Weirdsville

Always a Trace

I don’t know what bird was laying eggs this late in the season, but one of said eggs ended up spread all over the concrete. You see the result, after squirrels, crows, a hawk, several neighborhood cats, and dogs have thoroughly investigated.

It’s moments like this that I understand Locard’s Principle best. You’d think with that kind of traffic, so many predators and scavengers visiting, that all evidence would be erased. Not so! There is always a trace remaining, waiting for the proper technology, science, or intuition to unlock the rest of the case.

Poor thing. The innards provided warmth to some other creatures, and the shell will provide minerals. Nothing is ever really wasted, impermanence is permanent, and yet I can’t help but feel some pity.

(Also, I’m back after finishing the zero for Finder’s Watcher; did you miss me?)

On the Holidays

I hate the holidays. Publishing shuts down, you can’t get an answer out of anyone–unless it’s “I’m salaried and clearing my desk before I get a vacation, but you can work right through because you’re freelance, can’t you?” Also, the shops are full of overstimulated children with misbehaving parents clamping down quite unreasonably upon them, both stressed because they can’t service the TV-fueled expectations of gross consumerism. And let’s not even talk about the racists at the dinner table that nobody will challenge because “holidays” and “let’s all get along.”

Fuck getting along. Racists deserve to be challenged wherever we find them, kids shouldn’t be dragged through holiday crowds, no parent should be tormented into stress-related breakdown because they can’t afford whatever toy is hot this year for their spawn, and I won’t repeat what I think should be done about publishing.

You can tell I’m in it today. I’m pushing to get the zero of Finder’s Watcher done, or at least hit the 50k mark for NaNo that will give the book enough critical mass to drag me across the finish line, then it’s straight into bloody revisions for that epic fantasy. Which means I’ll be producing a novella’s worth of text in just under two weeks; tell me again why I do this to myself?

Oh. That’s right. It’s my job, and if I don’t write, we don’t eat. Simple!

I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m simply remarking upon suboptimal conditions.

At least the dogs let me sleep in a wee bit today. Though I have to leave the house to pick up last-minute supplies for Thursday I can do so at my own pace, and–thanks be to all the gods–it’s raining. Which means the dogs will be miserable during walks and hurrying to get home, but at least I’m in a good mood.

What’s that? Good mood? Oh, yes. This is just a particularly sharp-edged good mood. I’m not upset, I’m just testing my sword’s keenness and eyeing the battlefield. And I don’t have to spend my holidays with racist fucks because I stopped speaking to those “family” members long ago. Not only that, but I did finish a zero lately, so I can use that fact to batter at imposter syndrome.

You can tell it’s the last week of NaNo; my Week Four guide will go up around 2pm PST. You can sign up to get it on my Substack, Haggard Feathers; I’ll be taking next week off while I recover and choke up a steaming lump of revisions. I’m thisclose to writing “Rocks fall, everyone dies,” and throwing up my hands.

We all know I won’t, but threatening it makes a book behave most of the time, so one works with what one has.

It’s Tuesday. If I buckle down now, I won’t have to leave the house again until next week. Wish me luck, dear ones, and I hope your day goes smoothly.

Me? I’m buckled in my armor, my sword is sharp enough, my charger is ready. Onwards and upwards, indeed.

Distinctly Non-Optimal

Woke up with The Sky is Crying inside my head, which is one of the songs I’d play to get reliably into Harmony. For some reason, Linda Ronstadt and Stevie Ray Vaughn were the go-to tunes for that book, along with some Alison Krauss and Joey Fehrenbach’s The Prophet.

I’m kind of sad a YA publisher didn’t pick up Harmony, but then, they would have wanted me to change things so Owen saves Val, and they would have wanted me to make “finding a boy” instead of “survival” the protagonist’s goal. So, it’s not so bad. I would have refused and fought, of course, and that would have taken a lot of energy I didn’t need to spend.

Anyway. Yesterday was distinctly non-optimal. I thought I was recovered from the food poisoning over the weekend, but on my way up the stairs with a huge load of laundry I felt like the DVD of my life started skipping in the player. I came back to myself half-lying on the stairs, clutching the laundry basket and distinctly woozy. I had to go up one stair at a time without standing, hauling the laundry basket up with me. Fortunately there were only about five stairs left, then the dog-gate at the top, at which both Boxnoggin and B were anxiously awaiting my return.

Once on level ground I managed to get the laundry into the living room and toddle to bed, where I passed out until the Little Prince texted to say he was on his way to a D&D session hours later.

Needless to say, dinner was leftovers. I just didn’t have the strength, and only stayed awake long enough afterward that I wouldn’t be up at 4am. Then it was back to bed with a raging headache, and I remember nothing until waking up this morning.

It’s funny, how when you get physically miserable you can forget what health feels like. I’m ever so much better today. Those salad rolls packed a wallop; I wonder what contaminated them? I probably don’t want to know. In this singular case, I can let ignorance be bliss.

I don’t think I’m too far behind. My Week Three of NaNo post will drop on the Substack today, so that’ll be good. I had thought to prep Week Four yesterday, but it looks like that’ll be today’s task. If, of course, taking the dogs on their daily ramble doesn’t wipe me out. I have high hopes, but apparently recovering from anything takes me three times as long as I think it might. No matter how I pad out recovery time, it’s never enough. The body takes what it takes, I suppose, and the mind’s not far behind.

The dogs are overjoyed that I’m back up and moving around. They spent yesterday attending me closely, and I still have somewhat of a crick in my neck from being wedged between them most of the afternoon and all night, too. Little furry stoves, helping me sweat out the illness. Boxnoggin in particular is very solicitous, probably because he likes salt; he was licking my forehead at intervals yesterday. No doubt I was producing enough good ol’ NaCl to season his dinner.

Today’s going to be better than yesterday. Once I finish this coffee, no power in the ‘verse will be able to stop me.

Or so I keep telling myself…

Soundtrack Monday: Oo-de-Lally

I’m finishing up the zero draft of HOOD‘s Season Two this week, so this Soundtrack Monday will reflect that. HOOD owes a great deal to many retellings but the sheer zany joy of Disney’s is what I return to when the others get too bleak, and I often find myself humming pieces while I write. Chiefly Oo-de-Lally, of course, Alan-a-Dale as a strutting, gittern-plucking rooster enchanted me as a child.

I can still hear Little John, each time I see a feathered cap or a longbow–Pretty hard to laugh, hangin’ there, Rob. Or Prince John, moaning Mama!; Sir Hiss the snake minister fills me with both hilarity and dark foreboding. Fortunes forecast, lucky charms!

I also sang Robin and Marian’s theme to the kids often as a lullaby, while rocking in an old squeaky chair I had also rocked my sisters in. (Love, it seems like only yesterday…) But today, it’s Oo-de-Lally all the way, especially since I have to figure out what Robb gets caught for to end Season Two.

If you’re curious, I have a whole playlist for the serial. It’ll change as we head into Season Three, of course–the whole game is getting more serious, and Marah’s faced with a jailbreak (Giz and Alladal may have to team up for that one) and having to rescue King Richard (who has hopefully learned a lesson or two about haring off when he’s needed at home, kthxbai) to boot.

All in all, Season Three will be a challenge of the sort I like best. But for today, it’s a musical interlude with a singing rooster, a pair of foxes, a wolf in a doublet, and anything else the stew inside my head bubbles over with.

Oo-de-lally indeed. Golly, what a day.

Mug, Battle-Scarred

You can’t see it, but this mug is battle-scarred. It’s missing a handle and has minor smoke damage from the Great Bookstore Fire. It’s also one of my favorites, old soldier that it is, and ready to stand duty any time it’s taken from the cupboard.

And, as a bonus, it says I am going to hex your face off. Because I believe in fair warnings.

It’s been a heckuva week, my chickadees. I’m so glad it’s Friday. How about you?

Bit Askew

Cormorant Run

It’s been the kind of weekend that reminds me of going into the Rifts, frankly. Everything seems a little bit askew–probably from lack of sleep–and the danger won’t kill you instantly, it’ll kill you three steps ago or an hour from now.

So to speak. Good news and terrifying news has abounded, and now I’m blinking on a holiday Monday, with wordcount ahead of me, a Soundtrack Monday post to write, and I haven’t run in three days.

You can tell I’m a little twitchy.

At least the wind is moving a bit and we’ve had some rain. Well, more like condensation inside Mother Nature’s mouth1, but it’s cleaned some of the particles from the air and made it slightly easier to breathe. The dogs are content with walkies instead of jogging, probably because Miss B is becoming an elderly statesdog.

I am reminded, seeing the grey on her muzzle and how she is a little less bouncy, how little time I truly have left with her. It’s going to be devastating when she has to leave, and I can’t brace for it.

But that’s borrowing trouble. For today, she’s quite happy, having had half my morning toast. She knows what comes next–I stare at the glowing box on my desk for a while, until her staring at my profile becomes a weight I can’t ignore and I take her and Lord van der Sploot for a morning ramble.

At least, she’s very certain it’s her gaze that finally drags me out the door, and I’m content to let her think so.

I’d write more about the weekend, but I can’t for privacy reasons. Suffice to say there’s a brand new human I share some ancestry with in the world; it’s a reason to celebrate even if said brand new human arrived on their own schedule–as brand new humans are wont to do.

Happy Monday, my friends; may your Veteran’s Day pass exactly as you wish it to, and may said veterans find some peace. Later today I’ll have a song for you.

Over and out.

Monday To-Do

NaNoWriMo is underway; I’m doing a fresh new Watcher book for it. Right now it’s like pulling teeth because the word gain has to come in revision, but at least I’ve the damn thing quasi-outlined.

I never use a very tight outline, and the thing’s main purpose is to be thrown out once I get three-quarters of the way through the book, but them’s the breaks. One is tied to what works.

So for this month, HOOD‘s Season Two zero needs to be finished, and also Finder’s Watcher. I’m also waiting on edit notes for The Poison Prince, so there’s something to look forward to.

You know me. Unless I’m drowning in work, I’m not happy.

Also, I’m think I might move (or just propagate) Soundtrack Mondays over to my Substack. Might as well get some content over there to prime the pump. I’ve been wanting to get back into writing-about-writing, and this might be a good way to do it, probably on Tuesdays since Thursday is subscription day. I’m going to have to think about it.

This morning, I got into the driveway with both dogs just as some chucklefuck ran down the street with his dogs. Which wouldn’t have been an issue–except Chucklefuck’s dogs were unleashed.

Lord van der Sploot almost went mad. Miss B, once she recognized what the hell was happening, chose not to go completely mad over new friends, but instead sought to bite van der Sploot in order to calm him down.

I could have told her it wouldn’t do a damn thing.

In any case, I had to stand and wait until Chucklefuck was out of sight, then move forward cautiously, both dogs hanging from their harnesses like wet washing. I just cannot even with people, some days. At least Chucklefuck’s poor dogs didn’t bolt across the road to say hi to my fuzzbuckets, so small mercies, I guess.

I just sat and stared at the screen, feeling overwhelmed. Guess it’s time to make a to-do list and put a few things on it I’ve already done, otherwise I’ll just noodle around and forget to make any real progress.

Such is life. It’s the first Monday after we gained our extra hour of sleep back, and even the tea I’m pouring down isn’t helping. I tried like hell not to work all weekend, with varying success.

I’ll leave you with this: if I do put together a subscription Substack, what would you want me to write about? I had thought just telling personal stories and writing about writing, whatever I feel like at the time, but if anyone’s got a burning desire or a really good idea, this is the time to say something.

Over and out.