See! Saying things like  ”Pass me an eyeball” is perfectly natural.

The fit was pretty good right from the start, which is nice. V– is using the spencer/pelisse pattern from sensibility.com. The entire time she was fitting me she kept raving about how good the pattern was and how well it went together.

One of the first questions we came to was sleeve length.  This changes with the period. So while V–’s inclination today would be to have the sleeve end just above the wide part of my hand, the spencer is modeled on a man’s military jacket. For those, it comes down over the wide part of the hand. We checked original pieces and behold, the sleeves for a lady’s spencer came quite far down.

Once we had the sleeve length and V– could see how the garment lay, we turned it inside out so that she could adjust the fit.  The spencer is double-breasted and quite fitted.  You can see the multitude of pins V– employed to make it snug. She also decided to move the bottom of the spencer up so that it was closer to the waistline of the dress.  One of the interesting things about these is that the fashion changes constantly and since every garment was handmade for a specific person, there is no single “right” way to make something period correct.   It involves looking at a lot of pictures and interpreting the design principles of the Regency to come up with something that makes sense on the body of the person wearing it.

One of the things that is fairly consistent is the way the backs are constructed at this point. With the spencer on inside out, it’s easier to see the lines of the back.  The armscye of the spencer and my dress both much farther into the back than a modern garment. The result of this is that even though the bodice is quite snug I have a pretty full range of motion. I can cross my arms over my chest and lift them over my head.  This isn’t an option by the time you get to the Victorian era.

Now that the spencer is fitted, V– will true up the lines on the pattern, which basically means that she’ll adjust the paper pattern for my actual size and make sure everything is smooth.  Then she’ll cut the final fabric.

The outer fabric is a green silk sari that I brought back from India years ago.  We’re actually going to reverse the border, which has gold thread, because the reverse side is more delicate than the front.

We are also eight days away from the release day of August 3rd. Not that I’m counting.

To celebrate, I’m going to give away two signed copies of Shades of Milk and Honey.

How do you win? Between now and August 1st post a caption in the comment thread on my website to go with this illustration from 1800.

On August 2nd, I’ll open a poll with the various captions listed and give a copy of the novel to the most popular caption AND to my personal favorite.

Edited to add: Yes, you may enter more than one. However, with this addition I’ll narrow them down to my top favorites before posting the poll.

The cats are frantic with loneliness and Marlowe is doing a great deal of chasing invisible demons to prove his affection for me.  Rob is still away at IPNC so I’m just going to go to bed and let the cats hog his side.

It’s a Large Book.

(Hat tip to Todd Sanders)

Dave Klecha gave me a ride to the airport and my flight is currently on time. I suspect that it will leave without problems because the alternative would be staying here another day and that would be very pleasant.

I’m torn between going back to Merrie Haskell’s lake house to spend the night and getting on this plane to see if maybe I can get home.

Part of my dilemma is that the Oregon Regency Society is having a picnic tomorrow. I have managed to be out of town for every single event and was so excited that I’d finally get to go to one. I suspect that I will opt for staying here because that removes any uncertainty and the lake house is very nice.

Edited to add: Yes. I’m staying overnight here and flying home tomorrow.

In other news, it has been suggested that as a service to humanity I should post my flight itinerary so other people know what flights to avoid.

My most grateful thanks to Miss Ellis for sharing this video with me.

I had a lavender-vanilla bean creme soda that was really lovely. We started with the local cheese plate, moved on to a beet carpacio salad that flirted with perfect, and I had their gnocchi with spinach. For dessert a true key lime pie.

Highly recommend the restaurant, if you are in the area.

Today we finished recording An Artificial Night around four-thirty. This pleases me because they had scheduled three and a half days and it only took three.  It really is funny how I can read smoothly for three pages and then hit a sentence that I can’t seem to get out.

After work C– drove me into Grand Rapids on his way home and dropped me at a coffee shop. Merrie Haskell came to fetch me and take me back to her lake cottage for a little bit of relaxation before heading back to Portland tomorrow.

All in all, it’s been a very good trip.

There are two things about this sale that make me giggle. 1) I’m in the middle of recording a Seanan McGuire novel about a changeling. Totally different style of changeling, but it’s still funny. 2) This is not a science fiction story.

I’ll let you know when the story is out, but here’s a teaser.

American Changeling

Half-consciously, Kim put a hand up to cover her new nose ring. It pissed her parents off no end that she could tolerate touching cold iron and they couldn’t.

Iron still made her break out sometimes, but didn’t burn her. It had taken forever to find someone to make an iron nose ring, but the effort would be totally worth it.

“Kimberly Anne Smith,” Mom’s voice caught her in the foyer as surely as if she’d been called by her true name. “I’ve been worried sick. Do you know what time it is?”

“11:49.” Kim dropped her hand and turned to face Mom, her Doc Martens making a satisfactory clomping on the hardwood floor. “I’m here. Home before midnight. No one with me.” Sometimes she thought about bringing friends home to show them what her parents really looked like after their glamour dropped.

When reading my own, there’s a part of my brain that keeps going “What were you thinking?!?!”

When reading someone else’s, I just have to think about being in the story.  Also, the October Daye series is written in first person which I find easier to adapt to audio than third person.  I think because I can basically treat the entire book like a giant monologue — which it is — it’s easier to find the emotional throughline to carry me through the book as an actor.

We got through Chapter 10 today and I hit two VERY interesting challenges. Unfortunately both are spoilers so I’ll have to hold my observations on those until after An Artificial Night has been out for awhile.

After I finished recording, I biked into town to Jumpin’ Java to write. David Klecha came out to commit some fiction as well and we kept each other honest.

Perhaps because it forbid any science-fiction entries.

And yet… the rules said

Stories should give readers in 2110 an idea of what life is like for ordinary people, working or retired, in the second decade of the 21st century—its complications and perplexities, and above all its humorous aspects. HG’s characters described the misery and humour of apprenticeship in a draper’s emporium. There must be both fun and drudgery working in a supermarket or MacDonald’s. Is this or back-packing a better way to fill in the time between college and university? And what is it like if you don’t go to university? Plumbing is said to be a well-paid alternative—and always good for a laugh. And how does it feel to be made redundant—all too familiar in 2010, but hopefully less well-known in 2110? There are plenty of non-sci-fi stories waiting to be written.

Leaving aside the silliness of an H.G. Wells competition which forbids SF, um… Stories written about the future are science fiction.

The rules have since been changed and the contest deadline extended but still… the failure to understand how broad the spectrum of science fiction can be is kind of sad and funny all at the same time.

Read the full article at the New Yorker.

Edited to add: I misread the instructions and thought they wanted stories written in 2110, not for readers in 2110. This does not make the rule disallowing SF any less silly in my mind but at least it isn’t contradictory with it’s own rules.

(Hat tip to lackriver)

I had a red eye out of Portland at 12:50 AM.  One of the benefits to all the ridiculous travel I’ve been doing lately is that I’m now a Gold Medallion member at Delta, which means that if there’s an upgrade available, I move up to first class. It is a different world up there.

It makes waiting much more tolerable. Waiting for things like, say, when the captain announces that the engine is leaking fuel and that we might need to sit on the ground for awhile.

Or when, oh, I dunno, he says that it might be a four hour wait and they might not be able to let us off the plane for security reasons. That’s easier to face with plenty of legroom.

Fortunately, they let us off the plane after only a half-hour and were able to get a new plane and us onto it pretty fast. We left an hour and a half late which, all things considered wasn’t bad.

And really, if they are going to notice fuel leaking from the engine, I’d rather have them spot it before take-off.

This trip is a little jarring because the weather is so nice. I’m not used to seeing green while here. It’s pretty.

Anyway, as I mentioned, I had been talking about it last winter and would love to pretend that I planned ahead. But the truth is that as I was getting ready to leave last night we realized that I had no idea where my driver’s license was. In all likelihood it dropped out of my pocket while travelling and I didn’t notice it because I don’t drive.

A passport got me through security but would not allow me to rent a car. Fortunately, I remembered the bicycle conversation and arranged to rent one. After that it was just a matter of getting to Grand Haven. Lucky for me, David Klecha foolishly suggested that he might drive out to have lunch with me. Mwhahahaha! I offered to buy him lunch if he’d actually drive me out there.

He’s a lovely guy so I got the better end of the bargain by a long shot. He’s full of hilarious stories and it was good to catch up with him.

I now have a bicycle, a helmet, and am ready for the week.

Speaking of this week… If you are inclined to join me for writing, I’ll be at Jumpin Java Coffee tomorrow evening after I finish recording. Probably around 6:00 or 7:00.

Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking that I’ll get home Saturday night and get to see Rob. Only I forgot that he’s going to IPNC this week and it will be Monday night, at the earliest, that I get to see him. Given how much I’ve been gone recently, this shouldn’t see like an unbearable separation but I am surprisingly melancholy right now.

Otherwise, all is well. I’m looking forward to sleeping on the plane.

RT Rating 4-1/2 Star Top Pick

If Jane Austen had written a fantasy novel, Shades of Milk and Honey would have been the result. Written with painstaking attention to detail, Kowal’s prose is serenely evocative of the time period, and the fantastic elements are a seamless fit. The characterization is extremely well done and Jane is a sympathetic, strong and intelligent heroine whose devotion to her family trumps nearly every other concern. Give this one a try!

In an alternate Regency England where magic exists, young women practice manipulating glamour in their quests to land eligible bachelors. Both Jane and her sister Melody are well-practiced in this womanly art, and Jane’s ability in particular is remarkable. However, it is Melody who is fair of face and who gets most of the masculine attention while Jane, at the age of 28, is on the shelf.

When Jane realizes that one of Melody’s suitors is up to no good and is getting into position to take advantage of her, she pushes her skills to their very limits and, quite accidentally, finds her very own happy ever after. (TOR, Aug., 304 pp., $24.99)

Reviewed By: Natalie A. Luhr

We eventually settled on a spencer, but in the course of looking at reference photos I ran across this picture of a pelisse.

Actually, not just any pelisse, but one thought to have been worn by Jane Austen. Take a second and click through to the Jane Austen Centre to read about how they came by the pelisse and why they think it might be something she wore.  The article discusses everything from what colors were fashionable to diary references to the pattern of oak leaves on the fabric.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks hiding out under the covers is a good plan for the day.

Meanwhile, we just rescheduled because I came down with a head cold yesterday.

One of the problems with recording audio is that things like this show up as changes in my voice. Besides needing to pause more often for sneezing and nose blowing, my voice is sitting lower than it normally does and a little more gravelly. For a short term project, I could get around this but for an audio book I record for eight hours a day over the course of several days.  Now, there’s a fair chance that my voice would give out faster while ill, it is a muscle after all.  But even if that weren’t the case, the sound of my voice won’t match the previous books and will change over the course of the week as I heal.

As timing goes, this would have been worse if it hit while I was there, since that would lead to me being sick in a hotel room. As it is we just bumped the schedule back so that I’ll fly on Tuesday and record Wednesday through Sunday.

If you are unable to attend, please be assured that festivities will take place in other cities as well.  Mrs. Kowal profoundly hopes that you will honour her with your company.

1. There’s the aspect of beautiful utility. Typewriters and the like used to be functional technology that was also built to be attractive.
2. It gets me out of the black box of technology.

Item one is easy to understand. Steampunk looks cool. Really, really cool. Awesome. Sexy. Stylish and at the same time, gets stuff done.

Item two requires some explanation. Right now, when I want to write SF I have to break the technology that my characters have access to in order to allow them to surmount the obstacles facing them by using their wit. Most of the technology I use in real life is in a “black box” which means that I don’t have an understanding of what is going on inside. How does an smart phone work? It’s a magic rock.

Steampunk resets the technology level.

It takes me back to a world where I press a key, which moves a lever, which strikes a platen. The causality of technology is restored to understandable levels. Once again, it is possible to have inventors who create something new, something that world has never seen, in order to triumph. So if I want to write old school SF with inventors, steampunk opens a door to do that.

Also, did I mention that it looks really good?

We’re planning on having some Regency appropriate beverages and desserts, including my mother’s poundcake.

If you are interested in coming in costume, but can’t justify the expense of having a gown made. Here are some ways to fake it.

Ladies

• Miss Lisa Brown’s Guide to Dressing for a Regency Ball: Ladies’ Edition
• EZ Retrofit
• Intermediate Retrofit
• Advanced Retrofit

Gentlemen

• Miss Lisa Brown’s Guide to Dressing for a Regency Ball: Gentlemen’s Edition
• How to bric-a-brac together a Regency look for a man from modern clothes

We do not invent things whole cloth out of the depths of our brains. Every idea we have is formed by making connections with all the experiences we have absorbed. Every book we read, play we watch, conversation we have, event we witness, song we hear – all of this fills our head and swirls around, sometimes for years, before getting regurgitated as a new flash of inspiration. We are seldom cognizant of how this works. The bizarre surreality of our dreams are a testament to that. But even dreams are simply what we already know, broken into tiny pieces and stitched back together in the most arbitrary fashion.

Until the early part of the 1900s, puppeteers jealously guarded the secrets of their craft, passing it down within families. Puppetry didn’t change much. Then a group of puppeteers decided to stop reinventing things and started sharing knowledge. They started looking at the puppetry of other countries and traditions and the twentieth century saw an enormous growth in creativity and style.

Read what Eric has to say on sharing and secret knowledge.

It’s something I miss with an ebook.

What I want is a clear sleeve that can go on the back of my ebook reader, or the case, so I can slip in a printout of the cover art.  Having a cover flat like that also means that if I meet the author, I have something I can get signed.

Then I just have to convince publishers that downloading the ebook also gives me a full-color printable cover flat to tuck inside the sleeve.

Who wants to create this for me? Or if such a thing exists, please give me the link.

Also extremely cool, io9 names Shades of Milk and Honey as one of their top picks for summer reading.

Please pass the word along…ReConStruction is only a few weeks away now.

There will be a writing workshop at the NASFiC in Raleigh, known as ReConStruction. There will be two, actually. Allen Wold will run a workshop where participants will do some on-the-spot writing. Friends of mine (who aren’t writers) have enjoyed that workshop at CapClave.

Meanwhile, I have organized a workshop like the one held in Montreal at Worldcon last summer. The sections are scheduled to critique three manuscripts submitted in advance. There will be two professional writers in each section. Each participant will also critique the other two manuscripts and receive feedback from four people on their own work in the space of two hours. It’s an intimate setting, a private session that’s not open to the public, five writers in a room talking about writing.

Submissions must be 8,000 words or less. They should have some sort of speculative element to the story, in science fiction, fantasy, or horror. They can be YA, middle grade, adult. Submissions can be a short story or an excerpt from something longer, such as a novel. Excerpts should be accompanied by outlines or a synopsis and the total should be 8k or less.

If you’re interested, the email address link is here: http://www.reconstructionsf.org/?page_id=421. You can also put a comment on this post or send a message via livejournal to birdhousefrog. The slots are first come, first served, so don’t delay. You can only reserve your spot when you actually send in your submission. We won’t be charging an administrative fee for this workshop and the manuscripts will be distributed electronically for critiquing.

The following professional writers have agreed to be critiquers:

• Jack McDevitt
• Mark Van Name
• Steve Miller
• Mary Robinette Kowal
• Lawrence Schoen
• Matthew Rotundo
• Tom Doyle
• Carl Frederick

Please repost, link, etc.

So head over to Oz’s site to sign up for the ReConStruction Writing Workshop.

Dario has started a Kickstarter campaign to move the project to the next level for Panverse Two. He’s got 38 days go to in an effort to raise $12,000.

Wishing him the best of luck!

The keen hall conversation moment was when Stephanie Kwandrans gave me a Jane Austen journal. It’s a pretty little thing and totally unexpected.

I headed from there up to participate in the Theodore Sturgeon readings. It’s a pretty cool thing. The Sturgeon estate and Readercon coordinated to have various SF authors reading Sturgeon stories throughout the weekend.  I read The Professor’s Teddy Bear, which is a seriously creepy story.

From there I went to the launch party for Amelia Beamer’s new novel, The Loving Dead. It’s been getting a lot of good buzz and I’m looking forward to reading it.

And then the highlight of my Readercon weekend. I was a challenger in the Kirk Poland Bad Prose contest.  Five passages of published SF, which are truly dreadful, are read stopping mid-sentence and then the contestants finish them. (We get them ahead of time.) Every time you fool the audience, you get a point. Every time the audience guesses which is the correct passage, they get a point.

Yves Meynard is a five-time champion at this and I had no illusions about my ability to unseat him. To my surprise, I was actually in the lead for two rounds. Of course, the master triumphed in the end.

The interesting thing about this contest is that the goal, as a writer, isn’t merely to write badly but to write in someone else’s style. It’s an interesting exercise.

And then, of course, parties.

Oh! Oh! I also got an ARC of the book the Rose Fox put together The Wonderful Future That Never Was: Flying Cars, Mail Delivery by Parachute, and Other Predictions from the Past (Popular Mechanics Magazine). It is so full of win that I can’t wait to have time to sit down with it.

Let’s see… I haven’t mentioned talking to, among others, Nancy Brauer, Nightwing Whitehead, Mishell Baker, Nalo Hopkinson, Sandra Kasturi, Cheysa Burke, Brett Savory, Bernard Goodman, Ted Chiang, Jeremy Lassen, Paolo Bacigalupi, Ben Rosenbaum, Jon Armstrong, James Cambias or Diane Kelly.  Diane, by the way, is working on truly fascinating research involving ducks.

I sent it out and kept getting close. Editors would hold it for a long time and then not buy it. I’d reread it occasionally, tweaking it if I felt like I saw something new, but each time I still believed in the story.  None of the changes were large enough that I could send it as a rewrite to a market that rejected it early.  At the same time, I didn’t want to sell it just to sell it, you know? So I eventually tucked it into a drawer knowing that a new market would eventually open that would be a good match.

Behold! Redstone Science Fiction has picked it up for their September issue. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have placed “Salt of the Earth” with them.

Here’s a teaser.

Melia adjusted Dora’s salt-suit, feeling as if it were futile because the two-year old would have the sweatband off her head the instant Melia’s back was turned. She caught her daughter’s hand reaching for the soft, green mesh. “No. You have to leave that on.”

Dora twisted away from Melia and pulled the sweatband off. “No.” She threw it on the ground and reached for the high thin turtleneck that caught the sweat from her face.

Melia’s ex-husband, Theo, leaned against the doorway, waiting to take the children to his house. “Just let her leave it off.”

“Daddy!” Dora toddled to her father with her arms raised.

Theo scooped Dora up, ignoring Nikolas, who seemed oblivious as he rocked in place, staring at a sunbeam on the wall.

From there it was off to hear David Anthony Durham read a section from his new novel in the Acacia trilogy.  So good! I can’t wait till book three comes out.

I was on the  ”Alternatives to the Pay per Copy system” panel which was actually a really interesting panel. Charlie Stross has this proposed system for how to revamp copyright law and shift the way authors are paid for digital content that was astounding to hear because it would work.  And of course will never, ever be adopted.

There was a reading of “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and I was scheduled to be Lysander but got moved to Titania to John Crowley’s Oberon and Mike Allen’s Bottom.  Both gentlemen turned in fine performances.  It was a fun, fun reading.  I elected to read Titania as a sort of Blanche DuBois.

I went straight from there to the Influence as Contagion panel. As soon as I walked in, I thought that it was an intimidating line-up of all-stars. Jack Haringa, James Morrow, Howard Waldrop, Allen Steele and Resa Nelson.  Allen and I were on complete opposite ends of the spectrum during the conversation. I tend to fall into the camp of welcoming influences. My general and greatly simplified feeling is that if I’m reading a writer that is better than me, why wouldn’t I want the good bits to stick?

Then I had an actual break!

I had signed up for autographing, even though I only have short fiction out, and settled in to chat with Alan DeNiro and John Kessell. Much to my surprise, the whole sandalwood fan thing turned out to be quite the draw.  I can now heartily recommend having a giveaway when you are sitting a the autograph table with a book pending.  Folks stopped by to get the freebie and then we chatted about Shades of Milk and Honey.  Handy.

After that I went on to be the moderator for a panel called “Drop Out, Write On” in which all the panelists were college dropouts. Nalo Hopkinson, Samuel R. Delany, Barry Longyear, and Elaine Issak, with me moderating.  To varying degrees we all left because college wasn’t working for us but the way it wasn’t worried varied wildly.

Now is the point where I should try to remember everyone that I hung out with yesterday, partly so I can remember that I hung out with them and or met them.  This is also where my brain will let me down, so if we met yesterday feel free to remind me in comments.

The list would include: Nevenah Smith, David Lubkin, Blake Charlton, Gemma Files, Stephen J. Barringer, Liz Gorinsky, Konrad Walewski, Ken Schneyer, Liz Argall, Yves Meynard, er… I know there are more of you than that.

Of course, my phone chose this evening to have a card failure so I can’t actually take pictures with it, but Jim Freund snapped this one in the bar to prove that it exists. The reason I am blurry is that I am bouncing with glee.

So, yesterday around 4:30, I got a message from Cassandra Ammerman, my publicist, which covered a lot of other things but included this line, “Finished copies of SHADES just came in (so pretty!)…”

I have no idea what the rest of the email said.

The way the trains work, there was no way I could get to Tor before she left for the day, so I asked Liz, my editor, if she could bring me a copy at Readercon, which she promptly agreed to do.

Then this morning as I was waiting for the subway, I heard this woman say, “Mary?”

And yes, that would by Cassie, who lives two blocks from the friends that I’m staying with. If only I had known! Cruel fates. I could have had a copy last night.

But… I’m a big girl.

However, this led to me spending the entire day at Readercon, looking distractedly over people’s shoulders in case Liz walked by. Distractedly. Very, distracted.

Around 10pm or so, I’m sitting in the bar surrounded by friends and someone says, “There’s Liz!”

One person ran out to stop her as we all sort of scrambled around as I clambered out of the booth. You know how there’s that deep corner where EVERYONE has to move to get one person out? Yeah, that’s the corner I’d wound up in.

I ran down the hall as she pulled it out of her suitcase.

Let me tell you, “words fail me” is not a cliche.  I became speechless. The thought of trying to string sentences together, in that moment, to describe the glee, the enormity, the disbelief and the tactile pleasure of holding my novel…

I mean, I’ve loved books all my life. And not just the words, but the physical artifacts. And then… I wrote this. God. I can’t even believe it.

And folks, it is beautiful. You’ve seen the cover. What I can’t show you right now is the deckled edges of the paper, or how, when you peel the dustjacket off, there’s an embossed design on the cover, or the miniature on the back, or the way the headband complements the brown paper of the hardback.

It is beautifully crafted.

So thank you to Irene Gallo, Terry Rohrbach and Nicola Ferguson who created this beautiful artifact. I know it’s your job to design books, but you have made me indescribably happy.

Giddy.

Imagine or Die
8:00 PM, Salon G
Talk / Discussion (90 min.)

A writer without a working imagination is stymied. We’ll take about the care and feeding of imagination, how to unleash it and let it run.
Barry B. Longyear with discussion by Lauren P. Burka, Gemma Files, Elaine Isaak, Mary Robinette Kowal, K. A. Laity, Resa Nelson.

Readers who are able to correctly spot the exact place in the typewriter triptych where Mary switched from a typewriter to a computer will win one of two free books: Either her forthcoming novel Shades of Milk and Honey OR Jay Walljasper’s forthcoming book, All That We Share: How to Save the Economy, Our Communities, the Environment, the Internet, Democracy, and Everything Else that Belongs to All of Us

Your choice!

To be eligible, you should become a registered user with Shareable.net–sign up here. Then leave your guess as a comment here or on any of the three stories.

Allow me to introduce you to the Shades of Milk and Honey promo item.  I brought 144 sandalwood fans with me, each with a dance card that has the cover art and the first page of the novel.

I’ve got 1000 of these, that I’ll be passing these out at conventions and readings all summer. So find me if you want a Shades of Milk and Honey fan.

I zipped through security and then ran into some puppeteer friends who were on their way to the SE Regional Puppetry Festival. That did give me a bit of a pang because I’d like to be on my way there too. Still it was nice to catch up and chat with them and I know I’ll have fun at Readercon.

No problems with the flight until we landed.

This wasn’t a problem so much as just funny.  We’re sitting there waiting to deplane and the attendent makes this announcement. “Folks, we apparently landed one minute before Queen Elizabeth and now they’ve locked down the airport.”

The delay getting off the plane was so negligible that I’m not sure there really was one.

I came into the city, hung out at the Puppet Kitchen for a bit then wandered over to NYRSF to hear Saladin Ahmed (one of the Campbell finalists this year) and Paolo Bacigalupi (up for a Hugo) read.  Both did really nice readings.

I’m now ensconced at Jodi and Sam’s and feeling the travel day catching up with me. Well, that and the humidity. Ugh. I do NOT miss that.

I wonder how the Queen is handling it?

So tonight, even though I had stuff to do, Rob and I went on a date. We went up to Ohana Hawaiian restaurant where my husband ordered spam musabi as an appetizer. I do not understand this snack.

After that we biked to the Roseway theater to watch Toy Story 3. The warnings that it was a) really a horror film and b) would make me cry were both accurate. Once again, Pixar proves that they understand character and story.  Also, as Rob points out, their films are beautifully edited and paced.

I’m going to go through my checklist again and then crawl into bed with my sweetie. It’ll be a week before I see him again.

Shades of Milk and Honey

To celebrate that, we’re releasing the first chapter as a sample. You may download it to read in .pdf or .epub or read the sample chapter below.

I will say that of your options, the pdf is of the actual interior and is very, very pretty. The interior designer is Nicola Ferguson and I am particularly in love with the way she has the first page of each chapter set.

Shades of Milk and Honey

Mary Robinette Kowal

One
Jasmine and Honeysuckle

The Ellsworths of Long Parkmead had the regard of their neighbours in every respect. The Honourable Charles Ellsworth, though a second son, through the generosity of his father had been entrusted with an estate in the neighbourhood of Dorchester. It was well appointed and used only enough glamour to enhance its natural grace, without overlaying so much illusion as to be tasteless. His only regret, for the estate was a fine one, was that it was entailed, and as he had only two daughters, his elder brother’s son stood next in line to inherit it. Knowing that, he took pains to set aside some of his income each annum for the provision of his daughters. The sum was not so large as he wished it might be, but he hoped it would prove enough to attract appropriate husbands for his daughters. Of his younger daughter, Melody, he had no concerns, for she had a face made for fortune. His older daughter, Jane, made up for her deficit of beauty with rare taste and talent in the womanly arts. Her skill with glamour, music, and painting was surpassed by none in their neighbourhood and together lent their home the appearance of wealth far beyond their means. But he knew well how fickle young men’s hearts were. His own wife, while young, had seemed all that was desirable, but as her beauty faded she had become a fretting invalid. He still cherished her from habit, but often he wished that she had somewhat more sense.

And so, Jane was his chief concern, and he was determined to see her settled before his passing. Surely some young man would see past her sallow complexion and flat hair of unappealing mousey brown. Her nose was overlong, though he fancied that in certain lights it served as an outward sign of her strength of character. Mr. Ellsworth fingered his own nose, wishing that he had something more to bequeath to Jane than such an appendage.

He slashed at the grass with his walking stick and turned to his elder daughter as they walked through the maze comprising the heart of the shrubbery on the south side of the house. “Had you heard that Lady FitzCameron’s nephew is to be stationed in our town?”

“No.” Jane adjusted the shawl about her shoulders. “They must be pleased to see him.”

“Indeed, I believe that Lady FitzCameron will extend her stay rather than returning to London as she had planned.” He tugged at his waistcoat and attempted to speak idly. “Young Livingston has been made a captain, I understand.”

“So young? He must have acquitted himself ably in His Majesty’s navy, then.” Jane knelt by a rosebush and sniff ed the glory of the soft pink petals. The sunlight reflected off of the plant, bringing a brief bloom to her cheeks.

“I thought perhaps to invite the family for a strawberry- picking Thursday next.”

Jane threw her head back and laughed. It was a lovely laugh, at odds with her severe countenance. “Oh, Papa. Are you matchmaking again? I thought Lady FitzCameron had it set in her mind that the captain was to marry Miss FitzCameron.”

He stabbed the ground with his walking stick. “No. I am merely trying to be a good neighbour. If you have so little regard for the FitzCamerons as to shun their relations, then I have misjudged your character.”

Jane’s eyes twinkled and she pecked him on the cheek. “I think a strawberry-picking party sounds delightful. I am certain that the FitzCamerons will thank you for your courtesy to them.”

The tall yew hedges hugged the path on either side of them, shielding them from view of the house. Overhead, the sky arched in a gentle shell of blue. Mr. Ellsworth walked in companionable silence beside his daughter, plotting ways to bring her together with Captain Livingston. They turned the last corner of the maze and went up the Long Walk to the house. On the steps, he paused. “You know I only want the best for you, my dear.”

Jane looked down. “Of course, Papa.”

“Good.” He squeezed her arm. “I shall check on the strawberries, then, to make certain they will be suitably ripe for next week.” He left her on the steps and went to the hill on the east side of the house, making plans for the party as he walked.

~~~

Jane folded her shawl over her arm, still thinking of her father’s thinly veiled plans. He meant well, but would surely tip his hand to Captain Livingston, who was, after all, several years her junior. She had first met Henry Livingston before the war broke out when he wintered with Lady FitzCameron while his parents were away on the continent. He had been an attractive boy, with large dark eyes and a thick crop of unruly black hair. Though a favourite of Lady FitzCameron, he had not been back to the estate since, and it was hard to imagine him as a grown man. She shook her head, settled the folds of her muslin frock, and entered the drawing room.

The smell of jasmine nearly overpowered her, burning her nose and making her eyes water. Her younger sister, Melody, who wove folds of glamour in the corner, was evidently the source of the overwhelming aroma.

“Melody, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

Melody jumped and dropped the folds of glamour in her hands; they dissolved back into the ether from whence she had pulled them. “Oh, Jane. When I visited Lady FitzCameron with Mama, she conjured the loveliest hint of jasmine in the air. It was so elegant and . . . I cannot understand how she managed such a subtle touch.”

Jane shook her head and went to open the window so the jasmine fragrance could dissipate with more speed. “My dear, Lady FitzCameron had the best tutors as a girl, including, I believe, the renowned German glamourist Herr Scholes. It is hardly surprising that she can manage such delicate folds.” When Jane let her vision shift to the ether, so that the physical room faded from her view. The lingering remnants of glamour were far too bulky for the eff ect that Melody had been trying to attain. Jane took the folds between her fingers and thinned them to a gossamer weight which she could barely feel. When she stretched them out, they spanned the corner in a fine web. Once she anchored the folds to the corner, the glamour settled into the room, vanishing from view. The gentle scent of honeysuckle filled the air, as if from a sprig of flowers. It took so little eff ort that she barely felt light-headed.

Melody squinted at the corner where Jane had left the web, as if trying to see the invisible folds.

“Please do not squint, dear. It is unbecoming.” She ignored Melody’s scowl and turned back to the web. Not for the first time, she wondered if Melody were nearsighted. She could never handle fine work, even with needlepoint, and her glamour seemed limited to only the broadest strokes.

“What does it matter?” Melody threw herself on the sofa. “I have no hope of catching a husband. I am so abysmally poor at all of the arts.”

Jane could not help herself. She laughed at her sister. “You have nothing to fear. Had I half your beauty I would have more beaus than the largest dowry could settle upon me.” She turned to straighten one of her watercolours on the north wall.

“Mr. Dunkirk sends his regards.”

Jane was thankful that her back was to her sister, for the sudden flush she felt would have given her away. She tried to hide the growing attachment she felt towards Mr. Dunkirk, particularly since he seemed to have a higher regard for Melody, but his gentle manner drew her to him. “I hope he is well.” She was pleased with the steadiness in her voice.

“He asked if he could call this afternoon.” Melody sighed. “That is why I wanted to freshen the drawing room.”

The wistfulness in Melody’s voice would only be appropriate if she had reached an understanding with him. Jane turned to her sister, scrutinizing her countenance.

A gentle glow suffused Melody’s delicate features. She stared into the middle distance as if her cornflower blue eyes were blinded by a radiant image. Jane had seen the same expression on her own plainer face in unguarded moments. She could only hope that Melody had been more cautious in company. She smiled gently at her sister. “Shall I help you set the drawing room to rights, then?”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

The drawing room already had a simple theme of palm trees and egrets designed to complement its Egyptian revival furniture. For the better part of an hour, Jane and Melody twisted and pulled folds of glamour out of the ether. Some of the older threads of glamour in the palm trees had become frayed, making the images lose their resolution. In other places, Jane added more depth to the illusion by creating a breeze to ruffle the fronds of the glamour. Though her breath came quickly and she felt light-headed with the effort of placing so many folds, the effect was well worth such a trifling strain.

Placed in pairs in the corners of the room, the trees seemed to brush the coffered ceiling, accenting its height with their graceful forms. Between each tree, an egret posed in a pool of glamour, waiting an eternity for the copper fish hinted at below its reflection. Simpler folds brought the warm glow of an Egyptian sunset to the room, and the subtle scent of honeysuckle kissed the breeze.

When all was settled, Jane seated herself at the pianoforte and pulled a fold of glamour close about her. She played a simple rondo, catching the notes in the loose fold; when she reached the point where the song repeated, she stopped playing and tied the glamour off. Captured by the glamour, the music continued to play, wrapping around to the beginning of the song with only a tiny pause at the end of the fold. With care, she clipped the small silence at the end of the music and tied it more firmly to the beginning, so the piece repeated seamlessly. Then she stretched the fold of glamour to gossamer thinness until the rondo sounded as if it played in the far distance.

The door to the drawing room opened. Melody leapt to her feet with a naked expression of welcome on her face. Jane rose slowly, trying to attain a more seemly display. She placed her hand on the pianoforte as the room spun about her with the lingering effects of working glamour.

But only their father entered the room. “Hello, my dears.” The plum brocade of his waistcoat strained across his ample middle. He looked around the drawing room in evident pleasure. “Are we expecting company?”

Melody said, “Mr. Dunkirk said he would honour us with a visit this afternoon.”

“Did he?” Her father looked befuddled. “But I saw him not fifteen minutes ago passing through our fields with the FitzCamerons. They looked for all the world as if they were going hunting. Are you certain you did not mistake his meaning?”

Melody’s face soured. “His meaning was clear. But perhaps he preferred to spend the afternoon in the company of a lady than a farmer’s daughter.”

Jane winced as Melody flew from the room.

“Good heavens. What has gotten into the child?” Mr. Ellsworth turned to Jane with his eyebrows high. “Does she think that the whole neighbourhood must dance attendance to her whims?”

“She is young, and . . .” Jane hesitated to commit her sister’s potential indiscretion to words, but as her sister had not taken her into confidence, and as Jane feared for Melody’s state of mind, she continued on. “I fear she may be developing an attachment to Mr. Dunkirk.”

“Does he return it?”

“I do not know.” Jane plucked at the waist of her frock. “Certainly his behaviour has been above reproach in every instance of which I am aware.”

Mr. Ellsworth nodded, evidently satisfied with that reassurance. “Then we must hope that Melody will not embarrass herself while we wait for this fancy to pass.”

The front door slammed.

Jane hurried to the window and peered out. Melody strode across their lawn, heading for the fields between their home and Banbree Manor. Jane caught her breath. “I fear that is what she has set out to do.”

Her father looked over Jane’s shoulder. “I will go fetch her before she can damage our neighbour’s good opinion of her.”

Jane nodded, though she wanted to tell her father to let Melody do as she would. Let the headstrong girl make a fool of herself. The rational part of Jane knew that Melody was not her obstacle to Mr. Dunkirk’s affection. Jane was too plain and too quiet to engender any interest in him or any other gentleman.

Jane turned from the window and sat at the pianoforte. She loosened the fold around it, silencing the distant song. Quietly, she began to play, losing herself in the music.

Her fingers played across the keys and stroked thin folds of glamour on the ebony and ivory surfaces. Colours swirled around her in answer to the sound. She welcomed the lightheadness, which came with too much glamour, as a distraction from her cares.

When the front door opened, Jane kept her attention on the pianoforte; she did not want to speak with Melody and have to comfort her. But that was unjust; Melody could not know how her actions aff ected Jane.

Bringing the song to a close, she looked up as the colours around her faded.

Mr. Dunkirk stood in the door to the drawing room. His face was alight with wonder. “Forgive me, Miss Ellsworth. I had told your sister I would call, and am later than I intended.”

Jane’s heart pounded with more than the eff ort of glamour, and a flush of warmth flooded her face. “Mr. Dunkirk. You have just missed her; she has gone for a walk with my father.” Jane rose with care, pretending that gray blobs did not swarm in her sight. She would not swoon in front of him. “But please be welcome. May I offer you tea or a brandy?”

“Thank you.” He accepted the brandy she off ered and raised the glass to her. “I had no idea you were such an accomplished musician and glamourist.”

Jane looked away. “It is an idle amusement, sir.”

“Nonsense. Music and the other womanly arts are what brings comfort to a home.” He looked at the palm trees and egrets adorning the drawing room. “I hope to have a home such as this one day.”

Jane put her hand on the piano to steady herself, keenly aware that she was alone with him. “Indeed,” she murmured. “Though I would venture to say that Robinsford Abbey is most gracious.”

“But it lacks that comfort which a wife with the gift of glamour might bring.” He inhaled the scent of honeysuckle and exhaled it in a sigh. “Other men might seek a lovely face, but I should think that they would consider exquisite taste the higher treasure. Beauty will fade, but not a gift such as this.”

“Do you not think that glamour might be learned, whereas beauty is innate?”

“Glamour, yes. But not taste, I think.” He smiled and inclined his head. “It was a conversation close to this topic which prompted my tardy arrival here. Have you had occasion to meet Mr. Vincent?”

“I’m afraid you have the better of me.”

“Ah. I thought Miss Melody might have mentioned him. Lady FitzCameron has retained his services to create a glamural for her dining hall. He is a fascinating fellow, who studied with Herr Scholes and has taken commissions from the Prince Regent. Stunning talent, really.”

“Did Melody meet him, then?” It seemed odd that her sister would fail to mention it. Visitors to their neighbourhood were rare enough to be newsworthy, but to have such an accomplished glamourist in the vicinity was a significant event.

“I thought they met, but perhaps I am mistaken. In any case, Mr. Vincent had much to say on the subject of glamour, which I think you might find to be compelling arguments in my favour.”

The front door opened again, and Melody flung the door to the drawing room wide. Her face was red and stained with tears. When she saw Mr. Dunkirk, she uttered a cry of dismay and fled the room.

Jane closed her eyes. Poor Melody. What must she think? To see Jane quite alone with a man for whom Melody so clearly had an attachment must seem as a betrayal. When Jane opened her eyes, he had set his glass down to greet Mr. Ellsworth.

Excusing herself, Jane said, “I feel that I must check on Melody.”

“I hope she has not suffered an accident,” Mr. Dunkirk said.

Jane’s father harrumphed and mumbled that Melody had twisted her ankle while walking, to which Mr. Dunkirk replied, “Then I will leave you to tend to her.” He took his leave, only pausing at the door to say, “May I call again?”

“Of course!” Mr. Ellsworth beamed. “Come whenever you like.”

“Then I will see you soon.” Mr. Dunkirk bowed. “Your daughter is a credit to you, sir.”

When the front door closed, Mr. Ellsworth said, “Well. Melody needn’t have worried after all. ‘A credit.’ ”

Jane smiled. “Indeed.”

Still glowing with the words of Mr. Dunkirk’s praise, Jane went abovestairs and knocked on the door of Melody’s room. Such a small thing, those words, but it was the first time she could recall coming to his special notice. He had always been courtesy itself when in her company, but her attachment to him grew more from how he treated others than from any sense of his having regard for her.

She leaned her head against the door, listening for sounds within the chamber. “Melody?”

“Go away.”

Jane sighed. “Dear. Let me come in.”

The silence stretched out, during which Jane had time to examine the wood grain on the door and the age worn in the softened edges of its panels. “Melody?”

Cloth rustled within, and the key turned in the lock, unlatching the door. As Jane opened the door, she was in time to see Melody fling herself artlessly upon the bed, where the rumpled spread shewed how she had spent the time since Mr. Dunkirk’s visit. Her golden curls lay across the bed in an intricate lacework, and tears glittered on the ends of her lashes like diamonds.

Jane closed the door behind her and leaned against it, regarding her sister. “Mr. Dunkirk sends his apologies for his tardiness.”

Melody sat up with alarming speed. Her face flushed. “Is he still here?”

“No. Papa let him understand that you had twisted your ankle while out walking.” Jane sat next to her sister.

Placing her hands over her eyes, Melody groaned and fell back on the bed. “Now he thinks me clumsy as well as overexcited.”

“I am certain he does not.” Jane wiped her sister’s brow, which was hot with the force of her excitement. Reaching into the ether, Jane conjured a cooling breeze to soothe her.

Melody pulled her hands away from her eyes, though she kept her lids shut and turned her face toward the breeze. “But he does. I stammer and blush when he is present. La! Do not tell me you have failed to notice.” She opened her eyes and glared up at Jane.

“Until today, I had not the faintest notion that you had any affection for Mr. Dunkirk beyond that of a neighbour. Indeed, I had thought you were no more fond of him than of one of our uncles.” Jane smoothed the folds of her skirt, praying that her own countenance was not as transparent to feeling as Melody’s. “Have you an understanding with Mr. Dunkirk?”

Melody burst into laughter. “An understanding? My dear Jane, Mr. Dunkirk is gentleness embodied. He is grace and elegance and all that is good in a man, but he is also too conscious of propriety to betray anything beyond courtesy. This is why I had such hopes when he said he would come to call today. I had hoped that perhaps he might have begun to pay notice to me as myself instead of as simply the daughter of his neighbour.” She groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her arms. “What did you speak of while I was out acting the fool?”

“Very little. Music. Glamour. Lady FitzCameron’s glamourist.” Jane waited to see if Melody would speak of meeting Mr. Vincent, but her sister charged ahead with her litany of woes.

“You see! I could not speak with him of any of those. I am talentless.” She clenched her fingers in her hair, and for a moment Jane feared that Melody would pull her own hair out by the roots.

Such were Melody’s torments that Jane gave away the comfort that she had taken for herself. “Not true. Ask Papa what he said about you.”

In an instant, Melody turned over, her eyes a vivid, sparkling blue. “What did he say? Do not teaze me, dear sister.”

“He said, ‘Your daughter is a credit to you.’ ”

Melody’s face lit with an inner glow of pleasure, but it faded quickly. “He was surely speaking of you.”

“I was there, Melody. Why would he speak of me as if I were not present?” And as Jane spoke, she realized that it was true. She had taken Mr. Dunkirk’s words to her heart as if he had spoken of her, but he surely had not. Who else could he have meant but Melody? Had his compliment been intended for Jane, he would have said, “You are a credit to your father.” There could be no doubt that he had meant Melody. Jane reached out and tousled Melody’s hair to mask the wet disappointment that seeped through her. “You see?”

Melody sat and flung her arms around Jane. “Oh, thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course. We must find these small comforts where we may.” Jane held her sister and wondered where she would find her own small comfort. She reached for a new topic, to push away the pain of this one. “And now, should I chide you for not telling me of Lady FitzCameron’s glamourist?”

Melody pulled back, her eyes wide with guilt. “Oh, Jane! I am so sorry. When Mr. Dunkirk said he would call, all else slipped my mind. Though, truly, there is little to tell.”

“Well. What sort of man is he?”

“More bear than man, really. La! He said barely two words the whole visit. Lady FitzCameron says that he is frightfully clever, but I did not see any signs of it.”

“Fortunately, one does not need to speak to weave glamour.” Jane sighed. “I should like to have had the training that he has had.”

Melody leaned against Jane, wrinkling her nose. “See! You chide me, but you already know more of him than I do.”

“You were too distracted by Mr. Dunkirk, I daresay.”

When Melody blushed, her infatuation was writ large on her cheeks. “Oh, Jane. Is Mr. Dunkirk not the most handsome, most admirable man you have ever met?”

“Yes.” Jane hugged her sister, so that her own telling countenance was hidden. “Yes, he is.”

End of Chapter One

www.ShadesOfMilkAndHoney.com

It was a fascinating experience in part because I realized that I want to change my revising process. Normally as part of my process, I read the story aloud and I did that with Shades of Milk and Honey. The thing that differed with the audio book is that we were starting and stopping a lot more, to correct stumbles or noises. Because of that, I never sank into the story and felt like I was performing for an audience. It made me much more aware of the words.

Understand that the mistakes I saw aren’t actually mistakes. They are places where words that are fine on the page are awful in the mouth. Like “She turned off the road and rode between…” Those homophones are icky.

So when I revise Glamour in Glass, I’ll read it aloud but I’ll break the reading up artificially so that I continue to pay attention to what’s on the page.

The other thing that was really fascinating was doing the British accent for an entire book. Periodically Rob would play something back and I’d just catch a snippet like “…with a single word…” Now, really the only major pronunciation difference is in “word” which has the soft R favored by the British. I’d hear it and it would sound AWFUL but my dialect coach would say, “No, that’s right.”

I finally realized, that the reason it sounded wrong to me is that it sounded like the way I said things as a kid with a speech impediment. NOT that I’m saying all Brits sound like they have speech impediments, but that soft R is very, very close to the way I sounded when I couldn’t say the letter at all. So what I was reacting to wasn’t about getting the accent wrong, it was about triggering decades old training about the importance of using a hard R.

As I said, that was a fascinating little trick my brain was playing on me.

All in all, I’m happy to be out of the recording booth and feel pretty good about the work we did.

Thursday

Imagine or Die
8:00 PM, Salon G
Talk / Discussion (90 min.)

A writer without a working imagination is stymied. We’ll take about the care and feeding of imagination, how to unleash it and let it run.
Barry B. Longyear with discussion by Lauren P. Burka, Gemma Files, Elaine Isaak, Mary Robinette Kowal, K. A. Laity, Resa Nelson.

Friday

Alternatives to the Pay-Per-Copy System of Author Compensation
12:00 Noon, ME/ CT
Panel

Paying writers or publishers for each copy of the work sold is a system that developed in response to the invention of the printing press. Now that physical copies are no longer necessary, and may no longer be the most convenient or popular means of consuming literature, what method of compensation or revenue generation should be attempted? A donation system? A system of teasers, where the reader pays to see the remainder of the work? A “membership” system, in which paid members get special access to drafts or extra materials? A “service” system?
Mary Robinette Kowal, Barbara Krasnoff, Eugene Mirabelli, Ken Schneyer (L), Charles Stross.

A Dramatic Reading of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, Act III
1:00 PM, RI
Event (60 min.)
Mike Allen, Inanna Arthen, John Crowley, Ron Drummond, Lila Garrott, Greer Gilman, Adam Golaski, Alaya Dawn Johnson, Mary Robinette Kowal, John Langan, Shira Lipkin, Benjamin Rosenbaum.

Don’t Sneeze on Me, Ridley Scott!: Influence as Contagion
3:00 PM, Salon F: Panel

William Gibson famously walked out after the first twenty minutes of Blade Runner out of concern that it would influence his unfinished Neuromancer manuscript — an ”anxiety of influence” seemingly opposed to the “ecstasy of influence” we’ve talked about in the past. How common is this reaction? What might make it a good idea? Is avoiding transient contemporaneous influence tantamount to ignoring the zeitgeist? If so, how do writers strike the proper balance?
Jack M. Haringa (L), Mary Robinette Kowal, James Morrow, Resa Nelson, Allen Steele, Howard Waldrop.

Autographing
5:00 PM

Drop Out, Write On
7:00 PM, Salon F: Panel

Our panelists, all college drop-outs, discuss the ways that their unconventional career tracks have influenced their fiction writing.
Samuel R. Delany, Nalo Hopkinson, Elaine Isaak, Mary Robinette Kowal (L), Barry B. Longyear

Saturday

Theodore Sturgeon Short Story Reading: ”The Professor’s Teddy Bear” (1948) Vol. 4
2:00 PM, Suite 730

I read the classic Sturgeon story about a boy with an attachment to a peculiar stuffed animal has a strange relationship to a professor in the future.

The 24th Kirk Poland Memorial Bad Prose Competition
8:00 PM, Salons F & G
: Event (115 min.)

Our traditional evening entertainment, named in memory of the pseudonym and alter ego of Jonathan Herovit of Barry N. Malzberg’s Herovit’s World. Here’s how it works: ringleader Craig Shaw Gardner reads a passage of unidentified but genuine, published, bad sf, fantasy, or horror prose, which has been truncated in mid-sentence. Each of our panelists–Craig and his co-moderator Eric M. Van, five-time champion Yves Meynard, and new challengers Mike Allen and Mary Robinette Kowal–then reads an ending for the passage. One ending is the real one; the others are imposters. None of the players knows who wrote any passage other than their own, except for Eric, who gets to play God as a reward for the truly onerous duty of unearthing these gems. Craig then asks for the audience vote on the authenticity of each passage (recapping each in turn by quoting a pithy phrase or three from them), and the Ace Readercon Joint Census Team counts up each show of hands faster than you can say “Twinkies of Terror.” Eric then reveals the truth. Each contestant receives a point for each audience member they fooled, while the audience collectively scores a point for everyone who spots the real answer. As a rule, the audience finishes third or fourth. Warning: the Sturgeon General has determined that this trash is hazardous to your health; i.e., if it hurts to laugh, you’re in big trouble. Note: this year’s competition will feature an as-yet undetermined mixture of new passages and “best of” highlights.

Sunday

Kaffeeklatsch
12:00 Noon, Vinyard

Reading
2:00 PM, NH/MA
I’ll be reading from my debut novel, Shades of Milk and Honey.

So… he took the idea and turned it into a contest. You guys should have an edge because you’ve been reading my fiction for ages.  Here are the rules.

Readers who are able to correctly spot the exact place in the typewriter triptych where Mary switched from a typewriter to a computer will win one of two free books: Either her forthcoming novel Shades of Milk and Honey OR Jay Walljasper’s forthcoming book, All That We Share: How to Save the Economy, Our Communities, the Environment, the Internet, Democracy, and Everything Else that Belongs to All of Us

Your choice!

To be eligible, you should become a registered user with Shareable.net–sign up here. Then leave your guess as a comment here or on any of the three stories.

Remember, don’t make your guess here, head over to Shareable.net.

Here’s your teaser.

Gloria flexed her wrists trying to work some of the tension out of them while she waited for the propmaster to reset the scene. How had secretaries used typewriters like this for hours at a time?

Her left hand was captured in a strong, masculine grip. Gloria followed the arm up to meet Chance Hendrix’s eyes. He smirked at her with all the wattage of the dark eyes which had given him one of the highest recognition credits in his day. God. She’d had such a crush on him when she was a teen — but then so did all the other girls and most of the boys in her creche.

You can read the whole story at Shareable: Playing to Type.

Interesting trivia: I wrote the first of these stories entirely on manual typewriters. At one point while writing the second two,  I had to switch to the computer because I was traveling. Can you spot the point where my style changes?

Playing Against Type

Harold pressed his hand against his knee to stop it from jiggling. It gave him a chance to wipe the sweat off his palm, too. Never show fear in front of actors. “I thought we had the camera until Friday.”

Conversation around the sound stage had silenced. The cast and crew of Last Dime had all rotated like some automaton the moment the man in front of him had pushed onto the set. Most of them were dressed like laborers from the 1930s, with torn trousers and battered hats. If you ignored the lights and the crew in modern dress, it could be a labor meeting during the Great Depression — not a happy labor meeting at the moment.

Go to Shareable: Playing Against Type to read the whole thing.

Here’s a teaser of the first one.

A Type of Favor

Like most of the co-operatives that sprang up after the Oil Wars, the Broadway co-op had a specialty. While other co-ops might focus on medicine or music, the Broadway members created and exported films to the commercial world. In exchange for pooling their time and resources they were able to have a higher standard of living than any independent artist. But of course, even an economy based on sharing and cooperation demands sacrifices…

Jenn stared at his chin, focusing on the stubble and hoping that her distaste didn’t show. Why had she borrowed Harold’s tools? Now she owed him.

Harold’s request to borrow one of her typewriters for the film he was making was perfectly reasonable, but this did nothing to keep the sour taste out of the back of her mouth. When she’d traded borrowing points, she hadn’t thought the typewriters would be in danger. No one used them anymore. She’d thought she was throwing skills or tools into the communal pot when she immigrated to this co-op. At her old one, no one cared about the typewriters. Was there a way she could say “No,” plausibly?

Read the full story at Sharable.net

Oh, and it has pictures of our actual typewriter collection.