naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
As you may know, [livejournal.com profile] papersky declared Monday International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, when all authors post links to freely readable/downloadable pro-quality content, just to help the corruption along. There is even a community, [livejournal.com profile] ipstp, where you can browse links to see what others are offering.

The message that began the whole thing, with introduction by Will Shetterly and links to followups, is here, and I suggest you read it. It's basically ex-SFWA officer Howard V. Hendrix storming out and taking his ball with him, referring to writers who post their work for free as "scabs" and "pixel-stained technopeasant wretches," among other things.

I may post more about Hendrix's remarks, if I have time, but I think the best response is to direct you to my offering, a 2,500-word erotica short story called "Hunt".

If I'm going to corrupt, might as well do it with porn. Right?

Y'all enjoy.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
As you may know, [livejournal.com profile] papersky declared Monday International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, when all authors post links to freely readable/downloadable pro-quality content, just to help the corruption along. There is even a community, [livejournal.com profile] ipstp, where you can browse links to see what others are offering.

The message that began the whole thing, with introduction by Will Shetterly and links to followups, is here, and I suggest you read it. It's basically ex-SFWA officer Howard V. Hendrix storming out and taking his ball with him, referring to writers who post their work for free as "scabs" and "pixel-stained technopeasant wretches," among other things.

I may post more about Hendrix's remarks, if I have time, but I think the best response is to direct you to my offering, a 2,500-word erotica short story called "Hunt".

If I'm going to corrupt, might as well do it with porn. Right?

Y'all enjoy.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
I would like to take this opportunity to announce that my short story, "Full Bloom," will be reprinted in actual book form in the forthcoming volume of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. I am still really happy with that story, and I'm glad that it's being reprinted, as the site it was up on is sadly (and hopefully only temporarily) defunct.

The book will be out sometime late this year or early next year; I'll keep you updated as conditions warrant. I just thought you'd like to know, and join me in a toast to Maxim Jakubowski, who is a swell editor.

Cheers!

In the grand tradition of fighting with my craft, I found that the piece of glass meant for the top of my next glass-topped box was cracked on one side, and the second piece was just a hair too large to fit the opening. I've been delayed for two days trying to get a piece that fit. I now have a piece that should do the trick, with an extra just in case something else annoying or stupid happens. I will not be thwarted. (Ah, I love that word. Thwart, thwart, thwart!)

This one is really lovely, a kind of Art Nouveau butterfly-fairy-wing theme done all in black and poisonous absinthe green, lining and all. I'm pleased as spiked punch with how it came out. I promise there will be pictures once I have finished. Fates willing, it'll be done tonight, and I can start on my next project. I have pictures of the last one, the griffin, and those will go up when he gets to his new home.

I've felt like shite a bit stressed and under the weather for the past few days, but I'm hoping that I perk up soon. I have a lot of work to do, and it won't wait on me just because I'm feeling whiny and tired.

On the bright side, I am discovering that I really, really love my work, especially when it allows me to paint pretty things, watch lots of cartoons, and pay lots of bills.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
I would like to take this opportunity to announce that my short story, "Full Bloom," will be reprinted in actual book form in the forthcoming volume of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. I am still really happy with that story, and I'm glad that it's being reprinted, as the site it was up on is sadly (and hopefully only temporarily) defunct.

The book will be out sometime late this year or early next year; I'll keep you updated as conditions warrant. I just thought you'd like to know, and join me in a toast to Maxim Jakubowski, who is a swell editor.

Cheers!

In the grand tradition of fighting with my craft, I found that the piece of glass meant for the top of my next glass-topped box was cracked on one side, and the second piece was just a hair too large to fit the opening. I've been delayed for two days trying to get a piece that fit. I now have a piece that should do the trick, with an extra just in case something else annoying or stupid happens. I will not be thwarted. (Ah, I love that word. Thwart, thwart, thwart!)

This one is really lovely, a kind of Art Nouveau butterfly-fairy-wing theme done all in black and poisonous absinthe green, lining and all. I'm pleased as spiked punch with how it came out. I promise there will be pictures once I have finished. Fates willing, it'll be done tonight, and I can start on my next project. I have pictures of the last one, the griffin, and those will go up when he gets to his new home.

I've felt like shite a bit stressed and under the weather for the past few days, but I'm hoping that I perk up soon. I have a lot of work to do, and it won't wait on me just because I'm feeling whiny and tired.

On the bright side, I am discovering that I really, really love my work, especially when it allows me to paint pretty things, watch lots of cartoons, and pay lots of bills.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Remember the Thing I was working on?

It's actually a short story, dark fantasy, about 3,000 words long, and went up today over at The Edge of Propinquity.

So without further ado, I present:

The End of Memory, by Amanda A. Gannon


How close is close enough? Small talk over absinthe leads to midnight confessions and the intimacy that shared secrets bring; intimacy of the body, and of the mind. Lust and debauchery have their price, though. What would you give anything to remember? What would you give anything to forget?


Yes, I actually wrote and completed something not porn!

When you click through, be sure to read my bio, too, at the end of the story. It's my best one yet; Sargon wrote it and every word of it is true.

Go forth and read! It's a neat site and a neat story.

(Thanks, Jenn. It was really, really cool working with you. Sorry about the typo thing.)
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Remember the Thing I was working on?

It's actually a short story, dark fantasy, about 3,000 words long, and went up today over at The Edge of Propinquity.

So without further ado, I present:

The End of Memory, by Amanda A. Gannon


How close is close enough? Small talk over absinthe leads to midnight confessions and the intimacy that shared secrets bring; intimacy of the body, and of the mind. Lust and debauchery have their price, though. What would you give anything to remember? What would you give anything to forget?


Yes, I actually wrote and completed something not porn!

When you click through, be sure to read my bio, too, at the end of the story. It's my best one yet; Sargon wrote it and every word of it is true.

Go forth and read! It's a neat site and a neat story.

(Thanks, Jenn. It was really, really cool working with you. Sorry about the typo thing.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Red)
By popular demand: this is what I produce when I'm under the influence. Roughly 3,000 words, two nights' worth of writing. This is a clean first draft. It's had one light edit for gross spelling, punctuation, and grammar errors, but has not been read for clarity or cleaned of clichés and repetition.

For your edification: Fantasy setting. Taon's an actor, Valbrand's a prince; they've been having a secret affair which Valbrand has just ended melodramatically. There WILL BE slap-happy nonconsensual boner-biting sex. We pick up where I began the other night, under the influence of sleeping pills:

Here there be some slightly non-con gay sex and heaping helpings of melodrama. You've been warned. All participants are over 18, and if you read any further, you should be, too. )

And there you have it. The scene as she is wrote. The first long-format explicit male/male sex scene I've ever written (I've done others, but they were either quite short or metaphorical).

I'm not going to say it's great. But it is certainly . . . well . . . I wasn't expecting it to get quite that slap-happy. They really were supposed to treat each other better. Both of them are more pissed off about the breakup than I thought.

Tonight: I'll finish the scene without chemical assistance and see how well I do. When the book's done, we'll see about placing it with someone.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Red)
By popular demand: this is what I produce when I'm under the influence. Roughly 3,000 words, two nights' worth of writing. This is a clean first draft. It's had one light edit for gross spelling, punctuation, and grammar errors, but has not been read for clarity or cleaned of clichés and repetition.

For your edification: Fantasy setting. Taon's an actor, Valbrand's a prince; they've been having a secret affair which Valbrand has just ended melodramatically. There WILL BE slap-happy nonconsensual boner-biting sex. We pick up where I began the other night, under the influence of sleeping pills:

Here there be some slightly non-con gay sex and heaping helpings of melodrama. You've been warned. All participants are over 18, and if you read any further, you should be, too. )

And there you have it. The scene as she is wrote. The first long-format explicit male/male sex scene I've ever written (I've done others, but they were either quite short or metaphorical).

I'm not going to say it's great. But it is certainly . . . well . . . I wasn't expecting it to get quite that slap-happy. They really were supposed to treat each other better. Both of them are more pissed off about the breakup than I thought.

Tonight: I'll finish the scene without chemical assistance and see how well I do. When the book's done, we'll see about placing it with someone.
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
It begins in a month I don't remember, like it does every year. This year I am no older than seven. It is April, maybe. Or May. Whenever the rains first come.

One song, two, beginning when the sky over the park goes pink, ending sometime after dewfall when I should be long abed. Tiny, trilling voices call down in the creek across the street. The chorus of toads. One begins. Another. A third. They sing to one another, they sing an end to the long winter. They sing of damp earth, wet grass, of the coolness of water on soft bodies.

At first it is only a handful, and I can resist the call. But one night it becomes too much and I have to leave, slip out late and stalk down the steep slope to the narrow concrete banks of the creek, hazardous with weeds and slick moss, to hunt in the tall grass for the toads. I know them better than anyone, I know all their ways. I still cannot tell you their scientific name, but I can tell you how to find one on a moonless night, even when they are not singing. I learn to call to them, and they will answer my call. If I sit very still and wait, they will come to me as though conjured.

Toads. )
naamah_darling: Still from The Last Unicorn animated movie of a springtime forest with a path leading through it. (Road Home)
It begins in a month I don't remember, like it does every year. This year I am no older than seven. It is April, maybe. Or May. Whenever the rains first come.

One song, two, beginning when the sky over the park goes pink, ending sometime after dewfall when I should be long abed. Tiny, trilling voices call down in the creek across the street. The chorus of toads. One begins. Another. A third. They sing to one another, they sing an end to the long winter. They sing of damp earth, wet grass, of the coolness of water on soft bodies.

At first it is only a handful, and I can resist the call. But one night it becomes too much and I have to leave, slip out late and stalk down the steep slope to the narrow concrete banks of the creek, hazardous with weeds and slick moss, to hunt in the tall grass for the toads. I know them better than anyone, I know all their ways. I still cannot tell you their scientific name, but I can tell you how to find one on a moonless night, even when they are not singing. I learn to call to them, and they will answer my call. If I sit very still and wait, they will come to me as though conjured.

Toads. )
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Today marks the opening of www.anaisdotmfk.com, a new erotica website run by [livejournal.com profile] jinzi. My story "Full Bloom" is currently up, and the site, which is free, also features first-rate stories by the incredibly talented [livejournal.com profile] cmpriest and [livejournal.com profile] eugie, as well as other authors I don't have the privilege of knowing, but whose work is fine indeed. I'm still in the middle of reading everything, and it's all rich and strong and wonderful.

thoughtful erotica

Full Bloom, excerpt:

I’d touch my own treacherous body while I watched him pine for his freedom out under the stars, and I felt guilty for finding beauty in his captive pacing. And when he lay there, I'd wish for him to touch himself, so I could see what he looked like, all of him. He was no stranger in his skin. He lived there, with his bruises and welts, and the lattice of scars on his arms. I knew every inch of him would be beautiful.

Go. Read. The fearless editor [livejournal.com profile] jinzi has worked tremendously hard to put this together. My hat is off to her, and to the other contributors. It's beautiful. I'm proud.

Happy spring!

Edit: my userinfo has now been updated with links to my fiction on other sites. The only other thing I've published is located here. It's a story called "Wings," it's not as autobiographical as you might think, and that site is an awesome site, too.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Today marks the opening of www.anaisdotmfk.com, a new erotica website run by [livejournal.com profile] jinzi. My story "Full Bloom" is currently up, and the site, which is free, also features first-rate stories by the incredibly talented [livejournal.com profile] cmpriest and [livejournal.com profile] eugie, as well as other authors I don't have the privilege of knowing, but whose work is fine indeed. I'm still in the middle of reading everything, and it's all rich and strong and wonderful.

thoughtful erotica

Full Bloom, excerpt:

I’d touch my own treacherous body while I watched him pine for his freedom out under the stars, and I felt guilty for finding beauty in his captive pacing. And when he lay there, I'd wish for him to touch himself, so I could see what he looked like, all of him. He was no stranger in his skin. He lived there, with his bruises and welts, and the lattice of scars on his arms. I knew every inch of him would be beautiful.

Go. Read. The fearless editor [livejournal.com profile] jinzi has worked tremendously hard to put this together. My hat is off to her, and to the other contributors. It's beautiful. I'm proud.

Happy spring!

Edit: my userinfo has now been updated with links to my fiction on other sites. The only other thing I've published is located here. It's a story called "Wings," it's not as autobiographical as you might think, and that site is an awesome site, too.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Well, I'm alive.

I'm going to post about the convention in bits and pieces over the next few days, and it will probably be pretty incoherent. I'm still really stirred up from being out of the house and around so many people.

Prepare for shameless name-dropping, people.

Husband and I went to the toastmaster dinner with Walter Jon Williams, who I believed was the best living SF writer even before I met him and discovered that I like him immensely. Now that I know I like him, well . . . he's gone from being a good writer to a good person in my mind. The two do not meet as often as you might believe.

There were about forty people at the dinner, which was an invite-only affair. Luckily, we got to sit at his table, so I can now say with certainty that Walter Jon Williams does not sugar his iced tea, and takes it with one lemon, exactly like me. He will also pass you the lemons if you ask politely. He also owns cats. A civilized man.

There was much conversation, and my husband only made an ass out of himself once. I feel that we all did very well. Walter is an incredibly interesting guy. The Q and A session was a lot of fun. I don't know if he made me feel better or worse about my odds, but I do know that it's nice to have a reality check that validates what you already thought was true.

He recounted Roger Zelazny's tale of the Lucky Chicken, and I will attempt to paraphrase the gist of it here, because I think it is important.

Roger was talking at a convention about breeding a race of super-lucky chickens (I don't know why). But his theory was that you would take all the eggs laid by the chickens and throw them into the air. The ones that didn't break, the lucky ones, you would hatch, then throw their eggs into the air, and so on and so forth, until you had a race of super-lucky chickens, which would then proceed to rule the world.

Roger's point -- and Walter's -- was this: writers are the luckiest people on the planet. We are the eggs that get thrown up into the air again and again, and we don't break.

Zelazny asserted that anytime writers gathered, trouble was in the offing, because they would use up all the ambient luck in the area, and he was apparently fond of citing evidence for this in the form of accidents that frequently happened just after he left someplace.

I think there may be something to that. Not that we use up our luck, or anyone else's, but that there is something different about those who are successful and those who are not. Those who are not eventually break under the pressure. Those who succeed never break. They never quit.

Walter confessed that there was a point a few years ago, after he published The Rift, which did not do well, where he thought his career was dead. Not just in trouble, but hanging-by-the-heels, hide-on-the-barn-door dead. Which comes as a shock. I have been an admirer of his books for years. It seems unthinkable . . . unfair . . . that a writer as tremendously talented as he is should suffer the same fear and uncertainty about his career that, say, I do. But things don't change. One book, or twenty, or fifty, doesn't change the fact that if your luck runs out . . . it's out.

He's doing better now. He's got some new work out, and he's excited about what he's working on. Not all his eggs are broken. He's still got chickens, and he's a lucky old bird, himself. All his old stuff is out of print, though (check your local used shops right now, people). And that's upsetting. Books that meant a lot to me, Hardwired, Voice of the Whirlwind, Aristoi, those books are not being printed anymore.

I did manage to pull him aside at one point, and attempted to express to him how meaningful Aristoi was to me.

I hate being a fan. I hate trying to explain something so bone-deep and visceral. I told Elizabeth Moon last year something like "I read your book and liked it a lot, thanks for keeping me happily entertained for a week." Her work was entertaining, but not really earth-shattering to me. But telling Walter Jon Williams that I am not normally moved by things that I read, but that I have read Aristoi three times and every time it has just knocked the Hell out of me, that it meant a lot to me, that was very hard.

I don't know how he meant what he wrote. Aristoi is a complicated book. Very complicated. Heck, it's meant something different to me every time I have read it. So I can't say "I understood it." I don't think anyone can ever understand exactly what a writer meant. I think that doesn't really matter. All I can say is that Aristoi was meaningful to me at a time when I desperately needed to hear what it seemed to be saying about humanity and the strength within the broken soul. And that kind of thing, that baring of a naked wound, it's hard to do it without overdoing it.

It's easy to say "I admire your work. It makes me want to write." But his doesn't. It makes me want to live.

But I tried to make him understand anyway, with words that never come when you want them to, and he really seemed to appreciate it even though it is just hard for me to talk like that to anyone. I tried not to be all fawning, but it was not easy. I am sorta naturally doe-eyed. I smiled a lot and made bad jokes, and he listened when I spoke. I had a good night.

A thousand years to him. And a thousand worlds.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Well, I'm alive.

I'm going to post about the convention in bits and pieces over the next few days, and it will probably be pretty incoherent. I'm still really stirred up from being out of the house and around so many people.

Prepare for shameless name-dropping, people.

Husband and I went to the toastmaster dinner with Walter Jon Williams, who I believed was the best living SF writer even before I met him and discovered that I like him immensely. Now that I know I like him, well . . . he's gone from being a good writer to a good person in my mind. The two do not meet as often as you might believe.

There were about forty people at the dinner, which was an invite-only affair. Luckily, we got to sit at his table, so I can now say with certainty that Walter Jon Williams does not sugar his iced tea, and takes it with one lemon, exactly like me. He will also pass you the lemons if you ask politely. He also owns cats. A civilized man.

There was much conversation, and my husband only made an ass out of himself once. I feel that we all did very well. Walter is an incredibly interesting guy. The Q and A session was a lot of fun. I don't know if he made me feel better or worse about my odds, but I do know that it's nice to have a reality check that validates what you already thought was true.

He recounted Roger Zelazny's tale of the Lucky Chicken, and I will attempt to paraphrase the gist of it here, because I think it is important.

Roger was talking at a convention about breeding a race of super-lucky chickens (I don't know why). But his theory was that you would take all the eggs laid by the chickens and throw them into the air. The ones that didn't break, the lucky ones, you would hatch, then throw their eggs into the air, and so on and so forth, until you had a race of super-lucky chickens, which would then proceed to rule the world.

Roger's point -- and Walter's -- was this: writers are the luckiest people on the planet. We are the eggs that get thrown up into the air again and again, and we don't break.

Zelazny asserted that anytime writers gathered, trouble was in the offing, because they would use up all the ambient luck in the area, and he was apparently fond of citing evidence for this in the form of accidents that frequently happened just after he left someplace.

I think there may be something to that. Not that we use up our luck, or anyone else's, but that there is something different about those who are successful and those who are not. Those who are not eventually break under the pressure. Those who succeed never break. They never quit.

Walter confessed that there was a point a few years ago, after he published The Rift, which did not do well, where he thought his career was dead. Not just in trouble, but hanging-by-the-heels, hide-on-the-barn-door dead. Which comes as a shock. I have been an admirer of his books for years. It seems unthinkable . . . unfair . . . that a writer as tremendously talented as he is should suffer the same fear and uncertainty about his career that, say, I do. But things don't change. One book, or twenty, or fifty, doesn't change the fact that if your luck runs out . . . it's out.

He's doing better now. He's got some new work out, and he's excited about what he's working on. Not all his eggs are broken. He's still got chickens, and he's a lucky old bird, himself. All his old stuff is out of print, though (check your local used shops right now, people). And that's upsetting. Books that meant a lot to me, Hardwired, Voice of the Whirlwind, Aristoi, those books are not being printed anymore.

I did manage to pull him aside at one point, and attempted to express to him how meaningful Aristoi was to me.

I hate being a fan. I hate trying to explain something so bone-deep and visceral. I told Elizabeth Moon last year something like "I read your book and liked it a lot, thanks for keeping me happily entertained for a week." Her work was entertaining, but not really earth-shattering to me. But telling Walter Jon Williams that I am not normally moved by things that I read, but that I have read Aristoi three times and every time it has just knocked the Hell out of me, that it meant a lot to me, that was very hard.

I don't know how he meant what he wrote. Aristoi is a complicated book. Very complicated. Heck, it's meant something different to me every time I have read it. So I can't say "I understood it." I don't think anyone can ever understand exactly what a writer meant. I think that doesn't really matter. All I can say is that Aristoi was meaningful to me at a time when I desperately needed to hear what it seemed to be saying about humanity and the strength within the broken soul. And that kind of thing, that baring of a naked wound, it's hard to do it without overdoing it.

It's easy to say "I admire your work. It makes me want to write." But his doesn't. It makes me want to live.

But I tried to make him understand anyway, with words that never come when you want them to, and he really seemed to appreciate it even though it is just hard for me to talk like that to anyone. I tried not to be all fawning, but it was not easy. I am sorta naturally doe-eyed. I smiled a lot and made bad jokes, and he listened when I spoke. I had a good night.

A thousand years to him. And a thousand worlds.

link

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