February 6th, 2007

iggy pop chairman of the bored

If you believe there's nothing up my sleeve, then nothing is cool.

Scalzi on his Hugo-nominatin' thought process. 

Mine's much less organized.

Because galeni asked what of mine might be eligible for the nominating, anent: an award eligibility roundup post. I woke up exceedingly groggy this morning (woke up half an hour before my alarm and as I was snuggling in the warm darkness with my cat fighting for an inch of unclaimed pillow, I must have fallen back asleep, because when the alarm went off I was under a pile of REM atonia and first, could not move, and then was stumbling and zombielike for a good ten minutes. Man, nothing like being chemically dependent on those damned neurotransmitters) so bear with me, please.

Published (by me) in 2006:

novels:

The Chains that you Refuse, (Night Shade)which includes several previously unpublished stories (the best of which mostly confused a lot of people. *g*)
Blood & Iron (Roc)
Carnival (Bantam Spectra)

short fiction:

short stories:

"Los Empujadores Furiosos" (On Spec)
"Sounding" (Strange Horizons.)
"Ile of Dogges" (with Sarah Monette) (Aeon 7)
"The Inevitable Heat Death of the Universe" (Subterranean)
"The Cold Blacksmith" (Jim Baen's Universe)
"Gone to Flowers" (Eidolon, Eidolon Books, Jonathan Strahan & Jeremy G Byrne eds.)
"Love Among The Talus" (Strange Horizons)


novelettes:

"Wane" (Interzone)


novellas:

"Lucifugous" (Subterranean)



And now I will go hide under my pillows.

Actually, I won't, because I have to figure out what, exactly, Rien just nearly stepped in. Or write this other scene, In Which Dust Is Sinister. And having slept on them does not seem to be helping.

Come on, brain. Kitty needs a new litterbox.
rengeek kit icarus

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight

February 6th is Kit Marlowe's 443rd !birthday. (That's "birthday, implied.") As with Shakespeare, we have only an approximation of the actual date.

Next year is the 444th anniversary of both men's birth. I have something special planned, but it might arrive a month or two late.

In other news, I appear to have undergone a skill jump with the guitar this week. Weird how that happens. You toil and toil and then something comes clear, BANG!, and it's usually after giving up on actually mastering it and moving on to the thing beyond it anyway.

I wonder how different my life would have been if I had understood that before I was thirty.

My hands feel different, too. I mean, I'm developing guitarist forearms and hands (muscle definition!), but after five months of practice, I can feel the increased strength and flexibility in--especially--my left hand.

It reminds me that I should really get back to yoga-before-bed.

bear by san

you think we are sleeping--we're coiling like rattlesnakes and scars

1824 words last night and this morning. Mean thing: Tristen and Benedick are ganging up to coparent Rien.

Sixteen sucks. Rien has two daddies. And they're !Benedict and !Elric.

She's SO HOSED.

The rest of the day's agenda looks like this:

pay bills
storytellersunplugged.com essay (this means I need to do an afternoon writing session too, but at least it could be a short one.)

yoga
gym
guitar
eat something
slush
answer pile of emails


Oh, and start going over the page proofs for Undertow, which just arrived. And are due back at Bantam Spectra on the 20th. This means that soon there will be ARCs, though. Yay! (Pub date, last week of July/first week of August)

Boskone is the weekend of the 17th, we note.

And the CEM for A Companion to Wolves, which should be arriving from truepenny tomorrow, is due back at Tor on the 16th.

I love my job, but it is not always easy. And sometimes, there is a lot of it.

...and I just realized, by the end of this year, if things keep doing okay enough to justify reprints, I will have ten books in print, counting the collection.

Wow. That is pretty damned cool, that is.

(Things should slow down after 2010. *g* I'm still working through the things I wrote after Hammered and before it sold, really. Pinion is my seventeenth novel, of which only five (not counting the collection) are already in print. But most of them are currently sold, which is kind of amazing.)

So, I am here to tell you that working your tuchus off for years and years actually can have some good results, when all is said and done. Now, if I can just manage not to saturate the market... I hope most of what I write is different enough from most of what I write to avoid that issue, though.  So, er, yanno. I suspect there's a couple of niches there.

I did just come up with something tremendously cool for Pinion, which means, with luck and a shoehorn, I will get through that in tonight's writing session. Thus buying myself an extra day, until tomorrow morning, to figure out what Rien almost just stepped in.

Also, I want to figure out how to get a hot spring on a starship. I'm thinking reactor coolant leak, personally.

415.8 miles to Rivendell.

bear by san

In which Perceval Discovers The Awful Troof.

Well, actually, she discovers the Awful Troof tonight after NCIS, which I will actually watch, this once, instead of having on for backgroudn noise while I write, because it's a DMc-centric episode.

In the meantime, though, because I have a list of things I am supposed to do today, I am going to make hot cocoa as my reward for going to gym. And then I guess I had better write my Storytellersunplugged.com column. And then I will start reading Undertow.

I had a backup one, but I wasn't very happy with it, so I had been thinking about writing about Christopher Marlowe, but then it hit me. Because it's come up a bunch in various places recently, I want to talk about the differences between a thriller plot, a whodunnit plot, and a procedural plot.

Tune in tomorrow!

NB. I'm not a mystery writer. But these have applications outside of the mystery/suspense genre too, and one place I think a lot of SFF falls down in on the plot.
  • Current Music
    David Bowie - The Secret Life Of Arabia
comic tick ninjas hedge

Glass-topped caskets are never a good sign.

I just wrote a sentence* that I think was meant to be delivered to H.P. Lovecraft, and has probably been waiting in the dead letter office for the better part of a century now,

It doesn't matter. I'm keeping it. Those damned storks are always bringing story bits to the wrong house.

Also, Perceval has noticed that Dust is madder than a box of frogs.

You would think, when your ship's AI starts running you through Gothic setpieces, you might clue in, but yanno, we love her for her purity and noble purpose, even if she is a little thick between the ears.



*[The stair] brought them underground, down a spiral into darkness--or what would have been darkness, had not Dust begun on the second revolution to exude a pallid glow.