For instance, I began writing it in third person, but decided to rework it into first person because I think that lends itself to audio fiction.  There are emotional nuances available to a first person narrator which are somewhat removed for someone speaking in third person.

Because I knew it would be spoken, I treated it like a giant monologue and included “stage directions” for how I wanted lines to be read by the narrator, Kate Mulgrew. ¹ In fact, the first thing on the page was this:

[Note to reader and director. Because this is audio, please cut all the lines in brackets unless you need them to distinguish characters. I put them in to attribute dialogue lines where I thought there would be some ambiguity or, occasionally, as stage directions for how I'd like a line read.]

In practical terms that means that Ms. Mulgrew saw things like this.

Lizzie scowled. “Of course it’s the wine.” [sarcastic]

After the audio version came out, I went back through the story and adapted it to the written page.  This meant writing additional material to cover the emotional content that a narrator’s voice can deliver. So that line above now reads:

Lizzie scowled and let the sarcasm flow. “Of course it’s the wine.”

The story is the same, but it is adapted for a different medium.  It was an interesting experience to tackle the same idea for two different forms of prose.

If you’d like to read the results, the print version is now available at Subterranean Press. Here’s a teaser:

Water sprayed out from beneath the wine barrel, carrying the faint stink of sulfur with it. I suppose it’s crazy to have a fondness for the smell of rotten eggs, but that means cleanliness in the wine industry. I shut off the hose and wrestled the barrel off the ancient Gamma-Jet, rolling it to the racks outside the cellar door so it could drain in the sun. I tend to grunt whenever I heave a barrel off the ground and let it drop onto the metal frame. It’s not the weight so much — an empty barrel weighed about a hundred pounds — but the size is awkward. I’ve seen men who can’t do this, and take a certain delight in being able to heft them. My hands are constantly getting nicked from where the metal hoops at the ends catch me, and the scarring would ruin any chance at a career as a hand model. As if I would leave the winery voluntarily. Still there are days when a physically easier job would be welcome.

You can read the whole story at Subterranean Press » Fiction: Water to Wine by Mary Robinette Kowal.

Scenting the Dark and Other Stories Mary Robinette Kowal. Subterranean (<http://www.subterraneanpress.com>www.subterraneanpress.com), $25 (80p) ISBN 978-1-59606-267-2

Campbell Award–winner Kowal presents a broad spectrum of stories in her chapbook-slim first collection. The heartbreaking “Just Right,” in which a family struggles with a child’s strange behavior, isn’t speculative at all. “Death Comes but Twice” edges into dark fantasy, while blind perfumer Penn is stalked by an enormous predator in SF horror story “Scenting the Dark.” The deepest tale is “Some Other Day,” in which a young scientist struggles to undo the terrible consequences of her father’s well-meant work, while “Jaiden’s Weaver” is a sweet story about nurturing and caring for a creature others think deformed. Kowal’s stories don’t always plumb the depths of speculation or characters, but when they do the results are often stirring. This excellent introduction to her work is likely to make her new fans. (Nov.)

What we tried to do with this was to put together a miniature collection of the stories which are hard to find or have never been printed in physical form.  Which means that you are getting my very first published story, ever, “Just Right” all the way up through “Jaiden’s Weaver” which came out online earlier this year.

Oh, and an intro by John Scalzi.

We’ve been receiving a ton of requests that we run one of our 50% off sales, which we haven’t done in quite some time. Tim and I have carved a little time out of the SubPress schedule to handle the increased level of orders that usually accompanies one of these sales, so here goes. The rules are simple:

1. The special runs until the end of the day July 3, 2009.

2. You must buy at least 5 different titles to qualify for the sale prices. There is no the maximum number of titles you may order.

3. You may buy only one copy of a given title.

4. Your shopping cart total and automatic email confirmation won’t reflect the sale price. Don’t worry, we’ll apply the proper discount when processing your order.

5. If you’re using PayPal, do NOT go through our site. Please email us for an invoice.

6. Please note that only the titles listed below are part of the sale, and only editions with cover prices of $150 or less are included.

7. We’re not able to offer retroactive discounts on titles, or combine this special with any other coupons, specials, or savings certificates.

via Subterranean Press » Blog Archive » 50% Off Sale on SubPress Forthcoming Titles..

We here at SubPress are fans of elegant small collections such as Antiquities by John Crowley or The Devil in the Details by James P. Blaylock and Tim Powers. Our latest offering fits solidly in that mode. Scenting the Dark and Other Stories, the debut hardcover by Campbell Award-winner Mary Robinette Kowal packs a powerful 25,000 words into its roughly 100 pages. Do yourself a favor and check out one of our finest new short story writers — and novelist, as Mary just sold a pair to Tor (Congrats!)

I’m just delighted.

The short form of my answer is that I initially sent the wrong file. After we had a good laugh (thank God) he suggested that when he ran the story on his site, that I might run the original version of it on mine.

So here’s what I accidentally sent in. The original flash fiction version of “Waiting for Rain,” written in an hour and a half in one of the Liberty Hall flash fiction contests.

Waiting for Rain – 1400 words

by Mary Robinette Kowal

In the other room, Bharat could hear his wife clucking happily over their oldest daughter’s wedding holos. He stared at the screen on his ancient quarto-core processor and held his head in his hands. The weather forecast said the next week was supposed to be sunny again.

That had been fine for Deepali’s wedding, but what was he going to do about his crops? Bharat pushed away from the desk and stared out the window. The land surrounding their house was dry, the spinach plants were beginning to bolt in the heat. The only plants that were doing remotely well were at the edges of the field where his land bordered Guatama’s. A sharp line of rain fell on his neighbor’s land.

Guatama had no trouble paying the ISRO, and gentle showers passed over his land twice daily. But the Indian Space Research Organization’s weather drones kept their seeded rain clouds firmly away from Bharat’s field.

The rustle of silk made him turn. Indra stood in the doorway, her sari draped gracefully around her, holding a holo. Deepali and her new husband seemed to dance in Indra’s palm to the faint wedding music. Tears shone on Indra’s cheeks. “This was the happiest day of my life.”

Bharat smiled. The wedding might have beggared them, but it was hard to deny Indra anything. “You said that when we got married and when your sister got married and when-”

“But I was so proud of our Deepali.” She came across the room; her hair was still as dark as when the matchmaker had introduced them. As Indra kissed him, he caught the scent of jasmine on her skin. “Thank you, my love.”

He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her forehead above her bhindi mark. Thank Vishnu that she did not know how deeply the wedding had put them in debt. “I have some work to finish. Maybe you can show me the rest of the holos, later?”

“Of course.” She looked out the window. “Don’t forget to turn the rain back on, now that the wedding has happened.”

Bharat forced a laugh. “I won’t.” He had spent the last of their money on the band that was still playing in the holo. He had wanted to use a DJ, but Indra and Deepali had looked at him with their large dark eyes and… and he had said yes, knowing that they could not afford it.

He had managed to juggle credit and lines of debit but it was not enough. The ISRO had denied his request for an extension after he failed to pay the last weather bill.

Indra fingered the collar of his khurta with her free hand. She looked up at him from under her long lashes. “Perhaps when you finish, we could do more than look at holos…?”

He was too tired to even think of it, but in this, as everything he did not want to disappoint his wife. “Then let me finish.”

After she left the room, he put on his shoes and went out to the fields. The dust swirled around his feet. The spinach would die if he could not water it. If he could not get a crop to market, they would slide even farther into debt. He did not remember this much time between natural rains when he was a boy, but that was before the Weather Wars.

The rain over Guatamo’s land dwindled away as the clouds rained themselves out. The drones stopped blowing the wind away from his home, as they controlled the clouds position, and Bharat inhaled the damp smell of the earth.

The land between Guatamo’s spinach plants gleamed with moisture. Bharat narrowed his eyes in thought. That rain was all unused. Back when he was a boy, he had helped his father set out clay basins during monsoon season so they would have water through the dry months. The basins were still in the barn, along with the yoke that his father had used to bring water from the village well. Perhaps Bharat could put the basins between Guatamo’s rows and use some of it for his own.

He crossed the field to Guatamo’s house to ask him. He found Guatamo relaxing in the courtyard of the house with a cup of chai cooling beside him. Stubble dotted his cheeks and his belly bulged under his khurta. He grunted when he saw Bharat.

“Come in, come in, my friend!” Staggering to his feet, Guatamo kissed Bharat on either cheek in greeting and began fussing about how long it had been since they had visited.

By the time Guatamo poured Bharat a cup of chai and offered him a chair, Bharat had realized that there was no way to ask about the rain without admitting that his family was bankrupt.

“To what do I owe to the honor of your visit?” Guatamo’s face split in a grin, showing his blackened teeth.

Bharat hesitated. Indra would be mortified. “I only wished to thank you again for letting us have the elephants wait in your driveway before the wedding.”

“Oh, it was nothing, my friend. I am happy to share your good fortune.”

Bharat thanked him and let the conversation drift to the World Cricket Tournament. It would cost Guatamo nothing; surely he would not begrudge a few drops of his evening rain.

#

Bharat slipped out of bed, as he had every night for the past two weeks, to collect the extra rain from Guatamo’s land.

Indra rolled over and looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” He had not lied to her since they got married. “I can not sleep in this heat.”

“Why don’t you ask the ISRO to lower the temperature? We haven’t had it set this high since I was a little girl.”

“The plants need it.” He hurried out of the room, before she forced more lies from him.

The spinach looked better than it had in weeks. The dark green leaves stood up out of the ground in crisp rows. He walked across the field, under the light of the moon, to start hauling the rows of basins back his fields. It would take him several hours of exhausting labor, but it was well worth it.

His shoes squished into the wet earth of Guatamo’s field and he stooped to pick up the first barrel. The clay basin was cool with rain.

A flashlight beam suddenly blinded him. “Bharat!” Indra gasped. “What are you doing?”

Bharat closed his eyes. No. He straightened, turned to his wife. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I-I thought you were cheating on me.”

“Forgive me.” He stared at the ground, feeling as if his soul were drying out with shame. “I did not want to lie to you.”

She waved the flashlight, making each basin pop out of the darkness. “But you get out of bed, night after night…Why?”

Bharat could hear the betrayal in her voice. “I spent all of our money on Deepali’s wedding. I couldn’t pay the weather bills.” He stepped forward, his hands pressed together in supplication. “I’m sorry. Our crops were dying.”

She covered her face with her hand and turned the flash light off. “Why didn’t you just tell me that we couldn’t afford to spend so much?”

Bharat stared at the ground helplessly. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“And you think this is better? To become a liar and a thief?” She bent over and turned the closest basin over, dumping the rainwater on the ground. “We have to pay him back.”

“We can’t! I can’t even pay our bills.”

“Then we will sell my saris and my jewels, but we will not be thieves.” She turned the next basin over, and the water sloshed against her sari.

Bharat thought of the yoke and buckets in the barn. “I will bring water from the old village well-the same number of basins that I took away.”

Indra straightened before tipping over the next basin. “It’s two kilos from here.”

“My father did it. I will not be less of a man than he was.” He stepped past the basins and cupped her cheek in his hand. “And I can’t disappoint you.”

“There are two yokes.” She kissed his palm. “I will carry the water with you.”

Bharat smiled and tipped over the last basin.

END

I like this version quite a bit, actually, but the science in it fails utterly. There’s no way for Bharat to be able to water all of his crops in the manner that I described. It would take something like two weeks of constant work for a single man to do one pass.  I tried to fix it, but instead of the “working together we can save the family farm” ending which I have here, I ended up with “working together we’ll still lose the family farm.”  Bummer.  Which lead me to changing crops, expanding the family relationship and eventually to the version that Subterranean published.

Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz

Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

There’s also an interview with me by Alethea Kontis. She saw me start the story back in 2005 ¹ — yes, sometimes it takes that long for a story to find the right home — and you can learn the answer to questions such as, “Whom do you admire most?

Subterranean will be bringing out a chapbook collection of my short stories in June of 2009 called “Scenting the Dark.” Given how gorgeous their other books are, I’m tremendously excited by this.

Here’s the opening bit as a teaser. I’ll let you know when the story is up.

Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz
Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

Just to keep things in balance though, I should tell you that the night I got home from the Campbells, I had a rejection note waiting in my inbox. Doesn’t matter. My life is very, very good right now.

By lucky chance, Subterranean Press had asked me to record “After the Siege” for them. They’ve just put it up live on their website.

Congratulations, Cory! It was a pleasure to read.

I wanted to make certain that I had good photos of the dolls, so I went over to Ellen Datlow’s this evening and let her do her camera magic. Behold.

Early next year, Subterranean Press will give birth to a new imprint, Far Territories, one that focuses on popularly priced trade paperbacks and hardcovers, with distribution in the chain and independent bookstories.

See that logo?

I made that.

To learn more about how you could potentially own one of the three Coraline figures I’m making, swing by Subterranean Press.

We also recorded the last of the pickup lines for Subterranean Press. I’m uploading the audio book now, but it’s giant so I’ll go to bed before it finishes.

I don’t mind doing some cross-gender voicing, but generally avoid it with the POV character, because I think it is confusing for most listeners. I agonized and then emailed Bill and told him that I thought he should hire a male voice artist, because that would serve the story better. He disagreed, and since I really wanted to read it, not much arm twisting was needed.

As I read the entire manuscript, instead of skimming, I realized why he wanted a female narrator. Ms. Baker uses direct address to the audience in a couple of places, so while the narrator stays with Lewis, it is clearly a separate narrative voice as opposed to an extension of Lewis. Know what I mean? So choice number one, was to have a female narrator.

This left me the freedom to pitch the narrator up, above my natural speaking voice. I also chose to make it very feminine to contrast with all the boys running around.

For Lewis and Joseph’s voices, I ran into some trouble. Joseph has more speaking time in some scenes than the narrator. Now, in the stories, Joseph is described as a bass baritone. Clearly, I wasn’t going to achieve that naturally, so we had to look at compromises.

Lewis was the less vocally dynamic of the two, so placing him at the bottom end of my range was easy; I didn’t need a lot of room to hit his emotional levels since he’s a steadier character. Joseph, our bass, on the other hand is very volatile and he talks a lot. I found that I could either nail the character or the pitch, but not both. When I pitched him down, he wound up sounding angry and dangerous, because of the audible effort involved in keeping my voice low. It doesn’t sound strained as if I were going to hurt myself, but the strain is nevertheless present as a tension that was inappropriate to the character. Most troubling, he wasn’t funny. Joseph is very funny in Ms. Baker’s story.

So after recording a test chapter with a lower Joseph, we decided to go back to the higher one because, aside from the pitch, that voicing was truer to the character.

It is true that we could have pitch-shifted my voice to get it to the right range. The software to do that now is good enough that if the voice is heard out of context, it’ll pass as real. However, in the context of the other voices I was generating, the pitch shift was obvious. Why? Because there’s this thing your brain does with a familiar voice, called psycho-acoustics, which basically waves a flag saying “Wrong! Something is wrong!” It’s a complex series of things that involve overtones, positioning, and other technical things that you have no idea that you are processing, you just know that it’s wrong.

To demonstrate, I have three clips for you.

See, even down 10% he doesn’t sound like a bass, but he sounds weird. The weirdness is even more apparent if it’s in the context of an entire chapter of natural voices.

With all the other voices that are obviously generated by me, pitch-shifted Joseph sounds like someone else and is jarring. Given those choices, we went with the first voicing, feeling that the characterization was stronger there.

At some point, in a reading, you’ll probably have to face a similar choice and I think that you should go for the voice which will give you the most emotional range and be truest to the personality, even if you have to sacrifice some of the physicality.