Love in Dark Settings

Daily life: Health and finances - squeaking by

2013-06-06T06:42:31Z

"Ebooks are forever. Very few other careers allow you to keep earning money on time you already spent. You put in 40 hours a week at your day job, get paid for that week, and then you need to work the next week to make more money. A writer can put in 40 hours, write a story, and it will someday be earning money for his grandchildren."

--J. A. Konrath.

I was in the midst of writing a Daily Life entry last month when Things Went Down. This is the updated version. It's too long an entry to post in whole, so I'm going to start by talking about the two topics preoccupying my mind most: health and finances. Hope I don't put you to sleep. Next week I'll talk about fun stuff.

HEALTH: The latest news

A quick update first:

No more seizures so far, yay. The longer I go without seizures, the less likely it is that I'll have any. I'm trying very hard to get lots of sleep and avoid stress, since sleeplessness and stress can be triggers for seizures. Also, I spent Memorial Day weekend wearing a portable EEG machine. ("You don't mind consorting with a tentacle monster, do you?" I asked musicman, who was coming over to visit.) I'm still awaiting the test results.

In the "getting lots of sleep" department, I have a strong suspicion that I have sleep apnea. I'm going to arrange to be tested for that, because I'm really concerned about what my breathing problems at night are doing to my brain, and my fatigue during the day is interfering with my ability to get work done.

A bone survey confirmed that I do have a lesion in my skull, alas. (*A pause here to let you make "hole in the brain" jokes.*) It doesn't look at this point as though the problem exists beyond that one small area, fortunately. Tests continue to figure out the nature of the lesion.

What I wrote last month, before the concussion and seizure:

My physical health remains stable, thank goodness. Going off of gluten and dairy really helped, as has eating ginger three times a day and confining my diet to plants and fish. I had one possibly problematic lab result from my yearly lab tests; my doctor and I are investigating it. It may turn out to be nothing.

As long as I stick to my diet and stay active throughout half the day (mainly through housework), I'm fine. I still can't carry or push heavy items without damaging myself, and I still can't put blankets over me in bed, and I still have breathing problems at times, particularly when I'm in bed. But my present state is infinitely better than it was three years ago, or even one year ago. I can work full-time, I can sit down, and I'm in very little pain. May this continue as long as possible.

My mental health, on the other hand . . . I've had a couple of cases in the past few months where I got into a long, involved e-mail conversation with a reader, and my hypomania spiralled way out of control. I became very didactic, very wordy, hammering down on the other person concerning minor issues. If someone makes a one-sentence comment, and I reply to it with six forceful paragraphs, that's a sign that my hypomania has escaped the cage.

I have the horrible feeling that my hypomania has been doing this all my life, and I've simply reached the point where I'm self-aware enough to realize what's happening. God help the conversational victims I've left behind in the dust.

FINANCES: Crunch time

#1 sign that you're worrying about money: You read in a news article that cicadas taste like asparagus or shrimp, and your first thought is, "I wonder whether I could use them to supplement my diet."

I'm holding my head over house maintenance costs right now, but otherwise I'm getting by. The real financial cliff will occur in 2014, when I have to pay a bunch of massive bills that's covered by other folk this year, but won't be next year: Health insurance. Income tax. Possibly property tax.

Without getting into the actual figures, here's how my expenses look for 2014, percentagewise.

I live in a six-bedroom detached house on a quarter acre of land, so my housing expenses are higher than I'd like them to be. But since that housing is currently providing me with ninety percent of my income (i.e. rental money), it's not to be sneered at.

(Mind you, I don't sneer at any shelter these days. I go to bed grateful that I'm sleeping on a mattress rather than on the streets.)

Here's how my monthly income has progressed (using percentages to show my 2014 goal for monthly income) since January 2012, when I first made an effort to be financially independent. (This is gross income, before I've made deductions for professional expenses, which are fairly substantial in my case.) The thermometers are courtesy of this site.

Obviously, the rental income - which I began receiving last month - has made a big impact. I'm also hoping to rent out the one remaining room, which will help. The problem is that, even with all that lovely rental income arriving, by the end of this year I need to raise my publishing income to six times its current level.

In the past year, through a lot of hard work, I've managed to raise my monthly publishing income to ten times its level in January 2012 (which, um, doesn't amount to a lot in terms of dollars, but I'm going to ignore that, because the percentage figure looks so much more impressive). So maybe raising my monthly publishing income to sixty times its level in January 2012 is doable? Maybe?

Also, the nature of my publishing income is that I could have a sudden, brief windfall that would carry me through for a while. Given the amount of time in which I have to raise my steady monthly income, I'm praying for that windfall.

On a more positive note: May's events confirmed to me that I'm making the right choices in professional work. Even though the concussion was a total accident - and the seizure might or might not have been - I've become used, during the past three years, to my health going suddenly, unexpectedly haywire at periodic intervals. I've come to expect this as part of the lifestyle I'll have to accept for the rest of my life. So the concussion was a foreshadow of how my health will affect my finances from this point on.

Because of my concussion, I had to stop working for two weeks. If my income had been coming from, say, editing, I would be facing immediate financial disaster: two weeks with zero income. But the rental income kept coming in - my housemates were very understanding about me not being able to do yardwork during that period - and though my publishing income slowed because I wasn't getting books published or marketed, it never stopped, because my published backlist always earns me money.

This is something I have a hard time explaining to most folks, because they think "High-wage job = lots of money." So obviously, they think, I should get myself a steady, high-wage job rather than tinker around with unsteady jobs such as self-publishing.

But the equation for me would actually be "High-wage job minus lots of sick days = not much money." Plus being fired, if I had an employer or steady client. So, for me, finding jobs that will earn me money even when I'm sick is most important.

The rental income - which I hadn't expected to receive - is an enormous bonus, so I'm hoping I'll be able to keep receiving that. But darn it, I really need to bring up my publishing income.

Daily life: Post-concussion, Day 4

2013-05-22T01:58:56Z

I take a pause from my financial crisis and house maintenance crisis to visit doctors.

Neurologist: "I had another look at your books. They're very interesting."

Me (to Noakes afterwards): "I think he told me I had a seizure because he read my books."

So, yeah, the latest medical news isn't good. I learned today from the neurologist and my family doctor that:

1) I probably had a grand mal seizure on Friday.

2) I probably have a lesion in my skull.

3) I probably have post-concussion syndrome.

4) I have hearing loss. (No "probably" about that one.)

The last three I'm not letting myself worry about at this point. Until I learn more about the lesion, there's no way of knowing what the implications of it are. The post-concussion syndrome has a good chance of healing within a week or two. And the hearing loss is so minor that neither I nor anyone else had noticed it; I only had my hearing checked as a precautionary measure following the concussion.

The seizure is another matter. After hearing Noakes's account of what happened on Friday, the neurologist changed his diagnosis. (He originally thought I'd experienced a minor convulsion after fainting from low blood pressure following the bang on the head.) He showed Noakes and me a video of a grand mal seizure (this one, if you have the stomach to watch), which Noakes said sort of corresponded to what I was like, except I wasn't flailing around with my arms. While he and the neurologist chatted about this, I continued to watch the video, frozen with horror.

Then the neurologist said I should stay relaxed about this. Yeah, right.

I felt better after I brought some library books home. One of them said that most people who have a seizure don't go on to have more seizures (which is the official definition of epilepsy - having recurring seizures), and that 85% of the people who have recurring seizures can control them through medicine - though I have to say the medicines sound as though they cause as many problems as they resolve. (The neurologist hasn't put me on any medicine yet, since this may be a one-time episode.)

Another helpful factoid I learned from the books is that a lot of grand mal seizures occur when the person is sleeping, so I changed my bedding arrangement so that I'd be less likely to hurt myself if another seizure happened while I was asleep.

Also, the books said I should avoid stress. Um, yeah. I'll give it my best shot.

In the Much-Needed Good News department, the neurologist announced that I have the brain of a teenager, with scarcely any signs of aging. He attributed this to me being a reader.

I said to Noakes afterwards, "If I have a teenage brain, and my brain is sick, does that mean I get to be emo?"

REPLIES TO YOU GUYS

Samanddeanfan1, Neotoma, Catana, Mightymaeve, J. Albert, and A. B. Gayle: Yeah, one never knows what to say when someone mainstream shows interest in one's hurt/comfort fic. I mean, I consider my stories to be crossover with mainstream fiction (and I considered them as such even before Fifty Shades of Grey changed the definition of "mainstream"), and so I don't want to warn off readers prematurely. Also . . .

o--o--o

Time: Several years ago. An old high school friend of mine - whom I'd last seen about to set out on his missionary years - e-mailed me to say hello. I wondered how to break the news to him that I'd gone over to the Dark Side.

Friend: ". . . and here's my blog."

I click on the link. His blog is filled with pictures of his boyfriend.

o--o--o

So, yeah. You never know. At the very least, as Albert suggests, I might gain a convert.

A. B. Gayle: Yes, I thought of that possibility later: that the hospital staff were waking me every few hours to make sure I hadn't gone into a coma. But Noakes, who has been hospitalized a zillion times, has suffered through this routine as well, without my brain-injury excuse.

As for the hospital bill, I'm not supposed to be stressed, remember? :) But I know it won't be as bad as in 2010, when I was without health insurance and was hit with a $20,000 bill. I have good health insurance now.

Berthablue: Bureaucracy concerning the records. I was allowed to access them, I was eventually told . . . but only if I made an appointment with the hospital's records department and came back for them. (Incidentally, they still haven't sent the records to my family doctor.)

Sorry to hear about the concussions! I trust there were no lasting effects?

Musicman: Heh. Now that's something I doubt they teach doctors in medical school: "If you want to check how conscious your patient is, show them covers of their own hurt/comfort fic and see whether they react with terror."

Yingtai and Musicman: Trust you guys to zero in on the most important part of the story - namely, that Noakes was there. I don't know what I would have done without him. It's not just that I wasn't in a state to call 911 for quite a while. It's also that he was the only witness to my seizure. Without him there, neither I nor anybody else would have known that the seizure happened.

Also, I would have panicked, which could have caused further brain trauma. I told Noakes afterwards, "I was never afraid, because I knew that you were there, and I knew that you would do the right thing."

Daily life: Life grows weird again

2013-05-20T01:12:18Z

SCENE: A HOSPITAL ROOM

Neurologist: ". . . so just make an appointment with my office. By the way, what sort of work do you do?"

Me (disconcerted by the change of topic): "Oh, I'm a writer."

Neurologist: "Really? What sort of writing do you do?"

Me: "Mainly e-books of historical fantasy - historical fiction with a fantasy flare to it."

Neurologist: "So where are your e-books sold?"

Me (trying to be helpful, because, like, this is a doctor, and you're supposed to answer doctors' questions): "Lots of places. Amazon, Barnes & Noble . . ."

Neurologist: "Oh, so if I went to Amazon and typed in [legal name], I'd see your books . . ."

Me (because I know that he won't remember this information three seconds from now): "No, I write under the name of Dusk Peterson."

Neurologist: "I'll have to look you up. Well, it's nice meeting you. . . ."

(We shake hands. Neurologist goes off to the computer station outside to look again at my brain scans. I return to my bed and consider calling the nurse to hook me back up to the IV.)

Neurologist (poking his head around the doorway): "Can you come look at this?"

(I brace myself for new revelations about my brain. Coming out to the hallway, I look over the neurologist's shoulder and see-- Oh my god!)

Neurologist (scrolling past the cover at Amazon for this): "Are these yours?"

Me (wondering whether it's possible to sink through all the floors of a multi-story hospital): "Yes, that's right."

Neurologist (pausing at this cover): "What's this about?"

Me (utterly relieved that he chose a relatively family-friendly title): "It's about two boys in a fantasy world who become friends, despite being of different ranks."

Neurologist (scrolling past the cover for this): "Hmm."

Me (hastily): "I write a lot of--" (Begins to say "suspenseful fiction." Neurolologist scrolls past this cover.) --"love stories."

Neurologist (scrolls past this and this): "Are you religious?"

Me (staring with morbid fascination as the neurologist scrolls past this and this): "Well, I was an interfaith news reporter once, so I'm interested in religion. Why do you ask?"

Neurologist: "It's just that your covers seem--" (pauses at this) "--classical."

Me (gabbling now): "Yes, I think the turn-of-the-century artists had striking artwork."

(Neurologist clicks on link for that cover. I hold my breath, trying to remember how bad the blurb was, but am quite relieved that he hadn't chosen to check out the blurb of the next book, which was this one.)

Neurologist: "I'll download it and let you know what I think."

Me (inwardly): Please please please don't read my hurt/comfort fic before you tell me whether I'm having seizures.

o--o--o

So yeah, Life decided that things were a bit boring for me, so it decided to give me another ride to the emergency room.

HOW THINGS WENT DOWN, LITERALLY

Friday - the day I was supposed to spend with Noakes, visiting my opthalmologist, having lunch with my father, and attending a big Pre-Raphaelite exhibit that ended on Saturday - my iPod Touch alarm went off and I got out of bed to answer it. The method in which I got out of bed was that my slippery mattress pad slipped off the bed, dumping me to the floor. On my way down, the nightstand hit the back of my head, behind my left ear.

My initial commentary was simply, "Ow!" The impact hurt, but no worse than bumping my knee, and I was left with only a mild headache. But it was a hard enough bump that - once I'd gotten up, turned off the alarm, glared at my slippery mattress pad, and gone downstairs - I picked up an armful of home medicine books on the way and told Noakes, who was in the kitchen, that I might have a concussion, and that he should call 911 if I started to have symptoms.

"What are the symptoms of concussion?" I asked no one in particular, and started reading the books while Noakes - who has had two concussions - began reciting symptoms to me.

"Okay," I said after a while, "it says here that you should check my pupils with a pen light. I'll get my little flashlight."

So I did, and Noakes checked my pupils, and he said they looked fine.

"That's good," I said, "but I'm invoking the medical exception for my 'off the Internet' rule. I'm going to go online and look up more information."

So I made breakfast and then hunted down my Internet access password (I have to take serious measures to keep myself off the Internet), and then settled down to a rice cake, cashew butter, orange slices, ginger, strawberry smoothie, and the Mayo Clinic website.

I'd just finished reading the symptoms of a concussion ("Headache or a feeling of pressure in the head; temporary loss of consciousness; confusion or feeling as if in a fog; amnesia surrounding the traumatic event; dizziness or 'seeing stars'; ringing in the ears; nausea or vomiting"), when suddenly I was hit by a wave of nausea.

Uh-oh.

By the time I reached the short set of stairs to the upper floor, there was lots of nastiness going up and down my spine, and I was feeling dizzy. I made it to the top of the steps, announcing the latest news to Noakes (whose bedroom is directly opposite the steps), and then headed for the bathroom, calling to Noakes to follow me.

My memory of what happened next diverges from Noakes's memory. The main difference between his memory and mine is that his is ten minutes longer. Apparently, I spent one of those ten minutes fallen over onto the bathroom table, shaking and making choking sounds.

I didn't realize at first that I'd lost any memory. In fact, I kept contradicting Noakes when he told EMS that I'd fallen over in the bathroom. It wasn't till he got to the point of describing the shaking that I realized it was my memory that was defective. After that, I had sense enough to shut up (but first I told EMS about the memory loss).

I did know before then that something seriously wrong had happened, because, right after Noakes arrived at the bathroom (from my point of view; from his point of view, this happened after the falling and shaking), Noakes took hold of me and everything went all foggy, just like the Mayo Clinic had predicted. It was exactly like in the movies, when they want to show that someone is out of it (say, the good guy has just been bopped over the head by the bad guy), and so they show everything hazy, with people's voices distant and garbled. I could see a dark, horizontal blob spreading across the field of my vision, which I identified with Noakes, I suppose because he was talking to me, but I couldn't understand what he was saying, and I couldn't reply to him.

When I finally got my power of speech back, I said, "Call 911."

Or so I thought. My memory was wrong there too.

So, for the next few minutes, I held imaginary conversations with Noakes, which more or less corresponded with actual events, except that the events were all time-compressed on my side, which is how I lost the remaining nine minutes. Noakes - who had enough sense to call 911 without my helpful suggestion - tells me that the only words I spoke during that interval occurred as he tried to position me onto my bad hip. (911 had told him I should be lying on my side.) I told him then, "I can't be on this side; we have to turn me around."

After a while, the ambulance and EMS arrived, and by the time they did, I was relatively coherent again. From that point forth, I was lucid.

Which is just as well, because the hospital that I have entered six times in the past three years wanted all my medical information again, including a copy of the advance directive I gave them last March.

This was the start of an important educational experience, namely a two-day stay at my local hospital.

MEDICAL LESSONS

Lesson #1: If you want to get well after an accident, make your hospital stay as short as possible.

Between the sleep deprivation (I was awakened four times during the night for eight different tests), the bad diet (I asked for their "Heart Healthy menu" and was served hamburger), and the lack of exercise (my inflammatory condition worsens the longer I'm immobile), it's a miracle I made it through those first 48 hours without my body imploding on me. As soon as it was clear - both to me and the hospital staff - that I wasn't likely to be having seizures every few hours, I was more than happy to have them release me. I can't imagine how the American medical profession - which keeps telling everyone that the key to recovering from illness is lots of sleep, a balanced diet, and exercise as tolerated - keeps doing everything it can to undermine the recovery of its hospital patients.

Lesson #2: It pays to live next to the right hospital.

In stark contrast to its policies, the employees at my local hospital proved stellar. I've never been surrounded by so many helpful, friendly people in my life. It was like attending a slash con where everyone was a volunteer, eager to help you. Those folks are probably the main reason my body didn't implode; they provided a healthy antidote to the hospital's unhealthy policies.

I'm sure it's not a coincidence that I was aided by three dozen supremely nice people. My local hospital must have one heck of a hiring program and training program. I'm not surprised that my hospital has won awards, and I highly recommend it to anyone living in the D.C. area.

Lesson #3: If your doctor asks you what work you do, lie.

My CAT scan and MRI turned out fine, thank goodness. The neurologist told me that the trauma I underwent was most likely the result of my brain sloshing around (his words) after my head was banged, but the hospital did an EEG on me to rule out the possibility that I have a new chronic condition causing seizures. In a petty bit of medical bureaucracy, the hospital refused to release the results directly to me (and when I asked for my latest hospital medical records, they told me that my family doctor had to sign off on them before I could read them, which I thought was wonderfully paternalistic), so I have to go see the neurologist at his office this week, to get the EEG results.

Hopefully, he'll still be willing to give me the results.

Poll time! Ebook and website preferences

2013-05-08T12:04:13Z

View poll: Ebook and website preferences

LiveJournal members can post at the above poll through OpenID.

The Balance (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-05-07T01:27:46Z

"'The Eternal Dungeon is my home now,' the High Seeker said. But as he spoke, he lifted his face and looked at the Vovimian carving, as a man might look at a beloved he must leave forever."

The Seekers (torturers) in the Eternal Dungeon have always expressed contempt toward the Hidden Dungeon in the neighboring kingdom of Vovim, whose torturers abuse prisoners without restraint. But the balance between mercy and hell is not so clear as might be thought in either dungeon, and now that balance is about to tip. Only the strength of love and integrity will determine the paths of two Seekers whose fortunes are bound together.

This novel can be read on its own or as the third volume in The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

VOLUME CONTENTS

"Truth and Lies." When you're a prisoner, having a torturer who's mad can be an advantage. Or maybe not.

"Barbarians." Vovim was renowned for its strong monarchy, for its love of the theater, and for its skill in the art of torture. In other words, it had all the qualities needed to become a civilized nation. But would anyone be willing to defy Vovim's tyrannical king? And if they did, would they survive?

"Hidden." He had been given the kindest, gentlest torturer in the dungeon. The prisoner was left with only one hope: that he could teach his torturer how to be cruel.

"Death Watch." Death lurks everywhere in the Eternal Dungeon . . . even in a torturer's bedroom.

"Balladeer." Sometimes it takes an outsider to point out the obvious.

"The Balance: Historical Note."

Excerpt
The corridor he stood in was very dark. With the furnace doors closed, the only light came from half a dozen oil lamps bracketed to the walls. The lamps were fitfully sputtering.
He tossed a coin in his mind and began walking slowly south, in the direction of the bats. There were doors all along the eastern side of the corridor, opposite to the furnaces, but none of the doors were marked in any way. He tried the knob of one of the doors, but it was locked.
He reached the last of the furnaces and paused, uncertain. A further stretch of corridor lay ahead of him, but the doors on the eastern side had ended. Was it worth travelling on and risking meeting one of the Eternal Dungeon's notoriously skilled guards?
It was at that moment that the Seeker entered the corridor from the west.
Yeslin received only a glimpse of him, for the Seeker immediately turned right, in the direction of the southern end of the corridor, and then disappeared through another western doorway. All that Yeslin caught was an impression of black. Black boots, black trousers, black shirt, and, of course, the mark of a Seeker: the black hood that hid a Seeker's entire head.
Yeslin stood irresolute for a moment more. The Seeker he had seen could not be the High Seeker; he knew that much. But tangling with torturers of any rank seemed the ultimate in danger. Moreover, what likelihood was there that the Seeker would give Yeslin the information he needed? These men were trained to extract information, through horrific means; Yeslin doubted that their training extended to giving out information to a passing stranger.
He thought this and felt his feet carry him forward. He realized afterwards that what carried him forward was not any conscious thought, but a sound: the very faint sound of machinery.
The sound of machinery grew louder as he approached the doorway that the Seeker had entered. Yeslin paused at the threshold, and not only because of the danger which the Seeker represented. He was pausing in awe of what lay beyond that doorway.
It was a steam engine – his ears had already told him that – but it was the biggest steam engine he had ever seen in his life. It was rigged up with what Yeslin could only describe as a giant's accordion. Two accordions, one squeezing down at the same moment that the other accordion released itself with a whoosh. Squish and release, squish and release – the two accordions worked in harmony with each other as the great steam engine that ran them pushed its rod-arms backwards and forwards.
Standing in front of them, with his back to the doorway, was the Seeker. The sound of the steam engine had evidently hidden the sound of Yeslin's footsteps, for the Seeker did not turn around as Yeslin entered the room. The torturer had his head tilted back, in evident contemplation of the machinery. Yeslin could imagine a Seeker being fascinated by the workings of a rack or another instrument of torture, but a Seeker who seemed wholly absorbed at the sight of less destructive machinery . . .
Yeslin closed the door. The Seeker's back stiffened. Then the Seeker turned. Yeslin could see nothing except his eyes, which were a deep blue.
"Mr. Taylor?" Yeslin heard that his own voice was shaking.
For a moment, the Seeker remained still, leaving Yeslin in an agony of certainty that he had misidentified the man. Then the Seeker raised his hands, pulling up the portion of his hood that hid his face.
It was indeed Elsdon Taylor. He looked tired, but no more so than the last time Yeslin had seen him. His face remained youthful.
"Yeslin Bainbridge." Elsdon Taylor's voice was incredulous. "How in the name of all that is sacred did you get in here?"
The dipping of his eyes was automatic. He did manage to keep from going down on one knee. But it had been three years since he had last met Elsdon Taylor, so very briefly, and though they had exchanged letters since then, he had not been able to communicate with the Seeker for the past fourteen months. Men can change a great deal in the space of fourteen months, particularly when they spend their nights torturing prisoners. . . .
"Yeslin." There was an indefinable shift in Elsdon Taylor's voice which caused Yeslin to look up. The Seeker was smiling now. He opened his arms. "Sweet one."
Yeslin came forward to accept the embrace of his brother.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): The Balance.

If Dante Had a Beta Reader (Leathermen, Fan Fiction Writers, and Other Rebels)

2013-05-01T02:25:33Z

Cartoon credit. Original link.

Who needs the Muses for inspiration when you have a beta reader to tell you what to do?

Excerpt
Dear Dante (do you mind if I call you Dan?),
First of all, I don't want you to be crushed by what I write below. I think you have a really good fic here, with lots of interesting characters and fantastic action. With a little work, I think you can make it good enough to post at historic_slash.
(By the way, I don't want to receive any more "I am a published author" letters from you. Stuff you can get away with in pro fic, you'll get slaughtered for in fandom. I'm trying to save you from flames – remember that.)
Let me start by giving you the bad news: Your story has some major problems.

¶ Available as online fiction: If Dante Had a Beta Reader.

Subtext is back

2013-05-01T02:17:26Z

I've brought back my series Subtext (including a couple of fantasies stories some of you haven't seen, Cold Stars and Revenge, because they've been hidden for several months). Subtext is my series for rare litfic (i.e. fan fiction inspired by literature). The series page also tells which stories inspired my original (non-fan) fiction.

Balladeer (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-04-22T06:38:19Z

"Yeslin stood irresolute. Tangling with torturers seemed the ultimate in danger."

Sometimes it takes an outsider to point out the obvious.

Once an abandoned street-lad, Yeslin Bainbridge has become a young man with a mission: to lead the commoner laborers in a fight against the elite men who exploit them. He knows exactly where to start his mission.

The Eternal Dungeon. Here elite torturers and guards force commoners to offer confessions to crimes they may or may not have committed. Here laborers aid the torturers and guards, unaware that they are being manipulated. Here, if anywhere, Yeslin can make his initial mark on the queendom.

But he faces many challenges: Officials who seek to hide the dungeon's secrets from outsiders. Dungeon traditions that foil efforts by outsiders to learn the truth. Most of all, Yeslin faces his own conscience, for he knows that, if he is to fulfill his mission, he must lie to the person he loves most.

This novelette can be read on its own or as the fifth and final story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

[Yes, this is new. Yes, I'm publishing this out of order. This is the final story in the third volume of The Eternal Dungeon, which has already been published as part of the series omnibus. —DP]

Excerpt
Leaning on the wooden handle of his iron shovel, Yeslin Bainbridge gasped for breath as he wiped the back of his blistered hand across his forehead. The hand came away slick with sweat. His chest was covered with sweat too, fierce with fire from the furnace before him. He would have liked to take off his shirt – he had enough sense not to wear an undervest on a job like this – but the Boss Man wouldn't permit it.
Or so he'd been told. The Boss Man hadn't shown his face yet. Nor would he, Yeslin had been made to understand. Only his voice.
"Hey, boy, why you stopping?" asked Wade, not pausing in his own stoking. "You think this is one of those picnics you masters hold?"
Wade had pitched his voice to be heard all down the corridor; the other stokers laughed. Yeslin could see them clearly in the furnace light: a dozen men of varying builds and ethnicities, but all young enough to shovel coal for hours . . . till they reached the age where their backs gave out and their throats wheezed from the accumulated dust of the coals.
Yeslin was the youngest of them, just nineteen. That placed certain challenges in his path.
He straightened up. He was not very tall, but he made up for it – he had been told in the past – by the expression that came onto his face when he confronted a bully.
It had taken him many months to learn to adopt that expression when he himself was being bullied. It had been his brother who had taught him that meekly accepting being bullied was as bad as encouraging another man to be a bully. His brother, he had found during the past three years, had good instincts in such matters.
"Oh, aye?" he said. He could not do anything about his accent, which had been beaten into him by a schoolmaster who had higher aspirations for him than his drunken birth-parents did, but he knew how to speak the local dialect, and would do so when the occasion warranted it. "So tell me, which am I? A commoner? If so, this is a matter for fists, ain't it? Or am I one of the elite? If so, speak respect to your better, lad."
Laughter came from the other stokers. Ward looked confused and a little frightened. Yeslin had guessed that this approach would have that effect. Wade was from the First District, where speaking disrespectfully to a man of the higher class was a killing matter. It must be a continuous trial to him to live in the capital of Yclau, where matters of rank were determined by speech and the cut of a man's suit. Someone like Yeslin, who spoke as though he were mid-class, yet wore the clothes of a laborer . . . No wonder Wade was angry to be working alongside him. No wonder the little jibes.
Suddenly filled with sympathy for the man, Yeslin reached over and slapped him on the back. "Nay, mate, I'm only making mock. Don't blame me for the accent I had beaten into me."
Wade's expression cleared. "Yeah, boy. Can't blame a man for following the orders of his betters."
This gave him the opening he wanted. "I suppose that it's easier to follow the orders of certain torturers, rather than the orders of other torturers. What I mean to say is, there are reasonable bosses, and then there is the other type—"
"Seekers," said Leo with a frown. A brawny man, he looked like the elite's caricatures of idiot commoners. Yeslin had already marked him as the quickest-minded man among the stokers. "They're called Seekers, not torturers. They seek the truth about the crimes that the prisoners have committed."
"So they claim," countered Yeslin, but this observation prompted so many frowns that he changed tactics. "You've seen this for yourself?"
Curt, a sandy-haired youth, said, "We don't need to. We got the Code of Seeking."
He pretended ignorance. "What's that?"
"Here." Leo reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out a slender object that was no bigger than the man's hand, and tossed it toward Yeslin.
Yeslin caught the object automatically with his free hand and stared down at it. He would have feigned astonishment at this point if he had not been so busy being genuinely astonished. A book. Written by the elite. In the breast pocket of a stoker.
All around him now was laughter. "Catching him off-guard, you are, Leo. He didn't look for that." "Guess he thinks none of us can read. Those fellows in the lighted world – they think they're better than us." "Aye, they don't understand us up there."
"Nay, I figured on you knowing your letters." Yeslin held up the book on his palm. "But bosses giving out free books to their laborers – now, that's something to ballad about."
He had said the wrong thing; he knew that, the moment he spoke. The laughter and smiles disappeared; the men exchanged glances.
It was Leo who replied, in a gruff voice, "We don't gossip about our work to the lighted world. You think you're going to gossip, well. . ." He exchanged looks with the others. The stokers had been drifting together during this conversation, no longer strung like beads along the long, narrow corridor on which the dungeon's furnaces were located. Now they began to shift together, massing into one group, in a manner that Yeslin needed no interpreter to understand.
He said quickly, "I'm no gossip." No gossip indeed. He was something more important than that, but it would take time to explain himself to the stokers.
"Aye?" Wade's eyes were narrowed. "Who are you, then? You ask a lot of questions. You don't answer none."
So he told them. No names, but he told them about his family, and about his new family after that, and how all that had ended. By the time he was through, the men were all relaxed again.
"Aye, well." Leo scratched his head. Being an indoor worker, he was capless, wearing the rough denim uniform issued to all the dungeon's stokers. From what little Yeslin had seen, the dungeon's elite didn't dress much better. "The fates will do that to a man: take him up to the heights, then drop him again. 'Least you're not all sour about it."
"Nay," Yeslin replied, scooping up more coal with his shovel. "These things happen. 'Tis probably for the best. I wouldn't want to be one of them."
He expected emphatic nods, even if some of those nods came from hypocrites who would gladly have embraced the wealth of the world if chance wandered their way. What he received instead was indifferent shrugs.
This was going to be more difficult than he'd anticipated.
He tried again. "So the tor— The Seekers. They treat us well?"
There were uneasy looks then, among the stokers. Leo said quickly, "Well enough."
"Oh, come now, Leo," said Jerry, a married man who was inclined to talk at length about his six young ones. "Be honest. You're as worried as the rest of us."
"Worried?" Yeslin raised his eyebrows.
"'Bout our jobs," said Curt. "There's talk of 'lectrifying the whole dungeon – of doing away with the coal furnaces. Doing away with our jobs."
"It's all rumor," said Leo with a growl.
"What are you going to do if it's true?" asked Yeslin.
Wade shrugged. "Look for other stoking jobs, in the lighted world. What else can we do?"
"Well . . ." said Yeslin slowly.
But Leo cut him off. "Listen!"
Everyone stood still. Away down toward the end of the corridor came a sound, indefinable at first, then growing louder, like the rustling of a thousand pieces of paper in a clerk's office.
"Work's done for the night." Leo tossed his shovel aside. "The day shift will be coming 'long in an hour or two. Let's go eat."
He had not learned what he needed to know. To steal time, he pretended that his boot had come untied. Kneeling down, he said, "Boss Man gives decent hours. Only eight hours of work."
Wade snorted. "In the summer. Come winter, it's fourteen hours."
"We follow the sun," Curt explained, bringing out a face-cloth from his trousers pocket to wipe the coal dust from his face. "Those were bats you heard, returning at dawn to the cave this dungeon lies in. In the summer, they come home soon. In the winter, they seem to stay forever in the lighted world."
"Seekers and guards, they follow the same hours." Leo frowned down at Yeslin, who was continuing to fiddle with his bootstring.
"Aye?" said Yeslin, taking care not to raise his eyes. "Well, that sort of schedule must be easier for the young Seekers than the old Seekers. Or do they have young Seekers?"
"Oh, aye," said Curt, walking blithely into the lure. "Youngest one is twenty-three. That's Mr. Taylor."
His fingers tightened on the bootstring, to the point where he almost cut himself. "Aye? Don't think I've seen him. Does he live in the dungeon?"
That prompted more laughter from the stokers. "All the Seekers live in the dungeon," said Jerry, his voice kindly. "None of them leave here. Least of all Mr. Taylor. He's the High Seeker's love-mate—"
"That's enough!" Leo's voice turned sharp. "The High Seeker, he won't stand for gossip, and neither do we. That's our pride, or have all you forgotten that?"
There was a murmur of acknowledgment from the other stokers. They looked shame-faced now, especially Jerry. Leo turned his attention back to Yeslin. "You're the worst man at boot-tying that I've ever seen in my life. You need a hand there?"
"I've broken the string." This was true enough; Jerry's remark had caused Yeslin to suddenly jerk his hand. "No worries; I got an extra string in my pocket. You go ahead. I'll catch up."
"Don't linger," Leo warned. "Boss Man don't like us staying in the inner dungeon after our work is through. Okay, lads—" He slammed closed the door to Yeslin's furnace and turned to the others. "Let's get our meal pails open, and see what we've got, and then steal from Jerry's pail."
Jerry yelped. Laughing, Ward said, "Well, if you will marry the best cook in the Alleyway district . . ."
They all closed their furnace doors and retreated toward the north end of the corridor, disappearing from view as they turned the corner. Yeslin waited until they were all gone before replacing the string, as swiftly as he could. Then he stood up. His heart was still beating hard.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Balladeer.

Death Watch (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-04-15T07:23:15Z

"Sometimes Layle wondered why, in the names of all the minor deities, he had chosen a love-mate who kept him continually off-balance, rather than the helpless, compliant victim he had so often dreamed about."

Death lurks everywhere in the Eternal Dungeon . . . even in a torturer's bedroom.

Trained as a young man to execute prisoners by entering their bodies, Layle Smith remains a danger to others, even after he moves to a more civilized dungeon, with strict rules on the treatment of prisoners.

Unfortunately, he's unable to convince a former prisoner of that fact. Faced with an adoring, oblivious love-mate, Layle Smith must decide whether he can hold back his dark desire, or whether he should give in to that desire . . . for his love-mate's sake.

This novelette can be read on its own or as the fourth story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt
Layle Smith caught his breath. He always caught his breath when Elsdon Taylor knelt in front of him, as the young man was wont to do at the most unexpected moments, probably because he enjoyed seeing Layle caught off-guard. Sometimes Layle wondered why, in the names of all the minor deities, he had chosen a love-mate who kept him continually off-balance, rather than the helpless, compliant victim he had so often dreamed about.
Then Elsdon would smile up at him, his eyes simultaneously filled with gentleness and wisdom, and Layle would remember.
"What is this?" Layle asked, trying to sound as commanding as a man who held the title of High Seeker ought to sound, though he very much doubted that his love-mate was fooled. Elsdon was a Seeker as well.
"My present," said Elsdon. "Did you think I'd forgotten?"
Layle, sitting in his usual armchair as he tried to finish reading a tall stack of guards' reports on the table beside him, looked down at where Elsdon knelt at his feet. Between his legs, in actual fact, a space which by all rights Elsdon should not have been able to reach without Layle noticing. Layle would have been long dead if he had been that careless with a prisoner. "Never forget that most of the prisoners in this dungeon believe that their only road to escape lies in killing you." He had told that to dozens of Seekers-in-Training over the years, including the young man kneeling before him.
When had he become so complacent to Elsdon's presence that his love-mate could take him unawares like this?
He cleared his throat. "I don't see any gift."
A dimple appeared in Elsdon's cheek. "Yes, you do."
Layle reflected to himself that Elsdon was showing unusual mercy by remaining clothed during this speech. Of course, that could be because he knew how much the High Seeker enjoyed ordering him to strip. Layle sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had not only become complacent; the pattern between him and Elsdon had become so predictable that his love-mate could plan the next move without awaiting Layle's word.
And that, he feared, was precisely what Elsdon was trying to point out to him.
He tried to stall. "Our fifth anniversary was three months ago."
"The fourth month of 355 is when we met. The seventh month is when we became love-mates."
He made a quick calculation in his head – a very quick calculation, for those early days were imprinted in his mind like gold upon scrollwork. "Then our anniversary was three days ago. That's when we first kissed."
"That was before I discovered what sort of dreamings you had about me. And when I did—"
"You quite sensibly broke matters off between us rather than risk being bedded by a sadist." He heard the harshness in his voice. After all this time, he still could not believe that Elsdon had made a wise choice in selecting him as a love-mate.
"And even more sensibly mended matters with you the next day." Elsdon sounded as blithe as he always did when discussing that decision.
"Which means yesterday was our anniversary." He strove to keep control of the conversation. The gods alone knew why; he had never won any battle that Elsdon set out to win.
He looked round the small Seekers' cell that he and Elsdon shared. All about him, he noticed for the first time in many months, were signs that he did not live alone. On a nearby table lay a technical manual on the workings of steam engines, the sort of information which made Layle's mind spin but which Elsdon happily gobbled up in his few spare moments. Nearby was a report by Elsdon about his latest prisoner, carefully composed in his school-neat handwriting. And over the bed-rail in the adjoining room lay Elsdon's hood.
Seekers never removed their hoods except when they were about to bathe or go to bed. They might raise the face-cloth of their hoods when they were in private, but the complete removal of a hood was reserved for bathtime and bedtime. For much of the year, Layle found the mere removal of Elsdon's hood to be an extremely erotic act.
And yet Elsdon had removed his hood without Layle even noticing it. And Elsdon could not have failed to miss the fact that Layle had not noticed it.
Layle rubbed his eyes again. This was beginning to look very bad.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Death Watch.

Copyright policies page updated

2013-04-15T07:18:06Z

I've updated my policies on copyright, sharing, derivative works, and fan works to make clear that (1) readers who can't afford to buy my e-books can e-mail me for free copies, and (2) I permit commercially published fan works (which is no longer an oxymoron in this post-Fifty Shades of Grey world), provided that you check with me first, so that I'm not taken by surprise when your work shows up at stores.

Reviews: The Eternal Dungeon

2013-04-15T07:16:56Z

"The story of a sweet and courageous submissive helping his tormented but formidable dominant get it together . . . It's hot like [cough], and soul-searing beyond romance." —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on Rebirth (The Eternal Dungeon).

"A rich and tender fantasy rooted in solid historical research. . .. I know it sounds like a BDSM fantasy cliché – terrified prisoner interrogated by grim torturer. But the prisoner is surprised, the torturer is surprised, and you will be too by the wheels within wheels within the characters, setting and plot." —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on The Breaking (The Eternal Dungeon).

"This story subverts heaps of slash clichés – who writes about people losing their erections, triggering their partners, or taking time out to solve equipment problems? But I didn't even notice all that good stuff because I was having far too good a time enjoying the hot first-time-ness and power dynamics." —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on First Time (The Eternal Dungeon).

"Powerful, tender love, against the backdrop of a brilliantly imagined dungeon of horrors, unbound by any ethical code. You get more than a whole novel's worth of character, plot twists and world-building. —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on The Consultation (The Eternal Dungeon).

"The resolution is so . . . beautiful. Tragic, glorious, sweet. You need words like catharsis and anagnorisis to talk about the ending of this story." —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on Barbarians (The Eternal Dungeon).

"This story really is dark comedy of the best kind. I mean, who gets professional advice from the person you're torturing?" —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on Hidden (The Eternal Dungeon).

"This is a prequel to The Eternal Dungeon, and unlike most prequels, it's good stuff on its own. You will be amazed at all the layers hiding behind the weaponless terrorist forcing his way into the palace." —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on The Unanswered Question (The Eternal Dungeon).

New gay romance category at the Kindle store

2013-04-15T04:49:23Z

Good news, folks - at least for those who are looking for gay romance at Amazon. (Those who are trying to avoid it don't yet have a way to do so.) Amazon has added a gay romance category to the Kindle store, as a subcategory to romance. There doesn't yet seem to be any way for publishers and self-publishers to add books directly to it through Kindle Direct Publishing, but I just added an e-book to both the "gay fiction" and "romance > fantasy" categories, and Amazon automatically added the e-book to the gay romance category as well.

It's easy for readers to reach this category. To check this, I found "romance" on the side bar of the Kindle home page, clicked on it, and I was sent to the main romance page, which has all of the romance subcategories in the side bar, including gay romance. Interestingly, though, the gay & lesbian fiction category doesn't include a cross-link to the gay romance subcategory. Amazon seems to be assuming that readers of gay & lesbian fiction wouldn't be specifically interested in browsing through gay romance alone, which I think is a weak assumption.

I checked the BISAC subject headings, which most bookstores base their subject headings on, and gay romance hasn't been added to the headings. So this must be Amazon's decision.

By the way, comparing the gay romance subcategory with the gay & lesbian fiction category gives a powerful sense of how much gay romance is dominating gay literature these days.

The Organization for Transformative Works membership drive

2013-04-09T13:21:00Z

Some of you will have noticed that my online fiction is hosted these days by Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works. Posting my online fiction there allows me to make use of their special features: tags, comment boxes, and downloadable e-book versions in various formats. I've also spent a lot of time reading the OTW's Fanlore wiki, which preserves a history that I've been a part of for eleven years now.

The OTW is holding a membership drive at the moment. To become a member only costs US$10 or the equivalent in another currency. Or you can donate without becoming a member. If you enjoy fannish culture, this is a good time to show your appreciation of the work that the OTW does.

If you're not familiar with the OTW's work, you can read about their projects here.

Interview by Hearts on Fire Reviews

2013-04-09T12:47:12Z

Aggie at Hearts on Fire Reviews interviewed me with a whole slew of questions. We ended up discussing my early days as a young writer, which writers have influenced me, the historical research for my novels, darkfic, The Eternal Dungeon and Michael's House, the connection between comedy and tragedy, original slash and m/m romance, the origin of my pen name, and (*gulp*) Twilight.

There are major spoilers for Rebirth and Whipster in the middle portion of the interview; otherwise, the interview is spoiler-free.

Hearts on Fire Reviews ends the interview by saying, "Leave a comment before 4/15 for a random chance to win your choice from Dusk Peterson's backlist."

Truth and Lies (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-03-29T03:37:41Z

"Thatcher was having difficulty deciding who to attack first."

When you're a prisoner, having a torturer who's mad can be an advantage. Or maybe not.

Thatcher Owen is a soldier who has been sent to the Eternal Dungeon for doing his duty. Accused of committing war atrocities, he is faced with the possibility of being manipulated by his torturer into confessing to a crime that was no crime. So Thatcher sets out to trick his torturer. But how do you trick a man whose very sanity seems in question?

Seward Sobel is faced with a similar dilemma. As senior night guard to the Eternal Dungeon's High Seeker, his job is to prevent that brilliant torturer from abusing his prisoner. But how do you tell the difference between madness and genius?

As these two men perform their delicate dance of duty, their fates will depend on the High Seeker's truthfulness . . . and on the nature of his lies.

This novella can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt
The entry hall was a high, broad cavern that contained little except tables and chairs pushed against the walls, where they could easily be hidden by the shadows if a prisoner entered the hall. Now, though, the perimeter of the hall was bright with lamplight and the chatter of guards awaiting new prisoners. Seward found himself thinking of Mr. Urman, whose training would be completed soon and who would be transferred into the care of Weldon Chapman. Six months before, Mr. Urman had told Seward that he could no longer stand the idleness and would seek a transfer. Seward had rounded upon him with all the fury of a mother wolf protecting her children, but it had made no difference. It had been a full year since the High Seeker's day guards had resigned, and the Codifier had not bothered to replace them. It was doubtful that anyone would have taken their positions.
At the time of Layle Smith's madness, the dungeon inhabitants had been united behind their High Seeker, doing everything they could to keep his mind from destructing. Yet fame is fickle: as it became less and less certain that the High Seeker would recover the powers that had won him renown throughout the world, the dungeon dwellers had gradually turned away from him in indifference or disgust. So few remained loyal to Layle Smith now: the High Seeker's companion, two or three of the junior Seekers who modelled themselves after him, and a handful of senior members of the dungeon who had worked alongside him for many years.
And the High Seeker's shadow, Seward Sobel, who had been with Layle Smith since the beginning.
The High Seeker was in the midst of turning away from Weldon Chapman when Seward reached him. Seward found his gaze lingering upon his Seeker, looking for changes from the old times. He had seen the High Seeker little more than any other dungeon dwellers had during the time of his illness; Layle Smith had asked for assistance during that period from his love-mate and Weldon Chapman, but from no one else. Seward wondered whether the same man he had known lay behind the closed face-cloth of the hood, or whether the High Seeker had been irremediably altered during his absence.
The High Seeker's eyes, always cool, raked over Seward as though his senior night guard were a prisoner worthy of being racked. "Yes, Mr. Sobel," he said. "Did you have something you wished to say to me?"
Mr. Sobel was touched by the slight sickness he had felt in his stomach ever since the early days, when his attempts to reach out to a young Seeker in friendship had been rebuffed with a coldness like midwinter wind. He opened his mouth to reply, and then realized, too late, that he had not come prepared with any excuse for speaking to the High Seeker.
Twenty-one years they had worked together, and he still needed an excuse to talk to Layle Smith. He thought this, and thought also of the time of absence when he had lingered each long night in the entry hall, far beyond the time when his shift officially ended, waiting for Layle Smith to call for his services.
Now the High Seeker's eyes were growing narrow through the holes in his hood. Seward began to open his mouth again to make some excuse for his presence when a faint scream cut through his thoughts.
The chatter in the entry hall died in an instant, as though sliced clean with a blade. For a heart's breath, everyone stared at the door that led to the prisoners' cells. Screams were a daily occurrence at the Eternal Dungeon; what had caught everyone's attention was the fact that the scream had cut off abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye, Seward saw the High Seeker's hand go to the side of his belt, as though he expected to find something there.
And then the silence was broken by a whistle – a high, hard whistle that shot through the air like a cannonball. And Seward was running, running as hard as he had ever run since the day in his youth when he saw a revolver in the hand of a man who had murder in his eyes, and whose gaze was turned toward the royal princess.
He ran as he had not run for twenty-six years: but the High Seeker reached the door before him.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Truth and Lies.

Barbarians (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-03-29T03:35:49Z

"With a movement too quick to see, the master torturer used his whip to send the prisoner to his knees. 'Crawl,' he said in the flat voice a man might use toward a stubborn animal."

Vovim was renowned for its strong monarchy, for its love of the theater, and for its skill in the art of torture. In other words, it had all the qualities needed to become a civilized nation. But would anyone be willing to defy Vovim's tyrannical king? And if they did, would they survive?

Grieving over an acrimonious departure from his love-mate, a youthful ambassador from the neighboring nation of Yclau has come to Vovim on a mission to help that barbaric kingdom's prisoners. But he faces unexpected barriers: An insane young king. The king's effeminate companion, who holds his own plans for the ambassador. And a populace whose greatest wish, it seems, is to see the ambassador die during a theatrical performance.

Then arrives the only Vovimian who seems to have a shred of sanity to him. But this man is a skilled torturer, and he is hiding depths that even the ambassador may not be able to penetrate.

This novella can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt
Though the Code forbade Seekers all private belongings, long-standing custom permitted them a small allowance for luxuries. The High Seeker, being Vovimian-born, spent most of his allowance on books and art, and one evening in autumn, while the rain beat upon the crystalline rock that shed the only light into the underground Eternal Dungeon, the High Seeker had shown Elsdon Taylor an etching of a Vovimian theater company in performance. For the next two hours, Elsdon had listened with fascination to the talk of stage scenery and costumes, of introductory mimes and dramatic dialogues, of divisions into acts, of conflicts, climaxes, and finales, and (since this was, after all, a Vovimian theater) of bloody corpses on the stage afterwards, and of the theater companies' decision whether to fake the deaths or use criminal volunteers who had decided to let their execution be a final act of theater.
"But don't the condemned criminals panic at the last moment and spoil the show?" Elsdon had asked.
The High Seeker had bestowed upon Elsdon that look he often gave when they were discussing his native land, as though a lifetime of words could not complete Elsdon's education in this matter. All he said, though, was, "Not in Vovim."
Elsdon had spent the following night dreaming that he was watching a play in Vovim, performed by the world's finest players. For the next few weeks, his thoughts had lingered upon the regret that he would never have the opportunity to watch a Vovimian theater performance – not unless luck turned his way.
Luck, unfortunately, had turned his way. Amidst all his past dreamings, it had not occurred to Elsdon that he might take part in the performance himself, and that he would play the role of the criminal.
It was perhaps not surprising to learn that the King's palace was equipped with a theater, nor that the theater was located directly across the hallway from the throne room. Nor was it particularly surprising to learn that all of the courtiers and palace guests who had been milling about in the hallway, waiting for the King to emerge from his private audience with his High Master, were delighted to accept the King's invitation to enjoy the performance. They crowded into the vast theater, jostled their way into cramped rows, and stood on benches at the back and sides of the theater in order to get their best glimpse of the stage.
The stage itself had been stripped to the bare minimum, making a striking contrast with the fripperies and frills that usually adorned a royal performance. At Master Toler's orders, the only scenery left on the stage was a blood-red curtain, which would make for an arresting contrast with both the master torturer's uniform and the prisoner's lack of clothes. The middle part of the curtain had been pulled up to reveal the naked stone wall behind, and here a wooden post had been fastened to the stage floor. Attached to it halfway up was a set of iron chains, which sparkled under the lamps. The other lamps in the room shone their light on the stage, or on the narrow walkway leading from the theater door to the stage.
Elsdon made his entrance down this walkway. He was not permitted to walk.
"Crawl," said Master Toler.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Barbarians.

Hidden (The Eternal Dungeon)

2013-03-29T03:32:35Z

"One hundred lashes today. At least, it was supposed to be one hundred lashes, but my darling torturer (I call him that to annoy him) was fooled when I pretended to faint after the fifteenth lash. He didn't even order the guards in the corridor to poke me back to wakefulness with their bayonets. Makes me ashamed to acknowledge that we belong to the same profession."

He had been given the kindest, gentlest torturer in the dungeon. The prisoner was left with only one hope: that he could teach his torturer how to be cruel.

When the High Master of Vovim's Hidden Dungeon is arrested and placed in the hands of one of his own men, High Master Millard's immediate instinct is to show his torturer how to do a better job.

But Millard is facing seemingly insuperable odds: a lackluster torturer, a bitterly insane king, and most of all, Millard's own doubts as to whether he will be man enough to face the coming ordeal.

Perhaps he won't. And perhaps that is part of the lesson he needs to learn.

This short story can be read on its own or as the third story in the "Balance" volume of The Eternal Dungeon, an award-winning historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Excerpt
Day 3: One hundred lashes today. At least, it was supposed to be one hundred lashes, but my darling torturer (I call him that to annoy him) was fooled when I pretended to faint after the fifteenth lash. He didn't even order the guards in the corridor to poke me back to wakefulness with their bayonets. Makes me ashamed to acknowledge that we belong to the same profession.
Afterwards he complied with my request for pencil and ledger-book. He even sharpened the pencil for me with his dagger. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Doesn't he realize what could be done to him if anyone finds out he's giving special favors to me?
Why am I surrounded by incompetents? This dungeon is filled with torturers who bungle simple rackings, burn themselves on their own pokers, and grow enamored with their prisoners and help them escape. I'm glad Toler isn't here to witness this.
Day 4: Another attempt at the hundred lashes, another bluffed faint. This time my darling torturer brought water to me. Any hopes I'd had, though, that he would dash it in my face were frustrated when I discovered that he was planning to give me water to assuage my thirst. I would have screamed at him, but I was too busy gulping down the water. It's been four days since I was allowed to eat or drink.
I reminded him of his duty afterwards, though. He looked hurt, and then slapped me to the ground. There might be some hope for him yet.
Day 18: The gap in time is because we actually managed to finish the hundred lashes. Instead of immediately following up on his advantage, though, my darling torturer allowed me time to heal. I might as well admit that he's a loss and resign myself to being in the care of the kindest, gentlest torturer who has ever performed in the Hidden Dungeon.
Curse it, no. He will not disgrace me like this. I'll see him dead first.
Day 19: Gave my darling torturer a small lecture yesterday about the duty of a torturer to his art. It seems to have done him good; he used the poker on me afterwards. I'm still able to write, which means he was too soft on me. I wish I could figure out how to reach him.
In the meantime, I can continue keeping this record, which I expect will be invaluable to future generations of the King's Torturers. This must be the first time in history that a prisoner has recorded his reactions while being tortured to death.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Hidden.

Reviews: Waterman, Master/Other, & The Eternal Dungeon

2013-03-29T03:25:59Z

"If you like reading about masters and slaves, you will love this collection. You get caring masters, neglectful masters, abusive masters, devoted slaves defying their masters, despairing slaves being comforted and trained. . . . Also, the hurt/comfort is amazing, I cried over this book. The heroes go through such emotional agony that it's hard to believe there can be enough comfort to make it worthwhile – but it is!" —Amazon (Yingtai/Justine) on Waterman: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus of historical fantasy and retrofuture science fiction.

"This book broke my heart. All pieces from my shattered heart were scattered in different directions. Each page cast them away, further and further away from me. When I believed hope was lost, and nothing could be saved, I had a surprise . . ." —Goodreads (Bookwatcher) on Debt Price (Master/Other).

"This is a series that shows enormous promise, with truly fabulous characters, and perfect worldbuilding. (Peterson gave me actual nightmares. That's gotta be a sign of evocative writing. I dreamed all night that I was being prepared for Seeking. It was not restful.)" —Goodreads (Emma) on The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus of historical fantasy novels.

Anyone here with an e-reader who can test a file for me?

2013-03-22T23:05:26Z

I'm working on creating ePub editions, and I want to make sure that my files are readable on the major e-readers. I'm able to test an ePub file on Windows, iPad, and iPod Tough, but not on the other hardware e-readers, such as Nook or Kobo; nor do I have an Android device or other operating systems.

Would anyone here who has an e-reader be willing to test a file for me? You get a free ePub copy of Milord as payment. I do need very quick feedback, though, because I'm trying to get at least a few ePub e-books published by the end of the month.

Daily life: A thank you note

2013-03-22T22:55:02Z

I spent weeks trying to decide whether it was appropriate to post the previous Daily Life entry. I finally decided to do a single entry on that topic, because so much of my current professional life - not to mention home life - revolves around this that it was becoming hard to write Daily Life entries at all without making clear the background of my current struggles. I figured I'd lay out the background once for my readers, and then I could set the matter aside.

What I hadn't expected (but really should have, since the same thing happened last time) is the outpouring of support - both emotional and practical - that I received from you folks. (Also, there was an uptick in sales, which could have been a coincidence, but I kind of think wasn't.)

You guys are the greatest. I've been saying that for as long as I've had readers, because, from the start, I've had the best readers in the world. But you keep making that clear.

(Back to talking about more important stuff, namely the fiction.)

Q&A: Character names and place names

2013-03-17T19:12:30Z

Not every name in my stories has an origins tale connected with it, but some of them do. If you're interested in a particular name (a character name or a place name), feel free to post a question in the comments.

Edited to add: Spoilers may occur in the comments.

Daily life: When life turns strange

2013-03-17T19:05:01Z

"The thing about my friend of the fire escape was that there were so many of him. You saw him all over, thousands and thousands of him, in every city of the land. Younger versions of him shoveled snow, in their black dress shoes and double-breasted business suits - the only clothes they had to wear, and the only thing they could find to do. They prayed for snow. An inch of snow was a dollar's worth of shoveling. You saw him in his improvised huts, cardboard or sheet tin, in the parks and the vacant lots, whole communities of him. And he could be you."

--Frederick Pohl's The Way the Future Was, which I first read as a middle-class teen.

My life has become surreal.

After years of writing about the poor, and after a lifetime of reading about the well-off turned poor (Sara Crewe in A Little Princess, etc.), I'm about to become poor myself. Poor as in "not sure how to pay for food, medicine, and shelter."

I should have thought of doing this long ago. This is excellent research material. I'm learning all sorts of neat stuff, such as that the average newspaper and magazine is aimed at people who have enough money to pay for the basics (I've switched over to reading African-American newspapers) and that everyone in America is assumed to be rich enough to be able to afford phone service. Even the folks who give out food stamps assume this.

When I've not been handling this sort of research fodder, I've been focussing on two things: getting ready to move to a smaller place, and figuring out how to raise my annual income from $1400 (that's how much I earned professionally last year) to $30,000 (that's how much I need to earn next year in order to survive, if I ignore income tax; my health care costs alone are going to be $13,000).

Figuring out how to move to a smaller place

I might get through this with shelter over my head. If so, Noakes and I will be moving from our 3000-square-foot house (which is overfilled with my accumulated belongings from the forty years I've lived here) to 800 square feet. Among other things, I'll be going from having room enough for twenty-four floor-to-ceiling bookcases to having room enough for roughly five bookcases.

"Sequestering" is a mild word for what I'm going to have to do during the next few weeks. "Utter panic" is the better term.

Raising my income

In order to meet my financial goal - based solely on the number of fiction e-books I plan to publish this year - I need to get my overall sales rate up to an average of 15+ copies per e-book monthly. (That is, not every e-book has to sell fifteen copies monthly, but the overall average has to amount to that.)

Currently, my sales rate for my thirty-nine e-books is just under an average of two copies per e-book monthly. This is one more copy than I was selling a year ago, so I'm pleased, but I'm running out of time.

Based on my sales rate and the relative lack of reader reviews, I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm one of those niche authors who's liked a lot by certain readers, but who just doesn't appeal to a wide audience. My only hope seems to be to get as many e-books published as possible, selling them in as many bookstores as possible.

So I'm saving up some of my precious pennies for ISBNs, since I can't get into several dozen bookstores without them, and once I've finished getting my fiction backlist published, I'm going to start bringing out reprints of my old journalism articles, in case there's an e-book audience for them. Every e-book I publish raises my income by a tiny amount. (Well, except for my Three Lands novels, which don't seem to sell at all well.)

Oh, and yes, I've looked into taking other jobs. My disabilities are still vetoing every other job I propose.

So tell me about your own short-of-money experiences, if you feel like sharing them. I know that I'm not the only person here who's struggling, especially in this economy. Maybe we could start our own literary community.

Edited to add: Several people who read this post were kind enough to offer suggestions on what type of work I could be doing to raise my income. If you were planning to comment about that, you might like to read this comment first.

Life Prison (Life Prison)

2013-03-12T02:13:27Z

"I'd heard of guards like this; they existed in prisoners' tales like beautiful princesses exist in the tales of ugly boys. I supposed that I ought to be grateful to have been assigned such a guard. . . . I didn't feel grateful."

In the unmerciful world of Mercy Prison, there is no rule but unending pain. For Merrick, the arrival of his new guard provides hope that he may break beyond the boundaries of his life prison. But appearances can be deceptive, and Merrick does not yet recognize the danger this guard poses to his future.

Merrick's guard is bound in his own special imprisonment. The meeting of these two troubled men will determine their destinies, and the destiny of their nation's life prisons.

This novella can be read on its own or as the first story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Reviews
"Combining a historical background similar to that of Victorian England with a skilled perspective into the nature of human relations and a wide range of characterization, 'Life Prison' is a real page-turner . . . This is a story – and an author – not to be missed." —Rainbow Reviews
"Written in the first person, Life Prison is a dark, eloquent, and absorbing psychological tale that delves into the mind of a killer who, perhaps incongruously, manages to evolve into a sympathetic character in spite of the horror of his crime." —Top 2 Bottom Reviews
"[Outside the prison, Merrick] would be a criminal, a reject of the society; inside he is a man." —Elisa Rolle's Reviews and Ramblings
"Liveprison. Der Name sagt alles. Sehr düster." —Mllesatine: Empfehlungen

Excerpt
When Thomas arrived the next morning – it was my weekly day of rest from work, so I was engaging in a particularly agonizing examination of the walls – I said, before he could speak, "I'm sorry about my bad temper last time. I get out of sorts occasionally."
"Not at all." His reply was cool, as were his eyes, which rested upon me heavily, like a block of ice. It came to me as I watched him that this young man, whatever his flaws might be, had received personal training from Compassion's Keeper. He could not be quite the fool he appeared to be.
I'm nothing if not flexible, as Sedgewick had pronounced on the day he tried me in a dozen different positions. I let the smile drop from my face and said in my normal voice, "Well? What brings you here?"
The coolness disappeared from his eyes, and he said, "The usual. See to your needs and all that. The dancing girls are on their way, but I'm afraid I couldn't fit the performing elephant into the stairwell."
There was a moment's silence, and then, despite myself, I burst into laughter. Thomas grinned like a boy and moved forward, keeping well away from me and resting his hand on his dagger. He inspected the rubbish hole first, then the water – going so far as to give the wall a lick – and then, satisfied, moved to the other end of the cell. "You're short a blanket," he said. "That's against regulations."
I snorted. "There aren't any regulations in the life prisons, or hadn't you noticed?"
"Well, there are customs." He was inspecting the blankets now, checking them for secreted objects. "Short-tail whip – that's the type used at Mercy. Compassion uses the black whip – longer range, harder to control. Four of the other life prisons use the straight whip – rather like a bamboo rod, but more flexible. The remainder use the bamboo rod alone. . . . Your cell could do with some tidying."
Yes, he'd been trained by a Keeper all right. I wondered whether he thought he was scaring me. "What type of bamboo rod?" I asked. "Imported or domestic? The type that splinter? We had a prisoner last year who came close to dying from the splinters alone."
"Those ought to be banned." He got up from his hands and knees from inspecting under my bed. I had retreated into the corner to allow him to do this without nervousness. As he dusted off his hands on his trousers, he said, "Mind you, if a guard does his work properly, he needn't resort to any of those." He looked over at me.
It was hard to say whether his speech was more effective as an apology or as a threat. I was beginning to think that I might have underestimated this young man. . . .

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Life Prison. A shorter version of the novella is available as online fiction.

Coded Messages (Life Prison)

2013-03-12T02:11:35Z

"Sweet blood, Tom, sometimes I wonder at your innocence. Why do you think that your prisoners were sent to prison? It wasn't for lacing daisy chains."

One of them rapes prisoners. The other wants to help prisoners. So why are they talking to each other?

As guards send each other telegraph messages through their prisons' coding offices, strange developments occur in the life prisons of the Magisterial Republic of Mip: hardened prisoners become reformers, idealists dally with danger, and the prison keepers struggle to keep control. The strangeness will only become odder when two guards, who hold very different views on the proper handling of prisoners, strive to find common ground.

This short story can be read on its own or as the second story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

This is a reissue of an older story.

Review
"Each cryptic phrase [in the telegraph messages] unleashes a whole myriad of action the reader is able to build in their imagination." —A. B. Gayle at Goodreads

Excerpt
Tom:
You might have warned me before that our letters are being read by Compassion's Keeper. You know that Mercy's Keeper has a hard enough time staying awake to do routine paperwork, much less bothering to read private correspondence between guards.
I don't know what you mean by "applicable to your own situation." I was just curious about your activities. One thing I will say for you, Tom: You livened this place up by always doing the unexpected.
Yes, Merrick's insanity has infected guards now. Our Keeper is tearing his hair out. He can't actually order those guards to rape prisoners, and none of the guards has been stupid enough to refrain from beating their prisoners when the prisoners break rules. But this is causing divisiveness in the guard-room. Up until now, except for the occasional eccentric like you, we were all agreed on how the prisoners should be treated. Now that unity is gone, and I'm not the only guard worried that the prisoners will take advantage of this fact to start a riot.
Sedgewick

o—o—o
Dear Sedge,
I should clarify what I said in my last letter. My father reads outgoing correspondence from Compassion. He considers it a matter of honor not to read incoming messages. He isn't concerned about the activities of guards in other prisons, but he doesn't entirely trust his own guards, least of all me.
I think that, when you come down to it, trust and lack of trust are what divide the guards at your prison. The guards who keep the Boundaries trust the prisoners to adhere to the rules with minimal need for punishment. The other guards don't.
How are matters with your prisoner? Is he continuing to cause problems for you?
With respect,
Thomas

o—o—o
Tom:
Wake up to the real world. What divides the guards here is that some of us like to rape prisoners and some of the guards are too goody-good for that. Bloody blades, Tom, you're never going to be able to keep control of Compassion if you continue talking like a child.
My prisoner is driving me to distraction. I might be able to take leave some time during the next century.
Sedgewick

o—o—o
Dear Sedge,
Maybe you should take leave now. I sense there is more going on than you're saying. . . .

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Coded Messages.

Milord (Life Prison)

2013-03-12T02:10:16Z

"'You've been very well-behaved here. You deserve a better assignment than Milord as your guard.'"

He was the model prisoner, respectful to his guards and loyal to his fellow prisoners. What no one knew was that he held the key to destruction.

Having pledged himself to assist in a popular movement by prisoners and guards to reform Mercy Life Prison, Llewellyn fears the future, when it is likely that the reform movement will face stiffer opposition from Mercy's Keeper. But Llewellyn's fear of the future is overwhelmed by the present knowledge that he is not what he appears to be. Until now, he has managed to hide his secret and to sway his guards to follow his chosen path.

Now he has been placed under the power of a guard who cannot be swayed and who is intent on bringing Llewellyn under his control. Can Llewellyn escape from his new guard's control? Will he really want to, once he has seen the door open to a world filled with true respect, loyalty, and love?

This novelette can be read on its own or as the third story in the "Mercy's Prisoner" volume of Life Prison. Friendship, desire between men, and the costs of corruption and integrity are examined in this multicultural historical fantasy series, which is based on late Victorian prison life.

Excerpt
Panting from his exertions, Merrick began to inspect the plumbing. "Drip pan looks fine. Nothing clogging the strainer. Let me get this pipe open. Have you chosen your guard yet?"
Llewellyn hesitated. "I'm not sure. . . ."
"There are lots of us guards abiding by the Boundaries these days," Denley pointed out, removing a cigarette from his jacket.
"I wondered . . . I thought perhaps I could do more for our Alliance if I picked a guard who doesn't keep the Boundaries."
"Try to persuade him to join the Alliance, you mean?" Denley tapped the end of his cigarette against the broken refrigerator.
"Milord," said Merrick, frowning over the plumbing pipe as he thrust his hand into it.
"You think so?" said Denley, his eyebrows raised. "He keeps the Boundaries."
"He has never admitted it, though." Merrick pushed the handkerchief into the pipe. "'I'm not going to have my judgment as a guard second-guessed by a scheme dreamed up by a clique of convicted criminals. . . .' He natters on and on about it, if the subject comes up."
"But he keeps the Boundaries?" said Llewellyn.
"Yes," replied Denley, lighting a match from the stove-fire.
"Yes, if you define the Boundaries as beating your prisoner every night." Merrick extracted the handkerchief, which showed little sign of having been inserted in the pipe.
"Not every night," Denley protested. "Be fair to him, Merrick. He's a strict disciplinarian, but he only beats prisoners who deserve it."
"Why is he called Milord, sir?" Llewellyn asked Denley.
"Oh, he's Lord Vere, officially. Comes from southern Vovim originally. He's one of those Vovimian lords who lost his land during that kingdom's civil war." Denley lit his cigarette. "He still has a lordly air to him, so we call him Milord, for fun. He doesn't mind; he'll accept a good-natured joke."
"So he's an honorable guard, but he's strict," Llewellyn concluded. "He'll only beat me if I've done something that makes me truly deserve a beating."
"Not that that will be a problem for you." Denley bestowed one of his condescending smiles upon Llewellyn. "You've been very well-behaved here. You deserve a better assignment than Milord as your permanent guard."
"Request Milord." Merrick threw aside the plumbing pipe with a gesture of disgust.
"You think I should?" Llewellyn asked uncertainly, standing up and leaning against the squat box of the refrigerator, which he and Merrick had laboriously pushed aside at the beginning of the evening, while Denley stood next to them, chatting brightly as other men did the hard work.
"He's the right guard for you." Merrick's voice was flat.

¶ Available as an e-book (HTML, PDF, Kindle, ePub): Milord.