Review of Wanted: Dead or Undead, by Angela Scott

I was lucky enough to find Angela on twitter a while ago, and so have been hearing about her new novel for awhile. Which means I have been forced to WAIT for its unveiling...but my waiting finally paid off, because Angela gave me an advanced reader copy to check out and review! Woo Hoo! Here are my thoughts...

I should probably preface this review by warning you that I don't care for Westerns, or Zombies. The fascinating thing about this, is that Angela Scott has managed to combine them into a story that I absolutely LOVE! I had so much fun reading this book, and somehow couldn't wait to find out what happens next while hating that each page was bringing me closer to the end of it (is the sequel out yet? when can I read THAT?! Pant, Pant, Pant)

Some of my favorite aspects of Ms. Scott's writing are as follows:

1. Ever read a story and find yourself wondering, Do these people ever eat? Don't they have to go to bathroom? Ugh, wouldn't you STINK after that, and desperately want a bath? Eww, why would you let that go in your mouth?! Wouldn't their clothes be filthy and they'd need fresh ones? So many authors ignore the fact their characters are human, with human needs and issues, but Angela Scott remembers to take care of her character's basic needs, and since I am a stickler for the "unanswered questions" conundrum a reader often faces, I LOVE that she gives us these realistic details, and answers each of the questions I've posed! It makes me better able to identify with the characters and their humanity.

2. These characters are FUNNY. I stopped counting how many times I giggled, chuckled, or snorted throughout this book.

3. Questions are posed, and NOT ALL are answered...yet. Some things are revealed, enough to keep me going "Oh, OF COURSE!" but the story of Red, Trace, Wen, et.al is not finished, so I am eagerly awaiting the next book in this series. (panting eagerly, again)

4. The originality of the plot- I know it's been said by everyone else too, but c'mon- ZOMBIES and the OLD WEST?! It's genius, complete genius.

5. The Chapter Names. I really like when chapters are named, not just numbered, and the chapter names in this case definitely strike my interest. I think, "Oooh, Lavender? How's Angela going to work that into the story?" And voila, she does!

So buy this book already. You'll laugh, you'll say "Eww" and laugh some more, you'll root for Red and Trace and their blossoming attraction, you will definitely want to know more about zombie infants, and mean Doctors who try to use their patients as science experiments.

Here is the link to purchase your own copy-
http://www.amazon.com/Wanted-Dead-or-Undead-ebook/dp/B007MCHXEU/ref=cm_rdp_product

Peace and Zombies!

Special Edition Three Word Challenge- Untitled

This story, while still classified as short, is too long to be posted to Facebook. It is for my special Tweep and favorite Fictional Character On Twitter ;>)

~Ejaculate~posthumously~interfrastically~ Words courtesy of Xander Buchan, @CountDracula on Twitter.com (I really want to know what he was thinking with this word selection!)

I watched the man discreetly through my lowered lashes. I had made sure to be in place before our agreed upon meeting time so that I could watch for his arrival.

 He walked towards me with a swagger. His vivid gaze stared straight ahead, as if he wouldn’t deign to meet the eye of anyone nearby, even by accident. He wore an impressively tailored suit, Savile Row if I wasn’t mistaken. He carried a cane, formed out of some exotic wood. The cane was obviously for appearances, as his gait was unhindered by anything other than his demeanor of superiority.

 I made up my mind to dislike him intensely. His handsome face and well formed figure added weight to my opinion that he was an arrogant rogue. No matter; I didn’t have to like him to work with him.

 By this time, he was directly in front of me, and he stopped short when he spotted the garishly patterned scarf around my neck that we had agreed was to be our symbol of recognition.

 Bowing to me, he asked, “May I help you with your troublesome parasol, Milady?”

 “Yes, thank you, Sir, I would appreciate a new one.” I replied, completing our coded greeting.

 I took his arm and caught a whiff of his cologne. I held my silk kerchief up to my nose so as not to be tempted to revel in his scent. We walked a ways, and ducked down a narrow alleyway, then another. Exiting out the other end of the second alley brought us into another world entirely.

 Gone were the neat townhouses with their well-mannered flower boxes and wrought iron gates. Gone, too, was the sparkling cobblestone street, the smell of roses emanating from Haightbury Park, and the bright sunshine overhead. Here, the shambling buildings crowded out the sky, the street was buried beneath inches of muck, and the smell was a vomitous combination of rotten fish, human offal, and only God knew what else.

 My scrap of silk did little to filter out the odours, and I tightened my grip on my consort’s arm without thinking.

 He smirked down at me, aware of my reaction. I deliberately loosened my grip and stepped a few inches further away from him. He tsk’ed and pulled me back to his side, even closer than I had originally been.

 “Let’s deal with this matter interfrastically, shall we?” I responded primly.

 “We’ve arrived.” He announced, ignoring my supercilious tone. We had stopped in front of a tavern. The painted sign barely hanging on over the doorway announced we were at the “Three Wenches.” Excellent.

 A drunken sot of a man came barreling through the doorway, and spat a voluminous stream of foulness that barely missed the tips of my boots.

 “Hey! Watch it!” I cried angrily, dodging the newly formed puddle of oral ejaculate.

 The sot leered, and waggled his eyebrows at me. “You wan’ to get a room, Princess?” He slurred.

 “I should think not, you disgusting creature!” I cried, outraged at his proposition.

 My consort spoke up. “Besides, the lady is with me. Move aside, wrench.” His tone brooked no room for argument, and the inebriated louse scurried away, reeling from one side of the street to the other.

 We entered the tavern, and I shuddered in distaste. The interior was even worse than the exterior. A barmaid sidled up to us, one of the lauded Three, I presumed.

 "Wha’ can I get for ye fine lady and gent’l’man, a pint or a room, hmm?” The toothless grin splitting her pockmarked face was more scary than welcoming.

 “We’re here to see Dunlop. Take us to him.” My consort ordered.

 “Oh! Well, thas’ goin’ to be a problem, see. “ She batted her eyelashes coyly.

 He sighed, and fishing a coin from his pocket, tossed it to her. She caught it with a flash of her hand.

 “Now, can you please?” He prompted when she still didn’t move.

 “Thank ye for the coin, kin’ Sir, but I can no’ take you to Dunlop.”

 “What ever do you mean?” I interrupted the exchange. “Take us to Dunlop, now!”

 She smirked at me. “Dunlop has been dead these pas’ two days.” She announced triumphantly.

 Oh, Good Gracious. We were doomed! My consort asked where he was laid out, and ordered the barmaid to take us to the man, regardless.

 “What on earth for?” I whispered as we followed the serving wench down a wretched hallway.

 “So we can get answers.” He replied calmly.

 “What, posthumously off his body?” I scoffed.

 He grinned mischievously at me, and continued pulling me along. “If necessary.”

 I knew I didn’t like this man with good reason.

My Very Own Stupid Human Trick!

At a place I used to work, the Boss once initiated a contest, just for fun, called "Stupid Human Tricks."
She stated that everyone had a talent, bizarre perhaps, to do something really entertaining that no one else could do, or at least, not very many people. Everyone really got into it. I saw weird dance moves, heard the alphabet being recited backwards, watched someone wiggle their ears in tune with a song, and a few other crazy things. While I was laughing on the outside, I was secretly feeling panicky on the inside. What could I do? What was my Stupid Human Trick? I was pretty sure constantly banging my head on stuff (accidentally) and not being dead yet didn't really count. I started feeling left out. Is it possible that there isn't something out there that I would be really good at? A Jill of Many Trades, but a Master at None? What a horrible feeling!

Then someone sent me a link to a (now defunct site) where people were selling their (G-rated, don't worry) services for all kinds of creative and crazy things they could do. I was like What?! Then I was like, Whoa! Then I was all like, Heeeyyyyyy....Because GUYS, I think I found MY "Stupid Human Trick"!!!!

I threw out my idea on twitter and a handful of people responded. They each gave me three words and I had to write a short story using those three words. I had 24 hours to complete the challenge.


Here are two examples of what I am talking about. Enjoy!

Example One:
~Sector~Floccinauchinihilipilificate~Interlude~ Words courtesy of Lindsay Strachan @QualityLindsay on Twitter.com (Bless her cruel, sadistic little heart)

Cybernetica is much like any other city. There are shopping centers, repair shops, residential neighborhoods, and forms of public transportation. The primary difference between it, and say, London, is the inhabitants. Humans are forbidden from entering Cybernetica, not that any even know it exists. Cybernetica is home to 18,477 retired Automatons, and the numbers continue to grow, slowly but surely.

It is comprised of 20 Sectors, or Districts. Like Humans, Automatons require entertainment. In any world without entertainment, the citizens begin to grow tense and agitated, and strife will begin. Without pleasurable pastimes, the citizens will inevitably turn on one another. In a retirement community, entertainment is especially important.

Our story begins in Sector 19, the Theater District.

 Bernard X47K turns to his partner, Ursa JJ9910P. “My dear, shall we take a turn about the promenade between acts?”

 Ursa sighs. “No, Bernie, I’ve told you before, I really prefer to stay seated and take in the Interlude.”

 Bernard harrumphs. “I don’t understand why. They never feature any real talent during the Interludes. It’s always just a bunch of silly androids, be-bopping across the stage.”

 “Silly androids? For shame, Bernard. Really.” Ursa lets out a puff of steam in exasperation. “You know that the critically acclaimed Grete 88C4 got her start in this very theater, doing an Interlude back in 2084.”

 “Ursa, that is one example, and she was obviously a rarity. It’s been 42 years since then and not one Automaton has followed in her steps.”

 “Oh no, Bernard X? What about Jort*BB? You cannot possibly claim he has not achieved Star Status in his own right!”

 “Oh, he’s achieved Star Status, alright. So noxious, they sent him to the stars!” Bernard pressed the button that imitated the sound of a Human chortling.

 Ursa stood up, her instruction panel flashing red lights. “You can sit here and floccinauchinihilipilificate all by your self then, Bernard X47K, because I will NOT stand for it!” She stomped off, her blocky legs practically denting the theater floor with the force she was using to raise and lower them.

 “Oh Ursa, come back! I was only having a bit of fun!” Groaned Bernard. “Ursa? Honey? Please?”

 Bernard X47K watched his beloved Ursa JJ9910P storm away from him, his evening ruined.

Example 2:

 ~Zombie~flashmob~train Words courtesy of Michael Andrew Patterson, @DyadicEchoes on Twitter.com

Patty was exhausted and couldn't wait to get home to put her feet up, microwave a meal, and pet her cat.

Leaving her office, she realized she had taken the train to work, not her car. Making her way to the station, she heard a whistle. Turning around to look, she saw a sight that made her blood curdle. A large man was coming towards her, but his size wasn’t what terrified her, it was the vacant look in his eyes, the blood dripping down his chin, and his lurching movements.

“Are you KIDDING me?” Patty thought. A zombie in Albany, Ohio? This was ridiculous. Had she already fallen asleep and started a nightmare?

She pinched herself. “Ow.” Not dreaming, then. Crap. Time to run! Thank God she had exchanged her heels for flats before leaving her desk. Spinning around, she began running in the opposite direction of the zombie. Only now there was another one in front of her. A woman, arms outstretched. Patty spun to her right. Another zombie. To her left. More zombies. A sob escaped from her throat. This could not be happening!

She heard another whistle, and suddenly, the zombies stopped. Another whistle, and they moved their arms overhead, as in unison. Frozen in place, Patty heard the opening riff for a famous song come over the train station’s loudspeakers.

Dun Dun Dun dada dun dun. Dun Dun Dun dada dun dun.

There was at least fifty zombies surrounding her. There was no escape. They began moving, but not towards her. They were moving in unison to the beat of the song. Arms jerked, legs extended, hips were popping and locking.

Patty realized she was experiencing, for the first time in history, a dancing zombie flashmob.

So there you have it, folks. Give me 3 words, and I will create a story using them as inspiration. What's YOUR "Stupid Human Trick"?

What Every Man Should Know

This post will have nothing to do with my writing, and everything to do with my life. It's personal to me, and to millions of other women across the world, and if you have a woman in your life, it should be personal to you, too. Please take a moment to read.

The Facts May Depend On Your Point Of View

This message is for all the men out there. Find someone who will read this out loud to you, then get comfy and close your eyes.

 Are you ready? Let’s begin.

 Picture your left testicle. Or your right one, it doesn’t matter. No, I’m not trying to be funny or pervy. Picture your right or left testicle.

 Imagine that once a month, usually every 3^rd week, a small cyst erupts on your testicle. Your body views this inflammation as a potential hazard, so white blood cells rush to the site. Then something goes haywire, and the cyst grows. Fast. Very fast.

 It grows to the size of a softball, and is filled with fluid and tissue. It hangs off your testicle like a swollen melon, excruciatingly painful. It hinders movement, and pain radiates down whichever leg that is below your cystic testicle, as well as up and across your abdomen. It is so painful, you become nauseous. You take Ibuprofen, or Tylenol, but the over the counter pills can’t even begin to touch the pain. You get a prescription pain killer from your physician, but even the prescription pain killer, which is just shy of a controlled substance, only takes the pain down about 25%, leaving you with 75% of the agony remaining.

 The painkiller makes you dizzy, and does strange things to your blood sugar and equilibrium. It also gives you a migraine about a third of the time you take it. It makes you feel wired, but not in a nice way; In the kind of way where you are desperate for sleep but lie there for hours, unable to fall into it. You aren’t sure which is worse, the side effects from the painkiller or the burning, nauseating pain from your testicular cyst.

 You have the cyst for a week or so. During that time, it hurts so much that it distracts you from being able to sleep properly. Or sit still at work, or in the car- it’s far, far worse when you are sitting than when you are standing because of the extra pressure in the seated position. Because the cyst is so large, you have difficulty urinating, and your bodily functions that caused the cyst make it difficult to maintain normal bowel movements, so you alternate between constipation and diarrhea for the week the cyst is on your testicle. Forget trying to have sex with your spouse or partner, it is SO not going to happen!

 When the cyst finally begins to drain at the end of the week, you feel such relief, you want to cry. You have about 2 weeks of pain free, normal functioning, and just when you have started to forget how horrible it really was, the third week of the next month arrives. You wake up one morning, ready to take on the world, and realize you feel a burning, stabbing pain. You grit your teeth and want to cry again, because you know, even before you’ve looked down, the cyst is back. Again.

 This will happen to you every month, for the next 30-40 years, maybe longer.

 This is also what happens to millions of women, from age of menstruation, until age of menopause. The normal process of a monthly cyst, caused by ovulation, goes terribly awry, and is a chronic source of de-habilitating agony, frustration, and emotional distress. Guess what would prevent the whole thing? A tiny hormone therapy tablet, taken once a day, at the cost of mere pennies to manufacture.

 Have you had a softball sized cyst grow on either of your testicles recently? Or, in fact, ever? Wouldn’t you take the tiny hormone therapy pill? Wouldn’t you expect your health insurance company, which you likely pay a decent amount to have in the first place, to cough up a few dollars a month for you to avoid this reoccurring, agonizingly painful event?

 Now go ahead and tell me MY Health Insurance Company shouldn’t have to pay a few dollars a month so that I also don’t have to deal with this excruciating medical condition. Or your sister. Or wife. Or girlfriend. Or your mother, daughter, co-worker, neighbor, friend, even the random woman on the bus.

If it was a testicular cyst, there would never be any doubt treatment for it would be covered. Why would you make any woman suffer what you yourself would not?

Liar, Liar, On The Ground, and Other Kinds of Pants

I've recently learned that there are two kinds of writers.

The first kind is called a "Planner." These kinds of writers do things like create outlines of their entire story (probably with bulleted sub-categories), take classes on how to improve their writing (and then implement suggestions), and they set aside specific times of day to write (likely 8 am - 12 pm, then a half hour lunch break, then back to the work in progress from 12:30pm - 4:30pm). The "Planners" are generally an obnoxious breed, always bragging about things like "words per day", meeting deadlines, or well-mannered, orderly children.

I am not that type of writer.

I am what is known as a "Pantser." As in, I write by the seat of mine. I write furiously when I get the inspiration to do so. I let my characters speak to me at their own pace. Often, this means going days without writing, then having a bit of a binge and banging out 8 pages at once. Sometimes it means I stay up until 3 am writing and sleep until 2 pm the following day. The cats like it when I do this; the dog, not so much. It also means that I don't know very far ahead of time exactly what my characters will do, or say, or where they will go, or how long it will take them to get there. I don't write my scenes in order, because I don't always see how they are supposed to be written in a chronological manner. I skip around, then go back and fill in the gaps because suddenly, the puzzle pieces can fit together.

It's really fun being a Pantser. One of the best things about reading a really good story is that anticipation at the end of each chapter, the exquisite torture in the second it takes to turn the page and begin the next sentence. As a Pantser, I get to experience the same pleasure.When I give them a sample, my test readers usually say something about wanting to know what happens next. Me too, guys, me too! I'm dying to know! Gaaah!

Lest you think I'm completely out of control, I DO have the last sentence already written. The very last sentence for my epic trilogy, of which Book One is still being written. I know exactly where my characters will end up, they've already made that VERY clear.

The details leading up to that last sentence...well, what fun would creating a story be if I had to be all organized about it?

In Defense of Katniss Everdeen

Spoiler Alert- If you are about to read this but have not yet finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy, stop. Read the books first, then come back to my post!

     I read something yesterday that burrowed in my brain and gnawed at it for a while. I don't remember the site or the names (I read a lot yesterday) but someone guest blogged for someone else and listed his top ten reasons for liking or disliking The Hunger Games. All well and good- excellent art always inspires controversy- but the part that stuck with me was that this reviewer didn't seem to understand the main character, Katniss Everdeen, one little bit. I got the impression he thought her character was cold, undeveloped, mercenary, and not very likeable.
    My impression was quite different. Within the first few chapters, I recognized something very important about Katniss. She is a trauma victim. Think about it. She lives in a harsh, demanding world that seeks to control and punish its inhabitants both physically and psychologically. She not only loses her father at a very young age, but sees the explosion that kills him. Her mother then has a mental breakdown, and Katniss, who is still a mere child, is left to figure out a way to provide for her self, her baby sister, and their invalid mother.
    In our world, a girl experiencing these events would probably be diagnosed with PTSD, medicated, and in therapy for the rest of her life.
    In Katniss' world, she can either lay down and die, thus also allowing her sister and mother to die, or she can shut off the warm, fuzzy notion that adults protect children and get down to the business of survival. She chooses the latter, which is what many, many children of today are also forced to choose. I certainly can't speak for the author's intentions, but to me, Suzanne Collins was clearly illustrating the challenges our youth today also face.
    I work with adults and teens who have experienced trauma, and this was the face I recognized on Katniss. Many trauma victims shut off their ability to experience a full range of emotions, because they fear they too would collapse in upon themselves like Katniss' mother does. In order to keep putting one foot in front of the other, they begin to see the world around them, and the people in it, very differently than people who have never experienced a traumatic event.
    In Katniss' world, the people you trust end up betraying you, even if they don't mean to. Her parents both do, by "leaving" her and her sister. Feelings are almost never logical; we can't help what we feel in response to situations. It takes her a very long time to even see the possibility that Peeta burns the bread on purpose in order to give it to her, yet this was something many of us recognized immediately.
  She makes a vow to her sister that she will do her very best to survive the games, and she realizes that in order to do this, she cannot become friends or trust anyone else involved in the games, including Peeta. Does she use him? Absolutely. How many of us wouldn't choose to do the same in her situation? She has no reason to be loyal to him, and again, the very world she lives in eschews the idea of interdependence, trust, and friendship.
   It's a futuristic world emulating the brutal and sadistic Gladiator days of ancient Rome. Kill or be killed. We are told that even Katniss' volunteering as Tribute in place of her sister is a completely foreign concept to the inhabitants of this world. When she finds herself realizing that Peeta is truly trying to help her and has feelings for her, she immediately tries to shut off this dangerous line of thinking. Dangerous, because it can't be trusted. People she trusts betray her, remember?
   At one point in the story, Gale tells Peeta that Katniss will choose whichever one of them will help her survive. Initially, I had the thought that this meant she would choose Gale. He is the hunter, the schemer, the survivor. He is most like her. When she ends up with Peeta, I understand a different meaning to Gale's statement.
   Ever hear the saying, "Everyone has baggage. What's important is finding someone who can help you unpack." Peeta is the balm that can heal Katniss' damaged soul. His kindness, his unswaying values, his forgiving and generous nature, and his patience are the very traits that will be what allow her to survive herself.
   Katniss may not be written as the pious, self-sacrificing hero many of us are familiar with, but she is honest. Humans have ugly thoughts. We use other people to get what we need. We do what is necessary to live another day. We are products of our environment. And if we are lucky, we meet someone like Peeta who balances out our damaged side.
 

Soundtracking

 Sometimes I get this idea that life would be better if it had a soundtrack. A trip to the grocery store would become infinitely more interesting if accompanied by a banging drum solo while checking out the produce, and a guitar riff a la Eric Clapton could help me choose just the right cereal or yogurt- the possibilities are endless.
 I made a mixed tape the other day. Ok, technically it's a burned CD off my itunes playlist, but I'm a child of the 80's and we made mixed tapes, so that's what I still call them. I was listening to said CD tape on my way to work and started imagining scenes from my book. The music was creating a mood and sense of drama for the characters in a totally new, totally AWESOME way! With elbows on the wheel, I grabbed my handy notebook and started furiously jotting down ideas.
 Once I finalize this little side project, (who said procrastinators never get things done? We are the hardest working people on the planet!) I will post the song/scene list. It will be a read-and-listen combo that will Blow. Your. Mind.
 Seriously. At the very least, you'll get an ear worm as a bonus!