So I spent most of yesterday ogling the work of the master artist Kawase Hasui, who was declared a national treasure for reasons that are really freakin’ obvious if you look at his work.
(Seriously, go google him. I’ll wait.)
He did beautiful portraits of an urbanizing Japan. I am in awe. Each one looks like the background for a Miyazaki movie.
Awe in me tends to lead to homage, and I have nothing more suited to put into such a piece than the odd little spirits that occasionally show up in my work. I still don’t quite know where they belong.
This is a view the field in front of the house, which is currently overrun with Queen Anne’s Lace, and the spirit is a little more akin to the Chatham Rabbit, which was once famous, than to the desert jackrabbits I usually paint. My local spirits are small and I do not always know what they want, but sometimes I feel them there nonetheless.
I do not usually use gradients with quite such reckless abandon, but if you’re trying to mimic printmaking, it’s the only way. And also this took 37 layers and was nearly half a gig at one point, as I layered and layered and layered and the computer just…handled it. Technology is amazing. If I’d tried that on one of my old machines, I could have gone and made a sandwich in the time it took to turn a layer on and off, and if I’d tried to move a layer around, I could have grown the wheat for the sandwich from scratch.
So, um…I seem to have won a Nebula Award for Jackalope Wives.
Holy crap. I didn’t see that one coming.
For those of you who don’t follow this all that closely, one of the other nominees was Eugie Foster, an enormously talented writer who passed away last year and When It Ends, He Catches Her was her final story. I assumed she would win. I was all set to cheer when she did. (I met her husband at the con, he’s very sweet, and as it happens, I did the art for the cover of one of her self-published anthologies, a fact I’d forgotten because brain, sieve, etc.)
Did I want to win? Well, of course, but I didn’t want to want to win, if that makes any sense, because hey, I’ll write other stories. Maybe one of them will get nominated for a Nebula. And as I learned from the Hugos, the statue is fantastic, but the nomination is actually the thing. When they say “It’s an honor just to be nominated,” cliche as it sounds, it’s true.* The statue, sure, maybe you compete for, but the nomination is a gift from the people who believe in you.
I truly believe that if it’s not a gift, it’s not worth much of anything.
And I suspect that I also truly believed I wasn’t going to win, because before the Hugos, when people had been telling me I had a shot, I couldn’t eat for sheer nerves, and I cheerfully polished off a chicken dinner and a glass of wine at the Nebula banquet, and mostly was sweating for Sarah Monette, aka Katherine Addison, aka author of The Goblin Emperor which book gave me all the feels forever and who is a lovely person and I was hoping hard for her.
When they called my name, I, being the cool operator I am, said “What?”
Then I said “What?” again, several times.
And Kevin said “What?” which was good, because then I felt slightly less out of the loop.
Then I noticed that all the people at my table (we were sitting with a contingent of Chinese science fiction authors who had come to cheer for Cixin Liu, and the founder of Strange Horizons, among others) were all looking at me and cheering and Kevin was rooting through his sporran for my speech, which I’d written for the Alternate Universe Nebulas that take place afterwards, where everybody gets together in the foyer and reads their acceptance speeches for the alternate universe where they won.
The speech that, because I had written it for that alternate universe, addressed the audience as if they were giant chickens.
It occurred to me that I had possibly made a tactical error.
I took the speech and went up to the front and I am actually almost good at this part because I am thinking gotta make a speech gotta make a speech not holy crap I’ve won a Nebula and then they handed me the big cube with the planets in it and I accidentally thought holy crap I’ve won a Nebula and that was a big mistake because then I turned to the microphone, and my voice cracked and I said the first thing that came into my head, which was “Aw shit, guys, you were supposed to give this to Eugie.”
Grace under pressure, thy name is someone else.
But I gave the speech, and fortunately explaining the giant chicken bit got me past the bit where I was getting choked up and then I was just giving the speech which was mostly telling stories about tattooing and selkies and then I walked back and people were congratulating me on the way.
I went to the Alternate Universe Nebulas. There were some really good speeches. Some of them were fiery and some were impassioned and some had weeping. Any of them would have been just as good as mine. (I hold out that I was the only giant chicken, though)
And honestly, there was not a single name on the ballot with mine that didn’t deserve to be there, and any of those authors could have walked up on stage and taken the trophy home and earned it just as much, possibly more so.
When you hit the top handful of short stories of the year, it’s all a matter of personal preference after that, and who was in the mood and who had read all the stories except the one that they would have liked better than yours. I won’t say there’s never been a bad Nebula winner** but this year was good. It was an honor just to be on the same page with those other people.
And yes, it’s easy for me to say because I’ve got the big Lucite paperweight (and incidentally, that thing sets off the X-ray machines at airport security like you would not BELIEVE.) But damn, I wish we could have given out trophies to all seven of us.
The trophy looks good on a shelf. The real prize is that you meet these incredible writers and realize that somebody thinks you deserve to stand alongside them.
(Seriously, go read their stories.)
Anyway. I took home a very heavy trophy, and my shoulder is still grumbling about carrying it through the airport, and I do not yet believe on any level that I have actually won one, and by the time it actually sinks in, six months will have gone by and then it will look very stupid to be like “HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS I’M A NEBULA WINNER.” But I’ll manage.
Thank you to everybody who congratulated me by text and twitter, and to the members of SFWA who voted for me. My fellow giant chickens, I am very grateful.
*Also, believe it or not, But it’s a dry heat is 100% true.
**A number of you just thought the words “Mormon space-whale” to yourself.
I have been woefully lax about updating here–as opposed to Livejournal–for which I apologize. Have some art!
I am waiting on word back on edits on the next Hamster book before I can start drawing it, so I have a brief window to work on my own stuff. I can do anything! ANYTHING!
…and apparently I want to do advertising posters for fake products. Because reasons.
*breaths into paper bag*
Okay! Here we go! I have hit PUBLISH on all the major sites! WE ARE DOING THIS THING!
*gets second paper bag*
Bryony And Roses! The Beauty & the Beast retelling I’ve been promising you guys for years! The one about the gardener and the roses! May contain clockwork bees because that seems to be a recurring motif of mine! Not quite as dark as Seventh Bride! Probably will not shock you into unwanted personal growth! Available under the pen-name T. Kingfisher!
So many exclamation points!
As always, you can visit
and find links to all the formats, updated as they become available. (At the time of this writing, it is on Smashwords and we are waiting for Kindle. Please note that epub is the only format available from Smashwords! Draft2Digital is handling other conversions for Kobo, Nook and iBooks, and I will update as they occur.)
If you require a PDF in order to read it, you can e-mail me at [email protected] and I will happily sell you one unless you live in the EU, in which case I am afraid VAT comes into play. But fear not! E-mail me anyway, and we will Work Something Out, probably involving a conservation charity in the EU that could use some love.
There’s a tortoiseshell kitten on my desk and I am having the Book Launch Day screaming panic and the backmatter is undoubtedly made of bees but it will all work out, it always does, and hopefully you will enjoy the book!
And…wow. I don’t even know where to start. We saw so many things that I can’t even start to parse them enough to talk about them, or if I tried to begin at the beginning, we’d be here for days. The hyenas that went through camp and left fist-sized tracks a foot from the tents where we were sleeping. The walking football (a Red-Billed Spurfowl) that came into camp for crumbs and who we named Football-Bob and who looked at us all very mistrustfully. The elephant that mock-charged our vehicle and trumpeted and the way that the sound echoed around in my chest and made me feel suddenly tiny and fragile and easily stomped. The lions of Savuti, descended from the prides that learned to hunt elephants during a drought a decade ago. The time our bumper fell off, along with the trailer hitch and the trailer, leaving us in Savuti, surrounded by aforementioned lions, with no way of dragging our food and camping equipment with us. (Our driver, B-man,* loaded us up with luggage in our laps, dropped us at the campsite, and went back for all the equipment. Along the way he got a flat. We were very hard on vehicles on this trip.)
So for lack of anything better to start with, I’ll tell you about the best moment of the trip, and how it led to one of the odder ones.
We went out on the Chobe River in a boat, looking for animals. Mostly we saw birds. (The group was very good about my bird-mania. Incidentally, I got 154 lifers!) And after about half an hour on the water (during which we drifted briefly and illegally into Namibia, to our boat-guide’s mild distress) we spotted a Giant Kingfisher.
Giant Kingfishers were one of the birds I most wanted to see. They’re the biggest kingfisher in the world, reaching nearly a foot and a half from beak to tailfeathers. They resemble a bigger and more ornate version of our Belted Kingfisher, but their sheer size is pretty damn amazing. (There were also the very common Pied Kingfisher, which was a gorgeous little bird too.)
This Giant came flying past us, holding a crab in its mouth. (There are crabs in the Chobe River.) It landed on the exposed roots of what I was told was an ebony tree and began beating the crab savagely against the roots. Bits of shell flew. Our boat-guide moved the boat in closer–Kevin got photos–and we watched it whack the crab apart so that it could get at the meat.
“There,” said Kevin. “That’s your animal. That one. Right there.”
“Well, I do like kingfishers…” I said.
“No, I mean, I’ve seen the way you eat crab.”
The Giant launched itself off the roots suddenly and circled the boat so tightly that its wings practically came in over the railing. It made the usual chattering kingfisher cry, swept past me–I could have almost reached out and touched it–and then landed back on the root and went back to destroying the crab.
It is possible that I screamed the whole time it was circling us. I am a little blurry on that point.
We saw some other very nice birds, a couple of giraffes, an elephant or two, and then on the way back, the boat-guide suddenly pulled over the side of a muddy bank and there was a Malachite Kingfisher.
I’ll post a photo once Kevin’s got them all up, but they’re worth googling now. They are unbelievably beautiful. They’re quite small, but practically made of neon. I may have had a minor meltdown over its existence. It was glorious.
That was the best moment for me, in a trip made of fantastic experiences.
Later that night, as our guide Jorge and our driver B-man sat around with us and ate dinner at the lodge, I pushed a sheet of paper toward B-man, who was a native speaker of Setswana, and asked him if he could write down the Setswana word for kingfisher for me. (He had tried to teach me the words for “What bird is that?” earlier but my auditory memory is dreadful, so I need to see the words written down. Also, his English was very good but between his accent and my deafness, I wasn’t gonna be able to do it phonetically.)
“I cannot do it,” he said. “I am sorry.”
“…oh,” I said, worried that I had run into some weird cultural gap that I hadn’t seen coming. (Do you not ask people to write down bird names? I’d managed to remember that when you hand someone money, you clasp your wrist as a sign of a respect, and that pointing was rude, but I was paranoid that I was doing something deeply gauche and was completely unaware of it.)
“There is no word,” he explained. “Not in Setswana. We say water bird, but then we use the English, kingfisher.”
“Oh,” I said again. “There isn’t a word. Okay.”
He frowned down at the paper. “Ah…there is a book. In eighteen-hundred, a man went all around Botswana and collected all the Setswana words. If you look in that book, there may be a word. But we do not know the word now. It is…” He trailed off, waving the tip of the pen in that I-am-trying-to-think-of-a-word motion (which may not be completely universal, but seems to hold up pretty well between Botswana and here.)
“Lost?” I suggested after a minute.
“Lost. Yes. There was a word, I think. It is lost.” He handed me back the paper.
Realistically, I suspect that there is no chance that there wasn’t originally a word for kingfishers–they have six or seven species, and at least a couple are common, loud, and found on every waterway. But whatever it was, it’s out of common usage. And in fact, of the sixty-odd birds that B-man successfully identified for me, every one was named in colloquial English, except maybe the Brubru. A few, like the coucals, might have started as a native word, but had then had English tacked on–Copper Tailed Coucal, White-Browed Coucal, Burchell’s Coucal. (Burchell, whoever he was, got around. Half the birds were named after him.)
I felt a pang of guilt, as if my native language was a dog that had bitten his. Setswana is a language with many, many native speakers–Wikipedia says over five million–and on no one’s list of endangered languages. Many of the parks were named in Setswana, and he’d told us both the common Setswana names of animals and sometimes the word in the regional dialect. But here I’d stumbled onto a word that had simply slipped away and been replaced by English.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“No, no, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m sorry it’s lost. Languages are strange.”
He nodded, then shrugged. Sometimes the bumper falls off your truck. Sometimes a word falls off your language.
I still don’t entirely know how I feel about that.
*B-man was a stoic, a fantastic driver, probably Muslim (he did not eat pork or drink alcohol, though I suspect he regretted that last after the second flat tire.) and very, very good at bird IDs for a non-specialist. Botswana guides go through very rigorous training, which includes bird IDs–tourism is THE big industry, being a guide is a big deal, and the licensing process for guides is extremely thorough. He said that I made him brush up on all his birds. We spent a lot of time hunched over my bird book. At one point, he managed to ID a bird based on the call that I was making Kevin imitate for him. (It was a Brubru, in case you’re curious, a member of the Bush-shrike family.)
He called himself “B-man” because his name was very long and very hard to pronounce. (We did offer to try.) I felt much better when he started running into friends of his at lodges and THEY all called him B-man, too. It’s one thing to be the dumb American who can’t pronounce hard words, and another when even your friends default to a nickname.
(And thanks to archangelbeth for the analogy!)
Art derives from artifice and is inherently artificial. I may want to produce gorgeous authentic journal pages in my sketchbook, but I can’t. So I scan the weird little doodles and frantic blatherings in the sketchbook and produce them on the computer, because I grew up on the computer, goddamnit.
And they come out looking like this.
In one week, I will be on a plane to Botswana.
I am terrified. I have bought two travel journals and they are probably both wrong.
I really want to keep a travel journal–or at least to be the sort of person who keeps travel journals–and I am going with a pack of artists so I totally have to bring one. Sketching will occur. But then I get these books about travel journals and it’s all doodles on Moleskines that are eleven thousand times better than my best day sketching and I KNOW they only put the pretty ones in and not the pages that are like three lines and a doodle of a chicken, but it doesn’t help because ALL of my sketchbook pages are three lines and a doodle of a chicken.
(I kinda like the guy in this one book who just takes photos of everything and jots down notes and then goes back and sketches from the photos after he gets home and colors them digitally. I appreciate that. As a primarily digital artist, I will be at a disadvantage until they really kick up the game on tablets.)
Seriously, though, on some level I really want to be making the journals that look like Hemingway took up scrapbooking and they wind up galleries and then everyone will be terribly impressed at my mad on-the-spot drawing skills and insightful extemporaneous poetry and also how legible my handwriting is.
And while I am dreaming, I would like world peace and a pony.
I know people who take their sketchbook everywhere and draw in them and they are probably better people or at least better artists. I keep trying to get into the habit and it keeps sort of not happening. Possibly it’s because I don’t actually like drawing very much. I love painting. I will paint all day long. Drawing is the chore that leads up to getting to paint. If I’m drawing for fun, it’s basically as a punchline to a joke. This is arguably why I’m in comics.
Anyway, I continue to prep in other ways. I replaced my hiking boots that were pinchy. Apparently my problem is that I am a size 10, not a size 9.5. I was a size 7, once. Mind you, I was also a C cup once, too.
Anyway, everything is as prepared as it gets, I guess, except that you are supposed to make your checked luggage look really gaudy and crappy and distinctive because there’s a major problem with people stealing luggage off carousels, so the safari company suggests making them LOUD. I have purchased hot pink and blue leopard print duct tape. We will do this thing.
The frogs have been singing non-stop for days. Plummeting temperatures did not faze them, and now it’s warm again and they are all very loud and very happy. The pond is full of concentric circles where they’re inflating their throat sacs and making ripples.
I took my last typhoid pill this morning. I should now be immune for about five years, at least in theory. I am still a little worried that the doctor said “Watch out for cholera.” I read too many books with cholera as a plot point. (Further Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, I am looking in your direction!) We have antibiotics, just in case.
My new middle-grade novel, “Castle Hangnail” comes out next month! Check out the snazzy cover!
(Well, it’s the snazzy ARC cover. I can’t find the snazzy hardcover cover image. It’s somewhere, I’m sure.)
And I think that’s about everything going on…