Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 171

The Pairing Addiction

A houseful of people all weekend. All people I like, too, so that was good. A lot of work got done, a new mailbox was installed, and there was much foodening.

Last night I dreamt I was on a battleship. I had a turtle as a pet, and I had to speak to Admiral Nimitz. Unfortunately, every door I tried to get me to the bridge led somewhere else, and I had to stop every few steps to help someone or another, or make a decision for them. WonderWoman and I talked a lot this weekend about being the person called upon to make constant decisions and keep the peace, and how it becomes a reflex. Food for thought all over that.

I’m a little piqued today by people writing to chide me for not having Emma and Archibald “in a relationship.” They are in a relationship–it’s called a friendship, and neither of them are interested in each other romantically. Why is this even a thing? Because I’m a female writer? Because there’s no other reason for a guy and a girl to hang out together? Because I’ve written romance before? It seems like there’s either too much or not enough romance in any book I write, and I just wonder about why people pick that to complain about. Sometimes it’s a part of the story, sometimes it’s not–just like in life.

The complaints tend to come in waves every two or three months, and I’m not quite sure what to think about that.

There’s this whole glorification of “romantic” love in our culture. We’re addicted to the idea, the emotional jolt. 99% of our songs, most of our movies, a good chunk of our books, commercials, TV shows, all these things we consume, hing on different permutations of this “romantic” thing. It’s a fascinating cultural conversation to watch, but it’s so insidious–like the endless daily messages directed at women to be thinner/sexier/less threatening/more hairless in certain spots. It becomes reflexive, and feeds on itself over and over again, amplifying each time.

Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older, but sometimes the constant banging on the “you have to ‘love’ someone” gong is overwhelming and a little terrifying. My fairy-tale YAs all have that component, because it’s in the original tales, but Bannon & Clare? Not so much, because it doesn’t serve the story. Emma is involved elsewhere and Archibald, well, he’s not wired for romantic love. Their relationship is full of other things, and while it does contain a particular type of love it’s definitely not the type I suspect a lot of readers are expecting.

I do know I’m not going to be shoehorning those sorts of relationships everywhere, in every book, just because. It’s an important part of life, and stories, but it’s not the only thing in either.

photo by:


Tony Fischer Photography

Glass Apples

I keep trying to find a red one that doesn’t give me the chills from sheer ugliness.

GoT Season One, or, Westeros Soap Opera

So I watched Season One of Game of Thrones over the last couple days, trying to make my brain quit eating itself after I pushed hard to get revisions done early. I don’t watch a lot of telly and have somewhat lost the trick of it, but I managed.

My takeaway? In this universe there are pretty colors, the highborn have apparently been bred for poufy lips and high cheekbones, motherhood makes women into monsters or idiots, Jon Snow’s direwolf is way smarter than he is and this surprises absolutely nobody, Arya’s name should be Plucky Token Hero Girl Tomboy, Tyrion and Bronn are Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser (the series should be about them), every time Cat Stark says “_____ would never _____” it’s a sign that indeed they will, Danaerys Inbred McVioletEyes has a romance novel heroine’s magic vajayjay, it took a lot of work to stay clean in medieval settings, Sean Bean dies with better grace than most actors mimic living, and killing Syrio Forel just means, as Cleolinda said, this is why we can’t have nice things.

Also, I’ve dated a lot of guys who looked like GoT characters. It was like a gallery of past relationships. Except Jason Momoa. Never dated one of THOSE before. I’d be afraid of breaking him–the big ones are usually soft and cuddly and cry a lot. Oh, and Jaime Lannister, that one was more personality similarity than tall and blonde. “There are no men like me.” YES THERE ARE, THEY LIVE IN SWEDEN AND/OR DATE SOOKIE STACKHOUSE.

All in all, an enjoyable gory soap opera. I have to finish writing another book before I can watch Season Two, though I’ve seen YouTube clips. And don’t worry about spoilers, I know about the Red Wedding. I’m pretty prepared for everyone to die. I’m pretty much thinking it’ll be a regular Hamlet bloodbath in there, and I’m waiting with anticipation for Danaerys’s marriage to Gendry after Arya kills all the Lannisters (even Tyrion) and dies in the process. Oh, and I’m waiting for Shae to betray Tyrion and Bronn to kill her, or vice versa.

The scenes I enjoyed the most were Tyrion and Bronn. We really need a spinoff where they go and have adventures and end up ruling a country or something. Also, Littlefinger and Roz, that gave me chills. I’m quite fond of Varys–”[I serve] The Realm. Somebody has to.” Joffrey reminds me of a rabid Prince Humperdinck, and of course Jorah Mormont is in love with Inbred McVioletEyes and will never ever get to have her because he’s her FRIEND and besides, he was a slaver and oh yeah, he got a royal pardon by siccing assassins on her. Which, you know, someone else would have told someone sooner or later and someone would have sent assassins because that’s how this universe rolls, but still.

One full-frontal male nude shot (unless I missed a few?), lots of (of course) female nudity, Theon Greyjoy is telegraphing being a jerk so hard that his eventual betrayal of Robb will surprise nobody, lots of men transacting through the bodies of women.

I tried the books a long while ago, but found them pretty ponderous and circuitous. Which isn’t the books’ fault–it takes a lot for an epic fantasy to hold me. In any case, brain candy, and it managed to make my revision brain stop eating itself for a few hours, letting that sparking flywheel come down to rest. Good enough, and worth what I paid for it. Would have been worth it just for the costume design and wigs, and the horses. Pretty, pretty horses. And in case you think I’m too hard on Danaerys, I’ll admit eating a raw horse’s heart is pretty damn badass. Emilia Clarke makes her believable.

Even the magic vajayjay bits.

photo by:


gmahender

New Month

It’s a new month, and I’ve finished another round of revisions on Wayfarer (the second Tale of Beauty & Madness, due out next year). Which means my head is aching and scraped-empty, and it also means I have spots open on my editing queue. If you lost your spot due to missing a time window to submit or pay an invoice, you can resubmit and rejoin the queue too! I’m setting aside more time for this project, so I may have more than the original maximum of three slots a month.

I am enjoying the editing far more than I thought I would, which was quite a bit, so that means a lot. Most of the fun of teaching writing classes was assisting fellow writers; I enjoy helping people uncover things in their drafts. It works different muscles inside one’s brain, editing someone else’s stuff. So far the response has been positive, so much so that I’m considering adding different editing packages–a per-page fee for editing whole manuscripts and the like. It’s also immensely satisfying to do work I’m paid for at the time instead of at some foggy point in the future, as often happens in publishing. So, if you have editing services you’d like to see me offer, now is your time to suggest them.

Anyway, today is for recovering from revision brain, and maybe poking at a trunk novel. Then I go straight into Ruby’s story. Which is going to be difficult. I don’t find much to like about Ruby as a character. (Yet.) But part of the fun will be digging down deep in her to find things I do like, and tinkering with the engine of her fairytale to see how to soup it up and make it go like the wind.

But first, breakfast and getting children to school. Then a tempo run, which will keep Miss B too occupied to do her usual oh please can’t we make friends with that squirrel/cat/dog and by make friends I mean HEEEEEEERD IT OH COME ON MUM PLEEEEEEASE. Apparently I am the meanest mother ever because I won’t let her prance off and chase squirrels outside her own yard. *eyeroll*

Over and out.

photo by:


Raphael Goetter

I Hope Gandhi Is Right

So there was Mike Resnick and Barry Malzberg being sexist assholes. Jim Hines kindly put together a linkblog on the responses. (Incidentally, John Scalzi stepped up, as SFWA president, LIKE A BOSS.) Andrea Phillips notes the sea change.

We have enough critical mass behind gender equality now that ongoing reports of sexism are being treated as a problem, and a serious one, too. Better, there’s a snowball effect in play: Some of the men (and women!) who didn’t really think there was a problem before will see, have seen exactly how people are treated when they speak up. Increasingly, you’re seen as a total dinosaur or a total dick if you persist in engaging in problematic behaviors. Anita Sarkeesian, bless her, had to live through some horrible things — but she did so publicly, and in doing so persuaded a vast body of people who hadn’t cared about this stuff before that there truly are some awful things out there, and that it’s worth fighting them. –Andrea Phillips

Then Ann Aguirre spoke about how she’s been treated as a SF author who just happens to have girl bits.

I had slightly better experiences at WorldCon and ArmadilloCon, but I suspect it wasn’t as bad because I was roaming around with Sharon Shinn, who has more power and cachet than I had at that time. But I still encountered more than my share of fans, who dismissed my work. At that point, I was disheartened, and I stopped attending SFF cons entirely. I decided I’d rather spend my travel money otherwise. To quote my wonderful friend, Lauren Dane, “If I want to feel bad about myself, I’ll go swimsuit shopping.” My professional work shouldn’t be impacted by my gender, my appearance, my religion, my sexuality, my skin tone, or any other factor. The fact that it is? Makes me so very sad. I’ve had readers and writers stare at my rack instead of my face while “teaching” me how to suck eggs.

I’ve been fighting this battle for five years now.

And now, here’s the second thing: I’ve been made aware of a post (that I’m not linking to) from a guy who is swinging at me again. Why? Because I’m getting my girl cooties all over his SF. He implies I’m incapable of grasping sophisticated SF references due to my gender–that I don’t actually write SF because it has women, sex, and feelings in it. I’m so tired and disheartened right now. The one bright spot was my experience at KeyCon in Canada, where I was not only made to feel welcome but valued. Not a single soul at the con questioned my credentials or my quality of fiction, due to what I don’t have in my pants.

But I’m still here. I’m still writing. You cannot shut me up. I will NOT SIT DOWN. I will not stand quietly by anymore. I am a woman. I write SF. And it’s not acceptable to treat me as anything less than an equal. I won’t stand for it. And I won’t get your fucking coffee. –Ann Aguirre

It took less than an hour for her to start receiving hate mail for that post.

Part of why I’ve stopped going to conventions and cut WAY back on events and signings is, as I’ve said, deadlines and the energy drain of being an introvert and dealing with crowds of people. A larger concern is safety–I’ve been followed around and harassed at cons, both as a fan and as a guest. I’ve been on panels where not only have I been belittled and insulted for happening to have girl bits, but I’ve been followed from them by mansplainers who in at least one notable instance, tried to corner me in a crowded hallway and wouldn’t stop even when con security was alerted by onlookers. I suppose this is made worse by the fact that I was often pressed into service as a moderator because I won’t tolerate bullshit if I’ve been nominated to that position. *shrug*

And yeah, the hate mail. My email filters send most of it to killfiles as evidence for law enforcement if someone takes it into their head to become even more of an asshole than my usual stalkers. Still, some creeps through, and it’s often nauseating. Even though it becomes somewhat routine–oh hey, another “shut up and go back in the kitchen”, right next to another rape threat, ho hum, they’re all working off the same script I guess–one still doesn’t get “used” to it. I suspect that’s what the idiots who send hate mail bank on, the fact that any reasonable person will feel like throwing up after reading their filth gives them a sense of power. Any response is a victory, I guess.

Andrea Phillips, above, quoted Gandhi–”First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.”

I hope he was right, because this sort of shit makes me so. damn. tired. And one day, maybe I’d like to choose to go to a convention and not have to worry about being cornered or harassed. Or open up my email without getting nauseous.

It’d be nice.

The Whisper Tree

From a long ramble a couple weeks ago, the Whisper Tree. On rainy days you can hear it murmur; in sunshine it gives out a sonorous quiet. (Sorry about the blur, it doesn’t like being photographed.)

Fearless!Cat Appears

Exciting times at Chez Saintcrow.

The cat’s come upstairs.

I’ve waited to tell how Fearless!Cat came to us. Originally, she was my father-in-law’s. His cat of nearly twenty years (you read that right, that animal was cranky and very long-lived) passed on finally, and after a long lonely interval an all-black kitten (except for a single spot of white on her chest) came to keep him company. She had a habit of taking on things several sizes larger than herself–raccoons, azaleas, couches, washing machines–which added spice to her otherwise very sweet disposition.

Fast forward a few years, past the divorce and various other events…and all of a sudden, my ex-husband and his father were in the same assisted-living facility (long story, full of diabetes, South American countries, strokes, and pneumonia) and someone’s got to take care of the poor cat. Cue up Yours Truly, a sucker if there ever was one, and a four-hour drive with a yowling cat in the front seat and chattering kids in the back in unseasonably hot weather. (Don’t even ask about the traffic, OMG.)

Anyway, we got Fearless settled downstairs with the cat food, water, and litterbox. The Mad Tortie was alternately enchanted by and profoundly suspicious of this turn of events. Being raised with dogs, the Tortie didn’t quite get what this other creature in her house was, even though it seemed awwwwwful familiar. Miss B, of course, couldn’t wait to get her snout close to the new arrival and untangle its fascinating aromas. Odd Trundles?

Well, he can handle the stairs off the deck in back, but he can’t go down the inside stairs. I mean, I’m sure he could, but they’re slippery hardwood, and he’s front-heavy, so he’s avoided them from the very beginning. There’s more than enough upstairs in the main living area to keep him occupied, especially since my office and the kitchen are both up there. So while Odd knew something had happened, he wasn’t quite sure what.

At first, Fearless hid in the couch downstairs. Then she moved to the guest bedroom. For a while we didn’t see her, but evidence in the food bowl and litterbox let us know she was still alive. Then she came out while the kids were downstairs watching movies or playing video games, and the petting and attention she received soothed her marvelously.

Then she twigged to the fact that there was a whole upstairs, and the yowling began.

She wouldn’t come up the stairs, oh no. She could be coaxed to the landing, but then Odd Trundles could see her, and when he began wiggling and chuffing and inviting her up the final flight with play barks and drooling, back down into the daylight dungeon she went. And yet, she wanted to come upstairs where the humans have dinners and sleeps! The Mad Tortie wasn’t enough company for her, she knew the pets are where the humans are.

Her solution? Screaming up the stairs. “I’M LONELY! COME DOWN HERE! THAT THING UPSTAIRS, IT’S FRIGHTENING. SO YOU COME DOWN HERE. I SAID COME DOWN HERE! WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING TO YOUR MISTRESS? GOD DAMN IT, I’M GOING TO…OOOOH, IS THAT CATNIP?”

Yeah, the Princess thought catnip would help lure her up to the landing and calm her. Unfortunately, Fearless would hit the catnip, roll in it, then get the munchies and head back downstairs for the food bowl and some staring at the blank television screen. *eyeroll*

Of course this noise coming from downstairs drove Odd Trundles into an ecstasy of writhing, barking, wriggling, and joy. “I HEAR YOU! NEW FRIEND! SPEAK DOG, CAN’T UNDERSTAND. BUT I HEAR!” Sort of like SETI picking up actual alien communication, I guess.

I thought she might just decide downstairs was enough of a kingdom for her…but last night, while I was finishing up some revisions, the Princess showed up at my office door. “Guess what?” she whispered. “Fearless is upstairs!”

“Close the office door,” I whispered back. “I’ll keep the dogs in here.”

Despite bolting for downstairs an hour later when I had to take the dogs out (Odd Trundles was ecstatic at the prospect of a new friend AND the prospect of peeing, which is one of his great joys in life) she apparently found much to recommend the fabled country of upstairs, because she braved it once again to sleep on the Little Prince’s bed. By “sleep” I mean “roll around, demand petting, and knead all damn night.” The Prince was happy to have her there, though.

So now she knows upstairs exists. She’s touched noses with Miss B downstairs, and B, no stranger to cats, knows when to back off and leave one alone, no matter how fascinating it smells. Odd, though…well, it worries me a little. Still, Fearless can levitate, and she has those scythes on each paw…

…you know, I’m sort of more worried for Odd than her, really.

I’ll keep you posted.

photo by:


Dirigentens

Laughing Incredibly Ungracefully

A very soggy weekend was had by all. It did not stop the Little Prince and Princess from requesting hot dogs for dinner yesterday. Fortunately, a Foreman grill does a respectable job of cooking them. Boiled hot dogs are kind of gross. *shudder*

It also didn’t stop some serious gardening from happening. Lots of stuff went in the ground: hostas, dicanthus, coleus, toad lilies, calla and canna lilies, Tibetan Blue poppies; nasturtium, poppy, California poppy, and hollyhock seeds. We set up another temporary greenhouse for gardenia, hot and bell peppers, basil and parsley. In a couple weeks the yard will stop looking scraggly and torn-up and start looking actually planned. It’s like big cleaning or DIY projects–there comes that point where everything is messier than ever, and you despair of it ever coming together, right before it does come together and start getting exponentially neater by the moment. I was also seduced by some epiphyllums. (They didn’t have to work very hard.) And a ton of greenhouse-started stuff went into the vegetable garden. If the plants survive we’re going to be rolling in tomatoes come July.

I’d forgotten how happy being elbow-deep in dirt makes me. Life is once again worth it.

Also, a group of women writers made the local newspaper. There’s also a picture of me laughing incredibly ungracefully. (Also, I do sneak a few references to Dune into Bannon & Clare.)

I’ve discovered that I can handle more editing than I thought on a month-by-month basis. Come June I’ll have more slots open on the wait list, but you can sign up anytime.

Today is the day I go back to the treadmill for my rest-day runs. I take one day off a week for complete rest and letting my body rebuild, never fear. I had to scrap the training plan. Apparently I’m great when self-directed, but put someone else in charge and I start resisting immediately. (This will surprise absolutely NOBODY who knows me.) Dragging my ass through a run is hard enough, no reason to make it more difficult. Plus, the treadmill’s gotten lonely. I used to use it daily. Of course, it’s in the garage looking out a back window…so if there’s fresh squirrel hijinks I’ll be able to see them.

That’s all I got this morning. Most of the day is going to be eaten up with revisions for Wayfarer. Getting in and dealing with the fine mechanics, going bit by bit and tweaking structure, dealing with each separate part of the line edits…there’s also that short story to do revisions on and send back. No shortage of work, which is how I like it.

Over and out.

photo by:


archer10 (Dennis)

Calla

First calla lily of the season. I love the green along the bottom of the flower-cup.

Whistling To Breakfast

In the middle of second-pass revisions for Wayfarer, the second Beauty & Madness. I finished this book during the nightmare of buying a house and having everything that could possibly go wrong…go wrong. It’s odd to read it now and remember how I was feeling when I wrote a particular scene, certain turns of phrase bringing back waves of uncomfortable feeling from that time.

Regular spring weather has returned, and the rain makes me happy. In the old house, you could hear every drop hitting the roof. In this one, it takes a reasonably heavy downpour to whisper inside, and I was curled up warm and safe in bed with Miss B and the Mad Tortie, who has taken to sleeping in my room lately. (Odd Trundles prefers his crate, and given his habit of emitting…certain smells…at night, it’s probably best.) It was by far the most content I’ve felt in a long while. The new cat–long story–can be coaxed upstairs during quiet times, but prefers the basement. Probably because that’s where the kibble and litterbox are located, and because Odd can’t negotiate the inside stairs. (Too topheavy, poor thing.) She would like very much to come upstairs, though, judging by her yowling at certain points. Eventually she’ll get lonely enough to creep upstairs at other times, and we will welcome her.

They took out a tree at the house behind us, so the crows have moved into my firs. They don’t quite taunt the dogs–for one thing, Miss B is pretty unflappable–but they do comment upon all sorts of things, all day. The old house had mourning doves that weighed in on every event, gossiping like bored elderly men, but the crows take a more direct approach, yelling about pretty much everything and keeping the entire neighborhood updated. Also, I caught Josephine!Squirrel building a nest the other day.

Yes, I’m looking at reclaiming my squirrel stories. And that’s all I’m saying about that at the moment.

Anyway, today is going to be gray and damp, thank goodness. Miss B needs a nice hard run to settle her nerves, and so do I. Then it’s time to dive back into the revisions and layer in more description. I can see everything I’m writing so clearly inside my head–a sort of total-body hallucination–that I often forget the reader can’t, and so an editor’s gentle reminders that they can’t see inside my skull are pretty priceless.

I suppose that’s all the news that’s fit to blog.

*wanders off whistling to breakfast*

photo by:


fdtate