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…

Hangover to Resentment

I appear to have gone straight from the “book hangover” stage to the “resenting anything keeping me from writing this other book” stage, with very little pause between. I’m not quite upset with this turn of events, as the resentful stage is in many ways the easiest and most satisfying–except for, of course, the resentment itself–but it would help if the book possessing me was actually one I’d planned on writing instead of a bloody portal fantasy.

Frankly, I blame Elric of Melniboné. Reading all the novels for the first time in basically one go gave me the blinding realization that if other writers can do variations on a theme to that degree, why on earth can’t I? So another tale of the Underdark is busy cramping my fingers and destroying my wrists right now. I had planned to put Cain’s Wife in that particular working slot, but since trad publishing is dragging its feet, I can slide that trilogy to later and get another book out of the way now.

It’s better to keep the Muse happy, and this is apparently what the bitch wants now. Plus, if trad isn’t going to run itself with proper business hygiene, why should I give it priority?

I can hear my agent’s long-suffering sigh as I type. She would point out, quite correctly and not for the first or last time, that this is the state publishing is in at the moment. It’s always been a dilatory endeavor on the publishers’ part, and since I can’t personally change it the only thing to do is trim my sails for the prevailing gusts. And she’s right–as ever, as always.

I’m also right not to wait around. Or so I devoutly believe, since the damn book is burning in my brain and fingers. For some reason, my “variations on a theme” experiment is taking the portal fantasy route, which is partly Elric’s fault. (Yes, I’m blaming someone else’s fictional character. I think Mr Moorcock would be pleased at the independent life that particular prince has taken on.)

Anyway, 3k words dumped out of my head yesterday on Chained Knight, even with all the socializing. Normally days with a heavy social component drain the internal pressure and energy needed for that kind of effort, but in this case I think the bleedoff actually helped? Heaven alone knows what damage I might have done to myself without the distraction of playing nicely with other humans. I’m making decisions about the worldbuilding in Cain’s Wife as well, letting that process happen organically before I put another word on the page, and of course Highlands War is going along at its own pace. (I believe a couple giants are going to start whaling on each other in the next scene. That’ll be fun.)

This morning is a fog-wreathed wonderland, common in certain autumns. Warm days and damp, very chill nights mean the earth exhales vapor as the sun rises. I like heavy fog, though I’m not fond of driving in it–not for the earthbound cloud itself, but because of other drivers. It’s good writing weather. I know what happens in all three on-deck books, though I’m only going to pay attention to two of them today. I suppose I can also use the portal fantasy’s pressure to power other stories by holding off on it until I make other daily wordcount, a balancing act I’m quite familiar with.

So much of this career–or even adulthood itself–is finding out how to game one’s own responses. I’m going to file that under “using one’s powers for good” and carry on with getting this protagonist scared out of her wits by a giant castle, a man wrapped in iron (I used the term “chain burrito” yesterday, then just about laughed myself into a coughing fit), and clockwork knights. Oh, and if I can get two giants, both possibly treacherous, to beat each other up with axes and warhammers, it’ll be all to the good. Plus Boxnoggin would really like his ramble sooner rather than later, Mother.

My schedule, she is packed. I suppose I’d better gulp the rest of this coffee and get to it.

Pre-Rain Doldrums

Each day brings us closer to autumn. At this point I’m waiting for the rains, longing for them with every parched fibre. Maybe soon I’ll have dragged myself out of this hole of “both books I’m working on are awful, I am a terrible writer, this will never end and I should just walk into the sea now.” The instant water starts falling from the sky I’ll feel revived.

I just have to hold on that long.

The summer hasn’t been as bad as others in recent memory, far from! I’m just…tired. And being at exactly the same place with two different books is a recipe for the doldrums. Right now I’m telling myself “this can all be thrown out in revision”, but it’s not been the panacea or the spur I’ve hoped for. Suspect I’ll have to cut some things rather savagely–the pole-dancing class scene in Gamble, much of the initial intrigue in Highlands War–but that’s a question for when the zero drafts are finished and have rested a bit.

I’m also telling myself this artistic discomfort is a sign that I’m about to make a leap forward. Generally, one tends to plateau, feel increasingly uncomfortable, then break the surface with a shattering jump like a moon-silvered fish. I’m also refocusing stuff in other areas, a rather unpleasant duty even if it does lead to a feeling of liberation when the shift is done.

Technically neither book is bad, or if it is, it’s the type of bad that’s fixable once I get the damn zero done. I simply can’t see the forest for the trees and I can’t use them to jostle each other. If I added a third book to the working schedule I could probably swing it, but if I am to be Responsible and Adult the only prospect is a finishing volume to a trilogy everyone hates and I don’t feel like swimming against that additional tide at the moment.

I just want to write my weird little stories and not have to worry about rancid ebook thieves, is that so much to ask? Apparently it is.

Anyway. The only real cure for this is buckling down, letting spite take the wheel, and finishing something. Whether it’s a short story (the Pocky one really needs more attention than I’ve given it) or an actual-factual book (Gamble will be done first, since Highlands shows every sign of becoming rather a 150k-word beast), something has got to be pinned to the wall of “that’s a wrap.” And maybe I could be a right snot and give the third slot on the schedule–assuming I can scrape together enough energy for said third slot, which will mean something like livestreaming will have to give–to something written just for me, since I don’t want to deal with certain pressures at the moment.

We’re back to spite as the only real fuel for getting through *waves hands* all this. You’d think I’d learn, and stop trying to make joy or even honour the main impetus. When either runs out, when both abandon me, there will still be spiteful stubbornness, lo unto the end of the world. It’s just how I’m made; time to work with the grain instead of against it.

At least, for a little while.

Languor, Story Jell

The weather folk say our heatwave will break up soon as onshore flow reasserts itself. I hope this is true; I haven’t been able to run since even early morning doesn’t cool down enough. Consequently I’m tetchy and heatsick, a truly marvelous combination. Not making any decisions or answering more than absolutely necessary emails, since the risk of feeling physically poor enough to snarl and claw at a perfectly reasonable request is at an all-time high. Even with air conditioning this bloody weather’s untenable; one can feel the ravenous sunshine pressing against house walls, just aching to reach inside and burn one. Actual sleep is near-impossible. Fitful turning and tossing is all I can achieve; at least our dog days this summer are only about a week long. Given previous years’ excitement (heat dome, wildfire smoke, drought), this is relatively easy to deal with.

Relatively.

At least there’s coffee. The new drip machine is doing stellar duty. It takes a little longer to get my jolt in the morning, but on the bright side I can turn it on and walk away. Then, when I return, voila! Sweet life-giving caffeine.

The good news is, heat languor seems to have forced the projects on deck to finish jelling. I now know the shape of both Gamble and Highlands War with far more certainty, though I’ve had to scrap more than one scene I had fondly hoped for. And I got confirmation from a fellow writer yesterday that the two short stories knocking around–Jolene, Jolene and My Rebbe’s Wife–do not suck, so that’s good. I may do some short fiction submissions in the next month or two, just to see. There’s no money in it, but it’s fun.

Of course, I also have the bright idea to put together an anthology of my short fiction, and I could use these two to sweeten the pot. That will have to wait until after I get the collab story done, but it’s quickly acquiring more focus as a project. I could schedule it for next year, I think. We’ll see if it’s a truly good idea or just a will o’wisp. Those sorts of “collected works” anthologies traditionally don’t sell terribly well, but I do get people asking if I’m going to put one together with some regularity. So…hm. I should also think about a title (I like Haggard Tales), and the cover theme.

Along with that, there are proofreader queries to handle, and a small copyedit (the first chapter of Book 2, which will go into Book 1 of an upcoming trilogy) too. Plenty of time on that particular deadline, if the weather breaks and I can just get some damn sleep. Right now I’m considering throwing rocks at every character until they die, before walking into the sea.

The only person enjoying current conditions is Boxnoggin, and even he is beginning to grow a bit snappish. It could just be that he’s catching my mood, plus the other changes in the household (new jobs, schedules shifting) are giving him a wee bit of uncertainty. For lo, Lord van der Sploot is a creature of habit, familiarity is good and change is very bad even if pleasant or useful. Frex, he really doesn’t like the beeping from the new coffee machine (he tends to yell back at it, in ear-shattering decibel range), but after another week or so I suspect New Machine will become the “normal” and he’ll quiet down.

Unless he thinks New Machine is singing to him and he decides he is honor-bound to return the favor. In that case, my poor ears may well never recover.

The birds are waking up; my office window is open to change out the air though there really isn’t much relief to be found temperature-wise. The birdbath is very popular all day, especially midafternoon when I dump a container of ice cubes in. One cheeky little chickadee almost landed on my shoulder in his hurry to get to the magical cold spot yesterday; Sandra, Carl, Jerry, and the gang prefer to wait until it’s all melted to come sailing in and bust up the convention, hopping about and cawing before taking off for some other sucker’s yard.

They are creatures of habit too.

I don’t want anything approaching brekkie, but forms must be observed and I’ll feel worse later if I don’t choke down some toast. One more day of this nonsense, and tomorrow should be much better.

Can’t wait.

Positive Parts

Tuesday’s developing into a mixed bag. I had to redo the morning coffee, because I forgot to put the prepared cup under the life-giving caffeine dispenser nozzle–but Boxnoggin did not prance about the yard for a half-hour choosing a pee spot while I staggered uncaffeinated after him. I have an Alvin and the Chipmunks song stuck in my head–but I’ve successfully avoided getting into an internet boondoggle by recognizing bait just in time and backing away. I have an interview today–but thankfully, it’s with someone I know, having done one with them before. The revisions are still hanging fire–but my frantic backpedaling has died down and apparently the Muse is ready to get to work.

Plus I realized a few things about the upcoming Cain’s Wife series, last night’s dinner was very good indeed which means the recipe will go into rotation, and Boxnoggin showed up in a slightly intense stress dream just before waking. When I surfaced he was cuddled hard against my side, woofing softly with his paws twitching, before his eyes snapped open and he looked at me like, there you are, Mum, don’t worry, I did a good protect, right?

He tries so hard, and is the bestest of bois.

It’s been a stressful few weeks, but I think maybe, perhaps, I have my fire back in me now. (As Ellen Foster would say.) At least, I have an idea coalescing into a plan, and if there’s one thing I excel at it’s small incremental motion towards far-off goals. And the marine layer is back this morning, shielding us from awful summer heat.

Still don’t know what I’m doing for dinner tonight, but that’s a problem that can be solved closer to noon when the caffeine has soaked in, the interview is behind me, and another Behind the Pages session is past as well. Funny, those seem to be the most popular feature on my channel, next to the Great Chapter reads.

My contact form is getting a lot of “hire an AI assistant!” spam. It’s vaguely hilarious because I don’t even use Siri; when I’m outright forced to, I apologize for disturbing her and thank her for her time to boot. If the singularity comes and Skynet evolves, hopefully it’ll remember how polite I’ve been.

I’d prefer to spend today getting the dream sequence in Highlands War polished and maybe throwing out and redoing yesterday’s attempt to move Gamble along, but needs must when the devil drives and ol’ Luci’s cackling at the wheel right now. It might be time to brainstorm a few more things, too, because ideally the interest in another Steelflower book would give subscriptions a bump so I don’t have to agonize over trad publishers dragging their feet. Still, things are tight for everyone now, so I’m utterly grateful for what I have. Just got to buckle up and find other ways of doing things.

The coffee is near its dregs, Boxnoggin isn’t stirring yet but it’s only a matter of minutes. Getting walkies the long way ’round today is a priority, so I can be ready for that interview. It’s time to focus on the positive parts of Tuesday, so I can step on the heads of the less-positive.

Better stretch out and get my boots on.

Hagiography Fodder

The weather app swears there will be rain today. Looking out the window, I am quite skeptical. It’s not just that it’s July, it’s that the sky simply doesn’t seem inclined to cooperate with a forecast. Of course, I could be tetchy because I woke up at 3am and had made the mistake of keeping my iPad on the nightstand, so I peeked at social media and…well, yeah. It took effort to set that aside when the feverish sense of “awake but still dreaming” crested, so I turned on the light and embarked on a little bit more of the Upanishads. Which was a far better choice for my state of mind.

I’m going to have to keep the electronics off my nightstand in the future. They lead only to trouble.

Though it doesn’t look like rain, it smells like half-burned pipe tobacco outside; it’s not quite petrichor, nor is it flowering chestnuts. I’m not sure what the aroma presages. The birds seem to be unconcerned, greeting the dawn in their usual manner. It’s not quite the chorus–that happens in predawn grey, a whole musical number–but it’s still a lot of noise, and very comforting. I think a pair of bluejays are fighting over territory, too, which is as hilarious as it is ear-piercing.

Today I start on the revisions for Sons of Ymre 2, and it’s high time. I am uncertain if there’s anything more to do with certain aspects of the book, however, and there will be no dumbing anything down or adding extraneous foolishness. (Only the most germane foolishness is allowed! Ha.) We’ll see what I decide once I’m actually on the path.

Someone told me once that I would probably never have commercial success because, “you’re a writer’s writer.” I find myself thinking about that quite a lot lately, especially while witnessing publishing fawn over the memories of people the industry ignored while they were alive and could presumably use a bit of that attention and cash. The practice of awarding “lifetime achievement awards” and the like to those who have been relentlessly sidelined for decades–or even longer–is noxious. Why not celebrate them while they’re alive?

Because while they’re alive they’re messy human beings and might hold the award-givers to a certain standard, I suppose. A dead artist provides hagiography fodder (and profitable grave-robbing, especially of Currently Popular Fanservice) without any trouble or intransigence. Maybe that’s why the world tries so hard to kill us.

The urge to find another career rises to a fresh peak every time I cogitate on these particular issues, so I’m trying not to at the moment. It would be awfully nice to get some return for how hard I work–I know, that’s everyone (who isn’t a billionaire) under late capitalism. My malaise is general indeed.

In short I am quite resistant today, apt to be stubborn for no other reason than I am tired of the world attempting to force me into a particular shape. I am also hoping the weather app is right and my own estimation of the sky is off. It would be nice to have a little damping-down of the dust, and in summer we can use any speck of moisture we get. After some coffee and a run I might find my flexibility again.

Best get started, then…

Pea, Bemoaned by Princess

…whut?

Things Boxnoggin has attempted eating today:

  • Dried grass from yesterday’s mowing
  • Pillowcase (mine)
  • A rather substantial deposit of bird poo on a deck stair

Things Boxnoggin has eaten today:

  • Dust bunny
  • Pine needles from mat by back door
  • A very confused mosquito

Things Boxnoggin has refused to eat today:

  • His breakfast

His Majesty is sprawled upon my bed, resentfully napping now that he’s had his morning loo break and I won’t let him consume bird scat or anything else fun. When he arrived, he thought plain kibble was veritable manna, and the fact that it arrived on time twice daily a wondrous development worthy of hosanna. After four years, though, he sniffs at his breakfast bowl and is moderately offended. “WHAT? NO TREAT, NO GENEROUS HELPING OF STINKY WET FUD, NO HUMAN FUDS EITHER?” He doesn’t quite go full Miette…but he does put off eating, and sometimes skips brekkie entirely.

Don’t be worried, he’s clearly not in any distress. The dog is the very picture of ruddy health, and his brekkie is available all day in case he changes his mind. He never turns his nose up at dinner–probably because it involves wet food mashed in with the kibble–so at least there’s that. And yes, his teeth are fine. He’s just a princess bemoaning the pea of plain kibble for breakfast, how dare.


The Highlands War continues apace; I have finally–finally–gotten to the damn Council of Kalburn. The players are on the board, having introduced themselves. I don’t know who the traitor is, but Kaia’s certain one exists, and she has That Look in her eye. So I suppose I have to just…see what happens, now that the brute work of getting everything situated is finished. There also needs to be some foreshadowing layered in if I’m going to do the reveal of Darik’s big secret, which I’m still on the fence about. I really wish I was able to plan for the final trilogy of the Steelflower’s return to her homeland, but ebook thievery continues at a rate that makes it impossible. I simply can’t afford to invest the time in three more giant books if people are going to continue torrenting the previous ones. It’s one of the reasons I’m considering an exit to publishing altogether.

But everyone knows that, and I suspect it won’t change.

Anyway, Gamble had a good day yesterday; the heroine is showing who she is under duress. More of a caretaker than even the hero, which is part of his arc for the whole thing–realizing how destructive some aspects of that can be, and moderating it to a healthy degree. I thought I was going to get them to kiss, but he’s probably too much of a gentleman since she is in a great deal of distress at the moment. I am having fun playing with a couple tropes, including the “let me bandage you, and we’ll have some lingering eye contact…”

Romance writing is fun, and it helps even an old hardhearted wreck like me stay a little dreamy. I can’t wait to get these characters shot at again.


There’s a busy day on deck and I’m expecting bad (or at least, unpleasant) news later, so the rest of my coffee won’t get a chance to cool. It’ll be bolted nearly wholesale, and the dog and I will sally forth for the morning ramble at whatever speed we may. His Majesty will stick his nose into every questionable substance he can find, I’m sure, and the list of “things he’s attempted to eat” will lengthen at a startling rate. I’m glad he feels so secure that he can wave away the proffered delicacies with a short, regal sniff.

I might even get out to the library, depending on just how ill the news is. That’s something to look forward to, at least.

See you around.