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The other night, I was cooking something on the stove. I don't remember what, honestly. And suddenly, beneath the pan, I heard a loud snap. Like a .22 round going off. I investigated, saw nothing, kept on cooking. Night after that, my wife � who is actually aware of things, unlike me, who stumbles blindly through life staring through Vaseline-smeared goggles � noted that, hey, look, there's a crack in the ceramic glass top of the range. The crack, in fact, had spread wildly, like a vein of aggressive chlamydia.

Advice found online was very clear: "Uhh, stop cooking on that, moron. It could shatter further. It could explode. Might electrocute you. Or maybe it'll break open and gremlins will spill out."

I, of course, kept on cooking. Hey, fuck it, dinner wasn't done yet.

The option exists to replace the glass-top, but it's an older, cheaper range that came with the house and it doesn't match the fridge (this apparently matters), and so it is time to replace the hot-box.

You may think I'm soliciting advice on ranges. I am not. I mean, if you care to share, fine, but it's possible I will have ordered something by now. Further, while I appreciate the calls for "What you need is a gas range," I have to buy an electric so, y'know, sorry? I apologize if my choice in range disturbs or disappoints. Anyway, what I need are:

GRILL RECIPES.

Now, to be clear, I can grill the expected grill-based products with the best of them. Steak, burgers, chops, what-have-you. I mean, shit, it's not hard. "Put meat on hot thing until no longer raw." Done!

No, what I'm saying is, I know that you can make all kinds of stuff on a grill that you wouldn't normally think. Pizza. Desserts. Dishes fancier than, "CHAR FLESH UNTIL SATISFIED."

So: what do you make on your grill that goes beyond the norm?

Share, if you please. Because I'm going to be cooking on the grill for the next week(s) to come. Any grill recipes, grill tricks, grill stunts, whatever you got, send it my way. For all to see.

And in advance: my thanks.

(If you need to know the grill I've got: Weber propane.)

Multitasking is for assholes.

No, no, I know, multitasking is the aegis of the modern man. "I'm walking. I'm talking. I'm chewing bubble gum with my mouth and� well, a couple other orifices. I've got a laptop strapped to my chest so I can: hammer out a spreadsheet, listen to Merle Haggard, watch the fuckthousandth version of Rebecca Black's 'Friday,' read about the mating habits of the Vancouver Island stoat, play a little Bejeweled, and masturbate to animatronic animals like those found in Disney's 'Country Bear Jamboree.' Ooh! And I'm on my way to kill a man in Reno just to watch him die. I'm a multitasker, motherfuckers."

To repeat: multitasking is for assholes.

This is doubly triply quadruply true for we crazy creatures known as "writers." Writing is a thing of focus. Imagine, if you will, that the train of thought is a very real vehicle, and once you're on board, it's best to stay on board. You go hopping on and off that damn thing like some kind of itinerant hobo, you're going to, well, as the saying goes, lose your train of thought. You watch your mental caboose disappearing down the track. And then what happens? You get eaten by coyotes, that's what happens.

This is of course why we have a new series of programmatic efforts to shut out distractions and keep you, the writer who has been trained that multitasking is the best thing since Jesus invented the jet-ski, focused. . . . And so on, and so forth.

Thus I give you: the iPad.

Apple's iPad is a marvelous device for writers. I didn't honestly know if it would be when I got mine. Writing is so often driven by a tactile feel: the clack-chack-zing of a typewriter translates to the PC keyboard, and here comes the iPad, which is really just a rectangle of glass. Do you really want to write a novel on a window pane?

Could be, rabbit, could be.

Here, then, are my thoughts on the iPad as a writer's device. This is not meant to be the end-all be-all: this is just my set-up and why I diggit. If you're a writer and have an iPad? Please do chime in.

It Is About Separation And Precision

The iPad allows you to easily take your little writer's window (the device itself) and wander away from your desk. It takes you away from distraction, then gives you the precise tools you need to get the work done.

You might be saying, "But, dumbass, one's iPad likely hosts an unholy array of distractions," to which I would agree. I've got endless amusements: email, Twitter, World of Goo, Infinity Blade, Words With Friends, Netflix, recipe programs, Flipboard, blah blah blah. Here's the difference, for me. Right now, my PC has 18 browser tabs open, and 12 programs open on the taskbar. Sometimes, I find myself flitting from tab to tab with no certainty why I'm doing so. It's like, I have to click them just because they're there. This is bad when writing, of course � "Did I just end a paragraph in the middle so I could go check a weather report I've already checked seven times this morning?" It's like I have a disease.

The iPad, while still technically a "multitasking device," does so, but in a reduced and less efficient way. And that lack of efficiency is a good thing, because really, the lack of efficient multitasking creates more efficient uni-tasking. Each app feels like an island, which is just what the doctor ordered.

The Setup

Here, then, how the iPad sits on my desk:

The iPad sits to the right of my computer. "Just another distraction," you think, and yes, that can be true � but it's very easy to grab it and walk out of my office. This is key. It also helps me shut down peripheral programs on my own PC and segue them to the iPad: while writing, I shut down everything on my PC but the work, then use the iPad to check Twitter periodically. It's a trick, I know � but writers are loons, our brains like undisciplined terriers. Sometimes, you need Stupid Writer Tricks.

It rests on a , which in a pinch will also serve as a baton to fight off ninjas or highjackers. Actually, no joke: possession of this device in your carry-on luggage will get you stopped every time, and they will ask you to take it out, and guards will show up to watch your movements as you reveal� ta-da, it's just an iPad stand, not a Jihadist Infidel Cudgel.

The iPad sits in an case, which is ruggedized to deal with a fall. I do this because I am easily as clumsy as a drunken baboon with a degenerative hip. Easily.

The most important part of my writerly iPad digs is the USB adapter� oh, I'm sorry, I mean, "." This device says it's only good for connecting cameras to your iPad to download photos and videos. *poop noise* Not true! Not true at all. This little fucker is a straight-up cold-gangsta USB adapter. ("Cold-gangsta?" Shut up.) What this means is: that's right, you can plug a sexual simulation device USB keyboard into the tablet. It's funny, because even when you plug in the keyboard, the iPad tells you: "Oh, uhh, yeah, that device is totally unsupported. Just unplug it now. Don't even try to type on it. You'll fail. You're doomed. Seriously, wait �" And then you try it and, oops, yeah, it works fine.

Typing on the capacitive screen isn't terrible, but to get heavy-duty writing done, you're gonna want a keyboard. And this lets you have that.

(Oh, and I have the Wi-Fi only iPad. This lends itself further toward the "minimal distraction" thing, because the inability to find a 3G signal is great: again, minimum multitasking leads to maximum output.)

The Apps

Of course, it's all about the apps, baby.

Here, then, are the apps that inform my writer's existence. In no particular order�

Dropbox: If you do not know and love the Dropbox, then I must wonder exactly when you suffered traumatic head injury. Dropbox lets you backup your wordmonkeying. Not iPad-specific, which means you can access it on whatever device you choose. Free.

PlainText: This is my word processor of choice on Ye Jolly Olde iPadde. It's minimalist. It syncs to Dropbox. It counts your words. Great place to take notes or even write whole chapters. Doesn't hurt that it's totally free.

Kindle: Duh. Kindle. Books. iBooks is good, but has few books available. Free. I think it's only a buck.

Netflix: You're saying, "Another distraction, Wendig. I'm on to you, you sonofabitch. Trying to justify your bad behavior." No, seriously, Netflix instant streaming is intensely useful as a writer. Great documentary work on there plus shows from History Channel and National Geographic. Good research material. See also: TED talks, which has an app. Free.

GoodReader: Read and annotate PDFs? Yes, please.

NoteTaker HD: Cool program that lets you use your finger (or a stylus, I guess) to take notes. But here's where it really shines for me: writers get a lot of contracts, especially when freelance, and this lets you take a PDF and scrawl on it with your finger-pen. Which means you can sign PDF contracts, save 'em, and send those suckers right back to the client. No need to fuck around with printers and the post office. Five bucks.

Index Card: Great visual outlining tool that simulates the look of index cards on a corkboard. Great for hitting the beats or tentpoles in a planned fiction project. Can also turn into a line-item outline without the visuals, too, which is handy. Index Card is a writer's best buddy. Oh! Syncs with Dropbox. Five bucks.

SketchBook Pro: I got this on sale for a couple bucks, but normally I think it runs about eight. I wouldn't call this an essential in terms of writing-related apps since its straight-up visual, still, it's nice to have some doodle space that is a little prettier than what you get with Note Taker.

Popplet: On the iPhone, I use SimpleMind, but only recently did SimpleMind get a native iPad app which will then cost me an additional seven bucks to buy � unfortunately, even though it appears universal, it's not universal. Doesn't much matter because in the meantime I got hooked into Popplet, which actually has greater functionality in some ways: drag-and-drop mind-maps can also include little doodles and images. This is, by the way, what the corkboard simulator Corkulous is missing � the ability to connect pieces together to create a kind of narrative flow. Five bucks.

2Do: Confession: I actually hate all of the iPhone/iPad "to-do" lists. I want items that I can schedule but also snooze, and so far, that just doesn't seem to exist. This is the best I could find, but to be honest, most of my to-do stuff has segued to a whiteboard in my office.

What's Missing?

I tried Scrivener for the PC and I just didn't get my head around it. That said, I was busy on deadlines (when am I not?) and didn't have time to dick around with new software. Even still, I could sense the potential, and think that on the iPad something like Scrivener would really rock. But I don't know that an iPad version is planned? I remember reading it was, but now I can't find the info. Hrm.

As yet, Final Draft is not on the device, .

I wish for a greater web-clipping service, something that allows me to easily clip webby bits and incorporate them immediately and easily into my workflow (Index Card, Popplet, etc).

Speaking Of Workflow

Generally speaking, I do not write large swathes of story on the iPad. I use the PC for that, but I can believe that the days of the desktop write-machine will draw to a close over the next couple years. At present, the iPad is a super-capable organizational device. I keep the iPad handy to take notes, to arrange materials, to do some "on-screen thinking out-loud," and, yes, to play some motherfucking Words With Friends. It is an elegant supplement to the writer's life, and actually does a lot of what I want to do, except mysteriously it does it better than the PC, which often can barely do the things I want it to do in the first damn place. Good mind-map? Not on the PC. Index card outlining? Not on the PC. Sign contracts with the magic of my middle finger? Not on the PC. The iPad is this weird little happy box, this wonderful magic window.

In the end, the iPad is like a little helper monkey.

A penmonkey for the penmonkey, perhaps.

Should you rush out and buy one if you're a writer? Well. That's on you. It'll help, but it's also not a necessary device. Still, note that it is tax deductible if you're a working writer and, further, is a suitable notebook/laptop replacement (in my opinion), and manages to be a helluva lot cheaper, to boot. So, YMMV and all that, but the iPad will supplement your writing life in a meaningful way.

Plus: PORTABLE ANIMATRONIC BEAR PORN.

I mean, uhhh.

*smoke bomb*

"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream; that's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor� and surviving."

� Kurtz, APOCALYPSE NOW

There comes a point during the writing of a novel when, in the thick of it, some 30 or 40,000 words deep, you look down and wonder, how did you get naked, exactly? Where are your clothes? Why are you covered in grass-stains, your flesh marked by thorn-scratches? Why in your hair do you smell boar's blood and the mating fluids of forest nymphs? Time is lost in clips and stretches. You feel disconnected from your body. You see a fly on the window batting its wings and you're like, "I could eat you. I could sustain myself forever on you. Or I could shrink myself teeny-tiny-itty-bitty and ride you into battle against my foes."

It's time then to realize you have, as they say, bugged the fuck out.

I just finished a novel, and I had moments where I rubbed elbows with a crazier version of myself, a version of myself with blood in his beard and the flesh of the imaginary pterodactyl 'neath my fingertips. But somehow, I kept it together. I dared not lose my shit because, Sweet Molly McGibbons, I was on deadline. You fuck with a deadline, you get fucked by the deadline. That's freelancer law.

I figured that it might be worth it to try to figure out exactly how I stopped myself from going off the reservation to live in the mud and the leaves, and here's what I came up with.

Together, we shall stave off this indefatigable novel-born madness.

Lay Down Breadcrumbs

Writing a novel is just freaking weird, man. Feels like you're wandering through a dark forest with a lantern whose meager light is cast by a flock of disgruntled and unpredictable fireflies. It's like a Miyazaki film up in this bitch. It's hazy and dizzy and dreary and giddy and did I mention weird? Weird. Weird, weird, weird. It is exodus, epiphany, and egress all rolled into one.

So, it helps to have a plan. Further, it helps to track your plan as you go. Now, that doesn't mean having an outline if you don't want it � though, an outline is certainly one way to do this. But even if you just figure out how much you need to write per day to get the novel done by so-and-so deadline, you're already a little bit ahead. Word count matters. Your schedule matters. Track that shit on a spreadsheet � no, no, I hear you, a spreadsheet will burn the tender fingertips of the creative writer the way an angel's lusty secretions will blind a demon by cooking his eyeballs in his fool demon head. Still, I've learned to love the spreadsheet, just so I know where I'm at on my word journey.

You have all manner of plan at your disposal: spreadsheets, mind-maps, outlines, treatments, beat sheets, notebooks filled with your lunatic scrawls and inked in your own tears and urine, etc.

Use them. It'll help put a boot on the neck of your sanity as it squirms and screams and tries to escape your house through the cat door. Anything to keep yourself on target and not ape-bat insane.

Sprint Now, And Thank Me Later

What I'm trying to say is, "Get a little bit ahead." It's like investment banking: save up some extra word count early in the process and that shit will pay in dividends later on. Because inevitably you're going to have a day where it's like, "Oh, the dishwasher exploded? And it took out the stove? And now the kitchen is filled with both soapy floodwater and jetting fire? What's that, you say? Goblins have colonized the attic? I'm not going to get any writing done today, am I?" And then, voila, you whip out that banked word count and you're like, "Magic! I did my writing for today, I just happened to bank it last Tuesday."

You'll feel like a mad genius, you will. You might even go back in time to thank yourself.

ASAFPMF*

* As Soon As Fucking Possible, Motherfucker.

Don't wait. Write as early in the day as you can. Get it out. Exorcise the word demons. On an average day, even the best of us build up bad energy the way boat hulls collect barnacles, and with that scummy aggregation you start to lose intellectual energy. Mornings tend to be when your brain is at its lemon-scented freshest, so hop on pop and get moving. This also means you're giving fate a reduced opportunity to saddlebag you later in the day � 4pm rolls around and suddenly it's all, "I forgot that I left my children at the reptile house at the Zoo. Or was it the primate house? Ooooh. Uh-oh." There goes your daily word count as you battle howler monkeys and hooded cobras in a battle for your children's allegiance.

Stop Shoveling Garbage Into Your Lumpy Writer's Body

That diet of caffeinated Fritos and nougat-filled pork rinds is not the breakfast of champions. It is, in fact, the brunch of the insane. What you put in your body during the time of novel-writing genuinely matters. What you eat affects your mental state, and if you're too sluggardly or cracked-out, your writing for that day is going to be a) not completed or b) as incomprehensible as the chitterings of a distempered raccoon.

Here's what I did. I drank a cup of coffee first thing in the morning and then, mid-morning, a cup of green tea. Green tea is nice because it keeps you awake and alert but dulls the edge of that morning's coffee. Then, I ate protein. Eggs first thing (eggs are brain food, or so I'm told). Then until lunch, some light snacking: almonds, cottage cheese, some dried fruit or veggies. No carbs, and especially no sugar. Carbs are for when you need to burn energy. Sitting your pudding-laden bottom in a chair and writing is not the way you expend energy. Finally,  Scotch or Bourbon at night. To clear the head.

I actually lost weight during the writing of the novel, which surprised me.

Maybe I have a tapeworm?

Mmm. Tapeworms.

The Only Thing Left To Do Is Dance

Oh, also, a little exercise goes a long way. I mean, you don't have to actually dance. Unless the spirit moves you. In which case, move that booty, rump-shaker. Move it like they just made rump-shaking illegal.

Pre-Program Your Brain Like A VCR, Before VCRs Went Extinct Like The Dodo

Seriously, you ever try to find a VCR for sale anymore? You'd have better luck finding an undisturbed Yeti print in your backyard. What was I talking about? Ah. Right. Your brain.

On a day where I have serious word count to attack, I sometimes awaken that morning with deep and freakish anxiety as if I am � well, I don't even know how to describe it. It's equal parts, "I'm not worthy of the task that has been placed in my hand" and "OH MY GOD MY BOWELS ARE FULL OF SCORPIONS." Oh! Oh. You know what it's like? Waking up the day of a test at school, a test about which you forgot, a test for which you are woefully under-prepared. A test you will be forced to take in the nude. With a dunce cap on your head. A dunce cap full of stinky bowel-scorpions.

Thing is, I find that if I preset my brain like some kind of storytelling slow-cooker, I can wake up without that fear threatening to suck my heart outta my nether-holes. It's like this: before bed, I take a handful of moments to think about the next day's work � where are the characters, what do they need to do, where do I need the story to be � then I can go to sleep and let my unconscious thoughtmachine chew on it.

Zero real effort on my part, and it helps to provide focus come morning.

Shit Happens, But Shit Comes Out In The Wash

I said it the other day on Twitter, but it perhaps bears repeating:

Writing is when you make the words.

Editing is when you make the words not shitty.

Writing the novel is the long slog through a deep mire, but it's not a one-and-done deal. This is just the first voyage West � provided your wagons don't break down and you don't murder all your characters and consume their flesh like the icy Wendigo, you're going to do fine. Once you've got the route planned, it's time for editing. And editing is refinement. It's all hatchet-and-scalpel.

Writing is art. Editing is science. All of it together is craft.

Calm down about the first draft.

Your story is truly formed during the editing process.

Calm Down, You're Not Curing Cancer

I don't know why, but it feels like writing a novel is some weighty responsibility, some cross made of aurum borne upon your sagging penmonkey shoulders.

Yeah, listen. Storytelling is genuinely some epic, mythic, fucked-up magical business. It's important. It really is. The world is build on the bones of stories. Stories have the power to change lives.

But even still, you're not curing cancer. You're not powering up the Large Hadron Collider. A house is not burning down with a basket of kittens inside that only you can save.

Vent a little of the pressure off yourself. Not enough to go slack and stop writing (if you do that, I will hunt you down and beat you with your own swollen indolence), but enough to not feel like you're carrying the world on your shoulders. Writing is a little bit like sex: there's a very real "mental game" component going on upstairs. You get too choked up under pressure, you're not going to finish. Not the sex, not the novel.

How else you gonna reach ? After all, "climax" is apropos to both fiction writing and sweet-sweet love-monkeying.

How about you, word-herders and ink-thinkers? How do you get through the writing process from start to finish, be it a novel, a screenplay, a memoir, an endless manifesto of rage-fueled anarchy?

"In some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him � all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination � you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate."

� Joseph Conrad, HEART OF DARKNESS

Good news: I finished the novel. Better news: I still have to do some editing, so I'm reserving a portion of this week for that purpose. Best news: that means you still get some guest posts from some awesome human beings. First up this week is Stephen Blackmoore, an all around awesome dude and great urban fantasy writer. His first book, CITY OF THE LOST, drops next year, and the follow-up, DEAD THINGS, not long after. In fact, I just had the pleasure of reading DEAD THINGS, and it was one of the most gripping books I read all of last year. So. Here's Stephen, then. Don't forget to check out his website, , and follow the man on Der Twittermachine: .

Anywho, here then is a guest post from game designer and big brain, the Evil Hat hisownself, Fred Hicks. His website is . And don't forget to .

I've been watching a lot of film noir from the forties and fifties over at Noir City, the noir film festival going on this month at The Egyptian Theater in Hollywood, and I've noticed something that's been bothering me.

There are a lot of happy endings.

Sure, people die. There's betrayal, shattered dreams, physical and psychological torture. But come on, you don't have that you don't have film noir. But with few exceptions the protagonists not only survive, they fall in love and live happily ever after.

Seriously, what the fuck?

Take the film (**spoilers ahead, but that's okay because chances are you'll never see this movie**) with Preston Foster and Belita, who's got to have one of the in film noir history. It's about a cop who sent his lover up the river for robbery four years before and she might not have done it. Now she's out on parole after vowing (cue dramatic chord) vengeance.

There's a creepy factor, Foster was 48 when he made this movie and Belita's character is 20, which means his character was banging her when she was sixteen, so that's nicely disturbing. But that one scene where everything is supposed to climax in a hail of bullets and they kill each other before discovering she's been cleared of the robbery and a subsequent murder?

Doesn't happen. He gets shot in the shoulder. Shrugs it off. Her Electra complex is in full swing so she forgives him for railroading her into Tehachapi for four years. They jet off to Paris.

This is film noir cock block at its worst. Instead of walloping you with the haymaker you're waiting for it taps you on the cheek in a pissy little slapfight. An otherwise interesting little film gets ruined because it pussies out at the last minute.

And that's the writer lesson for today. Don't pull your punches.

Everybody's got a line they don't want to cross. Ideas they're not comfortable with. And those lines tend to extend into the things they like to read. I'm not saying it's a one to one. Most of us, well, most of you, don't really want to murder people.

But we're just fine watching it on teevee. At least until we run into one of our lines.

There's this thing in publishing I keep hearing about how if you hurt animals or children in your book you'll alienate readers and get hate mail. Everything else is fair game.

Go ahead, eat the dismembered corpse of your antagonist. Lop off his head and ram it onto a stick. Just don't shoot the baby.

You know what? Fuck that. Shoot the baby.

Your readers' boundaries are there to be used. Violence, sex, torture, whatever. Those lines they don't want you to cross, beat on them with a baseball bat. They're chinks in their emotional armor. They're exploitable. And whether you like the idea or not, as a writer you're a dirty, lying manipulator.

Case in point, the novel by Stephen Jay Schwartz. It's about an LAPD vice cop who's a sex addict. So, you know, it's got sex. Lots of sex. Oooooh. Sex. Sex sex sex.

And it makes your skin crawl.

Schwartz has got sex scenes in this book that make you want to bathe in turpentine. It's awkward, uncomfortable, explicit. There's nothing erotic in it. It's like watching an alcoholic go on a weekend bender.

He doesn't pull his punches and instead of titillating, it's tragic. And when it clicks just how fucked up this guy's life is Schwartz owns you.

Now there is one thing about this I will say you can't, must not, never, ever, ever do. Really.

DO NOT FUCKING WASTE IT.

It's like that Bugs Bunny / Daffy Duck cartoon where they're competing for the best vaudeville act and Daffy wins by blowing himself up. The audience cheers and Bugs tells him they love the act. His response?

"I know, I know, but I can only do it once."

You got one shot at this. Do not fuck it up. The only thing worse than pulling your punches is swinging and missing.

You see it all the time. A killing that's just there because the writer is trying to be edgy. There's no emotional impact. It's not there for the story, it's there so the writer can jump up and down and go, "Look at me! I'm one of the cool kids! Watch me swing my dick around! It does tricks!"

That right there is what we mean by gratuitous. Don't be gratuitous.

Unless you're showing nudity. Then be as gratuitous as you like.

I mean, come on, that shit sells.

Been quite a week. Saw the last ultrasound of my son before he'll be born (poor boy, he looks like me). Finished a script, which is now off into the wilds, trying to gather financing like a big Hollywood Katamari ball. Started early development on another film project. Sent off two novel synopses. Wrote like a mad motherfucker and finished the novel, Double Dead, topping out at ~90,000 words.

And then last night I get home from "baby class" � where we were injected with deep panic regarding car seats � to discover .

First, I must extend a sincere thank you to the folks at Writer's Digest. I don't know who was responsible, exactly, but they should know that I appreciate it. A wonderful surprise.

That said, I must also extend with that a sincere warning, as well.

You have made a terrible error. A grievous error. (Man, "grievous" is a great word.)

You know how sometimes you have an out-of-control toddler or a dog with bad habits, and someone inevitably rewards the child or dog and then someone has to step in to say, "Don't encourage him?"

Mm-hmm. This is like that.

Good heavens, why would you encourage me? It's like pouring gas on a fire. No, not even that. It's like giving meth to a grizzly bear. Then giving the grizzly bear a jetpack and a Turkish scimitar. No good is going to come of that. Sure, you want to see what the grizzly is going to do. But it's just not safe. It's not even sane.

That scenario has no positive outcome.

The only result of putting this site on such an estimable list confirms that you've filled my head with the airy delusions of legitimacy. It's like you've handed me a license from the government, and printed on this license are the benefits of said licensing, and those benefits listed include:

"The right to make up writing advice and claim legitimacy despite only threadbare authority;"

"The right to fustigate readers about the head and neck with false bravado and eye-watering profanity;"

"The right to use words like 'fustigate;'"

"The right to guzzle a pony's weight in liquor while doing all of the above."

You've not only unlocked the cage door. You've thrown the key into a dark and endless abyss. This will have terrible repercussions. Twenty years from now, I'm going to be telling my then-20-year-old-son something and he's going to say, "Dad, I don't know if that's right, I don't think anybody actually found the Humbaba from the Epic of Gilgamesh in Lake Erie. You're just making that up." And I'm going to whip out my copy of Writer's Digest and point to the 101 Best Websites For Writers, and I'm going to just tap #43 gently and clear my throat obnoxiously, thus indicating my false expertise in everything everywhere ever always. And then my son is going to ask me, "Dude, what's a website?" And I'll answer, "It's like a dinosaur, except with more pornography. And don't call me 'dude,' I'm your father."

Then he'll ask me, "What's a writer?"

And I'll just cry and remind him that writers all went extinct in 2013 when the price of e-books hovered roughly around "one possum tail and a handful of dried leaves."

So, haters who think I'm gonna shut up? Oooh. Yeah, sorry. Like I said, gas on a fire. Conflagration, whoosh. Now I've a whole head full of illusion, my ego like a fatted calf.

Those who continue to dig on this site, well, buckle up, penmonkeys. The ride is only just getting going. Turns out, terribleminds ain't going nowhere.

Thank you again to Writer's Digest.

Now �

RELEASE THE METH-GRIZZLY!

*raaaaaar*

First and foremost:

Last week's flash fiction challenge is here � . Stories may be coming in throughout the day, so feel free to check back over yonder.

Second:

Welcome back. It's time, again, to play with flash fiction the way a cat plays with a dead mouse. Batting it back and forth. Bringing it to your owners to show off. Making little Prada handbags out of it.

Today's challenge: choose a cocktail, and name your story after it. The great thing is, you have a lot of leeway here: the cocktails that exist in this world are nigh-endless. From the common (Dirty Martini, Tom Collins, Whiskey Sour) to the WTF (Satan's Whiskers, Electric Smurf, Monkey Gland). The story doesn't need to incorporate the cocktail, though you're certainly welcome to do that.

Also: bonus points if you give the cocktail recipe after the story. Because, fuck it, we're all lushes here, right? Right. High-five, those whose livers look like beach-balls or peach-pits.

Here's the tweak:

You only have 500 words this go around.

And, the goal is still to use those 500 words to tell a full story, not just a vignette. Remember, flash fiction ideally has a beginning, middle, and an end; they're just trimmed, sharpened, heightened.

Standard rules apply. Post at your blog. Link back here if you'd like. Then post a link (don't rely on the trackback) in the comments in this post. Any questions, shoot 'em my way.

I think I will once more begin aggregating the links because, frankly, I think it made it easier to view the links. I'm going to try to keep on it as they come in, through, for ease of attack.

Get thee to writing, you ink-stained drunken baboons!

I love ending a story.

Here's why:

Because eventually you reach a space where it's the point of no return. You've been building. And building. Climbing the hill. Worrying at the bone with your teeth. And suddenly it's all there. You can only go down. It all comes together how it has to come together and �

Well, use whatever metaphor you like.

Roller coaster cresting a hill.

Throwing up and purging after a long night of feeling like shit.

The climactic ejaculation � the blog-titular "mighty endjaculation."

You either get there or you don't. If you get there, you know it adds up. Maybe it's not good, but sweet fuck, it adds up. And it happens fast, too. You have momentum. You use gravity. That's the best part about writing an ending, or even a whole third act. No more confusion. Only a kind of weird eerie purity. The way is clear. Run, fuck, kill, or die. You've already jumped off the bridge. Now all you gotta do is fall.

It happened when I finished Blackbirds. I hit the last act and it all just burped out of me.

It happened when I finished the script for HiM. We knew where it needed to go and how it was going to happen and when the time came to bang it out, those last days of writing I was hitting 10, 15 pages a day.

It happened just now, 20 minutes ago, when I finished Double Dead.

Wrote 4k day before yesterday. Wrote 4k yesterday. Today? 7k.

Double Dead is double done.

And by "double done" I mean "not actually done at all." This is just the first draft. I gotta do a pass. Editor's gotta do a pass. Writing is rewriting, after all. But I will say, it feels good. I'm happy. For today, at least. And I'm going to run with that. Run with it all the way home, cackling, giggling, doing cartwheels. Metaphorical carthwheels. If I tried to do the real thing, I'd break my fool neck.

For now, I breathe a big giant exhalation of air.

Who wants some whisky?

*clink*

As you may know, I've a novel due in the next couple weeks. By the time you read this I may already be done said novel, but I still want some padding during these days to give it a once over and make sure it's in tip-top shape before it leaps forthwith into the publisher's open, loving arms. That means, over the next two weeks, you're going to see a bunch � nay, a bushel � of guest posts here at Ye Olde Terryblemyndes bloggery hut ("Where the Elite Meet to Eat Sweet Treats"). Friday's flash fiction will remain ongoing, however. Anywho, here then is a guest post from sinister ink-witch and terribleminds favorite, Karina Cooper. Her website is . And don't forget to .

May I have your attention, please? Hi. My name is . I am a writer. Are you all paying attention? Yes? Good. Ready?

Charlie Sheen.

You know that thing you just did? That tic? That, right there, is why you want to hear me.

Look, I get it. You've spent all this time reading helpful blogs, tips, articles and the like all about how to be a better writer. How to cleverly avoid adverbs, narrowly miss writing yourself into corners, sincerely query your agents and editors of choice. You're told how to save a penny, earn a penny, make a buck. There's excellent how-tos, dos and don'ts, tidbits and bite-sized morsels of help from all over.

What I have never found? A reminder. One that Charlie Sheen dished out just by example. One that a handful of other prolific writers and wanna-be authors really should have been told. Shut up. Pay attention. Stare hard. I want these words branded in your brain:

Don't be a dickface.

Ooh. Sorry, is that too much? Let me couch it in terms my agent said to me: "Don't be a whack job online."

Better? Good. Let me give you some background.

Once upon a time, there was an incredibly prolific writer who kept a blog. In this blog, she wrote all about the fact that her main character looks like her. And a fuckwit character in her books (a man whose character growth seemed to expand or retract based on this author's whim) was actually based on her abusive ex-husband. In this same series, the weirdly perfect new hero was based on her now-husband, a man who used to stalk her. Are you creeped out, yet?

In a galaxy far, far away, another prolific author took to Twitter to share that the new work in progress sucked. That it was a bad day, but the sucky book was finished, and would be ready for readers to pony up $8 a pop for this sucky work of suckitude. Whine, whine, and one hand out to collect the earnings. Pity sales would skyrocket for sure� OR WOULD IT?

Meanwhile, back in Manhattan� An author took to roundly scolding every reader and reviewer who dared leave a less than stellar review on various review sites. This author would stalk the web for any mention of name or books, and leave trash-talking comments (sometimes anonymously), insulting everything from the reviewer's taste to affiliations to intelligence.

…Are you sensing a trend?

Listen, my delicious friends, it's a simple fact. Sitting behind the anonymous screen of your own computer makes you God. It makes you Zuul. It makes you untouchable and popular and ohmygodcrazy. They love you. They REALLY love you.

I'm here to tell you: don't be fooled. It's tempting to grab a beer and sit back on your digital porch, cranking out banjo tunes and shooting off your shotgun (overly complex metaphor is overly complex), but don't. People are listening. No, really, read that again: people ARE listening. Once-fans or potential readers who don't feast on drama and rage. Editors and agents who sure as shit are Googling your name upon receiving a query.

Have a blog about eating babies with a nice glass of cranberry juice? A Twitter rant about how stupid Editors X, Y, and Z are? An article extolling the virtues of the First Religion of Anal Bleaching? Congratulations. You've just shared with prospective employers three things: 1) you're non-engagingly weird, and possibly a serial killer, 2) you can't be professional and certainly can't be trusted not to stir shit in what amounts to a place of business, and 3) you have an overly zealous obsession with harsh chemicals in delicate places.

None of these things are what we'd call "excellent business sense".

Let me put it in very clear terms: Writing is a business. Editors, agents, these are your employers (and although it could be said that agents work for you, it's you that has to earn them, see?). You DO want to get out there and be heard, but you want to be remembered for who you are, your own charming self, your awesome hair, and most importantly, what you're writing and not what you're frothing at the mouth about.

"But, Karina," you whine, "I can only be me!" Okay, fine. The you with the spiky colored hair and facial piercings is eccentric. The you with the porcelain doll collection is quaint. The you with the ongoing obsession with neon pink polka dots and red armpit hair is� unfortunate, but you are what you are.

The you with the undying need to argue with people who don't like your work, the you with the unhealthy desire to overshare about your sex/political/religious life, the you with seriously unresolved issues treating your blog like a therapist maybe should stay behind closed doors. That means off the net, out of the limelight, stuffed in a closet and beaten with sticks.

You want to write? Pfft, ANYONE can write.

You want to make it as a writer? You want to become an author by career? Then you gotta walk the walk. Talk the talk. Have attitude all you want, but don't let it get the best of you.

Don't, in fact, be a dickface.

I know this stuff. I'm a romance author. I've got magenta hair and more piercings than I know what to do with, I have a Twitter feed a mile long, I spam the ever-living hell out of the online community, and despite all of this weirdness I present, I am not a dickface, either. I can be ME without opening up my dirty laundry to the world.

Come, friends. Let us not be dickfaces together.

Oh, and you should totally go out and get my first book. It's called Blood of the Wicked, and it's out May 31st, 2011. Check it out on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ! Actually, only do that if you or someone you know loves witches, romance, blood, murder, death, sex and gratuitous use of the word "fuck." And happy endings. I love me some happy endings. Otherwise, just .

Edit: Chuck also adds: .

As you may know, I've a novel due in the next couple weeks. By the time you read this I may already be done said novel, but I still want some padding during these days to give it a once over and make sure it's in tip-top shape before it leaps forthwith into the publisher's open, loving arms. That means, over the next two weeks, you're going to see a bunch � nay, a bushel � of guest posts here at Ye Olde Terryblemyndes bloggery hut ("Where the Elite Meet to Secrete the Tweets"). Friday's flash fiction will remain ongoing, however. Anywho, here then is a guest post from game designer and big brain, the Evil Hat hisownself, Fred Hicks. His website is . And don't forget to .

You're online. You're plugged in. You've already got the notion in your head that you are your brand. Your presence online is important. Building a community of fans is the key to making it all go. You take all of these as the givens of life as a 21st-Century Connected Persona.

And you're completely at sea when it comes to social media, the dark waters of forums, Facebook, Twitter, and more. Even though you've already accepted the principles I mention above, it gets all wibbledy-wobbledy when you sit down to turn those principles into concrete action. It's a big ocean, and you left your water-wings at home.

Time to become a shark.

Whuh? Huh? You heard me. One of those big fuckers with sharp pointy teeth. Never stops swimming or it dies. Always on the lookout for food. Shark.

That's how you'll survive those waters. You get in there, you hunt down what you need, you rip into it when you find it, and then you move on. That's how you navigate the waters of social media, instead of those waters navigating you.

Here's how it's done.

Don't Stop Swimming

For you, this means you don't slow down and soak in any one location as you make your rounds. Breeze on through. Social media is chock full of stuff that will hoover onto your face given half a chance. This is essentially crap that will keep you from getting on to the rest of your life.

You know that thing about how there will always be more movies you could see than you ever possibly will in your lifetime? The amount of stuff you could waste your time on in social media is worse. Unless you're planning on making a job solely out of keeping up with everything that's floating around in these waters, it's not worth your time.

This isn't something you have to be perfect at: every now and then something will grab your attention. It's fine to read that stuff, interact a little. But always remember: keep on swimming. Stay in motion.

If It Doesn't Feed You, It's Not Worth It

You're a shark. You gotta eat. Look for the chum in the water.

In social media, that bloodylicious chum is in the form of your fans making an effort to contact you. It doesn't take more than a quick thank-you or a funny one-liner response to make that fan's day. Nobody's (reasonably) expecting you to write a thousand-word treatise in response to their inquiry. So do the 100-character reply. Your fan will feel like they made a connection. The emotion that comes with that will strengthen the bond to you, and thus, the fandom. And that fandom's what feeds you.

But sometimes you'll need to hunt a little, too. Learn how to do a keyword search on Twitter, and save that search so you can run it regularly. Hook yourself up with Google blog search and give it your name and the names of your works. And whenever one of those pings with something new, that's your blood in the water: get there, make a connection, and swim on, well-fed.

Let Them See The Fin

You've got a leg up on the shark. Your food wants you to eat it. So, if your fans are there to feed you, they need to be able to find you. The trick is in figuring out how to do it in a way that doesn't slow down your swimming.

Automatic integration is the key, here. Make it possible for your blog to tweet when your post goes up, so those posts don't happen in silence. Facebook makes it possible to automatically posts your wall messages to Twitter, or vice-versa � make that connection, so you don't end up cheating one audience out of what the other one gets, and so you don't have to manually push the same message twice.

Stay Frosty

Sharks do not care about how the other fish feel about them.

I'll be the first to admit that this one's tricky in the translation. Somebody takes a big crap on that story you wrote, it's hard not to get all aflame about it. But there's no percentage in letting others feel that heat. It's a distraction. It doesn't feed you. You'll get in a fight, maybe you'll both bite each other, and importantly you'll limp away the worse for wear. Best to ignore it and swim along.

Or maybe do one better, and weaken this faux-predator with the gnashing teeth of kindness: thank them for taking the time to look at your stuff. Be polite, friendly, and awesome. They'll look the ass, and folks who don't like them will see a potential new connection in you.

Where's The Blood?

Fellow sharks, sound off. Where are you smelling the blood? How do you stay swift, stay swimming? And where are you getting gummed up with social media? Let's see if we can't rip into your troubles and put you back in place as the apex predator of these here waters.

As you may know, I've a novel due in the next couple weeks. By the time you read this I may already be done said novel, but I still want some padding during these days to give it a once over and make sure it's in tip-top shape before it leaps forthwith into the publisher's open, loving arms. That means, over the next two weeks, you're going to see a bunch � nay, a bushel � of guest posts here at Ye Olde Terryblemyndes bloggery hut ("Where the Elite Meet to Delete Deceit"). Friday's flash fiction will remain ongoing, however. Anywho, here then is a guest post from Penmonkey and Munchkin Wrangler, Marko Kloos. His website is . And don't forget to .

Somewhere out there, there's a writer � let's call him Buck.

Buck likes to write in his special space, a quiet office with view of the garden and the squirrels cavorting therein. He has a certain time for writing � the sacred slot from eight in the morning to noon, when Buck takes the phone line out of the wall and doesn't answer the door. When Buck sits down to write, he likes to drink his special coffee blend, listen to his special writing music, wear his special writing jacket, and write with his special pen in custom-made notebooks. If even one of those conditions isn't met, the muse will stay away, because Buck can only work the prose magic when everything is Just Right.

Right now, while Buck is finishing Chapter Two of his SF epic SPACESHIPS WITH LASERS (Volume One of the GALACTIC KABLOOIE tetralogy), his wife is in the bathroom, looking at a pregnancy test that's showing a friendly little plus sign.

Right now, Buck is completely and utterly fucked.

Being a full-time parent and being a writer aren't incompatible. Hell, if you truly want to write, there's no job so time-consuming or tedious that you can't scribble down 250 words a day in your lunch break or on the subway ride home. Where there's a will, there's a word count, and all that.

That said, there's one thing you need to kiss good-bye when preparing for the job of stay-at-home parent, and that's the lofty notion that your word count is the primary concern of your day. Your new job description is "Parent and Writer," not the other way around. Your primary concern in life is now the naturally self-centered little thing snoozing in the bassinet nearby � the one who wants to be fed or changed or snuggled exactly thirty seconds after you've opened the laptop to tack some more words onto the first draft of ELVES IN CHAIN MAIL BIKINIS. If your muse needs seclusion, silence, and a predictable schedule to come visit, you won't see the flighty little bitch again until your kid goes off to college. That's why you have to flag her down for a little chat the moment you know you're going to be a stay-at-home parent. You need to convince her to switch to an on-call schedule. If that means pulling the old trick where you offer her a smoke, quickly handcuff her to your own wrist, and then flush the key down the toilet, then so be it. Because from the day you bring your baby home from the hospital, your schedule has been switched to "on-call," too.

My kids are now six and four. I have been a stay-at-home parent for every day of the last six years. Here's where I have written in those six years: on a park bench, in the playground, in the waiting room at the pediatrician's office, on the couch in the playroom, in the bathroom (that last desperate quiet refuge of the parent), out in the backyard on a TV dinner tray, at the kitchen counter while waiting for milk to heat up, and even–occasionally � at my desk in the office. You will quickly learn to steal your writing time wherever and whenever you can get it, or you will see your word count plummet faster than Borders stock.

(It helps to have a writing tool that's portable and easy to drag into the playroom or to the park with you. Laptops are great, paper notebooks are even better. A composition book with a pen clipped to the spine is less attractive to thieves when you're out and about, and a spilled sippy cup won't mean a thousand-dollar write-off.)

Combining a writing job with a parenting gig is tough work, mentally speaking. That kid is a smelly little wrecking ball that will smash your comfortable and self-centered little writing schedule into tiny bits, and then swing around and pound your brain into pudding on the rebound. If you are going down that route, you will need a lot of determination, and a substantial booze supply. That way, my friend, lies madness.

I'm exaggerating just a bit here, because giving new parents the pre-natal heebie-jeebies is one of the joys and perks of being a veteran parent. Sure, a child will screw up your writing schedule, and you will have to adapt to some degree, no matter how docile the little tyke turns out. But in the end, you'll find that having to do so will make you a better writer.  There's simply no time for lollygagging anymore. If you have to carve your writing time out of the day in ten- and twenty-minute slices, you'll learn to pound out the words at a moment's notice. And if you can manage the brain work that goes into novel-writing while a little kid runs around the room going "OOOWEEE OOOWEEE" for an hour straight, there won't be much left in this world that can derail your mental train. A veteran writer-parent can crank out prose in the middle of an artillery bombardment, or while sitting in the first row at a Justin Bieber concert.

(There are also the other fringe benefits of the Daddy/Mommy-Wordsmith job. Those puke stains on your t-shirt, and your general hobo-like appearance? Those are a legitimate, respected work uniform when accompanied by a kid in a Snugli. The two cocktails you usually have with lunch? Those are mental health medication now.)

Just don't get the bright idea of having two kids, and then deciding to home-school them. There's simply not enough liquor in the world.