So he tries to follow Spider-Man around to learn how to be a hero.  He’s been a hero, multiple times in earlier incarnations, albeit never acknowledged by the Mavel Universe as one.  Current issues are episodic and have more of a sitcom feel to them with little or no character development.

Sure some issues are funny, most are juvenile and not suited to the more mature audience that Deadpool has garnered over the years.  While I am not a Way-nah-sayer, I do find his run to have been more puerile and much less fun than anticipated.

My main issue with him as the writer of Deadpool is that while he did introduce some interesting elements they were not used to their full advantage.  He chose flash over bang.  It looks like something happened but when the smoke clears, its just that.  Smoke.  Nothing really happened.

So what can we take from this example?  When writing a character, any character you have to fully understand where they come from and their motivations.  Once the action really gets going it can be easy to lose those motivations.  That’s why it helps to step back every now and then and look objectively at what you’ve written.  Is it really working?  Is your character staying true to themselves or are you dictating things to make the story work?  Author intrusion is going to be noticed by the reader and even those fans who have been begging for something to happen will know that you faked it.  Don’t be afraid to write your character as they truly are and definitely don’t listen to fans who blow shit.

Yes, my boy.  You are good.

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Some times we forget we are not alone. We trudge along, never lifting our heads to look around. Slogging through our daily lives we miss opportunities and chances to meet new friends.

I’m learning to look around and see all the others slogging right along with me. It’s refreshing and enlightening. It also makes me less self centered and more productive.

MyWANA is a superb tool and social site for those of us who might feel isolated by our creativity. Come join me and see just who and what you find.

http://www.wanatribe.com go be a part.

Lillian's avatarHuman In Recovery

Recently I posted about reconnecting to a part of myself that I thought I had lost.  One of the things that I had lost was my sense and ability, my sensability as it were, to really be involved in community with wonderfully witty, snarky, bright, and intelligent folk such as Le Clown from A Clown On Fire and Dotty Headbanger from Notes from a She-Hermit.  What happened next has been quite the roller coaster ride and through that one post, I have come to find many other wonderful and interesting bloggers from all over the world with varied interests and challenges.  The following contains just a few examples:

The Howler And Me

Running Naked With Scissors

Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars

My Electronic Jukebox

Brother Jon

and so many, many others.  Look them up here, where Dear Dotty has created a space for us all to…

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Just when you think you have had a hard life, you meet someone who truly has and discover that you still have much to learn.

Lillian's avatarHuman In Recovery

“If you had the chance to change your fate, would ya’?” ~ Princess Merida, Brave 2012

My girls and I went to see Brave yesterday, as a belated birthday celebration for LaLa.  Sure she’s 19, but after watching the first trailer, I knew it was something I wanted to share with her as well as Luna. Lachesis showed up in the form of the “short” that opened the movie, “La Luna.” It informed me I was in a defining moment by being there with both my daughters.  La Luna foreshadowed what I perceived to be the primary theme of the movie itself: conflict and relationships.  The trailers make Brave seem to be about a young woman’s efforts to define her own future, and it is.  However, I think the actual primary theme is about conflict and the restoration of relationships.  The mother-daughter relationship was definitely the central story…

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Mystery of You

Driving to work the other day, I had the radio on. This is very normal as is my allowing scenes to flow through my head while listening to music. However what happened the other day took me by surprise. I know my novel is a bit dark with deep themes involving why we allow people to manipulate us into harming ourselves and motivations for such behavior, but watching my main character sacrifice himself brought me to tears.

He is not an overtly sympathetic character but after living with him for so long, I love him like a child. He is a child. And to know that he will reach the point in his life where living is no longer an option troubles me greatly. I do not want him to die. Not by choice, not by violence, not by any means. I want his ending to be happy.

Its not meant to be. I know that. I’ve always known that from the first instant he wandered into my psyche and took up residence. My only consolation is that his death is not without reason but I’m reluctant to continue writing because, as silly as it sounds, I don’t want to lose him.

Oh silly writer is silly, ne?

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Burn Out

Sometimes you have to stop and take a step back and look at what is going on around you.  Sometimes this means acknowledging things you would rather not, either about yourself or your situation.  Seeing things as they truly are oftentimes means that action is needed on our part.  Lying to ourselves is our greatest flaw.  The constant inner tirade of ‘I’m not good enough,’ ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ or ‘It’s none of my business’ weighs us down and prevents us from becoming who we truly are.  Shaking off those thoughts might require a mental pry bar.

The past two years have been especially difficult for me for reasons I will not disclose publicly.  I have found solace in writing and building better, longer lasting friendships with those who do not pander to my self pity but who extol me to exert myself in being not just good, but great.

In a recent blog, which I reblogged here, the advice to do that which breaks down all comfort barriers was put forth.  Doing that which terrifies us is a step toward learning who we truly are.  I stepped very, very far away from my comfort zone today and did something I have never dreamed of doing before.  I sent a copy of Sorrow’s Fall and a hand drawn portrait to someone who I greatly admire along with a fan letter.  It still makes me feel sick to my stomach to think about it, but the deed is done and while I expect nothing to come of it, that little tiny flicker of hope is always there. Chances are flighty things, grab them when they light.

For those of you interested I am posting the first chapter of my first attempt at a literary style novel Burn Out.  It’s raw so please excuse the errors.  Any and all feedback is appreciated.

Growing up in rural Missouri with a step-father who runs a methlab, mother who is never home and a step sister who cannot seem to keep her hands to herself, Corentin takes what refuge he can in the routine at school.  It would be easier if he wasn’t so different from everyone else.

 

Chapter 1

I dragged my eyes open.  The side of my face was still smarting from where I’d whacked into the wall as I’d tried to roll over.  The first pale rays of sun light were struggling to penetrate the frosted glass of the window overhead.  A tan arm smacked me across the bridge of my nose before thumping the wall.  I lay there blinking tears out of my eyes for a moment.
“Jeeze, Tabby.”  Shoving the limb off my head I struggled to sit up.  No wonder I had been trying to climb the wall in my sleep.  
Tabby slept sprawled across the rest of the twin bed, her short blonde hair rumpled.  One muscular leg flung over mine.  A faded band t-shirt was hiked up around her midriff.  To top it off she was wearing a pair of my boxers.  Sighing I bit back the desire to yell at her.  She’d either beat the crap out of me or laugh if I made too big a deal of it.  Shaking her shoulder, I tried to wake her.  She’d made a habit of climbing into bed with me the week her dad moved in with my mom and me, almost ten years ago.  She’d been eight and I was six at the time.  I hadn’t liked it then, and I still didn’t like it even if she didn’t do it every night now.  Something must have happened last night or she would’ve slept in her own bed.  Hoping it didn’t have anything to do with what I thought it did, I tried to wake her.
“Tabby, hey Tabitha wake up.  Go get in your own bed.  Come on.”  Shoving had little effect and just when I’d decided to forget it and go to her room she opened one eye.
Stretching so that the t-shirt threatened to reveal way too much she grinned at me mumbling, “Mornin’ sleepin’ beauty.”
“Get the hell out of my bed you freaking weirdo.”
“That’s not how you say good morning to your loving sister.”  She yawned through half the sentence, rubbing mascara nearly to her temples.
“Step-sister and since when have you been loving?  And why in the freaking hell are you wearing my boxers.”
“They’re comfy.” The pout lasted all of two seconds.
“Ooof.” I shoved at her shoulder as she flopped over on me.  She was entirely too warm and heavy, not that I would tell her that.  Her weight made it difficult to breathe.  
“Besides you are so cute and cuddly when you are sleeping.”  She mumbled into my ear sending chills down my neck.
“You are creeping me out Tab.  We need to get up.”  I didn’t need to tell her why.  She sighed and I tried to ignore the feel of her against me.  Step-sister or not, she had a nice body. 
“Creeps you out, huh?  You never used to mind.  Besides, it’s not like we are related or anything.”  Hugging me to her she snuggled closer.
Pushing her away I propped myself up on an elbow. “Do you have any idea how crazy you sound right now?”
“What?  I can’t think my step-brother is cute?”
“No!  No you can’t.”  That pissed her off.  Shifting around she sat up, pulling the shirt down.  She glanced at me over her shoulder.
“You know for being a football player, you sure are a wimp.”  Shoving my head down into the pillow she got up.  “I get dibbs on the shower.  Unless you want to share?”
“Get out you sicko.”
She disappeared in the direction of the bathroom and I buried my head in the pillow.  Soon the sound of running water could be heard.  She was getting weirder by the day, used to be she was disgusted by me like any proper sister.  She needs boyfriend, was my next thought, her and Jasper split six months ago.  The last thing I needed was Gunner thinking I’d hooked up with his precious daughter.  Grossed out by the thought I decided I was going to have to get a lock for my door, as soon as I got a door.  Gunner had broken it last year in one of his drunken rages, or rather had used me to break it.  We didn’t have the money to replace it, so I went without.  Shoving that thought to the dark reaches of my mind with the rest of the painful memories, I made myself get up.
The carpet, matted into a nondescript brown was cold, must be pretty chilly outside then.   Trailers aren’t exactly known for being well insulated.  Without Tabby’s body heat the room was decidedly nippy.  Best to get dressed.  Stripping off the pajama pants I found a pair of jeans that were still decent, no holes in improper places at least.  Socks were another matter.  After a ten minute search I found a mismatched pair and threw a t-shirt and hoodie on.
Avoiding piles of clothes, clean and dirty piled in the narrow hall, I headed for the kitchen.  The living room had been relatively clean yesterday, until Gunner came home.  Now the coffee table, end tables and the floor were covered with beer bottles and cans and the occasional liquor bottle.  The ashtray was overflowing onto the table and there were three empty packs of Camel’s mixed in among the bottles.  At least the alcohol and cigarette smoke smell kind of covered the lingering cold greasy smell of last night’s dinner.  My mom, Alicia wasn’t known for her cooking ability.  Not cooking food anyway.
I stopped in the living room watching her through the pass-through window as she got her breakfast in the kitchen.  Her personal cupboard was padlocked so we couldn’t raid it when she was gone.  As always she looked completely out of place in our dump of a single-wide.  Long blonde hair swung from a ponytail down to the middle of her back.  Anytime she showed up for a football game all the guys would stare at her.  She was pretty if not downright beautiful and she knew it.  Why she’d ever hooked up with Gunner was beyond me.  Maybe it had been desperation or something else, I didn’t pretend to understand it.  She glanced up and I felt my pulse quicken.  Please let her be in a good mood this morning, I begged whatever god cared to listen.
“Mornin’,” I ventured.
“Good morning Corentin.  Make sure you fix Gunner’s breakfast before you leave for school.  I’ll be gone all day, there is a realtor’s meeting in Springfield that I’m going to attend.  Don’t expect me home before ten tonight.  You and Tabitha are in charge of getting dinner on and make sure you clean the kitchen this time.”
I nodded as I headed to the refrigerator hoping there was something edible in it.  As usual she was lying.  I knew her real reason for going to Springfield.  It hadn’t been much of a shock to find out the realtor bit was a cover for her drug running for Gunner.  It was just really disappointing.  I guess it had stopped being a shock when Gunner had made me help him at a couple of his meth labs.  I hated it with a passion; it was hard, dangerous and smelly work.  I’d rather do something legal and safe.  My refusal to help often started many of our fights.  They normally ended with me bleeding on the floor.  Distracting myself with the task at hand I opened the fridge, almost welcoming the stench of rotting food.  Half a dozen eggs and a nearly empty gallon of milk meant breakfast wasn’t going to be much.  I’d have to see if we had enough money to go by the Save-A-Lot after school.
“Morning Alicia,” Tabby’s voice was muffled, probably by a towel.  Grabbing the eggs and milk I shut the door with my foot.  Sure enough Tabby was toweling her hair dry as she stood in the living room.  I rolled my eyes and set the food down on the counter.  She always pretended to be so polite, but I knew what she really thought of Alicia.  I agreed with her too.
“Good morning Tabitha.  Mrs. Coontz said they have a job opening at the Pizza Hut in Camdenton.  You should go apply today.”  Today was stressed in a tone that meant you did it or you suffered major consequences.
Tabby’s smile was as fake as they come, “I’ll check it out after I drive Ren to school since he missed the bus.”
“I was going to take my bike.”
“No,” They chorused glaring at me.
“It’s getting too late in the year and I don’t like you riding it anyway.”  I almost snorted, she didn’t like me riding it ‘cause it meant I had wheels faster than hers.
“It’s a lot cheaper on gas than the Dodge.” I countered.
The Dodge was a 1978 Ram Charger more suited to off-roading or mudding than driving down the road.  At least it was it better shape than the Chevy Gunner drove.  He’d nearly totaled it last year running from the cops.   Alicia drove a new Beamer that none of us were allowed to even look at much less touch.  If she really cared why didn’t she use some of that drug money to make our lives a little easier?  I knew the answer even as I thought the question.  She don’t care ‘bout us, not any more than me and Tabby are tax deductions.
“Tabitha has to go into town anyway.  No more discussion Corentin.”
I flinched at the tone.  Cringing as she walked behind me I was not spared the smack to the back of my head.  She was the only person who ever used my full name and I hated it.  
“Tabitha, I want him home immediately after football practice.  You are not to go anywhere else.”
“Okay.”  Tabitha’s false meekness wouldn’t have worked on anyone else, but Alicia never seemed to notice.
One last check in the mirror by the door and she was gone.  Rubbing the back of my head I set about making breakfast for the rest of us.  Scrambled eggs and toast just isn’t filling especially when we had to leave half of it for Gunner.  Tabby came up behind me ruffling my hair.
“You know you shouldn’t argue with her.  Now she’ll think about it all day and be totally pissed by the time she gets home.”
I shifted away from her, cracking the eggs into the skillet.  “Doesn’t matter.  She’ll come home in a bad mood anyway, like she always does.”
“So you shouldn’t make it worse, shorty.”
“Hey, it’s too early for name calling.”
Tabby and I were cleaning up the mess when there were several thumps from the back of the trailer where the master bedroom was.
“We’d better hurry.”  Her voice was low and shook a bit.  “He had to move another lab yesterday.”
Swearing under my breath I hurried to put the dishes away.  Tabby, white lipped and silent wiped the counters clean with swift economical movements.  Moving a meth lab was always risky especially with the local highway patrol already watching Gunner like a hawk on a snake.
“What the hell are you two still doing here?”  The question was like a rifle shot, stopping us both dead.
“We’re just leaving, Daddy.”  Grabbing my arm she hauled me out of the way.  I barely managed to snag my backpack from by the couch.
“You better get a job Tab, you and that half bred mutt need to pull your weight around here.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Who gives a shit, it’s what he is.  Get out of here.”  A beer bottle glanced off my shoulder and shattered against the door frame.
Tabby shoved me out the door and slammed it behind her.  She let loose with a string of cuss words she’d never use within ear shot of Gunner or Alicia.  Once we were in the truck and it’d safely cranked over she finally looked at me.
“You alright?”
I nodded.  I’d been hit a lot worse, there wasn’t even any blood this time.
“God sometimes I hate that man.  I’m really sorry-“
“Don’t apologize for him okay.  Just try to get that job.”  I stared out at the trees that surrounded the ugly squat trailer we called home.  They were still mostly green, the fall colors wouldn’t really get going for a few weeks yet.  I wanted nothing more than to hop on my bike where it sat at the end of the trailer and leave.  Gunner would hunt me down like a wounded deer if I did and who would help Tabby then?  “Pick me up right after school, I’ll skip practice for today.  I think there’s a place where I can get a job.”
She didn’t say anything.  I glanced over to see her dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, lips trembling.
“Let’s just go, ok.”
“Yeah.”  She put the truck in reverse and pulled out of the driveway.  Clenching trembling fingers in my lap I stared out at the scenery flowing by.  My shoulder was throbbing sending little spirals of pain racing down my arm.  Gunner could throw freaking hard.  I’d woken up with a concussion once after he’d thrown a beer bottle at my head.  All he’d said was he was surprised he’d hit such a small target.  Biting back a sigh I didn’t want Tabby hearing, I laid my head against the window letting the cold jolt through me.  We didn’t talk the rest of the way into town.

The truck rumbled to a stop in front of the high school and Tabby gave me one of her little half-hearted smiles.  I returned it and tried to open the door.  It was stuck.  Maybe it was a sign I should skip school today.
“Stupid rusted out piece of crap.”  I slammed my already sore shoulder into it and it sprang open about two inches before grinding to a halt.  It groaned in protest as I pushed it the rest of the way open and slid out.
“I’ll just get a ride from one of the guys.  No sense you having to come back to get me.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You sure about that?  I remember last year you said the same thing and I had to pick you up trying to walk home.”
Sighing I shouldered my backpack and nodded, “I’ll be fine, that was last year anyway.”
She put the truck into gear and a belt started whining.  I barely heard her mumble something about some things not changing.  Getting the door shut took two tries.
I didn’t want Tabby knowing that she was right.  School had started only a couple of weeks ago and nothing had changed.  If anything they were worse, mostly due to the stupid little cliques that dominated the social network of the school.  Last year had been bad enough.  There had to be someone who could take me home, maybe the new coach would if I asked.
Keeping my head down, I headed inside.  I consciously practiced being invisible, not catching anyone’s eye or attracting attention.  I’d learned that from being around Gunner.  Don’t look around, keep your eyes on the floor, and keep as low a profile as possible.  Most of the time it worked, and I didn’t think to hard about why.
“Hey! Tokyo.”
I glanced around chest suddenly burning.   Someone had called me that last year and it had stuck along with another more popular nickname that I refused to answer to.  No one at the school called me Corentin, not even the teachers.  Tobey Andrews lumbered along beside his older brother Cody, they were both grinning.  Separately they looked nothing alike, but get them together and it was obvious they were brothers.  Same dirty blond hair and fair skin with pale blue eyes, the typical American look.  They were both on the football team, Cody was the starting quarterback and Tobey was a defensive lineman.  While they were friendly I didn’t know them that well outside of football.  Tall and broad shouldered they both towered over me.  I resisted the urge to back up against the lockers as I was surrounded by a wall of dense flesh.  The grins got wider.
“Um . . . hi guys.”  I hated how lame I sounded.  “What’s going on?”
“Our sister wants to meet you.” Tobey was smiling so wide it had to hurt.  “She’s a junior too.”
“Sister?”  I had a sudden vision of some huge Amazon type.  “What?  Why?”
Cody waved my questions away.  “She’s a girl, why the hell would we know why she wants to do something.  You just be nice, ok.”
“Well . . . uh yeah, of course.”  Could I sound any stupider?  Cody gave me this glare like he knew I was stupid.  I looked down.  As the team captain and a senior he could either make my life easier or much harder than it already was.  I swallowed and made sure nothing showed on my face before I looked up again.  “What’s her name?”
“Misty.”  Tobey volunteered.  “She likes short guys.”
From his grin I didn’t think he meant it to be mean.  I kept my mouth shut and hoped to god my expression didn’t show the disgust I felt.  So most likely she was tall, at least taller than me and that wasn’t saying much, most of the girls were taller than me.  And just like that they were gone, parting the growing crowds like a couple of bulldozers at a crash-up derby.  Why in the hell would their sister want to meet me?  It must be some kind of sick joke.
Tossing my backpack into the bottom of the locker, I kicked it shut.  I’d just turned when something slammed into my shoulder knocking me back against the cold metal.  I juggled my armload of books for a moment.  A hand pinned me to the locker before I could recover, laughter ringing in my ears.
“This year is going to be so much fun.” Her grin was exactly like her brothers’, just a little on the nasty side though.  I wasn’t sure I knew what she was talking about and some of my surprise and confusion must have showed because her grin got bigger.  
“Hi, I’m Misty.”  She was blonde and blue eyed like her brothers but not so bad to look at.  She had to be at least six inches taller than me and probably outweighed me by another thirty pounds.  She put both her hands on my shoulders and leaned down so we were eye level.  I could smell her lip gloss and that’s when I realized she was way too close.  Being small and quick can be real handy at times, so does training to slip away from defensive linemen twice my size.  Wasn’t no way I was letting some chick kiss me, besides, Cody’d skin me alive.  Standing in the middle of the hall I watched as she turned hoping she would give up and leave.  She just laughed and told me she’d see me later.  Not if I could help it.  Be nice my ass.  
I headed to my first class in a foul mood.  I couldn’t figure it out.  Normally the girls didn’t give me even a first glance, no matter what Tabby said about how cute I was.  It didn’t really bother me.  I got to see too much of what went on with the so-called couples to want to be involved in any of it.  Waste of time and energy if you ask me, which nobody ever did.  Maybe it bothered me more than I thought if I couldn’t quit thinking about it.  I’d probably end up telling Tabby about it later anyway.  She’d be able to help me know what to do in case Misty didn’t back off.  
Things remained close to normal until lunch.  Since I my one friend was assigned a different lunch this year I’d quit eating lunch in the cafeteria.  It sucks wondering around trying to find a seat when the only time anyone lets you sit with them, it’s to make fun of you.  Since I hadn’t had a chance to make my lunch this morning I was going to have to brave the mob.  Yippy.  Fishing around in my pockets I realized I only had enough money for a drink and a sandwich.  I should have asked Tabby for some cash.  After that skimpy breakfast I was starving.  Maybe her working at Pizza Hut wasn’t such a bad idea, might get decent meals then.  Gathering up my determination I got in line.
I knew I must look stupid trying to look in every direction at once and forced myself to calm down.  The kid behind me seemed harmless and-I stopped myself.  I wasn’t at home and even if there were a couple of kids who were jerks, Gunner wasn’t here.  I didn’t need to be on guard all the time, but damn it’s hard to relax with that many people around.  Grabbing a milk and a plastic wrapped peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I paid and headed for my favorite haunt-the library.  Or tried to.
She looked like something out of a magazine, all perfect and glittery.  She had that same cold slick feel about her too, like if you tried to touch her your fingers would just slide off.  She was looking at me like I’d just crawled out of the drainpipe at her feet.  Pouty mouth all puckered, arched eyebrows slanted down over electric blue eyes.  
“I knew the football team here was desperate, but who knew they were letting bishonen on the team.”  I didn’t recognize the word and she knew I wouldn’t that’s what sucked.  Ain’t nothing worse than being called some bad word you don’t know is bad.  She smiled then and it made it all worse because the smile was real and no girl ever smiled at me like that.  Another girl, I recognized her as Randy the photographer for the school paper, wandered up giving me the evil eye.
“What are you doing here Tink?”  She was sneering, knowing I hated the nickname.  “You’re not bothering Bryanna are you?”
“No,” It came out all sullen and I wished like hell it hadn’t.  She gave me another one of those hateful grins.
I jumped as someone knocked the milk carton out of my hand.  Sean Jackson glowered down at me, the burly linebacker had never liked me, he didn’t like anybody that wasn’t white.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Randy bend down to get the milk.
“You best be gettin’ on, wouldn’t want the coach thinkin’ you were making a nuisance of yourself.”
Knowing from the look in Jackson’s eye that any response would be the wrong one, I turned to leave.  No sense making a big deal out of it.  Something cold and wet poured over my head and down into my eyes.  At first I was too shocked to think clear.  Then it hit me, Randy had poured the milk on my head.
“Wouldn’t want you to forget your milk.” The sarcasm in Randy’s voice was so heavy it should have crushed her.
Blinking what I hoped was just milk out of my eyes, I couldn’t ignore the hot tightness in my chest.  Laughter rained down on me like hail.  Better not stay here, I told myself, unless you want more of the same.  Careful to not look up at anyone I brushed by the model wannabe and left the cafeteria wondering why I hadn’t just skipped lunch altogether.

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Author Kristen Lamb's avatarKristen Lamb's Blog

It’s a Purrgenomic Keyboard

I’m back! Just so you guys, know, I really missed you. Before we address today’s topic, some industry news. Months ago, I wrote a post Bracing for Impact–The Future of the New Publishing Paradigm where we talked about the problems with the publishing industry and I even offered some solutions to the indie bookstores’ problems. Stop fighting digital and get creative—pair paper and digital sales.

Then, two weeks ago, I wrote a post declaring that Big Six Publishing is Dead. In this post, I pointed out that Amazon would need to get its Kindles into a physical bookstore to survive. B&N stores had Nook, Target was partnering with Apple for the iPad, Kindle would HAVE to get its tuchus in a store because there is something about putting your physical product in the customer’s hands.

I said we should not be surprised when Amazon…

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Seriously? WTF?

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I found the above this morning while checking on my links from various places I try to promote Sorrow’s Fall.  I honestly don’t know how to react to this.  Brand new copies sell for $7.95 so why is a used copy being sold for so much.  It’s not like I’m well known or even up and coming. (How I wish.)  I certainly hope no one buys a copy for this price.

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Fangirls; fanat…

Fangirls; fanatical young women who obsess over a current trend or celebrity.  Often benign but can be volatile and prone to verbal hostilities if their 'fandom' is challenged.  The more obsessed can even become physically violent if confronted.

I have never been one to follow trends, in fact I tend to avoid all things mainstream as a matter of principal.  However, in the passed two weeks I have found myself shoved into a *gasp* fandom.  After watching the Avengers, my first impression of a certain young actor has been proved quite correct.  I am proud to say that I have been following him on Twitter since the time when he only had a little over 2,000 followers and have delighted in his tweets and general good humor.

The other day I logged in to find that his followers had jumped tremendously and are now over 120,000.  While I am thrilled that so many people are finally discovering this amazing talent, I’m also disturbed.  Reading through some of the @ tweets to him I find myself recoiling in horror and disgust at some of the things that people write to him.  (Exploding ovaries et. al.)  I cannot even imagine how he must feel reading such things though I sincerely hope he does not.  I’ve also noticed that quite a few people are mistaking his looks as the reason for this increase in popularity.

While he is unquestionably attractive, its not a normal Brad Pitt or Richard Gere type of attractiveness.  They are both attractive in their own right and have their own fandoms, but I’ve been wondering just what has drawn so many fangirls to this particular actor in droves over the last two weeks.  While the premier and unprecedented success of The Avengers no doubt has a lot to do with it, it is simply the means by which he’s been introduced to the world on a grand scale instead of being hidden away in England.  

I think I finally worked it out.  He’s naturally talented as an actor and having trained as one is even more impressive since a lot of Hollywood actors are talented but untrained and the difference shows. Acting aside, what is it about him that is so compelling?

See the definition below:

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And there you have it.  The reason why Tom Hiddleston has won over so many hearts despite being the villain in The Avengers.  He’s brought the suave, humble, gentlemanly manner back to the red carpet and not a moment too soon.  The accent isn’t hurting things either.  I, for one, was a fan before and will continue to be a fan long after The Avenger’s fever has run it’s course.

So, for now, I suffer the fangirls and only occasionally pound my head into my desk at their effluvia.