health

Good Signs Abound

I had work scheduled for the weekend, but body and brain informed me recovering from heatsickness took precedence. It wasn’t so much the heat itself as having to leave the house for multiple hours during the worst of it, and not enough coolness at night (despite air conditioning, a truly modern marvel) for recovery. I hit bottom on Friday, and the following two days were a lot of hand-over-hand struggling out of the pit.

Still exhausted and a bit shaky, but temperatures are reasonable for sleeping again and I should be able to get some easy morning running, which will do me no end of good. The bluejays are screaming before dawn, too, which they don’t manage when it’s indecently warm. So, good signs abound. Especially the cool breeze flooding my office window at the moment.

I finished Zygar’s The Empire Must Die; there were a few things I hadn’t heard before in there as well as plenty of context. The footnotes describing parallels in Putin’s rise to power as well as the repeating mechanisms of repression were interesting too. It was refreshing in particular to see both Rasputin and Lenin treated without sentimental horror or hagiography. Next up is the third volume of Elric stories.

It was good to spend some time just…reading, even if I’m nearly mad with the desire to get back to work. Several scheduled things are having to shift as a result of illness and the Chihuahua of Real Life humping my ankles, both metaphorically and otherwise. The high-level wildfire smoke moving overhead is beginning to fray, which will cut down on mucus membrane irritation; tonight should be even better for decent sleep.

What I want to be doing today is getting the army together in Highland War and a major suspense-turn written in Gamble. Both have been hanging fire for a couple days, with only 200 words apiece. Plus there’s that short story I want to start building, based on Mel Tillis’s Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town (probably the Kenny Rogers version), as a companion piece to Jolene, Jolene. Those stories might have to go in a self-published anthology since I don’t have time to chase submissions in ill-paid short fiction markets, but we’ll see. I had plans to finish the collab story (the Pocky one) during last week’s canceled Friday Night Writes, so that’s another bit of work impacted by stupid corporate-fueled climate change.

The frustration will (hopefully) fade as soon as I’m able to run again. Worst of all is the feeling of working so hard and getting precisely nowhere, which is damaging for anyone. It’s been…difficult, lately. Even my patience is beginning to get a bit moth-eaten at the edges.

Coffee is soaking in. Boxnoggin is beginning to stir; he’s adapting to the new drip-instead-of-espresso routine, and has been very understanding of my need to stop and rest during walkies. I try to time it while he’s interested in sniffing something particularly fragrant, so he thinks he’s getting the better end of the deal. The very heart of negotiation: letting the other side think they’re getting the best bargain.

Monday might have me catching up entirely, but I wouldn’t bet on it. The best I can hope for is amelioration. In that case, I’d better start soon.

See you around.

Keeping Watch

Keeping watch, near dawn.

Earlier this week Carl and one of her brood kindly stayed put long enough for me to get a snap; the rest of the crew (including Sandra and yes, Jerry) are out of frame in a nearby yard looking for delicacies brought to the surface by sprinkler-water. They aren’t frightened of Boxnoggin at all, and flew away laughing when he couldn’t stand it anymore and yelled “HI FRIENDS!”, lunging to the end of the leash.

I’m glad I got the picture.

The heatwave appears to have broken, but now I am very ill from its knock-on effects. I’m going to wait a couple hours to see if I can muster through, but I might have to cancel Friday Night Writes and spend Friday bathing in ice water, not to mention writing longhand in a notebook to at least get some wordcount. It will have to be typed in over the weekend, assuming recovery doesn’t take longer than a day, and I already had that time set aside for proofreader queries.

Bother. The brain proposes, the body disposes, and all that. I feel dreadful about possibly canceling, but given that I can’t be upright for longer than ten minutes without dizziness and cold sweats, it’s probably for the best.

Have a wonderful weekend, my beloveds.

Attempting Peak Garlic

I’m fighting off some kind of respiratory ailment. No doubt I was infected at the courthouse, since only one county employee and five-six of the sixty-odd jury pool (including yours truly) were wearing masks. This irritates me almost beyond belief. So far the only silver lining is that my digestion is fine and I can still smell/taste, so it doesn’t seem to be Covid. It’s probably one of the other two plagues swilling about. Right now my money’s on RSV.

I’m all right in the mornings, but as the day wears on the symptoms get more marked and the cognitive mud thickens. Rest and hydration are helping, and yesterday I self-prescribed allium overdose. That’s right, folks–we achieved Peak Garlic here at the chez. Double-garlic chicken soup (more properly triple, since it was made with garlicky homemade bone broth, minced garlic, and roasted garlic), along with a head and a half of oven-roasted garlic (using fresh bread as a carrier mechanism), went down the hatch in large quantities. More bone broth and roasted garlic will follow suit today, along with sauerkraut brine and gallons of cinnamon tea.

This ailment, whatever it is, has picked the wrong goddamn meatsack to invade.

I’m also attempting easy runs in the mornings, on the principle that exercise endorphins will turbocharge my immune system into a juggernaut of unstoppable, unspeakable voracity, leading it to consume whatever this is wholesale. It’s worth a shot.

In other news, the Winter Portal Fantasy sale is still going. (Check that page, it’s been updated with the Smashwords End of Year sale discounts too!) We just had a re-release of two books, and I think the paperback editions have already sold out. (Which is AMAZING, you guys, you are awesome, thank you.) The only paper versions left at the moment are overpriced third-party money-laundering ones on Amazon, for which I am very sorry, but I as a writer (and the publisher) have no control over that. It’s purely and simply Amazon not doing their due diligence, along with them trying to squeeze reputable publishers by prioritizing third-party sellers and allowing this nonsense. So please, don’t yell at me or at the new publisher. This isn’t us.

The coffee is almost finished, but Boxnoggin is not prancing down the hall to nose me out the door. We had our first real below-freezing night here, and he wants none of that nonsense. Too bad–we’ll be out in the cold as soon as I get some breakfast down. Which will be a bit of a bother, since I don’t want to slow enough to choke down anything, even toast, if it’s not slathered with alliums. I’m sure my attempt at running today will be uncomfortable, too. I’ll either break this sickness or it will force me to nap, and though I am an advocate of naps I don’t tend to like them much for myself. There’s just too much to get done.

Off I go, then. Peak Garlic 2: Electric Boogaloo is about to commence. Be kind to yourselves, my beloveds; this holiday season is turning out to be a right nasty one in some ways…

Rest, Little Friends

Little friends.

I am brim-full of the world’s pain, and can’t look at the news or anything else at the moment. Consequently, I’m taking a social media break; I’ll be back on Monday (though probably not for a tea-and-gossip session, you can find old Teas with Lili here). I just…I was looking at something online, and I felt something inside snap like an old chickenbone wrapped in a thin towel. I realized I had to step away for a bit.

So I have. From the smallest to the mightiest, we all need a rest sometime.

Be gentle with yourselves and each other, my friends. I’ll see you soon.

Perpetual Endeavors

A hazy dawn is rising, and I woke up with Hell’s Acre moving and shifting inside my head. Looks like the serial will be two seasons after all, because the last lingering bit I needed for the back half just dropped into place and it’s a rawther elegant solution, if I do say so myself. Pulling the story off Vella did a great deal of good–I still have an experiment lingering there, though not under my real name. The platform treated me so dreadfully over a support ticket I don’t want my name associated with it.

In any case, it’s a Thursday, and I had a run planned but what with one thing or another it will have to be some yoga instead. The dogs are eager for walkies–Miss B in particular is attempting to get me on her schedule instead of the other way ’round. It is a perpetual endeavor, one she has been engaged in for well over a decade (we’ve been together a while) and I think her baffled spite when it doesn’t work is part of the reason she’s still in such good shape.

Spite is a wonderful motivator. Keeps one young at heart, and all that.

I have to feel out the dimensions of the gap in the VC Andrews/Cat People werewolf story, because I know what needs to happen but I don’t quite see how to get there yet. And in Sons of Ymre #2 I have left the heroine feeling rather badly now that she’s discovered a few things about her monster-hunting protector, and I don’t quite know if she’s going to try to wriggle out the window before the other monster hunters get there. She’s seriously considering it, I think it’s a bad idea, and we’re hashing it out. The process takes time.

I was able to settle in bed last night and knock off a respectable bit of Fire in the Lake. I’m gutting it out; it’s slow going, especially with the stress of current events. After this I have some of Anais Nin’s diaries to read. I splurged a bit (call it research, that’s what I’m doing) and bought a set. I’ve always wanted to read them, and now is a good time to cross that off my bucket list. Once I wend my way through the set I’ll see if the itch is scratched. At least there’s no shortage, Nin was prolific.

Still trying not to look at the news. The world’s pain is prowling just outside my mental doors, eager to rush in and consume me. Of course I feel terrible that I can’t do more, that I’m sitting here writing my little stories as the burning intensifies. It’s all I can do. On my better days I tell myself that people need stories, need escape and catharsis, now more than ever. On my worse, there’s nothing else I can do anyway so I might as well get some work done while I’m waiting for the mushroom cloud.

The worse days predominate lately. Any optimism I might have been able to lay claim to has been severely strained.

So I just keep swimming. Gary Moore is playing inside my skull this morning too, while the plot-building machine whirrs and jolts. I’m also thinking about tomorrow’s tea–we’ll talk about the difference between the Inner Editor and the Internal Censor, always a fun time. I’ve finally reached the point where I’m exporting old teas to YouTube, where they can live after they drop off Twitch’s two-week cycle. We’ll see how long this experiment lasts. My agent tells me I’m witty and personable, but all I feel in front of a camera is doltish, atavistic fear. At that point my most devout hope is that nobody is watching, which I suppose defeats the purpose of the whole thing? It’s irrational on many levels, but I trust my agent and if she says to try this, I suppose I should.

Well, frankly, she wanted me to TikTok, but that’s a lot of work for no return at all and I’m already in publishing, I’ve got enough of that, thanks.

I should bring this to a close and get toast underway. Miss B just perked up as I glanced at her–she can sense, with unfailing canine intuition, that I am about to cave and give her what she wants. Action! Adventure! A stroll around the block, during which she gets to sniff all her favourite things and be cranky at Boxnoggin’s exuberance! And finally, the pièce de résistance, a treat when we return home, because her owner is a sucker and she is, after all, an elderly statesdog who has turned in years of diligent work.

Have a lovely Thursday, my dears. Today’s subscription drop is prepped and scheduled, and I have plenty of work to keep me occupied. If the day behaves we might reach the end without having to get out the baseball bat.

Maybe I’m more of an optimist than I thought…

Frost, Fog, Head

The Bear and the Beehive
© cc0images | Dreamstime Stock Photos

There’s a thick layer of frost on every roof–well, it is still January–and a heavy fog is closing over the neighborhood at eerie speed. We’re having some sort of weird weather event to match the summer’s many record-breakers; there’s a stagnation warning that bodes ill for running and the fog is coming in waves as the air thickens, clotting like cream.

It’s not rain, and I can already feel some heaviness in my lungs. I’m unamused.

My weekend started out well enough, but halfway through Saturday I was struck with the worst headache I’ve had in literal decades. It might’ve been a migraine, though I haven’t had those since before the Princess was born. It certainly had the pre-strike aura and associated vision problems, which of course irrationally convinced me I had caught the plague and micro-clotting had stolen my eyesight. I crawled hopefully into bed with a posset of self-medication, which seems to have worked.

Despite that, much of the housework was accomplished Sunday while I was still weak and shaky, and this morning I’m at about eighty percent fighting trim. Better than nothing, and enough to get me started on the day. I am no longer deadly convinced I have the plague, which is a blessing since there are no tests to be found for love or money and the pittance of them coming from state and federal authorities, even if they had arrived (three years into the pandemic, wow), would need to be reserved for a greater emergency–like one of the children coming down with something impersonating a bad head cold.

I can still smell everything, and could during the maybe-migraine, which was a mixed blessing indeed. I am hesitating to call it an actual migraine, because the gods know the last thing I need is those coming back. I’m going to choose to call it just a really severe stress reaction, like the burnout I had last year which sent me to bed for eighteen hours a day, sleeping as if I was being paid to be unconscious.

The mist is still attempting to smother the world, thickening as I type. The dogs don’t really care for it; Boxnoggin walks as close to me as possible when it’s foggy, and B is only restrained from circling us by the leash, which makes for fun times.

Once they’re walked they’ll settle, and I can go back to Hell’s Acre. There’s a foundry fire and a burgling of the villain’s house to write, then a rooftop battle and perhaps a trap to spring. The Muse is being cagey about the latter, but soon it’ll reach the point where she has to pony up or simply live with the decisions I make on my lonesome, and heaven knows she doesn’t like that.

I did watch the new Tragedy of Macbeth, and it was very good. No surprise there–Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand are always worth the price of admission. I am not a giant Coen brothers fan–I find them very hit and miss, though when they hit it’s a resounding one indeed–so I was surprised and relieved that the staging was so simple, direct, and such a love song to silent film. The many Bergman, Artaud, and Fellini callbacks tickled me positively pink as well. All in all, I found it thrilling, and very much worth the time. The first half held me during the ramp-up of the terrible headache, and that is an achievement.

So it’s off to the races on a foggy Monday. Every once in a while a crow calls through the gloom. Probably Carl, keeping track of Sandra and Jerry. If the dogs and I get out the door before ten-thirty or so they’ll no doubt shepherd us, fearing we might lose our way as dumb earthbound things often do.

Be gentle with yourselves today, my beloveds. And treat the fog with caution. We’ve all watched the horror movies, you know…

Boostered, and Well-Filling

The Princess, being a frontline worker, had her booster appointment on Tuesday; the Prince and I went along to ask if they were doing walk-ins as well. Fortunately, it was one of the few pharmacies in the area offering them, there was nobody else in the store, so all three of us got our booster and flu shot at once.

The relief is immense. So immense, in fact, I’m not sure how much of being absolutely wiped out yesterday (and frankly, almost totally wiped out today) is psychological, and how much is my immune system pitching a gigantic fit. Either way, it’s far, far better than suffering the plague or influenza, so here we are.

The kids both had mild arm soreness and a wee bit of fatigue. So far their side effects are very small, which I am unendingly grateful for. I am logy, still a bit feverish, and brain-fogged, but the fatigue has gone down a bit. I will say, whether it was the relief or the fever, I had hypersaturated, very odd dreams.

None of them were worthy to turn into a short story, let alone a book, so that’s a bit disappointing. But I shall persevere. Gods know I have enough material to keep me busy, even after shoving three books out the door and into the wild, wild world.

All my engines can turn to Hell’s Acre for a short time now, then I can give Ghost Squad #2 a bit of a shake and a towel-down before sending it off to beta readers. At the very least I have to get all of the brackets out.

Song that never ends, no rest for the weary or the wicked in our benighted world, and all that.

Before I forget, a huge shout-out to everyone who told me what movies, books, songs, and the like they’re using to refill their wells right now. You guys are a very eclectic bunch! (Feel free to add what you’re reading/watching/loving right now! I always love hearing about it.) I’m reading Burkert’s Homo Necans (because that is my idea of fun) and have been talked into watching the Wheel of Time series on Amazon.

I knew a few WoT fans in high school, and their behavior over the book(s) convinced me I wanted nothing to do with the entire thing. Later, I shelved them during my many stints as a bookstore worker, and the behavior of the male fans there just deepened my conviction. But, as one of my friends pointed out, misogynistic neckbeards are up in arms over the Amazon Prime adaptation being “diverse” and “woke”, so it’s probably worth a try.

I like the costuming (I am Team Suspenders, and some of the sweaters delight my inner knitter) and the CGI is great, not to mention Rosamund Pike and Daniel Henney. (The latter sparked one of my favorite characters in the Livi Talbot series.) So, all in all, it seems pretty awesome and I might give the books a try, though that Rand guy irritates the living DAYLIGHTS out of me already and I can’t wait for him to get stabbed by a giant trolloc or eyeless thing already. I’m only a couple episodes in, so we’ll see. I might even give the books a whirl, who knows?

So today is for gently getting back to work–only for a few hours, there’s no use in courting burnout–and getting subscription stuff out the door. Not to mention walking the dogs and prodding my poor bewildered corpse through something approaching a run. I haven’t had a run in days and it’s beginning to wear on my nerves.

I never, ever can get the hang of Thursdays, but one must suffer them all the same. Time to strap some shoes on, grab some toast, and get the dogs walked.

See you around, beloveds.