Next week I’ll see my fiction in print for the first time.
And look, there’s my name on it!
No, it’s not my first publication (check it out!) but this is the first time there’s going to be a hard copy version. Something physical, with my name on it.
It feels more real and permanent than digital which is both exciting and intimidating.
My story is in very good company. Every single one of the stories in this anthology comes at the 1518 dancing plague from a wildly different angle and I love the way all the writers have played with the history.
I’ve tried to write this post a dozen times but I can’t say much that hasn’t been said before. Roe v. Wade was the law of the land all my life and while the religious righties chipped away at the right to abortion at the state level I never in my wildest dreams did I think Roe could be struck down.
Toss the question back to the states, sure—states in which Republicans are gerrymandering Democrats into irrelevance are the ones most likely to end legal abortion, if they didn’t have trigger laws on the books already.
And if the Republicans get a majority you better believe they’ll go for a nationwide abortion ban, and they won’t stop there. What constitutional rights will they go for next? Same-sex marriage, certainly, trans rights, and contraception—that might sound unthinkable but oh yes they will because crushing women’s autonomy was always part of the conservative plan.
My state is safe…for now. I have it easier than some as my reproductive years are almost behind me. Doesn’t make me any less furious that in some states I now have fewer rights than a fetus or a corpse.
I am LIVID for younger generations who are still at risk for unplanned pregnancy. We’ve just set this country back for multiple generations.
If you’re inclined to whinge that I’m “getting all political”—well, yeah. What, you think I can just accept this?
I’m doing all I know to do-give to abortion funds, call my representatives, grind my teeth to powder but it’s not enough and I don’t know what will be. After all, the people who decided this don’t have to worry about being voted out.
Not much more to say, and no interesting pictures to make you click through. I’m writing and working on all my other extracurricular projects that make this timeline bearable, so if I sometimes seem flip I’m just trying to cheer myself up. I hope you’re all finding your ways to deal with [gestures broadly at ALL THIS].
Last weekend I went drank from the firehose, renewed some friendships, and took a hit to my ego. First the good stuff:
The costume conference was my first costuming event in six years and one I desperately needed. Due to both The Book* and covid I’ve not made anything in an age and needed this spark to make me want to make things again.
Being around other people as interested and excited as I am about the subject matter helped too. I lurve me a good online conference, but there’s something about sharing interests and projects face to face that gets lost on Zoom. I renewed friendships and made new ones with a variety of intelligent, creative, and inspired people who get why the correct sort of thread and the right tools for the job matter.
There’s also something about the tactile aspect. To my pleased surprise, most of the conference was hands-on creation, which is great because I learn best by doing. Also, not to malign writing, but between it and my day job I spend a lot of time pushing pixels around. It’s nice to get the physical feedback and a material object I can refer to and use.
Speaking of which…
This was a historic costuming conference so most of the sewing was by hand, and the classes included a variety of small or otherwise hard-to-see things: sewing dark on dark, a needle lace sampler a couple of inches wide, embellishing round button blanks smaller than the end of my thumb, and gold thread so delicate I was afraid of breaking it.
Choosing black velvet for my pleated hat was possibly not the best choice.
Between lack of practice and declining eyesight, these projects were as frustrating as they were interesting. I kept losing my grip on pins and needles and spent half of these sessions with my glasses off just to see what I was doing.
I’ve hand sewn since I was a teenager. I assumed I was good at it and always would be. Turns out my skill is not as permanent as I thought it was.
I can re-learn hand sewing – bright light, magnification, and practice, practice practice! Still, discovering I’m not as good as I thought was a bit of a slap to the face.
On another upside though, I finally figured out what to do with my author’s Instagram! I don’t have any research trips coming up but I do have some sewing projects planned so I’ll be updating that more often.
*Re: The Book: I’ve devoted most of my writing time to book reviews and short stories over the past few months, but I’m getting back on the Fool’s Gold wagon. For the first time since winter I can stand to look at it and make the continuity tweaks I’ve been avoiding. More news forthcoming.
Regency (the early 1800s) is self-explanatory. So is Ancient Rome, medieval Europe, the Tudors – all the stereotypical time periods one thinks of when someone mentions “historical fiction” are so far in the past
World War II is another obvious and popular time period. One of the first big WWII novels, “From Here to Eternity”, was written in 1951 by an author who was at Pearl Harbor, so though it appears on historical fiction lists it’s really just contemporary fiction from an earlier time.
But then consider Wouk’s “Winds of War”, written in 1971, less than 30 years after the end of WWII, is arguably more a war novel than a historical fiction novel, yet is described as a great work of historical fiction now.
To a history buff 30 years doesn’t seem like much but it still jarred me to realize that the Ramones first album (1975) came out only 30 years after World War II ended (1945).
By that logic, punk, which happened over 40 years ago(!), is now ripe fodder for historical fiction.
I think it depends on the person. “Within living memory” is a long range of years – to a teenager the 1990s maybe ancient history but to me it feels like barely a few years ago. To my mom’s generation I imagine it feels like last week (surely the 1990s aren’t historical fiction yet. Surely not).
I’m researching a new novel to set in the 1970s or 80s, and it does appear that I can do so while staying within my genre though. It’s risky, though, because one of the hazards of writing in settings within living memory is that a lot of readers will get thrown out of my book if I get the slightest detail wrong.
So my research will be long and difficult, though I have no doubt I’ll love every minute of it.The
Once upon a time (the 90s), I was a college radio DJ.
In high school, music was everything to me. I spent every waking hour finding it and listening to it. Because I could never do anything halfway, I ran down the rabbit hole of local indie record stores (not the local chain store-my tastes were too obscure for that) and went to record shows to hunt for the real rarities. I discovered new music through 120 Minutes, European penpals, and, yes, college radio.
My obsession extended to the (probably annoying) habit of sharing what (very little) I knew about music with anyone who would listen and many who wouldn’t. Starting around age 14, I constantly made unsolicited mixtapes for friends because “you need to hear this!” If someone didn’t listen to the same cool stuff I was, it was my duty to enlighten them. No fellow fans? Convert them. No scene? Build it.
Or as much as one can when one is in the exurbs with no car and a record collection never exceeding 150ish records, because I traded in as much as I bought. And my collection was primarily records, not the then-newer CD format. Proto-electronic dance music was my preference, and most remixes were (still are?) released in 12″ vinyl.
So my extracurricular trajectory once I hit campus was obvious.
By sophomore year, I played the dance show every other Tuesday in addition to my regular shift. Taking my own records meant dragging a heavy crate up four flights of stairs (the station had no elevator), but it was ok because I was sharing the Good Stuff. The occasional appreciative call assured me I was on the right track.
The next logical step was spinning at clubs and parties. I booked time in the station’s second studio to practice mixing, and when raving (finally!) hit Atlanta I grabbed it with both hands. But I never dragged my records into a club DJ booth.
Several things derailed me. I took a summer off and so lost seniority at the radio station, and with it, the dance show. I spent more time going out than working on my DJ skills. Worst, I dated a guy who discouraged my interest.
By the time I figured out this guy was a jerk, my collection had fallen out of date (then as now, new stuff comes out constantly) and it was too expensive and time-consuming to get back to where I’d left off.
Years passed. I pursued a variety of creative outlets. I broadened my musical horizons and learned just how narrow and shallow my musical “expertise” was. I’m hitting middle age as a reforming music snob who throttles down her recommendations in favor of just letting people enjoy things.
But I still have the records. And now I have a USB turntable.
A Technics 1200 it’s not, but it’s mine and I dug it out of storage and made it work.
I’m finally digitizing everything because much as I love vinyl, I still think digital music is one of the goddamn triumphs of modern media. Yeah, I lose a little sound quality but I’ll cheerfully take a flash drive over a heavy a milk crate of records! I doubt I’ll get back to teenage-level obsession but it’s been nice to revisit old favorites and discover the occasional new (or, at least, new to me) track.
For all my interest in the strange and unusual, I don’t have much experience with it. I’ve never been “intuitive” or “empathetic” or whatever else people call Colin Wilson’s Faculty X. I’ve never seen or experienced anything I can’t explain.
So what am I doing with all these tarot cards?
I’m currently using my Tarot of the Witches deck, a gift from my mother. They’re small and slick enough to shuffle easily.
My parents got me my first deck as a birthday gift when I was in high school, a classic Rider Waite deck (which ought to be called the Rider-Waite-Smith deck). I suspect they had my grandmother’s help, she of the “Fate” magazine subscription with their eclectic back-page classifieds. Where else would one find such things before the internet put everything a only click away?
I was fascinated, in large part by the artwork. The Rider Waite might look a bit flat compared to some of the glossier decks out there (Dali, David Bowie, Dave McKean)* but the outlines are clear, the symbols easy to see. Still, I love variations on a theme so I’ve accumulated a couple more decks over the years.
I never tried to use them for divination, not seriously. Sure, I tried to memorize the meanings and learned a layout or two. But I don’t think I ever believed any of my results. Nothing ever seemed to pan out, even though the meanings were broad enough to interpret however I wanted.
But tarot are good for other things – specifically, shaking up the creative impulse.
Author and tarot designerKris Waldherr‘s session at the Historical Novel Society conference was a compressed version of her extended tarot workshops, and the first time I’ve seen tarot presented as a tool for accessing and activating creativity. Cards can be used as inspiration, as story-structuring (the Major Arcana itself is a story cycle of major archetypes), casting character readings, and more.
But what I’ve found most useful is that the cards jog my right brain. The flexibility of interpretation invites me to make things up about any given card’s meaning or imagery. The symbols get me out of my plodding, linear thinking. Sometimes just looking at the artwork instead of words rests my mind long enough for something to float to the surface.
Asking them questions is useful as well. Never good for a simple “yes” or “no”, layouts help me get at ideas and answers that I already knew but couldn’t quite articulate.
So I view tarot as a less of an oracle** that works in mysterious ways and more as a tool to get at my subconscious.
*Links to specific decks don’t imply endorsement, just personal interest.
**Fun fact: all tarot are oracle cards, but not all oracle cards are tarot. I found a John Dee oracle a while back that I ought to give another look, but one thing at a time.
Like many of us, I’ve spent the majority of the past year and a half within the same four walls. Also, like many of us, I’ve noticed the clutter piling up: papers with no file, CDs that never got shelved, clothes that no longer fit (the “covid 19”, anyone?) and junk I forgot I had, if I knew about it at all.
In the Before Times this was bearable but closed in with it every day became maddening. I’ve got enough mental baggage going into the After Times that I’d like to impose some physical order.
But I just can’t get into the Marie Kondo method.
I took a look at it. A lot of it is sound: be methodical, be ruthless, dispose of anything that doesn’t “speak to the heart”. But I’m not super sentimental, so short of family photos or things I have a long history with very little speaks to my heart.
Besides, she thinks you should only have 30 books. And, I mean, to each their own, but… yeah, I just can’t smoke what she’s smoking.
The clutter does sing to me though, always the same song by the Clash:
Should I stay or should I go?
So I putter around the house picking things up humming the tune to myself and making decisions. Not all of the lyrics work, but enough do:
If you say that you are mine
I’ll be here ’till the end of time
And it will, it really fucking will, until 10 years and 3 houses later this thing is still in your closet or basement and you don’t know where you got it, or why.
If I go, there will be trouble
What if I need it and don’t have it?
What if it is something so utterly unique it is literally irreplaceable?
What if it has enormous sentimental value?
And if I stay it will be double
Where do I put this?
How many inches of shelf space do I sacrifice if I hang onto it?
If I can’t store it, is it an eyesore?
Does it even work anymore?
This indecision’s bugging me
Like you wouldn’t believe.
If you don’t want me, set me free
Because someone else might want this. To the donation box then…
Exactly whom I’m supposed to be
Did this at any point represent who I am as a person, or anything I’m interested in?
Don’t you know which clothes even fit me?
Does this fit? Did it ever? Might it again? Do I care?
So ya gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
So I’ve already donated a few boxes of clothes (and yes, books) but this is ongoing.
I’m going to try to revive this blog as I dig myself out of this real and metaphorical mess. What do y’all want to read about? I’ve got an HNS conference review in the works but am otherwise straining for subject matter.
And how are the rest of you re-entering the world?
Tomorrow HNS2021 starts and I wish I were more excited than I am.
I type this from my home office – the same office from which I’ve been working from home for the past year and a half. So while I have the week off the day job, there’s not much change in my routine. Indeed, I still have domestic obligations that aren’t going away just because I’m on (sort of) vacation.
I’ve made shamefully little progress in my writing, due to…well, everything. It’s been a crap year. I’ve even neglected my blog because I’ve simply not had much to talk about. “Be forgiving of yourself”, yes, but I go into this conference in about the same place as I did back in 2019—except without not even an active blog presence to point to.
My first HNS was back in 2015. Back then I was excited about the conference and the people and the classes and the first feedback on my first draft of The Book!!! This year (my fourth conference, Christ, my fourth!) I just want to be done with the latest draft of The Book so I can start querying it again and move on to the next thing.
More than anything else I want to get excited about the Next Thing. The muse isn’t gone, and I still sit down to Scrivener every morning in case it shows up. I’ve got a couple of vague notions (and one short story I’m actually eager to polish) but that feeling of being so seized by an idea that I can think of nothing else eludes me.
I’m in a ditch. I know I can dig out. It’s taking a hell of an effort though, and I’m an impatient person.
Over the next few months I am going to try and resurrect this blog though. If you have any ideas of what a (still relatively isolated and housebound) writer might blather about I am all ears.*
*Contrary to perceptions my comments are not closed – they’re just closed after 3 weeks and I’ve not written a blog post in 3 months.
I hate year in review posts. Or, at least, reviews of this year. But that’s most of us, isn’t it?
It’s been a rough year. I’ve vented some here but the vast majority I’ve kept to myself. Sharing isn’t always cathartic for me and lately, it’s more like picking a scab.
So as I type this listening to Haçienda’s NYE party I’ll try and winnow out some good that came out of this year (listening to 24 hours of some of the best DJs in the world from the comfort of home isn’t that bad, for example):
I got to see my sister before the world shut down.
The last time I fenced (a competition in early March) I managed to win second:
I finished a short story.
I finished the mock Fortuny dress:
I know, kind of anticlimactic to just drop this here, but I’ve been crawling along on it since June so it doesn’t feel like there’s been some huge stopping point.I even got the flared hem I wanted. It’s not perfectly even, but that’s the nature of creative work – it never is. It’s just Good Enough.
I’ve rediscovered the restfulness of painting:
The dress still needs a belt. This will occupy my restless energy for at least a month.
I’ve managed to keep up with friends and family despite the distance and separation.
I’ve kept my job and my health.
Those I know who were unlucky enough to get covid got only mild cases.
There are multiple effective vaccines.
And I’m lucky enough to be isolating with the best person I could ever be isolated with.
Those of y’all who have made it through 2020—you made it. Really, anything else is icing.
2021 needs to be better. I’m crossing fingers, toes, and anything else I can cross, that it will be.
I know I did when I finally got the news. Between avoiding doomscrolling and computer updates, I didn’t know about Biden’s win until several hours after the fact, but that was my first and most visceral reaction: a relaxation, a letting go. Knowing that Biden’s leads were strong enough that they weren’t likely to change after potential recounts and/or legal challenges took a weight off my shoulders I’ve been carrying for 4 years.
Then a little twinge of pride: Mom was right. Every vote does count and nothing illustrated that better than Georgia’s early lead of just over 1000 votes. I am incredibly heartened to see my home state go blue this time! Given the history of gerrymandering and voter suppression in the state, it was an uphill battle for Dems on the ground, they worked hard and Stacey Abrams (Mom’s fave) should get any position in the Biden administration/DNC she wants!
Followed by the bittersweet: Mom would have loved this but she’s not here to see it.
The Biden/Harris victory speeches were elegant and inspiring, made by candidates who actually seem to give a damn about the country and the people they serve. I look forward to being impressed some more, but right now, the bar is so damn low—is it sad that I’m sufficiently impressed by politicians who speak in complete sentences about unity and science? Hell, I’ll take just the science—Biden’s first move is consulting actual epidemiologists to develop a national plan for combatting the pandemic and about damn time!
Speaking of unity, I don’t know how that is going to happen. Already I’m wading into discussions about what Trump supporters want and how to reach them. I have very mixed emotions.
On the one hand, Democrats as a group have a crap record of understanding the Trump voter mindset. I get that they’re angry, but I’m not sure why or what gets them so angry or desperate that they’ll vote for a demagogue. They’ve been ill-used by their chosen candidate and lied to by their “news” sources but I don’t think that’s what’s pissing them off. So while I’m thrilled to the core of my little black heart at Trump’s public humiliation I can’t bring myself to rub his supporters’ noses in Biden’s victory (well, not too much).
At the same time, it’s hard to trust or forgive people who saw 4 years of rampant stupidity and cruelty and decided “yes, more of this please”. Kids in cages, neo-Nazis lauded as “very fine people”, and 200,000 dead of a deliberately ignored pandemic aren’t just “differences of opinion”. The majority of Trump’s constituency may not be openly hateful but they still seem to find it awfully easy to turn away when others pull out their torches and pitchforks. It gives me a serious goddamn pause.
As such, I totally understand the anger of liberals who have turned themselves inside out to reach across the aisle since before Obama being asked to yet again understand and soothe the very people determined to treat them as subhuman.
So, I don’t know what reconciliation is going to look like if it’s possible at all. This is why I’m not a politician.
I do hope that Biden’s and Harris’ secret service details are freaking ninjas, because I don’t doubt there are a lot of angry Trumpies who feel like they have no recourse but violence.
Maybe the only thing I’m sure of is that the work is not over – if anything, it has just begun. You better believe that the fundraising and voter turnout machines of both parties are going to focus on the January Georgia runoffs like the eye of Sauron.
So I’ll keep donating, and I’m gathering stamps and prepping my printer for VoteForward’s next effort: sending letters to Georgia voters encouraging them to vote. I’d love it if you join me.
