Leap Day Bitch Break

Selene

I turned my alarm clock off for yesterday and today, and boy howdy was it ever the right choice. Insomnia hasn’t been biting as hard as it used to, but a night and a half of it is a danger sign I’m not going to disregard. Plus, today’s February 29, which only rolls around every four years.

When a bitch needs a goddamn break, a leap year’s extra day will work as well as any other. I’m only going to work on things which please me today, and that might mean fanfic. It certainly won’t mean anything I have to strain over. Oh, and also in honor of leap day, Selene is $2.99USD in ebook through these retailers (it doesn’t go on sale often, but I heard the pleas of my Danny Valentine fans…), Rose & Thunder is $3.99USD through these ones, HOOD‘s Season One is $1.99USD through these, and The Complete Roadtrip Z (all four seasons) is deeply discounted to $9.99USD in ebook here. There are other sales in March and April, but since this is a frabjous day I went all out scheduling these.

We’ve had hours of rain and it looks like the trend will continue through the weekend, which pleases me to no end. Of course I’ll be physically miserable halfway through my morning run, but that’s more than balanced by the joy of getting home, slithering into a warm shower, and drawing dry socks over my lower paws. I have officially reached the age where good socks are a blessing, a luxury, and damn near a courtship gift.

You may have also noticed the site looks subtly different; there’s a lot of work going on behind the scenes to get rid of certain plugins and services provided by companies who have drunk deep the “AI” Flavr-Aid. No more Google, thank you very much–I am weighing even turning off Analytics–and I’ve done a lot of work over the past few days to make sure I can switch away from the Jetpack plugin wholesale if Automattic tries scraping sites where it’s installed. To be strictly honest I don’t think the latter will happen, but I’m not leaving any openings. “AI” and “machine learning” enthusiasts have proved themselves so rancid and exploitative they will never be welcome in my house, world without end, amen.

It’s a huge goddamn grift and I’m tired of it. Even the faintest whiff of that nonsense is enough to turn me away entirely.

On the bright side, my coffee tastes exceptionally fine this damp grey morn. I mean, the first hit of caffeine is always a blessed event, but sometimes the stars align and one receives a superlative jolt. Perhaps some of it has to do with also getting a decent night’s rest after a week of uneasy-at-best toss-turn, or the fact that the Muse has turned away from certain types of input and is back to history books. The latter is a profound relief. I’m not me when I’m not writing, and I’m even less me when I can only get a quarter-hour’s worth of uninterrupted daily reading.

Boxnoggin will not enjoy beginning our walkies in these conditions, but he’ll like skipping them even less. I suppose I’d better finish this marvelous set of espresso shots and amble for the toaster.

Give yourself a wee bit of a break today if you can, my beloveds. You’ve earned it.

Lightning, Once, Enough

Rolled out of bed to find that the Moka pot had been prepped on the stove for me, and one of my children (who had kindly set that up for their poor caffeine-dependent mother) was absolutely bursting to tell me all the news. Apparently that plagiarist Somerton is back at it with a fresh empathy-free nopology1, testing the waters to gain some engagement dollars from hatewatchers; I am continually amazed at the rinse-and-repeat cycles granted certain shameless narcissists.

Yesterday was a bit of a wash. I got a lot of administrivia handled, including things that couldn’t be done on the weekend, but that bled off the force I needed to get certain other things moving along. As a result, the writing part of the day felt like clawing my way out of Sarlaac pit. Both the serial and the Sekrit Projekt are chonky bois2 and being past the point of shiny-and-new makes for a lot of current to swim against, even without the Sisyphean emotional labor on the Sekrit. I want to add a third project to make them jealous, but so much of my energy is spent pushing against the resistance of previous damage there’s not a single leftover erg. Maybe that’ll change when edits for Chained Knight drop and I take time to do revisions on that book and Gamble.

At the very least I’ll be using different mental muscles. Sometimes that’s as good as a rest.

The promo experiment over the weekend went well, too. There’ll be a second experiment next month, and if that goes well I’ll consider recommending the particular promo platform to others. I was amused (and touched) so many folk decided any book capable of garnering that particular “fuck God” review was worth picking up for four bucks and giving a whirl; thank you all. I hope you like it.

I wrote Moon’s Knight during lockdown, in something of a fugue state. And I wasn’t going to publish it, but the howls of protest from my beta readers–who received an early draft on the theory that it might help them escape their own stress during that time–convinced me otherwise. There are whole passages I got to revision on and thought, whoever wrote this sounds like me, makes the choices I would…but I have no memory of this place. It was a very Gandalf set of moments, and I was quite jumpy looking for the Balrog.3

Chained Knight will be out later this year–I already have the cover, it’s a real beaut–and maybe I’ll write the third Tale of the Underdark next winter. I know precisely what happens and how it closes the circle. Of course, these books are variations on a theme rather than a proper series, as I’ve said before. If Moorcock could do it with a certain albino Melnibonean, why can’t I with a riff on something else? It’s the sort of project I wouldn’t be able to do without self-publishing technology and the experience garnered over the last couple decades, so at least I can feel good about that. Even if nobody ends up liking these books, I’ll be happy.

Of course, the response to Moon’s Knight has been overwhelmingly positive, notwithstanding that one hilarious “fuck God” review. Which, again, was absolutely priceless promo, the likes of which I might not ever see again. Ah well, hit by lightning once is enough. The amusement itself is worth the price of admission.

Today is for a meeting of clan-lords during which a certain sellsword receives what is, to her, very bad news, and a scene during which two prisoners somewhat bond over their fate. It’s the latter I’m looking forward to most, since it presents a chance to invert quite a few tropes. Turning such things inside out pleases me mightily, and honestly I doubted I’d get to ever write this particular scene. There have been many dark nights of the soul lately, only a few shafts of random light poking through to accentuate just how hopeless I’ve been feeling.

Quite frankly, it’s been awful. Maybe some of that is breaking up, though. Hand over hand, clinging to a rope made of stories, I keep climbing–and throwing out ropes of my own for others in different pits. It’s a life’s work and as I get older it seems more and more inevitable; I was always going to end up here, and I largely don’t mind. Weaving a net to keep others from the abyss keeps me occupied enough to struggle upward another few handholds.

And now it’s time for breakfast. Boxnoggin was an absolute fur-covered brat during yesterday’s walkies. He’s simply in that part of recovery, which means I need to be even more vigilant about making sure he doesn’t re-injure himself–a thankless task, to be sure, but a necessary one. I just heard him shake his collar as I typed that last sentence, so off I go.

Happy Tuesday, my beloveds. Let’s keep hauling ourselves upward.

The Devil Does Promo

The interval after one gets the first sip of coffee down but before the initial blessed intimation of caffeine in the bloodstream is a liminal space. Thresholds are funny things, and this one’s no different. Technically caffeine’s one of the few substances capable of going straight across the stomach lining (along with aspirin, very simple sugar, and a proportion of alcohol) and by the gods am I ever grateful for that. It’s not so much that my brain needs jump-starting–the collection of squirrels inside my skull is always coked up and singing, thank you–but coffee seems to impose some order on the damn chorus and bring the body into sync as well.

Whew. Anyway, over the weekend I did an experimental promo thing with Moon’s Knight, offering it for $3.99US in ebook. (It’s still going; today’s the last scheduled day for the price drop even though the official promo is done.) I’m testing a certain marketing platform, and I also highlighted the sale on social media. I can’t tell which proportion of sales is which yet; those analytics should be interesting.

Of course, it was sort of a gimme, since this is the book that garnered one of my favourite Amazon reviews, in which a pearl-clutching “Avid Reader” took exception to the protagonist thinking, “fuck God” at the funeral of her best friend. Normally I don’t glance at such things, but the stars aligned in this particular case and I had to laugh. I mean, you can’t buy promo like that, it’s bloody priceless. I’ll probably find that the bulk of the sales are people who saw that on my Mastodon or Bsky feeds and said, “that sounds like a good time”.

The fact that the book almost wasn’t published at all–only the intervention and insistence of my beta readers convinced me to do so–only makes it funnier.

You all know how much I loathe marketing, but if this is the year I’m prepping to go full-feral indie, I need to get more comfortable with it. Intellectually I know that living under late-stage capitalism means we’ve got to use the tools we have, people won’t know about the books unless I tell them, and that it’s necessary and good for an artist to talk about their stuff and make a living. But the brute work of promo does not move me and I have no patience for the douchebags who want to shame artists for having to engage in it, so I’ve been avoiding the whole shebang except when I absolutely cannot.

Needs must when the devil drives, though and Mama’s got rent to pay. I keep hearing that bit in Always Look On the Bright Side of Life where Eric Idle riffs, “Incidentally, this record is available in the foyer…some of us gotta live as well, you know…”

There are far worse earworms upon a Monday morn.

Today is for setting up the next pitched battle in Highlands War and getting a protagonist locked in a dungeon elsewhere. After, of course, Boxnoggin gets his ramble and my own corpse its endorphin-producing shamble. The former will be reasonably pleasant since his leg seems well on the way to full healing, but I’m still keeping him on very easy walkies and discouraging indoor parkour. He is only moderately upset at that last bit since we’re providing canine puzzles and lots of other not-so-leaping fun and encouragement to keep him occupied. (By “puzzles” I mean “very easy Kong toys”, since…well, we love this dog, but he is not a rocket scientist, let’s put it that way.)

The morning has been passing weird, which is to be expected on a Monday. I’m waiting for the Chained Knight edit letter to drop, at which point I’ll shift to revising that book and Gamble. Hopefully this week should see some other things shake loose…but if they don’t I’ve got more than enough to keep me occupied. Rather like Boxnoggin, in fact.

Time to grab some brekkie and stagger forth.

Ivy and Horizons

Even in winter, life is everywhere.

It’s too warm for February. (Thanks, climate change!) At least we’ve had some icepocalypse to cut down on summer’s insect population, and the cherries aren’t blooming yet. Even the one down the street which usually wakes up first–giving me no end of worry, I might add, the poor thing’s going to gamble wrong one of these years–is still blissfully asleep. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.

For example, the ivy-banks are full of berries. The blooms were active far later in fall than anything else, and on sunny days late bees clustered them with zest. They’ve swollen through the worst winter has to offer, and I’m not sure what precisely eats them but something must be overjoyed at the snack.

Ivy’s a terrible plant in this part of the world, and can choke entire hillsides if allowed. Yet for obvious reasons I feel a sort of kinship with something thriving despite every effort to kill it. I also saw a dandelion in the backyard t’other day, while waiting for Boxnoggin to decide which part of the turf to christen. A tiny yellow sun saying hello, good afternoon, fuck you to the world; many are the yards in this neighborhood where such a thing would call for a sudden vengeful application of weed-n-feed. But the older I get, the more I want to just… let things live, if they’re not hurting anyone.

Still going to prune any ivy so it doesn’t kill the Venerable Fir, though. There’s letting things live, and then there’s being foolish with a vine which can kill a tree that will in turn absolutely take out two whole houses if it comes down during a hard wind. I’m broadening my horizons, not being stupid. (Granted the line is a little blurry some days…)

See you next week, my dears.

For Different Elves

We’re on the downward half of the week, and I’m very close to the point where everything is funny again. That’s the stage right before I crawl into the cave for shelter and only reappear once a book is finished; considering there’s 50k (at least) left to write on the serial and way more than that on the Sekrit Projekt this does not bode well. Of course, it could be the urge to retreat into fictional worlds and never come back out, since there’s so much truly heinous shit going down outside.

I’m sure some Internet Rando will sneer that escapism doesn’t help anything, but I have ol’ JRRT on my side. Tolkien drew an explicit line (in an interview) between escapism in fiction and the duty for a prisoner of war to attempt escape in any way possible; I think about that a lot. I also think about his insistence, in at least one famous letter, that he was creating a mythic sandbox he desperately wanted other people to play in.

That last bit helps with the hatemail I’m starting to see now. I knew it was only a matter of time before some neckbeard or another got mad about me getting my girl cooties all over “Real” Epic Fantasy™, by which they inevitably mean White Male Power Trips. It was so expected as to be hilarious, actually arriving a little bit later than I thought it would. So far the dudes seem really upset that the protagonist isn’t the Valkyrie analogue in the book, that said Valkyrie isn’t banging one of the werewolves, and that the actual protagonist prefers sewing, negotiation, and peace to just about anything else.

They’re going to be real mad when the third book hits.

Those bemoaning the fact that the writing is dense, the language is sometimes archaic, and the narrative moves in ways they didn’t expect were also anticipated; I was asked several times to water the language and the complexity down, and largely refused. I will be precisely as recondite and playful as I wish in this particular trilogy. I’m not writing for those who cannot handle or suss out implications, or those who claim confusion when a character thinks one thing but says another. (It’s called lying. Shockingly, both real and fictional people are capable of it.)

No, I have created this for different elves, as the divine Austen might mutter.

The good news is, Boxnoggin’s completely fine. Indeed the dog’s only problem now is my insistence that he not scrabble-run crazily down the hall or engage in calisthenics all over the living room furniture to reinjure himself. He is most annoyed at the short, very easy daily rambles, too, even though I allow double the usual generous allotment of sniffing time. Fortunately the weather has been filthy enough to keep other dogs inside most mornings, which means he does not exert himself proving his chivalry by acting a damnfool and needing close harness-hobbling. Plus he gets to sprawl on a heated bed for the majority of the day, which does him a great deal of good and will probably cut recovery time down a bit. Small mercies.

The Muse is demanding a steady diet of manga and Donnie Yen movies at the moment. I have no idea, I just give her what she wants. Personally I’d prefer to go back to the stack of history books waiting at my bedside, but she’s voracious and I need her kept happy. Plus there’s the Gamble revision looming, and one for Chained Knight when the editor sends it back. I’m considering a Roadtrip Z series sale next month, too, but that’s a whole lot of setup and I’m not sure I have the hand free to juggle it.

There are also some reader questions hanging fire; I really ought to do a post from the mailbag soon-ish. I do read everything sent, my darlings, I just don’t have a lot of time to respond. It’s either reply to all your lovely missives or write the books you all want, and only one of those pays my bills. I do what I can, yet am perpetually behind the eight-ball, so to speak.

In any case the morning mist is lifting, the coffee is down to dregs, and I should gnaw some toast before the ramble and shamble, the first for Boxnoggin and the second for my silly mental and physical health. There’s an army to get moving in the serial, and actual flying monkeys to unleash in the Sekrit Projekt. I have been looking forward to the latter for weeksnow and have a shot at getting to actually write it today, which provides me with a great deal of anticipatory glee.

Best to get started, then. Excelsior, and all that…

Boxnoggin’s Badonkadonk Sunday

Boxnoggin scared the absolute stuffing out of me Sunday evening, so I spent that night and all yesterday in a rather anxious state. Turns out to be a simple muscle strain; he pulled something in his leg while scrabbling down the hall to get a toy early Sunday afternoon, then napped in such a way as to stiffen up. A little rest and a dab of muscle relaxer later, he’s absolutely fine. In fact, he spent most of yesterday zoned on medication and sleeping, which did him nothing but good.

I, however, was checking every quarter-hour to make sure he was still breathing, and agonizing over what we’d do if it wasn’t muscle strain. He was eating, drinking, and eliminating with no trouble, his gums were the proper color and I was 99.9% certain he simply needed rest…but that last .01% is a real doozy. I’m glad to have made the right call, glad it wasn’t more serious, and though my nerves are shot from the worry I finally got some sleep last night.

I had planned to spend the long weekend doing something other than fretting myself dry over a furry toddler, but such was not meant to be. I’m just relieved it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared. And I did get a lot of reading done–although why my current idea of “comfort read” is Junji Ito horror manga, I do not know–as well as a thorough watching of several very violent yakuza films, mostly Beat Takeshi’s Outrage trilogy.

Boxnoggin didn’t flick a single ear at all the gunfire or yelling. That’s normal, though; he and I both love action movies. Well, I love them, he really likes being snuggled while I watch and laugh at the special effects, or gasp at good fight choreography. Since I’m watching on tablet or desktop the sound is never loud enough to distress either of us. In fact, I’d go so far as to say action movies are Lord van der Sploot’s favourites, because of all the cuddles and occasional popcorn.

Since I was giddy from lack of sleep yesterday, I also took the plunge and moved my business email off Google. Some while ago my website host offered free Gmail-hosted email, and I signed up for it. Years and several rounds of Google enshittification (not to mention sudden charging, then sudden price-gouging) later, it was time to let go, so I did. Archiving everything since 2011 was Big Fun, especially since Gmail had changed to accentuate bloat by never actually getting rid of spam or trash (so they could charge for “storage”), but it’s all done now. Nothing left but the exit interview, and since the MX records all appear to be changed over I can do that at something approaching leisure.

In publishing news, Findaway Voices walked back their egregious rights grab (Writer Beware has a great rundown), which is good news BUT I would not ever trust them again. As Michael Lucas points out, they’ve shown who they are and what their endgame is, and the minute the public looks away they’ll be quietly changing terms once more. It also doesn’t speak well of Findaway that they literally disabled the “delete” button so authors could not pull their audiobooks as the backlash got underway. Their behaviour is so rancid it made even Audible look better, and that’s saying something.

Also, the 2023 Hugo Awards mess just keeps getting deeper. I don’t think we’ve seen bottom yet; there are other rumbles, but nothing I’ve seen reporting on so I can’t say for sure.

In any case, I should get some breakfast and take Boxnoggin for a short, careful walk, watching his left rear leg like a hawk. Mild movement and sniffing at every bush will tire him out, though he’s going to be disappointed at the length of the ramble. I’ll probably be so busy staring at his hind end I won’t have time to toss peanuts to the crows, which is kind of hilarious. “Sorry I can’t feed you guys, I’m too busy eyeballing Herr von Titzpunch’s badonkadonk.”

How is this my life? At least I can probably get to the flying monkeys in a certain Sekrit Projekt today, but in order to arrive there in timely fashion I’d best get started now.

See you around.

Blackberry Lesson

Clinging to life, even after ice.

Blackberry brambles (and raspberry canes, to a lesser degree) love the climate here. In spring they don’t grow quite so quickly as kudzu, but sometimes it seems that way. In summer they’re banks of green hiding small animals–maybe larger ones, too–and full of wicked claws just aching for a bit of flesh. As the season turns to autumn the berries are ripe, birds gorging and people with buckets heading for the closest bush uncontaminated by pesticides, dreams of cobbler dancing through their heads.

But I like blackberry bushes best in winter, simply because some absolutely cling to green life through the worst weather imaginable. There’s a beauty to the dormant vines, while their roots sleep safe below frozen ground. Sure, they’ll still take a blood sacrifice, and a lot of gardeners around here hate them almost as much as ivy. (Do not get me started on ivy…)

There’s just something about a plant that shelters so many, feeds so many, and refuses to die even after icepocalypses, that pleases me. If I can be even a fraction as resilient, I will consider it effort well spent.

See you next week, my friends.