When I was in middle school, I was a proud member of the chess club, which was run by my mother, who was also my English teacher.

I’ll give you some time to giggle.

Our handful of members ranged from age 12 to age 15 or so – it was open to grades 7-12, but most of the high schoolers were too cool for us.  We were stereotypical nerds, a cadre complete with the smelly kid, the kid who talked to himself, and the kid with taped glasses; I was the only girl.  Everyone else avoided us.

Except one guy.  Matt Gan was a tall, strapping lad in a motorcycle jacket with a blonde goatee and heavy brow.  He must’ve been 18 and in 9^th grade (he was 22 and still enrolled when I graduated).  He was constantly being suspended for fighting, smoking on campus, or cussing teachers.  Matt was a textbook bad boy – clearly not a dude who gave a fuck about anything.

And yet he played chess with us lowly nerds, geeks, and dorks every week.  He never went to our tournaments because he was too old, but he came to our meetings on the regular.

The thing about Matt was that he won by intimidation.  He could have easily won by logic and intelligence – he had both but chose not to use them.  When he played, his most effective tactic was to stand up and yell, “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” as loud as he could.  He could plan far enough ahead to see an impending checkmate, and he plotted his jibe accordingly.  For us early adolescents, that cut right to the center of our vulnerable hearts, making even the best player doubt themselves and falter, giving Matt the win.

It seems childish and stupid, but it worked.

For a while.

After a few months of getting shouted at and losing their nerve, the nerds did something amazing – they grew spines.  Instead of letting Matt rattle their cage with what amounted to emotional abuse, they tuned him out.  He’d try over and over to make the same routine work, but once we decided it wouldn’t affect us anymore, it didn’t.

We even started doing it back to him.  When someone saw him about to make an inspired move, they would leap up and shout, “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” in a squeaky voice and plop back down, giggling.  It became a game in itself to see who could beat Matt the most times despite his intimidation attempts.

I won.

And he stopped doing it.

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 You know what, though – Matt was right.  They are all gonna laugh at you.

There’s going to be haters, detractors, nay-sayers, and distracters who try to knock you down and make you second-guess and doubt yourself.  Whether they show up at work, at school, or at home, there’s always going to be someone laughing at you for being awesome in the hopes that you’ll falter and quit.

But so what?

The trick of life isn’t to avoid being laughed at.  It’s to do something so big and amazing that it causes that reaction in the first place – to be so brilliant that you force the haters to resort to childish, stupid tactics just to make themselves feel important and better than you.

The best thing you can do is laugh right back and keep being awesome anyway.

Tomorrow’s the big day, folks.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be prepping to have my hip operated on. I’ll spend 2-4 days in the hospital, then be home under the care of my mom and husband for the next two weeks. I’m not sure how long I’ll be down after that, but I wanted to make sure that you guys know I’m not abandoning you.

I decided to pull up some of my personal favourite posts from the archives for a summer rewind between now and the beginning of July. That way there’s still cool stuff going up here but I don’t have to fret. And who knows? You could hear from me as early as June – it all depends on how recovery and drugs are going.

Several people have asked how to get in touch while I’m recovering. As soon as I can remember how to use my iDevices, I’ll be around. Whether you just want to drop a get-well e-card or send me a present in the mail (I shall send Lino to the postbox), please do. Being connected to the outside world is going to be important in my recovery.

Email | Twitter | Facebook

507-150 Market Street
Hamilton, ON L8R3H6
Canada

I also welcome all happy thoughts, prayers, and lit candles on the day of my surgery. The procedure is scheduled for noon tomorow, and I’ll be arriving at the hospital at 9am.

However, I would like to respectfully request that no energy work be sent to me – reiki, spells, and similar tend to distort my natural rhythms in an uncomfortable way. A good test is if you’re manipulating anything, don’t do it; if you’re asking a higher power to watch my back, you’re good.

And if you’re wanting to help out and either can’t because of distance or aren’t sure what to do, I’ll tell you right now that what we’re struggling with most is finances. So, if you’d like to donate in a meaningful way, please pop over to buy one of my books.

Inkchanger | Anything But Ordinary | Why Did I Write That?!

I think that covers everything. If not, leave me a note in the comments, and I’ll make sure it’s checked as soon as possible.

Thank you all so very much for your love, support, and compassion as I’ve prepared for what I’ve come to see as a shamanic trial. I don’t know what waits on the other side, but with an amazing tribe like you walking with me, it can’t be anything short of amazing.

Love on all your heads.

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It’s day five of Inkchanger Awesomeness Week!

But also waaaah because it’s the last day.

I did save the best goodie for last, I must admit.  Originally, Inkchanger had an epilogue, written in the form of Agent 97′s debriefing report, but I cut it before the second draft because it seemed like overkill.  And then a bunch of people said they wanted to read it after they finished the book.

This version is modified to reflect the actual events of the story and contains HUGE MAJOR SPOILERS for the end of the book.  I swear to god if you read this without reading the book first, you will be a) confused and b) pissed.  Don’t do it.

Download the epilogue!

left-click to open, right click to save

This week has been a freakin’ trip, y’all.  At first, I felt super weird and kinda dumb about dumping all my goodies at once – sounds like a bad business move and whatnot.  But after your response, I know I did the right thing.  I always love giving you presents, and you’ve resoundingly supported me in return.

Thank you times a bazillion.

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I know you’re not supposed to have favorites among your own characters, but Agent 97 is mine. I’ve also heard from loads of readers that he’s a fan favorite, too, which makes me extra special happy. He’s kind of a freaky mix of Agent Smith and Carrot Ironfoundersson, and I had so much fun writing him. What’s been most interesting is that he’s stuck with me long after Inkchanger was done; it’s possible you’ll see him again!

So enjoy this excerpt from the book, and thank you all so much for your support during Inkchanger Awesomeness Week.  I’m so glad I got to share it with you. MWAH!

INKCHANGER (audio) – Agent 97 appears

to listen, left-click the link; to download, right-click and save

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A place for everything, and everything in its place. Looking around the room, it seemed the saying was invented just for Agent 97.

A visitor could’ve easily mistaken the clinically sterile room for a doctor’s office rather than the office of the third-best member of the ultra-top-secret Supernatural Cases Department of the FBI. Most other agents’ offices looked lived-in, an accurate description given that many slept curled up under their desks at least three nights a week. Some even had tiny mattresses and refrigerators fitted. The average working space for an SCD employee was decorated with important personal touches that reminded the resident of their humanity: family photos, succulent plants, zen rock gardens. You needed an anchor to the mundane world in this job, lest you forget yourself. The records were filled with accounts of agents who’d leapt off bridges thinking they could fly after too many encounters with fairies and not enough pictures of Monday-hating puppies in their office.

And so walking into Agent 97’s office came as a bit of a shock to anyone who visited. He had requested it painted nursing-home beige to cut down on glare, removed the previous occupant’s biography-filled bookshelves, and installed blackout shades over the only source of natural light; his only additions to the room were a starched army cot and a closet filled with seven identical suits. Behind the standard-issue ergonomic chair, a geometrically-aligned array of framed certificates quietly showed the world Agent 97′s dedication to his department. “Most Evasive Congressional Testimony” held a place of pride in the center. The fluorescent bulbs buzzing softly in the ceiling illuminated a Spartan desk: an antiquated computer, a legal pad with silver pen, and a single picture frame. No other agent had ever seen the contents of the frame, and there was a betting pool as to what could possibly be in there. A picture of his ex-wife? His cat? The president? Agent Smith from The Matrix ?

The only sound in Agent 97’s office was the incessant tapping of the keyboard as he filed his paperwork. On days he did leave the office, it was never before 1900; he attacked the unending sea of reports as if they were a personal affront. By 1830, he had nearly won – just one more PD24 to go and he’d sleep easier tonight.

Two things happened simultaneously: a gentle ping on his computer screen and a tentative knock on his glass door.

Anomaly Reported in Sector 6, Quadrant 2.

“Agent 97, you in there?” asked the visitor, fidgeting with the manila folder he was carrying. Agent 24 knew full well that he was, but he didn’t dare just walk in. The last guy who did that had to go home and phone his mother for reassurance that he was still a valuable human being.

“Come.”

Agent 24 gingerly pushed open the door with his empty hand and took the only seat in front of the wide desk. Agent 97 had pulled up the computer’s report and was scanning through it, the email’s reflection on his ubiquitous sunglasses showing Agent 24 that he’d probably wasted his time. He might have to complain to someone in admin about sending runners (i.e.: him) to give paper documents to agents when they already had digital ones. Then again, he could probably use the exercise.

The visiting agent slid the dossier onto the pristine desk and waited to be acknowledged. Agent 97 took another solid five minutes to finish his reading, then picked up the paper report and took another ten to flip through that, despite it containing exactly the same information.

Agent 24 couldn’t help noticing, in his meditative silence, how fresh-pressed Agent 97 looked; the man never had a wrinkle, piece of lint, or hint of dandruff on him. Like a well-oiled machine.

That guy ain’t right.

When Agent 97 finally deigned to speak to him, it was in the flat tones of the unimpressed. Not that he ever used a different one.

“It appears that this case is better suited for Agent 86 as she is in charge of Abnormal Body Modification.” The senior agent’s shielded gaze fixed on the messenger, making him squirm slightly. “Can you explain why this case was brought to my attention, Agent 24?”

The younger man smiled nervously, showing too many teeth, and pointed back to the glass door. “The teenagers, sir. You’re our Underage Anomalies Specialist, after all. The tech in this case isn’t obscure enough to warrant Agent 67, and Agent 86 isn’t exactly the most…,” he searched for the right words, “…understanding person. It’d be like using a chainsaw to mow the lawn.”

He instantly knew he’d made a mistake. He groaned inwardly and braced himself.

Agent 97 froze into a wax statue of himself, the contemplative gears of his mind nearly audible as the description fought for understanding in the blasted wasteland that used to be his imagination. But the simple image was no match for reality’s stark, sinister weapons; it died an ignoble death among husks of greater metaphors.

Eventually, his features reanimated, and he said, “Surely, using a chainsaw to maintain one’s lawn would achieve the desired outcome, albeit with additional required effort and an undesirable aesthetic.” Pause. “What do the chainsaw and the lawn have to do with this case, Agent 24?”

“Nothing, sir. Just a figure of speech.”

“I see,” Agent 97 said flatly. “Perhaps in the future, Agent 24, you could make the effort to utilize practical speech rather than relying on abstract concepts to make yourself understood. This department is no place for the frivolous or overly imaginative. Such whimsy is the first warning sign that preventative psychological treatment is required.” He tilted his head ever so slightly but didn’t actually look over the edge of his sunglasses. “I trust that you understand the implications.”

Agent 24 swallowed hard, willing nonexistent spit to keep his voice from squeaking. “Yes, sir, understood.” You don’t argue with a nearly-seven-foot-tall man in a thousand-dollar suit, no matter who you are.

“Excellent.” Agent 97 snapped the folder shut. “That will be all, Agent 24. I appreciate you taking time out of your undoubtedly busy day to provide me with this information. Please inform Agent 100 that I will be leaving at nineteen-oh-seven hours to investigate the anomaly and bring in Miss Zara Carter for questioning and debriefing.”

Done with the exchange, Agent 97 folded his hands neatly on the desk and stared stoically ahead, pointedly ignoring Agent 24. The younger man didn’t need to be told twice; he was out and the door shut behind him in seconds. Besides, there was a bottle in his desk that wouldn’t drink itself.

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Intrigued? Excellent.

If you haven’t read the book yet, make sure to scope it out on Amazon to read the summary and reviews. People are saying some ear-reddeningly nice things over there.

It’s day three of Inkchanger Awesomeness Week!

Today’s goodie is an excerpt from the story (one of two).  This is an early point-of-view asides scattered throughout the story that gives you insight to Zara’s mind.  It tells the story of her history of foster care and hints as the reason for her boarded-up heart.  Enjoy.

INKCHANGER – Zara in foster care

to listen, left-click the link; to download, right-click and save

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They don’t tell you how it’s going to be when you get there. They want you to go expecting the very best – pancake breakfasts and trips to the zoo with adoring grownups who buy you everything you ask for. Sure, there are whispers from old hands, the ones who were passed over and are rotting in the guts of the system. They say it with their eyes, too afraid to open their cracked mouths. “Run away,” they beg you. “You will die here.” But you don’t believe it – not at first.

You want to think that you’re special, different, unique, just like your dead mommy always told you you were. That you’re immune to the disintegration of spirit and degradation of self that’s poisoned every child before you. That it won’t happen to you because you’re perfect.

But it does happen to you. It happens to all of us.

They smile and nod sympathetically when the soft-hearted social worker drops you off in the strangers’ doily-and-landscape-oil-paintings living room. They offer you cookies and milk. Show you your new room. Introduce you to your new siblings, your new dog, your new fish. The too-big dress they bought you as a welcome gift. They laugh nervously and say you’ll grow into it, knowing the promise they’re making. You don’t laugh when they say they’d like it very much if you would call them Mom and Dad. They do take you to the zoo, though, to the movies, to restaurants you never dreamed existed.

They adore you because they feel sorry for you.

And the instant you don’t reciprocate, the moment you refuse to come out of the rose-pink room because you can’t bear to see the light of another day where you are alone with strangers and afraid of living… Fretful phone calls to head office. Google searches for “troubled teen therapists.”

Or.

The friendly social worker’s van pulls away and suddenly it’s time for bed at 3pm. There is no new room or pretty dress or trip to the zoo. There’s only knuckle-abrading chores and a barely-clean corner of the basement. There’s only a pair of leathered hands in the dark, touching secret places. You pray every day and every afternoon and every night for someone to hear your telepathic pleas for intervention.

Eventually, someone with densely-written papers and a pair of handcuffs does come. But they always come too late.

Back into the hopper with another set of strangers who only see a sad orphan girl who’s been prescribed three anti-psychotics and draws freakishly well on anything you give her and is not a real person because how could she be with so many years of foster care under her belt?

Time after time, home after home, you pry open your heart, choosing again and again through sheer hard-headedness to dare hope this mom will understand, this dad will keep his hands to himself, these strangers can be a family. That someone will keep you close to their heart without abandoning you in a matter of months. Or will know you are your own property, not theirs.

It happens to all of us.

It happened to me.

All I have ever wanted, since I was ten years old and couldn’t want easy things anymore, like a pony or to go to Disneyland with my (dead) mom and (dead) dad and (dead) brother, is for someone to see me for who I am and to love me without having to pay for it with my tears or my sweat or my body. To not be eviscerated when I inch open the lead-lined doors sealing up my heart. To be happy without being tainted by the fear of “how long?” To have a Technicolor roller coaster of emotions instead of this broken grey carousel of anger and guilt and shame.

To be a real girl.

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Intrigued? Excellent.

If you haven’t read the book yet, make sure to scope it out on Amazon to read the summary and reviews. People are saying some ear-reddeningly nice things over there.

It’s day two of Inkchanger Awesomeness Week!

Back in my heavy LARPing days, I’d write what was essentially fanfiction of our scenes just to entertain myself, and those stories always used a song as the focal point to pinpoint the tone. It got so that I’d even include lyrics as a framing device for even more impact.

But for some reason, I forgot about music when writing Inkchanger. It wasn’t until last week, when I was listening to my Tori Amos library, that I realized it was even an option to put together a soundtrack.

These nine songs are arranged in chronological order from start of the story to the finish. They cover Zara’s inner torment, Eric’s neglected love, Sofi’s protective instinct, Agent 97′s bizarre worldview, and the tragic ending. (And if you can nail which ones are which, ten points to Gryffindor.)

Evanescence – Bring Me to Life

Green Day – She

Tori Amos – Cruel

Our Lady Peace – Made of Steel

Natalie Merchant – I May Know the Word

A Fine Frenzy – Almost Lover

Dave Matthews Band – What You Are

Amanda Palmer – Trout Heart Replica

Elvis Costello – I Want to Vanish

What other songs do you think we should add? Leave your suggestions in the comments and I’ll add to the post – crowdsourced soundtrack!

Intrigued? Excellent.

If you haven’t read the book yet, make sure to scope it out on Amazon to read the summary and reviews. People are saying some ear-reddeningly nice things over there.
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It’s day one of Inkchanger Awesomeness Week!

With my surgery coming up (10 days and counting), I wanted to do something extra-special for you guys since I’ll be out of the loop for nearly two months.  I figured since I didn’t have much promo for Inkchanger, I could release a bunch of goodies at once!

This is the first post in the five-day extravaganza.  There’ll be one post a day, Monday through Friday, basically rolling in the fun of the story (and piquing the interest of those who haven’t read it yet – no spoilers, I promise).

We’re kicking off with a collection of Polyvore spreads to represent the primary characters of the story: Zara, Sofi, Agent 97, Eric, and Dave.  It’s weird having people living in your head, and it feels good to see them out in a visual form.  Enjoy!

 

Intrigued? Excellent.

If you haven’t read the book yet, make sure to scope it out on Amazon to read the summary and reviews. People are saying some ear-reddeningly nice things over there.
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I realize that I wrote a State of the Ellie in March but then promptly forgot. I’m blaming the stress of March and April. I’m also going to give the universe credit for getting me back into it now by making me hanker for a newsletter. The last two months are sort of a slurry in my brain right now, but I’ll do the best I can in catching you up. As always, any questions, concerns, or funny stories are always welcome in the comments.

Writing

I’m hoping you saw the release of Why Did I Write That?! on Wednesday. This project has been a total riot, and it’s possible I might make it a bi-annual thing. Bad poetry is a sort of rallying point for all kinds of people, not just hardcore creatives. Lino thinks I could make a mint; I’m just having a good time reading all the submissions.

It’s possible that, aside from mobility limitations, my biggest annoyance about recovering from surgery is that my work capacity will be significantly reduced. Which is hugely sucky because it means that The Kidnapping (official name still to come), the novel I’ve been collaborating on with Kyeli Smith, won’t be published until July 1. Maybe sooner if we can swing it. All the writing is done; all that’s left is for Kyeli to get her editing pass in and for the design and formatting to be done. I would just like to be lucid before we start telling you guys all about it, so we’re bumping launch until then. Which is a bummer because I’m so damn proud of this book. Patience!

What’s funny is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Cora Riley. I haven’t talked much about her in public yet because of The Kidnapping and the surgery and whatnot, but I keep getting ideas. It looks like there might be a series and everything – I keep coming up with new plots and visuals. Should everything go swimmingly well with my recovery, I could have the first book done by Christmas. I’ll keep you posted.

Oh! And I made The Hobnailed Boot of Tough Love free. Check it out. Oh, oh! And Write Against the Machine has its own website now, and you can link to it from the menu up there. Check it out also.

Last thing: Is anyone interested in a newsletter devoted to writing/publication updates? This section has gotten rather long, and there’s always fun stuff going on in my writing world. Drop me a note and we’ll see how the wind blows.

Health

So, if you haven’t heard already, I’ll be having major hip surgery on May 16th to correct a cogenital bone problem that’s been hurting me for the last seven years. The short version is that they’re going to dislocate my right hip, fix the labrum, cut out the bony socket in my pelvis, move it, and bolt it into a new angle so it doesn’t rub. Gross, I know.

Recovery is projected to be about six weeks, the same as a normal hip replacement, although it could be more or less, depending on how well I do with physical therapy and narcotics. There’s all these restrictions about bending less than 90 degrees, which turns out to be way more difficult than I expected. Fortunately, Mom and Lino will be with me the first two weeks. (And if you’d like to visit or send presents, that would be great! There’ll be a post forthcoming with details.)

This surgery is technically considered “elective” but to me, it’s a necessary key to freedom. Nearly everything in my life list requires me to not only be mobile but adaptable and pain-free. But I’ve never so much as had dental surgery, so the whole thing is terrifying. I’m worried about narcotics making me loopy, and I certainly have loss-of-control fears. I’m terrified I might accidentally hurt myself and have to do it all over. But – this is my year of being brave. Every shaman must go through gruelling trials to find their power, right?

Goals

One of the things on my 30 Before 30 list is to write a poem a day for 30 days. April was also National Poetry Month. I figured that was as good a time as any to check that one off. Rather than just write 30 random poems, though, I added the challenge of writing all of them about my surgery feels. I’m still processing how I feel about the project as a whole – there’s a lot to learn about blogging and poetry there. At the very least, it gave me more respect for people who choose (or are chosen by) poetry as their primary creative outlet.

And, after putting it off for nearly two years, I finally wrote that fan letter to Terry Pratchett. With all the surgery angst in the air, I pushed through the perfectionism and just did it. I realized that if I died on the table (god forbid), I couldn’t spend the rest of my afterlife regretting not writing. The letter is five handwritten pages, half-fangirling and half-serious and half-joking (yes, three halves). I don’t expect him to personally read it, or even have someone read it to him, but knowing I did it is enough to make me feel more connected to one of the best writers of our time.

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Usually, I’d also talk about my relationship, spiritual practice, money issues, and all that jazz, but frankly, this is a thousand words already, and there’s not much exciting going on in those areas. Everything’s cool. Maybe I can dish you more drama in June (although it could be late because of surgery brain. You understand.)

What did you do with your April?

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It started as a wild hair, joking with friends about how hilarious it would be to release a chapbook of all the shitty poetry I’d written back in high school. And college. And after college. Anyway…

Turns out, not only are other people willing to admit they wrote shitty poetry when they were hormone-riddled, but they think it’s hilarious and want to share it.

A few exciting conversations on Twitter, Facebook, and email later, I had fifteen contributors sending me some of the most cringe-worthy lines I’ve ever seen.

Why Did I Write That?! Embarrassing Poetry from School is the result.

Yes, it’s a real thing.

15 poets, 52 poems, 60 pages, intro by my own self.

Tomorrow, it’ll be $1.99 on Amazon, but…

For today only, it’s free to download right here.

You missed the deadline, bra!  But you can still buy it from me or Amazon.

I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who contributed and to everyone who encouraged me to take up this silly little project on a whim.  It’s been hilarious, touching, and inspiring.  And who knows?  Maybe we’ll do another one in the fall…

PS – If you’re interested in submitting your own bad poetry, on any topic and from any time period, visit my new Tumblr: Why Did I Write That?! where you can send in anonymous (or not) work for the enjoyment of the masses.

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And in the end,
you face all your challenges alone,
but the manner of the meeting
is up to you.

Hold your chin high,
put on the game face,
remember it’s not forever –
that suffering now means
freedom later.

You’re stronger in the broken places
with time.

Just bring it.
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