Author: terribleminds (page 154 of 468)

As I’ve noted many times in the past, photography for me is not a professional outlet — though I do sometimes have to remind myself I’ve a few paid photography credits under my belt — but rather, a therapeutic one. And often, grabbing the camera occurs to me less during the winter, which is stupid, because (especially regarding macro photography) the beauty and weirdness of the world does not only manifest on warmer days. One of the best ways to get original and compelling macro photos is just to wander around the house, looking for things that deserve a closer look — food, kitchen utensils, tools, a child’s toys, cellar spiders, sex toys, discarded human corpses, the tribe of microscopic chimpanzees that live inside your inner ear canal, whatever.

So, I’m going to take a little time this week to grab the camera, wander the house like a restless specter, and find some cool things that demand photographic representation at the macro level.

I’ll report back.

Some quick bits:

Atlanta Burns — still a buck at Amazon.

Atlanta Burns: The Hunt — also still a buck at Amazon.

Star Wars: Empire’s End is out soon. Preorder: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

A week after that is the newest Miriam Black book, Thunderbird. Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

Meanwhile, here are some other pics snapped inside the house, not outside on a warm day. Please to enjoy these. And if you don’t enjoy them, HA HA HA I DON’T CARE YOU’RE TRAPPED IN HERE WITH ME AND THE TINY TRIBE OF EAR-MONKEYS THAT CONTROLS MY MIND

This week, it’s pretty easy. The burden is light — all I want you to do is drop into the comments below and create the title to a story. I’ll add in an extra restriction in that the title must be three words — not one, not four, not two. Three words specifically.

Next week, I’ll randomly pick ten of those titles and those will form the basis of a new flash fiction challenge. It should be awesome. So —

Get to titlin’.

(THEY SEE ME TITLIN’)

(THEY HATIN’)

(ahem)

Due by Friday, February 10th, noon EST.

EDIT: one title, don’t spam with several

Hey, I figure we all need some news that does not melt our collective faces as if we just foolishly opened the goddamn Ark of the motherfucking Covenant, so here I am, delivering some news that — at the very least — is very cool to me.

Behold, if you were to procure a special edition copy of Empire’s End from Barnes & Noble, you will in fact receive the B&N Exclusive Edition, which has the following poster (I assume it’s double-sided) in it — one is our first image of Norra Wexley, New Republic pilot, mother to Temmin “Snap” Wexley, and all-around bad-ass; the other is a glimpse of Grand Admiral Rae Sloane, the kick-ass woman fighting to save her vision of the Galactic Empire.

(Art by Steve Thomas.)

Also, were you wanting an excerpt of Empire’s End? Well, I’ve got one for you at io9— this one, which is part of (but not an entire) interlude, features Lando and Lobot retaking Cloud City and talking about a baby gift for a certain bundle of Dark Side named Ben Solo, future Knight of Ren and mopey emo First Order dude. (Also note Lando’s position on refugees…)

Empire’s End comes out in just under three weeks.

(And one week later: the new Miriam Black, Thunderbird.)

Other news:

Both Atlanta Burns and its sequel, The Hunt, are on sale for $1.00 apiece (!) at Amazon for your Kindle, and the paperbacks are on sale, too. (I believe this deal is US or NA only.) The books fit snugly in what you might consider the PUNCH NAZIS genre, because it features a girl (the titular Atlanta Burns) taking the fight to a town in thrall to corruption and, of course, Actual Nazis. It’s about talking on bullies and standing up for your friends and, well, I didn’t mean for the books to feel prescient, but here we are in 2017 when shit’s gone sideways. That said, please note: these books are not escapist fun. They’re dark stuff, so trigger warning for — well, let’s just go with trigger warning.

(Note, too: I think this $1.00 sale is far-reaching across a lot of Amazon titles — f’rex, you’ll find Marko Kloos’ bad-ass Frontlines series gets the one buck treatment. And I see Gwenda Bond’s Girl Over Paris graphic novel is, too. So poke around, see what else is in the deal.)

Anyway, that’s the news.

Good luck out there. I heard the groundhog popped out of his hole, heard who was president, then sealed his burrow shut with a vault hatch from Fallout.

It’s been a century of peace since Earth became a colony of an alien race with far reaches into the galaxy. Some die-hard extremists still oppose alien rule on Earth, but Donovan Reyes isn’t one of them. His dad holds the prestigious position of Prime Liaison in the collaborationist government, and Donovan’s high social standing along with his exocel (a remarkable alien technology fused to his body) guarantee him a bright future in the security forces. That is, until a routine patrol goes awry and Donovan’s abducted by the human revolutionary group Sapience, determined to end alien control.

When Sapience realizes whose son Donovan is, they think they’ve found the ultimate bargaining chip . But the Prime Liaison doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, not even for his own son.  Left in the hands of terrorists who have more uses for him dead than alive, the fate of Earth rests on Donovan’s survival. Because if Sapience kills him, it could spark another galactic war. And Earth didn’t win the last one . . .

* * *

HOW TO FAIL AT NANOWRIMO

Exo started out as a flaming car wreck of a NaNoWriMo project. At the time, my agent was shopping around my first book, Zeroboxer, and I knew the best thing to do was distract myself with a new project so that I wouldn’t fall prey to the disease of refreshing my email like it was going out of style. “A lot of people swear by this NaNoWriMo thing,” I said to myself. “I ought to give it a try.” I’d written novel manuscripts before. I knew I could stick to a writing schedule. The idea sounded fabulously appealing: Sit down on November 1^st and just let the words flow from my fingers! Get 50K of that first draft done in a month! Win a virtual medal! Piece of cake.

This is how it went: I wrote 35,000 words by November 20^th or so, and stalled out. It wasn’t working. At all. I read the manuscript from the beginning and hated all of it with the nauseous loathing that writers feel when looking at their own disgusting word messes. I had a shiny story idea in my head but it was emerging as dog vomit. So I quit. I failed NaNoWriMo hard.

I trashed everything I’d written and started again. I wrote a new draft over several months, and then rewrote 50% of that one. And did it again. After the book sold, I did another major revision with my editor. I was relieved and excited by how it was getter better and better, but part of me was also surprised and disheartened. I mean, Zeroboxer was picking up accolades and awards, and whoa, I got to go to the Nebula Awards as a finalist and dance on stage, so why the hell was it so hard to write another book?! This whole writing thing ought to be easier now, right?

Wrong. In talking (griping, whining, crying) to wiser authors, I learned there was wide agreement that the second book is often a complete bitch to write. A very loud voice in your head is telling you that because you’re now a Published Author, you should be writing better and faster, plus doing author promotion stuff with an effortless grin. But the truth is that every book is different. The second, third, or fifteenth book is not easier. Just different.

“Winning” at something like NaNoWriMo is meaningless. My 35,000 garbage words eventually turned into a published novel I’m very happy with. I have to wonder how many far better 50,000 NaNo projects sit out there languishing, unrevised, unpursued. NaNo is means to an end, not an end in itself.

Elizabeth Bear said something like this to me: “It will seem like it’s getting harder and you’re taking longer, but that’s because you’re getting better. If it’s getting easier, you’re not challenging yourself.” In the end, I’m even more proud of Exo than I am of Zeroboxer because while my debut proved that I could write, this book proved that I could be a professional writer.

EVERY STORY YOU WRITE IS PERSONAL IN SOME WAY (AND SOMETIMES YOU DON’T KNOW IT)

When we started working together on Exo, my editor told me that she loved how the story was an allegory for the experience of first generation children in America. “What?” I did not say that out loud, but that was my initial reaction. “It is?!” Mental pause. “Huh. How about that.”

My editor pointed out that my main character, Donovan, and his fellow exos, are considered too alien by unaltered humans, yet still nothing but human to the aliens. Exo was already personal to me because it’s about a broken family, and as a child of divorced parents, I knew I was bringing some of my own worldview and experiences to the page. I had no idea, honestly, that as a second-generation Asian American I was also infusing elements of mixed identity into the narrative. Which goes to show that sometimes we writers can turn out to be all smart and subtextual without even trying, just by letting more of ourselves filter into the work.

IT’S FUCKING HARD TO WRITE WITHOUT PROFANITY

Exo is published by Scholastic Press, of Harry Potter and Hunger Games fame. One of Scholastic’s enormous strengths is its distribution reach into schools. Didn’t we all love getting those colorful flyers in class? In order to ensure my book got a showing in the Book Fairs and Clubs market, my editor asked me to remove the abundant amount of profanity in my novel.

“But my characters are soldiers and terrorists,” I protested.

“I’m sure there are terrorists in the world today who don’t cuss.”

“But these are American terrorists! They would cuss all the time. Teenagers in the military aren’t going to be like, ‘Aw, gosh darn it!’ Come on, tell me what I can get away with here. Like, can I have one ‘fuck’ and three ‘shits’? Two ‘shits’ and a couple ‘goddamns?’

“No, none of that. I don’t think your book even needs the cursing. Besides, it’s set in the future so make up your own swear words if you want.”

“There is no way I am pulling a Battlestar Galactica and using ‘fraking!’ I won’t do it! This is untenable! I can’t write without profanity!” (Dramatic teeth gnashing.)

(Sigh.) “Look, the school market can give you a shit ton of sales, but if you want to cling to your precious swear words for the sake of artistic integrity, it’s your fucking career funeral.”

Okay, I made up that last bit. My editor is a lovely person and didn’t say that, but you get the idea. I took out the profanity. Unless you have a really good reason, you do what your publisher tells you will help them market and sell your book. I ended up thinking of it as a professional writing challenge: how do I stay true to the tone of the novel without full and unfettered use of colorful vocabulary? Writing under constraints can be instructive and it’s what professional writers often have to do. And more kids reading my books? Well, gosh darn, I’ll fraking take it.

LIQUID ARMOR IS A THING AND IT’S REALLY COOL

In the world of Exo, certain people have adopted alien biotechnology that gives them an organic body armor that they can manipulate at will. To get an idea of how something like this might plausibly work, I did a bunch of research into current and future body armor. Naturally, military forces are investigating ways to make armor far more lightweight and flexible. Kevlar on steroids, basically. The idea of liquid body armor is based on the concept of shear thickening fluids: non-Newtonian fluids that can harden in milliseconds and act like solids when force is applied to them. Yes, much like that weird goop of cornstarch and water that you might have been introduced to in a science class. Permeating fabric with shear thickening fluid makes for something that is light and flexible like a piece of ordinary clothing but is bulletproof.

Another advanced body armor possibility is spider silk, which is one of nature’s toughest substances. Scientists have already speculated in a science fiction-y way that the protein in spider silk could conceivably be placed in human skin to create, you guessed it, armored humans.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THE GOOD VS. EVIL THING

People like their good vs. evil stories. Especially in young adult novels. I worried that writing something like Exo would go against the popular grain. I wanted to tell an alien invasion story that was different from the typical aliens-conquer-earth plotline. I wanted to get past the arrival, invasion, and war part of the narrative and explore the idea of a world post-colonization, one in which humans have both benefited and suffered from the new world order. I wanted it be filled with moral ambiguity and have no “good” or “bad” sides. We’ve seen plenty of plucky, brave, YA rebels who want to overthrow the system, but how about the story of someone who is in the system, who benefits from it and defends it despite all its flaws, yet is still heroic and tries to do the right thing? Could I make the reader root for someone who enforces alien rule over Earth? Could I write a story that would make teenage readers ponder difficult issues while entertaining them with scads of sci-fi action? I think and hope I succeeded, but regardless of how the book is received, I’m glad I followed through on that vision.

* * *

Fonda Lee is the award-winning author of young adult science fiction novels Zeroboxer (Flux), which was an Andre Norton finalist, and Exo (Scholastic), a 2017 Junior Library Guild Selection. She is a recovering corporate strategist, a black belt martial artist, and an action movie aficionado. She loves a good Eggs Benedict. Born and raised in Calgary, Fonda now lives in Portland, Oregon with her family.

Fonda Lee: Website | Twitter

Exo: Excerpt | Amazon | B&N | Indiebound | Powells

AIIEEEEEEEEEE I AM FREE

We say escapism sometimes in the same way you might describe a mediocre sandwich — like it’s this half-thing, something that’s, ennh, fine, but not really recommended. We have better things to consume, after all, than escapist fiction. Deeper into that is the connotation that we should not endeavor to escape. Rather, we should stare our world and our problems right in the face, hawk up a hard loogey, and spit our gnarly phlegm right in reality’s eye. HRRRK. PTOO.

Yeah, no, fuck that.

Escapism has never been more necessary. I am staring at the news daily (hourly, minutely, secondly) and each time it’s like finding Sauron’s gaze fixed directly upon you — as such, I am looking for any opportunity at all to wince away for a time, just to be reminded that other things exist beyond that UNBLINKING SATANIC STARE. That’s not to say you should remain staring in the other direction, or that you cannot also read fiction or embrace material that is more serious and complicated. But at the same time, man, whoo. We gotta find the equivalent of emotional comfort food in a room full of happy goddamn pillows.

The other night, I posted a list on Twitter (which you can find here) of things that were essentially keeping me sane in this decidedly cuckoopants timeline.

So, I’m opening the comments here for you to do exactly the same thing.

Drop into the comments at least one (but not limited to one!) thing you’ve been using as an outlet for escape. Books, movies, games, comics, foods, people, something, anything, whatever.

As always, a spot-on post from Steven Spohn, COO of AbleGamers charity for gamers with disabilities. You can find him at his blog, or on Twitter @StevenSpohn.

* * *

The Sun highlighted her light brown hair against the sand like a firefly illuminating a message of love. My arms wrapped around her tightly, holding on as if to let go would be the last I would ever see her. She giggles with the sound of a thousand angels, harmonizing joy right into my soul. Our bodies rolling together across the shoreline of our favorite beach. We laugh as hard as we love.

She stops, causing her body to end up on top of mine. I can feel her heart racing as she lies prone, pressed into my chest. Her eyes dilated, big and bright. I can see the universe. I can see everything in her eyes. I can see my future, and it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

A warm smile overrides our laughter as the moment turns from play to serious. “I love you, Steve.” Her words breathe life into my mouth, filling my heart and my head with the most joy I’ve ever felt.

We kiss. My eyes close.

When they open again, the white stucco on my bedroom ceiling stares back at me, taunting. I awaken abruptly, realizing that I’ve had the dream again. My heart sinks, and a tear begins to form in the corner of my eye.

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real, so warm and welcoming that when you wake up the realization it was only a dream nearly shatters your spirits?

I’ve had that dream off and on for the last two decades, ever since I was a late teenager and began discovering the concept of love. Although the details change, the color of her eyes, her hair, and even our location, the feeling is always the same. Love in its most pure form and me being able to interact with her as I’d choose.

But it’s not love that shatters my reality. Despite being single now; I’ve been relatively blessed having been in two multiyear relationships that I would say were some form of love. Maybe not the kind of Hollywood writes about that lasts forever and you get your happily ever after, but real love nonetheless.

No, it’s not the love, it’s the physical ability to express that love. For those of you who don’t know me, I have an incurable and untreatable disease called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. SMA for short. Over time my muscles will continue to weaken, and I’ll lose the ability to do very basic things such as feeding myself, swallowing food, and even talking. As it stands, I’m already unable to walk, confined to a power wheelchair for mobility and on a ventilator to help me breathe.

Even with all of those challenges, I’ve managed to find love. Certainly not easily, but with the right person, love allows you to look past things like the challenges of disability to see the person and their true value.

Yet both relationships ultimately ended because of my lack of physical ability. Things that they wanted to do in life that I simply couldn’t participate in. Deal breakers, as they say.

And every time I have that dream I’m reminded of how close I can get to the elusive thing we call love, only to have it snatched away by an unlucky roll of the genetic dice.

Dawn Breaks

On December 23, 2016, a company called Biogen gave me the greatest Christmas present that I have ever received. The first treatment for SMA was approved by the FDA. This new beacon of light was called Spinraza. Studies done over the last five years have shown the amazing effects of the drug. Children who were stuck lying down, barely able to breathe and unable to sit on their own, were using walkers and breathing on their own after only a few treatments. For the first time in the history of humanity, the treatment would finally be available for one of the most aggressive and terminal infant-onset diseases. Spinraza isn’t a cure, but for many people it’s about as effective treatment as you can imagine.

The range of feelings I went through upon discovering that not only was the drug approved but the drug studies showing remarkable performance is almost indescribable. Imagine believing for all of your life that something you wanted with all of your heart wasn’t possible and then suddenly being told that it is possible and shown real, tangible, undeniable proof.

My head began swimming with possibilities. Would I become a dancer as I had always wished I could have been? Would I see if 36 is too late to join the Air Force as had been my childhood dream? Would I give up writing and become a lumberjack, hacking my way through the forest and looking really hot in my ripped plaid shirt?

Who knows. The possibilities are potentially endless. And I do look good in red plaid. The drug effects everyone differently, some regain more abilities than others. Meaning I could take the drug and only regain the ability to use my hand or I could become a salsa dancer. I simply won’t know until I began taking the drug.

But regardless of what the future will hold for my abilities, I now know there’s hope.

Golden Age of Salsa Dancing

A petite woman, 60+ years of age, sits in her manual wheelchair centered in the middle of the show floor. She beams with confidence like a lighthouse through the fog. Her eyes wander and find each of the audience members. As they lock, she gives a warm smile and nod of the head as if to say “you ready for this?”

The music comes on the loudspeakers. It’s soft, but you can instantly recognize it’s a salsa tune. The woman’s hands move to her wheels, and she begins shimmying, shaking the chair left and right. Then a man, who also appears to be in his 60s, walks onto the show floor. He’s aimed at her, walking with purpose. They meet just as the tempo of the music kicks into high gear.

They start dancing in a way that I’ve never seen before. She spins around him in circles. He bends and moves with her in a rhythm you would see from a professional music video. They are completely in sync. Simpatico in every way.

His arm slides along hers. Her chair glides effortlessly around him. The music slows as the dance becomes more passionate, more intense. Finally, with one swell of the beat, he drops to one knee in front of her chair, and they embrace.

The audience roars. Cheers and applause flood the arena. For just a moment in time, we are all one, amazed by this performance that just broke the stereotypical expectations many have for people with disabilities and advanced age.

They make it look easy because for them it is. They love dancing. They love each other.

Like an infusion of spirit, I can feel why they are so inspiring. They give you hope. Hope that you can still find love no matter your age. Hope that someone with physical challenges can dance like that and make you forget about their disability. Hope that anything is possible.

Love Isn’t All You Need, Hope Is

The Beatles got it wrong. Love isn’t all you need. Hope is.

Life is really hard. As of late, life has been even harder in these extremely politicized, tumultuous times. What gets us through these rough periods of time is hope that things are going to get better. While that may sound like a cheesy Hallmark sentiment or lifetime movie thesis statement, hope is what keeps us going.

When we don’t have hope that things are going to get better, when we don’t have hope that there will be good times after the bad, our minds begin to close as a self-defense mechanism to prevent the pain we think is coming. We start letting fear dictate our actions and letting anger influence our every behavior. The days get longer and the nights get colder.

Because if you don’t have any hope, getting up in the morning is much more difficult, moving forward is that much more difficult.

Watching a woman dance from her wheelchair with the love of her life is inspirational because it gives you hope. Your mind begins to latch onto the idea that love is real, even if you’re not feeling it right now, and love is real, even if times are tough right now.

I woke up from my recurring dream just the other night, and for the first time, I didn’t feel any sadness when I realized that the dream was just a dream. I realized that there is a chance I can wrap my arms around someone I love within the next few years.

Hope is your beacon of light during the darkest of times as the tiniest sliver of light shines brightest just before the dawn. The best advice I can give to you for the difficult days ahead is to find the things and people they give you hope. Follow them. Support them. Do what you can to ensure the things that give you hope can continue.

Do not go gently into that good night. Fight. Hold on to your hopes and dreams for the future. Art harder. Live bolder. Become the best and strongest version of yourself that you possibly can. Take care of yourself and your fellow humans.

Love with all of your might, but whatever you do, never give in, never lose hope.