novel madness

Spring and a Hot Revision

I’m getting an avalanche of emails and messages from folks wanting me to talk about small and indie presses, more about self-pub, if it’s really so bad in trad, how to get a reputable agent, etc., etc., onward, amen. It’s awful rough out there right now and there is no safe path; there is no magic dingus which will make one a successful author. The idea that there’s a sooper-sekrit handshake or a quick algorithm trick to achieve fame, fortune, and babes on the path of publishing is a poverty tax akin to the lottery–it makes desperate people easier to fleece by holding out a hope that would not be nearly so enticing if our entire society wasn’t straining under the massive, world-eating greed of a few sociopaths. Everything wrong in publishing is a symptom of deeper problems.

The good news is, sunshine and articulation makes solutions a lot more possible; one cannot solve a quandary without knowing its dimensions. The bad news is, it’ll take a lot of collective action to solve a tangle this intractable, and I don’t hold out a lot of hope it’ll happen in any systematic fashion.

I am not pessimistic about publishing, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. (I did Bsky / Mastodon thread on that fact yesterday.) At the same time I mourn for what we’re losing, what we will lose as all this shakes out–whenever that happens. In the end, all I can do is keep working.

Staggering out with Boxnoggin for his first backyard break of the day, I was surprised by the softness of the air. We’re well past the tipping point, it’s abso-tively poso-lutely spring. Maybe the eclipse shook some things loose? We only got twenty percent at totality, and the shadows had funny weight. The birds were going somewhat mad–they knew something was up–and Boxnoggin only settled after the moon had moved to go about its business. The neighborhood cats seemed to be aware of the event as well, quite a few of them prowling in unaccustomed places at unaccustomed hours until ‘it ’twas past.

I can see why ancient folk thought eclipses were celestial anger and anyone who could predict them utterly magical.

Today is probably for cutting an epub of The Highlands War‘s first half for subscribers, as a treat. There’s also a tonne of business correspondence to catch up on and I think I have my rhythm back for the serial. There needs to be another couple dream sequences and then the next battle; soon I’ll be able to move on from this “hot” revision–the type that happens when a book is unfinished but won’t be for long, getting everything in place for the push to the end. Very soon I’ll have another zero draft to my name.

I’m looking forward to it. Of course that will touch off a round of other revisions, since Chained Knight and Gamble were both put on back burners while Doom of the Elder‘s zero got itself settled. And there’s the anthologies to get stuffed through the pipeline as well…

The hell of all this is, I love my job. I was made and born to tell stories, it’s what the gods intended me for. I wish the greed of a few rich folk didn’t make it so bloody difficult. This could be so much easier for everyone–and imagine the explosion of wonderful art we’d have in every direction and format, if that greed were defanged! It would be lovely, wouldn’t it.

In the meantime, I just keep going. There really doesn’t seem much other option, and in any case Boxnoggin wants walkies again so it’s time to grab some toast and get my earbuds.

I’ve got writing to get to.

Another Zero Down

Well, I’m back.

I had to shut down–here and on social media–because several 10k+ word days in a row, especially on a project others tried so hard to kill, takes up rather a lot of one’s energy. It’s been a while since I closed off every other avenue and focused all my engines on a single book; normally I work on two-three at a time to keep my brain’s tendency to eat itself in check.

In any case, the zero draft is done. I had reached the point of sincerely doubting I had another book in me, but was disproved in the most elemental of ways. The zero is done, done, done. Of course there’s a fight looming to keep it protected from well-meaning (or not so well-meaning) pettifogging, but the first and hardest step is accomplished. There’s a lot of bracket notes, it’s messy, and I have a couple pages of yet more notes needing to be incorporated in the pass which will turn it into a proper first draft instead of a zero–but it’s finished. It is recognizably a whole-ass book.

There is a period of time after finishing a zero when I am the only person in the world who knows. Usually it’s a short while before an email’s fired off to my writing partner with some version of “oops, I did it again…” Occasionally there’s tears. This time nearly an hour of sobbing–pure emotional release–struck me to the floor of the office before I could share the ?good? news. It wasn’t so much the book’s ending, which is right and bittersweet, but the relief of knowing I prevailed despite all the odds and forces arrayed against the entire bloody series. I have not truckled, nor will I through the rest of the process.

If it’s a swan song, well, it’s a good one. I can be proud.

Of course there’s Highlands War to finish the zero of, which is where my energies will mostly be spent for the next couple weeks until I start revising Chained Knight and Gamble. The former needs a release date–I’m looking at July now, or perhaps August–and the latter mostly needs brush-up, the editor says, before it’s into line edits and the rest of the process. Plus, said editor wants another Ymre, so the process of building that story inside my head needs to begin now; around June-ish I can put it in a working slot on the docket. We’re coming up on submission deadlines and it appears trad wants to leave money on the table, so the Cain’s Wife trilogy will probably be the next serial (I think Danny Valentine fans will like it) and House of the Fan will have to go on the compost heap for a while. I just don’t have the spoons for that kind of epic fantasy without a publisher handling some of the heavy lifting.

Ah well. By the end of this month I’ll have a somewhat final plan for the rest of the year and through 2025. We’re in the very last loops of the holding pattern. Oh, and it’s a new month so the Monthly Sales page has been updated. (Remember to check the dates!)

I honestly feared I could not finish this particular series, but stubbornness (plus the support of beta readers, writing partner, and family) won. I do not have to mourn a slaughtered work; instead I can armour up for the rest of the campaign. No rest for the weary or the wicked, my reward for success is more work, and all that. I’m content to have it so, though I could wish this project had not been so bloody difficult. Anyway, now I am at something resembling peace, plus I have an actual-factual titanium spork on my desk, a gift from a very good Pocket Friend to fend off haters with.

I’ve fought with far less durable weapons. Everything’s going to be fine.

Logjam Broken

I’ve written 30k+ since Monday and all I want to do is go back to it. The Sekrit Projekt is at 110k now, and I suppose it’s not really a secret what I’m working on but I needed to protect the work, keep it covered and safe from the cold breath of contempt, not to mention institutional neglect.

Anyway, I haven’t been around much, either blog-wise or social media-wise. I am at the point where I actively resent anything taking me away from the work, but since a few folk have expressed concern…I’m fine. There’s Stuff Going On, but I’m well-armed and laying about me with all the determination of those used to losing battles. If you’ve missed me, don’t fret, I’ll be back on my usual bullshit as soon as I tear the last few words from my quivering guts and have a zero draft.

See you then.

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.

Hellebore, In Rain

All vivid now…like hellebore in rain…

It’s been a strange, sometimes frustrating week. I had one–one!–very good working day, and it has given me a hunger for more. I should be content that the Sekrit Projekt has not been killed outright, and has indeed passed what I think is the middle of its curve. Well, not really, the true break-point is the death of a major character…but good enough.

I’m still deeply tired of all the bullshit that isn’t writing, and there are two books I want very badly to get to. I just have to finish the two I’m writing now, revise the half-a-dozen in the pipeline, get a great deal of administrative work out of the way, and and and…

No rest for the weary, the wicked, or the writers. Ever, world without end, amen. Thank the gods for coffee.

It’s hellebore season, and I love everything about these plants. I could be content with a mostly-hellebore garden, frankly, save for the irritating fact that slugs consider them a delicacy. And I’ve already got hostas and roses about so I might as well continue with those too. Still, maybe this is the year I’ll get a few more Lenten roses in. It’s nice to think about, as well as the prospect of a blueberry bush or two where there’s now a surfeit of sunlight since the cedars are gone. (Which irks me to no end even now; they were wonderful and someone else’s neglect did them in. Alas.)

At least it looks like we’ll be back to proper rainy weather after a bit of a freeze; I knew we were due for at least one more heavy frost if not a downright east-wind howler. Even the cherry trees are Getting Ideas now, and I can see hints of purple on a few magnolias. The season marches on, and today I have to write an Uncomfortable Declaration of Affection in the Sekrit Projekt.

There’s that to look forward to. And the weekend will see more incremental progress on the short-story anthology. Slow and steady will win my particular race, even if I near expire of annoyance.

See you next week…

Dual Garde and Pointe

I suspect today would be trouble, and in fact could have spent an hour or so sunk in a book rather than freeing myself from a warm bed-cocoon, achieving verticality, and staggering for the Moka pot. So far Thursday and I are proceeding in what appears to be a truce. The quiet is not quite ominous, yet I am still en garde and en pointe.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m reading some rather depressing history (as usual) and yesterday was a 7k writing day. The Sekrit Projekt is halfway, near as I can tell, and I was able to hole up in the office, free of administrivia, to concentrate on getting over that mark.

I am cautiously optimistic. That’s all I’ll say, for fear of jinxing it.

Yesterday also saw Boxnoggin bound and determined to catch a rabbit; coincidentally I have found the place in the nor’eastern fence the ferals are slipping through and I have a rather bruised arm. Lord van der Sploot would absolutely adore to break every barrier in his way while chasing Deathwish Bunny (as I have christened this new visitor to our backyard) but so long as I am capable of deterring him from making Extremely Bad Choices his ambition will have to remain (alas!) unfulfilled.

Deathwish Bunny is so named because he seems to have grasped that the dog is strapped to a lumbering biped uninterested in chase, capture, or homicide, and has taken this to mean he is the ruler of the backyard. In fact, Deathwish the Bun-Bun gives me rather filthy looks while sitting by the Venerable Fir, as if to question what the hell I’m doing in his demesnes. All while Boxnoggin quivers at the end of a leash, nearly vibrating inside his harness with the desire to please omg just once, just let me chase it once.

Even one time would be too many. I have a healthy respect for just how silly the dog can be when left to his own devices. Consequently His Majesty Bun-Bun is laboring under the dual misapprehension of inviolability and immortality; as spring advances we’ll see how the squirrels feel about his claims. Of course they can climb, so the ground floor doesn’t matter too much–but if he starts competing for certain resources we might see a bit of jostling. And of course both love taunting a certain square-headed canine.

You know who isn’t taunting him these days, though? The local corvids have discovered that doing so, as well as buzzing me to demand things, does not get them what they want. A system has evolved wherein the crows wait patiently (albeit loudly) at certain points for largesse, and if I am in a giving mood roasted peanuts in the shell are scattered after a two-tone whistle. And before anyone starts bleating about feeding wildlife, the rewards are random and please take it up with those who scatter peanuts for the damn squirrels first, since the crows manage to get a substantial portion of those without my feeble efforts, thankyouverymuch.

…that sounds rather bad-tempered of me, but there’s been a positive plague of Reply Guys and finger-waggers lately. Fortunately they are outweighed by the very nice people, especially those writing to me now about liking A Flame in the North. Thank you, my beloveds–I keep meaning to do a From the Mailbag post, and keep getting sidetracked or having no time because there’s writing to get to.

Speaking of which, I’d best get underway. Boxnoggin is going to adore today’s sunshine even if we both dislike the chill, and I’ve my own corpse to shamble through something approximating exercise as well. I have big dreams for another uninterrupted chunk of writing since there’s a daring escape to pull off and a major character’s demise to plan for. For those of you who just gasped, you know that’s always a risk in my tales. I’m not looking forward to it any more than you are. (I already cried twice yesterday at an imprisoned protagonist’s emotional nadir, fa cry-eye.)

Time to drain the dregs and get some toast. There might even be some blueberry-lemon crumble left, we’ll see. All in all, there’s room for cautious hope.

But I’m still wary.

Peace, Despite Sunshine

Took a while to lever myself out of bed today. I meant to spring forth as soon as the alarm chirped, but that…did not happen. Yesterday wore me the fuck out, and even retreating early to finish a history book didn’t help. Strange dreams–including one about escaping a cult run by a particularly terrifying individual who has haunted a corner of my consciousness for a while, part of why I wrote Harmony–were less than helpful as well.

The morning’s news is that Facebook, Instagram, and Threads are all down, which must account for the sudden sense of peace in many corners. It’s too much to hope for that Meta has finally choked on its own toxicity, so I’m just going to enjoy it while it lasts. (Probably will be back up before I finish writing this post, but ah well.)

The weather app says we’ll have some sunbreaks today. It doesn’t look likely from the office window, and indeed I’d prefer a solid grey ceiling. But I suppose a lot of other people like the big yellow day-eye, and in any case there’s nothing I can do about it but hide in my cave and hiss. It’s not that I dislike sunlight, precisely, it’s just that I enjoy rain more. I am continually baffled by people who move to this part of the country from drier climes and proceed to complain endlessly about falling water. Of course, what with climate change and the collapse of certain ocean currents we might be looking at drought soon.

…I am a regular bundle of cheer today, aren’t I. Might be because I had to spend yesterday doing a great many things, none of which were writing, and am consequently a little tetchy. I just want to crouch on my strange little office chair, type my weird little stories, and pay my bills. It should not be so bloody damn difficult.

Anyway. Here’s something fun, I didn’t need to hear this song again (ever) but the choreography and the dancers’ precision are amazing. Plus the costuming is A+.

I have the day’s work all set up; I meant to talk about subtext today (due to a discussion in my personal Discord) but that’s just not gonna happen. I’d best finish my rapidly cooling coffee, choke down some toast, walk the dog, and shamble my own corpse before the day gets nay older. A great deal of plot tangles and whatnot will work themselves out while I do so; all I have to do is shut everything external down, turn inward, and let the stories take over once more.

Can’t wait. Have a nice Tuesday, everyone.