Little Things, Right


Much depends on a single magnolia petal, sprinkler-starred, lying in thick grass.

I’m struggling lately, my beloveds–as you can probably tell. Every time I think there’s a little hope, some-damn-thing else happens.1 I suspect my resilience is reaching a limit, and that is an Unhelpful Thought.

I’m trying to find little things to focus on–cuddling a happy dog, a tiny victory for one of my (grown, when did that happen, my gods) children, a sip of good coffee, a small break in the gasping, terrible heat of summer. If I pay attention to those, maybe I can get through all the rest of it.

At least there’s some rain today. Not much–a bare drizzle, tops–but it smells lovely and cleans the air, and a little relief from the heat is better than none. And walking the dogs mean I have to stop often and look at the things which interest them.

Like a single magnolia petal from a tree fooled into blooming again by the release of the heat dome, and tiny jewels of sprinkler-water glittering in the sun. Sometimes, looking at the small things, I know everything’s going to be okay.

I just hope I’m right.

Blood, Sunrise, Constant

There’s a high thin haze today, hopefully blunting some of the heat; this morning’s sunrise was blood-colored. I think there’s some wildfire smoke high up, leaping over us instead of descending to clog as it did last year–for which I am devoutly grateful, because the suffocating fire-reek was a hideous time. Our sprinklers are finally working again too (don’t ask) so the garden is in much better shape. Even the tomatoes are happy.

And why did I see the sunrise, you might ask? Because unlike me, the dogs are morning people. They simply couldn’t allow me to stay abed any longer, not when there were fun things to do and naps to take in other areas of the house. Also, last night got a bit too warm for comfortable sleeping since the house was closed up, and Miss B didn’t like that at all.

So I was poked and prodded from slumber, and hopefully I’ll be able to ingest enough caffeine to keep my temper sweet. Or sweet-ish, as the case may be.

I am not quite as snarling as I was last month, or even as peeved as I was yesterday.1 Another hard run this morning wrung a fair amount of sweat and stress chemicals free, so that’s good. The weather folk say Friday will bring a little rain, and that’s even better. I don’t feel quite right when the moss between my toes dries out; the Pacific Northwest is not supposed to be this arid.

Apparently mentioning werewolves yesterday made Cold North sit up and take notice, because that book informed me it was quite done marinating and would like a revision, please and thank you. I can’t find a trio of premade covers for the projected trilogy, but I keep looking–if a trad publisher won’t get interested in Tolkien Viking Werewolves2, I’ll just have to bring it out myself, which will stretch the timeline a bit but that’s life. One thing I will not do is let this story languish untold.

Some projects, I don’t mind if they stay trapped on my hard drive forever. Others want to go out into the world as a matter of course, and who am I to gainsay them?

It will mean a lot of thankless effort, and the first book’s insistence on revision now is already playing havoc with other scheduling. But a surplus of work is where I’m happiest, and if I put my head down and focus on the stories I won’t have to brood upon the state of the world, which is a large, deep mercy. I feel guilty for being unable to handle even looking at the news, but my resilience has reached a stumbling-block after the last four-five years.

I’ve had all I can stand, as Popeye says, and I can’t stands no more.

The roses have all recovered from their move, and most are even blooming. Even the ketchup-and-mustard seems quite happy in its new home. One of the blueberries appears to have given up the ghost, but I’m going to give it another winter to make absolutely certain before I decide what to do with its corpse. The terrible heat does seem to have made a dent in the slug and snail population, which means my hostas are doing much better than I had any right to expect, too.

These are the things I’m concentrating on, because I can’t bear to look beyond my garden gate at the moment. It feels like falling down on my responsibilities, but exactly nobody and nothing will be served by fretting myself dry about systemic failure driven by the greed of a few rich bastards and the foot-dragging cowardice of those elected to stop them.

And with that cheerful thought, I’m off to steep a cuppa (coffee might vibrate me right into another dimension, which might be a blessing but I HAVE DEADLINES) and return to the world of Solveig and her shieldmaid. It’s actually not a bad little story, which means I’m right in the phase I need to be with it. Don’t worry, I’ll start hating it around the copyedits stage.

At least that remains the same. Some things are stable and constant, even during *gestures wildly* all this.

Stay safe out there, beloveds. I’m trying to hope, though it’s difficult; whether I’m hopeless or not, though, the line still has to be held.

That stays constant too.

Patience Not Endless

Last week was entirely too social, and the time I planned for solitary retrenchment was taken up with necessary adjuncts to other people’s social calendars. Consequently I am, shall we say, a tad grumpy.

Of course we didn’t see a lot of strangers during lockdown, but with the Prince’s last year of high school being “distance learning” and the economy the way it is, I haven’t been alone in the house (save a few hours once when vaccination was done and the Delta variant as yet unborn) for a significant period and even shutting my office door isn’t granting me enough distance. It’s not anyone’s fault and of course we all bear with the situation as best we can.

I’m beginning to be seriously peeved with death-worshipping “conservatives” who are bound and determined to not only kill as many people as possible but also deliberately make this virus–which we could have controlled by now if not for the misinformation from the likes of Rupert Murdoch’s pet monkeys–worse than it already is. The approaching nightmare is made even more intense by the fact that it was completely avoidable, but some selfish mofos wanted it and are inflicting it on the rest of us.

I know coffee and a run will help. I know some of this is the accumulated weight of the last few years, between pandemic and attempted fascist coup(s)–neither of them things human beings should have to suffer, but here we are. I know I should be a better person, a kinder person, a more patient person.

Yet I am snarling, and on my Very Last Nerve. I have lost patience with the smirking, self-satisfied bullshit of “conservatives”, I have lost patience with the bigots, and I have definitely lost patience with the enablers of the above. I’m at the point where I just want to shake people and hiss, “What the fuck is wrong with you, you know better, cut it out!”

My patience is wide and deep (apparently, which surprises me as much as anyone else) but it is not infinite. Nor, I think, should it be. I’m just wondering what it will take before humanity as a whole stops listening to selfish hatemongers.

I suppose the werewolf story (not the Tolkien Viking Werewolves, which still remains unsold but I have high hopes for) I’ve been poking at in place of other work deserves to be seen as a bright spot, but due to its nature it’s not publishable and I feel guilty for spending time on something which won’t pay the bills. That feeling is toxic as all get-out and breeds resentment, but I can’t help it.

Maybe it’s just a case of Monday. At any rate, finishing coffee and getting out the door to walk the dogs–fractious little beasts for the past few days, probably because of my own mood–is the best course of action. If I’m moving I’m not brooding.

Or at least, that’s the plan. There’s still half of said coffee to get down, but my stomach is such a knot I doubt I’ll get there in a reasonable time. I may have to leave it unfinished and walk the dogs, a sign that the end is indeed nigh.

I hope your Monday is less cranky, beloveds. But if you’re on the ragged edge too, maybe there’s some consolation in not being the only one. Heaven knows we should find what comfort we can in this benighted mess.

And now, it’s off for walkies. Hopefully, things will get better soon.

A Peevish Start

Well, it’s a Monday again. A brand-new week. Yes, I know weeks are imaginary constructs, but so is money and we need that to survive too.

I did a deep-dive Twitch stream on the Valentine series on Saturday; the hour-and-a-half of me talking about imaginary people (it turned into a Japhrimel discussion, since I get so many questions about him) will stay up for a few days.

I like knitting and talking, though I only got a few rows on that scarf done, being occupied gesturing with steel knitting needles instead of actually knitting for most of the stream. Normally I use bamboo, because it catches the yarn just as I prefer and makes the entire process easier, but I didn’t have a set of size-3s and the very thin, fine cashmere needed a much smaller needle than I usually work in.

At least it’s cooling off at night, so we can sleep in some comfort. Small mercies–the only kind we ever get, right?

It’s not that I’m in a pessimistic mood, I think? For one thing, I have coffee. Sweet, blessed caffeine is about to sink into my tissues and provide the strength to get through the day.

I can’t wait.

Today is for some administrivia, a chapter in Hell’s Acre (remember, you can read the first bit of the serial for free here), and getting seriously underway on Sons of Ymre revisions. The latter needs the majority of my attention for the foreseeable future, though what I’d really like to be doing is writing the second book of Cold North. The pressure on that book will mount the longer I stay away, though, so I can afford to let it boil a bit. I know exactly how the rest of the trilogy goes, which is both curse and blessing.

I also have Moon’s Knight–the portal fantasy I wrote at white heat last year–working its way through the publishing process with a placeholder cover while some other moving bits fall into place. One more proof pass and the actual-factual cover, and we’ll be good to go. Preorder links are slowly populating, so there’s that.

It’s nice to have a surfeit of work, though I’m disappointed about a few recent developments on the publishing front. That’s fine, it’s all part of the career, and it won’t kill me. I’ll just be peeved about it for a wee bit.

It’s a peevish kind of morning, and my choice of office jam (thrash metal) isn’t helping. I can already tell I’ll be harnessing the power of irritation to get through the day. It’s not a bad thing–any fuel will do on a Monday–but I will have to make very, very certain I don’t bite or claw without cause.

And the dogs are eager for walkies, so I must attempt some breakfast once the coffee has settled my stomach, then take them rambling. The marine layer providing nice, reasonably-cool mornings is a gift and a blessing; the damage from the latest heat dome is everywhere. It hurts a little to see crisped vegetation and dead leaves, knowing what’s responsible and that the train won’t halt anytime soon.

…maybe I am slightly pessimistic, but I can blame it on Monday and curl up in my dark cave of an office to treat ill temper with a dose of work. Time to switch out the music–I think some Massive Attack will soothe my savagery somewhat–and wander towards the fancy-dancy new toaster.

May your Monday go smoothly, beloveds. Stay cool out there.

A Short Green Hiatus

I’m not supposed to work today.

I was complaining to the kids about how publishing takes several hiatuses during the year, and they put their collective foot down. Apparently a holiday will make me more effective, more efficient, and less cranky–or so they say–so I’ve been banned from working since Friday. The ban ends tomorrow, and I’m not even allowed to spend much time in my office because work is seductive and I apparently cannot be trusted.

A lot of gardening has gotten done, and I finally caught up on the hoovering. Also, I woke up with Melanie Martinez’s Play Date inside my skull at the usual high volume. The radio station in my skull is combing the aether, I suppose; I’ve heard the song a total of four times in my life but now it’s burrowed in.

The blood lily has also finished one of its dormant periods and sent up quite the fan of leaves. The giant castor and angel trumpet are both doing well, and I think sinking the Very Large African Violet into a fresh pot might have been the right move. We’ll see if it survives.

Other than that, all the peppers are in garden boxes and the rest of the seedlings in the ground, except for some mugwort. I went a little crazy with the artemisia, perhaps. I know it’s a quasi-weed but I want to make sure some actually takes root, dammit. And some aconite; it’s slow to take off.

That’s all the news from a holiday morn, unless you want to know that I *whispers* just filled out a cover art questionnaire for Moon’s Knight. Technically, that’s not work, right?

Right?

*whistles innocently, strolling back to vacation*

Refuge in the Work

I did not wish to leave bed today. I want to stay snuggled, wringing the last few drops of happiness from my solitary road trip this weekend. Alas, there’s work to be done–not only the daily work of living, but also Cold North is possessing me and I really do have to get some other stuff shoehorned in around the book filling my brain or I’ll fall behind.

And that cannot be borne. There’s a mortgage to pay, after all.

There is a silver lining, though. It’s been a long while since I finished a piece of writing and was so excited I had to send it to the Selkie1 with the urgent request to “OMG LOOK HOW PRETTY THIS IS TELL ME I’M PRETTY”. Yesterday, there was a scene involving elves, massive reindeer, a snowstorm, and Viking werewolves, and I knew while writing that I had something special.

It made me realize just how long it’s been since I’ve been deeply excited at work, enough to blurt out in all-caps to said writing partner. It was very nice when she replied with the requested squee and a bonus “this is my favorite part”–incidentally, a bit I knew was good as soon as it left my fingers. It’s like a well done iaido strike, you just know before your hand even twitches for the hilt that it’s already happened, and it’s beautiful.

Even with the solo road trip, all the socializing lately has cut deeply into my energy level. Getting some precious alone time means I realize how hard I’ve been running my engine in the red, and for how long.

Of course, I take refuge from everything in work. Heartbreak? I write. Irritation? I write. Depression? I write. Worry? I write. Everything gets poured into stories. It might not be the best coping mechanism, but it’s mine–and it even pays the bills most of the time.

Of course, publishing being what it is, I also have to spend a nontrivial amount of energy nagging to get things done, but I suppose that happens in any industry. I often find myself staring at my inbox muttering “All you have to do is your damn job,” and not even at publishers–at anyone, frankly. I’m sure I can be just as frustrating. Irritation seems to make the business world go ’round.

But I’ve the rest of today for dog-walkies, running, and getting some Viking werewolves into a pitched battle with some high-powered Nazgul, as well as getting that damn combat scene done. It’s not that the scene is unfinished inside my head or needs more marinating, it’s that my after-dinner working time has been eaten by recovery and social engagements. Due to the boom of video meetings during lockdown, I’ve been more social in the past two years than I ever have in my entire life, and I need to prune some of that back even if the caretaker in me screams “but people neeeeeeeed you!”

Yesterday the music queue served up a chunk of Pink Floyd, which was fine since it’s after the summer solstice. I absolutely cannot listen to the Floyd in the dark half of the year; it does bad things to me. Consequently The Wall or Dark Side of the Moon are inextricably linked to summer inside my head, and it was super pleasant to realize not only did I have enough light to listen, but I also had enough emotional bandwidth.

The big thing will be not re-injuring myself because I feel temporarily good. It doesn’t help that I have to keep producing or the entire house might sink into the sea. Writers tend to die with their boots on, and it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to retire. On my good days I think that’s fine, because the stories are lined up around the block and there’s no way I’ll get to them all in my allotted span.

Of course, that could be my own particular attempt to bargain with mortality–you can’t take me, I have deadlines to meet and stories to write. Death won’t listen, but ’tis human to make the effort, so to speak.

And with that borderline-morbid thought, my friends, I bid you a civil adieu and get out the door for walkies. Both dogs are increasingly antsy, for they can tell I’ve finished my coffee and next comes the ritual Tying of the Shoes With Canine Assistance That Is, In Fact, No Assistance At All.

See you ’round.

Saturday’s Solitude

I drove west on Saturday, then back east again loaded with seedlings and starts. The plants were only an excuse, though collecting them was pleasant in the extreme (thank you, MZ, a thousand blessings upon your household). The real reason for the trip was two hours spent completely alone in the car each direction.

I love, crave, and need my solitude. Oddly, though, I’ve never been able to afford living alone. There’s always been roommates, and then there were the kids. With them in school, or one in school and one working, I could get a few hours of blessed alone-time fairly regularly.

Then lockdown happened. And while I have doors to shut and morning runs to perform, it’s not exactly the same.

So it was absolutely healing to get in the car and spend hours with just myself, the engine, and my thoughts. I feel like a new woman. It also helps that the drive over the coast range is spectacularly beautiful. Living here is lovely; there’s the sea within a few hours’ drive1, the mountains in either direction, and dry sage land should I want it accessible within a few hours as well. All in a place with enough rain to suit me2 and a distinct lack of bite-y, venomous things. It’s pretty perfect.

So, things I saw on the drive:

  • A marsh, still mirror-ponds populated by the begging fingers of dead trees, with long-legged birds casually munching amid the stilts;
  • Veils of rainy cloud on thickly wooded mountainsides;
  • A green hippie bus with “WE STOP FOR YOU” painted on the side and a group of brightly clad people stretching their legs during a short halt;
  • A smooshed porcupine, with a few crows dancing excitedly at such a feast (be careful, my friends, those quills are nasty business);
  • A shed or shipping container (not quite sure) with the evocative legend “SLEEPING PREACHER” spray-painted on its front and sides, so traffic both directions could read and wonder;
  • The faroff distant smear of the sea, singing its lonely song;
  • Moss hanging in great veils in a pocket temperate rainforest;
  • Tiny towns with strange names and chainsaw art in the front yard of many a proud home;
  • A hawk diving for lunch on a sunny field;
  • Many, many grazing animals, including cows, alpacas, and I think I even glimpsed a llama.

In short, a good time was had by all, and I get to spend my lunch hour today getting some starts into the ground. There wasn’t time Saturday after I got home–the Princess had spent the day prepping for a pierogi feast, and of course that took up the remainder of the evening. Sunday was spent on household chores and stretching out, since it’s been a long, long while since I’ve had a car ride of that duration.

I feel ever so much better. And I also took a few social media apps off my phone. My blood pressure doesn’t need them; I just can’t even anymore. It will mean greater productivity and less desire to just crawl under my bed and hide. It’s the latter I’m aiming for.

I hope your weekend held many likewise pleasant things, my friends. Now I get to have a bit of toast and look over the day’s work–I think we’ll have a reindeer ride accompanied by giant wolves on the way to a hidden city, and the rest of the combat scene I didn’t finish after all last week, as well as the planting and the watering. We also had some rain, which was glorious though uncharacteristic for June.

Of course the dogs are very interested in the prospect of toast crusts followed by walkies. And there’s probably some more coffee in my future, too. All in all, despite the fact of Monday, things seem somewhat reasonable chez Saintcrow right now.

I can only hope it lasts.