It would take too long to fiddle with the picture stuff between now and getting to work, so I won’t be taking any pictures. However, I have received my copies of WHEN WE WERE EXECUTIONERS from Amazon.com today. Any sightings in the wild? Upload it to Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, etc. and Tag Me in it!
I have been reading slush for approximately twelve hours straight, for Bull Spec. It is an interesting and highly-recommended experience for everyone, and it has not made me bitter, yet.
Here are some things that I have learned after my first full day of slush reading.
1) People who’ve taken writing workshops at Clarion, Oddessey, Taos, and Universities are generally a bright spot in the pile, even if I reject their story, because they don’t generally make easy mistakes.
2) I am far more forgiving of a story that tries very hard to be amazing, and fails, than I am of a story that tries very hard to be mediocre and nails it.
4) The cream really does rise to the top.
5) The worst thing a story can be is successfully mediocre. This is worse than being unsuccessfully mediocre.
6) People who sweat their cover letter need not worry. I generally don’t even look at it until after I’ve read enough of the story to be curious or not. The way e-mail submissions work, it seems like this will be generally true. The most I’d do, at best, is quickly skim the letter while getting straight to the story.
7) Ergo, the shorter the cover letter, the better.
8) Lists are fun.
9) Good night.
You know her story, don’t you? The great king Agamemnon offended Artemis, by murdering her sacred deer. He spoke arrogantly of this goddess.
Later on, a prophet had to be called to the council of kings. No storms had come to wash the battleships to war. Zeus’ commanded siege of Troy depended upon the famous storms of Aulis that never seemed to come. The gods had to be consulted.
The blind prophet, Calcas, announced that the great king had to sacrifice his daughter. This was subsequently, immediately, done by that terrible tyrant.
But, there are as many versions of a myth as there are grandmothers in Greece.
I’ve been blogging for the Night Bazaar for two weeks, now, along with some other folks.
I haven’t really had a chance to go over there and read the posts, mind you, because I’m gearing up for Illogicon this weekend, writing, and writing, and also Angie and I took a break today to build our first terrarium.
We’re packing our bags tonight for Illogicon, and it should be a great time. I expect to be on a few panels, give a reading, but mostly I expect to enjoy myself among cool people and things.
Oh, and be advised that WHEN WE WERE EXECUTIONERS is quite nearly upon us. Quite nearly time. See if you can find it out there, and you might.
Penelope wove her husband back to life in nineteen years. Arachne wove greater than this, until the gods in their jealousy left her with nothing but the application of her art.
If it bends, it can be woven. Hair braids, rivers braid, and fingers fold together in prayer. Cars crash into each other; the metals bend around the engines. With a strong enough machine, cars could be woven into each other – crumple zone to crumple zone, gas lines snaking like Hermes’ staff between two twisted engine blocks. I’m too disciplined to stop what I’m doing to doodle the weaving of cars on the naked particleboard walls of this café. In a few weeks, I don’t know if I will still have that discipline. I may lose my mind if I keep this up.
I sit in a corner of an abandoned café, and weave endlessly, endlessly, with all the threads and yarns and found things from the empty café. The weave of my own life bent me here. My back is hunched over. My fingers are long and nimble. I never abandon my weave
Of Note: The trade paperback edition of the collection is currently available. The eBook successfully funded the trade paperback.
“What shall I do without Eurydice?
Where shall I go without my love?
O heavens! Answer!”
– Orfeo ed Euridice, Glück
On the farthest shore of the stillest lake, the boatman was only a child. I thought he would be older – skeletal, perhaps -in some kind of robe. He was just a little boy in dirty, mismatched basketball shoes, and a worn-out soccer uniform. He was covered in jewelry. His fingers were coiled in rings that sparkled even in the muted moonlight of this place. His neck was covered in necklaces. His wrists and ankles were lined with bracelets. His face was hollowed out, like the kids I had seen with me in the cancer wards.
His paddle boat was not what I expected, either. It was a plastic two-seater. Both people had to pump their legs on bicycle pedals to drive the little boat forward.
Of course, paddle boats are always rentals.
-Hey there, lady. You going across?
[Read the rest? http://womenandmonsters.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/eurydice/ ]