canine tales

New Roasty Toasty

There was nothing unreasonable amid my inbox this morning, and Throne of the Five Winds might still be on sale in ebook if one acts swiftly. (Check the Monthly Sales page, as well–and mind you check the dates!) Boris the new coffeemaker just finished burbling and gave his ending signal, so in a few minutes my cuppa might be cool enough to gulp instead of to sip with plenty of air to cool the liquid at the same time.

Slurping is not very polite, but I am burrowed into my office and one of the lovely things about working from home is that I don’t have to dress up or care about little things like the noises made when I get my coffee in as quickly as possible.

The proofs for Sons of Ymre 2 were sent in yesterday morning, and I honestly meant to dive right into working for the rest of the day. Unfortunately the Muse, my body, and my brain all rose up in revolt at the notion and forced me to take at least a half-day off after faffing around with some stories that will never be seen by anyone else.

I call those “strictly for home consumption”. Not everything needs to be on display; the bulk must reside below the waves.

The sun has moved as the axial tilt shifts, and lingers behind a well-placed fir. I miss the cedars; they were keeping my office shaded on summer morns and I’m annoyed to lose that. But oh well, it’s an invitation to plant something just as nice and wait while it grows. Patience is necessary in gardening, publishing, child-rearing…it’s a shame I have so little of the quality and must force myself to work around it. Gaming oneself is the sign of adulthood.

Anyway, I woke with Boxnoggin’s nose pressed to mine. It’s a little disconcerting to open one’s eyes and see a 60+lb predator regarding one with deep interest, but he just wanted his morning ration of snuggles before beginning daily rituals. My heated mattress topper (nicknamed Operation Roasty-Toasty) largely conked out a while ago, but summer was here so that wasn’t a big deal. I finally broke down, took advantage of the price-gouging letting up for a moment or two, and got another. (Three-year warranty my ass, the first one barely lasted two.) This made Lord van der Sploot incredibly happy despite his being locked out of my room while I was turning the mattress and getting the new topper (washed and air-dried, the anticipation has been intense) on, as well as fresh bedding.

He hates a closed door. Like the Rum Tum Tugger, he’s always on the wrong side. Plus, he could not supervise and render aid, which is his goal in life whenever there is any sort of excitement. He was forced to linger outside my chamber, moping up and down the hall in the hope that my daughter would take pity on his poor abandoned self with treats and attention. She did, of course, but then I had to be shown the error of my ways when I finally finished and opened up the construction site to the public again.

Boxnoggin gave me about ten minutes of heavy sighs, collar-shakings, and Very Disappointed Looks until I won him back over with praise, pets, and a promise that he would sleep in royal comfort. Which brings us to this morning. His side of the bed was nice and toasty due to the new arrival, and all the work paid off because I wasn’t shivering either. So, that’s why he put his nose in my face and demanded snuggles.

The only small blemish upon my enjoyment is the fact of no rain yet, but I can wait. So can Boxnoggin; he will be miserable for about a week as the weather shifts, but then it will be as if we have always lived in grey mist and he’ll be disturbed by sunlight.

There are two books on the docket right now and I might have enough bandwidth to add a third once the new editor is in touch. After that there’s Cain’s Wife to get started, since I’m already building the soundtrack for it. I’d really like to get some portal-fantasy action going–the recent massive Elric read means I have thoughts upon variations. But that’s all for the future.

Boxnoggin would very much like toast and walkies; the weight of his expectant gaze has become most intense.

I suppose I’d best get started.

Boxnoggin’s Beams

Feel the soothing nap beams…

It’s been a bit of a week, hasn’t it? I mean, they’ve all been like that lately, but still. This one seems like it’s been swinging for the bleachers.

Anyway, here’s a soothing snap of a sleepy Boxnoggin who just had at least a quarter-hour of belly rubs, skritches, fussing, and cooing about what a good boy he is. You can see he’s a teensy bit pleased (that’s understatement, a lovely tool in the writer’s little black bag) and ready for a midmorning (or morning, or noon, or midafternoon, or early evening, or evening) snooze.

It’s difficult being a good handsome boi, but Box gives it his all. This photo might even have some curative or sedative powers; contemplation of it is certainly making me yawn.

See you next week, my friends.

Copyedits and Variations

Yesterday was…well. A bad anniversary, copyedits looming, a paucity of good news, all combining in a Voltron of suckitude. It wasn’t the worst day I’ve had in a while, far from. But ’twas not ideal at all, my friends.

Fortunately today started with Boxnoggin demanding more cuddles, belly-scrubbings, and baby talk than usual, so the fur therapy has me in a relatively good place. Plus, I get to run for the first time since getting sick last week. It will only be a short, very easy workout, but I am looking forward to it with a vengeance. The endorphins will do me nothing but good.

At least I opened up the copyedits yesterday, and found them to be much better than the horrid mess made of another book in the series. That’s a gift, and one I will take with both hands. Proof pages for Sons of Ymre 2 just dropped as well. My entire week will probably be spent with that kind of fiddly work and not enough creation, which always puts me in a bit of a sore mood. I just want to write, but this frustration is an integral component of the publishing process.

Without that friction, I might not slow down enough to actually get anything out the door.

I’ve also noticed a bit more Reply Guy bullshit than usual, probably because my follower count has spiked in a couple places. A few bad eggs need to be blocked or muted so they don’t spoil the whole barrel. (Yes, a mixed metaphor–don’t worry, I’m a professional.) The thing that’s irritating me most is randos “just asking questions” answered by the thread or the linked article, beginning the descent into sealion territory. The expectation of emotional or other labour just because I present as female has become one of the top three things I’ll outright block for, right next to ebook theft apologists and full-on harassment.

Perhaps it’s my age. I have no time to spare nor fucks to give.

At least the coughing is only intermittent now, and my sense of smell has long returned. I’m tired, but I don’t feel agonizingly sick anymore. Going to bed early has helped more than anything else. My life has been constrained to work and sleep for a very long while now; I don’t suspect that will change at any point soon. I used to get out more, but then lockdown happened. And honestly, with the pandemic still ongoing, the complete abdication of responsibility shown by public health authorities in the US, and the utter lack of masking in most public places, work and sleep are about my only options for a relatively low-risk life. I’m lucky that my commute is a shuffle down the hall to my office, where the window can be open in all but the worst weather. Most people are not so fortunate and I can’t imagine the stress of knowing one has been abandoned by both authorities and one’s fellow citizens. It’s unreal. The fraying of the social contract disturbs me on many levels.

I still haven’t been able to write a story featuring Covid or lockdown. I know a lot of other writers have, I just…can’t, yet. Perhaps that explains why I’ve turned so hard into epic fantasy these days; between Highlands War and Black Land’s Bane I’m always half in another world. Neither realm is more just or happy than this one, but at least the feeling of pressure relief helps preserve some kind of emotional equilibrium.

I’m also playing with a thought or two spurred by my recent read of all the Elric. Writers, like musicians, also like playing variations and I’ve got a portal fantasy just dying for a few more measures. Of course, this will have to take its place in the queue but it’s nice to have something to look forward to. The anticipation keeps one going.

The coffee is half gone, Boxnoggin is eager for toast and walkies, and I’d best get going so a run can be had before any heat builds. It’s September and the weather is better, but I’m still longing for more rain–as is usual this time of year. The holding pattern has its own comfort.

As does the dog. Imagine, a 60lb+ predator belly-up and outright demanding multiple minutes’ worth of snuggles, raspberries, baby talk, and scrubbing before the day can start. We don’t deserve our wolf-cousins. They are beautiful creatures; I long to be half the person Box clearly thinks I am.

It’s a good goal.

Small and Beautiful

Tiny, tender shoots.

Boxnoggin needs a lot of walkies. He can’t run with me–he’s far too nervous, despite years of patient training, and doesn’t grasp the importance of staying in his “box” the way Bailey did almost immediately. He still requires exercise, however, and time spent with his nose in stuff. So we walk for a mile and a half, sometimes more, every morning. It wears him out for the rest of the day, and he’s a much different dog than the one we brought home from the shelter.

The walks are good for me, too. I get to let plot points move around inside my head, and see all sorts of tiny changes as the year progresses. There’s always something new, like tiny hairs on green fingers, leaves protecting tender inner cargo. What you can’t see is Boxnoggin below, busily attempting to find the best angle for peeing on the tree-trunk.

He focuses on the truly important things, while I simply wander with my head in the clouds.

Today is very busy. I hope I can fit in a Reading with Lili–last week’s was on Brave New World, and I want to do a companion on 1984. (Which will be super cheerful, I’m sure.) But I’m not sure if I’ll get to it between all the other errands, not to mention Friday Night Writes. At least the backed-up queue for Great Chapters is sorted, though it’ll take a month or so before we’re truly caught up.

Anyway, Lord van der Sploot needs a walk before anything else can happen, so I’d best swill my coffee and get started on the day. There will be something small and beautiful waiting for me, I’m sure–I hope your Friday is pleasant and your weekend just as exciting or as peaceful as you prefer.

See you next week!

Moving Target, Mess

The Demon's Librarian

Great news–The Demon’s Librarian is a BookBub deal, $.99 in ebook today only. Which I find rather exciting; Chess and Ryan’s adventures hold a special place in my grim, blackened little heart, and the cover is acres upon acres of mantitty, which also pleases me immensely. The moment I have some time and leeway I should get the sequel written, since Chess’s sister Charlie really needs to come into her own.

That’s the problem with writing books. The instant one is done, two more take its place in the to-do list.

I also have to laugh at the “reviewers” who think they would perform perfectly in situations certain fictional characters are faced with. (Go on with your Walter Mitty selves, dear ones.) I suppose that’s part of the joy of reading–patting oneself on the back, flattering oneself that one would behave with aplomb and sangfroid when faced with horrors beyond human comprehension. Not that it’s a bad thing! The reflex serves a valid psychological purpose, and no decent writer would argue otherwise. It’s just…funny to see it play out sometimes.

In other news, I finished the final revise on the second Sons of Ymre yesterday. This morning it goes back to the publisher. Now we only need to get through copyedits and proofs, then the book is cleared for a November launch–gods willing, health permitting, and the creek don’t rise, of course. I finished the revise after dinner in a blaze of concentration and No Sleep Till Brooklyn; the kids know that when the Beastie Boys are blasting, Mum is near the end of a project and shouldn’t be disturbed unless there’s blood, fire, or armed invasion.

I am a little sideways from that massive effort, so I can’t tell what’s on the docket today other than finishing formatting on the week’s subscription drop. Ideally I’d like to take the rest of the day and just…write something which pleases me. I’m sure something will hit the inbox to put paid to that particular dream, though.

Boxnoggin had to nose me two or three times before I could resurrect from the bed’s embrace this fine morn, and I’m sure if I dilly-dally the heat will build and I won’t even be able to get a run in. Which would be dreadful, since I sorely need to purge the stress chemicals and move my physical self enough to jar a few plot points into behaving. Particularly in Gamble, since we’re 30k into that particular book and the first big twist has been telegraphed, which means it now needs to unfold not quite in the way one is expecting.

So it’s swilling the rest of the coffee–shame the dog can’t run the espresso machine, but I’m sure it’s for the best–and grabbing some toast, then out the door for a mile-plus of walkies to wear dear Boxnoggin out. Then I can focus on wearing myself out until that blessed moment when I can return to bed and a depressing history book. Once I get through the current read I’ll polish off the third collected Elric, after which it might be time to reshuffle the bedside TBR pile into something approximating a system.

Or maybe I’ll just leave it in chaos. One needs a little bit of mess to keep the creative faculties primed, or at least I do. The trick is finding the right proportion–too little and it’s sterile, too much and it becomes a rotting albatross about the neck. The happy medium is a moving target, like so much else in life.

…yes, Boxnoggin has discerned, with his infallible sense of timing, that I’m on the very dregs of coffee. I can hear him stirring in the bedroom, where he was engaged upon his post-wakeup, pre-walkies nap. In a minute or so he’ll pad down the hall, nails clicking and collar jingling, to inform me it’s time for the rest of the morning’s rituals to commence.

Thursdays, my gods. Sooner or later I’ll get the hang of them, hopefully before I shuffle off the mortal coil…but I’m not holding my breath. And here comes Lord van der Sploot, sashaying into the office.

See you around.

Positive Parts

Tuesday’s developing into a mixed bag. I had to redo the morning coffee, because I forgot to put the prepared cup under the life-giving caffeine dispenser nozzle–but Boxnoggin did not prance about the yard for a half-hour choosing a pee spot while I staggered uncaffeinated after him. I have an Alvin and the Chipmunks song stuck in my head–but I’ve successfully avoided getting into an internet boondoggle by recognizing bait just in time and backing away. I have an interview today–but thankfully, it’s with someone I know, having done one with them before. The revisions are still hanging fire–but my frantic backpedaling has died down and apparently the Muse is ready to get to work.

Plus I realized a few things about the upcoming Cain’s Wife series, last night’s dinner was very good indeed which means the recipe will go into rotation, and Boxnoggin showed up in a slightly intense stress dream just before waking. When I surfaced he was cuddled hard against my side, woofing softly with his paws twitching, before his eyes snapped open and he looked at me like, there you are, Mum, don’t worry, I did a good protect, right?

He tries so hard, and is the bestest of bois.

It’s been a stressful few weeks, but I think maybe, perhaps, I have my fire back in me now. (As Ellen Foster would say.) At least, I have an idea coalescing into a plan, and if there’s one thing I excel at it’s small incremental motion towards far-off goals. And the marine layer is back this morning, shielding us from awful summer heat.

Still don’t know what I’m doing for dinner tonight, but that’s a problem that can be solved closer to noon when the caffeine has soaked in, the interview is behind me, and another Behind the Pages session is past as well. Funny, those seem to be the most popular feature on my channel, next to the Great Chapter reads.

My contact form is getting a lot of “hire an AI assistant!” spam. It’s vaguely hilarious because I don’t even use Siri; when I’m outright forced to, I apologize for disturbing her and thank her for her time to boot. If the singularity comes and Skynet evolves, hopefully it’ll remember how polite I’ve been.

I’d prefer to spend today getting the dream sequence in Highlands War polished and maybe throwing out and redoing yesterday’s attempt to move Gamble along, but needs must when the devil drives and ol’ Luci’s cackling at the wheel right now. It might be time to brainstorm a few more things, too, because ideally the interest in another Steelflower book would give subscriptions a bump so I don’t have to agonize over trad publishers dragging their feet. Still, things are tight for everyone now, so I’m utterly grateful for what I have. Just got to buckle up and find other ways of doing things.

The coffee is near its dregs, Boxnoggin isn’t stirring yet but it’s only a matter of minutes. Getting walkies the long way ’round today is a priority, so I can be ready for that interview. It’s time to focus on the positive parts of Tuesday, so I can step on the heads of the less-positive.

Better stretch out and get my boots on.

Creative Clutch

There was a bit of a cover reveal yesterday–A Flame in the North got shown on Insta and Twitter, et cetera. (Subscribers have already seen bits and pieces of that book, plus the one after it.) I can’t really think about that right now with the release of Salt-Black Tree looming so close; getting release-day nerves for two books at once might well do me in.

In other good news, my shower is bone-dry. The dripping has indeed stopped, hallelujah and pass the butter. It wasn’t a huge problem–though whenever there’s a leak it’s only a matter of time before it accelerates–but now I don’t have to listen to water plonk-plonk-plonking while attempting to sleep. Consequently last night was very restful indeed, save for Boxnoggin being a bit miffed since it’s too warm for him to stick his nose in my armpit.

I never thought I’d see the day he didn’t want to cuddle with his schnozz in my axillary area, or even pressed against my jugular. Humans are so very odd; we think nothing of letting canid predators get their teeth close to that vulnerability. Of course, Box can’t even fathom the possibility of snacking on my entrails at the moment. I think he has a dim intimation that doing so would rob him of the cushy deal he’s got going on with regular walkies, cuddles, and bacon grease in his bowl all the time.

The wild isn’t calling this dog, no sir, or if it is he’s put her on hold.

So the score is: I’m finally running without the ankle brace; the bloody leak has been fixed (on the first try, even!); one book is due out next month; the Tolkien Viking Werewolves are finally inching towards their time in the sun. I should feel grand. In fact, I should feel damn near invincible.

Maybe it’s just free-floating anxiety, but all I’m feeling is the breathless sensation of waiting for another shoe to drop.

At least I found the next few scenes in both Highlands War and Gamble. I think there might have to be a fight in the former, which I’ll need to block out rather carefully. The latter is in the cat-and-mouse bit of a romantic suspense arc, so it needs a good double-cross relatively soon. Of course, after this upcoming weekend I have to shift gears, get the waiting revision for Sons of Ymre 2 dealt with–and good gods, that book feels like it was done ages ago–and turn back to writing fresh stuff again, probably within a matter of days. Good thing I’m used to working a creative clutch, so to speak.

I have a hazy idea for YouTube Live write-ins, but that might not come to fruition. I am far too solitary a creature. Still, I’ve been bowled over by the response to the short question-and-answer livestreams, so maybe that’s a thing that can happen. The trouble is, I have a face for radio and I am most definitely not a breathless, constantly yelling “influencer”. So it probably won’t work…but I’m kicking around the idea, just in case. You guys seem to like witnessing the creative process, though to me it’s almost boring because all the action is happening inside my skull.

Adapt or perish, swim or drown. Even my capacity for sudden change has been a bit strained in the past few years. It seems like things are turning around…unless, of course, the violent authoritarians pull more bullshit and the habitually supine centrists let them. Can’t worry about that right now, I have too much else on my plate.

So I suppose it’s off to walkies, getting a run in before the heat gets too awful, and a day of getting Kaia Steelflower through a duel (verbal or otherwise) as well as setting up a double-cross for a member of the Ghost Squad. In between all that I have to feed myself and get a few chores done. I’ll be scrabbling like a white rabbit, though there’s no Alice in sight.

Off I go then, revving the engine and popping the gearshift from first to third. Hop, hop, hop…