Punktown - Jeffrey Thomas

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I'm paying the price for letting the time between reading and writing grow to such ridiculous lengths. I know I had things I wanted to say about this book, and bugger me if I can remember.

Punktown is a collection of stories set in the same tired, brutal, fantastic city, the stories traveling through the various facets of life, from artists to detectives to runaway clones. The flavour made me think of Bladerunner, only with more dirt, more garbage, more violence, and no way out. Neon lights and startling graffiti.

That isn't entirely true. While I do look like a twat for writing about a book I don't properly remember, it means I can quite easily pick out the stories that stayed with me. Heart for Heart's Sake has remained quite clear and strong in my mind. It deals with the question of art, and where the line that divides 'art for art's sake' and 'making a living' falls, a line I believe is so subjective as to be incomprehensible. I had a quick read through of it again before starting this, and it is as resonant now as it was then.

Weaving through the stories is a strong theme of memory, and who isn't a sucker for memory? Thomas deals with the different trials memory offers to us all with greatly varying characters in different walks of life.

I do remember getting to the end of this book and wishing it were bigger. I wasn't done yet.

Verdict: Tasty, different stuff, but be warned, this is an entree, so prepare yourself if you're after a meal.

Thanks to Miss Apricot, who doesn't quite approve of my reading such sordid tales (although secretly she loves it).

i'm not too smart, but i'm not too dumb

I have a toaster! AUGH!

Which is not to say I bought a new toaster, or was given a new toaster. My parent's old toaster needed a new home now they have a new shiny toaster, and my home is built on nothing but the family surplus. I'd like to say I was excited to give the toaster a try this morning, but, uh, I've been using this toaster for years and years already.

Regardless, TOASTER. I haven't had a toaster since I moved out, also years ago. It's a small item, yes, a simple and not expensive item that I could have bought for myself many times over, but I did not. It's amazing what you can live without, and a toaster is one of these things.

BUT I LOVE TOAST. AND I TOTALLY JUST HAD TOAST, FRESH TOAST, RIGHT HERE IN MY FLAT. I'd share pictures with you of the lovely crisped golden bread so hot the peanut butter was melting on it, but I ate it. You're damn right I ate it.

A quick heads up - today, and for the next several days, there's going to be pretty heavy bombardment here. Looking at all the many things I want to achieve before the end of the year, knowing I couldn't get them all done, I've decided to concentrate on one fight I know I can win. I still have 31 books to write about, and I want that done and out of the way before I go overseas. Keeps what I read from year to year neat (even if they're shit write ups banged out in ten minutes.)

Right, now I'm off to do something else for 10 minutes. (~, I can't find your email address in my archives, would you mind pinging me? Thanks!)

Up In Honey's Room - Elmore Leonard

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I'm guessing I read this in February some time. I remember it being hot - a lot of books get associated with heat, as I don't want to turn the computers on in summer. Back in 2005, Ellen Datlow recommended Leonard when she was tutoring us at Clarion South. It has taken me this long to get around to reading any of his works. (I am contrary, I like to do things in my own time.)

Reading this was just incredible. It's all dialogue. Seriously! There's not much of anything else in there, it's all conversations between characters, maybe a moment to move from doorway to couch or make a highball, and then more talking. And damned if it wasn't one of the fastest moving books I have ever read. Damn thing just hurtled along. I guess being all dialogue, it wasn't carrying any excess weight whatsoever. It's a gazelle of a book, no, actually, it isn't so prissy, it's more like a jaguar of a book, with saucy patterned fur, claws, teeth, and sassy eyes.

It's been so long since I read it the details of the plot have grown fuzzy, but it involves federal agents, incredible women, SS agents and a man who believes he is, or could be, or should be (at least entitled to all the glory of) Hitler. Plus some more spies. And cross-dressing butlers. And dialogue, endless snappy sparse dialogue that you simply can't stop reading. You don't walk away from an interesting conversation, do you? I couldn't.

It was a great read, but the enjoyment I took from it was purely from a writer's point of view - marveling at the mastery in my hands. As a story, it was entertaining, but it didn't change me, move me. Just killed some time in the heat.

Verdict: I think, should I happen across further of his books in sales and the like, I shall pick them up, because there is a lot to be learned, and damn I need more fun, light books. Very interesting.

Thanks to Miss Apricot, who approves of this more than she did of House of Leaves.

House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

Fuck.

You know, this book is insane, and when I say insane, I mean insane with a capital "fuck". It requires a hell of a lot more than ten minutes of typing to even-

But at the same time, it's a well covered book. It's a book that just begs to be analysed and discussed and have essays and articles written about it, and you don't have to look far at all to find all sorts of writing dedicated to what is contained between the covers. For books that are so well chewed over, I generally feel I have nothing to say which has no doubt already been said a hundred times over, so why play that tape again and add to the white noise?

(For your own memory, Tess.)

I say 'contained between the covers' because it is not so easily fitted in the word of 'story'. It's an academic paper. It's the diary of a man losing his grip on the normal shared world. It's a documentary. It's insane, and when I say insane, I mean insane with a capital "fuck". I can't sum up the various stories contained within stories folded into other stories sharing footnotes creeping into each other's page space shuffling each other out of order off the page out of sync infecting each other with different coloured ink. I can't. I won't even try.

This book frightened me. Not the way Conrad Williams frightens me, that I have to sleep with the light on and check there's nothing in the room about to eat my face. It scared me in a less visceral, more emotional level. It made me question sanity, not my own sanity, but the sanity of the world. I had to stop reading it at 7am on a Saturday morning, with the sun high and bright and city waking and happy.

I didn't know if, with all those stories spiraling around each other and out of control, as the stories spiraled down the stairs and into a place that could not exist, the book would be able to carry the weight of what it contained, but it did.

The edition I have is 'remastered full-colour', containing some end errata which, after the main body, didn't quite sate my hunger for more more more I don't understand yet, but was enough for me to step back and say, actually, I don't want to know.

Verdict: also FUCKING OARSUM. Possibly the most challenging book I've ever read. The damn thing will make you work, you have to earn your fuckedupedness. I love it. I'm a sucker for anything that plays with page formatting.

Thank you Miss Apricot, even though she doesn't like the book and disapproves of its existence.

The Scalding Rooms - Conrad Williams

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

This book was given to me by the author. After finding the mumbojumbo I wrote about one of his previous books, he offered to send me a copy. Really? Authors do that to converts? Because that seems like a terrible waste of ammunition, I mean, I'm already converted. You don't need to convince me further of your awesome. But I have been convinced further of the awesome, and squeeeeeeeed like mad when this landed in the post. I was convalescing after having all four wisdom teeth out, Dad had given me a lift to my flat to pick up some stuff, and I started reading it in the car on the way home, hopped up on painkillers and heatwaves, all the way back in January.

It is, I was delighted to discover, another story set in the post-apocalyptic world established in his novella 'Nearly People', which is a fucking OARSUM story. It follows Junko, who has a job in an abattoir, an uncertain relationship with his wife and a son who is not a child.

As I've come to expect from Williams's writing, it was just superb. A wonderful palpable air of menace that moved through subtle textures psychological and danger wholly overt and physical.

In particular, I fell in love with the world Junko moved through. Red Meadows. A beach full of 'ears. A plain of nothing but shattered glass. Reading it right after Breathmoss made me hungry to create. Macleod made worlds stunningly heart-breakingly beautiful, and Williams made worlds stunningly heart-breakingly wretched, and both were just so full of wonder and mystery, I could not help but be infected.

The last line, though, what a kicker. I read it, and checked the dedication again, and all the horror, despair, misery and relentless inescapable doom in the story was undone.

(Okay, so that was a bit over ten minutes, purely because I was looking for a passage in the book.)

(Only a couple of minutes over.)

Verdict: I babble. I love Conrad Williams's work, and thank him a hundred times over for this gift, and repay him with an RSI and time-delay hampered crappy write up.

Thanks also to Miss Apricot the Billy Goat, who is whispering the recipe for jam drops in that wizened ear.

See these other horns? Lo! I blow them.

I have 2 copies of Weird Tales #353, 8 copies of Weird Tales #354, 3 copies the Murder By Death soundtrack to Finch, and 3 copies of The Church's soundtrack to Shriek.

#353 is pretty damn awesome, with special mentions going to Jeff Johnson's The Garbacologist (I love the bunnies), Caleb Wilson's Court Scranto (what was chilling was, for a long while, I forgot it was 'speculative'), and Hunter Eden's Selected Views of Mt. Fuji, With Dinosaurs (which is exactly what it says it is).

#354 is, hey, pretty damn awesome as well. Which you'd expect, really, since this is Weird Fucking Tales, dammit. Favourites were Richard Howard's Ambient Morgue Music (which you can read free on that link, and I encourage you to do so, 'cause you need some disquiet to unsettle you, sitting comfortably at your desk), The Men In That Water by Zdravka Evtimova, and one I'm particularly fond of, Kevin Veale's Twisted, which is pegged on the cover as "the greatest zombie story you'll read this year" and it totally is. Think "gonzo".

The two soundtracks are as different as the bands responsible for them, and each suits their book-genesis marvelously. I'm quite in love with the Murder By Death album. Aside from being luscious on the ears, it's also a surprise little object of beauty.

All these delectable items of art are available for the devouring. Leave a comment or email me, strictly first come first served. And, er, I must admit I'm broke right now, so if you're inclined to pay for postage, that'd be much appreciated. NOW, TAKE. THIS AWESOME SHOULD NOT BE WASTED SITTING ON MY DESK.

The devilish and debonair Jesse Bullington did not have his book, The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart, available at WFC. This shat me to no end. "Nevermind," I said, "Orbit UK are usually pretty good about distributing to Australia, and Borders tends to carry US releases anyway, fie on them." O RLY? NO. NOT REALLY. So. Fine. Whatever. No, really. FINE.

All you kids in the US and UK who enjoy vulgarity and the like (come on, it has the word 'gross' in the title) have no excuse to not read this book. Go do so, so I may despise you as is proper.

Playing bad cop to Jesse's bad cop, I also met Molly Tanzer at WFC, who is every bit as kickass (there was far too much kickass at that convention, I have to say). She just took up the mantle of assistant editor at Fantasy Magazine. Booyah!

Where the first thing she wrestled into submission was Reading By Numbers by Aidan Doyle, who I've become acquainted with via internets/Jeff, and dude, when I saw this I did not think "it's a small world." No, I thought, "holy shit, the incest cannot be avoided in writerly circles!"

(Nasty story, by the way, naaaaasty.)

Mighty Deb is having a mighty give away, with 4 copies of Shadow Queen available. 2 copies for Aust & NZ, and 2 copies for everyone else. You who fall in the 'everyone else' catagory should definitely jump on the opportunity. I reread it while Not Typing, and damn, DAMN. WHERE IS BOOK TWO!?

She also linked two an incredible set of short essays by Justine Musk, the collection aptly titled why you need to write like a bad girl, part one:

She says, “I became my own rebellion.”

I would turn this phrase over in my mind, thinking that it sounded good, but what did it mean, exactly? Why did it appeal to me so much, and seem necessary to anyone who wanted to be an artist (or entrepreneur or hacker or any other thing that demands stepping off the beaten path)?

Probably because of this: the statement is rooted in such spirit and defiance. It’s not just a challenge to the conventional ways of living, the accepted wisdom, the status quo, the established Establishment, etcetera…but a challenge to the self.

And part two:

The double standard for selfishness still amazes me. The same culture that celebrates Ayn Rand’s “virtues of selfishness” will turn around and call women selfish and not exactly mean it as a compliment. Call a man ’selfish’ and he’ll shrug his shoulders; call a woman ’selfish’ and she’ll feel so shamed and cut to the core she’ll twist herself inside out to prove otherwise.

And to be a writer, or any artist, is to be inherently selfish. You must claim time for yourself, away from family and friends and jobs and so-called productive activity. You must claim that your art is important because it is important to you. You must make it a priority even though years will pass before you achieve anything that other people might recognize as ’success’, assuming you achieve it at all.

I have hollared "FUCK YES!" at Deb for drawing my attention to those posts, and could quite happily do the same to Madame Musk. I shouted it at the window when I finished reading it the first time, and I've read it a few more times since. It is true, and having it so cuttingly articulated felt like being delivered vindication I didn't know I was looking for.

It was easier not being able to type. It was mass-silence. There was nothing for me to do, so I did nothing. Now that I am allowed some highly restricted typing, I find myself twisting myself inside-out, to borrow the phrase. There are so many emails sitting in my inbox, all of them excellent little missives I want to feed, but-

But I have to choose. If I write to you, then I will not be writing my novel, my blog, my anything else.

That choice is eating me up, because yes, I feel selfish for letting these conversations lie stagnant, and I feel I'm letting people down, or slighting them, by failing to respond in a timely manner. I don't see that stopping.

But I choose this. I choose to be selfish.

Ding!

While I was Not Typing my writerly achievements went up a couple of levels. Here is my horn. Lo! I blow it!

Last Drink Bird Head

The flash fiction anthology edited by VanderMeer Inc with SJ Chambers riding shotgun was launched at this year's World Fantasy. Some 20+ of the 70+ contributors were present, the 'Bird of Paradise' cocktail was most delicious, and there was cake. There, I had the slightly disconcerting experience of being recognised despite some covert attempts at stealth.



(The wind-up Pukeko is totally checking out that bird's pins.)

It is a beautiful book. Without a doubt the prettiest book I've had the honour of sneaking aboard. That sumptuous dust jacket hides an elegant embossing on the cover, and dude, Dude, DUDE, DUDE IT IS A FLIP BOOK. Get your hands on a copy an flip the bottom corner of the book. Yes! How unbelievably splendiforous! That's another tick on my list of Things To Do Before Dying.

The collection of authors contained is fantastic, and the variety in the approaches taken to the theme keeps them fresh. Very fond of Ben Peek's and Drew Rhys White's pieces.

Halo: Evolutions: Essential Tales of the Halo Universe

Oh frabjous day! Calloo! Callay! The behemoth collaboration that nearly killed Jeff Fucking VanderMeer and I is finally out in the wild, and now I can stop thinking about it, other than to ponder how many subtitles can a book have? I don't know that I can approve of more than one colon being present in a title.

Below, the Masterchief, Middlechief and Minichief are demonstrating exactly what I mean when I say 'behemoth'.



As a relatively under-exposed writer with little output, the thought of being read, and I mean really read by a whole lot of people who are picking up the book because they choose to and not because they know any of the contributors and certainly don't give a crap about the sensitive egos of the delicate writers responsible for the tome, the experience has been not quite the same as, yet still quite similar to, nerve torture. There's nothing more rewarding or exciting than having your little behemoth read, but holy crap it's traumatic.

At any rate, The Mona Lisa appears to be largely well received. Phew? Phew. (I have no idea how Jeff does this.)

Excuse me a moment to have a not-so-little and self-indulgent squee: I mentioned in passing that one character, Henry, was a hill I was prepared to die on, 'cause dammit Henry is awesome and no editors or canon-police were going to get in the way of that awesome.

And he is awesome. In fact, he is so awesome that someone made him his very own page on the Halo Wikipedia.

AWWWWWWWWWWW!

(Which unfortunately spoils the entire plot, so if you intend to read the story, don't click that link.)

Cricket bat FTW!

The Writer Who Cannot Write

There is no such thing as a writer who cannot write. If you cannot write, then by definition, you cannot be a writer. A writer writes, and while I have gone through periods of insisting that I am not a 'writer' (the title coming to mean something other than the noun), writing has always been present in my life and psychological make-up. I find myself without definition when unable to write. I cannot shape my days and I cannot explain myself, and I cannot. I cannot. I cannot. There is no such thing as a writer who cannot write, therefore, I am not, I am not, I am not.

Which means there can be no first person. Second person is not distance enough from this non-existent figure. Third person remains, and there is not distance enough in this perspective either, but there is no fourth person perspective to take. What would the fourth person involve? No pronouns, in fact, it would not mention the writer who cannot write at all.

Intellectually, she has always recognised the reasons for which people turn to drugs and alcohol at times of stress; an artificial buffer, chemical-enforced mood alleviation, necessary distance introduced by an introduced substance, all a welcome reprieve from the claustrophobic confines of the human mind.

However, she's never truly got it. She finds the mind an unpredictable beast to tame at the best of times, it's whacky enough without bringing foreign chemicals into play. Why mess with it? (Said purely from fear.)

She thinks about writing a lot. A lot a lot. On that first day, lying in bed long after she has woken because there is no point in getting up, this becomes apparent. Being unable to address any of her top tier writing projects she accepts, bitterly. What then to do with all the time that leaves her?

There's a couple of short stories she's been meaning to look at- wait, no.
That post on those books- wait, no.
The quick movie reviews- wait, no.
What about- no.
And so on, and so on.

There isn't enough housework to last a day and, as she discovers, it only exacerbates things. The things she finds when she digs through the accumulated strata on her desk - cards, letters, receipts, things she'd though she'd lost, things she didn't know she'd lost - all warrant attention of some sort. The stories they give rise to, the memories they unearth, all these moments she begins to compose in her head, giving shape to a paragraph, testing the phrases- wait, no.

Planning a written piece without being able to then write it creates a stranger inner pressure, as all that intent has no outlet. Thwarted once, twice, thrice over, she has no way of releasing any of what is building up in her. By being awake and alive, she cannot help but collect things to write.

She keeps returning to the metaphor of a dam, which is obvious. Without controlled release, eventually the dam will break. She can already feel the cracks.

Having finished all her chores, and possessing no desire to be out in the world, there is only one option left to her. She reads.

To her surprise, reading isn't always enough to occupy her mind. Her diligence in quashing any writerly thoughts is paying off, and all the hintermind and subconscious processing that would have been occupied with said writerly thoughts is now sitting idle. As such, the books she reads are brutally and savagely ingested as mind parts fight for sustenance, and not every book is enough to fill her. She finds herself looking up from the page, a response to what she has read running through her head, making a note of that reaction so she can write about it later- wait, no.

And so, because she just can't stop the internal writing engines and they're driving her to despair, she resorts to drinking.

Which, given she's a lightweight, she's a featherweight, she's a nothingweight, isn't as dire as it sounds. It doesn't take much to dull the edges and make her comfortably stupid. In the evenings, when the sun is down and no one can see how red her face is, she goes for a walk. Or more accurately, she goes for a drunken shamble, and burns off the worst of the alcohol to save herself the hangover.

This is not a healthy behaviour to indulge in, but, the state of mind she was heading towards is worse.

She doesn't doubt that for a second.

And she understands, now, why people drink.

She will also never be buying a $14 bottle of pre-mixed pina colada again. You get exactly what you pay for when you buy one of those. Looked like raw egg as well. Despite what the label stated, the ingredients did not 'mix'.

You also get what you pay for with a $10 bottle of sake. Which is still much better than a $14 bottle of pina colada.

FYI.

Given the circumstances, she isn't adverse to spending money on a decent bottle of something, but, given the circumstances, she has to be thrifty. No typing means no typing. She cannot perform the tasks required in her job, and try as they might to accommodate her, there just isn't enough work to be found in an office that doesn't require typing. The work they find her is embarrassingly mindless, humiliatingly tedious, and only available during business hours. The paycut that comes from losing shift penalties is manageable. Lousy liquor and house arrest is only a temporary trial.

Truth is, the house arrest is a welcome solace. She's a mess, knows it, and doesn't need witnesses. The order prohibiting her from writing is its own protective measure - it ruins her, yet stops her from venting it at others.

She's irrational, furious, distraught, illogical, grieved, vicious, unfair, and far too self-absorbed. Every single person who fails to offer some token of support, who does not check in on her, who does not acknowledge her existence at all in this trying time, she hates. Every single one of you. Without exception. Even if such contact is beyond what she has any right to expect from a person, even if such contact is not even welcome by her. She hates your indifference, your selfish lack of consideration, she hates you for highlighting how vulnerable she is.

Every single person who reaches out and expresses their concern, sympathy and support, she also hates. Every single one of you. Without exception. She hates that you dare intrude on her when she has so little to spare, that you dare assume you could possibly EVER understand the HORROR she is going through, that you dare burden her with your concern when the last thing she needs now is to feel guilty for causing you worry, you dare offer advice when none of you can help, and she hates all of you for knowing she's weak, and knowing her as a writer.

Identity is not something she has a comfortable relationship with. It's an artificial construct created purely to for the aid of social navigation, yet she feels obliged to be the identity she has assumed. If she cannot define herself in her writing, then she defines herself by its absence. If she cannot be a writer, she doesn't want anything to do with anyone who knows her as such. That identity is dead. (Well, in a coma.) They can't unknow that part of her, and she doesn't want reminding.

What if this is permanent? What if she can never write again?

She'll jettison her identity. All of it. Change her name. Move. Never have anything to do with any of you again.

Dramatic and selfish, and startlingly unexaggerated. She is not graceful when tested.

Over time, as she survives one day, and another, and yet another, the rawness fades. The jagged edges dull. The pressure behind the dam wall stops climbing. She's resigned to her one allotted task at work, and the longer she sits in that chair, the more her shame becomes just another piece of furniture. With all the hands-on training (haha, no pun intended), she gets in the hang of quashing writerly thoughts. She's so good, she doesn't even think writerly thoughts anymore. Days go by without any sort of meaningful or interesting dialogue. She can't even have a conversation with herself.

It's a false calm, a tranquility that exists only because she is careful to do nothing that would disturb even the air around her. Thin and insubstantial, it cannot contain the turbulence beneath, and regularly she'll choke, look up and look away, and wait for that escaped sob to subside.

The metaphor changes from dam to dog. If a stray dog stops by your door and you keep feeding it, it'll stick around. If you ignore it, it goes away.

It isn't just the hours immediately before her she must learn to traverse a-new, but the land in her head that is dedicated to her vision of her future. Plans she wasn't aware she'd devised and expectations she didn't realise she was carrying are now rendered null. The rest of her life abruptly vacant. There's an immeasurable emptiness opening up in front of her.














She reads fifteen books in fourteen days. She finishes three bottles of spirits. She hopes the dam will hold and the dog will wait.

The doctor has ordered me not to type for a fortnight.

The Albatross's Wings, The Writer's Hands

I was called into the meeting room by the team leader and department head. They closed the door behind them, and we talked about my hands. There's concern that I no longer have the stamina to type for a complete shift, and that despite a specialist physio and tailored exercises, the deterioration of my hands is merely slowing, not stopping let alone improving. They discussed the options available to me, most of which I didn't even know were possible, and they said over and over, that the important thing is for my hands to get better.

I could only nod, and nod, and nod, and eventually they began nudging me for any sort of response.

I hadn't said anything because, because-

All I could think about was how embarrassed I was that I couldn't do my mindless, unchallenging day job, that I'd gone from one of the better workers to one with very erratic and generally under-average output, the shame of feeling like dead weight, the dread that rises up every time I consider starting the job hunt again, worry about how injured hands will affect my ability to secure let alone perform any other job, stress about whether I could jump industries with no qualifications and knowing I can't afford a pay cut, all of which they expected, and all of which is a thin cover for how scared I am, because I can't write.

I added some humiliation into that mix, because there's nothing more humiliating that crying in front of people, especially when those people are your bosses.

Various people at WFC told me what it is necessary to achieve in order to be a 'writer'. You must make this amount of money per year from your writing, or you must sell this many stories, or you must be able to live solely from your earnings as a writer. Most of these people shot me down when I disagreed. Perhaps, "a writer writes," came across as naïve.

There was some confusion, I think, in what was being discussed. Writer as career versus writer as identity. Choosing to write with an exterior goal in mind versus the act of writing. I have harped on enough already about my relationship with fiction writing. I write because my mind is wired that way. Anything that looks like a burgeoning career is an afterthought (and, increasingly, an accident).

Now, with my hands in the condition they are in, I have learned about my relationship with the act of writing, which goes beyond mere fiction.

Voice recognition programs have been suggested over and over. I believe this stems from focusing on 'word', as opposed to 'written word'. The end result of both speaking and writing is the same, but the methods are not.

I am not a speaker. There is not a person among my friends and family that I do not stutter, stammer and trip over my words when talking with. I can't tell a story. An idea clear in my head comes out confused and stupid on my tongue. Writing and speaking, they're different processes, allowing for different tides and the flow of thought at different speeds. My voice is not my friend. I trust my writing. A writer writes, and writing is an act, not an end result.

I write, because I cannot speak my thoughts out loud. I write all this fiction because my mind can't help but seek the story in all things, and they must out or I'll drown. I write letters, because I can't see all my friends, and we still have so much bullshitting to do. Blog posts, because I pick up so much in my day to day life, I ruminate and chew over subjects, and they must out or I'll drown. Thoughts on books because I care about books, to remember what I thought of them later when all the books I've read between now and then have overridden that story. Trip reports and curious incidents, for my own memory, for the interest of others, because this is the record of my life. Confessions or self-sabotage, pieces like this, that I have to write, because I can only write this pressure out of me, there is no other way to keep me from imploding.

You're a writer. Imagine you're a writer. All these things, you write. When you are home and your time is your own, you choose between writing letters, stories, blog posts, all of these things, and all these things you want to do, they are all writing.

These are your hands. Eight fingers and two thumbs are your silent voice, your real voice. Now, the act of writing makes them hurt. That pain is not a pain you can ignore.

You have to choose what you write in any one day, because you can no longer leap from one act of writing to the next. You understand that if you choose to reply to this email, you will not be able to work on your novel afterward. If you work on your novel, you will not be writing that blog post any time today. If you write this, then when you are finished writing, you will not be able to write any more, because you will be hurting.

You are aware of this whenever you use your hands. When you're cutting a tomato, ironing, lifting a bag of groceries, jotting dates down in your diary, you wonder how much of your ability to type on that day you are inadvertently whittling away.

When you sit down to write what you have chose what to write, because you only have one go at writing now. You are unable to look at the keyboard without knowing this writing you have chosen to do, that you can't not do, that you love doing, is going to hurt.

You choose carefully.

And then, sometimes, you'll get home after work and stand in your room. There's a massive pile of books on your desk you want to write about. Two inboxes full of unanswered emails that are only increasing, all your understanding friends telling you not to respond, to save your fingers, but you don't want to be silent. Blog posts you've wanted to write about trees, and movies, and who knows what else. Trip reports not just from San Francisco, but Japan you want to finish. Your wretched novel, so close to being complete, sitting and waiting for you to wade into joyous battle with it once again.

And you know, standing there with your hands aching deeper than the bone, that the choice has been taken from you. Tonight, you cannot write.

Another day ends and you have not accomplished what you wanted. Your list of things to do only grows. People are waiting. Deadlines are ticking closer. You're trying, but you're not winning.

All this goes around and around and around in your head, and slowly, the pressure is wearing you down, and you're starting to feel the cracks. The writing you manage to do is not enough. Inside, you're whiting out with everything waiting to be put to words. Outside, you're silent. You can say so little of what you wish to say, you find with increasing regularity you simply choose to say nothing at all. You are becoming invisible. With enough time and silence, you'll cease to exist. No one can hear how loud you're howling, because you can barely hear yourself over the growing white noise in your head. You know this place. It's a bad place. You've been here before.

You know how to relieve this pressure: the same way you've been getting it out out out for all your life. Write the fear and frustration into your diary, so fast it makes no sense, so truthful it can only be ugly, but get it out out out and you'll stay sane sane sane.

And you can't do that either.

You're losing not just your wisp of a career as a writer, but who you are as a person, and your sole ability to keep yourself out of that deep dark hole.

Imagine being afraid to write. Imagine being afraid you'll never write again.

I keep thinking of the albatross I met in Monterey. She came to the aquarium injured, and while her bones healed, she can no longer lock her wing in place, and thus cannot spend the weeks at sea that albatrosses do, cannot glide asleep for hours on end as albatrosses do, can no longer be an albatross.

What is a writer who cannot write? An injured albatross. A pitiful memory. An aborted identity.

This was written over the last couple of days. Because I have chosen to work on this tonight, I will not be writing anything else.

Imagine you're a writer. Imagine you can't write.

What do you do?

Pie!

I just cut the last ELEVEN! THOUSAND! words from my novel, because as indicated previously, I am a stupid stupid stupid stupid STUPID stupid stupid stupid STUPID stupid MUPPET.

STUPID.

ELEVEN! THOUSAND!

But hey, it's mince pie season again! Can't be that bad.

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 13:32 this heat rouses gum years stuck to the pavement and reminds it of the days being a soft and sticky trap. #
• 13:34 a trap i have stepped in on several different occasions today. #

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California Academy of Sciences; Through Glass

I've spent the day pacing around my dim little den, in part because it's too hot to do anything, and in part because I really was thinking. Me and the novel, we're going to sort this little issue of ours out, even if knives are required.

The dayjob welcomes me back tomorrow, and to say I am afeared for my hands would be a gross understatement. Typing has been largely avoided today, but I can't escape it, nor do I want to. Aside from writing-writing, there's book-reaction-writing, and trip-report-writing, and correspondence-writing, and who knows what else.

You get owl skulls instead. Photos are easier than typing right now.

Nap Attack

I lay on the bed a moment "to think" and I've lost an hour and a half.

This is why I don't do naps. It just isn't possible to wake up twice in one day. I feel decidedly disgusting, inside and out, and am certainly no longer in any condition "to think".

Sad Hands, Sad Face

My hands greatly enjoyed my trip. All that time not spent at the computer! They were very happy hands.

I spent three hours this morning taking care of my inboxes, and haven't touched a computer in ten hours. But now they are not happy hands at all.

All the things I want to do involve typing. All of them. I don't know what to do.

HOME

That is indeed the same tee as in the last photo.
Tea before shower is totally acceptable.

I am leaving the internet. I've a last day in fabulous San Francisco before jumping on a metal bird and returning to the future, 'cause this is the future, and we totally have the technology.

I will be reattaching myself to people I haven't seen in a couple of weeks, so to avoid any social malfunctions in recognition, here is a current, taken right this second, photo of me:



You peeps I just spent ridiculously hilarious weekend with, I loff you. I bequeath you the northern hemisphere, with which to do as you please. Hopefully, 'as you please' means you will turn it into a giant ball pit.

See you on the otherside of the date line.

Columbus and Broadway

Today I met an albatross, and she was so existent I stopped breathing.

The Things We Forget

Two splendid people who live very far from me conspired to send this penguinous card to me. It landed on Friday, I opened the envelope, read the edit on the front and went, "...oh yeah!"

I'd totally forgotten that my Not Birthday was coming. I checked my diary, and discovered I hadn't written it in. I wonder if that was intentional? Maybe, at the beginning of the year when I was jotting down all the good and proper birthdays of awesome people, I looked at that particular date and decided that it didn't need marking.

Who knows. It worked, at any rate. I had forgotten. And now that I've remembered...I'm kinda proud of myself for forgetting. Somethings don't need to be held tightly all the time.

But. Well. You know. Any excuse for birthday celebrations, right? I've auto-scheduled this to post on the proper Not Birthday date, because on this day, I will be in Monterey Bay, at the aquarium, feeding sea otters (feeding brilliant animals seems to be a birthday thing of mine), and then I'll be heading up to the start of WFC, to see a whole lot of people who are most excellent and attend launches for a book I have a piece in and another couple of books I quite adore.

Pretty awesome day, no?

(I may have to take steps to ensure cake is present.)

Halo: Evolutions Author List

Also known as: zomg, it's real.



From Kokatu, Who's Who in Halo: Evolutions

The only books I love more than video game novels that explore untold back-story is anthologies of stories that do the same thing. Makes for an extremely bathroom-friendly read. Check out the full list of contributors below, along with a nice shot of the book's cover, so you know what to look for.

TOBIAS S. BUCKELL, the New York Times bestselling author of HALO: The Cole Protocol and Sly Mongoose.

B.K. EVENSON, the Edgar and Horror Guild International nominated author of Last Days and The Open Curtain.

JONATHAN GOFF, writer and artist with 343 Industries.

KEVIN GRACE, writer and Managing Editor of 343 Industries.

ROBT McLEES, Bungie game developer and writer on Halo: Combat Evolved, Halo 2 and Halo 3, as well as the upcoming Halo: Reach.

ERIC NYLUND, the New York Times bestselling author of Halo: The Fall of Reach and Halo: Ghosts of Onyx, and most recently a new non-Halo series that begins with Mortal Coils.

FRANK O'CONNOR, the Franchise Director for Halo at 343 Industries.

ERIC RAAB, writer, and Tor editor of the Halo novels since 2004.

KAREN TRAVISS, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of her own Wess'har series as well as Star Wars and Gears of War novels.

JEFF VANDERMEER & TESSA KUM: Vandermeer is the World Fantasy award-winning writer of City of Saints and Madman as well as Shriek: An Afterword and Finch. Kum is the author of 7wishes and editor for Weird Tales and the Best American Fantasy series.

FRED VAN LENTE, the New York Times bestselling author of Incredible Hercules (with Greg Pak) and Marvel Zombies 3, as well as Cowboys and Aliens and the upcoming Marvel comic series Halo: Blood Line.

"Bathroom-friendly". Don't think I've come across a more appropriate anthology descriptor. I love it. Heee.

I'd like to point out that I am not an editor for either Weird Tales or Best American Fantasy. I am merely a humble editorial assistant to the mighty Ann VanderMeer. And that Jeff fella.

That Jeff fella in question posted regarding the finer points of name order in collaborations, and what he says is true, which includes the fact that it was a 50-50 effort. So, purely because it'll irk him, I won't switch the name order here, even if it is changed in future print runs of the book. Also because I just can't. I'm physically incapable of reversing the order. My audacity isn't a high enough level.

Preorder here. Is it sad to admit I'm rather looking forward to reading it? There're some fine, fine writers in that list. Although I think it is fair (and entirely irrelevant) to say that I have the greatest surname of the lot.

"If the white covers my whole eye, I'll die."

The above was said to me by a beggar who pounced me not a block from the hotel I'm staying at, the Adante. I'm afraid I didn't believe her.

This hotel is unbelievable. Originally I'd booked a hostel, but on further reflection didn't like my chances of surviving the flight across the Pacific and not feeling like the Bilges of Hell, so sucked it in and paid for a proper hotel room with private bathroom and my very own toilet to curl around and chunder in if I needed it.

Aside from free wifi (FREE! WIFI!) (I didn't think I'd be touching the internet for the whole two weeks) (SURPRIIIISE!) and a window with no screen (I could fall out! Yay!) it has TOUCANS. YES. TOUCANS.



AND FISH. IN THE BATHROOM.



And a dewy-eyed doe above the bed, which doesn't seem to be in keeping with the otherwise tropical jungle feel of the room.

My decision was a good one because I felt bad when we landed. Bad. Very bad. I threw up on the plane. Then I threw up just before going through immigration. I thought I was okay then, shyte, but okay. Collected my bags, went through customs, found the BART station, boarded a train - you can see my mistake right there.

I didn't have much to bring up, which is good, because I didn't have anything to bring it up and out into, so I vomited in my mouth. And swallowed.

That is why I fucking hate long flights.

You didn't need to know that at all, but it grossed me out, so I'm sharing it.

The walk from the BART to the hotel was only a handful of blocks, which normally I wouldn't bat an eye at, and didn't when I booked it, but oh holy hairy horse scrotums, it was the longest most horrible walk of my life. It was a death march. Only I wasn't going to die, I was going to vomit and/or faint. In a foreign city. Good stuff. But the stubborness is mightier than the dehydration/exhaustion/nausea/on a stick, and I made it to the hotel without puking in public, fainting, or dying. Go team!

This was followed by an intense two hour nap that involved dreams in which I was cross-dressing to pose as some tart's fiance so we could run off to another country but her mum and lawyers found her anyway.

And this was followed by a shower (oh!) and teeth-brushing (OH!) and I ventured out to jump on the Muni to Pier 39 and the SF Aquarium. Trams, awwwww. They're just as rattly as the City Circle trams in Melbourne. (The stops are very confusing to figure out, because this country drives on the wrong side of the road.)

Pier 39 very touristy/kitschy/quaint. Aquarium s'alright. Better than the Melbourne Aquarium at least. Probably on par with Sydney, although I haven't been to Syndey's aquarium in a very long time. There were white sturgeon, which was great to see. They're beautiful fish. I did get to pet a bat ray and skate, though. They're both lovely soft creatures, delicate, slimy or incredibly silken. They shiver and wheel away when tickled too much.







Have viewed the sea lions.



There's a lot of them. They like to carry on. Distinct bouquet about them.

Dinner, or lunch, or the first meal I'd eaten since lunch when I first got on the plane which was I don't know how many hours ago in another time zone and I'd puked it all up again anyway, was at Chowders.



Picked at random as I was walking past. Although I didn't feel hungry, nor didn't like the idea of putting anything in my stomach, my body knew best, and started near quivering at the sight. I'm no expert on chowder, and so when the woman behind the counter recommended the white clam chowder, I went with that. Best. Chowder. Ever. Even if I don't know what I'm talking about. Just thinking about it now I want some more, in a nice touch sourdough trencher.

The Muni home was driven by a character. He reminded me quite a bit of my Dad. In fact I assumed he was Chinese until he started drawling away in Spanish. It's amazing the similarities between the two races. He'd pull up to tram stops, pop on the outside speaker and say, "We're a rolling sardine can, we are packed like sardines, so I'm not stopping, just passing by...byyyyyyyeeeee!"

Feeling like utter incapacitated shyte is one of the best ways to permanently ruin your perceptions of a place, but San Francisco is so...SO. Just so! That it steamrolled through my shyteness and I'm quite enamored of it, even the tiny little bit I've seen. I walked past a Dr Suess gallery on the way back, and there appears to be a King Tut exhibition on somewhere in the city. Shall find it.

San Francisco has this comfortable air about it. I don't really feel I'm in a strange city. There are echos of Melbourne here.

When in doubt, flee the country.

Bags are packed, Tim Tams purchased, and I know where my passport is. I would take my heart to San Francisco, in order to leave it there, but I can't find it. Clearly, I did not keep it in a safe place, like my passport.

For those I am going to be seeing for the first time in years, or in fact for the first time at all, here is a true-to-life-taken-right-this-second depiction of the front of my face:



So now you have no excuse not to recognise me (and are free to flee on sight, I'm considerate like that).

The rest of you, keep the internet warm while I'm out.

Now, tally ho! What!

Look Ma! No Hands!

The change in work style and the fact that I have been working for seven days in a row means my hands hurt. The sort of hurt that has me frightened all the way through, which can't entirely be blamed on nightshift psychosis.

As a result, I will not be replying to any non-essential email for the meanwhile. Probably won't do much reading or commenting either.

I did mention the giant angry testicle, right?

To quote Jeff VanderMeer:

There’s nothing like a little challenge to roil the blood and take over your life for a couple of months—all while not being able to say much of anything about it publicly, but, finally, I can announce that: Tessa Kum and [Jeff VanderMeer] have sold a monstrous, kick-ass, action-packed, insanely entertaining 35,000-word novella entitled “The Mona Lisa” to Tor editor Eric Raab for the anthology Halo: Evolutions–Essential Tales of the Halo Universe. Other contributors include Tobias Buckell, Brian Evenson, Karen Traviss, and Eric Nylund. Halo: Evolutions should be available in bookstores by November-December.

This post, this post, this, this and this, all refer to the time period in which I was working on that story.

'Monsterous' is indeed the word.

It kicked off when Jeff mentioned on a Facebook status something about writing a Halo story, to which I immediately reacted by demanding reading rights, because I heart Halo. One of the best games out there. The MC is the man, and Cortana is the sldkjflksjdfing bomb.

Shortly after having planted this familiarity in Jeff's head, Jeff realised that (1) I didn’t have enough time to do it myself and (2) although I had some familiarity with Halo, it wasn’t nearly enough to get up to speed in the condensed time period in which the story had to be written–especially considering an idea had to be pitched first, and approved by Microsoft..." I woke up one morning to find an invitation to collaborate in my inbox, which had a not too subtle subtext of Tessa: Get Out Of Gaol Free! Card.

To which my immediate reaction was, "Oh, no, not at all, that would be silly. I couldn't. I mean, a three week deadline from conception to final draft, that's just, that's, I mean, there doesn't exist a word in any language to express how ridiculous that is. And I've never collaborated before. Whoosh, that's a steep learning curve in a short time frame. That would take a lot of time. I can't afford that time. And, that's Jeff Fucking VanderMeer, I can't collaborate with him, I'm tiny grasshopper and he's a GINORMOUS grasshopper. It wouldn't work. And. It's only three weeks. I mean. Three weeks. That would just be silly."

YES, I said, I ACCEPT YOUR CHALLENGE PLEA FOR HELP INVITATION.

So it begins.

This was followed by a mad scramble to come up with a story premise that would not involve too much in-depth research, given the time constraint, which turned out to be near impossible, as what exists in the Halo universe is exceptionally well mapped out. I have to give mad, mad, MAD props to all the peeps maintaining the Halo Wiki - that is some badass detailing you have going on over there. We were never given the official bible (something of a sore point, please, let me restrain myself from that rabid rant), and quite frankly, could not have got off the ground without the wiki.

Three pitches were submitted, one was accepted, and we were off. Jeff has posted an excellent account of the collaboration process here, which I'd encourage you to read if you're curious about collaborations at all.

This was my first collaboration. Prior to it, I had never given collaboration much consideration, other than to scrunch my nose up at it slightly. I don't play well with others in general terms, let alone when it comes to MY PRECIOUS ART OH GOOD LORDY LORD. Still, I wasn't to concerned about working with Jeff. I've ripped to shreds critiqued several of his novels and had him read some of my shorter pieces, so we already have a history of getting into each others' narrative mechanics, and dude, seriously now, it's Jeff Fucking VanderMeer, one of the best writers out there.

What did concern me was, quite frankly, me.

OH SHUT UP AND DO IT.

The first draft was entirely mine. I worked off the pitch we'd submitted to Microsoft, had the end scene clear in my head, and joined the dots in between. And it was gross. We'd established the protagonist in the pitch, but I could not get her to talk to me. The word count rose and the body count rose and I didn't have any sort of feel for her. She was nothing more than a plot device with a name. To get around it, to have someone who was an actual character drive the plot a bit, I created a second POV character. I didn't know her either, but at least her personality fell into place, and with that, the people she interacted with did as well.

This wasn't helped by the fact that I have to write my way through the story to figure out what happens where. It works for me, but is not time efficient, and that first draft was a rancid pile of lion diarrhea. It did not make logical sense or narrative sense, the pacing was shit, and the beats on tension were craptastic. And it's ugly. Rough as guts. It's a frame work in the progress of creation, and is not pretty to read.

But, I wrote a 15k first draft in a week, which is pretty damn impressive even if I say so myself. It involved staying back in the office after work to do so, to remain free of distractions and give me the extra motivation (if you focus, you'll get your quota sooner and can GO HOME), and I buggered my hands, but I did it. I wrote the final scene in the state library in one of my writing dates, and started dancing and clapping, much to the amusement of my comrades.

Which was great, until I realised that the next step was to send this utter piece of shyte first draft to Jeff Fucking VanderMeer, and Jeff Fucking VanderMeer wasn't just going to crit it, he was going to have to actually work on it directly. What if he thought it it sucked beyond salvation? That would be awkward, to say the least.

If I had balls, about then they would have shriveled up and dropped off.

No one sees my first drafts. They're first drafts! They're supposed to be shit, and that's okay because they're generally easy to fix and make unshit on my own, before anyone else sees anything at all. But this! THIS!

This is what collaboration is. Getting caught with your pants down and having to just. keep. going.

I sent the fucking thing.

Then I had a very big drink.

Which was followed by another very big drink.

Thankfully, Jeff found lots to work with, and I was not forced to ritually disembowel myself. In his post, he spoke of trepidation and nervousness on waiting to see what I'd produce, and the same was true for me.

What I found when I opened his draft, was FUCKING OARSUM.

It was still a shoddy piecemeal patchwork draft, but holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! I cannot state enough just how gobsmacked I was by what I read. All the horror and mild writerly shame and horror and angst and horror that had been churning away in the hintermind was stomped all over by the FUCKING OARSUM Jeff had come up with. He utterly nailed our original protagonist, and holy shit, he made it worth reading. I remember getting ridiculously excited to the point of incoherence. The damn thing just popped. I wanted to read it, even if it was still sorta my story and I knew the ending and it wasn't finished. I mean, there was this one bit in there that creeped me out. I got goosebumps reading it, that's how brilliant it was (sadly, this section had to be cut).

This more than refuelled my enthusiasm. With the deadline gallumphing ever closer and the sequence of events suddenly clicking into place for me, I went at the next draft in a suicide drive. I spent a whole Sunday bashing my face on it till the early hours of the morning. Then I went to work. After 8 hours at work, I turned off my work computer, turned on my laptop, and spent another 5 or 6 hours bashing my face on it. Then I went home, and decided that it had to be done, now, NOW, and bashed my face on it till it was finished. I sent a 35k draft to Jeff at 3 o'clock in the morning, my time.

Which...look, I got the job done, but I really don't recommend doing it that way.

That was (I think) the last major structural draft. I could be wrong. We passed this thing back and forth so many times I don't know who wrote what when. There was some tinkering at the back end for a while, to make sure the climax was hitting the right beats, but I think the structure in this draft stayed through to the final (Jeff will correct me if I'm wrong).

This was followed by lower level tinkering until it was finally sent off to Tor. When I got up on a Saturday morning to find myself CC'ed on that submission email I burst into tears. That's just how much pressure I'd been putting myself under. Then I bought an ice cream (or two).

I learned a shitload about collaboration. Mostly, I think I learned that I was damn lucky to be working with who I was working with. Our strengths/weaknesses tended to cancel each other out: I could do bare-bones structure on the fly, but it was boring plain prose. Jeff tripped over sequencing, but damn he made it so good to read holy shit holy shit holy shit. It was a great weight off, knowing I could rely on him to make it OARSUM.

I think I was also quite fortunate to have my first go involve a franchise universe. It meant I couldn't get precious about anything, being as none of the darlings were mine. I've a tendency towards territorialism, which did perk its ears towards the end of things, when we got into turf wars over pronouns and personal preferences in sentence structure. The universe and the insane deadline didn't lend itself towards such vanities. There just wasn't time to get stubborn. Nothing was sacred. Nothing I had contributed was sacred, nothing Jeff Fucking VanderMeer had written was sacred, if it had no place in the story, it went. I'm not sure I've ever been so honest or brutal while writing.

(Well. Except regarding Henry. That was a hill I was prepared to die on.)

(Fortunately, I didn't have to die on that hill. I didn't even get to make a valiant stand. Had a list of dot points arguing my side ready to go, but Henry is just too awesome to be questioned.)

I can't emphasise the value of communication either. We must have written at least another...you know, I'm not even going to aim for a ball park figure, but a LOT of messages went back and forth. You should see the email folder I have dedicated just to this story. While I was working on a draft I'd shoot off notes to Jeff telling him of things I'd changed or cut and why, to what purpose, and he did the same for me. It gave each of us in waiting time to gestate what was coming, and be thus more prepared on what needed addressing. There was so much going back and forth it was probably a whole other novel just in story notes, but it meant there was very little room for confusion. We both knew what the story was doing at any one time, and there were no nasty "oh wait, hang on, I thought-" moments to recover from.

(We used Facebook for this purpose, so I could had access to all notes both at work and at home. Access; also important.)

Time zones worked in our favour as well, the story was never idle. Jeff would work on it, send it to me and hit the sack, which would land during my day, and after work I'd work on it until I sent it to him and hit the sack, which would land in his morning...at the same time, as Jeff pointed out, it meant neither of us had much in the way of down time. In fact, I think I had the advantage, having a day job. I had enforced Time Apart.

What worked best for us, however, was simply the fact that we shared the same work ethics and priorities. The only agenda we had was to get the story written and submitted in time, above all else. ("All else" included hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck, back, eyes, sleep, appetite, stomach, family, friends, dishes, washing, grocery shopping, etc etc etc.) I trusted Jeff with the story, which sound pretentious, but isn't. It's a significant thing to find you're thinking of it as 'our story' unconsciously.

After submission came the editing process, which the deadline also made lunatic. Mostly, it involved me, the newbie, ranting and raving about WHY ARE THEY DOING THAT THAT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE and Jeff ignoring me and waiting for me to shut up and do what needed doing. I admit that each time the story came back for Yet. Another. Editing. Pass. My the pressure in my skull upped a notch. Submitted, yes. Editing, yes. But accepted? Yes, yes, I know. It is writing. We do it because we love it. IT IS ART OH OH OH. But I had done some terrible things to my health both physically and mentally, and the thought that after all that they could still turn around and knock it back kinda made my eye twitch. Jeff took all this with good grace, and bore all my capital letters and exclamation marks with stoic forbearance. In this aspect, he channeled Obi-Wan (or Palpatine, now I think of it), saying, "Patience, my young apprentice." I can't help thinking the whole 'patience' lesson went over my head. In this sense, our overlapping strengths and weaknesses extended beyond the narrative and into the meta-admin, and I seriously am lucky to have worked with him. In either an Obi-Wan or Palpatine way. Does that make me Anakin? Fuck, I don't want to be Anakin. Insert a better metaphor there, please. Jeff, dude, you're the one good at making things OARSUM, work with me here.

(There was one particularly bad day that involved a late train, getting locked out of work thus unable to print, having my tram take a ridiculous detour, having to wrangle the complicated state library printing system, sign up for a printing card, only having a $50 note to feed the coin machine, trying to find a way to carry $50 worth of $1 coins, wait in line, finally print, only to have the printer BREAK IN THE MIDDLE OF PRINTING, being told it couldn't be fixed, getting a refund, giving up, leaving the city and go out to my parents because that was the only other printer option available to me, counting the minutes on the train as minutes wasted that I could have been working on the story, getting there and having mum give me a hug, a cup of tea, and a piece of lemon meringue pie- which made everything better.)

The thing that caught us both out was the fact that we had written a 35,000 word "short" story. It's easy to forget just how long that is. More than once I sat down with a hard copy and red pen, only to look up hours later and realise I still wasn't done and this was taking far too long. Had to jettison working from hard copy in the end, just to save time.

It went back and forth between us so much neither of us can say with certainty who wrote what. Even during the final pass over the typesetting I was tripping across bits and pieces I swear I'd never read before. Disconcerting, but kept it fresh. Almost seems as if the story grew itself, and when it had achieved critical mass it didn't even need our direct input to write itself out.

(It also went back and forth so much that it was a mess of American and English spelling. This, for those of you also bridging regional spelling, is a Bad Thing. Keep it in mind, one of you change your language setting or something.)

(Some of it was deliberate. I infect the world with Australianisms.)

(Some of it was accidental. I don't know what's particular to Australia, I'm Australian, dammit.)

(No, seriously, 'stickybeak' can't be just Australian.)

(Same with 'torch'. You guys know what a torch is, right? That has to be just some bizarre mental gap in Jeff's head. It has to be. It's a torch for crying out loud!)

During this, I experienced a focus I have never felt before. I have never been so immersed in anything. It was all I thought about for weeks. I did nothing else. People gave up asking me what I'd been doing. I had nothing else to talk about. I wasn't distracted. I lived and breathed and processed nothing but that story, and it was just incredible. Exhausting, but incredible.



Yes, Gillian, Jeff, I saw that. Cheeky buggers.

It has been insane. I keep saying that, because it's the only word that is appropriate. Insane. And it's 5.15 am in the morning now, and I'm tired, and this isn't quite as coherent as I wanted it to be, but that's probably fitting.

I can't make a call on the quality of the story. I have no perspective on it. It was good enough for Microsoft, and that's about all I can offer you.

Regardless of quality, I'm damn fucking proud that we pulled off the feat alone.

Not long after final final final final FINAL everything was sent off, and we knew we were never going to see it again, Jeff dug up my very first email demanding to read his Halo story, and told me he could send it across if I was still interested.

Turd.

Thank you Deb and Andrew for putting up with me during that time. Seriously.

Thanks Dave for giving us a little encouragement when we (well, I say we, I can only speak for me) needed it.

And above all else, thanks, Jeff. For, yanno, stuff.

NEVER.
AGAIN.

The difference between 'fact' and 'truth'.

On Deb's recommendation, I saw Daniel Kitson perform on Saturday night. He is, (or was, since it's finished now), out here for the Melbourne Fringe Festival.

Deb possesses singularly OARSUM taste in stand up comedy, and Kitson was equal to that OARSUM. His timing is perfect, he's plays a beat on an older anecdote brilliantly, he never once went into a great stupefied rant about how insane Australia is ('cause seriously, we live here, we know all about the poisonous and dangerous animals, and kangaroos, yes, and fruit, yes, and please don't tell us we bask in the sun on the beach all day when you're standing on a stage in MELBOURNE do your damn research kthxbai), and he came kitted up with a deep uncomfortable insight into human nature.

He talked about his recent experience with death, with a focus on the effect witnessing such had on him. It gifted him with the realisation that life was completely and utterly pointless. It doesn't matter what you do or who you keep, it doesn't matter what meaning you choose to apply to things, or what you believe - none of it lasts. None of it has any points. You will die, and everyone around you will die, and that is inevitable. Nothing will stay, nothing will last, nothing will go with you when you die. You will die, and you will die alone.

Everything is futile.

Knowing this, understanding this, renders you incapable of taking any measure of joy from anything around you, whether it be a lovely surprise or something you have liked your entire life. It leaves you incapable of feeling. It leaves you depressed as all fuck.

I sat in the audience and said quietly to myself, "Yes. I know."

Because life is pointless.

Kitson did not stay in that pit of despair. Nothing happened in particular, he just started to feel a little better. He started encountering little things that meant nothing, but made the world a little brighter, if just for a moment. He said it was 'nourishment', that the mind seeks and finds these things for nourishment, to make it okay.

That's what I was doing all last year. Tripping over little pieces of nourishment, anything to keep me together just a few moments longer. When I couldn't find enough, I made my own.

Nothing in particular happened. I just started to feel a little better.

And I haven't seen any such nourishment around for months.

I wondered about that. I told myself maybe I was too busy, maybe it's because I had a normal 9-5 Monday to Friday routine that didn't take me strange places at strange times.

But I think, no, now I know it was because I didn't need any such nourishment.

Part of me has missed it. The tiny moments of magic, secret pockets in time, little wonders for which you can't help but imagine the whole world and all history that has gone before exists only to support this one incident that only you have born witness to - they are incredible gifts, they do make every thing worth it.

Part of me has acknowledged that not needing to seek out such constant reminders can only be a good thing. The year so far has been the best year in...I don't know. The best year in terms of awesome things happening, the best year in terms of shit things not happening, and the best year in terms of peace of mind.

If I'm not looking for wonder, then I must be taking it for granted.

Yet, if I'm actually in such a position of mental stability that I can afford to take it and the world around me for granted, then I give myself permission to do that, and do it hard.

I've had various conversations over the years, the gist of which is that it is better to be troubled and gain wisdom from that trouble than to live a small and unchallenged life. It is better to be extreme than content.

I don't know.

There is a lot to be said for peace of mind.

There is a lot to be said against the depths below.

This has particular relevance to me now, having just started back on true shift work. I was waiting for my train at the station, after 11 o'clock at night, it was cold, I'd spent eight hours in a room full of people I am not comfortable with, there were delays on the tracks, my hands hurt, I'm afraid my hands are breaking, knowing that I was going to have to do it again tomorrow, and then start nightshift, and see none of the people I love who make me laugh, and I've known this was coming, and I've been inserting distance anyway, and I have too much to do, and it all involves typing, and my hands, my hands, my hands, and all the platforms around me are empty, and I'm trapped here, and I have realised I do not want this life.

I do not want this life.

I got home having cried on the ride home for the first time in a long time, and made myself an enormous hot chocolate. My first thought was no, I can't do that, I won't be able to sleep and that will wreck my sleeping pattern. My second thought was yes, that's what we're trying to do now, destroy the sleeping pattern you've won for the first time in years. And I cried some more and made the hot chocolate, because I was cold, I was cold inside, but not that side of inside. There's no amount of warm milk that can make this better.

Kitson ended by saying (badly paraphrased): "The fact about life is that it is pointless, completely pointless, everything you do is futile, and it is doomed to end in death. The truth about life is that it's beautiful, and heartbreaking, and full of love and brilliance."

A fact is unchangeable. It is what it is. You can't argue with a fact.

Truth, is much more mutable.

Life is not always beautiful.












Today I saw something small, and hidden, and wonderful.

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 17:18 on the highlands of suburbia, the scotties run wild. well. stand wild. stand calmly. twitpic.com/kt0pv #
• 17:28 on the highlands if suburbia, the westies do actually pose nobly. twitpic.com/kt1gp #

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for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 17:51 RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISE. AND SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE. BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURN. AND GLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW. #

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Oh yeah, right, forgot about this.

I'm crossing the Pacific on the 26th of October. I'll spend a couple of days in San Francisco, head down to Monterey to go to the aquarium, and then on to San José for World Fantasy. Which is already looking to be insane and will probably burn out my people tolerance for another year, but what the hell. That's what you expect of hermit crabs, right?

Thursday night is the Last Drink Bird Head / Finch / Booklife party, which will also feature the first Last Drink Bird Head Annual Awards. Preorders for everything available, and everything worth preordering.



Friday night is a fancy schmancy dinner.

Saturday night is the Gigawatt's birthday party, featuring zombies and cupcakes (science-fictiony mortician's dress? check), followed by the Weird Tales party.

Sunday night I crawl around gibbering and looking for somewhere quiet to sleep.

Followed by a couple more days in San Francisco, and then another long flight back across the Pacific, to the future.

There's lots of people I know that I'll be meeting for the first time, lots of people I know I'll be meeting for the second time, and lots of people I don't know I may or may not be meeting at all. Should be interesting, at any rate.

(There is not at all enough time to prepare for this argh.)

for archiving and propaganda purposes

• 22:48 my choice of public transport is the large hadron collider - twitpic.com/k2wv7 #

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Like a giant angry testicle, THAT'S HOW UGLY.

Turns out, Madame Fearsome Baboon led my cranky pants astray, and left them with Mister Emo Bear.



And they are not cranky pants. They are MISERY WOE HOLY SHIT I FEEL SORRY FOR MYSELF KEEP AWAY FROM MY DESPAIR FUNK pants.

Admittedly, if I had such adorable bear paws, I'd stare at them all day too.