This post has long been formulating in this little noggin o' mine.
I guess I'll start with Sex.
Yep. Sex Scenes at Starbucks.
I started stalking her keen writing style a year or so ago. Seems like it's been way more than that. I would read her blogs, in awe of her honed skill, imagining what it would one day be like to actually be brave enough to leave a comment. I was in awe of her ability. Taken aback by her honesty, her ability to wield her words with such might.
I even ventured to imagine what it would be like to be one of the lucky ones on her blogroll. My fantasies run deep y'know?
I'm ridiculous when it comes to my hero worship. Broken you say? Hell yeah I'm broken enough to worship people. Profiles that are not easily profiled intrigue the SHIT outta me. Sex is one of those cats.
Today, a year and some odd months later, I'm at the top of this kitty's blogroll, labeled as her 'stalker'.
Cause, yeah. That's what I am. I stalk what I like. I look up details, find useless information & collect it for my personal amusement; use it to further my knowledge in the area of their happenings. What makes them tick; what makes em don't, if you catch my drift?
I s'pose the deciding factor here of whether or not I choose to pursue my little obsessive ways with these small handfuls of 'writersthatIactuallygiveafuckaboutwhatthey'resaying' is whether or not, given the new set of information I have in my grubby little paws, indeed CAN be fit into a profile, or rather, a 'demographic'.
The winners are usually the ones that don't. Can't. Won't.
I like that. I like my enigmas to stay enigmas. I enjoy having something to figure out. I may not like every single thing about you, but if I can't fit you into a neat little category so easily, I definately have my fun trying to analyze & figure you the hell out til I can.
If I can't, well all the better for you if you like being on my covetous 'list'.
So yeah. Sex is a writer that I actually give a fuck about what they're saying. Mad props to you lady.
She is working on an SF novel titled SILVER SCAR. I am anticipating the FUCK out of the completion of this. The premise, the characters, her ability to make these characters come alive, the wrestling of affairs. I see this as something on the verge of BIG. Like big BIG.
If it falls into the right hands.
It needs to find the right master. To put it out there just like she wants it to. I foresee action figures being erected in the future of this. Castile & Trinidad in battle mode, Castile & Trinidad taking bed with one another (what? a girl can dare to dream, can she not?) & like, cute little weapons to don said characters & such.
I'm anticipating such greatness here, & this is why:
"SILVER SCAR is Science Fiction. I'm striving for some other features, like gender-bending, a thriller format, and religious themes that're sure to piss folks off, but at its heart, it's SF. I doubt I'd market it another way. "
& that's straight from the horse's mouth yo.
There is so much more, but if you wanna know more, you'll have to do the diggin on yer own. I've got a few others I wanna shine the light on here. :)
I met him via Ozymandias, a google group formed awhile back with Kelley Eskridge & Nicola Griffith being the creators of said group. We had our 'fun' throwing ideas around & getting to know one another somewhat; the group itself is at somewhat of a presumptious 'end', hasn't had any thread action for quite some time now.
But what I came back with was another handful of entities that intrigued me with their passion, their creativity, their ability to redefine what most like to classify and put into groups and categories.
Adam is of that handful that refuses (whether he elects to do this or not) to fit into the 'mold' everyone seems to want to encourage others to surrender to & I continued to follow him around like a lost little puppy, excited to see where his projects would land.
Troglodyte Rose is one of them.
Here is a juicy little rundown of why I have chosen to silently stalk him as well...
This is an excerpt from the book:
We are inside Hell. How can I describe it any other way?
I can feel the fires of the glass works. I can smell the sulphurous breath of our chthonic gods.
I live in squalid darkness and breathe filthy air.
My name is Rose and I’ve never seen the sky.
& then, if you aren't intrigued enough by that, here's some mo':
WHO IS TROGLODYTE ROSE?
Troglodyte Rose is the new dark fantasy novel from Leeds author Adam Lowe. Set in an undetermined far future where mankind lives underground, enslaved by their own, more evolved descendents, the psychic Limbids, who live in a vertical city in the world above. Rose is the anarchic heroine, who blusters into the narrative with a gun and a bad attitude, accompanied by her hermaphrodite lover, Flid. Tiring of running from winged troops of genetically engineered monster-police, and sick of an economy that relies on slavery and cannibalism, she and Flid spend their days wallowing in computer games left over from a previous, lost civilisation and taking every high they can get their fingers on.
At rock bottom they try the most dangerous, illegal drug of all: the legendary Haze. They soon discover the real reason why it is illegal: the Limbids themselves rely on its mind- and reality-altering powers to fuel their own psychic abilities. And with the Haze in their grasp, they can journey to myriad alternate universes, meeting talking dragons, swimming amongst the sunken ruins of New York and rescuing alien princesses from eternal slumber.
But soon even that's not enough. Rose wants to see the sun. She wants to make a difference. So assembling a ragtag band of fugitives and liberals, she resurrects an old plot to overthrow the oppressive government and escape to the world above. Can she defeat the Hegemon and escape the Justicar beasts chasing her? Read and find out.
& now that he's got your attention, go get you a copy!!!!!
Troglodyte Rose is due out in limited edition hardback (100 numbered copies) 30th October, priced £13.99, and is available from all good bookshops, or direct at troglodyterose.com. It also features six pages of full-colour artwork from award-winning TOR/DC Comics duo Kurt Huggins and Zelda Devon, which can also be viewed at the fully-interactive website . Paperback version available Spring 2010.
I've already reserved a hardback, autographed edition, & I humbly await it's pages to be turned, nestled in my lap along with a Peppermint White Mocha & Electric Wizard playing as white noise in the backround.
So like, THAT'S the kind of shit that I dig. That's the kind of shit that makes me world go 'round.
One last little rant. Promise.
My Blue Eyed, pale faced Mane of destruction.
She has me wringing my hands in anticipation. All the fucking time.
She is not a boaster. She doesn't come aloud with wizardrous might to brag of her steadfast virtues & ability to make you devoid of all you once were, even though she can.
The Protector in Her burrows deep. It reigns in a plane of existence not well known to this realm. It is a Deity in it's own right & makes Chaos it's left hand of Destruction. It is slow to anger, yet quick to praise. But I will tell you right now, do not anger this Protector. It's portent is of the Unknown, & still waters run tragically deep.
You get a sense of legendary status here, in knowing this part of Mysty. Her quiet observance can sometimes be mistaken for nonchalance; perhaps even lack of interest in some cases?
Little do you know, she has taken care to collect every facet, every fragment of your essence, & concocted along with it her own recipe in a vial that will always be the poison, the bane of your existence if you dare to make a false move against Her.
That is her way. & I love Her way. Her astute observation.
I awaited her permission to repost this.
She obliged most willingly & I was more than delighted to be able to share with the world how amazing she is.
She sent me this in an email the other night & it struck to the core of my heart & made me rethink life in a way that I thought I would never've thunk it.
I love people that can do that to me.
it is raining steadily when we rush out of the movie theatre.
it's close to midnight, the witching hour they say. we're giggling
with abandon as we scurry down the concrete ramp toward her car.
fog clings to the lights planted in the ground along the path.
it hangs suspended in the air, heavy and thick ~ like my lust for her.
we are all soaked, she the only one without a jacket. the thin
grey top she's wearing offers no protection; but offers my greedy
eyes a veritable feast.
despite the wet and the chill, she runs to the passenger door and unlocks
it so i can seek refuge from the rain first. such chivalry, always
i lean over and unlock her side. she jumps in, shivering with the cold.
she busies herself lighting a cigarette, and i stare. absorbing all
of her that i can. tight black curls seeping with rain. droplets snaking down
dark golden arms. her face dewey and soft, as i imagine it might be when
she is sexually satisfied.
i'm dying to touch her. to reach out and feel the soft slant of
her purple rimmed eye. to trace a finger down the soft flesh of her arm, following
the rain as it drips down to her thighs. to wrap my hands full of those
curls. to feel her.
i shake from my daze and try to fight off the hypnosis she unknowingly wields
over me. i look out the window into the darkness and think only of the starshine
in the car with me.
and live to love another day.