Little Odd Troubles

WHY YES, I AM IN A MOOD TODAY. How could you tell?

Part of it is the wind. When I lived in Wyoming, one expected it, but up here, a constant stream of rushing air is a little less tolerable. Normally I quite enjoy it, like the sound of rain, but last night Odd Trundles woke me up every. two. hours. with a combination of “SOMEFING HIT DE ROOF, IMMASCAIRT!” and “I THINK I NEED TO PEE. MOM? MOM, I THINK I NEED TO PEE.” Naturally, as soon as I struggled out of bed and shrugged into my robe, Odd decided he really didn’t want to leave his nice warm crate at all, even if Miss B, cranky after the second or third episode, got her snoot in there to try and drag him forth.

So yeah. I’m cranky as fuck-all too, today.

*time passes*

I love this weird, yeasty little dog, I really do. And proof of it is, even as sleep-deprived as I am, I still rush to comfort him when one of his legs stops working and he freaks out. Bulldogs have weird neurological and spinal things because they’re so corkscrewed. Occasionally, if Odd moves wrong, something goes haywire and one of his back legs either goes numb or won’t respond, and this scares the little fellow so much that without instant soothing, he has one of his seizures. Thankfully, I was right next to him, and if I don’t freak out he’ll stay calm. It takes a steady voice, gentle hands, and a little pressure in particular places to short-circuit the seizures, almost like an interpretive dance. Miss B, anxious to help, almost precipitated the seizure afresh by attempting to grab his leg and MAKE it work for him, so that was an interesting few minutes. Now he’s resting comfortably with a peanut-butter-smeared muscle relaxer to make sure he stays loosened up.

My heart is still pounding. If someone would have told me the things I’d do to keep a rescue bulldog functioning, I’m not sure I would have believed it. On the bright side, there’s generally a clear-cut fix for everything that ails him, and while I’m focusing on his little troubles I’m not thinking about the current on-fire state of the country. So there’s that.

I need some tea. It’s Thursday, so another chapter of Roadtrip Z is up at my Patreon; the first part is still available for free! When we reach the next Patreon goal I’m going to vlog a reading from Steelflower, pronunciations and all. There’s some other exciting news I can’t talk about just yet, but I’m working on three deadlines at once right now, so that gives you an inkling.

Off I go to brew more caffeine, just to keep myself upright until I can crawl back into bed tonight. Hopefully both Odd and I will be exhausted enough to sleep the whole way through.

Agility Stats

This morning I dragged Odd Trundles out for walkies right after his brekkie. He was quite put out, not only because this represented a Change in Routine, but also because it cut into his morning “I’m bored, let’s do something!” bitching. So he hung back and tried to wrap the leash around my legs, which meant Miss B got her nose down and started heeeeerding him, which tangled her leash around my legs, and…yeah. Fortunately my agility stats are still going strong.

I also used 5calls and actually got through to a very nice staffer in my Congresscritter’s office. Said Congresscritter is a Republican I’ve voted against every. damn. time., but she’s working for me and I might as well make my voice heard. Please, if you’re calling, be kind to the staffers on the phone! They’re usually unpaid interns doing a shit job with grace and patience, so be polite. It helps to have a script, too. Even if you don’t use it, having a flowchart script of what to say can get you over the bump.

Now that the dogs are relatively calm (Miss B will need an afternoon ramble, just to be safe) I can focus on Afterwar. And Roadtrip Z. And bonus wordcount for a Sekrit Projekt I’m aaaaaaalmost ready to announce. ALMOST. Stay tuned for that.

Here’s your usual daily reminder to hydrate, make sure you get something to eat, and take a few deep breaths. It feels like the world is burning down, it’s okay to feel like screaming, none of what’s going on politically now is “normal” or “sane” except the resistance to der Turmper. You’ve got to take care of yourself and keep yourself human, you have a right to do that. I offer you a hug, and the knowledge that you’re not alone.

Also, schnorgles from Odd. Just look at that face. (And that seasonal alopecia!)

Give the Bitch a Good Show

Using the phone generally makes me so anxious I shake. I’m now using 5Calls, though, because daily superhero work doesn’t have to fray me at the edges so badly. So, if you have phone anxiety, like me, and also want to make a difference–again, like me!–I recommend checking it out.

The weekend was all about proof pages for Cormorant Run, hauling compost to all the garden boxes (shovelgloving saved my back, I’ll just say that much) and washing Odd Trundles since it wasn’t cold enough outside to justify letting him marinate longer.

Oh, yeah, and watching the attempted coup and concomitant constitutional crisis. We are living in interesting times, indeed. A rug-headed pig-eyed Cheeto with a Russian dictator’s hand up his rump–and a Nazi on record as wanting to destroy America running his National Security Council–is already killing people. It’s only going to accelerate from here, my friends.

I am clinging to hope by finger-and toenails. We outnumber the fascists by an order or two of magnitude. History’s gaze is upon us, and I intend to give the bitch a good show. It’s kind of funny to realize that every book I’ve ever written has been training for fighting evil, training for radical empathy, training for putting my head down and doing the goddamn work to make things better, to create a world. Often, looking at the news, I feel helpless, but then someone writes to tell me I’ve given them hope and my heart turns into a flower. Or someone writes to tell me they’re never buying my books again because of my politics, and I think, well, if you have problems with me calling a fascist a fucking fascist, I’m glad your grubby little authoritarian fingers won’t sully pages I’ve slaved over and bled for, fuckyouverymuch and goodnight.

There’s a lot of the latter going on.

So this week it’s back to the grindstone, making my calls every day, and if I get a certain number of wordage in, hitting up a yarn store. I feel the need for a pussy hat. And knitting might help keep me from imploding in a black hole of despair, too.

Use what you have, I guess. Here’s your regular daily reminder that this shit is not normal, your feelings are valid, and together we are stronger than any tiny-handed dictator.

Over and out.

CORMORANT RUN Cover Reveal!

The nice folks over at Orbit have revealed the cover for my upcoming homage to Soviet sci-fi, Cormorant Run. Isn’t it shiny?

Aliens meets Under the Dome in this new post-apocalyptic novel from New York Times bestseller Lilith Saintcrow.

It could have been aliens, it could have been a trans-dimensional rift, nobody knows for sure. What’s known is that there was an Event, the Rifts opened up, and everyone caught inside died.

Since the Event certain people have gone into the drift… and come back, bearing priceless technology that’s almost magical in its advancement. When Ashe the Rat — the best Rifter of her generation — dies, the authorities offer her student, Svinga, a choice: go in and bring out the thing that killed her, or rot in jail.

But Svin, of course, has other plans…

On sale in June 2017, now available for preorder at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Be Okay

I was on a long ramble with B, and came across this a few miles from home. This little tree is just outside the front of an elementary school. I don’t know who decorated it, but it was dolled up in time for Yule, through New Year’s, and through the Snowpocalypse too.

I can’t explain the deep flash of hope and happiness that went through me when I saw it. Miss B, of course, was only interested in sniffing around the roots, but I stood there with my eyes full of tears for a few minutes, somehow certain things were going to be okay.

Funny what a few silly ornaments and childlike wonder will do, ennit.

Morning Clipping

Today is for yoga, extra caffeine, and clipping Odd Trundles’s nails. The first is likely to be a bit painful, the second exceedingly enjoyable, and the third, well, that’s my cardio for the day.

Odd is sixty-plus pounds of bulldog, and he hates his bath and nail-clippings with a passion. The bath he will submit to, because he loves me and suffers much for me, but nails are a Step Too Far. Which means the grooming hook comes out, the Princess is pressed into service to put him in various wrestling holds, and the entire process is accompanied by much swearing under my breath. If he would just stay still we could have it done in under five minutes and he could get his treat and go on with his day, but noooooo, he has to wriggle, complain, and generally be a bad sport about it.

I don’t blame him, he can’t help himself. Before we got the grooming hook clipping him was an all-day extravaganza of chasing, whining, frustration, and peanut butter. Now, it’s just fifteen minutes of swearing and tussling, and a little bit of peanut butter at the end.

*time passes*

I wandered out to get more coffee and found the Princess was up and had breakfasted, so we got out the grooming hook and I spent ten minutes dragging Odd out of his bed in my office. He suspected something along the lines of Bathing or Other Unpleasantness was coming, and I had to upend the damn thing to get him out, then carry him (he went limp, passive resistance style, and oh my GOD does this dog weigh a tonne) to the table. The Princess held and cooed to him while I contorted myself, swore just a little and very softly, and we both comforted him as I clipped away. Better to do two small cuts than try for a big one and hit the quick, even if he hates every second of it.

Once Odd figured out the Princess wasn’t going to let go, he went limp again. Which made things both easier and more difficult at once. He’s just talented like that.

Afterwards, treats and a quick trip outside to pee, and now he is exhausted, licking his chops, hoping for more treats…and has completely forgotten about the grooming hook and his nails. I’d say he’s forgiven me, but it’s clear he just doesn’t remember anything other than “there were little bits of snackables involved.” His twin neurons are occupied with breathing in and breathing out, with a fraction of each channeled into longing for a couple more bits of dehydrated liver or something. *shudder* I know dogs are carnivores, and entrails are high-value, but I just cannot understand why anyone would ever eat another creature’s filter.

So if you’ve ever wondered about the romance of a writer’s life, just know that most of it involves wrestling with something that loves you very much but it not quite the brightest bulb in the marquee, desperately trying to contort to groom said beast in the gentlest manner possible. I am sweating, sucking on more coffee, and aching from bending in a few ways I no longer am quite young enough for. Yoga’s gonna be great today, I can just tell.

Thus concludes the thrilling tale of the Morning Clipping of Odd Trundles’s Nails. Which, I am sure, has been just as fascinating for you as it was athletic for me. Tuesday can only get better.

*sips coffee, does deep breathing*

Not In Good Faith

I’m slowly getting back to myself after the Snowpocalypse and Concomitant Freezing. Everyone in the house is fighting off another flulike bug, probably spread from the Princess’s workplace or the Prince’s school and grown virulent in confinement. So far I’ve been able to stave it off with sleep and exercise, but who knows how long that will last? The news adds its own layer of depression, too, except for the marches and resistance. I can, when I have enough energy, feel some hope that decent people outnumber der Turmper and his brownshirts.

The trouble is, my energy is at not quite an all-time low, but close. I just…there is so much wrong. The list of lies der Turmper has inflicted on the public is seemingly endless, and he’s already signing executive orders that will kill people. Make no mistake, that’s what they’ll do–defunding Planned Parenthood and Medicare kills people. The right wing has installed a reality TV Muppet in our highest office, one they think will hand them and their corporate masters everything they want as long as they figure out how to stroke his ego. And as long as der Turmper’s narcissism is being fed, he doesn’t care that he’s being used. It’s a perfect marriage, really, except, like I said, it will kill people.

If you don’t care to hear what I have to say about this, stop reading now. That’s all the warning I’m going to give.

I grew up with conservative bigots, and I can tell you that plenty of them now are thinking that only people who disagree with them will die. It doesn’t work like that, of course, but they won’t admit as much. I used to think conservatives and bigots were just misled, but now, with a much wider experience of human beings, I don’t. Their innocence is a fiction I can no longer afford to believe. Conservative bigots do not argue in good faith; they know they are wrong, they know they are bigots. If they didn’t, facts would make an impression on their hatreds.

The right-wing authoritarian mindset is an exceedingly fragile one, requiring much violence and propping-up on a daily basis. Don’t believe me? Listen to a few hours of right-wing talk radio, and listen to the lies peddled and the fearmongering. The ego of an authoritarian is large but easily punctured, a paper balloon. (It’s no secret that a bully’s ego is just the same.) It requires constant applications of fear, faux righteousness, and adulation in order to stay upright.

If you’re interested, a good rundown of how this is often applied in evangelical circles is here. Really, the same playbook is used by gaslighting abusers, racist organizations, and right-wing authoritarians. It’s used because it works, and because so many people want to believe they are heroes without doing any damn work.

Is my analysis harsh? Yes. Do I think I’m being overly judgmental? No.

No, I do not.

I remember the ass-end of the Reagan years. I remember when conservative talk radio underwent its huge flowering, back when Rush Limbaugh was a hot rising star and fax machines lit up with his devoted followers’ circulars. I remember 9/11 and the march to war afterward, and how people knew the WMDs were a lie but wouldn’t hold Bush Jr and his cabal accountable. I remember every fucking conspiracy theory about the Clintons, I remember the daily–daily!–attempts to rob Obama of legitimacy. Time and again I have seen how the Republicans work.

Not only that, but I grew up with this. I know their dogwhistles. They beat me when I didn’t live up to some arbitrary rule for the day, or when my facial expression wasn’t the “right” one (at eight years old) or when they had a bad day somewhere and had to take it out on someone weaker because just fucking dealing with it like an adult was not their cuppa tea. I listened to them at family gatherings, I heard all the “jokes” designed to grind women, minorities, or a different religion into the mud. I was even once beaten with a Bible for daring to say war was bad, after having a list of casualties from Vietnam and Korea rubbed on my face so hard the skin broke and bled and I had to lie at school the next day about falling down.

Yes, I know these people. I know them intimately. I do not believe them innocent. Those who are not consciously evil are still dangerous, and I do not believe them innocent at all. I can feel empathy for a rattlesnake’s fear, but I don’t have to let it bite me.

The thing is, we are in a mass of these rattlesnakes, they have wormed their way into power as a culmination of decades of using the Abuser’s & Bully’s Playbook, and fighting them off is exhausting.

If there is one thing I want you, the reader, to take away from this (rather long) ramble, it is this: Stop thinking that der Turmper and the Republicans are arguing in good faith. They are not. They are after power and money, and will kill whoever is in their way because they have convinced themselves they are heroes of a 50s kitsch America-that-never-was. If there is a way out of this, it lies not on the path of trying to meet them in the middle. Rational people have been trying to “meet them in the middle” for DECADES, and I have never seen it work. What I’ve seen instead is the right wing screaming, sulking, and gaslighting until they get their way, then turning even more viciously on anyone who didn’t immediately cave in to their demands. Over and over and over again I’ve seen it. To paraphrase S. Jason Black, when I put my key in the ignition for the hundredth time and the car starts the hundredth time, it’s ridiculous to even think the two aren’t connected.

Just because rational people with a normal dose of empathy can be met halfway does not mean that right-wing authoritarians or conservative bigots can. There is no middle ground for them, only their boot stamping endlessly on a human face and their pockets full of useless gold while they crouch slavering and grinning on a mound of corpses, listening to a recorded crowd’s adulation.

I am not resigned to having my face stomped in. But I am so, so tired today.

Over and out.