Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 172

Until It Stops Working

So far this morning I’ve run 6k, finished the huge pile of shredding I had to do, and polished off the last of the cocoanut bonbons.

Yesterday I knocked off fifty pages of revisions and got my filing cabinet cleaned out and under control. (Hence the shredding.) I discovered that working in twenty-minute increments, shifting back and forth between those two tasks, made me a lot more productive than just sitting down and finishing one. thing. at. a. time. I’m sure this strategy only has limited uses, but I’m going to stick with it until it stops working.

Also in the category of things I’m going to stick with until it stops working: I’m going to a Transcendental Meditation talk this upcoming weekend. If it isn’t heavy on the cult vibe, I may even pay for the training. Or, maybe–maybe–ask for the people who know my birthday to contribute toward the course fee for said birthday next year.

I should probably explain why this is a big deal: I LOATHE my birthday. I don’t hate getting older, far from. Each year I get older is another year away from the helplessness and pain of my childhood, and that’s a good thing. I hate it because every year I would get panicked and nervous for weeks beforehand wondering what explosion would occur if things didn’t go “perfectly” according to someone else on that day. That sort of stress, year after year, has a habit of echoing. I’m happiest when that day passes in routine, with nothing special to mark it at all. I love other people’s birthdays, I just find the thought of presents or anything else on my own so stressful I’d rather lock myself in a cave during it, and for about a week on either side.

According to the few people who do know about my birthday, maybe I should learn to relax a little bit. So, I might take the plunge.

Maybe.

Anyway, I’d stay and report about the pictures I got of Josephine!Squirrel at the birdfeeder outside the kitchen window, not to mention the grazing Odd Trundles is doing for stray hay and bits of shredded paper on the office floor. (Seriously, it looks like fucking Mardi Gras in here, except no tits.) But my time for blogging is up, and I must dive into these revisions so my editor doesn’t come hunting me down with an axe.

Go on, laugh. I did too, at first.

*winks* Over and out.

photo by:


emrank

Too Many vs Aesthetic

I go back and forth between “Lili, you have too many earrings” and “Wow, you certainly have an aesthetic, don’t you.”

That being said, I want to go look at earrings at Cost Plus again. It’s an illness, I tell you.

Yon Cavy Hotel

Today THE IRON WYRM AFFAIR is a Kindle Daily Deal–$1.99!

The signing with Kate Elliott last night was a blast. I got home late (there were hijinks and shop talk, not to mention wine and tater tots) after the bookstore closed down. Kate read from upcoming work, including an upcoming YA that sounds incredibly awesome. I couldn’t decide what to bring so I offered the audience a choice: an unpublished short story or the unedited first chapter of the third Bannon & Clare book. (They chose the latter.)

I arrived home to find the house still standing and the new guinea pig cage completely assembled. The Princess had even put Bandit and Critic into said new cage, which is OODLES larger than the other one. (I think bandit is still vexed with me,” she informed me with a grin.) The little fellows are quite pleased with all the new space, and with the loft area full of toys. For those interested, it’s a coroplast and grid cage from here. I have to say, both the customer service and cage quality from that particular site were awesome. I highly recommend them if you have the little critters.

I mean, just LOOK at the thing.

Of course, I can’t reach my cork board behind it, but that’s a small price to pay for happy, healthy little cavies. They’re burbling as I type this, munching on sugar snap peas and just generally chillin’ in their new digs.

Anyway, today’s for recovery and getting final revisions on Ellie’s story done so it can head off to that magical land where they make galleys.I must be getting old, trundling home late makes me logy the next day.

Over and out!

Signing at Powell’s!

Tonight at 7pm, I (and my anxiety) will be signing at Powell’s Cedar Hill Crossing with the fabulous Kate Elliott! I still haven’t figured out what to bring to read, and may just do a Q&A. Nothing I’m working on now feels good enough to read in public, but if I do bring a reading, it will probably be the first chapter of the third Bannon & Clare book.

After much thought, I have decided not to bring the zombie gnome this time. I may be able to remember some fresh-clipped rhubarb as I run out the door. (The things I do for my fans.)

Anyway, come on out and see me! It will be a huge hoot. I’m told I’m hilarious when I’m nervous in public. And I’ll be wearing heels, so the hijink possibilities are endless! Note that if you bring me booze (or a llama) I’ll be your best friend. At least until the booze wears off and/or the llama evacuates upon the bookstore carpet. Powell’s sort of frowns on that, even if I’d be thrilled to sing “Me and My Llama”. Especially after booze.

See you there!

photo by:


Daniela Vladimirova

Events, New Editing Packages, and Rhubarb

If you want to meet me, I’ll be signing with the fabulous Kate Elliott at Cedar Hills Crossing Powell’s on Tuesday, July 9th, at 7pm. (That’s tomorrow.) I’m trying to figure out what to bring to read–maybe some of the third Bannon & Clare book, though it’s just in first draft form? I don’t know. I’ll think of something. Mostly I’ll just be keeping the crowds from crushing my fellow author.

I do possess a dress, and I might wear it. You’ve been warned.

In other news, I’m offering a brand-new editing service–full manuscript edits! That means that for $150 plus $1.75 per (properly formatted) page, you get a thorough, hard-core Track Changes edit from Yours Truly. The manuscript must be finished, but it can be any length–novella, short story, novel. I won’t contract for series and there may be an additional charge for anything over 100K words. Also, my waiting list for 25-page edit packages has just opened up.

Between all that and cleaning the cavy cage (my God, can those rodents eliminate!) I’m working on Ruby’s story and gearing up to research Hong Kong at the turn of the century. I may end up having more work than even I can handle, which is a great place to be in.

So, I guess if you’re around, I’ll see you on Tuesday. I may be bringing rhubarb from my garden for a certain fan…

GNOMEPOCALYPSE

I found my old Gnomepocalypse pics this morning, and thought I might as well resurrect the event, which is part of what was lost when my site got hacked. I had an incredible amount of fun doing this–it was back in the old house, which was good for some things, and the Princess still remembers me chortling with glee as I staged each shot.

A Box has arrived! It is strangely heavy. What doom lies within?

“Mum, what did you do this time?”

“Oh, you’ll see. YOU’LL SEE.”

 

 

What is it? Is it animal, vegetable, mineral? It reeks of rotting concrete. And fear.

“It looks like a mummy.”

“Oooooh, close. But more rotting and less love story.”

“No O’Connell?”

“Not in this box.”

 

 

 

It claws forth, hungry and slow, one tiny bubble pop at a time.

Crunch.

Pop.

Crunch.

Pop.

“MUM JUST OPEN IT.”

“Why, when I can make you suffer with anticipation?”

 

 

Investigating the strange new beast. It is slow, but it has teeth. Not particularly dangerous, as long as you keep moving.

“It’s a…gnome.”

“A ZOMBIE gnome.”

“Mum, you’re weird.”

“I know.”

 

 

“THIS GARDEN IS SMALL. I REQUIRE MORE SPACE. AND MORE BRAAAAAAINS.”

“What are you doing?”

“Documenting our new arrival for posterity. What does it look like?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

I suspect this was the point at which the Princess began to feel faintly alarmed at the amount of fun I was having.

 

“WHAT IS THIS? IT BURNSSSS USSSS, PRESHUSSSSSS. NASTY ELVES MUST HAVE MADE IT.”

“Please stop with the Gollum voice.”

“No can do, preshussssss.”

 

 

 

“NOW WE MAY SEE OUR PREY BETTER, YES. AND THE SMELL, IT HIDES US. MINTY FRESH!”

“You know your face squinches up when you do that?”

“You can’t do Gollum with a straight face. Ask Andy Serkis.”

“…oh yeah, when I meet him, I TOTALLY WILL.”

 

 

“NATURE FULFILLSSSSS US, PRESHUSSSSS. BEAUTY MAKESSSSS US HUNGRY.”

“It’s a concrete zombie gnome. What does it eat?”

“Brains.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t want to get close enough to find out.”

“And yet you’re taking pictures.”

“Shut up, kid.”

 

 

“SINGLE ZOMBIE GNOME SEEKS BRAAAAAAINS. LOVES STALKING PREY, CLIMBING TREES, AND PINA COLADASSSSSSS. AVOIDS RAIN–IT ROTS US QUICKER, YESSSS.”

“You’re not going to put the gnome in a TREE, Mum.”

“OH YES I AM. Look, it’s like a profile pic for online dating!”

“Oh God, don’t tell me you’re online dating.”

“No, the gnome is.”

 

“PEEKABOO! I SEE YOUR BRAAAAAAINSSSSSS!”

“Mum, seriously?”

“Shhh, the gnome is HIDING.”

“Mum, this is weird.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. You’ve lived with me for HOW LONG?”

 

 

 

“OOOOH, PAINT ME LAHK ONE OF YOUR FRENCH ZOMBIES.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“*laughing too hard to speak*”

“Mum? Can you breathe?”

“*still laughing*”

“Oh God, my mother’s been killed by a concrete zombie gnome…”

“*laughs harder*”

 

All of a sudden, Phil had the odd feeling that he was being…watched.

“What am I going to tell my friends?”

“That this is what happens when you feed a garden gnome after midnight.”

“What does that mean?”

“…God, I feel old.”

“Okay, that’s creepy.”

“Don’t look away. When you look away, they move.”

“MOTHER!”

Good times, man. Good times. Beware the gnomepocalypse…

You can find your own zombie garden gnome here. Go on, thank me later…

News, And A Public Request

My office is slowly taking on reasonably organized dimensions. Bandit and Critic aren’t as freaked out by this as I thought they would be–if the change is occurring outside their habitat, they don’t care. Also, as long as it doesn’t interfere with snacktime. Snacktime is sacred.

News! I’ll be signing at Cedar Hills Crossing Powell’s with Kate Elliott on the 9th. I’m excited to meet Kate! My social anxiety is in full swing already, though. I’ll probably be nervous all the way through. I did request an IV drip of Valium, but Powell’s, though they treat their visiting authors incredibly well, couldn’t quite agree to that.

Now I’m shifting gears a little bit. Buckle up, chickadees.

Mary Robinette Kowal is publicly telling twelve angry weasels to STFU.

I spent four years in office and the first year I almost quit because I got so tired of getting hate mail. Then I realized that it was coming from the same dozen people, every single time. All the other members were lovely. It was easier to shrug off being called “impertinent,” or “wannabee” (Did I show you the Hugo I won since then), or “Nazi,” when it became clear that the vitriol didn’t represent all of SFWA, just a dozen rabid weasels.

However, I am sick to death of putting out the fires that you people start.

Please quit. And by “quit” I mean, please quit SFWA in a huff. Please quit noisily and complaining about how SFWA is censoring you for asking you to stop using hate speech. Please quit and complain about the “thoughtcrime” of asking people not to sexually harass someone. Please quit and bellyache about the good old days when people could be bigoted jerks. I want you to express your opinions clearly so that everyone knows them and knows that you are quitting because the other members of SFWA want you to Shut the Fuck up. Mary Robinette Kowal

I’d like to add my enthusiastic approval and my own personal request as a member of SFWA (and of the wider SF/F community as well) for these asshats to just flounce on out that door. We won’t miss you, and you can roll around in the false indignation you’ve become addicted to as well as the toxic mess of your own racism, bigotry, misogyny, and various other foetid effluvia to your heart’s content. Build your own racist, homophobic, misogynist organization where you can become a self-referential loop of sickening asshattery elsewhere. You’ll be much happier.

In other words, consider this a public request for you to shut the fuck up and get the fuck out.

‘Nuff said.

photo by:


williamcho

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