…a tiny little place deep in the woods, just north of Lake Washington. Two bedrooms, one bath, a large piece of land and easy on the eyes, but nothing exceptional or special. Love at first sight, so we made an offer bought it.

Moving in was a challenge. Did I mention the house is tiny? Much smaller than the place we’d been renting. We had to think long and hard about what to get rid of as we (truthfully I) had too much stuff to fit. The largest single piece I parted ways with was my desk. I loved that desk. It was huge–I could spread out all my papers and books and still have room to write. Every story I’ve had published was written at that desk. Surely I could have made it fit somewhere, right? Probably yes. Did I need the desk? Probably no.

One of the places I’d visited while in London several years back was Charles Dickens’ house. It’s a museum now, still furnished as when he lived there. What impressed me most was his desk. It wasn’t really a desk at all; it’s the size and shape of a TV dinner tray, with spindly legs mounted on tiny wooden wheels. Dickens would roll it from room to room when he wrote, wherever the mood struck him and the light was best. He didn’t need a grand piece of furniture at which to work, he just needed to work.

So I said good-bye to my own grand piece of furniture. As I write this I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which is as fine a place to work as any. Too many people get hung up on the things they need in order to write: the proper space, the newest program, the right keyboard. All they really need is some paper, a pencil, and the desire.

I started this post talking about my house, and maybe that’s a fine place to finish. It’s where I write.

The April issue of Locus magazine came today and there on page XX is a review of my novella “The Goddess Deception”. Now I’ve been reviewed by Locus before, but in their online version. Print is different. It’s an actual something. You can hold it in your hands, you can smell the ink and paper, you can roll it up and swat the fly that’s been driving you bat shit crazy for the last hour. And it certainly didn’t hurt that the review was very positive at that. Thanks for the kind nod, Rich. It’s a little thing, really. A review in Locus had been a goal of mine coming up through the ranks, and now that it’s here it made my day.

My laptop was stolen the week before Christmas.  I know!  Other things were taken as well but they got my freaking laptop!  And of course it contained all of my published and in-process manuscripts, notes, story outlines, character sheets, maps…  You name it, I probably had it.  What’s the risk of identity theft when compared to that?  Damn right.

Everything had been regularly backed-up on a flashdrive so nothing’s really gone, but still.  One flash drive.  One.  Without it the game would truly be over.  (Yes I have hard copies too but they’re paper.  Paper!)  So now I’m fretting about back-ups to the back-up.  Are three drives enough?  Nine?  Thirteen?  One stashed in the sock drawer, one in the kitchen with our secret herbs and spices.  Maybe a few tucked among the plastic sleeves of my Silver Age comics, or in one of those drug-mule cavity baggies if I can muster up the courage.  At least I’d always know where they are.  Maybe all that’s required for some peace of mind is a little squirt of lube.  I wonder if I should trim a bit first…        

Still not digging the ultra-tight bicycle shorts people wear when they ride (and in Seattle everybody rides).  Cycling here is like swimming upstream into an endless torrent of camel toes and moose knuckles.

So this young couple wanted to buy our house in Foothill Ranch. More to the point: they were getting married in a few months, really liked our neighborhood, and did anybody want to sell? Now at this same time Kelly was looking into a variety of positions in Seattle, specifically at the University of Washington.

What happened next was a series of lightning-fast events that left us dizzy: Kelly got the job at UW (and loves it!); we sold the house and found a new one in Seattle just prior to Christmas; loaded up the cars and moved the thousand miles from Southern California through rain and icy fog (ugh). I found a job of my own over the river and through the woods; didn’t care for it and found another much more to my liking, not over the river but still plenty of woods–it is Seattle, after all. Unpacking, settling in (where do all these bloody books go!?!) with still enough time to squeeze in two conventions–Emerald City and Norwescon 2013. A breath or two to relax, and we finally feel like we belong.

So here we are in a three-story home built in 1948, just a mile from the university. The Cascades are on one side of us, the Olympics on the other, with Lake Washington and Puget Sound in between. It’s stopped raining for the moment (again, Seattle). The air smells of the forest and fireplaces, robins are on the lawn, and a creek is splashing a dozen yards from our back door. All because somebody wanted to buy our house. That ain’t a bad way to go.

I meet a LARP developer representing an outfit up north; he’s looking to hire a freelance to help them create six unique languages for the characters and races in their new game.  The writer would fine tune what they’ve already done: vocabulary, accents, and phrasing; make it all sound exotic yet convincingly real.  Wow, says I.  Sign me up.  I’ve done this before and have a good ear for it.  They send me the file containing the core vocabulary for the six languages.  I eagerly open the file and find–gibberish.  Random sounds and strings of letters that bear no relationship to one another, nor is there any pattern that makes one language distinct from the others.  Wow, says I again.  It’s a mess.  It’s… hmm.  It’s a challenge, I’ll give them that.  Ultimately nothing came of it; I hyped the guy into a frenzy one too many times and he stopped returning my emails. That’s fine. It was fun while it lasted and gives me terrific fodder for panel discussions on “What Not to Do”.

Welcome to The Darkcaster’s Tome, wherein speculative fiction writer Dean Wells will faithfully observe the time-honored literary tradition of referring to himself in the third person.  (But really, then, don’t we all?)  Here can be found a bibliography of Dean’s published work covering genres from science fiction and slipstream to horror-infused steampunk and fantasy; convention appearances; contact information; reviews; and the occasional bit of news for your enjoyment or noncommittal indifference.

Dean is an author, educator, and active member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association.