Lilith Saintcrow

Dierdre Martin just made me laugh like a hyena.

You wanna know what it’s like to write romance? There it is.

Heh.

Feeling better all the time…

Today is Friday.

Which means the week is almost over. Pretty much over.

*wild celebration ensues*

Between being the single mum this past week and Sir Pewkington doing his thing, between the numerous personal disasters and the lack of sleep, between the nervousness over the upcoming trip and my stomach trying to crawl out of my ribcage several times (an unpleasant experience in the extreme) I have been waiting for this bloody week to end with varying degrees of impatience and impassioned begging of the gods.

I realize I’ve been “killing a lot of pixels” lately. That’s Casa Saintcrow-speak for playing a video game. The colors are bright, there is no real peril, and one has clearly-defined goals to work toward. (Yes, I’m playing World of Warcraft. I am a geek.) I’ve been playing for an hour or two after the kids go to bed and it shows–I’ve never had a toon this high.

I feel like Elmer Fudd–every time I say “West and welaxation at wast!” some damn thing else happens.

Eh, anyway, I am about to shut off the wireless and go back to the book in progress. Drowning my sorrows in fiction seems good enough for me.

Have a great weekend, Readers.

Can I please has this week over, pretty pretty please with sugar on top?

It’s not like this week has been without its pleasures, like a guiseppe sandwich from La Bottega and the Selkie talking about Nabokov and figuring out just what that Trader had to do with the situation anyway. And there have been hugs from the Little Prince (“I puked on your hand, Mummy. You’re the best!“) and enthusiasm from the Princess (“I LOVE your tunafish sandwiches, Mum. They make me feel safe.”)

I know I am lucky, lucky, lucky.

But can I please, please, have this week over? I didn’t do anything to anyone, I don’t care that I didn’t deserve this week in the first place, I just want it to go away.

I promise I will be good. I swear.

Tonight I am going to go to bed, and when I wake up in the morning (please God let me sleep) I want this week over.

KTHXBAI.

First of all, this is hilarious and I think I went to school with this guy or his soul cousin or something. Or LOTS of his soul cousins, most of which I probably dated for a week or so.

Next up: I wrote about how I am of the firm opinion writer’s block doesn’t exist. Danae West disagrees. While I am willing to further refine my stance to say that yes, neurological damage, head trauma, or other organic things might keep one from writing, I don’t think we should call that writer’s block. When Danae speaks of writer’s block and I speak of it, we’re speaking about two different things. Thoughts, anyone?

The oatmeal cookies I was jonesing for this morning? I walked down to the store with the kids to get oatmeal for them. They are currently baking. Mmmmmmmh. The pan de campagne turned out well yesterday too–so well, in fact, that there is only a heel of it left.

The Grand High Book Weasel sent me some Halloween cards–one lovely one with a crow on it, and a funny one about damnation and candy. Heh. Awesome. She sure knows how to make a girl feel better, does that GHBW.

I am waiting for the acetaminophen to kick in so I can have some relief from this bastard headache, then it’s straight back into the Jill book, damn the torpedoes, etc., etc….

Well, guess who is galloping around the house, screaming about the Headless Horseman, and eating everything that isn’t nailed down?

You guessed it. Sir Pewksalot, my happy little third child, is all right after yesterday’s spewing episode. More than all right, he’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. *sigh* The constitution of the young.

I found this about an hour ago, and it just tickled me pink. I adooooore Steven Brust. Srsly, his handling of dialogue in homage to Dumas in The Phoenix Guards…I’ll stop before I embarrass myself.

Anyway, since I have no energy for real in-depth reviews, I’ll just mini-review things I’ve read lately. ‘Kay? Mmmm’kay.

* Heartsick, by Chelsea Cain. Taut writing, very nicely done mystery (though a bit undercooked and full of deus ex machina as my kitchen is full of yeast) and a female serial killer, for once. A few problems though: the femme serial killer isn’t a female serial killer, she’s just a recycling of the Dark Emasculating Feminine. The “good” female character is so hopelessly f!cked-up she’s lost most of her power, which is common in books featuring the DEF. STILL, worth a read and very nicely done; the writing is crisp and lovely.

* All Heads Turn When The Hunt Goes By, John Farris. Talk about the emasculating Dark Feminine. I know this book is a classic of the horror genre, but for Christ’s sake, could there be any more exposition??!!? I don’t like huge chunks of infodump. Still, I waded through it off and on for a week, and the opening and closing scenes are nicely dramatic and gory. If one reads this book, it should be as an examination of the history of the horror genre in the 70s, and it should further be an examination of racial attitudes. I don’t know if Farris is from the South, but he got the breathtaking endemic racism down cold.

Speaking of which, the equation of the Dark Emasculating Feminine with the just-plain-anything-darker-than-milk (I am speaking here of the conflation of miscegenation and the emasculating feminine) and the breathless denigration of any religion other than Christianity that usually accompanies it is beginning to wear on me. Time to go read some Octavia Butler and Sjoo and Mor, stat!

* Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey. I am sorry, I know I promised the Selkie, but I just couldn’t do it. I just can’t. I know it’s the formula for much of what comes after, but I just could. Not. Take. It. And not because of the portrayal of the Mormon church in that time period, because the portrayal is largely correct. (Mountain Meadows, anyone?) Especially when it comes to the polygamy. *sigh*

No, it’s just plain bad overwrought writing and I am not that interested in Jane Withersteen’s moral struggle. I just ain’t. If I need to know about this book I’ll just ask the Selkie.

* As an antidote to everything, I’ve picked up Runciman’s The Sicilian Vespers. (He did a marvelous history of the Crusades, too.) Last night I got a few paragraphs in before I got to the death of Constans II (hammered on the head with a soap-dish, by a disgruntled servant) and Runciman’s dry treatment made me laugh out loud at the absurdity of history. I mean, what a gruesome, idiotic death.

What else? I lately reread And Never Let Her Go, about the murder of Anne Marie Fahey. Every once in a while I go on an Ann Rule jag. The only ever true crime I’ve really read is Ed Sanders’ book on the Manson Family and The Unicorn’s Secret about Ira Einhorn.

The Selkie has me starting Lonesome Dove. I tried Streets Of Laredo and had a hard time with it, but Lonesome Dove won a Pulitzer. Maybe it’ll be easier. At least I have Runciman for the antidote.

Wish me luck…