Yesterday I got author copies of my most recent book, a collection of short stories titled Where Rivers Go To Die. They look lovely and the red tones make me want to change my favourite colour from blue to red. You can find yourself a copy of this book on online stores.
These are stories I've written over twenty years, since the earliest I first wrote circa 2003-4
Testing this method on posting to Kbin from Mastodon shows that the post will appear in the Microblog section when you:
@[community name]@kbin.social
Hashtag additions to magazines/communities on kbin are inconsistently publishing at the moment, so if you want to make sure your post gets published, use this method.
For those wishing to publish on the 13th Floor Microblog, include the following in your mastodon / pixelfed / tweet style post:
Writing is a performance art, a kind of sleight of hand. We take something simple, something ordinary, something as common as words, and we turn it into something else. Something feathered. Something with wings. A dove. A white rabbit from out of now that leads to deeper into mystery. A invitation to wonder, that asks you to come along, to perform the trick yourself, again and again and again...
Growing up, someone was always telling her that she wouldn’t be able to make a living by #writing, regardless of which kind of writing she did. “I said, ‘OK, but what if I do them all?’”
Almost 2 months had passed, but Ykril was still in this lifeless state. The Eilistraeen in the temple gave us shelter, food, and work for the meantime. While Miara maintained the temple’s gardens and Sanise, as a bard in the tavern, entertained the Drow with her jittery ways and music, I assisted in the local tailoring shop, taking care of the priests’ robes and the mages’ robes. To my surprise, they were very impressed by my work, so they offered me a permanent position. But because I would rather not make the decision without Ykril, I was not ready to…
"We arrive in this world with birthright gifts," Parker Palmer says, and "then we spend the first half of our lives abandoning them or letting others disabuse us of them." Sometimes the second half isn’t much better. We’re told we’re not enough and we start to believe it. Parts of ourselves put up for auction. Pennies per the pound. Sweat equity bottled like snake oil and sold by the ounce.
Check out this excerpt from my first full novel, Below the Heavens - JiangXi!
It is fully published and can be accessed for free on Royal Road, and I've just started publishing the second novel, ZhiXia, which is a direct continuation of the first book.
It's hot in Vila Sapo and time for some distraction, so there's no holding back in Maria Jacqueline Evans's translation of José Falero's #ShortStory Flash of Dignity.
We didn't quite make it in time, but I really want to give you this essay! Right now we're at 2231, only 19 € away - that's 2 ebooks! Can we get there in the next 8 hours? That's 6 pm CET/noon EDT, if I'm managing to math right with this migraine. @bookstodon@linguistics#writing#linguistics
Honey touches the tongue, activates a cell, and sends a signal. All in one-tenth of a second. In one hundred milliseconds. A hundred camera flashes. A hundred flaps of a fly's wings. Receptors bind to the memory of a substance that's already slipping away.