Found this several places but most notably Hamlette’s Soliloquy, so I snurched it from her after spending three whole minutes reveling in the word “snurched” which I will be adding to my vocabulary, thank you very much.
Know the rules well, so you can break them effectively:
- link back to the person who created the tag: Savannah
- thank the person who tagged you
- share the tag graphic below
- tag 11 bloggers
And now, on to the questions.
Name: Natalie Abigail [redacted]. Only God and my FBI agent know this one.
Nicknames: Nat. That’s it. That’s all I got.
Birthday: December 11th, the day Germany officially declared war on the US in 1941. I share it with the likes of Lynda Day George, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and my personal favorite, Ben Browder.
Hair color and length: Boring brown, although sometimes I get a gold streak that comes and goes as it pleases. It’s supposed to reach just past my shoulders, but it’s wavy and pulls up an inch or so.
Eye color: Blue, I guess. It turns gray in LED light and brown in yellow light and has a weird brown ring around each pupil, but yeah, we’ll go with blue.
Braces/piercings/tattoos: What with all the other hardships I endure in this life, God saw fit to give me my father’s perfect teeth (we’ll ignore the chip in the right front incisor, that one was my fault). Piercings look like an unnecessary pain to me. And do those temporary tattoos I would get when I was 9 count?
Righty or lefty: Both. . .y? I can do a few things better with my right, because I was raised right-handed, but doing things left-handed comes very naturally to me. My left handwriting was a lot neater than my right at first, but I am pleased to announce they have both devolved to the same level of illegibility.
Ethnicity: Mostly German and Irish, I think, with both Scotch and Canadian French thrown in. This means I can not only mix plaids but also look epic while doing so.
Novel written: A little train wreck called Sign of True Courage. It reads like a mental patient tried to write a fairy tale without actually knowing what a fairy tale is. I was 13 at the time.
Novel completed: Hunting the Wolf, a marginally more successful military sci-fi set in the future. I wrote it over the course of one year, which means it needs help. I will probably be editing it until I die.
Award for writing: I got $50 once for submitting to a magazine. Story wasn’t that good, though.
Publication: I don’t remember my first, but I’d get stories and poems in the aforementioned magazine when I was 7-9 and it was cute for my writing to be absolute garbage. Now I’m an “adult” and they expect my writing to be “good” and I want a refund because nobody told me I had to put forth effort and make something of myself.
Conference: Never been to one. My tolerable limit for crowds is about four people. A conference sounds like too many bodies in one spot.
Query/pitch: I have no time for queries and pitches. I haven’t even written the stories I wish to both pitch and query at this point.
Novel (that you wrote): It’s not finished, but my WIP Hunters of the Flame. It deals with 11 different characters who are all so much fun to write. They’re on a cheesy epic quest to save the world and 80% is just me describing scenery in various flowery prose.
Genre: Sci-fi, historical, whatever you call those stupid feel-good stories about bookshops in small towns where everyone knows everyone and drinks coffee all day and it’s always October.
Author: I don’t really have a favorite author. Joan Bauer I like, and Suzanne Collins, but I’m not too picky. Essentially if it’s not Richard Paul Evans I’ll read it.
Writing music: Oh, this one depends on my moods. I like instrumentals (think Lucas King and BrunuhVille), and sometimes I go merely for ambience and background noise. I don’t usually like lyrics, but the occasional Imagine Dragons song has never hurt.
Time to write: Is it dark outside? Are all sane people in bed? Is that thing in the woods that I’m pretty sure is a Tailypo screaming its bloody head off? Then we may begin.
Writing snack/drink: I mostly just drink coffee (and only during my daytime sessions; I’m not a total psychopath), since eating involves more use of my hands and makes typing slow. Ghirardelli chocolate chips are fair game, though.
Movie: Don’t ask me to do this. I can’t do this. After closing my eyes and choosing at random, I’ve come up with Battle of the Bulge. It’s not a bad choice, either. The acting and the soundtrack are magnificent. And those Patton tanks look just like King Tigers!
Writing memory: I’ve got a lot of these, too. My favorites are all of the ones where I was curled up in a blanket with the lights off and a cup of coffee and when I started writing it was actually really good and hardly needed any revisions. That happened maybe. . .twice in my life. But both times were great.
Childhood book: A beautifully-illustrated version of The Firebird that was published in Czechoslovakia in 1970 and is so fragile the dust cover is long gone and if the house was on fire I would save it first and me second.
Reading: Mindhunter: Inside the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit.
Writing: Paradise Lost, a sci-fi horror short story.
Listening to: The soundtrack to one of my favorite games, The Last Door. Both seasons are spectacular, but I like Season 1’s music best. At the moment, anyway.
Watching: My wasted potential drift by.
Learning: If it’s truly possible to snap a neck with your bare hands. For research purposes, I swear.
Want to be published: Yes. Before I die would be nice.
Indie or traditional: I’m going for self-publishing, actually, but I’ve got a good friend who may go either way and we’ve promised to compare notes. So we’ll see how it goes.
Wildest goal: Having a story of mine made into a movie. I know that it’ll probably be completely trashed and stuffed full of crappy agendas if that does happen, though, so maybe that’s one fantasy that’s better left unfulfilled. Remember Eragon? Exactly. We don’t talk about it.
And now we have come to the long-awaited end. I barely know eleven people, let alone eleven bloggers, so this one I’m leaving open. This is a twice-snurched tag, so feel free to make it thrice.