The good news is, in two days, I managed to edit/revise 20,000 words of my novel. I then shipped it off to two of my writing partners. Since then, I’ve been trying to balance writing with settling in and getting some rest.

I’ve found that I’m not so good at the resting thing.

Last week I edited/revised 8400 words. Well, there was more — another 3500 words, but I cut them from the book. Still, the progress isn’t as stellar as my 20k sprint the previous week, but it’s still a strong start. At this point, I have about 35k to go, and ROW80 will be over in one week. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it. We’ll see.

Once I’ve finished this round of cutting and chopping and hearing from my writing partners whether or not the story is sound as-is, the book will go through another round of edits. Then it goes through Tom, the silent partner behind my Vote Your Adventure series, and another writing partner of mine.

This last week, I’m really not sure what to expect. I would like to commit myself to finishing revisions in this final week of ROW80, but I’m just not sure if I can do it. I’d like to get another 20k in, but this last section is going to take a little more work than the previous sections. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Despite the sarcastic title of this post, I do know that it’s Week 6 of “A Round of Words in 80 Days” — a program for writers that enables you to tailor your goals around your life. Which, I have to say, is a damn good thing since my life took a turn immediately after I posted my last check-in at Week 4. You know, back when I gloated that I’m 50% through my novel and I’m definitely going to finish it by the end of this month?

Hoo boy.

There have been some strange new developments going on in my life that I haven’t been able to talk about publicly until now. To sum up, it goes like this:

Tom got a job in Seattle and now I get to move home. In three weeks. Gotta pack up and sell the house. OMG. My head asplode!

Needless to say, I haven’t touched my novel since I posted I posted my Week 4 update. (Lame, I know.) I did some other things, though…

Site 27 (Vote Your Adventure)
My web series, inspired by the old Choose Your Own Adventure stories, is still a big priority for me. When people count on it weekly (and you get middle-of-the-night tweets asking where in the hell the next installment is) you make it a priority. They’re decently short (ranging between 600 – 850 words) and I’m getting better at writing them. This week is the final vote for Site 27 and next week will be the grand finale. Once again, the vote isn’t going at all how I thought it would. What is it with you people wanting to bring on the end of the world? What happened to self-preservation and survival instinct? LOL

Tom is also going to update the site and make a special page that will feature each Vote Your Adventure story individually. As soon as all this moving stuff is settled, he’s on top of it. I promise.

Web Series Novella
One of my Vote Your Adventure fans asked me for an origin story to the web series. I have a special notebook set aside for that and I’ve started brainstorming some ideas. This will probably be my back-burner project; something to work on when I have time.

Synopsis for THE FOURTH CHANNEL
I entered a contest for new novelists by submitting a 1-page synopsis and the first 2,000 words of my action/urban fantasy novel. Now, to be honest, the reason I’m so scared to query an agent is because of the heartache I get trying to figure out a query blurb. I’ve just never been able to wrangle one. At all. So the fact that I was finally able to wrangle a 550-word synopsis of my 120k book… Serious accomplishment. I doubt I’ll win the contest, but to know that yes, I can do it… well, I’m very excited.

I don’t know if I’ll make any editing progress on THE FOURTH CHANNEL this week, though I do intend to sit down and at least start penning ideas/scenes for another project. I’ll make that my goal for this week.

Goals this week:
1. Write Site 27 Finale
2. Protag, Antag, and loose plot for next project

I hope everyone’s doing well and going strong with their goals. I have to say, while I do like reading everyone else’s goal check-ins, I get kind of bummed that no one says exactly what their projects are about. It’s hard to be excited about a simple number. What’s your book about?

I’ve said this before, but for my own peace of mind I want to say it again: I’m not good at making or tracking writing goals. Mostly because in four years of writing, I’ve never done it. One of my good writing friends, Steven Montano (author of the ass-kicking Blood Skies novel) is always aware of his progress. He periodically mentions it on Twitter or in emails. “I’m 2/3 through my next novel!” and “Hit the 50% mark on novel edits!” and “I write faster than you, bitches! HA HA HA HA!”

Okay, he’s never said that last one. I just hear it in my head when he zips past me like the freaking Road Runner of writing.

ROW80 has changed me. These last two weeks in the program have been phenomenal. This post isn’t about whether or not I hit my goals. It’s about how having the goals has forced me to work differently. More efficiently. Faster. Better. I won’t bog you down with details. I will just say that when I write, my work gets done. I wish I could convey just how damn excited I am about this. I have hope for a long-standing and enjoyable career as a writer. I’m now in a position to take a writing career by the horns and, uh, do whatever it is once you’ve got the horns of a 2500-lb. pissed off bull in your hands. Scream like a little girl? I can do that.

Anyhoo. Now for the good news:

My web series is still coming along strong. On Friday, I released Part 4. I’m very excited about where Site 27 is headed because I’m going to give my readers/voters a chance to change the broader story world. Forever.

Should be a good time.

My urban fantasy novel, THE FOURTH CHANNEL, is still in revision stage. This weekend, I officially passed the 50% mark. I want to have this book finished by the end of the month. That means 15k per week for the next 4 weeks. I’m positive I can do it.

The biggest news of all is this: I’ve decided to query this novel.

I don’t expect to actually get an agent, but I should at least try. So I’m going to. I feel strongly about the book and my novel writing partners (Steven & Amber West) have responded positively to what they’ve read. Steven’s been through the first third of the book, and Amber’s been through the first half. If the querying thing doesn’t work out (I really only plan on querying a handful of agents so I’m not expecting much) then I’m going to self-publish.

This weekend I even started penning a sequel. When THE FOURTH CHANNEL is all wrapped up at the end of the month, I’ll start focusing on that. I believe it will also be time for a new Vote Your Adventure.

Except for my friends. You have to be here. (Sorry, friends.)

And now, it’s time for another episode of “Unsolicited Advice” with your host, Ranty McRanterson!

Well, I have a microphone, and you don't, SO YOU WILL LISTEN TO EVERY DAMN WORD I HAVE TO SAY!

Something happened earlier this week. Not to me, but to a writer friend. This friend happens to be one of the sweetest people I’ve met. She threw out a Tweet saying she thinks someone in her writers’ critique group was making fun of her. Immediately, my Spidey Senses Douchebag Detector started tingling. She then forwarded me an incriminating email where an unnamed person attempted to provide feedback on a portion of her novel.

Remember the infamous MTV Awards where the all-American sweetheart Taylor Swift won the “Best Female Music Video Award”, but Kanye West ran on stage, grabbed the microphone from her and declared Beyonce had the greatest video of all time? OF ALL TIME?

The email was like that, only less coherent.

I believe what the person was trying to say was that one of the character’s reactions didn’t ring true to him. Only he was saying it in the most sarcastic and demeaning way possible.

I talked to my writing friend about her critique group. Apparently she’s the only person in the group who is actually writing anything. She gets feedback from only a couple of people — including the moron who sent her the email*. She seemed kind of scared to let the group go, since she is determined to get critique and be connected to other writers… and this crap is all she has.

So listen up, writers! I’m about to rock your world with this tidbit of wisdom:

You don’t need a freaking crit group.

No, seriously. When I first started writing, I blogged every day. And then I came home, grabbed the laptop, and went into a dark hole all by myself, and wrote stories. Bad ones. I did that every single day for years. I didn’t wait for a crit group to tell me if I was on the mark; I just kept writing. And you know what? I got better. The more I wrote, the better I became.

Just go into your hole and keep writing.

It’s okay. I mean, I get it. I once thought I needed a critique group, too. I wanted feedback very badly. I still do. Unfortunately, the standard critique group didn’t work for me. For one thing, you’re matched with all different skill levels and, for another, people just weren’t as serious about writing and improving.

Oh, yeah. There are lots of people who attend crit groups and have no intention of working at improvement. That shouldn’t surprise anyone. After all, people spend small fortunes to attend colleges with no intention of learning anything. People treat crit groups the same way. When you’re determined to be a great writer, you quickly find that these little groups are a waste of time. And I can’t respect their attitudes toward writing, so why should I respect what they have to say about my work?

The answer is: I don’t.

Writers, you must be selective about who speaks into your writing life.

There’s nothing wrong with being selective. It doesn’t make you mean or snooty. It makes you serious about improving and will protect you from a lot of bad advice. If you’re at the stage where you feel you need critique, remember:

Good advice will help you grow as a writer. Bad advice will cause you to, uh… get gangrene and you’ll have to chop off an arm or something.

You know what I mean. If you’re serious about writing, you can’t afford to receive bad crit.

Date various writers like you do before you get married. Not everyone is going to be suited to you. And I also think writing relationships wane and sometimes you even grow apart. Try out different people with no commitments. Send them a half chapter and see what they say.

Are they actively working on a writing project that you respect?
Do you have similar goals?
Do they take a month to provide feedback?
Do their comments inspire you to continue writing or do you want to jump from the top floor?
Do you feel that their writing is strong and can stand up to yours, or are you propping them up?
Do you respect them as a writer?
Do they respect you as a writer?
Do they accept feedback well?

Be flexible and figure out a loose system that works for you and your partners.

Now that I’m involved with novelists that I respect, I find that getting a scheduled hour together is impossible. The hours we can eek out of our work and family schedule go straight to writing time. Instead, I’ve learned to just email off a section of work, and I know that I’ll hear back in a few days. I don’t get stressed or worried — we’re all working hard on novels and web stuff, and pinning people down to tight crit deadlines is a cruel ask.

Remember, there’s no hard feelings if it’s not a good match. I’ve given work to writing friends before and all I got back was, “I liked this a lot — will send in-depth notes as soon as I can.”

And then never heard more.

It doesn’t mean that they are bad writers or bad crit partners — in fact, I consider many of these people friends. It just means we are not well-suited to one another in writing. I know lots of people who make great spouses… to other people. It’s not personal, it’s just that you can’t be a good match for everyone and visa versa.

I now understand why agents are so picky about finding writers they love. I want to mesh. I don’t want to take on a piece of work that I don’t love reading and critiquing. (I’ve done that and it’s agony.) I want to have similar goals and work ethic. You should, too.

If you can’t find that right now, no crit group is better than a crappy one.

* Before you ask why no one was talking to the idiot Kanye-crit group guy, I already asked. Apparently everyone’s response was that this guy is just being super funny! Not funny to me. I would have kicked him from the group. Since they won’t kick him from the group or talk to him about his damaging advice, my advice was to drop the group immediately.

1. NO INTERNET while writing.
2. Weeks that I’m making revisions/edits: 2 chapters per week
3. Weeks that I’m completely rewriting chapters (only 3 of those): 1 chapter per week
4. In case #2 and #3 aren’t applicable, 3000 words per week

I would love to have higher goals, but my Vote Your Adventure series really messes with that. The good news is ROW80 has forced me to be more productive when I can sit down to work on my novel.

So how did I do?

The NO INTERNET thing is coming along. I find it funny that, as I’m sitting down to write, I have to consciously tell myself: STOP.

Get your hand off the mouse and back away from the email icon and nobody gets hurt!

It’s getting a little better, and I think I’m starting to break the bad habit.

The even better news is, I’ve exceeded my goals. In 2 1/2 weeks, I’ve plowed through 5 chapters of revisions and I’m halfway through a full rewrite of chapter 7… and then I made line edits on 3 chapters of my WIP.

It doesn’t sound like a lot in my head, but when I put it on paper I feel a little better.

Tonight and tomorrow I will be working on Part 3 of my latest web story, but when that wraps up, I intend to complete the rewrite on chapter 7. That’s about 3000 words.

And no internet while I’m doing it.

I’ll check back on Sunday to let you know how I did. Hope everyone’s having a very successful week with their goals!

Build it and they will come.

So he does! Inexplicably to everyone around him, he mows down his crops and makes a baseball field. And, as the mysterious voice says, the masses FLOCK to the baseball field. Inexplicably and out of nowhere. Masses of people who don’t understand it themselves. A weird ass field in the middle of nowhere.

Hey, man! Check out my weird ass field! That'll be $50.

I bring this up because I’m getting a lot of positive feedback about my new “professional” website at JenKirchner.com. A few people have been asking me about my overnight success and my amazing ability to write. How did I do that?

Well, I’m a magical leprechaun from the Land of Awesomeness.

Seriously, though. I want to talk about this but I don’t want to turn into a social media person. There are lots of those people out there, and I can even recommend a few who enjoy the subject. I don’t. I’m not a mingler. Internet mingling with strangers for extended periods really wears me out. However, since the questions have been coming in, I want to briefly talk about a couple of things. I’ll probably have to do this in segments so my posts can stay short-ish.

But what about “build it and they will come”? You built it and droves came, right?

No. Here’s the First Truth: Everyone has a blog. Not everyone wants to read yours.

Screw you!

Sorry. I don’t mean to be all Debbie Downer. But the truth is, not everyone will like your blog. I don’t like every blog that’s out there, either. YOU don’t even like every blog out there.

For example, most writers I know love Jodi Hedlund’s blog. She’s a published author, she has an actual agent, and she blogs about smart writerly things. She’s pretty savvy, too. Half the people I interact with on Twitter are constantly forwarding her blog links. I’ve read her blog, so I can tell you the information is spot on.

Yet I don’t like her blog.

It’s nothing personal. Her style and her voice just aren’t for me. I’m a goofy kind of person, a bit of a nerd, and incredibly sarcastic. I want to read blogs that are like that. I prefer Alan Edwards’ blog over hers because he’s looking in my writerly soul and forcing me to laugh about it. I like Amber West’s blog because she talks about writing and pooping and she doesn’t apologize.

You have to be different and you have to be YOU. Only not the real you. If you’re going to try and woo people through a blog, you must be as dynamic as the protagonists you write about. You have to take your personality and attach a set of jumper cables to its nipples and the other end of the cables to a car battery and then turn on the ignition.

Warning: You and your nipples may not be on good speaking terms later.

Voice is important.

When I first expressed an interest in blogging, my husband, who knows about these things, told me the golden rule:

Content is key.

When I knew I wanted to be a writer and be successful at it, I started investigating what I had to do. Literary agents everywhere were declaring the need for a “platform” and a “professional website” and an “online presence”. These days, agents expect you to already have a reader base. Without having a published novel.

Because we’re supposed to be magical leprechauns who divide by zero and manage not to blow up the world.

Anyway, I investigated what that meant and I checked out other author blogs. Everywhere I went, writers were blogging about adverbs and first person prose, yet were turning right around and saying they are blogging so they can reach out to readers and potential book buyers.

Listen. I have tried that with this very blog, and I’m telling you it doesn’t work for me. It just doesn’t. Maybe it works for you. Good for you. But I was talking about that crap and I wasn’t getting anyone to read it.

Well, I take that back. My mom loves it.

I thought long and hard about what to do with my professional blog. I researched. I went to websites of established authors. I went to the websites of my peers. I thought long and hard about what would get me to be someone’s fan. I asked myself, what would make ME buy a book?

And that’s how I came up with the Vote Your Adventure shorts. I’m trying to build my credibility with you, so when the time comes, you’ll know my books will deliver. No, I don’t believe I’ve delivered on the promise yet — if I can bring The Relic home with an exciting and satisfying finish, I will have earned a little credibility with you. For more about building credibility with your readers, see Andrew Mocete’s Building the Trust Cred. I want you to trust me because one day, when I publish a book, I want you to pick it up with excitement, knowing that you’re not going to be disappointed. I want you to be my fan. And that’s why I’m working as hard as I am.

That’s why my blog is trying so hard to be different. I’m trying to to break out from the crowd.

I will write more on this later. The topic of “how did you do it?” is just way too massive to tackle in one sitting. Until next time, here’s the following websites where you need to start.

Additional Reading by People Who Are Good at Social Media

Start with Kristen Lamb’s blog. I did. She’s written two books on social media and platform for writers of all kinds, and her blog is full of interesting information on how to work up some internet magic. She advocates Twitter and blogging. It’s a good place to start.

When you’re ready, Ali Luke can help you write and format posts in a way that grab reader attention. She blogs for a living and talks about those kinds of things. Recently she released a free ebook on 10 ways to write better blog posts. Get the book.

Lastly, definitely see Andrew Mocete’s post on Building the Trust Cred.

Be warned: they don’t tell you what to write about. You will have to do that yourself. Go to websites that are like yours. Read their content. Find out what’s different. Do something different.

And for crying out loud, write well.

Fast forward to a year ago. I knew I wanted to become a published author and I knew that meant sharing my blog with others to some extent. Unfortunately, a lot of the things I had posted here just didn’t fit that. So I went through my blog, post by post. Half of it was either hidden or deleted entirely.

Please don’t be alarmed. That sound you hear is Tom beating his head repeatedly against the wall while screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” a la Anakin Skywalker.

I probably should have left those mundane posts. After all, who is going to go back through five years of a blog? Do you really care what my Christmas Cookie list was in 2007 or that I got an A in Ancient Art History? I didn’t think so.

Anyway, I knew at some point I would need to buy JenKirchner.com. Agents recommend a professional-looking blog and having my own name as a domain makes me feel swanky. Like I’ve upgraded from diapers to Huggies Pull-Ups. So we did. (I’m a big kid now!) And then we bought a terrific looking web theme for it. (Pretty slick for just $35.00 USD. We’re going with the dark blue color.)

Next Friday, unless Tom objects, the new site is going up. I’ll transfer most of my recent posts over and this blog will be “retired”. To kick off the swanky new JenKirchner.com, we’re going to do a riff on “Chose Your Own Adventure” books.

You narrowly escape death by cave-in, only to suffocate in your closet.

Every Friday, a short story blurb (around 500 words) will be posted. At the end of the short, I will provide three choices on what to do next. Everyone votes and, of course, the highest vote will be the next step in the story. We’ll continue each Friday until the story is completed. If we enjoyed it enough, I’ll do another. Or who knows, maybe a writer friend will want to try it out and I can direct everyone there for a few weeks. (I’m friendly and I like to share.) Anyway, I already have the first scene written, and I’m very excited for you to see it. The theme will be the MUD-world we’re working on, so it’s a military-themed, post-apocalyptic, demon-infested earth. Good luck.

Friday, May 6: JenKirchner.com! Mark your calendars! (Or I’ll just remind you.)

The game and its world are based on a new novel I plan to focus on very soon. It takes place in post-apocalyptic earth that’s been overrun by demons. The best and brightest of humanity have been wiped out and all that’s left are those with, shall we say, non-essential skills for a post-apocalyptic world. That’s right — all that’s left are the lawyers, the marketing executives, the web developers, and the like. In essence, it’s you and me, baby.

In preparation for the MUD’s release, I plan to release some “teasers”. They aren’t quite short stories. They’re just meant to give you an idea of what the world (and the new novel) will be like. Part 1 of the teaser can be found here. And now for Part 2:

The bolt shot out with a loud pop, hissing and trailing smoke. Movement inside the crevice stopped. Heads turned upward. Tails froze, poised in midair. Yellow eyes followed the water bottle as it plummeted, spinning and spewing a shower of sparks.

From the other side of the crevice, the corporal slung the crossbow over one shoulder and turned his back to them. He signaled with a wave. Two beeps crackled on the headset.

“Go.”

Tooth and the corporal dropped into the ravine.

Johnson was watching the bolt. A sharp popping sound rang out and the bolt was thrown wildly to the left. The soda bottle had been punctured by the firecrackers and it was spraying holy water across the cavern.

The scene on the ground erupted in chaos. Gray, flaky splotches appeared on the demons’ skin wherever the water touched. Unearthly screams echoed off of the cavern walls. The formation they were moving in earlier turned into a panicked evacuation, with each one scrambling over one another to get away.

Johnson exhaled slowly and jammed the butt of his gun into his shoulder. Aiming for the weakened gray spots, he started with the demons close to where Tooth and the corporal were landing.

Gunfire easily went through the wounded splotches and demons fell in a puff of toxic smoke, oozing a tar-like substance. The dead only stirred the demons’ panic further, hastening their flight out of the ravine.

Johnson stepped back from the ledge and flipped up the plate covering his forearm. The screen it protected was alive with activity. Tiny green blips on the edges told him Sarge and the rest of the team were meeting the retreating demons, noted as red blips.

Suddenly, the entire screen winked out, showing nothing but black.

“Piece of crap,” Johnson muttered, banging the side of his gun against the screen. “Come on.” He gave it another whack and the metal plate fell off. “Figures.”

The screen flickered to life and the green blips appeared, all accounted for. The red blips were quickly disappearing. The screen flickered a half-second of blackness again, only to return with an enormous red splotch filling up the center of the screen.

Johnson’s head snapped up toward the Door. The black, swirling mass of energy still hadn’t grown to full size, though the altar that it rested upon was gushing a sickening amount of blood. The flashing symbols had frozen and now only one was displayed – a crescent with various slashes through it and tiny intersecting circles. The symbol morphed from red to a blinding white.

A black dagger poked through the door. As it continued to push itself onto the physical plane, the dagger grew longer, wider, and Johnson could see that it was set on top of a red, leathery bulb. More bulbs with daggers appeared; each one smaller than the last. There were five total emerging.

A shudder rippled through Johnson as he realized — it was a foot. A gigantic foot.

The Door wasn’t large enough to allow the demon onto the physical plane. The edges wavered and stretched, its perfect rectangular shape becoming marred as the demon on the other side tried to push through.

“Corporal!” Johnson shouted. “We’ve got a Flier!”

Apparently that was old news. The corporal couldn’t help but notice the massive foot, and was doing all he could to help wake the rookie, who had passed out cold. Tooth waved her hand beneath the rookie’s nose. Johnson guessed it was smelling salts or something similar, because the rookie jerked and his head bobbed wildly. He was awake, but wouldn’t be much help against one of Hell’s Lieutenants.

The Door throbbed again, its hard edges wavering. A leathery hand came through, gripped the altar, and pulled. The Demon was bent at the waist, trying to fit through.

A voice screamed from beyond the Door, multiple tones layered together — the sounds of deep, ethereal bass and clarion shriek, and everything in between. Every one of Johnson’s muscles clenched when he heard it.

A head emerged through the black screen and angry eyes flickered about the cavern. A bouquet of spikes protruded from its cheeks and flashed in the light. Its mouth opened in a vicious roar, spewing gas.

There was nothing Johnson could do from here. He watched the Corporal and Tooth drag the rookie to the base of the altar. The rookie started to gesture, waving a golden object, looking as if he were performing an exorcism.

They weren’t fast enough. The Door swelled as if giving birth and the demon pushed through, screaming and chanting in its wicked tongue. Black wings trailed after it like snakes, trying to cover a restless, barbed tail.

The appendage lashed out, swiping across dirt and rock, aiming for the trio at the altar.

The corporal had expected it and ducked, hauling the rookie by the scruff of his armor. Tooth wasn’t so lucky and was sent flying. She hit the dirt-packed wall with a loud thud and rebounded, hard, onto the ground.

Johnson picked up his weapon and fired wildly at the demon’s head. Most of the gunfire ricocheted, but a couple of lucky hits pierced the demon’s soft ears. Screaming, the demon straightened to full height. It took a large step forward, too close to the cavern wall for Johnson to see. The tips of its horns poked over the top of the cliff.

Johnson took a few hasty steps back, just as a meaty hand reached up and swiped at the spot he had been standing in. A hungry growl rumbled below.

Johnson raised his weapon again, crouched, and charged forward, ready for another assault on the demon’s ear. As he neared, the hand swept over the edge, fingers reaching for him. He jumped, narrowly escaping its razor-like claws. When he hit the ground, he ran up to the edge and aimed —

But he didn’t fire. Movement on the left caught his eye. A dainty, pink balloon was arcing through the air, its flimsy rubber shell wobbling precariously. It hit the demon on the neck and popped, splashing water across its skin. A gray spot appeared everywhere the water had touched, and its protective hide turned to paper-thin flakes. Sarge and the rest of the team had finally reached the Door.

Johnson watched the demon charge his team, leaving him alone on the ledge. His speaker crackled and a single, long beep erupted in the speakers.

“Johnson, get your ass down on the ground and help get that Door closed.”

He paused, considering the team’s odds.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Sarge.”

Another beep. “That’s an order, Private!”

Muttering to himself, he slung his gun over one shoulder and turned away. As he reached for his rappelling gear, a low hiss filled the air. Johnson whirled back around.

The demon had crouched on all fours and was spewing a yellow gas from its mouth. The noxious cloud spread faster than his team could move. Only one soldier had escaped from it unharmed, running back out of the cavern. Johnson could tell it was Sarge by the duct tape wrapped around both thighs and the torso, and the favored slingshot in one hand. Everyone else was trapped in the cloud, succumbing to the effects of the hallucinogen. The voices of his teammates cut in and out over the radio waves. Someone was trying to pull the affected soldiers from the gas, but they were laughing too hard. Someone else was singing “Wheels On the Bus”.

The demon took off, hot and heavy after Sarge. Johnson dropped his rappelling gear and took off after the demon.

“Corporal!” Johnson said, “Sarge is in trouble! I’m on my way to assist!”

Johnson didn’t get a response from the corporal, which meant he was out of range. The only response was from Sarge. The radio projected absolute calm but the signal was broken by a pregnant pause, indicating she was running hard and out of breath.

“Negative, Johnson.” Pause. “Get your —” Pause. “ass down —” Longer pause. “to that Door!”

“Negative, Sarge!”

Johnson followed the demon thirty yards, where it was spinning in circles, swiping vainly at the tiny figure running laps around its feet. Sarge wasn’t even paying attention to where the gun was pointed, firing erratically in the air.

Johnson ran straight up to the edge, waited for the demon to turn and expose itself, and fired off a heavy round. Bits of gray matter and black goo splattered from its neck.

“Johnson! I said —”

Ignoring her, he fired again, giving the demon’s ear another heavy assault. By now, a small hole had formed in the lobe, and he could see through to the other side. Johnson decided it must have hurt like hell because the demon turned toward him and charged the ledge again. This time, its wings extended fully, like black sails catching wind. The sound they made as they beat the air was deafening.

The monstrous beast rose. Its head and shoulders came into clear view over the crag’s edge and red, feline eyes focused on Johnson. Its mouth opened wide, exposing a double row of needle-like teeth. Yellow gas preceded a deafening roar.

Johnson knew he couldn’t get away in time. He reached into his utility bag, searching for anything he could use to defend himself with. He felt a metal sphere at the bottom. Grabbing it, he hastily pulled it out, accidentally flinging everything else out of his pack.

It was a rusty, old grenade. He jerked the pin off. With all his strength, he lobbed it toward the demon’s open mouth and sucked in a deep breath just before the mist engulfed him.

The grenade made a clanking noise as it bounced around the demon’s teeth and dropped into its throat. The demon’s roar became a choking, gargled sound and its body convulsed.

Johnson spun around and bolted in the opposite direction. His voice echoed inside his helmet.

“Grenade!”

Two seconds later, a sickening splat echoed across the rock. Johnson dove for the ground but was unable to escape the spray. Flaming bits of demon innards pelted hard against his armor and black goo speckled the ground around him. He lay quietly for a minute, half-hoping he was dead.

The radio crackled and made a long, solitary beep.

“Johnson, if you weren’t already the lowest ranking grunt in this outfit, I’d demote you.”

He considered that for a moment, then rolled over on his back.

“Me too, Sarge,” he said. “Me too.”

She must have taken a page from the Britney Spears PR playbook. All she needs now is a razor and an umbrella.

When I took interior design courses in college, one of my instructors, an architect, said in any creative profession, criticism is abundant. Therefore, it’s important for people to learn how to receive various kinds feedback and criticism, even if it’s negative. She made us do presentations in front of the class so we could get a taste of what it was like. Some people did well. Some people acted like that crazy author. I was amazed at what could set people off. In some cases, the criticism was only that they didn’t follow the instructions — the poster board was not the correct size or they didn’t label correctly. The behavior of some of the people was astonishing. When I read that crazy author thread, I was reminded of the classroom critique.

There are several morals to this story — be professional and courteous, and don’t pay close attention to every single review. Seriously. I’m sure a person could go mad from it. Mostly, I was reminded of the value of learning to receive criticism, constructive or otherwise. It’s a must. As the old saying goes, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. That’s what criticism is supposed to do: make you stronger, faster, and better than before.

My writers’ group is shutting down soon and I’m going to need another. I’ve been investigating various online groups, but most of them involve hundreds of different people who don’t know each other, the criticism is hit-and-miss, and, in order to make it effective, total strangers must download your work.

Call me paranoid, but there’s something about letting strangers download your material and keep it… It’s not like I’m the next J.K. Rowling and I don’t want anyone stealing my multimillion-dollar prose, it’s more that strangers make me nervous. The next group will need to involve people I trust, not a million strangers from the internet.

If anyone out there is looking to start a smallish critique group, let me know. I’m interested.

You know, because it sounds vaguely inappropriate and my writers’ group loves to say, “I’m going to grab another cup of tea while you whip out your Johnson.”

I’ve received a few questions about the MUD, so I thought we’d do a short Q&A:

Q: What’s the game about? Is this some elf thing?
A: No elves. It’s post-apocalyptic earth, overrun by the hordes of Hell. The best of humanity fought and lost — and we’re all that’s left.

Q: And it’s a straight-up MUD?
A: Not exactly. It’s probably a cross between a MUD and a tabletop roleplaying game. I plan to have some in-game events.

Q: How does Tom feel about programming events into the game?
A: He’s learning about that idea right now, as he’s reading this. I’m sure he’ll have all kinds of things to say about it when I get home.

Q: What are the playable classes?
A: There will only be three, all soloable: Melee, ranged (guns) and priest. There won’t be a healer class in this game. Everyone will have med kits and the like. Soloing is a big deal to me — I still have EverQuest flashbacks. And then I get the shakes.

Q: Can you talk about the programming? It’s in Ruby, right?
A: Yes, it’s in Ruby. The programming department isn’t mine, so I can’t really speak much about it. We’ll do a Q&A with Tom soon and he can go into details about that.

Q: Have you two had any big disagreements about the MUD yet?
A: Tom was pretty aggrieved to see that I had abandoned the Oxford comma out of peer pressure. Other than that, no.

If you have more questions about the MUD, post below or email me!

And now for your teaser… When I first started kicking around the idea for the new novel & MUD, I wrote up an action scene just for exploration. Here’s part 1. Tune in again next Friday for the conclusion.

Hope you enjoy it.

Crawling on their bellies, they followed the screams to the edge of the crag and looked down. The street they lay on had been gouged straight down the middle by a god-sized hand, ripping up dirt and pipes below. From their vantage, it was a thirty foot drop, straight to the bottom.

The ground was moving. Red and black serpentine creatures slithered and stomped noiselessly, their movements an eerie, coordinated flow around a fully formed Door. The altar below it was still gathering mass and oozing blood. It was small — for now. In the center of the activity, suspended in the air and dangling upside down, was the rookie. His helmet was off and he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Two of the soldiers above backed away from the ledge. The third remained and the helmet bobbed left to right, indicating the person inside was shaking their head.

The speakers inside all of the helmets crackled and beeped: one short, then one long sound. The range on their communication system was small, so the transmission could only come from someone on the ledge.

An androgynous voice said, “Not bad for a first day. Rookie found a hive and a Door — and it’s not even breakfast yet.”

The radio was designed to suppress emotional and gender inflection. Theoretically, it helped soldiers act and react more calmly in battle. The idea came from a desk-dwelling psychologist who had never stepped foot outside New Mecca.

Another crackle on the radio system was followed by two short beeps. The voice sounded a little lower and slower, but only marginally. Picking up on the minor differences in radio voices was easy to discern after being stuck inside the helmets for three years. “How did you manage to lose the rookie?”

The figure at the ledge crawled back down, a movement made awkward by the full body armor. The figure continued to crawl until they were all side by side, lying flush against the ground.

One long and three short beeps. “I was giving the guided tour, per orders.”

Two short beeps. “This is outside of the patrol zone.”

One long and three short beeps. “I know. Rookie said, ‘What’s over that rock?’ Before I could stop him, he was gone. Listen, we have to get him back before Sarge kills me.”

They stared at him, individual expressions going unseen beneath their standard issue helmets. If it hadn’t been for the images or words above each visor, they wouldn’t know one from the other.

One long and three short beeps. “This isn’t my fault!”

One short, one long beep. “The whole reason for assigning the rookie to you was so nothing would happen to him.”

One long and three short beeps. “Nothing was going to happen as long as he did what I told him, but here we are. Now we have to go get him.”

One short, one long beep. “We?”

An argument broke out that was difficult to follow between the beeping.

The figure crouched in the middle held up a heavily armored hand, signaling silence. Amidst deep gouges on the helmet, a faded, laughing skull was taped above his visor. The suit of armor had lost its coloring long ago and its matte coating was peeling off in random patches. Duct tape seemed to be the only thing keeping it from falling off. On the right shoulder, a Christian Cross was stamped below the emblem of the Holy See. The left shoulder had a rank and a faded protection symbol that had been slashed through and rendered useless. The scratches were old; no one had bothered to repair the damage.

Two short beeps. “That’s enough, you two. We need to rescue him.”

The two soldiers crouched on either side fell silent and nodded submissively. A series of beeps over the radio was followed by a chorus of, “Yes, Corporal.”

The corporal nodded and asked, “How much holy water do you have?”

One long and three short beeps. “Just one.”

“What?” The word was muffled by distortion and static, indicating the corporal had shouted. “You’re a real screw up, you know that, Johnson?”

Johnson’s head bobbed from side-to-side again and he jammed a thumb in the direction of the screams. “I was going to make more, but our new priest decided to socialize first.”

The corporal held out his hand expectantly. “Just give it to me and try not to botch anything else. We’re going to have to go down there and get him.”

“What about the Door?”

“You know the drill,” the corporal answered. “The Door gets blown up — and don’t ask me how. We’ll use whatever we’ve got that isn’t broken.” He took the bottle and started backing away. “We may have to call in reinforcements. Stay here and I’ll get a better look.”

The corporal backed down, sprang to his feet and jogged away.

They waited until he was out of radio range before resuming the conversation.

“I can’t believe you lost the rookie, Johnson. You of all people.”

His helmet cocked to one side, causing the McDonald’s arches taped above the visor to read like the number three. “I told you, it’s not my fault.”

“But he was your responsibility and Brass won’t give us another. This will be the third priest we’ve lost in six months!”

Johnson reached over and clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tooth, we won’t lose him.”

“Are you sure?”

Johnson nodded. “We’ve seen worse. Come on.”

They crawled back to the ledge. The only thing that had changed about the situation was that the rookie had screamed himself hoarse, though he was still giving it his all.

“See?” Johnson said. “No Fliers yet.”

“We could get one at any moment.”

“Maybe,” Johnson consented, “the Door is still too small.”

But it was growing. They both fell silent and gazed uneasily at the sheet of black energy pulsing up from the altar. A random display of occult symbols flashed on it in a seemingly random sequence. As a new demon emerged from the Door, a symbol would momentarily pause and brighten. Demons leaving the physical plane would cause a symbol to pause and darken.

“Everyone has an opinion on the Doors,” Tooth said, “but I’ve never heard yours. No one knows what would happen if a human went through one.”

“Brass probably knows, but they don’t share that information with us grunts. They just keep us out here fighting and blowing up Doors when we find them.”

“Some people think the Doors lead straight to Hell. Others think it goes to a world in between.”

“Maybe. No one wants to go through one to find out.” Johnson paused and added, “That includes me.”

A long, singular sound filled the speakers and cut off abruptly. Unlike typical radio transmissions, a voice did not follow the long beep.

Johnson glanced around. Tooth brought up one arm and flipped up a metal plate. Just beneath the wrist, a small, computerized screen was alive with movement.

Tooth pointed down the street, where the crag was shallow. “Reinforcements moving in fast. Should we meet them?”

“Is it Sarge?”

Tooth nodded.

“Then no.”

Movement on the opposite side of the crevice drew their attention, where a figure was emerging. As the figure neared the edge, a white skull became visible on the helmet. Ropes trailed behind the corporal as he crawled forward.

The corporal climbed up on his knees and aimed a crossbow, where something bulky had been taped to a bolt. It was the holy water. There was something else attached to the bottle, bumps that were too small to make out.

The radio came alive again. Two short beeps. “Tooth, you’re with me. Johnson, cover us.”

Johnson jumped to his feet, reaching for the antique machine gun strapped to his back while Tooth scrambled away from the edge, looking for her rappelling ropes.

The crossbow tilted downward, aiming at the demons, the Door, and the rookie.

Two short beeps. “Ready?”

“No,” Tooth answered.

Johnson turned around. Tooth was a frazzled mess, trying to jam her anchor into a crack in the asphalt. He walked over and stomped his heavy boot down on top of it. Tooth gave the ropes a hard jerk and jumped to her feet.

“Thanks.”

Their readiness was signaled with a wave. A lighter emerged in the corporal’s hand and small sparks flickered to life around the bottle. He was going to blow up the plastic with a handful of common firecrackers.

Johnson aimed his gun again and Tooth put her back to the edge.

“Let’s do this,” Johnson said.