Jaydium, Chapter 11

JAYDIUM

by Deborah J. Ross, writing as Deborah Wheeler

Chapter 11

 

Kithri followed Eril and Brianna through the shadowed parkland, Lennart at her side. The short grass cushioned her step and gave off a tangy smell. She glanced up at the stars but they were blotted out across half the sky. In the other direction, one moon burned stark and white through a rift in the clouds. The first cool drops of rain spattered her face.

Rain! Memories flooded up in her that last evening on Albion, walking in the pastel twilight through a field of tall, waving skyflowers. She=d stayed out until the rain had washed away her tears and she was soaked to the skin. Her father hadn=t said a word.

"Hurry!" called Brianna. She=d been heading toward the city, but now she veered off into a clump of low trees. Dense foliage blocked all but a gentle mist and the faintest dappling of moonlight. Low branches pressed in on both sides, forcing them to go single file.

Kithri walked slowly, feeling her way through the near darkness. Her moment of astonished joy at the rainfall had vanished. It was difficult to hurry and think at the same time, especially when a chorus of contradictory voices took up residence in her skull. 

How do I know this Dominion isn=t just as bad as the Fifth Fed? one part of her said. I=ll probably end up stranded on some backdust world that=s even worse than Stayman.

 

I should=ve insisted on staying behind with 'Wacker, another part grumbled. Who knows what might happen to it out there?

And yet, to see the Dominion woman=s camp, to ride in her ships, maybe to reach those stars that were so like the ones she=d dreamed of...

Encountering Wannabee Writers

Elsewhere on the intarwebs, I read: "Authors Write Today; Pretenders Write Tomorrow." The implication, of course, is that if you are a real writer, you write all the time. Write as in, you deliver your thousand or five hundred or twenty-five hundred words, day in and day out. I think that's balderdash: it works for some writers, but not everyone. Some successful authors write in maniacal spurts, putting in 16 hour days, drafting novels in a few weeks, and then going long periods of time without any word output but with intense, deep rejuvenation and development of creative ideas.

The second, and perhaps more important aspect of the quote -- for I am by no means the first to point out that writers have different rhythms and one size does not fit all -- is the implication that being a "wannabee," a person who aspires to be a writer but never actually writes, is a bad thing. At best, a pathetic thing.

I am as likely as the next person to shower wannabees with advice on how to get started and stay motivated. I rarely pay attention to whether the advice is actually being solicited and whether it is helpful. I buy into the notion that this person should be other than the way he or she is, that wanting to write, dreaming about being a writer and talking endlessly about it, pretending to be a writer, are unacceptable.

Sometimes, "wannabee" is a stage people pass through and either go forward to do the work of writing, or leave and go on to dream about something else. Other people stay with wanting/dreaming/talking. It seems to be sufficient for their emotional needs, and that means they're getting something of value from it. A sense of self-importance? Of belonging to the "cabal of writers?" Trying out daydreams of different possibilities? Getting attention from well-meaning helpful authors?

I think there can be great value in daydreaming, even about things we will never do.

Jaydium, Chapter 10

JAYDIUM

by Deborah J. Ross, writing as Deborah Wheeler

Chapter 10

 

Night-faring insects chirped and whirred from the foliage of the umbrella trees, a descant counterpoint to Lennart=s rhythmic snores. Eril wasn=t sure of the exact moment Kithri fell asleep and her muscles went from tense to buttery under his fingertips. Her breathing became soft and regular. Soon he too drifted off, one hand flung across her back. His body grew warm and heavy, so heavy...

So heavy, gravity sucking him down into the denseness of the earth...

 Heavy...

Suddenly Eril was no longer lulled three-quarters into sleep. He didn=t know exactly what was wrong, but something...

Lennart snored on, oblivious, but the insects had fallen silent. The instincts that had warned Eril of impending disaster so many times during the war now shrilled in alarm. He got ready to scramble to his feet, force whip in hand and ready for action.

The world froze around him.

He couldn=t move, not even his eyelids. He could barely breathe as an iron band held his ribs like a vice. Something warm and steely clamped tight over his mouth. Prickles of ice flared up all over his body.

Air! screamed his burning lungs.

The Season Political

Whether I agree with them or not, it seems that many other folks are holding forth in much more articulate and media-savvy, not to mention louder, ways than I. While I occasionally pass on links to suchlike, I don't generally jump into the fray.

But this is an election year.

I'm not going to hold forth on candidates or political parties. Most of you either agree with me or there's nothing I can say to change your mind and certainly not worth damaging a valuable relationship by screaming at each other.

But this is an election year.

And there's an issue on the California ballot that I do feel strongly about. It's Measure 34, the SAFE California Act, that replaces the death penalty with life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. I can give you all the calculations about how many tens of millions of dollars it's going to save and the risks of executing innocent people and the percentages of violent crimes that go unsolved because the funds go to a system that even its advocates admit is broken beyond repair. You can look them up for yourself. For me, such arguments are best left to activists.

I'm not an activist. I'm the family member of a murder victim, the very person who might be expected to support capital punishment.

GUEST BLOG: Chaz Brenchley on "Being Ready to Publish"

British writer Chaz Brenchley (who also writes as Ben Macallan and Daniel Fox) offers a perspective on self-censorship and who decides when an aspiring author is "ready."




We were talking to a wannabe writer and proffering wise words and good advices, as one does; and she used a phrase that only underscored for me how much people's approach has changed. A line I use a lot on panels and so forth is that I'm the last generation for whom writing really was a lonely business; these days it's all beta-readers and critique groups and writing dates in coffee-houses and scallions of advice and encouragement on the internets. Scallions and scallions.

And one of those advices, clearly, is that you have to reach the stage of being "ready to publish". Of course this has always been true, in the sense that you have to learn to write, you have to acquire craft before anyone is going to publish you - but that was not a judgement we ever made for ourselves. We wrote stuff and sent it off, contributed to the great slushpile mountain on which the publishing industry was built, began our precious collection of rejection slips. Other people told us when we were ready to publish, in the form of an acceptance letter and a cheque.

These days, apparently, you tell yourself that you're not ready yet; or your critiquing group tells you, or the internet does it, or... Maybe you subscribe to that notion that you have to write a million words before you're up to standard?

I'm really not sure how I feel about this. Keeping the slushpile down, easing the burden on agents and editors, encouraging people not to submit until they've worked up their craft, surely that has to be a good thing? But, I dunno, engaging early with the professionals also has its advantages. Even building that collection of rejections does no harm. And I'm uncomfortable with the self-censorship inherent in the idea, people not submitting work because in their own judgement or that of their friends they're not yet "ready to publish". I worry that there are people out there diligently writing, counting and trunking their million words. And then expecting to publish, because they're ready now.

I have no structured thoughts on this, just an uncomfortable twitch. Probably because I've spent, lo, these thirty-five years sending stuff out whether I was ready or not, and encouraging others to do so, and... yeah. Things change, and perhaps that is no longer the best advice - but I still stand by it. Make them turn you down, don't do it yourself. Make them all turn you down. And then go round again, because there's always someone new who hasn't seen it yet, and it only takes one person to say yes.


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Chaz Brenchley has been making a living as a writer since he was eighteen.  He's the author of nine thrillers, including Shelter, and two major fantasy series: The Books of Outremer, based on the world of the Crusades, and Selling Water by the River, set in an alternate Ottoman Istanbul. His newest releases are House of Doors and House of Bells.
As Daniel Fox, he has published Dragon in Chains, Jade Man’s Skin and Hidden Cities, a Chinese-influenced fantasy series. As Ben Macallan, he has published the urban fantasy Desdaemona, with the sequel Pandaemonium.

A winner of the British Fantasy Award, he has also published five books for children and more than 500 short stories in various genres. His time as Crimewriter-in-Residence on a sculpture project resulted in the collection Blood Waters. He was Northern Writer of the Year 2000, and now lives in California with two squabbling cats and a famous teddy bear.