we travel well

Civic Duty, Done

Sunday we had snow, though it didn’t stick, and the temperature plunged after dark. Which meant yesterday I was driving before dawn, on black ice and through freezing fog, downtown to the courthouse.

Yes, my friends, jury duty again.

This makes the fourth time, though only the third in this county. I know there are thousands of eligible people who haven’t even been called once, but they keep interrupting my working time with this nonsense. Not that I mind doing my civic duty–I went in the first two times with good grace, somewhat proud to participate even though I’m the last person prosecution or defense wants on a jury.

It’s not that I can’t be impartial. It’s just that my family history (law enforcement kin), added to my viewing/reading habits (I do read and watch a lot of true crime) and career (writer with a distinct interest in gruesome forensic pathology, not to mention I once thought I’d study to be a paralegal) makes me a bad bet for either side’s purposes. I never get past voir dire, and probably never will–they want the quiet folk who can be swayed by various courtroom strategies.

Anyway, yesterday was no exception and I was sent home after the jury was finally empaneled. A whole working day lost, momentum frittered away because I’d had to plan for perhaps a week’s worth of disruption. I couldn’t even get back to revisions because all my bandwidth had been eaten up, so I was reduced to staring at a documentary until I could heave my poor corpse to bed. And there were very few masks to be seen–less than ten percent of all the people called for duty, and one lone mask among the courtroom staff) which means if I get sick, I know exactly where it happened. Plus, the trial itself was a criminal one, and just plain heartbreaking to hear even the basic dimension of.

Hyperempathy is great for my work, but a distinct drawback otherwise. Hearing the charges made me wince.

On the other hand, it was great material. Watching how people reacted, how they sorted themselves according to social expectations, watching the attorneys perform, and practicing my powers of observation are all wonderful for the work. For example, the prosecutor was left-handed, wearing a tailored three-piece and glossy wingtips–and also a pair of blue-and-green striped socks that had to be “lucky”. The defense attorney was married, loved their spouse very much, and did not like their client but was giving their all. The cross-section of the jury was fascinating, and watching from a corner of the room while people grouped themselves and cooperated was alternately comforting and terrifying.

I suppose I’ve watched too many history documentaries to be entirely comfortable when I see people patiently trooping along in a line while an “authority” exhorts them. And locating the impulse in myself to be polite, play along, follow the crowd was sobering indeed. The writer in me was furiously taking notes; it’s a machine that never turns off. Everything goes into the hopper to be churned by the writing brain.

You’d think they would want me far away from court for that reason alone.

I am thinking about going back to paralegal studies, though. Growing up I was “supposed” to be a doctor to fulfill one of my childhood abuser’s frustrated desires, but was always magnanimously told being a lawyer was “acceptable” too. I have no desire to argue in a courtroom or deal with people all day long, which is why I hole up in my office and deal with imaginary people for the bulk of my time. Still, the studying is interesting, the architecture of the law is fascinating, the skills needed are right up my alley, and it might be a day job if I ever get too tired of publishing. It would mean going back to an office, which as an introvert I’d absolutely hate…but still, it’s always nice to have plans and options.

The urge will most likely pass by the time I get my morning run out of the way. Boxnoggin was unhappy at the break in routine and very upset that someone else had to take him for walkies yesterday. He calmed down once it was clear dinner was going to arrive on time, and today is displaying only a lingering uncertainty, which will fade once he’s in his harness and it’s clear the world is continuing upon its accepted course.

I’d best get moving towards the toaster now. Losing a day and momentum is bad enough, I’m going to have to restart revisions and shift my week’s schedule around again. Small price to pay, but my nose is suspiciously stuffy and my entire body aches. It could just be the stress, and a run will purge those chemicals, fill me with endorphins, and set me right in a trice. That’s the hope, at least.

Time to get to it.

Back to Business

The sun is a bit above the horizon, but it’s still dim under the firs. The cedars along the back fence are limned with gold, though, and the coffee tastes pretty divine. I’ve got book pages to add to the site (Spring’s Arcana is up for preorder, my goodness) and there’s next month’s release to plan for as well as October’s–at least, if I get these CEs turned around there’ll be an October release. Just in time for spooky season!

The advent of autumn is bringing bit of renewed energy. The nights are reasonable sleeping temperature again, and hopefully we won’t have many more gasping-hot days before the rains arrive and I can be truly productive. I love water falling from the sky, it’s partly why I live on this slice of the globe. I mean, there’s also the lack of venomous bite-y things, but that’s a smaller consideration. Generally the bite-y things and I observe an armed truce; they leave me alone, I return the favor wholesale and with relish.

Boxnoggin has had a rather rough weekend, and is sulking on my bed. Oh, he got all his usual treats and walkies and pets, but I’ve had to leave the past few mornings to look after a friend’s menagerie while they were out of town and Lord van der Sploot did not like that, no sir, not one bit. Now that we’re back to the regular schedule he’ll settle in and cheer up, but he’s extremely unhappy with any disruption in routine as only a toddler can be. He got a treat and pets each time I returned, but I think he smelled other animals on me (not my fault, cats are affectionate and chickens are, well, chickens) and wished I’d take him along to make acquaintance.

The thought of the chaos such a maneuver would cause is hilarious, sure. Especially with the turkey. (Yes, there was a turkey. No, it did not attempt murder this time.) But also, it makes me tired.

It’s going to be a busy week. I’d like to get the Moby Dick reading on Twitch at least half done, the CEs of the second Ghost Squad book need to be turned around, and there’s wordcount to get in on the serial and the second Sons of Ymre before I have to add revising Cold North to the mix. Plus there’s website updates to do and I’d really like to at least do a trial reading of some Victorian erotica.

Still not sure if I’m going to put that last item on an OnlyFans, or a dedicated YouTube channel. I mean, I have this paperback of The Pearl lying about, and it’ll be great training to see if I can keep a straight face all the way through. I won’t be dressing up, however–it’ll probably be strictly audio, with perhaps a static image or two as the visual component. There’s a certain amount of fun to be had in reading high-grade historical smut in a low, even tone while wearing schlubby sweats.

I suppose I should see if Filmoria will work for that sort of thing. Hrm. The world apparently wants me to learn some kind of video editing, though I hate it. We’ll see.

I’m happiest while writing, second happiest while revising and the like, and just generally content when I’ve too much work to handle. Consequently, September’s going to be a banner month–but I have to get through the last few days of August to get there, and they promise to be jam-packed.

The sun has reached a gap in the cedars, and the coffee has cooled. Boxnoggin has decided sulking won’t get him anything and is shaking his collar, preparatory to trotting down the hall to check on me. I’m in running togs, which is a good sign as far as he’s concerned, but he’s very unsure whether or not the garage door is going to open and Mum disappear for a few hours. He would very much prefer not, thank you very much; a run is one thing but leaving in the car quite another. He’ll be all right once it’s clear we’re back to business as usual, though I’m sure he’ll miss the extra treats.

Let us gird ourselves for Monday, my beloveds. It’s a deadly day, but we outnumber it and I’ve got the baseball bat handy. Upward and inward, excelsior, and all that.

The Wild Trolley

Shh, don’t scare it.

I managed to snap this picture of the wary shopping cart in its natural habitat, not the concrete or linoleum floored farms their flocks now inhabit. Those who escape are usually intelligent, largely nocturnal, and tend to hide in out-of-the-way places, evading capture by dint of sheer cunning and anxiety. It’s hard to get close enough for a snap, let alone catch one for home domestication, so I had to sneak up, very quietly, and scarce dared breathe.

And then, success! I got the shot. I let out a sigh of wonder, probably alerting the poor thing to my presence. It doesn’t understand I have no desire to tame or return it, I just wanted a photo to prove what I’d witnessed.

Anyway. The trolley has long vanished. I hope it is still grazing lawns, hiding while it must, and just generally enjoying freedom as any creature likes to.

Have a marvelous weekend, my beloveds.

Creaking Systems, Errands

The dogs rocketed out the back door this morning like they had a whole herd of something to run down, which is pretty usual. Less usual was the fact that the birds, clustered on the Yankee Squirrel Flinger, didn’t seem to care. They were too busy chatting about something-or-another. Boxnoggin gave them a hard stare, trying to discern whether or not they were worth chasing, but the relative height of the Squirrel Flinger and their small size meant he discarded the idea. (Reluctantly.)

I’m waiting for the last few preorder links to propagate for Sons of Ymre #1. So far Apple was the only laggard (but that’s fixed now), except for the paperback links, which should naturally sync up with the ebook ones as soon as databases update and the like. The book’s having a difficult way through the pipeline, which is to be expected under current publishing conditions. Everyone is doing their best; systems are creaking with the strain on publishing as a whole. We should be on track with no wiggling of the go-live date (February 22), which is a bloody miracle under the circumstances. Big props to the entire production team on this one.

On every book, really, and this one in particular.

It’s Half-Price Candy Day! I’m forced to leave the house for other errands–I do my best not to, as is well known, but there are things I simply can’t put off any more after three years of semi-lockdown. I mean, I didn’t like going outside my own walls before All This, but…anyway, I held out for three years and now I must mask up, hold my nose (figuratively), and just get everything accomplished in one Tuesday.

On the bright side the land under the kitchen sink remains dry. (It only took four-five visits?) I am obsessively checking it, and each time I shut the dishwasher door I breathe a little prayer. Thankfully the replaced parts on said dishwasher have solved not only the “doesn’t-work” problem but also the “random beeping” problem, which was the underlying cause the whole time. The repairman suspected it, of course, but his hands were tied by the home warranty company and in any case he would’ve had to come back once the parts arrive, so the two visits were unavoidable.

I just feel bad about making anyone come to the house under these conditions. We all masked up and the dogs were put in Durance Vile (i.e., my bedroom or office) each time, I opened all the windows to get air moving through, and there was plenty of sanitizer…but I still felt bad. They weren’t the kind of repairs that could wait, especially the leak under the sink, and yet…yeah, you know what I’m about to say.

I want to take care of and protect other people during All This. It’s the only way we’re going to get through. I know–and have seen–there are people who feel differently, who want to harm others as much as possible, but I am just as mystified by it as I have always been. Sometimes I think that’s why I’m a writer; figuring out why people do the things they do is one of the reasons I step into so many different characters’ skins. If I can understand I can feel some compassion, and that’s important.

In any case, the morning wears on and the dogs need walkies before I brave the Outside World for Errands Aplenty. I’m procrastinating, of course. I don’t wanna, even though I hafta, and the thought of seeing jerkwads with naked faces in public spaces, breathing contagion out through their disease-holes, is just plain awful. It doesn’t help that every time I see an unmasked asshat they’re wearing the same rancid, self-satisfied little smirk while the rest of us flinch away from their malignant stupidity. That smirk reminds me of so many unpleasant, abusive people, it’s positively chilling.

Ugh. Anyway. Wish me luck, and remember to mask up, wash your hands, and treat yourselves gently. We need you–yes, you reading this. You’re important.

Over and out.

Music and Meatsack

Yesterday was a bit of a wild ride. A very dear friend put me on a dedications page1, another dear friend liked the short story I made for her2, I formally left the house for the first time in ages, and remember those proofs I turned around in 48hrs so a book could come out in November? Well, turns out there’s no room in the November schedule so it’ll be January after all.

Which isn’t bad, mind you! It just means that Future (December) Me will be extremely grateful to Past (October) Me for getting things squared away. It’ll be a little gift to December Me, and also to my editors’ and publishers’ December selves. Frankly, by that point in the holiday season, I’m sure we’ll need all the help we can get.

Today looks to be a little less of a rollercoaster. Oh, sure, the weather people say there’s going to be a “Rain Event” around dinnertime, and the dogs are attempting to make sure I don’t leave the house again today–they had both kids to supervise while I did yesterday, but apparently that wasn’t good enough–and I really have got to get a newsletter out.

In short, all my internal spaces are echoing and it might be time to dust off Beck’s Sea Change album, just to soothe my nerves. I can’t do Pink Floyd since it’s past the equinox, so I’m forced to other measures.

As for the day’s work–once I get the newsletter out of the way–the first third of Hell’s Acre needs a top to bottom reshuffle. Sometimes one has to go down a road a bit to see where it leads, and sometimes even if one knows a book’s general outline…well, things happen. Stories are organic things, and grow in their own way. You can have the skeleton, but the flesh gets distributed differently.3

Anyway, once I get the throughlines in Hell’s Acre arranged, I can move the costume ball (and the interrupted assassination) earlier in the book, which can trigger the prison heist, which will lead to the culmination of Season One. Everything is going along swimmingly, and with that taking one half of my working days I can shift to revising The Black God’s Heart in the other half. And once that’s done, the Tolkien Viking Werewolves can get a second book, and so on, so forth.

I absolutely have all the work I can handle, and it’s a glorious feeling. I also have Klemp’s book (Ghost Squad #2) to get off the ground. It’s been marinating in the back of my head, so I might even do it as my NaNoWriMo this year. We’ll see.

Before that, though, the dogs want their walkies. Yesterday disturbed their usual rhythm, and they’re eager to get back to it. I also have new running shoes to break in, which is a joy and should get rid of that nagging pain in my hip.

Meatsacks, man. Always something aching, always something bruised, always some weird discharge or something. Of course the benefit of piloting one are immense as well, and yet…well, no silver lining without a cloud, and vice versa.

And with that butchering of a proverb, I’m off to start Thursday’s merry-go-round. I’m hoping for more of a slow carousel than Wednesday’s death-defying rollercoaster.

We’ll see how it turns out.

Gilding the Web

A delicate balance on each strand.

On mornings when the mist is just right, spiderwebs are decorated with tiny jewels.

There’s a low juniper hedge on our walkies route ideal for arachnids (no doubt it’s a huge buffet) and some mornings, the bling catches the early sun and turns gold. Other times, it’s silver gilding, and while the dogs sniff at the bottom of the hedge, eager for news and the passing report of small animals, I look at the webs and feel a great sense of calm.

I hope you find a tiny bit of beauty today, my beloveds. And I hope the long-legged ones get their fill, once the mist burns off.

Have a good weekend!

Heat, Exceeding Savory

The first of the season’s blackberries have arrived in our demesnes. We’d need a bit of rain–even a drizzle–to make them sweet and plump, but that’s not going to happen so they will be exceedingly savory for the time being. Especially with the heat wave.

Still, they’re good for the birds, and vines growing in swampy places will get enough moisture to make them perfect. Said swampy places are buried in thickets and protected by thorns, so the wildlife will get the best–but honestly, with what we’ve done to the planet, the fauna deserve the berries more than humans.

The dogs are eager for walkies, and my coffee is almost done. Sadly, neither avocado is ripe, which means my toast will not bear mushed green deliciousness, alas. Somehow, though, I shall carry on.

It is a Friday, after all. Happy weekend, beloveds. We’re almost there.