life goal: infamous recluse
...and other sentences that are easier to say than they are to accomplish. But on the other hand: it's also not hard to sell your fiction, not in this golden age1 of short fiction publishing. At the end of the day, there are a lot of places that can publish your fiction... depending on what... Continue Reading →
I have a new short story out from Apex Magazine, "DEMON FIGHTER SUCKS".
Check out the stories I wrote this year that are eligible for the Hugo Award, Nebula Award, and any other award your heart sees fit to nominate them for.
I have a new short story out, with a pile of extras thanks to the lovely Lightspeed Magazine. Enjoy "Sing in Me, Muse", out today, as well as a thoughtful "Author Spotlight" interview with me by Sandra Odell, and an absolutely gorgeous podcast reading by Gabrielle de Cuir.
I have a new short story out, the first since before some Big Life Shit that went down a few years ago. Enjoy "They're Made Out of Corn", out today from Daily Science Fiction, a continuation/pastiche of Terry Bisson's "They're Made Out of Meat."
It's a rotten time to be a writer. Leaving aside the creativity-crushing effects of indoor monotony, the usual mechanics of the publishing business are showing their fault lines: authors can't go on book tours, covers can't catch consumers' eyes as they perambulate around shops, and while ebook and audio bundles could be a cool thing,... Continue Reading →
I'm in the middle of outlining a romance novel that has a lot of potential endings -- and several of those possible ending are polyamorous in nature. It's making me realize one of the weird ways fiction doesn't necessarily mirror reality.
I've recently joined one of those movie theatre loyalty programs, where you get to watch multiple movies over the course of a week for the cost of essentially two movies a month (which I would do anyway, so this works well for me). Because of it, I end up seeing a lot of films I... Continue Reading →
Rian Corveau is fifteen years old. He lives about twenty minutes north of the border, speaks French better than he reads it (and he only does around his Quebecois family, anyway), loves hunting better than fishing, and has just had sex for the first time.
It began on a Tuesday. Aliens arrived, in swirling disco-ball orbs that were very shiny, and started laying waste to everything in sight and more than a few things in important bunkers. Munitions were destroyed; surrender was denied; the destruction of the world was both imminent and inevitable.
