Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 148

PACK and the Ripper Affair!

Here’s the cover for PACK. Isn’t it pretty? It’s an upcoming Orbit Short Fiction drop (similar to Unfallen) and it’ll be available on 9/23. But I was able to get permission to share the cover with you, my dear chickadees.

Pack is a weird little story. It’s related to my Fireside Fiction short Maternal Type, in a way–whenever I set out to write a short story, I have several weird almost-false starts. I call them “almost-false” because each one teaches me a little more about what the story actually needs to be, and sometimes they develop into finished works in their own right. I find shorts very, very difficult to write, but sometimes the starts uncover another story that was waiting to be told. Pack is one of them.

Readers of Maternal Type (and those waiting for the upcoming serial in Year 3 of Fireside Magazine) will see commonalities, from the feral child to the no-nonsense protagonist. But I think each story stands on its own.

And there’s something else exciting, too…

I got boxes of author copies of The Ripper Affair yesterday! (It officially goes on sale August 15.) Amazon is still being nasty and not letting people preorder it, but Barnes & Noble, Powell’s, and Indiebound can hook you up. If you want a signed (or personalised!) copy, all you have to do is order from Cover to Cover, my friendly local indie. It’s the last Bannon and Clare book for a while, but I think it’s a good one.

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, murdering poor women of a certain reputation. A handful of frails unseamed 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…

I’m so excited about this, I’m having trouble sitting still. I’m hard at work revising the first Jeremy Gallow book, as well as working on a super-sekrit YA that probably won’t sell, but I love it and I’m going to finish it anyway.

Back to work…

On Amazon (Again)

I haven’t spoken about the Amazon-Hachette stuff again, mostly because I don’t have time for the army of angry self-pub evangelists who inevitably descend (and send me nasty, ungrammatical, indifferently punctuated screeds) but thankfully, I do not have to with Chuck Wendig and John Scalzi doing such a good job.

Here’s Scalzi:

…I really really really wish Amazon would stop pretending that anything it does it does for the benefit of authors. It does not. It does it for the benefit of Amazon, and then finds a way to spin it to authors, with the help of a coterie of supporters to carry that message forward, more or less uncritically.

Look: As Walter Jon Williams recently pointed out, if Amazon is on the side of authors, why does their Kindle Direct biolerplate have language in it that says that Amazon may unilaterally change the parameters of their agreement with authors? I don’t consider my publishers “on my side” any more than I consider Amazon “on my side” — they’re both entities I do business with — but at least my publisher cannot change my deal without my consent. Which is to say that between my publisher and Amazon, one of them gets to utter the immortal Darth Vader line “I am altering the deal. Pray I do not alter it further” to authors doing business with it and one does not. (John Scalzi, link and italics his)

Scalzi also points out that Amazon’s math is dependent upon the assumption that Amazon is the only book retailer that matters, instead of being “only” 30% of the market. (I put quotes around “only” because that’s still an incredible amount of market share for one company to have, really.)

I’ve been asked what I think of Kindle Unlimited–here’s Harry Connolly on that subject, which sums up everything quite nicely. After seeing what similar things did to the music industry, and taking into account Amazon’s business practices and history, I’ll take a pass on the whole damn thing. My publishers may offer some of my books through Kindle Unlimited, and I suppose I’ll see what happens there, but left to my own devices–whether it’s for my self-pubbed work or if I’m given a choice about other works, I’ll just say a polite no thank you. Shares out of a fund just seems like another way of saying “do it for the exposure!” And we all know how I feel about that. Also–and this is the bigger reason–I do not trust Amazon in this situation. Yes, I sell books through them and am using their Audible arm for the SquirrelTerror audiobook, but their business practices are such that I am incredibly hesitant to engage with them further. I won’t do KDP Select for the same reason–it’s a bad business decision for me, given Amazon’s behaviour.

And that’s that.

Soundtrack Monday: ANGEL TOWN

Redemption Alley and Heaven’s Spite were too painful to have soundtracks. Or, to be more precise, they have soundtracks, but every time I listen to them I’m reminded of the awful time I had with both books. Jill wasn’t the only one feeling a bit battered by the end of Heaven’s Spite.

Angel Town was just as emotionally difficult, but it completed the circle for me. And by the time I finished writing it my personal life had calmed down somewhat, too–or at least, I was certain I was going to survive. (It was touch and go for a little while.) So, in a very real way, the ending of the series, while painful, is also very hopeful for me. I know what happens to Jill, Saul, and the crew afterwards, of course…but I don’t know if I’ll ever write that. Maybe it’s better to just let her rest.

And now, the soundtrack!

In My Own Grave Sweet Talk, The Killers. If the hunters have an anthem, this is it.

Caretaker Michael Dirty Hands, Bear McCreary. The thing about hellbreed is, the other side is just as bad.

Perry/I Know You Somehow Let’s Never Stop Falling In Love, Pink Martini. Perry has a fondness for cabaret music.

Theron/Get To The Barrio Starbuck Takes On All Eight, Bear McCreary. Theron just can’t keep his mouth shut.

Anya/Where Did You Go? Wrong, Sister Machine Gun. Anya takes no prisoners. She’s named for my editor.

Saul Bring On the Wonder, Sarah McLachlan. Again, if Saul and Jill’s genders were reversed, nobody would ask the nasty questions I get asked about them.

Galina In The House of Stone and Light, Martin Page. Galina’s such a gentle soul.

My Dear Kiss Darn That Dream, Billie Holliday. The awful thing is, Perry loves Jill, at least as far as a creature like that can love.

Suiting Up Back In Black, AC/DC. The original, and still the best.

The Pattern/Betrayals Love the Way You Lie Eminem/Rihanna. “Your pattern blows. It hurts innocent people.” “It is all we have.”

Kismet’s Theme Ebla, E.S. Posthumus. This will always be Jill, to me.

As Long As Saul Survives I Walk the Line, Johnny Cash.

Call The Hunters Niveneh, E.S. Posthumus.

Hyperion’s Gambit/Argoth Pompeii, E.S. Posthumus. I listened to this over and over again during the writing of the final battle. You can hear the point at which she flings herself into the hellmouth…

Nothing Could Be Worse Than Losing You Crossfire, Brandon Flowers. I won’t lie, it’s mostly the video that makes this one.

Driving Into The Desert Paris, Texas, Gotan Project. A girl, her boy, and her dog, driving into the sunset.

Saturday Flash Fiction: The Doll

What sparked this one: This news story.

The Prompt: The doll appeared on the porch Friday evening, with blank black button eyes and a soft vacuous smile.

The Limit: 300 words

GO!

Who, Me?

Here’s Trundles as a puppy. He’d just finished eating a pair of angora socks I absolutely loved; you can see the evidence to the right. *sigh* At least he got his fiber that day.

On Headspace

I started using the Headspace app over two weeks ago. So far it’s good–there’s an issue with it not clocking my “run streaks” effectively, but considering that I’m not doing this for app achievements it’s probably okay.

I began seriously pursuing meditation during my treatment for anxiety, and never fell fully out of the habit. Nowadays, I continue because it makes for interesting brain changes, and one of the things I fear most is losing my mental acuity. (Frankly, my brain’s all I’ve got going for me, so I want it kept in shape.) I like that the Headspace stuff is open-ended, and the guide (Andy Puddicombe) has a very soothing voice and a gentle way of not commanding you to do things.

I work well with invitation, but not so well with commanding.

Anyway, I have a subscription; even if you don’t want to purchase one the first ten guided meditations are free and I highly recommend them. I am slightly less happy about Headspace’s tweeting in support of Westin Hotels, but I guess even meditators gotta get paid, right? And every subscription also provides a comparable free subscription to someone who might not be able to afford it, so that appears to balance it out.

In other news, there’s a short story that needs copyedits eyeballed, revisions on the first Gallow book, incoming proof pages for a YA, and I am experimenting with a Smitten Kitchen recipe for black beans today. First, though, I’d better get my meditate on. I do have a post idea about the philosophy of not putting up with toxic people, but that will have to wait.

In the meantime, deep breath, and let’s rock this Wednesday.

photo by:

Book Playlist Monday: FLESH CIRCUS

I’m going a little out of order here, mostly because the playlist for Redemption Alley reminds me of where I was while writing that book, and it’s not comfortable at all. Maybe next week I’ll post that one.

Anyway, Flesh Circus was an odd book to write. Mostly because I would start writing circus scenes, and then realise I couldn’t insert them because they weren’t in Jill’s POV. I do have an idea for a related project–a set of short interconnected stories about a circus of the damned–but that will have to wait for a while. Some of the bits I wrote might get recycled into that. *is thoughtful*

Anyway, here’s the playlist! And for the record, I find calliope music so goddamn creepy it isn’t even funny.

The Cirque’s Hostage Twelfth Street Rag, (on calliope)

This Is My Town Trouble, Elvis Presley

Papa Legba, Close The Door Haven’t Got Time For The Pain, Carly Simon

An Attack On The Cirque Kitten Pig, Pentaphobe

Perry/Business With MY Hunter U.R.A. Fever, The Kills

Jill and Saul No Ordinary Love, Sade

The Woman has The Advantage Big Wheel, Tori Amos

Once A Catholic Girl Only The Good Die Young, Billy Joel

Mama Zamba Marionette, Chris Spheeris

Hyperion’s Smile Solitary Man, Neil Diamond

A Horse Just For Me Let Me Call You Sweetheart, (on calliope)

Do You Still Need Me? I’ll Be Waiting, Lenny Kravitz

I’m A Hunter Sweet Talk, The Killers

Staged

“You’re not pouring it back in, are you?”

“No, that’s ridiculous. This is a staged photo.”

“Oh. Carry on, then.”

…I love my sisters.

Regular blogging will resume Monday. It’s been a wee bit busy here lately.

Mad Scramble

My brain aches. The last few days have been a mad scramble, between starting the music theory course, having houseguests, finishing revisions, and generally catching up and cramming about six weeks’ worth of work into less than a weekend. All of which adds up to me staring blankly at the computer screen, trying to remember what the hell I was thinking about a few moments ago.

Those episodes seem to grow in number and intensity the older I get. Here’s hoping meditation and piano playing will stem the tide. Really, my brain is all I have going for me, I should take good care of it.

The complete Fireside serial is in first draft form, and it’s resting with the editor now. Finishing the zero and going back so soon to revise might have overstrained a few neurons, though I’m told only the weak ones die. (Perhaps that’s why I’m having such trouble finding my bloody car keys.) Also, today has been taken up with Storium work, blurbage, a proposal for a new romantic suspense series–well, since I’m not writing YA I have some time on my docket, and I like writing suspense. (I like getting paid, too. Fancy that.) Plus, I have to look at the revisions for the first Gallow book and go through them with an eye toward the second, which is bubbling away in the back of my active little brain.

Not until tomorrow, though.

I’ll be back later this week to tell you all about the time Odd Trundles ate a bamboo toilet seat. It’s been juuuuuuust long enough now that I can laugh, thinking about it. (That is, laugh nervously and change the subject.) Also, the Ripper Affair is due out soon! I should dig out my microphone and maybe read you lot the first chapter, if you’d enjoy that? I have ideas of reading first chapters, just as a service to my Beloved Readers.

But again, not today. Miles to go before I sleep, again. Stay cool out there, chickadees. And let’s hope the manuscripts I have out on offer see some movement soon…

photo by:


hillary the mammal

A Warm Hand

On certain summer mornings, sunshine comes in through my office window between nine and ten. It’s a warm hand on my shoulder while I answer emails or think about the day’s upcoming work. Most times I’ve already turned in my morning run, so it’s a reminder of pounding along with the wind in my hair.

Closer to ten, the bar of sunlight moves down my arm. If the window’s open, the birds stop their second round of cascading wake-up and early-morning-snack calls, and traffic is a distant seashore hum. It makes me wonder about the quality of silence in a car-free world. My writing partner and I are reading The Stand right now for our teensy book club, and one of the things King makes a point of is all the background noise of civilisation suddenly gone. It’s enough to make one wonder about the bath of ambient sound we’re all swimming in.

By slightly past ten the sun is gone, but the sensation of a warm, giving hand remains for a while. The dogs sleep, the cavies burble softly, and the work for the day rises up to meet me like a gift.

Back to work.

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