Lilith Saintcrow

Yesterday I:

* knocked out another couple thousand words
* said some things I’ve been meaning to for a very long time and felt lighter
* deleted my WoW character
* read The Book Thief and Nabokov’s Mary.
* did NOT get around to hoovering like I wanted to.
* went for a long walk in the rain and dark, feeding the Muse with streetlight shine and quiet dark houses.

The Kiwi wanted to know if The Book Thief was any good. I thought it was fantastic, despite some glaring missteps. But any book narrated by Death and set in Nazi Germany is going to have a few rough patches. Plus, it’s an ARC, and my inner editor screamed over a few typos. The story goes like this: Liesel Meminger is a foster child in prewar Germany. Her mother can’t afford to keep her and her brother, so she is going to Munich to give them to the agency. (Liesel’s father was a Communist, and so the mother is under Nazi suspicion and ineligible for membership in the Party.) On the train to Munich, Liesel’s brother dies, and Liesel steals her first book. She doesn’t steal for the book itself–she can’t read.

Liesel ends up at the house of Rosa and Hans, both odd people. Hans is a housepainter and accordionist. Rose is a washerwoman with a foul mouth and a cardboard face. What I loved most about this book was the portrayal of Rosa and other flawed human beings–we meet someone and are told the most unappetizing things about them, but as we get to know them through the book we can learn to forgive–or not to forgive, as the case may be–their behavior, viewing it in the best or the worst possible light.

I think the book would have been better without the “narrated by Death!” thing, but I don’t think it would have gotten published despite the incandescent passages–of which there are no few. Everything in the book seemed inevitable, which is one of the highest praises I can give a literary fiction author. If everything is set up believably to make tragedy and comedy inevitable, then I think an author’s done his or her job.

The Book Thief isn’t for everyone. For some, the “Death as narrator!” thing will grate, and there are enough missteps to infuriate a not-so-patient reader. But it’s still worth a read in trade paper, I think, or mass-market if you can find it. (I only have an ARC but I’m thinking of getting a trade paper for the missing artwork.) Plus, it’s a story about a girl who steals books and in the process discovers the power of words–but not because she steals books, because someone loves her enough to teach her. Which is enough to make even the missteps okay in my book.

Nabokov’s Mary was his first published novel, and I loathe the protaganist almost as much as I love Nabokov’s writing, which is always a treat. Ganin is a self-centred emotionally-abusive pig. But…Nabokov’s writing. Mmmh.

Besides, as I have pointed out ad nauseum, it is no crime to make a character others love or hate. The thing a writer should fear is creating a character others can remain indifferent to. All the same, Mary wasn’t my favorite Nabokov. I think I shall go read Invitation to a Beheading again.

I feel much better, but the fever has spiked again today. Which means everything looks like it’s underwater, and my ears are ringing that high tone that often happens while I’m in the funny space between fever and getting better.

I am shamefully behind on putting together the contests and giveaways. This week I need to post some books to Demented Michelle so she can do giveaways, and also come up with trivia questions for the Dark Side newsletter contest.

Not wanting to exercise today. Not wanting to do much of anything beyond cuddle up with a blankie and suck on a bottle full of cranberry juice (vodka optional, but only because it’s too damn much work to open the bottle and the alcohol will only make me feel worse. A hot buttered rum does sound REALLY good to me right now, tho’.)

So…the fifth Valentine book. 32K words and (kind of) going strong. The bones are there under the surface, I just need to sit down and excavate them. Coming up is the showdown in Hajya Sofya (yes, I know, misspelled, but it is an alternate universe) and Danny looking through the book; also coming up is a conversation with Tiens the Nichtvren Hellesvront agent and a running fight through a city with McKinley saving Danny’s bum more than once. Where is Japh during all this, I’d like to know? He’s being cagey. “Just…flying around.” is all he says. But that won’t fly. I’m going to have to hold him down and pressure him to make him talk. I suspect he’s about to endure something unpleasant, that always makes him uncommunicative. The duel with Sephrimel (provisional name, all) is bound to be juicy, full of gore and guts, and very readable. I hope, at least.

Good Lord. Yes, these are the things I think about.

All right. Time for more ibuprofen and a good dose of typing about the characters in my head. Bwahahahaha. (Evil chuckle.)

And this afternooon, a hot buttered rum. mmmmh.

Because I am tired, and sick, and about to throw in the towel on this Internet thing for the day so I can go curl up in the papasan and write. For that is, you know, the best therapy for me. Here’s ten things you probably didn’t know about me.

1. Yes, I was a massage therapist. I was a good one, too. I stopped doing it because of insurance companies.

2. I have recently begun to play World of Warcraft. It’s all the Sullen Teenager’s fault. Monk says it’s a sign that a video game has officially taken over the world.

3. My favorite movie is Dead Poet’s Society.

4. I love the Pacific Ocean. I love it most of all when it’s cold and story up around Rialto Beach. Which is one of my favorite places in the whole wide world.

5. I talk to trees. I also talk to cats and dogs as if they are children. All three (cats, dogs, children) seem to enjoy it. The trees don’t express a preference one way or another.

6. I love rosemary.

7. I view writing as a kind of a obsession. I don’t necessarily write because I like to. I write because I must.

8. I love dark chocolate and crunchy peanut butter. Together. Mmmmh.

9. The smell of paper and dust in a bookstore makes me feel safe.

10. A plum tree in blossom once saved my life in that most ordinary of ways–by being a reminder that beauty exists even in the most sterile deserts of no hope.

There. Ten things you probably didn’t know about me. Now I have to go write. Have a wonderful weekend, Readers.

And what you get is smoke. Lots of it.

First order of business: hello to a fan. I hear Ellen over at B & J Metal Fab is a big fan, and that she reads my blog religiously. Hello, Ellen! Let the DHM know if you need any books signed. It’s the least I can do for such a great Reader. *grin* The DHM laid odds that you’d faint if I mentioned you in my blog, so be sure to let him know whether you’ve lost consciousness or not. *bigger grin*

Next up: WHY DOES MY MUSE TORTURE ME SO? I keep getting to 20-30K on the fifth Valentine book and then having to throw the damn thing out because the characters get bloody stubborn. It’s enough to make a writer go looking for the Muse with a mallet. The b!tch needs to get her pretty little bum in gear. I’ve got a bloody deadline for this book and I already feel late because I like to be ahead of deadline. Way ahead of deadline. I couldn’t care less if I’m behind on my own doctor’s appointments (I hate doctors, but I take the kids religiously) but being less than a few months early on a deadline just kills me.

I’m built funny that way.

Both the Princess and the Little Prince are sniffly and mucusy today. Gods bless Triaminic. I’m not feeling a hundred percent myself, but the vitamins B and C seem to be helping. I don’t want to miss tango or shooting tonight–I think I want to venture into downtown Portland and get some more shots. Don’t worry–the Sullen Teenager probably won’t let me go alone. He seems to think I’m in some kind of danger in rough neighborhoods alone at night. When I point out that I don’t carry any cash and I’m too pudgy to be considered attractive, he just snorts. I don’t know what he thinks a gangly sixteen-year-old will do to deter anyone seriously set on mayhem or my camera, but the DHM feels better when someone is out with me after dark and so does Sixten (aka Monk) So I guess I’ll drag Sullen Teen along, unless he’s a sickie. In which case it’s tango and shooting by my own sweet self, and damn all the torpedoes. I was hanging out on Yesler in Seattle when I was much younger, not to mention University Avenue back when it was a rough part of town, mecca for the homeless before the urban renewal.

In other news, I am listening to Blue October’s latest over and over and over again. (look out, that’s their MySpace page. Sorry about that.) It’s called Foiled, and it’s chock-full of Muse crack. (The girl is gulping it down.) Especially track 5, titled Hate Me.

I’m sober now for 3 whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In my sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so f****g far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind

Oh. My. God. The whole song makes me think of a private investigator, some of whose jobs are more interesting than others, and the dame he has trouble not loving. It’s also filling up the well that gives birth to both the Valentine and Kismet stories. (ooh, more about that later, I am so excited…)

Ah, the Little Prince has perked up. He’s making interesting hooting noises out the front door like a baboon. Gods love my children.

Last night we watched Psycho and The Omen–the originals, both. Anthony Perkins and Gregory Peck, what a pair! Perkins was wonderful, and I’d never seen the whole movie all the way through–just clips. The Omen was of course a classic, but it irritated me almost beyond bearing. I love a Richard Donner movie, and I adore Gregory Peck (Atticus Finch was my first movie love) but the idea that God would ask a man to kill a five-year-old boy rubbed me the wrong way. If I’d been Ambassador Thorn I would have sat the kid down and said, “Look, I know you’re a bit weird. But I’m your dad, I’ve changed your diapers, and I love you. So quit killing people, will you? How about we go to Hawaii and learn to surf instead?” Chances are Damien would have agreed.

But then there would have been no movie. Some of the imagery in the film is chilling, I’ll give it that. But we MST3K’d it so hard I’m surprised the DVD isn’t scorched. Ah well. Classics sometimes get a little less…classic.

Oh, last thing. I got some BPAL the other day. The scents are: Chuparosa, Harlot, Bordello, and Seraglio, plus a whole clutch of imps. After the Selkie and the Kiwi go through the imps, I might start reviewing them like Jess Hartley does. That’s such a good idea. The DHM won’t let me smelly him up (all that stuff makes him sneeze) but the Sullen Teenager actually enjoys being fussed over and bedecked with sniffies. He’s a strange child.

Whoops! Really last thing, I promise. There are upcoming giveaways, since I have my Cloud Watcher and Dead Man Rising author’s copies now.

That is all. I promise.

The Kiwi and I have this thing where we do a Cartman voice (if you don’t watch South Park, it’s time to start, dudes) and say, “Penguin luuuv is the sweetest luuuuuuuv…”

So what else could I do but immortalize it in a coffee mug?

Here’s small penguin love. For those of you a bit braver, here’s bigger penguin love.

Yes, I know. I should be working. So sue me. Snerk.