Feminism Is Dead

Feminism Is Dead

I’m happy to announce that, as of today, November 14, 2014 Anno Domini, feminism is dead and we can all go about our lives without having to worry about anything other than its raging specter wailing away in the attic. That means that all the anti-GamerGate folks can rest easy and game company owners no longer have to worry about firing 50% of their game designers and stuffing the teams with Uterine-Americans in order to appease the feminists.

Because feminism is dead. The corpse of sexism and misogyny hangs from yon tree like the bloated, putrid thing it is. Or was. Because it’s dead now and no threat to anyone.

I’d really like to thank the woman who had the ovaries to stick a stake in its heart: Rose Eveleth of The Atlantic. I mean, without her there to point out that the most pressing problem women interested in STEM research and careers face is that some guy might wear a shirt that has a buxom blonde in lingerie on it, we’d all still be held hostage to the crazy clutches of feminism. However, thanks to her fearless pontification upon sartorial hygiene among the aerospace engineering crowd, we can safely assume that sexism is over, feminism is no longer necessary, and we no longer need to worry about being judged on what we look like, what kind of attire we’re wearing, what kind of make-up we use, what hairstyle is “in” at the moment, or, you know, shallow things like that instead of our achievements.

Such as landing a #$!?@ probe on a #$!?@ comet going at ridiculous speeds in outer-#$!?@-space.

Which, I’m certain, is not that difficult compared to writing about science on the Internet and then claiming to be getting death threats over the Internet which will, if the same pattern holds as has held for the vast majority of other cases, be traced to a random troll unconnected with critics (like what happened with Anita Sarkeesian) or to allies looking to discredit anyone who says anything critical of the woman who was “brave” enough to say she didn’t like a shirt some guy was wearing — an event, I’m certain, that has never happened before in history and will definitely not happen during the course of any modern, heterosexual marriage.

— G.K.

P.S. — If anyone out there wants to send me death threats, fine. Whatever. I do, however, own a handgun and have access to rifles with precision scopes on them. Most of my neighbors, likewise, own firearms. Normally, we keep them holstered but, should the occasion arise… And no, Rose, I’m not talking to you or any of your vaporish wilting lily lady friends so you can put your smelling salts away now, dears, and go lay on the settee while someone fans you lest you swoon. Maybe some big, strong man will come along and protect you from the meanie heads on the Internet so that you don’t have to learn how to handle an inanimate hunk of metal and protect your damn self.

Plagarism and the Remix Culture

Plagarism and the Remix Culture

Many, many years ago, when I was a young writer who was just beginning to grasp the importance of things like “letter shapes” and had a vague understanding that spelling might be important in other people being able to read what I’d written (especially since I lacked the skill to remember and translate my earliest works from “toddler-scribbling” into “American English,” thus depriving the world of many epic sagas involving me, my little brother, our dog, and the various and sundry monsters who inhabited our backyard), I was big on what we now call “the remix culture” and I, somewhat intuitively, knew not to claim someone else’s story as my own because I didn’t like it when my brother tried to say that a story I’d made up and told him was his idea.

 

Now, one would think that if a girl of seven can intuit that claiming someone else’s words/story for your own is wrong, then college students and adults would have a much better grasp on the concept of plagiarism (h/t Mad Genius Club). Apparently, it seems, I was a bit precocious in my ethics by figuring out that repeating (and claiming to have “made up”) something like The Last Unicorn was wrong but that making up a different story using the same characters was okay so long as I asked permission (which makes me wonder what Nintendo thought of Nine Year Old Me’s letter asking if they would mind if I wrote a play for the kids in my neighborhood based on The Legend of Zelda that would neatly tie together the first three games — The Legend of Zelda, The Adventure of Link, and A Link to the Past. Cut me some slack. I didn’t understand the difference between commercial and non-commercial use prior to puberty. I should at least get credit for having a vague understanding of copyright rules back then, shouldn’t I?)

 

To continue; as I got older, I continued to write for things other than school assignments. A few of my short stories were completely original. A lot were based on things my friends and I did but with the names and the setting changed (mostly to protect the guilty because none of us wanted to get busted for going to the Bat Cave* after having been told not to). And many were remixes or “in addition to” stories that took the characters and settings of another story and used them to tell a new story. By the time I was in high school, I was a fairly prolific fanfic author when it came to The Legend of Zelda, Star Trek, Star Wars, Dragonlance, and The Wheel of Time. I was also a burgeoning fantasy writer working on my first novel (which needs to be completely rewritten before I let anyone see it), a multitude of short stories, and several RPG adventures/campaigns for AD&D (2nd Edition).

 

Back then, I generally had an “extra” notebook I carried around with me that I worked on when I was finished with whatever we were doing in class. This notebook would have notes on adventures I was writing, fanfics, some of my original stuff, my attempts at poetry and epics, and also poems I was trying to memorize. Once, I left this notebook in my English class and my teacher thumbed through it to figure out whose it was so she could return it. She came upon a poem that I had half-written in there and tracked me down to ask me to finish it. The poem was not one I had created — it was one I was trying to memorize and came from the Dragonlance short story Hunting Destiny. I made sure that she understood that because she was talking about having that poem published once I finished it.

 

It makes me sad to realize that, these days, many students would claim the work as their own for the accolades they could receive (at least until it was revealed they were lying). It also makes me sad to realize that far too many of them don’t understand the difference between remixing and plagiarism. I can sympathize with those who read something and mistakenly paraphrase it without proper attribution (I did this myself a few times and was always embarrassed and quickly corrected it once it was pointed out to me) but I have no such sympathy for people who blatantly rip-off (sometimes word for word) another author and then try to pass that work off as their own after making only a few modifications to try to file the serial numbers off, as it were. I have actually caught a few people ripping off some of my old short stories and trying to claim them as their own for school assignments (and those are always fun emails to get from teachers) which is why I took them down from my website years ago.

 

However, I don’t mind when people remix my stuff. I’ve had a few emails with short stories set in the Lanarian universe. I’m flattered by those even though I won’t read them because I don’t want to be accused of ripping them off later.

 

Remixing is fine, guys. And yes, “real” writers do occasionally remix to one degree or another. Some of us even dabble in the occasional fanfic (I’ve done so with Doctor Who). Many of us fantasy writers actually got our start as fanfic writers (though that’s not what we knew to call it) in our early days. For me, my progression went from writing fanfics set in established universes to taking elements of those universes and tinkering with them to try to build a new universe to eventually developing my own universes. And, I’ve read some damned fine fanfics that beat the living tar out of some of the “official” novels (especially when it comes to TV shows, films, or video games). But every fanfic that takes place in someone else’s universe comes with a disclaimer giving credit to the original source. Even many remixes that pass muster as “original works” and not “derivatives” come with an acknowledgement of influences.

 

We authors love to give credit to the authors and works that inspired and influenced our own writing. Just as musicians will credit other acts for inspiring them to get into music or for inspiring a particular song, we give credit to the authors who came before us and inspired and influenced us. We know that “what has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9) So, we give credit. And if you want to be respected as an author, you’ll need to give credit, too. That doesn’t mean citing every sentence you write. It doesn’t mean sending out a ream of letters before you publish something. It means being willing (and even proud) to say “this story was inspired by X” or “my writing is influenced by Y.” It does not mean taking what X or Y has written, changing a few words, adding a few scenes, and then slapping your name on it and calling it a “remix” when you get busted.

 

That’s enough for now. As you can tell, this is one of my hot-button issues. 🙂

 

— G.K.

 


*The Bat Cave wasn’t anything cool like from Batman. It was a long storm drain pipe that ran under a road. There were bats living in there which is why we called it “the bat cave.”

*brushes off the dust*

*brushes off the dust*

Okay. It’s been ages since I updated this place. First things first, I am still alive. The last few months have been hectic because I’ve moved back to Mississippi. I’m working remote for my employer and will be picking up a few local contracts on the side. I’m working to pay off the moving bills and just trying to get settled in to my new digs which, by the way, are awesome. It’s quiet and calm out here where I am and I have plenty of time and energy to write — which is what I’ve been doing. I’m most of the way through The Penitent (should be sending it out for beta reading by the end of summer max). I’ve completed the rough drafts on three short stories (I’m going to do a collection soon). I’ve gotten most of my research and notes done for Realpolitick. I’ve even started working on a series of one-offs for a new quasi-fantasy serial that would work great as a comic (if I could draw more than stick people). I’m also working on rough chapter drafts for Lanar’ya Three and for another novel.

 

Still, I should be updating more. And, now that I’ve kind of got the worst of it all behind me, I am planning to do just that. There’s been a lot going on in the publishing industry and the fantasy/sci-fi community that I want to comment on. But, for now, you’ll just have to put up with this super-short update and bookmark this place to come back and check later for my “pearls of wisdom.”

 

— G.K.

Midnight of Lanar’ya Now Available Through Rooster and Pig!

Midnight of Lanar'ya Now Available Through Rooster and Pig!

Whoo-hoo! Happy Release Day to me! The second book in the Fall of the Lanarian Empire series is now up on sale at the Rooster and Pig store. It will be available via other retailers soon.

 

You guys have no idea how glad I am to have this monster off my plate. This has to have been the most stubborn book I’ve ever written. The story just did not want me to get it all down but, by the grace of Cthulhu, (I gave up swearing to real deities for Lent, Mom) I finally got it down. It took several rounds and quite a few times I thought Midnight was gonna have me pinned to the mat but I wrestled it into submission.

 

Red wine and dark chocolate may or may not have played a helping hand. The jury is still out on that.

 

My current plans are to finish The Penitent and get it out to my beta readers by the end of May at the latest and then turn my attentions to the third book (and final) in the Fall of the Lanarian Empire series. I may or may not take periodic breaks to either crank out some short stories (I have five almost finished) or work on the treatment for my political-procedural-without-the-ideology Realpolitick which I’m hoping to have done and pitch to Amazon or Netflix as they’re the only players who are really into experimenting with the Internet as an entertainment distribution medium.

 

I also wouldn’t mind finally having a best-seller so that I could quit my day job and write without having to worry about how all those pesky bills are going to get paid. 🙂

 

For now, though, I’m off to finish getting ready for work and then, tonight, I shall celebrate by doing something productive… that may or may not involve fermented grape juice and dark chocolate and classic Doctor Who. Jury’s still out on that.

 

— G.K.

I’m Still Around

I'm Still Around

Just been a bit busy lately is all.

 

So, I got Stolen Lives out the door and it’s doing fairly well. I’m cranking away on The Penitent while working on learning how various world governments work for Realpolitick. I’m also promising myself that soon I will let myself have a few hours to play the new Diablo III expansion so long as I don’t skip going to the YMCA for my daily swim.

 

Yeah, I’m on a health kick. I got sick of having a gimpy ankle and knee that bothered me incessantly (and I’m tired of being a humongous fatass) so I got a membership at the YMCA and I swim for at least 30 minutes every day (and as close to an hour as I can push it). My leg has already gotten a lot better (going up stairs no longer causes me problems and going down them only does when I’m tired). I’m hoping soon to be able to add 15 – 20 minutes of Nordic Ski or elliptical to my work out alternating that with weight lifting every other day. I’m also cutting beef and pork out of my diet and living off vegetables and fish (with the occasional treat for good behavior).

 

I’ve told myself that I’m going to set aside a whole $500 and, if I manage to get down to a healthy weight, I’m going to buy three new pairs of blue jeans and have them embroidered on the legs (and have them hemmed so I don’t have to fold them up to my ankles), two new pairs of black slacks, white dress blouses (because white goes with everything), and some new shirts. I’ll also probably redo my pajamas and all that as well. Maybe a couple of pairs of new Converse trainers (black, creme, and blue or red).

 

Oh, and my Fifth Doctor cosplay outfit. Maybe a sundress, a Sunday dress, and a cocktail dress in case I ever need to wear a dress some place. (I don’t like dresses).

 

So long as I don’t go over my $500 budget. I can sense my mother rolling her eyes at me already. She started with the “new pairs of jeans” and is probably sputtering about no dress shoes in my list (seriously, if people are going to pay that much attention to my shoes, I think it’s them that have the issue, not me). Mom and I have vastly different approaches to fashion: I know I have no fashion sense so I keep it cheap, timeless, and simple. Mom actually likes dressing up and I’d rather be strapped to the rack. Color coordination is something you do for a website skin, not your socks.

 

Anyhow, figured I’d just drop a quick line to let everyone know I am gloriously, happily busy.

 

— G.K.

Stolen Lives Now Available!

Stolen Lives Now Available!

I’ve just released my latest novel, Stolen Lives. This novel is an indie work and is now available on Amazon and through Smashwords. As I hear back from other retailers about availability there, I’ll update the book’s page. If you do get a copy from one place and give me a review, then I’ll contact you with coupon codes for other retailers who only allow “confirmed purchasers” to post reviews on their sites if you’ll copy your review around for me.

 

Stolen Lives started out as my 2013 NaNoWriMo project and morphed into something even bigger than I thought. But now, it’s out and I’m eager to see what the rest of the world thinks about it. For now, I’ll leave you with this quick blurb to whet your appetite.

 

What would you do if you woke up to find your entire past missing with only your name and a few vague hints to tell you who you are? Would you try to regain what was lost or would you try to start over? How would you handle having your very life stolen from you?

 

Who are you, really? Who would you be if your memories, your identity, and your life were taken away from you, leaving you a bare, blank slate?

 

Matt Tyler no longer remembers who he was. His life prior to waking up at the Farm might well have never been lived. Was he married? Did he have children? And what of these strange dreams he has? Gwen Marshall no longer recalls her life but she knows that something is missing. She struggles to regain her memories and her identity, determined to fight her way free of the haze — even if it kills her. Together, Matt and Gwen make their way through this strange, new world, following their dreams and the vague hints that offer tantalizing glimpses of who they were and who they might become…

 

“A fundamental thesis on free will. Very, very well done.” Denis Fitzpatrick, This Mirror in Me.

 

Now, I just need to get started cracking on The Penitent and Dawn of the Destroyer whilst trying to get the treatment for Realpolitick going. After that, it’ll be A Man’s Life followed by either a Lanarian Empire prequel series, the Runebearer series, or the Remnant and the Revenants series. Oh, not to mention the short stories I’m cranking out in the background!

 

— G.K.

My Dream Neighborhood…

My Dream Neighborhood...

Some girls spend their lives coming up with their dream houses, their dream husbands, their dream weddings… Me, I’m a bit more ambitious. I have my dream neighborhood.

 

If I were ever to win the lottery or become the next billionaire writer like J.K. Rowling, I would set aside part of my wealth to 1) found my own frickin’ country (only writers and cool people allowed in) and 2) build my dream community. It would probably look a lot like The Shire with the hobbit houses (and there would be a Rivendell and Lothlorien nearby for those of the more elvish bent). Actually, it’d probably have hobbit houses next to tree houses next to log cabins. And, the only people who would live there would be writers. Romance, fantasy, sci-fi, historical, thriller, policier, whatever. Only writers. There would be a pub/tavern/restaurant that would be a weird mix of Starbucks-meets-The-Inn-of-the-Green-Dragon where we could all hang out. There would be bookstores, of course. The native language would be Writer-esse, the government would be “whatever” and taxes…well, we’re talking about a country of writers. I doubt there would be much crime beyond “I had to smack him. He used the wrong word!”

 

It would be an eccentric, eclectic place. And it would be awesome.

 

The first people I would invite to live there would be Rayne Hall, Denis Fitzpatrick, Wallace Cass, Vicktor Alexander, Lor Rose, TN Tarrant, Brandon Sanderson, and Sarah Hoyt. Oh, and of course my quasi-sister and her wife, my parents, and my niece and nephews. They would probably be the only ones with “normal” houses. Unless, of course, I built a TARDIS-themed Earthship which would probably make Mini-me run away from home to live with her crazy Whovian aunt. Neil Gaiman would be welcome, of course, as would just about any other writer. We would build our own homes, pitching in to help like the Amish do in their communities. Bartering would be perfectly acceptable and declining an invitation “because I have to get these characters to get in line” would be a perfectly acceptable excuse. Our national pass-time would be reading and writing. Our national colors would be black and red (black for the inkstains on our fingers and faces, red for the pens we use to correct our later drafts). Our national sport would be either Trivia Pursuit or Scrabble. You could marry whoever you wanted so long as they were 18 or older and human. Civil/criminal trials (if they had to be held at all) would consist of a non-busy writer selected at random acting as the judge. It would be practically Heinlienian in some ways. And it would be the most interesting place on Earth.

 

In school, the popular kids would be the ones with the most books. Sarcasm would be considered a second language. Daydreaming would be encouraged — as would doodling and rambling. Sitting around silently reading at the pub would be considered a perfectly acceptable form of socialization.

 

All in all, it would be heaven on Earth for writers.

 

So, if there are any wealthy people with money to burn reading this who are interested in developing and funding such a community, feel free to drop me a line. Using solar panels and windmills, we might actually be able to have “free” electricity. Building Earthships or other sustainable houses might make development costs trivial. Tapping into a nearby water supply (aquifer or a river) could help with both water/sewer and electricity. And, while it wouldn’t be the richest place on Earth, it’d probably be the most interesting place.

 

Because, you see, us writers…no matter the genre…we’re interesting (aka “weird”) people. Which is why we shouldn’t have to live in the mundane world. Our inner worlds are so much cooler. Just ask anyone who’s written for Doctor Who!

 

— G.K.

An Adventure In Space and Midnight of Lanar’ya

An Adventure In Space and Midnight of Lanar'ya

Right, so, first things first: I got the edits back for Midnight of Lanar’ya. There weren’t too many changes to make and so I should have a street date for it soon.

 

Also, because I am the world’s geekiest aunt, I wrote my niece a book for Christmas. It’s a kid’s book and it’s a little rough, I know. The artwork isn’t going to rival Van Gogh. But, it’s cute and she loves it. The non-hand-drawn images are stolen from Space.com, NASA, and a few other places that I can’t quite track down for provenance. So, without further ado, here is the story I wrote for her for all of you who were asking me about it on Facebook.

 

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some short stories for The Red Collection to finish

 

— G.K.

Quick Call Out For Betas!

Quick Call Out For Betas!

It is done.

 

It has been an emotional roller coaster with the characters throwing me for a few loops here and there but it is done. It is done, I am exhausted but sated. Just one last editorial pass and Stolen Lives will be ready for beta-reading which is where you, my friends, come in.

 

Weighing in at 70,380 words and 276 pages in Microsoft Word, Stolen Lives is more than a short story and less than a novel. Set in the near future where medical advances have made the impossible “possible” and have brought out some dangers unforeseen, Stolen Lives takes you through the eyes of those who have lost everything — their lives, their memories, and their very selves. Read as they struggle to reclaim that which once they took for granted — their very identities.

 

If you are interested in beta-reading this and providing me with feedback to correct errors, fact-checks, grammar problems, plot holes, pacing issues, etc, then just post “I’m in!” in the comments below followed by your email address. I will edit out your email address when I approve your comment.

 

Interested? Well, get cracking then, would you?!

 

— G.K. Masterson

Being A Writer…

Being A Writer...

Is frustrating. Really, truly, properly frustrating.

 

Non-writers will never understand this. They’ll try — especially if they’re family — but they won’t know it in their bones the way that another writer would. No one chooses to become a writer. You’re doomed to be one from the minute you’re born and no matter how you try to escape it, your destiny always catches up to you.

 

Writers, also, don’t get to choose the stories they write. Oh, yeah, we do get to plot them out. We do get to outline them and refine them. We do, in some sense, get to “play God” with our stories. But we don’t choose the stories we write. They choose us. They sneak up on us and jump on us like small children on Christmas morning. One minute, we’ll be asleep in our nice, warm, comfy beds. The next, we’re woken by our stories pouncing on us, screaming for our attention. All writers have been dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour to start outlining or typing a story that has demanded their attention. We can’t ignore them anymore than parents can ignore the cries and screams of their offspring. Our stories are our children.

 

Stories also like to rebel against us. Sometimes we think that they can only turn out a certain way. We’re convinced that the characters will act in a certain manner. We believe that we know everything about them…until they stand up to us and rebel. Then we’re left completely flat-footed trying to figure out just where that came from.

 

Writers spend hours lost in thought, lost in dreams. The real world is an annoyance we tolerate. Family, work, bills, friends — these are things we put up with because we realize that if we don’t have them, we’ll starve to death in front of our computers (or notebooks or typewriters) because we’re so lost to other worlds, other times, other places. All writers have a TARDIS strapped atop their shoulders. Some live in the future. Some live in the past. Some travel to parallel dimensions. But, none of us are really “here and now.”

 

Being a writer means that you get damned tired around people. People who demand your attention. Who ask you inane and asinine questions. Most writers are introverts. We live inside our minds. We don’t get a thrill from “hanging out.” We want to be left alone to dream. When we have to interact with the world, we do it as actors. We do it as if we were strangers in a strange land. Only when you get a bunch of us together do you find us in our “native habitat.” We can go days without saying more than a dozen words to the people around us because we’re so busy living in our own worlds.

 

None of us choose this. It just happens.

 

Yet, every one of us longs to find that Someone. That other person who will understand us. Who might not be able to share the rich, internal world we’ve developed but who, at the very least, won’t be jealous of it. That Someone who will give us the freedom to live as we are, who will not make demands on our time and energy, who will not drain us with pointless small-talk and silly social conventions. We long to find that person who will complete us. Who will be our Better Half. And, in rare cases, some of us find them.

 

But even that person, that “perfect mate,” will not understand us. When we get tired. When we’re exhausted. When we weep in frustration because we want a few weeks of peace without a story jumping on us and demanding our attention, our “perfect mate” will think we can just stop being writers. That we can turn it off. That we can take a vacation from it all.

 

But we can’t. Because no one chooses to be a writer any more than they choose to be gay or straight. Male or female. Trans or cisgendered. Blonde or brunette. It’s something you’re born with. It’s not something you choose; it chooses you.

 

Being a writer is like being a parent. You’re going to have long nights. You’re going to be exhausted. You’re going to cry in frustration. You’re going to have hope and lose it. You’re going to wish you had the kind of control that outsiders think you should have. And, in the end, you’re going to wake up and know a satisfaction that others can’t even conceive of.

 

No one chooses to be a writer. It chooses you.

 

Whether you want it or not.

 

— G.K.