What's in Ravyn's hair?

I used to post original fiction here now and then. And then I got lured away by the craft of novel writing, where the vignettes lead one to the next to the next and there isn't really anything that can be pulled out that will stand on its own.

This here's a bit of backstory, from a much younger protagonist than the novels, trying to figure out... where she fit in the world.

I guess I could rate it PG or something, for some queer situations, but there's nothing explicit. Word count 932.

If it needs a title, let's call it...

( Symbiosis )

Somehow there's not that much to say when you're retired. I see it's been essentially a year since my last confession.

I've settled in pretty well. Pre-plague, there was lots of stuff to do here, and lots of interesting people to talk to, have dinner with, listen to. I'm living in a continuing care retirement center near Denver. Oddly enough I went from being one of the older people in my circles to one of the youngest.

And then the virus rolled in. Since there are lots of folks here with complications of various kinds, the management figured out how to let us isolate and interact only at a distance, before it was required. And it's been quite successful. There have been six cases of residents in the independent living section who've tested positive, out of about 1700. Also seven employees. All of this seems to have come from outside the community (for example, one couple came back from a cruise in the Caribbean in early March and spent a month being ill after they returned). In the assisted living building, there have been zero cases, and they have actually tested everybody. I'd say that's a big win.

Now comes the relaxation of the rules, and I hope people continue being careful. The unrest in the streets is a poor mix for a pandemic, but free speech isn't free, and unconscionable things are going on out there that require a response.

Meanwhile, there's been lots of solitude and time on my hands, so I've spiffed up a pair of novels I've had moldering on my hard drive for way too long. First the queue is the story of the Ravyn persona (somebody who lives here in my head with several other people; less imaginary than most of the characters in my fiction). The title is Ravynscroft and it started as a grief memoir which grew, as the main character picked herself up from a broken queer marriage and began sharing her house and her love with increasing numbers of people, into wry commentary on monogamy. I honestly don't think I knew I felt that way, except that it didn't work for me in real life.

This is a second novel in a series that started with my already published novel Necessary Lies. It intersects incidentally, here and there.

Next in the queue, for later in the summer or early fall, is a time travel novel I wrote some years ago that I've now punched up and put back together again, But Before That.

And then I used November to do a nano-esque assembly of a bunch of related vignettes into a much rougher and draftier novel that's a direct sequel, a decade on, to Necessary Lies. It's going to take... I dunno, a year maybe, to make it presentable. It'd help if I knew where it's going, plot-wise.

I hope things are going as well as could be expected, for all of you. I'd promise to write more often, but it seems, based on my past performance, that would be unlikely. Perhaps when the book hits the street...

Just like that.

The folks at the Continuing Care Retirement Center where I'm going strongly recommended hiring a Senior Move Manager to help with downsizing, selecting, packing, talking to all the contractors, etc. etc. etc. I'm not sure what I owe them, but it's worth every penny. The crew of four arrived about 9 this morning, with plans to come back tomorrow if needed, but they were done by 2pm. It was good I took off work (what are they going to do, fire me? I'm retiring on Friday), because they had lots of detailed questions.

But nearly all my stuff is in boxes now. We sorted out what my ex wants after she moves in, and it's staying. Monday the actual truck comes. They'll box up the electronics, load up and be gone. They gave themselves two weeks and a bit to deliver; presumably they have to find more stuff to fill up the interstate truck. I'll be driving away a couple days later, sauntering vaguely westward (ho?).

So, like, woh.

Pretty much everything in my life is changing since the beginning of March. We finally put the divorce through, after living apart for 8.5 years... incompatible kinds of queer. While we were there with our attorneys in the courthouse, we went ahead and signed the real estate papers. And now I'm retiring (Friday! Wow!), moving, driving across the country. Making new friends, starting new projects, doing all new stuff.

I'm hoping I can learn to spend several hours a day working on novels. I pushed the first one across Amazon a year ago February, and the few hundred folks who've read it seem to like it. I probably should have plugged it at my retirement party. It's called "Necessary Lies" and it's set just a few years back when same sex couples could be married in one state and not related at all in the next state over. A situation ripe for the telling of stories that cisgendered hetpeople need to hear. The sequel slash other tale set in the same universe is... in need of more conflict. Soooo now that it's been written all the way through, and I know much more about who the characters are, I can put in at least hints that all is not well in paradise. If you're interested, let me know and I can hook you up with a copy. It even has my actual name on it and everything.

Catch you all on the flipside...

I'm not sure how to even approach this experience. Except to say it's remarkable.

There's this thing that started out being just a radio interview program, called OnBeing, which you can find online at onbeing.org, or, here in the US at least, probably on a public radio station near you. The host is a polymath, Krista Tippett, who interviews influential people, thinkers, wise people, about, well, to quote the title of her book, Being Wise. I find every interview fascinating. For example the episode for this week was with Glennon Doyle, of Momastery fame, and Abby Wambach, her wife, and oh incidentally an international soccer star. About life, activism, alcoholism, bulimia, recovery, parenting, you name it. It was fascinating.

Anyway. At the end of every episode, by way of credits, they say, "OnBeing is..." and then everybody involved speaks their name. It's an effective radio moment, hearing the variety of names, voices, the timbre of this identifying sound spoken in the voice of the person herself (or himself). It's very cool. And most of the voices are, well, the ordinary assortment of voices. And then, three-quarters of the way through the list, is "Lillian Rowe." Her voice is higher pitched than most everyone else's; she's making an effort, I think, not to let the pitch drop at the end...

And I know only two things about this person. One, she works for OnBeing, which is very cool. Two, the sound of her voice, pronouncing her name.

And somehow, it makes a happy place in every Sunday morning for me, just to hear that.

I moved offices, one floor straight up, after 23+ years in that one.

I started work here in 1995 when the Project was starting to hire in a big way. After being in a 6-person double office from June to October, I got a private office (the one I've just vacated). "You are a political animal; who knew?" a friend remarked. I had to protest it was someone else's political animism.

23 years is a long time to accumulate paper. I set myself the goal of downsizing one whole file cabinet (from two to one) and rather outdid myself (why do I need all. those. thesis. drafts. anyway?) so the fact that there are fewer shelves in the new place than the old one (leaving room for a big white-erase board I can't imagine using very much) should not be an issue. Some of the stuff that was on the shelves has gone into hanging file folders (and I still have half a moving box full of empty folders).

Those Dread Boxes On The Top Shelf that I hadn't actually looked at in years? One was ancient backup tapes (I don't think we even have a DLT drive anymore?). The other two were a complete set of acceptance test reports (easily found again if needed) masquerading as ground calibration archive notes (which I thought were likely unique). Out into the blue bin thing with the wheels. Filled four times over, for easily a ton of paper.

It'll be good, I think, being closer to the rest of my little work group. I'll miss some of the neighbors, notably the software guru who would willingly drop whatever he was doing at 4pm on a Friday and help when our software stopped working and we couldn't do stuff that was already overdue when we got it. I'm sure he'd still do that, but I'd have to walk downstairs now. Also the old office was on the way from grad student country to everything else around here, so I had a pretty much complete sample of grad student sightings for a few generations of such critters. Present office is on a dead-end hallway.

All of this is a dress rehearsal for next year, when I have to downsize the house, retire, pull up all my roots, and move back where I came from. Last Move Evar, is the plan. To a place where there are amusements and folks to make food and help if I need it, stairs are optional and the bath is close to the bed. In the present house, it's downstairs and to the opposite corner of the house... being sick in this house would suck, bigtime. A place where there are relatives nearby, but not too nearby.

But the ex wants the house and can afford to assume payments, buying out my interest. So the cat can live out his days right where he is, with, to be sure, different minions and staff, some of whom he might remember from the Before All That. I hope she likes the place. She's younger, for one thing, so it'll be easier for her to keep up with it than it is for me.

Meanwhile there's a spacecraft to babysit. It occurs to me that writing contingency procedures is much like writing science fiction... On a sunny summer afternoon you're trying to imagine what it would be like if the data are making no sense, it's 3AM and the wind is howling and driving snow, the boss is on another continent, and it's Your Problem, Sucka, to figure out what's going on and what to do about it. I could almost imagine a story with alternating pages or chapters or something, set in both of those worlds, with the same character muttering choice words for her former self for leaving out that one thing nobody thought of until the emergency was upon her.

Anyway... how's by you?

That book I was threatening has come to fruition. It's free for a few days, for the Kindle version (and if you don't have a Kindle, there's an app for whatever you do have). There'll be a paperback in a week or two when we get the cover squared away.

What if...

What if your marriage were only valid on one side of the state border? Where, for economic reasons, you have to live to be in commuting distance to both jobs.

What if there's a kid who needs medical attention, but is not legally related to one of her parents?

What if they told you you could never have children of your own, but... well, maybe there's a way?

Work hard, do your homework, cheat a little when you have to. Make it look easy, make it look like everybody else.


Amazon link