Peace, Despite Sunshine

Took a while to lever myself out of bed today. I meant to spring forth as soon as the alarm chirped, but that…did not happen. Yesterday wore me the fuck out, and even retreating early to finish a history book didn’t help. Strange dreams–including one about escaping a cult run by a particularly terrifying individual who has haunted a corner of my consciousness for a while, part of why I wrote Harmony–were less than helpful as well.

The morning’s news is that Facebook, Instagram, and Threads are all down, which must account for the sudden sense of peace in many corners. It’s too much to hope for that Meta has finally choked on its own toxicity, so I’m just going to enjoy it while it lasts. (Probably will be back up before I finish writing this post, but ah well.)

The weather app says we’ll have some sunbreaks today. It doesn’t look likely from the office window, and indeed I’d prefer a solid grey ceiling. But I suppose a lot of other people like the big yellow day-eye, and in any case there’s nothing I can do about it but hide in my cave and hiss. It’s not that I dislike sunlight, precisely, it’s just that I enjoy rain more. I am continually baffled by people who move to this part of the country from drier climes and proceed to complain endlessly about falling water. Of course, what with climate change and the collapse of certain ocean currents we might be looking at drought soon.

…I am a regular bundle of cheer today, aren’t I. Might be because I had to spend yesterday doing a great many things, none of which were writing, and am consequently a little tetchy. I just want to crouch on my strange little office chair, type my weird little stories, and pay my bills. It should not be so bloody damn difficult.

Anyway. Here’s something fun, I didn’t need to hear this song again (ever) but the choreography and the dancers’ precision are amazing. Plus the costuming is A+.

I have the day’s work all set up; I meant to talk about subtext today (due to a discussion in my personal Discord) but that’s just not gonna happen. I’d best finish my rapidly cooling coffee, choke down some toast, walk the dog, and shamble my own corpse before the day gets nay older. A great deal of plot tangles and whatnot will work themselves out while I do so; all I have to do is shut everything external down, turn inward, and let the stories take over once more.

Can’t wait. Have a nice Tuesday, everyone.

Bureaucratic Duck-Nibbles

It’s been trying to snow for days now, producing sleet and spatters between bouts of very cold rain. There’s the occasional edge of huge, wet flakes, but those disappear soon as they hit the ground. If we get a strong east wind through the Gorge we’ll have a deep freeze, but it doesn’t seem like that’s on the cards. As it is, we’ve had just enough below-zero this winter to cut down on some summer insect (or slug) infestations, and while the snowdrops are beginning to fade it looks like the hyacinths and cherries are holding off for a little while longer. Resentfully, in the hyacinths’ case, but at least it’s something.

The daffodils are out in force though. Little yellow YOLO trumpets, absolute mad lads.

Thankfully, I’m beginning to get some bandwidth back. The Junji Ito phase (one graphic novel after another) was apparently just what I needed, and this past weekend I also finished Dower’s War Without Mercy, which was a fascinating read, especially tracing how racist propaganda symbols can be inverted. I’m about fifty pages from the end of Lakota America, though that’s hard going–any real American history is. If one is not nauseated by the invasion, genocide, and racism, one isn’t paying attention.

There’s plenty to keep me occupied afterward. My next-to-the-bed TBR has swelled dangerously and needs some attention.

I spent Saturday doing administrivia–there’s been a lot of that lately, tax season and the change of year both conspiring–and setting up the framework for that anthology of my short stories I’ve been threatening for, oh, a year or more? Since the Jolene or My Rebbe’s Wife stories didn’t fit elsewhere, I decided I might as well put them in my very own antho to sweeten the pot. I had been holding off because the entire project seemed like too much to handle, but finally the bright idea of (wait for it…) cutting the entire shebang into small, easily-accomplished chunks and formatting one short story (or two) per weekend struck.

I don’t know why it took me so long to arrive at that strategy, since it’s my standard suggestion to others. Like Alice, I suppose I rarely ever follow my own good advice. But I have the stories chosen now–eighteen, all told–and even have ideas of putting a few which can’t be sold for cash (as they have other characters, like the Kolchak and Jill Kismet story, or the Zombies, Run fanfic) into a free ebook just for funsies.

We’ll see.

Today will be all about even more administrivia–I swear I am being nibbled to death by bureaucratic ducks–but once that’s done I can take a look at a second escape attempt in the Sekrit Projekt, and maybe get an election into the serial. Our favourite sellsword is about to have a moment of “if nominated I will not run, if elected I will not serve–whaddaya mean I don’t have another option?” Plus, one of the last pieces for this second season fell into place during some intense doodling and planning last week, so that’s a worry shelved, one I didn’t even know I was brooding over.

Plenty more where that came from, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

There are a few sales going on right now–many of my ebooks are 50% off during the Smashwords Read an Ebook Week, She-Wolf and Cub is a Kindle Monthly Deal, and Incorruptible is $2.99USD in ebook through these retailers for a few days more. And of course, A Flame in the North is still going strong–which provides some validation, even if I am still exhausted and burned to the ground by the effort to protect the series itself.

Dawn has risen while I’ve been typing, and the lacework of dark clouds under higher, lighter ones has turned into a soft infinite grey. Trying even harder for snow, I suppose, and though it’s too warm for any to stick it’s still chill-raw out there and I’ll be conservative with Boxnoggin’s walkies. His back leg appears to have healed completely but I’m still discouraging indoor parkour or any nonsense outside–the rabbit who has decided our backyard is now his notwithstanding.

But that’s (say it with me) another blog post. I had not believed a mere bunny could give me such a filthy look, but this one managed while also taunting 65+lbs of furred and muscled himbo terrier-boxer. The development does not bode well, though there was no sign of Compere Lapin this morning.

He’s perhaps just biding his time. Into Monday we go, boots on and eyeliner thickened. And with the baseball bat firmly to hand…

Almost Daffodils


Walkies have grown a little stressful since Boxnoggin is in the phase of recovery wherein he would really like to Do Something Foolish to Reinjure Himself, For He Is Feeling Ever So Much Better. Keeping him tightly-yet-gently reined is a constant endeavour. Plus, it’s been uncharacteristically warm so several plants are attempting to get a head start on spring; this is both heartening and deeply disturbing. I keep telling them perhaps a little caution is called for in these times of climate change and general trashfire everywhere.

The cherry trees are not yet causing me woe, for once, so maybe they understand. I don’t worry too much about the snowdrops, since it’s right there in their name. But the magnolias, the roses, the hyacinths, and the daffodils are driving me to distraction–like these fellows, not quite bloomed but certainly past the point of no return. I am heartened by their cheerfulness but also full of nail-biting tension, hoping against hope we won’t have a plunge in temperatures to blight early risers.

They are hopeful creatures, daffodils. Let us devoutly pray ’tis warranted.

Also, it’s a first of the month, and that means the Monthly Sales page is updated–including a sale on an entire series later in March. (Remember to check the dates!)

See you Monday, my dears.

Ivy and Horizons

Even in winter, life is everywhere.

It’s too warm for February. (Thanks, climate change!) At least we’ve had some icepocalypse to cut down on summer’s insect population, and the cherries aren’t blooming yet. Even the one down the street which usually wakes up first–giving me no end of worry, I might add, the poor thing’s going to gamble wrong one of these years–is still blissfully asleep. But that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.

For example, the ivy-banks are full of berries. The blooms were active far later in fall than anything else, and on sunny days late bees clustered them with zest. They’ve swollen through the worst winter has to offer, and I’m not sure what precisely eats them but something must be overjoyed at the snack.

Ivy’s a terrible plant in this part of the world, and can choke entire hillsides if allowed. Yet for obvious reasons I feel a sort of kinship with something thriving despite every effort to kill it. I also saw a dandelion in the backyard t’other day, while waiting for Boxnoggin to decide which part of the turf to christen. A tiny yellow sun saying hello, good afternoon, fuck you to the world; many are the yards in this neighborhood where such a thing would call for a sudden vengeful application of weed-n-feed. But the older I get, the more I want to just… let things live, if they’re not hurting anyone.

Still going to prune any ivy so it doesn’t kill the Venerable Fir, though. There’s letting things live, and then there’s being foolish with a vine which can kill a tree that will in turn absolutely take out two whole houses if it comes down during a hard wind. I’m broadening my horizons, not being stupid. (Granted the line is a little blurry some days…)

See you next week, my dears.

For Different Elves

We’re on the downward half of the week, and I’m very close to the point where everything is funny again. That’s the stage right before I crawl into the cave for shelter and only reappear once a book is finished; considering there’s 50k (at least) left to write on the serial and way more than that on the Sekrit Projekt this does not bode well. Of course, it could be the urge to retreat into fictional worlds and never come back out, since there’s so much truly heinous shit going down outside.

I’m sure some Internet Rando will sneer that escapism doesn’t help anything, but I have ol’ JRRT on my side. Tolkien drew an explicit line (in an interview) between escapism in fiction and the duty for a prisoner of war to attempt escape in any way possible; I think about that a lot. I also think about his insistence, in at least one famous letter, that he was creating a mythic sandbox he desperately wanted other people to play in.

That last bit helps with the hatemail I’m starting to see now. I knew it was only a matter of time before some neckbeard or another got mad about me getting my girl cooties all over “Real” Epic Fantasy™, by which they inevitably mean White Male Power Trips. It was so expected as to be hilarious, actually arriving a little bit later than I thought it would. So far the dudes seem really upset that the protagonist isn’t the Valkyrie analogue in the book, that said Valkyrie isn’t banging one of the werewolves, and that the actual protagonist prefers sewing, negotiation, and peace to just about anything else.

They’re going to be real mad when the third book hits.

Those bemoaning the fact that the writing is dense, the language is sometimes archaic, and the narrative moves in ways they didn’t expect were also anticipated; I was asked several times to water the language and the complexity down, and largely refused. I will be precisely as recondite and playful as I wish in this particular trilogy. I’m not writing for those who cannot handle or suss out implications, or those who claim confusion when a character thinks one thing but says another. (It’s called lying. Shockingly, both real and fictional people are capable of it.)

No, I have created this for different elves, as the divine Austen might mutter.

The good news is, Boxnoggin’s completely fine. Indeed the dog’s only problem now is my insistence that he not scrabble-run crazily down the hall or engage in calisthenics all over the living room furniture to reinjure himself. He is most annoyed at the short, very easy daily rambles, too, even though I allow double the usual generous allotment of sniffing time. Fortunately the weather has been filthy enough to keep other dogs inside most mornings, which means he does not exert himself proving his chivalry by acting a damnfool and needing close harness-hobbling. Plus he gets to sprawl on a heated bed for the majority of the day, which does him a great deal of good and will probably cut recovery time down a bit. Small mercies.

The Muse is demanding a steady diet of manga and Donnie Yen movies at the moment. I have no idea, I just give her what she wants. Personally I’d prefer to go back to the stack of history books waiting at my bedside, but she’s voracious and I need her kept happy. Plus there’s the Gamble revision looming, and one for Chained Knight when the editor sends it back. I’m considering a Roadtrip Z series sale next month, too, but that’s a whole lot of setup and I’m not sure I have the hand free to juggle it.

There are also some reader questions hanging fire; I really ought to do a post from the mailbag soon-ish. I do read everything sent, my darlings, I just don’t have a lot of time to respond. It’s either reply to all your lovely missives or write the books you all want, and only one of those pays my bills. I do what I can, yet am perpetually behind the eight-ball, so to speak.

In any case the morning mist is lifting, the coffee is down to dregs, and I should gnaw some toast before the ramble and shamble, the first for Boxnoggin and the second for my silly mental and physical health. There’s an army to get moving in the serial, and actual flying monkeys to unleash in the Sekrit Projekt. I have been looking forward to the latter for weeksnow and have a shot at getting to actually write it today, which provides me with a great deal of anticipatory glee.

Best to get started, then. Excelsior, and all that…

Blackberry Lesson

Clinging to life, even after ice.

Blackberry brambles (and raspberry canes, to a lesser degree) love the climate here. In spring they don’t grow quite so quickly as kudzu, but sometimes it seems that way. In summer they’re banks of green hiding small animals–maybe larger ones, too–and full of wicked claws just aching for a bit of flesh. As the season turns to autumn the berries are ripe, birds gorging and people with buckets heading for the closest bush uncontaminated by pesticides, dreams of cobbler dancing through their heads.

But I like blackberry bushes best in winter, simply because some absolutely cling to green life through the worst weather imaginable. There’s a beauty to the dormant vines, while their roots sleep safe below frozen ground. Sure, they’ll still take a blood sacrifice, and a lot of gardeners around here hate them almost as much as ivy. (Do not get me started on ivy…)

There’s just something about a plant that shelters so many, feeds so many, and refuses to die even after icepocalypses, that pleases me. If I can be even a fraction as resilient, I will consider it effort well spent.

See you next week, my friends.

Awards, Co-Opted

Well, release day has come and gone, and I’m still a nervous wreck. That’s to be expected, since this series has had such an awful time being born. Recovery always takes thrice the time I think it will, even when I pad out the schedule to what I consider “reasonable”. This perhaps means I am an unreasonable person who drives herself too hard, or…you know what, I’m just going to drink more coffee.

The big news in my corner of publishing right now is the Sanford & Barkley report on what precisely went down with the 2023 Hugo Awards in Chengdu. Yes, it was censorship. Yes, the call was largely coming from inside the house–censorship and bribery often function indirectly, after all. And yes, this bears out my point that if an award is so easily co-opted by bad actors, perhaps it should not be so very prestigious.

I should, in the interests of clarity, make it explicit that I can say this because I am not and will never be an “awards”-type writer. The reasons are various and sundry, but the reason I mention this boils down to me not having any skin in this game. I am aware my position is relatively privileged in that respect. I would like to think that if this were not the case I would still say the same things, but upon that path lies hubris so it’s best to just be honest.

Look, most (if not all) literary awards are popularity contests. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, since the approbation of one’s peers and/or co-professionals is in many cases desirable indeed, and in a wider sense popular works are that way because they appeal to a wide number and variety of people. It’s a good thing to have other folks in your industry say openly that you’re fantastic at your job, and popular works that get more people reading and talking about books lift up the rest of publishing/bookdom, a rising tide heaving all boats up a few inches. Nothing is wrong with that AT ALL.

However, there is a dark side to any awards process. Those who are good at bureaucracy or brigading have a natural advantage when it comes to gaming such things, and any work which speaks to a wide number of people also speaks to their fears and collective id. The former is far more insidious than the latter, and will be relentlessly taken advantage of unless the awards process is constructed in such a way as to curb the enthusiasm of ill-meaning bureaucrats and bigots.

Ideally, an awards process constructed to curb those advantages garners prestige. In the real world, prestige is often bought, or a function of combined age and catering to dominant prejudices, and we are faced with one of the most highly sought and well-regarded awards in SFF being co-opted with stunning regularity by bigots and censorious dickwads. Those who have spoken about this problem when it surfaces face relentless harassment and mockery before being proven right every. damn. time. I don’t think this particular incident will end any differently. The inertia of the Hugos, the “it’s too haaaaard to change!”, are heavy indeed. The old-guard vested interests will simply wait for the storm to pass before going back to co-opting and pulling levers, and in another few years we’ll have yet another “omg the Hugos are fucked” moment. Plus ça change

So yes, this is bad. And yes, I think some version of this fuckery will happen again and again, up to and including “well-regarded” fansites mocking and brigading those who point out problems as they’re developing. It won’t stop until SFF publishing and fandom put a stop to it, but herding those cats–especially if there’s money to be made and egos to be massaged–may well prove impossible.

The real horror here is that Chinese SFF authors, publishers, and fans had a brief shining moment of hope which was relentlessly stamped out by the arrogance and collusion of people in charge of the Hugos and their ringleader, a breathtakingly egoistic, bigoted, and contemptuous white dude. The damage extends far and wide, and will no doubt be forgotten by Western SFF publishing and fandom by the time the next shiny spaceship awards are handed out.

plus ce même chose.

I mourn for all the stories and fandom deliciousness we’re missing out on because this shit keeps happening. Things could be so very different, yet they are not. There might indeed be an arc bending towards justice, but damned if I can see it.

Anyway, I need more coffee and Boxnoggin wants his walkies. After that it’s back to writing. I have the great good fortune to continue making my books, at least for the moment, and I’d best use it to the hilt.

Let Thursday begin.