Quiddity of M.J. Nicholls

The Burrowers are a friendly lot, for the most part, and we have made MANY fabulous bloggy friends, but it is always delightful to find someone several of us have stumbled upon independently, though in this case, it's possible I was following Cruella around (she's hipper than me). Whatever the case, Mark is one of those who seems to have won each of us over individually, and for his Quiddity, which if you follow Jan's Blog, you learned just yesterday is like that extra UMPH in eccentricity. Mark's take on the world is delightfully self-deprecating, alternately sarcastic and wise, and Mark is a SCOT! (it's a little-known fact that we Burrowers are trying to collect Scots.)

Mark writes novels, but in the process, has had prolific success publishing short stories. They are unerringly amusing, sometimes bizarre, but in a way that makes you chuckle to know there are people more wacky out there than EVEN YOU (I might be projecting). At other times you laugh at the blatant beam of light shined on the innermost insecurities of us all. Mark is fearless (and fabulous—and because I know him, he is alternately blushing and trying to talk a lovely young woman into bed over such praise).

Whatever the case, Mark's Blog title, The Quiddity of Delusions makes him a PERFECT candidate for a Delusional Thursday guest! Without further ado (or I suppose you may add as much ado as you like), Welcome, Mark!

March of the Malformed Nazi Lepers

M.J. Nicholls

I sat down to write this post on delusions. I was ready to discuss how black is white, chalk is cheese, then I realised something – I have no delusions. I am a stubborn realist prone to exaggeration. I know that terrible things occur on a frequent basis to nice people, and when these things happen to me, they are the worst things to ever befall me-kind. Dying of starvation in shop doorway? That’s nothing: I HAVE ULCERS! LOOK, THEY’RE BULBOUS AND SORE! OW OW OW OW! HERE, HAVE A BUN.

So the delusions I have are ones of exaggerated suffering. I bloat things up until they’re pufferfishlike, distorted and spiky, likely to cause a nasty existential splinter. Let me run through the main offenders.

1. Communication

I have constant phone paranoia. There are only two reasons people phone: they want something from you, or someone has died. The first category contains such people as gas and water and council grownups who want money. They want to talk to me about my bill, how I actually owe them an extra £100,000. Did I not read the small print? Do I have a good lawyer? Well, DO I? People only phone when there are problems. How much nicer to receive a call that says: “Well done for paying your bills on time, Mr. Nicholls. What a punctual payer you are! My, you are a furry sex mongrel in those trews!”

Then there’s the death calls. Brr-ing brr-ing. Your mother’s dead. Come on! Why can’t people email me death notices? Maybe with a Jpeg of a funny kitteh to cushion the blow? Wouldn’t life be easier if we balanced the shit with the cute? For example: there’s a tornado heading your way. But look at this ickle puppy in a hammock! Aww! Or: I’m afraid it’s cancer. But isn’t this singing cat adorable? How do they get him to do that? Aww.

I don’t want people to phone me, mail me, talk to me. Speak to me via email, and you’d better attach a funny limerick if you’re sending me a typhoon of shit-to-deal-with.

2. Writing Careers

Some might say forging a ‘career’ in print is a delusion. But I can’t subscribe to this view. See, it keeps me sane. It stops me strangling my neighbours and weeing on their baubles. I am furious, absolutely furious, at how sparse opportunities are for writers. FURIOUS. Every day, I wake up to the fact working at Sloppy McBurger is a wiser fiscal move than writing. Writers are treated like malformed Nazi lepers on a daily basis by swaggering cocks with MA Media degrees, semi-literate cash-slurpers and loving partners. In no other walk of life are people expected to work on the sly, to steal time, to sacrifice so much. You wouldn’t get a Starbucks server working as Professor of Latin in his spare time, would you? Or a Subway sandwich monkey moonlighting as Prime Minister? We should be given GRANTS and MONEY and SUPPORT and HOUSES from our snob-mob leaders, we should be given RESPECT and BARRELS OF LOVE. Wow. This really is delusional.

Our craft is not properly rewarded. We toil for years on our first novels, funnelling thousands into MAs and tutors and PhDs, then after years teabagging agents and secretaries, we get published by Fat Sparrow Books in Nowhere, Georgia. Then our books get reviewed by some illiterate chimp on Goodreads, that big One Star hanging over our books, and those little words: “I couldn’t really get into it. I couldn’t really get into it.” YOU COULDN’T GET INTO IT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I’VE SUFFERED!? YOU LITTLE FU—

At least in Subway, you make a sandwich, make a sale, have a happy eater. It takes twenty seconds. At home, you spend weeks on a story, weeks re-writing it, then send it out to tiny e-zines. Months later, when you’re living in a ditch in Berlin, a publisher sends you an email saying: “Liked it. Will publish.” Then you’re in a magazine no one reads, being read by nobody, your words fading into nothing. It’s a wonder we bother at all. When I think of giving up, I remember the alternative: there is no alternative. This is what I’m good at. I can make a good omelette, but mainly writing is what I do. Yes, I’m screwed. Would you like onions on your sandwich, sir?

3. Humans

With two notable exceptions—Joanna Lumley and Anna Ford—all human beings are wrong and should be stopped. I propose a national Let’s Die Inside day, where everyone downgrades themselves completely, ripping their character to shreds, breaking down in tears. I do it every morning. It’s very therapeutic and gives you great self-assurance. The ones who can’t complete the exercise will be exterminated for being arrogant egotistic twerpsicles who don’t deserve the boats of oxygen they steal from the neurotic.

There is no reason to be a self-possessed, confident and sassy individual. There is no reason to wear smart clothes and make clever quips and listen to Razorlight on your iPod nano. You are a monkey if you think otherwise, and you will be stoned summarily. It’s only through our begrudging tolerance of each other that we remain peaceful. Remember, it doesn’t take much to mutter those five little words: I hate you. Go away.

[Thank you Mark! That was fabulous!]

Guest: Rita B. Skeeter

Y'all may have noticed that we Burrowers have an inside track to some of the characters in the Potterverse... well for this Valentine’s Week, for our Delusional Thursday, we asked Rita Skeeter if she might do a little bit of... a gossip column... now some of you might not think much of Rita, but you really are being unfair. She DOES have her fingers on the pulse of what's out there... I'm sure you'll agree. Welcome Rita!

*****

Tis I Rita B Skeeter reporting live from some dark damp place that has affectionately been called home for the past few years. I have been asked to come out of retirement for pure entertainment purposes and a load of galleons.

About a week ago I was having biscuits and tea with a dear friend of mine. The subject of Valentine’s Day approached the table and I tried vehemently to sway the conversation to something more appealing. Like the cockroach that crawled across her china plate. Of course Valentine’s Day is something she looks forward to with her hunky man candy waiting to dote all over her. I quickly informed her that St. Valentine was the Devil and the Day was merely a reminder to single people that they are still single. This is the point in our conversation that she warmed my tea with a sweet lemon liquor. Soon after that we were acting like silly school girls. Although we weren’t really paying attention, a tall drink of water came over to our table to say hello. It was none other than Lucius Malfoy. Of course he was alone, he hasn’t been seen with his wife for years, but rumor has it that he does indeed still have one. We exchanged niceties and he went on about his way. In the moment that his silky hair swung around his shoulder, I could see myself attached to his arm. How different things would be if things were mixed up a bit differently.

(Now just for blathering sake, everyone that we know to be dead is alive and any undead may remain true to character.) Onward!

My matchmaking skills were quickly in high gear, but why stop here in London. There’s that lovely coven of vampires and pack of wolves that live in the States. Those wolves are just chomping at the bit to sink their teeth into those hard steel bodies.

My first mismatch would have to be Hermione Granger and Edward Cullen. She is clearly a know it all, so studying the ways of the undead should be no match for her. She is one muggle born that deserves a blood sucker. Especially one like Edward Cullen, does he even have a backbone? Who lets their significant other snog with a dog and keep her around to tell about it? Not to mention he plans on keeping her forever, yet another undead running amuck. I think Granger and her dirty blood would be just deserts for Mr. Cullen, no matter how sparkly he is when he steps out in the sun.

Bellatrix Lestrange, I just love her hair and her style has left her filthy rich –posthumously of course… So tragic. Bellatrix should no doubt be with that pesky wolf Jacob Black. Dare I say I would pay good money to watch a trisk in that den. I’m not sure who would be the giver of rabies but rest assured it would happen. Look on the brighter side with that hair and his eyes; they would have a cute poodle mix for offspring.

As for our boy wonder, Harry Potter, his best match would be Alice Cullen. Certified nutter she would be perfect for him. Her visions of the future could have set the pace and direction of things to come much differently. Therefore leaving me with more interesting things to write about, near death encounters and betrayal are much more my cup of tea. (With that warm liquor please)

Last but not least, I would pair Ron Weasley up with Bella Swan. Now there’s a pair I could sink my teeth into. Miss Swan for being a complete idiot, one for begging to die, or two, treating her invitation to death like pond scum. Take your pick. Weasley is so clueless about everything he will barely notice when she starts to snog his brothers while hunting garden gnomes.

I do hope you have enjoyed this short take on relationships. Obviously I’m not one to take after, but make no mistake, St. Valentine or not, I will be with someone on that special day, party willing or not.

Stay tuned for next time when we introduce Mr. Darcy to Katniss Everdeen. Now there’s one bow and arrow even Cupid can’t handle.

Happy Valentine’s Day,
Rita B. Skeeter

Rita B. Skeeter is a character created by J.K. Rowling, Channeled here by our friend Cheri Higgins.
The image of Miranda Richardson belongs to Warner Brothers, undoubtedly...

Spreading the Love

So for Valentine's Day we (the Burrow) thought a week of features related to love might be a nice touch... and guess who got assigned the WRITING day...

I've got a confession. I am a MAJOR cynic. I don't happen to believe two become one, or that another person completes ANYBODY (certainly not ME!)... so addressing this... LOVE thang was something I just wasn't quite up to.

Don't get me wrong. I have something akin to love in all my books... people fall for each other... it is part of life. But for ME, it is always a side story (and typically it is either within an already existing relationship, or catches people busy with OTHER stuff as a sweet surprise...)

But you know... this is for VALENTINE'S DAY, so what is a Tart to do? I can't disappoint you!

So I scratched my head and said, “SAY... I know a romance writer!” (in actuality, I know several, but being me, I thought I wanted a SPICY romance writer). In fact this romance writer has just been contracted for her first novella! (which I've read and it is FABULOUS, even if it DOES center around a love story... in fact... THAT is part of the trick... Stacy Gail is sassy and feisty and mixes a little snark, a little heat, and a lot of torture... THAT is my kind of romance!)  So I asked Stacy to write a guest post on Romance for all of YOU.






Margaret Mitchell Had It Right

When Tami asked me to do a guest blog on how to write a romance novel, I was really stumped. All I could think was, “Well, you have a sexy dreamboat and a woman everyone can relate to, throw in some animal magnetism, sparkling repartee, a steamy grope scene or two, and boom – there ya go.” Easy, right?

Oh, if only it were that simple.

To get to the heart of what makes a romance really WORK, you have to dig for what makes a love story unforgettable. For me, despite the fact that I’m the world’s biggest sucker for a tale where love triumphs over all, the best work in romantic fiction is one of my all-time favorites –“Gone With The Wind.”

But I have to admit, it’s a bit of a love/hate relationship.

Margaret Mitchell had every ingredient known to the romance genre in “Wind.” A beautiful heroine? Check. A roguish bad boy? Boy howdy, CHECK. Unrequited love, as well as a love triangle and all the internal conflict this brings? Check. External conflict (a.k.a. the Civil War)? Definitely check.
Yet, despite all these pure-win elements, there’s a tiny part of me that hates old Margaret for the story she told. Why? It boils down to one thing. I didn’t get my HEA – my happily-ever-after. According to the guidelines of all the publishing houses currently cranking out commercial romances, the HEA is mandatory. If you don’t have one, it gets chucked right back at you like a boomerang.

So… was Margaret Mitchell wrong?

Thirty million sold copies say no.

There’s a reason why “Wind” is considered to be one of the best romances ever written, despite the fact that it doesn’t follow the current romance genre’s formula of delivering the HEA. Margaret Mitchell was a master at ripping into the darkest, most painful core of emotions and gushing it out on paper for everyone to experience. She showcased the emotion known as Love in all its myriad facets – pure, selfless, selfish, all-consuming, lustful, indomitable. Just thinking about the agony of writing something like that still makes me shake my head. The woman must have been in tears the entire time she was writing her masterpiece.

Which leads me back to Tami’s question on how to write a romance novel. I’m sure it’s different for every romance writer, but for me it’s all about getting to the heart of the story, and for a romance that heart is LOVE. When I hurt for my MCs or find myself instinctively shying away from the emotional time-bomb that’s about to explode all over them, I know I’m on the right track. To have two people who are willing to put themselves through the agonies of internal and external conflicts just to be together is a beautiful, even noble, thing. In the end, it’s not about the uber-hotness of the guy, or the lush backdrop of their surroundings; it’s about two people struggling to find where they truly belong.
But, if you’re like Scarlett and Rhett and that belonging just isn’t found, I’ve come to discover that this is okay, too. The struggle to find the person who is your other half will continue, and another story is just waiting to be told. After all, tomorrow is another day.




Tart's Post-partum

So it isn't a car accident with a lot of groping? [sorry... inside joke there]

Oh MAN... I LOVE Gone with the Wind! And it IS a romance, isn't it!? I think you've got what normally bugs me! I don't buy into Happily Ever After (maybe because I know after the wedding it is just work work work *shifty*) Stace—thank you so much for so much better a job than I could have made of this!!!


Image of Stacy Gail (the Margarita-skating penguin) drawn by Marissa Montano
Movie poster image from Publicfotki.com

Stating the Obvious: Guest Elizabeth Spann Craig

I would start by introducing Elizabeth, but I expect more of you know HER than me… so maybe I’ll tell a little tale on myself having to do with Elizabeth… When I first decided it was time to blog because… you know… a writer trying to get published is supposed to do that, I tried to find some writing blogs, but a lot of them were really intimidating… people were so professional and knew so much more than I did… but when I ran across Mystery Writing is Murder, that same great informative stuff was FRIENDLY. The comments glowed—she responded to all of them… so I decided to follow Elizabeth around. I followed a bunch of her commenters (and they followed back!) I checked out the blogs in her blog roll (and they were great!) and so, while my style and hers are very different (me being a nudist and all) I started emulating the LOGISTICS of what she was doing… I’ve never been sorry. Elizabeth and I have become good friends and I look to her as a mentor of sorts (even if I’m older)—she actually gave me my push toward Cozy Mystery, which has been an amazing new facet of my writing (and the one that has come most naturally to me).

So when the Burrow talked about a guest for ‘Writing Wednesday’, Elizabeth was a fabulous fit. We gave her short notice, so she let us borrow one of her classic posts, and it is as always, a fabulous scene, followed by the writing lesson, as she so brilliantly displays on a regular basis…

Stating the Obvious by Elizabeth Spann Craig

To me, the best time to clean out the car is at the
gas station.

So, one Saturday, I busily pulled handfuls of camp newsletters, empty sandwich baggies, empty sunscreen bottles, a cardboard box, etc., out of my car while it was filling up with gas. (Yes, this was clutter that had collected in the few days since I’d last fueled up.)

There was a man at the pump behind me who apparently watched me as I cleaned. I didn’t pay attention to him at first, but then—after making several trips from the inside of the car to the trash can—I noticed that he was smirking at me.

I realized that I'd pulled a prodigious amount of paper trash from my car. In fact, I’d filled up half the can. I smiled weakly at him. “I…uh…have kids,” I said.

“Noooooo. Really?” he asked.

His sarcasm earned him a glare, but I had to admit he had a point. Who else but a parent would be driving a minivan that seats seven people? That has a bumper sticker on the back emblazoned with the name of an elementary school? That has a booster seat in the middle row, easily visible through the open, sliding door?
I’d stated the obvious and he’d called me on it.

When I first started writing fiction, I found it really easy to use unnecessary adverbs—frequently in dialogue. You know: '’he said, knowingly’ and ‘she retorted angrily.’ Then I realized I could just show that the man was a know-it-all by what he was saying: “Actually, the circumference of an ellipse is determined by finding the complete elliptic integral of the second kind.” And I could show that the woman was angry by what she was saying. “Good for you. But do you know where the laundry hamper is? Because the gym socks lying on the floor are the reason we’re arguing.”

If you'd rather show tension via body language, you could have him smirk. Or he could heave a long suffering sigh. She could have tightly pressed lips or bunched shoulders.

Of course, it’s not always better to show instead of tell. Action scenes are perfect for telling. And I’m definitely a fan of a strong adverb, as long as there aren’t so many that I get distracted as a reader.

But when we state the obvious, we’re selling our readers short. They can tell how our characters are feeling by their body language and dialogue. And they get to feel really clever about figuring a situation or a character out for themselves. The last thing I want is to have a reader put down my book with a “Nooooooo. Really?”

Elizabeth writes the Memphis Barbeque series for Penguin as Riley Adams and the Myrtle Clover series for Midnight Ink (under her own name). As the mother of two, Elizabeth writes on the run as she juggles duties as scout leader, referees play dates, drives carpools, and is dragged along as a hostage/chaperone on field trips.

Twitter: @elizabethscraig
Mystery Writing is Murder

[Tart note:  if you are not already following Elizabeth, you should be]

Guest post by Leigh T. Moore - Book Review of 'The Help'

We at The Burrow are pleased to welcome Leigh T. Moore as our guest blogger today. Those of you who have known us for any length of time would know that almost half the Burrowers were born within two days of each other - Leigh shares her birthday with one of the three, and by extension is practically a Burrower!
Leigh describes herself as "Writer, Editor, Aspiring Novelist, Mom", and has currently revised and re-submitted her YA to her dream agency. While she waits to hear back from them, she's agreed to do a review of Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel, The Help for us. Over to you, Leigh.
________

Thanks to the Burrow for having me! Monday’s book review day, and I offered to review Kathryn Stockett’s debut novel, The Help.


I have to start with a True Confession: I had zero interest in reading this book when it came out in 2009, and when it came up as my book club’s January selection, I half-heartedly agreed—mainly out of curiosity.


Curiosity because Stockett’s book was rejected 60 times and it took her five years to get it published. Still it’s been on the New York Times bestseller list 91 weeks, and as of Jan. 9, 2011, it’s No. 8, up from No. 10.
Despite all that, my attitude remained… reluctant.


More true confession? Because I’m a white daughter of the South, and although I was born and reared in Baton Rouge, La., my family is all from Mississippi. All of them.


I grew up knowing, hearing, sometimes witnessing the institutionalized racism that forms the setting of The Help, and I’m horribly sorry for all of it. Incredibly sorry. But how can I change it?

I do my best to teach my children a better way to think and to treat others, and I try to identify and rid myself of racist thoughts whenever I identify them. Still, the last thing I feel like doing is reading about it (again).


Then I read Stockett’s book and realized what a gift we have as writers. The potential to change even just one mind…


I’ll start my review by saying this book is not written for African-Americans.


There are almost 100 one-star reviews for The Help on Amazon.com, and I’m pretty sure every one is written by an African-American who is insulted by what he or she views as racist stereotypes in it.


I’m not going to say they’re wrong. But I will say I didn’t read it that way. I thought Stockett did an amazing job creating three believable characters who I genuinely cared about; who I wept, laughed and feared for; and who I think have an amazing story to tell.


The book doesn’t focus on the horrible events that occurred in Civil Rights-era Jackson, Miss., but some of those events are mentioned. They’re used to heighten the suspense surrounding the fictional story of two black maids who are brave enough to tell what it was like to work for white women during that time.


I found the characters three dimensional and the writing compelling enough that when I finished, I was exhausted. These characters experience unbelievable meanness and incredible love during a dark, dark time in our nation’s history.


It’s a well-crafted tale of the complexities of human relationships and how even though one might not want to care about another person or another race, life can sometimes have a way of changing one’s mind.


The story is told through the first-person point of view of three different female characters, two are African-American maids and one is a white friend of their white female employers.


Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is the white friend who is an unmarried, awkward college graduate with dreams of becoming a writer. The maids, Aibileen and Minny, pretty much only dream of following “the rules” of working for white women so they don’t lose their jobs.


Through a chance connection with an editor in New York, Skeeter starts looking for a book idea, and a series of events leads her to interviewing Aibileen, Minny, and eleven other maids about their work experiences.


The situations that mark the maids’ daily lives is the plot of the book, and the central conflict focuses on the absurdity that while their white employers will let the black “help” feed, bathe, and instruct their children, they are afraid to sit on the same toilet seat as one of them.


It’s so ludicrous, and yet it’s so real. I remarked to my husband that I had no problem believing every fictional event in the book could actually have happened, and it was heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.


The Help doesn’t indict white Mississippi. It simply relates how things were, and leaves it to the reader to decide how things should or should not be—both with regard to race relations and with regard to how much of your individual decision-making, your belief system, you’re willing to cede to others. Black or white.


I give The Help a huge A+ with stars all around it. There were only two spots in the last quarter where I felt the pacing dragged, or where events felt repetitive. I confess I was dissatisfied with the handling of one situation, but it was so minor, I feel nit-picky even mentioning it.


There’s some debate over whether this book should be considered a classic. I think if you judge classics based on how well they show human relations during a certain period in our history, then it qualifies.


Stockett beautifully illustrates how when the majority insists on being wrong, the few who stand up for change are the ones who are remembered.


It’s a very relevant message even today, and if it’s received by just a few people and causes them to analyze their behavior and beliefs, then I think it’s a story worth reading

_____

Thank you, Leigh, for that thought provoking review. I bought The Help nearly a year back because I fell in love with the cover (yes, AGAIN), and after reading this review, I already put it on top of my TBR pile.

To read more of Leigh, do visit her blog, "That's Write". She blogs Mondays and Thursdays on 'Writing, getting published, life and being a mom'.

Guest: Rubeus Hagrid!

This is a major coup--the fact that we Burrowers have some truly impressive connections. I first met Rubeus Hagrid in person a couple years ago when I was a staff member for a monthly online rag called The Quibbler.  Hagrid had a section called Kreecher Feetcher, in which he would share with us more in depth details on certain creatures.  We asked him to do a little version here on Burrowers, Books and Balderdash having to do with Christmassy Creatures.

So without further ado, Rubeus Hagrid!  *endures rib-cracking hug*




Hagrid's December Kreecher Feetcher

It’s that tyme agin, another month and another Kreecher Feetcher at yer service. I have a reel surprise fer all my magikal reeders out there; this month’s feetcher is all abowt “Christmas Kreechers”. So pour yerself a nice cup o’ tea and get ready fer a real treat.

Last month I took a hike up in the mountains to visit my half brother, Grawp. On my way up, I had a fantastic exchange with a jarvey ( foul mouthed weasels), whom I have affecshunatly named Effie as “F” seems ter be her favorite letter. She had followed me fer a few miles callin’ me all sorts of funny little names when I finally stuck her in my pocket. She seemed right comfortable there, so she’s been my travelin’ companion ever since. After New Year’s though, I’m startin’ her on some lessons to get her speakin’ like a proper lady.

I also had the rare oppurtoonity to have a run in with a reel life yeti. Tha’s right, an abominable snowman! Let me start with sayin’ that their size has been greatly exajurated—this one weren’t no bigger than me! Aside from that though, their description by Newt Scamander in Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them jus’ abowt does ‘em up right. It was a bit like yours truly-- big, mad, and hairy!!! I tried to calmly walk up to it, but the beast wasn’t havin’ none of that. He must have been protectin’ a nest of baby snowballs, because he charged us barin’ his fangs and claws like a Veela in a tizzy. I would have a nice picture fer ya, but I can’t figure out how to work this camera the Quibbler supplied me with. If You can imagine it through, it looked a bit like a smallish mountain troll covered in white fur and the face of a Manticore. Now, I won’t go so far as ter say they are mean kreechers exactly; jus’ misunderstood is all. I’m sure there was a perfectly good reason he was tryin’ to make snow kabobs outta Effie and me—I bet he was tired and jus’ didn’t know his own strength when he threw that spruce at our backside! 

 

Not too much is known about yeti’s in general. European yetis are mostly found in Tibet, but the American Yeti ventures all over the upper and lower porshens o’ the continent. The South American yeti has been a thorn in the ministry’s side fer years as it keeps getting’ seen by muggles who like ter call it “Big Foot”. 

Fortunately, most muggles think it’s all a bunch of codswallop and dismiss the yeti as crazy talk.

I know a lot o’ my young reeders are wanting ter know abowt a certain type o’ reindeer that can fly and pull a sled full o’ toys. This kreecher is a bit trickier than the others, and you won’t find them in any book abowt magical kreechers because they aren’t naturally magic at all. Hopefully I can explain this properly. Reindeer aren’t so much deer as they are a funny mixed bag o’ kreechers. Ya see, a long time ago there were herds o’ centaur that lived in the very northern regions o’ Europe and America. Their numbers dwindled very low due to a tragic misreadin’ of a planetary line-up in sky. Many were forced to wander alone, and centaurs aren’t used to travelin’ like that—they’re meant ter be in a herd. Anyway, long story short, bein’ alone wasn’t workin’ for ‘em. Most of these scragglers went a bit loopy and took up with the native caribou herds, which later led to “reindeer”. All reindeer really are is caribou that talk. Reindeer have slightly different tradishuns than centaurs do. They don’t hold much stock in the stars and planets and what not, but they do have their own form of divination that focuses on the Northern Lights. They can’t fly either, but a good hover charm can trick a muggle just as good as any. Anyway, that’s what reindeer are and if ye ever happen ter meet one, don’t menshun Rudolph. His kind see him as a bit of a show boat. And don’t go askin’ yer friendly neighborhood centaur abowt reindeer either, cause they don’t like ter discuss them at all.

What abowt Santa’s elves you ask? Well, this won’t be much of a shock to most of you, but some o’ the muggle-born’s may be interested to know. Christmas elves aren’t no different than any other common house elf. The cloth that a house elf wears varees regionally; tha’s why many pictures of them show red and green colored outfits. Sorry to let ya down, but house elfs are nifty little kreechers any how and they are definitely more than capable of fillin’ yer Christmas stockings!

Well, that’s it fer this month’s feetcher. I hope you enjoyed it. Be sure to come back next month for a feetcher on Golden Snidget to celebrate the start of Quidditch season! Have yerself a great hollyday and have a pint o’ Christmas cheer fer me!

Image Rubeus Hagrid

Hagrid is channeled by Burrow Buddy Marissa Montano

Guest post by Clarissa Draper, "My First Draft"

The Burrow is pleased to welcome Clarissa Draper as our guest blogger today. Clarissa and I go back a long way, and I am proud to say I started following her blog "Listen to the Voices" when the number of followers was still in single digits (she is nearing 400 now). Clarissa is a person I truly admire because she gives back to the writing community a lot more than she gets from it - if you aspire to write mysteries, you should not miss her weekly feature "Mystery Writer's Guide to Forensic Science", and all writers can benefit from the "Chapter Critiques" she publishes every week. If you are not already a follower of her blog, I urge you to become one - you will not be disappointed. Since almost everyone seems to be a part of the NaNoWriMo frenzy, Clarissa has chosen to write about the "First Draft". Without further ado, over to Clarissa!

My First Draft
What makes a great novel? A complex, dynamic, seamless piece of work. A theme, a mood, and a style of writing that lasts the whole story.


However, one thing I've noticed when I edit my first draft is, because I write over a period of time, the writing takes on various moods. Mainly because I'm a moody person. One second I'm happy, the next I'm yelling. My husband has a saying: 'Wait ten minutes and her mood will change to grim.'


Well, actually, he doesn't say that, and if he does, it's not to my face. And rarely do I yell. More likely, I'll probably ignore you.


Kidding aside, you will notice that after watching a romantic movie, you'll be more likely to write romantic lines into your scene...even if it's a mystery novel. Or, if you've had a fight with your kids or spouce or mother-in-law, you'll tend to be more testy with your writing.


Also, even if you have an outline or a way you think the novel is headed, as you write, you discover new links and connections and you learn more about the characters as you go along.


If you like improving your writing skills as you write, you will find the ending in better form than when you started. That's why if writers want a solid, uniform piece of work, writers need to edit.


Does anyone else notice that their mood affects their writing?

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Thank you Clarissa for joining us today. Incidentally, Clarissa recently landed a publishing contract for her first Evans/ Blackwell novel, with the publisher showing an interest in the rest of the series also. Yeah!!!

Writers Write Words: Guest Post by Jan Morrison

The Burrow would like to welcome Jan Morrison today, as Chary is at Disney World (lucky her). Jan was one of my early blogging friends and is fabulous for keeping things in perspective. There are a lot of people who know great stuff, but Jan surpasses 'just knowledge' to impart a deeper wisdom. If you would like to hear more from Jan on Writing or Life in General, I invite you to follow her blogs. And now, without further ado, Welcome, Jan!

Writers Write Words

I am thrilled to have been asked to write a piece for Burrowers, Books and Balderdash. I imagine I fall under the Balderdash part of things. I like the word balderdash, which finds a home in my mind next to words like jaboney, nitwit, moolah, copasetic, do (as in an event) and bridge mix. Or phrases like the Queen of Sheba, old as Methuselah, sat below the salt and the bee’s knees.  They are words and phrases that were big in my early youth – the fifties - though they are really words that got going in earlier times. I still use them much to the amusement of my friends. I like ‘em. Feel free to use them if you don’t. You can’t imagine the pleasure of telling some bone-headed nitwit that he’s a jaboney when he cuts you off in traffic. His jaw will drop and your friends will laugh at you. Is that a bad thing?

I understand that it  is Writing Tuesday here at B,B & B. Writing is words, no? In the beginning was the word, according to the Bible. Words are important in all religions – the passing down of sacred texts, of stories, parables, myths, truths and even lineages. In the Middle Ages, poets were called ‘Makers’. We were considered to not only pass on the truth or the tale but create it. 

Words are our raw materials – like wood to a carpenter or clay to a potter. Everyone has access to these raw materials and many people use words in their professions – psychotherapists, lawyers, advertisers, hucksters, clergy and magicians. ‘Abracadabra they say – they put a spell on us with their words. Abracadabra is from the Aramaic phrase avra kehdabra, meaning “I will create as I speak”.  Now, like balderdash, it has come to mean ‘nonsense words’. Jeesh – how did that happen?

But for us writers - words are the ONLY tool. We don't use magic wands or juries or pulpits. We use words to put a spell on our readers and to create as we write.

Lately, a friend told me that her younger son at the age of four told her he was writing his grandma a letter. And that he did – one letter – I think it was ‘O’ – over and over again on a piece of paper.  He understood what he was doing no matter what we might think from our elevated state as adults.

Did you know that prescriptions used to be eaten? That’s right. The healer would write the magic healing words on a thin piece of paper and the sick person would ingest it!

Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to know if you’ve picked up the banner with the word ‘writer’ on it and draped it over yourself you have taken up a VERY important calling.  You have decided to join the legion of people who, with all intention or none at all, are creating the world. We  interpret what we see, tell again or for the first time, the things we think are important and use words which on their own are full of potency and power. We are being ‘makers’. Abracadabra indeed.