In Geekomancy, forthcoming from Pocket Books, author Michael Underwood introduces us to Rhiannon “Ree” Reyes, a barista-slash-screenwriter-slash-geek who discovers the ability to turn science fiction and fantasy props into actual power and pick up super skills from watching TV. With barely a glance over her shoulder, Ree jumps into a world where Magic cards are actually magic, strangers from Faerie hang out in bars, and Aberrant Muses encourage suicides so the Duke of Pwn can get their souls.
Sometimes I don’t know what possessed me to get a Master’s degree in creative non-fiction. It’s not the degree that perplexes me as much as the subject. I love to blog, and I enjoy memoir and personal essay, but my life is so incredibly boring that to share the details of it with you would be tantamount to torture, and, as we all know, we don’t use torture here in the United States.
Right, blogging. That thing I do to maintain my online cred and market myself as a writer. When I blog, I prefer to write anecdotes, or short essays – the sort of thing you might find in a magazine – or at least something more interesting than a catalogue of what I’ve had to eat.
I’m not surprised. I’m hurt, frustrated, embarrassed, angry, and sad, but not surprised. After all, the reason I stopped watching House in the first place was that it was so predictable, it made me feel clairvoyant. Sure enough, the ‘asexual couple’ episode was exactly what I expected it to be.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be an actress.
Because I am who I am, I was always realistic-bordering-on-fatalistic about the whole process, assuming that I’d have to find some other job to pay the bills, but at least I could do theatre. Life took me in another direction, though whenever I have the chance to act, I always remember how much I love doing it. Aside from a lack of ambition, however, there’s another big reason I’d never have made it as an actress:
I don’t photograph well.
Every year at the start of December, as predictably as finding pieces of chocolate behind the cardboard windows of an Advent calendar, I dream that my family forgets to celebrate Christmas.
Yesterday I was minding my own business, turning twenty-six, when I received a strange email. My parents and I were waiting for a table at Hugo’s, and my phone buzzed for the 97th time that morning. Instead of another notification that someone had posted on my Facebook wall, I got this:
your grandmother beverly was a husband hunting woman. she did not care with whom she carried on. she broke up many homes.
In order to achieve internet domination, I’ve been reliably informed that I should post something every day on this blog, which is a tall order when daily life is dull and I don’t particularly want to blog without something interesting to share.
Once upon a time, Sarah Kuhn belonged to a “nerd collective” that put out a .pdf zine with a geek focus: Grok. For each issue, the collective came up with a theme, and everyone wrote a piece around that topic. And from the theme of Pon Farr Kuhn’s geeky romance novella, One Con Glory, sprang into existence.
The end of this momentous week really deserves a thoughtful, well-crafted reflection post, but I spent most of the weekend trying to sew a TARDIS dress that I ended up half-crafting with blue and white duct tape, so I’m not really in the mood. My room is seeking funds from FEMA, I haven’t worked on my book in weeks, and I’m still unemployed – but I’d happily work on Asexual Awareness Week again next year.