Omicron: Don’t panic

Omicron is the latest SARS-CoV-2 Variant of Concern (VOC), initially discovered and sequenced in South Africa.1 It is considered concerning because of the number and type of mutations—32 of them on the spike protein. Spike is the bit of the virus that a) gives the virus entrée into the cells, which affects transmissibility, and b) is used as the model against which to build vaccines. The worry is that the high number of mutations will make the virus must more transmissible and/or make it easier for the virus to escape not only innate immune response but the immune response acquired via previous infection and/or vaccination.

It’s pretty clear already that Omicron is, in fact, much more transmissible than either the original virus or today’s most prevalent variant, Delta. One graph I’ve seen indicates that Omicron took less than 20 days to reach a greater than 90% share of all sequenced cases in South Africa, whereas Delta took almost a 100 days to do the same. Don’t quote these figures because I’m just eyeballing pictures, rather than tallying tables of data, but its possible Omicron could out-compete Delta four times as fast as Delta out-competed other variants. In other words, if we could make direct comparison between the virus’s impact in South Africa to what will happen in the rest of the world, in a few weeks Omicron will be the only variant that matters.2

As for the ability to escape immunity—innate or acquired—no one knows yet, though preliminary evidence suggests reinfection rates with Omicron are high. Should it prove to escape immunity I think it’s likely a) it will only be partial and b) many of the treatments—particularly the corticosteroids and IL6 receptor blockers—will work. The antivirals may still be effective, depending on the mode of action.3 Also, if mRNA vaccines do turn out to be a little less effective against Omicron than against the Delta variant, both Pfizer and Moderna have suggested they could produce tailored vaccines within a 100 days or so.4

My real question about Omicron concerns virulence: is it more, less, or equally as deadly as other variants? In this regard I feel a very faint hope. There are some anecdotal reports from South Africa that it could, in fact—at least in the acute phase—cause a milder illness than other variants. Patients’ symptoms seem to be not only slightly different—fever, elevated heart rate (especially in the young), no loss of smell, not much lung involvement—but milder; they recover faster. (Having said that, it’s important to note that the group initially infected with Omicron were mostly university students—a very different health profile to the general population.) If the story of Covid were only about the acute phase, and if these early anecdotal reports were borne out by further study, then this would be fantastically good news: it could be the beginning of the long, winding road to Covid becoming no more worrisome than a bad cold.5

BUT. Okay, two buts. One, it may not be borne out when expanded to a wider population. And, two, the story of Covid is also about its chronic phase: Long Covid.

The data we have about Long Covid isn’t very good (in the sense that we can only talk about those who have been diagnosed with a positive PCR test—which could be a fraction of the whole). But what we do have suggests that more than one third of those testing positive for SARS-CoV-2, even those whose symptoms were mild, still have one or more symptoms 3-6 months later. Some people have Long Covid a year and half after diagnosis and it seems worryingly likely that for some it is a form of ME/CFIDS, which can be a debilitating, life-long condition. Because Omicron is newly sequenced, there’s absolutely no way to tell how or whether Long Covid percentages will differ. That could end up having a massive long-term impact on the overall health (and therefore healthcare burden, and therefore economy) of a population.

In conclusion: it’s probable that Omicron is more transmissible than other variants but even that is not yet certain. The rest is a series of questions that will be answered one by one over the coming weeks and months—and those answers could be a mix of good news and bad news. We just don’t know.

So for now: get vaccinated, get boosted, wear a mask, keep a couple of rapid home tests close by and test yourself and other members of your household if you’ve been exposed and/or show any symptoms.6 Above all: don’t panic. Precautions that work against Delta—masking, social distancing—will work against Omicron. And while, sure, it’s possible we could all die tomorrow of some super-virulent super mutation it’s also possible that Omicron could be an early holiday gift: the faint and tiny glimmering of a possibility that Covid may become a minor inconvenience, nothing worse than a cold.


1 Does it mean that’s where it originated? Not necessarily.

2 For comparison, the Delta variant is 70% more transmissible than the original. And of course we can’t compare South Africa to, say, North America directly: the demographics there are completely different. And the initial group of those infected with Omicron were university students—a really different profile. Nonetheless, I think by the New Year, Omicron may very well be synonymous with Covid here, in Europe, and almost everywhere.

3 but to what degree? The Merck antiviral pill has now been found to be only 30% effective against the symptoms of Covid, but Pfizer’s protease inhibitor, Paxlovid, which, if administered in the first five days, cuts the risk of hospitalisation by an almost unbelievably impressive 89%, is still looking very good. Though it has not yet, to my knowledge, been tested against the Omicron variant, given its mode of action I doubt it’s effectiveness will be massively reduced.

4 I’m assuming right now that AstraZeneca can, too. If you celebrated Thanksgiving I hope you gave thanks to medical science; I certainly did.

5 I repeat long. I repeat winding. There are many coronaviruses—including about 20% of those that now cause some of the illnesses lumped under ‘common cold’—that probably started out as deadly pandemics. (Possibly, for example, the so-called Russian Flu of the late 19th century.) But it doesn’t happen overnight. It can take decades.

6 You can buy them at any pharmacy. Buy a few. If you test negative, test again to be sure. If you test positive, go get a PCR test. Edited to add from someone more knowledgeable than me: “In many cases (for example if you are symptomatic, or have a known high risk exposure) a positive antigen test can be regarded as accurate and a confirmatory PCR test is not needed or recommended. Talk to a healthcare provider to see whether one is needed.”

Two years later and 17 million dead

A diagram of SARS-CoV-2 replication and method of action understood in early 2020.

In November 2019 the corona virus, now known as SARS-CoV-2, first began infecting people in Wuhan, China. The earliest identifiable person with what is now known as Covid-19 first displayed symptoms on December 1. Then people started to die. Then it spread. The World Health Organisation declared a pandemic on 11 March 2020. To many of us it was perfectly obvious long, long before that we had passed the containable outbreak stage.

Two years after the virus’s first appearance, the official global death toll is about 5.1 million. I think that’s a serious underestimate; the Economist agrees, suggesting that the global total is closer to 17 million.

17 million is both a policy failure and a human triumph. It’s a failure because people are, well, people: not perfect. Looked at kindly, we don’t want to believe what is inconvenient or frightening. Looked at cynically, a lot of people used the pandemic as an opportunity to increase their following and/or strengthen their brand. It’s a triumph because people are, well, magnificent: we formed mutual aid networks, we worked heroically, we moved at feverish speed to bring together teams to research, test, produce, and administer vaccines, antivirals, and treatment best practises. Right now, if you are a healthy person living in any of the richest countries, you are very, very unlikely to die of Covid. This is because there are a series of medical filters available to you—or, in the case of antiviral pills, very soon to be available to you—that reduce the odds, stage by stage. The biggest and best filter is a mRNA vaccine, such as Moderna: two full doses followed by a half-dose booster.1 Then there are N95 or KN95 masks. Then there’s social distancing. Then there are HEPA filters. If you still somehow get the virus, and—even more unluckily—develop symptoms, then there are antiviral pills such as Merck’s polymerase inhibitor, Molnupiravir, which—if administered within the first five days of symptoms—reduces the risk of hospitalisation by 50%, and, even better, Pfizer’s protease inhibitor, Paxlovid, which, also if administered in the first five days, cuts the risk of hospitalisation by an almost unbelievably impressive 89%. If you don’t get the vaccine, or don’t get an antiviral early, then there’s still remdesivir, another polymerase inhibitor, by IV. If that doesn’t start helping and you begin to develop those first stages of inflammation that are really the most dangerous aspect of Covid, then there’s dexamethasone, a cheap but very effective corticosteroid. If that, plus the remdesivir, doesn’t help then you add in baricitinib, a janus kinase inhibitor, which blocks the activity of some of those enzymes that lead to inflammation. It is a series of almost miraculous science-based treatments filtering out and reducing harm.

For some, of course, the miracles are less effective. If your immune system is compromised—if you have to be on immune-suppressing medications for some kinds of cancer, for MS, organ transplants, or other conditions—then vaccines won’t trigger the production of antibodies and you can’t develop immunity. Luckily you can take the antivirals, and if you take them early enough your odds of staying out of hospital are very good.

Then there are those people who choose not to take vaccines.2 I won’t waste words on those selfish fools here.

Then, of course there are all those billions living in less rich countries who have very little access to any of the technologies I’ve mentioned here.

So where will we be two years from now? I don’t know. I think it’s likely Covid will be endemic in most countries; I think the virus’s deadliness will wax and wane; I think there will be waves of mutations—some more deadly that the Delta variant, some more contagious, and some—like Delta when compared to the original strain—that are both. But the antivirals will become cheaper to manufacture and eventually (I hope) available to all everywhere. Eventually, too, mutations will be routinely tracked and vaccines routinely tweaked to counter them. On the whole, I think Covid will become flu: occasionally terrible, mostly not. It’s the next new virus that worries me—but there will be another (and another, and another).

But the Covid-like-flu evolution is very much a people-are-magnificent scenario which, as we’ve seen, we can’t always afford to rely on. It is also predicated on the no-new-disasters-soon scenario—whether geopolitical, climatological, financial, or one of those wild, from-left-field unk-unks such as asteroids, aliens, and inter-dimensional portals. Hey, after the last six years you look me in the eye and tell me none of that can happen…


1 I have, as they say, Some Thoughts on the booster shot but will save it for another post.

2 There are a few people, particularly from traditionally marginalised groups, who have every right to be wary of government-sponsored medical treatment; I think they’re dangerously wrong, but I hope we can all do a better job of listening and helping assuage their wariness

Kitten report #20: Not dead yet [photos]

Today Charlie and George are exactly two and half years old—and I am Officially Tired of reporting on their near-death experiences. Before we even met them both came close a couple of times—their four litter mates did not survive. Then Charlie had a disastrous reaction to anaesthesia during an operation to remove a polyp, resulting in brain damage—from which he’s made a remarkable recovery. Then George ate a bird infected with salmonella and spent a couple of days in kitty ICU—though, like Charlie, made a remarkable recovery (without brain damage).

Last week, it was George’s turn again: this time it was poison. But yet again, he’s made a remarkable recovery and is more or less back to his old self–except he’s very jumpy, and sticking much closer to me than usual. There again, they’ve both been jumpy and sticking closer to home—mainly because we’ve been travelling for the first time in their lives, and they Do Not Approve.

I’ve already talked about one set of travel we did in September/October. A week later we had to be gone again for a visit to Saint Martin’s University in Lacey. Then last week Kelley had to make an unexpected five-day trip back to Florida (but that’s not my story to tell). She left at five in the morning and by ten o’clock George was very unwell—drooling gallons (he sat on the threshold of the family room and living room for five minutes, and when he moved away there was an actual pool—not a few drops, a pool about 18 inches wide)—not eating, and barely able to move, and when he could move wanting to drag himself under the sofa where no one would be able to reach him and he could die in peace. He behaved in much the same way with salmonellosis. It took me a long time to figure out what the problem was, and I am enormously grateful a) that I didn’t figure it out until he had already turned the corner for the better, and b) for his strong constitution.

George’s downfall was a broken bottle of diluted grapefruit essential oil.1 It smashed on the bathroom floor the morning Kelley was leaving, and Kelley swept, then wiped, then actually washed the floor—because oil, because slippy, because I don’t walk well—before she left at zero-dark-thirty for the plane. George hates the smell of citrus so I’m pretty sure the closest he got to the grafefruit oil was walking across the swept wiped, and washed floor then licking his paws. And that was enough.

Because here’s what I know now that I didn’t then: grapefruit is a deadly poison for cats. So much so that if they ingest any, do not, under any circumstances, administer an emetic—because if they even breathe in the fumes from the vomit they could die. Yes, it’s that bad. But as I say I didn’t know that until George was already clearly improving: salivating less, coming for comfort, eating a bit. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he still looked woebegone, and he was moving like a little old man, but he was no longer trying to escape himself and everyone else by crawling into a hole and dying. I found out that evening about the grapefruit oil, looked it up, and my stress went through the roof. I was up most of the night fussing over George, until he basically gave me the, Oh stop *fussing* for heaven’s sake and let me get some sleep! look, and Charlie came and laid his paw on my forearm and looked at me gravely as if to say, I’ve got this, go to sleep. So I did—only to be woken three hours later by the two of them having a knock-down-drag-out fight then thundering all around the house—up and down curtains, over and under furniture, knocking things off the counter—then yelling at me comprehensively about their empty food dishes. So, yeah, George is fine.

And he’s a bit different: much, much more cuddlesome.

Large tabby cat clinging desperately, possessively to a white woman—his paw is curled around her forearm from above; his tail is curled around her arm from below—relaxing on an ivory sofa with a big mug of tea
Please don’t ever go away again

Image description: Large tabby cat clinging desperately, possessively to a white woman—his paw is curled around her forearm from above; his tail is curled around her arm from below—relaxing on an ivory sofa with a big mug of tea


Charlie is too—though of course that’s as likely to be the result of the miserable weather we’ve been having the last 10 days as any sudden increase in gratitude:

Image description: A screenshot of a Seattle Times article with a photo of waves crashing against a pier and below a single sentence, “A tornado warning, heavy rain, hail, high winds, severe thunderstorm, snow and a small earthquake were part of a mixed bag of events that occurred during a dramatic Tuesday in Washington state.”


So, before that little incident, how have they been? Fine! Happy, healthy, curious, plus in-my-face, on-my-keyboard, complaining about the service, and assuming a new throne.

The throne, of course, is Charlie’s: I have a new wheelchair (more on that in another post)2, which has become the most expensive kitty bed on the planet:

Photo of an all-black wheelchair against an orange wall warmly lit by candlelight. A small tabby cat is curled on the chair fast asleep.
Most expensive cat bed in the world

Image description: Photo of an all-black wheelchair against an orange wall warmly lit by candlelight. A small tabby cat is curled on the chair fast asleep.


George, when he’s not coming for lap time, is mooching treats.

Image description: Two photos of the same tabby cat posing on the same brown velvet cushion. On the left he sits upright looking sweet and sad and soulful (but you can just tell he’s laying on thick). On the right he sits in half profile meatloaf style looking full, smug, and not-far-from-sleep


Both of them are now proper cats. That is, when they’re not running around outside killing things, or mooching food from us—even Charlie has started to enjoy cat treats3—they sleep. Charlie’s three favourite daytime places are my exercise machine—a NuStep, which is a recumbent cross-trainer—my wheelchair, and my lap. They sometimes compete over laps.


When Charlie can’t have a lap or my chair or the exercise machine—or just when it’s colder than usual—he seeks out the second most expensive cat bed in the world, which is our Denon receiver.

At some point I plan to do a whole blog post about our new AV setup, but for now I’ll just say OH MY GOD I LOVE MY DOLBY ATMOS SOUND! I love it so much that I’m seriously considering spending an unreasonable amount of money to hunt down and buy any of my favourite music that’s been remastered for Atmos. It’s that fucking good. No, it’s better: it’s mind-blowingly magnificent! If you’ve been dithering about getting something similar, just do it. It is so very worth it. One drawback: George doesn’t like the sound moving around the family room: it’s so clear and convincing and so precisely placed that he can track it to within inches but can never see it. It freaks him out. But hey in this one regard, humans win.

Charlie used to be bothered by it, but now doesn’t get fussed. Perhaps it’s because of his brain damage—I’m pretty sure he spent some time seeing things that were’t there, and now not seeing things that are there is just another manifestation of the weirdness he’s grown used to—that and the fact that he’s always been less skittish than his brother. But, yes, he too loves his audio receiver.

I’ll leave you with a picture of him posing as the Emergency Medical Hologram from Star Trek: Voyager.

A poised and alert tabby cat with perfectly curved whiskers sitting before a blank TV screen on an audio receiver with his tail curled precisely around his paws, looking quizzically into the camera
Please state the nature of your emergency

Image description: A poised and alert tabby cat with perfectly curved whiskers sitting before a blank TV screen on an audio receiver with his tail curled precisely around his paws, looking quizzically into the camera


Perhaps I’ll post another Kitten Report over the holidays. Meanwhile, feel free to catch up on previous kitten reports.


1I use it as a mosquito repellant; it contains nootkatone—which is an even better repellant than DEET and absolutely nontoxic, to people. You can drink the damn stuff. I dilute five drops of essential oil with several tablespoons of neutral oil and it works like a magic shield. Also, it smells nice. I can recommend it. But obviously not for cats.

2 When I say expensive, I’m not kidding. But, oooh, it’s supercool!

3 They like Orijen, original flavour, which are whole-prey (muscle, organ, bone) dehydrated raw food pellets. They love to chase them.

Spear available on NetGalley

For booksellers, librarians, producers, reviewers and other book professionals, Spear is now available for request on NetGalley.

The digital galley doesn’t have the gorgeous interior illustrations by Rovina Cai, and the long, historically-focused Author’s Note is not left-justified1 but otherwise it’s a faithful reproduction of what you’ll read in the finished hardcover and ebook (or hear in the audiobook).

Image description: A composite image with, on the left, painted in muted colours—ice blue, umber, fawn—a figure half kneeling in a river leaning her weight on something submerged, perhaps another figure, with her sword. And on the right, the cover of a novel, Spear, by Nicola Griffith, also in muted colours, this time white, dark blue, bronze, charcoal, and ember-red.


The book won’t be out until April 19 next year, but requests are beginning to roll in for appearances, real and virtual. If you want me at your store/conference/school next year, now’s the time to get in touch with my publicist at Tor, Alexis Saarela. I have no idea where the world will be, pandemic-wise, but I have my fingers crossed for some live and in-person events.

Meanwhile I’m turning my attention to a couple of juicy essays I’ve been meaning to write for a year or two, and some blog posts of varying heft about all the things I learnt, and/or discarded, and/or think I might use in some future Peretur tale. So tell me what you’re curious about and I’ll see what I can do.


[1] It’s centre-justified, so it looks as though it should be written on a scroll, and read like a municipal proclamation: Hear Ye, Hear Ye, Whereas on this twenty-seventh day of October, in the two-thousandth-and-twenty-first year of this Common Era, the Author did herein note

OtherLife now on Prime Video!

OtherLife, the film Kelley wrote based on her novel, Solitaire, has moved from Netflix and is now available on Prime Video.

Turning a long, speculative “stylistic and psychological tour de force” (New York Times) novel into just over 90 minutes of sleek, luscious-looking sci-fi thriller, all on a low budget, was a rollercoaster ride: sometimes wildly exciting, sometimes grindingly hard, but never, ever boring. But that’s Kelley’s story to tell and happily she’s done that in a fascinating series of journal entries about the 11-year journey from book to screen. You’ll find it an eye-opening read. It was not always a smooth ride and the only reason that f illm ever got made was through the sheer force of Kelley’s will. I’ve never been more proud of her—and I’m proud of her a lot.

In the US, you watch the film here: https://www.amazon.com/Otherlife-Jessica-Gouw/dp/B091FXHR8T

In the UK, here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/OtherLife-Jessica-Gouw/dp/B077VTKPQS

And to help you make up your mind you can watch the trailer on YouTube:

Monstrously good! [video]

What is monstrously good and coming in exactly 6 months? Spear!

Monstrously good…

Video description: a T-Rex stomping about (and roaring at the occasional overhead pterosaur) on top of a pile of advance reading copies of the novel Spear by Nicola Griffith.


But you can, of course, pre-order the hardcover, audio, and ebook editions right now from these fine retailers:

IndieBound | Amazon.com | Bookshop.org | Barnes & Noble | Amazon.co.uk

Or see this enormous list of independent booksellers in the UK, US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland.

And it would be a good idea to pre-order now, especially if you want a hardcover copy. Why? Three reasons—two that almost always apply, and one that’s special to these pandemic times.

First, pre-ordering is good for you, the reader—once you’ve plunked down your cash you don’t have to worry about remembering anymore. When I know there’s a book I definitely am going to want, the best way to make sure I get it—because who can remember things like publication dates?—is to just buy it now and relax knowing it will magically arrive the first day it’s available.

Second, even in the best of times, it’s good for the author. Here’s what one publisher has to say about it1:

For an author, pre-orders can alert retailers and consumers that they should pay attention to your book. From the bookseller perspective, the pre-order quantity is a good early indicator of a book’s success, and can lead to retailers increasing their initial orders.

Additionally, pre-orders can have a ripple effect in the broader publishing industry, and a pre-publication buzz campaign in support of pre-orders can build anticipation for your book launch, allowing you to carry momentum through the weeks following your on-sale date.

Third, today—mid-pandemic—is most definitely not the best of times for publishing. You’ve probably heard that there are global supply chain disruptions affecting all sorts of industries. Publishing is one of them. One of Seattle’s booksellers, Robert Sindelar of Third Place Books, recently spoke to the New York Times about this. Shortages and shipping bottlenecks are occurring at several different points in the chain: not enough paper, not enough workers to print, bind, pack the books, not enough shipping containers to put them in, not enough ships to carry them, or workers to unload the shipping containers when they arrive, or trucks to transport the books to the warehouses, and from the warehouses to the stores, and so on. Print runs are usually ordered far in advance, so a publisher has to make an informed guess about numbers. In the best of times it doesn’t matter too much if they underestimate; it’ll only take a couple of weeks to print more. But, yeah—right now not the best of times. An author’s worst nightmare: readers queuing up to buy the delicious hardcover and there being no copies available anywhere and no idea when there might be.

So if you want to read Spear—and it’s monstrously good!—do you, me, and the publisher a favour and pre-order now. And keep the receipt so that closer to publication date you can enter to win a spiffy enamel pin.2


  1. Penguin Randomhouse
  2. The Spear pin is so great I actually wear in on my jacket lapel. I can’t remember the last time I liked something well enough to do that with—oh, well, okay, yes I do :)

Wednesday October 13, 7 pm: Les Bailey Writers Series, Saint Martin’s University

Image description: a flyer for an event. On the left, text reading “Saint Martin’s University Les Bailey Writers Series, Nicola Griffith, Making and Remaking the World, Wednesday October 13, 7:00pm, Worthington Center St Martin’s University,” followed by logos for St Martin’s University and Barnes and Noble. On the right, a black and white photograph of a smiling short-haired white woman at a microphone.


On Wednesday evening I’ll be in Lacey, WA at the Worthington Center, Saint Martin’s University, to give a public talk, Making and Remaking the World. Actually, it’ll be more of a guided conversation: Kelley will be asking me questions and we’ll talk for about an hour, then I’ll answer audience questions—often my favourite part of events like this—and then I’ll sign books. The university bookstore will be selling copies of Hild and So Lucky, but if you bring personal copies of any of my other works I’ll be happy to sign them.

So what does “Making and Remaking the World” mean? The long answer is basically my PhD thesis, plus every essay I’ve ever written about my work. The shortest answer is all about how and why I write—and who I write for. I write to some degree for myself—I write to find out—but I also write to change the world, one reader at a time. I write to see myself, and others like me, like you, in pasts, presents, and futures we’ve been told don’t belong to us. I build fictional worlds where we can all not only survive but thrive. And by building fictional worlds, and putting traditionally underrepresented people in them, I help recast attitudes we hold towards the world we live in today. And changing attitudes changes culture.

Some of the conversation will be about how I do that, and some about why I do that. I may or may not include a couple of very short (2 mins or so) readings—I haven’t decided yet.

Perhaps that sounds weighty and serious—and to an extent it is—but as one of the truest reasons I write is for pleasure, I’m hoping the conversation is pleasurable, too. When I write—and speak—I don’t just want to change the real world, I want the fictional world the reader lives in to delight them, thrill them, fill them with joy. Because in my experience joy is contagious: if my work fills you with joy, you may then go out into the world and fill others with joy. And that, too, will change the world.

Making and remaking worlds—this one or any other—does not have to be onerous. So come and join me and Kelley for a lovely evening of conversation and exploration.

I haz a ramp!

Image description: Smiling short-haired white woman in a wheelchair at the top of a beautiful wooden ramp. The ramp is attached at the top to a flower-filled deck and at the side to a blue-and-white house.


We moved into this house in 2005—before I even started using crutches. Even then, though, I knew I would one day be using a wheelchair, which is why we chose a single-level mid-century modern in a green and peaceful neighbourhood. Instead of a ramp, we installed an electric platform lift to raise any future wheelchair about 30″ from the floor of what was the garage (and is now our exercise and laundry room) to the main floor. The lift was not cheap; even so it was less expensive than building a ramp that didn’t look rickety, nasty, and institutional.

I was happy with the lift for quite a while, because although I had started using the wheelchair, I wasn’t wholly reliant on it. Now I am. This means that if the power fails when I’m inside the house I can’t leave—no power = no wheelchair lift—and if the power fails when I’m outside the house I can’t enter.

The power in this part of Seattle goes out often when there’s a big storm. And the problem with living in a green and peaceful—peaceful because it’s less dense—neighbourhood of the city is that, well, it’s less dense, which means a power outage affects fewer people which means getting the power back online is a lower priority for this area than many others. Which means that for the last three or four years every time there’s even a rumble of thunder I got tense. Anticipating helplessness is No Fun. I decided we needed a ramp. I looked at costs: for anything that wasn’t a nasty gimcrack flimsy aluminium contraption we’d be looking at between $10k-$20k.

Which is why, when I heard about an annual project sponsored by the Master Builders Association of King and Snohomish counties (MBAKS), called Rampathon—in which a whole crew of volunteers come build a ramp free of charge—I applied.

That was pre-pandemic—a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. I heard nothing, then forgot about it. (During the early part of the pandemic I never went anywhere anyway.)

Fast forward to August 2021 when I got a call from a nice woman who said, “Hey Nicola. You still want that ramp?”

It turned out MBAKS had to cancel the 2020 rampathon because Covid but that this year, with everyone vaccinated and the weather being unusually good it seemed like it might be doable. And sadly the first three people MBAKS had called no longer needed the ramp: they were either dead or now living in long-term care.

I’m not dead! I said. I’m right here! And yes please I so very much want that ramp!

Two weeks later Isaac Gaspar, from Gaspar’s Construction, came round to measure and talk about what kind of thing I needed, and then on Saturday 25th September (just 45 hours before we had to leave for our 9-day trip) a crew of 15 or 20 people from Gaspar’s—the whole office, basically; not just carpenters and master joiners and painters, but engineers, owners, designers, admin staff, handyfolk, project managers, and assorted friends and sweeties—showed up armed with tools, masks, team spirit, delight in helping, and hearty appetites. All it cost me and Kelley was conversation, coffee, and several platefuls of baked goods.

The sun shone, music played, people laughed and worked and stuffed themselves with treats, and eight hours later we had a ramp that is not only functional and sturdy but beautiful, gracefully designed and painted so that it looks as though it’s an integral part of the house and will last just as long. I am very, very pleased and profoundly grateful to all at Gaspar’s Construction and to the fine folks of MBAKS.

Also, it’s a hell of a lot of fun to play with—I love zooming up and down it at speed, even occasionally going up backwards, just because I can.

Thank you to Gaspar’s Construction and MBAKS’ 2021 Rampathon

Image description: a beautiful wooden ramp running from a flower-filled deck down between a shed and a house, both painted indigo and white. A plaque on the end post of the ramp reads “Rampathon 2021, built by Gaspar’s Construction, presented by Master Builders’ Association of King and Snohomish Counties.”

Isn’t it beautiful?

The cats, while at first profoundly suspicious, now own the ramp which was, of course, created entirely for their convenience. Kelley, too, finds it wonderfully convenient—much easier to roll heavy suitcases up a ramp than lugging them up stairs. The ramp is an all-around win.

If you live in King or Snohomish County and you need a ramp, applications for Rampathon 2022 open in January.


Kitten Report #19: Sad, abandoned, lost and betrayed! [photos]

Charlie and George are rescue kitties who had such a bad start in life that four of their siblings died before they could be adopted. If it weren’t for the wonderful care of Seattle Area Feline Rescue and their network of foster households—in Charlie and George’s case, the marvellous Cody’s Cat Palace—they would not have survived. They’re happy now, and healthy, but the experience marked them. George, particularly, can be very skittish around sudden noises and anyone but me and Kelley. Both of them freak out if there is no food around.

We’ve been with Charlie and George 24/7 since we adopted them in August 2019. The only time we’ve been apart in over two years was when one of them had to have an overnight stay at the vet (Charlie when he nearly died after an operation to remove a nasopharyngeal polyp, and George when he nearly died of salmonellosis caught from a bird). As a result, for all four of us being separated is indelibly linked to stress. Add to that the idea of travelling at all after two solid years at home—masks on a plane! crazy anti-vaxxers on a plane! just being on a fucking plane! getting off the plane among crazy Red State Covid-deniers and anti-vaxxers!—and the thought of leaving the cats for nine days in care of total strangers, without being able to explain to them that we were coming back and that these humans weren’t going to do horrible things to them, was…not thrilling.

But we’ll have the cats for the rest of their lives, which we hope will be long ones, and we have to start travelling sometime. So we agreed to undertake our recent nine-day, three-stop trip with some trepidation.

The most important part of our planning was finding the right people to care for them. It took a while, but eventually through a friend we were put in touch with Cat Ladies Cat Sitting. One of the owners came round, met us—though not the kitties, who stayed well away—got the lay of the land, listened patiently to all our frets, and reassured us even more patiently, and eventually we took the plunge and said, Okay let’s do this!

So we did.

And so many times during that nine-day trip one or both of us got worried—but we had twice-daily reports via WhatsApp, including proof-of-life photos, proof of food-eaten photos, the occasional video, and reassurance that neither was traumatised to the degree that they weren’t using their litter trays or grooming themselves or drinking water.

But, oh, some of the proof-of-life pixs hurt our hearts. Charlie is a brave soul, an explorer at heart, but the first 24-hours he looked totally freaked out and weird.


Before we go there, though, let’s backtrack a bit to before we left. George was looking particularly handsome and magisterial.

Except, y’know, when he wasn’t. Here he is trying not to yawn.

Charlie was in the best health he’s ever been: strong, lithe, glossy and absolutely unafraid of anything. And as usual his moods were mercurial.

But it turned out it was George who got the rodent—this time a mouse.

And Charlie vented his rage at Birdot.

Get off my lawn you ‘orrible little bird!

It was about this point that we dragged the suitases down from the loft and they knew something was up.

Stop this immediately. I do not approve.

And then, feeling like monsters, I prepared labelled photos for the Cat Ladies and uploaded them for all the sitters including a perspective shot showing their different sizes so they could be absolutely one hundred percent totally sure they could identify them.

Then we carefully put blankets on the bed, and set the mattress warmer on a timer, and sorted a new heating schedule so they would never be cold. And the next morning we left about 6:30.

We were as prepared as we could be. We had references for the Cat Ladies. We’d met one of them. And still we fretted. I’m guessing it was displaced anxiety about the travel—we had a couple of emotionally hard things to deal with, as well as the sheer misery of long, transcontinental travel—plus our own separation anxiety plus genuine worry about their mental state while we were gone.

The first report came in while we were still on the plane: litter changed, fresh food and water, both seen alive tucked safely under the bed.

We’re fine here, thank you

The next report came in about 6pm Seattle time, when we were still on the road to Stuart, FL: clean plates, used litter trays, and Charlie had ventured onto the top of the bed though George was sticking to his safe place.

Reports came in like clockwork, twice a day. Charlie warmed up pretty fast, going from fully freaked out to sniffing to graciously allowing a scritch the first day.

After that he was fine, rapidly moving from lounging to playing to demanding lap time.

George, as always was much, much more wary, staying under the bed for days, finally being brave enough to hide behind the bedroom curtain.

We knew that between them they were eating six cans of wet food a day, a lot of cat treats, and a cup or two of dried food, and the pictures of Charlie showed he hadn’t doubled in size, so we knew George was eating. Gradually he moved from the bed to the bedroom windowsill to the living room windowsill. Finally, on the very last day he sat at the end of the hallway, unprotected by anything except Charlie.

And then we came home. I wasn’t sure what to expect: Cold shoulder? Fear because we should be dead? Having our eyeballs torn out? In the end they both came galloping over, yelled at us comprehensively for five minutes—where have you been?! why did you go?! did you know strangers were here?!—then ate themselves insensible and slept near us for two hours. When they woke up they both came immediately came onto our respective laps and we all sat there smiling foolishly for a while. That night they slept jammed against us on the bed. And now, three days later, it’s as though we never went away.

So, well, I suppose there’s no excuse to not travel anymore. But I’m sure there’ll be another kitten report before that. Meanwhile, amuse yourself with previous Tales of Charlie and George, and have a lovely autumn.

Enter to win a copy of Spear!

From Shelf Awareness, Spear is the Galley Love Of the Week:

Nicola Griffith (Hild) draws on legend, myth and history to create Spear, a Camelot-inspired novella centered around tales of Peretur (also known as Percival), one of the legendary knights of the Round Table. Lydia Zoells, assistant editor at MCD (like Tordotcom, an imprint of Macmillan), describes the book as a “mythical retelling, or even historical fiction, [that] emphatically rejects the myth of a monolithically straight white able-bodied medieval Wales.” Told in what Zoells calls “rhythmic and rippling prose,” Spear is an atmospheric and lyrical tale steeped in rich historical detail. Griffith breathes vibrant and dazzling life into a stunning new take on Arthurian legend, encompassing queerness, magic, love, reputation, battle and legacy.

— Kerry McHugh, ShelfAwareness

GLOW selects books that have not yet been discovered by booksellers and librarians, identifying the ones that will be important hand-selling titles in a future season. You can enter to win an ARC here. The drawing is open until October 13.

Good luck!

Travel in the time of Covid

We have just returned from a nine-day trip in which we travelled to Stuart FL to spend a few days with family for the first time in almost three years, then drove to Orlando FL for the tiny (fewer than 50 attendees) interstitial International Conference for the Fantastic in the Arts (ICFA), then on to Portland for the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association conference. 

After more than two years at home it was strange to travel. Even pre-pandemic I found planes uncomfortable and claustrophobic so I steeled myself for the five and a half hour flight in a mask to be almost unbearable. But it turned out to just be the same mildly sucky experience it always was, only with less food. Except, well, that’s not the whole story. Apart from the dearth of food it was actually a better experience. Everyone on that plane was kind, generous, thoughtful and polite. I was genuinely touched by the constant, unremitting courtesy of airline staff, passengers, and crew.

There again, we were flying from Seattle, and this city has been at its magnificent best during the pandemic. I was prepared for Red State anti-vax Florida to be a different kettle of fish. Except, well, again, I was wrong. The non-family and non-ICFA people were all friendly, efficient, and non-contemptuous of mask wearers. And of course the ICFA folks and family were wonderful.

At all three hotels we stayed at, the biggest pandemic-based difference was in the level of service and amenities: no automatic housekeeping; no room service; limited bar and restaurant offerings. This is partly a safety issue, of course, but I suspect it was also at least as much due to staffing shortages—every staff member we encountered was overworked. I found myself tipping very heavily because I wanted to lighten their load and I couldn’t.

ICFA, though tiny, was wonderful. It’s been 28 years since I last attended in person. The last time I was scheduled to go I had to cancel just five days ahead because my father died and I had to fly to the UK. So I had forgotten how lovely it is to just hang out with other writers by the pool, or sit with Kelley and a glass of wine on the deck overlooking the small lake where an alligator lay in wait for unwary seabirds and raccoons. I saw a lovely white ibis, and what I think was an egret. And of course that gator—probably only about six feet—was ever-present. I could wish it had been ten degrees cooler, but there was plenty of shade, turning ceiling fans, and ice cold beer.

Throughout the trip we had twice-daily updates about Charlie and George, including proof-of-life photos. More on that in the next blog post.

When I travel to a 3-or-more-hour-difference timezone, I often sleep too late that first morning to make regular breakfast hours and have to rely on room service. In Stuart (and Orlando, and Portland), that option wasn’t available this time—but it turned out the Florida hotels opened for breakfast until 11 am, and my breakfast in Portland was a public one during which I gave a presentation about Spear—so it was not a problem.

I was pretty tired by the time we got to Portland (I’m still tired). To get there in time we had to up at 2:30 am Pacific  time, take our wheelchair van to the rental place, get a shuttle to the airport, fly to Seattle, and, instead of driving home, drive straight from the airport to the PNBA hotel in Portland. By the time I had signed a zillion boxes of ARCs then met booksellers over drinks that evening I was fried. Then I had to be up at 6:30 the next morning in order to eat my eggs and sausage and give that presentation.

I think the presentation went okay. I suspect I was probably a bit too enthusiastic about tracing tales of Peretur/Peredur/Peredurus/Parsifal/Parzival/Percival through various regions and centuries and languages but I know at least two booksellers cried (hopefully not with boredom), and one (unfortunately) felt compelled to tell me how inspiring it is to see someone with my challenges (aka a wheelchair) being so brave and shining so brightly. Perhaps it was my fatigue—perhaps he wasn’t, in fact, trying to do the inspiration porn thing—but I suspect my lack of enthusiasm for his perspective was apparent.

Then it was a brutal 3-hour drive home in torrential rain. I’m just glad Kelley was at the wheel—I kept nodding out. The Portland-Seattle I-5 run is miserable at the best of times, but when you have fools driving pale grey cars (most residents of the PNW) who don’t put the their lights on and so disappear in the rainlight, and crazy people in Pontiacs driving a 100 miles an hour and abruptly lane-changing, all in a frog-strangling downpour, well, it becomes a bit of a knuckle-biter.

But then we got home and, ta-da! There was our wonderful new ramp! I had forgotten all about it. More on that in a separate post.

And, best of all, there were the Charlie and George—still alive, and only taking fifteen minutes to segue from terrified kitties thinking we were ghosts to grumpy cats indignant at being unceremoniously abandoned, without notice, by cruel and heartless moms, to the care of dangerous strangers.

Another fine surprise: many of our summer flowers were (and are) still in bloom. Usually they’ve given up by now, but we still have bright red-and-white salvia, red-and-purple fuchsia, red and orange and peach geraniums, petunias of all colours, a gold/orange vine flower of some kind, lots of purple salvia, and two different sets of million bells. I’m amazed.

But, yeah, I’m tired. If I owe you email it might take a few days. I’m hoping that Kelley and I can spend a lovely quiet weekend in front of the fire with wine and books and kitties, all happy to be home together.

Season of change

I love autumn. For me it’s a season of change—slightly melancholy but also, always, deeply and fundamentally exciting. To me autumn is the real new year. The riotous blooms and leaves of our planters and pots on the decks are beginning to change—becoming more sparse and more intensely green as the more sensitive ad brightly-coloured annuals like petunias stop blooming. The nights are cooler and quieter. Even the air whispers of change: it smells different, more briny, more alive, and it sounds different as the leaves become papery. The squirrels are fiercer and faster and less afraid of predators because they know winter is coming and they have to gather their supplies. Right around this time, too, hummingbirds morph from instant food-territory belligerence, particularly with each other, to mellow appreciation—sometime next month I’ll see two, or even three, who in June might have fought half to death, sitting together companionably drinking from the same feeder.

One change for me this autumn is finally getting a ramp built. And once it’s in, for the first time in six years I won’t worry whenever there’s a storm. When there’s a big storm here we lose power. When we lose power, my wheelchair lift won’t work. When the wheelchair lift won’t work I can’t leave the house—or enter the house if I’m already out when the storm hits. We’ve been lucky so far, in that storms have hit while I’ve been at home, and the power hasn’t been out for more than a few hours. But I worry. Every time. And soon I won’t have to worry anymore.

Meanwhile, we’ve had to shove all our plants together in a pile on the deck so the carpenters can get to work. So, for while, the pots look abundant again especially after it rains.

Image description: pots and planters shoved together on a deck: jasmine, petunias, million bells, fuchsia and marigold
Video of rain pouring down on a deck soaking planters and pots full of jasmine fuchsia, salvia, herbs, palms, petunias, million bells, geraniums, and marigolds

This year, for the first time in three years, the season marks the beginning of another round of book publicity. The first of my 2022 books, Spear, won’t be out for another six months but my first official gig is scheduled in less than two weeks: attendance at the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association in Portland. While I’m there I’ll sign a couple of hundred galleys, meet booksellers, and give a presentation about the book at the big group breakfast.

Until Hild I’d never given a breakfast speech. I’m not at my sparkling best first thing in the morning so voluntarily eating socially while trying to blink myself awake would never have occurred to me. And wanting to listen to a speech while I ate my eggs? Eyebrow-raising. As for giving the speech, oh ha, ha ha ha! But then eight years ago the kind people at the PNBA asked me go down there to talk about Hild, so I did, and I had a lovely time. (Despite the day before being the first day of the Eight-Month Nightmare That Was Tecfidera-Induced Pain, and so being in shock for the whole thing.) And I think it made a big difference to the sales of the book. I mean, how can you not feel fondly towards those you’ve shared breakfast with? I certainly feel kindly disposed towards those who happily munched their eggs and muffins while I enthused about Hild.

So this year I’m actively looking forward to it. And I’m pretty sure this year there will be no nerve pain. And then I will come back to Seattle and happily zoom up and down my very own ramp, just because I can.

When accidents become icons

I’m guessing most readers are familiar with the classic ringed or Celtic cross: originally large, standing stone crosses with what many have described as a stone ‘nimbus’ around the arms.* These standing crosses ranged in height from about 3m to 5.5m. Here’s a generic vector drawing to illustrated what I mean:


Vector drawing by Petr Vodicka of an original in the public domain

There are now millions of these nimbused crosses in miniature: on tattoos, t-shirts, and tarot cards; woven in hanging cloths, painted on Christmas cards, and hammered from bronze and pewter and silver and gold and hung on neck chains. There’s lots of rumination among academics, religious, antiquarians, and historians about where and how that so-called nimbus developed. Perhaps it comes from the cosmological cross, an “important motif in Coelius Sedulius‘s poem Carmen Paschale,” composed in the fifth century and, according to Wikipedia, “known in Ireland by the 7th century.” (You will forgive me if I call bullshit, or at least an unseemly stretching of probability.) Or maybe St Patrick combined the cross with pagan symbols (such as the Neolithic and Bronze Age wheel cross—see footnote) to appeal to the heathen. (We have absolutely zero indication of this, but, hey, anything’s possible.) Or, gosh, it could represent Christ’s dominance over the sun god. (Well of course it could; it could represent a prescient seventh-century mystic’s representation of a lunar module on top of Apollo 13.) And on it goes. It’s always been clear to me that all these pedantic old white men were basically talking through their beards.

So I was absolute delighted last month when I read an article in the September issue of Current Archaeology, “Iona’s Archetype,” that gave a much more likely explanation: the shape is a useful accident resulting from at least two sets of damage and an eight-century repair. And for this eminently sensible suggestion there is some evidence—circumstantial, of course, but something tangible.

On the island of Iona (that Hild knows as Hii) there were several large standing stone crosses. Most now standing are replicas, or are in pieces—or parts of a larger, reconstructed whole—in museums. One, the eight-century St Martin’s cross, still stands in its original position on Iona:

St Martin’s cross. Original mounted photograph annotated by Erskine Beveridge ‘ St Martin’s Cross Iona – (from east)’. From the RCAHMS Society of Antiquaries of Scotland Collection MS/36/209.

Note how short the arms are, how small the upper surface area is relative to the width of the long central arm. Iona is a windy island. Any top-heavy structure, especially if the top part has a large surface area, will be prone to being blown down. My guess is that the size of those arms explains the St Martin’s cross’s survival.

The Current Archaeology article, though, examines St John’s cross, originally 5.3m tall (about 17.5′), carved in the early eight century and apparently the progenitor of all Celtic crosses. Here’s what the partially reconstructed cross looks like.

Photo via Canmore

This is very high and very top-heavy. That central boss and outstretched arms would have acted rather like a sail, tipping the top-heavy thing over. The stone, particularly the arms, would most likely break under its own weight—and in fact there’s evidence of more than one such break and subsequent repair. There’s also evidence that sometime after the cross fell over it was re-erected, this time jammed into the central slot of an old mill stone to provide stability.

More interestingly, from my perspective, the circle appears to be a latter addition, introduced during one of the repairs, along with an extra piece at the top and at the neck—the shaded bits in the diagram below.

Here’s a more detailed look at the structural repair and stability improvement.

Photos again courtesy of Canmore

It is an elegant solution.

So, that beard-tugging rumination about the origins of the circle in the Celtic cross? Just-So stories resting on wishful thinking.

Finally, just for grins, here’s a photo of the concrete replica of St John’s cross that stands today on Iona.

It must have been an awe-inspiring sight, particularly if it was painted. Was it painted? We don’t know. I’m not aware of evidence of polychromatic decoration but, there again, I’m not aware of any evidence that they weren’t. And why would you go to all the time, trouble and expense of creating such an amazing thing and then not make it as striking as possible? Maybe we should have a colouring competition…


*I am not talking here of the white supremacist hate symbol, usually with four equal arms rather than the long vertical axis of a standing cross. The hate symbol very possibly could be a direct descendant of the wheel cross—which is a cross inside a circle (and if you break that circle just before its join to the cross you get the beginnings of a swastika)—but it’s also just possible it could be connected to the nativist national origin myths that neo-nazis love to co-opt.

More on the enamel pin for Spear

Image description: A round enamel pin in the shape of a red shield with raised rim and embossed rivets held between a white woman’s the finger and thumb. On the shield are entwined forget-me-nots, with blue-and-yellow flowers and deep green leaves. Lying over all is a broad-bladed boar spear.


I promised an update on availability. Here’s what I know.

The pin will be available during a pre-order campaign which will begin much closer to the publication date. (Publication date is 19 April 2022. So perhaps after the holidays? I’m just guessing.) When that does happen, there’ll be an online form and readers can upload their receipt (from any retailer) to get a pin. So no need to cancel any pre-orders now, just file the receipt until the form is live! And I’ll be sure to let you know when it goes up.

If you want to be ready, pre-order the book now:

IndieBound | Amazon.com | Bookshop.org | Barnes & Noble | Amazon.co.uk

Or see this enormous list of independent booksellers in the UK, US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland.

Meanwhile I’ve been happily futzing about making pretties of the ARCs. More on that later.

Happy Birthday to Kelley

Kelley in her office last autumn

Today is Kelley’s birthday. Once again I feel so glad we met and that she took a chance on me. She is the queen of my heart.

The best of my books to read first

Graphic of Nicola Griffith novels sowing six arranged in a repeating zigzag diagonal pattern

A nice piece today by Jonathan Thornton up on Tor.com, all about my books, in order, with short, sharp, thoughtful analyses of each. It’s good to feel seen (mostly—there are a few awards missing but he got the main things).

Now if only someone would fix my Wikipedia page

A spear and a shield

Spear package: two postcards, an ARC, and an enamel pin. Photo by Theresa DeLucci.

This is the package being sent out this month to early readers and influencers. The book in the middle is the Advanced Reading Copy of Spear. On either side is a postcard featuring one of the interior illustrations. I’ll talk about each of those things in depth in future blog posts. Today I want to talk about the fourth item, an enamel pin.

Enamel pin for Spear, designed by Forensics and Flowers

When the marketing folks at Tordotcom told me they were commissioning an enamel pin as part of their sales and marketing campaign, I wasn’t sure how I felt. Obviously, Yay! that there would be a marketing campaign. But also Eh? because what if it was some cheap, lightweight tchotchke—a mile from the kind of thing a Spear reader might be interested in?

So, yeah: I needn’t have doubted. The pin turns out to be a rather splendid, substantial, lovely-in-the-hand object. Beautifully coloured, gorgeously designed, and astonishingly textured. It feels weighty and handmade.

When I opened the box the first thing that struck me was the size. That round shield is about 4 cm in diameter, and the two prongs on the back—like sharp earring posts—are held in place by two sturdy black rubber stoppers, big enough to need their own raised grip. You could pin this to canvas, leather—a belt, a book bag, the lapel of a winter topcoat—and it will stay secure. Equally, you could pin it to a t-shirt (which is what I did to test it; it looked very handsome against black).

The second thing is that the pin will stick to a magnet—as I found out when I put it on the table and click, it stuck to my iPad. So for those of you who wear expensive clothes, you could file the posts off and just stick a magnet behind your material. That way you needn’t be afraid of poking holes in your cashmere or silk or suede, or the beautiful wool cloth of your Armani jacket :)

Third, the detail. Look at the banding around the shield, and those tiny individual rivets. The shading and texture on the petals. The cross-piece below the leaf-shaped blade. Not to mention the yellow centres of the forget-me-nots.

Which brings me to the fourth thing, the amazing colour—and how beautifully it matches Rovina Cai’s artwork. (which I’ve already talked about elsewhere and will talk about more soon.)

Fifth, and best, is how perfectly it encapsulates the spirit of the book: spear—specifically a boar spear—shield, forget-me-nots, and red red red. It honestly couldn’t be better.

How can you get hold of one of these pins? I’m not sure yet. I think (again, I’m not sure yet) they’ll be used as part of some kind of campaign though I’ve no idea if it will be pre- or post-publication. I can promise you that when I know, you’ll know. So if you want one, stay tuned.

Wedding anniversary x 2

Ringshots from 1993 (top) and 2013

Image description: Two photos of two white women’s hands. The top photo is in colour; each woman wears a single gold band on their ring finger. The photo below is in black and white; each woman wears two gold bands on their ring finger.


On this day 28 years ago Kelley and I got married for the first time—in our back garden in Atlanta surrounded by about fifty of our family and friends. WE gave each other a 14ct gold wedding band. The marriage had no legal force.

Exactly 20 years later we got married again, this time before a judge and attended by fourteen family and friends. WE gave each other an 18ct gold wedding band which we wore next to the first. And this time it was a legal ceremony, and our marriage was—and is—valid all over the world.

That second wedding was possible because just a few months earlier, on June 26th, 2013—on the 25th anniversary of when Kelley and I met—we got the best anniversary present of all time: SCOTUS struck down the Defence of Marriage Act.

For us here in Seattle, today, life is good. I hope it’s good for you wherever you are.

My MS resume

If you’re here because of my recent interview for theMSGuide.com, hello and welcome. I’m a novelist—this website and blog is mostly about my life and work: I talk about books, book research, cats, SARS-CoV-2, queer issues and disability issues. MS is often peripheral to my interests. Obviously, feel free to fossick about in my essays and blog posts, but if you’d rather just focus on MS then here’s a short resume of me, my interests in and thoughts on MS and disability.

I have MS. I was diagnosed in 1993. I started using a cane in 1999, elbow crutches in 2004, and a manual wheelchair with power assist in 2016. I was one of the first people with MS on beta interferon but switched to Copaxone after bad reactions. I’ve always been a researcher, and in 1999 I came *this* close to persuading my neurologist to give me complete immune system reboot via ablation with cyclophosphamide or something similar. In the end he chickened out. Even today I am still sometimes angry about that. I then tried mitoxantrone which was amazing at first (almost like a miracle cure), then terrible (really bad rebound effect, plus I needed marrow-expanding rescue shots—and let me tell you, that shit hurts) and now, of course, means I have to have annual echocardiograms to look for heart failure and alert to the signs of leukaemia. I’m fine so far. After mitoxantrone I moved on to a variety of other immunomodulatory drugs until Tecfidera utterly crippled me for almost a year with the kind of pain that will drive people to kill themselves. Fortunately my wife is smart and realised it was the drugs causing the pain, not MS. I stopped the drugs and within 24 hours I stopped all the opioids. A week later I had my life back—and that is the closest I’ve ever come to a medical miracle. My only meds now are dalfampridine (a potassium channel blocker—and yes it makes a difference) low-dose naltrexone (ditto) and the occasional pregabalin (GABA analogue, that is, a nerve pain reducer) when an old ulnar nerve injury acts up.

In terms of activism and social justice around MS and disability I joined the the Multiple Sclerosis Association in 2002 as a volunteer and was soon spending 20 hours a week organising things like publicity, marketing, and yoga classes. I joined the board in 2004—and resigned in 2005 when I finally realised the organisation was more interested in perpetuating itself (paying staff—none of whom had MS—and fattening their pension plans) than actually working for people with MS. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

I started writing about disability and MS with posts such as “Lame is So Gay,” and “Coming Out as a Cripple.” I’ve offered my thoughts on MS beginning with faulty lipid metabolism, I write essays and Op-Eds, give lectures, and spent some time pointing out the awful imbalance in crip representation in books and film. I’ve given talks to organisations about disability access and inclusion, consulted on a Hollywood tentpole film in development about a disabled protagonist, and advised individual authors on disability representation.

In 2016 I founded #CripLit and with Alice Wong co-hosted a series of Twitter chats for disabled writers and editors. In 2017 I started collecting a list of books that pass the Fries Test—and the numbers were, frankly, so disheartening that I no longer bother. Though having said that, in the last four years there’s been an absolute explosion in CripLit and if I had to guess I could quadruple that list overnight. Having said that, even if I could multiply the list by a hundred, representation statistics would still be woeful: there would still be 1,250,000 disabled voices missing.

In 2018 I wrote my one and only novel about disability—So Lucky, a short thriller about a woman diagnosed with MS. It won the Washington State Book Award and got good reader reviews—and some appallingly ignorant reviews from nondisabled critics. Ableism is alive and well in all parts of the literary ecosystem.

There’s more to tell of my MS and disability journey, but for now here’s a list of some things I’ve written you might find relevant.

Two years of Çaturdays

We’ve now had the pleasure and privilege of living with kittens Charlie and George for two years. They’ve given us delight, terror, irritation and, again—and mostly—delight. We brought them home on 10 August 2019. They were about 12 weeks ago. They were small for their age: the only survivors of a litter of six, rescued and brought back from the brink (at one point Charlie weighed just one pound) by the heroic efforts of Seattle Area Feline Rescue and, particularly, their foster parent, Cody. Now they are happy and healthy and utterly in charge of their world. Here are a few pictures of their journey.

12 August, 2019: George (left) and Charlie meet the sofa for the first time—

—but it doesn’t take them long to become lords of the sofa, just indefatigable. Here they are, exactly one week later, running round and round and round. At this stage they have not yet discovered the joys of scratching the sofa to pieces.

A month later: a bouquet of sleeping kittens. Now all they do is eat and sleep.
But it doesn’t take long for them to begin adolescence—Charlie sort of dreamy and George frowny
And now they are fully adult, kings of their world (and ours)—both a little grumpy here in this June photo because it was 108 degrees and we wouldn’t let them outside

So today, two years and four days after meeting two tiny kittens for the first time, we’re all having a Happy Çaturday. We look forward to hundreds more with these fine beasties.

If you want more pictures and videos—a lot more—take a look at two years’ worth of Kitten Reports. And meanwhile, enjoy your Çaturday.

Spear updates

A cropped version of the Notecard Rosette designed to look very much like an ammonite, or a giant eye with a dark blue pupil, with writing—"Spear" in big black letters, and, beneath that in smaller red letters, "Nicola Griffith,"—are prominent in the upper right corner.

Image description: A cropped version of the Notecard Rosette (see image description below) designed to look very much like an ammonite, or a giant eye with a dark blue pupil, with writing—”Spear” in big black letters, and, beneath that in smaller red letters, “Nicola Griffith,”—are prominent in the upper right corner. 


Spear, my short novel set in a sixth-century Britain of demi-gods and legends, will be out in 9 months. The publishing process proceeds apace. Here are some updates.

Today I got the first pass proofs—I hate proofing, it’s my least favourite part of the process—but I’m also delighted by these proofs because I’m finally getting a sense of what the book might look like. The finished length is 192 pages—which is actually 184 pages if you discount the title page, copyright page, half-title pages, etc, but include the Author’s Note. It’s a juicy note, long enough to need 19 footnotes. (I love writing footnotes; they’re an opportunity for sly jokes and generally things not to be taken too seriously—though of course some of these footnotes are Very Serious and Weighty Indeed.)

As well as the fabulous cover illustration, Rovina Cai has created five luscious and evocative black and white line drawings as interior illustrations. One in particular will stop your heart (especially if you’re sneaking peeks ahead of our reading, tsk tsk), but I’ll say no more for now.

Rovina has added colour wash and animated two of those illustrations to make lovely GIFs which we’ll be using for Very Special Promotions. More on that later, too.

And speaking of Special Promotions we also have a specially-designed enamel pin—the kind of thing that would look good worn on a lapel in all walks of life, as well as pinned to a book bag etc. We also have notecards which look like this:

Six notecards fanned out on a wooden table. The main body of the card is white, with a red, black, bronze and white illustration in a long strip down the left hand side. Across the bottom of the white part is printed, in big black letters, "Spear," and beneath that in smaller red letter, "Nicola Griffith."
Notecard spread, based on cover illustration by Rovina Cai

Image description: Six notecards fanned out on a wooden table. The main body of the card is white, with a red, black, bronze and white illustration in a long strip down the left hand side. Across the bottom of the white part is printed, in big black letters, “Spear,” and beneath that in smaller red letter, “Nicola Griffith.


Or if, like me, you get obsessed with patterns, like this:

Notecard Rosette: I got fed up of the cats trompling on my pretty patterns and fucking them up so ended up cheating and doing this rather clumsily in Photoshop

Image description: Dozens—at least 50—SPEAR notecards arranged like a rosette so that it looks very much like a fan or kaleidoscope or even wheels spinning within wheels of white, red, bronze, and black against a black background. The final card is arranged at the one o’clock position, but hanging perpendicularly, so the writing, “Spear” in big black letters, and, beneath that in smaller red letters, “Nicola Griffith,” are clearly displayed.


Or like the image at the top of the post (which, yes, is deliberately made to look like an ammonite—I’ve talked about my fascination with phi before).

I have made a map which I’m pretty pleased with. I made it too late for inclusion in the book, and it needs some tweaks before it’s ready for prime time, but—again—more on that soon.

I just got confirmation that I’ll be doing the audio narration. I’m thrilled about this! I love reading aloud, love to perform my own work, and this book in particular was written to be read aloud. It has a rolling rhythm that I can’t wait for you to hear. Excitingly, I’ve finally found an accessible sound studio that doesn’t charge obscene rates. Jack Straw Cultural Center is a venerable community organisation and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to working with them. Assuming it goes well, it will mean much more audio from me in the future. That won’t be happening until February, at which point I’ll blog about the process, as I did with So Lucky. Meanwhile, you can listen and watch my 3-minute reading of the beginning of Spear and can pre-order the audio, hardcover, and ebook editions now from most book retailers:

IndieBound | Amazon.com | Bookshop.org | Barnes & Noble | Amazon.co.uk

Finally, I have my first two blurbs and an advanced reader review and I am hugging myself and grinning. Those, too, will appear at the proper time but for now let me just say—they are pretty fucking good 😎

That’s about it for Spear, for now. I hope to have some sort of MENEWOOD update soon.

Things disabled people do

The title is, of course, disingenuous: I have absolutely zero idea of what ‘disabled people’ do because we are myriad, more than a quarter of the population. I would not presume to speak for billions. What I will do is speak for myself and talk about what I, a disabled person, do.

Why do I want to do that, why flaunt my disability? Because July is Disability Pride Month. And while lots of people yell and scream and preen and beam for Gay Pride—I did too, back in the day (my first Pride March was London, 1979)—Crip Pride isn’t yet a massive, corporate-sponsored institution.

The thing about Pride, though, is that it’s complicated. Just as without heteronormativity there can be no queerness, and—if you subscribe to the social model of disability, as I do—without ableist culture no disability, without shame there would be no pride. 

Shame is baked into Otherness; many of us struggle with it at some point, no matter how fleetingly. The lucky ones among us get past it. So, yes, pride as a notion can be problematic. But as one tiny step towards dismantling the shame monolith that looms over so many of us, I thought I’d talk a bit about life as a crip—and along the way perhaps make disability seem a bit less exotic and/or scary for you nondisabled folks. Kidding! I’m not doing it for nondisabled people at all. I’m doing it for me and mine: I’m going to trumpet and celebrate all the good, fine and fun things I do despite the world actively conspiring to shove me and those like me out of sight.

First of all, I drink beer! In public, for all to see! A lot of beer. Probably more than is strictly necessary. Because I really like it. (Yes! Crips enjoy doing things that aren’t the extra special best things for their health.) I go to pubs and enjoy pints of Guinness with friends. (Yes! Crips have friends!)

Aaaah. That hits the spot! We’re here; we drink beer. Get used to it.
Me, Colleen—a friend we’ve known for more than 20 years—and Kelley at our neighbourhood pub: the first time we’ve all been together since lockdown

Image descriptions: Top—a big old pint of Guinness on a pub table by a window that looks out onto a sunlit neighbourhood street. Bottom—Three white women at a pub table. The one on the left (Nicola) has short fair hair and sits in a wheelchair and holding an almost empty pint of Guinness. The one in the middle is standing with her arms around the shoulders of the other two. The one on the right is sitting. The table is littered with empty glasses. They are all grinning.


I also go out to restaurants, and enjoy lunches and dinners and cocktails with friends—different friends, because crips have many friends! Because, yes, some crips like good food and fabulous wine; some crips can afford to eat in fine-dining establishments and drink in hip cocktail bars. (Though sadly some crips always forget to take pictures of these things, sigh.)

And those pubs and restaurants and bars aren’t just in the US, because, hey, some crips travel, too, flying across the Atlantic First Class when times are good.

So how does this crip afford to flaunt her disabled self in First Class and among the Great and Good in tony hotel bars? She earns money! How does she earn money? By writing fabulous, multiple award-winning, optioned-by-the movies, zillion-times translated novels!

Me signing books after winning my second Washington State Book Award in 2019 for SO LUCKY—a novel about becoming a crip

Image description: A short-haired white woman (Nicola) in grey suit jacket and black turtleneck and pants sits in a wheelchair with a book open on her lap and a pen poised to write something while looking at someone off-camera and waiting.


I also perform. In public. For entertainment (mine as much as yours) and profit (almost wholly mine—certainly not yours).

Me doing a live, staged radio show interview
Me in a downtown studio narrating SO LUCKY audiobook

Image descriptions: Top—Nicola in a wheelchair on a stage, speaking out to the audience, some of whom are visible at lower right. Bottom—Nicola in headphones, sitting on a stool with her wheelchair in the background, in front of a complicated microphone set-up and reading stand, sipping camomile tea from a white mug.


How do I get to these events? In my very own wheelchair-adapted Honda Odyssey GT—with an 11-speaker sound system, full navigation package, and luscious leather seats—with hand controls. Because this crip at least refuses to be reliant upon the kindness of strangers or be pushed around like a sack of potatoes; I’m lucky enough to be able to move under my own power, and in style.

At the controls of my super-adapted vehicle

Image description: Nicola sitting at the wheel of her adapted vehicle with right hand on an electronic steering knob and left hand on a push-rock brake/accelerator.


And how do I do that? In a piece of cutting-edge technology: a supercool all black ultralight, motion-assisted manual wheelchair. It’s such a sleek and enviable piece of tech that the most discerning creatures on earth—cats—try to claim it for their own.

Charlie loves my wheelchair

Image description: a tabby cat curled up fast asleep on a sleek, all-black wheelchair standing in front of a sunlit orange wall.


I also draw a bit, and play the ukulele occasionally—though not in my wheelchair. I drink wine in the evenings with my sweetie, sitting in the sunshine among the flowers on the deck of our lovely house. Yes! Crips deserve and often have love! Crips deserve to enjoy sunshine and flowers—they even choose the flowers and buy the flowers and plant the flowers! They deserve to and sometimes do live in lovely houses!

The view from our front window in late May
Kelley and I sitting just outside the same window in early April. Photo by Anita Corbin for Invisible Girls Revisited.

Image descriptions: Top—a photo of garden taken through a living room window. The window is framed by hanging red roses and the rest of the garden is a riot of colour: green, blue, purple, red, pink and white. You can almost smell the fragrance.


And you know what else I do? I fight. Crips are nobody’s pawns, objects of pity, or icons of inspiration. Sometimes we have tempers, don’t give a shit, are unwashed, slothful, and happy so to be. Sometimes we are shameless.

I do like to hit things

Image description: Black and white blurred photo of Nicola in a wheelchair at the boxing gym, wearing MMA gloves and pounding the shit out of a heavy bag, while her instructor—also in a wheelchair—looks on.


If you want to know more about any of the disability stuff I’ve mentioned, go read some of the other posts, essays, and speeches on the subject:

And if you want others’ perspectives, go follow #DisabilityPrideMonth hashtags on Twitter and Instagram and if you’re feeling generous donate some money. I don’t need it (not anymore) but a lot of people do—and Disability Pride has no huge corporate sponsors, disabled people don’t earn huge speaking fees, and disabled artists—writers, musicians, dancers—do not get fat grants.

Çaturday with Charlie and George

Charlie looking his fuzzy self

Image description: Black and white digital drawing of a mackerel tabby cat sitting upright facing the viewer with his tail stretched to the right. He sits slightly skewed, his whiskers are luxuriant, and his fur is fine and full.


A drawing of Charlie using Procreate (mostly). I’m still experimenting—mixing and matches brushes, trying (with limited success) to find the right textures. It’s harder with Charlie than with George because his fur is stippled rather than striped; it’s also finer and longer. It makes it harder to capture definite outlines.

George is simpler to draw; he was also my first Procreate guineapig:

George thinks he’s still a kitten

Image description: Black and white digital drawing of a tabby cat too big for his old kitty condo and so having to half sit, half stand on two platforms at once.


Even though George was my first Procreate kitty portrait, in some ways I think it’s more successful than Charlie’s. This beginner’s luck is something I’ve noticed often over the years, whether with physical activity or artistic practise: the first unselfconscious aikido move/sketch/song/story/axe-throw/clay model/painting is always far better than it has any right to be, and then it takes weeks to reach the point where I can consciously create something as good as that first unselfconscious attempt—which often wasn’t that great to start with. So of course what happens is that most of those hobbies turn out to not be worth the bother.

Some hobbies do turn into part- or full-time professions, at least for a time: singing and music; martial arts and women’s self-defence; writing. But there’s a limit to how many for-money occupations a person can have—especially ones that don’t pay brilliantly. Some go back to being hobbies—but only if it’s with unfamiliar instrument/tools. So for example I no longer teach self-defence of practise karate or aikido, but I like wheelchair boxing. I no longer sing with a band, but I like to noodle around with my ukulele. But these no-longer-professions are only fun for me if the results are very, very clearly amateurish and I don’t take it seriously. Because the minute I take it seriously I get obsessive. Obviously I didn’t give up on writing, and now that I’ve found the right non-messy tools—my iPad and Pencil—I suspect I won’t give up on drawing. The trick is to do it for play not pay—which is part of the reason I’m sharing this stuff publicly even though it’s not very good: it’s so that I don’t obsess about trying to make it good enough for pay; to not worry about it being (very much) less than perfect. Time will tell. But right now I’m having a good time.

The lovely thing about drawing the cats is that I’m spending a lot of time observing them closely which is always a joy. I’m learning to see them more clearly. For example, both Charlie and George tend to sit slightly off-kilter in the same way—though mirror images, with their tails going in opposite directions. Their eyes are differently positioned, too. And Charlie’s pupils are almost always less dilated than George’s.

Anyway, in the future expect occasional kitty pix of varying quality.

Historic, dangerous, prolonged, and unprecedented

The title is a direct quote from the Weather Service about the heat dome over the Pacific Northwest. Meterologist are falling back on deeply scientific language, calling it “insane,” “bonkers” and “incredible.” According to the Washington Post:

The strength of the heat dome . . . is simply off the charts. Its intensity is so statistically rare that it might be expected only once every several thousand years on average. 

Washington Post

Once every several thousand years? Yeah, no. I think this is just a shot across our bows; just the beginning.I chose Seattle 25 years ago because of its temperate climate—specifically, because one late September night in Atlanta I woke up at 2 in the morning and it was still 74 degrees. No, I thought. No no no. Won’t. And we moved. Yet last night, at 2:38 am outside it was 86 degrees. This is so far from ‘normal’ I can’t wrap my head around it.

Here in Seattle:

  • yesterday hit 102
  • today heading for 106
  • tomorrow to hit 111

For those who use 21st century measures, 111ºF is 44ºC. This heat is so all-encompassing that frankly I’m finding it hard to wrap my head around it. Yet we’re lucky: we live in one of Seattle’s real cool spots:

Image description: heat map of Seattle just north and south of the ship canal. Colours range from red (hottest) to blue (coolest). On small island of blue to the north is marked with a purple dot and purple arrow.

Also, we have central air-conditioning. This is good—I think I might be dead without it (I have MS: my nerve signals fail when I overheat)—but our system just isn’t designed to handle temperatures 21 degrees above previous records.

We’ve offered help to friends, and shelter for neighbours. I hope everyone out there has cold water, shade, and pre-cooked food. See you on the other side.

Indivisible—except by 3 and 11

I took this photo of Kelley in her home office in November, 2020. George helped.

Image description: Colour photo of a woman and tabby cat sitting in front of a wall of books. She has long hair, bleached to silver, tinted with turquoise, and is wearing glasses and a simple, single stone opal pendant that matches her hair. She is looking at the camera, laughing, gesturing with her hands—she wears two wedding rings on the ring finger of her left hand—and seems delighted with the world and the cat, who is licking her right hand.


33 years ago today I met Kelley. It was a wicked hot day—just as today (and tomorrow, and Monday) will be—and we were young, 27. I’ve told this story many times before and so won’t rehash it here; feel free to go look at 30 years: a love story in photos, or read an excerpt from my memoir about the moment we met.

I know that my 27 year-old self was real (and in fact at the time Kelley and I met I considered myself a mature adult with vast life experience) but I sometimes have a hard time believing I ever had a life without Kelley in it.

She’s an amazing woman. I love her. I’ve loved her since the moment we met (though of course she didn’t believe me for a while). We’ve married twice: the first time in 1993, long before it was legal, the second time on the 20th anniversary of our first wedding, when we could legally call each other Wife. I’ll love her til the day I die, which frankly I hope is not for at least another 33 years.

Please have a most marvellous weekend—we certainly plan to—and raise a glass to love, of all and every kind.