Run, Write, Knit

Rain, and rain, and more rain. With a side of rain, and rain sauce, and a dessert of rain, too.

I love it.

I’m at my most productive when there’s water falling from the sky. I’ve often said that the PNW specializes in caffeine, writers, and serial killers for one reason: the weather.

I’m playing with knitting a new shawl. It’s the same as the stripey-patterned one, only in Fishermen’s Wool; instead of the stripes being dyed into the fiber I’m doing blocks of garter and stockingette. I wanted wool, and texture, and lots of warmth. Probably, by the time I finish this beast, the weather will have warmed to the point I won’t need it. It’s meditative work, though, and I think it’s hauled me through a couple plot tangles. As a perseveration or a coping mechanism, it’s pretty good. I do need to stretch out my hands a lot more, though, and take care of my wrists.

Getting older sucks.

On the bright side, soon I’ll take Miss B out and run in the rain. I didn’t take her on my long run a couple days ago, and her fidgets are almost as bad as mine on days when I can’t get in as much writing as I want. (In short, just about unbearable.) On the bright side, the entire afternoon will be forging ahead on Afterwar, and if all goes well, I may even have an ugly, lumpy zero draft soon.

Won’t that be a relief. I know I’ll probably start crying as soon as I type finis.

Then the Veil Knights book will need detailed attention, and Roadtrip Z will need to get into the hills and several planned characters introduce. Poor Lee, he’s all mixed up, just when he most needs to be cool-headed. And Ginny is beginning to show her true grit; it’s about time, but she’s still at heart a very compassionate person. That’s a handicap in the types of situations she’s going to find herself in.

So I have my work cut out for me. Running. Stretching. Writing. Knitting another row on this shawl, which won’t end anytime soon because I want it larger than the others. I have one-and-half more skeins to go, and Imma use them all. Then, if I feel like it, I’ll do up the Menstrual Fury hats. I have three skeins of red just waaaaaiting, and the leftovers will probably make a fourth for some lucky person.

…yeah, I never do things by halves. It’s full speed ahead, or dead stop. I much prefer the former.

Over and out.




Oh, I can’t stand the suspense. I’ll tell you.

She Wolf and Cub, re-edited, is now a book you can preorder!

blank Ever since they gave her a new cyborg body and a steady stream of murderous work, she’s known the rules. Keep your head down, do your job, don’t get involved.

Then they sent her to assassinate a child.

Instead, she took him out of the City and into the Waste. Of course they’ll be coming for her, and for the strange, quiet, thirsty boy she’s rescued. Because he’s not just a child — he’s a profitable experiment. Bounty hunters. Fellow cyborgs. Cannibals. Monsters. They’re all after him. All she has on her side is an almost-invulnerable body, a lifetime’s worth of stubbornness, and the willingness to kill whoever she has to.

It’s going to have to be enough.

Ebook available for preorder from Kobo, iBooks, and Amazon; paperback and Nook will be added on Release Day, March 28.

Longtime readers will remember She-Wolf was originally a Fireside serial. (They’re committed to paying writers a working wage, so show them some love if you can.) I had a ton of fun writing it, and I love the heroine. She’s one of the few characters I actually like personally, for reasons probably best left unsaid. Longtime readers will also remember PACK, an e-short out through Orbit, that was one of my first attempts at writing the short story that eventually became She Wolf and Cub. Just in case you wanted to see how a story can change, and morph, and become something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

The Menstrual Fury Hat


BEHOLD, the Menstrual Fury Hat. It’s a Pussyhat Project hat off this pattern. I had a slight problem though: I loathe pink. I just…do. So I did a couple practice hats in a very dark red, almost burgundy acrylic–I called it “clotted menstrual blood color” on Facebook and was surprised when nobody unfriended me. The first one turned out comically large, so I’ll probably use it as a scrubbie or repurpose it as a bag, who knows? The second, done on size 8 needles instead of size 10, turned out beautifully, and the Little Prince claimed it. I explained what it was for and he said, “Oh, okay. Can I still have it?”

And I said, “Yes. Yes you may.”

Then I got some bright, bright crimson wool, and knitted another one. Which you may see above, and I wore to volunteering yesterday. (You can also see the circles I’m growing under my eyes. I’m proud of those.)

Since it’s not pink, I’m thinking it’s technically not a Pussyhat. So I called it the Menstrual Rage Hat. Then it occurred to me that “Fury” was better, because of the Erinyes. Several people have floated the idea of knitting a few more and putting them up in an Etsy shop. When I get supplies to make earrings I might do that, just for fun. Of course I’d probably have to charge something like $12-$15 and shipping, just to make it feasible, and who’s going to pay that for a hat that doesn’t have a feather? I mean, really.

Right now, though, I’m knitting a shawl. No, it’s not red. It’s gray and black, and I might even add fringe when I’m done with it. I do a couple rows in between achieving wordcount for each project I have going, and it’s growing at an exhilarating rate. I’d forgotten how much fun knitting is, when I’m not spitting with frustration at a pattern I don’t understand.

Go figure.


The nice folks over at Orbit have revealed the cover for my upcoming homage to Soviet sci-fi, Cormorant Run. Isn’t it shiny?

blank Aliens meets Under the Dome in this new post-apocalyptic novel from New York Times bestseller Lilith Saintcrow.

It could have been aliens, it could have been a trans-dimensional rift, nobody knows for sure. What’s known is that there was an Event, the Rifts opened up, and everyone caught inside died.

Since the Event certain people have gone into the drift… and come back, bearing priceless technology that’s almost magical in its advancement. When Ashe the Rat — the best Rifter of her generation — dies, the authorities offer her student, Svinga, a choice: go in and bring out the thing that killed her, or rot in jail.

But Svin, of course, has other plans…

On sale in June 2017, now available for preorder at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.



It’s pretty unheard of for us to get snow that doesn’t immediately melt. There was, of course, the Great Snow & Ice Storm of, hm, six-seven years back or more, before we moved here? Extreme weather has gotten more extreme. (Thanks, climate change!) To say this part of the country freaks out about snow is a massive understatement. We don’t really have the infrastructure to handle more than intermittent freezes, and during any freeze the only thing more dangerous than the roads are the people (unused to such things) driving upon them.

School canceled and the roads uncertain, and more snow/ice predicted for tomorrow. There’s only so much hot cocoa I can drink before I start getting itchy and wanting to run. Fortunately I have the treadmill, but getting my ass downstairs and on it is going to be a chore. I would much rather go back to bed and write in a trusty spiral-bound notebook instead, but that’s not an option. I gotta type if I’m gonna make wordcount.

No rest for the weary or the wicked, chickadees. Over and out.

Friendly Roses


A rose is a rose is a rose. This one is on the ketchup-and-mustard bush, planted in our side garden for the Princess’s best friend. They are said best friend’s favourite type of roses, and the bush is stubbornly refusing to go dormant. Instead, it took advantage of the warm first half of November to bloom again, in utter defiance of good sense or caution.

The Princess says this is only to be expected from her best friend’s rosebush. Her friend is bold and fearless, whereas the Princess serves as a cautionary voice. This is incredibly amusing, because my own bestie is my cautionary voice. (And she refers to me as the devil on her shoulder, so it’s all even.) It’s hilarious to see genetics flip so thoroughly.

Friends are good. Take care of them. Send them pictures of their roses, too.

Weekend Past

Zzzzzz Odd Trundles ate breakfast–not out of his bowl, alas. No, he ate from Miss B’s bowl. The two of them have a ritual most mornings, and it involves sitting in their accustomed places while I place the bowls, sniffing at their breakfasts, then switching bowls and gobbling the other dog’s (exactly the same) ration of kibble-and-whatever-else. So, Odd stuffed himself, then ambled into my bedroom and hopped onto my bed. He is currently snoring so loud I can hear him from the office.

Oh, to be a bulldog.

The weekend passed, as weekends do. On Saturday my writing partner and I went to the Ladybug Bazaar, as we are wont to do. The regular people she buys from soap from were not in evidence–they have an orange patchouli bar I love with a fierce abiding passion–but there was someone new, a leatherworker who had moved from from Boulder, CO. I am now the proud owner of a pen bandolier, and the Princess has a new (refillable) journal. (So do I. It will be used for Afterwar things.)

We also stopped by a tea shop we were both desperate to try, but after being snubbed for a good twenty minutes or so we left. *shrug* (Be warned, the website has an autoplay.) Given the amount of tea we both buy, and the fact that we both love high tea and all its furbelows, not a good move on a business’s part. But there are other tea shops, ones where we (and our cash) will be welcomed.


wordlessDisaster reporter and internet celebrity Jack Tucker is disillusioned after a stint embedded in Iraq. The IED that destroyed his team’s Humvee brought him tragedy and regret, robbing him of the joy he took in his job—or anything else. He spends his days in a small Camden bookshop, struggling with writer’s block, until the elderly proprietor dies, leaving him adrift.

Lexie Worth abandoned a promising career to keep her uncle’s beloved bookstore alive. But the store’s tabby cat hates her, local poets invade twice a month for scurrilous readings, and she knows she shouldn’t get involved with sexy, troubled strangers like Jack. When the FBI comes knocking, with suspicions of fraud and racketeering, Lexie realizes someone’s after more than a first edition or two.

Someone’s been using the bookstore to hide their crimes. Someone dangerous—maybe even deadly. Jack wants to protect Lexie—if he can believe her. And if she doesn’t find out exactly who he is…

Just so you know, it’s available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and many other fine retailers. There’s a paperback version coming out soon, too.

I am beside myself with joy, because I love this damn book. Library ladders! Pink horsehair sofa! A grumpy cat! DANGER AND IDENTITY THEFT! BUY IT READ IT LOVE IT LIKE I DO!

Ahem. Anyway, yeah, that’s my Monday. Afterwar and Harmony both need wordcount in the worst way. Fortunately, I can run now for the first time in a week or so, and the twitching under my skin (and Miss B’s) will no doubt enjoy being purged with sweat and effort. I can breathe now, and the snot had slowed to a trickle. (You’re welcome for that mental image.) So it’s off to the races, in more ways than one.

Over and out.