We have voted. We walked out in cold, dumping rain to do it, because miserable weather is no excuse not to exercise one's civic duty, especially when one's civic duty affects the rights and safety of other people. All no-brainer stuff—the ethical artichoke, corporations aren't people, trans people are—but I want it to work. I want things to change for the better. I want it to do good.
My short story "A Wolf in Iceland Is the Child of a Lie" has been accepted for reprint by Paula Guran's Mythic Journeys: Myths & Legends Retold (Skyhorse/Night Shade Books, 2019). The longevity of this piece makes me extremely happy. It was published originally in Not One of Us #45 in 2011; it was at the time my first completed fiction in two years; it was also my first successful engagement with Norse myth, despite or because of how early and intensely I had imprinted on the D'Aulaires' Norse Gods and Giants (1967). Eyjafjallajökull was erupting at the time. I couldn't find a way to work in the Móðuharðindin, but I crash-taught myself a tiny amount of Old Norse. It is no longer my only Norse fiction, but it remains to date my only writing of Loki, a god about whom I feel fiercely possessive even knowing that he pretended fidelity to nothing. I've never actually read another fictional treatment of the figure after whom the story is titled. It's not Fenrir.
I am going to work for a while and then watch a movie. I figure it will be healthier for me than gluing my nose to the news for the next eight hours. There is no way I can be in New York this Friday in order to watch Michael Almereyda interview Wim Wenders before a screening of Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin, 1987), but I'm glad that's happening.
P.S. An unknown benefactor sent me crispy peanut butter cups in the mail! I shall eat them with my movie. All these things feel like sympathetic magic nowadays. Look, people can be kind.
My short story "A Wolf in Iceland Is the Child of a Lie" has been accepted for reprint by Paula Guran's Mythic Journeys: Myths & Legends Retold (Skyhorse/Night Shade Books, 2019). The longevity of this piece makes me extremely happy. It was published originally in Not One of Us #45 in 2011; it was at the time my first completed fiction in two years; it was also my first successful engagement with Norse myth, despite or because of how early and intensely I had imprinted on the D'Aulaires' Norse Gods and Giants (1967). Eyjafjallajökull was erupting at the time. I couldn't find a way to work in the Móðuharðindin, but I crash-taught myself a tiny amount of Old Norse. It is no longer my only Norse fiction, but it remains to date my only writing of Loki, a god about whom I feel fiercely possessive even knowing that he pretended fidelity to nothing. I've never actually read another fictional treatment of the figure after whom the story is titled. It's not Fenrir.
I am going to work for a while and then watch a movie. I figure it will be healthier for me than gluing my nose to the news for the next eight hours. There is no way I can be in New York this Friday in order to watch Michael Almereyda interview Wim Wenders before a screening of Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin, 1987), but I'm glad that's happening.
P.S. An unknown benefactor sent me crispy peanut butter cups in the mail! I shall eat them with my movie. All these things feel like sympathetic magic nowadays. Look, people can be kind.
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