Not Homeward Yet

What the actual what-what, it’s Monday again? I feel like we were just here? But that’s a frequent occurrence these days. My sense of time, both objective and subjective, has suffered what I suspect is irreparable injury from pandemic and fascism and whatnot. If not for my desktop and phone keeping track, I wouldn’t even know what month it was, let alone day.

Which pretty much means I’m hosed if the electronics start deciding to mess with the temporal continuum. But then again, they could hardly do worse than humans so bring on our new robot overlords, says I.

It is a very clear, very cold morning. Boxnoggin has once more turned his nose up at breakfast–he does this as a matter of course, knowing full well the food will still be there later if he decides to peck at it–and gone back to bed after complaining throughout his entire backyard post-sleep unloading. His complaints did not take the form of hurrying through the entire affair, despite it being frigid. That would be too easy. No, he had to complain and take his sweet time finding the proper spot to piss upon.

I love this dog, even if some of his choices are incomprehensible. I’m sure he feels the same about his humans.

We had an actual fire in the upstairs fireplace yesterday, burning chunks of the well-seasoned cedar that came down in the backyard during the terrible windstorm. It took all day for Boxnoggin to get accustomed to it–for ’twas a change, and all change is bad to this particular canine–and this morning he is looking at the fireplace with puzzlement because it’s no longer snapping, popping, and providing warmth. It does rather need to be shoveled and brushed before I build another fire, despite the cedar burning very clean; if I am exceeding ambitious I will get that sorted today.

(Probably not.)

The river race in Fall of Waterstone has been written, and I had high hopes of getting to the actual sacking of an elvish city during the weekend. Alas, this being an epic fantasy, the elf-king of that particular place wanted a conference; my tongue is thrust deeply into cheek since the narrator clearly believes “this meeting could’ve been an email”. Fortunately nobody will burst into song, for lo though I love Tolkien I have a very low opinion of my own doggerel and I want to get to the FIRST BIG SET-PIECE BATTLE, which will feature fire and slaughter and narrow escapes and falling masonry and a huge troll twist-burning with malignant magic and, because I am Like This, a particular exercise in rhythm-writing I’ve been looking forward to for over a year.

And I’m not even halfway through! There’s still fleeing to the forest kingdom, an elf-queen who looks like Gwendoline Christie, ash-orcs riding spiders and direwargs, plus the stunning (and kidnapping!) conclusion to write. And then there’s book three, involving the cursed werewolf city, a thrilling escape, yet more battles, death vs. giant liches, a sea-voyage to talk to the source of all pain, a celestial battle that will destroy half the continent, and a bittersweet ending.

Go big or go home, and I ain’t heading homeward yet.

It’s difficult to attempt something of this size and nature without someone standing at the cave-mouth to fend off monsters. I’m basically engaged in a fighting retreat with this trilogy, which we all know is the most difficult of maneuvers. But in a few years it’ll be done, and no matter the critical reception, I will know what I’ve accomplished. That’s going to have to be enough.

Sometimes that’s all a writer gets. It’s very dark-night-of-the-soul around here lately. I’m hanging onto the ledge with teeth and toenails, because my hands are busy writing.

So. Monday it is. I’m really enjoying Tumblr right now, and most of my professional network has moved over to Mastodon as well–except the publishers, but they’re always the last to arrive because it takes a long while to execute a turn when you’re that ponderously sized. Whales and elephants manage it more swiftly because they’re magic, but corporations are exceedingly inelegant brutes. And Boxnoggin has figured out I’m almost done with coffee, so it’s breakfast-and-walkies time.

At least that never alters. World without end, the beast needs his slouching ’round a few blocks. And maybe I’ll get to the sacking today.

It would be nice.