chez sweet chez

Belly Medicine

Feeeeel the relaxation.

Sometimes one just has to slither to the office floor, let the dog know you’re ready for a good skritching session, and laugh when he throws himself on his back to demand you get that one spot right under his armpit. He ended up drooling while I gave his undercarriage a thorough dry-scrubbing, and by the time I stood up to dust myself off both of us had immeasurably improved moods.

Well, my mood was improved. Boxnoggin’s holds rather steady all day, except for when there’s something cat- or rodent-sized to chase. Then he becomes all business instead of hundred-percent goofy good nature. Unfortunately letting him chase anything ends in heartbreak, broken fencing, injury, or just an almighty mess, so he doesn’t get to do it that often. (Unless it’s inside with a small stuffed toy impersonating a victim.)

Anyway, I managed to use my free hand to take a snap of his utter, drooling joy, and thought I’d share it with you. May the relaxation and enjoyment beam out of the picture and get you through Friday into the weekend, my beloveds.

See you next week.

Boxnoggin Bartleby

Woke up with the Decemberist’s Yankee Bayonet playing in my head. It’s on the Gallow & Ragged soundtrack, but the sea-shanty aspects of it also always make me think of HOOD. It’s the sort of song Alastair Crenn and Jeremy would hum while on the rails, and Alladal would play with for a performance in one of Sharud’s many kultur-dives. I think Ged would know it, certainly, and might even think of it while dreaming of resting in Marah’s arms.

Some songs make lateral connections between stories for me, a type of musical connective tissue. And there’s no doubt it’s a catchy tune.

It’s the first day of December, so holiday stuff is in full swing. Which means I’ll be hiding at home for the foreseeable future unless absolutely forced to go somewhere. The amount of unhappiness and tension swirling around scrapes against all my nerve endings, mixing with childhood trauma. When I was young, this time of year was always mounting, deadly anticipation of the worst until the inevitable explosion, and I still can’t fully relax.

There are bright spots. I’ll be busy, head-down in a revision I’d rather not do but it’s paid work so that’s fortunate. The Jolene, Jolene story may–may–have found a home, we’ll see. If I bring all my engines to bear I might also get the second season of Hell’s Acre to at least zero draft status by New Year’s, which will give me comfortable running room to prepare the next serial. And I have a really fun sale planned for you guys, going until Boxing Day–but more about that tomorrow, I’m slightly behind myself this morning. (Or ahead. Not sure.)

The forecast is muttering about snow, but that’s probably just up in the hills. Here we only get wintry mix, as a rule, and I should’ve named Boxnoggin “Bartleby” instead, because he would really prefer not to, especially while it’s raining. While he’s inside he cannot wait for walkies, but once we actually get outside he is incensed that I would force him “to do such a thing, Mother, how dare!” Then, when we arrive home, he goes to one of his (several, cushioned, very comfortable) beds (including my own) and curls up, giving me super reproachful glances every time I walk by. For the rest of the day getting him to go outside for loo breaks is a Grand Production of Preferring Not To, Mother, Thanks Very Much, and I am clearly the worst pet owner in the world for forcing him to unload outside and return to a nice warm house. By tomorrow morning the entire experience will have left his empty but surprisingly thick skull wholesale and the cycle will begin anew.

This dog, I swear. I will never lack for laughter while he’s around.

In any case, Boxnoggin Bartleby complained all during his first loo break of the day but has since forgotten it and visited my office twice now, eager to move me toward breakfast and walkies. He’ll realize his mistake as soon as we step outside, I’m sure. Right now he is ensconced at my office door, gazing intently at me. I can feel the weight of his expectations against my shoulder, not to mention the side of my head.

Off we go then, upon the merry-go-round of canine amnesia. There are even several leaf blowers hard at work in the neighborhood–the music of autumn’s ending, indeed. Most of the leaves are down, except for that one willow tree…

…but that’s (say it with me) another blog post.

See you around.

Candy Scrabble

Might even be a bingo!

Our bowl of Halloween candy (just visible near the top of the photo) contained bite-size Snickers. Naturally, right about the time the first sugar rush hit I got a bright idea, started fishing them out and made a whole word. My daughter groaned–the game was afoot–then started digging. My son gave a chortle and dove in to help.

We’d’ve gotten more if we hadn’t been dipping into the bowl all afternoon. Still, the shout of joy each time we finished a word was inordinately satisfying. Four and three-quarters isn’t a bad score for this game, and we celebrated with pizza and another delicious, delicious sugar rush.

It’s been a helluva week, my friends. We’re on the downhill slide, and there might even be some candy left. Chin up, machetes out, chocolate on our chins–we’re ready.

Onward!

Knife-Edge, Smoke

A smoky dawn–not nearly so red as other years’ haze, and we’re not having the ash fall in this part of the county. Eastward it’s a mess, naturally, and we’re all watching the evacuation orders carefully. There’s not much risk in the precise place our particular house is, but we’re preparing to offer shelter if necessary.

I like helping people, but I hate that it’s necessary because of greedy corporate bastards frying the planet. At least there are some competent folks in disaster response, and at least this is happening after some of the infrastructure repair money has been applied. So here I sit, trembling on the knife edge of “thank the gods this isn’t happening two years ago.” And they say there will be rain by the end of the week.

Gods willing and the creek don’t fail completely, to coin a phrase.

Having to just sit and wait is a particular type of hell. Sartre covered the most common type, naturally, but I think a case could be made that having to hold oneself ready and braced for the next punch is just as awful.

In any case, I sent off the revised Cold North. Revision brain still has me in its mushy, Swiss-cheese grip. I’ll probably do some narration today, since I can get that done in 20min chunks and reading aloud doesn’t use any creation or revision muscles. I do have to get a thorough top-to-bottom reread of Hell’s Acre in, since we’re on the last half of the last book. That duology might not ever be published; writing it all through pandemic has done the story a bit of disservice. Certain passages remind me of how upset I was while writing them.

I should also get the monthly newsletter planned. There’s all sorts of things to talk about, from That Damn Werelion Book to this month’s sale(s) to the upcoming release. I’m fighting the imposter syndrome which always arrives after I finish a draft or revision, letting the wave pass over and through me. I know it’s just the physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion of finishing a large project, and snapback is natural.

It sucks each time.

If I’m very good today, I’ll allow myself another episode or two of Love Like the Galaxy. Leo Wu’s cape game is on point the entire way through, and I’m low-key obsessed with the entire story. I have to set myself some arbitrary goal to accomplish before I can watch more, though. That way the work will get done and I’ll get a double dopamine hit of watching a drama and knowing I made it to a benchmark. Gaming one’s own brain chemistry is the only way to survive, my friends.

If I can just get through until dusk I’ll call it a win. At least it won’t be 80F today. Summer keeps attempting to burn, but the harvest goddess has probably had about enough of All This. I roundly concur.

Let us embark upon Monday, my beloveds. At least by evening we should have some breathable air…

Autumn Shift

Rain
© Otti38 | Dreamstime Stock Photos

Slowly swam into consciousness this morning; my sleep was heavy as it has not been for weeks. I knew why when I lay still and listened.

Rain! Tapping at the roof, but not hissing through the leaves–they were already too wet. A good soaking has descended from heaven, trickling through the gutters, beading up on the freshly sealed deck, replacing some turgor pressure in tree limbs, cleaning the air, and blanketing tired dust. Now all yesterday’s activity makes sense–there were at least seven male stellar jays in the backyard most of the afternoon, screeching and carrying on amid several robins and a whole host of smaller birds. The corvids periodically came through as well, moving almost in a picket line while digging through grass and shrubbery; the squirrels were in a fury of burying anything nutlike and chasing each other away from hidden caches. Stink bugs were climbing any surface they could, a great risk while the birds were out, and it was just generally a busy rumble.

Boxnoggin is nonplussed. It took a bit of coaxing to get him out of bed, since the window is still dark. Dawn is obstructed by a pall of heavy grey–just the way I like it, in fact, the only proper way to greet that rosy-fingered goddess–and he was very nice and cozy. I rousted him for a trip to the backyard, following our usual morning protocol, and while he is very fond of habit and routine, the fact remains that he immensely dislikes rain since it is cold on his delicate paws. He gave me a startled look when the first drop hit his shoulder, then proceeded with a long-suffering sigh to attend his business before hurrying back inside. Now he’s in the living room, resentfully tongue-cleaning whatever fragments of moisture managed to reach him.

He’s not going to enjoy walkies as much as usual, but them’s the breaks.

My soul is expanding. I needed rain. And while I was rising through layers of consciousness, the solution to a particularly knotty plot problem in Cold North appeared, laid in my brain like a gift. I knew the Muse would drop it on me while I was occupied with something else; it was only a matter of time. The solution will mean a little more work, but at least I have it now.

The shift has happened. The world has tilted, and things are as they should be. The cedars are murmuring with joy, and the Venerable Fir’s boughs have started to lift again. There is even a bluejay on a handy branch along the back fence; I think it’s Ed, though he’s not screaming. He’s merely surveying his domain with a satisfied air, and probably waiting for Stede to arrive so the two of them can get into trouble with their gentleman crew.

Today holds a mountain of work. Now that I know the next solution in the revisions, it remains only to reach the particular point where it needs to be inserted. If I keep my head down and go straight through there might even be time for some narration after dinner. (The “narrate Victorian erotica with a straight face” project proceeds apace, too.) There was a Twitch outage yesterday so I couldn’t do the planned Reading with Lili, but I think I’ll do it this Friday instead of a tea.

Adaptation is the name of the game. And the title will be “Dracula, HO” because I am twelve inside.

There’s even homemade banana bread with plenty of walnuts for breakfast, once I finish coffee. I keep stopping to gaze out my office window at the inky-wet cedars, and each time I do my soul heaves another small sigh of relief and expands just that fraction more. Rain. Rain, rain, rain. Thank the gods.

Summer is over; I can begin to live–and work–again.

The Morning, With Gentlemen Jays

One of the Gentlemen Bluejays is screaming from the back fence. I’m not sure if it’s Ed or Stede, because they both produce an amazing amount of noise. There’s also a strange ratcheting cry from some bird I haven’t identified–the Merlin app wanted all sorts of personal information, and I’d rather wait for a glimpse on my own. Dawn is well underway, the smaller birds are weighing in, and I’m sure some of what I’m hearing is an early squirrel out to make a name for themselves.

By screaming. I mean, I don’t blame them.

Anyway, it’s supposed to be decent enough weather today, I’m prepping for the next Reading with Lili (I think we’re going to go straight into Dracula, since you guys like Varney well enough but are eager to move on) and this evening another story from The Pearl goes live on Reading Before Bed. I can’t believe I’m actually narrating Victorian erotica for funsies, but here we are.

Most of today will be taken up with revisions on Cold North. I want to get to the underground elven city at least, especially since I have to rework the battle there. I don’t know if I want the protagonist to see said battle, so today during walkies and the morning run I’ll have to think about the underlying structure a bit. I know exactly what I want to do, but not precisely how I want to do it. Physical movement will jar all of that free; it always does.

It will be nice to run again. I’m antsy and cranky, since the weekend was full of work and yesterday was taken up with sealing the deck and some Hell’s Acre. I don’t mind either, and the deck sorely needed attention. Of course if I hadn’t pushed to get it done we’d be having buckets of rain right now, but since I did push, I’m sure the autumn deluges will hold off for some time. Because that’s just how things work.

Boxnoggin has trotted down the hall once already to nose at my ankle and get some skritches. He is fully aware that brekkie is next on the morning docket, then it’s time for a long-ish ramble. He’s taken over Bailey’s herding and supervisory responsibilities to a certain extent, and as I’ve been typing this the morning chorus has faded. The sun has cleared the horizon by now–in between sentences I’ve been taking care of administrivia and other early morning tasks, getting my fingers ready for another day full of typing.

Though I can still hear one of the Gentlemen Jays screaming from a neighbor’s yard, and the twittering of smaller birds in the cedar. “Quiet” is only a relative term in the Kingdom of Backyard.

Happy Tuesday, my beloveds. We’ve got a long way to go, and short time to get there–a little Jerry Reed for you, since I’m trying to get a couple other earworms out of my skull–so I suppose I’d best slither off my office chair and get started.

Sealant, Dawn

It’s that lovely time of year when the axial tilt pushes sunrise later and later. There’s a line of rosy cloud in the east, and the cedars are black shadows against strengthening light. The coffee is hot and tastes marvelous, and though I’ve never been a morning person I’ve never minded the dawn.

I just usually like to be heading to bed as it rises. Shift-change, you could call it.

I ran a pressure washer for the first time yesterday, cleaning off the deck. It was incredibly satisfying to see the grunge and bits of moss lift away. Today I’ll slop some sealant on the whole thing, possibly with the help of a child or two, and then I can wait for the rains with something approaching sanguinity. It will be satisfying to see the first downpour of the season bead up on freshly sealed decking, and that will extend its life a little longer. Or at least, so I hope–replacing that sort of thing is a bitch, and we just did the roof.

One can be fully aware of being lucky to have a house, and also mildly frustrated with the constant rounds of maintenance. Circle of life, and all that.

In between, there’s a conversation that needs to happen in Hell’s Acre. Gemma needs to figure out what to do with her almost-father and wounded “uncle”; the former will not make it easy and the latter is having a full-blown religious crisis, so that’ll be fun. Fortunately, I think Avery’s going to start taking what he considers his responsibilities seriously indeed. If I can get that and the deck sorted, I’ll consider today a win.

Might even record another narration for the saucy channel. I can’t believe I’m doing this with my life, but it pleases me so I’m going to continue. I think I’ll finish the “stories” in The Pearl first, then do a few episodes where I narrate the poetry–some of which is actually quite hilarious, if one likes dick jokes. I mean, I’m neutral on dick limericks myself, despite my love for Galadriel (who learned the art of old from Varda) but I admire the sheer amount of “commit to the bit”. It’s surprisingly fun to keep a straight face while reading antique erotica.

Tomorrow it’s back to the regular schedule, especially a morning run. Giving my body some time off shouldn’t mean I use it in other ways which make it just as sore, right? My forearms are a bit unhappy from the pressure washer’s reverb, and my neck could really use some stretching and a little rest. Maybe I should shoehorn some yoga in later.

I’d say “getting old sucks” but it’s actually kind of awesome. Even if I suspect I’ll need a handful of ibuprofen by dusk.

The birds have noticed the accelerating dawn, and there’s a Boxnoggin to walk before I can start splashing sealant everywhere. I’m down to the last few swallows of coffee and the neighbors’ sprinklers are going off. The day is officially underway.

See you around.