Lilith Saintcrow

Since I finished proof pages last night and the third YA is burning a hole in my head (as in, MUST GET BOOK OUT OF BRAIN WRITE WRITE MORE WRITE NOW DAMMIT), you get three random things that make a blog post.

* Are Bookscan numbers inaccurate, or worse, just plain wrong? (Hat tip to Diana Peterfreund for the link.) On the one hand, lowball Bookscan numbers do provide a publisher with more leverage against author and agent demands for more money–natural and normal on both sides. But wrong by 100%? I don’t know if this is widespread or just with this one particular author. Industry peeps, what say you?

* I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: authors overwhelmingly have no control over cover copy or cover design. (In some cases this is a good thing.) Please, please, don’t blame us when the cover doesn’t match the book. We’re probably more mortified about differences between the cover and the content than you can ever imagine. We’re sorry about it, but that’s the way it is.

* I can tell I’m about to begin another creative burst. The symptoms are all there–sleeplessness, restlessness, weird reactions to emotional upheaval (my irrational relief at getting some furniture moved is a prime example) and an itching to get one project done so I can begin to work on another. The Sekrit Projekts are beckoning like mermaids. Part of it is avoidance–two-thirds of the way through a book is where I start having all sorts of Bright Shiny New Ideas, and I have to really buckle down so I don’t get distracted. That’s one thing I had to learn–the Shiny Idea when I’m trying to finish the Contracted Idea is a Bad Idea. A lot of writers get seduced by the shiny in the mid-novel slump and have difficulty finishing. There’s no cure for it that I can see other than discipline, which is why I call discipline the #1 quality a writer should cultivate. (Habit being the best of slaves and the worst of masters, and all.) It is a quality that can be learned, and is therefore within a writer’s control. When so much isn’t.

There. Three things, the timer’s rung, and I’m back to work. See you on the other side, chickadees.

I’ve got a catfight, a run with werwulfen, and a midnight tango with vampires to write, so this is gonna be short.

You know what else kitchen timers are good for? Besides cooking and carving out little chunks of writing time? They’re good when one realizes one is perilously close to an Internet addiction. I’m giving myself an hour of Internet play with my coffee in the morning, then no more for the rest of the day. With a deadline moved up (long story, my fault, ACK!) and parenting to do, refreshing my f-list and Twittering a million times a day ain’t gonna get anything done. And I don’t really need to refresh I Can Has Cheezburger ten times per hour; I can just read it once a week, right? Right. *cries*

That sobbing you hear? That’s the sound of an addiction being murdered in its cradle. Gruesome, ain’t it?

In other news, if you want to buy a signed copy of Strange Angels, it’s easy and you can help out an indie bookstore at the same time. I volunteer frequently at Cover to Cover Books, and you can go to their site and drop them an email. They’ll let you know the price, you pay for the book and shipping, I’ll sign it and they’ll mail it to you. Shipping’s quite reasonable, considering such things, and I will be happy to personalize the book any way you like. Fans get signed books, an indie bookstore gets some dough, and I get to feel like I’m earning all that coffee I drink while I’m down there. (Hey, it’s not often I get to run an ACTUAL COMMERCIAL ESPRESSO MACHINE. It makes me feel…well, manly. Womanly. Whatever.)

Moving on! Reader (and editor) TS made a good point on my Friday post about a good book NOT being all you need:

All of these things are important, not just because of what Lili said above, but also because at the end of the day, it is very hard to be objective about your own work*. So what you might think of as a “good book” might not be for many different reasons. Maybe you’re not as good a writer as you think you are, maybe you didn’t kill your darlings, maybe it’s well-written but familiar or the voice is great but the characters need developing. But you’re just too close to the work to tell.

As Lili said, agents and editors are inundated regularly with everyone’s idea of a “good book” and most of those don’t work out. So those other points are really important and when we find a good book that works for us, you can bet we’ll be jumping to work for you. But if you don’t follow those rules, it won’t matter.

So, so true.

I’m roasting a chicken in the crock pot for dinner tonight, it’s beginning to smell good. And I’m about out of time for blogging. So, have a good Monday, chickadees. I’m gonna see if I can’t get this character in some more trouble…

It’s just one of those days where I am reduced to helpless laughter halfway through. It’s either that or cry out of sheer frustration and angst. You know, those days where you wake up, things are okay for a while, you’re on a roll…and then it all goes to hell and one thing follows another and then, you have to start laughing at the sheer absurdity of each situation because otherwise you’re going to have a complete sobbing breakdown?

Yeah, like that. *headdesk*

Anyway. I have not heard from one of our winners (Catie at comment 61, no not you, Ms. Murphy, a different Catie *grin*) so I might have that copy of Strange Angels to give away if I don’t hear from that winner before midnight tonight.

Okay. I’m going to have another cup of coffee and a biscotti, and settle down to work. Now that I’m home and not going anywhere else, I’m hoping the day will brighten. Man, I’m glad I hit the treadmill this morning. Some days that’s the only thing that can keep one going.

Forgiveness might be a virtue. It might not.

On my last post, Reader FD commented:

I loathe the ‘to be a truly actualized person you have to forgive and forget’ message. Yeah, understanding helps and knowing ‘they’ had triggers and damages of their own, gives valuable distance and perspective, but that’s very distinct from the victim mentality of forgiving, and forgetting. I mean, come on, if you truly forgive, you are saying there are no completely unacceptable behaviours, and if you truly forget, you’d put yourself in the position of potential damage again. I prefer accept and assimilate. Accept it occurred and any damage caused, and assimilate it and use it as a learning curve and to become a stronger person.

I consider it one of the more damaging hangovers from Christian martyrdom – the pie in the sky by and by will make up for starving to death here and now, used as justification of earthly harms – because they will make you a ‘better person’. Feh.

I may just have to shamelessly steal “accept and assimilate”. I’ve been feeling guilty for a long time because some part of me says, “Forgive? WTF? Have you forgotten what ___ did? That was Not Okay, and don’t you dare say it was.”

I know someone will probably say that you’re not forgiving the other person, you’re making it impossible to move on yourself. And that you trap yourself by not forgiving, etc. I don’t quite think that’s true. Dealing with the damage a toxic person did is a fact. It’s there and you have to deal, and this martyrdom brand of forgiveness essentially victimizes one again after the initial fact. Why the hell, as Nancy Price wrote, would I shove beans up my nose TWICE?

A lot of my characters have trauma, and are thrown into traumatizing situations. I am fascinated by the deconstruction of people under severe stress, and I pretty much write these things in part to make peace with my own experiences of severe stress. As a coping mechanism, it works pretty well if I’m conscious of it. It beats binge eating, anger-management problems, and inappropriate behavior hands-down. Should I give this up for a “forgiveness” that essentially says I have no right to be angry, so I have to push that anger inside where it eats me?

Yeah, yeah, Christians are supposed to forgive. But I’m not Christian, and I see precious little healthy forgiveness of the type Christ was probably talking about among his purported followers today. The strain of xenophobia, fanaticism, and hatred drowns it out, and forgiveness becomes a word for tear-streaked sham artists to rope in the faithful for one more fleecing.

Screw that.

There are some things, some terrible things, that I will not forgive. I don’t say can’t forgive–I say will not. I refuse to excuse some things. Some things are inexcusable and they deserve to be treated as such. Where that line is drawn is a very personal thing, and I’m working on making my line solid (but flexible, always flexible) and not feeling guilty.

Because, you see, the guilt is part of the trap. You’re expected to forgive if you were raised with abuse, or if you had a boyfriend or husband quick with his fists. The repentance phase is part of the process of violating your boundaries. There’s a present and tears and promises never to do it again. And if you don’t forgive there’s more pleading and presents and “But I LOVE you!” despite the fact that it’s all control, and real love would never act that way.

Better to bide your time, escape when you can, get the help you need to make the escape stick (which is by no means a certain thing since the first thing abusers do is grab the purse strings, by hook or by crook), accept that it was terrible, assimilate…and find some peace within yourself, because you’re not going to find it outside.

Sometimes the people who like to play the abuse game think they own their victims, and try to hunt them down. You don’t “forgive” a rabid dog or a rattlesnake. You take steps to stay out of its way, to deal with it properly if you come across it, and to keep yourself safe. (Which is, incidentally, why I give every woman I know a copy of The Gift of Fear, as long as I can afford to buy them. If I can’t afford to buy them I give them my own and make them promise to read it.)

If I was a better person, maybe I’d see the point of the forgiveness a lot of people talk about. But as I get older, the more wanting to be someone else tires me out in a way I don’t have time for, and the more I’m just willing to deal and build a decent person out of what I have.

I’m thirty-three this year. Accept and assimilate. Deal and build. Simple things, and it’s taken me a while to get here. There’s work to be done and books to be written, I don’t have time for bullshit anymore–if I ever did. Sometimes I think that’s what “growing up” is–finding out it’s okay to winnow out the bullshit and just keep going.

Over and out.

Cross-posted to the Deadline Dames. Where there are giveaways, more writing advice, and some damn fine fiction. Go take a look!

I have a confession to make, dear Reader.

Right now I am avoiding a book. Utterly, shamefacedly, but determinedly.

Part of being the kind of writer I am (i.e., I write to pay the rent since I would be spending hours doing this anyway) is having deadlines. Deadlines mean one has to account for one’s time to that most harsh and forgiving of bosses: oneself. Right now I’m using Google Calendar to keep track of everything, and I am perennially going through the stages of Deadline Acceptance.

Let me ’splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Here are my stages of Deadline Acceptance.

• Stage One: “____ months? Okay, that sounds fine, that’s usually what I need.” (Said to agent/editor/self.)
• Stage Two: “I should really start that book. Get an early jump on it.” (Said to self and beta reader.) Possibly start the manuscript, poke at it, nothing happens.
• Stage Three: Beta reader tells me I’m not ready yet. “You haven’t done all the initial moaning and whining you usually do before a book really gets going.”
• Stage Four: Moaning and whining commences.
• Stage Five: A couple weeks go by. Panic sets in.
• Stage Six: Panic, panic, panic. Repeat.
• Stage Seven: Beta reader tells me to quit f!cking whining. “You’ve still got ten months left. Cut it out.”
• Stage Eight: Moan and flail more. Accept that beta reader is probably right, but still. Obsess about quality of book, what will happen if I “can’t write it”. (Editor will hate me. Publisher will demand advance back. Readers will throw rotten veggies. Sun will go out. Everyone dies and it’s all because of meeeeeeeeee!)
• Stage Nine: Open blank Word document. (Or the start to the story done at about Stage Two.) Stare at it for ten minutes. Muse wakes up, yawning and stretching. Panic over not being able to reach deadline reaches fever pitch.
• Stage Ten: First quarter of book falls out of head. Middle of the book doldrums. Third quarter arrives. Long period of hate for the f!cking book. “I’m never going to finish this thing.” (See Stage Eight.)
• Stage Eleven Moan and whine at beta reader more. Beta loads tranquilizer gun and hunts for chocolate. Children give you strange looks. Husband and teenager hide. Cats flee, except for the stupid one, who perches on arm of chair and tries to help while I snarl in pain. There are still months left.
• Stage Twelve: Last quarter of book accomplished in dead heat. Sanity (or whatever approximates it) returns. Beta reader is relieved. Children shrug. Cats, husband, and teenager reappear as soon as it’s safe. Deadline has kind-of been achieved. Process of recovery/revision can now begin.

I find it alternately amusing and terrifying that the process fits (at least for me) into twelve steps. Revision isn’t nearly as fraught for me–having a full rough draft eases some pressure, and the remaining months can be spent on revising, polishing, or (more popular and what actually happens) sticking the goddamn thing in a drawer until I absolutely have to look at it again to make it ready. That lying-fallow period is very important for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that after you put a novel away for a couple weeks to a month, one can go back to it with fresh eyes and make it a lot better. Not as better as a trained and gifted editor–one is still too close to the work even after that break–but significantly better.

Right now, for the current contracted project, I’m in between Stages Three and Four. It helps that I’m picking at a Sekrit Project, and that I’ve been through this so many times the panic is almost seeming old hat. (Almost. It’s still panic, after all.) So I’m playing with the fun Sekrit Project, and avoiding the other one with all my might and main.

But. (You knew there was a “but”.)

The contracted project is starting to call to me. It’s tickling the Muse. “Look at how pretty and shiny I am. Look. Come over here and look at me. I’m pretty. Pretty and shiny.”

Which will tip me right into Stages Five through Nine, probably in a day’s time. All that panic compressed into a fifth of its natural lifespan. I’m gonna be a mess. Which means I should get some wordcount in on the Sekrit Project that I’m really enjoying before it all goes to hell. (As a means of tricking oneself into working, it isn’t half bad.)

So, off I go. I keep thinking that the more I go through this process the easier it will get. I’m at thirty-odd novels written by now (notice I say written, not published) and I’m here to tell you the process is only marginally easier than it was the first time, and most of that marginal ease comes from just knowing that I’m going to be batshit for a little while. Knowledge is power, right?

Wish me luck.