Original Photography: Hiding

Because I desperately need some sweet and cute, here's Hissy:

© 2006 Marlo Dianne

(pixelation brought to you by Blogger)

Fire 'em

One of my neighbours has decided instead of having kilometres of woods, he wants kilometres of barren dirt.

He's devoted his summer and an army of bulldozers to this. They ripped down the trees and plowed inches into the dirt, scraping the whole thing raw, so that not even a wisp of grass could still be alive, gutting the hill and taking 'clearcutting' to a level that is just one unstable molecule short of salting the earth.

So, understand, I already think this neighbour is a Richard, but then he decided there's only one reasonable way to get rid of acres and acres of brush piles that are three or four stories high.

Burn 'em.

All at once, unsupervised, and you sure don't need to even bother telling the fire department or the forestry guys or anything.

Between my green nature and my severe asthma, you can guess my level of delight.

We've all tried calling the fire department, but the fire department tells us they won't come look unless one of our houses catch fire. We have tried explaining that this fire is huge, and there's all this woods stuff, and yet very little of it between this fire and us, but they are unmoved. Except, I think they are resenting all these dang phone calls. Anyone with half a working brain cell who drives through sees this huge whack of flames, better known as a forest fire, and dials 911. Expecting someone will come and put it out. How silly of them.

Surprisingly, my other neighbours are somewhat irked too. Although, it's more like, if thoughts could murder, this guy would be on fire like he'd gone to the Prom with Carrie.

He's been burning for several days now, and the fire last night was even bigger than the others. It's sunny today, I think, but there's so much smoke outside that it looks like Victorian London. The wind is technically blowing away from me, thank all, but I can still barely breathe--locked up tight in my house, well dosed on asthma meds, and with two HEPA filters running on high.

I took some pictures last night. Quick snaps from my door, when the fire was low.

It would be pretty, if it wasn't so horrible.

The whole horizon was fire.

My Spidey Sense is Cringing

The Itsy Bitsy Spiderman is so SO wrong.

Even three seconds of the commerical is unbearable.

Death by a thousand spiderbites to its insane creators.

Stan Lee....into the Shame Hat.

That is all.

Spec on Spec

I fought weighing in on this, but I just had to; it flicked too many of my press one for irritation buttons...

From Miss Snark:

Dear Dame Snark,

I've noticed that the speculative fiction winning the big awards these days seem to be thinly disguised literary pieces. I keep reading stories about silent characters who softly reflect on their lives as they sip tea. At some point, something mildly otherworldly happens to qualify the story as sf or fantasy. Then it ends. But the stories I love to read (and write) have Action! Suspense! Adventure! They're heaped in either technology or magic but anchored with realistic and complex characters. Not pulp by any means, but far more exciting than "literary" work.

Please tell me, O High Priestess of Words, what is the state of today's speculative fiction? Will high action win out in the end? Or must I learn to write riveting prose about contemplating the wild stalks growing on the edge of a rippling lake if I'm ever to be published?

(I responded in the comment trail, but I thought I'd cross-post it here, being of general snippy writer geek interest):

Literary crap will always be literary crap. That some people aspire and beg to be crappy is the real mystery.

But what's more annoying is that some twits refuse to admit they have written spec-fic, and frantically market fantasy as literary. Genre is so dirty and beneath them. It's pathetic, but it also means I know for certain Miss Snark reads fantasy (aka spec-fic). Most people do, and they watch it too. They just don't call it that.

Fantasy is a wide genre. It includes fantasy, science fiction, horror, alternate history--anything where stuff is a little off, a little weird. Or more than a little. It's not frickin elves sitting in the woods musing about a chalice for 718 pages. At least not the uncrap.

Other than the bookstore floor staff, who have to Push the Booker Prize, nobody knows or cares who wins awards. It just doesn't mean anything. The only award winner I can think of is Bujold, and that's only because 'Hugo award winner' is frickin branded on the cover of every Miles book (which are awesome stories, but also breathless-action and hyper character driven, so ha!).

Seeing 'bestseller' is good, but only in the sense that if you like that author you're happy to know they probably aren't going to have to quit and get a better paying job.

You won't have any luck trying to sell your space opera to an epic fantasy magazine, no matter how good it is, but that's not awards or inside advantages.

Our Next Reading will Be....

Watching: Green Day & U2 - The Saints Are Coming
Reading: Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
Writing: novel draft

I have been pondering (and researching) what my next reading will be. The first consideration was more Lovecraft, but that didn't work out. I couldn't find anything appealing, at least among the clearly in the public domain bits.

I enjoyed Reanimator, even though that was tough reading. Lovecraft loved ungodly awkward phrasing--at least four and half twist flipschitz. Looking for something else, I had to laugh because Reanimator may be his most readable effort, by a large margin.

But then, it was much more tough for its drooling racist bits. I know, historical document, I know, respect a creator's rights and efforts, I know, narrator voice, blah blah, and I did, but it was really frickin hard, okay?

So, Lovecraft was out, and I was looking, looking, looking...and I think I got it. Yea!

Our next readings are going to be:

Ambrose Bierce.

Wind Fall

The storm--the torrential rain and tearing wind--we have been having for, oh, about a year now continues. I'm not really kidding, this is the wettest year, ever, by a large margin; it's a fungi forest out there.

I can't understand how there is *still* water spewing from the sky as this rate. I've been putting off running out compost, since I would instantly get wet down to my bone marrow, and being made of sugar I will so melt.

But the compost is close to evolving enough to walking outside on its own legs, so that may work out for me.

The wind today has been especially gruesome. I have spent my day sitting at my computer hearing it rip the siding off my house. Right on the other side of my work room. I was writing, of course, not just listening and cringing. I can actually hear the tortured groans of my home coming apart and type at the same time. That's focus for you. I think it makes me type faster. If the wall is going to blow out, you can bet your sweet gooey cupcake I have to get this story down first.

I did get up and peek at the window now and then; periodic updates, to see how much vinyl was flapping free and about to join the atmosphere.

It's good to have a deadline.

In other news, I got my payment from Forgotten Worlds for "Courting Hell", so now you can enjoy that story without guilt. I know it was tearing you up like death of a thousand papercuts. You were thinking about just sending me money. I understand.

Alan (and Nathan)

I know I've said it before, but I just watched CSI, and I have to say it again:

Alan Tudyk is frickin amazing.

He was so creepy I didn't want to be in the same room with him. I was cringing into my couch. But. Weirdly pathetic too. You almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Why isn't this guy famous? Or at least, you know, making a very comfortable living at something he is, to put it modestly, immensely good at? I never understand it. None of the Joss guys were recognised for their incredible talent. Okay, they were *by* Joss, but...Sigh.

I hear Nathan (Fillion) is going to be guesting in a few eps of Lost. I do hope that turns out to be true. That would be better than cake.

Reading: Dexter, Doggies, and the Penguin

Listening: Coldplay - "In My Place"
Reading: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Watching: The Daily Show
Writing: novel draft
Drinking: mint green tea


From my library--


Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay:

I absolutely love the premise of this, which I heard of from Bell Magazine, which was profiling the new tv series based on this book.

The idea of a brilliant blood spatter expert who everyone loves and who just happens, on his off hours, to be a serial killer...alright, little bit interesting. But it's all okay, because of Harry's Rules, the rules set up by his cop father, mean he can only kill--and very carefully--Very Bad Men, guys who ducked the system to, say, rape and kill children. Now, the premise is getting kind of awesome.

The prose of the book itself is not quite as solid, in some places it drags and drags, and overall, you have to rate it mediocre. However, the tone of Dexter is often fun when its really allowed to shine, both with his humour and his turns of phrase. It's at his best in those moments when Dexter cannot understand humans, which, really, none of us can, but Dexter thinks he *should* be able to and *wants* to be able to, and it's his unique voice that brings this above what could have been tossed as just another bland serial killer story.

I enjoyed being with Dexter enough that I went and looked for the second book at the bookstore--and I bought that mother in trade paperback.

Oh, and for the record, the tv series is a step down from the book. They changed a lot of things, for who knows what bizarre reasons, and made it even weaker. Although the guy who plays Dexter does it pretty good job.


Online Press:

I do a lot of my reading online. Almost all, honestly. Because I need to read, and online is current, free, interactive, and doesn't waste paper.

Over the years I've followed various forums and blogs, basically anything I stumbled across with information or an interesting voice. You can find the ones I have a longterm compulsive Feed for over on the Roll, at least the ones that have a useful RSS. Except for Ralan, who really needs a RSS (and also a search and sort)...

But I also read some magazines online, here and there, when a story catches me. It's a mixed bag, like all stories. Sometimes it's disappointing, sometimes revolting, and sometimes it's worth mentioning, so...

Little Doggies by Frank Minogue

Desert Penguin Blues by Laura Sanger Kelly