November 2009

World in the Satin Bag

A Taste of “The Head” (Tentative Title)

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I thought I’d let folks read a little of what I’ve been working on lately. I’ve mentioned this story on Twitter a few times, particularly by its first line, but it’d be interested to hear what folks think. The only thing I have to say before taking you to it is that you shouldn’t read it if you’re easily disturbed or cannot stand the f-word. I don’t use the latter excessively, but it is there and has to be there for the characters. The disturbing imagery is a part of the world I’m working with (think of it as sort of what happens when Event Horizon gets stuck in the world we live in and becomes part of the norm). So, don’t read past this point if you can’t handle that kind of stuff. I don’t think it’s excessive, but I also don’t want anyone yelling at me that I made them ill cause there’s an undead, talking, severed head being worn like a hat. The only other thing to say is that it’s still in the rough stage. I’m going to do a lot of editing later. So here goes: I used to wear her head like a hat until she started talking to me in downtown Memphis. It’s a strange experience, hearing the head of a dead person curse you out in the middle of the street. There’s something embarrassing about that, like a beacon telling everyone else that you’ve botched your human sacrifice. They were supposed to stay dead. But, she talked. And talked. The curse words turned into snarls, the snarls into black magic, until finally I had to make a deal with her to get her to shut up: I’d find her a new body. And that’s how I lost my weekend. # There’s always something looming in the dark of the world. A living thing. You can call it God if you want, but whenever I descend into the shadows, her head whispering above, I get the feeling that something isn’t quite right. That’s not a feeling you’re supposed to have if you deal in dead bodies; the fact that someone who isn’t quite right to begin with can sense something that isn’t quite right on top of his or her own not-rightness is like a politician feeling like other politicians are screwing around with the lives of the many. It’s irony, perhaps. Memphis, though, hasn’t been quite right since the Change. Dimensions don’t mix well, and so here I am, with her head on my own, trying to find a new body for a woman who, quite honestly, didn’t deserve the one she had before, all so I can save my dignity. “I want one with a nice ass,” she says. “Curves and all that. I don’t want to be one of those skinny bitches that you see on TV. You know, the ones with all the cuts on their damned arms, bleeding all over the place, with all the fat, wart-covered old men drooling foam at their feet…No, I want a voluptuous, curvy body with a fine looking face.” “Don’t get picky.” I feel her wiggle. “Fuck. This is the body I’ll be stuck with for the rest of my life.” “Yes, and if God wanted you to have the perfect body, he would have given it to you in the first place.” “Fuck what God wants. I want to be able to do things I never could before. I want my tits to say ‘this is what you all want, but you can’t have.’ There are other things you’re going to have to give me, but they’re personal.” “Right.” “Did you know the left side of your brain has a tumor?” It’s interesting. Sacrifices always produce a unique symbiotic relationship with the decapitated. With her, she’s tangled herself through my brain. There’s a good side to it, I think. I didn’t know I had a tumor until that moment. But she’d know. She’s had your veins winding through every inch of me for a week now. She’d know things about my insides that I wouldn’t know even if I had a brain surgeon to go poking around in there. Fuck, the world is weird enough as it is without having some old crone screaming out your genetic defects. “What about that one?” I point to a young girl, maybe a little young, but, hell, maybe the old bag would have wanted a few extra years as a teenager. The teenager struts along the street, wearing a belly shirt and the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen, her midriff all curves and toned, wobbling back and forth. She draws the eyes of every man on the street, except for the ones that like the blood rolling out of their wrists. She slips into shadows, then out again, and I see that hint of darkness in your soul. It hits something close to home, something dark inside myself that yearns for young flesh. But I’ve had my sacrifice for now. I’ll have to wait. But the old crone should want what that beautiful creature has. Don’t we all want to have our youth again? She could really do something with that. “Fuck no. I’ve had it up to here…” she pauses, realizing she doesn’t have hands of her own to make the gesture. I do it for her, raising the hand to her forehead. “Thanks. I’ve had it up to here with holier-than-thou-hot-as-shit teenage blonde crap. She’s probably been around the block a few thousand times already. Loose. That’s not in my book of desires. I ain’t hoping for no virginal blood, but, fuck, at least a little self-respect.” “Alright.” Like she’d know what self-respect looked like. I knew her before she met me in that dark alley. She was a secretary, old, but not quite over the hump, working for a rich blood-letter who knew exactly how to twist the arms off of prospective clients until they were writhing and screaming on

World in the Satin Bag

Why Almost Everyone Is Pissed About Harlequin

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It seems there’s some confusion about why just about everyone in the professional world of writing is up in arms about Harlequin’s decision to create a vanity press imprint (Harlequin Horizons). I thought the reasons were fairly clearly spelled out by the RWA (Romance Writers Association), the MWA (Mystery Writers Association), and the SFWA (Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association). Seems I was wrong (a lot of really idiotic, ignorant stuff is being said in support of Harlequin right now, which will shock most people with a conscience). So, I’m going to spell it out for you to make it damned clear, with a few curse words for effect. The ScamFirst off, Harlequin is starting what is called vanity publishing, which is even worse than self-publishing because it gets the whole production model wrong: the author pays someone else to put together and print their work, then the printer keeps a part of the profits. There’s a reason why vanity publishers are so hated by almost everyone except the naive and the stupid. They are perpetual liars on a scale that most politicians would be astonished by, and they have to be, because they essentially are selling services to people that don’t need them, and fucking people out of their hard-earned money. Likewise, vanity presses often can’t meet the quality that professional third parties or traditional publishers put out. So they lie. A lot. They flower up everything they say about their services and wannabe-writers flock in and drop off their money to be handed a mediocre product that they can’t even sell enough of to make back what they put into it. This is what Harlequin is doing, right down to the lying and flowering bits. Does it seem logical why the RWA, MWA, SWFA, authors, et. al. are pissed off? Here we have a major publisher joining in on the author scamming, and thinking that somehow it’s right. The Lie and the Corporate MindfuckHarlequin has really sold themselves on the idea that they’re doing something wonderful. After all, publishing is changing, right? All them blasted writers organizations who are there to make sure authors don’t get fucked over by scam agents, etc. are just part of some out-of-date old people’s cling to the past, right? Wrong. They exist to protect writers on numerous levels. But Harlequin thinks otherwise. They think that vanity publishing is the wave of the future. That’s right. They think something that has been around longer than POD, that has been scamming and fucking people over for decades is the wave of the future. Something sound fishy? It should, because we’ve heard similar BS before. The difference between what Lulu does and what Harlequin is going to do is that Lulu doesn’t lie to you. It tells you right up front: you’re self-publishing, and you can do it for free, or buy some of our packages, and we keep a little cut (a real little cut, actually). Harlequin is saying this: you’ll pay us shitloads of money and we’ll print your book, and, oh, by the way, maybe we’ll pick it up for the regular imprints too (we won’t really), the ones that get in bookstores and sell lots of books, oh, and you’ll have the Harlequin brand on it (but it will be worth crap), so it’ll be worth moneys, and, oh, we won’t tell you that your book won’t be edited by our professional editors (because it probably won’t), so we’ll just let you pretend it does. To be fair, they changed one of those, now, since the new imprint won’t say Harlequin in the name, but that’s really irrelevant at this point. Harlequin is doing everything they can to paint this whole thing up like it’s the golden beacon of publishing wonders, when it isn’t. The closest you can get to that are POD services like Lulu or Createspace, who do a damned good job not pretending to be what they are: places that profit off selling a few copies of a lot of different books, while still giving you a cut and not charging you up the ass for services. Lulu and Createspace have latched onto a brilliant method of printing books that traditionally publishers (with exception to many small presses) have yet to see value in. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about… The SFWA and friends are pissed about this because it’s damn obvious what’s going on: Harlequin is trying to make a profit off of its slush pile at the expense of a whole lot of innocent authors who don’t know any better, all while doing very little to make clear what all of that entails. Which is this:–You’ll pay a lot to get it printed.–It won’t be in bookstores.–It won’t sell many copies.–Unless you’re the luckiest damned person alive, it won’t get picked up by a major publisher because most, if not all, publishers won’t touch it with a 200 mile pole.–You’ll be broke.–Nobody will actually edit your work, and if someone does, it won’t be edited very well. –You’ll be raped by the stigma associated with self-publishing in general, and more specifically the kind attached to vanity publishing (a much less lovable version of the anti-self-publishing vitriol). Harlequin is literally like healthcare companies who profit off of sick people, making the whole thing super shiny with a nice bow and a whole lot of B.S. to sell it to the masses. The SFWA and friends have rightly called them out for it. They’re pissed because they believe that authors should be paid, and not the other way around. And it’s a good thing to be pissed about. They don’t like seeing authors getting screwed any more than the rest of us. Harlequin’s attempts to do everything it can to screw authors is getting everything it deserves for it. These are the reasons why the SFWA, RWA, MWA, and most anyone with a conscience are pissed off. It’s not because Harlequin is cashing in

World in the Satin Bag

Funny Things About Grandfathers

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I’ve never talked about some of my grandfather’s exploits on this blog, but one of the things you learn as a writer (or a wannabe writer, for that matter) is that your family, friends, and random acquaintances can act as fantastic inspiration. My grandfather has acted as quite the little inspiration bee in the last few years, and will continue to do so for many reasons. But there are some stories about my grandfather that I don’t think I can ever replicate in a fiction story. You know the saying, “Life is stranger than fiction”? That’s absolutely true of my grandfather at times. Here are just a few of those stories: Cub Scout CampingBack when I lived in Washington, my grandfather took my brother, sister, and I on a camping trip to all sorts of pretty places. The problem? Washington is wet almost year round. It’s either raining or the apocalypse has arrived and everything is burning to a crisp. Our trip happened to coincide with non-Biblical events, which makes for interesting camping. During a particularly wet trip we decided to stop and find a nice place to camp. Having set up all our tents, my grandfather set to making a fire. Matches, unfortunately, do little for turning soaked wood into toasty fire, so he decided to hunt down some kerosene. A little while later, he returned with a half-full container and poured all of it over the wood. The result was probably the first real-life mini-demonstration of a nuclear explosion my siblings and I will ever see. A big flame, a little mushroom cloud, and no standing fire. We gave up at that point and decided to settle in for the night. That’s when it started to pour. My grandfather, being the cub scout that he was, had put his tent, which he was sharing with my brother, at the bottom of an incline. Why? I don’t know. He just did. And at some point in the middle of the night we all heard the revving of our car’s engine. Apparently the rain had created a lovely puddle in the middle of the tent and my brother had secured all of the dry space, leaving my grandfather a freezing pond to sleep in. Eventually he had to get up and warm himself in the car. We didn’t camp outdoors after that. Stubborn DriverMany years ago my grandfather had some problems with his heart and had his driver’s license taken away for safety reasons. Anyone who knew my grandfather also knew that he was one of the most stubborn individuals ever. He gave up his license, alright, but he sure as heck didn’t give up his right to drive. He and I used to climb into this old hatchback (a Colt or something) and tear down the dirt road where he and my grandmother lived. We wouldn’t drive all the way into town, though. No. That would be too obvious. Instead, my grandfather would hide the car (very poorly, I might add) behind a small wall of blackberry bushes along the road, and then we’d walk the rest of the way. It was clear that he didn’t want to walk up and down the blasted hill. Some time later I learned that pretty much everyone knew what he was up to (Placerville is a small town). Looking back, it seems somewhat ridiculous that he was so secretive about the whole thing. Everyone knew, including my grandmother, and nobody did anything about it. Of course, I was a little young and didn’t know any better at the time. I kept the secret for a while, though, because I’m like that. Secretive and stuff. Hanging GrandsonsThere were other events following my grandfather’s early heart problems, but none put my life on the line like his desire to have me help re-paint the house. You see, my grandfather was kind of a “do it yourself” guy, but since he couldn’t reach certain parts of the house with his ladder he needed a way to finish the job. That’s where I come in. My grandfather’s brilliant post-stroke plan was to climb to the roof through a ceiling window and dangle me over the side of the house by a rope, without a mask for the paint sprayer and held only by a post-stroke grandpa. Yup. I’m not sure how I weaseled my way out of it, but he was quite adamant about putting me over the side of the house. Thankfully it didn’t happen. The MonkeyWhen my grandfather and grandmother got married, they went on the kind of honeymoon that most people only dream of these days, visiting places like Egypt and others. At some point in the trip they arrived in a place where the locals had a special delicacy that most Americans (and my grandfather was the old rancher-type) would find…let’s just say strange. But my grandfather, as I’ve said before, was a stubborn mule. Wanting, I presume, to respect local culture, he almost demanded to be served the delicacy, all while my grandmother tried to explain to him that it was not a good idea, at all. Eventually, however, my grandfather won out, as he usually did, and the locals brought before him a remarkable gift: a monkey head with monkey brain soup inside. I’m told that my grandfather turned a shade of white that doesn’t currently exist in the human makeup. And no, he didn’t learn his lesson, as the last story will illustrate. The CurseNever cross my grandmother. Ever. If you do, you’ll pay the consequences. Trust me. My grandfather never learned that, but he did help to make a funny story about the power of grandmother’s to use subtle magic. At some point in the past my grandfather had a little sailboat. It wasn’t anything special, but it brought him some joy, I assume. One day he discovered a jar of money my grandma had been saving to buy a dress or nice drapes or something (I

World in the Satin Bag

Top 7 Movies That Were Better Than the Books

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I have a feeling I’m going to get some serious disagreement on a few of these, and that’s fine with me. The reality is that sometimes movies are better than the books they are based on. The following seven are my choices: The Silence of the Lambs (The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris)I could never get into Harris’ writing. I tried and found myself completely uninterested. The movie, however, is amazing for reasons that have nothing to do with the book. Anthony Hopkins is so creepy in this it’s hard not to think of him as Hannibal whenever you see him elsewhere. The movie does so much for the horror/thriller than many other films have failed so miserably at for decades. The book, I’m afraid, never created the same feeling for me. The Muppet Christmas Carol (A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens)I have nothing against Dickens, but if you’re going to try to recreate the old Brit’s fantastic Christmas story in a musical, puppet-laden, goody for the kids, then you have to use Muppets. This movie has always had a special place in my heart, and the book can never do that for me. Singing Muppets and a very scroogey Michael Caine make this one simply a classic. And yes, I know it’s ridiculous and corny. I don’t care. The 13th Warrior (Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton)There’s something about that book that is both fascinating and boring as hell. The audiobook didn’t help alleviate this either. But, Antonio Banderas and some adequate looking northmen make for an action-packed fantasy yarn. The book? It’s kind of like trying to read Lord of the Rings now that the movies have been made to glorious effect. Which brings us to… The Lord of the Rings (The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien)Look, Tolkien was a genius. I’m not denying that and nobody should. He did something that nobody has ever successfully replicated and he deserves all the credit for it. But the man could not write an engaging paragraph to save his life. His prose is so utterly stilted and almost purple that trying to read Tolkien is like trying to have a calm conversation with someone while being melted in a vat of molten metal: it’s just damned painful. The movies? Gorgeous and brilliant in ways that defy logic. The films should have failed. Peter Jackson and the rest of his crew were taking on something that almost everyone agreed could not be filmed. And they did it. Not only adequately, but bloody well. They created a trilogy of classic films that took all the ugly fat out of Tolkien’s novels and thickened up forgotten plots to create an astonishing visual masterpiece. The movies are just so good. Like really good cake. The Minority Report (The Minority Report by Philip K. Dick)I’m a huge PKD fan. I love his novels, but his shorts, often, lack something. I think much of PKD’s brilliance is found in his longer works, so when filmmakers took The Minority Report and expanded it into a feature film, I was pleasantly surprised. The original story isn’t bad, but the movie is a fine example of excellent science fiction and Spielberg-ian flare. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams)I’m probably going to catch hell for this one, but the recent adaptation of Douglas’ series is, in my opinion, far better than the books. I like Douglas, and he is quite funny, but the man had no concept of comedic timing. His jokes tend to run into each other endlessly until you forget what the hell he was talking about at the start. The movie, however, took all of that, and cut away until the visuals matched the words and most of the good jokes were still present. It was not a perfect movie, and I certainly have reservations about some of the cast, but, come on, at least the damned movie didn’t get lost in endless jokes without anything happening for ten pages! Jurassic Park (Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton)Poor Michael Crichton. He’s not a bad writer, but sometimes the movie versions are simply better. In the case of Jurassic Park, the movie managed to trim the fat in much the same way as the adaptation of Douglas’ series did. The book isn’t bad at all, but the movie manages to keep a tighter pace and create a kind of terror that the books never could for me (the movie scared the hell out of me when I was a kid, by the way). And there you have it! Send your hate mail to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com. Or, just leave a very nasty comment on this page! Suggestions and opinions are welcome too. What movies did you see that were better than the book, and why?

World in the Satin Bag

Book Magnet Entry #2: The Future Fire (SF Magazine)

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The second entry for my Book Magnet Project is in! There are two magnets, both of which are in the middle. What are they for? The online magazine The Future Fire.What is The Future Fire?It is an online magazine that publishes “dark science fiction and art with a social conscience, a political sensibility, and of the highest quality.” It contains fiction and non-fiction, reviews, and more. Issues come in html and pdf formats, so you can read online, or take it with you in your e-reader.They are also, I am told, currently seeking submissions for a special Feminist Science Fiction themed issue, which will also include queer-focused SF under the heading. The FemSF issue will appear in January, 2010, and I’ve been told that while this is a special issue, the editing team of TFF is not limiting their interest to such themes in non-themed issue to come. If you’ve got something FemSF or queer-SF, check out their submission guidelines and send it in! You should also read their Manifesto, which contains some insight into the impetus for TFF’s creation. So, check them out if you’re interested in dark SF with a social or political leaning. ———————————————————- There you have it. If you have a promotional magnet for your sf/f (or related) book and want to take part in this project, send an email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com with the subject “Book Magnet Project.” Help me cover my fridge!

World in the Satin Bag

The Green Literature Proposal

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I think I mentioned this on my Twitter a few times, but if you don’t follow me there, then this may be new to you. I recently sent out an abstract for a paper to a conference about green literature (specifically in science fiction). I haven’t heard back yet, but regardless, I wanted everyone to see what I was thinking about doing. So, here goes: The notion of the environment as an inanimate, and particularly harsh “other” brings to the forefront a particularly challenging question following what will likely be an inevitable requirement for humans to move into non-traditional living spaces: how must we survive at home or elsewhere when the potential range of environments leans heavily to what we currently accept as uninhabitable? Science fiction posits that this move will entail a variety of responses, and of particular interest are subaltern responses to cultural othering. Sly Mongoose by Tobias S. Buckell, Marseguro by Edward Willett, and The Silver Ship and the Sea by Brenda Cooper all imagine the future of subaltern figures as merging with an otherwise inhospitable environmental space. This symbiosis with the environment develops as a result of a desperation to seek shelter from a dominant human culture that seeks to purge the subaltern class from society. In this paper, I intend to analyze two things: 1) the symbiotic relationship between the subaltern and the environment and the fragility of such a relationship, even in far-future human vision; and 2) the implications/affects of such a symbiotic relationship on the nature of identity, both to the self and to the environment. So, thoughts? P.S.: It should be noted that I was partially inspired by Matt Staggs and his greenpunk manifesto.

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