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ME
Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell is an author, engineer, Navy (Seabee) wife and mother of three wonderful sons. She is a Rhysling-nominated poet and a member of the SFWA, IAMTW, and SFPA. She also serves as an editor for Mindflights. Her latest novel is SKEIN OF SHADOWS (2012), a sequel to 2011's THE SHARD AXE, published by Wizards of the Coast. Wizards also published her first novel, LEGACY OF WOLVES, in 2007.

April 2014
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marycatelli [userpic]

Reading history can be a goldmine for the muse.  Full of wonderful ideas.

Reading about historical beliefs about witchcraft and magic is no exception.  On the other hand, if you expect to get notions for standard fantasy magic. . . .

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marycatelli [userpic]

Witches and Neighbors: The Social and Cultural Context of European Witchcraft by Robin Briggs

An in-depth look at the belief and trials and conditions of the witch craze
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Deborah P Kolodji [userpic]

I've been a long-time fan of the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, starting from the time my son Sean was an undergraduate student at UCLA.  When the festival moved to my alma mater, USC, I was happy because (1) it was closer to my house, (2) parking was easier, (3) the campus is more friendly to elderly people who can't deal with hills, so I could take the ultimate super-bookworm in my family, my mother, to the festival and (4) if I wanted to, I had the option of taking public transportation and not dealing with parking at all!

Last year, was especially fun because I, along with Naia and Sean, ran a haiku booth, which was a combined Haiku North America, Haiku Society of America, and a Southern California Haiku Study Group Booth.   I totally enjoyed talking about haiku to passer-byers and we had several impromptu haiku workshops.

This year, now that the Southern California Haiku North America conference is over, we didn't have a booth and I found I was really missing it.  Fortunately, Kaya Press, our booth next door neighbor last year, asked me to do a haiku workshop in their booth, which was a lot of fun.

So, if anyone finds they need an impromptu haiku workshop - I have a white board - just let me know when and where, and if it works for me, I'd love to do it.

John C. Wright [userpic]

1

It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

“Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

“Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

“But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

“My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of sable mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

“That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

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Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

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John C. Wright [userpic]

My beautiful and talented helpmeet, Mrs. John C. Wright, having noticed that I am overdue both for a fiction book and a non fiction book, has conspired with my Jesuit confessor, Father de Casuist that I limit my posting to Fridays.

I react with umbrage! How dare my meek and unassuming wife give me, John C. Wright, absolute lord and master of my own house, an order!

I will go talk with her this instant, and the matter will be drawn to a definite conclusion!

Like all well-domesticated husbands, I tremble and obey. Last time I was uppity, she almost had me thrown into the pit of doom conveniently placed before her throne of absolute power.

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Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

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John C. Wright [userpic]

1

It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

“Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

“Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

“But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

“My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of sable mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

“That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

Read the rest of this entry »

Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

Tags:
some guy named Larry [userpic]

For those of you who read this profile of Emma Edmonds, who fought, nursed, and spied for the Union in the American Civil War, and were caught up by the passing mention of her favorite book growing up, Fanny Campbell, the Female Pirate Captain: A Tale of the Revolution, this potboiler of 1844 is available through Archive.org (but not Project Gutenberg nor even Google -- I am of the disappoint).

Adding nuance to the 10,000 hour rule. (via)

I should put together a post of single-topic tumblrs along the lines of last week's communists with cats -- today's amusement is animals sitting on capybaras. Who knew it was A Thing?

---L.

Subject quote from "Faults," acid android.

John C. Wright [userpic]

1

It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

“Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

“Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

“But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

“My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of black mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

“That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

Read the rest of this entry »

Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

Tags:
John C. Wright [userpic]

Today’s guest blog is an excerpt from an academic paper by a YA author
who, amazingly, quotes–of all people–me. ;-)

Are Kick-Ass Heroines Always Also Monsters?

by Margo Bond Collins

One of the things that I’ve always loved about the use of the term “kick-ass” is that it indicates approval of heroines’ tendency to move from more traditionally feminine roles into behaviors more usually associated with the male heroes of action movies and literature; these women carry weapons and aren’t afraid to use them.

But the shift of heroines’ roles in urban fantasy from passive recipient of romantic love to active participants in violence and killing also carries a certain amount of anxiety in our culture. L. Jagi Lamplighter (my fabulous host today!) notes that “today’s audiences have welcomed this golden age of butt-kicking heroines with great relish,” but also claims that these heroines face a “fundamental conflict between modern culture and drama”:

read more:
http://www.ljagilamplighter.com/2014/04/23/wrights-writing-corner-guest-post-author-margo-bond-collin

Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

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marycatelli [userpic]

Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!
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