weather eye

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.

Concrete Soul, Amid Roses

Just hanging out, watering the roses.

This week saw a field trip to a local lilac garden, and by chance (or by good planning) we went on the only dry, sunny day. I ended up mostly taking pictures of camellias, since the lilacs were just starting their bloom; as we were leaving I spotted this lovely lady amid roses and rhodies recovering from winter, and had to run back to grab a snap.

I love fountains, and garden statuary. (Just call me a Renaissance girl.) I couldn’t talk to her–there were other people around, and they tend to look askance at some weirdo mumbling to concrete even if it does possess a soul–but I did tip her a cheeky wink, and I think I made her day. I wonder if there are fish in her pond? Probably not, since it’s close to a river and cranes or herons (not to mention the corvids) would consider that small pool easy dredging for a snack.

I’m 160-ish pages away from the end of the proofs, and once I finish them I go straight into revising Book 2 of the trilogy. I’m seeing patterns and structure I had no idea were happening earlier, as I do each time at this point in writing a multiple-book-arc, and can only shake my head at the bloody Muse and her tricks. It’s a strange thing, feeling one’s mind is not quite one’s own. Sometimes it’s fun, but there’s always an edge of “what the hell is going on inside this skull I’m carrying around?”

Today will be busy, between proofs and livestreaming and oh yes, getting the subscription drop out, not to mention Friday Night Writes. I suppose I’d best down this coffee and get started.

See you next week, my beloveds.

Rattledark Morning

I unplugged yesterday and went to the Hulda Klager Lilac Gardens. (Though I mostly took pictures of camellias.) It’s early yet–things won’t reach full blooming for a week, week and a half–but the weather was perfect and the crowd was light. I got to touch a monkey puzzle tree, too. Did you know their trunks are all cracked, and red sap lingers in the crevices? Like blood. And their branches twist wonderfully. I’ve never been able to get close to one before, so it was pleasant to make this one’s acquaintance.

Yesterday’s lilac-viewing weather has shifted somewhat. Spring is the season of unsettled clouds, and I woke to thunder shaking the house. I could feel the vibrations through my bed, and later against my soles while standing in the kitchen making coffee. Boxnoggin is very unhappy with this; skybooms are definitely not his favorite things. Gentle pats and coaxing are all I can give him, as well as a safe place to hide. For my part, I’m humming Eddie Rabbitt.

Today it’s back to proof pages, then I dive right back into revising the second book in an epic fantasy trilogy. Once that’s done, there’s a full revise on Hell’s Acre, and then I can move to prepping for the next serial. I still haven’t decided if Avery and Gemma’s adventures will see wider publication; the decision will have to wait until I’ve had a chance to go through, revise the whole corpus (two seasons’ worth of story!) and sent the first season to my agent for her opinion.

Delayed gratification. It’s what publishing is all about.

If you attended the Fountain Books launch event for Spring’s Arcana, you’ll know I made an announcement about the next serial. If you didn’t, I’ll make another announcement in a while…but I will also tease with this.

…I am terrible, I know. I’m very excited. But I don’t want to do a huge fanfare too soon. Waiting for the schedule is such a pain, though since I’ve gotten through one big wicket lately I’m eager to move through a few more. My own impatience is the hardest to bear.

It’s grown quite dark though the rumbles of thunder have faded somewhat, and the birds have all taken shelter. They sense the change in barometric pressure, naturally. I should get some breakfast. Walking poor Boxnoggin will have to wait. He was quite put out that I was gone yesterday–there were only two humans in the house to serve his every whim–and now there’s unsettled weather interfering with his walkies. How will he ever endure?

I suppose I’ll have to do some proofing while waiting for it to pass. There are worse things on a Thursday morn.

See you around.

Daisy, Daisy…

Give me your answer, do.

Last April we had snow bringing down huge fir boughs. This time around the forecast is for near-90F temps and plenty of sun. It should return to reasonable weather come Sunday, but until then…it’s very bright, and the smell of a warm afternoon approaching fills morning to the brim. The recent mud-marooning of a huge lawnmower means the park is alive with dandelions and daisies, including these cheerful fellows.

Boxnoggin got a very long ramble today and is currently sacked out in the living room to recover. Burying his nose in every clump of greenery is hard work, but he gives it his all. I’m still nervous about the upcoming launch, but there are proof pages to eyeball and I should decide whether or not I’m streaming today. We’ll see.

Courage, my friends. We’re almost through the week…

Favonian Thursday

A frenzy of revision has ended with Sons of Ymre #2 heading off to the editor, just in time for proof pages on something else to land. Publishing is always a game of festina lente, and not in the way Augustus originally meant it, either. I always thought Marcus Aurelius would have been a better one to coin that aphorism; certainly I think he’d use it in the modern military sense.

Anyway, Jake’s story has reached its final fighting form, and even copyedits won’t change much more than a tentacle or two. I also did some outlining on the next serial–not very much, because I’m more a pantser than a plotter and this particular story needs room and time to breathe. Still, I wanted a little more scaffolding before I set it aside to marinate and turned to the two last revises I have scheduled–Riversinger and Minnowsharp needs its polish before it goes to the editor, and so do both seasons of Hell’s Acre. They’re all exhausting in different ways, and I’m still not sure the latter will see wide publication.

But that’s a problem for another day.

We’re having a most favonian week, as Nabokov would say. Today it’s going to hit 78F, according to the weatherfolk, which is just a smidge too warm for my taste but ah well. It will mean we can have all the windows open, and I’ve pre-gamed by getting that done before coffee. My office window is currently standing wide, and I can already hear a bee-hum. Pretty sure one or two of the little sods are going to hitch a ride on me today–which is fine, as long as they don’t try to climb into my ear. I dislike that; it never ends well for either of us.

I’m glad to finally have Jake’s story off the docket. Now it’s only line edits, CEs, and proofs for that particular book, and afterward that duology can be laid to rest. My editor had fond hopes for an additional book dealing with one of the Fathers, probably Robert–who was, let’s face it, a good dude, though I like Miklos in the second book better–but I can’t see how I’d do that without fast-forwarding at least a decade in that world. It’s best to just leave it as it lays, as my grandfather would say, and move on to a different brand of paranormal romance. I’ll have to dredge through the compost heap and see what looks juicy green, because when it comes to writing romances I have no intention of stopping. I like having those little bits of light between playing in other genres.

Boxnoggin is thrilled by the sunny weather. Well, thrilled is kind of a strong term. He loves that his tender toesies aren’t getting damp except in the more low-lying parts of the park, and once he adjusts to having the windows open he’ll enjoy whatever news the wind brings to his cute little snoot. But open windows mean otherwise muffled sounds are entering the house loud and clear, and he’s not a big fan of that.

In fact, his dumb, very loud ass alerts to every single stray noise, and will until he accepts this as the new normal. This happens yearly; fortunately, since his memory is gloriously short, it won’t take long for him to settle in. Even if we return to cooler spring weather after this, one window or another will be ajar until some point in the fall–or until there’s a summer scorch involving wildfires, in which case we’ll close everything up, turn on the AC, and hope.

I’m not thinking about that right now, either. I’ve managed to clear a lot of work in the past few weeks, and am looking at more feverish activity until the Spring’s Arcana release. Speaking of that, there’s a Goodreads giveaway for that book, and you can sign up to attend the virtual launch party, too. I’m going to be hyperventilating and nervous until a few days after said release, so that’ll be fun. (Check out the last few April sales, too, if you’re in the mood for reading material.)

Speaking of, I’d best get some brekkie and out the door. A morning run before the heat builds will help purge some of the nervousness and return me to whatever zen can be found. You’d think after seventy-plus books or so, I’d be used to release-day nerves. But I’m not, I’m not.

Anyway, I have a whole lot of work to do and the urge to listen to John Denver–the original Rocky Mountain High video makes me giggle fondly, and I have no trouble admitting as much. (Especially the “chased by a bear” editing.) Thursday’s well underway and the coffee’s down to dregs.

Off I go.

A Glut of Blossom

Blue bells, bluebells, as far as the eye can see…

We’re well past the turning point. Spring is gnawing winter’s bones; no doubt germinating is hungry work. The honeysuckle is growing again, the chestnuts smell like pipe tobacco when the afternoons warm up, cherry and plum blossoms are falling, the magnolias are shedding waxy petals, the hyacinths are in full vigor, the grass is growing again, so on, so forth. Every day brings new evidence that I’m not allowed to give up yet–surprising, as it is every year.

It’s only intermittently warm enough for bees; the weather nerds say that will change in the next few days. When it does, this bank of bluebells will be alive with subtle buzzing and several different species. Boxnoggin might try to catch one or two sky jalapeños, but while he is eminently equipped for the capture of, say, rabbits or unwary cats, he doesn’t have the depth perception necessary to grab a bumblebee. (He can’t even catch a toast crust on an easy arc, poor thing.) Which is all to the good for everyone involved, including Yours Truly.

I’ve a busy Friday–Reading with Lili, Friday Night Writes, and revisions–so I’d best get started sometime soon. But the coffee is hot, it’s not so chilly as it has been outside, and maybe I can take a deep breath or two before the ruckus begins. And maybe on walkies today we’ll meet a tiny new friend or two.

Not a bad way to end the week, all told. Off I go.

To-Dos and Wild What-Ifs

Rolled from the bed’s sweet flannel embrace, took the dog out, dealt with moderation reports, downloaded a couple print proofs, ran off another print interior (dear gods, Vellum is amazing), got confirmation from the accountant (let’s all heave a huge sigh of relief), and the coffee is still warm. Not hot, but warm is good enough, considering.

Yesterday was blustery and sunny in turns, which meant my sinuses were throbbing like a disco beat, complete with the flashing colors whenever I blinked. Disorienting, even if I can find a bit of amusement in it. Today will be a bit calmer. We’re really noticing the difference with the cedars gone; the house rattles under the east wind like it never has before. I don’t know if the laurels will grow enough to become a buffer, or if I should plant something else along the new (hallelujah) fence.

That’s a problem for another day. I have all of summer to think about it.

The only drawback to all this productivity is that no task I’ve accomplished so far is on today’s to-do list. I should probably change that and cross off a few things just to get the dopamine flowing. Nothing quite like drawing a heavy line through an item one’s already done; I highly recommend putting at least one thing already accomplished on any to-do list just to get the pump primed.

Today will be all about approving proofs, waiting for one last bit of paperwork to sign, and revisions. I can finally get serious about the Sons of Ymre #2 revise, so that will occupy me for a few days and subscribers might get to see an updated bit of that book. Plus I’ve got prep for the Spring’s Arcana release, including lots of deep breathing and bracing for the virtual launch. I’m growing increasingly nervous, as usual, and the only cure for that is enough work that I’ don’t think about it’m too busy to brood. The wild What-Ifs murmuring in my ear (what if the book sucks, what if everyone hates it, what if no publisher ever wants you again, what if, what if, what if…) can be reduced a dull roar if I’m distracted with keeping other chainsaws in the air.

I woke up with Charlie Puth’s Attention playing inside my head again–just the point where the beat drops, over and over again. Which isn’t bad, but I would like a change. Fortunately walkies and a run today will be full of other music, so there’s a chance. I think my brain just uses any leftover RAM to run music, so clearly the fix (if one is even needed) lies in giving it other things to play with. Keeping it occupied, just like any other toddler.

The trees are dancing like they do in springtime. It’s different than the cold, sleepy lashing of winter; I can only think the rising sap makes them move differently. The butterfly bush is greening, and the Japanese maples have started budding out. No sign from the dogwoods yet, but there’s time. The magnolias are beginning to shed waxy petals, a different snowfall.

And now the coffee is cold, too. I just drained the dregs, which means it’s time for brekkie and walkies. Boxnoggin is stirring, though he hasn’t trotted down the hall to get me moving yet. He’s not the type of herder Bailey was, but eventually he’ll show up to nose me for the door.

I’d best get moving.