If You Give a Troll a Pointless Fixation…

Okay, Internet, you win. I quit. I’ve weathered lots of ridiculous collective fixations on things that are not nearly as important or interesting as just about anything else that’s happening in the world, but I am done with Dinergeddon. DONE. STOP IT. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. We all love an excuse to morally lynch people who were participants in events we didn’t get to witness in person. And folks who don’t know the value of a good “no comment” sure as heck feed the fire. In this case, the fire is heating up a battleground between people with kids (we have the right to eat wherever we want and those soulless people with no children can’t say boo to us!) and people without kids (we have the right to not be accosted with the noise and stickiness of children and their inconsiderate parents who accuse us of having meaningless lives without knowing us!). It’s the dining equivalent of the Kobayashi Maru: there just isn’t a right answer. So this is what I have to say to you people who keep clogging up my normally interesting news channels with this combative pettiness…

Seriously. Being a person is hard. It’s hard to cope with aggravation, it’s hard to manage the aggravation of kids. It can be hard to cope with the fact that you’re a grown person stuck in the company of squawking, pre-lingual delivery vectors for some truly foul bodily fluids for an obscene amount of time. It can be hard to be confronted by a stridently vocal reminder that you don’t, for any number of reasons, participate in a ubiquitous piece of the human experience that is defined by rearing your progeny. And it can be especially hard to be a kid with no autonomy to walk away from whatever’s making you upset, which includes (but is not limited to) adults and their bizarre ability to skip second breakfast and naptime and elevenses and second naptime. (How we grown-ups all routinely make it from breakfast to lunch with no naps and maybe one snack at most? Now that’s a topic worth jawing around.) So let’s just agree that we could all use a little compassion, okay? And maybe either find a new bone to chew to blood-drawing shards or keep the chewing habits confined to private circles where they stand half a chance of being productive towards positive change.

I am begging you.

Just in case you’re soundly hung up on this thing and need a little inspiration to move yourself on down the road, here’s some fresh conversational fodder:

Science shows a potential link of ancestry between indigenous Australians and folks in the Brazilian Amazon, which turns out to have some fascinating possible implications.

Donald Trump involuntarily plays “Who wore it better?” with a bunch of random internet photos.

The American embassy is open in Cuba…which is fantastic, even if casual tourism isn’t quite open for Americans yet.

Amy Schumer plays a lovable jerk in Trainwreck which, for those of you who don’t pay attention to all the gender equality conversations, is cool.

And I’ll let this speak for itself:

This is, literally, the quickest possible skim of other things happening on the internet right now. I’m not even trying or delving into the tough and ugly stuff that’s hard to confront, and look what I found! Things that are way more useful and interesting conversation starters than Pointless Judgefest XVII: Marcy’s vs. the Toddler. More reading suggestions welcome. :)

Never Kiss Your Chickens

We added two new chickens to our little flock last week. Pique and Boo. They’re younger and smaller than the rest by a few weeks and it was like dropping a pair of seventh graders into a varsity locker rook after tearing them bodily from the comforting arms of their mother.

I felt like a complete jerk. Those poor girls were catatonic with fear and we just walked away. I worried about them all through the first night, sitting hard on that new parent instinct to poke sleeping babies to make sure they’re still alive. I managed to sit on it until 6 a.m., at which point I had to know if they had survived. I ran out to the coop in my flips and pajamas…

They were gone.


No…that couldn’t be right. I didn’t see any blood or bones or feathers and one thing I have learned about chickens is that they are wasteful eaters. No way did those bloody-thirsty, pocket-sized velociraptors manage to cannibalize two whole birds without a trace.


The bloody-thirsty, pocket-sized velociraptors: Robin, Monarch, Muppet-feet, Unlikely, Flappy, and Speedy.

Weasel? But that didn’t make much sense either. The other birds would have been injured or upset, right?

So did they get out? I checked both sides of the garden before I realized that the most likely point of escape was through the nesting box channel. The barn had been closed off, so they must just be hiding in the barn. I scanned high and low, peering into the hay under the rabbits for flashes of white.


An eerie sense of bafflement color my fear for my new birds. I stepped back and decided to feed the bunnies and consider the problem, give my brain a few more minutes to wake up.

A flash of movement caught my eye as I pulled hay from the rack and there was Boo, perched in the tight little space between the feed tray and the coop post. My heart flipped over an I just couldn’t stop my hands from reaching in to pick her up…which scared the poop out of her, which incited her to protest, which drew down the wrath of Muppet-feet, who quickly orchestrated the explosion of Angry-Rooster-Palooza, leaving me no choice but to pull Boo out of the coop before my freaked idiot roosters could peck her to pieces.

I put her into a nest box, still seeing no sign of Pique, and hustled to get the pop hole open for Dumb-dumbs #1-6, aka Robin, Speedy, Monarch, Flappy, Muppet-feet, and Unlikely. Blessedly lacking the predatory focus of velociraptors, they rushed the door and settled into eating grass as if the mad panic at the alien invasion had never happened.

I went back inside to make sure Boo could get to food and water unmolested and there she was: with Pique. The two were snuggled together on the ramp landing. I still have no idea where Pique had squirreled herself away.


Pique and Boo, in another of their favorite snuggle spots.

After having them for a full week, I think I have to say that Boo is short for Boodini. We went to camp for a few days, and when we got back, she was outside of the coop, just hanging out in the barn…which is fortunately more tightly sealed than the coop itself, so we didn’t loose her. That time.

Last night, however, Boo flew the coop. We had fixed the spot we assumed she had snuck out through, but apparently she’s still little enough to squeak through some pretty small spots because she was roosting on top of the nest boxes when I went down to close them up for the night. And, because the barn was not yet closed up, when she flew away from me in terror, she ended up OUTSIDE.

This might have been a manageable situation if the cats hadn’t been outside with me, but life is what it is, and Lyra managed to terrify Boo into fleeing into the woods, where we quickly lost track of her in the ferns and stream that runs under a mass of dead leaves and tree roots. After a solid forty minutes of searching, John and I had to admit that we weren’t going to find her…and her chances of surviving were not great. It just about broke my heart to go inside, but I didn’t see what else I could do, aside from leave the garden gate open so she could get at the outdoor feeder if she found her way back.

My night was not fantastic–I kept waking up from dreams about Pique being mauled by the other chickens without Boo’s protection, or of Boo trying to get into the coop frantically while running away from something horrible with teeth and a fondness for chicken nuggets. So, once again, come 6 a.m., I flip-flopped out to the barn and my pajamas…and there she was. In the garden. Attacking the closed pop hole with manic terror as I shut the garden gate and went over to let her rejoin the others.

The degree to which I worry over these stupid chickens is maybe an indicator that I’m not cut out for the anxiety that comes with being responsible for fragile little lives. All the same, I have not forgotten that these particular fragile little lives are also filthy little salmonella-incubators, so from one crazy chicken lady to the rest of my fellow backyard chicken owning weirdos: don’t forget to NEVER kiss your chickens.

Extra, Extra

I love getting the local paper. I don’t know if I’ve ever derived a useful piece of information from it, but there’s something cozy about living in a place where the news is dominated by the achievements of high school students and bean suppers.

Oh yes, you heard me right. Bean suppers. There are four separate bean or spaghetti or turkey supper listings in this latest addition.. You know what matters to my town? Knowing where to show up to eat with the community.

And the kids: Story after story about the kids who made the honor roll, the kids who volunteered their time to do something kind, the kids who excelled in the arts and athletics and academics. The kids who joined the military. The kids who are getting married. The kids who have been lost to some awful tragedy. The kids who have traveled across the world and brought their stories and pictures back for the entire town to learn from.

There’s another page, too, of course: the police arrest log. If anyone were to dig into half of these entries, there’s probably some compelling reading in there. People get busted for sex and drugs and violence like anywhere else and the information is there. And if a keen investigative reporter were to go digging, I’ll give you 10-1 odds that hiding somewhere in the town there are problems of the sort that crop up in a Stephen King novel. The existence of some hidden corruption in town officials or business leaders of influential citizens isn’t a bad bet: the same principle of psychology that makes people bad at making the more productive choice in the prisoner’s dilemma is that same principle that makes people take underhanded risks to give themselves a leg up from time to time, and I’m not so naive as to assume it’s not there just because no one is writing about it in the monthly paper.

This sets up an interesting question for me, from a writer’s perspective. I’m not a reporter for a really good reason: I find human interaction stressful under good circumstances, which means that I’m especially bad at confronting people when I need to push for information. But I did my time on the college paper and sat through many conversations about the role of the press in exposing problems and keeping people honest, so I look at the sunshine and rainbows of the town paper and wonder what it’s not saying. What unpleasant stories are they failing to tell? Should I be wishing that the paper was run by someone who was more up in arms about fixing whatever problems we don’t see? Am I guilty of turning away from the unpleasant truth when I’m glad to see page after page glowing with parental pride in the kindness and cleverness of the kids who have grown up running over the collective edge of our lawns with their bikes?


All the same, it’s nice to live in a place where we spend our print space on praising young people for what they’re doing well and planning to get together for baked beans and pie.

Farscape v TNG

Frelling Farscape

Can we talk Farscape please? For just a quick little minute?

What. the. frell.

I routinely come across Farscape memes among the geek set, and the respectable proportion of these recently had me thinking I had missed something, one geek to another. I love crazy sci-fi! Why, I wondered to myself, did I ever give up on a show full of awesome aliens, nifty world-building, and adorable cursing that combines crazy sci-fi with the glorious genius of the Henson Studios?

So I pulled out my all-access Netflix pass and jumped down the rabbit hole. For most of the first two seasons, I thoroughly enjoyed the sets, the costumes, the plots…maybe not Ben Browder’s shouty over-acting, but most of the rest of the show. And then they killed off Virginia Hey and things got weird. For whatever reason–make-up toxicity, politics, legitimate career offers for the better actors–Farscape never seemed to have much commitment to the status quo. And at some point, I’m pretty sure the writers were either perpetually high or just irresponsibly stoked about ignoring internal consistency (where in the uncharted territories did Chiana’s sudden onset visions come from?), but once season three got fully under way, it was like they were thoroughly committed to driving the viewers crazy right along with Crichton.

Oh. Right. THAT’S why I stopped watching the show.

I mean, my word, people. Reality on the other side of the wormhole did an complete tailspin to the degree that even having just watched four seasons in the space of a few weeks, I don’t think I could separate out the plot points that actually happened from the ones that occurred in an alternate reality/timeline/simulation or were hallucinated due to drugs/torture/illness/mind control/more drugs/holy dren the main characters spent a lot of time drugged out of their minds on this show for a really impressive range of reasons.

Let me draw you a little comparison:

Farscape v TNG

This is what we call impressionist graphing. I could map it out for you more thoroughly, but I’ve already lost four seasons of my life plus the time it took for me to write this rant, so I won’t. The point should be clear, however: messing with the realness of reality is like lemon pepper seasoning. It is delightful in small amounts, but should on no account be used to thickly batter an entire pan of chicken breasts. Enough is as good as too much.

Because I have more faith than is clearly merited in the internet and the geeks who dwell therein, however, I persevered through to the bitter end, certain that I was missing something, that all would come clear. I wasn’t hoping for much more than a Dorothy Gale waking up in her own bed moment (and you were there, and you…), but it was SO MUCH WORSE.

(Spoiler alert.)

The will-they/won’t-they champions of the century get engaged, very romantically, in a boat (which they got where, exactly?) and are then frozen by an alien weapon and shattered into a bazillion pieces leaving D’Argo screaming in horror as he watches, helpless to intervene.

And then the show was cancelled. The wrap-up was schlepped off onto a mini-series that I would have to pay actual money to get my hands on, and you know what? I can’t do it. I just can’t bring myself to spend the eight bucks to add that particular DVD to my collection, but more importantly, I can’t resign myself to the fact that I’m not done. I know this may seem like quitting with the finish line in sight, but in my mind, John Crichton and Aeryn Sun will forever be a beautiful pile of commingled flesh crystals sparkling in the sun as Ka D’Argo rages on.

Just trying to find a way to embrace the absurdity.

A Transformative Lie for December 16

Yesterday was my 30th birthday. It was a good one by any standard of birthday goodness, but especially by the measure of December-in-New-England birthdays. Neither weather nor flu nor holiday bustle cramped my ability to connect with people I care about in some genuinely lovely ways, and I felt spoiled rotten and enveloped by love all day long. For me, personally, it was a very good day, but…

December 16, 2014 was not a good day. It will be remembered by history, in fact, as a #BlackDay, because in Peshawar, 141 innocent people, 132 of them children, were slaughtered.

What possible justification for this pointless violence could be beggars the imagination. And in the wake of the shooting of Michael Brown and the strangulation of Eric Warner by officers sworn to uphold public safety and the failure of grand juries to indict either of the officers responsible for their deaths in order to allow full trials to sort out what happened in each case, it’s clear to me that America has plenty to hang her head in shame for as well.

My news feeds are full of horror and injustice. If you buy the premise of Steven Pinker’s The Better Angels of Our Nature, things are better than they were (at least in terms of percentages of populations): humans are less violent than they once were and continue to be less violent. I am persuaded by his argument, but the fact that, by percentages, we’re less bloodthirsty than our ancestors does nothing to comfort the grieving families of Michael Brown or Eric Warner or any of the 141 victims in Peshawar. We have further to go. Much, much further.

And here’s the thing: we are capable of being better. So here’s the transformative lie that I’m going to tell, not to sweep the horrors under the carpet and not to forget our unforgivable sins for an instant, but to give us all a truth to aspire to: we are defined by the beauty and good we bring to the world.

So let’s consider other 16ths of December that have brought better things to the world.

1770: Ludwig van Beethoven was born. I would wager that even those of you who aren’t fans of classical music still recognize his name and probably hum certain of his melodies absentmindedly from time to time because his influence in western culture lingers on. And let’s talk about the drive to create beauty in adversity: Beethoven composed this beloved piece (and many others) after he had lost his hearing.

1775: Jane Austen was born. Austen is the master of the insult so refined that the victim would be apt to thank her for the compliment before realizing the intent. This knack for subversive humor is what makes me love her work: her social commentary was presented via the sort of romance novels popular for her day, and while one might not see anything quite resembling modern feminism in her plots, her commentary on both class and the ludicrous necessity of marriage for women to get by was and is an important voice in favor of a change we’re still working through. Also: she’s funny.

And because people can be lovely, all of her works (which are in the public domain), are available for free online.

1866: Wassily Wasilyevich Kandinsky was born. Kandinsky turned his back on a career as an attorney to pursue art. He left Russia to be free to practice art without the restrictions of communism-turned-fascist. He was one of the earliest artists to work with purely abstract forms.

I highly recommended perusing his work online too.

And let’s not forget Margaret Mead (1901), Arthur C. Clarke (1917), or Quentin Blake (1932), to name just a few fascinating people who were born on December 16th and made a positive, memorable impact on the world.

And then, the events…Charlie Chaplin signed with Keystone to start his beloved film career (1913). “Vortex” by Noel Coward (another Dec. 16 birthday, for that matter) premiered in London (1924). Gemini 6 returns to Earth and Pioneer 6 is launched into orbit (1965).  The insanely long version of “American Pie” we all collectively know enough parts of to sing the entire thing if we’re in a large enough group was released (1971).

I won’t lie. In looking for these events, I found a much longer list of tragedies and acts of violence. We are primed, I guess, to focus on the worst we have to offer as far as the histories are concerned. It’s understandable. We need to confront the violence and gross failures of justice to create change. But there is beauty and thoughtfulness and laughter and kindness to be had from humanity too and, I believe, as we fight for a better world, we must not think that art and science and kindness are anything less than our best weapons: if we want a better world, we need to be better ourselves. I believe that peace will come from cleverness and compassion, not the barrel of a gun. I believe that our best hope is to work harder at creating a world that understands on a gut level what a joy life can be when we are unutterably lovely to one another.

So…I have no answer, no solution, no explanation, no excuse for Peshawar, but while we slog forward, I will be doing my best to be kind and to add pleasant things to the world in hopes that it will, if nothing else, provide some small signal amplification for the reminder of what we have it in us to be.

Maine Etsy Shops…Not for Tourists

Obsessively tracking packages is like a gift I give to myself this time of year. Etsy is my favorite because I can buy local AND not ever actually leave the house to do holiday shopping. I thought I’d share the joy and offer up a list of a number of Etsy shops with cool items that aren’t the usual touristy blah, which isn’t to say that Maine’s summer wannabe residents wouldn’t love these shops too, just that I gave a pass to anything that looked to be predominantly lobsters, blueberries, moose, seashells, and lighthouses. (Though if that’s your cup o’ tea, there are plenty more Maine Etsy sellers with interesting and quality takes on the tourist tropes, and bless you, because we love our tourist dollars. : )

But no, this list is to connect you to Maine artists and artisans, whose work is lovely or nifty or fun in its own right. And yes, there is an emphasis on fiber art…most of you come here for the knitting patterns, I know, so that’s all for you, m’deahs.

Fiber Art

On the Round – Owls Head – Bright, shiny, squooshy, handspun yarn and beautifully dyed fibers for spinning your own.

Maine Woods Yarn – Palermo – These folks have a special place in my heart because my first spindles came from them. Great kits for anyone who wants to give spinning a…whorl.

Maine Fiber Tools – Saco – This guy knows what a lathe is for: making pretty, pretty spindles. And yarn bowls. Great options here for the knitter or spinner on your list.

Funky Jewelry & Sexy Bags

Buy My Crap – Bangor – Who doesn’t love a little self-aware snark with their customized resin bangles? Send him your photos or buy one of her cool designs.

Fiona – Rockland – Simple stones set into elegant jewelry settings for a juxtaposition of elegance and simplicity that is Maine all over. Would pair equally well with evening-wear or Bean boots. :)

Rough and Tumble – Norway – Handmade leather bags for the person in your life who needs a bit of luxury spoiling.

Quirky Decor

North Wind Carvings – Orono – You’ve probably seen these carvings at various fairs, old faces peering out of the wood…perfect for that oddball with a fondness for fairies and woodland mystique in your life.

Timberstone Rustic Arts – Montville – Rocks, transformed. Lamps, pendants, soap dispensers, vases, birdhouses, clocks…all kinds of nifty things. Definitely a fun store to browse.

Mexican in Maine – Bangor – Not your usual Maine art. Forget the landscapes and lighthouses…this art has a Mexican style and the price for original work is low.

Sunny Acre Farm – Falmouth – Need a little birdhouse in your life? These are adorable…primitives style with a French flair.

Enchanted Forest Maine – Perry – Fairy house lamp. Need I say more? I do? Okay then: paper mache dragon. Djinn bottle incense burner. Just go look…it’s a fun shop.

World Building: Management Edition

Help me out, folks.

I’m writing the third (and final, I think) book of The Sidhe Diaries for this year’s NaNoWriMo. For the most part, it’s going quite well. I’ve got some deliciously depraved bad guys, some loose end tying up of epic proportions, some fun new applications of the practical magic the sidhe call the silver. But I’m running into a bit of a problem: my world is outgrowing my brain space.

Three books in, I have a decent cast of characters who have changed and grown over the arc of the story. The major characters are easy enough to keep track of: they’re constantly in the action, so my mind is always working with their motivations and knowledge. I’m finding, however, that minor characters who I have not been constantly with or taking decent reference notes on, are supremely annoying to keep track of. I think I may have accidentally resurrected the family dog in the third book after forgetting whether I did or did not kill it in the second, for example, and I can’t for the life of me remember or find the name of a character who was of minor importance in Autumn’s Daughter, non-existent in Autumn’s Sister, but who is coming back around to be somewhat more important in Autumn’s Exile.

Anyone have any brilliant, low-maintenance, easily searchable ideas for keeping track of things like characters, rules of the magical system, physical descriptions of completely fictional places, etc.? The notes system in my writing software, which works tolerably well for a standalone story, is turning out to be too cumbersome to be a useful reference over a series.

Erotica and Romance Need to Break Up

Fair warning: this post should, uncharacteristically, probably be labeled as 18+ / NSFW.

I do not read much erotica / lady porn / vaginal fantasy. Part of the reason is that my upbringing was pretty tight-laced, but as I’ve become a more vocal advocate of feminism, I have come to believe that part of the battle for human equality along the gender divide is demystifying sex. It’s okay for ladies to get horny, and it’s okay for humans to indulge their horniness as long as doing so does not endanger or degrade one’s self or other people. Erotica is one of the simplest and safest entry points for bringing the conversation about female sexuality into a broader sphere, but with few exceptions, I despise the entire genre with the fire of a thousand newborn suns.

This weekend, while trying to read a book that was recommended to me by a friend who is a connoisseur of the genre, I was about ready to hurl my ereader across the room when I had another inter-genre epiphany. Erotica doesn’t have to inherently suck. Erotica is only sucky because there is some badly mistaken and deeply ingrained notion that it is appropriate for all erotica to be romance.

Wait, wait, wait, you may say. Aren’t erotica and romance the same thing?No, my friends, they aren’t, and I would even go so far as to say they’re locked in a mutually destructive relationship.

Let’s define erotica first…

Erotica is any book in which the description of sex reaches an anatomically specific level ending in details of how climax was achieved. In short, it’s porn, in words. I have zero problem with porn in words because I don’t need to stop to worry about whether the end result was achieved in a way that is non-exploitative: the people doing the sex are fictitious. Whether or not the authors are given a fair shake is a conversation for a different day, but the issues there are generally the same issues faced by authors in general and (usually) female authors in specific, rather than the issues faced by actors who are getting naked for the camera.

Erotica, furthermore, has the opportunity to provide healthy examples of consent, safe sex, and the right of women to enjoy their bodies. It can sometimes be the most ass-backwards of genres when it comes to power and gender roles, but when it’s done well, erotica is one of those genres that is capable of lighting the path towards gender equality.

And now, for romance…

A romance novel, by contrast, is any novel where the primary conflict in the plot revolves around the success of the romantic/sexual relationship between the two main characters. I rather loathe romance novels because, by and large, they are fond of upholding that ass-backwardness I was just referring to. They usually end in a wedding and babies and very frequently involve a dynamic in which either the woman has to be rescued by a stronger man or a strong woman has to learn how to be meek enough to be lovable to a man. Gross.

Because the sexual relationship is at the heart of the plot, rape or attempted rape are disgustingly common tools for increasing the drama of the plot. Ex-cah-uze me? You’re writing a book that’s designed to get ladies in the mood and you’re going to throw the cold reality of the prevalence of rape into the mix? I’m not saying society is at a point where we don’t need to expose the prevalence of rape in fiction, but good lord, people–rape and erotica are a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad combination that undermine erotica’s ability to empower women to enjoy their sexuality. I call bullshit on the commonplace use of rape to up the drama-ante in erotica.

Beyond the rage-inducing incompatibilities, romance and erotica are just fundamentally a poor match. The point of erotica, let’s not mince words here, is arousal. The structure of your typical romance novel goes like this: reader meets girl > reader meets boy > girl and boy meet > girl and boy hate each other > girl and boy find a common problem that brings them together > girl and boy decide that maybe they can stomach each other > girl and boy get down to business. That means a bare minimum of three to four chapters before any fun stuff happens, and most of the book is designed to leave the reader completely frustrated by all of the stupid arguments and external influences that are preventing the sexytime from happening in anything that resembles a dominant percentage of the book.

Romance and erotica, I think you need to take an honest look at your relationship. You’re just going to keep hurting each other if you stay together, but you could both be so much stronger, so much happier if you agreed to see other people or, you know, take a break to just work on yourselves for a while.

A modest proposal…

You may very well still be scratching your head about how we could possibly separate romance from erotica. There’s genre erotica, I can hear you thinking. Supernatural erotica is a billion-dollar industry, isn’t it? No doubt. But I have read a fair amount of that, and every one so far has been romance cosplaying SF/F in a poorly constructed costume.

I wouldn’t, however, want to read a book that was absolutely nothing but X-rated sex scenes…there’s something to be said for a bit of build-up and the value that plot has in making you care about the characters you’re peeping in on. So here’s what I want to see a market boom in: erotica whose main couple is in a stable, loving relationship and who are working together against some larger problem. Still not seeing the potential? Imagine a book written from this rough concept:

Opening scene: Zale and Talon, life-partners and co-captains of the inter-stellar messenger ship G.S.S. Gutenberg, are engaging in some delightfully inventive zero-g sex (which would necessitate some sort of light bondage, or maybe acrobat-style ropes, just to handle the whole equal and opposite reaction bit of physics) when their com beeps, alerting them that they have an unexpected visitor.

Introduction of conflict: The visitor is a mob-boss who intends to destroy the legitimate government of their home planet. He has some leverage against them that makes it very difficult to say no to his demand that they play a critical role in his devious scheme.

Role of sex: Because the conflict is external to their relationship, sex can be used as stress relief, a way to break up expository discussions about how to manage the conflict, and an act of celebration. Lots of opportunities exist for quality, consent-positive, body-image-positive, safe, and creative sex.

With this approach, erotica can tackle plots that are actually interesting in a format that permits a higher ratio of sexytime to plot. And unshackled from the bone-weary tropes of the erotica/romance tango, romance is set free to work on being less shitty in its treatment of women.

I’m sorry to say that I do not have the courage to actually commit vivid, anatomically-precise descriptions of sex to paper, so I am not likely to be the person who turns the genre on its head with my brilliant non-romance erotica. I would love to read the book I envisioned above, though, so if anyone wants to take the idea and run with it, it’s yours. Just let me know when you need beta readers. Also, if you have read any good erotica that avoids being romance, please feel welcome to share recommendations in the comments!

Sci-Fi, Horror, and Genre Jumping

Once again, I’ve been enjoying a great conversation with Dan Bensen about genre. It began with a mutual rave fest over the inter-genre brilliance of Lois McMaster Bujold, particularly around the elements of horror in The Sharing Knife series (which would be more broadly classified under fantasy in the vein of the Alvin Maker series). We agreed that it’s one mark of a book with rich world-building when imagining the story being told from the perspective of another character in the series would easily recast it as a different genre.

This seems, to me, to play out especially well in science fiction vs. horror. Horror has a good grasp on the value of the unseen monster: if you can’t get a fix on it to explain it, you can’t feel any confidence in the resolution, leaving the possibility of terror hanging in the air. Science fiction, however, thrives on meeting the new and unexplained and giving it a name, learning its language, figuring out how it dies or what will persuade it to be nice so it’s not scary any more. If you look at a story from the boots-on-the-ground, oh-god-we’re-all-dying-one-by-one perspective of, say, a military commander failing to get a group to safety, you’ve got horror. If you turn it around and look at the situation from the viewpoint of, for an extreme example, a scientist in the lab with the ability to measure and test the situation for variables under more controlled circumstances, the same premise can become science fiction. Which genre the story ultimately belongs in depends on which perspective wins: knowledge or fear.

This realization led me to the epiphany that  I should probably be writing horror instead of science fiction…the one arena where my inherited tendency to anxiety might actually be an asset. If you can think of a rational solution to a scary problem, I can come up with a catastrophic point of failure.

This realization in turn led me to think it would be fun to write a horror story from the perspective of the correspondence between two people reacting to horrific crisis: the rational, optimistic scientist observing the situation from a safe distance and a military commander in charge of the situation on the ground. Dan graciously invited me to riff on his alien incursion story base on the Lolo Complex forest fires last year, so I’m going to try my hand at something a little different.

More to come on that soon.

Say hello to Autumn’s Daughter!

I have dragged my feet and generally taken far too long to get here, but as of yesterday at 9:46 am et, my first book, Autumn’s Daughter, became available for sale via Amazon.

eBook cover for Autumn's Daughter

Would you care to purchase a copy? I’d be ever so grateful. :)

A Few Thoughts on Self-Publishing

One of the reasons I’ve taken so very long to publish this book is that I’ve been waffling about the best approach. Book publishing is at a bit of a crossroads. Self-publishing an ebook is a much less expensive and risky proposition than self-publishing a print book, which ultimately means that the barrier to entry doesn’t do anything to control the quality of what’s out there. How on earth is a humble reader to know which self-published books are worth their hard-earned dollars?

But there’s also a rising democracy of art which is giving more and more power to individual artists to be heard without the backing hand of a major publishing house.

Major publishing houses make me anxious because the whole business model of advances on royalties seems…binding. The pressure to write something that can be sold isn’t always conducive to producing the most genuine or innovative stories. And let’s be blunt: there is a shit-ton of anxiety in the whole query process. I heard it quoted that the average book that makes it to publication goes through about 35 queries…so that’s months or years of writing and revising a frickin’ request for one person to read a book. And if…IF…you can get that one person to agree to take you on as a client, they then embark on the mission of trying to sell your book to a company, which they may or may not manage to do, and IF they do sell it, there’s a cranky corporate machine that analyzes your book for profitability, cuts it up, spits it out, brands it, and so on, until finally your book makes it to the real world for readers to engage with.

And what has the writer been doing, meanwhile? Writing and re-writing queries instead of stories? Slaving away on books that might never see the light of day? Running in circles revising this first book with no real sense of whether the revisions are improving the situation? Getting stuck in a quagmire of anxiety about whether writing is a valuable pursuit?

I’m not saying there’s no room for the major publishing house model: the touch of many expert hands might turn a real stinker of a manuscript into a polished jewel. I am absolutely certain that my own book would be cleaner and sharper if I had that sort of support network, and my launch-day sales would be higher because of the marketing dollars and expertise that publishing houses spend to support their investment. And when you’re looking at the risk and dollars involved in print publishing, the traditional model makes much more sense. But:

There’s another way to share stories, and I think it’s a way that is less likely to make me lose my marbles.

I work for a web development company, and our internal slogan is “fail early, fail fast, fail often.” We design in the browser, we run A/B tests, we mess around with test variables, we track analytics, and we make our process as transparent as possible to clients to give them ownership in the design process through opportunities to provide continual feedback. It’s mad efficient and it makes client relationships smoother because they know what to expect from the get-go. We don’t invest massive amounts of time and energy in any stage without client approval because our model is designed to be lean, light, and flexible.

Because of the magic of the internet, of the information age, this “minimum viable product” approach can apply to just about anything. I’ve put out a book that is as carefully edited as my poor brain filters, the help of my friends, and a few limited resources can achieve. Is it worth five bucks? Yes. Can we do more with it? Abso-friggin-lutely. So what do you want? Do you want an audiobook? Do you want me to pay for better copyediting? Do you want the sequel faster than next fall? Do you want merch and bling? Because we can communicate through any number of platforms (Twitter, Goodreads, Google+, my contact form), I can talk directly to you and we can make this little book our plaything, bring it into whatever medium we like.

Not to be a massive cheeseball, but I like the idea of being the people’s writer instead of being just one cog of many in a huge corporate complex.

I KNOW. I published on Amazon. It doesn’t get any more huge corporate complexy than that, and believe me, I don’t love all of their policies. But here’s the thing: I can’t actually talk to readers and cultivate that creative community with them unless I can first find those few honest-to-goodness fans who love my story for itself, not just because they love me as a person. Amazon is a not-stupid place to start finding and connecting with those folks. I can’t speak to how Amazon deals with publishing houses, but as an individual author, I have a massive amount of control over my work, far more marketing support than I could possibly afford to pay for on my own, and direct access to substantial communities of folks who are most likely to truly enjoy what I have to offer. Maybe established authors and publishing houses can afford to pooh-pooh that kind of opportunity. Maybe someday we’ll have built a big enough community that I can make my work free to everyone on a pay-what-you-want model…but I’m too pragmatic a person to pretend I’m even close to being there, so for now: Amazon.

So. To sum up: I have chosen self-publishing as my first option because I think it’s got some cool potential over traditional publishing that suits my worldview, and I am looking forward to connecting with readers. If you’re of a mind to go adventuring with me, the first, best things you can do to send us on our way are (1) Read my book and (2) leave a specific, honest review.

Many thanks!