Useful Gifts for Writers: Bookplates

Day Three here, so I thought I’d describe what it’s like. We’re renting a condo that overlooks the beach, towards the northwest end. The place is great, and there’s a balcony that is literally bigger than our living room back home. We share it with a tiny lizard that is living in the drapes in the living room.

It’s rainy season, so it’s Humid and warm, but there’s usually a nice breeze coming in from the ocean. Rainy season doesn’t mean the same thing that it does in Seattle. Here sometimes it’s nice and sunny and then suddenly OMG THERE ARE BUCKETS OF WATER FALLING FROM THE SKY. I kinda like it, myself. And I’m sure it doesn’t hurt me to be forced inside in order to write. 😉

We’re a little outside the main drag, so we’re within walking distance of grocery store, restaurants, etc, but it’s a bit of a slog in this heat. People are friendly if you address them, but it doesn’t feel as though most of them are interested in interacting. (Not that they should, just that it feels a lot less chatty than back in Seattle.) My Spanish is improving in leaps and bounds, though, so I’m feeling pretty comfortable in terms of being able to communicate. We’ve also found they show Big Bang Theory with Spanish subtitles every evening, which is a nice way to supplement the geekier part of my vocababulary.

The vegetation, the birds, etc, are wonderfully new. Lots and lots of flowers, plenty of lizards (in a wide range of sizes), and birds I don’t know, aside from the pair of macaws we saw on our first evening, which seemed a lovely omen. We believe they were getting very friendly with each other — not sure what that does to the omen’s significance.

We can see the hills and mountains, which usually have clouds slumbering on them, lovely vistas that remind me a little of the Blue Mountain greeting cards we used to sell at Waldenbooks, a ragged line trailing into softer fog, but without all the platitudes written underneath.

Speaking of platitudes, I’ve been following the news back home as well, and watching the sad and horrible events in Ferguson in particular. If, like me, you want to know what you can do besides flail helplessly, here’s a piece, Ten Things White People Can Do About Ferguson Beside Tweet, that I found via N.K. Jemisin that is helpful.

As for the Hugo Awards – many congratulations to all the winners, but in particular Ann Leckie, whose Ancillary Justice kicks butt. It was a weird ballot but hopefully one that raised awareness of the Hugos and will pull in new readers.

Start the clock! Release the kraken! Let the hockey players sharpen their blades, let the audience stir restlessly and go one last time for popcorn and sodas and beer, glorious golden beer that tints the ice with its microbrewed haze.

Because there is a haze tonight, that’s for sure, folks. Tonight Seattle’s surrendered to the supernatural forces that have been creeping up like uninvited shoggoths in recent years. The world’s gone weird and wacky, and why not krakens, why not tentacles spilling out from the Space Needle, infesting the sky? It’s Seattle, after all; it’s raining so it’s not like they block out the sun.

Who’d have dreamed that magic and hockey would mix this way, a mash-up made of bloody sticks and smashed spell bottles? Seattle’s wizards have come out of hiding for this game, emerged from their lairs in Greenlake and Mercer Island, driven their Teslas over to park in interdimensional folds where they won’t get scratched like normal cars.

Only an hour’s worth of game, and then the magic runs out, deflates like a sodden pumpkin, milked for all that tentacle and terror juice. Will it be enough to keep Seattle entertained for another evening, keep it from imploding like Scherezade in reverse into ennui and coffee beans? Cities don’t resort to supernatural hockey games until they’re really in extremis and no one is really sure what this one will – or even can — achieve, given a world of murder hornets and sapient bananas and well, you remember the last few months as well as I do, particularly what happened to the butterflies.

The clock’s ticking. The skaters are moving back and forth over the ice, and things are stirring in the depths underneath it, things that will fuck a Zamboni up and shred ice like tissue paper. That’s how close the danger is to us all. That’s how dire things are.

Let’s stop now, before another spray of ice goes up, before another player gets a bloody nose and melts the ice with that, so things can crawl through from another dimension. It’s not too late. Where’s the entrance? Where’s the exit? Why does this ice hold me so fast?