Laundry Games

So there I was, sweating and shaking next to my bed in the middle of the night, prepared to do battle in the dark.

…maybe I should back up.

I washed my sheets yesterday, in between starting revisions on The Bloody Throne, thumping school administrators once again (it’s turned into a saga, my gods, why can’t these people just do their jobs?), and various other chores.

Now, to understand the rest of this, one must understand that we try to be eco-conscious here at the Chez. We recycle, we compost, we do our bit even though the filthy corporations outweigh our meager efforts by several orders of pollutive magnitude. This extends to laundry.

Anyway, I was distracted while making my bed. For one thing, the dogs wanted to “help” and getting them out of the room so I could get the job done in a reasonable length of time was impossible, since they would simply snuffle and make sad noises under said door, leaving me feeling like the absolute worst monster in history. And when I open the door, there’s usually a mad scramble to plunge into the room, convinced it has somehow changed and needs to be circled twice at high speed in order to settle into its usual contours.

I don’t even know. Dogs, man.

Alternately, they leap on each other in a stunning display of gymnastic though completely playful aggression, making so much noise I’m surprised everyone in the house doesn’t have hearing damage. Said yipping, yowling, growling, and snapping echoes down the hall, which has a hardwood floor perfect for bouncing soundwaves.

Besides, there’s the problem of getting them outside the damn door. One of them follows my urging while the other slips back into my bedroom, and Miss B is sometimes fond of hiding in the master loo in such cases, and it’s just a three-ring circus all the damn time. Often, I just work around them, on the principle that it’s more efficient to deal with canines underfoot than spend precious minutes ushering them out or listening to the sad snuffles or mock-combat.

Look, I was just grateful to get the damn sheets on, and the coverlet as well. The day went on, as days tend to do, and I was exhausted by the end. Revisions take a lot out of one; dealing with administrators who just won’t stop being nasty ill-tempered petty Napoleons does too.

Anyway, I settled in bed, stared at a book on the Battle of the Bulge for a short while, then turned off the light and passed out.

But Monday wasn’t done with me yet. Oh no. At some point last night I rolled over, and I felt something that shouldn’t be there.

It wasn’t a dog. It wasn’t Khan the Teddy Bear. It wasn’t even a toddler–though both kids are well into adulthood, sometimes I half-wake in the middle of the night expecting a tiny child having night troubles to climb over me, elbows and knees sinking into every internal organ I possess, to get comfortable taking up three-quarters of my bed despite their (seemingly) small size during waking hours.

I even had a half-moment of thinking it was poor Odd Trundles, back from the grave and happy to see me. But it was not, alas, the ghost of my poor dear deceased bulldog.

Now, it’s faintly heartening that my reflexes are still good. The chain went something like this:

  1. Blissfully sleeping, dead to the world
  2. Rolling over, sensing something not quite right
  3. Lunging out of bed, my hand flashing for…
  4. …a weapon, in its handy spot I have trained myself to reach towards
  5. Ending up on my feet, sweating, shaking, and COMPLETELY AWAKE…
  6. …while both dogs snore.

The house was dead silent. It’s been a long time since I had a panic attack in the middle of the night, and this didn’t quite qualify. For one thing, I wasn’t having trouble breathing; for another, I was unnerved but not, well, panicked.

My room was its usual nighttime self. Miss B slowly raised her head, licking her lips. Boxnoggin was dead to the world. Absolutely nothing was out of place.

I was about to mutter what the hell but that might wake the dogs up further and give them the impression that Mum was Doing Something Fun, and that aforesaid Something Fun might Need Canine Supervision. So I simply made a circuit of my room, armed and ready, and even stood at the closed door, listening intently in case something in the house had triggered my alarums.

But the dogs, who would have been up and at ’em, as the saying goes, had there been an intruder or any other kind of distress, were peacefully snoozing. Either they were Falling Down On the Job, or I was simply Being An Idiot. Evidence was heavily stacked in favor of the latter.

As usual, I might add.

Consequently I got a drink of water, put the weapon back in its place, and snuggled back down into bed, half certain I’d never get back to sleep.

And then I felt it. Something nubbly and solid, where nothing but mattress and pillow should be.

I damn near levitated, making the bed squeak and waking both dogs up for realsies this time. And then I realized what it was.

You see, being eco-conscious here at the Chez, we have dryer balls. (I snicker every time I refer to them, too, because I am twelve inside.) Most of them are hard plastic with nubbins, though I’ve made others out of leftover wool yarn.

Somehow, in making my bed, I hadn’t noticed a plastic dryer ball in one of the pillowcases. I’d just jammed my pillow in, shaken it once, tossed it onto the bed, and continued merrily. In my defense, I was also dodging two very interested canines and thinking about revisions at the same time, as well as muttering baneful imprecations at school administrators.

My bandwidth, as they say, was fully utilized.

Furthermore, I hadn’t even noticed the damn thing while reading in bed, since it had migrated to a pillow-corner. I’d turned over onto it in the middle of the night and, in a fine display of paranoia, scared myself half to death, not to mention leapt from my bedding ready to do battle.

With a dryer ball.

The dogs weren’t quite sure why I was twitching or why I was laughing. I fished the offending article out, set it on my nightstand, managed to convince Miss B that no, it was not a toy or a snack or anything else deserving of her attention, convinced a sleepy Boxnoggin that he did NOT need to stamp all over me while denning back down again, then I lay in the dark almost vibrating with adrenaline for a good hour or so before sleep decided I was safe enough to visit.

At least the whole episode didn’t mean an entire night of insomnia. That’s what’s called progress.

Currently the dryer ball is on my nightstand. I’m probably going to forget it’s there, since carrying the damn thing downstairs requires a whole-ass trip I don’t want to make. I could put it in my office next to my bag so that the next time I have to leave the house (whenever that is) I see it and take it down.

I am damnably sure, though, that wherever I put it, I’ll have a moment of staring while wondering what the hell is that doing there at some point in the future, because that’s just How I Roll. I am also dreadfully sure I will be weirded out by its sudden appearance, and for at least half a moment I will suspect either that it’s become sentient and is attempting escape or that I’m losing my damn mind and leaving little articles all over the house at random.

Either, frankly, would not be much of a stretch around here.

And that is how I scared the stuffing out of myself with a dryer ball, and ended up standing in the dark next to my bed fully armed, hyperventilating, and sweating.

Never a dull moment, my friends. Tuesday promises to be just as fun as its predecessor. At least my instincts are still working. That’s something, I suppose.

Over and out.

Retrenchment

I’ve been thinking a lot about whether I should continue blogging. It’s not that I want to stop–I enjoy it, which is a good enough reason for continuing. And it’s not quite a journal or diary, because those are separate and private. I suppose it’s always been a way of shouting into the void, even during the ol’ LJ days.

Man. Livejournal. That takes me back.

Every once in a while I look to see if I want to keep doing it. I used to have more post ideas–there were Soundtrack Mondays and Friday Writing posts, for example. But then 2020 hit, and kept hitting.

And kept hitting, and kept hitting. And kicked for good measure.

I know everything changes. Still, I miss telling backyard stories. (There was a squirrel on the deck while we were having dinner just the other day, and the quick movement when all three of us involuntarily checked for footwear was hilarious.) Norbert the Gargoyle is in a new home–I never did tell you guys how that turned out–and the gnomes, from Emphysema Joe on down, are their usual cranky selves. We have a new crop of squirrels, though–the old ones have either changed their territories or moved on.

Brief is the life of a garden squirrel.

In short, there’s a lot going on, but getting it all down is the difficult part. There’s been so much else to talk about. Plague, war, fascist coup–all of it’s exhausting.

There’s no ringing conclusion or grand decision today. I’m just…looking at things. And I don’t think I want to make any hard and fast resolutions until there’s been at least a short period of calm. The news cycle hasn’t been pummeling me like it did last year, for which I am devoutly grateful, and yet the hole we were cast into is just so deep, getting out is an epic in and of itself.

Speaking of which, how am I writing two epics at once? There’s Hell’s Acre (which premieres in June) and Cold North, both massive undertakings. But then, I’m not really myself if I’m not juggling slightly1 more than I think I can manage. I’ve edits coming down the pike too–a final look at The Bloody Throne, revision on the second half of The Black God’s Heart, and today I hear from an editor about Sons of Ymre.

Publishing is such a delayed-gratification game. It’s unreal. By the time a book hits shelves, I’m already two years farther down the road. Also, Moon’s Knight is resting with a certain other editor now, and if they don’t take it, I’ll be looking for a cover. Because dammit, my beta readers deserve to see that book out in the wild, sooner or later.

The amount of work I managed to get done last year is somewhat shocking. I didn’t think I’d done anything at all. Looking back and realizing “no, Lili, you kept working frantically because the alternative was sinking in quicksand” is…well, not quite uncomfortable, but not pleasant either.

I suppose it’s a measure of hope that I keep going, both with the books and with blogging. I’ve always hoped that seeing the life of a working writer a little closer–though not intimately, I save that for other spaces–might help other writers feel a little less alone. This kind of career is both achingly lonely (when there’s nothing but you and the blank page) and shockingly crowded (when one deals with agent, editors, marketing, production staff, and all the other quality-control staff). The dichotomy can drive one mad.

I mean, if one isn’t already mad just contemplating this kind of work. It does tend to rattle one’s bolts.

Case in point: When I started this post, I was thinking solely about whether or not I wanted to continue blogging. I’ve ended up amazed at the amount of work I did last year under some harsh conditions, and am bracing myself for another glut of revisions to fall on my head.

So it goes, I guess. And through it all, the dogs need walking and I need caffeine–the withdrawal headaches are no fun at all. So I bid you a fond adieu, beloved Reader.

But only for a short while. I think I’ll keep blogging after all.

Over and out.

Order, Ritual, Merry-Go-Round

Tomorrow’s a release day, and I am all at sixes and sevens. I have even snarled, “oh, for fuck’s sake” thrice before coffee, which isn’t quite a record but does herald an Interesting Morning.

The dogs are trotting up and down the hall, peeking in to see if I’m moving towards walkies yet. Soon Miss B will settle herself with a sigh in my office door, so I can’t possibly leave without tripping over her. Boxnoggin, of course, is keeping watch out the front window. If a gust of wind comes down the street, he’ll start screaming his fool head off, in the hope of drawing me out to see what the ruckus is, and while I’m out there of course he might as well ask about walkies.

There is an order and a ritual to mornings chez Saintcrow, and the canines don’t want us to forget it.

I dreamed of snow, which isn’t usual in spring. Snow, and wolves, and black pines under a white coat. The coffee is helping get the images stowed properly; what I really want to be doing is working on The Cold North. Instead, I’ve the revisions on Black God’s Heart to finish, Book 2 of that to write, Hell’s Acre to get underway (though the entire thing is outlined, as far as I ever outline anything) before I can even think of slotting the Tolkien Viking Werewolves into the merry-go-round.

Still, it’s a good sign that a book’s living in my head. The past year has been so strained, I sometimes thought I’d lose words altogether. I’ve only lost words once in my writing life–that was post-divorce, buying the house–and it’s a terrible feeling. Even having a book up and die on me (like the Steelflower sequels, or Deadroad) isn’t so painful.

I’m also moonlighting with The Innkeeper’s War, which centers on a very cranky ex-mercenary who runs an inn, and one day her old adventuring friend the wizard shows up with a farm boy in tow. Then her inn gets burned down, and…but that’s giving the game away. Maybe I’ll write it, maybe I won’t; for right now it’s fun to have bits of different things for the machine inside my skull to chew on.

Keeps it from chewing on me. At least, that’s the idea.

I suppose I’d best finish this coffee and stagger for the door, which will trigger a cascade of excitement from the canine component of the household. I was wise enough to get my shoes tied without their help this morning, though, which qualifies as a win.

At least, I’m going to treat it as such. And try not to think about a release day tomorrow. Fingers crossed, and all that.

See you ’round.

Snail-House Rock

I have coffee, and have pulled back from some social media. Last week was not optimal for a variety of reasons, but I’m sure having access to all that at my fingertips didn’t help. It’s time for yet another “retreat into the snail house” period, not least because we’re having more sunshine (spring hath definitely sprung) and that means all sorts of mad people are out on the sidewalks.

It’s not that I think the sidewalk are mine alone, of course. I’d just like it if others shared with a bare minimum of courtesy, that’s all.

In any case, I attempted to take half Sunday off. It worked moderately well; I’m only itching to get back to work the usual amount instead of beside myself with furious scratching. So, progress! This book isn’t going to revise itself, more’s the pity.

Of course even if it would I might not let it.

So it’s getting the dogs walked between bands of rain, getting my own weary corpse shambled at what passes for high speed just afterward, onward, excelsior and all that. The good thing about the werewolf story I spent last week moonlighting with is that it’s so different than anything else I’m writing it was almost like a vacation, and it provided a crucial bit of distance. Now I’m fairly sure I won’t need to rip out a lot of under-structures in The Black God’s Heart; I think I can fix another intrinsic problem with a single scene. Which is a blessing, since I don’t want to add too much more to Book 1.

Have to leave some dishes for the second course, and all that.

All things considered, I’m glad to be back to work. It wasn’t comfortable to skirt the edge of burnout the way I have for a few weeks. Trying to process last year and still keep moving with current projects is deeply un-fun, and leaves little time for anything else.

I know NaNo is in November but I’m probably going to do one in April just to get this book off my plate. My fingers are already throbbing with the thought. It will be nice to be out of revision and into creation again; I’m definitely more comfortable in the latter state than the former. A period of high focus is just what the doctor ordered, and of course, before I forget, there’s a book dropping later this month.

It’s neat to have preorder graphics! I like it a lot.

I’d best finish my coffee and get to it, then, hadn’t I. The book won’t revise itself, and Monday won’t machete itself either. The work of the weary or the wicked is never done.

See you around.

Polite Raking, Sun-Mad

In the immortal words of Wesley Snipes, “some mothafuckas are always trying to ice skate uphill.”

Suffice to say I have been forced to polite raking of some people over glowing coals lately, using terms like “has there been any movement upon this matter yet?” and “I do not need or care for ‘explanation’, I fully understand how this happened, I simply require this checkbox filled and for this to NOT happen again.” Lockdown has made me even more icily formal with those who have Behaved Badly. It’s not even disdain, it’s that I don’t have time or energy for bullshit, so let’s just not have any, mmkay?

Anyway. The last season of HOOD is undergoing a hard proof pass at the moment, then I think it will be time for the whole shebang, in omnibus edition, to be sent off for a final proofing. There’s some trouble with earlier editions, but switching distributors should mend that. One of the things about serials is that I use their seasons to experiment with distribution and other publishing minutiae, and sometimes, well, it doesn’t go happily.

But I learn a lot, and it means a longer career, which means more stories for my beloved Readers. So there’s that, at least.

I took one look at the blue sky and bright sunshine this morning and decided, “…oh, hell no.” The sun seems to drive everyone in this part of the world mad, probably because we see it so rarely. I absolutely don’t mind sharing the sidewalk, but that’s just it–sharing, which doesn’t seem a strong suit for the sun-dazed. Also, on days like this there tend to be a lot of middle-aged white men letting their dogs roam offleash. The dogs absolutely aren’t a problem, they’re far nicer than their owners, but dogs do not make good choices and that’s why we have leashes.

…I just heaved a heavy sigh. It’s the third of the morning and I’m not even done with coffee yet.

On the bright side, this state of low-grade irritation makes me prickly and precise, and that’s exactly the right mindset for finding errata and tiny little typos. It lies cheek by jowl with a particular, very specialized form of performance anxiety, and once I’m done with this phase of this particular project I can switch to a different one that will ameliorate both my mood and said anxiety.

I’m going to be working through the weekend again, but this time it’ll be on The Black God’s Heart. And next week I have a cover reveal and preorders for a certain romance to post; subscribers will get a peek this week. All in all, despite the heavy sighs and prickliness, I have more work than I can handle and that’s my preferred state. Certainly it’s far better than not having enough.

So off I toddle to finish my coffee, and to maybe slay a few baddies. I don’t quite look as cool as Blade, but I will be wearing shades while walking the dogs.

It will have to do.

Revisions, Safety, Post-it

It’s odd to be actually sleeping, instead of just lying in bed while my brain serves up millions of “what ifs” and “worry about this-es”. I did a lot of digital housekeeping lately, just generally attending to loose ends before starting a merry-go-round of revising the epic fantasy and reformatting ebooks.

The concomitant feeling of safety, and the pressure-release of being out and away, is doing good things. The relief when I attended to the last bit of housekeeping was so profound as to stagger me; I’m glad I was sitting down.

Things aren’t ideal, but at least I don’t have that energy expenditure hanging about my neck, an albatross of politeness siphoning away energy needed for other things.(Like writing, like revising, like getting these reformats done… you get the idea.)

In any case, I spent hours on a single scene yesterday, ripping at the underpinnings and ending up with something that looked very much like the initial work, but with a completely different thrust and tone. Sometimes you have to get down to the foundations before you can fix what’s wrong. Usually I’m a lot better about noticing something’s gone wrong during the initial writing, but sometimes… well, sometimes I’m not.

That’s what revision is for.

Still, I’m feeling the drag of “this is the third book in a series, it’s already 168k, it’s going to be bigger, why do I get myself into these things, just set it on fire, I hate everything.” It’s a usual, albeit uncomfortable, part of the process. I’ve got an extra week to get the revisions in and I should have known, because they always take three times as long as one thinks they will–about as solid a rule of thumb in publishing as there is. The only time things don’t take thrice as long is when they take six times as long.

At least there’s coffee. And at least there’s a lot of energy freed up by finishing housekeeping. I hadn’t realized just how deeply some things were bothering and draining me until I stepped away and felt the relief. I call it “the energetic bends”–so much pressure, removed so abruptly, makes for a short, uncomfortable period where one realizes just how bad it was. The trick is not to beat yourself up with “why did you stay so long, then?”

The only solution I’ve found is putting a Post-it with “just be glad it’s over” somewhere I can glance at it several times a day, like among the crop of notes festooning my desktop. They range from quotes to character lists, and one more doesn’t hurt. Quite the opposite.

Anyway. Now it’s time to get the dogs walked, run my poor corpse now that all the snow is gone, and stagger home to fall into revisions once more. I still need to reward myself for finishing the last zero draft I stabbed to doneness, but I can put that off until I get this revision out the door and then, then maybe I’ll give myself a double prize.

Not quite sure what it will be, yet, but now I have the time–and the energy–to figure it out.

It’s a nice change.

Kindness, Escape

Spent the weekend doing revisions as well as reformatting ebooks and the like; most of those changes should be wending their way downstream. New editions are always a chance to catch the things that didn’t get chased down and thumped before. Even with a million pairs of eyes during the publication process, some stuff slips through. It’s inevitable.

What I did not do was rest. Today it’s back to solely revising the third epic fantasy; all my engines are focused on that. The second year of lockdown is about to start and my ability to focus and push under pressure is beginning to fray at the edges.

Once that’s done it’s on to revising HOOD‘s third season, preparatory to the editing process. I still have to make a final determination on the next serial–it will either be Hell’s Acre, the alt-Victorian trilogy, or Division Seven, the mutant secret agents story. I’m leaning towards Hell’s Acre because I like the language, and I’m not wanting to engage with current-day stuff right now.

I need an escape.

I think we could all do with an escape or two, frankly. I just want to crawl into my stories and never come out. I’m sick of utterly avoidable disasters and broken promises, hatefulness and cruelty. It’s the last that gets to me.

It takes so little effort to be kind. Kindness is the natural state, it’s the lowest energy requirement. It puzzles me: Why do so many people actively choose to stew in violent hate, why do they seek out reasons to be shitty? Why, when it’s so easy to just… not? Imagine what humanity could do if dickwads quit wasting their energy on spewing vileness.

I write because I must, but sometimes I think I also write to try and answer why people do some things. Pouring myself into certain characters’ skins, even if it isn’t on the page–because I have to understand the villains to see how they’re going to act in the story–is an effort to understand.

The dogs are very clingy this morning. I think they can sense my nerves are raw. Or maybe they just want their walkies, since it’s a relatively warm morning. A week ago we were in snowpocalypse (I think? Time has lost all meaning.) and now it’s very mild in the high 40s (Fahrenheit, of course) with crocuses and the like taking advantage of the sudden balm.

Maybe the snow was the last gauntlet to run. It would be nice to have an end to something. Normally I enjoy winter; normally it’s my most productive time. Lately though, I feel like I’ve done nothing for the last winter except sit and stare in deepening horror. I know that isn’t true, but it feels like it.

I’ve blathered long enough. Time to get the dogs walked, my own reluctant corpse run, and then to crawl into the end of a hot, murderous summer in an imaginary land. Getting the third and final book arranged will do me some good, I hope.

Happy Monday, everyone. We made it to another week, yay us. Now let’s see if we can endure through.

Over and out.