Charon Dunn: The Blog
Writer of science fiction novels! Reviewer of books and things! Processor of words that win trials! Humongous housecat haver!
Saturday, February 16, 2019
Essays About Kids' Books
The Atlantic has a wonderful selection of essays on well-known YA books, and it has been keeping me absorbed for quite a while so I thought I would share it.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Genes and Editing
I’ve been trying to be productive and creative during my
current between-jobs period. I’ve put some effort into cleaning and organizing
my house, I’ve been planning my book launch, my resume is drafted and my
interview clothes are standing by. I’ve been interacting with my Facebook
friends more, and actually making plans to get out and see them, as opposed to
reducing our relationship to a scattering of likes. I’m taking better care of myself
and am no longer feeling the need to constantly hit the caffeine trigger, or to
“reward” myself with decadent meals and rich desserts.
Plus the writing. Can’t forget the writing. In fact, I’ve
been waking up at sunrise to greet the new day and get a little writing done. I
even did that on Monday. Weird.
I recently did some alternate geneology. Upon making contact
with another biological relative I realized I had a mom and a stepmom switched
around. So I am no longer related to the intrepid Arterburns who fought in the
revolutionary war. My new relatives are just as interesting, however. I chased
them all the way back to the Clan Colquhoun, which is throwing a clan gathering
this July (which I will totally attend assuming I win the lottery or otherwise stumble
into a pile of money). Malcolm, 9th Lord of Dunbarton Colquhoun of
Scotland (1376-1439), was my 16th great-grandfather. Assuming, of course,
that everybody in successive generations procreated with the people they were
actually married to. Potentially a shaky assumption in my family (which still has more farmers and soldiers and tradesmen and regular people in it than nobles).
After making this discovery I stumbled into a conservative
review of a book I recently reviewed, which hits the nail on the head as far as
why my review of Blueprint … by
Robert Plomin was kind of brief and shallow.
So far I have complained at length about my fellow liberals’
disdain for what they consider biodeterminism, and I usually assume their point of view to be the default. Due to confirmation bias and the
fact that I don’t hang out with a lot of conservatives, I hadn’t really
pondered that conservatives tend to recoil in horror from the soulless and nihilistic
nature of random evolution, where evolutionary success is awarded more often to
opportunistic douchebags like the ones in my personal family tree than to people
who strive to live in a way that pleases God.
DNA is dynamite. It’s Lovecraft’s elder gods. It has many
aspects, to unnerve people of many persuasions.
What would a society engineered to let people be all they
can be – without harming their neighbors, who are doing the same thing – look like?
That’s what I’ve been trying to envision in my science fiction. I wonder if Lord Malcolm ever sat around pondering this kind of stuff.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
More Publishing Corruption – What a Shocker
If you’ve been wondering why you can’t find anything
entertaining to read lately, it’s probably because corporate publishing would
rather subsidize guys like this than novelists.
So what’s a creative (yet ornery) writer lady who doesn’t
look like a supermodel and doesn’t have patience for penny ante power trippers
to do? Self publish, I suppose.
Break’s over, back to work!
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Launch Party Preview -- And You're Invited!
I'm putting together my launch party for A Dark and Stormy Day. It's going to happen during BayCon, which takes place on Memorial Day Weekend at the San Mateo Marriott (near the airport).
Baycon is the longest-running SF convention in the Bay Area. I'm going to work something out with the organizers for people who want to attend only the party, but I humbly suggest that you might enjoy being a convention attendee for a day, especially if you've never been to one before. BayCon is smallish and non-threatening and full of friendly people who like to read books, watch movies and play games. Exact date and time of party will be announced.
In the spirit of my recently deceased friend, my parties will always have plenty of delicious food, because otherwise why even bother throwing one. Since the cover of ADSD shows New York City on New Year's Eve of 3749, that's my theme. I'm aiming for NYC-style street food. A hot dog bar. Bagels with lox and cream cheese. And, of course, there will be a great big cake -- I'm thinking pineapple.
Cosplayers of all types are welcomed. If you want to cosplay as someone overflowing with NYC-style -- a three-card monte dealer, a subway busker, a vendor of sidewalk wares -- leave me a comment or otherwise get in touch and I'll arrange entertainer perks for you.
New Year's Eve party hats and noisemakers will be provided.
Hope you can join us.
Baycon is the longest-running SF convention in the Bay Area. I'm going to work something out with the organizers for people who want to attend only the party, but I humbly suggest that you might enjoy being a convention attendee for a day, especially if you've never been to one before. BayCon is smallish and non-threatening and full of friendly people who like to read books, watch movies and play games. Exact date and time of party will be announced.
In the spirit of my recently deceased friend, my parties will always have plenty of delicious food, because otherwise why even bother throwing one. Since the cover of ADSD shows New York City on New Year's Eve of 3749, that's my theme. I'm aiming for NYC-style street food. A hot dog bar. Bagels with lox and cream cheese. And, of course, there will be a great big cake -- I'm thinking pineapple.
Cosplayers of all types are welcomed. If you want to cosplay as someone overflowing with NYC-style -- a three-card monte dealer, a subway busker, a vendor of sidewalk wares -- leave me a comment or otherwise get in touch and I'll arrange entertainer perks for you.
New Year's Eve party hats and noisemakers will be provided.
Hope you can join us.
Sunday, February 10, 2019
True Crime Time – The Infamous Presa Canario Mauling
Marjorie Knoller’s bid for parole was recently denied. It looks like she’ll be spending the rest of her life in prison for the murder of Diane Whipple. I’m generally averse to telling stories about real people who
are still alive, since I don’t really want to slander or embarrass anybody.
Even the narcissists.
Especially the narcissists, in fact, because they tend to go
berserk at the idea anybody might tell tales that present them in any light
less than flattering, and will probably lurk in the shadows seeking retaliation. And Marj is sort of narcissistic but not as much as some, and I don't think she'd ever harm me.
The main narcissist in this tale is dead. His name was Jim,
and I had an exciting and exasperating relationship with him. He was a lawyer I met
when I was a young slacker nerd convinced that my novels and guitar playing would catch on any moment, drifting between entry level jobs and hanging
around with people who actually owned computers (they had just started making
computers with color screens, which I found super interesting).
Jim was a bad boy. He was affiliated with a notorious ceremonial magick society and
had even filed their articles of incorporation. He drank like a fish. He had cocaine
problems from time to time, and he consumed a boatload of pharmaceuticals as
part of his recovery from a heroin problem he’d beat before I met him. He
was a diagnosed schizophrenic.
And yet I thought he was sort of cute, mainly because he had
a breathtakingly high IQ. He confessed once that he was high on psychedelics
during the bar exam, and he spent the between-exams break reading Lovecraft. He could pick up a book, skim it, and deliver a lecture on it twenty minutes later, as a charming, charismatic expert who even remembered footnotes.
Jim was, unlike me, a rich kid from Lawn Guyland. Like me,
he had a disrupted education – in high school, he got busted for flying a Cessna
full of marijuana across the Mexican border, so he was sent to military school
in lieu of prison, where they found out he was schizophrenic – then later,
after he ran away from home, he got affiliated with some ne’er-do-wells and earned
enough to put himself through law school. We used to play chess, and read philosophy
books to each other. He owned several computers. He had interesting friends. I
moved in.
I didn't last long; I’m not a drinker and alcoholism
is one of those quirks I really can’t deal with. I actually saw Jim get progressively
soberer, and by the time we broke up he was pretty much limiting himself to
psych meds prescribed by doctors, so probably I set a good influence, and
probably saved him several DUIs by being his designated driver.
He was a good influence on me too, in that one day he took a
job as general counsel for a real estate developer in San Francisco. When I met
him he was struggling with a private practice that was failing mainly because
its principal was a drunk. He took a transition job where he made appearances
at all the far flung circuit courts in Northern California, and I’d ride along,
just in case he ran into any bloody marys along the way. We’d read books
to each other, and sing along with the radio.
His confidence restored, he headed to San Francisco and went
to work for Bernie, a real estate developer – sort of a teeny baby version of
Trump. Bernie was also a major substance abuser, because it was the ‘80s, and
nearly all the baby boomers were, while we Gen X types followed them around
cleaning up their vomit and meddling with their computers. Bernie had a chain
of expensive San Francisco buildings that were all leveraged on each other like
dominoes, and was engaged in an epic battle to keep the most recent and
expensive one.
I had broken up with Jim around the time he got together
with Bernie, but after a couple months he called me up in a panic. Bernie and
his partner had just split, and the partner took all the clerical staff,
leaving Bernie with a handful of lawyers and an IBM 36 word processing system
which nobody knew how to operate.
Oh look, a computer nobody knows how to operate. *cracks
knuckles*
And that is how I found myself in a wood paneled office in a
skyscraper, with a view of the San Francisco Bay, and an acting title of “Office
Manager Slash Senior Paralegal.” Learning how to operate an IBM 36 word
processing system. While process servers delivered a steady stream of incoming lawsuits,
as the handful of lawyers heroically drafted motions and zoomed off to court
and summoned bike messengers for the latest red hot rush. And Bernie screamed
and tossed items and called emergency tantrum meetings – he had at least one
meltdown per day.
I mastered the IBM 36, and I stuck with the firm for quite
some time. It got evicted from the fancy skyscraper and moved into one of its own properties, a five-story office building in Hayes
Valley. The front was all dolled up, with fancy offices and decent art, and the back was an
unfinished huge room with a bunch of desks surrounded by islands of unpacked moving
cartons. I would zoom around the concrete floor in my wheeled
office chair, depending on whether I was answering discovery on the IBM 36,
drafting contracts on the IBM PC I was transitioning everyone towards, doing art stuff on the Mac like designing letterhead for new holding companies or doing
office manager crap and trying to find clerical people with low enough standards to work for us.
When Bernie was getting towards the end of his shelf life he
had massive layoffs and replaced everyone with cute girls, and the business
stayed afloat for another couple of months. Jim transitioned off to work for
Dinesh, a slightly saner developer.
I had developed a major litigation addiction, so I went to
work doing just that, except I moved out of real estate and into torts –
personal injury, employment, product liability. I developed a specialty in transitioning
offices from one kind of computer to another, updating and automating to ensure
the flow of paperwork never stops. I’d typically go in as a legal secretary
with computer responsibilities, help a place get their digital stuff
retrofitted and then ride off into the sunset. Later on I became a word
processor slash IT person that can pinch hit as a paralegal, calendar clerk,
file clerk, secretary and receptionist, depending on what kind of day it is. I’m
basically an ammo loader for litigators, and while I’ve thought about doing the
law school thing myself, it’s not for me. I’m not that focused. I was very
pleased that I’d found a career path where I could spend a third of my day
working hard doing complex tasks at lightning speed so that I could spend my
evenings and weekends creating and consuming music and books.
I was just getting started along this path when I met Bob
Noel. I was his secretary, in fact, at a company not publicly associated with
Bob Noel. That’s because one day he called opposing counsel, and upon learning
he was not in the office, left a message with the receptionist that said, “Tell
him he’s an idiot.” Said alleged idiot thereafter sued our office for slander,
and Bob Noel was asked to leave the premises and henceforth omit the firm from
his resume, and he did. He went into private practice.
I was buddies with Bob outside work, because he was a
charming guy. Not quite in Jim’s league, but he had that same kind of rich-kid-gone-bad
aura. He was from Baltimore, and had started out with an illustrious career
working for the Department of Justice … then, stuff happened, and he found
himself running away to San Francisco like some kind of hippie. When I met him,
he was living in a cheap studio apartment and had no car or credit cards – this
made arranging for his business travel very complicated.
He also had the first portable computer I’d ever seen: an Amstrad,
one of the first models. I thought this was incredibly cool, a forerunner of
future laptops.
After Bob got ’86’d from the firm that shall not be named,
he opened his own practice. And because we were friends, I used to see him from
time to time. I was still dating Jim even though I had moved into a studio
apartment in North Beach – he followed me to SF, getting his own apartment in
Pacific Heights, a five dollar cab ride away. Jim, in fact, joined Bob’s
practice briefly, and they shared an office in the Cathedral Hill Office
Building and Hotel.
Cathedral Hill at Van Ness and Geary is a weird spooky
property that figures prominently in my life. My last argument with my
ex-husband took place there. I became a notary there. When it was being torn
down and replaced with a brand new hospital, I commuted past it every day. I
expect I’ll die there. And Jim had an office there for a time, which he shared
with Bob Noel and a Greek accountant, and I would go over there and chill in
the bar with them from time to time as we waited for Marjorie, whom Bob had
just recently married, back when we were co-workers.
Marjorie worked, coincidentally, at a San Francisco law firm
where I’d eventually end up working -- lots of aspiring litigators drifted through. The whole San Francisco litigation scene is
pretty small, actually, and we’ve all seen each other at some party or seminar
or whatever before. It’s probably going to fade away soon, once we get
(crossing fingers) universal health care. The exorbitant cost of US health care
was the whole reason it existed – if you can prove in court that if medical costs
keep rising the way they have been, your client’s future medical costs would be
many millions more than what they currently cost. Guys like Melvin Belli made
the field popular, and San Francisco jurors reliably returned verdicts that
slammed corporations as hard as possible.
Bob was pretty sure he could run a solo practice in this
environment. Especially if he had a hard-working wife like Marjorie, who had
repeatedly failed to pass the bar. She tended to freeze up under pressure.
From time to time I did work for the law offices of Noel and
Knoller. So did Jim – his new developer sometimes used Noel’s firm as overflow
counsel, and he had a few business clients under his sole practice in the office
he shared with Noel and Knoller. Noel was the big grandstanding figurehead, a
tall handsome guy overflowing with charisma. Marj was the little workaholic in
the background, doing all the boring parts. She eventually passed the bar
herself.
For a while I watched them dance their bizarre folie a deux.
Marj was desperate for status, and she courted San Francisco society, attending
balls in designer dresses and sucking up to the Junior League. She wanted a sugar
daddy, and Bob was delighted to play that role, dressing up in tuxedos and escorting
her to Paris. They had a pet parrot named Jean Claude, and they lived in a
swank apartment building in Pacific Heights. (I live nearby, but far downhill,
in a gently crumbling apartment in a humble mixed-use building above a
restaurant, which I love with all my heart and hope to never leave.)
After several years of me occasionally providing them with
clerical help or sending them smalltime clients that wanted things like trust
funds or articles of incorporation, we broke up over weed. Specifically, Marj dropped
by while my ex-husband and a bunch of our friends were over having a movie watching
party, and she smelled weed, and she left. I had heard her rant before about how
she hated pot because the mean girls in high school who used to bully her were
potheads. Maybe she was also allergic. In any event, Marj hated pot even
though, ironically, she lived in the pothead valhalla that is San Francisco. Once
she learned pot was actually welcome in my house, it was over.
Our relationship had been deteriorating steadily after I
extricated myself from the relationship with Jim and got settled with my
ex-husband, who was a techie-nerd that couldn’t really socialize with lawyers. Especially
lawyers like Bob and Marj, who were basically Snobbin Hoods – trying to break
into elite social circles by representing themselves as humble crusaders for the
downtrodden. For instance, they had signed up for court-appointed cases, which
paid reliably, although very little. They told me they were getting involved
with prisoner rights, and disabled rights. They wanted to take money from the
rich by doing small business cases and convert it into pro bono work for
indigent people for the rest of their caseload. While somehow making enough
profit to afford designer gowns and Paris vacations.
There was also an undertone of sexual creepiness that had
sunk in. I was a cinephile back then and I used to trade movie recommendations back
and forth with Bob from time to time, but Marj was more into icky stuff – I remember
she gave me the novel Possession by A.S. Byatt and told me it was the best
thing ever. As a person that hung around the Northern California boho/SF/hippie/hot
tub/sex positive/genderfluid/radical faerie/etc community since teenagerhood,
and having got my tantric wackiness out of my system well before age thirty (maybe
I’ll write about that someday after I outlive a few more people), I’m not really
interested in hearing middle-aged people talk about their sexual awakenings. And
that’s why I’m not entirely positive, but I vaguely recall hearing Bob and Marj
discuss their handsome new prisoner client whom they were helping in his heroic
fight against the system. I might have even considered they had run into some
tantric Svengali/Manson type – they were nearly as prevalent in San Francisco as
tort lawyers back in the 80’s and 90’s.
So I had stopped hanging out with them far before they
decided to keep gigantic dogs in their teeny apartment. They didn’t really like
my bearded techie husband as much as they liked Jim, and I don’t really blame
them. I moved to a firm that had some more genuine snobs – we had all our
holiday parties at the gentlemen’s club one of the senior partners had belonged
to since the 1940’s – but they were far more chill. One of
them was a transactional lawyer named Neil, and he actually ended up testifying
against Knoller in her murder trial, since the presa canarios attacked his
sweet shy three-legged sheltie which was gravely wounded and lingered for a few
months.
When I first learned that Knoller/Noel were in trouble
because their dog ate their neighbor, I was on their side, but only because I knew
them. If a dog spontaneously kills somebody, it’s probably defending its owner against
a threat, was my basic line of reasoning. Then I learned about Neil’s sheltie,
plus I read The Letter in our local newspaper.
When I was Bob’s secretary I used to love his bombastic
letters, where he would quote books and rant in footnotes and basically try to
be Hunter S. Thompson in lawyer form. I even marked my favorite Noel letters “letter
of the month” in highlighter and hung them on my cubicle wall for people to
enjoy. They were genuinely funny, and had an air of cheeky-punk-tweaking-the-establishment.
Over the years, his letter-writing skills had become dark
and bitter. He penned a multipage screed – The Letter -- wherein he blamed his deceased
neighbor for inciting the attack with her lesbian pheromones, among other things.
Just like that – *snaps fingers* – I was no longer on their side.
I read everything about the trial, and I have autographed
copies of at least two true crime books about it. Here’s what happened: Bob and
Marj were financially underwater. They were accusing their landlord of uninhabitable-premises
type stuff as justification for being way behind in the rent. They were
scrambling around looking for clients.
Their bizarro relationship with Jail Svengali was in full
blossom, and he had conned them into bringing two gigantic, poorly-socialized meth lab guard dogs into their San Francisco apartment because another one of
his thralls outside the correctional system was no longer able to provide for
these valuable assets. Mind you, we are talking about a miniscule San Franciscan
two-bedroom apartment, which has far less square-footage than a suburban 711 or
five-star hotel room.
If I had seen Noel and/or Knoller walking their
dogs, I would have given them a piece of my mind. Let me tell you why. When I
lived in North Beach, I had a friend (Valerie) who had a gorgeous wolf-dog hybrid,
named Idunna. Valerie spent a fortune on multiple obedience
trainers for Idunna. You had to practically sit through a 48-hour canine safety
class before she’d even let you walk Idunna on a leash. Valerie liked unusual and
dangerous animals. She had kept a prior wolf dog, in addition to boa
constrictors. She was well aware that one accident could bring about disaster,
so she did her utmost to avoid having that accident. Idunna was very difficult
to train, and very destructive – at one point she dug up pvc plumbing pipe in
the backyard and gnawed through it, and there was another time she didn’t like
being left in the car during dinner and chewed a chunk out of the steering wheel.
Idunna was also a total sweetheart, and I used to enjoy walking her around
North Beach while listening to people gasp. Sometimes they’d come up and ask
me, in hushed voices, if that was indeed a wolf. And I’d say yes. But I wouldn’t
let them pet her unless her body language was just right. If you’re going to be
friends with dangerous animals, you need to know how to keep them from
attacking people.
Because I think incompetent animal handlers are just as bad
as animal abusers, and I have no patience for them.
So, incompetent handler Marj was home while incompetent
handler Bob was in court. The dogs, meanwhile, had diarrhea. Marj was sneaking
them onto the roof to poop, because she was too incompetent at handling them to
take them outside. They outweighed her.
Plus I don’t believe she grew up with big dogs. Serious
dogs. Lapdogs are technically the same species but they’re not the same. I’m a
little more familiar, since I grew up with a mean looking boxer-lab cross who
was absolutely devoted to protecting me.
I like dogs. I remember one time I was in a restaurant,
sitting at an outside table, and unexpectedly felt a dog lunge against my
shoulder in a friendly way, so from habit I reached around and hugged it, and
let it slurp my ear – just because that’s what I do. The dog’s (incompetent)
owner gasped and began apologizing profusely, since what if I had been dog-phobic,
and omg, he doesn’t usually jump on strangers like that. And I just looked at her
and said, “you should use a leash, that stuff can scare people.” While ruffling
the obnoxiously friendly dog’s ears. I think it was a golden retriever. A
couple of coworkers at my last job would occasionally bring their dogs and I
would always make time to pet them, and maybe bring out the doggy toys I kept
in my desk. Strange dogs will often walk right up to me, correctly assessing
that I like them. I had pet dogs as a kid, up until I moved to a city apartment
and became more of a cat person. If I ever moved somewhere with a yard, I’d run
out and get a dog the next day.
Because there is no way I’m going to be stuck in a small
apartment with a dog that is having diarrhea, like Marj was. A pony-sized dog!
A dog equivalent in mass to four or five of The Big Kahuna! A dog that Valerie
would have kept far away from the public until it would reliably perform all
commands on voice and signal, which probably wasn’t possible since it had spent
its formative years running wild and killing livestock. A dog from a breed used
for hundreds of generations to guard rich peoples’ estates from hungry
peasants.
Marj returns from taking the dogs to poop. Confronts neighbor,
who isn’t favorably disposed. According to Marj’s court testimony, the neighbor
shook her keys at Marj in a threatening way. The dogs didn’t like that, and then
it was on.
Marj froze under pressure. Then she brought her incompetent animal-handling skills into play, making the
attack even worse – at one point she was trying to get on top of the victim as
a human shield, and she used what she claimed were paramedic skills she actually didn't have. The neighbor, a lacrosse coach named Diane Whipple who was very well liked in the community, did not survive.
And then Bob wrote The Letter. It’s entirely possible both
of them would have walked if it hadn’t been for The Letter, a symphony of
victim blaming. It was written from the point of view of a lawyer desperately
trying to make others see his side. The dog went berserk from all those
hormones she generated with her athletic lesbian ways, so it’s not my fault,
your honor! Then he sent it to the newspaper, and they published it right on
the front page.
The world was appalled. I was ashamed to have known them. I
watched the media circus unfold around them, and I even slipped into a couple
of their court appearances accompanied by friends into true crime. All kinds of
disgusting evidence came to light in the form of sexy letters and drawings
between the lawyers and their prison Svengali, who had both of them thoroughly
enthralled.
Both of them went to jail for murder. Bob’s sentence was
lighter since he wasn’t even there and thus, like Charles Manson, was only
guilty of conspiracy. He got released after a few years and became a baker,
forswearing the practice of law forever.
The “adoption” of his prison son, by the way, was Bob’s idea
of a legal loophole. He had read about a case somewhere involving a transfer of
funds or assertion of privilege or something like that, where a lawyer adopted
a client as a strategic move. He had talked about what a brilliant idea this
was. I wasn’t quite as impressed, being an adoptee myself. Marj, also an
adoptee, thought it was okay.
I just found out Bob died a couple years ago. He had become
disabled and had acquired a support dog. Then he became homeless. He applied
for social services and was told he would have to give up his dog, which was
hard because he loved it so much, and died a couple years later. I’m sad for
Bob even though I never spoke to him again after reading The Letter, and I’ll
add him to the list of folks I think about when contemplating people who are no
longer living – along with Valerie, and Jim.
Marj, meanwhile, is still doing time, and her parole was
just denied. I hope she’s found her niche in there. There’s a side of Marj that
has a heart, and after one of her court hearings I found myself talking with an
indigent woman Marj had helped in jail, so I’m pretty sure she’s doing good
things for her fellow inmates as a prison lawyer.
The prosecutor that got her locked up, Kimberly Guilfoyle,
went on to a high profile relationship with then-mayor/current-governor Gavin
Newsom. Then she moved to Fox News and apparently is now dating a Trump. Newsom
was the first mayor to legalize same-sex weddings, and recently succeeded Jerry
Brown as Governor of California.
And while I’m not going to say there’s any sort of a direct
causal relationship, I’ve shifted from walking a dire wolf around North Beach
to keeping mild fluffy harmless pets like bunnies and Ragdoll cats. Huge as he
is, I am fairly certain The Big Kahuna would never eat my neighbors.
Thursday, February 7, 2019
The Big Kahuna Is Fourteen!
The Big Kahuna turns fourteen today. He's having a very happy birthday, because I'm going to stay home with him all day! He likes having me in close proximity.
For all of you astrology fans, here's his natal chart. Five planets in Aquarius!
Kahuna likes technology,
dramatic poses,
science fiction,
room parties at Worldcon,
and fantasy (Harry Potter) and horror (The Stand) ... let's just leave it at "speculative fiction."
When I got Kahuna from the rescue, he came with a medical file that included his parents' pedigrees. No pedigree for Kahuna, probably because he was destined to be a pet rather than a show cat, probably due to the freakish size issue. Here's his daddy, Scooter.
And his mum, Jasmine Snow.For all of you astrology fans, here's his natal chart. Five planets in Aquarius!
Aquarius is the opposite of Leo, so he's kind of like an anti-lion (as opposed to an ant lion). If any creature could be said to be the total antithesis of a lion, it would be Kahuna.
Kahuna likes technology,
dramatic poses,
science fiction,
room parties at Worldcon,
and fantasy (Harry Potter) and horror (The Stand) ... let's just leave it at "speculative fiction."
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Hi There, Prospective Employers!
Hello prospective employer, or employee of one! You are
probably checking me out to see if I’ve done anything ridiculous in public that
would make me unsuitable for employment at your esteemed firm. Possibly you are
even thinking, right now, that you’ve hit the jackpot – a science fiction novelist
with a giant cat is definitely somewhere on the weird end of the spectrum.
Let me assure you, I’m actually weird in a good way. Please
allow me to elaborate.
Family Friendly
I write for the Young Adult market – a genre known for
having brigades of exquisitely sensitive fans who will create uproar whenever
they perceive triggers such as bigotry. For the past few years I have been
blogging and writing novels in this environment, successfully avoiding all
triggers while creating characters that are positive role models. You’ll never
catch me saying ugly things on social media. Keeping my branding clean is very
important to me, and therefore I’ll also be interested in keeping your branding
pristine.
Novelist
According to a recent survey, the average annual income for
novelists is about twenty thousand dollars. Only a very few of us are rich and
successful like J.K. Rowling or Stephen King. The rest all have day jobs (like
the one I’m applying for at your company). My stuff is too niche for a general
audience, so I don’t intend to be buying any private islands any time soon. It
does mean that I’ll probably spend my vacations at writer conventions, or
writing. And although my writing is extremely important to me, I’m flexible
enough to choose a career path that allows me time to do it. I never do
creative work at my day job; the vibe is all wrong.
Except for deposition summaries. My depo summaries kick ass.
That’s where I learned how to write about catastrophic disasters.
College (Lack of)
When I was in my freshman year, I had a medical situation
that led to debt which interrupted my education. I’ve attempted to finish
college many times, but there always seems to be an obstacle. Also, I have a
hard time narrowing my focus, and I have attempted a variety of majors,
including psychology, music theory, audio engineering and English. If your data
crunchers require a degree, we probably won’t get along. However, if you’re more
interested in the thirty years of familiarity with litigation/trials (in
multiple capacities) than the lack of sheepskin, let’s talk.
Cat Lady
I’ll save you the trouble of examining my Facebook account
and prior posts – I’m single, a bit relationship-phobic in fact, and although I
have several relatives, I have never met most of them, which is a fascinating
story that can be spun out over the course of several happy hours and/or
novels. I identify as nonbinary, but I use regular female pronouns and am extremely
low key about it, other than having a vague aversion to girly things like
jewelry and love songs. I’m a reclusive cat lady and proud of it, and in fact I’ve
got the biggest cat you’ve ever seen.
Nonetheless, I do have a few cool stories in me that would’ve gone to my kids if I’d had any, and since I don’t I’m packaging them for general readership. So don’t expect me to be missing or stressed out due to family drama, since I don’t have any.
Nonetheless, I do have a few cool stories in me that would’ve gone to my kids if I’d had any, and since I don’t I’m packaging them for general readership. So don’t expect me to be missing or stressed out due to family drama, since I don’t have any.
Bad Habits
Don’t smoke except for when I’m in Las Vegas. Barely drink, but
I make up for it with my coffee consumption. No illegal drugs. No overwhelming
fandoms. No compulsions such as gambling or sex. I do have a moderately
dysfunctional relationship with food, and although I’m trying to get better, I’m
still trying to allow leeway for things which make life worth living, like
chicken tikka masala, pulled pork, and napoleons. That’s why I’m looking for a
job that will help me afford restaurants. While at the same time trying to drop
the weight I put on struggling to find a diet that wouldn’t aggravate my stomach,
which has become increasingly sensitive over the years. Food is my bete noire.
Health
It’s complex, but no bodily limitations have ever made much
impact in my ability to sit in a chair and do computer stuff all day.
Personality and
Politics
I get along with about ninety percent of humanity. I’m interested
in people, in fact, and I generally like them. I lean liberal, but as far as
political statements go, you’re more likely to find me writing positive role
model characters than posting angry rants on the internet. I prefer positive
action to negative reaction.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)