Weirdsville

Ready For Change

Took a few days off from blogging (and some other things), a sorely needed break. Copyedit hangover is real, and the particular series I’m working on now is…well, the situation isn’t ideal, but one must carry on.

Once I get to the point of finding everything absurd I’ll be all right. It’s just taking a little longer than usual. And the look on my face–though you can’t see it–is the particular set expression of a woman who has Had It, is Dealing As Best She Can, and will Stab Something If She Has To. I’m tired of a lot of things lately, frankly, and ready for a bit of change.

Anyway, I’m within striking distance of finishing a couple different zero drafts. Yesterday I realized I’m only two (planned) scenes from finishing Riversinger and Minnowsharp (which used to be titled Fall of Waterstone, but I think that’ll change again in the future) which means that it’s probably more like six actual scenes. At this part of the process the things one must do in order to bloody well kill the draft tend to multiply exponentially, since it’s the last wicket to pass through before a completed zero. Getting so close one can taste the end is always difficult; I had to tear myself away last night and force my weary body into bed.

Pulling all-nighters isn’t good for me at this stage. Maybe in the next go-round.

The other zero nearing completion is Hell’s Acre, which has also had an extremely difficult birth. I’ve been writing the damn thing all during pandemic; I think that may be a great deal of the difficulty I’ve had with it. Now I’m tired, I think I’ve got twelve scenes left in the serial, and I just wrote a Really Big Reveal yesterday so at least things are moving. I’m ready to put this one to bed and move onto the next serial, which you guys are going to absolutely love–I know I keep saying that, but it’s so difficult to keep the secret. (And now you can imagine me fidgeting with glee.)

The other good news is that someone has finally gotten off their duff and there’s a line of fenceposts along the back edge of the yard. Not only that, but the giant pile of old, broken fencing that was killing my ferns has been removed. Someone else’s negligence caused the damage, so that person is finally stepping up to fix it, which is a welcome development. Now we have to wait for the concrete about the post-bottoms to cure, and things can move forward. Which will be such a vast relief, I can’t even tell you. I’ll be able to move laurel, holly, and lilac volunteers to their new places, and in a little while we’ll have a privacy screen.

It won’t be the cedars, but oh well. Good things are not good because they last, even if they do.

The coffee is almost finished and Boxnoggin is very eager for walkies. He’d gotten used to the shambles in the backyard, and now that it’s changed he is uneasy, clingy, and wants ritual and habit to soothe him. Poor fellow doesn’t deal with any deviation well, even the most pleasant. I’m not far behind at the moment; if one more damn thing goes wrong, I swear…

But the sooner I get Riversinger and the final book of the trilogy out of the way, the sooner my stress nausea will abate. I’m not quite at the “developing an ulcer” pitch anymore, so at least that’s something. Upwards and onwards, excelsior, and all that. And I’m going to read you lot a bit of Duras tomorrow, which I’m looking forward to.

Time to get moving.

Rain-Wet Yellow

Bright spring visitor.

Just as Boxnoggin and I were approaching this small clump of bright flowers, a hummingbird zoomed up, thought about having a snack, saw us, visibly wondered if it should fight, forgot what it was doing, and zipped away.

I stood flabbergasted, having thought it far too cold for such a sighting. (Boxnoggin was more than willing to fight, though somewhat confused at the size of his prospective opponent.) But I guess the birds know best–I haven’t seen a single bee yet, even on the few sunny days where the temperature hits 60F.

Awful cheerful to see jonquils and primroses and cherry blossoms and hyacinth buds. Winter is my favorite season, but this is nice too. The mud feels different and the rain is still piercing, yes–but cold with a promise instead of a sting. I’ve tried my hardest to eradicate all my hope–I hate getting kicked in the teeth time and again, I’d rather expect nothing–but it’s a weed, and this is its season.

Ah well. To all things their due time.

Se you next week, my beloveds.

No Contact, Four Seconds, and Walking Away

In the few minutes between taking Boxnoggin out for his first morning loo break and settling to absorb some caffeine while doing the usual blog post, fog moved in. The little cat feet were quick and soundless, and now I can barely see the trees across the cul-de-sac behind us.

Of course, if the cedars were still there I wouldn’t see anything else, but that’s a wholly different issue. Ah well.

I’ve been reading this morning about a letter Kafka sent to his domineering, abusive, narcissistic father. So much of it is familiar, though Kafka didn’t have some of the psych terminology we do today. It’s fascinating to read how he narrated what is, to some of us, very sadly familiar. It made me grateful for going no-contact lo these many years (decades, now) ago.

It’s all right to prioritize your own health and safety. It’s totally fine not to answer bad-faith questions, and it’s absolutely reasonable to protect yourself from sadistic people even if they were responsible for raising you. My particular culture doesn’t venerate parents to the extent some others do, but still when I am forced to mention that I don’t speak to my childhood abusers many people will spout well-meaning platitudes like, “You’ll regret it if you don’t forgive,” and “They did the best they could.” The first is manifestly untrue in my experience and the second is a matter no stranger could possibly have the information to judge, so most of the time I give such expostulations (and the other little nuggets of busybodies’ so-called wisdom) precisely the weight they merit.

Still…it’s irritating, a pinch on a scar which used to be sore. Some days I simply don’t have the emotional energy, so I disengage and don’t speak to that person again. It’s perfectly okay to walk away in the middle of someone’s sentence. I wish I would have absorbed this fact on a cellular level decades ago, but it took a lot of therapy and time under the bridge (to mix a metaphor) before I could.

Honestly the best thing for this has been reaching my mid-forties. Society considers a woman of my age little better than disposable, being otherwise obsessed with young, malleable, abuse-able girls. Once an older woman stops giving a fuck she’s labeled as dangerous, ugly, unstable, awful, rude, how dare.

Becoming a bog witch holds a great deal attraction at that point, but if one can’t retreat to the swamps (or a chicken-legged hut) the next best thing is silently regarding a well-meaning busybody with a direct stare for a little over four seconds, then turning around and walking away. There’s a great deal of power in that, and naturally some privilege in when one can deploy the maneuver. Even being able to do it once or twice is a massively healing experience. It gets the point across and removes one from the situation, which is all one can hope for.

I felt nothing but relief when one of my major childhood abusers recently passed away. I thought I would feel some kind of guilt, or that things were left unfinished. I didn’t; there was nothing left to say, because I had already mourned the relationship I wish I would’ve had with them–the relationship child-me was desperate for, would (and did) do almost anything for. Like any child, I wanted to love my caregivers. They made it impossible–that was a choice on their part, whereas I had none. Raising my own children was deeply illuminating, because it drove home just how insane so much of my own early life was. I could never treat my kids the way I was treated. It was utterly foreign to me, on the deepest of levels, to be so cruel to tiny, dependent, helpless beings.

I’m glad Kafka got to write his letter. It may not have had the effect he wanted, but there’s still a lancing of the wound in telling the truth about abusive dickwads. Going no-contact with those society called my parents (not to mention other toxic people since then) was one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself; applying four seconds of silence and walking away is one of the most self-protective skills I’ve ever had the opportunity to learn. As Captain Awkward so often notes, it’s okay to let things be uncomfortable for toxic people. If they didn’t want discomfort, they should learn not to behave like total douches.

Now I need brekkie, and Boxnoggin needs walkies. No doubt he’ll find all sorts of interesting smells in the fog. Life is so much better now; every day I’m grateful for the space and peace created by choosing not to give nasty toxic people any more than the absolute minimum of time and attention. (Sometimes that minimum is negative, a happy occasion indeed.)

See you around, beloveds.

Empty Spiral

Leaving home behind.

Boxnoggin and I found this on wet pavement; he gave it merely a token sniff since it isn’t a small furry thing to savage or a pile of something highly fragrant. I was struck into immobility for a few moments, watching the play of light. I almost picked the shell up…then I thought it was probably left there for a reason. A picture harms nothing.

Of course when I crouched to take a snap Boxnoggin was suddenly interested again, because if Mum is examining something it’s suddenly high-value. Nevertheless, I managed to get his big wet snoot out of the shot, and it turned out better than I hoped.

I feel very much as if I’m growing out of a shell or two myself these days. I know whoever made this lovely spiral was most likely pried free and tossed down a bird’s gullet…and yet.

Tonight’s Friday Night Writes, my beloveds, and I hope you have a grand weekend. See you next week.

Breaching in Absurdity

Humpback Whale in Body of Water
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos

There was a band of bright pink and gold at the eastern horizon when I took Boxnoggin out for his first loo break of the day, and a waning moon tangled in the lilacs’s bare branches as well. I prefer to be going to bed as the sun is rolling out, but decades of kid- and dog-schedules means it hasn’t been an option.

Maybe someday soon. In the meantime, there are bits of beauty to be found even while my body grumbles.

My health almost broke completely last week, but things are a tiny bit better now and I’m trying to be as gentle as I can. Plus there’s all sorts of purging and spring cleaning in the works. I can’t recall the last time I did a good old-fashioned Kondo-ing–I have to wait for better weather to put a “free” pile at the end of the driveway, but that just gives me time. I’m breaking tasks into tiny chunks, arranging them like mosaic around the large stones of two projects on the grill.

At least those are going well. I’m within striking distance of finishing two zero drafts at once. Maybe when that’s done I can arrange the surroundings for my usual productivity, because if I’m not juggling three-plus projects at a time I don’t know who I am. I need that third slot in my working schedule open, dammit.

The biggest thing is trying to be kind to myself, a skill I have very little practice with. I tend to hurt myself before anyone else can get around to it, a purely protective mechanism. Trying to be friendly with the person in the mirror is difficult at best; on the other hand, difficulty is what practice is for. The purging of physical space will also help me let go of habits which aren’t serving me. At least, that’s the theory. We all know how vast–and instructive–a gulf looms between planning and execution.

One of the quandaries I’ve been struggling with lately is the paradox of being completely free to decide who to be, and it generally ending up with being who one actually is. I could not wrap my brain around it, no matter how accustomed I’ve become to putting a few contradictory ideas in the old skull-case and just…letting them sit there. There was something in the tension I just wasn’t seeing, and I kept picking at it with every invisible finger I could spare. (Like a scab…)

A couple days ago Boxnoggin was busily sniffing a thorny bush he always tries to get his harness hooked on while voiding his bladder into its tangle. I was occupied with keeping just enough tension on the leash to make sure he didn’t get gouged like a prince attempting to hack his way to a sleeping castle, and it hit me. Right between the eyes, in fact, and I gasped with relief like a breaching whale.

I’d overlooked preferences. Choosing what one wants to be can be boiled down to a preference. For example, I prefer to be kind, it’s literally the easiest state for me and has the benefit of feeling good as well. And what are preferences but part of who one is? The paradox is not neatly resolved–it never is–but the signpost goes up and that’s all I need.

Just point me at it, and I’ll start moving.

Of course, some of my wants and preferences are a little less than ideal–frex, I would prefer to be in bed right now, and to stay there while the books write themselves. Alas, such is not the world we are given. But even those non-ideal wants make me who I am, and I get to decide which of them to indulge and which to gently chivvy myself out of. I suppose that’s the “absolute freedom” part of the bloody paradox.

Life has mostly been about what I can endure rather than what I like. Philosophically it’s been great training; emotionally it’s been a rough patch. Now I have a little breathing room to do something else. Sorting through a midlife tangle (because I’m sure that’s what some of this is, just a function of getting older) is proving most enlightening. A few parts are even fun, but mostly they’re deeply satisfying, plenty amusing, and occasionally painful enough to provoke tears.

I never used to cry, either. Nowadays it’s safe enough to let a few feelings show. A great and lovely change.

Anyway, the coffee is almost done, and there’s feathery bright clouds over a layer of darker grey as the sun rises. The daily balance has been tipped past dawn into actual morning, and soon the dog will need his ramble. I might even have another meditative untangling while he’s busy sticking his nose in something foul; they tend to happen when life is simply so absurd a deeper meaning can slip through the cracks. And we all know dogs are great at absurdity.

See you around.

Coffee, Easy Enough

It’s a very damp Monday; the time change is sucker-punching me. I love it in fall–who doesn’t enjoy an extra hour of sleep?–but in spring…ugh, ugh, ugh. Good thing it’s raining. My soul expands with every drop hitting the roof, let alone sodden earth and gleaming pavement. Gutters are busy, storm drains full of rushing, and if there’s any of winter’s doldrums left they’re about to be dissolved and washed free. (Oh, and the latest Reading with Lili is up on YouTube for your enjoyment.)

There are some good things about springing-forward, I suppose. It’s an invitation to shake things up, reorient a bit. My office is cleaner than it’s been in a while–I haven’t done a cleaning purge in quite some time, and once one is past the initial “argh, do I really have to do this” phase and the “dear gods, it’s messier than it was when I started, what the hell” bit, everything starts to come together and one can breathe again. All the extra space is lovely.

Of course, I probably have to get the garage rearranged at some point in the next few months too. You can imagine my sardonic tone while typing “that’ll be fun, won’t it.”

Boxnoggin likes the having-dinner-early part of time change, but he is extremely reluctant for the get-out-of-bed bit. The water pouring from the sky during the first loo session of the day didn’t help; the poor fellow regards me as an inscrutable goddess in charge of every item, no matter how mundane, and dear heavens he does not see the point of me making it rain.

I could tell him I’m not responsible, but he wouldn’t believe me and in any case, to him plenty of my actions are so powerful and incomprehensible that any explanation will only stress him out further even if I could express it over the species divide. So he simply trusts that I have my reasons for making it cold and wet, and I make sure he gets toweled off and fed as the situation requires.

He even gets a dab of bacon grease in his bowl this morning, which should soothe the sting.

I’m aiming for calm these days. I had a whole blog post planned about that particular life lesson, but instead I’ve been nattering about the weather and the dog. Ah well, there’s always tomorrow–I’ve got to get some breakfast down for both of us, get the washing machine going, and start the week. I’m trying a few schedule changes to bolster the changes I want to make. The most difficult part is getting over the initial hill to make a habit stick. I can’t decide if small habits or large ones are easier to start or maintain. There seems to be a complex sliding scale of difficulty in the whole affair, which I suppose is part of being mortal.

It’s not a bad state, despite being extremely friable and frustrating. There are a few pleasures to be had.

One of those is the coffee I’m about to finish. At least the morning jolt is one habit I can keep, and it doesn’t take much brainpower to get through making it. This doesn’t mean there haven’t been notable instances of difficulty, naturally. But all in all, coffee’s easy enough.

It’s everything else that’s gonna kick my ass today. But at least I’ve got a fighting chance, and I’m up early enough to grab the beast’s tail.

Let’s just hope we get along…

The 2×4 of Cosmic Benevolence

The stress nausea is still lingering in my corpus, but at least the meeting I was so worried about went without a hitch. Well, only with hitches I was prepared to deal with, that’s a more precise way to put it. Giving things a good whack to reset them is not my preferred method–I like being gentle–but sometimes there’s no choice.

Often, gentle kindness is mistaken for complaisance or weakness. I don’t recommend this route. It leads to the 2×4 of Cosmic Benevolence being applied, and that chunk of power has splinters.

Anyway, there have also been a few good working days in a row, though I’m technically supposed to still be in recovery. I’m as surprised as anyone. I think some energy has been freed up since my holding pattern has been rather violently upended, now that I’ve actually said something about the stress. One can’t poke a universal bear and then quibble with the timeframe of the response, so away we go. If more recovery and re-wrapping of shattered nerves is necessary, it will have to be after I *checks notes* finish these two zero drafts, get a good buildup on the next serial, and revise the second Sons of Ymre book.

I’ve been focused on Dead God’s Heart and another far more troublesome series for so long it feels weird to be considering the new serial, let alone revisions on something else. Frankly I thought the plague or rising fascism would have done me in by now, yet against all odds here I am, trying to heal what I can.

Oh, you thought I was just telling stories? But what do you think those are, hm?

I should probably update the master to-do list hanging above my desktop’s screen. There’s also a positive litter of Post-its growing like coral along the bottom. Some can probably be moved to the corkboard, others can’t be retired until Hell’s Acre is done. And there’s a subscription drop to get sorted too. I’d love to get back to having a few weeks’ worth of those scheduled out–before the pandemic I was running a good month or two ahead, but since then things have been kind of suboptimal.

Go figure.

Plus there’s walkies to accomplish. I’ve finished my coffee but not yet moved in the particular way that will summon a yawning Boxnoggin, so–oh, crud, I just heard his collar jingle. It’s the particular sound of a post-nap shake to settle the hide, and now he’s trotting down the hall.

Best get started, then. Publishing schedules are all very well, but the canine needs his daily jaunt. Running my own tired corpse is probably recommended as well; stress compounds when it can’t be purged. I can use the time and motion to figure out just what the Rook is going to do in this pub…

Off I go.