Tenuous Peace, Cutting

It’s always mildly amusing when people who have denigrated and dismissed one for a long while act surprised when one picks up one’s toys and goes home. The ol’ “pretending bafflement when the person you used to kick around suddenly isn’t there anymore” can even be deeply hilarious, if viewed from far enough away to protect oneself. Escaping a bad situation, disengaging from those who use one as a punching bag, is tremendously healing.

All the same, I can’t help but find much of the professed surprise deeply disingenuous. Did you think I’d stay forever to be the whipping girl?

Moving on (literally!), I’m revising the last few chapters of Chained Knight today. The pieces are in place for editing (95% certainty) and cover art (that’s a Texas-sized ten-four, good buddy), so maybe around June or so another Tale of the Underdark will toddle into the world. I am deeply relieved to find out that the book is actually good–the beta readers liked it too–and that I’m still pleased by the idea of playing variations on a theme a la Elric. I think there’s one more symphony of that vein in me, but I can’t write it until *checks schedule* probably sometime next year?

That’s all right, it’ll keep. Of course, making it do so will probably force it to tear its way out of my head in two weeks like the last one. Big fun.

The three Underdark books won’t be a series, per se, but they will be variations. Cover art and releasing long enough apart should make that clear, and if it doesn’t end up getting through to a certain proportion of folk, well, there’s nothing further I can do. My work has never been for those incapable of drawing inferences, or unwilling to do so.

Perhaps it’s the energy of the new year provoking a re-evaluation of where my energy is being spent, or maybe my patience has finally been eroded. It could even be the vast inner quiet of two book hangovers at once, or the ongoing realization of my own inalienable value. Whichever way it’s sliced, I’m at a tenuous peace with cutting off a few gangrenous chunks right-fucking-now. At a certain point the consequences of walking away are far less damaging than those of staying where one is not valued, and I learn that lesson over and over. The relief is immense, almost unbearable.

After Chained revisions are dealt with, there’s a duel with a warrior woman in Highlands War as well as a pitched set-piece battle that promises to be rather fun. Not for the characters–Kaia would much rather have a decent bath and a good dinner, and her princeling is of like mind. Unfortunately the story isn’t cooperating with their dual longing, in any sense of the word. And after that…hm, it would be nice if a few folks would clear their pre-holiday inboxes and get back to me about the four…wait, five…no, six, oh my gods, six or so books waiting to either be picked up by a press or, failing that, stuffed in the self-pub cannon.

It’s a wonder I haven’t gone full-feral indie long before now. In any case, I’m giving trad publishing one last year to shape up, as my grandfather used to say–including paying me on time–or ship the fuck out. We’ll see what happens.

Thursday beckons, the subscription drops are formatted and merely require loading, Boxnoggin dislikes the chill damp but will be glad of walkies, and my own inbox could stand a little attention before I choke down some toast and get truly underway.

I’d best get started.

Emphasis, Little, Resentfully

After an initial bump of good news we’re back in the “mounting stress” portion of a writer’s career, which…well, it’s not ideal, but it’s far more familiar than anything else so why not? There is some nice stuff, though–Paste Magazine put next month’s A Flame in the North on their list of “most anticipated fantasy books of 2024” (along with a LOT of other good stuff), which is pleasant. And I’m finding out that Chained Knight isn’t a bad little book, which is a giant relief, considering.

Now if just a few other things would break loose I’d be able to breathe a bit more deeply. But alas and alack, that doesn’t seem to be in the offing.

Chaucer continues apace! I knocked off the Miller’s Tale last night, and nearly laughed myself into a fit. I begin to see why ol’ Geoffrey has survived the centuries; I also must admit I haven’t been that hilariously surprised by a fart joke since Moby Dick‘s first chapter (beans in the forecastle!). The change from highfalutin’ Tale of Chivalry to a drunken miller telling a complex cuckolding joke (one small step away from a traveling salesman number) is delicious. Just goes to show that lo, raunchy and highbrow hath always been with us, and the tension between them doesn’t mean one is better, it’s just a zone of highly fertile creativity.

I also loved how the Miller slyly mocked the Knight’s constant emphasis on what everyone was wearing, partly because descriptions of beautiful clothes are fun–spectacle satisfies no few deep aesthetic hungers–and partly because I can just see the shit-eating grin on his face as he pokes fun at the Very Serious Highbrow Guy. Alison the carpenter’s wife was as well-dressed as Princess Emily, and probably happier. Although who knows, we don’t get to hear if she wanted to marry the old jealous carpenter? Maybe she’d’ve preferred to worship Diana too.

The Miller’s Tale went a lot swifter than the Knight’s, partly because I have Geoffrey’s rhythm (and number) now, and partly because I had the bandwidth to focus instead of reading scattershot catch-as-catch-can. For a while I was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that a couple YouTube videos were all I could handle as decompression before falling asleep facedown on the tablet. Thankfully my nerves are a little more re-wrapped now. I might just set myself one tale per night and work through the book that way.

My social media mentions are a bit of a mess. A lot of techbro theft apologists are desperately trying to sealion there. It’s amazing what people will cape for these days. No billionaire is so rancid as to lack bootlickers, and plenty of techbro theft apologists take it as a personal insult that a femme-presenting person will have none of their nonsense. It’s also strange to see how many of the sealions conform to a “type”–95% of them, by avatar or bio, fall into a Certain Category.

It’s also mordantly funny that the Venn diagram of those bleating “copyright is theft”, “piracy is FWEEDOM”, and “writers/artists aren’t working fast enough for me to steal more of my favorite content from them” is a complete circle.

In any case, brekkie looms and Boxnoggin needs walkies. I’m back to running again, and the endorphins are simply marvelous. Recovery is my least favorite phase, but at least the hit when one goes back is a lot more intense by comparison–a little reward for reluctantly and resentfully giving myself enough time to heal. (Emphasis on the “little” and the “resentfully”, natch.) The rest of the day will be spent in developing a pitched battle and revising the portal fantasy, so my docket is full.

It’s good to be back.

Future Self Investment

So, after finishing two zero drafts in as many months, I capped this furious spate of activity off by revising Gamble (Ghost Squad #3) and sending it off to the editor. So that’s done, and while I might get more work accomplished before the end of the year (I have madcap thoughts of revising Chained Knight) I think I can safely say I got a few things accomplished in 2023.

I also recorded an entire pronunciation guide for some lovely audiobook folks yesterday, with the aid of a huge tankard of coffee and much nervousness. Then I took the rest of the day off, watched both Suicide Squad movies–the second is, in my humble, better than the first–and went to bed early, full of homemade enchilada. This morning I was greeted by a tap on the bedroom door, a fresh dose of caffeine, and someone else taking Boxnoggin out for his first loo-break of the day. Which was unutterably pleasant.

Actually achieving verticality is ever so much easier with caffeine already in the bloodstream. Whew.

The atmospheric river seems to be dying down a bit. I’m sure that’s for the best–the ground is super saturated and there’s a warning about urban flooding–but I can’t help feeling a tiny bit disappointed. I love rain, and hearing it on the roof the past few days managed to get me through the revision and maybe, possibly, into some kind of recovery phase. I knew I was borrowing trouble by ignoring multiple book hangovers, and now it appears the bill is due. So a few days of stuffing my head with content–reading, movies, gorging on a few dramas–is in order.

For the rest of the year it’ll be all about Highlands War and maybe the romantasy, since I don’t need sample chapters on the latter until after the New Year. I hope another book doesn’t tear itself out of my head; I’ve had all I can take. I also hope this keyboard holds up for a while, but it’s beginning to exhibit some Concerning Signs. Ah well.

So much of publishing is delayed gratification. I won’t see any movement on the stuff I’ve done in the past couple months until maybe June-July of next year, if then. Future Me will be happy with the very tired rabbit that is Present Me (which will be Past Me by that point, but who’s counting?) at that point, I’m sure. If I view the current head-sore state as a gift to or investment in my future self, it gets a lot easier to take a small inhale. Maybe not anything so grand as a break, but certainly a breath.

All that aside, Boxnoggin is quite put out at the break in the morning routine, and wants to get me back on track by dragging me out the door for walkies. I’ll let him, I think…but in a few minutes, after I finish this coffee.

I’ve earned it. Whew. Onward to Thursday, then, at whatever shamble-speed I can manage…

Good Work, Sliced

Very tired this morning, though I slithered into unconsciousness relatively early last night. It was a relief to go through the proofs for this particular project and find out that despite everything, I still think it’s good. (Parts of it might even be damn near lyrical.) I keep reminding myself that the trouble elsewhere wasn’t the fault of anyone I personally interacted with, just institutional neglect and corporate shenanigans.

Yet it’s still difficult. I’m going to have to paste on a smile and forge gaily forward (as we used to say in high school), which is a skill I have lots of practice with. It’s just…I was so excited to write these books, I loved them so much. It hurts. And there’s still the last one to get through.

No wonder I’m crawling into a portal fantasy and pulling the wardrobe door shut behind me.

I ran out of oomph last night and sat staring, fingers poised over the keyboard. For a vertiginous minute or two I thought I’d been betrayed by my own brain and the words had dried up for good, but then I realized I’d been going at it since 4am, a lot had been accomplished, and all I needed was a bit of rest. The relief was almost as sharp as the fear.

Thankfully, after taking Boxnoggin outside for his first morning loo break I could fire up the ol’ desktop while Boris the Coffeemaker burbled, and the words are still waiting for me. I was just too exhausted to receive them last night. And no wonder–2k in the portal fantasy, 1k on another project, and ~200 pages of proofs? That’s a good day’s work no matter which way it’s sliced.

Today is another push to get at least the bulk of the proofs done, and I need to get the portal fantasy’s protagonist to the eerily abandoned gothic village. Might even throw in some clockwork zombies for fun, since the big suits of armor stomping around on their own (with horned helmets!) aren’t terrifying enough on their own. I mean, they’re plenty scary, especially since they bleed reddish oil, but they’re not quite enough. I want a whole lot more AUGH at this particular point of the story, and it’s about time for the poor protagonist to be getting some answers.

She won’t like them, but that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax.

Maybe today I’ll do proofs first and keep the portal fantasy as a reward. One thing I won’t do, though, is look at the news. My nerves can’t take it, and the AI/LLM/plagiarism machine apologists in my mentions don’t help. I am blocking with a quickness now–not that I’ve ever been slow about it. Well, maybe back in 2007 or so I’d feel a twinge while slamming the block button, but I’m wiser now and have little time or patience to waste.

I should probably go through my inbox too. It’s a mess in there.

In other words, Tuesday is shaping up to be more Monday than anything. Maybe I should just throw up my hands and go snuggle Boxnoggin a bit; he’s taken himself back to bed to prepare for the rest of the morning. He’ll be discomfited at the change in routine, but he’s not one to pass up affection and a bit of chest-skritches.

True canine wisdom, that.

Once more into the breach, my friends. If I am thorough and quick I might even clear the proofs and have the rest of the week for this poor protagonist and her various psychological coping mechanisms when faced with fairytales brought to vivid, murderous life.

Nice work if you can get it, and all that…

The Gift of Moderate Damp

Spent the weekend gathering up bits and pieces I’d left behind in the mad scramble to finish Gamble. Of course, since my brain is the way it is, a portal fantasy started bothering me, and I had to get at least a throat-clearing out of the way on that. All part of the recovery process, but I’m still a little unnerved by the way this story is forcing itself to the forefront.

I suppose I just have to trust the Muse. Of course, I have enough bloody work on my plate, why am I adding more? (Don’t answer that.)

Now comes the hard part–leaving a finished zero alone for a week or so, turning my attention to other things so that when I go back for a revise I can see some of the forest for the trees. I’ll spend the time getting Highlands War situated correctly, I think. We’re 52k into that and about to start the second (and most crucial) third, where the extended Macbeth allegory comes into heightened play and stakes are relentlessly risen bit by bit. I have to make sure all the building blocks in the first third are arranged correctly to support that architecture and what I plan to do in the final act.

So today is a blazing run through the first third, looking for dropped strings and incorrectly arranged blocks. Good work, and should keep me from overstrain. If I play my cards right I’ll also have a little time to steal for the damn portal fantasy. My recent Elric read convinced me that I can bloody well play variations too, and I really want to. Might as well do three loosely interconnected portal fantasies, because the one that’s in my head now naturally begs the question of a third and anyway I’m mucking about with fairy tales (again). We all know how repetition goes in those.

Repetition, and bloodshed. This one will be a little gorier than the first, I think.

Also on deck is the Ragnarok book, but that doesn’t want to poke its nose out for play yet. I could drag it hence and make it behave, and at a different point in my creative cycle maybe I would. I think there’s more to be gained by letting it incubate, at least for today and quite possibly for the week. It’s good to know when to pursue…but it’s also good to know when to refrain. And I have some questions about other timeframes that need to be answered before I can get its revised due date clear in my head.

All that is for later. The rains are moving in and I want to get Boxnoggin rambled before they hit. I don’t mind running in a downpour, but Box has had a busy weekend and I can give him the gift of only moderate damp instead of half-swimming. He will not view it as such, since he has no idea what I’ll be saving him from…but ’twill be a kindness nevertheless. In order to do so, though, I’d better get some toast chewed and the dregs of this coffee tossed down.

And maybe, while on walkies, I’ll listen to the soundtrack the new portal fantasy forced me to put together over the weekend. Bother and tarnation, I suppose I have to finish it at some point if it’s made this much of a fuss about music…

Off I go.

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.

Waking Up Eager

Have thrice traversed the hall with a relatively full tankard of coffee, and rather feel as if I’m pushing my luck should I attempt even to lift the thing to my lips. However, the siren song of caffeine will force me over the barricades of good sense or burn avoidance, and that quite soon.

The Spring’s Arcana price drop has been added to the Monthly Sales page; tomorrow there will be another sale for a different series to talk about. I suppose it’s just That Time of Year, when trad publishers like to offer deals. Of course I offer them on self-pubbed stuff all year ’round, but September seems to be when a lot of the bigger ones hit. Great good news for readers, especially those with the hardware to use ebooks. (Which is not everyone, let’s remember.)

I do not have Night on Bald Mountain playing inside my head anymore, which is kind of a relief since it stuck around for three-four days. I chased it out with Ellie Goulding’s Love Me Like You Do, but this morning Robot Koch’s Nitesky has burrowed in to make itself at home. I think it’ll go on the Cain’s Wife soundtrack, which I’m already building since I want to get that trilogy planned in my head to a fare-thee-well before I decide if I’m going to do it first-person or third. I’m leaning toward first person for the protagonist and third for everyone else, but we’ll see.

It’s been a long time since I woke up eager to get to things instead of…just braced for enduring another day. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself as a result, and am reluctant to even move quickly lest the feeling evaporate. Today is set entirely aside for the proofs of Sons of Ymre 2; I feel like it’s been a long time for that particular book, though I’m sure it’s just that so many internal changes have occurred it feels like years. Time is never more subjective than during trauma or healing, and gods know we’ve been spending our time in the former state with brief breaks for the most emergency of the latter for quite some while now.

The good mood could be weather-based. Finally reasonable temperatures have set in and the world smells like dry autumn before the rains–crisping, spicy leaves and the last few lawn mowings, things burrowing in and dying off for winter’s long sleep, the trees storing sugar or retracting their leaf-fingertips. I spent most of the summer writing winter books, and now I suppose the tide will shift and it’ll be warmer weather inside my fictional landscapes while I put on a sweater and grin into a hot cuppa or three.

So while I am feeling uncharacteristically cheerful, I might as well get to it. There’s some administrivia cleanup that needs to happen today as well, but that can take second place to getting this little Lovecraft/Chambers-inspired romance scanned and out the door. A deep breath, a pull at the coffee tankard–I have not burned myself, though that is probably a mercy of short duration–and a bit of toast while I get started, and I should have momentum for when Boxnoggin and I return from walkies.

It’s nice to feel ambitious again. Let’s hope Tuesday cooperates.