November 29th, 2006

bear by san

go and tell that long-tongue liar, go and tell that midnight rider

Will (re)posts Steve's advice to writers.

Here is what I think is the most important bit, except the part about the checks:

5. Figure out what lies you need to tell yourself in order to produce your best work, then put lots of effort into believing them.

Do this. It works good.

My lies are as follows:

1) Don't worry, nobody's watching.


2) What you are doing is important to somebody so do it well.

Yes, these are mutually exclusive. No, that doesn't bother me. Because those are my lies and I believe them.

Here's Steve's whole interview.

bear by san

And it's such a bloody drag to have to rebuild civilization all over again.

Am I really going to let Sebastien say "There's no such thing as a werewolf?"

Why, yes I am.

Also, I love Jack Priest so much. So very very much. He may be my favorite character of all time.

I hope I don't have to kill him:

"You know," Jack said, "every time a vampire says he doesn't believe in lycanthropes*, a werewolf bursts into flames."

Now, I'm wondering if Sebastien is sarcastic enough to clap.

(*original typo: lycantropes)
bear by san

alas, he was the highwayman--

Wednesday morning youtube break:

We got both kinds of music here.

The bastards hung me in the spring of '25. Such a great creepy old song.

See, it ain't all dead dogs and rusty pickup trucks. There ain't nothing wrong with good country music. And it just goes to prove you can tackle SF and fantasy tropes in any medium.

Although apparently the thing about the bodies entombed in Hoover Dam is untrue. *g* The concrete was poured in tiers, and they're not that deep, and a body would have left a flaw in the concrete. (But art is more important than realism.)

However, at least according to the dam's hard hat tour, the story that workers would carry dying men from the Nevada to the Arizona side is true.

Arizona had a better death benefit.

And, for bonus points, something loosely related.  One of those songs that always makes me feel better.

(Would you believe that a used copy of Jefferson Starship's Nuclear Furniture goes for $30? Man. Highly out of print, I guess. I think I'll just dig out my casette and see if it still plays.)

Well, coffee's on. Guess I should head back to Paris now.

twain & tesla


What's the Spanish name for organization we refer to in English as the Inquisition, specifically the Spanish branch thereof? The office, I mean--Inquisitio Haereticae Pravitatis Sanctum Officium (Holy Office of Inquisition into Heretical Wickedness, I love that).

bear by san

We are deceived. Valhalla is falling.

778 words on "Lumiere" last night and this morning. I had to keep stopping for research. And now, at the top of page 12, I am stuck, because I have to figure out why they're all in Paris. I mean, I know *why* they're in Paris in general, but I need to figure out the specifics.

In the mean time, I am listening to Gary Numan's Exile and reading "La Fin de Satan" in my halting French, and thinking about All the Windwracked Stars and Dust, both.

Does this bode poorly for gothy wolf-boy? You know this bodes poorly for gothy wolf-boy.

And a certain fallen angel artificial intelligence with a name of one syllable, as well.

And on that note, I'm off to the gym. To cogitate and physicate.

Tout à coup il se vit pousser d'horribles ailes;
Il se vit devenir monstre, et que l'ange en lui
Mourait, et le rebelle en sentit quelque ennui.
Il laissa son épaule, autrefois lumineuse,
Frémir au froid hideux de l'aile membraneuse,
Et croisant ses deux bras, et relevant son front,
Ce bandit, comme s'il grandissait sous l'affront,
Seul dans ces profondeurs que la ruine encombre,
Regarda fixement la caverne de l'ombre.
Les ténèbres sans bruit croissaient dans le néant.
L'opaque obscurité fermait le ciel béant;
Et, faisant, au-delà du dernier promontoire,
Une triple fêlure à cette vitre noire,
Les trois soleils mêlaient leurs trois rayonnements.
Après quelque combat dans les hauts firmaments,
D'un char de feu brisé l'on eût dit les trois roues.
Les monts hors du brouillard sortaient comme des proues.
Eh bien, cria Satan, soit! Je puis encor voir!
Il aura le ciel bleu, moi j'aurai le ciel noir.
Croit-il pas que j'irai sangloter à sa porte?
Je le hais. Trois soleils suffisent. Que m'importe!
Je hais le jour, l'azur, le rayon, le parfum! -

Soudain, il tressaillit; il n'en restait plus qu'un.


L'abîme s'effaçait. Rien n'avait plus de forme.
L'obscurité semblait gonfler sa vague énorme.
C'était on ne sait quoi de submergé; c'était
Ce qui n'est plus, ce qui s'en va, ce qui se tait;
Et l'on n'aurait pu dire, en cette horreur profonde,
Si ce reste effrayant d'un mystère ou d'un monde,
Pareil au brouillard vague où le songe s'enfuit,
S'appelait le naufrage ou s'appelait la nuit;
Et l'archange sentit qu'il devenait fantôme.
Il dit : - Enfer! - Ce mot plus tard créa Sodome.

Et la voix répéta lentement sur son front :
- Maudit! autour de toi les astres s'éteindront. -

Et déjà le soleil n'était plus qu'une étoile.

--Victor Hugo

Sisterhood cried
Innocence lied
Purity died
With the angels of passion.
Blessed are they
Who pay homage to rumour
I've seen the light
Shine on the grave of man.

And now you realise
I am the truth.

And I believed.

--Gary Numan, "Prophecy"

bear by san

Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine.

And now, as Weird Al would say-- PAY THE BILLS! STATION BREAK!

So, in very good news, Eric Flint (I love his name. Isn't that such a superhero name?) at Jim Baen's Universe just let me know he's buying the Infamous Penis Tattooing Story, otherwise known as "The Rest of Your Life in a Day."

So, sometime next fall, those of you who have a subscription will be able to read all about Little Baby Matthew (who was also prone to catastrophic mistakes when he was nineteen, just saying) and his big brother Kelly, before Kelly... you know. And, um. Graphic, highly-researched descriptions of what it's like to have somebody stick ink-dipped high velocity needles into your dangly bits.

Sorry. Sorry.

Not so incidentally, Universe is in the middle of a subscription drive. It's thirty dollars for a one-year subscription, which is, I will admit, a fair amount of money. But it does get you access to fiction by some truly shiny people. And, ah. Me.

Additionally, there's one other sneaky thing, which they call the Universe Club. There are a bunch of levels at which one can join this thing. (I think the cheapest is fifty bucks. Again, not cheap, but there you go. Fiction costs money.) And there are a whole bunch of gimmicks and stuff, including, at some levels, getting yourself Tuckerized into a story by the author of your choice. (More money than I'll ever have, anyway. ) But the cool thing about this thing is that you get to read the galleys in advance. So, you can see grotty malformed pre-copy-edited versions of stuff by people like me. And mrissa. And kristine_smith. And papersky. And autopope.

And, um, famous people, too. *g*

Anyway, if you were interested in reading the stuff I have up there, or will soon have up, there are no less than three Promethean Age related stories (a short and two novelettes) and one Jenny Casey story. The first one--"The Cold Blacksmith," which is about Wayland Smith and a witch who grows roses, you know the one--is available now. It was in the first issue. The second and third--"War Stories," the Jenny story (yes, it does start "No shit, there I was"1) and "Cryptic Coloration," (otherwise known as the venom cock story, which is about Matthew and three of his students, one year before Blood & Iron ) are available now through the view-the-ARC thingy, and will be up for subscribers in February and June of next year respectively, I believe. The fourth is of course "The Rest of Your Life in a Day," which will be up in mere days, no doubt, knowing the efficiency of the folks at Baen.

Okay, there's that bit of pimpage taken care of. Now, on to more pimpage. (Good lord. There is no end. No bottom to my gall. It's true.) Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #26 is available now, and in it I have a long and hopefully erudite (but don't count on it) rant critical essay on The State Of The Fantasy First Novel. Let's be honest: it's just like this blog, but better-edited and actually thought through, rather than chucked at the page any which way. You might find it novel!

Also, last but certainly not least, another magazine that's done its part to keep my cat fed is having a fund drive this fall. Strange Horizons is free to all comers. It's a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, too, so if you live in the USA, your donations are tax-deductible. I've got another story coming out from them sometime in the next few months--"Love Among The Talus," know to readers of my blog as the Cold Rock Sex story. (Working titles. Don't you love 'em?)


"Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" - Christopher Marlowe

"Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" - Will Shakespeare

"Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine." - Jim Morrison

"I wish I was born about a thousand years ago." - Lou Reed

"Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine."   --- Billy Idol
"I wish I was born about a thousand years ago." __|

So I'm listening to Billy Idol's cover of The Velvet Underground's "Heroin," which he mashes up extensively with the The Doors' "Gloria" (most famously performed by Patti Smith). It's rather good. (There's a whole bunch of samples in this thing too, but damned if I know what half of them are.)

Anyway, and again, it's got me thinking about the neatness that is the folk process, which is the fine art of taking existing material and pwning it. And using bits and pieces of things to illuminate other things. "Competent artists are influenced. Great artists steal."

Of course, as a synthesist, I would think that.

So far today I have written, gone to the gym, grocery shopped, put away the groceries, showered, blogged, fed myself, read contracts, and actually figured out what to write next in "Lumiere."

And I may wait until tomorrow to do it. Not sure. It seems I need to go back and actually write the first scene of the story, explaining what exactly the conflict is and what the characters think they're about. So, you know, I can derail it later.

(1) The difference between war stories and fairy tales is that fairy tales start "Once upon a time..." and war stories start "No shit, there I was..."

bear by san

Oh, also?

Not only was I walking around outside in a t-shirt today, but the red rose bush outside my apartment is in full bloom. Not a-couple-of-frostbitten-last-gasp-flowers.

Full bloom.