This Is Just to Say

I will no longer associate with
or support
the SFPA
or the Rhyslings

or any of the SFPA's other
contentious awards and publications
that inexplicably thrive
in the speculative poetry scene

I am not asking your forgiveness
the organization is simply
too fraught with abuse and decay
for me to uphold it.

Thank you.

Thumbnail photo by caligula1995.

But I Am, Or I Was: Gender in "Her Sacred Spirit Soars"

I just received news that my short story “Her Sacred Spirit Soars” made it on the Tiptree award longlist! I am so excited about this. I’ve been on a longlist before—my translation of “Chimera” by Gu Shi with Ken Liu was on the Hugo longlist for novellas last year—but this is the first time a piece of my own has been longlisted for anything.

I’ve been fascinated by the response to this piece. I drafted it as part of the short story course taught by K. Tempest Bradford that I took back in fall/winter of 2015. The first draft bore absolutely no resemblance to the final draft and was a mess—but drafting is the topic of another post. The second draft was halfway between that first draft and the final version: it had elements that remain in the final draft, such as the body-swapping and experimentation angles, but also pieces that didn’t make it, including an escape from the institution and a passage that explored both characters’ nonbinariness.

I had solidified my identity as nonbinary by the time I wrote this story. In fact, I would probably trace the solidification of my nonbinariness back to around the end of 2014 or so. Before then, however, I was actively questioning my identity and wondering how valid my experience was. So, while “Her Sacred Spirit Soars” did not lead to any new discoveries about my gender, it was probably one of the earliest instances of me trying to incorporate my nonbinary gender into my fiction.

Here are excerpts of the scene in the second draft that was workshopped but later removed:

A screenreader-accessible version of the screenshots is available on Pastebin. Looking back at the actual comments and my critique notes, I notice that no one actually suggested that I remove the scene. If there was any pushback, it was mostly that it didn’t have enough context.

Yet I have a strong recollection that people commented that the scene came out of left-field. Perhaps that was me projecting my own feelings onto the critique, my own doubts, my reluctance to defend something that felt so precarious to me at the time. Note that I didn’t even use the term “nonbinary” or any analogous terms in the text—rereading it, it almost feels to me as if I were hedging the writing myself, too hesitant to say anything about identity outright.

So I cut the scene and revised the story. I don’t know if I regret that move—I think the final product is stronger than this second draft and feels more cohesive and streamlined.

What fascinates me, though, is the fact that this story has been read as a trans narrative by multiple people, to the point where Bogi Takács selected it for Transcendent 2, a year’s best anthology of trans fiction. And note a key element of the book’s theme: the anthology only contains fiction that includes some variety of trans/nonbinary/genderqueer representation; it doesn’t matter whether the author identifies as trans.

And today, I received the Tiptree news. The Tiptree Award is not just for fiction that explores trans/nonbinary/genderqueer themes, but gender as a whole: there are certainly works that have won or been short/longlisted that explore only, for example, cis womanhood.

But I don’t think I did any particularly heavy lifting exploring womanhood in “Her Sacred Spirit Soars.” Which brings me back to the trans/nonbinary nature of this story. When I was writing it, I certainly didn’t intend to explore gender, and if a cis person were to come up to me and tell me that body-swapping is representative of a trans narrative, my reaction would be a polite, “lolwut?” However, when trans people tell me they read the body-swapping as a metaphor, or the entire piece as a trans narrative? Then I feel there’s more to dig into.

I had originally drafted this post as a thread on Twitter, but Safari crashed and lost what I’d written. I was originally angling for a “the author is dead, long live the reader” angle, but, in exploring the thematic content of “Her Sacred Spirit Soars,” I realized that, yeah, I see it.

It’s trans as hell.

Obviously, there’s the explicit nature of the bird–human bodyswap that can be read as a kind of transition. Supernatural fandom was very influential on my aesthetic, in particular Thingstiel fandom. In Supernatural, angels have a “trueform” that can’t be perceived by humans without threatening their lives. So, to allow them to approach humans, angels possess vessels, typically portrayed in the TV series as humans. Thingstiel fandom took that possibility further: What if Castiel were water? A tree? Deer?

At the time, I thought it was a cool fantasy concept, but, looking back and seeing other trans fans who identified with the transformative nature of Thingstiel fandom, I realize that it was an aesthetic that resonated with not only my burgeoning nonbinary gender feelings, but also the heavy depersonalization/derealization that I was experiencing as a result of my undiagnosed and untreated mental illnesses.

I explicitly explore mental illness in “Her Sacred Spirit Soars.” But even without the nonbinary exploration scene from the second draft, I realize in retrospect that I explore being trans in more subtle ways in this piece. A key scene in “Her Sacred Spirit Soars” that acts as one of Meisun’s turning points is when the psychologist representing the psychological establishment insists to her that she is not a bird and must abandon those ghost bird memories in order to live as a human:

“You aren’t a bird, Meisun,” Dr. Roberts says, and anger flares in my chest.

“But I am,” I retort. Then, I doubt myself and add, “Or, I was.”

“Then you aren’t a bird anymore,” Dr. Roberts says, his voice level, and suddenly something shifts within me. “You’re human now, and you live with humans now, all right?”

Part of me resents him, but part of me considers what he says.

I am human.

And maybe humans love differently.

I want to unpack this scene from a trans perspective. Dr. Roberts insists that Meisun must choose: that to be human, she must give up any illusion that she was ever a bird. Within the story, this reaction is a natural extension of the premise of this piece. But I want to tie this back to our world: although I feel this is more visible with binary trans people, nonbinary people also experience the narrative of choosing a side. That we were “born this way.” That we “always knew” that we were trans. That our genders are not “a trend.” We must conform to a certain expectation of gender, a rooted understanding of gender that reflects some trans people’s experiences, but not all.

So I read this story as, in part, the experience of grappling with what my previous experiences mean after I had an awakening about my gender. Because I didn’t always know. I identified for over half of my life as a girl and used she/her pronouns without any issue or question. So what does that mean for me now as a nonbinary person? Do I refer to my past self with the pronouns I use for myself now, even though my past self only ever used she/her pronouns? How do I reconcile that, for me, I am nonbinary, but I used to be a girl? How do I reconcile the misogyny I have experienced (and that I continue to experience) even though “misogyny,” by its nature, refers to a hatred toward women, and I no longer identify as one?

I can’t remember where I read it and would appreciate a link if you have it on hand, but there was a tweet from a straight trans man that I saw the other day talking about how he still, to some degree, identifies with media about queer womanhood because that was his life until only recently. But he’s now a straight man. So where does that leave those experiences?

Medical and psychological establishments want us to put these messy experiences behind us and conform to a certain expectation of gender as solid and unwavering. To some degree, Meisun accepts this and resolves to adhere to Dr. Roberts’ admonishment: “I am human. And maybe humans love differently.”

But, to me, she subverts that expectation in the end:

She’ll never be you, but she’s not meant to. She had no part in them taking away our bond, and if our bond helped her so, was that such a bad thing? Besides, she’s human, and so am I; we’re not meant to be joined together like kimkim. Love for humans means flying side-by-side in the same direction, two separate beings working together.

I catch up to Yaulan and grasp her hand. She turns, surprised, and a grin spreads across her face. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever witnessed, but even so, sadness still lingers in her eyes, in the way she holds herself.

But that’s okay. I’m not expecting magic, for us to live happily ever after. All I want is to be beside her and hope for the best.

I lean in and kiss her forehead, and in that moment I think, I love you.

Thanks to Molly Olguín for helping me figure out that that callback to “you” was the clincher for that last line. I want to unpack that, too: because yes, “you” refers to Yaulan here, but the reason why it’s a clincher is because it also refers to the unnamed kimkim that is addressed as “you” throughout the story. So on one hand, this final scene is a reconciliation of grief and loss as well as an understanding that mental illness is chronic and cyclic. But, on the other hand, it’s a rejection of Dr. Roberts insisting that Meisun has to give up her bird memories: instead, she integrates them with her present experience with Yaulan. “You” is both Yaulan and the kimkim, and, to me, that’s what makes the last line work thematically and resonate.

In the end, that’s what trans people do, too. We can’t just erase who we were before. That’s a necessary part of us: ghostly double-exposures where what we experienced was simultaneously true and untrue, where we were still us, and yet different. Of course, time and experience does this to everyone’s recollections, but I think it’s starker for trans people.

So that’s my take. I don’t know why I’m tearing up writing this, but I am, and I tear up sometimes when I reread this story. It still boils down to death of the author for me: art is magic in that the text can remain static, and yet it transforms depending on what interpretation and background the reader brings to it. I did this for Karin Tidbeck with my interpretation of Amatka, and others have done this for me with “Her Sacred Spirit Soars.”

Thank you for reading my story and this response, and thank you again for making the Tiptree longlist nomination happen.

“Will You Give Yourself to the World?” Unpacking Amatka’s Queer Resistance

Amatka by Karin Tidbeck has been on my radar for a while. When I read Nino Cipri’s review of it yesterday, I decided to pick the book up and was delighted to find that Amatka is available in audio.1

I went into Amatka knowing very little about the premise beyond John Chu’s tweet referencing the book and the fact that the narrative plays with language. Nino’s review also piqued my interest in reading Amatka as a queer narrative:

Amatka’s story feels queer to me on multiple levels, beyond the simple and obvious one: Vanja falls in love with her roommate, Nina, and decides to stay in Amatka after finishing her assignment to be with her. Her love for Nina informs the story, but there’s a more subtle queerness that I’m still struggling to articulate.

So here I am, doing my best to articulate that queerness, because I saw it shining as brightly as the sun through the narrative and had Thoughts about it. Spoilers ahead.

Marking as a collective construction of society

Amatka and its sister colonies exist only because they are willed to exist: the gloop that forms almost everything in Amatka can only retain its shape when it’s constantly reminded of its shape. These reminders are not just verbal, but also physical: each item must be marked in black letters with its identity. Metaphor and creativity with labels are not tolerated. For example, books may only be titled with About followed by their subject, or an otherwise literal and descriptive name.

Marking is strictly enforced. When Vanja so much as lets her naming become rote, pencil-pencil-pencil washing together so that the syllables merge and shift to become cilpen-cilpen-cilpen, the rigidity of the gloop’s form begins to slip, and Vanja is punished for her transgression.

In a conversation with my Clarion West class, Ken Liu described one strategy for making a story resonate emotionally: literalize a metaphor. In his short story “Crystal,” for example, a real, physical crystal is the literalized manifestation of the narrator’s relationship with his grandmother.

I read marking in Amatka as a literalized metaphor for the collective effort of constructing a society. Amatka is rife with rules and regulations, as symbolized by the paperwork that Vanja has to file, but it is the marking that creates the foundation of society in the colonies.

Of course, it’s easy to imagine a pencil only being able to keep its form as a pencil when given that name. But, when the metaphor here is extended, I also read it as a comment on sexuality and gender: cisheteronormativity is created through the constant reminders that such constructs exist and are real. Despite the fact that Amatka does not appear to marginalize Vanja and Nina’s same-gender relationship, the climate of the colony and the narrative still suggest a comment on heterosexuality to me: everything is done for the good of the commune; individuals police each other for the greater good. So, too, are our sexualities, our performance of gender, policed in the broader context of our society, even if there are pockets of it that feel safe.

The concept of harmony in Amatka, of conformity for the survival of the colonies, further read to me as a parallel to the experience of being closeted for many queer people: we ignore our truths to uphold our obligations to society, to protect ourselves from the consequences of deviating from the norm. It’s not uncommon to see leaders and politicians condemn queer people as heralding the downfall of society in our world; refusing to conform to the rules and regulations in Amatka and its sister colonies literally threatens the survival and existence of this carefully constructed society. Vanja’s initial horror over seeing the gloop in its raw form further reflects marking as a metaphor for social construction: without our rules and labels, we as humans have to confront the senselessness of reality, the fact that things are not as bound and demarcated as we believe them to be.

It also becomes clear to both Vanja and the reader as the story goes on that naming holds the power not only to create a society, but also to restrict it. Here, too, the parallels to constructing cisheteronormativity jump out at me: every time a gender binary is reinforced by people insisting that there are only two genders, every time someone insists on calling a trans person by a gender they’re not, these names reinforce that people are only meant to have one shape—the shape that society agrees is the “correct” shape.

To me, “queerness” as distinct from various identity terms like gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and nonbinary is an action that transgresses the rigidity enforced by cisheterosexism. Cisheterosexism insists that there is only one correct way to exist: you must be one gender, the one assigned to you at birth, and you must be sexually and romantically attracted to only one gender, the other of the two genders that cisheterosexism recognizes as valid.

Vanja’s discovery of her ability to transform gloop from one shape to another, and her realization that her words have power, is thus a queer act to me. It is the moment when she realizes that the constructs placed on her by the colonies is just that—a construct. She loses her fear of the undelineated gloop and begins to see it as a source of potential. If the gloop can take a different form, then she can, too: there are other ways to live than what has been imposed by the colonies.

This discovery parallels the experiences that I and many other queer people have had. As much as labels can be used to restrict, they can also be used to recognize and create: when I discovered the term “nonbinary,” I realized that I was not the only one who felt this way about gender, and I found a validity that grounded and consolidated the vagueness of my feelings into something more concrete and coherent. There are ways to exist outside of the confines of the one narrative provided by the status quo, ways that validate fluidity and crossing categories.

Art as creative resistance

A key part of Amatka’s exploration of language is the concept of language—and art created with language—as resistance. I don’t think it’s an accident that the leader of the separatist colony is a poet, Berols’ Anna, who shows particular aptitude for language:

Vanja put the book down and opened About Plant House 3. The text was difficult to read at first. Every sentence had been whittled down until only the absolutely necessary words remained. Every one of those words was precise; it could have been lifted out of the text and hold enough meaning in itself. In Berols’ Anna’s poetry, all things became completely and self-evidently solid. The world gained consistency in the life cycle of plants, the sound of a rake in the soil. Breathing became easier.

Amatka, pg. 44

Language not only makes the world concrete, as evidenced by the marking of objects, but also our experiences, as evidenced by the way Vanja’s understanding of the world becomes more consistent through Anna’s words. On a fundamental level, we use art to process our experiences and share them with others.

But we also use art to create different ways of being and understanding:

Vanja drew the book out and opened it. Poetry, on what looked like good paper, handwritten in faded blue ink:

we speak          of new worlds
we speak          of new lives
we speak          to give ourselves
to become

[...]

“What does she mean, to become?”

Ulla looked Vanja up and down, as if she was examining her. “I might tell you sometime,” she said eventually.

Amatka, pg. 46

I also don’t think it’s an accident that one of the pivotal scenes in Amatka is Vanja discovering Evgen being forced to cull library books so that the good paper can be reused by the committee. Vanja later realizes that the good paper used to print concrete descriptions of the increasingly more fragile Amatka came from those culled books. Among the first to go in any authoritarian regime are the artists and intellectuals: our histories of art and resistance are erased, literally in Amatka’s case, and papered over with official narratives of what we’re supposed to believe.

It is therefore vital and inseparable from the narrative of Amatka that the ultimate punishment is forced aphasia:

“Why is she so important, Harri?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that. Only that it’s very, very important that she doesn’t speak.”

Amatka, pgs. 208–209

Speaking is an act of creation, literalized in Amatka, but also reflected in our own world: with speech, Vanja and others like her can create alternate realities and ways of living that reject the reality imposed by those in power. With art, these realities can be expanded and memorialized. Imagination is forbidden in Amatka as a threat to the status quo, and art can be the greatest embodiment of imagination and the greatest challenge to the status quo.

Words matter. Our work matters.

Give up or give in

“Give up or give in,” Nina whispered. “I gave in. I gave myself to the world.”

Amatka, pg. 213

“Will you give yourself to the world?”

Anna’s voice crashed into Vanja’s body like a wave, making her gasp for breath. That’s what Vanja was supposed to do. Vanja said it, that she gave herself, that she surrendered, everything she was. A string of syllables dribbled out of her mouth, flat and nonsensical.

Berols’ Anna watched Vanja in silence, her hair floating around her like a living thing. After a moment, she grunted. “A person creates the word. Gives in to the world, and becomes the word.” It sounds like a sigh. “You have no words. You have been separated.”

Separated from her words. The world was built on a new language, and she would not be part of it, only an observer, a watcher.

Berols’ Anna turned her head and gazed out on the chaos. “When all of this has become, you will remain; the people like you will remain, all of you, as you are, separate. But we will carry you.” She stroked Vanja’s cheek. “We will always carry you, little herald.”

An observer, a watcher, but beloved. Nina would be with her; Anna would be with her.

Amatka, pgs. 214–215

The penultimate scene of Amatka holds a power that I don’t know if I can articulate. It’s a scene that defies a single reading and feels complicated in a way that doesn’t allow me to unpack it as easily as other parts of the narrative.

If I read this scene as an extension of the themes of constructing and resisting cisheteronormativity, I see it as a reassurance. Nina’s initial line seems like a simplistic binary: the choices appear to be to live a closeted life and give up, or to be out as one’s true self and give in to the world.

But the reality is never as simple a dualism. Anna recognizes that Vanja can neither give up nor give in. She is, to me, our brethren who are forced to remain in the closet, and our elders who have often been the first to resist, yet are so often forgotten when we forge new paths.

Vanja, however, is not left behind: she has been separated, and she may not be able to participate as fully as the others, but she will be carried, still supported by the ones who see her and love her. This, to me, is a third option: an acknowledgement of people’s limitations, whether enforced by society as represented by Vanja’s forced aphasia, or out of their own reasons. We still see you. We are still here with you, supporting you even if you can only watch.

I don’t intend for this commentary to be an authoritative interpretation of Amatka, or even an accurate interpretation. There is so much to explore and comment on, whether it’s disability in the colonies or a more in-depth review of the worldbuilding. All I’m really offering here is my own reading of Amatka and an attempt at articulating how it resonated with me as a queer narrative, one of discovery not only in the fictional world, but that reflects the discovery and journey that many of us make when moving from accepting the status quo of a cisheteronormative society to carving our own way. Amatka is a quiet, understated read that will linger with me for a while yet.

Buy: Book Depository | Indiebound | Barnes & Noble | Amazon | Audible
Author: Website | Facebook | Patreon | Instagram


1. Kirsten Potter is a fantastic narrator. Often, audiobook narrators will either be too monotone for my taste or have too much of a lulling bedtime story feel to their performance; Potter, however, captures the mood of Amatka well and underscores each character’s personality with subtle variations in voice.

Take My Money: Organizations to Donate to

This is not a definitive post of organizations to donate to, nor does it try to be one. This is just a place for me to note organizations I've either worked with or whose services I've used, and who I've found to be good people. If you're looking for a place to throw your money, I can happily vouch for these folks.

Disaster Relief

Team Rubicon | Scope: International with U.S. focus

Team Rubicon is dedicated both to disaster relief services and providing veterans with volunteer and work opportunities. They are more agile than the Red Cross, which has questionable efficiency when it comes to disaster relief, and are able to deploy quickly (usually within 24 hours). Full disclosure: I am currently contracting with Team Rubicon to help produce training courses for them.

Prison Abolition

Black and Pink | Scope: U.S. only

Black and Pink facilitates pen pal relationships between incarcerated LGBTQ and HIV+ people and those in the "free world." As prisons continue to restrict visitation rights and profit off exhorbitant phone call rates, contact between inmates and the outside world becomes more difficult even as it remains just as vital. Additionally, some inmates don't have family or friends who contact them regularly, making letters and mail all the more valuable. I've written to a number of pen pals who greatly appreciate the contact. Black and Pink also has some other prison abolition programs.

Mental Health

Crisis Text Line | Scope: U.S. and Canada

Crisis Text Line offers support and deescalation of crisis situations over text and Facebook Messenger. These crisis situations are not limited to suicide but include any event that involves painful emotions. I've used their service multiple times and found it very helpful to have a third party trained in deescalation to help me move to a safer place emotionally. Plus, I feel more comfortable over text than phone, which makes this service all the more valuable to me.

The Center for Balanced Living | Scope: Central Ohio, U.S.

The Center for Balanced Living is a treatment center focused on helping those with eating disorders, though an eating disorder was personally a secondary focus when I was treated at the Center. I found the people here compassionate and supportive; to date, it's the best mental health center I've been to. They serve a limited area, but central Ohio is home to the Ohio State University, one of the largest public schools in the U.S.; students in higher education often have high rates of mental illness (article is based in the U.K., but I find it parallels the U.S. as well).

Access

Con or Bust | Scope: International

Con or Bust is dedicated to helping fans of color/non-white fans attend SFFH conventions, which can be cost-prohibitive for most people. Con or Bust is not merit-based or need-based and only requires that you provide an itemized list of what kind of support you need. All the fans need to do is be our awesome selves, which is incredibly liberating for segments of the population who often find it difficult to ask for any kind of help, especially monetary support. I've been a recipient of Con or Bust assistance twice now and have had great networking opportunities arise out of being able to go to those cons.

The Carl Brandon Society | Scope: International

The Carl Brandon Society focuses on increasing racial diversity among both creators and audiences of speculative fiction. To this end, they provide a number of awards and scholarships; in particular, I'd like to highlight the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship, which helps two people of color each year to attend Clarion and Clarion West. I received the OEB scholarship in 2016; going to Clarion West was a huge stepping stone in my SFFH career.

Arts

Clarion West | Scope: International, U.S.-based

The Clarion West Writers' Workshop, along with its cousin the Clarion Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers' Workshop, is a launchpad for emerging authors of speculative fiction. The six-week workshop is a place where friendships and connections are forged, where writers hone their skills and work with some of the best instructors speculative fiction has to offer. It's a worthwhile experience, and Clarion West's one-day workshops are also great places to learn more about writing and craft. I attended the six-week workshop in 2016 and have also been to one of the one-day workshops.

The Organization for Transformative Works | Scope: International

The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW) runs Archive of Our Own (AO3), which is probably now the most-visited English-language fanworks archive online. The OTW also runs Fanlore, a wiki for fandom history and culture, as well as a number of other projects. I would not be the writer I am today if I did not start out in fandom writing fanfiction, so the OTW's cause in preserving and supporting transformative works is near and dear to my heart.

I'll update this post sporadically. Please feel free to suggest organizations that might be to my interests as well; thanks!

Thumbnail photo by airpix.

Award-Eligible Work 2017

Another anxiety-inducing awards season! As a member of Team Don’t Self-Reject, here’s a list of what I’ve had published in 2017. If you have difficulty accessing any of the non-free content, please feel free to contact me for reading copies.

Campbell Eligibility

I am in my second and final year of eligibility for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer.

Anthologies

Anthologies are eligible for the Anthology category of the World Fantasy Award and the Anthology category of the Locus Award.

Strange California edited by Jaym Gates and J. Daniel Batt, April 2017 from StoryJitsu.

Features my short story “From Something Emerging.”

Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation edited by Phoebe Wagner and Brontë Christopher Wieland, August 2017 from Upper Rubber Boot Books.

Features my translation of the short story “Speechless Love” by Yilun Fan.

Short Fiction

All my short fiction is eligible for the Short Story category of the Hugo Award, the Short Story category of the Nebula Award, the Short Fiction category of the World Fantasy Award, the Short Fiction category of the BFSA Award, the Short Story category of the Locus Award, and also the Theodore Sturgeon Award and the James Tiptree, Jr. Literary Award.

Möbius Continuum.” Translation of 《莫比乌斯时空》 by Gu Shi (顾适). Clarkesworld, September 2017. 4,400 words.

Five minutes ago, the skies were still clear and boundless.

The moment dark clouds bore down from between the mountains, I knew we were done for. The quarrel couldn’t have been smaller; I don’t remember what exactly I did to make Lin Ke’s eyebrows twitch, but I knew she was angry. So I poured her a cup of honey water and set it on the tea table as a silent apology.

But X drank it instead.

“Speechless Love.” Translation of 《不会说话的爱情》 by Yilun Fan (范轶伦). Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation edited by Phoebe Wagner and Brontë Christopher Wieland, August 2017 from Upper Rubber Boot Books. 2,400 words.

Morning, April 6, 2279. As I dump eggshells into the Earth-bound trash, my hovership’s screen beeps and displays a neat line of black text:

“Hello! May I introduce myself?”

The Person Who Saw Cetus.” Translation of 《看见鲸鱼座的人》 by Tang Fei (糖匪). Clarkesworld, May 2017. 5,500 words.

Father stood beside her, looking at her homework. The computer had already gone into screensaver mode; bright green, heart-shaped clouds darted across the black interface. Father swept his hand over the screen. A depth view of the interior of a railway car burst onto the gallium nitride screen. The scenery outside sped by the windows; inside, fourteen pink goldfish sat stiffly on the same bench, their bodies swaying with the forward motion of the train, their eyes spinning as they watched the clouds whirling throughout the cabin. This was the screensaver that Father had programmed just for her.

The only one in the whole universe. He always took great pains to make strange and unique gifts for her.

“From Something Emerging.” Strange California edited by Jaym Gates and J. Daniel Batt, April 2017 from StoryJitsu. 5,000 words.

I’ve learned how to tilt my head at the right angle to lure someone in, how to fake a Duchenne smile. How to pretend to be prey when I’m anything but. Tonight, I’m out to dinner at one of the more high-end restaurants in downtown LA with a white guy named Kevin, and the only thing betraying my true nature is the side of deep-fried silkworm pupae that I’ve ordered.

A Complex Filament of Light.” Anathema 1, April 2017. 3,400 words.

After winter, spring in Antarctica is almost pleasant, most days just barely below freezing. As you make your way back to the station, you stop and glance at the horizon—you prefer these days of twilight, the soft orange glow of sun on the horizon contrasting beautifully with the deep indigo of the sky. It’s more interesting than never ending daylight, more comforting than the long nights of winter. And it’s still enough of a distinction to create the illusion of darkness, to trick your body into maintaining a circadian rhythm.

What Could Be.” Daily Science Fiction, August 24, 2017. 150 words.

My mother was from the sea, raised by the Pacific Ocean that laps at both China and the United States. When she rose salt-crusted from that amniotic love, she found that she could never stay long on either shore, that she needed to be traveling between them.

Introduction to the Journal of Interplanetary Lycan Studies, Volume 1, Issue 1.” Mad Scientist Journal, June 2017. 900 words.

The publication of the Journal of Interplanetary Lycan Studies is an opportune time to reflect on the history of our field and what we already know. Although lycans have existed in the histories of all human civilizations and have indeed been embraced in many communities, the rise of European colonialism in the 16th century spread lycanthrophobia worldwide, suppressing many lycan-oriented institutions around the globe. Asylums became the standard “treatment” for lycans; research on lycanthropy was forbidden. Lycans would not begin to regain basic rights until mass decolonization in the 20th century, and although lycan studies arose around that time, the field remained small until midway through the 20th century. At the same time, research on outer space began to take off. It took the space race of the 1950s and various concurrent movements to depathologize lycanthropy for lycans and non-lycans alike to unite to understand the factors that contribute to lycanthropy.

“Vector.” Gamut, April 2017. 1,000 words.

The crows spoke with the voices of dead children. They swooped through the air, black smudges against a tapestry of blue, cawing words torn from fevered throats. One landed on a branch outside Mei’s bedroom.

“Don’t want medicine,” it croaked.

An Abundance of Fish.” Uncanny, March/April 2017. 800 words.

Spring festival, before the fish arrive: Teresa Teng croons from the radio; I hum along as I hang paper decorations, the reds and golds bright against our cream-colored walls. You’re in the kitchen making dinner—Shanghai-style sauteéd niangao, braised cod, stir-fried green beans. Sizzle, pop. Water runs from the sink, interrupting the music for a moment, and then I hear your slipper-soft footsteps padding to me.

Curiosity Fruit Machine.” GlitterShip, February 2017. 700 words.

“What is it?” Alliq says.

Jalzy runs eir hands over the object. It’s a box of some sort, made from metal with organic paneling; a narrow lever sticks out from one side. Ey finds emself reaching out to the lever, eir fingers grasping the pockmarked knob at the end as if working from unearthed muscle memory.

“I have no clue,” Jalzy says. “But… I kinda wanna pull this and see what happens.”

Poetry

All my poetry published this year is eligible only for the Short Poem category of the Rhysling Award.

Badwater.” Twisted Moon, May 2017. 26 lines.

I throw myself into your embrace, Death Valley;
your painted curves rise against the horizon, and I dip into
your navel, taste the waters that pool there: salt on my tongue,
salt slick against my fingers; salt and salt and more salt.

Inhalations.” Strange Horizons, January 2017. 30 lines.

I learned a new language today,
      one comprised
            of fragrances:

      each word a combination of
morphemes of scent,

the head note, mid note, and heart note
      forming footholds of syntax.

Arsenika

Please note that Arsenika is NOT eligible for the semiprozine or fanzine categories of the Hugo Award, as it has not yet the minimum issues requirement yet, but IS eligible, as far as I can tell, for the Magazine or Fanzine category of the Locus Award.

I am INELIGIBLE for the short form editor category of the Hugo Awards because I haven’t met the minimum issues requirement for the category; however, I AM eligible, as far as I can tell, for the Editor - Pro or Fan category of the Locus Award.

Thanks for your consideration and for taking the time to read my work!

Thumbnail photo by NASA.

Neopronouns in Speculative Fiction

I recently put out a call on Twitter for speculative fiction that uses neopronouns. I struggle with self-doubt, both in my personal life—it's rare for people to refer to me with a neopronoun, even if I may prefer it in the moment—and also in my writing—I want so much to use neopronouns for my characters, but I'm constantly scared of rejection on that basis. So, although it's not strictly necessary, it's still nice to have a list of precedents that show that people do put work with neopronouns out there.

Criteria for inclusion:

  • Must use a pronoun other than I, you, he, she, it, we, or they (singular or plural) to refer to at least one prominent character in the narrative.
  • Must not be cissexist or transphobic. (I have no interest in reading something for the pronouns if it's going to alienate me in other ways, after all.)

And that's it. This list will lean speculative, but I don't mind including literary/interstitial works or other media. "Prominent" is going to be a judgement call as well, but I tend to lean toward inclusion, especially if it's an #ownvoices story.

So here's the list of stories gathered from Twitter responses and my own poking around online, current as of 1/29/2017:

  • Anders, Charlie Jane. "Love Might Be Too Strong a Word." 5,700 words; be, po, y. June 2008/August 2012 (reprint). #ownvoices.
  • Bornstein, Kate & Caitlin Sullivan. Nearly Roadkill. 382 pages; ze. June 1996. #ownvoices.
  • Carter, CJ. Que Será Serees: What Will Be, Serees? 354 pages; ey. May 2011.
  • Edwards, RJ. "Black Holes." In Lightspeed 61: Queers Destroy Science Fiction! 8 pages; ze. June 2015 (reprint). #ownvoices?
  • Egan, Greg. Diaspora. 352 pages; ve. September 1997.
  • Lechler, Kate. "Selections from “Volume S” of the Intragalactic Encyclopedia of Habitable Planets." In Dear Robot. 3,100 words; zhe. November 2015.
  • Lee, Jenn Manley. Dicebox. Webcomic; peh. Ongoing.
  • Lu, S. Qiouyi. "Curiosity Fruit Machine." 800 words; ey, xe. February 2017. #ownvoices.
  • Mardoll, Ana. Poison Kiss. 252 pages; nee. November 2015. #ownvoices.
  • Piercy, Marge. Woman on the Edge of Time. 384 pages; per. May 1976.
  • Ryman, Geoff. "Capitalism in the 22nd Century." In Stories for Chip: A Tribute to Samuel R. Delany. 14 pages; zie. August 2015.
  • Stirling, Penny. "Kin, Painted." 4,400 words; e, ze. July 2015. #ownvoices.
  • Stirling, Penny. "Love Over Glass, Skin Under Glass" 3,800 words; ey. September 2013/May 2015 (reprint). #ownvoices.
  • Sylver, RoAnna. The Lifeline Signal. 370 pages; xie. March 2017. #ownvoices?
  • Takács, Bogi. "The Handcrafted Motions of Flight." 80 lines; e. March 2012. #ownvoices.
  • Takács, Bogi. "The Need for Overwhelming Sensation." 5,200 words; e. September 2015. #ownvoices.

I'll probably make a separate list later that includes stories that use singular they and/or stories about nonbinary characters in general, but I wanted to focus on neopronouns here.

Comments are open; I can also be contacted on Twitter if you'd like to send more suggestions.