self-publishing

The Forest Dragon

~ Kelly Wolf ~ Leave a comment

[Disclaimer: In general, I am not a woo-woo person. However, this is a woo-woo (yet true!) story. If that sort of thing makes you gag, you may want to leave now.]

The first time I saw the forest dragon was on 11/11 in 2012, when I took a visiting friend on my favorite hike in Moran State Park. It was a chilly day, and by the time we reached the summit of Mt. Pickett, it had started to snow.

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Snow falling onto a carpet of green moss is quite lovely, but as we descended the trail towards the Twin Lakes, the snow turned to sleet, then rain. My friend and I hurried along the path, our wool hats and sweaters growing heavy in the downpour. At one point, I noticed an upturned root system that resembled a giant dragon head. I wanted to stop and take its picture, but given the weather, I chose to continue down the trail, knowing I could come back another day when conditions were more favorable (and less likely to ruin my camera).

On November 15th, I returned to Moran in search of the dragon. Soon after I left the summit of Mt. Pickett, I saw a root system that was vaguely dragony. I stopped and stared at it for a long time. Although it wasn’t anywhere near as cool as I’d remembered, I chalked up the discrepancy between my idea of the dragon and its reality to my deplorable visual memory. With a profound feeling of disappointment, I took a picture of the sort-of dragon, then continued down the trail.

About twenty minutes later, I came upon a section of forest that was so ethereal, it brought me to a dead stop. As I scanned the path before me, I noticed my shadow encircled in a rainbow of light.

546995_300074756770162_760503568_nI couldn’t quite capture the rainbow aura, but you get the idea.

I began to fan my arms through the air, which made the light glimmer all around my shadow’s circumference. That looked incredibly cool, so I continued doing it for…I don’t know…ten minutes? (This is what happens when someone like me lives alone for too long.) When I’d finally had enough, I glanced to my right, and there, shrouded in mist, was the forest dragon.

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No shit. It was right next to me. If I hadn’t been halted on the trail by rainbow-encircled Shadow Me, I would’ve marched past it, especially since I wasn’t even looking for it anymore, as I’d convinced myself that I’d already found the dragon from the other day.

I was beside myself. I did a happy little dance on the trail (again – too much time alone), then climbed up to the dragon, gave it a hug, clamored around on spongy soil to view it from the other side, and saw this:

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I took one shot and knew I didn’t need another. When I sent the photo to my husband later that day, he wrote back: “That should be the cover of Aret.”

Now, almost four years later, it is.

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I think about that dragon a lot. I wonder what it looks like now. I hope it’s still there, looming on the side of the trail, perfectly intact, waiting for me to come back and visit.

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Nadie Sale Vivo

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 2 Comments

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I got this lovely skull carved into my arm about a decade ago. Nadie sale vivo means No one leaves alive, and people’s thoughts on that phrase vary considerably, from the Tico in Costa Rica who interpreted it as: “Me tocas, y no sales vivo” (essentially: Touch me and die), to the guy who saw it at a party and launched into a murderous rampage speech à la Amanda Plummer in Pulp Fiction, which was not only loud and annoying, but also completely inaccurate.

Nadie sale vivo isn’t meant as a threat. It doesn’t mean I’m planning to kill everyone; it means we’re all going to die. I think of it as a cross between Carpe diem & Memento mori, and I’m grateful that skull’s on my arm, observing me through cavernous eyes with the continual reminder: Live life now.

People tell me they think about Nadie sale vivo when contemplating risky decisions that require the transcendence of fear. While I love those stories, I also wish folks would consider the brief, fragile state of our mortality when deciding how to interact with one another, especially in the realm of cyberspace, where pseudo-anonymity and physical distance create a weird, false sort of “courage,” leading to a shit ton of pointless ugliness.

If you read the average internet comment stream, it appears that everyone’s itching to have a rageful meltdown. Even something as innocuous as a video of a baby elephant playing in a puddle will be followed by some inexplicably-furious, all-caps declaration like: “ELEPHANTS ARE MURDERED EVERY DAY IT’S HORRIBLE THAT YOU’VE EXPLOITED ELEPHANTS LIKE THIS I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT MONSTERS PEOPLE ARE TO MURDER ELEPHANTS!!” Following that, of course, will be a string of five hundred comments from other people insulting the original commenter and/or one another, all along the spectrum from “You’re an idiot” (or more likely “Your an idiot”) to “Eat a bullet” (it is unbelievable how many death threats fly around between strangers on the internet). All because of a baby elephant playing in a puddle, which really deserves only one comment: “Aww cute <3”

Here’s a bit of unsolicited advice from your old pal Kelly (I’m big on offering my 2 cents without being asked). Let’s use our tiny shreds of life – the brief sparks in the universe that we’ve been granted – to be good people and do good things. To start, what if we all decided to have extremely positive reactions to things, instead of extremely spiteful reactions? Returning to the above example, the all-caps declaration could read like this: “OH MY GOD I LOVE BABY ELEPHANTS MORE THAN ANYTHING THEY ARE SO ADORABLE I COULD JUST EXPLODE THIS IS PROOF THAT THE WORLD IS UNBELIEVABLY FREAKING AMAZING BECAUSE HOLY SHIT BABY ELEPHANTS!!!!”

After all, each of us has a finite number of heartbeats, inhales, and exhales, so let’s not waste them spewing vitriol at one another. The angrier we get, the stupider we get (this is a biological fact), and nothing productive comes from insults, name-calling, or death threats. Everyone just gets angrier and stupider. If you need further proof of this (aside from the irrefutable neurological evidence), take a look at the current state of our nation. We are an angry, stupid mess.

I vote that we kick our self-righteous, reactionary b.s. to the curb, rise above the fray, and try out some extreme, all-caps positivity. At the very least, we could make each other laugh, and laughter, unlike blind rage, is actually good for us.

IMG_1513I MEAN WHAT THE CRAP DO YOU SEE HOW RIDICULOUSLY GORGEOUS THIS BUTTERFLY IS JUST LOOK AT THOSE WINGS THEY’RE LIKE STAINED GLASS FOR CHRIST’S SAKE AND THAT LITTLE FACE! OMG! THE CUTENESS! IT BURNS! AND IT’S EATING FROM A GODDAMN PINK POOFBALL!!!!

See? Much better.

[P.S. – Along these same lines, let’s please stop calling each other hypocrites. It is entirely redundant to call another person a hypocrite. We’re all hypocrites. There’s no such thing as perfection when it comes to human beings. Mahatma Gandhi beat his wife. So there ya go.]

Everybody Needs Good Conversation

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 2 Comments

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On my birthday a few years back, I got one of those cards featuring perky messages from all of my coworkers. Most of them said some version of “Yay, it’s your birthday!” But then there was this little gem:

Happy birthday, Kelly. You are great to work with even though you are so weird.

I suppose that declaration would have stung if I lacked the power of observation, but I don’t. As I’ve studied other humans over the past four decades, I’ve come to accept the fact that yes, I am pretty damn weird. Perhaps the most obvious manifestation of this trait is my utter lack of discretion around talking to myself, which is something I do often – out loud – regarding a wide range of topics. I even talk to myself about talking to myself.

10606045_653838701393764_2685928916413398302_nHmm…I wonder what I’ll say to myself next…

In my early days, I confined that behavior to venues that were private (e.g., house) or semi-private (e.g., car). But when I lived alone on Orcas Island and forgot how to interact with people, I dragged it into the public sphere (e.g., grocery store), where I would engage in heated, solitary debate until I noticed fellow customers hurrying down the aisle to get away from me. (And really, who could blame them? It must’ve looked like I was arguing with soup.)

Funnily enough, of all the things I choose to be self-conscious about, talking to myself isn’t one of them. Whenever people catch me in the act, I just meet their amused and/or alarmed and/or baffled looks with an unrepentant stare. I want my eyes to tell them, Yeah, I’m talking to myself. I repeat: TO MYSELF. This has nothing to do with you. Move along. 

I’ve decided that ongoing self-chatter is a sign of a creative personality. I could’ve asked Google for evidence to support this hypothesis, but after a conversation with myself, I determined that further research was unnecessary. After all, what does Google know (besides everything, mixed in with a shit ton of nonsense)? I get much simpler answers when I consult my own brain.

(It now occurs to me that conducting research via self-inquiry may be another indication of weirdness. I also think I finally understand Drumpf supporters.)

Regardless of the cause, I remain weird, which is fine. This is my husband, so at least I’m in good company.

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Here’s what happens when our nephew comes to visit.

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This is how we read bedtime stories together.

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Our dog may be a bit off kilter, as well.

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And I have no problem with any of that. As Benjamin Franklin tweeted in 1781, “‘Tis better to be weird than bored.” (Discovered on his Founding Father Twitter timeline, right before: “Beware of information you encounter on the internet.”)

Special Treat Day

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 2 Comments

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When I went to live on Orcas Island in the fall of 2012, I knew it was time to make some changes. In a recent moment of self-reflection, I’d come to understand that I’d placed myself on a psychological hamster wheel several years before, and it was time to leap off. So the second the ferry docked on the island, I thought, Okay, I’m making two personal commitments. One: I will abandon worry. Two: I will practice self-care. Easy enough. Then I laughed in my head for a really long time.

As a professional, I had focused on self-care for years (to be clear: other people’s self-care. Not my own, silly). I was even invited by a variety of community agencies to conduct trainings on that topic, which I secretly found hilarious since I didn’t practice what I preached AT ALL. During the trainings, I’d hear the words coming out of my mouth and think, This woman makes sense. I should listen to her. But I didn’t.

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As it turned out, Orcas was a magical wonderland, so the first step – abandoning worry – was easier than expected. Worry is both uncomfortable and counterproductive, so my rational self kicked it to the curb with relative ease, despite a lifetime of honing the art of fretful self-torture. Whenever I caught myself envisioning a series of potential worst case scenarios (I am extremely skilled at that), I engaged helpful mantras like, “That’s not gonna happen,” or, “Stop it, Kelly. That’s a bad Kelly.”

I was similarly structured about the self-care commitment, in that I scheduled it in on a weekly basis. Every Thursday was designated as Special Treat Day, and I allotted myself $20 to do with as I wished. For the remainder of the week, I spent money only on groceries and gasoline. My stomping grounds were the woods, the waterfront, my house, the local animal shelter where I volunteered, and the library.

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But on Special Treat Day, I explored non-free ventures. The San Juan Islands are touristy and expensive, so the $20 didn’t go too far, but I still had opportunities to eat food I hadn’t prepared myself and sip fancy coffee drinks, and it felt downright luxurious. Sometimes I didn’t even spend the $20. I’d just grab a cookie at Teezer’s and travel to parts of the island that were outside of my normal routine.

390112_298845763559728_98026084_nLike the lovely Olga Pier, for example

When I found out that walk-on passengers could ferry from island to island for free, I began to plan Special Treat Days off Orcas. The best one took place on Lopez Island, a sweet little place where everyone waves from their cars (you can find this information in every article ever written about Lopez Island). It was 4 miles from the ferry landing to town, so I had plenty of opportunities to exchange waves with passing motorists as I walked along the beautiful, bucolic terrain.

223208_284065208371117_1843583133_nPracticing the Lopez Wave upon arrival

When I finally got to town, I discovered that both of the places I’d planned to go (a cafe and a vineyard) were only open on weekends, but I didn’t care because it was Special Treat Day, and being disappointed on a day with that name is unacceptable. Instead of having sad feelings, I changed course and decided to take a different route back to the ferry. While I tried (and failed) to find a trail to the beach, I came upon a herd of adorable, horned fuzzballs.

149614_284065528371085_2089998726_nWho needs a beach when you’ve got wooly cows?

I also found a cool park and a really nice mushroom.

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So it turned out to be a good day, anyhow, and since then I’ve dreamed of returning to Lopez Island, ideally for a few months, to wander around, wave at strangers, go to that vineyard, and write the third book of Aret.

546995_300074756770162_760503568_nShadow Me (bottom left) on a Special Treat Day in Moran State Park

If it’s at all possible, I highly recommend incorporating a regular self-treating experience into your life. If you can’t manage every week, try for once a month, or however often is feasible. Looking forward to something – even if it’s just a cookie – can have a marvelous effect on one’s mental health. (I now say that from experience, not just as a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do trainer.)

However, if you should happen to name your self-treating venture “Special Treat Day,” I do not recommend ever abbreviating it. I did that once in my journal, and…that didn’t happen again. The day really loses its magic when you see the words: I’m so excited for my STD.

Character Assassination

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 2 Comments

My name is Kelly Wolf, and I am a murderer. I plan my kills far in advance, determining each detail – who the victims will be; how they will die; what will transpire in the aftermath. Everything.

cid_IMAG35751Here’s my nephew figuring out his aunt is a sociopath.

[Really he was just wowed by my drawing skills, which are only impressive if you happen to be 4.]

But here’s the thing about being a killer: there’s a big difference between the planning and the execution.

For a couple of weeks now, I have strategically avoided working on the second book of Aret. This was an unconscious process, helped along by the fact that I’ve started another job, which offers plenty of convenient distractions. I am also quite skilled at finding diversions around the house as needed. Hmm…I should probably wash the sheets, brush the dogs’ teeth, patch my jeans, wipe down the windowsills, write a letter to my grandmother…

It wasn’t until yesterday afternoon that I realized why I’ve been dodging my book. I have arrived at a section in which a bunch of tragedies occur. And I don’t want to write it.

11138080_10152839972218093_1055566725042449242_nPortrait of an avoidant killer

To hold a reader’s interest (and to mirror life), stories need conflict, sometimes to a terrible extreme. At some point, especially during the course of a fantasy trilogy, the antagonists triumph. They are stoked. Of course, that means the protagonists face defeat and are devastated, which royally sucks.

As a writer, it is one thing to map out the events of a story; it is quite another to put down the words. Systematically slaying the characters I have worked with great care to create is uncomfortable, to say the least. Not only does it trigger feelings of sadness and guilt, but it also eliminates my freedom to hang out with those characters ever again.

However, these cruel deeds are necessary, and although I must tromp through many pages of depressing text to get there, I see the light of hope at the end of the tunnel of despair I’m about to create. So I suppose it’s time to quit stalling, put on my big girl britches, and go kill someone.

Bridge to Delrod

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 3 Comments

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I’m a huge fan of irony, so I take great pleasure in referring to my friend Devon, who is a beautiful woman with a beautiful name, as Delrod. She earned that clunky moniker at a diner in L.A., where the workers were well known for mangling customers’ orders. When Devon’s food came out, the waiter glanced down at the receipt and yelled, “Delrod!” Devon looked at him, eyebrow cocked in disbelief, and suggested, “Devon?” He observed her with some suspicion, studied the receipt for a moment, then looked her full in the face and repeated, “Delrod?” At which point she just said, “Sure,” so he would relinquish her food.

And that is how Devon became Delrod, which I find endlessly amusing, not only because Delrod is such a silly word and not a name at all, but also because it is a continual reminder of that guy’s refusal to admit that the receipt did not say Delrod. He may not have been very bright, but at least he was consistent.

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I’ve got big heart love for Devon, and here is something I’ve learned over the twenty-five years of our sustained friendship: for people to stay connected from adolescence into adulthood, bridges must be built on an ongoing basis. As our living places, friends, significant others, goals, ideas, jobs, and everything else about life have changed, we’ve continually had to build and maintain bridges of communication, trust, loyalty, and respect between one another to keep the friendship alive and strong.

Thankfully, Devon and I have bridge-building experience.

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[For the sake of clarity: we did not build this bridge. I just think it’s cool. Also, look how cute my dogs are.]

During our senior year of high school, Devon and I were lab partners in physics class. Neither of us had a science mind, and we both had a serious case of Senioritis (which began to develop about halfway through sophomore year), so much of our time in physics was spent writing rhyming couplets about our classmates and crawling around under the lab tables, sneakily removing students’ shoelaces and draping them over their knees.

Near the end of the year, we were given an assignment to build a bridge out of toothpicks and glue. Each completed bridge had to be strong enough to hold a bucket of bricks suspended from its center. I think we were given a month to complete this project, and our teacher mentioned about twelve hundred times that we should not, under any circumstances, wait until the day before the assignment was due to get started. I guess all Devon and I heard was, “Blah blah blah wait until the day before the assignment is due to get started,” because that’s what we did.

As it turns out, glue dries at an annoyingly slow pace. Here I am at about 6 p.m. on bridge-building day, demonstrating a complete lack of understanding of anything physics-related. (“I know, I’ll just dry the little pieces with this here blow dryer…”)

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The results were predictable. That did not work. I should’ve paid more attention in class.

Here is Devon pretending she cares about measurements.

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And here she is remembering she doesn’t give a shit.

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In truth, measuring was completely unnecessary. I think we just got out the ruler to seem more scholarly.

And now…drum roll please…here is our magnificent bridge.

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Once it was thoroughly dry (about 90 seconds before we had to hand it in), we wrote, “This Bridge Is Fierce” on those little blue flags. Do you think anyone else’s bridge had fancy flags? No indeed. They were boring, and flagless, and probably took weeks to make. But me and Devon, see, we had our priorities straight. Bridge-making photo shoot? Check. Little blue flags identifying bridge’s fierceness? Check. Only one afternoon out of our terribly busy, 17-year-old lives devoted to the construction of said bridge? Check.

Also, we got an A. Our bridge kicked ass. It held all of the required bricks and then some. The looks on our fellow classmates’ faces were priceless. I could just hear them thinking, They built that bridge? The girls who take out our shoelaces? The girls who left class and told the teacher they were going to Chuck E. Cheese? (This is true. We did ditch class one day and go to Chuck E. Cheese, informing the teacher of our intended destination on the way out the door. Sometimes you just need to eat terrible food and play skeeball in the middle of the day.)

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Now we’re all grown up. When we were kids, she loved to act, and I loved to write. Now that we’re adults, she’s an actor, and I’m a writer. (I guess that diner dude isn’t the only one who understands the value of consistency.) And because Devon is awesome, and super talented, and a member of my band, she has agreed to narrate the audiobook of Aret. Ah, joy – artistic collaboration with a beloved friend. I’m so grateful for our lifelong bridge-building skills. They’ve served us well.

When Aret is released in printed form, I think it should come with a little flag in each corner. And these flags, of course, will be emblazoned with the words:

This Book Is Fierce.

The Flu of Doom

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 2 Comments

WARNING: This post will likely prove to be long, rambling, and unpleasant (perhaps bordering on grotesque), much like my past week has been.

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[I’m using this photo of a beached jellyfish to symbolize what I both look and feel like right now. The other day I caught a glimpse of my reflection and thought, This must be why “in sickness and in health” is included in marriage vows.]

As seems to happen every February, I have been squished by the flu. The flu sucks not only because of its physical tortures (hacking cough; pounding headache; rapidly-fluctuating body temperature), but also because it is so incredibly boring. A couple Februaries past, I wrote this limerick about it:

Harrumph, I hate the flu
For there is naught to do
Can’t play or drink
Or write or think
Or master one’s kung fu.

During that particular bout of flu, since I couldn’t go outside to take pictures, I amused myself by putting together a pinto bean photo shoot.

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I have since been informed that that is an extremely weird thing to do. Next time, I’ll try to find a more appropriate subject. (I’m thinking kale leaves. Great texture.)

Last February, I was at the tail end of my annual flu when I attended a young man’s team meeting in a group home. He was upset about something (as teens in foster care frequently are, with good reason), and he started to cry right as I felt the opening twang of a coughing fit. The situation was extremely tense and sad, so I didn’t feel comfortable excusing myself, and I soon had tears streaming down my face because my throat was being invaded by an army of tiny fire ants. Other team members kept looking at me like, Wow, Kelly’s really taking this to heart. (Or maybe, Wow, Kelly really lacks professionalism.)

By the time I realized I had to leave before I exploded all over everyone, I’d lost the ability to speak, so I just stood up and walked out. I hurried to the backyard and commenced a ferocious, repulsive extravaganza of coughing. By the end, I was a sweaty mess with an accumulated, giant gob of horror in the back of my throat. I knew I had to evict the gob, so after doing a quick check to make sure no one was around, I leaned over and spat it out…right onto my own foot. And I was wearing sandals. Le sigh.

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[I actually like this photo, but I thought it would be appropriate to include here, as it does seem to represent something quite nightmarish. Like spitting something atrocious onto one’s own foot.]

So at least nothing that gross has happened this year. That is the beauty of having had that experience. I can always refer back to it to make myself feel better about my current flu. “Well, at least I didn’t just hawk the viscous contents of my diseased lungs onto my bare toes.”

This year’s flu has featured two primary annoyances: yucky sleep and a lack of suitable reading material. Because of the pervasive fever, I wake up several times a night, soaked in sweat. This led to multiple costume changes throughout each night until I ran out of things to wear, so now I just sleep naked on a pile of towels. And in between awakenings, I am blessed with fever dreams involving lovely scenarios like being incarcerated in federal prison, surrounded by towering piles of giant scissors.

But I think the worst part is not having anything pleasantly distracting to read, because reading is one of the only things I can do right now, and I read my current library book in its entirety during the first day I was sick. Then I turned to my bookshelf and decided to reread Neil Gaiman’s The Kindly Ones, which was a TERRIBLE idea. I mean, it is wonderful, but it is not uplifting, because [SPOILER ALERT!] pretty much everyone the reader has grown to care about dies in it. It would be like choosing to watch the anime series Berserk to brighten your mood, because you forgot that [SPOILER ALERT AGAIN!] almost all the characters get eaten by demons at the end.

In conclusion, I am going to include a cute picture that makes me happy.

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Because truly, what could be better than an itty bitty wolf hanging out with an itty bitty dragon in an itty bitty box? Nothing, that’s what. And their unmitigated cuteness reminds me that someday I will feel better, stop coughing, and not sleep on towels. Hooray.

[P.S. – I have a snazzy new Facebook page. You should like me. I’ve heard I’m quite likable.]

Hic Sunt Dracones

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 1 Comment

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I recently read that medieval cartographers wrote “Hic sunt dracones” (Here be dragons) over any unexplored, unfamiliar, and/or potentially treacherous areas on their maps. I loved that concept. “I have nary a clue what’s over here. I’ll just put Hic sunt dracones and be done with it.”

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But as it turns out, like lots of “facts” I encounter, it’s not true. Humph. The Lenox Globe, completed around 1503 AD, is the only known cartographer’s work featuring the words “HC SVNT DRACONES.” It appears on the east coast of Asia. And that’s it. It was not a common practice. I was lied to.

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However, after the sting of the lie wore off, I realized where the words Hic sunt dracones should appear on maps. They should be emblazoned right over my house.

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My house is full of dragons. They are everywhere. You can’t even sit on the toilet without finding a dragon staring straight at you. Dragon figurines. Dragon books. Dragon duct tape. Dragon stuffed animals. There is, in fact, a dragon staring at me right now. (And no, I’m not on the toilet.)

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So even though ancient maps don’t really say Here be dragons, we now know the answer to the question: Where be dragons? And here it is: They’re at Kelly Wolf’s house. All maps should be marked accordingly.

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Now I just need to convince the folks at Google Maps that this is a legit idea.

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[It should also be noted that the back of my car looks like this. I don’t think the mini-knight has much of a chance.]

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Deleted

~ Kelly Wolf ~ Leave a comment

There is an episode of Homestar Runner (if you’re unfamiliar, Google it – lots of laughs to be had) in which Homestar tries to answer Strong Bad’s email and ends up crashing the computer. His problem is that he can’t remember the word “deleted,” so he keeps typing in other words until the computer implodes. His first guess is “Baleeted!” and that is the very word that comes to mind whenever I delete something significant from my writing.

At the beginning of Aret, the protagonist celebrates her 21st birthday alone, getting drunk in a crappy bar. When she arrives, she orders a shot of tequila, then observes various items hanging on the wall behind the bar while she waits for her drink. In my first draft(s), the description of those items was weird, convoluted, and rambling. I rewrote the passage several times but never got it quite right.

Over three years, approximately thirty people put their hands on that brief passage. A writing professor and a class of twelve, a critique group, and more than a dozen other readers offered feedback, and with all of their help, the passage expanded, contracted, and utterly transmogrified. At long last, it said exactly what I wanted to say, exactly how I wanted to say it. I sat back and read the finished product with a smile as the following thoughts ran through my head:

It’s done. Finally. Word choice, flow, rhythm, everything in perfect order. Halle-freakin-lujah. And would you look at that? This passage is completely distracting and superfluous. Huh.

BALEETED.

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[That’s how I felt about deleting something that took three years to write, although when this photo was taken, I was demonstrating my feelings towards entering the Pacific Ocean at 8 a.m. Stand-up paddleboarding is fabulous, but early mornings and cold water? Blech. No.]

All writers eventually find themselves deleting work the moment it has achieved a state of perfection. That is a fact of writing, but its inevitability doesn’t remove the sting, and the emotional rollercoaster is dizzying. “Boo, this is awful. I’ll never fix it. It’s hopeless. Wait…hold it…that’s a little better. Ooo, now it’s much better! Still not quite right, but…oh, wow! Voila! Perfecto! Ah ha ha ha ha! I’m so awesome! And now…delete.”

Yes. Three years of revision well spent, indeed.

The Band I Always Wanted

~ Kelly Wolf ~ 3 Comments

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They say it takes a village to raise a child. I’m raising a novel, not a child, so instead of gathering a village, I’ve assembled a band. I always wanted to be in a band, but since I don’t play any instruments, that desire never went past the “I want that” stage. But now it’s official – I have my band, formed of a bunch of people who asked to read Aret and subsequently got sucked into a maelstrom of extra work they never expected. Ha! It’s terribly exciting. For me, at least.

On Super Bowl Eve, my new band got together for its first gig: a pre-publication book club. The band members arrived right on time, with heads full of feedback, hearts full of sincerity, and arms full of refreshments, e-readers, and even notes. Very impressive.

Our volunteer maestro conducted us beautifully. Everyone was focused. Thoughts, questions, and suggestions filled the air. The band was rockin’ it. They analyzed the story in terms of little picture (self-discovery; romance) and big picture (how to create peace when it seems impossible). The book was called time-, genre-, and dimension-bending. Participants expressed their attachment to Diana, the badass protagonist, and their contempt for the Blue Matriarch, who was described using colorful language I will not include here.

About 90 minutes passed. Ideas were exchanged. Snacks were consumed. As was alcohol.

Quite a bit of alcohol.

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The conversation took a turn. I learned that some people have strong feelings about the word slacks. (I’d always considered it an innocuous synonym for pants, but WOO BOY was I wrong.) I was asked to change the Red Matriarch to a Blue Matriarch to correspond with one band member’s personal color preference. A request was made for three-headed, ocean-dwelling dragons to be added to the plot, because that would be cool. There was an extensive discussion about whether or not dragons fart fire. Finally, it was brought to my attention that Aret needs LGBTQ dragons, and a suggestion was put forth that I create a Rainbow caste to represent them.

After the meeting, we all received the following photo via group text:

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(Thank you to sweetlynumb63 at Deviant Art for this unbelievable image.)

That picture has now been linked to my number in one of the band member’s phones, so whenever I contact her, I will appear as a portly, gun-wielding dragon farting rainbows.

And that makes me very happy.

I love my band.