One Last Mashup Rose

…left in my heart.

This rosebush has been singing a mashup of Yellow Rose of Texas and You’re the One Rose (That’s Left In My Heart) for a week or two, so I caught a snap of it in rare winter sunshine. The water drops are from heavy mist, the river and wet earth both breathing cold exhalation upwards. Now the rains have moved in again, so it’s a bit warmer…but just a bit.

Yesterday was Yule, and we dragged out the new tree–bigger than the old one, 75% off a few days before Samhain, my daughter didn’t expect my caving to the begging but really, our other tree was beginning to look seriously overloaded and this one has more space. It was a bargain, but it also means that every time I walk past the living room I flinch a little. Still, the kids are thrilled and my daughter’s bestie enthused over it during his visit yesterday, so at least they’re happy.

Later today the stove might be fixed. All phalanges are crossed.

I’m saddened that we’re past the darkest night of the year; I could have used more rest. This interstitial time–between Yule proper and the New Year of society at large–could be restful and restorative, but not this year. Or maybe it’ll turn out all right once the stove’s dealt with, who knows? All I want is to get through today and crawl back into bed with Chaucer, who is turning out to be a helluva good time. (I recommend the current Norton Critical edition–you know I love Norton Criticals as a whole, but this one really goes out of its way to make the text accessible.) I’m about halfway through Tale of Genji and am going to go back to it after the New Year, I just couldn’t handle more wet sleeves.

I suppose I should get some toast gnawed and Boxnoggin rambled. He’s not going to like it if the rain keeps up, but he’d like skipping walkies even less. Change is this dog’s mortal enemy, and he was extremely put out by the gleaming new thing in the living room until we came back from yesterday’s stroll and his short-term memory had been reset. Now he’s fairly sure the room has always been in this configuration…but he suspects, and it makes him nervy. Poor fellow.

I wish you a peaceful weekend, my dears. I may be back on Boxing Day, or I might decide to take until January 1 off, haven’t decided yet.

I’ll see you when I see you. Be safe out there.

Up Goes the Monument

First jolt of coffee for the day. At least one stove burner is still working, a pleasant thing to find out–of course the repair lad is coming tomorrow, and in the meantime we have Boris the Drip and Matilda the Microwave, so we’ll be fine, just fine. Still, it’s some-damn-thing else I didn’t want to have to deal with, especially this time of year. (This may be where I say now is an excellent time to buy some books, right? RIGHT?)

I’m also deeply annoyed that I can’t afford the gouging price they’re charging for a Covid booster, let alone flu or RSV. (What, you think a freelance writer supporting an entire household can afford medical insurance in America? HA!) And before some “helpful” person talks about “government bridge programs”, let me just tell you I do not have the energy for that deliberately red-taped and time-consuming nonsense. I am busy paying bills and attempting to keep this ship from sinking.

If I die of the plague, blame pharma-corporate and “insurer” greed.

Anyway. The new, larger tree has been brought up from downstairs. I got a 3ft one years and years ago for the kids, since they love the holidays almost as much as I despise them–and let it be known I am glad to have it so, it is one of the great victories of my life that they do not associate this time of year with capital-T Trauma–and there’s a small story in that. Just after Samhain this year I was at the local buy-everything with my daughter and they already had the Christmas display out. Including fake trees for a whopping 75% off, probably last year’s crop or even left over from lockdown overstock.

So I took the plunge, because our poor little 3ft fellow lists heavily under a slowly accumulating crop of ornaments. Now we have a seven-footer, fit for hanging no shortage of gewgaws and even an Odin on. We’ll rehome the small one eventually, never fear; I anthropomorphise nearly everything so deeply I wouldn’t dare throw him in a landfill.

Besides, all his lights still work.

Anyway, today is the solstice, Yule proper for our household. Up goes the monument with winking lights. Boxnoggin will be utterly beside himself, and there will be at least one nighttime crash as the Mad Tortie decides to scale this new addition to the living room clutter. At least the three-footer meant she didn’t have far to fall, but this new Matterhorn will be nigh irresistible to her ambitions. A fun time will be had by all.

Hopefully the repair lad dropping by tomorrow will have the parts necessary to return our range and oven to full glory. The model number and several pictures have been texted to him–we do live in the future, my goodness–and he’s been by before during the Latest Dishwasher Incident and (who could forget?) the Saga of Washing Machine. Corporations really have deliberately engineered appliances to fall apart after ten years or so; it’s amazing. If they turned all that know-how towards actually making their products better who knows what might result? But fiduciary duty to shareholders forbids–the name of the game is enriching the already-rich.

Do I sound bitter? Not really. Just…weary, and wishing this time of year was over. There’s a few more things I have to tie off before I can shut down and perhaps take a few days off around New Year’s. I likely won’t rest, since the very concept is rather foreign to me, especially lately. But I will spend time simply working solely on something that pleases me alone, like the ragged, happy-go-lucky swordsman and the serious no-nonsense assassin in House of the Fan. Their first meeting is somewhat of a delight, since she outright laughs at him.

Some years are better than others, or at least easier to deal with. This one is…sub-optimal. But I hear stirring in the hallway, so it’s time to make a little more coffee and help set up the new tree. The kids are excited, and I can take solace in their joy even if I distinctly do not share it.

Happy solstice, my dears. The Long Night is here, a time of rest. I will not be holding vigil tonight–too tired, too sad, too worn down. Yet I know others will, and that’s a comfort too.

Bin Chicken Rehab


So my dear Aussie friend (who is Tuckerised in Jozzie & Sugar Belle, along with a few other lovely folks) sent us a Christmas parcel. Among the TimTams and other goodness was this ornament, which arrived in somewhat sorry shape necessitating surgery–in a word, glue, which you can see around the feet.

Fortunately treatment was successful, but the bin chicken needed a bit of rehab before taking up position on the tree. So while the glue cures they’re providing amusement value to the dinner table. The Princess has announced that her fetch is no longer a crafty-eyed trash panda but a bin chicken now, and the Prince is determined to find out what sound these fellows make and torment us all with high-volume renditions of said dulcet song.

Boxnoggin, of course, is uninterested in the entire affair since the ornament is non-snackable. For my own part, every time I look at the thing I start humming Amy Winehouse.


Oh, and while you’re here, the recent CURSED anthology (it has a story I’m particularly fond of writing in it) is a Kindle Daily Deal today, $.99USD. (For other discounts, check the Monthly Sales page.) Enjoy! And have a lovely weekend.

Tricksy Hobbitses and Sweet Deals

Today will supposedly see the visit of an electrician for the outlet and switch running the garbage disposal; the problem (thankfully) doesn’t seem to be in the breaker. It’s taken nearly a month and several exquisitely polite phone calls and live chats with the home warranty company to get this sorted, and I look forward to it being over–if, in fact, it will be over. The gust of wind you just heard was probably an echo of my heavy sigh.

Cain’s Wife 1 continues apace. I knew I wanted to write this trilogy, and the first book’s definitely not disappointing. I had thought the explanation of just what the big vampire in Belgium is selling needed to go in the first few chapters, but the story felt otherwise. It needs to come after the revenge heist, part of the rising stakes but before the trip to desert sands. We’re gonna have so many The Mummy references in this bad boy, and as many Romancing the Stone ones as I can fit in. So, yesterday was good wordcount on that front. I’m doing at least the first 50k of it for NaNo, so if you’re doing it too, courage, my friend, we’ll get there together.

Highlands War was being shirty with me. I had to toss about 800 words or so of throat-clearing that will no doubt end up as a deleted scene for my subscribers. I finally figured out what the book wanted was Kaia spider-monkeying on a Skaialan giant’s back while trying to wrestling-choke him out of a berserker fit, which was hilarious enough, but then the whole shebang fell on top of poor Redfist. Who, truth be told, rather deserves it. He’s been a giant asshole since he returned home. The thing where going back to a parent’s house turns one into a kid again gets even worse when one is a seven-foot warlord with a grudge and a giant axe.

The storm seems to have mostly blown itself out. The yard is full of downed crap, but at least we aren’t in the position of some poor soul who was running a chainsaw in the cul-de-sac behind us last night. There was a concurrent half-hour of a car alarm going off; both saw and alarm halted at roughly the same time. I can only hope it wasn’t Mike (of Mike’s Deck fame, and if you guys remember that one you are long-term readers of mine indeed) because Pam (not her real name) really doesn’t need the stress.

Anyway, today I write a witch’s uncomfortable call to one of her mothers as well as some shopping for magical supplies, which will serve the dual purpose of worldbuilding, ramping up suspense with the news of just who else is after the thing our protagonist’s going to heist, and the ceremonial leavetaking. (For Belgium. Which makes me giggle.) Then I shift gears to yesterday’s berserker/wrestling combat scene, because I knew even while dumping out 2k of text that trimming would be needed.

Combat scenes, like sex scenes, are tricksy hobbits. The parts need to be in the right place, and the rising tension needs a payoff somewhere. Frankly, I was just so glad the story was moving again without throat-clearing I may have tossed every single detail into the pot and said fuck it, we’ll fix it in revise. Which is a sure way for Past Me to piss Present Me off to no end, but what am I going to do? Past Lili had her own problems.

The older I get, the more I can look back and say that bitch did the best she could, and I should maybe leave it at that. Now there’s some wisdom for a Tuesday.

Coffee’s almost done and Boxnoggin needs his walkies, especially if we’re going to have a tradie here today. Box will be desperate to make the electrician’s acquaintance, but will be barred from doing so because his enthusiasm can be rather…disturbing. And someone brought home two boxes of Pop Tarts last night, graciously dropping into house chat that they are for the delectation of all instead of just the buyer–this ‘having adult children with their own jobs’ thing is rather a sweet deal. (Get it? I’ve been on a real dad joke run lately…)

Off I go.

Tapping the Sign

A very odd weekend was had by all, or at least by me. Fortunately most of it is resolved now and I can get back to work. Bringing down the blade on anything attempting to keep me from said work is becoming more and more attractive as a strategy, especially considering health concerns and the fact that my energy is finite.

Gamble is just about finished incubating, and the prospect of an extended series of dick jokes in Highlands War delights me. (Well, I suppose technically they’re more testicle jokes, but that’s neither here nor there.) The third spot on the daily writing wheel goes to the Ragnarok book, and that’s the one giving me the most trouble now. It’s very difficult to attempt a massive, ambitious epic fantasy trilogy under these conditions.

Regardless, I guess we power on. At least I got the damn protagonist out of the pond, so that’s something.

The theme lately seems to be, “Operating from a place of kindness and trust does not make one weak or stupid.” I’ve had to repeat that to at least three different people lately. I’ve heard a lot of, “I was so stupid, how could I not have known?” And each time, I get a little irate. Or maybe just very definite and intense, pinning the person with a Lili Stare and tapping the sign.

Don’t make me tap the sign.

At least the coffee is very strong this morning, and Boxnoggin is letting me absorb it in peace. After a few days of unseasonable warmth we should be back to usual October weather, and this week might see our annual pilgrimage to a local Spirit Halloween pop-up for more interior decorating items. It’s the one time a year the outside world matches my aesthetics, so I save up to get a glut of regular household items.

It’s always spookytimes here at the Chez.

I think being unable to get much mileage due to weather conditions and illness is really doing a number on my patience. I should do a post on protecting the work as well, but this morning I have neither time nor energy. Toast must be gnawed and the dog rambled, and I’ve got to get the cabin shot up in one book, the dick jokes brought (ahem) to conclusion in another, and the third needs…I can’t tell, but it’s probably going to be a Valkyrie in love and the death of (yet another) king. (They’re dropping like flies around this particular protagonist; she’s called doom for a reason.)

Really looking forward to getting all the plot points sorted while my body moves, then coming home, getting a fresh jolt of coffee, and getting into it. In order for all that to happen, however, I’d best get started. If Monday doesn’t impede me, I’ won’t impede’ll return the favor.

Let’s see how this turns out…

Tiny Sorcery

So much depends…

“Oh look,” my son said yesterday, while we were taking out both the rubbish and the dog (though for vastly different reasons). “Mushroom!”

They’re older now, but my kids are still the same. Look at the world, Mum. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s the same principle that makes us all yell, “Cow!” when out driving in rural areas, or “Horsie!” Or even, when we are exceedingly fortunate, “Llama! There’s a llama!”

Little drops of dew clinging to the rim of a mushroom’s cap. A thin stray knife of sunshine touching the side of a house. A single leaf falling. A child’s wondering cry. Even in the backyard there is magic. It lingers, asking only that we notice for the briefest of moments.

Have a lovely weekend.

Useful in the Breach

Instead of leaping out of bed this morning, I spent some time thinking about how each book I’m currently working on needs to go, listening to stray raindrops shaken from branches hit the roof, with Boxnoggin snoring into my armpit. He is quite put out that we have entered the rainy season, but in about a week he’ll forget there was any other state of affairs and will be suspicious of sunlight.

The world is a hushed and dripping wonderland, diaphanous scarves hanging between the trees. It’s not quite mist and not quite cloud, somewhere around mizzle, just hanging about not descending to earth. Boxnoggin picks his paws up very high while wading through the grass, and gives me a long-suffering look when a drop lands on him.

Poor fellow. It’s not so much the wet chill he minds as the change. No alteration in the usual state of affairs is good, saith the canine.

I have the next few scenes in Highlands War and will get the nascent army off the damn plateau soon. Gamble wants to have the big shootout on a mountainside riddled with old mineshafts instead of what I originally had planned, and I think the cop from the second act needs to show back up. (Put it on the mantelpiece and you have to use it, as Chekhov says.) And I got a little bit of the thrown-in-a-pond figured out yesterday in the Ragnarok book, though it was like pulling teeth.

All told, good work was done and I have another tranche of it today. And no queries to send back, though I’m sure some-damn-thing else will land in my inbox. ‘Tis the nature of the beast.

Most of all, I’m happy that the rains have come back. I’m not happy about being driven away from talking about literature, but it does free up time for me to create more of my own. I need the extra productivity if I’m going to feed the mortgage and keep us housed, so here we are. Time is slowly becoming a little less slippery, but I’m not sure how much of that is me simply adapting to the fact that I never had too good a grasp on it anyway.

The (still ongoing) pandemic has just made it official and given my coping mechanisms the imprimatur of being useful in the breach as well as in peacetime. So to speak.

Coffee’s almost done. Boxnoggin wants a long ramble despite the rain today; shoving his nose into wet greenery is highly acceptable despite the change. He might even eat some of his brekkie before we go…but I have to start moving for the door in order to make that happen.

Guess I’d best get started.