Back to Sunshine Soon

I meant to get a lot more in the way of actual writing done yesterday, but instead it developed that the website needed some revamping. You may even have noticed the new monthly sales page, because doing a blog post every month was getting to me. This way I can just point at the page and be done with it, and the links won’t get stale. Also, I needed a gallery on the landing page proper, plus some fiddle-foolery with the page covers in specific, and there was a metric tonne of back-end stuff that had to be done in order for everything to hang together nicely.

So…that was all done, and I can cross “site maintenance” off the monthly to-do list. (Yes, I have a lot of lists. So many lists. Lists, lists everywhere, and not a drop to drink…) A bunch of other invisible backstairs stuff has also been Dealt With, and I won’t have to do it again until…ugh, next month or so, I suppose.

However, I did get basic wordcount on both projects, and managed a setup of the conversation Kaia needs to have with the minstrel Gavrin (he of the emotional landmine delivered through song, yes) in The Highlands War, as well as the pole-dancing class that I wanted to show in Gamble. Both scenes can be approached today and what comes directly after them is murder, so that might be why I’m chipping away at setup.

Everything has to be just right for the explosion of violence that will kick off major plot action.

Despite the frustrations, yesterday was actually…pretty good? I got a run in on the treadmill, very slow and staggering with a tranche of ibuprofen and my ankle brace wrapped tight. It was fucking wonderful and I can’t wait to do it again today, I needed those endorphins. My zen climbed to reasonable levels once I finished, the sweat had a metallic edge of stress being purged, and I felt like I could finally breathe again. Hopefully this is a stage in recovery and no rein jury will occur. I’m being very slow and conservative, and won’t run outside until I’m absolutely sure there will be no buckling or nonsense from either bloody ankle.

It’s not their fault. I’m just older now, plus I’m overweight and I like to run, so naturally there’s going to be a point or two on the old corpse that has a bit of difficulty. Fortunately I have invested in compression and a brace, so I’m well prepared for any problems. Unless, of course, a different joint decides to go haywire.

Bodies are weird.

I’ve had several requests for a livestream on the Valentine series–and one on the Steelflower series as well–so that’s in the works. I have to think about just how to do it, and if I want to put the result up on YouTube. It feels kind of weird to be talking about my own books instead of gushing over other authors’, but the requests have become a constant thing…so maybe I’ll do it. The stream(s) will go up on Twitch first, because that’s easiest, and I’m not sure if I want to schedule them or just let them happen naturally when I have a few minutes.

Choices, choices. I also want to do more longform writing about Assorted Stuff that isn’t daily blogging here, but we’ll see. There are so many good ideas, but they all have to take a backseat to writing the damn books. If not for the precarity of a creative career, I probably could be doing all these fun things, but survival (as always) comes first.

The coffee is down to dregs, but Boxnoggin isn’t stirring yet. He’s still a bit irate; any sudden change in weather throws him off. He adores sticking his nose into wet shrubbery, naturally, but views actual water-falling-from-the-sky bit as a cruel joke perpetrated by his all-knowing and omnipotent Human for incomprehensible reasons. Every time it changes from a spate of dry weather to drizzle or gods forbid actual rain, he acts like it’s the first time he’s ever witnessed such a wonder and actually, Mum, he isn’t sure he likes it at all.

Poor fellow. We’ll be back to sunshine soon enough, and he’ll have a grand time at the park. First, though, we’ve got to get through this particular day.

I suppose we’d best get started…

Boiling the Writer

In winter, the rains make the world a snail’s playground. Now that it’s summer they have to take shelter in shade and depend on sprinklers. But they still wear their shells; sometimes I envy them the ability to simply contract into their tiny castles.

I don’t envy them being snacked upon by birds, though. Win some, lose some.

It’s been a busy few weeks and now comes a time of great relief–I get to disengage, turn inward, and simply work on a couple books. Come next month there’s a revision to do, and I’m sure some other stuff will land between now and then. But my schedule doesn’t have to be knocked about by other entities’ poor choices at the moment, and it’s luxurious.

This is somewhat rare in publishing. Festina lente meets with but we’re too greedy to pay you and what do you mean my poor planning isn’t your problem as a matter of course when one’s in trad. Indie and small press is much better, but when it’s a small shop scheduling crises are sometimes inevitable. The difference is that with trad exploitation of the writer is coded into the business’s DNA, while in indie and small-press schedule insecurity is largely a function of limited resources. I say “largely” because otherwise several people will huffily write me about exploitative small or indie presses–and they’d be right. I’m talking about tendencies, my friends, and things baked into the system.

Of course, in self-publishing, crises can arise from illness, emergency, distributors being shitty, so on, so forth. At this point, however, the far less stressful options for a growing, indeed almost overwhelming percentage of writers are indie, small press, and self. Trad’s becoming increasingly untenable unless one finds somewhat of a unicorn among (overworked and hamstrung) editors or the individual writer has enough of a network built up to make it socially unacceptable for overly blatant exploitation to occur, which many emerging, marginalized, or new writers simply don’t possess.

It’s somewhat maddening since trad is making a point of leaving money and good books on the table, while aggressively pursuing the shittiest, most damaging course not only to writers but to their own bottom line. But the lure of becoming a shit-tastic, subsidized-by-government, consequence-free (for the moment) behemoth like Amazon has been dangled in front of decision-makers at every level among the Big Five, and many of them are unable to resist that shiny siren call. Those who do resist are harried relentlessly into compliance or leaving the industry.

This kind of monoculture-building inevitably leads to an extinction event, even in economics. The only questions are when, and how terrible will it be for the writers?

Eventually after the crash things will stabilize into a more diversified ecosystem–until the pendulum swings back and some rich asshole finds a loophole regulators will drag their feet over closing because said rich asshole will pay them off handsomely for a while. The problem’s systemic, any progress hard-fought, and who suffers at every stage? The authors, naturally. The people producing what the entire edifice depends on.

I am continually amazed by the way writers are treated–as filthy little nuisances instead of the people without whom these companies literally would not be, because there’d be nothing to sell. And let’s not even talk about the entitlement from ebook thieves! (That’s a whole ‘nother blog post. Or several.)

I’ve been here a while, to put it mildly. Nothing about the industry should shock me anymore. Yet recently I’ve had a really good experience with a trad publisher, and it’s just driven home that those experiences have become so rare as to be cryptid-level fantasies to most word-miners. Sure, there are natural frustrations with any form of publishing, but trad’s gotten to the point of actively boiling the frog.

So to speak.

And I probably wouldn’t even be saying a quarter of this, carefully phrased as it is, if I didn’t have the luxury of a few options at this point. For me, hybrid is still the best career choice…but I’m looking at a time when trad might be left behind entirely, not just by the mass of authors who have already declined to sign up for the (mounting, which I didn’t think was possible) abuse inherent in current trad-publishing practices but also by writers who–like me–have so far carefully considered the tradeoffs and engaged with those companies anyway.

If even I am seriously considering opting out, well…

Anyway, I have a couple weeks where I don’t have to think about any of that, and I can do what I like best–concern myself solely with writing the damn books. I am a simple woodland creature; I just want to write my weird little stories, pay my bills, and have the people who want my stuff allowed to get it with a minimum of fuss. Retiring to a bog-cottage and only emerging every six months to drop off a few new manuscripts while picking up groceries and maybe a bottle of wine is my ideal state.

I’ll probably never reach that blessed point, but at least I can dream. And it’s time to walk the dog, so I can get started.

Bespoke and Human-Made

This is one of the worst parts of recovery. After a huge project finishes, there’s a few days of the brain being like porridge, then there’s the mounting desire to get back to work while body and mind both rebel against the notion in the strongest possible terms. It takes three times as long as one thinks to get through this bit, and each time I hate, hate, HATE it.

The only cure is to get enough rest, but I want to be writing. And not just poking out 200-word days on fallow projects, weeding and arranging. I want to be back doing what I do, fa cry-eye, and the longer I’m barred from it the more antsy, nervous, dissatisfied, and short-tempered I become. Of course the case could be made that I’m wound too tightly as a matter of course and recovery phases are just a different flavor of the usual.

One might even win that argument, because I certainly wouldn’t disagree.

…I might have had other things to say this morning, but I ran across a news article about ChatGPT scraping Omegaverse fanfic without permission and good gods, what a time to be alive. The only thing that’s going to stop these gluttonous plagiarizers–because that’s all ChatGPT and its ilk are, giant plagiarizers using microprocessors to reach an economy of scale in theft–is consequences. While the legal challenges are getting underway they’re going to merrily keep stealing the work of people overwhelmingly below the poverty line, because they can. It’s the same as the giant grift that is bitcoin–finding a way to steal with techniques or technology that hasn’t been fully regulated yet and hoping like hell you’re one of the first grifters to get there, so you can grab cash, smash windows, and leave before regulators arrive.

If they were stealing from rich people it would already be tightly regulated. But all these folk who are trumpeting about how AI and “machine learning” are “game-changing” and “not plagiarism” are grifters looking to take what they can from already struggling writers and artists. It’s fucking hard enough to make a living with ebook thieves and trad publishing’s mounting exploitation, but now there’s this to deal with as well.

Why do I even do this, again? I mean, I’ll write all my life, but some days leaving publishing for good and finding some other way to pay the mortgage sounds incredibly appetizing. Although it is kind of funny to watch certain sectors of the world find out all about knotting.

On a brighter note, I spent part of yesterday answering some fanmail hanging fire in the ol’ inbox. I normally don’t get to answer very many missives due to volume, but whenever I’ve some time I try to get at least a short reply to as many as possible. Hearing that a book saved someone–even in the most ordinary of ways–is enough to keep me going for a while longer. And there are plenty of subscribers writing to me in excitement about the next serial (I’ll announce it officially in June), so that’s exceedingly pleasant.

I should find some way to slap a “100% bespoke human-made content, no AI” sticker on all my books. I know some writers are using those tools for various publishing tasks, but…I just can’t. Not until they’re regulated to a fare-thee-well, and probably not even then. I already have enough people stealing my work, I don’t need more. And I’m too…well, “control freak” might be a good way to put it, about my writing. So, no AI will have permission to touch my work–not now, and most probably not in the future. If there is any of my work in those plagiarism holes, you’ll know it’s been stolen.

In short, I just can’t even today. I’m only halfway through coffee but I’m gonna get started on the pre-walkies process early. Boxnoggin is enjoying the cooler weather and is eager to get out the door; at least that pleasure can’t be taken from us. If I can only please one creature on earth today it’ll most likely be the dog, since heaven knows even I am in a Mood and won’t even be able to please myself.

See you around.

Rip Van Rodent 1, Boxnoggin 0

Pre-caffeine, stumbling around the backyard, waiting for Boxnoggin to deign to pee. He startled a yawning squirrel–one I’ve christened Rip Van Rodent, because he always looks half-asleep–who promptly fled while Box quivered at the end of the leash and I whispered, “Jesus Christ you lot, not today, I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

I was not shoeless, so I suppose there was no reason to scream. Anyway, Rip Van went up the Venerable Fir while Boxnoggin ambled back and forth, caught upon the horns of a dilemma. On one hand, his terrier instincts were screaming to chase the arboreal rodent; on the other, it was the first loo break of the day and there was correspondingly high pressure upon his bladder.

He settled for dead-eyeing Rip Van Rodent while watering a particular fern–one of his favorite loo spots, the poor thing. Rip Van hung out on the fir trunk, comfortably above Boxnoggin’s grasp (not mine, but then again I don’t think the blasted squirrel sees me as a particular danger) until Box, having relieved one imperative, decided to go for the second one and bolted for the Venerable.

Fortunately I was ready for this, as it seemed the most inconvenient thing which could possibly happen and therefore, the thing most likely to occur with both dog and squirrel in the mix. So I was braced and ready, Boxnoggin reached the end of the line and quivered inside his harness, and Rip Van sneered before scuttling further up the Venerable, his point presumably made.

This does not bode well.

There are library books due today, and I can finally turn all my engines to revising Riversinger and Minnowsharp. I would already have turned this book in, but proof pages for the previous one in the trilogy landed so I was forced to reshuffle. I’m not quite annoyed–such is the nature of publishing, after all. But I am a little peeved, mostly because these books are having such a difficult parturition. It’s not precisely anyone’s fault, and it’s frustrating as all fuck.

It also seems like we’re going to have ninety-degree weather this upcoming weekend, which will be horrid I’m sure. I’ve enjoyed the damp grey spring despite the slugs, snails, and constant dumping of stagnant water so mosquitoes don’t get a foothold. It’s certainly better than the alternative. But I guess the sprinklers will have to go on soon, to keep the roses–and the things planted along the back fence, hopefully to provide a bit of privacy in a few years–alive. Gods, I miss the cedars.

So. Monday and I are glaring, each daring the other to make some move, but at least I have coffee now. Boxnoggin is never allowed outside without a harness these days, as he simply Cannot Be Trusted Not To Hurt Himself, but he enjoys being the cynosure of a human’s gaze while gravely choosing bathroom spots and furthermore will get a long walk to tire him out for the rest of the day. In a few more gulps of coffee he’ll arrive at my office door, expectant. I don’t know how he knows when I’m about to finish caffeination; it’s one of those canine mysteries.

I just hope Rip Van isn’t waiting for us outside. Oh, and I should tell you guys what Carl and Sandra (and Jerry, FUCK YOU, JERRY) are up to these days, but that’s (say it with me) another blog post.

Off I go.

Merely Different Work

Steelflower

Spent the last two days doing a massive reformatting on a certain series, preparing for a big announcement in about a month or two. Writing is such a delayed-gratification game, all the dilly-dang time. But it’ll be worth it when I get to the announcement. (You guys are gonna be thrilled, I promise. *cue evil grin*)

Apparently my idea of “recovery” isn’t rest, merely a different type of work. Still, it’s needed to be done for a while, so might as well. Next comes revising the second Sons of Ymre book so that can get put into the production pipeline. I think I’ll focus on that for the next couple days, and whatever remains of the weekend the revision doesn’t eat will be settling on the couch with Boxnoggin and a book. I’m currently reading about female fighter (and bomber pilots) in Soviet Russia during WWII, and next I have a couple ARCs to try out. There’s a further stack of library books to be consumed, too.

We had an atmospheric river earlier in the week, which was glorious. Finally enough rain, even for me; Boxnoggin was significantly less impressed, though the damp didn’t stop him from acting a damn fool during at least one walk. We turned around and went directly home after, which isn’t precisely punishment–he forgets what’s happened within about sixty seconds, so as far as he’s concerned we’re just taking a new route full of fresh things to smell.

I know dogs are generally Zen creatures of the Now, but he takes it to a whole ‘nother level.

Everything is drying out now, except the park. Mud there will be shin-high, I’m sure. I have to walk carefully to avoid losing a shoe, and Boxnoggin finds it absolutely enchanting to get liquid earth between his toes. Which is surprising, he’s such a prima donna about other stuff.

…I’ve also been answering publicity emails while writing this post, so I’m feeling rather scattered. The Spring’s Arcana release is just around the corner; you’d think after the number of books I’ve published this would be old hat. But it’s not, my nerves are rapidly mounting the way they do before any release. There’s a curious dichotomy between the nervousness and a sense of “well, I finished that story years ago, let’s talk about what I’m working on now”; neither is exactly comfortable.

I also have the first sentence for Ghost Squad #3, which is a relief. I knew what the first scene is, of course–Tax sitting on his car’s bumper, looking out over the desert. But I didn’t have the keyhole into the scene that I needed, so I had to wait. This week’s been good for finding things out during walkies or running. Just the other day I found out what the iron key in Redfist’s pocket is, too. Over a decade since I’ve written that first book where the Muse insisted that was a detail, and I didn’t know why it was important until now.

It’s always like that. The work takes its own time and shape, alas.

So. I guess it’s the moment for brekkie, and getting Boxnoggin out into burgeoning springtime. The plums are in flower, trees are budding, the grass is longer, dandelions are making an appearance, hyacinths are exuberant, and I think the lilies of the valley are coming up. I know the hops are out with a vengeance; the freeze and snow didn’t do any damage to their rhizomes.

Funny, every winter I never think of spring, and when it happens I’m surprised the weary old world is still going. Which means I must endure too.

Off I go.

Recovery and Triple Irritation

I have my hands back again–the left one is no longer so swollen as to look like a sausage, though a little edema lingers around the bruising. The gouges are healing, and there’s only a little pain. All in all, recovery is proceeding as well as can be expected.

The copyedits, however, are not proceeding well. I should be able to get more than fifty blasted pages a day done, dammit and tarnation. The trouble lies in the fact that everyone else in the room (everyone other than Yours Truly and a single blessed beta reader, that is) appears to fucking hate these books, and swimming against that tide is difficult work. It might’ve been better to self-publish them.

Ah well. Live and learn, heavy accent on the latter. I’m sure a great deal of what I’m feeling is the annoyance from having to stop while not one but two zero drafts are on the cusp of completion–scribus interruptus, as it were. I want something finished instead of having to deal with pettifogging and the insertion of commas everywhere. I happen to think readers can deal with complex sentences and clauses, and do not, need, commas, everywhere a breath, might be taken, in a sentence. There’s been a definite effect on writing in other areas from Twitter character limits over the years.

Of course, my constant refrain has always been, “Readers are smart, they’ll get what I’m saying.” I think readers are hungry for longer, more durable, chewier sentences and stories. I have to believe in these books; I’m all they’ve got.

Anyway, these CEs are working against double irritation–triple, if one counts the bloody back fence still not being fixed and various other frustrations. I had things all set to finish two zeroes this week and then move into the copyedits after some other things on the publisher’s side had been cleared up. It didn’t work out that way, which is nobody’s fault (not even the Romans’) but as usual, it’s the writer who pays the price in sleep, not to mention stomach lining. The stress nausea is back with a vengeance, so that’s fun.

Vanishing into the bog and only coming out every six months to drop another manuscript sounds ever so satisfying. But by this time next week I should be back on track. The main thing I want to do is finish the Rook’s Rose (season two of Hell’s Acre) zero, since that’s the most time-critical thing. Once that’s done a whole chunk of my time is freed up for working ahead on the next-planned serial, which I can barely wait for. You guys are going to be so excited, I can’t even.

I am fidgeting with glee…

That’s all the hinting I can do for today. Brekkie has to be gulped, Boxnoggin exercised, a run inflicted on my weary corpse, and it’s back to slogging through CEs. I hate the thought that I’m going to be spending another few years in stomach-ulcer-land trying to get these babies written and shepherded through the process under such conditions, but it can’t be helped and in any case it’s a valuable lesson. Just what it’s teaching me I don’t know quite yet, unless it’s the depths of my own endurance.

Like I needed any more evidence of that, ha! But the universe seems to have a vastly inflated idea of my capabilities. The only thing I can do is live up to it in whatever fashion possible. Onward to Thursday, devil take the hindmost, all torpedoes loaded, dead ahead full speed, and all that.

See you around!

Experiment Continues Apace

Was banging my head against Riversinger and Minnowsharp last night. I know I’m close to the end, I can feel it, but the scene just wasn’t cooperating and I couldn’t scrap it entirely. I threatened, grumbled, stared at the screen, paced my office, tried a bit of the t’ai chi video I’m attempting to relearn the movements from. (Long story, another blog post.)

Nothing doing. Absolutely nothing fucking doing, and Introvert Me is drained from all sorts of socializing in the past few days. So I finally threw up my hands, decided I was the worst writer in the world, and went to bed early. I watched an episode and a half of a Chinese costume drama, read some of Gosden’s History of Magic (Genji is irritating me, so it was time for a break), and turned off the light while gnashing my teeth.

And then, this morning, while Boxnoggin was attempting to wedge his nose more firmly into my armpit and my sunrise clock was just beginning to glow, the missing piece of the damn puzzle sashayed into my head. Either a passing spirit took pity on me, the Muse had enough fun and decided to stop fucking around, or my subconscious could finally get through the static. Can’t guess which, don’t care, just glad I’ve got the goddamn scene now.

The only thing remaining is to write it. After breakfast and walkies and running my corpse, during which I’ll turn the whole thing over and over inside my head, planning and looking for weak spots. I did think I’d get at least one zero draft done this week, but it doesn’t look likely. And the weekend will be spent with copyedits which do rather need to be addressed even with everything else going on.

*sigh* It’s always something.

The Attempting To Be Kind To Myself experiment continues apace. Part of that is not agonizing over using the block button. As Cory Booker so memorably put it, you don’t have to attend every argument you’re invited to. And I don’t have to put up with annoying randos, especially the “I didn’t bother to read the article you linked and I have an objection (covered by the article itself) that I DEMAND you answer” ones.

There’s all sorts of stuff happening–publicity requests for the Spring’s Arcana release, household purge-cleaning to do, this business thing and that business thing, nervously anticipating tax season…honestly I don’t even have time to walk into the sea, though the thought of disappearing into a bog and only returning to town every six months with a new manuscript to send in sounds marvelously enticing.

I’ll feel better once this zero is done, and once these goddamn copyedits are off my plate. It’s hard when one feels nobody else in the room even likes the series one has spent so long polishing, let alone is excited about it. Ideally the books would have at least one other advocate; unfortunately that seems impossible under current conditions. I have to believe in the bloody story thrice as hard to make up for it–which is a masterclass in being kind to myself, I guess.

I would have liked some more time on easy mode, but the universe has a vastly inflated idea of my capabilities. Fortunately stubbornness–and a little spite–might be able to compensate.

After all, I’ve come this far. Believing in myself just a wee bit might not be a bad thing, and is perhaps even warranted.

We’ll see.