Recovery, Reading

I keep working weekends then being surprised at how tired I am during the week proper. I think the elastic has snapped, though; finishing the proofreader queries for Salt-Black Tree has finally managed to…well, not quite break me, but certainly give me a painful sting on the wrist, like popping a really big rubber band. I’m going to have a welt from this one, I can just tell.

The queries are the very last wicket before a book goes into production. Well, other than the poor managing editor collating the proofreaders’ and my marked-up proofs, wading through a thicket of finicky changes, stets, and occasionally (okay, well, frequently) comments from a long-suffering author who at this point hates the book as much as everyone else who’s had to read it fifteen times and try to stay alert for tiny changes each go-round. This is like being on the last mile of a marathon, with all applicable attendant discomfort.

All the energy reserved to keep a slot on my schedule open for further queries and go-rounds on the duology is about to be rerouted elsewhere, but first it has to settle. I wish there was an easy changeover strategy, but that much mass and momentum is difficult to halt, especially when it’s been going for years. (Years spent writing the books, years spent getting them through trad publishing, this game is never about instant gratification.)

So I’m sort of spark-spinning, waiting for the flywheel to decelerate enough for hooking up to some other project. It doesn’t help the the current stress is also provoking some health problems, but maybe those will ameliorate now that I’m getting a handle on the biggest quandary. All the waiting patiently for schedules to align is about to be over, so at least there’s that.

Anyway, the recovery process is difficult because I can’t simply shift to another project and write away the exhaustion. The artistic well needs filling; I’ve been running on low fuel and low oil for a long time now. So, I’m doing some catch-up reading, and also stuffing other things into my head. I took a spin through wonderful bonkers LJ Smith YAs, polished off the History of Underclothes, got to read an upcoming re-release of Dixon’s (and Macdonald’s) Knight’s Wyrd, took a run through Bukowski’s Post Office because I wanted a little modernity, and finished up a positive blaze of reading activity with E. E. Smith’s First Lensman, which was as utterly bananas as anything written in the sci-fi pulp 50s. Next up is an old paperback translation of The Tale of Genji, though I’d really like a Norton Critical edition, and Davies’s Europe: A History.

Of them all, I’ve probably enjoyed Knight’s Wyrd the most on a purely personal level, since it’s wonderfully structured and just the sort of medieval wonder-tale I dig. I will admit I was expecting it to be a simple sausage-fest, but by the time I got to the first ghost I was both disabused of that notion and all in. First Lensman was posolutely absotively banana-bonkers, and I’m sure that if my own work survives a comparable number of years someone will think the blind spots in it are just as jaw-dropping. Time moves ever on and on, like the Road, down from every door whence it begins.

All of this means I’m feeling ready to get back to work, but I know how this goes. I’ll have a couple good working days, then my body will take vengeance for me daring to re-enter the snakepit after only a token nap and hurried snack. If I took another day off to watch a Cdrama (look, Dylan Wang walking around in velvet robes is a vibe, and I am here for it) I’d possibly escape that part of the process, but I really do have to get some-damn-things done.

There are also birthdays and tax prep this month, both busy in different ways. I’ll be glad when the latter is finally off my plate and I can bloody breathe again. Of course something else will come along to stopper my lungs, I’m sure, and there’s two zero drafts (Rook’s Rose plus Riversinger and Minnowsharp) looking like they want to be finished at about the same time.

I’m sure that will be fun. And Boxnoggin needs his walkies, come hell or high water–but not snow or freezing rain. His tootsies are just too tender, thanks, and my own aren’t happy with that sort of thing either. Fortunately the Early Cherry down the street is making gestures like it wants to bloom, and that will mean spring is assured.

I suppose I’d best get to it as well. The road is difficult, but we’ve got a fighting chance.

Happy Tuesday, my beloveds.

Soundtrack Monday: Delirium

Steelflower

It’s another Soundtrack Monday! I’ve told you guys about this one before, but I can’t find the exact blog post. Ah well, sometimes one is allowed to repeat oneself.

Way back when I was first writing Steelflower, I had a lot of instrumental music on the book’s playlist. A great deal of Kaia coalesced during obsessive playing (and replaying) of Euphoria’s Delirium through my headphones. (There’s a separate musical group named Delerium, too whose stuff goes on that playlist too. And yes, the playlist is still active, though I might have to dig out a couple old CDs to get some of the older tracks, I think.)

You can hear very clearly Kaia and Redfist’s hasty leaving of Hain–Kaia light on her feet, loping through city streets at dawn with a barbarian giant rumbling in her wake. You can even sense the point at which Kaia bribes a postern-guard to let her and the big red one out early, and they’re vanishing down the road into the countryside with that peculiar ground-eating stride all sellswords learn. I think Redfist has no idea the trouble he was saved by landing in the Steelflower’s capable (though occasionally light-fingered) hands that morning.

I’m thinking a lot about Kaia and her crew lately, and selecting yet more music for the series’s master playlist. But first, the zero of Hell’s Acre has to be done…

Ides, Madness, and Sales

It’s that time again–there are March sales going on, and I’ll be listing them in this post when they’re scheduled or as they go live.

My love song to Baba Yaga and Wyoming, Rattlesnake Wind, is $1.99USD in ebook on March 3. This is a one-day sale.

Another one-day sale is on March 10; She-Wolf and Cub is $1.99USD in ebook.

From March 1-15, the second book of the Society series—Hunter, Healer–is on sale for $.99 in ebook at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, and Kobo.

I do often get asked if I’ll ever return to that series; I don’t really plan to since the next story is Cath’s and I like Zeke a great deal. The stories go on inside my head, including what eventually happens to Del and Rowan, but I often keep such things entirely to myself. It’s part of the joy, and bitter curse, of a writer’s life.

From March 14-16, my portal fantasy written at white heat during the worst of lockdown–Moon’s Knight–will be on sale for $2.99USD in ebook.

From March 21-23, the ebook of the collected, the complete Roadtrip Z (all four seasons!) will be $7.99USD–almost half price–through certain retailers.

From March 16-27, the Complete HOOD omnibus ebook (all three seasons) will be 30% off at Kobo.

From March 16-28, Harmony (folk horror, with bonus cult!) and The Marked (living tattoos, granting superpowers) will be 30% off at Kobo.

Many of my ebooks are 50% off during the Smashwords Read an Ebook Week, from March 5-11.

There may be more sales listed soon, so stay tuned…

Preparing the Ground

Under the ice, the green lingers.

Pretty much all the powder is melted. The snow was so dry that its compacting during melt turned into a particular type of granular ice, and lingered in shaded corners. The moss is having a wonderful time with this, since even if it’s chilly it’s also damp, and they love the wet to near-distraction.

These lumps of moss are actually a coat over some scalloped concrete, and you can see how thick the velvet is. Also, the pine needles and detritus deserve a round of applause for providing nourishment. Everything works together, even on a bare stony surface.

I’m attempting to feel hopeful today. That’s probably why I’ve been so obsessed with Bryophyta lately–even under the worst conditions it finds a way to flourish, and prepares the ground for later growth. One can take a lot of comfort in that.

Have a wonderful weekend, my beloveds. Mine will be spent with proofreader queries, but that’s a small price to pay. I might get half a day off and some tiramisu…but I’ve got to get through the work first.

Modes, Bright Spots, and Dog Rituals

I am a rapidly thinning rope stretched between stress nausea, other health problems, and the determination to keep going. I joke a lot about stubborn endurance being my only real talent, but good gods it’s painful. Being in publishing is like wielding Pullman’s “subtle knife”–it always cuts the writer, and thought some people can make the wound better (looking at you, Beta Reader Who Just Gave Me The Strength To Go On, you know who you are) it never heals completely. The industry is set up to be tremendously exploitative of the people who are actually doing the damn work, whether it be writers (keep ’em below the poverty level!) or editorial assistants (unsung heroes working for peanuts) or or or.

Then you add in ebook thieves atop it, and…well. It’s enough to make one despair.

If I don’t look at my inbox I can actually get a day’s work done, but that just means borrowing trouble. I suppose things will get a little easier if I can manage to finish a zero draft, either of Rook’s Rose (which will bring Hell’s Acre to an end and make the problems there revision instead of creation, always assuming I’m going to publish the duology) or of Riversinger and Minnowsharp, but the latter series is on life support and I’m fighting so hard just to keep it breathing I don’t know what I’m gonna do going into Book 3.

The strain of the past few years is rather beginning to tell, I think. Shifting from crisis mode into attempting-to-heal, or even just a mode mitigating the damage, is tremendously difficult. I’m also watching the whole AI chatbot thing go down, which is big fun all the way ’round. I’ve taken to joking that I should label my work as “100% human extract, 0% AI content”, which is HILARIOUS but doesn’t solve any underlying problems.

Ah well. I have to laugh, otherwise I’ll start screaming.

At least there’s always Boxnoggin. One of his favorite games is burrowing under the covers in the morning; he’s a terrier mix, and those positively love wriggling into dark spaces. (It’s the rat-hunting they were bred for.) But, since he is a dog of Ritual and Habit, this has to take a very specific form. I must first wriggle under the covers, being completely covered and “invisible” to him–since he has very little object permanence–before crooning, “Wheeeere’s Boxnoggin’s-real-name? Where is he?” at specific volume and cadence.

I must also leave an aperture large enough for his snoot to discover, both because he cannot–despite trying with all his might and main–solve a puzzle if it’s too difficult and because otherwise I will be suffocated by his enthusiastic efforts to do so against all odds, for if the puzzle is too complex the dog will apply his entire being, soul and body entire, to brute-forcing it. So I have to make the hole just large enough, and help him while he flails desperately to get into the Hoomin Sheet-Cave.

Once he arrives there is a positive explosion of joy, licking my nose and everything else he can reach, before he curls into a tight ball, waiting for me to arrange the covers just so. Then, with only the tip of his cold wet nose exposed to the outside air, he promptly hits his canine snooze button and is out for as long as I can stand being still. Afterwards he is amazed–AMAZED, I tell you–when I finally struggle out of the wreckage, because he has forgotten the rest of the world exists. And I start the day laughing, because dogs, man.

We don’t deserve them.

I suppose I’d best finish the coffee and get something solid in me; said canine doofus needs his ramble and I will explode if I don’t get a run in. Being trapped by the weather, lacking exercise endorphins, is not doing me any good at all. I have the next scenes needing to be written in both projects currently on the burners prepped, and half the weekend is going to be taken up with proofreader queries. I just knew there was going to be one more kink in the production hose for these particular works; when one sets out to write about divinities of any stripe, one invites such things.

There are bright spots, even in the current mess. It’s hard to focus on them, yet I keep trying.

Endurance has to be good for something.

Guarding the Doors

Snow is still lingering in patches, but I’m betting the pavements will be much clearer. We had bands of snow and sun yesterday, the weather unable to decide what it wanted and my sinuses throbbing like a particularly dedicated marimba band. Boxnoggin will be very happy for a longer ramble; yesterday’s had to be cut short because of his tender paws, albeit not nearly as short as previous ones where we barely got halfway down the hill. And forget running outside, despite my hopes! It was the treadmill or nothing.

The yard is still a shambles. That’s a problem for another day. Week. Month. Whatever.

I’m slowly getting my fire back under me. It’s difficult, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. If I can just get one particular problem sorted, my productivity will skyrocket. Unfortunately that problem is one that has developed over multiple years and I’m going to have to wait a wee bit longer to get it done up–assuming anyone will listen to me, the person actually doing the work, about what’s necessary to fix it.

I’m not sanguine about that. I suppose part of my hesitation could be a persecution complex, but is it really a complex when the entire industry’s set up to be exploitative? I dunno. I’m bracing myself to be ignored or derided once more, which is hardly the most productive mindset for problem-solving. I recognize this, yet there’s only so much battering even the sunniest optimism can take before it goes underground and leaves cynicism, not to mention apathy, to guard the doors.

On a (much) brighter note, I was pleasantly surprised at a throwaway name in Hell’s Acre turning into a really satisfying (to me) character homage. (Look, I love Jason Statham, all right?) And Sevring the valet has become a quite crucial minor character, which I never expected but is quite useful as I’m tying things up and getting ready to write the climax. I still don’t know who’s going to win the combat scene I’m currently constructing, so I’ll probably be blocking it out mentally while Boxnoggin prances. I mean, I have plans no matter who wins, but I really would like the valet to catch a break…even though he’s far from decent, being the Main Antagonist’s henchman. If he ends up dead it’ll be tragic.

I suppose I’ll have to write it and see, but that can’t happen until the dog is walked and certain other chores are Taken Care Of. Already this morning I’ve done the last few pronunciations for an audiobook, started some email threads, finished others, and dear gods I need more coffee, I’m just not caffeinated enough for this.

At least there’s beer mugs used as weapons and a bit of close-in knife combat. My only regret is that the setting precludes me adding motor oil to this particular scene. Ah well, we can’t have everything, especially on a Tuesday.

Time to get to work.

Aid, Abet, Power, Justice

I finished off the weekend by watching a Netflix documentary on Charles Cullen, nurse and extremely prolific serial killer. What struck me was not his methods–sociopaths gonna sociopath–but the way he was allowed to keep killing, aided and abetted by the American for-profit “healthcare” system. Many other serial killers have been aided and abetted by misogyny in similar fashion.

I could write a whole article about the links, but I’m tired, only halfway through my coffee, not being paid nearly enough, and have deadlines besides. Instead I’ll just say, serial killers are cowards and they choose vulnerable, marginalized prey. We find the idea of the handsome genius serial killer entrancing because it makes for good fiction and we want there to be some meaning in the horror, but in reality they are empty wastes creeping through shadows and picking off easy prey if they think they can get away with it.

And all too often, society colludes.

I mean, I love a good serial killer show or detective novel just like anyone else. I enjoy the fiction. The real-life study is something I engage in because looking steadily at the horror is my lot in life. Plus, I have always tried to believe knowledge is power. (Cersei Lannister says power is power, and as a reductionist analysis it’s fine as far as it goes, but it’s also bad-faith, too simplistic, and let’s not even talk about problematics.) I’ve also tried to believe in justice, though I know very well otherwise. (Pratchett in Hogfather pointed out why it’s important to believe so; I shall let you go forth and discover–or remember–for yourself.) At the same time, I think a lot of power resides in belief, in finding meaning, in patterns and the breaking of them.

…it’s a Monday, I’m allowed to be philosophical. At least before the caffeine hits.

Today is for more Hell’s Acre, getting prepped for a meeting I don’t want to have, finally a ramble with Boxnoggin–who has been very patient with the snow keeping us from his accustomed exertions–and a decent run. It’s the last I’m looking forward to most. Getting the stress chemicals sweated out and rinsed off will do me no end of good, and thankfully the sidewalks are clear. A few more days above freezing and the snow will be a distant memory. The dog can hardly wait; I suppose I’m the same.

Onward and upward, then.