New Ideas

            I made two big decisions today. Well, sort of today. It was actually in that in-between time, somewhere between 2 o'clock & 3 o'clock am. You know, where it’s tomorrow but it’s not really tomorrow because you haven’t slept because you have meds-induced insomnia? Yeah, then.

            Anywho, the first big decision was not to enter the next Paramourtal contest. There are several reasons behind this, but the main ones are my current medical issues (which wreak havoc on a deadline), and the fact that the idea I have concocted could turn out to be a fantastic novel. Or fantastic series of novels. And I want to develop that more fully than a short story would allow. Which leads me to my next decision.

            I have found the subject matter for my next paranormal novel. Well, I say “next” because I have one finished already that I’m marketing to agents, but it would really be the “first” since no one has picked me up yet. I digress.

            I’m not going to tell you the actual subject, because I wholeheartedly believe in the Universal Consciousness, and this idea is MINE. *ahem* Also, I haven’t fully developed the story arc, which both excites me and terrifies me.

            The basis of it comes quite a bit from my real life, and there is so much room for artistic license it makes me giddy. I do worry about having started it without the storyline in place, because generally if I do that the characters abscond with my plot and twist it all up into what they wanted it to be. Hell, they do that anyway, so I guess it doesn’t matter.

            So wish me luck. I’m off to poke my muse in the ribs and tell her it’s time to go back to work.

Sometimes, insomnia can be a good thing.

Writer's Block and Other Problems...

        Before I start this particular rant, it has come to my attention that unless you already have a Blogger account, it is insanely difficult to leave me a comment here. While I know you all adore me already, if you have something specific to say about the awesomeness that is me, you can leave it on my facebook page instead to make things easier. You're welcome. ;0)

***** 

        So like I said in my last blog, I have about 457 irons in the fire right now. I have no idea if it’s the fact there’s so many, if it’s the post-surgery drugs they have me on, or if it’s just plain ol’ writer’s block, but nothin’s brewing over at the Rebecca Ranch.

         I have finally decided that my next entry (should my muse get off her ass and help me out sometime soon) for the Paramourtal 2 anthology will not be another installment bridging between my short story and my novel. For one, there’s no convincing “love story” between the two, because Aurelius is clearly still in love with Eleia in my novel, even after a century. The only story arc that I could submit is the romantic (and I use that term loosely here) history of Aurelius and Isadora, which is really more of a kinky, regrettable, torrid affair kind of thing. Not that it wouldn’t be awesome, because it would. It’s already awesome in my head. Trust.

         But it’s not what they are looking for, and I’m sad to say that people are sick to death of vampires now. Even I glance over the book racks at grocery stores and the like and think, “Dear gods, really? Another one?” What I have been trying (and obviously failing) to get agents to understand is that my novel is not a typical “paranormal romance” novel where the girl gets all flushy when the big, strapping vampire man comes around. Nor are there any sparkles. Anywhere. Period. That shit is just wrong.

         No, mine is more about the politics of the Vampire Realm, and the repercussions of hasty action. Yeah, there’s some sex thrown in there, because who over the age of 16 wants to read a story without sex? I mean, really. But I have strayed yet again from what I was writing about. What was I writing about…? Ah yes. My enormous slice of writer’s block.

         So after I dismissed the ‘interim’ piece for a submission, I thought about taking a chapter or two of what I have already done on “What We Hear”. However, the submission guidelines specify that the romance is to be between one male and one female. I’m not even going there with that, but I think it’s kinda wrong and limiting. Either way, that puts my lesbian medium story out of the running.

         So now what?

         I don’t want to write about other vampires – there are already too many of them running loose in my head, and I have trouble keeping up with them as it is. I don’t want to write about mediums or ghosts, because that belongs to said lesbian characters. And I really don’t want to do any zombie/lycanthrope/shapeshifter/overdone literary adaptation thing, either.

         What’s a girl to do?

         I think I’m simply going to have to create a new paranormal category, or write about an already existing but obscure one.

“Bigfoot Love”, anyone?

No?

Didn’t think so. 

A few questions for you all...ANSWER THEM!!! Um, please. ;0)

Hey! How’ve you been?

Not to sound like a Jewish mother or anything, but you don’t call…you don’t write… 

What’s that? Oh, that’s me. I see. In that case, let’s get on with it…

I have been in somewhat of a ‘creatively manic’ state lately. I’m not sure if it’s the fact I’ve been locked in the house with two small children day after day (Dear sweet baby Jesus, can you please make school start a week early? Sincerely, Rebecca), or if it’s the alternately groovy/soul-sucking meds they keep changing around on me. Either way, I have children’s books in the works, still shopping my novel Of Blood and Wine, still writing on What We Hear to turn it into a novel, have decided to start a darkly humored memoir, and am now considering yet another project.

Those of you who read this (and I love all four of you) are aware of my short story Of Fate and Fire that appeared in Paramourtal. It is what launched me into this writing hell career. Now it seems they have a new open call for submissions for Paramourtal 2, and I am seriously considering entering the fray.

Being that my novel includes the characters from the short story – albeit around 100 years later – I think I have decided to write an additional short story that tells something about the time between the two. If you didn’t follow that, don’t worry – I’ll make a diagram at the bottom. Actually, I’m lying. I can’t draw for shit. You’re on your own.

In addition to it being awesome because I’m writing it, the new story will explain a little about the tension between two main characters in the novel. So here’s my question for you folks… Should I do this as an ‘interim’ piece between the two I already have? Or should I go for something completely different this time?

 Your opinions are very valued, so please let me know what you think. Unless your opinion is stupid and doesn’t match mine, in which case I will pretend you were never born. And now back to me…

The thing I’m really excited about right now is the memoir project. I don’t even know if I should call it that, really. Memoir brings to mind pleasant memories, nostalgia, and making peace with what life has given you. Guys, I was a lesbian raised in the South by a Southern Baptist, right-wing family heavily involved in conservative politics. Ain’t none of that gooshy shit in there. It’s more the ‘laughing through the tears cuz’ damn your life was screwed up but you just made a joke about being dick-slapped by a monkey’ type of thing.

So here’s my other question… What should I call this new tome? The history of? The life and times of? Don’t try this shit at home? I’m open to suggestions on this one. No, really. I mean it this time. Okay, I kind of mean it.

Physically I am getting stronger every day. I have graduated to only using a quad cane most of the time, and my partner gleefully tells me I look like a giant toddler when I walk. Kind of makes me want to shit my pants just to prove a point, but let’s face it – we all know I’d be the one to clean that up.

I am still taking an exorbitant amount of meds which the docs keep changing weekly so that I feel a little like a monkey in a lab, which makes me want to throw said poo from said pants to prove another point. But I digress…

The important thing is that I am continuing to get better, and there are lots of surprises in store for me and for you guys just around the corner.

We’re talking life-changing shit here people. So please, hold the poo.

Well. That took longer than expected!

            April 11^th, 2011.

            That was supposed to be a crazy, jacked up day of back surgery, leading to an equally jacked up (and painful) week of recovery and then a nice stroll back into normal life. Instead, that day threw my normal life on the ground, stomped the shit out of it, lit it on fire, and blew the ashes out the window.

           

            The first thing I remember after surgery is hearing someone screaming really, really loud. It was frickin annoying, and I kept trying to tell the nurses around me to shut her up, but I would pass out before I could get their attention. After a few rounds of this, I finally realized it was ME that was screaming. So much for a nice wake up call.

            It took them three hours to get my pain managed after I began waking up before they could move me out of the back recovery area (a.k.a The Place No One Can Hear You Scream) into the regular recovery area. At that point I was so exhausted and doped up, I don’t really remember much else until they moved me to a room.

            I was excited about this because it meant privacy and someplace people could visit me, but that excitement was tempered quickly by the realization that they put me in the completely wrong building in the wrong department on a floor where no one knew what to do with a spinal cord patient. So then my partner, my folks, and my doctor tore transport a new one, and I got another new room – this time in the right building.

            The trouble with all this moving was that I was still in excruciating pain – which was no meager feat, considering the amount of narcotics they had pumping through me would fell an elephant. Also, I couldn’t really breathe when I moved (later we would find out that was because I had pneumonia), and I was just starting to realize there was something funny going on with my legs.

            When I finally got to the Neuro Ward, they had to move me AGAIN, even after tearful begging and attempted bribery of the nurses on my part. Pain knows no shame, folks. So I let out a series of screams fit to bring down the house as they switched me to my new (and final, thank the gods) bed, shrieking that I couldn’t breathe once I had let all my air out. One of the more sarcastic nurses – who later was my favorite – informed me that if I truly could not breathe I would not be able to inform her that I could not breathe, so please just lie down and be quiet for a moment.

            Once I got settled, I began to try and get comfy, letting myself come out of the blissful narcotic haze for a bit. It was then that I realized there really was something very, very wrong with my body. I could not feel anything from mid-chest down, and I could move very little. Also, I had no idea where my feet or legs were unless I was looking right at them.

            That’s right – I was paralyzed. An “incomplete injury” they call it. Went in for spinal cord surgery to remove a small, benign tumor, and came out a paraplegic. That was SO not on my to-do list.

            The next few weeks were spent trying to cope with what had happened, dealing with horrible catheter and other medically necessary crap, an entire IV services department who couldn’t hit the broad side of a vein, and everyone around me crying when they thought I wasn’t looking.

            Eventually, I began to have some movement in my legs and feet, although not much feeling at all, and got transferred to a rehab facility. (Physical rehab, not Amy Winehouse rehab.) It was there I got stronger, mentally and physically, and there that I was surrounded by people who had it so much worse than I did.

There’s no better cure for self-pity than meeting an 18-year-old girl who had just lost complete use of her lower body for the rest of her life with no hope of recovering any part of it. From that viewpoint, things weren’t so bad in my corner.

            I went through Physical Therapy, Occupational Therapy, Aquatic Therapy, Neuropsychological Therapy, and Recreational Therapy. They taught me how to live and work and cook and eat and just BE from ‘chair level’. That is how I went home, and how I remain at this moment.

            I will not sully my experience by telling you I’m doing just fine, because I’m not. I’m still angry, I’m still frustrated, and I’m still sad.

            But I’m also thankful. I can still hold my children. I can still sing them to sleep. My brain and wit and candor are all unaffected, if not improved. I know now whom I can trust as my friend and whom I cannot. I am reminded of just how very much my parents love and cherish me, and how everything small falls away in the face of something this big.

            And I am beyond grateful to have a partner that is willing to stick by me, to go and grow through this with me. Who is okay with loading up a wheelchair and two children every time we have to go somewhere; who is okay with having to switch roles and take on so much more than she ever expected; who is okay with realizing this could be for the rest of our lives. Or if she is not okay with it, she loves me enough to push through anyway, and that is even better.

            I have complete control of my upper body and my mind, and therefore am going to be right back on the writing as of now. I thank anyone who is reading this, and I hope to be providing much funnier and wittier stuff to you very soon.

            And by the way, if there is something unsaid or undone between you and someone you love, do it now. Say it now. Now may be all you have – trust me on this.

Rejection 101

  There is nothing in the world that can boost an author’s self-esteem like the 30-Second-Rejection Letter. Oh, you’re not familiar with it? Well, then. Let me educate you.

  You see, once you have spent well over a year of your time, blood, sweat, tears, and more bottles of wine than you can count finalizing a novel, it’s time to query. This involves looking up literary agents via painfully out-of-date databases on the web, researching their particular query requirements and/or methods, reformulating your query letter and/or manuscript to fit said definitions, and then submitting your stuff. Then you just sit back and wait for someone to email you back and say, “Oh my gods! You are so incredible! Really, the most intuitive and attention-grabbing author we have ever come across. We MUST have you!” Except that’s not what happens.

  Instead, you receive an infinite number of letters in return, all stating much the same thing – sorry, this just isn’t right for our agency right now, but best of luck to you. Now, most of these terribly uplifting letters come within days or weeks of submitting. Some never come at all, which leaves you to wonder whether they hated your story so much they couldn’t even bring themselves to answer the query, or they just simply overlooked it. I know the latter is probably never the case, but I always submit again. And again. (Nothing like stalker behavior to really get their attention!)

  But in some instances, you press the “Send” button, and mere seconds later a new email pops up in your inbox. “What’s this?” you say. Did I get the email address wrong? Do they employ psychics that already know how awesome I am and they’re offering me a deal on the spot? Sadly, no, little readers. What it is, in fact, is a 30-Second-Rejection Letter.

  That email that you agonized over, sweating over the verbiage and content – that traitorous little email ran smack into their server, hooked a left and came right back to you, picking up a rejection along the way. Never mind the fact that you spent an entire day writing and re-writing one sentence to make sure it conveyed the message you wanted. And forget all those nights that bled into morning while you fretted over the name for the housekeeper that only appears in one scene, or constructing the history of a character just so you can get their tone right. Thirty measly seconds is all they needed to know that you were not worth their time. 

  Here’s my problem with all that – most of these rejection letters have something in the body of the email alluding to the fact that my project looked interesting, or they enjoyed the chance to review it, etc. Now tell me, sweet readers, who the hell can enjoy anything in 30 seconds? (Okay, there are some things, but this isn’t one of those blogs.)

  This is my point – if you are going to reject me out of hand, without even seeing my proposal, then please use the appropriate wording in your letter. Something along the lines of, “We hated your name so much we didn’t even bother to open the email.” Or perhaps, “We only open five emails a day, and today wasn’t your day. Best of luck for tomorrow.” Or maybe even, “The name for your book already tells me what’s inside even though I have no idea what it’s really about and I’m going to just assume I do so I don’t have to actually read it.” And we all know what assuming does, don’t we little readers?

  I know these places are busy. I cannot imagine the amount of queries they have to go through on a daily basis. But if you’re going to turn around and brush me off in mere seconds, why not just say you’re not accepting queries at this moment? Honestly, I’d rather be slapped with a rotting monkey carcass than continue to receive these things. It’s terribly upsetting and a huge blow to my self-esteem. Luckily, I carry extra around because I’m so freakin’ awesome, so the low doesn’t last long.

  I have heard that Stephen King received more than 2,000 rejection letters before someone picked him up. Now, that both gives me hope and makes me want to choke my own self out. Because on the one hand, obviously it is a horribly tough industry to get your foot into, and if Stephen King had such a hard time, I should be patient and understand that’s just the business. On the other hand if STEPHEN-FRICKIN-KING got 2,000 rejection letters before getting picked up, I might need to get a day job. I mean, seriously – I’m good, but really? At least when he queried there wasn’t any email to worry about, meaning he never had to deal with the 30-Second-Rejection letter. Gotcha there, Steve-O.

  So here I sit, begging someone to see the awesomeness that is me and my writing, and offer me the world on a platter, millions of dollars, a movie deal, and a summer house in Greece.

  Or maybe, just a request for a manuscript review. Beggars can't be choosers. Even the awesome ones.

Cleaning Conundrum

  I want a maid. No, not for any sexy-time straight man fantasy play. I want a maid for MY greatest fantasy – someone to clean my friggin house. As I have noted before, housekeeping is not my forte. It’s not even my pianissimo. To say I don’t care for cleaning would be like saying the Radical Right gets a little fussy about gay marriage. I abhor it. I loathe it. I would rather be beaten about the face with by rotten-banana-wielding carrier monkeys. But alas, as my poor wife works terribly long hours and the children are even worse at cleaning than I am, the job falls to me. Which could be why it looks this way in my house all the time.

  In any case, I think someone should donate free house cleaning to me. Why? Because I’m awesome. I am a creative, wonderingly wonderful free spirit who cannot be contained by such horrid domesticity! Okay, okay. Because I’m broke. And I suck at cleaning. And I have one Melissa, two children and six animals to pick up after, which would give even Martha-frickin-Stewart a psychotic break. You’ve read my blog about the pop-tart incident, yes? Oh, you haven’t. Okay, then. Search the history. I’ll wait. No really – go read it. Yes, now. [insert Jeopardy music here]

  Oh, you’re back. Good. So now you see what I’m up against. Not only do my children leave little presents in the form of nose-nuggets on my walls, but my own partner (who I used to think was on my side) can drop an entire pop-tart into the couch cushions and not wonder where it went or if she should go after it.

  And to make matters worse, we have company coming to stay in two short weeks. I know that seems like plenty of time to get a house in order. But when you have nine living beings going right behind you to eff it all up, it becomes a circular task of the worst kind. Thankfully, the imminent visitor is an animal lover, and a multiple-animal owner, so she will undoubtedly understand if there is still fur on the furniture or a random hairball that we somehow missed because it blended with the carpet color. However, she does not have children, and I fear that the mess they create may send her screaming down the sidewalk and running to the nearest drug store for the Plan B pill, lesbian or not.

  My only hope is that I can find a way to restrain *ahem* distract the children long enough to get the bulk of the cleaning done, and then somehow locate the energy (read: coffee mainline) to run directly behind them for a few days and pick up everything they drop/wipe/cough up.

  Which brings me to the next issue compounding my distress – next week is Spring Break. I know this phrase is supposed to conjure wonderful, freeing, party pictures of college students drinking on the beach. But when you are a parent, all it conjures is whining, griping, begging, sibling rivalry, larger grocery bills, and an exponential increase in wall-wipings and laundry. Adding that to the imperative cleaning efforts honestly makes me want to give up and drown myself in a bathtub full of red wine.

  But as I mentioned, I am woefully, starving-artist-broke. So unless I want to lay face down in a shallow bowl of red wine (which would be all I could afford), I’m going to have to put on my big girl britches and deal with it. And in all reality, I would probably fail in my drowning efforts and end up spilling the shit all over the place, just making one more mess for me to clean up. I really don’t need that. Besides, wasting wine is an even graver sin than a dirty house around here.

  So remember me, little readers, when you come home to your quiet houses with their clean floors, tidy kitchens, and booger-free walls. And if any of you are feeling like you need to be giving to those less fortunate, I have a wonderful way for you to channel that energy. So grab some Zyrtec, a gas-mask, and a vial of penicillin. 

  I’ll be waiting for your call.

Following Folly

  So today I was showing a friend how to set up and use Twitter. Not the hardest thing, so while he was building his profile, I was reviewing and managing my own account on my computer. I scrolled through my “follows” and “following”, and then looked down to see what was listed today under “Who to Follow”.

  Usually this is someone really cool – a celebrity of some sort, perhaps, or an especially snarky blogger. But today? Oh, today, little reader. Today what was under that illustrious heading was…drum roll please………Weight Watchers.

  That’s right, even my Twitter thinks I could do with a few less donuts. Now as I have said before, I’m not the skinniest thing in the world. I could possibly even eat the skinniest thing in the world and not worry about indigestion. But neither am I stuck-in-the-house-cuz-I-can’t-get-my-fat-ass-out-the-door fat. Or even help-I-need-a-wench-to-get-in-my-car fat. I am medium build, with a little extra fluff – a voluptuous goddess. And I’m cool with it. Mostly because I like food, hate exercise, and my wife loves me just like I am. Oh, and pizza. There’s always pizza. But I digress.

  At first I was disheartened by this suggestion to follow the Leader of Less Poundage. Are there little Twitter gremlins staring out at me while I type? Watching me finish off that bag of Doritos? Do they know I went to Taco Bell twice in one day, simply because the children were in school and I could? I never dreamt the government would go this far.

  But then as I calmed down (with a bag of chips, no less), I realized that there probably were no little Twitter gremlins. That this was just some unhappy accident of randomness, and no one was watching me sneak the last bag of the children’s fruit snacks while they slept. Things do happen that way, of course, with no real pattern. Like teen pregnancy or reality television. I choose to believe that this was one of those occurrences, and just brush it off.

  But I’ll tell you right now, if there are any little Twitter gremlins lurking, chuckling as I reach for that pint of Ben & Jerry’s – I have a message for you…

  I am not afraid of you. And I bet you’re quite tasty with ranch. Bring it.

They Joys of Working at Home

  I don’t know how many of you have the immense pleasure of being able to write for a living from the comfort of your own home, but it has many wonderful benefits. Such as being able to work in your pajamas, raid your own pantry, and eschew the bother of make-up.

   But there are cons, as well. At least in my house. For starters, there are two children, six animals, and my lovely, wonderful partner that also reside in the domicile. This comes with a myriad of cons, little reader. I assure you.

  The children absolutely insist that they be fed first thing in the morning, coddled, dressed, and then taxied to a higher learning establishment. Demanding things, children. I think this is a missed marketing opportunity just waiting to be snatched up. Those elusive and confounding creatures called “morning people” could make a killing if they were to make a career out of handling other people’s early, tiny-tyrant, pre-school duties. Just saying. Of course, I couldn’t pay anyone to do this, because as we mentioned before – I am a writer who works from home. Which translates to “broke”. But if anyone is looking for a volunteer opportunity, hit me up.

  Then there are the animals. For those of you who have cats, you will completely understand what I’m about to say. Cats have no real interest in you whatsoever unless you are doing something else that does not involve them. And they get really interested if you look like you might be minutely comfortable doing it. So once I get myself settled into my nice, overstuffed couch, coffee on the stand next to me, laptop up and raring to go, the heretofore unseen feline creatures (of which there are four – count them, four – in my house) suddenly appear, seeming to be unable to live one second longer without my complete attention. It should be noted that should I choose to try and ignore them, they will plant themselves squarely on my keyboard until I remedy my apparently unforgivable actions.

  Lastly, but definitely not least(ly?), my wonderful partner has a work schedule that doesn’t start until hours after I am up and going after having deposited the small Nazis at school. She also has breathing issues (as opposed to dealing with me issues) that require her to sleep on the couch many nights so she can prop herself up properly. Therefore when I am ready to dig into my writing, there is generally a Great Grumpy Beast sleeping in my “office”.

  There are several reasons this works against me. For one, as you might have guessed from her title, she is not a morning person. No – that’s an understatement. She has temporary Tourette’s. Never fear, little reader. It only affects her in the mornings and when she plays Call of Duty. Otherwise, she just has your normal, everyday potty mouth. Secondly, she also has the ability to sleep through a nuclear holocaust. Or as it turns out most mornings, her alarm. In addition, she has a rather unusual sense of humor, so while I am trying to work on rewrites for my novel, I am usually assaulted by a random quote from Beavis & Butthead, Akmed the Dead Terrorist, or her current choice – the theme from Halloween. After a good 5 or 10 minutes of praying that she will hear it, I will generally try to get her attention to turn the damn thing off, and the conversation goes a little like this:

            Me: Hey

            Her: snore

            Me: Hey

            Her: snore

            Me: Hey!

            Her: #%@&!

            Me: Yeah, good morning to you too

            Her: $*%(^!

            Me: Your alarm…?

            Her: snore

            Me: Your alarm!!!

            Her: I  @*%(#  hear it!

            Me: I’m sure. Can you turn it off now?

            Her: #$)%)@

            Me: Thanks.

  Now, please understand, little reader – this is the kindest, most considerate woman I know (besides myself, of course). So please don’t judge her based on her illness. Many times I have told her of the loving conversations we’ve had when she’s half asleep and she is deeply ashamed. Of course, it could all be an act. Women are crazy, after all.

  Eventually, she is successfully roused and turns human again, and heads off to work. This is the best time of the day for me, because the house is empty, the cats are still sleeping, the dogs have been let out, and I can write to my heart’s content. At least until one of the furry children need attention and/or food and/or to be let outside. When are they going to make dogs with thumbs?

  Anyway, I wish you all a productive and interruption-free day. You probably won’t get it, but I wish it for you in any case. Now if you’ll excuse me, Halloween is calling.

New Review Up!

There's a wonderful new review up for my short story, Of Fate and Fire. Click below to read it!

Review

Thank you to Ren Thompson, who took time from her busy schedule to read and review my story!

Rebecca

Of Blood and Wine - Sample 2

All material © Rebecca Rhielle

2010

Isadora lunged forward, thrusting the sword into the chained vampire for what seemed like the hundredth time. He cried out in agony, and she watched indifferently as his skin knitted itself back together within seconds. Looking back and forth between the two restrained guards, she found herself wishing their race didn’t heal quite so quickly. It was terribly difficult to get satisfactory torture results when dealing with immortals.

  This is becoming tedious, she thought sadly. They couldn’t carry out a simple death order, and now they can’t even keep me entertained. Ah, well…everything outlives its usefulness, I suppose.

  “You are no longer serve any purpose for me,” she told her prisoners. Gregor opened his mouth to protest, but Isadora whirled around with the sword, beheading both of them in one swing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, addressing the head that was now rolling across the stone floor. “Were you going to say something? No? Alright then.”

  Dropping the bloodied sword to the ground with a clatter, she turned to her new set of guards.

  “Clean up this filth, and then draw me a bath. I need to soak away this stress.”

  Inspired by the example made of their predecessors, they scurried to obey, leaving Isadora to pout in the great oak chair at the head of her rooms.

  Why does everyone fail me? First that sniveling Hunter, and then my own guards! What does a girl have to do to get good minions?

  As she was imagining all the wonderful ways she would torture Rolf and his family when she found them, her new sentries entered the rooms and announced that her bath had been readied.

  Isadora sauntered out the side door to the washroom and her gilded tub, pausing to give each of them a lingering kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you, loves. Now go on back to…well…whatever it is that you do when you’re not serving me. I will ring if the need arises.”

  Bowing low, they turned and exited the room, and Isadora was again alone with her thoughts and the sumptuous feel of warm water on bare skin. Closing her eyes as she laid back against the edge of the tub, she reached out with her mind, attempting to eavesdrop on her four little rogues. Locating them easily – and clucking her tongue at their folly of leaving their minds open – she wormed her way into their conversation as she lounged.

  Absently she listened to Dimitri, Tannis and Aurelius plotting their futile insurrection, but quickly found it boring. Searching again, she came to Elspeth, lying on the bed and sobbing.

  What’s this? Isadora thought with delight.

  Our little newling is upset? She grinned wide. How tragic.

  Probing into Elspeth’s thoughts, she quickly surmised the cause of her tears.

  The gypsy girl? She’s in love with a Hunter? Oh, that’s rich. I knew she was stupid, but this?

  She laughed as she sunk lower into the bath, reveling in Elspeth’s heartache and finding it the perfect balm to calm her nerves. A wicked idea popped into her head then, and her eyes flew open at the sheer genius of it.

  Oh, yes, Isadora thought with excitement, this is just too easy…

Sorry, I can only have friends with dirty houses...

  It’s nothing personal. Clean houses just wig me out. I’m always wondering…can I touch this? Can I sit here? Is this for show or to actually use? Like those little towels people hang up this time of year – you know, the ones with the appliqués on them? Why would anyone do this to an item meant to soak up moisture? And once you have successfully dried your hands, you feel obligated to fold it back just so in order to display said cutesy appliqué appropriately. It’s insanity. But I digress. Let’s return to the point, shall we?

  For those of you out there who have children and manage to keep a clean house, I applaud you. Mostly because you scare the hell out of me, and I don’t want to offend you, lest I have some horrible dust-rag accident while sleeping. But as much as I admire your efforts, don’t expect me to come over anytime soon. Or ever. My children would turn your house upside down before you could say "Nanny 911". And don’t expect me to invite you over, either. If you are concerned enough about the condition of your house that you find it necessary to trail after your little ones and pick up every little dropsy (or even worse – have successfully trained them to do it), I am relatively sure your head would explode upon entering my home. Not that I live in a pigsty, or anything approximating it. But by the heavens…I have children! Messy, drawing-on-the-walls, what-the-hell-did-you-just-wipe-on-my-couch, don’t-eat-that-you-have-no-idea-how-old-it-is-and-what-were-you-doing-under-the-bed-in-the-first-place children. And that’s how it should be, in my opinion.

  Children are visceral, primal creatures. And while I can understand the need to instill a sense of general tidiness in them, eventually you have to pick your battles. Well, maybe you don’t, little Martha Stewart-esque reader. But I do.

  Is it a big deal if my son decides to see how long half of a peanut butter sandwich will stick to the wall before falling off? Yes, yes it is. Because eventually one of the animals will smell/see it there, and commence tearing the wall to pieces trying to reach it. Now, if he sticks it where the dog can reach, I might be persuaded to ignore it. (Side note – never, ever, ever have small children without at least one dog. You have no idea how much work it will save you. You’re welcome.)

Is it a big deal if my daughter draws a stick figure of herself on her doorframe and writes her name under it? No, I don’t think it is. It’s cute, it’s an artistic expression, and I only allow them access to washable markers. What do you think I am, stupid?

  Yes, you could write your own name in the dust on my shelves more often than I would like. (If you do, please just refrain from dating it. Thank you, The Management.). But that is not what I see as important. My children are crazy, funny, creative, interesting little individuals. I would rather enjoy the chaos of a sheet tent collapsing all over my living room and trapping at least three animals underneath with us and all the dollies that were invited to the tea party. (Note: Be sure to stop at the entrance of the tent to get your stamp before proceeding to the party. My daughter is quite firm on this.)

  Does it matter in the grand scheme of things whether or not their clothes are picked up, or their shoes put in just the right place, or my home is always show-ready? No, no it does not. What matters is that when people walk in my door, they feel relaxed, at ease, at home, and do not completely freak out if their kid drops spaghetti all over my floor. That’s what the dogs are for, anyway. And that is what is important to me. A sense of comfort, of welcoming, no matter where they come from or who they are. A place of rest, with no judgment or comparisons of best housekeeping tips.

  In the immortal words of my friend who visits with her two kids often, “You know, your house always makes me feel better about my own.”

  I’ll take that as a compliment.

Sample from "Of Blood and Wine"

I have decided to post little pieces of my novel on here, just to see what the readers think. So take a look and let me know. I'll be updating periodically, in between my usual raving.

***

All material © Rebecca Rhielle

2010

  Elspeth tried to rehearse what she would say to this Wise Woman as she walked toward the edge of the village.

  Hello, there! Beautiful night, isn’t it? I was wondering if you might be able to help me. It’s nothing much really…I just need something to kill the oldest vampire in existence. Have anything for that?

  She shook her head in frustration. There had to be a better way to approach it.

  As she thought, a little cottage came into view, right on the tree-lined border surrounding the hamlet. There was a wooden fence painted in bright colors, and the space in front of the dwelling was overflowing with all manner of plants, flowers and herbs.

  Well, this must be the place.

  Elspeth moved tentatively through the garden and up to the entrance. Intricate carvings covered the door – cryptic symbols, moons and stars, half moons, strange depictions of flora she did not recognize, and beautiful swirls intertwined throughout. She lifted her hand to knock, but the door opened before she had the chance.

  ‘Crone’ was the only word Elspeth could think of to describe the woman in the doorway. Her face was a collection of leathery wrinkles, and her posture was stooped with age. But her eyes were a warm, sparkling brown, and they twinkled with bemused wisdom.

  “Hello Elspeth,” the hedgewitch croaked. “I’ve been expecting you.”

A blanket named Cindy

  I think, perhaps, I have overdone it a bit with my encouragement of the children’s supernatural outlook on life. I wanted to raise kids that see faeries instead of fireflies, that exclaim on our walks, “Look mama! The trees are dancing with the wind! Do you think they have special tree music?” And I have those things, and am grateful for them.

  Both children regularly came outside to say hello to the fairies/fireflies during the summer when they were most prolific. And my son is constantly finding things that he is convinced were left by elves or gnomes, and is a firm believer in the old adage that it is the gnomes that steal one of your socks when it’s laundry day.

  When they are having nightmares, they ask for holy water and sage to cleanse their rooms, and like to waft it around themselves, mixing traditional prayers with protection chants and pleas to their guardian angels.

  They even have their own little amethyst and rutilated quartz that they cleansed on their own and sleep with under their pillows. Or pillow pets, as it were (commercialism is still alive and well in my house). And my five-year-old daughter knows to use apophyllite to intensify the energy of other crystals to “pick out the best rock” at the metaphysical store.

  So I have raised these children with a healthy dose of respect for all religions, a vehement respect for nature and her gifts, and a conglomeration of many different viewpoints that make up our own eclectic beliefs.

  But now, however, it seems to have taken on a life of its own and extended into areas I never would have expected. I should have seen this coming. Let me expound…

  I spent the better part of the night before last searching for a blanket named Cindy. Yes, you read that right – the blanket’s name is Cindy. How in the world did my daughter decide this is its name? Well, she asked it, of course.

  This is a patchwork blanket made by a relative that is somewhat of a comfort object for my kid. Therefore, the fact that Cindy was AWOL at bedtime became a bit of an emergency. Especially since I had several episodes of Ghost Hunters to watch, and there was no hope of that until the children were sleeping. Self-absorbed, remember?

  Were there a National Blanket Guard, I would have called them. Were there a Scotland Yard of Covers, I would have sent up smoke signals from the roof of my house. But sadly, the efforts of recovery were left to my partner and I, who are apparently woefully inept at locating magical blankets named Cindy.

  We searched high and low, with my little girl trailing behind in a tizzy, declaring an absolute inability to sleep without this item, and her brother watching the whole thing from the couch, rolling his eyes as if to say derisively, “Psh, kids.” Of course, the eye-rolling was done whilst wrapped in his own requisite blanket, so its affect was somewhat diminished.

  Having searched the entire house from top to bottom, there was no Cindy to be found. At this point my darling daughter looked at me like I was a complete idiot and asked me, “Mama, why don’t you just call her?”

  I admit I was confused. I was unaware Cindy had procured a phone in her absence.

  “What do you mean ‘call her’?” I asked this sweet child who was cutting drastically into my DVR time.

  She rolled her eyes at me (notice a pattern yet?) and said in her best teenage-girl voice, “Mom, you know! Call her like Aladdin did, and she’ll just float back into my room!”

  Now I am faced with a dilemma. Do I tell her this is utter nonsense, ruin the open-mindedness and fantastical nature I have worked so hard to build in her, and settle down peacefully to my TV shows? Or do I call out loud to a blanket named Cindy, and ask it – her, excuse me – to please return to us now?

  My partner was no help at all at this point. She simply looked at me, shrugged, and said what she always says when the girl pulls diva-like things such as this.

  “I’ve got the boy.”

  My poor daughter is in tears at this point, and I am right behind her.

  “I can’t sleep without Cindy!” she moans, flinging herself across the bed in her best dramatic display.

  Fine.

  I find myself actually hoping against hope that upon my calling out to this blanket, it will, in fact, float through the door, and I can get to the safety of my couch and my remote. So I do it. That’s right – I stand in the middle of the room and call out to Cindy, the wayward blanket, to please come to us and help the child sleep. The child is frantic, watching the doorway with anticipation. I am frantic as well, because I know in my heart of hearts there is no blanket forthcoming, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to calm my daughter enough to get to sleep without bringing all her hard-won supernatural awareness crashing down around us.

  After several minutes of paging the missing party, I give up, looking down at my sweet little girl, expecting to see her tear-stained face give way to a full-fledged tantrum. That is not what meets my eyes, however. Instead, I see a half-asleep, dreamy-faced angel, lying underneath the blankie that I crocheted for her last year.

  Shocked at this development, I leaned down and told my child in the most sympathetic voice I could muster, “I’m sorry honey. Cindy doesn’t seem to be answering.”

  “That’s okay, mama,” she responds drowsily. “She’s probably sleeping. And I’m really tired. Can you turn off the light?”

  I look at my partner, who just shrugs again, points at herself, mouths the word "boy", and flips the switch.

  Psh. Kids.

Enough is enough...LGBT teen suicides

  Today I am not writing to entertain, but to educate. Not to be funny, but to facilitate understanding and compassion. There are thousands of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender youth in America, and sadly…there are fewer of them than there were only weeks ago.

  The recent epidemic of LGBT teen suicides is both shocking and heartbreaking. One has to wonder why, when we have come so far as a nation (albeit with miles to go still), did these children think that death was their only option?

  Some will say it was just typical youth, being overdramatic and attention-starved, trying to make a statement and not realizing the ‘forever’ consequences, and that it has only made headlines because they are gay. To those people I would say you have not been paying attention.

  A 2009 study by Dr. Caitlyn Ryan of the San Francisco State University showed that LGBT teens who were rejected by their families for simply being themselves were 8.4 times more likely to attempt suicide. 8.4 times. And this is a year ago, before this new rash of incidents and ignorance engulfed our media.

  This has risen disturbingly from the 1999 study done by Dr. Robert Garafalo of Harvard Medical School, which stated that suicide attempts of LGBT teens were 3 times more likely than those of heterosexual teens.

  I am not dismissing the horror of heterosexual teen suicides, or trying to push that issue to the wayside. But looking at the trends in today’s society, and seeing that there has been an over 5 point jump in the incidence of LGBT suicides, anyone can see that there is a problem, and that problem needs to be addressed. Now.

  Try and remember your middle school and high school days. Looking at it from an adult’s perspective, you can see how childish and short-sighted we all were, living in that little microcosm of society. But if you can put yourself back there, you will recall how it seemed that your life would end with every friend’s betrayal, with every breakup, with every bad report card. But it didn’t. For anyone reading this, we got past it, got through it, and made a life for ourselves devoid of that near-sighted drama. But these children who have taken their own lives do not get that chance.

  They will never know what it is to find someone who loves you enough to share the rest of their lives with you. To hold their child, rock them to sleep at night, commiserate with their partner over having to do 3^rd grade math again. They will never be able to grow into themselves and serve as a voice in the community for rights, or fairness, or education. And it is because of ignorance, plain and simple. And I say it stops now.

  Talk to your children, talk to your neighbors. Understand the difference between tolerance and hate; between believing in the right to a ‘lifestyle’, and being actively supportive of it.

  You do not have to like what we are. We are not asking for your approval. We are only asking that you allow us to live our lives the way we believe is right, and to see that we are mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and husbands and wives and partners and lovers and neighbors and PTA members and soccer moms and human beings. And children.

  We do not all of a sudden ‘turn’ this way as we get older. We may become more aware as we age, but most of us would tell you that looking back we knew something was different. These children who have chosen death were the bravest of us all – they knew what they were, and they didn’t try to hide it. And it cost them their lives.

  Enough with the hate. Enough with the judgment. If you don’t like gay people, then don’t be gay. But leave those who are alone to live their lives the best they can. Talk to your children about bullying, talk to them about the repercussions of spouting rhetoric at their gay classmates that they, in all likelihood, don’t even understand and are just repeating. There is an awesome YouTube video out right now that addresses the issue of “choosing” to be gay. The link is here, and I think you should watch it and discuss it with your friends and family. Whether or not you agree with what it is saying, it brings up an interesting point.

  And to that end, learn to watch your own mouths. Even a seemingly innocent joke can push an eavesdropping emotional teenager over the edge, and any kind of nonchalance about LGBT issues can send the wrong message to your own children. And I am not saying we have to be serious all the time. Gay people make fun of themselves quite often. Hey, we’re funny, and we do stupid stuff like everyone else. But now is not the time for off-color humor – too much is at stake. No life is worth losing over someone else’s ignorance. Ever.

  We need to grow a generation that sees what lies inside of us all is the same color, the same orientation, the same human-ness, and that it needs to be respected, regardless of what package it is presented in. Educate yourselves; educate your children, your neighbors, your family and friends. Help them to cultivate a spirit of compassion. They may not understand or support what LGBT students are going through, but they can always choose to just say nothing at all, and let them go on with their lives.

  Because that is the goal here – to let them go on living, not dangling from a tree or overdosing on pills. We want them to grow up and out of high school, to form loving partnerships and circles of friends and family who support them, to become contributing members of society and continue the cycle of education and awareness.

  Please, talk to your kids, talk to your students, talk to your friends and family. There is a saying on many LGBT campaigns that has always put it best to me:

“Be careful who you hate, it just might be someone you love.”

  You can never know what someone is struggling with, you can never know what kind of battle they are facing within themselves. So let us be a compassionate and educated people, allowing all to live a full and purposeful life. That is a goal we can all achieve, if we only take the time to reach for it.

**If you know of an at-risk LGBT teen, please tell them to call The Trevor Project. It is a 24 hour rescue hotline for suicide prevention. 1-866-4-U-Trevor (1-866-488-7386)**

The Postman Said What?

  Okay, I don’t know how many of you actually use the US Mail anymore to send packages. Frankly I don’t care, either. This story is about me, after all. Writers – we’re all self-absorbed. It’s in our DNA.

  So as I was saying, today I needed to mail a package to some friends of mine. They are starting their foray into the metaphysical, and being that they live somewhere right outside BFE, TX, there is sadly no metaphysical shop near them. I have heard, however, that there are quite a few cows. But I digress.

  I spent the morning traversing my favorite shops, Silver Pyramid and The Labyrinth, enjoying the energy around me and gathering all the necessary items. Well, what I thought were the necessary items. They weren’t here to say one way or the other. And again, this is about me. You think you’d learn.

  Packing up these wonderfully decadent little pieces of paraphernalia in a Wal-Mart sack (don’t judge), I marched into the post office in search of a box for my treasure. After locating said box and a horrendously overpriced roll of packing tape, I went to work.

  I can’t be sure, but I think I frightened off one old woman, two bearded men, and a teenager as they watched me pack. The old woman and the bearded men I could understand. This is the bible belt, after all. But the teenager? With the piercings and the all-black clothes and the Adam Lambert eyeliner? Really? 

  Sigh.

  So let me paint this picture for you…here is this chick that looks like your average soccer mom, who just arrived in her red minivan (again – don’t judge), carrying a quite normal looking Wal-Mart bag. She then proceeds to remove charcoals, drams of oil, bagged herbs, a sage stick, a journal, and some rocks, which she is lovingly packing so as to avoid breakage.

  What about this makes people uncomfortable? Is it that I seem so normal, and then out comes the witchy-looking stuff? Or is it just the stuff itself? Of course, it could have been the tiny little iron cauldron that went in last. The world may never know.

  What I do know is that they walked around me whilst I was packing, giving me quite a wide berth and quite a few what-the-hell stares. Between them and my children, I’m beginning to get a complex.

  Anyway, I taped up the box and waited patiently behind these people who were most likely thinking about stakes and fire until the underpaid, terribly bored postal worker said that magical word. 

  “Next!”

  Grateful to be almost done with this little adventure, we went through the normal addressing and such until he came to that all-important question.

  “Are there any liquids or harmful substances in this package?”

  Now, I want to pause here, little readers, and ask what seems like a very stupid question. Has anyone ever answered ‘yes’ to this? Do terrorists regularly look at the postal worker and say, “Aw, man! Yeah, you got me. There’s a bomb in there. Thought I might get away with it this time, but you guys are just too good!” I mean, seriously.

  But this honest little author, what does she say? I’ll tell you. I said, in the sweetest, most soccer-mommy voice I could, “Well, there is a dram of oil in there.” Hey, I had no desire to get arrested if they found it and I hadn’t told them. I have a book to finish, people.

  Stopping what had been (up until then) a by-the-book transaction, the postal worker looked at me over his little bifocals with much the same expression as his customers had, and replied in his best whatchu-talkin-bout-willis voice.

 

  “A what?”

  “A dram of oil.” At this point I’m getting nervous. Can you send oil in the mail?

  “What kind of oil?”

  Now I’m panicking. Do I tell him? Should I just say motor oil, or fish oil, or olive oil? What if those are ingredients for a bomb? Damn this middle-class upbringing! I decided to be honest.

 

  “Protection oil.”

  He looked at me as if a third boob had suddenly popped out of my forehead. No, that’s wrong. That would have been a friendlier look. But you get the idea.

  “Protection from what?”

 The solemn postal worker asked this as if he were truly interested, but having watched a plethora of true crime shows, I didn’t fall for it. I looked him straight in the eyes, and lied my ass off.

  “I have no idea,” I replied, shrugging. “That’s just what it said on the bottle. My friend wanted me to mail it to her. People can be so strange, you know?”

  He stared so hard I was pretty sure my face was about to burst into flames, but he either bought it or he was just too bored to care. I’m betting on the latter, truthfully. And then the package was off, without further ado.

  So there you have it – my little adventure for today. And if you’re reading this, you know who you are, and the package is on its way, loves. Sorry I had to lie about you, but it was necessary to save my own skin.

  Writers can be so self-absorbed.