Electron Brew

So yes, I'm back form Japan.

I don't know what day it is, and what time of day it is, either. I don't know what language I'm speaking, nor what I'm supposed to speak. I don't remember ever sleeping.

Japan though? Was awesome.

A long, satisfying talk with A. about how both of us need to leave behind the comfortable, familiar world of erotica, and take that step towards the genres that lure and scare us: she to horror, I to fantasy. It's going to be more work, there are skills to be learned, and many, many words to write. And yet, we both want it; need it.

Must be brave, I say to myself. Must stop every story sliding into the old framework defined by the formula. Must train my brain to look for conflict that doesn't revolve completely around physical attraction.

So, that was yesterday. We agreed to meet on IM for a virtual writing session, and A. went home.

And what did I do? I read some erotica. (Well, romantica, really.) And it was really, really good. And I couldn't shake off its grip all evening; all night. And what I really want to write today is a M/M/F love story with lots of magic, sex and sometimes miserable serving girls and lads. Which is to say, exactly what I've been writing, and selling, for the last 10 years. (Not M/M/F, in fairness; that's new to me, hence the excitement

I'd like to spoil myself just this once more. I think it's going to be a really good story. And if it isn't, I can drop it and carry on my quest for Serious Fantasy OMG.

My excuses, let me show you them.

I've given up to peer pressure, and started a twitter account. There, as here, I'm cinderberry.

Come and stalk me, and let me stalk you back?

"Kushiel's Dart" by Jacqueline Carey is one of my favourite books: it's original, sexy, has great names and a main character you will never ever forget.

Then Carey went and turned it into a trilogy. Which I read to the end. The middle book had a middle book problem, but was still OK. The last book was better, thanks to Carey being able to be really terribly mean towards her characters. It was also too long, but I read it. I was glad it was there.

Now, she's written a trilogy as a sequel to the first trilogy. Phedre's foster-son Imriel grows up and does stuff. And it's just not working for me any more. Phedre was remarkable, and had remarkable solutions to things plot was throwing at her. Imriel isn't terribly exciting: he's defined by who his parents are, and by the history of his early years (described in the original trilogy), but as a grown-up he's nothing much to read about. And he knows it as well.

I patiently followed his whining (pardon me, "brooding"), for the first of his books, "Kushiel's Scion", hoping that in 700 pages he'd develop into somebody memorable. Nope... Still defined by his baggage, still not terribly interesting. And not even sexy, which for a book with a hundred million sex scenes is a major disadvantage, I think.

But I started the second book anyway. I cracked it open on the map page, and noticed Carey's taking us to Alternative Russia, and there's nothing quite as hilarious as a Western author trying to write Russia, real or alternative. It's already making me giggle, because in that world it's called Vralia. ("Liarsland", for English-speakers.) It could even be deliberate.

I'd rather be reading "Kushiel's Dart" for the first time.

Sabine had to go to the KittyDoctor yesterday. She didn't like that, and she has a nasty surprise in store, when I take her in for a surgery on Friday. Poor lamb. Cat. Whatever.

Anyway, KittyDoctor was telling me about how to feed her the day before:

"On Thursday night she can have her tea as normal..."

I didn't quite blurt out "Why would she drink tea?", but the thought did cross my mind.

We're introducing a self-imposed Book Buying Ban of 2009. It's pretty much what it sounds: we're not buying any more books until October '09, or until we've read our way through the stacks in the living-room. There are exceptions for authors whose work we must have the minute they bring something out, but other than that, we're trying to get a grip.

If I weren't already convinced that something radical like that was necessary, today the universe sent me a sign: a shelf's worth of book that had been sort-of balanced on the edge of an otherwise already packed shelf, have toppled onto me, and nearly sent me flying. They're OK, but some of them have told me they'd rather have been read and taken to Barter Books. I've got to listen to that.

Of course, what I would really love, is to magically acquire space for more shelves. Lots more shelves. Enough shelves that I don't have to give away or sell another book, ever, unless it displeased me.

As it is - well. The Book Ban stands.

P.S. I'm not sure what we're going to do if too many of the books in the reading queue are actually Worth Keeping.
P.P.S. And what about if they're not just that, but also Have Sequels? (Like "The Name of the Wind" by Patrick Rothfuss, which I've just finished, and OMG!)

Captain Kirk sure did know his way to the Holy Grail... I think.

I opened the front door to look at the new snow. The cat came shooting out. I expected her to come shooting back in again, but she was indifferent to the white stuff, and the paw prints she left across the yard are unsmudged and dignified.

Snow, though. It's not at all fluffy, the wrong kind, but it cheered me up anyway.

Dear Universe,

It's not that I don't love coming back to Kiev. It's that, tearing here with 36 hours' notice, spending most of each day in the hospital with my father, and freaking out because pneumonia is *not* kind to (let's face it) old men - all of it doesn't really count as coming back to Kiev.

Next time, if you don't mind, I'd rather have a holiday I can look forward to, without cancelling the rest of my life, with my husband, with my family and friends all healthy. That wouldn't suck at all.

This? Totally does.

If you can do this for me, dear Universe, I swear I won't complain (much) about the flying and the immigration queues. I will embrace them. I will beam at the uniformed boy, and wish him good morning. Seriously, he probably needs it.

I am. fucking. exhausted.

Yes, it is all about me.

with love (but only just)
cinderberry

There's one thing I can't get used to in England, even after 7 years.

Today I rang the people who are fixing our coffee maker, and the service centre woman kept calling me "my love".

Yikes. I'm charming and wonderful, of course, but instant infatuation over the phone?

This explains - well, not everything, but some of it.



(taken here)

It turns out, Sainsbury's Chocolate-Scented Candles do not, in fact, smell of chocolate. Or anything at all, in fact.

They're still candles, though, and make light. I guess that's good.

I have concluded - again - that my ideal short story length is up to about 1500 words. If I happen to write anything longer than that, I just don't love it. I want to either chop it to a really small size, or turn it into a novella of proper heft and sprawl.

I have committed a 6400 story and sent it off to Black Lace. I don't think it sucks, but I would have loved it much more if I could have built it to fit into about 2K. When you have a 6400 piece of erotica, it necessarily has Adventures in addition to teh secks. It's hard to write sexy Adventures, you know?

BTW, Black Lace used to ask for 4k stories and pay 200 pounds for them. Now they want 6K stories, and pay 150 pounds. How is that a good idea?

I dreamed that everybody has forgotten my birthday: here it was, my day, and nobody said a word. Not my beloved, not my friends.

In the light of day this is feels absurd and quite pleasant to laugh about, but my god, I woke up grieving.

The Council has built us a shiny new gym in the city-centre. It's significantly cheaper than the grotty-but-serviceable establishment I've been going to for the last few years, so we've promptly defected.

The new place has lots of interesting-looking weights machines. I get on well with weights machines, because it's very hard to go wrong on one of them: you either pull the weight or it refuses to budge, but you can't fall off of it (see cross-trainers), laze around aimlessly on it (see the pool), or drop it on your foot (see free weights).

The problem in the old gym was that, if you wanted to find out how a particular machine worked, you had to book an appointment with a ripped young man, who would then attempt to wrestle you into an exercise programme. The new place? The ripped young men and women are stationed permanently at a desk in the middle, and answer any questions at once, and then helpfully go away.

The wealth of lovely big-ass machinery has moved me to do some actual research into strength-training. This involved finding out where some of my muscles are, which in turn involved looking at some rather disturbing drawings. Eww. Maybe I shouldn't have done it so close to my bedtime. *shudder*

Anyway, I emerged with a workable exercise schedule. I like it much better than my previous strategy of "go to the gym and run until dead".

To do next: remember to take schedule to gym.

Current Mood: accomplished

For true. Books, books everywhere, and I can't get into a single one of them.

I've been in a bizarre reading mood lately, reading more childrens/YA stuff than anything else. (Scott Westerfeld is God. Trudi Canavan is not God. China Mieville is God, particularly when his books have pictures of ninja bins.)

Anyway, I've got a hankering for a fat fantasy series, but knowing how bloody demanding I tend to be towards fat fantasies, I'm scared of picking any up on spec. Because Sturgeon's Law seems to work particularly well in regard of fat fantasies.

Hmm.

Maybe it's time for my yearly reread of The Song of Ice and Fire?

In other news: I have traitorously unloaded a copy of "Un Lun Dun" upon an 8-year-old boy, whose conversion into a lifetime SF reader I'm very invested in. He loves it, but was really puzzled to be reading a book wherein the main characters are two girls. I'm not sure he realises what felt weird to start with, but I could see the "this is weird!" vibes coming out of his ears for the first 20 pages or so.

Last night we stayed at a Heathrow hotel on the final night of our Viennese holiday.

Before sliding off to sleep, I caught a chunk of the 10 o'clock news.

As a result, I spent a substantial amount of my dream-time arguing with a gay bishop about fundamental rights of Martians.

Why did he object to them having rights? What was he thinking?

(I wasn't wearing any clothes at the time, but it seemed OK with him.)

I need to learn to trust myself more.

Last night I watched "Braveheart" for the first time. I saw the kilts. I saw the men *riding* in them. (Ouch!!!!) And I thought: this is pretty, but so wrong. They can not has kilts in the 13th century, and even if they could, that's not how you wear one, and even if you did... that riding thing looks painful.

And then I thought: nah, I must be wrong, because surely the costume people in a big film studio know more about these things.

I also thought: face-paint, honestly? Isn't it, like, about 1000 years too late for that? Wallace must have reintroduced it out of sentimentality, or something. Because, of course, costume people know about that too.

Well, I checked. I was right. They were wrong. They may well know the right way to have done it, but chose to go with the wrong for the sake of the pretty. I don't mind very much; the whole non-historical nature of the film didn't annoy me at all. (Unlike with "Gladiator", which makes me twitch whenever it's mentioned as anything other than an example of true cinematic horribleness.)

Lesson for the future: have more faith in what I think I know.

P.S. The execution scene made me giggle. Jesus much?

(Well, maybe not God, because I still don't know how to extract any pleasure from Buffy. But he's a deity of some kind, that's for sure, because he makes me happy.)

Have you seen "Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog"? Which isn't a blog at all, but a new Whedon show on the Internets.

It's in three acts. Two of them are up already, and the last one is coming up on Saturday, and then on Sunday it's going to - bang! - disappear off the Net, and you'll have to pay money to see it again.

It's got some beautiful lines. Like these lyrics:

It's a brand-new day,
And the sun is high,
All the birds are singing
That you're gonna die...

Sabine and I are home alone. When I watched this, I suspected that she watched it first...



P.S. In our case, it's a book. Reading around the cat is one of the skills I'm still developing, four years into our relationship.
P.P.S. The book in question was "Magicians' Guild" by Trudy Canavan. I suspect, Sabine tried to stop me from reading it because it isn't that great. But it isn't bad either, so I persevered.