Category Archives: geek

More Pilgrim of the Sky Reviews!

I’ve been very behind in providing reviews for Pilgrim of the Sky — mostly due to being insanely busy and preparing to bring the new little creature into the world (9 weeks to go, for those who are counting). However, I am grateful and thrilled that so many people have connected with the book, and offer here a few choice bits for you to read:

From Chuck Lawton at GeekDad (whose band The Vitrolum Republic you should check out, not to mention the project of his wife, Sue, The Circus and the Cyclone):

The novel is grand in scope, rich in description and full of wonderful discovery. It will take you from the present modern world to a world born of an alternate history which parallels our own to a wholly ancient and powerful realm. It has plenty of originality while echoing the elements of other authors such as Neil Gaiman and Phillip Pullman — comparisons I make with great compliment. It’s a fun adventure and one I hope you embark on yourself.

From Steampunk Canada:

All of the main characters in Natania Barron’s story have substance and their interactions are well crafted and complex. The mysteries and mythology in her tale are nicely designed and she reveals them a little at a time, always leaving a little unsaid. It made me want to sit far longer than I intended to read on and find out more.

By the story’s climax  I was, I fully admit it, bawling my eyes out. I won’t say whether through sorrow or mirth, but it was, to state it simply, amazing.

From Litstack:

All in all, it was an enjoyable read, and would be a good introduction to steampunk for someone who wants to ease in (only one of the eight worlds is steampunk, after all, even if it is the one where the most time is spent). If you enjoyed Mur Lafferty’s Heaven and Hell, wanted to follow Alice Through the Looking Glass, or thought Gaiman’s Anansi Boys could do with a few more corsets and a touch of lace, do yourself a favor and read Pilgrim of the Sky.

From Game Vortex:

Pilgrim of the Sky is a peculiar book, but an interesting one. There’s a lot of story to absorb and the characters skip about through different worlds, so it can be difficult to keep it all straight in your head. While the story did have a definite end, only Worlds One, Two, Six and Eight were truly explored and I have a feeling there may be a sequel in the works in the mind of the author to explore the other worlds.

Additionally you can hear me and my silliness on a variety of podcasts including:

Interview with Joe Abercrombie

I interviewed Joe Abercrombie for GeekDad. The interview is up!

Joe is a really great guy, and a very witty fellow, as well. For anyone who’s read his books, the witty part’s not surprising at all. Currently Michael and I are fighting over Best Served Cold because I made the suggestion that he read it before I’d even finished it.

Joe had a lot of great insight for writers and geeks, and I hope you enjoy.

The words that linger… so you can laugh at them later

I used to have a rule: never throw away writing. For some reason, I believed that the writing of yesteryear was more important than just about anything else. So, if I dig through the boxes that still remain from college, high school, and elementary schools, what remains is lots and lots of writing.

Last night I was stricken by a need to organize and to downsize, so I hauled two boxes down the attic stairs and rifled through a strange amalgam of stuff. I’d say it was half art and half writing. Most of the art was Tolkien-inspired. Lots, and lots, and lots… and lots of hobbits. And if it wasn’t hobbits, it was Beatles. That pretty much sums me up in high school.

But the writing. Heh. Well, let’s say that my romantic notion was a little premature. Or something. I know that when I was in high school, I really thought I was the shit. Writing wise, anyway. I didn’t have confidence in anything else, and I wrote compulsively. Obsessively. All. The. Time. I carried notebooks around with me everywhere I went, and filled floppy disks with horrible, terrible, embarrassing stories that really, honestly, should have been left in the dark. The only feasible reason I have for keeping these any longer is, perhaps, to show them to my son when he’s that age, so he knows what his mom was up to at that point in her life.

Anyway. There was one particular gem, entitled “Milky Red”. It was written during a pretty heavy X-Files obsession, late in high school. And remember Titanic was around at the time. I suffered, in high school, from acute seriousness; everything I did was serious. And precious. And IMPORTANT.

So, to embarrass the 16 year old in me, I thought I would share a bit of the gem that is “Milky Red”.

_______ MILKY RED by NATANIA BARRON______

We were sitting on the beach, right at the place where the we sand ended and the dry sand began. Suddenly DiMarco noticed a movement in the water. He looked to me, and I crouched down lower. Even though I didn’t see it, I saw what he saw in his eyes. (That sentence deserves an award for utter redundancy and crazy talk) They were almost on fire with excitement. (OMG EYES ON FIRE! WATCH OUT! Is he a super hero? Cyclops huh?)

DiMarco put his hand on his .45, and I felt his arm tremble next to mine. (Maybe I’m a sick person, but this sounds so laughingly erotic to me) His long trench coat was getting wet in the water and the 40s style hate he wore was covering most of his face. Looking at him, you would have thought the year was 1945. But it was 2012. (TEH FUTURE IS HERE! And yes, looking at Jack DiMarco you would have immediately thought the year was exactly 1945. Just that year. None other. He made the whole world feel 1945. Because, apparently, fedoras covered most of one’s face… in the year 1945.)

“Hey McCaffery,” he whispered. “I think we have a winner.” (Cliche dialogue! DING!)

I stared at the water about ten meters in front of me as it began to bubble. The bubbles were a deep green, glowing under the moonlight. (What other color would they be? This is sci-fi. Everything glows green.) I squinted and listened hard. I could hear a hissing from somewhere. Probably the bubbles. (Do bubbles hiss? I don’t really think so.) It was cold, and there was a salty breeze that blew through the air. It stunk. It turned my stomach.

“DiMarco,” I said as I put my hand lightly on his shoulder. He flinched, stared at the water, then turned slowly to me.(I don’t think DiMarco likes girls. Or else, McCaffery is really nasty.)

“What?”

“What the hell is that?” (Welcome, friends, to the Joy of Italics. It only gets better from here.)

He smiled. “Just what we’re looking for.”

Sometimes I couldn’t stand DiMarco. He always answered things like that, like he thought we were in some episode of the “X-Files”. I think he thought that I was Sculley and he was Mulder. I rolled my eyes. He was so childish sometimes. (No, it’s childish to write something that is clearly a rip-off, and yet cite the source in your short story, and somehow think you’re clever about it. Really, kidd0.)

He knew I had no idea what he was talking about so he continued, “Okay, we’re investigators, right? So we’re investigating.” (Hi italics. What are we highlighting here? Oh, vests for emphasis. Okay, so are these investigators wearing vests? Or are they… invested in their project? Is this a vested interest? What? Oh, it just sounded “cool”. Right.)

We’re investigators and we’re investigating. That was an ingenious remark. I could tell he was preoccupied. (She could tell.) He wasn’t listening to me. (Not listening.) I could tell. (She could tell.) Whenever he made a statement as ridiculous as that he wasn’t listening. (Not listening.) He was looking at the water as it bubbled and turned. I was getting scared. (What? I missed that. You could tell, right? I wasn’t listening.)

I shook him. “Jack.” (OH! Proper NAME. She has the hots for him alright.)

He blinked his sea-water eyes. “What, McCaffery!” (So, he has sea-water eyes. That catch fire when he gets excited. Sounds like a catch.)

“What is that?”

DiMarco looked at me with that look. The one that said “how stupid can you be?” He sighed and turned his face from the water to make that look. It was such a sacrifice for him. (He sacrificed… his look? His sigh? His soul? I prefer soul.)

….(really painful crap about how they had gone to investigate a murder where there was a bunch of milky red seaweed left on the ground. Apparently the seaweed only grows in Liverpool. I don’t even pretend to get it at this point)…

“DiMarco,” I said. “Don’t play me stupid. I know that. The seaweed only grows in Liverpool. That’s why we’re here. It connects the murder…”

“Nuh-uh,” he said snidedly. “You don’t get it.” (Huzzah for the adverbial turn.)

“You haven’t told me something, I suggest now is a good time.” (It’s not really a good time, but you’ll suggest that it is. You pansy!)

“Okay, this is the spot that the ship, the Titanic was launched in April of 1912. As we all know, it sunk.” (WAIT! The TITANIC SUNK!?! OMG! OMG! I didn’t know this… I’m crushed.)

...(Really, it just goes downhill from there. The murders are all direct descendants of the six survivors of the Titanic. Six. There were over seven hundred. Then come the aliens. No, seriously. Aliens in “Liverpool Harbor”… okay, one last bit)…

Jack DiMarco never ceased to amaze me. This time he was convinced that there were aliens living at the bottom of the Liverpool harbor. He was really funny sometimes. (Funny haha?) But something about the tone of his voice scared me. Though I didn’t want to admit it–he had a point.

“What about the pink seaweed?” I asked.

“Maybe it’s not seaweed.”

“What do you mean?”

“My theory is that it’s something those aliens give off. Like skin–maybe they’re molting.”

“Molting?! Molting aliens!?” (Funny, that was my response, too.)

“Shh!” he said. “Not so loud!” (The bubbles will hear you. The alien bubbles.)

I was getting frustrated, “For goodness sakes, Jack–you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

I didn’t feel like giving him the pleasure of answering him so I kept shut and said, “We have to move back, the tide’s coming in now.” (The tide of molted alien skin seaweed bubbles)

Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings, Eight Years On

two-towersI can’t express how excited I was when I heard they were making The Lord of the Rings into a bona fide film. I had suffered (and enjoyed) through the Rankin-Bass and Bakshi versions in my childhood, and had always hoped something great might come of Tolkien’s trilogy beyond cooky songs and scary vibrato.

In 2001 I saw The Fellowship of the Ring in theatres in Washington, DC. Of course I loved it. Frankly, I’d never seen anything so remarkable on film.

Anyway, I saw all the films, and loved them. Cried, laughed, etc. Tolkien has a very special place in my life, for many reasons. (My husband and I first told each other “I love you” on Tolkien’s eleventy-first birthday.)

For the last week, Michael and I have been re-watching the series, back to back. The extended versions. And I’ve got to say it’s quite the experience this time around. I’m eight years older than I was when I first saw the films, I’m married, I have a child. I’ve written four books in that time, earned two degrees. Sure, there are things that I critique (some of the fight scenes are laughable, and most of what Gimli does could have been left out. Falling of a horse? Really?).

But what occurred to me the other evening as we watched the Fellowship descend into Moria was how amazing it really was and how, I think, I likely took it for advantage earlier. Because Jackson did such a bang-on job of combining the art of Alan Lee and John Howe with Tolkien’s language and vision, it’s almost as if I couldn’t detangle what was on screen from the images in my head. I saw it, and internally said, “Yep, that’s it.”

Except that it’s a film, and not my imagination, and that makes a huge difference. Looking at it now I can see just how spectacular the production, direction, and performances were. It’s not without lacking in some spots, but hey, the sheer scale of the thing is enough for me to forgive cheesy extra dialogue and overuse of slow-motion.

With The Hobbit film coming up, I can’t help but be a little giddy, too. Though it’s not Jackson, I know that del Toro will treat the book with the same imaginative reverence. And now that much of the cast is confirmed for the film, well… I’m starting to feel like I did when I first heard the rumors of Fellowship and felt like it’d never actually happen.

Ah, nothing like waiting.

GeekDad Post: Geeking Out With the Beatles

Geeking Out With the Beatles: The Magic of Music and Melody on a Young Mind

Photo by dunechaserPhoto: dunechaser

Not only do I love Rock Band, but the Beatles also happen to be my favorite band in the entire world that ever was or will be from now until the end of the world.

Suffice it to say, as The Beatles: Rock Band gets closer to release, I’m struggling to suppress my glee.

I don’t just dig early or late Beatles, or psychedelic or 65-66 Beatles (though, if pressed, that is my favorite era)–I love all the Beatles. And if it wasn’t for the Beatles, there’s a chance I’d be far less geeky, and interesting, than I am today. How? Here’s a look at my life, with the Beatles:

All Together Now: Family sing-fests in the car. “Yellow Submarine” in particular; we just nailed that four-part harmony. I am continuing the tradition with my geeklet today, who already rocks out.

Savoy Truffle: A six year stint as a vegetarian and a subsequent love of cooking. I learned to cook with Linda McCartney’s cookbooks. Once you perfect the art of making vegetables and textured soy protein taste good, you can do anything!

… Read the whole article at GeekDad.

GeekDad: Top 10 Geeky Instruments

By way of a wee announcement, my first post is live over at the GeekDad blog. So, even though I’m not a dad, I am a geek… so I’m a GeekMom! I’m really excited to be part of this deliciously geeky group of guys and gals!

I know it says it’s by Michael Harrison, but that’ll soon change.

Top 10 Geeky Instruments

  • By Michael Harrison Email Author
  • May 1, 2009  |
  • 8:00 am  |
  • Categories: Armchair Geek
Image courtesy Lemming Malloy

Jay Cartwright and his Marvelon. Photo: Lemming Malloy

“Music self-played is happiness self-made,” or so say They Might Be Giants. Not only can playing music make you happy, but, according to research, it can also make you smarter. And since your kids’ brains are primed for learning music at a young age, the lessons they get now will stay with them long after.

But, hey, why not be geeky and musical? Let’s take a look beyond guitar, piano, and clarinet to uncharted territory. Hit the jump for 10 Geeky Instruments for your consideration.

10. Keytar - When I think keytar, I think one thing: Kids Incorporated rockin’ it 80s style. However, as I’ve learned, this oft-ridiculed hybrid instrument can in fact be wonderfully geeky. Take the steampunk band Lemming Malloy here in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and lead singer Jay Cartwright. Not only does he embrace the majestic nature of the keytar, he’s re-made and re-named it entirely: Jay embellished and modified his keytar with his own hands. The result? The Marvelon. Really, the name says it all.

And did you know that Justin Timberlake, Ben Folds and “Weird Al” Yankovic are all known for their keytar prowess?

Suggested tunes: Lemming Malloy, Avalauncher

More…

My path to girl geekdom.

nataniabloodymary

Me, at 15, as Bloody Mary in "South Pacific" - that is indeed a dogbone in my hair.

  • Yellow, not pink.
  • Shel Silverstein, not Mother Goose.
  • Dad on guitar, not songs on tape.
  • Unicorns, not horses.
  • Galaga, not Ga-Ga dolls.
  • Muppets, not puppets.
  • TMBG, not DMB.
  • Fraggles, not ruffles.
  • Wrinkles in Time, not Babysitter Clubs.
  • Crusher, not crushes (but: crushes on Crusher)
  • Ant farms, not petting zoos.
  • Home-made, not Little Debbie.
  • Poe, not a poser.
  • Science, not social, experiments.
  • Renn, not savoir, faire.
  • News Radio, not Friends.
  • Kids in the Hall, not SNL.
  • Bald Eagles, not American Eagle.
  • The Next Generation, not Generation X.
  • Smoking hobbits, not smoking habits.
  • “ooh!” not “eww!”
  • Mallrats, not actual malls.
  • d20s, not detention.
  • Fangirl, not fanclub.
  • “Bloody Mary” – not Bloody Maries.
  • Tackle, not make-up, boxes.
  • Accordions. Just accordions.
  • Sleepless knights, not sleepless nights.
  • All-stars on my feet, not my jacket.
  • Right-clicks, not the right cliques.

    • Embracing my inner dragon… early fantasy writing.

    Most of my college years were spent trying to be a “real” fiction writer. That is, writing crappy short stories and outlining (okay, thinking about) crappy novels in the real world, with real problems, and real issues. While I would say it was wasted time, I don’t think that’s the case  entirely. I mean, all writers have to grow, right? I was just embarrassed to love SF/F so much; I believed that it was, on some level, childish and certainly not a legitimate endeavour.

    Well, thankfully I came to my senses after I got my BA. But even before that, I couldn’t shake the fantasy bug entirely. Rifling through my parents’ old hard drive, I found this little gem.

    Dragons. Haha.

    –

    There is nothing as freeing, in this life, as the rush of wind against your wings. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. After all, you probably don’t have wings; and you’ve probably never been able to propel yourself into the sky—the green grass of the earth vanishing beneath your feet, and the grand sphere of the heavens expanding before you. Once you have achieved a certain altitude, of course, the air becomes rather crisp. There aren’t many humans that can withstand that sort of temperature very well, but those of my particular persuasion are equipped with the ability to go rather unscathed in such harsh weather. Our scales help repel water and a thick layer of fat—just beneath—allows for an extra layer of warmth.

    What is most fascinating about flying, however, and what inspires me the most, is the grand view. Once your eyes grow accustomed to the shifting light, and the roaring winds, you gaze beyond and find the world stretching before you—the horizon just a faint curve in the distance—and you, for one brief moment, are lord of it all. Kingdoms, wars, marriages, rain; anything expected in life, it all moves beneath your feet. I have lived so long sometimes it can all seem so insignificant. Yet, when I am up in the sky—above it, and in a sense, escaped from it—I realize that in its insignificance, it is intrinsic and unique.

    I have seen a great deal from the skies.

    That is what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Of course, I haven’t been a dragon all of my life. There are few beasts in this land that can lay claim to that grand privilege, born from the fires of mountains, sprung from eggs of marble and granite. I was once a woman, as ordinary as the rest. To become this creature, there is much I have lost; and yet, much I have gained.

    I can see by the look in your eyes that you are interested; yes, you want to know how it all came to be. Well, I was never much for stories. But I see you are eagerly writing this down, and my tale is worth the telling—unlike much of the rubbish bards babble about these days! A woman turned to a dragon, yes.

    The mask and the mirror: Otherness and fantasy literature

    "And my axe!"

    Take some elves, dragons, dwarves, hobgoblins, orcs, fairies, gnomes… (ad nauseum; lather, rinse, repeat) and add a protagonist, a wizard, and a magic weapon then voila: you have a fantasy novel.

    Other races, other peoples–especially those living in other worlds–typify, for many readers anyway, the very heart of fantasy literature. We want maps, cultures, civilizations, religions, and the oh-so-obvious dichotomies of good and evil. It’s comfortable, from a reader’s perspective, to fall into a world that is familiarly different–not uncomfortably so. The best-selling fantasy series of all time most often adhere into this very pattern.

    While some “classic” fantasy has fallen out of fashion as far as working writers are concerned, plenty continues to sell–and much stays within this comfortable territory. Dwarves are curmudgeons with big hearts, Elves are haughty but noble, gnomes are diminutive and curious, and of course, orcs are bad. While many writers these days are working to debunk these stereotypes, what has always struck me about these races is how undeniably human they are.

    Where do we get ideas like these? Well, ourselves, of course. Humanity is fascinated with the Other, with the ill-formed, with the unusual. You need look no further than a sideshow to see that we make freaks, monsters, and maniacs out of perfectly normal–if not a little scaly, hirsute, or blubbery–individuals. Fantasy literature takes a varation on this theme, and stretches the frame of humanity, changing the boundaries, and calling it something else entirely: taller and fairer, the elves; shorter and angrier, the dwarves; toothier and beefier, the orcs. The names are as old as the cultures that spawned their mythologies, and still we return again and again.

    Maybe it’s because I see it this way, but the idea of writing Elves or dwarves into anything I do just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe I’m getting jaded. Hell, maybe I’m jaded already! I just have problems, problems, oodles of problems, whenever I see Elves and dwarves and hobgoblins in print. I want it to be believable, I want the depth and the sorrow and the complications that come from these cultures and races, but it is so often left unearthed. Writers just skirt the issues, and we’re left with husks of races that do nothing but fill up space.

    And it’s extended to monsters, too. I mean, consider the state of urban fantasy these days, and the place of the vampire. Vampires are just undead necrophiliacs (or sometimes abstinent necrophiliacs)–they give in to their urges to kill and to hump, and voila! Teenage girls and soccer moms everywhere swoon, because these are the guys you’re supposed to stay away from. It’s just an other Other. Just another mask in a mirror.

    It could be that I just don’t read enough, but I’m really thirsting for something that blows my socks off in respect to Otherness, fantasy races, etc. As of late, most of what I read is completely bereft of fantasy races, or urban fantasy takes on races in our own world (which… has gotten old, fast, for me). I just feel that fantasy literature, as a whole, is perhaps one of the eldest children of Story (as mythology, to me, is just a more ancient version of fantasy), and is always striving to separate from reality, yet never able. Because it grew up out of real soil, breathes real air, and can never disentangle itself from the branches of that World Tree.

    Okay, that’s a little more metaphorical than I meant this post to be. I guess I’m saying I want fantastic fantasy literature, and I’m damn sick of Elves.

    Suggestions are, as always, appreciated.