Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 170

Bandit & Critic

What is this? Can we herd it? Can we snuffle it? Can we love it and adopt it and call it our own?

What is going on here? Gentle Readers…

Meet Bandit and Critic!

The Little Prince has been mad for guinea pigs for quite some time. I waited to see if the fad would fade, but I guess it’s not going to. He begged and he pleaded, he did his chores…and I caved after months and months. Because I am a sucker.

The Princess helped me get everything ready before bringing the little critters home (which involved OMG SO MUCH REARRANGING MY OFFICE) and the dogs and the Prince were, of course, absolutely beside themselves with glee and wonder. So, this last weekend, we became the proud(?) parents of two little rodents.

Yes. Rodents. In my office. Because I love my children. And am a sucker for puppy-dog eyes. *sigh*

The transition’s gone pretty smoothly. Bandit is the smooth one in the foreground there. He has a swoosh of black on his left cheek, and it looks to me like a prison tattoo. He’s pretty fearless, and was the first to explore the cage and take a treat from the new monkeys’ hands. Critic, the one with cowlicks, huddled behind their big sleepyhide thing and gave me a filthy look when I turned on some Wagner. (Which is pretty much everyone’s reaction when they walk into my office and ponderous opera is playing. “Everyone’s a critic,” I told him, and just like that, I knew what I was going to call him.

Of course the Little Prince calls them by Pokemon names, and the Princess has her own names for them, but Bandit and Critic will do here on the blog. So far they’ve settled quite nicely, making happy sounds, eating hay like it’s going out of style, and happy to be objects of fascination to everyone, critter and monkey, here at Chez Saintcrow. (Their habitat has a lid, for I do not trust the Mad Tortie.) The dogs, especially Miss B, want them on the floor where they can be snuffled and herded, but I’m thinking that’s not so much a good idea. It’s breaking B’s heart.

“OH PLEASE, JUST LET ME HERD THEM. JUST ONCE. IT WILL DO THEM GOOD!”

“No, you’ll just scare them. They’re fragile.”

“I’LL BE CAREFUL! I’LL BE SO CAREFUL! LISTEN, THEY’RE WHINING–”

“That’s not a whine, it’s a purr. It’s their happy sound.”

“IT DOESN’T SOUND HAPPY TO ME. THEY’LL BE HAPPIER IF I HERD THEM. THEY’RE HERD ANIMALS!”

“No.”

“OH COME ON!”

“No.”

You get the idea. Odd Trundles, of course, just wants to lick and love and smoosh them and call them George. *eyeroll*

I sense fun times ahead…

Succulents and Strigiformes

I’m going to have to stop taking pictures of owls. But while I’m still going, here, have this one.

Act Weird, Or, Hunting The Wild Story

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where there are giveaways, and cake that is not a lie. Check us out!

There’s that old saw–you never learn to write a book, you only learn how to write the book you’re writing now.

What do you know, it’s true.

Some books grow in layers around a single scene–for example, Heaven’s Spite grew out of the image of Jill Kismet sitting in a flaming circle with a gun, her back to the wall and an odd look of utter calm on her face. There are the books that grow from the first line–by the time you hear the first syllable, the rest of the book is a shining path, a cut has already been made. (Dante Valentine half-whispering, My working relationship with Lucifer began on a rainy Monday…) There’s the books that won’t go away–Nameless, which has been rolling around inside my head forever–and slide out in huge jagged, painful, bloody chunks. There’s the fun galloping rides (Damnation, anyone?) and the Christ-I-Keep-Stabbing-But-It-Won’t-Die-And-The-Only-Thing-Keeping-Me-Going-Is-Sheer-Stubbornness ones, which come in an infinity of flavours.

Each one takes a different path, and takes a different sort of grit to endure. The Valentine series generally called for me to simply put my head down and endure; the Kismet books were generally angry writing sessions, a sort of clear cold clinical rage. The romances each had a different kernel, and they unfolded in pairs, his view and hers. A lot of Strange Angels (that series name was NOT my choice, I should just say that now) involved me going back to how it felt to be fourteen-fifteen, with no say in how I was disposed of and a body that was an ever-changing enemy. Bannon & Clare books are built mostly like puzzles, except for the Ripper Affair, which was a clockwork maze with sharp edges against the skin and a Goblin King who was not nearly as nice as Mr Bowie.

That said, there are certain things–guidelines, if you will (not rules, thank you, Pirate In My Head)–I’ve evolved to help me figure out the shape of the book I’m writing now, and what might help me get through it without blowing a fuse or losing most of my (physical or emotional) skin. Each book is an undiscovered country, but you can pack a kit to go exploring with. YMMV, all usual disclaimers apply, yadda yadda.

TAKE CARE OF YOUR CORPSE. Book’s not going well. I might as well drink a fifth of vodka and lie here and eat Cheetos. It doesn’t matter. Danger, Will Robinson! Not only does getting up and taking a walk do good things for your body, it also shakes loose plot points and solves knotty problems. Moving the body moves the mind. Dancing around a little bit to Broadway musicals in your living room or even just rocking out (quietly with some headphones, because you have neighbors) in your bedroom gets things moving when they’re stuck. Taking care of your body also gives you greater endurance for marathon sessions of sitting and pounding out the words. All things serve the work, you know.

FEED YOUR HEAD. Some books require certain music. Currently, I’m working on the Little Red Riding Hood book, and for some reason, it wants the Dredd soundtrack…and Wagnerian opera. (Don’t judge. Only because I’m judging myself hard enough to qualify for the Olympics.) Weird musical cravings, Pinterest boards, that YouTube video you’ve got to watch to feed the story–do it. And yet, on that path lies timesuck. Give yourself five minutes to feed the inside of your head (set a timer), then get back to work. All the feeding and none of the writing makes things bloated and wheezing.

PROTECT YOURSELF. This is a tricky one. I’ve noticed that when I’m feeling out a new book, certain…predators…appear. Or maybe I just notice the emotional vampires and entitled folks when I’m in that high-strung headlights-on vulnerable state. Jealously guard your borders and boundaries, and your writing time. There is a certain type of unfriend (they tend to hunt in crit groups and writer’s workshops, don’t get me started, that’s another blog post) that can scent that vulnerability and move in to make your creative process about their agenda. Of course, not every person in a crit group or workshop is such a beast, and sometimes a friend can just be having a bad hair day, and there’s no excuse for being an asshole and using “I’m figuring out a new book” as an excuse. SO. Be careful, and understand that the beginning of feeling out a new work is a vulnerable time. Protect yourself appropriately.

EXPECT THE STORY TO CHANGE. Say you’ve done an outline, or you have this one scene you want very badly to put in the book…but it’s just not working. The outline doesn’t fit what’s happening when you actually sit down to write, or the scene can’t be shoehorned in anywhere. Relax, and let it go. This is an organic process, and you aren’t going to make it easier by trying to force it to do what you want. Like cats, dogs, and children, stories grow in the most surprising ways and will do the most amazing things if you just stop trying to control their every goddamn breath. Expect the process of writing a book to be different, expect a story to take a different track, expect the outline to be guidelines instead of laws, and expect the damn book to have its own ideas.

HAVE A HOBBY. I read military history (the Eastern Front in WWII, to be precise) to make my brain stop eating itself, since I’ll never write about that particular time period. I garden, occasionally knit, and take pictures. I do these things to make my brain slow down and to fill up my sensory well with things that aren’t entirely inside my skull. (I don’t list violent video games because I’m not sure if they count…) You need something to let the engines come down from redline, as it were. Note that this is not an excuse to let the hobby take over from the writing. Timesucks are insidious shapeshifters, and will take the faces of the things you love to seduce you. Managed properly, though, the timesucks can be doors into a state where your unconscious has room and fuel enough to work on the next bit of the story for you.

ACT WEIRD. So there I was, making bobble noises with my mouth and pretending to be a fish. The Princess, fifteen and a half, watched me go past. “I’m a fish,” I informed her.

“This is what I love about you, Mom,” was her equitable reply.

Being weird–stepping outside normal modes of behavior–serves many purposes. It gives you the courage to write weirdness. It is a prism through which to see new and wondrous angles, which show up in your work. It stops you from taking yourself too seriously and gives the Muse, that bitch, a signal. Look, I’m playing. You can come over here and have fun with me, too! It keeps the mental muscles supple.

Plus, it keeps those motherfuckers wondering, you know? And it gives you a certain amount of comfort with stumbling around in the dark, looking for the way to write the next book. If you’re used to looking ridiculous, it won’t bother you as much, and you can concentrate on finding the way.

GIVE YOURSELF TWICE THE TIME. Try not to get into a huge hurry. Understand that some parts of the creative process take a while to get into gear. I generally ask for a *mumblemumble* longer than I need to finish a project, just so I have time to get the freakout of “AH GOD I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING THIS BOOK IS GOING TO SUCK HATE HATE HATE FEAR AGONY ANARCHY!!1onety!!” out of the way. Respect your time and give yourself some cushion.

BUILD IN DAYDREAMING. This sort of falls under “Act Weird.” You might call it “daydreaming.” Certainly a lot of parents and teachers do, as well as a lot of managers. I call it “processing.” There’s a certain amount of staring off into space and letting the engines below the conscious floor do their thing necessary for finding the contours of a new book. Again, your mileage may vary, beware of timesuck, and the like. But also, allow yourself a little bit of daydreaming. You might think it’s just unproductive staring into space. What you can’t see is the germination beneath the soil surface.

LEARN YOUR GROUND. I note in my diary the way a book’s going. Just a sentence during my daily five-lines-of-what-happened, next to the weather. Looking back over those, I can begin to see patterns. Some books take long gestation periods before they slide out whole and screaming, others have an initial white heat explosion of work and then dribs and drabs until it’s finished. Seeing those patterns and my own reactions to them gives me a sense of what shape the book in front of me is likely to take. The map isn’t the territory, sure, but it can prepare you for some terrain features.

LEAN SIDEWAYS. I hesitated to mention this, because it’s so…amorphous. In the end I decided to chuck it in, because who knows, I might not be completely crazy! (Silence from the peanut gallery, please.) Don’t look at the book head-on. Imagine it’s a skittish animal, perhaps a horse, and if you look straight at it, it will think you’re a predator and flee. Instead, approach it from the side. Don’t look at the centre of the book. Keep it in your peripheral vision. Work around the edges. If it takes writing scenes out of sequence, do so. Eventually, as every horse trainer knows, you can turn your back on the beast that outweighs you, and it will be unable to resist the urge to group up and put its head over your shoulder, smelling your hair. Keep writing, calm and collected and watching in your peripheral vision, and the way will become clear.

You’ll find your own ways of sneaking up on the book you need to write, bashing it on the head, and bringing it home to cook over the fire, I’m sure. There are as many ways to do it as there are writers. (Feel free to add your own below. I will stealBORROW them with attribution, madly and with glee.) Just remember: the map isn’t the terrain, every work is different, and a certain flexibility is needed to hunt each one down and skin it.

My goodness, my metaphors are violent today. I must be hungry.

Over and out.

photo by:


mybulldog

Driving Lessons

Driving lessons with the Princess proceed apace. Also, since I have a manual (the Sooper Subaru, who I christened Carlyle for a number of reasons now lost in the mists of time) I’m also teaching her friends about the joys of shifting.

Poor Carlyle’s clutch will never be the same.

Among the many lessons parenting will teach you (keeping a straight face, how to become completely inured to all sorts of bodily fluid spatter, everyone will panic if you do so keep up a good front) is a certain form of non-attachment. “Yeah, got a teenager, clutch is gonna be wrecked. Yep, have nice wineglasses, those are gonna die soon. That houseplant isn’t long for this world. Mmmmh, lovely sheets, someone’s going to barf on them. Nice pair of heels–dog’s going to eat them.” The Princess’s friends can’t get over how calm I am. “She drove right into the bushes and her mum didn’t even blink!” “If my dad was here he’d be screaming by now.” I haven’t explained to them that I’ve already consigned my soul and my car to the gods, because neither’s getting out of this unscathed.

In other news, Ruby’s story might be the book I write non-linearly. *headdesk* Just when I start to get comfortable with a process, I start another damn book and the process goes out the window. The Muse certainly loves to keep me on my toes.

Also this week, I’m structuring some other editing packages! Stay tuned for details, that’s going to be fun.

And now it’s time to go pick up the Princess from driving school…and maybe let her drive partway home. *keeps a straight face*

*but just barely*

photo by:


1968 Dodge Charger R/T | Scott Crawford

Sharp Blooming

I’ve been spending a lot of time with plants lately. Found this wonderful cactus blooming at the nursery and wanted to take it home, but restrained myself. (For once.)

Finally, Summer

SUMMER! I’m over at SF MindMeld talking about love during apocalypses, along with some other fabulous authors.

Yesterday was the last day of school for the Prince and Princess. Which means the Princess had a math final (poor baby!) and I spent the two hours of the Prince’s last day helping corral a bunch of fourth-graders as they bounced around signing yearbooks and each other’s clothing (and arms, faces, and whatnot) and said their summer goodbyes. The Prince, his teacher and all his classmates will be together again next year–the teacher is “looping up” with her class, which is amazing and awesome. The Princeling loves his teacher with a deep abiding love, and I like her quite a bit as well. I’m pretty stunned by her ability to put up with twenty-odd kids all day. God knows I’d implode into a pile of cinders.

The Prince has had a big year, what with his school burning down and various other things, but he’s come thought beautifully. All the same, this year is the first that he’s actively looked forward to school ending, because, as he tells me seriously with big brown eyes, “I need a break, I think.”

The other big thing is…well, a while ago I gave birth to this beautiful baby girl, and this summer she’s learning to pilot tons of moving metal.

Yep, the Princess is going to driving school. WHAT IS THIS I DON’T EVEN.

It’s an exotic feeling to look at this absolutely beautiful young lady, and think my God, where did the time go, and how did she turn into an almost-adult? She’s got a tangy, sarcastic sense of humor, like mine, and the other day she made her first off-color joke in front of her mother. I laughed until I cried and hugged her. Maybe that was the wrong thing to do? I don’t know. What I do know is that she’s a marvelous human being, and it’s been a privilege to watch and marvel and keep her safe as she grows (mostly) up. (She’s still got some ways to go, but you can see the shape of the awesome adult she’s going to be.)

Most of parenthood is keeping a straight face, and there’s a lot of getting out of the way and letting these fantastic little beings be who they are without your interfering or baggage.The latter is so, so hard. I know I’m nowhere near finished, and that I’m going to be Mom for the rest of my life before I’m anything else…

…but sometimes, I look at where these kids are, and I think maybe I haven’t done half bad at all. Most of the credit goes to them, of course, but I deserve maybe a little for not getting in the way.

*beams*

photo by:


Photocapy

Body, Detente

Yesterday I wore a tank top.

Well, to be fair, I was in pyjamas all day, for Sunday chores and because I didn’t want or need to leave the house at all. (Emphasis on the want.) It was the middle of the afternoon before I realized I’d been wearing a tank top the whole day, without another shirt over the top to cover my arms.

My stomach turned over, and I felt a familiar bite of shame and self-disgust. Body loathing’s been with me since I was about eight, and even running hasn’t washed away the last vestiges of it. It’s insidious, hating your physical container, and the Photoshop-mutants all over the media we’re saturated in doesn’t make it any easier. I’m thirty-seven this year, so that makes almost three decades I’ve been at war with my own body. Or, mostly at war, slowly coming to an armed detente.

Every so often I get the urge for more tattoos, partly because of the endorphin rush and partly because once there’s ink in the flesh, I finally feel like it’s mine. For a very long time my body was not my own, it belonged to whoever had the power to do things to me, and those scars–and the disassociation that becomes necessary when you’re helpless and violated–run deep. Right now I have the huge involved back piece, and the tiger and dragon on my hips, and the scorpion, defending certain places. My back, so I can see what’s behind me, the scorpion as gatekeeper, tiger and dragon to keep the balance. Phoenix and crows, tree and spiderwebs, they all mean something deep and protective.

Therapy helped, of course. Running helps. Still, I wonder who I’d be if I could wear a tank top without feeling ashamed of the perfectly reasonable, perfectly healthy, reasonably perfect body I have for this go-round. I hope like hell my own children will never feel this way, that I’ve managed to raise them to be proud of their beauty. Even if I can’t see any beauty I possess 98% of the time.

Mostly, I feel like a hideously ugly monster. But at least yesterday, I resisted the urge to put on a cover-up. It was too warm for one, and my natural intransigence made me dig in my heels. I realized I could wear a tank top inside my own damn house no matter how ugly I am, and it helped. A little.

A small victory, but I’ll take it. Hopefully it’s a landmark on the road to peace.

photo by:


Helga Weber

First Lily

The blooming of the first out of the lily bulbs I planted when we moved in. Later in the season there will be Casablanca and Landini lilies–white and purple-black. But for some reason, these delicious red ones tend to show up first. It’s good to see the first things one planted come up–it’s a reminder that finally, after a life spent moving around, I’m developing roots.

In Retreat

Curling up like a salted slug, retreating from the world. Plus, the fridge is leaking. It’s always something.

I’ve been leaving my office door open a lot, but I think that has to change. No use in having a door if one doesn’t shut it every once in a while. Now that I have the option of having some space and quiet while I write, I’ve found I prefer it. I can work in the middle of chaos, I just don’t want to nowadays. Maybe because I’m getting old and cranky. The past few years have been finding out that what I can endure and what I would prefer are two vastly different things. Considering the few years before that were all about finding out I could endure just about anything, perhaps it’s a natural extension of the lesson.

Time to turn inward, excavate the story, and find the bones underneath Ruby’s brassy exterior. I also need to think about the collar–I’m thinking brass, and spikes. Hurtful.

Anyway, today is for a closed door, Aretha Franklin, and deep breathing. For getting to know a Red Riding Hood I don’t very much like.

Of course, I don’t have to like her. I just have to write her. In the process I’ll find out why she is the way she is, and understanding will breed compassion.

Over and out.

photo by:


martinteschner

Time To Wake Up

Diplomacy is difficult. Especially when you’re explaining to a giant forest full of pixies and Miyazaki-esque kodama that a nuclear winter is going to happen. I mean, I get what the kodama said–their home is the trees, and the trees can’t exactly run away, but…

…yeah, with dreams like that, it was definitely time to wake up.

Dreams are good for writing. It’s not so much that I get story ideas from them (though that definitely happens), it’s more that they seem to sweep up and organize the huge jumble of daily sensory intake. Some of it goes into cupboards below the floor of consciousness, where it will mate in the dark with other interesting things of its own kind and produce grotesqueries and fantasticos to feed the writing. Some goes into little shiny bits that hang in mental branches, sending small sharp darts of free-association light into other mental branches. Some goes into the compost pile at the very bottom, to provide food for other ideas. And then there’s the strengthening aspect–when I’m actively dreaming a lot, it makes triggering the state of focused hallucination that produces the internal movie for a book tons easier.

I’ve also been playing with brainwave entrainment stuff lately. It’s interesting to see what state of consciousness goes with which frequency. I sometimes wish it was possible to have an EEG while I’m in the zone writing, just so I could see what the skull-meat is doing.

Anyway, here, have Tobias Buckell on e- and hardcover royalties.

And I finally bit the bullet and signed up for Pinterest. I’m building boards for Bannon & Clare and Ruby’s story, it’s nice to have visual food organized like that.

Speaking of Ruby, I finally found my way into her story. The sensation of a key turning in a lock to open up the beginning of a story never gets old. What if Little Red Riding Hood is the wolf? Double identities–the fairytale books are full of doubles and reflections. Then there’s the collar. Hm. Collar, collar, collar…

*wanders off, muttering*