This is what I'm talking about.

​Here is a great article.

So, it seems kind of obvious that you know my name. After all, you came to byRichardJones.com.

Odds are, I am not going to be blogging on someone else's site. It is a good chance, therefore, that I am Richard Jones.

Of course I am. This is all just set up. Trying to get you into the mood.

No, not that mood.

When creating this site, I struggled for quite a while as to its name. I wanted to go with just my name, but that was, of course, already taken. So were the obvious variations. Which meant I had to get... creative.

Since I am a writer – or at least trying to be – I figured I would do something in the title that lead you to believe I was, in fact, a writer. Hence, the byline aspect of the website name.

Now, looking at it, I wonder if I might not have been more than a little vainglorious. (Believe it or not, spellcheck actually knew that last word.) I like to think I was considering the future when I chose the name. That eventually people would come looking for me and this would be an easy way for them to search.

However, is it not the very definition of egotism that the egotist does not know he or she is an egotist? Only those who are not crazy ever wonder if they are crazy.

Of course, that could just be a way of making us all feel a little better, but I am going to cling to it for now.

What do you think?

Thanks so much to Sharon Kae Reamer for singling me out. I always enjoy being put on the spot, pointed at and then watching as someone passes out the pointy sticks. It's the anticipation, really.

Can't wait to see who starts the poking.

But I'm sure you aren't going to start poking. Mostly I'm sure of this because I'm over here and you're waaaaaaayyy over there. Makes for better neighbors than fences, distance does.

Moving on.

Sharon is a writing buddy and we used to be in the same critique group before she moved on to bigger, better and, frankly, paying things. I always enjoy reading what she's got to say. Although the seething teeth-gnashing of jealousy isn't a becoming look for me, it seems to be my default appearance whenever I've got a new Reamer book in hand.

If you've only happened to stumble on here and haven't read Sharon's wonderful contribution to this Big Time Frog Hop, then please go here and enjoy yourself. I'll wait until you get back.

I thought they'd never leave. Now that those folks are gone, let's talk, you and me.

Today's challenge is to come up with three things I write about and three things I don't write about. I considered discussing -- at length -- my fascination with co-morbidity set problems in relation to long-term economic and motility forecasts, but decided against it. So let's rub our hands together, hunch our shoulders and cackle gleefully as we discuss fiction.

Three Things About Which I Write

Don't look at me that way. My mom was an English teacher and would have skinned me alive were she to have seen me end that above title with a preposition.

I love to write about the intersection of the fantastic and the mundane. That is, I'm not big on all-out unicorn-riding, quest-fulfilling, ring-bearing, sword-swinging, dragon-baiting fantasy of the Tolkein variety. In fact, I find most of that to be exquisitely boring.

My favorite kind of writing is the kind where our world becomes infected with things unknown, or intersects with places only dreamed of before. In other words, I love urban fantasy and that tends to be what I write about. I like to read about and write stories where society progresses, rather than stagnates at the feudal level and then never advances, even over the course of thousands of years.

Which is why I've always wanted to write a science-fiction story that takes place in a fantasy universe. That is, what does the future look like when societies are allowed to evolve past the feudal stage? Will magic be technologized? What would a popular political movement look like when protesting against the Dark Lord of Niffsnarl who might have been elected thanks to some tomfoolery with the voting runes? Would dragons make good space ships? I've never seen this story before and would love to be the one to bring it out. We'll see.

Secondly, I truly enjoy writing dialogue. I certainly didn't grow up on the snappy patter in the urbane movies of the 1930's and 1940's or the pared-down noir conversations of hardboiled detective fiction, but I love them all the same. This partially is why I love movies so much, because we see the action and get to discover character through that action and through the dialogue. There's not much in the way of voiceover and description.

Some readers have said that I tend to write like a movie. I'm light on the lyrical descriptions, give only the barest of visual cues, but then tend to have action take over while a bunch of people talk to each other. I can't deny that one.

Thirdly, I love to fill my stories with humor. Well, I love trying to fill my stories with humor. There are many who say I'm not at all funny, but they're just haters. The fact that they're all related to me means nothing. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing!

My critique group recently welcomed some new members. One of our more long-term members took it upon himself to describe the writing style of the various members for clarification. He said that I would blow up the world, but only if it got a laugh. And, yeah, he's pretty much right about that one.

Things About Which I Do Not Write


Where to start? Where to start? The sex lives of paramecia? The triumphant return of disco? Dust bunny reproduction? Guys and gals, there's a lot of stuff about which I don't write. I'll do my best to try and narrow it down to only three.

I'm not big on polemics. Many of my characters have political or social opinions, but those opinions are only there to inform the characters. I don't enjoy writing that serves only to advance or push some political or social agenda.

I find these types of stories to be boring, humorless and boring.

Explicit sex scenes probably aren't going to be making an appearance in my fiction any time soon. Not that I have anything against explicit sex scenes (to which the very large file on my computer labeled "very boring do not open" will attest), but they are amazingly difficult to write.

Well, let me rephrase that last bit. Explicit sex scenes are easy to write. They're just damn hard (no pun intended) to write well. Poorly written scenes of explicit sex will throw readers out of a book so quickly most won't even have time to blink. 

I stand in awe of people who can write good sex scenes. It's more than mechanics (insert tab A into slot B) and description. Good erotic writing appeals to both the physical side and the emotional side. I wish I could do a better job with it.

Finally, I won't write about sparkly vampires. I really don't like the relatively recent trend toward seeing vampires as sexy. They're not. Vampires are alpha predators who use humans as food. They are not cuddly. They are not sexy. They do not go about in the sun and stalk pretty, little teenagers and force them to listen to limpid love poetry.

Vampires should be horrifying. They should be scary. Vampirism isn't a shortcut to becoming a superhero, only with an allergy to sunlight and garlic. Becoming a vampire isn't and never should be a good thing.

Sparkling or not, the only thing that looks good with a vampire is a really sharp stake.

Whew, glad I got that out of my ches-- er. . . off. Glad I got that off my chest.

Hope you made it through the word flood above, folks. Mostly because I want to make sure you see where I'm going with this one.

I'm passing the baton to a current member of my critique group who, while not quite as scary as a vampire, definitely isn't someone you would want to meet in a dark alley if you've mischief on your mind.

If you wanna taste what I've been cooking here, I've got plenty of servings for you. 
A Dude's Guide to Babies: The New Dad's Playbook
Countdown
The Hand That Feeds You
The Accidental Ghost
Freakshow
Service With A Smile
The Mismatched Monster

After all the build up, all the weeks of anticipation. . . 

After the frantic hours near the deadline, wondering if there ever really is such a thing as enough. . . 

For those of us in the appallingly bad-gift-giver end of the spectrum, wondering just how badly we've flubbed everyone's expectations. . . 

Gleefully waiting to see the smiles on their faces. . . 

Stuffing ourselves with stocking sweets. . . 

After all that. . . 

It's over.

Just like that.

She Who Must Be Back At Work is, in fact, back at work. The relatives have moved on, back to their own lives and most of the trash and recyclables are in the various differently colored containers.

Even the quiet feels differently than pre-Christmas. Before, there was a sense of hushed anticipation. Now, that same lack of noise is more like the exhausted silence you hear in a locker room full of a team that just got soundly thrashed at a sport.

Still, even with the exhaustion, and the overeating and feeling like an overcaffeinated chimp mated with a speedfreak hummingbird and they both spat out a squalling horror that shambles on two legs and has your face. . . Even with all that, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Mostly because I don't have a place to put it, but the sentiment is the there all the same.

Now all we have to do is survive the horrors of amateur night (also known as New Year's Eve, when all the idiots pretend they can hold their alcohol and start getting dangerous(er) out there on the streets) and we'll be safely in the new year and ready to start all over again.

And, brother, is it moving fast, fast, fast.

Racing by is the time and, yet, here I sit at the computer, full of vim, vigor and gumption. . . Wasting time, procrastinating and just plain fooling about when I should be working.

Or, at the very least, actually getting Christmas gifts purchased and wrapped and trees trimmed and lights hung.

(I'd make a juvenile joke about hung, but I'm not that immature.) [although it was a close thing] {heh. he said thing.} ((damn))

They say that the first step in solving a problem is recognizing you have a problem. Which, despite the funny glasses and fake mustache, I am having no problem recognizing, means it's time to sign off and actually get some work done.

I mean, it's not like there's anyone but me that will ever read this post, so why am I even bothering?

Unless. . . 

Yes, it turns out that I can notify people about these posts merely by sending out an automatic tweet. 

Consider it sent.

Sorry.

This feels a bit odd.

For the past seven years, almost eight, I've been writing at A Dude's Guide to Everything. And we always call the readers either dudes or dudettes.

Now I'm here and I can actually call you readers. Or people. Or folks. Or, you know, Bob.

Feels a little freeing, yeah?

Oh, yeah.