slight pause for station identification

Ready For Change

Took a few days off from blogging (and some other things), a sorely needed break. Copyedit hangover is real, and the particular series I’m working on now is…well, the situation isn’t ideal, but one must carry on.

Once I get to the point of finding everything absurd I’ll be all right. It’s just taking a little longer than usual. And the look on my face–though you can’t see it–is the particular set expression of a woman who has Had It, is Dealing As Best She Can, and will Stab Something If She Has To. I’m tired of a lot of things lately, frankly, and ready for a bit of change.

Anyway, I’m within striking distance of finishing a couple different zero drafts. Yesterday I realized I’m only two (planned) scenes from finishing Riversinger and Minnowsharp (which used to be titled Fall of Waterstone, but I think that’ll change again in the future) which means that it’s probably more like six actual scenes. At this part of the process the things one must do in order to bloody well kill the draft tend to multiply exponentially, since it’s the last wicket to pass through before a completed zero. Getting so close one can taste the end is always difficult; I had to tear myself away last night and force my weary body into bed.

Pulling all-nighters isn’t good for me at this stage. Maybe in the next go-round.

The other zero nearing completion is Hell’s Acre, which has also had an extremely difficult birth. I’ve been writing the damn thing all during pandemic; I think that may be a great deal of the difficulty I’ve had with it. Now I’m tired, I think I’ve got twelve scenes left in the serial, and I just wrote a Really Big Reveal yesterday so at least things are moving. I’m ready to put this one to bed and move onto the next serial, which you guys are going to absolutely love–I know I keep saying that, but it’s so difficult to keep the secret. (And now you can imagine me fidgeting with glee.)

The other good news is that someone has finally gotten off their duff and there’s a line of fenceposts along the back edge of the yard. Not only that, but the giant pile of old, broken fencing that was killing my ferns has been removed. Someone else’s negligence caused the damage, so that person is finally stepping up to fix it, which is a welcome development. Now we have to wait for the concrete about the post-bottoms to cure, and things can move forward. Which will be such a vast relief, I can’t even tell you. I’ll be able to move laurel, holly, and lilac volunteers to their new places, and in a little while we’ll have a privacy screen.

It won’t be the cedars, but oh well. Good things are not good because they last, even if they do.

The coffee is almost finished and Boxnoggin is very eager for walkies. He’d gotten used to the shambles in the backyard, and now that it’s changed he is uneasy, clingy, and wants ritual and habit to soothe him. Poor fellow doesn’t deal with any deviation well, even the most pleasant. I’m not far behind at the moment; if one more damn thing goes wrong, I swear…

But the sooner I get Riversinger and the final book of the trilogy out of the way, the sooner my stress nausea will abate. I’m not quite at the “developing an ulcer” pitch anymore, so at least that’s something. Upwards and onwards, excelsior, and all that. And I’m going to read you lot a bit of Duras tomorrow, which I’m looking forward to.

Time to get moving.

Rain-Wet Yellow

Bright spring visitor.

Just as Boxnoggin and I were approaching this small clump of bright flowers, a hummingbird zoomed up, thought about having a snack, saw us, visibly wondered if it should fight, forgot what it was doing, and zipped away.

I stood flabbergasted, having thought it far too cold for such a sighting. (Boxnoggin was more than willing to fight, though somewhat confused at the size of his prospective opponent.) But I guess the birds know best–I haven’t seen a single bee yet, even on the few sunny days where the temperature hits 60F.

Awful cheerful to see jonquils and primroses and cherry blossoms and hyacinth buds. Winter is my favorite season, but this is nice too. The mud feels different and the rain is still piercing, yes–but cold with a promise instead of a sting. I’ve tried my hardest to eradicate all my hope–I hate getting kicked in the teeth time and again, I’d rather expect nothing–but it’s a weed, and this is its season.

Ah well. To all things their due time.

Se you next week, my beloveds.

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!

No Contact, Four Seconds, and Walking Away

In the few minutes between taking Boxnoggin out for his first morning loo break and settling to absorb some caffeine while doing the usual blog post, fog moved in. The little cat feet were quick and soundless, and now I can barely see the trees across the cul-de-sac behind us.

Of course, if the cedars were still there I wouldn’t see anything else, but that’s a wholly different issue. Ah well.

I’ve been reading this morning about a letter Kafka sent to his domineering, abusive, narcissistic father. So much of it is familiar, though Kafka didn’t have some of the psych terminology we do today. It’s fascinating to read how he narrated what is, to some of us, very sadly familiar. It made me grateful for going no-contact lo these many years (decades, now) ago.

It’s all right to prioritize your own health and safety. It’s totally fine not to answer bad-faith questions, and it’s absolutely reasonable to protect yourself from sadistic people even if they were responsible for raising you. My particular culture doesn’t venerate parents to the extent some others do, but still when I am forced to mention that I don’t speak to my childhood abusers many people will spout well-meaning platitudes like, “You’ll regret it if you don’t forgive,” and “They did the best they could.” The first is manifestly untrue in my experience and the second is a matter no stranger could possibly have the information to judge, so most of the time I give such expostulations (and the other little nuggets of busybodies’ so-called wisdom) precisely the weight they merit.

Still…it’s irritating, a pinch on a scar which used to be sore. Some days I simply don’t have the emotional energy, so I disengage and don’t speak to that person again. It’s perfectly okay to walk away in the middle of someone’s sentence. I wish I would have absorbed this fact on a cellular level decades ago, but it took a lot of therapy and time under the bridge (to mix a metaphor) before I could.

Honestly the best thing for this has been reaching my mid-forties. Society considers a woman of my age little better than disposable, being otherwise obsessed with young, malleable, abuse-able girls. Once an older woman stops giving a fuck she’s labeled as dangerous, ugly, unstable, awful, rude, how dare.

Becoming a bog witch holds a great deal attraction at that point, but if one can’t retreat to the swamps (or a chicken-legged hut) the next best thing is silently regarding a well-meaning busybody with a direct stare for a little over four seconds, then turning around and walking away. There’s a great deal of power in that, and naturally some privilege in when one can deploy the maneuver. Even being able to do it once or twice is a massively healing experience. It gets the point across and removes one from the situation, which is all one can hope for.

I felt nothing but relief when one of my major childhood abusers recently passed away. I thought I would feel some kind of guilt, or that things were left unfinished. I didn’t; there was nothing left to say, because I had already mourned the relationship I wish I would’ve had with them–the relationship child-me was desperate for, would (and did) do almost anything for. Like any child, I wanted to love my caregivers. They made it impossible–that was a choice on their part, whereas I had none. Raising my own children was deeply illuminating, because it drove home just how insane so much of my own early life was. I could never treat my kids the way I was treated. It was utterly foreign to me, on the deepest of levels, to be so cruel to tiny, dependent, helpless beings.

I’m glad Kafka got to write his letter. It may not have had the effect he wanted, but there’s still a lancing of the wound in telling the truth about abusive dickwads. Going no-contact with those society called my parents (not to mention other toxic people since then) was one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself; applying four seconds of silence and walking away is one of the most self-protective skills I’ve ever had the opportunity to learn. As Captain Awkward so often notes, it’s okay to let things be uncomfortable for toxic people. If they didn’t want discomfort, they should learn not to behave like total douches.

Now I need brekkie, and Boxnoggin needs walkies. No doubt he’ll find all sorts of interesting smells in the fog. Life is so much better now; every day I’m grateful for the space and peace created by choosing not to give nasty toxic people any more than the absolute minimum of time and attention. (Sometimes that minimum is negative, a happy occasion indeed.)

See you around, beloveds.

Dogs in False Spring

Good morning, happy Monday, and whew.

Throne of the Five Winds is a Kindle Daily Deal ($2.99USD) today. If you like intrigue, battle, pretty dresses, hairpins, assassinations–well, who doesn’t? And there’s a whole lot of all those things in that series.

In other news, I am typing very slowly because my left wrist is rather swollen and there are gouges on it as well as the back of my hand. People, leash your goddamn dogs. I don’t care how friendly you think they are–Boxnoggin definitely is not. My dog doesn’t step outside without a harness that puts Victorian-era straitjackets to shame, because he can’t be trusted and I have to make good decisions for him. Letting your pooch wander into traffic or, gods forbid, wander up to mine and start some shit only ends poorly for us all.

And that’s all I’m gonna say about that.

We had a few sunny days; now the rain is back. Everyone was out in their yards and gardens celebrating false spring the past few days, and even I got a few things trimmed and tidied. But it’s back to being grey and dull, drippy and mossy; I’m thrilled. This also means the sidewalks will be thinly populated during walkies, which is a blessing since I only have half the usual number of hands to deal with Box’s shenanigans.

He’s a good dog, and he wants to be good. Unfortunately he also has zero self-regulation and a whole lot of ideas just bright enough to be incredibly dumb and dangerous. Why Bailey chose him for a companion I will never know; perhaps she wanted another dog she could do the thinking for since she had such an excess of mental horsepower–Max (Odd Trundles), bless him, could forget to breathe and had to be reminded, which was one of Bailey’s self-chosen jobs, performed with zest and glee.

Don’t get me wrong–Boxnoggin’s entirely loving, and goofy, and a darling. I just wish he were a little less enthusiastic when I’m wounded. Ah well.

Dawn is coming up, the firs are dripping. I miss the cedars along the back fence–well, there’s no fence there either, but that’s a complaint for another day as well. There are copyedits to get through and various other bits and bobs to accomplish today. I’d best get started, since I’m moving at about half speed.

See you ’round.

Empty Spiral

Leaving home behind.

Boxnoggin and I found this on wet pavement; he gave it merely a token sniff since it isn’t a small furry thing to savage or a pile of something highly fragrant. I was struck into immobility for a few moments, watching the play of light. I almost picked the shell up…then I thought it was probably left there for a reason. A picture harms nothing.

Of course when I crouched to take a snap Boxnoggin was suddenly interested again, because if Mum is examining something it’s suddenly high-value. Nevertheless, I managed to get his big wet snoot out of the shot, and it turned out better than I hoped.

I feel very much as if I’m growing out of a shell or two myself these days. I know whoever made this lovely spiral was most likely pried free and tossed down a bird’s gullet…and yet.

Tonight’s Friday Night Writes, my beloveds, and I hope you have a grand weekend. See you next week.

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.