“In Japan, cherry blossoms symbolize […] an enduring metaphor for the ephemeral nature of life. ” – Wikipedia
Through all the heartwood of my life, I have known you. Since that first flush of my sapling youth, when everything I had was wrapped up in one single awkward drive towards the sky. From the first unfamiliar flush of flowers bursting into being along the lengths of my branches, when my bark was still as supple as a toad’s skin.
You came to me then, and have come to me each new year since. And always in the waxing of the light. When I am exploding raw with life and my leaves shiver with delight in the green breeze. That is when I feel the brush of you limbs against mine. A dozen of you. A hundred. The deep velvet of your bellies pressed deep into cups of blossom that are still spilling out of me. More and more with every moment. As though I will never be empty.
In each year of my waxing youth, I ached after you with the very heartwood of my being. I sunned my leaves all through the summer, and offered up just-blushing fruit in the ecstasy of autumn to every living breathing thing. But each winter felt like venom stung through my core. And in the depths of each of them I believed with an absolute certainty that I would die, black and bare-skeleton in the snow.
You knew I would survive it them. You always knew. Because every springtime you would be there again. Somehow finding you way back to where I was. And, somewhere in the warm dark of a hive the colour of ripe corn, you would tell the story of yourself to yourself. Your hives spilling empty to feast themselves on me. To attend themselves upon me. Your glass-like wings all thrumming in my crown until I felt greater than myself. As though I was presiding over all creation. Like all life was in me and I was in it. A wonder clothed in living bark.
For every one of those bright years I would lay down a little sapwood for the one that followed it. Draw the unknowable waters up through the deep well of my body, and tease the rich gold of the sunlight down in sap and in amber. You seemed to come and be gone in a moment then, and I spent the deep drifted throes of the winters dreaming of the thrum of your wings against me. Like living air given conscious form, and appearing like a miracle each spring.
I grew to love you soft, at last. Not with the obliterating ardour of those sapling days, but with the slow patience of the years. Shivering and embryonic cambium nested underneath my bark, twisting itself into the xylem and phloem of sapwood. Sapwood that strained up into the lustre of the sky, and then grew old and dark and dense and died somewhere in the centre of myself–forming a spine of strong and fragrant wood to support the strivings of my body.
I learned death from the heartwood spine of my own body. Came to understand it for what it was: a return to the deep well between the worlds that had fledged me. That had birthed your hundred million glass-like wings, and the great composite mind of your hive.
As I scried my own death in my heartwood, I accepted it into my being because I had no other choice. Live. Die. Keep growing. Keep striving up into the deep mysteries of the sky. Keep seeking down into the full warmth of the earth. But I could not fathom how easily that heartwood could crack and twist and sunder me apart. Leave me rent open to the air, the vulnerable inner skin of my sapwood open to the wind and snow and frozen rain. But then, at last, I came to know that feeling too. In my body, and in something deeper than my body.
I came to know it as the springs grew slowly chill. A blackthorn winter and then rain unending until summer finally arrived all at once–stumbling drunken into being and stuttering and dying before it had even fully become itself. Falling hard into unending autumns that ripped and tore and scoured me, ready for the snows to make me clean. Only the snows would never come. Just rain again, and then another blackthorn winter.
It was as though the world had come adrift from itself, and now the shards of it were falling all around and out of place. It was in that chaos of unbecoming that I felt you abandon me. Not all at once but slowly, which was worse. So that I could feel the leaving of you as though it had a physical weight all of its own.
Grief is not a word that can contain it. It was feeling that was rage and pleading and loss and a slow dying all at once. That spread out a little further from myself each time.
With every year that you did not come (or came war-wounded, bleeding) I had less and less of myself to offer to the autumn and her host of flying running chasing scrabbling breathing things. When I no longer had anything at all, they surrendered me as well. Until I stood, at last, alone. A relic of something that was so much larger than myself. A web that once held you and I and a thousand other growing things within it.
That first flush of spring is no longer an invitation. It is a nostalgia. The last stammers of sentiment and memory. Of a world that was greater when it contained us both.
All of that is lost now. My branches all lie empty. And we shall have no more daughters, you and I.
Late last week, about eighteen months after I started getting serious about short story writing, something wonderful happened: my first professional sale finally ventured out into the world for everyone to see. Of course, I’m pretty sure there are as many different ways to get that first pro sale as there are writers, but this seems like a good place to look back on some of the stuff I’ve learned over the last year and a half, and some of the things I wish I’d have known when I started. If it can maybe help someone else who is in the same position I was then–knowing I wanted to do this but with less than no idea on how to go about it–then all the better!
1) Have a Plan
I think knowing what you want when you start submitting stuff for publication is really important. Do you just want to get your stuff out there and don’t really care about how much you’re paid? Do you want to write in a super specific niche with limited places to send your stories? Do you want to work towards making enough money to pay a few bills here and there? How about the idea of publishing a novel one day?
For me, the second that I started looking into the short fiction market and reading some of the publications that were out there (see below) it quickly became obvious that there weren’t going to be many professional markets that were likely to want to publish my work (it’s very wordy and textured, and there’s not much call for that these days). That meant that if I wanted any kind of serious future in writing (and I’d like to drop the day job down to part time at some point) then I was going to have to find other ways to do it. So I started thinking about writing a novel or two. That would mean experimenting with the different worlds and genres I write in to find out which ones were marketable, and also working on a good portfolio for when it came to sending off a finished, novel-length manuscript.
With all of that in mind, I decided that my best chance was to try and rack up enough pro sales in qualifying markets to meet the entry requirements for the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America–one of the most well-respected organisations for speculative fiction authors writing in English. Once I had that under my belt, hopefully pitching that hypothetical novel would get easier. That narrowed down my list of potential markets down to around twenty or so (after taking out venues that were invitation only, or only publish stuff aimed at young adults), at which point it was time to get reading.
2) Finding the Right Venue
I’m pretty sure this is the most important step to having anything published anywhere ever. During the time I’ve spent editing projects like SteamPunk Magazine, I’ve seen a hell of a lot of submissions from writers who obviously aren’t familiar with our magazine and the kinds of things we publish. Every time we open our submission window, we’ll get hosts of stories that either aren’t steampunk at all, or else are pretty explicitly racist or sexist. This isn’t even stuff you’d have to read every issue of the magazine to understand, it’s in the damned name of the ‘zine and plastered all over our submission guidelines. Some writers I’d see month after month, sending me stuff that just wasn’t appropriate to the publication. So, once I’d got my list of places that might get me into the SFWA, I went away and started reading them.
That turned out to be a hell of an eye-opener. I wrote down the name of every SFWA qualifying market that might possibly-maybe be suitable, then I checked their submission guidelines, read the magazines, and started marking them in red, amber, or green depending on how closely I felt what they were publishing matched what I was writing. When I was done, the ones in green added up to a whole three–Clarkesworld, F&SF and Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Worse still, out of the three of them, Clarkesworld, was already looking a little bit ropey–the kind of place that maybe one day I could potentially write something that might suit them. Still, at least that gave me somewhere to focus my efforts.
It’s also worth mentioning that I found Duotrope to be incredibly useful in looking for markets beyond the scope of the SFWA. Not everything I was writing was going to be suitable for those three venues, so keeping my ear to the ground turned out to be a good idea. The subscription is kind of expensive, but personally I’ve found it to be more than worth it over the last year or so.
Either way, a few months later and I’d worked my way up through a couple of smaller markets, and was ready to take on my Big Three. I knew from a few months of reading and enjoying Beneath Ceaseless Skies that I had a story (which I’d written over the previous summer) that would suit them, so I spent a long time polishing it up until I thought it was as perfect as it was getting, and sent it off. Two months later, I got an email from their editor which implied they’d like to publish it, but needed me to work with them on it a bit first. I assumed that this was but a matter of a few days on my inevitable path to literary success, and commenced my celebrations.
3) The Edit
Needless to say, I was wrong. So so very wrong.
What I’d assumed would be a matter of a few days and a few edits snowballed out of all control. In total, I think the process took almost six months. There were times in there when I wanted to give up. Times when I never wanted to write again. And many many days when the idea of getting another email from Scott brought me out in a cold sweat.
Now that it’s all behind me, I’m horribly and endlessly grateful to him for taking so much time away from everything else that he was doing to read and re-read the damned story a hundred times, to keep making suggestions, keep explaining to me what he wanted from it, and to remind me more than once that I should walk away rather than break the back of the story to make it fit what he was asking for. There were a couple of times when I thought that was going to be necessary, but in the end I got that magical email to say that they were happy with it, and it was good to go.
Between the first round of edits and then, I learned a hell of a lot. For starters, I learned that my grammar is pretty shocking, and that I was going to have to go away and read up on how to do it better if I wanted to be taken seriously. I learned when to listen to what an editor is telling me and accommodate them, and when to assert my own identity a little and offer alternative suggestions to the problem.
By the time those six months were over the story was finalised and the contract was signed, but I was totally exhausted with the whole process of writing. I hadn’t written anything new for the whole time ‘Y Brenin’ had been under the red pen. All of which brings me neatly to…
4) Just Keep Writing
On reflection, I really should have kept writing throughout the whole editing process. At the time, it always seemed as though the end was just around the corner, and when I was done I could put all the worrying to bed and start afresh. In reality, it just meant that I spent six months with my bitchy inner critic telling me everything that I was doing wrong, and wasn’t coming up with anything new to convince myself that I could do this whole ‘writing’ thing again.
So when ‘Y Brenin’ was finally in the bag, I struggled. I struggled to get writing again, struggled to be happy with what I was producing, and struggled to get my stories into any sort of publishable shape. I don’t know for certain, but I’m pretty sure that was why the first few things that I <i>did</i> manage to write and send off once ‘Y Brenin’ was finished were summarily rejected, no matter where I sent them. Really, I was damned lucky to have got all the way to my first pro sale without having a slew of pink slips first. Those first few rejections were bound to happen sooner or later. But again, they came at a time when my confidence was shot, and I came back down to earth with a thump.
Figuring out exactly what had gone wrong and why I was feeling so rotten about everything was the most difficult part. After that, coming up with solutions was easier.
Ray Bradbury said: “Write a thousand words a day and in three years you’ll be a writer.” When I told a friend that I was considering doing that as a way to drag myself out of the dip, she told me: “Every serious writer I know has some kind of variation on that practice.” It doesn’t work for everyone, but given the hole that I was in it seemed to be worth a shot.
So that was it, and here I am the week after ‘Y Brenin’ finally went up for everyone to see, counterbalancing any scary reviews with the simple fact that I have to turn up at an empty page every morning and write another thousand words.
It seems like the only way I’m going to get anywhere near the end of the plan I settled on is if I have as many stories, novels, and everything in between to throw at the publishing world as possible, right?
Whether all of that ends in death or glory… Well, I guess we’ll see.
On the 9th October, it was announced that small patch of land a few miles from where I live had been ear-marked to potentially become the first hydraulic fracturing (fracking) site in Wales. About the same time, I started to think about what the hell I was going to do about it.
Fracking has been tried extensively in America and Australia where it has ruined landscapes, poisoned water supplies and rivers, and left people able to set their taps on fire. In fact, the people looking to do this to my home work for an Australian company, Dart Energy, who at some point at the tail end of last year paid a local farmer rather a lot of money to set up a test rig on his land, and submitted a planning application to the local council.
The council, in a rare case of political sanity, turned it down and that should have been the end of it. Instead, the Welsh national government got themselves involved. They sent out their own inspector to the site, who quite happily overruled the local councillors and rubber-stamped the drilling to go ahead.
A lot of the report released on behalf of a bunch of politicians in Cardiff (safely ensconced hundreds of miles away from where the water would be poisoned and the landscape would be ruined) insisted over and over again that the drilling was only temporary. Which it is, of course. Until it isn’t any more.
England has seen enough of these ‘temporary’ drilling rigs go up that the process has become pretty easy to predict. To begin with, the companies move in with lots of talk about how they are only investigating, and the drilling is only temporary. They add on some assertions that they’re not going to be fracking (with its cocktail of poisonous chemicals pumped deep into the living earth) at all. What they’re looking to do is the far safer* coal-bed methane extraction. Then the test rigs go up and oops! Looks like there’s no methane, but there is a whole bunch of shale just perfect and waiting to be fracked. By then, of course, there’s been drilling rigs on these sites for long enough that they can safely abandon any claims about the site ‘only being temporary’ and move on to staples like how many jobs it’s going to create—despite the fact that most of the jobs created by fracking are highly specialised, with their own people being brought in from outside.
I’m not a geologist, however I have heard a lot about geology at some of the community meetings that have followed this particularly blatant example of national governments cozying up to corporate interests. It is all more or less agreed that the soft sandstone beneath my feet is pretty much useless for coal bed methane, but that (because it is so porous) there is a particularly high risk that the poisonous chemicals used in the fracking process will find their way into the aquifers that provide our drinking water.
This part of the world already has an uneasy relationship with the fossil fuels industry, but that needs a little history lesson.
On the 22nd September 1934, one of the worst mining disasters the UK has ever seen happened in Gresford—three miles from the field where Dart Energy are fighting the local community to stick their drills in the ground. In the days and weeks prior to the disaster, the miners had attempted to warn the owners of the terrible conditions in the mine, and were ignored in the interests of profit. The resulting fires, explosions, and deadly afterdamp gas took the lives of 266 men. Only eleven of their bodies have ever been recovered. The remainder are still entombed in the flooded mines half a mile underneath the surface, dangerously close to the earth Dart Energy are going to be fracking open.
The only penalty ever imposed against the owners and managers at Gresford was a £150 fine for inadequate record-keeping (after the deaths, a manager had falsified records about samples of dust extracted from the mines over the previous days when none had been taken). I’d like to say that if the same thing happened again, things would be different. That justice would be served. I do not believe it, and increasingly, neither does anyone else that lives here.
On the evening of Monday 17th November, the Borras and Holt Community Protection Camp (which was set up to physically stop these corporations from accessing our landscape where the political process has failed) was served a court summons. I say ‘served’ when, by all accounts, a bunch of bailiffs turned up, threatened, bullied, and physically intimidated the people on site, threw the summons in the mud, and left. When the protectors recovered the documents, they found that their day in court was on Thursday—less than seventy-two hours from then and more than fifty miles away at the Manchester Crown Court.
That hearing was today, and the reasons for all the dirty tactics were made blatantly clear. In front of a judge, lawyers admitted that the papers were served as late as possible to stop the camp from gathering any support to resist eviction, in a court as far away as they thought they could get away with to prevent local people from attending and ‘causing a disturbance’.
The idea that people who actually live here might turn up at the court to make their feelings known was also the reason given by the lawyers (and later by the judge) as to why the case would not be adjourned to anywhere near the fracking site, and why the rights of the Welsh-speakers amongst us to have the case heard in their own language was void. On top of all of this of course, the land owner (with the backing of a multinational petrochemical company) had as much money and as many lawyers to throw at the problem as possible, while the protesters are left with 72 hours in which to scrabble together some kind of defense and legal representation.
In a move that surprised no one at all, the judge sided with the company and ordered the eviction to go ahead. The camp has been given 24 hours to dismantle. Needless to say that no one is going anywhere.
Our government like to talk about the Big Society, about how control over local communities is being returned to local people. The last few years have made it starkly clear what that means: all well and good when they’re talking about closing down local services, or palming them off onto volunteers desperate to save the shreds of their community. However, the whole thing goes out the window without a single thought the moment that corporate interests are in play.
Welcome to the first fracking site in Wales—where evidently money speaks louder than rhetoric.
* ETA – As per Genny’s excellent comment below, coal bed methane is likely to also turn out to be far more dangerous than these companies would like us to believe.
My good friends over at The Future Fire are putting together another incredible-looking anthology, ‘Accessing the Future’. Having previously put together collections of stories about how bodies will be controlled and manipulated in the future, and post-colonial science fiction, their current crowdfunding drive is for an anthology of “speculative fiction stories that interrogate issues of disability—along with the intersecting nodes of race, nationality, gender, sexuality, and class—in both the imagined physical and virtual spaces of the future.”
I cannot wait to see what they come out with! For a while now, Future Fire have really been at the cutting edge of the intersection between social justice and speculative fiction, which are two things that get me really enthused!
In the meantime, they’ve asked me to take part in a Blog Hop that has some really interesting questions in it!
1) Tell us about your Work In Progress (WIP) and the world it’s set in.
At the moment, I’m working on something set in the same world as ‘The Labyrinth of Thorns’ which was published in Interzone #250. Cyberpunk and far-future, both stories take place in a city called Babel which began life as a supermassive oil rig in the dying days of fossil fuels and was later redeveloped as a research platform by two multinational corporations. With time, the platform grew into a city, and the city developed an underbelly at its centre–trapped between the corporate high-rises and the ocean, shut off from all light, and populated by folks who had nowhere else to go. Beyond Babel, most of the rest of the world is in a state of turmoil. The US has collapsed into a collection of warring states, and previously developing countries like Mexico and India are rushing to fill the vacuum.
2) Who are the most powerful people in this world?
Without a doubt, the two corporations who founded Babel. Hestia Genetics are responsible for the development of inhuman supersoldiers called dragonblooded, which are widely deployed in the wars in the Divided States. Psikinetics creates cybernetics devices and then implants them into people (called the Violet Children) to turn them into kind of the ultimate network administrators.
Of course, there are people in the city that fall outside of the companies’ influence–the undercity is full of obsolete Violet Children whose implants are degrading, as well as demobbed dragonblooded and other cast-offs. These folks inevitably fall under the rule of one of the undercity’s many mob bosses whose methods are no less brutal than their counterparts above, but who tend to be more direct in their use of violence.
3) Where does their power come from?
Quite simply? Ownership. Not only do the two companies own every inch of Babel between them, but the city exists in international waters which means that the word of their CEOs is quite literally law. In addition, both the dragonblooded and the Violets are more or less contractually owned by the companies that created them (they’re carrying propriety technology in the form of their implants or their DNA, after all).
In the undercity, might is right. Mob bosses rule through violence and intimidation. When they want something, they get it, or else they will take it by force from whoever is stupid enough to try and deny them.
4) What physical and/or mental characteristics underpin their positions of power?
Society in Babel is remarkably egalitarian in a lot of ways: the mob bosses don’t mind whether their heavies are male or female so long as they’re happy to beat someone to death, and none of the managers and executives in the uppercity care if their research scientists are able-bodied so long as they’re talented enough to get the job done–and besides, cybernetic implants can compensate for many physical limitations. The one factor that can make or ruin someone in Babel, however, is neuro-conformity.
It sprang from the fact that many of the dragonblooded return from war suffering from post-traumatic stress, and most of the Violets in the city will eventually suffer some kind of implant decay. Since the Violets have been trained since childhood to rely on their implants and integrate them as fully as possible, they cannot cope when they begin to break down and their brains slowly lose their ability to function. The traumatised and obsolete quickly became second-class citizens, and it becomes increasingly important for those at the top to be able to illustrate their mental conformity and neurotypicality. The result of this is that anyone suffering from depression, bi-polar disorder, or any other deviance from the neurological norm are outcast, while those at the top go to increasing lengths to prove their ‘normal’ mental functioning.
5) How does this affect the weakest people in the world?
First off, it makes it utterly imperative for anyone who wants to drag themselves out of the undercity (in a city that has almost no social mobility of any kind) to be able to give the impression of neurotypicality. Even within Babel’s gangs and mobs, any sign of mental deviance is treated with violence and disdain. Those who cannot even pretend to conform–either due to post-traumatic stress, degrading implants, or the presence of any other of a wide variety of conditions from schitzophrenia to obsessive compulsive disorder–are the lowest of the low. They live in great slums around the city’s central water treatment plant where the air is thick with steam and Legionnaire’s Disease is rife, or else live shadowy existences in the Wash–the network of pipes and tunnels that separate the undercity from the sea.
Many, many more exist on the fringes, or else cling on to their position by their fingernails: faking conformity as best they can and developing habits of silence and secrecy around anything that could cost them their jobs, their livelihoods, and even their lives.
Really delighted to be able to announce that my story The Weed Wife is now available in Fox Spirit‘s ‘Girl at the End of the World‘–an anthology of women-centred apocalyptic stories.
The Weed Wife is my favourite story of everything that I’ve had published to date, and probably about my favourite thing that I have ever written. It was born out of a confluence of different thoughts and ideas about the natural world and the effect that we are having on it: Rima Staines’ beautiful painting which lent the story its name and fragments of a protagonist; post-civilised projects events of social collapse and re-wilding like Dark Mountain, Uncivilisation, and The Telling which provided me with a lot of dark thoughts and mournfulness about the future; the History Channel documentary ‘Life After People‘ which Dylan and I watched every evening for two weeks–thinking about how damned resilient Nature is, how quickly she’s capable of invading our spaces, and how little sign could be left of our existence in even just a couple of hundred years time; and reading about post-traumatic stress, how it can blossom from pushing away disturbing memories, and how it can steadily, patiently be treated.
As soon as I finished it, I was happy with how it turned out. Of course there are things that I’d do differently if I was writing it now, but that’s always going to be the case with everything. We’re always moving forwards, learning, growing, and (hopefully) getting better. But given that it was written over a year ago now, I’m still damned proud of the shape it ended up taking. Part post-apocalyptic fantasy, part cli fi, and part what Lord of the Rings might look like if Sauron had won. Heavy on little shreds of quiet symbolism (if you’re interested, start looking into the names of the places and the people and see how far that rabbithole goes) that simmer just underneath the surface, hints at genetic diversity and heritage crops, warnings about dependence on technology, and (more than any of it) the pure, unrelenting tenacity of life. How the natural world supplies us with almost everything we could ever need if only we learn to read her language of leaves and flowers, roots and seeds and thorns.
This morning, I was watching breakfast news (it gives me something to shout at to start my day) and happened to catch a report on the rising cost of food bills. According to most of these reports (and there have been many in the past few years), the prices of an average grocery shopping trip has risen by about a third since the start of the economic collapse–although my personal experience is that it’s closer to doubled. Certainly, it’s something that I’ve noticed every week as we desperately try to save as much money as we can. The news this morning was that the cost of food is actually rising more slowly than it has been–as though that’s meant to reassure, when most have had our wages deadlocked for years and many, many more are losing their jobs all together.
But it made me realise something: despite seeing hundreds and hundreds of reports like this since the start of the so called credit crisis, I have never once seen an explanation as to why this is happening. Most of these news articles talk about it the same way that they talk about the rain, with all our attention being carefully focused on what we can do to save money, and how grateful we should be because things aren’t getting more expensive quite so quickly any more.
And so I did a little bit of reading to see if I could find out what’s going on behind the scenes, and maybe why the media doesn’t want us thinking about it too much. What I found out (through a little poking and prodding) is rather worrying: the rise in the cost of food isn’t down to any one thing, but rather is the result of a perfect storm of different problems. There is a well-documented relationship between the wealth of a country and the food intake of its population which means that developing countries are increasingly consuming more. In addition to this, there are just plain more of us. Around 75 million more of us per year, in fact, and that’s a lot more hungry mouths to feed. Meanwhile our capacity to supply all of this extra food is rapidly declining, with climate change driven factors such as the droughts, floods, and various diseases combining with the increased cost of fuel needed to ship our foodstuffs halfway around the world, and the escalating amounts of land given over the the generation of biofuels. All of this means that there is just plain less food to go around.
And it’s rather concerning, isn’t it? Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing that we should… you know… hear about? Not least because all of these factors are cumulative, and none of them seem like they’re going to go away any time soon. Instead, some segments the media continue their silence, and when the matter is mentioned, it’s usually with reassurances that technology will somehow magically save us all. Despite the fact that genetically engineered crops, aside from everything else, plain don’t increase crop yields. Not to mention the fact that the companies producing GM crops are holding life itself in copyright, and more often than not, to ransom.
After discovering all of this, the next thing I did was try to find out what the hell I could do about it. Unfortunately, every single site I looked at recommended a bunch of stuff that we have already been doing for years. Things like:
- * Use foods approaching their use by dates instead of throwing them away;
- * Buy in bulk;
- * Cook in bulk;
- * Freeze in bulk, and also use it for any freezable perishable goods like bread;
- * Keep an eye out for discounts and reduced items;
- * Don’t shop hungry;
- * Plan a week’s meals in advance;
- * Don’t shop without a list;
- * Cook from scratch;
- * Go veggie (or vegan!);
- * Develop a good system to manage and freeze leftovers.
A few years ago, I could quite comfortably feed myself, my partner, and our two cats on £50 a week by doing all of that. Now, if I’m lucky, I can get it in under £90.
So, I started to think about what else I could do to help myself, given that the situation has the look of something that is only getting worse.
Here’s what I came up with:
Grow Your Own
It doesn’t matter how little space you have. You don’t have to go from zero to self-sufficient all at once (and self-sufficiency might not be such a good idea anyway). Honestly, I have been experimenting with with vegetable gardening for the past three or four years, and if it’s taught me anything then it’s that growing your own isn’t something that you can just step in and do. It takes (at least, it’s taken me) a lot of practise, trial and error, and mostly with things that I can’t learn about on a forum or in a book. Things like what grows best in your local weather and soil conditions. That’s the kind of thing that only comes through experience, and it can be hard learning for someone like me who has never had any practise growing anything before.
If you only have a concrete yard, fill bin bags with compost and seed potatoes–they manage with only periodic sunlight, and are one of the easiest things I’ve grown. If you have no outside space at all, grow herbs or scrambling tomatoes in window boxes. If you live in a windowless oubliette, then get on the waiting list for an allotment or check out a local landshare program. Try, fail, and try again. Eventually you will get better at this stuff, and be grateful for all the practise you managed to get in.
Investigate permaculture, which can often help to work with Nature and save some space and resources as well. Plant flowers that will attract bees and other pollinators–those little guys need all the help they can get. Learn the names and uses for the weeds you keep pulling out month after month. A lot of them are either edible or medicinal. So start small and get experimenting!
Preserve What You Grow
This one’s important if you don’t want to end up letting your hard-won veggies go to waste. The internet is your friend here, and can tell you everything from how to make jams and chutneys, to freezing broad beans and peas, and how to store potatoes in sand to stop them from spoiling!
Collect Your Own Seed
Whatever you grow, collecting your own seed is a great way to cut down the cost of continually ordering new batches every year–which can get damned pricey. Be aware, though, that a lot of the things sold by nurseries and seed merchants can’t be used for harvesting seed, because they’re the result of crossing two different strains together and won’t breed true. Avoid anything marked as an F1 Hybrid, and try to purchase your initial stock from somewhere that’s explicitly friendly to seed collecting.
Explore Wild Foods
Some things, like wild mushrooms, can be tricky to identify and potentially fatal if you don’t get it right. Even so, there are varieties that are prolific, tasty, and can’t be confused with anything poisonous. And if mushrooms scare you, then there are hundreds of other wild foods to try. Again, the key is to learn your environment. Do you live near the coast where you can find a handy source of kelp? In mountains where crab apple trees grow everywhere? Are the hedges around you hazel, and potentially good for finding hazelnuts? How about chestnut trees growing in local parkland? Almost everywhere has something you can collect, preserve, and eat. Even if it’s blackberries growing on waste land, or one of the hundreds of apple trees that spring up on roadsides out of discarded apple cores. Give them a damned good wash (or peel them, if you’re worried about pollutants), and you’re good to go!
Try Skipping/Dumpster Diving
Maybe this isn’t for everyone, and I personally have never had much luck with it myself (all the supermarkets and smaller shops around me seem to either lock their bins away, or use nasty compactors), but if you don’t fancy growing your own veg (or even if you do!) then try living off some of the huge amounts of waste that our society already produces. A dizzying amount of food is thrown out every day because it isn’t uniform, or is past its best. Most of it is, however, still entirely edible. The trick is to avoid times when these places will be busy (going late at night is always good), then just act with confidence and as though you’re meant to be there. Find out where your local food shops keep their bins, get yourself a good pair of gloves and a torch, and get stuck in!
Despite what you might think, I’ve personally found that shopping for vegetables from a local greengrocers or farm shop is substantially cheaper than buying them from a supermarket. They’re also really great for making sure that you eat in season and have to improvise and innovate accordingly–good preparation when we run out of cheap oil to ship strawberries all the way from Africa in December. In the case of farm shops,they also give you the chance to form relationships with the people who work your local land day in and day out–so you can find out what is working for them, and what isn’t. In addition, many places these days run local ‘veg box’ schemes, providing you with locally grown fruit and vegetables.
As well as buying your food as locally as possible, it’s a good idea to meet and talk with other gardeners, and learn as much from them as you can!
Support Co-Operatives (and bulk buy)
Do you have a co-op owned farm near you? Or a small, independent co-operative shop? Get out and join them! In return for a few hours work here and there, they’ll give you discounts on whatever it is they sell or produce. They’re also building some good, old-fashioned resilience into our local communities.
Another alternative is to buy from larger scale co-operatives like Suma, which allow groups of friends or even individual households to register with them and buy bulk foods. This is an excellent way of stocking up on shedloads of rice, dried beans, flour, pasta, and other dried goodies in a way that will save a lot of money down the line. Suma also support foods that are vegetarian, fair trade, organic or ethically produced, so you win all round.
Of course, no ‘solution’ is going to be perfect. Not when the problems that we’re dealing with are so huge in scale and complex in nature. But right now is the best time to learn skills that we all might well need in the future, before we have to rely on them as a matter of life or death.
And, if technology does come along and magically save us all, you’ll still have a bunch of cool ways that you can save money, tread more lightly, and impress your friends.
Suffering can feel like the total collapse of our entire world.
But most of the time it is not a torture, and it is definitely not the end of the universe. As much as I personally can resist admitting it, a lot of the time suffering can be good for us. Part of our process of becoming more fully ourselves. Discomfort and pain are both catalysts for transformation.
Two important things have changed in my life since the start of this year. Firstly, Dylan and I have taken a step further into our process of exploring polyamory, and have found a third person to begin the work of forming a triad. Secondly, I have applied myself fully to doing Shadow work, the process of confronting my own dark side and learning to re-integrate it into myself rather than allowing it to fester and rule me. It’s something I’ve been flirting with since Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ excellent ‘Women Who Run With the Wolves‘ drew me towards the myths, legends, and calling inwards of Jungian psychology, however it’s taken until now to feel I have the resources I need to fully devote myself to the process.
Right now, in this moment, I am ready.
That being said, Shadow work is damned hard. It means taking 100% responsibility for everything that happens in my life, instead if externalising the reasons for my hurt, upset, and anger onto whoever has invoked it. It means learning to recognise the sudden spikes of emotion that are a sure sign of my Shadow at work. And, when I have fully accepted responsibility for my temper, my selfishness, and my pettiness, it means learning to love those parts of myself. The parts which I have spent my whole life trying to hide and bury.
I am glad I came to it now. Building a triad is a difficult balancing act, and one that requires equal amounts self-knowledge and constant communication. And the work I am doing means that, first and foremost, I’m learning to recognise the times when I am projecting my own darkness onto my lovers. Acquiring techniques for dealing with it that don’t involve smothering my emotions until they explode outwards in a torrent of hurt and anger.
Bringing a third person into a relationship makes any cracks and flaws in the primary relationship more visible, and in more urgent need of attention. Counter-productive or destructive habits that have been ingrained over many years suddenly need to be weeded out and addressed.
The culmination of both of these things is that, more and more frequently, when I come up against situations that cause me pain or make me angry, instead of digging my heels in and snarling with my Shadow, I take the opportunity to withdraw. Specifically, I shut myself in the bedroom, and begin the work of convincing myself that I want a resolution to the problem more than I want to be hurt and angry. It isn’t easy, but when it is done I’m in a better position to realise what wounded me in the first place, and what thought-processes are lurking underneath. It isn’t about “letting go of my anger”or running away from my darkness. It is about acknowledging it, embracing it, accepting responsibility for it, and moving on.
By the time I come out of that room, I am in a position where I am more equipped to know where my boundaries and limits are, to understand calmly why I have been hurt, and to be more reasoned about negotiating a way for things to go a little better the next time.
As we go about our lives, all of us have times when we are passed through fire. When life is hard, trust is difficult to give, and betrayal it feels like a total violation of ourselves and everything we stand for. When the work that we are doing makes us vulnerable, and opens us up to pain at the very time when we are least able to defend ourselves from it.
But it is worth it. More than that, it is necessary.
One of the things I have started doing when discussing pain and points of friction with my partners is to stop asking them to avoid hitting the issues that are difficult for me. Of course, some issues are more sensitive than others, and there are some that need to be handled with a great degree of care, but if I teach them to avoid hitting the parts of me that are wounded, then I will never gain the experience I need to learn how to be hurt. Those wounds will never be torn open, and I will never have the opportunity to re-heal them. To see that flesh and bone are re-set well. That the poison is scraped out, and the process of regrowth and rebirth can begin.
It has me thinking about alchemy, which fascinated Jung as much as it has fascinated me. He saw the alchemical teachings for transforming lead (or more often: mercury) into gold as symbolic of an inner transformation. A process by which we are transmuted by life itself. He realised how, if we are present and conscious in our suffering, it can become a process of refinement.
In order for base matter to be transformed into the philosopher’s stone–the symbol of perfection and immortality–the alchemists believed that it had to go through four processes, each with its own colour. That the prima materia must pass from black to white to yellow and finally to red, before it was pure and perfect and complete. Likewise, in order to refine and cleanse the base matter of ourselves from a chaotic, unconscious state into a state of consciousness and completion, we must pass through the same four gateways.
Nigredo. Albedo. Citrinitas. Rubedo.
The first of these four stages, the nigredo or ‘blackening’, is suffering.
A dark night of the soul in which we are reduced to ashes and black matter by the fire, and in that darkness we confront the darkness in ourselves.
Sometimes, it doesn’t help to remind myself when I am suffering that I am transforming into something stronger. Something more self-aware, and more capable of being myself. We are all human, and sometimes we fail as much (or even more) than we succeed. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are still there in that alchemical oven, and that we are still trying. That there are still times when I am shut away in my bedroom, twisting and straining in the heat and the pressure of transmutation.
That bedroom is my crucible.
And, when things boiled over earlier this week and I was finally done crying and complaining and feeling terribly sorry for myself, I became conscious of a sound that had been rumbling away in the background while I was too caught up in my own pain to pay any attention to the outside world. Low and steady and rhythmical.
In the field across the road, they were gathering the first crop of the summer hay.
I watched that hay baler trundle up and down the field for almost half an hour–hypnotised by the pulse of internal combustion, the steady up-and-down rhythm of the feeder forks. As I watched, a deep stillness crept out over me, mingled into the dry and smoky, incense-like smell of the hay. I realised that the world hadn’t stopped. That life was still out there, in the dusty summer evening.
That it was still going on, and that it was tugging me along with it like the current of a stream.
These last few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about anger, despair, and willful ignorance. Anger and despair increasingly look like both opposite states from each other, and like a reaction to one another. Most pertinent here is how despair arises from situations where we feel incapable of expressing our anger. But this kind of despair isn’t useful. It’s a poison. It doesn’t change our situation. In fact, the only thing it changes is how miserable we feel about ourselves and the world that we live in.
But let’s backtrack and provide a little context, shall we?
Recently, a group that I admire immensely removed a post from their Facebook page because some of their members found it distressing. The link it question was to a petition calling on the Indian Prime Minister to take serious steps to address the culture of rape and violence against women. It was prompted by the rape and murder of two girls in Uttar Pradesh, and the comments of a minister from the ruling party that rape is a “social crime… sometimes it’s right, sometimes it’s wrong”. The petition included a blurred out photograph of the bodies of the two girls, where apparently “the villagers had sat in a tight closed circle around the mango tree, refusing to let the bodies of their girls be taken down, until the authorities and the media had to pay attention.” [via the BBC]. At the same time, I’ve noticed a lot of people complaining about things coming up in their news feed that are ‘upsetting’. Talking about hiding, blocking, or defriending people who post activism-related articles, images, and petitions that cause them distress.
I personally don’t sign online petitions unless they seem likely to actually achieve something. But in this case, international pressure seems to be one of the best ways of forcing the Indian authorities to address the caste- and gender-based violence threatening the country’s women. It is one of those situations where we comfortable members of wealthy Western states actually have more power over what gets done than the women and girls who actually have to live in a culture of fear because of it.
To call for posts about this petition to be removed (not least from a community who really should be invested in a culture of activism, both environmental and human) because it causes us distress is to exercise an immense amount of personal privilege. More than that, it is to take part in a culture of willful ignorance that actively supports the systems of oppression, discrimination, and exploitation that destroy our world and our communities.
The people who lived in that village put their their own bodies between the authorities and the girls’ corpses to force the world’s media to see them, knowing that the most effective thing that they could do to prompt change was to get the images of their broken bodies out there. To ensure that the whole world saw, and shared in their outrage. These pictures are meant to shock us. And if they cause us upset and distress, then get fucking angry. Then, when you are good and angry, go out there and damned well do something about it. Because if you allow all of that hurt and anger to turn inwards, if it makes you despair, and if in that despair you hide yourself away from it all, then (whether you like it or not) you are contributing to the status quo. More than that, you are complicit in a system in which this kind of shit is going to keep on happening.
This kind of willed ignorance isn’t just limited to issues of sexual assault, or to matters that solely affect places far, far beyond comfortable little lives. It supports horrific working conditions in factories that produce our clothes, personal electronics, and consumer goods. It enables the mind-blowing cruelty of factory- and mechanised-farming that fills our supermarkets and puts food in our kitchens or on our tables. It is complicit in mountaintop removal, open-cast coal mines, the poisoning of the water, earth, and sky, the copyrighting of life itself, and the catastrophic effect that we are having on our own atmosphere in order to keep our lights on.
Ignore it. Ignore it. Ignore it.
Having to deal with it is too difficult. Too painful. There’s nothing I can do to change it. All I can do is stop myself from getting upset by stopping myself from coming into contact with anything about it.
Damned right it’s painful. Damned right it’s distressing. But do you for one moment think that it’s as distressing for you as it is for the people (and animals) who actually have to live with this shit every single day of their lives? Do they have the opportunity to just close their eyes, wave their hands, and forget about it? Of course they don’t.
Instead of feeling sorry for yourself: get angry.
It’s a difficult emotion. Believe me, I understand that. I grew up in a very violent home, and (like many with abusive childhoods) have repeated that same pattern in my adult relationships. I have been so scared of anger that the sight of it in anyone else is enough to make me bolt and hide. When I feel any trace of it in myself, more often than not I don’t have a single idea of what to do with it. It is chaotic, impossible to control, and if I allow it to fester then it will eat away at me for days and days until every living cell in my body is poisoned. Anger is a big, red, squirming nightmare, and I have to somehow find a way to live in a world where I’m exposed to it all the damned time.
This rant is a part of that process.
Similarly, it occurs to me that posts on social networks (like this petition) could be distressing to some individuals not because of a culture of willful ignorance, but because it is directly triggering to survivors of sexual assault. That one is a difficult circle to square, for sure. Trigger warnings are an important part of the healing process for a lot of people, and a vital exercise in compassion for those of us fortunate enough to not have been traumatised in that way. However, to a specific person under specific circumstances, almost anything can potentially be triggering. Yes, it is important that we show some good old-fashioned empathy when thinking about the people who might be exposed to these images and petitions, but it’s also important for those of us who aren’t personally triggered to continue to share and shout and scream about these issues so that we can make a damned difference to it all.
That is why I will keep yelling about this stuff even though, as a friend pointed out, these sorts of posts will bomb on social networks compared to pictures of my cat. I’ll keep working on opening my anger up to the air, washing out those wounds, and learning how to dress them and bind them so that they can heal. And when I see these issues being pushed aside and ignored because it makes people uncomfortable, I’ll continue to cause a damned fuss.
Because this shit is important. Because it might be the only way that anything will ever change.
For the last fifteen years, I’ve kept a closely-guarded secret: I am not one individual but many, all sharing the same body. That’s to say, I have multiple selves.
On the few occasions that I’ve confided in people, I’ve used clinical terms like ‘Multiple Personality Disorder’ or the freshly-updated ‘Disassociative Identity Disorder’, but the more I think about it the less I self-identify with them. I’ve never really fitted the definition of DID particularly well: there was no huge traumatic event that caused my identity to shatter, and the memory loss that I get is as result is generally mild. But it’s more than that: I have never, and will never classify what I experience as a ‘disorder’.
Some of the people that I’ve trusted with this have been accepting and supportive. The majority have been confused and uncomfortable. Either way, I’ve spent many, many years convinced that if I ever revealed the truth about myself, then the best that I could hope for was mockery, ostracism, and to be classified as a ‘faker‘. At worst, I fully expected to fall into the black hole of our mental health system and never get out. It’s hardly surprising: every time I see depictions of people with multiple selves in the stories that we tell ourselves, they are always dangerous, unstable, and ultimately end up either committed or ‘cured’. And I don’t have very much desire for either.
So, why am I suddenly ready to talk about it? Well, the older I get the more I realise that the most important thing that I can do in life is be authentic to myself. Like a lot of folks, I’ve spent most of my years trying to the hide parts of myself I didn’t like, in the hopes of making other people like me. It’s nonsense. I’ve learned from experience (as we all do sooner or later) that hiding who I am only leads to making friends with people who care about someone that I’m not. Ultimately, these things have a way of worming their way to the surface. When they do, the result is almost always pain, feelings of betrayal, and broken friendships. Hell, for all I know, this process of constantly concealing and burying parts of myself is how I ended up with multiples in the first place.
Either way, I’ve become convinced me that I need to be myself. All of myselves. Even if that means being strange or unpalatable to others. At least then I know that anyone who cares for me isn’t going to up and leave the second I let something slip when I should have buried it instead.
The other thing that’s changed is that I’ve slowly come to realise how constrictive and oppressive modern, clinical ideas about ‘mental health’ can be. And I’ve happened upon some awesome groups (and individuals) that are carving out another way. That process started during the two workshops on re-wilding the mind and post-civilised mental health at last year’s Uncivilisation. I’d gone to them hoping to find some ideas for helping my partner live with severe depression. What happened instead was the deeply-moving (and profoundly painful) opening up of hearts and minds of almost everybody in the room. People shared story after story of their own struggles with depression, grief and anxiety, and the struggles of the people that they’d cared about. Almost uniformly, these things were exacerbated and made worse by professional mental health institutions–which I suppose is to be expected at a counter-cultural place like Unciv, which will tend to collect people who are mistreated and dissatisfied by mainstream systems.
To me though, it was a revelation. The reading that I’ve done since about places like the Hearing Voices Network, and the conversations that I’ve had with the wonderful Steve Thorp have helped me see just how incredible the human mind is in its capacity for developing identity and expressing itself in many and manifold forms. I’ve started to understand how complex our personalities actually are (far more complex than our current, blinkered view of ‘reality’ accepts) and to hear stories from people who have resisted the pressure to be labelled and pumped full of drugs. Forging their own paths, and treating their non-neurotypicality as a part of their journey, rather than a disease to be cured. Of course there are going to be times when people require help, support, therapy and even drug treatments for some issues, but it isn’t the whole answer, and it ain’t for everybody.
For what it’s worth, I have always viewed my many selves as a strength rather than a weakness. They allow me to view myself from outside myself, to explore facets and feelings that have been hidden, Shadowed or ignored. Sometimes, they provide a release mechanism for when I feel completely overwhelmed and unable to function inside myself. At other times, they’ve provided me with a different perspective on the universe, inspired me, or just fucked with the radio station I listen to in the car.
I have no idea what my friends, family and colleagues will think to all of this. I hope they’ll be accepting. But, more than all of that, I hope that it provides some tiny modicum of support for anyone that’s in the same position I was fifteen, five, or even just one year ago. I hope this shows someone like me that they are not alone, and that their world will not fall apart if they can (finally, after however many years) find the strength to be honest about who they are… and to hell with anyone that doesn’t like it.
February this year is time Steampunk Hands Around the World a project that aims to celebrate global steampunk community. So many people have helped and supported me since I first got involved with steampunk back in 2009. Many of them have quite literally changed my life. This feels like the perfect opportunity to honour some of them.
If it wasn’t for Magpie, then steampunk and I would likely have been little more than ships that passed in the night.
I met Magpie a few days after finding out that steampunk was a thing. At the time, I was editing a tiny Doctor Who fanzine called YANA–mostly just as an excuse to draw stupid comics and write silly stories. I’d happened upon some pretty cool pictures of a Steampunk TARDIS, which in turn led me to SteamPunk Magazine and messaging Magpie to tell him how much I’d enjoyed his “Yena of Angeline” stories. At the time, I didn’t even realise that he was also the editor.
About a week later, he messaged me to say he was actually about to wrap the magazine up, and before I knew what I was doing I was messaging him back to say “I’ll take over!”. I knew almost nothing about steampunk, literally nothing about the politics that SPM was built on, and even less about how to edit, layout, and run a magazine. In Magpie’s place, I’m pretty sure I would have responded with: “Thanks, but I have no idea who you are”. Magpie, being the incredible human being that he is, came back with: “Sure, why not”.
The next couple of years editing SteamPunk Magazine honestly changed my life. Not only has the experience given me confidence in my abilities, it’s influenced my politics, the skills I possess, and the whole way that I see the world. And I owe so much of that to Magpie–who was always there to recommend the right books on anarchist politics, walk me through how the hell to deal with InDesign, advise me on how to find printers and get the magazine into physical form, and offer encouragement and support.
I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing today if it wasn’t for him, and I almost certainly wouldn’t be involved with steampunk. I don’t think I’ve ever really thanked him for everything he did for me, so I guess that this is my chance
I have a terrible admission to make. Despite living less than two dozen miles apart, John Reppion and I have never actually met. We have, however, exchanged a bunch of emails over the last few years.
I got in touch with John not long after taking over at SPM, because at the time he was writing an ongoing story for the magazine. At the time, the whole editing thing was damned new to me, so I was glad to meet another writer–since I at least had some idea of what was involved in that. John and I also shared a love for the occult, the esoteric, and the downright supernatural, so we got on famously almost right away.
To talk about the biggest way that John has helped me out, I have to talk about ‘Journeys‘. This started out as a vague idea to create a steampunk shared world anthology with some of the many awesome writers that I met while working at SteamPunk Magazine. Sadly, we could never quite get the collection to gel together as a whole. The energy eventually ran out, Magpie released a couple of the stories that came out of it as ‘White is the Color of Death‘ through his new project (with one of the other writers involved) over at Combustion Books, and I consigned my own contribution to the cutting room floor.
A lot of time passed after that. My life went through some tectonic changes. To some extent, it fell to pieces. And right then, out of nowhere, John dropped me a little email to say hey, why didn’t we pair our stories up with the one that Dylan Fox had written and publish them ourselves? To this day, I think that John feels like he kind of put me to a lot of effort with that, but he’s dead wrong. The truth is that when his email dropped onto my screen, I had no idea what I was doing with my life. I felt directionless, and increasingly depressed. That one little email from him gave me something to focus on. Not just stories to edit and layout to do, but a whole micropublisher to re-found. On top of that, he gave me the opportunity to put a collection of stories together that I am damned proud of.
Jaymee needs a special mention on this list for being more patient with me than I had any right to expect anyone to be. I’m not sure how we first got talking, but I do know that post-colonialism and anti-racism was still a complete bewilderment to me when it happened, and that Jaymee is pretty much responsible for me getting at least a tenuous handle on my own privilege.
There were several long (doubtless incredibly frustrating) conversations over IM about white privilege, post-colonialism, cultural imperialism and exotification. More than that, when I had the (in retrospect, utterly stupid) idea of organising a huge online debate for every steampunk on the internet to scream at each other about politics, Jaymee was the only person to stand up and tell me it was a really bad idea. She was right, and I ignored her, but when everything went to hell she didn’t slam the door in my face.
I owe her a hundred thousand thanks for that, and for continuing to pour her blood and sweat into her post-colonial steampunk blog at Silver Goggles, where I read and read slowly learned exactly where I’d gone so badly wrong. Jaymee, along with fellow post-colonial steampunk Ay-leen (who she introduced me to) have done wonders to diversify steampunk–to make it something other than an echo chamber of white, Imperial wet dreams. For that, I think that we can all be bloody grateful.
Carolyn was the first ‘real’ steampunk that I ever met in the flesh. I think I’d been editing the magazine for a couple of months at that point, and was still feeling out of my depth. All of a sudden I was stumbling across strange new ideas like feminism and anti-racism that shook me out of my quiet, self-obsessed little world. Then I went to Whitby Goth Weekend to see Abney Park play, and found myself face-to-face with this fierce, independent, vintage-motorcycle-riding, Californian civil engineer who’d written a couple of articles for the magazine that I didn’t really understand yet. Needless to say, I was kind of terrified of this lady, and of her finding out that I didn’t actually have a clue what I was doing.
Carolyn and I have kept in touch ever since, and she doesn’t scare me any more (at least, not quite so much 😉 ). She’s taught me how to waltz, to polka, and how to do at least two different Regency set dances. She helped me put on the first ‘Steampunk Magazine Spectacular’ weekend in Oxford, let me ride her 1940s Royal Enfield J2 (his name is Henry), fed me from her allotment, introduced me to Ursula LeGuin, and blew my mind wide open with everything she knows about the process of Progress and gender politics.
I still think of her as fierce, independent, and as one of the most terrifyingly intelligent people that I’ve ever met, but she’s also a damned good friend, a hero, and has left me a hell of a lot smarter than she found me.
There are dozens and dozens of other people who have helped me out, taught me things, or just been there to offer support over the past few years. That’s part of what makes steampunk so great. Sure, we have our fair share of trolls, bigots, and assholes. Every group and subculture does. What makes steampunk different is the incredible spirit of invention amongst its communities, and how eager so many of these people are to share their skills, knowledge, and inspiration with others.
I haven’t always had the most straightforward relationship with steampunk, but it’s immensely valuable to look back from time to time and realise the things that you have. And steampunk? Steampunk has introduced me to a whole panoply of wonderful, funny, intelligent, caring people. That is an awesome, awesome thing.