Happy International PSTP Day!

Welcome to the second annual International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day!

What I said last year still holds true today, and I'd like to add a little more commentary on how free work offered online affects the real world of paid work.

First, being able to sample new writers through their online journals and postings has turned me on to authors that I possibly never would have found before. (This is not a comment on how their work stands up among the market, but a comment on the sheer number of things out there that I want to read. Choosing among all the things I want to read can sometimes be a daunting task indeed.) The fact that I had sampled Elizabeth Bear's work sold me a copy of Dust. The fact that I read and enjoy cadhla's poetry is guaranteed to sell me a copy of whatever physically published work Seanan McGuire puts out. Becoming familiar with the amazing work of copperwise has guaranteed that I'll be purchasing a fine limited edition of Mia Nutick's Broken Glass Slippers, forthcoming from Papaveria Press.

Also, since last IPSTP Day, we've seen a couple of major publishers put entire works of their authors online-- for free.

Harper Collins put Neil Gaiman's Hugo award-winning novel, American Gods, online for a month around March of 2008. It was available to everyone, and behold the initial reported impact on sales (quoted from Neil Gaiman's journal):

"And that the weekly book sales of American Gods have apparently gone up by 300%, rather than tumbling into the abyss. (Which is -- the rise, not the tumble -- what I thought would happen. Or at least, what I devoutly hoped would happen.)"

Now, Tor is doing something similar. They're promoting a new community experience they're setting up which, among other things, gives you a free book download a week. I haven't seen any reported figures on what this is doing for their sales, yet, but I can't imagine that it's burned them. (Also, how appropriate is it that the first book they gave away for free was Jo Walton's Farthing, when it was she who founded International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day!)

I'd also like to mention the awesome free story-giving that's going on in the physical world as I think it's part of this discussion: how about World Book Day in the UK and Free Comic Book Day in the U.S.?

In some ways, creators live or die by how easily their creations move: and the movement of their work can only be improved, not hurt, by allowing free access to pieces of it. This is something chocolatiers, software people, artists, and musicians know: why not booksellers and writers and poets?

You'll find my free contribution to this International Pixel-Stained Techonpeasant Day in the next post.

P.S. For a round-up of the works offered today, please see papersky's post or ipstp. Also, to remember what inspired IPSTP Day, please see this post by ellenmillion.

To Live - In Celebration of the Second Annual International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day!

For International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I am offering up a short piece of fiction that was published in Huntingdon College's The Prelude in 2001 (and was given away for free then, too). I wanted to create something new for this day, but it didn't get done and I'm actually drugged up due to a migraine right now. So I hope you'll forgive the digital reprint.

To Live
by Deborah J. Brannon

He lay upon the woodland floor, body bathed by the morning dew. The fingers of dawn caressed his body, strengthening as the moments went by, until they touched his eyes, picked them out of the shadow of night: a glitter of darkness, already open to this new morn.

His body remembered what task lay before him, though his mind lingered yet in the dream mist. He rolled to his feet, shaggy, fair hair brushing his shoulders; his step as he picked his way to a nearby stream was light as a wary doe's. His kind had learned to be quiet, in order to evade enemies, seek food. And the ribs now rising in sharp relief assured that no misstep would today cost him his quarry.

The man knelt beside the rushing water, delved his cupped palms into the stream to bring water to his parted lips. As he slaked his thirst, his eyes roamed the landscape about him, alert as any woodland creature.

He counted six magpies singing their raucous song and very nearly smiled. He was lucky not to have any needlessly small and shiny thing of value with which to tempt the little ones. He turned away, startled a hare he had not noted before, harvested some berries from a near-withering plant. They were bitter, but food, and made his last few strips of dried venison easier to swallow cold. He would need all his strength for what he must accomplish today.

Survival.

He'd ranged from his home-- more than a full day's stride-- seeking and following this small herd of deer. Once he'd picked up their trail, matched them stride for stride, he'd done as the world commanded: prepared himself for the hunt and asked to be wise and thankful.

He purified himself, dedicated his spirit to Cernunnos of the Wood, and slept cradled in the Mother's embrace-- the bole of an elderly oak for his pillow and leaves for his blanket. The God had kept the warrior safe while the Goddess sent him her blessing in dreams.

The doe he must kill, there, no young fawns at her side. But why did he run so low to the loamy smelling earth, feel the death of his prey flow between his teeth? Warm, the life. He lived.

He shook his head, pulling the gut from his pouch and set to stringing his yew wood bow. Though nearly as tall as him, he bent it easily, deftly completing his task.

He moved downstream to seek the shadow of the deer.

* * *

The young human caught up with the herd midday and summarily circled wide around them to find the worn trail though the forest that showed their kind preferred to pass there.

He'd hardly settled in his preferred position, off the trail and partially hidden, when the deer arrived much sooner than anticipated; the young warrior realized he'd not been the first to find them.

His heart's sudden pounding, the buck's sudden urgent passage with his brood not far behind disoriented the man, made him hesitate with his arrows, his bow.

Only the lame doe lagged behind, the one without fawns; only she felt the teeth of the wolf that closely followed, lone and hungered as the human that watched.

The dream shocked through him.

Another of the doe's legs went out from under her, ripped by the predator's teeth. Her eyes rolled, front legs flashed forward in the full desperation of this dance with death. He trained his arrow upon the wolf, breathing harsh as the fanged creature easily evaded her thrashing hooves and fastened to her throat, tearing it out as he jumped away.

Survival.

The wolf heaved every breath the twin to the man's. His fangs trailed red (he tasted the blood), pulled back from his teeth as he nearly took a step toward his conquered prey; yet he stopped, raised his eyes to meet those of the still hunter.

We are one. Brothers, you and I. She gave herself to us. The circle of life, death to feed life. We are one.

The powerful gray body leapt for the hunter, but had hardly left the ground when an arrow slammed well-intended into his chest.

The wolf collapsed amid a howling scream.

One.

He ate the heart and the eyes. Raw, with blood streaking across his face. He took the claws and the skin to make a cloak. The rest he left to the forest, to feed the cycle that would eventually consume him.

Fáilbhe, a newborn wolf, carried his deer home.





This story is archived at my website here.

Last Year's International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day offerings:
And My Sky Full of Stars (creative non-fictiony fiction)
Elegy for a Fallen Angel (poem)

You can find more free poetry at My Works on my website and elsewhere in this journal.

I hope you enjoy!

Attention Chimera Fancies Pendant Contest Contestants! (say that five times fast)

If you signed up for this contest, be aware:

An email containing the rules and submission information went to all of you last night. One email bounced and a couple who did not provide email addresses were sent to LJ addresses in the hopes of reaching you.

The email came from chimera dot contest at gmail dot com.

Please make sure that you received the email. Check your spam box. If you did not receive it please let me know and we will resend.

Thanks!

[Stolen from copperwise.]