8 Weeks...9 Weeks...

Sonogram pics!!

Top row: 8 Weeks, 2 Days

Bottom Row: Almost 10 weeks

Time marches on...

Black Dog and Rebel Rose Graphic Novel : Sketches

Rough sketches for the Black Dog and Rebel Rose graphic novel. This collection: SKRIKER.

Why I Don't Write Mainstream Paranormal Fiction (and why preggo bedrest eats your brain)

Bedrest can't be good for your brain.

Really.

You lie there and think waaaaay too much.

And everyone knows that thinking never did ANYONE any good.

I was on doctor ordered pelvic rest for the last 2 weeks, and lying there staring at the cieling fan in my bedroom created a lot of opportunity for me to ponder. Ponder, ponder, ponder.

Thinking never did anyone any good.

I have been working on my first anthology, a project that has been interrupted on and off my complications with my pregnancy, and while resting, I found myself in a pensive state (overly so), wondering about a question that has been posed to me on more than one occasion: why don't I take advantage of the trends in the literary market and write a vampire novel? Or werewolf tale? Throw joe public a bone and possibly rake in the big bucks, a la Twilight?

I can't say that I haven't stressed out over the concept--something that's a bit hard for me to admit. All creatives find themselves second-guessing their work from time to time--this is ultimately to be expected. Should I be jumping on the bandwagon? Or should I cherish the mid-sized pubbed cult status that I am earning now and forgo the commercially "right" thing to do?

After rolling this around in my brain for a while, I always find myself coming to the same conclusion: I will never be a "mainstream" fiction writer simply because I CAN'T be! It simply goes against the very grain of who I am. I look at other books in the same genre as my passion--angels and demons--and I see fellow authors falling into the same old mainstream trap. They may have the basis for a killer paranormal tale about a warrior angel, or a freaky badass demon--and then it all goes into the same old recycled pit with a swooning female love interest who is a vampire, or a recent example I stumbled on at Amazon, where the angel is leading a werewolf pack (sorry, but WTF?!)...sure, they may sell a lot more books, but I wouldn't feel right about watering my work down to please the masses. I look at my characters and their extraordinary, outside-the-mainstream adventures, where the only vampires are bullet fodder, and I feel...pleased. Fulfilled in a way that no trendy mainstream plotline under my belt could ever satisfy. Looking back, I have always been that way as a painter, too--Thomas Kincade can kiss my ass, despite all the bazillions of dollars he's raked in.

Not to say that I wouldn't LOVE to be on that NYC Bestseller list...who wouldn't? And yet I have started to think of myself, and others like me--small and mid-sized published (and good quality self-pubbed) authors whose work doesn't fit into the same old mold--as the equivalent of the "indie" bands of the music industry. Sure, they may not be attending the MTV Music Awards (a select few may eventually, but it will not be an easy road), and the teenage groupie masses may not be flinging themselves at us, but what we offer is valuable...something different. Honestly, I adored vamps and weres when I was a teenager--Anne Rice had a definite fan in me--and I can understand the attraction. But let's admit it--the genre has been done to death, and now that it's dead, publishers and their authors keep beating it with the same...stake. If I see one more teenage (or "sexy") vampire with douchebag hair or another Fabio-esque "Alpha" wolf, I'm gonna puke, and it ain't gonna be morning sickness!

So after lying in bed, brain cells wasting away with pregnancy boredom as I rest the womb in which my first offspring is merrily sprouting, I have come to the conclusion that I would not trade my outside-the-vampire-stable work for all the literary world...and I think that my little cult of fans prefer it that way.

*wink*

Artwork: a prelim digital illustration of Rose, the heroine of my book Black Dog and Rebel Rose, as a "badass mama".

Oh, Look, An Alien Shrimp

It is so funny how one's life can change in an instant.

Let me tell you my story.

On April 8th, I met with a friend for lunch. It was quite pleasant--good raw sushi, cold Sapporo beer. In The Neon was released in electronic format that morning, and the print edition would soon follow. Sitting in a nice Japanese bistro, chatting about life in general, how my new writing and work on my new graphic novel version of Black Dog and Rebel Rose was going. How my husband was doing getting ready for the state bar.

Less than an hour later, I would find myself in a bathroom stall, clutching a home pregnancy test. Two cobalt blue lines staring up at me, glaring, announcing in no uncertain terms, "I'm here, so get used to it."

Well, good thing that Sapporo had hit the spot so nicely--it would be the last beer for quite a while. Nine months, to be exact.

Funny thing is that I didn't take the pregnancy test for any specific reason--it simply "felt right", and since I had a home pregger test in my purse for "emergencies", I thought, why not? My boobs had been tender for a few days, and I just felt wonky. Within five minutes of unwrapping that test, I was sitting on a public toilet, shaking and crying, feeling this odd tumultuous blend of extreme joy and insane trepidation. I dragged my friend into the bathroom, and she confirmed what those two little blue lines so strongly evinced: I was pregnant, expecting the first child that this tattooed artsy fart had been dreaming of since she was 12 years old.

The weeks since have been a whirlwind. Family has been called, tears of joy and worry have been shed. My parents are practically jumping for joy at the prospect of this first grandchild--in his early 60s, I think my dad was starting to wonder if he'd ever be a grandpa! There have been some very worrisome times--I have been in the emergency room twice with unexplained bleeding, where I awoke in the wee hours with red blood pouring down my legs in a torrent. Every time, the sonogram has found that precious heartbeat, throbbing with a hardcore will on the murky black and grey screen, a sure sign that my unborn child is alive and well. Bedrest has been ordered from time to time, sometimes for up to 6 days at a time, leaving me sore, cranky, and bored.

The fear remains, and praying for a healthy outcome continues.

I now face that strange state that many creative women might find themselves in at some point, be it sooner or later: Artist/Mother. As I nurture a new life due to make its entrance in December, I continue to try and nurture my creativity: keeping a stack of drawing paper and my laptop by the bed, plugging away when the creative need strikes and the muse is allowed to break through the fog of morning sickness and exhaustion.

Humor has gotten us through a few of the rough spots: my husband, Aaron, and I have come up with a list of new nicknames with every sonogram. When I first discerned the blip that was our offspring on the first sonogram picture, I thought, "Oh, look, an alien shrimp." As the weeks have passed and our lil' bub has grown to look a wee bit more human, a slew of nicknames have cropped up like moss on river stones: Shrimp/Shrimpie Smith, Krill Smith, Escargot Smith (a personal favorite), Pulpo/Pulpito (octopus/little squid). My husband lovingly hogs each new sonogram image, trying to come up with yet another nickname for what the baby looks like at that point. I'm beginning to picture a baby book detailing "how your mommy and daddy continually refered to you as an edible".

Ultimately, I have begun to look at this little miracle sprouting in my belly as the greatest artwork that I have yet brought to life--as a fellow author told me, "the act of natural creation is worth a thousand published novels."

I couldn't agree more.