Spy Game Weekend

It was a tremendously restorative weekend. Big changes are afoot for me professionally, and I got the revisions for Gamble out the door Friday afternoon so there was not much to do but wait, and read. While the former is not my favourite, the latter most definitely is. I polished off two Trevanians (Eiger Sanction and Loo Sanction), and decided that while I was there I might as well try some Ian Fleming, which oddly enough I never had. Casino Royale was thus sampled and finished.

It scratched a definite itch. All three bore deep imprints of a certain type of “men’s fiction” (usually from the late 70s-early 80s, but with some exceptions), so occupied with proving “manliness” and “intellectual superiority” the emotional stuntedness of the protagonists is almost ignored save for when a bit of bathos is thought advisable. (Hemlock’s pretensions made me nearly scream with mirth.) Honestly they reminded me of nothing so much as early Clive Cussler novels or a certain type of Western–though I’m not saying that as an insult, I read Cussler like candy growing up since those books were of the few allowed upon the single small bookshelf my adult caregivers thought showed them to be both daring and reasonably well-educated. (There were more books hidden under my mattress than on that particular piece of shelving, but I digress.) They also reminded me, tonally, of MacDonald’s Travis McGee series.

There’s a great deal of misogyny marinating that style of book, but if I waited for misogyny- and fridging-free reads…well, we all know it. It’s tiring; I roll my eyes and move on.

The thing I think saves the genre’s better offerings is the fact that the protagonists are always, without exception, shown to be emotionally stunted and deeply unhappy. I can see why Eastwood wanted to make Eiger into a film, and I think Daniel Craig’s Bond is far more in the style of book-Bond than any other. The urbane wit and suspense is covering up complete paucity in other areas, and Craig really leaned into that. (Some honor must also go to the script, I’m sure.) And I’m forced now to grin ruefully and shake my head at the boys (and even adult men) who breathlessly informed me that Dirk Pitt or Jonathan Hemlock or James Bond or McGee (or or or) were their heroes. (Or role models, which is both pitiable and risible at once.)

I do wonder if the reveal was conscious on the writers’ part.

I could’ve pressed onward with Fleming, but I think the itch is gone. Instead I cracked Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet, which is giving me a certain type of existential feeling. It reminds me of Anais Nin’s diaries, actually; the feel in my head is largely the same with a few outcroppings of different stone to hold. I’m also trying a gothic that is giving me a bit of trouble; I am told it loosens up in the second third but am unsure if I’m gonna make it that far.

This week is full of meetings, plus starting on Chained Knight revisions. I will be forced to be social all the way through Friday, which will bleed off working energy but cannot be helped. I’ve scheduled a lot of administrivia, which can be handled even when I’m exhausted. Silver linings, and all that.

I do wonder why the Muse wanted those particular spy thrillers thrown into the creative mill. It’s interesting grist; we’ll see if anything happens with it. And now a certain Boxnoggin wishes I’d stop muttering while staring at the glowing box, for he has real action to commit upon the pavement of our fair neighbourhood.

Off I go.

Dilly of a Month

The last cold snap has arrived, and it’s relatively mild. I needn’t have worried about that early-blooming lilac, though I’m sure if I hadn’t things would have gone quite differently. It’s not a question of individual power but of Murphy’s Law; the older I get the more I begin to think ol’ Murph was a sage who knew a thing or two.

There’s a tradescantia needing repotting, and I have to turn the hangers for the airplane plants so tropism will bring them back t’other way. Playing with potting soil sounds far more appetizing than the other work needing to be done today, so I’m keeping it for a reward. Gamble needs one more pass to tuck in or snip stray threads, then it can go back to the editor; there’s business correspondence to be handled and toads to be swallowed.

I’d rather be writing. That’s a constant, though.

Once Gamble is out the door there are revisions on Chained Knight to go through, then that particular Tale of the Underdark will be ready for the next stage in the publishing pipeline. After that Doom of the Elder needs attention so it can be sent to the editor, which I might not be looking forward to since the series has had such a difficult go of it.

At least I can spend time with Highlands War in the mornings. We’re at the raids leading up to the second pitched battle at the crest of the book’s third quarter; I have the rest of it all thought out but dear gods, this one’s a monster. It will easily be 120-150k words, not bad for epic fantasy, yet I weep when I think of the revising and editing it’ll need. I’m nearly at the point where I don’t want to bring it out for wider publication, but that’s a decision I’ll make when I’m not exhausted and nerve-strung.

I knew April would be a dilly of a month and May will likely be worse. Still, I’ve spent significant time planning–yes, no plan ever survives contact with reality, but the very act of getting contingencies together is indispensable. It’s not so much being prepared as being flexible; the latter is far easier when one has set up a framework, no matter how useless said frames turn out to be in practice. Having something to start with and build on makes the whole thing loads less frightening, even if most of that something has to be thrown out. (A lever and a place to stand, as Archimedes muttered.)

Boxnoggin is basking in a bar of spring sunshine, but his ears are up and he would very much like me to stop staring at the glowing box. There are things to sniff and bark at today; that’s his plan, and often matches reality. The dog’s damn near a master of strategy.

See you around.

Version of Wager

Woke up with Loggins & Messina playing in my head, and Boxnoggin startled a young squirrel or rabbit in the predawn grey. I say or because it appeared long like a squirrel, but it had significant trouble scaling the fence and indeed ran along the back of the yard as if it had forgotten (or never knew) such a thing as climbing existed. So the jury’s out–Box could probably tell me on scent alone, but he can’t articulate and in any case he might just smell “rodent” without differentiating.

It will have to remain a mystery. At least the poor thing was able to wriggle under the fence and escape, hopefully a wee bit wiser.

Yesterday proved a bit of a wash. I had so many grand plans, but the day kept getting nibbled by administrivia. However, I did get the monthly newsletter put together–it will go out later today–and opened up edits on a book without screaming, so that’s something. I’ve clearly processed my fee-fees about said edits, so all that remains is the work. I’d rather be producing new stuff, but I have a glut of things needing attention before they can go out into the world.

The week’s subscription drop is formatted and done up as well–serial and Nest Egg folks get something special–so that was another thing ticked off the list. And I got a combat scene started, stealing time while dinner finished cooking to block out a horse-chase which will end badly for everyone except the protagonist. At least, I hope it won’t end badly for her, but there’s always a risk.

The weather app says there’s a frost advisory for tonight; I just knew we’d have one more cold snap. Today’s walk will be spent praying everything flowering is prepared for the event, and listening to what the bees think. I know better than to presume they don’t sense it coming; they’re wiser than Yours Truly. But maybe the sense that I care will help, who knows?

Some people might take comfort in a soulless, clockwork universe; I prefer mine animate and conscious. It’s my version of Pascal’s wager, I suppose.

Anyway, Monday was the kind of day where all the work is invisible; today should see some visible progress. At least that’s the plan, but in order to get there I need a bowl of gruel and Boxnoggin needs walkies. He’s going to want to investigate the corner where he first saw the Mystery Rodent as we head out, on the faint hope that it will have returned.

I’m hoping it will go bother someone else’s yard. We’ll see what happens.

Old Things New

I did my best to slither into my cave and pull a giant rock over the opening behind me all weekend; last week was weird and I don’t quite know if i should blame the eclipse. Even Boxnoggin was behaving a bit uncharacteristically, though not when a rabbit could be seen.

No, when such things appear, his response is ever the same, world without end, amen and ouch.

Deathwish BunBun appears to be inviting all their friends, and they are not crepuscular now but brazenly hopping about at high noon. This probably means more coyotes coming uphill, and I’m sure everyone’s gardens are going to be nibbled thoroughly this year. The rabbit burrow Boxnoggin found in a fern is now vacated, its inhabitants presumably reached an age where they can wander out and fend for themselves, and all that’s left is a divot the dog keeps sniffing hopefully at, huffing the fading aroma of cottontail.

I’d love to spend today on writing fanfic, but there’s the monthly newsletter to get out (if I can manage it, April is a bit busy) and today’s the drop-dead for beginning revisions. I think I’ll clear Gamble first, so I’ll address that during half my working time today, and whatever’s left will go toward the serial. Our favourite sellsword is in the middle of a raid right now, and it’s a confusing welter of horses, giant boars, and a whole lotta violence. Slowing it down inside my head to pick out salient details necessitates a lot of staring into the distance, of getting up and pacing the office to block out particular movements.

I spent most of Sunday (after household chores and some yardwork were both done) on the couch reading about Taoism while listening, to the first time in my life, to the Grateful Dead. Sure, I’d heard a song or two of theirs on the classic rock stations growing up, but somehow they never stuck in my head. I was startled into laughter when it occurred to me that I’d never really gotten into the Dead before, despite being such a hippie. It’s good to try new things, or old things which are new to oneself.

I was attempting to listen to podcasts all last week during walkies, but I don’t think that will continue. Apparently I need music during that time, so I can noodle out plot tangles and clean up the inside of my skull. It was nice to feel like I was educating myself during that time, but if it detracts from the work I’m going to have to pass. Maybe just on weekends, and I’ll save the weekdays for strolling along with shuffle-play.

Boxnoggin, of course, gets his shuffle through his nose. He’s nearly drunk with spring, and honestly I can’t blame him. The plum and magnolia blossoms are all but gone, cherries and apples in full swing, and the dogwoods have started to leaf out. Our backyard lilacs have awakened and the hops vine is going great guns; there is a lilac already-blooming on our usual walkies route, tucked in a beautiful little sheltered microbiome and not very fragrant just yet.

No matter, there’s time. All I need now is a little rain. Onward we go into the week then, hopeful as always.

Learning Anything

Woke up with P!nk’s True Love playing inside my head–probably a function of thinking about the Valentine series again, since I took yesterday to get the second volume of short stories put together and there’s two Saint City tales in it. I’m going back and forth between having the Cain’s Wife or Hell Wars trilogies as the next serial.

Originally I intended to finish the Valentine series and hop ahead in time a little bit, taking up the story from little Liana Spocarelli’s point of view. The publisher was not into that idea, since secondary character series tend not to do so well, so I shrugged and went on with Jill Kismet. (There’s a couple Kiss stories in the second volume as well.) But I’ve always known To Hell and Back wasn’t the ending–it brings Danny and Japh’s story to a place of equilibrium, yes, but there’s more to the world, you know?

Anyway, that’s a decision for another day. It’s enough that I now have two volumes of short stories to bring out, one this summer and another in December-January, I think. And I have to laugh, because my strategy for recovering from a super intense book hangover was…more work, revising and formatting. Clearly I do not have an off switch. But then, we all knew that.

We’ve almost reached the date I’ve set for beginning the Chained Knight and Gamble revises, too. I’d prefer to just…keep writing, and I will with Highlands War. But I have a glut of stuff that needs to be fixed up for actual publication, so it’s probably best to buckle down and get that done. Putting everything else aside to resuscitate and finish Doom of the Elder was not only intense and health-damaging, but also knocked a great deal of my schedule for the first half of 2024 rather caddywumpus.

Ah well. It’s enough that I’ve renewed my commitment to protecting the work. And honestly what did I expect, making this the Year of the Real? It’s certainly turning into a Learning Experience.

One of the things I used to say when a situation didn’t quite turn out the way one of the kids expected was, “Well, have we learned anything?” The Prince went through a phrase of glowering and nearly shouting, “No!“, and that was about the same time the Princess would simply give me a sarcastic glare. Later, of course, both would quietly admit to indeed learning a great deal, with rueful head-shakes and maybe a laugh.

It’s very difficult to make the parental choice to let a kid FAFO when the stakes are super low, because of course it doesn’t feel low-stakes to them. But now that mine are adults, both are well equipped for certain things because they did indeed Find Out while they were school-age. Working retail puts the finishing touches on such lessons if they’ve been learned before, instead of applying them with ten times the force because there’s money or adult risk involved. All in all it turns out okay, though it wears on both parental and child nerves.

I’ve had to admit that I’m undergoing a few Learning Experiences of my own lately, and the kids find it deeply amusing. Hopefully I’m providing a pattern for them to stay flexible even at an advanced age. (Christ, I feel old these days.)

Today’s for clearing a few bits of correspondence, then turning my attention to an army moving northward into what is properly enemy territory. There’s another pitched battle to set up and a double-cross with a traitor our favourite sellsword is well aware of, that’s going to be fun. And I continue to attempt re-wrapping the insulation on my shattered nerves.

But first, brekkie and walkies. Boxnoggin is rambunctious with the advent of spring, so he requires a longer ramble to wear him out for the rest of the day. Although he is getting older and slightly less enthusiastic–only slightly, mind you. Some dogs go from puppy to dog as they age, others remain pup to the end; he’s of the latter persuasion, with all that entails. Gods love the dopey little furball, because I certainly do.

Off I go.

Spring and a Hot Revision

I’m getting an avalanche of emails and messages from folks wanting me to talk about small and indie presses, more about self-pub, if it’s really so bad in trad, how to get a reputable agent, etc., etc., onward, amen. It’s awful rough out there right now and there is no safe path; there is no magic dingus which will make one a successful author. The idea that there’s a sooper-sekrit handshake or a quick algorithm trick to achieve fame, fortune, and babes on the path of publishing is a poverty tax akin to the lottery–it makes desperate people easier to fleece by holding out a hope that would not be nearly so enticing if our entire society wasn’t straining under the massive, world-eating greed of a few sociopaths. Everything wrong in publishing is a symptom of deeper problems.

The good news is, sunshine and articulation makes solutions a lot more possible; one cannot solve a quandary without knowing its dimensions. The bad news is, it’ll take a lot of collective action to solve a tangle this intractable, and I don’t hold out a lot of hope it’ll happen in any systematic fashion.

I am not pessimistic about publishing, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. (I did Bsky / Mastodon thread on that fact yesterday.) At the same time I mourn for what we’re losing, what we will lose as all this shakes out–whenever that happens. In the end, all I can do is keep working.

Staggering out with Boxnoggin for his first backyard break of the day, I was surprised by the softness of the air. We’re well past the tipping point, it’s abso-tively poso-lutely spring. Maybe the eclipse shook some things loose? We only got twenty percent at totality, and the shadows had funny weight. The birds were going somewhat mad–they knew something was up–and Boxnoggin only settled after the moon had moved to go about its business. The neighborhood cats seemed to be aware of the event as well, quite a few of them prowling in unaccustomed places at unaccustomed hours until ‘it ’twas past.

I can see why ancient folk thought eclipses were celestial anger and anyone who could predict them utterly magical.

Today is probably for cutting an epub of The Highlands War‘s first half for subscribers, as a treat. There’s also a tonne of business correspondence to catch up on and I think I have my rhythm back for the serial. There needs to be another couple dream sequences and then the next battle; soon I’ll be able to move on from this “hot” revision–the type that happens when a book is unfinished but won’t be for long, getting everything in place for the push to the end. Very soon I’ll have another zero draft to my name.

I’m looking forward to it. Of course that will touch off a round of other revisions, since Chained Knight and Gamble were both put on back burners while Doom of the Elder‘s zero got itself settled. And there’s the anthologies to get stuffed through the pipeline as well…

The hell of all this is, I love my job. I was made and born to tell stories, it’s what the gods intended me for. I wish the greed of a few rich folk didn’t make it so bloody difficult. This could be so much easier for everyone–and imagine the explosion of wonderful art we’d have in every direction and format, if that greed were defanged! It would be lovely, wouldn’t it.

In the meantime, I just keep going. There really doesn’t seem much other option, and in any case Boxnoggin wants walkies again so it’s time to grab some toast and get my earbuds.

I’ve got writing to get to.

We Gotta Talk About (Trad) Publishing

No, seriously, guys. We really, really need to talk about some of this.

A fellow author forwarded this article to me this morning, and my head nearly exploded–not because of the writer or really any of the information within, because the former is perfectly lovely and the latter a hundred percent accurate. What’s bothering me are implications, to the point that I had to take some time to calm down before attempting to talk about it here.

The TL;DR of the above-linked article is that there’s a mushrooming crop of literary agents jostling into the industry, plus trad editors are so overwhelmed they’re taking 6-12mos to even respond to submissions (when they don’t ghost), so now even reputable agents are asking writers–both new and established–to do all sorts of escalating bullshit (like moodboards, what the ever-loving hell) in order to catch the attention of said overwhelmed editors. The article takes a view along the axes of marginalization keeping a lot of writers out of trad’s pool of accreted resources, which is reasonable, just, and absolutely should be talked about.

But that’s not my lane, since I’m operating from a place of relative privilege. So I’m sticking to other lanes; and boy howdy, there’s no shortage of those.

Publishing has always been an awfully exploitative business. For a long while the level of fuckery in trad pub was low enough for plenty of writers to make a reasonable gamble by submitting by the rules and building a career, but this is no longer the case. Which is not solely or even mostly a function of the pandemic, mind you–the problems were already there well before 2020 rolled around, but conditions since ~2016 have absolutely poured jet fuel on the fire and now we’ve got a multiple-alarm blaze. (You could even trace the problems to Amazon’s strong-arming, or further back to Reagonomics, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post.)

The Big Five/Four have already offloaded the brute work of marketing onto individual authors, hollowing out their own marketing departments in order to line C-suite pockets. Now the crunch has reached editorial departments, where even salaried folk traditionally protected from a lot of industry bullshit are being ruthlessly overworked, underpaid, and just generally mistreated. (No, this is not a “pity the poor editors” screed, just a fact.) Consequently a lot of folk are leaving, and those who remain–or the shiny new ones coming in, thinking they’re going to score a good job–find it impossible to pick up the slack. The article linked above is absolutely correct that editors at the big houses are now being used as draft-horse project managers, which does not work with novels or nonfiction books. It just…doesn’t.

The article is also absolutely correct that there is a glut of “literary agents” right now, though I’m not certain it’s as a result of the pandemic giving people “time to write”. The further fact that literary agents are wholly unregulated remains as well. A whole lot of “agents” hanging out their shingle might not know the industry or have usable reputation or connections–that’s a charitable way of putting it–and as in any unregulated field there’s a whole lotta grifters out there too. This compounds the problem of exploitation and also makes the burden on editors that much heavier.

Here’s the thing: Trad publishing is not only expecting authors to write the damn book and wait to find a reputable agent (one should do one’s due diligence in that area as a matter of course), but also expecting a writer to wait half a year to a whole year for an editor to even look at the work, and then expecting us to do all the marketing as well?

What precisely are we paying trad publishers a percentage for, then? Cover art, when multibillion-dollar trad houses are using plagiarism machines to make the covers for even hotly anticipated titles? Marketing, which we’re supposed to do ourselves? Editorial services and support, from editors so overworked it takes them a year to answer emails? Really?

Really?

An agent gets a percentage of work sold, so it’s in their interests to find a way through the tangle. But is that way forcing the author to do up fucking moodboards or audio, or other labor-intensive gewgaws? Seriously, what the hell is this nonsense? We’re supposed to do the agent’s job as well as the editor’s and the marketing department’s, in return for…what, exactly?

This isn’t really to knock agents; the reputable ones are just as baffled as their authors. One could make the case that they honestly mean well when telling authors to add these bells and whistles in order to attempt enticing some overworked editor (who might hit burnout and leave next month, orphaning an entire slew of works both debut and midlist) to shuffle a submission to the top of the inbox. And it’s not even to really knock plenty of editors, who get into the job because they love literature and want to make a difference.

But if an editor is so overworked they literally can’t answer subs from even well-known, reputable agents with proven authors in their stable, how in God’s name are they supposed to be providing the editorial care and in-house advocacy required by the books they do end up buying?

The answer is simple: They can’t. Trad publishing is literally failing at doing its job. A lot of people, for various reasons both self-serving and otherwise, have accused trad of simply being an entitled gatekeeping mechanism; even a stopped clock is right twice a day, as the saying goes, and honestly it’s starting to look like the urge for infinite exploitation, Amazon-style, has turned trad pub into the nightmare it was accused, by envious dickwads, of being.

I just keep thinking, what precisely are authors paying for when these companies literally will not or cannot do their fucking jobs?

No, really, what are we supposed to grant rights to big publishing houses for nowadays? Editing, from folks so overwhelmed they can’t even answer their email? Cover art, when they’re making it clear they want fuck over and steal from our visual artist pals even more than from writers? Marketing, when we’re expected to do it ourselves, and then blamed when we don’t have the reach of multibillion-dollar corporations? Industry knowledge, when they’re literally worshipping at the altar of TikTok and Goodreads, neither of which have even a Magic 8-Ball’s accuracy? It certainly can’t be prestige; seriously, is there any of that left?

It’s beginning to look like the barriers to entry in self-pub are a lot easier to surmount for even the most marginalized of writers. Don’t get me wrong, they’re still fairly prohibitive there, in a lot of respects–just a lot less prohibitive than this bloody nonsense.

The Big Five/Four appear to be rotting in tar pits; indie or small presses who have good business hygiene and treat their authors well are positioned beautifully to grab market share when the avalanche of market correction hits. One supposes the cycle will start all over again, then–from an original ground polluted almost past bearing by both Amazon’s predatory practices and the ecology-wrecking plagiarism machines, true, but at least a few of us might get some breathing room.

How many great stories and authors are we going to lose before that happens, though, and when said correction hits? Even more than we’re losing now because the industry is full of grifters calling themselves agents, reputable agents who can’t get overworked editors to look at anything, editors hollowed out by burnout so badly that it takes them half a year (or a full year) to respond to subs if they respond at all, editors so overwhelmed they can’t provide proper editing or in-house support for what books do manage to be sold, a complete lack of marketing support, TikTok and Goodreads being treated as industry oracles, hush-hush meetings where publishing execs are attempting to figure out how to replace pesky human writers who expect to be paid with hallucinating plagiarism machines (oh yeah, those screenshots are something, indeed), cover art made by hallucinating DALL-E and Midjourney, and titles poisoned by SEO delirium?

This is wild. This is bizarre even by publishing standards, and that’s saying something. What, exactly, are the authors–the ones providing the stuff this industry literally cannot run without, mind you, the human beings producing the books and stories even the corporate plagiarism machines cannot function without–paying for here? What services are being rendered, what benefits are authors getting by granting rights and percentages to these companies?

No wonder so many established midlisters are making the move to self-pub; no wonder the number of hybrid authors is at an all-time high. I can only see this trend accelerating, especially since the tools for self-pub have been around for awhile now and there’s a lot of free guides about how to do it–if you can find a search engine that isn’t serving up gobs of “AI” horseshite, that is. (I like DuckDuckGo, myself.)

Moodboards. For Chrissake. I just…I can’t even. Moodboards. What a time to be alive, and in publishing. I just keep coming back to that one simple question, so I’ll repeat it a final time before going to do my chores.

What, precisely, are we paying these companies for?