So I seem to have sold a story!

"The Horrid Glory of its Wings," my harpy story with bonus! title stolen from Peter S. Beagle, to tor.com.

It forms a nice sort of thematic argument of diptych with my other tor.com story, "The Girl who Sang Rose Madder," but there are no zombies in this one.

And that, officially, is the very last short story I had both written and unsold. I wonder if one of the others will put out for me one of these lifetimes.

And me without a vampire icon.

Charming gentlemen with the manners of a prior age. Savage killing machines who surge screaming from hidden vaults. Cute little girls frozen forever in slender bodies. Long-buried loved ones who scratch at the door, begging to be let in. Nowhere is safe, not mist-shrouded Transylvania or the Italian Riviera or even a sleepy town in Maine. This is a hidden world, an eternal world, where nothing is forbidden--as long as you're willing to pay the price.

Today is launch day for johnjosephadams's anthology By Blood We Live, which includes fabulous stories by fabulous writers, and also something by me. ("House of the Rising Sun," in which a long-dead musician takes a stroll through San Diego.)

Ellen Datlow announces the sale of the Lovecraft Unbound anthology, which includes stories by me-and-truepenny, greygirlbeast, stillsostrange, nihilistic_kid, and others.

(Here's where you can find the concert I'm listening to, by the way. Chaz needs to stop getting me hooked on music. OTOH, how can you resist a guy who uses the word radiolarian in his lyrics?)

There. That was remarkably like productivity.

I have written eight pages of "Lucky Day" and two pages of "Snow Dragons," and I have in fact finished the draft of "Snow Dragons," which I think came out very well.

First short story of 2009! That makes me happy.

For those of you playing along at home, "Snow Dragons" takes place in the same world that "Your Collar" and "Orm the Beautiful" do, and probably also the unfinished harpy story, and the unfinished blind cave mermaid story.

It's also part of a sort of ongoing dragon story dialogue cycle with truepenny's "Draco Campestris" and "After the Dragon" (that latter is so far unpublished) and "Orm the Beautiful."

My short story, which is not about rock star elves, "The Girl Who Sang Rose Madder," seems to be available at Tor.com.

Also, beware. I may be guest blogging over there one of these days. In my copious spare time...

Yes, I have successfully wasted the last two hours.

Okay, not exactly wasted. I showered, and made breakfast, and made tea, and made orange juice. And caught up on whatever internets regenerated overnight.

And now I need to go work on the page proofs, because that tea ain't drinking itself. But I'm stalling.

Page proofs. Do not want.

So here, have a link to the pre-order page for Fast Ships, Black Sails, a pirate-themed SFF anthology edited by Jeff and Ann VanderMeer, in which truepenny and I have a story called "Boojum," and which also includes stories by folks like Kage Baker, Michael Moorcock, Howard Waldrop, Garth Nix, and Naomi Novik.

If you are a Nature subscriber, or willing to pay the weregild, my short story "Annie Webber" is live there today. (It's also in the print version.)

Promised nor'easter
Seems to peter out early.
Sleet rattles window.

---

;-)

Look, the new issue of Coyote Wild is up (special giant-size issue!) and in addition to my story "The Ladies," it includes stories by Sherwood Smith, Beth Bernobich, Emily M.Z. Carlyle, J.M. McDermott, C.A. Casey, and Maria Deira.

Nobody ever thinks of me as a short story writer, and it kind of makes me sad--because at heart, that's what I am.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love a good novel. I even like writing them, though I have to do it in a single enormous push of effort, because otherwise I get bored, bored, bored and wander off. I can't stand the endless tinkering that some writers do, the working on the same project for years on end.

I can't bear it.

(I get bored anyway, but if I'm working on a book for six months, I can stand the boredom. By the time the 37th revision rolls around, though, I am stultified.)

And novels tend to move so slowly. Hundred of pages, and barely enough plot for a good novelette!

You can actually spot the short-story-writer DNA in my novels, even the long ones. That thing people talk (complain) about, where too much happens too fast and it's too dense, too hard to keep control of? I suspect it's directly related to the author (me) being a short story writer at heart. Because I really believe in my heart that if a paragaraph is not doing three (and preferably five) things, it is not doing enough work. (The five kinds of work a paragraph can do in a work of fiction are: increasing or resolving tension (plot), exposition, worldbuilding (setting), developing character, and illuminating theme).

So I try to have small reversals and revelations on every page. Which sort of makes my books bad for reading quickly, I am told.

And I love writing short stories. I love the feeling of accomplishment they bring. I love how they are tiny perfect jewels, when done right, and they are just there breathing and making you sad or glad or sorry or melancholy or joyous or a little hollow under the breastbone.

And so I have a problem. Because really, the reason I write is to be read. I write to an audience (you guys, ora fraction of you guys.) And there's a dramatic tension there, of course, because while writing to that audience I am trying to stay true to my artistic vision (such as it is) and tell stories I can be proud of.

And short stories make me sad. Because they just vanish. They hang around for a month or so, and then drop back into nonexistence, never to be seen again. And nobody ever reads them again. They go to the Island of Misfit Stories, and hang around unread with their pals.

And I think I would feel better about that if I knew I'd be able to print collections, eventually, but really--the odds of my selling another collection in the next ten years is pretty slim. And I have a little pile here, of unreprinted stories of which in some cases I am inordinately fond, and I would like to be able to let people read in book form. The stuff that's collected in The Chains That You Refuse--some of it, I am very proud of. The title story, "Botticelli," "When You Visit The Magoebaskloof Hotel, Be Certain Not To Miss The Samango Monkeys," and so on. But I'm also very aware that those stories are my early work, and a lot of them are rough at the edges, insufficiently developed, heavyhanded, flawed in various ways.

And there's another book, book-and-a-half's worth of stuff that will likely slowly work its way up to my website, because that's the place I can put it where people will be able to read it. It's mostly small-press-published, because I'm mostly a small-press-published short-story writer, and it's mostly impossible to find otherwise, and I wouldn't expect anybody to spend ages tracking down a back issue of On Spec to read "Los Empujadores Furiosos," even though I love it. It's gone, more or less, like a song sung in an empty room. (I've written over sixty published pieces of short fiction at this point. Some of them are in The Chains That You Refuse, and some of them are in New Amsterdam. And then there's all this other stuff that's just, poof, gone. Good stuff, some of it, I think. "Orm the Beautiful," and "Tideline," and "The Inevitable Heat-Death of the Universe," and "Sounding," and "Love Among the Talus," to name a few.

I love those stories. And yet--

--there they go.

And that makes me wonder why I write stort stories, when they're so ephemeral, and so few people read them, and really, they're more work per square yard than any novel will ever be, and at the end of the day I know they have a limited lifespan and then vanish. It seems like so much work for something that will more or less fall of the edge of the earth and never be seen again.

I guess I write them because I love them.

And what happens after that is between the story and the world.

1648 words tonight, and draft, sweet draft, of "King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree," which came in just under 15,000 words and so is still technically a novelette, thank God. I am afraid the climax is still suffering from Vague Psychic Battle Syndrome, and the whole thing feels kind of flaccid and colorless right now, but it's written and that's what matters.

I can take the suck out later.

"The Rest Of Your Life In A Day" at Jim Baen's Universe.

(First taste is free; after that subscription.)

And the workshop is over. Now it's just hanging around and making complicated jokes.

I get to go home tomorrow.

"King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree" stands at around 10300 words. I would be at the climax, if I had any idea how they were getting out of this.

44.2 miles to Rivendell. I've walked 413.8 miles since I started keeping track in January. Somehow, I feel like I should be doing better than this, but it may be Internation Be Hard on EBear day, since I certainly am also convinced that this novelette I am writing will never be finished, is boring like a boring thing, and lo, I am made of suck. I feel a little bit like the God Who Climbs. I have always been writing this novelette. I will always be writing this novelette.

By Jove, short fiction is not supposed to take this long to write.

And then, assuming I ever get to the end of it, I will have a Bad Draft, in need of extensive fixing.

Not a crisis, though, Just a normal part of the creative process. Why, yes. I am used to it by now.

If this was easy, it wouldn't be fun.

Sigh. This damned story is determined to be a novelette at least. And the pacing is stately like a stately thing.

I think the novelette is attempting to be lingering and elegaic in feel. Or, as we say in the trade, "dull as ditchwater."

That's probably unfair. I am really bored with it, but that happens a lot, and some of the stories that most thoroughly bored me to tears when I was writing them have done amazing well out in the world. "And the Deep Blue Sea," for example, which I wrote wincing at every word. And Undertow, which bored me to gnawing my own wrists when I was writing it.

I dunno, maybe I'm just jaded.

Still, another 1100 words and change tonight, despite being out all day.

Tomorrow is slated a writing day, and thank dog, I am out of social commitments for a while. Because seriously, I am reaching the point of never wanting to see a human being again.

Possibly not even the cat.

This is a sign that it's time for some hardcore introversion, I think.

So it appears that I am going to have to write a Wrong Draft of King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree first, and then try to make it a Right Draft later.

Wait. Let me 'splain.

See, this thing that I am writing currently is a very straightforward narrative, with a bit of a mystery and an investigative plotline. It's kind of like, oh, "The Deep Blue Sea." Only with a mystery. But the problem is, I suspect thematically that what I need as a structure for this story is something much more like Memento or "L'esprit d'escalier." Because the structure should support the theme, as well as the narrative and characterization supporting the theme, and one of the themes of this thing is the fallibility of memory, conflation and construction and suppression thereof.

And apparently, I have to write a draft in which the story just happens, first, so I can figure out how to make it the story that will support that narrative.

Jesus, brain. A little help here!

---

Also:

Dear Bear,

You May Not Have an Evil Ringmaster.

Love, Bear.

I figured out the problem.

"King Pole, Gallows Pole, Bottle Tree" is determined to develop a Bester-like level of thematic complexity and unreliable narratordom.

While 'tis not a bad thing, it does mean that it's going to take a great deal more scouting the approaches and pondering than I previously suspected before I lay seige to this thing. Especially if it's going to try to come over all nonlinear on me, but I'm not entirely sure it will.

Just... complicated.

All right then.

Progress notes for 3 June 2007

All the Windwracked Stars

New Words:  2742 today, 1004 yesterday
Total Words: 35,976
Deadline: November 1
Reason for stopping: quota, making up for Tuesday in advance, scene. Now I am going to watch Doctor Who and possibly order takeout. 

35,976 / 100,000 (36.0%)

I have 177 pages. Since I expect the final book to be around 400 pages, this is promising. I really have a lot of stuff in the middle here of the old draft that's just wank and can go away.

Tomorrow, I get to write a really creepy scene.

Today's words Word don't know:  apparating, kittycat,
Words I'm surprised Word do know: wold
Mean Things: beat up, mysterious pronouncements, embarrassing girlfriend, survivor guilt
Miles to Rivendell: 209.5

Progress notes for 1 June 2007

All the Windwracked Stars

New Words:  1098
Total Words: 34,747 (which is cheating, because like 14 pages of that is stuff I salvaged from the old draft and now have to grovel through and clean up, which means the gross wordcount will probably be in equilibrium or dropping for the next few days.)

Tomorrow, I need to figure out what the kitten with a whip is up to. Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

Deadline: November 1
Reason for stopping: quota, scene. I was going to do more, since I have the evening to myself, and then I realized that I was not following Rule One*, and decided to make macaroni and goat's cheese instead, and play guitar, and do some math, and watch DVDs. 

34,747 / 100,000 (34.7%)

Today's words Word don't know:  deathwish, upturning, windwracked, candleflames, meadhall, holo, kickboxer, regrouting, bootheel, nuanced, holmgang, pantherine.

I just love the vocab lists for these books.

Words I'm surprised Word do know: titillating 
Darling du Jour: She ordered slivovitz, which could under no circumstances ever have been in contact with a real plum, and wondered if it were brewed in the same bathtub as the gin.

Good lord, when did Muire develop a sense of humor? It's a lame one, admittedly. But it's a one.

Mean Things: watching the boy you like smooch another boy. kicked in the mouth.
Miles to Rivendell: 213.5. Stupid hobbit got hisself stabbed and now he's just dead weight, really.
Medical TMI: So yesterday at about 2 pm, the swelling around my piercing started going down. I know this, because ever since then it's been giving up little yellow crystals of lymph, and that nostril has returned to flexibility.
Mammalian assistance: summer is here. I can tell because the cat didn't come to bed last night.

---

*"Don't die," c.f. autopope

Oh, if you were thinking about applying to Viable Paradise, the deadline has been pushed back to June 30th.

Progress notes for 30 May 2007

All the Windwracked Stars

New Words:  1,038
Total Words: 30,623
Deadline: November 1
Reason for stopping: quota, scene

Just managed to cut great wonking swaths of wank. And I have about 3000 words salvaged from the last draft into a cut file, which will probably be closer to 1500 words when I am done cutting and repairing them, which is tomorrow's project.

30,623 / 100,000 (30.6%)

I've definitely reached The Dreaded Middle Of The Book. The good news is, I have a fun scene to write next, and it's mostly smooth sailing from here on in.

There's one piece of stupid I know I need to patch, and other than that, I think it might make sense more or less after all.


"Shoggoths in Bloom."

New Words:  1522
Total Words: 2526
Deadline: June 5
Reason for stopping: Just got to the big boom. I think I will finish this tomorrow.

I have figured out Professor Harding's trauma, and how it relates to the story. Yay.

Today's words Word don't know:  shoggoths, Penobscot, sorbet, glial, intertidal, repacking, spatulate,
Words I'm surprised Word do know: alizarin
Darling du Jour: The water between the rocks and the Bluebird chops erratically, facets capped in white, so he can almost imagine the scrape of the palette knife that must have made them.
Mean Things: flirting, being used as bait, moral qualms, a lack of tenure, eaten by shoggoths
Miles to Rivendell: 217.1

after all these years the righteous would have freed the world from sin.

And the good news of the week: Realms of Fantasy is buying my obligatory nontrad format Rock-And-Roll Elf story, "Hobnoblin Blues."

Woot!

I have now sold a vampire story, a dragon story, a rock and roll elf story, and a story about the Inevitable Heat Death of the Universe.

I had to put the Schrodinger's Cat story in a collection, though. You can't win 'em all.

Fiction, fiction everywhere.

First off, over at Baen's Universe this bimonthly period you can find "War Stories," a new Jenny story by me. No surprises, but maybe some illumination. (No, I have no idea who those white people in the illustrations are.)

In addition, Fast Forward 1 will be available on Monday. This thing is getting rave reviews, and I for one can't wait to read it.

In non-fiction news, there appear to be reviews of Subterranean 5, Fast Forward 1, Carnival, and also Carnival in the February Locus. I'll try to do my nervous vomiting quietly. *g* The good news is, they can't be too bad, because both Fast Forward 1 and Carnival made the Locus recommended reading list for 2006, as did "Wane," one of the New Amsterdam stories.

...and I see a lot of other familiar names on that list. Good job, guys!

It was rumored that there would be Carnival reviews at Sequential Tart and IROSF this month, but I can't find the one (It's probably gone wherever that rumored Washington Post review went) and the other's February issue isn't up yet. So I'll get back to you on those.