Doors, Dogs, Chaos

 Posted by at 10:26 am  Life, Miscellaneous
Jan 152013
 

Serious Trundles I forgot about the giant burn on my forearm (look, baking isn’t necessarily a contact sport but things happen) until I got in the shower and ran hot water over it. My hissing in-breath and following “Yowch!” made Odd Trundles concerned for my well-being, so he stopped trying to catch the drops from the other side of the glass shower door (it’s one of his favourite games, and it’s no wonder he has a flat nose from ramming it into things so frequently) and proceeded to try to climb the shower door, barking excitedly.

“I’LL SAVE YOU! *snortwhistle* MUM I’LL SAVE YOU!”

This of course brought Miss B from the other room, where she was enjoying a little well-deserved rest after going running with me (it is no longer so icy I fear for her paws) and, as usual, when she found a closed door in her way, she didn’t hesitate. I am still not sure how she managed to bust the door open–the door appears still functional and none the worse for wear, and I can’t see that she’s developed opposable thumbs yet–but I do know that said door managed to hit Trundles, who was staggering back from his attempt to scale the glass shower door.

*sigh*

The result of this was a predictable series of howling and yips, for Odd voiced his shock and Miss B, thinking he wanted to play, snapped at him, and they fell on each other in a cascading chain of mutually-assured destruction that was only halted when I burst from the shower, stark and dripping, and yelled at them both to “SETTLE DOWN I AM TRYING TO CLEAN MYSELF!”

They both stared, and I felt ridiculous, but then Odd wriggled up to me and began licking my ankles in an ecstasy of relief. “*snort* *licksnort* YOU’RE SAFE! *snortwhistle* *lick* *fartloudly* *licksnortwhistle* YOU’RE SAFE! OH MUM, YOU’RE ALL RIGHT. *licksnort* WHAT’S THAT SMELL?” And Miss B eyed me quizzically, perplexed by both my sudden appearance from the Magical Wet Cubicle and the sudden stench from Odd’s boiling, ever-active intestines.

Even toddlers were not this much trouble. Christ.

I finished my shower in (relative) peace, despite Odd trying to catch the raindrops from the other side of the door (again). “I should have named you Christopher Robin,” I muttered as I was toweling off. “Or Hoggle.”

And the damn dog was so excited at the prospect that he fell over and began snoring hugely.

I don’t even know.

A Coal

 Posted by at 5:01 pm  Deep Thoughts
Dec 172012
 

Kanincheneule. I don’t want to engage. Atrocities piling on atrocities, no end in sight, and I suppose I’m old enough to think this will not change things, if it has not by now.

The Princess is full of youth and fire, the same fire I remember from my own teenage years. When I thought the world could be burnished, made better.

There’s not much one can do, though. Small incremental changes, mostly centred around the people in one’s daily life, are the best one can hope for. If aging (what little of it I’ve done, and note I don’t call it maturing, that’s a Step Too Far even for me) has taught me anything, it’s that being decent to one’s immediate sphere is, for most of one’s life, all one can do.

Do I want to save the world? Well, yes.

Do I think it’s possible? I…don’t know. I haven’t edged over into “no” yet. But the more I see of profit and power dancing on the backs of the bruised, and of people being seduced into working against their own interests, well, it weighs on one.

It may not be possible, but the urge still exists. I nurture it, a tiny red seed, all that remains of the deep, endless fire of my youth when I still thought miracles were possible. Before I found out that miracles are more luck amid thankless hard work than anything else.

Still, it’s a coal, and I keep it banked and safe inside me. Someday it might start a forest fire…

…but until then, it will keep me warm.

photo by: martinteschner

Tripwires, Explosions, It’s Only Wednesday

 Posted by at 1:34 pm  Personal Schmersonal, Rant Rant Rave
Dec 052012
 

Things I’ve actually said since Saturday:

* “They may be the most harmless people in the world. But that’s a chance I can’t take.”
* “You dumbass, it’s just a hairbrush.”
* “What would you do if you CAUGHT the motherfucker?”
* “I have to stick him in an asylum. He’s too much trouble otherwise.”
* “Oh yeah, give me a baseball bat and make a bunch of people yell at me. No way this could go wrong, right?”
* “Please take your dominance displays elsewhere, I just ate.”
* “Yeah, he humps everything that moves. But that’s one of his better qualities.”

Yessir, it’s been One Of Those Weeks, and it’s only Wednesday. I’ve reached the point in the damn book where I have to go back and cement little bits of what’s already written before I can lunge forward and build the middle of the book where all the tripwires (and most of the explosions) are. Add to that a mountain of housework and the various vexations of single parenting (keeping a straight face has never been so difficult as lately, and keeping my eyebrows from raising when a child thinks I won’t catch them in a stupid fib is just as hard) and the fact that both the dogs are feeling their oats–can it be oats? Feeling their kibble? They’re not herbivores, does it apply?–oh, sod it all, just hand me my tea and let me go mumble about asylums and murder in alt-historical Londinium.

It’s safer for all concerned.

*wanders off, muttering into tea mug*

Small Mercies

 Posted by at 8:57 am  Book Update, Life, Miscellaneous
Nov 202012
 

This morning: Slavonic dances on the radio, Canadian geese rising from the high school’s football field in a cloud of feathers and honking audible even over Brahms and Dvorak, the evidence of yesterday’s wind and rain everywhere. Huge downed branches in the back yard along with puddles the dogs can’t leave alone. A mostly-sleepless night tinges these things with an odd hypercolor.

I think the insomnia is a function of the cold I’m still fighting off as well as the creative engine sputtering over the third Bannon & Clare book. Every word having to be chipped out of my cerebellum with a chisel and bloody sweat. But still, banging my head on the book is worse than nothing, I guess. Small mercies.

More small mercies: the Princess may finally be old enough to do her own laundry, the dogs are both happy and grinning, nothing has caught on fire or fallen down this week (yet). I have a couple movies to watch in between hammering at the book. The trailer-park fae are still speaking, the house is still solid. All things to be grateful for.

Other than that, not much to report. Life here is very wonderfully boring, except for Squirrel!Napoleon. He has developed quite a fondness for taunting the Mad Tortie, who keeps leaving dead birds all over the yard as warning. She’s a mighty hunter, that one; still, I suspect she may have found her match in a certain rodent.

But that’s another blog post. *wicked grin*

photo by: HVargas

To Cure A Cold

 Posted by at 10:27 am  Life, Miscellaneous
Nov 192012
 

Dried up, dessicated, exhausted. Yep, I’m fighting off a cold. I hate it when my nose fills up; it’s like being blind. I rely on my sense of smell to tell me so much about the world, losing it makes everything colorless.

Here, have a bit about how Elvis is Orpheus, Dionysis, and Hercules all rolled into one. And about Boccaccio’s famous women, featuring Tamsyn the Kickass.Oh, and Mount Doom is really about to blow up. Geology is awesome.

Today the wind is up and we’re supposed to get loads of rain, always my favourite thing. This morning’s run (I want to cook the incipient cold out of me, if I can) was full of those sharp but warm rain-laden gusts that sometimes happen in autumn, dancing leaves and spattering drops as trees toss their arms in their sleep and birds float in the sky. I’ve wondered what a bird feels on days like today, what they think of wind, if sometimes they just fly because it feels good.

I am trying to get back into blogging more. Retreating like a crushed anemone is all very well, but really, I’ve got this nice shiny website and I should really pay attention to it.

Today is for writing a logician’s descent into madness and a sorceress’s going against her better judgment. Then to shift gears and get the trailer-park fae into some more trouble. If that doesn’t cure a cold I don’t know what will.

photo by: Gonzo Carles

Winter, Finally

 Posted by at 8:38 am  Book Update, Life, Miscellaneous, Personal Schmersonal, Writing
Nov 102012
 

37F according to the outside thermometer this morning. Which doesn’t sound very cold to those in some other parts of the country, I’m sure. But now that I’m living in a house with real actual central heating, I sort of feel a little thrill at looking at that temperature drop and knowing that we won’t be cold.

Sometimes it’s the little things.

I feel like I’ve just awakened from a sort of shuddering dream. Summer was…well, mostly unpleasant. The nightmare of buying Chez Saintcrow (now that it’s over, I’m glad, and though I love this house I’m not sure I would ever do THAT again) shading into a autumn of settling in, finishing the Cinderella book (again, shhh, can’t say much about that) and a breakup, well, stress has pretty much been my middle name and the writing has suffered. Scraping together enough emotional energy to come back to the work day after day has been a deadly struggle, and even years of discipline haven’t helped as much as I could wish.

But the ice seems to have finally broken. I’m working on the third Bannon & Clare, and moonlighting with a story about trailer-park fae. No lie–the hero lives in a trailer park, and his world is weird, dangerous, and wonderful. It’s my reward for getting through each day’s work–more work! And I’m happy to have it so.

Spring/summer’s generally seen as the bright half of the year, full of renewal and growth; autumn and winter as the dark half, restful and consolidating. I’m thinking instead that this will be the winter of my renewal–made glorious by a son of spork, or something.

It’s good to be back. Now I have to write an invalid’s temper tantrum and a girl fencing with the Queen of Faerie. This is going to be fun…

photo by: fdtate

In A Cave, Writing

 Posted by at 2:37 pm  Life, Miscellaneous, Writing
Oct 172012
 

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Check us out!

I’m getting comfortable with the fact that I am an introvert, and I have arranged my life accordingly. There must be some writers who love attending conventions, who get a charge from speaking on panels, who are energized by people and interaction, who like crowds.

I am not one of them.

It takes me weeks to recover from a convention, and days to recover from a signing. When I say “recover” I mean just that–I am left drained and almost unable to function, even when I’ve had months to prepare. Being “on” for a convention or a signing is akin to running a marathon with casts on every limb and rabid dogs chasing me–difficult, dangerous, nerve-wracking. (I worked retail for most of my life before I managed to make a living writing. My ability to appear extroverted directly descends from those hellish days.) I am not quite as solitary as Bukowski, or as protective of my solitude as Rausch. I can deliver a speech or get through a signing or deal with a crowd. By sheer dint of long practice, I’ve managed to even appear “bubbly” and “energetic” during such things. Then I crawl home and into bed, and am wiped out for a long while.

It’s only now, thirty-odd years into my life, that I have the luxury of doing what I’m mostly inclined to. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t breathe a sigh of relief when I reach my office, settle in my chair, listen to the silence, and feel the stories crowd close. It’s taken a long time, a lot of hard work, and finding out that there are introverts and they’re normal too for me to quit worrying about whether or not I’m going to snap one day and retreat to a mountaintop, where I will live naked and filthy and muttering to myself. (The odds of this happening anyway are not something I care to think about, thank you.)

Do I get lonely? Not likely. With the kids and the dogs, I couldn’t be lonely if I tried, not to mention the cat crowding my lap as I type this. I do worry that my introvert bent makes me a worse mother, but of course, if I was the opposite I would be worrying that my hunger for interaction would make me a worse mother. (There is no winning in motherhood. Unless you count the long-term satisfaction of seeing the spawn reach adulthood as reasonably healthy as possible, having been only slightly damaged by one’s own ridiculous issues.)

This is only partly why I don’t attend conventions. There’s the cost of travel and the time away from working, which I can ill afford. (There’s also the fact of harassment at conventions, which this blog post is not about; suffice to say I’ve read each account of con harassment hitting the Internet with a profound sense of recognition.) And the fact that I am a single mother means childcare, expensive at best, is problematic enough to add to travel and the drain on working time to equal Lili Not Going Anywhere, Sorry.

I used to worry that my reluctance to leave the house meant something was wrong with me. I used to think that if I didn’t interact, I would begin to lose the habits of observation that inform characters. Fortunately(?), I am forced into interactions often enough–through the internet as well–that those skills don’t really lose their edge. Besides, to survive as an introvert, and to survive as an introverted child in an environment of stress and abuse, hones said skills to such a degree that blunting them might almost be a mercy. Hypervigilance and hyperawareness are probably a component of why I dread groups of people–the level of detailed attention required to protect myself in that situation is overwhelming.

It isn’t usual to have your life arranged to suit yourself. It’s pretty damn unusual to have that particular luxury. You also cannot arrange your life so without a great deal of thought about what precisely does suit you, and writing is very good for that. Also, an introvert doesn’t have to like giving speeches, doing signings, speaking on convention panels, or dealing with crowds to become really stinking good at doing it.

You also do not have to like copyedits, revision, building a social networking presence, or marketing in order to get really good at it. Every occupation, even if it’s your dream job and you’ve arranged your life in a manner that suits you very well, has bits that you will not like but that you are required to perform with some facility. Just because I’m an introvert and it drains me near to transparency to deal with large groups doesn’t mean I don’t do it when it’s necessary, with as much panache as I can muster. (I just bitch about it later, I guess. Nobody’s perfect.)

So I’m retreating back into my cave, barring the door, and letting the extroverts have their big bright world while I sit in silence and create new ones. To each their own.

So, my fellow writers: introvert, extrovert? Or somewhere in the middle of the continuum?

photo by: andyarthur

Odd The Gourmet

 Posted by at 11:22 am  Life, Miscellaneous, Weirdsville
Oct 162012
 

First run since I got sick with that hideous stomach bug last week. It felt amazing. I’ve grown addicted to the endorphins, and Miss B was glad to get out and try to catch a few schoolbuses. I mean, I have no idea what she would do if she actually managed to catch one. But her silly dog ass just sees a yellow bus and every circuit in her silly dog head fuses. *sigh* At least it makes things interesting, and with last night’s hard rain there was plenty of agility training to be had, what with leaping downed branches and dodging deep still ponds made by backed-up storm drains. Now she’s passed out next to my office chair, sleeping the sleep of the righteous-chaser-of-buses.

Odd Trundles, however, is having somewhat of a rough day. He’s been scolded twice for Doing What He Shouldn’t, and is quite put out that I won’t let him bark at the neighbors or eat my pillow. Christ, I don’t know what it is, but maybe my sleepy head smell drives him mad. He keeps trying to down my favourite pillow whole. And then there’s his constant alerts.

You see, Odd is not a fan of change. Any change. At all. If I put a basket of laundry on the couch instead of on the chair, he absolutely loses his shit. Barking, growling, snapping–anything new or moved to a different place is a Danger What Must Be Yapped At. I finally unpacked some boxes in my bedroom yesterday and guess what? ODD TO THE RESCUE! He would tear into my room, look wildly about, put his head down and his nether end up as high as it would go, and commence making enough noise to bring a whole cavalry charge over a hill. Even this morning he was trying to climb atop the small altar in my room and eat my tarot cards.

If I have to buy another Rider-Waite deck, I shall scold him most thoroughly. You’d think he’d try to eat one of his various toys–which he scatters around the house carefully, then gets scared and affronted if they’re moved by anything other than his silly little snout–instead. But NOOOOOO, he’ll eat books, pencils, plants, silverware (don’t ask), cat litter, bark, small rocks, drywall (don’t ask), socks, Legos–you know, I should just say that pretty much the things he won’t eat are, as a rule, too high for him to reach. And the bitter apple spray supposed to discourage him from trying to consume things like, oh, his dog bed and cardboard boxes? It’s like steak sauce. He can’t get enough of the stuff.

*sigh* Odd Trundles, the gourmet. You’d think we never feed him, but his girth shows he’s getting calories from somewhere. Maybe it’s the books on the French Revolution he ate. I should call him Robespierre. Or maybe Danton, except he’s not bright enough for that moniker even if there is a certain physical resemblance…

He just finished rearranging the office, threw himself down on the carpet, and began to snore. One thing about this bulldog puppy (Christ, he’s almost a year old now, how on earth did that happen?), he never does anything halfway. It’s all done with gusto, and with complete abandon.

I like that about him. Most of the time.

So anyway, I’ve got Carlos Gardel wailing his tangos on the stereo, the kitchen is clean, my cardiovascular health and ninja training mostly attended to for the day, and now it’s time to play some hooky with the story I’ve titled, gleefully, Woodchipper Zombie.

Things are looking up.

photo by: OakleyOriginals

Turnabout

 Posted by at 6:31 pm  Rant Rant Rave, Writing
Sep 192012
 

I always laugh when anyone tells me how glamourous it must be to be a writer.

The sight of me, unwashed and furious, staring at a glowing screen for hours while the people inside my head refuse to make sense, occasionally taking a break to pace furiously up and down the hall while the dogs trot behind me inquisitively, running into me when I stop and change direction, me throwing myself on the floor in the living room and snarling “BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE” and Miss B gamely trying to make it make sense by licking my face…you know, “glamour” is not the word that comes to mind. “Hysterically funny to watch Lili suffer” is what comes to mind.

My dears, I have a confession to make.

I’ve written through every other move and upheaval in my life. And by that, I mean I wrote in the hospital after C-sections (don’t ask), I wrote when the electricity got shut off because someone hadn’t paid the bill (roommates, oh, I could write a book about them sucking), I’ve written through two divorces, the death of a soulmate, and various other Fun and UnFun Events. Write during a move? Sure, no problem. Make my deadlines while buying a house? Pshaw, I’ve eaten better stress than this for breakfast.

I was wrong.

I did not understand (I was warned, though, I really was) about the level of stress involved in the legal albeit temporary possession (because really, the bank owns everything, and what the bank doesn’t own eminent domain can be invoked to make the state own) of a wooden structure on a lot that one pours money into. I did not understand that stress would play merry hob with deadlines, and I did not understand that the move would drain my emotional energy so badly I can barely force myself out of bed in the morning.

Hyperbole? Only a little.

Never before has the discipline of forcing myself to sit and chip words out of the folds of my cerebellum been so critical. Never before have I sat and looked at the screen and at my hands, and thought I know how to do this, I know what happens next, I just cannot find the goddamn words. For someone who has built her life on the power and magic of the written word, it’s a wee bit, oh, what’s the term, hmmm…

…terrifying? Yes, that applies.

As Julia Cameron often pointed out, it takes fuel to burn hard enough to create art. I’m scraping the bottom of my cupboard, and for the first time, the words are not just under the surface. The little bastards are cowering in deep caves, delighting in my agonized screams as I claw them out one by one and throw them onto the page, where I must nail them in and listen to them shriek as they writhe.

*clears throat*

Well. Now that I have that out of my system…

…okay, I have dished out hard advice here before. Now, dear chickadees, dear Readers, dish me some. I know I’m going to keep writing–after all, I have no choice–but turnabout’s fair play. Lay it on me. Zadie Smith’s ten rules can only take me so far. Be cruel to be kind, dear Readers. You’ll likely never get another chance.

And now, excuse me while I go grubbing for more screaming little word-bastards. I will read every piece of advice you give me, dear ones. Tomorrow.

photo by: Alex E. Proimos

Casa to Chez, Part III

 Posted by at 9:53 am  Life, Miscellaneous, Personal Schmersonal
Aug 202012
 

Title companies are like copyeditors. Their job is to help. By being as nitpicky and insanely detailed as possible. It’s not their fault–house-buying is a fraught experience anyway, and making sure every I is dotted and T is crossed is a thankless task both for them…and for underwriters.

I was told the underwriters and the title company loved me, because as soon as they came up with a problem I provided the relevant documentation to fix it within an hour or so. This necessitated all sorts of bother and to-ing and fro-ing, especially when dealing with Time Bombs Left Behind From The Divorce. I suppose I should be grateful that I know everything is cleared up now, even the clerical errors breeding several trips to the federal building downtown. (I now know where the County Auditor’s office is too! They were beginning to recognize me…)

And I was told we would be closing “within days.” I was told this every day.

For two months.

Oh, wait, it gets better!

Both the mortgage broker and the person handling everything at the title company went on long-planned vacations the week we were really, truly, no-fooling supposed to close. Which meant “the file”–meaning me and the house I had grown to love and despair of ever moving into–was in the hands of people who didn’t know what was happening…

…and they requested documentation I’d sent in months before. Again. Weeping with frustration, I complied.

I was even polite.

And then…nothing.

I found out later what the hold-up was. Suffice to say there were a batch of home loans that were, shall we say, not handled correctly by a subcontractor. Wouldn’t you know, mine was among them? DEAR UNIVERSE: PLEASE TO STOP HELPING ME OUT, KTHXBAI.

This is the part where I started deconstructing. (And my writing partner started making plans to visit with two tranquilizer guns and a baseball bat just to get me to calm down.) Dear Reader, the stress got to me. I wasn’t eating, I couldn’t sleep much, all I could think of was the house, the house, the house. I was, in technical terms, wiggin’.

This went on until I broke under the strain, during a week where we were supposed to close Monday…but things weren’t ready, Wednesday was really the day, but again, things weren’t ready. I lost my ever-loving mind. I told my realtor that Friday at 5pm was my deadline, and if we did not sign by then, I wanted the papers for rescission-of-sale ready so I could sign them and be done. I would rather rent the rest of my fucking life than deal with this, I told everyone who would listen. I just wanted to make the pain stop. My realtor was frantic too. “We are so close, don’t give up now! This will be so worth it once you have your new house keys!”

I did not believe her. Because Friday dawned, bright and clear…and there was no progress to be seen.

To Be Continued…

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