Action is more interesting than inaction.

I have a strained tendon in my right-hand ring finger, and I am trying to give it a chance to recover, "a chance" being to my mind a week or ten days, though I suspect a doctor would suggest more. Peter had this injury back in the spring and it took about three months to heal, but he's like me.

( A failed 5.11, falling, and fear. )

I go to Golden Gardens Park a lot. It's a little more than a two-mile walk, and getting from here to there is nearly as interesting as the park itself. I pass an out-of-business marine consignment shop; a pole-shed with a giant sign: HAUL-OUTS HALF PRICE! and a yard filled with boats; several of the sorts of waterfront restaurants where people with sunburnt noses stop for drinks on a Saturday afternoon lateish; and a large marina, where those people either keep their boats (if they have them) or wish they did.

There's some trees and a bit of salt marsh, but Golden Gardens is mostly a beach: a sandy part facing west toward the Olympics across the Sound, a rocky strand facing the San Juan Islands, out of sight to the north. I was walking barefoot, because that's what beaches are for, even when they're so cold that I am wearing sweaters and scarves and gloves, bundled to the ankles. The waves poured over my feet, very clear, and stripped back the sand from the beach's rocks as I watched. A jet came in high, from the south, and performed that wing-stand that looks so lazy from the ground but from inside feels just a degree from slipping sideways to the ground in a stall; and straightened, facing south now and lower. I picked up a rounded stone that when wet was the color of saffron with a white-quartz streak running through it; I know from experience that when it dries it will be dun-colored and not worth the keeping, but I kept it anyway. I was listening to Michael Bublé and alternating between weltschmerz and happiness depending on the track.

One man on the beach had two dogs, two rangy, ruddy sisters with long whip tails and happy expressions. One of the girls was missing a front leg. She moved fairly easily with that engaging hop that three-legged dogs have, but of course her sister ran circles around her. Her dad was carrying a rubber toy shaped like a ball with feet and a little dragon tail. He cranked up to throw it and the three-legged girl sat back in her haunches, ready for the chase, but I had to wonder how this would work out. I didn't imagine she could run as far as he could probably throw it, a big strong-armed guy like him; and the other dog would outpace her in no time. Where would the fun be in that?

And then he threw, with all his strength -- straight up. We all watched the ball, its ridiculous little feet and tail, as it rose thirty feet against the red sky. When it landed, the three-legged girl tore the six feet over to it and caught it on the second bounce, her sister spinning as she danced beside them.

To Stone Gardens this morning with Peter. All top rope, mostly not very good on my part.

Back in the day, I was a better climber than Peter. Lately, though, I've been dogged with injuries -- the sprained ankle in June and now an injured finger -- and he's been pushing himself hard, and as a result he's climbing considerably better than I am. This is occasionally a bitter pill to swallow.

It's connected to a fundamental question I am asking about myself these days. Since March of 2006 I have been driven to climb, and driven by climbing. Climbing has defined me, more than my relationships or job or home or even writing. But I don't know any more. I lost some passion toward the beginning of the year: I had a bouldering fall in the gym which scared me for some reason, and then a bouldering fall outside which scared me a whole lot more. And then the sprained ankle. Over the same period, I've been unemployed, writing a bunch, teaching over the summer, up for some awards, traveling some. These have been pretty important, maybe (I whisper) more than the climbing.

I have thought the unthinkable thought: What if I stop climbing so hard? Who am I if I stop being the woman who climbs V-4s, who throws her heart at the wall, even through chronic pain, the knowledge that I will pay for this for the rest of my life? I always knew there was an expiration date to my climbing, but I assumed I would be stopped by injury, some catastrophic failure of a body that did not spend its youth becoming strong. I did not consider that it might be voluntary. And what if I do not stop climbing, but just climb softer: easier routes, more breaks, for fun? Can it even be fun for me to do so?

What is climbing if I do not throw my heart at it? And who am I if I do not do so? I am not willing to answer either of these questions yet, and I am glad I do not need to. For now, I will wait impatiently for my finger to heal, and I will pine to be climbing again as well as Peter. And hope my heart is still strong, whatever is next.

gwyndolin has been staying with me since she came up from San Jose on the train Tuesday. Fun has included but not been limited to climbing(!), Pike Place Market, a lot of baking, and less writing than either of us expected. Tonight being her last night in Seattle, we went over to La Casa jeanineers and woadwarrior to spend time with corwynofamber, Vicky, cupcake_goth, and stroppy_baggage. corwynofamber gave me a doll-house bathtub full of tiny rubber (flying) monkeys (and one ape), which makes him A+++++; and jeanineers loaned a Che Guevara hat and sunglasses that fit the WFA bust of Lovecraft. gwyndolin has uploaded pictures.

And now a public service announcement: I am seeing someone!

I enjoyed the World Fantasy Con this year more than any con I have ever attended -- ever -- and not just because I won an award and all like that. I met some wonderful new friends, and reconnected with people I have taught or worked with or been friends with or all three. There's never time at a con to see everyone for long enough, but that was okay. I was just so happy to see everyone I could. Oh, and the hotel was luscious, and San Jose was beautiful, and my friends arian1 and harunoame live there. And I read "Spar" to a roomful of people, and that was totally exhilarating and terrifying. And I dressed up a bunch.

Back on Wednesday, arian1 and I went to the Sunnyvale gym, Planet Granite, and bouldered for a while. It's a big place, with high ceilings and a pretty good bouldering area, though practically no vertical walls there, and no slab at all; really nice staff. I'm always awkward and self-conscious in new gyms and I'd pulled something in one of my fingers last week, so I wasn't expecting much from myself -- which was about what I got, bailing off the penultimate holds of a bunch of easy things because I was nervous about the final moves. I did some nice work on a balance-y V-3, but couldn't figure out my way past what I think was the crux, though it's sometimes hard to tell what the setter thinks the crux is. It may have been the sequence at the beginning.

I went back Sunday morning with Ari, Amanda Downum, and John Remy (geneticblend), because I was still hungry to climb, and it seemed like a good way to keep from stressing out about the awards. It was so much fun, so much better. I love watching people argue with gravity. I wasn't as physically strong as I had been on Wednesday (a result of three days of unbridled bourbon consumption and 4,291 chocolate croissants from the bakery across the street from the hotel), but my technique came back and a bunch of the fear went away.

I glided up a bunch of easier routes, V-1s and a couple V-2s, and then onsighted a new V-3, a very technical problem. I never did finish the V-3 I had started on Wednesday (though I tried a lot), but I worked through the crux of yet another V-3, a really interesting shift from a sloper using a modified heel-hook, up and out laterally about five feet onto a crimp. I hadn't planned for getting past that move, so I ended up jumping down after a minute or so of feeling around with my toe under a bulge for the next foothold, there being no one watching to clue me in. It would have been great to finish it, but it was a perfect move even without that; and like all perfect moves, it clings to my muscles like the memory of a good kiss.

Yesterday, "26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss" won the World Fantasy Award for short story. I nearly passed out, but managed not to. I am, as you might expect, thrilled. I'm currently at the SJ airport, but I'll write more when I get home.

Having completed my packing for San Jose, I found myself with a couple of hours to kill, so I walked across the street to Stone Gardens. I ran into Emma there -- a leggy strawberry blonde almost exactly half my age. She was hit by a truck a couple of years ago, and since then she has been in and out of surgery and casts at a dizzying rate. At the moment she's in a walking cast and has her doctor's permission to climb in it. She can't rely on her left foot, so she climbs a lot of overhangs where it's all about upper-body strength, and does a lot of knee-jams.

So Emma and I climbed together for an hour and a half. She climbs hard for someone in a cast, V-2s and V-3s. I was working to keep up with her. A ton of V-2s, mostly traverses; but also work on a lovely V-3 that requires gastoning the sides of an arch, inching farther out under it until I can reach up over the side and grab something (that's the plan, anyway) -- though I didn't finish it tonight. It'll be here when I get back, I reckon. --And a bunch of very careful stemming that made me feel like moss easing up a wall.

Peter's my usual climbing partner -- 6'2" or taller maybe, very strong and growing stronger pretty much by the week. I've been the better climber for most of our time together, but this spring I had a couple of confidence busters -- some scary outdoor bouldering, and then spraining my ankle on a dyno indoors (Memo to self: No more dynos, but that's what I said last time, too), and he's surpassed me. I wasn't competitive (or not very), but I was so used to the way things were that the change -- Peter flashing V-4s, and me struggling up V-1s -- left me even more uncentered. But the climbing was there before Peter and independent of Peter, and climbing with Emma reminds me of this.

It was a good day climbing, but they mostly are.

I try not to keep clothes I don't wear, but vintage evening dress is my downfall, alas. I just spent an absorbing half-hour at the back of my closet, looking for a jacket for World Fantasy, which I did not find. However, I did find three early '60s velveteen evening swing coats in black, emerald green, and fuschia, with black gloves the correct length for their three quarter–length sleeves; many many other kid or glazed-leather gloves, mostly in black and ivory, though also chartreuse, forest green, and chocolate brown; '60s purses for evening, in silver, gold, champagne, black, navy, and white; and the dresses and shoes that justify all these accessories. I'm glad the holidays are coming.

And because pretty vintage clothes deserve pretty vintage (flavored) music: Michael Bublé's "Everything."

I was coming back from the coffeehouse -- crowded and the talk all about a big fire just around the corner early this morning, four restaurants "burned to the ground," everyone said, but the street was still closed so no telling, really; no major injuries and the cats at the cat-rescue storefront were all saved, so this becomes "oh my gosh!" news to everyone who didn't lose their homes at 5am; and the rest of us return to our own intact spaces and look at our things, our little disorganized kitchens, our unmade beds and our socks in the basket, and we feel grateful and smug and guilty -- and on a whim I drove down to Golden Gardens.

The sun is an unexpected, sudden thing in October. It was bright at the beach, though two miles south there was rain and clouds scudding so low that I couldn't see the hill beyond the entrance to the ship canal. The Sound was thick with sailboats, big ones because the wind was too strong for anything small. A kite-surfer sliced through them, quick as a gull, his green and brown kite almost lost in the flying spray. Where I walked barefoot, bright gold maple leaves were half buried in the sand. The air was white with salt and spray and sand, but still, the iron-gray sky to the south, and overhead, hard-driven white clouds and patches of shocking blue. I saw my shadow and my newly cut hair had ruffled up like a bird's feathers.

Next week, I'll be in San Jose for the World Fantasy Convention, with a couple of days before that with arian1 and harunoame. I'll do a reading at the con, Saturday 10/31, at 10:30am. I'll probably read "Spar" from Clarkesworld -- which is not safe for work, if you were planning on clicking the link.

Kij Johnson reading
7pm
Saturday, October 17th
Wayward Coffeehouse
8570 Greenwood Ave N, Seattle WA

I'll be reading new work at the Wayward Coffeehouse, Seattle's science-fiction coffee shop.

Spread the news! I'll be giving away several copies of my novels.

If you feel I never post any more, I do more regularly mention ephemera over on facebook. However, that is not a substitute, and I will be getting back to longer, more thoughtful posts here as I start work on the next project. And news, of course!

Saturday is the inaugural night of the Wayward Coffeehouse's new monthly “Sci-Fi/Fantasy Author Reading Series” featuring local authors reading excerpts from their works. Meet the authors, get books signed, talk about writing, and enjoy stories read by the authors themselves.

This Saturday it'll be Kij Johnson (that would be me), Lancer Kind, and Tim McDaniel.

I'm a Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy-award nominated author whose stories have been published in Analog, Asimov’s, and a number of Best of anthologies. My books include Fudoki and The Fox Woman. I'll be reading a new flash and "26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss," which was a finalist for this year's Nebula and Hugo awards.
www.kijjohnson.com

Lancer Kind received honorable mention in the Writers of the Future contest. He is an award-winning short-story author who also writes novels and publishes comic books.
www.lancerkind.com

Tim McDaniel is the author of the “Lonesome Planet Travelers Advisory” which offers advice to aliens visiting Earth. His stories have appeared in Asimov’s, F&SF, and multiple anthologies.
web.mac.com/timmcdaniel1


SATURDAY, May 16
READING: Sci-Fi/Fantasy Author Reading Series
8 pm - 10 pm, free
Kij Johnson, Lancer Kind, Tim McDaniel


Wayward Coffeehouse, it's better than a plan
8570 Greenwood Ave N, Seattle WA 98103
www.waywardcoffee.com

The Wayward Coffeehouse is a science-fiction coffeehouse in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle. Starting at 8 this Saturday, I'll be reading with SF writers Lancer Kind (http://lancerkind.com) and Tim McDaniel. The Wayward's going to be trying to make this a monthly thing, so come offer moral support!

Monkeys didn't take the trick, alas. On the other hand, I've been nominated for the Nebs twice now, and for World Fantasy twice, and then there's this year's Hugo nom. It would be nice to win one of them, but I can't complain -- well, not and be taken seriously, even by myself.

She gave me this splendid userpic.

After seventeen years, you formalize what we all have always known, that you are made for one another.

The Nebula Awards Showcase 2009 is out, and "The Evolution of Trickster Stories Among the Dogs of North Park After the Change" is in it. Powell's Books has it, or check your local bookstore.

I have been writing, but it's the second week running of appointments, other peoples's catastrophes and eucatastrophes, deadlines, and weird health glitches. I feel as though I have all sorts of trouble focusing on anything lately, but work gets done, a lot of it. But not enough!

I ended up cutting 3K words out of the first 14K, and am as finished with that section as I can be until I finish this draft. Tomorrow I head into a sequence that I have majorly rewritten twice in the last six months, which you would think would mean it's in good shape, except that you would be wrong.

It was so breathtaking a day that after working for a while, I took bread and cheese and tea and Daniel Defoe to the Locks, where I sat under a barely-budded tree and watched a little white dog toil up and race down the terraces. I rediscover Defoe every year or so, and am always blown away, again, by his writing. It's A Journal of the Plague Year right now, again, and it's still just magnificent.

Interesting statement in the Penguin edition's introduction by Anthony Burgess:

When post-Wellsian science fiction presents its collective horrors -- either in words or on film -- Defoe is somewhere in the background. Robinson Crusoe and the Journal are the prototypes of all imaginative works that show man, individually and collectively, facing the horrible and unexpected.

These and Moll Flanders -- Defoe is so much of what I love in writing -- his vivid pragmatic characters, the way he builds his stories from incidents instead of arcs, his clean prose. And then it turns out, on top of it all, he was a spy? He's my new dead BF.

Diane Severson gives the story a charming reading here.

It's strange and wonderful to hear someone else's voice reading something I created.

Cat is cute, happy and healthy and eating everything I put down in front of her.

Fridge is full of manchego cheese and fresh anchovies -- not a meal to eat inside, or with anyone you don't know extremely well, or maybe anyone at all. I hope tomorrow is nice enough to deserve a picnic like that.

Lots of thinking about the next set of scenes to be rewritten, and I am looking forward to them. Still more cutting! I am admitting to myself that there's going to be yet another pass after this one.

Computer is having some problems. I took it in to the Genius Bar today where they fiddled with some stuff, and if it's still giving trouble next week I'll take it back in. The guy who was helping me is a classical clarinetist and his hand can span a twelfth on the piano. He told me about writing Top 40 radio-station jingles, and I told him about climbing. People are fascinating.

Absolute paydirt at Goodwill: half a dozen new heavyweight silk shawls and scarves, for $1.29 each. And a Ballard tee. I've been wearing a lot of that brown that is almost black lately, and I managed to find a J. Jill jacket in that color.

Neck is getting better. Tomorrow I'll go for a long walk and/or climb, and do a bunch of stretching.

I brought in the hammie girl's cage from the car where I left it after taking her to the vet: everything still in it, water still in her bottle. I'm not sad about her but remembering her with affection, and thinking of all the ways and people and things we love in a lifetime.