My current mood is Rebecca Ferguson in Doctor Sleep, cooing “…hi there,” to an unsuspecting victim. Of course, I’m not a child-killing maniac, but every once in a while a little unapologetic menace is good for the soul.
At least, good for my soul.
It’s a sunny morning, and warm enough that I think the bees might be out. If so, I’m going to have to braid my hair so they don’t get caught. I love the little bastards and I don’t want them tangled up. Of course, if they’d just leave my hair alone we’d be good, but if it hasn’t happened in years I hold out no particular hope of it happening now.
I’ve been working on Sons of Ymre at a feverish pace. The story is… odd. It wants to kind of be a romance, but the monsters won’t let it, and I don’t think there’s a happy ending. Of course, HEAs are somewhat overrated–we all know my feelings on the story will have its proper ending, world without end, amen. Still, I’m pulling for both these people to at least be friendly when the whole thing reaches the finish line.
Whenever that will be. It’s at 65k now and just past apogee. All the pieces are in place and moving, the next few steps in the dance are all but inevitable, and all I have to do is follow the line.
I’ve told myself that I’ll work on it just until I get the publication prep for HOOD‘s Season Two finished and set aside, then I’ll turn my attention to the other projects screaming for my attention–like Season Three. I think Sons really wanted to be a two-book series, but I’d rather have it a larger single book to avoid the dreaded “the editor tells me a new reader might be confused, so here’s boring exposition” work. I tend to throw my readers in media res and let them swim, and nowhere is that tendency more pronounced than in series.
I respect my readers and their ability to pick up details in context. I also think that if you’re picking up the second or third in a series and haven’t read the others, you should expect a little bit of confusion and be ready to, again, pick things up in context or let them slide.
The desire to spoon-feed readers might be an outcropping of modern laziness, but I shall not bend to it. I don’t fucking truckle, dammit.
Anyway, some breakfast is probably a good idea, and getting out the door to walk the dogs. Both of them will like the sunshine; Boxnoggin got a run yesterday and is consequently powerfully mellow.
It’s a nice change.
I’ve taken to calling Lord van Der Sploot “Butterbutt.” When he came to us he had a lean and hungry look, but his shoulders have filled out considerably, his coat is glossy enough to put your eyes out, and he can no longer leap to the same altitude because he’s got so much more mass to get off the ground. People often gasp when they see him, and Miss B (she of “Fuzzbucket” name and fame) rolls her eyes when they do, shoving him aside to get pets and greetings first as is due her station as The Dog What Was Here Before Him, Thanks.
Anyway, Miss B is elderly and consequently a walk around the block is more than enough exercise. She doesn’t even mind that Boxnoggin Butterbutt gets to run alongside Mum for a few kilometers without her, which threatens to break my heart. When Miss B and I ran, we quickly fell into moving as a single unit, and she damn near read my mind when it came to turns.
Boxnoggin… does not. He thinks he’s in charge of picking routes, and gets anxious at the responsibility until I firmly remind him he is not in charge, not even close, and I shall be doing the deciding, thank you very much. Having to do that a few times per kilometer is wearying, but I’m pretty sure it’ll all click soon.
Anyway. In a few minutes, flanked by Fuzzbucket and Butterbutt, I shall be going around the block, waving away bees. It’s not a bad way to start a Thursday, and it will improve my mood immeasurably.
I hope your morning holds at least one pleasant thing, dear Reader. And now I bid you a civil adieu.