A Sale! A Sale!

The Boy and I have been ridiculously busy pulling up carpets and scraping away glue and sanding and varnishing and painting. We’ve never done any DIY in our lives before so this is a whole new experience. Considering what a bunch of noobs we are, I’d say the place is looking pretty good.


All that, along with turning in my Beastkeeper edits, all our weird hobbies and things like walking the hounds for miles along the coast, has left me little time to think or talk about writing. I still write, but mostly in some kind of daze.


(I love the eerie melancholy of the beach in autumn. Also, we saw the beach sledding dog team again. So weird.)


I do have some rather wonderful news: I can finally announce that I sold my story The Girls Who Go Below to F&SF, so I am pretty damn excited about that. You could probably hear me squee all the way in the northern hemisphere when I got the email. :D. I’ve slacked on my monthly short fiction though. This weekend I finally started what was probably March’s short, hahaha. It’s odd, and it connects to another (unsold) short story, and peripherally to another unfinished novel.

It’s while I was opening up that novel (which I’d given up on about 2 years ago because I couldn’t imagine my agent being able to do anything with it), that I realised I really really liked what I had written, and when I am done with these rewrites for N&V, I am going to tackle it again.


 He’d had to go back for the rest of his stuff, but of the human Jacques there’d been no sign. The Caterpillar was up on the ceiling though, slowly working at a cocoon in the far right corner. It had said nothing to him while he’d packed his bag, and nothing to him when he left.

Amanda had been out. Daniel had left her a note, and snapped it under a penguin refrigerator magnet. The fridge door was full of them. He didn’t remember her collecting penguin-themed anything before. The note said simply. I have my stuff. O. There hadn’t been much else to say.

There’d been a new painting in the living room, the easel positioned off to one corner, opposite to the Caterpillar. Another one of Amanda’s fish things, the bones splayed out around the canvas, rusted hooks embedded in paint and material. It stank. The fish hooks had spelled out fuck you. As with all things Amanda, the message could have been for anyone.

But now, here in this cluttered, but ultimately barren room, Daniel could put away Amanda and her repulsive new lover and the fish hooks that she’d pulled out of his heart.

Instead he listened to the silence, the rustle under the bed. A silent rustle, too small to be real. After a while, Daniel bent over to peer underneath. His hair fell down, kissing the industrial beige carpet, like a dry brush loaded with watercolour. There was nothing under the bed. When he drew up again, Daniel saw his hair had inked feathery brown letters on the wool. This is Judith’s tenuous grip on reality.

Shit, he thought.

I solemnly swear that I am going to finish this book and find out what happens. SWEAR IT. PROMISES.







Waking – Apex 58

Holy Cheese, I am bad at marketing. I did mention this story on twitter, but forgot to actually, yanno, blog about it. *side-eyes self*


Pretty cover, yes?  So, my story about dead mechanical angels and how to fit into the mess that is family is live in issue 58 of Apex Magazine. It’s called Waking, and um, yeah.

The Museum of Angelic Artefacts was a road–side attraction; a blip on the map where families stopped to stretch their legs and maybe take in an old film of the visitations.


Knuckling Down

I need for 2014 to be a more productive year writing-wise, and now that we’ve moved house and that stress is out of the way, I’ve decided to concentrate a bit more on all those books I’d abandoned because I’d lost my faith in my vision for them.

Partly it’s because I’ve realised that while some books just aren’t right for large (or even mid-sized) publishers, that doesn’t take away their worth. I mean, I *know* this, I can see it in the books I like, but for some reason it didn’t translate to my own work. If a large publisher couldn’t see any value in a book I wrote beyond “nice prose”, then it was essentially valueless.

Yes. I am well aware that I am an idiot.

So I am working again on those projects I abandoned for lack of commercial appeal. (Ha! Dear Cat, when did you ever successfully write a commercial novel – get your head on right.) So I am working on my epic multi-viewpoint saga about gods and magic and destroyed angels and using sacrifices to turn all humanity into gods and how that might be, like, a totally bad idea. It’s also way more romantic than it sounds, though *my* version of romantic, which is often fractured and twisted and maybe more than a little brittle, but no less true.

After that it’s back to the book about going mad and the power of gift economies and how to kill god.

And then there’s my little booklet about finding love with memories after the world has been destroyed and all that’s left of it is fragments of the human imagination, and the aliens which live off said imagination and pieces of human skin. I have plans for that much-maligned baby.

Also, some short stories! Because that’s what I do now – write one a month, just to make myself be productive on some level.

So, in order to get all this stuff done, I’ve taken to being all proper about working, like, even keeping time sheets of the work I’m doing. It’s weird, and feels slightly wrong, but also kinda cool to have a record that shows I am not just wallowing in my own filth while clutching a half-finished bottle of wine.

So that’s cool. :D

What’s up with House of Sand and Secrets?

Some of you may already know that I wrote a sort-of sequel to When the Sea is Rising Red. (And if you didn’t, you do now.) I say sort-of sequel because the two books are intended to be stand-alone novels within a greater universe of stories. Some reviewers disagree, and feel the two books go hand in hand, calling them “a solid duet”.

I wrote House of Sand and Secrets because although I was happy to see Felicita’s growth from the spoiled, naive girl who believes in her family’s superiority, I wasn’t happy enough. I wanted to see what happened to her when she had no family or friends to support her, in a strange, hostile city, caught up in a marriage of convenience. I wanted her to show me how she was going to rise above all of that, find her own power, and perhaps most importantly, how she was going  to deal with her guilt.

This was not going to be a YA book, which made things a bit awkward (apparently publishers don’t like it when you jump marketing categories ;) .) In the end, it became the flagship book for Folded Wherry (where you can get various DRM-free ebook versions. It’s also available at Weightless Books, for those who hate buying through Amazon), because working with someone who totally understands your vision for your world is YAY!

I found that working without the constraints of YA expectations also gave me a certain amount of freedom to play with things I could only hint at in When the Sea is Rising Red, and I feel it’s a stronger book for that. (So do others.) At the end of House of Sand and Secrets, we’ve included the opening chapters of the next book, Bones like Bridges. For those of you who remember Hob an Lam, they are one and the same, and I can’t wait for people to read Jek and Sel’s story, and to see Felicita’s world in the future. I’ve also got some short stories planned out, so there should be plenty of Hobverse coming out in the next few years.




Some of you may have noticed I have been a little bit missing. We just moved house and I had to wait to get internet reconnected. In the interim I rang up a hefty phonebill going on twitter so I guess I’m an addict?


I did manage some creative stuff while away, about which I will do proper posts.


Until then, I shall bask in the gloriousness that is my wifi.

Snippeting from the shadow book

The sunwings have followed me onto the deck and they hover around my shoulders like large, bright wasps, their wings a humming blur. I try walk carefully, one foot neat in front of the other, with the shawl of birds streaming out behind me. I’m thankful that they take some of the attention off my awkward lander’s walk. Already the women of Yuliu boat find me pitiful and strange – an old maid at twenty-seven given to raging headaches that leave her bedridden for days. A pathetic thing, What skills does she bring, they ask themselves,

What skills indeed. I embroider. It’s a quiet art, suitable for land-locked virgin aunties in stone towers. But it’s also a valuable skill, given to those with magic in their hearts.

This is why they tolerate me on their ship. Their ship. It’s hardly mine. The elders of Yuliu are swapping my brother out to Song and I am the burden that travels with him. Poor little Pil. There are enough herders here and he is young and small of a weak green tendril of the Yuliu clan. The girl coming from Song is a good hand with the beasts, they say. The swap is a convenient one. Song gets a new apprentice-driver in exchange for the girl Galeka, and Yuliu can be rid of me in the bargain.

Aunty is dead and my protection is gone. And Pil is just a boy who cannot yet see that the old men and women are trading him off to get rid of the bad luck I will bring.

“Kara!” Pil says. “Look!”

And I do. I have never been to the Island of Shadows. The crescent bay is heaving with estate-boats, like a vast pod of black oil-whales coming to shallow water to calve. They are decked out in tribal flags, family colours and talent-crests, waving bands of bright-dyed silk rectangles that hang from braided sisal ropes. There are iron and ivory bells, some as big as pots and others like strands of little thimbles, and their clanking and calling mingles with the cheers and shouts of the people greeting long-left cousins, exclaiming over growing children, woven cloths, new strings of silvery-grey pearls, beaten gold earrings. Over it all comes the occasional sudden high trumpeting of waders entering their mating season, the thrash of water as a fight begins.

People are making bets, handing out ivory tokens, mother of pearl tokens, the white disks of kreukel-doors.

The shallow waters of the bay are a startling blue like the breast feathers of an island quail-finch in spring, but they are also still and clear, and the bronze shadows of fish dart between the boats as they scavenge for fallen food. Behind the clatter of the boats, a ridged beach rises white-gold to a a low dune forest thick with gnarled little trees and tough grasses. A tower of cliff juts up behind the forest, its black-wet stone studded with moss green and ringing with the high screeching calls of gulls and terns. Their teeming white wings circle the mountain shoulders.

My feet itch to be on stone, not polished wood over water. I take Pil’s hand and let him lead me through the throng. My other hand presses the amulet under my shift, pushing the ridges against my skin. The dead are all asleep and locked away in their iron-lined kists. I am as safe as stone towers. “Tell me which is to be ours.” I say. I have studied flags from the ink-drawing scrolls in Aunty’s house, but they were never that interesting to me. I always preferred her bird scrolls, her leaf-and-flower scrolls – things I could use when I embroidered the hems and sleeves of the robes Aunty brought me.

Yuliu’s flag at least holds my interest a little: a leaping silver-and-black marlin on silk dyed sky-cerulean. Song – Song I do know, but with a million rippling squares of silk in every shade, I cannot spot them. I still myself, like I do when I want the island birds to come to me. The sunwings settle soft on my shoulders and sleeves, their claws like beetle legs through the silk.

“There.” Pil points to a vast ebony estate-boat as long as a southern sea-drake and half as wide again, approaching from the sea. Song. Mighty Song, where Pil and I will just be two useless tokens; kreukel-doors, common as kelp.

Squirry the Squirrel goes neep neep neep

Yesterday I went to go hang out in town with Tammy February, Discordian Kitty and Cherry Blossom Boutique

Much fun was had, though it was very amusing to be towered over. I felt vaguely threatened by Ms. Cherry Blossom as she had just bought herself a new pair of heeled boots and was probably scraping 6’4” or so.  I would love to be that tall. Let’s swap a foot or so, yeah?

Before we met up, I took the spawn to go feed squirrels in the Gardens (and spotted The Boy returning from lunch) and much fun was had holding out nuts for fluffy-tailed rats and winged rats.


I’m sure I should know what this building is called seeing as how  a) I live here, and b) it’s pretty distinctive, but I confess my ignorance. Someone enlighten me?



Elder Spawn became The Bird Girl of the Gardens, and had people trying to film her. She did look rather striking surrounded by pigeons. There’s also something quite spectacular about how they will all suddenly take flight at the same time and wheel and arc in a great silvery -grey flock. Pigeons: surprisingly magical.

Lamb curry made from real vegans.

My kids have become increasingly distressed by the realisation that chickens and lambs etc were once actual cute little animals, and aren’t grown in a vat somewhere… (Margaret Atwood, that chicky nobs franchise is looking good :P ) So every now and again I make the effort to buy vegan replacements, but generally the selection in South Africa is limited when it comes to the kind of food I enjoy making.

So it was with great yayness I discovered that Fry’s has been expanding its range, and they now have lamb for curries.

Herewith today’s curry. Please note that this curry is about as authentically Indian as I am. It’s also pretty simple and you can go play around with ingredients etc. I still need to do a proper shop so I just used what I had on hand.

Ingredients:(ie: what I had in my fridge)

  • 1 packet Fry’s lamb pieces
  • 4 medium potatoes
  • curry powder (however you like it)
  • 1 yellow pepper (red would probably look nicer, whatever suits you.)
  • 4 cardomom  pods
  • 1/2 a lime
  • 3 spring onions
  • 1/2 can coconut milk
  • minced garlic
  • oil for cooking

Incredibly Difficult Recipe:

  • Cook Fry’s lamb pieces according to packet, + a few extra cracked cardamom pods and a teaspoon of medium curry powder, plus a few squeezes of lime, set aside.
  • Peel and cube 4 med potatoes, shallow fry until golden, drain off oil
  • cut up a yellow pepper, add to potato, toss in the fake lambkin, add 3 chopped spring onions.
  • Add some more lime juice and ½ cup coconut cream. (I would add more next time, to give this a “saucier” feel)
  • add in garlic/chillies/whatever seasonings you want (I just used garlic because the spawn are not big on heat.)
  • Stir through to cook – about 2 – 3 minutes
  • I served this over aged basmati, with a dollop of peach chutney on top





Super-easy coconut sago pudding

I am trying to “eat down” my grocery cupboard before we move, which means I am occasionally throwing together leftover things and hoping for the best.

This very quick “pudding” came out really tasty, and I’m kinda bummed I didn’t think to take a pic. I will definitely make it again though. Because it’s all the last bits of bags and stuff like that, I dont have any actual measurements, but with a recipe this simple you cna adjust to taste anyway.

Here’s what I had:

  • Some sago
  • 2/3 can coconut cream (CREAM, not milk)
  • an egg
  • sugar
  • a lime.

Here’s what I did with them:

I boiled up the last of the sago, then rinsed it clear, drained it and added sugar, about half of the remaining coconut cream, stirred in an egg (in retrospect, though I like the golden colour it turned, if you wanted to keep the cream white, then just use beaten egg white), grated in some lime zest, and cooked for a few minutes over low heat.

Served in a bowl with a dollop of cold coconut cream melting on the top.
Yeah, I said it was easy.

I can imagine this looking really pretty served as tiny portions in small clear glass tumblers, with a bit of extra lime grated on top of the dollop of coconut cream.

Jealous, much?

Professional jealousy. It’s a horrifically unproductive state, and one that many if us seem to still get occasionally trapped in. Or maybe you don’t, but I certainly do.

Things will be going okay, I’ll be working on the stuff I love that makes me happy, ignoring the hype that is the sea in which authors drown, and suddenly I’ll see a picture of That Really Annoying Author I Can’t Stand and they will be waffling on about their awesomeness, and their success will be oozing from their pores, and the urge to go and throw myself and all my work off a cliff becomes rather strong.

Jealousy about the success of others is pretty normal, I think. Feeling guilty about it isn’t going to make me any less jealous. So I have to tackle what it is that really upsets me – loads of people are more successful than me; that’s a given and it always will be. Is it because every personal interaction I have had with this person has left me wanting to bash their brains in? Closer. Is it because I can’t stand what they write? Probably.

And there you see the heart of how utterly pointless professional jealousy is. I’m upset because someone I don’t like, who writes stuff I don’t enjoy, is successful? Can you see any logic there, because I can’t. If they were vaguely nice, and wrote stuff I enjoyed, then I’d be okay with their success, (and I know this for a fact because this perfectly fits my usual attitude to other people’s success in writing.)

Seriously, guys, let me repeat the key fact here: I’m upset because someone I don’t like, who writes stuff I don’t enjoy, is successful.

Short of taking handfuls of porridge and smearing it on my face while giggling maniacally, I can’t think of anything more childish.

So, I will laugh at myself, shake my head, and carry on writing the stuff I enjoy, and work on letting stupid shit go.