We Were Goddamn Right

Afterwar

I had occasion to mention Afterwar yesterday. Now, after years and indictments, “serious” pundits are finally forced into admitting that just maybe, just perhaps that orange blivet didn’t merely commit a lightly treasonous, entirely forgivable oopsie but set out and worked hard to install himself as a fascist dictator. All those folks who told me I was being “alarmist”, who mocked me (and others) for screaming about the danger, have finally been given evidence even they can’t ignore. Of course, many are ignoring it, and even more are both-sidesing everything like the good little bootlickers they are.

I have rarely felt more like a Cassandra, and that’s saying something. I would have loved to be wrong, but I wasn’t. Relentlessly gaslit and mocked, belittled when not outright ignored, sure, but I was not wrong. I even wrote a whole-ass book about the danger the demagogue and his little helpers represent, and…nobody listened.

Everything that could go wrong did during the publication of that book, too; maybe that’s why it was so ignored. It got to the point that I was expecting the shipments of actual physical copies to burst into flame on an oceangoing transport, sinking the whole thing to the bottom. I absolutely would not have been surprised. Still, when Afterwar finally managed to stagger out into the world and then made not a dent, I suppose I can be forgiven a little bit of ill temper now.

Because I was fucking right. So were all the other people who warned about That Fucking Orange Guy and All His Enablers. We were mocked, degraded, threatened, ignored. But we were goddamn right, and had been for years upon years.

Cold comfort.

To be absolutely fair, I have gotten a few letters about the book over the years, mostly from those who were similarly harassed or ignored. I often say that if a story helps even one person it’s worth all the agony, and of course the universe has decided to test me upon that assumption in the most blatant way possible.

I am proud to report I still believe it to be true, despite the bruises upon my soul.

At least one person wrote to take me to task about the Burning of the South in the first third of the book, so I should go on record with pointing out that I don’t think that’s what should happen. I do think that if matters escalate to a second American civil war (a declared one, instead of the semi-fig-leafed insurgency the Republicans and their Christofascist allies have been waging since the Reagan administration), an updated version of Sherman’s march is an overwhelming possibility. Just because I can extrapolate the likelihood doesn’t mean I advocate for it.

I wish more people were capable of making that distinction, or at least of refraining from disingenuously conflating me with fictional characters. But just as it’s difficult to get someone to understand a concept if their salary depends on them not understanding it, it is near-impossible to induce emotional or intellectual honesty in someone who achieves psychological relief by abusing and harassing artists.

Maybe I should just be thankful that the wheels of justice appear to be grinding at any speed at all. But I will not be satisfied until actual consequences are applied to those violent, hateful malefactors, from their spray-tanned demagogue through his legislative and lawyer-flavored enablers, all the way down to their foot soldiers. Which will probably never happen, because America believes in coddling racist white men, especially if they’re rich–or useful to the rich.

Still, a girl can dream. An artist can articulate realities others believe impossible or cannot even consider, and that’s the first step towards progress.

I suppose it will have to be enough.

Hagiography Fodder

The weather app swears there will be rain today. Looking out the window, I am quite skeptical. It’s not just that it’s July, it’s that the sky simply doesn’t seem inclined to cooperate with a forecast. Of course, I could be tetchy because I woke up at 3am and had made the mistake of keeping my iPad on the nightstand, so I peeked at social media and…well, yeah. It took effort to set that aside when the feverish sense of “awake but still dreaming” crested, so I turned on the light and embarked on a little bit more of the Upanishads. Which was a far better choice for my state of mind.

I’m going to have to keep the electronics off my nightstand in the future. They lead only to trouble.

Though it doesn’t look like rain, it smells like half-burned pipe tobacco outside; it’s not quite petrichor, nor is it flowering chestnuts. I’m not sure what the aroma presages. The birds seem to be unconcerned, greeting the dawn in their usual manner. It’s not quite the chorus–that happens in predawn grey, a whole musical number–but it’s still a lot of noise, and very comforting. I think a pair of bluejays are fighting over territory, too, which is as hilarious as it is ear-piercing.

Today I start on the revisions for Sons of Ymre 2, and it’s high time. I am uncertain if there’s anything more to do with certain aspects of the book, however, and there will be no dumbing anything down or adding extraneous foolishness. (Only the most germane foolishness is allowed! Ha.) We’ll see what I decide once I’m actually on the path.

Someone told me once that I would probably never have commercial success because, “you’re a writer’s writer.” I find myself thinking about that quite a lot lately, especially while witnessing publishing fawn over the memories of people the industry ignored while they were alive and could presumably use a bit of that attention and cash. The practice of awarding “lifetime achievement awards” and the like to those who have been relentlessly sidelined for decades–or even longer–is noxious. Why not celebrate them while they’re alive?

Because while they’re alive they’re messy human beings and might hold the award-givers to a certain standard, I suppose. A dead artist provides hagiography fodder (and profitable grave-robbing, especially of Currently Popular Fanservice) without any trouble or intransigence. Maybe that’s why the world tries so hard to kill us.

The urge to find another career rises to a fresh peak every time I cogitate on these particular issues, so I’m trying not to at the moment. It would be awfully nice to get some return for how hard I work–I know, that’s everyone (who isn’t a billionaire) under late capitalism. My malaise is general indeed.

In short I am quite resistant today, apt to be stubborn for no other reason than I am tired of the world attempting to force me into a particular shape. I am also hoping the weather app is right and my own estimation of the sky is off. It would be nice to have a little damping-down of the dust, and in summer we can use any speck of moisture we get. After some coffee and a run I might find my flexibility again.

Best get started, then…

Wild Carrot Spite


‘Tis the time for wild carrot, also known as Queen Anne’s Lace. I am told one can mistake it for poison hemlock, which no doubt would’ve changed a few things where Socrates was concerned.

The week’s been a wash. Lots of change looming on the horizon, since I’ve finally put my foot down in a couple ways, but that sucked up energy I wanted to use for writing. I would’ve liked to get a few more scenes done, but alas and alack. Come Monday it’ll be revision time again, for the second Sons of Ymre book. Then I’m sure something else will arrive, trying to keep me from the actual work, which is writing new stuff.

Do I sound bitter (as hemlock)? Sort of. I get cranky when Real Life (or an approximation thereof) attempts to get in the way of words. I really just want to shut everything off, retreat into my cave, and do what I was meant and made for. Current events and exploitative bullshit are doing their damndest to make that impossible. Yet I persevere, probably out of pure spite.

It is the best fuel, after all.

See you next week, my beloveds. Be kind to each other out there.

Trembling Equilibrium

I woke up with Double’s Captain of Her Heart playing in my head, and the song sank its teeth into the tail-end of a dream. A Lalique glass belt buckle was somehow involved, and all of a sudden there’s an entire story I’m never going to write. No, no, no. The world just ain’t ready for that.

Especially given what’s wearing the belt.

Realized–while making coffee–that I have three whole, finished books out on submission, and yet I’m not excited or anxious. Which is…strange. One of the three is even the start to a trilogy I really wanted to work on, but I am not perched on the edge of my seat, heart in mouth. There’s merely the low crushing sense of, “well, you’ve given the world a few more reasons to hand you bad news, so have fun with that.”

Maybe I’ll feel differently after coffee. Or a run, since I can now strap my ankle into a brace and hobble at moderate speed. That excites me; I do like the treadmill and it gets things done, but dear gods I prefer hitting the pavement. Which is not anything I ever thought I’d say, but the bug has bitten. Sunk its teeth deep and now I’m addicted to the dopamine of regular outdoor exercise. WHAT IS THIS SORCERY.

I suppose there has been stuff that qualifies as good news–my agent is happy, my editors are (largely) happy, the marketing folk at two different publishers took time to tell me they’re happy. Not only that, but the fireworks ban inside city limits (voted in 2015, became effective 2016) has done its work, slowly but surely. There was mortar fire the night of the Fourth–enough to made Boxnoggin shake, pant, and hide behind me until past midnight–but it wasn’t rattle-the-windows close, and walkies on the morning after were not a matter of dodging vast piles of spent ammo and cardboard casings while gunpowder reek hung in the air. In fact, the streets were damn near pristine.

So all that is good, it’s wonderful, but I’m waiting for a shoe to drop. Or an entire closet. Just can’t seem to settle, and while I can look at the bright side it provides little solace. I just blink, mutter, “that’s nice,” and turn back to the day’s work.

There are worse states to be in, I suppose. I keep looking at the Post-it taped to my desktop–amid a forest of others, I admit, but this one in particular–that says Balance is not the same thing as being in control. Some days the reminder is comforting, others it’s not so much, but right now it seems both value-neutral and deeply apposite. The sense of being at a precarious, trembling point of equilibrium, waiting for a shattering jolt or a plunge sideways, has lodged in my bones.

Today there’s base wordcount on two projects, a subscription drop to format, and the biggest chunk of working time will be spent on revisions. Yesterday broke the seal on that last item, fully and formally, so now I’m in the weeds laying about with a machete. I will hack a path through this text, even if it takes turning the font to Comic Sans so I can spot repetitions and typos. (Still mad that works. Will never be normal about fonts, never.)

I should get started while the morning’s relatively cool. Boxnoggin sacked out hard last night. Now he’s recovered fully from the Fourth and full of prancing, not to mention nosing me at intervals with meaningful looks. His Majesty is on a schedule, and I’m holding up the parade, dammit.

Upward, onward, inward, excelsior, and all that.

…Still thinking about that belt buckle, tho…

Requirement Satisfied

Fireworks are illegal inside the city limits (and have been for a few years, thank the gods) but of course there were still asshats setting off explosions last night. Fortunately most were relatively far away; Boxnoggin cuddled close to me and only had a few shakes and shivers. Tonight’s going to be much worse, and there’s already a fire up in the Gorge. There was a house fire relatively close by yesterday afternoon, as well. Big fun.

Monday went about as well as can be expected. Technically the item on my to-do list said “start revisions on Riversinger and Minnowsharp“, not “make actual progress”. So opening up both the Scrivener and the Track Changes Word docs, looking over the first few pages, and not screaming out the window until my voice box shatters did, in strictest point of fact, satisfy that requirement. The fact that I cleaned my office, filed a bunch of last month’s papers, cleared my inbox (several emails are scheduled to go out after today’s holiday), updated a lot of paperback pricing (both KDP and Ingram) to take into account production costs, and watched some Tubi documentaries is beside the point.

The procrastination is part of the process. Each time I think it’ll be different, and each time the mere act of opening the bloody files and looking at the first few pages makes the rest of me, corpse and soul alike, curl up like a salted slug. At this point I have to merely consider it part of the process and build time into the schedule.

At least the beta readers reassure me that the epic fantasy doesn’t suck. I’m holding that security blanket close all through the entire mess.

Ah well. Today’s a federal holiday, and you know what? I’m not gonna work, for once. Oh, sure, I’ll open up a piece of fanfic or an old bit of writing that’s Just For Me, but I won’t do a single ding-dang thing approaching a paid project. It’ll be all snacks, documentaries, and poking at entirely personal writing. I’ll also down a few edibles before the explosions start just to keep my nerves well-insulated. Boxnoggin needs a dose of anti-anxiety meds after walkies and at bedtime too. We’ll just be zoned together, the dog and me.

Tuesday is also the day chosen for the new 15min or so livestreams answering Reader Questions, but if the neighbors get really ambitious about blowing up bits of native soil to celebrate questionable “freedoms” I might throw up my hands and put the whole thing off. We’ll see. At the moment I’m desperately trying to absorb caffeine, the windows all open to catch morning coolth and my nerves stinging, anticipating the moment the quiet will be shattered because some Jackass Joe thinks he needs to compensate for his itty wiener with gunpowder.

…yeah, edibles are probably the best choice for today, as soon as I’m not called upon for anything involving sobriety. I suppose I’d best get walkies done and daily chores sorted so I can pass through that particular wicket sooner rather than later.

Be safe out there, my beloveds.

What Weirdness

Must investigate thoroughly.

Both ends of the stick were driven deeply into soft, sprinkler-wet earth. Boxnoggin was fascinated by the entire apparatus, and I still can’t figure out how in the hell it happened if not deliberately. Was someone attempting a more complex sundial? Staking two tiny vampires at once? Using a wooden rune to make a gateway? The possibilities, they are endless.

It’s been a long week, and the news is upsetting. I have to keep creating, keep moving onward, keep swimming. The alternative is drowning–no gentle death, that, but sometimes, I have to admit, sometimes

At least you guys seem to like the 15min answering-questions livestreams. And there’s two books on deck, though on Monday I have to shift focus to a revision. I keep working because there is no way to stop; I have to trust the stories will see me through. And at least there’s always strangeness in the world, and a dog absolutely enchanted by every “new” thing we walk past. As long as the kids are healthy and the dog is still sticking his nose into things with wild abandon and utter disregard for his own safety (thinking about such things is my job, after all), I suppose we’ll be okay.

Time to bolt my remaining coffee and get Lord van der Sploot into his harness. I wonder what weirdness we’ll come across today…

Modicum of Grace

It’s not even 8am and I am in a lather of impatience. Woke up in a reasonably good mood, but the bloody kitchen is a disaster and Boxnoggin–bless his poor benighted little self–had to wander around the yard twice, for nearly a half-hour the first time, before finally consenting to do his morning pee. Of course I dragged him back inside after a half-hour since it was getting excessive, but then he started trotting about and whining like he wanted to bedeck some furniture with his bladder-juice. So back outside it was, and finally he consented to unload.

No, he’s not having any health problems. He’s just easily distracted, and there were a lot of smells outside this morn. Smells–and clouds of mosquitoes, since we’re having rather a bad year for them. It’s not just me; I ran into a friend at the grocer’s the other day who bemoaned being bitten all over.

So now I am grumpy, hoping coffee will soothe me, and I figured out the scene I was beating my head on yesterday was being recalcitrant because what’s needed isn’t an argument between two adai but a somewhat passive-aggressive serving of truth from the younger one. I’ll probably have to toss out a thousand words or so, but that’s the nature of the beast. The old scene can go on the compost pile and do its work there, and I can take comfort in at least knowing what the wrong way is so the right one has a better chance of wandering into view.

And it’s June. How in the hell did that happen? There’s Hell’s Acre to wrap up; I’ll probably take this week and next to do so, then it’s straight into the Sekrit Projekt as the next serial. Can’t quite announce it yet, my beloveds…but it’s getting very close indeed.

At least the kitchen isn’t my problem, but someone in the household might need a soft word of, “Do your job, we all have to in order to make this thing work.” I do my best to be patient, certainly, yet there often comes a time when said patience has been interpreted as weakness, or as “she doesn’t really mean it”.

No. I mean it. Disregard at your peril, my fine feathered friend.

Now the coffee is half gone and I am beginning to feel a little less raspy. Brekkie, walkies, and a run should sort the other half, or at least a goodly portion of it. Part of my snarling is probably a hangover from too much social contact; the rest is stress and the persistent feeling of being taken for granted. Ameliorating all three will be a bit of a juggling act. I’ll feel a lot better once I get this scene beaten into reasonable shape and the subscription drop done up. Everything is formatted, it’s just a question of last-minute pokes and prods. This week will see the crisis in Hell’s Acre, next week will see the falling action and the revised ebooks drop, and while I wanted to take a week off after the serial ends I might not get there.

Or I might. Who knows? I never want to take a week off of subscription stuff; I always want to give my beloveds a little more than their money’s worth. Yet I–yes, even I–deserve a break once in a while. So we’ll see.

I might even decide to accelerate the schedule a bit while on this morning’s run. I’m waiting until at least the second kilometer to make any decisions, since I’m in such a blasted mood now. I’m sure standing amid swarms of small biting insects while the dog sticks his nose in every bloody fern didn’t help, but such is life with furry toddlers. He more than makes up for it by being an absolute joy 99.98% of the time, and my crankiness isn’t his fault.

Now I’ve got to get to breakfast. The world is testing me today; I hope to at least pass with a modicum of grace if not flying colors.

Onward and upward, excelsior, and all that…