Fictiophilia – an IWSG Post

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Have you ever fallen in love with a fictional character?

Sad to say, yes, I have.

And to be fair, most people have. There are few people in this world who haven’t fantasized about someone.  Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, Zoe Washburne, Velma Dinkly, Cole Brookstone, Harry Dresden… the list goes on. I bet if you ask anyone of your friends and they’re being COMPLETELY honest, (albeit, embarrassed) they’ll admit that they too had/have a crush/fascination on a fictional character.

Why do we do this? It’s not like we’re ever going to run into the Spinjitsu Master of Earth while we’re out on any random hiking trail. You have a greater probability of running into Scarlet Johansson at the public library than you do of meeting Harry Dresden.

Even if your library is situated in Chicago.

Well, the answer is very basic (as I’m sure you’re aware) –  They’re idealized versions of a persona. You don’t get to see the bad habits and idiosyncrasies that they unconsciously perform every moment of every day. You never see Zoe Washburne completely loose her shit and scream bloody murder and threats of divorce because her husband left his dinosaurs out for her to step on (again). You never get to see James Bond turning into a total dick about some fast-food joint putting pickles on his hamburger when he expressly directed them not to, and cause a scene because of their presence (Just peel them off and toss ’em, man. Unless you have a food allergy is it seriously worth this level of drama?). You never see Velma Dinkly…

Okay, scratch that. In Scooby-Doo Mystery Incorporated (2012-2013) Velma was perhaps the most emotionally believable character in the cast, so if you discard the fact that she was impossibly smart, she was otherwise a normal teenage girl, warts and all (in that iteration of the show). But the fact that she would totally take a course from the local learning annex on Ancient Mayan Language Arts with you and not trash your interest in it is pretty damned attractive (finding a learning annex that would actually teach that sort of thing is a whole different matter).

But I digress.

We all have those moments in which we look at a real friend, our crush, a family member, our significant other and think (or perhaps say, possibly to no avail) “Why can’t you… Why do you… Can’t you just…”

It can be frustrating.

And just like fictional worlds can give the reader a moment or two of escape from the gnarly real one, fictional characters do the same thing for relationships. In part because we don’t usually see or even imagine Sherlock Holmes grumbling about the laundry – “towels in one pile, whites in another, darks over here, reds go in their own- ‘HANDWASH LINE DRY ONLY!?!’ Are you kidding me?! I don’t have time for that! Why the hell would you buy me this high maintenance wasitcoat? ‘100% Rayon?’ I hate Rayon! And WHO THE HELL THREW IN THEIR SNEAKERS WITH MY DENIM????!!!!! GAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!”

No, no. We see Holmes as intelligent, dapper, witty, arrogant (in a bizarrely charming way because it isn’t aimed directly at us) and (depending on the iteration you prefer) physically attractive.

Because we don’t know what makes the fictional character crack. We don’t know what irritating habits they indulge in. We can imagine they’re in our world or we in theirs and how awesome and perfectly scripted everything is and when we need to come back to the real world, well, it’s not like you have to get your passport checked at the border or anything. Best of all – they’re not real. So it technically isn’t cheating. (Although an argument can be convincingly made about “spirit of the law vs. the letter of the law” and how “checking out of a relationship” with a fictional character is just as damaging as full-on physical adultery, but that’s another topic for another day.)

I have constructed several characters for my stories that I have fallen in love with on some level. During this construction, I’ve have always tried to fit in something to show the irritating side of the character; something that will make them more real – and I also tend to rip it out as well (Unless I need you, my reader, to see the character as an asshole/jerk who might actually deserve their bad end – in which case I will totally annoy you with how they clip their nails near where you’re eating. All the time. Even after you’ve asked them not to. Repeatedly.).

Perhaps I make the character’s idiosyncrasies a little too real, because they begin to irritate me and in my mind, distract from the story. So I end up trending back to the character’s “public face,” the face they show the audience. The face I initially fell in love with in the first place. We can sweep all those bad habits under the rug for another day. (Unless those frustrating habits serve my storytelling ends…)

I don’t think I’m ready to run off to Bora Bora with my characters (or anyone else’s for that matter), but if I love/despise the character I created, I think that’s a pretty good indicator that my reader will have some reaction to the construct, even if it does oppose my own (Seriously? You LIKE him? But he’s an ASSHOLE! I know because I CREATED HIM THAT WAY!).

I suppose any reaction beyond “meh” is better than nothing.

Check out the Insecure Writer’s Support Group to see more writers dish about their concerns, their solutions to various problems, or just general fictiophiliphobia. (Is that a word? I feel like that should be word. Screw it. If “twerking” can be a real word, so can “fictiophiliphobia.” It’s a word now.)

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ISWG March Post

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March 1 Question: Have you ever pulled out a really old story and reworked it? Did it work out?


I have a trilogy that I started when I was 12 and finished when I was 27. Each book runs in the neighborhood of 100,000 words. I’d like to think that it shows determination and ambition and an “I CAN do it!” thing, if not actual skill.

See, the writing isn’t awesome and the plot is weak and to rebuild it into something … “better” would be more herculean than it’s worth.

I know, because between ages 27-30, I tried my hand at editing it. EVERYONE says you should do a once over before submission to an agent, so that’s what I did. Repeatedly.

I learned a lot from that editing period. POV. Plot holes. It’s vs. Its. Overdone tropes. Italics. Purple prose. Excessive description. Slicing scenes. Must do more better.

I kept writing and rewriting and writing and rewriting and then a new story came barging in and I lost track of the old trilogy until about 2 years ago.

So I re-read it.

And cringed. A lot.

The effort was there, but I had to face facts – these manuscripts were DOA. There are some gleaming bits of usefulness that can be recycled elsewhere – whole scenes I can lift out and tweak slightly to fit my current work. Concepts, quirky characters, world details.

But the best I think these first three manuscripts will ever be is evidence that I CAN finish a project, dammit.

And organ donation.

Check out the Insecure Writer’s Support Group to see more writers dish about their concerns, their solutions to various problems, or just general biblioophobia.



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Bad Days


I’ve been having a run of bad days that have been ceaselessly piling up on top of each other. I can track the most recent and notable ones back to about October 2016, and the bigger, even more obvious ones indicating something was not on the level at about February 2016, but the discreet events themselves don’t matter much anymore – it’s the aggregate damage that matters now.

The short of it is that I’m almost an extreme introvert – the only thing that would bother me about living out in the sticks in backwoods BFE would be my desire to do NEW things that are generally NOT where I am, and the fact that homesteading is a lot of damned hard work. I’m not lazy, but I’m also not that motivated, either.

My need to be alone and quiet and recharge was a daily thing when I worked in an office, but the NEED was not as bad as it is now. When I worked in an office, I could put on headphones and ignore the people outside my cubicle. So long as my work was completed in a timely, detailed manner and I responded to my phone, few people saw fit to bother me. I still avoided after-work activities unless I was REQUIRED to attend, but I could still gather enough “away time” that I could present a normal functioning human mask most days.

I don’t get that as a mother. I have to be always on, all the time. I thought when the kids would be at school I would get the downtime.

Nope. There’s always something. Especially when the husband is gone most of the time and you’re stuck manning all the fronts. All the time. By yourself.

Oh, quit whining, Katty. You’ve got it good.

True. I do. But when I started having bigger and bigger coping problems (culminating in the last 2 weeks), I realized that one (of the several) problems was the lack of “away time.” Away from everyone time.

I don’t get it, Katty. Aren’t all authors introverts? If they can deal, so can you, right?

There are different levels of introvert. The best way I can explain mine is to take a monologue from Iliza Schlesinger’s Confirmed Kills  and alter it just slightly from what it’s like to be drunk immediately after the party to what it’s like to be an introvert:

*You scooped yourself into your car; your crowning achievement of the evening is that you didn’t die.

And all introverts have had that moment. Anybody who’s an introvert – you’ve been out, it’s been people – people talking, people laughing, people requiring that you respond appropriately the whole time. It’s been a crazy and exhausting three hours.

All introverts have had that moment of solitary, overstimulated serenity where you get in the car and you shut the door and for the first time in hours IT’S QUIET.

And you think, “Oh, thank God. I made it.”

Followed by, “I’m gonna throw up.”*

Now imagine experiencing that every day because you must, by necessity, socialize with your family in a manner that may not be true to what you’re really thinking or feeling. Compounding this is the simple fact that you, as a parent, are practically required to put aside your need for solitude and endure more social stimulation on top of normal, daily family time. Scouts, sports, dance class, birthdays and so on to give your children a positive social experience and role model.

It is intensely draining.

There is a necessary recovery time for an introvert. As long as it takes for you to fully recover from a hangover (without the use of pain medication, pedialyte or any other treatment) is about how long it takes for me to recover from a social event. The more you drink, the bigger the hangover. The bigger event you go to, or the longer you stay, or the more you have to interact with people, the more wrung out you are the next day.

Some people are heavy drinkers – I’ve seen men who can handle five yards of beer and walk a straight line with no aftereffects the next day. I’ve seen people do two shots of whiskey and they’re curled up in bed, weakly praying for death for the next whole day. The same goes for introverts – some can handle an all-day experience with a group and only need a few hours of alone time to recharge. Others crash for two days after spending 3 hours with 4 “close” friends.

I’m what you would call a lightweight – I’m in the second category these days.

“Crashing” is me, on the couch, staring at science documentaries because it doesn’t require as much thought as other shows (in which I’m constantly trying to dissect the plot clues). To listen, even with half an ear, to a piece of mindless fictional entertainment I know by heart, is far too exhausting to contemplate.

No books. No crafts. No cleaning. No working out. No errands. No cooking. No planning. The best I can hope for is the energy to stand in the shower and not fall because I expended all of my energy and my reserves the day before, smiling and chatting and pretending I wanted to be wherever persona I was required to present to the world at that time.

Some days, there is no energy to even care about taking a shower.

If it takes me 12 hours to recover from a pleasant evening with a group of friends in which we ate dinner and then played a novelty card game, imagine what life is like the day after playing cub scout den leader for 1 hour because we don’t have one anymore (hint: I’m down for nearly 36 hours because I’m having to keep children engaged and parents who don’t want to be engaged but want their kid in cub scouts), compounded by the fact that there is no other adult in the house to do adulty things – like make sure children eat regularly, do their homework, have clean clothes, food in the house, and so forth.

Every day, I’m running on fumes.

And no one truly gets that.

Everyone I know seems to think that because I’m a SAHM, I live a life of indulgence with 5-6 hours a day of alone time.

Nope. Some days it takes everything I have to stay awake for most of that time.  Most evenings I write the next days To-Do list using a large marker on a regular piece of paper in letters that average 1 inch high because it prevents me from adding too much to the list. I max out at eight things. If I get half of them done, it’s a good day. If I know I’ll have to go out this week for errands, I try to do it all in a single day – if I’m gonna get spun up and wrung out afterwards anyway, I may as well get the most I can out of a goodish day before I crash into oblivion for the next.

More and more things that are important to me (but not critical to survival) get sacrificed. Knowing that I’m going to be crashing for at least 24 hours every week until at least the end of the school year in order to support my son in his activities forces a radical readjustment of my schedule and my thinking of how I will plan to do other things.

Yes, it sounds like I’m whining, even though I’m trying not to.

I suppose I’m trying to give you the baseline to understand I’m not lazy.

I just can’t hold my social liquor worth a damn.

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I’m taking a tap-out today. My head is in a less than awesome space.

So we shall answer this month’s hot, HOT, SIZZLING HOT IWSG 1st Wednesday prompt:

How has being a writer changed your experience as a reader?

Badly, sad to say.

I’m very detail-oriented by nature. I may have ranted about that in the past. Not that I don’t appreciate another’s work (because writing is hard and getting it out there is hard and convincing someone to spend their hard-earned money on your work is especially hard), but I get a little tweaked when I come across something that feels… lazy.

I edit fiction books in my head, now.

“Ooooo… I wouldn’t have worded that sentence that way.”

“Why did we just spend a whole chapter explaining LaGrange points?”

“Seriously? The character is black? I’m 400 pages in on a book that’s only 475 pages long and you’re only just now telling me that the lead archeologist who we first met in chapter 3 is black and you’re telling me this during an argument regarding slavery of an alien species and using it as an example for why this archaeologist is offended by the idea.”

“‘Put a pin in it’ is not a sewing reference. It came out of World War I/II in reference to replacing the pin that activated a grenade before releasing the spoon, thereby preventing it from exploding when the spoon was released.”

Aboard. Not abroad. There is a difference.”

“Wait. Two books ago you said that person’s name was Robert in passing conversation. Why are we suddenly calling him Raymond?”

Because my internal narrator does not shut up, I now read mostly non-fiction. In part because I like it, in part because I can call it “research” and in part because I can get this reaction out of myself –

“That really happened? That is seriously messed up!”

Which will effectively shut down my internal critic for a minute with the sheer wonderment of the greatness, heinousness, audacity or plain stupidity of the story in question that happened in real life.

No, really. Fiction writers are criminal masterminds in comparison to Joe Average. What fiction writer – knowing they were going to buy the supplies for making a bomb to blow up someone they don’t like – would buy all needed supplies in one trip at their local store just down the street, using a credit card, then fail to burn the receipt before flushing its ashes down the toilet? Answer: None of them.

This being said, there have been some criminals in history that were just plain brilliant – like the guy who smuggled ancient artifacts out of Egypt by painting over them using gaudy modeling paint to fool customs. Once home with his booty, he would clean the artifacts of the paint and sell them to the highest bidder. For years.


Check out the Insecure Writer’s Support Group to see more writers dish about their concerns, their solutions to various problems, or just general myrmecophobia.


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