Lilith Saintcrow

Woke up this morning with an old filk song, Kerowyn’s Ride, in my head. I was a diehard Mercedes Lackey fan for a long time, and one of the joys of having a daughter was introducing her to the Heralds of Valdemar series (the initial trilogy) and the Vanyel books. I did sometimes want to be a Herald-Mage when I was younger. And Jill Kismet owes a great debt to Diana Tregarde.

Work continues apace today. Last night while driving to the post office I was listening to KNRK’s People’s Choice countdown, and came across a remake of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” by Old School Freight Train. (You can listen to it on their Myspace page.) It’s an odd, plaintive ballad with a banjo, and the rest of the CD is just as awesome (except for the title track, Six Years, which I didn’t like.) They have become the new soundtrack for the Sekrit Project, which I got a good chunk of out last night. If I can keep up this pace I’ll be done with both projects and ready for a run at a fresh Jill Kismet before long.

But it’s going to take time, a whole lot of precious time…it’s gonna take patience and time…

God, do you remember when that video was the last word in special effects? Whoa. Incidentally, this song along with Ringo Starr’s remake of You’re Sixteen, are the themes of the new Dru book. Along with Believe from Run Lola Run. (Is now the part where I say I was a Franka Potente fan back before it was cool to be one?) Anyway, if you listen in the last half of Believe you can hear Christophe whispering to Dru.

All right. Break’s over, all. Back on my head.

It is a known principle of cats that they need to be in the middle of anything you’re doing on the floor (or the table if you do not ruthlessly train them to stay off). The Princess and the UnSullen are realizing this as they play poker in the living room. (Someone bought a “marked deck” from the dollar store.) Our tuxedo cat is helping as much as he can between being picked up and put elsewhere. This amuses me greatly, the banter and abuse thrown at each other amuses me as well. The Little Prince is quietly blowing bubbles in the back yard.

The plum tree still has not bloomed. I am in an agony of anticipation.

It is a slow-starting day today. Sometimes I need a slow day in the beginning of the week to recover from the weekend. Yesterday’s roasted-chicken stew was awesome, but I kind of wish I’d made pizza or something easy. I love cooking but it gets time intensive seven days a week. (I could post the recipe, maybe tomorrow. If anyone’s interested.)

Today is the day when I start on the third YA. I have a hazy idea about it, and it won’t get any clearer unless I work on it. So, off I go. If I get, let’s see, 2K in today I will let myself go poke at the New Sekrit Project. That shoudl give me some oomph to get going.

This is a reprint from an advice column first posted on May 4, 2007 at the now-defunct Midnight Hour. I’m suffering a bout of stomach cramps and had a semi-emergency this morning, so…a reprint it is for our Friday advice. Besides, I love this piece. Enjoy.

No, I haven’t finally gone off the deep end, despite this being the week from hell. These are bits of advice every writer is given–or should be given, in my ever-humble opinion. These two things will move a story along when all hope seems lost.

Not too long ago Nina Merrill was stuck in a story, and as per usual, we were hashing it out over onion rings (or was it tater tots? I can’t remember.) Anyway, I set my wineglass down and announced, “Send in the man with the gun!”

At the top of my lungs, in a crowded restaurant.

And we wonder why we’re given corner tables back near the kitchen.

Anyway, I had just re-read Elizabeth Bear’s excellent little essay about the middle of the book:

Send in that man with the gun. Kill somebody. Get somebody laid. Hand him the key to the puzzle and then snatch it away. Change it up!

When you’ve reached that place where you don’t know what happens next, start shaking things up. I firmly believe one must mistreat one’s characters. Smack them around. Up the ante, dish out some injury. Plenty of new authors treat their characters like fragile flowers. Don’t fall into that trap. Beat them up! They can take it–they’re tough! Really!

I’ve read plenty of books that fall prey to Teh Boring in the middle, for pages and pages, because the author won’t send in the damn man with the gun. You have to, and sooner rather than later. Conflict is the thing that’s going to keep the reader from setting the book down. Plus, nothing makes the Muse as happy as upping the ante and making the situation more complex, so she really has to exercise her pretty little self to resolve everything.

The only trouble with sending in the MWTG is that you can have lovely little conflicts that you adore, but that do nothing for the story.

Here’s the other piece of advice every writer should have: if it does not move the story along, kill it.

In other words, it may be beautiful, the best writing you’ve done in decades. If it doesn’t move the story along, kill it quickly. Put it somewhere else in a slush pile and use it for another work. These little bits that you love so much are your darlings, and you must ruthlessly excise them in order to keep the story going.

Stagnant story is an abomination. And it makes it easy for the reader to set the book down and walk away to fix dinner. Which can be the kiss of death for a story.

In my writing classes, I’m famous for getting out the red pen. A student is never required to submit their work for an in-group critique, but if they do they must expect no mercy. The catchphrase my students love most is, “I know you love this…but it has to DIE.” Dead weight in a story, unless it’s slowing down the pacing for a good reason, must go. No matter how beautifully written dead weight is, you’ve got to get rid of it. You don’t have to delete it–many a good book has been spurred by a choice nugget in the slush pile–but you can’t afford to weigh a good story down.

Don’t ever think your characters are immune to misfortune or injury. Don’t hesitate to mistreat them. I’m not sure how much of an enjoyable reading experience is schadenfreude, but I’d be willing to bet it’s a large chunk. Get ruthless, my dear fellow writers. Kill your darlings, send in the man with the gun.

Not only do readers love it, but it’s a heckuva lot of fun.

I finally went out shooting (photos, don’t get excited) again last night. The result was a new addition to the Urban Night set. You can see it here, slideshow here. Mostly I just shoot what catches my eye; I like gas meters, industrial stuff, and dusk and night shooting.

I got the particular digital camera I have because I like wandering around at night and taking pictures. So, a lot of these are very neon and a little hard-edged. I need to make it a priority to get out shooting more, I enjoy it so much and it feeds the creative well.

So, enjoy!

As a reward for finishing Flesh Circus revisions last night I allowed myself the first story in the new Peter Beagle anthology this morning. It made me cry over my orange juice and English muffin. I swear, Beagle is one of maybe a handful of authors who can make me cry because a story is so right and so perfectly, beautifully constructed. (Others include Tanith Lee, Sarah Dessen, and Robin McKinley.)

Also, the Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the door this morning. Two men, one older one younger, both in suits. White men in suits make me nervous, so I said, “What are you selling?”

“Nothing…” The younger man was taken aback and shuffling his papers.

I realized they were proselytizers and felt charitable enough to take a flier and say, “I know you have to hand these out. You guys want any coffee or a glass of water or anything?”

“No, no…” They both looked stunned. I told them to be safe out there and shut the door.

Hey, I fight proselytizers with kindness. (It’s like fire with fire. Only it’s popgun versus nuclear bomb, in this case. Plus, it’s part of my own vows.) They’ve stopped sending Mormon boys here because I feed them and send them home with a head full of questions that are Very Bad For Their Faith. The Baptist ladies are very nice, and we quote Scripture at each other while their kids play. However, they stop coming when they realize I have no intention of being anything other than a comfortable pagan with epicurean tendencies and a kettleful of Stoic proverbs. There’s a new crop every season.

I swear when I went into the grocery store last night the trees were bare, and when I came out they were packed with tightly-furled flowerbuds. Yesterday evening the plum tree in the backyard was naked, but this morning it is covered with the tiny maroon buds that aren’t flowers yet, but close. I won’t feel all the way better (early spring is a profoundly depressive time for me) until the plum tree actually does flower in a cloud of pink with purple undertones, but I’m getting there. Barring a sudden frost, spring is here.

Every winter feels like the last. I suppose that’s what winter’s for.

But this morning while I was on the treadmill, a bluejay hopped around in the plum tree for a bit. Yesterday he hopped for a full ten minutes before gliding up to the birdfeeder hanging right outside the window; today he hopped once or twice on branches that are limbering up amazingly with fresh sap. Then he soared neat as you please across the back yard, and I could see every feather as he fanned his wings, braking in midair, and landed on the feeder. He eyed me between scoops of seeds, deciding I was crazy (what human isn’t, to a bird?) instead of predatory, and further deciding the glass meant he didn’t have to worry about one of the cats, who was cheerfully and obliviously sunning himself on the sill. A few more scoops of seeds into his long bill, a long string of scolding audible even over the treadmill’s noise, and he exploded away, winging furiously across the yard to disappear in a tall bank of juniper bushes, where I suspect he has made a temporary home. He is probably hoping a lady jay will be along soon to share a better nest, probably in the plum tree when it leafs out. That’s prime bird real estate in summer.

I keep meaning to put a bat house up in those branches, since that corner of the yard wouldn’t mind a little guano.

Maybe this year I will.

I think we’ve survived another winter. But I’ll wait for the plum tree. Just to be sure.