Guest Post by JD Savage - The Mom Filter

I'm very excited to have +JD Savage as a guest on my blog; part of +Literary+'s blog tour. JD is the author of The Seeds, an exciting story that takes place in the realm of fairies. I'm currently reading it now; my motivation to get on my exercise machine every day. Yes, it's that good. ;)

Today, JD discusses a topic that I've dealt with personally. 

                                    The Mom Filter
                          Writing So Others Don’t Judge

I spend a lot of time online. I check my Google Plus feed constantly. I check Facebook a few times a day. Even Twitter gets a look once or twice. As much as I like to simply lurk around and see what people are posting, I do feel compelled to comment now and then. When I do, I try to follow one simple rule. Don’t write anything that I wouldn’t want to appear, credited to me, on a billboard outside of my Mom’s house. It goes back to the lessons of childhood. The over-arching rule was to be conscious of what you do and say because it all reflects on your family.

It sounded like nonsense when I was a kid. Now that I have kids of my own, I realize that it’s true.

So that’s fine for online posting, but what about writing for real? Am I supposed to temper my speech? Do I need to rework that sentence so that it doesn’t contain a swear word? No! I’m a grown -up. I can write whatever I want. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it!

Well, that’s easy to say, but for some people, this can be one of those questions that pop up when you least expect it. You may have emboldened yourself to write about a controversial topic, but how close to the bone can you get without really offending someone who knows you? Maybe your Grandpa will be a bit put out to hear that a character that sounds a lot like him is the pedophile that drives your protagonist to the edge. Maybe your Aunt will feel a bit flustered when your character’s Aunt robs that liquor store to pay for her meth habit. Or maybe the ladies at church are simply unprepared to learn that you really write hard core porn.

Don’t try to write so that others don’t judge. It can’t be done. That’s what ‘others’ do. They judge. But, there is a secret to dealing with this unpleasant reality. Any time someone makes a snide or hurtful comment, not on how you write but what you write, tell them to kiss your ass.  Not too forceful, not too wishy-washy, this little nugget has helped me deflect more than once the slings and arrows of those I’ve offended. Sure, you’re burning bridges, but did you really want to go back to Uptightville?

Bill Cosby said it best. ”I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.”

You can’t please everyone. It’s impossible. You’re just going to have to try to please yourself. Make your story the best YOU think it can be. Somebody will still hate it, but that’s a given, no matter how great it is. I hated Moby Dick. I thought it was the most boring, drawn out yawn-fest ever to be celebrated as one of the greatest novels in human existence. I can hear Melville’s Mom now, “Did you have to make Ishmael so wordy, Darling? And why did he have to describe every fishhook on the boat?” And his reply, “Mother, you may kiss my posterior region, that which is just below my belt, but behind me. To be any other way would be too strange a case to make, for it would be unseemly to suggest any other course and I am extremely wordy!”

Ok, I hear you. I hear you saying, “But, what if it’s my Mom!? I can’t burn that bridge!” Ok, ok. Granted, there are some people you have to stay on the good side of, be it for familial love, respect or the possibility of inheritance.  If that’s the case, warn them before the book comes out. “Now, Mom, I gotta tell ya. There may be a few things in this that might sound a little coarse. You’re just going to have to trust me that it was necessary for the story.” If she’s anything like my Mom, that little bit of confidence you just shared will turn her from a pursed-lipped magistrate into your biggest defender. “My son/daughter, the visionary!” she’ll cry, before punching the lady who made that face when your name came up. Be prepared for the follow-up call, too. “She thought she was going to tell me what’s what! Well, I showed her!”

So, for most other people, tell them that you’re not sorry for what you do, and they can kiss your… well, you know. Give Mom a heads-up on your next work. Ask her advice. You’ll be able to turn her loose on the next reviewer who pans your work.

About The Seeds and its author:

This is not your grandmother's fairy tale. A fantasy novel that turns the genre on its head, "The Seeds" follows Trooper Angus Mayweather as he is thrust into the conflict faced by twin sisters Dartura & Varia, Generals of the Tarol Nation. As the sisters uncover a new threat from an old enemy, Angus must do what he can to help as the Tarol Nation faces all-out war.

Links:
Where to buy: The Seeds
Website: www.jdsavage.com
Writer's Blog: Tarol Nation
G+ profile: JD Savage

Book Review-Ginnie Dare: Crimson Sands

Yesterday, I finished Literary+ member Scott Roche's book, Ginnie Dare: Crimson Sands.
Here's my review:

Ginnie Dare: the Crimson Sands by Scott Roche is a delightful YA sci-fi mystery for the whole family. The story opens with Ginnie, the daughter of a merchant, anticipating the Dare Company's next delivery. This gives an immediate look into the titular character and hooked me into the story.

Things start happening right away when Ginnie, who serves as the communications officer for her dad's ship, notices something's not quite right. As they approach their destination, they're met with silence. The mystery begins.

On the desert plant's surface, they find the colonists missing with everything set as if they were suddenly taken. A very eery atmosphere as the away team looks for clues as to where they might've gone. The story progresses at a quick pace with aliens, a mystery object, and confrontation with the military. Where have the colonists gone? What does the military want so badly? What are the alien's motives? Is the object the key to the mystery or just a pretty piece of art?

Scott does an excellent job of creating a colorful world with interesting characters. I read this while on my exercise machine, which made that chore go by very quickly. In fact, I'd often go a few more minutes to finish a chapter. While there are a few tiny things that may bother some readers, I understood the target audience for this story and easily overlooked them.

Conclusion: this is a fun, quick read that kids are sure to like as well as adults who enjoy a trip back to their youth. I hope there will be more adventures with this interesting young lady.

I give this 5 coffees out of 5.

Profanity in YA?

Kicking off LiteraryPlus's first ever blog tour is the insightful J.D. Savage, author of The Seeds. Today, he talks about Profanity in YA over on Scott Roche's blog. Be sure to check it out and share your opinion on this hot topic.

The Bridge

This week's flashfiction assignment for the  +Literary+ group was to take the first line of our partner's WIP and write 300 words or less. I was paired with +Jim Hanson, who gave me a wonderfully challenging first line.

I'm pretty certain I went in the complete opposite direction of the original. In fact, I did a 180 from my usual fare, which after reading it over a few times, I didn't mind in the end. :)
---
(294 words)

Perched atop a hillock overlooking the north field and obscured by the sun at his back, Aldwin looked down at his field in horror. The last play of the game; Jimmy over-estimated the fly ball and missed the catch. The crowd groaned. Watching one boy, then another, and yet another cross home base was a bit like watching a slow motion scene in a bad movie.

Afterwards, his son Darren shuffled out from the dug-out. His head down and dragging his bat like he’d lost his best friend. Aldwin took a deep breath and pasted on a smile.

“Good game, son,” he said and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Not really. We sucked.”

“You almost went into overtime,” he pointed out.

“But we didn’t win.” Darren shrugged off his dad’s hand and ran ahead to the car.

‘Allison,’ he thought. ‘I wish you were here.’ It had become a silent mantra. Aldwin squared his shoulders and unlocked the car. Darren needed his mother; she always knew just what to say. Aldwin had been the disciplinarian of the family; his wife the comforter. Stepping into those uncomfortable shoes taught him just how inadequate he was at being a Dad.

“It was a good game,” he said again, feeling his ineptitude keenly.

Darren shifted in the seat and sighed.

On the drive home, the reflection of his son’s dejected face in the window made his heart ache. “You played well.”

“Not good enough,” the twelve year old mumbled. “I wanted to win.”

“Then do it.”

Darren snapped his head around. “Huh?”

“Next time, win.”

“Dad,” Darren said as if speaking to an ignoramus. “Baseball’s a team sport.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh…”

Aldwin smiled at his son and for the first time in a long time, Darren smiled back.

Cast Your Spell

As a get to know you exercise for the Literary+ group over on Google+, we wrote a fun bio about ourselves then were paired up to write a 300 word flashfiction based on our partner's bio. I was paired with the delightful Sanna Caduri and this is what she gave me for her bio:

"Sanna is of the weird kind.
She usually doesn't go into her head alone, because it's scary in there.

Writing is an essential part of Sanna's life. In one way or another she is always writing.
She's a witch and if you think that writing fantasy is a cliché, screw you. :p
In her stories the princesses are most likely to kill you, Beauty and the Beast will find themselves in the same body.

Short stories are Sanna's favorites, but she is also working on bigger projects right now.
Or, should be working on them. ;)"


And here's my flash (297words):

Even deep into the night, the west wind blew hot across the open plain. Her hair danced in a wild tangle that glinted white streaks of moonlight like glyphs floating around her head. She climbed a small rise and cast her gaze across the fields. A smile flitted across her lips as she lifted her arms; eyes shut, head tilted back and palms open to the sky in supplication.

Curled at her feet lay the great feline Dawon, named after the goddess Durga’s fierce mount. The weight of his mighty presence a comfort as she prepared the way.

Her breath slowed in time with the gusting wind. Her heartbeat sped to match the lusty cries of the field crickets. Dawon stood and leaned heavily into her leg; he grounded her even as the earth opened up around them. She screamed as the power pulsed up through her feet and out her palms.

The sweet agony of creation coursed in her veins like icy streams of bitter cold. She opened her eyes. Light glared out from empty sockets scorching the fields within her view. She clapped her hands once overhead. Once at her chest. And once at the lowest reach of her arms.

The place beyond opened with a great tearing of reality, which bled out in anguished cries of sorrow or terrible suffering. The gash grew wide and she laughed. Laughed with joyful abandon at what she had wrought. Dawon nudged her dangling hand with his great head.

“Only out of destruction can there be renewal,” she said calmly, though existence shrieked around them. “Even we must follow at the end of it.”

Dawon’s rumbling purr, like the crashing of distant waves, acknowledged her words. He knew, as she knew, they’d craft another world in due time.

Receding

I caught another PnS! :D I wasn't going to post this submission to my blog, because... because... I don't really know why. Perhaps it's too raw? But the feedback I got on the PnS feed made me feel like perhaps I should.

The rules:
"Prompt-and-Share

Same rules as always apply, all stories must include at least:
- 1 conflict
- 1 resolution
- 1 character
- 1 setting

The "theme" for today is Change . Change can be a lot of things, from the loose stuff that jingles in your pocket, to the big stuff like births and death and there are many places for change in between, so be as creative or uncreative as you like.

300 word max pretty please"

---

I've lived a sort of backwards life. All the years of my youth spent concerned for the comfort of my children. The time when all my friends were running all over the map having the time of their lives while they had the energy to do so, I ran around chasing toddlers and picking up messes and wiping little noses and kissing boo-boos.

Then worrying about having enough food and torn jeans and whether or not the homework's complete. My little ones growing beyond my abilities to pick them up into my hugs. Having to watch them run around the smaller map of town. Then one by one leave on their own greater adventures.

My children, don't live your lives backwards. Run while you have legs to carry you. Breathe the wild winds in your hair and dance with as many friends as you will or alone as you will.

I peered into my future. It was an empty house with no where to go. My friends were no longer running the map, but running after toddlers with snotty noses and potty training -- no time their own. I'd already seen those sights. I wanted to gallivant across the loops and lines. Places that inspired me and called me to see, but my old body unable to carry me any more.

Old enough to really feel the heart of a place, but too old now to see it. I can only sigh and dream.

Then the phone rings and one of my progeny pipes down the line, "Mom! Listen to what happened!" And I smile and listen and travel with them where I can't go.

I smile and listen and am content. I can finally rest my bones.

A start of something

The last couple of prompts haven't called me, so today, I listened to some music and contemplated the emotions of the songs- melody and lyrics. As the music disappeared into the background, my mind wandered, then arrived at a scene.

I don't know if anything will come of it, but it's there if I decide to continue.

152 words in the raw*:

He sat alone. The perfect picture of the tragic figure. His profile sharp against the lowering sun, which just kissed the horizon in a spectacular blaze of blinding color. He leaned forward; pressed his forehead against his palm. His dark hair, scrunched between splayed fingers that dug into his scalp, tumbling down his cheek.

What caused such despair? I felt it radiate out from him even at a couple dozen yards. I never knew such sadness myself, but I carried that heavy burden for many years now. The aching familiarity squeezed my guts up through my throat until I choked back a flood of tears.

His anguish, a potent crashing of waves on a tidal break, throttled me until I kneeled before it. Jagged little rocks cut through my jeans - another layer of pain. If I couldn’t crawl that small distance to reach him soon, I doubted my hold on sanity.

*unedited words as they first appeared on my computer