Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 159

State of the Lili

My stars, there’s a lot going on.

As I mentioned yesterday, the Selene serial is drawing to a close. To those writing to me hoping I’ve “changed the ending”…um, I’m sorry, you must not know me very well. All I can say is no, I have not and will not change the ending. To do so would imply that I wasn’t certain of the ending when I wrote it, or that I did not give my very best to unflinchingly tell the story, neither of which are true. When I bring out the paper version (I am considering going paper-only for this particular one) it will include the Brother’s Keeper novella and the short story Just Ask. The latter is the story of Selene and Nikolai’s first reunion, and deals with her returning to Saint City, where she is during the Dante Valentine series.

Also, there’s a new short story by me in Fireside Magazine’s current issue. It mixes cyborgs, corporations, genetic engineering, and ambiguous choices. Plus, you know, blood-drinking. If Fireside is able to come back for a third year, there might be more stories set in that universe. (Hint, hint.) This year’s subscription also gives you a Chuck Wendig serial as well as other, stellar short stories and art. You can subscribe for a single issue or the whole year. Part of why I’m so happy with the Fireside endeavour is because they seek to pay their writers and artists a decent wage, which I am all over. More of that means more stories for you.

I’m considering not writing YA again, for a variety of reasons. We’ll see how that shakes out.

Piano lessons are going well. My teacher calls my blog “delightfully profane,” which is by far the best way of saying I have a dirty mouth that I’ve ever come across. Currently he’s torturing me with a Bach minuet. Well, that’s not quite true–I took in the Bach book (try saying that five times quickly) and said “when will I be ready for this?” and he said, “Well, no time like the present. Let’s begin.” Several hours of practice and one or two crying fits later (tears of pure frustration only serve to spur me on more stubbornly) I can now stumble through the first half, and am throwing myself doggedly at the second half. (If you’re reading this, sir, I shall have much to report at my next lesson.)

The funny thing about piano is that I can feel my brain cramping in interesting ways when I hit a plateau, or when I’m about to have one of those sudden leaps forward that come at the end of said plateau. My usual habit of throwing myself at something until it breaks–because I am sure as fuck not going to give up–serves me well here, and has no doubt provided my teacher with endless entertainment. (Like the time I came in, flopped down on the bench, fixed him with a glare and said “Tell me about chords.” Heh.)

The other thing I’ve been trying lately is washing my hair with different, erm, substances. (No, not cocaine and rocket fuel, dammit. I’m not THAT hardcore. Yet.) Baking soda and apple cider vinegar. And honey. Here’s a good primer on it, and an opposing viewpoint saying that it damages your hair. I’m not quite sure about the latter, because a weak buffered solution of baking soda seems like the last thing my hair will worry about on a daily basis. However, every head of hair is different, so if this ends up not working, I’ll switch to something else.

I first ran across this method here, and since I’m *mumblemumble* years away from forty and my hair and skin are changing commensurately, I decided to give it a try. I’m also occasionally trying a honey shampoo, on the theory that washing my hair with honey will either be the greatest thing ever or a mess we shall laugh nervously and change the subject over.

So far, my hair’s in “transition”–which means that since I’ve stopped using shampoos with sodium lauryl sulfate and related compounds, the natural oils aren’t being stripped out daily, but the scalp hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still flooding my head with oil, which makes my hair very shiny, but also a little…weird. Eventually the oil production will drop dramatically, I’m told. I just let it air-dry, put it up in braids, and call it good. I tried a drop of sweet orange oil in with the vinegar, but that just made it feel ugh-greasy. And no, before you ask, my hair doesn’t smell like vinegar. It smells like clean hair, and like my perfume. Which is weird because I don’t ever put perfume on my hair, nor do I spray the damn stuff.

The honey shampoo has turned out to be really wonderful. With so much water, it doesn’t get sticky, and it leaves everything soft and shiny. I just got a couple of plastic squirt bottles from the health food store bulk-soap section, and a few minutes mixing in the kitchen gives me three-four days’ worth of hair stuff. I don’t like the idea of the honey shampoo coating the inside of my shower, so it’s more of a once-every-couple-weeks thing, and adding essential oil to it, even a drop, is just too oily for my hair. Done without any additives, both the baking-soda-vinegar and honey routines make my hair soft, tangle-free, and seems to be a lot easier on my ends than anything else I’ve tried.

If you want to give it a whirl, be warned: hard water may make these mixtures behave in weird ways, and massaging the baking soda mixture (just 1Tb to 1c water, adjust as necessary) into your scalp is key. You can’t just pour it on and hope it works, getting in there with your fingertips to massage your noggin is necessary. Plus, it feels really, really good. Scalp massage is one of my favourite things.

So…yeah, that’s the state of the Lili so far this year. Tomorrow we’ll be back to the regular Friday photo, and next week will see the end of the Chickenhead Crankyduck story (which began here.)

And now, off I go to check in with Archibald Clare in his jail cell…

photo by:


hillary the mammal

Maternal Type

Wanna read Maternal Type, a brand-new short story of mine? Then hie thee hence to Fireside Magazine’s newest issue. If the story does well they may be able to pay me to write more. (Hint, hint.)

I’ll talk more tomorrow about the genesis of the story, and about the plans for Selene, where there are a few new chapters since the New Year. Stay tuned!

Chickenhead CrankyDuck, Part II

NOT CrankyDuck.

So the damn cat, his head stuck in a rotisserie chicken, scurried out of the kitchen into the dining/living room. I scurried after. I had hit the floor trying to grab a handful of either fowl or feline, so it was an awkward crab scuttle. (I was several years younger, don’t forget.)

Which was how I came to be on hands and knees as the cat-chicken combo zoomed under the dining room table.

Of course, we were a little traditional then, and since my ex is Japanese, that meant a very low table and we sat on the floor in seiza to eat. (This was also the time when we used chopsticks-only. Which means the Princess is deadly with chopsticks even today.) What I’m trying to say is that the table was knee-high, and since I was already on the floor I figured why stand up, I have a chance at catching him.

That was probably a mistake.

Anyway, I scooted forward and lunged under the table. The cat, sensing my approach while terrified and blinded by his headgear, performed an amazing leap to escape the doom bearing down upon him. Unfortunately, the table was so low that his application of upward force ended with another splat and pieces of chicken falling to the (carpeted, you can imagine my despair) floor.

Now, being partly under the table myself when he did so, and having a healthy respect for his claws and their proximity to my face, I recoiled and earned myself a stunning knock to the noggin. The table rattled, a container of chopsticks falling over and rolling, falling like rain as the cat found himself with an Elizabethan chicken ruff instead of a chicken hat (chicken diving helmet? What is the proper term? Anyway.) CrankyDuck!Cat decided to use his sudden return of vision well, and darted out from under the table.

However, the chicken-as-ruff, while not interfering with his vision (much), did decidedly interfere with his means of locomotion. In other words, he tripped over the chicken he was wearing and rolled, smearing yet more chicken on the carpet. (We got our deposit back, but it took me AGES to get the grease out, dear God.) He recovered, staggering, and bolted across the living room portion of the apartment, heading for the hall.

By this point I was swearing and the Princess had ventured forth, cutting through the kitchen, to see me wriggling out from under the table. “Mommy?”

“It’s okay, honey.” I gained my feet and heard the cat hit the wall near the master bedroom door. He’s heading for the bed, of course he is, dear God… “Just a slight…ugh…problem…”

“Why are you under table?” Bright-eyed with puzzled interest, she regarded me solemnly.

I had no time for explanations. “Stay right there.” I darted for the hall, sliding through the kitchen (the chicken grease on the floor soaked into my socks) and hitting the hall at warp speed. There was a shiny smear on the wall (easier to clean up than carpet) and the goddamn cat had gone into the master bedroom, found the futon in there too low for him to hide under, decided the closet was no good either (another greasemark on the mirrored doors) and sought escape just as I hit the doorway.

Thus it was that I got hammered in the shins with a cat wearing a (sadly bedraggled by now) chicken.

The Princess had not listened to my directive to stay put, being drawn to the curious spectacle unfolding in our domicile. (Seriously, she was only, what, three-four years old at the time?) She was at the other end of the hall, giggling at the sight of the chicken-wearing cat, and Cranky!Duck, seeing his avenue of escape partially blocked by an (admittedly half-sized) human forced him to think on his feet.

Which meant he jagged left, through the closest open door.

Into the bathroom.

“JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled, and followed, just as there was the rattle of a key in front door’s lock.

…to be continued…

photo by:


barbourians

Chickenhead CrankyDuck, Part I

NOT CrankyDuck.

This is not quite a Tale of the Backyard. In fact, this happened before I had a backyard at all.

Let me take you back, gentle Reader, years and years. The Little Prince was not born yet, the Princess was very young, and we lived with my ex in an apartment overlooking a very nice almost-lake (somewhat bigger than a pond) that unfortunately was right on a migration path for a lot of geese. (Needless to say, walking around barefoot was NOT encouraged.) Ex-husband had a cat and several houseplants, which I took over the care of; longtime Readers will recognize CrankyDuck!Cat long before he was the sour, quacking onlooker to several Backyard Adventures–most notably, the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. (That jade plant never recovered, poor thing.)

CrankyDuck!Cat had just been neutered–not a moment too soon, if you ask me–and shaken off the lethargy of recovery. He was somewhat calmer than he had been, though no less crafty. He was not the old gentleman of the backyard then, but a lithe, talkative mischief-maker with a hairtrigger startle and wicked claws. Nevertheless, we got along swimmingly, and he slept with the Princess nine nights out of ten. (The tenth was spent crying to go out on the balcony and share the song of his heart with the neighborhood. Ah, youth.)

The particular lovely summer evening in question, I’d left work and brought the Princess home from daycare. Dinner was courtesy of the grocery store, where I’d stopped and picked up a rotisserie chicken, tomatoes for a salad, and a loaf of French bread. Simple, easy, I didn’t feel like cooking in the heat, even though our apartment was so shaded it rarely got stuffy. I had just finished making the salad and popped the lid on the chicken to tear some of it off for the Princess’s plate–my ex was due home any minute–when I was called away by an emergency having to do with hair gel, the Princess, and one of her dolls. To this day I don’t know how the hell she got that little travel container of gel–I never used the damn stuff, and neither did the ex. Just one of those daycare mysteries, I guess.

I negotiated a release of the hair product with a promise that we would do the hair of every doll in her room that weekend (I had high confidence she would forget that before dinner was finished) and was just coming back down the hall when I realized CrankyDuck was not underfoot. It did not concern me as much as it might have–since I moved in, the entire place was a lot neater and cleaner, things he could get into put away and out of sight–and so I was unprepared for the sight greeting me as I sauntered into the kitchen holding that tube of hair gel.

Counters gleaming, the salad a jewel in its glass bowl, the bread neatly sliced and waiting to be piled on a plate, the breadboard out with the chicken set proudly atop it, the plastic dome that had been covering yon fowl spinning lazily on the linoleum floor…

…and a cat’s hindquarters just visible, tail lashing with glee. I could only see his hindquarters because his head was buried in the chicken’s, um, cavity.

It took a second for my baffled brain to make sense of the picture this presented, and when it did its immediate response was a hearty “SONOFABITCH.”

In retrospect, I should have practiced my ninja stealth, but really, when you see a cat with a chicken on his head, ninja is the last thing you’ll likely do an impression of. As it was, my sudden horrified exclamation penetrated the layers of fowl, and Cranky!Duck decided to beat a hasty retreat. I probably would have let it go at that, really, if not for one stroke of bad luck for all concerned.

You see, while Cranky!Duck had wormed his head into the chicken, he had not given adequate thought to his exit strategy. Which meant that his lovely, springing leap backwards off the breadboard might have been a marvel of grace and authority, except for the chicken deciding to come along, still firmly attached to his thick noggin.

Fowl and feline hit the linoleum with a splat, and I had one mad thought–does the two-second rule apply?–as I dove to grab either a handful of cat or chicken, I wasn’t picky. Cranky!Duck, however, found himself trapped in a meat prison and sensing the approach of a fast-moving monkey did not aid his (sadly subpar) decisionmaking capabilities.

In short, he fled. My fingertips slid across roasted chicken skin studded with herbs, the hair gel went clattering away, and the chicken, well.

The chicken went with him. And that’s when things got interesting.

To be continued…

photo by:


barbourians

Spring Planning

Yesterday I took a ramble with Miss B, mostly because we had both been trapped in the house that damn flu. (Side note: this morning I woke up to my nose tingling so much my teeth almost hurt while my body decided to flush vestiges of the sickness out. FUN.) It wasn’t until we were halfway through the woods that I put my finger on what was nagging at me: the ferns were back, and new-lush green. Not only that, but the trees are bearing tiny buds, preparing for spring. This led to me checking around the house when I got home, and yes, crocuses and snowdrops are beginning to sprout. A bit early, but I’m sure they know their business. If it means winter’s grip is loosening, well then. I’m just hoping no late frost kills all the bulbs and the trees, but they can’t both be wrong, can they?

Which means it’s time to start thinking about this year’s vegetable garden. Some kale overwintered from last year, and the garlic I planted in fall is coming up too. It will be nice to dig a bulb or three up and do an actual garlic braid eventually. Tomatoes, sugar snap peas, beans, chard and more kale, and maybe some cabbage. Sauerkraut made from one’s own cabbage, wouldn’t that be a treat? Plus I should probably get some mason bees. Since the neighbors have very small children, a honeybee hive is not a good idea yet. Plus, bees are technically another pet, and I’m not allowed any more unless one of the ones we already have shuffles off to Animal Heaven.

Also, yesterday, we took the Yule tree down. The holidays were calm and quiet, but I was still twitchy all the way through them. That’s one thing about trauma: getting better involves processing, and you don’t have the energy to process if you’re drowning in stress. Lowering stress tolerance means less stress, and that means more energy for processing–so even if things are going well and you’re still jumpy, it doesn’t necessarily mean bad things.

There, that’s my deep thought for the start of the year. Time to go get some writing done, while spring tiptoes closer.

photo by:


Indy Charlie

Parenting At Dinner

SCENE: The dinner table.

ME: *looking through seed catalogue* Po-TAH-toes!

PRINCESS: Po-TAY-toes!

LITTLE PRINCE: BOIL EM MASH EM STICK EM IN MY BUTT! 1

ME: …

PRINCESS: Do you know the meaning of the word “obsession”?

LITTLE PRINCE: YES! *takes huge bite of chocolate cake*

ME: *puts head on table, trying not to laugh*

…I don’t even know.

1 For those who wish to sing along at home:

Even Rocks Change

Happy New Year! I spent my Eve trying to sleep off incipient flu, and woke at midnight to Miss B shivering and whining against me as the fireworks went off. Odd Trundles, of course, was snoring happily, not giving a damn about the noise since he was in his crate with his blankies and a chew toy. (He shall be a puppy lo unto the ending of the world.) In any case, I hugged Miss B until she calmed, and we both fell back asleep together.

New Year’s Day yesterday brought a new chapter of Selene (we’re going back to weekly postings now) and a hole in my roof. Said hole was NOT the result of squirrels chewing desperately to get in, as so many of you seemed to think, but of improperly-installed flashing around the chimney. Fortunately the neighborhood handyman (everyone around here hires him since he’s reliable, reasonable, and comes back to check his work) was able to get up there and fix it, so my first day in the New Year was full of someone doing me a good turn. Even if I was shuddering and aching from the blasted flu.

2013 was an okay year. I got a few books out, started learning the piano, got help resurrecting both SquirrelTerror and Selene, got the first book of writing essays off the ground (again with help), started freelance editing (my waiting list has a few spots open, if you’re interested), and spent the whole complete year, top to bottom, in my very own house. Not bad.

There was other stuff–a friendship I depended on going on hiatus, helping other friends struggle through some pretty intense stuff, the Princess learning how to drive and the Little Prince making a number of developmental strides that mean he’s no longer a little boy. Everything changing around me, and the funny thing is, now I can look and see how much I’ve changed too, but I thought I was being a rock for other people.

Even rocks change, I guess.

So, my chickadees, here’s where I’m aiming for 2014. I’m not resolving to lose weight or any of that shit. I read this Cracked.com article about harsh truths making one a better person, and while I think most of it is needlessly douche-y, this part made me think:

“But I’m not good at anything!” Well, I have good news — throw enough hours of repetition at it and you can get sort of good at anything. I was the world’s shittiest writer when I was an infant. I was only slightly better at 25. But while I was failing miserably at my career, I wrote in my spare time for eight straight years, an article a week, before I ever made real money off it. It took 13 years for me to get good enough to make the New York Times best-seller list. It took me probably 20,000 hours of practice to sand the edges off my sucking.

Don’t like the prospect of pouring all of that time into a skill? Well, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that the sheer act of practicing will help you come out of your shell — I got through years of tedious office work because I knew that I was learning a unique skill on the side. People quit because it takes too long to see results, because they can’t figure out that the process is the result.

The bad news is that you have no other choice.

–David Wong

So, my aim this year is to do. Keep practicing the piano, to churn out a couple books I’m not contracted for as well as the ones I am, to build my editing business, to up my running mileage. Concrete goals I can chop up into little tiny pieces, then beat my head on each tiny piece until it shatters and I’ve achieved not only a bloody head but also a step closer to what I want. In other words, this is Galactica, what do you hear?

What do you say, chickadees?

Let’s bring it home.

photo by:


Miia Ranta

Yule in the Backyard

Fred: “STOP SQUIRMING, YOU LOT.”

George: “WHEN DO WE START DRINKING?”

Harvey the Koala: I’M SHAKING. WHERE’S THE DAMN EUCALYPTUS?

Tina: YOU’RE AN ADDICT.

Seraphine: IT’S STARING AT US. I THINK I JUST PEED.

Brutus: DON’T WORRY. I’LL PROTECT YOU.

Owl Thursday: I’M NOT EVEN RELATED. YOU ALL LOOK LIKE LUNCH TO ME.

Ned, short for Zoltar (Neo Reincarnate): DON’T MAKE ME SIT ON YOU, BIRD.

Good God, can you imagine what New Year’s is going to be like here?

Anyway, there’s a new chapter of Selene up, and I’ll see you all in January!

Longer Days

There’s a new chapter of Selene up today, and there will also be another one tomorrow. Happy Yule!

We celebrated the Solstice with a tonne of good food, my sisters visited and we had a marvelous time. Of course the kids will open their presents from Saint Nick on Christmas, because who doesn’t like opening presents? I got a book of Beethoven sheet music and some fine, fine chocolate. Speaking of which, did you know there’s Ramen chocolate? It was…interesting. I could see chopping it up and crusting a steak with it, because the garlic and soy sauce are very savoury indeed.

One of the biggest hits of the solstice was kinetic sand. The Little Prince got some kickass art supplies too, and since he has taken to drawing Pokemon in his school journal (this is actual homework, OMG) he was over the moon.

I got to cook and fuss over everyone. There was much wine, homemade pasta, coq au vin (I got a whole chicken that had already been cut up, my first time doing this recipe with bone-in meat) and gingerbread, fudge (my middle sister is a fudge goddess), and we decorated our tiny little tree. Or rather, the kids did the running back and forth with ornaments and the adults sipped wine and rested.

All in all, it was lovely. This is a far cry from the stressful Christmases of my childhood, and I prefer it this way. I hope yours is just as peaceful and merry, dear Reader.

I’ll be back tomorrow with the next chapter of Selene; after that I might take some time off until the New Year. Right now I’ve got to finish this coffee…and maybe sneak in a little WoW before the bread pudding is done baking.

photo by:


kevin dooley

Shoes

Ice is melting on my pant legs. I just worked these off and set them on the table.

Some things about running:

* Go as slowly as you need to.

* Be cautious–you are soft and squishy. Cars, pavement, and dirt are not.

* It will take a while for the runner’s high to get there. When it does, enjoy it.

* Each run is different.

* You will plateau. That’s okay. Your body’s just preparing for the next jump up.

* It’s not about speed, really. It’s about being able to evade the damn zombies.

* And outrun other nasty things.

* Five, ten, fifteen seconds to begin with? Good. You’ve got to start somewhere.

Lastly: let’s not give up, you and me. Let’s not ever, ever give up. Deal?