This Devonshire farm dates from the thirteenth century. 153 acres of productive land that's been feeding people without a break for more than seven hundred years. Lots of mature broadleaf woodland. If someone should buy it for me, I wouldn't complain.
It's after midday and I've only been up a couple of hours. The house is a total wreck. I don't know how many people we had here last night for the Clarion West party. Over a hundred, certainly, but with party animals filling the back garden, the driveway, both decks, and every room in the house I couldn't figure out how to estimate. Put it this way: we had more than a hundred name tags, and towards the end guests were tearing them in half and sharing, but still not everyone got one.
Most people enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. Sadly, I made two people cry. Good crying, I think. I have a tendency to tell truth at these events--not mean, just true--and a one or two found it a bit overwhelming. They got that, Oh shit now I'll have to change my life look and wandered off glassy-eyed. Hey, if you don't want to know, don't ask. Especially when I'm working on my second six-pack.
Possibly this is what parties are for: falling in love, seeing your life true, meeting fellow-minded human beings, seeing your place in life. Perhaps they're just for eating crap nibbles (no no, not at *our* parties; our parties have superior nibbles) and drinking until you pass out. Or, looking at the state of our floor, perhaps they're for throwing squashy sticky fruity bread stuff underfoot and trampling it back and forth in an attempt at performance art. (It was excellent food squashy stuff, something called Monkey Bread, brought by our friend, novelist and talented amateur baker, Matt Ruff.)
Last night, clearly some partygoers believed the occasion was for ignoring all the careful labels that explained recycling should go in this bag, rubbish in this bag, food waste in this bag. But the smokers did smoke outside. And everyone did come in at 11 pm because of the local noise ordinance. And many, many people seemed to have a blast.
I didn't get to sleep until about five in the morning. This morning we staggered out of bed to face the majority of the clean up. Before collapsing last night we cleaned up the squashy stuff, and the outside human tornado droppings, but the inside is still littered with half full bottles and smeared paper plates, and the furniture is still all in the wrong place. I'm writing this instead of coping with it, frankly. Pretty soon all the caffeine will hit my system and I'll be able to deal but, ooof, not yet. Not yet.
We were supposed to go to another party this afternoon at a local writer's house but I doubt we'll make it. For one thing, I'm absolutely talked out. For another, I'm not sure my liver will take it. For yet another, I just don't want to make anyone else cry today. Even if it's good crying.
Here are some conversations I engaged in last night: boys as mastabatory toys, hardcore punk bass, how to find your way back to your art, disability and how it comes to us all if we're lucky enough to live that long so yeah you really should make your fucking house accessible, changing life direction, gardening, the ways English people and Americans and Russians are different, how very super specially gorgeous Kelley is, yes it is nice when the crowd parts to let me through, yes it is nice when people bring me beer without me having to ask, yes in fact I am a writer, no don't ever trust one medical opinion, sure if you have cancer followed by an operation then radiotherapy you are most definitely going to feel like shit afterwards for a while because, y'know, you're human, death again, the fabulousness of Kelley again, the oh-it-must-be-awesome-to-be-you again, what a beautiful house we have, when are we going to get a cat, who is that gorgeous woman over there oh it's Kelley, how to approach potential major donors to ask for money for non-profits, the death of publishing, the yes-publishing-is-dying-but-I'm-special-the-rules-don't-apply-to-me, as a writer working from the outside in versus the inside out, the yes-you're-special-but-publishing-rules-do-apply-to-you, and so on. Non stop. Much of it interesting. All of it requiring full attention.
I'm glad we did it. My guess is we'll do it again in two or three years. It's sort of like childbirth. After a while you forget the trauma and just remember the joy and sign up blithely for a repeat performance.
Quick link: just wanted to point readers at this interesting conversation about digital rights management and ebooks going on at thedigitalist.net. I'm thinking one option for Heat & Light might be a simple Word file so readers can format it how they like, where they like. But it would cost more.
Thoughts?
I've never published a short story collection before* because of the tendency of booksellers to look at sales of an author's last book before ordering in the new one. Booksellers mostly don't take into account the fact that they're comparing apples and oranges. I think a collection would sell somewhere between 500 and 5,000 copies in trade paperback. If I sold, say, 1,250 copies of a collection, it would screw up the orders for Hild--which I'm hoping will sell many tens of thousands of copies.
But the world has changed. I don't have to publish a trade paperback through a small press. I could self-publish, electronically. If I did, the formats would be Kindle--which you can read on your iPhone or iTouch as well as on an actual Kindle device--possibly PDF and maybe, depending how much hassle it is to figure out, ePub. The book would be about 100,000 words (about 350 pages), including an introduction and story notes. Naturally it would have a nifty cover. Tentative title: Heat & Light.
But before I go to all the trouble of writing an intro, making a cover, writing story notes, putting the stories in the perfect order, then formatting the whole thing, I need to know if there's any demand.
So here are three questions for you:
Some more info about Heat & Light:
About a dozen stories, of all varieties of speculative fiction and assorted lengths, ranging from a light-hearted 2,000-word piece about the perils of chemistry, to a novelette about sex, lust, and the biochemistry of love, to a novella about shape changers in the sticky heat of Belize. Maybe an off-planet tale and a couple of horror stories. Perhaps some magic realism. Also, if I publish after I've finished the first draft of Hild, a never-before seen (because, y'know, I haven't written it yet) sword-swangin' novella.
Chobble. Somewhere between nibble, gobble, and chomp. As in man looks down at neighbour's ravaged shrubbery and the hang-dog goat next to it. "Aye, well, she's generally a good goat. Does like a bit of a chobble, though."
Chobble. Lovely word.
Buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy ride... Yee ha!I've just read this Times article about the depths serious historians are having to plumb in this terrible economy. They're having to resort to...fiction. Poor sad things.
Authors are seeing advances reduced to a quarter of what they could have expected two years ago as publishers react to the recession by minimising risks.
Among the hardest hit are historians, who have found that books that would previously have earned them an advance of £120,000 are now commanding only £30,000. Some academics have turned from serious history to historical fiction to earn more money.
I can't imagine anything worse for the little lambs. Fiction, eh? Their reputations are ruined!
Yes, behind the Entitled R Us surface (“There is a dangerous tendency among historians to slide into historical fiction, which must be avoided at all costs...”) lies a serious point: literary advances aren't what they used to be. I've spent the last few days pondering economics--looking at industry P&Ls and making sure I understand emotionally as well as intellectually that publishing as we know it is dead. It is. Extinct, gone to its maker, an ex-parrot industry. (Go look at those numbers. Things are worse now--higher discounts, higher returns, lower buy-ins, pressure towards lower prices.)
At some point I'll take some guesses at how the new model/s will work, or won't work, but for now I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that the career I've aimed for since I was 25 (think of a book, outline the book, get paid enough to live on while I write the book, publish the book, earn extra from foreign rights, book club, royalties, think of another book...) no longer exists. I have no doubt, zero, that I'll be able to make my way in the new world; I just don't know what that looks like, exactly. It feels... Well, it feels scary but cool. The rules have changed, the gloves are off, buckle up it's going to be a bumpy ride.
Strangely, I'm grinning.
Update: here's an interesting link.
Here's the story of yet another writer with no health insurance who needs help. I don't know him, but I feel for him. (If you're one of the lucky people who has a Real Job and a steady income, do please think about donating, even if it's just $25.)
Health insurance for the self-employed is brutally expensive. Kelley and I, for example, pay about $900 a month, just for the premium. It doesn't cover dental, optical is minimal, and services such as physical therapy (which I need on a regular basis) are severely limited. Plus, the co-pays for everything are high. In other words, our health costs are many thousands of dollars a year, probably more than our mortgage. But, hey, at least we have health insurance. We're lucky.
It blows me away that a country as rich as this refuses to provide for its citizens. There are many things about the US that I like--I chose to live here, after all--but its care, or lack thereof, for its people isn't one of them.
A stranger to these shores might be forgiven for thinking the American legislature, and therefore the people who vote them in, are evil or stupid or heartless. Healthcare could be fixed; everyone knows this. Every knows how to begin--a public option--but the special interests simply won't allow it. So is it because they're stupid, or evil, or heartless, or, shockingly, all of the above? I don't know. But until we figure it out, all that stands between many writers and health-costs disaster is the kindness of strangers. So I hope you will be kind.
I worry, frankly, that one day I might be in this position: holding out my hand and smiling hard. Today isn't that day. But the possibility exists, right here in the richest country on earth.
Life has been a bit overstuffed this week. So nothing today. Perhaps not tomorrow.
I hope your week has been and will continue to be exactly as exciting as you would like. If you have anything particularly fun/interesting/appalling to share, feel free to do it here. I'll be reading but probably not commenting (I'm busy, not gone).
An eye for an eye a tooth and tooth for a tooth an eye... See this article in the Telegraph:
The procedure began when one of Mr Jones' canine teeth was removed and converted into a holder for a special optical lens by drilling a hole in it.
The tooth was then inserted into his cheek for three months to enable it to grow new tissue and blood vessels.
Then finally came the delicate operation to insert the tooth, complete with the fitted lens into Mr Jones' right eyeball.
Within two weeks of the final operation to implant the tooth in his eyeball his sight returned and he was told he had almost perfect vision in his right eye.
(thanks, Cindy)
Do you ever wake up and think that life is just getting weird?
The Lambda Literary Foundation is compiling a database of all past Lammy winners and finalists, so if you're a Lammy finalist or winner from the past 21 years, please send your contact information. If you're not but you know someone who is, please point them to LLF.
LLF is now on Twitter: http://twitter.com/LambdaLiterary. And pretty soon there will be a new website to play with. (No, I'm not doing it. You can all heave a sigh of relief.) More as and when...
Another hot day coming up. I'm not going to tax your poor tired brains with anything difficult. Instead, we're going to go LOUD. But first, an aside about Kelley's stepfather, Arthur Woodbury.
Art is a musician. He was the first person, I think, to use the Stanford mainframe to compose. He was one of the first people to work on artificial intelligence there. He edited the first incarnation of Source magazine. He taught at the University of South Florida for more than twenty years. (Now he lives up the street.) But for our purposes today, all you need to know is that he played, briefly, with Blue Cheer in the early days.
Until two days ago, I had a vague notion that Blue Cheer hung out at the Fillmore, dropped acid, and played Big Brother & the Holding Company type hippie music. Ha! Wrong wrong wrong. Two days ago, FoAN Pierce, put up four YouTube videos of music for hot summer days on his blog (all fab--go look), one of which was Blue Cheer doing "Summertime Blues":
It completely did my head in: Blue Cheer were the first speed metal hair band! Whoa! (Okay, Status Quo maybe--maybe--were first but Blue Cheer, wow, just listen to them. Judas Priest, Metallica...all those people wouldn't exist without this sound.)
So, hey, watch it again, and this time turn it up to eleven.
Here's a cartoon that I stole from the New Yorker (who appear to have unilaterally cancelled my digital subscription, so I'm not much inclined to play by the rules). It's by Farley Katz. (Go buy something of his.) I keep looking at it and grinning.
I find that I'm in the mood for something like this, something insane and slightly dangerous--but recoverable from. You ever feel like that?
This week I'm in book shark mode, cruising relentlessly after a Hild plot thread that won't quite let me catch it. I will catch it, and soon--see definition of 'relentless'--but it's meant not much sleep or attention for other things.
Update: Ha! Got it! Shook it and tore it to bits. Now I get to write a battle scene! (My version of swimming and sleeping with my eyes open. Picture me with a big shark smile...)
We were having dinner the other day with a friend and her new sweetie, and talking about food. Kelley had cooked the meal (butternut squash soup, pot roast--with potatoes tossed in butter and oregano, steamed cabbage tossed in butter and black pepper--followed by rhubarb and apple crumble with delicious local cream). K was explaining that she generally did the baking and for-guests cooking and that I was the one who just made shit up sometimes. She said I was the "MacGyver of food." I was really taken with that description and so thought I'd share a recent MacGyver meal.
We had one potato, one onion, two carrots, a bag of mushrooms, a variety of herbs, half a bulb of garlic, some frozen vegetable juice, left-over cream from the crumble yumminess, left-over wine, half a bag of lentils and a variety of nuts. I made nut-and-lentil loaf with mashed potatoes and carrots and red wine cream sauce. The next day for lunch I had a nut loaf sandwich with Branston pickle. (Butter bread, warm up slice of nut loaf in microwave. Smear Branston pickle on one side of bread. Slap together. Eat. Trust me, it works.)
Here's the narrative version--how I approached everything. (I've included more orderly instructions at the end for those who like their recipes to look like recipes.)
Put the lentils in a bowl to soak and get out the veggie juice (saved from things like steaming cabbage) to defrost. Combine the hazel nuts (say half a pound), almonds (quarter of a pound) and walnuts (half a pound). Grind them up to meal in a food processor. Drain the lentils, put them in a pan with the vegetable juice and some extra water and boil until very, very cooked (doesn't take long--forty minutes maybe--but don't, do notnotnot, add salt at this stage; they'll turn all leathery). Then chop up the mushrooms very fine (I'm guessing there were about 6 ounces of mushrooms, maybe two cups when minced--but, eh, I'm just guessing) and mince the onion and a tiny bit (one or two cloves--it's a delicate taste we're after, not something to drive the vampires away). Set aside one or two mushrooms for the sauce. Saute the onion, garlic, and mushrooms in olive oil until it turns translucent. Then glug in some wine (half a cup?) and cook the whole thing down. As it reduces, add herbs to taste (sage is good--but anything kind of hot-weather dusty, e.g. oregano, would also work). In a large bowl, combine lentils, nuts, herby wine glop and smush about. Turn into a non-stick loaf pan (or oil up a non-nonstick pan) and pat into a loaf shape (I use a wooden spatula to kind of push down the sides), cover in foil, and bake in the oven at 350 for, oh, hmmn, dunno, fifty minutes?
I assume you know how to make mashed potato and have a favourite way to prepare carrots. (I like carrots almost anyway you can think of; they're a practically perfect vegetable--but this would also work with a green veg like cabbage or Brussel sprouts--love those things but they've gotta be fresh.)
For the sauce, melt butter in the frying pan you used for the glop earlier, slice thinly the mushroom you set aside, saute, pour in more wine, cook down. Before serving stir in some cream. You don't really need the sauce--the loaf is moist enough if you don't overcook it--but it looks pretty and sorta pulls it all together.
If you just happen to have a perfectly ripe nectarine to share for dessert it's even better. Also, note that if you futz with the sauce (use oil instead of butter, flour instead of cream) and the mashed potatoes (mash without butter), then the whole meal is vegan.
For those of you who like their recipes to look like recipes, here you go (but remember, every single number here is a guess):
8 oz walnuts
8 oz hazelnuts
4 oz almonds
8 oz dried brown lentils
6 oz mushrooms
1 large onion
1/2 cup red wine
2 small cloves garlic
pinch of sage
Grind together nuts to coarse meal. Cook lentils. Mince and saute vegetables in oil. Add wine to saute pan, along with sage, reduce by half. Combine everything in large bowl. Turn into non-stick loaf pan, pat to shape, cover, bake at 350 degrees for 45-60 mins. Serve with mashed potato, vegetable of your choice, and creamy red wine sauce.
Delicious, nutritious and cheap.
I remember the last century fondly. In 1996 email management was easy: answer it all the same day, every day. Inbox Zero was my default. Now, oof, Inbox Zero looks like a mythical beast. (A brief definition: inbox = the list of emails newly arrived and/or marked as new so I remember to respond. Ha ha ha.)
So how many of you have ever achieved the nirvana of Inbox Zero? Have you done it this century?
How do you manage your mail?
Some people manage it like laundry: just leave it lying around, and then it either gets so stale you can throw it away without a qualm, or it becomes magically fresh again, i.e. interesting, and you're motivated to respond. Some people despair on a regular basis, delete everything, and send a cheery general email: just lost my email, so if you didn't get a response, email me again.
I used to organise and save my mail. I had a massive 12-year archive, which I lost in a hard drive meltdown in 2005. I was mostly relieved--though very sorry to have lost the couple of dozen emails from Carolyn, my sister, who died in 2001.
I have, in fact, achieved Inbox Zero once this year--around February, I think. I wish I'd thought to take a screenshot of the momentous event. Today I'm going to do the cull-the-stale thing (requests for blurbs for books long-since published; requests for essays for journals already in press; requests for auction items for causes long-since failed--are you seeing a pattern?) and reduce the inbox by about a third.
So how about you? How do you deal? Check as many answers as apply.
...and it's a good thing. Look at these two young women. They've just been voted "best couple" by their senior class at a South Bronx high school:
Mention the South Bronx to marriage equality advocates in New York, and many think of State Sen. Ruben Diaz, Sr., the fiery Pentecostal minister and legislator from the area who vehemently opposes same-sex marriage. Ask young lesbians Victoria (“Vikky”) Cruz and Deoine Scott about that kind of resistance, however, and it barely seems to square with their personal experience as an out couple in an area high school.
Vikky 17, and Deoine, 18, were overwhelmingly voted “best couple” by their peers in the graduating class at Mott Haven Village Preparatory High School, a first for the small public high school located in the senate district represented by Diaz, Sr. Vikky, who participates in the Radio Rookies program for aspiring young journalists sponsored by local public radio station WNYC-FM, reported on the historic experience in this piece that first aired on Thursday.
Sometimes I try to imagine how my life might have been if the world had treated me and my first girlfriend this way thirty years ago. And you know what? My imagination utterly fails me, it just fuses into a lump. The differences, for me, are literally unimaginable. Wow. I can't begin to tell you how pleased I am for these two girls. What an amazing life they have ahead of them.
It was cool to meet so many of our neighbours--some people who have only been here for a year or two and others who have seen the place go from unincorporated farmland to a city neighbourhood. One man, with a six year-old daughter, started to introduce himself to a neighbour and she said, "Oh, you're the Eagle Scout who knocked on my door all those years ago and signed me up to learn CPR!"
The food turned out better than any potluck has a right to. The beer was cold, the sun warm, the conversation lively. It turns out our neighbours are heartier partyers than me--I lasted about two hours but many people were there for four.
Here for your delectation and delight are two pix (taken by the lovely K). This is the commons:
This is a view from the other direction (our driveway on the left):
It's getting towards the end of Life Away From Keyboard week. I should be back, paying full attention, on Monday. Today we're prepping for our big neighbourhood garden party/potluck BBQ on the commons next to our house. We've invited about 30 families; no idea how many will show. But we have two grills, a badminton net up in a neighbour's garden, shady trees, coolers full of beer.
It'll be good to meet some of the people who live a couple of blocks up the street. You never know when that apocalypse will make us glad to be a community. Plus they might, y'know, bring good food...
The weather looks perfect: low 70s clear sky, light breeze. No is currently mowing their lawn, reroofing their house, or hammering on their deck, so it's peaceful, too.
I hope your Saturday is shaping up well.
I met Kelley 21 years ago today. I'm still delighted. And so far we're having a practically perfect day.
I wonder if anyone at this year's Clarion or Clarion West is falling in love? One day, someone's going to write a romance novel set in a 6-week writing workshop.
Two pics of us, then and now:
This is still Life Away from Keyboard week. Here for your ponderation is an article from the Telegraph:
Women gardeners' voices speed up growth of tomato plants much more than men's, it found.
In an experiment run over a month, they found that tomato plants grew up to two inches taller if they were serenaded by the dulcet tones of a female rather than a male.
How many of you talk to your plants, inside or out?
