Whatever Flavour of Great

Roadtrip Z

Happy Monday! Cotton Crossing is $.99USD in ebook at AmazonBarnes & NobleApple, and Kobo; the entire Roadtrip Z series is deeply discounted in ebook until 3/22. (Details and links are on the Monthly Sales page.) A little bit of madness in March, as they say, and She-Wolf and Cub is still a Kindle deal for the rest of the month as well.

The weekend was…productive, at least. Another couple short stories brushed up and formatted for the anthology, which is coalescing quite nicely, and I even got some serial wordcount in. I managed to detach and spend Sunday afternoon on the couch with Emily Wilson’s Iliad translation, which is absolutely wonderful. Greek is singing through her English, and it’s marvelous. I’m glad I held off on her Odyssey until I could finish this one, which won’t be long. I wish I could find something comparable for the Aeneid, but my Loeb will have to do.

In fact, I’d love to retreat to said couch with the last quarter of the Iliad, but there’s work to be done. I’ve got the protagonist of the Sekrit Projekt in a bit of a pickle, where they’ve been all weekend, and it’s time to get that sorted. I’d love to do a bit more of the serial today, since there’s about to be another knives-in-the-dark moment. I think it’s time for someone other than our favourite sellsword to get wounded, which will scare the stuffing out of her.

Always a good time.

The backyard is quiet; I am uncertain if Deathwish Bunny is the parent of the nest Boxnoggin found in one of the ferns. At first I thought he’d found a rabbit corpse, since it was before dawn and I was pre-caffeine; however, I glimpsed something moving in the depths after dragging his snoot from the hole and realized what was going on. The dog is quite upset that I won’t let him Be Great, for whatever flavour of “great” requires him attempting to eat newborn rodentia. The tender-hearted may rest assured that we’re keeping him away from the nest; if the kits are still in there, they have remained unmolested. I did notice that something or someone covered the hole back up, so I’m assuming Deathwish (or some other bunny) has attended to whatever’s going on inside. In another week or so I’ll check the hole again, hoping to find it vacant.

In the meantime, Boxnoggin will just have to suffer. He also got a bath this weekend since the weather was warm enough to permit him drying in rapid order. We make do with dry or damp-towel scrubs during the winter since he is slick-coated and suffers the shivers if he gets chilled, but climate change has given us a few very warm sunny days so we’ve made the best of it. Of course, he’s quite upset that his familiar stink is missing and doubly put out that I washed the comforter on my bed so he can’t regain said stink from it, but we all have our crosses to bear in these trying times.

…this post has turned into a Doge Report, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He was an utter goofball this morning, requiring more than the usual cuddling and bellyrubs before deigning to let me get out of bed. Possibly he felt the dual inconvenience of bath and refusal to let him snack on bunny-nests necessitated a great deal of Speaking to the Manager, which would be me. Alas, he will remain unsatisfied upon both points, at least until he reeks of dog instead of the fancy anti-allergy oatmeal shampoo.

I’d better grab some toast and get going. The biggest decision will be which ankle to put the brace on; getting older is full of such quandaries. At least once I return from shambling about there’s a prospect of more coffee, and I can get a few plot twists ironed out while moving.

And awaaaaaay we go.

Win Or Sledgehammer

The dog started the day by demanding many a bellyrub and cuddle before he would deign to leave a warm bed–which, honestly, fair play and I did not mind. However, he followed it up by attempting to stamp on every hyacinth and daffodil in the backyard, forcing us to trudge around in circles while he sought the perfect place to pee as the temperature hovers near freezing.

I don’t even know. Then there was the Coffee Grinder Incident and I began to despair of ever getting some goddamn caffeine. Fortunately the Moka pot didn’t make me wait too long and now I am safely in my office, shivering with the aftereffects of Boxnoggin’s frigid bathroom break but grateful for the cup of java I’m finally managing to get down my poor sleepy gullet.

I have Flo Rida’s My House running through my head; it’s a supremely danceable tune. Yesterday it was fighting for supremacy with DNCE’s Cake By the Ocean, which starts out sounding like Uptown Funk to a degree which makes it mash with several other tracks on my skull radio. However, it is also supremely danceable, so I didn’t mind. Still, I’m glad to have just one song plaguing me at the moment–when I get three or four going, it’s usually a sign I need more work to keep the ol’ thinkmeat from consuming itself.

Yesterday was all administrivia and video meetings. Honestly I don’t know why anyone talks to me–I mean, sure, I’m hilarious, but I’m also A Lot and a crotchety misanthropist to boot. I got into publishing because it was a job I could handle from home while caring for toddlers (childcare costs would have eaten the proceeds from any other) and now I’m so used to setting my own schedule and arranging things to suit myself I’m largely unfit for not only any other career but also interacting with what one thinks of as “normal” people.

I get weird early, I stay weird, and it’s not gonna change.

Anyway, the Ides of March are tomorrow and the second tranche of sales and price drops for the month are coming ’round the bend. Today there is a cake to bake, plus wordcount to catch up on since I got barely 400 yesterday and I suspect they all have to be thrown out. I may have to reserve one day per week for goddamn bureaucratic nonsense so I can protect the rest of my working time. I need this book done and if I’m going indie at the rate I suspect (developments are underway) I also need a few other things in place.

My patience for incremental effort is being severely tested. I need a win or two. Maybe I’ll get one during walkies, or today’s run. If that doesn’t work, there’s a sledgehammer sitting to the right of my desk, and I’m sure I can find a way to use it around the yard for a bit.

…honestly, the prospect sounds more and more enticing the longer I think about it. Thursday got the first few hits in, but I’ve got a plan for the war entire.

Time to get swinging.

Monday, Avec Subtext

Recently, I was hanging out in my Discord server and someone asked, “How much thought do you give to the subtext of your novels? (With the knowledge that ~75% of people are there for a plot and won’t pick up on the subtext)”? Which was super interesting and I typed up a long reply, but the question’s been bouncing around in my head since.

I don’t think most people are reading for plot. I think most people are reading for an experience, an exercise in empathy; plot is often a component of that, and characterization is a very important overriding factor as well. But subtext, hmm. My answer boiled down to, “I don’t think about it at all in the zero and first draft. If there’s subtext, I only recognize it in revision–and most of the time the editor sees it, I don’t.”

A story is a living, breathing organic thing for me. In the zero and first draft my concern is only getting the damn thing out whole and undamaged as possible. Any subtext happens almost despite the writer; the story itself chooses what it’s about and its undercurrents. This is not an abdication of responsibility, just a feature of how creativity often works; many’s the time an editor has said, “I love how you put in X as a theme/subtext,” and I’ll go all shifty-eyed and reply, “Yes, haha, absolutely!” before digging frantically in a former draft to find out what the hell.

When I write, I’m concerned almost entirely with just getting the damn thing finished in as undamaged a fashion as possible, getting myself out of the way so the story can come through. Anything else is the Muse’s concern and purview, not mine.

Now, in revision, once I’m alerted to themes or subtexts (which is part of the advantages and services an effective editor provides), I made decisions about highlighting or redirecting, accentuating or burying. And of course, other writers no doubt have different processes; I’m sure there are those who naturally think about and handle the subtext as they’re drafting or even while outlining. So this is not a one-size-fits-all answer by any means, and if you have a different experience while building your own stories, awesome! Go with it. Do what works for you. That’s the entire point.

Moving on! The time change (Daylight Savings, for the curious) is highly unpleasant, as usual. There is a persistent myth that it was instituted for agricultural reasons, like summer vacations in American public schooling, but that just ain’t so. Factory owners wanted to squeeze more productivity out of their caged employees, so the time change was instituted, and proved a little profitable so there’s a great deal of resistance to scrapping the whole thing. It’s all about control and a few more cents squeezed from workers, like so much else. It’s deeply unpleasant and the sooner it’s abolished the better.

…I could also be cranky because the caffeine hasn’t hit yet and there’s a whole lot to do today. That’s a distinct possibility.

Said coffee has been finished but Boxnoggin hasn’t stirred from his first daily nap yet. He was thrilled to have dinner “early” yesterday, even though he’s largely a social eater and sometimes refuses his kibble unless someone will sit at the table and pretend to be snacking as well. Of all our dogs he’s the one who handles the time change best–though he does start lobbying for dinner an hour before the official moment–more out of duty than anything else, I think. He appears utterly convinced the humans will forget to eat if not reminded by their faithful canine supervisor.

Of course, going outside for his first bathroom break happened in predawn darkness, which meant Deathwish BunBun appeared in the ferns along the back fence, giving me a filthy look for invading what he considers as his domain. Amazingly, Boxnoggin was too concerned with peeing and getting back inside to the warm bed to even notice the snackable bit of rodentia nearby, a mercy I am devoutly grateful for.

I love this dog; also, “smart” and “observant” are two deeply inaccurate descriptors for him. He is loving, committed, sometimes cunning, goofy, and energetic, and it’s enough.

Onward to Monday. I’m in a bit of a mood, and unwilling to sugarcoat much if at all today. It’s oddly liberating, like trimming my own hair–another thing which happened this weekend, and it went as well as can be expected. The split ends are gone, I can throw it in a braid for sleep or exercise, and when it warms up a little more the bees will be able to hitch a ride. More doesn’t really concern me at this point.

I’ve got subtexting to do, after all.

For Different Elves

We’re on the downward half of the week, and I’m very close to the point where everything is funny again. That’s the stage right before I crawl into the cave for shelter and only reappear once a book is finished; considering there’s 50k (at least) left to write on the serial and way more than that on the Sekrit Projekt this does not bode well. Of course, it could be the urge to retreat into fictional worlds and never come back out, since there’s so much truly heinous shit going down outside.

I’m sure some Internet Rando will sneer that escapism doesn’t help anything, but I have ol’ JRRT on my side. Tolkien drew an explicit line (in an interview) between escapism in fiction and the duty for a prisoner of war to attempt escape in any way possible; I think about that a lot. I also think about his insistence, in at least one famous letter, that he was creating a mythic sandbox he desperately wanted other people to play in.

That last bit helps with the hatemail I’m starting to see now. I knew it was only a matter of time before some neckbeard or another got mad about me getting my girl cooties all over “Real” Epic Fantasy™, by which they inevitably mean White Male Power Trips. It was so expected as to be hilarious, actually arriving a little bit later than I thought it would. So far the dudes seem really upset that the protagonist isn’t the Valkyrie analogue in the book, that said Valkyrie isn’t banging one of the werewolves, and that the actual protagonist prefers sewing, negotiation, and peace to just about anything else.

They’re going to be real mad when the third book hits.

Those bemoaning the fact that the writing is dense, the language is sometimes archaic, and the narrative moves in ways they didn’t expect were also anticipated; I was asked several times to water the language and the complexity down, and largely refused. I will be precisely as recondite and playful as I wish in this particular trilogy. I’m not writing for those who cannot handle or suss out implications, or those who claim confusion when a character thinks one thing but says another. (It’s called lying. Shockingly, both real and fictional people are capable of it.)

No, I have created this for different elves, as the divine Austen might mutter.

The good news is, Boxnoggin’s completely fine. Indeed the dog’s only problem now is my insistence that he not scrabble-run crazily down the hall or engage in calisthenics all over the living room furniture to reinjure himself. He is most annoyed at the short, very easy daily rambles, too, even though I allow double the usual generous allotment of sniffing time. Fortunately the weather has been filthy enough to keep other dogs inside most mornings, which means he does not exert himself proving his chivalry by acting a damnfool and needing close harness-hobbling. Plus he gets to sprawl on a heated bed for the majority of the day, which does him a great deal of good and will probably cut recovery time down a bit. Small mercies.

The Muse is demanding a steady diet of manga and Donnie Yen movies at the moment. I have no idea, I just give her what she wants. Personally I’d prefer to go back to the stack of history books waiting at my bedside, but she’s voracious and I need her kept happy. Plus there’s the Gamble revision looming, and one for Chained Knight when the editor sends it back. I’m considering a Roadtrip Z series sale next month, too, but that’s a whole lot of setup and I’m not sure I have the hand free to juggle it.

There are also some reader questions hanging fire; I really ought to do a post from the mailbag soon-ish. I do read everything sent, my darlings, I just don’t have a lot of time to respond. It’s either reply to all your lovely missives or write the books you all want, and only one of those pays my bills. I do what I can, yet am perpetually behind the eight-ball, so to speak.

In any case the morning mist is lifting, the coffee is down to dregs, and I should gnaw some toast before the ramble and shamble, the first for Boxnoggin and the second for my silly mental and physical health. There’s an army to get moving in the serial, and actual flying monkeys to unleash in the Sekrit Projekt. I have been looking forward to the latter for weeksnow and have a shot at getting to actually write it today, which provides me with a great deal of anticipatory glee.

Best to get started, then. Excelsior, and all that…

Boxnoggin’s Badonkadonk Sunday

Boxnoggin scared the absolute stuffing out of me Sunday evening, so I spent that night and all yesterday in a rather anxious state. Turns out to be a simple muscle strain; he pulled something in his leg while scrabbling down the hall to get a toy early Sunday afternoon, then napped in such a way as to stiffen up. A little rest and a dab of muscle relaxer later, he’s absolutely fine. In fact, he spent most of yesterday zoned on medication and sleeping, which did him nothing but good.

I, however, was checking every quarter-hour to make sure he was still breathing, and agonizing over what we’d do if it wasn’t muscle strain. He was eating, drinking, and eliminating with no trouble, his gums were the proper color and I was 99.9% certain he simply needed rest…but that last .01% is a real doozy. I’m glad to have made the right call, glad it wasn’t more serious, and though my nerves are shot from the worry I finally got some sleep last night.

I had planned to spend the long weekend doing something other than fretting myself dry over a furry toddler, but such was not meant to be. I’m just relieved it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared. And I did get a lot of reading done–although why my current idea of “comfort read” is Junji Ito horror manga, I do not know–as well as a thorough watching of several very violent yakuza films, mostly Beat Takeshi’s Outrage trilogy.

Boxnoggin didn’t flick a single ear at all the gunfire or yelling. That’s normal, though; he and I both love action movies. Well, I love them, he really likes being snuggled while I watch and laugh at the special effects, or gasp at good fight choreography. Since I’m watching on tablet or desktop the sound is never loud enough to distress either of us. In fact, I’d go so far as to say action movies are Lord van der Sploot’s favourites, because of all the cuddles and occasional popcorn.

Since I was giddy from lack of sleep yesterday, I also took the plunge and moved my business email off Google. Some while ago my website host offered free Gmail-hosted email, and I signed up for it. Years and several rounds of Google enshittification (not to mention sudden charging, then sudden price-gouging) later, it was time to let go, so I did. Archiving everything since 2011 was Big Fun, especially since Gmail had changed to accentuate bloat by never actually getting rid of spam or trash (so they could charge for “storage”), but it’s all done now. Nothing left but the exit interview, and since the MX records all appear to be changed over I can do that at something approaching leisure.

In publishing news, Findaway Voices walked back their egregious rights grab (Writer Beware has a great rundown), which is good news BUT I would not ever trust them again. As Michael Lucas points out, they’ve shown who they are and what their endgame is, and the minute the public looks away they’ll be quietly changing terms once more. It also doesn’t speak well of Findaway that they literally disabled the “delete” button so authors could not pull their audiobooks as the backlash got underway. Their behaviour is so rancid it made even Audible look better, and that’s saying something.

Also, the 2023 Hugo Awards mess just keeps getting deeper. I don’t think we’ve seen bottom yet; there are other rumbles, but nothing I’ve seen reporting on so I can’t say for sure.

In any case, I should get some breakfast and take Boxnoggin for a short, careful walk, watching his left rear leg like a hawk. Mild movement and sniffing at every bush will tire him out, though he’s going to be disappointed at the length of the ramble. I’ll probably be so busy staring at his hind end I won’t have time to toss peanuts to the crows, which is kind of hilarious. “Sorry I can’t feed you guys, I’m too busy eyeballing Herr von Titzpunch’s badonkadonk.”

How is this my life? At least I can probably get to the flying monkeys in a certain Sekrit Projekt today, but in order to arrive there in timely fashion I’d best get started now.

See you around.

Incremental, Nonetheless

I’m pretty chuffed that A Flame in the North made LitHub’s list of February’s best SFF books. It’s in some stellar company, and I am thoroughly amazed. I am also nervous as hell since release day is stalking ever closer; these books have had a very difficult road indeed. Oh! And for those asking, Black Land’s Bane is a trilogy, not a two-parter as Amazon is saying. Hopefully that error should be fixed soon.

We’re also back to more reasonable winter weather for this part of the world, for however long that lasts. Boxnoggin is annoyed–six years he’s been here, but the liquid sunshine still discommodes him. Poor thing. He’s currently pacing the hallway, lobbying for early walkies though he knows, he knows I have not yet finished my coffee.

I should do a “from the mailbag” post soon; I’m getting a lot of the same kinds of questions and can’t reply personally. I wish I could, but actually writing the books takes precedence.

In the good news column, the novella is off the ground (I got the robot donkey named Chicken punched last night) and the Sekrit Projekt did not need all 17k of its beginning scrapped, so at least there’s that. And I am nearing the end of the first pitched battle in Highlands War, which currently has our favorite sellsword thrown from her horse and into the carcass of a giant boar. (Because that’s just how this book rolls, naturally.) Today she’s going to struggle out of the mess of guts and meat, and have a clear shot at ending the war once and for all…

…but things are never that easy, especially for one of my characters. I’m looking forward to that bit of writing today, as well as perhaps a lyrical little meeting between almost-lovers in the Sekrit Projekt. There’s just a cornucopia of good stuff waiting for me once I get walkies out of the way, and maybe it’ll distract from the nerves over release day and the looming stress of living in a failing empire plus capitalist hellscape.

Maybe.

As I’ve typed this, flicking between screens and waiting for caffeine to hit the bloodstream, I’ve reached the chewy dregs of the morning coffee. Boxnoggin has settled, but his (rather adorable) ears are pricked and the instant I shift to stand up he will be accompanying me to the toaster–brekkie comes next in the ritual–and waiting for his toll of crust, then dancing in place as the habitual getting-prepped-for-walkies continues. I’ have to be extremely careful not to vary his morning routine too much, for upon that path lies an anxiety spike for the poor creature and nobody wants that. I’m glad to be consistent enough that Herr von Titzpunch can stamp his paws and look miffed when there’s a slight deviation; it’s far better than the anxiety spikes he used to display.

Progress is incremental, but welcome nonetheless. The firs are ink-shadows because the sky is lightening. Tuesday beckons.

I suppose I’d better get to that toast now…

Ice Glass Globe

Rough ice, smooth heart.

This is a glass gazing globe in the garden (try saying that quickly ten times) and normally it’s completely smooth. The texture you see is from a few hours’ worth of freezing rain a few days ago. The sight was so arresting I had to stop, Boxnoggin investigating one of the deck’s iced-over support struts, and take a snap before going back to pleading with him to please just pee, it’s very cold out here and I’m worried for your paws.

We were supposed to be melted by now…but that hasn’t happened. The street was a solid sheet of ice with liquid water running over it at several points yesterday, then the temperature went back down and the rain turned back into–you guessed it–freezing rain. Boxnoggin hasn’t had walkies in a few days; we’ve made do with many circuits of the yard, trying to break the ice-crust and gain traction on snow underneath, and a whole lot of playing indoors with his many and various dog toys. On the bright side he’s finally figured out one of the easy canine puzzles left over from Bailey’s tenure. It took her five minutes, he’s been working on the damn thing for months. To be fair we never let him struggle for very long, patiently showing him how it works and waiting for a spark to bridge the gap. We’re ever so proud he’s finally grasped it.

The past two weeks have been sort of awful, to the point of losing weight from stress. At least it stopped before the hair-falling-out portion of festivities, though I suspect I may have acquired a few more grey strands. At least I have the consolation of knowing I’m not the problem; being able to go to trusted friends for a quiet word and hearing, “No, you’re right, this is fucked up and you’re being gaslit” is damn near priceless. For the record, these are the same people with carte blanche and encouragement to smack me right in the kisser should I ever Actually Be the Problem, so it’s nice to know that I remain unsmacked.

I may do a sort of self-publishing roundup next week, since I have hit my limit dealing with a couple corporations’ bullshit, but we’ll see. At the moment I just want all this to be handled so I can get back to work. Significant progress has been made–amazingly, once I stop taking any shit at all, many institutions which have been serving said faeces discover that they are in fact capable of acting otherwise in my direction. Funny how that works.

I’ll leave more Chaucer for next week as well, though I am now in the Pardoner’s Tale. I suspect I have acquired momentum and will be finished with ol’ Geoffrey soon. It’s been a marvellous ride.

See you next week!