“You people and your categories.”

As a member of the Outer Alliance, I advocate for queer speculative fiction and those who create, publish and support it, whatever their sexual orientation and gender identity. I make sure this is reflected in my actions and my work.

The Outer Alliance is a recently-launched LGBT organization for speculative fiction. Depending on which bits of the Internet you play around in, you may be seeing that paragraph a lot in the next day or so, as this has been designated a Pride Day to advertise the organization’s existence.

I have to admit, on the whole, I’ve been more an audience for queer spec fic (or fic of any kinds) than a producer of it. A little victory dance happens inside me every time I see this stuff depicted non-pejoratively in media, because that’s at least half the battle: on one hand you pass the laws, and on the other you have Captain Jack Harkness. In the long run, it’s going to be the kids who grew up watching TV shows and movies and reading books and comics where queerness is accepted who really win the war. Queerness will look about as transgressive to them as women wearing pants does to us.

But of course somebody has to produce those texts, and homosexuality (let alone transgenderism etc) is still pretty thinly represented in SF/F. I’ve done a bit of it, though not enough. Deeds of Men was the cause of my favorite crit-group statement ever: “The sodomy was good!” “A Mask of Flesh” features a xera, a being that actually changes sex based on its long-term mood; there’s another one in “Chrysalis,” set in the same world, who has attained a state of spiritual balance, such that ome exists as a bilateral hermaphrodite. Unfortunately, “Chrysalis” is indicative of most of my other queer-content stories, in that it’s currently awaiting revision before I can send it out. “Love, Cayce” includes a lesbian relationship at one point, and “Remembering Light” confirms something hinted at in “Driftwood,” which is that Last has had relationships with other men. (The broader truth is that, when you’re the only survivor of your world for untold yonks of time, you have lots of relationships of all kinds. He’s no Jack Harkness, sleeping with anything that will stop long enough for him to smile at it/her/him/them/other, but he’s gotten around.)

Basically, this is something that has gotten onto my radar in the relatively recent past, and I’m trying to incorporate it into my work, but I’m producing fewer short stories than I used to and a bunch of the ones I have written aren’t on the market right now, which means the effect of me thinking about it isn’t very visible yet. Still, it’s better than the nothing I had before. And if you follow that top link, you’ll find a post with a kisquillion links to other people’s work, many of them more prolific than I am.

two things

Last call to win free magazines; you have until the end of the day tomorrow, September 1st.

Also, sundell.net is back up, so if you’re accustomed to e-mailing me there, you can go back to doing so.

inquring minds don’t want to find out first-hand

Dear LiveJournals,

Have you ever been punched in the face? I mean, really punched in the face, not just your brother smacking you one when you were five?

What was it like?

I kind of need to know the subjective experience of realio trulio being decked (or otherwise struck — I suppose a car dashboard or the like would also do) so I can describe it properly, and while I will taste gin for this book, I will not court concussion for it.

Thanks,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Novelist

the avalanche has started

Word count: 110,810
LBR census: Ladies and gentlemen, THE BLOOD HAS ARRIVED.
Authorial sadism: I’ve been looking forward to writing this bit for four months now. I’m pretty sure that makes me a Bad Person.

***

There’s nothing I can say at this point that wouldn’t constitute a spoiler. Except that we’ve hit the fun part.

Fun for me, anyway. My characters might beg to differ.

important e-mail note

Sundell.net is down, so I can’t access that e-mail account at the moment. And it may stay that way for a few days. This is, among other things, the address my LJ comment notifications go to, so I won’t be alerted if you respond to anything I’ve said here or on someone else’s post. (I could switch it over, but eh. I just know as soon as I jump through that hoop, sundell.net will come back up and I’ll have to jump through it again.)

(On second thought, that might be a good way to fix the problem . . . .)

If you need to get in touch with me about anything important or time-critical, e-mail marie dot brennan at g mail dot com instead.

on the topic of history education

In light of my earlier rant about post-Reconstruction history education (especially in Texas), I now kind of want to slam my head into a wall until the pain goes away.

The snarky response here, of course, is that it hardly matters what the standards are, since the students will never make it past Reconstruction anyway. But snark aside . . . it’s enough to make me cry blood.

I love my home state, but in the way one loves a child that really needs to be sent to reform school for its own good.

my own version of the Bechdel Test

If a scene in a novel of mine a) has at least two female characters in it, and b) they talk to each other, then c) odds are apparently quite high that they’re talking about politics.

Srsly, girls — can’t you find something else to occupy yourselves?

more on free fiction

Reminder: you have until September 1st to toss your name into the hat to win a free magazine.

Since this has come up in e-mail, let me add that I’ll do what I can to match winners with appropriate magazines. If you already own one of those issues and have no need of a second copy, or there’s a story you reallyreallyreally want to read, let me know, and I’ll try to accommodate that as much as is feasible.

(Also — though no one has asked this directly — the thing you post doesn’t have to be gushing fansquee. You’re perfectly welcome to argue with my writing, too.)

Back to the salt mines I go.

The Big One-Oh-Oh

Word count: 100,497
LBR census: Lots of talk of death. And love has taken a beating along the way.
Authorial sadism: That little house of cards Galen’s been living in has started to fall on his head.

***

I’m over the hump in several respects at once. The most obvious is the crossing of the hundred thousand word mark: sure, I’m only 1834 words closer to the end of the book than I was when I woke up this morning, but the psychological effect of watching the odometer tick over is enormous. The end of the book is no longer on the other side of a wall; I can see it now from where I’m standing.

The invisible one, to everyone but me, is in the revision. It’s been so painfully obvious to me that Part Four was where I started to lose my way; I stalled out a chunk of the way through it back in July, having to stop and rethink what I was doing, and what do you know? I’ve had to completely replace four scenes out of it, including the one I was writing when I stalled. Having made it past the last of those, however, the road ahead looks a hell of a lot smoother. Not that there isn’t stuff that needs fixing, but it’s of the “polish this and make it hit harder” sort rather than the “oh holy hell this scene isn’t even doing anything” sort. And I know which one I prefer. This wasn’t an 1834-word day; it was a 4762-word day, the rest of it being either flashback or replacements for existing crappy scenes. Tiring, but I’m done with that now.

I’m so close to the tipping point, too. (If I can have both a hump and a tipping point in this graph.) There’s about five thousand words of stuff left for me to muddle through, and then I hit the stuff I was semi-outlining last night: ten thousand words or so of scenes I think I’ll be able to roar right through. Then we’ll be into Part Seven, and the grand finale, which I hope will be very full of roaring.

But now I’m sleepy, and I’ve done my work, and it’s time for bed. Tomorrow, we begin the journey from 100 to 140.

different kinds of procrastination

The hardest thing is knowing when to push, and when not to.

Three hours ago I was sitting at my computer, trying to get started on the day’s revision and failing. There are two scenes that need total replacing today — one involving the Crow’s Head, one involving the British Museum — and I knew roughly what each one was going to do, but I just couldn’t get my brain in gear enough to produce a decent opening sentence for the first one.

Laziness? Or an actual block?

I went downstairs and played solitaire for a while. Told myself I really should get to work. Then remembered that I also need to write this part’s flashback scene, and maybe if I figured out exactly what that was doing I’d be more able to write the Crow’s Head bit, which is supposed to set up that flashback. So I called kniedzw into the room and we bounced ideas back and forth until I knew what to do with the flashback, and then I came back upstairs and wrote that and polished the bit that follows it, with Galen talking to Lune . . . then hit the wall again. Because the next scene after that is the British Museum one, which also needs replacing. And I wasn’t sure whether I should try to do that before I’ve replaced the previous scene or not. Grumble mutter smack into wall.

Back downstairs for more solitaire.

Ponder ponder. Is it too early to bring up a problem the characters run into later on? No — not if I rearrange the scenes. Put Galen’s conversation with Lune first; then the Crow’s Head scene can happen a couple of weeks later, much closer to the Museum thing, and oh hey Irrith has that favor she can call in, which I’ve been wondering what to do with — use that as setup for the Museum scene?

Bit by bit, it falls into place in my head, and a hell of a lot better than it would have if I’d made myself start writing the Crow’s Head stuff three hours ago. But it’s so hard to tell the difference: will delay improve anything? When you’re under a deadline, you can’t always err on the side of assuming that yes, it will. It was so very tempting to tell myself I could work on this part tomorrow . . . but that would put me a day behind. How can you know when that’s the right course of action, versus when you need to mush on?

At present, I’m writing a blog post about what I’ve figured out, instead of applying it to the book. I think that’s a pretty good sign that the useful procrastination is over and done with, and now it’s time to mush.

a glimpse ahead

Making notes right now, trying to figure out how many scenes it will take me to deal with a particular bit of plot. Am amused by: (7) Daring rescue!

You can tell it will be exciting, because it has an exclamation mark.

political linkage, all in one place

I’ve had various things open in tabs for a while now, but the truth of the matter is that I probably won’t have the brain-power to say anything substantive about them until, oh, November. So screw it. I’ll just toss them up in a single post, and leave it at that. If you aren’t interested in politics, cruise on by.

New Rule: Not Everything in America Has to Make a Profit — Bill Maher, expressing a lot of my concerns about what happens when the profit motive becomes the governing principle of various fields.

Touching back to principles — Abi Sutherland on the need for the government to protect the individual against the corporation.

The GOP’s Misplaced Rage — pretty much a classic case of “I didn’t leave my party; my party left me.” Bruce Bartlett, long-time Republican economist and old-school developer of supply-side economics, on the ways in which our current problems are the GOP’s fault. I don’t necessarily agree with his ideas on how we could and should fix the problems, but this guy is exactly what I see lacking in the face of the Republican Party today: an intelligent, principled man whose views I can respect even when I disagree with him.

An Officer’s Experience in Our Christian Military — this worries me. A lot.

Five.

Five parts down. Two to go.

And after ninety-six thousand words of book, the comet has finally shown up.

if only he’d gotten started sooner

Dang it. Joseph Priestley has robbed me of my chance to use the word “dephlogisticated” in this book.

(The term, and the substance it was coined to describe, didn’t come on the scientific scene until his experiments in the mid-1770s. So I can’t talk about dephlogisticated air — aka oxygen — because nobody knows about it yet.)

Pity. It’s such a fun word.

Happens every book.

Books have stages they go through, and after a while, you learn to recognize your own particular set.

Over here at Castle N, we’ve reached the stage of “All right, I really should sit down and get started on revising oh hey this hallway really needs vacuuming.”

(I have no cat to vacuum, alas.)

Fifty more to go. (Thereabouts.)

Word count: 91,133
LBR census: Some rather bloody rhetoric.
Authorial sadism: You’re the one who said it, Irrith. And you’ll remember that by the end of the book.

***

I may be semi-scarce for about the next month, and as I’ve said to a couple of people lately, I can sum up the reason why quite succinctly:

We’ve secretly replaced Marie Brennan’s usual novel-writing process with that of another author. Let’s see if she notices!

Why, yes. Yes, I have. >_<

I know plenty of writers who produce multiple drafts: first they write a vague, bumbling one full of plot hooks that don’t go anywhere and ideas that get jammed in willy-nilly two thirds of the way through, etc. Then, having figured out what the book is about, they go back and write a second draft (sometimes more), getting closer each time to the target. And that’s fine. It works great for them. It would probably even work great for me, so long as I did one very important thing: budgeted enough time before the deadline to allow for multiple drafts.

But I didn’t, because almost all of my previous ten novels* have conformed to my usual declaration, “I tend to write fairly clean first drafts.” Doppelganger, for example, underwent only three substantive changes on its way to publication: I deleted the opening scene, rearranged the early chapters so they cut between Miryo and Mirage more frequently, and unkilled a character for use in the sequel. Everything else was polishing.

This book . . . not so much. I could speculate for hours as to why that’s the case, but the upshot of it all is that I’m throwing out and replacing a much larger quantity of wordage than I’m accustomed to doing. My killfile, wherein I keep everything paragraph-sized or larger that’s been cut from the book, is twenty-five thousand words long. All of it deserves to be there; the sections and scenes I’m replacing them with are about 230% better than my first attempts. But that’s 25K of book I’ve written without getting any closer to the end.

So what I’ve been doing for a week and change, and will be doing for about another month, is kind of sort of writing my second draft while writing my first. That is, I’m slapping 1500 words minimum onto the back end of the book, heading just as fast as I can for the finish line, while also revising 4000 words minimum in the existing text. On the days when that means polishing, life’s good. On the days when it’s actually 2K of new scene plus 2K of polishing, life’s harder.

As you might imagine, this is a little tiring.

But hey, live and learn. I’ve gotten careless about leaving myself a margin of safety; if I’m intending to write a 140K book, then I give myself five months to do it and assume that’ll work out, probably with time to spare. I’ll know better for the Victorian book. I’ve already worked out my schedule for that one, and it involves a big honking overbudget of time just in case that one goes more like this book has. And in the meantime, I’ll just keep my nose to the grindstone, and pray I still have a brain left when all of this is done.

*The sole exception to the above rule was #4, where I wrote one draft that wasn’t so much vague and bumbling as Utter Crap, and then threw it out and wrote something radically different and thirty thousand words longer. But I wasn’t under a deadline then.

Free fiction! Mine and other people’s.

One thing you get from being published in print magazines, that you don’t get from the online ones: author copies.

Sometimes, more than you need.

I’ve got a stack here of random magazine issues, each one of them with a story of mine in it, above and beyond the copies I’m keeping for posterity. I’d like to get rid of them, to good homes — but how to arrange that? With a contest, of course!

It consists of three easy steps:

1) Blog in some fashion about the Onyx Court series. It can cover any piece of the series: Midnight Never Come, In Ashes Lie, Deeds of Men, one of the upcoming books. Your post can be anything you want: a review, historical nitpicking, speculation about what’s coming, fanfiction/fanart, pictures of your cat dressed in a homemade Invidiana costume — whatever.

2) E-mail me a link to your blog post. Send it to marie {dot} brennan {at} gmail {dot} com.

3) Profit! Or at least be entered for a chance to do so.

The items up for grabs are as follows:

That’s eleven potential winners, all told. You’ve got until September 1st to post something and notify me of it — which is plenty of time to sew that costume for your cat, so get cracking!

I should have checked this ages ago.

I’m an idiot.

When I pitched the new Onyx Court novels, I gave both of them working titles, because they sound more like real novels if they aren’t called “the comet book” and “the Victorian book.” In the Victorian case, it was a working title because I’m not terribly enthusiastic about the phrase I chose. In the comet case, by contrast, the phrase is fine; I just thought the passage I’d pulled it from didn’t have enough bearing on the plot to work as an epigraph, which is what I’ve done with the previous two.

And I’ve gone months without digging up the aforementioned passage and taking a second look at it. Which is where the idiocy comes in, because as it turns out, it works very well indeed.

So! I have a title! Unless my editor tells me to change it, but he said he was fine with it back when I thought I wasn’t, so we can hope not. The Book Formerly Referred to As the Comet Book will henceforth be referred to as A Star Shall Fall — Star or SSF when I’m feeling informal.

(You can tell the Victorian title is Totally Wrong, because it doesn’t have a verb in it.)

Anyway, I hope y’all like. I think I do.