Category: Thoughts and Reflections

Happy International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day!

National Today is a website which introduces the reader to the myriad declared days that grace the national and international calendars. Some of these holidays seem directly related to food industries (National Pickle Day is November 13) while others put into the forefront of people’s minds for a good cause (National Crime Victims’ Rights Week, April 23-29). But today I’m here to write about International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day and how to celebrate it.

The day started with a Howard V. Hendrix, a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, who called people who published their work for free on the Internet as ‘pixel-stained technopeasants’ and stated that no writer should do so. Jo Walton, another writer and member of the SFWA, encouraged writers to do exactly what Hendrix disdained. And a holiday was born. (National Today, 2023)

Isometric alphabet. Black and White abc. Volumetric letters. Vector Illustration

I don’t know the details, but this sounds like a more modern debate between self-publishers (which I am) and those traditionally published. The debate seems to be whether self-published works are legit because they don’t have an industry gate-keeping the publication process. But those who have been mistreated by the traditional process look at the issue differently.

Turns out I’m a pixel-stained technopeasant and I didn’t even know it. I even write in the fantasy genre, so I am one of those pixel-stained techopeasants of which Hendrix spoke, although not an original technopeasant. I have published in online contests and journals which, although they had a gatekeeper, did not pay. Most Internet journals, in my experience, do not pay, just as most print journals do not.

How, according to National Today (2023) does one celebrate this day?

  • Read a blog
  • Publish for free online
  • Post a social media post

Here’s the free creative work:

Limerance

There’s a push to ask you for your name,

And a pull ‘cause I have no right to know,

As I stand in the corner of the venue

With nothing in my mind except the color of your eyes.

There’s a push to sift through every word

And a pull to flee from disappointment

Still I remember and I polish all your words

And call myself the author of their shine.

There’s a push from the devil on my shoulder,

And a pull from my shreds of dignity

And I’m standing on one foot while juggling cats

And I don’t want what I want,

I don’t want what I want.

Exciting and Positive

I want something exciting and positive to happen today. The word ‘positive’ is important here, because I know people who would welcome a disaster as ‘exciting’. I may be involved in emergency and disaster management, but I don’t like that kind of excitement. So, I’m specifying exciting and positive.

I see excitement as something that will come into my life by an external happening. One thing I’ve noticed is that, at age 60 (almost), excitement doesn’t come from hard work. Hard work yields … more work to do. I imagine this revelation at a game show, where the emcee says, “And for your hard work you get … more hard work!” I don’t mind doing hard work, but it’s certainly not adding up to exciting. Or positive1.

I guess I’m looking for an opportunity. Or the Bluebird of Happiness dropping something good in my lap. Something to break the monotony and turn my emotions into something happier instead of ennui.

Photo by Tina Nord on Pexels.com
  1. Moulage gives me positivity.

Mine to Remember

That which is mine to remember, I cling to on grey days like this…

Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com

Venturing into the attic as my father worked to restore it. The entire neighborhood late for school because my cat is having kittens. A gully washer sending rain cascading down the steps across the street. The hospital with its old wood panels and cordovan leather. The evening when I played in the street with my neighbor and my sister. Fishing in the park with my father, the first time I threaded a worm on a hook. When I finally got a boyfriend.

Going off to college unprepared and coming home again. Going back and staying there even through summers and Thanksgiving breaks. Growing microbes in Petri dishes and cooking pound cake in the food lab. Classes I skipped to sit on the Quad and watch people. 

Walking to my graduate classes barefoot and scandalizing my professor. Skinny dipping at the St. Joseph’s Sportsman’s Club on a skinny September night. Watching Star Trek with my friends. Losing Thanksgiving Break to a class project. Walking across the stage to get my PhD.

Exploring my new home across the country, walking everywhere. Being betrayed by a husband and breaking up. Spending a week in an inpatient facility that saved my life. Falling in hopeless, chaste love with a rock band. Moments I felt like the sky was falling down, but I persevered. Driving to the Adirondacks to camp by myself and feeling freedom.

Moving back to the Midwest to be with someone I thought was the one — he wasn’t. Buying a house as an act of solidarity with single professional women. Learning how important laughter was to a relationship. Driving for miles and miles before getting to the next town. Watching coffee shops pop in and out of existence. Finding the right man and marrying on St. Patrick’s Day. Watching my mother die nine months after our wedding. 

Appearing in a dunk tank for charity. Traveling to visit interns across Missouri and across state lines. Getting diagnosed with bipolar disorder and spending a few days at the hospital. Recuperating. Being moved into a bigger house. Spending a pleasant day with my father while he was in hospice.

And now I sit in the greying afternoon, having reviewed almost sixty years of life. All these memories are mine. I cling onto them as the things that define me.

Springtime and Tunnel Vision

It’s Spring, but I’ve hardly noticed.

I have noticed plants coming up in my front garden. An almost miniature rose, some lavender, and some that surprised me — mitsuba and bee balm and anise hyssop. The front garden needs some more plants, which I will plant in May. The fuki is taking over the side yard, and I’m worried about its prowess. I guess I’m not as oblivious as I thought, although I’m missing such things as kayaks on Colden Pond at the college, driving by student parties on Main Street, and taking a class outside because the classroom’s too hot (never mind, I did that).

It’s also the end of Spring semester — two weeks of classes and half a week of finals. I’m dealing with a flurry of interns and a last hurrah of grading and then finals and then — a much more relaxed summer.

Not that I have nothing to do this summer. I will wrangle somewhere between thirteen and twenty interns, presenting an orientation via Zoom and visiting them at their internship sites. But my home will be my office and there will be plenty of time to write.

It’s been a tiring year. Although it’s nice that Spring is here, I can’t wait until Summer break.

Overcaffeinated

My head feels floaty right now. I spent the morning writing at Starbucks, drinking coffee to keep the ideas coming. One thousand words later, I had met my writing goal and gotten enough caffeine for two days. Now I really want to do something and nothing at the same time.

It’s a rainy day. It would be nice to take a nap. But no, my brain is taking a trip across the universe. It wants to DO something, but it can’t keep still long enough to focus on something. It wants to FURTHER MY CAREER, with no notion of what that would take. My brain wants to make a BIG AUDACIOUS GOAL, but not complete it. It WANTS RESULTS, but is in no shape to plan.

Photo by lil artsy on Pexels.com

Why do I do this to myself? Because it’s coffee, wonderful coffee. I have a sense of amnesia, not remembering how things went the last time I drank too much coffee. So I drink coffee, drink more coffee, and drink even more coffee until my teeth are humming.

The coffee is wearing off. I know this because I just fell asleep in the middle of writing this. Now I’m staring at my screen, wondering how much time I lost to the unauthorized nap, and I think it’s been about a half hour. The buzz has gone away, yielding to a glimpse of what it’s like to be a zombie: I’m awake, but with no volition.

Not good. I want to make something happen, create something. Spend this rainy evening more productively. Wait! Maybe more coffee?

Now, the Mid-Life Crisis

I suppose it’s a little late to have a mid-life crisis. I didn’t have one at forty — at forty, I barely felt thirty. At fifty, I felt rebellious that anyone would think me old, because I didn’t feel old. Now, at almost 60, I’m horrified that I’m now old enough to be my students’ grandmom (if the generations had babies really early, that is)

A lot of things have changed. I no longer feel that sense of possibility that I felt, even in my fifties. I don’t feel that my life could change for the better at any moment. My life is stable, with no magnificent giddy highs. I don’t know what I think of that, because magnificent giddy highs are fun. Or, at least, they were.

Photo by Krivec Ales on Pexels.com

My Big Audacious Goals are not so big or audacious. I miss the ability to dream big. I feel like I don’t have the sweeping vistas in my head to make big goals. My goals are more realistic, more grounded. I achieve them, but with little fanfare.

I will find something of worth at this stage in my life. Maybe my writing will become more grounded and need less editing. I may be less distracted by pretty things. Perhaps I will make deeper goals. It’s just that I’m shocked by the change and wonder where it’s taking me.

It’s Raining and I Want To Take a Nap

We’re having a slow thunderstorm here in Maryville, MO. The heavy clouds hang overhead, darkening the sky. From the clouds, an ominous rumble emanates. It’s almost seven-thirty, and morning appears to have fled. A streak of horizontal lightning jolts the neighborhood.

Photo by Martinus on Pexels.com

I sit in my writing place, on the loveseat in the living room, near the window, and I want to take a nap. I close my eyes to think about writing this piece and I fall asleep sitting up, just for a moment.

This is the opposite of who I want to be. I want to be awake, dynamic. I want to write beautiful prose. I want to get many things done —

Who am I kidding? I want to take a nap.

It’s the perfect day to crawl back into bed, ignoring coffee and work to do, and turn off the light. I feel like I could sleep for twelve hours and wake up happy, or at least less blah than this weather has made me.

But I have promises to keep (Thank you, Robert Frost) and coffee to drink (Thank you, Richard). I have to meet with my boss and hold office hours and attend a faculty meeting. I might have time to write on my WIP (Work in progress, in author-speak). I’ve already done some grading (I get up very early). Tonight will be soon enough to sleep.

About Hope

I hope that my writing will go somewhere. It’s difficult because the world of books has seen a renaissance of writers with a waning number of readers. The number of writers has exploded because of Amazon KDP and self-publishing. There are good books out there and bad ones, and readers are loath to sort through them all.

As a writer, I could let this discourage me, and sometimes I do. This doesn’t mean I quit promoting my work. I promote and hope I get better at it. I hope my promotions pay off. I hope people read my books.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I won’t tie hope to a specific outcome, however. I hope things go well, not defining what that means. There’s so many ways that positive things happen, some of which I can’t even imagine right now. So no “I hope people read the promotional posts I put on Loomly” but “I hope positive things happen from posting.” Maybe it’s superstitious, but I enjoy keeping my options open.

Emily Dickinson once compared hope to a bird that perches inside us and sings. I find hope to be something more like a rough, homely rock which I need to keep polishing so that I can find the gem underneath. Sometimes it seems the work to reveal it will never end, but I must believe and polish the rock.

What I Dream Of (writing-related)

What is my dream about my writing?

Abstract landscape of colorful fractal foam, light trails and lights suitable as a backdrop for art, music, fantasy and imagination related projects

It’s not lots of copies sold (in fact, I am giving away copies on BookFunnel right now for newsletter subscriptions.) It’s not a lot of readers per se (although that’s nice to have).

My dream is to have people fall in love with the world I’m writing about. Wanting to know more stories about the characters. Checking out the map to Barn Swallows’ Dance. I would like readers to love my books, even if there aren’t too many readers.

To do that, I need a decent number of people to read my books, because I know my books are not for everyone. They’re not “commercial”. They’re equal parts dreamy and prosaic, because I believe even humans caught in the unexplainable will fall back on their everyday lives. But the unexplainable will win.

Here’s a section from Gaia’s Hands:

Jeanne looked around the efficiency apartment. The futon dominated the space; the uninspired dresser bore a pile of interesting things: a feather, a sheaf of notebook paper, a small box with an ornate pattern, a black fabric belt. He didn’t point out the top shelf with its orange and little pitcher of water, but she guessed it had something to do with Shinto, his adopted religion. On the wall hung a sword with a very slight curve.

Josh walked over to the black sword and pulled it off the wall. He brought it over to her and held it out with both hands. When she hesitated, he nodded. “You have my permission.” She unsheathed the sword partway from its scabbard and looked at the dull-edged blade. “Hey, this looks pretty cool.”


“I know. You can’t even cut the lawn with it, though. It’s not meant to have an edge, but I got it in case I learn iaido someday. I use a wooden bokken at the dojo for Aikido. I also bought it because it looks cool.”


Jeanne sheathed the sword and handed it back to Josh. “Thank you,” she said.


“Good instincts. You didn’t take the sword without my permission. Most people wouldn’t think to do that.” Jeanne had thought to do that, which boded well.


“I’m not so sure,” Jeanne said. “I’ve never had much faith in my instincts.” Jeanne’s instincts at the moment wanted her to indulge her curiosity about the man in front of her. She hoped Josh wouldn’t notice her blushing at her thoughts.


She sat across from him on the bed, cross-legged, and she tried to gather her thoughts, to speak the thing, once spoken, that would change her life irrevocably in her own eyes. “Josh, I’ve known I have this talent for plants my whole life. I can’t deny it anymore.” Jeanne’s skin prickled with goosebumps.


“Okay,” Josh responded, lifting Jeanne’s head up with one finger so that she looked into his brown eyes. “Tell me more about it.”


“As a child…” How could she tell the truth? Quickly, she thought, so that she didn’t think about how crazy she sounded. “Let’s start again. At age seven, I sat one day in the bean tepee my dad planted for my sister and I, and a bean shoot wrapped around my arm. Then a voice spoke to me. It was in my head but it wasn’t.”


“What did it say?” Josh asked.


“It said, ‘Remember this moment.’ That’s it. I put it away for all these years until it happened to me again. With JB.” Jeanne closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Am I crazy?”

Is Jeanne crazy? In this world, she’s not, because the unexplainable hides in plain sight. She has to reconcile this with her life as a scientist, and that won’t be easy. She ends up — I won’t tell you where she ends up, because that would give away the story.

Gaia’s Hands is a love story about two unique people caught in a distinct reality that most people don’t see. I don’t know how romantic fantasy readers will take this two-world existence.

But I’m a writer, and we always have doubts.