Good Signs Abound

I had work scheduled for the weekend, but body and brain informed me recovering from heatsickness took precedence. It wasn’t so much the heat itself as having to leave the house for multiple hours during the worst of it, and not enough coolness at night (despite air conditioning, a truly modern marvel) for recovery. I hit bottom on Friday, and the following two days were a lot of hand-over-hand struggling out of the pit.

Still exhausted and a bit shaky, but temperatures are reasonable for sleeping again and I should be able to get some easy morning running, which will do me no end of good. The bluejays are screaming before dawn, too, which they don’t manage when it’s indecently warm. So, good signs abound. Especially the cool breeze flooding my office window at the moment.

I finished Zygar’s The Empire Must Die; there were a few things I hadn’t heard before in there as well as plenty of context. The footnotes describing parallels in Putin’s rise to power as well as the repeating mechanisms of repression were interesting too. It was refreshing in particular to see both Rasputin and Lenin treated without sentimental horror or hagiography. Next up is the third volume of Elric stories.

It was good to spend some time just…reading, even if I’m nearly mad with the desire to get back to work. Several scheduled things are having to shift as a result of illness and the Chihuahua of Real Life humping my ankles, both metaphorically and otherwise. The high-level wildfire smoke moving overhead is beginning to fray, which will cut down on mucus membrane irritation; tonight should be even better for decent sleep.

What I want to be doing today is getting the army together in Highland War and a major suspense-turn written in Gamble. Both have been hanging fire for a couple days, with only 200 words apiece. Plus there’s that short story I want to start building, based on Mel Tillis’s Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town (probably the Kenny Rogers version), as a companion piece to Jolene, Jolene. Those stories might have to go in a self-published anthology since I don’t have time to chase submissions in ill-paid short fiction markets, but we’ll see. I had plans to finish the collab story (the Pocky one) during last week’s canceled Friday Night Writes, so that’s another bit of work impacted by stupid corporate-fueled climate change.

The frustration will (hopefully) fade as soon as I’m able to run again. Worst of all is the feeling of working so hard and getting precisely nowhere, which is damaging for anyone. It’s been…difficult, lately. Even my patience is beginning to get a bit moth-eaten at the edges.

Coffee is soaking in. Boxnoggin is beginning to stir; he’s adapting to the new drip-instead-of-espresso routine, and has been very understanding of my need to stop and rest during walkies. I try to time it while he’s interested in sniffing something particularly fragrant, so he thinks he’s getting the better end of the deal. The very heart of negotiation: letting the other side think they’re getting the best bargain.

Monday might have me catching up entirely, but I wouldn’t bet on it. The best I can hope for is amelioration. In that case, I’d better start soon.

See you around.

Halfway to New

The wind came through hard last night, cold skybreath combing the trees, leaves and needles and cones shaken free. A lot of stuff tapped the roof, but we were all warm and snug in our beds. Especially Boxnoggin, as I spent part of yesterday washing bedding and switching to flannel sheets. Which meant a fresh, dryer-fragrant comforter for him to sleep on, several blankets for warmth and cushioning, and the heated mattress topper, all toasting him from below. He was a happy, happy doge.

I wasn’t so bad myself. It was high time to switch to flannel and more blankets. Most of my trouble sleeping lately has been stress, but some was certainly the change in weather. Now I am roasty-toasted, and feel halfway to a new woman. (Only halfway, the rest is the same old bitter hag.)

Remember the cover reveal for Spring’s Arcana? Well, in a few days we’ll have another for Book 2 of the duology, The Salt-Black Tree. They both release within a few months of each other next year, so you won’t have long to wait between books. It’s very exciting; I haven’t had this kind of trad publisher support before. Maybe it’ll go well?

I can’t think about that or I’ll go mad with worry. Best to just put my head down and continue, one foot in front of the other.

I should’ve been working on different things yesterday. (I won’t list them; on that path lies madness.) Instead, I banged out 3.4k words on the Jolene, Jolene story. It needs a bit of polish and some trimming, then it’ll be off to the agent for her delectation. Depending on what she says it might make the rounds–if it doesn’t, I might just keep it to gloat over, a shiny treasure in my hoard. Don’t fret, though, subscribers will definitely get a taste.

It was pleasant to feel like I could still accomplish something, and to get the dopamine hit from finishing a piece. The crisis of confidence from…certain publishing industry hijinks, let’s say, hit me hard. Fortunately I have lost my patience and as a result become somewhat close to tranquil, and part of that process was apparently writing a short story based on a Dolly Parton song.

What can I say, I’m wired really weird.

Today will be split between the serial and the NaNo book. All the hard work resurrecting a dead series over the weekend is about to pay off. The nausea has gone down, and after I get a run in I’ll probably feel closer to zen than I have in a long time. Of course, before I get out the door I should do some of that trimming and polishing on the short story. It would be nice to send that off by the end of the day. I should collect and re-edit a bunch of my shorts, too, put them in an anthology–in all my COPIOUS spare time, ha. It would be nice to have them in one place.

Last week–and the weekend–were kind of awful. But there’s a silver lining, of course; there always is, even if it’s only a thin thread. I went through a whole-ass process at warp speed instead of letting a certain situation drag out for many more months, and now I can get back to work. That’s one grand thing about my mid-forties. I am no longer prepared to waste much, if any, time. If that makes me a bitch, fine. That’s what they call a woman who won’t let you take advantage of her anyway. Might as well wear it like a badge of honor.

The wind seems to have slackened. There will be plenty of downed stuff and wrack for Boxnoggin to get his nose into, and he’ll enjoy the sunshine. I’d prefer rain, though this is all right–the air doesn’t quite sparkle like champagne, but it does go down smoothly and I’ve the glow of a finished story to keep me warm.

Let us clamber into Tuesday, my beloveds, and see what the day holds.

Necromancer’s Monday

I spent the weekend dragging a dead series out of its grave. Difficult work, involving a lot of squelching and nausea–but what the hell, I’m sometimes a necromancer, it’s all part of the game. At least I’ve done it before, most notably with Steelflower, so it’s not like it’s my first time.

The weather has turned with a vengeance. I can’t believe it was 80F in October, and now we’re edging down to heavy frost, nights lingering near freezing. The garden needs to be put to bed, but it’s a Monday. I’ve other things to occupy me today–like said shambling corpse of a series, resurrected but not entirely rejuvenated. Frankenstein ain’t got nothing on me, my friends.

I spent whatever time I wasn’t heaving over my office wastebasket doing chores, and getting around 2k of the Jolene story written. Three organic mentions of that song means the Universe has decided it’s time and I think I can do it in six scenes. At least that’s the kernel of the story, and I can add more on either side of the high beats if the structure ends up needing it. I don’t know why I’m being attacked by this short when I have a bloody shambling undead fantasy hulk to deal with and I really need to do a revise on the second Sons of Ymre, but if I’m not drowning in work I’m not really happy so…here we are.

I mean, nobody wants to see me with idle hands. That’s a sure recipe for disaster.

The light has changed, too. While it was smoke-hazy and way too warm for October, any sunshine had an eerie apocalyptic cast. Not like the bad smokes the previous two years, just enough to make the little atavistic muscle right under one’s occipital ridge tighten. Now the sky has paled and any sunlight is a thinner gold, especially when it falls on frost-laden roofs and the steam rises. The trees are merrily changing their leaves; next will come shedding them entirely. The ones falling so far are dry and spicy instead of wet-sludgy since the rains have given us a moment or two to think about things. I’d prefer rain, of course, but this is acceptable. Especially since the chill generally means I can run without dodging weird men on the sidewalk.

The only downside is that other dog walkers will be out in the clear light, enjoying the lack of humidity. I like that just fine, but Boxnoggin loses his damn head. I often have to pick him up by his harness-handle, scolding him. “This is why nobody wants to play with you…you’re being a big bully…don’t you feel ridiculous now? If you wouldn’t scream you could probably say hello…no, screaming it is! Fine. Scream all you want, it won’t change the outcome.”

Poor fellow. Four-plus years of work have made him much calmer, but the instant he sees another dog (who isn’t Bailey, since she put up with exactly zero nonsense from him) he turns into a screaming toddler. Some part of it is probably resource-guarding, but I think he’s just one of those dogs whose circuits fuse at the slightest provocation. A squirrel, a cat, another dog, and his cranium is the equivalent of an action movie explosion. I have to walk away, grimly not looking while carrying sixty-plus pounds of writhing canine.

There are worse jobs. It’s hilarious, I will never be as excited over anything as this dog is for the hose, a fleeing cat, or another dog friend. Or walkies. Right now he’s got his nose pressed to my ankle and is huffing deeply, on the principle that this once got me off my office chair and moving brekkie-ward, so he’s going to try it every time now just in case.

Monday is full of frost-laden light and the sound of delighted canine snuffling. My marching orders have been given and my sock is a little damp, so I bid you a pleasant adieu, my beloveds.

Attacking Story

Woke up to a heavy marine layer and a reasonable temperature, which is a blessing in August. It won’t last–they’re saying 100F on Sunday–but I’m going to enjoy while it’s here. If the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that. Along with, “Use the good china, because life is short and we like pretty things.”

The wind rose as evening fell yesterday, a push from the west bringing in this lovely cooler weather. It smelled fantastic, and I had dinner alone–both children were sacked out early, they’ve been busy lately–with a book, Daisuke Igarashi’s Witches. Slowly consuming garlicky pasta while turning pages is a joy I’ve not had much of for a while, and I used it to the hilt. I was also attacked by a short story, which I should have fended off with my fork but I was too hungry.

So right after dinner I hurried to the desktop, opened a new Scrivener file, and dumped in a few hundred words of skeleton for said short story. Shorts aren’t my favorites; I find them much more difficult to write than novels but sometimes it’s the only structure possible for a certain tale. A novel is a protracted, endurance-based duel; a short story (for me, at least) is an iaido strike. The former engages with changing conditions over a long period of time, the latter must be whole, complete, and stainless before it’s initiated.

Of course, you can make the case that a novel is also whole before it’s even attempted, and for some writers I’m sure it is. Not for me, though. I’d rather endure the battering of a novel than agonize over a short story, and I know some writers feel the exact opposite. Normally I only write shorts to spec, when I’m tapped for an anthology.

But sometimes, a “keyhole” story–a single glimpse, seen through a chink in wall or door–attacks. They feel different. Novels come from a seed, sprout, and struggle for the sky. Novellas (again, for me) are short, dreamlike interludes, usually created in a few days of furious work. A short story is a lightning flash which paradoxically may require several attempts (draws) to get the branching and evanescent strike correct.

So I’ve added the short story to the round-robin of projects on the docket right now. I don’t think it’ll find a home, but maybe this is an invitation from the universe to finally collect all the shorts I’ve written and put them in a single book. The only thing stopping me is the required time and energy, which could be said of anything. But…maybe soon, since apparently I’m going to be attacked by the bastards over pasta now.

Still, it’s going to have to wait its turn, which will probably be after I finish both the Rook’s Rose and Sons of Ymre 2 zeroes. I have the bones of the short story down, so it’ll keep in stasis until I can give it the attention deserved. I complain, sure, but it’s really nice to have stories bubbling up through the subconscious layers of their own accord again. The stress of recent years (since 2016, really) has had a rather deleterious effect on my productivity, though you wouldn’t know it to look at my bibliography, and I am glad to feel even fractionally more like myself.

Boxnoggin would very much like for me to get moving, and I suppose I should grab some toast. Luxuriating in the weather doesn’t change the amount of work waiting for me today, and there’s a run to get in as well. I’ve been feeling like it’s Monday all week; maybe today will feel like the Thursday it is.

Worth a shot, at least. See you around.

RELEASE DAY: She’s Fleeing a Byronic Hero

Happy Yule, my beloveds! It’s the darkest night of the year and the day the kids and I celebrate even if we miss the festival on the 25th. Tonight a candle will hold vigil for me, since I have lost the desire to be awake all night. And boy howdy, do I have something fun for you!

You may or may not remember one of IndigoChick Design‘s premade sales, where I snapped up a lovely, enchanting cover I really do have to write something serious for. It was the tagline on the cover that got me, though: She’s Fleeing a Byronic Hero. It reminded me of those 70s pulp gothic romances–women with great hair fleeing old houses. Of course I had to buy it, and I had to write a story.

And this is what happened.


She’s Fleeing a Byronic Hero

Titness McHawttie has fled her marriage to the disturbingly virile Byron Blackheart, Lord Chestthumper. Can she survive a night upon the moors with her faithful almost-unicorn–and will Byron find his vanished bride in time?

Now available direct from Gumroad, from Barnes & NobleAppleKobo, or Amazon. (Paperback also available.)

Note: This is a short story, about 10k words.


There’s all sorts of stuff jammed in here–gothic romance conventions, a pinkish almost-unicorn named Chicken, a dashing highwayman, an aged herbalist beldam, a cold-hearted baroness, Rocky Horror Picture Show callbacks, references to the divine Bette Midler, a distinct whiff of the SNL Scorched Corset skit, and more! Some of my beloved subscribers, whose support gave me the time and resources to write the dang thing, are also Tuckerised in it.

The “Lady” comes from my Yule gift to myself–an honest-to-gosh Scottish title–and “Alana Smithee” is a long-standing in-joke between Lady Skyla Dawn Cameron (also a Lady now) and Yours Truly. It’s 10k+ words of hilarity, and I had a great time putting it together.

I also begged my long-suffering cover designer for a new pulpy cover, and she gave me something great. I mean, just look at it. (I’m particularly fond of the 99p sticker. Takes me back, that does.)

So, just in time for Yule–I was waiting last night for one last sales platform to update; it’s near Christmas and everyone is overwhelmed–Titness McHawttie is fleeing across Heathencliffe Moors, and Byron Perssy Blackheart, Lord Chestthumper (who has fought more than one duel with persons mispronouncing his title) is in somewhat more-than-lukewarm pursuit. I hope you enjoy this little tale, my friends. I had a wonderful time with it.

And with that, I’m off. We’ve a busy day here at the chez, between some last-last-very last-minute shopping to prepare for the weekend, the dogs needing walking, a few spiritual observances, running my weary corpse, and some more work on Hell’s Acre. One I finish my coffee and swallow some toast I’ll be flying low with no brakes; should you hear a howling in the distance, don’t worry, my friends. It’s just me, moving at speed.

See you around.

Playing Wrap-Up

Last night I felt like telling a story, so I told the tale of the Llort and the Fox Princess. I do have another llort tale, but it’s going to have to wait, since it’s a sad instead of an instructive one.

It felt good to get it out of my head, and it was nice to get immediate feedback. Maybe I’ll toss the llort stories into an anthology, if I ever get off my ass about putting one together. I think it would be cool to have a great many of my short stories gathered in one place, and of course I’ve got the rights. The problem is just doing the gathering and formatting. Maybe after I get the Roadtrip Z omnibus sorted out I’ll use a short story anthology as a weekend project.

Anyway, the fourth and final season of Roadtrip Z is now available for preorder and there will be an omnibus. There may even be an omnibus in paper.

The next serial, starting after January 1, is HOOD, and from now until the end of the year I’ll be working ahead on that. So far the plan is for three seasons of Robin Hood in Space, and I have the ending firmly in sight. I generally do; the fun is all in getting there.

i’m also poking at a couple of short stories. The Hansel & Gretel Kung Fu Cannibal story is coming along nicely, and the Alice in WonderlandResident EvilBlade Runner mashup is bubbling in the back of my head, waiting for its time to shine. I need the first line of the latter; once I have that, the rest of the cut will follow.

Short stories are difficult. I have to know the angle of the cut before I even think about putting my hand to the hilt. I’d much rather have a novel’s space to roll around in, but it’s good to do things outside one’s comfort zone. And they’re fun, besides, bite-size pocket universes.

Anyway, it’s a Monday, the dogs want running, and since the world is on fire I might as well work.

Over and out.

Release Day: BEAST OF WONDER

That’s right–the novella that’s been eating my head for a while is now out in the world!

A blonde stewardess, her hairspray-teased head cocked at an impossible, lolling angle, smiled with blood-threaded teeth as a pilot’s disembodied voice floated through an aluminum tube. Ladies and gentlemen…ladies and gentlemen…

Outside small thick windows, hungry grey air screamed. Light and dark revolved, crunch-thumping as carryons, magazines, purses, and other daily objects became missiles tumbling through space, flickering through eyelid-flutter strobes. Right and left changed places, and a woman in the red skirt and brown coat held her seat arms with white knuckles, staring at the stewardess in the jumpseat. Trim, uniformed arms and legs flopped like a doll’s; the blond stewardess gazed with wide, horrified, glazed blue eyes and that crimson-laced, jolly rictus.

One last terrific jolt raced through a winged tube that had been meant to carry three hundred people to Cincinnati. Then the windows cracked, and the roaring swallowed every soul on board.

It was over.

But that was just the beginning.

Note: This is a novella, approximately 20K words.

Now available direct, through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or your favorite ebook platform.