Masochistic Urges

It's been a long time since I posted something here, mostly because, as I think I've said a few times before, I kind of suck at blogging. Plus, lots of crazy things have been happening that I'm not yet at liberty to talk about but that have necessitated a pulling-back of my plans to get things out to market this year.

But, though I've been quiet, I'm not gone. And today, I have this weird self-flagellating urge to do something dumb on this post.

I've been spending the weekend looking after my mother's dog while my mother is out of town, and I happened to stumble across a few of my really old stories I printed and gave to her, like, a decade ago, stashed in a bookcase in her house. Seeing them reawakened my urge to read all the terrible stuff I wrote as a kid, and then I had the double-terrible urge to share that stuff with anyone who wanted to read it.

​Here's something I don't share with most people: I've been wanting to publish my stories since I was old enough to understand what that meant. And here's something else I *really* don't share with most people: I used to think my childhood writing was good enough to publish.

Geez, ego much?

Fortunately, self-publishing wasn't A (reputable) Thing in the '90s, and in the early '00s I spent most of my time doing annoying shit like going to college and getting a bachelor's (in Animal Science, which is SO TOTALLY RELEVANT to everything I want to do with my life, right?) So I waited, and boy howdy am I glad I did, because these were the sorts of things I wrote as a kid -- truly remarkable stuff like:

Painful Romantic Banter!
​(This Was the Sexiest Thing Ever When I Was 14!)

He drops to one knee for me and me alone.  “Princess Rebecca, will you marry me?”

I pull him back to his feet.  My insides are screaming Yes! Yes! but a few things must be settled first.  “You won’t turn me into one of those pious, dull housemaids who clean the castle while their husbands go off on grand quests, will you?”

Philip runs his fingers gently over my cheek, grinning broadly.  “I may,” he warns.

“And you won’t lock me in a tower without steps or door, forcing me to sit and wait for you, will you?”

“Perhaps I will.”

“And…and…”  His smile is very distracting.  My whole body is quivering.  “And you’ll always love me?”

“You never know.”

His fingers have not yet strayed from my cheek, and I’m nearly dissolving under his touch.  “Philip, please!  This is important.  I will not marry someone who might lock me up like Rapunzel in her tower.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m scared,” I admit.  “I’m scared.  Oh, Philip, I’m so scared.”

Philip tightens his grip on my hand.  “Of what?”

I try to remain calm, but I can’t.  “I’m scared that I’ll give you the wrong answer, that if I say yes, something will go horribly wrong, that if I say no, I’ll regret it the rest of my life.  I’m scared of making such an important decision, one that will affect…well, everything.  And I’m scared that I’m about to pass up my opportunity to tell you that I love you.”

“Do you?” Philip presses, hardly above a whisper.

I nod.  “Yes.  Yes, I do.  I love you.”  I close my eyes, concentrating hard on the warmth of his fingers on my cheek in an attempt to silence my terror.  I want him to tell me the same.  “Do you love me?”

“I do.  I always have.”

“Philip,” I say again, “I do need you to tell me that you won’t lock me away or leave me behind while you ride off on grand adventures.”

“I was joking, Becca,” he assures me hastily.

“I know,” I insist, meeting his gaze.  “But I need you to say it, too.”

“I won’t lock you away like Rapunzel or leave you behind or turn you into a pious, dull house maid.  I’ll never stop loving you.  I swear.”

It’s good to hear it said aloud.  “It’s very vulgar for a gentleman to swear,” I tease.

Philip smiles.  “It’s very vulgar for a princess to know how to throw a javelin or whoop like a savage.”

“Well, apparently you love a javelin-wielding, war-whooping princess.”
​
“And you, a vulgar, swearing gentleman.”

Epic Info Dumps!
​(And, Bonus Point: Terrible Names!)

Ricardo and Hosanna Andretti were two of only six people to escape the fire with their lives.  Remarkably, they also escaped without any physical injuries, even after Hosanna had thrown herself straight into the flames.

The fire had not been an accident.  It was intended to start a war between the two brothers: King Methuium II, the elder by three minutes and the lord of the country of Aridon, and his younger twin, Methuiam.  Methuiam had been insanely jealous when the old king, Joshua VI, had named his elder son as his heir, so Methuiam had left the court of Aridon to conquer the tiny country of Rothel.  At first, the Rothelians had adored their new leader; Methuiam was a charismatic, eloquent leader, even as a dictator, but soon, the power went to his head, and he became possessed with the idea of an empire.  So he made an army and set fire to the border city of Quincey.
​
Appalled by this action, the Rothelians began to resist Methuiam’s advances on the much larger, much stronger Aridon, and Methuiam, enraged, began a bloodbath of executions intended to repress the uprising anti-war Rothelians.  But the people of Rothel were not stupid, and they finally saw their dictator as an imminent threat to the peace they had so long enjoyed with Aridon (who could easily crush any army Rothel could create).  Methuiam was murdered in his sleep before he could incite Aridon to war, and King Methuium quickly annexed Rothel until a suitable leader could be found.

Cringe-Worthy Poetry!
​(It's A Spell!)

This young girl shall grow up fine,
Her touching smile shall be divine.
This smile will capture one man’s heart.
And she and he may never part.
 
This one man’s name?  Sir Brutus the Third.
But before the meet, his name not heard.
Once they meet, their love abound,
Shall cause neglect to others ‘round.
 
Because I must, I give an end,
For blinkers from her eyes to send.
Magic lost, her love’s first kiss,
And for Brutus shall she never miss

The lesson for today is simple, and it is this: patience, grasshopper. You don't really want the world to see your terrible preteen writing. It will get better. You will be glad you waited.