Going Postal

T.: So...a 52 cent stamp should suffice on the SASE, right?
Shayne: That should be fine.
T.: Unless they decide to send me back a pipe bomb. "Dear Writer, We have reviewed your story, and decided not to publish it in our magazine. To prevent you from sending us anymore crap, we have enclosed a small but powerful grenade. Sincerely, The Editor."
Shayne: Well, they'll just have to pay for that themselves.

#3

Charm my ass.

This one was personalized, so that was nice. Dammit, I really wanted that T-shirt.

#2

Already, the novelty is gone.

Working the Plan

"Stage 28" lies, thus unread and unloved, in the submission inboxes of a couple more e-zines.

Foundlings, faeries, catrinas...but first, "After the Blackout".

There are a couple of new links on the side. One is my friend Vikram's website, with his beautiful artwork, and the second is "The Digital Medievalist", which is currently proving more fascinating and distracting than Wikipedia and Crimelibrary combined.

Compensation

Shayne: Try these guys next. They're one of the fastest markets out there, pay a $25.00 flat fee, plus a t-shirt.

T.: Sold. You had me at 't-shirt'.

#1

Today is a day for the ages, I received my very first rejection letter! Thanks to all who've been there for me through it all.

Clearly, your friendship and love did me no good.

Fame! (not the good kind)

My reputation as a Phantom fanatic is spreading, like waste from an overflowing cesspool (GODDAMMIT I should have thought that up in time for the Bulwer-Lytton contest. Oh well, next year). As none of you will know, I posted an entry on Facebook back in November, ranking all the different film versions of Phantom, imparting my indisputably expert opinions on each (who could forget such classic academic language as this: "And so like in this version, Erik is sooooooo sweet, you just want to reach through the screen and pet him!! And then Christine is so annoying, but in a very Christine way, so that's okay! I like totally love this movie!1!!111!!!!!"). My but that English degree has served me well.

Earlier this week I received a Friends Request on Facebook from someone I didn't know, with the following message included:

"Hi! I was hoping to read your note about the different film versions of the Phantom of the Opera."

I checked his profile, and we don't have any friends or groups in common. There is the possibility that he found my one post from months ago on the one Phantom group I belong to on Facebook, or he found out about it somehow third hand.

Either way, for the sake of my professional future, it's probably time to start thinking about changing my name. This ranks maybe slightly better than being president of a Star Trek fanclub, but quite a bit worse than knitting scarves for each Harry Potter house.

Secret Identity

If ever I feel the need to publish under a pen name (I currently feel no such compulsion), then I've determined that my name will be Alex Fawn Timfly. A bag of candy for anyone who solves the intricate mystery of the name*. And in all my works published as Timfly, I will use this as my author bio pic:


In other news, no longer having my pet around, I can no longer mask my insanity, and have become reconciled to the fact that I just talk to myself most of the time.

It's a good life.

*Shayne is excluded from this. She knows too much. And the mystery is not that intricate. Have you read the Da Vinci Code? Yeah, I'm sorry too. Anyway, it's not much trickier than that. You don't care anyway.

P.S. Yeah, this is supposed to be a writer's blog. I may or may not have a story twitching anxiously in the inbox, or possibly even on the desk of the editor of a sizeable horror magazine.

Stage 28

A little teaser passage from "Stage 28". Do enjoy.

Nothing was easy. Telly felt lightheaded.
"Everyone take five," he said, and there struck up a quiet drone as cast and crew began to wander away in all directions. Telly stood up, and began to explore Stage 28.
It had been the first steel-and-concrete set to be built at Universal Studios, especially to serve as the interior of the Paris Opéra, and several other sets as well, for the silent film adaptation of the Phantom back in 1925. The silent film was the only one where the actors hadn't messed up by having American voices in a French setting, har dee har har. Telly traced the carving on one of the old opera boxes. They were shooting the unmasking scene in the Phantom's lair, and had built the smaller, much more claustrophobic set, within the soundstage. Outside of its black walls, one could still see the remains of the auditorium set. A false floor hid where once an audience of eager extras had sat, the backstage set had long been dismantled, and the chandelier lost. How one managed to lose a one-tonne chandelier from a locked storage facility on a private secure lot was indeed a mystery for the ages, but there still remained something special about stage 28, where the first and greatest film adaptation of the Phantom had been made. Telly had hoped his cast would be inspired by working on the set, as he had been, but the announcement had bounced right off Mindy's head and received only a lukewarm "Oh?" from Richard. Justin, hell-bent on becoming a respected acteur (his irritating words) had reacted as if he'd just been told he was next in line for the British throne. "Oh my God!" he had exclaimed. "That is so incredible!" You could hear the hitch in his voice as he stopped himself from saying "cool". He had then proceeded to tell them what a great fan he was of Len Chaney. He was a moron.
There was a legend that Chaney's ghost haunted the stage, Universal's own personal Phantom. In his more cynical moments, Telly wondered if a Ouija board and an EMF meter might improve the cast. Then he would think that Lon Chaney would have better things to do with eternity.

On a not entirely unrelated note, I am in love with Julian Lloyd Webber's orchestral version of the Lloyd Webber Phantom music, and I'm also enjoying the Woman in White suite as well, which I've never heard before. I could swear that several of the melodies are ripped off another classical composer, Gustav Holst maybe, but I'm too lazy to check. Some Lloyd Webber naysayers, of which there are many, would say, "Of COURSE he did! He's a hack!"

I however, being neither an ALW naysayer or fanatic, will be sitting here and enjoying some pretty violin and cello.

Happy Easter!

Stage 28: the story of the story, part FINITO except for editing, formatting, submitting, and publishing. Shut up.

Once the weather improves, black pens everywhere will be lighting candles as I bury their three fallen brothers in the planter outside my apartment building. Yes, I still have the first two pens that died so "Stage 28" could live. Yes, that means I've kept two dried up Bic pens for a year. Not just kept them, transported them when I moved this past summer. I'm quite mad you see.

Once Spring arrives for a long-ish stay (shouldn't be too long now) they will be laid to rest along with a Staples SONIX Gel pen that also laid down his life for the cause of my Phantom story. I think perhaps I will wrap them in a black cloth and sing their requiem.

You all think I'm joking, don't you?

I had to pause for a count of five between words for the last page-and-a-bit. That would revive the ink for another three letters or so. My patience was wearing thin at the end, and I just scratched out the name and date as quickly as I could. I might as well have done it with my fingernail for all it showed up.

Who cares? It's DONE.

Now, it will be shoved in a drawer for a week before I begin the major renovations it still needs, mostly in the last three pages. I'm pleased with the ending, but I need to clarify it. Clarify it to emphasize its ambiguity, which makes sense to me. There's also some reorganization of events to be done. The important thing is that I know all the elements that I want are there this time, and everyone's ended up where they should be.

What Happens Next

I have another story that I'll begin work on soon called "After the Blackout", and I also intend to pull out my stories from the past few years (five in total...yeah, kinda sad), rip them apart, and turn them into something I can be proud of now (not two or three years ago). Once that's done, I'll set those in circulation as well.

Be happy for me. I am!

REJOICE

It's done it's done it's done, motherfucker it is done done done done like Britney Spears and twice as dramatic.

I'd be celebrating my lady bits off right now if I didn't have work in the morning. And if my left hand wasn't frozen into something resembling a vultures talons.

Stage 28: the story of the story, THE FINAL CHAPTER

Yes yes, I know I've been slow with this ending of mine. Really, it's because writing and other creative endeavours (drawing and sewing for a start) have been taking precedence over blogging about writing and other creative endeavours. You should be glad. Or not, as none of you have read my work yet, so for all you know I might be a hack of Brown Rice proportions.

I wasn't kidding when I said there really wasn't much more to tell. I truncated the absolute worst of the garbage, and reworked the beginning into something readable (though the homoerotic elements stayed notably intact). I found what seemed like a good pausing point in the story, and turned in that much to my professor. I found that I was becoming increasingly fond of the work, and wanted to finish it again, but actually make it good this time.

The end has been very slow in coming, I must say. I've been bashing my head against the wall, the desk, and whatever other hard objects have been close at hand for nearly a year. This sounds painful, and perhaps not conducive to grand inspiration, but I was kicked in the head by a horse as a child, and my risk assessment abilities kinda went out the window after that. So did my math skills. What's traumatic brain injury? Cognitive impairment what?

There is light at the end of the tunnel, however. Of course, it's a white candle set on an ornate iron candle stand, so the light is weak and flickering, but such an atmosphere is only befitting for a scholarly artiste such as myself. This is a difficult story to do anything with: a director starts to lose it when his idiot actors don't see his vision. Then what? More importantly, so what? Unanimously, the opinions of the few who have read the original fragment of "Stage 28" have been, "Wow, it's good. I've absolutely no idea where you're going to go from here, but it's good." My thoughts exactly. I like my homoerotic fanfic. And now, I'm going to finish it without having to separate it into 200+ chapters on a specially filtered LiveJournal, and give it a title like, "All I Asked of My Angel of Music of the Night".

Edit: I am bored at work, and so issuing a challenge to both my readers: think of the most annoying title possible for a Phantom fic created out of song titles from the Andrew Lloyd Weber musical. Include a brief description of the story if you'd like. For example:

"Thinking of All I Asked of my Angel of Music of the Night": Having chosen to end his sad, lonely life, Erik reflects on his relationship with Christine, and of why she rejected him (hint: it was because of his face).

"Wandering Child Goes Down Once More": Erik/Christine. PWP. i think dis iz the best thang i've evar writen. guys read it and rate it good, k? lol

"Phantom of the Prima Donna": Erik stalks the NEW star of the Paris Opera House. She has long jet black hair, starry violet eyes, and albatross skin. I meant alabaster skin. She is perfect. Chapter 1 of 2867493^10.

"Point of No Return to the Masquerade": All the cool kids at the party were mean to Erik, so he runs away and hides in his labyrinth. Christine comforts him. Rated PG-13 for some sexual content (ie. no goats).

Make me laugh, people.

Edit #2: Okay, you can use song lyrics as well as titles. I'm making this too easy.

Edit #3: Include story descriptions. I can't make it TOO easy.

Edit #4: I'm going to stop making edits now.

Stage 28: the story of the story, Part 3

Alternate Title: A Sue By Any Other Name Would Destruction Wreak

Flagrant narcissism was the answer, isn't it always? My main character would be an obsessive devotee of the Phantom, trying desperately to create the one "true" film version of the story that would essentially launch all the other tacked-together versions into the sun. Not bad. It was a starting point, but where to go from there?

I fidgeted through the rest of the bus ride, and when I finally got home, hardly said hi to my mother as I made a beeline (meaning I ran quickly but crookedly and unsteadily...pretty much my norm) for my computer.

That thing I said about no research? Okay, so it was a bit of a lie. But it wasn't much, really. I think I still held to my new "lazy" resolution quite nicely. I needed a catalyst though. So, armed with the Complete Phantom of the Opera and Google, I began to feel my way along Phantom's cinematic history. I didn't have to probe long before the perfect setting landed in my lap, and Telly began to take on more detail in my head, along with a cast of utter idiots. I was jitterbugging all over my room, except not really because it was the size of a horse's stall and the open floor space in it measured exactly one foot by three. So instead of jitterbugging, I sat on my bed and began to write.

I wrote two pens into Bic Heaven. Around seven o'clock in the morning, brain feeling like cotton, eyeballs on fire, and shivering like you do when you haven't slept a wink, Stage 28 was done. Rough to be sure, but done. I went for a much needed cup of tea, then came back and read the story.

I started to feel sick.

It started off well. It was funny, and clipped along well, then about a third of the way in, it became a mess. Not even a salvageable mess, just an absolute disaster. I suppose this shouldn't have been a surprise, given the circumstances, but for all of you who went to college or university and procrastinated like most students do, well...you get used to pulling off miracles. The panic doesn't hit until you've failed to pull off the standard miracle. Once the standard miracle has failed, then you're in the realm of the unknown. THEN you panic.

I panicked, and the first thing I did in my panic, was make another cup of tea. It was the same as the cup of tea I'd just drank, except my hand shook a lot more when lifting the cup. I re-read "Stage 28", and thought of what I should do with it, all the while, a nagging discomfort grew in my mind. There was something else wrong here, besides the story just being a pile of crap.

Wincing, I read the story again, tried to pinpoint what was bothering me, and couldn't do it. I forced myself to try again, this time doing the critical thinking and sniffing out of symbols and themes that I'd supposedly learned to do in four years of university. Then it hit me.

Dear God, sweet God, I had accidentally written a piece of homoerotic slash fanfiction.

Seriously...no seriously...was I an even bigger hack than I thought? Apparently so.

There's not much left to this sweeping, epic tale, then I'll actually start talking about current writing events, rather than a year old farce.

Stage 28: the story of the story Part 2

Yes, Phantom of the Opera.

One of my first memories is of being in our basement when I was four-years-old, eating dinner with my parents and watching TV, when suddenly I heard the most beautiful music.

And this was high praise from me: I HATED music. Hated the songs we sang in Sunday school, hated the silly rock and roll my parents listened to, hated the ragtime my mother played on the piano. What I did like was classical music, but I considered it such a separate entity from the normal garbage I heard referred to as "music" that I didn't even classify it as such. It was a pretty sound, but not music, to my young mind. Music was crap*.

But this, this was something I'd never heard before, and that deep, spooky voiceover (anyone else remember it?) was calling it music. The images on the screen were also like nothing I'd ever seen before: hundreds of candles on elaborate iron stands in a black room, swirling red velvet drapes, a beautiful woman in a fragile-looking white dress, and then there was the man.

It was his profile, and his hands, he had beautiful hands. I was in love, though I didn't know that. I wanted to sit next to him and listen to him play his organ** and sing forever.

So sprouted the seeds of obsession.

Phantom was all consuming from that point onward, and I didn't even get to see the musical until I was seven, three years after seeing that first commercial. Every film version of the Phantom I could find, I had my parents rent ad nauseum (bear in mind that these were the days before home Internet access, so it wasn't like I was looking these up on IMDB. I just scoured every video store I could find). My father taped a few versions off television, and I watched the tapes so much that today, they're just about broken. I started piano lessons when I was seven, and hated playing (except for classical music, which I had by then learned was also music), but when I got the Phantom piano book for Christmas, I knew them all after a day or two. I started singing by reading the libretto at the back of the Complete Phantom of the Opera. I bloody well talked to Erik. That is not an exaggeration, I constantly spoke aloud to a fictional character. I was a very lonely only child. That, and there's a lot of syphillis on my father's side***.

Phantom as a focused obsession faded into the background eventually, though I still watched the movies often, but the aesthetics, musically and artistically, never did. I loved darkness.

So that night as I sat on the bus and found myself besieged by several of my younger selves to go back to Phantom for inspiration, that commercial, and the montage of images that started it all beckoned first.

I am proud to say that I never even considered the idea of a straight-up fanfic.

I retrieved that body of knowledge from where it had been collecting dust in my memory, and began to turn it over, and look at it from different angles. I kept coming back to the movies. So many movies. All of them had one thing in common: the title. All of them had one thing in common with the original novel: the title. Aside from the first silent film and a very short, cheaply made children's animation in the 80s, all the Phantom movies had pretty much junked the original novel, and just used the basic concept of a crazy man who may or may not be deformed being obsessed with a beautiful young girl who may or may not be a very talented singer. I tried to picture what a truly faithful Phantom movie would look like. It would be tough to do without looking like a prat. There were so many clichés intertwined with Phantom by now that had served a purpose in the original work, but had been relentlessly abused by filmmakers since. The depth of the characters had been stripped away layer by layer, until they could have been convincingly played by cardboard cutouts (I refer you once again to the animated version of the 80s. And the Dario Argento version of the 90s, ba-zing). If someone who truly loved the story, the original story, were to take the reins of yet another remake, what would the result be?

And that's when I first met Telly.

* I should point out that I've since developed a tolerance for rock and roll, a cautious affection for ragtime, and like a whole bunch of other music as well. Classical still kicks your ass though.
** Who's the pervert now, pervert?
*** Just kidding, or am I****?
**** I am.

Stage 28: the story of the story, Part 1

It started off with laziness.

You see, normally I make writing very, very difficult on myself. This is probably why I never finish anything. I think of stories that are related to obscure mythologies, or set in a country I've never been to, or in a culture I've never experienced, therefore to sound plausible, I need to research my ass off. Since typically I'm not writing against deadlines, this was no problem. I just never finished the damn things.

Then, I took a creative writing course in my last semester of university. Suddenly, there were deadlines.

Suddenly, there were problems.

I had a short story due in class the next day. The professor didn't care if it was just a fragment, but it had to be about eight pages.

In my last year of university, I was working like crazy on top of school. I taught music four days a week, volunteered, and did a bit of tutoring on the side. Unfortunately, the creative writing class fell on Wednesday, which, for those of you who are unaware, is the day after Tuesday, which happened to be my longest work day of the week. So, on the two hour bus ride home at the end of the day (9:00 PM), my tired little brain mulled over story ideas, tacitly resigned to another all-nighter. My usual material...the obscure mythologies, countries, and cultures...floated in circles, occasionally colliding with each other in a brief creative formation, only to pull apart when I would shrink from the idea of the research I'd have to do, and the speed at which I'd have to do it.

It was at that moment, on a stinking, filthy TTC bus creeping through one of the worst ghettos the GTA has to offer, that I had an epiphany.

Why the hell was I making this so complicated? Where was the shame in writing from what I knew?

There was no shame, came the answer loud and clear, except for what I was creating in my head.

Fuck mythology, and fuck worldliness, I was going to use this short story to embrace my admittedly narrow and uncultured world view. I was a white girl from the middle class suburbs, and for once I was going to take that sheltered identity and run with it. I always have and likely always will make things difficult for myself because I feel a lot of guilt about my life being too easy, but this time, the hell with it. I was going to take the easy way out like normal people.

So I changed the direction of my thoughts, and started thinking about things that I knew, inside and out, that I could somehow string out into a story.

From an old and long neglected corridor of my memory, my four, five, six, seven, eight and nine-year-old selves came charging out in all their frizzy-haired glory, and screamed to make themselves heard.

Phantom of the Opera...

OMG

Oh my god, it's a blog. A writer's blog no less, does the world really need another one? The answer is no, of course not, but my vanity and "artiste" affectations demand one, I'm afraid.

I be T. Max.

I am currently working on "Stage 28", a story very close to my heart that I've been struggling with for nearly a year. Details will follow once my baby's done, but until then, you may know my shame in that it's the closest to fanfiction I've ever written. And I mean fanfiction like whoa. Self-insertion, sex with my favourite character, and everything I've ever hated. Luckily, I'm a writer, and therefore hypocritical and pretentious enough to think that I can pull it off when no one else can.

Welcome to Rosebush Maze, everybody.

Edit: Holy craparino that text was bright. Hopefully this is better.
2nd Edit: It occurs to me that the phrase "self-insertion" placed right before "sex with _______" (fill in the blank) results in a much dirtier sentence than I intended.
3rd Edit: By the way, I'm a pervert. I even own a trenchcoat. You'll get used to it.