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ZOMG! The Northern Fangirls Book Release

9 February 2010, 2:02 pm

Hello readers, family and friends.

Yes, some people may fall into all of these categories, but this is a specific post to those who ‘read’ or pop in and out depending on the topic of the week.

Firstly, thanks for reading.  Secondly, thanks for reading regularly – if you do – or randomly, if you can be bothered.  Thirdly, this is an unusual post, isn’t it?

It is quite exciting to announce the imminent release of my third novel, titled ZOMG! The Northern Fangirls! You can find out more information about the first two here.

The third novel follows the onscreen and offscreen lives of two fangirls of the hit (pretend) television cop-law show Sapphire. If you’re not sure what a fangirl/fanboy is, then here is a very brief description:

Obsessed people who are consumed by their obsession.  Think obsessed Trekkies or Dr Who-peeps or obsessive rock band groupies or folk that obsessively cry/swoon/flail/choke in the air left by Johnny Depp.  Obsession is only one facet of being a fangirl/fanboy, though *g*.  They also tend to chat constantly about the object of their obsession, think constantly about this person, live to be with this person . . .

Okay.  Perhaps there is a touch of obsession about most fangirl elements.  However, this novel can be read by those of a non-fangirl/fanboy persuasion.  It doesn’t need to be read in conjunction with the previous two novels – although some elements may need some ‘getting used to’ if this is your first Fangirl novel foray.

With this in mind, I’m offering a giveaway of at this blog!   Please feel free to promote it.  The winner of the competition gets a brand-new copy, limited edition (with non-creased pages, cover and crack-free spine) of my novel.  If you want anything written on it, I’ll be happy to do it, as I will ship it here (to make sure it’s in good condition) then send it on to you.  I will be citing the proof copy by week’s end, so I’m finalizing the competition closing date as Tuesday February 23, with the competition winner being announced on Friday Feb 26th.

Now.  This series is ’self’ published.  That means I work on this part of fiction (i.e. Fangirls) using a cottage industry approach; however, to me, self-published, indie, small-scale does not equate to CRAP.  I work hard to ensure the writing is readable (except for parts in Keyboardese) and the rules ov the Queenie’s Liz English is wot applied to vis book.  Caprisce-mundo!?

Even though some of the writing I like to do is humourous, my approach to writing fiction is quite work-like.  The cover is designed and created by the talented Laura_C, the proofreading and editing is sent offshore (on this occasion) and the hours I’ve spent on this book are immeasurable – but the most important thing is that writing is the best thing EVA, and you can’t put an hourly figure on that.

To the giveaway – all you have to do is comment here (you don’t have to join and your deets will be swallowed by the ghost in the machine in seconds) and complete this sentence:

I fangirl/fanboy . . . (here are some examples – I fangirl red wine, pasta, dogs that are well behaved, children that are the same, thunderstorms, Prison Break seasons 1 & 2, Mad Men, husbands who cook and do washing, LiveJournal etc)

Each time you comment, I will enter your name into a Data Sorting Machination File (um, a hat) and the winner will be drawn by my devout RC mum and witnessed by a police person.

One of my immediate relatives asked if family can win!  The short answer is NO – only because you have to purchase the book in order for me to continue to keep in contact (and I have to make some sales).  But!!!  If you are a cousin, a far-reaching step-relative or a friend of a relative, then of course you can win.

Thanks for your time.  Please enter the comp below, otherwise I will be like a 14 YO who has a party and nobody comes to it.  Not that this has ever happened to me . . .

Edited to add: The Blurb

The online journal openbook houses more energy than Facebook, Twitteralia and Twilight fanfic.com combined.  It’s a place of intrigue.  It’s a cyber-oven for the creatively cooked.  It’s a meeting place for fans from all over the world to connect, kerfuffle and confab about the small screen hit – Sapphire.


If you haven’t joined openbook yet, the time is now!


Dee is standbyme. She uses a screen name in the day, calls her laptop after a sexy movie star and *hearts* Sapphire and bandom in equally lustful measures.  Dee loves fanfic but her writing time is non-existent.  She is in the middle of her thesis for PhD, has just split with her live-in boyfriend and is jealous of Maddie, Grace and their Singapore jaunt.

She lives in London so connects via her online journal.


Sapphy11 writes Sapphire fan fiction, but she has the audacity to pair Davis Merrit with Kate Girardi in her stories.  She’s a NON One True Pair fan ficster and she adores it!  She has the HUGEST crush on Davis Merrit (the character) and Peterson Collier (the actor) so she nearly DIED during the BLIMP (the Body Lying in a Mud Puddle) cliffhanger where Davis was suspected to be killed off.


She was ready to explode.  And it’s only First Season.


Set during the mid/end of Season 1 of Sapphire, ‘ZOMG! The Northern Fangirls’ introduces a couple more journal junkies as they watch MOWGLI from afar, debate the hottest guy on the show, worry about the fate of Kate Girardi and interact anonymously.


When your life is an open book, it’s best to check who is peeping between the covers.

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The Tinderbox, 2009

7 February 2010, 10:53 pm

If you’ve ever opened your oven and felt pure, dry heat venture forth and overcome, then you have an idea of what it was like in the state of Victoria on February 7, 2009.

Melbourne baked.  The tinderbox of bush surrounding our capital city was mere accelerant for mother nature’s disaster cauldron that day – she mixed and evoked the elements of heat, wind and flame to create a monster so immense, it took weeks to subdue and served to remind us all (again) that we operate on human power while she dictates the terms.

I’d never experienced a day of weather like it.  As Australians, we’re used to heat and drought.  I’ve been lucky enough to visit countries on the equator and have spent time in our continent’s bush and north.  It’s a hot land, but when you opened your backdoor on February 7th last year, it was almost like stepping into a fan-forced oven.

Many, many words have been written about Victoria, Australia on that day.  There’s a wonderful personal memorial and some fantastic photos at ‘Little Miss Emma’s blog’.  It’s an amazing read, highlighting how quickly events transpired on Black Saturday, and includes a pic of our city as the backdrop to a small bush setting of charred devastation.

We live a safe (enough) distance from the fire front, although it crept to within about 20 km of us in the days after the initial firestorm.  My main memory is sitting at this keyboard, sweating and trying to write, while listening to the ominous chew, chew, chew, chew of low-flying Elvis helicopters as they flew from the city to fill at our nearby river and fight the fire.  We smelled smoke.  It was in our washing, our hair and the redness of the sky told us of the suffering of our neighbours.

One night at dusk, we watched four helicopters fly ‘home’ in formation to refuel.  For a couple of weeks, they were a constant reminder of the war waging between fire and bush, a battle that confronts our sunburned country on a regular basis.  Black Saturday reminds us that when this war is  extreme, we are tiny in the face of nature’s elements.

We remember the loss of life, love and land ~ February 7, 2009

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In Search of Self

5 February 2010, 9:27 am

Please welcome guest blogger, Fiona from Squirt Baby, to the Friday ‘Blog Swap’ created and devised by Amy at Never-True Tales.  It’s called ‘Won’t you be my Neighbo(u)r’ and this is the first Friday I’ve had the pleasure to host a neighbourly writer.  Thank you, Fiona:

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The first week of March sees the 9th anniversary of my departure from the paid workforce to await the birth of my first child.  I left a job that wasn’t really me to take on something I wasn’t adequately prepared for (but then again – who is?).  By the end of April I held a baby in my arms.  A son.  A child I had begun to imagine would never exist.  He came at the end of a seemingly endless series of miscarriages.  He was precious, a marvel and utterly bewildering.

I was an anxious first time mother.  I did not trust my instincts.  I sought out help to address sleeping issues, breastfeeding issues, developmental issues (why isn’t my baby crawling like all the others?).  My life took on a whole new meaning.  I surrendered myself to him – my new lord and master.  He dictated my life.  I tried to establish routines of sleep, feeds and play.  He didn’t like to be alone, so I sat next to him as he lay under the play-gym and read aloud from The Chronicles of Narnia, New Scientist, or whatever was at hand.

Fast forward nine years and I find myself the mother of four children – currently aged 2, 4, 6 and 8.  I am a rather different person nowadays.  Yet – who is this person?  I am a woman of 40 years, a SAHM who cooks and cleans and washes for a household of six, plus a cat and dog.  I have a Bachelor of Science (so there’s a brain tucked away in there somewhere) plus a couple of TAFE qualifications.  But who am I?  How do I define myself? Do I need defining?

2010 is the Year of Rediscovery – the rediscovery of self.  I want to feel light of spirit rather than burdened by the daily grind.  It’s time to pay attention to my 20kg heavier body and wear something other than my trusty Birkenstocks.    It’s time to consider the pros and cons of returning to the job that’s been held open for me since 2001.  It’s time to step out from behind the mask of “Mother” and play other roles.  Yet it is the role of mother that has given me the opportunity to explore other possibilities.  I would not have had the courage to change direction if I was still in paid work.  Motherhood is a blessing on so many levels.

My career path was determined by my school principal – a staunch supporter of women in science – in 1985 when she chose my subjects for years 11 & 12.  I offered feeble resistance despite a love of history, reading and doing stuff with my hands.  I studied science because I could, and it hasn’t been all bad.  But it wasn’t my first love.  My first love was sewing and knitting and tatting and embroidering.  Creating, dreaming.

And then, in August 2008, after a chance conversation with a friend, a new child was accepted into our family –  a small business called “Squirt Baby”.  The brief description goes: “Handmade clothing and accessories for boys and girls 0-8 years”.  I would create limited edition garments that paid homage to the frocks my Mum made my sisters and I during the 60s and 70s.  And try and sell them.

Now, I don’t have any training.  So I’m not really legitimate.  I’m full of self-doubt and of fear that I’ll be “found out”, exposed as a fraud.  But I love it.  And, just as I had to learn to trust my instincts with my first-born, I am learning to trust my instincts with my choice of styles and fabrics.  Lately I seem to be attracting a little interest, I find myself morphing into a slightly more confident version of myself.  The one that used to mumble “Oh, I make children’s clothes”  can now say “I have my own children’s wear label” without cringing or doubling over with laughter (but only just!).

So the journey continues, this life that is always in flux and never still.  In search of self.

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Human Writes

3 February 2010, 10:52 pm

The man who once said ‘writing is the most fun you can have by yourself‘ is chatting about other things apart from writing lately.  Sadly.

Sir Terry Pratchett, author of the Discworld series, has been in the media speaking eloquently about the concept of assisted suicide.  Some people refer to it as ‘dying with dignity’, others ‘passing peacefully’.  I prefer to call it ‘the right to die.’

The author is confronting the inevitability of father time, has been diagnosed with something degenerative and terminal, and is seeking to pen his own final chapter with the text of a peaceful conclusion.

It’s a world-wide, ethically-based, religiously-debated, governmentally-handled, roaring, emotional, difficult issue is euthanasia.  We know this word is derived from the Greek language meaning ‘good death’.  We know that it is a humanely practised routine bestowed upon our failing animal friends at their time of need.  We also (probably) know what we would do if confronted with the choice – dying within the strictures of a Victorian-like setting, where pain, suffering, prolonged agony was part of the deal (worst case scenario).  Or passing peacefully, perhaps assisted.

There are so many elements to take into account, aren’t there?  Modern medicine, miraculous recoveries, the control of an invalid’s life (and possible death) in the wrong hands, the notion that the ill person might be incoherent and unable to make a decision for themselves.

We know this.  As surely as we know the ‘arguments’ for dying with dignity.  As with most of these contentious issues, I defer judgement.  I understand what I would (probably) do in Terry Pratchett’s situation, but believe that we only really know if we face the same enormity – whether we be the person confronting our mortality, or the beloved carer of the suffering and dying.

Life is for the living.  Death is for everyone.  They are both unavoidable, but I hope Terry Pratchett gets his brandy and iPod on the lawn.

*****

Please welcome guest blogger Fiona, from Squirt Baby, this Friday as she shares some of her words with Fangirl Sings the Blues.  It will be my pleasure to visit her blog on that day in accordance with the ‘Won’t You Be My Neighbo(u)r’ initiative started at Amy’s Never True Tales.Neighborbanner-Page001

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Books, Blogs and Bliss

31 January 2010, 10:08 pm

Even though I am a gadgetry harlot and would sell my soul for any item with the prefix i attached - iphone, ipod, ipad, isexybloke – nothing detracts from my adoration of a new book.

Brand new.  Spankingly firm and taunt of binding, wonderfully print-perfumed and creaseless and perfect.  Straight from the printer to the shipping container to hot little (clean) hands; begging to be read.  Pleading to be touched and inhaled, ingested and … opened.

But can you bring yourself to do this?  If you open it clumsily or while you’re having a coffee, there’s a chance that this magnificent, virgin-sheened bondage of pages is going to be spoiled.  What if the spine creaks and splits?  What if the title page folds inward on itself and embeds improperly.  What if the wind changes, you realize the book has been used and your face stays in that veneer of horror?

If you’re nodding along to any of this, chances are that you love a new book – hardcover, novel, coffee-table, bestseller – or you have (SO WRONGLY) folded the tip of a page as a bookmark, only to be discovered by the book owner/worshipper.

Will eBooks ever evoke such passion?  Is there a ’sensuality’ to downloading the latest from your favourite author and transferring it to your Kindle, only to train your eyes to a digital tablet while you’re reading?  Is the concept of ‘books are sensual things’ really just weird and I need to seek help for the euphoria I feel when I receive a brand new one?

If so, I’ve outed myself as a new-book pervert.  Whoops.  Oh well, there are worse predilections to have, perhaps?

eBooks don’t appeal as much.  It’s nothing to do with the lack of i prefix, more the lack of book ‘theatre’ – the limited romance involved in holding a tablet compared to printed paper and colourful cover, or the loveless concept of switching ‘on’ text compared to peeping between the beautifully-swaddled sheets of a pristine novel fresh from a bountiful bookshop …

‘Ken Hell!  There’s that weirdo book erotism again!

And what to the question of storing books?  Having shelves and boxes and mantles filled with favourites gathering dust, never to be reread again?  Do we cull those books given to us as presents just because they are getting a bit crusty ’round their corners?  Do we ‘get rid of’ hardcovers because they are big and cumbersome and we are embracing the minimalist lifestyle?

The eBook is simply written over with the latest pop culture text or whatever takes your fancy at the time.  Less paper use means more trees survive all over the world and I’m sure choosing eBooks over traditional paper can relate to global warming/consumerism/oil prices/the Kyoto Protocol in some way.

It’s a quandary.  However, the crux of the matter still comes down to personal preference.  While we have a choice, I’d like my new novel with warm colour designs, neatly affixed pages and the straightest spine since the introduction of school backpacks helped prevent scoliosis in students all over the planet.  Please.

Until the advent of the iNovel with paper applications and dual-layer touch sensations.

*****

Lovely lady, friend and talented writer, Amy (she paid me) from Never True Tales is running a Friday initiative where blogs writers guest write at someone else’s place.  It’s called:

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It’s my pleasure to welcome Fiona from Squirt Baby to write for Fangirl Sings the Blues this coming Friday, while I will visit her blog and write something about my expertise at dress design and fabric identification.  Then, it will be an honour to host Amy a week later.  I will be pen an entry for her Never-True Tales on the day she writes here.  It’s a great idea.  Being relatively new to the BlogO’rena, it’s a nice way to meet new people and read what they have to say.

Enjoy the week ahead and please look after your books.

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To Slush, With Love

28 January 2010, 4:46 pm

Have you ever waded through slush?  According to northern hemisphere friends, there’s a fair chance they will be met by slush when they venture outside at the moment.

It’s a nasty image, isn’t it?  Then, slip on some nude pantyhose, pop on your best shoes as though you are going to meet someone special, only to open the door, realize it’s rained/snowed/spat from the heavens and your track is soiled by SLUSH.

It’s yuck and (potentially) gooey.  Dirty, sleety, wheaty (can be in Australia, anyway) slimy, creature-infused MUCK.

Slush.

Now imagine a pile of it.  And then conjure a piece of work you’ve bleed over for the past 12 months being shunted to the bottom of the slush pile and there you have the main topic of this micro-rant today.

I’ll call it a micro-rant because it’s trendy (in Australia, anyway) to pair any term with the prefix micro.  eg: Can you micro-manage some fries with that enormous burger you’ve ordered?

‘Slush Pile’: a glamourous publishing and writing term related to a bundle of manuscripts lying on the floor/desk/bottom of dog kennel/corner of the office lavatory in a publishing firm’s working area.  Apparently, it is the job of the ‘newer’ publishing house staff (read: shit-kickers) to plough through the slush to find a future best seller.

What a job!  It’s akin to shoveling the snow that’s assembled at your door and been sneezed upon, hoping to discover a Willy Wonka golden ticket amid the crud.

Perhaps the new publishing employee enjoys this line of work in her/his new job?  It’s not really part of this post to consider that but to establish that slush pile is a derogative term.  It is!  Whether the new writer takes it to heart and struggles with it personally is another matter.

Is there another ‘line’ of work where you may toil for a year or more, pour pun, pontification or poem onto parchment, only to send it away comprehending that your manuscript will end up in the slush pile?

Imagine you’re an Accountant.  You’ve been work with figures all year, getting hot and bothered (and very excited, I might add) about the end of financial year, only to have your excel spreadsheets printed off and heaped into mid-year recycling.  What about a teacher: slaving all year to bring students up to scratch, chastising them for not listening or failing to do homework, only to have the Principal send you to the staff slush corner at the end of school function.  What about the year’s work of a pilot?  A postal delivery person?  A cop (nah, perhaps they work in the real mire of slush)?  A butcher, a baker, a children-clothes maker?

Does their work enter a domain-de-la-slush – where only the crapola manuscripts hang out?

On the other side of the slush, I’m sure ‘publishing staff’ would mention that not all manuscripts are equal and some are not deserving of consideration.  We exist in a world where only the best are recognized/published/decorated/promoted/given concerts.  It’s life, and if it’s too damn hot, get outta the kitchen!  Still, it doesn’t make the term any less condescending.

In keeping with the ‘line’ of work I love – writing fiction –  I devised my own politically-correct slush pile on my computer.  It’s to accustom original writing to the harshest of treatment with an infinitely nicer name.    It’s a hard-drive folder titled ‘Try Hards’. This file contains original work that (I think) would seep to the bottom  of the publisher’s slush, never to be seen again.

If you’re a piece of fictional writing, Try Hards is a difficult place to dwell.  But you miss out on the slushy mushy.  There is no gold-star for trying in this folder, but it’s warmer than the publisher’s floor space on lavatory tiles.

‘Slush pile’ is an offensive term.  Knowing your work might find its way there is enough to keep any writer humble.  No one likes to miss out on basketball selection/cookery prizes/academic awards/winning Super Mario Bros on Wii.  I suppose it’s why only the best are ever on the court, even though the rest try as hard as buggery.

The third novel in the Fangirl series, by Rosie Jones, is due out in February. ‘ZOMG!  The Northern Fangirls’ is the title.  It has spent some time in the Try Hards folder, but recently swam against the slush to salvage itself.  Just.

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January Lost

25 January 2010, 9:26 pm

It’s well known that nothing prepares a woman for labour nor her partner for the emotion associated with the birth of his offspring.

It’s well documented.  It’s spoken of at ‘dad’s nights’ and play groups and over morning tea.

Nothing prepares us for birth.

Nothing prepares us for death.

Where the labouring female bludgeons from the pit of her body, bays to the sympathies of Mother Earth and endures, so might those in grief.

As the birthing partner looks on, often feeling totally inept and unable to wrench any control away from Father Time, so, too, will those confronting loss.  And while the final frenzy of ushering a newborn into an imperfect world is usually accompanied by sweetened anguish, searing pain and life-altering tears, so the grief-stricken will encounter a similar purging.

Birth and Death.  Beginning and Beginning Again.  Joy and Sorrow and a massive movement of your heart space that will never, ever conform to expectation again.

I didn’t know how to grieve.  I didn’t know how to give birth, either.  I don’t know how to grieve, and  I can’t remember how to give birth after nearly seven years.  Birth and Re-Birth. The two elements of life over which we have very little control – if we have any control at all.  Some might argue that we can prevent or delay birth via contraception, chastity, the ’smarts’.  Yet those who choose to believe in the concept of fate will suggest that nothing is ours to control.

She lost her sister two years ago and she still finds grieving so abstract, she wonders if it truly happened.  Where were the 5-7 measurable, time-lined stages of grief that she’d read somewhere, sometime?  Where were the clear delineations explaining how a sibling should grieve compared to how a mother should be affected?  Where was the wailing?  The acceptance?  The insight, the understanding, the comprehension?

She realized they were as accurate as the ’stages of labour’ and the notion of ‘what to expect when you’re expecting.’  Not predictable, not measurable, not specific to an individual.  Such unique pain.

So, she was lost.  There was no guidance manual, but there were helpful people mentioning grief counseling and the value of time.  Yet the thing she remembers most about that period is the bubble of vague her body enclosed about her.  She’d overheard that humans have a hormone that ‘does this’ – places the shattering, zombie of walking heartbreak into a physiological cocoon, so that the figure of grief wanders dully through the shards of sorrow left behind by the deceased.

She didn’t know that.  She wouldn’t have believed it possible had she not experienced it.  But what about the balm for the broken heart?  What about the antacid for the soul that threatened to rupture whenever the bereft woke to remember the passing?  What about the short-term healing.

Didn’t happen.  It’s the cross of the living to be left with the hole in their life.  They bear it until their time comes.

My sister died two years ago and I still can’t believe it happened.  We don’t know what normal is, but I still expect her to be on some sort of extended time away, and I’ll awaken one day to find her there – just like before – with advice, a cuppa, and a chat for the disillusioned.  Perhaps that’s right!  It’s what will happen when we meet again, the intervening years being a type of suspended animation until such a reunion.

But that’s a question of faith.  A question for another time.

Losing a special person in your life is bloody hard.  Ask anyone.  Losing a sibling is as difficult, and  I stumbled about for a while not really knowing how to define myself without her in my life.  Strange, that.  We might think the same thing happens when we lose a beloved parent – they have also been in our lives for our entire existence – but perhaps we (rightly or wrongly) expect them to pass before us.  It’s nature’s way.  They birthed us, and it’s their right to go before their children.

No control.  We don’t hold the remote control in this screening of our lives.

Lea bought empathy, creativity, love of people, the environment and learning into this life with her.  She conjured conversation and colour, she flipped the coin and experienced the downside of life too.  She teenaged in an era where The Who sang ‘hope I die before I get old,’ and she questioned and ran the gauntlet of convention on a couple of occasions.  She was typical, but atypical; loved a laugh, but loved her own space.  Could be outspoken, but also drank from the well of introversion.  She bitched and birthed, ran amuck and made amends, and took her rightful place in the hierarchy of a large family.

When she lost her sister, she lost touch with the familial structure that had defined her.  It was no longer there.  The foundations had crumbled.

I work to find my way.  We help each other walk in the shadow of her loss, and we miss her.

Rest peacefully, sister.

Filed under family, life. Tagged , , , ,
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You are the Twilight of my Life . . .

22 January 2010, 3:35 pm

To say I’m reading the Twilight Saga to discover the ‘mystery’ of getting fiction published and widely-read is like a sex addict suggesting he/she is reading a porny mag for the articles.

It’s a nice sentiment.  It’s probably not true.

The Twilight phenomenon fascinates me on so many levels.  I have a ‘love-of-traditional-literature’ friend who adores Twilight but also describe it as ‘a disease’ – almost like the compulsion to read/watch the movies/or admit to liking it is induced by some sort of mania.  I have a thirty-something relative who – when I showed her I was reading it while we were staying in Singapore – pffted in my face.  She didn’t really, but she gave me the distinct impression she would rather run nude along Orchard Road than read it at the time.

Her name is Fleur.

She came back to her hometown recently, her husband and son in tow and is living with her four other siblings in their family home.  A couple of weeks after she returned, we had a chance to chat and the following information was exchanged:

Fleur: Ah, Rosie?  I have a bit of a confession to make.

Me:  (worried) It’s okay.  You can tell me.  Are you alright?  (expecting something immoral, distasteful or ribald.)

Fleur: I went with Zephyr (her younger sister) and Xena (her other sister) to see New Moon three nights ago.  I’ve read the four books since then.  I couldn’t stop.  I’ve read the entire saga.

Me: But that’s okay!  Gawd, I though it was something more serious than that!

Fleur: But I’m obsessed!  When I saw you reading Twilight on holiday, I didn’t think I would like it.  Now I can’t get enough of it!

Me: It’s fine.  You’re just suffering TURDs – The Twilight Urgency Reader Disorder (syndrome)™

™ TURDs an actual condition, noted here at rosiejones.net.  Symptoms include rapid rate (due to imagining Edward Cullen kissing you) delusions of grandeur (thinking you ARE Bella or Alice or Jacob) chest pain (due to hunching over books for prolonged periods) inability to maintain relationships (you no longer speak to other humans because you are always reading), weight loss (why eat when you can drink blood?) eye strain (due to buckets of sparkling prose) and malaise (what the hell is that anyway?)

There’s a lady I know who is (just a little) older than me.  She’s an avid reader, she enjoys writing, she works and mothers and socializes.  I know a secret about her.  She borrowed my holiday copy of ‘Twilight’, emailed me she probably wouldn’t read it, ‘but thanks for sending it anyway, hon!’

Three days later, I received a followup email from her.  Not only had she finished the initial story of Brooding Edward and Lip-Biting, Clumsy Bella, she also asked ‘hey Rosie!  Do you have the next book in the series?’

We laughed for days.  To date, she hasn’t come out of the Twilight closet to admit her interest, but I know she is reassured that her secret is safe with me.  *coughs*

The phenomenon of Twilight has been discussed far and wide.  Indeed, a friend from LiveJournal devised and wrote her thesis about the mass appeal of Stephanie Meyer’s series.  I’ve read reviews that slam her word selection, her repetition, her need to explain each and every time a character ‘chuckles’ or ’sparkles’ or ’sniggers’.  I’ve seen fandom entries and fanfic glorifying the Cullens, embracing the Team Jacob versus Team Edward teenage love competition and *flailing* over the latest pics of the actors in the films.

It’s a colourful, energized, worldwide web of pop culture, coming at a time where technology threatens to take the excitement and anticipation out of many things.  Doesn’t mean I adore the Twilight saga or sit on the edge of my seat waiting for the next movie of the series to be released.  It’s nice to see it happen, though, regardless of what I think of the story.

So what can the Twilight series teach writers craving publication about getting hauled out of the slush pile (a term I will discuss later and hate with the same passion I love Jacob Black’s smile) and ‘getting published’?  That the story is the key, that URST and teenage angst are great ‘themes’ and that supernatural elements never go out of style?

I’m not really sure!  Perhaps I need to read the remaining 2.5 books to find out!

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Apple of My I

19 January 2010, 11:27 pm

The past few posts have been about writing.  Leading up to the self-publication of a third novel, the notion of penning fiction has been on my mind.  It’s funny that now the manuscript is with an editor, I’m ‘contemplating’ writing more than formulating a story – I suppose it’s a bit like navel gazing rather than cleaning out the waxy bits of the umbilicus?

Eww.  Excuse the metaphor.  Bit below the belt with TMI?

Perhaps self-publishing creates this loophole for soul searching and reflection at the near completion of work.  Am I really wanting to continue down this path, how can I market better, how can I make the work as professional as possible?  Is it too much work for too little reward?  Should I go back to my day job?

So many questions of doubt wander through the self-publishing mind, but the crème caramel of wondering are the words:  is my novel good enough?  I suggest it’s a creme caramel (with accent) because the question makes you squishy and squimish on the inside – thus you have to develop a crusty veneer of confidence . . .

but in the end, you could get eaten alive!  (At least some people find this yummy, I guess).

Around this time, I always read snippets of the Australian produced “Get Your Book off the Ground” by Anthony Santoro & Suzanne Male. I’ve spoken of this book before and will again (it’s become a little light of inspiration for all things ‘wanna be writer’)  but I want this short entry to include the words they quote from Steve Jobs.  He’s the guy that founded that Fruit Computer Company.  I say this as I share his words and hug the family Mac.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.  Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people’s thinking.  Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.  And most importantly, have the courage to follow your own heart and intuition.  They somehow already know what you truly want to become.  Everything else is secondary.

Steve Jobs, Apple Founder.  June, 2005

So true.  Great little quote to have if you’re standing on that precipice, wanting to take the jump but fear the final fall with crème caramel on your face.  At least it’ll sweeten the landing!

ZOMG! The Northern Fangirls is due out in late February 2010.  It is the third novel in the Fangirl series by Rosie Jones.

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Do you wanna doctorate with that piece o’ fiction?

16 January 2010, 10:55 pm

Recently, two of my learned writing friends at LiveJournal were discussing the place of higher echelon education in the background of ‘the writer’.

Some interesting conversation ensued and has had me thinking over the past couple of weeks – a process that’s really dangerous as my brain is often prone to wander about and seep through facial fixtures during times of cognitive stress.  However:

Is it vital to have further education in the areas of Fine Arts, Literature, English or Whathaveyou 101 in order to achieve publishable status (if you are an unknown and new writer)?

It could lead to the very philosophical question, is publishing the only reason to write?

The second question is best left for another day.  The ramifications of that one are complex, and the purpose of here and now is to ponder (somewhat shallowly) the need for higher education with the view to being recognized at publishing standards.

In truth?  My friends were discussing how an extra couple of years at university level might get your work better known, might enable you to make networks and influence peeps in the know.  They were not suggesting that (made-up name) Janice Graville-Lavine – the latest talent from the streets of Sydney – need attend university to study English before she would have any chance of ‘being published.’

The other side of this double-edged coin (even though that’s not really possible) caused cerebral spasm – is it important for ‘the writer’ to have a ‘recognized’ background in literary education?  Is it vital for the artist to study past high school levels in order to create a  masterpiece.  Is it better for the clothes designer to attend college and study the academic element to their craft?

Consider the owner of Squirt Baby. She is a RL mate and a (proud) science boffin.  She and her partner collect microscope slides, eat their dinner over a bunsen burner and pipet each other’s drinks into their mouths.  I’ve known her a long time and she understands I’ve seen this.  She has a specific, very academic background.  Lately, she’s done a 360 and is now producing children’s wear that has her peer purchasing and market crowds recognizing as wonderful.  She is educated – but she’s never done college-level design or university sewing in her life.  She is running a small business and wowing people.

Sometimes education need not be specific.  Sometimes talent is enough.  We can relate this example of ‘making it’ without further education to success stories around the world and throughout history.  It happens and sometimes we don’t need to study on.

Can we relate this to writing publishable fiction?

Again, I’m not an authority but I believe so.  It’s happening every day.  ’The writer’ is published without returning to uni or college to reinforce their intellectualizing of literature appreciation or knowledge of language.  Perhaps they know enough English to get a really great story out there?  Maybe they are aware that syntax and metaphor and scary grammatical rules do exist, but they rely on an instinct to get the tale done.  They use their time to create rather than study.  They might miss networking opportunities and develop ‘loneliness’ calluses on their butt from sitting at the keyboard too long, but it’s the alternate path.

It all depends on the individual, it seems.  It depends on their stage of life, their love of study, their financial situation, their desire to further their education of a specialized area.  So many mitigating factors.

Personally?  I love studying.  However if there was a choice between creating a story for two hours or studying the use of its and/or it’s in grammatical situations, I would select the former.  As always, different strokes for different folks.

And who is to say that either path is more correct?

*special thanks to Livejournal sisters who often have the best conversations in the comment sections of posts.

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