Writer’s Group: I am of one. We are three, only two of which gather at any given every-other-Tuesday. One suspects that there is a superhero among us, and both identities are in the group.

Lisa: The professional of the group — although we other two are catching up, and will.

Daddy: Dead for decades. Diagnosed to die within weeks. He lived two very intense years, as he had things to do, setting up his family before he left. From age 15 to 37, I expected to die at the age he did. I was a little bit lost when I didn’t.

At Writer’s Group this week, I was telling Lisa the source of some of my dysfunction with Duty. I noted Daddy’s hanging on, and asked, “And what did Scotty learn from that? That, while everyone loves us just for being us, we love ourselves based on what we believe we’ve done for our loved ones. If Daddy were here, he’d hit me with a brick, but that’s part of what I carried away with me. It means that anything I want takes second place to helping someone else. Stupid, but I can’t seem to leave it behind me.”

Lisa said, “But you know it, so now you can move past it.”

Shrug. “I haven’t so far, and I’ve known it for years.”

“Then there must be something else there, too, and the two things cover for each other.”

Slack jawed silence. Then, “That’s good, and I would have thought of that if it was anyone but me. But I don’t know what it would be.”

“Maybe you learned something else: ‘When I finish what is important to me, I will die.’”

Not Scapegoat. The first one, still needing a final chapter, revisions, and edits. It is called Self-Sacrifice.

I note this here not because of the world-shaking import of the news, but so that I will think about it some more. I dunno why, but sometimes I can’t think about stuff until I say it aloud — or write it, which is the same thing.

Appropriately, I learned about rocket stoves from a priest of Hephaestus.

Rocket stoves do a few things differently than other stoves. Most notable is that they direct airflow from the first spark, using that airflow to turn a small fire into a small blast furnace. Only a small amount of the fuel (say, three sticks the size of highlighter pens) is available to burn at any time — just the very tip — but the blast furnace effect makes that fire very, very hot. The result is that you get huge amounts of heat from a very small flame, very little fuel converting to make that heat, and so very little waste floating away in gas form.

The fuel economy was pretty neat. The use of the heat was pretty neat. The use of the waste heat, the heat that goes up the chimney (or heats the chimney, and thereby the outside air) to heat, say, the floor, was really neat. The nicest use of a rocket stove is to build a cob house and direct waste gas pipes through the cob, heating the floors or furniture. We used four cords of wood this winter. With a rocket stove we would have used 2/3 of a cord, and been more comfortable.

Too good to be true. I couldn’t believe it. So, when I got home from Norwescon, I made one in miniature.

On the way home yesterday, we stopped at the grocery store so I could buy the #10 can of my choice. I selected pineapple chunks. When we got home, I used a pair of utility shears to
cut the ends off of a “tall boy” beer can, then a hole in the top of the #10 can, just smaller than the beer can.

I dumped the pineapple out at this point. Just want to be clear; I feel the pineapple would have skewed the results. Shannon pointed out that I would be happier if I took the label off, as well.

Taking my modified cans down to the shop, I poked around until I found a 6 foot length of drain pipe, then made a second hole in the #10 can to accommodate it.

Insert the beer can to about an inch above bottom. Insert the drain pipe just barely. I was lucky; the whole thing balanced.

I stuffed a paper towel into the bottom of the can and used a piece of kindling to shove it to one side. Then I lit the kindling and used it to light the paper towel.

Five seconds later I could hear the roaring of air as the paper towel went into blast mode. I dropped three pieces of kindling into the hopper.

Less than five minutes later I had turned the #10 can bright red, and shown that Shannon was right; I should have taken off the label. I was excited, and forgot.

Less half an hour, and the 20×20x14 shop was easily room temperature, while the outside temp was around 55. I used a double handful of small sticks from around the woodpile. It was an hour after I had started modifying the pineapple can.

I am stunned.

I don’t see fire in a bucket. I see heating for the house for $150 a year. I see a cob house that I can afford to build without spending the rest of my life paying for it. I see freedom.

[Written on the fly while watching the first concert ever by James Alexander Adams, the heir to the Heatherlands. I'll tidy up the multiple formatting and spelling errors later in the week. Let's hope I can type in English while watching a concert.]I’ve a friend. In a way, I’ve two. One I can’t see much anymore; she’s gone, but I hold her in high esteem and enjoy the time I’ve had with her. The other Couldn’t be around us while she and I were friends, because he didn’t exist.

She turned into he. Right. You get this.

I’ve no problem with any of this; she…he…they…he. He seems very happy. Okay, I have one problem, that being what pronoun to use.

And the fact that he has a mullet. Eeww.

So, no problems. He has no problems. Except.

Her job was a stage performer. It was her life, substantially. He wants it to be his, as well; it’s been too much a part of her for him to give it up, if you understand me. I keep referring to them as two different people because he does; he is the proclaimed heir to the body of work she developed, and speaks of her as a different person. That’s a problem for his therapist.

But here is the problem, at last. He hasn’t been public with this set of changes. No surprise, really; the general public isn’t going to be terribly accepting of this sort of a choice, I would think. But she was a very identifiable performer; you wouldn’t mistake her for anyone else, ever. If he plays the same sort of music, the same sort of venues, the same ways, then there is no way he won’t be connected to she.

Right now, I’m watching him tune up for the first show. Oh, God, he sounds like her with a deeper voice. I understand that he is supposed to “come out” today. I hope so.

He’s going on about perfect love, perfect trust, and magic. “Things were change, changed forever, in ways they will never be the same again.

“One of things that happened…some of you may be concerned, because ‘who is this heir to the Heatherlands?’ She and I have been friends for a very, veryveryvery long tie. She loved all of you, loved all of you very much. It’s been toching to see all of you love her as much as I have always loved her. She sends you all her love for this magic that we can make together.

“We can be part of the magic together, or be parted by it. [...] I was to wait a year and a day, but I couldn’t wait. I stand before you, unfinished, eager in my young boyishness, Alexander James Adams”

Much clapping.

One assumes that he feels he has said something clearly. He has, if you already know what it is.

We are sitting off on the side, so we can watch the crowd. One, two, a dozen…a significant fraction of the full room knows about the transformation. Did he spend the last few months contacting them one at a time, so that so many would know and feel too uncomfortable to be anything but understanding? Could be. Part of what makes her a good performer is that she plays people as well as intruments. He plays. Sorry.

He has been passing out knighthoods. The third one he asked, as of all of them, “Do you swear fealty…blah blah?”

He answered, “I do, Ma’am.”

Stunned silence immediately overwhelmed by laugher. I think a working majority of the room knows what has happened. There is no coming out. There is only an official acknowledgement of the rumors she/he spread himself.

Not bad. Probably the best way to approach this whole thing…and it’s sneaky, so I like it.

HUGE BALLS

Metaphorically speaking. At the end of the concert he opened the floor to questions.

Is there any chance Heather will ever perform again?
It was strong magic wrought, and some magic cannot be undone.

Heather & Alec will be doing a duet on 2007 Yule album

Uffington Horse? Tricky Pixie?
We’ll (UH) try to get back together when we can. They still want to get together with me, although they’re cross they have to learn in a new key.

Will you autograph Heather CD’s?
I have been endowed with magic to duplicate her signature.

Have you ever thought about counselling others in your position…coming from the fae? Ahem.
Yes, and I’ve been honored. I was uncertain what reception I would get, but based on what I’ve seen here, I am excited to try other conventions and speak anywhere.

What do you prefer to go by?
Alec is my choice.

A lady stood without a question: “I think I speak for all of Heather’s real friends and fans. You are always welcome.”
Choked voice: Thank you.

We have arrived there.

Whazzat? Why are we at the Hilton?

Norwescon is this weekend. Shannon & I are enjoying the festivities with the company of Thingmaker and Dr. Dorothy, with the express intention of being present for Alec’s, uhm, public relations splash. Which I will, undoubtedly, go into at a later time.

I have no doubt that all of you will think that I am making it up, when I do go into it. Life is like that sometimes.

Last night, just before we left home, we were visited by the Ex. This was more than compensated for by her date, Malachi, the First Grandkid. We had a nice little visit, then shot out the door into the 400 miles of darkness between home and here. I’m good with the distance; I was more than ready to run away from home for a while.

I’ll go into that later, too. But first, sleep would be a good thing.

Littlelibby: I shall text you later today with schedules and things, when I know them.

I am ditching work (read: taking a lunch for a change) to go sit in a coffee shop with a professional author of my acquaintance (Lisa Hendrix) and a another friend of hers who is also an aspiring author. We are going to critique, support, brainstorm, and otherwise hob and nob.

We are a writer’s group.

*jaw drops*

Of serious writers. Not “someday” writers. Not “well, I blog” writers. Writers who actually intend, with bloody-minded tooth-grinding determination, to write, to sell, and to do it again.

Egad.