Lightning, Once, Enough

Rolled out of bed to find that the Moka pot had been prepped on the stove for me, and one of my children (who had kindly set that up for their poor caffeine-dependent mother) was absolutely bursting to tell me all the news. Apparently that plagiarist Somerton is back at it with a fresh empathy-free nopology1, testing the waters to gain some engagement dollars from hatewatchers; I am continually amazed at the rinse-and-repeat cycles granted certain shameless narcissists.

Yesterday was a bit of a wash. I got a lot of administrivia handled, including things that couldn’t be done on the weekend, but that bled off the force I needed to get certain other things moving along. As a result, the writing part of the day felt like clawing my way out of Sarlaac pit. Both the serial and the Sekrit Projekt are chonky bois2 and being past the point of shiny-and-new makes for a lot of current to swim against, even without the Sisyphean emotional labor on the Sekrit. I want to add a third project to make them jealous, but so much of my energy is spent pushing against the resistance of previous damage there’s not a single leftover erg. Maybe that’ll change when edits for Chained Knight drop and I take time to do revisions on that book and Gamble.

At the very least I’ll be using different mental muscles. Sometimes that’s as good as a rest.

The promo experiment over the weekend went well, too. There’ll be a second experiment next month, and if that goes well I’ll consider recommending the particular promo platform to others. I was amused (and touched) so many folk decided any book capable of garnering that particular “fuck God” review was worth picking up for four bucks and giving a whirl; thank you all. I hope you like it.

I wrote Moon’s Knight during lockdown, in something of a fugue state. And I wasn’t going to publish it, but the howls of protest from my beta readers–who received an early draft on the theory that it might help them escape their own stress during that time–convinced me otherwise. There are whole passages I got to revision on and thought, whoever wrote this sounds like me, makes the choices I would…but I have no memory of this place. It was a very Gandalf set of moments, and I was quite jumpy looking for the Balrog.3

Chained Knight will be out later this year–I already have the cover, it’s a real beaut–and maybe I’ll write the third Tale of the Underdark next winter. I know precisely what happens and how it closes the circle. Of course, these books are variations on a theme rather than a proper series, as I’ve said before. If Moorcock could do it with a certain albino Melnibonean, why can’t I with a riff on something else? It’s the sort of project I wouldn’t be able to do without self-publishing technology and the experience garnered over the last couple decades, so at least I can feel good about that. Even if nobody ends up liking these books, I’ll be happy.

Of course, the response to Moon’s Knight has been overwhelmingly positive, notwithstanding that one hilarious “fuck God” review. Which, again, was absolutely priceless promo, the likes of which I might not ever see again. Ah well, hit by lightning once is enough. The amusement itself is worth the price of admission.

Today is for a meeting of clan-lords during which a certain sellsword receives what is, to her, very bad news, and a scene during which two prisoners somewhat bond over their fate. It’s the latter I’m looking forward to most, since it presents a chance to invert quite a few tropes. Turning such things inside out pleases me mightily, and honestly I doubted I’d get to ever write this particular scene. There have been many dark nights of the soul lately, only a few shafts of random light poking through to accentuate just how hopeless I’ve been feeling.

Quite frankly, it’s been awful. Maybe some of that is breaking up, though. Hand over hand, clinging to a rope made of stories, I keep climbing–and throwing out ropes of my own for others in different pits. It’s a life’s work and as I get older it seems more and more inevitable; I was always going to end up here, and I largely don’t mind. Weaving a net to keep others from the abyss keeps me occupied enough to struggle upward another few handholds.

And now it’s time for breakfast. Boxnoggin was an absolute fur-covered brat during yesterday’s walkies. He’s simply in that part of recovery, which means I need to be even more vigilant about making sure he doesn’t re-injure himself–a thankless task, to be sure, but a necessary one. I just heard him shake his collar as I typed that last sentence, so off I go.

Happy Tuesday, my beloveds. Let’s keep hauling ourselves upward.

Attend to Stitching

Yesterday I freshened up the ol’ eyeliner, got the new microphone situated, and did what I’ve been threatening–a reading of My Immortal. I lasted seven chapters, and though they are very short chapters, the fic absolutely broke me. To be fair it was one of the author’s notes that did me in, and I ended up somewhat helpless with laughter. So now I can say I’ve done it, just like I can say I managed all the way through Eye of Argon.

The next Reading with Lili session will be the first chapter of Moby Dick1, with commentary. I really want other people to know what an absolute BANGER the book is, and offer some commentary. It probably won’t be as popular as the first two reads, but that’s okay. I’m really only doing this to please myself. it might have to be broken up into two sessions, because while it’s only three-four pages in my Norton Critical edition, the type is pretty small and there’s a lot going on.2

The only danger in the reading is that I’ll have to drop the history I’m working my way through and go through Moby Dick again. My headcanon is that Queequeg survived, and reached his own island where he was a king again, dreaming of his lost love. Because he did love Ishmael.3

Ahem. I have strong feelings about the book, which is strange. I’d attempted Billy Budd and Moby Dick in high school, but bounced hard off both. Years later, after coming across a certain Twitter bot, I attempted the latter again and was pleasantly surprised, not to mention somewhat overwhelmed. It’s a wild ride; I can’t wait to enthuse over it with you.

Yesterday was rather warm and today promises to be the same, but–thankfully–not so bad that I’ll have to close up the house and turn the AC on. Boxnoggin loves this weather; the rest of us are waiting (with varying degrees of desperation) for autumn. I’m a pumpkin spice bitch all the way to my core, and I need the rains. It’ll be another month before we have a good soaking, and I’m already fidgety with anticipation.

And that’s all the news that’s fit to print this morning, beloveds. There’s walkies to get through and a run to accomplish, the weekly subscription stuff to load, and I was disturbed by rendering aid late yesterday afternoon so I have to spend correspondingly longer today with Sons of Ymre 2. The CEs for the second Ghost Squad book have dropped, and a little bird told me The Dead God’s Heart is now up for preorder. Once I have actual cover art I’ll do up book pages for that duology. My work is cut out on a Thursday; now I must attend to stitching.

See you around.

Emotional Raft-Building

Monday has dawned early and cool. I thought there was some marine layer but no, it’s only a slight haze and the fact that we’re past the solstice. The sun is rising a bit later as we tilt away, which pleases me. I do understand the giant nuclear reactor in the sky powers all life on this planet (well, except the stuff hiding in thermal vents at the bottom of the ocean), I just also want to hide from its radioactive yellow eye.

I did decide to put my Eye of Argon reading on YouTube; you can find Part I here. I’ll get to Part II in the next few days, I suspect–if you want to see it live, it’ll be on Twitch first, then I’ll pop it over to YouTube. I would very much like to find out what happens to Gringr, as well as the Girl with the Golden Brassiere. It seems you lot rather like me reading to you, and my daughter says as soon as I finish this novella I need to read at least the first chapter of some fanfic titled My Immortal. I floated the idea on my social media feeds, and the response is half-and-half. Half of you are saying, “OMG it’s so terrible, DO IT,” and the other half respond with, “I love this idea, DO IT!”

Just like in parenting, the hardest thing will be keeping a straight face. I suspect you lot, like my children, are actively trying to break my composure. I did chuckle a few times during Eye of Argon‘s first three (and a half!) chapters, but I was not reduced to nonverbal hysterics, so according to my own rules I have not yet lost. I’m sure in cutthroat competition rules I would be required to hand the reading over to someone else, since I have given a giggle or two, hut honestly I’m not superhuman.

Despite my best efforts, I might add.

The hilarity is helping. I’m finding myself with a little more energy nowadays, and I think my body and brain are adjusting to the idea that I might have survived creeping fascist coup (so far) and not-one-but-two pandemics (again, so far) and I can’t keep going in emergency mode. It feels rather like the third act of a zombie apocalypse franchise lately–the first wave of disaster has passed and we’re left clinging to wreckage, attempting to build a raft instead of simply focused on merely keeping our heads above the waves. I’m sure this is a quite widespread feeling. Mostly I’m just exhausted at being in crisis, and withdrawing like a bruised anemone.

It helps that autumn is approaching, and with it the rains. I’m most productive when water is falling from the sky; with a new roof I won’t have to worry so much all through winter and that’s a welcome thought. Boxnoggin will hate the damp, poor fellow, but perhaps it will keep him from shenanigans during daily walkies. We’re working on not yelling our fool heads off when another dog appears.

The concept has not quite worked its way into Boxnoggin’s poor dazed head, but we’re trying. After four years in our household he is much better behaved and less reactive, though it’s an uphill battle all the way. He was really treated dreadfully in some of his previous homes, and it’s left a mark. On the bright side, he’s been with us for longer than anywhere else combined, so he’s beginning to relax and think of the Chez as his permanent home.

We do not believe in giving up around here. At least, not on our companion animals. Certain other things we heave over the side with abandon, but sunk costs are not a consideration when it comes to the canines (or felines) we’ve promised to take care of.

I don’t want to relax. I don’t want to loosen my deathgrip on my coping mechanisms or my temper, because that will be the moment some-damn-thing else will happen and I’ll have to start the process of emergency coping again. On the other hand, living on the ragged edge of adrenaline, no matter how familiar it feels (spent most of the first thirty-odd years of my life there), is not optimal and I do not want to continue.

Boxnoggin has just finished his traditional early-morning doze. It’s the nap he takes after the first potty break of the day; he gets a few more z’s in while I’m absorbing my coffee. Now he is informing me the schedule means toast for me, toast crust for him, and the preparations for walkies must commence in a timely fashion. He’s not quite as insistent or managing as Bailey was, but gods help us if the rituals are disturbed. And I suppose it helps me keep on track. I might ignore my own needs, but never his. Off I go, then.

Brace yourselves for Monday, my beloveds. I have a feeling this one’s going to be a dilly.

The Wild Trolley

Shh, don’t scare it.

I managed to snap this picture of the wary shopping cart in its natural habitat, not the concrete or linoleum floored farms their flocks now inhabit. Those who escape are usually intelligent, largely nocturnal, and tend to hide in out-of-the-way places, evading capture by dint of sheer cunning and anxiety. It’s hard to get close enough for a snap, let alone catch one for home domestication, so I had to sneak up, very quietly, and scarce dared breathe.

And then, success! I got the shot. I let out a sigh of wonder, probably alerting the poor thing to my presence. It doesn’t understand I have no desire to tame or return it, I just wanted a photo to prove what I’d witnessed.

Anyway. The trolley has long vanished. I hope it is still grazing lawns, hiding while it must, and just generally enjoying freedom as any creature likes to.

Have a marvelous weekend, my beloveds.

Past the Crest

I’m choosing to find more things hilarious these days. It’s a welcome change, even if the laughter has somewhat of a scream-y edge. As a coping mechanism, it’s better than many others.

Not much work got done yesterday, but correspondence and a video meeting were dealt with, so there’s that. I might be doing a livestream reading of The Eye of Argon in the near future. (Blame Curtis for this one. HE’S RESPONSIBLE, IT’S NOT MY FAULT.) I know of the novella, certainly, but I’ve never read it before. So I’d be doing it completely cold, until I can’t go on or the story is finished. It sounds like a good bit of fun, and I’ll keep the recording up for a couple weeks. I might even ask Eustace the sock monkey (my newsletter readers know all about him) or Clara the rubber vulture for help during it. (Harlowe, Eustace’s best friend, isn’t interested.) So there’s that.

I also got the most hilarious review late yesterday evening. Normally I don’t look at reviews, but I happened to glance at a certain werelion book‘s page while updating some info and…well, apparently picking a VC Andrews-esque cover, crafting breathlessly purple copy to go with it, and OPENLY saying “this book is an homage to the wonderful nuttery that the writer of Flowers in the Attic was known for” wasn’t enough to warn some people, and they might be…shocked. Or startled.

Good. I don’t know how to signal any more clearly “there are nutbar hijinks in this book”–one would have thought the shamelessly brazen pseudonym alone would give it away–but here we are. Do not get me wrong–it’s a fabulous review, it shows that I did exactly what I set out to do, and I am utterly grateful for this particular Reader, not to mention all the others. I’m absolutely chuffed. I could not have asked for better feedback, and I am still giggling like a mad chipmunk this morning every time I think about it.

There is a great deal of satisfaction in knowing one not only understood the assignment, but knocked it out of the park.

Also, it smelled like rain this morning. There won’t be any, we’re still in the dog days and the sky is that pale shade presaging a very dry, warm afternoon. But we’re past the crest of summer and it’s all downhill toward autumn’s damp from here, and I’m ready. So, so ready. The first real rains will probably trigger a great burst of productivity from me, which is grand. I need it.

It’s probably over a month away, too, but at least I can look forward to the event.

My coffee has cooled, Boxnoggin cleaned his breakfast bowl for once (the dab of bacon grease in the bottom might have something to do with it), and there is a cool draught from my office window. The birds are calling every once in a while, readying themselves for the day, and the birdbath has seen a great deal of action already to judge by the peanut shells littering its bottom. I’ll clean that out before I go on a run.

I wish you a pleasant day, my beloveds. Try to laugh a bit, if you can. Everything is absurd and we’re all locked in the same room for a while.

Might as well enjoy it.

Giggling Motivation

I’ve been obsessed with doing tiny, foul-mouthed “motivational” graphics lately–just looking at templates and clip art, playing with text, and slapping the result up on Instagram if it’s not too ill-tempered. I had a crazy idea for a storefront where they were all free, more a storage method than anything else, where people could just right-click them or sign in and leave funny reviews.

So I spent a couple hours last night getting used to WooCommerce and playing with themes. I popped one up and giggled…

…and it took about a half-hour for the trolls to show up. Which has got to be some kind of record, but them’s the breaks when one is a public person on the ol’ internet. I was unattached, so I nuked the entire damn thing.

I’m not mad. Sure, it was annoying for about five minutes, but now I know more about WooCommerce and theme integrations, not to mention the backend, which is valuable information no matter which way one slices it. There’s a great deal of value in being unattached to the subject of what is, after all, only momentary hilarity. (Like life. And isn’t that a cheerful thought.)

Besides, I’ll have about a dozen better ideas in the next half-hour. It’s not like there’s any shortage. I went to bed and watched YouTube until I fell asleep, like the feral chaos gremlin I not only am but downright glory in being.

Speaking of gremlins, Miss B is under my desk, her stomach gurgling. She turned her nose up at breakfast because it was (gasp!) merely kibble. What she’s really waiting for is a toast crust or two, as is my usual wont to toss to both her and Boxnoggin of a morning. Walkies will give her an appetite as well.

I also realized something integral to the plot of Hell’s Acre. It hit me right between the eyes as I was giving the ballroom scene a bit of spit and polish for the week’s fiction drop, and I gasped so loud Boxnoggin came trotting down the hall to investigate. I also said, “SON OF A BITCH,” and that brought my daughter to her doorway, peering to discern whether I was swearing at a bit of news from yon internets or had just killed a character.

It’s a toss-up, most days.

Anyway, now I am chortling and cackling with glee while I type, then popping over to my browser to make a few more graphics while I snort-giggle, then returning to work. All the switching is probably wearing out my neurons, but at the moment it’s what my brain wants so that’s what it’s getting. I also figured out the next step in the second Sons of Ymre book, and it looks like there might be preorder links for the first one awful soon. I may even let subscribers take a peek at the cover. It’s very…oiled. And gleaming. And it delights me.

So things are kind of looking up. I might decide to throw a bunch of these graphics onto my Tumblr and see what happens, or make a brand-new home for the little beasts. I would like them backed up somewhere searchable, because I think they’re funny as all get-out. I’m sure others might disagree…

…but part of hitting my mid-forties is finally accumulating enough life experience to do as I please in certain areas, and devil take the naysayers and the trolls. Besides, I’ve too much work to do, and I work up with Kehlani’s Gangsta playing inside my head for the second time this week.

It could mean a whole new book is gestating. If so, the damn thing will have to get in line, I’m busy.

Happy Thursday, beloveds. I’ll see you around…

Damp and Dry

Thursday has dawned misty-rainy. All day yesterday we had thickening fog-drizzle, the kind that penetrates every layer of clothing within fifteen minutes though you could swear it’s just a bit of cloud. The cloud, however, comes right down to earth and lingers, turning even treebark slick and wet.

I love this part of the world. Climate change will probably wreak terrifying havoc upon it, so I’m enjoying while I can. Really, the Pacific Northwest is perfect–moss on the trees every winter, rainy grey for most of the year so you can hear yourself think, nice even temperatures only rarely freezing or frying, trees everywhere, a relative lack of bite-y venomous things. It’s like it was made for me.

I’m told that statistically the PNW leads in coffee shops and serial killers too–on that last point, maybe we’re just good at catching them? I dunno. But certainly the entire area is awash with caffeine, which suits me right down to the (soggy) ground as well.

So far the area under the kitchen sink remains dry, though I am still irked at the home warranty company’s Very Bad Behavior, especially during a pandemic. I’m weighing my options on that front, putting off a decision until my irritation leaves the cold, quiet stage. If there is a single drip more…but let’s not think about that, it’s such lovely weather.

Very early Wednesday morning I woke up knowing how to solve the blockage in Hell’s Acre. True to form, the Muse, who did the original planning, is now unsatisfied with said original planning and wants to toss everything out and redo the last half of the book. Fine. It will end on a cliffhanger if it goes the way she wants–again, fine. I am not sure I’ll write the second book resolving said cliffhanger, though, for a collage of reasons. Which may or may not be fine, but we’ll see.

At least the realization meant I could get actual work done yesterday, which I haven’t been able to do for days. Between the stress of needing strangers to visit the house (the workmen masked up, we all obeyed precautions, but still, it’s bloody nerve-wracking) and dealing with the home warranty company’s petulant, money-grubbing refusal to live up to their responsibilities, I didn’t have the bloody energy. Plus there’s been an uptick in harassment, and that takes energy to deal with even if one has mitigation in place.

It also looks like that One Viral Thread has been taken over to the cesspit that is Facebook, so I’m sure I’ll be getting a flood through the contact form on that front. Harassers’ IPs and linguistic oddities are logged automatically, though, and retained for safety reasons.

There’s also been a rise in the incidence of Well Actuallys, Reply Guys, Debate Mes, and the like, especially on my funny little threads. (Like the recent Dracula in Sears bit.) Apparently Banana Truthers, Sears Truthers, the Historical Denim Brigade, and all that cohort are all very angry with me. It’s nice of them to show themselves in such unambiguous terms; my Block Party queue has been getting quite a workout.

Go figure, my contribution to the zeitgeist will be squirrel tales and the enragement of Banana Truthers. The amount of amusement I get from contemplating this outcome is immense, and borders upon deep satisfaction. Laughing at the absurdity is better than a number of other coping mechanisms, so I suppose I should thank them, just to be polite.

I get to run in the rain today, and the dogs will get walkies–yesterday they were obstreperous brats, and I didn’t feel like dragging them through the mist to get over it. Of course they’ll be doubly bratty today; I only put off the inevitable. But some days, that’s all one can do.

Then I get to come home, do the last-minute brushing-and-folding on the week’s subscription drop, and the rest of the day is mine to do with as I will. Which will be banging my head upon Hell’s Acre, with a bonus few hours spent on Sons of Ymre #2. Still no word on when #1 will drop, I’m just told “soon.” Everyone is having scheduling difficulties these days; patience is the watchword.

And all day there will be the grey outside my window, the dripping branches, the rain-slick rhododendrons and bubble-wet moss. It is soothing, and wonderful, and I love every moment of it.

It’ll do, my friends. It’ll do.