Author Archives: Eugie Foster

It is raining ice outside. As in there’s a transparent, treacherous, slippery layer of frigid water coating our walkway and driveway that fell from the sky. It’s frigging Georgia! Ice has no business accumulating outside. It can clink in tall glasses of mint julep, enclose cucumber sandwiches in picnic coolers, and form spheres of fruit-flavored yumminess, but it should NOT shower from the heavens!

What is the world coming to?

But, as the patter of ice hurtles from above and strikes the ground outside, I sit with a warm skunk cuddled at my side, Saturday morning cartoons blaring on the television, and a nice pot of Iron Buddha Oolong brewing. It could be worse. It’s a good day to spend camped out on the couch. I might venture out to check the mail, but then again, maybe I won’t.

I hope Matthew is staying warm in Utah.

Writing Stuff:

Still to do:
– Write review for Scifiction story, “A Man of Light” by Jeffrey Ford, for Tangent
– Write Critters critiques (for your story, aimeepoynter, and yours nmsunbear).
– Start pondering rewrite of my huli jing story.

Writing Stuff:

The new Tangent site is up. Content is still sketchy, but I’m so glad the horrible page with all the wonky errors is gone. (If you click on the link and you still get the error page, chances are the new site hasn’t propagated to you yet. Give it another day or two.) I should probably write an editorial. Something to do tomorrow, I think. The new site is very slick. I’m in awe of all the work the webmistress, Jen, put into it.

Also, saw my banner ad for Ascendancy of Blood is up at Lit Haven, courtesy sdowens. I made it all by myself–the banner–when I probably ought to have been writing. Anyway, shiny banner goodness:

Can’t sleep without Matthew in the house. Cleverly, I did not plan for this when I decided to wean myself off caffeine. Thought to myself the whole morning “Self, I have this terrible headache. I wonder why the Aleve I took isn’t making the pain go away?” Which, of course, illustrates how poorly my brain was functioning. Got some green tea in me after lunch, realized as the first tendrils of caffeinated goodness entered my bloodstream that I needed more and fixed myself an extra-strong cup of coffee. The afternoon was better. Still, thank Jeebus it’s the weekend.

I putzed about customizing my LJ layout when I was tired of lying with my eyes open in the darkness last night/this morning. This whole paid account thing is very seductive with its “lookie, you can make me all shiny and personalized!” and “lookit all the little pictures!” But I’m having issues with my new layout and my iframe setup from my homepage link. Maybe I’ll code my own layout to stick into JavaScript. That should get me through the weekend. Of course, I could be doing something productive with my time instead–like writing. Or sleeping.

Hobkin was at first perplexed as to why we were “sleeping” upright in the computer chair, instead of prone under the covers, but he adapted. When I finally felt tired enough to go lie down, he didn’t even flick his tail when I relocated us.

Writing Stuff:

Got a note back from Nathan, my Scrybe Press editor. He said he’d do his best to get Inspirations End/Still My Beating Heart out in time for Fantasm, and maybe even with a full color, glossy cover. Oooo.

Words: 100. Stupid novel.

Club 100 for Writers
51

500/day
17

I’m managed to addict myself to coffee, and of course the requisite mega-doses of caffeine, again. Despite the reasonably functional chunk of gray matter that I carry around in my skull, I continue to believe on some illogical, irrational, and just plain dim-witted level (despite the overwhelming excess of first-person evidence to the contrary), that I can counter the effects of one drug with another. The Clonazepam that I’ve been taking to nick the edge off my wing stub pains makes me groggy and muzzy-headed, so I slam various caffeine-delivery mechanisms and end up muzzy-headed and twitchy. And then when I stop taking the Clonazepam, I get headaches if I try to quit the caffeine administration.

And my wing stubs still hurt.

Stupid body.

Writing Stuff:

“A refreshing look at a traditional tale. Eugie Foster has written an enchanting little tale that keeps the reader interested until the very last word.”
–Lesley

And discovered this fine review of “Returning My Sister’s Face” from the Science Fiction Romance Newsletter:

“‘Returning My Sister’s Face’ by Eugie Foster is a ghost story about avenging wronged love in a medieval oriental setting . . .The author maintains a sense of suspense throughout, and the narrative style is so compelling I could almost hear the slow, dignified plinking of ancient oriental music as I read it.”
–Joyce Ellen Armond

Due to either the caffeine OD, or the Clonazepam residue, I was tempted to bite off my own fingers, giving myself a Really Good™ excuse for why I didn’t write today. Alas, I only ended up gnawing on a knuckle or two, then forced myself to toil on the novel.

Words: 500 And they were all crap.

Club 100 for Writers
48

500/day
16

Thanks to the unexpected munificence of benefactors known and unknown, I spent most of yesterday gleefully making scores of little LJ icons.

It’s amazing how much fun that was. I am, unabashedly, a geek. And receiving the tacit support and encouragement for my humble blogging efforts really made my weekend.

Thank you.

Writing Stuff:

Saw that “Perfidious Beauty” will be the lead story in the Embark to Madness anthology, which delights me. The editor said they’re aiming for a May or June publication date, so I won’t have it by Fantasm, but will for Dragon*Con.

Maybe I’ll manage to finagle some words on the page today.

Because I didn’t feel like doing any work. I went to this website and played.

Here’s my default LJ icon in the style of Botticelli, Mucha, Modigliani, and Manga:

I tried it with a few more pictures. Continue reading →

Exotic nighttime marvels, storytellers, and illusion permeate Vera Nazarian’s (norilana) Dreams of the Compass Ross. The template of a story within a story is classic and timeless, from Shakespeare (A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, etc.) to Ray Bradbury (The Illustrated Man), and Nazarian utilizes it flawlessly.

She displays her skill as a master tale spinner, effortlessly weaving together different character, theme, and plot threads into a shining tapestry. While on the surface Dreams of the Compass Rose is made up of a collection of short stories, when taken together it is a glittering whole that transcends its parts.

Appropriate for tales featuring mad tyrants, quixotic gods, and luminous mortals, Nazarian’s prose is rich, full of colorful imagery and fluid dimension. But Dreams goes beyond the mere trappings of fantasy, expounding upon the nature of wonder, illusion, and love. Scheherazade would have been proud of her modern-day sister-in-storytelling.

All in all, a satisfying and delightful read.

Still hurting, but went in to work anyway. I am the master of my wingstubs, dammit! Yeah, right. At least it’s the weekend.

Writing Stuff: