An atmospheric event brought sodden grass, rain-freighted boughs, and blossoms starred with clear, evanescent jewels. Now we’re in a tranche of hot, dry days, yet the moisture remains, enticing roots to dig deep and conserve.
I have an apotheosis to revise, which hopefully won’t take until Monday…but if it does, I’ll count it a small price to pay. And endure until there’s more rain.
Have a lovely weekend, my dears. I’ll see you next week.
Good progress made yesterday; I was head-down in the revisions and did not surface until dinner. Then I went back to it, though at a significantly slower pace. I have not yet reached the point where I realize, hey, this book is actually all right, I didn’t do too badly. But I’m past the midway mark, and during the revision of a particularly crucial scene, shuffle play served up the very song that expresses the character said scene is built around. The universe keeps handing me little signals that I’m on the right track, doing what I’m supposed to.
Which is a grace indeed, for I need the encouragement. The damage was deep and scars tissue-thin at the moment, barely holding the wounds together. I’d like for them to thicken but at least leaning into the pain means–again–that I’m on the correct path. I simply have to endure a little longer.
It seems we’ve had all the rain we’re allowed for the moment. The forecast is mumbling something about 80F today, and I devoutly hope it’s just delirium speaking. In any case I’ll get the morning run done and dusted before it gets unlivable, but I am a pale Pacific Northwest mushroom and do not like what this presages. A certain type of insanity seems to descend upon this part of the world when the big yellow eye in the sky is uncovered, from those who appear to have forgotten how to drive in the glare to those who think it a fine idea to let their dogs roam offleash.
Hopefully we’ll get a few more cloudy days as spring proceeds.
The foliage is loving this turn of events, however, and I do like all the green. Lemon balm and leeks have returned with a vengeance, bigleaf maples are trying on summer robes, and even the oaks are gussying up. The chestnuts are putting on a show, and all the fir-tips are tender with bright colour. Let’s not even talk about the blackberries; I saw a fresh vine yesterday with thorns as long as my thumbnail already.
I think I can get to the island in today’s work, which will leave the big battle and falling action for tomorrow. There’s the weekend if that doesn’t happen, though. All things considered I should be through the thicket of revision and sending this book in sometime next week–far earlier than I promised, but then, I always like to have things work out that way. I’d rather be early than late, and there’s extra time in case I run across an insuperable obstacle. I don’t anticipate one, precisely–for so long I’ve know every detail of these books there’s very little in the way of surprise.
But I don’t rule it out. The Muse is like that, and the particular genius (in the old sense, perhaps daemon is a better word, or yes, god) looking after this story a mischievous one. Going through revision I notice he’s been mentioned several times, peeking through the bars of my prose. I didn’t even realize he was truly involved until I finished the zero draft, but it makes a great deal of sense.
Beware what is creatively invoked, for it takes on a life of its own. Of course, that’s half the fun of this career, and gods know we’ve got to grab our amusement where we can.
The sun is on its way up the morning hill, peeking through a neighbour’s fir tree, and though the coffee is only half finished Boxnoggin is eager for the day to commence. Now that it’s stopped raining for a day or so he’s readjusted to dry weather and is utterly convinced there’s never been any such thing as damp; he would very much like to get out, bark at a few feral rabbits, stick his nose anywhere that will possibly accommodate, and lift a hind leg to water any bush standing still long enough. His joys are simple indeed.
Of course, I’m one to talk; my own delights are hardly complex. Anyway, time to get to brekkie.
Good heavens, Monday spun like an unbalanced washing machine. Even not really looking at the news didn’t help; I was utterly exhausted by the time dinner rolled around. Boxnoggin seemed to feel it as well, or he simply sensed my own discomfort. The poor fellow was clingy all day and needed quite a bit of cuddling to eventually settle. Fortunately I had a novel ready, so I let him stick his nose in my armpit while I read, which did both of us no end of good.
I woke up with a mashup of John Denver and Barenaked Ladies playing on the ol’ skull radio; the two actually go together quite nicely. An old CD demo of the Ladies was one of the kids’ favorite albums growing up. We still to this day intone, “But not a real green dress, that’s cruel,” and the Kraft dinner jokes are standards.
Things appear to be drying out, which is great except I really could have stood more rain. I feel like there wasn’t enough this winter, which I’m sure is inaccurate. I’m just happiest and most productive when water’s falling from the sky, and I feel like I could really use some of that productivity now. The sensation of falling behind is somewhat marked, even if largely illusory.
The other bit of good news is that I opened A Particular File to start revising and did not cry, scream, or start dry-heaving. It’s been a long, hard, difficult climb out of a deep well, that’s for damn sure. I do have to endure to the point which happens in any revision, when I suddenly look up and realize, “hey, I like this book again, it’s not bad!” The major impediment is the treatment prior books in the series received, which left definite scars. I have to move carefully so those don’t reopen, while trusting in the work and the process. At least the zero draft’s done–that was the giant first step without which nothing else could be attempted.
Small mercies, and I’ll take every one.
Today I’ll be experimenting with a pinto bean recipe (I wish to learn more of the Ways of Bean) and spending all my working time with those revisions, save about an hour or so brushing up the major plot twist I just dropped into the serial. I knew it was coming, but I have to make absolutely certain it’s arranged correctly in order for later dominos to fall precisely as they should. It’s very much like climbing, where one can’t think merely of the next handhold but the entire route, setting oneself up for whatever success is possible.
I miss climbing, but I need my wrists too much. At least I had a good year or two of it, and I cherish the memory.
The coffee is not quite dregs yet and Boxnoggin isn’t stirring, yet I think I’d best get underway. So much to do and I hope Tuesday doesn’t have any leftover Monday hiding in the cracks. At least the application of a smoking crater yesterday forced a few people to behave properly. I prefer to be kind, which unfortunately makes some folk believe taking advantage is possible. The misapprehension always turns out to be far more stressful on their part than mine, and yet I’d really prefer it never occur.
Ah well. Still gonna try to avoid the news cycle today. My nerves can’t take much more of this, Cap’n, she’s givin’ it all she’s got.
Hit the wall both physically and emotionally Friday afternoon; health problems compound quickly when one drives oneself hard as possible. I unplugged for the entire weekend and it was unquestionably the right choice. Things are still a bit dodgy; I don’t think my nerves can take the bloody news cycle for very long these days. Yet there’s work to be done. The serial needs attention, and today’s the day I attempt opening up Doom of the Elder and starting revisions.
Of course, titling a book Doom was perhaps not my smartest move, but there was no other possibility.
It helped that an atmospheric event brought rain literally all weekend. Everything is sodden, from ground to treetop. Even the birds were forced out while water was still falling. The fir trunks are black, and a few had foam from runoff. Tender new growth has burst from several bushes stressed by the last heat dome. The grass appears to have stretched at least an inch, and later this week when sunshine and high temps arrive the herbiage will no doubt explode. But in any case, I’m happiest when it’s raining, and this will do nicely.
I’ve been reading the Heaven Official’s Blessing novels, a wonderful corrective to all the bloody chaos following Alexander “the Great”‘s death. Drinking gallons of tea while absorbing danmei is good for a lot of what ails one.
I was all set to get out of bed and have a wonderful Monday, but wrestling with a certain corporation is swiftly becoming a boondoggle. Adding “AI” to everything removes any chance of real support, especially when one has problems requiring an actual human to respond instead of the equivalent of an endless phone tree. *sigh* But I suppose that’s the point–taking money while providing no actual service is the ideal.
Some deep breathing, a bit of gruel, and walking Boxnoggin is probably the best idea. I really do need this problem fixed, but forty minutes waiting for an overworked chat rep is more time than I have to spend. If nothing happens by the time I’m back, I suppose the nuclear option will have to be considered. If I have to actually pick up the phone nobody will have a good time today.
…yes, disengaging is the best possible tactic right now. I’m in a mood to lay waste, and while that might fuel certain combat scenes it’s absolutely no good for interacting with human beings trying their best. I just heard Boxnoggin’s collar jingle; he no doubt agrees.
I can only hope for more rain.
The Princess made sugar cookies for Beltane. Baking is her happy place; I was more than content to reap the rewards. They were lovely, pillowy, and cakelike; she’s been experimenting with different textures. The only drawback is we’re now out of yellow food coloring and I don’t think that’s sold separately.
We’ve had the last cold snap. The grass is luxuriant. Dogwoods all over the neighbourhood are in full flower, and the lilac bushes are between waves of early and later blossom. The dandelions may be in a trough as well, or the feral rabbits have eaten them into a temporary retreat. This weekend will need some time spent with the weed whacker and large trimmer–I think I have the blackberries convinced not to try our yard this year, though. And the stinking geranium has sent out advance parties, but I don’t mind that so much as it’s a mild bug deterrent. The slugs seem to be leaving the hostas alone, which is a welcome change but one I am not certain will last.
The weekend will be occupied with attempting to begin revisions on Doom of the Elder. We’ll see how it goes; I’m not quite sure the wound has scabbed over thoroughly enough yet. But I won’t know until I try, and if that fails there’s plenty of yardwork to keep me occupied. Stupid sunshine and stupid air for my stupid mental and physical health, stomp stomp stomp.
…that meme lives in my head rent-free, and we reference it on the daily here at the Chez.
Here comes the sun, indeed. (There’s many a reason Nat Drozdova loves that song.) See you next week!
Woke up with a piano theme from The Blue Whisper stuck in my head. It’s a pretty piece, enough space between the notes for a bit of breathing. I’ve been having dreams about underwater domes lately, so it fits.
I think I’m almost ready to start revising Doom of the Elder, too. I took a look at it last night and opening the file did not make me grab for the office wastebasket for a session of deep desperate dry-retching triggered by anxiety. Progress is being made, thank goodness.
Most of yesterday was spent making sure the monthly sales were all in order (they’re all up on the page, remember to check the dates!) and getting back into Highlands War. I think that particular book is getting ready for a huge push to zero draft, which is both wonderful–it’s been a long, hard road–and sad, since I don’t think I’ll be able to write the final trilogy, Kaia and her princeling’s return to their homeland. I always had an overarching plan for the series, two interlinked trilogies, but maybe it’s just as well. I’m even waffling about publishing Highlands for a wider audience, since the ebook theft problem for this series is so massive.
Meh. I’ve spoken about that before, at length. Either way, the zero needs finishing and Doom needs revising. After that I’ll probably revise Tomb of Night while writing the third Sons of Ymre, since the editor for that series rather strongly wants a Father story to go with the Elder and Younger ones. I have the basic bones of the plot and conflict, and there might even be a peek at the former lirai and their protectors near the end.
There’s very good news on the Hell’s Acre front, but nothing I can make public until the ink is dry. Suffice to say we’re in the very last stages, and if all goes well–if!–there’ll be an announcement soon. I’m pretty excited, even if the process took a lot longer than I like. Some of that was due to ill health, which is of course nobody’s fault, but everything before that was bloody publishing nonsense I will be glad to never endure again.
I have plans for after the third and final Sons, too. There are books I’ve wanted to write for a while, not least Herongull and Innkeeper’s War, and now’s a perfect time to lay the groundwork. Finding a silver lining amid upheaval takes a bit of determination, indeed, but there’s a gift in endings, no matter the grief–realizing all the ways one is now free. The cost is high; so are the eventual rewards.
Onward into May, then. (And how the hell are we in May already? Good Lord.) Beltane was full of sugar cookies–the Princess informs me we need more yellow food coloring now–and rain squalls, not to mention bright heavy sunshine all the plants are glad of. The grass is back to growing, the lilacs blooming in waves, the tulips are blown but the dogwoods are taking up the charge, and there are soft green tips on the firs. Let’s not even mention the blackberries, though–keeping those from taking over the yard is very nearly a full-time occupation. And Boxnoggin, while deploring the damp, is extremely happy about the collage of new scents on all our usual walking routes.
Speaking of which, I just heard a collar-jangle. Soon will come the clicking of his nails down the hall and his eager attempts to herd me towards brekkie.
I’d best get ready.
The last five chapters of Chained Knight passed smoothly through the revision mill. All the heavy lifting and fiddly work spent revising the manuscript before that point means the ending hits even harder than I intended, which is saying something. So the last handful of scenes didn’t need much. It’s all Lynchian dream-logic, which is harder to pull off than one thinks–it must be internally consistent, and make sense in the mad surreal way dreams do. That’s my favourite thing to do or to read in a portal fantasy anyway.
I cleared a lot of correspondence yesterday as well, so I stole little time for a lie-in this morning. Well, that’s not quite accurate. I was so caddywumpus with relief over the revision being finished–and crossing that particular task off the Mother of To-Do Lists–that I forgot to set my alarm. So when I hazily woke this morning and discovered I had done so, I decided it was reasonable enough, rolled over to dislodge Boxnoggin’s nose in my armpit, snuggled the dog to make up for that action, and fell back into a dream of underwater domes.
Probably won’t ever write that particular book, but it’s nice to have in my head.
Now that I have the revise actually done, I’m looking at the production schedule and think I’ll bring out Chained in December, keeping the short story anthologies for early next year. It’s the sort of decision one can make in self-publishing, and by next March I’ll have other things in the cannon. Song that never ends; it’s going to be a busy six months or so.
Which pleases me. I’m not myself when I’m not working.
Next up is serious work on Highlands–there’s a crowning battle on the way, which means I’ll be heart-in-mouth hoping against hope a few characters make it out alive–and revising Doom of the Elder into reasonable first-draft shape. At least I don’t have to insert lore on some chapters since I’ll be waiting for the first editing round to tell me where that’s necessary. Things are (mostly) back on schedule after the nonsense near the turn of the year, and I’m grateful for that. A lot of energy has been freed up…
…but today is for a wee bit of recovery. Which will start with a leisurely absorption of my coffee before getting underway with brekkie and walkies. Boxnoggin is back in bed, luxuriating in the warmth since the weather report says “storms all day”; he’d complain endlessly if he didn’t get his perambulation, though, no matter how damp it turns out to be. But I’ve got a few minutes to take down some caffeine in peace.
It’s a start.