podcast

People, it's ALIVE.

It, in this case, being the podcast of my short story "The Wages of Salt".


Squatting to examine a buried shadow, I nodded. There was no academic or scientific value in salt — it would not advance my thesis, nor bring any glimmer of knowledge about the theriomorphs — but it would sell. White gold, the economic cornerstone of New Persia.

I brushed at the crust. Dirty grains clung to the sweat of my palms. The shadow underneath, too clean-edged to be a phantasm, didn’t change. “Here,” I said. “Help me.”

“It’ll just be another ammonite.” But he knelt and set to scraping beside me.

My fingers touched cloth.

I jerked back, staring at the dark linen we’d uncovered. Suspicion lifted the hairs on my nape and I dug faster, harder, in danger of damaging the specimen with haste.

An arm emerged from the salt. Beside me, Hareem had uncovered a knee. Working feverishly now, we followed the contours, salt flying from our fingers, until the entire body lay bare to the sky.

Hareem let out a low whistle. “Now this,” he said, “will fetch a fiefdom.”

So, if you couldn't get hold of a copy of Postscripts, or you really have a hankering for audio fiction, or heck if you simply like free fiction, trot yourself on over to PodCastle and enjoy.

14 August 2010 @ 16:13 | 2 Comments

tell the rambler, the gambler, the back-biter

I have been the slightest bit remiss, of late, in my authorly duties. Or rather in broadcasting to you all just how my authorly duties have been carrying on while I wasn't watching. (Damn things require careful supervision, or they start nesting in the corners. You know how it is.)

So!

First up, a little whiles back I participated in an discussion-type interview about writers and writing.

Writers deal in conundrums and contradictions, striving to “open a vein”, as the saying goes, and tap something you don’t necessarily want on public display in order to produce worthwhile writing, and at the same time working very hard, crafting and polishing, in order to produce something worthy of public display. Reconciling those opposed desires, as Tess pointed out, requires sleight of mind (that’s such a great phrase!), especially during the initial draft.

The discussion was triggered by Gillian Pollack's new anthology, "Baggage",1 which I for one am pretty keen to read. It veered into all sorts of interesting places, from cultural baggage and the (often irrational) process of writing, to writing on difficult/sensitive/arresting subjects that have no solution. And it isn't just me mouthing off; the wonderfully irreverent Tessa and incisive KJ Bishop get all wise into the bargain — so go, read. Marvel at our flippant biographies and potted wisdom. (Or thank your lucky stars you don't have to live in any of our brains. Take your pick.)

Secondly, my contributor's copy of ASIM #45 arrived in the post a little whiles back. Look! Is it not pretty?

The ASIM website is still listing #43 as the most recent issue, but I'm assured that #45 will soon be on shelves or available for purchase through the website. This is the copy of ASIM that features my week one Clarion South story, "Shaping Lily", a story about a little old lady on an epic quest, with fruit bats and hearts and Consequences.

And finally, because I think you should admire my mad photography skillz some more love you all, have another Mongolia snap.

  1. I don't have a story in Baggage. I'm not entirely sure how I therefore earned myself a place in this discussion, but when people call me rather wonderful and ask me to say things, I do not quibble. I'm nice like that. [↩]

God's Gonna Cut You Down (Johnny Cash — American V: A Hundred Highways)

24 July 2010 @ 10:47 | 2 Comments

i am this close to declaring to-do-list bankruptcy

Since the old routine was proving difficult to groove back into, post-Mongolia, I've been trying out a new routine. It's not quite working yet.

Previously I'd been landing early at the dayjob, and writing after I clocked off. This has the benefit of my morning tram not being a peak hour one, and the library, where I'm sure not to be interrupted, is open for my writing session. But the library is in the wrong direction, away from home, and errands tend to be scheduled in my writing time. All of which means it tends to vanish before I get to it.

So I've taken to writing before I clock on. It means I get to keep my non-peak-hour tram, I get to work more "normal" hours, and I get at least one hour's writing time that won't be eaten by errands. Sadly, libraries are not early-risers, so while my writing time isn't being eaten by errands, it's not sans interruptions. Decidedly not.

I've been thinking, this weekend, about what I can do to fix that.

There are a couple of external options — writing in a cafe, for example — but maybe what I really need to change is my mind-set.

Writing used to be easier and swifter than I find it now. Partly that's because I'm more conscious of the craft, and trying to exercise finer control over it; a slower pace is a natural consequence. But maybe it's also partly because I have a habit of pushing myself too hard.

Because pretty much all this year I've been caught in a vicious cycle. I'm tired, from working long hours, which means I don't hit even the modest wordcount I'm aiming for, so I push myself harder the next day and work all weekend to catch up, which means I'm tired from working long hours with no break, so I don't hit even the modest wordcount I'm aiming for…

From now on I'll be taking at minimum one day off a week — and that day is going to be a weekend, so it's a proper rest from all forms of work.

And in the meantime I'm going to practise being more in the now,1 so that when I am interrupted it doesn't take me 20 minutes to get back into my train of thought. Or so that when I'm writing, my mind is working — not on how many words I've written or revised (and oh no I only have 20 minutes left before I have to clock on) — but instead on how I'm going to fix this next sentence, this next paragraph, this next scene.

  1. Oh, and also, I am going to get to all those emails and phonecalls currently waiting on me to return them. Just, yanno, when I can. [↩]

11 July 2010 @ 16:32 | 6 Comments

all the tiny moments of waste add up

So I'm having a little trouble with mustering up the organisational skills required to slot back into my normal routine.

Trams, being the junkies they are, require the regular feeding of metcards. Guess what I forgot to buy (and what you can't buy cheaply (or at all, if you don't have coins) on the tram itself)? Houses, once locked, require keys in order to be unlocked and yield up their comforts (said comforts being an empty pantry, but that's entirely beside the point). Guess what I left at work yesterday, and didn't realise until I was standing outside my front door? Corporate wear, in order to be classed as corporate, requires ironing. Guess what I couldn't be arsed doing any time since I landed?

The thing is, I know there's tasks I need to tackle — but whenever I think of them, I'm choosing not to bother. And I'm okay with that.

It can't last, of course. One day in and already I'm making time-wasting mistakes, when I'm time-poor. If I want to put in a productive day at the dayjob, achieve progress on the writing, and get in what (scant) exercise I can to combat the sedentary spread, without wasting more time than necessary on the daily commute, an organised routine is critical. But I'm beginning to see just how much organisation (and pre-planning, high-alert behaviour) my normal routine requires of me.

Sooner or later, I'm going to have to choose to tackle that routine again. Maybe now's my chance to see what I can streamline.

When I was just starting out at this writing gig1 I thought that the craft was the hardest thing to master. It's not. Don't get me wrong, I still don't understand how putting words in a row can be so challenging, but finding (and keeping) a routine that carves out time to write is sometimes equally as challenging. Life has this nasty habit of encroaching.

In the meantime, while I ponder how best to tweak my daily routine, I give you something I never noticed before yesterday. At the dayjob, we have a desk full of health-wise informational pamphlets, you know the type, all about walking your dog and knowing your blood sugar levels. Turns out there's a rather unfortunate placement of the Beyond Blue campaign poster directly above the anti-smoking campaign envelope:

Because you're not alone...but if you're determined to believe you are, we also have a handy envelope detailing the most efficient ways to end it all...?

  1. Heck, what am I talking about? I still consider myself to be just starting out. I always thought having a book published would help me feel more accomplished. Turns out, like every other writer who's gone before me thinking the same thing, I was wrong. I still feel just as raw and awkward as I ever did. [↩]

Down To The River (Bernard Fanning — Tea & Sympathy)

23 June 2010 @ 18:59 | 2 Comments

packing status: still borked

Good news, landing just before I flit off to lands untrammelled, is that PodCastle will be publishing "The Wages of Salt" in an upcoming issue.

So, if you never did manage to track down a copy of PostScripts #18, or if you did but you'd also like an audio copy of the story, keep your eye on the PodCastle site.

Yay for the little story that could!

25 May 2010 @ 21:44 |

writing is such a chaotic sport

Justine Musk (who always has amazingly clever things to say on the topic of wordsmithery) talks about outlining, and why outlines change:

This is what took me way too long (and three published novels) to figure out about plot:

Plot is a process.

…the outline informs the novel but the growing novel also informs the outline.

…What this process requires, however, is a tolerance for ambiguity. For what I described in an earlier blog post as “the muck and murk of writing”: the sense that you’re slogging through a dark swamp with no exit in sight.

We like to have a plan in place, we like to move through an orderly and predictable checklist, but creativity doesn’t sequence so easily. The process works off itself. You show up, you see what you already have, you descend into the muck and the murk, and let the process take you further along.

And she's just absolutely NAILED why outlines have never worked for me. I've been treating it as an either/or approach: writing with an inviolate plan, or without one.

Now, I know writers who outline, and they've always told me they never stick slavishly to said outline, that it evolves even as the story does — which I admit to never quite grasping, probably because my brain runs to extremes.

I'm thoroughly accustomed to a "tolerance for ambiguity" when writing without an outline: wading into a story knowing nothing more than a character's name, sometimes not even that, doesn't distress me in the least. I need to interact with the story and the characters in order for it to evolve, and progress, and grow into a narrative.

I know how to do that when there's no outline in place — but whenever I have attempted an outline, I've then expected it to be my checklist. I've expected it to do away with all that muck and murk of the process. How foolish was I?1

One day I will learn that just because my head and thought patterns lend themselves to BLACK! or WHITE!, no grey or middle paths allowed, that not everything in the world — actually nothing in the world — follows suit.

  1. Doubtless there are writers whose outlines do work that way. I presume those writers have tested and discarded ideas and dug deeply during the outlining process itself, and done an awful lot of thinking and evolving of the narrative prior to writing. I think I can safely say I will never be one of those writers. [↩]

26 April 2010 @ 19:38 |

pretty sure the stuff in my kitchen sink has achieved sentience

Deb vs Proofs, so far:

  • One (1) paper cut gash, to Deb's right index finger
     
  • Several (5+) stubs to Deb's big right toe, because she keeps catching it on the chair or the corner of the desk when turning to check something on one of the stacks of paper on the floor
     
  • Three (3) separate instances of Deb being caught muttering to herself on public transport, causing irreparable damage to her facade of being (relatively) sane
     
  • One (1) moment of soul-crushing despair, on discovering a seemingly unsolvable plot snarl
     
  • Seven (7) nights of sleep deprivation, due to racing thoughts and the fact that proofs are, bet you didn't realise this, some kind of Lovecraftian horror what eats your brain
     
  • ZERO (0) instances of seagull-singing!
     
  • 473 pages full of little fixes: VANQUISHED

Huzzah! I think, technically speaking, the proofs are still ahead, given all the casualties they've inflicted on me. But I have slashed their innards with green ink, so at least I went down fighting.

There are still the big fixes to go, and when I mean big I mean like last night's effort — which involved 3 hours to fix a grand total of 5 pages. Oof. Word and page counts make fine and dandy targets, but they do not accurately reflect the thinking time that went into them. But I have all weekend to tackle said big fixes, which feels like glorious, copious quantities of time, so I'm quietly hopeful that I can do it without feeling too pressed by the deadline.

Now, did I miss anything interesting while I was buried in all those stacks of paper?

15 April 2010 @ 19:46 | 6 Comments

seagull singing status: not yet

So far, the proofs have taught me three things (or at least, three things which come immediately to mind).

First, a "brace" is a pair of something. Did you all know this? I did not. I was in fact under the impression that it denoted decidedly more than two. Dear proof-reader, thank you for questioning.

Second, enjoy those easy pages which have no mark-up, because sooner or later you're going to hit a page with one tiny little question that makes you realise you have previously farked up the plot in a rather horrifying way, and fixing it elegantly (which you must do, it being proofs stage and nobody therefore wanting to add too much more bulk to the book) takes a good four hours. To produce a paragraph. Oy vey. (I fixed it. But now I am not ahead on my target. Boo.)

Third, I do NOT, resolutely NOT, need a smaller desk. In fact, I may well need a much, much larger desk.

I have this pine monstrosity I've been thinking of getting rid of, it being too high for a short person such as myself, and I admit I've been toying with the thought of going all minimalist. A just-barely-enough work surface, which I would naturally keep sparse and clean. But the proofs have reminded me that such a wish is utter, utter folly.

Any desk I own will need to have a work surface large enough to contain the laptop, lamp and scanner (its normal accessories), plus room for the stack of pages I'm working on, the stack of pages I'm yet to go through, the stack of pages I've been through but may need to go back to or at least refer to, a notepad for "thinking out loud" or experimenting with the words I want before committing them to the page in question, and somewhere to put the scads of reference material such as maps, lists of names, issues to fix, &c. That's a whole lot of stacks of paper, and my pine desk is, despite being to my mind too large, not up to the task. I currently have drawers pulled open on either side of me acting as ad-hoc surfaces for supporting the reference material.

On the plus side, this means I don't have to find money for a new teeny desk any time soon. (And a new larger desk is not going to happen. If I have to I'll resort to the floor.)

I'm planning on putting that money I just "saved" towards the purchase of a new camera, so I can taunt you with pictures of Mongolia.

11 April 2010 @ 19:25 |

and they're all (well, mostly all) cousins

The proofs for Shadow Bound landed today. The fourteen-day forecast is therefore for sudden squalls of insanity, the occasional seagull impersonation, an inability to discuss any topic that does not immediately relate to (for example) the placement of commas, and a general air of abstraction and sleeplessness.

Although, the proof reader has won my undying love for the following comment in her cover letter:

This was a thoroughly absorbing read. Lots of urst (please cast Viggo Mortensen or Hugh Jackman as Dieter), tension and complexities.

Heh. Heheh. I think it was only a couple of months ago I finally figured out what URST stood for,1 and now apparently I've written a book with sufficient URST to make at least one person think of Viggo.

I can live with that.

This evening, along with getting started on the proofs, I also wrote up the dedication and acknowledgements. My next task, concurrent with the edits, is to whip up some kind of character/house/tribe glossary — which I think is no bad idea, given that no less than 40-odd character and house names are mentioned in the first 60 pages. And this is a novel with actually not that many characters!

It's all starting to take shape people. Book!

  1. I'm slow on the uptake. But I know there's at least one person who also doesn't know what it means, so just for you, Mum: UnResolved Sexual Tension. [↩]

7 April 2010 @ 22:04 | 7 Comments

dear story: you (still) suck

I don’t know whether it’s just approaching-the-end or it’s-not-working, but I hate the short story.

I hate all my stories when I’m approaching the end of the draft, so it could be completely normal and nothing to be concerned about. On the other hand, the approaching-the-end hate is particularly difficult to tell apart from the it’s-not-working hate, which happens when something deep and structural just isn’t pulling together.

In fact, to make matters worse, the it’s-not-working hate is indistinguishable not only from the approaching-the-end hate, but also from the don’t-know-the-start hate and the farking-middles! hate. Canny readers will note that covers all the bases there: start, middle, end. Which means I find it impossible to tell whether a story is working or not while I’m wrestling with these other modes of writing, and I just have to push on.

I hate pushing on.

Dear story, why couldn’t you be one of those stories that just flowed? I like them better. Nolove, Your Author.

Dear Author, I was one of those stories that just flowed, remember? All SORTS of crap ended up on the page, including the TARDIS at one point. Which is precisely why you’re having so much trouble now. It’s not my fault your first draft consisted solely of “Plot? I have no need of plot while I can throw shiny at the page!” Nolove, Your Story. Who Deserves Better Than To Be Defamed In Such A Manner.

The Promise (Michael Nyman — The Piano)

4 April 2010 @ 17:59 |
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