Not to Trend

I really should have known, picking the word of the year. I mean, I’ve striven for the Real all my life, but consciously setting the intention seems to have also set a great many things in motion. Not that it’s a bad thing! It’s just…a lot, and I should have bloody well expected it.

In fact, it’s rather akin to a rollercoaster. Out in the physical world I find such things quite soothing, nearly sleep-inducing, because once one is strapped in and the machine begins to chug, that’s it. You’re in the hands of the gods, nothing else to do about it, might as well relax. If a rivet pops, a catastrophic failure occurs, or lightning strikes, well, there it is. According to my (admittedly not very reasonable) nervous system, a rollercoaster is not a perceived helplessness (which is utterly damaging) but a chosen risk, and that makes all the difference.

Yes, I’m odd. We all knew that.

Anyway. The wonderful Ann Aguirre made a few observations on Bsky yesterday about writing to trends and why that’s not optimal. Right now there’s a lot–and I do mean a lot–of pressure to write proposals and synopses for projects that seem akin to those currently hot on BookTok (of all things), which is super short-sighted on the part of publishers, acquiring editors, and agents. By the time a book gets through the production process to take advantage of a flash in the influencer pan there’s no light remaining, only burnt, bitter residue sludge. It’s in influencers’ short-term economic interest to always have a hot new exclusionary thang to rave about, just as it’s in their economic short-term interest to manufacture drama for engagement ad dollars. And let’s face it, short-term is the only term the algorithm knows. Every platform depending on rage engagement, data scraping, and increasingly bizarre drama inevitably cannibalizes itself, leaving behind a trail of broken people and infrastructure. The initial grifters disappear early because they have their cut, and start looking for the new grift to inflict on the rest of us.

It’s much better and more long-term viable for everyone in publishing if the authors are supported in doing what they know readers want, because we’re the ones who hear from said reading folk. (Our names are, after all, on the covers.) Quality work produced with real, painstaking effort brings those readers and teaches them an author can be trusted. Unfortunately, with trad publishing consolidating into less than a handful of robber-baron megahouses and venture capital scenting the moribund beasts in the drying water hole (Amazon’s sucked all the H2O out to cool their ecology-wrecking servers, natch), we’re seeing increasingly short-term cycles of “this thing’s hot right now, GET ME FIFTY JUST LIKE IT, what do you mean it takes time to write a real book, fine, let’s just get the plagiarism machine to do it!” leading to “wait, why aren’t people reading our LLM-spewed ersatz with crappy covers, churned out in droves to game the KU algorithm? Aren’t the bots reading our fake books anymore? DO MORE OF THEM!”

It’s enough to make an actual flesh-and-blood author despair. Or drive them full-feral indie, which is a route I see more and more going for. It’s great that the tools exist and that more writers than ever are using them, but they still require hardware, software, experience, and time/energy a lot of marginalized folks just plain don’t have. I mourn for the stories we’re losing because trad publishing let Amazon foul the waterhole past bearing before sucking it dry. To be excruciatingly honest, a lot of trad publishing’s upper management saw only that Amazon was harming those pesky authors who demanded to be paid for hard work, but so long as those nuisances were the ones being hurt, that was just fine. After all, it made said pesky authors easier to exploit, and by the time publishers realized the ‘Zon was coming for them too, the monopsony and monopoly were both well in place and had years of unregulated shenanigans to provide it with plenty of nutrition for metastasis.

The fallout is ongoing, brutally devastating, and while the publishing ecosystem will eventually recover after the inevitable extinction event–whenever that happens–it’s going to penalize the already-vulnerable most. As per fucking usual.

Anyway, part of my re-commitment to protecting the work has been pushing back on the ridiculous “advice” and strenuous pressure to write “to trend”. I will not be performing to whatever some algorithm thinks will get the most advertising engagement for a third-party data-scraping platform, thank you. My goal is to write real, actual books. Besides, it’s fucking exhausting to run oneself ragged in that fashion. I mean, I’ll always try new things–I spent a year doing Reading with Lili before being driven out by harassment and bots, after all–but there’s a distinct difference between “giving novelty a spin” and “servicing the egos of those who wouldn’t know a good book if it bit them because they’re so busy looking for the next quick buck/score”. The first provides spice to life, the second is just a waste of precious, finite time and effort.

The coffee is finished, Boxnoggin is stirring from his first morning nap, and dawn is making itself apparent through the firs. I’ve another day of real work ahead of me, writing a duel interrupted by an entire army plus a Sekrit Projekt attempting to get off the ground. Maybe I’ll lose out by betting on the Real.

But in all honesty, there’s no other bet I can make. I’m buckled in, the safety bar is down, and we’re on the rails. Time to relax, quit second-guessing…and focus on protecting the work.

Developments, Good and Otherwise

What a weekend. Whew.

The big publishing news swilling around right now is the fuckery surrounding Hugo Awards given at Chengdu Worldcon. Aidan Moher has a good breakdown; so does Jason Sanford. I have zero skin in this game, being absolutely not an awards writer for a variety of reasons, so I feel it’s reasonable to make a few observations as well.

Namely, that from out here it looks like authoritarian political considerations were allowed to taint the voting process, which is unconscionable and a full investigation, as well as apology plus restitution, must be made.1 Furthermore, perhaps it’s not a good idea to have such a prestigious award at the mercy of a system that can be hijacked with such astonishing regularity. (How many of these have we had now?) The effort needed to change the Hugo process so it’s insulated from such things appears prohibitive, so the solution might well be another award less prone to being co-opted by fascist assholes gaining that prestige.

Either way, SFF publishing and fandom needs to take out its trash. This is ridiculous.

In publishing news closer to home, I’ve pulled the self-pubbed books I was distributing directly through Kobo, since their nonsense reached a pitch I couldn’t handle anymore. It took years, but they finally drove me away; come next month I’ll be using a third-party aggregator to distribute those books to that particular sales platform instead. So don’t worry, I’m still making them available, I’m just putting a layer of insulation on this end. I didn’t want to shift, because I like my eggs in different baskets in case a platform enshittifies and I know other authors have been blessed with much better treatment from Kobo. But sadly, my experience has been vastly different and this makes the change necessary.

Readers will often ask, “Where’s the best place to buy your books, the one that benefits you most?” I am always touched at the care evinced by the question–the overwhelming majority of Readers want their artists remunerated fairly! Honestly, my darlings, it’s best for you to buy in a way that’s convenient for you. The biggest thing a Reader can do under current conditions is rate a book they liked in order to give the silly algorithm a bump or two, and even that pales in comparison to telling your other reading friends when you liked something. Authors work very hard to give Readers a range of options and to make books available despite nearly insurmountable obstacles such as Amazon’s predation and rampant, outright theft; these are problems which must be solved by regulation and social disapprobation of art/content thieves like torrenters and “AI” grifters. In other words, where you buy the book isn’t nearly as important as the fact that you do buy it (or check it out at your local library!) and hopefully leave at least a rating to make it harder for the algorithm (programmed by human beings for profit, don’t forget) to hide.

I also had to take a company I’ve recommended in the past for good premade covers off my list and will be recommending them no more, since when I wrote to ask for clarification of their stance on “AI” image theft in their covers I got a snotty response boiling down to, “We’ll use theft-driven ‘AI’ for our covers and if you don’t like it, fuck you.” Which is sad, but that means more business for my very favourite cover designer, who is 100% “AI”-free and has a lot of beautiful premades for sale too.

The ice is gone, so I can run this morning. This is a marvellous development; I haven’t been able to purge stress in that fashion for nearly two weeks and it’s told on me. The endorphin rush will no doubt take the top of my head off and restore all things to their proper proportions. Also, it’s been a couple days without stress-vomiting and I’m getting a few solid hours’ worth of sleep at night, and both things are providing an almost obscene sense of wellness. There’s a lot on the to-do list springing from my decision to lean much, much harder into protecting the work. I keep muttering to myself a form of Louisa May Alcott’s determination to “take Fate by the throat and shake a living out of her”, and it’s rekindling the protective fire.

I finished the Chaucer early in the weekend, and it was fabulous. The Wife of Bath was still driving the bus, last I saw, and despite the misogyny and antisemitism there’s a lot to enjoy in the work, not least the phrases like “murder will out” which are apparently much older than I ever imagined. It got a lot easier once my brain did a version of that little “switch” it does when I read Shakespeare–the neurons suddenly begin to anticipate the rhythm, the text has taught or reminded me how to read it, and instead of going word by word I begin to pass smoothly through whole phrases.

I was going to dive into a history book afterward, but needed a little more insulation for my nerves so King’s The Stand–unabridged edition–jumped the queue. I still think the 90s miniseries is one of the better King adaptations–Jamey Sheridan is hands-down the best Randall Flagg, notwithstanding McConaughey’s oozingly chilling turn as sorcerer-Flagg in the recent Dark Tower movie–and may do a rewatch once I knock off the book this time around.

Boxnoggin has gone back to bed, but the prospect of proper walkies will roust him soon as I start moving towards the toaster. So much to do today, including getting through an awkward found-family dinner in the serial and setting up the second Cain’s Wife book. I’d best get started.

Happy Monday!

Ice Glass Globe

Rough ice, smooth heart.

This is a glass gazing globe in the garden (try saying that quickly ten times) and normally it’s completely smooth. The texture you see is from a few hours’ worth of freezing rain a few days ago. The sight was so arresting I had to stop, Boxnoggin investigating one of the deck’s iced-over support struts, and take a snap before going back to pleading with him to please just pee, it’s very cold out here and I’m worried for your paws.

We were supposed to be melted by now…but that hasn’t happened. The street was a solid sheet of ice with liquid water running over it at several points yesterday, then the temperature went back down and the rain turned back into–you guessed it–freezing rain. Boxnoggin hasn’t had walkies in a few days; we’ve made do with many circuits of the yard, trying to break the ice-crust and gain traction on snow underneath, and a whole lot of playing indoors with his many and various dog toys. On the bright side he’s finally figured out one of the easy canine puzzles left over from Bailey’s tenure. It took her five minutes, he’s been working on the damn thing for months. To be fair we never let him struggle for very long, patiently showing him how it works and waiting for a spark to bridge the gap. We’re ever so proud he’s finally grasped it.

The past two weeks have been sort of awful, to the point of losing weight from stress. At least it stopped before the hair-falling-out portion of festivities, though I suspect I may have acquired a few more grey strands. At least I have the consolation of knowing I’m not the problem; being able to go to trusted friends for a quiet word and hearing, “No, you’re right, this is fucked up and you’re being gaslit” is damn near priceless. For the record, these are the same people with carte blanche and encouragement to smack me right in the kisser should I ever Actually Be the Problem, so it’s nice to know that I remain unsmacked.

I may do a sort of self-publishing roundup next week, since I have hit my limit dealing with a couple corporations’ bullshit, but we’ll see. At the moment I just want all this to be handled so I can get back to work. Significant progress has been made–amazingly, once I stop taking any shit at all, many institutions which have been serving said faeces discover that they are in fact capable of acting otherwise in my direction. Funny how that works.

I’ll leave more Chaucer for next week as well, though I am now in the Pardoner’s Tale. I suspect I have acquired momentum and will be finished with ol’ Geoffrey soon. It’s been a marvellous ride.

See you next week!

…Are We Back?

Apparently I found the limits of my patience last week. Or at least, the limits of my body’s patience with stress.

For literal years I have been fighting alone on behalf of a certain series. It’s been positively nightmarish, both for reasons unavoidable (pandemic, corporate nonsense) and completely avoidable (contempt displayed for the work by those who should be its advocates, etc.). I’ve tried to be flexible, professional, resilient, calm. And finally last week, a straw landed upon the camel’s back.

The resultant snap probably registered on the Richter scale. And it happened after nearly a week of trying to resurrect the final book in said series while being unable to sleep plus suffering the worst case of stress nausea I’ve ever had the displeasure of. Which is saying something; morning sickness, sertraline adjustment, even buying the house was nothing compared to this. I still can’t really eat unless I disassociate, and sleep has been rather an impossibility. I hyperfocused on getting Chained Knight revised during the day for most of the week, with breaks to try opening the master file for the series in question, and each time I did the latter produced fits of nausea so intense I had to eventually keep a bowl next to the desk. At night I lay in bed and trembled, too nervous and vomitous to sleep. By Friday I was entirely shot, and that’s when the whole thing broke.

The hell of it is that I do want to write this book; I long to finish the series. These are books of my heart and what I consider masterworks. But certain issues in the publication process have been so nightmarish my very body has revolted, and there’s been no help in sight. I’m utterly alone in this fight, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. I usually try not to say anything at all, for publishing does its mightiest to convince writers that any faint complaint or refusal to toe even the most abusive of lines will be met with swift blacklisting–or worse.

I just want to write my stories and pay my bills, dammit. And that’s all I can say about the whole goddamn thing.

A winter storm moved in Saturday, after threatening for several days. Lots of powdery snow blowing while the wind gusted and rattled, which suited my mood. I settled on the couch with Boxnoggin and crawled into a paperback of ‘Salem’s Lot–about the third one I’ve owned, since I’ve read two to pieces. (It’s not the only King I’ve read to pieces; I think I’m on my fourth Rose Madder paperback?) I don’t know what it says that my comfort read ended up being Writer vs. Vampire, but it felt…good, to have another world to inhabit and a situation one could at least take action in, instead of simply waiting helplessly for the worst. Unfortunately the book only held me for about a day, but by then I could concentrate a little better and went back to Chaucer.

I had left in the middle of the Wife of Bath’s tale, and now I see why she’s so famous. I love her, even if she’s written by somewhat of a misogynist, and she seems to be an example of what Cleolinda Jones calls “meta-characters”–those who seem not to be created by the author so much as hailing from some other place and springing to life on the page whether the author will or no. One of the hallmarks of meta-characters is that while the author might make them say or do certain things, the characters themselves have a genius for arranging things so that the reader’s overall impression may be far different than what the author intends. A prime example of this is Tolkien’s Eowyn, who shines even through the Jackson movies’ betrayal of her character. (That’s a rant for another day.)

I found myself smiling despite the nausea at certain of the Wife of Bath’s sallies, even while I wished she would get to the damn point. And when she did finish her tale I felt like cheering.

The storm has settled into relative calm and subzero temperatures, with freezing rain in the near forecast. I’ve also read the Friar’s and Summoner’s Tales, and was in the fourth bit of the Clerk’s Tale last night when I felt like I could sleep again. Even across centuries I can see the Wife of Bath’s expression as the Clerk starts listing Griselda’s many patiences. To be fair Chaucer gave the Wife space to be heroine in her own story, and inserts some sly observations in the Clerk’s that make it clear he’s drawing a deliberate contrast and doing it with the Clerk’s own tools of rhetoric. I actually cocked my head last night at a passage and thought, “Why, Geoffrey, I see what you’re doing, you magnificent bastard.”

And Boxnoggin snored wetly against my shoulder at that point, for he was dreaming. He was perplexed by the snow, now hates the cold on his tender paws, yet has forgotten any other weather exists, for lo! he is a dog of Very Little Brane and Very Much Instinct.

I have The Stand (unabridged) queued up for when Geoffrey is finished, and after that Pekka Hamalainen’s Lakota America. Or I might decide to go with the Hamalainen first, or something else entirely. It’s all up in the air. I’ve been unable to work since sending the Chained Knight revision off, and that bothers me a great deal as well. Fortunately a couple friends have been keeping me on the rails, so far as I can be kept–you know who you are, and thank you.

So. Everything is shut down for the holiday and the weather. Boxnoggin will get only half a block’s worth of walkies, just enough to make a nod to habit while keeping his paws from freezing. I’m going to try some actual work today, but if that doesn’t happen it’ll be right back to the Clerk while imagining the Wife of Bath rolling her eyes.

At least I have that.

Tenuous Peace, Cutting

It’s always mildly amusing when people who have denigrated and dismissed one for a long while act surprised when one picks up one’s toys and goes home. The ol’ “pretending bafflement when the person you used to kick around suddenly isn’t there anymore” can even be deeply hilarious, if viewed from far enough away to protect oneself. Escaping a bad situation, disengaging from those who use one as a punching bag, is tremendously healing.

All the same, I can’t help but find much of the professed surprise deeply disingenuous. Did you think I’d stay forever to be the whipping girl?

Moving on (literally!), I’m revising the last few chapters of Chained Knight today. The pieces are in place for editing (95% certainty) and cover art (that’s a Texas-sized ten-four, good buddy), so maybe around June or so another Tale of the Underdark will toddle into the world. I am deeply relieved to find out that the book is actually good–the beta readers liked it too–and that I’m still pleased by the idea of playing variations on a theme a la Elric. I think there’s one more symphony of that vein in me, but I can’t write it until *checks schedule* probably sometime next year?

That’s all right, it’ll keep. Of course, making it do so will probably force it to tear its way out of my head in two weeks like the last one. Big fun.

The three Underdark books won’t be a series, per se, but they will be variations. Cover art and releasing long enough apart should make that clear, and if it doesn’t end up getting through to a certain proportion of folk, well, there’s nothing further I can do. My work has never been for those incapable of drawing inferences, or unwilling to do so.

Perhaps it’s the energy of the new year provoking a re-evaluation of where my energy is being spent, or maybe my patience has finally been eroded. It could even be the vast inner quiet of two book hangovers at once, or the ongoing realization of my own inalienable value. Whichever way it’s sliced, I’m at a tenuous peace with cutting off a few gangrenous chunks right-fucking-now. At a certain point the consequences of walking away are far less damaging than those of staying where one is not valued, and I learn that lesson over and over. The relief is immense, almost unbearable.

After Chained revisions are dealt with, there’s a duel with a warrior woman in Highlands War as well as a pitched set-piece battle that promises to be rather fun. Not for the characters–Kaia would much rather have a decent bath and a good dinner, and her princeling is of like mind. Unfortunately the story isn’t cooperating with their dual longing, in any sense of the word. And after that…hm, it would be nice if a few folks would clear their pre-holiday inboxes and get back to me about the four…wait, five…no, six, oh my gods, six or so books waiting to either be picked up by a press or, failing that, stuffed in the self-pub cannon.

It’s a wonder I haven’t gone full-feral indie long before now. In any case, I’m giving trad publishing one last year to shape up, as my grandfather used to say–including paying me on time–or ship the fuck out. We’ll see what happens.

Thursday beckons, the subscription drops are formatted and merely require loading, Boxnoggin dislikes the chill damp but will be glad of walkies, and my own inbox could stand a little attention before I choke down some toast and get truly underway.

I’d best get started.

Influencers, Main Characters, Symptoms

Part 2 of Mugshot and Trashmouth is going to have to wait. I know SquirrelTerror episodes take a short time to read, but they take a while to write and today I just don’t have those particular spoons.

Don’t worry, though. It’s coming. *cue Jaws theme*


Yesterday did not go according to plan. I didn’t even get my usual second jolt of coffee, what with publishing fuckery taking up my morning and a video meeting I had utterly forgotten about striking the instant I got home from a rather late run. But the fuckery has been dealt with–at least provisionally–and the meeting was very good, so that was a silver lining. By the time it was over, the afternoon had well commenced and more caffeine was a Bad Idea, so I chose to be Adult and Reasonable and Rational.

It was a difficult decision to make and even harder to stick to. Damn adulthood–I’d shake a fist at it, but that would take energy and might engender joint pain. Easier to just ramble onward.

The Princess dropped this video about the growing delusion of Main Character Syndrome into our family group chat, and while I was initially reluctant (since anything even “influencer”-adjacent threatens to give me hives) I ended up watching it after dinner, and the kids drifted into the office to share the experience. And boy howdy was it an Experience. Both kids had at least heard the names of everyone involved, and the Prince was familiar with some of the antics (the guy calling himself Mister Beast in particular, a moniker which makes me snort-chuckle sarcastically every time), but I was entirely blissfully unaware of most of this.

No longer can I claim that grace. But I was mordantly fascinated by the whole thing, and I have Thoughts. Here are a few of them, in no particular order.


“Main Character Syndrome” started out as a term to describe the quite reasonable psychological process of taking control of one’s own life, and of one’s own emotional responses to said life. In that usage it’s actually very useful, and a powerful tool. Since then it’s also morphed into describing a particularly noxious form of pathological, toxic behavior: treating other human beings as NPCs and side characters.

Psychopathy, narcissism, and sociopathy all share a critical core failure of empathy: simply not understanding, believing, or being able to grasp that other people are real, too. It sounds bizarre, because anyone with functioning empathy gets this at a basic foundational level. But to many varieties of toxic asshat, other people–ALL people, other than themselves–are simply ego extensions or cardboard cutouts to be manipulated into place, and the refusal of other living, breathing beings to do what the toxic person wants engenders world-ending rage. I use the term world-ending deliberately here, since many if not all toxic people are fully convinced the world will simply wink out of existence when they die–if they grasp their own mortality at all, which is uncommon among them. (That’s a whole ‘nother blog post.)

The bafflement some wannabe “influencers” display when things don’t go according to their plans or wishes is part of the core failure. They are truly, honestly befuddled that the world will not do as they want, especially if they’ve had any early success in manipulating others or breaking social norms. Toxic people tend to mistake reasonable people’s refusal to engage with their norm-breaking as a victory, and when it stops working–when society or a friend group finally mounts an immune response against their toxicity–their response is yet more escalation, yet more manipulation, yet more rage, because it’s the only strategy they have and it appeared to garner some initial success. The magical thinking of “this got me what I wanted once, so of course it will again if I just apply more pressure” is another core feature of these personalities.

What fascinated me most in this analysis is the footage of a wannabe “influencer” coming right up to the brink of a realization, a little self-knowledge, and yet being apparently unable to take the last whisper of a step over into said realization or knowledge. In particular, a wannabe who did not successfully use the tools of stalking, manipulation, and norm-breaking to get his “hero” to recognize him (and therefore magically let him into the circle of “rich YouTubers”) stares into the camera and snivels a version of, “It’s like they don’t even care if I die on the street.”

I had to pause the video and take a breath because, my dude, how is this news to you? You’ve seen how this “influencer” treats other people–the same way you do in your quest for clicks–and yet you thought you were somehow special, different, a “main character” to him? Yet this fellow was patently unable to take the last step into realization or self-knowledge, and I was most exercised wondering why. Is it a refusal or a literal incapability stemming from lack of empathy? It is absolutely fascinating to see someone soooooo close, just a bare whisper away from a potentially life- and personality-changing epiphany, and yet so unable or unwilling to move that final less-than-a-centimeter.

Another interesting part of this whole thing is the deep and abiding hypocrisy of “influencers” who have achieved their goal of YouTube stardom (and my gods, babies, can’t you dream a little bigger than that paltry goal?) and have the absolute cheek to finger-wag at the masses of fan-wannabes using the very same methods of toxic social norm-breaking, stalking, and manipulation that the said “successful influencers” did. A prime example of this is the voice message from one saying “we keep our private lives sacred and separate from our YouTube stuff.”

Now, this is fine and perfectly right, I am the first person to be all in favor of keeping one’s private matters off the fuckin’ internet. It’s also stunning, world-grade hypocrisy from people who have built their careers trespassing social norms, using stalking behaviors, and being absolute shits to innocent bystanders “for the lulz” to suddenly turn around and say, “don’t you dare use these methods that I used to achieve fame on me, how could you, I have a right to privacy!”

Yes, you have a right to privacy. Some part of me thinks one abrogates that particular right the instant one starts shitting all over other people’s right to go about their lives without your “pranking” bullshit interfering with their days and jobs. It’s a grey area and a slippery slope, but what is not in the grey area is everyone else’s right to call out your massively hypocritical bullshit.


I’ve used a lot of quotation marks above for a specific reason. The term “influencer” irritates the living bejesus out of me, because the only thing you’re “influencing” is an algorithm designed to keep people angry in order to pump ad money into a corporation. I really don’t see how this is something to be proud of. And the whole “it was just a joke” thing infuriates me as well, because I grew up in a household where constant, severe, ongoing abuse was minimized with that very phrase and when I’m forced to watch someone being shitty “for the lulz” all I see is a toxic abuser who deserves real-world consequences applied, and sooner rather than later.


This whole video analysis also clarified a big problem I have with publishers telling authors to “just BookTok” or “get on YouTube” to do marketing. Part of the deal an author makes with the publisher is to provide economy-of-scale for certain necessary features of quality control, like copyediting, cover art, and the like. This is the entire reason we enter into these agreements. And part of the agreement is the publisher doing marketing, because they have the resources and again, the economy-of-scale to do so effectively.

Trad publishing has decided to take those resources that should go into marketing and instead funnel them into CEO and shareholder profits, while offloading the actual work and effort onto the poor overworked authors themselves. A crowning indignity is that BookTok and YouTube don’t even really work for marketing; the few who “hit it big” are lottery winners, sweeteners to keep the rest of the rubes pouring in their attention/ad engagement/cheap content creation. Just as the lotto is a tax on the poor, BookTok and its ilk are a tax on the already strained resources of authors and artists.

This is bad enough, but then comes the gaslighting blame game when a book sinks like a stone because the trad publisher did not hold up their end of the bargain. It’s exploitative bullshit, and one of the things that’s going to cause a massive market shift sooner or later–but not before a lot of already marginalized authors are pushed out of the industry, and we’re going to lose so many great voices and stories because of simple greed.

I mourn those losses. We all should.


The toxic form of Main Character Syndrome is prioritized and rewarded by the ad-engagement algorithm, and as it spreads it gives publishers and other media corporations another way to exploit authors and artists already staggering under an insurmountable weight of fuckery, just like rewarding sociopathic bullshit in politics leads to the breakdown of the rule of law and a rash of policies that oppress, maim, and kill. These things are the same. They are symptoms of the same underlying problem; they are features of the same mechanism. The terrible thing is not that the internet has allowed us to witness the problem clearly to a degree unprecedented in human history; no, the terrible thing is that this is the system working as intended. The cruelty is the point, the rewarding of bullshit “pranking” and stalking behavior “for the lulz” is part and parcel of the same systems that reward fascist sociopathy and norm-breaking in politics. The system benefits this type of behavior for a reason, and that reason is profit and control.

Whether the people engaging in this fuckery cannot or will not take the last step into self-knowledge or realization is to a large degree beside the point. The point is mitigating the damage they do–or ideally, stopping said damage. That starts with applying consequences for shitty behavior, which is one thing our society is overwhelmingly reluctant to do for a variety of reasons, some practical and others habitual. A collective response is necessary, and yet one of the timeworn tactics in the (very thin, though very effective) playbook shitty people use is divide-and-conquer: isolating, exhausting, and harassing targets to the point where a shitty person can get away with shitty behavior for years. By the time an immune response is mounted, the wreckage extends far and wide.

The people watching these “influencers”, gamed into providing “engagement” for ad dollars, are not quite victims. They’re resources being harvested in order to shift wealth to corporations. Maybe they’re even comfortable with the process; maybe they don’t mind being reduced to the battery Morpheus holds up in that classic explaining-the-Matrix scene.

I do mind. I’ll be glad to go back to being blissfully unaware of “influencers”–but I can’t ever be unaware of what they’re a symptom of. That’s thrust in my face daily, as a mother, a working writer, and a human being. I hold out no particular hope for change in my lifetime, but at least I’ve articulated the problem at length. No doubt it’ll be ignored, since it’s not a YouTube video or outrage-inducing TikTok/Insta short. Still, I take what comfort I may in the act.

And now the dog needs walkies. Onward to Thursday.

Connected Problems

Spent the weekend attempting to rewrap insulation on the wires in my head, with mixed results. On the one hand my agent really wants sample chapters for the romantasy (she’s a courtesan assassin, he’s a wandering swordmaster, hijinks ensue) and on the other there are revisions that really need to get done (Gamble first among them) and I want to get back to the serial as soon as possible because the Steelflower and her princeling need another lesson in cooperation. And if the former sets something on fire, the latter will be very happy about it–but their barbarian friends may not be.

Hrm.

Nothing will get done if I continue to flail, but flailing is part of the zero draft recovery system, and after staving off one book hangover by writing another book in a slightly less compressed timeframe I am forced to admit (again) that one cannot use a book hangover to fend off another book hangover. All one gets is FrankenZillaMega Book Hangover. On the other hand, I really want this romantasy off the ground and at least some sample chapters with the agent, so I spent time that I might otherwise have used attempting to get to another book hangover on worldbuilding stuff, just faffing about. Which was pleasant, informative, and healing in its own way, certainly.

So. The coffee tastes particularly fine this morning, even if I am certain I’m going to have to switch back to espresso. Drip is nice but it doesn’t have the slam effect espresso does, and that’s what I’m after. But that’s a problem for another month with some room in the budget, which may not come around for a while. Ah well.

The atmospheric river dumped a lot of very nice rain on us over the weekend, which we sorely needed. Rain here means snow in the mountains, and that snowpack takes us through the summer–especially with climate change producing heat domes, scorching, and summery Octobers. I am taking a great deal of solace in the fact that the planet will survive humanity just fine, and that’s the important thing.


Oh, and the big thing online right now is a video on YouTube/online plagiarism. Maybe some people will now admit it’s a goddamn problem since a white guy with a few subscribers has done an almost four-hour explication. (I’m not holding my breath.) Just like ebook theft, the apparent ease and perception of low consequences for online plagiarism have provided a bumper crop of pure shit. I hold the two problems related because of those two features–the apparent ease (it takes a few clicks to steal an ebook, it takes a few clicks to steal someone else’s content and “brand it” as your own) and the perception of low consequences (eventually writers stop producing what you love because they aren’t paid for stolen work, while the flood of shitty online plagiarism gives an illusion of “more content” while in fact lowering the proportion of real stuff you’d want to watch). Both are seen as “victimless crimes”–ebook thieves harass writers who protest and call us “intellectual landlords”, while plagiarists are rewarded with algorithm bumps and (in the case of LLMs/AIs) wads of venture capital cash. Apologists for both plagiarism and ebook theft use harassment and threats to wear down their victims, and are very successful in the short term.

Where this all ends up is the “enshittification” of entire industries. While I find that term beautifully apt and the initial explanation of it magisterial, I have not yet seen the person who coined said term offer apology for coming out swinging in defense of ebook thieves lo these many years ago, an act which sent many of their “fans” to harass less well-known writers (overwhelmingly marginalized or femme-presenting, natch) with threats for a long time afterward. As a matter of fact, the Big Name male authors who were on the “piracy is good” bandwagon years ago are fitfully starting to see ebook theft as a problem, probably because it’s pinching their own ample bottom lines.

But I digress.

The basic quandary here is that creative labour is deeply devalued, those who provide it seen as fungible and easy exploitable. In the long term this means less of the books, fics, movies, songs, and other things you love to consume. In the short term, well, it’s so easy to steal with a few clicks, everyone’s doing it and you might even get some algorithm cash, why not? Plus there are the shitheels who just feel good tormenting and harassing other people online; they love to take aim at artists, feeling like they can get a little clout every time they leave a shitty comment, a review-bombing, or sockpuppet around a block.

The people who love to steal artists’ labour are the same people who write nasty little letters demanding an author “write faster”, with a side order of demanding we write to their personal little peccadilloes. Under this kind of sustained assault, it’s no wonder series people claim to love are being canceled and wonderful writers can’t make a goddamn living so they leave the industry entirely. The end result is a flood of shitty pablum choking the ecosystem, and then the people who have terabytes of stolen art on their hard drives moan that they can’t find anything good to read/watch (or, let’s be honest, steal) anymore.

What will solve this? Meaningful consequences. What’s the thing least likely to be applied to these kinds of thefts? Meaningful consequences. So this is a problem we’re stuck with until it becomes socially unacceptable or financially disadvantageous to steal creatives’ labour. Which might not ever happen since it’s so short-term profitable to exploit creatives under current late-capitalism conditions. Creativity is hardwired into humans–we shall be Making Things forever, for it is what we are–and the exploiters quite naturally believe there will always be a fresh crop of neophytes to take advantage of or steal from.

Frankly, trad publishing could spend significant resources shutting down ebook thieves and make it financially disadvantageous to engage in said thievery, but they have not and I suspect they won’t because it’s a short step from there to disadvantaging the other exploitation of writers. Put another way, ebook theft doesn’t harm trad publishers enough for them to meaningfully discourage it, because as far as they’re concerned there will always be a new crop of people desperate to break into trad publishing who will accept predatory contracts and other mistreatment, while the old hands and more experienced writers drain away after trying hard for a long time to change the industry from within. I’ll say it again for the nosebleed seats: Ebook theft doesn’t hurt the corporations, it harms the individual writer you’re stealing from, who is overwhelmingly likely to be living below the poverty level.

Put yet another way, ebook theft provides a pressure point for trad publishing to make sure writers stay easily exploitable and therefore willing to accept worse contract terms, especially as trad is consolidated into fewer and fewer megahouses, at least one of which is now owned by the same fuckheads who killed Toys’R’Us. (Yes, I’m STILL BITTER, and likely will be for a while.) This is much the same dynamic as movie studios wanting to use LLMs/AI to pressure writers and actors into accepting worse contract provisions. Which didn’t pan out for a variety of reasons, but it was still a close-run thing.

Eventually there will be a market correction, probably when Amazon is finally regulated out of its monopsony/monopoly practices–that will cause a ripple through the entirety of publishing, and will probably burn down the monoculture of, in effect, less than four big trad publishers. Indie and small publishing houses will see a huge spike of growth and we’ll have a publishing ecosystem instead of monoculture, but the damage in the short term will be incalculable, we’ll lose a lot of good stories and voices during it, and who knows when this will happen? The thing about an avalanche or other natural disaster is that it can hold off for years while entire cities are built in its path, and warnings about “hey, this isn’t a great place to build” are shrugged off so long as it’s profitable.


Anyway, I’ve spent too much time this morning brooding on this bullshit. I’m sure I’ll get a crop of nasty letters/comments from ebook thieves and harassers, but what else is new? I find these two problems are connected at their core, but hold out no hope there will be any sort of solution so long as our society rewards the behavior it does. Retreating to a bog witch life grows ever more appealing.

I wish I could afford it.