The artist in a society of entitlement

Consider this: If you were to work for seven years only to discover not only was your income so far below the poverty line as to be non-existent, but worse, people had been seeking out, using, and enjoying your work without paying you for it -- would you be disgruntled, perhaps peeved, perhaps even angry? Would their love and praise of your work diminish in its importance under the weight of knowing those secret customers stole your work? When the cost of your work is not much more than the price of a cup of coffee and yet still people thieve, would that drive you to seek justice, only to find there is no justice to be had?

Would you even stop working in order to prevent further theft?

Could you?

This is a problem every writer, and indeed creator of intellectual and visual content faces every day because of the power and all-encompassing nature of the Internet.

Recently I did one of my usual searches for my own writing on the Internet. And, as usual, pirate sites popped up featuring my books. I was about to prepare to fire off my usual notices to the site owners of copyright infringement, when I noticed discussion boards in which people quite freely seek out guidance from other members where they might be able to download a free copy of a book they wish to read. A free copy. Openly and unabashedly asking people where they could steal a copy of my work.

My first thought was: do these people not know about libraries?

And then my second thought was: that would be too much trouble. Because in this society of instant gratification and entitlement why should you not be able to enjoy someone's work, use their wares, because you want to, because everything should belong to everyone, quite outside of the fact you're too damned greedy to offer even the price of a cup of a coffee to the maker of the pleasure you'll receive over the next 36 hours. And of course it's perfectly acceptable to discuss stealing that person's work in public because it's your right to enjoy that work. After all, it's not really harming anyone. Not really.

Because the fact a person has worked in isolation for seven years, researching, writing, revising, paying for the professional services of an editor, revising, reworking, waking up at three of the blessed morning to realize everything you've written for the past two weeks is shite and you have to start again, and then when finally you've bashed that story into something about which you can feel a modicum of pride you then go through all those endless public appearances for signings, wrangling with social media to get your name out there, putting in all those mind-numbing hours in order to meet the needs of marketing and fans and all the business of business when you know very well every hour spent away from your desk is another hour you're not getting the next book into shape -- none of that matters. Apparently. You're not worth the price of a cup of coffee.

Would you, as a consumer, with your privileged, entitled, inflated sense of self-worth then take that ego one step further? You like that particular coat, and because you do you take it off the rack at the store, carefully remove the theft-prevention tag, and then walk out the door wearing the coat.

Oh, you'd like to have that bottle of pinot grigot with dinner tonight, and after all you're not really hurting anyone by taking it home, it's a big company making pots of money, so in a way you're really being a Robin Hood of sorts. Sure you are. You, smug in your living room without a thought for the vintner who laboured for twenty years to bring that small vineyard into production, risking everything so you could pound back some decent plonk.

Ah, well while we're at it, you really would like to drive that new car, so you jack your way into it and enjoy not having to take the public transit to buy groceries, go to work, all that hassle of every day life.

But then what happens when your boss thinks the same way you do? What happens when she steals your hours of labour with nary a pay cheque in sight? Different story, right? You march yourself to the first legal aid (because you don't want to have to pay for a lawyer) and you sue that bastard's ass because you've been robbed! You haven't been paid!

Still enjoying that ripped off read?

Yeah, and sure I'm glad you like my writing. But if you do, don't be such a cheap bastard and at least buy me the price of that cup of coffee.

Joy from me to you

As a girl I have wonderful memories of singing carols in St. Paul's Anglican cathedral in Toronto with the Havergal choir. One of my favourites was Angels We Have Heard on High. I remember how our voices seemed to rise and collect in those towering, vaulted ceilings, creating a sublime resonance that could bring tears to the most arctic of hearts.

In tribute to that memory, but with a fresh, modern jazz vibe, I thought I'd share with you a music video by the hugely talented group, Pentatonix.

Wishing all of you joy.

In pursuit of the perfect novel

Over the years I've read my fair share of how-to books on the subject of writer's craft, scoured magazine articles discussing the particulars of writing scintillating dialogue, taken workshops with established authors in the hopes of finding the formula for creating that perfect novel. There are quite literally thousands of books on the subject, from the dos and don'ts, to world-building, character-creating, genre writing, motivation, and every facet and nuance you can imagine, some written by world-renowned names, others by little-known authors hoping to carve out a living and recognition by sharing insight.

And over the years I've also read a considerable body of literature, across themes and genres, time periods and subjects, from authors canonized and crucified, known and not.

If I'm honest, I'll admit I've learned more analysing literature than through study of how to write literature.

What have I learned? I've learned (and be prepared for howls of horror) there is no magic formula. There is no right or wrong way of writing. Sure you have to have the fundamental tenets of language well in hand. But the rest, the caveats about exposition, or run-on sentences, or any of a myriad mind-numbing details are all at the whim and purpose of the writer. Language is your palette and you choose how to mix and apply colour of words to suit your own expression.

Why? Because it doesn't matter a blessed damn whether you've followed So-and-Such's rule about world-building, or This-and-That's caveat about exposition. What matters, what really matters, is whether you can actually tell a story. What matters is whether the blood of the bard is in your heart, how well you spin a yarn, tell a tale, fabricate a fiction.

I have read in some of Rushdie's work such passages of run-on, breathless verbiage as to not only laugh at writing conventions, but shatter them completely, and realized in doing so Rushdie has created a story so vivid, so immediate I cannot help myself from turning the next page, and the next, and the next, from thinking on these characters and places and situations until my dreams are drugged with them.

Martel can employ exposition in such a way as to flip the bird at caveats, and do so in a manner that ends up a tale of such fascination it will remain beloved generations to come. Atwood writes such lean, spartan dialogue without identifying the speaker that sometimes the reader looses themselves in the rapid-fire wit unfolding paragraph after paragraph.

In realizing what these masters have done there is now a sense of freedom: Be not bound by convention, rules and regulation. There is but one rule: Tell your story. Tell it from your heart, as though you were speaking to a person sitting in the chair across from you; tell it so that their eyes remain wide, so that you slide like acupuncture beneath the fat and into soft tissue.

That's it.

Throw out the manuals, the guides, the magazines. Just write. Write as though you were Sherazade and your life depends on your skill to spin a yarn, tell a tale, fabricate a fiction.

Not an auspicious start to 2014

Have been casting about trying to find information about Ellen Datlow's forthcoming anthology, Fearful Symmetries, which is being published by ChiZine Publications. I'd submitted a story, Dreams of the Moon, back in May 2013. Heard nothing. Thought that was positive. Today discovered on Datlow's FB page the selections have been made. Only four stories from their slush made it into the 19 being published. Mine is not among them. Disappointing to be sure.

So, followed up with Sandra Kasturi, who was kind enough to go through her records, and sure enough a rejection was sent out June 19, 2013, which likely ended up caught in SPAM. So, I've kept a story out of submission for seven months, needlessly.

Ah well, research another market.

Postscripts to Darkness

Received an email this afternoon from Ranylt Richildis, Fiction Editor at Postscripts to Darkness, with the edited copy of the short story I've sold to them, At Union. Just a few very small tweaks required. I'm a bit embarrassed I didn't see those flaws myself, but I suppose it's a simple case of that forest and tree thing.

Anyway, seems the crew at Postscripts are hard at work putting together Volume 5, and my story will be in it.

Ahem. You will please excuse the momentary loss of cool.

If you haven't checked out Postscripts, you should. They're publishing some fascinating short, dark fiction.

The Rose Guardian progress

Finally back in the writer's chair after long weeks away. Have been searching for a work-around to the problem created by this frustrating D-Link router which won't let me access the main computer from the laptop.

So why not work from the office on the weekends? Well, cause the office is on the third floor, I'm arthritic, and want to be in the thick of what goes on in the house during the weekend, and don't want the temptation of doing work for the publishing house instead of writing.

Then, voila, lightning struck my brain! Doh! Why not use DropBox for The Rose Guardian files (thanks to J.W.Schnarr for this oblique epiphany) and access them remotely from the laptop on the main floor. Brilliant.

Did I say how much I love DropBox?

Was able to work in my favourite channel back chair in the dining-room. Bashed out nearly 1200 words of solid story. Very happy with that. And very much look forward to another wee go round after I put together green pea soup, and set rice pudding to baking.

So, months of cogitating have helped. DropBox has helped. Feeling very confidant this novel which has been in the works some three years now will finally come to fulfilment by end of February. Then my first reader will review and I'll set to a revision. Should have the revision to Robert Runte by fall I expect. Depending on his schedule, I may have a novel ready for publication by spring of 2015.

Anyone who thinks writing is easy is just plain insane.

Slow-roasted pork shoulder roast, and more

It's Sunday. A kitchen therapy day. I had a pork shoulder roast in the freezer, bone in, saddle attached, and thought I'd experiment with a fusion of eastern fragrances and tastes in a slow-roasted environment.

pork shoulder roast

The ingredients.

• olive oil
• bulb of whole fennel, stalks included, washed and sliced thickly
• red pepper, washed, seeded and cut into chunks
• whole bulb of garlic, peeled and minced; or frozen, pureed garlic scapes, about 2 tbsp.
• whole onion peeled and cut into chunks
• zest of one lemon
• lemon, rind cut away, and fruit cut into chunks
• a tart apple, peeled, cored and cut into chunks
• 2" ginger root, peeled and minced
• 2 long peppers cracked (if you don't have access to long pepper, you can use cinnamon or grains of paradise, about 2 teaspoons)
• large red chilli, finely minced
• 2 tsps sea salt
• 5-7 pound pork shoulder roast, bone in, saddle attached.

fennel bulbs

Preheat oven to 200F. Liberally coat a medium roasting pan with olive oil. Toss in prepared fruit, vegetables and seasonings, drizzle with a little more olive oil, and combine to evenly distribute flavour base. Make a hollow in the mix for the pork.

fresh garlic scapes

Score the saddle of the roast with a sharp knife, cutting through almost to the flesh. Place roast saddle side up in the hollow off the flavour base in the pan. Cover with foil.

long pepper

Roast for about five to six hours at 200F. When roast is nearly falling off the bone, turn heat up to 400F. Remove foil for last 30-60 minutes to allow the saddle to crisp.

grains of paradise

Serve over steamed brown rice and mushroom pilaf with a green salad.

Serves six to eight.

Leftovers can be made into a wonderful, fragrant soup with the following ingredients:

• bone of shoulder roast
• water
• olive oil
• large onion peeled, and finely minced
• leftover pork roast and vegetable/fruit mix
• 2 cups shredded greens like bok choy, romaine, spinach, kale, or chinese cabbage. You could also use bean sprouts
• 2 litres of chicken or vegetable stock
• 1/2 cup soya sauce
• 1 tbsp fish sauce (optional)

In a large, heavy soup kettle pour enough cold water to cover the bone of the shoulder roast. Cover and place on high heat until water comes to a boil. Reduce heat to minimum and simmer for about 60-90 minutes.

bok choy

Remove from heat. Strain stock. Remove what meat you can from the bone and add to stock. Discard bone.

various fish sauce brands

Return pot to stove. Add enough olive oil to sautee the prepared onion, and cook until colour begins to develop. Add prepared greens, leftover pork and vegetable/fruit mix; stir and cook for about 5 minutes. Add stock from bone and about an additional 2 litres of chicken or vegetable stock, the soya and fish sauce. If you wish a spicier soup, add more chilli peppers.

Bring to a boil and reduce heat. Simmer for about 5 minutes.

Serves 6-8.
Freezes well.

Response to Liz Bourke at Strange Horizons

Normally when a negative review (which thankfully are few) for one of my books appears I just shrug. We all have different aesthetics, points of view, something the Internet has allowed us to share through social media.

So it was when I raised the very public hackles of Liz Bourke, reviewer for Strange Horizons, I merely allowed Ms. Bourke her opinion about my novel From Mountains of Ice and carried on.

It would seem, however, her review garnered the notice of another blogger at Pornokitsch, under the heading of Extremist Reviewing. The author of Pornokitsch found great humour in Liz Bourke's evisceration (the author's term, not mine) of my novel, enough to Tweet and generally share around the multiverse. That, also, is fine. Again, we all must find humour, entertainment, and share opinion in order to expand our horizons and understanding of life.

One of Ms. Bourke's strident objections read thusly:

But the first and perhaps the most severe of my problems with From Mountains of Ice is its lack of willingness to abide by the usual conventions of English-language punctuation. Particularly where it comes to commas.

a fluid list of titles and salutations, professions of greatest love and longing, veiled accusations of betrayal through Sylvio's absence, enforced though it might have been, earnest wishes to redress absence. Just the fact Carmelo singled him out was fraught with potential, none of it with hope. (p. 75)

Phrases, especially descriptive phrases, come tacked together with commas when it would be more comprehensible (and less horribly irritating) to use more than one sentence. Several sentences have more commas than they need. Several suffer from a mysterious dearth of commas, where a comma would have added to comprehensibility or to the ordinary flow of prose.

Carried by the outgoing tide they'd be swept out to sea, just as she. (p. 107)

Having laid that foundation, I would therefore entreat both Ms. Bourke and her followers to consider the following passage:

Also — for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands’ genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its ever-reasonable doubts — mingling with the remnants of the plain, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother-tongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, land, belong, home.

The author of this passage is guilty, according to conventional wisdom, of egregious writing abuse. I remember clearly reading this passage a few years ago, and those which came before, and after, and the whole dizzying effect of this tumbling narrative. I sat stunned after closing the novel, aware I looked into the face of genius for the second time in my life. Suddenly all I had been taught meant nothing confronted with this monumental art.

I hear your disparagement even now. What kack, Lorina, you say. This is a run-on sentence, incomprehensible, nonsensical. Tripe, to be polite. Unmitigated shite if not.

So? Ah yes so.

The author: Salman Rushdie. The work: The Satanic Verses.

Something to give you pause, eh? A slight blush. Perhaps an ahem or two? I know the feeling.

Now, far be it from me to compare my work to Salman Rushdie's. But there is inspiration here. There is a great deal to study, to comprehend, to emulate. Think about the artistic and emotional effect of that passage by Rushdie.

It has long been said in order to create art you need to understand the rules. And then you need to understand how to break the rules.

And just as that work of art may not be everyone's taste, before slagging it, consider your own biases as a reviewer, whether you're reviewing painting, sculpture, music or literature. This is something I try to remember when I review literature. A review should not be a wholesale condemnation of the worth of a thing. A review is, and only ever will be, one person's opinion. Your trash may be someone else's treasure.

Just saying.

Aiming the pistol at the foot

Despite all my bluster chivvying authors into brave faces, preaching that the un-achievable is attainable, when it comes to my own career as an author I tend to shrink back into the shadows. I have no idea why I do that. But I do. Always have. Call it a character flaw.

However, every now and again I emerge from my cave, or shell, or whatever, and decide, HEY! I can DO THIS! And I summon courage and analyze stories and send out submissions to magazines, collections and the like, keeping careful log of their journeys through an Excel spreadsheet (yes, yes, I know all about Obsessive Compulsion Disorder.)

The current attempt to shoot off my feet comes in the form of the call for submissions for the Tesseracts 18 anthology. I've been trying to break that market ever since Judy Merrill first launched it way back. No joy. And I doubt very much there will be joy this time, but the point is I've at least tried.

Lester B. Pearson, former Prime Minister of Canada, and Nobel Peace Prize Winner, once said: The only failures are those who fail to try.

Hon. Lester B. Pearson

So Lester, ol' bean, old sport, I'm trying. I don't hold out much hope. But to the best of my knowledge I've targeted the right story for the right market.

Of course, this comes on the heels of finding out all the primary round of rejections for the Fearful Symmetries anthology have taken place, and the remaining 355 stories are either still being considered, or have now been forwarded to editor, Ellen Datlow. In this case, no news is good news.

Now, there is a synchronicity about the fact I haven't heard thing one as yet regarding my submission to that heady anthology, because back in the day when Omni was the nirvana of short speculative fiction (I was at Clarion the year Ted Chiang made his first short story sale with the first short story he'd ever written, which was to none other than Ellen Datlow at Omni) I had dreams of maybe, one day, breaking into that market, of having someone like Ellen Datlow pat me on the head and reward my closet scribblings with publication. Alas, it never happened.

Ellen Datlow

But here the gyre curves round again, and I find myself in six degrees of separation.

Dear god, there are days I truly wonder why I do this? Why do I peck at the keyboard, dreaming dreams of people and places, of hurt and triumph, of destinies and deeds? Why answer the sibilant whispers in my head who constantly narrate stories for which I am but a vehicle? I don't know.

But somewhere between editing other authors' stories, creating print layouts, rounds of meetings and discussions and all the trappings of being a publisher, I still pursue this calling of being a story-teller. Keep writing. Just keep writing. And the foot? Ack. It will heal.

Guarding your time

I have freelanced most of my adult life as a writer, journalist, editor, artist, and during those near 40 years it has always amazed me how people generally have no concept of how hard a self-employed person works from home. There seems to be the assumption we can simply swan off whenever we like.

Well, that is true in part. Those of us who work from our home offices are at liberty to call our own hours, set our own dress codes, take breaks whenever we like. However, without a certain discipline nothing gets done. So that means if it's summer, and you'd rather be in the garden than editing a manuscript, well, you better bloody well get that manuscript edited cause it surely isn't going to edit itself. And fail to do so will likely mean you'll piss off your client, your author, your colleagues, which then means no payment at the end of all that labour. The garden will still be there.

Same applies if you're working on a painting for an upcoming exhibit or client, or writing an article for a periodical, or putting together a website for a new or existing business owner. If you work from home, the work comes first. The play comes later.

Sure, we take time out to take a walk and clear the head, to ride a bike along a difficult trail in order to nurture the body to nurture the mind. We allow ourselves 10 minutes to blast away at Mah Jong, or alien invaders. We wander aimlessly, favourite beverage to hand in order to escape the office chair.

But we do return, again and again throughout the day, often putting in longer days than our colleagues who commute to an office and punch 9-5.

We don't have time to chat on the phone, answer text messages, email, phaff about on Facebook, Twitter or Google+. Because we work at home we have relinquished a certain amount of freedom in order to gain a certain freedom. We have embraced discipline and order and routine. We have eschewed the indulgence of long lunches, shopping sprees, and Internet browsing at the expense of our employer. Why? Because we are our own employers, and it turns out we're harder task masters than the bosses we left behind.

So, for those of you calling for a chat, thinking I'm out in the garden on this lovely summer's day, or are touring the area and thought to stop in for an impromptu visit -- lovely thought, but sorry, I'm working. Would be pleased to make a date, schedule you in. But right now, don't have time. Have to guard my time.

And that's just the way it is.

Featured on Women in Horror Month

I was featured this past week on Colleen Anderson's Women in Horror Month. 

The mandate of the event, which is sponsored by the Viscera Organization, is to highlight women who are under-represented in the artistic field. You can find their vision and mission statements at the end of the article.

From Mountains of Ice audiobook available for pre-order

Just thrilled to let my fans know my fantasy novel, From Mountains of Ice, is now available for pre-order from Iambik Audiobooks.

Diana Majlinger does a wonderful narration, with her delicious accent (at least to these Canadian ears), adding an exotic flavour to this tale of honour, loyalty and betrayal.

Once at Iambik's site you can listen to the first chapter for free, and then decide from there whether you wish to add From Mountains of Ice to your audio collection.

I'm given to understand the audiobook will be available soon from Audible.com as well.

Every day miracles

If there is one profound lesson I will carry forward from 2012, it is the knowledge that miracles still do exist and occur every day. Perhaps we just don't recognize them as such because we have become blinded by the abundance of amazing (yes, I'm using amazing as a noun) in mundane and expected events.

Today this knowledge created a profound and happy two hours. Our son, Adam Stephens, lives and works in Calgary, Alberta with his wonderful girlfriend, Crystal Andrushko. Our daughter, Kelly Stephens, lives and works in Toronto with her gentle man, Ulysses Viello. We are separated by 2700 kilometres. 

And yet today, through the free and amazing technology provided by Google+ Hangouts, all six of us were able to gather over coffee, spinach shakes and assorted beverages as though we were sitting together under one roof. Cats came into and out of each others' living-rooms. Porch decorations were revealed, dracena Christmas trees shared, giggles and news, thoughts and hopes all passed back and forth. 

And somehow the distance closed. It was as though we were together, and it wasn't until it was time to say our farewells and go our own ways that the ache of not being physically together became obvious. There were virtual hugs, no shared warmth of bodies. And yet for that absence a poignant and significant reminder that because of modern technologies this family, separated by enormous distances, was able to come together for a sizeable period of time in a real and tangible manner.

No longer the long wait for letters to cross countries. No longer the uncertainty of facial expression while chatting on a phone. We were together, laughing, watching silly actions while men-folk poked women-folks' noses. 

And the miracle of this technology today has become profound.

It makes me wonder what marvels there will be 30 years hence, when I am 87. Will our son and daughter's families be able to be with us as holographic images, or will some sort of animatronic temporary clone be able to press flesh? Will the globe truly shrink so that distance and time are no longer relevant?

I cannot wait. It's like being a kid again, waiting for a legendary figure in red to find his way into your home with an unimagined gift of wonder.

But for today, Google+ Hangout gave this family a gift beyond value. There are miracles. You just need to know how to see them.

In Remembrance

ashokan farewell (civil)

Powered by mp3skull.com

For relatives in the Stephens family:

For Duncan Albert Long, June 24, 1915 - March 24, 1944. Served in WWII. RAF pilot shot down over Germany, recipient of Distinguished Flying Medal.

Distinguished Flying Medal

For Duncan's brothers, John and Jim who served in the British army and navy during WWII.

For Thomas Cecil Phillips, August 14, 1922 - December, 2008. Served in WWII. Served with the Gloucester Regiment, British Army WWII, Burma, March 1944, and returned for demobilization in Nov 1997 and discharged.

King's Badge for Loyal Service

For Walter John Phelps, February 25, 1914 - January 26, 1996. Served in WWII. Enlisted in East Yorkshire Regiment. POW at Stalag Luft VII-A 2-3 years. Served with Desert Rats in Tobruk.

Stalag Luft VII entrance

For George Joseph Stephens, March 12, 1924 - February 21, 1978. Served in WWII. 3rd Royal Tank Regiment, private, #22203420, tank driver. Regiment part of the British 1st Armoured Division in WWII in the Middle East, and was part of Montgomery's battle against Rommell. Later served in Malaya.

George Stephens in Malaya

For George's brothers, Terrance, Jack, Michael, Ernest and Donald who served in British army and navy during WWII.

For Harry Page, who served in the Canadian Navy during WWII.

For Duncan Albert Long, August 12, 1890 - 1965. Served in the British army WWI, 9th Gloucester Regiment. Recipient of the Victory and Star Medals.

Star Medal

Victory Medal

My novels as audiobooks

Heard from Gesine Kernchen at Iambik Studios earlier this week, regarding auditions for two of my books they're developing for audiobooks. We've settled on Sandra Gayer for Shadow Song, and Diana Majlinger for From Mountains of Ice.

Sandra has a wonderful English accent, perfectly suited to narrate Danielle's voice in Shadow Song. In fact, I was so moved by her inflection and expression that I was weepy by the finish of the audition.

Diana Majlinger's voice is a delicious melange of European accents, and her handling of Italian phrases and words is flawless. It was nothing short of delicious to listen to her read for her audition. Will be very excited to hear what she does with the entire novel.

Anyway, both novels are in production now. Not sure when they'll be done, but I'm sure Gesine will keep me posted.

You know, there are days it's very hard and very depressing going the indie route. But then there are days when you get a five star review and someone really gets what you're trying to create, or something like the experience I've had so far with Iambik happens, and you think, yes, it is possible.

 

The Things that Try Us

It's not often I post about my personal life. Not to sound haughty, or rude, but it's nobody's business but mine. And besides, I cringe when I read blogs and Facebook updates and Tweets in which people are divulging all the very intimate details of their lives. It just somehow seems a bit gauche, to me.

However, here am I, about to post something personal. It's not earth-shattering. It's more about adjusting things in my life so I can continue to write, edit, publish, administer -- do all of the things that are required of me in my chosen career.

I have rather severe osteoarthritis, combined with some interesting sciatica. I deal with pain every day of my life. No big deal. Lots of people deal with pain, and worse.

It would appear the arthritis has been around for decades, unknown to me. My knees have always cracked. My joints have always easily slipped out of alignment. About 11 years ago, right about the time we claimed these three stories of granite for our home, the arthritis decided to make itself truly known. Since then it's been a steady deterioration of mobility, increase in pain, and periodic adjustments to lifestyle and strategies.

It would appear Thursday last I was given a warning of another impending change. The night previous I was reading in bed, moved my right leg and WHAM! Some rather interesting and searing pain accompanied by what felt like the entire knee sailing off to the east. No matter what I did, no matter how I manipulated the leg and knee, I could not get it to behave. Ensued a truly disgusting night's sleep.

The following morning I stayed in bed when the alarm went off at 4:00 A.M., with admonishments from Gary, my husband, to stay put until I felt like getting up. Disgruntled, and guilty for giving in to this ridiciculous pain, I acqueisced.

However, later, when finally boredom and a need to be mobile drove me to distraction, I ventured out of bed, thinking I would shower, dress, figure out a way to get to the loft where the office is located, and set to a productive day.

Such silly thoughts.

After reducing myself to tears just brushing my teeth, a shower seemed inadvisable. I could barely stand. How was I supposed to manage in a wet, slippery environment? I could wait until later, I reasoned. And so I pulled together some clothes and then pulled them on, and then spent the next five minutes carefully and painfully ascending the very steep stairs to my workplace.

Well, that was interesting. Didn't know you could feel pain like that. Childbirth was a mere frisson by comparison.

Drank some juice, from the little bar fridge we keep in the loft, reasoned that I'd get my NSAIDs and Atenolol later (they are kept on the first floor in the powder room). So, I set to work, telling myself not to be a big baby. But truth of the matter was I realized I'd probably made a tactical error, because once up the stairs, how in blazes was I going to get down the stairs?

By 3:00 P.M. the call of nature had become somewhat urgent, and figuring I was allowed to knock off early for the day, given the circumstances, I made my careful and excruciating way back down the loft stairs. At the bottom I realized I needed to rest and so detoured for the bedroom where I sat, gasping a bit. Hell, I could use the ensuite bathroom, rather than try the marathon down to the first floor, and once there, and nature alleviated, decided I would risk the shower if for no other reason than to make myself feel better. I know, I know, endure more pain just to feel clean. But such are the quirks of my nature.

Managed the shower, although I had to back out while holding the grab-bar. From there managed to pull on clean clothes, rested again, and from there made the next leg of the journey down the next flight of stairs to the main floor.

By now I was not only exhausted, sweaty and in some pretty spectacular pain, but really needed to take the medications I should have taken first thing in the morning. So, after another rest and bit of a bully-talk to myself, I lunged from hand-hold to hand-hold, cane in one hand, swallowed said drugs, made a sandwich (I thanked Gary for making the kitchen reno a very ergonomic one) and swallowed that, and then said the hell with it and got myself ensconsced in the big leather chair in the living-room, cell phone down the front of my bra (what I realized had become my I've fallen and I can't get up device) and read while biting back tears both from pain and self-pity.

By the time Gary made it home I was in a pretty sorry state. And over dinner (a pizza the dear brought home), we realized we had to make some adjustments to the layout of our home in order to accommodate my increasing inabilities.

Funny thing was, however, by Saturday I was just fine. Back to my usual state of decrepitude, rather than this ugly, new state. Still and all, I have come to face the fact I have to give up my funky loft space.

So, we're going to do a bit of an unexpected renovation. The wall between the two guest rooms on the second floor is going to disappear, making one long room all along the east side of the house, with existing, wonderful deep windows facing north, east and south. The office will get moved down there, and the library moved up from the livingroom into the office (where I've always wanted it). The loft will be subdivided into two interesting bedrooms about 20' x 20' ea. And as soon as we can afford it, a stair lift will go in on the stairs up from the first floor.

We still get to live in this wonderful old stone house. I have access to bathrooms and water on the second floor, and will eventually have a lift that will allow me to travel in safety to and from the first floor. And I get to have a fabulous new office where I can write, and operate the publishing house.

Sometimes it just takes a shift in perspective, a willingness to see past the difficulty.

Cuts at Library and Archives Canada devastating for preservation of Canada’s history

The following is a press release issued by the Canadian Association of University Teachers. It is about the present Conservative Canadian government's further attempts to change the landscape of what it means to be Canadian, disguised as budgetary restraint.

I urge you to write your MP and light your own small candle for Canada's heritage.

(Ottawa,May 2, 2012) Recent cuts to staff and programming at Library and Archives Canada

(LAC) will have devastating effects on our nation’s ability to acquire and preserve its history.

On April 30, LAC presented 450members of its staff with affected notices, with 215 of those

positions to be eliminated.

“The cuts to jobs at Library and Archives Canada are an attack on one of Canada’smost

important cultural institutions,” said James L. Turk, executive director of the Canadian

Association of University Teachers. “Staff at our national archives and library are the stewards

of our collectivememory.”

“These cuts will further undermine the capacity of Library and Archives Canada to fulfill its

legislatedmandate to acquire, preserve andmake accessible Canada’s history.”

The announced cuts include:

• the elimination of 21 of the 61 archivists and archival assistants that deal with nongovernmental

records,

• the reduction of digitization and circulation staff by 50%,

• a significant reduction in the number of staff that deal with preservation and conservation

of documents,

• the closure of the interlibrary loans unit.

The National Archival Development Program(NADP), which supports programming at

provincial, regional and university archives across Canada, will also be eliminated. Many of

these are the small, local archives were to be part of LAC's new distributed Pan-Canadian

Documentary Heritage Network.

As a result of the NADP cut, the Canadian Council of Archives office will be closed in Ottawa

andmany summer work projects already planned across the country will be cancelled.

“Canadiansmust act now to protect their cultural heritage,” said Turk.

Please visit

www.savelac.ca for updated information and to view the new video by historian

Craig Heron on the importance of Library and Archives Canada.

Thoughts on Amazon's KDP Select

When Amazon first announced its Kindle Direct Publishing Select program, with hundreds of thousands of dollars in carrots dangling, unlike a lot of small publishers and authors I hung back. There's an old saying: if a thing seems too good to be true, it probably is.

In this case, there's the caveat Amazon clearly states:

When you choose KDP Select for a book, you're committing to make the digital format of that book available exclusively through KDP.

Grant Amazon exclusivity? Anyone that can't see the huge hook in those Amazonian carrots is blind or delusional. Eventually that exclusivity is going to hang you, in fact, slit your throat and truss you up like a pig for slaughter.

Exaggeration, you say?

Come listen, grasshopper. one of the clauses in Amazon's exclusivity contract states if you sell your work anywhere else, including your own website, you risk forfeited earnings, delayed payments, a lien on future earnings, or you may get kicked out of the Kindle Direct Publishing program altogether.

I've observed a great deal of backroom discussion through various indie publishing lists to which I subscribe. Some of the participants are considered gurus of the new publishing age, having engaged in deep sea diving of the print on demand sort, and now of the digital sort. To many of these swamis there is no market but Amazon. Amazon rules the world. And so all marketing strategies are targeted to maximize Amazon sales.

Funny, you know, because there's another saying about narrow-focused strategies: you need more than one basket for your eggs. Why? Because if you drop the basket that contains all your eggs, then you have no eggs. Many baskets. Many eggs. Lots of insurance.

So it's now interesting to read comments from some of those proponents of the Amazon strategy. Seems there's wailing rising through the ranks. Even gnashing of teeth. Why? Because, Amazon, like Sauron's Great Eye, has swept the multiverse and found teeny-tiny publishers and authors daring to contravene the exclusivity clause. They're selling their wares through their own websites, through Smashwords, through other retailers, aggregators and distributors. In other words, these Amazon-loving strategists have opted for many baskets, but also broken some of the rules regarding ownership of those baskets, all the while thinking they're much too small to be of notice.

Ever seen what an elephant does in proximity to a mouse? You really don't want to be in that traffic armegeddon. Which is exactly what's happening to many of the rule-breakers in the KDP Select program: they're being stomped. Publisher-pancakes.

Then you're going to ask, well, why not give Amazon exclusivity? Reasonable question. The answer should be quite obvious: before entering a business arrangement you research your potential partner. It's called due diligence. Given Amazon's history of predatory practices, why would you think it safe to swim the same waters? On the publishing map, they're that wee beastie with sharp, pointy teeth. Amazon has attempted to bully the Big Six publishers. What makes an indie publisher or author think they stand a chance against any predatory practice Amazon might consider, or that because they're now part of the Amazon nation they'll be exempt and safe?

Granting any individual, institution or enterprise complete control of your well-being is to invite abuse.

Don't do it.

Writing Progress

The headline is perhaps a bit misleading. I've made little progress on any new writing, which means The Rose Guardian is stuck in stall. There's just been too much time required of me as a publisher to steal any time for the creative depth the novel requires.

All, however, is not lost. Barb Geiger, Five Rivers' editor, now has Caliban and is leaving blue pencil all over it for me. I was a little heartened when her first comment back to me, after reading the prologue, was "I'm mightily impressed."

Maybe the old girl (meaning me) has a touch after all.

The way my schedule looks I should have a small open space around the end of May when I can hunker down and revise the novella (Caliban). Maybe even see it published this year.

I also rootled around in my computer archives this past weekend and found the beginning of the transcription of another speculative novel I'd written back in the '80s, which we're going to call Brogan's Folly. You know, it wasn't half-bad. I didn't have to hold my nose or blush. Hopeful, at least. I figured in moments when I'm too boggled to continue editing or doing layout I could mindlessly continue to input the novel with the view to being able to revise it late this year. If I can't actually find time to write something new, then I can at least make use of what's laying about in drawers.

In the meantime, I'm deep into the edit of Ann Marston's novel, Kingmaker's Sword. To call what I'm doing an edit is perhaps a misnomer, more like a good scrutiny. Hoping to have that back to Ann by the middle of the month so she can do the small revisions required.

After that I'll be drowning in final layouts for Things Falling Apart, by J.W. Schnarr, Immunity to Strange Tales, by Susan J. Forest, and Downshift, by Matt Hughes.

Busy little bee am I.

The problem with hats

... is that I have too many. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

Despite all my best intentions to set aside each morning for my own writing, the windfall of authors and titles that have landed with Five Rivers have left me scratching for time to sleep, let alone write. I'm not complaining. It's a wonderful problem to have. But it does mean that I've had to once again set aside my own writing career for the necessity of business.

As a result I've pretty much ceased writing anything new on my latest oeuvre, The Rose Guardian. An ambitious undertaking to begin with, trying to juggle my life as a publisher and that of a dedicated writer has proven incompatible.

I have, however, managed to finish a revision of my novella, Caliban, and despite knowing it requires a few more tweaks by way of technical detail and back-story, I've sent it to Five Rivers' editor, Barb Geiger for first assessment. As Barb put it to me, it would be better to know if I am at least on the right track by way of plot, before investing too much effort in detail.

So, Barb, with insight and expertise, is deep into an edit. We'll see how much revision will be required when I get it back from her, and whether I'll actually have a new release out this year.

In the meantime, well, I'm editing, doing layouts, creating covers, handling marketing and promotion. You know -- stuff.