Cat Rambo's Blog, page 44

Writing: Description, Details, and Delivering Information

I haven’t written here yet.

I’m working on converting the Description and Delivering Information class to the on-demand version, along the same lines as the Character Building Workshop and the Literary Techniques for Genre Writers workshop, and hoping to finish it up over the next couple of days, which may be overly ambitious, because a) I am doing NaNoWriMo, b) life is complicated by Orycon and then a Thanksgiving trip on the 20th and c) this is my birthday weekend and I like to slack a little.

So, what’s the difference between taking one of my live online writing classes and the on-demand versions? Let’s look at the cons first:

No live interaction, which is a little sad. You can comment on the class material, though, which you have access to in perpetuity, or at least as long as it’s up.
No chance to hear other people’s work with the exercises or get a chance to chat with them.

Pros, on the other hand?

A bit more lasting. As I said, you do get permanent access, including when the material updates.
Work at your own pace. Want to do an exercise more than once? Go for it. Want to stretch things out or take a break for that trip to Bermuda? You’re fine.
Considerably cheaper than the live version — half the price, usually.
Considerably expanded material and more exercises. The character building workshop ended up being close to 20,000 words; this one will match and probably surpass that.

Want a preview? Here’s an early page, Description as Collaboration:

The Writer/Reader Relationship

Description is a collaboration between writer and reader. You provide a handful of details; from them your reader constructs a three-dimensional experience. You build the funhouse ride, but so does your reader, an experience that will differ — sometimes radically — from reader to reader, depending on their experiences and depth of imagination.

It begins the minute you supply a detail. The author says “red” and immediately a red — perhaps a bright candy apple red, maybe something murkier — appears in the reader’s mental vision. Add “wheelbarrow,” and they supply a wheelbarrow based on the ones they’re most familiar with. Add “glazed with rain” and the possibilities splinter even further.

And that’s fine. It is an inescapable fact and nothing you can do will change it. It is impossible for you to include the depth and range of detailed description that would be necessary to unquestionably determine every nuance for the reader.

Choices Matter

As soon as an author introduces a detail, it begins to grow in the reader’s mind. And unspoken behind every detail is an authorial I selected this detail rather than any other for a reason that will matter to the reader. That is perhaps one way of looking at writing: the art of selecting and conveying details in an order that creates a complete experience for a reader.

How the author presents details — which details are mentioned, the things that are included about them, and the wording and syntax in which they are presented — is one of the major factors that creates style and tone.

Style might be defined as the overall way in which the story is told. It is different than the content of a story, but usually content and style are linked and work together.

Tone is the overall emotion or mood of a story, and is created primarily but not solely by the style and word choice.

Recently spotted in Value Village. I believe this is the god of pumpkin spice.

Here’s a photo of a thrift shop object described in two different styles, then two different tones*.

Style example #1: There it stood, the proud ceramic, small in stature but twice as splendid. The corn god glared out, positioned, poised, ready to bring autumn to the land.
Style example #2: Paul glanced down at the statue. Small. Yellow and orange. Glazed. Corncob-extured body. Why this, he wondered.
Tone example #1: The little statue was a welcome find, smiling at her from the shelf, colored like the first autumn leaf. It was solid in her fingers, still smiling up at her as she tilted it to see if there was any marking on the weathered bottom and with a thrill of pleasure saw the mark, right where she had hoped.
Tone example #2: Shadows gathered in the corners of the curiosity and her scalp prickled, as though in warning, as she picked up the little yellow statue. It felt ominously solid in her fingers as she tilted it to look at the base. The sight of the marking struck her like a blow.

Same object, four different stories. Stop now and do a five minute timed writing with your own description of the object.

Don’t Jar Your Reader

Because of a reader’s inclination to create what’s happening in a story in their head, experiencing it in something like a dream, or at least that state of fierce inattention to anything else in which a spouse, child, or friend can speak repeatedly before being perceived. That’s the delicious immersion that is part of the joy of reading and part of it is making the reader comfortable enough to forget that they are reading.

An author must lull a reader into trusting them, by letting them know that they will deliver that immersion, in part by not ever reminding the reader that they are reading. Anything that reminds a reader of this fact generally should be avoided, unless you’re doing something funky and metafictional.

And the thing that reminds a reader that they are reading more than anything else is the author supplying a detail that the reader has already firmly fixed in their head. This is a moment which for a reader is like having the GPS in your car suddenly go “Recalculating” because you took a wrong turn. It should be avoided at all costs. Paying attention to the collaboration and what expectations you are creating in your reader is important. Get the hang of that and you can even play with and subvert those expectations.

*I make no claim any of this is good writing, simply a good example.

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Ten More Plots Taken From Other People’s Problems

Again taken from helpineedhelp.com:

I don’t know what the back of my head looks like.
I’m a peeping tom.
I don’t know what fork to use.
I forgot my password.
I need a dream recommendation.
I forgot someone’s name.
I want to buy help elsewhere.
I want a patdown but am not flying anywhere.
I don’t know what soda to drink.
I have no purpose.

#SFWAPRO

Guest Post from Rob Dircks: 8 Ways to Make Your Writing Funnier

First, I didn’t set out to be a humorist. And I’ve only got one sci-fi comedy novel so far, Where the Hell is Tesla?, so I’m not sure I qualify as anyone you should listen to. But I’ve always loved funny sci-fi, like Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, or John Scalzi’s Agent to the Stars, or Pratchett and Gaiman’s Good Omens, and I love the process of writing humor. It seems like a fit. I’m sticking with it.

Along the way, I’ve learned a ton from great writers, and great teachers, and from screwing up in every conceivable way. So here are a few of my favorite little nuggets that you might find it useful in your own writing:

1. Exaggerated Contrast.

Imagine you move into your new apartment, and you go next door to ask if they signed for a package you were expecting. You’re invited in, and you find yourself in the middle of four adult males playing Dungeons and Dragons. With costumes on. Hmm. This might make a funny story to tell your friends later. But let’s exaggerate the contrast more by making all four of these guys over-the-top-crazy-smart scientists who revel in everything tech and sci-fi. Now what’s your story? The Big Bang Theory. A huge comedy hit, in its ninth season. A classic fish-out-of-water story pitting poor Penny against the ultimate geek squad.

Or take Dortmunder, the cat burglar hero from the old Donald Westlake novels. He’s literally the only sane person in an insane world filled with incompetent crooks, bungling cops, and inept villains. The result? He had so much comic potential he starred in twenty-five novels and short stories.

Why does fish-out-of-water work? Because the greater you can make the gap between the normal person’s perspective (Penny, Dortmunder) and the crazy world’s perspective (the four scientists, incompetents in general), the richer the vein of comic possibility. And science fiction can be even better, as your worlds are only limited by your imagination. Just look at Hitchhiker’s Guide’s hapless Arthur Dent, thrust into insanity on a galactic scale. And in my novel, the “fish” are two regular joes who find themselves trapped inside an “Interdimensional Transfer Apparatus” – where each dimension they visit is strange, and rife with comic opportunity.

2. The power of three.

Take a look at this exchange between two friends on a bridge.

Murph smiles. “Look. It’s only forty feet, and the water’s plenty deep. You first.”

Andy peers down, with one eye closed, gripping the railing for dear life. “What are you crazy? No way!”

“Come on. Okay, we’ll jump together. It’ll be fun.”

Andy shakes his head. “No, It’ll be death. Forget it.”

“I’ll buy you Skittles.”

“Hmm. The big bag?”

The first time Andy says no is the setup, describing the conflict. The second time he says no, it ratchets up the tension and validates his convictions – there’s no way he’s backing down. And the third time is the release and the punch line – not only has Andy reversed, but he’s made risking his life contingent only on which size bag of Skittles he gets out of the deal. (He must really like Skittles.) That’s the power of three.

Let’s not stop there, though. Who did you think this was? A couple of teenage boys? Now imagine they’re seventy-five. Suddenly we’ve added exaggerated contrast to goose the humor (old guys don’t jump off bridges, and I don’t know any that eat Skittles). Even think about the word “Skittles.” Okay, it’s cheap comedy, but the sound of the word “Skittles” is kind of funny. Different. The way it rolls off your brain when you say it. Plus, their little exchange is also…

3. Two friends arguing.

Listen to Where the Hell is Tesla?’s heroes, Chip and Pete, after Chip discovers directions to Tesla’s interdimensional portal in a journal and tries to talk Pete into investigating:

“So, you want to check this thing out, right?”

“F**k no. What are you, an idiot?”

“Dude. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Classic. Cut to scene of us in jail. Or scene of us dead. Or scene of us God-knows-where in space-time.”

“Well it would be space, not time. It would be the same time no matter where we went. It’s a dimension machine, not a time machine. “

“Oh, gee, now I totally want to go.”

The comedy tradition of two buddies who love each other but bicker like an old married couple goes way back to Laurel and Hardy’s “here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.” (I’m sure it goes back even further, like ancient Egyptians had plays about roommates who couldn’t agree on how many humps a camel is supposed to have.) Abbott and Costello, Crosby and Hope, Chandler and Joey, the angel/demon couple of Aziraphale and Crowley in Good Omens, and David and John in John Dies at the End. The list goes on and on and on.

Why does it work? There is something about friendship (which we all love) and bickering (which we all indulge in) that feels familiar, and when exaggerated, reminds us how the foils of life, the things we fight about, are silly and kind of funny. And it creates conflict where the stakes aren’t too high. And it allows us to live vicariously through characters who say and do the things we secretly wish we could in real life.

4. Surprise.

There are a lot of things I love about Audition, Michael Shurtleff’s book on how actor’s should audition for roles (though it’s really about how to craft a good story). But my favorite is probably what he calls “Discoveries” – remembering always to ask yourself “what is new?” Surprise creates new – and potentially funny – conflict in a scene. An example: deep into Where the Hell is Tesla?, Chip wakes up from a particularly shocking experience with a surprise: he has a new foot. A furry one.

“I don’t care. I’d still rather have no foot. Nikola, you’re a man of reason. Would you want a furry alien foot? Truly, deep down in your heart? Wouldn’t you rather have a nice pair of crutches? Or a hand-carved mahogany peg leg? Please cut this thing off, will you?”

“Chip. We are obviously not going to cut off your new foot. Can you not see even one positive thing in this?”

Hmm. I hesitate. I look down at it. “Well, it’ll never get cold.”

5. Don’t be afraid of slapstick.

People fall down. Kids accidentally hit their parents in the crotch with frisbees. Moms drop birthday cakes on the floor. And you know what? It’s funny. It just is. America’s Funniest Home Videos is based entirely on that premise, and it’s in its millionth season. So don’t shy away from it – embrace it. Have your main character slap someone by accident while making a point. Have your villain bend over and split his pants. Have your hero drink what she thinks is lemonade, until the lab guy tells her it’s poison, and she spits it out in his face. BUT keep it relevant to your characters’ personalities and motivations, so it’s not just a one-off visual joke. Because…

6. It’s not about “jokes.”

One-liners are for stand-up comedians and movies like The Avengers. Don’t get me wrong, I love the fun of The Avengers, but I avoid things like serious action sequences punctuated by zingers, like this one after Thor hits Captain America’s shield: “It’s all in the swing.” In fact, that whole trailer is a great example of joke overkill – there’s a snappy one-liner every five seconds. Be careful of “jokes.” Jokes are empty unless they’re a natural extension of the situation and the character’s state of mind.

7. Playfulness.

There’s a security in writing comedy, knowing that as bad as it gets, even if minor characters die, it’ll never get THAT bad. So don’t forget to let them have fun. I love the way John Scalzi does this (I’m thinking about Agent to the Stars and Redshirts in particular.) Even in their lowest moments, trapped in an underground chamber, your characters can talk about how they hated the movie Ghost. Or during a torrential downpour on a dark night on a dangerous planet, have your hero skip through a puddle, remembering that was her favorite thing when she was a kid. In Where the Hell is Tesla?, I had the main characters, right in the middle of all the tension, have a pillow fight. The world is your oyster – slurp it up.

8. Heart.

Maybe the biggest thing with comedy (as with all storytelling, I guess), is instilling it with heart. Without real living, breathing characters with real feelings, you wind up laughing at them, instead of with them (if you laugh at all.) Think about all the characters I’ve mentioned in this post, or ones from your favorite sit-coms. When you get to know them, you bond with them, and when they fall down you feel bad (even though you’re laughing), and when they’re climbing a mountain you’re rooting for them, and when they say or do something funny, not only do you laugh, but you feel good about it.

Wow. I didn’t realize I’d actually have a point, but I guess that’s it. That it’s not about the laughs. It’s about the feeling that comes with the laughs: that kind of giddy, warm connection to a story and a character, that makes you feel good, feel a little glow, even after you’ve closed the book.

Reading Recommendations

If you’re interested in humor writing, I highly recommend:

The Comic Toolbox, by John Vorhaus (indispensable, and the source of several of these concepts)
Audition, by Michael Shurtleff (not specifically about comedy, but awesome for scene writing)
1984, by George Orwell (I’m kidding, if there’s ever been an anti-comedy, that’s it)

About Rob Dircks

Rob is author of the science fiction comedy novel Where the Hell is Tesla? His previous work, an anti-self-help book titled Unleash the Sloth: 75 Ways to Reach Your Maximum Potential By Doing Less, has the distinction of being the very first self-help book to prescribe taking a nap instead of mowing the lawn. Both books have been bestsellers (depending on your definition of “bestseller.”) He’s a member of SFWA (Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America), and owner of Goldfinch Publishing, a small (very small, wee in fact) assisted publishing service. He also owns and operates an ad agency, Dircks Associates. You can follow and contact him on RobDircks.com.

About Where the Hell is Tesla?

SCI-FI ODYSSEY. COMEDY. LOVE STORY. AND OF COURSE… NIKOLA TESLA.

I’ll let Chip, the main character tell you more: “I found the journal at work. Well, I don’t know if you’d call it work, but that’s where I found it. It’s the lost journal of Nikola Tesla, one of the greatest inventors and visionaries ever. Before he died in 1943, he kept a notebook filled with spectacular claims and outrageous plans. One of these plans was for an “Interdimensional Transfer Apparatus” – that allowed someone (in this case me and my friend Pete) to travel to other versions of the infinite possibilities around us. Crazy, right? But that’s just where the crazy starts.”

Patreon Post: Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?

If you’d like some NaNoWriMo inspiration, check out my Character Building Workshop, which features writing exercises tailored to fit in with your current projects.

Happy Monday to everyone. Here’s a piece of fiction for you, “Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?” It’s steampunk, and it fits into the world I think of as Altered America, a steampunk setting where one of the pivotal events, referenced in this story, is Abraham Lincoln deciding to use zombies in the Civil War.

Other pieces of this world are shown in Rappacini’s Crow, Her Windowed Eyes, Her Chambered Heart, and Snakes on a Train. At some point this will become a novel — you may notice characters are converging on Seattle, where most of the action will take place, and I’ve got some stories in the works, most notably a novella, “Blue Train Blues,” about a high stakes race between car and train across a landscape plagued with vampires.

This is a Patreon post, funded by the generous patrons listed here. If you’d like to see more of these stories, consider becoming a patron.

Snakes on a Train

Jemina noticed the Very Small Person the moment the little girl entered the train. The child paused in the doorway to survey the car before glancing down at her ticket and then at the other half of the hard wooden bench, high-backed, its shellac peeling, that Jemina sat on. Jemina tucked the macrame bag beside her in with her elbow.

The child was one of the last passengers on, which was why Jemina had been hoping against hope to have the bench to herself, at least for part of the two day trip to Kansas City. The train began to roll forward, a hoot of steam from the engine, a bell clang from the caboose at the back of the train, the rumble underfoot making the little blonde girl pick her way with extra caution, balancing the small black suitcase in one hand against the pillowy cloth bag in the other.

She arrived mid-car beside Jemina and nodded at her as she struggled briefly to hoist her suitcase up before the elderly man across the aisle did it for her. She plumped the cloth bag in the corner between sidearm and back and sat down with a little noise of delight as she looked around. Catching herself at the noise, she blushed, fixed her gaze sternly forward as she folded her hands in her lap, and peeped at Jemina sidelong.

Jemina tried to imagine how she might appear. She knew herself thin but nicely dressed and pale-skinned. The lace at her throat was Bruges, the cross around her neck gold, the gloves on her hands white and clean. She looked like a school-teacher, she imagined, but not a particularly nice one. She felt her lips thin further at the thought.

The child, interpreting the flattening of Jemina’s mouth for disapproval, fished in her bag and took out a small black bound Bible. She opened it to the first page.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Jemina said. Her boldness surprised her, but this was a child, after all. “I’m Jemina Iarainn and I’m a scientist, headed to work at the War Institute in Seattle. Who are you are and where are you going?”

The smile bestowed on her could have lit a room. The Bible slid back into the bag. “Oh thank goodness! I’m Laurel Finch and this is my very first train ride ever, up to Seattle too, and I was hoping I’d have an agreeable companion on my voyage.”

She stumbled over the solemnity in the last words. Jemina said, “Trips are much, much nicer with someone to talk to. Where are you going in Seattle? To visit relatives?”

“To the Soldiers’ Orphans’ Home there,” Laurel said, and her mouth drooped before she summoned her smile again. “I’ve been staying with my uncle for the last three years but he is traveling to China as an ambassador. It’s all right, he’ll come back for me, but in the meantime I’m to live there for a few years.”

“Seattle is very nice,” Jemina said. Her mind raced along the years before this child, living among orphans with no chance of adoption herself. Bleak, as bleak as any of Jemina’s childhood years. “You will meet Princess Angeline, Chief Seattle’s daughter. She lives down near the market and is a real Indian princess.”

“Do you know Seattle well?”

Jemina shook her head, then nodded. “My twin sister is out there already and she has been writing me long letters.”

“Is she also a scientist?”

“She writes for the newspaper.”

“Oh! Like Nellie Bly!” Laurel clapped her hands and Jemina sighed internally. A daredevil reporter was more exciting than a scientist, but she was the one constructing giant killing war machines, after all, even though she was not at liberty to talk about any of that.

The train was rattling along steadily by now, the countryside rolling past the windows as they left Baltimore behind. Someone towards the back of the car broke out a pipe, blue smoke creeping up to hang near the wooden ceiling, painted red with tiny stars speckled along it in a single long stripe. It was officially late morning now, and Jemina wished she’d been able to bring her tea with her.

“Have you always lived in Baltimore?” she asked Laurel.

The child nodded. “What about you?”

“I grew up in Connecticut, but I came to study at Johns Hopkins here.”

“Were you there during the last war?”

Only three years back now, the great War between the States, which might have gone so differently if not for Lincoln’s decision to treat with the Emperor of Haiti, to bring over necromancers who raised the dead, no matter which color of uniform they wore, to fight on the Northern side. And now they were at war with Europe and the alien forces that had appeared in those countries, the fairies, werewolves, and vampires.

“I was there and actually helped with the effort,” Jemina said, trying not to puff up a little. She had worked side by side by the necromancers, learning as much as she could, pulling that knowledge into her own studies. It was why she was headed to the War Institute there now. The last scientist-necromancer, McCormick, had died on a train like this one six months earlier. Jemina thought she would make it, but who knew? She played on a bigger game board than she ever had before.

To her disappointment, Laurel didn’t ask what she’d done for the war. She realized that the child’s parents must have died due to some military action. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

“I have a book,” Laurel said. “Other than the Bible, I mean. Will you read it to me?”

“Surely you are old enough to read?”

Laurel sat up straight. “Of course I am!” She let herself relax. “But sometimes it’s nice to hear it read and that way we can both enjoy it.”

“What’s the book?”

Laurel fished in her bag. “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

***

As the train made its way along, they voyaged through the book, occasionally pausing to talk about its contents. Laurel confessed to missing the kitten she had left at her uncle’s, which she had named Abraham Lincoln after the President. Her uncle’s landlady had taken Abraham Lincoln, and had promised to write about his adventures.

At this point, Laurel’s lip quivered to the point where Jemina hastened to tell stories of the entirely fictitious six kittens her own equally fictitious landlady had been hosting. In truth, Jemina had been living in the grey buildings of the East Coast’s War Institute, and was not particularly looking forward to their counterpart on the West Coast. The Institute had promised her a handsome wage and an actual house to live in, though, near the campus where she’d be working.

Around noon, Jemina’s stomach growled.

“I am going to the dining car,” she said.

“Oh. Have sandwiches. My uncle’s landlady made them for me. They’re not very nice,” Laurel said with more honesty than tact.

“My treat,” Jemina said.

She watched with amusement as Laurel worked her way through fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and two helpings of apple pie chased down with a tumbler of milk. She ate tea and toast herself, the teabag left steeping in the hot water till it was tannin bitter, dark as oak-lemonade, and every sip sent caffeine singing through her nerves. It didn’t matter if she indulged in stimulants here on the train; she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyhow, only doze for four days till her destination.

“My cousin,” Laurel announced as she mopped milk from her upper lip, “said many of these trains get attacked by werewolves.”

“My cousin,” Jemina said, leaning forward, “who is a Pinkerton agent, said that the kind of werewolves that attack these trains are very different than the kind that live in England.”

The conversation had obviously not gone in the direction that Laurel had expected. She eyed Jemina. “How are they different?”

“They are shapeshifters, who can take on a number of different forms, wolves being only one of them.”

Worry flashed on Laurel’s face. “So someone here could be a werewolf?” she asked, looking around at the other diners.

“Probably not,” Jemina said. “These cars are warded with silver.” She indicated the top of the window. “See the little star? That’s real silver and keeps out negative magics.”

“You mean evil?”

Jemina shook her head. “There’s not really such a thing as good and evil. There is, though, positive and negative. Negative magic drains things.”

“What were the zombie soldiers that won the war?” Laurel said.

This was not territory in which Jemina had thought to wander, or which she found particularly hospitable. “It depends on which side you were on,” she said.

Her mind flashed: a zombie hand, pale nailed and blunt, groping out from the iron cage where it had been confined, in an early war experiment before they’d learned to tame them.

She shoved the thought away before it went anyplace worse.

“Do you ever take off your gloves?” Laurel asked.

The directness of the question startled her. “No. I have a skin condition that I prefer to keep masked.”

“Are you sick?”

“No!” she said, more sharply than she meant to. The teapot was silverplate, some of the luster worn away by use. She poured more tea into her cup and drizzled in cream, the white devoured by the darker liquid.

They ate in silence.

Finally, pushing back her plate and crossing knife and fork atop it, Jemina looked to the window as Laurel ate the last bite of pie. Outside were plains, great seas of long grass tipped with the purple fuzz of seeds, shifting in the afternoon light to ripple in undulating waves that ran away to the edges of the horizon. Far above in the relentlessly blue sky, a hawk hovered on outspread wings, dipping down, then riding an updraft higher, again and again, in great swings like a broken pendulum.

The waiter appeared at her elbow.

“Everything to your satisfaction, ma’am?” He was an older, wool-headed man, eyes deferential but solicitous of Laurel as he removed her plate. Jemina smiled at him and shook her head.

She folded her napkin in a neat quadrangle before rising and holding out a hand to Laurel.

“Shall we go back?”

***

Each time they stepped on the swaying platform between the cars, Laurel paused. Jemina couldn’t blame her. There was an exhilaration to the wind’s buffet, the swing underfoot, the wild landscape flashing past.

They stopped outright on the last platform before their car. Laurel clenched the railing, shoulder-height for her, with both hands and looked out. Her hair lashed in the wind like a Medusa’s tangle.

“Will we see Indians?” she said.

“Quite probably”

“And buffalo?”

“Undoubtedly.” Jemina had, as was her way, researched the trip well before embarking on it. She knew the distances between cities, and had the route plotted out on the map of the United States that hung in her head, colored with elementary school dyes, unfaded over the years. Accounts of life in the West were plentiful, and she’d read enough of them to think she’d gleaned at least a few truths amid the wild lies and tall tales.

Laurel took a deep breath of the prairie air, sweet grass mingled with coal smoke, before reluctantly moving to the door.

Jemina stepped after her. They nearly collided with the passenger coming out, who divided an oleaginous smile between them. He was dressed in the Western style, with high-heeled boots elaborately tooled and set with silver spurs, and the tuft of lace at his untanned neck, a dandy’s puff, set Jemina instantly against him and his slicked-back ebony hair, his thin line of a moustache.

She’d seen his kind during the experiments: wealthy merchants come to examine the way Lincoln proposed to win the war, aided by his Haitian allies, lending him their knowledge in order to keep their country from American meddling somewhere down the line. Men who examined the horrific with cold, calculating eyes while they smoked cigars and chatted about tax rates.

One of them had even asked about the possibility of zombie factory labor.

She’d stood with the President at one point, watching. He was a tall man, towering over her, dressed in a sooty black suit. His eyes were sunken, sleepless.

Perhaps they might have discussed the ethics of it all at another moment. But times had been desperate, and full of chaos and hard choices.

How did they test whether the Confederate dead would turn on their fellow but living Johnnies? They’d put them in together and at first Jemina had thought they meant to take out the living prisoners once the point had been proved and then she realized they had no intention of doing so. She’d turned her head, unwilling to watch, but she could hear screams and then worse sounds, thick, meaty sounds and gulping, and smell the hot tang of blood-

The man said, “Watch your step, little lady,” and handed Laurel through the door. He was trying to impress her, Jemina decided, and she shook off his assisting hand as she followed Laurel.

Unexpectedly, he laughed as the door closed after them. Not an unkind laugh, but as though amused at the way she’d brushed past him. Her cheeks warmed as they made their way back to their seat.

They settled back in. The high-backed wooden bench lacked any cushioning, but Jemina rolled up her shawl and laid it against the wall for a pillow and let Laurel settle against her, a slight warm weight, as comforting as a kitten in one’s lap.

They stayed that way in silence for a while as the car chugged along, but the rumble of the train, the back and forth of other passengers did not make for rest.

Or so Jemina thought but she found herself soon enough in a thin sleep, dreaming of being awake. The back door of the train car opened and she turned her head towards it in agonizingly slow motion through the too-thick air, already knowing what she would see there: the encarmined teeth, the glazed eyes, the staggerstep of the broken boned.

They hadn’t let her keep the charm. They’d all worn them during the experiments, the ones that warded off the undead. Expensive to manufacture and strictly regulated, because every soldier to enter the battlefield had to wear one or go down beneath the cold teeth belonging to his own side.

When she got to Seattle and began her work, they’d give her another. But here and now — little to protect her — she raises her hand as though to point a finger at the zombies coming so close she smells the carrion stink of them, the smell of rot that had made her eventually burn the clothes she’d worn when daily working with them…

She was awake.

She jolted upright, disturbing Laurel, who said something drowsily. Jemina stroked her hair with her right hand, settled the child back into her lap. Her heart still hammered uncomfortably.

She looked out the window into the darkness and could see only the reflection of the car’s interior for a moment. Then as her eyes picked out detail, she saw the stars hanging far overhead, the blaze of the Milky Way, a curdle of starlight spilling over the plains that rolled out as far as the eye could see.

Chuggadrum, chuggadrum, the sound of the wheels underfoot, the everpresent vibration working its way through her body as they hurtled through the night towards Seattle.

They’d promised her a laboratory of her own. A budget. Assistants.

Things she could do without interference. That was worth a lot, for a woman in a field that held so few other of her sex.

“I have nightmares sometimes too,” Laurel said.

Jemina’s hand sleeked over the curve of Laurel’s skull, cloth sliding over glossy hair.

“We all do.”

“What are yours about?”

“The war. What about yours?”

Laurel lay silent so long that Jemina thought she had gone back to sleep. But finally she said, “How my parents died.”

Jemina’s fingers stilled. She waited.

“We were in the house and they came,” Lauren said. “My uncle said they were supposed to stay on the battlefield and no one knew they went the wrong way.”

Her voice was subdued, thoughtful.

“Mama was upstairs singing to me. She sang a song she made up, ‘Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, where do you wander?” She had a pretty voice, Mama did. It would have been all right, but papa heard them at the door and he went and opened it. That was how they got in.”

Jemina saw it in her mind’s eye, despite her attempt to force it away: the man mowed down, devoured with that frightening completeness that zombies had, before they moved on to the rest of the house…the song faltering, the mother trying to hide her child from the ravenous attack.

“How did you get away?” she asked.

“I jumped out the window and ran. I tried to get my little brother first, but it was too late, so I ran.”

“Your brother?”

“He was just a baby. He couldn’t run.” Laurel moved her head in slow negation. “Too late.”

Jemina closed her eyes, feeling the story wrenching at her heart.

These things happened in war. They were sad, yes, but unavoidable. They happened, and no one could prevent them.

The wheels screeched as the train slowed. Both of them sat up to look out the window. A group on horseback stood beside the tracks. Jemina couldn’t see whatever had made the train come to a stop.

“Who are those men?” Laurel asked.

“I don’t know.” But she did, given the fact that the group had bandanas tugged up around their faces, and that many had pistols or Springfield rifles in their hands.

“They’re bandits!” Laurel’s voice was excited.

“Yes,” Jemina admitted.

This was how her fellow scientist McCormick had died. An ambush, a shot to the head from an unknown foe. Was this group looking for whoever had been sent as his replacement? Was someone devoted to keeping the War Institute’s faculty from reaching it?

They waited. Around them, everyone was abuzz, but stayed in their seats. The front door of the car swung open and two men entered, both holding pistols, red cloth masking everything except their eyes. Both were hatless, stringy hair matted with dust and sweat.

“We’re looking for a fellow name of J. Eye-ay-rain,” one called to the car at large. “You here, Mr. Eye-ay-rain? If not, I’m going to start shooting people one by one, cause according to the manifest, you’re in this car.”

Jemina held up a hand. “I am Jemina Iarainn.” If they were there to kill her, let them do it and get out before anyone else was endangered.

Her gender astonished them. They squinted at her before exchanging glances.

“You headed to Seattle and the War Institute to work? Some kinda necromancery?”

“Yes to Seattle, yes to the War Institute. No to necromancy. I hold joint degrees in medicine and engineering, specializing in artificial limbs.”

Exasperation kept her calm. Why should these dunces not believe a female scientist could exist? And necromancy — she was, by far, tired of that label. She worked with devices for the products of such technology, but she wielded the forces of science, of steam and electricity and phlogiston.

“Right then.” The speaker had made up his mind. “You come with me and my friend is going to talk to these nice people and collect their cash.”

“Pretty little girl,” the other said, smiling at Laurel, a smile that chilled the base of Jemina’s spine.

“She comes with me,” she said, putting her right hand on Laurel’s shoulder.

“She your daughter?”

“Yes,” she said. Laurel’s hand reached up to steal into hers, trembling.

“Wait,” someone said from behind them.

Jemina gathered Laurel behind her skirts, watching the gun, the deadly circle that was the barrel’s end, black as oblivion, rather than looking to the voice. She recognized it nonetheless: the dandy they’d met on the platform.

“I’m Miz Iarainn’s guard, escorting her to Seattle,” he said.

This time, surprise at the claim prompted Jemina to look around. He had a derringer in his hand as well but his posture was easy, relaxed, where the bandits’ was not.

“We don’t need you interfering,” one bandit said.

“All I’m going to do is follow along and make sure Miz Iarainn’s visit goes well,” he said. “You taking her somewhere, I’ll just meander thataway with you.” He cast a glance at Laurel. “Do some babysitting if need be of Miz Iarainn’s…daughter.” He winked at Jemina.

That was all she needed, some other random factor to complicate the equation that this peril posed. At least it was someone else for the guns to point at, she reflected.

The bandit said, “All right, but not with that gun in yer paw. Give it here.” He held out a hand.

The dandy said, “You give me your word that I won’t be harmed?”

“Sure,” the bandit said. “I mean, of course.” The dandy hesitated, but in the end, laid the tiny derringer in the other man’s palm. He nodded at Jemina as though to say, “See, I’ve got it all under control,” and she refrained from rolling her eyes.

They exited the train in a small group, Jemina and Laurel preceding dandy and first bandit while the second bandit remained behind.

Once off the train, she could see what had stopped it. A wagon had been driven across the tracks. The cowcatcher was within inches of it. If they’d been going any faster, there would have been a crash. A chill ran through her. These men didn’t care who got hurt here. If the train had crashed, they simply would have plucked what they wanted from the wreckage.

Another dozen bandits stood with the horses. The engineer and conductor both knelt in the long grass, fingers laced behind their heads, elbows poking out to point at the horizon. Other men came from the other cars, most of them carrying canvas sacks that sagged and clinked.

The bandit preceding the group walked up to a man who was one of the few unmasked. He sat atop a spotted horse, watching the crowd with a sleepy expression that reminded Jemina of a cat pretending not to see the mouse hole under his nose. His guns were tucked away in black leather holsters studded with silver skulls, and one of his ears was missing, ending in a ragged stump.

“Boss…” the man on the ground said hesitantly.

The man on horseback looked down. His brows knitted. “This the fellow?” he asked. “You brung his family along? What for?”

“The lady’s the fellow,” the bandit said. “T’other fellow says he’s her guard.”

“That so?” the unmasked man said. He drew a revolver and pointed it at the dandy’s head. “And why do you think she needs a guard?”

The dandy smirked. His gun remained trained on the bandit that had brought them. “I’m just…” he began.

The other man’s gun barked. The dandy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the ground. Laurel shrieked; Jemina’s hands tightened on her shoulders, but she did not react otherwise. The two bandits standing beside her exchanged glances.

The leader studied her. “You’re the scientist?”

“I am.” The levelness of her voice pleased her. “You’re the boss here?”

He laughed, a whip crack of a sound. “No. You’ll meet him, back at the camp.” He whistled shrilly. “Saddle up, boys.”

***

It felt as though they rode for hours through the relentlessly flat landscape. As they did so, Jemina realized there were folds and wrinkles to the land, and once or twice a distant smudge of trees marking, she presumed, a water source. It was, though, inhospitable territory, dry land where weeds grew only in the shadows of the rocks, where they could gain a foothold. Lizards and snakes slithered underfoot from time to time, and twice they stirred a covey of quail, who rose in a flurry of beating wings.

They came on the camp in one of the folds, so abruptly that the cluster of tents and shacks surrounding the yawning cavern mouth barely registered before they were stumbling down a slope and being hauled down off the horses.

Jemina’s hands had been tied in front of her. She wiped at her face, leaving streaks of dust on the crumpled white gloves. Laurel pressed close.

“Come on,” the man who’d shot the dandy said.

He led them through a cluster of tents, spurs jingling as he strode along. It was almost noon now, and the sun pushed down with impatient heat. When they entered the largest tent, it was cooler there, but there was an undertone to the air that Jemina recognized, a sour sweet smell of carrion. It made her skin crawl and the hair on the back of her neck prickle, memories tugging at her with insistent claws.

But the creature that sat in a makeshift throne made of powder kegs and chests was not a zombie. She’d known it couldn’t be. A zombie wasn’t capable of the organized thought commanding a troupe of bandits required.

Instead, a ghoul, a flesh-eater that consumed only the dead. She’d seen a few during the war, come to feast after battles, but they had been easy enough to drive away. Now here was one that had co-opted humans to serve it. Judging from the chest that spilled out currency and gold to one side, it had no problem with finding its hirelings.

The face was red-eyed, the nose too broad, the cheeks too thick to seem human. The rasping voice seemed equally monstrous, hesitating over the words as though trying to pick them out from a trap.

“You are the one traveling to the War Institute? We were given word you were coming.”

“Yes,” Jemina said. She put her tethered hands so they surrounded Laurel, gathering the child to her. She could feel Laurel trembling at the ghoul’s pallid regard, trying not to look at the corpses lying in the corner, bites torn from their more delicate parts, flies crawling over entrails. Jemina tried to focus.

“You are a necromancer then?” the ghoul said.

She shook her head. This again. “No. I am an engineer specializing in artificial limbs. I’m going to Seattle to work with the War Institute on a new effort.”

The red eyes studied her. “What sort of effort?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” But really, how hard was it to guess? Zombies plus specialized limbs. Super soldiers.

The lips pursed in disappointment. “I wanted a necromancer. An engineer is no use to me.” It flapped a hand. “Take them to a cell. I’ll eat them later.”

The second-in-command, who had remained to the side through all of this, escorted them. He seemed nonchalant, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and refusing to reply to any of Jemina’s sallies as he led them into the cave and along the narrow shaft carved into the rock. He stood aside to let them step into the cell made by a rocky corner set off by iron bars embedded into the stone. A plink of water touched Jemina’s face as they entered. She held out her hands, and after a moment’s hesitation the man undid the bonds, scowled, and slammed the door shut from the outside, locking it before he strode away again, footsteps echoing on the chill stone, playing counterpoint with the drop drop of water.

“He’s going to eat us,” Laurel said and burst into tears.

Jemina shook her head. “He’s not going to have the chance,” she said.

“Why not?”

They were locked in but alone. Jemina felt through her pocket for chalk. “Because I’m not a necromancer, but I am something better.”

“What’s that?”

“They call me a necromantic engineer.”

“What does that mean?”

Jemina hesitated. “The zombies that killed your parents. If you saw one again, and this one was your friend, would you trust it?”

Laurel’s eyes widened, impossibly big in the tiny, thin face. “But zombies are bad.”

“Not all of that,” Jemina said. “Some can be controlled.”

As Laurel watched, Jemina used a hatpin to tear open the ragged scar in her arm, painting the floor with blood and chalk in the intricate, unreadable script she knew, muttering under her breath, reaching out to forge the magical bonds she knew so well how to create.

***

When the explosion came, Jemina scrambled to her feet, despite the fatigue pulling her down. Out of the cloud of smoke, a figure stumbled.

Laurel screamed. “A zombie!”

“A summoned zombie,” Jemina said. She felt tired and old. Her forearm throbbed. “It lit the throne. Foolish to sit on a powder keg if you don’t expect it to blow up on you.”

Step by staggering step, the dead man came forward, wearing an apron of exposed entrails like ragged lace. His hand gripped the keys, stuck out in front of him. When they extended into the cell Jemina reached out to take them. As she did, she locked eyes with the dead, infinite stare.

“Be at peace,” she said, and watched as the body fell.

She unlocked the cell. “Come on. We’ll see if there are any horses. Even if there’s survivors, they’ll be busy enough that no one should stop us.”

“You would think so,” a voice said.

The ghoul. It stood there, scorched but intact. The eyes were bloodshot, burning.

Laurel screamed.

The ghoul eyed her. Deliberately it licked its pointed teeth, exposing withered gums, as the cold white tongue passed over them. “You will taste sweet,” it crooned to her. “Your bones will crunch like candy, and I will suck the marrow from the ends. I’ll finish with your eyeballs, I’ll roll them over my tongue like gumdrops and taste your tears on them.”

Jemina pushed Laurel behind her, stepping forward.

“Foolish woman,” the ghoul said. “What can you hope to do?”

“This,” Jemina said, pointing her left hand at him. The white glove fell into scraps as the bullet left the hollow chamber of her finger, revealing the brass and copper limb underneath, shining as he gaped down at the spreading crimson wound on his chest. Fiery tendrils splayed out, wrapping his form before it fell away, leaving only a pile of singed rags where he had stood.

“Silver bullet,” Jemina told the dust. Stepping over, she rifled through the pockets of the crumpled clothing, removing valuables.

“Are we going to Seattle now?” Laurel asked.

“No,” Jemina said, filling her pockets with what she’d gleaned. “I’m done with all this.”

“Then where will we go?”

“Anywhere,” Jemina said and held out her human hand.

After all, this was a wild new world, even if parts of it were war-wracked. This was the Mechanical age, and its practitioners would be welcome in almost any town.

“Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, where will we wander?” she said.

Laurel took her hand.

THE END

No more classes in November! Instead I’m enjoying my birthday, attending Orycon, and finishing up Hearts of Tabat as my NaNoWriMo effort. If you want to get advance news of classes, sign up below:

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NaNoWriMo 2015: Day 3

Also accomplished: organized some of the study bookshelves. Here we’ve got F&SF writing stuff plus podcasting equipment (top shelf); lingusitics and writing (middle shelf) and WMST and lit crit (bottom). It’s nice being able to find books when I want to refer to them.

So far I’m cranking along. Part of the impetus is a Thanksgiving trip, which effectively means I’ve got 20 days, not 30, to finish. But I’m well on track so far, with over 6000 words banked so far. Here’s some of them, taken from Hearts of Tabat:

“I need your help,” Sebastiano told Letha, “but oh…” His breath caught at the thought of her seeing what he had seen. “It is too much to ask.”

She came down the steps as he spoke, reached out and took his hand.

“Tell me,” she said, looking up into his face and the sound of the love and worry in her voice undid him. He collapsed to his knees, burying his face in her skirts, and sobbed like a child of five whose worst nightmare has come true.

She held him without speaking, let him sob away all the horror and terror of those moments and the coppery stench of the blood and the horrible way its sheen changed as it dried. Finally he drew away and she released him. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, pressing hard on his eyeballs, as though to extract what he had seen.

“A murder,” he said. “No, a slaughter, really. And they think it was a Beast.”

“Beasts do not murder,” she said. “They may kill in the moment, but they do not plan and enact such acts.”

“This one did. I think. I don’t know.” In his head he ran through lists. “Are there any creatures that thrive on death?”

“There are the Mandrakes, which suffocate and then try to put their infants in place of the human child,” she said. “There are the fairies, which sting so many travelers, but they must be provoked or drawn by injury, usually. You mean a creature that is fed by killing. That is not a Beast, Sebastiano. That is sorcery.”

He knew the truth of her words the minute he heard them. How had he not realized that before? Perhaps some clouding spell had overlaid the house? A golem, constructed by sorcery, using Beasts. Was that possible?

He must have spoken his thoughts aloud, because Letha replied to them, her voice tart as a winter apple. “Of course it is. What else does Tabat do with Beasts but use them to fuel magic?”

I’m also finishing up edits for the story that will appear next year in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, “Red in Tooth and Cog.” A recent publication is As the Crow Flies, So Does the Road in GrendelSong.

If you want some NaNoWriMo inspiration, here’s a post about why if you’re writing, you’re doing things right. Here’s a fun but low-pay call for submissions that might spark some ideas.

(Want some more inspiration? Check out one of my writing classes, either on-demand or live.

SFWA Bulletin and Blog Submission Guidelines

One of the things we’ve been working on behind the scenes is getting submission guidelines for both the SFWA Bulletin and the SFWA Blog up. The former pays ten cents a word, the latter six cents. They’re looking for much the same sort of content, things of interest to professional genre writers; blog articles are a bit shorter and more informal.

Here are the SFWA Bulletin guidelines.

Here are the SFWA blog guidelines.

You do not have to be a SFWA member to write for either publication. I’ve done a number of pieces for both, most recently a series on teaching workshops that finishes up soon.

If you’re not familiar with the blog, it runs a number of articles that are useful, including tips on tools, new markets, industry news, and writing advice.

#sfwapro

World Fantasy’s Harassment Policy

This morning the question was raised for me as to whether or not SFWA will hold a business meeting at World Fantasy if they do not produce a policy for handling harassment that matches up with the SFWA guidelines. (I myself am not attending WFC this year for reasons that have no connection to any of this; Susan Forest, the current SFWA Secretary, will be running the meeting if it is held.)

There’s been a lot of controversy about the current WFC policy and my understanding is that they are looking at amending it right now. So my answer depends very much on how it’s amended, actually. If the policy doesn’t match up with ours sufficiently to keep SFWA members and their families able to enjoy the convention and participate freely, we may not have the business meeting. That remains to be seen.

The SFWA guidelines, which have been around since 2011, are here. I’m not part of the group that produced them, but I’d like to go through and explain why I find ours adequate in a way the existing WFC policy is not.

Introduction

SFWA sponsors or hosts discussion forums, publications, the SFWA website, the Nebula Awards Weekend, the SFWA suite and other programs and activities (the “Venues”). SFWA is dedicated to assuring that the use of and access to the Venues by SFWA members is free of all forms of harassment, intimidation and discrimination on the basis of race, age, sex, gender, gender identity, national origin, ancestry, disability, medical condition, religion, sexual orientation, veteran status, marital/domestic partnership status, or citizenship.

SFWA’s concern here is SFWA space at the convention. We hope to lead by example, not to try to police conventions (a pretty futile task, imo), in order to make sure our spaces are open and free of harassment or intimidation for all parties — not just members, but potential members, member friends and family, etc.

This Policy is applicable to members of the SFWA Community that participate in the Venues. The SFWA Community is comprised of SFWA staff, employees, officers, members, and non-member guests. This Policy helps to promote the realization of SFWA’s mission to inform, support, promote, defend and advocate for our members. This Policy is procedurally separate and distinct from SFWA’s employment-related policies.

Basically if you’re in SFWA space, physical or virtual, these guidelines apply to you.

Definitions

Sexual harassment proscribed by this Policy includes (1) unwelcome sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, and other physical, verbal or written conduct of a sexual nature, and (2) creating an intimidating, hostile, or sexually offensive environment by severe or pervasive conduct. Written conduct includes postings or similar conduct in online or electronic venues. Sexual harassment may occur in hierarchical relationships or between peers, and between persons of the same sex or opposite sex.

The standard counterargument to erect (hee) here is that some cultures/people find sexual advances common, and how do you know advances are welcome OMG you are killing flirtation all hail the jackbooted thugs of sexless oppression. But since if you look a little later in the doc, the first thing to do in response is to tell the advancer that what they’re doing isn’t welcome, you would have to be attaching “even when presented with a firm no” to the “how can I tell that my advances aren’t welcome” question, that all seems moot.

A hostile environment can be created by, among other things, unwanted jokes, gestures, and unwelcome comments and repartee; touching and any other bodily contact such as scratching, rubbing, or patting a person’s back, backside, or chest, grabbing another person around the waist, or deliberately interfering with a person’s ability to move, or written conduct referring to same; repeated requests for dates or sex that are turned down, or other unwanted flirting, and transmitting or posting emails or pictures of a sexual or other harassment-related nature.

See usual straw crowd, who are huffed and puffed away by the strong wind of “severe or pervasive conduct,” at least in my opinion. But I also believe common sense is a basic human trait, despite being proven wrong on a daily basis.

With regard to access to or use of the Venues, discrimination or harassment that is based on race, age, sex, gender, gender identity, national origin, ancestry, disability, medical condition, religion, sexual orientation, veteran status, marital/domestic partnership status, or citizenship, is also prohibited by this Policy.

This Policy is implicated when the harassment, intimidation or discrimination is sufficiently severe or pervasive to deny or limit a person’s ability to participate in or benefit from SFWA’s Venues. It is not necessary that the harassment, intimidation or discrimination have been directed specifically at any complaining party.

Still seems reasonable to me. But it’s also a policy that depends on people letting us know when their ability to participate or benefit is being infringed on, which is one reason I’m grateful to the SFWA member whose letter about this I received this morning.

Free Speech and Artistic Freedom

As participants in creative industry, most members of the SFWA Community are particularly cognizant of the free speech protections guaranteed by the First Amendment of the United States Constitution and Article I, Section I of the California Constitution. Moreover, SFWA itself is organized around the principles of free inquiry and the collective search for knowledge, and views creative freedom as a special area of protected speech. However, freedom of speech and artistic and creative freedom are not limitless and do not protect speech or expressive conduct that violates federal, state law, or SFWA’s properly adopted policies.

The purpose of this Policy is intended to discourage harassment, intimidation and discrimination in SFWA Venues, in a manner that is consistent with SFWA’s organizational principles. Therefore, this Policy shall be implemented in a manner that recognizes the importance of the freedom of speech and expression: no provision of this Policy shall be interpreted to prohibit conduct that is legitimately related to fiction, teaching methods, or public commentary of an individual member or the educational, political, artistic, or literary expression of members in fiction and public Venues.

Again reasonable. SFWA has no interest in taking care of things that are outside its proper bounds. We are concerned with SFWA venues and hope that other organizations will see fit to follow our example. We’ve tried to make that as easy as possible by making them easily available on our website.

Reporting Procedures

The first step of a person who believes that there has been a violation of this Policy should be to communicate calmly with the individual engaging in the offensive behavior and tell him or her that you find his or her behavior to be inappropriate and request that it cease.

If such behavior does not immediately cease, or if direct communication is insufficient or uncomfortable, the behavior may be reported to the SFWA Ombudsman, the SFWA President or SFWA Event Organizer. Such report should include the substance of the complaint, date(s), a list of witnesses and/or, when appropriate, reference URLs. In addition to notifying the individuals identified above, a complainant may also request assistance from any SFWA officer, employee or volunteer.

I do know that sometimes it’s uncomfortable to tell someone to back off. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s also necessary as part of human to human interaction, and if a fellow human reacts inappropriately to being told to back off, any of us will step in and have your back.

Non-Retaliation

This Policy prohibits retaliation against a member of the SFWA Community for reporting harassment, intimidation or discrimination and for participating in an investigation relating to same. The sanctions for Retaliation are the same sanctions available to address any other violation of this Policy.

It’s important to let people have a mechanism for reporting harassment that they feel they can use.

False Allegations

It is a violation of this Policy for a member of the SFWA Community to knowingly or with reckless disregard for the truth make false claim of harassment, intimidation or discrimination. Failure to prove a claim of unlawful harassment is not, by itself, equivalent to a false claim.

Using harassment claims to harass or intimidate someone is serious stuff.

Sanctions for Violation Of Policy

Harassment, intimidation and discrimination in violation of this Policy is materially and seriously prejudicial to the purposes and interests of SFWA. When it has been determined that a violation of this Policy has occurred, the SFWA Board Of Directors will determine, in its sole discretion, the appropriate sanction.

Decisions are up to the overall SFWA board, not a specific person.

Notwithstanding the foregoing, the SFWA President may take or direct to be taken any temporary action appropriate to protect the purposes and interests of SFWA, including warning or alerting the offending party as to the nature of the offense, removal of either the complainant and/or the accused harasser from the SFWA Discussion Boards where the harassment or discriminatory conduct occurred, or otherwise diffusing the situation to protect both the participants and others in SFWA space from further harm or unpleasantness. Should such action be taken, a detailed report of the incident should be submitted to the rest of the Board so it can consider taking further action in the matter.

I’ve got some personal responsibility here, which I take pretty seriously.

Should conduct believed to be in violation of this Policy occur at a physical venue (the Nebula Weekend, SFWA suite, meeting, or other event) the SFWA Board member, employee, or volunteer in charge of the event at the time of the conduct may take reasonable action to stop the apparent harassment and ensure the safety of persons at the event. Reasonable action may include, but not be limited to, verbal notification to the individual that the behavior believed to be in violation of this Policy should be discontinued immediately, and/or removal of the individual from the immediate area. If action is taken, the person taking the action shall deliver a written report on the event incident (including a detailed narrative of the incident and the names of all persons involved and of any witnesses) to the Ombudsman and/or the SFWA President, who shall submit the report to the Board so it can consider taking further action in the matter.

No matter what happens, there must be a written report made to the Board.

The SFWA Board of Directors is responsible for the implementation of this Policy and the administration of the associated procedures. Upon receiving a report of a violation of this Policy, the SFWA Ombudsman or the SFWA President, as the case may be, shall provide formal notice (the “Notice”) of such conduct to the Board. As supplements or alternatives to the sanctions of suspension or expulsion, the Board may also take one or more of the following non-exclusive actions:

Warning one or more parties involved that specified behavior is inappropriate
Requiring a formal apology on behalf of the complainant(s)
Removing access to SFWA spaces or Venues on a temporary or permanent basis
Barring a non-member from future membership
Removal of a director from the board of directors (As per Article V, Section 5, Subsection c of SFWA Bylaws: Removal of a Director by the Board)

If the Board concludes that the behavior is sufficiently egregious to warrant suspension or expulsion, the procedures relative to the Notice and the Board’s action thereon shall be those procedures set out in SFWA’s Operating Policies and Procedures Manual (“OPPM”), “Procedures For Suspension and Expulsion Of Members”. The Board may pursue an investigation in cases when the complainant is reluctant to proceed.

What the Board can do. I note that challenging the offending party to a duel seems to have been left off the list. The Procedures for Suspension and Expulsion are long and rigorous, and my hope is to never see them invoked on these grounds.

Confidentiality

The SFWA Board of Directors will make every reasonable effort to conduct all investigations into allegations of harassment, intimidation or discrimination in a manner that will protect the confidentiality of all parties. Notwithstanding the above, confidentiality is not absolute, and those with a legitimate business reason to know and to be informed of the allegations will be so informed. Parties to the complaint should treat the matter under investigation with discretion and respect for the reputation of all parties involved.

This seems unobjectionable, except for the lack of an Oxford comma.

Conclusions? Harassment policies are definitely something SFWA should pay attention to, both in making sure our own is workable and useful as well as encouraging other institutions to do the same. We need to make sure that SFWA events fall under our own guidelines and that we communicate those guidelines clearly to participants. It’s my hope that WFC will feel free to draw upon the SFWA guidelines in creating ones that make the convention accessible to all participants.

Nine Ways to Rev Up For NaNoWriMo 2015

Want an online writing class to help you win NaNoWriMo this November? I teach both live and on-demand classes.

November has come to represent something for many writers: a chance to participate in NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. Participants pledge to write 50,000 words over the course of the month.

The main advantage of NaNoWriMo is the shared energy and impetus to get words onto the page, without worrying about whether they are genius or not. I’ve done it several times in the past, and always managed to either hit the 50,000 word mark or come within a few thousand words of it. While I don’t usually participate in local NaNoWriMo events, like the various write-ins at coffeeshops, libraries, and associated institutions, I do appreciate the feeling it brings of being part of a vast swell of words.

I’ve been mulling over whether or not to participate this year and finally swung into the Aye side. I’ve been having trouble getting my daily word count in lately (this has been a very weird year) so I’m signing up and will be doing daily posts. I also want to be able to cheer on students and friends who are also participating. You can find me on the NanoWriMo site here.

My aim is to:

Finish the unfinished scenes from Hearts of Tabat so I can finally start getting that to beta readers.
Finish three bespoke stories (one for the upcoming two-sided collection).
Finish at least one story for the Patreon campaign.

One thing I’ve learned is that you can put some prep into NaNo beforehand to maximize your success.

Preplan what you’re going to write. You don’t have to have an obsessive outline (although it’s not a terrible idea) but pantsing is more likely to lead to the terrible moment where you’re staring at the page, telling yourself that genius must occur, and then deciding to go play Candy Crush instead. I like the beat method, where you describe the scene and roughly what will occur: They make a fire. Ben makes tea. Else raises the issue of the hunters again. Ben refuses to talk but spills the tea. They hear something in the underbrush. A wolf jumps out.
Clear the decks. This is not the time to take on extra projects, plan to acquire better habits, or quit smoking. Make sure you have time to write, and that you won’t have things that occupy cycles in your head with worrying about them.
Figure out your schedule. Actually sit down and plan the schedule: I will write every weekday and Sunday but not worry about Saturdays because that’s a busy day. Think about the events of the month and factor those in: I will write 2500 words a day so I can finish before Thanksgiving travel. I will take the day of my birthday off. I will write extra the third week so I can goof off that weekend. Etc.
Plan your rituals. Where and how will you write? Every weekday I will go to the coffee shop from 1 to 3, turn off social media, and get words in. If I don’t hit my daily word total, I’ll get up early the following day and get an extra 500 in. Make rituals something that drive productivity, not impede it — don’t get in a situation where you can write only under specific circumstances (if you can avoid it).
Line up some writing prompts. Words are what matter during NaNoWriMo, and it’s okay to write scenes or other chunks that may not go in the finished version. Now is not the time to worry about that — just get the words in and see what happens. So line up some things to write about.
Reward yourself – not just at the end but along the way. I’m a big believer in the power of bribing yourself. Promise yourself some treat, not just for finishing overall, but for hitting your goals each week. It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but something you might not otherwise do: If I hit my goals each week, I will take myself out to lunch the following Monday. If I finish overall, I’ll buy those books I’ve been wanting.

Assemble your cheering squad. Got friends or family who are also participating? Sign up to cheer each other on. Let the people who are good about encouraging you know what you’re doing and how they can best help you.
Tell yourself you’re going to make it. Visualize your success and how lovely it will be to have all the words under your belt. Tell yourself you can do it, and keep that cheerful internal encouragement going throughout the month.
Be accountable. Figure out how you can track what you’re doing. I’ll be using the NanoWriMo site as well as posting word counts and snippets on this website.

Are you participating in NaNo this year? What will you be working on?

Working Away Plus Teaser from “Paladin of Anger, Paladin of Peace”

Act 4

I am grimly determined to finish Hearts of Tabat before the end of this year: I have my list of scenes and will get them finished by November 15, then crunch through a quick and hasty polish and get that to beta readers. At the same time I’m working on a couple of bespoke stories, several collaborations, and a few stories for Patreon.

Here’s a piece from this morning’s work on a Tabat story that is somewhat connected to the events in Hoofsore and Weary, which appeared in Shattered Shields.

This is how I first saw the Red Paladin.

She must have just entered the city, because her scarlet armor was dulled with dust, and her horse’s head drooped.

Mother had elbowed and fought her way to getting us a booth near the market’s entrance that day, and she was battling to sell every brick of spice we had before going home, despite the fact she could have summoned a servant to do it. She was doing it as some small battle in the endless war between my parents and when I paused to watch the paladin pass, my mother’s hand clipped me across the ear, hard enough to rock my head and feel the snap of blood rising to meet the place she’d struck.

“Stop gawping and bring me more sacks,” she snapped, and sent me racing on her errand, running under the beat of the hot sun and knowing I’d be hard-pressed to get back in time to satisfy her, but even so my soul rocketed out as I dashed through a crowd of tea-pigeons and sent them startled upwards, feeling the press of her attention lessened for a little while.

The image of the paladin, her head upright underneath the masking helmet, the slight curves of her armor the only thing marking her female, stayed with me.

She looked so calm for a knight sworn to Anger.

***

The second time I saw the paladin, I was pretending I was someone else while I walked through the gardens. I pretended I was a noble’s daughter, raised only to think of her own pleasure, not worrying about obligation or responsibility. I could do that because my little brothers were playing tag on the long grass and I could watch them from a distance but pretend that I wasn’t in any way connected with them. I sat on a bench made out of iron spirals and coils and flowers, one of the old-fashioned kind, in the shade and tried to make pieces of myself loosen out.

I tried to do this every few days because otherwise – and sometimes even with – I would wake up aching as though I’d been beaten, my jaw clenched tight, chased by nightmares through endless passageway toward waiting red rooms, doors mawed with teeth and fleshy silence eating any protest I might make.

But pushing to relax is something you cannot do and finally I just sat and appreciated the sunlight, hoping I’d feel all those pieces of me unclench. It had gotten so much worse lately, with both parents worrying about marriage-brokering (my mother’s thought) or apprenticeship (my father’s) or both, but never my thought of neither.

In other news, this weekend’s classes are the Reading Aloud Workshop, Literary Techniques for Genre Writers II, and the First Pages Workshop. If my live classes are inconvenient due to schedule or price, check out the on-demand versions.

My most recent publication is “Marvelous Contrivances of the Heart”, which appears in Recycled Pulp, edited by John Helfers. It’s a story where I tried to hearken back to an old, twilight-zoneish theme while refurbishing some bits to update it some. I’ll be curious to hear what people think.

If you’ve read Beasts of Tabat and liked it, please consider leaving a review on Amazon, GoodReads, or LibraryThing.

What Class Next?

The year rockets along, this year of up and down and up and down, full of passed milestones and potholes: a first novel, other people’s cancer and dementia, the SFWA presidency (somehow both achievement and affliction all at once), old dysfunctions resurrected, and sundry fears and worries slithering around at four in the morning.

One of the bright spots has been teaching, and I’ve been enjoying taking the live classes and converting them into on-demand content. So far, I’ve done:

Literary Techniques for Genre Writers – This was the first class I converted, and I know I’ll be going back to it to redo pieces as well as to expand it with the content from the Lit Tech II class I’m working on.
Reading to An Audience Workshop – I’m happy enough with it for what it is: a thorough primer on how to prepare and give a reading, but I’m going to be reworking it to include podcasts and bringing in co-author Dave Robison to expand that content (at which point the price will go up to match the other classes, I believe, so if you’re interested in it, this is a good chance to lock in the lower price.)
Character Building Workshop for Genre Writers – So pleased with this one. It’s considerably expanded from the live version, it has a ton of writing exercises, and it covers (almost) everything I wanted to cover.

So here’s a question. What workshop should I focus on converting next? Here’s the options.

Beginnings and Endings : This is a new class, so I could work on the on-demand version while finishing up the notes for the live version.
Creating an Online Presence for Writers : I need to go through and update material, which is a year out of date, the equivalent in Internet years to a decade or so, and to do it within the next couple of weeks before the class, so I’m leaning strongly this way. I’ve been picking at this task a little, mainly with research that really only adds to the work by discovering new work items. This would also be a good one to focus on since I need to get the book version of this redone and out in hardcopy as well as electronic this time around.
Description and Delivering Information : This seems like it will involve some work, but it’s also a really fun class, and I’ve finally got access to some of the books I wanted to draw on, now that we’re in the new place and almost completely unpacked.
Flash Fiction Workshop : One factors that will slow this particular conversion is that I need to write to some people and ask about reprinting their work and figure out a reasonable payment/contract for that.
Moving Your Story From Idea to Draft : This is a fun class to teach, but a lot of that is done on the fly, so there’s a chunk of writing to be done in this adaptation.
Re-telling and Re-Taleing : Another new class, this one co-taught with Rachel Swirsky.
Rewriting and Revising : I think I want to restructure the on-demand version of this, so a student can start the module with a story they want to work on in hand and then go through the rewrite process step by step instead of the current way I have the class exercises structured.
One of the smaller workshops that I’ve done in the past, like Blocking and Pacing or Submission Basics. Tod McCoy of Hydra House and I will be working on an on-demand version of the Electronic Publishing Basics class we offered a few years back.

Got a preference or opinion? Tell me what I should teach next.