Writing

The Potential Pile

Rain. Rain, rain, rain, and I get to go running in it. Miss B is extremely excited, and doesn’t understand why I have to run the dryer before we leave. My running jacket just went through the wash, and I want to make it as dry as possible before I go out and…get rained on. I also just had to tell B to calm her multiple teats, since a neighbor is running a chainsaw in the back yard and B is Defending the Household with a bonus of Making Sure Mum Knows There Are Things Going On.

Speaking of the back yard, we’re going to have to keep the Mad Tortie in. She used to be an inside cat, but when we moved she darted out through the back door and has managed, by hook or crook, to be an outside cat ever since. She’s killing too many birds for that to continue, though, and she’s also getting older. Which means we’re going to have to get serious about blocking her escape-artist habits. Safer for her, and definitely safer for the feathered and furred denizens of Backyard.1

I got a grand total of a thousand words in yesterday, all layering in a scene that isn’t very sexy but is extremely important. I’m juggling umpty-scrump character arcs in the doorstop epic fantasy, and while I don’t personally like or get excited about all of them, they’re necessary for the book to have any depth. It’s also fun–for a certain value of fun–to stretch my narrative skills. You keep swimming or you suffocate.

So the warlord-turned-Emperor is facing his own mortality, his sons are jostling in the succession, his wives and concubines are afraid for their children and themselves, the foreign princess bartered to the Crown Prince in return for a peace deal is nervous, her lady in waiting keeps having to fend off assassins, that one prince is being a dick, the general-turned-prince-by-adoption is having tricky feelings, and then there’s the assassins and the court ladies and and and.

Man, I love this book. I’m in the slough in the middle where it feels like it’ll never get done, but I still love the shit out of it.

I also meant to do some Robin Hood in Space last night, but I got sucked into piano practice and also watching the Blade Runner sequel. I didn’t finish it–leftover exhaustion from the weekend rose up and laid me flat–and I have…thoughts about the whole thing. Like, I’m really tired of female bodies being disposable things for spec-fic “hero” characters to transact through. So tired. And the Dickensian workhouse as a hallmark of dystopia and shorthand for “here is a morally grey character running this place” is just…come on, people, stop with the shortcuts, let’s do something new or at least change up the visual shorthand.

As usual, if I want something like that, I’m going to have to create it myself. At this point I’m just adding it to the list of potential projects, and telling myself that the gods can’t take me yet, I have too much work to do.2

There’s no shortage of work, and I’ve taken on a short-term editing project as well as some comic book scripts. Because of course I’m not happy unless I’ve got a glut of work to get through. There’s also a break in the rain coming, so it’s time to lace up and drag my laundry out of the dryer.

*narrator voice* And so, Tuesday begins…

Book Synchronicity, Again

Spring Break is over. The Little Prince is back in school, and the Princess tells me her fellow retail workers are kind of thrilled there won’t be kids racing the mobility scooters in the aisles anymore.1 Consequently, the house is very quiet.

Too quiet.

We’ve had a couple days of houseguests to close out the holiday as well, which means the dogs were all excited over the regular routine being broken. So excited, in fact, that Odd Trundles is seriously behind on his napping, and eschewed most of his brekkie today in favor of trundling back to the office and his Super Fancy Dog Bed. Miss B is tired but also a bit frazzled from Constantly Supervising New People, so she’ll accompany me for a gentle half-hour run to work all her fidgets out and wind her down so she can sleep. It’s lovely to have people over, but it’s also lovely to have the house back afterward.

I’m also waiting with various stages of patience for the home warranty company to get in touch with me about NEW DISHWASHER. I fidget whenever I think about it, especially since I did a lot of cooking this past week. The pasta pot needs scrubbing, and so does the giant crock pot. I am willing to make cookies for whoever delivers and installs a new goddamn dishwasher, then shoo them out the door and test-drive said new dishwasher.

In other news, Season 3 of Roadtrip Z releases on April 17, and yes, there will be a paperback, it’s just not dropping until my faithful subscribers get their free ebooks. (Serial subscribers get free ebooks of the unedited AND edited seasons. I try to make it a good deal for my peeps.) And we’re coming up on the release of Afterwar in May, which…you know, I typed “finis” at the end of that zero draft over a year ago, and that book has had such a hard road to publication I’m expecting AWFUL NEWS ABOUT IT every day from now until it actually goes on sale. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, there was just a perfect storm of Things Going Wrong Outside Everyone’s Control, but dear God I have only just recovered from it.

…as I was writing this, my new editor at Orbit tweeted a picture of a stack of Afterwar, so synchronicity is alive and well, AND the printers didn’t burst into flame and sink into a swamp2 which is ALL TO THE GOOD and maybe the book will go out without any further disaster.

I just winced, typing that. I’m sure the gods of publishing are laughing at me. Loudly.

I had other plans for this blog post, but it kind of derailed, and I’ve got to get out for a run. I also got our last houseguest loaded into his car during the writing of this, so any train of thought I had is well and truly derailed. Maybe I’ll do like the dogs and take a nap?

Maybe. But only after I run.

Over and out.

Half-Brain, Dishwasher

Robin Hood
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos
I’m bouncing back and forth between an epic fantasy in a preindustrial world and a sort of Robin Hood in Space thing, where Robin is a sniper home from interplanetary war with PTSD and mecha are a thing. Each half of my brain is fighting with a different story, and I’m left standing on my corpus callosum and looking rather baffled.

As long as I don’t cross the sewage treatment technologies, I’ll probably be fine?

One of the things I want to do in the epic fantasy is show things that were hand waved or glossed over in the fantasy books I read growing up as a kid. How does the water for bathing get there? What happens when a woman has her period? I know there’s a chunk of fantasy out there that answers questions like that, and the chunk has been growing all the time, but I want to come up with my own answers. I want to solve the problems in my own way.

And I can’t read other epic fantasy right now. I can’t read in a genre I’m currently writing in, mostly because I don’t want to poison the well but also because it’s exhausting. The same brain-muscles used for creating would start trying to revise and build in other directions, and I’d end up a pile of exposed wires, sparking and writhing.

On the bright side, I finally got a repairman out to look at the dishwasher. The bad news is that at 15+ years old and with no model number, the poor thing is irretrievably dead. (Cue Monty Python’s Dead Parrot sketch.) This is not, however, the worst news, because it means the home warranty will (begrudgingly, I can only suppose, but we are all helpless in the face of obsolescence) replace the damn thing.

I am overjoyed at this, but the true beneficiaries are the Little Prince and Princess, for they chose the kitchen as their daily chore and once the dishwasher stopped, were initiated into the great mysteries of Washing Up Completely By Hand, otherwise known as The Entire Reason Dishwashers Were Created. Not that they complain, really, since they chose the kitchen as their chore of choice ages ago.1 They split the work according to whoever has the most time off that day, and largely get along without any trouble at all.

They’ll make good roommates or spousal units someday, I’m sure.

I spent a fair amount of time yesterday looking at dishwashers. I had no idea there were so many options. Basically all I want is a stainless steel tub and a filer that isn’t too bloody difficult to clean; but if you have Dishwasher Advice, now’s the time for it.

Speaking of advice, I had to get rid of Disqus as a commenting system. They updated their plugin and broke syncing as well as started hard-selling ads. I don’t want advertising on my bloody site, dammit–you could make the case that it’s already an advert for my books, but I like to think there’s some value added in other parts. Anyway, the look of the comments section has changed, but it’s still the same old field of sweetness, punning, light, and my comment policy. So hit me up with your Dishwasher Advice, my friends.

Now it’s time to get out the door for a long-is run, and block out the next assassination attempt in each book. Technology may come and go, but murder remains ever the same. *sips drink*

Over and out.

Level Up

I got a light therapy lamp, and I know they’re supposed to be bright, but dear God when I turn the thing on my lips peel back and my hair ruffles like I’m an action-movie heroine on a motorcycle. Or, you know, a dog with its face out the car window. Plus, it makes some interesting noises as it heats up, creaking as the LEDs begin to spin the damned souls trapped inside to make them glow.1 We’ll see if it short-circuits the midafternoon sleepies.

Now that I don’t have to get up at five AM to get kids on schoolbuses, my writing patterns have shifted. It doesn’t help that this book is most definitely an afternoon book, and each scene requires thought and care, marinating and bubbling in the back of my head until it’s damn well good and ready to come out. That really isn’t so bad, except the book is a bloody monster and I’m behind, at 60K now and things are just getting started. The Muse has decided that since I’m in the habit of pushing my boundaries, she might as well dump a load of doorstop epic fantasy in my lap.

Today’s scene is an assassination attempt. It’s going to be halted by a real jerk of a character, a guy I dislike so thoroughly it’s a shame he’s a main character. He’s not evil or anything, and I understand exactly how he came to be the asshole he is, but I’ll be damned if I like him or his coping mechanisms. He’ll probably marry someone I like a good deal, and his arc is only slightly redemptive, so he’s going to be an asshole to the end. He might be a hero, but heroism comes with no guarantee of a healthy personality.

In fact, quite the opposite.

Anyway, there’s a feast and an attempt on the life of a prince, and said attempt will be foiled. This means I’ll need drums during my morning run, and probably have to block out some parts of the attack in my basement. (It’s too chilly to do outside just yet.) I might have to block it for a shortsword vs. spear, or knifework–I haven’t decided what would be most likely at this event. There’s acrobats with long poles, so a spear could be smuggled in, and I suppose I could even have Asshole Character unarmed and make him bleed a bit. Which would satisfy me, no doubt, but I’m not sure it would satisfy the story, and I might as well do it right the first time so I don’t have to go back and rip out all the stitches later.

I’ve also reached the point of doing a lot of initial editing in my head. It will take three tries at a sentence before I’m satisfied, and I’m spending a great deal of time sitting and staring while I write and discard them at lightning speed inside my skull. Some aspects of revision are being incorporated into the base creative run. It saves time later in revision, but it’s annoying as fuck to stumble-stagger through the zero draft with this going on. I’m choosing to take it as a sign that I’m leveling up–never a comfortable time, but plateauing is worse.

Now I’ve got to get out the door for a run. I’m twitchy all over and I need this scene to settle. Maybe I will make Asshole Character bleed a bit.

We’ll see what the Muse has planned.

Bulwark Against Eternity

Well, I’m awake. The house is quiet, especially since Odd Trundles, worn out after all his napping yesterday and a night spent snoring, is on his Fancy-Dancy Office Bed. Miss B, twitchy since I didn’t take her out yesterday, is busy supervising both his schnorgling snores and my listening to affirmations. This supervision mostly takes the form of nosing him and begging me for pets.

I’m back at work, thank the gods. Not fully recovered, I suspect, but the itch under my skin has mounted to such a pitch that scratching it outweighs the need to rest. It’s time for me to shift most of my engines to Khir’s Honor, which is….a complex book. It’s hit 60K and is just getting started. Apparently the next thing the Muse wants is doorstop epic fantasy. Conspiracies! Poisoning! An unsteady empire transitioning from expansion to maintenance, but under external threat! ROMANCE!

This is going to be fun.

The other thing on my list is revising Jozzie & Sugar Belle. This will probably be a weekend project, since I’ll need a block of dedicated time to get back into the lighthearted swing of that story. Plus, there are details I want to layer in, like Jozzie’s jockstrap (look, when your nuts get excised, you might feel a little self-conscious and want to pad things out a bit) and Sugar Belle’s wardrobe, which frankly is a character all its own. I guess when you’re a stripper/tattoo artist/witch, you have no fucks to give about sartorial conventions. I might be wanting to channel a little of that myself, lately.

I never thought I’d attempt epic fantasy, despite Steelflower. Apparently the Muse thinks now is a good time to attempt it. Last time she got an idea into her pretty head was Afterwar, and that book terrified me in terms of complexity and subject matter. She keeps pushing and prodding, forcing me to stretch. Let’s see if you can do this, she purrs, and I sigh.

Like a shark–the only way to breathe is to keep swimming. It’s actually comforting. The idea that the gods can’t take me until I finish my TBR and all the books I want to write is no doubt erroneous, but it helps me get through the day and move forward. Work and books as a bulwark against eternity. There are worse ways to cope.

I am pondering–only pondering, mind you–starting to give writing and editing advice over on Haggard Feathers. (That’s where you can get on my editing/cover copy/ebook formatting waitlist, too.) Running two blogs at once seems a thankless task, but maybe consolidating and putting all my writing advice in one place (that isn’t Quill & Crow) might be a good idea.

In any case, it’s time to get to it for the day. Miss B requires a ramble today, I think, which means I have wordcount to get in before I’m free to stick my feet in shoes and grab her leash. It’s sunny, which means there will be a million people out, probably with their own dogs offleash, but maybe it won’t be so bad.

Maybe.

Over and out.

The Hang of Tuesdays

I took double the time I thought I needed off after finishing a zero, but I’m still stretched-thin and cranky. It always takes longer than I plan for, even if I plan for a ridiculous number of days. I should just give up planning and wallow.

Yeah, I can hear you laughing. It’s not gonna happen. Contact with the enemy throws all plans out the window but planning is indispensable, and all that. Maybe I’ll just revise the Nutless Kangaroo Shifter Story. It’s only 25k, and it’s fun. That might help ease me over the hill.

Otherwise, it’s all opera (yesterday I livetweeted the Met’s 2009 Lucia di Lammermoor, just for fun) and knocking off a bit of reading. I finished Leckie’s Strong Men Armed and have moved on to another Bolaño. The former is not perfect, I’ll admit–the casual racism is very much a product of its time–and Leckie struggles against the dehumanization of the “enemy” as much as anyone who had slogged through brutal combat can. It’s just what it says on the tin–the story told pretty much from the viewpoint of the Marines on the ground, of whom Leckie was one.

The Bolaño is…well, it’s pure Bolaño. Udo the narrator is a selfish piece of shit1, and Bolaño would have done better from a technical standpoint to do the book in the same close first person without trying for the epistolary feel of a diary. I keep thinking every time I read him that I’ll finish scratching that frustrating itch and be done with it, but like Jandek, sometimes I get in a mood and it’s the only thing that will do. Fortunately I have the rest of the TBR to get through when this is finished.

It would be nice if the dogs would stop trying to den in my TBR. In their defense, it’s in my office, where we all spend the majority of our days. And whenever they start, they get a reaction from me, which is probably the point of half their attempts. (Or more.)

I had a list of Serious Subjects for the post today, but any attempt to organize them makes me stare into the distance in self-defense. The part of recovery where you feel better but still have to be careful so you don’t tear something fragile and injure yourself even worse quite frankly sucks.

So it’s tea, some revisions, reading, and playing with tetchy bored canines today. The Princess has something pastry-based she wants to experiment with on her day off, and the oven is already going.

Not bad for a Tuesday.

Needing Recovery

It was a mildly eventful weekend.

I finished the zero of Atlanta Bound, Season 4 of Roadtrip Z. Since Season 3 is finishing (and is up for preorder, my how time flies), I’m busy with all things Ginny & Lee. Subscribers get the original, zero-draft, raw chapters, then an ebook of the first draft (likewise raw, but less raw) when the season ends, and the finished, edited, and prettified ebook before it goes on sale, so they get to see how the book changes during the process as well as two free ebooks.

Halfway through pushing to get the last chapter written, the Princess texted–some jerk had stolen her bike seat while she was at work. I ended up taking the one off my own bicycle to replace it, since her bike won’t fit in the car. It was infuriating–bike seats? What the fuck? Who does that? I hope whoever took it gets a suitable karmic vengeance delivered in an extremely timely fashion.

Anyway, a case of bookus interruptus, but once I got that emergency handled and sorted, I came back and found out the scene wasn’t going to end the way I thought anyway. So it was probably a blessing I got called away. It was definitely a blessing that I used the trip away to stop and pick up some milk and a bottle of wine. Not for consuming at the same time, of course.

Taking that first sip of cabernet after finishing a zero draft was immensely satisfying.

I took Sunday off, but only from work since Sunday is Chore Day. Housecleaning, more housecleaning, and as a bonus not only washing Odd Trundles, but giving Miss B one of her infrequent baths. She doesn’t need them often, because an Aussie’s coat is one of the wonders of the world–stuff just dries up and flakes off, and too much bathing can strip it of natural oils and cause problems–but she did need one, and suffered it only through her vast love for her hoomins.

She also tried to escape multiple times. Love only stretches so far.

Anyway, once she was scrubbed, rinsed, and dried as far as towels could make her, she got treats but spent the rest of the day mournfully reproaching me with big doggy sighs, stares, and not-so-subtle angling for more treats. Odd, since he gets a bath pretty much weekly, forgot about the occurrence almost as soon as he got the ritual treats afterward. But B? No, she was in a mood for the rest of the day, and is still a little miffed.

The idea behind taking a day off was to slow down the decompression sickness that shows up every time I finished a zero draft. I tend to work on multiple projects until one heats up and races for the finish, and bending all my resources towards that finish line means after I cross, the momentum is still there. I have to wait for the flywheel to wind down a bit before I can harness it to the other projects again. Bleed off the pressure, so to speak.

So I finished up yesterday by watching Met opera stagings. I have one of Netrebko singing Lucia di Lammermoor I want to watch, and maybe I’ll do that today. Recovery always takes longer than I think it will, even when I give myself a day completely “off.” (Which means only about 200 words in a single project, really.)

If there’s a single most frustrating thing about writing, it’s needing recovery. I want to work. I need to work. Scheduling in recovery time and sticking with it so I don’t work until collapse irritates me almost past bearing. Which surprises exactly no-one, I’m sure. But it’s necessary, dammit, and faster in the long run.

At least there will be some time for Latin today. The urge to read aloud, going back and forth with the translation on the opposite page, is almost like the fidgets that drive me out the door to run.

Over and out.