Greer Gilman's Blog, page 82

Cry Murder! in a Small Voice

How would that do for a title for my Ben story?  It's from Poetaster.

Emerging blinking, I realize that the Windling auction is nearly over, but if I put up beta-reading rights, would anyone bid for it?

Nine

Nine at three score

Dear gods, what a year.

I lost my mother.

This means I am entangled in an endless, ludicrous and tragic family war.  I am at the center, the one all parties appeal to and blame.

This means a house fell on me.

This means (I hope) that I will have another room for books, a chance to travel.

This means I am discovering a little more of who my mother was.  I wish we could talked.

I lost Diana Wynne Jones.  I miss her terribly.

I lost Mike Waterson, one of my muses; I nearly lost his sister Norma, who was desperately ill, and has (thank gods) recovered slowly.

I have magnificent beloved friends:  who are vulnerable.

I don't feel old.

And I can bloody well still write.  This last month was a gift, and I rejoice.

Nine

So...

Where should I think of sending it?  I wonder if my beloved Small Beer would do a chapbook?

Nine

Whee!

Ben Jonson, Private Eye is drafted, as of an hour ago.  It's a Jacobean revenge procedural.  With fantastic elements.  And gender-bending.  And blank verse.  In short, it's awfully Nine-ish.

And gracious heavens!  Over 13,000 words in one month flat: by a whisker, my second-best word count since the beginning of time.  "Jack Daw's Pack" took me years.  And it bloody well killed me.  Though oddly enough, both stories started with a joke:  that with a crack about Diggory's fiddle-playing that would wake the dead; and this, with "Ben Jonson, PI."

I went out and did my special Nine dance in the Yard, to "The Teddy Bears' Picnic," "Packington's Pound," and Brandenbergs 1 & 3.

Now I'm going to polish off the last of the Butterscotch Pudding of the Seraphim.

Nine

Gee, Thanksgiving

It was excellent.

I spent with day with Ben in Venice, writing like a madwoman.  Bliss.

Then at seven went over to the Goddess of Short Fiction's house for fabulous desserts and high hilarity.

There was:

Lemon tart:  she does a buttery rich, slightly caramelized pastry, filled with the whole lemon--pulp, zest, pith, and all--and it spangles.
The butterscotch pudding of the seraphim
French apple tart
A pecan-flour tart with thick chocolate frosting
Buttermilk stealth pound cake, very subtle
Little divertissements in chocolate and meringue
Pumpkin pie
Gingerbread
Everest in whipped cream
Snow White's stepmother's apples, pomegranates, red pears, and elfin oranges.

I hear the savories were equally spectacular, but I was writing.  Besides, I had room for dessert.

Overstuffed and elated, I went home and kept writing.  Worked until past seven.

Just the best Thanksgiving ever.

Hope yours was terrific.

Nine

Mean streets of Southwark

My alterno-Jacobean mystery has gone novella.  I'd love to see what others could do with this stuff.   Maybe we could pitch an anti-Oxfordian anthology:  Fartfantastic.

Nine

Eric Idle (most likely Michael Palin, really)

On "Who wrote Shakespeare." It's glorious.



Nine

She will not do it up

Since I left town last week, a small tent city has sprung up beneath the great trees of the Yard.  I was crossing in the early dusk, a few late-hanging leaves above me and a scuffle below, when I heard the sprightly melancholic sound of klezmer.  Two played:  a cello and trombone.  I listened and I gave.

It braided beautifully with sovay 's Wednesday reading:  the bittersweet awareness and the dream.

Nine

Slow triumph

Cloud & Ashes has earned out.  I glow.

Nine

Eleventh of November

Silence.

Nine