Saturday, 30 April 2016

U is for Update

U is for Update, and today I set out to update my email signatures. This is a process that's always fraught with stress for me, because I can never remember from one time to the next how to do it, but it's necessitated today - because U, and also because for six months it's been telling people to preorder a book that's been already published.

First up is to decide what I want to put in it. I decide to focus on my fantasy stories. I manage to make a fair sig with my cover images using the Kboards signature tool, which is the one thing that justifies my continued membership in that community of bullies. This is the new sig I make:


Tabitha Ormiston-Smith | Find me at Amazon

What I love about this Kboards tool is that each cover image has an embedded link to the book's Amazon page. It's awesome, and I totally admire whoever developed it. 

For once, I manage to apply the sig to my webmail as well. That's it for me and the letter U - I've done my bit, and it's Saturday, and I have lots of other things to do. 

My next post will be brought to you by the letter V.

Friday, 29 April 2016

T is for Thunderbirds






It's not good for anyone to watch only highbrow entertainment; it can make one a prig, which is why today's activity, binge-watching Thunderbirds, is actually medicinal. Can you tell I've kissed the Blarney Stone? Twice?

It's not all television though. After one episode, there is the Thursday housework to attend to, as it didn't get done yesterday. I can see an endless series of substitutions stretching ahead, like a con-trail from Emily's glorious weekend of shows. 

With the house looking a bit better, I return to the set. I'm so enjoying these lazy days of television. I always take a few days to vegetate after finishing a project; they take the place of regular weekends which tend not to be a thing when I'm in the throes of writing something new. I sometimes think so-called 'writer's block' that people are always whining about is actually long-term fatigue caused by attempting to work seven days a week. It's one of the writer's traps, that absence of external mechanisms to cue one to take time off. The other major trap is of course the absence of external mechanisms to cue one to get back to work.

I watch a couple more episodes, and then something really pisses me off. A close-up is shown of Lady Penelope pouring tea into a cup that already has milk in it! The Thunderbirds team are usually so complete and detailed that this really sticks out like dogs' balls and annoys me intensely. I take a nap to get over my rage, and catch up the rest of the housework. Despite this interlude, I watch seven episodes today, a television binge probably unparalleled in my life.

Thursday, 28 April 2016

S is for Sunday


S is for Sunday, and that's what I'll be doing today. Yes, I know it's Thursday. But there is certain housework that I do every Sunday, and last weekend, what with having five dog shows in a three day weekend, it didn't get done. Neither did Saturday's list, for that matter.

I start late, because I was up for most of the night putting together the church newsletter, but it's still morning by a few minutes. The Sunday list is concerned with the kitchen and the front porch. I start at 11:49, and in no time flat the kitchen is done. I still have to hang out the washing when it finishes and sweep the porch, but that won't take long.

I now have an excuse for more Wagner, because S is also for Siegfried. And there's time! And I deserve a treat after finishing Operation Camilla. 

I do, however, break at the end of Act I to finish the Sunday list. For Act II I am joined by Louis, who is apparently made bold by the absence of Brunnhilde. He plasters himself to my chest so that I can hardly breathe, but it is a nice, warm kind of suffocation.

This is Louis.
The evening is taken up with dance lessons - Salsa, Swing and Samba all slotting nicely into the day's theme. To round it off I cook salmon for dinner.

Tomorrow will be brought to you by the letter T.

Wednesday, 27 April 2016

R is for Ring


For today's alphabetical episode, I will be watching the Ring Cycle on dvds, starting with Die Valkure since I already watched Das Rheingold the week before last. They are long operas, so I don't anticipate being able to watch more than one, as work still has to be done and Emily must have her walk.

I start my day with Operation Camilla. The pressure is in theory off with this, as I met my Camp NaNo goal days ago, but I am still hopeful of getting the first draft finished by the end of April, so I press on. I'm writing the ending now, which is always more difficult for me. I suck at endings, really. By the time I get to the end of anything I tend to be sick of it and want to wrap it up quickly. I've often been called out on this by my friend Pedro, with some justification, so I am making a tremendous effort with Operation Camilla not to rush the conclusion. By 10:54 I have 1100 words, and feel I've earned my television.

The opera is magnificent. What else can be said? Nothing meaningful. I spend four hours of bliss. Emily seems to enjoy it too, and Louis also watches it with me until the Valkyrie appear; their hunting cry appears to frighten him and he rushes off to his private place in the garden. Ferret doesn't bother to get out of bed, so he is a philistine and the entire performance would have been wasted on him.

After I've taken Emily out and got ready for my evening classes, I still have an hour and a half before I need to leave. There is no hope of watching Siegfried today, as it is another four hours, so I decide to try for a bit more work. The force is with me, and I can write THE END to the first draft of Operation Camilla. I'd call that a successful day.

Tomorrow will be brought to you by the letter S.

Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Q is for Queer - WARNING, EXTREME OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE

Queer. Poofter. Kike. Raghead. Boong. Wetback. This kind of word is legion - I could probably run through the entire alphabet with them with not much trouble. I won't, though. I think I've said enough already to make it clear that I am talking about the language of bigotry. It's ugly, it's hateful, and it's very, very dangerous. 

Tathagata Buddha said, 'with our thoughts, we make the world', and this is to a great extent true. Not as a spiritual metaphor, but as a concrete fact. 

Let's start with the fact that all these words are nouns. There's a reason for this. They are nouns because their function is always to label. With words like these, we label a person, and by doing so, we enable a certain kind of thinking about that person. And once we have enabled that kind of thinking, we are free to bring about Holocausts and Manus Islands. Because we're not talking about people. We're talking about kikes and ragheads.

The way this works is as follows: when we apply a noun to a being, we change the image of that being in our minds. It is the image of the being, not the being himself, that is an operand to the equations of our thinking. When we apply a noun, we are essentially assigning a certain value to x. The fact that it may be a false value makes no difference - it is a value, and by existing it can enable conclusions to be drawn which could not otherwise have been drawn. Surely, during Kristallnacht, no one said to himself, 'let's go and smash up the shops of all the tradesmen.' No, indeed. A more sinister noun had to be used to enable this kind of behaviour.

It is for this reason that labels are so very dangerous. They're powerful. More powerful than just about anything else in language. One of my textbooks when I was studying law recommended that one should never refer to one's client in a criminal matter as 'the accused'. You call him by his name. This takes the jury's focus off the crime and directs it towards the reality of your client as a human being. It's sound advice, and illustrates the quite subtle effects that labelling can bring about. Subtle, but very great, if it can make the difference between prison and freedom for your client.

There is a lesser level of labelling that tends to be seen as inoffensive by many people. Aussie. Pom. Yank. Girl (when used of an adult female). Boy (when used of an adult male). These labels are often used in a lighthearted way, sometimes even used by people of themselves, and any objection to them tends to be greeted with cries of 'lighten up', or similar advice couched in more vulgar terms. However, these too enable bigotry. It is for this reason that any statement of the form 'he is a/you are a x' is generally impolite. It is for this reason that there is a growing movement towards referring to, for example, people with a condition on the Autism spectrum as 'people with Autism' rather than 'Autistic people'. It's more polite, and less harmful.

Yet a third, almost invisible, level of labelling involves the use of terms in themselves innocuous as terms of insult. To do this, one merely uses the word, for example Catholic, Jew, Muslim, as if it were a term of opprobrium. We often see this technique coupled with the joining of two different terms as if they were inextricably linked. A good example of this in today's world is 'Muslim terrorist'. We see this all the time now, sometimes even from our government.

This kind of bigotry is often supported by the dragging in of racial, religious and other terms out of context. For example, 'black male' when referring to the perpetrator of a crime. A subtle message can be sent in this way, and it is very difficult to nail down the racist bias that's being overlaid on top of what purports to be a mere reporting of fact. You can see it, you can almost smell it, but just try proving it. Bias of this kind can be introduced all over the place, even, at times, without conscious volition, or at least, without conscious volition that you will ever get anyone to admit to. But he was black, they will say. "I'm just reporting the facts." 

We can't stop other people from doing this kind of thing. But what we can all do is learn to weed it out of our own speech and thinking. I have found a simple rule works well in all situations. If a label is not directly useful, if it doesn't convey extra meaning to what you are saying, if the meaning of your statement will not be vitiated by its omission, then don't use it. At all.

Just say no.





Monday, 25 April 2016

P is for Publication - EXCITING NEW RELEASE!

NEW RELEASE Ciara Ballintyne’s Epic Fantasy ‘In the Company of the Dead’

Only a fool crosses a god, but Ellaeva and Lyram will do anything to get what they want.

InTheCompanyOfTheDead_300dpi_1842x2763 FINAL

Title: In the Company of the Dead
Author: Ciara Ballintyne
Series: The Sundered Oath #1
Genre: Epic Fantasy/Fantasy Romance

Chosen as a five-year-old orphan to be the Left Hand of Death, Ellaeva has nothing to call her own—nothing except a desire to avenge her murdered parents. Her duties leave her no time to pursue the man responsible, until both her work and revenge lead to the same place—the lonely castle where Lyram Aharris is serving out his exile for striking his prince.

Lyram is third in line for the throne, and when the castle is unexpectedly besieged, he fears his prince means to remove him from contention for the crown permanently. Ellaeva’s arrival brings hope, until she reveals she has not come for the siege, but instead she hunts the castle for a hidden necromancer dedicated to the dark god of decay.

Within their stone prison, Ellaeva and Lyram must fight to save themselves from political machinations and clashing gods. But as the siege lengthens, the greatest threat comes from an unexpected quarter.



Amazon | Kobo | iBooks | Other

Chapter 1
Premonition

Only a fool would split hairs with a god, least of all the goddess of death, but Ellaeva would count herself such a fool and consider it worth it—if she could get away with it.
She leaned across the knife-scarred timber of the tavern table.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her tone even and barely loud enough to be audible over the noise of the flute and the zither. Her work on behalf of the goddess Ahura, adjudicating the small war here in Dayhl, could only be abandoned in favour of a greater threat. If she was going to chase off after the man who killed her parents, she needed to be sure her arguments stacked up. The pursuit of personal justice wouldn’t be enough.
Is it justice or revenge?
No time to worry about that now. She tugged her black hood farther down over her infamous face, even though deep shadows blanketed the common room corner. She’d chosen a table far from the tallow candles mounted in their stag-horn chandeliers. There was no point taking chances; the black hair and porcelain skin of a Tembran would be remarked here among the platinum-haired Dayhlish. Besides, someone might recognise her.
“In Ahlleyn, sure as the spring comes after winter, Holiness.” The narrow-faced man across from her grinned, baring teeth more brown than yellow. The acrid smoke from the candles didn’t cover his pungent breath.
She half-stood, making an urgent, negating gesture as she glanced around, but the hubbub of chatter from the patrons and the music covered his slip. No one even glanced their way. On the far side of the room, away from the two blazing hearths, tables were pushed aside for dancing. She dropped back into her seat, her black robes fluttering around her booted feet.
Ahlleyn lay on the other side of the continent, months of travel by horse. If her informant was right and a Rahmyrrim priest had been dispatched there, he would likely be gone long before she arrived—unless she begged a favour, but she’d not do that for a lark of her own. However, if it meant catching the man who killed her parents, well then maybe she could come up with an argument that would hold water for a god. Old grief and anger, stale from a decade or more, stirred in her gut, and her fingers curled around the edge of the table.
Releasing her grip, she reached to the inner pocket in her robes where rested the smudged charcoal drawing of a man. Hard work and luck had helped her obtain that picture of the man she believed killed her parents—a man she knew to be a priest of Rahmyr. If she decided to act against her standing orders, then she needed to be sure it was the man she was after, and that he was involved in some act heinous enough to attract her goddess’s attention.
“Did you get the name of this priest? Or his description?” An unknown number of priests served Rahmyr, but she knew six by sight—six still alive anyway.
The thin man shook his head. “Nobody mentioned. I got the impression he’s already there, or on his way leastways.”
She scowled. No way to be sure then that this was the man she wanted. Begging favours of Ahura for her personal satisfaction was a risky business, especially if she neglected her duties, and perhaps it would all be for nothing.
With one hand, she flattened the map that curled on the table between them. The patrons behind them exploded with laughter at something unheard. Ignoring the noise, she stabbed her finger at an unmarked portion of the map in the foothills of the Ahlleyn mountains. If he didn’t know who, maybe he knew the what. “There, you say? What possible interest could Rahmyr have there? There’s nothing of interest at all.”
She lowered her voice even further as she uttered the name of the goddess of decay, and glanced around again. That name spoken too loudly would bring unwanted attention. But nearly all the tavern patrons were busy whirling on the impromptu dance floor or lined up to watch the dancers, their backs to her.
The nameless man leaned forward, treating her to another stomach-clenching blast of foul breath, and touched a spot perhaps half an inch away from her finger. A tiny, unlabelled picture marked something there.
“Here, Holiness.”
She squinted at the picture, letting his lapse slide. The image represented a holy place. There was an old shrine to Ahura somewhere in the Ahlleyn Borders, wasn’t there? And a castle built over it. “Caisteal Aingeal an Bhais.”
“That sounds like the name,” he agreed. “Never could get my mouth around them Ahlleyn words. Pink castle, I heard.”
She grunted. That was the one. “There’s still nothing there.”
Nothing of interest to Rahmyr anyway. The shrine wasn’t particularly important, and the castle held no political significance.
“What’s there,” the man said, “is Lyram Aharris.”
The premonition went through her like a blast of icy wind, stiffening her in her chair as the hand of the goddess brushed against her mind. A light caress, but from a giant, and so it sent her mind reeling. She clutched the table for support. Lyram Aharris’s reputation preceded him the length of the continent: eight years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, he’d brought an end to the centuries-long conflict between Ahlleyn and Velena through a series of brilliant military manoeuvres. He’d survived the Siege of Invergahr against near-impossible odds, brought the crown prince safely clear of the conflict, and fought the Velenese to a standstill using their own guerrilla warfare tactics against them. As a novice, she’d covered the tactics thoroughly as part of her studies. The man was a military genius. That he was third in line for the throne of Ahlleyn was the least there was to know about him—at least it was, until his king dismissed him from court. The rumours on everyone’s lips said he murdered his wife, even if no one could prove it.
What did Rahmyr want with him?

Ciara Ballintyne grew up on a steady diet of adult epic fantasy from the age of nine, leaving her with a rather confused outlook on life – she believes the good guys should always win, but knows they often don’t. She is an oxymoron; an idealistic cynic.

She began her first attempts at the craft of writing in 1992, culminating in the publication of her debut work, Confronting the Demon, in 2013. Her first book to be published with Evolved Publishing is In the Company of the Dead. She holds degrees in law and accounting, and is a practising financial services lawyer. In her spare time, she speculates about taking over the world – how hard can it really be?

If she could be anything, she’d choose a dragon, but if she is honest she shares more in common with Dr. Gregory House of House M.D. – both the good and the bad. She is a browncoat, a saltgunner, a Whedonite, a Sherlockian, a Ringer and a Whovian... OK, most major geek fandoms. Her alignment is chaotic good. She is an INTJ.

Ciara lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband, her two daughters, and a growing menagerie of animals that unfortunately includes no dragons.

Friday, 22 April 2016

O is for Operation



Today is going to look very much like a copy of yesterday, I'm afraid. Operation Camilla is, of course, the main task, as it has been throughout April, but here I don't need to scratch about for an alphabetical justification.

The second task is On The Way, which is the name of the newsletter I mentioned in yesterday's post. I hope to get most of it done today, because the next three days will be a blur of dog shows, but I know this is a vain hope. It is a slow-starting day; it's already 11:30 and I have done nothing except produce another 400 words of Operation Camilla.

I carry on nibbling away and by quarter past one I've got 900 words. Time to get started on the newsletter. This is the quarterly production of East Kew Uniting Church, where Emily and I attend.


Emily is a keen churchgoer. Here, you can see her lighting the first of the Advent candles.

I set up the new copy and send messages to a couple more people whose submissions are still outstanding. This always gets on my nerves every quarter. People in our congregation just don't seem to understand the concept of a deadline. It really annoys me, when I give up my work time for it, that I am having to chase up these grown men and women. I promise myself that next time I will just cut off on the deadline date, just as I promise myself every quarter, but know I won't be able to do it. Church things are different, and sacrificing efficiency for the sake of people's feelings is really a thing.

One thing I do try to stick to is that I don't start putting the newsletter together until ALL the submissions are in, so that I know exactly what I've got and how long everything is. This saves a lot of frustrating shuffling. So, despite the fact I have five dog shows over the next three days and won't be able to work on this again before Monday, I resign myself to putting it off yet again.

Another session brings me to 1100 words and I break for lunch and a little tidying of the house. I'm back at my desk by 2:15, but I'm getting tired now, as much from the thought of the five dog shows I've entered in the next three days as from actual work, and I only get another hundred. Still, 1200 is an okay wordcount for the day, and the day isn't over yet. A walk in the park seems indicated; the fresh air and watching Emily run might get the juices flowing again.

On the way to the park we encounter a gardener who has left a broom athwart the pavement. Emily and I jump over it together, so according to the Neo-Pagans, I believe we are now married. I wonder if this means I am a bigamist. A couple of hours running about and throwing the ball does us both good, and when I return there is a message from my last outstanding contributor saying she cannot provide her stuff until Monday. I grit my teeth and curse, but am secretly relieved.

At a quarter to five, with 1600 words, I call it a day. I could get more, but with the heavy weekend I have coming up, I need some down time.

My next post will be brought to you by the letter P, but given my brutal schedule over the next few days, that may not be tomorrow.