Title: Trans Liberty Riot Brigade
Series: Trans Liberty Riot Brigade, book 1
Author: L.M. Pierce
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 7/17/17
Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex
Pairing: No Romance
Length: 80800
Genre: science fiction, speculative, alternate reality, intersex, queer, political revolution, drug/alcohol use, oppression, police state, dark, violence, gore, dystopian
Synopsis
Andi knows being born an intersex
“Transgressor” and then choosing to stay that way can have lethal consequences.
After all, surgical assignment is mandated by law. But she ain’t going to spend
her life hiding from the Society, hooked on Flow, and wanking tourists just to
make a few bucks. She’s a member of the Trans Liberty Riot Brigade, an
underground faction of Transgressors resisting the government’s war on their
illegal genitalia.
But it’s not enough to tag their
messages on shithouse walls and sniff down the next high. The government has
found their headquarters, decimated their ranks, and they’re crushing the
resistance. Though Andi might be nothing but a junktard, she embarks on a
desperate dash to stay alive and send a call for help before they’re all
killed—or worse, surgically assigned.
Andi, together with Brigade leader
Elenbar, must get beyond the communications block preventing all radio
transmission, which means crossing the seaboard Wall barricading the United
Free States borders. It’s designed to keep enemies out and the citizens in, but
amid increasing earthquakes and deadly pursuit, Andi will discover there’s a
far more dangerous secret hidden deep within the Wall itself.
Excerpt
Trans Liberty Riot Brigade
L.M. Pierce © 2017
All Rights Reserved
A Sorta Prologue
“Oh yah? Well, fuck off then, you cuck!”
He’s a penny pickle dick anyhow.
I walk into the men’s public shithouse
and slam the door behind me. The splintered starburst of mirror glitters under
the yellow lights. The reflection’s sportin’ a shaggy haircut like someone’s
gone faggin’ buggers with a pair of kitchen shears. My pupils are blown black
and wide with the upshot of Flow coursin’ through my veins.
That pickle fucker ripped my shirt.
I examine the ripped collar in the
refraction of the broken glass. My hair ain’t too long, ain’t too short. I’m
still man enough, should someone, maybe Pickle Fucker, come pokin’ around after
me. Though, if I’m real honest, I’m gettin’ sloppy. Just like Elenbar’s always
sayin’—keep yer head down, don’t draw eyes ta ya—but it’s a chafe to move
through the world as a mere pockmark of who you really are. Yah, I’m still me,
though they call me a “she,” but if I keep hackin’ at my hair, I’m gonna look
more like the dangerous “Transgressor” news stations are always shriekin’
about. But underneath it all, underneath the shag, that’s what I am.
A Transgressor on a shithouse mission.
On the cracked vid screen in the ceiling
there’s some report about us right now—another undercover operation arrestin’ a
pack of Transgressors. They don’t wanna get the snip-and-clip, the assignment
surgery that’ll turn us from who we are, into what they want us to be. They’re
reportin’ two dead already—more to come, if you know news like we do. I
shudder, imaginin’ gettin’ my delicates all mangled up by a doc with a blade
and a twisted sense of divine providence.
I approach the urinals squattin’ against
the far wall. Smell of piss cakes and wankin’ stains waft through the air, a
strong reminder of this location’s dual purpose. I peek under the stall doors,
but there ain’t no tourist trout loafers tappin’ a signal for a blowie or a
pop-off. Though pickle fucker was a bust, I’m still hopin’ to cop some rand
coins from a trout. Since I made the long trip and all. Don’t matter, though.
There’s other work to be done.
I slip down my pants and jut my pubic
bone and mini-man toward one of the white bowl interiors. Urine spurts, and I
huff with relief. There ain’t no company to gawk at me, and unlike squattin’ in
lady piss stalls, like a good li’l “she,” this is good, it’s good. Feels right
somehow.
I zip up, don’t wash, and at the exit, I
whip out the chubby marker I carry with me everywhere. The embossed man symbol
on the bathroom door gets a scrawled-on miniskirt, a crotch sweeper hardly
proper enough for street walkin’. Though after I finish the big circle and the
crosshatch over him, li’l man’s got an identity problem, the blessed “he”
symbol now one of those dreaded Transgressors. A s/he, they hiss in the
not-so-quiet corners of the world. Well, the Society will be along to reassign
h/er in short tit order, I’m sure.
I press a kiss on the new Transgressor.
It’s a tough thingtryin’ to be alive these days.
I hear a whistle, the chitterin’ bird
call of my hip-mate. Waitin’ for me to do what I came here to do. So I scrawl
TLRB in big black letters on the door. Somehow it don’t seem enough. So I write
“A riot is the language of the unheard” next to it, one of my fav tidbits by a
righteous guy. A guy who got gunned down for bein’ the wrong color and bein’ of
the wrong mind. The Society don’t like people of the wrong mind. Hey, I know,
the message ain’t nothin’ fancy, but the truth don’t have to be. It’s just
gotta show up.
The Trans Liberty Riot Brigade was here.
Lover’s Quarrel
“Spare us a Nut, would you?” Pint gropes
at my chest, fingers searchin’ for some sign of the familiar rectangular box.
His head of orange pubey curls tickles my chin, and his eyes roll loose in
their sockets, the corners beet red and weepin’ yellowish slime. A puff of a
Nutri-Stick could take the edge off a wicked withdrawal, but I ain’t got any
and push him away.
“Jesus, here, fiending like a
puckerfucker. Yer an embarrassment.” Elenbar flicks a Nut at Pint’s feet and
sweeps back her long red hair.
He drops like a Bridge Street jumper,
kneecaps a dull smack against the pavement. Blood seeps through his pants, and
he fumbles with the stick, hands shakin’ with the withdrawal fever he’s
fightin’. He brings the white tube to his chapped lips and jams the button to
activate a smoky flow of vitamins and downer. Helps with the shakes, the fever,
the gut punches to come.
Bosco glances up from his readin’ in the
corner and shakes his head like he don’t approve of people bein’ alive at all.
The whole room’s hot, air thick with chemical sweat and the smell of Pint’s
sick body.
Everybody’s quiet, watchin’ Pint squirm
and whimper on the ground. The small radio built into the wall of our
headquarters mumbles:
“On this day, our Patriot’s Day, we
remember those lost in the Great War and those still fighting the Daesh Eye
threat overseas. Thankful are we to the Wall protecting our citizenry as we are
thankful to the Society who guides us from ruin. Patriot’s Day of holiest
remembrance, warriors of the Lord on High. Remember danger lurks not only
abroad but within our own homeland. Those who would sow fear among us, the
Transgressors who―”
“Turn that shyte off.” Elenbar glares at
the green glowin’ light of the radio.
Bosco hops up from his seat and flips
the switch to red.
“Faggin’ cucks.” Here I am, sittin’
pretty on the upswing of a warm solid high and good ol’ news from the Society
broadcast gotta go bringin’ me down. See, lettin’ it get so bad is amateur shit
for crotch sniffers like Pint. “You know, you gotta pace that shit out, stay in
control, Pint. Stay on top of it. It’s how they get at us. If the Brigade’s
nothin’ but a bunch of junk-tards twitchin’ and blasted off, who’s gonna
listen?”
“Andi, just shut yer mawhole fer a pissy
pretty second.” Elenbar slaps my dome with the flat of her metal clunker hand
and my ears start ringin’. “Weather’s nice ’top that seat ya got? The pickle
pricks yer sucking fer that seat? Brigade represents all people, not just the
slick and squeaky clean. We’re like this fer a reason, ya know that, so stop
talking like ya don’t.” Elenbar’s green eyes spark with rabid rage.
I rub my stingin’ head and eye my
shitkickers instead of meetin’ her glare. “Look, I’m just gnawin’ on it. We
might be like this for a reason, but we’d howl the Society right down if we
weren’t just…” I need to drop it.
“Well, when ya get off and stay off the
Flow perma-like, Andi, ya just fucking send me a postcard. I’ll slap yer fruity
dicklips on the cover of Brigade: The Softer Side. Yer a junkie like the rest
of us. Ya ain’t no better than any of us.” The gravel in her voice hurts more
than the slap. “Ya do the marks like I told ya?”
She points her bionic metal finger at
the borough map spread on the center table, the corners weighted by beer cans
filled with gravel. This cinderblock shack is the headquarter hub of the Trans
Liberty Riot Brigade. We just call it the Brick because it looks like nothin’
more than a maintenance shed. Basically is.
“Keepers. I marked up all the west front
and the shithouses on the south.”
“Heard ya was hooking on the run.
Again.” She flexes her right fist, curlin’ the metal jointed fingers like she’s
testin’ it. The bionic arm’s a newly acquired thing and ain’t none of us used
to it, especially not Elenbar.
Bosco’s eyes are on me, and I can’t keep
the red outta my cheeks. “Just once and didn’t slop up anyhow. Just a tourist
trout from outta the neighborhood.”
“Didn’t slop up? Then how ya think I’m
hearing it? No hooking on the runs. Not ever, not fer nothing. Don’t care if
the president’s begging ya fer a pop-off. Ya were seen, by one of ours, but ya
might get remembered by someone else next time.”
“But not this time.” My beatin’ ticker’s
takin’ missteps all over the place. I feel woozy.
“No, not this time. But it brings too
much heat, attracts all sorts of problems. Ya keep it clean and straight fer
the runs. Now, head ta Lover’s Lane with Bosco. He’ll fill ya in as ya go.
Fagging twat.” She spits the last words and stalks outta the Brick, her lip
wrinkled in a sneer of disgust.
Pint whimpers from his withered crouch
on the floor. He tries to rock back on his feet but falls again. Don’t think
he’s gonna be able to get up, and no one goes to help him. This ain’t the first
and it ain’t gonna be the last time he’s quiverin’ on this floor. Pint’s got
the hook worse than most of us combined. Smoke snakes from his mouth like
someone’s lit him up from the inside. There are some things a good ol’ Nut
can’t fix.
Elenbar likes to think I talk about
things I don’t understand, but I do. The come-down off Flow’s some of the worst
feelin’s in the world. The tremors start at the edges of your peripheral
vision, li’l specks of dark like you’re rubbin’ your eyes too much, but they stick
around, get bigger. Soon it’s rumblin’ through the threadlines of your nerves
and your stomach clamps on your sack of guts. If you don’t rupture somethin’
internal, you can usually ride it out. But too many of us drag or get dragged
to Dr. Chambers, beggin’ for a fixer. Most of the time he does us right, but he
comes with a price. If you don’t have the rands to pay, he does accept other
kinds of trade. Right and honest maybe, but still a sadist fagger.
Flow also comes in waves, and the nods
are comin’ down on me, my body shudderin’ and losin’ some cohesion. I try not
to let the fade happen too hard, or I’ll be right next to Pint on the ground.
Gotta stay on top. Stay in control.
“Heh. Andi’s going wonky. Dr.
Chambers’ll take it outta your ass, for effing sure, you wanker.” Bosco pounds
me on the back, jerkin’ me from the pleasant grayspace I’d slipped into.
The weight of the nods dissipates a bit.
“Suck a dick duck, ya cuck.”
He smirks, liftin’ his eyepatch to wink
at me with the perfectly good blue eye underneath. He’s a faggin’ anglosax
dramatic, fancies himself a limey punk-riot pirate. “Knockers. You coming with
me to Lover’s Lane or what?”
“Keepers. Let’s get this shit right,
though. I ain’t a fan of repeat business.”
Elenbar’s given us our instructions, and
we gotta obey like the good soldiers we are. I try to pretend it don’t matter,
but a trip to Lover’s Lane always gets at me, clawin’ deep inside my fleshy
core where my feelin’ parts must be. I hate every minute, even though I ain’t
seen her prowlin’. Every time I gotta go back, the possibility of seein’ her
punches me straight in the mawhole. Nah, Lover’s Lane ain’t no love at all.
When we step outta the shack and into
the night, I see Elenbar by the chain link, gazin’ at the shoreline of the
Anacostia River. The water’s a shade of blotchy underpants, grayish yellow from
the repeated wash and piss stains of the world revolvin’ around it. Lights
fester on the river’s opposite edge, the shimmerin’ world of the Uppers, filled
with people standin’ atop the shit crust of this Slumland the rest of us gotta
live in. Elenbar cuts a statuesque silhouette against that distant glow.
Our little pocket of alleyway is
littered with trash, knobs of it caught in the honeycomb fence line. You could
follow that chain link all the way through the different sections of our
quarter, if you wanted. Not that the fence serves any purpose. Rusted-away
pockholes mean we could still duck to the water. Not that we would. The water
incubates far worse than sewer sludge and dumped bodies, but there, across the
rushin’ river, is Elenbar’s past, and I hope, someday, her future.
“Elenbar, you coming with us?” Bosco asks.
She wrinkles her nose at him. “I’ll stay
here with Pint. Needs ta get shored up with Dr. Chambers. Apparently, I run a
goddamn nappy factory, wiping yer shitty asses.”
“He’ll be all right,” I say.
Elenbar glares at me. “Aye, he will. But
what about ya? Don’t fuck it up, Andi.”
Bosco touches my elbow, and together we
slink back through the shadows of the alley, swallowed up in the bosom of the
Slumland haze.
Back alleyways are transit of choice for
scum breathers like us—like me—prowlin’ among the rats, kiddy-diddys, and other
junk-tards. For the rest of society, it’s easier to ignore us, pretend we’re
not there. We don’t fit into Temperance—the political catchphrase inflamin’
politics like a mutated case of syphilis. And though it smells of jizz wrappers
and moldin’ dumpsters back here, I don’t mind the alleys so much. Keeps the
questionin’ eyes away. Is she one of them? A Transgressor? A s/he? Why can’t
they get h/er off the streets, reassign h/er like the rest?
But there’s more and more of us now.
Some of us pass all right, wearin’ proper lady locks and skirts or sportin’
gentlemanly attire if such is our preference. But most of us struggle, eyes
followin’ us wherever we go.
Bosco’s ahead, struttin’ to a
prick-bustin’ beat pulsin’ out the back end of the Loosey Goosey Club. The back
door butts up against the alleyway, and it’s here we come across Lucky Lips.
“Effing effer,” he whispers. Then he
cups his mouth and lets out a chitterin’ series of bird calls. The ones we use
to signal our hip-mates when we’re runnin’ our tags or an op.
She flinches and whips around like it’s
a pinch on the ass. Bosco chuckles and sidles up to her, greetin’ her with a
smarmy hug. His callused hands look like grease smears on her white latex
dress. Lips’s got a smolderin’ Nut between her teeth, and she grimaces, pullin’
away from him.
“You smell like shyte, per ush.” Disdain
strums her vocal cords, and she sounds prettier somehow, lighter and girly.
Even her face, she’s already pale as milk, but her skin’s been painted ultra
white, with large streaks of blue over her eyes. And her breasts, ones that
don’t come natural home-grown, are crammed almost to her chin. I try not to
stare. I’ve never seen Lips look this way, with tits like this, and in a dress
too.
“Naw, serious now, where you been?
Elenbar had the whole Brigade on fire lookin’ for you. Thought you up and
drained out on us—you hawking Flow?” he says. His smile’s playful, but she
frowns like it ain’t play at all.
Lucky Lips glances up the alleyway and
drops her voice.
“Just shut it. I’m not Lips anymore.
Name’s Lucy. Now get outta here. I don’t wanna call someone around, but I will
if I gotta.” She glances at the backdoor of the club, where a bulgin’ beef
steak stands with crossed arms. Watchin’ us.
“What the eff?” Bosco frowns.
“She’s been assigned.” I put a hand on
his shoulder.
He wrenches free of me. The rims of his
eyes water with horror. The look you get when you realize someone’s fallen
beneath the waves and the person you’ve known and loved’s drowned and dead
forever.
“Lips. What happened? What the eff
happened? Is that what this is?” He grabs her wrist, his mouth a cavernous
black gash of rage. Her nipples are hard in the chill clip of night, and he
pinches one. “You think this is real? That you can escape what you are?”
“Feck you! Feck you, aye? Tell Elenbar
she’s a fool. You all are now! How long can you go on playing at riot? It’s all
a joke, ain’t—no, isn’t it? It’s all up someday, isn’t it?” She jerks away,
cheeks burnin’ hot. Then she soothes her poofed dome of hair and nods toward
the rump roast at the door. He slinks back inside, and she huffs an angry sigh.
“Look, they patched me up. Got me off the Flow, and I can earn me some rands in
a tight dress and clean hair. It’s not so faggin’ bad after all. Better than
scootin’ around, s/he arses in the dirt.” Fury’s brought out her accent, and
she sounds like Lips again. The real Lips. But I know, understand real clear,
that Lucky Lips is dead.
“S/he? Oh, pardon, like weren’t a season
ago you were swinging your pecker ’round the quarter? S/he now—look, Andi,
we’re just s/he scumsuckers to Miss Cock Queen of all the Land!” He laughs,
lookin’ crazy as he spreads his arms wide, and gestures to the grime of the
alley we stand in. A roach sips from a puddle of gutter fly puke. “Society
slut, you’re just an effing Society slut. Gonna take that dick along with the
poke of the Society stick?” Bosco grabs her arm again, twistin’ hard, and Lucy
shrieks, her wrist at a funny angle.
I grab his shoulder, tryin’ to stop him
because if he don’t, they’re gonna—
“Citizen, desist! You are in violation
of the peace. Release her.”
We all freeze. We are straight, lubed
up, and puckerfucked. Bosco lets go immediately, his mouth a pinhole of
surprise.
“All right, all right. We got heated,
it’s all right.” Bosco raises his hands, palms out.
The clunk-a-junk Security & Citizen
Enforcement officer glares, red glowin’ bulbs where fleshy eyeballs would be.
Assignin’ security to portable lug nuts I guess makes sense from an Upper’s
point of view. No subjectivity, no bias. You can’t bribe a clunker. They stand
upright; a coffin-shaped reinforced body of painted steel, hidin’ all the
mechanical guts, nuts, and bolts of the system. The head’s a calculatin’ mass
of probabilities and policy, enforcement and control. What made sense on an
administrative level don’t translate so well to us faggers who gotta live with
it. They use human Enforcers in the Uppers. Down here in the Slumland? We got a
robotic task force seemingly programmed to fuck us on the regular.
“Yah, he’s right. We’re leavin’ Lucy
here and continuin’ on our way.” I say it slow and clear. No misunderstandings.
Tryin’ to be cool, easy. But it ain’t gonna fly. Not even a li’l tit bit.
“Ma’am, please resume your normal
activities. Sir, please submit to a gender screening,” the clunker buzzes,
polite as pie, sinister as fuck.
“Ah. Well, I can’t, things make me gag.
I’m liable to throw up all over the place, all over you and the lady—” Bosco’s
green eyes meet mine. Ain’t none of us want to be on the radar, gotta stay out
of the system as much as possible.
I sprint towards Lover’s Lane while
Bosco splits in the other direction. The clunker processes for a second before
rollin’ after Bosco. Yah, they roll. Spry motherfuckers have got off-roadin’
equipment, chains, and regular asphalt rollers. Ready to deal with any and all
situations.
“Bye, Lucky Lips! Hope you choke on a
bucket of dicks!” I shriek over my shoulder, reckless immaturity givin’ me
strength and speed. I’m still sprintin’ because clunkers round up quick. No
doubt, any moment, they’d descend on our location like cockroaches, infestin’
the dark crevices of our back-alley world.
Purchase
When did you write your first story and what was the
inspiration for it?
I journaled and wrote a lot of small stories and poems as a
child, but my first “legit” story was actually my first novel. We were
assigned a short story project in 7th grade and once I started
writing I found I couldn’t stop! A global terrorist with a big ass bomb and a
team of specialists assembled to stop him! My very patient teacher encouraged
me and when I turned in a 100-page monstrosity to her 3 weeks late, she simply
beamed and said, “I can’t wait to read it!” These are the golden moments in
any child’s life and I spent a week bursting with nerves waiting for her
feedback, while secretly wondering if she would actually read it or just slap
a grade on the front. When it was returned to me, there were notes throughout
the entire book. Not only had she read it, but she praised my efforts and gave
me my first critique! I was ecstatic and at that point my writing journey
truly began.
Do you have a writing schedule or do you just write when you
can find the time?
Eh, I try to have
a schedule… but I don’t operate well that way. Especially being in graduate
school, I find most of my mental energy during the semesters is completely
tapped. During school breaks I try to maximize my time and summer is usually a
productive season for me. However, every day I get up in the morning, have my
coffee, and try to work on something related
to my writing, even if I’m simply posting in my writer groups or participating
in Twitter hashtag prompts.
Briefly describe the writing process. Do you create an
outline first? Do you seek out inspirational pictures, videos or music? Do you
just let the words flow and then go back and try and make some sense out it?
Oh goodness. I drive a lot of people crazy when I tell them
I don’t outline anything. Well, I
should say that I don’t usually. I’ve developed some basic outlining skills
and I now use beat sheets to track story and character arc. However, that’s
about as far as my planning goes. I usually write that shitty barebones first
draft and then go back and add to it, expanding on plot points, world
building, and other aspects I might have glossed over in favor of finishing
the damn thing. I now realize that this approach is a little problematic when
writing a series or trilogy. With Brigade
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to map out all the threads I created after
the fact. This is far more time consuming than it probably would have been to
have these built-in as I go. Live and learn, I suppose, but Book 2 and 3 will
have a fairly different process because of my experience with Book 1.
Where did the desire to write LGBTQIA+ stories come from?
I identify as queer and pansexual, so my desire is largely
personal. My experience of coming out, with my girlfriend, as the first gay
couple in our high school, also had a profound impact on my desire to tell
these stories. When I married my now ex-wife, gay marriage wasn’t even legal,
and now, married to a man, I am often enraged by how much easier it is as a
“passing for straight” person than it ever was when I was “obviously” gay. The
exchange of privilege, target memberships, and the different complexities
present in every one of my interactions with mainstream societal norms,
illustrates again and again, how important these stories and individual
experiences are.
How much research do you do when writing a story and what
are the best sources you’ve found for giving an authentic voice to your
characters?
I tend to research as I go, though I reserve the bulk of it
for after the fact, since research can become a lovely black hole sucking away
any writing productivity. However, I find the best source for authentic voice
is in the world around us. Even if we’re writing characters in space, on alien
planets, or in parallel universes, there are many themes that tie these
experiences together. I’ve heard many writers say dialogue is often the
hardest part, but dialogue is actually my favorite thing to write! Reading it
out loud to myself or to my critique group has taught me a lot about
authenticity of voice in dialogue. Also… eavesdropping while standing in line
or sitting in a coffee shop. People are funny, dastardly, and extremely fucked
up. Makes for great dialogue every time!
What’s harder, naming your characters, creating the title
for your book or the cover design process?
Yikes! Well… all of these are hard in different ways, but
character names often pop out at me without much effort on my part and I love
graphic design so creating a book cover is often good fun! However, the book
title I find most challenging for a variety of reasons: 1) Because I hope to
be able to tie theme or character or world together in a meaningful and
aesthetically pleasing way. This is often infuriatingly difficult. And 2)
because no one ever seems to agree on what you should do whenever you dare to
ask for advice! There’s a lot of varying opinions on book titles and what they
should accomplish so… yeah. Book title is probably the most difficult. I
recommend a working title of “someday I’ll finish this flaming heap” for
anyone uncertain of where to start.
How do you answer the question “Oh, you're an author...what
do you write?"
I usually just tell them “speculative fiction” and that
attracts a lot of blank stares, so I’ll follow it up with “kind of like
science fiction. One of my books has psychic chickens and zombies!” And that’s
usually enough to convince them to
smile, nod, and promptly get the hell away from me.
What does your family think of your writing?
Hah, I can’t wait for them to read my book! Actually, I’m
usually scared shitless when people in my personal life want to read my work,
because there’s a huge juxtaposition between the dark and often gory stuff I
write, and my very gregarious peace-loving self they are familiar with.
However, my family tells me all the time how proud they are, so even if my
book isn’t their cup of tea genre-wise, I know they are very pleased with my
dedication and perseverance.
Tell us about your current work in process and what you’ve
got planned for the future.
I’m neck-deep promoting Book One of the Trans Liberty Riot Brigade trilogy,
while trying to finish Book Two, plot Book Three, and did I mention I have a
book about psychic chickens and zombies? I also recently began conceptualizing
a second Brigade trilogy that takes
place on the west coast with a different set of characters. I also have
another completely different trilogy,
of which half of Book One is finished—though I’m already planning on
completely re-writing it. In short, I am never never never EVER lacking ideas
or current projects!
Do you have any advice for all the aspiring writers out
there?
Keep writing! Seriously. Commit to writing the first shitty
draft. I spent yeeeeears unable to finish a single manuscript because I was
stuck in the “edit as you go” model. This paralyzed my forward momentum. Now,
to satisfy my “edit as you go” desire, I bring one chapter at a time to my
weekly critique group and edit that one, while slamming out words on the rest
of the manuscript. It took me a long time to get to this point and it probably
would have never happened if I didn’t break through and commit to the shitty
first draft—allowing me to complete my first project, then the second,
etcetera. In addition to my mantra, having a really good and trusted critique
group completely changed my writing and launched me skill-wise in a way I
don’t think I would have accomplished on my own. I started with online writing
groups, which was great when I didn’t have access to an in-person one, but
once I found my now weekly critique group, the benefits have been exponential.
If you could travel forward or backward in time, where would
you go and why?
Forward in time, just to see how it all goes down. I have
often mused that I would love to be immortal because I have a sick fascination
with how the world will end and all the changes coming in our future. And, to
be honest, I just want to see Star Trek happen! … and Seven of Nine. Just
saying…
We’ve all got a little voyeurism in us right? If you could
be a fly on the wall during an intimate encounter (does not need to be sexual)
between two characters, not your own, who would they be?
I just saw
“Wonder Woman” so I am completely enamored with Themyscira and visions of
sexually free and fluid warrior women bound through my head on a regular
basis. Antiope and Diana in a Mentor/Mentee sexually educational session? YES
PLEASE.
If I were snooping around your kitchen and looked in your
refrigerator right now, what would I find?
Chunky honeycrisp applesauce, cottage cheese, Noosa
yoghurt, bell peppers, hot mustard, ground turkey, chicken sausages, salami,
lettuce, and a metric shit-ton of condiments of all varieties.
If you could be a superhero, what would you want your
superpowers to be?
Invisibility is a good one, but thanks to “Wonder Woman,” (and
my Xena infatuation) I just want to be an epic warrior badass who can crush my
forces with godly strength and shoot arrows while flipping off the back of a
horse. I’m a girl with simple desires.
If you could trade places with one of your characters, who
would it be and why?
Yikes, I write dark dystopian fiction so… really? Probably
none of them. Though, I will say, Bird Man does live a more idyllic sort of
existence on the coastline, so I would swap with him and play with his birds, hang
out with Boy, and keep my eye on intruders in the Wall.
If you could sequester yourself for a week somewhere and
just focus on your writing, where would you go and what would the environment
be like?
Snowy mountain cabin. Seriously. I used to live in Montana
in a sort of snowy cabin and there’s something about outdoor desolation that
really fuels my creative spirit. Plus I don’t feel so guilty about being
hunkered down inside, wrapped up in blankets, and drinking hot coffee. All
while surrounded by beautiful snow and gloomy skies.
What's the one thing, you can't live without?
I’m going to assume metaphorically because air? Water? I
couldn’t (or wouldn’t) want to live without my husband because he is seriously
so much fun, my BFF for reals, and supports me in all my crazy
shenanigans—it’s okay, here’s a barf bag—and then the requisite coffee and
chocolate.
What internet site do you surf to the most?
Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, and Reddit, though there’s a
ton of other sites I spend way too much time surfing, so let’s just keep it
simple.
If you had your own talk show, who would your first three
author guests be and why?
Squee! I’ve always wanted my own… oh, no, wait, you said talk show? I want a show. Of people.
With their heads down. Reading. So the library, basically I want my own library.
But if I was forced into a talk show travesty, I would love
to feature Stephen King, not only for his writing work (his early horror
novels inspired a lot of my work) but because he is very much in my political
wheelhouse and it would be a blast to make fun of Drumpf with him. JK Rowling
for that same reason and because I’m a Potterhead through and through
(Ravenclaw!) Aaaand, more obscurely, I would resurrect Mikhail Bulgakov and
pick his brain about “Master and Margarita” and his experience in burning the
first draft of the novel, which ended up being published posthumously.
When you got your very first manuscript acceptance letter,
what was your initial reaction and who was the first person you told?
Well, my response was tepid skepticism. I checked with my
husband and my BB4L, Dante, and had them review the letter to make sure it
said what I thought it said. Then I researched and stalked and interviewed
their authors. Romantic, huh? I guess I had been traumatized by one too many
horror stories of scam houses and schemes to exploit new authors… I wanted to
be careful. Then! I signed the paperwork and only then did I truly celebrate! And
for the record, NineStar Press has rocked my proverbial socks off throughout
this whole process so much love to them!
Meet the Author
“Hey, but what if…?”
Music to Lindsay’s ears. She is a graduate from The Evergreen State College and bathes in the sweet liberal waters of the Puget Sound. Or she would, if it wasn’t so polluted. She is a lover of the new and the old, of asking questions and contemplating possibilities. Lindsay’s work is primarily speculative fiction and she is an unapologetic Nerd. She lives with her husband and four fur-babies in Olympia, Washington.
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