If you have suggestions for further typos or grammar mistakes for the Joe Schmoe chronicles, feel free to drop me a note in comments.

Misused punctuation or very obscure mistakes might be a little hard to demonstrate how they come across, so I prefer more common ones if possible.

I will give credit to suggestions that are used. 🙂

Joe Schmoe, pt. 6

One day, Joe had an awkward conversation with the Lt. in charge of his unit. He annoyed Lt. Jergins by asking a perfectly legitimate question. Lt. Jergins was busy with paperwork and gruffly answered his question before adding irritably, “Go away and don’t come.”

“Sir, I don’t sleep around on Mindy, but don’t you think denying me happy time is kinda harsh?” Joe asked, blinking at him in disbelief. What kind of officer wanted to control his sex life anyway?

There was a beat of silence, and then Lt. Jergins’ head jerked up and he gave Joe a very confused look. “Private Schmoe, what are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Well, sir. You said ‘don’t come’ and y’know, I don’t need it like a lot, but a guy’s gotta have a little private happy time now and then if his girl isn’t around. It can be unhealthy not to, you kno-”

“Private, I don’t give a damn about your ‘happy time’. Now go away and don’t come!” Lt. Jergins snarled, flushing darkly.

“But, sir-”

Back. Don’t come back.

“Oh.” Light dawned on Joe, and he blushed in mortification. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He made a speedy strategic retreat from the office, feeling a little misused. ‘Back’ was only one word, after all. How hard could it be to just add it? It would have saved him from looking like a total moron. How was he to know that the Lt. sometimes said something other than he meant? He walked off muttering, vowing to keep the Lt.’s weird habit in mind for future avoidance of accidental humiliation.


Joe Schmoe, pt. 5

Joe knew a couch he was fond of. He felt a little odd about being fond of it, but he talked to it enough that he couldn’t quite help himself. It belonged to his baseball coach. The man took it everywhere with him, and firmly believed that it was sentient, holding conversations with it and even going so far as to be offended if someone talked to him and ignored the couch. Apparently being sat on didn’t bother the couch, though, because the coach always brought it to practice, and most of the time could be found sitting on it while he coached the baseball players.

It was a nice couch, over all. Unlike the coach, it never yelled at him and the comments that coach sometimes relayed from it were often kind, or wise observations on baseball. It could be rather sharp worded when a player was messing up, though. Joe thought maybe it was a bit strange that a couch knew so much about baseball, but rationalized that it did belong to a baseball coach, after all, and probably coach had picked out the couch based on its enthusiasm for the sport.

[Yes, folks, I know it’s only one letter of difference between the two, but the coach and the couch are rather different entities. Even if they are both obsessed with the same sport.]

Di Salas

Now that I have abused your sensibilities with some Joe Schmoe rants, terrible style and all, I apologize for not updating for several months. I could cite ‘life happens’ as the reason, but really it was just that I had nothing to say. Moving on, here’s an excerpt from a story that went wrong in a hurry, so even though I like most of what is written past this point, it will probably be rewritten so it’s less grotty and more story that doesn’t end up dead-ending.

It was one of those situations when you know your writing is careening out of control, but just can’t help yourself, until you run into a dead end and put it down and walk away in self-defense until you’ve put enough time between you and it to be able to turn it into something usable.

This world is one of two worlds I’ve written in that were not originally my own, but a world concept gifted to me by a friend. In my notes, it is simply ‘The Demonwisp world’. Di’s name literally denotes him as the 4th born child, and thus not a citizen. Only the first two children of a citizen are citizens, but it’s considered ‘patriotic’ to have extra children to give to the government for the army and other purposes. Extra children are usually given ‘letter names’, a social attempt to be a bit nicer than calling them by numbers instead. Di didn’t qualify for the army, so he was sold to a private owner, instead.


Di Salas really hated being manhandled, but he supposed that it was better than being pushed and expected to find his way without tripping. He had no idea where he was, or who had him, for that matter. They stopped suddenly. Di wondered why, then a cold, very noble-accented voice stated, “You’re a traitor.”

So, his owner, Lord Pyoter Daralis had been found out. It was like a kick to the chest, but he didn’t let it show. He was a dead man now, but they couldn’t have his pride. Only that stupid traitor, Lord Daralis, held that power.

“Yes. What of it?”

The blindfold was removed and he blinked in the sudden light. The noble, a highly placed one from his clothing, looked familiar, but he couldn’t place why.

“Arrogant, aren’t you? Do you know who I am, little fire mage?”

“No. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

The man chuckled and rose. Up close, Di suddenly noticed the man was taller than him. Not that that was hard. Di was only 5’9½”.

He lifted a hand to the slavemark on Di’s neck. “I am High Prince Balsam Kai Renalis Vitchenka Alric.” He said more, but it was in Ancient, the language used for spells, and Di didn’t understand most of it, because a buzzing arose in his ears. Then pain struck him so hard that he would have screamed himself hoarse if he could have drawn breath. It was like being turned inside out, like having the original spell laid on him and then twisted, but at the same time. Then it was over, and he was panting heavily, tears in his eyes.

“What-” He cleared his throat. “What did you do?”

The High Prince smiled at him. “All of these spellmarks have a clause that allows one of royal blood to override them and assume ownership. Unfortunately for you, when that happens, the partially enforced binding is converted to a master binding to prevent a second override.”

Joe Schmoe, pt. 4

Joe really missed Mindy on days when he was marching in the hot sun or cold rain, with his riffle on his shoulder. At least they didn’t make him carry his rifle, though, because rifles could shoot people, and even though the government told him it was patriotic to shoot people, they understood that messing up people’s hair or disturbing their water or flipping the pages of their book was much less traumatic for their soldiers and much more frustrating to the enemy. The government was good like that.

[Yes, ‘riffle’ is a word, no, a ‘riffle’ is not a gun. But hey, it’s all good, Joe gets to carry around a conceptualized riffle!]

Joe Schmoe, pt. 3

They were extremely compatible in the bedroom, because his girlfriend liked to suck cock and didn’t mind when he got semen on her. There was an occasional problem with seamen, though, since when they magically appeared out of his spurting semen, they tended to curse a lot and get in the way and even try to join in. It was a good thing that his girlfriend was a witch and could teleport the seamen back where they belonged pretty quickly. Jack, across town, had a lot more problems, because his boyfriend was an empath and couldn’t do any teleportation magic. Sometimes Jack and Jordan had to traipse over with a whole boatload of seamen for Mindy to teleport back to their ships.

[And while we’re at it, folks, please don’t misspell ‘cock’ as ‘coke’, the sudden introduction of drugs in the middle of a sex scene is really disconcerting.]

Joe Schmoe, pt. 2

He was used to being a solider, but being a soldier made him sad, because it meant he had to be away from his girlfriend. His girlfriend was sad too, because she missed the way he liked to ring orgasms out of her. He did this by passing the Ring of Orgasm repeatedly over her body. He also liked to wring orgasms from her in the more traditional manner, wringing every last drop of pleasure from her and leaving her a content mess.

[Yes, sex scene writers, unless you have a Ring of Orgasm, or are featuring some sort of ring device to make your character orgasm, the word is wring.]

Misused Words

So, I’m sure there’s people out there who wonder why people jump all over them for using a typo-ed, misspelled, or otherwise slightly misused word.

I’m someone who naturally tries to skip over things like that, but it takes an effort, because I can see how silly it makes things read. Since I’ve been teaching myself editing, this tendency has increased exponentially.

So, for those who don’t get it, or just have trouble with spelling or using the correct homophone, here’s approximately how reading through typos translates to my brain while I’m trying to read that otherwise lovely story. [This will continue for several entries, and I apologize ahead of time for the writing style.]

Joe Schmoe was an enemy solider. He was a solider cuz he was just built that way. Never mind that he was a skinny lightweight little fuck, he was a solider, and as a result, swimming was tough for him because his extra solid mass made him sink like a stone. He was also an enemy soldier, because his government handed him a gun and told him it was patriotic to shoot us. Governments being like that.

Four months late and a dollar short

Well, so much for February… and March… and April. Not sure where they went. Doctors appointments and allergies, I suspect. I definitely remember losing a few weeks to allergies in there. Privately I suspect that there was a break in the wall between this realm and a hell dimension, and some hell-trees snuck in before it was repaired, loosing their evil pollen on the world, well-disguised by by the similar and slightly less sinister action of spring-blooming earth trees.


Anyways. Some bright soul may have noticed that A Gift of a Name is still up. The reason for this being that the editor I was going to flog it to has a 10,000 minimum word count requirement for short stories and despite additions and edits, so far I’ve only been able to get it up to 7,000 words. This is baffling, since adding words is rarely an issue for me. So, for the meantime, until I get over the creeping urge to scream when I think about it, it’s staying up a while longer.

Meanwhile, writing…

April was CampNano, and I got coaxed into joining a cabin. Since I had nothing in mind, this mostly involved typing up already written but not previously typed stories. I did, however, end up writing on a very wicked space pirate character for a while…until I made the mistake of skimming through Nanowrimo while exhausted.

Let me warn you, skimming down an authors’ discussion thread of any sort can be very, very dangerous when you are loopy-tired, more so if you don’t realize that you’re that tired. I now have an Arthur/Mordred romance short running around in my head, driving me insane, filling in details left and right, demanding ungodly amounts of research into arthurian legends [which I don’t like in the first place, thank you very much], and refusing to be written as of yet. Those threads are dangerous, I’m telling you.

Hm. Excerpt, exerpt… Oh, yes, that’s where March went! Meet Fens, one of several POV characters in this story. So. This story opens with a werewolf in a tattoo shop, getting a tattoo from a Fae tattoo artist. After it’s done, he pays for the work, and when asked he absently replies  that he’s an Arne [omega equivalent]. Turns out that this was not the brightest reply he could have given, as it triggers the Fae’s acquisitive streak.

“You’ve already paid for the work, so I can’t keep you on that basis, but did you know that there’s an agreement between the Fae and the Werr that no one of jinn or lesser rank is to enter a Fae shop unescorted by one of higher rank without previous agreement? If you do, you can be taken in exchange for services provided.” The Fae lifted his hand, but Fens found that he was now held in place by a shackle inexplicably merged with the counter.

“Um.” He swallowed hard. “No, I didn’t. And I already paid.”

“That you did.” The Fae walked away.

“Hey, let me out of this!”

He paused, then turned. “Is that a request for the use of my skills?”

“No.” Fens wasn’t stupid.

“Then if you want out, free yourself. By the way, you won’t be able to shift in that shackle.”

“Great.” He said sarcastically, then muttered, “Lupe take it!” He laid his head down on the counter and sighed. This was going to be a long day.

It was hours later, and he was cold and stiff and ready to cry. Several customers had come and gone without giving any indication of even seeing him. Fae magic at work, obviously.

“So, you’re going to be stubborn. Are you holding out for your true mate or something? Is that why you refuse to give in and become mine?” The Fae sounded a bit offended, maybe even a bit hurt.

Fens lifted his head and glared at the Fae. “You could have just asked.”

“And you would have said ‘yes’?” he sounded surprised and dubious.

Fens regarded him silently for a very long minute. “I don’t like being forced to do things. I really don’t like people who don’t respect my intelligence. That aside, I would have said yes if you’d asked to begin with, though not now, of course.”

“Why would you have said yes?”

He smiled thinly. “Let me out of the shop with no impediment to my leaving, and with all my belongings, and I’ll tell you.”

The Fae looked disappointed, as if robbed of a favorite treat. “Agreed, but if you come back of your own will, I will keep you.” He made a gesture and the shackle disappeared.

Fens put on his shirt and coat and made sure he had his wallet and the instruction paper, then sauntered out of the shop. Once over the threshold, he turned and gazed at the Fae for a long moment, memorizing the ice pale blue eyes, the shoulder length silver blue hair caught back in a ponytail, the almost harsh but beautiful features, and the leanly muscled body.

“I won’t come back. But I would have stayed because you’re my mate. Nice meeting you.” With that, feeling like he was courting danger by doing so, he turned his back and walked away quickly. Why in the pits couldn’t he have had a nice jun-ne as a mate? Someone who could be expected to be a little offended by having a mate, but would get over it in a hurry. Why was he stuck wanting an arrogant, manipulative, possessive Fae he couldn’t have?

A shout of rage from behind him hurried his step.

Welcome to the New Year

Happy New Year and all that jazz. Welcome to the month of making resolutions that we’ll break 95% of within two months, tops. To overcast skies, snow everywhere, nasty slick roads, and subzero temps. Huh, there must be something positive to say about January…

Ah, yes. The days are getting longer! Yay! And there’s lots of sales going around… Yup, well, anyhow. I might be feeling a little sarcastic this year due to various circumstances.

Erased Resolutions Here

Just a heads up to anyone who cares, I’ll be taking down the rough draft version of A Gift of a Name sometime this month, because I’m going to publish a longer and more polished version. I think I’m about on the eighth draft right now, and the amount of red marks to fix up this time around is rather scary.

Honestly, the initial draft was very rough, as it was kind of more an author’s note sketch of how the family came to serve the vampire in the first place. I never really intended to polish it or add to it. My friend Hera gets most of the blame, ahem, CREDIT for changing my mind, complaining repeatedly that there should be more to it, that it should be longer.


Oops, almost forgot.  Here’s an excerpt from something a little more recent:

“Are you still drunk?”

Efraine nodded amiably. “Probably. You’re all warm. ‘Zsooo nice. I hate the cold, or the col’ hates me.” He rubbed his cheek against Aedelstan’s chest, and wiggled a little. “Sooo warm.”

“Sit still unless you want me to take you to bed and f**k you silly.”

“Wou’n’t mind.” He scratched his nose. “An’ I’m already silly. Even I can tell that.”

“Hm. ‘Elmar, carry him to bed, if you will.”

Puzzled, he finally spotted the boy in the doorway.

“Of course, father.”

Then he realized what had been said. “Noooooooo!” He flung his arms around Aedelstan’s neck. “Is not fair! I wasn’t moving! No, no, no!” Tears came involuntarily, and he sniffled against Aedelstan’s throat.

“For fire’s sake!” Aedelstan grumbled. “Oh, stop laughing, Aedelmar.”


[Efraine’s a demon, and the other two are devai.]