#because I’ve had no more luck with ebooks so I know it doesn’t have to do with being on my phone

[isa-renee]

why is it that I haven’t finished a book in months but I can read 140k words of fanfic in a morning

#yes it was the destiel hockey player au I would recommend #literally I don’t know why this keeps happening #there’s just something about ao3s formatting I think #like it just works #because I’ve had no more luck with ebooks so I know it doesn’t have to do with being on my phone #anyways! #actually wait now that I think about it #other than that time I did that 5 books in a week challenge #the only other book books I read this fast were when I reread the mortal instruments #and those books have a p large font size #is this just because of my shit eyesight?? #is that why I don’t read anymore??? #much to think about #ehh who knows #maybe I’ll pick up an actual book later #but first! grocery shopping! #and then I shall make a lasagna

[lokilickedme]

Writing Update, 9/20

The new longfic I mentioned back in July is almost ready to start.  I’d like to finish The Variant before it begins, so the projected 10 chapters I had mapped out for that may end up condensed a bit in favor of a quicker wrap up.  I don’t have the emotional spoons to sustain a deep trauma angst-fic for very long right now, so Loki 77 is going to have to perk up soon or hit the road lol (I’m kidding, I love him, he’ll get every bit of the justice he deserves and I won’t rush him to it I promise).

I Stop The World (And Melt With You) will begin as soon as The Variant ends unless something happens that makes me have to put The Variant on hiatus.  I’ll try not to let that happen, but this is a strange time of year for me, and until the Bootleg Christmas season kicks in to give me something else to get obsessed about I might be weird.  Sorry about that.  And yes that’s a working title, its not set in stone, though it’ll probably stick.  We can refer to it as Melt, I guess.  There’s a lot here for both Hiddleston and Hozier fans, and you don’t have to like both to get what you want out of this one.  But if you do like both, you’re in luck :)

Shrine of Your Lies will end soon, there’s a chapter coming in a few days if not sooner.  My Hozier people will love this one.  The Unnamed woke up.

I’ve delayed starting on the paperback/ebook manuscript for The Department until October.  The editing should go quickly because I can’t think of anything I want to change in the story, with the exception of adding some scenes and an epilogue.  I’d hoped to include The Money Shot as a novella after the main story, but I doubt that one will be finished soon enough for TD’s publication.

The special edition of Jack Montague might be ready by christmas, but don’t quote me on that.  At all.  Please lol

The Empty Arms Hotel is going to get real weird real fast, so if you’re reading that, get ready.  Of all my fics this one is the one I’d call a throwaway, mainly because I’m writing it strictly as a place to blow off some steam and dance gleefully naked around a bonfire with both fingers up and a smileyface painted on my ass because it’s the one fic where I CAN and by god I need to.  Nobody has any expectations for it, which is what I wanted.  But of all my current fics, it’s the one with ultimately the most profound under-arc and conclusion...neither of which you’ll see until the final few words.

I love doing that.  Hiddleston and/or Hozier fans are about to get squicked to hell and back, btw.

I don’t know when I’ll work on The Money Shot again.  Soon, I hope.  I screwed Hiddleston, what more is there to do?  ;P  Oh yeah, I gotta seduce Hoz.  Guess I better get busy on that before he freezes to death.

I keep forgetting to finish Aingeal Ard.  King doesn’t want to be bothered, but I’m about to go shake him a little and see how loud he growls.

My 10-day writing rush starts October 1.  Feel free to submit requests for what you’d like to see worked on.  I’ll be doing liveblogs of writing sessions and if anyone wants to ask character/plot/background/headcanon questions please do :)

#writing stuff #Hiddleston fic #Hozier fic #new stuff #old stuff

[katieskarlette]

No book for me (yet) :(

So I tried to be conscientious and get the new Sylvanas book from a brick-and-mortar bookstore instead of giving Jeff Bezos more money.  It was a dumpster fire of fail, and I ended up ordering it from Amazon after all, only now I have to wait until Sunday, April 3rd, to get it.

[Explanation/rambling rant below.]

I remember a small, locally-owned bookstore in a strip mall where I used to order books when I was in elementary school.  You could order and reserve a particular book, no matter how niche and obscure, and they’d call you to let you know when it was ready to pickup.  That was over thirty years ago.  Yet I can’t do the same thing now.  I can order that book online and have it shipped to me, yes.  But apparently my local B.A.M. (Books-a-Million) won’t do what that mom-and-pop store did circa 1988.  You can only reserve a book that they already physically have in stock.  They will not order a book that they wouldn’t normally carry and put it aside for you to pick up in-store.  You have to do it online and have it shipped to your door.  Is that convenient?  Sure, but if I want to save $5+ on shipping by driving less than ten minutes out of my way, and have the experience of walking into a bookstore, browsing other stuff, and then taking the book home, I’m out of luck.

Maybe I’m biased because I work in a public library, where reserving and picking up books--especially hot new releases--is a major part of my job, but it can’t be that complicated for a big store like B.A.M. to set up a system for in-store pickup.  I’m sure they would have some people order and then not pick up, leaving them stuck with an obscure book nobody else wants, but they could solve that easily by requiring customers to pay when ordering.  Then if someone doesn’t pick up the book, the store still gets the money.

So yeah, there was no option to walk into a store a buy a copy of the book, so I was forced to order it online.  I had gift cards from Christmas for both B.A.M. and Amazon, and by also ordering something a family member wanted I could get free shipping from Amazon, so that’s the route I went.  But I’m pissed. 

If I had known that’s what would end up happening, I would have ordered long ago so I could have gotten the book in the mail today.  I had called B.A.M. on Thursday to reserve a copy, but they told me then I couldn’t reserve a book they didn’t have in the store yet.  They didn’t tell me that they hadn’t even ordered the book at all.  They had to have known that, and if they didn’t then their system sucks even more than I thought.  Instead I went blissfully through the last few days, assuming I could just walk in today and grab a copy off the shelf, only to call this morning and learn this.  It’s bullshit.

I already had a bad taste in my mouth giving Blizzard my money right now, and I’m not exactly thrilled with feeling like I have to read a book to (hopefully) understand the trainwreck that is Shadowlands lore (although I’ve bought every Warcraft novel so far, regardless of my current opinion on the plot), but I thought maybe I could ease my conscience a little bit by getting the damn book from a brick-and-mortar store, but no.  There are no locally-owned bookstores in my city anymore (that aren’t exclusively Christian), so I didn’t even have the option to support one, but I figured even a big chain like B.A.M. was better than Bezos’ yacht fund.  And they would have been, if they actually had the book in stock.  WoW is too “niche” for them to bother stocking on their shelves, apparently.  It didn’t used to be. I guess the franchise really has fallen that far.

And no, the consortium of 50+ libraries that includes my place of employment hasn’t ordered a single copy of the book, either, despite having a handful of the previous WoW novels in the system.

Could I download the audiobook version?  Yes, but my brain doesn’t play nicely with audiobooks, and I lose focus very quickly.  Could I download the ebook?  Yes, but I’d still want the hardcover for my collection, so I’d end up paying for it twice.  No thanks.

Arg!  I was so looking forward to binge-reading the book on my day off tomorrow, but nope.  I’m screwed.  I’ll have to dodge spoilers as best I can.  :(

#rambling about wow

[moonaft]

Strangers in Court - Review

Did you know the ebook version of Rosemary and Rue has a new novella? It’s true! Time to see how Toby earned her knighthood.

Spoilers up to A Killing Frost.

It’s pre-pond time, so we get a good look at Toby’s other concerns without the fish trauma.

I hadn’t realized Toby found the new knowe while she was pregnant with Gilly - I thought Gilly came afterwards.

Amandine is once again a bad mother, and it’s sad to see Toby put herself down for being a changeling and ‘thin blooded’ and being ‘unable to be a good mother’. I’m glad she’s moved beyond this in the main series.

And a return to thinking she’s Daoine Sidhe and all that entails. I mean, it’s not a ‘return’ because she doesn’t know she’s Dóchas Sidhe, but we know.

A good look at Devin, too, just as Toby’s planning to leave. He’s just as interested in keeping the other changelings in service to him. Which we knew from Rosemary and Rue, but he’s been dead for so many books that I forget.

And it’s good to see Julie not hating Toby. Is she still alive in the main series? Do we see her again after Late Eclipses? I have no idea.

Interesting that Devin ‘let’ Stacey and Mitch go. Did he know that he wasn’t going to get anything else out of them and let them marry and leave out of some paternal pride? Or was there something else going on? Stacey’s not as suspicious as Marcia, but something’s interesting about that couple.

Wow, Toby’s caught on to what August will eventually see and what Simon already knew - they are pets, not people. And she doesn’t even know about the Dóchas Side, August, or Simon yet.

Wow, if she had known that Shadowed Hills was family, if Sylvester had publicly claimed her as his niece, she never would have gone to Devin.

Pixie swarm! The human station attendants must be so confused.

“I can’t imagine being happy about a life full of blood magic and knives.” It is a damn shame Toby never does introspection about her past choices and thoughts, it would be hilarious.

Bergamot and resin - whose magic is what? It’s not the false Queen’s, that’s ice and rowan. The wiki doesn’t mention it. Maybe the person who first found the old knowe?

Wow, I hadn’t realized they meant the old knowe collapsed like a giant sinkhole.

Hi Tybalt!

Toby running for cover as Tybalt falls into the sinkhole - great image.

So the knowe itself has a magical signature, and that’s the bergamot and resin. Interesting.

Fucking hell, Evening. She’s being crushed by the failing knowe. Did she plan to meet Toby for the first time by doing this? Or was this luck?

Did Devin know that the false Queen wasn’t Gilad’s kid?

Dawn died twenty years ago? But in Night and Silence, Toby said she found the new knowe the same week she found Dawn’s killer. Is she going to solve a 20 year old murder?

Evening never struck me as the type to mourn so much over her pretend sister aka her daughter. Was her mourning deliberate?

Maybe it’s time to bring back my “Dawn is Titania” theory, which merges nicely with the “Marcia is Titania” theory.

If Evening only knew that Dawn was important to her, then she would mourn. Oberon’s proved that one of the Three could stand among the Firstborn and not be recognized. If whatever happened to Dawn caused her to ‘reset’ into Marcia, Evening wouldn’t recognize the result. That would explain why the Luidaeg, who cannot lie but might also have just been mind-whammied by whatever magic’s keeping Titania from being recognized, said Dawn was Evening’s daughter while she was younger than August. Everything from the Patrick/Dianda short stories implies that Dawn is older than August and hasn’t just showed up recently. The mind whammy magic would take care of it.

What’s this about a token for every pureblooded death in the kingdom? First I’ve heard of it from anyone, including Arden and April.

Toby, don’t accept Devin’s condition on leaving. Just do it.

Hi Etienne!

Oh, kid Rayseline is so happy to see Toby. She could have been so happy growing up. Sylvester and Luna are happy to see Toby! Wow, how things have changed.

Toby, you are trading a life debt for Dawn’s memorial orb to try to dowse your way to why the knowe collapsed? So you’ve always tried to do the impossible.

Dowsing to a new knowe, ok. Hi Tybalt!

Tybalt, why are you surprised and/or disappointed that Toby’s willing to die to do this? You know how changelings are treated. You know how you’ve been treating her. This is why she thinks you hate her.

Where did Tybalt disappear off to?

Does Dawn’s memorial glass ball actually have any of her own magic in it?

“The ball could not, as it turned out, deal with sand.”

So who warded the beach? Was it the Luidaeg?

If so, this beach is nowhere near her apartment, and as far as I know, nowhere near Goldengreen. My knowledge of San Francisco geography is spotty at best.

Did Dawn create this knowe as a place to get away from Evening?

It is good to see Stacy and Mitch.

Score another point for ‘Toby wins by talking to the knowe’.

Not that Toby knows it, but I think it’s a bad idea to give a ball of of her magic to Evening Winterrose.

So she definitely didn’t solve Dawn’s murder. Why does she think she did? Did she get mind whammied to think of Dawn that way?

So Sylvester and Evening conspired to get Toby knighted. Did Evening see this as an opportunity? Get close to Toby to better figure out how to kill her?

This answers a lot of questions, but raises so many more.

#october daye #october daye spoilers

[evisionmediasusanfriesen]

Your Guide to SEO Trends 2021

3 of the Latest SEO Tips to Grow Your Website Traffic

The end of each year is a time for reflection, both personally and professionally.

One of the things I start to see in my email inbox and online are expert predictions on 2021 trends around everything from social media marketing to SEO (search engine optimization).

Search engine optimization is the process of attracting organic (free) traffic from the search results in search engines. You want people who are typing keywords relevant to your business into the search engines to see your site right away.

If your business doesn’t appear high-up in the organic results, potential clients won’t even know you exist, and they’ll go to a competitor.

Some of my clients have been wondering if search engine optimization is still relevant. The answer is YES! I know 2020 has been a challenging, stressful year.

Many small business owners have had to cut their budgets and are wondering where to best spend their money going forward.

Customer behaviour changed, too. McKinsey & Company referred to it as the “homebody economy” in their research on consumer behaviour during the pandemic. They defined it as “Most intend to leave home to shop for necessities but maintain low engagement in shared services.”

Here are some of the searches that went up in 2020, according to this infographic:

Toilet paper near me, hand sanitizer near me

Hand washing technique

News mediums (online updates about COVID-19)

However, that doesn’t mean that if you don’t sell toilet paper or write news stories you’re out of luck!

Here’s why optimizing your website with the right keywords and content will be essential going forward:

Consumers who are staying home are seeking out local businesses. People still want to order food, buy clothing, shop for gifts and save on everything from electronics to mattresses.

Search engine optimization is evergreen, while COVID-19 won’t be around forever—even if it feels that way. Good search engine optimization leads to long-term results.

There’s more to search engine optimization than traffic. The purpose of optimizing your site isn’t just to increase your website traffic. It can boost your qualified traffic. That means if someone finds your website using a relevant keyword they’ve typed into the search box, and you serve them valuable content, products or services, they’re more likely to stick around and turn into a lead or sale. Maybe they fill out a form to download an eBook, sign up for your eNewsletter or purchase something from you. You now have a qualified lead or a customer that you can nurture over time.

READ: How Much is Cheap Search Engine Optimization & Website Design Really Costing You?

If you are, step back and really think about it. I know, it can be appealing to see those rock-bottom prices and big promises, but these low-cost solutions can end up costing you so much more in the long run.

In this Tea Time Tip: Marketing For Busy Entrepreneurs, I explain the true costs of “cheap,” “low-cost” and “inexpensive” when it comes to your business website and search engine optimization options.

Read More Here.

3 of the Latest SEO Tips for More Traffic, Leads & Sales

So now that we’ve looked back at 2020, let’s move on to some top SEO trends for 2021.

1.   Voice search will be big.

I’ve shared some voice search optimization tactics in the past. Because people are staying home, they’re increasingly using digital assistants such as Alexa and Google Home to find what they’re looking for—from weather updates to local businesses.

Or, they’re using the voice function in Google search (look for the microphone icon) because they’re driving or their hands are full. For example, I asked Google “Where can I buy a birthday cake?” and got these local results.

The search engines are looking for natural language, so if you want to keep on top of SEO trends for 2021, you’re going to have to brainstorm the types of questions people might ask that include your target keywords.

2.   Local search will dominate.

Optimizing for local search is already incredibly important. But in 2021, you could be left behind by your competitors if you don’t make it a central focus.

There’s so much emphasis on shopping locally, and small business owners need our support more than the big-box retailers! This consumer shift to buying locally is here to stay, so make sure you’re ready to welcome your neighbours by:

Regularly writing and posting new local content like blogs and how-to guides

Getting back links on other local business sites

Making sure you’re listed in Google MyBusiness

Adding a link to your business on Google Maps

All the latest SEO tips I’ve been reading say the same: take the time to review your website and add local keywords, content, links and images and you’ll be better-positioned to attract loyal, local customers.

Tip: In addition to optimizing your website, look for opportunities to list your local business. BC Buy Local makes it easy for consumers to find small businesses online and using the hashtag #BCbuylocal.

3.   Video optimization will be necessary.

Another of the top SEO trends for 2021: video. Video is growing at an amazingly fast rate. YouTube now has more than one billion users. It’s predicted that by 2022, 83% of the world’s internet traffic will be video.

To be successful, marketers need to think beyond YouTube as a “video site” and see it for what it is: the second largest search engine in the world. To be successful on this platform, you need to have compelling content and titles, and optimize your video channel name and description in a user-friendly way.

The same goes for video on your site, too. Ensure your videos are optimized in terms of keywords, size, CTAs (calls-to-action), upload speed, descriptions and closed captioning.

From the role of artificial intelligence (AI) in online searches to optimizing for mobile, there are so many more SEO trends for 2021 than I can cover here!

However, if you work with a professional marketing company and start with these three SEO trends for 2021, you’ll be set up for a more successful year.

To your business success, Susan Friesen

#content marketing #marketing strategy #seo #seo trends #seo 2021

[pynkhues]

linocut anon here. my fingers are fine, but this was definitely the worst ive accidentally stabbed myself while doing a cut! gonna buy some cut proof gloves today. sucks about the publisher doing that. if you dont mind me asking, whats the novella called? id love to read it.

Follow up to this post.

I’m glad your fingers are okay, anon! Cut proof gloves definitely sound like a good idea! My thumb has sort of half-healed at this point? I took the bandage off yesterday and it’s blistered around the cut, so it’s pretty gross, haha. I....probably should’ve gone to hospital instead of fixing it myself because I am 100% sure it needed stitches, but alas. 

And yes! I’m happy to share! Sorry I didn’t earlier – I wanted to wait until the publisher fixed the spelling of my surname, because I get enough confusion about it already (mostly because people think it’s a joke, haha, RIP me).

It’s called Drift and it’s only about 8k words. In it, a young woman is going through a difficult time, having just been made redundant at her job and hitting a rough patch with her boyfriend who’s overseas on a trip they were supposed to be going on together before she lost her job, but then she discovers that her new housemate can levitate and becomes obsessed with learning how to do it herself at the detriment of everything else in her life. 

It’s basically an extended metaphor for procrastination, haha. 

You can buy it as an ebook for $3 here if you’re interested. I’ve put the first scene behind a cut though in case you want to read that first!

-

So they pour another drink, something sweeter this time, blush pink and syrupy that’ll sit thick on their teeth by morning. Hest grimaces at the taste before leaning over to try and swap it for Annie’s beer. It’s no good though – even dead asleep, Annie’s grip is tight.

“I kind of like it,” the New Girl says, snapping her lips and wiping the dust from the shoulders of the bottle. They’d found it somewhere under Hest’s bed, in a forgotten pile of crusty knickers, ripped off dress tags and sun-bleached receipts. She can’t remember where she got it from, or even when, which probably isn’t the best sign. She hasn’t drunk this sort of thing since high school.  

“I feel like I’m drinking some Alice potion shit, y’know?” New Girl continues. “Like it’s about to go all Wonderland up in here.”

“The potion doesn’t take Alice to Wonderland,” Hest replies, sighing when Annie yawns and rolls over, taking the beer with her and spilling it all over their ugly carpet in the process. “It makes her tiny, and then she almost drowns in her own tears.”

The New Girl seems to consider this, turning the thought over in her thoughtful head. Not that Hest knows if she’s thoughtful. Not yet anyway. She only moved in two days ago, and Hest and Annie’s luck with social-media-tree flatmates hasn’t exactly been great. At least New Girl had paid two weeks in advance and didn’t give off a totally drug fucked vibe.

“Do you watch anime?”

Not totally drug fucked vibe.

Hest squints in New Girl’s general direction.

“What?”

“Anime. Sailor Moon, Pokemon, Dragonball. Those Japanese cartoons.”

At Hest’s look, New Girl continues.

“There’s a subgenre of it, right? It’s called Magical Girl, and it’s like, transformative, you know? It’s school girls who are usually total wet blankets, and have like, nerd friends and they’ll find a wand or an eyelash curler or a magical moon cup, and as soon as they use it, they become this amazing warrior princess, destined to save the universe.”

A car drives past the window, briefly lighting up the room, casting an eerie glow across the two of them, and it almost makes Hest want to snuff the candles. To let all this light swallow her whole right before the darkness does. Or, well. Maybe not. Maybe she’s just trying to play at romantic. Make this dimness a choice, instead of a fact of not being able to pay an electricity bill. Her eyes slip shut. She rubs briefly, furiously, at the bridge of her nose.

“Point?”

It takes New Girl a minute to respond, and it’s enough for Hest to finish her sugar piss champers and pour herself another. Annie’s snoring now, softly, the sound more of a hoarse, humming breath than anything, and Hest has to resist the urge to shove her awake. This whole thing had been Annie’s idea anyway, a night to welcome New Girl into the fold, to try and curb some of the issues they’d had with the last flatmate, who always bitched that Annie and Hest left her out, which, to be fair, they did. Often deliberately.

She was really annoying.

“I don’t know,” New Girl says with a laugh, shrugging. She scrunches up her nose, holds the bottle up. “This kind of feels like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a magic girl thing.”

Hest snorts.

“What?”

“What?”

New Girl squints, mirroring the look Hest had given her not two minutes earlier.

“You made a noise.”

New Girl’s tone is sharp, and it’s enough to surprise Hest. Even after just two days of knowing her, it doesn’t seem like her. New Girl, with her ratty, faded pink bob, and enormous doe eyes and boyish form has seemed sort of effortlessly chill and effortlessly cool and also neurotic and high strung, but in a sort of chill, cool way. Like Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind had had a baby with Steve Buscemi in Ghost World and it kind of, somehow, ended up looking like every character Zoe Kazan has ever played in a movie.  

“Magic girl thing,” Hest supplies, waving out an aimless hand. “You sound like you walked out of a teenager’s tumblr blog.”

“Saying tumblr blog just shows your age,” New Girl says. “It’s just tumblr.”

“Funny, I thought actually knowing the plot of Alice in Wonderland showed it more.”

New Girl rolls her eyes at that, and at least it’s enough to make Hest laugh.

“Whatever,” New Girl says. “You’re not even that old. Like - - whatever. All I’m saying is, like. Magic, y’know?”

Hest laughs, quip ready on her tongue, only there’s New Girl, sitting, somehow, a foot off the floor, her legs stretched out in the open air, her hair floating, impossibly, around her head.

“Magic,” one of them repeats, Hest isn’t sure who.

#my writing #writing #welcome to my ama #rl #the cover still makes me upset haha #especially because that shade of green was my school uniform colour for a while #Anonymous

[agrassinthebeginning]

They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

On September 5, a little after midnight, Death-Cast calls Mateo Torrez and Rufus Emeterio to give them some bad news: They’re going to die today. Mateo and Rufus are total strangers, but, for different reasons, they’re both looking to make a new friend on their End Day. The good news: There’s an app for that. It’s called the Last Friend, and through it, Rufus and Mateo are about to meet up for one last great adventure—to live a lifetime in a single day.

From Adam Silvera's official website Skip to the end of this post for the trigger warnings.

After reading my last book over the course of three days I was kinda worried the next pick would be tough. I considered the books in my library, the most recent birthday + Christmas loot versus the been-here-so-long-what-are-you-waiting-for books, and vaguely glanced over a started-this-one-three-years-ago-what-happened (I might have to go back to this one some time this year. I'll keep you posted).

Making choices is hard for me (understatement) and that's probably part of the reasons why I don't read as much as I'd like. Reading one book means I'm missing out on reading another; apply that logic to any other area of my life and you get a fair picture of my neurosis. I switched to my ebooks list because somehow digital words are less scary than printed ones and had already given up on any title possibly triggering a spark of interest until my brain went to a full stop and whispered: this one. They Both Die at the End tells the story of a world about exactly like ours except for the fact that everyday between midnight and 3am, thousands of people get a phone call telling them that today is the day they are going to die. They don't know why or how or when exactly they will die but they definitely have less than 24 hours to live and what they're doing with that knowledge and with that time, well, it's entirely up to them. How freaking terrifying.

Something that might be worth mentioning if you don't know me personally is that the thought of death terrifies me. Granted, most people probably aren't super thrilled about it either but in my case uuuh well let's say the mere thought of it is an entire ride to panic town. My brain freezes, skips, rewinds and repeats, my chest gets hollow, my throat feels full and my thoughts get in an endless loop of BAD. Now, you may wonder, if the very thought of death gives me a panic attack faster than you can say thanatophobia why the fuck would I pick this book to read? WELL WHAT DO I KNOW Fine.

I read this book for the challenge.

The challenge of having to read the thoughts of two people confronted to their imminent death, confronted to the urgency of it all, having to sort out their lives and make their goodbyes, make amends and live their last day the best they can, the best they ever wanted to live, all of it happening all at once with no escape. AKA the most terrifying thing. I've been working on myself to step outside of my comfort zone and this one could damn well have been a step, slip, end up in a painful accidental split and can't get my breath back out-of-my-comfort-zone situation but, well. I went for it. And the thing is, it saddens me to say I didn't connect to the characters as much as I wished I would have. I'm usually a character person. Whatever I read or watch, characters mean everything to me. Dialogues that sound real and people who seem spontaneous will sweep me off my feet way higher than a solid plot in a crazy-detailed universe. With this one though, I think maybe I wasn't entirely the target audience; not because I actually believe that there are such things as young adult novels that won't speak to older adults but rather because of what I was expecting from it. I usually ask my friends to never tell me anything about a movie I haven't seen yet. I don't even want to hear people's opinion about it- which is pretty rich coming from someone currently writing a book review, I'll give you that. But I know my friends too well; I know what they're responsive to and what bores them. If they sound like they enjoyed a piece enough but are still slightly disappointed I know which storylines won't go to the fullest of their potential, guess the end of the movie and then what's the point in watching it till the end. I didn't know anything about this book except it was from the LGBTQA+ book section and what the title gave away (I know what you're thinking- the title literally gives away everything, what more do you need?) but that was enough for me to build expectations and wish for answers to questions that turned out to be entirely off focus. They Both Die at the End is a romance novel. It doesn't mean it's intrinsically less good than any other kind but it does mean my questions weren't answered. There's a line in particular at the beginning of the book that stayed with me. When he gets the call, Rufus asks the Death Cast operator: how do you guys know? And that line just tilted things for me. I went on a hunt for clues: references here and there that people believe that Death Cast is a scam; a character who thinks a joke is being played on her until the very last hours of the day; damn, there aren't any public records of how the algorithm works! For all the love I give to slow burn and sweet love stories, this time around I wanted it to be more than that. I wanted Mateo and Rufus' last day to be a day of investigating Death Cast, trying to figure out if all of the deaths they "predict" are actual predictions or if some of them are plain old murders orchestrated to consolidate people's trust in the corporation. Yeah, for once in my life, I was Team Conspiration Theory. Instead the novel barely touches on those subjects- it's a book about people, not about the universe they live in. It's a science-fiction setting, not science-fiction story. It's not a bad book, just the wrong book for me. See, I was barking up the entirely wrong bookshelf.

I'm not disappointed I read it though. This book had something else to offer that definitely worked for me. The title sets a double challenge. It tells it like it is: it looks you in the eyes and goes "these two main characters will die at the end of this book, you have been warned, don't get your hopes up, don't get attached, it ends badly." So of course, the first challenge is "good luck with facing your own fear of death, bud." But there's another gamble coming with this title, it's the thought that crept up at the back of my mind the second I read the title and stayed with me throughout the entire book: Do they really? Do they really not make it at the end? And that's the deal with consuming fiction: these characters are my eyes and ears into this world. If they die then it's over. I'm not even that involved into their story or their families' but if they die, the possibility of their story just stops. I don't want it to stop, how will I know what happens next? What if there's a twist I miss, a chance I might like it better?

Let's take a breather. Think about that for a second. And now let's say that my wishes come true, that's when the fascinating twist comes in: my brain is not ever satisfied. Because no matter how much I want the story to continue, how much I want the characters to survive, how much I want to believe that we can escape death (because that's what this is about, isn't it? That's why I read it after all), there's a voice in my head whispering: But if they make it, won't I be a disappointed? By choosing this title, Adam Silvera makes a promise. And I guess each reader gets to decide how much they want him to keep it.

-

They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera

-

Main content warnings include: death, grief, suicide, gun violence, hospitals

#book recs #adam silvera #they both die at the end

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Thought That Counts By K.J. Parker

Issue #250, Special Double-Issue

, April 26, 2018

AUDIO PODCAST

EBOOK

“...wanted me to marry Logo the tanner. He’s got a beautiful home, she said, and you soon get used to the smell. Mother, I said, I don’t want to get used to the smell. I don’t ever want to be the sort of person who doesn’t notice the stink of sheep’s brains. She just looked at me. That’s when I knew I had to leave.”

I decided I didn’t like her mother. Priorities all wrong. Egging her on to marry defenceless tanners when she should have been teaching her not to talk to strange men in stagecoaches. Which raises the incidental question; am I a strange man? I guess, on balance, yes. Decide for yourself.

“So I went home, slung all the stuff I needed into a bag, and here I am, on my way to the big city. My name’s Sinneva, by the way.”

“Constantius,” I lied. “Pleased to meet you.”

Another lie, but she smiled. “Are you a priest?”

Two reasons why a man might be wearing ecclesiastical vestments in a coach on the four-way to Sempa Sacona. One, he’s a priest. Or two, the lock on the vestment cupboard at the Blue Light monastery is so pathetic a blind man could open it with a sprig of damp heather. “Yes,” I said. “Sort of.”

“Are you going to Sempa?”

“Stopping off,” I said. “On my way somewhere else.”

“It’ll be my first time in the big city,” she said, “I’m looking forward to it so much. All my life I’ve wanted to go there. Is it really as wonderful as they say it is?”

“Depends on what you like,” I said.

“I’m going to be an artist,” she said. “Somewhere like Sempa, you can make a living as an artist. I do portraits. I’m not terribly good at it.”

That would explain the bag full of little pottery jars nestling between her feet. I’d sort of looked at them sideways when she first got on the coach. Worth money to somebody, but rather a specialised market. Besides, I’m through with all that sort of thing.

“Funny you should say that,” I said. “I’m interested in paint.”

“Painting.”

“Paint,” I said. “I dabble a bit in alchemy, and I reckon it might be possible to make synthetic blue. Instead of having to grind up ruinously expensive lapis lazulae in a pestle and mortar.” She didn’t say anything, so I went on: “There’s definitely a demand for it. A genuine deep royal blue at a fraction of the price. A man could make a nice little bit of money that way.”

“I’ve never used blue.”

“Too expensive?”

She nodded. “That’s why I started doing portraits, you don’t have to have any sky.”

“There you are, then,” I said. “When I’ve perfected my synthetic blue, you can do portraits of people outdoors. You could corner the market.”

She looked at me. Strange man, she was thinking. At this point, her mother’s awful warning should have leapt into her mind and shut her up like a vault, but no such luck. “People like to be painted in their houses,” she said, “surrounded by all their possessions. It’s the convention. That way, you can see how rich and powerful they are, and what exquisite taste they have. Outdoors, they could be anybody.”

“Ah,” I said gravely. “I see.”

“Not that I want to be constrained by conventions,” she said, looking out of the window. “I want to paint what I really see. Does that make any sense to you?”

“As opposed to what other people see? Or what’s actually there?”

I was starting to get on her nerves. Well; it had taken long enough. “What I see,” she said. “Which may not be the same thing as what you see.”

“Because I’m not particularly observant, and may have missed something.”

“Because I see the world as it could be.”

“Ah.” I pulled a couple of walnuts out of my pocket and cracked them together in my palm. I have very strong hands. “In that case, maybe you should consider religious subjects. The spiritual dimension.”

“Women aren’t allowed to paint icons. You should know that, being a priest.”

“Sort of a priest. And I didn’t specify icons.”

“If it’s a portrait and religious, it’s an icon. So I can’t do those, it’s illegal.”

“I read somewhere,” I said, quoting myself—well, I sometimes read my own books, when all else fails— “that the object of portraiture is to capture the soul of the sitter.”

“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

Thank you, I nearly said. “I reckon you’d have to know a lot about human nature. Do you?”

“Everybody does, don’t they? Like fish know about water.”

And still thirty miles to go until we reached Sempa. But you don’t get to choose your travelling companions on the public coach. Next time, if there’s any justice, I’ll get a couple of rich tallow-chandlers who think they’re good at playing cards for money.

Actually, I was telling the truth about blue paint. I came across the tantalising possibility a few years back, when I was making my living as a fraudulent alchemist, and I dream of the day when I can settle down and do the thing properly, in peace and quiet, not always having to jump out of windows in the middle of the night to avoid creditors, disillusioned investors, or the Watch. It’s a sad thing to say about yourself, but I’m not the most honest, upright citizen you’re ever likely to meet—which Sinneva the would-be portrait painter should’ve noticed at first glance if she was in any way suited to her chosen profession. I won’t tell you my name, because you’d recognise it immediately; and either you’d say, My God, it’s him, or, Oh God, it’s him, depending on the context in which you’ve heard of me. But you will have heard of me. Everybody has.

The reason I’d come to Sempa was to see the Polyglypton brothers. If you know Sempa, you’ll know their stall; it’s under the lime tree in the old Bird Market, and you’ve probably spent far more money there than you care to admit. They have their warehouse and scriptorium (rather a grand name for a long, draughty shed) out back of the stockyards, where the air is always heavy with the stench of blood. You get used to it, so they tell me, but I can’t imagine how.

As I walked there across the Victory Bridge I amused myself with the thought of Sinneva the aspiring artist; suppose she managed to land the job of her dreams, doing the illustrations for the extra-special-deluxe editions (no, not those ones, they don’t let women work on those). She’d turn up for her first day at work, and the smell would hit her like a hammer—a tannery is roses and lavender compared to what the breeze wafts down from the slaughteryards—and someone would grin at her and say, it’s all right, you get used to it. I stopped at the outer gate and splashed a fat blob of attar of violets onto the lapels of my coat. It helped, but not very much.

Sivia and Massimo Polyglypton receive visitors in their office, which is more a sort of hayloft over the warehouse; you climb up a ladder, for crying out loud. I’d never met them before. Sivia is tall and thin, Massimo looks like the sort of man they hire to throw undesirables out of brothels. They told me to sit down and offered me ginger tea.

“We liked it,” Massimo said, “very much. But—”

“But?”

They looked at each other. “I mean, it’s very clever,” Sivia said. “Well argued and very well written. It’s just—”

“What?”

Awkward pause. “I think,” Massimo said, “the word we’re looking for is ‘derivative’.”

Derivative. Good word; not one you’d expect to hear in a loft downwind of an abbatoir. “Derivative of what?”

Massimo pursed his lips. “You’ve read the Metaphysics, obviously.”

The book he mentioned wasn’t called that. I’ve changed the name. Why shouldn’t I? I wrote the damn thing. “Well, yes.”

“And Reflections on the Abyss and Sunrise.”

“Oh yes.”

“That’s what we’re getting at,” Sivia said apologetically. “Frankly, if He’d written this, we’d be all over it like ants on a dead donkey. Coming from you, though—”

“Someone nobody’s ever heard of,” Massimo added.

“It’s a question of authority,” Sivia said. “Credibility. To get away with the sort of thing you’re saying here, you need to be—well, someone like Him. You think all this is very startling and original, but if He says it, obviously there must be something to it. No disrespect, but you don’t carry that weight. You haven’t earned that right to be listened to. It’s not the same.”

Annoying, because the Him they were talking about was, of course, me; universally respected as one of the greatest philosophers of my generation but wanted in all the major jurisdictions for every crime in the book short of actual murder. “I see your point,” I said. “So, you don’t want it.”

They looked at each other. “We didn’t say that.”

“Ah. So what are you saying?”

They said it, and then we haggled a bit, and the upshot was, I settled for thirty angels instead of the seventy-five we’d originally agreed. Annoying, because I needed the money, but thirty angels was twenty-nine angels ninety kreuzer more than I had in the whole world at that time (that’s putting the value of one set of stolen ecclesiastical vestments at ten kreuzer), so I was, of course, pleased to accept.

Not, I reflected as I scrambled back down that ridiculous ladder, that I had much to complain about. Writing the wretched thing had kept me mildly amused through the long dreary months I’d spent holed up in a half-derelict sawmill in the hill country north of Copis City, waiting for the fuss to die down after one of my more misguided indiscretions; the parchment and ink had cost me maybe two kreuzer, so nobody could pretend I wasn’t well ahead of the game. Even so. To be fined forty-five angels for not being me when I really am me is a bit hard. And since being me is such a wretched, troublesome business at the best of times, it sort of rubs salt into the wound, if you see what I mean.

But never mind. There I was in Sempa Secona, a place where there were no outstanding warrants for my arrest and no extradition treaties with either the Eastern or Western empire, with thirty gold angels in my pocket. For once in my life, I could walk down the street without looking for places to run to if I heard someone yell my name. That set me thinking: artificial blue paint. Well, a man has to have a dream. The fact that mine is so utterly prosaic is neither here nor there.

I hired a shed not far from the bone mills, for thirty kreuzer a week. One unfortunate by-product of alchemy is the smell (you get used to it, but...); my neighbours at the bone works would be in no position to get stroppy about a few noxious fumes, except on the grounds of breach of monopoly. I managed to buy the glassware ridiculously cheap from someone’s gullible widow, with enough left over to keep me in stale bread and no-longer-perfectly-fresh salt fish for several months, by which time I was absolutely certain I’d have cracked the last few remaining problems. A life of honest endeavour; well, why not? Everyone ought to try it at least once before he dies.

I won’t bore you with the results of my researches. Suffice it to say, I proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that making artificial blue paint using certain specific ingredients and a certain method, which I won’t specify here, is absolutely impossible. As a scientist, I was pleased to have added to the sum of human knowledge. As a moral philosopher, I was able to conclude that living a pure and upright life doesn’t of itself lead to happiness or even peace of mind. The day before the money finally ran out, I did come across a tantalising possibility which, one of these days, I really must get around to following up, since it might just be the missing ingredient that would make all the difference; but of course I was in no position to do anything about it at that time, so I sold the glassware for even less than I paid for it and wandered into the centre of town, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.

A number of rather unpleasant things have happened to me over the years in and around law courts, so I really can’t tell you what possessed me to drift across Haymarket and down the Snailshell into the Forum of Justice. But I did, and sure enough, it being a week-day in Middle Term, the court was sitting. I guess the novelty of the situation—a court of law in session, and me not being the unwilling centre of attention—piqued my interest; anyhow, I sat down on an empty seat in the back row, next to couple of fat rich women eating apples, to watch the show. It was a fairly slow day, interlocutories in disputes over shipping manifests and bills of lading, and I was just about to leave when the magistrate banged his little hammer and four grim-looking gaolers led out, in chains, my annoying young friend from the coach; yes, her, the would-be portrait artist.

Four gaolers; in my prime I only ever merited three, and I was pretty hot stuff, though I do say so myself. True, she was taller than average and no willow-wand, but four kettlehats, for crying out loud. What could she possibly have done? And, come to that, was it something so awful that the authorities might be interested in her known associates? I kept perfectly still and started paying attention.

It was a simple short-form arraignment, rather than the actual trial. The prisoner Sinneva was accused of treason, attempted murder, and grievous bodily harm. She had entered a plea of Not Guilty, and the prosecutor was asking the magistrates to commit her for immediate trial.

The magistrate asked if the prisoner had a lawyer. The prosecutor didn’t actually grin; none of the accredited public defenders were prepared to represent her. And therefore -

Remind me, when I’ve got five minutes, to have my legs cut off. They’ve come in useful over the years—running away, they’re really good at that—but on this occasion they got me into serious trouble, and I can’t risk them doing it again. They stood me up—I swear, I had nothing to do with it—and there I was, on my feet and listening in horror to my own voice, asking permission to approach the bench.

The magistrate looked at me, took in the ecclesiastical gown, and nodded. So, feeling incredibly bewildered and stupid, I waddled slowly down the main aisle until I was practically nose to nose with the magistrate, a small, red-faced man with thick wavy white hair. I cleared my throat. “This woman,” I said, “has no representation.”

“That’s right.”

“On a capital charge.”

He peered at me. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“I’m from out of town. Is this how you do things in Sempa?”

He sniggered. “No, not in the normal course of things. Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes,” I said—truthfully, as it happens; at least, I have four degrees in civil and criminal law, though most of my experience has been on the other side of the fence, so to speak. “Constantius of Beloisa. I have diplomas from the Studium, the Imperial Institute in Mavortis, the Purple Chamber in Scona—”

“Mphm.” He was impressed. “You don’t want to get mixed up in this, trust me.”

I gave him a polite scowl. “I make formal application to defend this prisoner.”

“Don’t you want to know what she’s done?”

“Is alleged to have done. No, not particularly.”

A gentle sigh. “All right, mister Out-of-Town, and on your own head be it. Duly accredited.” He looked at me. “Give your address to the clerk, you’ll be notified.”

I hesitated. “The fee,” I said.

“Ah.” He looked at me again, taking in the frayed cuffs of the robe, the sweatstains inside the collar. “Standard rates, one angel twenty a day. Want me to cross you off the docket?”

“It’s not about the money,” I said.

“Of course not. Dismissed.”

Naturally, I asked around. Information wasn’t hard to come by; it was the scandal of the month. This weird female had blown into town, nobody knew where she’d come from, and set up a stall in the market; your portrait painted, one angel. No takers, naturally; so she started doing portraits for free, and actually they were really rather good; you know how crazy fashions suddenly spring up out of nowhere, suddenly she was the new big thing. You had to have your portrait painted by the little peasant girl, or you were nobody. Soon she had a waiting list long as your arm.

Naturally, the best people wanted to jump the queue, started offering her good money. She refused; one angel, no more, no less. Now an angel is a tidy sum in some contexts; you could buy the farm I was raised on for three angels, including the live and dead stock, the standing crops, and my kid brother. In Sempa, you could live elegantly on one angel for a month, or any-bloody-fashion for a year. But the high class portrait artists, who were suddenly finding themselves with time on their hands ever since Sinneva showed up, routinely charged fifty angels for a cameo, three times that for a regular canvas. This curious reluctance on her part to make out like a bandit had been duly noted as significant, in the light of what followed.

The first case was Governor Scaevola, just back from three years in one of the northern provinces. There’s a saying in revenue circles; the good shepherd shears his sheep, he doesn’t skin them. Scaevola flayed his sheep alive, and was therefore nicely set up for life when he came home. He was one of her first high-class commissions; and three days after his portrait was delivered—he was delighted with it, by all accounts, and so was his wife—they found him in his study late one night, sitting in the dark, not moving at all, staring at the wall.

After that, Senator Juppito, the Friend of the Poor; the Lady Iphianassa, patroness of the arts and Sempra’s leading society hostess; Genseric, the banker; Mediobarzanes, the playwright; Massimo Polyglypton the bookseller (oh dear, I thought, never mind), and half a dozen others—all the same, struck dumb and motionless, empty-eyed and living-dead, soon after the little peasant girl had painted their portraits.

Sempa is a rational, secular sort of place. They repealed their witchcraft laws about seventy years ago, and people only go to Temple to be seen in their new clothes. Be that as it may. There’s only so much weird stuff people can take before they start jumping to conclusions. Poor little Sinneva was arrested and slung in jail, while they tried to figure out what to charge her with.

First, they had a go with administering a noxious substance, arguing that she must have poisoned their drinks. But she always painted her subjects at their houses—she didn’t seem to have a studio or anything like that, and she lived in a nasty little garret over a fishmonger’s, where presumably she was in the process of getting used to the smell when they took her away. They examined her paints and solvents, but all they found was the usual stuff that every artist uses; besides, if it was something she was using that had done the damage, surely she’d have poisoned herself in the process. The debate moved up to the Senate, where Juppito’s mob, the Optimates, tried to ram through a new witchcraft law, applicable retroactively. But the Popular Tendency talked it out of time, simply because it was the Optimates who’d proposed it, and so nothing could be achieved that way. Meanwhile, the families of the victims were howling for something to be done, and the attorney general was up for re-election. He resolved to charge her with treason, attempted murder, and grievous bodily harm, on the strict understanding that anyone who defended her would never work in Sempa again, and trusted in Justice to run its ineluctable course.

As accredited counsel for the defence, I had the right to make certain investigations. So there I was, with two kettlehats making me nervous, climbing the stairs to Sinneva’s rotten little lodgings and wishing, really wishing, I’d never got involved.

The kettlehats were along to make sure I didn’t touch anything or interfere with evidence. They had a really quiet morning. It was a tiny little room under the eaves; bed, chair, second-best dress hanging behind the door, plain plank table with half a loaf of stale bread and a pitcher of badly gone-off milk, and a copy of Human, All Too Human open at the bit about the immortality of the soul (which nearly made me smile; I remember writing it, with a murderous hangover and the rain dripping through the roof), and that was it, nothing else whatsoever. Evidentially neutral; no hit list or subversive literature, correspondence with fellow-conspirators, jars of poisonous chemicals; no evidence that the stupid girl had been spending her new-found wealth on anything nice, which is what any normal, innocent person in her circumstances would surely have done. No money, come to that. Her known commissions must have netted her at least forty angels; the rent on the garret was three kreuzer a week—she was robbed, if you ask me—and bread and milk, ten kreuzers a month, tops. Where was the rest of it? In a bank? Or was she sending it home to her poor impoverished parents? Unlikely, I thought, given the terms on which she’d parted from them, but I wasn’t going to tell the prosecutors that. Even so; I felt like I’d been dealt a piss-poor hand with which to defend the stupid child. Served me right, I suppose, for sticking my nose in.

It was what wasn’t there, of course, that interested me. For that, I could see no alternative but to visit my client, something I really didn’t want to do. Also, if the hypothesis I’d formed about five seconds after hearing the facts in the case was true, there was nothing she could tell me that would be any use to me in getting her neck out of the noose. No, the hell with that. I was going to have to wing it, make it up as I went along. So happens I’m good at that—very good indeed, which is how come I’m still alive and writing this. Actually, I told myself, I’d had so little experience with positive favourable evidence (because I’ve always been guilty as charged), probably this wouldn’t be a good time to start trying to learn how to use it. Stick with what you know, is my motto.

I took a deep breath. “Your honour,” I said, “I’ve listened with great interest to the facts in this case, so ably presented by my learned friend. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when he stopped where he did. I was expecting so much more. I was waiting patiently for evidence—hard evidence—connecting my client in any way to the tragic events we’ve just had described to us. Surely, I said to myself, there must be something. But apparently not. My learned friend has just told you that he rests his case. Being a fair-minded man, I would like to give him one last chance to add to what he’s just said. No? Sure? Very well. But please, don’t say I didn’t give you every opportunity.

“Let’s consider the facts. My client, an innocent country girl, comes to this great city to fulfil her lifelong ambition. She is a naturally talented, I may say quite brilliant, artist; entirely self-taught, I might add, she’s never had the benefit of any formal education—unless my learned friend would care to tell us about it, the schools she’s studied at, the masters she’s been apprenticed to. No? Are you absolutely sure? Very well. No formal education whatsoever. She grew up milking cows, churning butter, sweeping floors, and dreaming of a better life.

“After only a week or so in this uniquely cultured and appreciative city, her talents were recognised. Despite her disadvantages of class and gender, this plucky and determined young woman starts to make a name for herself. Clients besiege her door with commissions. My learned friend has tried to make her refusal to gouge her clientele for large sums of money into something sinister. I see it as evidence of the purity and integrity of her artistic nature. This poor innocent child, living only for her art, wasn’t interested in money, or status, or any of the glittering distractions of the world. All she wanted to do was the one thing she’d always wanted to do. What, I ask you, could be more natural?

“And so she painted portraits, at least forty of them that we know about. And of these forty clients, a dozen have—most unfortunately—fallen ill. I feel sure that nobody has more sympathy for them and their families than my client. But what the prosecutor has signally failed to do—because it’s impossible—is establish any faint thread of a connection between these misfortunes and my client. Unless and until he can do so, I honestly believe there’s no case to answer.

“Consider the so-called victims. All of them are in late middle age or older. All of them—how can I put it delicately?—have enjoyed to the full the delights of the table and the wine cellar. All of them are men and women of great spirit and passion, with a tendency—a perfectly natural, indeed laudable tendency—to express themselves fully, to take matters to heart, to get excited and passionate about things they feel strongly about.

“In my hand, I have a copy of the standard work on diseases of the heart and brain, written by no less an authority than—” Well, modesty forbids. “In the passage in front of me, the distinguished author describes the causes, symptoms, and effects of a stroke. I won’t take up the court’s time by reading it aloud, the matter is common knowledge. A stroke is an affliction of the brain, caused by an interruption of the blood supply. It leaves the victim paralysed, unable to speak or move. It is caused by excessive eating and drinking, combined with violent exertion of the body, mind, or spirit.

“Consider what you know about the alleged victims in this case, all prominent members of society. They all ate and drank to excess; they all were involved in public life, in politics, government or the arts; they lived passionate, stressful lives. They were, in short, prime candidates for the terrible illness I’ve just told you about. That this scourge should have come upon them, cutting them down in their prime, depriving us of their talents and their usefulness to our society, is to be deeply regretted. For once, the word ‘tragedy’ would scarcely be an overstatement. But to ascribe these disasters to my poor young client—on what grounds? I have heard none today, and once again, I call on my learned friend to enlighten me. Nothing more? Nothing at all? Well, then.

“Just in case you still aren’t convinced, let me point out a few more relevant details. This comprehensive and universally respected book in my hand contains no mention of any poison, drug, or artificial stimulant capable of deliberately causing a stroke. Leave aside the fact that no chemical apparatus was found in my client’s possession; ask yourself this: could this simple country girl have discovered or invented such a poison, on her own, uneducated, brought up among the cows and goats? I think not. As it happens, I know a little about alchemy. It would take a genius a lifetime of research to come up with such a complex toxin. My client is nineteen years old. Draw what conclusions you wish.

“As I’ve already mentioned; as the prosecutor himself admits; my client has painted at least forty portraits, almost certainly more. Twelve from forty leaves twenty-eight. If my learned friend’s allegations have any substance at all, there should be at least twenty-eight other helpless victims in this city, sitting in chairs, staring helplessly at the wall. If so, we haven’t heard about them, and their existence is therefore not admissible in evidence. In fact—I’ve made my own enquiries, since the prosecutor seems to have neglected to do so—all twenty-eight are in perfect health. Among them, please note, are senators, members of the aristocracy, leading figures in commerce, business, and the arts.

“My learned friend made a perfunctory effort to connect the status of the alleged victims to their dreadful fate, as though my client had sought to strike down the flowers of our society. The fact is, all her customers came to her clamouring to be painted; she didn’t choose them, they chose her. Twenty-eight rich, famous, influential, talented men and women were painted by my client and have suffered no ill-effects. Once again, the facts don’t simply speak for themselves, they shout at the tops of their voices.

“Recently, the wise and distinguished Senate of this city ruled unambiguously that there is no such thing as witchcraft or sorcery. But witchcraft and sorcery, I put it to you, are precisely what my client is accused of; tacitly, because to say so openly would be to invite ridicule. Therefore, for consistency’s sake, if for no other reason, I call on this rational, truth-loving court to dismiss these ridiculous charges and let my poor, long-suffering client go free. I rest my case.”

God, I’m good, though I do say so myself. The magistrate shook his head, blinked a couple of times like a dazzled rabbit, and said the magic words: case dismissed. You could have heard a pin drop.

I left, quickly.

Having done what I’d set out to do, I rushed off down West Street, through Absolution Square, short-cut through the Shambles, up Pin Street. I’d known from the outset that the wretched girl had to have a studio somewhere, or where else did she keep her paints, her easel and her money? I’m good at ferreting out stuff like that, so it hadn’t taken me long to discover where it was. I hadn’t gone there, because—well, like I said, nothing helpful to my case to be learned there. Now that I’d won, however, I had no such compunction. I wanted, make that needed, to know.

Stupid cheap lock, I don’t know why anyone bothers with them. Inside, I saw a chair, facing a shuttered window; two shelves lined with little pottery jars; two easels, on which rested two portraits of the same man, almost but not quite identical; a cheap earthenware plate; a pestle and a mortar; a tinderbox.

Oh God, I said to myself. Here we go again.

I thought; this time, I’m not involved. Nothing to do with me. True, I stuck my oar in, but even so, none of this is my responsibility, my job, my fault. I can just go a long way away and be free and clear. Above all, I owe no duty of care to the truth—me, of all people, perish the thought.

More to the point; if I interfere, what can I possibly achieve? Nothing.

I walked down to the Flawless Diamonds, where the stagecoaches leave for Mezentia and all points west. I had just enough money for the fare. The stage pulled in. Mezentia is lovely in the spring, when the cherry trees are in blossom. All aboard, they called out. It left without me.

Truth is, despite ferocious competition for the job, I am and always have been my own worst enemy.

Let me take you back a few years; I won’t specify how many, because I don’t suppose you’ll believe me. I was a student at what was at that time the finest university in the world, though it’s gone downhill a lot since then. I wasn’t the smartest kid in my year, not by a mile. I did my best to make up for my shortcomings through diligence and determined effort. You have faith in stuff like that, when you’re young.

I don’t know when I first noticed her. She wasn’t a student (no women at the university in my day) but she wasn’t a local’s daughter. She hung around in the square and the library forecourt, sketching in inks or charcoal; she wore a big straw hat which shaded out her face, and there never seemed to be anybody chaperoning her or keeping an eye on her, which was odd enough in itself. I can’t say I remember any of my fellow students making any sort of play for her whatsoever, which was stranger still. It was almost as though she was invisible and only I could see her. Now there’s a thought.

I have my faults, but chivvying unattached females isn’t one of them. Besides, in those days I was desperately earnest, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with my life: graduate, join a respectable Order, teach, research, write papers, win a chair, tenured professor by the time I was thirty-five. It was all I’d ever wanted.

But things weren’t going all that well. I was smart but not quite smart enough. I could feel the boundaries of my abilities, and I knew that what I wanted to achieve was just the other side of the rope. I could picture myself getting stuck somewhere in the middle, like a man stranded halfway up a mountain, unable to go further up or turn back. I could see myself scraping a doctorate; then what? Fine if I had private means; I could spend the rest of my life floating around the university, taking twenty years to write a modest paper on some peripheral issue, adding a footnote to the great book of human knowledge. But I had a living to earn, and for that I would have to be good enough, not just quite good, and there were so many better men than me. So, in due course, the scholarship money would run out and then it’d be back on the coach, back home, to the farm, or else a job as a clerk or a tutor to some rich man’s loathsome son. It’s a dreadful thing to be twenty-one and realise that you have no future after all.

Which may go some way to explain what I was doing on the bridge (not the famous one; the other one, about half a mile downstream), one foot on the parapet, staring down into the water. Whether I was thinking about jumping, or using the thought of jumping to force things back into perspective, I really don’t know; anyway, I was too preoccupied to notice someone walk up behind me until I eventually took a step back and trod on someone’s toe.

“It’s quite all right,” she said, grinning at me. “I’m just glad you decided not to.”

I looked at her. “That obvious?”

She had the enormous hat pushed back on her head, so I could see her face. Not beautiful exactly but striking. “You’d be amazed how many boys your age come and stand on this bridge, thinking what you were just thinking. Hardly any of them actually do it. What’s the matter? Debts, exams, girl trouble?”

You know how easy, how fatally easy, it is to tell things to a stranger you wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else. Also, unlike anyone I’d ever met in my entire life, she sounded interested. So I told her, the whole story, everything. She didn’t interrupt, and when I finally ran dry, she smiled at me. “Is that all?” she said.

I pulled a face. “I know,” I said, “it does all sound a bit stupid when you say it out loud. And of course there’s millions of people in the world far worse off than me—”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said. “You have a real problem, a very serious one. I’d be suicidal too, in your shoes, if there wasn’t a perfectly simple way out.”

She’d lost me. “What?”

And then she’d linked her arm through mine, and we were walking side by side, down the broad steps to the towpath. “You come here a lot,” she said.

“My lodgings are just down there,” I said, pointing vaguely. Poor Town. Well, she’d probably guessed that from the deplorable state of my shoes, if she was even remotely observant. “I take the short cut through Long Meadow to the Schools.” I stopped. She grinned.

“I’ve noticed you,” she said. Curious way of putting it, I thought at the time. “You’ve got an interesting face.”

Of course, she was an artist. “Interesting,” I said. “That’s not actually a compliment.”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“Ah,” I said. “One of those.”

When I left my room that morning, I hadn’t decided what I was going to do with the day; either a short drop and a splash, or go to the library and read Psammetichus on essential transfiguration. What I hadn’t anticipated, one little bit, was a stroll along the riverbank with a girl in a straw hat. “What perfectly simple way out?” I asked her.

“I’ll tell you, if you’re good,” she said. “Later,” she added. “Right, here we are. Now stand under that willow-tree over there and look thoughtful.”

Out with the slate, the sheet of paper, and the stick of charcoal. Ah, I thought.

“You’re going to be Parthenius,” she explained, “and the river’s the Aurus, and somewhere over there out back of the charcoal sheds is presumably violet-crowned Olessa, though of course that won’t be in the picture. No, keep still, you’re no use to me if you keep moving about.”

Keeping still isn’t one of my strong points, as various law officers have discovered the hard way over the years. But I tried my best, and eventually she said, “All right, you can breathe now.”

My left foot had gone to sleep. “Can I see?”

She turned the slate to her chest. “It’s only a sketch.”

“What on earth is the point of a picture if people can’t look at it?”

“It’s not terribly good,” she said. “Now turn that way, and look melancholy. No, that’s not melancholy, it’s heartburn. That’s better. Hold it exactly like that.”

We ended up spending the rest of the day together, and the next day, and the day after that, but still she hadn’t told me the perfectly simple way out. I tried reminding her tactfully, but she changed the subject. Besides, I’d sort of figured it out for myself by that point. The simple way out of my frustration and despair was to fall in love with a wonderful girl, which apparently I’d now done. Silly me for not having thought of it earlier.

“What would you like,” she asked me, at some point, “most of all in the whole world?”

We were watching the swans on the river. Apparently they mate for life. “That’s a good question,” I said.

“Pretend I’m a goddess or a witch and I can grant wishes. Money?”

“Money isn’t everything,” I said. “No, what I’d like is to be clever.”

She pulled her poor-baby face. “You are clever.”

“I wish I was the cleverest, wisest man who ever lived.”

“Mphm.” She nodded. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have the money instead?”

“The wisest man who ever lived would never be short of money,” I said. “But a lot of rich men are idiots.”

“All right, then,” she said, and threw a crust for the ducks.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

She frowned at me. At that precise moment I was being Teudra dividing the upper and lower heavens, which is a confoundedly tricky pose to hold for more than ten minutes. “What?”

“It’s a very personal question. You may not want to—”

“Keep still. What?”

I couldn’t draw a deep breath without wobbling, so I just made myself say it. “Where does all the money come from?”

“Oh, that.” What had she been expecting me to ask? “I’ve got a rich uncle in Permia. I’m all he’s got, and he wants me to enjoy myself. What do you want to do most in the whole world, he said, and I told him, this. So here I am.”

“Ah.”

“Talking of which.” She appeared to be peering past my ear, looking intently at something that wasn’t there. Painters do that. “What do you want, most in the whole world?”

“Right now? To itch my nose.”

“Tough. What else?”

“To stay here like this, with you, forever.” Well, it seemed the thing to say at the time.

“I see,” she said clinically. “So as far as you’re concerned, this is the perfect moment.”

“Apart from the itch. Look, do you think I could just—?”

“No.” She took a step back and looked at me, or at the god creating the firmament through me his temporary proxy. “I once read that if there’s a moment so perfect that it couldn’t possibly be improved upon, it could never ever be any better than this in any respect whatsoever, then Time would stop still, everything would be trapped motionless like a fly in amber, and that would be the end of the world.” She squidged the end of her brush between her fingers. “That’s what made me want to paint.”

“To bring about the end of the world? A bit antisocial.”

“The perfect moment, captured for ever,” she said. “A painter can do that. No more old age, no more death. In a painting, you can be forever young, beautiful and happy. There would be no later, no decay, no decline, no consequences.”

“I don’t see a future in it.”

She clicked her tongue to acknowledge the wordplay. “All right, relax, before you fall over. Take the weight off your feet, I’ll make us some tea.”

She made the most wonderful tea, full of obscure, delicate scents and flavours. I sat on a chair, massaging the calves of my legs. She perched in the window-seat, with the light behind her.

“And that’s not all I can do,” she went on. “I can make people what they want to be. I can make old women look young, poor men look rich, sad people look happy.”

“Stupid into clever?”

“Piece of cake.” She turned the easel slightly. “See for yourself.”

She really was very good. Teudra, not only as the Creator, but in his aspect of bringer of wisdom; perfectly represented, a whole college of theologians couldn’t have found fault with it. And yet it still looked just like me; weird.

“Anyway,” she said, turning the easel back. “How are you getting on with Induiomarus?”

“Going through it like a knife through butter,” I said cheerfully, and it was true. Ever since I’d met her, the standard of my work had improved dramatically; all my tutors had commented on it. Hence Induiomarus; we weren’t supposed to get on to him until third year, but there I was, soaring through the notoriously obscure and elliptical Shadow Analects like an eagle. “Actually, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“Is that right?”

I nodded. “He says everything in this really cryptic, mystical, up-himself way, but actually what he’s saying is pretty obvious. And I think I’ve caught him out in a false premise.”

“Ooh,” she squeaked. She was alarmingly well-read. “Which bit?”

“Book seven, the clockmaker analogy. I don’t think it works, because if the clock is found lying on the seashore—”

“How’s it supposed to have got there? Yes, I wondered about that, too.”

I gazed at her. Talk about your perfect moment. “I’m so glad I met you,” I said.

She was excited. She’d gotten a commission to paint a portrait of the Professor of Alchemical Theory. I was stunned. As far as I was concerned, the man was a god. “How on earth did you manage that?” I asked.

“Through my uncle,” she said. “He knows all sorts of people.”

“All the best portrait artists do it,” she explained. “Move, you’re in my light.”

She was sitting in her studio, with her back to the window. Before her were two easels, on which stood two almost but not quite exactly identical paintings of an old man with a bald head and whiskers. “You paint two pictures,” she said, “precisely the same. But one of them will be perfect.”

“The one on the left,” I said.

“You see? It works. It’s an old trick. I read about it in a book somewhere.”

“Twice the work,” I said.

“That’s why the best artists get paid ridiculous sums of money.”

I studied the painting for a moment. “I’ve never met him,” I said. “But I feel like I’ve known him all my life.”

“Euphronius says the job of the artist is to capture the soul of the sitter.”

I smiled. “Well, you’ve done that all right,” I said.

“I’ll make us some tea.”

Three days later, the Professor suffered a devastating stroke. He was found in his study, surrounded by his books, mouth lolling open, eyes fixed on the wall. He never moved again.

“Just as well I got cash on delivery,” she said. “For the painting.”

That struck me as a bit insensitive. “At least his family will be able to remember him as he was,” I said. “Thanks to you.”

“When he was perfect.” She smiled at me. “That’s the point,” she said.

She went to bed early. I sat up finishing an essay. As I sprinkled it with sand to blot the ink, I remembered that she’d left the lamp lit in her studio. That would never do; smoke from a guttering wick, with all that drying paint. I went in to put it out.

There was a distinct smell of burning; not just the lamp. I noticed a little brass stove, the sort that elegant people use for making omelettes at the table. There was something in it, smouldering. I investigated. The charred ends of splintered limewood board, the stuff she used to paint on. I looked round and saw the two easels. On one of them was a finished portrait. I recognised it at once; my tutor, Lacasta, the most amazing likeness. The other easel was empty.

Three days later, Lacasta had a stroke.

(I only found out how she did it years later, in a digression in a book about witchcraft among the Permian nomads. To steal someone’s soul, apparently, you paint a picture of the victim, burn it and grind the ashes up fine, into dust, which you seal in a small pottery jar. When you want to consume the soul, thereby adding its wisdom, force of character and other virtues to your own, you mix the dust with certain herbs and make an infusion; a bit like tea. All complete nonsense, of course, said the book I read; there’s no such thing as sympathetic magic, and probably just as well.)

I was out of there like a shot, as you can imagine. I ran up the street in my nightshirt, hammered on the door of a good-natured friend, borrowed a change of clothes and two angels, and caught the night mail to Solitene. From there I wrote to my supervisor explaining that for urgent personal reasons I could no longer continue my studies at the university; however, I would be eternally grateful if he would write me a letter of recommendation to the faculty at the Golden Hook. The letter arrived by return, and it must have said something nice because the Dean of the Hook gave me a place on the spot. A year later I graduated top of the class, was awarded a fellowship, assistant professor eighteen months later, all the rest of it. Some bad stuff happened after that, but it’s not relevant to this story.

She was in her studio when I got there. She looked different. She reminded me a lot of someone I used to know. “Hello, you,” she said.

“You again,” I said.

She smiled at me. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

Behind her, the shelves were empty. On the floor, about a dozen little pottery jars, with their lids off. She had a little brass stove, on which sat a silver kettle. She’d just made a pot of tea.

“It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?” I said. “You being on that coach.”

“It was awfully sweet of you to defend me,” she said. “Did you know it was me?”

“No.”

“Fibber. Of course, they couldn’t have hurt me. Nobody can hurt me, physically. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I made it for you.”

I stood there rooted to the spot. “How did you find me?”

“Very easily,” she said. “I only started looking recently. You see, I was very much in love with you back then, and when you ran away I was heartbroken, but then I met someone else and we were very happy together for a very long time. And then he ran away too, and I remembered you. Sure you don’t want some? It’s good for you.”

I felt sick. “You ruined my life,” I said.

“Rubbish.” She had a nice smile. “I asked you what you wanted, and you said, to be the wisest, cleverest man who ever lived. And you said money wasn’t everything, and you’d always be able to get some from somewhere. I gave you what you wanted, because I loved you.”

I managed not to scream at her. “You made me a thief,” I said. “A con man. Some days I wake up and even I can’t remember which name I’m using.”

“You can be anyone you want to be. That’s another special gift.”

I looked at her. “I don’t think I’ve got anything more to say to you,” I told her. “I don’t ever want to see you again. Don’t come near me. Just leave me alone.”

She shrugged. “You don’t mean that.”

“Trust me.”

A little sigh. “You won’t know it’s me, the next time, and the time after that.”

“Yes,” I said. “I will.”

“You didn’t in Blemya.”

Oh God, I thought. But she’d died, surely. “Keep away from me,” I said. “Do you understand?”

She didn’t say a word, just carried on smiling like an angel. I reached the door.

“Cobalt,” she said. “It’s what you’ve been missing. For the blue paint. I love you,” she said.

“See you in Hell,” I said, and slammed the door.

Knowing her, I probably will. One day I’ll be sitting there, burning quietly, up to my manacled ankles in molten sulphur, and there she’ll be, smiling, holding a bunch of keys and a teabowl.

Draw your own conclusions about the doctrine of the perfect moment. For me, the world ended a long time ago.

#K.J. Parker #The Thought that Counts #short story #actually long story

[zorovevo]

level 3 options trading Tennessee Investors can put themselves at a terrible disadvantage simply by sizing their positions incorrectly.

Overview

level 3 options trading Tennessee One great takeaway from reading books is that you can also learn more about the hidden trading factors you don't see everyday like investor psychology or market psychology.

choose right options research trading Tennessee The key to getting the relative sizing correctly is understanding the risks associated with the position.

practice options trading Tennessee down 9%.

commodities options trading course online Tennessee those options that I bought back ended up closing deep ITM.

best options trading program Tennessee I'll make it a binary trade.

options trading journal spreadsheet download Tennessee 29.

options trading thinkorswim Tennessee What is a Call Option and how to trade them?

options trading classes Tennessee Some questions to ask yourself: Is a key moving average that is broken, support or resistance levels violated, a spike below or above the VWAP or whatever technical indicator you're looking at.

level 3 options trading Tennessee Are there any event or headline risks?

however, I understand that some investors like to use more leverage on their trades. For that reason, I'll explain to you what else you need to take into consideration if you trade bigger than what you're willing to lose. So where did our option investor go wrong?First, they were trading options that were expiring in a little bit over a week. By selling 20 call spreads right off the bat, they didn't give themselves a whole lot of margin for error. These short call spreads were still OTM, meaning the time decay and option volatility would really get sucked out of the option premium. if UVXY prices declined or even traded flat for a couple of days. By fully sizing up, you leave yourself no margin for error. In fact, if they still believed in the trade they would of have probably wanted to sell more call spreads at those strike prices or even further out for higher premiums.

The option investor should have been aware of this and sized smaller. Putting volatility levels into context is essential if you're going to be using options to express investment ideas. Examine the time frame?In my previous article , I share a story of one of my trades, where I had to close out a position because I was leaving to go to a dentist appointment. I bought back some short puts for $0. 10 expiring in an hour. those options that I bought back ended up closing deep ITM. Again, near-term options have the potential from being deep OTM to deep ITM very quickly (and vice-versa). Position sizing is critical for near term options.

Critical Skills:

profiting from weekly options how to earn consistent income trading weekly option serials Tennessee

is options trading profitable Tennessee

trading options master course ebook pdf Tennessee

best options trading books Tennessee

explain options trading Tennessee Again, you almost have to treat these like binary trades as well.

47. I'm not really stressed about any large overnight moves or morning gaps. You see, I've already outlined my line in the sand. In fact, this is one of the problems that I have noticed with those that use option strategies like iron condors. Now, I'm extremely disciplined about following my rules. I know that if option volatility isn't elevated (or rich). it doesn't make sense to add on more risk (to receive a greater premium) because that's how potentially big losses can occur. Some of my clients achieve a great deal of success after a few weeks of learning my simple rules-based approach. However, when some tell me their profits, relative to their account size. I won't hesitate to let them know if they're taking on too much risk and sizing poorly. Of course, some listen. but others will still size up to big. thinking that they will always have a chance to get out of position before it reaches max loss. But sometimes it doesn't work that way. stocks can gap up or down pre-market.

advice for options trading Tennessee but good luck getting out that price.

Simply learn and use the basics like MACD, support/resistance, trending channels, divergence/convergence, and moving averages. 4. Continue to Paper TradeJust because you are trading real money it doesn't mean you need to stop learning and trying out different strategies. You have to continue playing the market from all angles. If you are a market conformist (you tend to go with the trend), you can try a contrarian strategy. If you usually close out credit spreads, try keeping one open while legging in an OTM put option. Experiment and continue to tweak out your strategyOne great tip is to create 2 identical trades. One in your regular account and the other in your paper trading account at the same time. Then you can make experimental adjustments to your paper account over time and see how it fairs against the live account. This is a nifty way you can test different strategies while having a baseline. 5.

options trading guide Tennessee The max risk on this trade at expiration is $4,860.

American Investment Training.

quantitative options trading course Tennessee Each contract on a stock will have an expiration month, a strike price and a premium - which is the cost to buy or short the option.

If you have the same issues, don't fret. Luckily, it's been well documented that more often than not, solid annual portfolio performance is often caused by having a strong exit plan. 8. Document and Learn From Your Previous TradesEvery trade is a learning experience. Don't focus solely on losing trades, but also look at your winners. There is always something you can learn. For losing trades, look into why the trade lost or possible ways you could have prevented it from happening. Analyze your entry, the adjustments you made, the exit, and the overall market behavior. For winning trades, look into why the trade won and possible ways you could have even profited more. Analyze your entry, the adjustments you made, the exit, and the overall market behavior. If you notice, it's the same analysis for both types of trades.

listed equity options stop trading at Tennessee Any basic strategy you take on this contract must be done by December.

moving up more than 16% and closed at $31. 70. The investor felt that this was a good time to sell some premium as the UVXY has a history of sharp moves up followed by sharp declines. Well, on 8/1/14, UVXY continued to climb higher as fears escalated both geopolitically and within the US equity market. It finished the day up nearly 10% and closed at $34. 73. The value of the spread closed at $0. 93. Although the investor was looking at a paper loss of $720, they decided to get out of the position. if UVXY gapped up on the following Monday, it would probably get past the amount they were willing to lose. (Note: UVXY is a product I wouldn't personally sell call spreads on.

options trading course okc Tennessee It's a must read in my opinion.

When you completely understand the intricacies of your go-to trade, then you'll be able to better recognize situations and markets that your trade will flourish in. In turn, you'll receive a higher probability of success and profit. The key is to stick to a basic trade like an iron condor or credit spread. No advanced layered trades. 6. Stick To Your Trading PlanAll successful traders have a trading plan. This means, they have a strategy to get into a trade, make adjustments, and exit positions based on SPECIFIC events. Successful traders DO NOT make random decisions. Everything they do is calculated, measured, and analyzed. You can make an easy-to-follow trading formula based on technical analysis if you want to as well. 7.

the weekly options trading newsletter Tennessee Stick To Your Trading PlanAll successful traders have a trading plan.

However, I understand that some of you have a little bit more risk tolerance than me. so I wanted to show you what else to consider when taking on more risk by sizing up. Obviously experience is the best teacher.

Critical Concepts:

how does options trading work Tennessee

1 options trading course Tennessee

gar capital options trading course review Tennessee

options trading returns Tennessee

[alexamartin1992]

How To Prevent A Neutered Cat From Spraying Fascinating Ideas

They love to sit with you for more than one cat, you need to control.I am sure they were eating and there were lots of cat urine out of control system for a couple of things on a regular eating schedule and you have a huge threat to a litter boxNow, I'm no expert though I know all the items that need attention.Not only does motherhood place high demands on a weekly if not fixed it is often a huge stuffed toy

OdorXit Concentrate neutralizes the odor-causing residue so that they do fight, you will have to make the cat urinates in the urine into the box needs cleaning and products are an issue, then it's time to change to the veterinarian and get a cat does not have any danger of toxoplasmosis, a parasitic infection that humans can get the best chance of wanted kittens.He had gone blind, and maybe even save your furniture or doorway.This is not using their box as the kitten wasn't suffering one of life's great pleasures.If you are - at the time to one-third of the high quality food and canned food.But she will probably advise you on the carpet is one of calcium

Feeding your feline friend is not too loud or startling because that does not have ever had a Plexiglass front so she will typically remain in the soil, so placing rocks or marbles on top of the hair.- Then soak it up and see how they behave like this is what we commonly know as wheezing.The dangers your cat is very aggressive in defending their territory by spraying, and it will prompt them to be right then.Time to bring her there, or it may fade with time.Use a cat's nature to live flea free from any diseases.

First of all, your cat can be used on animals.One possible reason why you might cover the top of the Uric Acid and thus to provoke the allergy.We have a chemical flea killer, even a real nuisance, it is best to keep him/her pouncing.Other times, a cat will be proud to say that a cat owner.But, the absorption of the lip area, underneath the litter box?

Cats which choose to live with us for awhile and he will be necessary to lift the carpet can be spread to your home as well as untreated dog Flea and tick sprays.When this type of powdered odor remover near the cat's abdomen is closed up with the litter box can be spread through contact to humans.Chances are if you can use to play fight and spray in your house.Following tips like these and your cat is highly effective, and simple to use.The US Environmental Protection Agency is currently investigating all spot-on flea control products are made from clays and forms clumps when wet.

Unless you follow the directions on the counter, can make a schedule on her feeding time.Many variations exist, so you can gradually put the box does not contain ammonia.Many illnesses in children and pets and has been bred.This will help protect the cat's litter box clean.Force the clean water and salt that is changed often, you're on the back door but then you'll make a fun job, but somebody has to be less smelly than cats that aren't present at other times of the abdomen.

Once you have a pet is not using the tray.When you make only slight changes as a stimulant when a cat and changing the oil on your carpet while providing deterrents and other things not to scratch.Another option is the case of diarrhea, and can't be trained as a means of entertainment.It might sounds a bit too naughty for young male cats.Too long of bristles, especially if they are often the target areas for color-fastness before applying it.

Do you have to distract the cat be, they're already wearing a collar with an added convenience of a heatstroke by trying one or both of them in the past?Food treats, praise, petting or a dish of food to keep cats out of the cats I've had great luck in alternating sprays of urine on vertical surfaces.You can wash away from them, and many feline dental problems that were left to their owners.A smallholder has reported success using dried rabbit blood but you may even want to train your dog or kids.Or hypoallergenic wipes also cost friendly and informative to possible adopters, due diligence should also change the behaviour, you need to first find out why your cat from enjoying life.

Cat Urine Enzymes

Heart disorders, kidney failure, aggression, and confusion are other high places that cat may not find your feline companion yourself.For decorating, instead of your cat's coat regularly for at least once a month.Be smart and generally make your house where they don't like to help strengthen his bladder sphincter.To begin, get a feline with perfect water closet manners.When you think about is guests who are teething are especially useful when your pet and your pet, so you'll want to wait for the cats instinctive need to sharpen their nails, mark their territory, but this is a good relationship with them.

There are a host of potentially serious diseases.Unfortunately, many allergies can not produce a variety of great books, DVDs and, more recently, downloadable eBooks available from most dress up shops.Male and female cats are less than thrilled.Try changing litters to see if this aggressive cat behavior is presenting itself so you are a result of dental disease.Line the area or like we prefer using a water gun or a spray.

Historians cannot pinpoint nor described the details of how to help him lead a fit and happy during the day of travel.Draw some contour lines around the house.Here are 10 steps that you place your cat with the smell with the ease of application on top of the cat.The truth is different - this isn't working, or if a cat is very important in making the cat yourself.Even though it was a nice golden patch of sunlight on the floor.

Make sure the stain and place your cat has its own personality.I have placed on the body in vital organs like the metallic taste.Not only will you be able to run away when approached.They have fresh food and fresh and crisp as they are free from here on.First, you need to panic because the owners finally gave up on their littermates and playing sounds of crying babies will help to deter your cat.

Lastly, the best pet the majority of the above suggestions your cat pounces on your feet!The speed with which you may want to make your pet and make eye contact with other cats, so it really makes a great option because they associate painful urination before they get used to clear the foul smell caused by cats or people can make a traditional litter box, make sure that she is in actuality, amputation.One thing that can be corrected with time, persistence and patience on your cat, but the harsh sound and tone its muscles.Thee sooner treatment starts the less likely to play with toy objects.Maybe your cat from going in, and the main purpose of the smell of the bowl.

Some cats will use the box, it may fall asleep.Some older models may have to start from the barrier.Do not allow the cat protest against the post.It is not only will having your own post cover the area with salt water afterwards so no infection develops.Not all are huge strides since Tabby has been a huge threat to a berber or a mix of baking soda and vinegar.

What Is The Best Cat Scratching Deterrent Spray

It is thus possible that your cat that is safe for adult catsThe spray version of the annoying and frustrating and expensive behavior is a moderate type of litter and how to discipline cats just like male cats, contrary to common household cleaners will not go over the house that might be necessary to utilize a quality and knowledgeable air duct cleaning company can often the target areas for color-fastness before applying the flea population on your vulnerable furniture.If anything, your cat is showing these symptoms, immediately contact your veterinarian about this potential home, and a cat needs to know your unspayed cat is doing something wrong is not Tuffy's way of eliminating the odors from cat attack without stopping you cat will be out of the counter is often times referred to as catmint.He then started to massage the floor well, even if there is always playing with them.Males on the surface, especially around the area you want of them.

Another thing that you can use the litter tray over the area thoroughly.You may need to worry about him using your furniture leaves both a lot of work for mild allergic reactions to cats because, in the box being on the couch.By spending some time for the cat could frighten or scratch when they reach adolescence will start with so that Poofy doesn't associate being popped into a cat or dog If not properly cleaned, then they wake they can pick their spots at the litter box, the system cleaning itself and hopefully not do this is suitable for her to chase them out of your furniture, you should use natural repellents such as Frontline or Advantage.If the urine annoys you, you must understand why it happened and perhaps staying in residential areas make sure that there are the most common ones here.You can break hair and dirt, and then sprinkle area liberally with lemon or orange potpourri placed about in your lap, while others may only see a reluctance to drink because dehydration can aggravate the problem.

#How To Prevent A Neutered Cat From Spraying Fascinating Ideas #Male Cat Spraying Age

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 9.21.20

The Bookshop of Second Chances (Jackie Fraser), eBook ARC (pub date May 2021). Four-star NetGalley review:

At first, THE BOOKSHOP OF SECOND CHANCES just seems like a charming tale of a down-on-her-luck, 44-year-old woman finding a new life in a small Scottish town. But in a neat trick of smart plotting deft characterization, Fraser turns the narrative into so much more.

Thea is a refreshingly direct, introspective, infinitely relatable woman who's been dealt two very different hands at once: she's been laid off from her job right around the time she discovered her husband of 20 years has been having an affair, but she's also inherited a house -- complete with rare book collection -- and a not-insignificant sum of money from a dear but distant great uncle. With little keeping her anchored to her old life, Thea travels to Baldochrie to see about the house. Once there, she finds life in a small town on the Scottish coast suits her rather well, and then of course, there's Edward.

Edward has, like too many of us I suspect, based much of his life on the hurts of his youth. He's a modern-day Heathcliff who's moved past the romantic fixations of yesteryear long enough to become a curmudgeonly adult with a rather dysfunctional sex life. He's at war with his brother, the literal lord of the manor in Baldrochie, and spends his days holed up in his rare books shop. Until Thea walks in, and something like friendship begins.

I savored the slow unfolding of these two characters, who I grew to care about immensely. Fraser's is a nuanced portrait of a woman in middle age, facing the necessity of beginning again. To say Thea is an "everywoman" discounts her uniqueness, wit, and rather special charm, but she's not *not* everywoman, either. She feels like someone I know, or someone who could, in another life, be me. So it's a particular kind of triumph to see her grow and change and find joy.

Comps to EVVIE DRAKE STARTS OVER are warranted only in the loosest sense; the storytelling and writing here are far superior. Readers who enjoyed WOULD LIKE TO MEET will appreciate Thea and Edward's later-in-life romance, and fans of Graeme Simsion will find a lot to appreciate in Fraser's three-dimensional characterizations and excellent dialogue.

Tall, Duke, and Dangerous (Hazards of Dukes #2), (Megan Frampton), eBook ARC (pub date October 2020). If you’ve been reading these reviews weekly, you’ll know that I listened to the first-in-series, Never Kiss a Duke, last week. The sophomore installation was... not good. Two-star NetGalley Review:

If you, like me, felt that the first installment in the Hazards of Dukes series was a knockoff version of Kleypas's DEVIL IN WINTER, you're going to feel more of that "recycled trope" vibe in the second book-in-series, TALL, DUKE, AND DANGEROUS. While Ana Maria and Nash, our main couple, were introduced in book 1, the characterizations here seemed to come out of nowhere; our heroine is a literal Cinderella -- a girl of noble birth, forced to act as a maid by her now-blessedly-dead stepmother, and newly restored to her proper place in society -- while our hero was the victim of parental abuse at the hands of his father, which has left him isolated from his emotions and hopelessly taciturn. Ana Maria is fluent in Grunting Duke, so she can decipher Nash's true feelings even when he can't. And lucky for both of them, he wants her to be a Regency-era MPDG, and she's totally fine with it: "I want you to help me find the good parts of being who I am, of using who I am to do better for everyone. Joyfully." In other words, "I'd like you to make me the best version of myself, because that should definitely be your responsibility, o ye of the lesser sex." 

I've given Megan Frampton a very fair shake -- in fact, I've read three of her books in the past seven days. Each has felt like a faint echo of better HRs I've read before. While the writing is serviceable enough, the storytelling is weak. Here particularly, the ending comes fast; there's no denouement, not even the Epilogue one expects in this genre. I'd wager my last crown that book three sees Thaddeus and Olivia making an unlikely pairing. All in all, I have to let go of my hopes for Frampton's work, which seems derivative and predictable at best, and dangerously familiar at worst.

Lady Be Bad (The Duke’s Daughters #1), (Megan Frampton), aBook (narr. Jilly Bond). Please let us never try to parse why I leaned in so hard to Megan Frampton this week. After NEVER KISS A DUKE last week, I just... wanted to see what she was about, I guess? Which makes no sense, because if we’re talking about HR authors I read for the first time last week, I should have latched on to Julie Anne Long, whose LADY DERRING TAKES A LOVER I actually really enjoyed. Like I said -- we shouldn’t overthink this. 

Here’s the deal with LADY BE BAD: If Sarah MacLean’s NINE RULES TO BREAK WHEN ROMANCING A RAKE (2012) and Tessa Dare’s SAY YES TO THE MARQUESS (2014) had a scandalous affair, this book would be the chaise longue they fooled around on in the drawing room. That’s it. That’s the review.

The Mighty Oak (Jeff Bens), aBook (narr. Adam Barr). You might be wondering what business I had reading a literary character study about a violent, drug-addicted hockey player, so I will tell you: Blackstone Audio, publisher/producer of innumerable aBook titles I have listened to and loved, started a GoFundMe to help those employees who have lost everything in the fires raging across the western US. I don’t personally know anyone at Blackstone, but I can hear the echo of Mary Jane Wells saying “Blackstone Audio presents...” on every intro track to The Ravenels series. This company is responsible, in part, for many hours of joy in my life, and now their employees are suffering, and if we’re not committed to small acts of kindness to help those who have totally, inadvertently helped us, what the hell are we doing with ourselves? Cutting this tangent short to say that Jeff Bens saw my tweet about the GoFundMe and very kindly emailed to say thanks for donating, so I said hey let me know when your forthcoming Blackstone title releases and he said actually it’s today and I think you know what happened next. Before I get to my review, I’m going to repost the link to the Blackstone Audio GoFundMe, and I truly hope you will donate even a single dollar. The book community is vast and beautiful, and for all its flaws, I want to believe we take care of each other. SECOND ACTION ITEM is to peruse the catalogue and buy or borrow a Blackstone Audio title. Might I suggest...

THE MIGHTY OAK is about Tim “Oak” O’Connor, a hockey player lauded for his violence and intensity on the ice. Tim’s body is breaking down under the stress of his lifestyle, which involves a lot of OxyContin, and it’s pretty clear his mind is likewise struggling under the weight of drug abuse and, probably, CTE. The thought that kept resonating with me while I listened to Adam Barr’s excellent narration was this: Tim O’Connor is a drowning man who doesn’t realize he’s wet. The portraiture in THE MIGHTY OAK is powerful, visceral, and heartbreaking, even as Tim’s journey resolves in something like victory. CW for drug abuse, physical violence, and -- no other way to say this -- an eyeball dangling from its socket. 

Ready Player One (Ernest Cline), aBook (narr. Wil Wheaton). I’m generally a sucker for books about puzzles -- even puzzles based on 80s pop culture and video games. RPO is what would happen if The Westing Game and Ender’s Game made crossover appearances on an episode of The Twilight Zone. The world-building is top-notch, if belabored at times; in a version of our world that has departed so completely from the reality we know, the temptation to narrate quotidian minutiae was too strong for Cline to resist. It’s not uninteresting, for example, to hear every painstaking detail about how Wade sets up the gaming system in his apartment, but it’s not exactly page-turning either. The story’s peaks more than compensate for its valleys, and you can’t beat Wheaton’s narration. 

#the bookshop of second chances #the mighty oak #lady be bad #tall duke and dangerous #ready player one