Yup, I'm in again.

I couldn't have said it better myself. You in?

Yin and Yang

I haven't posted much recently because I've been caught in an all-consuming chaos of Things to Do. They've included teaching the first session of my high-school speculative-fiction workshop to a new batch of kids, coordinating recording sessions for Outlandish Voices the podcast, editing the absolute spate of paying work that has poured across my desk in the past two weeks (yay!), trying to keep up with my workouts, polishing a new piece and reading it at a poetry open-mic, sending a few things off to new and unusual markets, getting good news about my story "Turcotte's Battle" being accepted by Wet Ink (it's a literary magazine — a literary magazine), riding my horse, feeling wistful that there has been no fencing for a couple of weeks (feeling wistful takes time), thinking up new projects to put in the queue, making food and doing housework and yardwork, and working on a few stories in the moments there are left.

As much as I enjoy a string of echoingly empty days in which to write (and I so do), I'm not complaining. I'm making things happen where I want them to happen, and I've got paying work to do, which is fabulous, bring it on, bring it on! Moreover, the buzz of keeping up with all these projects keeps my brain chunking along, coming up with new ideas and keeping me motivated. It's very yang, this sort of time. Yin takes a lot more self-discipline: it's the time when you have to stare all your ideas down and make them sit still and work. Some people think yin is "soft" and "yielding." Not for me. Yang is where everything flies around in a bright, happy, formless buzz, like that cloud of butterflies my horse and I rode through the other day.

Yin, however, is where I spend most of my time. It is earth, I agree with the tradition that far. It's earth, and determination, and not being able to see very far ahead but still keeping going, slowly, steadily, relentlessly.

I'm enjoying Yang while I'm here. But I know I'm only a visitor.

It's still Ada Lovelace Day somewhere!

I'm late in posting my Ada Lovelace Day post, but I've managed it in the end.

To celebrate Ada Lovelace Day, which draws attention to the contributions of women to the fields of science and technology, I chose to read Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley, and comment thereupon. Confession: I've only managed to get about halfway through the book. It's not that it isn't interesting, mind you. There's a lot to think about when you're reading it: symbolism (oy, such symbolism, symbolism for everybody, step right up and get your symbolism), theme, plot, characterization, setting, and oh did I mention symbolism? It's just that tastes have changed, and the leisurely pace of plot developments and the endless paragraphs of lush (even, dare I say it, turgid) description tend to make it heavy going. You should give it a go, if only to say you were brave enough and principled enough to read for yourself something that most people only know about. (Don't expect a ripping read, though.)

However, despite the fact that the book is not exactly entertaining, it is real speculative fiction, real science fiction, in exactly the same way that anything by Asimov or Clarke or Heinlein is. But it was written in the early 1800s (published in 1818, specifically). By a woman. Who was also a social outcast, at a time when that was a genuine hardship. (It's no fun now, but at least you can earn a living, and, thanks to the Internet, find friends amongst the other outcasts.) She ignored the expectations, even pressures, that kept women from admitting they were interested in science, or acknowledging, even to themselves, that they were capable of thinking about it in any worthwhile way.

The book's great strength is, in fact, that it isn't afraid to grab hold of its characters' real conflicts about science and technology — conflicts that are part of what we have all become. She was there when the Industrial Revolution was changing everything, everything. She watched the rise of those who benefitted, and the fall of those who could not, for one reason or another. What would she write about now, when the powers of scientists seem even more huge and creepy than they did two hundred years ago? Victor Frankenstein would not have stitched his monster together from spare parts; rather, he would have cultured the tissues from genetically modified cells and created God only knows what. But the fears would be the same, wouldn't they? Can we control what we've done? Can we, flawed beings, make things more perfect than ourselves, or are our efforts doomed to yield only warped mockeries and demons? Should we even try?

Shelley had a remarkable and mainly painful life — is it that writers have more painful lives than, say, plumbers, or just that we hear about it more because they write about it?

On what's left of Ada Lovelace Day, or in retrospect, spare a thought for Mary Shelley, the first published woman spec-fic author (as far as I know).

(For more about Ada Lovelace Day, go to http://findingada.com/.)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The second-hardest thing for me about writing seriously has been to find out what process, accoutrements, times of day, and mindsets work best for me — and even what "best" means. Higher wordcount? More hours in the chair? More pieces sold? Pieces I, myself, like better?

The first-hardest thing has been to have a little respect for what I find out. To stop feeling like a failure because I have lower wordcount or less time in the chair (or more, for that matter) than other people. (Even I recognize that obsessing over number of pieces sold and subjective feelings about the pieces is a minefield.) I write the way I write. Van Badham got me starting to think about this, and it all came to a point when my husband asked me what I'd been doing today.

"Cleaning, cooking," I said. "Trying to write."

I felt an almost physical yank on my psyche. No!

"No!" I echoed. "Not 'trying to write.' Writing. I've been writing."

What I've been doing has been real, valuable, respectable writing.

Resolution: I will no longer refer to what I do as "trying to write." It's writing.

I am so happy we get the Daily Show in Australia (finally).

Every once in a while you see something on TV that, even as you're watching it, you know is something remarkable, something that lifts the entire medium up to another plane. Jon Stewart's 13-minute Glenn Beck "homage" is one of those things. I'm not being sarcastic: the sheer magnitude of this piece took my breath away. Not to mention the fact that Stewart can act.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Conservative Libertarian

www.thedailyshow.com

Writin' Rations™ (maybe)

This may just qualify as Writin' Rations™ because while it's a bit fiddly to make, it's not all that difficult per se, and it doesn't cost too much, and one small piece will energize you for hours of productive wordwork.

CHILI CHOCOLATE SHORTBREAD
2 1/2 cups all-purpose (plain) flour
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup rice flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder (UNsweetened)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon chili powder (NOT the flavored kind, the kind that's just straight dried, powdered chili peppers)
1 cup butter from the fridge (must be cold)

1. Preheat the oven to about 350F/180C.


2. Sift all the dry stuff together into a generously sized bowl (bigger than you think you'll need — you will need room to express yourself).


3. Cut the butter quickly and efficiently into small pieces (or use a pastry cutter).


4. Dump the butter into the powdery stuff. Using your fingers, rub the powdery stuff through the butter pieces, smushing the powder-covered butter pieces between fingers and thumb with a sliding motion. Apparently it's important that you scoop them up with your palms UP, not down. Who am I to argue? Keep going until there are no large butter pieces left (teeny tiny ones are okay), but work quickly, because the butter must not get warm (apparently).


5. Press the stuff firmly into a baking pan — I use what looks to be about an 8x12", but if you want it thinner, use a bigger one. Pyrex works well, by the way.


6. Run a sharp knife through the mix to define the final size of the pieces. A grid that makes pieces about 1x3" works okay.


7. Chill for at least a half hour in the fridge; an hour is probably better.


8. Bake until the ENTIRE HOUSE smells like chocolate. It's really, really hard to tell when shortbread is done, especially this stuff, as it all looks brown whether or not it's browned by the heat. Your guess is as good as mine.


9. Cool for at least a half hour.


10. Eat. Share. Gasp.

The truth has been explicated.

Ever wonder what's really going on, in the most erudite, postmodern, pre-apocalyptic sense, in those somewhat disturbing "Mr. Men" books? Find out here.

(Thanks, Van Badham, for the tipoff.)

You have to see this. You have to.

There are no words.


Entrance Win
Uploaded by failblog.

At last again! A new story up at Outlandish Voices the podcast!

Yes, there's a new story up at OV — head on over to our new address, outlandishvoices.podbean.com, to listen!

There's lots more in the works this year for OV, so stay tuned....

Shades of Sentience will be launching its anthology in April!

Shades of Sentience, a terrific speculative-fiction blog, will be launching its first print anthology in April at Brisbane Supernova (more info here)! This is cool for many reasons:

1. It's always good to see new spec fic out there and into readers' hands.
2. It's always good to see a terrific spec-fic outlet of any kind going from strength to strength.
3. I have a story in it! (Click here to see it as they originally published it.)

I am completely proud to be the author of the very first fiction post on the blog, and I urge you all to obtain a copy of the anthology as soon as it's launched.

To further whet your appetite, here's the blurb:

Fantasy and horror, science fiction and magic realism: these terms provide only the barest glimpse of what you'll find within these pages. Enter dreamscapes and nightmares; fall with souls rocketing into oblivion and fly with others who've discovered how to glide on broken wings. Walk within the minds of angels, demons, monsters and humans, not a sparkle among them, and try to choose your side. Nothing in this book is black and white - good or evil. We all see the world through different eyes, and each story gives you a different perspective. Will any of them change yours?

Outlandish Voices the podcast has MOVED!

Outlandish Voices the podcast has moved! Check out our new home at http://outlandishvoices.podbean.com! Better interface, more room, a comments facility — it's just plain better.

Coming soon: more stories, radio plays, and who knows what all else? See you there!

The capacity of human beings for enthusiasm always makes me gasp in wonder.

Me, I'm not much on gaming. I get bored and fidgety, and (to be blunt) I'd rather be out having real adventures. But even I can appreciate the amazingness of this custom-built D&D room someone set up in their house. Not necessarily because it looks completely ancient and authentic (it sort of doesn't, although it is pretty cool). But because it is a monument to the power of human enthusiasm. This guy went to a metric ton of trouble and expense to design this room simply because he loved what he was doing. He obviously kept asking himself the whole way, "How could I make this more fun? More entertaining? More surprising? How could I more fully immerse my gaming guests into this other world of make-believe and derring-do?" And then he went and did everything he thought of.

For fun. For friendship. For the refreshment of the spirit.

I might not have too much to talk about with this guy if I met him in person. But I think he's terrific.



Found via boingboing.

Humility is good for the soul, they tell me.

The last few times at fencing, I've ended up fencing people who only started a few months before me, or who'd had an enormous length of time off, or who had just started a few weeks *ago*. I was feeling pretty good about my own progress, frankly, keeping up with them, trying new techniques, getting more points (touches) each week than the week before, even winning a bout once in a while.

Last night I fenced someone who has a few years of fencing under his belt, *and* is far, far less than half my age, *and* is fabulously athletic. He hardly moved his blade at all, and got point after point after point.

I am not feeling so good at the moment about my own progress.

And — also discouraging, but unavoidable — with the huge influx of newbies, there is no time for anyone who's been there longer than a month or two to have lessons, as the coach (and I think rightly so) wants to get the newbies to where they can bout safely as quickly as possible. And we only meet once a week. And the next closest salle is over an hour away and also only meets once a week.

I work extensively on footwork and fitness on my own (and a good thing, too, obviously, or things would be even more discouraging than they are!). And at least it reduces my feelings of futility and frustration.

I'm making myself remember back to my days as a no-belt in my wonderful karate school (in that school, you took a belt test to even get your white belt). When I'd only been doing karate for a few months, could I successfully spar brown belts? I had trouble doing even the most basic techniques correctly, let alone with power and accuracy. So why should I expect instant expertise in fencing, just because I eventually acquired expertise in karate? (Although it's true that footwork, at least, gives me very little trouble.)

I wish my coach had the time to give half-hour lessons. Hell, yes, I'd find the money somehow. But he's said that until he retires from his day job, it's not going to happen. And that's over a year from now.

Deep breaths, Grasshopper. Patience. Cheerfulness. Persistence. Humility.


Image snurched from Unapologetically Female. The blogger there notes, "Exciting lives of fencing aside, at least we know floor-scrubbing is still for women." I am compelled to add that last night my husband devoted quite a bit of time and effort to scrubbing the floor — but then, he does not fence, and scrubbing the floor may therefore seem exciting, as it doubtless did to this woman before she took up the sword.

There.

As a service to writers everywhere, I have created an email address where they may send emails full of the angst, futility, and frustration they are feeling at any time during the writing process. No-one will read them (not even me), and no-one will harvest or sell your address. Just send that anguish AWAY! The address is anguishedwriter@gmail.com.

Scowl.

I'm seriously thinking of setting up some sort of blog or message forum or whatever where writers could go and post their grumps and moans about how badly the writing is going, especially at times when they know their family, friends, and colleagues are fed up to Pussy's bow with listening to it. No-one would have to read it; it would be akin to digging a hole and whispering your horrible secret — that you know it's all for nothing and you will never succeed and you are so, so ashamed — into the bowels of the earth.

You wouldn't have to worry about it until, due to global climate change, that particular field became a wetland and reeds grew thickly and, as the breeze blew through them, they would rustle: "My ssssstoriessss sssssuck, my sssssstoriesss sssssuck...."