A new column over at Tor.com:
Elizabeth Bear’s “The Heart’s Filthy Lesson” is another truly excellent story, originally published in the anthology Old Venus, and now available online at Lightspeed.
Sonya Taaffe has a brilliant story in the most recent installment of Ideomancer, “ζῆ καὶ βασιλεύει.” Absolutely magnificent.
Arkady Martine has an excellent story in Strange Horizons, “City of Salt.”
Beth Bernobich is Kickstarting a novelette, Nocturnall.
Foz Meadows has an amazing essay on GIFsets and the changing face of criticism.
Speaking of Foz, she encouraged me into watching the first season of The 100, out of which – among other things – came this exchange. Which amused me.
The Washington Post has an article on an early medieval Viking female burial that included a ring with “For Allah” inscribed on it in Kufic script.
I binge-watched all four seasons of Legend of Korra and should probably stop looking at art of Korra and/or Asami like these prints at some point. (But not yet.)
I want to go to this production of the Bakkhai. It is unlikely I will be able to afford it, especially since it is in London. But NEW ANNE CARSON TRANSLATION.
My brain is slowly growing back into something akin to the ability to focus. I can read books this week. It is a welcome development.
Aliette de Bodard’s short story at Subterranean Press, “The Days of War, as Red as Blood, as Dark as Bile,” is marvellously bitter and affecting.
While at Clarkesworld, Seth Dickinson’s “Morrigan in the Sunglare” makes an interesting counterpoint. Both are stories about war and loss, but they approach their subjects from widely divergent angles.
They’re both pretty good, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.
Libba Bray has a long essay on depression, “Miles and Miles of No-Man’s Land”:
Depression is hard to understand, because it is not a consistent state. Depression is rather like a virus, but like a virus, it has its manageable days and its acute, life-threatening flare-ups. You can be in a depression and still laugh at a friend’s joke or have a good night at dinner or manage low-level functioning. You grocery shop and stop to pet a puppy on the corner, talk to friends in a café, maybe write something you don’t hate. When this happens, you might examine your day for clues like reading tea leaves in a cup: Was it the egg for breakfast that made the difference? The three-mile run? You think, well, maybe this thing has moved on now. And you make no sudden moves for fear of attracting its abusive attention again.
But other times…
Other times, it’s as if a hole is opening inside you, wider and wider, pressing against your lungs, pushing your internal organs into unnatural places, and you cannot draw a true breath. You are breaking inside, slowly, and everything that keeps you tethered to your life, all of your normal responses, is being sucked through the hole like an airlock emptying into space. These are the times Holly Golightly called the Mean Reds.
I call it White Knuckling it.
When it’s White Knuckle Time, you will have to remind yourself to stand in the middle of the subway platform, well away from the edge.
Yep. That’s a thing. That’s a thing that’s happened to me.
Mary Beard talks about women’s voices.
Sarah Rees Brennan writes trenchant critique of the ways women are judged for writing fanfiction.
And here is a discussion on the popularity, or lack thereof, of lesbian romance.