Lilith Saintcrow

Can I has morphine pleez? Or some form of analgesic?*

The week’s been a gruesome one–friends suffering setbacks and Bad Things, cold cold weather making the joints ache, health concerns, and a silly Internet stalker/troll to compound the whole thing. I HAD planned on getting a lot of stuff done, but it looks like the most fantastic accomplishment I can claim this week is keeping my temper.

Well, I did finish the draft of Redemption Alley; if “finish” is translated out to “got so damn sick of that book, handed it over to the editor and am glad to be free of it.” One gets to a certain point with a book–living with it, sleeping with it, eating with it, having it take up the inside of one’s head–and one gets so, so sick of the damn thing.

The Riddick dreams have calmed down, and I’m reading fantasy epic (Joe Abercrombie’s most excellent The Blade Itself, recommended by my editor and thoroughly enjoyable) and thinking of watching Ladyhawke again. Steelflower fans will be glad to know I’m probably going to be switching back and forth between Tristan and Kaia. (I never thought I would write that sentence.)

Although, as Red Argyle pointed out yesterday, Chronicles of Riddick was a fantasy epic. Along with Hutch (I think it was Hutch? correct me if I’m wrong) calling it the third-best Conan movie, maybe I’ve been wrong about the Riddick dreams not fueling my fantasy writing muscle.

Hee. Like I need an excuse to watch Vin Diesel’s shoulders again. Oh, oops–you didn’t know a little birdie brought me both Pitch Black and Chronicles of Riddick on DVD?

Someone who loves me and wants me to get my books done, apparently. *wink* Or someone who wanted to foist bad, bad movies on me.

Weekend ahoy. I’m holding onto my liferaft and looking forward to the beach. I’ll be glad when this week’s over.

How about you, dear Reader?

* Not that I advocate morphine use except under the supervision of a qualified professional. KTHX.

Item one: My favorite Bruce Cockburn song:

I got my mind on eternity, Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me…

Item two: Tom Cruise is not just crazy. He is some kind of super-level crazy we don’t even have words for yet. Hey, Tom? I got to the part where you started saying that either people have to get on your playing field or get out of the stadium, then I flashed onto V for Vendetta and wondered if a masked man was going to start calling you “Chancellor Sutler”. I won’t say what other historical eras I flashed onto, because it’s so gauche to start listing fascist regimes when in reality, this is just Hollywood. So Cruise is the nutty-ass Howard Hughes of our generation, big whoop. Christ. At least Hughes was INTERESTING. I just get this idea that after five minutes of conversation with Cruise I’d make a polite excuse and flee, bored out of my skull by the one-note symphony that is his love for himself. Scientology’s just a mirror. He could have ended up with just about any cult and done the same thing.

For extra credit: Read down for the the Tom Cruise Scientology Video drinking game.

Item three: WHY, I ask you, WHY, am I having Chronicles of Riddick dreams? I AM WRITING FRENCH RENAISSANCE FANTASY EPIC AND URBAN FANTASY WHUPASS. I do not need big-shouldered homicidal space-candy. If you see my Muse, can you please give her the memo?

On the other hand, I do agree with the Selkie that Vin Diesel’s shoulder’s are one of the modern wonders of the world. Shoulders are her particular weakness, and I cannot disagree. One of the finer moments of the recent remake of I Am Legend was Will Smith’s shoulders.

GUH. Hormone moment. Excuse me.

All right. Random Wednesday over. It’s back to work. I’m going to finish that draft today or go nuts trying.

Probably the latter. Heh. Enjoy your day, ducks.

So, as you can tell, I’m doing the final revise on Redemption Alley before it goes to the editor and my agent. Which means:

* I am so sick of this book I wish I could throw my laptop across the room, but I can’t because I paid good money for the laptop and it doesn’t deserve, faithful workhorse that it is, to be tossed at the opposite wall because I’m mad at myself for not writing this book as well as I cold have.
* I am at that stage of the book writing where every negative voice in the writer’s head screams you are so full of trash, you shouldn’t be writing, who the hell do you think you are? Curse you! Cue terrible self-doubt and gigantic sucking depression. Work the only cure.
* I really, really, want to be doing something else. Like going and seeing a movie. I hear Into the Wild is out in theaters again, and I found Jon Krakauer’s book about McCandless extraordinarily moving, especially since that yearning–the urge to head off into the sunset–is something I understand.* (Krakauer’s one of my automatic buys as an investigative journalist/writer, his Under the Banner of Heaven was bloody fascinating.)
* Chocolate. I’ve got half a bar of Truffle Pig and I don’t think it’s going to survive.

One of the things about being a writer is that feeling of huh, I’ve been here before when one gets to a particular stage of the writing process, especially the depression of revisions. It doesn’t get easier, but at least one recognizes the landmarks.

*Note: Yearning, not any preparation to actually do. As much as I might yearn for Life On The Road, I’ve seen enough of it that I know it’s not for me. Too much cruelty, not enough safety, and far, far too hard on Little People. Maybe I’ll travel when I’m older (i.e., when the Little People are older) but until then, I have Kerouac and the track when the urge strikes me. Besides…Into the Wild is a tragedy. McCandless’s feeling of disconnection is so, so sad.

*is thoughtful and silent*

I’m back home from Seattle. The signing went well, and Richelle has pics up on her blog. I don’t photograph well AT ALL, so I should just add that I AM roughly the size of a house in real life, despite recent weight loss, though not nearly so double-chinned. (Heh.) Mark Henry also blogged about the earth-shattering event. Richelle gave a fantastic reading, hilarious and well-accented, about pothead demons. I read the first two chapters of the upcoming first Jill Kismet novel, Night Shift. Mad props to Duane at the University Bookstore, who puts together these events and is always a darling, darling man.

Confession time, dear Readers: I am terrifyingly, mortifyingly, horrifically shy. That’s why I hide behind a laptop, yanno, and write these stories. So readings are a particular species of nerve-wracking valleys of darkness for me. (I had to grab the water bottle and hold it under the podium so the shaking of the liquid inside wouldn’t show how hard I was trembling.)

I put up a good front, having had enough experience by now in being in front of a group of people to not…well, faint. Though the roaring in my ears and the hammering of my pulse did make me shaky (and I suspect, not my usual self during the question and answer section) I don’t think I did too badly.

People are often surprised when I tell them I’m shy. I certainly don’t seem shy here on the blog, or in my books. That’s because I have the laptop as a screen–a shoji, if you will–between me and the vast masses of humanity. But at a signing, I am often seized by the terrifying thought that suddenly everyone is going to start laughing at me–and not because I’ve made a joke. I’ve evolved a series of strategies for dealing with this crippling, mind-numbing, heart-racing terror (and do NOT think I am exaggerating. If anything, I am downplaying the exact size of this irrational fear) and most of the time they work pretty well.

Then there’s times like the signing on Friday, when my mind blanks and I am frantically trying to remember who I am, what I’m doing, and what I should be doing next. I suppose it’s the writer’s version of vapor lock.

Anyway, that’s boring, and I suspect I’m laboring the point. On to interesting things. After the signing we PARTIED.

We all went to Richelle’s beautiful little condo and had a wonderful time. Kat Richardson, Mark Henry, Cherie Priest–all the Seattle greats were there. Kat and I are double trouble when we get together, and I did my standard thing at parties–I shut out the idea of a crowd by just focusing with all my might on one person and what they’re saying to me. Reflective listening skills happen to block out my shyness, and if I focus one-on-one the shyness isn’t nearly so bad. Plus there was social lubricant–aka a glass of rum lightly misted with lemonade, then some red wine–to take the edge of panic off, and I’m hoping a good time was had by all. Halfway through the party the fire department was called–by the apartment complex ACROSS THE STREET, no it was NOT MY FAULT, but you could immediately tell the writers in the room because we clustered around Richelle’s French door and watched the fire engines in search of research material.

Heh.

I was driven back to the hotel by a very nice young couple whose names I have forgotten, because I am Very Bad with that sort of thing and they were introduced while I was on my third glass of wine. The husband is a teacher, I think, and we spent some time discussing Kirkland, what it would take to start a barfight in downtown Kirkland, the male psyche, Oprah, and several other items that I can’t repeat. The wife was completely sober (a Designated Driver for the evening, bless her) and found all of us highly amusing. So: thank you, both of you.

Anyway, I stayed an extra day in Seattle just to take a wee bit of vacation, and also to recoup my strength. Which was nice–if you live in the Seattle area, the Malabar on 42nd and University serves some very fine Indian food. I eat a LOT of Indian food, and I have to say this is some of the best I’ve had. I also spent a great deal of time in Twice Sold Tales, talking to the cat and poking around in stacks of used books.

The drive home was sunny and mid-Sunday traffic was light, so I’m home safe and getting back into the swing of things. It’s sunny and cold, and I’m emotionally exhausted for reasons that have little to do with the signing. So today’s recoup. I have a few things I’d like to get done around the house, not the least of which is hoovering, but that’s going to have to wait until after lunch.

I hope your weekend was as fun but not as nervewracking, my dears. All in all, it was a good time and I’m glad I got to meet so many fans. I just wish I could find the switch inside my head to make the irrational terror go away.

Hrm. Don’t we all.

My weekly post is up at the Midnight Hour. It’s about polymorphic vampires.

Tonight I’m signing with Richelle Mead at the University Bookstore in Seattle. So excited. Half-packed and going nuts, so I’m signing off. Wish me luck and safe travel.