Thursday, April 24th, 2014 08:41 pm
 Read about what happened in the Torn World Muse Fusion and vote in the poll to unlock some of my writing.
Thursday, April 24th, 2014 06:39 pm
I have a paid Dreamwidth account now, and so the extra icons I had when my paid account expired several years ago are still there, but accessible now. So I chose one to put on this post. Hooray! No more being restricted to just 10 icons!
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Thursday, April 24th, 2014 05:53 pm
On another note, I am gonna go ahead and start paying for a paid Dreamwidth account ahead of schedule, as it's only $3 or so per month, because I keep running into this "you have too many tags" bullshit that requires me to erase the new tag before I am allowed to post, even from Drivel.
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Thursday, April 24th, 2014 05:51 pm
Just overheard a couple women talking about how someone they know has a setup where his kids' text messages go to his phone first and then he like, approves them or something. Or maybe he just got CC's of the texts, I dunno, I didn't hear it well. But one woman said something like "I think for adults that would be a violation of privacy, but for kids that makes good sense."

I didn't say anything to them, though I was very tempted to. Because what I wanted to say to them was, "It doesn't matter what age someone is, people are still people and have a right to privacy, even children. It is STILL a violation of privacy, and there's no justification for it. Just excuses." Because honestly, if they're old enough to use a cell phone to send and receive text messages, they have a right to those messages being private. Same goes for email.

Sheesh, the bullshit some people rationalize in the name of "safety." Oy vey.
Thursday, April 24th, 2014 07:22 pm
Let's take a breath for poetry. It is April, and as good a time as any for a collaborative poetry fest. Please find below a starting stanza or two of a brand new shiny haikai (what's a haikai, you ask? think extended haiku: alternating stanzas of 5-7-5 and 7-7). Comment with a new stanza responding to the original theme. Someone (most likely me) will respond with another stanza, and so on and so forth throughout the day.
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life with uterus:
just got my first IUD
I thought I knew pain
Monday, April 21st, 2014 10:59 pm

Posted by fozmeadows

I first became active online when I was eleven or twelve, back in 1998; I’d just started high school. To use the internet, I had to go into my mother’s study and use a 56k dial-up modem that sounded like a series of cartoon pratfalls. My first proper blog, if you can call it that, was attached to my Elfwood account, after which I progressed steadily to fourms, private sites, and finally to actual blogging and collaborative platforms. I posted poetry, short stories, book and film reviews, and political opinions, but though I got into plenty of arguments and even made a few friends, I doubt I had more than a dozen or so readers at any one time, and most of them were people I knew IRL. I was shouting into a void, but that was fine, because I’d never expected an audience: I just wanted to write, to get my thoughts out, and to put them somewhere that wasn’t a poorly-labelled Word document on a shared computer.

All through my teens, I kept it up. For a brief period during university, I even had my own paid website, called Wordwench, maintained and coded by my then-boyfriend. Though there were sometimes long hiatuses between posts, and despite the trail of abandoned sites and usernames I left behind me over the years, I always wrote, even when I didn’t know who I was writing for, or why, or whether anyone was listening. You can backdate my desire to be an author to the same year I discovered the internet, too; and maybe that’s significant, and maybe it’s not, but either way, even when I was too shy and paranoid to ever put my actual novel-attempts online, I kept writing them, kept blogging and arguing and posting opinions, because it never occurred to me not to. Aged sixteen, writing in response to a friend’s amazement at how much I wrote, I ended an otherwise wholly unmemorable poem with a single decent phrase:

“My words are a sonar, a path to be walked.

I write like a whale sings.”

And even though the sentiment now feels bombastic and self-aggrandising, at some base level,  it still also feels true. I write as a form of self-navigation. I don’t know how not to write, how to just have thoughts unmediated by ink and script and keyboard. The older I get, the more I feel like a chimaerical creature, three-headed, trifurcated into distinct personalities – how I seem to strangers, how I seem to friends, how I see myself – whose only point of overlap is the part of me that writes; which is, perhaps, the only real part. I so often feel dissonant within myself, but words are anchors, words are steel and sky and the blood that hammers me in place, the fire that keeps me functioning when all other sparks go out. When I have been depressed, sunk in dark trenches, lit only by small hopes as dimglowing and treacherous as anglerfish, it has always been three words, the same three words, that pull me out again: what happens next? I thought it was a mantra I conjured in high school, words to sooth the moon from my eyes on endless insomniac nights, but years later, my mother told me I’d said the same thing in childhood, too, whenever a bedtime story ended. What happens next? my girlself asked, and perhaps that’s why she grew up to be a writer. How else could she find answers?

Because the truth is, stories never end; we just exit them a while, like passengers alighting a train with no final destination. There’s always a thing that happens next, and a thing after that, and a thing after that, most of them small, but a great many not; and these are the things we live for. And now, such a thing has happened to me: I’ve been nominated for a Hugo Award for Best Fan Writer, alongside four other people I immensely respect – Abigail Nussbaum, Liz Bourke, Kameron Hurley and Mark Oshiro – and even though there’s been controversy in other quarters, such that part of me feels I ought to discuss it, in truth, with everyone who’s already contributed, I don’t feel I can add much more to the discussion, and so you’re getting this instead: a rambling Once Upon A Time about a girl who was bitten by words, infecting her with liticism, which tragically has no cure but a life spent writing; and how, all these years later, I find myself with an audience, and a peer group, and a place in a community, and some small, tangible proof of the fact that enough of you like what I write here that you nominated me, and so – thank you.

That’s all I wanted to say, really. Thank you. It means a lot.


Thursday, April 24th, 2014 11:12 pm
Nearly 35 years after Iran's Islamic government made it compulsory for women in the country to wear the hijab, many have taken to wearing headscarves made from western-style, fashionable fabrics which are not approved by the government.