The year started with a bad writer’s slump, and I was very close to giving up entirely, as mentioned in a previous post. I am very glad I didn’t, and that I found joy in writing again.
This took a hit in spring, when the company I had worked for since 2017 decided to close down the local office, and make everyone redundant. But I found a new job, eventually, and I’m getting on with it. Life happens and you have deal with it.
I have finally reversed the downwards trend in output. and wrote a total of 123 stories and poems during the year, all posted to my accounts on Tumblr, Mastodon, Facebook, and BlueSky. (I think I have given up on Instagram, it was a lot of hassle to clean and post screenshots, and it never felt like my stories fitted there.)
As usual, these make me eligible for the Best Fan Writer category in the Hugo Awards. I was a finalist in 2023, 2024 and 2025, which has been an incredible honour, and I hope you will consider nominating me again.
As usual, I have picked a few samples of my work here for you to enjoy, with some comments and reflections about them. Most are 300 characters or shorter, that being the limit on posts on BlueSky, but I have included a couple of longer stories that took a few posts to tell.
The title of each is the date they were posted, with a link to the post on Mastodon.
There was a long queue to the repair shop. There always seemed to be, these days.
The areas for fabrics and fibre, wood, metal, mechanics and electronics were all busy, but none more so than the dreams section.“Oh, this has taken some beating, poor thing.”
“Can you fix it?”
“We’ll do our best.”
The TV show “The Repair Shop”, where skilled craftspeople repair treasured items, is a lovely comfort watch. Toys, art, furniture, clocks, and other family heirlooms are lovingly restored. I saw a comment saying they could repair anything broken, and, well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?
The first thing I noticed was that the pain was gone. The tall, thin, hooded figure let me bask in that for a moment.
IT IS TIME
“Oh,” I said, looking down at the frail vessel I had inhabited all my life. “Right.”
COME
“Do you remember,” I asked as we walked, “everyone you come for?”
YES
“Fondly?”
I DO NOT JUDGE. AS A RULE, I SPEND LITTLE TIME WITH PEOPLE AS THEY LIVE
“No, but you spend some time with them after, like now.”
Death halted.
THERE WAS ONE, TEN YEARS AGO. HE TAUGHT ME A LOT ABOUT WHAT IT MEANS TO BE HUMAN
“To be where the rising ape meets the falling angel?”
AH. I HEAR YOU HAVE MET HIM TOO
I wrote and posted this little fanfic on the tenth anniversary of Sir Terry Pratchett’s death. There is no author who has had a greater impact on how I view the world, how I write, and the path my life has taken.
“What can I do for you, my lady?”
“I need a suit of armour modified,” the lady said.
The armourer took her measurements, checked the pieces, and gave her an appraising look. “You’ve had this a while?”
“Yes. Since before… Ah…”
“Thought so. You’ll need new thigh pieces and a wider skirt.”
Posted on “Trans Visibility Day” for all brave trans knights and ladies.
“At last!” He held up a simple gold ring. “I have searched for this for years!”
“What is it?”
“A shapeshifting ring. I’ll put it on… Imagine myself as… Ah! Wonderful!”
“I see no difference?”
“I have no joint pain!”
“Wow! Can it do other changes?”
“Anything you can imagine. Want to try?”
Those with chronic illnesses – who I wrote it for – shouted “Gimme!” at this story. Those without generally wanted more visible changes.
The sigil was drawn in salt and ash, the candles lit at the pentagram points, the incantation declaimed.
There was a shimmer – a demon appeared.
“Curious. What ritual is this?”
“I got it from ChatGPT. I included all protections in my prompt!”
“I see,” the demon said and stepped out of the sigil.
As everybody should know by now, ChatPGPT and other Large Language Models provide answer-shaped sentences, with no guarantee they are actual correct answers.
“If they have to do it, they should do it in private.”
“Yeah!”
“It’s not right, doing it in the open where kids can see.”
“Yeah! It’s not like they have to, it’s something they choose to do.”
“True. Hate is a lifestyle choice.”
“Absol- Hate?”
“Yeah. What did you think we were talking about?”
Being queer – be it ace, aro, lesbian, gay, pan, bi, trans, intersex, non-binary, or any combination thereof – is not a “lifestyle choice”.
Hating is.
“May I have your name?” the faerie said.
“William,” she said with a smile.
“Ah ah!” The faerie gave a wicked laugh. “I have your name! Now no-one will call you by it!”
“Thank you,” she said.
“To win it back, you must- what?”
“I will find me a new one,” she said, “one that suits me better.”
In some folk tales, the fey/faeries can take a person’s name by tricking them into “giving” it. I have seen story prompts and stories on Tumblr about faeries offering this as a service to trans people, to get rid of deadnames.
I thought it would be fun if the fearie was the one tricked instead.
“I am actually a princess,” the frog said.
“Oh no!” said the prince.
“My curse can only be lifted by a prince listening to me.”
“Of course,” said the prince, and bent down with puckered lips.
“What are you doing?!”
“Kissing you, like you asked!”
“No!”
The frog hopped away, muttering.
Don’t worry, this story has a happy ending: the frog princess eventually came to terms with her new life as a frog.
“I want the world to be simple,” I said to the genie.
“How do you mean?”
“Good guys and bad guys, clear answers to all questions, everything is just one thing or another.”
“I don’t think a world like that would work… No, wait, I know how to do that.”
And then he turned me back into a child.
For many of us, things were simpler when we were children. But I enjoy learning to see nuances.
A reminder alert popped up.
“Oh,” the Supervisor said, “it’s time to check in on Sol-3 again. Szrpt, can you handle that?”
Szrpt bowed a frond. “Yes, of course.”
“Don’t forget to reset the killer asteroid if the sapients pose no threat.”
“Once!” Szrpt bristled. “I only forgot that once!”
I had a nagging feeling I had written something like this one before, but couldn’t find it in my archive. I finally found it in the file of stories I wrote on postcards for Patreon supporters, back when I had that as a premium tier. So to those of you who are still around, apologies for re-using the idea from a story that was exclusive to you!
The robot picked through the boxes of old cables and converters at the market stall.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“A… special charger adapter.”
A bag from under the counter. The robot looked inside. Kettle lead to robot charge port. Untracked charging.
“A gift. Enjoy your freedom.”
A “kettle lead” is an informal name for an IEC 60320 C13 power lead, often used for PCs. Technically, the C13 variant shouldn’t be used for kettles, as it is not rated for high temperatures. A C15 lead should be used for kettles or percolator coffee makers.
The inspiration for this was overhearing someone saying that if you have an electric car, your travels can be tracked unless you charge it (very slowly) from a mains outlet., which was a perspective I hadn’t considered.
The space elevator project was funded by the world’s billionaires, who were offered exclusive luxury tickets on the first ride up into space.
After the launch, the project announced a second funding round, to start looking into the feasibility and advisability of installing a “down” button.
This had an autocorrect-induced typo when first posted, so it said the project was “founded” by billionaires, which would make it a very different story.
There was a ‘womp’ sound from the yard. I looked out the window.
Where the large pile of leaves had been, a dragon sat.
“Oi!” I called.
“The hoard was unguarded,” the dragon said. “I claim it.”
Every damn year. It’ll leave once the leaves lose their golden hue. Meanwhile, I can’t order takeaway.
I needed this story, though I didn’t know it when I wrote it. Around then, very few of my stories had been “hits” – they generally get 50 to 150 boosts/shares/reblogs on the bigger platforms, and 4 to 5 times as many likes. Which is amazing, and lovely to see, and each of those adds a drop of happiness!
But without algorithmically driven feeds, I very rarely get “hits” anymore. On Twitter, before Must took over, I could sometimes get thousands of shares, which would turn the dopamine faucet from a trickle to firehose.
But this story was a minor hit, and I got a big dopamine boost (especially after the Tumblr user nearducks made an adorable illustration). It felt good, and it felt good to know that it can still happen. I don’t need it to happen with every story, but I think I need to believe it can happen, and that belief had been flagging.
The witch made him hot chocolate.
“They say I’m strong,” he said. “And I am.”
He took a sip.
“They say I can overcome any hardship.”
“Mm,” said the witch.
“And I can. I do.”
The witch said nothing.
“But I shouldn’t have to!”
“No.”
The witch held the hero as he wept.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
I can’t think of anything to add to this.
“Let me get this straight. Your lab has bred a dragon?”
“A wyvern, director. It has two legs, two wings, whereas a-“
“Which flies, breathes fire, and is intelligent?”
“About as intelligent as a border collie.”
“So, intelligent. Why?”
“You asked us to invent measures to take down small drones.”
A surprising number of people read “your lab” as “your labrador” rather than “your laboratory”, which caused some confusion.
Cheap drones are changing both regular and assymetric warfare, a lot.
The artificer nodded. “I can build this wheeled chair, but why? You have an enchanted hover seat.”
“Yes,” the wizard fumed, “but the palace have erected magic-cancelling wards.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. But they didn’t think of people who need mobility aids. So I need wheels to go shout at the king.”
If your setting has magic, how is that used to accommodate or compensate for disabilities?
I mean, the “real world” setting has technology, which has been used to help people for millennia.
The emperor was sitting in his bed when the assassin came in through the window.
“Welcome, old friend.”
“Wait,” the assassin wheezed.
The emperor waited for him to catch his breath.
“I’m too old for this,” the assassin said at last.
The emperor smiled. “It’s been over sixty years since the first time you came to kill me.”
“Mm. And a dozen times more. Yet you are still alive. You always were persuasive.”
“I hope I still am. I would ask you to do it now.”
“What?”
“I am dying, with only a few months left. And the pain grows every day.” The emperor made a grimace. “You’ll finally get paid.”
“I won’t kill you for money,” the assassin said. “Not anymore.”
“Would you kill me for the sake of friendship?”
Nobody saw the assassin leave, after.
Over the years, I have written a bunch of stories about an unnamed emperor, and the assassin who sneaks into the palace to kill him. This probably isn’t the last story I’ll write about them, but it is their last story.
(If I write another story where one of them dies, that’s a different emperor and assassin. Obviously.)