Hey, quick post. Little post. The Kickstarter for Bioluminescent: A Lunarpunk Anthology is now live, with a funding goal of $6,000. “We Have Always Loved,” a story by me, will appear in this anthology.
Lots of other cool stories and poems by very cool people will also appear in this anthology (full author list at the link above). Including a story by Neil Gaiman. So, that’s a thing.
At the beginning of the month, I attended Chicon 8 in downtown Chicago, my very first* World Science Fiction Convention, aka Worldcon. I participated in some great workshops, reconnected with a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in several years, and met and hung out with a lot of awesome new people as well. But rather than trying to capture that illusive lightning in a blog-shaped bottle, I’m going to delve into a different element of to my Worldcon experience.
(* Fun fact: When I was in high school I won a free membership to Chicon 2000 (actually the 6th Chicon), as a finalist in the Chicon 2000 Student Science Fiction & Fantasy Contest, but I lived in California at the time so I didn’t end up going.)
First, a little backstory, which may help explain why this is my first blog post here in nearly 2 ½ years. In March of 2019, not long after I (somehow) walked away from a horrifying car accident (which you can read about here), I started experiencing deep fatigue and widespread body pain. A year later, the stress of the pandemic kicked the symptoms into high gear, and shortly after I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. So that’s what I’ve been doing instead of writing blog posts. (Instead of a lot of things.)
Now, I’m pretty sure I’ve been disabled my whole life, but the addition of this new, exciting disability really awakened me to that fact. As evidenced by the abundance of parentheticals in the previous paragraphs, I have ADHD. I try to be honest with myself about how much ADHD has impacted my life, keeping me from completing (or even pursing) projects, paths, and goals I might otherwise have. But I didn’t frame it in my mind as a disability until I was coming to terms with fibromyalgia. A lot of things that are more difficult for me now were already difficult for me because of ADHD. Now the two have a tendency to compound each other.
But back to Worldcon. On the first day of the convention, in a classic case of my ADHD and fibromyalgia colliding, I initially forgot my rail pass and had to go back for it. (Then I called my wife and begged her to come home and drive me to the station, which she did, because she’s wonderful.) I was footsore enough from the back and forth that I pulled out my collapsible cane, an aid I rarely use because (thankfully) my fibro pain doesn’t often hit my legs hard enough to affect my mobility.
The lobby and convention spaces at the Hyatt Regency Chicago are a sprawling labyrinth of weirdly-placed elevators and escalators ferrying you between different conglomerations of confusingly-named (and sometimes multiply-named) floors, areas, and event rooms. To avoid more footsoreness as I was hoofing it around hoping to find Ariadne’s red thread, I continued using the cane. Gradually, this brought me to a revelation that seems absurdly obvious in hindsight: if you have a chronic pain condition, using a cane at a convention is a Good Idea.
I sometimes joke that my cane is, “A device for transferring pain from my lower body to my upper body” — which is another reason I don’t use it that often. With all the walking I did at Worldcon, I managed to find the right balance of weight to distribute to the cane such that my arm didn’t feel like it was going to fall off. And, lucky me, since both my legs hurt more or less equally, I could switch the cane to my other hand as needed.
But I think the real benefit of the cane was one I hadn’t anticipated: it forced me to slow down. My habitual walking pace is pretty fast, and, in another instance of the ADHD plus fibromyalgia double-whammy, I have a tendency to just… forget I’m disabled and keep doing things the way I always have. (Sometimes I’m halfway through a task before I realize, “This was a terrible idea.” Like the time I decided not to wait for roadside assist and just change the tire myself. In the rain.) This can very easily lead to a fibro flare. Having a cane in my hand gave me a physical reminder that I need to slow my roll and not overdo it. “Hey, maybe you don’t need to rush to that next panel. Maybe don’t take the stairs. Maybe go lie down for a bit in the hotel room you specifically booked for that purpose.”
So I made a point to keep using the cane for the rest of the weekend. And while correlation doesn’t necessarily imply causation, I think it worked. I was able to attend every day of the convention, even staying up obscenely late one night (I typically need a lot of sleep), with no catastrophic collapse at any point along the way or in the aftermath. Not bad, considering I fully expected to dissolve into a puddle of goo at any moment. I do worry that longtime familiarity will eventually render the cane’s “reminder” benefit null, so I haven’t been using it every day. But I have been using it more often than I would have prior to Worldcon, and I intend to use it whenever I attend conventions in the future. It’s great to discover that using an assistive device can help me a lot more than I would have thought. And I owe it all to forgetting my rail pass on that first day. Thanks, ADHD.
As the title indicates, this past weekend I attended my first virtual SFF convention, Flights of Foundry. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it proved an interesting, informative, and all around good experience.
The panels and presentations were all excellent, and while not entirely the same as they might have been held in meat-space, didn’t lose anything essential in digital form. There is something to be said for the convenience of being able to pop into (and out of, if necessary) a whole array of fascinating programming events and discussions, with participants from around the world, without having to set foot outside my home. [Edit: I forgot to mention how much easier it was to take notes! I’m much more comfortable typing notes into a keyboard than trying to write them out longhand or capture them somehow on one of those newfangled pocket gizmos.] That said, one of my favorite things about conventions is the in-person contact and conversation with folks I might not otherwise get to meet face-to-face, which is sadly not feasible right now. Overall, I’d say the pros and cons balance out, so that Flights of Foundry was easily on par with other SFF cons I’ve attended.
I moderated a panel on Adaptation and Remix Culture, with SL Huang, Cislyn Smith, and Rebecca Slitt. While tech issues caused me to be about 10 minutes late (another hazard of the online format), I thought the discussion went well. When I arrived, the other participants were already discussing The Lizzy Benet Diaries (modernized Pride and Prejudice done in the form of a series of vlogs; very entertaining; look it up), which I took as a good sign.
The most nerve-wracking portion of the con for me was my Sunday presentation on How to Create Your Own Fictional Religion. My impostor syndrome was flowing strong, but I got through the presentation and reactions seemed positive. There was one follow up question I bungled though. (There were probably more I bungled, but one I recall in particular.) One attendee asked for examples of animism in SFF, and my mind just blanked. I ended up blurting out something about Avatar: The Last Airbender.
While I love ATLA (and do encourage anyone and everyone to watch it, if they haven’t already; if you have already watched it, watch it again), that had to be one of the dumbest answers I could give. Here I’d been encouraging everyone to be careful of their Western bias, and I went immediately to a Western property that took heavy influences from Eastern media and culture (especially anime), rather than going to the source.
I’m not sure how my brain managed to skip over films like My Neighbor Totoro, Princess Mononoke, and Spirited Away, considering how huge of a Ghibli/Miyazaki geek I am. (I saw Princess Mononoke in the theater about 8 times when it came to the US back in 1999. And then I went to see it again a few years ago for a 20th anniversary screening. I’ve also been to the Ghibli Museum in Japan, which is AMAZING. Again, huge geek.)
But my biggest oversight was not mentioning Mushi-shi, an anime with its roots buried deep in animism and Shinto. In its own unique way Mushi-shi makes a science out of animism. The protagonist Ginko is a mushi-shi, an itinerant doctor/shaman studying strange life forms called mushi which inhabit the natural world but are somehow alien and different from other forms of life. The show is episodic, each installment a quiet, nearly slice-of-life tale about people dealing with the weird effects a mushi is having on their lives or community, as Ginko attempts to help them and perhaps untangle the mystery of yet another mushi. I’m not sure where (if anywhere) it’s readily available to watch right now, but if you find a way to watch it, do.
Sorry this post kind of became a plug for anime I like. That’s my ADD-brain, which has been working overtime to be extra ADD in this time of crisis.
Stay safe, everyone.
Awhile back I ran across an internet discussion debating the merits of reading slush. While some expressed skepticism that reading slush would be worth their time, every slush reader or former slush reader I’ve spoken to has extolled the value of the experience.
Submissions editors, colloquially known as slush readers, are an integral part of any speculative short fiction market’s inner workings. A slush reader’s job is to read through the mass of a market’s general submissions — the “slush” or “slush pile” — identify stories that fit the market’s needs, and pass those stories up to the editors for a final decision.
So what exactly are the benefits of being a submissions editor aka slush reader? What value do people, especially writers, derive from slogging the slush? I’ve done very little slushing myself, so in order to answer this question, I consulted with a number of folks with experience slushing for major SFF venues.
At the risk of stating the obvious, contributing to something you value is, by definition, valuable. Many submission editor positions are volunteer positions, and donating your time is one way you can support something you love. Some people donate money to causes they believe in, others might donate food to a food bank, or clothes to a shelter. It all depends on the resources available to you and the needs of the particular organization you want to support. Venues that publish speculative short fiction need slush readers.
For Matt Dovey, who has slushed for PodCastle for 3 years now, this contribution to the community is the most important part of slushing. “[It] makes me feel like I’m paying something back,” he says. “There is not enough money in the speculative short story market for it to work without volunteer labor, despite it offering something of real worth back to the world.”
And engaging with a community is never a one-way street: Matt Dovey also “made a lot of connections with very smart, very cool people.”
Other writers agree, slush reading connects you to the wider community. “I live in what feels like the middle of nowhere… hours from any opportunity at meeting up with speculative writers,” says A. Katherine Black. “Being on the Strange Horizons staff has given me a stronger sense of participation in the SFF community, which has been wonderful.”
Slushing not only connects you to the editors you read for, but also the writers who submit. Every time a slush reader passes a story up to the editors, they’re doing their part to advance the author’s career. And they can’t help rooting for that story, and for the author who sent it in.
More than that: slush readers even root for the stories they reject. Cislyn Smith, who has slushed for Uncanny Magazine since they first opened almost 5 years ago, says “seeing something that came to Uncanny end up elsewhere is always a thrill, and I’m happy that the author kept sending things out and found it a home.”
Speaking of rejection, slush reading can be a great salve for that inevitable sting.
“Often times, it’s not that your story isn’t good, it’s that it doesn’t fit what the venue needs at that time for whatever reason,” says Dawn Vogel, who slushed for Mad Scientist Journal for 8 years. “Slushing helped me see how many GOOD stories have to be released back to their authors for exactly that reason.”
When an editor says your story isn’t right for them, they often mean just that. It doesn’t mean that story isn’t right for someone else.
And while that lesson can be related by word-of-mouth, firsthand experience is a stronger tool for learning than received wisdom. There’s no substitute for witnessing the apparatus and inner workings of a fiction market up close.
“As a writer reading slush, seeing great stories sometimes get rejected for reasons unrelated to quality is eye opening and reassuring,” says Sandy Parsons, who slushes for Escape Pod. “Also seeing the sheer volume of stories in the queue can give you a whole new level of appreciation for what the editors and publishers have to contend with.”
Beyond that, slushing can lead to further editorial opportunities, and may even make a writer realize they’re just as comfortable on the editor-side of the table.
In addition to seeing stories that work but aren’t right for a given market, slush readers also comb through loads of stories that, for various reasons, don’t quite work. Identifying what doesn’t work in a story, and why, is essential to slush reading, and reading slush is bound to build that skill. It also happens to be an invaluable skill for a writer.
“I think even if you’re not actively going into this to learn to become a better writer, it’s bound to happen just because you’re reading so much and reading critically,” says P.A. Cornell, who slushes for Amazing Stories. “I’ve definitely noticed a big improvement in my own writing and in my ability to edit.”
Applying that kind of insight to writing and revision can take a story to the next level, where it can get noticed by slush readers at another market and get passed up to an editor.
“I learned the fail mode of stuff I was trying to do,” says Effie Seiberg. “I could see stuff where it was clear the author thought they were being clever, but really only making the author laugh. This made my own work better because it taught me what not to do. My own craft seriously leveled up from slushing.”
While there’s an upper limit to what one can learn from reading slush, and some choose to stop slushing after a couple of years, plenty of people stick with it for longer. Because there are more reasons to keep slushing than just honing your writing skill.
Perhaps the most compelling reason to read slush is the simplest: for the sheer enjoyment of it.
To the uninitiated, it might seem strange, even masochistic, to take pleasure in wading through dozens of stories looking for undiscovered gems, but it’s those few gems that make it all worthwhile. Stephen S. Power put it well: “Slushing is like shopping, but you don’t have to pay for what you want. Same dopamine rush when you find something good.” So for some, slush reading is like a literary flea market, or a magical bookstore, where all the stories are free and completely new to you — and in many cases, new to the world.
There are a surprising number of things to appreciate about slushing. “I love slushing,” says Eleanor R. Wood, who slushes for Podcastle. “I love seeing everyone’s ideas and vastly different writing styles. I love waxing lyrical about the stories I love and championing them to the editors. I love seeing stories I bumped get accepted. I love being part of such an amazing team of people, knowing my contribution is useful, and tuning in each week to hear the stories we’ve rooted for. I love panning through the silt looking for that one gleaming story that makes me laugh, or cry, or transports me somewhere incredible.”
Of the 4 reasons described here, any one alone could prove sufficient motivation to read slush; and most people I consulted cited at least two of these benefits, if not more. Of course, slush reading is not going to be for everyone. Some writers simply don’t have the time or inclination. But for those who do, it can be worthwhile and rewarding endeavor.
This is the story of how my wife Anna and I walked away unharmed from a car crash that easily could have killed us.
Here’s how I experienced it:
On the first of this month, February 2019, we headed south from Chicago to visit family near St. Louis. About four hours into the trip, we were somewhere in the vicinity of Springfield. I had the car on cruise control going about 70 mph (the speed limit) in the left lane on I-55, having recently passed a semi, when a loud chunk-chunk-chunk sounded from the rear right of the vehicle.
I had enough time to say, “What the heck?” and wonder if the bumper cover had popped off and was dragging on the road, when the car started swerving. I tried to correct, without effect. We spun out across the right lane. Anna started screaming. I had a vision of the semi we’d passed slamming into us. The car sped rearwards down the highway, then onto gravel and grass. I hit the brakes. We plowed through brush, branches whipping by on either side. The driver-side window burst in, and the car finally came to a halt. Anna stopped screaming.
Shaking, we looked around and boggled at what had just happened, at the fact that we were still alive and unharmed. No airbags had gone off, but the rear windshield had completely shattered. I dialed 911. All I could see through the front windshield and the surrounding brush was a sign for food and amenities at a nearby northbound exit on the far side of the highway, so that’s what I told the emergency operator.
We decided to wait in the car for the police to arrive. Completely surrounded by brush and branches, we couldn’t open our doors. I considered climbing out my busted driver-side window, but then we’d just be waiting out in the cold. I attempted to brush some of the glass off of my clothes. When emergency services arrived, firefighters had to use chainsaws to cut the branches away from around the car so we could get out. The tow truck dragged the car out with a chain. That’s when we finally saw the rear right tire, completely flat with tread trailing away from it in tatters.
Here’s what I’ve been able to piece together about what actually happened, and it involves a string of bad luck followed by a string of ridiculously good luck:
Two days before we left, Chicago had record-breaking sub-zero temperatures. The day before we left wasn’t much better. During that time, our car, and its right rear tire, were sitting out in the extreme cold. Just a week earlier, we’d taken the car for an oil change, and they’d encouraged us to change out our tires as well. The tires weren’t particularly old, and we know these oil change places always try to upsell, so we told them thanks-but-no-thanks and said we’d keep an eye on the tires. If we’d actually opted to replace them, perhaps things wouldn’t have gone down like they did.
Driving south in warmer weather, into warmer climes, for four hours, some flaw in the rear right tire must have been exposed to more change in pressure than it could handle. It came apart, while we were cruising at 70 down the interstate.
That was the bad luck. This is where the unbelievably good luck begins.
First, I had recently passed a semi, but hadn’t yet moved back into the right lane. If we’d been next to the semi, or just barely ahead of it, the resulting collision when the car went out of control likely would have killed us. If we’d been in the right lane, we would have spun out into the ditch and flipped over, going off the road sideways and perpendicular to the highway instead of backwards and nearly parallel, which also could have been deadly.
Second, I didn’t hit the brakes right away, so we didn’t slow or stop in the right lane with a semi coming at us head-on. I don’t know if this was because I somehow retained the wherewithal not to brake until we were off the road, or if my feet just took that long to catch up with my brain. But I do know that if we’d stopped on the highway and not off of it we’d probably be dead.
There are doubtless other ways things could have gone wrong. If we’d spun off left into the median railing, or if we’d gone off the road facing forward instead of backwards, or if there’d been something much more solid to run into than the brush that cushioned us.
I could also go on about all the other challenges that piled up. How the police took us to the Springfield airport to rent a car, but we discovered that airport rental locations can’t process insurance claims. How the taxi to the nearest rental place never arrived, and they had to stay open late for us to get us the last car in the lot, a massive tank of a vehicle nothing like what we usually drove. How the smaller rental car we eventually swapped it out for had no lumbar support and did such a number on my back I missed a day of work lying in bed with a hot pack. How much of a pain it was to find and purchase a replacement for our totaled car on such short notice. But none of those things were going to kill us.
As a Humanist, I don’t believe in any deities, or miracles. I don’t believe there’s anyone watching out for me (and part of me thinks that, if there were, why were they willing and able to stop the car from flipping or being crushed by a semi, but not willing or not able to stop the tire from disintegrating while we were speeding down the interstate?).
I have, on occasion, wondered if some extremely ineffectual or incompetent deity is out to kill me. Aside from the car crash, most notably was the time I was standing in line at the grocery store and heard a loud crash, followed by something hitting me in the neck. In reaction, I put my hand up and caught a small object, clear and cold in my palm, as it fell down to my chest. At first I thought it was ice, until I realized that a case of soda water had fallen off a shopping cart in the next line over, and a knife-shaped shard of glass had shot straight at my throat. Didn’t even break the skin, but still a spooky experience.
In the aftermath of the car accident, starting about as soon as we came to a halt in the brush, I’ve felt envy towards my theist friends, who have something identifiable to be grateful towards. It’s not very satisfying to feel grateful towards the random chaos of the universe. Nevertheless, it’s what I have, and I continue to be grateful all the same.
Yesterday the world learned of the passing of literary giant Ursula K. Le Guin. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt so deeply upset by the death of someone I never actually met. But then, few individuals have had such a profound impact on me with their words alone.
When I was about thirteen, I read A Wizard of Earthsea. It was quite different from any piece of fiction I’d encountered before: epic but focused, mythic yet personal, with a fascinating take on magic and the power of words; and it flipped the script on the common fantasy trope of pale civilized folk and brown barbarians, revealing and rejecting the white supremacist undercurrent I hadn’t even realized was present in the genre. Eager for more, I nabbed the sequel, The Tombs of Atuan, and settled into my faux-denim beanbag chair to continue my journey through Earthsea.
Wizard was wonderful and eye-opening, but The Tombs of Atuan was a revelation. It changed how I thought about fiction, challenging and overturning my fundamental assumptions about what made good fantasy.
Sometime in the preceding year or so, I had declared anathema all books that had “slow parts.” Tombs was all “slow parts.” There was little action, and almost no magic, at least not in the flashy, overt sense I was accustomed to. The magic of Tombs was personal and interpersonal; it was empathy, and reclaiming lost identity, and freedom, and choice. It was beautiful, and restrained, and by my own standards of the time I should have been bored and done with it by page 2. But I loved every word.
Afterwards, I was unable to express why this book had drawn me in and consumed me so thoroughly. It showed me that compelling storytelling didn’t have to come barreling in with a loud bang. Sometimes the most powerful stories come softly, creeping up on you unawares.
I’m still not sure I could explain how Le Guin did what she did, how she got an adolescent boy raised on explosion-filled Saturday morning cartoons to invest himself in a young girl’s quiet coming of age. Perhaps it’s time for me to revisit The Tombs of Atuan, time to return to the world of Earthsea, and explore it once again with fresh eyes.
I wish I had some bit of wisdom or a pithy quote to end with, but there are entire books filled with Le Guin’s words and wisdom (go forth and read them, for the first time, or the fiftieth time) and I can offer none of my own. Because right now, I’m back to being that kid in the beanbag chair, failing to find the words for what I’m feeling.
Goodbye, Ms. Le Guin. We will miss you.
So. It’s coming up on 11 months since I last posted, and I thought I’d take the opportunity to look back on my writing endeavors in 2017, and a little of what I’m planning for the future. The past year has been rough on a lot of people, myself included, but I won’t go into that. Suffice to say that the political climate hasn’t helped my creative focus.
2017 started out pretty solid for writing. I spent January revising a long short story/short novelette. I participated in my online writing group’s February intensive, and in April I got a good 14,000 words or so deep into a novella before a sinus infection knocked me down for the count. (I later realized the story is probably two novelettes anyway.)
I’d hoped to pour my efforts into finishing that story, along with expanding and revising a couple other stories in the same series, so they fit into a coherent whole but could still be read independent of each other. Instead I spent the summer plagued with writer’s block while wrestling with a different story. My own impatience and failure to respect my writing process only dragged things out, leading to frustration and frequent retreats into computer games. It made for a disappointingly unproductive summer.
Then I went to Japan for three weeks. And it was amazing. It rained the whole time, and even so, it was quite possibly the best trip I’ve ever been on.
Between preparing for the trip, the trip itself, and various distractions in its aftermath, I went for a month or two without really writing, reading fiction, or playing computer games. I decided to resume the first two, but not the third, and see how long I could keep up my “no computer games” streak. I started writing a novel, and dug into my reading backlog (also novels). And it turned out, life without computer games was pretty nice. Even if I wasn’t writing more than I had been, reading more novels felt like a much better use of my time than mucking about with digital distractions.
So I gave up computer games.
20 years ago, this would have been unthinkable. As a lad, I considered myself a pretty serious computer gamer. But starting late in high school, computer games and I stopped clicking the way we used to, and we’ve been growing apart ever since. My computer gaming has been sporadic for years. In 2016 I built a computer (because we needed a new one) with the idea I’d play games on it, but mostly my wife uses it to surf the internet and watch Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. (I consider this a worthy use of the hardware, as both my wife and Miss Fisher are awesome ladies.)
I won’t go as far as to say I’ve permanently cut computer games out of my life. But any forays will be in brief intervals, and even fewer and farther between than they already were. I’ll also be limiting myself to games I can play through once and be done with. Nothing open-world or open-ended that might suck me in and interfere with writing time, like they did over the summer. I’ll stick to games that are more like my favorite kind of novel: self-contained, with potential for sequels or rereads (replays), but not requiring either.
Oh, yeah, and I got into an Odyssey Online course, taught by Beneath Ceaseless Skies editor Scott H. Andrews. So, that’s awesome. BCS is one of my favorite fantasy short fiction market — I listen to every podcast episode — and I’m honored and excited to have the opportunity to learn from Scott.
In the coming year, I plan to: finish a novel (maybe even start shopping it around to agents), finally finish that novella/novelette series I mentioned above, participate in a flash fiction challenge and thus write more flash pieces, participate in the Odyssey Online class (in January and February), participate in the third year of my online writing group’s February intensive, make my first appearance at Capricon (also in February(!)) where I am scheduled to be on and even moderate several panels(!), attend Windycon as per usual, and hopefully get around to revising some other odds and ends I wrote this past year; not necessarily in that order. (Really hoping February doesn’t kill me.)
I didn’t sell a single story this year, but that’s at least partially due to my poor writing output. I hope, and even expect, that 2018 will be different.
I’ve been telling myself that I’d start writing some book reviews, and I decided to to stop procrastinating.
The Orphan Fleet, Volume 1 is a print omnibus of two YA fantasy e-novellas by Brendan Detzner. The first follows the adventures of an airship dockworker named Jiaire, and the second focuses on an aristocratic refugee named Amber.
Disclaimer: I know Brendan Detzner personally, but have endeavored to give an impartial review.
The first story in the duology is set on the Mountain, a mysteriously warm port in an otherwise frozen mountain range, where airships can stop to thaw and their crews and passengers can take a breather on their tramontane journey. Detzner spends a decent chunk of the story setting up the world, showing us a diverse society of orphans and outcasts who have made their home in the clouds, catering to the needs and wants of travelers bound to other parts of the world. One major feature of this society is the Show, a kind of swashbuckling pro wrestling carnival that has an almost religious draw.
The prose is sparse and quick-paced, reflective of the bright and agile but straightforward and uneducated mind of the protagonist, Jiaire. This style will be familiar to anyone who’s read Detzner’s other work, but may be jarring to those expecting a more typical fantasy with exhaustive layers of description. The tight prose also makes the aforementioned worldbuilding move along at an easy clip.
Overall, The Orphan Fleet was a lot of fun and had some truly great elements, but it didn’t blow me away. The main plot hook came a bit late, but the interesting setting and superbly likable characters kept me reading until the action really picked up; and once it did, it was all the high-skies swashbuckling adventure anyone could ask for. Recommended, not just for itself, but because it serves as a great prequel for the next story. Which brings me to…
Unlike its predecessor, The Hidden Lands takes about a page and a half to introduce itself before jumping into the action. Amber, who played an important if largely off-page role in The Orphan Fleet, is escaping the fallout of that role by seeking asylum in the Hidden Lands. Rather than a fantasy adventure, the story unfolds as a much more quiet thriller, full of doubts, questions, and assassinations, as Amber wonders who she can trust, and just how far she can trust them. The prose is on point: more descriptive than in The Orphan Fleet, but still clean; it may appeal more to fantasy traditionalists.
The Embassy District, where much of the story is set, continues the motif of a society of outcasts. While less fantastical than the Mountain, the Embassy District presents a subtler mystery. The people of the Hidden Lands clearly view themselves as far superior to outsiders, to the point that they’ll barely speak to and won’t even look at Amber or the other asylum-seekers. And yet they maintain the Embassy District at their own expense, as a kind of preserve of foreigners, and engage these inferior foreigners to display the arts of their various cultures at the Salon — this book’s answer to the Show, a less flamboyant but no less captivating spectacle.
I think the story really hits its stride with this second book. I found The Hidden Lands to be a great, compelling read, with dynamic and interesting characters inhabiting a vibrant world. Highly recommended.
You can get the print omnibus here or here, or the individual e-books here and here.
It’s time for the 4th and final week of the November Flash Challenge! If you don’t know what this is by now, look back through some of the previous Story Seed posts.
Questions to Consider (Don’t read these if you don’t want your imagination polluted by my vile words): Who is this woman? IS it a woman? Why is she crying? IS she crying? What is that helmet-thing she’s wearing, where is she, what is she doing, feeling, thinking? WHY?
Questions to Consider (Don’t read these if you don’t want your imagination polluted by my vile words): What is happening in this scene? What are those robots? ARE they robots? What are they doing, thinking (can they think?) feeling (can they feel?)? What threatens them, what protects them? WHY?
And that’s it for the November Flash Challenge. Good writing!
Welcome to week 3 of the November Flash Challenge. A quick recap of the aim: take one or both of the following images as inspiration and write a story. Feel free to adhere as close or deviate as far from the inspiring image(s) as works for you. (Same goes for the length guidelines — this is intended as a flash fiction challenge, but you need not use it as such.)
Questions to Consider (Don’t read these if you don’t want your imagination polluted by my vile words): What is happening in this scene? Who/what is in the foreground? Who/what is in the background? What do the people (beings?) in this scene want, where are they going, where have they been? WHY?
Questions to Consider (Don’t read these if you don’t want your imagination polluted by my vile words): What’s with all those candles? Who is this woman? What is she thinking, feeling, doing? What does she want? Where is she? Is anyone with her? Who? WHY?
That’s it for this week. Good writing!
