not worth chewing through the leather straps

…Are We Back?

Apparently I found the limits of my patience last week. Or at least, the limits of my body’s patience with stress.

For literal years I have been fighting alone on behalf of a certain series. It’s been positively nightmarish, both for reasons unavoidable (pandemic, corporate nonsense) and completely avoidable (contempt displayed for the work by those who should be its advocates, etc.). I’ve tried to be flexible, professional, resilient, calm. And finally last week, a straw landed upon the camel’s back.

The resultant snap probably registered on the Richter scale. And it happened after nearly a week of trying to resurrect the final book in said series while being unable to sleep plus suffering the worst case of stress nausea I’ve ever had the displeasure of. Which is saying something; morning sickness, sertraline adjustment, even buying the house was nothing compared to this. I still can’t really eat unless I disassociate, and sleep has been rather an impossibility. I hyperfocused on getting Chained Knight revised during the day for most of the week, with breaks to try opening the master file for the series in question, and each time I did the latter produced fits of nausea so intense I had to eventually keep a bowl next to the desk. At night I lay in bed and trembled, too nervous and vomitous to sleep. By Friday I was entirely shot, and that’s when the whole thing broke.

The hell of it is that I do want to write this book; I long to finish the series. These are books of my heart and what I consider masterworks. But certain issues in the publication process have been so nightmarish my very body has revolted, and there’s been no help in sight. I’m utterly alone in this fight, and it’s beginning to wear a bit. I usually try not to say anything at all, for publishing does its mightiest to convince writers that any faint complaint or refusal to toe even the most abusive of lines will be met with swift blacklisting–or worse.

I just want to write my stories and pay my bills, dammit. And that’s all I can say about the whole goddamn thing.

A winter storm moved in Saturday, after threatening for several days. Lots of powdery snow blowing while the wind gusted and rattled, which suited my mood. I settled on the couch with Boxnoggin and crawled into a paperback of ‘Salem’s Lot–about the third one I’ve owned, since I’ve read two to pieces. (It’s not the only King I’ve read to pieces; I think I’m on my fourth Rose Madder paperback?) I don’t know what it says that my comfort read ended up being Writer vs. Vampire, but it felt…good, to have another world to inhabit and a situation one could at least take action in, instead of simply waiting helplessly for the worst. Unfortunately the book only held me for about a day, but by then I could concentrate a little better and went back to Chaucer.

I had left in the middle of the Wife of Bath’s tale, and now I see why she’s so famous. I love her, even if she’s written by somewhat of a misogynist, and she seems to be an example of what Cleolinda Jones calls “meta-characters”–those who seem not to be created by the author so much as hailing from some other place and springing to life on the page whether the author will or no. One of the hallmarks of meta-characters is that while the author might make them say or do certain things, the characters themselves have a genius for arranging things so that the reader’s overall impression may be far different than what the author intends. A prime example of this is Tolkien’s Eowyn, who shines even through the Jackson movies’ betrayal of her character. (That’s a rant for another day.)

I found myself smiling despite the nausea at certain of the Wife of Bath’s sallies, even while I wished she would get to the damn point. And when she did finish her tale I felt like cheering.

The storm has settled into relative calm and subzero temperatures, with freezing rain in the near forecast. I’ve also read the Friar’s and Summoner’s Tales, and was in the fourth bit of the Clerk’s Tale last night when I felt like I could sleep again. Even across centuries I can see the Wife of Bath’s expression as the Clerk starts listing Griselda’s many patiences. To be fair Chaucer gave the Wife space to be heroine in her own story, and inserts some sly observations in the Clerk’s that make it clear he’s drawing a deliberate contrast and doing it with the Clerk’s own tools of rhetoric. I actually cocked my head last night at a passage and thought, “Why, Geoffrey, I see what you’re doing, you magnificent bastard.”

And Boxnoggin snored wetly against my shoulder at that point, for he was dreaming. He was perplexed by the snow, now hates the cold on his tender paws, yet has forgotten any other weather exists, for lo! he is a dog of Very Little Brane and Very Much Instinct.

I have The Stand (unabridged) queued up for when Geoffrey is finished, and after that Pekka Hamalainen’s Lakota America. Or I might decide to go with the Hamalainen first, or something else entirely. It’s all up in the air. I’ve been unable to work since sending the Chained Knight revision off, and that bothers me a great deal as well. Fortunately a couple friends have been keeping me on the rails, so far as I can be kept–you know who you are, and thank you.

So. Everything is shut down for the holiday and the weather. Boxnoggin will get only half a block’s worth of walkies, just enough to make a nod to habit while keeping his paws from freezing. I’m going to try some actual work today, but if that doesn’t happen it’ll be right back to the Clerk while imagining the Wife of Bath rolling her eyes.

At least I have that.

Up Goes the Monument

First jolt of coffee for the day. At least one stove burner is still working, a pleasant thing to find out–of course the repair lad is coming tomorrow, and in the meantime we have Boris the Drip and Matilda the Microwave, so we’ll be fine, just fine. Still, it’s some-damn-thing else I didn’t want to have to deal with, especially this time of year. (This may be where I say now is an excellent time to buy some books, right? RIGHT?)

I’m also deeply annoyed that I can’t afford the gouging price they’re charging for a Covid booster, let alone flu or RSV. (What, you think a freelance writer supporting an entire household can afford medical insurance in America? HA!) And before some “helpful” person talks about “government bridge programs”, let me just tell you I do not have the energy for that deliberately red-taped and time-consuming nonsense. I am busy paying bills and attempting to keep this ship from sinking.

If I die of the plague, blame pharma-corporate and “insurer” greed.

Anyway. The new, larger tree has been brought up from downstairs. I got a 3ft one years and years ago for the kids, since they love the holidays almost as much as I despise them–and let it be known I am glad to have it so, it is one of the great victories of my life that they do not associate this time of year with capital-T Trauma–and there’s a small story in that. Just after Samhain this year I was at the local buy-everything with my daughter and they already had the Christmas display out. Including fake trees for a whopping 75% off, probably last year’s crop or even left over from lockdown overstock.

So I took the plunge, because our poor little 3ft fellow lists heavily under a slowly accumulating crop of ornaments. Now we have a seven-footer, fit for hanging no shortage of gewgaws and even an Odin on. We’ll rehome the small one eventually, never fear; I anthropomorphise nearly everything so deeply I wouldn’t dare throw him in a landfill.

Besides, all his lights still work.

Anyway, today is the solstice, Yule proper for our household. Up goes the monument with winking lights. Boxnoggin will be utterly beside himself, and there will be at least one nighttime crash as the Mad Tortie decides to scale this new addition to the living room clutter. At least the three-footer meant she didn’t have far to fall, but this new Matterhorn will be nigh irresistible to her ambitions. A fun time will be had by all.

Hopefully the repair lad dropping by tomorrow will have the parts necessary to return our range and oven to full glory. The model number and several pictures have been texted to him–we do live in the future, my goodness–and he’s been by before during the Latest Dishwasher Incident and (who could forget?) the Saga of Washing Machine. Corporations really have deliberately engineered appliances to fall apart after ten years or so; it’s amazing. If they turned all that know-how towards actually making their products better who knows what might result? But fiduciary duty to shareholders forbids–the name of the game is enriching the already-rich.

Do I sound bitter? Not really. Just…weary, and wishing this time of year was over. There’s a few more things I have to tie off before I can shut down and perhaps take a few days off around New Year’s. I likely won’t rest, since the very concept is rather foreign to me, especially lately. But I will spend time simply working solely on something that pleases me alone, like the ragged, happy-go-lucky swordsman and the serious no-nonsense assassin in House of the Fan. Their first meeting is somewhat of a delight, since she outright laughs at him.

Some years are better than others, or at least easier to deal with. This one is…sub-optimal. But I hear stirring in the hallway, so it’s time to make a little more coffee and help set up the new tree. The kids are excited, and I can take solace in their joy even if I distinctly do not share it.

Happy solstice, my dears. The Long Night is here, a time of rest. I will not be holding vigil tonight–too tired, too sad, too worn down. Yet I know others will, and that’s a comfort too.

All This Ruckus

It’s no secret I dislike this time of year. Oh, the weather is great–the rains are here with a vengeance–and the trees are well abed, slipping into dreamland. Some of the lights are very pretty, and the chill breezes mean a lot of the jackasses who let their dogs run unleashed in the park(s) stay inside.

No, it’s “the holidays” I loathe. Normally any opportunity to take half a day off from work and eat some good food is right up my alley, but November-December is chock-full of fake-smiling faces on advertisements designed to make one feel inferior, progressively more stressed parents desperate to buy what the TV tells them is the year’s hot toy and taking their fraying tempers out on kids who really just want care and attention, performative “good deeds” by people who act shitty the rest of the year, and retail workers forced to endure the worst conditions since last holiday season from a public trained to treat them like shit even at the best of times. And the lights, decorations, music, and smells all remind me of my childhood “caregivers”, boiling away under the pressure of putting up a good front for extended family and coworkers while violently taking out their frustrations on already-battered children behind closed doors.

Some years I deal with the reminders better than others. This one’s not going too well, as you can probably sense; 2023 has been pretty stressful in its own right, and these few weeks feel like the final fuck-you on its way out the door. I mean, it’s not 2020, but that’s a faint blessing at best. And at least I have the portal fantasy, the first Cain’s Wife, Highlands War, the new romantasy, and The Dead God’s Heart to make me feel like I’ve accomplished a few things this year.

I’ll take what I can get. Today will be all about Highlands and House of the Fan, especially the latter since last night I figured out a super important piece of the heroine’s backstory that soups up the central conflict of the book. I had thought the conflict would be them getting to the big duelist academy in time for the entrance exam, but instead it’s going to be about the assassins’ syndicate our heroine burned to the ground being a little more robust than she thought.

I mean, naturally, they’re used to keeping their real strengths hidden. But she’s about to get a series of surprises ranging from almost pleasant (the hero has secrets of his own, though nothing like hers) to the exceedingly nasty (the central conflict). Some of that will be built out today, but the bulk of my time will be spent giving Kaia Steelflower a few unpleasant surprises as well.

Anyway, the rain should fall off a bit after dawn, and Boxnoggin will complain once we’re out in it but he needs walkies in order to act reasonably the rest of the day. I suppose I’d best finish the coffee-dregs, slap some bread into the toaster, and think about how I’m going to do the next combat scene. If I keep my head down and my gaze focused on work, I can ignore a lot of the holiday folderol.

That’s the plan, at least. And if you enjoy the holidays, great! Try to enjoy them a little more for my sake, I encourage that. Someone should have some pleasure out of all this ruckus.

Off I go to embark upon Tuesday…

Paring Down, Limping Along

The firs are wrapped in rainy mist, I didn’t sleep much, but today I swing back to spending time with Kaia and the gang. I might even make it a goal to get the bulk of Highlands War‘s zero done before the New Year, though I don’t think that’ll happen–there’s too much other work to be done, and the entire book is probably going to be somewhere in the 150k zone. It will take all of next year for subscribers to get through it.

I love Kaia’s story and had a whole ‘nother trilogy planned for when she returns to her homeland. Unfortunately the scale of ebook theft on this series in particular prohibits such grace, so I’m faced with the quandary of whether or not to answer certain questions–like D’ri’s scar, which did not happen in the way he has told a certain sellsword–and how to bring a few loose ends to at least a resting point since they won’t be given the entire last trilogy to live and breathe. I’m ever grateful that I can at least write this book with the help of subscribers, otherwise Steelflower in Snow would have been the last Kaia book ever. I did think that if subscriptions got to a certain point I’d commit to writing the follow-on trilogy, but that hasn’t happened.

Ah well.

Looking back over the year I can see the damage done by livestreaming. I’m just not that sort of person, and the behavior those platforms endorse and prioritise is exhausting and toxic to me. I’ll probably record stuff for patrons once I’m over the nastiness, but the whole thing bled off a lot of energy necessary for books and sanded my nerves down to bare wires. It’s a shame because I love talking about books and talking about why certain things work in certain books, deconstructing sentences and telling you all about strategies the writer employs. But the avalanche of hate-comments, bots, and threats, the time investment for absolutely zero return, and the breathless jump-cut nonsense prioritised by “the algorithm” are just not worth engaging with.

I suppose I’m in a taking-stock mood, near the end of the outside world’s year. And the quiet mistiness of the morning as I have a nice Moka-pot jolt–drip coffee just isn’t doing it, alas–makes me both philosophical and ready to cut a few things loose. I’ve been slowly paring away things that do not serve the work since about, oh, July-ish? And I’ve been in somewhat of a dark place the past few days; the exploitation in publishing is terrifying.

I mean, I’m supposed to be resting, but to hell with that. This recovery phase has been full of deep brooding on how awful things are at the moment, and that is poison.

Boxnoggin will nag for his walkies until he realized those require going outside into the damp, and I will laugh since we are between atmospheric rivers at the moment so really, we’re damn near dry. He will throw a hissy fit until we reach the first clump of greenery requiring thorough sniffing, whereupon he will be amazed and eager for the next. I’ll be planning the day’s work while we stride, so at least there’s that. Between Highlands and the sample chapters for House of the Fan it will be a busy few weeks before New Year’s. Come January I’ll be thinking about a cover for Chained Knight–even if the book is shit, at least it will reach the people who need it. (And the third one will probably tear itself out of my head next autumn, since that seems to be where we live now.) At least I’ve made my peace with the epic fantasy series the publisher’s killed, and can move on gracefully with others.

Small mercies. I’m grateful for the mist, and the coffee, and that I’ve survived at least a little longer doing what I was meant and made for. Coming home and firing up the Moka pot for another round will be a gift. And oh hey, there’a chance that today’s work will involve at least one messy decapitation–that’ll be Highlands, and House of the Fan will see a combat scene between a courtesan-assassin and another assassin who’s been hanging out on the side of a mountain, regretting his choices.

There are things to look forward to, at least. I suppose I can limp along a few days longer, so long as there are more stories to write.

Annoyance Unmitigated

Roaring lioness
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos

I woke up ready to step out the door swinging, and so far nothing has mitigated that state of affairs. For example, I’m getting really close to recommending self-publishing authors not list separately through Kobo, though we desperately need Amazon alternatives for the good of the (rancidly monocultured) publishing ecosystem. Of course, listing to Kobo through Draft2Digital is currently still a reasonably good idea, since every penny helps, but I’ve listed a lot of things separately because I never want my eggs in a single basket. Unfortunately, the bait-and-switch in Kobo’s “Promotions” tab, as well as the ongoing clunkiness of their interface (how is it possible to get even WORSE after you’ve thrown so much money at your UI, dear gods, how?) are both terrible. I’m hoping they’ll mend their ways, but as it stands I don’t know if I can recommend listing separately through them anymore.

I’ve heard Kobo’s stellar for Canadian authors, so that’s a mild point in their favor. And I really, really want there to be some kind of alternative to Kindle. I just can’t deal with the constant “oh, we had TOO MANY people sign up for this promotion!” nonsense. If that’s happening 70-80% of the time, the problem is your promotions signup structure, and that needs to be bloody well fixed so self-publishers don’t have to waste effort.

Anyway, that’s a niche complaint on a Monday. And sure, I’ve got a broader one. I’m absolutely irate at the privatization of Covid vaccines and treatments–you know, the ones funded by massive taxpayer investment, now being “privatized” and turned around so some fat-cat pharma execs can buy another yacht while the rest of us run the chance of successive reinfections triggering Long Covid? Yeah, those. The proper price for a Covid vaccine is $0. The proper price for Covid treatment is $0. We’ve already paid, not only in taxpayer cash but in blood, death, and fear. Charging again is just murderous greed.

But what else is new? Oh, well, in the US we’re getting another paltry round of (possibly expired) at-home test kits, as a sop. Marvelous.

In short, I’m bloody well irritated today, and I suspect even a morning run will not ameliorate the feeling. Retreating into the NaNo book is pretty much my only option right now. Worse than the irritation is the knowledge that nothing will be done, that all my attempts to warn were (and will be) in vain, and the murderous cycle of repression and profit will continue unabated. It’s enough to drive one right into the bog. Oh, for a cottage with a mossy roof; oh, to come into town only every six months to drop off manuscripts for one’s agent and then back into the peace of the venomous swamp.

Unfortunately if I retreated to a nice bit of wetlands in order to live out my bog-witch dreams the fucking corporations would come to pave it over posthaste. I suppose I’m doomed to Cassandra my way through this period of existence.

Anyway, Boxnoggin still needs walkies and the wordcount won’t wait for the annoyance to abate, so off I go. Maybe I’ll get a chunk of this book off the plate today; the only solace is in doing the work as well as I can. That, and the dog’s utter joy when it’s time for him to stick his nose in clumps of wet greenery before peeing upon them.

It’ll have to do.

Exceeding Cheerful

Staggered to the coffeepot this morning and figured out a rather large plot point in Cain’s Wife, so that was fun. Having the entire architecture of a series shift a little bit inside my head before I even got a first sip of blessed caffeine is a strange feeling, a mental temblor. Part of that could be yesterday’s work, well over 4k on the blasted book. The heist is done, but now the heroine is naked and late for the auction.

That’s not even euphemism. I’d ask “how do I get myself in these situations” except it’s a fictional character, not me, and to be fair I knew this was coming. Today’s for writing the auction, and I can’t decide if it’s better for the high bidder to take possession of the item and find out it’s a fake…or if the magic holding the fake together should fail during the bidding itself, which will give me a combat/chase scene I’d frankly love to write. There’s a line that’s been beating in time to my heartbeat for months while thinking about this book, and it needs a home so it can stop bothering me.

I’m also thinking about the cost of living crisis this morning. Corporate greed and price gouging, added to a supine media endlessly bleating CEO and right-wing talking points, makes for an extremely unhappy state of affairs. The economy is doing well by objective indicators, but the perception is that it’s doing otherwise (again, due to price gouging and media spin), and that perception will be ruthlessly used to gin up racist “uncertainty” all the way through next year’s election. Corporations and billionaires will continue to think they can control the racist demagogue du jour, and that as long as they do so the profits will continue to rise. The historical parallels are right there, and they send a chill down my spine.

Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it; those who do study history are doomed to be ignored when they warn of recurrence.

As you can tell, I’m in an exceeding cheerful mood. The caffeine may help, slipping back into the worlds I create might help as well, and there’s bread to be made today which is always a happy occasion. I just…keep working, hoping that the small effects of doing the next right thing will have some aggregate effect. And Boxnoggin has just trotted into the office to inform me that all this is very well, but the truly important matter is that he wants a bit of toast and then walkies, and those things can’t happen until I leave the glowing box on the desk and go get brekkie sorted.

I suppose history will have to wait, at least until he’s stuck his nose in every clump of greenery and the corvids down the hill have received an unshelled peanut or two. Then there will be the auction to write, and another combat scene in Highlands War.

Tuesday beckons, I must answer the call. Be safe out there, my beloveds.

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…