hush

it's cold. the wind is sneaking in and down my collar. it's raining. the street lights are split-personalities with the runnels down the window. there are layers of stress stretching themselves across my passage through time. thin, delicate layers, transparent layers, skeins that cannot stop me, and yet they grow, and keep growing, and the world is getting heavier. one day at a time.

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what i mean when i say "i've had my insult for the night and i'm leaving."

I don't think I'm that easy to insult and/or offend, not on personal level. I could be wrong. I might just be fortunate in that the majority of people I interact with are not the sort of people who go around saying insulting and/or offensive things with a particularly personal bent. It is very easy to irritate me, frustrate and vex and annoy me, but offend?

I'm pretty sure I'm not often offended, because this weekend I found myself offended and it was a fairly novel experience.

So, for the record, when you say, "I hate you. I fucking hate you. Fuck you, and fuck your family. Yep. Fuck your whole family," you should know that you have completely and utterly failed at the friendly joking funny shittalk.

My initial reaction was to slap the person who said this. I managed to pull it back to being a playful slap. Just. I can't say I've ever really hit someone in my life, so I'm not entirely proud of this reaction, partly because such violence is petty and pointless, but mostly because I did in fact pull back and did not break his fucking nose.

This was followed by, "you're a bad person-" (which, admittedly, I get told a lot) "-you're evil. You're the root of all the evil and bad and wrong in the world. You're the cause of all genocide. All the genocide in the world is because of you." Which, after the "fuck your family," line, was icing on the cake.

This isn't the most offensive thing this person has said to me either.

Why's he still in my life?

I've finished my angry drunk fuming and had a good amount of hangover surly ranting. I'm spending no more time on the matter. It is noted here, for future reference.

And on the subject of shit-

Food that tastes better than it looks.



Looks like I dipped white bread in tar.
Tastes like mmmmmm, hot black sesame bao. Awesome stuff.

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They're evil! EVUHL!

Fire and flight no turn off for horny devils (Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the headings The Ages chooses to run on their site.)

SHE may look cute, but Smooch is a ferocious little devil. Born amid the ashes of Black Saturday, her existence is a small but significant victory in the desperate fight to save the Tasmanian devil.

The feisty six-month-old is one of 28 disease-free joeys born in Healesville Sanctuary's new devil breeding centre in the aftermath of February's bushfires.

Amazingly, all nine of the centre's wild-caught females became pregnant soon after being evacuated to Melbourne Zoo as embers rained down.

''We were very concerned that evacuating them would disrupt the breeding cycle because it's extremely stressful and traditionally devils have a really low breeding success rate,'' senior keeper Tiffany Eastley said.

''But they didn't seem to mind at all. Usually they have only a 30 per cent reproduction rate in captivity, so to have a 100 per cent reproduction rate is amazing..."

I can't be the only one getting Midwich Cuckoo vibes. They're telepathic-psycho-kinetic-hivemind furballs, and they will be the ruin of us all.

Breathmoss and Other Exhalations - Ian R Macleod

buy - author site

Another book from the heatwave, another book I've taken far too long to write about. A travesty doubly so because this book is just...amazing.

As with most collections, reading from cover to cover is a touch foolish. You become familiar with the writer's various methodologies, and in doing so sabotage the stories for yourself. You know what to expect, what to look for, and predict the shape of the narrative to come. This occurred when reading this collection, as there is a focus on transformation and loss running through each tale, and yet, it did not happen. Each treatment of the theme is so markedly different, the flavour and texture of the stories so contrasting, they are not the same even as they are easily recognisable as bearing Macleod's signature.

A particular strength of his lies in the depiction of the physical world through which his stories wend. My goodness. I was overwhelmed. A sensory overload. Beauty, beauty, beauty. I was in love.

When was the last time I was in love with prose? Truly in love, not just recognising skill and power, but giddy and delighted and excited? Reading this book made me excited about reading, which made me realise how out of touch with it, as a pass time, I had become. And how much I missed it.

The title story, 'Breathmoss' is extravagant and soft, and took my breath away. 'Verglas' following on its heels, is a different sort of extravagant, and a different sort of soft, with different joys and losses, and took my breath away. And so on, and so forth, with each story to follow.

I remember thinking 'The Summer Isles' stood apart from the rest. But, fool I am, it has been too long since I read it, and now I cannot remember why. It was a different creature, like a tortoise among turtles.

Macleod strikes that perfect balance between the art of writing and storytelling.

In fact, there should be no differentiating between the two, and when he writes, there isn't.

Verdict: Magnificent. Just touching this book again after all these months makes me want to read it over, and I do not reread. It's a sign of just how beautiful a collection it is, and how sumptuous a writer he is, and oh, I'm still in love.

The Midwich Cuckoos - John Wyndham

buy

When did I read this? Ages ago. February. During that insane heatwave. When I was staying with Mum and Dad, convalescing after the excavation of my wisdom teeth. I remember lying on the floor boards in the hallway, in the vague hope I'd be in a position to take advantage of any breeze coming through the front door. There was no such thing. The power went out, because every single privileged bastard with airconditioning had it maxed out and overloaded the power grid. We had no airconditioning. We had desk fans and wet towels. Then we only had wet towels.

So I read to escape the heat and my square face.

This being a 52 year old classic, I don't feel there's anything I have to say about it that will be new or interesting. It has earned the title of classic, it is a masterful work of suspense and body horror, even though the phrase didn't exist at the time. The village of Midwich is unreachable for a couple of nights due to mysterious forces, and then just...comes back. Everyone wakes up not realising anything untoward had happened. The effects only reveal themselves later, when every woman in the village is pregnant.

This is dealt with in largely practical terms - in that stalwart British style - which allows the underlying tension and horror to build in a wonderfully subtle and insidious fashion. An unplanned pregnancy is scary enough, imagine if you were in fact a virgin, or with menopause well in the past. Imagine you didn't want children. Imagine something was growing inside you, and you didn't know what it was, and there was nothing you could do about it? I imagined all that very well, thank you very much, and was terrified. Dude, pregnancy is frightening enough when it's planned and you want it.

And then, everyone gave birth, and aside from some peculiarities of appearance, everything was fine.

Until, of course, it wasn't. As the children develop, a new sort of terror takes shape, no less powerful. Part Stockholm Syndrome, part necessarily illusion for the sake of your own sanity, neither of which alters the circumstances, about which nothing can be done.

Unfortunately, this incredible tension and momentum the story gains is deflated when the children finally reveal themselves, and the characters and reader become aware of their true nature. Then, as with horror movies for example, it stops being about the waiting, and becomes just a chase - and there's only ever one ending for a chase. The question of ethics does make the decisions made particularly nasty, but no longer unexpected.

What struck me most, however, was not just that no one would publish this story now, but that no one would even write it. It's lean, it disregards the passage of time with barely a nod, it does not flesh out characters more than is utterly necessary. It's from another time and another place. It works in unfamiliar ways, and makes unexpected assumptions. No one would write it.

That can only be to our detriment.

I dreamed I gave birth to twin girls. I couldn't give them names because to do so would be to take away all the other potential names they could wear, and there were no names that understood how amazingly wonderfully perfectly delightfully devastatingly existent they were. I couldn't even bring myself to feed them, as that would then ground them in this world, like Persephone and the pomegranate, and they were so much more than that. They didn't need feeding. They didn't need defining. They just were, and they changed everything.

And then I woke up.

The next person who tries to argue with me when I say my subconscious is out to get me gets it in the neck.

I try not to use the phrase "I wish-". I don't like what it signifies. A magic wand. An easy way out. All your desires to just happen, like that, with no effort on your part. As if the universe were listening. As if the universe cared. As if you deserved it. Say it too often, and you start to expect someone to listen, and make it so. You wind up waiting for your wish to be granted without even noticing.

I want nothing I can't do for myself.

So I try not to say it. Obscene words get more action than "I wish". I catch myself if it even enters my thoughts, and I take it all back, that plaintive cry for some sort of intervention, even in the privacy of my own skull, and I do not wish for anything. I will make everything I want to happen through my own efforts or I will live without. That is what I choose. That is what I want.

Sometimes, it is easy to enforce this censorship.

Sometimes, it is not.

the roarin' forties care far too much

MELBOURNE. PAY ATTENTION.

The Fringe Festival is imminent and YOU MUST SEE VIGILANTELOPE'S SHOW "THE TALE OF THE GOLDEN LEASE", and no, that is not a recommendation, it is a fucking ORDER the damn world will END IF YOU DO NOT SEE THIS SHOW and do you really want that on your conscience NO YOU DO NOT.

We saw this at the Comedy Festival last April. It was a last minute 'what the hell' ticket buy, based on a passing recommendation. I think we saw around five comedy shows all up, Danny Bhoy and Jason Byrne included, and this was the best show of the whole festival, by miles and miles. In fact, it remains the best show I've been to all year. It was spectacularly funny, clever, absurd, with dancing and singing and tomfoolery and, and, you know I am not capable of the lyrical waxing necessary to do these guys justice. It was that fucking OARSUM. Quotes have stayed with us and randomly tossing them out is enough to reduce us to tears STILL.

Tickets are cheap. Opening night is 2 for 1. 2 for 1! Take your friends. Take your cat. Just do something in character and go. Do something out of character and go.

OKAY NOW BRISBANE YOU START PAYING ATTENTION TOO.

I also discovered that Mono will be playing at the Hi Fi in December. This is not the Mono that released Formica Blues, this is the Japanese instrumental Mono that puts me in mind of Explosions In The Sky and the new album by Jónsi & Alex (part of Sigur Rós which I discovered by accident when I foolishly entered Polyester Records just to "look around" - you'd think I'd know better by now).

I also discovered the Hi Fi has a bar in Brisbane. This discovery occurred when my browser had a hissy fit half way through buying a ticket, and in the process of starting over I ended up buying a ticket for the gig in Brisbane. Which should hopefully be refunded, but anyway, Brisbanites, they're heading your way too.

NOW NONE OF YOU PAY ATTENTION.

Mammals Underfoot! An Interview With Emerging Writers

conducted by Jeff VanderMeer, featuring Jesse Bullington, N. K. Jemisin, Meghan McCarron, Shweta Narayan, Jeremy C. Shipp, Angela Slatter, Genevieve Valentine and some other muppet.

I like the idea of 'emerging'. It puts me in mind of the headhuggers in Alien. The egg peels open, I extend my creepy-arse legs over the lip, I emerge, and then I leap at you, shove my gonads in your face and ram my proboscis down your throat and lay eggs in your chest, and then those eggs hatch and a wee bebe alien emerges. From your chest. At velocity.

I would like to one day write a story that has that sort of effect on the reader.

It would probably put me in gaol. Oh well. Totally worth it. You suffer for my art!

Jeff sez:

Every once in awhile, it’s good for a fool like me, entering mid-career, to check the pulse of what’s going on among the emerging writers who will one day call you a curmudgeon. Keeping tabs on this unruly, diverse lot not only lets you see the end of the road coming from much farther away and softens the often abrupt transition from “young turk” to “old fart”—it also re-energizes you and helps ensure that your reading patterns don’t get too predictable. Usually, I keep up via blogs and online fiction, but I thought it would be interesting to interview a few emerging writers about subjects like their connection to the larger community, where they see themselves in five years, what they’ve been reading, and their take on mammals versus large reptiles. A kind of core sample, if you will.

Last week I received my ARC of Booklife, which I read in manuscript format. It was an interesting exercise, seeing as I've never attempted to offer constructive feedback on a work of non-fiction. It evolved from comments into a conversation, and bits of me scratching my head and saying "well, wot I think is-" have been quoted throughout (introverts and socially-disinclined hermit crabs of the world, represent yo!).

(Being an introverted and socially-disinclined hermit crab I find the 'Private Booklife' section - looking at the various internal aspects of being a writer, strategies on dealing with the emotional pitfalls and psychological traps most of us find ourselves in at one point or another - much more interesting than the 'Public Booklife' section - excellent strategies and tactics on PR, marketing, career goals and being a real go-getter. First read through, the Public section left me feeling inadequate. I am not the type of person capable of networking, promoting, or doing anything that, to me, smells like coming on with an agenda, all of which are becoming increasingly important in the current market. But everything I read has been stored and percolating in the backbrain for some months now, which is time enough for me to see what I could conceivably do without making a wreck of myself. Time enough for it not to be scary. It's an incredibly interesting and (depending on who you are of course) useful book - hermit crabs, I know you're out there and staring at the idea of PR and marketing with the same horror that I am. Read it, feel horrified and awful, go away and don't think about it...and later, when you need them, you'll find the ideas have already been planted in your head, and they're not so scary any more.)

Interestingly, I'm listed in the acknowledgments as a "constructive curmudgeon". Now, taking the above excerpt into consideration, what do we get when someone who has attained the state of curmudgeon calls someone who should be calling them a curmudgeon a curmudgeon?

Paradox! The universe is going to collapse in on itself! Run to the hills!







I have no idea what I was on when I wrote those answers, by the way. I don't think anything I said will be out of the ordinary to those of you who've been reading for a while, which probably isn't a great thing. I'm being a twat in front of a whole new audience. To those of you who have arrived here from Clarkesworld - there's just more of the same here, yep, years and years of mental diarrhea. I would apologise for bringing down the standard of a fine quality publication, but, er, well...

Heh. Hehe.

Tessa, I hear you say, Tessa, you used to post actual content. What is all this NEWSFLASH! you have going on?

Dude, I say, dude, I am still not capable of writing. Still. I don't want to. I just don't want to. I don't even want to think. I am not processing. The end is nigh, truly it is, and the cracks are showing, and I'm beginning to transition from whole person to loose swarm of neuroses, and I just don't want to.

(Totally the perfect time to answer questions about writing.)

I've just finished baking triceratops biscuits. It must be bed time.

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PERSONA NON GRATA in da house

Last Drink Bird Head



The insane kids at over at VanderMeer Industries have put together an anthology of flash fiction, with all proceeds going to charity. Contributor list as follows:

Daniel Abraham
Michael Arnzen
Steve Aylett
KJ Bishop
Michael Bishop
Desirina Boskovich
Keith Brooke
Jesse Bullington
Richard Butner
Catherine Cheek
Matthew Cheney
Michael Cisco
Gio Clairval
Alan M. Clark
Brendan Connell
Paul Di Filippo
Stephen R. Donaldson
Rikki Ducornet
Clare Dudman
Alistair Duncan
Scott Eagle
Brian Evenson
Eliot Fintushel
Jeffrey Ford
Richard Gehr
Felix Gilman
Jon Courtney Grimwood
Rhys Hughes
Paul Jessup
Antony Johnston
John Kaiine
Henry Kaiser
Caitlin R. Kiernan
Tessa Kum
Ellen Kushner
Jay Lake
Tanith Lee
Stina Leicht
Therese Littleton
Beth Adele Long
Dustin Long
Nick Mamatas
JM McDermott
Sarah Monette
Kari O’Connor
Ben Peek
Holly Phillips
Louis Phillips
Tim Pratt
Cat Rambo
Mark Rich
Bruce Holland Rogers
Nicholas Royle
G Eric Schaller
Ekaterina Sedia
Ramsey Shehadeh
Peter Straub
Victoria Strauss
Michael Swanwick
Mark Swartz
Alan Swirsky
Rachel Swirsky
Sonya Taaffe
Justin Taylor
Steve Rasnic Tem
Jeffrey Thomas
Scott Thomas
John Urbancik
Genevieve Valentine
Kim Westwood
Leslie What
Andrew Steiger White
Conrad Williams
Liz Williams
Neil Williamson
Caleb Wilson
Gene Wolfe
Jonathan Wood
Marly Youmans
Catherine Zeidler

It's been so long I couldn't remember what I'd written. Proofing the story was pretty much a fresh reading. It contains ninja. Which, you know, didn't really surprise me.

I'm tempted to point out names in that list, and have a sad little tizzy about sharing a ToC with them, but there are just! too! many! I skimmed the other stories. It is indeed a strange and wonderful collection. (DUDE. HOLY CRAP. I HAVE TOTALLY SNUCK ON TO THE GROWN UP'S TABLE. BOOYAH.)

It will be launched at the World Fantasy Convention this Halloween.

Best American Fantasy

The Best American Fantasy series has undergone a series of important changes, starting with the publisher. Underland Press has acquired the Best American Fantasy series, and will publish the third volume, “Real Unreal,” in January of 2010. BAF4, tentatively titled “Imaginary Borders,” will appear in March 2011. BAF3 contains work by, among others, Stephen King, Lisa Goldstein, Peter S. Beagle, and John Kessel, as chosen by guest editor Kevin Brockmeier with assistance from series editor Matthew Cheney. The full table of contents is reproduced below. The cover of BAF3 was designed by John Coulthart.

The guest editors for volumes 4 through 6 will be: Minister Faust, Junot Diaz, and Catherynne M. Valente. Each of these critically acclaimed writers will bring excellence and expertise to the position. BAF4 will include work published in 2010, as the series skips a year to accommodate the time needed for the change in publisher and general reorganization.

“Victoria Blake at Underland has worked hard to create the perfect home for this unique series,” BAF co-founder Jeff VanderMeer said, “and the guest editors we’ve put in place reflect an exciting diversity of opinions about and approaches to fiction. Each will bring their own spin to the volume they edit, and that’s going to be great in terms of keeping the series vital and relevant.”

Starting with BAF4, the series will consider stories published in English in Latin American publications, as well as translations of Latin American writers into English in North American publications. In short, any story published in English in a Latin American or North American publication or website, and written by a Latin American or North American resident, is eligible for inclusion in BAF. (As and when possible, and keeping in mind constraints such as expense and a need for additional personnel, the Best American Fantasy series eventually hopes to consider material published in Spanish and Portuguese.)

A series of staffing changes have also occurred. Matthew Cheney, who has done wonderful work on the first three volumes, will be stepping down as series editor due to other demands on his time. Co-founders Ann and Jeff VanderMeer will perform the role of series editor going forward, while Cheney remains in an advisory position. Former first readers Clayton Kroh and Tessa Kum will serve as assistant editors for BAF beginning with volume 4. Fábio Fernandes and Larry Nolen have been added in an editorial capacity, especially as regards the Latin American publishing community. Further staff additions will occur over the next year as necessary.

Guidelines for BAF4 will be made available by January of 2010. Any publications sent to Matthew Cheney will be forwarded to the VanderMeers. Publications should not be sent to the guest editors at this time. Please address queries to bestamericanfantasy at gmail.com or POB 4248, Tallahassee, FL 32315. The BAF website will be updated with all of this information shortly. Bookmark the BAF site and BAF blog for future updates.

TABLE OF CONTENTS FOR BEST AMERICAN FANTASY: “REAL UNREAL”

Guest Editor Kevin Brockmeier, Series Editor Matthew Cheney

“Safe Passage” by Ramona Ausubel (One Story, Issue 106)

“Uncle Chaim, Aunt Rifke, and the Angel” by Peter S. Beagle (Strange Roads)

“Cardiology” by Ryan Boudinot (Five Chapters, 2008)

“The Pentecostal Home for Flying Children” by Will Clarke (The Oxford American, Issue 61)

“For a Ruthless Criticism of Everything Existing” by Martin Cozza (Pindeldyboz, July 6 2008)

“Daltharee” by Jeffrey Ford (The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy)

“Is” by Chris Gavaler (New England Review, Volume 39, Number 2)

“The Torturer’s Wife” by Thomas Glave (The Kenyon Review, Fall 2008)

“Reader’s Guide” by Lisa Goldstein (F&SF, July 2008)

“Search Continues for Elderly Man” by Laura Kasischke (F&SF, September 2008)

“Pride and Prometheus” by John Kessel (F&SF, January 2008)

“The New York Times at Special Bargain Rates” by Stephen King (F&SF, October/November 2008)

“Couple of Lovers on a Red Background” by Rebecca Makkai (Brilliant Corners, Summer 2008)

“Flying and Falling” by Kuzhali Manickavel (Shimmer, The Art Issue 2008)

“The King of the Djinn” by David Ackert & Benjamin Rosenbaum (Realms of Fantasy, February 2008)

“The City and the Moon” by Deborah Schwartz (The Kenyon Review, Spring 2008)

“The Two-Headed Girl” by Paul Tremblay (Five Chapters, 2008)

“The First Several Hundred Years Following My Death” by Shawn Vestal (Tin House 34)

“Rabbit Catcher of Kingdom Come” by Kellie Wells (Fairy Tale Review, The White Issue)

“Serials” by Katie Williams (American Short Fiction, Summer/Fall 2008)

RECOMMENDED READING

The editors would like to call special attention to the following stories published in 2008:

“Run! Run!” by Jim Aikin
Fantasy & Science Fiction, September

“The Lagerstatte” by Laird Barron
The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy, edited by Ellen Datlow

“Within the City of the Swan” by Aliette de Bodard
Shimmer, The Art Issue 2008

“What the Redmond Men Found” by Matthew David Brozik
Zahir, Summer 2008

“The Loa and the Gaping Jaw” by Brendan Byrne
Flurb, a Webzine of Astonishing Tales, Fall-Winter 2008

“Jimmy” by Pat Cadigan
The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy, edited by Ellen Datlow

“Poor Little Egg-Boy Hatched in a Shul” by Nathan Englander
McSweeney’s, Issue 28

“Drone” by Gemma Files
Not One of Us, Issue 39

“All the Little Gods We Are” by John Grant
Clockwork Phoenix: Tales of Beauty and Strangeness, edited by Mike Allen

“The Difficulties of Evolution” by Karen Heuler
Weird Tales, July/Aug 2008

“The Hand of the Devil on a String” by M. K. Hobson
Shimmer, Spring 2008

“The Last Dead” by Drew Johnson
Virginia Quarterly Review, Winter 2008

“Far and Wee” by Kathe Koja
Weird Tales, November/December 2008

“Litany” by Rand B. Lee
Fantasy & Science Fiction, June 2008

“We Love Deena” by Alice Sola Kim
Strange Horizons, February 11, 2008

“But Wait! There’s More!” by Richard Mueller
Fantasy & Science Fiction, August 2008

“The Glazers” by Joyce Carol Oates
American Short Fiction, Winter/Spring 2008

“On the Banks of the River of Heaven” by Richard Parks
Realms of Fantasy, April 2008

“The Joined” by Helen Phillips
Mississippi Review, Spring 2008

“The Small Door” by Holly Phillips
Fantasy Magazine, May 19, 2008

“Creature” by Ramsey Shehadeh
Weird Tales, March/April 2008

“Detours on the Way to Nothing” by Rachel Swirsky
Weird Tales, March/April 2008

“The Body Autumnal” by Lisa Wells
Ecotone, Spring 2008

“A Different Country” by Wayne Wightman
Fantasy & Science Fiction, December 2008

“Two Tales” by Imants Zicdonis
Fairy Tale Review, White Issue

sometimes even the right is wrong

I had intended to blog more after passing that enormous deadline (and by 'passing' I mean exactly like kidney stones), but the story came back. A couple of times. And the Baggage story was waiting for final edits too. And I have to write story notes to go with it. And I have the damn lurgy.

And I just...don't...want...to...write.

That's a blanket Do Not Want. I don't want to write emails, book reviews, blog posts, comments, To Do Lists. My output is not infinite, and right now, my brain is standing in front of a fridge containing a dried up piece of ginger and some moldy hummus and saying, "Dude, seriously, you need to go stock up."

Once the Baggage story and Kidney Stone story are laid to rest, I'll have a lot more time and headspace, and I intend to do a whole lot of not much with either. In the last week Doubt and Paranoia, my dear long-time friends, have come back to visit, which means I've passed the point of being merely tired and under pressure, and have now run out of mental defences against the world at large. I'm not cool with that. Not at all. Gotta shore up the fortress walls. Gotta stake out some territory. Gotta find some silence.

Poor neglected blog. You got food comin' too ya. I still have most of a year of book write ups to do, MIFF and a couple of gig reports, and the rest of my Japan trip to put up. Just. You know. Later.

Hope you strange funny people are staying warm out there in Internetland.

when you start the war, use arrows, spears, and swords grenades and cricket bats

Promotions!

Weird Tales won the Hugo, and there was much rejoicing! The magazine remains a fantastic piece of reading, each issue consistently surprising and brilliant in all it has to offer. Stephen H. Segal and Ann VanderMeer make for excellent skippers, and recognition of their excellence is far overdue. Huzzah!

Because they're so excellent they broke the excellence benchmark and have rocketed on through to being FUCKIN' OARSUM, our skippers are up for the World Fantasy Awards as well. Phwoar!

If I hang around them long enough, think some of the awesome will rub off?

My Name In Lights!

Gillian Polack announced the table of contents for Baggage, cut 'n paste below;

Deborah Biancotti
KJ Bishop
Simon Brown
Monica Carroll
Jack Dann
Jennifer Fallon
Laura Goodin
Y Green
Tessa Kum
Maxine McArthur
Lucy Sussex
Kaaron Warren
Janeen Webb

My emo-victim-poor-meeeeeee-waaaaaaaaah-oh-dear-lord-this-story-is-going-to-kill-me is among some fine company there. I expect it to totally lack manners and grace and embarrass the shit out of me.

Conflagration!

I figure, if you're going to set fire to Rome, you might as well do it properly. By 'Rome', I do of course mean my life, my social life, my health, my sleep, my flat, my absolutely everything. And by 'fire', I mean 'pull an asteroid from the sky'.

Things I have never done;

1. Collaborated on a story.
2. Written in a shared franchise world.
3. Gone from conception to final draft in one (1) month.

Things I just did;

1. ALL OF THE ABOVE

Which is why I haven't been posting. Or responding to my email. Or answering my phone. Or anything.

This is probably going to remain, for a long time, one of the stupidest things I have ever done. I knew it was going to be insane and intense when I agreed to it, though, and let's be honest, that is 100% of the reason I said yes when the suggestion was put to me.

It wasn't without cost. I've been spending 12-15 hour days at work, staying back after my normal day in order to write, because my flat was too cold to do so. My back hates me. My knuckles, fingers, hands, wrists, arms, elbows, shoulders and neck all hate me. My eyes hate me. I've been living on painkillers for a bit over a week now. I didn't do the dishes for two weeks and my flat stank. I didn't do any washing and rocked up to work very underdressed and got in trouble. I ran out of food because I didn't do the shopping. I've neglected my friends and my family (which is probably for the best, because if I'd actually exposed myself to any of them their might have been no survivors). I have lost my ability to sleep entirely, my brain has been so intensely focused and processing. I'm exhausted to the point I just about threw up a cup of tea yesterday, and then I stay up till three in the morning working some more. And then I go to work. And then I do it again.

I wrote a 15k first draft in 7 days, which is pretty impressive.

Then I wrote a 25k draft in two days.

I am an incoherent gibbering mess, and so is my poor long suffering infinitely patient partner in crime. When I got up this morning, and checked my email to find a note stating the story had been submitted, I burst into tears. I'll post the details later, when things are confirmed one way or another.

I'm still young enough and dumb enough to try and prove a point, and the point is well proved now;

I AM INVINCIBLE. I CAN DO ANYTHING.

AND THEN?

THEN THERE WAS ICE CREAM.

THERE'S WET STUFF FALLING FROM THE SKY

WTFDOESNOTCOMPUTE
(Fall! Fall harder!)

Sniff Mah Pillow

I made vegetable soup yesterday. My arms and wrists are right buggered from all the chopping and stirring, and my flat smells like soup. My whole flat. Everything. I went to bed last night and mmmm, yes indeedy, my pillow smelt like soup.

If this isn't a compelling argument to never cook again, I don't know what is.

The smell is still hanging around. Possibly if it was, I don't know, something with a tomato base, I wouldn't find having hair that smells like lunch so off putting. But vegetable soup only smells good when it's hot and you're hanging over the bowl. Old, cold, stale vegetable soup is unattractive, to say the least.

My only course of action is to cook bacon.

I'm not even hungry, but dammit, there will be bacon.

Tilt Shift

I've spent the last seven months looking at cloud patterns, stars, sun sets, birds, wind, rainbows, sunshine and all the marvelous wondrous things in the sky. I've been so distracted that I forgot I was standing on the edge of a cliff.

Suddenly, all I can see is the abyss opening up below me.

Nothing has changed. I have not moved. The hole has always been there.













When enough time passes, I will remember that nothing has changed, I have not moved, the sky has always been there.