throw another bear in the canoe

there will always be a faster gun. but there'll never be another one like you.

Thu, 24 May 2012 17:21:40 GMT

Cover art for my novelette "Faster Gun," (Working title: "John Henry Holliday is Sick of the These Time-Traveling Assholes") forthcoming on Tor.com this summer.

The artist is Richard Anderson.

i just know that i'm harder to console

Thu, 24 May 2012 02:01:59 GMT

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!

This is just to say....

Fri, 18 May 2012 16:11:20 GMT

....that there's going to be an Annual Booksale when I get back from WisCon, as there are giant boxes of books all over my house again.

You have been forewarned!

Also, I will be doing an r/Fantasy (that's Reddit) Ask Me Anything on June 5th. Questions may be posted all day in the appropriate thread, and I will answer them in the evening.

Because y'all don't get enough of a chance to listen to me babble...

i'd be drawn and quartered if i could keep you in my bed

Thu, 17 May 2012 19:17:29 GMT

Look what the Book Elves left on my porch today!

You can get yours here.

Also, some other good news today, which I will share when I can.

your brain works a lot faster than mine.

Thu, 17 May 2012 17:14:52 GMT

Anything else I had to say about the Criminal Minds season finale is subsumed in ZOMG Reid knitted it himself!

He makes a pretty good Four.

Also, I'm glad they did the Emily thing the way they did the Emily thing; it's good to see Will but he should have known better; I'm pretty sure that UNSUB plan fails on usual the Evil Mastermind overclever subroutine of relying on a coincidence they could not have known about in advance; I bet that's Kevin's cousin; Penelope needs a Stern Talking To of the variety she just gave Morgan a few weeks back; I'm still the only person in this fandom who likes Strauss, but dammit I still like Strauss; and FASTER JJ KILL KILL!

Discussion in comments of parallels between JJ in Hit/Run and Hotch in 100 is open for business.

don't you wish there were another picture of che guevara?

Thu, 17 May 2012 16:21:15 GMT

The following contains discussion of fitness, health, and weight issues. If that is triggery for you, please page down now!

Ob. Disclaimer: I absolutely support anyone's right to live in their body as they choose, at any size they find comfortable. This is entirely about me, and my efforts to reclaim my health and strength after half a decade of abusing and neglecting my poor body.

Well, I'm wearing a pair of jeans that, based on the brand and cut, must date back to 1987 or so.

They're Chic, size 14 tall, and in high school they would have been baggy on me. Now, they fit loosely except for the waist, which is a bit snug--but then, that happened when I was sixteen, too, though the jeans were size 11 then. This is because eighties jeans were cut to fit absolutely nobody except a young Brooke Shields. They do, however, still make my ass look fantastic, a characteristic generally not shared by modern lower-rise jeans, which make nobody's ass look good. Not mine, not yours. Possibly Jessica Simpson's.

But they do let one bend at the middle without pinching one's ribcage on the waistband, which I suppose is a win.

I guess that means I am officially back in my high school clothes, generously speaking. As I also have a black bat-winged sheath dress from Chico's that I loved in high school, and have been hanging on to for sentimental reasons. I might dust it off for an eighties party later this year. If only I had some slouchy elf boots.

I suspect I will save the jeans for eighties nights at goth clubs. I think I still have one pair of slouchy socks hoarded away somewhere... ;-)

This is all prelude to saying that I'm hovering somewhere around 187, and have been for about a month now with the usual ups and downs--but I'm obviously building muscle, because I seem to be shrinking. At one point a month or so ago I noticed I had obliques, there under the slack middle-aged tummy. This week, I noticed the top set of ab muscles. Also, my thighs are no longer getting in my way during most of yoga--that stopped after scott_lynch and I walked somewhere around 40 miles in three days of NYC. I can do Hero's Pose and Lightning Pose without cheating now, and my body doesn't actually interfere with my ability to do a lunge anymore.

It's still getting in the way of twists, and my biceps interfere with Eagle Pose, but that's not new. I'm a solid girl.

I can also wear most of my beloved old corp-goth work clothes again, justifying my hoarding tendencies. Two suits are a bit tight, but they were always on the skinny end of the rack. I had to move the buttons back on a green suit I love, that I had expanded a bit when I was gaining weight. It's a size 12.

I am facing the surprising possibility of shrinking out of my wardrobe again. In any case, look for a much better-dressed Bear at conventions this summer, since I love these clothes and don't have a dayjob to wear them to anymore.

Curiously, I'm about 17 pounds heavier than the last time I fit in these clothes, which tells us about the power of rock-climbing. Muscle is heavy!

My current weight goal is somewhere in the neighborhood of 160 pounds. Which should make the same size, roughly, as when I was in high school and weighed 150-ish. I was on track and field then, and at my most muscular before now, but I'm pretty sure my upper body now dwarfs what I had then. (Shoulders! They're awesome!) Also, um. Boobs. Some cup sizes have come to roost since then. Ahem.

So I'm less than thirty pounds from my goal, which is very pleasant. My body is behaving as it should; everything physical is so much easier than it was in 2004, when I couldn't walk a half-mile without agonizing pain (now I can run five 12-minute miles back to back); and I'm enjoying the reduction in back and joint pain and the ability to sleep comfortably on my side or back again without feeling like my own belly is crushing me.

I seem to be part of a coterie of SFF writers and fans on the "get healthy the old-fashioned way; move more and eat less crap" bandwagon, which pleases me. (personally, I have been following the efforts of Scalzi, Doctorow, Lynch, Sykes, Downum, Silverstein, Connolly, Buckell, and I'm sure a few others whose names are eluding me because it's time for lunch.) It pleases me because I'd like to see a lot of these people around for a damned long time.

I'm also noticing changes in appetite, which tell me my body is adapting to its new lower caloric demands. Two whole pieces of fruit is too much to eat with lunch now; I am contented with half of each (plus some protein and vegetables and brown carbs, of course). (I eat a lot of fruit and vegetables, about ten servings most days; I've finally figured out how to reach my RDA minimum of potassium, and it goes like this: a cup of fortified cereal in the morning (Special K protein plus, since I can't find Total Protein around here anymore), half an orange, a small banana, eight ounces of green coconut water, and half a sweet potato. Some strawberries or mango don't hurt either, or some beans.))

For those who are curious about how I did it (my doctor was, and she laughed out loud when I said, "Counting calories, restricting sweets and saturated fat, and getting off my ass!" She then replied, "So doing all the boring shit we tell people to do, huh?"), here's my plan, fondly called The Discipline:

It's a refined version of the Hacker Diet, which relies on good old thermodynamics to make things happen. I'm keeping my caloric intake around 1700-1900 calories a day, exercising for about an hour a day on average, drinking lots of water and not too much caffeine, avoiding refined carbs (mostly: I get 100-200 calories of "treat" a day, which could be a glass of wine or a beer, or a brownie, or... PRO TIP: Guinness is lower in calories than most "lite" beers, and tastes a fuckload better. Now you know.), eating roughly twice as many vegetables as the FDA suggests, and trying to keep my protein intake around 20% and my fat intake around 25%--and also trying to keep my protein intake above 100g a day without too much reliance on red meat, or meat at all. (I do use protein supplements--whey and soy, mostly.) I eat a lot of high-protein dairy (skyr!) and I try to limit myself to 100-200 calories a day from refined sugar, which is roughly 20-40 grams. Or, well, half a can of non-diet Coke.

Managing sodium intake is a killer. But I'm working on it.

Sleeping eight hours a night also pisses me off, but it seems to be necessary. I got six last night, and noticed the difference on my run this morning--I kept having to walk up hills I normally cruise up in second or third gear.

I also exercise six days a week--usually two days of climbing (with a little yoga); three days of running; one day of yoga. I also try to get in some vigorous outdoor time when possible--kayaking, hiking, walking the dog. Walking to the store. Picking up my jump rope for five minutes on an otherwise sedentary day.

As I said, one of the most successful weeks of the Discipline recently was when Scott and I were on Manhattan, eating every goddamned thing in sight. But we also made a point of walking two-thirds the length of the island at least once (Riverside to Chinatown, with side trips), and we walked as much as time permitted, otherwise. I know it sounds like my fitness routine is crushing, and seven or eight years ago, it would have crushed me. (Hell, I had the pleasant experience recently of putting in a Rodney Yee video that, in 2006, I could do maybe fifteen minutes of, and having the full hour workout be only just pleasantly challenging.)

But remember, when I started out, I weighed 285-290 pounds and could not walk a half mile. One good habit builds on another, it turns out--and I find myself drinking more green and herbal tea because black tea doesn't taste good after the first mug, and I find myself not hungry for seconds unless the food is exceptionally good, and even then not always. There's not actually a lot of privation; I just want more of what's healthy for me.

It's okay if I have a measured ounce of cheese on my beans and rice, instead of as much as I can fit in the bowl. It still tastes just as good! Better, since it's as easy to afford small quantities of really delicious food as it is large quantities of sort of icky food. And far more satisfying.

Who knew?

Which is so different from all my old pathological ways of dealing with food and drink that it's a little croggling.

Most of this, of course, is just basic health maintenance stuff, and not too hard once you get the hang of it. And it's not like I don't give myself days off: I will in fact have two or three drinks on a night out, for example. I'm fully planning on onion rings after archery tonight when I get dinner with the Thursday Night Shooters.

Just... not too damned often. And budget for it.

It's not the extremes that set one's level of health; it's the baseline.

half angel. half eagle. one eye on the world.

Wed, 16 May 2012 22:15:36 GMT

The first volume of Shadow Unit is now available as a proper paper book with a gorgeous Kyle Cassidy cover.

It will be available through Amazon within a week, and will slowly filter its way through the rest of the online distribution system.

This volume contains the first half of Season 1. Volume 2 should be available in about a month, with other volumes to follow.

And of course, Shadow Unit in its entirety is available for free online, and as a modestly priced ebook through the usual sources.

The story began in 2007, and will end in 2013. It's not too late to discover one of the coolest collaborative serials in the genre internets!

our prayers are always answered. that miracles can happen.

Tue, 15 May 2012 20:54:51 GMT

I just had one of those labor-saving strokes of genius that I need to share with the world. Which is to say, the easiest method ever in the history of popovers.

Here is my basic popover recipe:

2 tablespoons solid fat (butter or animal fat (duck fat, mmm) or solid shortening)
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (250 ml) whole milk, at room temperature
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup (140 g) all purpose or white whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon vital wheat gluten

This tactic assumes you own a wand blender and a wide-mouthed quart Mason jar and a microwave. If not, just make the popovers the way you normally would--or if you are missing the wand blender but have a normal blender, you can melt the butter in a different container and use the normal blender.

About an hour or two before dinner, take your Mason jar. Put the butter/whatever in it. Put it in the microwave and melt it. (If you are making Yorkshire pud and are waiting for the roast to be finished before you add the fat, skip this step for now, and stir the fat in before you bake the popovers.)

Add the milk, eggs, salt, and sugar to the butter in the Mason jar (or blender)(or just put them in the blender if you are adding the fat later). Do not put the eggs directly into the hot butter before diluting it with the milk. Otherwise you will have scrambled eggs, which are nice, but not popovers.

Whiz them all up with the wand blender.

Add the flour and the wheat gluten.

Whiz that too, until you have a nice smooth batter.

Let the batter sit on the counter until dinner is nearly ready. If you are roasting something at 400 degrees, you're good; otherwise preheat your oven to 400 (F). (200 C)

Liberally grease 9 cups of a 12-cup muffin tin, or if you are making Yorkshire pud, drizzle a little of the fat from the roast into the bottom of the cups. If you have one of the giant-sized six muffin muffin tins, then you will have bigger popovers and they need to bake a little longer.

Using silicon cups for this results in popovers without stumps or a lot of loft, as they just levitate themselves out of the super-slick cups entirely. They still taste good!

If you are using fat from the roast you're making, add it now and stir it in.

Divide the popover batter between the nine greased cups. You can just pour it from the blender or the Mason Jar.

Stick in oven. Do not peek! If you open the door before they are set, they won't rise properly.

Bake for 35 minutes or until deep mahogany brown.

Pull pan from oven. Tilt popovers in cups, or remove them to a rack or basket. Pierce each one with a bamboo skewer. (careful of the steam!) The purpose of these two procedures is to (a) prevent them from getting soggy and (b) prevent them from collapsing.

Eat.

However you meant to eat them. Do not plan on leftovers.

Wash your one. dirty. dish. Oh, and the wand blender, sure. And the muffin tin. But that was inevitable.

ETA: Nota Bene

For even more loft in your popovers, preheat the muffin tin with the grease in it in the 400-degree oven for a few minutes before pouring the batter in. This is a bit tricky, though, and can be skipped.

life used to be so hard

Mon, 14 May 2012 14:53:03 GMT

invaderxan offers a beautiful artist's impression of sunset on Venus. With bonus rising evening star--Earth and its Moon, in this case.

but now there's evidence she's alive.

Mon, 14 May 2012 00:58:36 GMT

So I'm finally catching up on the last three episodes of Criminal Minds. And damn, I really like "The Company."

the trigger that almost nobody wants to pull

Thu, 10 May 2012 14:26:54 GMT

For centuries, the wampyr has drifted from one place to another. From one life to another. It's 1962, and he's returned to New Amsterdam for the first time since he fled it on pain of death some sixty years before. On the eve of social revolution, on the cusp of a new way of life, he's nevertheless surrounded by inescapable reminders of who he used to be.

For a thousand years, he's chosen to change rather than to die. Now, at last, he faces a different future....

The capstone novella to the New Amsterdam sequence, ad eternum* will be shipping soon. It can be preordered here!

The limited edition comes with a 9,000 words chapbook, "Underground," which concerns the adventures of Mary in Paris between New Amsterdam and "Twilight."

Sf Signal has a review up. It's spoilery, and there's one factual error, which is probably my fault for being insufficiently clear for new readers. But:

"...top notch: stylish without being hard to consume, descriptive without being padded, and conducive to engrossing the reader into this world."

WIKTORY!!!

*or Ad Aeternum, if you prefer. In retrospect, the lowercase/bad-Mediaeval-Latin thing doesn't work as well as I'd hoped. Oh well. I'll just leave this here as an apology for anybody who is irritated.

Makes it easier to google....

no sleep til brooklyn

Thu, 10 May 2012 05:00:02 GMT

3000 words today to finally put this damned overdue novelette to bed. Tomorrow, I give "Terrestrial Radio" a final revision pass and start my heavy research reading on "The Deeps of the Sky," which is a narrative in search of a conflict currently.

There's a lot of ground to cover before I head out to WisCon.

State of the Honeydew:

2012:

~~"The Death of Terrestrial Radio:" April 30, 2012~~
"The Body of the Nation:" May 09, 2012
Weird West story: June 1, 2012
OWW EC Review: May 15, 2012
"The Deeps of the Sky" (Hard SF adventure story): June 1, 2012
OWW EC Review: June 15, 2012
OWW EC Review: July 15, 2012
First draft EII story: July 15, 2012
"The Wreck of the Charles Dexter Ward" (Collaborative short with truepenny): July 31, 2012
Fireside story: August 15, 2012
Final draft EII story: September 1, 2012
"Underworld": September 15, 2012
An Apprentice to Elves: 2012 with truepenny

travel:
~~CAPA University: May 12, Hartford CT~~
WisCon: May 25-28, Madison WI
4th Street Fantasy Conversation: June 21-24, Minneapolis MN
ConVergence: July 5-8, Minneapolis MN
Readercon: July 12-15, Burlington MA
Armadillocon: July 26-29, Austin TX
Pi-Con: August 17-19, Enfield CT
ChiCon: August 30-Sept 3, Chicago IL
Viable Paradise: October 5-14, Oak Bluffs MA
World Fantasy Convention: November 1-4, 2012, Toronto ON Canada

2013:
Modern fantasy story: January 2013
Steles of the Sky: January 2013
"Dark Leader": March 2013
"Something's Gotta Eat T. rexes": September 2013

travel:
World Fantasy Convention: October 31-November 3, 2013, Brighton England UK

No fixed deadline:

Karen Memory
Smile (unless its name is actually Salt Water)
Unsuitable Metal
Gotham Jazz
Untitled Gangland Urban Fantasy That Keeps Bugging Me
"Form & Void"
"Untitled Space Opera Thingy" aka "Periastron"
"Posthumous Jonson"
"Steel"
"On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera"
"This Chance Planet"
"Flush"

the good old days are gone

Thu, 10 May 2012 03:48:35 GMT

This is a gym update, and not much more.

I'm back to working 5.10s, which makes me feel like a real grownup climber, and if I can continue without re-straining my shoulder or fucking up a pulley tendon, I may persist in being a real grownup climber. I never really expect to get much beyond 5.10s -- I started too late in life, and I only climb two or three days a week -- but I feel more secure on the wall than I ever have, and I'm even eyeing a 5.8 on the huge, terrifying, massively overhung wall on the back of the gym. I got up one thing on it a couple of years ago, but that was before they re-engineered it to take out the rest point in the middle. Maybe in another ten, twenty pounds or so.

I did get two holds higher on the 5.10a that I have declared my current project (there's another one I tried yesterday and will come back to, but it's very overhung) and I got up all but the last ten feet of a brutal 5.9 that would be a ten anywhere else on the planet except at the madly underating gym where I do most of my climbing. A combination of two slopers and a long reach to the third hold, with largely absent feet, defeated me. But I fought it until my hands quit. Which is something.

I am learning about slopers. What I have learned is that slopers suck.

This means I'm back to climbing as well as I was last August, although I think I'm not yet quite as strong. The stamina is good, though--running helps, it turns out.

And now back to trying to write the last damned scene of this story.

pick a place and stick a pin in

Mon, 07 May 2012 16:24:18 GMT

The Giant Ridiculous Dog is the only boy in seanan_mcguire's Wicked Girls comic. Which I love with all the love in the world. And not just because she draws my hair the same way scott_lynch does.

In other news, Kirkus lists Range of Ghosts as one of its ten must-read fiction books for spring!

your own personal waterloo.

Mon, 07 May 2012 15:23:53 GMT

This is where I was last night:

Patrick Watson was there too and likewise awesome, but youtube fails me.

not that I have any particular reason for asking, but...

Wed, 02 May 2012 20:20:18 GMT

You ever wonder what all the women who made their livings moaning on metal records in the 90's are doing for a living now?

skateboards. i've almost made them respectable.

Wed, 02 May 2012 20:13:05 GMT

Hey guys guess what?!

My Another Word column ("Dear Speculative Fiction, I'm Glad We Had This Talk") is live at Clarkesworld.

Today is Book Day for the audio version of Range of Ghosts. Narrated by the awesome Celeste Ciulla, it's available via iTunes and at Audible.com.

Meanwhile, the eleventh Shadow Unit ebook is out.

It contains "The Small Dark Movie of Your Life" by Leah Bobet, "Walking Back To Houston" by Chelsea Polk, "Bulletproof" by Emma Bull, "Down the Rabbit Hole" by Sarah Monette, and more, and is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords for only $2.99, and at other major ebook sellers soon.

The first volume is only 99 cents at Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords.

Or you can read all the stories free at Shadow Unit. Just check out Episodes or Getting Started.

tell your mother than you walked all night

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 03:31:25 GMT

New Sunday night Shadow Unit!

Sometimes heroism is a very quiet struggle.

her name was anne and i'll be damned if i recall her face

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 00:17:49 GMT

D.C.I. Garrett sighed, and said, "I assume there's no shortage of coffee aboard a paddle boat?"

O'Brien cleared his throat. "I shall have young Carter here fetch you some. Cream and sugar?"

"Black," said Garrett. "I don't plan to enjoy it."

Today's darling, for your delectation.

get your clogs on the floor step up step up step up and do more

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 19:54:50 GMT

That's the Brief Book Tour accomplished. Now, to write some short stories post haste and chop chop and schnell and all like that.

State of the Honeydew:

2012:

~~"Latency": March 25, 2012~~
~~Revise Shattered Pillars: March 31, 2012~~
Column for Clarkesworld: April 6, 2012
OWW Editorial Review: April 15, 2012
Taxes: April 15, 2012
"The Death of Terrestrial Radio" (new story for collection): April 30, 2012
~~Untitled Abby Irene stories: May 1, 2012~~
An Apprentice to Elves: June 1, 2012 with truepenny
Weird West story: June 1, 2012
"The Deeps of the Sky" (Hard SF adventure story): June 1, 2012
First draft EII story: July 15, 2012
"The Wreck of the Charles Dexter Ward" (Collaborative short with truepenny): July 31, 2012
Fireside story: August 15, 2012
Final draft EII story: September 1, 2012
"Underworld": September 15, 2012

travel:
Boskone: February 17-19, Boston MA
ConStellation: April 13-15, Lincoln NE (Guest of Honor)
KGB Reading (not mine: I'm Mr. Lynch's arm candy for this one): April 18, 2012 KGB bar, Manhattan
Reading/Signing (with Scott Lynch): April 21, Boston MA, Pandemonium Bookstore
~~Reading/Signing (with Scott Lynch)~~: April 24, Albany NY, Flights of Fantasy bookstore
Hanging out with ~~MITSFS~~ ~~(with that Lynch guy): April 25, MIT, Cambridge~~
CAPA University: May 12, Hartford CT
WisCon: May 25-28, Madison WI
4th Street Fantasy Conversation: June 21-24, Minneapolis MN
ConVergence: July 5-8, Minneapolis MN
Readercon: July 12-15, Burlington MA
Armadillocon: July 26-29, Austin TX
Pi-Con: August 17-19, Enfield CT
ChiCon: August 30-Sept 3, Chicago IL
Viable Paradise: October 5-14, Oak Bluffs MA
World Fantasy Convention: November 1-4, 2012, Toronto ON Canada

2013:
Sword and sorcery story: January 2013
Modern fantasy story: January 2013
Steles of the Sky: January 2013
"Dark Leader": March 2013
"Something's Gotta Eat T. rexes": September 2013

travel:
World Fantasy Convention: October 31-November 3, 2013, Brighton England UK

No fixed deadline:

Karen Memory
Smile (unless its name is actually Salt Water)
Unsuitable Metal
Gotham Jazz
Untitled Gangland Urban Fantasy That Keeps Bugging Me
"Form & Void"
"Untitled Space Opera Thingy" aka "Periastron"
"Posthumous Jonson"
"Steel"
"On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera"
"This Chance Planet"
"Flush"

you pushed a button and could watch it on the television. those motherfuckers didn't last too long.

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 22:46:18 GMT

So it's International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Wretch day, which also happens to be Shakespeare's Birthday (Observed).

In honor, here's my short story "Los Empujadores Furiosos," in its entirety.

Where does it go?

That's what you ask of doors, isn't it, assuming they go somewhere; they're there for a purpose--the purpose of getting you from this place to that place and possibly back again. If you're very lucky, or very careful, that is. Over the course of my life, I find I've never had much luck with them.

This particular door was outlined in arches that made me think of triangles, even though they weren't triangular. A long proportional curve in nut-brown, mottled stucco rose into an airy frame, inviting thoughts of peace and meditation. Of progress. The air smelled of mission summer--eucalyptus and bougainvillea. Of sunheated sand. And blood.</span>

And beyond the door, I could hear the rustle of a crowd that had come to watch a man fight for his honor, and the honor of a woman as well. La Tauromaquia. The battle of the bull.

There was no handle on this side, just a bar of brass running across the equator of the not-quite-pointed not-quite-gothic shape, just below two windows too bright with sunlight to see out. It looked heavy.

You look at doors, and you wonder every time. Where does it go? Where can it take me? And always, of course, when you're lost--is this the right one? Finally, the right one? And if not, where does it lead this time?

The metal was cool to the touch; the wood was warm. How do I get myself into these things. A thought that stopped having a question mark on the end of it fifteen years ago.

At least.

I laid my hand flat against the wood and shoved with all my strength, and came into the Plaza de Toros at Puertofuego blinking against the glare, the heat ruffling the fine hairs at my nape. My cloak was in my hand. My ancestral sword was left behind, along with my ancestral name, but I smiled at a cheer that rose to meet me: the first such I had heard in many years. At least my cause was better loved that day than I, myself.

On an expanse of dazzling sand, my bull waited for me.

How do I get myself into these things.

Quartz crystals glittered white as salt underfoot. Where my boot pressed them down, sometimes I could see red stains they had been raked to cover. I kept my eyes on my opponent as I advanced, and on the portly black-clad master of ceremonies who stood beside him. The roar of the crowd, glare-hidden in the towering seats, the heat of the sun oppressing my head--and still I had eyes for nothing but the bull.

The bull that was a legend: roaned like a cliff of red granite, thirty-nine gilded notches in his steel-shod horns, and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he expected me to be the fortieth and the price of his freedom. The insipidly wealthy Don Antonio wouldn't buy anything but the best.

El Zorro Rojo. The reddest red fox of them all.

"Toro," I said, bowing low.

"Señor Benedicto," el Zorro said. The master of ceremonies stepped away to permit us speech. "I'll kill you if I can."

"You're but Antonio's champion. You know I've been in many wars, el Zorro. There's no shame in it if you yield."

"There are rumors," he answered, "that you have not always acquitted yourself so well." His cleft hoof harrowed the sand, turning over grains mottled red and white, roan as the massive wall of his side. I raised my head like a galled horse and fixed my gaze on Antonio over the bull's impassive shoulder. Antonio--sitting in the lowest tier, where hot blood might even splash him--turned his head and spat upon the sand. "If you do not wish to die, you may still apologize to my master. If I win today, or if you yield--" he turned his head, those horns gleaming like halberds on a level with my breast "--I am released."

It didn't happen often. Only a dozen gladiators in any generation might survive to retire and father the next generation of warrior bulls. Even when the bull usually wins, forty wins are a great many to collect when one loss ends a career. There were no seconds here, in the Plaza de Toros. Just a man and a bull and the skull-throbbing roar of ten thousand voices, and a decision.

Another insult, I might have let slip past. But not what Don Antonio had called me--not for a thousand reasons. Not the least of which was the loss of the glory that was my home when I was young and bore a name. I might have failed a brother on the battlefield. I might have shown weakness that should have been beneath my blood, and been called a coward for it.

All that, yes. I might. And had Antonio called me a coward I would have swallowed it. But I have never lied, and I have never broken my word.

So I had chosen to stand on my honor and fight. Perhaps to recollect this day the name that used to be mine. I drew a thick breath redolent of clotted gore and the sweat of the bull. "Your master called me a liar and his sister a whore. I'm here to win his apology."

"I'm here to take yours," the enormous gladiator, my enemy's champion, said. Stately and magnificent. "Shall we begin?"

I allowed the cloak to unfurl in my right hand, the edge brushing the sand like a waterfall of blood. The master of ceremonies handed me a lance and ran to the wall.

The shaft dripped bright with ribbons. The roan bull tossed his head in salute. I bowed, concealing my body behind the cloak.

The thunder of the host around us, so like the thunder of the sea, crested and faded to a whisper. Over the back of the bull, Antonio smiled, and the glossiness of his black hair in the sunlight made my lip curl in disgust.

The dance began.

The bull moved first, head slung low under an Alp of shoulder, feinting on ridiculously dainty forehooves. He lunged, the head-bob sharp as a striking snake followed by an avalanche of flesh. The cape was an illusionist's toy: it hid the matador's body, gave dancing feet a chance to elude the warrior beast beyond. There are bulls, and there are bulls.

The slave showed courage, a beast's nobility: I did not want to kill him in the place of the man whose bidding he did.

I whirled aside as he came by me, my lance a sad little stick in my hand. Ideally, the point should go deep into the muscle of the neck: barbs hold it there, and the matador comes back with another. And another. Until the bull, exhausted, permits a coup de grace with a blade.

Ideally. But in Puertofuego, the matador often does not win. The black bulls are canny; the red cannier still.

El Zorro Rojo's shoulder brushed me aside like a toppling wall. The earth broke away from my boots and slammed my shoulder and the side of my head. I tasted blood and sand. The dirt trembled under my palms. I rolled, scrambled on all fours, no time to rise. Sand flew and stung as quartz-hard hooves plowed through the earth where I'd lain, and a razor-tipped horn drew a line in fiery ink across my thigh.

I yelped and dodged, somehow finding the cape as I rolled to my feet. El Zorro hauled himself to a stop, grit spraying, whirled like a cattle pony and eyed me, snorting, across thirty feet of sand. He could turn like a snake, within the length of his own stride.

The bull wasn't interested in showmanship, either.

"First blood," el Zorro said. Antonio sat perhaps twenty feet away over my left shoulder, cheering as I minced one testing step. The leg would bear my weight.

"Lance," I said, and another lance was pressed into my hand. I concealed it behind the cloak, and we began again.

Pass and pass again--parry and stroke, push and retreat. Twice I wounded him--low on the neck and in the meat of the shoulder--and one more time he let my blood. We drew crimson spirals on the ground as the afternoon grew weary and the spectators panted in the heat, my hair as dark with sweat as the red bull's hide. Slow red trickles crusted us. I swayed on my feet on the blood-rich sand, and el Zorro Rojo circled--clever, wary, never quite ready to come within range of the lance.

We were evenly matched after all.

I heard Antonio cough into his hand--growing bored as the sun encroached on the shaded side of the Plaza, no doubt. A ha. And then I smiled, letting the cape drag behind me like a bloodied wing, my lance held loosely in my right hand, and I turned my back on the bull.

Casually, dismissively. As if I thought el Zorro too tired and bloodied to fight further. I raised my eyes to Don Antonio, straining for the sound of hoofbeats. "Apologize for the words with which you dirtied your sister," I called up to him, "and your servant can leave the Plaza alive."

Antonio wouldn't so much as meet my eyes, but I saw him fight a smile and knew the bull must almost be upon me, although I hadn't heard him move. No time to breathe--no time to think--I spun on the ball of my foot, threw the cape aside, and braced the lance with both hands, couching it like a pike. Standing within--between--the span of his horns.

The shock of the bull striking the tip plowed me down and to the side. It savaged his hide, rent muscle, skipped along bone. A blow to my belly like a roundhouse kick; a knifeblade piercing my shoulder. I lost the lance and landed hard, covered in the bull's blood, my own blood, wiping gore from my eyes.

The earth rattled as the red bull went to his knees astride me, but I don't remember a sound from the crowd.

I pushed myself up, dragged myself back, ribs creaking agony, left arm dangling. I looked down at a torn shoulder, thought it might be dislocated, and looked away. "Sword."

A torero put it in my right hand; I walked to the bull.

Dark blood rippled slowly down the shattered lance, drenching the ground under his knees. He swayed but did not topple, got one foot under him and then went to his knees again. His blood stung my eyes. I laid the tip of the sword against his massive throat, under the angle of the jaw where ran the pulse of his splendid heart.

"Well-fought," he whispered.

His blood filled my boots while I stood there, listening to the cheers and the silence of the crowd. By the smell and the color I could tell the lance had missed his aorta. He could live: it wasn't a mercy stroke I offered him, but a deathblow. "And you, el Zorro." The sword--not my father's sword, but a sword of cheap modern steel--pricked his hide. He shuddered as if stung by a fly. I looked up into the booming crowd and found my libeler's regard. "Antonio, apologize."

He met my gaze for a moment while the sunlight glittered in his jade-black eyes, and for that moment I thought he would stand and buy mercy for the gladiator at my feet. But then he did--stand, I mean--and he turned his head once, slowly, and spat onto the bloody sand. Again.

"Buy it," he ordered, and turned to climb the stair.

My hand clenched on the blood-slick hilt. I could feel my left arm again, and regretted it. I looked down at the bull, and the bull did not close his eyes. "No blame," he whispered.

I closed mine. "Antonio!" He didn't look back. "Antonio!" Still climbing. Being booed, and climbing, while I waited for a chance not to kill.

Ah, Benedicto. My father's voice. When will you learn to kill when you should?

Not today, Papa. A defiant gesture completed, the hilt slid from my numb hand. I threw back my head and shouted as the sword tumbled end over end. "Antonio! I am sorry! Antonio!"

He did not turn. I did.

I turned and walked away in the sudden, comprehending silence from the stands. The hurled sword rang against the stone wall long before my hand found the waiting door, the plain looped handle on the outside. I heard running footsteps: the chirurgeons coming for me, for the bull.

The bull, whose honor was as stainless as Cecelia's. The bull, who would live to father another generation of gladiators to bleed in the corrida.

The bull who would live.

Another failure I cannot regret as deeply as I should.

I stop in the cobbled street, my arm aching in a sling, and look up. At first, all I see is a white wall. And then I see the wall isn't white, not really. Not white like an eggshell, or white like a dove. It was whitewashed once over yellow glaze, but the rain and the sun have baked the limestone paint off, peeled the mustard-colored ochre beneath, exposing the browns and auburns of stucco. There's a window on the second floor, the shutter hanging open on a crippled hinge, a bluebird's wing broken and healed askew. Geraniums red as fairy-tale heart's-blood--and as sharply scented--pulse in the window box. Below, just as crooked, a poorly-hung wooden door.

I hear voices within. Cecelia. Who was my friend--only a friend, nothing more, and I had few enough of them. Who was Antonio's sister, in whose defense I spoke. She lives here now. She is no longer welcome in her brother's home.

I should go inside. I should make amends, if she'll permit, for my failure at the corrida. I close my eyes against the sunlight and place my hand on the warm wood of the door. It's bright outside, but I can smell the cramped poverty within.

If I were adequate to the nobility of my name, I would go inside and I would bite down on my pride and I would apologize to her, as well. I would beg her to plead with her brother and see if he would take her back.

But if I were adequate to the nobility of my name, I would not have been a man too weak to kill a fallen enemy, and I would not be here to think this: How do I get myself into these things.

Which is not a question. Because I know.

It's bright outside, but it's a small, dark window. Too small for looking out. Too dark for looking in.

The wood is splintery, peeling paint, warm with sun. My pride won't wedge through the doorway. I'd have to scrape it off to get inside. I cannot ask Cecelia to plead with her brother; her stainless honor could not support it.

But perhaps her honor can support forgiveness for a friend.
I lower my head and I push hard against the door.

roll on up for my price is down

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 22:35:24 GMT

This is just a reminder that scott_lynch and I will be at Albany's Flights of Fantasy tomorrow at 7pm for a reading/signing, and at the MITSFS in Cambridge on Wednesday at 6:30 to hang out with readers and fans.

the night is so pretty and so young

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 22:26:23 GMT

So, as some of you know, I'm involved in running Minneapolis' 4th Street Fantasy, fondly known to many as The Best Fantasy Convention On The Block. It's a small, intimate, awesome borderline relaxacon with a single track of extremely nerdy book-focused programming that is designed to include the audience as well as the panelists, a very nerdy attendee base, and an ethos of taking the best of the barcon into the program room. The con historically has provided an excellent consuite (seriously. real food, and lots of it) and in the evening, music circles and extended discussions are the norm.

From the con website:

The best of our traditions continue with a single-track program in which panels begin discussions that are continued by everyone in the room. 4th Street is not a spectator sport! We are all an integral part of the discussions and the decision-making.

4th Street runs from June 22-24. It's inexpensive and delightful.

I highly encourage everybody who loves books to attend.

A tentative programming list is up here: attendees are encouraged to pop by the livejournal community and discuss!

This year, for the second year running, we're offering a writer's seminar on the day before the con. This is not your typical critique session or workshop. Rather, it's an opportunity to interact with accomplished storytellers in our usual open panel format.

4th Street. Seriously, it's not quite like other cons. You'll get a chance to talk nerdy with the disgustingly well-read in an intimate and friendly setting. might make you tea, for example; coffeeem might sing you a song.

...It also seems to be the catalyst for an awful lot of romantic relationships. No promises there, but it worked for me!

i want to feel the bomb drop the earth stop until i'm satisfied

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 22:10:37 GMT

Some convention schedules:

WisCon (May 25-28, 2012):

Chicks Dig Comics
Come celebrate the delightful truth: women create, produce, read, and really, really dig comics! Join the editors and writers of Chicks Dig Comics, a just-released collection of essays, as they share their love for this medium and the stories it can tell.
Fri, 9:00–10:15 pm
M: Sigrid Ellis.
Elizabeth Bear, Sarah Monette, Tara O'Shea, Caroline Pruett, Delia Sherman, Jennifer Margret Smith, Lynne M. Thomas

Designing a Magic System
</td>Fantasy authors often create new worlds (or slightly bend this one) to include magic. What counts as magic? Why are readers drawn to it? How can it serve a story? What are the things that can go wrong when including magic in your work? How much do you have to explain how the magic works? How do you keep it consistent and satisfying without letting it become a flaw? When is magic needed (or more importantly when do you leave it out)?
Sat, 10:00–11:15 am
M: Elizabeth Bear
Alex Bledsoe, Kater Cheek, Catherine Krahe, Gregory G. H. Rihn

Chicks Dig Comics Party
Join the Chicks Dig Comics crew as we celebrate the comics we love and the women who love comics!
Sat, 9:00 pm–Sun, 3:00 am

It's Actually Quite Hard to Rip a Bodice: How to Use (and Not Abuse) Historical Details in Fiction
Anachronisms can really get a person's stockings in a twist. A 19th-century heroine stalking the land in stiletto heels? Or, worse, being assaulted by a hunk who has no idea how to access a body bound by corsetry? But readers don't want the story derailed by an author's excessive display of "see-what-I-know-itis." There are an increasing number of online sources for historical research. How do you gauge their accuracy? When telling your story, how do you strike a balance between imaginative flair and downright pedantry?
Sun, 1:00–2:15 pm
M: Vylar Kaftan
Lucy Adlington, Elizabeth Bear, Ellen Klages, Alex Dally MacFarlane

The SignOut
Mon, 11:30 am–12:45 pm

ConVergence (July 5-8, 2012)

Female SF Authors: The Early Years

Margaret Cavendish and Mary Shelley. Claire Harris and Andre Norton. C. L. Moore and Leigh Brackett. Come celebrate the works and histories of these and other acclaimed female SF writers from the early days of SF (Pre-1960).
Sat, Jul 7, 11 am
Catherine Lundoff, Scott Lynch, Elizabeth Bear

Kelly McCullough, Lynne Thomas, Elizabeth Bear. Scott Lynch Signing
Sat, Jul 7, 2 pm

Avoiding Cliches Like the Plague
Once upon a time on a dark and stormy night, the end of the world as we know it was brought about by cliches. How do we avoid this fate worse than death?
Sat, Jul 7, 11 pm
Damian Sheridan, Christopher Baldwin, Anna Waltz, Elizabeth Bear, Eli Effinger-Weintraub

Sci-Fi and Fantasy Literary Criticism
Exploring speculative fiction literary criticism beyond the usual "awesomeness vs. meh" in fandom. What type of criticism is helpful to authors and readers?
Sun, Jul 8, 9:30 am
William Alexander, Michael Levy, Elizabeth Bear, Doug Hulick, Sean M. Murphy

two in the morning dry dock town

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 14:55:37 GMT

It's a geographically localized not-a-book-tour starring me and scott_lynch!

My dear Mr. Lynch will be reading at the KGB Bar in Manhattan on Wednesday night with greygirlbeast. I will be along to clap and throw roses, or something.

Then Scott and I will be adjourning to Boston (technically, Cambridge) on the 21st (Saturday) where we will be appearing at Pandemonium Books in Central Square.

Finally, on the 24th, we'll be in Albany at Flights of Fantasy for a signing and to hang out with readers and friends.