Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 145

Tuesday Flash Fiction

A cage. 200 words. GO.

Recharge

Dawn, again. The cavies are burbling softly. It’s kind of nice having them in the office, even if they’re weird little rodent critters. Still, since I’ve taken over caring for them (yes, I know, look, the kid was eleven, of COURSE he thought cavies were a fine idea and promised to care for them) I find myself sort of happy they’re not incredibly long-lived. It’ll be nice to have that entire third of my office back. And, well, they’re rodents. At least they don’t have those naked, loathsome tails. *shudder*

I believe it was Orwell’s Room 101 that sealed my dislike of rats into shuddering loathing. The first time I read that scene, I had nightmares for a solid week. By that time I was so completely emotionally invested in Winston Smith I half fancied I would develop a varicose ulcer. I was, I think, thirteen? Ever since then, rats and mice have been suspect. I remember having great difficulty watching The Secret of NIMH afterward, too.

One of the things about writing for a living is that I don’t fall into books as I used to. Some of that is merely a function of the sheer amount of reading I’ve done by now–there’s that golden time when one uncritically swallows books whole, and that vast mass is only digested later in one’s life. I don’t miss it as much as I thought I would; I read for other things nowadays. I think the last book that had me completely absorbed was a reread of Kerr’s Prague Fatale; I love me some Bernie Gunther. Oh, wait, there was a Shannon McKenna, too–she just keeps upping the ante with crazy, and I like that about her books.

I also just don’t read as much fiction as I used to. Unless there’s a certain level of craft and engagement, I find myself reading as if I’m going to edit, or “looking under the hood” to see why the author made the choices they did. Nonfiction is much more relaxing, I just shake my head over glaring typos instead of reaching for a red pen.

Today is for settling in the office and writing all day. I was going to go out to get a prescription, but it’s a postal holiday. Besides, I’ve had so much social interaction over the last four or five days I find myself twitching, and wanting a nice chunk or two of solitude to recharge.

Plus, I still need to get this fight in the goblin market done.

Over and out…

photo by:


Muffet

Proceeding Stubbornly

It’s a misty, beautiful dawn, red and gold, the moon peering through veils as she sails slowly for her rest. The Princess took pictures of it–she has a good eye for composition, probably from all the manga she reads and draws. The mist smells of drying leaves and that hint of spice-decay before the rains move in and turn it all to damp fungus-food. All India Radio playing softly behind me, my coffee mug slowly being drained, and for a few minutes, everything’s peaceful in the morning’s rush and bustle.

Work proceeds apace on the second Gallow and Robin novel, with today’s work a running battle in the middle of a goblin market. I’ve reached the point where what I thought was going to happen in the book is thrown out the window and what actually happens because the characters have thoughts of their own leaps in to fill the gap. I’ve lost count of how many books I’ve written, but it’s always the same–I despair of finding my way through the labyrinth, then turn around and find the thread in my hand. It’s like the logic of dreams. Speaking of those, I chose not to write mine down this morning, and now can’t remember what I didn’t want to remember about them.

Jacking and hacking your own brain is a weird sport.

Today’s run is almost-10K tempo. Which means 1.6km slow-running, 3.2km “fast,” a three-minute recovery, another 3.2km fast, and 1.6 slow-running. Since it’s over 8km I can’t take Miss B, and her annoyance at being left behind will require much petting and soothing. Odd, of course, won’t care as long as he gets to sleep on my bed. He’s beginning to hit the “floor potato” stage of bulldog-hood. He believes he’s doing a grand duty by holding the carpet down, and of course we pet and praise him for doing so.

Rattlesnake Wind is also heating up. I want to lunge for the end of that book, then heave a sigh and put it in a drawer. It’s had a hard gestation. I should never, ever let an unfinished zero draft out of my hands. I know this, and yet I talked myself into it, and as a result…well. Just got to finish it and put it to rest in a crypt.

My hair is still sticking up all over my head. I look like a scrubby-brush.

And that’s all I have to say. There’s other projects that need attention today too–edits on upcoming chapters of She Wolf and Cub, Storium stuff (my, game-writing is a different beast, there’s a HUGE learning curve) and piano practice, hopefully not as frustrating as yesterday’s hour of banging my head on the keyboard and moaning. It seems I’m doing that more and more, these days. Just stubbornly whacking at things. I know pathological stubbornness is my greatest asset and biggest talent, but it’s tiring.

Here’s hoping we all get through Thursday with only good surprises…

My Girl C

Me Before

I was going to tell you a long involved story about why my head’s shaved now, full of car chases, a bag of money, and four Persian cats playing ukuleles. But after sitting here for a long time…I can’t. More precisely, I won’t, I have limited emotional energy and trying to be cheerful and/or hilarious about it (because we laughed so much during the event, I can’t even tell you) would drain that down to null.

So I’ll be brief.

Rock the Skrillex

Christa was one of the three people who got me through the divorce. She’s one of the three people who took turns coming to see me, to check on me, and to lighten the agonizing load of depression and anxiety, week after week. I’ve known her since she was a teenager, and she’s grown into one of the bravest, funniest, smartest adults I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. She’s one of the (very few) people who can call me at 3am from a foreign jail and say “GET ME OUT OF HERE,” and have me roll out of bed and get on a plane to mount a rescue operation, and vice versa. (Note: this hasn’t happened, but it’s nice to know, right?)

Christa is in her mid-20s now. She has Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

Scene of the crime, baby

Since she’s so young, she’s on a pretty aggressive chemo. Her hair started falling out by the handful last week, so she got some wigs and shaved her head–and then she came over and shaved mine.

“Are you sure?” she kept asking. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

The hell I didn’t. Fuck cancer, man. Fuck it. This is my girl, one of my two best friends in the entire world. We’ve relied on each other, gotten each other through so goddamn much.

The worst thing is that this is an enemy I can’t hunt down and beat the shit out of for her.

Trundles Investigates

You guys know I rarely ask. But if you have some change rattling around, and feel a need to throw it at something, there’s a gofundme for Christa’s medical bills. Should you feel moved to contribute, thank you.

Pair of babes, yo.

So that’s why I’m rocking the Buddhist nun look lately. And wearing hats.

That’s all.

My girl C

Sheer Enraged Entitlement

My hair’s reaching that point where it won’t lie down, it just sticks straight up like I have a sink scrubber on my head. More about that tomorrow, I don’t feel up to writing the whole thing now.

Today will be another 80+ degree day. GO HOME, OCTOBER. YOU’RE DRUNK.

There’s been some talk lately about “An open letter to the self-published author feeling dissed.”

I asked Sutton, “What do you say to the indie writer who reminds you that Walt Whitman was self-published?”

“You are not Walt Whitman,” he said. “The 21st century is different in so many ways from the 19th that the comparison is meaningless. No one is forbidding you from self-publishing, but neither is anyone required to pay attention.”

We both agree that books from indie writers will only increase. “It may engender a whole new stream of book reviewing,” Sutton said, “but I doubt it, because people are more interested in writing self-published books than in reading them. And if old media is so passe, why do they care so much about what we think?” (Washington Post)

This is, in large part, why I’m considering no longer offering editing services. The sheer enraged entitlement of anyone who thinks it’s “easy” to write a book, that they don’t have to study craft or do their due diligence on the industry itself, they can just vomit up whatever wish-fulfillment or fanfic they want and have it immediately make them buckets of money, is bad enough. (I am well aware I am generalising here.) But when that entitlement slops over into the egregiously bad behaviour one sees daily–well, it’s worse than reading slush, and that’s saying something. It’s getting to the point that I’ve refused clients because their expectation is that I’ll introduce them to an agent, give them a magic handshake, or that my job is to kowtow to them instead of to edit.

I realise these are several different issues–the self-publishing shit volcano, the idea that an author who publishes with a trad house is somehow a “gatekeeper” or a “traitor,” the culture of entitlement on the internet, the ease of firing off an email or blog comment when someone’s opinion has pissed you off–but added together, they make me tired.

I also wonder whether people were as entitled before the internet, but this just puts it on display and gives it a venue. Given the plus ca change involved in humanity, it’s not unlikely.

I am SO GLAD I am not reading slush anymore. Even years ago before people could scratch out some bellybutton lint and expect to be paid for it on Amazon, one would get nasty, hate-filled screeds from a certain slice of the slush pile. It’s only grown worse, and seems to be bleeding over into other people who want to get “published” (if you can call it that) by hook, crook, or any other method. I understand wanting to get your story out to the world, I really do. My understanding and compassion, however, does not excuse you treating someone badly, making death threats, or calling you a “toof aced lieing cunt[sic]” like the email that landed in my inbox this morning.

*eyeroll* AND YOU WONDER WHY I TURNED DOWN THE CHANCE TO EDIT YOUR 130K MAGNUM OPUS, SIR. If the only word you can spell correctly is “cunt,” there is not enough money in the world to pay me for the headache.

Anyway. *clears throat* I’m not sure how this is all going to shake out for the industry. But until the market adds some quality control, my time might be better spent knitting.

photo by:


Land Rover Our Planet

Thrillfear

I had thought that once kids weren’t in elementary school anymore, their parents would begin to show a certain maturity. In the parking lot, to be specific, while dropping their kids off.

I don’t know why I thought that. After all, the times when I drive the Princess to high school, it’s just like the elementary school parking lot. People forget to use their turn signals, cut in line, make gestures, and almost run over kids in their haste to get their little darlings to the front of the line. This morning I was almost sideswiped by a Prius, of all things.

Sheesh. You’d think they would have learned to wait in line and be courteous in grade school. Guess not.

Anyway, today’s for fresh wordcount! There’s the second Gallow book to keep shoveling at–it wants to be written out of order, strange but not entirely unexpected when you’re writing about the Good People. And there’s also Rattlesnake Wind to write on, since it won’t get out of my head. It’ll never sell, but at least once I finish it my brain will be my own again. Then I can stick it in a drawer and let it moulder.

It’s weird to be writing something that isn’t to be released into the wild. Freeing, and a little scary. The fear is a thrill, like biting into fiery dark chocolate. While I have that, no amount of sideswiping Priuses (Priuii?) can disturb my good mood.

*shuffles off to write*

photo by:


mybulldog

SHE WOLF AND CUB Starts Today!

Have you ever said to yourself, “Self, where are all the cyborg assassin Westerns, because I really want to read one?”

I did. So I wrote one. And you can now read it.

That’s right! Fireside has just begun Year Three. That means my book-length serial, She Wolf and Cub, taking off where my short story Maternal Type ends, is beginning! Chapter One is out today. It has art by the fabulous Galen Dara and is just generally some of the most kickass fun I’ve had writing something for a long while.

Longtime readers will remember that PACK, an e-short out through Orbit, is one of my first attempts at writing the short story that eventually became She Wolf and Cub. Just in case you wanted to see how a story can change, and morph, and become something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

I’m really excited for this year’s Fireside, and I hope you guys are too. Please consider subscribing or otherwise supporting–Fireside’s mission is providing great fiction AND paying its writers a decent wage, two things I very much believe in.

Happy Monday!

From Vodka to Uncanny

This morning I interred a dead squirrel, and other than a slightly surreal conversation with a neighbour who inquired “what’s in the bag?” (Answer: “A dead body. Wanna see?”)…nothing happened. All went smoothly, with no screaming, shoelessness, canine follies, or feline insanity.

Anticlimactic, ennit? But also strangely thrilling in its own way.

ETA: Since so many have asked, NO, it was most emphatically NOT Beauregarde. It was a lady squirrel from another territory up the street.

In other news, I’m revising the first Gallow book (again, I keep stabbing it and it WON’T DIE) and catching up on some reading.

I finished Mark Lawrence Schrad’s Vodka Politics. The basic premise–that the autocratic regimes in Russia have profited so extensively from vodka–by taxation or in other ways, like Catherine the Great’s marinating a regiment in booze as she asked for their protection, just for example–that what he calls “vodka politics” has infiltrated almost every aspect of governance and has also grown intertwined with the culture, with predictably disastrous demographic results, is intriguing and I found much to bolster it in his sources and footnotes. I especially enjoyed reading about Murray Feshbach, a kickass demographic researcher and scholar, who I had no idea even existed. There were also historical nuggets I could have read all day, from Empress Elizabeth’s ascension to Stalin’s drunken parties, and the anecdote about Nicholas II so drunk he climbed onto roofs and howled at the moon, believing himself a werewolf. Schrad’s careful tracing of the financial consequences of depending on vodka taxation for a significant chunk of the government’s budget and the various Prohibition-esque reforms blowing holes in said budgets and causing unrest was compelling.

Unfortunately, Schrad needed a better copyeditor. The homophone abuse really detracted from an otherwise stellar reading experience. My personal favourite was a passage about people so desperate for vodka they drank “break fluid.” It sounds picky, but the confused homonyms and homophones were so marked I felt like I was reading a poorly-edited college paper, full of great ideas and solid research but crippled by a lack of basic grammar study.

I’m also within spitting distance of finishing Renee Bergland’s The National Uncanny. From Barnes & Noble:

Although spectral Indians appear with startling frequency in US literary works, until now the implications of describing them as ghosts have not been thoroughly investigated. In the first years of nationhood, Philip Freneau and Sarah Wentworth Morton peopled their works with Indian phantoms, as did Charles Brocken Brown, Washington Irving, Samuel Woodworth, Lydia Maria Child, James Fenimore Cooper, William Apess, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and others who followed. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Native American ghosts figured prominently in speeches attributed to Chief Seattle, Black Elk, and Kicking Bear. Today, Stephen King and Leslie Marmon Silko plot best-selling novels around ghostly Indians and haunted Indian burial grounds.

Renée L. Bergland argues that representing Indians as ghosts internalizes them as ghostly figures within the white imagination. Spectralization allows white Americans to construct a concept of American nationhood haunted by Native Americans, in which Indians become sharers in an idealized national imagination. However, the problems of spectralization are clear, since the discourse questions the very nationalism it constructs. Indians who are transformed into ghosts cannot be buried or evaded, and the specter of their forced disappearance haunts the American imagination. Indian ghosts personify national guilt and horror, as well as national pride and pleasure. Bergland tells the story of a terrifying and triumphant American aesthetic that repeatedly transforms horror into glory, national dishonor into national pride.

So far the most interesting and intriguing part of the book has been about William Apess; Bergland makes a case for his successful espousal and development of nonviolent resistance during the Mashpee Revolt of 1833 (here’s a good source) spurring Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience. I’ll have more to say when I finish it–I am really interested to see what she says about Leslie Marmon Silko–but so far the book has been two thumbs way, way up and I have a list of texts she references that I should probably pick up for my own perusal.

And that’s, as they say, all the news fit to print today. Time to make a cuppa and settle into revisions once more, so I can get this book off my plate before the first of October.

Looking at that, I find myself wondering if wine might be a better bet, but it’s still before noon…

photo by:


Muffet

Fleeing Beauregarde

WHAT THE HELL?

So, the Mad Tortie slunk through the grass, every line of her intent on the little rodent being marinated by an extremely excited Odd Trundles. I can only surmise she thought she was going to snatch a snack from the Jaws of Bulldog Fate. A tiny pre-tea comestible, perhaps.

She had not reckoned on the snack seeing her, taking a deep breath, and wriggling out from under Odd Trundles to streak across the yard towards her, screeching, “FIEND! VILLAIN! TO ARMS, TO ARMS! I SHALL SAVE THEE, FAIR BIPEDAL PRINCESS!”

Tarzan was still busy laughing. Miss B, caught in the act of dominance-humping Odd Trundles, suddenly realized something was running and she ought to chase it, but since she was in an, erm, compromising position, she actually fell over trying to get untangled. She landed on her back, paws flailing madly, screaming “HEEEERD IT!” and poor Odd, thinking that he’d done something wrong but not knowing exactly what, took off running. Unfortunately he was pointed at the same damn tree that starred in the SQUIRRELPROOF 5000 DEATHRIDE.

The tree that, no matter how many times Odd head-butts it, refuses to move out of his way.

“STOP!” I screamed, and poor Tarzan almost had a heart attack.

“TO BATTLE!” Beauregarde yelled, and leapt for the Mad Tortie.

Who slammed her brakes on and dug her claws in, suddenly unsure how to handle a snackable that was on the attack instead of fleeing. Beauregarde bounded through the grass, and almost caught her. She is, however, a cat, and that means quick-ass reflexes. She reversed, and took off, streaking away towards the corner housing a dogwood tree. This meant Odd Trundles could see her and change course by a fraction, and of course by this time Miss B had managed to gain her feet and get some traction.

So there went the Tortie, her tail puffed out like a bottle brush, pursued by the bulldog-slimed baby squirrel, who is perhaps as big as one of Odd Trundles’s paws, then Odd Trundles, barely missing the tree and trundling as hard as he could, and finally Miss B, who didn’t know what the hell but something was running and by God, she was going to chase it.

Normally the Tortie can leap for the top of the chain-link fence and be gone in a heartbeat, but that leap requires a bit of setup. She visibly realised she wasn’t going to make it, turned a 180 in the middle of a fern, dashed past Beauregarde (still yell-squeaking “BATTLE! BATTLE! BLOOD AND GLORY!”) and sailed over Odd Trundles, who tried to halt his forward motion and got piled on by Miss B, who had just reached warp speed.

Beauregarde: “HONOR! GLORY! IN MY LADY’S NAME!”

Odd: “NEWFRIEND OUCH WHATHAPPEN OHNEWFRIEND *fartwhistle* WHERE AM I?”

Miss B: “AUGH! MUST HERD! MUST HERD! MUST HEEEEEEERD IT!”

Tarzan: *half-dead of laughter*

Me: *slackjawed amazement*

The Tortie finally realised she was running from a snackable, and something deep in the dim recesses of her catskull informed her this was a violation of the natural order. Consequently, she skidded to yet another stop next to the upended bicycle, and started her usual coping mechanism when she suspects something out of the usual has occurred, otherwise known as GROOMING AND IGNORING.

Since she wasn’t running, Beauregarde almost ran into her, and the Mad Tortie, instead of fleeing, resorted to another default: hissing and giving him a filthy look. Miss B, having re-achieved warp speed, apparently thought the tiny, slather-soaked puppy was about to flee in a different direction, because she sailed past both Beauregarde and the Tortie, pausing only to nip at empty air before curving off to run a lap or two around the garden box, behind the shed, along the back fence, and careening around the dogwood.

Odd Trundles, heaving, puffing, and blowing–this was quite a lot of exercise for such a rotund gentleman with so compromised an otolarhyngic system–trotted to a mild-mannered stop, dragged himself another few paces, and began to lick at Beauregarde again, who had perhaps come to the conclusion that none of these windmills were going to tilt back at him, because he simply hunkered down under Odd’s tongue while the Tortie studiously ignored both of them.

Tarzan, wiping his eyes, finally gathered enough breath to talk. “This…is…bizarre…” he panted.

I didn’t trust the sudden calm. “WELCOME TO MY LIFE. B—–!” I used her Full Name and my You Are My Child tone, but I was reduced to actually chasing her, grabbing her, dragging her up the stairs, and all but tossing her into the house, where she proceeded to tear around the upper floor, spreading dirt and excitement and fur everywhere.

Trundles was only coaxed away from his new friend by peanut butter clinging to my fingers, and I had to nurse him up the steps while Beauregarde twitched his tail and tried to engage the Mad Tortie in fisticuffs. She ignored him, but while he was so fixated on her I got Odd up the stairs and inside as well, where Miss B, out of her tiny little mind with excitement, immediately pounced upon him and demanded he play. Of course, his paws were dirty too, and they knocked over the piano bench, and–

What? Beauregarde? Oh, I stamped back down the deck stairs to find the Tortie slinking away under the gate, and Beauregarde trailing her, chittering madly. Tarzan, having regained some sort of control over himself, greeted me with a merry, “Hey, do you have any peanuts?”

“NOT ANOTHER PET,” I fumed in reply. “NOT UNTIL ONE OF THEM DIES. AND THAT MIGHT BE SOON IF THEY PISS ME OFF ANY MORE.”

“COME BACK!” Beauregarde screamed. “FIGHT LIKE A QUADRUPED, YOU COWARD!”

“No, I think maybe I can lure him away, and leave him in someone else’s yard.” Tarzan peered around the corner of the house. “If there’s peanuts or something…”

So that was how Tarzan ended up coaxing a baby squirrel down the street with a fallen apple from the neighbour’s tree, like some sort of sheepish Pied Piper. Of course, Beauregarde only followed him because the Tortie, interested in what Tarzan was carrying, trotted along at his heels. So it was a six-foot former swimmer and a mad tortoiseshell cat sauntering down the street, chased by a teacup-sized squirrel who kept yelling about his princess and his honor, not to mention cowards and tormenters.

Tarzan returned with somewhat unseemly haste and dragged the bike into the garage to finish working on it, I went inside to clean up, and we both hoped we’d seen the end of Beauregarde the Doughty, last glimpsed under a neighbour’s truck with the Mad Tortie, who had–you guessed it–decided that she might groom him as well, since the dogs had sampled him so thoroughly.

I don’t even know.

Well, at least, that was the last Tarzan saw of him. There was later, when the damn squirrel tried to waltz in through the French door–but that’s (say it with me) another story.

THE END

FINALLY

(UNTIL SOME DAMN THING ELSE HAPPENS…)

Blank Spaces

I’m taking a break from writing the adventures of Beauregarde–we’ll finish up next week, I think.

I woke up from a pretty intense dream this morning, and as I was writing it down (I love these for dream journals, by the way) I realised that the setting for the dream was actually someplace I’d been in my childhood. I hadn’t recognised it, because there are gaps around certain traumatic childhood and teenage events. Memory fuzzes into a particular sort of gray haze, and a rushing in my ears–a rushing I’m all too familiar with, the precursor to disassociation.

I learned how to disconnect very early, certainly before I was six years old. I’d focus on that roaring in my ears, for example while an adult caregiver was screaming or enraged, and just check out. It protected me from sonic or physical assault, helped me cope with dangerous, unpredictable adults. It helped me retain some psychic integrity while at the mercy of baffling, raging giants unable to be propitiated or calmed.

But there are still those gaps. I used to think that I should actively pursue those blank spaces, dig through them, expose exactly what had been done to me during them. Calm Therapist and Frau Doktor, however, both suggested to me that maybe I didn’t have to, if I didn’t feel like it. The deciding factor, both of them noted, was whether or not I felt there would be a benefit to doing so. “I should” is not necessarily “it would be beneficial for me to,” a lesson I find I have to keep relearning. Naturally I want to face such things so the monster isn’t behind me, breathing on my neck. (I hate that. I’m a firm believer in turning around and beating the shit out of said monster.) Balancing that against the idea that maybe those scars have healed and I don’t need to cut them open is strange, a skill I’ve only slowly begun to master. I’m hoping it’s like a bicycle, it’ll become habitual after a while.

Which leads me to thinking that perhaps the dreams are ways of processing, too, my body and brain drawing the poison from things so awful I chose to blank them out entirely. After all, you can wake up from a dream. For a long time, as a helpless child, there was no waking up. I much prefer adulthood, with my own car keys, bank accounts, and the ability to walk away from certain relationships and people who made my earlier years so incredibly damaging and toxic. Sometimes people ask me if I wish I was younger, and my immediate “OH HELL NO” and laughter has a bitter edge. The further I get from being small, helpless, and terrorised, the better.

I remember leaving my childhood home for good, and feeling relieved and vastly less terrified than I expected. The outside world, I felt, couldn’t be as bad as the nightmare inside those walls. I’m happy to say I was right. Nothing I’ve endured since has made me regret that choice or want to go back in any way–which is saying something.

So I’ll keep writing the dreams down, and leaving those rushing-air spaces to open in their own time, if they want to. If they don’t, well, I’m slowly beginning to think that they don’t have to. A traumatic childhood doesn’t have to define me. Now that the anxiety is being managed and my entire body has had a chance to rest from years of severe, daily panic attacks, it’s a lot easier to find other definitions. One of the great joys of adulthood is building those new structures.

There’s also bacon, kung fu movies, having ice cream for dinner, and raising my own beautiful, fearless children who have never been spanked, terrorised, or even yelled at, who can’t even imagine such things. All in all, I much prefer things this way.

photo by:


AnnieCatBlue