Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Barrafloofa (floofinition) – Animal known for its fearsome appearance and ferocious behaviour.
In use: “Normally friendly as a happy puppy, raised voices always summoned Herc’s inner barrafloofa. The family quickly learned not to do that, or argue, around the big dog, because Herc the barrafloofa wasn’t going to tolerate it.”
Geoflooftry (floofinition) – Branch of floofmatics that deals with the measurement, properties, and relationships of points, lines, angles, surfaces, and solids.
In use: “Most animals (but especially housepets) have a poor sense of geoflooftry, believing that they can fit, wedge, or shape themselves into any space, even if its one tenth of their size.”
Solipfloofsism (floofinition) – A theory holding that an animal can know nothing but its own modifications and that it is the only existent creature.
In use: “It was a constant war with the cat to keep it off of the kitchen counters, but the feline’s solipfloofsism didn’t allow her to accept that others could control her. It wasn’t possible.”
An old, cynical one. Growing up around Pittsburgh, PA, numerous small businesses had this framed on the wall behind the cash register (or beside the register on the counter). I don’t see it much any longer. I blame credit cards.
Beatflooftudes (floofinition) – The blessings of sharing a life with animals.
In use: “Blessed are those share their homes with cats, dogs, birds, fish, and other creatures, for their spirits are nourished with love.”
Catering to his beloved pet’s needs, he opened the back door for his ginger feline. “Go on, then. I’m telling you, it’s freezing out there. You’ll be sorry. You’ll want back in after a few minutes.”took
Despite sunshine, icy air was rushing through the open door. Tail up, the cat bounced forward with a posture that called forth a heroic flourish of trumpets.
Halfway out, the cat went still, paws caught in motion.
“In or out,” he snapped. “Come on, cold air is filling the house, and all the heat is getting out.” He could hear the furnace kicking on. “Damn it — ”
The cat chittered. An enormous scrub jaw was hopping about the icy grass. Apparently seeing the cat, it flapped it wings with an outraged screech and took flight.
The cat ran out but the bird was gone. The cat scowled back at the man with an irritated tail swish (oh, yes, cats can scowl). He was clearly saying, “I could have gotten him if you hadn’t rushed me.”
“Right,” the man replied with a dismissing snort. “That bird was bigger than you. Let me know when you want back in.” He closed the door as the cat walked away, tall up, all forgiven, searching the yard for another distraction.
Floof Generis (floofinition) – The impression that people think their pet is unique, usually due to its coloring, personality, or an unusual physical attribute.
In use: “She thought Dolphin (who loves the water) was floof generis but after posting his photos and descriptions on the Internet, she discovered others’ pets behaved the same way or resembled him. Dismissing the evidence, she remained convinced that he was floof generis; none were like him but you had to live with him to learn that.”
I came across my house panther stretched out by the fire last night. His fur’s warm silkiness prompted me to tell him, “Aren’t you hot? You’re almost on fire.” He responded with a purring toe stretch before squeezing his eyes shut again. That kicked me to sing to him (softy, so as to not disturb the precious one), “This cat is on fire,” to the Alicia Keyes song “Girl On Fire” (2012). Speaking with the cat this morning, I remembered the song and thought it a fine theme song for our area, where a hard frost coats the ground with delicate white icing.
Cheers
I was frothing with surprise and delight for a while today.
The morning’s email brought interest from three agents. They wanted to see more material from April Showers 1921, a surprise. I thought that all interest from the first round of submissions had died (accomplished in October, 2019). I was regrouping for another round of submissions.
I also thought how odd it was that these agent things happen in clumps. But then, I submit in clumps, and the agents describe similar processes and response times. It shouldn’t be a surprise when they respond in clumps.
What WAS a surprise was an agent expressing interest in Four on Kyrios, the first novel of the Incomplete States series (five books). I submitted to her in February, 2019, ten months ago.
(A pause to consider that I’d finished writing a five novel series last year (Incomplete States, 430,000 words), and then wrote a novel earlier this year (April Showers 1921, 180,000 words), and now I’m finishing a third book (To Begin, 73,000 words so far). And yes, that does please me. Plodding along at about five pages a day does start adding up. Especially when I remember that Incomplete States and all of its support documents (side stories, character, planet, and cultural histories, etc) added up to one million words.)
Although it’s exciting to receive the emails from the agents, after reflecting, I thought, well, I’ll do my writing session today, and then try to respond to these agents tonight. I wasn’t being contrary or sabotaging myself, but in thinking through where I was and who I am, I enjoy the writing process, I’m enjoying writing the current novel, and I have momentum. (The muses are being friendly and I don’t want to alienate them.) So, although my goal is to find publication for those previously written novels, writing the current novel entices me more.
It’s a curious sensation. Yeah, I seek publication beyond the self-publishing of the four novels that I’ve already done. The agent interest is validation, in one sense; someone is interested! In another sense, I shrug; I’ve always written for myself, creating mysteries and logic problems for me to solve, building and expanding worlds in my mind, and discovering characters who emerge as people to me.
I’m also a tinge jaded, reconciling myself, yeah, you’ve been shown interest by agents and editors before, and it’s come to naught. (Really, are you so cynical, Michael?)
Yes, I am. More than cynicism, in the course of writing novels and following a quest to be a better thinker, story-teller, and writer, I’ve fallen out of concern about what others think about my writing. I can argue that some of that is self-preservation (and perhaps a tincture of imposter syndrome). See, if I don’t get excited, then I’ll be less dejected if the agents decline my project. That’s the theory.
It’s also short-sighted; being in a bubble of my own thinking, reading, writing, and criticism means that I don’t receive feedback that could help me grow.
Yes, true.
So, being cynical, jaded, short-sighted, and dubious, writing, with all of its challenges and frustrations, is more immediately rewarding and satisfying. Solving these self-made issues generates a sweet dopamine infusion. Perhaps that’s the lesson — and warning — that I should really find in my response today: I’m a writing addict, looking for a quick fix.
Today’s news does want me to treat myself to a scone or muffin. Comfort food, I believe, to help cope; the potential for advancing also carries the angst and burden of failure. Have something to eat, right? It’s a humorous pattern.
Yet, again…there was that time when I came across a woman reading my novel at a Starbucks here in my town, a cool experience. I’ve received feedback from readers about how my they’ve enjoyed something I’ve written, which was a powerful jolt to the ego. Multiple those intangible rewards by the potential that being published on a larger scale could bring.
Also in passing, though, I do enjoy reading my own work. It’s fun to read what I’ve written, and it often surprises me. I understand what that says about my process and being in the tube. What was originally conceived and written (in my methodology) frequently evolves under editing, revising, refinement, and polishing. I write to know what I think, and I rewrite to clarify it and deal with loopholes in my thinking (and plotting and problem solving).
As a final piece, of course; this is me, today. Me, tomorrow, or yesterday — or even later today — might respond differently. Moods (and the hopes and expectations related to them) are dynamic. Hence, I needed to write all of this out just to think about it, a prelude, perhaps, to discovering how I feel.
Well, it’s all thinking fodder. Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Got to feed that addiction, you know?
The inertia of being comfortable kept me holding still
the fear of failing stopped me from courting risks
the weariness of trying sheltered me in place
the leeriness of being exposed trapped me in my space
Michael Seidel, writer 