theferrett: (Meazel)

So the last of the Great Flux Events is tonight in Cleveland – my book release party, at Loganberry Books, at 7:00.  I got my nails done according to that fantastic cover, and my favorite cupcake maker in all of Cleveland is making donut-themed cupcakes.

All that’s needed are, well, people!  And I hope some show up!  Maybe even some of you!

(Though if not, I’ll drown my sorrows in two dozen cupcakes. So I may die. Vital that you come, then.)

Anyway, that’s the last of the event parties for this year.  (I tried to get a signing in Chicago for next weekend, but no bookstores wanted a Ferrett that weekend, and then I got an invite to a wedding, so… sorry, Chicago, get it together.)  I’ll probably do some more activity for next year’s The Fix, but that’s a long time off.

Right now, The Flux has been out for four days, and a surprising amount of people have read it in a single day, and they’ve seemed to dig it.  The book’s available if you want to order it from Amazon or Barnes and Noble or whereever, and if not, well, don’t mind me. I’ll be crying in the corner, my face smeared with delicious cupcakes.

Move along. I said move along.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Hey there! I’m on a big, whizzing blog tour right now to support my new book The Flux, writing about twenty entries and interviews – and I still want more!  If you have a Literary Blog Of Note or a podcast you’d like me to be on, let’s talk!

But as y’all know, I’m a big Star Wars fan, and when it came time to write the sequel to Flex, I cribbed from the best.  Over at Sci Fi Bulletin, I wrote the Four Things I Learned About Sequels From The Empire Strikes Back (and how I applied them to writing The Flux). So if you want to know what Empire did right in following up Star Wars, go read!

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

When Rock Band was ascendant, we used to have Rock Band parties every week. People would come to La Casa McJuddMetz from all over to play fake plastic instruments and sing at full volume.

But that dwindled as the game did, and then Rock Band died after the stupendous effort of Rock Band 3.

Yet when I discovered that Rock Band 4 was releasing on the same day that my book The Flux did, well… that was kismet.  Left to my own devices, I’d refresh Amazon sales ranks obsessively and check for new reviews.  Having friends over, drinking cider and fumbling at the drums was the best distraction I could hope for!

So how was it?

Preliminary feedback on Rock Band 4 is… not good.  We bought it for the XBox One, and none of our old plastic instruments worked – including, annoyingly, our Ion Drum kit, the badge of how truly obsessed we were at the height of it –  so we had to buy all new plastic instruments.  (And let’s be honest – Rock Band has the better gameplay, but their guitars have always been mushy and awful. I want to use my old Guitar Hero guitars.)  They said we could import all our old favorite songs purchased on the XBox 360 platform, but as of last night only about a third of the songs we’d bought were actually marked as “purchased.”

They’re working on all of that, but what a rough start.

The game itself is… weirdly mixed.  If you like Rock Band, well, it’s more Rock Band.  But it feels unpolished thus far.  Gini and I started, with the game not knowing us from Adam, and when we played our first song (B.o.B’s “Airplanes,” a very easy one), it said, “Hey do you want to do an encore?” and gave us a selection of four song types (“A song from the 2000s,” “A Devo song”) to vote for.

Pretty cool.  So we selected “An alternative song.”  And on our second song ever – again, not knowing our intrepid skill level – it chucked us straight into the five-star difficulty of Muse’s “Hysteria,” a song that no beginner would ever be able to complete.

So yeah. Not so great.

But the core of Rock Band is pretty untouchable, and pretty soon we were all arguing who got to be on drums and choosing songs and being baffled by the (still extremely large) selection we’d cultivated.  We sang at full volume regardless of talent, and bombed out a couple of times, and the people who weren’t playing were off by the snacks yakking it up, and we made new and awesome friends and saw people we hadn’t seen in months.

So that was good.

And that’s why Rock Band keeps chugging along; the central gameplay brings people together. You all work to surpass this song, and it brings people together.  They may have better things in store – they had “freestyle” guitar solos, where you weedle away needlessly and the program creates appropriately okay guitar solo guitar noises, but it was mostly confusing for people.

So is it a great game? I’ll let you know when I’ve put in some more hours.  But for now, it gave me a great party with some of my crushes and friends all coalescing, and that was what I needed.  So I’ll give it a shot.

(SIDE NOTE: Nathan asked me, “So are we ever going to find out what happened with your webcomic My Name Is Might Have Been?  And the answer is, I actually tried to find the old plot notes for that to sync with the Rock Band premiere, going into my basement and searching through my last three laptops to see if I could locate the overview Cat Valente and I wrote.  No dice on two laptops, and could not locate a charger for the the last and oldest laptop.  If it ain’t there, I may try to recreate it, but I’d rather have what Cat and I agreed to.  So some day.  Assuming I can find a charger for an ancient Toshiba.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

If you are an author, you understand the importance of Tuesday.

Tuesday is when new books release in the USA.

And every Tuesday is a new “book birthday” for a host of authors – that day when their baby is shoved out a window, and there’s either a teeming crowd of people cheering in the street to catch it, or bouncing baby boy hits the pavement.

And with that cheery thought, it’s all done! This book I have been talking about for months is now in the public’s hands, and either y’all will like it or you won’t!

If you’re interested, well, it’s out.  At AmazonBarnes and NoblePowell’s, or, well, just about everywhere.  And it’s getting some nice reviews on Goodreads!

And Ken Liu – one of the most honored writers in modern science fiction – had this to say:

The Flux is the best kind of sequel: bigger, deeper, scarier, funner. The emotional journey it takes the reader on is just as thrilling as the jaw-dropping wonders of videogamemancy and bureaucramancy. With the ‘Mancer series, Ferrett Steinmetz has achieved something rare in contemporary fantasy: a world that feels both truer and more magical than our own.”

So… yeah.  If you feel like promoting this sucker further, I told you how last week.  (Hint: Talking about it on social media and reviews are the life’s blood of any nascent author.)

Fly free, little book!  Now fail or succeed on your own damn merits!

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Book Weasel: 
When I first heard that Flex was at the printer, I set myself a “Fuck You, Ferrett” number.  I knew what an “average” book sold over the course of its lifetime, and I added 33% to that, and that was my “Fuck You, Ferrett” number.

That was the number where, if I sold that many copies of Flex, I would never ever ever be allowed to whine about its sales.

The thing is, I don’t actually know whether the “Fuck You, Ferrett” is a good number.  Book publishing is a kind of terrifying landscape if you’re a numbers-oriented person like I am, making it impossible to know where you stand. You know for sure if you’re a triple-A success – but a midlist or debut success is harder to measure.  Only a scant handful of authors actually reveal their sales numbers (Kameron Hurley being the most prominent), and they usually only do it when they’re successful.

So if you’re numbers-oriented, you try to gauge from other statistics.  Amazon Sales rank?  Too volatile.  Reviews?  Again, on Amazon they’re all over the map, and they rely heavily on who ya know.  (Flex is disproportionately reviewed.)  GoodReads numbers tell you something – for example, The Mechanical came out the same month that I did, and it has 1,200 reviews where I have 500. So it probably sold a lot better.  But it’s Ian Tregellis’ fifth novel, and does that matter?  He got George R.R. Martin to blurb him – does that matter?

Basically, whenever I think about sales, I can either feel like a proud debut novelist or a fraud of an underperformer, depending on who I’m comparing myself to and in what ways I slice the data that day.  And that’s exacerbated by the fact that yeah, authors rarely talk about that novel that only sold 500 copies.

The good news is that the “Fuck You, Ferrett” number is close.  We may nudge past it next week, when The Flux drops and Flex gets the inevitable sales boost.  So thanks to everyone who supported Flex, because that literally wouldn’t have happened without y’all talking about it.

The bad news – at least for me – is that when I get some firmer numbers in, I will do a Kameron Hurley post discussing how many books I sold.  And I have this depressing fear that I’ll reveal that number and people will go, “Aww, you went to all that fuss for that?” followed by a head-pat from people who write in Young Adult, where they have real sales.

But I’ve kind of made a history of revealing personal details and saying damn the consequences because I know for a fact that other people feel this way, and they deserve to know they’re not alone.  And I know that other authors also want data points, so that’s coming.

Hoo boy.

Bifocal Weasel:
I got bifocals last Friday, and it took me about four days to adjust.  I’m still not happy.  I thought bifocals would solve my close-up vision, but it turns out that for real close-up work – about six inches or closer – I’m better taking them off. And there’s still a lot of blur in my peripherals, which I’ve never really gotten used to.

As it turns out, with glasses, you lay back and let your eyeballs do the work.  Bifocals are a more active experience – you have to turn your head constantly, like an owl, to bring your gaze into the immobile focal spot.  I get lazy when reading, and let some of the words in the periph get blurred.  It’s basically more work, and it’s ironic that these are the old people glasses, because man, I’m mentally tracking this new step-count for my head.

But I see better on the whole.  It’s just odd.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A bit of context: over on FetLife, the Facebook for kinksters, there’s a constant cycle that goes like this: 

a)  Dude writes rapey essay on this beautiful experience he had with his sub where, say, he ties her up and ignores their negotiated boundaries in an extreme scene, and she loves being pushed past her stated limits and all is well. 

b)  People point out, “Dude, that’s kind of rapey, what you did there – and are you sure she was into it as you think she was?”  

c)  Dude freaks out, because this is a personal story and how dare you criticize my wondrous tale? 

d)  And everybody complaints about the “consent police,” and how dreary it is that we spoil everyone’s good time.  

This happens, I shit you not, once every two months or so.  It’s the cycle of (Fet)Life.  

So in the wake of this latest flurry of CONSENT IS GOOD/CONSENT IS BAD newscycle, I wrote this essay to describe why these sorts of essays are troublesome.  And it had a concept about consent that I liked, and thought I’d present to you.  

Anyway.  Here it is. 

“She had this long black hair, and I was jabbing my fire-torch into the nape of her neck,” the guy says. “Just burning all the little hairs at the base, then slapping out the sizzling fires before they got out of hand. She was terrified. What a great scene! At the end, she cried, and collapsed into my arms, and thanked me.”

And if you know the dark art of BDSM fireplay – or even if you don’t, I reckon – you’d hear this story and cringe. There are safety protocols in fireplay, and one of the biggies is “Don’t set fire to the hair on the head.” That stuff can get out of control fast – Michael Jackson fast – and cause permanent scarring and injury. Heck, a rogue drip of burning alcohol off the fire wand might turn those beautiful black tresses into a face-obliterating inferno.

But, you have to admit, this scene went well. You’re glad of that. Yet this fireplay dude telling the touching story of “burning her neck with love” without any disclaimers carries the heavy implication that this kind of fireplay is a good thing to do.

So you say something.

And the dude gets mad. “I’ve been burning people’s hair for years now!” he says angrily. “Nothing’s gone wrong! How dare you butt in?”

The girl gets involved. “Yeah! That scene was precious to me! He’s really good at knowing when to slap out the fires on my scalp! How dare you tell me he’s a bad guy?”

The next thing you know, there’s a huge argument, largely based on the concept of “Everything went well up until now,” which works well until the people in the burn ward weigh in.

And that, my friends, is how Internet flame wars start.

Yet the thing is, there’s a difference between “This went right” and “Best practices.” You can get lucky lots of times with bad procedures, as any rope rigger who’s watched dangerous suspensions understands. Good outcomes are not necessarily the result of good planning – people drive home drunk all the time and make it home safe, but that does not mean they’re safe to drive intoxicated.

And yet even if you have some statistical outlier who can drive better on a fifth of Scotch, it’d still be dangerous for him to write an essay on the relaxed, wonderful feeling he gets gliding home soused in his SUV. Maybe he can do it well, but by giving the impression that everyone can, he’s making the streets more dangerous.

There are safety procedures which work. And maybe experts, in given situations, can circumvent certain safety procedures if they know what they’re doing – but in an unknown situation, relying on the tried-and-true rules like “Don’t jam a blazing torch into the nape of her neck” is wisdom.

That’s what consent is.

Too many consent fetishists imply that “lack of consent” == “bad outcome.” That’s the insidious thing about consent! Sometimes, someone pushing past a mushy consent works out great for all parties concerned, just like these torch-jabbing folks got lucky and had a really intense scene that bonded them. You can get lucky, pushing boundaries, having sex with drunk people, deciding unilaterally that hey, let’s put these fingers here.

But like the torch-jabbers, when shit goes wrong, it goes really wrong. And fast. And permanently.

“Consent” is not a panacea. “Consent” does not guarantee satisfying sex. “Consent” is merely a form of protocol where we say, “In an absence of more specific knowledge, these are the best practices designed to guarantee everyone’s safety.”

And when we see people violating safety protocols and presenting the good outcomes as proof that “See? This went well, and felt magical, and was therefore correct,” the safety protocol-positive people are going to go, “Ya know, that carried a risk, and I’m not sure you should be presenting it as though it was something people should do regularly.”

Which, yeah, risks harshing your buzz on that beautiful scene you just had. And I apologize for stomping on your squee. We’re not trying to tell you that this didn’t work for you – although maybe your interpretation of her pleasure wasn’t as clear-cut as you’d like to think it is.

What we’re trying to say is “Dude, you’re taking some mighty dangerous edge play and presenting it as though this was what people should do, and that is potentially hazardous.”

So call us consent police, if you gotta. But in the absence of knowing someone better, “Clear and enthusiastic consent” is the equivalent of “Don’t jab that torch into her hair.” It’s not that we’re consent police, we’re “safety protocol police,” and when you start presenting good outcomes as proof of good practices, we’re gonna kick up a fuss.

Because somewhere, there’s a woman with a keloid-scarred scalp, and a sagging eye where they reconstructed her cheek muscles. We owe it to her to point out the risks that other people are taking. And to provide that counterweight that maybe this beautiful, beautiful hair-burning scene arrived as a result of a lucky spin of a roulette wheel, and to point out those odds.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I have long claimed that The Flux is a bigger, better sequel to my book Flex – but doubtlessly, you’re all wondering about that one unassailable hallmark of quality:

How many times does Ferrett swear in The Flux?

If you’ll recall, my favorite review for Flex came from my Goddaughter Carolyn, who said “I would recommend this book to people ages 15+ because f*** is in the book on almost every page.”

Further investigation turned up that Flex contained the word “fuck” 95 times,  or roughly once every three pages.  (Most of that is from Valentine. She swears a lot.)  (Also, my friend Angie noted with amusement that I proceeded to toss off three more “fucks” in the acknowledgements like it was no big thang.)

So if The Flux really is bigger and better than Flex, should it not have more fucks in The Flux?  I did a little survey, and the answer is:

Yes!  The Flux is fuck-superior to Flex, with 101 fucks.  Fuckmathematically speaking, The Flux is 6.3% bigger than Flex.

…but honestly, my friends, I feel like you deserve better than statistical jiggery-pokery.  The truth is that The Flux is also a longer novel than Flex, so if you’re qualifying quantity as fuck-density, we’re still averaging the same rate of roughly one “fuck” every three pages.

But hey.  The Flux has origamimancers, culinomancers, bookiemancers, [REDACTED]mancers, [EVEN MORE HEAVILY REDACTED]mancers, Valentine falling in love, Aliyah learning to kill, Paul learning to fight dirty, and of course more heavily implied pegging scenes.

So it’s bigger in the ways that count.  Just not a greater density of fucks.  And I am sorry about that.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Last night, I killed a woman. It wasn’t quite murder, honestly – more like involuntary manslaughter – but I actually had problems getting to sleep, because I kept seeing her mutilated face just before her body plummeted into the mineshaft.

My crime?

I didn’t hit the button fast enough.

And it’s weird, because if we’re counting pixellated bodies, I’ve perpetrated genocide several times over, starting with accidentally dropping dudes to their death in Defender back in 1981 and ramping all the way up to a full-fledged eating of Manhattan crowds as the Blacklight Virus in Prototype.

Yet this one girl?  She bothers me.  And the next morning, I’m still filled with regret that I didn’t act fast enough.

The game is Until Dawn, and it’s an interactive storytelling game in the style of Walking Dead.  You’re watching a narrative – in this case, a horror narrative, where eight dumb teens gather up in an isolated mountaintop lodge and are killed by a supernatural killer out for revenge.  As the story goes on, you make choices – do you show the infatuated boyfriend how his girlfriend is making out with her ex? As a girl, do you try to make out with your boyfriend or tell him you’re just friends?  Do you hide in closets and scare your friends in this creepy-ass lodge, or do you try to get them to work together?

If you search you can find totems, which give you maddeningly incomplete flashes of future events – that maybe you can use to change the awful destinies in store for you.

The game does not allow reloading.  You play it through like a movie, with no rewinding.  And the murders don’t come for a while, so… you get attached.  It’s a little soap opera, where you want Shy Nerd and Shyer Nerdette to fall in love, where you like the snarky way that Rude Jock talks.

Then the killings happen, and you’re responsible.

I’d been trying to get this couple together because she was unabashedly slutty and he was witty. They got out into the cabin alone, where she revealed that she wasn’t quite as sexual as she portrayed herself as – and I chose to be compassionate, telling her we were all fronting, and it was okay who she was.  And they started to make out, and that’s when the killer abducted her.

I chased after them.  I had a choice: take the shortcut, or go down the long way?  And I took the shortcut, which had three mini-Quicktime events, and…

I missed the third event.

I fell in the river.

And ten minutes later, when I finally caught up with the killer, and found her body, they flashed back so I knew exactly what button-press I had missed that had taken this young girl’s life, and I still feel bad.

I have never felt this horrible about “missing the square button” in all my life.

And I can’t get her back.  Getting to that stage in the plot took three hours, and there’s still several hours of story to go, and even if I could restart, I doubt I could remember the exact sequence of decisions I made to make the dead girl the dead girl that I was rooting for.  I know from reviews that the decisions you make change their personalities, and it wouldn’t be quite the same.

I was invested in a way that videogame fiction doesn’t normally do.  Yeah, there’s Sephiroth moments where shocking things happen in the narrative, but those are hard-coded – she’s going to die no matter what you do, and it makes the tears flow but you could play through Final Fantasy a hundred times and she’s going to die, she’s always going to die.

Until Dawn, however, a human being died because of my lack of skill.

And as I drifted uneasily off to sleep, I wondered: What if I’d made that square button press?  What if I’d taken the long way?  Would the long way have still been too long?  What if I had been less compassionate, would she have been safe if we hadn’t tried to have sex in a genre where sex == death?

This is an unsettling game. The temptation is to put it down and not be responsible for killing any of my other favorite characters – and the game knows which characters you like, because it asks you, tailoring the game to your terrors.  When I play, I’ll be putting them in danger again, and yet I have to know what happens.

Until Dawn is making me complicit in murders.  I could just turn off the game, return it for Gamestop credit, look at FAQs and YouTube videos to find out what happens in the “butterfly effect” branches of the game.

But I’m going to play.  I have to do better.

I hope I can do right by the survivors.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So the sequel to Flex drops next week, and hoo boy am I nervous. This is where I figure out whether my follow-up is an Empire Strikes Back or a Matrix: Reloaded.

And, unfortunately, it’s also another make-or-break moment for me as an author. Flex did well, but that could just have been “People were curious to see what Ferrett the blogger could produce”; The Flux will be what tells publishers whether I have legs as an author.

So the past few weeks have been a little tense.

But! If you liked Flex, and would like to help juice the sequel, there’s several things you can do:

1) Pre-order the sucker. It’s available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Powell’s, and frankly, just about anywhere that sells books. (It might not be on the shelves, but it’s easy to order in.) Pre-orders, as noted, are largely what drive authors’ careers, so if you have been on the fence about picking it up, well, doing so would help.

(No, I don’t care where. Anywhere you get the book is great for me, frankly. You’re being kind enough to entrust me with a couple of your dollars in the hopes I’ll tell you a good story, I’m not going to tell you what format or store to purchase it from.)

2) Mention it. If you’re excited about reading the sequel – which features beloved daughters in danger, Valentine falling in love, the weirdest ‘mancy seen yet, and epic showdowns between teams of ‘mancers and heavily militarized police squads – then mention it on Twitter, or Facebook, or wherever you roam.

(Oh, and for the record: you can always, always post a photo of my books on a shelf and tag me in it.  That has yet to get old.  I get giddy every time I have proof that my words are on actual shelves!)

But mentioning it is not nearly as nice as…

3) Review it! Fun fact: I’m told Amazon decides which authors to promote based on a combination of Amazon reviews and Goodreads reviews (which they also own). And one of the reasons Flex has done as well as it has is because so many of you lovely people left reviews at Amazon (currently 120 reviews, most of them good).

If you really want to promote an author, any author, leave a review somewhere. And if you want to help The Flux along, leave a review after you’re done.

(But please – an honest review. The flat-out worst review I saw of Flex was someone saying, “Well, I’d normally give this book four stars, as I thought it was a B, but Ferrett’s a friend so I’ll give him five.” That was like a knife to my heart. Judge my book not on your love for me, but whether you enjoyed what I wrote. I’ve seen some two-star reviews from friends – not many, but a few – and I still thank you guys for telling the world what you thought of a book you didn’t much care for.)

4) Attend my book release party! If you’re local to Cleveland, show up at the amazing Loganberry Books on Friday, October 9th. There will be cupcakes and Flux-themed nails and a nice suit and a reading.

5) Nothing more! The truth is, all this promotion only helps a book so far. But the thing that really sells a book, more so than any other shill-criteria the marketroids can engineer, is this:

“Did you read Ferrett’s book?”
“Man, you should.”

And I can’t force that. I wouldn’t want to force that. All I can do is hope to get the book into as many people’s hands as possible, and then see what you think. I did next to no promotion for Sauerkraut Station, and you people loved that. (So did I, which is why I’m working on the sequel to that.) If The Flux is as good as I think it is – and I fucking love it – then it’ll resonate with you.

And if it isn’t, then it deserves to drift away.

But I think it is good, and I think if you liked Flex you’re going to love this thrill-ride, and so if you’ve been kind enough to enjoy my debut novel, well, your continued push keeps me in this business, and that’s awesome.

So. Pre-order. Review. Maybe come to my book release party.

And after that? Enjoy.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

One of the best things about being an author is getting a box of your new book, and getting to introduce it to the old books:

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop tearing up when the new books arrive. But I sure hope I don’t.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I’d been putting off going to the optometrist for months now, which is unwise for a boy whose mother and grandmother went blind due to macular degeneration. But I knew the signs: taking off the glasses to read close-up text.

I did not want bifocals.

Ah, but God has ways of forcing my hand.  When visiting a friend at her motel this weekend, I accidentally sat on my glasses after removing them to read some tiny text indeed.  Now I have skewed glasses that only fit on one ear.

And sure enough, presbyopia has indeed set in, and I need bifocals.  I’m told by many it’s not that bad; you get used to them quickly.  I wouldn’t know; because I go for the top-end bifocals with the UV protection and lightweight lenses, I have to wait a week for them to arrive.  I’m sure I’ll spend some headachey time next week craning my neck to look at things.

But it’s necessary.  I’m getting older.  And I wanted an entry to mark this day when I transitioned, because I am getting older.  I feel that friction of the sand running into the bottom of the hourglass.  And it’s not bad – I’m approaching the peak of my powers now, writing better things than ever, squeezing more things into a satisfying life.

The end of a grand meal is approaching, and we’re still well into the main course, but it makes me appreciate each bite a little more to know that the check is arriving.

But hey. Despite the fact that I couldn’t find the kind of glasses I like in town (metal rims without nose pads), these new glass frames are pretty badass:

Bifocals, here I come.

For an old dude pounding on the keyboard, I’m still pretty hipster, no?

…oh well.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“Love is infinite,” the poly saying goes.  “Time is scarce.”

The thing is, if you’re willing to communicate with me via my preferred channels, we can talk a lot.  I loathe the phone, but I’ll cheerfully text you two or three times a day.  I’ll write emails and send goofy pictures and say howdy.

And up until now, that’s been a filtering system.  There’s been only so many people who really want to deal with someone who largely exists online with snippets of real-life visits, so… I’ve managed.

It’s starting to fray, though.

Part of that’s my upping of convention appearances.  People are asking to have me talk on polyamory at conventions, and I’m happy to go as long as I don’t lose money on the event, so I’ve been doing that and book conventions.  That eats up a weekend or two a month.

But I’m also dating more women now, and they strangely enough want actual time with me, and that’s consuming a weekend or two a month.

And I have friends! Actual friends who want to visit from out of town, or those crazy in-town people who want to say hello, and they want weekends!  And that’s consuming a weekend or two a month.

And I didn’t realize how bad things had gotten until I tried to book a weekend with my girlfriend and realized every weekend between now and January was booked.  Taken.  Not a one for myself.

For an introvert, that’s a solid way to guarantee a meltdown.  (Fortunately, I also have like nine days’ vacation left this year so I can shim in some free time among the edges.)

And the thing is, I don’t regret any of the weekends I took! I had friends visiting, and that was great! I had a good time at conventions, and that was great!  I got to smooch people I’m attracted to, and that was great!  And the problem is that my life is so overflowing with greatness now that I’m going to have to figure out what to leave on the sidelines, and it’s killing me.

So I have to figure out how to work all of this in.  Some ugly choices are going to have to be made, for I’m going to need weekends alone to play Fallout 4 and recharge and, you know, not die.  And there are going to be people who I very much want to meet up with who I literally don’t have time to see, which is a sad thing because I love them very much but Jesus, I have only 365 days and I am dying here.

I think I have to choose my convention appearance spots, and schedule far in advance, and spend a lot of time wishing I had eight weeks’ of vacation time so I could show up everywhere.  But I don’t, and so this is going to get frustrating.

This is what’s known in the business as “polysaturated.”  And I dislike using the term for me, as this indicates the only reason I’m not seeing someone new is because I’m fucking everyone I know.  But “polyamory” for me covers a wide spectrum of affections, where I have deep platonic friendships I have to maintain as well, and family connections that matter, and all of that adds up to “saturated” – and poly has only a tiny amount to do with that.

I should add that I’m not looking for fixes, though. Sometimes, like my depression-blogging, I chronicle things so people will know, “Oh, that’s A Thing that happens in people’s lives,” and then people clog in with all sorts of suggestions and fights break out in the comments because people know how to solve it.  I’m not asking to solve it; there’s not a solution that will make me happy, aside from people I like magically paying them to hang with them (and even if I could crowdsource an experience like that, I’d feel scummy about doing so).  I’m just saying that when some people say “I am polysaturated,” this is the wall they are hitting.

Now you know!  And now I have to figure out how not to melt down in 2016, especially when I’m hoping to do another book tour for FIX.

(NOTE: THE FLUX is dropping on October 6th.  There will be no book tour, alas, but feel free to buy that shiz anyway.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“I want to be online more,” my friend told me.  “I wanna get more into Facebook, Instagram – you know, all those social networks my friends are bugging me to get into.”

“No you don’t,” I said.

“I do!” she protested.  “All my friends are online!”

“I believe that.  But you don’t want to be online.  If you really wanted to be online, you’d be online.”

“But I’ve been depressed lately…”

“You absolutely have.  Which is why if you’d told me, ‘I want to binge-watch Netflix all day,’ I’d have believed you.  If you’d said, ‘I want to draw, or sing songs,’ I’d have believed you.  But I’ve watched you telling me every six months that you want to be online more for almost a decade now, and the fact is you do a lot of things – but checking into Facebook regularly isn’t one of them.  You’re not an online person.  You’ll never be an online person.”

“But I keep falling out of touch with my friends!”

“Ah.”  I raised a finger.  “Now, that I believe is something you want.  But you didn’t say you missed your friends.  You said you wanted to be online more.  And there’s where you fucked up.”

“My friends are all online, Ferrett,” she snapped.  “I’ve moved a lot.  How else am I going to stay in touch?”

“Again, a subtle difference.  If you’d said you needed to be online more, I’d have nodded in sympathy.  But you weren’t doing that.”

She scowled.  “What do you think I was doing?”

“You were attempting to redefine yourself as the sort of person who wanted to be online.  You were mustering enthusiasm, going ‘This time I’m going to become someone who really likes talking to people via email,’ like you’ve done a hundred times before – ”

” – yeah, okay, I’ve done that – ”

” – and what will happen is that you’ll go through this burst of enthusiasm where you’ll log in once a day and try to be really excited about talking to your buddies on Facebook, because that’s who you told yourself you were.   And after a week you’ll start to hate looking at that blue screen – and worse, you’ll feel guilty every time you open up your computer, because aren’t you supposed to be the sort of person who wants to be online?  And yet you don’t, and you’ll feel guilty because you’re not feeling the way you’re supposed to, and you’ll get depressed because you should love this and you don’t, and eventually you’ll just feel like shit all the time.  And then you’ll disappear from the Internet again.”

She went quiet.

“Look,” I said.  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay in better touch with your friends.  But what you’re doing is this fucked-up equation where you go I miss my friends == I need to use the Internet == I want to use the Internet.  And because you think the only way to do something is to be the sort of person who wants to do it, you’re psyching yourself up to be something you’re not.”

“…this is like the way you hate exercise, isn’t it?”

“Fucking loathe it.  Went for a hard twenty-minute workout on the elliptical this morning.  Hated it every step of the way.  I realize I hate exercise so much I literally have to do it right after I wake up, because if I hold off until my brain comes online I’ll manufacture good excuses why I don’t have to work out all day.   I can only get exercise because I’ve acknowledged that I fucking hate doing it.”

“So if I hate being online so much, then I just gotta suck it down and go online?”

“Oh fuck no.  That’s the other problem with ‘getting enthusiastic about the perceived solution instead of fixing the problem.’  You get stuck in that one solution, and stop looking for others.  Maybe you call people.  Maybe you make day trips.  Maybe you become that hipster friend who writes hand-written letters.  There’s lots of ways to stay in touch without being online – maybe you work up this hybrid solution where you get on Facebook just enough to plan phone calls and weekend visits with your buddies in other states.”

She smiled.  “I could, couldn’t I?”

“The thing is, you need to want what you want.   And trying to manufacture enthusiasm for I want what I think I need almost always ends in disappointment and feel-bads.  Just be honest with yourself.  Maybe you think you need to be online, but don’t skip ahead to the conclusion that you want to be online.  Because, as noted, you clearly don’t.”

“Good. I don’t wanna talk about this topic any more.”

“Is that what you think you want?  Or is that just a perceived need?”

That’s when she hit me with a pillow, and we went on to talk about other things.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

That even years after, you’ll sometimes have a nightmare that you’re having another heart attack – a nightmare so intense that it hauls you right out of sleep – and then you have to spend a half an hour debating whether this tension in your chest is Heart Attack #2, or just a crushing panic attack combined with hypervigilism.

I woke Gini to get her opinion, took some Advil, and come the morning I’m pretty sure it was a panic attack.  (That was one scary-ass dream.)  And it’s not the first time I’ve had phantom chest pains – I wore a holter monitor for three weeks post-surgery, worried that something was going wrong, only to have it turn out that no, in the wake of major heart surgery you just pay a lot of attention to random pains and pressures you didn’t notice before.

(Exacerbated, in my case, by the fact that my actual heart attack ranked about a 1 or 2 on the pain scale, and I nearly didn’t go to the ER.)

But yeah.  You have one set of clogged arteries, and even if you’re exercising more than ever and generally eating healthy and taking all your medications, the worry that the next one is around the corner never really fades.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Watching the old Star Trek with my youngest daughter, Amy starts complaining: “This old Kirk sleeps around, but he really cares about the women he’s with!  And the new Trek – forty years later – has Kirk as this womanizing jerk!”

And it’s interesting.

TV Kirk was, at the time, a real left-winger.  He believed in equality way beyond what a “normal” dude thought, and was presented as such.  His womanizing was just what a single guy was expected to do, and the women all died or left because, well, as an episodic show, everyone but the “main” cast had to go.  (As witness, you know, the endless parade of dying redshirts.)

The womanizing wasn’t a part of his character as far as the writers were concerned – he was a dude in power, and dudes in power got lots of strange.  He slept around yes, but there was a sense that he actually cared about each woman in his own way.

Yet by the time we got to the reboot, Captain Kirk’s main power was being a womanizer.  And “womanizer” was no longer on the bog-standard list of Things Men In The 2010s Do.  The entire frame had shifted, so that progressive Kirk now looked horrifically regressive.  And so they wrote him like a womanizer – someone who slept around, forgot people’s names, a sort of Barney Stinson with a phaser.

And I wonder how much more interesting Star Trek the new movie would have been if Kirk had been a womanizer in a compassionate sense – again, progressive, in the sense that men can have one-night stands with women who don’t necessarily want a commitment, that men can sleep with friends without this apocalyptic When Harry Met Sally fiasco of crushed emotions, that casual sex is not the antithesis of connection.

That would have been a very different Star Trek.  And one, I suspect, that would have resonated a lot more with fans than the movie – which did well in the box office, but doesn’t have one-tenth the Tumblr love that “Sherlock” does – has done.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Basically, a cigar is a good way of slowing the world down for a bit.

Now, normally I’m awash in input – writing, checking texts, hey a Twitter notification, Gini has a joke to tell me, new email! – but this summer, about every two weeks, I’ve poured myself a nice tall glass of good bourbon, set up my chair in the back yard, and lit up a cigar.

I leave my phone in my pocket.  There’s only the cigar, my drink, and my company.

There’s something delightfully contemplative about a cigar.  You’re not supposed to draw the smoke into your lungs – in fact, you’d choke on it.  No, you’re supposed to puff to fill your mouth, and let it linger there for a while.  It’s not an act I could imagine doing quickly, or casually.  To enjoy it, you have to move at the pace of rising smoke.

And you can’t just puff away like a madman.  It takes a while to cycle, maybe a minute or two between draws, so you’re made to be leisurely.  Everything else slows; conversation becomes delightfully paced as people draw thoughtfully on their cigar between thoughts.  Even arguments take place sluggishly.

The thing is, I still feel dreadfully ignorant when it comes to cigars.  I don’t even know the general classifications of cigars yet – if cigars were beer, I would not yet know the difference between an IPA and a stout.  And when I go to my local cigar stores, they ask me, “So what do you like?” and I fumble out my phone and show them the pictures of cigar bands from the four cigars I’ve enjoyed, and they go, “Oh, we don’t carry those.”

My education is very incomplete at this stage. And everyone seems to assume that I do know what I like, or even where to start, and it’s a bit vexing.

It’s also vexing to realize what a snob I am.  Were I a normal person, I might go, “Well, I liked this brand!” and then buy more of it and smoke the same thing.  But no.  I’m the sort of explorer who has to try everything, to see the finest and the worst any experience has to offer.  People ask me what my favorite bourbon is and I tell them “The one I haven’t had yet” – and that’s because for me, finding the shades of difference between a good Blanton’s and this Eagle Rare is the fun.

If I wasn’t so prone to wandering, I could be content.  But as it is, there’s thousands of cigars, and I can’t even group them, so when someone asks me “What flavor intensity do you like?” I just flail.

The little fuckers don’t even have the respect to look the same.  If all dark cigars smoked similarly, I’d be happy, but sometimes the cigar store rep points at a dusky cigar and says “That’s very intense” and points at another one the same shade and goes, “That’s much lighter.”

Ah, but there’s a ceremony I crave.  I like cutting the head.  I like toasting the edge.  I like realizing that I’m not particularly good at this ceremony, and when I go smoke with others, I’ll eventually see what I’m doing wrong. I like learning.  Cigars are a skill to be mastered, like writing.

The summer’s drawn to a close.  I’ll probably get to go out in the back yard once, maybe twice, with my daughters before it’s too cold to smoke any more.  And then what will I do?  I could go to a cigar bar, I guess, but part of the thrill is being anchored in a place I’m usually trotting past on the way to walk the dog or get some wood or park the car, and just taking it all in.  I puff until the stars come out.  I drink until I’m light-headed.  I smoke until I’m clear.

I couldn’t get that in a bar.

I couldn’t get stoked up on my life on someone else’s stool.

And so I’ll hope for friends, and bourbon, and a new wadded leaf of tobacco, and I’ll wait for spring.

I’ve never looked forward to summer, before.

So lovely to find new treasures as I get older.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

My wife is long used to being disappointed in me. I think most marriages are, if the people are honest.

Not the big disappointments. If you’re disappointed in your spouse’s fidelity, or their trustworthiness, or their support, then usually that marriage is gonna collapse like a deflating hot air balloon.  Those are worth getting really mad about.  But any normal co-existence is studded with little disappointments like:

“Did you remember to pick up the rubbing alcohol on the way home?” “…shit.”

“You watched that show? But I told you I wanted to see it with you!” “…shit.”

“You went to my favorite take-out fried chicken joint in the world, and didn’t bring any back for me?” “…shit.”

And yesterday, I almost – almost – committed that crime.  I went to Hot Chicken Takeover, which is quite literally the best fried chicken I’ve ever had, a place so good that there’s a 200-person line at 10:00 on a Sunday morning and the chicken is usually gone by noon.  I stood in that line with a friend, ate my chicken, and then realized in horror that I’d forgotten to get takeout for Gini.

So I went back and got some more.  Then posted this status:

And the interesting thing was the number of friends responding across the social media platforms with something like, “That doesn’t seem like love. That seems like a survival instinct, so she doesn’t kill you.”  And I’m uncomfortable and then baffled by that.

I’m uncomfortable because – even though I do it sometimes – that whole “My God, my wife will kill me” joke plays into a stereotype that normalizes male abuse and trivializes women’s power.  Basically, it’s a gag that springs from the whole idea that women are so powerless that they can’t really hurt a guy, and so it’s okay to discuss disproportionate fatal rage that springs from a lack of take-out chicken.

(Don’t believe me? Switch the genders. It’s a little more uncomfortable to joke that it might be a “survival instinct” for a wife to not forget to bring home the chicken to her male husband.)

And given that it’s hard to say just how prevalent female-on-male domestic abuse is, simply because so many men are ashamed to be “unmanly”, and because that “the wife will kill me joke” can wind up being toxic, I’m a little tentative to just nod and smile with it.  (Even if said jokes are often made by both feminists and whatever we’re calling anti-feminists this week.)

Yet even aside from my social concerns, I have personal concerns about how dangerous that line of thought is.

The proper survival technique to survive disproportionate rage is to lie.  It would have been nothing to say, “Aww, by the time we got to the front of the line, they’d sold out.”  I wouldn’t have gotten in hot water, and Gini wouldn’t spend the day fuming what a fucking idiot, how could you do that to me, and I’d still have a belly full of delicious chicken.  If your partner is really going to fly off the rails for trivial things, then they don’t encourage honesty: they encourage subterfuge.

But Gini wouldn’t have been mad.  She’s reasonable.  She understands mistakes will happen, particularly when I’m running on four hours’ sleep after a long convention, facing a two-hour drive home.  If I’d come back without any Hot Chicken Takeover, she would sigh, and be sad, and get over it.

And in our relationship – and, again, I think most sane ones – it hurts me a lot more when I see my wife sadly accepting than when she’s yelling.  Yelling gets me defensive; seeing her sad thinks Oh, fuck, my life’s goal here is to make her happy, and I just did… not… that… thing.

(I get very nonverbal when I realize I’ve fucked up.)

And if I had forgotten, there could be two outcomes:

The next time I’m at Hot Chicken Takeover, I’d remember Gini screaming at me for an hour when I got home without the chicken.  And everyone, bafflingly, seems to think that fury and shame is a great incentive – as witness Donald Trump’s candidacy – but really what happens for me is that I see Hot Chicken Takeover and I feel that defensive anger welling up inside me again, and my fear has a battle with my resentment, and I think, She yelled at me, I don’t wanna reward that bitch with chicken.

And maybe I get her the chicken, if fear wins.  Or maybe I skip getting chicken entirely because now my chicken’s now tainted with the unpleasant reek of verbal abuse.  Or maybe – just maybe – I go get one over on Gini by getting my chicken, and lying about it, and feeling like I’ve secretly gotten my victory in here.

But the outcome that happens here is that when I get to Hot Chicken Takeover, I think, my wife was so understanding of what happened last time.  She looked so sad.  And it’s a pretty shitty way of rewarding her for being so nice by forgetting again.  And now, in getting the Hot Chicken Takeover – and I swear I wasn’t paid for this advertisement – I become not a convict being forced to provide services, but a fucking hero in a redemption story.

By bringing her the Hot Chicken Takeover, I become a better person, and my wife becomes more loved, and that is so more win-win than any bullshit “survival mode” framing.

And yeah, there are oblivious people who don’t ever think about their partner’s needs and need to be shamed and yelled at and banged around before they’ll listen to you.  But I tend to think that someone who needs major overhaul work before they can remember the little things like chicken is gonna be even harder to teach when it comes to major things like fidelity and trustworthiness and support, and the question is – as it always is when seeking long-term relationships – “Do you want to spend years of your life trying to teach someone who’s not fundamentally compatible with you to be compatible, or would it be better to spend years of your life looking for someone who you don’t have to scream at so they remember your preferences?”

In any case, no.  It’s not a survival mechanism.  Gini would forgive me a tray of fried chicken, as she’s forgiven so much in life before.

The real survival mechanism is realizing that her acceptance of my flaws means I should do better. And I do. And she does. For there are days she forgets my fried chicken, and I hug her and tell her that’s all right.

The end result? We have a lot of fried chicken, and a lot more love.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

(THE SCENE: Having gotten out of a lovely but exhausting convention, my friend Raven and I go out for fried chicken on the morning after, as is tradition.)

ME: Oh, God, this mac and cheese is brilliant.  It’s gonna kill my heart, but it’s worth dying for.

RAVEN: Ferrett, no! You have to live until Star Wars!  If you die on my watch, Gini is never gonna forgive me!

ME: All right, fine. I guess I’ll live until Star Wars.

(A few minutes later, when I snatch a bite of food off her plate:)

RAVEN (raises fork): Do not make me stab you in the throat with this fork.

ME, loftily: Too late! You’ve shown your hand. You’ve told me you don’t dare harm me, lest Gini harm you!  You have to protect me!

RAVEN: …and what are the odds that Gini sanctions me injuring you after I’ve explained what you did?

ME: Don’t use that logic. It’s a very bad logic.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So a while back, I asked you rampant physicists to assist me in destroying a (fictional) Europe, and I got some fine feedback.  Then I had a bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder, and the experiment tumbled to a halt in a slurry of misplaced depression.

Unfortunately, I am now approaching the stage where I need to write the chapter that explores the wounded Europe – as in, “My muse is going there right now, and if I don’t follow it this very weekend, I’m gonna lose something vital” – and I need some assistance.

So!  If you’re a) willing to deal with some mild spoilers in what happens in The Fix, and b) quickly ponder some questions about how to tweak the laws of physics so things will be awful for humans but survivable in spots, then please email me stat at

(As an added bonus, anyone who helps out will get credit in the acknowledgments, and if they want will get to read a beta-draft of The Fix when I eventually finalize the sucker in a few months.)

Because I know what the characters are doing.  I just don’t know where they are. And I’ll fake it if I have to.  But it’ll be less cool without your assistance.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

The sequel to Flex is coming out in a month, and precisely one month from now we will be partying at Loganberry Books!

Now, I’ll be honest with you: the sequel is kind of a make-or-break moment for me.  Sometimes, the first book does well and people liked it, but for no apparent reason folks don’t want to follow these characters into more narrative.  So I’m nervous about The Flux, because even though I think it’s a way better book than Flex, will anyone show up for Round 2: Fight?

So I debated holding a book party for book 2, and then I asked myself a vital question:

Do I get to eat all the FLUX-themed cupcakes I want that night?

Yes.  Yes, I do.

So there will be a release party at Loganberry Books, one of Cleveland’s finest indie book stores, on Friday, October 9th at 7:00 p.m.  If you’re going, please say you’re attending at the Facebook event page, and share if you feel like it.

There will be new THE FLUX-themed nails, and cupcakes, and a dramatic reading where you find out exactly what happened to Aliyah. Things are… not good.  And you should show up to see how it all turns out.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.


theferrett: (Default)

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