Monday, November 23, 2020

Reaching for Cynestia Moon

 

Kyushu Moon

So I've got myself a plan. I want to get at least 3 scifi novels done by the time I am 40. I know all their names, their stories . . . and that my ambition often fails me. But I want to become, no, rather to grow into Cynestia Moon! That's the pen name I have chosen for my scifi author alter-self. (*At the suggestion of a wise friend, I've already snagged the instagram, gmail, facebook, twitter and url for that name).

Cynestia is a play on Synestia, which is a theory of moon formation. You could also say it is a play on Cynthia, a mythological moon goddess. 

So far, I have written half of a scifi middlegrade verse novel. Here's to wild fantasias and a future ink-stained party at age 40! 

Sometimes making a list makes it all real. These are the novels I am dreaming of completing in the next several years:

1. Bad Species: Diary of a Once and Future Human (what happens when 2020 tries to destroy the world, and you are inspired by the doomed brilliancy of the epic scifi poem "Aniara."

2. Agent Regalia (Space Adventure/Romance with a hint of Say Yes to the Dress.)

3. Cosmortalis: Cyborg+Boy (Total space opera, my husband really wants me to finish this one! I got stalled on about page 100 and need to do some serious revision)

Bonus book: My Last Boyfriend Bought Me A ------ (This one is a secret involving ex boyfriends, android parents and a herd of bratty bio-engineered unicorns. Won't say more!)

*Here is a snippet about the High Warden, one of my favorite new villains from Bad Species:

The High Warden

I’ve never seen them up close like this—

whenever maree children hear

the clicking whir of gears and chain joints,

we run.

The High Warden’s full-armored suit

always warns us of their coming,

like thunder before lightning.

But now that I’m thrown before

their spur-clad stumpboots,

I count the curious signs—

(the little weaknesses):

the wizening of their back, bent low

but laced-tight

against a mechanical exo-spine

with ribbons of steel.

A curved helmet shields their face,

but the head strands flowing down

fall sparse and gray

as brittle grass.

The High Warden must be truly ancient!

Barely alive, and yet—

ready to kill me

at a second’s

delight  . . .

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