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.
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.
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.
Image description: a beautiful wooden ramp running from a flower-filled deck down between a shed anda 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.”
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.
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.
It was about this point that we dragged the suitases down from the loft and they knew something was up.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
—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.
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.
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:
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:
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:
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.
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!)
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!
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).
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-upand 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.
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.
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!
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.
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:
#CripLit Archives—where you can read the archived Twitter chats about various aspects of disability literature, plus find links to lists of book-length fiction that passes the Fries Test
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.
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:
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.
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:
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:
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.
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.
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.
Image description: Black and white digital sketch of two tabby cats. The one on the right is made to look like a pencil sketch; he sits neatly, tail around his toes, in profile except for is head which is turned to stare directly at the viewer as if to say, “What, exactly, are you begging to do for me?” The one on the left looks like a black and white gel pen and brush image of a cat on a table. He is sitting slightly crooked and leaning forward a little, with his tail not quite curled around his toes, and his eyes wide and quizzical.
These are the sketches I made of Charlie and George on their second birthday. That was five weeks ago; they are no longer kittens but full-grown cats. At least I think so. Kelley swears that George is still growing. (We’ll find out at the end of summer when we take them in for their annual inspection and tune up.) Charlie, however, is definitely no longer growing. George weighs about 50% more than Charlie—though you wouldn’t think so from the sketches. When you don’t see them side by side there are times you’d automatically assume Charlie was bigger: he has this ability to look weighty and luxuriantly furred—whereas in reality he’s very sightly built; his bones are slender; his neck is about half the width of George’s. He also has the ability to just stretch and stretch and stretch until he looks like a mile of leopard-spotted belly
George, even now, can look very young and uncertain.
They’re both healthy. Although they both—Charlie particularly—occasionally suffer a flare of their kitty herpes (sore throat, sore gums, a slight bubble in the breath) it never lasts longer than a couple of days and it doesn’t affect their appetite for food, lap time, and play.
In terms of appetite, dear god they eat a lot! Charlie still won’t touch anything but canned kitten food—he ignores cat treats; ignores fresh (and cooked) chicken or fish; doesn’t even care to chase chickpeas or steal broccoli (something our other cats did). But if you put down a can of Fancy Feast Tender Chicken Feast (Kitten) he can hoover up the whole thing in about sixteen seconds (yes, I’ve timed him). He’s marginally less fond of Tender Turkey (that takes him more like 22 seconds).
George eats a lot of Tender Chicken, not much Tender Turkey, but manages his body weight in shrews, voles, moles, and mice. He’d add birds to that if he could (he brought home his second bird last week—more on that below). He also adores Orijen natural freeze-dried cat treats, but only the original flavour. He will also occasionally graciously accept cooked beef, cod, and chicken (though is not keen on pork or lamb or bacon).
So they’re grown cats, but in many ways they the same as those tiny kittens we brought home in August 2019. Charlie is the extrovert of the family, and his moods are alarmingly mercurial with the highs and lows turned up to 11: sweet and loving, wholly demonic, plaintive, Cardinal-in-all-his-Medici-glory, territorial, playful, and limp—when he’s still, he’s utterly inert; otherwise, he doesn’t stop moving. George is more introverted and cerebral: by turns cautiously playful, mildly mournful, wild-eyed-and-feral, pondering, or desperate for love—which involves many yowls, head bumps, scritches, treats (rinse and repeat), then kneading, then suddenly jumping up and going away. The picture I drew of him (above) is his quintessential doubtful self—wanting to be loved, but not entirely sure it’s a good idea. He thinks a lot; he’s one of the most thinking cats I’ve ever known. He;s both wary and smart.
Charlie is smart, too, but less thinky—and he has much less stubbornness and stamina than his brother; he’ll attack a problem headlong—and very often figure it out—but he has to figure it out fast; after two attempts he’s done; he’s bored; he walks off. He can’t understand why, if he wants something, it doesn’t just, y’know, happen. After all, he’s a god; or at least the Pope. Self-doubt is not his thing.
Charlie still goes first: still tries everything first; still first to wake us up and demand breakfast; first out of the door in the morning. He’s much more pushy and demanding: he knows with every fibre of his being that he’s adorable and loved.
George, well, I’m not sure George even now always quite believes he’s safe—most all the time, yes, but any sudden noise (especially men, or women with loud voices and heavy treads) and he vanishes. But when he thinks he’s safe he’s the sweetest cat on earth.
Charlie will jump at a loud noise—but then immediately go investigate it. He’s not 100% fearless—but he’s not far off. Last week I looked out of the window and saw a raccoon in the front flowerbed—with Charlie sitting about two feet away. I nearly had a heart attack. Fortunately it was a young raccoon and a bit nonplussed by a morsel-sized cat just sitting there. Kelley shot outside and ran it off; Charlie came in looking nonchalant—but with his tail fluffed like a bottle brush.
Their relationship to each each has changed, though it’s hard to describe. They’re both more and less at ease with each other. It used to be that as kittens they always hung out together. Outside as young cats it was a different matter: they’d immediately peel off in different directions. Now I often see them sharking about together. Yesterday they tried a pincer move on a squirrel. The squirrel was on the back fence, and Charlie left onto the fence behind it, George in front of it. They started mincing (it’s less than half an inch thick) towards the squirrel, which immediately made a death-defying leap into a tree with branches too thin to support a cat—which didn’t stop Charlie leaping after it, and falling off, while George, startled, also fell off, leaving the squirrel shrieking at them both from the tree and two crows laughing raucously at the lot of them.
Indoors, though, during the day they are only in the same room if one or both of us is there; even so, they prefer separate perches.
On the rare occasions they’re inside during the working day (usually when it’s raining), Charlie likes to sleep in front of my screen, or next to Kelley’s keyboard.
Like Kelley, Charlie sleeps like the dead. George is more like me—part of him is never switched off. In the afternoon he will sleep next to me on the sofa (when I’m reading/researching, or just watching science or history TV—he seems to like that) in his green-blanket-and-yellow-cushions fort, but if I’m working and he really wants uninterrupted sleep he creeps under the bed where he’s built himself another fort by the floor vent so no one can surprise him.
These days, the only time they spend tumbled together is at bedtime, on the bed, with us. It can take a while to get to this deceptively peaceful state, though.
George, particularly, likes my attention at bedtime. He gets grumpy when I try to read. In fact he took such a dislike to this particular book that after six months I still haven’t made it past page 20.
They fight a lot, usually when George wants Charlie to give him some love and Charlie just wants to sleep. George will sidle up and offer to clean Charlie’s head—which Charlie is fine with; it’s when George moves to the throat that things go sideways. George can’t seem to grasp that he shouldn’t choke his brother out like a prey animal, while Charlie, quite reasonably, objects to having his oxygen and blood supply cut off. They have a knock down drag out fight right there, then thunder around the place for half an hour. As this invariably begins on the bed at two in the morning, I—quite reasonably—also object. Kelley doesn’t care because Kelley could sleep through both a zombie attack and the nuclear explosion that created the viral mutation that led to the zombies in the first place.
Charlie is much better at the give-bruv-some-luv thing: he can clean George for hours, and frequently does. Occasionally he’ll meditatively sort of suck on George’s ear, which every so often turns into trying to bite it off, but this is rare, and they rarely have a big fight as a result—probably because George is not the least threatened by his brother, who is only two-thirds George’s size.
But if they had their way they would spend hardly any time indoors. We try to keep it to roughly nine-to-five outside and the rest of the time in the house. This does not always work. In summer, particularly, they are now trying to persuade us to let them out earlier and earlier. They don’t understand the crepuscular hunting habits of coyotes, raccoons, and owls; all they know is is the sun is shining and they want out!
Charlie tries yowling—well, given his damaged vocal cords it’s more a chirruping squeak—but George’s preferred mode is fixed staring.
Charlie has taken to copying him, though he hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet: he thinks staring at the table is the way to go.
Every now and again he tries to sneak out disguised as recycling.
Charlie is much, much better about coming home when called, though. With George we can never rely on his timing; the other day he didn’t come home until 4 in the morning. Those days are rare, but I hate them: he comes home black-eyed, wild, and skittish. I know how he would be as a feral cat.
They continue to kill many small beasts. Their routine: Charlie generally catches the mole/vole/shrew/mouse, brings it home, kills it (except those times he gets bored and drops it and wanders off—in which case George dispatches it efficiently), and George gives the dead beast a couple of perfunctory flings, then eats every single scrap, starting with the head (I no longer flinch at the crunching sound). Occasionally he’ll leave the liver—always (sigh) on the white carpet.
George brought home their second bird—the first he’d killed. (Charlie brought home the first, a pine siskin; George ate it and nearly died of salmonellosis.) Although this one wasn’t a pine siskin and so less likely to be infected we still had it from him in a split second—but sadly not before he covered the entire (white) carpet in feathers (sigh).
I’ve really noticed the seasonal change in their coats; outside they glow like sunlit sandstone—particularly George. Sometimes he looks like some unknown alloy of gold and ginger. This filtered photo captures something of the colour he turns in full sun. It can be pretty startling.
George still will not be picked up, though allows himself to be held if he climbs on a lap voluntarily; Charlie is fine with it. Despite their foibles or more likely because of them, we love them fiercely and look forward to another twenty years with our furry aliens.
I might draw an occasional picture, and maybe do an update at the end of summer after they’ve been to the vets for their booster jabs and a general exam. Meanwhile, please feel free to amuse yourselves with previous Kitten Reports.
 Well, okay, George was drawn on his birthday; Charlie wouldn’t pose for me until about a week later. And even then every time I tried to draw him my app crashed and ate the work-in-progress. So his pic is a bit more stiff than George’s.
Laurie is a Seattle writer and friend. We have—well, okay, had—lunch regularly to talk about our work, books, life, the universe and everything. Since the pandemic we’ve had a few Zoom happy hours—but this will be our first event together. I’m looking forward to it.
Laurie is smart, warm, and generous in person—and all that as a writer, too, along with a particular gift for characters who feel simultaneously real, specific, and unexpected. (If you haven’t yet read This Is How It Always Is, about the family of a trans child, you should.) Her latest novel is One, Two, Three, a tale of ecology and environment, capitalism and greed, disability and adversity and triumph. But it’s good triumph: real and earned triumph. There are no miracle cures, no suicides, no pity and no inspiration porn. There’s a lot of delight in this novel, yes, but, again, it is always earned.
Laurie does something very interesting in this book, something that very few people have been able to figure out: she norms the Other in terms of disability. Here’s the blurb I gave the book:
One Two Three is a powerful and nuanced novel about hope, human frailty, and love. Laurie Frankel takes a clear-eyed look at the mess we make of the world when we privilege profits over people and, brilliantly, without flinching from the truth, allows no hint of contempt, disgust, or hatred to enter the conversation. Three sisters, Mab, Monday, and Mirabel, understand that you can’t fight old problems with traditional tools. Their gifts and differences and love for each other help them to understand that their mother―and by extension our mothers—can’t make the change the world needs. It’s up to the daughters to act, to move us forward, to tell a different story. It is the daughters who will save us. One Two Three is the blueprint for a true revolution.
We’ll talk about the book a lot, of course, because always the point of these things, but along the way we’ll cover writing process in general, highs and lows in particular, norming the Other, why girl superheroes are nothing like boy superheroes—and how that relates to my notion of Real Heroes (my terms for the dreaded ‘heroine’), and almost anything else you might want to know. There’ll be at least 15 mins Q&A: just type your question in the chat box as we talk and get an answer from either or both of us. It’s like magic. And did I say it’s free? And you can join from anywhere i the world?
Image description: Black and white drawing of a hedgehog with its face lifted, snuffing the air after truffling about in the forest litter at its feet. The parts of the forest litter that are identifiable are elm leaves and twigs, oak leaves, and two acorns.
Normally I do these byname post over on Gemæcce, my research blog, but as this particular name is more of a pet name than an earned adult name, I thought I’d do it here. Why? I’m not sure—perhaps because Little Prickle is a personal name—given by her mother and Onnen, the women who raise her—and so doesn’t belong with the more awe-inspiring definitely-not-fond fear-power-and-violence related bynames she acquires as she gets older.
European hedgehogs—or hedgepigs as Hild would say—Erinaceus europaeus, are native to Britain but the Romans introduced a domesticated variety, perhaps the African four-toed (or white-bellied) hedgehog Atelerix albiventris, or perhaps a cross between that and another breed. They were kept as pets—they eat anything, insects, worms, fruit, nuts—but also as meat, and their skins with their long sharp spines were useful for combing and cleaning woollen garments, and individual spines could be used as pins.
I assume hedgehogs developed their spines for self-defence: they’re eaten by badgers, owls, and other predators. I’m guessing a hungry fox might tackle one if it was desperate enough to risk a face full of spines.
So why Little Prickle? Let me quote from near the beginning of Hild:
Onnen pushed Hild forward. The visitors, both slight, with magnificent moustaches and the air of brothers, turned.
“Ah,” said the taller one in British. Strange British, from the west. “You have your father’s hair.”
Yffing chestnut, her mother called it. And her outside one big prickliness like a chestnut, too, said Onnen. Or a hedgepig, said her mother, and they would laugh. No one was laughing now but Ceredig, and it was his laugh-because-I-am-king laugh, the one for important visitors, to show ease in his own hall. Everything a king does is a lie, Onnen said.
Her mother and Onnen only ever use the pet name when they are conveying something emotionally difficult and important. Like this moment after Hild first hears some people calling her a hægtes—a byname I’ll tackle another time.
Long after they’d gone, Cian found her. She wouldn’t speak to him. He left. Onnen came. She sat beside a wide-eyed Hild and wiped at her cheek with her thumb. “So you’ve heard what your own people say. Does it surprise you?”
Hild said nothing.
“Now, see, this is one reason they think you strange. Your eyes flash, but you never speak.”
“I’m not a hægtes.”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“I’m not,” Hild said. “I’m not a seer, either. I just notice things.”
“If you don’t want to be a prophet then stop prophesying. Or at least mix prophecy with some other talk. People know you’re thinking, but they don’t know what. It frightens them.”
“Does it frighten you, too?”
Onnen’s face was white and black in the moonlight, like a mummer’s face smeared with ash. After a moment she said, “I caught you as you slipped from your mother. I taught you your first words.”
It was neither yes nor no. But then Onnen folded Hild in her arms and that familiar sharp woman smell overlain by peat smoke. “Oh, my little prickle.” And Hild breathed deep and wondered why her own mother never held her this way. “You’re like a sharp bright piece broken from a star. Too sharp, too bright, sometimes, for your own good.”
Hild had to grow up entirely too fast, carrying the weight of the world—her survival, her mother’s Cian’s—on her shoulders from a terrifyingly young age. She, too, developed defences. But she also learnt to lower her spines with those she trusted. And eventually the hedgepig becomes a personal symbol.
When they’d left, Cian cleared his throat, drank more ale, rubbed his lip with his knuckle. Eventually he bent and lifted his bag to his lap.
“I made something.”
He untied the bag, lifted out a lump wrapped in sacking. Hefted it. Held it out.
Hild took the bundle, unwrapped it. Dark wood gleamed in the firelight.
Travelling cups, three of them. Tiny things, fitting one inside the other: small, smaller, smallest. Old wood, black with age. Carefully cut with the grain, smooth as a girl’s shoulder, and as warm to the touch.
“I cut them from the root of the great thorn hedge. The biggest will hold two fingers of white mead.”
She put them back together. They felt dense and weighty in her palm. She turned them, it, over and over in her hands. Old in the days of Eliffer of the Great Retinue… “Oh.” Carved under the base was a tiny hedgepig, prickles out.
“Look at the others.”
She slid them free again. On the smaller one, the hedgepig’s prickles were drawn in; on the smallest one, the hedgepig lay curled in sleep.
“One for you, one for me, one for Begu,” he said. “So we may drink to home wherever we are.”
Those cups, and hedgehogs in general, play a large role in Menewood. I can’t wait for you to read it!
 In the UK you can’t keep European hedgehogs as pets, so most cute pet pictures you see are of domesticated. I suspect the photo I used as a basis for this picture is of the latter. Anyway, I don’t much care that it’s not entirely accurate because I just really like it.
 I’ve become inordinately fond of hedgehogs as a result of writing these books. So much so that there’s even a hedgepig in Spear.
On the occasion of just after his second birthday, and having become jealous of his brother getting a portrait last week, Charlie deigns to pose. When you see him on his own like this he looks like a big cat. He isn’t. He’s actually very small and slightly built. He just gives the impression of heft. When you see them together, it’s obvious that George is 30% bigger.
As you can see, some parts of this sketch are more, well, sketchy than others. I was having trouble with my iPad: every time I came close to finishing, the native photo app just dumped all the edits and I was back to square one. After the third time I lost patience and just roughed out everything from his chin down. ETA: I just improved it a bit.
I’ve learnt a fair bit since last week’s attempt. I’ve found that if I begin in Abode Fresco (or Sketch as was), then continue in Apple’s native photo editing app, I get enough of what I need for my level of skill. Right now I don’t need the ten million zillion choices of Photoshop; it’s overwhelming. At the level of figuring out how to show the curve and flow of fur, and how to create shadow (I truly am a beginner at this) I really, really don’t need to figure out the difference between ink and scratchy ink, or wet edges and shape dynamics—I just want a fucking pencil, y’know? Anyway, I’m enjoying this sketching thing now that I’ve found a way to make it simple.
Now that the cats are done I’m turning my attention to some birds, trying to figure out how to make little pictures I can use as icons for the maps I want to make. Per requests on Twitter and Facebook I’m starting with a couple of stabby birds: a bittern (for both SPEAR and MENEWOOD) and a shrike. But I want to do a wren and robin (a British round, Robin Redbreast: I love little round birds that look like truffles you could just pop in your mouth). Then maybe an eagle owl or tawny owl, too. Perhaps a rook. If I can figure out how to make something look fluffy I’ll do an owlet. After that, back to mammals: hedgehog, otter, horse…
Here, on the occasion of his second birthday, is a drawing I made of George.
Image description: Black and white digital drawing of a tabby cat on a table. He is sitting slightly crooked and leaning forward a little with his tail not quite curled around his toes.
Charlie thinks it’s embarrassing and wouldn’t pose. I’ll get his soon…
I started playing with the various drawing apps for iPad and Pencil in service of creating icons for the HILD and MENEWOOD maps I’m making. I found doodling about remarkably relaxing, and as an added bonus, it frees my writing back brain to work without distraction. Also, it’s just plain satisfying to make things.
Sometime in the next week or so I’ll write a proper Kitten Report but for now, enjoy George.