editing makes one cranky

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.

Rhythm and Assignment

Summer’s long fever has finally, irretrievably broken. It’s grey and quite a reasonable temperature, which means it’s time for serious work again. Not so much on the page–I am most productive when it’s raining, and the sky hasn’t seen fit to grace us with that yet–but with fiddly stuff like copyedits and proofs and sales and home repair and a new walking route for Boxnoggin and easy, gentle runs and and and…

Yeah. Speaking of sales, Spring’s Arcana is $2.99 in ebook from now until Sept 24th. (There are more discounts and fun things on the Monthly Sales page; mind you check the dates!)

I spent half the weekend finishing Riversinger and Minnowsharp copyedits. (That’s Black Land’s Bane 2, for those counting.) I’ve been very lucky in the last two rounds of CEs, blessed with copyeditors who both caught the rhythm and understood the assignment. I shall be very vocal in appreciation, and in asking that they be assigned to future work of mine.

It may seem like I’m too appreciative, but I like to tell people when they’ve done well. And when I feel down or blue, nothing is better than telling other people how awesome they are. Perks one right up, it does. It might be selfish, but if I have to game myself into proper behavior with selfishness, that’s how I’ll do it.

Today is for the new walkies route, a gentle run, the monthly newsletter–which I put off for a few days because of the blasted CEs and also so I could highlight this particular sale–and starting the proofs for Sons of Ymre 2, which is still slated for November release. And I’m sure there’s something else on the to-do list I’ve forgotten, because there always is. If not for the damn lists and post-its I’d never get anything done.

I’m also poking around trying to make Cain’s Wife settle inside my head. It feels like a trilogy; I just have to figure out whether I want to do it in first-person or third. Or first-person with interludes of third, since I don’t want to head-hop in first. Peter Beagle could do that in Innkeeper’s Song because he’s Peter-effin-Beagle, but I am a far lesser creature.

Anyway, there’s damp drizzle hanging between the fir trees. Boxnoggin is very excited because I’ve even been on the phone this morning, and phone calls are rare and exciting things. If he hears me using Phone Voice he immediately trots into the room, tail and ears up, ready to be absently patted while I talk into the small glowing brick. Sometimes I wonder what he thinks I’m doing, or if he consigns the entire thing to Mysteries of the Humans Who Fill His Food Bowl. I’ve often thought dogs might regard us the way Tolkien’s humans see elves.

But that’s a whole ‘nother blog post, it is. I’d best get some toast swallowed and get my engines underway. There’s a quarter-cup of coffee left and dear gods, I brewed it strong–which is good, because I suspect I’ll need it today.

Excelsior, and all that…

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.

Life, Oscillating

A daisy, a Susan, give me your answer, do.

I suppose botanically they might not be daisies at all, but they’re still my favorites.

The first autumn mist is thickening around the firs. It was barely a wisp at dawn, but has clotted as the sun rises. No doubt it will burn off before walkies; still, it makes me happy.

I want to write on The Beggar Princess today, but wordcount on the two paying projects will have to come first. Maybe at Friday Night Writes? Who knows. I had thought to spend the weekend formatting short stories for an anthology, too, but another set of copyedits has landed and I’m not looking forward to them. Ah well. Life is oscillating between what I’d rather not do and what I’m longing for, always and forever. Such is the nature of the thing.

At least there are daisies.

I’ll see you next week, my friends.