Rant Rant Rave

When They’re Not Serving

I’ve got a survey out to my serial subscribers, asking if they want to go to Season Three of HOOD when Season Two ends. Season Three is the payoff, but from what I can tell, plenty of people are getting bored with Season Two.

I don’t take it personally–serials, especially long-running ones, are difficult, and the long shoal in the middle of a trilogy’s Book 2 is an inescapable fact of life. But it does mean that I might be finishing Season Two and putting together a whole new serial.

It might even be The Highlands War, but don’t bet on it. I have several prospects, including Lightning Bound and the wangsty Dracula reboot I’ve been playing hooky with. I may just keep Wangsty Dracula for my own personal delectation, too. It’s nice to have some things just for oneself.

In other news, I spent the weekend getting a few things put together, like an upcoming test giveaway. I’ll be giving away two signed, personalized copies of the UK edition of Dante Valentine; I want to see if the giveaways will drive a couple other things and I don’t do signings anymore.1 Of course, it may be an idea I’ll quietly let die on the vine once the flu-fever recedes, because I’ve been running 99.9F or slightly above since last week.

I don’t mind fever so much–my body tends to cook itself at the slightest provocation–but the body aches have convinced me it’s flu, and I do mind those. I feel like I’ve been beaten with a truncheon. The only thing I’m missing is garish bruises, which I’m alternately grateful for the lack of and a little peeved that I’m not wearing a badge of honor for.

I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s still how I feel.

Anyway, I’ve a full list of things to get done today, including the finishing touches on the giveaway and some yoga, since I’m going mad at not being able to run. If it’s not plantar fasciitis it’s the damn fever; it’s always something. Getting older sucks, but there are good things too. Like being able to look at things, shrug, and set them aside when they’re not serving me.

In any case, it’s a Monday and I’d best be back at work. I hope your beginning-of-blessed-autumn is proceeding a little more smoothly than mine, dear Readers.

Over and out.

Time It Right

I’ve only twenty minutes before I have to shove the icepack back into the freezer and hop in the shower. I don’t care if my plantar fascia hurts, I have to run. I have been going mad with the enforced rest, and tomorrow is a release day.

That’s right, tomorrow, Incorruptible is released to the world for your delectation at midnight tonight. Remember, you can download the first six chapters here for free.

I already have release day nerves, so I’ve been pushing myself pretty hard this morning. If I can get tired enough I might even be able to sleep tonight. I finished the zero of Damage late last week. It’s only around 46k, but there’s plenty of room for expansion if it gets sold as a category.

I’m trying to work out what comes next. Orphaned and out of contract is never a fun place to be as an author, especially in this economy. It’s one of those days I think I should pack it all in, become a plumber or something, and only write for home consumption, so to speak.

Don’t despair, dear Readers. The feeling is normal, I get it right before every release day. You’d think it would get easier to deal with, but each time it wears right through the carpet and cuts a groove in my mental floor.

In any case, I have Hell’s Acre, Memory Game, and HOOD‘s Season Two open in Scrivener. The last needs a stiff reread to get back into the groove, and if I push I might get a zero out in the next month. That would be nice; I’ll probably work on Memory Game next since I’m still in a suspense/thriller mood.

But in the meantime, I’m going to finish icing my heel and stagger for the shower. Getting back to work after finishing a zero is always an exercise in stubbornness, like hopping in to jump double-dutch. I never quite got the hang of that, but it didn’t stop me from trying. One day I’ll time it right.

Over and out.

Stubbornness and Experience

Just a short note today, since I am so close to the end of Damage I can almost taste a few days off. Usually I have a long doldrums in the center third to four-fifth of a book before lunging to the end; this particular story began gathering steam at the halfway point and is full speed, arm the torpedoes, pass the butter and devil take the hindmost, amen.

Which also means I’ve had the usual “this book is shit, I am shit, and everyone who depends on me will starve to death because of it” in fast-forward, compressed into a smaller length of time but not at all ameliorated. Instead of the usual endurance match it’s a battering on the ropes.

Fortunately, I’ve stubbornness and experience on my side. And icepacks for my damn heel; I’m going to have to get some dixie cups and ice my forearms after this as well. Taking care of one’s hands is de rigeur for a scribe, and my fingers are a little tired. Normally I break in the middle of the day, shifting between two projects; spending all my time focused with white-hot intensity on one is giving me aches I could do without.

I might be pushing so hard on this book because I can’t run for a short while–plantar fasciitis is a bitch–and I need something to keep my brain from eating itself. Yoga sadly doesn’t cut it.

So it’s ice, and ibuprofen, and swearing under my breath every time I have to get said icepack out. This draft is extremely lean; that’s all right, I think it’s more a category romance than anything and the leanness of the draft will give me plenty of room to add the necessary touches and still be under wordcount limit.

Of course, if the category publishers don’t get off their rear ends and move in a reasonable amount of time, it will no doubt grow to a different proportion and be brought out through my own inimitable services. Either way a reader wins. I’m getting less and less willing to wait for trad publishers to, in my grandfather’s pungent phrase, shit or get off the pot.

Also, it’s subscription day, and I should really get the monthly newsletter out. If I get the denouement done this morning, that will be a lazy afternoon’s work.

Meanwhile there’s coffee to suck down, ice to put under my heel until it stings and grows numb, the dogs to walk while I wince and step carefully. The rain has retreated for now; the sunshine is unpleasant but at least it’s not gasping-hot anymore. Summer’s spine has broken and autumn has ascended the throne.

It’s got to be enough.

Only Moderate Pain

The Society

It’s a dark morning, a nice thick cloud layer shielding us. The rain has brought greening at the bottom of summer-yellowed grass and the trees are lifting their arms again, turgor pressure rising. Miss B is philosophical–her coat is wash and wear, and she’s a fan of chilly temperatures.

Boxnoggin, however, is from the South, and this cold, damp bullshit is not at all to his liking. Plus, he’s got a lovely slick coat that doesn’t bulk up like B’s. Consequently, he goes out in the rain and his first act is to crane his head over his shoulder and look at me mournfully. Clearly I am a vengeful goddess who is making water fall from the sky for the express purpose of inconveniencing his four-legged self.

B’s just happy summer is over. She gets warm, even with the air trapped in her coat.

As for me, I am delighted with the rain. Already my productivity’s spiked; 4k on Damage yesterday alone. I’m in the space where I hate the book, I loathe it, nobody’s going to want to read it, and we’ll all starve to death because I’m a terrible writer.

So, just as usual, then. I wish I could escape that terrible feeling for at least one book, but it hasn’t happened yet after fifty-plus, so it’s probably just one of those things. Like death, taxes, and the stupidity of rich white men.

This morning requires some walking in the rain. I know exactly what happens next, but there’s two gory combat scenes I need to block out, and since the injury running is out of the question for a while. Fortunately I can still walk with only moderate pain, and I need to be moving.

Also fortunately, I can swing the sledgehammer. I sense a lot of that in my future.

Oh, hey–we’re also a week away from Incorruptible‘s launch! Remember, you can download the first six chapters for free; you can also preorder just about everywhere.

And now, the shilling of my wares done, I need to get a jacket on and get the dogs out the door for walkies. At least when it’s raining Boxnoggin keeps up a brisk pace, wanting to get back to shelter as soon as possible. I don’t blame him, especially since it’s good exercise.

But first, there’s coffee to be absorbed while I blink frowstily at yesterday’s work, trimming just a few words and getting back into the rhythm. It may be a terrible book, but it will not be a terrible unfinished book. One can work with a whole corpse, after all, much better than one can work with fragments.

Happy Tuesday, my dears.

Blank, Pointy-Tooth Screens

Cormorant Run

The weekend passed in a blur, between chores and getting wordcount in on Damage. The best thing about it was the rain moving in. It is now officially autumn, and I couldn’t be happier.

I always work best when the rains settle like an inverted grey bowl, tip-tapping the roof and window, hissing between leaves beginning to turn, plopping into puddles. Maybe it’s all the negative ions being thrown up, maybe it’s the ambient white noise, maybe it’s the petrichor, maybe it’s the cleaning of the air. Maybe it’s all of them.

I also watched Wes Craven’s Dracula 2000 and its two “sequels”, the latter only loosely related to the first movie but starring Jason Scott Lee. I don’t quite uncritically love them, I’m aware of how bad all three movies are. The first one played with some extremely interesting themes and the third had the right ending1 instead of an action-movie Gary Stu vomit-fest, so all in all, they’re not bad.

Vampires are a blank screen we use to project a number of anxieties onto. I know–I’m guilty as charged, between Selene2 and the scurf in the Kismet series.3 Both had their uses, and I might be ready to write Tarquin’s story. Or even Imprint, the Beguine vampire smexy-story I’ve been adding chunks to over literal years.

But first I’ve got to finish Damage and get the Season 2 zero of HOOD out of the way. Now that I’m in the productive half of the year, that might even happen in a hurry. And of course there’s running, running with dogs, walking with dogs, parenting, and making sure my meatsack doesn’t give out under the pressure.

It feels like juggling chainsaws, complete with the risk of lopping off a hand when one grabs the wrong way. Tiger by the tail, and all that.

I should also get the monthly newsletter out of the way. Incorruptible goes on sale later this month, too, so there’s housekeeping to do for that.

It’s a good thing the rainy season’s long in these parts. I’d probably never get anything finished otherwise. Time to finish absorbing my coffee and get with the program; it might be dangerous to stay in one place.

Over and out.

The Last Turkey Morning

No turkeys were harmed in the course of this entire thing. Inconvenienced, maybe, but that’s it.

I know you guys are wondering what happened on my last turkey-wrangling day, but it’s entirely anticlimactic. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Princess, a little concerned for my safety (or maybe my sanity, since I was returning home almost prostrate with heat and muttering about turkeys), decided to go with me on the last day. “I could hold the shovel,” she suggested, with a glint in her eye.1

“No way,” I said, immediately. “If that fucking turkey comes at you I’m going to have to kill it, and I want to avoid killing *friend name*’s turkey if it’s at all possible. You can stand outside the coop. With Shirley.”

“You’re a good friend.” She hopped off to get ready for the expedition.

I suppose I should add that my children are well used to Shirley, since she sits in the dining room most days, keeping an eye on the dogs while they’re at their bowls.

Anyway, we got there–I did not have to wrangle goats that day, thank the heavens–a little earlier than usual, and after dealing with all the other livestock we headed down to the coop. It was a bright, very hot morning, promising a tar-softening scorcher of an afternoon.

The Princess had seen Heloise and the chickens before, but never a turkey. “That’s… a really big bird,” she said, clutching Shirley to her chest.

“Just keep his attention.” I cast a critical glance at the coop fencing, which appeared to be holding up. “Wave Shirley around or something.”

“Yes ma’am.” She set to with a will, performing what I can only describe as a very slow interpretative penguin dance.

I tossed in scratch, glanced nervously at Turkey Boy, who was strutting back and forth with his tail high and his wings down, and backed cautiously out of sight.

I got in and out of the egg room, blocking the opening with the shovel, and found a paltry three eggs for our trouble. I did not, however, heave a sigh of relief until I was out of the egg room, the door firmly shut, and further firmly out of the coop itself, with the antechamber door closed as well.

“He’s really quite stunning,” the Princess said when I rejoined her at the fence. She had ceased her dance and was staring in rapt amazement. “And he looks calm.”

“Uh, not really. See the way his wings are down? That’s part of the mating dance. He’s not stomping, but he’s close. Plus, see how his snood’s getting red, and his throat too? He–“

I might have continued to lecture, but Turkey Boy made a short dash for the fence. Both the Princess and I stepped back in a hurry, and I almost turned my ankle in a rathole. Shirley swayed, and Turkey Boy stopped dead.

He might have leapt for the fence, but I think he saw Shirley and the Princess as an unholy cryptid of some sort, a terrifying amalgamation of young woman and flightless bird. He stopped, staring at us, and his throat vibrated with loud gobbles. Goose Girl had already nipped into the egg room to get at the kibble before her midmorning bath.

“Let’s not push it.” I grabbed the Princess’s sleeve and all but hauled her away.

I’m glad of two things: that someone else saw the sheer size of the bird, and that Turkey Boy didn’t come through the fence. If he’d gone after my child, she might have had to fend him off with Shirley before I arrived with a shovel–or before I grabbed him with my bare hands. Those spurs are deadly and only God knows what the resultant wounds might have been infected by, but I’d wring that bastard’s neck if he came at my baby.

We locked everything up and got in the car, and I didn’t quite spin out of the gravel driveway.2

We drove in silence for a short while, and finally the Princess turned to me from the window, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Are you feeling relieved?”

“No more turkey,” I muttered, with feeling. “Thank gods.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “They’ll go on vacation again next year. By then you’ll have forgotten all about this.”

“Oh, fuck,” I muttered, knowing she was right.

It took a good hour before she stopped giggling.

ANYWAY, that was the last day I had to wrangle a turkey, and it passed without incident. Except for the rats, of course.

But that’s (say it with me) another story…

Highlands Thoughts

Steelflower

I’m considering doing an Indiegogo or a serial run for The Highlands War. It would be nice to get Kaia’s story to a natural resting place before I walk away from it for good.

Originally, there were only three books planned–Steelflower, then her adventures in the Highlands, then her return (with Darik) to G’maihallan. The rash of piracy–not to mention small publishers going under–put paid to that plan; the former is a curse and the latter a mixed blessing since it allowed me to stretch out and tell the story of Antai and the journey to the North in the proper fashion.

But I think the G’maihallan book(s) will never be written. Kaia’s return (less triumphant than fated, and full of the secrets of those she’s learned with such effort to trust) will have to stay in my head, unwritten. I know what happens, and it has to be enough.

It’s a constant struggle to go back to Kaia’s world now, because I flinch at the thought of the work being stolen again and again. People stealing these books in particular drains away the energy needed to complete more of them. And people arriving at my website searching for “torrent”, “free”, and “PDF” don’t help.

At the same time, it bothers me to leave the Highlands part of the series unwritten, because Redfist’s arc really needs its completion and Gavrin begins to come into his own. The minstrel is slowly becoming a hero in his own right, and it’s fun to see him in the background, learning from Kaia and her friends. He’s going to have an interesting life.

I just haven’t decided whether I’ll put together a fundraiser so I can take some time off and write the story, or if I’ll put together a short-term serial. The latter would require having at least the zero done so it can be scheduled. When I make the decision I’ll get to work.

Unfortunately, that might have to wait a couple months. I need to finish Damage and Season Two of HOOD is taking up all my emotional strength right now. Parl Jun’s costume party is beginning to take on a different character indeed, and we’re going to see just how far Giz will go to protect Marah.

And even that will have to wait for a run, for the dogs to be walked, for coffee to finish soaking in, and a battle with a turkey. Some days I–

–what? Oh, the turkey.

Uh, I’ll tell you later. Because it really deserves a post or two of its own.

Over and out, then. For now.