Regina Cannot Explain It All

I'm Regina Small. I'm a writer and editor in NYC. Interests include: sci-fi/fantasy, summertime daydrinking, trying to be a better person, fancy manicures, cooking, absurd humor, philosophy and the role of irony in the modern world.

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Do you know how, in the first few months of a job, there’s a period where it’s almost like you are figuring out ~adulthood~ all over again? I work in Brooklyn now, from 10-6 and there’s been this whole adjustment period where I quasi-work all the time, reading books for the magazine on my commute, writing and researching on the weekends. (I also have been reading genre fiction almost exclusively for the past few months and it’s been weird to be out of the literary fic echo chamber. I miss it, but I don’t.) It’s strange because for the first time in my life, I’m realizing that you really have to work at things like…making plans? Scheduling a day to cook meals? (Lofty ambition, me! But: I get home at 7:15 and I never feel like cooking anything so my current plan is “a new recipe to cook every other Saturday, and a new restaurant to try on the alternate Saturdays.” We’ll see what happens there.) It’s so absurdly late in life to realize that being a functional, worthwhile adult actually requires effort. Back to the job: it’s pretty great. There are parts of it that are less great, because frankly any job that isn’t like “we will pay you 100K to watch Farscape on Netflix and tweet intermittently at most” will always lack that special something. But I somehow ended up not only editing the reviews for our sci-fi/fantasy section but also assigning books to reviewers (which also means getting first pick of upcoming releases omgyouguys) and I get to chat with people at Tor and Ace/Roc/Daw and Orbit and Pyr and Baen and all sorts of amazing sci-fi publishers and imprints. I am a lucky person.

I turned 29 last week and ate the hell out of some lobster tails at Lure in Soho. Dessert was double peanut butter pie with peanut brittle ice cream and I regret nothing.  

For Labor Day weekend, Tom and I are visiting my best friend and her husband in Maryland. We are going to drink and bake and watch the season premiere of Doctor Who and drive onto the beach and stuff our faces full of crabmeat.

Riveted by Meljean Brook (which I’m 63% done with, according to Goodreads) is what I have been privately referring to (myself, in my head) as “a book Tumblr needs to read” because it’s one of those books that you (I) always wished existed? A steampunk fantasy romance where the two leads are non-white, and our hero has lost his legs and hand — he has metal prostheses — and our heroine hails from a hidden village of all women, which is determined to stay hidden because most of the women are gay and it’s the 19th century. From that description, you could easily say, “Ugh, Regina Nerdshares, do you have a PC checklist there and some sort of points rubric for how many ~issues~ it hits?” Such a checklist is not in my possession, so no. But Riveted has a fully realized world, believable characters and manages to touch on things that actually mean something in our world, too. In short: everything you could want from a fantasy novel. Here endeth the review.

Since I don’t start work until 10am, I try to go to the gym in the mornings. Problem: there is a finite number of Radiolab podcasts and once I make my way through the shorts (I usually blow through 3-4 in a workout), I will have no backlog of podcasts to listen to while cardio’ing. (How I suffer.) Any recommendations?

I speak to my dad occasionally, and have finally learned how to not be pained by his constant false assurances that he’ll be home someday.

BMichael, Lenore and I met up last Friday for drinks. Before Lenore got there, I was telling BMike how I feel like Tumblr has gotten less fight-y. “I think we’re all collectively weary,” I said — or something like that, I’m not a memoirist — but then it occurred to me that it might be that I’m just weary of arguing. We also talked about Ian Bogost and phenomenology because that is solid bar talk. (P.S. Don’t let this fool you into thinking I’m smart about grad-level philosophy stuff because I’m not.)

On a different night at that same bar, I played We Call Upon the Author on the jukebox. It was a good choice.