what we know is true

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.

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.

Breaching in Absurdity

Humpback Whale in Body of Water
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos

There was a band of bright pink and gold at the eastern horizon when I took Boxnoggin out for his first loo break of the day, and a waning moon tangled in the lilacs’s bare branches as well. I prefer to be going to bed as the sun is rolling out, but decades of kid- and dog-schedules means it hasn’t been an option.

Maybe someday soon. In the meantime, there are bits of beauty to be found even while my body grumbles.

My health almost broke completely last week, but things are a tiny bit better now and I’m trying to be as gentle as I can. Plus there’s all sorts of purging and spring cleaning in the works. I can’t recall the last time I did a good old-fashioned Kondo-ing–I have to wait for better weather to put a “free” pile at the end of the driveway, but that just gives me time. I’m breaking tasks into tiny chunks, arranging them like mosaic around the large stones of two projects on the grill.

At least those are going well. I’m within striking distance of finishing two zero drafts at once. Maybe when that’s done I can arrange the surroundings for my usual productivity, because if I’m not juggling three-plus projects at a time I don’t know who I am. I need that third slot in my working schedule open, dammit.

The biggest thing is trying to be kind to myself, a skill I have very little practice with. I tend to hurt myself before anyone else can get around to it, a purely protective mechanism. Trying to be friendly with the person in the mirror is difficult at best; on the other hand, difficulty is what practice is for. The purging of physical space will also help me let go of habits which aren’t serving me. At least, that’s the theory. We all know how vast–and instructive–a gulf looms between planning and execution.

One of the quandaries I’ve been struggling with lately is the paradox of being completely free to decide who to be, and it generally ending up with being who one actually is. I could not wrap my brain around it, no matter how accustomed I’ve become to putting a few contradictory ideas in the old skull-case and just…letting them sit there. There was something in the tension I just wasn’t seeing, and I kept picking at it with every invisible finger I could spare. (Like a scab…)

A couple days ago Boxnoggin was busily sniffing a thorny bush he always tries to get his harness hooked on while voiding his bladder into its tangle. I was occupied with keeping just enough tension on the leash to make sure he didn’t get gouged like a prince attempting to hack his way to a sleeping castle, and it hit me. Right between the eyes, in fact, and I gasped with relief like a breaching whale.

I’d overlooked preferences. Choosing what one wants to be can be boiled down to a preference. For example, I prefer to be kind, it’s literally the easiest state for me and has the benefit of feeling good as well. And what are preferences but part of who one is? The paradox is not neatly resolved–it never is–but the signpost goes up and that’s all I need.

Just point me at it, and I’ll start moving.

Of course, some of my wants and preferences are a little less than ideal–frex, I would prefer to be in bed right now, and to stay there while the books write themselves. Alas, such is not the world we are given. But even those non-ideal wants make me who I am, and I get to decide which of them to indulge and which to gently chivvy myself out of. I suppose that’s the “absolute freedom” part of the bloody paradox.

Life has mostly been about what I can endure rather than what I like. Philosophically it’s been great training; emotionally it’s been a rough patch. Now I have a little breathing room to do something else. Sorting through a midlife tangle (because I’m sure that’s what some of this is, just a function of getting older) is proving most enlightening. A few parts are even fun, but mostly they’re deeply satisfying, plenty amusing, and occasionally painful enough to provoke tears.

I never used to cry, either. Nowadays it’s safe enough to let a few feelings show. A great and lovely change.

Anyway, the coffee is almost done, and there’s feathery bright clouds over a layer of darker grey as the sun rises. The daily balance has been tipped past dawn into actual morning, and soon the dog will need his ramble. I might even have another meditative untangling while he’s busy sticking his nose in something foul; they tend to happen when life is simply so absurd a deeper meaning can slip through the cracks. And we all know dogs are great at absurdity.

See you around.

Soundtrack Monday: Carnival

It’s time for another Soundtrack Monday! I’m getting increasingly nervous over the release of Spring’s Arcana, which is entirely normal. Publishing is such a delayed-gratification game, one has plenty of time for one’s nerves to get frayed to transparency just…waiting.

Anyway, I was thinking about Nat Drozdova this morning. The soundtrack for the books is pretty long, as such things go–don’t worry, come release day I’ll post it so you can listen. But I thought there’s no harm in giving a little taste before then, is there?

Natalie Merchant’s beautiful, lyrical Carnival is a very Young Drozdova song. Her trip across the continent is full of wonderful, terrible, awe-inspiring things; the rhythm also echoes that of car tires on American highways. Everyone she meets has some kind of agenda, even the mortals; she herself feels so disconnected and alien she often simply watches, wondering at the show.

I’ve felt like this myself more than once. As if life is merely a pageant, and I am the scribe meant to witness before distilling. Of course, I’m no divinity…

…but there’s always tomorrow. Honestly, sometimes mortality seems a better bargain than having to bear the burden of personal history. But that’s a whole ‘nother book series.

Enjoy!

Preparing the Ground

Under the ice, the green lingers.

Pretty much all the powder is melted. The snow was so dry that its compacting during melt turned into a particular type of granular ice, and lingered in shaded corners. The moss is having a wonderful time with this, since even if it’s chilly it’s also damp, and they love the wet to near-distraction.

These lumps of moss are actually a coat over some scalloped concrete, and you can see how thick the velvet is. Also, the pine needles and detritus deserve a round of applause for providing nourishment. Everything works together, even on a bare stony surface.

I’m attempting to feel hopeful today. That’s probably why I’ve been so obsessed with Bryophyta lately–even under the worst conditions it finds a way to flourish, and prepares the ground for later growth. One can take a lot of comfort in that.

Have a wonderful weekend, my beloveds. Mine will be spent with proofreader queries, but that’s a small price to pay. I might get half a day off and some tiramisu…but I’ve got to get through the work first.

Aid, Abet, Power, Justice

I finished off the weekend by watching a Netflix documentary on Charles Cullen, nurse and extremely prolific serial killer. What struck me was not his methods–sociopaths gonna sociopath–but the way he was allowed to keep killing, aided and abetted by the American for-profit “healthcare” system. Many other serial killers have been aided and abetted by misogyny in similar fashion.

I could write a whole article about the links, but I’m tired, only halfway through my coffee, not being paid nearly enough, and have deadlines besides. Instead I’ll just say, serial killers are cowards and they choose vulnerable, marginalized prey. We find the idea of the handsome genius serial killer entrancing because it makes for good fiction and we want there to be some meaning in the horror, but in reality they are empty wastes creeping through shadows and picking off easy prey if they think they can get away with it.

And all too often, society colludes.

I mean, I love a good serial killer show or detective novel just like anyone else. I enjoy the fiction. The real-life study is something I engage in because looking steadily at the horror is my lot in life. Plus, I have always tried to believe knowledge is power. (Cersei Lannister says power is power, and as a reductionist analysis it’s fine as far as it goes, but it’s also bad-faith, too simplistic, and let’s not even talk about problematics.) I’ve also tried to believe in justice, though I know very well otherwise. (Pratchett in Hogfather pointed out why it’s important to believe so; I shall let you go forth and discover–or remember–for yourself.) At the same time, I think a lot of power resides in belief, in finding meaning, in patterns and the breaking of them.

…it’s a Monday, I’m allowed to be philosophical. At least before the caffeine hits.

Today is for more Hell’s Acre, getting prepped for a meeting I don’t want to have, finally a ramble with Boxnoggin–who has been very patient with the snow keeping us from his accustomed exertions–and a decent run. It’s the last I’m looking forward to most. Getting the stress chemicals sweated out and rinsed off will do me no end of good, and thankfully the sidewalks are clear. A few more days above freezing and the snow will be a distant memory. The dog can hardly wait; I suppose I’m the same.

Onward and upward, then.

Shit-Flingers Gonna Shit-Fling

I’m tired today. I made the mistake of remarking on being happy that people who read a certain YA series were writing their own books and fics now–and telling me about it–and for some reason that set off an avalanche of hatemail. Apparently I am not allowed to be happy that people found some value in my work.

This is absolutely exhausting. Especially when added to exploitative corporations, entitled ebook thieves, and so-called “reviewers” who hound me to produce more work so they can snitch-tag me about how much they despise it. Some days I bloody well wonder why I do this, any of this. I mean, I’ll never stop writing…but publishing?

That’s a different kettle of fish altogether.

I know I should focus on the positive, and many days I do. I’ve built a lot of guardrails and habits into my day to cut down on the chance of shit-flingers deciding I look like an easy target. But apparently remarking out loud that the stress of writing a certain series was worth it, that I’m happy for the people who found it worthwhile, is Too Much and I must be punished roundly for it. The funny thing is, most of this crop of shit-flingers seem upset over things I had literally no control over, publisher decisions I was not allowed to say “no” to. And if they’re not upset over that, they’re upset that a series with a teenage narrator has bad choices, questionable behavior, and messy growing-up themes; they claim to be furious that the main character wasn’t a little ball of sweetness, light, and perfection.

Of course, had she been, they’d be mad because “she’s privileged” or “she’s a Mary Sue.” And if she made good choices it wouldn’t be a series about growing up, not to mention it would’ve stunk of bullshit to such a degree no reasonable reader would want to come near it. And, for the record, if I hadn’t fought so hard and pushed back against other questionable publisher impulses so much, the entire thing would’ve been reduced to irredeemable pap these same people would despise as well.

There is no winning with people addicted to the emotional jolt of outrage. They will never be happy with anything; they will find reasons to be shitty, and to shit all over everyone else’s joy. If there isn’t something awful in a book they will contort their reading of the text, putting pretzels to shame, until they somehow make something awful, then blame the author and try to whip up a resultant internet mob. Bad-faith “interpretations” and flaming are their preferred source of oxygen, and you can recognize them handily by the fact that they literally never have a good thing to say. (Unless it’s about their own work, if they can take enough time away from their outrage manufacturing to actually finish a piece.) It’s all doom, gloom, and how-dare-you, no breaks and no time off for good behavior.

No book or series is perfect, of course. And the vast majority of reviewers, readers, editors, and netizens are good people. Unfortunately, bad apples poison everything in the barrel, and are just one more shitty, toxic reason to find some other career. The bad-faith actors are loud, and get a lot of attention. Sometimes, due to the law of averages, they even manage to point their ire at a fellow bad-faith actor.

I’m never quite sure how to feel about that.

Some days it’s tiring, especially when one’s inbox fills up with shit-flinging. I try to focus on the bulk of my usual mail, which is far more pleasant; I keep access to my life carefully gated. And I remind myself, over and over again, “I can block and set up filters, this is just a small part of the correspondence I receive. I can walk away. Nasty people have to sit in their indignation-filled nappies 24/7; I can be glad I’m not them.”

Theirs must be a terrible way to live, after all. I can pity it, while not letting the poison reach me. I know this is just a temporary tiredness, I’ll feel better soon, and the shit-flingers will find something else to toss their ordure at. It’s like the weather–rains on the just and the unjust alike, and all that.

But dear gods, sometimes it wears on one, especially when I’m apparently not even allowed to let a lot of very kind people know I’m overjoyed that they’re creating their own books and fics and art. I suppose I should have known better and braced myself for that particular flood, since any sign of joy is like blood in the water for that certain proportion of folks, but oh well.

The dog requires his walkies, and there’s work to do. I suppose I’d best quit complaining and get to it. I don’t write for the shit-flingers, and it’s best to remember that.

See you around.