But why would you want to?

Three Mysteries, three dollars.  Is the family driving you insane? For three days you can buy three mysteries very cheaply and withdraw to a world that’s supposed to be insane.

Meet Dyce Dare, 99c a piece.  (And yes, sequels and audio on the way.)

Dipped, Stripped and Dead

A Dyce Dare Mystery
When she was six, Dyce Dare wanted to be a ballerina, but she couldn’t stop tripping over her own feet. Then she wanted to be a lion tamer, but Fluffy, the cat, would not obey her. Which is why at the age of twenty nine she’s dumpster diving, kind of. She’s looking for furniture to keep her refinishing business going, because she would someday like to feed herself and her young son something better than pancakes.
Unfortunately, as has come to be her expectation, things go disastrously wrong. She finds a half melted corpse in a dumpster. This will force her to do what she never wanted to do: solve a crime.
Life is just about to get crazy… er… crazier. But at least at the end of the tunnel there might be a relationship with a very nice Police Officer.

A French Polished Murder (Daring Finds Mysteries Book 2)

When Dyce Dare decides to refinish a piano as a gift for her boyfriend, Cas Wolfe, the last thing she expects is to stumble on an old letter that provides a clue to an older murder. She thinks her greatest problems in life are that her friend gave her son a toy motorcycle, and that her son has become unaccountably attached to a neurotic black cat named Pythagoras. She is not prepared for forgotten murder to reach out and threaten her and everything she loves, including her parents’ mystery bookstore.
A Dyce Dare Mystery.
Originally published by Prime Crime.

A Fatal Stain (Daring Finds Book 3)

When Dyce Dare buys a table to refinish, the last thing she expects is to find a human blood stain under the amateurish finish. Whose blood is it? What happened to the person who bled on the table?
Helped and hindered by her fiance, Cas Wolfe, her friend Ben, her son E and an imaginary llama named Ccelly, Dyce must find the killer and the victim, before the killer finds her.
A Dyce Dare Mystery.
Originally Published by Prime Crime

I no longer cry when I listen to The Little Drummer Boy.  But no matter how silly the rendition, the family does shut up, because they know I’m listening.

Kind of like everything stops and we stand up for the anthem.

So, why cry?  And why have I stopped crying?

You could say I’ve stopped crying because I’ve gotten used to the idea.  Inured, maybe? though that’s a terrible word.

You see at some point in my twenties I realized what the whole thing was about talents, and about if you save your life, you will lose it.  I saw enough friends and relatives so afraid of not doing the one perfect thing they wanted to do that they never did anything.  Unwilling to engage themselves in doing or making anything imperfect, they saved their life/time so as to keep it free for that perfect thing: the perfect marriage, the perfect child, the perfect career.  And thereby, mostly, achieved none of these things.

Long before twenty, I realized I’d never be perfect.  Or “gifted.”

The effortless talent to do something and do it perfectly, I’ve seen it, and I don’t have it.  It’s most evident in adolescence because none of us has much training.  But some people can pick up a pencil and draw effortlessly, they can write movingly, they can solve the most difficult equations in their heads.  I’ve never seen anyone play an instrument first time they see it, though my parents were absolutely convinced this could happen. But I’ve seen people who teach themselves an instrument and learn to play it.  Older son did that at six.  Yeah, I don’t have that either.

Sure, I was always “best writer” in whatever class, particularly for fiction, but that’s a really tiny pond.

In the real world?

It took me 13 years of concerted effort and practice to sell my first short story.  In art, without the rendering computer (which should be fixed by tomorrow, hopefully) I am stuck at “talented amateur.”

So I had a perfect excuse to sit down and do nothing, right?

Well, no.  First because a lifetime is a long time to just waste waiting for it to end.  Second because I’d have become steeped in envy and malice, as I looked at everyone who accomplished SOMETHING while I did nothing.  You know I would.  It’s only natural.

So….

So I chose to use bullheadeness and vast amounts of work to make up for the lack of gifts.

How is it working?  I don’t know.  There’s a lot of things in the way of a trad career, and I’ve seen gifted people flounder and sink worse than I’ve ever done.

But now there’s indie, and lacking gifts I have an enormous amount of learning and experience.

Think about it: just because you weren’t given a strong voice, should you stay silent?

“I have no gift to bring that’s fit to give a king.”  But sometimes, rarely, for a moment, He smiles on me and my drum.  And that’s enough.

Yes, I owe you vignettes and promo, but guys, I’m up to my neck in underlayment.

This is 99c to midnight the 26th.

Dragon Blood: A Collection of Short Stories

From the trenches of WWI where the Red Baron just can’t help turning into a dragon, to the desert sands of a future world where humans have become something else, from a coffee shop between worlds where magicians gather, to a place where your worst nightmare can love you, let Dragon Blood take you on a series of fantastic adventures.

With an introduction by Pam Uphoff

This collection contains the stories: Rising Above, From Out The Fire, Yellow Tide Foam,
Hot, The Blood Like Wine,The Least Of These Little Ones,
Scraps Of Fog,Something Worse Hereafter,The Littlest Nightmare,Dragon Blood

Note that I’m not absolutely sure whether to do Red Baron to the future of Dragon Red Baron first.  Suggestions accepted.

Hi guys.  I might not post new material till tomorrow, mostly because OW, laying down floor makes everything hurt which makes it hard to sleep… which… but I’m holding on thinking how much easier the house will be to clean afterwards and also I’ll be able to reach all my books!

Meanwhile today Two collections of short stories are on sale:
Crawling Between Heaven and Earth, inexplicably only till midnight (inexplicably because I thought I’d done 48 hours.  I must be weirder than normal.)

Remember ebooks make great holiday gifts if they appear on a person’s kindle on Christmas morning and you put a little card in a stocking. Or something.

Crawling between Heaven and Earth: 99c till midnight

This is the collection of my first-professionally-published short stories now, OUCH about 20 years old.

A collection of short stories by Prometheus Award Winner Sarah A. Hoyt. The first edition of this collection was published by Dark Regions Press in paper, only. This updated edition contains two bonus short stories: High Stakes and Sweet Alice.
It also contains the stories: Elvis Died for Your Sins; Like Dreams Of Waking; Ariadne’s Skein;Thirst;Dear John;Trafalgar Square;The Green Bay Tree; Another George; Songs;Thy Vain Worlds;Crawling Between Heaven and Earth

Trade Winds: 99c till midnight on Christmas Day

The most recent collection of short stories, though the title story is about 20 years old.

A collection of science fiction short stories by Sarah A. Hoyt.
Are there truly aliens among us? What do they really want? And what if our creations could come back in lethal form? Could we resist them? If there were a time police, would we know it? And really, why do people expect enlightenment from the stars? What if aliens needed us for their moral compass? You think our illegal immigration is bad? Wait till its coming from the stars? And what happens when the coin falls on edge? Can you reproduce it? Those not particularly moral aliens might set fiendish traps. And you can never go back again. Also, why would you want to? The future will invent completely new ways of making people miserable. Also how well would a generation ship get us to the stars without humans getting in their own way? If you read the world of Darkship Thieves, there’s a story ten years after the revolution in Olympus. It bridges the gap to the second wave of novels of the Earth Revolution which will be written, eventually. And what if the Carthaginians had sowed salt on the ruins of Rome? How long is memory?

And now I’m going to go back to laying down floor.  Any of you want to help? ;)

Yes, yes, more post with wordy things sometime today, but time and floor wait for no woman (I’ve varnished the breakfast nook table because over the last few years we’ve somehow stripped the polyurethane off it.  To be fair, it’s probably my mad cleaning, rather than how much use we make of it, but…) and we need to lay down floor now, so we can do the library tomorrow.

So….

The world’s worst promoter realized at like 3 am that I’d forgotten to advertise the 99c Sword and Blood at Insty.  (Did I advertise it here?)  Anyway, of course by that time it had rolled off.  Argh. So in the spirit of NOT doing that again (And if you’re a fan you should search on my name everyday and set it by price on Amazon and figure out what’s free or dirt cheap.  This goes on till the 30th.)

FREE TILL MIDNIGHT (and yes, I know there’s a typo in the description on Amazon and the cover sucks.  It will get fixed, but not while dealing with floors, and not till my render/art computer is fixed and up again.)

Death of a Musketeer

When D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis discover the corpse of a beautiful woman who looks like the Queen of France, they vow to see that justice is done. They do not know that their investigation will widen from murder to intrigue to conspiracy, bring them the renewed enmity of Cardinal Richelieu and shake their faith in humanity. Through duels and doubts, they pursue the truth, even when their search brings them to the sphere of King Louis XIII himself and makes them confront secrets best forgotten.

FOR 99c TILL MIDNIGHT:

(yes, covers suck. I’ve had problems covering this series.)

The Musketeer’s Seamstress (The Musketeers Mysteries Book 2)

Aramis emerges from the water closet to find his lover, a duchess, murdered on her bed. The room is locked, and Aramis is the only one who could have entered it. He’s sure he didn’t do it, but no one else believes him. Even Monsieur de Treville, Captain of Musketeers, doubts Aramis’s word. Aramis must leave Paris and go on the run, entrusting the solving of the murder, and the defense of his honor, his freedom and his very life to Athos, Porthos and D’Artagnan. Can “one for all” carry the day when every powerful person in France believes Aramis a murderer and when powerful interests would gladly frame Aramis for it?

The Musketeer’s Apprentice (Musketeers Mysteries Book 3)

It’s August in Paris 1625 and Porthos, once a dancing and fencing master, has taken as apprentice a young nobleman, whom he’s teaching to fence and ride. When the young man dies, poisoned, the stories of his ancestry and domicile unravel into layer after layer of deception and blackmail, involving Porthos’s relatives and his own past.
Can Porthos, Athos, Aramis and D’Artagnan dodge the Cardinal’s guards while finding the real murderer? Who was Guillaume Jaucourt, and who could have killed him? And why?
It’s one for all and all for one with the swashbuckling sleuths, in a race against time and their own misgivings.

The Musketeer’s Inheritance (The Musketeer’s Mysteries Book 4)

THIS BOOK WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY BERKLEY PRIME CRIME UNDER THE TITLE “A DEATH IN GASCONY.”
A letter from Gascony calls D’Artagnan home. His father died suddenly and D’Artagnan must come and take charge of the estate. His friends, of course, accompany him. But what Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan don’t know is that the older D’Artagnan was murdered and that they must find the killer, if they want to keep the younger D’Artagnan alive.

It was a Colorado Book finalist.

The Musketeer’s Servant (Musketeers Mysteries Book 5)

When Porthos’ Servant, Mousqueton, is found near a dead armorer or swordsmith and taken up for murder, the four friends, Athos, Porthos, D’Artagnan and Aramis set out to investigate. Their work on this private crime leads them to unfold a bigger plot, against the Cardinal or perhaps the king himself. Will the musketeers have to work on the side of Richelieu to keep Louis XIII safe?
THIS NOVEL WAS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED BY BERKLEY PRIME CRIME AS Dying by the Sword.

Dan and I are doing what we always do when he has vacation: household stuff.  This is why staycation never works for us.  If we want a vacation, we have to go away, even if just to a hotel in town.  Otherwise,either we get into projects, or things break until we do.  So, this time we just decided to move everything around in basement, clear one room at a time and floor it with wood.  (Older son and lovely fiance already did half the great room down there.)  At the end of this — next week — is putting up the amazing library system so I can actually find my research books and actually, you know, write.  I’ve been screaming that I can’t access my tools of the trade.  Well, now I can.

But right now it’s phase one, which means clearing out older son’s office (his dad is TG handling the computers) so that we can floor that, and then we can move stuff from the library there, and then we can… yeah, like that.

Phase one involves finding space in the library.  Which means moving the forty boxes of books that appeared on the floor (from my perspective) when husband and younger son cleared the garage to put younger son’s stuff in when he moved to a smaller apartment a year ago.  Apparently the movers ignored things like “library” and just piled boxes of books in the garage.  What else is new?

Anyway, turns out not all of those forty boxes should be in the library.

For instance did you know that for movers comics and “manuscripts” are the same thing?  I didn’t. But I’ve been enlightened.  Apparently marked up manuscripts, print outs and research notes are all comics.  I confess I never even guessed at this, but now I know, right?

Other things: Apparently I didn’t lose my mind (who knew?) and donate my research books on WWI and the space between the wars.  They’re just in boxes marked (not by me, by the packers) “comics, family room.”

I don’t even understand this as this is the first house we’ve had a family room, we never had comics in the family room (mostly in boys’ rooms, honesty, except for the stack by my bed, which I pilfered from them when ill) and more importantly STUFF LIKE “ELIZABETHAN TASTE” “CHRONICLES OF WORLD WAR I” & “TECHNIQUES OF THE RAPIER” are not now nor have they ever been comics.

But apparently there is a parallel universe in which they are comics for the family room (which has NO bookshelves.)

The brag shelf is more or less marked brag shelf, and oooh, boy, do I have more books to sell.  (In time.  We need a system of organization.)  However I’m 99.9% sure that half the things marked brag shelf were not in the very large cabinet thus marked in the other house.  Why?  Because I’d have to be completely crazy and possibly stoned to put David Drake’s work on my brag shelf.  ALL OF IT.  Maybe they thought I was David Drake?  Or maybe they were going by the rocket on the spine.  (In which case, I know where my John Ringo and Correia hard covers went.)

Other things I’ve found out: I’m a compulsive buyer of research books.  No, seriously.  I thought it was bad my Elizabethan shelf was six feet wide and floor to 14ft distant ceiling. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.  Yeah, no.  There are probably another ten boxes of books.  (To be fair I’m including all Tudors and Tudor biographies in this. Because it’s all linked.)

France in the time of the musketeers?  Another half that.  And then…. Well, let’s say it’s a good thing I bought fourteen board feet of library system, 8 feet high.  (Yes, that’s wasting vertical space, and when I have money I’ll have floor to ceiling matching the others built.  But this should hold us for 5 years or so.)

This completely explains say the 10k I used to spend a year on history book club before Amazon.

I probably should ask the help of a power greater than myself, but the first rank of that, for “we need to clear clutter” is husband and he just says “But hon, are you going to write a book set in that time?  You know you like them to be accurate.”

As for Himself up there, He’d probably laugh at me.  He does that A LOT.  (I’m the plucky comic relief.)

So….

So, I just want access to my books, and I’ll be able to finish a bunch of historicals.

The way to that is paved with moving the fricking boxes and laying down floor.

Back to the exercise.

Ah’ll be back.  And if I learn more interesting things, you won’t be able to avoid hearing about them.

What’s the Deal with Quakes in East Tennessee?

By Stephanie Osborn

http://www.stephanie-osborn.com/

There’s been a lot of agitation and media reports (some legit, some less so) on the series of earthquakes in East Tennessee, and how this means the New Madrid fault system is about to go off again, and all kinds of stuff like that. Sarah and our mutual friend Jim W. and I have been discussing it, and I’ve been answering questions on social media and whatnot, so a quick tag-up with Sarah resulted in me sitting down to write this, to hopefully spread a little more understanding and lay some fears to rest.

So here’s the deal. According to the USGS, on 12 December, a magnitude 4.4 quake occurred near Decatur, TN. Epicenter location was 35.614°N 84.740°W, and it was about 9km (about 5.6mi) deep. OHMIGOSH! We had an UNPRECEDENTED quake in East Tennessee and it’s still rumbling!

So here’s a list of the quakes in the immediate area since the 4.4 quake (including the 4.4).

But nobody even noticed that third quake! What’s up with that?

Well, it turns out that wasn’t all the quakes in the system, either. Here’s the rest of the quakes in the region for the last 30 days, as of 17 December, the time of this writing.

Now, these quakes are not all clustered immediately around Decatur. But they are all along the edge of the mountain range, within ~100 miles or less of Decatur. But there’s something else important about them. They’re all magnitude 3.0 or less.

Why is that important? A 3.0 is just on the threshold of something that humans can even FEEL. Anything smaller than a 3, humans generally don’t even notice, and it must be detected by seismograph systems. Even many 3s go unnoticed, depending on location, underlying rock strata, building structure, etc. (Often they are completely unnoticed by those standing on the ground. Sometimes even larger quakes are unnoticed by those standing directly on the ground. I can speak from personal experience on this.)

So there were quakes going on in the area for some time (and likely longer than the USGS’ website is showing, since I’d have to request access to their database to go back earlier than 30 days ago, and that’s not going to be a quick process), and nobody even noticed, BECAUSE THEY WEREN’T BIG ENOUGH TO FEEL. (This is actually pretty typical of the fault zones associated with the Reelfoot Rift, as well.)

Are there any Reelfoot Rift quakes in that same timeframe? Well, sure.

Note that the first two are squarely in the New Madrid Fault Zone, and the last is in the associated Wabash Valley Fault Zone.

OMIGOSH! They’re right! The East Tennessee quakes ARE setting off the New Madrid!

Well, no.

There were also quakes on the San Andreas, but nobody’s claiming the East Tennessee quakes affected IT. But it’s on the same tectonic plate! But there are no more structures connecting the New Madrid to the E.TN. faults than there are to the San Andreas.

Why?

Because the faults in the Appalachian orogenic zone are not only a long way away from the New Madrid system, they weren’t even created in the same era.

Many of the Appalachian faults are much, much older, and that’s one reason they’re largely inactive — the impetus to the original mountain-building/folding/faulting (this process is called “orogeny”) was the FORMATION of the Rodinia supercontinent (Appalachians 1.0, as some geologists waggishly make it, and they were likely huge) and the Grenville Orogeny, some 1,250,000,000-980,000,000 years before the present (YBP), due to the slamming together of tectonic plates. [Appalachians 1.0 are largely gone, eroded away by now.] The other sides of this orogeny — the other plates involved in the collision — include the Kibaran Orogeny in Africa (formed the Kibara Mountains in the Congo) and the Dalslandian or Sveconorwegian Orogeny in the northwestern (Nordic) part of Europe (now visible principally only as the Caledonian nappe system, which is a group of overthrust sheets).

The Reelfoot Rift, on the other hand, underlying the New Madrid and Wabash Valley fault systems, formed during the BREAKUP of Rodinia, some 750,000,000YBP. (For lots of information on this, I recommend my ebook, Rock and Roll, available for Kindle:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074SJ8ZPT

and Nook:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rock-and-roll-stephanie-osborn/1126973723?ean=2940158848162.)

The more recent orogeny (aka Appalachians 2.0), sometimes called the Appalachian or Alleghanian Orogeny, began during the formation of Pangaea, some 480,000,000YBP, again, due to the slamming together of tectonic plates. The resulting range likely reached heights comparable to the Himalayas! (By comparison, the Laramide Orogeny, which formed the Rockies, ran from roughly 80,000,000YBP to possibly as late as 35,000,000YBP, so they are MUCH younger and higher, due to having less time to erode.) Like the Grenville Orogeny, the other side of this collision formed the so-called Anti-Atlas Mountains of northwest Africa.

This makes the faults in East Tennessee thrust, or more properly, overthrust faults. A thrust fault is where the upper fault block (“hanging wall”) overrides the lower (“foot wall”). But the Free Dictionary defines “overthrust fault” as a geological term: “A low-angle thrust fault in which displacement is on the order of kilometers,” that is, a nearly-horizontal thrust fault.

Example thrust fault, Cactus Hills, Saskatchewan, Canada:

Note the roughly 45º angle of the fault.

Example overthrust fault, Glarus overthrust fault, Swiss Alps (red line denotes fault):

Note the virtually horizontal angle of the fault.

So. Between the faulting and the also-prevalent FOLDING of the Appalachian Mountains, if you stretched it all out, some scientists have estimated that Tennessee would be easily 1/3 to 1/2 again as long as it is.

Most importantly: Thrust faults, regardless of angle, are COMPRESSION faults.

But the Reelfoot Rift, the actual geological structure that causes both the New Madrid and Wabash Valley quake zones, is a TENSION/EXTENSION rift/aulacogen system. Upwelling in the mantle from a hotspot directly under the center of the Rodinia supercontinent (which insulated the mantle, CAUSING the hotspot), combined with the “conveyor belt” effect of the resulting convection, as the hot magma spread out, moved away, and sank back into the mantle, literally tore apart the overlying crust. (The Southern Oklahoma Aulacogen may have been associated with this same breakup, though other geologists speculate it may have formed during the breakup of Pannotia, another supercontinent, younger than Rodinia.)

So. This means that the two systems — the Appalachian fault systems and the New Madrid/Wabash Valley fault systems — have COMPLETELY different ‘modes,’ if you will, as well as different forms and times of origin. More, they are separated by some 300mi, with no real geological structures connecting them.

That said, it’s my personal theory that the tectonic plates do act (to a limited degree) as flat springs, which means that significant distortion at one side of the plate can produce stress at the opposite side; Jim and I have talked about this, and watched that stress ping back and forth from plate boundary to plate boundary in the form of very large quakes, for quite a few years now. So it’s just conceivable that stresses transferred from the shifting in East Tennessee (which is largely just rebounding from the last ice age, according to the geological studies I’ve read) could make themselves known in additional stresses on the multiple faults of the Reelfoot Rift.

But frankly, these East Tennessee quakes are NOT large, but pretty small quakes. Most of the quakes that are occurring are getting no attention whatsoever, because they are below the threshold of being felt. And even the largest, the 4.4, is generally considered a minor quake most places. I don’t really expect a whole lot of stress transfer from these. Translated, I don’t expect any increased New Madrid activity on their account.

So what’s causing them? Leftovers.

The rocks are most likely still slowly rebounding from ancient stresses, including the various continental collisions that created the mountains, as well as the dissolution of the giant ice sheets from the last ice age. (And those ice sheets are VERY heavy — yes, they even make the continents sag.) More, since all those ancient stresses are no longer being applied, that rebound is apt to be slowly tapering off with time.

Yes, the Decatur TN 4.4 quake was felt over a large area — for the same reason the big temblors on the New Madrid were felt from the Front Range of the Rockies, up and down the East Coast, up into Canada, and down into the Caribbean — the rocks in this region are cold and unbroken, and will transmit the quake energies long distances.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that a true Big One is coming in East Tennessee, as there would be on the New Madrid or the San Andreas, because the stresses on those two systems still exist, but the stresses on the Appalachian faults are gone. And as I said, they aren’t likely to transfer any significant stress to the New Madrid.

So do what you need to do to stabilize your homes (psst — brick/masonry chimneys are especially vulnerable) and their furnishings against falling over in case there’s a few more minor shakes, then consider it the interesting geological event it is, and move on.

~~~

Check out Stephanie’s latest Division One novel, book 9 of the series, Head Games, now available for preorder in print and ebook, coming in January 2019:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07L5ZMQFY?ref_=pe_3052080_276849420

BN: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/head-games-stephanie-osborn/1129706755?ean=2940161305140

Two galaxies will go to war—if Fox can’t save Chairbeing Entiyti from assassins.

While Alpha One handles a Nazi zombie apocalypse, an assassin squad catches the Galactic Coalition President by surprise, leaving him at death’s door. Director Fox rushes to his old friend’s side, leaving Echo in charge of the Division.

But when the belligerent Persis Federation arrives from the Andromeda Galaxy, the Ennead orders Alpha One on the tricky first-contact mission, hoping to avert intergalactic war. Unfortunately, the Persan premier chooses Omega as his newest concubine, leaving Echo trapped between love and morality, and duty and orders.

On Earth, Ennead member Ordik Adita co-opts the Division directorship, revamping standard procedures, and enforcing his rule with an iron fist. A coup seems in progress.

The question is…how big is it?

Books in the Division One series, to date:

1) Alpha and Omega

2) A Small Medium At Large

3) A Very UnCONventional Christmas

4) Tour de Force

5) Trojan Horse

6) Texas Rangers

7) Definition and Alignment

8) Phantoms

9) Head Games

With more on the way!

First, before I forget, I have planned a Christmas extravaganza for those of you who are missing some Hoyt ebooks, including but not limited to 99c and free books.  Today, Death of a musketeer is up for free.

We woke up too early to take older son to the airport, headed to spend Christmas with lovely fiance and her family.  It’s his first Christmas away from us, but we’re not the primary family now, and we don’t expect them tied to our apron strings as they move on into their own family/circle.

Perhaps it was that, or perhaps I’m just maudlin, because it’s Christmas season and I miss long-dead relatives (maybe that’s why people used to tell ghost stories at Christmas?) and there’s no way to go back to the village of my childhood, except in my (obviously imperfect) memory.

The picture above is obviously not the village, but pretty close to the view of my classroom window in the 9th grade.

You see, we were a gifted class when the school was quite literally forbidden from grouping by ability (ah, revolutions.)  They could have argued they didn’t.  7th grade, they grouped us by name. Eighth grade we magically found ourselves in a form composed to top students (took us about zero minutes to find out what the other such form was.  Grades are posted in public by form. It wasn’t hard.)Keep in mind though they had a back up excuse.  We were also ALL troublemakers of the “but I read a book where–” or “But that’s not Egyptian religion at all. You’re porting in assumptions from Christianity” (Yes, that was me.) Or “But the history of the Black Plague tells us.”  Or even “But that’s not how evolution works.”

Still the school was obviously unsure about how they could pass that off, so they put us in weird places.  In eighth grade we were first in a street level classroom in the old earl’s palace (and if you think that’s not too bad, consider all girl’s school, and windows opening to a busy sidewalk.  They kept the shutters closed, and the lights on all the time.) and then, because I guess too conspicuous we were moved to a secret room (don’t ask. You had to go through the back of a closet and along the choir loft of the disused baroque chapel.  In case you guys wonder at all the secret passageways in my books.)  This is where we locked a freaking-out newby science teacher in the closet.  NOT MY DOING, I SWEAR, though I was annoyed enough with her to approve.  And then in the stables, ground floor, another all artificial light classroom. Also weird shape and cramped.)  But they really outdid themselves with 9th grade.  They put us in tiny room in new building.  I don’t even know why tiny room was there.  I later stayed in a similar room when I worked in a hotel in Germany.  It was obviously used — in that case — for low paid staff, and it’s the type of room that Victorians gave maids.  Don’t know why it was in a building from the sixties, unless it was force of habit.

Picture in your mind walking down a LONG attic crammed with broken desks, old globes and other decommissioned stuff.  Also all the utilities for the school, so you’re ducking electrical stuff and ducts for water. At the very end, there’s a door.  Open it.

There’s a room maybe 15 by 15 with a teacher’s desk up front, and a blackboard.  To get to the teacher’s desk you have to walk sideways past desks crammed so closely anyone wishing to go to the bathroom had to either empty the whole row OR (what we usually did) walk atop people’s desks.

Ah, but they let us pick our desks.  I was by the one window.  (Which means I died in place rather than go to the bathroom.) But ah, the view.  And because we were an afternoon form, with classes from 2 pm to 8, I got to see the lights in Porto come on.  And because we were five stories up, I could see all the way to the river.

The road that ran along the river used to be, before highways, one of the routes to the airport.  And since I was going to grow up, move to Denver, and be a writer, it was very cheering to look out at the route of escape.

Was it so bad then?  Well, yes. For various reasons.  In many ways, it was the best time I’d had up till then, and the place I felt most “normal” until adulthood.  But it was still… well… my teens.  Everyone’s teens are bad for different reasons.

The only nostalgia I have for those years is that view.  Because I was stuck in that window seat and frankly, mostly, writing novels.  I dreamed up the world of Darkships in that window seat, and another one (Winter Prince, yes, it’s coming) and drew plans for houses and spaceships, and wrote seven or eight 40k word (hey writing longhand is slow) novels that year.  I miss the inventiveness and the way I could move wholly into my imaginary worlds and not come out.  Yes, it was dysfunctional. But it was also sweet and relaxing.

There are things I miss about Porto, most of which probably are no longer there or not the way I remember them: I miss the old shops that everyone had forgotten, particularly the old book shops with forgotten corners where leather-bound books were priced at early 20th century prices.  Also, lingerie stores with pre-war (WWI. No, I have no explanation, except the shop was the bottom floor of someone’s house, and they only opened when they felt like it. Which wasn’t often) silk lace stockings. And stores with hand made clay figurines.  I wish, in retrospect, I’d bought a ton of those before it all became “caters to German and Scandinavian Tourists, Penises as people” stores.
I miss roasting chestnuts.  I miss rainy days washing down the granite facades. I miss the art supply store I used to frequent.  And I miss being young.

But mostly what I miss, the place that triggers tears is the village.

They’d object to my calling it a village, btw.  In Portugal village or “land” (Terra) means an isolated village somewhere in the mountains.  And by population I think we were a town.  But the only way to convey “everyone knows everyone” and “we’ve been here generations” is to call it a village, and I’m a writer, I use shorthand.

The problem is the village I miss is the village in my mind.  I miss walking up the street of tall buildings, just about two inches from the throughfare which reeked of Rome, past all the people I knew, and the little black dog who’d rush to the gates to be petted. (Nero. Of course.  Portuguese name their dogs after less than good Roman Emperors and their children after good ones.  Except Caligula. No one names their anything Caligula.  Well, maybe a rooster if you’re going to chop him soon.)

I want to go in the side gate at grandma’s and walk around the water tank and through the gate, then the little path past grandad’s workshop, and into the patio that was my childhood everything — unexplored jungle, other world, palace — and into grandma’s kitchen.  She’ll be frying doughnuts, of course, and I’ll sit and sample them while I tell her how things have been.  Until she finishes and gets out the good teaset and the bought cookies which I started rating around high school.  I want to sit and hear her talking of the village acquaintances (most of whom, like actors, I could never keep straight) and let the cats and dogs come to me.  I want to walk down the backyard and jump the back wall, and go exploring in the woods with dad, like we did when I was very young.  I want to go with my brother and watch the oxen draw water to water the crops next door.

I want just one more Christmas at grandma’s house, with all of us together, and the nativity where Joseph is missing because my cousin Natalia broke him before I was born so he was “out gathering wood” and the little Christmas tree because dad objected to cutting trees so we cut a branch, and grandad complaining about the vegetables or the cod fish, then going out the door to meet his cronies at the tavern, with grandma running after him to wipe the little bit of olive oil on his chin.

I want to put my shoe on the stove and wait for the doll or the crayons, or the book then spend the day enjoying it.

See, what I mean? I’m getting old and maudlin.  The fact I can’t even visit the SIGHTS makes it worse.

But in a way I’m happy those memories are strong and tear-inducing.  It’s good to have a place to be from, a place you can visit in your dreams.

I’d never have stayed in the village my whole life.  I didn’t fit in that well. And my dreams drew me forth.  And, no, I don’t expect it to remain preserved under glass for me to visit. (Though a business that builds VRs of people’s memories so they can visit those would probably make a killing. When the tech is there, of course.)

Lands and places belong not to people but to times.  My great-grandmother’s village was completely different from mine, and her grandmother’s even more so.  We live in space in layers, through time, and the places we love exist only in that slice of time.

I’m glad I had the time and place I had to grow up in, even the unpleasant parts in my teens, because it made me who I am.  Who would I be otherwise? Who knows. But it wouldn’t be me.  And I’ve made peace with me, cracks and all.

There are roots in that old village that no longer exists, places that still nurture me and feed me.  Like the roots in that classroom, and the imaginary worlds I created then branch throughout all of my writing now.

Come with me past the broken furniture, the dodgy plumbing. Duck, or you’ll hit your head on that pipe.  Come look out the window with me: See those lights in the distance? Many futures live there.  And I’m going to write them all.

Come with me.

Look, I’m not a masochist.  I hate pain.  No, I mean I really hate pain, particularly emotional pain.  Not that I’m fond of physical pain, but it’s easier to just lean back and endure than emotional pain.  Also ibuprofen does bloody nothing for emotional pain.

But I figured out when I was giving birth to younger son that there is a purpose to pain, a purpose to effort and struggle.  You see, without it babies wouldn’t be so incredibly important to mothers.  No, really.  I think if you could have a kid with absolutely no, or very little pain, you’d not value them so highly.  (Yes, I explained this to the doctors WHILE I WAS GIVING BIRTH.  I’M A BIT NUTS.)

When I was young and stupid I created a gengeeniered human subspecies (you’ll see) who give birth with next to no pain.  Since a lot of them are nomadic, at least I worked it through fine that they’d do things like forget the baby hanging from a tree cradle.  (Yes, even at 14 I got that, but it took me another 14 years to formulate it while conscious.)

Anyway, recently pour raisons, I’ve been thinking a lot about this.  Pain sucks. But it seems to be needed for humans.  Maybe for all animals (there are certain cats that are going to experience pain if peeing in the family room continues.  There’s this mat that gives you a shock if you pee on it. I’m just mad enough to try it.)

Heinlein said humans thrive on strife.

Look, I’d feel better with less of it, particularly less economic strife, as Dan put it last night “We drive straight at the wall, and more often than not we miraculously get through.”  And if we don’t, it usually resolves in a few months. Because when I get scared I work stupid-hard and that usually pays off.  Because …. well, because it usually does.

But I was wondering if that’s a problem with not just a lot of kids, but a lot of people these days.

People don’t seem to have a sense of proportion.

If you’ve never been told “no” the first time you’re smacked hurts harder and you need safe spaces and protection from harsh opinions that don’t agree with yours.

Maybe it’s because you’re an emotional bubble-boy.

We were talking this weekend about how I found out it IS actually possible to throw up from being excessively upset.  It took me till 56 for something to hit me that hard that I did it.

We know someone we always assumed fake throwing up when upset to control her kids.  But maybe that’s not true. Maybe she just gets upset at any sign at all of opposition.  Being an only child of older parents and the sole survivor past infancy of (I think) six kids, perhaps she simply was never told no, and being told by her kids that they don’t want to follow her plans for their life is so upsetting that it causes a physical reaction.

… and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe that’s why people want to eliminate all suffering and strife, because they perceive even a little bit as the worst thing ever.

I’ll leave as an exercise for the class whether or not the pampered ones’ desire for socialism and communism with their atrocious track records is innocent, or their subconscious trying to bring strife into their lives to correct the lack.

I think by historical standards, all of us are incredibly pampered and have experienced next to no pain.  Is this actually destroying us and civilization?

I don’t think we should do stuff to bring more pain into the world, but is it something we actually need? Is the lack of pain, or at least of strife destroying generations and making us think that we could make heaven on Earth if we just tried?

Of course that last solves the problem handily, but it might also send humanity into the long night for a while.

The question is, how do we get around it?

My only vision for this is going to space, forming new colonies, and giving kids something to work towards and dream about, something other than this involuted need to end all pain and strife.

We could do worse.

First the announcement.

The Great 2018 Book Sale is officially closed.  I’ll process whichever of you emailed before today, as well as those who sent checks, BUT… lessons learned:

1- Packaging about 15 orders takes me one and a half days, one of them with son’s help.

2- Mailing costs way more than I remembered.  How much more? WAY more.  For 8 or so it’s $40 first class. Media mail couldn’t be selected for a bunch of them for other reasons.  For Canada 3 books START at $37.  (Yes, I’ll be talking with some of you, because it’s probably saner to refund your payment, unless you REALLY desperately want those books.)

3 – I think this is best done piecemeal, slower and with shipping built in.

So, at some point, in the next 3 weeks or so, there will be a tab with paperbooks for sale and prices and shipping.  They will be signed (OF COURSE) but there will be a two week or so leeway for shipping them.  (i.e. no last minute orders.)  They will include indie editions.  Every two weeks the son will pull them, get me to sign them, package them and mail them, so it impacts minimally on my time.

And that’s it.

Sunday Book Promo

FROM HOLLY LISLE: Tales from The Longview (6 Book Series).

MEET THE LONGVIEW – An Ancient Spaceship Resurrected To Transport Conspiracy

Inhabited by a crew of misfits fleeing nightmare pasts, with a cargo of Condemned slated to die at the hands of the highest bidders, and with a passenger roster made up exclusively of people NOT who they claim to be, The Longview serves the hidden agenda of an eccentric recluse bent on playing puppetmaster to all of Settled Space.

Author’s note: This story was previously published as ENTER THE DEATH CIRCUS.

EPISODE 1: When love is crime, who will save the guilty?

After falling in love and fathering a child, a young criminal refuses to voluntarily throw himself into a lake of fire to gain his community’s forgiveness. So he’s sentenced to death and sold to the owner of a spaceship that buys criminals like him. But the ship and its crew are not quite what they appear to be.

FROM ALMA BOYKIN: Stamme: Shikari Book Three.

Shikhari’s secrets hide in the stars and under the ground…

Auriga “Rigi” Bernardi faces adulthood with relief and trepidation – trepidation because her mother has Great Plans for Rigi’s introduction to society. A plague among the native Staré proves yet another legend true and threatens Staré society until Rigi inadvertently averts a cultural disaster. At the same time, the Crown Navy records communication signals coming from the wrong quadrant of space. Could the two be related? If so, than the ancient death that struck from the stars threatens not only the Staré but the humans of Shikhari as well.

Add in an off-world academic with too many theories and too few manners, and Rigi begins to suspect that adulthood and courtship are not quite as advertised.

Then the giant birds arrive…

FROM RAY ZACEK:  Appalling Stories 2: More Appalling Tales of Social Injustice.