I unpublished my last piece, in which my monstera plant
discusses my two horror novels (Approaching Storm and Star Language). I decided
having a monstera plant named Milton was tasteless in the wake of the recent
hurricane.
I’ve spent the last year recovering from neck surgery. I’m
fused at two levels and there was a bone graft, a whole lot of physical
therapy, plenty of drugs, and some pain. I had a crushed nerve and for a while
it looked like I was going to have permanent deficits but I’m toughening up
thanks to plenty of videogames.
While I was lying around medicated, I spent some time
thinking about my writing.
(1)I have to write, like sharks have to swim.
I’ve
never had a problem writing. Finishing things … being marketable … doing PR …
yeah. That’s why I went the self-published route, to see if I could come up
with my own version of a midlist niche.
(2) I started out writing for kids but that
phase is over.
It was
fashionable. Marketable. And then it turned into a culture wars battleground.
While I came to a realization that I don’t want to write about kids, families,
schools, first loves, any of that normal American stuff that I don’t relate to.
Young Adult is not my niche after all. From now on, I’m writing for grown-ups
(and kids precocious enough to read grown-up books).
(3)Then I bounced over to horror.
I was
dealing with chronic pain, depressed, facing some major issues, so I took it
out on fiction. I came up with a couple of weird tales that had all the
requisite adult things (substance abuse, sex, cussing, ultraviolence) to
distinguish them from my kid books. I still think Star Language is one of the
best things I’ve ever written, a retelling of Malinche and Cortes done up like
a lurid TV drama featuring invading space aliens, trafficked girls … and
linguistics.
(4) I had a meta goal involving
socializing.
My
original plan: Write niche books. Travel to exciting places to attend conventions
to promote niche books. Deduct expenses. Meet other niche writers, make
friends, hang out for a few years prior to my demise from old age.
Then
the pandemic happened, and socializing moved inward. For a brief while I was
juggling thousands of social media followers under various aliases and quite a
few under my real name. There was a lot of pointless drama, and I came to some
realizations about how I am basically a loner by nature. I like doing event
planning but I hate being the event.
(5) I no longer have any goals beyond
finishing my current creative project and staying alive until I get to see all
the concerts I have tickets for.
I’m
good through August of 2025, although knowing me, I’ll probably keep extending
this date indefinitely and buying more tickets.
My
current project has to do with Baz Rose. I was writing a spin-off novel about
him subsequent to Rhonda Wray: Raptor Wrangler. Then my co-author decided to
hold up the IP for several years. She finally gave it back. At the time I had the
idea of writing a dozen short stories in various genres, and seeing if I could
sell any of them, and continuing with whatever genre was most successful. So I
started with a short story about Baz, but after I finished it I realized I
wanted to spend more time with him, so I’m working on a novel at a very
leisurely pace, where Baz gets shipped to another planet where he must form a band and record a hit album amongst a whole lot of gangster drama with space aliens. I also have one in the pipeline called Lahaina Noon that takes
place on the island of Maui, where I was born.
No more PR unless/until I find my direction. Assuming I do. Follow me on Amazon if you're interested in seeing what I write next.
He had been struggling with arthritis and had an appointment for his next treatment tomorrow, but his appetite failed and the appetite stimulant drugs weren't working. Yesterday I woke up to find him hiding in a closet. That was unusual. My heart sank.
He stayed in the closet most of the day, only eating a little milk and a squeezable kitty treat even though I spent most of the day preparing tempting food to wave in his face. At night he rallied and came out for cuddles; I played a Billy Strings concert for him. He always loved guitar noodling. Whenever I'd livestream a concert he would be right beside me, curled up listening. He enjoyed one last concert, then he limped back into the closet. I followed him, covered him up with blankets and lay there beside him talking to him for a while. I woke up well before dawn this morning but when I went to check on him he was gone.
I saw this scared little rescue kitty on Petfinders and had no idea he was a giant
I needed to get some professional photos taken anyway, so I dragged him along to the photoshoot and got some memorable pictures. He was around his top weight of 35 pounds here.
This is my favorite picture of him from that session. I have a big print hanging on my wall.
With his pal at Cat Safari, where he would stay whenever I went out of town.
They loved him at Cat Safari.
He had a lot of presence and charisma in addition to being huge, but he was also a very reserved, shy creature. I thought about trying to make him an internet celebrity but both of us were way too introverted for that shit, so he spent most of his life as a private citizen.
Sometimes I would get him to shill for my books
He liked to make me smile, and usually did a good job
Most nights he slept in bed with me
He wasn't very fond of hot weather
Throwing a room party at the San Jose Worldcon
He spent a lot of time in his banana bed
Such a noble profile!
His super-penetrating attention-getting stare
One of those "first thing after waking up" photos
It's going to be tough going to sleep without his presence in the house tonight
“My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.” ― Richard Adams, Watership Down
Mister Gatekeeper You sent me back into the crowd Mister Gatekeeper You told me that I was not allowed According to my badge, I was on the list But you turned me away, and now I’m pissed Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you It’s true Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you
Mister Gatekeeper This isn’t my first time at this show Mister Gatekeeper People like you are always telling me where I can’t go Usually I just walk away and play with different toys But it happened again, so I’m gonna make some noise Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you It’s true Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you
Did I read that book? Can I name three songs? Can I come up with proof of why I should belong? You do not want me here, you've made that crystal clear I think you're freaking out because you find me irredeemably queer!
Mister Gatekeeper Go ahead and keep your stinking gate Mister Gatekeeper I didn’t want to get beyond it anyway If people like you are the guardians of decorum I don’t want to get closer than an internet forum Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you It’s true Mister Gatekeeper, someday that gate’s gonna slam on you
[EDIT: the social media platform upon which I usually conduct my spamming is throttling pages that refer to controversial things like "vaccines" so I shall compensate by spamming this blog ad in more places than I typically do.]
I lost my mind while writing this; it shows. Since the antiliteracy
branch of the conservative fringe has decided to do battle with the whole
concept of “books for kids” I’ve moved from YA to adult fiction, mainly by
shoveling a few layers of gratuitous sex and violence over my regular style. Usually
I do a lot of overthinking with regard to the plot, but this time I went
seat-of-my-pants with a portal fantasy overlapping with a search for a missing
goddaughter, and a crew of villainous book banning types to reap some retribution.
While I was writing it, my very own missing goddaughter surfaced.
I hadn’t seen her for a couple decades, following a disagreement with her mom.
She turned out to be dying, from the consequences of many bad choices, and we
weren’t in contact for long. I changed the character from a long-lost
goddaughter to an adopted-out son.
I can’t even count all the obstacles that sprouted while I
was writing this thing. I got some personal discouragement from a famous writer
that I admire (in fact, the very same one whose book inspired the name of my
doomed goddaughter), an injury that left me limping and using a cane, my cat
had a life-threatening illness and nearly died. My collaborator from my last
book was laid low when her husband suffered a catastrophic illness. I had the
honor of working with editor Sumiko Saulson, who also had an onslaught of
troubles during that timespan, and we both survived a bout of Covid19.
I finished it though. I have no idea if what I’m currently
writing is any good, I always feel like there’s major room for improvement
(although I’m getting better with practice). I’ve decided to cease all
collaboration and publicity until I find my post YA groove, including working
with editors, sensitivity readers, and even cover artists. I’m not doing the
convention scene either, and I’m not throwing any more launch parties. Just
self-pubbing. Maybe it’ll catch on, maybe I’ll get bored and do something else,
or die of old age. Right now I’m only writing because I love to write.
It took me fifty years to figure out how to finish a novel.
Once I began I had a dream of spending my old age traveling to SF cons and
deducting them, while hanging out with other small time genre writers. The
pandemic ruined many of those things, like travel, and conventions, and socializing
in general. I did do a little traveling during the covid days, with compulsory
masks on airplanes, and hotel housekeeping leaving the fresh towels outside
your door, and I captured a little bit of that in Approaching Storm.
Another thing the pandemic ruined for me was conspiracy
theories. I used to think they were sort of funny. I know a lot about cults and
conspiracies, because I’m an intensely curious being and my fact-checker energy
is strong. I’ve always been on the skeptic side, because I’m well aware that if
you have proof, you can present it to a judge in exchange for valuable prizes.
Plus there’s a certain type of personality who gets
enthralled with conspiracies – stubborn, controlling, always wants to be right,
full of the kind of backwards-skepticism that places more credibility in
YouTube influencers than scientific journals. I do not get along with this type
of personality. At all. They don’t like my pedantic ass either.
In fact, there was a period in my life where I deliberately
sought out weird fringey groups of people who believe in strange things, like
cryptids, and UFOs, and occult secrets from the distant past. I read about
philosophy, I joined new age religions, occultist orders, off brand Christian
sects, and meditation circles; I collected zines and avant garde comix. Hung
out with a lot of freaky science fiction writers and wannabe cult leaders and people
like that. And I also spent a serious amount of time learning how to sort out
the unsubstantiated hogwash from the mainstream knowledge and secret truths.
Occasionally the conspirazoids are correct. For example, the
US government has done shady things like deliberately give people syphillis and
withhold treatment, just to observe and document the progression of symptoms.
Other times, the conspirazoids are reckless and
irresponsible, like when they started the Satanic Panic back in the nineties based
on a couple of lurid paperbacks, and lots of innocent people got locked up or
lost their livelihood. I actually got interested in the conspiracy subculture right
around then – I wanted to either find the culprits and expose them, or
determine conclusively it was all showmanship. The latter happened, although I
met lots of interesting people.
One of them contacted me right around the time I was writing
this book. Asked me why I wasn’t busy fleecing the sheep, as he put it, by
writing conspiracy drivel. The market is booming, he told me, and as a science
fiction writer who is familiar with conspiracies, I was missing out on a gold
mine.
I’m lawful though. I was talking with someone about the very
sensitive subject of getting paid for my books. And the truth is that my annual
writing income is in the low three digits, and I’ve built that over several
years. My writing income has been higher in other years but I’m in Hard Mode
now – my own IP and content, limited ability to do traditional-style marketing
due to the pandemic.
Not to mention that I’ve spent several years developing a
rep in Young Adult fiction, which is currently a minefield as culture warriors
battle it out over what they think minors should read, so here I am, rebranding
toward sexy violent adult thrillers. While questioning my motivation for being
a writer in the first place. Maybe I should go back to playing guitar.
I haven’t gone toward fraud, negligence, misrepresentation,
or anything of that nature. I know all about how to do it, and have spent a
little time on the fringes of pseudoscience. I’d like to say “I’m better than
that” but in all honesty, I’m not that great, I’m just not interested in
deceit. I’m more of a debunker. So instead of writing yet another breathless account
of butterfly slaves and underground tunnels full of mutant minor sex workers (the
kind of story one of the characters in Approaching Storm is addicted to), I wrote this
book instead.
Even though my writing hasn’t really paid off aside from an
occasional surprise amount sufficient to purchase a rideshare fare, pizza, or
album (usually I spend it on albums), I have had lots of benefit from my writing
in unexpected ways. I’ve made enough to join SFWA and hope to eventually make
it into the HWA, and being a professional writer is a good source of positive
self esteem. I’ve made some friends and deducted some visits to dinosaur museums
on my taxes. In writing this one, maybe I’ll reach someone sorta like me: approximately
homeschooled with not-too-literate religion-professing parents that actively
discouraged them from getting educated, and get them to look up some of my
references, and ask some questions, and read some forbidden books, and discuss
why they’re forbidden, and who’s forbidding them.
Anyway, that’s a whole lot of blathering, so I’ll shut up
and play some music. I'll start with a Grateful Dead song name checked in
Approaching Storm.
Since it's my first novel set in the here-and-now, I referenced lots of music to set the scene. For instance, this song is playing
on one of Aunt Lana’s monitors and even features the guy in the dedication (he’s
the one with long hair): Lucifer, by SHINee.
This one is playing in the apartment of Lana’s neighbor
Neil, who believes that young Billy is nearly as good as Jerry Garcia: Dust In
A Baggie, by Billy Strings.
Kevin is a fan of Dua Lipa and their Cold Cold Heart collab which was a hit in 2021, and Lana, an Elton fan, tells them about when US media tried (unsuccessfully) to cancel him for coming out as bisexual
Elton responded by laying low for a few years and then coming back with one of my favorite songs, I'm Still Standing.
The Science Fiction Writers Association just distributed a statement on AI use, and I concur with it.
My own AI statement is as follows:
I played with an AI art generator for the cover of Star Language. It was fun, but I probably won't do it again. The end result cover consists of a collage including one AI-produced element, a woman's face, which went through several different AI processes prior to final. None of my other books contain AI-generated elements.
I do not use AI to produce text. All of my books are written entirely by me.
I do not dislike AI-produced art and feel it will eventually have a legitimate place in our society. I also think that any creators whose work is sampled by AIs for material for which someone else is trying to profit have an excellent reason to pursue legal claims. And probably don't want me serving on their jury.
I harbor lots of opinions about the relative merits of most art produced with the aim of making profit, and its resemblance to art produced entirely by machines, but I'll discuss that at length in my (entirely human-produced) art.
%20in%20rescue.jpg)
.JPG)
