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?)

Monday Plan

Lord Boxnoggin, in protest against winter, has taken to bed. My bed, to be precise, and he isn’t pried loose without a groan or two, even for walkies. I don’t know what he’s complaining about–he’s a different dog than the one we brought home. For one thing, he’s several pounds heavier. He has more than enough insulation now to get through a chilly day, the lovable chonk.

Of course, he is a Dog Not Allowed to Catch Squirls or Even That Cat, which means he is poor and put-upon, and he cannot believe the things I make him endure. Like waiting until dinnertime, only bacon grease on his kibble, and getting out of a warm nest made of my coverlet and down comforter in order to pace the neighborhood and pee in his regular spots.

Even the ham from Thanksgiving hasn’t changed his loud grumbling and groaning. Nothing makes him happy, this dog–or, rather, he groans and grumbles until he gets ear-skritches and cooing who’s a good boy. Then all is right with the world again, until I make him get off my bed.

Miss B would like to complain, I’m sure, but she’s an old dog now and doesn’t have the energy. She settles for waiting until after dinner, then pounces on Boxnoggin for post-prandial playtime. Having a companion keeps her young; having a companion keeps Boxnoggin on his toes. Really, they’re made for each other.

Let’s see, what can I tell you about the long holiday weekend? There was ham, there was dream pie1, there was “window weather”2, and there were 5-6k days trying desperately to finish Finder’s Watcher.

I did clear the 50k NaNo benchmark (easily) but the zero isn’t done yet. I’m probably going to take another week to put it to bed, then it’s into Poison Prince revisions. After all, publishing is shut down until new Year’s, if I turned the latter in during December it would just sit on someone’s desk. Somewhere in there needs to be a weekend of working on a Short Sekrit Projekt, and this is the week I need to go back to running.

In short, the working vacation is over, and now it’s back to just-plain-working. I have Beth Hart playing and a half-full cup of coffee, and this blog post is almost finished. A few hundred words on Finder’s, then the dogs get dragged out on their rounds and the daily stretching has to be performed. I can no longer crouch over a keyboard for ten hours straight without Consequences of the Muscular Sort.

I’d feel bad about not finishing Finder’s on time, but… the guilt would get in the way of actually working, which means I need to pack it away until the zero’s done. Then I could conceivably keep working until I expire, putting off the guilt over and over and finally escaping it when I flee laughing through the portal into What Comes Next.

It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose. Especially for a Monday.

Over and out.

Begin the Leftovers

I hope your Thanksgiving was a good one, my friends. Mine spawned a crop of leftovers we’ll be eating from all weekend, including this marvelous bread pudding from yesterday’s leftover plain bread.

“Didn’t you use the challah?” the Princess asked, and I explained it was silly to use the leftover challah because we needed that for ham-and-stuffing sandwiches later in the day. And lo, her eyes lit up.

Age and experience triumphed again. Leftovers are Serious Business.

Have a good weekend, my dears.

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.

Soundtrack Monday: You Belong to Me

Viral Agents

I graduated high school in the mid-90s, so of course I have strong feelings about Eddie Vedder. (See also: hackey sack, Dave Grohl, hairspray for bangs, flannel button-ups, vodka, Manic Panic, and Seattle as a whole.)

That being said, I bought Vedder’s album of ukulele songs because the Into the Wild soundtrack was actually really amazing, and his plonky rendition of You Belong to Me with Cat Power made Reese from Agent Zero sit up and take notice.

It was hard to find songs for Reese, because he doesn’t have the relationship with music I do–or indeed, most normal people do. Most music, in his opinion, is just noise used to cover a job. He’d be hard pressed to answer what kind of music do you like because he’d just shake his head and say whatever Holly does. In his mind, music’s a human thing, and he’s not sure if he qualifies. Which just about breaks my heart, sometimes.

Still, when Reese heard the ukulele and Cat Power’s deceptively simple backup he actually liked it. Well… liked it? Hell, I couldn’t get him to shut up afterward. Afterward, I could reliably pry his lips open with a good ukulele session.

I’m not sure Mr Vedder would approve, but he’s got at least one fan living in my head. I’ve even almost forgiven him for the mumbling delivery of Jeremy spoke in class todaaaaaaaaaay that filled every. single. radio. airwave. for about eight months in high school.

Almost forgiven. The album still gives me full-body shivers, and no ukulele will make that go away. It’s not Vedder’s fault that so much of my teen angst was set to it, though.

Anyway, enjoy!

Needs More Coffee

I had to add “coffee” to my to-do list this morning just to give myself something to cross off. But I haven’t been able to cross it off yet.

This is, I suspect, how Monday will go. Especially since there’s a holiday and I’m off running for a week to give my plantar fascia plenty of rest. Which means I’m going to be at sixes and sevens during the holiday itself, though I’m sure I’ll be too busy to notice. And there will be ham, so that’s good.

I did finish the zero draft of HOOD‘s Season Two before the weekend. It happened all at once, with very little pain, but the reverberations inside my head are a little unpleasant. I was probably due for a book that finished before I was really set for it, having always had to lunge after a retreating enemy so often. Catching the opponent’s army before it gets a chance to escape is a nice Cannae, so to speak.

Middle books in trilogies are always difficult. They get easier when I tell myself if the reader hasn’t read the first book, they’re going to expect to be a little at sea, let them be. I know a lot of editors want you to make every book in a series the first in terms of info-dump, but that’s never been the way I’ve rolled. I never expect to know everything when I read a series out of order, and I write for such sharp elves as myself.

I have always found it’s better to never underestimate one’s readers. My constant refrain when an editor asks me to dumb something down is Readers are smart, they’ll figure it out. I’m no cryptographer, but I like thinking through a puzzle on my own, and I suspect most–if not all–readers do as well.

Anyway. I had interesting things to say, I’m sure, but they’ve fled into the retreating fog of under-caffeination. I’ve to go looking through old book soundtracks for something nice. it’s Soundtrack Monday, after all, and there’s so much music out there. Maybe I’ll do a Viral Agent tune. (I always wanted to go back and do Fray and Bay’s story. They’re a fun pair.)

But first, coffee needs to be finished. I might even go back to the well for another jolt; today feels like it’s gonna need it. We’re in the home stretch for NaNo, after all, and there’s a food coma approaching on Thursday to get ready for.

Over and out.

Doggo, In Comfort

I came out of the shower the other day to find that Miss B, unhappy with the texture of the coverlet, had decided to arrange my bed to suit herself. Of particular interest is the …well, what do YOU want? look she’s giving me.

She’s becoming a cranky old lady, this beautiful doggo of mine. I just had to laugh, because I stood near the loo door and was all, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Challenged thus, Milady simply closed her eyes and blew out a heavy, exhausted I’m gonna ignore you now sigh, and she proceeded to make good upon her threat.

I don’t begrudge her a single instant, of course. We have so little time left; she can spend it burrowing into the covers every day if she pleases.

Just don’t tell her that, please. She’ll rapidly become insufferable.