Week One Instructor: Andy Duncan

Week One Instructor’s Best Decision: To impress upon us with his entire, considerable force of personality that we absolutely deserve to be here amongst the elite of speculative fiction’s future writers

Week One Instructor’s Worst Decision: To recommend the film Cannonball Run for potential group screening

Unexpected Week One Discoveries: It is fairly common to write pantsless, especially in 90-degree heat; it does not take long to lose one’s mind when writing in a house with other pantsless maniacs in 90-degree heat; sentient molds, etc

Photo on 6-28-15 at 11.46 AMWeek One Story Wordcount, Current: 3,400k, completed

Week One Story Title: How High Your Gods May Count

Week One Bummer: I have almost completely lost my voice due to a strangely-manifesting cold

Week One Highlight: The people in this house are amazing, both in talent and personality, and I am so grateful and overjoyed to be here. But let’s see how I feel next week.

Here I am at writer space camp, tucked into my tiny room, which I have cozified like woah because knowingIMG_1799 my work habits I will probably spend a lot of time locked in here, trying not to look at Facebook.

(The hardest part of getting ready for Clarion West was locking myself out of my Facebook account. I am thirty-one fucking years old. Seriously?)

The past few weeks have been the superlative superlative something something of my life. Getting ready to leave my job in the midst of relocating the office, which is my job, since I am the office lady; buying my first home and moving to the seriously suburban suburbs (OUR NEIGHBORS ARE ALPACAS); taking agility classes from the 2015 20″ Preferred and 24″ AKC National Agility Champion, Sarah Baker, who is a kickass teacher but holy hell no pressure there. Also class is in Sumner and I live in Lynnwood. If you don’t know where those places are imagine mapping something on your phone thinking you might go there and then saying “oh hell no” to your phone, because it must be lying to you. There’s a lot of driving.

Last night, my beloved, genius, disgusting, wonderful, batshit-crazy work teammates came out for karaoke. We were Those People in the karaoke bar. We were the karaoke dream team. I felt so loved and I don’t think I’ve ever had a big group of people that I liked being around so much. I hope that my Clarion cohort feels like that.

Anyway, what with all of the above I did not think about Clarion West until I walked up the front steps of the house this morning carrying my boxes, and it hit me that this is the closest I will ever get to actually going to Hogwarts or slipping into Narnia.

It took a lot of people to get me here, a lot of help and support and hard work–financially (see my last post, holy shit), emotionally (hi Ryan!) and personally (hi Grace!). And it has taken so many hours upon hours of writing and hurting and pushing and writing and waking up at 4:30am day after day.

So I’d better make it count.

I have two post-its on my desk. They are my goals for Clarion West. They are deceptively challenging.

  • Don’t say you can’t, because you can.
  • Be the person everyone feels they can come to.

But if I have learned anything from my husband and my therapist and my best friend and my dog and all the people who love me, it is that I can do anything. So step aside, I’m counting down.


Friends and family have asked how and where to donate to help me with Clarion West. Well, hold on to your butts: This is the place, and now is the time. For the next month, until May 3rd, I will be raising the $8,286 gold ducats (or whatever, dollars will do, just no Bitcoin) I need to get me into and through the Clarion West Summer Six-Week Workshop.

My PayPal is tmkaske@gmail.com. If you hate paypal, email me instead and we can figure out something more (or less!) old-fashioned. I am flexible when people are generously giving me money to, you know, pursue my dreams.

I will pick out a book from my personal library to loan to everyone who donates. It will be special for you! I love loaning books to people, so this is kind of a thrill for me as well. I don’t have a timeline on when I will be sending books quite yet. When do you want them? Now? I could do now. Also later. Let’s talk.

And thank you, everyone who persuaded me to say yes, everyone who suggested crowdfunding (which I would never have been brave enough to try without lots of coaxing), everyone who jumped the gun and sent me money already, and everyone who’s reading this now. Even if you can’t send anything to help me along, your support and enthusiasm and love is what got me here in the first place and what’ll get me through six weeks of crazy in the end.

Funds are approximately half Clarion West fees, and half paying for rent, bills, gas, cell phone, etc during the program.

I will update this page as donations are made.


$8,286   Needed

Money I already have from various sources:


Funds Raised So Far

$250    Don  <3

$30      Taylor <3

$250    Derek  <3

$100    Abby <3

$500    Anonymous wizard <3

$25      Tanja <3

$40      Anonymous <3

$66.60 Michael <3

$75      Grace <3

$25      Emily <3

$100    Andy <3

$100    Wilder & Tonja <3

$50      Jen <3

$100    Regina <3

$50      Shannon <3

$133.70 Cassie <3

$50      Collin <3

$100    Alexandra <3

$200    Jett <3

$150    Sam <3

$100    Parvathy <3

$1000  An anonymous elf owl dropped this money in my moon roof!!! WHAT!? <3

$50     Kayull <3

$50     Heather & Michael <3

$25     Cheryl <3

$100   Colin <3

$150   Tara <3

$20     Another Michael <3

$30     Brent <3

$100   Emily Again! <3

$100   Eric <3

$150   Lisa & Bentley <3

$100   James (I had no pockets, I had to stick this money in my bra) <3

$400   My Pops <3

$100   Jeremy <3

$500   Rebecca!?! <3

$100   Shannon <3

$500   Ryan’s Motorcycle Money <333


$25     Ed <3

$55     Paul <3

$50     Andrea <3

Total Funds Raised


Total Remaining





It has been a challenging couple of years. Not bad–challenging. Learning to take rejections and not let them impact my productivity is a big one. Learning to keep moving forward despite the light at the end being too faint to really see is another. But hey, keep trucking, because what’s the alternative? Giving up? Feh.

Despite being neither a superstitious person, nor a religious person, I often find myself offering up a little prayer before I check my phone in the morning. Please let the good thing happen, I think. I don’t even really know what the good thing is. And I’m fully aware that whatever the good thing turns out to be, it won’t really solve anything. There will still be more mental rubble-piles to climb, things to overcome, challenges challenges challenges.

Oh, but the good thing, it feels so good when you finally get it.

I am thrilled and still somewhat surprised to announce that I will be attending Clarion West this summer as a member of the class of 2015.

What is Clarion West?

Among other things, Clarion West puts on an intensive six-week residential workshop that does its best to turn baby speculative fiction writers into professional speculative fiction writers. It is taught by a different writer every week. Here’s this year’s faculty, of whom I am already terrified. Their job is to tear me apart, hooray!

Nothing can guarantee that you will go pro as a writer, as luck and determination are such enormous parts of the equation. But this is the place to get the tools. If I ever had a chance to do what I love, for real, with all of myself, then this is it.

They only take 18 people a year. It’s open to the entire English-speaking world. It is incredibly hard to get in. They swear they did not make a mistake in accepting me.

Holy shit.

Fast facts:

I will live with 17 other writers in a house near the UW campus, where we will spend basically all of our time writing, reading each others’ writing, critiquing, attending lectures, and going slightly mad.

The program runs from June 21st to August 1st.

I will be required to produce a short story every week. I currently produce a short story every couple of weeks while working full time and attending weekend agility trials, so this seems doable, but the downtime/thinking time/bathtime between writing sessions is a luxury that I won’t get. I wonder what that will do to me.

Ryan, Vesper and the cats will be on their own. Sorry, guys. Ryan’s being very brave about it. I hope nobody starves. I will probably get to see Ryan now and then, but I won’t, like, get to go home on weekends. I could, but from what I’ve heard there really isn’t time, the program is too intensive.

Does it cost money?

Oh sweet baby jesus yes it does. I haven’t heard back from the scholarship committee yet but Clarion isn’t cheap. For good reason–they house and feed you so you can focus entirely on the instructors and your craft. It’s not inexpensive to close out the rest of the world for six weeks.

If it was just six weeks of no paycheck a normal middle-class couple would probably be okay, but the last few years have been an asteroid field of unexpectedness. All sorts of exciting things have bounced off our savings, which were already depleted by our it-wasn’t-that-long-ago wedding, and were never that impressive to begin with. For a few terrible moments I really thought about saying no, because this is a financially irresponsible thing to do.

Absolutely nobody else agreed with me, though. Which is a relief. Because I think I might die of regret if I didn’t go.

I’m going to have to do some fundraising, which feels gauche and weird and awkward and isn’t something I’ve done. I was uncomfortable receiving wedding presents, so receiving presents for just being awesome? Oof. So uncomfortable. But people so far, even before the ask, have already started offering. Why? Because I just happen to live in a nexus of really amazing people, is why. I don’t know how I ended up here. I think it was on purpose? But seriously, it’s a great place to be. My people are the best people. I’m so fucking lucky.

So what now?

Well, first, I’m going to soak in this for a while. It still only feels sort-of real. Then, I’m going to invest in pants that look like pants but are actually pajamas, because if I’m going to write for six weeks I’m going to need more softpants.

I will be blogging my way towards Clarion West, especially the fundraising part, because I don’t want to use a crowdfunding site, because do I really need one? Can’t I just color in a thermometer thingy like in grade school? I’m going to do that one instead. So look for that.

Once I am at Clarion West, I hope to post here weekly. It may be brief. It may be incoherent. I will probably give myself a template so that it’s easy to just barf into. I doubt I’ll have a lot of creative juice left over after writing and critiquing 17 other stories and not sleeping and eating food that I didn’t cook myself and isn’t Asian. (LIFE IS SO HARD.) But there will be dispatches from the front lines so that you know I am not dead.


If you’re already inspired to help, my paypal is tmkaske@gmail.com. If you don’t like paypal, you can email me instead because there are so many wonderful options here in the future of 2015!

No I don’t accept Bitcoin but you’re so adorable for asking

In conclusion,

holy fucking shit this is real and it’s happening. I am so fortunate, and so excited, and still only believe it’s real like one-third of the time. The acceptance itself is such major validation–they only take 18 people! Those 18 people have real, latent talent! Therefore I! Must have! Some sort! OF TALENT!–that I already feel like I don’t need my feet to get around, I can just float.

At first it feels like nothing. It’s just a strange voicemail. Your heart rate goes up but a bit but you’re more confused than anything else. You’re not even that worried. You think: car accident, broken leg? Someone needs to drive her home. She’s going to be so pissed about the car.

The phone call goes in unexpected ways. The social worker calls you honey. The social worker doesn’t believe you about your Medical Power of Attorney, probably because you aren’t being an asshole about it, but she is being an asshole about it, and finally you snap. It is a good thing you have the conference room door closed. You inform her of her skewed priorities and it is only when the words “someone I love more than almost anyone else in this entire world is dying right now, so tell me where she is” leave your mouth that you realize that they are true, this is a thing that is happening to you right now, right this minute. She could be dead right now. The social worker wouldn’t know yet.

This is when you start acting irrationally. You say things to people as you leave the office that turn their faces in horrible contorted ways. You are crying and then not crying in hysterical patterns. You are fine for the entire drive until it is time to park, and then you cannot find any of the parking garages and start screaming out the windows at old men crossing the street.

You leave the car parked illegally and run through traffic. Fuck the car, the tow lots can have it.

You still feel nothing when they show you her body, which is not quite her but should be. You say her name quietly. You try to think of important things to say but you don’t need to, you really don’t; you talked to her yesterday, last night. She already knows, so at least all of that is okay.

There are other people there whose names you forget, whose grief and fear is inappropriate and unimportant compared to yours. You accept their hugs and their encouragements and can’t wait for them to leave. Most of all you want to be alone, alone with her and the people who are going to take care of her and bring her back to you. This is business. This is important.

While she is in surgery you make lists. You do work. You call, you console, you inform. You are some straightforward, centered, highly-motivated and unsinkable version of yourself that you only sort-of recognize. You wish you could show this whole episode to your therapist. Is this okay? Is this normal? I feel okay.

No point in feeling the true terror of the situation until you have to, if you have to.

She was seizing when she went into surgery. Like she was responding to your voice, to your being there, except then it turned into some electrical storm wrecking her against the soft restraints, the rails clanking in the small space of the elevator. Her eyes opened but that was not her.

The one thing you did tell her, you told her over and over again. Quietly and firmly and honestly, the way you told her when you told her she had to leave that place, she had to eat something. She listens to you when it really matters because even though you’re an asshole you won’t make asshole decisions on her part. That’s why you have her Power of Attorney. You make the decision for her.

“Come back,” you tell her. “You have to come back.”

You still feel not much. Instead of feeling you just do things: you eat because you should, you pace because you can’t stop pacing. OR staff are sympathetic and kind to you in a way that makes you wonder. A wonder that leads to the terror that you won’t feel until you have to, if you have to.

But you are lucky. A surgeon comes out, and then another surgeon–every time you talk to someone it’s someone else, you never remember names though you remember everything they say, your memory has become elastic and powerful and hungry–and you can feel the teeth of the terror snapping behind your heel. You know already you have vanquished it. You know it will not take her. She heard you, she didn’t hear you, either way she listened. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The both of you, you’re free of it. You got away.

He is already slightly famous but arguably could be much more famous if more people watched this video.

Basically I would like to be in a position where I need to refute claims that Mallow is making me a seven-figure income.

More proof:

mal1 mal4mal3

It is hard, writing about writing when writing is 1) something you are still basically a novice at, and therefore probably not someone who should be looked to for anything akin to Writing Advice, and 2) mostly a long-played exercise in learning how to accept rejection.

I do not resent my rejection letters, because so many of them have been helpful. They point me towards what I need to be in order to not get rejections anymore, or at least to get fewer of them. I need to take greater risks using fewer words; I need to love my characters more; I need to cut deeper and with a surgeon’s eye instead of stabbing blindly in hopes I nick a vein. Useful stuff, and I do think I will get there. It’s just such a long slog, and I’ve no map, and I hate not knowing timelines.

It is easy to get mired in the slog. There’s never been any giving-up thoughts because that is impossible: for someone who writes out of my impulse, not from joy or love of the craft but a need to release pressure from a creative valve, the alternative is self-destruction, so I can’t really give up. But it’s easy to spend my writing time staring at Scientific American blog posts and pictures of puppies I might someday name and teach to do tricks and to worry bout my bank account. It’s easy to spend more time just laying in bed. Ten more minutes. Normal people don’t push themselves this hard. Wouldn’t it be nice to be normal?

November was particularly hard. Events conspired to suck simultaneously. I wished I was a badger, living by myself in a hole in the ground where no people or bad luck could find me. I didn’t write and I didn’t care.

My husband brought me to the desert. I’ve been to many deserts but this was Death Valley and unlike any desert I’ve been in before. Most deserts are alive and busy and full. This one was not. It was empty of everything save wind and salt and distant cliffs. It was desolate. There weren’t even many other tourists, so we had the whole damn empty nothingness to ourselves.

I loved it there. It felt so right.

I don’t know what it was about the particular quality of emptiness that filled me back up, but it was what I wanted. Laying out in the middle of nowhere under the blinding moon, looking at more stars than, literally, I have ever seen at once in my life, I was possessed by a spirit of stillness and possibility. It made me think about writing and why I do it. It made me think about how big things are and how good that makes me feel.

This desert lacks water, sustenance, shelter, life. It doesn’t need those things. That’s not what it is for. It’s for passing through. You would be a fool to try to change the place. Just shut up and look at all those fucking stars.

I did manage to carry this back into the real world—always the test of vacation epiphanies—as well as through some challenges and one near-tragedy that is not quite finished playing itself out. Seeing all that intentional, unavoidable emptiness gave me some sort of ballsy determination that’s a new, growing part of my personality. It surprises me. I like it. It’s useful.

I turned thirty-one in the desert. Most places you love—and I deeply loved Death Valley—you leave already planning your return, but do I need to go back? I don’t know. I don’t think so. The magic worked but I think it probably only works once.

Everyone else should go, though. Go to the desert. There’s some wonderful shit out there.


Wells Tower wrote a piece for GQ on elephant hunting that is conflicted, honest, messy and great.

It’s somewhat rare to find a piece about the life and death of animals that is neither Just The Facts nor a Message. I read both of those kinds of writing with some frequency, but they never feel quite right, because my own experience seems so much more complicated. There are more than two ways to feel.

I am extremely late to this party–the article is from at least a month ago, if not two–but I couldn’t find a browser that would let me open it. That’s what I get for trying to do this at work.

The simplest and most-repeated piece of writing advice is to just write. This seems stupid, unless you’ve done some writing and have learned for yourself how easy it is to find alternatives to writing: research, building a social media platform (=trolling Facebook), “research,” rejiggering your website, editing, editing again, refreshing your inbox for submission confirmations/those edits your friend said they’d send today/the ever-anticipated not-rejection email that will never come. As often as I already hear the adage, I could probably stand to hear it again. And again. Daily. Writers write. Maybe they also obsess over Feed.ly but probably they don’t do it during their writing time. Or if they do, they feel bad about it.

I’ve heard this saying expanded by intelligent and successful writers: write, and keep writing, because the people who give up obviously never make it. It’s a good motivator, if a somewhat depressing one, because a lot of people who don’t give up must also never make it, right? Wait, is it better if I just give up now?

Still, what’s the alternative? So I keep writing.

This is a hard-enough proposition. Like many people with my interests (read: nerds), I’m prone to melancholy, so staying positive is not my first reaction when the friendly rejections with editor notes and the you-made-it-through-the-slush-pile-but-still-nope emails start to lose their novelty. But it’s okay. Karen Joy Fowler told me it took her something like eight years to get a story published. Connie Willis said it took her that long too. I’ve only been writing for half that time, and I doubt I’m starting with raw materials of the same quality, so: shut up and keep writing.

This post is actually about my dog. Thought I’d warn you now.

Making your first sale is a slow and painful and, often, long process, and to keep me afloat through this I’ve been focusing on short-term wins in a place where it’s a lot easier to judge them, because the wins come with ribbons.

My dog is an agility dog. She is my first dog, and she is not an easy dog. This isn’t unexpected, though, and I love the work with her more than anything I’ve ever done, so I’m mostly happy to do it. We started trialing in agility this spring and saw success right away: our first run came with a blue ribbon and a Q (which is another ribbon, green, and a point toward a Novice Agility title, for which you need three Qs—then it’s three more Qs to the Open title, and so on). I was thrilled, Vesper had fun, we both got lots of compliments, and I signed us up for all of the trials. All of them.

Things started to go downhill pretty fast.

I don’t just want to play this game with my dog. I want to play this game well. Vesper has a lot of natural ability and I have high ambitions. I don’t think we’ll ever be World Team material, but we could qualify for national-level competitions someday. This means that, even though I am a novice trainer, I can’t fuck around in training. The last thing I want to do is ignore problems because her performance is good enough, because it will rapidly stop being good enough as the courses get more challenging. Small problems now become big problems later. And our problems aren’t small.

My dog, who is genius in practice, becomes an asshole in the agility ring. It’s not her fault: it is stressful, and she is still one-quarter puppy, and she was not initially all that interested in doing what I want. Her focus on me is hard-won and not always complete, to say the least. After our first few trials she started running out of the ring halfway through the course; a few trials later she started running around–and eventually out of–the ring before even starting the course. And then she pooped between the weave poles and the double-bar jump on a course where she’d already run away from me three times, and I carried her out of the ring and put her in the car and cried, because relationship problems don’t really get much more obvious than your dog running away from you a bunch and then taking a dump in front of the judge.

I thought this was our setback. Vesper and I have relationship problems, and the problem is that our relationship isn’t rewarding enough for her to listen to me when things get intense. I stepped back and talked with a lot of people smarter and more experience than me and made a plan. Maybe we would be trialing again in a month, or six weeks, after we’d done the work we needed to do to succeed. That seemed like forever.

Then a couple of weeks ago my dog woke me up in the middle of the night. At first I thought she was just itchy and bored, but when I got up to take her out she wouldn’t put any weight on her left foreleg. She was lame. My heart stopped; the way she held it palsied to her chest and the way her neck was spasming, and the whites around the edges of her eyes—could it be neurological? Christ, was she about to go into seizure? I could feel her heart racing behind her ribs, always too fast even when she’s sleeping, but now it seemed ready to burst.

The emergency vet was not nearly as concerned as I was. I got home at a quarter to five with a doped-up dog and some pain medications. I held her in bed with me and listened to her whine quietly until my alarm went off an hour and a half later.

Several vet appointments later and there’s still no formal diagnosis, partially because I don’t have money for advanced testing and partially because it doesn’t really matter. It’s some kind of soft-tissue damage in her shoulder, and no matter what kind of damage it is all the recovery starts at the same place: a month of crate rest. She’s not even allowed to hop off the couch without help. Then rehab, and slowly building her shoulder strength back up. Jumping, which I have read puts something like six times the dog’s weight in impact on the shoulder joint, is not something we will be doing for at least six weeks. If not more. And even then, we will jump eight inches. Vesper’s competition jump height is twenty-four. We have to build back to that height. It will take an indeterminate amount of time.

My one-month break from trialing has become a one-month break from everything, including walking. Agility training, even foundations puppy stuff, even basic relationship games like tug—these things are all dangerous as hell if I want my dog to play this agility game for a long and healthy lifetime.

I gave myself a patience pep-talk when I pulled V from competition last month. It was going to be fine; it’s not really that long, and the benefit long-term will be worth it. Now I just want to play with my dog, who is so heavily sedated she has trouble picking her feet up enough to clear the front doorsill.

The writing rejections keep coming. It’s alright, it’s okay. I’m not the first writer to stumble down this path, and if it wasn’t long and exhausting would I want the company at the end anyway? Yes, the path itself is often rewarding, but would I keep going if I didn’t think there was something else ahead?

When I’m frustrated with writing I work with my dog, and when I want to choke my dog to death with my own bare hands I lock myself in my writing room. When neither of these things can give back at the moment what do I do?

No real conclusion to this one. I’ve found a little consolation not in full stories and submissions, but in five-minute plot outlines for things I will never write. Instead of teaching my dog a blind cross, we are back to doing nose-targeting. I’m writing characters and leaving them on slips of paper in forgetful places. I’m clipping my dog’s nails and wiping the gunk from her eyes, because the drugs she’s on muddle her sight.

At some point, I started doing these things for the love of them. While it’s small satisfaction now, it’s what I have, and I’m just going to have to take it.