Rant Rant Rave

Third Spring, Avoidance

Daffodils and jonquils are blooming, the plum trees and magnolias are sporting a few blooms among their hard reddish buds, the cherry tree down the street is still flowering fitfully (it’s been doing this since early January), and the crocuses are going great guns. The earth is hitting the snooze button, as we all do, but waking up is a foregone conclusion.

Especially on a Monday.

It’s the third spring of plague. Everyone is weary, and the frustration–we could have been done with this by now, if not for the selfishness of a minority. The kids are exhausted by the constant uncertainty, and I’m not far behind. Every fresh WTFery just adds to the load, and the only mercy is that Papaya Pol Pot doesn’t have the nuke button anymore.

I find my silver linings where I can these days.

The time change1 went as well as could be expected. And of course now that we’re an hour earlier I have a thousand video meetings suddenly cropping up like mushrooms after a hard rain. Crawling under my desk with a spiral notebook and simply writing longhand is starting to seem like a good strategy–avoidance par excellence, like the Sekrit Projekt2. At least with said project I’ll have a chunk of text at the end, and I can use that text in various ways.

If I want to.

It was lovely to curl up on the couch with a book yesterday, watching bands of rain and sunshine move through. Trying not to look at the news is incredibly difficult, so I’ve my teeth sunk into a history book and am not letting go, even though it’s slow work. My concentration is shot unless I’m writing werewolves, apparently–or unless I’m trying to explain 80s cartoon openings to my kids.

Man, the animation landscape back then was wild.

…that’s pretty much all I’ve got today, my friends. I’ll be streaming later today, probably still talking about why writing is not like putting together a jigsaw puzzle and the various skills needed to build a story. Big fun, but I guess people are curious just how the sausage gets made, so to speak.

Happy beginning-of-the-week, my beloveds. I’ll have some fun news tomorrow, and don’t forget there’s a sale on HOOD’s Season One until the end of March. Space opera! Intrigue! Pretty dresses! Low-grav shenanigans!

Maybe I’m in a better mood than I thought. I’d better get the dogs walked before it fades.

Over and out.

Not Quite Stunt

Well, it’s Thursday. I got a lot done yesterday, including some semi-reasonable wordcount, hallelujah. Swimming against the weight of the world–current events, administrivia, this that and the other, all the things it uses to try to keep one from creative endeavor–is a risky and exhausting business. Maybe it’s not really the world but human systems of exploitation, but the difference is scant on a practical level.

There’ll be sometime special for subscribers today, and it’s pleasant to anticipate that. There’s also a sale going on now, another sale pending, and a release later this month. I feel like I’m chasing my own tail to a ridiculous degree, even for 2022.

I also have to get to the bloody post office. I keep putting it off because the pandemic is still going strong, but there are things to send and I can’t wait any longer.

Ugh. Leaving the house, my least favorite thing. At least I have plenty of masks and can largely arrange things so I’m in and out during the off hours. Someone vandalized the PO boxes during lockdown, so one can’t go in after-hours anymore. (This is why we can’t have nice things, ARGH.)

I’m still juggling Hell’s Acre (got the knife fight finished yesterday, hooray) and Sons of Ymre #2 (it’s about time to get our monster hunters caught by the larger monster-hunting organization), not to mention the Sooper-Sekrit Projekt. The last alternately delights and terrifies me, but trick writing is like that. It’s not quite stunt writing, but it’s close. The best thing is stuffing in all sorts of references and knowing that some of them will only be understood by me. Easter eggs for readers are great, and for writers? Well, they’re one reason to continue with this benighted career.

Among others.

The dogs are now lobbying for toast-crusts, and that means it’s almost time for walkies, not to mention the morning run. After I sweat through a few kilometres I’ll feel better, and may even be able to face the day without wishing I could reach for my baseball bat.

Maybe.

Hang in there, beloveds. We’re almost to Friday, after all…

Last Smol Sno

Lingering in shaded corners.

Earlier this week, while the dogs and I were walking, I found the very last snow of winter. I’m pretty sure there won’t be more, at least–of course, the way 2022 is going, I’ll be proven dreadfully wrong as a nuclear blizzard descends.

Win some, lose some, I guess.

The urge to crawl into stories and pull the door closed behind me is overwhelming lately, and no wonder. I can’t even scrape up any hope that next week will be better, I’m stuck on “let’s just pray it doesn’t get worse.” Regardless, spring has arrived, however fitfully. The planet will continue on its merry way whether or not humanity drowns itself with radioactive bloodshed.

…I keep trying to be cheerful, or at least quietly optimistic, but it’s not happening. Have a good weekend, my beloveds. Be gentle with yourselves, and each other. It’s a madhouse out there; take what peace you can find.

Over and out.

Wise and Motivated…Nah

“It’s Wednesday,” I told myself yesterday. “You don’t have to run, you don’t have to stream. All you have to do is write. Hey, you can even get ahead on the two paying projects, right?”

I agreed with myself. I felt very wise and motivated. And then…

…I wrote 6k on the werewolf erotica I’ll probably never publish. *headdesk*

I’m not mad, though. Apparently I just needed to crawl into a story and not come out for a while. No stakes, no real danger, just me and some super-dumb characters doing weird things while rain swept the roof and the dogs power-napped. They were exhausted by all the water falling from the sky, I guess.

And it was lovely. My wrists hurt a little, but that’s to be expected. Ice and stretching all day, and I honestly intend to get back to paying work. I mean, it can’t always be werewolf pr0n. I do have a combat scene in Hell’s Acre to get onto (pretty sure Avery’s going to try a fancy knife-drop-catch thing before someone special shows up to save his bacon, and I need that blocked out to a fare-thee-well before writing) and I’ve got to get the pair of monster hunters caught by the big monster-hunting organization before too much longer, since I pretty much know the turn in the second Sons of Ymre book now. There’s no shortage of work.

I just hope I won’t be seduced into the werewolf story again. I know how it ends, but there’s another 70-80k to get there and the damn thing is already in the neighborhood of 86k. It’s just so…big.

*snork*

Anyway, the world is still on fire, though a nasty bully seems to be getting some kind of comeuppance. Of course it’s hurting his victims at home more than it’s hurting him at this point, and the body count will only rise before he’s levered out of power, and plenty of his coevals and henchmen will probably escape scot-free…but at least it’s something, I guess.

I put a dollop of bacon grease in the dogs’ kibble bowls this morning. Boxnoggin turned up his nose, but Miss B dug in her bowl until she found the prize, then proceeded to casually stroll over to Boxnoggin’s bowl and do the same. She did get plenty of kibble with it–I’m no fool, I mashed it all together for just this occasion–and it will keep her coat nice and shiny. And Boxnoggin will have nobody to blame but himself when he condescends to finally put his nose in his brekkie-bowl and discovers there was once bacon grease, but now there is none. He will make a huge production over it, I’m sure, and will beg extra hard for toast scraps from my own breakfast and/or lunch.

I’m trying not to look at the news more than a few times per day. Doomscrolling isn’t good for anyone, and each nadir I reach when the world bursts into fresh flame is a little lower than the last. Endurance is my specialty, but this is fucking ridiculous. Even the absurdity isn’t helping.

In any case, I should get the morning’s toast choked down and the dogs walked. It looks like a reasonably un-cloudy day, which I hate, and I will have to get my morning run out of the way before the sun rises too high. Otherwise there will be people all over the sidewalk, emerging blinking from their holes into bright sunlight, and who needs that? Not a curmudgeon like me, certainly. I’d wish for more rain, but even my gloomy self understands saturated earth needs a moment or two to rest and let some runoff happen. I’ll settle for being cranky until I get back home and shut my door on the outside world.

Maybe I’ll give myself a little bit of werewolf writing after dinner today. As a treat, you understand. I definitely won’t spend another day head-down in something that’ll never sell. Honestly.

Yup. Sure. Imagine me staring into the camera, The Office-style. Best-laid plans, and all that.

See you around, beloveds.

Small Hope in Rain

It’s raining again! The cedars are moving uneasily on a dripping breeze and all trace of ice is washed away. I woke up with You Make Me Feel Like Dancing playing at top volume inside my head, nice and peppy. Considering that I had a Michael Bolton earworm all weekend, it’s a nice change.

I always feel better when it’s raining, anyway.

There’s a full day on the docket. I have to somehow focus through the burning of the world and continue work. Words have to be made–there’s a long-awaited combat scene I have to at least start, and a couple of monster hunters to get out of a hotel as well–not to mention dogs have to be walked, my own weary corpse has to be run, and I suppose I should stare blankly into a webcam and try to say something that doesn’t sound silly in the face of All This.

A tall order, especially that last bit.

I made focaccia yesterday. The Princess is neutral on it, but the Prince and I can do serious damage to a loaf within a very short time. I could have added some garden rosemary, but decided against it. Making something, anything, is pretty much the only way of beating back the darkness for me right now. Bread. A pair of earrings. A few words on a story before I run out of energy and sit, staring, into the abyss.

My heart hurts. It’s a sharp pain, and jabs when least expected. Sometimes I think I can feel the organ cracking, though I know perfectly well it’s made of meat and the agony is emotional. The body doesn’t know the difference, and I haven’t been running enough to purge a lot of the stress chemicals. That ends today–things have reached the point where I can’t afford not to run. Maybe it will shake me out of myself, give me a little hope.

It’s taken an inordinate amount of time to type this, between staring at the cedars out the window and gauging how cold my coffee is now. (Answer: Tepid, and will soon grow downright chilly.) The dogs, having grasped that Water Is Falling From the Sky, are content to let walkies wait…but not for long, since habit and ritual both demand they start irritating me as soon as my coffee cup is truly cold and it’s toast-time. At least I can take some comfort in their obliviousness; as long as they have morning kibble to ignore and Mum stays in her office staring into a glowing box, all is well with their world.

Sometimes I wish for their ignorant bliss. It certainly looks nice. I know the only hope lies in just holding the line, doing what I can, and making my own little corner of the world as calm and quiet as possible, but I don’t feel like it’s enough and I agonize over not being able to do more.

Be kind to yourselves today, my beloveds. It’s perfectly reasonable to feel overwhelmed at the moment. Hopefully I can escape into the stories for a short while today–and hopefully you can find a little relief somewhere too.

Over and out.

Free Block

I keep repeating it to myself these days.

There’s a distinct subset of the “demotivational” graphics I’m making lately, all essentially saying the same thing.

You can probably tell I’ve been using the block button a lot lately. It’s not worth dignifying a troll or a Well-Actually Man with a response. It gives them what they want–attention–and wastes your time. Far better is to deplatform the mofos, in whatever way, and move merrily on with one’s bad self.

“But what about FREEZE PEACH?” I hear some of them howl. “You’re CENSORING MEEEE!”

Whatever. Freezed Peaches do not guard against Consequences, and a consequence of being an asshat in my mentions is getting blocked. They can go bleat their hateful bullshit on their own timeline, and stay out of my aquifer. I don’t need that poison, and neither do any followers I might have.

I used to just mute, but nowadays, my eyes narrow and my finger hovers over the block button at the slightest provocation. I have no problem building a “bubble” of decent people; I choose not to hang out with bigots, trolls, and Reply Guys. And it’s rather nice.

Anyway, this is the energy I’m carrying into the weekend. As usual with any of these graphics, feel absolutely entitled to right-click, snurch, and re-use at will. They’re 100% free Ultra-Fungible Tokens. (Their bases are also free over at Canva, and it’s rather soothing to create them.) Have at it, enjoy, and block whomever you please.

Happy Friday!

Reacquired Energy

I get to run today, which will be a gift. There’s all sorts of swirling through my interior spaces, and physical motion will calm it down. I think I’m on the verge of submerging to finish a book or two, which will be a relief. I have the itch to actually type “finis” at the end of something again.

Of course, it could be that I just recently have reacquired the energy and focus to juggle my usual three-projects-at-once. Hell’s Acre is gathering steam, though I’m pretty sure now the entire thing will be a whole 200k chunk instead of broken into two smaller seasons as was the original plan. Plus there’s the second Sons of Ymre, gaining speed right before the first one releases. I think it’ll only be a two-book series, despite my editor’s protestations. (She wants more, especially a Robert romance. You’ll meet him in Erik.) The third project is just-for-me, sooper-sekrit, and delights me right down to the hollows of my soul.

So it’s rather busy around here, and since I actually left the house on Tuesday to take care of things I’ve been meaning to get done (and haven’t been able to) for three years of pandemic, I have a bit of energy freed up from that. I’m at the stage of actively resenting anything pulling me away from writing now. I just want to be left alone to chortle over my keyboard, fueled only by caffeine and my indomitable will.

I had an appointment yesterday so there was no Tea with Lili. I might do a catch-up today if I have time, and if I have a cuppa around the proper hour. Goodness knows I have enough subject matter.

The chainsaws earlier in the week gave way to stump-grinding yesterday. Miss B was so irate she drowned out said stump-grinder, but thankfully the entire ruckus was short-lived. She is becoming rather cranky in her senescence, but heaven knows she’s earned it. She was also furious at being bathed on Tuesday, while Boxnoggin hid under my desk hoping he wasn’t next. Spoiler: He wasn’t, his skin is rather delicate and cannot handle more than a bath every other month.

Which just made Miss B even more irritable, though she was mollified by a treat. Especially since Boxnoggin, who presented himself in a mad scramble, did not get an after-bath treat. He had to sit, shake hands, lie down, and roll over to earn his, and then Miss B got a second treat for watching the whole thing because of course she demands parity of her particular sort.

The dogs absolutely have my number, and I don’t mind.

I am however out of patience with rather a lot of things, including some current “discourse.” Climbing into a hole made of work and the production of my sweary little demotivational graphics seems ever so enticing.

At the moment, the coffee is almost done, I solved today’s Wordle at the last moment (I thought it was impossible for me to hate the New York Times more, but never, I guess, underestimate one’s powers in that regard), and the dogs are waiting eagerly for toast-crust and walkies.

No wonder the beasts rarely eat their breakfasts. They’re too busy chewing on bits of mine. Alas and alack, I am a fool for sad canine stares–though this isn’t a bad thing, I think. Rather seems a mark of character, instead.

All right, Thursday. We’re not going to hurt each other, are we?