on camera in camera

Last Rainy Rose

Last of the season.

The very last roses; they shouldn’t linger into almost-December, but climate change is wreaking havoc and I’d like this a lot better if the slugs aren’t also enjoying somewhat of a heyday. My poor hellebores might not make it.

Anyway, what makes this rose in particular beautiful to me is the water-gilding, and the signs of damage. Boxnoggin was very patient while I got this snap, despite wanting to get on with walkies; I halt for his little sniffs and indiscretions, I figure he can halt for a shot or two.

Yesterday was an American holiday. There was a lot of challah and I think I might have some leftover pie for brekkie. First, though, coffee needs to be absorbed…and some planning for the last third of the NaNo novel must needs be done. (50k is only the beginning…)

Have a lovely weekend, my dears.

Energy Freed

With the break in weather, the marine layer’s returned. Dawn is incrementally later because of axial tilt and hides behind cloud-cover to boot, so Boxnoggin and I are out in the dark for his very first loo break of the day. No clearer indication of the season finally turning, and I am ever so ready. The heat is very bad for me.

Coming up the deck stairs we surprised a bat. It fluttered along the roof overhang, very put out by our presence and quite possibly by the porch light as well, before finally veering away, flapping across the yard. I think it took shelter in a neighbor’s very large fir–as tall as our own Venerable–and will have a lovely nap there amid whatever raccoons are also using it for a hide. There may have been a rabbit on the north end of the yard as well, to judge by the rustling, but Boxnoggin was so entranced by the flying rodent he took no notice of the terrestrial one.

Which was a mercy, I don’t want a tug of war with him this morning. I’m finally catching up on sleep and can very well do without a dislocated shoulder. There are reasons why he’s never allowed outside unleashed, even in “safe” and high-fenced spaces.

The dog just does not make good decisions. His enthusiasm is laudable; however, I am duty-bound to keep him from getting injured (or worse) by it.

A hundred pages of copyedit are on the docket today, along with pulling out terms to make the pronunciation guide. If all goes well the second Ymre book will be out in November. I’m in a holding pattern elsewhere, so it’s nice to feel that there’s some damn progress being made in at least one particular direction. I did get 1.5k on Gamble yesterday as well, playing hooky from said copyedits. All part of the process. After finishing so many novels and getting a significant proportion of them through the publishing process, I still have no idea “how to write a book” (writing one only teaches you how to write that particular one) but I am passing acquainted with my usual emotional reactions. Managing one’s internal responses to the work is nearly half the battle.

The other half is harnessing enough sheer spite to reach the finish line. Whatever’s left over changes from day to day.

Making the decision to cut back on streaming has freed up a massive amount of energy I was previously forced to spend doing emotional labour or cleaning out the mod queue. Consequently my dreams have returned, as well as the wherewithal to focus on the entire point of my existence, the goddamn writing. I gave it the old college try, my beloveds, but I am not meant for certain things. For over a year I powered through, swimming against my natural inclination and a tide of progressively worse harassment, but…I’m done. I can see doing fifteen-minute Q&As still, and of course the Great Chapter reads, but enduring death threats because some neckbeard doesn’t like what I said about their favorite Dead White Guy is not and never will be my cuppa.

I’ve still got this microphone and the video editing software, so I might do Reading with Lili in another form for my Patreon/Gumroad subscribers. We’ll see how the schedule shakes out. I do feel liberated having made the decision; I was beginning to resent certain things and that’s not healthy.

I like to live without resentment, insofar as is possible in this world we’ve built.

So, now it’s time to finish the last of the coffee–the new drip machine still hasn’t told me his name, I think he’s waiting for paper filters–and a bit of toast before taking Boxnoggin for his ramble. No matter what else, walkies must needs happen when the doggo’s morning reaches a certain point. We won’t see any bats, since daylight has strengthened, but we might get some rain.

Summer is simply not my season. Thank goodness autumn is nigh.

Former Names, Lodged

Release day keeps steadily stalking me. Next week Salt-Black Tree drops, and in celebration (is that the word?) there’s an interview with me up over at Narrative Species. I was terribly nervous and inadvertently gave away a huge secret about one of the characters–the fact that Georgia, the painter in the desert, is in my head a combination of Georgia O’Keefe and Virginia Wolff. I even call her “Virginia” several times, because the connection is just that marked for me.

The two are intimately connected in my personal canon as women who managed to live to please themselves, in whatever fashion is granted to those born female in our society. In the zero of Salt-Black Georgia and Virginia had a sort of timeshare agreement going on with the house in the desert, but that conceit didn’t quite work the way I wanted and was tossed well before the initial draft was finished. So in the interview, when you hear me talking about Virginia/Georgia, it’s partly because of nervousness and partly because every former draft of every book is lodged in my head, and sometimes things get a little…hectic.

Frex, I still sometimes use Danny Valentine’s original name when talking about that particular series, but thankfully not while being interviewed. Small mercies.

Yesterday’s work went better than expected. The dream sequence in Highlands War went in a different direction than I had planned, but that’s all right–it’s a sign the story is obeying its own dictates, starting to behave like an organic, coherent creature in its own right. And instead of having to rip out and redo an entire scene in Gamble, I figured out I only needed to alter the underpinnings and take the last half in a different direction, so that was a pleasant surprise. I’m beginning to suffer imposter syndrome with both books, right on time. I wish the current projects were staggered a bit so I wasn’t enduring the same stage for two different ones; I suppose adding a third might solve that but also might upset a different, more delicate balance. So I suppose I just have to deal with being 30k into both books and thinking dear gods, I am not equipped for any of this.

It’s faintly ridiculous–who else can tell these stories? That’s literally why they chose me. Yet I find myself dithering, swimming against a tide of terrible ill-feeling. I’m sure it doesn’t help that publishing is in such a state at the moment. It’s taken decades for things to get this bad; it won’t be fixed overnight–or at all–without a giant jolt to the entire system, which will true to form end up being most painful for the people actually doing the work/writing.

I mention how those–the folks doing the actual work–are treated like afterthoughts and nasty little nuisances rather than the entire foundation of the industry all the damn time, but only because the problem is so marked. It repeats in other industries, of course, don’t think I’m unaware. The current wave of strikes and unionization across the US is a welcome development. I wish there was something comparable for people like me. We do have the Authors Guild and ALLi, of course, as well as a few other trade organizations, which I’m thankful for.

Still…I wonder if I made the right choice pursuing this career. I started out needing a job that I could do while raising two toddlers alone. It’s worked out mostly all right, due to a combination of luck, whatever privilege I could scrape together, and the sheer inability to accept any other outcome. The price has been relatively high and now I suspect I’m unfit for most other types of work.

It’s a helluva time to be suffering this particular kind of second-guessing.

Fortunately I don’t have much time to brood on such things. The coffee is almost gone…no, strike that, I just drained the dregs, which means Boxnoggin is shaking his collar and stretching, preparing to trot down the hall and collect me for breakfast. He has a busy morning planned, I’m sure–yesterday on walkies he saw a garter snake and has not quite recovered, I suspect he longs desperately to make the acquaintance of another since I did not let him attempt to catch the previous one.

I did not think it wise, for lo, I am the biggest killjoy this dog has ever known. I will not let him make a single bad decision.

Ah well. Forcing good decisions in spite of ourselves is a very adult maneuver. Hopefully I qualify as at least partly adult despite knowing I’m merely a few feral novels stacked in a trenchcoat and steered by an inner twelve-year-old. I got up relatively on time this morning, that’s gotta count.

The rest of the day may now commence. Or at least, shamble towards bedtime at a reasonable clip. It’s a Tuesday, I’ll take what I can get.

Adulting and Pruning

Yesterday was a flurry of adulting. Correspondence needed tackling, decisions had to be made, pruning to be done–and the firepit required tending, since limbs, branches, and twigs off the dead cedar which came down during 50+mph winds (fortunately not taking my office with it, falling just perfectly to avoid clipping the house or killing the back gate) had to be dealt with in some manner. The entire yard smelled of cedar incense and damp earth. It was wonderful, and I made quite a few decisions while staring into the flames. I also got a great deal of plot-noodling done while moving around, breaking up wooden bits, and watching the fire.

The kids were thrilled; they did most of the processing, snapping and sawing cedar into smaller chunks. Boxnoggin was extremely unsure about the whole thing, but enjoyed being part of the ruckus while outside. He also seemed more than happy to go back inside after a few token circuits of the yard and sniffing at the wind, though he usually wants to be where everyone else is with a vengeance. I think the smoke made him uneasy, poor fellow.

Bailey was a partner; Boxnoggin is definitely a subordinate. He’s most comfortable when I tell him exactly what to do. We were worried he might need a companion, since Bailey bossed him unremittingly and he thrived under that direction–we joked that she told him when to breathe, and how, and he liked the reminders. But he seems to have adjusted to only-dog status quite happily. The only trouble is that I prefer to ask instead of command, and he wants to be told in no uncertain terms. I suppose we’re both learning, even after four-plus years.

Things seem to be settling in certain areas. I left CounterSocial since I wasn’t quite comfortable there, and due to health concerns I’m also taking a hiatus from livestreaming. Don’t worry on the latter account, though–old streams will stay up on my YouTube channel, and if my health improves I might come back to some version of Reading with Lili. And of course I’m playing with the idea of videos for patrons. The trouble with streaming is that it takes energy away from writing, and that can’t happen. Both my sanity and the mortgage depend on the bulk of my energy going towards digging up stories.

In related news, I’ll be mostly on Mastodon and Tumblr going forward. I simply can’t handle the toxicity on Twitter anymore. It’s kind of awful–I was just beginning, after over a decade, to get some real traction on birdsite. But I can’t lend myself to its current incarnation, so…here we are. I am still squatting on my username so an impersonator can’t pick it up thirty days after deletion, but it’s become just a signpost pointing to other places.

So today is all about the subscription drop, writing a conversation in a cold dark garret for Hell’s Acre, and moving ahead on The Fall of Waterstone. If I can get to the Viking elementalist saving the princess’s intended from drowning in the latter I’ll call today well spent. There’s no shortage of work despite the pruning, which is the way I like it.

I always forget how free and oxygen-rich the world feels after a good purge, whether it be of household clutter, yard detritus, or subscriptions that don’t quite serve a need. I’m no Marie Kondo, but I do enjoy seeing a good mess turn into open space. A certain amount of crowding is necessary–I keep my desk slightly messy, since creativity (for me) seems to do best in that condition–but one must periodically practice a bit of ruthlessness in clearing the undergrowth.

Anyway, the only problem with yesterday was that we didn’t feel like using the s’mores supplies we had in stock, but if the weather’s clear on Saturday we might do another session to clear the last of the wrack. And that will call for celebratory marshmallow flambé.

It’s a new year, after all. The decks are being cleared, and there’s space to breathe. But before all that, breakfast has to be approached, and Boxnoggin wants his walkies. That’s one thing which will never change, world without end, amen.

See you around.

Knife-Edge, Smoke

A smoky dawn–not nearly so red as other years’ haze, and we’re not having the ash fall in this part of the county. Eastward it’s a mess, naturally, and we’re all watching the evacuation orders carefully. There’s not much risk in the precise place our particular house is, but we’re preparing to offer shelter if necessary.

I like helping people, but I hate that it’s necessary because of greedy corporate bastards frying the planet. At least there are some competent folks in disaster response, and at least this is happening after some of the infrastructure repair money has been applied. So here I sit, trembling on the knife edge of “thank the gods this isn’t happening two years ago.” And they say there will be rain by the end of the week.

Gods willing and the creek don’t fail completely, to coin a phrase.

Having to just sit and wait is a particular type of hell. Sartre covered the most common type, naturally, but I think a case could be made that having to hold oneself ready and braced for the next punch is just as awful.

In any case, I sent off the revised Cold North. Revision brain still has me in its mushy, Swiss-cheese grip. I’ll probably do some narration today, since I can get that done in 20min chunks and reading aloud doesn’t use any creation or revision muscles. I do have to get a thorough top-to-bottom reread of Hell’s Acre in, since we’re on the last half of the last book. That duology might not ever be published; writing it all through pandemic has done the story a bit of disservice. Certain passages remind me of how upset I was while writing them.

I should also get the monthly newsletter planned. There’s all sorts of things to talk about, from That Damn Werelion Book to this month’s sale(s) to the upcoming release. I’m fighting the imposter syndrome which always arrives after I finish a draft or revision, letting the wave pass over and through me. I know it’s just the physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion of finishing a large project, and snapback is natural.

It sucks each time.

If I’m very good today, I’ll allow myself another episode or two of Love Like the Galaxy. Leo Wu’s cape game is on point the entire way through, and I’m low-key obsessed with the entire story. I have to set myself some arbitrary goal to accomplish before I can watch more, though. That way the work will get done and I’ll get a double dopamine hit of watching a drama and knowing I made it to a benchmark. Gaming one’s own brain chemistry is the only way to survive, my friends.

If I can just get through until dusk I’ll call it a win. At least it won’t be 80F today. Summer keeps attempting to burn, but the harvest goddess has probably had about enough of All This. I roundly concur.

Let us embark upon Monday, my beloveds. At least by evening we should have some breathable air…

Autumn Shift

Rain
© Otti38 | Dreamstime Stock Photos

Slowly swam into consciousness this morning; my sleep was heavy as it has not been for weeks. I knew why when I lay still and listened.

Rain! Tapping at the roof, but not hissing through the leaves–they were already too wet. A good soaking has descended from heaven, trickling through the gutters, beading up on the freshly sealed deck, replacing some turgor pressure in tree limbs, cleaning the air, and blanketing tired dust. Now all yesterday’s activity makes sense–there were at least seven male stellar jays in the backyard most of the afternoon, screeching and carrying on amid several robins and a whole host of smaller birds. The corvids periodically came through as well, moving almost in a picket line while digging through grass and shrubbery; the squirrels were in a fury of burying anything nutlike and chasing each other away from hidden caches. Stink bugs were climbing any surface they could, a great risk while the birds were out, and it was just generally a busy rumble.

Boxnoggin is nonplussed. It took a bit of coaxing to get him out of bed, since the window is still dark. Dawn is obstructed by a pall of heavy grey–just the way I like it, in fact, the only proper way to greet that rosy-fingered goddess–and he was very nice and cozy. I rousted him for a trip to the backyard, following our usual morning protocol, and while he is very fond of habit and routine, the fact remains that he immensely dislikes rain since it is cold on his delicate paws. He gave me a startled look when the first drop hit his shoulder, then proceeded with a long-suffering sigh to attend his business before hurrying back inside. Now he’s in the living room, resentfully tongue-cleaning whatever fragments of moisture managed to reach him.

He’s not going to enjoy walkies as much as usual, but them’s the breaks.

My soul is expanding. I needed rain. And while I was rising through layers of consciousness, the solution to a particularly knotty plot problem in Cold North appeared, laid in my brain like a gift. I knew the Muse would drop it on me while I was occupied with something else; it was only a matter of time. The solution will mean a little more work, but at least I have it now.

The shift has happened. The world has tilted, and things are as they should be. The cedars are murmuring with joy, and the Venerable Fir’s boughs have started to lift again. There is even a bluejay on a handy branch along the back fence; I think it’s Ed, though he’s not screaming. He’s merely surveying his domain with a satisfied air, and probably waiting for Stede to arrive so the two of them can get into trouble with their gentleman crew.

Today holds a mountain of work. Now that I know the next solution in the revisions, it remains only to reach the particular point where it needs to be inserted. If I keep my head down and go straight through there might even be time for some narration after dinner. (The “narrate Victorian erotica with a straight face” project proceeds apace, too.) There was a Twitch outage yesterday so I couldn’t do the planned Reading with Lili, but I think I’ll do it this Friday instead of a tea.

Adaptation is the name of the game. And the title will be “Dracula, HO” because I am twelve inside.

There’s even homemade banana bread with plenty of walnuts for breakfast, once I finish coffee. I keep stopping to gaze out my office window at the inky-wet cedars, and each time I do my soul heaves another small sigh of relief and expands just that fraction more. Rain. Rain, rain, rain. Thank the gods.

Summer is over; I can begin to live–and work–again.