And I have come upon this place
By lost ways, by a nod, by words

It's a roundabout route I take seeking wisdom, that's for goddamn sure. I found this video by random curious clicky, and I love Dirty Jobs but I had no idea Mike Rowe did public speaking as well.

It's an awesome speech but not for the squeamish; he opens with a story about castrating a lamb with his teeth. What comes after the testicles is pretty great, though -- classical concepts of knowledge and tragedy, the potential myth of passion, and the idea of seeing what's happening and going the opposite way and finding joy in it. It's long, but I hope you like it.



I mean, I love the idea of following passion, and Alex Haley's The Shadowland Of Dreams is enshrined in my soul, but I like what Rowe says too. It seems to be the epitome of what I'm trying to do with Nameless and eventually with Dead Isle and Valet of Anize, which is to eschew the idea of story as commodity and instead work with story as community. I have every respect and more than a little awe for someone who can write a story and get it published, because I can't, but for me because I can't, I've found a new and different niche for myself as a writer.

It reminds me of what someone said -- I don't recall who, if it was you step up and take credit -- that when I write science fiction it won't be about the gears and guns, but about human and alien and technology and the dark places inbetween. I hope that's true. I'm trying, anyway.

It also reminds me that I'm vastly behind on Valet of Anize, so I'm off to put in my eight hundred words.

It's been a weird fucking day, guys.

By words, by voices, a lost way - ,
And here above the chimney stack
The unknown constellations sway -
And by what way shall I go back?

Nameless is in print!

Christopher, the only bookseller in the small farm town of Low Ferry, lives an uneventful life -- until one day he encounters a shy newcomer named Lucas, and accidentally sells him the wrong book. What follows is a journey for both men, in vastly different ways, set against the strange, ritualistic, magic backdrop of a midwestern winter.

A tale about the masks people wear and a meditation on the power of magic and place, Nameless revels in the simple pleasure of storytelling.

This book was the product of an intense three-draft editing process conducted entirely online.



It is available currently for $10.50, and the price will rise to $12 on May 10th. It is also available for free as a PDF download. Those of you who have inquired about ebooks -- I'm in the throes of HTML editing now, so it is coming!

If you are interested in a signed copy, please do not purchase a book! Scroll down to the cut below.

If you know a high school student who will be entering university in the fall, now is a great time to combine your postage and pick up my college guide, Other People Can Smell You, as a gift. If you're a senior yourself and strapped for cash, Other People Can Smell You is also available as a free PDF download.

NOTE: LULU POSTAGE TENDS TO BE EXPENSIVE. If you are overseas and finding postage prohibitive, please leave a comment on this post so people can contact you about workarounds. Likewise, if you are willing to combine postage to lend a friend a hand, please check the comments. It may be cheaper to have someone in the US purchase a copy with theirs and then send it to you, or split postage with someone in your area.

( Signed Copies )

Publicity and Reviews:

I am more than happy for you to publicise this book on your own journal if you want. You are of course welcome to do your own writeup if you like; if you have critical comments I won't be butthurt or anything (believe me, after all that we've done already, a little more crit won't kill me). If you'd rather just copy and paste, you can use the text( behind the cut: )

A Final Note

Thank you. THANK YOU, OH GOD. This book would not be here without you. I had friends who pre-read Nameless, and I know some of you don't think you are part of "The 2500" BUT YOU ARE; I had a cafe who went to town on this thing and made it so much better than it was.

Originally it was dedicated to Dog and Crash, the two canine troublemakers who inspired Nameless-the-dog. Dog, rest his soul, is weeing on the carpet in heaven; I'll bring Crash a lovely treat next time I see him, which I suspect he will appreciate more than lasting literary fame.

Instead, this book is dedicated to you.

I'm cleaning out my email (can you tell?) and a couple of people recently reminded me that I still had not reposted the rules for Emperors, the fortunetelling betting game played with Tarot cards. The rules were one of the casualties of the hack, but fortunately when Cartographer's Craft was typeset it was included as an appendix.

The amusing thing about Emperors, which was originally invented for a fanfic called Pilgrimage but used in CC as well, is that while it's actually been played by Cafe members, and apparently has had some popularity in certain circles, I've never played it. I have a couple of decks of Tarot cards (one of them my own hand-drawn invention) and I know people who read Tarot, but for one reason or another we've never sat down to a game. And if we did I'd probably have to consult the rules for the first few hands, just in case...

You will note I've included one variation at the end of the post. I love hearing about variations and just in general about people playing the game, so if you play it or have stories about it please feel free to share them.

( The Rules Of Emperors )

I FOUND THE BRAVE SUPERHERO'S LIST.

I thought I'd repost it here. BECAUSE I FOUND IT. My day just got a tiny bit brighter.

(Incidentally, Jack Harkness scores big time for following #4 during Greeks bearing Gifts.)

( The Brave Superhero's List )

*walks into the echoingly empty cafe*

*hands on hips*

Okay, guys. Time to fill it up again.

Welcome back.

Now see, this is the reason I am at heart an academic. I could handwave crossword puzzles into existence in the late 19th century, when really they didn't come round till the early 20th. But if I didn't look around for a newspaper puzzle of the sort that might be printed in 1871, I wouldn't have been able to share this tale of woe and destruction of library property with you.

Said a harried librarian: "...we just had to remove the three trays in our card catalogue dealing with Mormons."

( The tale of the Tangle Town puzzle. )

It occurred to me in a comments exchange in the last post that possibly it was a slightly unfair post. Not to GDL, so much, you wear that hat and you take your medicine quietly, but to people who 1. Don't know who he is and 2. Don't watch Torchwood.

I believe the exchange went something like:

3goodtimes: I didn't need to know Gareth David-Lloyd existed.
copperbadge: No, wait, dude, check this out:

</param>

3goodtimes: *blink* I have to go download Torchwood now, excuse me.
copperbadge: Don't give up when you hit the boring parts!

So, yeah. This is how I, a noob to the Whoniverse, learned to stop worrying and love the bomb sonic screwdriver stun gun.

Mild to severe spoilers up through Doctor Who S3 and Torchwood S2. Warnings for the more severe ones.

( Torchwood and Doctor Who: The Newbie's Guide )

( The Basic Outline Of Episodes To Watch )

Incunabula is the term for, among other things, a book printed in the infancy of the printing press. I'm trying to concoct a suitable word for a book written and "published" at the rise of the e-book; so far the best I've been able to concoct is extribulum -- ex, out from, tribulum, a machine (specifically a threshing machine, but whatever).

In related news, your OED word of the day is "exesion", or the act of eating out. Technically it means "eating out" as in "corroding" or "eating away at" but I have decided to reclaim this word in a more modern context and declare that for lunch to day I shall exese. It will be a most enjoyable exesion.

"Fine," Nicholas says. "If you need me I'll be in Extribuli."

"Exwhat?" Donna asks.

"Look it up!" Nicholas calls over his shoulder, wondering actually how many volumes the OED now runs to. Extribuli -- ex, out from; tribulum, a machine. The opposite of the incunabula. Works that exist only in electrical form, at the cusp of the rise of the e-published book.

This is not Nicholas's first visit to the fifty-first century.

***

Commentary post-hack: bobthemole, in the comments to this post, originally mocked up an OED entry for Extribuli and was kind enough to repost it to me when the hack occurred:

Extribuli, n. pl.
(With sing. Extribulum) Electronic books produced in the infancy of electronic publishing; spec. those uploaded to the Internet before 2010.

2008 S. STORYTELLER Angels Dining At The Ritz. Extribuli-- ex, out from; tribulum, a machine. The opposite of the incunabula.Works that exist only in electrical form, at the cusp of the rise ofthe e-published book. 2011 C. DOCTOROW Boing Boing. As part of the Digital Media Time Capsule...the earliest extribuli are being preserved. 2017 B. FORETHYME J. Electron. Publ. A surprising number of works that only existed in extribulumform are being painstakingly transcribed into hand-bound illuminatedbooks...by a growing cottage industry of scribes, illuminators, andbook-binders.

dyingfire pointed me to the Center of the Internet yesterday, and I must say I had a very enjoyable visit to the Exact Center before mentioning to her that it was a new location for me.

I've been to the End of the Internet many times; of an evening I like to stand at the railing and gaze on the vastness of reality which stretches beyond it, to where Realtime blazes like a perpetually setting sun. But the Center of the Internet suggested to me that perhaps it was time I made pilgrimage to the Origin of the Internet and completed the cycle.

I don't mean the "helpful" Start Of The Internet or even the Historical Beginning, which anyone can find in the great Virtual Library (where Wikipedia and Google reign on high, watched over by the Project Gutenberg Royal Guards).

Oh no, my friends. Where I am going, you won't find on any map of the internet. Not even the great cartographer, XKCD, can guide me thereto.

I want to venture past the old ruined AOL Gate, through the excavations in the ISP graveyard, and yea, even the Usenet Swamp where it borders the Wastelands of BBS. I will shoulder my flashdrive and brave the path that leads beyond the Data Mines and the ceaselessly grinding Wayback Machine.

Beyond the Fire Walls. There lies the Origin.

What will I find there? Perhaps Al Gore, seated in the lotus position, his eyes burning like LEDs of righteousness. Few have gone and fewer return.

I must prepare for my journey.

*buys Cheetos*

I have two phones on my desk. Two.*

One of them has four lines, one has three. I have seven phone lines. I'm like Cthulu of Telecom. Anyway, see if you can follow this without a flow chart.

Line #1 on Phone #1 rings.

Sam: Good morning!
Telecom Guy A: Hi, I'm just testing this line, we've had calls about people not being able to get through to your phone.
Sam: Okay well --

Lines #2 and #3 on Phone #1 ring simultaneously.

Sam: Can I put you on hold? *picks up Line #2* Good morning! Please hold! *picks up line #3* Good morning!
Telecom Guy B on Line #3: Hi, I'm testing this line, we've had calls about people not being able to get through on your phone.
Sam: Someone's on one of my other lines testing that too.
Telecom Guy B: Oh. Uh. Really?
Sam: Yeah, and an actual client is on yet another line. Can I put you on hold? *puts Telecom Guy B on Line #3 on hold and answers Line #2* Thanks for holding, how can I help you?
Random Client: Can you transfer me to BossBoss?
Sam: Can do! *transfers*

Line #2 immediately starts ringing again, along with Line #1 on Phone #2.

Sam: *answers Line #2* Good morning, please hold! *answers Line #1 on Phone #2* Good morning, please hold! *goes back to Telecom Guy A on Line #1 on Phone #1* So did you guys get what you need?
Telecom Guy A: Is someone else testing the line too?
Sam: At least one person. Possibly three.
Telecome Guy A: I'm going to have them hang up.
Sam: That would be keen. Bye!

Immediately every line that was on hold goes dark.

Then Line #2 on Phone #2 begins to ring.

Sam: Good morning!
Telecom Guy C: Hi, I'm just testing the line.
Sam: Seriously, you're the fifth.
Telecom Guy C: On one line?
Sam: On five lines.
Telecom Guy C: How many lines do you have?
Sam: Seven. So you have two more to go.

On cue. Line #3 on Phone #2 begins to ring.

Sam: Your brothers in arms are calling me, can I hang up?
Telecom Guy C: Yeah, we're good here, I think.
Sam: *hangs up, answers Line #3* Good morning!
GirlBoss: Did you know that like every line you have has a busy signal?
Sam: *stares at phone*
GirlBoss: Are you hanging up the phone properly?

Sometimes I'm not sure whether my life is a comedy or a tragedy. Then I realise it's a satire.

* Can someone please tell me where the "X has two guns. Two." thing comes from? And if you say Firefly I will light you on fire.

R: So I'm walking out of the gig last night, and the bouncer at the door stops me.
Sam: Mmhm *not really listening*
R: And he says to me, DAMN! HARMONICA MAN! YOU'RE GOOD!
Sam: Well that was ni --
R: YOU'RE GOOD! PRISON GOOD!

*moment of silence*

Sam: Prison good?
R: That was my reaction too! I thought he meant I sounded like I was selling for a pack of smokes, at first.

I need to make myself a PRISON GOOD icon. For when I'm just that good.

*shakes fist at hija_paloma*

Sam: *natters about fandom, Torchwood, fanfic reccs, who to read to feel better about Jack/Gwen overtones in the show*
Dove: The fact that there are fics that will make me feel better about it is enough for me to sleep tonight, I guess. Augh.
Sam: See? Aren't you glad I'm your Fandom Sherpa?
Dove: A Fandom Sherpa should have some sense of moral responsibility. *sniff*
Sam: I think it is a Fandom Sherpa's duty to have no moral compass at all.
Dove: Oh, you must have the compass. How you choose to use it, on the other hand, is up to you.
Sam: Well. Maybe it's one of those ones, you know, that just points at whatever you want most. Or at the moment, depending on which part of the movie you're in.
Dove: Instead of the cardinal directions: Porn, Wank, Spoilers, Meta.
Sam: I had to draw a diagram instead of replying to this comment.

I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the Fandom Compass.



No please. Don't applaud. I know it's awesome.

( Actually this was the original, but that one's more sexy. )

I have just come from my doctor's office. He says I am healed.

Healed!

No more physical therapy outside of the normal range of uses to which I put my left hand, no more splint, no more weight restrictions on lifting. My bones are knit and my tendons are reconditioned. The only sign I was ever in a cast is the mark on the back of my hand where they burned me, cutting the cast off. I'm very much persuaded to worry at it until it's a permanent scar; I feel like I want a marker of the past eight weeks. The doctor joked that he was sure he'd be hearing from my lawyer about it, but I said very seriously, no. Thank you for healing me.

It has been a long process and I've spent a lot of time complaining and contemplating, especially on this journal. I'm very proud that, except in quite dark moments of depression, I'm able to look at whatever's going on in my life and take something away from it -- humour or insight or strength. Being in a cast could have been a complete wash, with nothing to show for it, but I spent a lot of time thinking and did take away some lessons from it.

( What I Learned From My Broken Left Wrist, by Sam Starbuck, Age 28 and 1/2. )

All told, it's not so large a thing; a broken arm happens to plenty of people, happens to children all the time, and much worse happens to much better people than I am, every day. I've had other injuries that were much more psychologically traumatic, if less physically damaging. But it is a defined period in my life, from the moment I fell to the moment when the doctor said, You're healed, and like all experiences it helps to define who I am.

I want the scar.

I order from PeaPod grocery delivery service relatively often, because their prices are reasonable and it beats having to schlep crap home from the grocery store. Plus I can write fanfic while I grocery shop. :D

Anyway, I generally comb through the "specials" once I'm done picking up the staples, to see what I can get on the cheap. This time around I found generic Mac&Cheese for forty cents a box, so I bought five boxes for R, figuring two bucks is negligible and he would be less likely to eat my Cap'n Crunch if there was Kraft Dinner on offer. The groceries were delivered last night after he went out to a gig, so I stashed it all away and left the macaroni and cheese on the usual shelf on his side of the pantry where he'd see it (and potentially be very confused, but it is one of my delights in life to confuse R).

This morning I woke up and found R and Michael asleep in the living room and all five boxes of macaroni and cheese empty on the table. Also, the half-gallon of milk I bought for Cap'n Crunch-related purposes was gasping its last.

I'm glad I bought the mac and cheese when I did; god knows what they would have eaten if I hadn't. Sons of bitches better step off my portobellos, that's all I have to say.

Also, I wrote something perilously approaching crackfic. I believe it may be enjoyable to Torchwood and non-Torchwood fans alike; it is certainly the most unsettling crossover I have ever attempted.

Trying to Communicate, PG, spoilers through 2.07.
Summary: There's an alien in the Hub, and it's trying to communicate.

I remember being eight or nine years old, sitting in a dark theatre, completely surrounded by enormous men in pirate costumes.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared.

I was there because the local amateur theatre was performing Peter Pan, and I was a lost boy, and I'd dug up an old copy of Peter Pan which I was reading with not a little bit of perplexity, because Victorian fantasy is surreal and bizarre to a twentieth-century child.

In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy,

I rather liked Captain Hook, because he was courteous to Wendy, and I was aware that I certainly shouldn't, because he was a murderer.

save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly.

Our Hook must have been about nine feet tall. At least that's how he looked to me. Once he plonked down his enormous wig on my head and declared me his understudy, but that was during fittings, and all of us were sniffing about wearing...tights. It lightened the mood enormously.

In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a rancoteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew.

But the thing was, all of the pirate crew had names and all of the names were taken from the book, so as I was reading aloud to Captain Hook to tell him what he was like the others drifted over, asking if they were there, and if I'd read out the bits about them. These were grown men, mind you, wheedling like children to hear about themselves.

Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same Bill Jukes who got six dozen on the Walrus from Flint before he would drop the bag of moidores;

That's my dad.

and Cookson, said to be Black Murphy's brother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman Starkey, once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing;

Dad notwithstanding, Starkey was my favourite after Captain Hook because he also played the Crocodile.

and Skylights (Morgan's Skylights); and the Irish bo'sun Smee, an oddly genial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was the only Non-conformist in Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose hands were fixed on backwards; and Robt. Mullins and Alf Mason and many another ruffian long known and feared on the Spanish Main.

Not even a sentence each, but enough: to hear a name you carry, echoing in the empty theatre. This must be when I learned the power of storytelling, both of literature and literature read aloud and also of literature performed. Sitting in the fourth row, eight or nine years old, Captain Hook towering over me, all his crew crowded around, listening to me read.

A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged. He did it with such an air, he was so frightfully distingue, that she was too fascinated to cry out.

I see in Captain Hook every troubling contradiction, every well-scrawled villain, every level of depth of character it is possible to bestow despite the fact that he probably did not possess them all. Because he was the first of the procession, the first of the pirates of my imagination, and I still don't know if I should like him.

Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will do. As they pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.

Note: I wrote this a few weeks ago before breaking my wrist, and then filed it pending upload of the image and forgot about it until now. Enjoy. :)

In my ramblings through the seamy underbelly of the internet, I have come across many an interesting website. Jaded by Furry porn and Wingfic, by RPS and the infamous Goatse, I returned to the (offline) classics when I stumbled on someone's personal wikipedia of reasonably obscure erotic novels and treatises.

Always in search of fodder for icons, I browsed through it and happened to discover



Having written one or two modest works on the subject, I was curious and, as Holmes might be, determined to see the thing through. ( What did it contain? Who had written it and why? )

At any rate, there you have it: The Curious Conundrum Of The Sexual Adventures Of Sherlock Holmes, brought to a tidy climax conclusion.

I've never been together enough to do a year in review at the actual end of the year, because that takes way too much energy and organisation. I think I prefer to do a year in review at the START of the year, when it's all fresh in my head anyway.

2008 IN REVIEW!

- Distinct and annoying absence of hot water for bathing, this year. Nothing more than tepid water has come out of the bathtub faucets all year long.
- Delicious brisket for breakfast every day of the year so far. Not tired of it yet!
- R has been missing for the whole year. I think he slept over somewhere. What with the lack of hot water in 2008, I don't blame him.
- Mum has called every three hours, all year long. Bernard has spent the entire year annoying her.
- On the plus side: this year there have been no annoying celebrity scandals and nobody famous has died.
- It hasn't stopped snowing since 2007.
- I have not yet succeeded in my one New Year's resolution, which was to buy a pair of step-in shoes so that I can stop stealing R's.
- I've spent at least 90% of the year in bed. And I haven't had to do laundry once!

So, all in all, 2008 has had its ups and downs but I've had worse.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA

*stops for breath*

Hoo.

Hoo...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA

Oh my god, you guys, I couldn't fucking make this up if I tried. I really couldn't. Oh my god, oh my god.

I got on the web for a little while this afternoon and using some cleverly gathered intel, I found Bernard's fiancee's website. I thought I would just check her out, because this was the first time I'd been able to track her presence online. Her website led me through a social networking site to his website, and then to FFN, which was mildly amusing, and then to livejournal and then to other archives where I realised that my brother is a BNF.

He and I have never actually encountered each other because he's not in my fandoms and I'm not in his, but I recognised his screen name from the big fandom wanks and memes and all. I'm not going to name the fandom or give out his screen name because uh, no, but OMG AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Seriously, I'm living in a low-budget television drama, aren't I? That's the only explanation for this.

Ahahaha what the fuck, fandom, what the fuck.

I emerged from the bathroom a minute ago and heard R say "WHAT THE FUCK?"

I approach cautiously. He's sitting at his computer with a google imagesearch page open and FULL of vagina images.

He turns to me. "I was looking up what Menorahs look like and I got a page of vagina! What the hell is a labia menorah?"

I check his search bar.

"M-E-N-O-R-A-H," I say. "Not M-I-N-O-R-A."

Commentary post-hack: Metaquoted here: http://community.livejournal.com/metaquotes/6449456.html