[sticky entry] Sticky: introductory notes

Jul. 20th, 2010 07:06 pm
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
I was [livejournal.com profile] loneraven on LiveJournal, and I have just (April 2017) stopped crossposting there.

Here are some things that I don't exactly assume you know about me, but might be useful/interesting; and here are my stories at the Archive of Our Own. I am entirely okay with people podficcing, translating, continuing, or otherwise-transforming my stories, but I'd love to see the end result if that's what you're doing, and please credit me as an original author.

Really, I'm pretty easy-going.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
I've been out of the city for a week, up in Cumbria in the south Lakes. Last Friday [personal profile] silly_cleo and I left London, carrying a whole car's worth of luggage, food, kitchen equipment and hiking kit, at eleven o'clock in the morning. She passed her driving test a couple of months ago; the DVLA are currently assessing my fitness to drive. By different means, we're in the same boat. We agreed that we would tag-team and take it slow on the way up: five hours' driving time, so we'd stop a lot for coffee and do it in seven.

We arrived at our destination ten hours and forty-five minutes later. Late summer Bank Holiday weekends are apparently not the best time to travel. The bright side of this is: a) we are better drivers; b) we are closer friends; c) we can now do literally fucking anything. We drove 273 miles in my car that famously doesn't do third gear. (Or air conditioning. Most of those ten hours were spent in sealed thirty-degree heat.) We went on the North Circular and the leafy suburbs and entire length of the M6 and up numbered gradients on single-track roads in the pitch darkness. We spent two and a half hours under one motorway bridge while Google Maps tried to convince us we could fly. In the last half-hour of the journey we had all the windows open and the night air was sharp with greenery and it was worth it for that; though we did also arrive to dinner and a standing ovation.

The house is the one out of Swallows and Amazons - it's still owned by the same family, who rent it out for part of the year - and it's beautiful, a rambling eighteenth-century farmhouse that's been iteratively modernised but still has the original beams. It has a particularly lovely kitchen with a local-slate floor and a table that seats thirteen adults if they like each other. This is the second time I've rented the place for a week on behalf of myself and twelve friends, and I'm more and more convinced that this is the best idea I've ever had. As well as being glorious inside, the house has a wooden rope swing, sweet peas in the garden, sheep, chickens, and a view over a glorious sweep of hill country. On the other side the River Ness slops gently to its estuary and at the bottom of the hill is a ruined cottage in a coppice, with some slate walls still standing and the rest grown over by nettles and curved-down trees. A. says it appears as a structure on the 1911 Ordnance Survey but after that disappears from habitation, and a hundred years from now it may have sunk entirely into the moss.

I had given up on not working over the holiday - I have far too much to do at the moment, and in any case the drive up pushed me right over into unpleasant hypomania. But it was much easier than it would have been in London; I burned it off by running, and taking long walks, and I sat outside with cushions and papers and did my manuscript revisions in the open air. I ended up doing four full days' worth, which I'm proud of, and then stopping, which I'm prouder of. I ate and slept when I could. At the start of the week we had the Tesco man arrive with the whole week's work of groceries and during the course of the week I think people baked eight different cakes. And at the end of the week the skies cleared, and you could stand in the garden at midnight and see no artificial lights for miles, and a massive spread of stars. It was dark enough to make out the Milky Way, following the same orientation as the roof of the house, which made me think that where we were standing on a hill near Coniston was in line with the galactic plane.

We came back this evening (after a drive of merely seven hours) and A. and I unloaded everything and went for a quick dinner at the Singaporean place up Holloway Road, because there are some advantages to living in the middle of a city of seven million people. But places uphill where the air smells sharp are better for me. The landscape around Ulverston reminds me of where I grew up - it has the same wild-not-rural character, not manicured and muggy like it is down south - and Whitehaven, along the Cumbrian coast, is the first place my father lived in England. We might not be able to go back next summer, but the year after that. The message in the guestbook was: Baked many cakes walked many steps enjoyed much house. The cottage down the hill was like that when we got here.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
This story was intended as a writing exercise. I have been revising a novel manuscript since February (and revising a previous version since the previous August). I am quite fed up. The object of this was to write something in about an hour and a half and revise it as little as possible. It was about Garak and Julian because I was in the Lakes with twelve of my friends who were reading three separate books they described as "the Garak book of Garak". You can read this story at the AO3 if you prefer.

fic:: everything as it was and everything as changed
by Raven
1200w, Deep Space Nine, Bashir/Garak. The fight started with why must you wear a chintz dressing gown covered in blue elephants and ended somewhere else.

there comes a point where nothing will serve )
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
I am in the Lake District, after a five-hour drive became a thirteen-hour drive. It was great. (It wasn't great.) Rather than a blow-by-blow account of how this immensely tedious thing happened, this is a book review.

Provenance is Ann Leckie’s latest: a follow up to Ancillary Justice, Sword and Mercy. It’s in the same universe – and, from what I gather, set not long after Mercy – but at a different end of the universe. Ingray, our main character, is not Radchaai, neither are her friends and family, and there are no sentient AIs, either.

I have some criticisms, but I really, really like this book. spoilers, but they are minor )

In conclusion: it's good. I liked it. I read it in uncorrected proof in which pages 35-40 were in the wrong order; it comes out on 26 September.
raven: white text on green and yellow background: "ten points from Gryffindor for destroying my soul" (sbp - destroying my soul)
I am tired and wound up about my book, which seems to be my default state of being at present. (The book is now necessarily modified, "the stupid book", "the thrice-damned book", "the bloody book", "the book that I HATE and is DREADFUL and the BANE OF MY LIFE" etc.) Part of it is that my confidence as a writer has been significantly dented as everything else in my life has been, recently: I also don't think much of self as lawyer, friend, etc., and I'm working on it. (I am doing much, much better than I was. I'm very grateful. But piecing one's life back together turns out to take time.)

I'm also not doing well with reasonable self-care related to the book, which I should, because finishing the version that went on agent submission - in a several-month, every-spare-minute sprint - was what precipitated my last visit to the bottom of the well. (Perfectly nice as wells go, but not one to revisit.) But I keep wanting to just finish it and get it over and winding myself up in the process. And of course I'm aware that I have read it approx fourteen thousand times over the last two and a half years and naturally I'm seeing nothing but flaws? And perhaps other people might not think it is the worst thing ever committed to paper? In my more rational moments I think this. And yet, oh my god, I hate this book. I want to bundle it up and throw it into aforesaid well and write SOMETHING ELSE. It never gets less ridiculous. I spent four days trying to think of a 1940s-appropriate preferably-funny insult? And it had to be two syllables because otherwise the sentence wouldn't scan? And then [personal profile] tau_sigma suggested "strumpet", because she's a perfect human? And all of that hungama was about literally one word? etc.

Etc. Two months ago I was about as a far from a clean, well-lighted place as I could be. And now I'm not, but nothing terrible will happen if I don't finish this book soon. (Or ever? Like, it would be sub-optimal after two and half years, but I'm not writing Hamlet here.) And nothing terrible will happen if it's not as good as I wanted it to be. And nothing terrible will happen if I do it in ten-minute, 100-word chunks. This is quite a rubbish pep talk but there you are, it's what I've got, and it's better than the alternative.

In other news: I'm enjoying being back out in the world. I'm enjoying seeing friends and going for walks and learning to love this city again. I miss my legal practice and my Gaelic. I'm looking forward to returning to both in the autumn; I'm ready for the new terms and the start of the year.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
I have spent my day thinking, writing, tweeting, explaining, considering, thinking some more: but we have a hung Parliament, a Labour gain of 30 seats (including Kensington, declared nearly 24 hours after polls closed, a win by thirty votes!), a Tory disaster across England, and the sight of an arrogant, out-of-control government deservedly on its knees. It's been a fascinating, joyful day, starting with that waking up and demanding to hear the worst, and the worst not being the worst. (Waking up the morning after the EU referendum broke something in me that won't be repaired in this life.) But today I followed the news, and watched videos of Jeremy Corbyn being serenaded outside his house, and thinking about the workings of coalition and the varying contexts of regional politics in this country, and I have enjoyed it: both on the intellectual level and as a person for whom the political process has become a thing worthy of clear thought and reason again.

(Also: I'm a qualified lawyer in England and Wales and a career civil servant in central government. I hold a joint honours degree in Philosophy, Politics, and Economics from Balliol College, Oxford and a Masters degree in constitutional jurisprudence from an Ivy League law school. Nevertheless men gonna mansplain.)

Anyway, I'm crashing very, very hard. My mental health has been very tiresome recently and I got through last night by means of sedatives and alcohol and quite possibly deserve how crushingly terrible I feel now. But I wanted to sit down and have on record that we did something extraordinary today; that it was so hard, and it will be so hard; but we worked and donated and campaigned, and what we do matters. I keep thinking about the Labour Party - a party I have been a member of since I was sixteen years old - and how it isn't a party like the others. Labour is the party of the labour movement: it is a movement, a slow progress of people towards the light on the hill. We should be at each other's throats all the time. We should rail against our failures, we should strive towards great, extraordinary internal diversity, because we are the many, not the few. We believe that by the strength of our common endeavour we achieve more than we achieve alone. The Tories said, only we can save you - but we don't need anyone to save us. We are many; we can save us. We are many; we don't have to do everything ourselves. I've been too mentally ill to canvass, so my friends did that. I'm not allowed to campaign, so my mum and dad did that. I can write and think and argue, so I did that.

We need to know each other's names and what we are asking, Margaret Atwood says. Do not be any thing. Be the light we see by.
raven: Karen Gillan as Amy Pond, wearing green and red and looking up (Default)
I saw Wonder Woman yesterday and wrote this story, which you can also read at the AO3 if you like.

fic:: try to praise the mutilated world
by Raven
1200w, Wonder Woman. Diana: a hundred years, and change.

how the story goes )
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
I'm reading Insomniac City, the Bill Hayes memoir about life in New York with his partner, the neurologist Oliver Sacks. After I reread Awakenings a while ago, [personal profile] happydork directed me to this lovely excerpt in the Observer, and then [personal profile] soupytwist gave me the book with the note that "it's like you would write, only if you were a gay man in New York".

I am not a gay man in New York but I see the resemblance:

"Worse, really, was the L, which I'd take home from Oliver's on the West Side. Not the train itself, which was fast and frequent, but what it represented. In that direction, the L is packed with people on their way to Brooklyn, whether going home or out partying. They always seemed hip and gay (in the original sense of the word) and young, whereas I felt like an old man being taken away from where he really wanted to be.

I feel guilty now that I projected my unhappiness on the subways. The L, and the 4/5? They did right by me, getting me home and to work on time and safely, and each brought its share of discoveries."


Hayes loves cities, the anomie and connection of them, and also the way they hold their own microcosm in mass transit. (He says, mass transit, and I think: golden age SF, that magic gilded modernity. When people say public transport I think of quiet country stations and Yes, I remember Adlestrop. Different, but the same human topology.) And it's a beautiful, beautiful book. Textured by grief, but full of defiance, a willingness to see beautiful things. I think I see queerness in that, the theoretical version? The notion that queerness is some vanguard avant-garde, so we approach it through anti-capitalism and rejecting the sexual status quo, but it advances beyond us, so we are never truly queer. I'm not sure if I could uncritically subscribe to queer theory, or even critically understand it - my mind and/or education never feel like they're up to it - but this I like: that it is queer to reject the mainstream pessimism of the left. You queer the text by daring to find some reason not to give up and die.

And then of course it's a straightforwardly queer book, too. A queer writer, a queer life, a queer city, set out in bitesize vignettes and photography. Everything in it is something Hayes has noticed, something he's chosen to notice, about Sacks and about New York: a smokestack, a fisherman on the subway, a conversation with a stranger waiting for a moving truck, an army of skateboarders on Fourth Avenue. I have been unmedicated for two weeks now and settled to a scratchy, dimmed, distractible baseline. Everyone - GP and therapist and friends - says, one day at a time, rather than rage against the light; which for me doesn't come easily. But I happen to be reading this book as London shifts to summer, which isn't right, because London isn't New York. You don't buy air conditioners in London, or wait until next time for the favourite outfit. I always think it's like a kid playing dress up - look at us, constitutionally raincoated, looking for the window keys, in the dresses we never wear, with the little self-conscious bottles of water on the Tube. It's twenty-six degrees today but it might not be ever again. Some of my colleagues have dug out salwar kameez; a girl I know wore a paisley hijab and tried to put her face in a frappuccino. Meds withdrawal has dialled my hypersensitivity up to eleven but there's something in noticing every small sensory thing: passing perfume, a girl humming, with two different decorated Converse and a Wonder Woman t-shirt; the scent of rotting rubbish (which - I'm sorry - takes me to New York again, the Lower East Side when I lived upstate, and last summer - Hamilton, Pride, and gelato). You may as well notice these things whether or not the world is burning. You might as well live. Also from Insomniac City:

"I once said to someone that one doesn't come to New York for beauty.

I said that's what Paris, or Iceland, is for.

I said one comes to New York to live in New York, with all its noise and trash and rats in the subway and taxicabs stuck in crosstown traffic jams.

I didn't know what the hell I was talking about.

If there could be a chip implemented to track one's vocabulary, as miles logged are counted with those fitness bands people go around wearing, I'm sure
beautiful would be in my top-ten most-used words. I am always saying that that's beautiful or this is beautiful. The thing is, beauty comes in unbeautiful ways here."

Last week in post next week; also, an intake appointment for psychiatric care; and my departmental privilege day. Not sure if I can write on it, or at all. But we shall see.
raven: TOS McCoy and Kirk frowning, text: "Well that's just maddeningly unhelpful" (st - MADDENINGLY UNHELPFUL)
Friends, I am so tired, jet-lag is the worst. (I do not always like William Gibson, but he is spot-on about jet-lag: ".... her mortal soul is leagues behind her, being reeled in on some ghostly umbilical down the vanished wake of the plane that brought her here, hundreds of thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Souls can't move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage.”)

(On this basis, my soul left Singapore four days ago and is currently slouching towards Bethlehem. Onwards, onwards.)

Australia was wonderful, I really enjoyed it. I (mostly) enjoyed New Zealand; I was in Christchurch, Wellington (briefly), Lake Tekapo and Hanmer Springs. I do tend to feel uneasy in NZ though. The first time I went to Hanmer, a pack of white teenagers stared at me with hostile fascination until I cracked and left. It wasn't particularly pleasant and was replicated elsewhere in the rural South Island. So partly it was that, and partly it was the place in itself, but I really enjoyed Singapore. It's not my favourite place for various reasons - not least, I was travelling without my drugs because they're controlled substances there - but, well. I went on about this elsewhere but in Singapore people look like me. People on the street, popstars on TV. Adverts for make-up, adverts for wedding venues, adverts for law school - they all had girls like me in them. I wonder how much less utterly neurotic I'd be if I lived in an environment like that all the time, because there is a psychological pressure you don't notice until it's gone - until you spend a day thinking, oh, hey, I look pretty today, oh, hey, I said something funny and people laughed, and all those casual quotidian thoughts aren't followed with "Despite..." and a giant asterisk.

I read a fair bit while I was away, which is what I originally opened this tab to talk about I've been meaning to read the Moore graphic novels for years, and finally got around to it on the long flights. Watchmen - I wanted to like it more than I did. It's a critical darling, yep, I get it, and even on a visceral level, I get it, it's rich and complex and fascinating, I was swept up in it. But in the end I just found it distasteful and unsatisfying, which is a bit tragic. The women in the story exist to be raped or denied agency. And I loathe Rorschach - I loathe being placed in the mind of misogynist, homophobic, racist, anti-Semitic, tragic-childhood-waaaah men, and I particularly loathe ~narrative ambivalence~ in respect of them. Rorschach is not an anti-hero. I do not admire his integrity. It's a virtue in itself, but I don't admire it in bricks. And ultimately I don't know what the text is trying to tell me. Is it that being a superhero is possible, that being a hero is possible? Or is it 300 pages of nihilism? Either way, by the end I didn't care.

I liked V for Vendetta much better. I thought it was interesting and clever and hit a lot of the narrative tropes I adore. And then I had this thought, which I share with you because it's a sad, pathetic little thought and I'm sort of ashamed of it. Here it is. V for Vendetta is set in a near-future dystopian Britain, where the fascists are in charge and totalitarianism has seeped into the public's skin. It's richly and devastatingly imagined. It's a world in which there are explicitly no brown people and no queers - they've been destroyed by the regime. And I - the brown queer reader - am being placed in the position, as reader, of feeling empathy and concern for those who are left. For a now wholly white and non-queer society. For the story to work, I must be invested in what becomes of it. And I'm capable of it - this is the task of the brown queer reader, to find empathy and commonality of self, in that distant human for whom existence and interiority is permitted - and capable of it to the deeply ingrained, deeply socialised extent that it took me 200 pages to have this thought at all.

But I had it. And then I didn't enjoy the rest so much - but I did enjoy it a bit. Because, as I said, I've had the practice. In some ways, I'm wondering why I participate less and less in media fandom, and in other ways I know the answer: it's that I no longer want to encourage this tendency in myself. To queer the text, or run the fic challenge focusing on the browns, or whatever, is work. Unpaid female labour, in fact, which in my non-fannish life I yell about all the time. And I know I'm missing the point deliberately - fandom was never about the labour-for-capital economy, quite the reverse - but it's also emotional labour, isn't it. It's emotional labour to centre the brown or queer experience in stories that were not written about those things. It's emotional labour to just write or consume the white dude pairing du jour while carefully Not Thinking about the other thing - and as I get older I get crankier and less willing to do this. For me, the way through the Gordian knot is to write my own stories. It'd be different for someone else, perhaps, but that's it for me.

I also read Marbles, by Ellen Forney, which is a graphic memoir about living as a writer and artist with badly medicated bipolar disorder. I was both interested and nervous about this book, because it focuses on something I'm worrying about a lot lately: the relationship between creativity, medication and mental illness. It's a lovely book, actually. It's all grounded in a single experience, melodramatic and abrasive, without purporting to generalise. Forney decides that to be medicated is better for her, even if she does worry about its effect on her creativity, and makes significant effort to emphasise it wouldn't be the same for every mentally ill creator. It wasn't reassuring, but it wasn't meant to be. I liked it.

I read other things, but they'll have to wait for the next post. The drive-by rec though is for Tansy Rayner Roberts' Castle Charming novellas, which are sweet and colourful and queer fairy tale parodies. And the first one is free!

(Urgh. My soul is still plodding across the Middle East. It's taking in the sights. It's ordering olives and shakshuka. HURRY THE FUCK UP oh my god.)
raven: white text on green and yellow background: "ten points from Gryffindor for destroying my soul" (sbp - destroying my soul)
Hello friends. This is either my last or second-to last crossposted-to-LJ entry, I think. There are a lot of you I'd be reluctant to lose touch with so I'm not going to delete straight off, but it does seem that after 16 years it has become untenable. I am here as I always am and I've tried to gather up as many people I'm aware of as having recently moved to Dreamwidth. If you haven't been here before and I might not recognise your username, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know - thanks much.

(Other news: am in Christchurch (the one in New Zealand!), having had a very pleasant time in Sydney and Wagga Wagga, which is underrated. Coffee good, wine awesome, driving down to Mount Cook tomorrow.)

Awakenings

Mar. 27th, 2017 09:25 pm
raven: (misc - inside the box)
I am rereading Awakenings, the Oliver Sacks book about encephalitis lethargica and L-DOPA. I first came across the story as a teenager and predictably found it completely fascinating. But I bounced off the book a bit the first time, probably because I was too young for it and also it has a lot of quite boring prefaces. But this time I found it entirely compelling, prefaces and all, and have been talking about it quite a bit, so here we are.

The story in brief, for those who don't know it (and also to give me an excuse to tell it again): after the First World War, there was a worldwide outbreak of Spanish flu, which killed more people than the war did, but has mostly been forgotten. And following that - and yet more forgotten - was an epidemic of an illness later called encephalitis lethargica, also called sleepy-sickness. It was prevalent between about 1918 and 1928, and has never really been seen since (beyond isolated cases). People who got it tended to fall asleep - for weeks or months. And then, when they woke up, they were changed in some deep, indefinable way: neither asleep nor awake, but something in between. They sat motionless in chairs and stared into space. They could be "posed", their arms outstretched, like living statues. They couldn't be woken, and some of them didn't appear even to age - so forty years later some had been frozen in place for decades, still looking largely as they had in the late 1920s when initially struck down by the disease.

In 1969, the neurologist Oliver Sacks - who was one of the few clinicians with responsibility for a large number of post-encephalitic patients, about forty of them, in a hospital in New York - hit upon the idea of giving them L-DOPA, which at the time was a brand-new drug. (It's a chemical precursor to dopamine that can pass through the blood-brain barrier.) So without a great deal of knowledge of what would happen, but that something would, he started giving L-DOPA to these patients who had been out of the world for four decades.

And they woke up. This is the amazing part of the story, and Sacks writes about it like a dream: this glorious New York summer, in which these people not only woke up, and spoke, and moved, but became the people they had been. Sacks mentions one patient who had been a flapper, and the nurses going to the NYPL to look up the people and places she spoke about. He mentions another who had been a young Jewish emigrée from Vienna in the 1920s, and startled the staff because they had never known it until she spoke with an Austrian accent, and asked for a rabbi. It's just incredible to read about. And heartbreaking too, because L-DOPA turns out not to be quite the miracle that it promises. There's a honeymoon period, where Sacks and his colleagues are convinced it's just teething problems and they'll figure it out - and then the realisation that they can't stop the effect of the drug wearing off with time, or giving the patients side-effects that are too much to bear. So while some of the patients stay "awakened", others slip back into their pre-L-DOPA state, or into a coma this time. It's tragic and has an awful inevitable feel but it doesn't take on the feel of a Greek tragedy - you never lose sight of these people as real, individual human beings, not archetypes or fairy tales. I am not always convinced by Sacks' theoretical approaches, which draw a lot more from straight philosophy than I'm accustomed to seeing in a book that also purports to examine the scientific method. And it's also a book of its time and place, and a medicalised book - it doesn't always shine in a good light when considered through the lens of disability activism and theory - but Sacks is always interesting, always humane, and always interested in individuals and their stories.

The coda to this is that I hadn't really gathered, the first time I read this book, that Sacks was queer (although I was reminded of his lifelong friendship with WH Auden, which is the kind of historical congruence I love). And then [personal profile] happydork linked me to this beautiful article: My Life With Oliver Sacks, by Bill Hayes, who was Sacks' partner at the time of his death. It's one of the loveliest things I've read in ages - a snapshot of queer work, a queer life, as well as a love letter and obituary. I adore it. i've been rereading a lot of formative things just recently - all the best-beloveds of teenage crazies, so The Bell Jar and Prozac Nation - but also Slaughterhouse Five, Gender Outlaws, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, and Wild Dreams of a New Beginning. (The last of which because I read a poem: Lawrence Ferlinghetti Is Still Alive.)

I feel like there ought to be some sort of conclusion to this thought, something about my foundering mental health, but actually I think it's just, there are always books, and that precious kinship of inquiring queers.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
In the last week of my twenties, I sold a story; concluded a piece of litigation in the Court of Appeal; agreed to remain on secondment through to March 2018; and spoke a little Gaelic with some kind strangers. And here we are.

A friend of mine, to mark a similar occasion, wrote a letter to her younger self. I thought that was a lovely idea, though I'm too tired to write very much and perhaps I don't have to. To me at eighteen, from me at just-now-thirty: I am glad I was you, and you, I think, will be glad to be me. I have done what you set out to do, and it has been hard work that was worth doing, and it has been transformative.

But you will never be more or less queer than you are right now. The language thing won't ever hurt less; writing will hold you and keep you; sleeping or eating will never become any easier; you are, and have been, and will be loved. And you and I both have an unknown self - the one for whom the Trump inauguration will be the past and the Bush inauguration the distant past - who lives in the glorious unknown uncertainty, in that which can yet be made. I hope she thinks of me with the same affection with which I think of you. And for the world she lives in, I want to believe this, from Rebecca Solnit's essay on Hope In The Darkness:

"The sleeping giant is one name for the public; when it wakes up, when we wake up, we are no longer only the public: we are civil society, the superpower whose nonviolent means are sometimes, for a shining moment, more powerful than violence, more powerful than regimes and armies. We write history with our feet and with our presence and our collective voice and vision. And yet, and of course, everything in the mainstream media suggests that popular resistance is ridiculous, pointless, or criminal, unless it is far away, was long ago, or, ideally, both. These are the forces that prefer the giant stays asleep.

Together we are very powerful, and we have a seldom-told, seldom-remembered history of victories and transformations that can give us confidence that, yes, we can change the world because we have many times before. You row forward looking back, and telling this history is part of helping people navigate toward the future. We need a litany, a rosary, a sutra, a mantra, a war chant of our victories. The past is set in daylight, and it can become a torch we can carry into the night that is the future."
raven: (middleman - sleepy wendy)
So a few of you asked me to write up my thoughts on Kushiel's Dart, once I'd finished it! (It took a while. It had somehow escaped me that the print edition is NINE HUNDRED PAGES, wow.) My thoughts are - complicated. I liked it! I really did. But I probably won't read any more in the series.

Okay, so. Kushiel's Dart is set in the mythical land (actually Renaissance France) of Terre d'Ange. It's not high fantasy with magic, at least not really: it's a little like Megan Whalen Turner's Queen's Thief books, in that this is a world with a polytheistic pantheon that actually exists. Phedre, the narrator and main character, is an "anguisette" - it's all there in the etymology. She feels pain as pleasure. Kind of. It's complicated. Phedre's parents sell her off into indentured servitude when she's very young. She's raised in the Night Court, the complex arrangement of high-status brothels that form part an institutional component of Terre d'Ange. At the age of ten, her bond-price is bought by a dissembling aristocrat called Anafiel Delaunay, who already has another bond-slave, but chooses to take her when he realises what she is.

This story did not go where I thought it would.

Well, it did, but not how I thought. In broad sweeps, it's the story of how Phedre becomes a high-status sex worker (which, in her world, can be a form of religious service, and is so for her) who's also uniquely well-placed to gather intelligence from her patrons. Slowly, it becomes a story about shifting court and national alliances, and about revolution and war. It's about power, of course. I think if I'd read this at fifteen, I would have adored it. Firstly, so much consensual kink in a mainstream fantasy book! And not not-remarked-upon, but not secret; acknowledged as an ordinary thing for people to want. And secondly, it does the thing I still love, which is to take the power dynamics between individuals, and use them as a lens to look at power generally, political and personal. I don't think it does it particularly well, for reasons to come; I'm hampered here by not being fifteen and having read the Captive Prince trilogy relatively recently. But it does try to do it, and I like that.

And you know, I'd probably have read it and liked it fine. I like Phedre (not so much as a child, but I do like the trope of the adult narrator speaking fondly but despairingly of her younger self). But then it turns out IT'S A FOUND FAMILY STORY. It really is! I love to itty bitty bits how much Delaunay loves Phedre and how much she loves him, and how much they both love Alcuin. Delaunay chooses to give them his name and they both choose to carry it for themselves. They choose to be what they are to each other. Ah. My heart, my id.

And speaking of which, Anafiel Delaunay, poet, scholar, spy, Gaelic speaker (!! what! what even!), literally no one is surprised that he is my favourite character in this book. If I'd read it at fifteen, I'd have found it completely vital. Not only is Delaunay unremarkably and unapologetically queer (bisexual, even, be still my heart), it's his SPOILER, IT'S AN ENIGMATIC PAST )

So I liked it a lot! The reason I don't want to read any more of the books is partly because I'm just not cut out for 900-page doorstoppers, seriously, you could have told that story using half the trees, and partly because, well, the elephant in the room. I find Carey's worldbuilding really rich and interesting, for the most part. And I do like the quasi-real pantheon, and I even like the idea of a nation who are a little bit preternaturally beautiful because they're descended from a god. What I do not like is that of course it's white people are descended from a god. I like fantasy worldbuilding that draws heavily on real people and cultures. But I'm so not into petty criminal Roma people, and charming but "uncultured" Gaels; I don't really want to know what happens when Phedre meets brown people elsewhere, because I'm not thinking it will be good. And as a brown person, I'm used to fantasy that equates beauty with whiteness. It's another thing in this book, though; never, ever is it deconstructed that the people of Terre d'Ange may not be exactly their own account of themselves, perfect, beautiful, God's chosen people, and white.

So there we are. And it kind of sucks, because I liked a lot about this book, and I'd nominate Delaunay and Phedre for Yuletide in a heartbeat.

(Also, the Diana Gabaldon school of literary Gaelic lives on! Dear Ms Carey, "goirm" means blue. Sometimes it means green. Mostly blue. It's a real language, with living speakers. If you weren't such a white lady I would have given you the benefit of the doubt.)
raven: TOS McCoy and Kirk frowning, text: "Well that's just maddeningly unhelpful" (st - MADDENINGLY UNHELPFUL)
Thanks to [personal profile] st_aurafina there are some new people around! Hi! I'm glad to see Dreamwidth a little more active - I tolerate Twitter because it's the place people hang out, but I'm really much more verbose than it allows me to be. I like it here.

By way of introduction: I'm (very very nearly) thirty; I've been in fandom for sixteen years; I'm a pro(ish) writer under another name; I live and work in London; I'm a lawyer and civil servant; I'm interested in a fair few things but predominantly languages and land rights. I mean, that's basically it. I lead quite a dull life. I work, I read, I write, I learn languages (though I'm not as multilingual as I ought to be), and sometimes I leave London and can breathe again.

What else? I realised I forgot to make any New Year's resolutions, or at least, forgot to write about them. My resolution for this year is just: do less. Work less. Spend more time reading trashy romance novels/on long aimless walks/hanging out with friends. If there's anything you want to know about me, or anything you want to start a conversation about, please comment!
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
Happy new year, my friends. Unexpectedly, I had a beautiful day yesterday - a matinee performance of Rent at St James's, and then friends, pink wine and sparklers to bring the new year in. We still have a [personal profile] soupytwist on the sofabed and all is delight.

For Yuletide, I wrote two stories:

your shadow at evening, rising to meet you [NASA Mars posters]
It was a source of consternation to certain of Earth's constitutional bodies that the original Mars mission made landfall on Christmas Eve.

This is an even-less-than-two-minute fandom (the posters are great: they're these delightful official NASA posters in the vintage travel style) and on Christmas Eve I saw this request in the spreadsheet and decided - at 7pm, why - to write this in one frantic go. My darling [personal profile] soupytwist did an incredibly quick beta and I got it up just before the collection closed for posting. This story is so visibly by me I'm amazed more people didn't guess (hi, [personal profile] toft). It's basically original, which is in-keeping with 2016, the Year Without Fanfic, but I'm really glad I wrote this for Yuletide and not in any other context.

I also wrote:

Things By Witchlight [Society of Gentlemen - K.J. Charles]
In this year of our Lord 1819, in the tail end of December, a boy is hanged at Newgate for unnatural vices.

Dominic and Silas, a hanging, and a misunderstanding. If I'd had more time, I think the story in this story could have done with about 10,000 words and a lot more on-screen kink, but, bah, humbug, you do what you can do. I wrote it for [personal profile] marina, which was cheering.

I have nothing planned for the rest of the day except more quiet hangouts. All iz well.

Rogue One

Dec. 26th, 2016 04:18 pm
raven: (vorkosigan - creepy planetary conquest)
I wasn't originally going to see Rogue One, and then [personal profile] happydork said some things that changed my mind. So A. and I went to see it on the lunchtime Boxing Day showing, which was an awesome idea. We walked in just before the start time and the two chaps who were the only other people in there smiled at us and announced, "Welcome to our cinema!" By the time the actual film started, there were about ten people scattered around the seats, all wearing Christmas jumpers and comedy headwear. About ten minutes in someone realised that they hadn't dimmed the house lights, took off his Santa hat with an elaborate sigh and went off to see someone about it.

So that was a Star Wars movie. I was thinking for basically the first three quarters of the movie, ahhh, self, you always forget you don't actually like epic fantasy. (What I like about SFF is the reimagining of the quotidian, and this is basically the reverse of that.) But, you know, it was fine. And then I was about half an hour from the end, still thinking, hmmm, this was a perfectly nice way to spend a holiday afternoon, and then suddenly I got what they were doing and how the story was going to have to go. spoilers )

okay I'm done shouting at clouds. I'm trying to spend Boxing Day not doing much but now I'm going to tidy my desk of eighteen months of papers! Hurrah, etc.

Yuletide

Dec. 25th, 2016 09:48 pm
raven: white text on green and yellow background: "ten points from Gryffindor for destroying my soul" (sbp - destroying my soul)
It's been a strange but beautiful day around here; I still don't think I celebrate Christmas? But I do observe it, in a manner of speaking, and this is one of those times where I'm grateful for all the things of my life, my family and community and marriage. So there we are.

Yuletide! I got two gifts:

And Bear Unfaltering (1157 words) by Anonymous
Fandom: Sense8 (TV)
Jonas in his cell, remembering.

This is really, really good: so richly textured and thoughtful. I liked it so much.

Only Time Will Tell (1340 words) by Anonymous
Fandom: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis, Hilary Tamar Mysteries - Sarah Caudwell, Doctor Who (1963)
Hilary Tamar gets some unexpected visitors.

And this is just ridiculously delightful. Hilary Tamar has visitors! And concerns about Professor Chronotis's scholarship! (A Cambridge man, though one can't blame the man for his misfortune.) It's everything I love in 1300 words.

There are two full-length stories by me in the collection. Both of them are so recognisably me it's obvious! from! space! so no points to anyone for guessing. (I've just given up on not sounding like me all the time. I have written nothing that doesn't sound like it's by me.) Have a lovely day, friends: I appreciate you all so much.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
I got up before 10am today, something which I have not done in days and days, and went out to brunch with a friend at a place by the Serpentine. I walked back from Knightsbridge to Covent Garden, through freezing, diamond-brilliant cold, under a cloudless sky.

And you know, it turns out London is a beautiful, ancient city. I went through three of the royal parks - allodial land; held without tenure, without mark, for eight centuries - and along past Hatchards, where a hundred people were queueing up to get their books signed by Tim Peake; and through Piccadilly Circus, which is currently hosting an exhibition in praise of Frank Pick, a shy, unassuming lawyer who lived a shy unassuming life at the start of the last century; who believed that as the London Underground belonged to the city, and all the millions of people who used it, every aspect of it should be a work of public art. I bought a book and a cup of coffee and I did some work in a cafe like the ghastly cliché of a writer I am, and I saw the sun begin to set over Hampstead Heath with the skyline glittering behind.

And though tha sinn anns an dùbhlachd, and it is so very dark - not forever. Nothing lasts forever, except this place that we live in.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
Like so many, I have been asking myself, what can I do? And the answer seems to be: my job. That's it. I've given my bit of pen money to the ACLU. And I've read a lot of poetry over the last few days, of which some follows.

"Quarantine", Eavan Boland

"Fix", Alice Fulton

"Flight 1067 to LA", Ursula Le Guin

"To be of use", Marge Piercy

"What Everyone Should Know About Grief", Ingrid de Kok

"Note To Self At A Certain Point In The Future", Michael Bazzett

"Nightmare At Noon" (1940), Stephen Vincent Bénet

and "The Art of Making Possible", Nancy Scheibner, via Hillary Rodham Clinton.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
So my life is full of extraordinary things I'm not allowed to talk about. But they are extraordinary things; and though I haven't been dealing with human fallibility well by which I mean my own, I'm glad to be doing the work I do; I'm glad that because of the work I do I have been invited to three work team Christmas lunches on three consecutive days; I'm glad the civil service choir are practising in the stairwell and that if the winter comes as a long spear the tip is diamond-bright.

I am glad to be nearly thirty years old and to look it, suddenly; I found a snarl of grey in my hair and saw just for an instant someone I'm going to be. Perhaps it's strange to find that an extraordinary thing but it's coming at a time where I keep seeing those glimpses; I'm still being piecemeal appraised but my supervisor has been saying, make a note of this thing and that thing, it may be years from now but you will go before a board again. The last time I did was the last time I felt like this - like I was shedding a past self despite myself - and that was another winter. It's the time of year.

Also, my teacher watched me slowly, painfully pick what I could out of a bit of Gaelic poetry, and said, "You have a mind like a steel trap" - which made me so wonderfully and instantly happy that I'm writing it down here. I have been thinking about the language a lot just recently, and why I love it so much, so deeply, without being able to articulate a single thing about why. But I am glad to have it, to have found it, to be held by it. Tha mo cuid-Ghàidhlig ro mhòr, ach làtha na làithean, msaa.
raven: subway sign in black and white, text: "Times Square / 42 Street station" (stock - times square)
Dear yuletide author,

Hi! I'm delighted you're writing for me. I hope you have a good time, writing whatever you want to write: optional details are optional and in any case I'm much more interested in the story of your heart than anything specifically below - this is just in case it would be helpful to you to have more detail.

Generally, I like: friendship; kindness; competence; people expressing their love for each other in small ways; interesting power dynamics; breakfast.

There's very little I don't like. I don't like men in positions of power over women and I don't like the erasing of queers and that's basically it. I'm not super into PWP as all there is to a story, though sex and kink are both things I like. I have no triggers, but I'm ophidiophobic.

Also: you don't have to write fluff for me. (You can write fluff for me! I'd love that!) But if the story of your heart is sad; if it's bittersweet; or wistful, or just less hilarious than the canon - I want to hear it.

Fandoms:

KJ Charles - Society of Gentlemen )

Connie Willis - Oxford time-travelling historians )

Sense8 )

Hilary Tamar Mysteries - Sarah Caudwell )

Having said all of that: optional details are optional. Have a lovely time!

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