Lilith Saintcrow

Just had a surprise visit from a very nice young man from the cable company. He found the source of the persistent problem I’ve been having, and fixed it in under twenty minutes. That was nice. Between that and the absolutely fantastic run I had this morning, today is apparently going to be lucky. Maybe I should buy a lotto ticket. *snort* Nah, I’ll just settle for getting my wordcount and errands all done in today.

Here, have a link: Ilona Andrews explains further about ebook pricing and distribution.

I have to admit I was naughty yesterday after I finished wordcount. I watched Dracula 2000 again–mostly because my hairdresser friend texted me about Gerard Butler and once I started thinking about it I was helpless and HAD to watch that movie. They don’t let him talk much, which is a good thing. He’s so pretty and brooding. Then I actually picked up smoke and reread it. I don’t do that often, and of course I see glaring errors in the book and Rose irritates me almost to tears, and I want to absolutely strangle Michael every time. But I think it’s time for me to schedule in some work on avatar.

So, yes, naughty. But I got my wordcount in, and it felt good to relax a little bit. I am slowly relearning the skill of actual relaxation. I haven’t had much call to practice it in the last twenty-eight years or so, and my fumbling attempts at taking a chill or two are probably hilarious to watch. That’s okay. At least I do it at home, where looking ridiculous is sort of expected.

That being said, I’ve got more words and appointments today. So it’s back into the fray, dear ones, where I shall harvest what luck I may. Catch you later.

Dawn came up, dancing in rose and orange veils. She seemed pretty happy, and just nodded at me while I shambled about getting my coffee and getting everyone ready for the day. I told the Princess the dawn was colorful today, and she was briefly surprised. “It’s that early? Wow. Well, mine is not to question solar activity.”

Kids are funny. We had a whole conversation about Charge of the Light Brigade last night. Mine is not to question why. That was the hallmark phrase all last night, while my friend Red watched Terminator 4 with us.

Man, even a sweaty, dirty Christian Bale couldn’t save that movie. (TJ Tradekraft says it follows some of the books pretty closely, I’ve never read them so I don’t know.) I just kept flashing back to American Psycho and sniggering, “Watch out! He’s got a coathanger!”

Today I’m going to go do something that I haven’t done in a long time. Alone. I’ve been doing a lot of things alone in the last six months. This one will actually be pleasant. I’ll report on it later.

Alone’s not so bad. And in any case, who am I to question the solar activity?

First, the links: I did the Page 69 Test for Flesh Circus. Here’s James Scott Bell on What, Writers Worry? and Nathan Bransford on how to respond to an editorial letter. The inimitable Gillian Spraggs has more on the Google Books Settlement and Monica Valentinelli on Plagiarism and Too Much Free. I’ve been saving some of those links for a bit, things are crazy.

I was on the treadmill this morning (big surprise, I’m up to six days a week on that damn thing and wishing I could do more) and Van Morrison came on in my headphones. Singing The Philosopher’s Stone.

Even my best friends, even my best friends they don’t know
That my job is turning lead into gold
When you hear that engine, when you hear that engine drone
I’m on the road again and I’m searching for the Philosopher’s Stone.

This particular version is from the Wonder Boys soundtrack, which I happen to like a great deal. (The Bob Dylan track that opens the album is Rose’s theme song in smoke, as a matter of fact.) The movie itself, based on a Chabon book, is about a writer who’s kept hammering at a manuscript to follow up his award-winning first novel…but that’s like saying Seven Samurai is about loyalty. There’s a lot more involved.

Anyway. So there I am on the treadmill, and I realize why I like this song so much.

It’s because it’s damn right I’m looking for the philosopher’s stone. My job is to write, yes. But an artist’s job–even a hack like myself–is to transform the world. I write because I must. The world demands it. Pain and joy both demand it. I take the things that could fester and destroy me, the things I scream against, and I write to perform one of the oldest magics known. I name a thing, and that name alters the essence of the thing. I write because it’s the magic I was made to work.

Lead and gold are different things for each traveler, and the method of transmutation is different too. It’s different for each bloody pebble and chunk of lead you find. It is a most personal magic, arrived at through trial and error. One size definitely does not fit all. My lead isn’t yours. The stones I drop in the water to make soup are different from the stones you’ll use. It’s cold out on the road, and fellow travelers may not even see you–because they’re searching for their own method of transformation.

Still, it’s nice to know there are fellow travelers. And it’s good to feel a piercing joy, so sweet it makes the tears start, when you realize a fellow traveler is putting words on your own journey.

Up in the morning, up in the morning out on the road
And my head is aching and my hands are cold
And I’m looking for the silver lining, silver lining in the clouds
And I’m searching for and
I’m searching for the philosophers stone

Yeah, Van. Me too.

Me too.

Why is it that when people ask you questions, they often don’t want an answer, they just want support? It’s getting to where I have to stop and look at people and ask, “Why did you ask if you did not want to know what I thought? If you want support, tell me you want support, but don’t waylay me with a question and then downplay what I say because you’ve made up your mind you want something specific–something else.”

I can read minds–I’m a mum, for Chrissake. But I don’t like to. It’s impolite.

This concludes my circuitous bitching about some of the stuff happening lately. *makes face*

The last couple days have been crazy. Not in a bad way, more in a “is it a full moon because I’m seeing utter weirdness” sort of way. The weirdness factor has just been through the roof. Tomorrow I’ll focus on correspondence, I swear I will. Today I’m just going to recover. (Assuming we’ve seen the high tide of weirdness, which is not always a fair assumption.)

I’ve also been watching movies at night. Wolverine was…meh. All the complexity and rage of a wonderful character, reduced to flavorless stock footage. Granted, the actors really, really tried–Liev Schreiber is a good Sabertooth, but then I’ve had a thing for him ever since A Walk On The Moon. I could also look at Sweaty!Jackman all day, but that’s just me. I just felt like the actors were struggling with a script that would not do anything but play dead. The Deadpool moments were awesome, though. I love me some Deadpool. I would have loved to see more Gambit, an extended Gambit fight scene, etc.

The other recent movie was Eastern Promises, which is another Cronenberg-Mortensen thang. Cronenberg definitely has a thing for blonde, super-thin, kitten-faced leading ladies (Maria Bello in A History of Violence, which I liked, and Naomi Watts in this movie.) I liked it a great deal, even though Kirill the Psycho Gangster (played by a wonderfully tongue-in-cheek and nutzoid Vincent Cassel) has his Moment of Epiphany a little too late in the movie to really have the ending make sense. Still, Cronenberg didn’t take the easy way out, and Mortensen turns in a scorching, beautiful performance as a sort of decent antihero in an indecent world. This is pretty much his stock in trade, King of Men notwithstanding. Plus, the DVD extras about the tattoos in Russian prisons were pretty awesome, and musecrack to the max. All in all, extraordinarily enjoyable.

Half of today is already gone and I still have mountains to climb. So, a I bid you a civil adieu. Revisions wait for no woman.

Yeah, when you stumble to the front door to let the cats out (because, of course, they will DIE IF THEY DON’T GET OUT THIS INSTANT) and see the sunshine, hear the birds singing, and even the thought of a bowl of Cheerios is too much effort…

…then, my friend, you know you stayed up too late last night getting your heroine in trouble.

I used to be able to pull all-nighters and be fresh as a daisy afterward. Then I hit a long jag of nothing but all-nighters. (It’s called early parenthood.) And when I surfaced from that at 30 I found out I had lost that ability. My body says, “Stay up all night and expect me to work the next morning? HAHAHAHAHA! You’re joking, right?”

Of course, it could have something to do with me staying up to write fiction instead of getting into trouble myself. Perhaps my body would be happier if I was out dancing or something. I do miss dancing. However, I do not miss the boozed-up jerkwads or some DJ’s idea of “cool” music shattering my eardrums with feedback when all I want is a beat. Oh, or my ride getting drunk and leaving me stranded.

Guess I’ve just gotten old and boring. I’d rather be hitting 50K on the YA and getting my heroine shot. You know, doing actual work.

Guess this means I need to turn in my “cool mama” card. Where does one mail those things back to anyway? If I can’t find a mailing address I’m going to have to keep it and just impersonate a cool mama.

Yes, I’m in a silly mood today. Can you tell? Here, have my morning earworms: one is Cutting Crew’s “(I Just) Died In Your Arms Tonight” and the other? Murray Head’s “One Night In Bangkok.” The mashup inside my head is a thing of beauty and wonder, but I can’t share it because video and audio editing software is not jacked into my brain yet. Sorry. You’ll just have to imagine.

The Internet has been all over Roger Ebert’s deliciously cranky review of the new Transformers movie. His review actually makes me want to go see it MORE, because my complaint about Transformers 1 was “Less girlfriend, more FIGHTING ROBOTS!” I don’t want fricking plot in a Transformers movie, for Chrissake. I want ROBOTS. LOTS OF ROBOTS DUKING IT OUT. I want 99.9% PURE ROBOT BATTLE. Plot is for, you know, actual stories. Not for marketing machines built on a Hasbro line, for Chrissake. (Were Transformers Hasbro? I forget.)

Okay. All silliness aside, it’s time for me to make another lunge at finishing up this book. See you around, chickadees.