I like to think that I am continuing to grow as a writer. My first few books were put out into the world after a couple of fixes. I used the feedback from the rare beta readers who actually got back to me. This is a continuing issue.

I should write something about needing to sell books to have the funds to properly edit my books so that they sell... That's a rant for another time.

Anyway. I've been made aware that all of my books-in-waiting need more than a little joosh. I'm beginning with the one I just finished writing - A Devil's Tale. A six-book epic about how the life of one Unwelcome Person can change the world for the better. In spite of all obstacles in the way.

And yes, I will make you cry about this prickly asshole with an entire chip shop on his shoulder.

But first, I have to give his immediate associates a little depth. This was revealed to me when the read-through group I created told me they couldn't tell which of his crew was which. There was also some discussion about the holes in the narrative.

So now I'm making a six-book epic with literally hundreds of chapters even longer. Don't fret. Each chapter is relatively short. It's just that book one is going to be one shit of a tome.

On the plus side, there will be real characters and alternate perspectives on the world my main character exists in. I can only hope that the pure chonk of the first book will not deter my audience.

Because there's a great push for illiteracy in this world, these days. Schools available for the less advantaged have less and less to work with. Teaching methods are promoted that don't actually teach. There's an enormous amount of vocality about how things should be written [see my previous rant about Fiction Purists] or how they only read the dialogue, or they're only there for "the spice". And there's a huge glut of video 'books' with utterly toxic relationships [in the midst of high-school level drama] sold as 'romance'.

...not to mention the huge amount of people stuck in their nostalgia for a series of children's books written by an openly out TERF. One who has politician-buying money and uses it to make people's lives miserable at best, and impossible at worst.

None of those things is how I want to be as a writer.

I want readers who read. Who ask questions, go diving down rabbit holes, and learn about weird and interesting things. I want readers who correct me about things I may or may not have got wrong about things I put in the book. I want people to make long-form video essays about my horseshit. I want people who will be inspired to create.

At least in my opinion, it's creation that makes humans Human. Art and invention is how we can improve the world. Even if it's just for a small escape from the shit sandwich life has given us. And yes, it's hard work. A great many of the good things happen from hard work. Quite a large amount of bad things happen as a result of laziness. That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.

Just like I'm sticking with making this huge sextology into a better work of fiction.

I should begin with the fact that I am not a triskadecaphobiac. That's fear of the number thirteen, for those of you not so blighted. For me, it's just a number between twelve and fourteen. However, there is something about chapter thirteen that just heralds chaos.

It began on Fanfiction dot Net when that was the only place to share fandom madness. It carried over to A03 when I moved there. Every time I posted chapter thirteen... my computer would implode, we had severe storms, blackouts, technical issues left right and centre.... At one point, there was a hospitalisation. I don't fear thirteen. It just... happens to me.

Well. It looks like it might have carried over to my professional writing. You may be aware that I am reconfiguring A Devil's Tale to have more character moments for my MC's Adventuring crew. Well, I wrote a new chapter for one of them that has become the new chapter thirteen.

My hardware remains intact. My software is a little screwy but manageable. My beta reader responsible for okaying the new chapters has had an obsession-related roadblock and can't read it for needing to work out his obsession.

This has been in limbo for weeks. So I'm thinking of renaming this one to fourteen in an attempt to get the curse to fuck off.

I don't think it'll work, but it's worth a shot.

I'm not naturally superstitious, but they seem to come land on me anyway. Maybe it's confirmation bias, maybe it's Maybelline. This sort of thing is exactly why I won't wear green without black. This may yet be why I won't have any thirteenth chapters in forthcoming books. Just to avoid the whatnot that slams into my face every fucking time.

Correlation is not causation, I know this. And yet, the correlation is fucking there.

But I am a scientific bean, and a theory is only as good as the experiment that tests it. So yes. I have changed chapter thirteen of A Devil's Tale: Destined Darkness to chapter fourteen. We shall see if things miraculously clear up.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

Spring has sprung and likewise, the daily temperature has also sprung right upwards. The temperature today promises to hit the late 20's, early 30's in the middle of the day. That's late 80's,early 90's in Freedom Units. I also have had early bedtimes thanks to my stupid fucking ankle and painful gorram feet. So once again, I am awake in the wee small hours.

As I write this, I'm also in the midst of an asthma attack. So I got up, fed the cats [most important thing I do all day, ask the cats], and put myself on the Nebuliser.

Since I'm awake-awake, I might as well do something productive with my time.

I'm planning to get my daily tale and Promptcast entry done before the heat of the day as well. In between treating my stupid fucking ankle.

This is what passes for time management in my head.

Ankle treatment will be happening at four in the morning. A squinch too early to be cooking breakfast and setting off the household air quality alarm. It's a whole thing.

At least I got this thing written before the due date. Firkin deadlines, even self-imposed, are a bitch.

But if things go well, I should have things in hand to publish my October Short Story(tm). I sincerely hope things go well. I'd hate to wait a second year to publish the bloody thing.

This has been bothering me for a solid minute. Especially after I read Project Hail Mary and then watched the movie based on the book. I know damn well that Rocky was written with clothing on and yet...

Not a stitch on him. This is the latest in a long line of non-human naked aliens and I really would like a Doylist and a Watsonian explanation for this kind of choice.

Don't fight with me. It is a choice. The movie industry has been able to put clothes on fanciful creatures that, off screen, are actually puppets or CGI creations. I could argue that the offense is even worse when it's a CGI creation, because they could easily model clothes for that. They have the technology.

The people who made the movie out of Project Hail Mary had made tools and a tool belt for Rocky to wear when he was making stuff. Why not the clothes?

This isn't a new phenomenon either. Whenever an alien is represented by a puppet or animation, there's no clothes. When it's a human with bits on, then you get clothes.

Trust me, it goes ALL the way back. It's not to show they're animals. Many of these aliens are more advanced than Humanity. Like Thor from Stargate:

Doylistically, just the puppet is easier to make. Figuring out what Alien Fashion may look like is a bit of a task. Like, yay there's a body. What do we put on it that doesn't look like Earth++? Budgets, timetables and so on means that just having the puppet is often "good enough" for those making the thing.

Then there's shapeshifters. Yes, I could have picked on Odo, but he's played by a human actor with a wardrobe and so on. Human with bits on. Jake the Dog is an alien who thinks he's a talking dog through most of the cartoon series. In one episode, it's stated that he's wearing an invisible, skin-tight onesie. He's effectively naked and it's never mentioned again.

Yes, I know it's a cartoon for children. I'm using it to point out the ubiquity of that particular trope. It's in everything with a non-human alien in it.

And it vexes me.

It's about time I vented about this because I've had about enough of the type. Every couple of years, it seems, my feed fills with Opinions from people who want their fiction to be Pure. I can only presume that they've been raised in a blank, white box for approximately fifteen years before they were allowed loose in the real world.

Why?

Because their takes on what makes fiction "Pure" are absolutely buck wild.

• If you write about anyone who's even the slightest bit overweight, you're glorifying obesity
• If you write about anyone described as 'thin', then you're promoting eating disorders
• If you write about anyone who's queer, then you're pushing the LGBTQ+ agenda or "making people gay" [though it's usually the former]
• If your villains are at all sympathetic, then you're promoting abuse
• If your male characters show any kind of 'effeminate' skill or talent, then you're also pushing the LGBTQ+ agenda
• The same applies if your female characters show masculine skillsets. Either that or your book is "too woke" for their fragile sensibilities
• If you write teenagers falling in love, then you're a pedophile
• The same applies if you write children at all
• And if you write about kids in bad situations, then you're promoting child abuse

Basically, you have to write your men being Real Men, your women being Real Women, your villains being Absolutely Villainous and then Justifiably Punished. And if you write children, they must be cute, enigmas, and properly parented. Or else.

And only they decide what proper parenting looks like. Heaven help you if you get it the slightest bit wrong or (gasp) introduce weird pronouns.

Not one of these people have written a single thing outside of schooling. If they've written at all. They have no idea about the investment of time that it takes to write anything good. And now we have generative AI to make things fucking worse for us.

Because now that there's generative AI, they can use that to create the book of their dreams. And may they get sincerely bored of Elias Thorne and Alara Voss being blandly heterosexual in a book with literally no suspense, drama, or conflict.

Before generative AI - or the Plagiarism Machine, as I like to call it - these folks would be an utter pain in the bum for a decent handful of months. Then - I can only guess - they touched grass for the first time or came to the stunning realisation that Grownups Write Everything.

Or they found works about teenagers written by teenagers and came to a similar, stunning conclusion.

They used to vanish after a while because of that learning journey. Not that they don't cause a lot of damage in the process. They bullied the author, John Green off of social media with their shenanigans... whilst missing the actual sex pest and serial sexual assaulter on the same social media site.

I am kind of worried that they'll continue to be their willfully ignorant selves for the rest of time. Setting their puritanical sights on author after author as they drown the world in their boring, bland, 'pure' slop from the Plagiarism Machine.

They're not going to stop me, though. I've said many times that I can't not write, so I shall continue forward in my way, and when they appear again, I shall be ready with this:

Sometimes, issues at hand are too big to handle all at once. You can't write an entire novel in one day, for example. Or eat an entire roast chicken in one bite. In my recent history, there was a repair bill that I could not afford in one lump sum. So I negotiated a means by which I could handle paying it off in pieces.

Cutting a problem into chunks is a great means of handling this stuff. Whatever small bits can be managed are the things to look for.

I have been procrastinating on cover art for my most recent short story. Soon to come out if I can get the art done by October. Which is -more or less- why I'm talking about that.

I. Art. Real. Slow.

I need examples of what I'm making, which I do trace [not a sin], so I gather them and photobash them together so I have a structure of what I'm going to do. Then, layer by layer, I work on each element. Sometimes, I try a little cheat, like using a pattern brush instead of doing all the details. Sometimes that fails and I go angst about it for a couple of days.

This has happened recently. I have to rework some concrete chunks since my lazy attempt looks like a glitch in the matrix. And that means doing the chunks individually. Which is what I'm procrastinating on.

I might do other land lumps covered in kudzu further in the background. Just to soothe what passes for my soul.

I know I've got this. There's only a few elements to go before I'm done.

I'm tackling the rewrite of A Devil's Tale in the same way. One chapter at a time. Improving things as I go. Copying the good stuff and keeping very specific darlings while I murder the others. I'm rebuilding book one while my reading group goes through book two. I think it might streamline the process. I certainly hope that it takes less time than four years.

I've got this. It can be done.

Just like I've been cataloguing items from a collection I possess for later resale. One handful at a time. Log, describe, add to the spreadsheet. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It only seems impossible from the top of the mountain of work.

Shovel by shovel, I will get to the bottom of it all. Just watch me.

The biggest thing to organise is time to get back onto my output schedule and serve you all with my regular doses of assorted nonsense. I know damn well that the best way to have it happen is to make it happen. Which is why I'm writing this on a Saturday to post on Wednesday.

Huzzah?

I don't know.

Following this, I shall see what can be done about posting my Patreon stuff. Then I get a wriggle on with the daily tale and my other shenanigans. Which, because of my stupid firkin ankle, means moderating the Promptcast streams.

My main obstacle in getting sorted has been endorphin-chasing. After a hard day's wrangling words into fiction, I want to chill and enjoy some downtime. Alas, during the hard day's wrangling words into fiction, I also crave downtime. And I have endorphin producing games in my phone. So I get wrapped up in telling virtual ants how to devour a pixelated picture for hours on end.

Good for me - Hank Green made a focus assistant app where a bean knits socks to discourage me from the siren call of ant game.

I'm still working on launching the bean before I get down to business (to defeat the Huns?). It's a process. I acknowledge this.

Doing what I can for income can feel like a grind, but... I know I have this. I have to have this because this is the last week that I have money.

Onwards to what I know I can do.

Life is being mean to me and I want to be able to sleep it off without consequences. Or that I had a magic ice cream tub that would make everything better when I got to the bottom of it.

Meanwhile, I have finished the alpha draft of A Devil's Tale. All six hundred chapters of it. Huzzah!

Primary read-through of book one tells me that there's going to be more chapters. Especially in Book 1. Some rewrites are necessary, but I am still taking a breather. I'm allowed. Plus reading through the other five books will help define the shape of the rewriting.

Life is going to be chaotic for a couple of months because Adorable's lease is not being renewed so four people and a cat will be moving in really soon now. Part of my duties will be chasing my spawn around and making sure they do their bit in helping clear the accumulated debris.

I've just been told we have about four weeks to get the house unfucked before new housemates fuck it up again. In their own unique way. There will be a new equilibrium. But there may also be less from me on the daily. If I lapse, there will be a twoferfest until I catch up once more. I've done that before for my daily tales.

As for my Patreon, this weekly blog, and some of my other nonsense... I have no firkin idea. I get back to it when I get back to it.

...and at some point, I need to find out if I can find a genius to help me install Linux on an Android tablet I accidentally purchased via Temu scam. Not any time soon though.

I have a feeling I'll be roped into doing the power tool stuff.

Things to do: Attach wire to the catio, build an extended enclosure for the patio to also contain the cats while certain new housemates enjoy the fresh air. There's plans to move accommodations around, plans to change sleeping arrangements. Plans to get stuff out of the house.

Life is going to be PURE CHAOS for me for a while.

Normal services are going to be debatable. I plan on spending my daylight doing stuff and evenings writing stuff. Wish me luck. I might not get there all the time.

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Thank you for your patience.

~After the Shenanigans~

"Fifteen siblings, I can understand," said Astarion, hood up despite having full use of the Sunlight Ring. "Living far, far away, I can deal with. You never mentioned your dad worked in a fucking castle."

Oh, wait until he found out the rest of it. The broken curse, the mixed set of sibs, who the family was in this particular polity... Surprising him with all of it didn't seem quite fair. "He kind of has to," said Aldiirn. "You'll see when you meet him."

The guards let him pass in, though Aldiirn had to invite Astarion past every threshold. From public areas to private ones, all the way to Dad's office. Well. Almost to Dad's office. They had to wait in the Green Parlour while several other bits of business got out of the way. Then Hanagon, Dad's seneschal, made Astarion wait behind.

Aldiirn was arguing about it right up until he got engulfed by an anxious parent.

"Gruss gotts, what happened to you? Your letter didn't say nearly enough. Why'd it take you so long to find my ink? What's this? What's this? What happened to your eyes, liebe?"

"Da-a-ad..."

"Darling? Darling, something's happening!"

"O-oh, you found a snuggle-buddy? Dad was grinning. "They treating you right? You treating them right?"

"Dad!"

Astarion rushed in, holding the Githyanki egg's transportation arrangement as carefully as he could. For a moment, resembling an expectant mother experiencing their first contractions. "I heard something snap and there's a crack. I swear I didn't do anything to it."

Another snap. The shell flexed outwards a little as another crack formed.

"It's hatching! Oh my gods, we're having a baby!"

"Get Delia," Dad ordered someone in the hall. "Raus! Schnell!"

Aldiirn helped Astarion put it down, then rushed to remove the lid and stabilising clay. He didn't care about the acid burns getting it out. And a good thing too. The next snap came with a little green fist. A howl of outrage that only a newborn could be capable of.

"It's a girl!" Astarion crowed. "We have a little girl."

"I have a granddaughter," Dad cooed. He had doffed his velvet doublet, and offered it to wrap their baby in.

"Uh. Dad? This is Astarion Ancunin. My -uhm- my darling dear. And this...?" He looked to Astarion. "We haven't thought of names."

"You stole her fair and square, I'm guessing," said Dad. "Nevermind, one will find her. Wilcommen, kleine kinder."

The Githyanki infant had all her teeth, skin the bright green of olive oil fresh from the presses, and deep dark hair slicked against her skull from the egg goop. She was beautiful. She was perfect. Aldiirn held her close to his chest and cooed a welcome in Drowic. "You are beloved," he said, "A builder of a new kind of tomorrow." The name found her all right. "Koryss. Our beloved builder of a new hope."

"Koryss," cooed Astarion. "Koryss Ancunin-Deepborn. Our daughter."

END?

For a Bard, this Aldiirn fellow was remarkably covert. Astarion caught wind of it in the Goblin camp, where he managed to sneak his way into quite a lot of disarmament strategies. Sneaking poison into the booze cauldron so covertly that even Astarion hardly noticed. Breaking the wardrums whilst making it look like an accident. Separating and isolating the three leaders into their own covert corners. Well. Two out of three. The Drow leader was doing very well at separating herself.

The pinnacle of cheek had to be playing some concentration music for Dror Ragzlin.

Astarion, up in the rafters, almost missed it.

A subtle switch on the flute. A rapid breath during a natural break in the music.

Phoot...

And the Hobgoblin staggered in place, leaning suddenly on a barrel of firewine. All while Aldiirn danced out of range.

That was his cue.

"Ignis!"

The thundering explosion knocked them both off their feet, but also wrought devastation amongst Ragzlin and his acolytes. After that, it was just a matter of sniping the Drow from afar. And didn't the soft-looking, non confrontational Bard have an eye for secret and secluded places in which to do nefarious deeds without being detected?

He spotted traps Astarion didn't notice. Had an over-the-horizon sense for what may or may not be poisoned.

Aldiirn often said he was just a Bard.

Like hell was he only a Bard.

Gods damn it.

He was going to have to fuck this guy to gain access to his secrets.

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Of course a Rogue would go through everyone's packs. Astarion couldn't know that Aldiirn was a light sleeper. Not yet. Aldiirn sat up as Astarion sniffed something he'd unearthed in Aldiirn's pack,

"Find anything nice?" Aldiirn asked.

At least he was an honest thief. "Just looking for anything valuable. Or blackmail-worthy, if I'm being completely honest. What in the hells is this?"

It was a black prism, a solid substance that had once been pressed into a mould with fancy patterns on the broadest sides. Aldiirn smiled as he accepted it from Astarion's hands. Carved into one side, in Infernal, were the words, Remember to write home, treasured son. "Oh, Dad," he sighed. Inhaled the perfume he'd added to it. It smelled like home. "It's ink. So I write my family. Dad made it himself before I left for my adventures." The tears sprung up against his will. "And now I don't know where I am or how I can send it. Even if I had the paper to write on. Thanks for finding it. It's been driving me crazy trying to figure out what he hid in my pack and where."

Astarion was staring as if the whole scene was incomprehensible. Like a benevolent Beholder. "You... love... your family?"

"It's hard not to. After Dad stole me, they've been the best family anyone could want..." A couple of the sillier stories spilled out. Little things. Almost... dumb things. Yet he had Astarion's complete fascination. As if 'family' was another form of torture and torment for him.

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"There. In the bushes. Can you see it?"

The fancy clothing had put Aldiirn off guard. He didn't see the blade until it was almost too late. Years of training in the Art of Shadows kicked in and he threw the pale Elf, taking the dagger off him on the way.

His veneer of confidence and bravado stripped away like cheap paint. He cowered, trembling, in the dirt. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me!"

"Let's not try that again," said Aldiirn. "What were you trying to prove, anyway?"

"You're with them, aren't you? What were you and those tentacled freaks doing to me? What have they done to me?"

"But I'm not with--" The splitting headache. The now-familiar rush of images through another's eyes. The light. The fear.

"What was that?"

"Head worms," said Aldiirn. "If we don't find a way to be rid of them, they'll turn us into more mind-flayers."

"Turn us into--" There it was. That look. Another lost soul who expected nothing but pain and knew no help was coming. "Of course it's going to turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?"

He couldn't not rescue this man. Dad wouldn't have it any other way, and now neither would Aldiirn. Whatever it took to show him and keep showing him that there was kindness and comfort in the world... Aldiirn would do it.

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Even if he had to fuck this guy to show him he deserved love.

It had seemed like a decent jam session in Fraygo's. He suspected something was up with some of the prostitutes here. Something amiss that made people go missing once they walked out with someone pretty on their arm.

Then the giant tentacle broke through the wall and the next thing he knew... there was a tadpole in his eye and a whole bunch of fucked-up horseshit to deal with. Not to mention scary women in his immediate aura. Aldiirn had thought that close proximity to sisters had cured him of his terrors, but no... These were women he had not held in his arms when they were babies. They were strangers with fearsome abilities and worse tempers.

And once again, he resorted to nervous tooting.

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What in all the hells made the both of them look to him as the leader? He was supposed to be working as support class!

And he was out of his depth on an Illithid Starjammer, for fuck's sake.

~Some Significant Years Later~

"You have everything you need, ja? You have your balm? Enough of your balm? And the recipes too? You're sure you want to go adventuring as a Bard?"

"Yes, Dad," Aldiirn sighed. Dad was such a worrywart, sometimes. "It would be unfair to adventure as a Monk," Aldiirn smiled, enduring the umpty-billionth farewell hug from his Dad, and then his Mum, and then each of his fifteen siblings. "I'll be fine, Dad. Don't worry about me."

"I'm your parent, it's my job to worry about you," he leaned down to press his brow to Aldiirn's. "I'll miss you, kleiner..."

Mum, better known as Lady Cordelia, said, "Remember everything I taught you about avoiding little surprises. I know how Bards are."

"Mu-u-um... Not this Bard. I think I'm a bit broken in that direction..." The blush burned his face anyway. "I'll be fine."

"I've hidden a little something in your pack. I'm sure you'll let me know when you find it."

"Da-a-ad..." He sighed. It was embarrassing. Twenty-one years old, and still having his parents fuss over him. He knelt to embrace the youngest twins, aged just past four. "You two have the most important job of all. Keep Mum and Dad distracted enough so they don't worry themselves bald, okay? Get in lots and lots of trouble for me."

Mercy and Consideration giggled at the idea.

In spite of every confidence he had in himself, in spite of everything they'd taught him, it was still terrifying to strike out into the world as Aldiirn Deepborn, the technically clanless half-drow who was not at all affiliated with a whole damn polity by adoption. Seeking somewhere that didn't know him so he could make a name of his own. Just to find a way to make the world better with his own merits.

Somewhere far away would be a good start.

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Baldur's Gate, probably. That might be far enough away.

Aldiirn didn't really believe he was Kosh's son until that Winter. The entire family journeyed down to Enclave Yaztel, babies and all. Including some volunteer nurses and staff to help with everything. Making certain that Kosh and the Lady Cordelia had time for Aldiirn.

The colony of Drow was flourishing. Buildings, crops, and infrastructure coming along very well. There was even architecture beginning to emerge. And one place naming itself the Whitekeep Embassy.

It was the twins who got to him first. Babbling as they learned to talk, they mastered 'mama', and 'papa' for Kosh and Lady Cordelia. They also had 'nur-nur' for their nurses, 'dow' for 'Drow', 'bah-wah' for each other... and finally, 'bee bah-wah'. For him.

Lady Cordelia pointed it out, having much more experience with their babbling. "They're calling you 'big brother'. I think it's wonderful."

They'll forget me. You'll forget me. You should be leaving me behind... Aldiirn's knees went out from under him as his inner world turned on its head. He couldn't fathom it. Big brother. Wonderful. Why won't they forget me?

The twins thought his tumble was hilarious, and toddled to hug him. Lady Cordelia was a lot more concerned, though she hid it from her babies. Her, "Oops-a-daisy," hid a lot more panic from them than from him.

It was in her eyes. She was concerned for him. Worried about him.

There was the fresh breath of Spring in her Druidic magic, and the scent of daffodils washed over him as she reached out her hand.

"Are you all right, my love?"

This--

This wasn't--

This wasn't how it worked.

He was useless. Forgettable. Regrettable. A burden. He was way overdue to be someone else's problem or punished for taking too much food from worthier mouths and stealing clothing from worthier backs or taking up too much space or being in the way or being too loud or...

Aldiirn couldn't breathe.

He'd made the babies start crying.

There was no air

He'd made Lady Cordelia cry.

There was no light.

"I'm... sor--"

There was no sound. No gravity. Was he dying? Was he dead?

Evidently not. He came to in Vhaeraun's temple. The priest was winding up an adapted dance with two baby Tieflings underfoot, and Lady Cordelia was putting her every effort into her own healing magic.

But she didn't have to.

"...wh--?" Aldiirn managed.

"Oh thank the gods," Lady Cordelia snatched him up in a hug, babbling about how worried she'd been, and how he was allowed to tell her if he was feeling unwell. She could help. She wanted to help. She was his mother, it was her job. It was her delight.

Oh.

She wanted to.

Oh.

She really wanted to.

He whispered, "Thank you, mum..." and realised then and there that he meant it. It would take him a few more years and two more baby siblings to cement it into his head.

He had a mum and dad. He had siblings.

He had a family.

Aldiirn had people who loved him and treasured him and were willing to help if he needed it and not hold him in debt over it.

This took a lot of getting used to.