Pre-Rain Doldrums

Each day brings us closer to autumn. At this point I’m waiting for the rains, longing for them with every parched fibre. Maybe soon I’ll have dragged myself out of this hole of “both books I’m working on are awful, I am a terrible writer, this will never end and I should just walk into the sea now.” The instant water starts falling from the sky I’ll feel revived.

I just have to hold on that long.

The summer hasn’t been as bad as others in recent memory, far from! I’m just…tired. And being at exactly the same place with two different books is a recipe for the doldrums. Right now I’m telling myself “this can all be thrown out in revision”, but it’s not been the panacea or the spur I’ve hoped for. Suspect I’ll have to cut some things rather savagely–the pole-dancing class scene in Gamble, much of the initial intrigue in Highlands War–but that’s a question for when the zero drafts are finished and have rested a bit.

I’m also telling myself this artistic discomfort is a sign that I’m about to make a leap forward. Generally, one tends to plateau, feel increasingly uncomfortable, then break the surface with a shattering jump like a moon-silvered fish. I’m also refocusing stuff in other areas, a rather unpleasant duty even if it does lead to a feeling of liberation when the shift is done.

Technically neither book is bad, or if it is, it’s the type of bad that’s fixable once I get the damn zero done. I simply can’t see the forest for the trees and I can’t use them to jostle each other. If I added a third book to the working schedule I could probably swing it, but if I am to be Responsible and Adult the only prospect is a finishing volume to a trilogy everyone hates and I don’t feel like swimming against that additional tide at the moment.

I just want to write my weird little stories and not have to worry about rancid ebook thieves, is that so much to ask? Apparently it is.

Anyway. The only real cure for this is buckling down, letting spite take the wheel, and finishing something. Whether it’s a short story (the Pocky one really needs more attention than I’ve given it) or an actual-factual book (Gamble will be done first, since Highlands shows every sign of becoming rather a 150k-word beast), something has got to be pinned to the wall of “that’s a wrap.” And maybe I could be a right snot and give the third slot on the schedule–assuming I can scrape together enough energy for said third slot, which will mean something like livestreaming will have to give–to something written just for me, since I don’t want to deal with certain pressures at the moment.

We’re back to spite as the only real fuel for getting through *waves hands* all this. You’d think I’d learn, and stop trying to make joy or even honour the main impetus. When either runs out, when both abandon me, there will still be spiteful stubbornness, lo unto the end of the world. It’s just how I’m made; time to work with the grain instead of against it.

At least, for a little while.

Leftover Night

Woke up to some “I play a lawyer on the internet” dipshit mansplainer attempting to cape for that Prosecraft jackhole in my mentions, and was about to press “post” on a stinging reply when I realized three things: Firstly, life is short; secondly, there is coffee to drink instead; thirdly, time consumed attempting to reason with the disingenuous is better spent on working.

So I just hit the block button and made the aforementioned coffee. It was 100% the right choice.

There are horizontal brushwork clouds in the eastern sky. It looks like a painting, especially since the fir branches still cling to a bit of leftover night. The birds are sleepy and Boxnoggin has gone back for his early morning nap–distinct from overnight rest, this nap must happen after he’s been taken out to pee for the first time on any particular day and is distinct from the midmorning (after walkies) and the late morning (after waking up to scream out the front window at pedestrians but before lunch) ones. He has a schedule to maintain, dammit, and nothing can be allowed to impair it.

At least I finally crashed last night. After release-day nerves meant sleeplessness, and I am no longer young and tender enough to absorb such damage without trouble. My eyelid was twitching, and that’s always a bad sign. Instead of release days getting easier to bear, I think they might be ending towards incrementally more heart-in-throat anxious with each book, and that’s…interesting. Certainly a blow to the theory of desensitization.

I haven’t even looked at the news yet today. I’m saving that particular pleasure (if that’s the word) for later. Right now I just want to caffeinate in whatever peace can be found while looking over yesterday’s wordcount. Every erg of available Wednesday energy went into finishing two scenes–a rather thorny discussion in Highlands War and a shootout in Gamble. The latter will need intensive polish today since the scene-blocking must be checked before I stick a pin in it and call it good enough for the zero. And there’s the subscription drop to tweak and schedule too.

Looks like the day will be busy. Maybe I should switch to drip instead of espresso, I hear there’s more caffeine in that method and it’s also rather good for one’s liver. Of course, it might give my poor shriveled adrenals yet another reason to complain, but such is life in a complex, quivering meatsack. No good bodily deed ever goes unpunished.

I’m also looking ahead to Cain’s Wife and Innkeeper’s War. The latter has Billy Joel playing in my head this morning, since the shadowmancer is utterly committed to his general. Just had a release, am working on two books, and the rest of me is thinking about stories I’m gonna write–such is the life. If I decide to leave publishing I’ll have to add working a day job to that, and I’m definitely considering it.

The coffee is nearing dregs and I think I hear Boxnoggin stirring. Off to the races, then; maybe I should listen to some Lana del Rey with breakfast.

See you around.

Soundtrack Monday: Goodnight, California

The Salt-Black Tree releases tomorrow, and I am very nervous. Release days are always difficult, and I like to have a heavy workload whenever one comes around. Focusing on something else is a good distraction.

Writing Nat’s story was almost an exorcism. I knew precisely where the ending scene was, and anticipated it feverishly as I drew near the end of the tale. As soon as Spring clambered onto the bus for the very final leg of her journey home only one song would do–Kathleen Edwards’s Goodnight, California, which I listened to on repeat while writing the conversation at the garden gate.

The song is a rarity in that it expresses two characters–the young Drozdova and Dima Konets. Sometimes it’s a conversation between them; most often it’s what’s left achingly unsaid. Both of them change through the duology, though it’s Nat who changes the most. Which means it’s her story, through and through.

I typed finis on the zero draft while the song played, and promptly burst into tears. The last line of Salt-Black had been living in my head for the better part of two years, and a lot of pandemic stress got poured into the writing of the whole arc. I slithered from my office chair and lay on the floor, listening to Edwards sing and the low moan of a harmonica, and the release of tension undid me. I don’t always end writing a book by sobbing on the floor, true.

But it happens more than one might suspect.

Anyway, I’m braced for tomorrow’s release. It’s weird because I’m already four books past this particular one, but somewhere in the umber-and-bloody thiefways an engine is still revving.

And somewhere, amid green hills with an unstained moon hanging in the sky, Spring is on her way.

Wild Carrot Spite


‘Tis the time for wild carrot, also known as Queen Anne’s Lace. I am told one can mistake it for poison hemlock, which no doubt would’ve changed a few things where Socrates was concerned.

The week’s been a wash. Lots of change looming on the horizon, since I’ve finally put my foot down in a couple ways, but that sucked up energy I wanted to use for writing. I would’ve liked to get a few more scenes done, but alas and alack. Come Monday it’ll be revision time again, for the second Sons of Ymre book. Then I’m sure something else will arrive, trying to keep me from the actual work, which is writing new stuff.

Do I sound bitter (as hemlock)? Sort of. I get cranky when Real Life (or an approximation thereof) attempts to get in the way of words. I really just want to shut everything off, retreat into my cave, and do what I was meant and made for. Current events and exploitative bullshit are doing their damndest to make that impossible. Yet I persevere, probably out of pure spite.

It is the best fuel, after all.

See you next week, my beloveds. Be kind to each other out there.

Creative Clutch

There was a bit of a cover reveal yesterday–A Flame in the North got shown on Insta and Twitter, et cetera. (Subscribers have already seen bits and pieces of that book, plus the one after it.) I can’t really think about that right now with the release of Salt-Black Tree looming so close; getting release-day nerves for two books at once might well do me in.

In other good news, my shower is bone-dry. The dripping has indeed stopped, hallelujah and pass the butter. It wasn’t a huge problem–though whenever there’s a leak it’s only a matter of time before it accelerates–but now I don’t have to listen to water plonk-plonk-plonking while attempting to sleep. Consequently last night was very restful indeed, save for Boxnoggin being a bit miffed since it’s too warm for him to stick his nose in my armpit.

I never thought I’d see the day he didn’t want to cuddle with his schnozz in my axillary area, or even pressed against my jugular. Humans are so very odd; we think nothing of letting canid predators get their teeth close to that vulnerability. Of course, Box can’t even fathom the possibility of snacking on my entrails at the moment. I think he has a dim intimation that doing so would rob him of the cushy deal he’s got going on with regular walkies, cuddles, and bacon grease in his bowl all the time.

The wild isn’t calling this dog, no sir, or if it is he’s put her on hold.

So the score is: I’m finally running without the ankle brace; the bloody leak has been fixed (on the first try, even!); one book is due out next month; the Tolkien Viking Werewolves are finally inching towards their time in the sun. I should feel grand. In fact, I should feel damn near invincible.

Maybe it’s just free-floating anxiety, but all I’m feeling is the breathless sensation of waiting for another shoe to drop.

At least I found the next few scenes in both Highlands War and Gamble. I think there might have to be a fight in the former, which I’ll need to block out rather carefully. The latter is in the cat-and-mouse bit of a romantic suspense arc, so it needs a good double-cross relatively soon. Of course, after this upcoming weekend I have to shift gears, get the waiting revision for Sons of Ymre 2 dealt with–and good gods, that book feels like it was done ages ago–and turn back to writing fresh stuff again, probably within a matter of days. Good thing I’m used to working a creative clutch, so to speak.

I have a hazy idea for YouTube Live write-ins, but that might not come to fruition. I am far too solitary a creature. Still, I’ve been bowled over by the response to the short question-and-answer livestreams, so maybe that’s a thing that can happen. The trouble is, I have a face for radio and I am most definitely not a breathless, constantly yelling “influencer”. So it probably won’t work…but I’m kicking around the idea, just in case. You guys seem to like witnessing the creative process, though to me it’s almost boring because all the action is happening inside my skull.

Adapt or perish, swim or drown. Even my capacity for sudden change has been a bit strained in the past few years. It seems like things are turning around…unless, of course, the violent authoritarians pull more bullshit and the habitually supine centrists let them. Can’t worry about that right now, I have too much else on my plate.

So I suppose it’s off to walkies, getting a run in before the heat gets too awful, and a day of getting Kaia Steelflower through a duel (verbal or otherwise) as well as setting up a double-cross for a member of the Ghost Squad. In between all that I have to feed myself and get a few chores done. I’ll be scrabbling like a white rabbit, though there’s no Alice in sight.

Off I go then, revving the engine and popping the gearshift from first to third. Hop, hop, hop…

Soundtrack Monday: These Dreams

Quite a few people have been asking about Moon’s Knight lately, so I’ve been thinking about the book’s soundtrack. There’s a lot on there, mostly floaty dreamlike tracks I crawled into when lockdown got to be Way Too Much.

I mean, all of 2020 was a bit much, but anyway.

The story came out of nowhere, burning a hole in me until I had to take time away from other stuff to just get it the fuck out of my head. I’ve always been fascinated by portal fantasies, and dream-imagery figures in a lot of my own work. So, naturally, I hit a point in writing this story–I think it was right before Jazian’s death–that I was possessed of the desire to look up Heart’s These Dreams. Which went on the soundtrack pronto, and not only because the video is so delightfully Salvador Dali.

I was accused of being “too dreamy” most of my life, but not many of my stories actually come from dreams. There’s Beast of Wonder, naturally, which is based on a recurring nightmare, and often when I’m working hot and fast on a specific story it will creep into my nighttime re-ordering of the world. After I folded and began writing this particular book I did often dream of the desert under an exhausted red sun, and I know exactly what the castle looks like because it infested my sleep-wanderings for weeks. But mostly I keep my own dreams private and let the characters’ sleep-movies do what they will.

There are some recurring images which worm their way into my work, but it’s difficult to tell which of them are from dreams and which are subconscious outcroppings in other areas. It’s a real chicken-or-egg situation.

Anyway, Heart has always been great and I’m sure the song–which I loved as a teenager and have hummed at various points over the years–had something to do with me responding to the stress of lockdown by writing a whole-ass book. Stories grow from multiple seeds, after all; maybe this one had a few outright bulbs. And no, I’m not going to talk about the Man in Black’s name, even though that title was partly a Johnny-Cash-plus-Hades reference…

Soundtrack Monday: Your Protector

Occasionally a song will end up on not one but two soundtracks. It’s rare, but it does happen; rarer still is the piece with lyrics that does so. Most tend to be instrumental-only, for obvious reasons.

Fleet Foxes’s Your Protector ended up on the Romances of Arquitaine soundtrack partly because of the change between soft, plaintive courtly love and driving danger. It’s very much a song Tristan d’Arcenne might abstractly hum while setting up some bit of intrigue, his mind mostly on how the situation will play out and that corner of him thinking upon Vianne, as it always does. The Queen’s Guard might sing it during their famous ride from Arcenne to keep their spirits up, and while Vianne might know it, it’s probably not one of her favorites.

She’s much fonder of Jesse Cook.

I haven’t put the Romances soundtrack up yet because some of the tracks have been lost while shifting from one music platform to another. I have them written down, of course, but it’s slow work resurrecting when I’ve so much else to do.

The other soundtrack Your Protector appears on is the Gallow & Ragged one, which is up and public. I didn’t even realize that particular track was on both until I was writing Roadside Magic, which has a fair bit of both Robin and Jeremy “running from the devil”, so to speak. It is very much the sort of music the Good Folk love, as is a lot of Fleet Floxes (and Linda Ronstadt, strangely enough). Mostly it’s Jeremy Gallow trying to come to terms with the fact that he loved in Daisy merely the dead-leaf echo of Robin Ragged–as Nabokov would put it, a dead russet echo in a ravine.

Robin is too preoccupied with survival and mistrust to really do more than simply take notice of a line or two, and think for a longing moment how it might be to sing without destroying everything in her voice’s path. So often, an abused child is told they are at once helpless–because the big people keep hurting them without consequence–and inordinately, maliciously powerful, because if they dared to openly tell what they’re suffering the abuser’s entire house of cards will come tumbling down. The mixed messages can really fuck a kid up, and when a talent such as the Ragged’s voice gets added to the mix…well.

I may have wrought better than I knew in that series, but what else can one do when writing of the Folk?

Tristan and Vianne had a somewhat-happy ending; the Ragged and the Gallow not so much, though Crenn would beg to differ on that last account. (Only if his pride would let him, of course.) On the other hand, I know what happens to the Hedgewitch Queen and her Left Hand years afterward, and I know whether or not the Ragged ever goes back to Summer…

…but that’s another story, or two.