Hey, jerk - I'm talking to you!

I had an interesting conversation last night about the right way and the wrong(1) way to use Twitter, specifically with regard to the number of people you follow. It was prompted by the following comment.

"If you follow 10,000 people, I'm going to immediately assume you're a dick and don't get Twitter."

Rather than repeat it all here, I Storified the string of tweets right here. Note that I bowdlerized "you're a dick" into "you're a jerk" because I'm not from London. Here in Philadelphia, we tend to faint when presented with such coarse language.(2) We're rather sensitive that way.

(1) Hint: I am apparently doing Twitter wrong.
(2) This is a joke.

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Poetry with punch

On Wednesdays, I compose a limerick based on the prompt from Three Word Wednesday. Today's words are: clench, faint, prod  (it's more fun if you read it aloud - try it!):


What, did you think I would faint?
That wasn't a prod, more a feint.
Clench your wee little fist?
Your punch nearly missed!
Now I'll lay you out on the paint.

    ~~~~~ * * * ~~~~~



My book of limericks inspired by Three Word Wednesday is FREE to borrow from Amazon:



"They made me laugh, they made me sad, they made me think and squirm and reflect. ... Tony Noland has a way with words that is nothing short of astonishing" - Jeff Posey, Amazon review

That's right, FREE. Of course, if you're not in Amazon Prime, it still only costs $0.99. That's less than a coffee. And I'm not talking Starbuck's, I'm talking about the burnt mud they sell at the convenience store. It's worth the buck - you'll love it!

Don't have a Kindle? NO PROBLEM! Get one of the free Kindle apps for PC, Mac, iPhone, Android and a host of other devices. You can read "Poetry on the Fly" (or any of my other great writing) anywhere you like!

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Back when I was writing...

I've been feeling more than a little stalled lately. I shipped my completed novel off to a slush pile, and am researching more places to send it and/or a query letter. Since nobody is banging down my door for the chance to publish "Verbosity's Vengeance", this is going to go either the old fashioned way or the new-fangled self-publish route.

In the meantime, though, I'm stalled. NaNoWriMo was a complete disaster. In the midst of post-Sandy shivering in the dimness, I wrote 2000 words, then threw them away because I got disgusted with the crappy plot outline. I reworked it, put a new spin on it, set down to work... and got nowhere. Complete failure to launch, since I found that I didn't care AT ALL about the book I'd set down to write.

That killed NaNoWriMo and I've been zeroed out ever since. A story each week for Friday Flash, but that's about it. No inspiration, no time to write, no energy. This blog post is about as long as I've done in a while, too. I have an idea for a story, but when will I write it? No idea.

It all comes crumbing apart, doesn't it?

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How to read reviews

Over on Write Anything, I'm talking about the reviews I'm gotten (good and bad) and how I react to them. What do good reviews mean? How can you use bad reviews to your advantage?

Pop on over and check it out.

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#FridayFlash: The Savior of 5th Avenue

They tell me I saved four or five thousand people, but I don't really remember much of it all. Watching the videos, I can hardly believe it's really me grabbing the lines on that balloon. Even when I rub the scar tissue on my wrist where my left hand used to be, I can almost convince myself that the hero on the screen and the "hero" in the mirror are the same guy.

I know I sound ridiculous talking this way. I hope I don't sound like I'm not aware of how much my actions meant to everyone. For the spectators who were about to be victims of the terrorist plot, there's nothing fake or minimalist about having diverted that parade balloon packed with the nerve gas bomb. That's real. To deny them the opportunity to thank the guy who saved them would be churlish in the extreme, especially since their savior had his hand burnt off by the concentrated nitric acid in the bomb.

It's just that I don't feel like that hero. The nerve gas did something to my mind, screwed up my short-term memory somehow. The doctors said it would have been lethal if the liquid compound had been allowed to gasify, but wasn't "sodium gap labile" in the liquid form.

None of that really means much to me, even though they've explained it a hundred times.

I pose for photos, I mostly say what the politicians tell me to say, I take the medicines my doctors tell me to take, I walk when it's time to walk, I eat when it's time to eat, I sleep when it's time to sleep.

I don't leave the hospital, though. Can't remember the last time I was alone.

If I *am* a hero, if that really is me doing those things, I can only think that I must have been a hell of a guy.

Gone for the week

Since I'm gone for the week, I'll take a page from Scalzi's playbook
and leave a question for you to discuss in my absence.

Pens or pencils?

--
Sent from my mobile device

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flash fiction and poetry anthologies, now available.
Buy your copy today!


_______________________________
Buy my books: http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland<http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland%20>
Read my blog: http://www.TonyNoland.com/
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/TonyNoland
Friend me on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/aSvNy1

I'm not impressed



From right here.

Also, what kind of watch is this? What brand? Can anyone tell?



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#FridayFlash: A Fool As Thee

Can there be
A fool as thee?

Thou art mad,
For thou hast had
In thy palm
Love's perfum'd balm,
Yet did lie
With strumpets nigh.

No love lives
Where insult gives.
One man, lone,
His true love flown,
Fair love lost
like offal toss'd.

Can there be
A fool as thee?
Aye and aye,
For thou art I.


He set down the pen, resisting yet again the urge to slash it along his wrist. Lengthwise along the wrist is a suicide attempt, he thought, while across the wrist is just a cry for help. Where had he first heard that? High school? College? It didn't really matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Besides, if writing shitty poems in a fake quasi-Elizabethan tone wasn't a cry for help, what was?

Pressing his thumbs in hard, he rubbed his eyes, trying both to make the pain go away and make it increase until it killed him. His eyes hurt from crying and from not crying. He was tired but couldn't sleep. He was hungry but couldn't eat. He was a worthless, horrible, disgusting, pathetic, stupid, self-absorbed asshole who was too goddamned stupid to know a good thing when he had it... and yet he couldn't make himself die from his own shame.

Half a lifetime of love, thrown away for three hours in the sack with a thick-lipped redhead in tight jeans and a crop top. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

There was no way to know how long he'd been at his desk. After the first day, he'd smashed the clock radio and threw his watch against the wall so hard it went through the drywall into the dark space beyond.

His heavy, titanium watch, the birthday present of all birthday presents. It had cost her $750 she could have spent on someone worthwhile, $750 which he repaid in poems and kisses and backrubs and smoked oyster primavera made just the way she liked it.

He wept anew at the memories. He was ashes and filth, dirt she had scraped from her shoes. He was nothing, worse than nothing.

That watch was his one piece of man jewelry. It was waterproof to 300 meters (though he took it off before getting into the shower), atomic-signal accurate to 1/1000th of a second (though he was always late), automatically updated in 38 cities in all 24 time zones (though he never went farther from home than the grocery store), and with five separate event timers and alarms (though he would never have anything to keep track of, ever again).

The black hole in the wall whistled and moaned when the furnace came on. It was as though his birthday present watch was crying to itself, alone and lost in the dusty void between the studs. Alone, alone, and alone, lost to time and human memory. There it would sit, ticking away until its primary battery died in two years. Desperately hungry for light, yet trapped in eternal darkness, its little solar cell would weep and scream, as useless and pathetic as he is now and will be forever.

And twenty, fifty, a hundred years hence? When this building was torn down, or burned down, or collapsed in rot, or was swept to sea in a climate change-driven tsunami? His watch would finally be allowed to truly die, crushed under the weight of years and regrets.

He wiped his eyes and picked up his pen to begin another poem. There was no more foul punishment he could invent for himself, and it was nothing less than what he deserved.

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3WW: Cause, Implicate, Stretch

Another damned limerick for Three Word Wednesday, just as wonderful as all the other damned limericks I've written for all those other damned Three Word Wednesdays. Today's damned words are: Cause, Implicate, Stretch

Implicate me without pause;
To kill him, I had a just cause.
The annual onus:
"No stretch goals, no bonus."
Now I'm wiping his blood from my claws.

Dammit.

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Skill required vs. Fame obtained

From Surviving the World (which I saw via a tweet from @FARFetched58):


Damn! It figures I'd have to pick such a hard way to get famous.

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Review: "perfectly paced and honed"

The latest review of "Blood Picnic and other stories" went up recently, and it's another 5 stars. The review describes my collection of flash fiction stories this way:
These stories are finely crafted. What do I mean by that? Well, if you were wanting to get an example of a perfectly paced and honed short story, you'd have a hard time narrowing down Blood Picnic to just one or two. They're ALL tightly written. They're ALL interesting, and they're ALL delicious morsels of plot chocolate. So, like a chocolate sampler box, there are different flavors, but each one is surprise, or a delight, or a thought-provoking choice.
One of the things that this reviewer noted (as have other reviews) is that the one of the chief delights in my stories is the quality of the dialogue:
Noland is a master of believable and interesting dialogue. This is more impressive than it sounds. No, really. Trust me.
I'm glad the book was such a pleasure to read!

Do YOU have $2.99 to spend on a delightful, interesting, entertaining, and engaging collection of fantasy, magical realism, horror and literary flash fiction stories? You'll enjoy this anthology, I'm certain of it. You can get "Blood Picnic" from Amazon and in many other different country and/or device-specific formats from Amazon-UK, Amazon-DE, Barnes & Noble, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel Books.

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#FridayFlash: The Diggings

Right now, with my knees aching from the cold and another headache from the glare, I have to keep reminding myself that this joke is gonna be worth all the effort. I also have to remind myself that cutting corners at this point will screw the pooch.

It's the old 90/10 rule. The main part of the digging went pretty quickly, as did the burial. It's crazy to think that smoothing out the ground and removing my footprints has taken three times as long as the actual placement, but it's the details that will make the gag sing. After all, it won't just be the guys at NASA going over the high-resolution camera images... it'll be everyone in the world.

There are still forty-one days until the Curiosity rover comes over that ridge and looks down into this hollow. Plenty of time to arrange the rocks around the exposed top of this police call box and get off-planet.

When I think of the reaction, it's hard not to laugh, despite the work that still remains. This is going to be my best gag ever, better than Easter Island. I just wish I'd thought to put heaters in the knee joints of this suit.

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Prediction 2012: Obama-Biden

My prediction for how today's presidential election will shake out: Obama-Biden wins a second term with 282 electoral votes, Romney-Ryan with 256.


I'm writing this on Saturday, November 2. We'll see how good my prognostication skills are.

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My forgotten stories

Today over at Write Anything, I'm waxing poetic and fantastical about what happens to forgotten stories, the ones that you publish but no one seems to read.

It's all in good fun, so go read it.

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My week since Hurricane Sandy

My power went out at about 8:30 Monday night, as Hurricane Sandy was about to make landfall on Atlantic City, NJ. My power just came back three hours ago.

Let me say first that from today until November 10, I will MATCH AND DONATE to Hurricane Sandy relief efforts ALL PROCEEDS from sales of "Blood Picnic and other stories". I make $2.02 on every copy, so that's $4.04 that I'll donate for every copy sold. You get good fiction, people in need get help. If you'd like to donate directly and NOT get a collection of my short fiction, go to the American Red Cross by clicking here.

So what was it like, being without power all week? Short version: it sucked. Long version...

All this week, I've used lanterns and candles to see by. A gas stove let us continue to cook a lot of things, although the oven was inoperable. Our continuously-stoked fireplace keep my house at around 60F during the day - warm enough to continue to live in. Without any kind of heat, we would have decamped to... somewhere.

We had to clear out the refrigerator, of course. It's been cold enough outside that I was able to keep bottled and jarred foods in coolers out in the backyard. The fresh food - milk, vegetables, meats, etc. - were a loss and had to be thrown away quickly. I've been dumping dry ice into my chest freezer in the basement, to keep the stock-up quantities of meats, frozen vegetables, etc. from being a complete loss. I think that intervention kept it all frozen, but I'll make an assessment at some point now that I have lights in the basement again.

Now that the power is back on, the frayed nerves of the Noland household are knitting back together under the soothing balm of our first-world conveniences.

I can respond to the dimming grayness of the late afternoon by turning on a lamp over my desk and another light in the ceiling, both with the flick of a switch.

I hear the furnace come on and feel the breeze of warm air.

From other rooms come the whirring, grunting, tinkling, crashing sounds of "Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood" and "Wii LEGO Harry Potter: Years 1 - 4". This is no cacophony, for it replaces the 110 decibels of whining, yelling, carping, and arguing that has been rising and falling over the past five days like the scream of an overworked metal grinder. In this closed and warm house, the combined electronic noises are an incidental accompaniment to blessed peace and serenity, like the atonal chimes of an opium den that waft unheard over the quiescent addicts reclining on their mats.

... and I'm able to write a blog post about it all.

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#FridayFlash: For Want of a Clown...

I swear, if I'd known the clown was a woman, I'd never have let the skunk loose in the elevator. What would have been the point? An elevator full of shrieking, terrified beauty queens, bouncing out of their bikinis as they ran down the hall would be startling for a woman to see, but they wouldn't have the same effect on her as they would on a man. That is, unless she was a lesbian clown, but what would have been the odds of that?

A male clown (or a lesbian clown) would have turned his (or her) head to watch the parade go giggling by. Since the isothiol/spandex-degrading gas-phase enzyme I'd released in the elevator 23 seconds earlier would be kicking in, their bikinis would be falling off the girls as they ran. Any man (and probably most lesbians, come to think of it) would have been glued to the sight. That would have been plenty of time for Silovski to use the blowgun to hit the clown with the hypno dart without being seen.

You were at the banquet, so you know the rest. Without the hypno dart, we couldn't make the clown give the General Secretary's mistress the balloon dog with the xenon tracker gas. Since she didn't have it, the security detail couldn't take it away like they take away anything given to the General Secretary or his intimates. That meant the xenon tracker didn't adhere to the head of security, so we couldn't use it to mark the key sequence on the heliport codepad. Without the code, Victorino wasn't able to sneak up and take the place of the General Secretary's wife's regular helicopter pilot.

So, long story short, our whole double-fake with the kidnapping/ransom/nuclear extortion as a bluff-screen for the bank robbery we were going to use to finance the Syrian opposition is down the crapper. That blows our whole strategy for this phase of Operation Asgard. The Russians are thrilled, the Australians are livid and the Canadians are in our face with their snotty "I Told You So" attitude... again.

I realize this setback has thrown off the entire Asgard timetable. It's my own fault for not checking up on that detail of the clown's gender and I accept full responsibility for that. Otherwise, the plan was perfect.

Still... the clown's stage name was Patty O'Cake. Who wouldn't have figured that to be a guy?

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NaNoWriMo Day 1: Cold and dim

Power is still out, so it's cold and dim at my place. Latest update is
we MIGHT get power back by tomorrow night, but I'm not counting on it.
My enthusiasm for writing is nonexistent, for NaNoWriMo or anything
else. This foul start may scupper the whole month.

--
Sent from my mobile device

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flash fiction and poetry anthologies, now available.
Buy your copy today!


_______________________________
Buy my books: http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland<http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland%20>
Read my blog: http://www.TonyNoland.com/
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/TonyNoland
Friend me on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/aSvNy1

The Green Ruby Pumpkin

For your Halloween viewing pleasure...



The Green Ruby Pumpkin from miguel ortega on Vimeo.

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Survival requires flexibility

Hurricane Sandy is past and I'm OK. It was a tense night, with much
more wind than rain in my particular location.

I'm drinking coffee made with my camping gear - an open-flame espresso
pot, to be precise. I have no power and no heat, but it'll be a while
before either of those are critical failures. My cell phone still has
half a charge; when it goes, the roads are clear enough that I can
drive around a bit and use the car charger.

It's a dim, gray, chill day here, but I'm mindful that this could have
been much worse for me. I'm also aware that for many in the path of
Sandy, it *was* much worse. Those of you with internet access,
consider donating to the Red Cross or another charity of your choice.

--
Sent from my mobile device

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flash fiction and poetry anthologies, now available.
Buy your copy today!


_______________________________
Buy my books: http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland<http://amazon.com/author/tonynoland%20>
Read my blog: http://www.TonyNoland.com/
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/TonyNoland
Friend me on Facebook: http://on.fb.me/aSvNy1

8 good ways to handle stress (and 1 bad one)

Hurricane Sandy is now whipping up the wind and rain. As you can see from this graphic, it's expected to be a direct hit on Philadelphia:

"Hurricane gusts" means 80+ mph (144+ mph)

As I write this on Monday morning, it's already an ugly, raw day. Some small branches have already come down and I expect more damage before this is all over. We're expecting 12+ inches (30+ cm) of rain, so flooding is a given, too. A slow moving storm, Sandy and its aftereffects are going to make life difficult for us for a while.

I don't expect my roof to be torn off, my trees to be uprooted and flung through my windows, or my family to be washed away. However, this is one of those storms to be taken seriously.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, here are 8 good ways to handle stress (and 1 bad way, which I do NOT advise):

1. Awareness I was shocked yesterday to talk to a friend who "hadn't been paying much attention to the news" and hadn't really thought much about preparations. Being informed and aware of what to expect is the first part of not getting stressed out when it happens.

2. Decisiveness If you are aware of what's coming, you can make decisions based on that knowledge. Maybe you decide to evacuate to Chicago, maybe you decide to batten things down and stay, maybe you decide to lay in an extra supply of limes and tequila. Whatever you decide to do, the act of guiding your own course quells a lot of stress.

3. Proactivity Acting on your decisions in advance lets you avoid that dreaded last-minute run to the store, only to find that they are out of limes and tequila. If you don't wait until circumstances force you to do something, it's much easier to embrace the action.

4. Forethought Even better than event-driven proactivity is forethought, i.e. the consideration of things that might happen in order to make suitable preparation. How does this reduce stress in the real world? Let me put it this way: I already had a supply of lime juice and tequila laid in, long before this storm came along. Lime juice isn't as good as fresh limes, but then I wasn't running out to the store at the last minute, either.

5. Equipment Since I like to go camping, I have a lot of the gear which serves well for when the power and heat goes out. Flashlights and lanterns, of course, but my go-to gadget this time is a combination flashlight/AM/FM/weatherband radio. It's powered by solar cells and/or a hand crank. Nicest of all, it has a side USB port that will put out enough juice to charge a cell phone. I also have a really nice cocktail shaker.

6. Creativity A friend from Florida asked if my generator was all ready. Floridians go through hurricanes a lot; down there, emergency generators pretty much come with the house. I don't have one, since it would sit unneeded for 998 days out of 1000. What I do have, though, is an inverter for the car - it lets me use the car as a generator. It plugs into the lighter and converts the car's 12 volts into regular 110 volts, delivering up to 175 watts. It's enough to run small appliances, charge phones, laptops, flashlight batteries, etc. That bit of flexibility is enough to widen my list of responses to difficulties. That helps alleviate stress.

7. Mathematics I've previously checked each tree around my house and measured their distances from the foundation. Using a bit of trigonometry, I also calculated their heights. Based on their architecture, I estimated where their above-ground centers of gravity are.  All of this is to answer the question, if the winds blow and the earth heaves up, will these trees crush my house? Answer: NO. Math doesn't lie, folks, and that's like a full can of Stress-Be-Gone.

8. Humor Hurricanes are only one kind of stressor. Illness, work, family crises, a bad review... all of these can be terribly stressful. When a crisis looms, it can seem like a horde of unstoppable zombies crashing the gates. A sense of humor is like a well-aimed hammer: it finds the weak spot in the monster and brings it down to a manageable level. I use humor as a defense mechanism because it helps to defuse stress.

Now... one really BAD way to manage stress:

1. Drugs and alcohol Self-medication is a pretty lousy way to manage stress, especially if it is your primary (or your only) approach. Any mind-altering substance interferes with your ability to make quick, clear-eyed decisions. There are hardly any stressful situations that will benefit from you limiting your response ability to a befuddled, "Wha... huh?" If you've already followed the first eight good ways to handle stress, you'll have structures in place to handle whatever happens. Under those circumstances, a moderate indulgence in your legal intoxicant of choice can help to pass the time. Rather than make said indulgence the main activity, though, this is best done when coupled with some other non-stressful activity, like watching movies, reading a book, doing crossword puzzles, or having sex.

Happy Hurricane, everyone!

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