ORC smash, orc burn!

Open Read and Critique, aka ORC.  I didn't realize how much I'd enjoy it until I'd been in one.  OryCon is a long way away, but I'm already looking forward to the ORCs--wondering what I'll bring to read, who will be there, what I'll hear, the dialogue that'll sprout up.  Good times.  Writing can be very isolating at times and I hunger for interaction with other writers.  INK is great for that, and ORCs are like a mini-convention within OryCon just for those of us who are willing to sacrifice schmoozing time to hone the craft that informs so much of our lives.  At our hearts we love to create whole worlds from nothingness and the critique sessions teach us how to create better, more badass worlds.

In contrast to today, which was satisfying in its own way but the reverse of a writing event that helps grow and create art.  In anticipation of the equinox (which, as far as the Earth's position around the sun, has will happen within minutes of my posting this, at 22:48 (10:48pm)) I did some spring cleaning today.  Not as much as I'd like, but still, there's less mess and best of all, we got to burn a bunch of stuff.  Two items in particular that went up in flames were the original print out and the agent-intended copy of Beggar Smith, the version that I definitely should not have sent to Donald Maass agency because it was so not ready.  Now that particular albatross, though still dead, no longer hangs around my neck.  It's all ashes, a unique something that has been reduced to its original form--a thought in my brain.  Well, not entirely.  I'm not that brave.  There's still a virtual copy, which I'll reference for the rewrite.  Some of the scenes I plan to steal whole cloth because they're memorable enough that I can almost recite the dialogue from memory.  I'll dye the cloth with some editing to hide the stain of my more primitive prose from that era.  The rest will be blue-screened.  Then again, I may read those old scenes and realize that they're better in my memory than on the page, in which case it'll all get blue-screened.  I'm game.

Much as I look forward to working on Beggar Smith again, though, I need to play some more with Masks.  Must ... reach ... end ... on this last (ha ha) edit.  It's polished, but there are some plot and characterization improvements that can be made.  I'm trying not to muck with it too much because I don't want mud, but at the same time I think if I'm careful I won't screw it up too badly.  

Oh, and yay!  I can participate in the writer's workshop this year!  Woot!

Creation, destruction.  It's been a very ORC-y day.  Happy vernal equinox!  Blessed be.

Chihuahua Boy

I haven't done a boy conversation in a while.

Boy:  "Hello."  Smiles at me.  

Me:  Look over my shoulder, smile back at him.  "Good morning."

Boy:  Stands there, arms crossed high on his chest.

Me:  Notices he's got goosebumps and he's trembling.  "Are you shivering like a chihuahua?"

Boy: Still smiling.  "Yeah."

Me:  "Put on a sweater."  I turn in my chair to face him.

Boy:  "Why?"

Me:  I have to pause to consider how to put this in terms he'll understand.  "Because you're cold."

Boy:  He thinks about this.  "What if I put on a hat?"

Me:  Maybe repetition will help.  "Or you could put on a sweater."

This morning he must be in an odd mood because he thought about it some more and then went to his room, presumably to put on a sweater.  Or I guess  he might have put on a hat, which would also work, but it would take a little longer.

Update:  He went to his room to read a comic book.

Maybe I should cast a spell

It turned out that the store was hopping on Monday as well. Apparently not quite everyone had made it into the store on Saturday, plus, many needed something more on Monday. We didn't have as many customers, but to make up for it, several came in quite a few times on Monday because they forgot something or something wasn't the right size or what they bought turned out to be defective and had to be swapped out for a different one. We ran out of defective slips. The door went ding dong solid all day. The boss had to close off my lane when my drawer got full because there was no 'quiet time' when he could just wander over and do the pick up between customers.

Among the customers I had Belligerent Man. It's quite possible that Belligerent Man has shopped at BiMart many times before, and I hadn't noticed him. He certainly hadn't noticed my ring before.

"Your ring. What's that mean?" he demanded.
"My husband is Irish," I told him. "He gave me this ring."
"Oh come on," he said, turning red. "I mean really."
At that point I started to feel really uncomfortable. I don't like lying, and I felt like he was calling me a liar. Later on, of course, I came up with all kinds of comebacks. "I'm sorry, but that's a bit personal," headed the list. "Would you like my supervisor to explain my ring to you?" "It means I worship God. And Goddess." And possibly my favorite, "Do you want someone else to complete your transaction today?"

Instead (sigh) I said "it means I'm Wiccan."
"Wicked?" he and his friend say in unison.
"Wic-can," I say slowly, trying not to sound defensive while still being loud enough to be overheard over the constant ding of the registers. And remember, too, I'm trying to do my job here. Efficient and accurate. Stop distracting me angry man!
"What's that mean?" he blustered.
Look it up on the internet, geep, unless you think the internet is evil, in which case, rot in ignorance. "It means I respect and honor nature," I say.
"Do you cast spells?"
Okay, now I have to laugh. "No. We honor the seasonal festivals, you know, solstices and equinoxes."
"Would you tell me if you did?"
Wow, he's really into trying to catch me at being evil. Later, boss man had to admit that when he first started working at our store, he recognized that of all the employees I was the one to fear. Yep, I told him. I'm evil.
And I hesitated because for a moment I wasn't sure that I would tell him if I cast spells, which I don't. But that wasn't what he'd asked about. He wanted to know if I'd admit I'm a liar. Huh? Wait a second. This makes no sense.
"Spells don't work," I told him.
"Do you cast spells?" he demanded.
"No."
He started to walk away. I don't know what possessed me, but I added, "and my husband really is Irish."

It made me realize that I wanted him to feel okay about me, but I'd never change his mind. And why would I really care what he thought? In order to not make waves in his part of the world? What a wuss I'd been. And now he probably thinks I cast spells and I'm a liar. But honestly, I don't cast spells. You can't get something for nothing. The trouble with 'spells' is that saying things in latin and dancing in a circle three times singing woogy woogy woogy doesn't work, especially if you read it out of a book and try it without having any understanding of why the author put those elements together (which unfortunately is all too often because it sounded like a good idea or s/he thought it looked awesome.) What works is will. What works is pure intent, knowledge of how things operate, skill to operate those things and enough understanding, communion if you will, to direct the energy the way you want it to go. It doesn't really matter whether it's a goverment, someone operating a machine, or a circle focusing their living energy to heal someone. Now if 'spells' worked, witches would rule the Earth and Christians would have to practice in secrecy. But I may just be mincing words when I separate spells from rituals. To me it's always been like the joke of the kid who watches the woman rubbing her naked body in front of the mirror for three nights in a row saying "I want a man, I want a man, I want a man" and then the fourth night she's in bed with a man and they're having raucous sex. So of course the next night the kid is in front of his mirror rubbing his body all over moaning "I want a bicycle, I want a bicycle, I want a bicycle."

It does occur to me that I might be doing it wrong. It may be that all the lottery winners *and* everyone who's made it big in Hollywood is into witchcraft and cast spells for their fame and fortune. Dangit, I knew I should have gotten a real raven's wing to fan my incense. Doh!

So as I left that night I looked out at the parking lot, wondering if he might not be out there with a shotgun, rocking in his pickup chanting "thou shall not suffer a witch to live." He wasn't there. Geh, I don't like this feeling, waiting for the reappearance of Belligerent Man. But maybe he'll never come back. After all, I'm clearly an evil witch. He might warn all his friends not to shop there.

Now wouldn't that be nice!