So, despite being all Serious Cat Is Serious in the eyes of most people everywhere, I actually love going out to dance at clubs.

Yet I almost never do.

Why is this? I keep trying to explain to my friends that if they can find me an 80s night, I’ll go. But it’s not because I’m a Gen Xer who is all ONLY 80s MUSIC ALL THE TIME. I like plenty of eras of music (there are lamentably few 50s nights, though). Yet I couldn’t quite put my finger on why an 80s night sounds ok to me, but "going out dancing" makes my chest tighten and an inexplicable sadness fall over me.

And then I was watching this youtube thing about pop music and this guy Todd said in defense of Katy Perry’s Hot Or Cold of all things: "Especially in an era when most pop music is so grim and deadening, if you can’t enjoy a big, dumb, happy pop song, then what can you enjoy?"

And I can finally explain it.

Because generally when my friends want to go dancing, they mean "we are going to a goth and/or techno club." Which to me means "we are going to a club which will play exclusively arrhythmic depressing music or thuddingly rhythmic but aggressive, angry, and atonal music." And that doesn’t sound fun to me at all. (And sadly in Maine we have not so many choices.)

If I’m going to get my sluttysparkle outfits out and make up my face and drink blue and purple drinks and dance with my friends, I do not want to do it to music that is sad as shit or that wants to hurt me (or make me hurt myself). What I may or may not listen to at home is totally irrelevant to what I want to dance to–often I want things to fade into the background while I’m working, which makes some techno ok, and honestly I just never did like goth music, I’m sorry, I have tried so hard, but I just can’t, even though it’s basically required listening for my demographic. But for dancing I want something that takes me over and makes me want to move. It is the opposite, see?

And frankly, I just want to be happy and bounce around and sing along to the lyrics and laugh and drink and then do it some more. I LOVE that shit. It’s why weddings have become the best place to dance lately–people my age don’t make us do the chicken dance anymore, and no one saddles Grandma with their latest shrieking industrial technobark favorites. So we dance to upbeat, dorky, fun songs and lift up our satin skirts and it’s awesome. It’s why, to this day, I can make a party start dancing and not stop until it’s 4 am by putting on my wedding playlist (it is magical, tried and tested and unfailing).

I want clubbing to be like that. And sometimes it is–I went dancing all the time when I lived in the UK, and the gay clubs played fabulous bubbly pop music and the straight clubs always had a "cheese night" where you could dance to something you’d ever heard before. I don’t go out to show how indie and cool I am because I like something that sounds like it was duck taped together from Macloops, a Casio demo, and an old toothbrush, I just want to shake my ass, you know? It’s not about 80s music, but about the fact that 80s night means fun, danceable music without any posturing or aggressorscream sucker-punching. Also I like themes. I don’t know of another code for that. I’m happy to dance to contemporary big, dumb, happy songs–I like Ke$ha and I’m not even ashamed. (Again, not to listen to at home, but I’ll dance the hell out of it.) But most DJs feel it’s beneath them to play stuff like that, because they are Deep and Artists and Will Make You Weep With the Power of Mixing Things. So in general, one gets their Depth and very little happy. Happy is not Deep. It is not Cool. It is not Scene.

So every bar’s calendar is filled up with DJ Whatthefuckever’s Technovibrodubkrush Earblast and it’s just no fun for me. My enjoyment of dancing is directly linked to how much I like the song, and I want something big, dumb, and happy so I can be big dumb and happy for a night, because let’s face it, I wouldn’t have had all that blue drank if I wanted to assume a safety position in the corner while the music WHARRGARBLs all over me. I go out to lighten up, not to confront Dementors.

Which is to say, it’s not like I would choose Katy Perry for my bosom companion, but I’d damn sure rather dance to her than the latest hardcore scenestylings. You know?

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It is apparently the three week period in which all the stories I wrote over the winter come out!

But I am so excited about this one!

Some of you may remember back in the snowy tiemz of earlier this year, when I was babbling about having written a football story. (I am secretly obsessed with sports movies, you know.) A real one! With a championship and everything!

Well, my high school football/Coyotetrickstermageddon story, White Lines on a Green Field is out on Subterranean Online, and you can read it right this very moment! I hope you like it–comments open here as ST doesn’t have them.

As it says in the byline, this story is specially dedicated to  , a stray comment of whose inspired it. Also she is always telling me to put out a cookie for Coyote. Consider this my cookie.

Let me tell you about the year Coyote took the Devils to the State Championship.

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Today is a rest day a day for Fairyland treats!

There is a prequel novelette up on as of now called The Girl Who Ruled Fairyland–For a Little While, illustrated by Ana Juan, the original Fairyland illusrator!

It is a tale of Queen Mallow, and how she became Queen, and I would ask you not to put spoilers in the comments of the original story, for those who have not read Fairyland yet. And if you haven’t–kindly high ye over to your nearest bookseller and get a copy!

If you wish to discuss the story with spoilers, leave your comments on this post–I may even answer some questions!

I’m so excited, and hope you like this (rather beefy really) slice of Fairyland. Perhaps it will tide you over til the sequel.

The story begins like this:

In which a young girl named Mallow leaves the country for the city, meets a number of Winds, Cats, and handsome folk, sees something dreadful, and engages, much against her will, in Politicks of the most muddled kind.

History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.

History is like that.

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The other night we went to see Midnight in Paris. Not because I’m a Woody Allen fan (I love two of his movies, Purple Rose of Cairo and Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy, both of which, not coincidentally, share themes with Midnight) or because I wanted to see a romcom, but because Ebert told me what the movie was actually about–something neither the title nor the previews do very well–and the minute I knew I was all WE ARE GOING AND WE ARE GOING NOW.

So I’m going to tell you, in case you haven’t heard.

Midnight in Paris is a story about an American writer who goes to Paris. He is Woody Allen in an Owen Wilson suit, yes, complete with Emasculating Fiancee Action Figure, but the point is he loves the 20s in Paris, the Lost Generation, all the great old standards. He is dissatisfied with the present. He can’t finish his novel. And at midnight one night, while he’s sitting on the steps of some place or another, a car rolls up and out stumble the Fitzgeralds, Zelda and Scott, who beckon and wheedle and open their arms until he climbs into the car with them and becomes part of their world, meeting Hemingway, Picasso, Stein, Dali, and a host of others.

In other words, it’s about what we all secretly hope will happen when we go to Paris.

If this is your fandom, of course. And oh, it’s my fandom. I cried through most of the movie, and a bunch afterward, happy tears because it was so much of what I love and secretly want onscreen just like Purple Rose of Cairo but with writers, and it wasn’t making me mad, in fact, the direction the movie goes is wonderful and perfect, without being preachy or weird, and hit one of my literary kinks so dead on– Spoilers

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I am finally home from the tour, extended convention appearances, and bookbooking that has made up my last four months or so. Everyone else is at ComicCon, but I am home.

And of course, last night, my first real night back in the house? I couldn’t sleep.

Partly because it was 85 degrees outside at 2 am (our day/night temps for the last few days have not been functionally different from Albuquerque’s) and the fact that in Maine we get this sticky, awful weather for like two or three weeks a year is not enough to justify air conditioning. And our new bedroom window opens out Romeo-style, so we haven’t quite figured out how to get a window unit in there. Thus, downstairs has our old window unit and is fine, upstairs is horrible.

And I keep thinking I only have a few days at home to do x, y, and z, to Write All the Things for All the People, and then I have to leave again. I don’t, but my body and soul think I do. Ending a tour is like running as fast as you can and then hitting a brick wall. Sure, you stop, but you’re a puddle of girl now.

But that’s not all! Right before going to bed someone linked me to this article about how publishing is falling apart and BN is cutting back after the Borders disaster and unless one is a superstar one’s ability to make a living is about to be severely questionable. And I saw it and knew I shouldn’t have read it, that I wouldn’t be able to sleep for the oh god, what if I can’t do this anymore panic-lemurs whipping their tails back and forth, my tour-sodden brain trying to come up with a plan, (in the odd position of being optioned to the hilt with all her publishers while the sale-side of the industry is having a wonderful time coping with the collapse of a company that has helped shiv independents in the alley for the last 20 years), trying to convince itself that all the stories it keeps cooking up will get told and people will listen. And oh, my website needs updating and oh, my back catalogue isn’t on Kindle yet, and oh, the house isn’t unpacked yet, and HELLO 5 AM.

So I wake up late and sticky and worn out from worrying.

I guess I’m sick of being told that things I love and use and need to keep working are dying. The whole publishing industry, yes, but also things like Livejournal, which even I can’t deny is exploring assisted-living options these days. I can’t quite embrace the Facebook world with the enthusiasm I gave to the internet circa 2001. Though I can love Twitter, I see its drawbacks sharply (its collective memory is basically nil, and searching my own Tweets for information is a futile exercise–it doesn’t create a document, it creates ephemerality) and it has enough longevity that it’s hardly the most exciting thing on the net anymore. One day, it will go too.

And all of this means I am officially an old person who wants the net to look like it did when I was 19. I cannot even explain my instinctive hostility to Google+ except in Get Off My Lawn terms, and laziness–I do not want to set up a whole new social network when for all its faults at least Facebook let me port in my contacts from other networks without having to add them one by one and organize them into groups and GOD I do not have the time! But it’s "cool" (sort of, I mean, I remember Wave and how it was going to Change Everything) and all the writers are having Hangout dates and I’m gonna chew my pipe and complain. (Also I don’t know about writing, like, in front of people? While they watch? Maybe with people I really liked…

And I think back to when the distribution network collapsed in the nineties and no none was selling books in drugstores anymore and indies first started shutting down and I think that that must have seemed like the end of the world–and it was for many writers, who either could not adapt or were so buoyed by the previous system that without it they could not thrive or were just fucking unlucky. Yet as a whole publishing survived and changed. I believe it will survive. I hope I can adapt. I hope I am not to old/calcified/paralyzed by worry to change with it. But fuck, I’m still on Livejournal, so what does that say about my adaptability? I can do the self-publishing thing, I’ve quite obviously done it before when the shit hit the New York fan. But I also feel like that is not quite the next step that we’re all wondering about. I don’t know what that step is, but I don’t think piling onto the Kindle is a stable situation, and entrusting the entirety of literature to Amazon seems like a hideous plan to me.

That whole talk about the medieval nature of our world was not a joke–we have so little individual power over what happens here, and the giant corporation that croons sweetly about how well it will take care of us is just a king who wants England and France too, and more and more forever. Give me your books, all of them, and tell your friends that I am a friend to the unpublished, an indie soul standing up to wicked witches in New York City, doing what I do only for your own good, not my own enrichment, and Apple is LIKE a choice, quitting writing and working in a bookstore is LIKE freedom–oh wait! you can’t work in a bookstore anymore! We killed them all! So, you know, enjoy your degree, word serf. 

What use is a mere singer of songs and teller of tales in the face of such hungry power?

Dear Livejournal. Everything is scary. Here are some song lyrics I like and a quiz telling you what kind of fairy I am.

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