Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 147

A Skeleton

My room is full of white-painted furniture now.

My friends keep asking what the hell is wrong with me, but since my bedroom window faces east and the wall of cedars behind our yard, I wanted lighter stuff in there. And it really had been too long since I went to Ikea.

Anyway, much thanks to the Princess, who is my helper of choice when it comes to Ikea furniture. Left alone, I have at least one fit of absolute psychotic frustration, but with her in the room, I can’t afford to curse–well, not as much, or as furiously. Plus, she’s really good at building things. I just need to get her a power drill of her very own. (Every girl needs one.)

So I have a white Hemnes dresser, and my bedroom altar is now a Hemnes secretary. You can fit an amazing amount of stuff into both. I had been wanting to get rid of the old teak altar piece for a long time, and thankfully someone else wanted it–after, of course, it was drained and deconsecrated.

So now my room looks all…light. And fresh. Sooner or later I’m going to have to think about paint, too.

Uh-oh…

Introducing SKIN

So I’m trying out Wattpad for a serial. We’ll see how this works out. I decided I’d throw an old piece into the cooker and update weekly-ish, unless disaster or deadline intrudes.

Werewolves on the moon, they said. What could go wrong, they said.

Yeah, let’s send everyone with the Lup17 virus offplanet, sure. Put them on a ghetto the size of a quarter of Terra, send up the bare minimum mandated survival tech and supplies, and sit back and watch the fun. Or just ignore it, let it go, survival of the fittest and all that.

Nobody really expected them to live up there.

Nobody ever expected the Outbreak, either. So all of a sudden the corpses rise and Terra becomes a wasteland, and there’s the Moon hanging like a ripe fruit, Luna all nice and shiny and terraformed and completely Outbreak-free. A choice between the shambling undead and the wolves who sometimes wore human skins, what do you think anyone would pick? We’re all humans, right? Right?

If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

So they wanted to come up. There were diplomatic hassles, there were speeches in the United, there was lots of gavel-banging and talk about saving the best and the brightest. The only trouble was, it ended up being the rich…and those with a grudge.

Every transport was supposed to be vetted before it blew atmo. Let’s keep Luna Outbreak-free!

Except they didn’t…

I have an idea of where this story ends up, and it’s not pleasant. Which cheers me up immensely. It will also exercise a couple of writing muscles I haven’t used in a while. In between this, the second Gallow book, and the sekrit agent book…hm. Might have bitten off more than even I can chew.

Time to grow bigger teeth…

THE RIPPER AFFAIR Released!

It’s here! It’s here! The Ripper Affair is now officially released!

Sorcery. Treason. Madness. And, of course, murder most foul…

A shattering accident places Archibald Clare, mentath in the service of Britannia, in the care of Emma Bannon, sorceress Prime. Clare needs a measure of calm to repair his faculties of Logic and Reason. Without them, he is not his best. At all.

Unfortunately, calm and rest will not be found. There is a killer hiding in the sorcerous steam-hells of Londinium, executing poor women of a certain reputation. A handful of frails murdered on cold autumn nights would make no difference…but the killings echo in the highest circles, and threaten to bring the Empire down in smoking ruins.

Once more Emma Bannon is pressed into service; once more Archibald Clare is determined to aid her. The secrets between these two old friends may give an ambitious sorcerer the means to bring down the Crown. And there is still no way to reliably find a hansom when one needs it most.

The game is afoot…

Available now through Barnes & Noble, Powell’s, Indiebound, and maybe even (yep, still this thing going on) at Amazon. As always, you can also purchase signed (and personalised!) copies through Cover to Cover Books–just fill out the Stock Inquiry form, and they’ll hook you up.

This is the last Bannon & Clare adventure for a while. I did have a few Emma & Archibald Go Traveling books planned, but other stuff intruded. Maybe later. As it is, this one opens with a bang (literally) and closes at just the right moment. I’m so excited, and I can’t wait to hear what you think of it!

Prisoner of Zenda Loo Seat Trundles, Redux

Odd Trundles

So, when last we saw Odd Trundles, we really hadn’t seen him at all. I’d just returned from driving the Little Prince to school and been greeted upon my return by Suspicious Silence, then Cacophony.

I burst into my bedroom, and at first was confused, because everything seemed to be fine. Miss B was there, wriggling all over as she greeted me (you’re BACK, oh how I’ve MISSED YOU in these twenty minutes, I thought you were NEVER coming back!) and the bed was still standing, my dresser and altar were in fine form, the pair of trainers I’d left by the bedside were unchewed…

…but the noise was coming from deeper in. To wit, the master bath. And Trundles, hearing reinforcements coming over the hill, set up a hue and cry.

*snortwhistle* *crash* “ooooOOOOOOOoooooh Mum is that yooooooOOOOOOuuuuuu, halp I am OOOOOOH halp mum pleeeeeeeease…” *moar crashing* *snortfartwhistle*

I almost tripped over Miss B, pushed her out of the way, stumbled for the loo door…and as I rounded that corner…well.

Remember that energy bar wrapper I set atop the loo seat? I do. It’s burned into my memory now, because as soon as I saw him, I realised what had happened. Odd Trundles had thought the thing might contain food, and there is nothing Odd loves more than food. Not even me. And of course the best, most AMAZING food…

…is the FORBIDDEN kind. Like a wrapper atop a (closed) toilet seat. I could see it clearly now–Odd snuffling at the seat while Miss B was prancing downstairs begging to be taken along in the car to drop the Little Prince off, and the a-ha! moment when Trundles the Opportunistic decided that since he was topheavy, the only way to get at said wrapper was to leap for it.

Now, Trundles is a good 50-60lbs of bulldog. The bamboo loo seat, even with its marvelous nickel hardware, was not built to withstand the application of sideways force he’s capable of generating. Plus, the actual bolt holding it onto the loo itself wasn’t nickel, it was either alloy or plastic.

No, I can’t remember which at this point. (I was a little busy at the moment.) It doesn’t matter. What matters, really, is that the sideways application of force broke both bolts and the loo seat hit the wall, then got stuck between the wall and the loo. It must have made an almighty noise, too.

How do I know, you ask?

Simple. Because things that change suddenly or make noise evoke one response in Odd, and one response only.

That response is, namely, BARKATTACKEATRINSELATHERREPEAT.

I further know this because Odd had decided the loo seat had probably eaten his prize (the wrapper) which had ended up in the corner behind the damn thing, next to the loo brush. And for Odd, that could not be borne.

Bulldogs have enormous heads. (That’s why most breeding females need C-sections.) I mention this only so you will understand, dear Reader, how Odd Trundles got his head wedged in the loo seat, which was stuck between the loo and the wall.

I stopped dead for a moment, looking at this, and my presence threw Odd into a fresh frenzy. He couldn’t see me, but he could hear me, and of course if I was present whatever beast had him by his head would release him, because Mum is the Fixer of All Ills and the Big Bad Rescuer of Bulldog From Any Fearsome Creature. The noise was incredible, and as usual, any large exciting event makes Odd’s tummy do strange things, so an eyewatering stench began.

It took a little while to extricate him, mostly because my eyes were watering from the smell (he didn’t quite, erm, soil himself, but it was close) and from sheer helpless laughter. Yes, I’m a horrible human being, because the sight of a dog stuck headfirst in a toilet seat is hilarious. I’m sorry, it just is. Plus, Miss B was in an ecstasy of Trying To Help, but her idea of “helping” was to try to get in there and nip at Odd’s haunches to herd him out of the corner he was in. I had to push her outside and shut the door, which meant she was barking and throwing herself at it while I struggled to free the prisoner.

When I finally got him out of the seat and the seat out from where it was wedged (miracle of miracles, it didn’t dent the wall too badly) we had what is generally referred to as a Teaching Moment. Not for me, because I had already learned two or three lessons at this point–chief among them, Lili, throw your damn wrappers away. Oh, no. The Teaching Moment was for Odd.

Because as soon as I got the seat out of the way and checked him for damage–there is a god who looks after drunks, small children, and Odd Trundles, I swear–Odd was able to go for his original goal, which had by now acquired titanic and mythical status inside his doggy brain.

That’s right.

The wrapper.

Which meant he almost got his head wedged in THAT corner, like the happy idiot he is, knocked over the loo brush, and had to be dragged out over the ruins of the bamboo loo seat and crated while I figured everything else out. Have you ever tried to drag a motivated bulldog away from something? I was reduced to my Mummy Voice and scolding him quite harshly, plus getting my arms under him and physically hauling his wriggling, topheavy ass out of the damn bathroom, getting the door open and almost dropping him on Miss B’s head in the process.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOING?” Miss B kept barking. “WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOING CAN I DO IT TOOOOOOO?” She only calmed down when I got him crated and told her to sit down and mind herself.

Finally, after I’d thrown the stupid wrapper away, gotten the broken loo seat into the rubbish bin outside, and trudged back inside and upstairs to let Odd out and take both dogs into the back yard, Odd had, as per usual, forgotten all about it. So it wasn’t quite a Teachable Moment, I guess.

“MY HEAD HURTS, MUM. *snortwhistle* I SHOULD PEE. *snortwhistlefartpeewhistle* OH LOOK, I PEED. DID I PEE? *snortsnortwhistle* I FEEL LIGHTER. HEY MUM, MY HEAD HURTS. IS THERE FOOD? SOMEWHERE, ANYWHERE, FOOD?” While Miss B bustled about him, self-importantly herding him all over the yard and inspecting him from (miraculously unharmed) top to toe.

Which meant that when I got both of them back inside and returned to the scene of the jailbreak, Odd noticed that something was Different. (No shit, the loo seat was gone.) And, of course, his response was, once again, BARKATTACK?EAT?BARKBARKATTACK. He produced such a sudden and alarming volume of noise I nearly leapt out of my skin, and I had to actually go and touch the loo to show him it wasn’t dangerous. “See, you idiot? It’s fine. Look, I’m right here touching it, it’s not going to hurt you, SHUT UP.”

That was how I ended up buying a new loo seat, how I learned to never leave a wrapper out even on a school morning, and why I will never, ever, but NEVER buy a loo seat with alloy or plastic bolts ever again. And you know what?

Odd crowded into the loo when I put the new seat on, sniffed it with great interest, barked once, then tried to get atop it as if the wrapper might have magically reappeared. To this day he watches the top of that particular loo seat, hopefully.

I just don’t even know.

RIPPER AFFAIR audio tidbit!

Hey. Psst. Want to hear a little but of the final (for a while) Bannon & Clare book, the Ripper Affair? (Which is out August 15th, by the way…)

Here you go.

Enjoy!

Prisoner of Loo Seat Zenda Trundles

A lot of you commented on Miss B’s “I Mean Business” noise during the whole WalkingForJesus Man thing. She doesn’t often make that sound. Of course, most people she’s pretty neutral on; she saves her affection and excitement for other dogs.

Odd Trundles is exactly the opposite. Other dogs are okay, he supposes, but what he really likes is the PEOPLES, and he will schnorgle them endlessly and gleefully–

What? What’s schnorgle? Well, it’s the sound a bulldog makes when he’s so excited by everything he’s sniffing that he starts to drool and snuffle it all back up. Odd Trundles is a McSchnorgle on his mother’s side, he informs people, it is a very old and proud name. I am also of the opinion that the McSchnorgles were fierce competitors in the Highland Games. And why, do you ask?

Simple: because of the time Odd tried to eat a toilet seat.

Getting out the door in the mornings during the last school year was a combination of Speed Racer, Ninja Assassin, endurance and agility training, and just sheer goddamn crazy. Thankfully, the Little Prince won’t need to be driven to and picked up from school anymore this year, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.

Anyway, often I wouldn’t have time for more than coffee before I had to hit the road. I tried, once or twice, choking down an energy bar in lieu of brekkie, but that just made me nauseous. I had to wait until I came back home for proper breakfast, then scramble out the door and get my run in. So, feeling pukey while driving or while running was my choice. Most times I picked running, because at least then I could toss my cookies without breaking stride. Vomiting while driving is not a good time.

However, some mornings I was hungry, and had enough time after coffee to get a Larabar in me. That particular morning I finished the last few bites while I was in the master loo (I will spare you the, um, details) but had to get going immediately after, and in a fit of what-the-hell, I didn’t throw the wrapper into the lidded rubbish bin. No, I set it, for some reason, atop the closed loo seat and hustled to get the Prince to school.

It was a nice seat, too. Bamboo. Nickel hardware. One of the first things I bought when we moved into the new chez. Never cold like other seats can be in the middle of winter. *sigh*

ANYWAY.

The Prince hopped safely out of the car and I was home again before long. I slammed the downstairs door, and immediately knew something was Not Right. For lo, I was not greeted by a wriggling Miss B (I’ve missed you so, I thought you were NEVER coming BACK, you’re here, let’s go do fun things!) or the sound of La Llorona Bulldog wailing from the top of the stairs (I’ve MISSED you, I KNOW you’re home, thought you were NEVER coming back, can’t CLIMB DOWN THESE STAIRS because I am TOPHEAVY *snortwhistle*), as those very things greet me after every sortie forth from Chez Saintcrow, especially trips to the mailbox or front steps. *eyeroll*

Instead, I heard suspicious silence. Not even the scrabble of paws on hardwood.

“Oh Jesus,” I said, and it must have echoed up the stairs, because I began to hear a furious amount of noise interspersed with bulldog screech-weeping, as if there had been another Prisoner of Zenda Trundles moment.

I didn’t crate him, I thought, and hightailed it up the stairs almost on all fours. Because if I hadn’t crated him, and he was into something, and Miss B wasn’t coming to greet me, well…it could only be dire.

I made it to the top of the stairs, almost tripped, banged my shoulder into the wall, and found out two things. One, that the weep-wailing was coming from behind the master bedroom door.

Which was closed.

Which was most emphatically NOT how I had left it.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathed, as the wailing reached new heights. I took off for my bedroom, almost couldn’t get the knob turned in time, banged my forehead a good one on the door, swept it open, and found I’d been right to worry.

…To Be Continued

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Cucumber Proportion & Walking For Jesus Man

No, I’m not drinking before blogging–though that holds a certain charm, really–the bottle is for proportion and perspective. I feel inordinately proud that I’ve grown a cubit-long cucumber. (And now all I can think of is Bill Cosby going “Riiiiiiight.”) Technically I didn’t do anything but plant, water, and weed, but I still feel ridiculously proud.

Saturday I finished the revisions for the first Gallow book. It’s clocking in at around 74-75k now, and several new scenes have been added. Now I sit and bite my nails and hope it doesn’t suck.

I took yesterday off to recover a bit, and managed to bomb over the river to Powell’s and Everyday Music with my writing partner. Then someone else made me dinner (let’s call him Tarzan, shall we?) and I was able to stumble off to bed and collapse.

The most exotic part of yesterday was my morning run, and not for the usual reasons. I’ve rehabilitated my ankle, so now I’m working back up to regular mileage. Yesterday was a “long” run, and of course Miss B thought she was in charge of two-thirds of it. What I’m going to do when that dog is too old to run is beyond me, I’ll probably look like a drunken sailor because I keep expecting an invisible dog to try and HEEEEERD me. But that’s not what made it…interesting.

I was on a long straight shot down a local road, running under trees and savouring the shade, when I saw a man waving frantically about two blocks ahead of me. Of course I slowed, and began scanning for the problem–car accident? Altercation? Did he have cohorts? I grabbed for the hand-loop on Miss B’s leash so she didn’t lunge until I was ready for her to, slowed further, and popped my earbud out. “Are you okay?” He really did look distressed.

He was a bit unshaven, gold-rimmed spectacles, wrinkled chinos, a polo shirt that was just a little past “not so fresh.” But this is Vancouver, we’re spitting distance from the rumpled-hipster parade of Portland, so he wasn’t really outre, just a little…crumpled. No blood or damage I could see, but he was sweating an awful lot–it was a warm morning, though. I couldn’t see a car accident, I couldn’t see if he had any confederates, and there was a fence instead of houses to my left, so he hadn’t run out of a house to seek some sort of aid.

He grinned, widely. “HELLOMA’AM. I AM WALKINGFORJESUS. DO YOU HAVE ANY SPARE CHANGE?”

I actually stopped, staring at him. Miss B made a low noise in her chest, the sort of do not come near my human, I mean business I rarely hear from her. I replayed what he said inside my head, and decided he had indeed told me he was walking for Jesus and asked for spare change.

My mouth opened, and what fell out was, “I am running, and I do not have time for bullshit.” I hopped off the sidewalk and gained speed, Miss B still making her grinding noise. When she does that, it’s best to listen.

I suppose he wasn’t ready for such a prompt response. I had almost gotten my earbud back in when I heard his final shot.

‘YOU ARE GOING TO HELL! SATAN HAS YOU!”

I wanted to round on him and tell him that I’d already survived childhood, hell holds no goddamn fear for me, and anyway, I don’t run with my pockets full of quarters to give out to shady fucks my dog doesn’t like. But why bother? Also, just getting away from the crazy and keeping my heartrate up and my stride long was probably the best response, since getting in an altercation would mean that I’d have to call the cops after I put him down and really, I did not have time for that bullshit.

It was only later I started trying to figure out what the hell had actually happened. Was he homeless, high, just desperate, figuring that saying “Jesus” would make a scam go easier, or what? Of all the times I’ve been accosted while running, this is one of the more puzzling.

Anyway, I turned in six and a half kilometers at a good steady 7:21 per, so I’m well on my way to getting back to regular running. What Walking For Jesus Man wanted or actually meant is beyond me, and is probably going to stay that way.

I can’t say I mind.

Winter Moon

One of the things about the old house was the moonrise in winter, always a lovely event. I’ve finally arrived at the point, after two years, where I can think about the good things about living there, instead of just how much I wanted to be OUT OUT DAMNED SPOT OUT OUT OUT OF HERE.

It’s nice, but it’s also so goddamn nice to be gone.

Chipping, Incognito

Chipping the words out, one by one. Yesterday was difficult–the scene I had to stitch into the first Gallow book took a different direction, and though I wanted to make it a neat little package it refused, point-blank, to do what I wanted. Just like coaxing a small animal out of hiding–you have to work on the animal’s schedule and comfort level, not your own.

That goddamn Muse, people. I’m telling you. Today she had better not give me any shite at all.

In better news, Ann Aguirre is signing at Book Bin East in Salem this evening. I’ll probably be there incognito. Come on out and show some Northwest love, if you can. It’ll be fun!

But first, back to the revisions. If I can wring another scene out of my head today and get a chunk of already-finished scenes eyeballed and tweaked, I’ll count it a win.

photo by:


linh.ngan

Reading, Lately

I’ve been taking notes on Pliny–the Pliny Train is still going, but doing posts every few pages, while fun for me, is a massive time investment and quite probably boring to everyone else. So I’m thinking about a different structure for those posts. More of an overview than a detailed reading.

In other reading news, I’ve finished Victorian Culture and Classical Antiquity. It was a fun read, in a crunchy cross-discipline way. Goldhill got a little unreadable when it focused on novels–a lit-critter he is definitely not–but the paintings and opera sections were just what I like: analysis, making connections, pointing out that a classical education wasn’t just education, it was also a passport into higher society and a ticket to a certain form of social mobility. It made me think very deeply about my own pursuit of what one might call a classical education, and the reasons why I do it, including cultural reasons that might not be immediately apparent to me. Culture is like Palmolive–you’re soaking in it, Madge.

I could have been happy with the “novels” section of the book given over to more exploration of opera, or more of the Pre-Raphaelites. I would have really loved to see Salome or Cleopatra get the same attention as Sappho and Mariamne, frex. Also, Goldhill on Wagner’s anti-Semitism is a fascinating chapter, and handled, I think, very well.

I’ve also finished Imago Dei. Based on a series of A. W. Mellon lectures Jaroslav Pelikan gave about Byzantine iconoclast and iconodule arguments–they were originally on a very fine tapestry icon–this is a really good introduction to the issues around the whole icon controversy in the early Church and, by extension, about some of the basic theological differences between Eastern and Western Christianity. Pelikan has a way of distilling and translating complex theological stunts and battles into understandable terms, and now I want to pick up some of his other history works. Granted, I feel about theology the same way I feel about sports–it’s all imaginary point-scoring that people riot and kill for when they could be making art or improving everyone’s quality of life instead–but still, to understand different historical periods it’s necessary to try to comprehend what people fought over and cared about.

One of the things I had never delved into before was the Eastern Orthodox chain of logic and belief around Marianism. It led me down some interesting mental roads, not the least of which was imagining myself a Byzantine semi-Hypatia, arguing that the true reflection of God was the woman who gave birth and then had to watch her child die as a result of stubbornness and bureaucratic idiocy. (Yeah, I would have been torn apart by a mob, too. Sigh.) I’ve been interested in Byzantium ever since I read Norwich’s excellent Short History of Byzantium–I liked it so much I went back and got the three-volume expanded work. (The first one’s here, if you’re interested.) It’s a natural extension of my interest in Rome. Norwich and Pelikan both have a very clear, patient style–one mark of understanding a subject thoroughly is being able to clearly explain bits of it to laymen, I think, and I find them both well worth the effort of reading and note-taking.

I’m still slogging through Braudel and also reading In The Fire of the Eastern Front as a part of my ongoing study of that WWII theater. It’s…interesting to see what the writer chooses to put down as justification for the war, and pretty intense practice in just reading for information while being sickened by what I know is occurring in the background of this one person’s story. Every once in a while, it’s good to read things one disagrees with, just to keep oneself flexible and open, not to mention compassionate.

So. What are you guys reading?