May. 30th, 2016 10:26 am
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I am just sayin', but Charles de Lint reviewed last year's "Year's Best" antho edited by Gardner Dozois (vol 32) in F&SF, and inter alia he said this:

Chaz Brenchley's "The Burial of Sir John Mawe." Boy, does Brenchley pack in a wealth of worldbuilding in such little space with his tale of the aftermath of a hero's death on an inhabitable Mars that is under British Colonial Rule. I've no doubt there'll be more stories in this setting, and I hope they're half as good.


May. 23rd, 2016 10:03 am
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I have, as they say, done myself a mischief. No idea how.

Saturday, I thought I had a bug. By Sunday it was clearly an injury. Something abdominal: if I had a left-handed appendix, somewhere around there. I'm okay as long as I keep reasonably still, and I'm okay walking around; but standing up, sitting down, leaning forward, bending over, lifting - these are all horribly ouchie.

Obviously I am going to live with it another day or two before I even pretend that I'm thinking about going to see a doctor.
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From the book description sent by Abebooks, with the volume that arrived today:

Contents include:

Pogonotrophy in Serendip; Of Antick Beards; Of Barbers and Barbarians; Beards versus Bayeux; Radat and Filioque; Beards and Bigots; Of Prayers for Shaving and of Other Matters, including False Beards; Mambrino's Helmet and the Beard of Bessanon; The Augustan Age of the Philopogon; The Beard Romantic and the Scandal of Whiskers; The Nineteenth Century; Hail and Farewell.

Or, in other words, yes: after four years and more of being five thousand miles from my favourite book, I have finally obtained my own copy of Beards: an Omnium Gatherum by Reginald Reynolds, rather than being dependent on the now-far-distant copy in the Lit & Phil.

If I never told you the story of how this in fact became my favourite book, I might do that. Later. Meantime, I'm just going to sit and stroke it, 'k? For that it is mine, I tell you, mine to me...
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So I am browsing the library's copy of The NoMad Cookbook by Daniel Humm and Will Guidara. You could pay a hundred dollars for this book, people. And look! For your money, you could get a typo never before perpetrated, unique to this splendid publication! (Possibly)

Unless "Pureews" is a word that I don't know and neither does the internet, that is.

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So yesterday, as happens at least once a month and sometimes more, Thursday dinner turned into Curry Club. See this?


No, you're completely wrong. This is not dinner. This is leftovers. (I have always had a problem judging volume, will-this-fit-into-that. So I overcater. Besides, we only had five people yesterday including ourselves. Standard Thursdays run to twice that. Obviously people hate my curry or something.)

Anyway: lamb (and beef, because I ran out of lamb) kofta in a tomato coconut sauce; pork bhuna; chicken with turmeric and cilantro that I totally made up; tadka dhal; sugar snap peas with ginger; lemon-rice-without-the-lemon. (Oh, and my own chilli pickle in the jar. My own chilli pickle which has nearly run out. I should totally do something about that.) I could eat this all week. Just as well, really. I may have to.
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Yesterday, you will recall that nothing worked.

Today is better than that. Indeed, I started - before coffee! - by defeating a bug in the new iteration of Ubuntu. It was very weird last night; I set up my email client of choice (Thunderbird, since you ask) and found that I couldn't delete anything from the inbox. Not from the keyboard, not by dragging it to the Trash file, not nohow.

Still the same this morning, so I did that thing we do, we modern folks: I went to Google and said "I can't delete anything from Thunderbird". And lo: this is a known bug, caused by a corrupted Trash file. The solution is to delete the Trash file by doing this and this, and then rebuild it using such-and-such. So I deleted it by doing this and this, and then rebuilt it using such-and-such. And lo: today is a day when things do work. And I felt the righteous joy of one who has mastered his foe. King of the lab.

And then we went to brunch at David & Becky's new house, which is kinda lovely, actually; and now we are home again, and Karen is the one who will be writing all afternoon to meet an evening deadline. Me, I have just reminded myself how to find all my emails on the old installation and transfer them to the new one; and again I have done it and it worked, so go me.

Contrariwise and on the other hand, right now I am finding that the resolution on this screen is making my eyes go weird. I am in hopes that I will get used to this, in time, because it ain't tenable long-term. I'm not even sure it's tenable short-term. We'll see. (If I stop seeing, then I guess we'll know.) There are fallback positions, and I don't have to get this worked up about it.

Also, I can spend more time in the garden. That would be a good.
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So I woke up this morning to an Ubuntu installation so badly broken it won't connect to the internet at all. And I had an earlier installation that was working, so I have been sourly upgrading that - and the upgrade has just stalled out halfway through, in a way that I think means that this installation too will be broken if I try to reboot it. And I am not geek enough to know what to do about this, because "just never reboot" is not exactly an option hereabouts.

This is where I think about invoking my long-term survival plan, in the form of a Whole New Machine. Starting fresh, starting clean is always so attractive when things get muddy and messy and tangled-up as badly as this one is. (It has four separate iterations of Linux on it, three of which don't work. Three about to become four, that is.) This one's four years old, after all, which used to be a decent lifespan for a PC back in the day. That day was twenty years ago, but hey: it's all about mindset, and mine is kinda calcified. But when I did upgrade I'd been meaning to buy a machine optimised for Ubuntu, rather than constantly fighting incompatible hardware; and that would mean delay, where I could just wander into Fry's this afternoon and buy something on the instant.

And, and, and. And I did not want to spend my weekend doing this, soddit. Any of this.

And now I am going to reboot this stalled install, and learn just how bad things are. I may be some time. This may be farewell. It's been fun, mostly...
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So for a little while now I have had a book on the back burner, which means in the back of my head for the most part; up front there is really only half a chapter, a twist and a feeling. Also it is quite blatantly Iain (M) Banks fanfic. I do not apologise for this, neither resile from it; I don't believe that Iain would have cared, and I just wanna. Sometime, I'll just take some time and write the thing and show it to people and see.

Not right now, I have other stuff to do and this is not the time. Except that it dawned on me this morning when I was doing entirely other things that I really want to call it OVERSIGHT. Which, again, because I wanna and at this stage I can. It's not punchy, as titles go; but I always did like puns and double meanings, and when those two familiar meanings address two major themes within the work (and possibly three: I did say there's a twist), then hell yes.

Besides which, I really dislike writing without a title in situ - or you could put that the other way and say I always do like writing to a title, so that it gets embedded in the text, like words running all the way through the rock. Makes it much more likely that a thing will actually get written, once I know what to call it.
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So Mars no longer has an internal dynamo or a global magnetic field, though certainly it used to. I am taking it as read that the mere residue, the surface-scatter of magnetised rock is not enough to make a magnetic compass viable. So how would you navigate, on Old Mars in amongst all the canals and without benefit of satellites or GPS? By sun and stars and landmarks, sure - but what am I missing?

[EtA: assuming a 1920s British-Imperial level of tech and understanding...]

[EtA2; I suppose it's too much to hope that Mars' north pole also (currently) points towards Polaris...? *asks internet* Yup: much too much to hope. Sigh.]
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Is it bitterly ironic, or just inordinately depressing, when your work doesn't even make the lists of the undeservedly disregarded?

Ach, whatevs. I finished the new Crater School quarter-day story, and it's a whole damn novella (which I am hoping will prove some compensation for the delay). It just needs a quick polish, and then we'll get it out to my Patreon subscribers as soon as possible. It's called "The Crater Girls in Camp", and features schoolgirls - of course! - and aliens (by special request) and a little bit more of the Mars that no one's seen yet. And Rowany de Vere, because she's awesome.


May. 7th, 2016 11:49 pm
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M'wife says I should post this here. I was tolerably certain that actually I did at the time, but hey.

M'friend the herbalist Paula Grainger took this fabulous photo of a cloud that looked like a bear; I wrote a poem about the way we see stuff and what we call things and yadda yadda.

You'll find it here.
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The second week in June, I will be heading up to Portland, to hang out with various other writerly types: that Ken Scholes fellow, and Shannon Page, and, y'know. Mark Ferrari. We are in hopes that some actual workstuff might arise from this. Also, legendary debauchery.

But! There's nothing so inherently mind-boggling about this; I have done it before, and it's barely worth announcing. Except that this time I'm not flying, because there is nothing fun about flying any more. I'm going up by train.

By Amtrak, indeed, with all its notorious delays. If all runs to schedule, it's a nineteen-hour journey through some tolerably awesome country. I expect to read and drink and watch the world unreel, and very possibly not sleep at all, because hullo.
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My fitness app tells me that I exercised for six and a half hours yesterday, though that doesn't seem enough; that I walked 30,000 steps; that I only covered twelve miles of ground.

Nothing really adds up, until you take another perspective on the day: that I worked - with breaks - from ten in the morning to ten-thirty in the evening, and those steps were entirely back-and-forth and up and down.

People, we moved a garden.

Happily, it was a garden already in pots; and happily we'd done an afternoon's groundwork the day before, clearing the alley beside the house and putting shelves and such into the truck. Still: it was a big truck, and a crowded garden. Between the shelves and the racks and the hanging rods, we filled that truck from floor to ceiling with biomass, and drove it half an hour and emptied it again (that's where the up-and-down came in, for there were fifteen steps down to the sunside patio, and half the garden loves the sun). Then we went back to the point of origin, and filled the truck again. Just at the point where a British party would have said "I could murder a curry," Karen came through with dim sum; and then we went back to the new house and unloaded the second half of the garden. In the dark.

I am tired today, and a little bit achey.
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Corned beef, people: it is two different things, depending. To the British, it comes in cans and is a kind of disintegratory beefy spam, also occasionally sliced and battered and fried into fritters. None of this is any good at all, but this was my only experience of corned beef prior to California.

Over here, it's a salted slow-cooked brisket, sliced at deli counters for sandwiches (of which the highest achievement may be the Reuben - corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut and dressing) or else served hot, generally with cabbage, generally on St Patrick's day. Leftovers in a hash, thanks, topped with a fried egg, because what isn't better topped with a fried egg?*

Anyway: I mention this because I cooked corned beef yesterday for Thursday dinner (which was also our fourth anniversary, as it happens, which it was nice to have a gang of friends around to share). And contrary to my usual habit, I actually wrote down how I cooked it, which is kind of a prerequisite to posting a recipe, because I'll never remember else.

Typically, I then forgot to take any photos, which is the other prerequisite for anything that claims to be any kind of a food blog, hey-ho.

But just in case, this is a dead simple way to make a tableful of friends very happy:

Peel a couple of onions, divide them into six wedges each, and lay those on the bottom of a slow cooker (or a casserole dish/Dutch oven if you don't have a slow cooker, but this is what I did, because I do).

Rinse the corned beef, and set it atop the onions.

Whisk half a cup of ketchup (or a little more - I just used what was left in the bottle, which would be more than half a cup but less than a whole one, by US measurements) with a bottle of dark beer (I used Maltopia Wee Heavy Scotch, because that's what I had in the spare beer bacon fridge) and pour over the meat.

Add lots of pepper. You won't need salt.

Cook on low for ten hours (or in the bottom of a low oven for probably four or five, but I haven't tested that).

Slice, and pour over a little of the cooking-liquid. Serve with mashed potatoes and braised cabbage; completely forget to offer house-made kimchi alongside, although it's really not bad at all for a first attempt. Sigh.

*The question is rhetorical, except not really.
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So I'm reading Ken Liu's collection "The Paper Menagerie" over First Coffee in the morning. At first I thought there was something unexpectedly old-fashioned about the stories; they invoke memories of reading Bradbury or Sturgeon in the '70s. I think that's an expression of craft, a shared understanding of the shape a story takes. Another voice joining in the conversation.

I like this; but I think I need something else to read with Second Coffee. I really only want to read one Liu at a time, and then dwell upon it for a while. And I want something robust, something rambunctious, to set against that perfect crystalline quality, the stillness of the rose. I want battalions.

Tidying up

Apr. 2nd, 2016 06:04 pm
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It can't actually be the loveliest, but one of the lovely things about making chicken curry is that most recipes call for removal of the skin; which means that you're left with lots of lovely chicken skin in the fridge, begging to be crisped up into salty nibbly snacks...


...And of course baking and eating these is a virtue, as it avoids both waste and storage options. Eating is tidying, people; I have always said so.

In recognition of which, we shall be eating all Thursday's leftovers for dinner tonight. And drinking up lots of cluttery bottles of wine, also. We're practically glowing with goodness and the right.

Also, I have done good and useful things all day, including apologising to all my Patreon subscribers, because the Crater School project has fallen behind. I knew it would, if I didn't get ahead of myself last month. Those two weeks in England were filled with good intentions and poor achievement; I would blame the virus, but honestly, it's mostly just me. I left undone those things I ought to have done, and I'm now two chapters and a quarter-story short. But I'm tackling that - one chapter done, a second started - and I have tried to mollify my subscribers by posting the whole story-so-far in epub and mobi formats. That's the first half of the first book, more or less. If you wanted to see what I'm up to over there, here's the link that will take you.

And I'm trying to relaunch my newsletter, because hullo. If you felt like subscribing to that, there's a sign-up on the front page of my website, and this is the link that will take you there.

And I'm copyedit/proofreading a new Book View Cafe anthology, a collection of essays with the clearly ironic title The Usual Path to Publication, and I need to type up my notes & queries about that, so yay for not having to cook tonight, because leftovers...
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So various things have happened, personal and travel-related and such, and relatedly or otherwise, I have been neglecting this journal shamefully.

But now we are home again, and I am fully resolved to mend my ways: in pursuit of which mending, one thing I want to do is talk more about food. Especially Thursday food. As you know, Thursday is when friends come around to dine: sometimes half a dozen of 'em, sometimes twice that. It's never a dinner party as such, it's just a chance for them to hang out and for me to show off, or to experiment, or just to stretch myself. It is, in fact, all about me. Unsurprisingly.

Anyway: we've been away, and now we're back, and this is the first Thursday since the interregnum. And as we just spent two weeks in England and I somehow managed not to eat a single curry, guess what I'm cooking tonight?

Specifically, I am cooking the dish I most despise, the dish most laughed at among the soi-disant cognoscenti of the English curry cuisine: I am making chicken korma. And I mean for it to be awesome.

Thing is, chicken korma as served in every British takeaway is essentially curry for people who hate curry: cooked with boneless chicken breast so mildly spiced it might as well have none at all, thick with cream, padded with banana and pineapple and I know not what more. It's what they sell to the old folk who've never crossed the threshold of a curry house before, and to kids who've never so much as put pepper on their eggs.

But it doesn't need to be like that. My chicken korma is going to be redolent with onion cooked sweet and slow, heavy on the ginger and the garlic, flavoured with fennel and coriander. There will be serrano chillies, left whole for those who don't like 'em to pass 'em on to me. The chicken will be dark meat, thighs, and cooked on the bone for better savour. That'll cook with its yogurt marinade and not a hint of dairy more. No cream, no fruit. Ground cashews to thicken the sauce. And there'll be a vegetable curry on the side, and a channa dal, and lemon-rice-without-the-lemon, as is traditional around here.

I'll let you know if anyone storms out.

[EtA: in other news, I had dentistry today. I just wanted to say that, so's you'd understand how radically awesome I am being.]
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So Karen lost her job again, and things is all colleywest hereabouts. Melancholia triumphs, and the struggle naught availeth. Even Mac's been a little gloomy and off his feed.

Also, I have a temporary filling in a freshly root-canal'd tooth (why is there no verb for root canalling? Verbing weirds English, etc), which our darling dentist struggled with mightily and concluded by saying "that's going to hurt; keep the Advil handy." He was not wrong.

Nevertheless, we shall be at FogCon this weekend, and in England for Mancunicon thereafter. People should buy us drinks. Many, many drinks.

Alternatively, of course, now would be a good time to drop a few coins in the tip-jar by signing up for my Patreon. Schoolgirls! Aliens! Mars! You'd get half a book immediately, and the rest over the coming six months or so. I have no idea how you've resisted so long. *eyes you sidelong*
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So my Oscar-Wilde-on-Mars story, "The Astrakhan, the Hombug and the Red Red Coal", will - rather fittingly, I think - be appearing in Wilde Stories 2016, aka the year's best gay specfic antho.

That makes the third year's-best antho that this story has been picked for. Which is by way of being a record for me, and I am chuffed.
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There was a guy singing Cohen's Hallelujah down at the farmers' market this morning, so now of course I am earwormed beyond recovery - but then I don't really care for music, do I?

I see that the Nebula awards shortlist is out, and that I am once again not quite good enough. It is ... ongoingly depressing, I find, to lack the affirmation of one's peers. But this has been the story of my life, and I am used to it - and to write well is the best ... let's say recovery. If I miss both the glittering prizes and the fat purses, at least I can leave some bloody good stories behind me.

In pursuit of which, the Housman-on-Mars story is now definitively titled "Home is the Hunter, Home from Sea, and the Sailor Home from the Hill". The only question is quite how that should be capitalised; titles are awkward sometimes.


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