That’s right! Pilgrim of the Sky is available for pre-order over at Kickstarter. The pre-order bundles come with a variety of exclusives, from eBooks to audiobooks to lovely hardcover versions!

Technically, we’ve already hit our goal (we did it in two hours! wow!) but these exclusives are only available here. From the project listing:

It’s time to get ready for the print run of Pilgrim of the Sky by Natania Barron, the world-hopping, semi-steampunk multiverse odyssey that Cherie Priest calls “… a lush, dreamy fable – both vintage gothic, and modern mystery … lovingly laced with magic and darkness from start to finish.”

Pre-ordering today will help us finance the print run, and in return, you can get all sorts of limited-edition rewards and extras!

How can I sell you on the book? Well, if you’re looking for a book that falls into one category, this is not that book. If you’ve been hoping to read something that truly crosses genres, you’ve come to the right place. Plus, there’s bonus floating mansions, talking birds, a vampiric pegasus, and alternate worlds. You know, as you will.

I’ve gone back and forth whether or not to post about this at length, considering it’s a personal issue. But at this point I figure there’s no harm being candid, and I don’t want people thinking there’s something terminal going on with me. Plus, I figured if you’ve me me or seen most pictures of me, you’d probably figure this out sooner or later.

In short, I was really looking forward to 2010 since 2009 really sucked. I mean, my sister had cancer and we lost our house that year. I figured there was nowhere to go but up.

But things didn’t go so well. I mentioned being diagnosed with carpal tunnel and thoracic outlet syndrome a few times here, and talked about using dictation software a bit. These fun little syndromes have meant that writing, which is at the heart of my vocation (and my creative and coping mechanisms), caused me a great deal of pain. And by great deal, I mean the kind of pain for which percocet just barely puts a dent. I’ve had days where the pain is so bad I just curl up in bed and wait for it to be over. I lost over 30 pounds just trying and manage the issues, got steroid injections, got special keyboards and did special exercises, took various pills and whatnot, only to find out that, really, pain mitigation wasn’t happening for a very obvious reason.

Which brings me to the next point. If you’ve met me, as many of you have, you might notice I’m rather a buxom lass. While Heidi Montag and folks of her ilk may pay millions of dollars get similar proportions to my build, they don’t realize the long-term issues. Sure, boobs are great. I love being a curvy woman. But when curviness means excruciating pain, it just ain’t worth it. Basically, the nerves in my back and neck have been under a great deal of stress for the last fifteen-odd years. I have compression both in my median nerve and others at the shoulder and neck, which explains why the steroid injections didn’t work. Being a writer doesn’t help this matter in the least. So, the only route at this point is to go the way Soleil Moon-Frye did and, well, you get the idea.

I realize it’s not polite, perhaps, to talk about such things in the company of well, the entire internet. I’m not a terribly personal person when it comes to posts here. I talk mostly about writing, as evidenced by my categories–I couldn’t even find an appropriate one for this post!

But rather than people speculating on just what it is (no, not a prehensile tail! not cancer! not implants!) I thought I’d let folks know. I’m going to be out like a light, and I will wake up with, literally, quite a load off. The hope is that the surgery alleviates the stress on my nerves, and I can go back to life as normal: writing at my usual speed, playing with my son, working out, enjoying life again. Not that I’ve been the most miserable person on the planet, or that I’ve stopped writing altogether (if anything, this experience has taught me much about the value of what I do, and the importance of writing in my life) but I could seriously use a break from the pain. And hopefully after one more bout of pain, life should improve.

At any rate, thank you for the well-wishes. I will most likely be out of it the next few days, but I will try to keep folks updated as best as I can. Surgery starts at 8am EST, and should be done around 11am. Then, onto a new chapter!

As a member of the Outer Alliance, I advocate for queer speculative fiction and those who create, publish and support it, whatever their sexual orientation and gender identity.  I make sure this is reflected in my actions and my work.

Today is Outer Alliance Pride Day!

Roughly (only!) two weeks ago, I posted about starting a group like this. Before I knew it, a remarkable group of people had banded together to form a true alliance of writers in the speculative fiction community dedicated to supporting (and celebrating!) queer contributions in a positive way. That, my friends, is what the Internet is for.

I identify as straight, but, from a personal writing perspective, queer characters have always figured into my books. In The Aldersgate, Queen Maelys is a lesbian and her scorned lover is the High Counselor, Kaythra Bav. In the same book, an entire race of genderless people, the Sibs, exist. In Queen of None, Nimue falls in love with Hwyfar, and finds a remarkable freedom in the embrace of another woman; in Pilgrim of the Sky, the only person in the worlds who Matilda truly loves more than her own miserable self is a woman named Deborah.

My current novel-in-progress is a slightly different story. I started this book ten years ago and have since rewritten it twice. But it took until last year for me to realize that my protagonist, Peter, was in fact gay. And this revelation… changed quite a bit of the story’s dynamic. Writing his journey has been extremely emotional and, well, rather remarkable.

Did I mention this is heroic fantasy? So yes, pardon the long intro. I’m trying to make this brief, but brevity is not my forte.

At any rate, to set this up: Peter is the son of a farmer, but he’s been prepared his whole life for entrance to the Abbey at Tibale. He’s grown up with a young man named Andrew, who is five years his senior. Peter’s always been in love with Andrew, and hoped that he felt the same way in kind, but he’s never known for sure. Andrew is sent away to the abbey years ahead of Peter, and Peter of course waits for the day they can be reunited again.

Once Peter enters the Abbey, he confronts Andrew about his feelings and… well, things end going spectacularly wrong. Peter becomes so angry with Andrew when insists their love isn’t mutual (after they kiss, mind you) that ultimately, Peter is expelled from the Abbey entirely. But Peter, being Peter, can’t leave it at that. When he has a chance to turn in a group of Dissidents (underground magic-users), he returns to the Abbey hoping for redemption. Sadly, that doesn’t work out so well. Peter nearly burns the Abbott’s quarters down, and gets thrown into their jail. While he’s awaiting word, Andrew pays him a visit.

From Chapter Two of Peter of Windbourne

Peter was wrested out of contemplation by the jostling of the door above, followed by the sound of soft footsteps. He waited, expecting to see Lusien again. Perhaps he was coming to retrieve the dishes.

Except it was not Lusien. It was Andrew.

He was dressed in the common habit, which was unusual for him; Andrew was the First Brother, and typically wore the long, blue-hemmed robes of the station. His head was also bare and his curls fell below his ears. He no longer required a tonsure, as he had been named years ago. Andrew’s face was pale green in the light of the lantern he carried, the flame’s warmth muted by the blue glass.

But he was still handsome, still beautiful in that light. Peter tried to look away; he had not seen Andrew face-to-face since the incident, and though he had hoped for the chance he had not held too tightly to it.

“Peter,” Andrew said, lowering the lantern to get a better view. Peter knew he looked terrible, crumpled up in the corner the way he was, but he didn’t move. Andrew’s eyes were sunken, and he looked worried.

Peter didn’t say a word. He hadn’t a word to say.

“I hope you didn’t come here on my account,” Andrew said, his voice tinged with just enough accusation to rile Peter. “Because…”

“Because what?” asked Peter, sitting up a little straighter in the cell. He had been slumped over, cradling his dead hand. “Because you were afraid I’d tell the truth? That someone might believe me?”

“It is wrong,” Andrew said, holding up his hand. “I regret that I ever gave you the impression—”

“Impression?” laughed Peter, the harsh humor of the situation heavy on him now. “You’re just here because you’re feeling guilty now that you know they’re going to do worse things to me than send me back to Windbourne.”

“Peter, you must realize your situation is dire,” Andrew pressed. “You are… you are still my friend, and I care about what happens to you.”

“You said you loved me once,” Peter blurted, the tears in his eyes distorting the light from the lantern.

Andrew looked away toward the door.

Peter continued. “Why is it that we are taught constantly about love, and yet we are not allowed? The scriptures say when the gods left us with a commandment to love—to love and to foster love. So how is it meant only for some and not others?”

“It means… to love, to make children. It was a blessing, Peter, not a decree.”

“So I’m unworthy of it, then,” Peter said.

Andrew sighed, rubbing the side of his face. It was an action familiar to Peter, one he had seen since they were children, and it was no less dear. “You have made a great many bad decisions, Peter, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. We couldn’t have… it doesn’t matter what you feel because it isn’t how the Brothers behave.”

“You’re telling me that Capern and—”

“It isn’t how they should behave,” corrected Andrew.

“I know you loved me, once.”

“As a friend—”

“You lied to me,” said Peter. The words were stronger than the sound behind them, as in despair his voice had fallen to a near whisper.

“I have an important place here, and I shouldn’t have come to you that night—it was only because I care for you that I did. But you went too far.”

Peter had lost control, true. But he had been so angry. Gods! He had been scorned by the man who was both his love and best friend. It had felt like the end of the world.

“I don’t care if they send me to the prison islands,” said Peter. “At least I’ll be away from the likes of you; at least I won’t have compromised what I knew in my heart for… what? Special robes? Or do you get something more from the Abbott that I don’t know about?”

“You’re worried about the prison islands?” asked Andrew, his face expressionless, his eyes cold.

Peter nodded.

“After what you pulled in the abbot’s quarters, it’ll be far worse for you than the prison islands,” said Andrew with a sigh. He turned the lantern around and left, not looking back.

About two and a half years ago, I saw an Oprah special on the Secret. Wait! Don’t go away. I know it’s bullshit, but bear with me a second here. I promise I’m not going to go all hormonal on you.

So, I watched the episode. I was home with a baby, and contemplating Existence and Everything. I had yet to finish my MA, just a thesis away, and wasn’t sure if I should go on with a PhD in English, didn’t know if I should go into freelancing, had no idea what the future held. I knew one thing: I wanted to be a writer. But, on the whole, I’d done a pretty piss poor job of it.

It’s not that I hadn’t finished writing a novel. I’d done that. It’s that I didn’t know where I fit. I felt embarrassed about being a fantasy/science-fiction writer, likely because very few people I knew actually cared about that sort of thing. In spite of trying to write some Big Serious Fiction, it never happened. I always wanted to go back to something with aliens or wizards or whatever.

And yet… yet, I still held out this hope that, somehow, it would work out. Writing was tedious. Painful. I never stuck to a schedule, I never got things done right; instead of editing I rewrote every damn thing.

What occurred to me about The Secret crap is not that you have to think yourself into existence for your “true destiny” to come true, but that if you actually treat yourself like the thing you want to be you have a much higher chance of actually, well, becoming that thing.

I wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t act like a writer. I wiled away time doing stuff that wasn’t writing, and yet acted perplexed when writing didn’t get done. I didn’t hang around other writers, didn’t talk much to people about the creative process, had no network… hell, I don’t even think I knew what getting a book published entailed. I knew, vaguely, that it had something to do with the Writers Guide and agents, but, well, I figured I’d get to that part when it happened. Or, conversely, that a Magic Publishing Fairy would douse me with ink and pulp flakes and make me An Author.

I hung a slip of paper up on my bulletin board that simply said: “I am a writer.”

Well, eventually I just got sick of myself. I got sick of my wannabe status. I knew, from perusing the local bookglomerates that you didn’t have to be brilliant to get a book published, necessarily. I mean, well…. I worked for years at a bookstore, and knew well that quality wasn’t necessarily a requirement for publication. So what was holding me back?

Professionalism. Accountability. Networks.

First, I started treating writing like a professional would. Even though, at the beginning, I was working a full-time job, I would write at designated times. I would take lunch-breaks and make sure I wrote something; at that time I didn’t care what it was, as long as it was something . Eventually, that something turned into The Aldersgate. I began to look at the book writing process not as something that had to depend on an alchemical alignment, but as something I was required to do. For some reason, every time I looked up at that slip of paper, I felt like it meant something–that it was reminding me that this is what I chose to do. “I am a writer.”

Once I got a steady schedule together, and actually had a first draft of a novel finished, I decided to bite the bullet and move from LiveJournal to WordPress and make a writing blog. I honestly don’t know what I thought at the beginning; okay, maybe I thought there’d be some magic out there. I’d heard about writers “making it” and was intrigued by the idea of Creative Commons licensing. But more than anything, what the blog did was gave me a sense of accountability. Through the podcast, I garnered listeners; I wasn’t just editing for myself, I was editing for other people. I couldn’t half-ass it. Sometimes it led to a little anxiety and self consciousness. But all in all it’s been a driving force in getting me to actually write and keep writing–beyond one novel.

What I didn’t anticipate through the blog was the appearance of a writers network. Finding other writers like me, doing the same thing. It sounds a bit cheesy, sure–but up until that point I didn’t know that there were other people out there. Making connections with them, as well as people actually in the business, was extremely eye-opening for me (and admittedly, a bit overwhelming). I have a great online writers group, awesome friends and connections on Twitter, and lots of lively discussion between.

No, my books aren’t available in bookstores. I’m still a blip on the radar. But in the last year I’ve finished three books, and am halfway through another two more. For me, that’s the best I’ve ever done in such a short time. The first Peter of Windbourne took five years to finish; the first draft of The Aldersgate took just over a year.

I guess the “secret” is that I just keep writing. Even when nothing’s happening. Because I’m a writer, and writing is what I do. The more I write, the better I get; I want to keep improving. And I’ve learned to write without fanfare, without overwhelming success–to write because I love it, and to treat it as the thing that defines me; not necessarily because it’s magic or destiny or anything, but because I’ve chosen it for myself.

To be or not to be?

Writing can be a never-ending process. I mean, theoretically, one could edit and re-edit until the very end, and still not be happy with the result (just ask Walt Whitman). It’s the nature of the beast. Words are malleable, changeable; they have multi-meanings, connotation, irony. You spend too much time fretting about words, and no matter how many drafts you complete, you may never have it ready. The key is to not get overwhelmed, and to have an approach.

It’s always worth taking some time to weed out the big offenders, words that, if given too much leeway in the course of a novel can be absolutely poison to your description and intent in the plot. And in my humble opinion, there is no word so offending as the word seem.

I love words, and word meanings, so to get to the bottom of this stinky little word, let’s start with etymology. According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word seem can be viewed as followed:

c.1200, from O.N. soema “to befit, conform to,” and soemr “fitting, seemly,” from P.Gmc. *som- (cf. O.E. som “agreement, reconciliation,” seman “to conciliate”), related to P.Gmc. *samon (see same).

These days, we use seem everywhere. “It seemed like a good idea.” “She seemed happy.” “You seem to know what you’re doing.” The reason? Seem simply indicates likeness, sameness–giving an action or a thought or an object the appearance of something, without actually saying that it is. It’s a hesitant word, one that immediately pushes the reader from the writer’s intent and says, “HEY! If it seems, it might not be. Not really. I mean, why else would I say seem?”

The problem with seem is that it becomes a major crutch. Writers of all walks use it because it’s an easy way out. If it seemed wrong, you don’t have to say why. The word seem does all the work for you. And there’s nowhere as unnecessary for this word than in description. Readers rely on writers to be sure of what they’re describing; you’re asking them into your world, after all. Why beat around the bush? Did it seem like a mountain, or was it a mountain? If it really is just a mountain, and there’s nothing seeming about it, just say, “It was a vast mountain, the ridges knobbed and black against the night sky, like some great beast preparing to rise from the earth.” It reads significantly better than, “It seemed to be a vast mountain…” Instead of using seem one can then utilize a simile! And isn’t that more fun?

I’d say nine out of ten times, the seem in my descriptions are entirely unnecessary. They’re distracting and wishy-washy. Occasionally, however, seem does have its place, especially under the conditions that the particular description is beyond, well, description. No where is this as effective as in horror, SF/F, because so much really is otherworldly, and it only seems like things the reader would know. I think of Keats and his Lamia:

So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.

Keats, using the word seem here, indicates the absolute impossibility of description. She is three things, simultaneously, and therefore cannot simply be one thing. She is a penanced lady elf, a demon’s mistress, and/or the demon’s self. She is terrifying and otherworldly and beyond compare.

Another place seem can be important is in dialogue. Personally, I say seem a great deal. Hesitant conversations often use the word seem, as well as those from guilty parties: “Everything seemed fine!” It’s much less incriminating than, “Everything was fine!” Characters and people alike don’t like being blamed. Nor are we comfortable speaking in absolutes, and if your characters are always stating the obvious and are never hesitant, well, it might come off a little cardboard.

That said, pick your seems. Go through your finished draft and seriously: find all seems. Measure each one. Is it getting the point across, or is just making you waver on the edge of something? Is it hiding a truth? Is it just taking up space, or is it actually adding to the sense of the novel itself?

To illustrate, here are a few examples from my recent WIP comb-through.

The Bad:

“Do you mind if I sit on your shoulder? I’d feel a bit better. You seem unseemly tall from this particular vantage point.”

- I get special points for this one for the sheer horror of using seem and unseemly in the SAME SENTENCE.

To call it an elevator seemed to insult the mechanical work of art, for it was so elegant.

- Did it seem an insult? No, it was an insult! Come on, Barron, stop sitting on the fence.

The carriage car hissed, and rolled ahead smoothly, building up speed. Heat seemed to emanate from a vent in front of them, but in spite of it, Maddie shivered.

- This one is particularly offensive. Either it emanated heat, or it didn’t. If it didn’t actually emanate heat, then my protagonist is having sensory hallucinations.

The Good:

She kept expecting sunlight to turn the horizon brighter, but it never seemed to come. Every now and again, she thought she caught a glimpse of brighter gray at the horizon, but it only vanished again, as if a trick of her eyes.

- Maddie isn’t sure what she’s seeing. It seems like it will never come, but she keeps expecting it.

“Huh, seems to work,” she said. “At least… I can’t tell you where I’m going, but I know where not to go. If that makes sense.”

- Maddie is surprised, here. What she has been instructed to do works, at least for a moment. So seem works, and it’s very much how she talks. It’s casual, and character-driven.

I had lots and lots and lots of seems, in spite of the fact that I knew I already hated them. When you’re writing with your head down, those first few drafts sometimes have more to do with character and plot than the nuances of language.  It can also be tempting to replace the word seem with its cousins in crime: imagine, appear, looked like. Don’t. Too much of that is like poking holes in a perfectly good roof. The leaks are not worth the trouble, and you run the risk of watering everything down.

Thankfully with computers, we can literally go in and remove these words, one by one, fairly easily. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for writers in the age of type and longhand, poring over drafts and rewriting again and again to get it right. We have the advantage, and therefore no excuses, for seeming and not being.

So how about you? Any tips/tricks/word irks to share?

“Seems? I hate that word,” said Sylvan. “Is it–or isn’t it–whatever it is you think it is.” The last “it is” was purely the fault of the drink. – From The Aldersgate