Arkham City Catwoman costume

Finally finished this baby. It was a labor of love, let me tell you. This was a custom commission for a client, and lucky for me she was plenty flexible about when she needed it done, because like all great undertakings, it always needs more time than you have allotted for it. I should have kept better track of my hours, but knowing how much time I actually spent on it would probably just make me depressed. The goggles and the hood alone took a week.

Arkham City Catwoman costume bodysuit. Heavy matte spandex and snakeskin print spandex.

Arkham City Catwoman goggles and hood.

Gloves. Duh.

Extra details.

Soon I hope to have full-length cosplay shots from the client. She's planning a group photoshoot and I am desperately eager to see this on a person.

Some FAQ of interest:
1. Yes, I can make one for you, however my supply of snakeskin fabric is limited and I may substitute something else (equally cool!) in future. Price is $700 +shipping as of May, 2012. I need at least 6 weeks work time before your event. Do not email me and ask for a "simpler" or "cheaper" version--it makes me very cranky. The seriously interested can get the details in my Etsy shop.

2. I am not selling the pieces (hood, goggles, gloves) separately at this time.

3. I do not have a pattern available at this time.

4. I cannot and will not advise you on how to make your own costume or give tips on how I did it. Because I derive my income from making costumes, it is not in my best interest to give away the ideas and techniques that took me weeks of trial and error to establish. I do occasionally create tutorials which you can find on the sidebar to the right. Thanks for understanding.

spiritual warfare

Trace spent much of the morning away from the house. It was easier to think that way, and he had a lot to ponder.

Miss Fairweather had handed over a lot of information last night, far more than she’d surrendered in the previous six months. He rather thought most of it was true, even. But with the exception of the detail about her niece, she hadn’t told him much more than he’d deduced for himself. And even if the bit about the niece was true, it didn’t account for certain other things he’d observed, like her strange bouts of illness, and her reluctance to venture out of her house. And he remembered something else from the trance—Trace had cut the line between Mereck and himself, but he had sensed a tether on Miss Fairweather, as well. Despite her protestations that she had no psychic powers, despite her verbal exclusion of herself as one of his protégés, despite the late Herr Kieler’s observation that she didn’t not bear the master’s “mark,” there was apparently something about her that Mereck deemed worth watching. There was clearly more she hadn’t yet told him. Which was typical of her.

Trace dropped in at Jameson’s and wrote a quick reply to Boz’s note—quick in the sense that it was short. He spent a good half-hour struggling with what he wanted to say and what he couldn’t. In the end he settled for the bare facts. “Back in St. Louis. Trip no trouble. Lots of book-learning ahead—likely to be quiet for a while—Trace.” Jameson, of course, was in a talkative mood and hastened to share all the latest town gossip, but Trace had lost his taste for who was working where, who was drunk, in jail, or keeping a ladybird.

He needed another source of information, he thought, listening to Jameson prattle on. Someone who knew something about Miss Fairweather’s past, or Mereck’s. He couldn’t imagine hunting down a phantom Russian, couldn’t even suppose Mereck was the man’s real name, given he seemed to spend much of his time in a travelling show. Miss Fairweather might be easier to track, but she was from England, which wasn’t exactly the next county over, and she’d already told him her nearest kin was dead. Even supposing she had any connections left, they were unlikely to know of her occultist actitivies, much less consent to discuss them with a stranger.

As for the people they had in common—Mereck’s victims—all those Trace had met were mad, dead, murderous, or some combination thereof. He remembered that dead whore down in Sikeston, poor mad Lisette, who had been much like Trace while she lived—a powerful medium, strong in her faith, and uneasy about reconciling the two. Mereck had played on her fears, set her beliefs against her desires until her mind gave way, and then abandoned her to commit the ultimate sin. Trace wondered if her entrapment in the spirit world was due to the tragic circumstances of her death, or a curious effect of her power, or a curse from God for taking her own life, or a final trap laid by Mereck—to keep her in servitude to him even after death. Her spirit had certainly been eager to whore itself to a new master; it had killed a man in an effort to show Trace what a good servant she could be.

Trace had come a long way away from his conviction that his power was a curse laid on him by God. He had stopped fearing it, for the most part; he no longer felt as if every spectral visitor was sent to torment him or tempt him into Hell. But he still shied from the idea of taking spirit familiars, especially the murdering kind.

And yet… Miss Fairweather had regular contact with the spirit world. She apparently had a house full of spirits who helped her—or helped him, at any rate. Some of them might be willing to spy for him, but he doubted the kitchen maid was privy to Miss Fairweather’s dark plans, far less a match for her sinister manservant.

He needed someone stronger. Someone… more like mad Lisette.

The thought was chilling… and intriguing. And slightly maddening, that he was thinking of enlisting the spirits of the dead in a war of espionage.

thank you mistress, may I have another?

Trying to write this morning. Very difficult finding Trace's mood/voice at the beginning of Curious Weather--one of the problems I always had with this story. He's back in Miss Fairweather's house, trying to learn from her, and of course she immediately cuts him off at the knees.

Learning is by nature a submissive process. I'm one of the worst people I know when it comes to submitting to authority and yet I yield to my Sifu every time. I'm more humble before him than anyone else in my life. And it's not because he requires it, it's because I know I won't learn if I don't.

But it feels tremendously tricky to pull off that same submissiveness of Trace before Miss Fairweather without completely emasculating him. Trace is the hero, a grown man and we've already seen him be quite the badass, so I'm worried about making him put up with this mean little woman's crap.

Further complications ensue from the point of view. Trace is by nature a watcher, a doer, and while this makes him a reliable narrator, in her presence, her personality is so dominating that his tends to get lost.

Maybe I'm overthinking it. There are plenty of fantasy stories that involve the hero learning his chops, but those are almost always a young person learning from an elder. How to keep the balance? How to let Trace assert his own power? Once I get the ghost action rolling, it should be easier, but right now I'm flailing. Ach, soggy writing muscles.

How to know when you're talking down to your readers, and what to do about it

"Don't talk down to your audience."

I've seen this advice in many, many books about writing fiction, but I haven't been able to find much about how to diagnose when you're doing it, or how to stop.

The issue came up in my writer's group. I suggested that a manuscript was "talking down" to the reader, and the rest of the room agreed, but we couldn't quite define the qualities that gave us that impression. And the writer understandably wanted to know what she was doing wrong.

There are a few reasons why a writer might unconsciously talk down to her audience:

movies of the week

You know how sometimes you know a movie is going to be bad but you have to watch it anyway just to get it out of your system? I downed three of those in the last 24 hours.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Gary Oldman, John Hurt, Colin Firth)--Benedict Cummerbranch and Firth were the only two who didn't seem to be sleepwalking in this somnambulant spy thriller. Ultra-stylish, limping along on flashbacks, mistakes obfuscation for suspense.

Anonymous--Vanessa Redgrave and Jolie Richardson play Queen Elizabeth I as a childish, neurotic cougar. Bunch of other men conspire around her to no effect. And there's some slop about the power of words and the glory of artistic expression.

A Dangerous Method--less melodramatic than the trailer would have you believe, which is all to the good, but the restraint of the writing, acting, and directing leaves me with a tepid feeling of frustration--not exactly the afterglow you want from a movie in which at least three main characters advocate freedom of thought and sexuality as vehicles to mental health.

I feel so repressed right now I may have to flush my brain with some Michael Bay to recover balance.

goat cheese vinaigrette vegetable dip

This is a tangy, savory dip I made up. It's especially suited to raw vegetables.


1/2 brick of cream cheese,
1 small package (3 oz) goat cheese
2 Tbs mayo
juice 1/2 lemon
salt & pepper
1-2 tsps Penzey's French Vinagrette dressing mix*
extra pinch of both rosemary and thyme (optional--I like the piney flavor of the rosemary with the lemon)
dash cayenne

Allow cheeses to reach room temp. Blend together cheeses and mayo. Add salt, pepper and herbs. Add lemon juice and stir well. Keep cool.

*this vinagrette mix includes salt, pepper, sugar, rosemary, thyme, garlic, onion, scallions. Using the real thing fresh would probably be even better!

seafood congee

There's a place called Blue Koi in Kansas City, a sort of upscale pan-Asian cuisine place. A friend introduced me to it a couple of years ago and I recently persuaded my husband to go back and try it with me. Yesterday was our third visit in as many months. It's a bit pricey by Chinese-cook standards but in my opinion, the freshness and well-designed quality of the food is well worth it.

The weekend special was seafood congee with shrimp rolls on the side, and oh my, was it good. Rich, flavorful, briny, perfectly textured except a couple pieces of chewy calamari. The shrimp and lobster and scallops were all melt-in your mouth tender, and there was a generous amount of fish in the mix. The shrimp rolls––minced shrimp rolled in narrow phyllo straws and flash-fried––were dipped in a hot/sweet sauce that complemented them perfectly. I'm actually not the world's biggest shrimp lover but the spices and seasonings in Southwest Asian cuisine really bring out its best qualities.

While lunching, we overheard the owner talking to a couple of young men at the next table. One guy apparently had little experience with Asian foods, asked a lot of questions and finally settled on soup with fried tofu in it, instead of plain tofu. The owner gently explained that fried tofu was not a good idea for soup, texture-wise. The patron sort of cluelessly insisted it was ok. The owner took their order and went away. A few minutes later the waiter came back and reiterated what the owner had tried to explain: tofu soaks up liquid; fried tofu would just get soggy and turn to glue in the soup. The patron graciously gave in.

I had to respect that––the house considering the textures and end-quality of its food, the gentle insistence, not that the patron was wrong, but the education, the assertion of, "Trust us, we'll give you the best dining experience."

My husband had the roast duck with a gentle sauce and a big bowl of rice. Normally this dish is served with a sort of pickled carrot salad and roast peanuts. The Sparring Partner asked for another vegetable instead, and got pickled cucumber––chilled, thinly sliced, lighty dressed in vinegar and sugar for a tangy-sweet flavor. It was very good with the rich duck.

"The food in this place is a lot higher-level than I thought it was," my husband said.

"I agree," I said. "It's a lot higher level than you thought it was."

the epitome of Valentine's Day

This Valentine's Day is the first since 1990 or so that I did not dress in black. I hate Valentine's Day, despite being happily mated to the love of my life--I just resent manufactured holidays that encourage consumerism. This year I am working from home and no longer shop at chain stores or big box stores that will assault me with pink and red advertisements and the stink of cheap chocolate. Also, since I work from home, there's no real reason for me to get dressed at all unless I feel like it; on sewing days I wear workout clothes since I'm crawling around on the floor a lot. Today I have on stretchy jeans and a pale pink hoodie with some kind of Chinese dragon stenciled on it.

But I digress. Calendar dates mean little to me and the Sparring Partner in terms of romantic occasions; in fact the last two years we forget our own anniversary. Holidays and birthdays, if we observe them, are excuses for me to make fancy desserts.

the hardest word

Elton John said it was "Sorry," but for a editor/agent/peer the hardest word to say to a hopeful author who's waiting, bright-eyed and strung tight with anticipation, is "Boring."

I rejoined my online crit group two weeks ago, to get my head back in the critting/ storybuilding gear. After all, the best way to learn something yourself is to teach others. I've read 5-6 stories so far, written crits on two of them.

They are all painfully dull.

oatmeal peanut butter cookies

I made these by combining a few different recipes. Depending on the bake time, you can either get a chewy, peanut-butter-textured cookie, or you can overbake them and cool for a crisp granola-type cookie.

Preheat oven to 350º F.

2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 c flour
1/2 c granulated sugar
1/2 c dark brown sugar
1/4 c coconut flour (optional--adds fiber and makes a drier, crisper cookie)
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
pinch salt

1/2 c butter, melted
1 c peanut butter
2 eggs, room temp
1 tsp vanilla
1/2 bag chocolate chips

Combine dry stuff in large bowl. Melt butter, remove from heat and stir in peanut butter til semi-combined. Make a well in the dry ingredients, pour in butter & peanut butter. Add 2 eggs and vanilla. Stir by hand until well combined. Stir in chocolate chips. Mixture will be crumbly and tend to shed.

Scoop pingpong-ball sized balls of dough onto cookie sheet and flatten slightly into disks with the back of  a spoon. If you have used the coconut flour, cookies will NOT spread as they bake.

Bake 10-12 minutes for chewy cookies. Let cool on sheets 5 minutes, then cool on racks for another 10.

For crispy cookies, bake 10-12 minutes, then turn off oven, crack door open, and let the oven cool until cookies are dry and crispy.

Makes about 3 dozen thick cookies. Very filling--eat slowly!

so close, yet so far

Yesterday evening I spotted this headline on Yahoo:

Fried foods not direct cause of heart risk, new study finds.

And I'm like, HA! SUCK IT, low-fat proponents, because I've been saying that for years.

But then the article goes on to say,

"We currently recommend swapping saturated fats like butter, lard or palm oil for unsaturated fats as a way of keeping your cholesterol down and this study gives further cause to make that switch...Regardless of the cooking methods used, consuming foods with high fat content means a high calorie intake. This can lead to weight gain and obesity, which is a risk factor for heart disease."

And then I'm like, Sigh, alas alack, they still ain't getting the big picture.

In the first place I don't know of ANYBODY, aside from myself and a few other crackpots in the Primal lifestyle crowd (and I can't be sure those are real people, anyway), who cook with butter, lard, or palm oil. It's corn and soy oil 'round these parts. I was raised on Crisco, which I haven't eaten since I left my mother's kitchen, and which was giving me heartburn at age 25.

Calories do count, but much less than the soundbites would have you believe. The important thing is to make sure the calories you ingest are nutritionally dense, and helpful, rather than detrimental, to the body. Animal fats--butter, lard, tallow--are fats we evolved to eat. They're about as natural as you can get. Olive oil is natural--it's pressed out and unadulterated. Corn and soybean oil are frankenfoods. They're not good for your digestion and they're not good for your liver.

I have a great interest in the insulin theory, but it tends to be rather complex and difficult to explain to people, so I just think of it this way: if you eat calories that your body can't use, then it shuffles them aside and demands something else with some actual vitamins in it. That's why you can have a huge meal of processed foods and still feed unsatisfied.

The other problem with American fried foods is they are often breaded, and heavy batters of wheat flour are not good for you. I've used almond flour, parmesan, oat flour, gluten-free baking mix, and coconut flour for breading; they are all decent alternatives.

But sauteeing in butter or olive oil, the way they do it in France/Italy/Spain, is about as healthy as you can get, plus it tastes good. See? That's the real reason French women don't get fat.

there are days

.... When I hate the Internet and everybody on it.

moreau's daughter

“—how will you find him? Will you recognize him if you see him? The police believe the killer may be using disguises.”

“I don’t have to recognize him,” Lily said, with grim pleasure. “He’ll recognize me. ”

=======

I wrote a bit of a story over the weekend; more of a character study, really.

As alluded to previously, I wanted to transplant my assassin character into a steampunk setting and let her run free, to see how she'd talk, move, think, and operate under the constraints of Victorian society and clothing.

Also, I've always kind of wanted to write a story in which Jack the Ripper gets taken out by a vigilante chick.

It ain't great literature, but it was a fun exercise.

Read a sample here.

cosplaying a different race from your own

Here's a doozy. 

I've been researching a new character for a story. She's the offspring of Chinese prostitute and a British sailor, born in Shanghai in 1870 or so. One of the theoretical themes of said story is of ostracism and finding a place of your own.

Partly out of interest in researching the story and partly because I'm a big geek who likes to dress as my characters, I've been considering ways to make my very white-girl face look more Asian, or at least Eurasian. Looking at photos on the internet of mixed-race actresses and models demonstrates the incredibly wide variety of genetic recombinations you can get from an East-West hybrid. I'm especially interested in Maggie Q and a model/activist named Celeste Thorson, because they have longish faces and prominent jawlines, like myself.

Predictably enough, it's a big hot-point with people in the fashion and cosmetic industries, when Asian girls tape their eyelids to create folds where they weren't before, or European models tape their brows to make them look straighter or more elongated, because we're all supposed to be satisfied with what we have and not bow to the pressures of western beauty standards, or seek to satirize Eastern appearances... or whatever. Frankly I tend to think that if enough women on either side of the International Date Line are doing it, it should all balance out and everybody could quit hollerin', but I've always been crazy that way.

So what do you guys think? It's kind of trendy these days to put skinny people in fat suits to teach them sensitivity, or dress people as the opposite sex to get a different viewpoint--if you could change your features and/or skin tone *temporarily* to spend a day with the shoe on the other foot, would you? What kind of reaction do you think you'd get? 


The cosplay community I interact with is generally pretty tolerant of crossplay, e.g. dressing as the opposite sex, or re-gendering a character to suit the cosplayer's own sex, so I'd think cosplayers would be accepting of cross-ethnic-play, at least more so than the public at large.

Thoughts?

a character does not exist until you give her a name

So I spent all week jerking this rewrite out of my guts with various implements of destruction--believe me when I say, it's much easier to just write the damn thing correctly the first time, than to go back and try to take it apart and fix it later.

I actually hacked through to the end yesterday. Finished around 8:30 p.m. As I'm getting ready for bed it finally dawned on me that my face was breaking out and my gums were sore and the muscles in my neck hurt because I am COMING DOWN WITH A COLD, DUMBASS.

This morning I have a touch of headache, touch of swollen throat, touch of malaise, but I'll survive. None of that is really important, the important thing is that all the time I was writing yesterday, I had this concept chugging along in the back of my brain, a new concept, new character, new situation.

I've been thinking about my Eurasian steampunk assassin for several weeks now, and she has gradually been taking shape. Wednesday night I hounded my sifu for name options in Cantonese and he gave me one that worked. Personally, I can't work with a character until s/he has a name. I can think in general terms––what kind of character has the best personal motivation to be the right "fit" for this conflict––but I can't really find a voice until I have a name. I mentioned that to Sit t'other night and he was very pleased, for obscure Chinese reasons. "Ah, she follow Confucius," he said. (I swear I'm not making this up, so don't accuse me of perpetuating stereotypes.) "Confucius said nothing is real until you give it a name."

So on Wednesday, Lily Quinn became a real person to me. Her Chinese name is Shiao Yin, which means 'little swallow.' She needs an assassin name but we're still working on that.

And over the course of yesterday, while I was forcing myself through the wastelands of Wyoming, the story-building machinery was slowly coming to boil in the back of my brain. Character motivation A meshed with Historical Event B and layered neatly into literary reference C, thus throwing narrative Point of View D into neat focus.

There's a reason why we refer to plots as 'formulaic'. That's exactly what they are: alchemy. Cold fusion, even.

skinny models and yellow journalism

Saw this link today with the sensationalist headline: "Most runway models meet the BMI criteria for anorexia." Of course I knew it was just yellow journalism, successfully designed to drive up click-thru traffic. And of course I clicked on it.

I have several thoughts about the article, and probably none of them are going to win me any friends.

First, the article in question is in a magazine aimed at plus-size female readers, so of course they want to make their readers feel good, but they do it by denigrating the models as freakish. Tearing down anybody to make someone else feel better is not okay in my book.

Second, there's the quote, "Twenty years ago the average fashion model weighed 8% less than the average woman. Today, she weighs 23% less." That is probably true, but without knowing where they got their numbers I'm willing to bet that the difference comes less from the models getting skinnier and more from the "average woman" getting fatter. This should not be news to anybody; we all have eyes.

Third, humans––I'm going to say Americans because this is basically a first-world problem––have this constant demand for bigger better faster more––it's in our cars, our movies, our music, our social mores, and our perceptions of what is sexy. Ergo, it's inevitable that those perceptions will become more and more polarized to accommodate personal bent. So of COURSE the models are going to get skinnier, as the gulf between the haves and the have-nots widens, because the universe requires balance, and the everyday is a good deal fatter than it used to be.

We are saturated with input and numb to everything but the next shock, or the next bite of sweet/salty/sour/bitter. We are all overfed--literally--to the point of stupor. Here we sit in front of our computers sucking down Diet Coke or designer coffee, bitching about how some magazine doesn't feature women who look like me. Duh! Advertising isn't there to make you feel good about yourself! Advertising is there to make you feel wanting, so you go out and buy yet another thing to fill the hole.

Here's an idea: put down the magazine, step away from the internet, close the refrigerator. Go outside for a walk. Breathe deeply. Stop thinking about things that only serve to get people riled up. Strife is not healthy.

secrets of apple pie from scratch

This is awkward for me to admit, but my standard for good apple pie is a vague memory of the fried apple pies McDonald's had when I was a child. The ones they sell now aren't nearly the same. I'm pretty sure the old ones were fried in lard, because this was pre 1984/animal-farms-are-bad/it's-a-brave-new-world of-corn-oil days.

Anyhoo, in my mind apple pie filling should have a perfect balance of sweet/tart/spicy; it should be juicy, but not runny or gummy, and the crust should have a flaky top and a cooky-chewy underside.

Keeping in mind that pie-baking is more art than science, so your mileage may vary. 

goals for 2012

I don't do Resolutions, but last year I set myself three goals: to finish The Curse of Jacob Tracy, to find a literary agent, and to leave my day job. I'm a bit gobsmacked to realize that all three of those came to pass.

So, as prompted by my friend Mary Ann, I'm writing down my goals for 2012, to make them more concrete and keep them in focus.

1. Publish Trace and get a nice fat advance on it.
2. Finish writing the sequel to Trace, Curious Weather.
3. Start teaching kung fu.
4. Pay off the home equity line.

Bring it on, 2012!

new ebook publisher: Eggplant Literary Productions

Long-time readers will remember that waaaay back when I was still writing as if I enjoyed it, a nice lady named Raechel Henderson offered to publish End of the Line as an ebook. Despite our best intensions, that was not to be; Eggplant Literary Productions went on hiatus for a few years.

Now it's starting up again. Eggplant's startup page is here (God love Wordpress!) and their guidelines page is here. They are looking for novella-length ebooks, and short-shorts for a literary magazine. The focus for both lines is fantasy/science fiction.

I always respected Raechel's professionalism and taste as an editor. (Easy to do when somebody wants to publish your stuff, eh?) So if you got a story that's a wee bit too long for any of the other markets, and aren't up to self-publishing your e-book, pass it by Eggplant.

motley Christmas

Five years married and we just bought our first Christmas tree together. In past years I used a little miniature three-tree grove which I believe came from my parents' old business office. Last year we didn't even decorate. I think we were too tired and cranky, probably too reluctant to spend money. Somewhere along the way I'd bought some lights and plain glass ornaments that were never opened, but other than that and a half-decorated wreath, we had nothing. It's a measure of how hard and fast I fled from my old life, that I didn't even take any ornaments of my own, either from my parents' house or from my ex-husband.

We bought a Black Hills Spruce from the Optimists in the grocery store parking lot. It's been too warm this week for the trees to be properly chilled, so they're looking a bit desiccated. We borrowed a few boxes of crap from his mom's basement (she had 60-odd years' worth collected, including some scary looking string lights), put a bunch of tacky tinsel garland on the boughs, and the Sparring partner hung old satin-thread ornaments and faded wooden toys all over, while I worked on finishing the wreath. I put on gold cord and red braid, and black-gold net. Then I added a gold bow, blue oversized jingle bells, and a few miniature toy ornaments in red and white.

"That looks like Christmas exploded," the SP remarked when we were done. And it does. No Nieman-Marcus designer-themed tree for us. But then again, we aren't people who live in a decorator-showplace house, with three-color schemes and accent pillows. All our stuff is patchwork--furniture, curtains, artwork--things we've found, liked, collected. And really I suspect most people's Christmas decorations collections are the same way--things that were given to them by, or chosen for, someone they loved. The mangled pipe-cleaner ornament made by a child. The falling-apart foil angel that belonged to someone's great-grandmother.

As we were sorting through boxes of musty tissue paper and limp tinsel, we remarked on what we'd keep and what we'd return to the basement, what we'd quietly get rid of and what we might acquire in future to accent the good stuff.

It's fashionable these days to disparage Christianity. It's fashionable to talk about the pagan influences of Christmas trappings, as if those factoids are supposed to make hypocrites of those who still celebrate Christmas as a religious holiday. Since my divorce I've been conflicted about Christmas. I lost the will or the desire to worship or pursue God; I am firmly in the agnostic camp--not so much "I don't know" as "wait and see." But since I was raised by Christian parents, and schooled in a liberal arts college, and hang out with a decidedly Zen crowd, and am an Existentialist by nature, I got to a point where I couldn't hardly act or believe in anything without feeling I was reacting to something else. It's hard on a writer to feel as if every available option is a cliche.

But I think we need festivity in our lives--me, especially. Holidays--holy days--were days of worship, but in the pagan and Christian faiths (pretty much any religious group that doesn't indulge in human sacrifice, really) they were also days of rest and community.

Routine and even-keel are good things. But so are renewal and celebration. There's a difference between cliche and convention; in fiction, the conventional tropes let you know whether you're reading a romance or hard sci-fi. So you might say I've decided to embrace the formulaic this year.

where everybody knows your name

I love my writer's group.

Met with them Saturday for our monthly enclave. We critted. We chatted. We laughed. I whined. They sympathized. It's good to go hang with like-minded people, sharing an activity you all enjoy, where they listen to what you say and act like you know what you're talking about. Even if they don't agree with you. Everybody should have a place like that.

It's also very cool when they say matter-of-factly that I need to get used to editing screenplays because my book will get made into one in the not-too-distant future... and then someone else counters with, no, they'll take my book and process it into blockbuster pulp--but at least I'll get the rights check.

And then there was the part when I mentioned I had an idea for "Steampunk Quinn" and their faces all lit up and they went "ah!" That was extremely gratifying. They never were particularly fans of Quinn Taylor, in the old manuscripts, but they have more faith in me now. In some ways, I think what crippled the Quinn Taylor stories was my tendency toward Victorian restraint and archaic morality--things I no longer suffer from, so the anachronistic transfer is going to be interesting.

I took my own advice this weekend and printed out a fresh new hardcopy of Trace. Everybody took a section and skimmed as fast as they could, reading the bits where I had flagged the updated Boz sequences. The consensus was that I had done good things updating the emotional arcs. And now that I have a hard copy I'm better able to sit down and SEE the damn thing, as a whole. I just can't read on the screen the way I used to.

I have bits of Horseflesh yet to finish. I am resolved. I shall continue to work every day, away from my sewing room whenever possible, away from the house if I can manage it. I will jot down notes, outlines, and scenes longhand before I go to bed at night, so I have something to work on the next morning. I will stop second-guessing myself. I will accept that even when the words don't flow like wine, even when the muse isn't singing in my ear, what comes out on the page is generally pretty readable. I will put down words even when I don't feel like it. I will finish this thing.

custom Batwoman costume

I love this. Black and red, how can you go wrong? This is Kristin in the Batwoman costume I made for her. She was really open to using the matte black PVC, which I love.

The cape is two layers of lightweight synthetic fabric. The bodysuit is black matte stretch PVC, with red PVC accents. The gloves are matte red spandex and the accessories are sculpted leather. You can order custom items like this one through my Etsy shop.

Kristin is a repeat customer of mine. She's a careful and dedicated cosplayer, she really puts thought and time into the characters she wants to portray. She's also an artist and cartoonist. You can see her work on her DeviantArt page.

things I hate about fabric stores

1. Polyester. With the exception of some very high-tech, high-priced and fairly rare microfibers, it's nasty fabric. It's rough, slick, ravels, sticks to your skin, fights you when you try to sew it. And it occupies about 75% of the fashion fabric shelf space.

2. Polyester fleece. Occupies 75% of the floor space that could be utilized for--I don't know--real fabric? Silks, cotton twill, wool? For people who actually sew? Comes in an assortment of tacky colors and prints.

3. People who buy polyester fleece. They always buy 15 different cuts at the same time. For Christmas gifts. Disregarding the likelihood that the people who received a polyester fleece blanket LAST year have not worn it out, indeed probably have not used it, and do not need another. There is no excuse for blanketing your entire social circle with poly fleece. Pare down your Christmas list and make something meaningful for the people you actually like.

4. People who buy poly fleece who put their screaming children on the cutting counter, where the kid kicks, grabs, and drools on everything in sight, including other people's fabric. I was very mean about this when I worked at the fabric store. People were not permitted on my cutting counter.

5. People buying 15 yards of 15 different bolts of poly fleece who insist on finding something inadequate with each bolt of fleece, thereby requiring the cutting clerk to unroll the entire bolt to cut from the end without the glitter on it. (Seriously, lady? You're not going to wash the thing before you use it? Do you live in a world without germs, too?)

6. People trying to buy upholstery fabric for their interior designer/upholsterer, although they have never before bought fabric and are unprepared for questions about whether the design will be railroaded, or whether those 12 yards can be in two pieces, and hold up the line talking loudly on their cell phone for 10 minutes. THIS IS WHY YOU LET THE PROFESSIONAL DO THE BUYING. YOU ARE NOT SAVING MONEY BY DOING IT YOURSELF.

7. There is apparently only one home decorating fabric distributor left in middle America. Joann's and Hancock's have virtually the same stock these days. Competition? What competition?

8. Similarly, Joann's and Hancock's are on automatic stock reordering systems--when I was at Wal-Mart they called it "continual inventory system," which is a lie because they still took a physical inventory every year--so they only get in 3 or 4 cards of each button type at a time. So they generally only have in 1 or 2 cards of a given button type at any given time. Which means, if I need 14 buttons for a project I have to drive to at least 3 different stores, and/or wait 3 weeks until they get their stock replenished, because God forbid the store manager should be allowed to order anything for a customer who needs it.

planet comicon 2011 video!

Obviously I haven't Googled myself enough this year. I just found this two-minute video interview the nice people at Costume Hub did when they stopped by my table at Planet Comicon back in March. I remember them being there, but at the end of the weekend I never thought to look online for the video.

Check it out! I manage not to sound stupid, but I need to learn to smile more before I have to go and do book interviews!

And then there's this nice little blurb by a sexy Dr. Quinzel cosplayer I found on Tumbler:

"Awkward moment.

This is my “Holy-shit-did-Holly-Messinger-just-ask-for-my-picture” face. I was lookin’ at comics and all of a sudden I hear “DOCTOR QUINZEL!” I whip around, eager to find the beautiful soul who recognized me. (TWO Jokers passed by that day and didn’t even say ‘Hi!’ back to me… they acted like they didn’t know who I was! ..No, as in really didn’t know who I was. Hmph. Damn Dark Knight.)

All of a sudden, I see an angel in a steampunk Poison Ivy dress. HOLLY MESSINGER! AHH! I recognized her work from Elise Archer’s cosplay!

I was paralyzed ‘cause I was so starstruck and failed to strike a pose.. so sad.. haha.

My friend found this somewhere on the internet and sent it to me. Pic by Holly Messinger!"

Just for the record, I LOVE cosplays that can pass for street-clothes. It's like a secret identity of your very own. I like to go out in public in almost-costume and watch the looks on peoples' faces as they try to figure me out.

Now I'm eager for another convention. You guys are the best!

never be ashamed of your success

From the SFWA blog: Having a saleable novel doesn’t make you a sell out.

"Turn your nose up at Dan Brown all you want. Besides selling a zillion copies, the man’s storytelling was so believable, other authors wrote NON-FICTION to DISPROVE his MADE UP STORY."

I needed this right about now. 

review: the twelfth enchantment

I know it mostly seems I only review books to grouse about 'em, but this is one I really really enjoyed: The Twelfth Enchantment by David Liss. It's a seamless fusion of historical regency and gothic fantasy--I'd say Georgette Heyer and someone gothic, except I can't think of anyone appropriate in the fantasy genre of the time--Charles Dickens, maybe?

Anyway, it's about a poor relation named Lucy, who lost her father, sister and comfortable home, who now lives on the charity of her uncle who wants to marry her off as quickly as possible to the local industrialist. Pretty standard regency fodder--but then Lord Byron wanders into the picture, under the influence of a curse and mumbling mysterious messages for Lucy. While trying to lift his curse, Lucy meets a Woman of Independent Means who becomes a good friend and benefactor--and shows Lucy she has a talent for magic.

Stolen inheritances, sinister suitors, malicious faeries and Luddites all are braided together in an intriguing romp, with a dash of romance that is never cloying and a steadily-accelerating plot that comes to a satisfying conclusion. There's even a touch of women's lib, although it is never anachronistic.

I highly recommend this. It is a fine and masterful balance of plot, character, history, magic, and theme. Fans of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell will probably enjoy this, although to my mind it is far superior to that constipated opus.

review--the house of lost souls

Picked up The House of Lost Souls by F.G. Cottam at the library. It's a gothic ghost story that could, if you were ashamed to be caught reading a gothic ghost story, be loosely interpreted as a broad allegory for a man fighting his way back from suicidal depression. The ending is so lame from a fantasy/horror point of view, it tends to validate the psychological stance, but the middle parts of the book are a decent ghost story, if you don't mind the flashback-within-a-flashback narrative structure, the abrupt changes in viewpoint, the convenient insertion of epistolary clues at crucial moments, and the endless wanking over 80's London new wave/art culture. We get it, dude--you were there, you don't have to prove it to us.

The gist of it is this: in 1927, a group of Satanists including Aleister Crowley raised a demon to gain themselves fame and fortune; they imprisoned it in the manor house on a northern isle belonging to one of the members. Periodically, over the next 60-odd years, people go into the house--art students, construction workers, researchers--come out crazy, and commit suicide. Apparently the demon enjoys suicides. One guy, Paul Seaton, who is Irish, and you know he's Irish because everyone he meets makes note of the fact he's Irish*, visited the manor house in 1985, while trying to research a photographer who was a reluctant member of the coven. Paul escapes with his life but has a mental breakdown and his life and health promptly go down the crapper.

Now it's 1997 and another group of students has foolishly breached the manor's gates; one of them is dead and the rest are heavily drugged to keep them from offing themselves. The brother of one of the girls, Nick Mason, wants Paul to come and help save his sister. The two men are brought together by a mysterious benefactor who appears to be, variously, a psychiatrist, a paranormal researcher, and possibly the son and/or reincarnation of the original coven leader. All of that would be fine and intriguing except Cottam's idea of concealing clues is to cut away from a scene during important conversations, leaving blank spots in the narrative and thereby drawing attention to the question any normal person would ask. To a savvy reader, that can only mean the answer is exactly what you suppose it to be, and the characters are idiots for not noticing.

It's a complex story, as you may have noticed. To me the most enjoyable parts were the diaries of the photographer from the 1920's; the action is more succinct, the atmosphere of opulence and dread is quite effective. I suspect also that Cottam did some good research on Crowley and his cronies; the description of the banquets and parties had a ring of authenticity.

The writing in the modern scenes is much more weird to my palate; there are several odd sentence constructions that tripped me up while reading and I don't know if they are British/Irishisms, or just pretentious writing. The description in the 80's flashbacks is also heavy-handed and pretentious, in my opinion, since all the visual dissection of Paul's college chums and their local watering holes is largely irrelevant to the story and doesn't contribute much to Paul's character, either.

The action scenes are not badly handled, on the whole. The account of Paul's first visit to the demon's lair is so tense it will stand your hair on end. Unfortunately most of the climactic moments--human sacrifice, demon attacks, the death of a major character--are all handled off-stage, and so much of the air is let out. And as I mentioned, the ending is brief, pat, and completely unearned, in large part to that habit of breaking away from the scene at crucial moments. "And so Paul realized he'd had the power in him all along."

I'm really not paraphrasing, there.

Anyway. It wasn't all bad. I have the feeling the author was making deliberate choices about pacing and scene breaks, and just barely missing the mark.

*One thing that always amuses me about reading British-authored novels is how very class-conscious they still are. William Gibson comments on that quirk of British culture in his excellent novel Pattern Recognition.

big announcement

Y'know, it's weird.... I always thought when I got an agent or made some other big motion forward in selling my fiction I'd be shouting it from the rooftops.

Instead I have this niggling inclination to reticence whose source I don't understand.... perhaps a fear that by talking about the deal I will be committing a publishing faux pas, thereby causing said agent to change her mind? Or the echoes of my dad's voice, telling me I shouldn't flaunt my success? The old self-defeatist impulse that now I might actually have to work? The fear that even if I try my best it still won't be good enough (and then I'll kick myself because I know it wasn't really my best)?

Enough, already. Enough.

Last week I signed a contract for representation with Amy Boggs, the "baby agent," as she calls herself, at Donald Maass Literary Agency in New York. I spoke to her on the phone; she was warm, amiable, and very excited about Trace. She had some very helpful suggestions about how to tighten the last third of the book. She complimented my historical research. We agreed there was nothing else like it out there (at least not in the mainstream), and she said when she pitched it to her boss, his eyes lit up with interest. That's a good compliment.

So I'm doing a fairly light edit and tightening up of The Curse of Jacob Tracy, so that Amy can start shopping it around to editors. She asked a bit about my future plans for the series, so I will probably slap together an outline of what will happen in the next book. Someone will want to know about that, eventually.

I also have been cleaning up my website and blog to be more professional and more writerly-oriented. I've been out of the publishing loop for so long--I'm gathering new links, reading the blogs again. I even joined Twitter, for pete's sake, since that's where all the writer kids seem to hang out. And Amy Twitted about me already, including a link to my website, so I've noticed all this unusual traffic to my poor old boring website.

So, hey, Amy? It was great talking to you. This is gonna be awesome.

the week in brief

Friday: Taichi/kung fu performance. Your average stereotypical Chinese fire-drill. Nevertheless it went ok and we stayed to watch the Beijing Acrobats afterwards. Pretty cool. Seeing the stuff on YouTube just doesn't have the same impact as watching it live.

Saturday: Class. Exhausted. Knees hurt.

Sunday: Tuck-pointing the brick on the house, trying to prep for winter. Also, slapping down a few pages of freelance writing.

Monday (tomorrow): Finish the last Halloween costume and get it in the mail, express. Get haircut. Call the butcher so they can process our yearly hunk of cow.

Tuesday: Turn in freelance writing. Cut out & baste together nephew's Halloween costume.  Cram for Chinese class. Go to Chinese class.

Wednesday:  Slap together Silk Spectre costume for client. Wait for agent to call from New York. Obsess over changes to manuscript.

Thursday: Sister & nephew coming over for fitting/finishing costume.

Friday: Buy insulation. Winterize house.

crockpot beef ragout

Melt 1/2 stick (1/4 cup) butter in heavy skillet. (not non-stick)

Chop 1/2 of a sweet onion (or more) and saute in the butter over medium heat.

Take about 1 pound skirt steak, or other long-grained beef with minimal fat. Cube small. When onions are wilted and beginning to brown, add steak and increase heat to medium-high. Brown all over, stirring as necessary, until the liquids are gone and the sugars start to caramelize and stick.

Meanwhile, peel and chop small: 1 parsnip, 2 carrots, 2 medium red potatoes, 2 stalks celery and 1 smallish shallot. Put in slow-cooker on high heat with enough water to let vegs swim freely.

When the beef and onions are well-browned, add them to the slow cooker. Return skillet to heat and add about 1 cup water to deglaze, scraping up all the brown bits. Add to crockpot. Add about 1/2 cup red wine, or cooking sherry and a dash of balsamic vinegar.

Season with 2-3 beef bouillon cubes (take care not to make it too salty), salt and pepper (I like Lowry’s seasoned salt and seasoned pepper), 1/2 tsp rosemary, 1/2 tsp thyme, and a pinch cayenne. If you don’t use the Lowry’s, add also a dash of sugar and 1 teaspoon of paprika.

Melt the other 1/2 stick (1/4 cup) butter in the skillet and add 1/4 cup flour. Cook and stir over med-high heat until it turns a nutty brown color. Add to pot.

Leave in the slow cooker on High for about 3.5-4 hours. 

nihao!

The Sparring Partner and I are taking Mandarin Chinese language classes. We'd talked about doing it for a long time, and I had a little extra cash and a lot of spare time, so talley-ho.

It's a strange experience. Oh, the language is alien, to be sure--the whole pictograph thing has the potential for major bewilderment, and it's an evening class half-full of college-age students who are rapidly being left in the dirt by the grown-ups, who know why they're there and what it takes to teach oneself. And then of course there's the 12-year-old who's making us all look bad.

But I digress. The weird part is what's going on in my brain. I have all this language-learning architecture from my high-school French days, and it is getting dusted off and put to use. This causes a bit of confusion at times, when the pinyun looks like a word I know from French (luckily not many of them do), but on the whole I can see why people say it's easier, once you've learnt a second language, to add a third or fourth.

As far as the pictographs go, there's nothing for it but sheer repetition, baby. Flash cards and technology. Writing the characters repeatedly is best, of course--getting the motor synapses involved doubles the reinforcement. But I also bought a couple of 99¢ apps for my iPod, to learn basic drawing conventions and the radicals involved in making the characters. Those two concepts haven't been part of our lessons, yet, but I'm what's called a "deep learner"--I'm not happy memorizing things by rote, I have to know how and why they work. That's made me appear slow and stubborn in some classrooms, but on the other hand I tend to understand better once I've got it, and remember longer than my peers.

So I've learned to teach myself what I want to know. And I've already seen some similarities between the radicals and in the characters we're learning in class. It's like learning a code, which have always fascinated me (I taught myself Morse Code when I was thirteen, just for the hell of it). And God Bless Apple and the makers of apps for creating little talking programs that reinforce pronunciation. I am actually starting to understand the tonal thing, which confused me for years whenever I tried to learn kung-fu jargon from Sit.

But the best part of it all is how learning something new and challenging makes your brain feel more awake, more alert, just more smart. I always said if I had enough time and money I'd study more languages. Granted, I assumed I'd be richer when that day came, but I guess 'just enough' is the zen lesson, huh?

why yes, I am a writer

I had an agent ask to see my manuscript this week. (The Curse of Jacob Tracy, from which Sikeston and End of the Line are taken.) That was pretty cool.

I had an agent ask to see a space opera novel I wrote back in college, but I put off sending it to him, for some reason I can no longer remember, and by the time I sent it to him months later, the poor man had become sick with leukemia and died. I got a letter back from the woman who had taken over his client list, saying they weren't taking any new clients.

I stopped looking for an agent, for a while.

I actually had an offer to publish that space opera novel, though. It was a fly-by-night small press, and I had my doubts about them from the beginning. They were not paying any advances or royalties, by the way; this was strictly e-publishing in the days when e-publishing was still highly suspicious. When the editor and I had a difference of opinion he called me immature and unprofessional, and I told him I was pulling my manuscript.

I still have that space-opera trilogy. I quit trying to publish it after that; I knew it wasn't ready, and I was sick of looking at it. I still like the characters and most of the story, but being space opera it was crippled by outdated Star-Trek-type conventions about artificial gravity and FTL travel that editors and readers today just won't let an author get away with.

Lately, I've been toying with the idea of taking the basic premises of that space opera and transplanting them to a steampunk setting. Too au courant? Maybe. If this agent takes my new book and sells it, it will be a moot point anyway; I'll have Trace to revise and a couple of sequels to write.

But that will be ok. I was starting to be ashamed of myself for having this resource sitting here in the form of a manuscript, and not even trying to make money from it.

procrastination at its finest

Man, I am good when it comes to avoiding writing. This is a new personal best for me. Are you ready for this?

I actually took a part-time retail job, 40 minutes away, that paid about $20 per shift, after taxes and gas money. In my own defense, the job had been advertised to me as much better pay, but the actual commission rates were terrible, even if I were able to muster the cocaine-fed-puppy enthusiasm it would take to be an effective salesperson in such an environment. It only took me two shifts to figure out I was suffering from temporary insanity, but wow.

I worked 3 days and resigned. Told them I'd had another offer elsewhere, which was not strictly untrue; I have at least three other projects that I should be concentrating on, plus my Halloween sewing season is in full swing.

But wow.

Daddies, let your daughters grow up to be paratroopers

Today, I saw a quote by some actress who shall remain nameless, who said she loved to wear black military boots as a teenager. Her father, she said, would have preferred that she wear heels.

I had the same dilemma as a teen. I was into G.I. Joe when I was 12-14, and I kept up with the boots/jeans/camp shirts well into my junior year of highschool. I remember my dad once saying to me in exasperation, "You're my little girl, not my little paratrooper!"

Now, I can't claim to know why he was so exasperated with me for the way I dressed. I was certainly not slovenly or particularly butch (I don't think they ever worried I was a lesbian, anyway), although many years later I learned they were afraid I was into drugs, because of my solitary and secretive ways.

But I will say this. The jeans and boots were a kind of armor. I knew it even at the time, although I couldn't have articulated it. I still wear them regularly, although these days I am more urban-cowgirl than military surplus. And you know what? I have a nice collection of high heels, too. I even wear skirts regularly these days, because I like my legs. And so does my husband.

If I had been able to talk to my dad back then, instead of retreating into adolescent sullenness, I would have said, "Listen, Dad, this is an uncomfortable time for me. My body is betraying me, and I'm getting attention from boys and men that I don't know how to handle just yet. I don't mind dressing up for special occasions, but right now these clothes are a kind of cocoon. They make me feel I can protect myself. I don't feel I have to compete with other girls my age, for male attention I don't really want anyway. Just be patient with me; you'll have more to worry about when I meet a boy I like and start dressing up to get his attention."

Of course a few years later he was grousing at me for wearing these "mod" styles of clothes.

(Mod?)

Dads. You can't hardly dress any way that will please them.

Love ya, Dad.

shut up and practice

I hate people who give me unsolicited advice. I hate it. I'm sure I was a terrible know-it-all as a child, but I sure as hell try not to be now, because 90% of the people who try to give me "advice" actually have no idea what they're talking about, and the other 10% are telling me something I already know as if I was too stupid to think of it on my own.

I used to think it was a purely male trait, because pretty much every guy who has ever come through my kung-fu class has tried to "correct" me on something, regardless of the fact that he's been there one year and I've been there ten, regardless of whether he can do it himself or not, regardless of whether he knows what he's talking about, or not. My stock reply to such importunate assholes is fixed eye contact and a pointed, "Noo-oo!" as if I'm talking to a dog who knows he's not supposed to be on the sofa.

But women do it, too. They're just more passive-aggressive about it. They will parrot a more knowledgeable speaker, repeating phrases, nodding along and saying "Right!" at key points so they appear to be contributing. Or there's the doomsayer who will admire your new creative project and tell you all about the exhausting and emotionally crippling time she had when she attempted a similar project.... and she just hopes you're up to the challenge. Or better still, the been-there/done-that type who, when she hears about the parameters of your venture, suggests you are ignorant/bigoted/lazy because you're not doing it the way she thinks you should.

I was bitching to my husband about this stuff––I've got a lot of new projects going on right now, so I've encountered a lot of it lately––and he reminded me that it was yet another case of people talking the talk instead of getting off their asses and doing some work.

Everybody's good at something, but unfortunately 90% of the world has these romantic ideas about what they ought to be or want to be, which are in no way compatible with their capabilities. So they become "appreciators" or "aficionados" or god forbid, critics, which enables them to wank endlessly with other "appreciators" over their chosen fetish without ever having to do any real work.

Which is kind of a pity, because probably some of the "appreciators" could acquire some skill in their chosen passion, if they actually worked at it. But when it comes to any complex art––say, writing or tai chi––it's far far easier to attend workshops and join online newsgroups and organize foundations to promote the thing than to actually work at it.

Don't get the idea that I'm knocking foundations for the arts, because I'm not. Artists need those guys, but the worthwhile foundations are run by people who know that their strengths lie in organization rather than in art. (Here's a hint: if you find yourself creating "venues" for your work and that of your friends because "we're too weird/shocking/daring/liberal for the mainstream"--take this hard truth to heart: the mainstream has seen it all before. The mainstream finds you boring. Go back into the studio until you've got something fresh.)

For the others, the folks who wish they were good at something but don't want it badly enough to work at it, it's far easier to cultivate that nasty little seed of resentment against people who are actually working to improve, to chop them off at the root before they can flourish, to buffer one's ego with the reasons why I didn't succeed and she can't possibly, either.

Gah. And people wonder why I'm not more of a joiner. Talking is for those who don't do.

adventures in breakfast

We're going on a road trip, leaving very early in the morning, and neither of us is big on fast-food breakfasts. So I tried to come up with some high-fat, high-protein, low-carb, room-temperature stable, hand-held food type items to take on the trip. These are still higher in carbs than I consider acceptable for everyday far, but for a cheap quick takealong they aren't bad. And of course all the fats are wholesome.

Flourless chewy granola bars

This was kind of a pantry clean-out. I will probably experiment with this. I would like to create a baklava-flavored nut bar at some point, but walnuts are expensive.

combine in large bowl:
3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 cup Pamela's gluten-free baking mix
1/4 cup coconut flour
1/2 cup pecans (measure, then chop small)
1/3 cup coconut flakes, unsweetened (measure, then process small)

stir in (at room temperature):
1/2 cup peanut butter, unsweetened
1/2 cup Greek yogurt
2 eggs

melt in saucepan, let cool slightly then add to dry mixture:
1 cup butter
2 tsp vanilla
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup honey
(optional) 2 Tbs corn syrup (helps it stick together better)

stir in:

1 1/2 cups chocolate chips

Press firmly into a greased sheetcake pan. I used 2 6x12-inch tin pans and the bars came out about 1/2 inch thick. Bake at 350ºF for about 18 minutes, or until the bars look dry and slightly browned around the edges. Allow to cool completely in the pan or they will crumble all to dust. Cut into bars and refrigerate for longer life.

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Ham and onion pot pies
These looked gorgeous when they came out of the oven. The egg mixture puffed up and browned on top. Can't wait to try them.

Dough:
1 1/3 cup flour
3/4 tsp baking powder
dash salt
1 large/jumbo egg
1/2 cup butter and/or lard, any proportion you like
2-3 Tbs milk

Combine the dry ingredients. Mix in egg with a fork. Crumble in fats by hand. Dribble milk just until dough sticks together. Chill.

Filling:
Bacon--fry & crumble
onion--mince and saute in grease
ham--chop small
cheddar cheese--about 1/3 cup
gruyere cheese--ditto
heavy cream & flour--make gravy base with bacon drippings
chicken bouillon granules
black pepper
parsley
dijon mustard
2 eggs
dash of milk if needed to stretch amount. Don't add too much liquid.

Roll out dough into six 6-inch circles and press into shallow muffin tins. Fill with ham & egg mixture. Fold up edges of dough over the filling (they don't need to meet or look tidy). Bake at 400º for about 25 minutes or until nicely browned.

I actually forgot to add the dijon on this maiden voyage, but I think it would be a nice addition. Some vegetables, i.e. red bell pepper, asparagus, broccoli, peas would also probably be nice with this, although the bacon should probably be left out in such a case.

resolving issues

Last night I had an interesting dream.

Since I was laid off in February, I've had several dreams about being back in my cubicle, not knowing how I got there, but thinking, knowing, somehow I was not *supposed* to be there. It was a similar thing when I got remarried; I dreamt of being in the old apartment with my ex, and knowing somehow that that was NOT my life, I was supposed to be with a better man in a better place.

But in this latest dream, I was visiting the place of my own free will. I had my toys around me--white leather tote, laptop, sewing tools--and I was NOT in my old cubicle, I was in a vacant one further up the row. I was there to visit. I shook the hand of my old supervisor, told him he was a good guy. I told my coworkers I was glad to see them. I met the new girl. She had blue-green hair.

Then there was an interruption. At the other end of the room, some unpleasant coworkers from another department were having a loud party, complete with boom box and mirrorball lightshow.

"How can you stand that?" I said to Adriane.

"I know," she replied with a grimace. "They do that constantly."

"I'll take care of it," I said, and I marched over there and yanked the plug on the stereo.

The rude coworkers started yelling in protest, and when I told them they were being inconsiderate, some slunk away looking guilty, but a tall, red-haired guy, a bit younger than me (who did not, in fact, resemble anyone I know in real life) got up and started taunting me.

He told me it was none of my business. He told me to get lost or I'd be sorry. I told him he was an immature boor. He threatened my job. I said I didn't work there. He said his father was very powerful and could take away my parents' house. I laughed and said, "There's nothing you can threaten me with."

So he threw a couple of punches at my head. I evaded them easily. He threw a roundhouse kick at my head. I caught his leg, ducked under it, and was debating whether to punch him in the groin or kick out his knee when I woke up.

Maybe all this stepped-up kung fu training is starting to sink in, because this is the first dream in which I remember actually being confident of my abilities.

But it was five a.m., and the cat wanted breakfast. I got up, fed him, went into the bathroom, and the thought surfaced as I was washing my face: I think I just defeated all my lingering fears.

I went out this morning and got a haircut and a light auburn gloss put on. I look pretty darn cute.

shoe therapy

Three weeks ago I damaged my knee in kung fu class.

This is problematic because I'm supposed to go compete in tai chi at the end of July. I've already booked the (non-refundable) hotel room and registered for 7 (non-refundable) events at the tournament.

I didn't think I'd done any major damage; it didn't really hurt. I could walk just fine, and there was no bruising or popping, but I had some swelling behind the knee, a feeling of weakness/stiffness. I iced it a bit, sat around with it elevated some. I figured a bit of gentle stretching and movement--no extreme up/down movements--would make it better in a few days.

It didn't. After a week or so the stiffness went away but I still had a lump behind my knee and I couldn't do deep knee bends without feeling like there was a knife in my kneecap.

I should mention, I've had no health insurance since I lost my job, and since this injury wasn't impeding my day-to-day activities I didn't think it prudent to see a doctor and spend the money only to be told I needed to ice it and stay off it.

After two weeks of little/no improvement, I decided to not do any training for a week. I hate this--I sit down too much as it is, since I sew or work on the computer all day. I start sleeping badly if I don't get some exercise. And the "week off" for the knee didn't seem to be doing much good anyway. It would be fine during the day, then stiffen up overnight. Or get achy while I was sitting in a chair during the day, then fine when I got up the next morning. And that damn swelling behind the knee would not go down. I knew that was what caused the pain because I could feel it pushing the joint out of alignment when I squatted.

Friday morning it hurt when I got out of bed. Maybe I slept with it twisted, I don't know. I had to squat during my morning housekeeping, and it hurt a lot. I was starting to get really annoyed and worried.

Given that, it may seem strange that I decided to wear my wedge mules to run out and do some errands. They have about a 2-inch heel. But I had noticed that the ache in my knee was most pronounced during walking, when I pushed off on that foot and the knee was fully extended. Walking in the mules seemed to thwart that mechanic. My knee didn't hurt the whole time I was out walking or in the evening after I got home.

This morning, Saturday, I got up and the swelling had all gone down. No more pain. I did three cautious hours of class this morning, no pain, although I was careful not to do any deep-knee bends. The muscles did get tired and I do feel some minor pressure behind the joint, but I'd say it's about 90% recovered.

All I can figure is that wearing the heels somehow realigned things to where the joint could drain. Who'd have thought?

I just hope it holds. I'm going to be really annoyed if I can't do my down posture in the fan form because of this knee.

queen of spades corset

My latest creation, black and white checkered corset with ribbon rose trim. Very Tim-Burtonesque. Would look smashing with a tulle skirt and tattered stockings.

Now available in my Etsy shop.

southwestern tuna steaks with avocado salad

I made this up, based on a fish tacos recipe for the marinade. This is one of our favorite quickie dinners lately; we've been having it once a week. Takes about 10 minutes and serves 2. All amounts are estimated--I never measure. :-)

Fish
2 servings tuna steak (or swordfish, or mahi mahi--any firm-textured fish you like, really)
3 Tbs olive oil
1 Tbs honey
1 Tbs chopped fresh cilantro
juice of 1/2 lime
2 tsp taco seasoning
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp oregano
dash of cayenne
salt & pepper

Fish should be thawed and at room temperature. Mix together honey, oil, lime juice & seasonings. Salt & pepper fish, place in a shallow dish and pour oil mixture over. Let sit while you chop up the salad.

Avocado salad
1 ripe avocado, peeled and chopped
1/2 medium tomato, chopped small
2-3 Tbs minced sweet onion
juice of 1/2 lime or to taste
1 Tbs minced fresh cilantro
salt & pepper to taste

Mix and let stand while the fish cooks.

Heat nonstick skillet over medium heat; add a generous drizzle of olive oil and put the fish in. Add any leftover marinade. Cook the fish about 3-4 minutes on each side or to desired doneness. Remove to 2 plates, divide the avocado salad between them, and add a dab of Greek yogurt or sour cream to each.

don't call it luck

I know this is disingenuous, but what is it about people that they can't live and let live? Why does everyone have to tear someone else down to protect their own ego?

There's a lot of noise out there now about discrimination against overweight Americans. Well what about those of us who are actually NORMAL weight? I am rapidly becoming the minority among American women--a slim, athletic female. Does that mean I discriminate against the obese? Hell, no. My best friends in both high school and college were overweight. My ex-husband was obese. So is my sister, who is one of my favorite people in the world. Most of my friends nowadays are far bigger than me. But do I give them a hard time? Do I sabotage their diets, or tell them they need to diet, or give diet books for Christmas gifts? Of course not. That would be fabulously tacky.

So why then, do I find myself increasingly on the defensive against people--casual acquaintances, generally--who seem to feel it's fine to pick on ME for being thin?

"You just have the right genes." "When I was your age I was that skinny, too." "Wait until you have kids." "You must STARVE yourself." "Just wait til you blow out a knee and can't do kung fu anymore."

All of which are jealous, snarky ways of saying, "Just you wait--you'll get yours."

It's rude. It's insecure. And it's fallacious.

The way I look is not an accident. It's also not merely age, or genes, or kung fu--perhaps 5% of each, if I'm being generous. My physique is the result of a planned, deliberate lifestyle I embrace daily because it's a helluva lot easier to maintain than to lose. I want to be able to hike, climb stairs, do a 360-degree jump kick, fit into my clothes, enjoy good sex, stay out of the hospital, and avoid insulin dependence.

I do not starve myself. I do not work out like a demon. I hate working out. I do not weigh portions or count calories.

My age has little to do with it. I'm 37, and I'm leaner now than I was 15 years ago. When I was 23 I was drinking 3-4 Pepsis every day and going out to dinner at Chili's three times a week. One day I hopped on the scale, saw the number 143, and said, "Nope. Not gonna do that."

I did not join a gym. I did not starve myself. I thought about empty calories I was consuming. I cut out soda, and French fries, and I lost eight pounds in two months.

My genes have little to do with it. My sister unfortunately got the bad thyroid from my dad's side, but she is probably correct in suspecting that a couple of years of very poor diet triggered it. The rest of my family is not obese, although they've thickened a lot in the last decade. We were all pretty slim when we were living in the same house, eating food we cooked ourselves every night. It was only after they got married and had kids that my siblings and their spouses started to swell. My parents, too, since they were eating out more.

I'd say 90% of the meals I eat are prepared at home. We eat lunch out on Saturdays, usually, because we're away from home. The people at Blanc Burgers probably think I'm crazy because I take the bun off my Inside-Out burger.

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I am a carnivore. I eat meat, eggs, dairy and cheese. I eat plenty of animal fat, butter, and olive oil, which I believe are essential to the health of my body. I eat lots of salads, broccoli, carrots, cabbage, green beans and peas, not to mention onions and root vegetables. I try to have a vegetable with every meal.

I buy these foods as natural/organic/grass fed/local as my budget and resources will allow. I sincerely believe in sustainable farming and the part that animals play in a healthy ecosystem. Sadly, I am not a farmer and my yard is too shaded to allow me to grow produce at this time. However I buy all our meat from local farmers, our beef, chicken and eggs from free-range animals, and I'm constantly looking into new sources for dairy and vegetables.

I don't eat food that comes out of boxes or bags, even if they do say "organic" on the label. There are no crackers, chips, or prepared meals in my pantry or freezer.

The only food I buy in cans are tomatoes, beans, tuna, and salmon. I keep a couple cans of tomato soup on hand in case one of us is too sick or lazy to cook. They usually sit there for months. We don't get sick often.

I eat very little wheat or corn. I'll usually have one or two servings of either during a week--a sandwich or a taco, for instance, when we're out on the weekends. I will sometimes have a piece of sprouted-grain toast for breakfast.

I don't eat vegetable fats, except for olive oil. I won't touch anything that says "hydrogenated" on the label.

I don't drink alcohol, generally. I never drank ANY until I was in my thirties. My parents were strict teetotalers and so I never developed the taste. Occasionally I'll have an aperitif of sweet wine after dinner, or half a margarita if we go out for Mexican.

I don't eat fast food. About once a year I'll get a craving for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, or some Long John Silvers' batter-dipped fish. Then it takes me another year to forget the unpleasant slickness in my mouth and the uneasiness of my liver and gut while they deal with the starch and soy oil.

I don't drink soda. I haven't had a soda in probably 13 years. I drink water, milk, or green tea. Occasionally a little orange juice, but I prefer it in a smoothie cut with full-fat Greek yogurt, banana, and raw egg.

I eat potatoes maybe once or twice a month. I eat pasta maybe three times a year. I eat rice if my kung fu teacher invites us to dinner.

I eat very little sugar--probably more than the hard-core Paleo people would approve, but far less than the average American. I was totally sugar-free for a couple of years, I did the Splenda thing, and I decided, as little sugar as I ate anyway, I might as well use the real stuff and make it taste good. Laura Ingalls Wilder's family ate homemade pies and cakes and it didn't kill them. So if I want dessert, I have to make it myself--not a tough choice when you consider how I hate the taste of grocery-store baked goods. At our house we go through a pound of evaporated cane sugar every three months or so, depending on whether it's a birthday month and I do any baking for others. Otherwise, I make a home-baked treat--pie, single-layer cake, or a batch of cookies--about once a month. Half the time I end up throwing away the stale leftovers.

Most of my breakfasts are protein and fat, lunches are salads with protein and fat, and dinners are meat and vegetables with a side of fat. Do you see a pattern here? Do you see any of that fat on me? Do you think maybe the whole low-fat concept is a lie?

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Don't say I burn it off doing all those martial arts.

I do three kung fu/tai chi classes a week, and only one of them could be considered aerobic. There is no doubt that kung fu/tai chi has made me stronger, lighter on my feet, helped me maintain my flexibility and sculpted my muscles. Kung-fu kicks are especially good for toning a woman's butt and belly.

But I don't believe the kung fu is the sole reason I "stay skinny." There are plenty of fat dojo masters and tai chi masters out there. My sifu, who is a very fit looking 60 (and does all his own cooking), theorizes it's because they don't lift their legs enough or bend at the waist enough. I'm willing to agree that's a part of it. But I really think 75% of one's body shape is determined by what one eats.

Look at any movie or TV series made prior to 1980. Look how slim all those people are--even the ones who are supposed to be "fat." Look at Jackie Gleason in the Honeymooners. He was a well-padded guy but he had none of the sloppy gelatinous look people have today. Look at Mr. Carlson on WKRP in Cincinnati. Thick around the middle, sure, but his arms and legs weren't fat. And the thin people didn't have that bony, strained look that skinny actors have today.

Do you know what happened right around 1980? The FDA and the AMA started telling people to cut out animal fat. And restaurants and food producers started relying on vegetable oils, particularly corn and soy, to replace the animal fats in their products. There are plenty of people out there debating the science and politics behind this switcheroo, so I won't go into it here, but I wholeheartedly believe that those vegetable oils are the cause of American obesity and chronic disease, including cancer. So I avoid them.

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In all fairness, there are some other issues that have helped me stay lean.

I have no children. I have never been pregnant. That was by choice. I didn't want the responsibility and I didn't want the effect on my body. I know some people think it's a selfish choice, and I say... darn right. My body. My time. My choice.

I have never taken hormonal birth control. That was a choice, too. Even though I had terrible cramps as a teenager, and trouble with acne (allergy related) in recent years, I feared the impact of artificial hormones on my body. I've had too many women tell me they quit the pill and dropped 20 pounds. The only time I tried BCP's, I took them for 3 weeks and gained eight pounds. My sister had to have her gall bladder removed due to side effects of the Pill. Thank you, no.

I am not into menopause yet. That may very well change the game for me, but I doubt it. There is a lot of new evidence coming out about hormone interplay, how sugar affects insulin and insulin affects sex hormones. I'm keeping a close eye on that stuff.

I still know a few women who are peri- or post-menopausal who managed to avoid extreme weight gain. We'll see where my life is at when that time comes, and what choices I want to make about my body and lifestyle. I don't intend to quit the tai chi, so I don't expect a lot of drastic obstacles.

For the last ten years I've hovered between 125 and 128. When I start creeping up toward 130, I cut back on sugar and eat more vegetables.

I'm not obsessive about my weight. I'm obsessive about my health--mental and physical. So I have brownies when I really feel like baking them. I enjoy the baking process and the eating--preferably when shared with friends. Then the other 29 days of the month I eat meat and vegetables and do my kung fu.

There is nothing--NOTHING--"lucky" about it.

chicken and dumpling soup with vegetables

For most of my adult life I've been on a quest for chicken soup that tastes like Campbell's Chunky Chicken Noodle, which they made back in the 80's and has, alas, gone the way of the dodo.

This is not that soup. However, it's built on some of the more interesting previous attempts.

The 'dumplings' referred to here are sort of a feather-light steamed biscuit. They are very fluffy, and full of butter and chicken flavor. This is serious comfort food.

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Take a smallish stewing chicken (about 2 lbs.) and put in a stockpot. Add enough water to submerge the bottom third, a generous dollop of olive oil, and the juice of one orange. Bring to a boil and simmer, covered, about 90 minutes. You can do this early in the day, then turn it off and leave covered on the stove until dinner-prep time.

Remove chicken from broth. Strain broth if desired and return to pot.

Peel and chop 3 carrots, 3 stalks of celery, 1/2 yellow onion and 1/2 sweet red bell pepper. Add to broth. Throw in about 2 tsps salt, 1/2 tsp pepper, and 1 or 2 teaspoons each: parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, adjusting the herb quantities to your own taste. Add about a tablespoon of chicken bouillon granules (or 2 cubes).

Strip the chicken meat, chop and return to pot. Cover and let the vegetables simmer about 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix the dumplings: Cut 4 tablespoons butter into 1.5 cups Bisquick* mix. It doesn't have to be perfectly blended. It's like making biscuits or pie crust; you want it incorporated but still lumpy. Dribble in milk a tablespoon at a time, stirring after each addition, until you have a shaggy dry dough, like Play-Doh that is nearing the end of its usefulness. (See note at the end.)

Make sure your soup is at a low boil, and there is enough liquid to let the solids swim freely. The dumplings will soak up a lot of liquid and you don't want to run dry. Add water if necessary.

Stir about 2 tablespoons of cornstarch with 1/4 cup of cool water to make a thin gruel. Beat in 1 egg yolk. Beat in about 1/3 cup of heavy cream. Whisk into the hot soup and immediately reduce heat to a low simmer.

Drop golfball-sized forkfulls of dough into the hot broth. (They will float, and expand as they cook.) Simmer uncovered for 20 minutes, then cover tightly and cook for 10 more.

Serve hot in soup plates. Getting the liquid quantities right can be tricky, but the end result should be a thick stew or ragout. This is extremely comforting food, but not too filling if you can manage to control your intake.


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*Note: I use Bisquick because it's fast and easy. Any basic biscuit recipe will do, but you'll leave out the acid (lemon juice, vinegar, buttermilk, whatever) and add less milk. Boiled dumplings are perverse: the dryer they go into the pot, the lighter they will cook up. Too much liquid in the batter makes them gluey and heavy.

Planet Comicon 2011 wrap-up

It's Monday, and I survived another Comicon.

My buddy Rick Stasi is always telling me I should attend Wizard World in Chicago, but I've been there and I seriously don't think I could do it. A Saturday at Kansas City's Planet Comicon is about all I can take. Sunday I tend to dress down, sit down, and have less patience with people.

Still, I came out of this one in much better physical, emotional, and financial shape than I have the previous two. I made back my table and then some. I gave away all my business cards, talked to some nice people, posed for a lot of pictures, shot a lot of pictures, and generally had a real good time.

I also got my Steampunk Poison Ivy costume done, FINALLY:

From Planet Comicon 2011 Kansas City

I was very happy with it. I don't think it screamed "Poison Ivy" at anyone. Some red hair might've helped, but I don't mind. A couple people got it right off; some others understood once they asked. My husband told me I looked hot, and that's what's important.

My husband, by the way, is the most wonderful, helpful, supportive person I've ever had in my life. I can't say it enough. I am in awe of his unending belief in me. I used to think I only needed someone who wouldn't get in my way, and maybe that could've been enough under other circumstances, but having someone who anticipates your needs and exceeds them at every turn... Well. I'll stop bragging.

There are plenty more photos in my Picasa Album. Enjoy!

Planet Comicon 2011 Kansas City

ETA: Note to self: the newspaper photographers show up on Sunday!