We celebrated my thirtieth birthday for nearly three weeks. Nineteen days, technically. All because my husband is sweet and sentimental and really brilliant at surprises.
Here’s how it went down: On the actual anniversary of my birth, I begged off work and my husband spent the day surprising me with treat after treat.
I still haven’t finished writing the entire post about my 30th birthday – it turned out to be a much bigger occasion than I imagined! A huge part of why I haven’t managed to put the post together yet has to do with the most intricate, shiniest present I received.
The Wood Artist (Himself) sent me a steampunk weather station!
For a better view of it today, you’ll need to visit his blog.
More as soon as I can sit still long enough to compose a full and proper post.
In the mean time: Thank you, Poobah!!
I’ve postponed my birthday post until tomorrow – sorry! I had too much fun today to sit and write it.
Today is my 30th birthday, and as usual, my husband is going above and beyond the call of birthday duty.
I’ll keep him, but if you ever need help being incredibly thoughtful and generous, he’s the guy you should speak with.
PS: He hasn’t given me everything yet, so I’ll have to thank those of you who conspired with him this year later. Yes, I know you’re out there. *hug*
It’s been almost a month since my dad left the world, and I’m starting to spot the evidence of him leaving my life, too. No anxiety attacks. I’m sleeping easily and well. Things I’ve struggled with for years are suddenly effortless; my dayjob most of all. I’m not fully caught up at work or at home after the time I spent in Arizona, but since then my productivity has been so formidable that I’m catching up fast.
Those are big things, but the impact of dad’s death is pervasive and shows itself in strange, small ways. I don’t have to eat every meal like it might be my last. I stopped double-checking all the window locks at night. I can ‘call bullshit’ guilt-free. I keep smiling while I argue. (Still not 100% sure what that last one’s about, heh.)
My sense of urgency has undergone a tectonic shift. I can sit still and do nothing for a long time. Comfortably. If you know me at all, you know this small change is monumental. Until recently, idleness felt like standing too near a hot stove – I had to keep moving, or suffer the burn. Down time was anathema to me, but now I love my sofa.
The downside is that introspection is such a distracting hobby. Lately, I’m off in my own little world even more than normal. I may not be as excitable as I was a month ago, but I’m correspondingly harder to engage. I catch myself wondering at the areas of life where I’ve just been going through the motions – wondering for hours, instead of moving at all – and then wondering why I’ve just been going through the motions when it’s all so…wonderful.
The euphoria will fade in time, I’m sure, but perhaps I can cultivate the serenity. I like the idea of myself as someone calm.
Of the blog post I wrote explaining why vampires sparkle, Maggie Koerth-Baker at BoingBoing.net says:
In what may possibly be the best fantasy fanwanking ever, writer Kay Holt presents a creepily dead-on theory explaining the characteristics of Twilight-series vampires (up to and including the sparkliness) via revised taxonomy.
While I was in Arizona, my sisters finally sold me on reading the first Twilight book. As I read, I found they’d somehow transformed, “We’ll have more to talk about!” into a small cruelty. But I’m a resourceful reader, and I was able to enjoy a subversive reading of the story.
Hard to believe, but some distant corners of the internet still have not heard that my father died. On Tuesday July 6th 2010, he blew himself away after a three hour standoff with a SWAT team. Those of us dad left behind are grateful he didn’t take anyone with him. However, I may laugh in the face of the next person to tell me, “It sounds like the plot from a bad movie!” They’ll probably be shocked at my reaction, but I’m sure they’ll excuse me when I reveal I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that in the past two weeks. Some jokes never get old.
I went back to Arizona to bury my father, and I’m glad I did. I needed to be sure it was really him, and not something copied from one of those movies where a guy fakes his death so he can return later to torment his survivors with impunity. I checked those of dad’s scars I remember as well as my own; it was really him.
Some of my relatives seemed surprised that I came for the funeral and others were openly dismayed. Pay them no mind – resentment and suspicion are just normal byproducts from a bunch of sour grapes. Most of them seemed to have forgotten who I am, but alas not in any functional sense. In turns, they tried to cast me again as the family’s savior, betrayer, all-knowing, clown. They still hate being reminded that I’m not part of their crazy-parade. The adage ‘the best revenge is living well’ couldn’t be truer.
I was in Arizona for nine days, and I spent most of that time driving. It’s sad how often I got lost in my old stomping ground, but the place has changed since the last time I was there. Certain parts of the valley have become veritable ghost towns – abandoned strip malls line the old main streets – but in spite of these opportunities for urban renewal, the people choose urban sprawl. Time was I couldn’t pass a day without seeing a scorpion or rattlesnake. I didn’t see even one of those while I was there, and I went looking for them. It’s no wonder there were so many rodents and cockroaches around. My poor desert is being eaten alive by suburbia. The developers are going the right way for a few plagues, I can tell you.
Instead, let me tell you about the really bad movie in which I wish I had only a bit part…
The call came in the middle of the night, as I always expected it would. Of course grandma was a wreck – I’m glad she had someone there to help her deliver the news about dad. I phoned my sisters afterward to make sure they were together and safe, and to apologize for not answering when they called me first (that’ll teach me not to mute my cell before bed). Mom was next on my list, and I was struck by how hard she took it. I guess dad never let her know how he planned to die; the rest of us were better prepared.
The internet kindly provided me with a few essential facts, and even some grainy news footage, from my dad’s last hours of life. It was a relief to see for myself that he took his own life instead of insisting on ‘death by cop’. I only wish everyone in his situation would be so incongruously considerate in the end.
I worked the next day, if only to arrange almost a week and a half of bereavement leave. Given the circumstances of dad’s death, it was possible that wouldn’t be enough time away to bury him and take care of other unfinished business, but whatever else is true of dying, it’s truest that life goes on without the dead. Case in point: Over 200 people crowded the chapel for dad’s funeral, but only a couple dozen family members stayed for lunch. By sunset, even most of those remainders had already left the state.
Another sad but true fact of life after death is that so much is so predictable. The sun had barely risen over dad’s grave before some of his survivors restarted their drama engines. Since I ran away to college, I’ve rarely been cussed out so early in the morning, or by anyone so alarmingly misinformed about life, the universe and everything. I hadn’t had my tea yet, so I did the humane thing and hung up the phone. Of course it kept ringing, but I’m not someone who lets that sort of thing get to me.
During the sad predictability, I learned something about myself. Against all appearances, I’m apparently physically intimidating enough that people have actually discussed whether or not they’d ever want to get into a fistfight with me. The consensus was, “NO,” which backhanded compliment was the least offensive thing I heard all week.
My favorite soundbites from the trip:
“A little vindictive,”
“Charmed life,”
“So dyke-y,”
“Damn liar,”
“Almost no emotion,”
It’s amusing how the people who know me least still have so much to talk about behind my back. For people who say they don’t want to pick a fight, they sure seem to enjoy stepping into the ring. I’ll leave them sparring with their shadows, though. Only fools engage in witless repartee.
Contrary to everything else that happened, the trip wasn’t entirely awful. I enjoyed some time alone among the mourning doves and aromatic chaparral. The incredible heat reset my thermostat and absolved me of pain for nine days. My sisters and I found enough in common to share a few meals and good laughs – they convinced me to read those stupid shiny vampire books they love so well, ha! So we’ll have something to talk about besides dad, going forward. My mother even managed to make retail therapy enjoyable; the trick is to shop for my son instead of me. I also lost a bunch of weight (in more ways than one)…
Some people reading this may wonder, “Where’s the grief?” The truth is that all the kidnapping, death threats, drugs, guns and misogyny came between dad and I pretty early in our relationship. I was more afraid of him than anything, and you can trust I mean that literally. I’m not saying that I didn’t love him – or even that he didn’t love me – but it’s a complicated emotion. The further truth is that I finished grieving for my father a long time ago. Although the sentiment may seem disappointing in the aftermath of his life, the event of his death was just a sad formality for me.
I just got the call. My dad is dead.
Jim Lamb (1956-2010)
Man kills himself following police chase and SWAT standoff in Gilbert
Suspect Kills Self After 3-Hour Standoff
I’ll update as much as I’m able.
Today I declared again that science fiction and fantasy need more writers and characters of color. Then I was asked: “What does that mean for you as a publisher?” That’s a good question with an answer too long for a tweet-length reply.
Speaking only as a publisher, I want to buy excellent stories and sell a lot of copies of them. Hardcover, paperback, ebook, whatever. As a publisher, I want to reach as many readers as possible, and SFF is niche enough without further narrowing our reach by publishing mainly for a white American audience. I would be a foolish publisher if I ignored the fact that most of the readers in the world aren’t white Americans.
Plus, Crossed Genres is all about bringing together themes that don’t usually share a bookshelf. It only makes sense that we want stories from all over the world and populated by all kinds of characters. That’s true every month, but in the name of putting our money where our mouth is, we made Characters of Color the theme for our double-length, second anniversary issue. (Opens to submissions in September, publishes in November.)
So that’s that.
But not really.
I’m not only a publisher. Among other labels, I’m also a white American writer and a fan of SFF. More importantly, I’m a grown-up. And if I’ve learned anything as an adult, it’s this: It’s not all about me, and nor should it be.
I’m not saying that I never want to read another story with characters who look and live like me and share my origins – of course I do – but I also want more to read about characters who don’t. After all, if SFF is the genre of alternate histories and marvelous futures, why should I have it all to myself?
So I declare: Science fiction and fantasy need more writers and characters of color.
