What does one call these things? Is this a 2019 award eligibility post, since it’s the stuff I published in 2019? Is it a 2020 eligibility post, since the awards come out in 2020? Am I, possibly, a writer who has forgotten what words are?
Don’t answer that last one.
My major work in 2019 was Sisters of the Vast Black from Tor.com Publishing. It fits snugly into the novella category at 35,000 words (not a novel! Alas, I am still working on one of those).
Sisters is very special to me. It is the longest project I have ever finished, writing it worked out some of my complicated feelings on Catholicism, and most importantly, I stuffed it full of my favorite tropes: living spaceships, embedded letters, and anxious lesbians. It also has all of the following to pique your interest:
As of this post, Sisters is over half-off on Amazon, and I’d be honored if you picked up a copy or considered it for your award ballots this year.
What is it they say about the best-laid plans?
In the past half year I’ve: applied to grad school and turned it down, moved halfway across the country sight-unseen with three-weeks notice, sold some stories and thrown away a mostly-completed novel. I left Ann Arbor, where I grew up, for DC, a place I saw once for five days in the eighth grade. I have worked in libraries or museums continuously since I was eleven years old, and I left it for corporate America doing nothing remotely related to books and culture.
These are not choices I expected to make at all. And yet, it all feels right. I already feel like I belong to this place, more than I have with anywhere else I’ve lived. (And it doesn’t hurt that all the museums are free!) What strange turns we take.
It’s been awhile since my last post, so here’s what’s been happening writing-wise:
2017 has been weird.
Politically, the world is on fire, and I am constantly unable to tell whether or not headlines are satire or real life.
Personally, I’ve been doing really well. This marks the first time in six years that I’ve lived in a particular place for more than nine months. I’ve got a job in a field that I love (archives). I’m pursuing a lifelong dream and started applying to grad school, and it looks like I will be moving again this year, which was a big goal I was working towards. I submitted stories 49 times, which is up from last year, and got a lot of encouraging rejections as well as four sales. I wrote several things I love and several things that I do not love but which taught me something.
Speaking of stories, I also had six short stories come out this year that are award-eligible, and I’m eligible for the Campbell Award if you are so inclined. The complete list is on my Publications page above, but I would to draw your attention to my two favorites of the year.
“Extinctions” came out in the March/April issue of Shimmer and is very close to my heart. This story is about mothers and daughters and the weight of family history, and coming back to the place you grew up long after both you and it have changed. It’s also about hunting monsters.
“Last Long Night” is a flash fiction story that came out in April in Daily Science Fiction, about the horror of space, astronomical coincidences, and having hope when all hope seems lost. This is one of those stories that took me a long time to write (usually I draft things in one go, but this I picked away at over 2+ years) but now I love it.
I have some new goals for 2018, but I will probably write another post about those later. For now, happy New Year’s.
My near future flash fiction story “BABY SHOES-HALF PRICE-NEVER WORN!” is out now at The Arcanist. Read it here for free.
This is one of those stories where I can pin down a singular inspiration. It was an article I read in the New York Times, “The Internet Thinks I’m Still Pregnant”, about a woman who was being haunted. Not by a ghost, by the spectre of her miscarried child, who followed her through life thanks to the internet and targeted advertising. I’d been noticing changes in ads targeted to me, too–ads following me from website to website, and things I’d googled showing up instantaneously in sidebars.
I don’t really think we will see a future where we are living in an entire ecology of drones. If we were going to see such a world, we’d already be seeing its emergence, and it would require a timeline without our current paranoia about national security. You can’t have competing fleets of battle-robots flying around public airspace in the same world where you have to take your shoes off to get on a plane.
(^Watch me eat my words on this in ten years)
My branching timelines story “Seven Permutations of My Daughter” is live today at Lightspeed. You can read it (or listen to it!) for free here or buy the whole issue for $3.99. I have some more comments on this story in the author spotlight as well.
I consider this story the fraternal twin to “Extinctions,” which came out last week over at Shimmer. I tend to write this way, circling the same theme in sets of stories. Both of these stories are about mothers and daughters, about letting go of a life you imagined, about choosing to see people as they are. “Seven Permutations” is the more hopeful of the pair to me, because it is about the beginning of Sarah’s adult relationship with her daughter while “Extinctions” is about the end of a similar relationship.
I don’t have a soundtrack for this piece but I encourage you to read the poem “Superbly Situated” by Robert Hershon. It’s a piece I thought about a lot while writing “Seven Permutations.” It’s about being enough just as you are, I think. This line especially is something I try for in my own life and how I wanted Sarah and Dahlia’s marriage to feel:
Here in the cold reaches of Michigan, we’ve had nothing but rain, sleet and unhappy-looking clouds so far this year. Last weekend the weather finally broke and so I spent Sunday ignoring all my various WIPs and tramping around town.
We’ve got a 19th century graveyard here (possibly earlier–the earliest grave I saw was from 1812) and I spent a long time there. Old gravestones have so much artistry to them, from the variety of scripts to the individuality of the sculpture. I especially loved the one for a professor that had a book for the base stone. And then there are the simple, haunting ones, like the one that reads just “Mary and Baby.” Or the one that’s a rough boulder with a surname carved into the base. No first name, no dates.
I know a little bit about cemetery symbolism and time periods from a material history class in college, but I’ve always wanted to learn more. I’ve got a couple of books on the subject requested on interlibrary loan (Stories in Stone: A Field Guide to Cemetery Symbolism and Iconography and Victorian Cemetery Art) and I’m going to take another field trip when they come in.
The graveyard was an accident–I was actually trying to find my way to Nichols Arboretum and ended up there by mistake. Eventually I made my way around and hiked down to the river. Back when we had a weird blip of nice weather in February, I bought a hammock on impulse, and though I didn’t use it then (even with global warming breathing down our necks, spring in Michigan in February was probably a little unlikely) it was great now. A Cherry Coke, a book (Alex Wells’ Hunger Makes the Wolf) and a hammock by the riverbank makes for an excellent afternoon.
I even found a snake friend:
My story “Last Long Night” is out at Daily Science Fiction today–you can read it for free here.
I’ve been fascinated by conspiracy theories ever since I was a kid. There’s the Philadelphia Experiment, an attempt at time travel (or invisibility, depending on who you ask) that caused an explosion on a US Navy destroyer escort. There’s MK Ultra, only really half a conspiracy at this point–we know it existed, but do we know everything they attempted? And there’s the stories of lost astronauts (or more commonly, cosmonauts), ghosts of failed space missions left to die in the vacuum, their bodies either trapped in orbit or buried in moondust or drifting somewhere beyond Earth’s gravity. The Lost Astronauts show up in science fiction over and over, from Star Trek to Apollo 18.
I started “Last Long Night” after reading about Vladimir Komarov, who died either a horrible death or a horrible and self-sacrificing death, depending on which version of history you believe. I kept coming back to the thought of his voice echoing out into space, those last transmissions back to Earth.
“Last Long Night” is about lost astronauts, both living and dead, and the terror of outer space. But it’s also about humanity’s ability to find connection in the most desperate situations.