Lilith Saintcrow

I have very little to say for myself, being occupied in sorting out the tangle that Angel Town wants to turn into. So, three random things on a Thursday:

* Note to self: don’t ever buy cheap Q-tips again. You will regret it for MONTHS. It’s worth a couple extra cents to get the cottony goodness. Apparently Q-tips will be joining the short list of Things I Try Not To Skimp On, which also includes toilet tissue, coffee, and enrichment materials for the kids.

* I am at the stage where I just have to keep repeating, “You always feel the book is total crap at this point. Work through it. Put your head down and go through. You can’t fix what you don’t write.” Of course, the signs that I’m at this stage include staring blankly at the monitor, a sudden overwhelming urge to do housework, frequent rounds of whispered cursing, the urge to listen to the book’s soundtrack over and over while I’m running, and the frequent despairing thought that perhaps I should change careers. Go back to school and be a plumber or a paralegal or something. That thunking sound you hear is me hitting the desk with my head. Repeatedly.

* Our cats have gone insane. It’s like they’ve never seen rain or squirrels before, though this is impossible because they’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest all their lives. I can only surmise that they are two-marble beasts–they can only hold two marbles in their head at once. For example, the locations of the food bowl and litterboxes. If you try to shove something else in–like the idea that there is, yes, a screen that is ALWAYS pulled to at the sunroom door, or that windows are solid–one other marble, say the location of the food dish, will fall out, and crazed leaping and OMGWTFBBQLLAMA will occur. Therefore, the only marbles EVER in their furry little heads heads are the food bowl and the litterboxes, and anything else is a perpetual surprise.

I consider this an exciting, if terribly nervous, way to live. And I know I shouldn’t laugh at them, but I can’t help it.

Anyway. I’m going back to slugging away at Angel Town. One of the cats is perched in the window right now, staring at a squirrel in the front yard and making that throaty little oh please oh please sound in the back of his throat. He’s going to leap in a few minutes, hit the glass, slide down, then give me a filthy look as if I’m to blame.

Of course, I will be laughing too hard to care.

Peace out.

Cotton wool stuffing my skull. Stuffed nose. At least the cold doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. I can still hit the treadmill in the mornings, which is a step up from the last round–that was the Travel Cold From Hell. *shivers* Ugh.

I am in the stage of writing a Kismet book where I have an acute attack of nerves. Nobody’s going to like it, I don’t know what I’m doing, who do I think I am… The usual. The good thing is that I’ve done this so many times by now that I’m prepared for the emotional upheaval. The bad news is…emotional upheaval. And I’ve been writing this book under acid-test conditions, as it were.

I just keep reminding myself: if I could go through pregnancy, 11+ years of being a mother, and getting published in the first place, this is small potatoes. Well, maybe small yams. Or something. I’ve done this before, I can do it again.

Last night I did some yoga on the Wii. It was actually really cool. I’m avoiding Downward Dog (the trainer tells you to put half the weight on your arms, instead of keeping most of it in your legs) and the shoulderstand (what, do I look like I shoulderstand? Not on your life, buddy). But the Palm Tree, Sun Salutation, Grounded V, Chair Pose? Oh yeah. Those I can do. And I feel so good after it’s finished–I think it’s the deep breathing.

Of course, doing yoga with a head cold is hilarious. If only because of the noises one’s nose makes during the deep breathing section of the festivities.

And now, because I’m sure you’re bored of hearing about All That, a link!

Very short stories, courtesy of Wired. com. I love these, especially Margaret Atwood’s. I found a book of 50-word stories once, including one (maybe by Chekhov?) about a woman named for a wolf. When you have so few words, each one counts for more than itself.

And with that, I’m taking myself off to a lunch of tomato soup and yesterday’s bread. Yum. I just wish I could taste it through this damn cold.

The day when I want to retreat into lit crit is the day I know I’m on the mend. (About damn time too.) And when a random Simone Weil quote makes me want to read the Barthes I’ve been saving for a rainy day, not only am I on the mend but I am back to my regularly-scheduled insanity.

So today is a day of gentleness, if I can manage it. Claws in, paws padded, tone gentle, walk soft.

So, in lieu of a real post, here’s some links.

Start out with part I of Kaigou’s “Dear (Not Just) Urban Fantasy Author.” Kaigou covers a lot of ground, from the very simple fact that everything costs money to what it means for a character to grow up in an abusive household. You can concurrently or consecutively read RachelManija’s posts on PTSD. If you want to write characters dealing with violence, the effects of violence or abuse, these are really great resources. (Check out Rachel’s book: IndieBound or Barnes & Noble.)

If you’re not reading Pharyngula, why? PZ Myers is sharp, smart, and takes absolutely no prisoners.

For another side of the die, I can’t recommend Slacktivist enough. Not only is he reading Left Behind so I don’t have to, but he’s one of the few people of faith I think actually tries to live by the ethical code he says he believes in.

For the lighter side, there’s Kate Beaton, whose historical cartoon strips are pure awesomeness. I should also mention the Comics Curmudgeon. I’ve also grown kind of addicted to LOLCelebs, in a sort of “look, there’s a trainwreck I’m not a part of!” way.

I used to watch Jerry Springer in my mid-20s for the same reason. After about ten minutes of the Springer show, I felt pretty good abut my life, no matter how bad it got. I suppose that makes me a horrible person. And hat tip to Alt3Sparky for pointing me at Texts From Last Night. (Warning: SO NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Trust me.) It’s the same dynamic.

And just to round all of this out, I should note that today I am alternating between listening to Judy Henske, Jandek, and whatever Lady Gaga I can scrounge up on Youtube.

Apparently I am very confused. And now you can be too.

No, really. You can thank me later.

I have been working all morning, but it seems like I’ve gotten nowhere since that work is all of the invisible maintenance variety. Ugh.

* First, the serious: NPR won’t use the word “torture” when Americans do it. But when anyone else does, it’s fair game.

* Charles Kaiser pronounces the Washington Post dead, writes obituary.

* Now the geeky-cool scientific: the Sarychev volcano eruption seen from space, and the “volcano sunsets” it’s causing.

* Last but not least, the utterly freaking hilarious: the 2009 Bulwer-Lytton Contest winners are announced. SO WORTH the half-hour I spent reading them. (Hat tip to Kat Richardson for the link, and also for noting the winner hails from Federal Way, WA. Washington state rules!)

And that’s all, folks. Back I go to plugging away on the manuscript…

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.