I feel the need to further a discussion started recently by writer Maggie Stiefvater. This past month, she went on a rant about the ridiculous overuse of rape within literature. I would say that I couldn't agree more, but in fact, I can agree far more.

Like Maggie, I've encountered several books of late which use rape or attempted rape as a means to further the character development of a female character. I could provide examples, but I'm hesitant to do so. My concern isn't so much that I might offend the authors I point out or their readers; it's that I don't think it would be fair. The writers (men and women) I'd point out aren't hacks who haven't the creative talent to craft a well-rounded character with an engaging arc. Many of these books, I've actually enjoyed quite a lot for their other merits. Sadly, these writers have fallen prey to a general acceptance that rape works as a "go-to device" for advancing storylines.

The more I read about the leering gazes and aggressive threats and gestures, the more disgusted I get at the absurd acceptance of this portrayal--and I'm not referring to women being depicted as victims. No, I could mirror Maggie's arguments about the excessive use of rape against women in literature as a means to create character development, but that seems silly. She does a fine job in her recent blog entry, and it's well worth the read. No, my rant focuses on a different side of the coin:

Do we really have such a low opinion of men?

Seriously. Why is it so acceptable to blanketly portray men in such a despicable light? Want to show that a society is violent and brutal? Well then, just make the majority of men sex-driven bruisers who look at women as playthings and baby-makers. Want to make your reader despise the villain? That's simple enough. Just find a convenient opportunity for the villain to disrespect a woman, and mission accomplished. Really, people? You're okay with this?

Before some of you want to say that I'm not being realistic about what men are like, even in our own society, then you'd be mistaken. I've worked for more than eleven years as a 911 dispatcher. In that time, I've talked to murderers, men who've killed women. I've also talked to some women who do a tremendously poor job representing the female half of the population. My job has proven to me that the dark side to equality is that both men and women can suck.

Thankfully, in that time, I've also talked to some people who could bring tears to your eyes for the humanity they display towards others. Damn, I love those calls, but the jaded dispatcher in me realizes, I'm only catching a glimpse of that person's character. Do we really believe the same person who is capable of showing great compassion in one moment is incapable of equally immoral actions? Is it so unrealistic to think we can have a vicious and hated villain in a story who also believes in equality?

Men and women have no shortage of moral crimes they can commit. That's why I ask my fellow writers to challenge themselves. Yes, there will be stories that demand rape as an element, where it might even be appropriate, as difficult as that is to imagine. Stories will require men to be less than they can or should, but we can do better than this. The same minds that can build entire worlds and fill them with souls to entertain and inspire readers can also provide richer ways to unfold those many lives within their tales. We writers have an obligation to ourselves and our readers to reveal all the layers of humanity and not settle for cheap stereotypes that sell humanity short.

I'd promised these "Tuesday Tips" for writers would be a weekly event, but then I promptly missed posting a tip last week. In my defense, I was at the beach bouncing on the waves with my boogie board. It was a most-needed break from everything. That said, let's get to this week's tip:



A lot of people start writing a story, but then they never finish it. Perhaps the biggest villain in this effort, second only to sheer laziness, is the desire to make it perfect.

For the unpublished author, perfectionism is the devil. Perfectionism bogs you down and creates the illusion of accomplishment. Yes, you've written a brilliant first chapter, because you've tweaked that bitch until it sings like an opera star born with a sound system in her throat who can belt out "Miss Saigon" while doing "The Electric Slide" across the stage... without looking like an idiot.

Problem is... the first chapter is all you've got. Why? You're not willing to make a mistake.

Rough drafts aren't called "flawless first drafts" for a reason. They're meant to be ugly. They're the lump of featureless flesh that's born which everybody "Oo's" and "Ah's" over while pretending to see the best features of the parent. Nobody wants to acknowledge babies are nothing but needy, whiny poop and pee pee dispensers. Everybody loves to see a baby, but nobody likes to deal with it or spend any real time with it. No, you've gotta raise that child and do it right, but none of that happens until after the baby is born.

That's what your rough draft is all about, people.

This doesn't mean to ignore when the book is clearly off the rails. That's another matter. This means to get something done.

Get the baby born. Then you can raise it.

After spending a week on vacation, I returned to Richmond with a bang. Yesterday, I went to Fountain Bookstore for a book signing. I was part of Fountain's "Local Author Day." From 1pm-2pm, I as joined by fellow fantasy writers C.W. Nash and Daniele Lanzarotta. This was my first time meeting either of them, but we had a good time. I hope to cross paths with both of them again in the future.


I was armed with many copies of the anthology FOUR IN THE HOLE, which includes my short story "The Deadlands." It was an interesting experience for me, and I learned a few things that I believe will be worth sharing another day within this blog. For now, I'm simply going to enjoy the afterglow of the event.

This will be the first of what will become weekly tips for writers within my blog. I think it's important to start with a big and, ultimately, most important bit of advice:



Yes, that's it. That simple. Just consider how difficult it is to put yourself into that one position, and you'll realize how important and significant it is. The simple act of putting yourself in front of your computer (or pen/pencil and paper, if you go old school) is perhaps the first and most important step in getting anything written.

No, sitting down to write doesn't guarantee what you produce won't be dreck, but at least you will produce something. Until you get something written, you can't become a good writer.

Yes, yes... I've sung this tune before, but some changes are afoot in the life of Bill, the Wildcat. Things have gotten more active in my writing life since I last posted here. I'm proud to say, I've enjoyed some success here and there. More of my short stories are getting published, and I plan to publish many more.

I've also established a stronger online presence with my website, www.billblume.com. The new place looks rather spiffy, with pages devoted to each of my stories, plus some other goodies. I'll be updating this blog to better fit in as a part of my new accommodations.

My next short story to see print will be "Borrowed Shadows," a story about a boy who was born without a shadow. You'll be able to find that in Chamberton Publishing's fantasy/science fiction anthology, LIMELIGHT, due out this October. The publisher is putting out five anthologies, each with a different theme, as part of their "Golden Light Anthologies" series. They've even put together a promo for the books.

The Third Bear’s Revenge

By Bill Blume (Writing as “Ted E. Bear”)


Sam had waited years for this. He wiggled one of his paw’s nails up and down in the door’s gold lock. Hecould have broken in the door, but he didn’t want anything to warn her not to enter when she returned home.

Just two weeks ago, he’d seen the golden- haired woman wandering through the woods with some kind of long stick in her hands. He recognized her scent. No matter how many times his mother washed his bed sheets, her stench never faded. He followed the trail to this cottage, and his plan took shape.

The tumblers surrendered to his paw’s manipulations. The wooden door creaked open. He dropped to all fours and strolled into the kitchen. Not even one pot of porridge left to cool. Lousy bitch. Sam rifled through the pots on the counter. The first was flour. The second contained uncooked rice. The third pot held the real prize--honey. “Just right.”

He upended the pot. The sticky stuff slid into his mouth. His tongue struggled to get the last drops, including the dribbles on his chin.

In the den, he found a leather chair facing the fireplace. He tried to climb onto it. Damn thing was too small. A well-placed swipe of his paw flung it across the room. A rocking chair on the far side of the room wasn’t worth a try. The sofa added the final insult. Just the right size, but when he climbed onto it, the legs gave out.

Sam blamed the girl. Ever since he’d been traumatized by finding her asleep in his bed, he’d compensated with food. A pot of honey here, a fish there... All those midnight snacks when he awakened from nightmares! He unloaded a pile of scat on the unaccommodating sofa.

He wished he could see the look on her face when she found that pile of poop, but he had business elsewhere. He found the stairs and climbed. Each step creaked, and he feared it might give under his weight. He wouldn’t retreat, though.

The bedroom beckoned, but as he reached its narrow doorframe, his girth stopped him short. He could see the woman’s black bed, just beyond his paw’s reach. He pushed, but he couldn’t get through the door. He couldn’t back up either, and thrashed in vain.

With a defeated sigh, he settled to the floor. He’d catch his breath and try again, but then he heard a door open. The wind sent her scent up to him. He waited for the scream, ached to hear it. She didn’t scream, though.

Why wasn’t she screaming? What was going on?

That’s when he noticed the heads on the bedroom walls.

Bears.

At the foot of the bed, a bear rug.

Dead bears everywhere.

Sam realized that hadn’t been a stick in her hands the other day, and then he heard the click of her rifle behind him.

“Oh, scat.”

Earlier this year, I posted a few writing goals for 2010. I decided to revisit those goals and see how I was doing:

1. Finish editing The Cold Shoulder
2. Target and query the agents most likely to be interested in The Cold Shoulder
3. Target agents to query for The Demon Riders
4. Finish the rough draft of 911 Hell
5. Revive my comic strip, "The Wildcat's Lair"

So, how am I doing? Let's just say four out of five ain't bad.

"Finish editing The Cold Shoulder?" Yeah, that's done.

"Target and query the agents most likely to be interested in The Cold Shoulder?" Yeah, in the process of doing that.

"Target agents to query for The Demon Riders?" Yeah, definitely been doing that, too.

"Finish the rough draft of 911 Hell?" Oh... Well, not so much. This book draws heavily on where I work, a 911 Center. I even made quite a bit of headway with the story. By mid-March, I'd written just under 42,000 words, but that's where I stopped. Why? It's not that it's a bad story. Perhaps I'm not passionate enough about it, but it's also because the material hits a little too close to home. Even if it is good, the prospect of writing something that just makes me hurt even more seems foolish. I'll come back to this hiccup in my 2010 writing goals in a moment.

Last, but not least: "Revive my comic strip, "The Wildcat's Lair"?" Most definitely a "yes" on this one. After a lot of soul-searching, I relaunched my photo-comic back in March. Been having a lot of fun with it, too. Hoping that'll hold. Figure it's too soon to celebrate, because I see part of the unwritten part to this goal as making it through to the end of the year and into 2011 without another extended "hiatus."

So where do I stand, writing-wise, almost halfway through 2010? Well, I've shelved my novel 911 Hell for a time when it might not be so painful to write such material. That would be nice. Seems a shame for all that writing to be for naught. For several weeks, I found myself with nothing to write, and that angered me. I talked about it with my wife and realized I needed to find something I could get passionate about, not something that would chase a trend, but I also wanted it to be something with publishing potential.

Vampire stories have always fascinated me, but not for the monsters. I've always wanted to read about the hunter. What kind of person does it take to not only hunt beings built for murder, but to destroy them again and again? After a lot of debate, I decided to venture back into YA (Young Adult) waters for this tale. The hero of the story is a teenage vampire hunter named Gidion. His story is something akin to "Buffy" with testosterone and a touch of "Burn Notice" thrown in there. I'm avoiding any camp but I certainly don't ignore opportunities for humor. There's been plenty of it.

Gidion's vampires don't poof into ash when they're killed, and they most definitely don't sparkle. I love making him deal with the more mundane, practical issues of hunting vampires just to see how he deals with them. Just as fun is to force the real world into the lives of the vampires he hunts and to see how they adjust. The story also focuses on Gidion's father and grandfather, who are all the family he has. He's reached that age where the kind of man he'll be is taking shape, and it's changing his life at home and endangering the limited circle of friends he has.

I started writing about Gidion a little more than a month ago, and in that time, I've written more than 20,000 words. The story is coming together really well, and the turns it takes keep exciting me. I've not been this passionate about something I've written in quite a few years, and it feels so good to have that feeling again.

Oh, and yes, I know I failed to post the last ten episodes of pictures from my London trip. Bad of me, I know. Don't worry. I intend to post those pictures soon.

Until next time...

After my wife and I finished with our picture of Merlin at New Scotland Yard, we headed for Trafalgar Square. We had planned (and paid) in advance to go on a "Jack the Ripper" walking tour, which started near there. In light of the fiasco in locating New Scotland Yard, we decided not to take any chances and went to Trafalgar Square with plenty of time to spare.

In an effort to save time and preserve our marriage, we split up. My wife went shopping while I attempted to locate the travel shop where our tour was to begin. Even with a map in hand, making no effort to disguise that I was a tourist, I hurried about trying to find our destination. It was maddening to stand in the open with a map and still be almost completely lost. Fortunately, I found the place with more than enough time for me and Sheri to get some dinner and then goof around for a few pictures in Trafalgar Square.

As I've previously confessed, the streets of London confused the devil out of me. So it was that we happened across Buckingham Palace by accident. So how did this happen? It all starts with a little dragon named Merlin.

As fans of my comic strip know, Inspector Merlin calls England home, so when we decided to fly to London, I couldn't resist the idea of taking a picture of Merlin in front of New Scotland Yard.

On Sunday, we had a battle plan. The day would start with a trip to the Sunday UpMarket. After that, we would drop of our stuff at the hotel, then ride the tube to St. James Park which is the closest stop to New Scotland Yard. We'd snap the shot of Merlin and then head for the Tower of London and maybe walk to Tower Bridge. This was our plan for the day, and it seemed like a good one. On the map, New Scotland Yard looked little more than two or three blocks from the St. James Park station.

Map in hand, we exited the station and tried to figure out which way to go. To paraphrase the old knight from "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," we chose poorly. With the map to guide us, we adjusted our direction a few times and about a half hour later, we walked right up to Buckingham Palace. What... the... Hell.

Well, as you've seen by the past few days, we made the best of a bad situation and took a ton of pictures of Buckingham Palace. We even snapped a few of Merlin there. After that, I pulled out the map and regrouped. With a more solid idea of where we were, I figured out how to get to New Scotland Yard. We made it there, snapped our shots of Merlin and realized we wouldn't get to do much more there. The place isn't really designed for entertaining tourists. So, the picture of Merlin taken, we braced ourselves for the task of finding the St. James Park station. We made it there in two blocks. No sooner had we turned the corner than we were standing at the entrance. If we'd just gone right, instead of left, we'd have been there in less than three minutes. I felt like an idiot. The streets of London had made me their bitch, and shortly thereafter, my sense of direction was bested by the streets of London... again. But that's another entry yet to come.

This will be my last day of pics of Buckingham Palace. This really is a beautiful place.

One of the more interesting things to witness was a police officer on a motorcycle whizzing down the street leading towards the palace. One, it's a tough picture to take with my camera, because it has a slight delay, but I got it just right. Two, it was neat to see him going lights and sirens to a call and using this street with mostly foot traffic as a shortcut to wherever he was going. Very cool. I also snagged a shot of a police car, but the car wasn't in any hurry.

I was also really happy with a picture I took with the sun's rays shining down on the palace. Just brilliant!