Lilith Saintcrow

I keep being told “less roller derby, more girlfriend” for this book, and it puzzles me. I thought the problem a lot of people had with my books was too much girlfriend. But what would I know? I’m just a cranky, bitter little writer.

Yep, you guessed it. Edit letter time! That marvelous moment when one receives a letter detailing every way your cherished manuscript is ugly, needs work, or just doesn’t make the grade. To be fair, every editor I work with understands to give me a sweet little bit of fruit, something they liked about the story first–before getting down to what needs to be done to make it better. I understand the editor just wants to make it better. I want it to be better too. After a week of muttering and grousing, I’ll be ready to roll up my sleeves and start tweaking, shaping, filling holes and fixing highlights.

But there’s a good deal of thrashing about that happens at the moment an edit letter lands in my inbox. My writing partner is rolling her eyes apace, God bless her.

I’ve written before about my method of dealing with the beasts. It doesn’t get any easier, though it is fractionally more familiar each time. This time around, I want to keep picking at the letter like a scab, when I know–believe me, I know–that the best thing to do is just put the damn thing down and don’t look at it for a week. I give myself such very good advice…

I had a post planned about moving goalposts, and the crazymaking that happens with that, but all the running around today has just scrubbed anything substantive clean out of my pointed little head. So I’m going to shut off the wireless, get a glass of water, and return to the world of the zombie cowboy story I’m consoling myself with now. It’s the only proper course. I hear the edit letter, locked in its little drawer, tempting and taunting me. Not gonna respond, though. Just not going to do it.

Not even a little peek.

Famous last words, right? Wish me strength.

“SHIT!” I screamed, as I skidded around the corner into my kitchen from the garage. “NO NO NO! NOOOOO!”

The squirrel wasn’t listening. The dog, attached to the couch, was barking hysterically.

When we last saw Neo, he had voiced his battlecry and flung himself into my unprotected house. This was a fine way for the goddamn rodent to repay me for not leaving him in the road to die. Gratitude may be a virtue, but I really am beginning to think it’s one this little asshole doesn’t possess.

Several thoughts flash through one’s head when one has inadvertently let a demonic tree-rat into one’s house. Let me see if I can list them in some kind of coherent order.

(more…)

Got the end of a kidnap attempt, a messy bloody death, a visit to Wilde the Sorcerer, and the tracing of a shipment of Prussian capacitors to write. This morning was interval training and a multiple-mile walk with Miss B. I think I tired her out. The only drawback is that I can’t nap like she does.

But I have a story to tell you first. Yes, Miss B met Neo the other day. As luck would have it, this was the first Squirrel-and-B interaction I had the pleasure of witnessing, and it just had to be the Terminator ninja death squirrel.

Picture this, a cloudy day, Miss B snoot-deep in backyard grass, Yours Truly leaning against the sunroom wall watching, yawning and holding an afternoon cuppa. It’s a tranquil scene.

From the clouds of blossoms on the plum tree, Neo sallied forth, crooked tail held high. Nobody had informed him of the Glorious Advent.

“Oh, Christ on a cracker NO–” I began. The last thing I wanted was my dog kicked in the head. That would get things off on the wrong foot. Plus, Tuxedo Kitty was never the same after his head trauma. I started forward, tea sloshing, Miss B turned to see what I was looking at…

..and froze, ears perked so far they almost started from her head, one paw lifted, barely even breathing.

How Neo missed an exponentially-bigger animal covered in russet fur staring at him as her haunches slowly sank in preparation, I’ll never know. He sauntered away from the tree, chittering a little as he encountered a small pile of grass clippings. Maybe he thought it was a fine place to bury a spring nut or two. Maybe he was so used to the calm in the back yard he literally didn’t notice. Maybe he was simply overconfident.

The preparation only took a few seconds, but it was long stretched-out nightmare time for me. You know those dreams where you’re running, but everything’s made of lead and you just can’t move fast enough? Yeah. Like that.

Still deadly silent, Miss B bolted.

“Watch out!” I yelled, hot tea slopping in my cup. “HE KICKS PEOPLE IN THE HEAD!”

Now, I was prepared for a short sharp flurry and a howling Miss B. She’s up on her rabies shots, though–it had been less than a week since her last jab.

I fully admit I underestimated my dog.

“HEEEEERD IT!” she bellowed in midstride, and was across the yard in an eyeblink.

“WHAT TH–EEEEEEEEE!” Neo started Making That Sound again. He bolted for the plum tree, but Miss B cut him off.

I watched my new mini Aussie herd the Terminator death ninja squirrel across my hard, harrying and nipping, turning on a dime, anticipating, and generally treating him like a flock of sheep. Now, squirrels are generally very nimble little critters, and Neo doubly so. But Miss B had her nose down, and she cut him off every. Single. Time. Grass flew. Neo stopped making That Noise. I suppose he thought he was running for his life and needed the oxygen. Back and forth they went–Miss B got him turned around near the fence, he feinted, she took the bait, he reversed–but so did she, with sweet natural grace, nipping at his crooked tail for good measure.

I stood there, mouth ajar, tea pouring out of my dangling cup. It was actually the boiling-hot tea splashing through my pants that restored me to some kind of sanity. “B—-!” I used her full name and my You Are My Child voice. She skidded to a stop, head up, eying me.

Neo darted for the shelter of the plum tree. Miss B quivered with anticipation. “No,” I said, “let the fuzzy little bastard rest. You’ve had your fun.”

She chuffed and trotted back to me, head high, her hindquarters wriggling with delight. “I HERDED IT! IT WAS A QUICK LITTLE BASTARD TOO! DID YOU SEE ME HERD IT? IS THAT MY NEW JOB?”

“Just be careful,” I told her, snorting for breath through the laughter. “That’s no ordinary squirrel. Plus he’s probably going to bring backup.”

Blossom-laden branches shook violently. Squirrel!Neo was invisible, but I could certainly hear him. “WHAT THE…WHAT WAS THAT? WHAT IS THAT? THE MONKEY’S TALKING TO IT! THERE’S SOMETHING IN THE YARD! FIRE! FLOOD! ANARCHY! IT NEARLY GOT ME!”

That did me in. I leaned against the house and fair wheezed with laughter. My stomach hurt and I had to blow my nose by the time I was done. Miss B, of course, kept one eye on me and one eye on the plum tree, waiting for Round Two.

This is gonna be good.

My morning started with a banana and a three-mile run at the low end of my pre-injury pace. This was made easier by the fact that I have finally kicked the flu’s ass and sent it howling. Which meant I could breathe, always a plus.

Then it was time to wash the dried blood out of my hair. Now, starting a Monday morning with dry claret spattering one is de rigeur for my characters, not so much for me (anymore), so this may require a little explanation.

(more…)

I know I shouldn’t have done it. My bouldering partner had just finished talking about how sometimes, one’s body tells one it’s just not going to work a certain route on that particular day, and one should listen. The risk of getting hurt is too high. I’d agreed, and I warmed up on some easier bouldering problems while she was practicing her knots. I knew I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent, but I wanted to gut it out.

I moved to a particular route I’m working–it starts out with hand-matching on a nasty little pancake, then getting all the way over into the left hip, reaching up while tensing one’s abs and sticking a sort-of-pocket with the right hand, then going up and smearing while the sort-of-pocket turns into an undercling and one has to half-dyno to stick one’s fingers on a shoulderblade-shaped hold near the top. (Translation: it’s a real bitch, and it requires a lot of core strength, trust in one’s left foot on bare rock, and faith.) I got up to the dyno, knew I wasn’t going to make it, and climbed down. Then I did it again, and I sent it, reached the top hold and felt gratified.

My body warned me, though, with a tremor in my quads and my hands not really sticking like they should. Don’t do that again, my body said.

I didn’t listen.

I chalked up, ran my gaze over the route, and stubbornly tried it again. I thought momentum would help. I failed the dyno, my fingers slipped off the top hold, and I fell. Which would have been okay, because I went loose and there were plenty of pads…except my foot landed exactly wrong on the edge of a new crash mat, my ankle rolled, and I immediately knew I’d done something utterly stupid. I let out a sound that scared the bejesus out of my partner, who dropped her knot and came to check things out, and I could barely hear her over the ringing in my ears. It hurt like hell. How my ankle could have made me temporarily deaf I don’t know. Jeez.

Anyway, by the time I had my breath back my ankle was already beginning to swell, so I practiced knots a little and hobbled around. Nothing broken, just strained. Needless to say, there was no more climbing yesterday, which irritated me to no end, especially since it was my own damn fault. My partner made sure I was okay to drive, we called it a session, and I hobbled through a couple errands I couldn’t put off before going home to ice and ibuprofen all. damn. day.

This morning the ankle is swollen and bruised, and I’m moving pretty slowly. No running, dammit, but taking the weekend off won’t hurt me. It may even help; I’ll be really fresh on Monday.

I’ll be working on the next combat-scene post today in between other stuff I have to get accomplished, it might be tomorrow before I get it posted, so bear with me. But, as extra credit, you can take a look at my description above, and see if you can plot the arc of the story, as well as see where I revised to make the pacing quicker or slower. (Hint: look at sentence length.)

See you in a bit.