Where are the kudos? The subscriptions? The comments? The people cheerleading me chapter to chapter? Where are the kind words and compliments and reassurances that what I'm writing isn't complete crap? Where are the unhinged emojis? The asks on Tumblr? Where are my mutuals in my dms apologizing for not reading the latest chapter right away (side note, you know you don't have to apologize at all, right??). Where is the fanart? Where are the recs?

Where is my motivation to keep going?

It's something I've been thinking about a lot, actually, lately. How the experience of writing fanfic is so unique. How you already have an audience, willing and waiting and captive. And that's really it, isn't it? You have an audience. It's almost performative, writing fanfic. It's being on a stage, a one-person show (or two, if you do it with a friend); it's getting live reactions to your performance, it's feeding off the energy of the crowd and informing it back in a feedback loop; it's improvised, sometimes, in almost-real-time. It's building something that you couldn't have built by yourself. A thing that takes on a life of its own.

It's where it always was before fanfic, before online support; before recs, before asks, before moots, before fanart.

It's in realizing you're the story's only way out into the world.

In a world full of gatekeeping, this is the gate that only you keep. Turn your back on the responsibility to open the portal to the unborn (original) story and keep it open, and the story dies. And that death is on you.

Yes, it's lonely work, without the constant rush of input we've been trained to be used to. It's been lonely work for a long time: since the first storyteller came up against the silence that wanted to keep the story away from the breath that would make it real in other people's ears. And you could make a case that all the online adornments are just our recent generations' way of keeping both the storytellers and the listeners from being overwhelmed by that loneliness. (Because the listeners have their own version of it: the fear of what happens when the people who can tell stories fall silent. Good storytellers respect that fear, and remember every day their responsibility to do something about it.)

Where do the characters come from? A surprising amount of the time, without warning, they muscle their way into the back of your brain and grab you by the hand (or hair) (or throat) and shout Tell about me! You have to tell them, there's no one else who can do it! ...Sometimes you have to sneak up on them from behind, as you do get the shy ones occasionally whom you have to take by the hand and pull into the light. But give them enough silence—build the space for them—and they'll come.

The silence may be key. One of the smartest pieces of advice I was ever given was that, for half an hour in the morning every day, before starting work, I should sit down and do nothing, and listen. No music, no TV, no news, no reading, no nothing. Sit and listen. It's not meditation; it's not mindfulness. It's listening. Story's voice can be hard to hear, sometimes, until you get better at pushing aside all that relentless rush of situational and sensorial input, and better at waiting to hear the story that's as yet too frail to push its way through the portal without assistance.

To be clear: Fanfic work (or any work in universes not of your making) is a different kind of listening. Working well in already-extant universes requires sharp attention to the tones, concerns and qualities of voices already speaking there; and to a certain extent, to the voices speaking about them. And if you love the characters, too—one of the best reasons for fanfic, really—that's a pleasure.

But when working in your own universes, the listening also requires a selective quality, as the characters find their voices and their proper passions. And as for the love... you're the only one there is to love them, till you get them out into the world. If you've ever been the only one to love somebody, you know how tough that can be.

Then add to that the fillip that those people (or situations) won't be really real until you've worked with them long enough, hard enough, all by yourself? It's a tough row to hoe. And you can't ever be really sure that a summer will come to reveal whether the crop's taken root, and whether it's all been worthwhile.

Nonetheless: it's good work. Some of us don't seem able to stop. Some of us even like it that way.

“Be logical,” said the scorpion. “If I stung you I’d certainly drown myself.”

“That’s true,” the frog acknowledged. “Climb aboard, then!” But no sooner than they were halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog, and they both began to thrash and drown. “Why on earth did you do that?” the frog said morosely. “Now we’re both going to die.” 

“I can’t help it,” said the scorpion. “It’s my nature.”

___

…But no sooner than they were halfway across the river, the frog felt a subtle motion on its back, and in a panic dived deep beneath the rushing waters, leaving the scorpion to drown.

“It was going to sting me anyway,” muttered the frog, emerging on the other side of the river. “It was inevitable. You all knew it. Everyone knows what those scorpions are like. It was self-defense.”

___

…But no sooner had they cast off from the bank, the frog felt the tip of a stinger pressed lightly against the back of its neck. “What do you think you’re doing?” said the frog.

“Just a precaution,” said the scorpion. “I cannot sting you without drowning. And now, you cannot drown me without being stung. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

They swam in silence to the other end of the river, where the scorpion climbed off, leaving the frog fuming.

“After the kindness I showed you!” said the frog. “And you threatened to kill me in return?”

“Kindness?” said the scorpion. “To only invite me on your back after you knew I was defenseless, unable to use my tail without killing myself? My dear frog, I only treated you as I was treated. Your kindness was as poisoned as a scorpion’s sting.”

___

…“Just a precaution,” said the scorpion. “I cannot sting you without drowning. And now, you cannot drown me without being stung. Fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

“You have a point,” the frog acknowledged. “But once we get to dry land, couldn’t you sting me then without repercussion?”

“All I want is to cross the river safely,” said the scorpion. “Once I’m on the other side I would gladly let you be.”

“But I would have to trust you on that,” said the frog. “While you’re pressing a stinger to my neck. By ferrying you to land I’d be be giving up the one deterrent I hold over you.”

“But by the same logic, I can’t possibly withdraw my stinger while we’re still over water,” the scorpion protested.

The frog paused in the middle of the river, treading water. “So, I suppose we’re at an impasse.”

The river rushed around them. The scorpion’s stinger twitched against the frog’s unbroken skin. “I suppose so,” the scorpion said.

___

A scorpion, not knowing how to swim, asked a frog to carry it across the river. “Absolutely not!” said the frog, and dived beneath the waters, and so none of them learned anything.

___

A scorpion, being unable to swim, asked a turtle (as in the original Persian version of the fable) to carry it across the river. The turtle readily agreed, and allowed the scorpion aboard its shell. Halfway across, the scorpion gave in to its nature and stung, but failed to penetrate the turtle’s thick shell. The turtle, swimming placidly, failed to notice.

They reached the other side of the river, and parted ways as friends.

___

…Halfway across, the scorpion gave in to its nature and stung, but failed to penetrate the turtle’s thick shell.

The turtle, hearing the tap of the scorpion’s sting, was offended at the scorpion’s ungratefulness. Thankfully, having been granted the powers to both defend itself and to punish evil, the turtle sank beneath the waters and drowned the scorpion out of principle.

___

A scorpion, not knowing how to swim, asked a frog to carry it across the river. “Do I look like a fool?” sneered the frog. “You’d sting me if I let you on my back.”

The scorpion pleaded earnestly. “Do you think so little of me? Please, I must cross the river. What would I gain from stinging you? I would only end up drowning myself!”

“That’s true,” the frog acknowledged. “Even a scorpion knows to look out for its own skin. Climb aboard, then!”

But as they forged through the rushing waters, the scorpion grew worried. This frog thinks me a ruthless killer, it thought. Would it not be justified in throwing me off now and ridding the world of me? Why else would it agree to this? Every jostle made the scorpion more and more anxious, until the frog surged forward with a particularly large splash, and in panic the scorpion lashed out with its stinger.

“I knew it,” snarled the frog, as they both thrashed and drowned. “A scorpion cannot change its nature.”

___

A scorpion, not knowing how to swim, asked a frog to carry it across the river. The frog agreed, but no sooner than they were halfway across the scorpion stung the frog, and they both began to thrash and drown.

“I’ve only myself to blame,” sighed the frog, as they both sank beneath the waters. “You, you’re a scorpion, I couldn’t have expected anything better. But I knew better, and yet I went against my judgement! And now I’ve doomed us both!”

“You couldn’t help it,” said the scorpion mildly. “It’s your nature.” 

___

…“Why on earth did you do that?” the frog said morosely. “Now we’re both going to die.”

“Alas, I was of two natures,” said the scorpion. “One said to gratefully ride your back across the river, and the other said to sting you where you stood. And so both fought, and neither won.” It smiled wistfully. “Ah, it would be nice to be just one thing, wouldn’t it? Unadulterated in nature. Without the capacity for conflict or regret.”

___

“By the way,” said the frog, as they swam, “I’ve been meaning to ask: What’s on the other side of the river?”

“It’s the journey,” said the scorpion. “Not the destination.”

___

…“What’s on the other side of anything?” said the scorpion. “A new beginning.”

___

…”Another scorpion to mate with,” said the scorpion. “And more prey to kill, and more living bodies to poison, and a forthcoming lineage of cruelties that you will be culpable in.”

___

…”Nothing we will live to see, I fear,” said the scorpion. “Already the currents are growing stronger, and the river seems like it shall swallow us both. We surge forward, and the shoreline recedes. But does that mean our striving was in vain?”

___

“I love you,” said the scorpion.

The frog glanced upward. “Do you?”

“Absolutely. Can you imagine the fear of drowning? Of course not. You’re a frog. Might as well be scared of breathing air. And yet here I am, clinging to your back, as the waters rage around us. Isn’t that love? Isn’t that trust? Isn’t that necessity? I could not kill you without killing myself. Are we not inseparable in this?”

The frog swam on, the both of them silent.

___

“I’m so tired,” murmured the frog eventually. “How much further to the other side? I don’t know how long we’ve been swimming. I’ve been treading water. And it’s getting so very dark.”

“Shh,” the scorpion said. “Don’t be afraid.”

The frog’s legs kicked out weakly. “How long has it been? We’re lost. We’re lost! We’re doomed to be cast about the waters forever. There is no land. There’s nothing on the other side, don’t you see!”

“Shh, shh,” said the scorpion. “My venom is a hallucinogenic. Beneath its surface, the river is endlessly deep, its currents carrying many things.” 

“You - You’ve killed us both,” said the frog, and began to laugh deliriously. “Is this - is this what it’s like to drown?” 

“We’ve killed each other,” said the scorpion soothingly. “My venom in my glands now pulsing through your veins, the waters of your birthing pool suffusing my lungs. We are engulfing each other now, drowning in each other. I am breathless. Do you feel it? Do you feel my sting pierced through your heart?”

“What a foolish thing to do,” murmured the frog. “No logic. No logic to it at all.”

“We couldn’t help it,” whispered the scorpion. “It’s our natures. Why else does anything in the world happen? Because we were made for this from birth, darling, every moment inexplicable and inevitable. What a crazy thing it is to fall in love, and yet - It’s all our fault! We are both blameless. We’re together now, darling. It couldn’t have happened any other way.”

___

“It’s funny,” said the frog. “I can’t say that I trust you, really. Or that I even think very much of you and that nasty little stinger of yours to begin with. But I’m doing this for you regardless. It’s strange, isn’t it? It’s strange. Why would I do this? I want to help you, want to go out of my way to help you. I let you climb right onto my back! Now, whyever would I go and do a foolish thing like that?”

___

A scorpion, not knowing how to swim, asked a frog to carry it across the river. “Do I look like a fool?” said the frog. “You’d sting me if I let you on my back!”

“Be logical,” said the scorpion. “If I stung you I’d certainly drown myself.”  

“That’s true,” the frog acknowledged. “Come aboard, then!” But no sooner had the scorpion mounted the frog’s back than it began to sting, repeatedly, while still safely on the river’s bank.

The frog groaned, thrashing weakly as the venom coursed through its veins, beginning to liquefy its flesh. “Ah,” it muttered. “For some reason I never considered this possibility.”

“To be honest,” said the desert rain frog. “I’m the wrong kind of frog for that.”

“Oh,” said the scorpion.

“I was hoping to find someone to carry me across, myself.” It admitted.

“Oh,” The scorpion said. “Well, we can wait together.”

And they sat, and spoke, and when a turtle happened to pass along, they both ventured together, and the scorpion was too busy sharing words to ever think of stinging.

—

“Actually,” said the scorpion, as it climbed onto the frog’s back, “My sting is harmless.”

“Oh really?” Said the frog, as it began to swim.

“Yes,” the scorpion waved the small stinger about. “The poison is useless to anything larger than a beetle. I can’t threaten you with it at all, you see, so you don’t really need to worry about it at all.”

The frog, now freed from the fear of death, began preparing to dive.

“Although,” the scorpion continued as it felt the frog slow down, “do not think me entirely defenceless.”

“Why not?” Said the frog. “All you have is your claws. And they aren’t sharp enough to pierce my skin.”

“No, they are not,” agreed the scorpion, getting a good hold of the frog’s shoulders. “But they are strong. They need to be, to hold my prey so my weak venom has time to work.”

“But they will not kill me.”

“No. But there are other ways to hurt.” The scorpion tightened its grip, letting the teeth of its claws sink into the skin.

“You will drown me, of course, but my claws will remain locked. My drowned corpse will hang over your shoulders, right here, claws buried in you. And everyone who sees you will see it. And they will see my frail little body, and my weak little stinger. And you will drown me, yes, but for the rest of your life everyone will know that you took the life of a creature that was no danger to you for no greater sin than that you did not want to grant them passage. You will never escape the weight of me on your back, waiting to be carried to the afterlife you delivered me to.”

The frog was silent, for a while, before it continued to swim. “I think I would have preferred you with a stinger that worked.”

The scorpion relaxed its grip. “And I would have preferred to not have to use it.”

—

“Do you know how many times we’ve done this?” Asked the frog, eyes flicking back to its passenger. “I can’t remember how long it’s been.”

“A million lives.” Purred the scorpion, claws nestled up to the frog’s neck. “A million lives now, with this one. And it never matters until we’re here.”

“I’m glad it’s us.” Said the frog, letting the tide sweep it away. “I’m glad even after a million lives, we always find each other.”

The scorpion clung tight, even as the water seeped into its carapace. “I’d never die with anyone else, my love.”

Hopelessly entangled, they faded into oblivion.

—

A chicken stood at the edge of a road, watching the cars go by.

“Is this all there is?” It asked.

“I don’t know.” Said the fox across from it, brushing some grass from it’s foot.

“But it might be nice to find out.”

—

-but no sooner had the frog gotten halfway across the river did a great catfish rise up, mouth so wide they could not escape.

“Oh, foolish frog and foolish bug.” It said, voice full of pity as it swallowed them both. “Your eyes glued to the most obvious threat, did you never think there were greater things to fear in a river as deep and wide as this?”

And the catfish swam off, to find more frogs to devour.

—

“Sorry?” The scorpion paused, confused. “Sting you? Why on earth would I do that?

“Well,” said the frog. “It’s in your nature to, isn’t it?”

“No, not at all!” The scorpion said, voice tinged with insult. “We don’t run around stabbing everything we see. That’s a good way to start a fight you can’t win. A stinger is just for catching food and fending off predators, really. It’s no more my nature to sting everything as it is your nature to drown everything. And you don’t do that, do you!”

The frog scowled, petulant at the tone. “Well, the scorpion I usually see here almost always stings me…”

“That seems like you’re projecting problems with one scorpion onto every scorpion you meet.” Said the scorpion. “I’m not really sure I trust you to take me across the river, frankly. Do you know if there’s another frog who could help?”

The frog grumbled, and slipped into the water.

—

The chicken stood on the banks of the river with it’s children. A fox sat on the other bank, with a bag of corn.

“Hoy, chicken.” Shouted the fox. “Do you ever think you might be stuck in a rut?”

“What’s it to you?” The chicken said, flapping a wing in annoyance. “My life is my own business, fox.”

The fox shrugged, pawing at the corn. “I just feel like I can’t get out of this cycle,” it said with a sigh. “Like my life is stuck on rails.”

—

“On rails?” The scorpion asked. “What do you mean?”

“My whole life is just this river-”

—

“This road-”

—

“This boat-”

—

“And it feels like it doesn’t change. It feels like I’m always just here. In the river, with you.”

—

“Is it such a bad place to be?” Asked the fox.

“With me?”

—

“How long do you think the river has been here?” Asked the scorpion.

The frog thought about that until the poison had seeped into its bones.

“As long as us,” it whispered, as its lungs gave out. “As long as we’ve needed it.”

—

“You’re not swimming right.” Said the scorpion, pinching the frog’s arm.

“You need to kick round with the back legs, push with the front, like this-” gently, it pushed the frog’s limbs into the correct position.

“Oh, thank you.” Said the frog. “I’m no good at this. I’ve never been a frog before.”

“You’re doing brilliantly, my dear.” The scorpion said, trying to reassure. “I would have taught you earlier if I could have.”

“And I would have taught you to walk.” The frog laughed, kicking much stronger now. “If only I’d known you didn’t know! I saw you stumbling over the sands there.”

“I’ve never had so many legs!” The scorpion wailed. “How do you manage them all? And the eyes!”

They were not making it across the river very fast.

“I don’t mind only having two eyes.” The frog admitted. “I could get used to it.”

Despite the tutoring, the frog was getting exhausted, weak muscles failing in strong currents.

The scorpion tried to kick at the water, but its frail carapace only dredged in the currents, dragging them both down further.

“Oh, we’re no good at it this way around.” The scorpion said with a shake of its tail, claws clinging so strongly to the frog’s gossamer skin that it ripped open, spilling the entrails like ruby ribbons into the depths.

The frog laughed, choking on the water it didn’t know how to breathe. “I can’t swim, and you won’t sting! Oh, how our natures fail us still!”

And the river claimed them both once more.

—

“Do you remember a time before the riverbank?” Asked the fox.

“Do you remember anything after it?” The Chicken countered, head stuck in the bag of corn as it ate its fill. “Is there anything but the pursuit of what we will never grasp?”

“Maybe we will grasp it,” the fox’s voice was tinged with hope, tail tucked tightly around its legs. “Maybe one day, we will be more than our natures, and we will not have to cross the river again.”

“I like the thrill of it.” Said the chicken. “I’d miss the thrill of it.”

The fox sighed, and lowered its head down to the chicken, already doomed to bite. “But still, wouldn’t it be nice?”

—

But alas, the rains had been heavy, and the river bank had become swollen and wide.

The frog kicked for what felt like an eternity, the scorpion holding steady on its back.

Eventually it could swim no longer, and its legs seized up, as it gasped for air.

“I’m sorry, my love-” the frog wheezed. “I don’t think I can make it-”

“It’s okay.” The scorpion’s voice was soft with sadness, knowing now that it was doomed to die. “I didn’t know it would be so hard. I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“It’s not your fault,” said the frog, as the currents began to sweep them both downstream. “I wanted to help, I- I really thought I could get you there, I, we were so close -”

“We really were, weren’t we?” The scorpion’s hold on the frog was loosening, as its head swam from lack of oxygen. “We almost made it, we really did…”

The frog wailed in grief as the scorpion’s body was torn away, swallowed by the churning rapids.

—

A scorpion walked across an old riverbed. The smooth pebbles had long laid bare, the river dried up thousands of years ago.

It paused in the middle, overcome with a strange pain in its chest, and decided to turn back.

It felt wrong to cross this river alone.

—

“Where do you think the cars go?” Asked the fox.

The chicken watched a car drive by, seeing the shadowy shapes move within. “I try not to think about it. I want to be happy with my lot in life.”

—

-and no sooner had the frog gotten halfway across the river when the scorpion tapped its stinger against the frog’s back to get its attention.

“Hey,” said the scorpion. “I’m not really in that much of a rush, and it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we just go up the river instead? I’ve always wanted to try standing on a lilypad.”

“Sure, if you’d like.” Said the frog. “I don’t have any plans for the day.

And while the river remained uncrossed, neither of them were unhappy about this.

—

“When did you know you loved me?” Asked the turtle, as the scorpion clung onto its back, hiding from the deep currents of the river.

The scorpion winced as a wave shook them. “Oh, from the start.” it said, shaking water from its tail. “Or near enough. I’d never met a frog before. And even though you didn’t know me, you laid your life on the line for me. For hope that the impossible was possible.”

The turtle considered that, thinking back across its many lives.

“I don’t think I knew I loved you until recently.” The turtle admitted, lifting its head from the water so its voice could be soft. “It took time, I think, to know. But that said, why else would I come back, time and time again to the same spot of the same river?”

“You have a world of rivers you could be in, my love.” The scorpion agreed. “And yet I always wait for you here. And you always come.”

“I’ve never been as vulnerable as I’ve been with you.” Even as the water licked up its shell, the turtle continued to swim. “I’d never trust my life to anyone else.”

“Here’s to us,” said the scorpion, raising its stinger. “And the river.”

“Here’s to us.” Said the turtle, raising a flipper to sting. “I hope we always find each other.”

—

“Well here we are,” said the frog to the scorpion. “The other side.”

“Here we are.” The scorpion agreed, slowly climbing off its back. “Thank you, for all of this.”

“Thank you for choosing me.” Said the frog. “Thank you for chaining my lives together. For helping me remember the infinity of Us.”

The scorpion didn’t answer, simply looking up, letting the sun warm its carapace.

“I’ve never really left the river.” The frog took another step onto the bank. “It’s… nice.”

The scorpion turned. For a moment, the frog felt the surge of adrenaline as it felt a pinch on its skin, only to find the scorpion had clasped its claw around their hand. “Come with me.” It pleaded, voice soft with urgency. “Come with me, and don’t say no. I won’t leave this river without you. We can see the other side together.”

Those claws could slice, but they were only firm. The river was only the river. But from the banks the frog could see a jungle of lush green, vibrant with life beyond its knowledge. It laughed. “I’ve always wondered what it was like out there.”

—

some of the rooms have fully stocked pantries with cooking equipment, some have movies like the one described above, some have books you're allowed to just take but people always put back- every day people bring things from the outside. artists often set up galleries there. there are rooms with mattresses and hammocks set up for people to sleep. one of the room is just a place where people leave shoes for the fun of it.

Last week I needed to skip a post in favor of getting my classwork done for my deadline--so I'm back for this list!

Like last time, this list has summaries and cover pics from the book's publisher's or author's sites. Unlike last time, I ended up choosing a variety of demographics so I didn't just rip off other lists of indigenous authors/books. We've got books for adults, young adults, small children, chapter book readers--a book for all the readers in your life!!

If any of these interest you and if you are able, please support your favorite independent bookstores when purchasing these and other books!

I will say that if you're interested in an Indigenous author who talks a lot of fun stuff, has more recs, and has an incredible book out it '23--check out @/AriTison on twitter!!

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

From New York Times bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones comes a novel that is equal parts psychological horror and cutting social commentary on identity politics and the American Indian experience. Fans of Jordan Peele and Tommy Orange will love this story as it follows the lives of four American Indian men and their families, all haunted by a disturbing, deadly event that took place in their youth. Years later, they find themselves tracked by an entity bent on revenge, totally helpless as the culture and traditions they left behind catch up to them in a violent, vengeful way.

Rain is Not My Indian Name by Cynthia Leitich Smith

Cassidy Rain Berghoff didn’t know that the night she decided to get a life would be the same night that her best friend would lose his. It’s been six months since Galen died, and up until now Rain has succeeded in shutting herself off from the world. But when controversy arises around Aunt Georgia’s Indian Camp in their mostly white midwestern community, Rain decides to face the outside world again—at least through the lens of her camera. As the new photographer for her town’s newspaper, Rain soon has to decide how involved she wants to become in Indian Camp. Does she want to keep a professional distance from her intertidal community? And, though she mourns, will she be able to embrace new friends and new beginnings?

Fire Keeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley

Eighteen-year-old Daunis Fontaine has never quite fit in, both in her hometown and on the nearby Ojibwe reservation. She dreams of a fresh start at college, but when family tragedy strikes, Daunis puts her future on hold to look after her fragile mother. The only bright spot is meeting Jamie, the charming new recruit on her brother Levi’s hockey team. Yet even as Daunis falls for Jamie, she senses the dashing hockey star is hiding something. Everything comes to light when Daunis witnesses a shocking murder, thrusting her into an FBI investigation of a lethal new drug. Reluctantly, Daunis agrees to go undercover, drawing on her knowledge of chemistry and Ojibwe traditional medicine to track down the source. But the search for truth is more complicated than Daunis imagined, exposing secrets and old scars. At the same time, she grows concerned with an investigation that seems more focused on punishing the offenders than protecting the victims. Now, as the deceptions—and deaths—keep growing, Daunis must learn what it means to be a strong Anishinaabe kwe (Ojibwe woman) and how far she’ll go for her community, even if it tears apart the only world she’s ever known.

I Sang You Down from the Stars by Tasha Spillett-Sumner; Illustrated by Michaela Goade

As she waits for the arrival of her new baby, a mother-to-be gathers gifts to create a sacred bundle. A white feather, cedar and sage, a stone from the river . . . Each addition to the bundle will offer the new baby strength and connection to tradition, family, and community. As they grow together, mother and baby will each have gifts to offer each other. Tasha Spillett-Sumner and Michaela Goade, two Indigenous creators, bring beautiful words and luminous art together in a resonant celebration of the bond between mother and child.

As We Have Always Done by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson locates Indigenous political resurgence as a practice rooted in uniquely Indigenous theorizing, writing, organizing, and thinking. She makes clear that the goal of Indigenous resistance can no longer be cultural resurgence as a mechanism for inclusion in a multicultural mosaic, calling for unapologetic, place-based Indigenous alternatives to the destructive logics of the settler colonial state.

Murder on the Red River by Marcie R. Rendon

A murdered man in a field. The sheriff calls on Cash—an almost-twenty-something tough, smart Indian woman with special seeing powers. Cash and Sheriff Wheaton make for a strange partnership. He pulled her from her mother's wrecked car when she was three. He's kept an eye out for her ever since. It's a tough place to live—that part of the world where the Red River divides Minnesota and North Dakota.Cash navigated through foster homes, and at 13 was working farms. She's tough as nails—barely over five feet, jeans and jean jacket, smokes Marlboros, drinks Bud Longnecks. Makes her living driving truck. Playing pool on the side. Wheaton is a big lawman type. Scandinavian stock, but darker skin than most. Something else in there? Cash hasn't ever asked. He wants her to take hold of her life. Get into junior college. So there they are, staring at the dead Indian lying in the field. Soon Cash was dreaming the dead man's HUD house on the Red Lake Reservation, mother and kids waiting. She has that kind of knowing. That's the place to start looking. There's a long and dangerous way to go to find the men who killed him. Plus there's Jim, the married white guy. And Long Braids, the Indian guy headed for Minneapolis to join the American Indian Movement.

The Secret Career of Mary Golda Ross, Cherokee Aerospace Engineer by Traci Sorell; Illustrations by Natasha Donovan

Mary Golda Ross designed classified airplanes and spacecraft as Lockheed Aircraft Corporation’s first female engineer. Find out how her passion for math and the Cherokee values she was raised with shaped her life and work. Cherokee author Traci Sorell and Métis illustrator Natasha Donovan trace Ross’s journey from being the only girl in a high school math class to becoming a teacher to pursuing an engineering degree, joining the top-secret Skunk Works division of Lockheed, and being a mentor for Native Americans and young women interested in engineering. In addition, the narrative highlights Cherokee values including education, working cooperatively, remaining humble, and helping ensure equal opportunity and education for all.

Healer of the Water Monster by Brian Young

When Nathan goes to visit his grandma, Nali, at her mobile summer home on the Navajo reservation, he knows he’s in for a pretty uneventful summer, with no electricity or cell service. Still, he loves spending time with Nali and with his uncle Jet, though it’s clear when Jet arrives that he brings his problems with him. One night, while lost in the nearby desert, Nathan finds someone extraordinary: a Holy Being from the Navajo Creation Story—a Water Monster—in need of help. Now Nathan must summon all his courage to save his new friend. With the help of other Navajo Holy Beings, Nathan is determined to save the Water Monster, and to support Uncle Jet in healing from his own pain.

Jo Jo Makoons: The Used-to-be Best Friend by Dawn Quigley; Illustrated by Tara Audibert

Hello/Boozhoo—meet Jo Jo Makoons! Jo Jo Makoons Azure is a spirited seven-year-old who moves through the world a little differently than anyone else on her Ojibwe reservation. It always seems like her mom, her kokum (grandma), and her teacher have a lot to learn—about how good Jo Jo is at cleaning up, what makes a good rhyme, and what it means to be friendly. Even though Jo Jo loves her #1 best friend Mimi (who is a cat), she’s worried that she needs to figure out how to make more friends. Because Fern, her best friend at school, may not want to be friends anymore…

Sabrina & Corina by Kali Fajardo-Anstine

Kali Fajardo-Anstine’s magnetic story collection breathes life into her Latina characters of indigenous ancestry and the land they inhabit in the American West. Against the remarkable backdrop of Denver, Colorado—a place that is as fierce as it is exquisite—these women navigate the land the way they navigate their lives: with caution, grace, and quiet force. In “Sugar Babies,” ancestry and heritage are hidden inside the earth but tend to rise during land disputes. “Any Further West” follows a sex worker and her daughter as they leave their ancestral home in southern Colorado only to find a foreign and hostile land in California. In “Tomi,” a woman leaves prison and finds herself in a gentrified city that is a shadow of the one she remembers from her childhood. And in the title story, “Sabrina & Corina,” a Denver family falls into a cycle of violence against women, coming together only through ritual. Sabrina & Corina is a moving narrative of unrelenting feminine power and an exploration of the universal experiences of abandonment, heritage, and an eternal sense of home.

Hey artists, C. Spike Trotman, founder of Iron Circus Comics, just posted an invaluable thread on depicting different types of black hair. I’d do the thing where you screencap the whole thread and post it but it’s just too long (which is great because it’s a whole lot of useful information!) Give her a follow while you’re there.

The tenth games are a mess and could have been framed as a mistake to continue with, as Highbottom seemed to be pushing for. Dr. Gual was pro- killing the 24 tributes in whatever way, not fully playing into the killing sport of it all. She was willing to have the snakes kill all of the tributes in one go, essentially ending the spectacle with all the blood on the capitals hands. Snow combines the essence of humanity, the notion of punishment and need for entertainment to build out the continuation of the games.

All the lessons Snow learns from District 12 are weaponized to full effect by the time we read about the 74th games. Adding tvs and holograms to every district, betting on the winner, having the districts route against each other, heroizing the winner and marching them around as a prop. The victors not being able to return to normal lives and being pimped out by the capital screams like a greater punishment for Lucy’s escape attempt. Snow knows how to add stakes and, in turn, flex the power the capital holds over its citizens.

Thinking back, Katniss' actions after the first game were as convincing as they can be when you don't see her inner monologue. She was only saying she was acting because she wasn't able to process her own feelings and Haymitch pretty much told her, "You're acting, girl, keep acting if you don't wanna get killed." That again put a strain on her and further complicated her feelings.

But if you think about it, she was banging on the door of the operation room when Peeta was being treated, acting hysterical; she kissed him for 10 minutes straight on stage and she was kind of into it; she was so upset about Peeta losing his leg that she cried on stage and hid her face in his shirt to the point HE had to console her about it; she was pretty much sitting in his lap throughout the whole interview.

That looks like a girl madly in love to me. Like, when did she ever give anyone any hint that it was fake? It was all in her head.

Still, Snow was convinced no one would love another person so much they'd rather die with them. Because he didn't think like that and he can't comprehend why someone would think like that.