“This is too much madness to fit into one text!”

Let’s see, what did I do today?

I got a haircut. My standard practice of just letting it grow until it gets annoying stands. I could be wrong — I wasn’t wearing my glasses and didn’t do a thorough inspection — but I may have spotted some small amount of gray in the clippings. Hairs of dubious shades show up in my beard all the time, but I can never quite tell if what I’m looking at is some weird anomaly or a precursor of aging to come. Going gray doesn’t bother me — not quite, but almost, the opposite. Going bald, on the other hand, which I think is probably also in the cards for me — if I take an honest look at both family history and my existing hairline — well, I have to admit, the little bit of vanity I have towards my hair gets a little twinge at the thought. But I’m not quite there yet, and the mop I do have was in need of a trim.

So I did that. And I mailed several dozen copies of Kaleidotrope to contributors and subscribers. You really don’t want to know how much that sort of thing costs. Mailing to Canada is relatively cheap; mailing to the UK is remarkably not so. If you’d like to support the zine, and you’d like a copy of the current issue, can I suggest the slightly cheaper (for all of us) e-book copy? It’s a no-frills PDF, but for $2.99 you get almost 100 pages of fantasy and science fiction stories and poems. You can check out the table of contents, along with the cover art and story samples, here. And all the money goes to keeping me from going bankrupt in 2012…when everything I save by not photocopying and not mailing may just get eaten back up by the one cent a word I’m paying contributors.

I also bought some pants. Sometimes, you need pants.

I went for a walk. I watched the latest episode of Fringe. And tonight I watched Attack the Block, a genuinely entertaining monsters-from-outer-space movie.

And that was Saturday, in a nutshell.

Tuesday various

Sunny Sunday

Looking out the window right now, you’d almost think it hadn’t snowed at all yesterday. The sun came out, the temperature rose, and almost all of it melted. It’s true, there wasn’t a whole lot of snow to begin with — despite all the hand-wringing of “but it never snows in October!” (Which, even here on Long Island, I don’t think is remotely true. It’s just that it’s been so unseasonably warm right up til now.) But just about all of it’s already gone.

I didn’t do a whole lot today, though I prepped several more copies of Kaleidotrope for mailing — next Saturday, almost certainly — and I joined my weekly writing group for our regular free-writing exercise. Here’s what I came up with:

Lu Chen was crazy, a rabid dog, and he would have brought not only dishonor but destruction upon us all if Fei Yu had not stepped in and killed him. Those of us who had trained with Chen in the beginning — and especially our classmates who had sided with him in his early, more innocent insubordination or laughed off the chaos he routinely introduced into our sessions — worried we too might face reprisal at the swift steel blade of Fei Yu’s sword.

But Yu knew, even better than us, that there had already been too much bloodshed, too much of that blood spilled on the great temple’s floors. If he blamed us for Lu Chen’s actions, or at least for failing to take action against him ourselves, he said so only with his silence. If he thought we did not mourn the loss of Master Pai Mei, or weep at the sight of the Old Dragon’s charred and broken body amidst the rubble that Lu Chen had left behind, he did not say so, nor did the blade against the throat that so many of us expected — and, in truth, might have welcomed — come in the night. Fei Yu had acted where the rest of us would not, put down Lu Chen with no more effort than he might have wasted on cutting the chaff from the grain, and in doing so he had saved the temple where we could not.

The common quarters, the dormitories where we and Pai Mei had lived during our training — and where Fei Yu would have been our honored guest had he not returned from his travels to the capital a day late and in the middle of Lu Chen’s destructive spree — these buildings had burned in the fire, had been reduced to ash just as Lu Chen’s body soon would be. There would be no burial for him, no funeral rites, as we were allowed with Pai Mei or the others who Lu Chen had killed. On this one thing was Fei Yu insistent.

“Let the fires have him,” he said of Lu Chen’s body. “Let his evil deeds be burned from this earth.”

It was not always this way. Once, Lu Chen was just a farmer’s son, and the anger in him was no more or less than in any of us who had come to study with Master Pai Mei. Had the demon showed its true face back then, I do not think that anyone, much less the Old Dragon himself, would have opened his door or heart to Lu Chen.

I have never been a diligent student — eager to please, perhaps, and adept enough to parrot the movements and lessons taught to me, but too lazy to put in the real work required. I recognize this shortcoming, and admit it freely, knowing that it is possibly the only thing that saved my life. I was a friend to Lu Chen, in the beginning and even through his more recent troubles, but I was neither an ally nor a threat of any value. I could do little but watch in horror as he tore through the temple, set fire to the outlaying buildings, and gutted three of our fellow students.

No idea if there’s actually a story in there, but I had fun writing it.

Aside from the weekly free-writes, I’ve done practically no writing since returning from Banff at the beginning of September. Part of that’s been me being sick, my mother being sick, working on editing this and future issues of Kaleidotrope. And part of that’s just being thrown out of the groove of writing that I’d somehow managed to get into while I was there. I miss writing at Banff, and I miss the Centre there, but I need to get back in the regular habit of writing, working on stories, here at home. I’d like to go back to Canada some day, but I also need to apply what I worked on there to my everyday writing.

Thursday various

  • The AV Club on Charlie’s Angels:

    If you’re going to have a show that’s appallingly retrograde and anti-feminist, the least you could do about it is have the guts to just go whole hog.

  • On The Mentalist:

    It’s a sign of how thoroughly played out serial killers have become that, after holding such a dominant place in popular culture fifteen to twenty years ago, they all have seem to have retired to CBS.

  • On Dream House:

    And of course it’s never a good sign when Elias Koteas is skulking about.

  • On Fringe:

    When it comes to stories, there are few things more gratifying than realizing the story you thought were being told wasn’t the real story at all.

  • And finally, Jean-Christophe Valtat defends steampunk:

    Now it is true that steampunk is riddled with every kind of self-duplicating cliches – zombies, airships, clockwork humans, anarchists etc… – but that is a bit like saying that mathematics are riddled with cliches because they are using the same axioms over and over. Cliches (or myths, if you prefer) are technically inherent to alternate-world building, because it would be too complicated and boring to present the reader with a world where everything would have to be explained down to the least detail: you can only present something new if it is delineated by familiar objects, if only for the reader to complete by himself what the book cannot explain or describe. The novelty – in all senses of the term – comes from the collage, the montage, the criss-crossing and hybridation of historical and fantastic references, the spark that comes from banging the cliches together. A steampunk novel is laborious and volatile dosing of the pleasures of recognition and the pleasures of discovery. Then again, the dosing can fail miserably, but it is not necessarily the genre that is to blame. [via]

Sneezing like a madman

What yesterday was still the distant rumblings of a cold is today a full-on assault, sneezing and coughing and a runny nose. I’ve kept the worst of it at bay through the generous application of cough drops (more than a few cadged from the office first aid stations), tissues, and chamomile tea, but I’ve still felt better.

This evening, rather than do the sensible thing and go home after work, I stayed on in the city for yet another event at the Center for Fiction, this one on “Outsiders in/of Science Fiction and the Fantastic.” The panel was moderated by Ellen Kushner, and featured writers Steve Berman, Samuel R. Delany, Andrea Hairston, Carlos Hernandez, and Alaya Dawn Johnson. It was interesting, overall, and I’m sure at some point the discussion will be up on their YouTube channel. Two things I noted:

  • Berman joked (seriously) that one of the benefits of writing YA from an outsider’s perspective is that every YA reader — at least the intended actually teenage audience — every one of them feels that he or she is the outsider, even if that’s not the case.
  • Hairston said that what science fiction does is rehearse the possible and the impossible.

I snuck out a little early, since they started a little late and ran a little long, and now I’m home, sneezing like a madman.