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#ScribesAndMakers 2025.07.14 — Self-promotion day. Show us what you're proud of. Let's boost away.

What I'm proud of today, I'm going to title Savory Soup. It features both my writing and cooking skills, is 502 words, and provides a good insight into the character of one of my women MCs—from what may yet turn out to be a cozy (yet spicy) romance fantasy (it has dragons) novella. Best of all, the excerpt is posted here on Mastodon. It ought bring you a smile, so please give it a read.

Savory Soup: eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/11481439

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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Eldritch CaféRS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist (@sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)> #WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.07.07 — Show off a bit of text describing a meal. This excerpt is from *Inklings*. It's a magical fantasy in my Wands universe in first draft. The POV has a gift for befriending beasts that comes with a cost. She was raised in part by wolves and doesn't understand human beasts very well. > "Sit back and take some deep breaths. I think you will feel better after I heat you up some soup." He clunked a pot on the stove and rummaged in the icebox for a container filled with a liquidy stew. > I padded over to the Dragonfyre [stove] and knelt before it. With my practice of Dragon Speak firmly in my mind from before, I said, "Furor!" and focused the bulb of the heated dragon word over the metal mesh usually reserved for fire spells. My new [vibrissae] sense on my cheeks of distant shapes and textures, let me "touch" the the edges of the box-like area and feel the wires and metal tubes. It allowed me to center my aim. > "Hey! You need to rest. Don't bother doing that!" > Saying the dragon word a few times, turned the sponge bright red as the heat made the skin on my face tighten. He thumped the container on the granite sideboard; his arms went under mine, hefting me up. > "Excuse my touching, but really! I'm beginning to worry you'll hurt yourself further." He set me in my chair and Flash [the cat she just magically befriended] jumped into the newly created lap. > He was acting sweet, again. That word! People being somehow *sweet* made me go warm all over, and forget my new worry about being shy, and the residual tightness in my muscles from the agonizing part of using my gift. Having a human male care about me felt... I could only express the sentiment in Wolf Speak, so I smiled up at him. > He rolled his eyes and huffed like a wolf replying. He splatted the soup into the pot, which made a brief hiss from the heating it had undergone empty. > "No problem," I said. > "About what?" He stirred the soup. > "You're welcome to touch me." > He shook his head slightly. Soon he placed a green-striped earthenware bowl of chicken vegetable stew before me, which smelled of cabbage, carrots, squash, and parsnips, and of chicken. The fatty broth glistened in the deep spoon. He raised it and blew on it, before presenting it to me. > Across the room, Mother Wolf had taken notice of the delicious smell; I could tell by claw clicks as she approached. He was determined to see me rest. > His attention felt excessive. He had seen the scar grow on my arm from using my gift. Had that worried him badly? Did he feel responsible? > Nevertheless, I smiled as I shut my eyes and opened my mouth. It forced him to put his other hand under my chin as I slurped, touching me again. > "Oh, that's nice!" I said, leaving it vague as to whether it was the soup or his actions I referred to. I liked the velvety broth and the savory pepperiness of it, recognizing, sage, sweet forest herbs, and woody mushrooms mixed in—but human beasts flavored things with too much salt, I thought. > I opened my mouth again. > "You're working this," he murmured. [Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.] #BoostingIsSharing #gender #fiction #writer #author #romance #fantasy #writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers #RSdiscussion #RSstory #RSInklingsStory #microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory

#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.07.13 — How many ‘layers’ of interpretation do you seek to achieve in a piece of writing?

Interpretation as in deciphering what the words say?

I talk a lot about direct language and transparency, but nuance counts. Depending on the scene, I will make words perform double or even triple duty. If the reader pays attention, a passage can go from point-of-fact to romantic to explicit simply by reading a word differently. I love innuendo, double-entendres, vague words, and words with a dozen meanings.

No, I don't do that all the time! But I will admit using them in replies to challenge games like this one.

Interpretation as in recognizing the messages I am trying to get across?

I don't write a story without trying to say something. However, if I have a story to tell, it is always saying something. [Shrugs.]

I cannot get away with simply stating, "Relying on a gender role for your identity leaves you a common nobody." Ok, maybe in a post like this I can get away with that (and just did). Generally, I employ a lot more subtlety; I have the reader live through the characters' bad times and good, then leave it up to the reader's interpretation, but with plenty of hints. If I get a reader to think after finishing a story, I feel I've done my job.

In Reframing the Experience, the title hints at an interpretation of a story about how surviving adversity teaches lessons. The body of the story could be about how we can go through life oblivious to other's intentions and that maybe we ought stop playing the victim. It could be how putting all our effort into something will reap unimaginable rewards, and that trying is key. It could also be that a world run by women is simply a world run by people?

Ain't literary analysis fun?

eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/11249791

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Eldritch CaféRS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist (@sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)> #PennedPossibilities 324 — SC POV: If you could relive one day of your life without changing anything that happened, which day would you choose? Tootfic: **Reframing the Experience** [*When my SC says armor, it's really a weightless magical exoskeleton that melds with her body. It looks like blackened bones, because it is. —R.S.*] Oh, there's plenty of days I'd relive unchanged. Like the day I fledged, when I first flew on my own. Or the day learned the thrill of hauling things through the sky. Both good events in a rather dull and awful childhood that turned to cinders when my parents disapproved of the way I wanted to live my life. Said I aimed for the dirt not the sky. Maybe they weren't so dumb—I ended up badly, flying messages for a crime boss over a dozen years. But, then, there was that day last week... I've told you a few times how I ended up with the armor and a new job training as a pretorian, you know, having faced down the greatest thaumaturge who ever lived, having nearly killed her. Impressed her. I thought. Well, my drill instructor was training me that dawn. I wore the armor. The thaumaturge dove at me, full speed. She's a monster flier, taller, more massive, immortal. I jumped into the sky. Fled. She followed. Though the armor let me fly like a sparrow, change direction in a heartbeat, and take a thumping only slightly changing my course, it had been *her* armor once. She kept appearing before me, striking at my face or heart, sending me into spins toward the ground, stalling me out, almost panicking me into flying into trees or buildings. For all her mass and the inertia that implies, I barely avoided her, half the time with her cackling at my barrel rolls or dives that sent down feathers flying. She had muscle; I tired despite the armor until I thought my heart would burst from my chest, at which point a flyby pitched me into the ground. I skid across the running track on my belly right up to my instructor. I don't know how I didn't break a wing or my neck. Ok, I do: The Armor. She landed beside me with a loud thump. She wasn't even winded! She told him, "She lacks stamina. Train her harder." She leaned down until her face was in my face. I smelled maple syrup on her breath. She said, "You need to use the magic in the armor. There's a class at first bell in the Ivory building, room B7. Shower and be there ON TIME." I have wings. I don't do magic. I showered though, once my legs stopped shaking. I slunk into the class still half-frightened out of my wits. My new friend was there, the curse breaker, a former prizefighter, the one I'd fought beside against *Her,* that ended up with me getting the armor. It was some sort of advanced special Ed class for mages. I suddenly felt totally inadequate and I cried. Me. At the age of 27, I cried telling her my story, pointing to my purpling bruises, complaining that had *She* gotten in a good strike *She* would have caved in my rib cage. My friend was having none of it. She said, "You're a day angel who just went ten minutes fighting *Her.* Somehow, you're still alive." I hadn't thought about it that way. I later learned the word, "Reframing." The instructor came in with a truckload of tomes and grimoires. *She* had prepared him for me. He gave me a magic primer. I knew it was a primer because it had PICTURES of youngsters playing. Despite the stares of the other students, I read the book. Half hour later, I got the armor to glow dull red, like iron out of a forge. Truly. Awesome. Didn't know what it did except look intimidating, but still... Awesome. I felt my heart grow large in my chest, and it struck me. Someone (okay, the ruler of the nation) wanted me for who I was and who I could become, and because I was capable. *She* wanted me to aim for the sky. My new friend supported me and pushed me forward. I *liked* this, who I was, what I was finding I could be, could become. And. Oddly. I realized, for what it was worth, my parents would approve. (And flap them if they didn't!) Best. Day. *Ever.* [Author retains copyright (c)2024 R.S.] #BoostingIsSharing and #CommentingIsCool #fiction #fantasy #sf #sff #sciencefiction #writing #writer #writers #author #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #RSdiscussion #RSstory #RSReluctanceStory #microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory

#ScribesAndMakers 2025.07.01 — What do you want to work on this month? Alt: Bread?

Baking bread—instead of trying meet the guests, schmooze, and network at an SF convention as a shy published author trying to recreate their career—would be a lot less scary and far more pleasant, despite being on a low carb diet. Oh my, am I craving carbs right now. Ice cream, please.

I've made a badge extender that states what I am and that I'm shy. I am reading one of the guests of honor's book (M.A. Carrick). I've researched the others. This weekend is all I can think of for this month.

Will I survive peer interaction?

If you never hear from me again after this weekend, you'll know what happened!

Meanwhile, if you have ideas for conversing with authors or a comics artist, or just anyone, a suggestion or two might help me survive.

🍞🥖🥐😥

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.30 — When is a piece of writing done?

Composition? When the story is over. Pretty clear cut. If you mean when is it ready to be published? Well that's as clearly demarcated as when the last wisp of morning fog has lifted on a bright morning. Today, almost two years after publication, I found a typo when rereading. I considered fixing it… then sighed.

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#ScribesAndMakers 2025.06.23 — Do you like to look at the creative projects of others as much as you like doing your own?

Whilst I am primarily an SF author, the thrust of this question feels physical art related. When it comes to photography, I very much like viewing other's creative projects more than doing (that is, capturing, post processing, viewing) my own. For me, photography is ephemeral and opportunistic. I rarely decide ahead of time what I'll capture, and as a result what I produce is often eclectic and not necessarily my personal art subject preference. I like some of my work very much, but when you view other's creative projects you are seeing their best and only that, and you can focus on what draws attention. I recently visited the photography exhibition at the San Diego faire, and what's on display is amazing. I'm even buying some of the photos. It quite easy to get bored with just my best.

(That said, I do like rereading my own stories a lot. I must like my style and sense of humor a lot…)

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.23 — Conversely, what’s the worst piece of writing advice you’ve ever encountered?

"Write in 3rd person; it sells. Do not write in 1st person." —R.S.'s agent and conventional publishers.

While there are many reasons I burnt out as an SF writer, my difficulty writing 3rd person close POV (a la C.J. Cherryh) was a major contributing factor to problems in my manuscripts. 1st person past tense and 3rd person past tense close POV are essentially the same POV. 1st is the character narrating. 3rd is a narrator standing in for the character, but is completely tied to the senses of the character and must not let any information beyond what the character would sense or think leak in. Yes, 3rd can present a more neutral narrator who lacks the nuances of dialect or opinion—so there is a dichotomy between narration and dialogue—but this has always felt synthetic to me. 1st person is how we all tell personal stories of our lives; it feels more real.

In any case, it is easy to diagnose POV slips in 1st person. Moreover, since we are all familiar with telling stories of our adventures, it is easy to write, including letting the character have an opinion, spin situations, obviously censor difficult situations, and stretch the truth to be caught fibbing by events.

Once I set myself free to write 1st, most of my writing issues disappeared.

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#ScribesAndMakers 2025.06.20 — What fictional character do you most closely identify with and why?

One time, long ago, it was Kimba from Kimba the White Lion. The character showed a level of integrity and courage I never saw in real life. I would have liked to have had a woman character to have identified with…

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Continued thread

#PennedPossibilities 704 2/2— Share a scene or two with us that you’re proud of writing. CW: 900 word except.

...Continued.

"Was told I'd never walk, let alone fight, again—but didn't accept that. My foot is numb." I reached into my messenger bag and flicked open my jackknife, poked the sole where I was once ticklish. I didn't flinch, though a drop of blood welled. "I could step on a nail and not know it if I didn't wear protection. I could break a toe and not know it.

"I drag a foot sometimes, when I don't keep up my therapy. I understand the word handicapped."

She stared at the brass and steel brace before I levitated it and the shoe back on, something her handicap would prevent her from doing. Her nose pulsed as she breathed hard, but she said nothing. Added nothing. She silently seethed, cooled down, then nodded. I had a brace. She had developed brute strength.

Into the silence, I asked, "Is there anything about yourself that will prevent you from captaining this ship?"

The delay was perceptible, but I judged to some extent she had choked up. "No, Ma'am."

"Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No, Ma'am."

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#PennedPossibilities 704 1/2— Share a scene or two with us that you’re proud of writing. CW: 900 word excerpt.

In this except, the devil-girl has just finished describing how she took out a crime boss. She is speaking to the woman who commands the frigate she needs to save the city, but she's discovered the position she was given lacks military authority, and those with the authority are writing her off her as a worrywart teenager. The skipper doesn't know this and sees Rainy Days second in command. What you might consider magic exists here (Clarke's Law), thus a rower is a person who powers an airship. The woman is disfigured in a shocking way.

The skipper's mild grin widened into a half-smile. "You're a woman of action. I'm not sure I can be of service, but here I am. I docked this museum piece without parts or people falling off, all departments put to bed—literally put to bed in the case of all three of our rowers—none of the kids I'm babysitting have killed themselves or their fellows in the two watches it took to sail here despite throwing one in the brig, and my paperwork is complete. How may I help you?"

"Setting expectations?"

A slight nod. Maybe her half-lidded expression was exhaustion.

"What were your orders?" I asked.

"Reposition the Eagle's Stoop at Home City Station with all due haste. Remain at alert. Await further orders." She found a piece of parchment with an official looking gold stamp, rotated it for me to read.

I did. I asked, "Don't commissioned officers usually re-enlist?"

She sucked in a breath.

I clarified, "I'm not trying to be rude. Rainy Days—"

"Director Rainy Days—" she corrected.

"You recognize subtlety. Cool. Short review: Rainy Days wanted a tool. She manufactured a Directing Superintendent who she intended to command one of her armies. Me." I curtsied. "I ran away before she could train me. Still put me through the wringer, caught me, then designated me her heir so she could run off on a military adventure. I don't trust anything that happens wasn't planned somehow by her. She tossed me a hot potato. I require a tool that's sharp like me to catch it, slice it, and stuff it with butter. I am hoping that tool is you."

She took another measured breath. "Permission to speak freely?"

I didn't understand the jargon, but it was clear enough. I nodded.

"Nobody in this male-dominated service wants a cripple around, especially a woman, no matter how hard she proves herself. They don't want to serve under her. They don't trust she won't cut and run, even though I can fight as well as any man. I get shit for duty assignments and no promotions, despite having graduated at the top of my class and being made to believe I'm the Director's chief siege strategist. Nobody got the memo. I can take the hint that I am not wanted in this man's service and I am accepting discharge."

"When?"

"In two days—would be were we at HQ. Now, I have to wait until this milk run tour of duty is over or someone relieves me of command." She lifted an eyebrow, looking hopeful I might give her what she wanted.

I looked her over again. I saw plenty of scars. Muscle. Muscle on a woman. Her eyes studied me with wary intelligence. I said, "I bet you can fight. I will learn something when we get a chance to spar."

She looked ready to huff, then her eyes halted at the recent bruises on my arm, flicked to my face, finally resting on my messed up ear which I turned toward her for a better look—with a grin. I said, "I've decided I don't want plastic surgery. Maybe I'll get an earring. Makes a statement, don't you think?"

"That you're not a nice person," she said.

Not a question. I took it as a compliment. "I'm a devil-girl, but I protect people—don't get me wrong. You say you're handicapped?"

"Handicapped," she sneered. "What polite people say when they want to gloss over a reality they don't want to have to deal with, candy-coating 'cripple' so they don't feel bad." She might have spat, were she not on her ship.

I jerked my head back at her vehemence, then put a hand to my chin, thinking. "Huh?" I said, "I never thought about it that way. That said..."

I stood, making sure she could see my left leg. I gave it a shake. My custom-made shoe fell off, then I kicked and the brace came off slide and bang into the wall.

Her eyes followed its trajectory.

"Speaking 'freely:' Fought a dragon weapon master a year and a half ago. I won.

"Splintered my tibula into 61 pieces. Nearly bled to death. Had it replaced.

Continued...

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#WordWeavers 2025.06.15 — If your MC found a clean, sealed, unlabelled box, would they open it? Why or why not?

Likely. Even if it were on the street (but not, for example, on somebody porch or stoop). She's not stupid, though. She has the ability to do such things remotely and safely. How that works is because she can [spoilers].

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#ScribesAndMakers 2025.06.13 — Self-promotion day: show us what you're proud of. Let's boost away.

While I plod at composing story, work at revising stuff, have brought a decades old story into Scrivener to rewrite, and work with beta readers on the most recent novel, what I'm proud of is some of this month is my photography. The moving images are photos: live photos rendered as a wigglegram aka a Harry Potter photo. It includes one tree from my Trees project.

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#WordWeavers 2025.06.13 — If your MC magically became a dog, what breed would fit them best?

Sorry, not dog. Never a dog. She's an alpha female wolf who's perfectly fine with the males and the females who position for power around her—but endanger her pups, or any pups, or her pack—whether male, female, or puma—and she will likely kill you.

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Continued thread

#PennedPossibilities 696 /2 — In your SC’s opinion, what would be your MC’s greatest skill?

It's at times when I write stuff like,

The devil-girl is autistic and would scoff at the "love" part, which she distrusts at least as much as the concept of friendship.

…that I ought mention I am #actuallyautistic. I owe my mother for ALWAYS telling me I was capable of finding my solutions and subtly (or not) ensuring I never gave up or gave in. Yes, I turned out cripplingly shy, but I got along, too—no, did arguably well. I made friends, but never understood the process, or trusted it, so I have few friends even today. I found a spouse and got married. Being given the ultimatum a few years later to say, "I love you," changed me. I DID NOT understand love; I find it difficult to lie because, you know, I extrapolate and rehearse EVERYTHING in my head because that's my neurodivergence, that's my way of masking and fitting in. Helps when being an author, tho.

The devil-girl is me inside. She's slightly more self-actualized, maybe a lot, but still she's me. I'm writing from experience.

And, yes, I discovered what love is. It took reading Jean M. Auel's The Mammoth Hunters to discover the definition that lets me say, "I love you," genuinely. How's that for a twist?

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#PennedPossibilities 696 — In your SC’s opinion, what would be your MC’s greatest skill?

Bolt would say it is how the devil-girl translates the platonic love she feels for people she likes, or for whom she feels responsible, into supporting those people in any adversity and often at any cost.

The devil-girl is autistic and would scoff at the "love" part, which she distrusts at least as much as the concept of friendship. She can't deny that she does support the people in her life, though. She saved Bolt from having her life destroyed by intervening violently when Bolt was being arrested by the constables, but that's because she saw someone abused by the system the same way she had been and detests unfairness, especially since she's lived through so much of it herself.

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#ScribesAndMakers 2025.06.08 — Create a multiple choice poll listing 4 books you've read, then ask “Which of these have you read?”

Sorely wanted to include a book from me. In any case, please boost for a larger sample size.

Which of these have your read?

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.07 — Describe some facet—hidden or overt—which can be found in each and every one of your works.

Women succeed or you're outraged that they're prevented from doing so. It can be very subtle, or in your face like in Mars Needed Women. I even got a beta reader to gasp reading the story, but I think he got that thinking you're a feminist doesn't mean there isn't parts of you that won't be offended when certain patriarchal programming we get from living in our society is violated. While that story wasn't subtle, I think I achieved a minor paradigm shift in that reader.

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.06 — What are the conventions of the genre in which you write? How strictly do you follow them?

I follow the conventions of SF, even when writing fantasy.

  1. The posited science (or magic) has discernible rules and limits.
  2. One or maybe two things are different from normal reality (with FTL being a freebie if you need it). Otherwise normal reality and physics apply.
  3. The reader should be able to deduce what could happen next if they are paying attention, or in retrospect think I should have figured that out.
  4. The story is about the effect of technology (which may be magical) on the lives of people.

I follow all these conventions. I will admit in the Reluctance Series deriving everything (from flying Day Angels to a type of necromancy) from a single added force of nature is difficult and convoluted, and much won't be explained unless the series goes for a long time, but I am trying to follow convention 2.

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Replied in thread

@sinabhfuil

"writing" doesn't just mean sitting there and having a little think then scribbling lovely words

Awww.

Actually, that's what I do. (Not saying it works for anyone else, or I recommend it, simply that it is what I do.)

it means serious research

If it did, it would be work and I wouldn't do it. I write mostly fantasy or SF fantasy and never hard SF, histFic, or even mainstream, because actual facts are an important part of the story and researching them is boring. (Sorry all you research fiends reading this, but for me it is procrastination.) I rely on my knowledge to understand what I can use for plot and what to have experts in the story lampshade to ensure verisimilitude. My research is typically verification or elucidation, sometimes after the fact, to clarify I got the concept right, to find meat to make the stew more savory. I will admit to writing things I later had to redact, though as I recollect never to the point of destroying the story.

That said, I put a lot of thought (daydreaming) into my magic systems. With the help of my characters, I generate a lot of history that fills the story and gives it depth, which in turn sometimes generates side stories.

followed by stringent editing

Since I enjoy the stories I write, and often have them read to me (or read them aloud) to edit them, this is never work. I often have to say enough is enough!

BTW or is it PS? Petrichor is a favorite scent of mine and why I love to go outside after the first light rain.

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.05 — World Environment Day. Talk about something you’ve read that made you think, “I wish I wrote that.”

World Environment Day is a day to become aware of the environment and people's impact upon it, so one particular book comes to mind, John Barnes' 1994 novel Mother of Storms. This is an environmental disaster novel where atmospheric heat and moisture spawns a super hurricane so powerful even crossing a landmass doesn't break it up. It goes around and around the Earth… Did I wish I wrote that? I can't rightly remember, but I certainly don't have the scientific chops for it. It impressed me and is appropriate for today specifically and a warning for our future.

Another that comes to mind, which I feel speaks to our short sightedness as a species toward ourselves and our environment is Greg Bear's Blood Music, an SF novel that's a stealth horror story. Having lived through COVID, the story resonates even more. The effects on the environment are incidental, and more scary I think. Again, I don't have the science chops to have written it even if I might have wished I had that idea.

I could have found stories I'd wished I'd had to idea for, but they would not fit the theme.

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2025.06.04 — Do you consider writing work? Would you say writing is your life’s work?

In the sense the work is used by most people, by definition, no. I'm retired.

Is it in the physics sense? Yes, it takes effort, consumes calories.

Being an author is my avocation.

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