Gifts

Sometimes, you come around a corner at Cost Plus and see the absolute perfect gift for the person you’re going to see later that day, and you do a little dance in the aisle and almost knock over a display of champagne bottles, compose yourself, and snatch the box up with the aplomb of a pirate claiming her share of sweet sweet booty after the battle is done.

The only thing better is when you give the gift, and the recipient starts laughing in disbelief and sheer untrammeled glee.

Of such small things are friendships made.

Peace, Process

Maybe I’ve recovered from the zero draft of Maiden’s Blade, because I’m looking at the sheer amount of revision that book will need and feeling the need to wail and gnash my teeth. It won’t help, and a lot of the work is supplementary materials–character sheets, footnotes, etc.–because if I’m going to do a doorstop epic fantasy trilogy, I need to keep names and character arcs somewhere other than my aching skull. It used to be I’d simply stuff it in my cranial corners, but with going back to piano and all I need all the extra bandwidth I can get.

I also have a book on “the poetics of The Tale of Genji” that I want to dive into, dammit, and I can’t until I bloody well get the zero draft in at least reasonable first-draft shape and sent off to yon patient editor. I’m dangling litcrit in front of my face like a carrot before a donkey, which means I’m much more tired than I thought.

I’ve had a few moments lately where I simply stop and look at things in my house. When I catch myself thinking about old hurts, often my eye will light upon a framed print, a plant, a tchotchke I remember placing with care. The idea that I’m forty-two this year, I’d a dul-gurned adult, and that I have arranged my life mostly to suit myself is still shatteringly exotic. I am hideously, unabashedly lucky. From the Nighthawks over the piano to Rembrandt’s Athena in my office, from the glass apples to the half-burned candles on the mantel, from the glass fishing floats to the statues of goddesses watching over the domicile, from the bookshelves arranged exactly as I prefer them to the books gathered wherever I happened to be reading them, from the knitting on my desk to the Princess’s knitting on the coffee table, from the Little Prince’s playing cards (he practices throwing them, I don’t know) in random places to the rehabilitated plants everywhere there’s enough sunlight to fuel them, my refuge is beautiful.

I suppose every May I think about the price of surviving and the measure of success. I worry that having a place to rest will dull my edge, which is just the hypervigilance talking. I’ve gone from considering just-plain-enduring a single day a success to having larger goals than sheer brute survival. Having those larger goals feels like asking for too much. Don’t push it, all this could vanish.

I wonder what I could want, if I’d been raised by better-adjusted people who actually wanted me. I wonder what I’d consider natural and reasonable to ask for. I wonder who I’d be without the scar tissue. I suppose every survivor does.

Right now I am trying to teach myself that I am allowed some peace, that it is a good thing to have, that my sense of peace is a process so if it breaks I can figure out how to fix it, and that lasagna is not necessarily a hideous miscarriage of perfectly good pasta. (That last one is more of a personal preference than a Grand Life Goal, but I might as well tack it on.)

And Athena, hanging in my office, is neither smiling nor frowning, simply gazing pointedly at my desk. That’s all very well, the Maiden says. But get back to work.

Aye-aye, Captain. Back to work it is.

Yes, Decompress

“It’s not even 1pm,” I said an hour ago, “and already I am Done With Monday.”

The Princess nodded sagely. “That’s why I’m making challah.”

Which isn’t a bad way to spend said Monday, so I suppose I should buck up and feel less meh. The only thing I’m doing today is the last revise on Jozzie & Sugar Belle, and laughing quietly every once in a while at something particularly amusing. Not sure if anyone else will see the funny side of a kangaroo shifter searching for his testes with the help of a stripper witch, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

I haven’t been allowed to touch anything that looks like work for the past two days, and am eager to get back to it even though the usual decompression from finishing a zero draft (I put the zero of The Maiden’s Blade to bed late Friday) has me in its teeth and is shaking hard. So yes, I can work today…but no, I can’t put in a full day, because my nerves need to regrow some insulation. I’ve given up trying to guess how long the decompression from any given piece will be. Some short stories have wiped me out for a weeks, whereas some novels need as little as three days to spring back from. There’s just no telling what muscles you’ve pulled until you reach the top of the damn hill and the Sisyphean rock finally rolls down the opposite side. You have to stand and stretch–and, let’s face it, listen to Hades grumbling about how you shouldn’t have been able to do that–and see what cramps up and makes your eyes water.

*sigh*

At least revision still counts as working. And now, having sat and stared into the distance between paragraphs, I should probably get back to it.

Rosa, Mundi

The first rose of the season was one of the reds. That side of the house is fragrant now, and the peonies have started to open their shy buds. Even the calla lilies are getting in on the act, late this year but better than never.

I generally dislike summer, if only because of the heat and that giant burning nuclear reactor in the sky attempting to drown me in cancerous rays and sweat. But–impossible to deny it–some things about summer are nice.

Trim and Holes

Flying hair
© Cherrymerry | Dreamstime Stock Photos
Got out the door for a run before the heat spiked. Apparently, after a few days of reasonable temperatures, we’re going to be roughly the surface of the sun for a while.

I hate hot weather. Snow, cold, rain I can handle, but I just…I hate sweating, unless I’m running or dancing. You can always put another layer on, but you can’t take off your skin and cool down that way.1 Not that I’d want to, with all the pet hair around. Having that stick to one’s raw muscles would be suboptimal.

Anyway, B and I got out for a run, and my knees didn’t hurt at the end, which is a sure sign that I needed new trainers. The new socks are pretty spiffy too; the old ones have so many holes they’re not much use against blistering anymore. Poor things, I tend to wear them until they’re more hole than sock. Considering a sock is just a hole you put your foot in, maybe they don’t mind.

Once home, I trimmed my hair so I don’t have to do it again for six months, and while wielding the shears, I suddenly knew how the last assassination attempt in The Maiden’s Blade happens. Or at least, most of it. After sweating over it all through my run and coming up blank, it was like a gift. Pikes are the traditional defense against horsemen, after all. Once I have that scene, it’s a straight shot to the end of the scaffolding, and then I’ll have a (very rough, full of holes) zero draft. I’d like more time to polish it into a reasonable first, but since the book I was supposed to write died on the vine, this one has moved into its space and created a time crunch.

At least the corpse will be whole once I get even a scaffold-zero down. It’s comforting; if I have little faith in my ability to finish at this point in every book, I know I have a great deal of ability when it comes to revision.

It’s just…that first step is a lulu.

Time to get the pikemen into position, and a main character messily murdered. I hope your Tuesday is as…uh, I was about to type “pleasant,” but that’s not the right word, is it? Nor is “eventful.”

I suppose I should simply stop while I’m ahead. Over and out.

Changing Paths

Roaring lioness
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos
Attempting new things, because the old way isn’t working. Sometimes old ways work for a while but peter out, or everything around the path changes and you have to change the path to suit.

So, the big change is moving my run to before morning blogging. Getting out the door is difficult even on good days. I mean, I roll out of bed and into my running clothes, but peeling myself out of the house is another animal altogether. Attacking the run while relatively fresh is a good idea, and now I can use blogging as a chance to prime the pump and get words flowing from my fingers.

The weekend was…nice. I got out of the house for a hot date with a girlfriend; we went to see Deadpool 2. Matinee tickets, so I would have left as soon as the fridging occurred, but I had to stay. For what it’s worth, I enjoyed Domino (wish the movie had been about her instead) and Cable (Josh Brolin is distressingly sexy, even after all these years1) and the Rob Liefeld jokes (dear God, and Shatterstar in the helicopter blades) were well worth the price of admission. Still…can we just not have fridging and manpain as narrative fuel in superhero movies? It’s old, it’s tired, I’m done with it.

I also braved the depths of a beauty store and emerged victorious, carrying a few shades of eyeliner that aren’t black2 and–are you ready? LIPSTICK. I know, I love Russian Red lipstick, but a dark purple-red actually suits me better. When I came home bearing my prizes (and several things for the children, since the beauty store is near an import shop full of neat things) I was told I looked like a pissed-off Wednesday Addams. An awesome compliment, to be sure, especially since Wednesday is merely unamused and rarely deigns to get actually angry.

The comparisons just write themselves.

Anyway, today I crowbar’d my way out of the house, finished my run, and rolled into jeans, a hoodie, lipstick, and my favorite Sarto heels. They’re not my Capezios; I can run and fight in the latter, but I’d have to kick the Sartos off to run. Which makes them suboptimal, but I’m not leaving the house and I think I can relax enough to wear non-running shoes in my office. And yes, those are my requirements for any piece of clothing. Can I run in it, and can I fight in it? All other considerations are secondary.

It feels good to be braced for the day like this. Next comes getting back into The Maiden’s Blade and putting more pieces together. I’ve decided to do dialogue-heavy scenes first, and layer in the color and scenery on the next pass. I was trying to do both at once and banging my head on the slooooooooowness. I need scaffolding before I can make the fabric of this book hang correctly. A certain king needs to give the go-ahead for his daughter to be assassinated and there’s a day at the races with two princes to write as well. If I can get both of those scaffolded, I’ll count today a win.

See you around the bend, darlings.

*throws kisses, vanishes in a puff of smoke*

Good Neighbors

The lilacs are mainly blooming on our neighbors’ side of the fence, since they’re southerly of us and the trees like sun, sun, sun. I found out they’re the lady’s favorite, so that’s fortunate. I like the white ones, but I think she prefers the purple ones, which means we can each have plenty.

It’s nice when something you planted delights someone else.