Indignant Fire, Biting Back

I waxed rather indignant this past weekend, so my mentions are a bit of a mess. Reports of the deaths of books and writing are always highly exaggerated, world without end, amen. The recent successes by creatives and people doing the damn work pushing back against corporate and billionaire exploitation has the corps and billionaires running scared that a few of their profit percentage points might get shaved off. I’ll leave it at that.

The current reading is Pekka Hamalainen’s Lakota America, which is thought-provoking and very dense. I have a couple more of his books (someone got their dear old Mum a gift card recently) added to the TBR pile, which is teetering at a dangerous angle. The Muse wants nice chewy historical reading but she also wants a very specific type of action movie, and I cannot bifurcate like I used to. So maybe it’ll be movie weekends and wading through footnotes the rest of the time.

I woke up with a very specific Pink Floyd in my head; it’s past the winter solstice so maybe I could even listen to it outside the skull radio. However, it doesn’t feel like there’s enough sunlight. I mean, I live in the Pacific Northwest and am glad that it’s nearly always grey, but I can’t listen to the Floyd without some solar radiation. Maybe if there’s a yard work or burn day soon.

Speaking of which, we do have to lug out the firepit before the spring rains halt, mostly because there are Experiments in Combustion to be done. A while ago my writing partner and I were talking about wintergreen LifeSavers making a spark when you bite them (they do!) and the comments on a video we dug up led us to wonder about granulated coffee creamer as firestarting material. Initial experimentation says not really, it has to be airborne before one gets the very theatrical puff of flame. Though in fact, we only tried with a certain kind and it could have been sugar interfering with the effect.

I really should have found a place to get sample packets, then done testing for different flame capabilities, but there was only one certain kind we could get our hands on at short notice so we made do. It’ll just mean more fun later. I want to see if different flavors produce different colors as well; the Selkie doesn’t think so since that’s mostly a function of minerals. But we’ll see. (Science!)

That’s another reason writers will never go out of style. One of our hallmarks is endless curiosity about the world, and willingness to do “research” even if it might singe one’s eyebrows.

However, lighting things on fire will sadly have to wait for a little bit, as I’m up to said eyebrows in work. I want to get this first pitched battle put to bed, get another character agreeing to something despite her better instincts, and then there’s the robot donkey (named Chicken) in the novella to get upright and working–I was about to type manageable but that’s never going to happen. Plus Boxnoggin wants a long ramble and there’s my own silly corpse to move along at a shamble for a defined distance.

And there’s mounting nerves over the upcoming release to deal with as well. All in all, Monday’s biting early and I should get my molars involved in biting back.

…I just popped over into email in order to clear some correspondence that had to go out before 9am, so the week is beginning as it means to go on, I guess. Time to choke down some toast and get out the door.

Novel or Keyhole

This is the first time I’ve ever awakened with a Linkin Park song in my head, so…yeah. I mean, I usually have music playing in my head all the time, whether it’s earthly or otherwise, but that particular band’s never made an appearance before. (Yesterday it was Joesef, and that meant a good day. Today…well, let’s wait and see.)

It was so odd, in fact, that I rolled over and reached for an electronic device in order to find the goddamn track so I could put a name to it and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, while I was doing so my sunrise clock began to warm up, and I decided I might as well just stay awake. There’s a lot to do since I finished a bunch of fiddly faffing tasks yesterday–including figuring out the skeleton of the new novella, which may or may not end up anywhere but it’s fun to work on. (It has a robot donkey named Chicken, fa cry-eye, how could I not finish it?)

I like writing novels more than novellas or short stories, mostly because I’m better at long-term endurance efforts. For anything shorter than a novel, I generally have to have every part of the strike clear–including the return to the sheath–before my hand twitches for the hilt. A novel gives me time and space to explore the entire planet even if I crash with nothing; a novella or shorter means a sliptilting scream-race through broken, possibly enemy-infested territory with only my wits and possibly a stick for company.

I can do it, sure. I can even do it well. But do I prefer it? Not so much.

Still, some stories are too small, intense, or delicate for the novel treatment. Those are overwhelmingly what I call “keyholes”–pieces where the scope is extremely constrained and I only have a small slice of the action. Most of the time I have to fight my natural urge to stretch, extend, and add more. Every story is an entire universe unto itself (or set in one) and I can get lost in the underpinnings if I’m not careful. Readers tend to like that about my work (except for the few who get angry that I didn’t add more or answer their particular personal questions), as it provides the feeling of solidity and heft so often necessary for complete immersion.

How does one tell if a story is a novel or a keyhole? It varies. Sometimes I’m only after a particular vibe, sometimes there are wordcount constraints and I need to pick the one path through an infinity of thickets to provide something that particular size. (This is generally how I make short stories.) After a while I began to sense about how long a story wants to be within the first scene or so, or sometimes even during the initial stage of gathering influences and letting the damn thing bubble in my head. The experience gained by finishing multiple works–not to mention having exponentially more unfinished bits in the compost heap–gives me a sort of spidey-sense in that regard.

There really is no shortcut. One needs enough experience as a writer to figure out one’s own process and preferences. Then it becomes a matter of gaming oneself, as most if not all adulthood turns out to be. Of course, every so often a short story will fall out of my head (like Jolene, Jolene, still unsold but ah well) for no other reason than it wanted to be born, or a novella will present itself at my garden gate in response to the urge to gift a friend something nice (like Fool’s Assassin, which I may yet bring out for your delectation). In the end, each story only teaches one how to write itself, and one has to start almost from scratch on the next one. Sure, some of the processes and habits carry over, but not the other tools.

This is part of the reason why LLMs/”AI” will never be able to give readers what they crave. There’s simply too many lightning-fast intuitive choices to be made at each step of the process, and the acts of distinction are too excruciatingly personal to each complex human artist. But that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.

Today will include a weighty stakes-raising council in one book, the beginning of a pitched battle in another, and if I can get the first two scenes of the novella off the ground I’ll call it a good effort. Plus there’s the weekly/monthly subscription drop to get sorted as well. I don’t like to do those too far in advance, given how things change at a moment’s notice around here. But at least there’s plenty in the cannon for both the serial and everyone else.

January’s finally over (it’s been years) and I’m hopeful time will start to be a little less out of joint. Regardless, the work still has to get done–and Boxnoggin is beginning to stir, sensing that I just downed the coffee-dregs and will be shambling towards brekkie in a hot minute. Round and round and round she goes…

…and where I’ll stop nobody knows.

Almost to Laughter

I’m almost at the point where I break out in laughter. (Almost.) Generally, once I start laughing I’m okay, and it would be a nice improvement.

Anyway! Things are ramping up for the release of A Flame in the North. The series has had an extraordinarily difficult birth–almost as nervewracking as Afterwar, wherein everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. And there’s a whole lot of work to catch up on, from juggling three books (I’m back to three, hallelujah) to updating book pages to scheduling releases to thinking about covers for a few different things and and and…you get the idea. Just putting my head down and plodding through is the name of the game, I guess.

The weather is finally cooperating. No more freezing rain coating every surface with slippery clear death–it was pretty, especially when the sun broke through for a few moments and dipped the entire world in glaze, but I’d just as soon not do that ever again. Instead, the firs are dripping and when it’s not actively raining mist hangs in a gentle haze over their dark swords, especially at dawn. I love that mist; it’s like a soft filter on the world. It’s not so quiet as during Recent Icepocalypse, but even the hum of traffic seems friendly today. The wind has veered, bringing the ratcheting and occasional blaring of the trains late last night, which half-woke me and I thought, wind’s changed, we’re past the worst.

Gods grant it be so.

I’m still reading The Stand, just reaching the failed appendectomy interlaced with Fran’s “diary”, so it’s about halfway or so. I think what I wanted most was the description of things falling apart, which I did in my own way for Roadtrip Z, and it’s like lancing a boil to a certain degree. (For obvious recent-historical reasons.) Some of it holds up astonishingly well, but what really struck me in this reread (so far) was Larry Underwood “coming out the other side”. King really shines when it comes to describing a personality fraying under the load of awful soul-killing stress.

Yesterday was amazingly productive, between Highlands War–Past Me acted up in the notes, so Present Me put in a vagina dentata joke because I can–and the second Cain’s Wife, which doesn’t have a name yet but is trying to gel under Kaskadia Blues. I also made the best chili of my life, which was a grand achievement I look forward to repeating, and after dinner stole some time for a Sekrit Projekt.

Sometimes protecting the work means shrouding it in secrecy, covering tender shoots so a killing frost can’t interfere.

I must be heading for a spike in some fashion, since every sentence I write has to be redone four times. I’m doing a lot of editing in my head, which generally means I’ve reached the end of a plateau, writing-craft-wise, and am about to make some sort of advance. New skills are being bolted onto the bicycle or old ones updated, I can’t quite tell yet, and the change in balance and speed means I’m wobbling a little. Still, it’s an encouraging sign.

Yep, the sooner I get to the “it’s all absurd, let’s laugh” part of the whole thing, the better. I almost can’t wait for the internal snap and the resultant cascade of giggles. I suppose that’s my own fraying, but it’s better than some other coping mechanisms I could name–or have employed, frankly.

Boxnoggin’s glad to be back in the routine of walkies, and I hadn’t realized just how much those rambles help me get things put together for a day’s work. I suppose I should thank him, maybe by letting him stay nose-down in something rancid for a little longer than I’m comfortable with. Dogs do dog things, yes, but they also don’t make very good choices sometimes, necessitating a “please do not eat that, good gods, let’s move on.”

If only all problems were so simply solved. Tuesday awaits, my dears, let us embark upon it.

…Are We Back?

Apparently I found the limits of my patience last week. Or at least, the limits of my body’s patience with stress.

For literal years I have been fighting alone on behalf of a certain series. It’s been positively nightmarish, both for reasons unavoidable (pandemic, corporate nonsense) and completely avoidable (contempt displayed for the work by those who should be its advocates, etc.). I’ve tried to be flexible, professional, resilient, calm. And finally last week, a straw landed upon the camel’s back.

The resultant snap probably registered on the Richter scale. And it happened after nearly a week of trying to resurrect the final book in said series while being unable to sleep plus suffering the worst case of stress nausea I’ve ever had the displeasure of. Which is saying something; morning sickness, sertraline adjustment, even buying the house was nothing compared to this. I still can’t really eat unless I disassociate, and sleep has been rather an impossibility. I hyperfocused on getting Chained Knight revised during the day for most of the week, with breaks to try opening the master file for the series in question, and each time I did the latter produced fits of nausea so intense I had to eventually keep a bowl next to the desk. At night I lay in bed and trembled, too nervous and vomitous to sleep. By Friday I was entirely shot, and that’s when the whole thing broke.

The hell of it is that I do want to write this book; I long to finish the series. These are books of my heart and what I consider masterworks. But certain issues in the publication process have been so nightmarish my very body has revolted, and there’s been no help in sight. I’m utterly alone in this fight, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. I usually try not to say anything at all, for publishing does its mightiest to convince writers that any faint complaint or refusal to toe even the most abusive of lines will be met with swift blacklisting–or worse.

I just want to write my stories and pay my bills, dammit. And that’s all I can say about the whole goddamn thing.

A winter storm moved in Saturday, after threatening for several days. Lots of powdery snow blowing while the wind gusted and rattled, which suited my mood. I settled on the couch with Boxnoggin and crawled into a paperback of ‘Salem’s Lot–about the third one I’ve owned, since I’ve read two to pieces. (It’s not the only King I’ve read to pieces; I think I’m on my fourth Rose Madder paperback?) I don’t know what it says that my comfort read ended up being Writer vs. Vampire, but it felt…good, to have another world to inhabit and a situation one could at least take action in, instead of simply waiting helplessly for the worst. Unfortunately the book only held me for about a day, but by then I could concentrate a little better and went back to Chaucer.

I had left in the middle of the Wife of Bath’s tale, and now I see why she’s so famous. I love her, even if she’s written by somewhat of a misogynist, and she seems to be an example of what Cleolinda Jones calls “meta-characters”–those who seem not to be created by the author so much as hailing from some other place and springing to life on the page whether the author will or no. One of the hallmarks of meta-characters is that while the author might make them say or do certain things, the characters themselves have a genius for arranging things so that the reader’s overall impression may be far different than what the author intends. A prime example of this is Tolkien’s Eowyn, who shines even through the Jackson movies’ betrayal of her character. (That’s a rant for another day.)

I found myself smiling despite the nausea at certain of the Wife of Bath’s sallies, even while I wished she would get to the damn point. And when she did finish her tale I felt like cheering.

The storm has settled into relative calm and subzero temperatures, with freezing rain in the near forecast. I’ve also read the Friar’s and Summoner’s Tales, and was in the fourth bit of the Clerk’s Tale last night when I felt like I could sleep again. Even across centuries I can see the Wife of Bath’s expression as the Clerk starts listing Griselda’s many patiences. To be fair Chaucer gave the Wife space to be heroine in her own story, and inserts some sly observations in the Clerk’s that make it clear he’s drawing a deliberate contrast and doing it with the Clerk’s own tools of rhetoric. I actually cocked my head last night at a passage and thought, “Why, Geoffrey, I see what you’re doing, you magnificent bastard.”

And Boxnoggin snored wetly against my shoulder at that point, for he was dreaming. He was perplexed by the snow, now hates the cold on his tender paws, yet has forgotten any other weather exists, for lo! he is a dog of Very Little Brane and Very Much Instinct.

I have The Stand (unabridged) queued up for when Geoffrey is finished, and after that Pekka Hamalainen’s Lakota America. Or I might decide to go with the Hamalainen first, or something else entirely. It’s all up in the air. I’ve been unable to work since sending the Chained Knight revision off, and that bothers me a great deal as well. Fortunately a couple friends have been keeping me on the rails, so far as I can be kept–you know who you are, and thank you.

So. Everything is shut down for the holiday and the weather. Boxnoggin will get only half a block’s worth of walkies, just enough to make a nod to habit while keeping his paws from freezing. I’m going to try some actual work today, but if that doesn’t happen it’ll be right back to the Clerk while imagining the Wife of Bath rolling her eyes.

At least I have that.

Tenuous Peace, Cutting

It’s always mildly amusing when people who have denigrated and dismissed one for a long while act surprised when one picks up one’s toys and goes home. The ol’ “pretending bafflement when the person you used to kick around suddenly isn’t there anymore” can even be deeply hilarious, if viewed from far enough away to protect oneself. Escaping a bad situation, disengaging from those who use one as a punching bag, is tremendously healing.

All the same, I can’t help but find much of the professed surprise deeply disingenuous. Did you think I’d stay forever to be the whipping girl?

Moving on (literally!), I’m revising the last few chapters of Chained Knight today. The pieces are in place for editing (95% certainty) and cover art (that’s a Texas-sized ten-four, good buddy), so maybe around June or so another Tale of the Underdark will toddle into the world. I am deeply relieved to find out that the book is actually good–the beta readers liked it too–and that I’m still pleased by the idea of playing variations on a theme a la Elric. I think there’s one more symphony of that vein in me, but I can’t write it until *checks schedule* probably sometime next year?

That’s all right, it’ll keep. Of course, making it do so will probably force it to tear its way out of my head in two weeks like the last one. Big fun.

The three Underdark books won’t be a series, per se, but they will be variations. Cover art and releasing long enough apart should make that clear, and if it doesn’t end up getting through to a certain proportion of folk, well, there’s nothing further I can do. My work has never been for those incapable of drawing inferences, or unwilling to do so.

Perhaps it’s the energy of the new year provoking a re-evaluation of where my energy is being spent, or maybe my patience has finally been eroded. It could even be the vast inner quiet of two book hangovers at once, or the ongoing realization of my own inalienable value. Whichever way it’s sliced, I’m at a tenuous peace with cutting off a few gangrenous chunks right-fucking-now. At a certain point the consequences of walking away are far less damaging than those of staying where one is not valued, and I learn that lesson over and over. The relief is immense, almost unbearable.

After Chained revisions are dealt with, there’s a duel with a warrior woman in Highlands War as well as a pitched set-piece battle that promises to be rather fun. Not for the characters–Kaia would much rather have a decent bath and a good dinner, and her princeling is of like mind. Unfortunately the story isn’t cooperating with their dual longing, in any sense of the word. And after that…hm, it would be nice if a few folks would clear their pre-holiday inboxes and get back to me about the four…wait, five…no, six, oh my gods, six or so books waiting to either be picked up by a press or, failing that, stuffed in the self-pub cannon.

It’s a wonder I haven’t gone full-feral indie long before now. In any case, I’m giving trad publishing one last year to shape up, as my grandfather used to say–including paying me on time–or ship the fuck out. We’ll see what happens.

Thursday beckons, the subscription drops are formatted and merely require loading, Boxnoggin dislikes the chill damp but will be glad of walkies, and my own inbox could stand a little attention before I choke down some toast and get truly underway.

I’d best get started.

Emphasis, Little, Resentfully

After an initial bump of good news we’re back in the “mounting stress” portion of a writer’s career, which…well, it’s not ideal, but it’s far more familiar than anything else so why not? There is some nice stuff, though–Paste Magazine put next month’s A Flame in the North on their list of “most anticipated fantasy books of 2024” (along with a LOT of other good stuff), which is pleasant. And I’m finding out that Chained Knight isn’t a bad little book, which is a giant relief, considering.

Now if just a few other things would break loose I’d be able to breathe a bit more deeply. But alas and alack, that doesn’t seem to be in the offing.

Chaucer continues apace! I knocked off the Miller’s Tale last night, and nearly laughed myself into a fit. I begin to see why ol’ Geoffrey has survived the centuries; I also must admit I haven’t been that hilariously surprised by a fart joke since Moby Dick‘s first chapter (beans in the forecastle!). The change from highfalutin’ Tale of Chivalry to a drunken miller telling a complex cuckolding joke (one small step away from a traveling salesman number) is delicious. Just goes to show that lo, raunchy and highbrow hath always been with us, and the tension between them doesn’t mean one is better, it’s just a zone of highly fertile creativity.

I also loved how the Miller slyly mocked the Knight’s constant emphasis on what everyone was wearing, partly because descriptions of beautiful clothes are fun–spectacle satisfies no few deep aesthetic hungers–and partly because I can just see the shit-eating grin on his face as he pokes fun at the Very Serious Highbrow Guy. Alison the carpenter’s wife was as well-dressed as Princess Emily, and probably happier. Although who knows, we don’t get to hear if she wanted to marry the old jealous carpenter? Maybe she’d’ve preferred to worship Diana too.

The Miller’s Tale went a lot swifter than the Knight’s, partly because I have Geoffrey’s rhythm (and number) now, and partly because I had the bandwidth to focus instead of reading scattershot catch-as-catch-can. For a while I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that a couple YouTube videos were all I could handle as decompression before falling asleep facedown on the tablet. Thankfully my nerves are a little more re-wrapped now. I might just set myself one tale per night and work through the book that way.

My social media mentions are a bit of a mess. A lot of techbro theft apologists are desperately trying to sealion there. It’s amazing what people will cape for these days. No billionaire is so rancid as to lack bootlickers, and plenty of techbro theft apologists take it as a personal insult that a femme-presenting person will have none of their nonsense. It’s also strange to see how many of the sealions conform to a “type”–95% of them, by avatar or bio, fall into a Certain Category.

It’s also mordantly funny that the Venn diagram of those bleating “copyright is theft”, “piracy is FWEEDOM”, and “writers/artists aren’t working fast enough for me to steal more of my favorite content from them” is a complete circle.

In any case, brekkie looms and Boxnoggin needs walkies. I’m back to running again, and the endorphins are simply marvelous. Recovery is my least favorite phase, but at least the hit when one goes back is a lot more intense by comparison–a little reward for reluctantly and resentfully giving myself enough time to heal. (Emphasis on the “little” and the “resentfully”, natch.) The rest of the day will be spent in developing a pitched battle and revising the portal fantasy, so my docket is full.

It’s good to be back.

Ol’ Geoffrey’s Rhythm

The weather is filthy and likely to remain so for a week or two, which pleases me to no end. Boxnoggin will be far less enamored of the whole deal once we’re outside, but as soon as we get home he’ll forget his dislike and head for a nap.

Must be nice.

Wandering around in my feed this morning is an article on one of the bigger AI grifters openly admitting they can’t train their plagiarism pink sauce without stealing. The grift is reaching its endgame now, with anyone who’s going to profit already escaped with their ill-gotten gains, the rest of us left to deal with the fallout. It seems like the cycle of grifting (NFTs, bitcoin, LLM/”AI”) is getting shorter and shorter as regulation looms. A more compressed timeframe means the initial theft and buy-in has to be bigger and the perpetrators have to leap off the bus more quickly once they’ve gotten their payday; the theft has to be grander and grander in scale in order to provide the thieves with their accustomed payout. You’d think people would learn…but PT Barnum was right, one born every minute and that goes double for the internet.

I spent the weekend refilling the well instead of working as I had planned. The Muse and my own nervous system rose up in revolt, so I had to let both out to play. It meant a lot of action movies for the Muse (including Fist of the Condor, which was everything I’d been told) as well as Chaucer on the couch for the rest of me. I made my way through the Prologue (finally!) and the Knight’s Tale, and all I can think is that Arcite and Palamon should’ve just escaped from jail, gone home, and left Emily alone to worship Diana as she wanted to. Just leave the lady alone, boys!

But of course that wasn’t an option. Next up is the Miller’s Tale, and I think things will go a bit more smoothly now that I have ol’ Geoffrey’s rhythm. It’s like the Shakespeare muscle–each time I read the Bard I have to go slowly for a short while, catching the beat before hopping in to jump rope. I’m looking forward to it.

The best thing about Chaucer is seeing the throughlines. A lot of other phrases and allusions I’ve noticed elsewhere make more sense. I enjoy seeing how “classics” morph in later works; the organic process is fascinating to witness. And no, before some AI-apologist asshat gets it into their head to email me, that is not the same as “training” an “AI”. A human being investing their precious, finite time on earth to read, interact with, and digest a work before creating their own unique art is a thousand percent different, and your false equivalencies and strawmen are not welcome here. Go, thou, with thy tiny gods; fucketh right offe into the sunne.

This week will be all about Highlands War chapters (big set-piece battles looming!) and Chained Knight revisions. Plans for the latter are firming up; I’m thinking June will do for a release date. Which reminds me I’ve got to get the cover sorted soonish. *to-do list chimes as it grows longer*

But that’s a slightly Future Me problem. Right now brekkie is due, walkies must be had, and my own corpse must shamble through wind and rain at a slightly faster pace than walking. I had to take a recovery break from running and it was awful. I need the endorphins liek woah.

And so it goes. Time to swill coffee dregs and be about the business. Happy Monday, everyone.