Books and Connotations

Catkins are coming off the magnolias and I saw an actual cherry blossom yesterday, though not on the tree down the hill who’s usually first past the post. I suppose I might be able to relax a bit instead of dreading a sudden cold snap? (HAHAHAHAHAHA WHO AM I FOOLING.)

I got to a major character death in the Sekrit Projekt last night, broke down crying, and decided it was time for bed. Going back over the raw text today will be uncomfortable–up until the very last moment, I thought this character would make it. I always do, I’m always pulling for them even when I know it’s impossible. This one’s going to wreck me even more badly than it does the protagonist, but that’s pretty much always the case as well. Sometimes I even mourn my dead villains, because I know precisely what made them what they are.

Anyway, getting to that particular plot-knot means that I am definitely past the halfway point in this particular book, which means there’s a bit of a slog before the slipsliding race to the finish. I know a lot of things will have to be expanded in revision, but that’s a completely different problem. Now it’s me and the book trapped in a cage, and only one of us will emerge victorious.

Technically we both win–it gets born and I get another notch on the belt–but at this stage it always feels an awful lot like a zero-sum game. And after this week I have to split working time so I’m not solely focusing on pushing this bloody great boulder up the hill, Sisyphus-style. It will also mean I say a more definite and thunderous no to a great many things people have grown accustomed to demanding from me, always a fun time.

I finished Amitav Ghosh’s Smoke and Ashes this morning, listening to the rain on the roof as Boxnoggin’s nose was buried my armpit. (Don’t ask me, our dog is a weirdo.) It’s an eye-opening read, and I particularly enjoyed both Ghosh’s careful tracing of how a great deal of colonialism was built on opium as well as the connections between that trade and the fossil fuel addiction leading to climate change. His positing of the humble poppy as a force in and of itself is extremely valid as well. All in all, a fantastic read, A+, absolutely recommend.

Next up, Emily Wilson’s translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, since the Princess wants to read both as well and talk about them. She’s loved the Odyssey since childhood–Odysseus is, in her words, a picture-perfect explication of “that fuckin’ guy”, and not in an entirely pleasant sense either. As in any household, in ours there are a few terms whose connotations are completely dependent upon tone and context, and that’s one of them. It’s said with extremely loving and positive overtones when it’s, for example, “that fuckin’ chocolate guy“; however, when it comes to certain political figures it’s overwhelmingly negative.

I can’t wait to hear her takedown of Achilles, frankly, who I always found a bit of a jackass.

Okay, a lot of a jackass. I kept reading the Iliad going, “Wait, this guy is supposed to be a hero? But he’s a douchebag, Hector’s much better!” My feelings on both Helen’s husbands are a bit unrepeatable, as well, and don’t ask me about either of the Ajaxes. (Ajaxi?)

This is going to be amazing. I can’t wait.

The rain is taking a bit of a breather, so I should probably amble into the kitchen for some toast. Before then, though, I’m going to absorb the last half of my coffee in something approaching peace.

Pushing the boulder another few inches can wait for a bit while I do so. It is, after all, a Tuesday.

One Last Mashup Rose

…left in my heart.

This rosebush has been singing a mashup of Yellow Rose of Texas and You’re the One Rose (That’s Left In My Heart) for a week or two, so I caught a snap of it in rare winter sunshine. The water drops are from heavy mist, the river and wet earth both breathing cold exhalation upwards. Now the rains have moved in again, so it’s a bit warmer…but just a bit.

Yesterday was Yule, and we dragged out the new tree–bigger than the old one, 75% off a few days before Samhain, my daughter didn’t expect my caving to the begging but really, our other tree was beginning to look seriously overloaded and this one has more space. It was a bargain, but it also means that every time I walk past the living room I flinch a little. Still, the kids are thrilled and my daughter’s bestie enthused over it during his visit yesterday, so at least they’re happy.

Later today the stove might be fixed. All phalanges are crossed.

I’m saddened that we’re past the darkest night of the year; I could have used more rest. This interstitial time–between Yule proper and the New Year of society at large–could be restful and restorative, but not this year. Or maybe it’ll turn out all right once the stove’s dealt with, who knows? All I want is to get through today and crawl back into bed with Chaucer, who is turning out to be a helluva good time. (I recommend the current Norton Critical edition–you know I love Norton Criticals as a whole, but this one really goes out of its way to make the text accessible.) I’m about halfway through Tale of Genji and am going to go back to it after the New Year, I just couldn’t handle more wet sleeves.

I suppose I should get some toast gnawed and Boxnoggin rambled. He’s not going to like it if the rain keeps up, but he’d like skipping walkies even less. Change is this dog’s mortal enemy, and he was extremely put out by the gleaming new thing in the living room until we came back from yesterday’s stroll and his short-term memory had been reset. Now he’s fairly sure the room has always been in this configuration…but he suspects, and it makes him nervy. Poor fellow.

I wish you a peaceful weekend, my dears. I may be back on Boxing Day, or I might decide to take until January 1 off, haven’t decided yet.

I’ll see you when I see you. Be safe out there.

Tiny Sorcery

So much depends…

“Oh look,” my son said yesterday, while we were taking out both the rubbish and the dog (though for vastly different reasons). “Mushroom!”

They’re older now, but my kids are still the same. Look at the world, Mum. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s the same principle that makes us all yell, “Cow!” when out driving in rural areas, or “Horsie!” Or even, when we are exceedingly fortunate, “Llama! There’s a llama!”

Little drops of dew clinging to the rim of a mushroom’s cap. A thin stray knife of sunshine touching the side of a house. A single leaf falling. A child’s wondering cry. Even in the backyard there is magic. It lingers, asking only that we notice for the briefest of moments.

Have a lovely weekend.

Private Delights, Delayed

It’s cold here. The birdbath is frozen in the morning, but it thaws throughout the day. Boxnoggin is prancing-happy to get out for brisk walkies, and even happier to return to his warm bed for a nap afterward. The mud in the park isn’t as deep as it will get, and the moles are busily building galleries in the drier spots. I just recently read Wind in the Willows for the very first time, and liked it a great deal. My favorite bit was the search for the young otter and Pan’s appearance. Toad is a complete git and his friends deserve better, but I suppose every circle has one of those.

Good morning, and happy Thursday! Tomorrow I’ll have some sale news, so stay tuned for that. But today there’s an excerpt of the upcoming Spring’s Arcana up over at the Tor Forge blog, enjoy!

I have proofs on the docket for this weekend, and once those (and any leftover queries) are done there’s only waiting for release. The second book in the epic fantasy trilogy is coming along well; all these scenes that have been in my head for over a year are now on paper. That’s a good feeling, but also a sad one. Execution lags behind imagination, but that’s what revision is for–and that’s what the details a writer keeps privately hoarded in their skull-case are for too.

Publishing is all about delayed gratification, and humans are very bad at said delay. I suppose learning to tolerate it makes one a better person, though it doesn’t get easier. Rather, one’s strategies for dealing with the inevitable discomfort are refined. Now that I’m a few books down the road, I look at the ones coming out this year and vaguely remember the stress of writing them, but the ache is distant, a long-healed sunburn.

It’s been an awful few years.

Anyway, yesterday the Princess was rereading some LJ Smith YAs–the Forbidden Game series, and we started talking about the Dark Vision ones too. “That’s where I loved to learn problematic male antagonists,” she informed me, with a twinkle in her eye. I had to laugh, remembering the first time she found those on the big bookshelves and took them to her room for plundering. The rule in our house has always been “If you can reach it, you can read it–and if you can’t reach it, find a stepstool.” I found it much better to simply let both kids know I was available for any questions they had, no matter how banal or embarrassing, about any media they found and consumed. Attempting to lock them out of questionable media would merely have made the forbidden far more enticing, but if it was a simple matter of hitting the back button or asking Mum, all the questionable delight was drained away and they were encouraged to think critically. The strategy seems to have paid off tenfold, since both are reasonably functional adults now.

My gods, how time flies.

So there’s plenty to do today, including getting some Viking werewolves and their elf friends embroiled in a spring-melting morass while the elementalist desperately tries to bear the weight of the artifact that’s melded itself to her physically, and going through Avery Black’s realization that maybe a certain grey-clad girl doesn’t dislike him at all. Thank goodness tomorrow is Friday Night Writes, because I want to get a fair chunk of work done before the weekend hits and I’m knee-deep in proof pages.

Knee-deep isn’t eyebrow-deep, so there’s that at least to be grateful for. And there’s still candy on clearance everywhere, even if most of it’s wrapped in red and pink foil. It still tastes the same.

My office is still too bright with the cedars gone, but I suppose I’ll adapt. And now the coffee is almost gone, so it’s time for toast (or gruel) and walking the beast.

See you around.

Change Is the Constant

There are Things Happening On the Roof, even at this early hour, and Boxnoggin is utterly beside himself. I can’t decide if he wants to go up the ladder and help, or if he simply doesn’t connect the noise up there to the workers, who he has already throughly vetted. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I suppose.

It’s Monday. I managed another minor feat of resurrection over the weekend; it’s hard, swimming against the current. I think I’ve my fire back in me now, though, as Ellen Foster says. (I just mentioned that book a few days ago; it’s probably time for a reread.) I really do love and believe in this series. It’s just hard to be the only one, especially when I also have to descend to the depths to wrench bits of it up to the surface. Each diving trip carries a risk.

The weekend was also spent parenting, in one form or another. Of course the job doesn’t stop when one’s own children reach adulthood. But a lot of others seem to be needing it now, too.

It’s kind of baffling. First, your baby goes from a sperm and egg to a zygote, from that to an embryo, from that to a fetus, then is born and becomes an infant. They change rapidly over the next few years, from toddler to child, then the changes lengthen into adolescence. Then you have a young adult on your hands, and if you’ve done your job it’s a functioning adult who still wants to speak to you. The change is constant, and you went through all those stages too.

What I don’t get, what absolutely puzzles the fuck out of me, is how anyone can parent through all that change and then claim they can’t handle their precious, irreplaceable child deciding on a different gender expression. People are change. If you can accept a toddler turning into an elementary-schooler, a kid turning into a teenager, a teenager getting a driver’s license, a teen turning into a young adult, why on earth should you have problem with your child expressing as male, female, nonbinary, or any gradation therein? Your job isn’t to stop a kid from finding their own gender any more than it is to halt a child at the toddler stage, or to keep them artificially dependent on you forever.

Parents who claim to have a problem with their child “changing” are lying, to themselves or to others. I’m not surprised at the number of kids (and adults) cutting off contact with “parents” who want Suzy to remain six or sixteen or female-presenting forever, who get bent out of shape when Tim decides she wants to be Sandra, or Holly decides they want to be Hollister.

One of my daughter’s best friends is transitioning. He shook like a leaf when he came out to us, poor thing; it was obviously terrifying for him. There’s only one thing to say when a child approaches you in that situation.

“Thank you for telling me. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and if you change again tomorrow I’ll love who you are then too. Want a hug?”

That’s it. That’s all that needs to be said. It’s not a big deal to keep track of pronouns; when you slip up you stop, redo the sentence, and move on. It’s easy to not deadname someone–when you slip up you (surprise, surprise) stop, redo the sentence, and move on.

“But I always wanted a son/daughter, and now I don’t have one!” What, like it’s a fucking Pokemon? Your child is not a box to tick off or a piece of chocolate in an assortment. Grow the fuck up and treat your kid properly.

“But I don’t understaaaaaaand!” Then get to a place where you can at least accept without being a pile of toxic shittery. Do that work on your own, grow the fuck up, and treat your kid with proper kindness.

“But…but…God says it’s wrong!” Then what you’re worshipping is cruelty, not divinity. Find a different fucking god, you sleaze. Grow the fuck up and start acting like you worship something worthy of being called divine.

“But I just don’t think it’s right!” Then get prepared to lose contact with your kid, of whatever age, because what you’re after is control, not love. The harder you tighten your grasp, the more children will slip through your fingers, Tarkin, and if it sounds like I’m saying you’re the baddie, yes, that’s precisely what I’m saying. And also: Grow. The. Fuck. Up.

Living in late-stage capitalism and corporate-fueled climate change is hard enough; don’t make it worse. Your kid expressing their intrinsic self is not a problem. Get over it, get your head straight, and be the parent you’re supposed to be. You can certainly try to force and control and belittle, but the consequence of that is losing the trust and love your beautiful, irreplaceable child wants to give you. Kids want to love their parents, but if you act like an asshole–especially about this–you’re going to make it so difficult to do so they have to back away for their own safety.

Then you will lose your kid, even if you have them physically trapped and dependent, and it will be your own goddamn fault. It’s very simple. You are not here to own your child, you are here to love who they are, yesterday and today and tomorrow, and to help them become a functioning adult. That’s the job, and if you don’t do it, they’ll find another way–and you will have failed at one of the most important things you will ever do.

Period, full stop, the end. I will not be taking questions or listening to any toxic, shitty, abusive talking points. My time is better spent taking care of the kids–of any age–who have decided I’m safe parental material, and repeating the bare honest truth.

I love you. I loved you yesterday, I love you today, and if you change tomorrow, I’ll love who you are then, too.

Want a hug?

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!

Cheese and Hilarity

Super cheesy.

For about three weeks the talk chez nous has been about the existence of this particular item. So, naturally, the Princess picked some up at work before meeting me to finish grocery shopping. We arrived home and immediately put a pot of water on the stove.

The entire household gathered to put away groceries (the kids), actually cook the damn thing (me), and to get entirely underfoot while wriggling with excitement (Boxnoggin). Things were very crowded and I’m not entirely sure where the bacon went, but that’s a problem for another day.

Anyway, we shared out our lunchtime portions of very, very orange glop. Child-me would have been delighted; adult me was nonplussed.

“It’s the aftertaste,” my son said solemnly, after we’d tasted it. “Yep, definitely the aftertaste.”

“Something that smells like this should be crunchy,” my daughter added.

Naturally I focused not on the mild observation but on fixing a perceived problem. “I guess if we scattered real Cheetos atop it? And…” I paused thoughtfully to take another bite. “…I dunno, I guess if we got really high, then this would be great.”

“It’s definitely weed food,” the Princess agreed.

The Prince is a straight-edge, but he nodded in agreement. “The problem is there’s just not enough in the package.”

In short, we agreed that it would take two or three boxes to make a decent lunch or dinner, that it needed some crunch, and that regular ol’ Kraft with actual Cheetos scattered on top would be just as good when it came to weed food but we are absolutely not under any circumstances allowing the Flamin’ Hot variety into the house. I advanced the idea that adding frozen peas at the end of the pasta-cooking step might be in order to add at least something healthy, and both kids groaned even though that was a childhood favorite. Boxnoggin got a few cheesy pasta curls in his bowl, promptly swallowed them whole, and looked at us with such an expression of patent surprise. The hilarity was total, especially when the conversation turned to the street value of Cheeto-dust flavor packets. (The phrase “Good gods, I’m not snorting that,” was tossed about with abandon.)

All in all, it was $2 well spent–not bad, for almost an hour’s worth of laughter. I wish you a pleasant weekend, my beloveds, and hope you get a chance to share something funny with your loved ones.