Reading at Seattle WorldCon

You can hear me read “Wishbone,” from my new collection Patti 209, at 3 p.m. Saturday (August 16) in Room 428 of the Summit building at the Seattle Convention Center (WorldCon membership required).

I could freak out about the fact that my reading is in competition with readings by two of the biggest names in science fiction (Brandon Sanderson and Mary Robinette Kowal) or I could breath a sigh of relief that I didn’t get relegated to a late-afternoon reading on the final day of the convention or an early-morning reading on the opening weekday. I’ll go for the sigh of relief. It’s better for starting a reading. BTW, I’ll be followed by Matt Youngmark, who writes delightfully zany and beautifully illustrated children’s books.

Copies of Patti 209 will be for sale in the Dealers Room at the LimFic and Fairwood Press tables.

If you’re in the publishing field, you know all too well how hard it is these days for authors to get any sort of traction for their new publications. I won’t add to the laments; I’ll just refer you to this excellent and dispassionate explanation by Cherie Priest, author of the brilliant new novel It Was Her House First.

Everything is Wrong Now

Blame it on DOGE, massive layoffs of humans, outsourcing overseas, or whatever you want, but everything is wrong now.

Today was the final straw.

I didn’t take to social media last week when I spent four hours on the phone with Century Link and Quantum Fiber (their sister company) and Century Link and Quantum Fiber and Century Link and Quantum Fiber. (All this to report a wire hanging over our neighbor’s driveway and leading to our house.) Finally Century Link bombarded me with texts telling me the technician was on their way, the technician was at my address, the technician was fixing the problem, and the ticket had been closed—all while my neighbor and I sat on our front porches and stared at the empty street and the still-dangling wire. No truck ever appeared. The following day, after more phone time during which Century Link transferred me to Quantum Fiber and they transferred me back to Century Link (repeat a few times) a truck showed up. A technician coiled up the drooping wire, reattached it to the pole, and drove away. This time there were no text messages from anyone.

I didn’t take to social media this week when the pod storage company texted me 20 times to ask me to confirm that we wanted the empty pod in our driveway picked up. Yes, yes, yes, C to confirm! The final text said that they’d emailed me the exact window of time when that pickup (requiring all our cars and the neighbors’ cars to be moved from the street) would occur. There was no email, of course. So I texted the pod company’s help number, which helpfully informed me I had no active pods rentals. So I went to the company’s site, clicked “Log in”—and got a 403 notice. We’re still hoping they will come take the damn pod away. Some day.

No, what has truly driven me to howl into the void of social media is the IRS. They sent a letter a few weeks ago saying that something was wrong with my 2023 return. They wouldn’t say what, but required that I upload to their site a form acknowledging that they were recomputing my 2023 return. What choice did I have? I signed the form, scanned it, and uploaded it.Today I got email from them saying there was a message for me at the IRS site. In case it was a scam, I clicked no links, but logged in to the IRS site. There I found the new message. It told me to ignore the previous letter because they had made an error, and to open or download the attached PDF to see and accept their new recomputation. I obediently downloaded the file. It turned out to have more than 45 alphanumeric characters in its name, and did not end in “pdf”. It wouldn’t open, and my file analysis software informed me it contained 0 bytes of information.

In the online account portal, I replied to the IRS message and requested a readable version of the form. I then printed out their message—which was good, because 10 minutes later their message, and my reply, had both vanished from my IRS account.

Perhaps they never existed? Maybe they’re stored in a pod in somebody’s driveway? Or maybe Quantum Fiber intercepted them and has routed them to Pete Hegseth’s phone.

How (and Why) to Review a Book

Want to delight an author whose work you enjoy? Post a three-sentence review of their book (or story) on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Goodreads.

I had coffee this week with a fellow author and we noted that while we’re both selling books, we’re not getting the online reviews that are essential for building reputation and getting the next book (or story) published. We don’t mean book reviews from newspapers (most papers don’t even have reviewers any more). We mean reviews from the readers who’ve purchased the book!

Anyone with an Amazon account can leave a book review, even if they bought their copy of the book at a local bookstore or borrowed it from the library. Even if they just read one chapter, and liked that.

And the formula for a short review is pretty simple:

• Is this the sort of book you usually read?
• What did you like (or not like) about your experience with the book?
• Who do you think might want to read it?
• If you enjoyed it, what scene, character, or story was your favorite?

Karen Eisenbrey, author of A Quest for Hidden Things, Ego & Endurance, the Daughter of Magic trilogy, and the St. Rage duology, loves to review books by other authors.

“Writing a review is balm for a book hangover, when the book was so good, you didn’t want it to end,” she says. “Reviewing allows you to spend more time with a story and characters you enjoyed, putting into words what you liked and why. At the same time, a review is a cost-free way to promote a book and author you like, letting more readers know whether the book is right for them.”

Need inspiration? Check out these short reviews of three new books:

Amazon.com review of Evan J. Peterson’s Better Living Through Alchemy:

“Better Living Through Alchemy reads like William S. Burroughs meets American Gods in a Micky Spillane tale. The sense of smell is paramount in this book, kinda like in Patrick Susskind’s Perfume, but taken in an entirely different occult direction. The book is queer AF, incorporates cut-up poetry, and is a romp of a read. And though it stands alone, the ending sets us up for possible sequels.”

BarnesandNoble.com review of Alternative Liberties:

“This handful of writers had the visceral courage to write this book. In the midst of madness, this book presents a soul-stirring kick of reality into what we have become and where we are headed. Wonderful, begs deep introspection, the stories linger in your conscience, if you have one….”

Amazon.com review Irene Radford’s The Barefoot Sheriff:

“If you loved the smart-ass dialog in the film Tombstone, if your heart was stolen by Deadwood, you will be blown away by The Barefoot Sheriff. Phyllis Irene Radford puts a clever twist on all of the Wild West stereotypes, starting with her sheriff—a feisty, seductive, and magical woman—and continuing on to the evil banker, the fearsome widow, the madam with the heart of gold, and the mysterious clan living on the outskirts of town. Friends or foes? Radford will keep you guessing right to the last sentence.”

“Unwanted Visitors” (a Seattle story)

In a week when the federal government ordered troops into Los Angeles and Seattle’s police chief said that he expects to be arrested for resisting federal bullies, I invite you to read an excerpt from “Unwanted Visitors.” Originally published by B Cubed Press, it’s one of the stories in my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future.

“Routine check of the block.” The agent’s speech was devoid of inflection. He probably said that same phrase 50 times a day. Or, in the case of Federal Security, a night. They usually came at night.

His partner was already pawing through magazines on my coffee table, peering at books in my bookcases, and opening drawers in the table where I sort the mail. Marie had come out from the kitchen. Now she perched on the arm of a club chair, her open mouth proclaiming her disbelief.

I stood by the sofa, my eyes on anything but the agents. I always stood when Federal Security came.

The taller agent, the one who’d spoken, brushed past. I wrinkled my nose. His cloying body spray was an assault in and of itself. He jogged heavily upstairs to the bedrooms, squeezing his bulk through the narrow staircase. Meanwhile, in the dining room, his colleague stuck his hand in a vase.

I moved closer to Marie. “Security theater.” I kept my voice low. “Ever since the new administration declared Seattle a terrorist haven—” I rolled my eyes to indicate the absurdity of it, “the feds have been sending these rent-a-cops around to keep us on our toes, keep us frightened. They’ll check the computers, maybe ask to see my phone.”

“But that’s illegal!” Marie said, spluttering. “They need warrants! You should just tell them to leave.” 

I wished she’d keep her voice down. I kept my tone even. “Well, the feds have declared a state of emergency and they claim that means they don’t need warrants. Of course, people are filing lawsuits. But in the meantime, putting up with these visits is easier than being arrested.” I didn’t add that my next-door neighbor who’d resisted an inspection had disappeared the following day. His bungalow now sat empty, the front lawn overgrown. The couple across the street had adopted his dogs. Had he left town? Or was he in a detention camp? 

“The Bodies We Carry” (excerpt)

Here’s an excerpt from the short story “The Bodies We Carry” from my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future, available now. I’d considered reading “The Bodies We Carry” for the Strong Women, Strange Worlds Zoom event, or at the book launch at the Couth Buzzard June 6, but the story hits too close to home at the moment.

“Hey, Kath, check this out,” Dean had said when he saw the first news story about the camps.

I’d listened as I cleared our breakfast dishes, shaking my head in incredulity as he explained. Some group calling themselves Campers for Care had obtained the home addresses of the CEOs and board members of major insurance companies, drug companies, and hospitals.

Dean grinned. “They’re taking dead bodies to their offices. To the lobbies of their beachfront condos. They put three dead bodies on the dock of this guy’s vacation place. This is great.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Dean. I seriously doubt the cities are letting them do this.”

Dean steadied his laptop on bony knees. “No, it says here that San Francisco and Denver are giving the Campers permission to keep the bodies on site, in body bags, for up to 36 hours. And there’s been what they call a ‘dead camp’ going on for nearly two weeks in front of some pharma CEO’s mansion in Chicago.”

“You don’t really—” But I stopped. I hadn’t seen that glint in my husband’s eyes for months. 

“Kath, seriously, this is perfect for me,” he said. “I’ll be dead in a month or two, and they say they’re going to start up some camps in Seattle. Let’s just keep the possibility in mind. Please?”

Imagine this: “Bad Memories, 2032”

In 2018, I made the rash claim that I could write a story that would make people feel sorry for the 45th president. This led to the short story “Bad Memories, 2032.” It appeared in After the Orange, edited by Manny Frishberg for B Cubed Press, and now appears in my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future.

Here’s an excerpt:

“Mr. President, sir, your doctor is here.”

“Doctor? Another check-up? Sure, sure. Busy scheduling. Keeping busy. Keeping fit.”

“How are you sleeping, Mr. President?”

“Bad night last night, Doc. Couldn’t sleep at all. Phone wasn’t working. Couldn’t log on to that social media thing. I blame that dinner. Big state banquet. The biggest. Some terrible prime minister. Some awful guy from Teriyakistan. I let Ivanka handle him. Ivanka did great.”

“Just a few questions. Do you know who the president is?” 

“Do I know who’s the president? Hilarious. You’re some joker, Doc!”

“Do you know what year it is?”

“Do I know what year it is? Hah! Very funny! It’s, ah, 2028! And we’ve got an election to win. Bannon’s busy, you can bet on that. Man knows his job.”

“Yoga for Protesters”

The fury in me honors the fury in you. Oh, does it ever.

Originally published in The Protest Diaries from B Cubed Press, the short story “Yoga for Protesters: A Field Guide” appears in my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future, available now.

“Yoga for Protesters” was inspired by my awesome yoga instructor, Susan Powter. Here’s one of the most challenging poses:

Pose to Protest Political Corruption

Place one mat in the hallway outside the politician’s office. Take turns with other constituents using the mat for regular yoga practices. It is fine to do any version of Hatha, Iyengar, Vinyasa, or Ashtanga. Be careful of the slippery environment. When the politician is under investigation or indictment, you can switch to Bikram (hot) yoga for the duration.

I’ll be demonstrating some yoga for protesters to kick off my June 6 reading at the Couth Buzzard bookstore in Seattle. Details here.

A big, beautiful bill and the “Wishbone”

The latest legislation have you in shock? Things could be worse, as it they are in this excerpt from the short story “Wishbone.”

Originally published by Third Flatiron Press, “Wishbone” appears in my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future, available now:

“But don’t you have grandparents, Representative Podestra?” the talk show host leaned forward in an eager posture of faux concern. “How will you explain your proposed Age Equity Act to them?”

My grandson, Tory Podestra, decked out in a blue suit, crisp white shirt, and camera-friendly burgundy tie, didn’t even blink. He’d had media training.

“As a leader of the Third Parties Coalition, I’m committed to ensuring that everyone in the United States gets a fair share of our remaining resources,” he said. “There’s no question that the Olds have consumed far more than their share. The Age Equity Act actually benefits them, by ensuring that those of them who reach their 72nd year will enjoy discounted access to adequate housing, healthcare and other resources all the way through their 79th year. I think the AEA is extremely generous, when you consider how all the short-sighted Baby Boomers voted for the Trump administration in 2016 and 2024. They’re the ones responsible for everything that’s gone wrong. This great nation of ours can still recover—the Coalition is here to see to that—but not if young people like us have to pay endlessly to keep a bunch of old right wingers with dementia on life support. Frankly, I think the Olds should be grateful that they can at least contribute something to society by getting out of the way.”

I’d watched the clip of that interview over and over, first stunned, then regretting that I’d helped send that little prick to law school. Tory had been a pushy, grabby, unpleasant child and now he’d grown up to be a political nutcase. A few weeks later, at the dentist’s office, I’d actually denied that I was related to him. 

“Podestra is a very common name,” I told the receptionist.

“A Sign of the Times” (excerpt)

Here’s an excerpt from the short story “A Sign of the Times” from my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future, available in ebook or print:

“…under the new Washington State statue, corporations are regarded by the law as individuals, and advocating any action to harm them is a hate crime. Joe, you’re going to be the test case.”

“Yeah. Got it. I mean, I’ll plead guilty. I’m ready to take my punishment.”

“No.” Kate snapped.. “Joe, if you’re convicted of advocating violence against the corporation, violence that clearly took place—”

“Prison?”

Kate looked right at me, for the first time, as if she thought I might be joking. One eyebrow went up. “Prison?” She gave a short, ugly laugh. “Under the new statute, the judge has no sentencing discretion. And law says the penalty for publicly proposing violence against a corporation is death.”

“A Sign of the Times” was written a few years back and published in Quaranzine. It seemed pure fantasy at the time I wrote it but with the former director of the FBI being “investigated by the Secret Service” over his use of a common slang phrase in a social media post, it’s now grimly appropriate.

Better off “Unnoticed”

For your weekend reading pleasure: Here’s an excerpt from the short story “Unnoticed” from my new collection Patti 209: Fifteen Tales of the Very Near Future, available in ebook or print:

“Your mother and I were ignorant,” he said. Wow. For once, Dad was actually admitting fault. He explained that, like most prospective parents, they’d met with a counselor and had their embryo’s genetic material improved using robust DNA selected from the databanks. “We thought we were making the best choice by giving you popular, well-tested genes. We wanted you to be healthy and happy. We just wanted you to fit in.”

I put my elbows on the table, and buried my face in my hands. “I can’t stand it. You made me nobody.”

“Cait, we were immigrants!” My mom leaned forward, elbows on the table, her dinner forgotten. “We’d been on a waiting list to get out of Mardour for years. We knew that if we were accepted for immigration to Savania we’d have only one child license. That meant only one child. So we wanted you to be perfect.”

“But not to stand out,” Dad cut in. He rationalized, “We made you pretty, and healthy, and smart.”

“But not so pretty, or healthy, or smart that the Savanians would be envious.” Mom’s voice rose, trembling. “We didn’t want…trouble.”