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![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) haikujaguar | |
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I was just reading about how number of reviews count more for Amazon algorithms than the actual rating average of those reviews (which is why some authors are happy to inspire lots of one-star hate reviews because that’s better than being ignored, mathematically speaking). Basically, it’s better to have thirty one-star reviews than one five-star review. Having thirty three or four or five-star reviews looks a lot better, of course, but in terms of making you look like someone worth taking a chance on, counter-intuitively “more reviews” trumps “great reviews.” (Maybe because people assume the book with five five-star reviews was only reviewed by the author’s friends. :, )
So, I thought I’d make the note: even a two-line “I stayed up all night reading this” or “this book was pretty good, I liked the romantic parts” or even “this wasn’t my favorite thing but it was pretty good entertainment” review is better than none. For the print books, you can even go with “the inside of this book is pretty/looks professional.”
And yes, Amazon is still king for those things. Much as I appreciate the Smashwords reviews, no one reads them. Even B&N is a far, far distant second to Amazon’s sales. :/
Sales have been pretty sluggish lately, so every little bit helps. :)
(I should note, I have a ton of titles out and don’t expect people to review them all! So if you only have time for one, the longer ones are best: Wingless, Spots, Rosary, Shell, Clays, the Aphorisms and Admonishments.)
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: books, marketing, reviews, writing
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ysabetwordsmith | |
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This is the freebie for the May 2012 Crowdfunding Creative Jam, which you can visit on LiveJournal or on Dreamwidth. It was inspired by a prompt from stryck.
Synaesthesia Feast
It is not the flavor of the food that he tastes,
but the color -- the pink lemonade
tastes the way roses should smell,
the summer squash is like butter,
green beans have a piney tang,
and the cherry pie burns like chili peppers.
The flavors themselves provide the background music --
a symphony of trumpeting spices
over a steady beat of savory,
mellow vegetable woodwinds
and piercingly sweet strings. It is not the same feast that everyone else is enjoying,
but it is just as good. Tags: creative jam, cyberfunded creativity, food, poem, poetry, reading, writing
Current Mood:  busy
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aldersprig | |
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Continuing flash series! I'm going to write one flash for every Icon I have, over 4 LJ accounts, 1 DW, and a whole bunch of not-currently-in-use, until I get bored or run out of icons.
Today's icon:
Shooting Star
Icon by ![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png) later_tuesdayYeah, the first one of the Asteroid-hits took us by surprise. I mean, shooting stars didn't hit the earth that hard very frequently, and when they did - crater, some rock, that was it. Nobody expected there to be sentient life, not in that first one. And, because the government did a quick and thorough job of covering it up (I know, I was there), the rest of the world wasn't expecting the second one, either, or the third. ( Read more... )This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/347128.html. You can comment here or there. Tags: iconflash, verse: misc: alien
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haikujaguar | |
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I am observing lately that my doodles sell well. This is not a surprise: you’re always going to find more people with $30 than $3000. I’ve known this since my first livestream, even. And it’s deeply pleasing, because I make art, and the art leaves my hands, and I get some money in. If I didn’t enjoy the doodling, I wouldn’t be doing the Kickstarter Monday.
…but some part of me really, really wants to do the big ambitious pieces that no one can afford.
This is the point where treating art like a business will cause angst.
All people who do creative work for money recognize this particular conundrum. The extent to which we bow to Business Manager is the extent to which we thrive financially. But we wouldn’t be Artists if we didn’t fight for the reins… and if we didn’t feel it was our divine duty to win them and run off with the bit in our teeth on our madcap joys, screaming defiance.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: art, art business book, business, marketing, three jaguars, three micahs
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ysabetwordsmith | |
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The seventh Crowdfunding Creative Jam is running this weekend on Dreamwidth and on LiveJournal. The theme is "food." Please drop by to leave or claim prompts and enjoy the delicacies! You can also help by boosting the signal. What I Have Written"Synaesthesia Feast" -- today's free poem, in which colors are flavors and flavors are sounds. "Julbord" -- 83 lines, $41.50 From the prompt about communal cooking I got the free-verse poem "Julbord." It describes the preparation of a holiday feast at Hart's Farm. "Spirits of Fire and Water" -- 15 lines, $10 The prompt about alcohol and food led to the poem "Spirits of Fire and Water." It's a litany of alcoholic foods written in unrhymed tercets. Tags: art, creative jam, cyberfunded creativity, fiction, food, poetry, projects, reading, writing
Current Mood: busy
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aldersprig | |
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So... Last weekend was awesome. I feel guilty about that, because I still miss Drake. It's hard to even look at his things without sniffling. But this weekend was still really good, and I think that's okay. First: there was a small wine festival about 40 minutes out of town (At the local ski resort, which was clever of them). We drank lots of wine and had lots of fun and bought a couple bottles - and I may not be allergic to goat wool! We stopped on the way home at our favorite bulk store, got roast beef and cheese and pasta, and stopped at two plant stores and the beer store for plants and olive oil, then came home to a dinner of shrimp with olive oil, blue cheese crumbles, tomato and pasta. Nom. Between Saturday and Sunday, we planted acorn squash, leeks, leeks, leeks, flowers, and two raspberry bushes, worked on the dresser, weeded,... oh, yeah, planted peas... and generally spent a lot of time outdoors playing in the yard. Awesome weekend. Absolutely awesome. This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/346297.html. You can comment here or there. Tags: personal: garden
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haikujaguar | |
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We continue Black Blossom, the novel that follows The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar. It is a form of quasi-communal storytelling, as described here. Feel free to ask questions, converse or react as you wish in the comments; the Calligrapher and I are at your disposal, as time permits us both. And don’t fear… your questions are shaping the narrative. Read closely in the future and you may see yourself referred to there.
Black Blossom, Part 69
A Story of Kherishdar as Translated by M.C.A. Hogarth
It was a fine moment for Ajan to knock—that is not sarcasm, aunera, for I shudder to think of him opening the door on me forcing a sexual release out of his beloved master—so I felt relief when Kor said, “Come.”
To his credit, Ajan’s pause at the sight of us entwined was so infinitesimal I would have needed one of Seraeda’s instruments to measure it. He came smartly to the bed’s edge and said, “Qenain’s master scheduler has set up an interview for us with the Serapis aunerai, in the morning, an hour after breakfast.”
“Well done,” Kor said, sitting up to stretch.
“Tomorrow?” I said, stifling my dismay. “I was hoping to put paid to this errand as quickly as possible, and now we will have to tarry here for an entire night?”
“I think I can find something to do with an entire night,” Kor said, and touched his fingertips to Ajan’s chin, startling the youth. “What do you think, menuredi?”
Now this pause made the first one look positively leisurely. The eagerness and hope that energized the youth was palpable, though his bearing and speech were punctiliously correct. “I might have some notions, masuredi, if you are so inclined.”
“I think it is past time for me to be so inclined,” Kor said, and to my delight allowed me to witness his first lover’s kiss with his penokedi. It was a sweet, brief thing that looked, on the surface, much like the chaste kisses he gave me… and left all of us with our fur on end.
“I believe I shall see to the fathrikedi, and perhaps arrange our dinner,” I said, sliding off the bed. I accepted with concealed amusement the robe Ajan found for me with such alacrity it seemed magical. “I’ll knock if anything significant needs your attention, my peer.”
“Thank you, ajzelin,” Kor said, and there was a depth in his voice that made it clear what he was thanking me for.
I left them to one another, then. And when I had closed the door, I am not at all ashamed to admit, aunera… that I perhaps did a little dance-in-place for sheer glee.
“You seem happy,” the fathrikedi said from the door to the bathing chamber.
“Tell me, fathrikedi,” I said, moving carefully to a seat in one of the chairs by the window. “What is your favorite version of the parable of the broken pot?”
She snorted. “I hate them all. So much fuss over a stupid pot! Fix it, get a new one, do without, but for the sake of love, move on already and stop talking so much about it.” She joined me, dropping to her knees at my foot. “So, they finally decided to consummate their unrequited body-love.”
I glanced down at her. She was shrouded in the blanket from the massage table and looked somewhat more together than she had earlier. “You noticed?”
She sighed at my apparent naivete. “Osulkedi, anyone who glanced at them even once would notice.”
I laughed. “I am a sad specimen, it seems.”
“You are an artist,” she said. “It is a characteristic of artists.”
“To be daft?” I said, too pleased to be much distressed over her critique.
“To be consumed in their own worlds,” she said. “There is an inevitable travel time required for an artist to move from his world into ours sufficiently to communicate with us.”
I eyed the top of her head. “You are teasing me, fathrikedi.”
She met my eyes and grinned; this close I could see the hints of her distress, though she had done admirable work minimizing the swollen skin around her eyes. Their rims remained raw, though, like a hint of cosmetics gone wrong. I felt it like a color I could mix on a palette, a broken-open flesh color, like a fruit bruised to spilling…
“You see,” she said. “You’re doing it now.”
“I am observing that your eyes have cried, though you have hidden it well!” I objected.
“Shame observes that my eyes have cried, and I have hidden it well,” she said with a laugh. “You observe how they look, and you will be busy with that for long enough that the reason they look that way will only occur to you… later. As I said. You must travel into this world from your own.”
I hmphed, but I was not truly upset. I had helped my ajzelin—had Corrected him in the Emperor’s stead—had in fact served as his poor, bound-up fathrikedi at the shrine had served!—and we had both come out the other side well… better than well, even.
“It’s good,” she said after a moment. “They suit one another. And gods know Kherishdar’s sole Shame needed a good…”
This word she used, aunera, was rude in the extreme. I’m told you have several equivalents, but I would not use them, lest I give offense in two languages.
I cleared my throat and said, “This not being my area of expertise, I will bow to your superior knowledge.”
She laughed. “I won’t tease you about what you need, then, osulkedi—”
“I should hope not!” I interrupted.
“But I don’t think it’s heavy petting and hot sweating between the sheets,” she finished.
Surprised, I said, “Really?”
“Really,” she said, resettling her blanket around her narrow shoulders. “Not to say you wouldn’t benefit from a little physical relief. I just think you need help of a different sort.”
“Pray, don’t leave me in suspense, fathrikedi,” I said, looking down at her.
“You need… a massage,” she said, with a sly grin. “You have been moving like someone three times your age since before you crossed the Gate.”
“People three times my age are dead,” I said, ears flattened.
“Exactly,” she said.
“I’m not that stiff!” I said, and then flexed my toes experimentally. Wincing, I finished, “Much.”
She laughed. “A deal, then, osulkedi. You give me a name. I’ll give you a massage that will make you feel a third your age.”
“One third my age would be too young by far to be giving fathriked names of the kind you’re imagining,” I said. “I am not that old…” She waited, and I said, at last—because when can I turn down a challenge these days? Apparently never—”Very well. A name for a massage. But you must allow me to use the time under your hands to consider it.”
“If I do my job well, you won’t be able to think of anything!” she said, rising.
“Then you will have to make do with your name being ‘ahhh’,” I said.
“The out-breath of a contented, cared-for universe?” she said. “I could be happy with that. Come, Calligrapher. The sooner we repair to the bathroom… the sooner the happy lovers can make free with their noises without concerning themselves over our delicate ears.”
“Do you really think…” I began, and then stopped myself. I could only too well imagine Kor devoting some part of his thoughts to protecting my sensibilities, and being quite aware of where in the suite I was. “Lead on, fathrikedi.”
***
And now not only is the scene over… but you now know the scene that I can’t write for the book, because Farren didn’t see it, but that I think I will write for myself anyway.
Ajan’s point of view will do nicely…
Monday we can talk about that, and other Black Blossom administrivia. I think it will be a good time for it. Meanwhile, please consider voting for us on Top Web Fiction here. People do find us that way!
You can also subscribe, or email for a mailing address to send a physical donation.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, serial, writing
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haikujaguar | |
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I am looking at Black Blossom now; at 83Kish words, the book is a good 330-ish pages or so and we’re approaching the end. I am guessing we’ll wrap up in less than 20K, putting it about the same length as The Worth of a Shell, around 400 pages. At the rate we’re posting, then, probably a couple of months or so will see us finally done with Kor, Farren and all these broken pots.
And then we will take a deep breath.
…or maybe not. Because my brain is already plot-dumping the rest of Elijah’s story, which at 54-ish pages is just long enough to have gotten past the awkward stage and not long enough to make editing it to solve the problem with the setting untenable. And, frankly, I’m kind of astonished at people’s response to it… the excerpt has gotten more comments than anything I’ve posted in months, and most of them aren’t me responding to people. For whatever reason, something has struck a chord there.
So, I am making notes on that one, and remembering how fond I am of it. I’m even batting around real titles to replace the working title… my current front-leader is Small Town God (or Small Town Fae, etc, etc), but I haven’t settled on anything yet.
I’m also trying to decide whether to serialize Elijah’s story or not. I am fascinated at how long some of the pans in the draft are; the scene where Elijah meets Louis and Beryl wanders all the way in town and through three more encounters before it wanders all the way back, and that scene is many, many pages long with no break. It makes me realize how different my writing style was in the time before I took up writing novel-length serials, rather than paper-form novels. I want to say the latter is more immersive, but I don’t think Kherishdar is any less. What I think, sometimes, is that being able to break up a novel into serial-sized chunks has allowed me to make it more immersive. It’s like Kherishdar is dark chocolate ganache. You can’t eat a lot of it in a sitting, but if you know you can space out the servings, you can serve nothing but. Elijah is more like a two-hour meal. You spend a long time at the table, but you’re not eating solid fudge the entire time.
Anyway. It seems clear to me that this is the story that wants my brain, and I think if I write it with my head in a garret I’ll finish it faster, which would be nice. So I am contemplating doing that, and saving the question of whether to serialize it or just do an immediate to-e-book/print book release until after we’re done with Black Blossom.
Wow, it’s going to be weird being done with Black Blossom, isn’t it?
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: black blossom, books, elijah, process, serials
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aldersprig | |
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So kuroseishin is doing an Icon sale (which go check out) and I realized I don't have a description for Ciara yet or her Change. Anybody picture her at all? I think she's petite, and I think she's of the family line (Fridmar) that turns colors with the Change. All right. She's a daughter of Fridmar. She's short-by-my-standards, 5'4" or so, and resembles Miroslava Duma, especially in this set of pictures.We don't know much about her except that she bakes, she's been training in combat, and she's polite and likes lists (sounds like someone I know). I think her Change turns her into a deep nut-brown elf-girl. She gets a bit slenderer and a lot taller (8" taller), her ears go long and pointy, her eyes go tiger-eye, and her hair gets veins of lighter brown like a rock. ...She is Taro's half-sister maternally! This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/345918.html. You can comment here or there. Tags: character: ciara, description
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haikujaguar | |
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More doodles from yesterday, Mazalaen from Zalitraeq and a shy octopus:
These two are for sale too, for $40 since they’re bigger than the others.
The scanner is once again working, so I’ll be mailing doodles to people who have paid for them already either today or tomorrow. I’m also planning to put some of these on Zazzle because… you know, shy octopus shirts. Finally, I am hoping to hear back from Kickstarter at some point. If they turn down the project again, I will probably just do a livestream version. You’ll know when I do.
Anyway, prompts for doodles are welcome. I may or may not use them. Cute or simple things particularly welcome, and remember, I don’t do weird, ugly or snarky!
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: art, sale
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matociquala | |
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I'm working on "The Deeps of the Sky" tonight, and generating a regular festival of Words Word Don't Know: luminesced, tropopause, sheeny, thicks, unnavigable, dartlike, Meanwhile, I had a little argument with myself on twitter as to whether I should use some modestly bogus science to create a cool special effect. I went with it. ;-) Now I'm stopping because I have to figure out how the protagonist intervenes to stop the Bad Thing from happening, or how he mops up afterward... Oh, I might have just done so. Woot! Tags: deeps of the sky, progress notes
Current Mood:  mellow
Current Music: Depeche Mode - Lilian (Album Version)
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ysabetwordsmith | |
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A male writer discusses how to write strong female characters. I'm reminded of one of mine in particular, Alison from "Kyrie Alison." The story hasn't sold yet but I still think it's one of the coolest things I've done, because the main components were all so far from what I usually handle. She's a nun; I'm not Christian. It's set deep in a part of history that I don't frequent. She's keen on music and illumination, neither of which I'm good at in this life. She used to be a modern soldier in another life, which complicates matters considerable. Those things define the setting and character, then create the story. I spent more time researching it than I did writing it. Alison's worldview is utterly alien, but that's what makes it fascinating to me. None of the mayhem shook her faith in God, and she stills sees everything through that lens. Luminous and durable and strange. I like characters who take me to new places. Tags: gender studies, how to, networking, reading, writing
Current Mood: busy
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haikujaguar | |
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Since RL is… well, let’s just say this week can die in a fire. And I don’t say such things lightly. But good/interesting stuff:
• I’ve signed someone to do the voice acting for the audiobook version of The Aphorisms! I am very pleased so far with what I’ve heard. That should be ready by July. You’ll be able to buy it on Amazon, Audible.Com and in the iTunes store.
• You can now pre-order Flight of the Godkin Griffin, the print version! The e-book version will be available after Anthrocon weekend, June 19thish or so.
• I am delighted everyone likes Elijah! I am now tempted to post more. I have more written…
• Meanwhile, my computer is having problems, which I am hoping to resolve. This may cause a hold-up in mailing out artwork. Hopefully that will get resolved somehow soon.
• And finally, Kickstarter told me my “Ten Markers, Ten Days” project looked uninteresting and told me to rewrite it. I have duly done so and re-submitted it. I admit I don’t have high hopes here.
In the Other People’s Stuff Department:
• Silvertales has done awesome linework of a merman-anglerfish with a jellyfish girl. Go tell her to finish it!
• This morning I mentioned waking up looking like a vampire. A sallow, Cuban vampire. Engineer Sam’s response: Stay away from anyone trying to drive a shaft of sugar cane into your heart.
<3
Finally, a doodle:
Mirrored from MCAH Online.
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haikujaguar | |
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We continue Black Blossom, the novel that follows The Aphorisms of Kherishdar and The Admonishments of Kherishdar. It is a form of quasi-communal storytelling, as described here. Feel free to ask questions, converse or react as you wish in the comments; the Calligrapher and I are at your disposal, as time permits us both. And don’t fear… your questions are shaping the narrative. Read closely in the future and you may see yourself referred to there.
Black Blossom, Part 68
A Story of Kherishdar as Translated by M.C.A. Hogarth
I wept then, a small spill from my eyes. “I was afraid—”
He twisted out from under me and gathered my longer body against his. When I felt the evidence of his release I turned my face from his, feeling as if the world’s floor had fallen out from beneath me. I had forced the issue, and his body, and cross a boundary ajzelin are not to cross, and even if he had recognized it as Correction I felt the grief and risk of it…
It was as if he could read my thoughts… or more like, recognized how far into dismay I was. He cupped my face, thumb resting on the line of my jaw, and turned me back to face him. Then, soft as a blessing, he kissed my mouth with lips that were dry from gasping. And paused there, until he was sure that I understood him before he rested his brow against mine. We shared the same air; in that way, he calmed me, until my shaking subsided and we breathed in the same rhythm, chests lifting in tandem.
“I didn’t mean…”
He smiled and touched my mouth, quieting the words. “You think I would mistake that for a lover’s touch? Farren. I am Shame.”
“Was it truly… did it truly…”
“Yes,” he said, closing his eyes and sighing. Such relief in that sigh, and in his eyes when he opened them. “Yes. You saw a wound, and intuition guided your answer.” He looked at me, brows lifting just a little. “You have had experience in this.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “A young Noble, who was given to me for Correction. I… I painted her pelt as she read from her caste-law book. With ink that stung.”
“Ahhh,” he said, closing his eyes, for all the worlds as if he had had a drink of some exquisite wine. “Beautiful. A work of art…”
“I failed her,” I interrupted, before he could grow too enamored with my methods. “She sinned again.”
He opened his eyes again. “In the same way?”
“N-no,” I said, drawing the word out.
“Then you did very well for one unschooled, amazingly so,” he said. “I have a staff, Farren, to do research and interviews with me. When someone is finally given to my attentions, their sins are so significant that there is a history there to be uncovered. Without doing that work, my own Corrections would also fail. One cannot understand an Ai-Naidari heart by assuming it is like all the rest, and working from that assumption.”
I thought of all the books in my chest and flushed at the ears.
“To Shame is given permission to shatter a soul,” Kor said, touching my lower lip to draw my focus back to him. “My trials have removed all the limits on my tools, and I can use them to violate a person, body and spirit, entire. I cannot wield that power without knowing that I have done everything possible to understand how much of it is needed. I have trained for this for nigh unto my entire life, Farren. Don’t measure yourself against that standard.”
“I will if it means I may have hurt what we have,” I said.
“You haven’t,” he said. “If anything, you have put us more firmly in our place.”
“Ajzelin—” I began.
“Are not lovers, and you are not mine,” he said. He lifted his brows again. “Did you enjoy my release?”
It seemed unbearably rude to admit I’d found the situation repulsive. “I—”
“Did you even watch my face when I climaxed?” he asked.
I flushed. “That would have been rude!”
“Even for the artist, who loves sight so?” he asked, his voice gentle but, I noted with growing irritation, amused.
“I couldn’t,” I said, scowling at him.
“I am so unbeautiful in bed,” Kor said with a sigh of patently false dismay. I slapped his flank with my tail, an act which was rude in the extreme, and it made him laugh. “No, Farren. You like your lovers female.”
“And you,” I said, with sudden, piercing insight, “like them younger!”
He grinned then. “I fear so. Though Ajan is very near the border of too young.”
“But not over it,” I said, hiding my glee.
“But not over it,” he admitted, charming in his defeat.
I drew in a breath again. He really was completely at ease with me, so I had not destroyed what we had. But one thing remained to be spoken, though I feared it would undo all that I had gained. “You thanked me for my Correction, Kor… but I thought… only the Emperor could Correct Shame.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, abrupt. “Who gave you my journals, Farren?”
I froze against him, and he slowly lifted his brows again, waiting.
“I… how…”
“You left one on the bedstand when I was sick,” he said. “I was not entirely insensate with you and Ajan waking me enough to dose me.”
I rolled my lip between my teeth and fretted at it as he spoke, then slicked my ears back. “I swear to you, Qenain really did ask for you.”
“But only me,” Kor said, quietly.
I drew in a deep breath. “Thirukedi sent me to you. To heal you.”
“And you have,” he said, voice gentle. “And you are. Farren… you are His hand on me. Do you think He didn’t know what I would need?”
“No,” I said softly. “He knows all our hearts.”
“And He knew mine,” Kor agreed. “Yours was the body, Farren. His was the Correction. So we are all made His instruments, if we are willing, and our hearts can stand the glory.”
“Which,” I said slowly, “is what this was about for you, wasn’t it. You wanted to be Shame to be His instrument. And it wouldn’t do but for you to be the strongest and most versatile instrument possible.”
“Because He needs all that we can give Him, and because His people deserve no less than everything that can be given to them,” Kor agreed, his voice gentle. “Do you understand, then? The trials?”
“And your ambition?” I said, daring to tease him a little in return on a subject that was, frankly, so vast and so intimate that I could barely look at it.
“And my ambition,” he agreed.
“A little more,” I said. “But I think I shall still call you a masochist.”
He mmmed. “Only if doing so involves you petting me all over again.”
“Without the Correction,” I said, rueful.
“Without the Correction,” he agreed.
He looked so contented there, with his hand resting on my upper arm and his head pillowed next to mine. I could hardly imagine the emotional resilience needed to return from what I’d done to him so quickly. “Kor?”
“Mm?”
“You are sure you’re not offended?”
“Offended!” Kor said, opening his eyes. “Why would I be?”
“That I hid this from you. That I am… proof of a sorts that you were in need. That you were weak.”
He blew out a breath and shook me lightly by the shoulder. “We’re all weak, Farren. That’s why we need one another.” Resting a hand on my chest, he said, “I’m not offended at all. I’m grateful. My master, the god of Civilization, has extended me a gift. I will cherish it as He intended.”
“I do think I love you,” I said, my voice hoarse.
“I know that I love you,” Kor said, smiling, and pulled me closer, and this time I did not feel the tackiness at his hips as a brand.
***
And the formal words exchanged at last.
And this scene isn’t over yet! But fortunately, Friday we will have another.
You can also subscribe, or email for a mailing address to send a physical donation.
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: ai-naidar, black blossom, serial, writing
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ysabetwordsmith | |
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So I read this article about the death of science fiction ... and it made me laugh. The genre isn't dying or stagnating. It's just moving. A lot of the really cool stuff is happening online, some of it in crowdfunding, some of it elsewhere. This is the genre of innovation. You can't really expect it to stand still. If the part you're looking at is not moving, you're looking in the wrong place. I'm not the only one looking at science articles and getting ideas out of them. I'm also not the only one networking with an audience and getting awesome, unique, fascinating ideas that way. It's just that the big houses are busy having a big collective panic attack and I'm really not into the farming of drama llamas. I'll be over here writing until they find a paper bag and calm down. I'm really happy that some of my newer series deal with science. Lacquerware, that's really hard science fiction, just set in a different time and culture. It's pure story-of-idea, which I almost never do; there aren't even any continuing characters. It's all about how technology would turn out differently growing from Edo roots. Kung Fu Robots uses hard science to explore philosophy and spirituality -- quintessential questions of identity and meaning, confonted by robots and the people who are working with them. The Steamsmith is steampunk, and people generally think of that as fantasy; but pop the cover off that series and I am up to my elbow grease in atomic physics and biology and chemistry. It's all about scientific method and principles, even though most of the answers are different. Plus of course the soft sciences of sociology and such on top of the shiny gears and rivets. For me, science fiction is about how and why as much as what if. It's about what next. It's about who we are, who we choose to be, who we become when we change the world according to our desires. I never want to lose sight of the implications of science, because that way lies doom and disaster. I like to think about these things, what they mean and where they're going, before we get there and maybe get into trouble. Suppose we made sentient robots, what would we do with them? Well, based on history, we'd probably make them slaves, soldiers, and/or whores. But maybe some of us would at least try to make friends instead. Maybe we'd think about right instead of just might. Maybe we'd just think. That's never going to get old, and so science fiction is never going to die. Tags: networking, reading, science fiction, writing
Current Mood: busy
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aldersprig | |
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Continuing flash series! I'm going to write one flash for every Icon I have, over 4 LJ accounts, 1 DW, and a whole bunch of not-currently-in-use, until I get bored or run out of icons.
Today's icon:
My Anthropologist, from The Planners 'Verse
Icon & Art by meeks
Before This story.
Late Autumn, 315 Post-Conflict
For the entirety of my decade as a scholar in the Tower, I studied Ancient Cultures. The Ancients division of the Library is one of the largest, and it is an intensive field of study. However, the problem with Ancient Cultures is that, almost to a one, they are Ancient and thus gone, lost in the Conflict or long before that. One can read about them endlessly, theorize, study, hypothesize, but one can not actually visit these cultures. In many cases, one cannot even visit their ruins. ( Read more... )This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/345118.html. You can comment here or there. Tags: anthropologist, iconflash, verse: planners
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haikujaguar | |
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Since it’s been on my mind, and since several of you evinced interest… here’s the first eight pages or so of the faerie farmer novel. I note that as usual, my attempt to do urban fantasy failed on all levels: instead of a snarky human woman narrator with intimacy problems and a yen for killing supernaturals, I went with… a sincere inhuman male narrator who wants nothing more than to marry and have kids. It’s not even set in a big city. Typical. -_-
Excuse any weird typos/issues, this is an unedited first draft!
***
Chapter 1
I arrived to wage genetic warfare on humanity beneath the light of a yellow moon, leading an ornery brown cow and followed by six irritated chickens. The chickens were irritated because I’d been walking all night. The cow, on the other hand, was always ornery.
I’d bought this property sight unseen, assured by the sallow man who’d sold it to me that it was a fixer-upper packed with potential, with a river cutting through the lot corner, a huge field of wild wheat, a house, barn and chicken coop and “forest access.” Naturally, I’d anticipated a choked stream, a half acre of weeds, a ramshackle handful of buildings and a few trees. Still, I hadn’t quite expected the complete rooflessness of the barn and homestead.
“Well, then,” I said. The chickens ignored me and wandered out into the yard, to sleep or eat as whim struck them. The cow was not amused, but her mood improved greatly when I cleared out a stall for her and filled her troughs. At least the feed I’d ordered had been delivered… and hadn’t been rained on.
I sat on the part of the fence that hadn’t fallen yet and looked out on the unkempt field, which at least was as large as promised: not the half acre I’d imagined but a good twenty. I liked its wild face, and how it glowed like silver with wrought black shadows sharp as spikes. I didn’t like that I was waiting here, by the field, instead of assessing the extent of the repairs I’d have to do to make the property livable. But it was a full moon, and a harvest moon at that, and it would be foolish not to expect a visit. Particularly since I’d been gone so long.
So I waited, patiently, in that half-aware state that the long-lived learn to pass the time, and eventually the hiss of fabric against boots drew me from my reverie.
A long nail caressed my neck. I didn’t move.
“The wanderer has bought a home.”
“As you see, Mistress,” I said.
“Does this mean he’ll finally take his responsibilities seriously?” she asked, still standing behind me where I couldn’t see her.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll do what I was sent to do.”
“You took some time in getting around to it,” she said with just a hint of cool anger.
“We have time,” I said. “I wasn’t ready yet.”
“And you’re ready now?”
“Yes,” I said, and thanked the powers that my mistress couldn’t read minds.
“Good!” she said, her humor improved. She walked around to lean on the nearest wooden post and share her secret smile with me. She was my mistress, and had been since she killed my last. Delorah she called herself, descended from the line of the Moon and Sleep and, some whispered, Death. She dressed fashionably for the age in a leather fetish corset over black leggings, with black boots and a coat made of spiderweb lace. Her short black hair, black lips and darkly fringed eyes wouldn’t have looked out of place in a nightclub, except on her it wasn’t cosmetics. She smelled like exotic perfume. Tasted like unadulterated peppermint extract. I have had the… privilege.
I didn’t like her much.
“Is there any news?” I asked politely, because she was still here.
“We’ve acquired three children,” she said.
“That’s good,” I replied.
“—but one of our women is pregnant,” she finished.
“Ah.” No need to ask by whom—or rather, by what. The cold fury of her voice told me all I needed to know. “So, what did you do?”
“Executed her lover,” Delorah said. “We’re waiting for the child to be born before killing her. If the baby survives, we’ll switch him in the cradle if there’s an appropriate infant.”
And if not, he would die with his unfortunate mother. That his mother might not have chosen to lie with the human who got his baby on her wasn’t of any moment to the powers that be among my kind. All that mattered is that this was a war and we must win it. Baby by baby.
“It’s not going well,” she said after a moment. “We’re looking to the Spring Folk to turn that tide.”
“Of course,” I said politely, because I was one of them and it would have been folly to disagree. Nor did I show her my dread, for her casual words were a promise that she would oversee my little experiment, probably personally.
“You’ll do your best,” she said.
“I will.”
“Better than your half-hearted, pathetic efforts on my behalf,” she said.
I didn’t look at her. “I’ll work my worthless tail off, Mistress.”
“You do that, “Elijah.” You do that.”
Her perfume withdrew, leaving the air clean. I took one shallow breath, just to be sure that she’d really left.
I didn’t want this assignment. But as one of the few of my kind, I had no choice. Strange how similarly the short-lived and the immortal clung to life, that they would do unsavory things to preserve it.
***
The fields needed mowing. I needed to clear out the stream, which was, in fact, as choked with weeds as I’d assumed. The chicken coop, though leaning to one side, was still erect, but both the barn and the homestead roofs needed repair. The utilities had been turned on, but half the lights were blown. The list went on and on, but I made it in the light of the new day, and my spirits rose with the sun. By mid-morning, I sat to rest on the dirt in the yard, watching as the wind ruffled the eye-watering brilliance of the shining grasses in the field.
I half-expected Meredith to caper out of the field. She would have loved this place in its exact state… and even after I’d shorn its wildness from its corners, she would have loved to live in the forest edge that abutted my pebbled stream. I imagined her, leaning against that far tree with her hair green as new leaves, peeping with paler ivy. Her eyes had been the delicate yellow of the youngest of shoots. We’d both been Spring people, and I’d served her out of love as well as necessity. People laughed and called us an unlikely pair; surely the line of the Wild and the line of the Field could never harmonize. They didn’t understand that the Wild and the Field both loved growing things, and that pairings had been built on more fragile commonalities.
For Meredith I would have gone to this task with a smile instead of a dense and darksome heart. But she would not thank me for sitting in a yard, ignoring my chickens and my ornery cow, and she would tease me about living in the storm cellar for want of a real roof, so I got to my feet, tucked my shopping list into my jeans pocket and started the chores so I could get to town. The cow didn’t put a hoof in my chest, though I could tell she thought about trying, and she kept her tail to herself instead of lashing my head with it… so it was a good day for cows.
I was just going out to check on the chickens when I found I wasn’t alone. Two people were standing at the gate to the yard. Had a random passerby observed the three of us he might have thought us the same age, which put the humans somewhere in their mid- to late twenties. The male had a mop of black hair and glasses that suggested a bookish nature I wouldn’t have guessed from his greyhound’s body. The female had dark brown skin and thin braids that fell past her shoulders. She had a basket balanced on one lean hip.
“So there is someone here,” I heard the male say to the female before he lifted his voice and called, “Good morning!”
“And to you,” I said, sauntering closer. I couldn’t see my own Glamour working, but I can tell by people’s reactions when it’s in effect. My supposed shape was short, solid and blond, a nondescript version of my actual self. I jazzed it up or dressed it down according to my surroundings. This town was definitely a dress-it-down sort of place. “My name’s Elijah Fields, and I just bought this farmstead.”
“Hi, Elijah,” the male said, holding out a hand. “I’m Louis and this is Beryl. We live closer to town.”
“In town, in my case,” Beryl said, waiting for Louis to let go of me before offering her own pink palm. I liked their grips, warm and silky with sweat. “I work at the seed and feed shop and Louis here fixes most of the machinery in the area.”
“Well, that’s handy to know,” I said. “I was planning on heading into town today. As you can see, my place is in need of some maintenance.”
“I’ll say.” Louis eyed the roof. “Did you sleep in that last night?”
“I’m afraid I did,” I said. “The bats kept me company.” Not a lie, either. Bats liked Delorah; her comings and goings tended to draw them.
“Ugh,” Beryl said. “Critters are fine. Outside, where they won’t mess your house.”
“There’s nothing in the house worth messing yet,” I said with a chuckle.
“Well, now there is,” Beryl said and handed me the basket. I took it by reflex—it was large—but I wished abruptly I hadn’t. Gifts given to my people bind, and I could feel the debt sinking onto me. Ah well. For the powers we were given, we had weaknesses in proportion. I glanced in the basket and found an odd assortment of items: chocolate, strawberry wine, bird seed, towels, even a water filter.
“It looks a little strange, but it’s a little bit of the best in town, plus some necessaries people don’t necessarily think they need,” Louis said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting a welcome wagon.”
“It wasn’t planned,” Beryl said. “It’s not like people ever move here. We were so surprised we just threw some stuff in a basket and brought it along. You know, an excuse to actually see if you were real.”
Strange choice of words. As I grinned, Louis elbowed Beryl without taking his eyes off me and said, “I don’t think we were supposed to say that part.”
“Aw, he doesn’t look like he’d mind.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Tell you what. Let me put this in the cellar where the strays won’t get to it and feed the chickens, and then I’ll walk back to town with you. I need to buy some light bulbs anyway.”
“And you’ll tell us why you moved here?” Beryl asked.
I glanced at her, bemused. “Is this so strange?”
“A little,” Louis said. “Almost all of us were born here.”
“And we’ll die here,” Beryl muttered.
There’s… about forty more pages of this, in which we start to see some small town vs. large town tension, and some racism, and learn why a faerie might prefer to live in a town full of Christians than with Pagans, and all sorts of other oddments.
To be honest, I’m kind of re-attracted to the thing. As if I don’t have enough to do. At least this one would be a standalone! And an urban fantasy! And a quasi-romance! If you’re into weird and awkward romances…
Okay, nevermind. -_-
Mirrored from MCAH Online. Tags: excerpts, faerie farmer, writing
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Before 
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/syndicated.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
pleased
amused
