Rant Rant Rave

No More Tied Hands

A very long time ago, I ran across this article by Jenny Crusie, about taking out the garbage and protecting the work. Since then, the phrase “Protect the Work” has been knocking around in my head, on various Post-its stuck to several different laptops and desktops, and is a truth I return to over and over again.

Toxic person throwing a tantrum? Protect the work. Publisher starts behaving nonsensically? Protect the work. Distribution platform enshittifying? Protect the work. Bad-faith reviews, trollery, reviewbombing? Protect the work. Online ruckus? Protect the fucking work.

The fact remains that nobody will protect your books if you do not. Publishing, especially trad, is a business full of exploitation, arcane holdovers from a literal century or two ago, grifting, greed, and ego. Prioritizing your own work, your own health, and your own time is crucial to any sort of success or longevity in the field.

I will be the first to admit that I have let my caretaking instincts and my willingness to bend drive me to deprioritizing my own time, health, and effort to a distinct fault, especially over the last few years with A Certain Series. My commitment to the work itself has never wavered, and at least I can rest assured that I have only very rarely allowed what I knew was best for my own work to be overruled. (My mistakes in that area can be counted on one hand, fortunately.) Yet having to go into battle for my books with one hand tied behind my back has had increasingly deleterious effects on my physical health, and that has been my biggest mistake.

Each time I have finished a fight, I’ve come back to the simple, stark phrase, Protect the work. It’s taken almost two decades in the biz for me to reach the point of snapping, and there will be no more tied hands in battle. Nor will I feel bad about what’s necessary to advocate for my work or my own interests. Our society would prefer women not to do that, publishing would prefer writers not to do that, and exploiters as a whole will use every trick in the book to make you feel bad advocating for yourself, to undercut your confidence so you’re more easily taken advantage of. Perhaps it’s a function of age that I find myself singularly unwilling to entertain that folderol any longer.

Along with this, how I spend my daily time is changing. I can’t be as accessible for certain things during working hours, and I have got to find a way not to feel guilty over the fact. That will be the next life skill I work on.

I’ve once again put PROTECT THE WORK on a Post-it, and stuck it to the desktop. I’ll apply the reminder as many times as it takes.

Moving on! The Chaucer read continues apace. I’m in the weeds of the Merchant’s Tale now, and my loathing of January (who has married poor May) knows very few bounds. I can’t quite tell where the story is heading, and I think it’s marvelous that so much of this corpus hinges on the Wife of Bath’s Tale. It seems like she decided to talk about what she felt was the problem with the Knight’s Tale–indeed, with every tale before she got her chance to speak–and now everyone is reacting to her. She’s driving the entire damn bus, not the Host and certainly not Chaucer himself. The more this goes on, the more I find her the meta-character at the heart of the entire endeavour, and this pleases me even if I sometimes felt she was being a bit long-winded. Of course her culture rarely gave women the chance to speak, and she’s forced to do so through a male writer, so…maybe she had reason to yell while she had the mic.

Seeing the traces of paganism (filtered through Roman versions of Greek classics) throbbing under the constant hum of medieval Catholicism is interesting as well. Plus there are former versions of sayings we use to this day, trapped in amber, smiling like old friends. Now that I have the rhythm of the language–it really is like Shakespeare, teaching one to read it as one goes along–everything is much, much easier.

In fact, I couldn’t wait to get back to it this morning, and stole a little time in bed with Boxnoggin snoring next to me, breathlessly reading Hades and Persephone beginning to argue about January, May, Damian, and the whole situation. I can’t wait for Persephone to bonk her husband on the head and point out he’s certainly no paragon of marital behavior.

And my scheduled time for blogging is over. It’s a wet, icy mess out there, “slicker than gooseshit” as some of the locals say, and the dog might not get the walk he wants unless we set out after more of the hazardous ice-sheets have washed away. But the back of the freeze is broken and it’s disintegrating bit by bit.

Hopefully that’s a sign. Onward to Thursday.

Year of the Real

I don’t often blog on Wednesdays, keeping those mornings for other things instead. But this week is a little different. My health is not good, we are literally iced in1, and I have been thinking about a few things.

One of them is my Word of the Year. Resolutions bear mixed results at best, not least for the self-punishment our culture encourages if a new habit isn’t easily and flawlessly acquired. So, somewhere around the internets, I saw someone had simply picked a few words to focus on for the year instead, and that seemed a grand idea.

January 1, I decided I would focus on one word, and I would keep it simple.

The word was REAL.

We are assailed by “AI” plagiarism pap–visual, audio, and textual–as well as disinformation and propaganda, to a degree unusual in my life experience. Of course disinformation and propaganda have been with us from the beginning, especially as humanity developed mass-communication tools.2 However, I feel like it’s currently heaped up, doused with jet fuel, and set ablaze, with lots of people merrily shoveling more highly volatile fuel onto the blaze just to see what happens.3

Not only that, but I work in publishing. It’s not quite Hollywood, where one is well advised not to believe even the simplest assertion until the cheque clears (not deposited, clears) but it’s still an industry largely built on the exploitation of creative people, and that exploitation requires broken promises, implicit deceit, outright lies, and shameless number-juggling to a degree that astonishes many folks, even those in other lines of work where such things are rampant.4

I cannot fix this. And I know there are a lot of people out there claiming to be writers when in fact they are marketers and view the actual writing as a chore best farmed out to ghostwriters, who are forced to scour Upwork and Fiverr for a pittance in order to barely pay ever-escalating rent. There are a lot of people claiming to be writers when in fact they are grifters attempting to score big with LLM plagiarism, running away with the cash before they can be brought to account. There are a lot of people claiming to be “publishing gurus” or “coaches” when in fact they are also grifters looking to profit off the desperation of those who think they could be a Big-Name Novelist if they could just find the Magic Handshake. There’s a whole host of people claiming to be artists in when in fact they are plagiarizing, thieving pieces of shit who think a Midjourney prompt is something that should put them on Rembrandt’s level.

These people are fakes. I prefer to be real.

I have been considered a bit temperamental because I want my books a certain way.5 I want my books to be as good and as honest as I can make them, and while I allow feedback from trusted sources the final decision is always mine. I have sometimes insisted on that to the point of open conflict, and I know I have passed up and lost certain opportunities as a result.

The few times I have allowed myself to be overridden by the well-meaning (or the vengeful), I have always regretted it.

I think readers respond to both hard work in and the reality of books. I don’t think readers only want plagiarised pap or bland, anodyne inoffensive mealymouthing. I think even if a book or an author is flawed, if they are honest about their experience, refuse to bullshit, and put in the work, readers will respond. I think human beings are capable of discerning the thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of tiny signals in a work of human art that say, “I made this with my whole being, and I give it to you.” Even if people dislike the piece of art in question, the emotional response is still there.6

I’m betting that people still want complex, nuanced, juicy books that take significant effort to write.7 Regardless of whether I win or lose the bet, I do not regret placing it and will never stop believing it’s the right call.

Concurrently, I am done with being shamed when I am “difficult” because a book has a complex plot or words that may require a dictionary trip, “unlikeable” characters or a non-happy ending. I will not betray the work. I will not, in any way, betray the Real.

That’s what I’m focusing on this year. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen such a word after years of pandemic and escalating fakeness.8 I know the power of words–how on earth could I not? And the first challenge in my Year of the Real has been a doozy, possibly permanently damaging my health and driving me past patience.

But I’ve taken up the gauntlet. I have often said, especially since 2016, that I dislike hope because it just leads to getting kicked in the face again. Yet Hope is not a shrinking violet. She has been knocked to the ground, spat out a few teeth, blinked away the blood, reached for her shattered sword, and the bitch just keeps getting back up. Hope is the sister of the Real, and so long as I am faithful to them–so long as I do not truckle–they will return the favor.

Let’s see what the year throws at me next.

Heal, Guide, and Comfort

I suppose I can be grateful for the recent unpleasantness in some ways. For so long I was thinking I was the problem; getting reassurances from trusted sources that I’m not, that the situation is deeply and genuinely fucked up, is helpful. It’s also a Very Big Thing for me to reach out and ask for any aid at all, since I do not trust easily and my upbringing rather deeply impressed upon me the idea that it is always unsafe to make oneself so vulnerable as to ask for help.

More than All That, though, is a decision that came upon me all at once while writing down a timeline of events. Writing isn’t just for my weird little stories. It also helps one think coherently, arrange, and see patterns. I suppose it’s no surprise I process a lot of stuff by literally writing through it.

In any case, I have come to a conclusion. My physical health has been permanently affected by this particular nonsense taking up years of my time and energy. Consequently I will never, ever allow myself or my work to be treated in this fashion again. I simply will not brook it, and if that means I have to be bitchy and insist instead of attempting to take care of everyone else in a situation at the expense of my own stomach lining, health, sanity, and art…then very well. I shall be a bitch. I shall be the bitchiest bitch who ever bitched a bitching bitch. If people will not listen when I ask politely or signal discreetly, then by the gods I shall kick the door down and demand.

A long time ago, when the kids saw Lilo & Stitch, they joked that I was very like Mr Bubbles. Apparently the line, “So far you have been swimming in the sheltered waters of my patience,” seems tailor-made for their dear Mum. As they’ve grown older, it’s become somewhat of a family phrase. My fuse is long, and even getting it close to the cask of gunpowder is apparently a banner event.

Anyway. I have made up my mind. A number of things are going to change in a hot hurry, that’s all.

On to better news! I managed a little over 900 words yesterday, more than I thought I’d get. (The ruckus has been affecting my daily writing schedule, which cannot happen.) It was such a relief to be back I was provoked to another crying fit. The warrior-woman who’s about to duel a sellsword has started talking, and she’s a fabulous character. I am also relieved House of the Fan isn’t dead, it’s very much showing signs of life and interest now that the nausea is receding a bit.

Yesterday I was talking about not yet getting to the fourth part of the Clerk’s Tale. (Canterbury Tales, for those just joining us.) I could just see the Wife of Bath’s expression during the introduction and the first three parts, but then ol’ Geoffrey pulled the rug out from underneath. The Clerk’s point was actually that Griselda was rare, real and normal women don’t put up with that bullshit, and actually he’d tell wives not to because it is bullshit. Which was a pleasant surprise, made me laugh out loud, and felt rather pointed, as if Geoff was reaching across the centuries with a knowing wink and saying, “Honey, you’re on the right track.”

The power of stories to heal, to guide, and to comfort never ceases to amaze. Next up is the Merchant’s Tale, and I am breathless with anticipation. However, I was too tired to attempt the hill last night. I have also found out that a young Ralph Fiennes, young Toby Stephens, Lena Headey, and Liv Tyler were in a cinema treatment of Eugene Onegin (it’s on YouTube, if you’re interested) and NOBODY TOLD ME. I immediately sent it to my writing partner, who was thrilled. (And quipped, “Once upon a time Voldemort, Arwen, Mr Rochester, and Cersei Lannister all attended a house party…”) I’ve watched a couple clips and am EVER SO READY to glory in the whole thing once I can set aside some uninterrupted time.

It’s lovely to have something pleasant to look forward to. For a while my definitive Onegin has been Dmitri Hvorostovsky, and one particular scene in a Met rendition of Tchaikovsky’s opera (a duet between the Siberian Tiger and the incomparable Renee Fleming) gave me a vampire story I’m goddamn determined to write one day, as soon as I can jam it into the schedule.

Speaking of the schedule, I didn’t realize that I could cross the Chained Knight revise off the master to-do list, which was a dopamine hit I sorely needed. I was so caddywumpus (and frankly so vomitous) that I didn’t even twig I’d reached a major milestone in the year’s schedule already–not even halfway through January, as a matter of fact. Which is frankly amazing and I deserve a cookie.

Toxic situations are not just thieves of joy and time, but also of quite reasonable and healthy estimation of one’s own worth.

It’s still icy and Boxnoggin will again get only a half-block’s worth of walkies, though the projected melt tomorrow will mean we’re back to the regular and not a moment too soon. There’s a lot to get done today; though I’m still feeling the aftershocks at least I’m not trying to force myself into an ulcer.

Onward into Tuesday we go…

…Are We Back?

Apparently I found the limits of my patience last week. Or at least, the limits of my body’s patience with stress.

For literal years I have been fighting alone on behalf of a certain series. It’s been positively nightmarish, both for reasons unavoidable (pandemic, corporate nonsense) and completely avoidable (contempt displayed for the work by those who should be its advocates, etc.). I’ve tried to be flexible, professional, resilient, calm. And finally last week, a straw landed upon the camel’s back.

The resultant snap probably registered on the Richter scale. And it happened after nearly a week of trying to resurrect the final book in said series while being unable to sleep plus suffering the worst case of stress nausea I’ve ever had the displeasure of. Which is saying something; morning sickness, sertraline adjustment, even buying the house was nothing compared to this. I still can’t really eat unless I disassociate, and sleep has been rather an impossibility. I hyperfocused on getting Chained Knight revised during the day for most of the week, with breaks to try opening the master file for the series in question, and each time I did the latter produced fits of nausea so intense I had to eventually keep a bowl next to the desk. At night I lay in bed and trembled, too nervous and vomitous to sleep. By Friday I was entirely shot, and that’s when the whole thing broke.

The hell of it is that I do want to write this book; I long to finish the series. These are books of my heart and what I consider masterworks. But certain issues in the publication process have been so nightmarish my very body has revolted, and there’s been no help in sight. I’m utterly alone in this fight, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. I usually try not to say anything at all, for publishing does its mightiest to convince writers that any faint complaint or refusal to toe even the most abusive of lines will be met with swift blacklisting–or worse.

I just want to write my stories and pay my bills, dammit. And that’s all I can say about the whole goddamn thing.

A winter storm moved in Saturday, after threatening for several days. Lots of powdery snow blowing while the wind gusted and rattled, which suited my mood. I settled on the couch with Boxnoggin and crawled into a paperback of ‘Salem’s Lot–about the third one I’ve owned, since I’ve read two to pieces. (It’s not the only King I’ve read to pieces; I think I’m on my fourth Rose Madder paperback?) I don’t know what it says that my comfort read ended up being Writer vs. Vampire, but it felt…good, to have another world to inhabit and a situation one could at least take action in, instead of simply waiting helplessly for the worst. Unfortunately the book only held me for about a day, but by then I could concentrate a little better and went back to Chaucer.

I had left in the middle of the Wife of Bath’s tale, and now I see why she’s so famous. I love her, even if she’s written by somewhat of a misogynist, and she seems to be an example of what Cleolinda Jones calls “meta-characters”–those who seem not to be created by the author so much as hailing from some other place and springing to life on the page whether the author will or no. One of the hallmarks of meta-characters is that while the author might make them say or do certain things, the characters themselves have a genius for arranging things so that the reader’s overall impression may be far different than what the author intends. A prime example of this is Tolkien’s Eowyn, who shines even through the Jackson movies’ betrayal of her character. (That’s a rant for another day.)

I found myself smiling despite the nausea at certain of the Wife of Bath’s sallies, even while I wished she would get to the damn point. And when she did finish her tale I felt like cheering.

The storm has settled into relative calm and subzero temperatures, with freezing rain in the near forecast. I’ve also read the Friar’s and Summoner’s Tales, and was in the fourth bit of the Clerk’s Tale last night when I felt like I could sleep again. Even across centuries I can see the Wife of Bath’s expression as the Clerk starts listing Griselda’s many patiences. To be fair Chaucer gave the Wife space to be heroine in her own story, and inserts some sly observations in the Clerk’s that make it clear he’s drawing a deliberate contrast and doing it with the Clerk’s own tools of rhetoric. I actually cocked my head last night at a passage and thought, “Why, Geoffrey, I see what you’re doing, you magnificent bastard.”

And Boxnoggin snored wetly against my shoulder at that point, for he was dreaming. He was perplexed by the snow, now hates the cold on his tender paws, yet has forgotten any other weather exists, for lo! he is a dog of Very Little Brane and Very Much Instinct.

I have The Stand (unabridged) queued up for when Geoffrey is finished, and after that Pekka Hamalainen’s Lakota America. Or I might decide to go with the Hamalainen first, or something else entirely. It’s all up in the air. I’ve been unable to work since sending the Chained Knight revision off, and that bothers me a great deal as well. Fortunately a couple friends have been keeping me on the rails, so far as I can be kept–you know who you are, and thank you.

So. Everything is shut down for the holiday and the weather. Boxnoggin will get only half a block’s worth of walkies, just enough to make a nod to habit while keeping his paws from freezing. I’m going to try some actual work today, but if that doesn’t happen it’ll be right back to the Clerk while imagining the Wife of Bath rolling her eyes.

At least I have that.

Tenuous Peace, Cutting

It’s always mildly amusing when people who have denigrated and dismissed one for a long while act surprised when one picks up one’s toys and goes home. The ol’ “pretending bafflement when the person you used to kick around suddenly isn’t there anymore” can even be deeply hilarious, if viewed from far enough away to protect oneself. Escaping a bad situation, disengaging from those who use one as a punching bag, is tremendously healing.

All the same, I can’t help but find much of the professed surprise deeply disingenuous. Did you think I’d stay forever to be the whipping girl?

Moving on (literally!), I’m revising the last few chapters of Chained Knight today. The pieces are in place for editing (95% certainty) and cover art (that’s a Texas-sized ten-four, good buddy), so maybe around June or so another Tale of the Underdark will toddle into the world. I am deeply relieved to find out that the book is actually good–the beta readers liked it too–and that I’m still pleased by the idea of playing variations on a theme a la Elric. I think there’s one more symphony of that vein in me, but I can’t write it until *checks schedule* probably sometime next year?

That’s all right, it’ll keep. Of course, making it do so will probably force it to tear its way out of my head in two weeks like the last one. Big fun.

The three Underdark books won’t be a series, per se, but they will be variations. Cover art and releasing long enough apart should make that clear, and if it doesn’t end up getting through to a certain proportion of folk, well, there’s nothing further I can do. My work has never been for those incapable of drawing inferences, or unwilling to do so.

Perhaps it’s the energy of the new year provoking a re-evaluation of where my energy is being spent, or maybe my patience has finally been eroded. It could even be the vast inner quiet of two book hangovers at once, or the ongoing realization of my own inalienable value. Whichever way it’s sliced, I’m at a tenuous peace with cutting off a few gangrenous chunks right-fucking-now. At a certain point the consequences of walking away are far less damaging than those of staying where one is not valued, and I learn that lesson over and over. The relief is immense, almost unbearable.

After Chained revisions are dealt with, there’s a duel with a warrior woman in Highlands War as well as a pitched set-piece battle that promises to be rather fun. Not for the characters–Kaia would much rather have a decent bath and a good dinner, and her princeling is of like mind. Unfortunately the story isn’t cooperating with their dual longing, in any sense of the word. And after that…hm, it would be nice if a few folks would clear their pre-holiday inboxes and get back to me about the four…wait, five…no, six, oh my gods, six or so books waiting to either be picked up by a press or, failing that, stuffed in the self-pub cannon.

It’s a wonder I haven’t gone full-feral indie long before now. In any case, I’m giving trad publishing one last year to shape up, as my grandfather used to say–including paying me on time–or ship the fuck out. We’ll see what happens.

Thursday beckons, the subscription drops are formatted and merely require loading, Boxnoggin dislikes the chill damp but will be glad of walkies, and my own inbox could stand a little attention before I choke down some toast and get truly underway.

I’d best get started.

Ol’ Geoffrey’s Rhythm

The weather is filthy and likely to remain so for a week or two, which pleases me to no end. Boxnoggin will be far less enamored of the whole deal once we’re outside, but as soon as we get home he’ll forget his dislike and head for a nap.

Must be nice.

Wandering around in my feed this morning is an article on one of the bigger AI grifters openly admitting they can’t train their plagiarism pink sauce without stealing. The grift is reaching its endgame now, with anyone who’s going to profit already escaped with their ill-gotten gains, the rest of us left to deal with the fallout. It seems like the cycle of grifting (NFTs, bitcoin, LLM/”AI”) is getting shorter and shorter as regulation looms. A more compressed timeframe means the initial theft and buy-in has to be bigger and the perpetrators have to leap off the bus more quickly once they’ve gotten their payday; the theft has to be grander and grander in scale in order to provide the thieves with their accustomed payout. You’d think people would learn…but PT Barnum was right, one born every minute and that goes double for the internet.

I spent the weekend refilling the well instead of working as I had planned. The Muse and my own nervous system rose up in revolt, so I had to let both out to play. It meant a lot of action movies for the Muse (including Fist of the Condor, which was everything I’d been told) as well as Chaucer on the couch for the rest of me. I made my way through the Prologue (finally!) and the Knight’s Tale, and all I can think is that Arcite and Palamon should’ve just escaped from jail, gone home, and left Emily alone to worship Diana as she wanted to. Just leave the lady alone, boys!

But of course that wasn’t an option. Next up is the Miller’s Tale, and I think things will go a bit more smoothly now that I have ol’ Geoffrey’s rhythm. It’s like the Shakespeare muscle–each time I read the Bard I have to go slowly for a short while, catching the beat before hopping in to jump rope. I’m looking forward to it.

The best thing about Chaucer is seeing the throughlines. A lot of other phrases and allusions I’ve noticed elsewhere make more sense. I enjoy seeing how “classics” morph in later works; the organic process is fascinating to witness. And no, before some AI-apologist asshat gets it into their head to email me, that is not the same as “training” an “AI”. A human being investing their precious, finite time on earth to read, interact with, and digest a work before creating their own unique art is a thousand percent different, and your false equivalencies and strawmen are not welcome here. Go, thou, with thy tiny gods; fucketh right offe into the sunne.

This week will be all about Highlands War chapters (big set-piece battles looming!) and Chained Knight revisions. Plans for the latter are firming up; I’m thinking June will do for a release date. Which reminds me I’ve got to get the cover sorted soonish. *to-do list chimes as it grows longer*

But that’s a slightly Future Me problem. Right now brekkie is due, walkies must be had, and my own corpse must shamble through wind and rain at a slightly faster pace than walking. I had to take a recovery break from running and it was awful. I need the endorphins liek woah.

And so it goes. Time to swill coffee dregs and be about the business. Happy Monday, everyone.

All This Ruckus

It’s no secret I dislike this time of year. Oh, the weather is great–the rains are here with a vengeance–and the trees are well abed, slipping into dreamland. Some of the lights are very pretty, and the chill breezes mean a lot of the jackasses who let their dogs run unleashed in the park(s) stay inside.

No, it’s “the holidays” I loathe. Normally any opportunity to take half a day off from work and eat some good food is right up my alley, but November-December is chock-full of fake-smiling faces on advertisements designed to make one feel inferior, progressively more stressed parents desperate to buy what the TV tells them is the year’s hot toy and taking their fraying tempers out on kids who really just want care and attention, performative “good deeds” by people who act shitty the rest of the year, and retail workers forced to endure the worst conditions since last holiday season from a public trained to treat them like shit even at the best of times. And the lights, decorations, music, and smells all remind me of my childhood “caregivers”, boiling away under the pressure of putting up a good front for extended family and coworkers while violently taking out their frustrations on already-battered children behind closed doors.

Some years I deal with the reminders better than others. This one’s not going too well, as you can probably sense; 2023 has been pretty stressful in its own right, and these few weeks feel like the final fuck-you on its way out the door. I mean, it’s not 2020, but that’s a faint blessing at best. And at least I have the portal fantasy, the first Cain’s Wife, Highlands War, the new romantasy, and The Dead God’s Heart to make me feel like I’ve accomplished a few things this year.

I’ll take what I can get. Today will be all about Highlands and House of the Fan, especially the latter since last night I figured out a super important piece of the heroine’s backstory that soups up the central conflict of the book. I had thought the conflict would be them getting to the big duelist academy in time for the entrance exam, but instead it’s going to be about the assassins’ syndicate our heroine burned to the ground being a little more robust than she thought.

I mean, naturally, they’re used to keeping their real strengths hidden. But she’s about to get a series of surprises ranging from almost pleasant (the hero has secrets of his own, though nothing like hers) to the exceedingly nasty (the central conflict). Some of that will be built out today, but the bulk of my time will be spent giving Kaia Steelflower a few unpleasant surprises as well.

Anyway, the rain should fall off a bit after dawn, and Boxnoggin will complain once we’re out in it but he needs walkies in order to act reasonably the rest of the day. I suppose I’d best finish the coffee-dregs, slap some bread into the toaster, and think about how I’m going to do the next combat scene. If I keep my head down and my gaze focused on work, I can ignore a lot of the holiday folderol.

That’s the plan, at least. And if you enjoy the holidays, great! Try to enjoy them a little more for my sake, I encourage that. Someone should have some pleasure out of all this ruckus.

Off I go to embark upon Tuesday…