You can’t see it, but this mug is battle-scarred. It’s missing a handle and has minor smoke damage from the Great Bookstore Fire. It’s also one of my favorites, old soldier that it is, and ready to stand duty any time it’s taken from the cupboard.
And, as a bonus, it says I am going to hex your face off. Because I believe in fair warnings.
It’s been a heckuva week, my chickadees. I’m so glad it’s Friday. How about you?
Sure, everyone who reads Danny’s story has feelings about Japhrimel. I mean, the Devil’s assassin is kind of impossible to be neutral on, especially when you’re inside a certain Necromance’s head.
I know you think that I shouldn’t still love you.
But I really treasure the few letters I get about Jace Monroe. Mostly because, while Japhrimel coalesced out of several books and strange oddments, Jace is an amalgamation of two men I knew, both of whom were better to a half-crazed young me than she deserved.
Of course Danny expected mainthusz–that faithfulness–from Gabe Spocarelli, and was never disappointed. But from Jace, Danny never expected anything but pain no matter how good he was to her, and I think that’s truly where their relationship foundered.
It’s hard to hug someone who’s bracing for a punch all the time.
I’ll let it pass, and hold my tongue. And you will think that I’ve moved on.
Anyway, Jace’s arrival in Working for the Devil surprised me. When he showed up on the Nuevo Rio transport dock (“Spare a kiss for an old boyfriend?“) I wasn’t prepared for just who he reminded me of.
I didn’t really have a song for him, other than a certain malagueña during his and Danny’s sparring session in WFTD, until I was driving late one fall evening and Dido’s White Flag came over the speakers.
I will go down with this ship. I won’t put my hands up and surrender.
It could have been Danny herself singing, but it’s ever and always Jace’s song. It reminds me, very specifically, of those two separate men from my younger days, and in that moment I had the key to his character.
We all–Danny included–think Danny Valentine is the strong one, and yet… Sometimes a person simply decides, and that’s that.
Of course Dead Man Rising wrecked me–you know the scene I’m talking about. It had to be, it was ordained from the moment he saw her, and Jace’s loa warned him over and over again. (I have a short story written about one of those warnings that will never see light of day. It’s too sad, and entirely too private.)
Monroe’s answer was the same every time.
There will be no white flag above my door. I’m in love, and always will be.
No quarter asked, none given. If Dante had ever understood as much, things might have been different. But we’re blind to what we’re most akin to, ever and always.
Chango love you, girl, Jace would say, rubbing at his temple and cocking his head with that familiar grin. Never do anything the easy way.
Just like you, Monroe.
Just like you.
It’s been the kind of weekend that reminds me of going into the Rifts, frankly. Everything seems a little bit askew–probably from lack of sleep–and the danger won’t kill you instantly, it’ll kill you three steps ago or an hour from now.
So to speak. Good news and terrifying news has abounded, and now I’m blinking on a holiday Monday, with wordcount ahead of me, a Soundtrack Monday post to write, and I haven’t run in three days.
You can tell I’m a little twitchy.
At least the wind is moving a bit and we’ve had some rain. Well, more like condensation inside Mother Nature’s mouth1, but it’s cleaned some of the particles from the air and made it slightly easier to breathe. The dogs are content with walkies instead of jogging, probably because Miss B is becoming an elderly statesdog.
I am reminded, seeing the grey on her muzzle and how she is a little less bouncy, how little time I truly have left with her. It’s going to be devastating when she has to leave, and I can’t brace for it.
But that’s borrowing trouble. For today, she’s quite happy, having had half my morning toast. She knows what comes next–I stare at the glowing box on my desk for a while, until her staring at my profile becomes a weight I can’t ignore and I take her and Lord van der Sploot for a morning ramble.
At least, she’s very certain it’s her gaze that finally drags me out the door, and I’m content to let her think so.
I’d write more about the weekend, but I can’t for privacy reasons. Suffice to say there’s a brand new human I share some ancestry with in the world; it’s a reason to celebrate even if said brand new human arrived on their own schedule–as brand new humans are wont to do.
Happy Monday, my friends; may your Veteran’s Day pass exactly as you wish it to, and may said veterans find some peace. Later today I’ll have a song for you.
Over and out.
I was chopping up (for recycling purposes) the box my new desktop came in, and Sir Boxnoggin, Lord van der Sploot, was extremely interested. He is somewhat of a feline canine, if one can be said to exist: If it fits, he sniffs; if he sniffs, he sploots.
And then he returns to canine: If he fits, sniffs, and sploots, it’s time to CHEW.
Fortunately I rescued the box before he could consume more than a token fragment of cardboard. Gods only know what this dog would eat if I wasn’t constantly watching him. He’s like Odd Trundles 2.0, but of Slightly Bigger Brain.
Enjoy your weekend, my dears. And remember: every once in a while, we all need to destroy a box just for the sheer joy of it.
Good morning, chickadees! Today I’m over on the good ‘ol Substack with a post about NaNoWriMo. I’ve decided on a schedule of Soundtrack Mondays, Writing Tuesdays, and Friday Photos, which should keep stuff around here hopping.
I’m not just an author, I’m a damn experience.
It’s foggy this morning, the inversion and Stagnant Air Advisory combining to wrap the world in cotton wool. Yesterday I could smell the sea in little pockets, bits of rank salty kelp rotting on a shore. While there’s a scrim of welcome moisture on the ground–yesterday was so dry my hair rose up in staticky rebellion–I still can’t wait for rain. We’re having a dry, cold autumn, which is not usual.
I need falling water.
On the bright side, new shoes have made a dent in the plantar fasciitis. Barring hobbling in the middle of the night and right when I wake up, I’m actually feeling pretty good. I’m sure as my running mileage increases, slowly but surely, I’ll feel better and the pain will fade. The first few weeks are just going to be a bitch, because that’s how it always is before slight changes begin echoing through my carcass.
Meatspace is sloooooow, my friends. At least, mostly.
I’m toying with the idea of asking for beta reader(s) on Finder’s Watcher. The big thing is that I can’t pay an hourly rate; the most a beta could get is a free ebook of the unedited and edited versions. I’m hesitant because I don’t think it’s a fair price for the time spent reading and organizing one’s thoughts on a book, though I’m only asking for reactions, not critique or editing. If I can satisfy myself that it’s a fair trade, or add something to make it a fair trade, I might put out a call for applications.
That extra hour of sleep I was so happy to get has vanished, but I’m not upset. It was fun while it lasted. Now I just have to train the dogs in ten-minute increments to their new dinnertime.
I’ll probably fail, because I’m a sucker for their big brown eyes and hopeful snoot-boops. (AutoCorrect tried to make that snoot-goops, which is what Gwyneth Paltrow’s company shoves up rich people’s noses. Ugh.) Still, if one has to be a sucker for something, it’s not bad.
Time to shut this circus down, wrap the leashes around my waist, and take the dogs a-walking. I’ve wordcount on Finder’s Watcher and on HOOD to get done, a shower to take, plenty of hot tea to fuel me and keep the chill at bay, figure out the giveaway for this month, and and and. Yesterday the Muse wouldn’t let me go to bed until I made a few more stabs at Corvinus Reborn, which is Wangsty Dracula wanting more of my time than he’s getting.
He’s going to have to suffer. Which, being a Main Character of Wangst, he’s completely suited for. I only hope it doesn’t make him unmanageable.
Come, Tuesday. *chambers a round* Let us dance.
NaNoWriMo is underway; I’m doing a fresh new Watcher book for it. Right now it’s like pulling teeth because the word gain has to come in revision, but at least I’ve the damn thing quasi-outlined.
I never use a very tight outline, and the thing’s main purpose is to be thrown out once I get three-quarters of the way through the book, but them’s the breaks. One is tied to what works.
So for this month, HOOD‘s Season Two zero needs to be finished, and also Finder’s Watcher. I’m also waiting on edit notes for The Poison Prince, so there’s something to look forward to.
You know me. Unless I’m drowning in work, I’m not happy.
Also, I’m think I might move (or just propagate) Soundtrack Mondays over to my Substack. Might as well get some content over there to prime the pump. I’ve been wanting to get back into writing-about-writing, and this might be a good way to do it, probably on Tuesdays since Thursday is subscription day. I’m going to have to think about it.
This morning, I got into the driveway with both dogs just as some chucklefuck ran down the street with his dogs. Which wouldn’t have been an issue–except Chucklefuck’s dogs were unleashed.
Lord van der Sploot almost went mad. Miss B, once she recognized what the hell was happening, chose not to go completely mad over new friends, but instead sought to bite van der Sploot in order to calm him down.
I could have told her it wouldn’t do a damn thing.
In any case, I had to stand and wait until Chucklefuck was out of sight, then move forward cautiously, both dogs hanging from their harnesses like wet washing. I just cannot even with people, some days. At least Chucklefuck’s poor dogs didn’t bolt across the road to say hi to my fuzzbuckets, so small mercies, I guess.
I just sat and stared at the screen, feeling overwhelmed. Guess it’s time to make a to-do list and put a few things on it I’ve already done, otherwise I’ll just noodle around and forget to make any real progress.
Such is life. It’s the first Monday after we gained our extra hour of sleep back, and even the tea I’m pouring down isn’t helping. I tried like hell not to work all weekend, with varying success.
I’ll leave you with this: if I do put together a subscription Substack, what would you want me to write about? I had thought just telling personal stories and writing about writing, whatever I feel like at the time, but if anyone’s got a burning desire or a really good idea, this is the time to say something.
Over and out.
I know I missed last week’s Soundtrack Monday due to grief, but I’ve got a great one for you this time around, dear Readers.
Roadtrip Z started out with my writing partner making an offhand comment about competence in a zombie apocalypse. Both she and I consider competence to be one of the sexiest things in a person, and I started thinking about who would actually survive when the infrastructure went down. It often isn’t the people you think, and of course I had an idea for a semi-hero.
Unfortunately, he had other ideas.
It took me a long time to get into Lee Quartaine’s head. I knew what he did, certainly, but it took at least four drafts of the first half of Season One before I started finding out why. Then, my writing partner sent me a Youtube link to Lord Huron, and all of a sudden, Lee began talking.
Afterward, playing Fool for Love reliably got me into the Lee mood. (So did Wham!’s I’m Your Man, but that’s–say it with me–a different blog post.) It’s all there–the stiff upper lip, the driving rhythm, the quiet plucking of strings, and the snow. I ain’t afraid to die, just mad I left Big Jim alive, the singer croons, and that’s Lee all over. And, you ain’t gonna win a woman’s heart like that.
Fortunately, Ginny saw through Lee’s somewhat plain exterior. It was hard not to, and thank goodness both of them changed quite a bit over the course of the serial. Lee learned that he did have more to offer a city girl, and Ginny found out that the skills needed in civilization would keep while she quickly learned the ones needed in the breakdown. And both of them learned to rely on each other for certain things.
Sometimes, when you find the right music, it’s a key in the door. Other times it’s the mood that sets your prey to talking. And sometimes, the exact right collection of notes and lyrics comes along just when you need it, and gives you a whole world.