These are excuses that I'm giving you

I don't know if I haven't blogged in a while because I'm lazy, or because I don't have anything to say, or if I'm just too damn busy to be interesting. It's all up in the air right now. I'm taking some time off next week to attend World Fantasy Con in Madison (anyone in Madison want to buy me a beer. Do I even know anyone in Madison?) and things are always hectic leading up to that.

I haven't gotten a lot of writing done in the last week or so, because I'm charging my psychic batteries to be "on" for the convention. I have one story that is pretty much revised and ready to submit. I don't want to send it out, though, because I have another story sitting at Black Static. Under "serious consideration" at Black Static, I should say. And that story and this story share a common setting. In fact, this is the third story in that setting, and the first one already sold. So if the second one sells, I'd really like to be able to say that in the cover letter. Dear editor, this is the third story I've written in this world. The first two have sold to very reputable markets. I'm willing to let you buy this one, but only if you're quick. I am the next big thing. Buy this story now, before I leave you in my dust. Hurry up, do it. Now. You're getting left behind. Your friends will make fun of you. They'll gather in haute bars and huddle over their drinks and whisper "poor editor X. He could have bought the third story in that series. But he didn't, and now rats live in his scrotum. Or her ovaries. Depending on who we're talking about, here." and you'll have to sit outside in the cold and the windy and wonder why oh why didn't I buy that story. And then you'll gnash your teeth.

Or I could just not write that cover letter, because I'm pretty sure I'd lose their attention somewhere around "leave you in my dust." At least that way they'd never get to the part about their scrotums (and/or ovaries, depending on who we're talking about here) and they wouldn't blacklist me.

Then again, maybe I'll just submit the story and let it stand on its own merits. Right? Merits count, don't they?

Not sitting still

I came in to work today to find that Interzone has purchased one of the two stories I have in with them. I'm...well. I'm crazy with the happy. Now it's just a matter of sitting calmly through the workday and not laughing maniacally. All the time. Woo!

watashi wa nihon-jin wakarimasu

Okay, well, the final draft of the revision is off. I feel pretty good about it. Even if Interzone ends up rejecting it, I'll have a better story to submit elsewhere.

Oh, and this is pretty damn cool.

Once more

okay, another story I suppose. The Inca. I don't remember the names involved, so bear with me.

The Kings and Queens of the Inca have always been brothers and sisters. Required. Here's how that started. A brother and a sister, in the vicinity of the lake that makes everyone laugh, decided to take over. They saved up their money, coin by coin, job by job. When they had enough, the brother put on his best clothes, a tunic and pantaloons, and swell boots. The sister took all the money and sewed it, coin by coin, onto her brother's clothes. The next morning, early, the brother snuck up to the top of a bluff near the market and hid. The sister started calling out to the people in the area, the farmers and tired mothers and guards, gathering them around.

When the people were gathered, when the sun was just rising, the brother stood up. The sun caught him, standing on the bluff in his gold coin coat. It was brilliant, broken sunlight. Glittering. The son of the sun! the sister called. Look. He is among us. Behold. The people fell, the crowds swooned. The brother ruled, and he elevated his sister to his wife. And so it always was.

And here's the point. The fucking point, to keep with my motif. The myth, the story they told their children and their people and their history books, was not that they were the children of the sun, the only true descendents of a holy god. No, the story that they passed along, that they told around the campfire and in the halls of their kings, was that they were not gods. But that they were smart enough to make people think they were.

I apologize for the lack of activity on here. Work's been...disappointing. I keep looking at the calendar and thinking that it's still august. Fucking september didn't even happen. Anyway.

A story for you. The titans made the earth. In the old style, Epimetheus did the gifting, and Prometheus supervised. Epimetheus provided beastkind with all manner of bling, courage and strength, sagacity, wings and claws and acid spit. When it came to man, though, he was at a loss. Prometheus stepped in and laid out the goods. Courage, wisdom, high learning. A cool pair of wrap around shades. Man got it all.

But the Titans didn't make woman. Jupiter, a god, made the first woman for revenge. Prometheus and his brother Epimetheus stole fire from the gods, and Jupiter was sore. So he made a gift, and he made it a weapon, and he made it so pretty that the Titans couldn't turn it down. The gods got together and contributed their little bit to the plan. Venus gave her the hot, Mercury gave her the bluff, Apollo gave her pipes. The perfect weapon. Her name was Pandora.

Epimetheus was pleased. He kept the woman on his desk, along with a really nice pen, a picture of a puppy on a beach, some flowers, and the Jar of Utter Darkness. The JUD was a little clay pot, with a stopper, and in it Epimetheus kept all the stuff he had decided to not gift the various creatures in the world. Diseases, jealousy, anger, pettiness. Shit like that. On the same desk as the woman. Slick.

One day, while Epimetheus was, I don't know, out watering Iceland or something, Pandora started wandering the desk. Oh what a cute puppy! Ah, these flowers smell nice! I wonder what's in this jar! Crash!

And, as you know, everything went to shit. Crap crap crap. But wait! What's this! At the bottom of the jar! It's HOPE! Yes, even in this, our darkest most woman induced hour, we have hope. Oh, praise be.

So, this is the fucking point. They made us without hope. Fucking remember that.

Okay, well, the rewrite is finished and off to the good folks at IZ. Now begins a period of tension, self-doubt and fear. I look forward to it.

Actually, I was lying in bed last night, wondering what I was going to move on to next. Then I remembered that on Thursday is my writing group, and I have a piece up for critique. So I suspect that after that I'll have a whole lot of corrections to make on that story, and I should just enjoy this slightly more than 24 hour break from writerly obligations. But really, I'd rather be on project. Yeah.

A General Alert

Okay, so, let me go ahead and suggest you all stop being my friends. Cuz "bad things" seem to be happening to my friends. My wife's former roomate is right now having emergency gall bladder surgery. I don't even know how that just suddenly happens, but apparently it does. So. Just to warn all ye mortals. Those of you who are immortal or not subject to the whims of vengeful gods, feel free to continue our friendship.

Do it now!

I've just seen Serenity. Go see it. Now. I'm not fucking around with you. See it. Stop reading my pointless blog and see this movie. This weekend. Because opening weekend sales count, and this is the movie we want Hollywood to make. Do it.