Reviewed: PELZMANTEL @ UnBound

Nice surprise for me this weekend:

K.A.Laity | Peltzmantel

When we are small fairy tales being with, 'Once upon a time' and end at 'happily ever after'. As we get older we discover nothing really works like that, life doesn't start at Once Upon or end at Ever After and the only stories that stop there are ones that no one really believes in.

Peltzmantel starts, as much as any story can, towards the end of one life and the start of another, remaining a small part of the storytellers own long years. It ends, as much as any story can, at a point of hope and renewal, as good a point as any to stop. Although then there are snippetts, short stories, windows into episodes of other lives to follow. ..


Read the rest over at UnBound and be sure to check out their wide variety of interviews, reviews, conversations and peeks into the writing life. They're about to announce their new video editions as well. I'm quite pleased that such a comprehensive site gave me a positive review :-) I was chuckling on Twitter about a review I came across of The Sandman Papers that focused particular scorn on my essay for its use of an "obscure radical feminist" theorist. I realise Hélène Cixous may not be a household name, but she's a fairly venerable writer at this point. I guess any feminist is "radical" to some folks and there are the kind of fan boys who won't accept any criticism of Neil Gaiman. It's nonetheless pleasing to have the very first essay I ever wrote on comics getting attention yet (it's better than being ignored). I've learned so much since then. Every writing project teaches me something.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Lord Malquist & Mr Moon

Although a bit late in the day (just got home this afternoon and had to spend some time soothing Kipper's complaints about being abandoned for a whole day and a half), I wanted to try to get back in the habit of writing up a "forgotten" book for Patti's round-up of titles.

"Let it be said of me that I was born appalled, lived disaffected, and died in the height of fashion."

Lord Malquist and Mr Moon is (to date) Tom Stoppard's only novel. Of course he's one of the most celebrated playwrights in the world, but this novel seems to often be forgotten in discussions of his work. Not quite out of print (there's a trade paperback edition from Grove that came out about five years ago), it's seems to have a very low profile. The novel came out in 1966 just before Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead and Stoppard's first real success, although he had been writing short dramatic works for both stage and radio (the collection of his radio plays appears to actually be out of print and is also a wonderful book to pick up). 

In this novel, the Czech-born British knight (by way of Singapore and India) indulges in some of the same obsessions that fill his plays -- peculiarities of class and station, misunderstandings, confusions, sexual entanglements, surreal slapstick humor and an actual ticking bomb. It's by turns hilarious and insightful and always brilliantly timed. So I'm just going to give a few random quotes to give you the flavor of the story that mixes up the would-be Boswell Mr Moon and the haughty noble (as well as his wife, a cowboy, a lion and more):

"I find crowds extraordinarily lacking," said the ninth earl. "Taken as a whole they have no sense of form or colour. I long to impose some aesthetic discipline on them, rearrange them into art. It would give a point to their existence."

It was all a question of preparing one's material. There was no point in beginning to write before one's material had been prepared. Moon, who had experimented on a number of variations of a first sentence, felt this quite strongly. He found that the vastness of his chosen field reassuring rather than daunting but it did cramp his style; he could not put down a word without suspecting that it might be the wrong one and that if he held back for another day the intermediate experience would provide the right one. There was no end to that, and Moon fearfully glimpsed himself as a pure writer who after a lifetime of absolutely no output whatever, would prepare on his deathbed the single sentence that was the distillation of everything he had saved up, and die before he was able to utter it.

"I got dizzy," he explained.
"I should think you did -- what were you doing?"
"Nothing," said Moon. "I was trying to face one way or the other and I got confused and fell over."
Let that be my epitaph.

For Style is an aesthetic, inbred and disengaged, and in such precarious times these are virtues. We all have an enormous capacity for inflicting harm, and hereto the only moral issue has been the choice of the most deserving recipient..."

"You see, he understood that substance is ephemeral, but style is eternal."

"Be poetic, dear boy, be poetic and take your text from d'Aurevilley -- La verité m'ennuie."

"Idealism is the thin edge of madness -- console yourself, dear boy, with the thought that if life is the pursuit of perfection then imperfection is the nature of life."

As in his plays, Stoppard enjoys creating characters whose opinions oppose diametrically and then setting them at each other. The hapless Moon manages to be both pathetic and hopeful, the imperious earl both infuriating and amusing. Sex has its allure but always seems just out of reach. The randomness of life (as deliberately arranged by the writer) creates mad moments of black humor. I'd love to see Stoppard write another novel, but he seems happy with plays (not that I mind). Nonetheless, it would be fun.

Thankful

I'm thankful for many things like the wonderful words of Kurt Vonnegut and about a billion other things that make me laugh, sing, cry and sigh. Far too many to list, though today while I made my chocolate chip cheesecake, I watched this:





I'm always thankful for the Marx Brothers. My column today also features films as my suggested Thanksgiving meal.

6 Courses of Films Perfect for Thanksgiving Day

If you need to survive the holiday by distracting yourself from thoughts of murder, what better way to do so than by fixing your glassy stare on the nearest video screen? Here are six "courses" of films to help get you through Thanksgiving.

Appetizer: Home for the Holidays

Get yourself in the right mood with Jodi Foster's film about the horrors of family, which gives a bunch of great actors a chance to play eccentric and loopy.
It's also a very human film that suggests that time heals a lot of wounds....

Read more: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/6-courses-of-films-perfect-for-thanksgiving-day.html#ixzz16Etbq5GP

Off to Bertie's for a fine fine meal; I'm bringing along a chocolate chip cheesecake for nourishment. I'm sure Robert will cook other things as well. I won't be cooking, although I might be drafted into peeling potatoes. My christmas cactus continues to beat the season:

Carrot & Stick

I have a favor to ask of you: it's not really much and this time of year, you might be spending a lot of time in the particular location anyway. I have a birthday wish. I realise it's a few weeks away yet, but you need some preparation time. The good news is that it costs you nothing but a small amount of time (otherwise I'd be hitting you up for donations to Heifer International or Kiva for micro-loans).

As you know, there are more places than ever to get the word out on your books and products, and even more people trying to do the same. It's hard to get a signal through all the noise. But there are a few things that will help get the word out on my behalf: tags and reviews.

Over at Amazon, it is possible to tag items so people know this book is in the same category as this other one. The more tags -- and the more agreement about the appropriateness of tags -- the better, as people are more likely to find your book in searches ("if you liked X you may also enjoy Y"). So if you have some time on your hands, I'd love more tags for all my books on Amazon.

And reviews! They needn't be elaborate, but they are helpful to have there so people have some idea what the book is like; be creative. Once you're on a roll, consider adding reviews (they could be the same ones) to places like GoodReads and Library Thing. Be sure to friend me there, too. Most of my Library Thing entries have been done by the lovely grad students (thank you!).

Thanks in advance for your help! It's the best birthday present I could get (other than a big lottery win -- I can hope).

Now the carrot: I hope you've all seen the new series Sherlock which revamped Conan Doyle's stories for the 21st Century. Fun stuff! Sherlocking is a fan site for show and they ran a fan fiction contest recently (no, not the naughty kind). I had been poked on Twitter to submit a story but with one thing and another, I nearly forgot until the last day. So, not my best work, I suppose -- and it may not make much sense to someone who's not seen the show -- but the kind of exercise that can be fun in a thousand words or less. So here it is:

"A Charming Situation": Holmes and Watson visit the London Zoo

Enjoy! If you prefer something less linear, drop by my page at the New Absurdist. Or if steampunk is more your style, drop by the serial. I think I finally figured out where I was going off the rails there: I got sidetracked on Helen's father before I developed her enough. That's the thing with first drafts; they seldom stay that way.

Humor: Panopticon? Yes, please!

Yes, when I get obsessed, I get well and truly obsessed. So here's my humor piece for Polite Company magazine on -- wait for it! -- the panopticon:

Panopticon? Yes, please!

Posted by k.a.laity on 11/18/10 • Categorized as Politics

Messieurs and Mesdames,

Inasmuch as your efforts toward gentling the population have not gone unnoticed, I wish to be more forward in encouraging your movements. Yes, we have all adjusted to the latest round of indignities required to meet the threats anxiously imagined in corporate-funded think tanks surrounding Washington. We are prepared to travel in the buff and drink no liquids for the duration of the flight, even if that means standing (eh, Ryanair?).

We’ve grown accustomed to software that tracks our every click, bosses who control whether we can be Facebook friends or not, and warnings attached to every email that warn it could be scanned for copyrighted content, do not reproduce. We even luxuriate under the motherly eye of CCTV, be we cat molesters or not, safe in knowing that we’re not out of sight.

But it’s not enough...

[read the rest at Polite Company and be sure to "like" it on Facebook or share it on Twitter -- or just recite it out loud to passers-by]

If I can get things together, I'm going to try to do a Friday Forgotten Book. I'm actually trying to make my schedule more regular as people seem to like consistency. It's not really part of my nature, but I can be accommodating.

Sometimes.

BitchBuzz: Panopticon

Happy Birthday, Alan Moore, who doesn't use the intarwubs, so he'll never see this, but he'll know somehow ;-)

Here's my column for the day which risks disrupting the space/time continuum by discussing French literary theory with a popular audience:

Welcome to the Panopticon!

How an 18th century social theorist foresaw the wretched state in which we find ourselves today.
Your every keystroke on the computer is recorded; CCTV follows your progress around the city; you agree to changes without a second thought—or a second read of the license—every time iTunes wants to update, and you squeeze your toiletries into 100ml or 3oz containers in order to board that flight.

And you don't even complain any more.

Welcome to the panopticon. Back in the 18th century, Jeremy Bentham (yes, the man whose dead body still sits in a cabinet of the University College London—sans head—except for the occasional College Council vote) proposed a prison that was a model of efficiency. The watched cannot see the watchers but know they can be under observation at all times. You don't really need to have that many jailers because a few can keep the paranoia at peak.

Read more: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/welcome-to-the-panopticon.html#ixzz15eLFmW33

Yes, a big part of this grows out of the TSA nonsense and the rather gratifying pushback against it. Lazier security does not mean better security: it just means it's easier to implement. But that's how it works: by wearing people down from their resistance. Don't accept it.

Well, my Xmas cactus apparently decided to get a jump on the season already (I think it might actually be a Diwali cactus). I remain a Grinch. But I am amazed at how much it has grown from that little clipping.

Happy Birthday, Peter Cook!

Whether he's discussing the Great Train Robbery, giving the jury instructions or singing in his inimitable style, I adore him.

Over at the League

I have a post up over at the Women's League of Ale Drinkers today on Daniel Pink's A Whole New Mind: Why Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future. It's a fascinating book on why people who can synthesize information across borders of various kinds, find the narrative hooks and figure out what people really want and need in their lives will thrive in the new information-saturation world.

I woke up this morning dreaming I was walking in Lady Gaga's shoes. As if! You will recall how badly I inured myself on perfectly flat shoes and a very small hill; imagine me actually trying to clomp around in these. Even Gaga took a spill in the middle of Heathrow.

Grading this morning; revising this afternoon. I got my contract for Craft Critique Culture at U Iowa. Now I have to decide some things about next summer: what do you reckon? Iceland or New Zealand? Iceland could be combined with England (the Great Writing conference will be in London this year), but I've never been to New Zealand. Of course it's a lot more money too, unless I can get someone else to foot the bill (when's that grant deadline?). Hmmm.

UPDATE: Part 7 of La Ronde over at Eric Beetner's blog.

Weekend Round-up

Here's Kipper showing why it's so easy to find excuses not to write. Good intentions often get trumped by someone who really wants attention right now and will sit on your pad of paper to make sure he gets it. One of the things I was trying to do on that paper was try out my new fountain pen (which I think I neglected to mention when it came last week -- I really do need to have some minions and/or acolytes! What kind of a cult is the Cult of Kaity if it remains minion-less?!).

The Victorian which I got from His Nibs is quite lovely and looks suitably retro to be either steampunk or a murder weapon in a Wilkie Collins novel. Inspiring to write with -- or that's the plan. I did manage to get a good bit of writing done this weekend after a week of mostly frustration and discarded dreck. Like the man said, sometimes the magic works and sometimes it doesn't.

Sunday I took part in the first of what will be a monthly series of open mic readings at the Arts Center in Troy. Hosted by Dan Wilcox and Nancy Klepsch, it featured both poetry and prose! Okay, let me repeat that: PROSE! All the open mics around here are open to poets only. Why doesn't prose get the love, too? Part of the reason I started Prose at the Rose is because there are precious few outlets for reading prose. I love reading, I love hearing other people read, but no one but poets allowed in most readings. So kudos, Dan and Nancy. I read "Vironsusi" from Unikirja and it seemed to go over well, despite going over the time limit (d'oh! just cut me off next time, I told Dan). Second Sunday of the month at 2pm will be the regular slot. Come on by and bring something to read.

One more thing I forgot: here's one of the costumes from A Winter's Tale at Shakespeare and Co. They had some out in the lobby at The Real Inspector Hound. It's always so lovely to see the fine craftsmanship on the costumes up close. Really wonderful work. They had one of Richard III's costumes there, too. Wonderful work. I forgot, too, to mention that when Inspector Hound made his entrance at last, he had these steampunk accessories which made me laugh.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Renegade

"I don't really write from a solid idea. It's never that certain at the start. You get to what you're saying through the writing, the process; and then you move on." ~ Mark E. Smith

    

My entry may not really be 'forgotten' so much as completely unfamiliar to many. I bought a copy in one of the bookstores on the Southbank last year, which was near the start of my growing obsession with The Fall. I'd only seen them live once, but I've been obsessed ever since. A big part of that is irascible frontman Mark E. Smith who has keep the band going through various personnel changes since the heyday of punks. Their most recent release, Your Future, Our Clutter, proves they are still amazing all these years later.

Smith's narrative ranges freely over the many years of his career, projects as diverse as the ballet performed at the Edinburgh Fringe to accompany I am Kurious Oranj and the play he wrote about the rumored stories behind the sudden death of the first Pope John Paul, Hey, Luciani -- not to mention a lot of great music in between, as well as fights, marriages, sackings and a lot more. I can think of no better way to tell you what this book is like than to let the man speak for himself.

  When I was five I used to go and sit with my next-door neighbour, Stan the pigeon guy, in his back garden. He was a Teddy Boy, and in those days, before everyone had phones, the Teds used to send pigeons off to their girlfriends in Blackpool or wherever, with little messages attached.
  Sometimes he'd have three pigeons, each with a girl's name on it. I'd say to him, 'Why you doing that, Stan?'
  'So at least one of them will get through.' (11)

  That's why I've never aligned myself to the whole punk thing. To me, punk is and was a quick statement. That's why most of the main players couldn't handle the fall-out of it all, they were like a bunch of shell-shocked army majors stuck in time, endlessly repeating their once-successful war cries. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, but I wanted something with a bit more longevity. (42)

  I used to do tarot readings as well. I went through a phase of reading books on the occult. I was fascinated by it. I still believe that things leave vibrations. America, for instance; I've visited all these Civil War sites and the atmosphere is incredible. You can almost reach out and feel it. (67)

  Women are more in tune with rhythms than men. It's very hard being in an all-male group. They don't get anything I say to them. The tunes in my head don't go past three chords. But men can't get it. There's something in their brain that's out of touch with this idea. I feel alienated from men musically, whereas women can transform my ideas into reality a lot more accurately. (129)

  I've always tried to dress smart. It's important... (130)

  [On Orson Welles] He was in another zone. Telling stories on stories until in the end he himself is a story. He didn't seem afraid of living in that world; and it's childish in a way, but when you can deal with it and use it, the results are evident.  I think it's like heightened awareness, similar to when you don't eat for a few days, or you've been on a bit of a bender -- you see things differently. And not always in an obvious way. (235)  

See the other Forgotten Friday Books rounded up at Patti Abbott's blog and of course, Todd (who persuaded me to take part again with some guilt-provoking) always does an FFB.

BitchBuzz: Women, Sex and Stephen Fry

What's the link, you're asking yourself:

Women, Sex, Shame, and Stephen Fry

Stephen Fry's recent faux pas highlights a cultural blind spot about women's sexuality and shame.

There have been such brouhahas in the Twitterverse this past week. Most writers focused on the take down of Cooks Source magazine, but the more frivolous among us—scandal seekers all—followed the shocking revelation that Stephen Fry apparently suggested that women don't like sex. Well, OK —it's not really that surprising that professionally beloved gay bon vivant Stephen Fry proves himself to be less than knowledgeable about women's sexual practices.
In an elaborate response on his own website, Fry detailed the conversation that spawned a simultaneous tsunamis of outrage and smug we told you so head nodding. Fry was astounded that anyone would believe this for a moment:

"I suppose the keenest disappointment I feel about the past week and the almost incredible weirdnesses it has brought in its train is the idea that there are people out there who actually swallow the notion that I am so stupid as to believe that women don’t enjoy sex. That I not only believe it but that I am dense, dotty and suicidally deluded enough to make a public declaration of such a crazed belief..."

Read the rest: http://news.bitchbuzz.com/women-sex-shame-and-stephen-fry.html#ixzz15006d6aD

Have you also been reading all the terrific interviews over at the League? How about the new serial, Airships & Alchemy (which is still finding its feet, I think)? And did you know Kit Marlowe has her own Amazon author page now?

Review: A Disappearing Number and The Real Inspector Hound

The National Theatre live broadcast of A Disappearing Number proved to be a stunning experience. A heady mix of drama, math, physics, love, romance, ritual, music, classical Indian dance and rhythms -- it sounds too complicated to work, but it does. In fact, it's kind of magical. Put together by the theatre company Complicite, this production explained a lot of complicated math, but weaved it together with a love story, a history lesson, an explanation of the beauty of numbers and their patterns, an insightful examination of the situation for an Indian in Britain before the first world war and the ways we build our own private languages of love.

It sounds like an awkward jigsaw puzzle of clashing pieces: yet it was over two hours of non-stop dazzle of ideas, characters, ritual and movement. This is the kind of piece that shows all theatre can be, how it can be so much more than a story unfolding on stage before an audience. It was exciting, it was enthralling and it was inspiring. Thank you, Spectrum 8 for carrying the broadcasts; thank you, National Theatre for broadcasting these productions; thank you Complicite for visionary theatre; thank you to a talented cast and crew for a spellbinding experience.

Sunday was the last performance of Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound at Shakespeare & Co. As one of Stoppard's early plays, it's more about playful and clever fun than about weighty issues, though there's an underlying almost hysterical theme of anxiety about the elasticity of reality as the observers get dragged into the play they're observing. This element, however, became completely buried with the focus on physical humor.

Directed by actor Jonathan Croy, the cast made the most of the opportunities for slapstick wackiness, even making the dementedly brilliant choice to have the charwoman, Mrs. Drudge, be blind. The actors had a ball. Moon and Birdboot, the two critics reviewing the play and talking through it, were sitting next to us in the first row stage left. It really invited audience interaction, which happened, including a young man telling the two troublemakers at the end of the interval that he hoped they would be less disruptive in the second half.

Second half: that was the problem. This is a one act play. All the slapstick inserts helped stretch it to two hours with an interval. You could really feel the stretching in the first half. Stoppard's dialogue suits a snappy pacing that ties the moments together. All the inserted bits subsumed the dialogue. The physical humor clearly pleased the audience and the actors seemed to be having a ball. It was fun, and I was probably the only one chafing at the slackness of the pace. The set pieces like the card games and the tea service were funny, but also brought the story to a standstill, so it had to start up again and pick up speed once more. They may have decided that a one-act would not leave an audience feeling as if it got its money's worth; when the Home Made Theatre Company put it on, they added The Fifteen Minute Hamlet, which made a nice addition to the production. Great fun.

By the by, I got my contributor's copy of this so I conclude it's available now. The volume includes my essays "The Gilda Stories" and "The Vampire Lifestyle":

Unexpected

Well, the most unexpected thing yesterday was the snow that fell after the weather report suggested no more than the possibility of some light rain. My first reaction was disbelief, then dismay as it continued to fall. We finally accumulated over an inch and a quarter. There's something distressing about getting snow this early, though there's a part of my brain that says, well, maybe we're getting it out of the way early in the season though of course another part of my brain whispers, oh god, it's going to be a real long winter, isn't it?

Today is advisement day, which always fills me with misgivings. What advice can I offer? Don't do what I do? Life is easier if you conform, follow the rules and do what everyone tells you to do? Nah, I can't really advise that -- then again, all they really want to know is what classes to take next semester. I can do that. Well, with the help of my computer interface, I can do that.

The other unexpected thing came in the mail. Accustomed to getting rejections in the mail (acceptances usually come via email or phone), I experienced a sharp stab of disappointment to see a thin envelope from CIES in the mail yesterday.  But I opened it to find more encouraging news:

Namely that I've sailed over the first hurdle toward the Fulbright. That's something: not everything, but something. My file is now being sent over to Ireland to be considered along with the other finalists. How many finalists? Don't know. When will I know if I make the final cut? Somewhere between "March and May" although sometimes it can be beyond May, depending on, oh, a host of factors. You can be approved, not approved or held in reserve as an alternate. For the latter, you might have to wait until first stringers decide whether to take the opportunity. So more waiting. Trying not to think about it -- yet plan for the possibility of going abroad for an extended period of time. Or not.

Sigh.

"Only the first phase": I love the sentence, "Given the multi-phased review process, it is important that you do not take any irreversible action based on expectation of an award." In other words, don't tell your boss off, quit your job and sell your house.

Two theatre outings to review soonish; a Moore essay sent off that should be appearing in Studies in Comics eventually, part of a themed issue from the Moore conference in Northampton last June.

UPDATE: It's Tuesday, so it's time for another entry in "La Ronde," the round robin story started by Patti Abbot. Check out  Evan Lewis' story.

Publication: Sex and How to Get It

Drop by Polite Company magazine to see my humor piece, "Sex and How to Get It." Worth a chuckle or two, I hope. Feel free to leave a comment or repost it to Twitter or Facebook. That's how word of mouth spreads these days.

Which reminds me: Kit Marlowe's The Big Splash can now be purchased through Amazon as well as with the publisher, so now it's listed on GoodReads and LibraryThing as well. Reviews or recommendations would be really helpful! If you've read it, consider offering your opinion in any of the above.

Off this afternoon to catch the last performance of Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound at Shakespeare & Co. You know much I love Stoppard. I've seen other productions of this play, so it will be fun to see S&Co's take on it. Witty and lively and full of clever twists and turns, it's a play as much about the theatre experience as it is a tightly plotted murder mystery.

News Round-Up

Okay, the week has been massively mad -- more than usual? Oh I don't know! -- and I feel like I am scrambling just to be caught up on something. Or maybe I'll just distract you with this li'l doggie from CuteOverload. So... cute...!

Yesterday Steve and I took the tour around Albany, going to bookstores, a coffeeshop and lunch at Karavalli's (mmmm!) and then just hanging out here watching some comedy. It was good to have a chance to hang out with my big brother.

I've been working on the website for Women's and Gender Studies: I hate the web interface we have to use for the college. It's one of these "idiot-proof" systems that means it's infuriating to someone who knows what they're doing. Frustrating. So I've been listening to The Fall a lot ("Stop mithering!"). My endless cries for minions or acolytes go unheeded: there are articles that need reformatting to be sent back to editors. Tedious work! I hate tedious work.

On the plus side, I placed two humor pieces this week. More about these when they become available, but it was doubly pleasing because one of them was requested of me in very flattering language, which really bowled me over. I don't get asked to contribute to a lot of things and if I do, it's generally because I know the editor. This came out of the blue. Quite a boost to the ego, I can tell you. The editor said she really loved "The Last Ant" and wanted a piece like it. She thought the one I gave her to be "absolutely hilarious," so I am pleased.

What else? Over at the League, we've had interviews with the staff and next week with some of the contributors. I have a column this week at BitchBuzz, but it hasn't posted yet (not quite sure why, but there are some major changes about to occur at BB, so that probably has some effect because I need to incorporate new developments ). Patti Abbott's got part five of La Ronde, the ongoing round robin story I was part of over at her blog. Todd's got the latest entry in Friday Forgotten Books. Un:Bound is about to unveil a super secret project. Of course, there's always something interesting to see over at the Queen's Eyrie. There's lots going on!

Publications: High Plains Lazarus / Fear and Loathing in Deptford

I'm pleased to let you know that the zombie anthology, Rotting Tales, is now available from Pill Hill Press and it features my short story "High Plains Lazarus" -- obviously influenced by spaghetti Westerns as well as Joe R. Lansdale his own self, but with a mystical twist.

The book will be available on Amazon soon, but until Thanksgiving, Pill Hill will be selling the collection for a discounted rate of $15.49 so if you're thinking of picking it up, that's a great reason.

The story has a funny history, having been written at the last minute as I headed off to Trinoc-con one year and hated everything I'd ever written (it happens) and so started writing something just for fun. It was a big hit, with one exception: I'd only got half the story written. People were ready to kill me for stopping in the middle, but that's all I had. I finished (and read the rest the following year at Trinoc-con) and sold it to an anthology, who then proceeded to slowly reel out the days while contributors waited, and waited, and were reassured that it was coming, it was coming -- and then after two years, they just stopped responding. Sigh. Unfortunately, that's the life of small publishers. I'm glad it's got a home at last.

Over at the Women's League of Ale Drinkers, where the first issue of the journal is available for a mere 99¢ (such a bargain!), you can get the lowdown this week on our design director, Stephanie Johnson AKA the Queen of Everything, editor Vicky Squid and, er, me. We'll be getting to know many of the contributors to the first issue throughout the month. Enjoy!

WLoAD #1 and a Book Trailer Review

Hey kids, get yourself a fine publication for just 99¢! Yes, it's the inaugural issue of the Women's League of Ale Drinkers journal featuring some wonderful art by pal Stephanie Johnson (who designed the whole issue) and a whole lot more -- like my long unplaceable story, "Fear and Loathing in Deptford," in which I imagine how Christopher Marlowe's last night might be if he wrote in the style of Hunter S. Thompson (albeit with Elizabethan sensibilities). I got lots of compliments on the story from editors who nonetheless did not buy it because it was too this or too that (too obscure, too much strange vocabulary, and -- oh no! -- even some Latin!). Check out the table of contents for more delights including some familiar names.

My book trailer for Pelzmantel received a review over at 1st Turning. I'm learning a lot from people's comments -- things that never occurred to me. It's hard when you know the story inside out to think about how to introduce it to someone unfamiliar with it. Feel free to add your comments as well. I need all the feedback I can get as I'm starting to think about the trailer for The Mangrove Legacy: whatever will that have?

Happy Halloween!

Busy weekend, busy autumn: I never got around to my traditional Halloween card, so here's a blast from the past which has come to mind several times this week, so clearly she wants to make an appearance:

Devil’s Night

It was called Devil’s Night in the town where I lived

That veiled night before Halloween,

When goblins came out and devils ran wild

And some said that witches were seen.

We kids stayed inside, safe in our beds

And whispered of what there might be—

But one year we intended to see for ourselves,

My sister, my black cat and me.

The sun had long set and the darkness had come

To wrap all the houses in black,

When we crawled out the window and crept ‘cross the lawn

And none of us even looked back.

Though the wind tapped our shoulders and played with our hair

And ran through the leaves with mad glee,

We were stalwart and true like the heroes we knew,

My sister, my black cat and me.

We had never quite said, but each knew in our heads

The goal of our late night foray;

There was only one house whose black shutters and spires

Cast long inky shadows by day.

The house of nightmares was the subject of dares

For children much older than we,

But we knew we must try to sneak in and spy,

My sister, my black cat and me.

As we walked on our own down the mist-shrouded lane

The goblin cries rang through the night.

My sister told me, with an air of disdain,

That I should not take any fright.

“It’s only some kids wrapped in sheets that they hid,

That they took from their mother’s laundry.”

And we continued along with much knocking of knees

By my sister, my black cat and me.

The house loomed ahead with its turrets like spikes

Aimed at a portentous sky

The old shutters rattled and the chimney howled doom

But the wind smelled like pumpkin pie.

“An old witch lives here and she eats little kids,”

My sister heard from Katie Lee

And we were likely to die if we drew too near by

My sister, my black cat and me.

“I’ll go up on the porch and ring her doorbell

then run—like the wind—quick away.

You go ‘round the back and give a sharp ratatat,

Before she can come out this way.”

Her plans carefully laid, my sister then stayed

As I walked toward the back door slowly,

I’ll admit I was scared and I felt ill- prepared,

No sister, just black cat and me.

As I prowled through the gloom I saw a bright room

And an old woman dressed all in black.

“It must be the witch,” I said to my cat

And shivered and shook in my tracks.

I wanted to run but I heard the doorbell

And I knew that my sister’s safety

Was all in my hands, so we gathered our breaths,

Poor little black cat and me.

I made a small fist and raised up my arm

To deliver the thunderous tap

But I froze to the spot when I saw a dark shape

That opened the door with a snap.

“I know what you want!” I hear the witch say

But my feet would not move to flee

And she swept us inside the warm kitchen’s light,

Poor little black cat and me.

My tears trickled down and I begged for my life

And the life of my little kitty.

The old witch just smiled and patted my head

And said to me, “Don’t be silly.

I’ve got oodles of pie and candy and fudge

And a gingerbread house so pretty,

And I wish you would share all the food I’ve prepared—

It’s too much for my big cat and me!”

I looked all around and my fear dissipated

The kitchen was cheerful and clean

And the huge oaken table was filled ‘til it groaned

With more treats than I’d ever seen—

Pies of all kinds and cookies with chips

And a big steaming pot of green tea,

And in front of the fire a great big cat yawned

At my ravenous black cat and me.

I said “Thank you ma’am!” and plopped down in a chair

And she set a blue plate before me

And I piled it up high with some warm pumpkin pie

And a big taste of each sweet dainty.

I was feeding my face and telling the witch of our chase

When my sister’s gaze fell upon me.

But it took little time before we brought her inside

To eat with my black cat and me.

So when you see a witch and your knees start to shake

And you’re tempted to run to the hills,

Just remember the night that we wandered quite late

Seeking out Devil’s Night thrills.

Some witches are good, and some witches are bad

But they all make amazing candy!

If you’re sweet and not rude, they might share their food

With your sister, your black cat and thee.

BitchBuzz: Spooky Chicks

Setting off the Halloween weekend, here's my latest column in which I wax rhapsodic over some fave femme films (oh dear, alliteration overload):

Spooky Chicks: 4 Films Full of Female Mayhem

It's nearly Halloween and if you're like most people these halcyon days, you're feeling more than a mite pinched in the wallet and depressed about your status in the world. Doubly so if you are female, because we always bear the brunt of austerity measures.
Well, nothing raises the spirits and boosts the ego like a little female mayhem. Sure you want to go on a rampage through the high street and smash windows, but you'd also like to have the possibility of keeping your job and acquaintances. Better to snack on your favorite high fat snack and let these women carry out the bloodshed for you.

Read more: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/spooky-chicks-4-films-full-of-female-mayhem.html#ixzz13geQEopZ to see what films I recommend!

A busy weekend ahead: of course! So many Halloween things going on, it will be hard to choose. Definitely a bonfire out at Mandi's tonight with a bunch of folks and probably Sunday out at Mary's in Berne, but in between...? Still making up my mind. Maybe I'll just stay home and watch scary movies :-)

I have been quoted in this article from the Schenectady Gazette, but as it's behind a paywall, so you may need to take that into consideration. It's in conjunction with a spooky dramatic reading program that's going on Sunday afternoon by the Schenectady Civic Players. Not quite in time for Halloween, my zombie Western "High Plains Lazarus" will be available in the anthology Rotting Tales from Pill Hill Press next week. If you're on Facebook, you can see a teaser of the story there.

Visiting the Vanderbilts

We headed over to the Vanderbilt place to check out how the other half lives (of course, at this point, it's not so much the "other half" as the super-rich 1%), but first we stopped to fortify ourselves at the diner.

I had a terrific burger cooked just the way I liked and everything was really fresh. My only disappointments: they have those coated fries with extra starch (bleh!) and they do not have real mayonnaise. But we did some more antiquing and saw a wonderful sight: an older woman in a leopard skin coat walking a cat in the rain. Wonderful!

Next we headed over to the Vanderbilt House. It's not quite as magnificent as the Biltmore, of course -- they only came here for a month each in the spring and fall -- but it is quite nice. The way they give you the tour is to take you through the experience of arriving there to spend the weekend as their fellow millionaire friends so you can see how the day was spent, but then you get to leave through the servants' area, so it brings you back down to earth. It was a bit rainy off and on, but a lovely day nonetheless.

Driving home last night there was a whole lotta fog: the effects of rather too warm weather for this time of year and a lot of rain. A bit nerve-wracking for driving, but it always looks so cool. Spooky in time for Halloween, eh?

With my Brothers

Buck, the most good-natured dog in the world, supervises the process, while Robert makes the dough, Steve explains why rutabagas are always a bad idea and then the final product appears: mmmm, fresh pasties straight from the oven -- yum!

Keeping it Peel

Legendary DJ John Peel died on this day just six years ago. He could be curmudgeonly and peculiar in his tastes, but he had a profound effect on the musical tastes of people around the world, so I've joined in the effort toward Keeping it Peel -- passing on the legacy by sharing some of the extraordinary work that he brought to the airwaves, like this oddity from Peel faves (and yes, mine) The Fall. Sing a song in celebration of John Peel, like our pals Reticents did.

Find more artists like Reticents at MySpace Music

Into the Woods

Off on a retreat today with my friends in the lovely woods and hills (and cave!) of Berne. No cell phone reception, no wifi. Just silence in nature. Tomorrow I'll write up my review of the latest Woody Allen movie -- sigh! Short version: what a colossal waste of a stellar cast.

Wombat Day

I did not start this particular celebration, but you know I'm willing to lend a hand for a good cause. So join the dance for Wombat Day. Wombat cake below made by the Wombies. How to celebrate: Eat chocolate, think marsupial thoughts, put something in a pouch. Smile. Hug a wombat.

BitchBuzz: Are We Getting Nicer?

Well now, don't go getting your hopes up: it's just my latest column --

Is the World Becoming Nicer? (Probably not)

People around the world watched and cheered as the Chilean miners were freed, one by one, from their underground prison. I was surprised to find my friends, normally hard-hearted cynics, dabbing away tears as they watched this "miracle," this "triumph of the human spirit." No, let's not get distracted by the fact that the miners had their pay docked for not working, because it's possible that this emotional tide is the sign of a cultural sea change.

After all, as BitchBuzz's own Rebecca Thompson reported, our favourite grumbling misanthrope pin-up, Charlie Brooker has given notice on his bitch-fest Screen Burn, the better to embrace marital bliss and pumping our babies in the suburbs (Sob! No!). And spanky gossipist extraordinaire, Perez Hilton has sworn to turn over a newer, kinder leaf as well, asking for absolution upon the altar of Ellen, the Archbishop of Nice. As I write this, Facebook and Twitter are a sea of purple in honor of GLAAD's Spirit Day "to show support for the teens who took their lives because of anti-LGBT bullying."

Are we getting nicer?

Read more: http://news.bitchbuzz.com/is-the-world-becoming-nicer-probably-not.html#ixzz131OcIapg

I'm doing my best to fight off a cold that tried to start yesterday. Not sure if I've been successful, but I keep drinking liquids and soup (semi-liquid?). Just when I was beginning to feel as if I were getting caught up -- there's not time to be sick!

La Ronde, Part Three: Provocateur

Here's a fun thing: I'm part of a Round Robin story sequence thanks to Patti Abbott, which circles around envy. One character envies another in Patti's story, then that character envied, envies another in Dana's story and now I'm writing about that character envying a third. 

Hence the lovely woodcut of the punishment of the envious.

I figured it was about time to get a female character into the story :-) so without further ado --

Provocateur

by K. A. Laity

James Preston basked in the warmth of the congratulatory accolades. People swarmed around him, touching him, smiling at him and it was bliss. The glowering presence of that ponderous fool Disch nearby only made the golden glow burn brighter.

How ridiculous he had been! Amateur! Trying to steal the spotlight from him? A smile curled his lip as he remembered the way the man had floundered through his ponderous pontificating. What a contrast it made to Preston's own witty, economical—and studiously humble—speech. Who would be quoted in the papers tomorrow? Me, that's who, Preston thought as he accepted another congratulatory accolade with what appeared to be an abashed modesty.

I've reached the tipping point at last! My sonorous voice will be the vehicle that takes me to the pinnacle of success. His smile broadened.

The party had gone on long enough, however.  With the expertise lent by years of practise, Preston could sense that the peak had passed and folks were thinking about the after-parties. That was his cue: he looked around to find Jeannette.

Preston's personal assistant had been flitting around all night, working on his behalf, pressing the flesh he'd rather not have to press. Jeannette was perfect: bubbly, persistent and pleasantly zaftig. He spotted her talking up Rav Noonan, the producer of last year's sleeper hit and doubtless casting something new. Good work, Jeannette, he thought as, smiling left and right as if warding off bad luck, he made his way through the parting waves of partiers. Jeanette's ample breasts rose and fell with excitement as she gestured toward him, waving him over to the conversation. Her long brunette hair retained its perfect curls from that afternoon. He must remember to ask about her styling products.

"Wouldn't you, James?" Jeanette said with a grin, laying her hand on his arm which caused her silk blouse to part a little more and show a peek at her black satin brassiere. 

Preston smiled warmly at the two women, but his thoughts ran ahead with delight. It must still be tucked away upstairs! "If it's a fabulous opportunity to work with Ms. Noonan, then yes, of course I would be delighted." There were chuckles and more words, but his thoughts were racing ahead to the suite upstairs.

Noonan made a lot of grandiose plans and vague promises, but he took it as a sign that she said she'd be calling him the following week.  At last he thought the time was right to announce, "This pumpkin needs to go to bed, my dears. Actors hours," he said, his voice ruched with regret.

"But James," his PA said, her eyes wide with surprise, some of which might have been genuine, "there's the party UNM has put together for Grady.  You must go."

"Oh, my dear," Preston said, his voice filled with longing and just a soupçon of regret. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, where he could feel the strap of her brassiere just beneath the filmy material. "You will make my apologies to everyone and be your charming self. I'm counting on you."

Jeannette looked up him, her brown eyes wide. She leaned in and whispered, "You're not snubbing him for that tedious speech of his, are you?"

"Tedious?" he whispered back, giving his words a conspiratorial tone. "I thought it riveting."

Jeanette laughed behind her hand, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly within the confines of her undergarment. A warm flush rose up the back of Preston's neck and at once he was impatient to get away, but he had to play by the rules.

He willed his eyes to meet hers with something approaching sincerity. "I'm counting on you to make it clear that I wont be there because I don't want Grady to have to share the spotlight. It is his night after all."

"You're being generous."

Preston chuckled. "Indeed I am. But you will have to do yeoman's duty, my girl, to make sure everyone understands how generous I am." He pecked her on the cheek. "Good night—and don't worry about making noise when you come in. You know I sleep like the dead." Especially tonight, he promised himself.

When he locked the door behind him, Preston could barely stifle the urge to run at once into her room, but he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe first, then took out his cufflinks. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked into her room, slipping through the door she'd left ajar this afternoon. Jeanette's table was strewn with papers, though her business card binder left an impression of neatness.

Preston pulled the top drawer open and there it was: the pink box with the name in script.  The black ribbon had been undone, but it didn't matter. He knew she had tried it on. Blushing she had said, yes, it fit, it was the right size, and oh, how extravagant he was. Preston grinned and picked up the brassiere, his excitement growing. His thumb brushed the purple silk gently, then he traced the black Chantilly lace with his finger. He didn't even realise that he had sighed.

He laid the brassiere on the bed, his eyes upon it as he removed his shirt and lay it on the bed, too, as if they were lovers. Preston picked up the brassiere, his touch reverent as he turned toward the mirror. He shivered as he let the straps slip down his upraised arms. The silk kissed his skin, its touch slightly cold, but warming quickly. Reaching behind he fastened the hooks, his eye riveted on his image in the mirror. It was a snug fit but that only added to his delight—and his excitement.

If only he had breasts like Jeanette's, Preston thought as he allowed his fingers to make lazy circles across the expanse of silk and lace. He grinned at himself. If you did, you'd never work again. Excitement surged within him as he pictured Jeanette's creamy breasts encased in the purple silk, getting nearer and nearer the breaking point, his breath getting ragged as his fingers moved more quickly.

Preston didn't recognize the sound that preceded the door opening—those damned little cards—but he couldn't miss Jeanette's startled expression as she stood in the doorway. What he must look like, he had time to think, his chest tightly bound by her brassiere, his chinos tented with barely contained desire.

"Oh god no," he whispered, but she already had her phone out and aimed at him. In the camera's click her heard the end of his brilliant career.

[For the curious, a link to Agent Provocateur's Stephanee brassiere featured in the story]