How do you say “rockstar?”

How to say rockstar without actually saying rockstar? As I work on the second in the Chronicles of Tethara I am trying to do just that.  Seems like it takes a lot of words when I could otherwise just say that they treated him like a rockstar–except that I can’t do that.

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For himself, Llew had spent the previous afternoon making the rounds of the castle and the village. He did not hold court; there simply was not time and Slow Tomos seemed to have domestic matters well in hand. Instead, he merely made himself available.

Isolated as Caer Mallcoedwig was, it was remarkable. Word of his deeds, and those of his comrades, had arrived quickly. With little else to occupy them, the residents had then spent most of the past year telling and retelling those stories amongst themselves. They were anxious to see him, and not merely because he was now their prince. Llew had experienced this phenomenon at Caerleon as well yet, in his experience, there really was no other parallel. In their eyes he seemed to be some high ideal made manifest, glorious and bright against their everyday lives, and all who came into his presence might somehow share in, for at least a few precious moments, what he represented to them.

Caer Mallcoedwig was not a huge place. Having grown up there Llew knew virtually everyone by sight, even if he could not quite put a name to all of them. They remembered him, too, first as just a virtually nameless spratling who was kept about the stables, then later as one high in the favor of their dread ruler, Queen Moriganna, someone to be treated with some modicum of respect and, as much as possible, avoided. There had been none of that avoidance this visit. They had all dropped whatever they were doing and came crowding to see him wherever he went, bringing out their children, even holding the smallest ones up so they could better see him.

It’s That Time Again!

I had to carve three this year and had almost zero time for it so none of them are up to my normal standards.

2009_pumpkins

Love this time of the year.  You can cosplay without even your most uptight friends thinking it’s odd. I really hate that the trick-or-treating house to house is pretty much a thing of the past. It was a blast as a kid and even better as an  adult–some of my favorite memories involve kids dropping their bags of candy on my doorstep and fleeing in terror.  Oh c’mon, they always got them back with interest and it made their holiday a bit more memorable, too.

Everyone in Tethera Would be a Descendant of Boudicca

This would probably mean that after as few as twelve generations, every person descended of 12 generations of British Isles residents (this would have started even before 600 AD) would be descended from Boudicca, and along multiple lines at that!  As a story device, that could be quite handy, if any of her line survive at all.

So you’re related to Charlemagne? You and every other living European…

Medical specialists urge more debate on gene-editing technology

Like the guys trying to prevent the use of “autonomous” armed vehicles in warfare (robots). I honestly don’t believe it can be done. I’m far from convinced it is even the right thing to do.  Trying to get all nations to do “the right thing” (once you’ve formed an opinion of what the right thing is) with any new technology puts me in mind of an old saying:

“That is all very well, but who is to bell the Cat?”

Æsop. (Sixth century B.C.)  Fables.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.

Medical specialists urge more debate on gene-editing technology

Amazon Needs a Special Filter Button

Amazon needs a special filter button that, when toggled, permanently stops it from displaying any book where a hairless male chest takes up a big chunk of the cover.  It doesn’t seem to matter what the book claims it is.  They are always trying to escape their own genre and contaminate another, be it Celtic fantasy, military sci-fi, mystery, occult, paranormal, crime, anti-terrorism, spies, or whatever.  Every one of them more properly belongs to a single genre that I would not read if I was trapped in the men’s room at the airport for weeks with nothing else to read.  Since I normally read a book every day or two — about every three or four when I am writing — that’s saying a lot.

Some people like that genre a lot, and that’s fine.  For me it would probably be an experience on par with what claustrophobic people worry about — that, once they give in and start smashing their fists against the walls, a self-destructive madness will take hold and they will never be able to recover.