According To Hoyt

I was talking to a friend last night, and the conversation demanded that we remember something that happened in — as it happens — 2016. Both of us had the impression it had been much longer ago, because so much has happened since then. and so much of it has bordered on the unbelievable.

Things we’d not believe could have happened before 2016: Trump winning the election; how he governed; the insanity of investigations that followed; the United States of Fricking America locking up a vast portions of its citizens against all sanity, with the excuse of a foreign virus; the lies about the virus that were propagated all over the world; the 2020 election with the mysteriously appearing votes for one candidate only at 2 am; January sixth; the capital surrounded by barbed wire and with the national guard camped in; the border wide open, with our welfare system serving the invasion at a level unheard of; the administration of the auto pen, both the audacity of things attempted and how ridiculously they failed and had things rebound against them; 2024; the insanity of the last two years (too much to list, but I will); Aliens; whatever is on the news today…. (I haven’t looked yet.)

And if you’re going “None of those were difficult. They can all be logically explained by–” Duuuuuuuude.

Look, imagine going back to January 2016 and telling yourself then that Trump would win the election. Then tell yourself how he governed, as the most pro-freedom president since Reagan; then tell yourself that in 2020 we got locked up for a flu virus from China and the entire apparatus of the state was deployed to gaslight us: about the origin of the virus; about what the casualties were and how bad; about what could and could not communicate it. Culminating in an untried, objectively harmful vaccine that employers forced employees to take. Then go into the election: that bizarre curve, the reports of poll watchers (two I personally know) about being shoved out of the polls, on non-existent emergencies; and EVERYONE going along with it, partly because the BLM riots the summer before were designed to make a big impact on the psyche of various judges who were having flash backs to the sixties and seventies and leftist terrorism. Oh, it was all memorex, sure, but they’d seen it and they believed it, without noticing how the disturbances, the major ones, were confined to one city at a time, because people were transported to the next riot. But it worked. And then they panicked, which is why the capital looked like a city under siege. Oh, and why Jan 6, in trying to create an excuse to go after everyone to the right of Lenin. And if you told your jan 2016 all that and he/she hadn’t had you committed, explaining how it all fell apart in their hands would be even stranger. Like, they tried so many things and none of them really worked. Oh, they inconvenienced us. They impoverished us. They BEYOND PISSED US OFF. But they didn’t work in delivering to them their reign of a thousand years, which is what they absolutely expected. And part of it was the people they brought in…. the people! The guy who stole luggage and who, in private life liked to pretend to be a puppy for sexual purposes. (Only his life wasn’t all that private, also EW.) The nominally transgender Surgeon General who, heaven help us, for a guy makes an incredibly ugly and unconvincing woman. The concatenation of clowns and mediocrities from the VP on down. Remember when they work-shopped “Ultra Maga” because calling us “Ultra” was supposed to make people hate us? Don’t even try to tell your 2016 self about it, because he/she flat won’t believe it. That entire thing was counteracted with the phrase “Ultra Maga, Assemble!” They made us sound like super-heroes for crying in bed.

The vaccine. We still haven’t had a proper investigation of that whole plot, but it sounds like a bad science fiction plot and no way in G-d’s green Earth would I have believed it until it happened. The border. The convoys, one after the other. Offering illegals disability and full Social Security and medical coverage at the border. AND DESPITE ALL THAT the left losing in 2024. (It tells you the extent of the fraud that countering SOME of it is enough for them to lose.) And since. I’ll just say that during the executive-order-palooza right after the inauguration, we had a friend staying with us. And at about an hour in, he said “I need popcorn”. That is the most appropriate reaction to all this.

And the last two years: guys, just what USAID was apparently financing. The mind boggles. At least mine does. And all the fraud. It is entirely possible all of our deficit is fraud. And then…. and then the wealth of the left. I always assumed the left had money because they have all the millionaires. But maybe it’s the other way around? Maybe they have all the millionaires because they have money from fraud?

And note that I’m not mentioning a dozen other things that would be flat out impossible if you’d told me in 2016: Elon buying twitter! From a minor upset over twitter deplatforming The Babylon Bee. Just …. Everything that came from that.

And– and– and– AI! The space missions! The….

Just trying to list the whole thing makes me dizzy. it’s like insanity piled on improbability on top of impossibility.

Aliens. All the “secrets” about aliens are being revealed, and they can’t even get SCIENCE FICTION PEOPLE to care. We just shrug and go “Yeah, okay. Maybe there are aliens. Don’t bother us now. We’re going through some stuff.”

Terry Pratchet had an expression for when people entered a highly unlikely time line, in his books. Going down the wrong leg of the pants of time.

First I’m not sure whatever probability disruption happened in 2016 was bad. I mean, there have been some bad things, but on the whole, honestly, things are going our way, and have given us the greatest cause for hope in many a decade. But second, it must be said, it’s not ONE improbable pant leg. It’s a pant leg, after a pant leg after a pant leg. These pants obviously belong to an octopus. And eldritch one with an infinite number of legs.

The truth of course, is that it’s not a random shove into improbability.

BGE said one of the most profound things I’ve heard in my life in comments the other day when he said the way you can tell conspiracy theories is that they are too neat. Because reality isn’t.

Untold is the fact that because of mass media and mass control of how history is viewed and taught, everyone has been taught to think of history in those terms: a just so story, too neat. It’s part of the reason the right plunges into doomerism so often: because the left also thinks in those terms and tend to make sure elaborate plans that they would seem to have covered every possible event.

… It’s impossible to cover every possible event. That is the primary refutation of all the fantasies of the left, from their economic fantasies to their political ones. It’s the reason their beloved controlled economies don’t work. It’s impossible to control every event and account for every second, third or fourth order effect.

It’s possible to hide those, and to fix the story aposteriori so that it mitigates the back lash. But that toothpaste is well and truly out of the tube. Not even all their stomping and cancellations during the rule of the auto-pen could stop the signal.

They kept panicking and piling on more and more, and have created a perfect storm of improbability.

Where does it go from here? I don’t know and neither do you. People, I’ve written some pretty wild fantasy, and even I wouldn’t dare! I honestly have no idea what happens next, except for the certainty it will be impossible. At least according to what we all believed reality was until 2016.

It’s been the weirdest ride ever, and we’re still on it. And here’s the thing, these improbabilities will build and accumulate. Will all of them be good? Oh, heck no. We will take some body blows.

But we’re not int he neat controlled relative that the left themselves bought, which caused their long march through the institutions, in the belief that they could control everything and then it was game over.

Too neat and controlled by half. That’s not how the world works. And now they can’t pretend it is.

No, I have no idea what happens next, but let me tell you I’m at the edge of my seat.

On to the next leg!

If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. By clicking through and buying (anything book-related, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion. Remember though all of these submissions are from people willing to be associated with this blog. So if you’re trying to buy from people who don’t hate you, this is a good place to start.– SAH

FROM DAVE FREER, THE FIRST WINNER OF THE SPECIAL AWARD FOR YOUNG ADULT FICTION: Storm Dragon.

Winner of the First Special Prometheus Award for Young Adult Fiction 2026

Skut Harkkson hates Highpoint Station. He hates the concrete dome, the expensive food, the mean kids who know his father’s farm is three hundred miles away and that he can’t go home. He misses Faraway — real land, real tides, real work — and every day locked inside the settlement’s walls makes him feel like something important is dying.

Then he finds the storm-dragon.

The creature is tiny, half-dead, and furious — and somehow it talks directly into his head. Not words, exactly. Feelings. Hungry. Cold. Trust. Skut names it Snarky, hides it in his shirt, and starts sneaking outside the settlement’s walls to feed it. Which is how he ends up fishing the forbidden lower jetties with Podge Greene — the new kid who survived a planetary invasion at age ten and isn’t afraid of much. The two of them, with Snarky riding Skut’s shoulder and diving for fish, start to build something that looks almost like a life worth living.

But Vann’s World has three moons, tides that kill without warning, and predators that make Earth’s wildlife look like house pets. And none of that matters when the real threat arrives: a Ghat slaver ship, landing under false papers, loaded with soldiers who have done this to entire planets before.

Now Skut, Podge, and Snarky are outside the walls in the dark, with a handful of adults, two flechette pistols, a forklift, and a storm-dragon who generates five hundred volts and is willing to use them. The settlement is locked down. The hostages are running out of time. The VIP ship is landing in the morning — straight into a trap.

What follows is a boys’ adventure in the oldest, best sense: two kids who actually know things figure out how to win against people who should be unbeatable. Vann’s World is alive and deadly and extraordinary, and Skut and Podge understand it in ways the invaders never will.

Storm-Dragon is a standalone novel — fast-moving, funny in the right places, and built on the principle that boys who read voraciously deserve stories that don’t condescend to them.

FROM LEE ECKHARDT: NAUTILUS ISLAND: A Novel of Captain Nemo and the Nautilus

William Wordsworth said that every book is a separate world; this proves to be true when two teenagers are swept into an alternate universe where Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo is a living, breathing person. Aboard Nemo’s incredible Nautilus and fighting an invasion from still another universe, they voyage from the Pacific to the Atlantic and, finally, to the ultimate showdown with the enemy on the shores of Antarctica. For any fan of Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas.

FROM SCOTT MCCREA: U.S. Marshal Ezra Flint: Double Flint: A Western Adventure (A U.S. Marshal Ezra Flint Western Book 12)

An exciting new Marshal Ezra Flint adventure from the pen of best-selling author Scott McCrea!

Marshal Ezra Flint is on the trail of mad-dog killer Spider Ames. When the two men trade bullets, Flint wings the wanted man who escapes, leaving behind his engraved Sharps rifle.

Flint rides into the town of Mossy Creek, which is still reeling from the latest Spider Ames outrage. When Marshal Hunter Robinson sees the engraved Sharps, he’s convinced the Ezra Flint is his man … and he won’t rest until Flint dangles from the end of a rope!

“…hard to put down. If you like good Western fiction, you will love this book.” – Roundup Magazine review of Hard as Flint

FROM K. W. ABBOTT: The Kestrel Veil Incident: A Military First Contact Science Fiction Novel (The Solmare Cycle Book 1)

The frontier was never empty.

Fresh from the Unified Fleet Authority Academy, Captain Calder Venn receives his first command: the ISV Kestrel Veil, a small scout ship assigned to a routine survey mission along the edge of explored space.

The assignment should have been uneventful.

Instead, a single impossible sensor contact changes everything.

As the Kestrel Veil follows evidence that should not exist, Calder and his crew uncover signs that humanity’s oldest assumption may be catastrophically wrong. Beyond the borders Fleet has charted for generations lies not an empty galaxy, but a civilization that has been watching from the darkness all along.

Far from home and operating under strict protocols designed for a simpler universe, the crew must balance caution, curiosity, and survival while every observation carries the potential to reshape doctrine, diplomacy, and the future of humanity itself.

The Kestrel Veil Incident is the first novel in The Solmare Cycle, a military science fiction series blending first-contact mystery, realistic space operations, and institutional decision-making in the tradition of thoughtful, character-driven science fiction.

Perfect for readers who enjoy military science fiction, first-contact stories, and hard science fiction with a strong procedural focus.

FROM NATHAN C. BRINDLE: The Lion of God (Timelines Book 1)

John Wolff has been handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Again.

He’s already saved the love of his life from an early death – thirty years after she died.

Now, a beautiful young woman, who is clearly his daughter, has appeared from the timeline branch where that same love of his life survived and married his counterpart.

She says they need his help fighting off invaders from the far future. Who, by the way, are looking for him. Why? Because they want the starship drive he and a friend invented, the precursor to their time machine. Problem is, in her timeline, it hasn’t been invented yet.

What man can resist a cry for help from his own daughter?

Particularly when the invaders think she’s a saint. Or possibly, a devil wearing saint’s clothing. And they’re looking for her, too.

Thus begins the Timelines Saga, and the story of the Lion of God.

FROM DALE COZORT: New Galveston Book 1: Operation Croatoan

In February 1939, with World War II looming, the US Navy held a massive naval exercise in the Caribbean, involving almost fifty thousand sailors and marines. President Franklin Roosevelt personally attended.

In this alternate history novel, the US of 1939 disappears at the peak of the exercise, along with the rest of the New World. In its place is a New World still inhabited only by Indians.

While the US remnants try to make a new home for themselves, Nazis, Fascists and Japanese Imperialists scheme with Aztecs and other Indian powers to take over the resource-rich and now nearly defenseless New World.

Nazi Germany pours resources into it’s navy and into an advanced new generation of cargo planes. By summer 1941, the Nazis are ready to move. A mysterious “Operation Croatoan” is at the core of their schemes. Milo Gentry and a handful of other Americans race to figure out what the Axis powers are up to and stop them.

FROM KAREN MYERS: Tales of Annwn – A Virginian in Elfland (The Hounds of Annwn Story Collections Book 1)

A Collection of Five Short Stories from The Hounds of Annwn.

The Call – A very young Rhian discovers her beast-sense and, with it, the call of a lost hound.

It’s not safe in the woods where cries for help can attract unwelcome attention, but two youngsters discover their courage in the teeth of necessity.

Under the Bough – Angharad hasn’t lived with anyone for hundreds of years, but now she is ready to tie the knot with George Talbot Traherne, the human who has entered the fae otherworld to serve as huntsman for the Wild Hunt. As soon as she can make up her mind, anyway.

George has been swept away by his new job and the people he has met, and by none more so than Angharad. But how can she value the short life of a human? And what will happen to her after he’s gone?

Night Hunt – When George Talbot Traherne goes night hunting for fox in Virginia, he learns about unworthy men from the old-timers drinking moonshine around the fire and makes his own choices.

Who could have anticipated that the same impulse that won him his old bluetick coonhound would lead him to his new wife and the hounds of Annwn? Every choice has a cost, he realizes, but never a regret.

Cariad – Luhedoc is off with his adopted nephew Benitoe to fetch horses for the Golden Cockerel Inn. He’s been reunited with his beloved Maëlys at last, but how can he fit into her capable life as an innkeeper? What use is he to her now, after all these years?

Luhedoc needs to relearn an important lesson about confidence.

The Empty Hills – George Talbot Traherne arranges a small tour of the local human world for his fae family and friends, hoping to share some of the sense of wonder he discovered when he encountered the fae otherworld.

He’s worried about discovery by other humans, but things don’t turn out quite the way he expects.

FROM JOHN BAILEY: Correspondent from Aurora (The Aurigan Conflict)

Warships are being built in secret.

The truth is being buried.

And one reporter may be the only man who can expose it.

When veteran Anglo correspondent Martin Hale is assigned to Aurora Prime, he expects censorship, surveillance, and carefully managed propaganda. What he discovers is far more dangerous. Beneath the gleaming towers of the Aurigan Directorate, citizens disappear without explanation, resistance networks operate in the shadows, and a massive military buildup threatens the fragile peace of human space.

As Hale digs deeper, he finds an unlikely ally in Elena Voss, an Aurigan archivist whose loyalty to family gradually draws her into a struggle she never intended to join. Together they uncover evidence that could alter the balance of power across dozens of star systems.

But the Directorate has its own defenders.

Colonel Lukas Renn, a cunning security officer with ambitions of his own, is determined to possess both the truth and the woman Hale has come to love. Above him stands Colonel Viktor Draeg, a relentless enforcer willing to sacrifice anyone to protect the regime.

Caught between spies, secret police, resistance fighters, and rival star nations, Hale must decide how much he is willing to risk for a story.

Because in a society built on lies, the truth is the most dangerous weapon of all.

Correspondent from Aurora combines classic wartime espionage, old-fashioned adventure, and sweeping science-fiction worldbuilding in a tale inspired by the great newspaper thrillers of the 1930s and 1940s.

FROM LEIGH KIMMEL: Love in the Time of Campaigning

As Frank Correra brings his family to a lunar settlement to get them away from a worsening political situation on Earth, he reminisces about how he and his wife met.

Frank had always dreamed of the skies. As a clone of an astronaut who subsequently became a US Senator, Frank thought he had a clear path ahead of him. But when it comes time to apply for the Air Force Academy, it is an election year. His ur-brother can’t promise a nomination until he’s won another term, and this year promises a hard race to run. When the other side puts up an ugly attack ad, can Frank find a way to discredit it before it destroys his ur-brother’s chance of re-election, and with it Frank’s slot at an Academy appointment?

A short story of the Grissom timeline.

Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.

So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.

We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.

If you have questions, feel free to to ask.

Your writing prompt this week is: slave.

By Holly the Assistant

(So today is the last day of the Annual ATH fundraiser, by the way.)

I know you all like cute critters, and we had one stop by earlier this week.

A bit of background: many, many years ago this house was built by some very weird people, and many years ago it was remodeled by some even weirder people. We do not have, nor do we need, air conditioning, and a fair part of the house will stay survivable even without heat in the winter. Most of our neighbors are not so fortunate and have more conventional homes. One result of this weirdness is that we are committed to daily opening and closing of the ventilation during the hot season. And I do mean committed: missing the moment by as little as five minutes means we gain a degree or two of extra daytime heat. And the windows mostly no longer work by crank, but must be opened by pushing out and closed by pulling in.

So, at approximately seven-twenty am, as the sun came over the ridge, on Tuesday morning, with less than the preferred amount of coffee in my system, I pulled the screens off our bedroom windows, pulled the windows shut, and put the screens back up. As I put the last screen back up, I noticed something in the corner that did not belong there. On the outside of the screen, mind you, but it did NOT belong there, and that screen had just been sitting on my bedroom floor while I fussed with the window!

Now, bats are all very well and fine, I loathe mosquitoes, but bats belong in the cracks and crevices and tunnels in the rocks on the mountain behind the house, across the creek. They do NOT belong in my bedroom window!

The bat hung out there for a while, as the day got hotter, and I kept the cats and dogs shut out of the room because the last thing I need is a bat loose in the house and a torn up screen. By and by, though, when we checked on him, we found he’d relocated to the bottom of the window screen.

Yes, I need to clean the window. But that’s probably the best detail photo of the little guy we got. Because understandably, we weren’t getting close. There has been a rabid bat in our county already in 2026, my husband went through treatment for a rabid dog bite as a child, and we do not mess with this risk. As a household, we may be slightly more paranoid than average about rabies.

At this point, my husband carefully pried the window open and the little guy crawled out, and ascended the wall.

He crawled around the wall for a while, then flew off. In the middle of the afternoon. I wish him well and hope he eats many, many bugs, and does not return to my house again, but sleeps in the rocks where he should be.

We think he’s a Little Brown Bat, based on size and ears and range of species, and we’re glad to have him and his kin around. Just . . . please not quite so close!

It amuses me which friends and relatives freaked out about rabies and which did not, which fell in love with the bat via photos, and how many did not mention white nose syndrome (no one, but it was the second thing that occurred to me in finding a bat where one ought not be).

I hope you enjoyed seeing our surprise guest!

Thank you all very much for your support of According To Hoyt, and for being a pretty awesome community of commenters. We love having you here. This is your last day of being bugged to support the blog this year, mostly because I pointed out to Sarah that this is a five Friday month and asked her to keep the fundraiser going until the third Friday for those biweekly folks who will get three paychecks. She grumbled, yes, but she hates having to ask in the first place for money.

There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers

Sorry for the long interregnum. The songs were written and in a couple of them actually created as songs, but I was too ill/out of it/busy to actually go upstairs and assemble the videos.

Now I’m only — ONLY — suffering from a massive auto-immune freakout and trying to coordinate a house move sometime in the next month (precise date depending on other things than our volition) so I can resume these.

I only have three songs, and there will be two next week.

Any of my past books — other than Dyce, I’m not that insane — you guys want me to make a sound track for. Because those two next week should finish out the sound track for NML. And I’m sorry I’m going to miss the year with Orphans (probably by six months) because of the very strange health things. HOPEFULLY it will be better from here on, yes?

Anyway, without further ado, these are the newest Sarah and the Clankers songs:

And in reverse order, back from here:

The week in Sarah And The Clankers!

The Week In Clankers

The Clankers did Sing

AND NOW: It’s the second to last blog funding day!

I completely forgot to append it to the post this morning, because I was functioning that well. Anyway, here goes:

If you get something of value from this blog, and are aware of how much work goes on behind the scenes to keep it up and posting and wish to donate:
There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers

And thank you to everyone who has donated, etc. Each and every one of you is appreciated and I’m more grateful than I can say.

Yes, the results were a little thin this year, (though not as thin as it looks, since a lot of you can’t donate to the official site, and two of you unearthed the OLD paypal to donate to. Eh. It still got here.) which I’m taking as an indication that I need to write more fiction. We’ll keep this blog going, but my assistant will take a couple of days a week, so I can get more fiction written. At least for now while I recover from being ill and energy is in short supply. But the blog will be here, and nothing is going to happen to it. And I enjoy (and worry over) every single one of you.

The left is all up in their own heads about culture, partly because they have no idea what culture means. But they’re sure they love it.

Mostly, of course, they confuse culture for race. This is why they insist school kids do essays about their “culture” by which they mean the kids’ ancestry, as though culture were passed on in the DNA. Oh, sure, families have cultures. Sort of. To be absolutely honest since the advent of mass media, public schooling and, particularly, two working parents that is a lot less important/prevalent than it used to be. In fact, unless the parents make a great deal of effort to pass on SOMETHING, the kids mostly absorb the zeitgeist. (Remember to fight for your kids. It’s important.)

But what they want on that essay is stuff like where your ancestors came from. And let’s be honest, after three to four generations, no one cares, except for the special dish grandma does for Christmas, (if an as yet hypothetical and possibly improbable grand-kid revives the Portuguese tradition of bacalhau for Christmas, my sons will lame them.) But the left doesn’t know. The left thinks culture is the same as race.

Language? Religion? All indelibly written in your chromosomes, which must be the left’s excuse for having absolutely no idea how to teach (or learn) foreign languages, and also for screaming at us when we say something about Islam, and calling us “racist.”

It is a complete puzzle how they can believe this since if culture were imprinted on our genes we’d be roaming the planet hunting and gathering. (If that.)

Their second definition of “culture” is food, clothing, dances and maybe a dozen words. “I enjoy other cultures” culture. “Don’t appropriate my culture” culture. “We had multicultural day at school” culture. It is under that definition that they’re convinced all cultures are equally valid. Because well, you might not like crispy octopus balls, but you really shouldn’t tell people they can’t eat crispy octopus balls.

Then there’s the idea of culture they imbibed in kindergarten and nursed all along with the praise of their teachers and professors, their friends, their “cool” group. The “culture” is colorful, preferably dirty and random stuff done by anyone and everyone who kind of walks by.

Culture is not, in point of fact, in their heads any great achievement. But it is super-important anyway. It’s…. well, it’s “cultural”. It’s like their idea of art froze at the level of kindergarten finger painting. But for it to be authentic and important, it must be stupid, covered in dirt and generally worthless. Like…. a public fixture covered in random stickers and graffiti.

In fact, this is why they’re convinced “white people don’t have culture” and the west doesn’t have culture, and the middle class doesn’t have culture and–

Sorry, guys, you don’t have enough ground-in dirt. And you’re not vandalizing public objects. So, you’re obviously and logically uncultured.

Of course, in that sense of culture, of worthy cultural objects, we have that definition also. It’s just I refuse to admit that their having two different definitions of culture makes any sense just because culture means two things for us too? When they think graffiti and dirt is good culture but pulp science fiction isn’t? Bah. They’re idiots anyway.

So, “culture” in the sense of “good cultural product”… of things wroth preserving, I can’t tell you what that is. i can’t tell you because your opinion is ultimately something different from mine (at least minutely.) And in fact the only thing I think should be considered “important” or “culture” are things that have survived the test of time and outlived their original culture. And still speaks to you.

But aside from that, what is culture? Culture is the software humans get installed in their heads. It supplies for us a lot of the things animals get from instincts. Things like how to communicate, how to act in certain circumstances. That type of thing.

Yes, language is part of culture and the assumptions in any given language are part of culture. For instance, if you language lacks a word for orange, you will not even see orange. you will see dark yellow or yellowish red, or whatever. But it’s deeper than that. Body language is part of culture. Your food preferences is culture. And yes, what you believe about your property or other’s property, your right to defend yourself, the rights of others, all of that is culture.

Which is why changing cultures is so difficult. Acculturation requires you to be aware of all the little things that make you and of what is out of tune with the new culture.

Oh, of course some acculturation happens naturally. Humans adapt to the environment they’re in. For me the five year mark was really important. When we visited after five years, I found myself fitting in less there than here. But ti think you end up stuck betwixt and between when leaving your birth culture, unless you make a conscious effort.

But you can most definitely change cultures. And if you come into another country and intend to live there the rest of your life, a decent respect for the people in whose home you wish to live requires you out of pure decency to try to speak the language and fit in as much as it’s possible to fit in. (About 90% and the 10% could be vagaries of your nervous system as well as anything else.) Because it’s possible. Because it’s not built in to your genes. Because you’re human and have will power and the ability to choose. You’re not a robot or an animal with everything encoded in your genes. (And even some animals — Indy! — I’m not sure about.)

And as for high culture. Well, you create what you can. You’ll never have enough ground-in dirt for the left. And that’s fine by me. Life produces enough dirt and random without any special meaning. We don’t need to contribute to the dirt and the random.

If you chose to contribute to the cultural discourse? Make it special. Make it intentional. Make it you.

Why bother otherwise?

Humans are social great apes. That means at a very deep level in our architecture is the certainty that if we offend the group at large, we’re going to get chased away from the band and die in the wilderness.

Mind you the ability to stand apart from the group and say “This far and no further” or even “no, you’re all wrong and I’m right” vary greatly from individual to individual. Some have a lot, some have very little. But in the end all of us, to some extent, flinch at the idea of being at odds with the majority of our group/society.

This has been the weapon used by the left (and the psy-ops troops of the USSR for the longest time. BIRM) to force their corrupt rot into every nook and cranie of society, corrupting schooling, art, even religion with their Marxist anti-reality pap.

When people marvel at the fact that the west is quite literally choosing to commit suicide by surrendering to some of the least functional societies in the world, and surrendering to its own criminals, and paying to appease the non-productive and outright destructive members of their societies?

They shouldn’t marvel. People are not choosing that. They are choosing not to speak out against what they think is the overwhelming consensus of their society, repeated at them through schooling, information channels, even art. Each individually is afraid of getting cast out of the band if they don’t go along with what is objectively social suicide.

This also tells you how and where it’s failing. It’s failing here — largely here — because we know the consensus is not overwhelming and in fact we have reason — seriously guys, no one fights against clean elections, unless the fraud is favoring them. And for a whole, supposedly major party to do it? It’s saying the quiet part out loud — to believe the stuff pushed out of official media and the mass industrial information/art/opinion complex is a very minority ideology. Here, where social media and blogs — blogs! — that talk of books and public affairs have been a force in the land for a good 25 years, we have found places to meet, places to realize we’re not alone.

Why hasn’t it happened in the rest of the world? I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I swear it only took off in the US because of 9/11. Faced with a trauma we had to process, we hit the blogs. Blogs that were about music, or culture or whatever became about politics overnight. And the most successful ones and most of them were from a perspective that ran contrarian to the leftist establishment. Perhaps it took Rush Limbaugh’s seed, planted with his AM radio program, too. Perhaps that had already given people an inkling of not being alone, perhaps it had seeded a bit of courage. In that sense perhaps all of us who hit the blogs (for me for many years only as a commenter, under a false identity because baby needed shoes and trad pub was the only game in town) were children of Rush’s, fanning out into the world. And now of course there is twitter. The rest of the world uses it, to the extent they can, of course, but it’s not quite the same as the hurley burley of American twitter with the limits mostly removed since Elon bought it.

The other side is fighting, because they know that their only weapon, their only strength is the ILLUSION of unity and consensus, against whom most people cannot stand. If that illusion is shattered for good and all, and it’s been getting chipped more and more every year, they have nothing.

The other side is fighting very successfully — it will be successful for a while. But such tactics don’t endure forever — to silence all alternative media in other countries. They tried it here, too, but thank heavens even under the Auto Pen it never took. There are too many of us — a rabble in blogs — for them to silence every one, no matter how hard they tried. And ooh, boy, did they try hard. We also have have the first amendment, our foundational belief in everyone’s right to speak out which also stands as the law of the land, and makes cute ideas like the attempted ministry of truth die aborning. (So may it ever be.)

It’s probably the best time ever to be a dissenter, an Odd, someone who sticks out.

Is it a great time? See the beginning of this post: Sticking out is never easy, not even now. The other side scores some amazing psy-ops victories every now and then, and it seems to be my fate to stand in front of the rushing crowd going “that thing behind you is a man wearing a bear costume. It’s not real.”

The one you all shared with me — okay almost all. But the rest of you came back after a while — was the covidiocy. Most of you, at least after a while went “Wait the heck up” and most of you, those who could at all without losing jobs, stood up and shouted “that’s not real.” I’m very proud to be in your company, all of you.

And I think that’s when the last of my fear of standing out died. Because it was so obviously a psy-ops. So obviously a massive lie.

You have to understand, I started out, when I started this blog and was still deep in the political closet, so conflict avoidant, so afraid of being thrown out of the ape band, that when I said something slightly out of turn I worried for a month over it.

But I had to come out of the political closet. I felt as though I was selling my soul and not even for very much. Just continued publication. And — if we’re going to talk about my pre-Baen career — publication that was a compromise between what I’d like to do and what I was allowed to. Honestly, it felt like I couldn’t be myself even inside my own head.

And so, even I — coward though I was — was forced out of hiding, step by step, bit by bit. And found out that though the walls did fall on my head, it didn’t kill me. So I took another step.

And then Covid broke me. When my mother asked “How can you be so sure you’re right, when everyone else says you’re wrong.” I told her the truth “Because the numbers say I’m right. Because what the people in power are doing makes no sense if this were a real pandemic. There would be people dead in every street corner. Because the facts are on my side.”

Which leads us to where we are today.

I do know that many of you can’t come out of the political closet. Many of you can’t speak out. You’d lose jobs, or families, or whatever little piece of reality you’ve carved out as a niche for yourselves.

I’m not telling you to. I stayed quiet as long as as I could.

But if you’re not held back by such considerations, if it’s just fear of standing out; just fear of disagreeing… Consider the courage to simply be. To simply say what you observe and believe.

It will be very scary at first. Yes, there will be some (Ah!) negative consequences. But you don’t actually get kicked out of the band and into the outer darkness to die.

You just find another band. And you sleep better at night. And recognize the person in the mirror in the morning.

It’s not much, but ask yourself: what kind of movement makes it impossible for people to simply be? To simply speak frankly of what they know and see?

The power is not on our opponents’ side. The only power they have to keep you silent. To make you feel alone.

And that power is waning by the day.

You are not alone. Chances are you’re a part of a vast majority.

Be not afraid. Find the courage to be who you are, to know what you know. Even if you can’t speak out, don’t be afraid to think.

In the end we win, they lose.

DAY 15 of this blog’s annual fundraiser!

Go ahead, go batty…

If you wish to donate: There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers of Plenty.

The preliminary look-see saw nothing. It’s all gone tot he pathologist now and will be a couple of days.

Best guess by specialist at this point is a recurring infection. But he wants me back on the regular to keep an eye on.

So, the door creaked open, then closed again, and the path is what it always was. Thank you to everyone who prayed or even wished me well.

I will write tomorrow. I’m (unaccountably?) wiped out today.

By Holly the Assistant

Or at least I will throw up a recent picture of lovely Circe for you. Look at those toe beans! Are they not the most amazing toe beans?

It’s occasionally hard to believe that this chill kitty is the full sister of the vibrating Quicksilver, but there we go.

How are cats?

Sarah will likely have an update on the State of the Sarah, or a rant about current events, tomorrow, but today she’s a bit swamped.

Hope y’all are staying cool enough this summer, or warm enough this winter, wherever you may be.

And the fundraising blurb, and yes, you lovely weirdos, Sarah does indeed see that you mailed unmarked quarters or put it in a different donation bin or whatever you in fact did do, thank you very much. Circe would say thank you, too, but she’s snoozing.

If you wish to donate: There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers of Plenty.

There are hinge moments in life. Things happen and after that life is never ever the same.

Some of those we are deeply conscious of: weddings, funerals, the birth of a child. There is a moment of sundering realization when you realize not only have you become someone else, and your preoccupations in life will now be quite different, but you’re also aware that there’s no going back.

Weirdly I’m really bad at those. At realizing such things, I mean. The only one I was absolutely sure of was when I held first son, then just less than a day old. I was startlingly, suddenly, aware that this creature would command my attention and was damn well entitled to my protection and undivided loyalty for the next eighteen years. (Yes, it’s cute that I thought it would be 18 years, and not that for the rest of my life the better part of my heart would be running around in someone else’s chest. The illusions of youth, I guess.)

Other than that, I have an habit of traipsing unawares past the point of no return, and leaving a pleasant or at least not unendurable way of life behind without ever realizing it. Even stuff like marrying overseas, I think rationally I knew would change everything, but I truly had no clue it would change me, or that changing me would be necessary to acculturate to my own home, or that the old adage of never going home again applied. And sure, I had many issues with the country itself — not as many as I have now, because now I see it from outside — and its unavigable bureaucracy was 99 of them. But of course I also have family there, and I didn’t realize how many of them I was seeing for the last time on my wedding day, because they died between that and the next visit when I was supposed to meet them, or moved away themselves and our paths never crossed again.

Would I have done it differently, if that had happened? Well, I wouldn’t. But I’d be more aware of the price I was paying and that sometimes five years or more go by between visits, and in that space I lose people like grandma without ever a chance to say goodbye. I’d have taken exactly the same step, of course, and maybe not knowing the price is better, because you don’t linger in pain at a moment of joy. Other such moments: when we moved away from Charlotte. I wasn’t even sure we’d like Colorado, much less that we’d only return (so far at least) to see our local friends once and that 20 years later for a few hours. And that some would have died, or moved away.) And now, of course, the move from Colorado. It is entirely possible I’ve gone to Pete’s Kitchen, on Colfax, for the last time in my life. I don’t know. We keep meaning to visit, but this summer has proved unexpectedly fraught, and I promised to visit my father in the fall. Also my brother isn’t doing well.

There are other hinges you don’t even know are occurring or are in your future. Like, your car of 30 years throws a fit on the highway, and suddenly the engine (and therefore the car) is scrap, and a fixture of your life is gone. Or your kid brings home his childhood friend who is now something more. (I love the Little Pickle, and the change is for the better, but ooh, boy, is it a change.) Or, though it’s not happened to me — knocks on head — there’s some sort of accident or incident and afterwards things are never, ever the same.

Then there are the hinges of fate you sleep walk through. But maybe that’s just me? To this day, and it’s been 33 years, I can’t tell you how or why I thought I could be published and middling successful and this would not affect my day to day life. I never expected stupid things like the neighbors knowing what I did for a living without my telling them (much less their crazy assumptions about writers. Castle has a lot to answer for) or the washer repairman spazzing when he saw my name and I confirmed I was indeed THAT Sarah A. Hoyt, or– a dozen such incidents. I’ve in fact taken to avoiding the neighbors all together and letting Dan be the social director, because he can tapdance more skillfully than I can.

The blog…. the blog was a total different ball of wax, since it started out being just a writing promo thing (I’m nto good at that, you might have noticed.) But the only way I could remain engaged enough to write everyday was to talk about things that matter to me: politics, culture, social issues, and odd stuff like this. And all of that made me far more of a public persona (even as small as this blog is) than I ever intended to be. It comes with some good and a lot of bad, as people not only make assumptions, but people who are, of necessity or temperament, in the political closet tend to avoid me or worse.

It is what it is. The hinge was always there, and I was always bound to open it, I think. And as with me living my natal clump of dirt behind, I’d have done the same, exactly the same way, it I’d known. Only it would have made the whole thing more unpleasant knowing what I was sacrificing.

I suppose there are also false hinges: things you think will change your life forever and then don’t. I don’t think I’ve experienced any of those. Or if I did I no longer remember them. It occurs to me something like winning the lottery might be one of those. I mean, yes, Dan would probably retire, but I doubt much of anything else would change. Oh, yeah, I probably wouldn’t do fundraisers, since those are psychologically difficult. Other than that? I’d write. And Dan would work (Okay, he’d work at things he likes more, but….) We’d visit the kids and their spouses when we have time. And…. that’s about it. Maybe I’d pay my much abused assistant a little more. That’s about it. Not a hinge, though it looks like one from here.

So what is this all about? Well…. I have a couple of tests — one that promises to be distinctly unpleasant — scheduled for tomorrow. Weirdly, the mildest diagnosis possible will result in immediate surgery. But that surgery should fix the problem once and for all. And other than a couple of days to recover, it’s not a hinge.

The second mildest diagnosis is also “We don’t know.” In which case it’s also not a hinge and I stay on fairly high dose maintenance anti-biotics which I seem to be tolerating well enough.

Anything else…. Well…. there’s a panoply of horrors there, and a vista of a future where my life is consumed by health issues (or ended by them, of course, one must say though not pleasant to contemplate.)

Is that likely? Eh. Right now they have absolutely no idea what’s going on, so not only is anything possible, but it’s hard to hazard a guess.

This disturbs me because I’m in the middle of a dozen things and very busy. (Whether I’m very busy to distract from this test which I knew was in my future, I’ll leave as an exercise for the reader.) I am, of course, running my fundraiser (and a more lackadaisacal one I can hardly imagine), and I’m refinishing our bedside tables. Look, we bought them when the kids were little, and they’re pressboard. We were, you see, going to buy good ones in a few years, but there were always other needs. And those d*mn things bubble up if you spill water on them, which given they’re bedside tables is kind of inevitable. We were going to replace them ten years ago, but have you seen the price of bedside tables? So…. So I’m doing what I do to pressboard crappy furniture. What? No, not setting them on fire. There is a perversity in me that means I must make them as fancy as humanly possible. So I’m marbelizing the tops (the epoxy finish at least will ensure that water spills are no longer a problem.) REALISTICALLY marbelizing. Cream/brown marble. And then painting the body of the thing to look like more convincing wood than the wretched paper veneer ever did. (Incidentally I didn’t realize how much I missed refinishing. I haven’t done it at all for almost 20 years.) And because insanity is a thing, I’m also creating a headboard to go with it. Do you want to know? No you don’t. The Little Pickle and Dan are divided on whether to be impressed of have me committed.

I’m also in the middle of Orphans of the Stars (I REALLY need a better title.) and almost done with Rhodes to Hell, and have another half dozen books waiting to be finished. Oh, and we’re moving in a month or so, though Dan is trying to contract as much of it out as possible to keep me writing. (Look, chilluns, it’s a family thing. The kids required us to move, so a move is happening. Oh, it will hopefully also contribute to a better, or at least easier time after. And a better lifestyle to keep our aging bodies in shape. BUT until it’s done, it’s mostly a time and funds sink.)

If the diagnosis is bad, all of those threads will be cut, middair. I might — in fact probably will — do them/continue with them, but everything will be slow and stupid, and hard to finish. And I’ll have trouble remembering why painting the headboard was so much fun, after all. And then things will change. Though finishing the books, particularly the Elly ones will be the highest priority, since I’m convinced if I die with them locked in my head, I’ll end up IN THEM. And I don’t want to be an Ellyan. They’re more complex and bizarre than we are.

Yesterday I told Dan I’d much rather not do the tests. Because he knows me very well, he said in complete calm seriousness, “Fine. Then call them and cancel.”

And part of me very much wants to do that. Even if it’s the worst, if I don’t know I can go on for quite a long while before it brings me to ground, and wouldn’t it be better not to know.

But of course I can’t. If I know even if it’s the worst, there’s a chance it can be stopped in its tracks, in which case I owe doing so to Dan, who really doesn’t want to be left alone, to my kids, who now and then still need me, to the pickles ditto, and even to my dad, who would stand a good chance to lose both children before his number is up.

So, no, I won’t cancel. The door will swing open. The hinge will creak ominously.

Is it a real hinge? Will I walk through the door and be changed forever? I don’t know. No one does. Maybe it’s nothing, and two days of discomfort, and the door will swing closed again and life will go on as usual. (Do I put purple on the headboard grapes? Seems needed, but just a touch, over the blue and the black.)

Or perhaps nothing will ever be the same.

The hinge is creaking, the door is opening, and there is not much I can gain by worrying about it. I’ll just try to meet what’s on the other side with a minimum of fuss, and get as much done as I may.

On the other side.

According to Hoyt 2026 Fundraiser, Day 13

(I will keep this up through day 17, because people have asked due to pay schedules.)

If you wish to donate: There is a Give Send Go fundraiser for this specific fundraiser set up. Here is a Paypal Me Link if you prefer that. (Yes, I know. Paypal, but for now, they’re behaving.) If you have a monthly donation setup to the permanent Give Send Go, that is still working and thank you! There are also two substacks you can subscribe to. One is on the side bar of the blog, the other is supposed to be a newsletter, as well as giving you chapters of the current work in progress if you become a paid subscriber. It takes cards. For snail mail: Sarah Hoyt 304 S Jones Blvd #6771 Las Vegas, NV 89107

And if you want to read the whole appeal, it’s here: Toss A Coin To Your Blogger, Oh Readers of Plenty.