Monthly Archives: February 2010


Is a challenging day and I feel like this:

Oh the Relief

… which sounds like an advert for a heartburn pill, but is not.

It’s the relief of a writer who, having finished up a few projects, has had empty brain and a dose of contentment for a while … and not a creative thought in sight. This is a disturbing phase, when one of the voices in the head starts to
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Over at Locus Online

Jeff VanderMeer gives the royal sampler for 2009, including some nice things about Dreaming Again and New Ceres Nights.

Call-out for Subs

Realms of Fantasy (rumours of its demise were greatly exaggerated, apparently … unless it’s now a Zombie magazine … mmmm) is doing a Women in Fantasy issue  – guidelines are here

Follow the guidelines. You know it makes sense.

VanderMeer on Fetishes of the Writing Kind

Relinquish All Writing Fetishes: When Should You Hold Onto Them?

In Booklife I have a section on relinquishing all fetishes, which is another way of saying don’t let having to use a fancy pen or special desk get in the way of writing. As I mention in the book I’ve learned to write anywhere at any time, and to never stifle
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It's Official

See, it’s not just me having crazy time: it’s real 🙂

The Frog Prince – The End Bit

Tad was feasting on the last of the cold roasted carrier pigeon. Felicity did her best not to gag. He let out a great froggy burp and leaned against the padded chair with a satisfied air. The princess took a deep breath.

‘Tad, we need to talk.’

‘Oh, no. You’re froggist, I knew it,’
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Angela and the Uppish Mountain*

And so there have been demands for photographic evidence of me and the mountain, provided below, oh ye of little faith (and generally much sense).

T’is Mt Ngungun, one of the Glasshouse Mountains – according to my guide, the Old Man of the Mountains, apparently it’s the second hardest … or the second easiest, depending on how you look at it
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I walked up a mountain. In the rain. Today, I am very sore.
More later, with photographic evidence.


Jeff VanderMeer's The Quickening

Some VanderFiction over at Ecstatic Days:

In the old, tattered photo Sensio has been dressed in a peach-colored prisoner’s uniform made out of discarded tarp and then tied to a small post that Aunt Etta made me hammer into the ground. Sensio’s long white ears are slanted back behind his head. His front legs, trapped by the crude arm holes, hang
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