Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 175

Hunter’s Instinct

What is it with reclusive rich people and constant house renovations? My sister once visited the Winchester House; she said it was fascinating but only mildly creepy. As a Shirley Jackson fan, I expect more from my old freakishly-renovated mansions.

Good morning! Dawn is rising as I write this. Having to get up at six to get the kids to school is…interesting. For a night owl, having to keep an early schedule means I’m trying to wind down just as my body is wanting to wake up and move, and I’m waking up just when my body wants to be in deep slumber. I feel halfway awake most days.

This morning the Selkie and I are dissecting a recent read for our teensy little book club. As usual, I went and beat a metaphor to death:

He has no hunter’s instinct, which a writer has to have–you have to hunt down the plot bunny, flay it, see how it works internally, put it back to together, resurrect it, and then kill it again and hang the trophy. Or keep killing it and resurrecting it a little more perfectly each time. (From email.)

A hunter’s instinct is necessary if you’re going to tell a story the way it wants to be told. You must also be willing to have your characters suffer consequences. This becomes a million times harder if one of them is an authorial self-insertion. A certain measure of brutality is necessary, and it hurts, because it must be balanced by absolute compassion for your characters. Even the ugly, nasty, foul ones. Or the ones who possess your own character flaws. This balance–bleeding heart and brutality–is incredibly difficult.

Nobody ever said this job was easy.

Over and out.

photo by:


AlicePopkorn

A Better Cathedral

Cherry trees all abloom, daffodils and hyacinths exuberant, people dragging lawnmowers out of winter storage. Spring is here. (Life is skittles and life is beer…)

I went for a long run yesterday–Sundays are shaking out to be my long days, 9.7km to build my run volume–and was surprised by a feeling of almost-cheerfulness after the fifth kilometre. Part of one of my longer routes goes past a church, and I felt sorry for those stuck inside. The sky’s a better cathedral. Anyway, I’m becoming quite philosophical when I run. Maybe I need a tougher training regimen, because if I have enough breath to philosophize (even internally) something must be wrong.

Anyway…I finished that damn dinner scene. I had to have all the pieces in place before I flicked the first domino. So now it’s a deliberate sacrifice of a queen on the board, and a race against time. It will start deceptively slowly, with Emma Bannon remembering things she’d much rather not while she trolls the darkest parts of Londinium.

See you on the other side.

*dives again*

photo by:


Tambako the Jaguar

Best Friends

Willard is generally a laid-back, easygoing fellow. He doesn’t get why some people can’t stand his bestie…

Le Napoleon Amorous, Interrupte

It’s not every morning I walk out on my deck to see a pair of copulating wild rodents.

I had to let the dogs out, you see, because they were going crazy. It wasn’t until I stepped outside that I saw the cause of all the yipping and prancing. I am not sure if Odd Trundles fully comprehended what he saw–he was neutered really early in his short life–but Miss B certainly did, and I think it’s the first time I ever saw her, well, shocked.

She charged at the happy couple, nails scrabbling and full-throated howls rising. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? THERE ARE PUPPIES AROUND HERE! TAKE IT SOMEWHERE ELSE!” Of course, Odd Trundles scuttled in her wake, and his cry was much simpler.

“NEW FRIEND!” he barked as he scurried along, whistling with excitement from both ends. Ever since the incident involving the SQUIRRELPROOF 5000 DEATHRIDE Odd has been ever on the alert for his rotund little French squirrel buddy.

Napoleon!Squirrel, on the other hand, is a very busy rodent, and has ceased to even acknowledge Odd’s existence with a string of foul chittering words. Miss B always gets at least a rude gesture, once Napoleon has made it to a safe vantage point. I should note that the Mad Tortie has ceased to chase Napoleon, believing him not worth the trouble and besides, her tastes lean more toward the avian than the rodent.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Miss B was performing her Legion of Decency duty, Odd was overjoyed to see Napoleon again, and Napoleon…well.

I’m sure I would have been cranky too, in his position. Ahem. Anyway.

“VIVE LE SQUIIIIIRREL!” the round little gallant screamed, separating from his…erm, duties, I guess you’d call it? Said separation was rather sudden, and I managed to get a good look at his partner, who seemed a bit dazed by this turn of events, crouched on the deck with fine feathery tail lashing.

Slim, sleek, and possessed of a lovely set of cheekbones (if squirrels had fashion mags this one would be a star), it was undoubtedly Josephine!Squirrel, who is the one creature in the Realm of Backyard that can command Napoleon’s breathless silence. If Josephine is in the yard, you can bet Napoleon is lurking somewhere nearby, staring in rapt rodent wonder at Josephine’s fluid hindquarters, aerial grace, delicate paws.

Josephine!Squirrel, I must report, also possesses testicles.

Rather large ones, which were on display as he–she? S/he? Anyway, Joseph/ine stayed frozen, huddled on the deck, no doubt overwhelmed by the sudden attention.

Miss B expected squirrels to behave in a squirrel-like fashion and bolt, and she had already calculated the most likely avenue for them to make their escape. So she switched direction, in a stunning display of canine agility…and realized too late she was chasing nothing, because Napoleon had gone straight up the railing and Joseph/ine, wide-eyed and only beginning to realize what had happened, trembled in a heap. Napoleon, realizing his paramour had not moved, shot a glance over his shoulder as Miss B tumbled down the stairs.

Odd Trundles is not burdened by any similar ability to plan ahead or anticipate, so he’d just kept going in the direction he was first given, right at Joseph/ine. He flung himself upon he…um…Her? Him? (I DON’T KNOW HOW JOSEPH/INE PREFERS THE PRONOUNS, DAMMIT!) upon Joseph/ine!Squirrel, ecstatic and licking. “NEW FRIEND! *slobberwhistle* NEWFRIEND! SNACK SIZE!”

I can now report that squirrel chivalry is not dead, and that it has an ardent proponent in one fat little foul-mouthed specimen. “VIVE LE SQUUUUUIRRRRREL!” Napoleon shouted, and launched himself with an amazing backflip off the railing. Odd, startled by this sudden motion, tumbled backward and decided his bravery, while adequate, was no match for such surprise attacks. So he did what he usually does when faced with such a situation.

He barked, farted loudly with surprise, hit my ankles, and cowered, still barking his high-pitched “DID YOU SEE THAT? I’M BRAVE! I’M BRAVE! HOLD ME BACK, MUM! *snortwhistle*”

Napoleon landed on all fours, flung his head and tail up to show his best side to Joseph/ine, and screamed again. “FEAR NOT, GENTLE ONE! NAPOLEON EEZ HERE! EN GARDE!”

Meanwhile, Miss B, who had all but fallen down the first flight of stairs as a direct result of her own damn intelligence, had sorted herself mostly out and was headed back up, grimly determined. She possesses precious little dignity, but the small amount she has, I guess, was touched. She rose up the stairs like a sharkfin rising from the vast deep, and Napoleon, busy watching Joseph/ine’s reaction to his heroism…

…had his back to her.

TO BE CONTINUED…

photo by:


law_keven

The Gentlecritter-Masques

March is a month of birthdays, and since we have the space for parties now…well. Which means I am now heaving a sigh of relief, since the partying is over and my anxiety in the face of anything even vaguely gathering-related has a chance to calm down. The dogs are slightly disappointed that things are back to normal–after all, any shindig, hootenanny, or hoedown means food will fall from the sky, but they’ll struggle on bravely, with lots of sighs and pointedly throwing themselves down at the top of the stairs, waiting for guests to come. All the while ignoring the perfectly serviceable kibble in their bowls because it has no Cheetos in it.

This morning’s excitement was Miss B discovering two New Friends in our yard. No, they were not squirrels. They were a Masked Gentleman and a Masked Gentlewoman–a lovely pair of racoons, both of them probably outweighing Odd Trundles (which is quite a trick)–shimmying through the gap in the back fence, into the neighbor’s yard. Miss B, beside herself with glee, raced back and forth along the fence. “OH PLEASE OH PLEASE JUST LET ME HEEEEEERD YOU, PLEASE OH PLEASE!” while Odd Trundles scurried to keep up, not quite sure what the ruckus was but gamely willing to run until his ticker busted just to be a part of it.

I, of course, had no idea what the fuck, until I looked up at the huge bare leafless monster tree in the neighbor’s backyard. Two blinking masked gentlecritters were there, helping each other up the trunk.

“AFTER YOU, I INSIST.”

“NO, NO, AFTER YOU, MY DEAR.”

“NO, IT WOULDN’T BE RIGHT. PLEASE DO…THANK YOU. PARDON THE COLLOQUIALISM, BUT ARE YOU OKAY?”

“OH, QUITE ALL RIGHT, THANK YOU. HERE, STEP UPON THIS BRANCH.”

“WHY, THANK YOU. I SAY, I THINK THAT CREATURE WISHES TO MAKE OUR ACQUAINTANCE.”

“INDUBITABLY. THE SMALL WHITE ONE LOOKS LIKE A SAUSAGE.”

“LADY MASQUE! THE THINGS YOU SAY!”

“OH, LORD MASQUE, DO FORGIVE ME. I AM RATHER DISARRANGED AT THE MOMENT.”

“QUITE SO, QUITE SO…STILL, I BELIEVE YOU ARE RIGHT, IT DOES LOOK VAGUELY SAUSAGE-LIKE.”

Yes, friends and neighbors, they sounded exactly like the Goofy Gophers. I can look out my office window and see them making themselves comfortable in the tree, where they appear to be napping off the effects of the early-morning chase. I do rather think Lord Gentlecritter-Masque imbibed a drop too much at whatever function the two were wending their way homeward after, for he did sound a little WC Fields. Lady Gentlecritter-Masque would no doubt be horrified at the notion.

Which reminds me, I should tell you guys about Napoleon!Squirrel and his (lady?)love Josephine. It’s not a tale for tender ears, because there is…well, physical affection in it, let’s say. But I’m nearing the end of the Ripper book and I have to get that out before it eats my brain whole and spits out chunks of gray porridge. (You’re welcome for that image, by the way,)

I should report the last exchange between the Gentlecritter-Masques.

“AH, THERE IS A HUMAN.”

“SIR, I DO BELIEVE YOU ARE CORRECT.”

“SHE IS GAZING UPON US MOST PECULIARLY.”

“THEY GENERALLY DO, DEAR.”

“DO YOU KNOW, I THINK IT MAY BE…”

“DO GO ON.”

“DO YOU REMEMBER THE CORVID WE HOSTED LAST SUMMER?”

“THE BARTHOLOMEW FELLOW?”

“THE VERY SAME! I DO BELIEVE HE SPOKE OF HER.”

“SHHH, SHE’S LISTENING.”

“EAVESDROPPING. HOW GAUCHE.”

“NONSENSE, SHE’S A HUMAN. SHE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND PROPER LANGUE ANIMAUX.”

“THAT IS FRENCH, MY DARLING. YOU KNOW WHAT FRENCH DOES TO ME.”

“OOOOOH, LORD MASQUE!”

…yeah. Anyway. Fun times ahead, I can just tell.

Over and out.

photo by:


Tambako the Jaguar

Peekaboo

My sister caught this shot when she last visited. I love the shy little peekaboo effect.

On Business

My brain is a mass of porridge right now, because I’m lunging for the end of the third Bannon & Clare book. Which, since it’s happening during a particularly busy month–tax preparation, birthdays for certain young people, changes in school hours and such–is rather a type of torture. My skin feels too tight and everything that isn’t writing scrapes unbearably. It’s hard to interact with people because most of me is somewhere else, so I stop in the middle of sentences or stare blankly at other adults who might be talking to me, desperately trying to pay attention through the noise of a fight in alt-Victorian London ringing through my skull.

It’s my day to speak at the Deadline Dames, and since I’m scattered enough to think just about anything is a good idea, I thought I’d talk to you about business. Specifically, I found myself in the position of giving advice today, and I realized things I wish I’d been told when I was starting out.

Just because it’s sometimes a struggle to think through the noise of the story in my head, demanding to be birthed or it will RIP ITS WAY FREE (you’re welcome for that visual, by the way) doesn’t mean that I’m helpless. And it doubly doesn’t mean that I’m not a gentlewoman. When you make the choice to have writing pay your mortgage, it behooves you to use your wonderful, story-exercised brain upon the whole subject of hard cold cash. (If it makes me a hack, fine. I’m on record with being okay with that.)

To that end, I thought I would share three things I’ve learned about writing-as-a-business. Your mileage may vary, all applicable disclaimers inserted here, and if you think you shouldn’t be worried about money because you are an ARTIST, well, go back to the lilybed of grief because I am obviously not your huckleberry.

1. Don’t work for free. Your time is worth something. If you don’t respect your own worth, nobody will. This isn’t to say you shouldn’t work for something other than money–but if you’re working for “exposure,” you’d better have a damn good idea of what exposure you’re working for and how it’s going to materially affect your ability to produce what you want to be paid for. Getting trapped into working for “contacts” or “exposure” can have huge, nasty effects on your energy level (they call it burnout for a reason) and on your creative life. You need energy to produce/create; giving that energy away doesn’t help you. When people get things from you for free, they don’t tend to value them as much; and there’s the nasty cold hard fact that once you’re used up and no longer provide the free services, chances are you’ll be tossed aside like refuse. Or the equally nasty cold hard fact that people who arrange things to get stuff from you for free quickly come to believe they are entitled to said things from you. (See: Sick systems.)

But Lili, I hear you whine, like the rusty gates of hell, you do stuff for free for your chiiiiildren and your friiiiends! Yes, I do. But when we’re talking about the living I make in order to pay my mortgage, feed my kids, and spoil my friends damn rotten, it’s a different situation. Don’t throw that red herring across the trail. Look, your work is worth the time and effort you put into it. Do some math and figure out what those things people ask you to give away cost you. At some points in your career, taking a loss on that might be a good idea. Be sure you’re doing it wittingly, though, and not because you feel like you can just break in if you network hard enough. All that networking and doing stuff for free means less time honing your craft with writing, and the name of this game is to produce enough solid writing to get consistently paid for it.

2. Do some math. Yeah, I know. Creative types aren’t supposed to care about math, are they? They’re supposed to live in some floaty golden castle where they never have to balance a checkbook or eyeball a royalty statement. Right?

*waits for the laughter to die down*

Look, I hate math. It’s my Kryptonite. I cringe every time I open my accounting software, and royalty statements are a version of personal hell. But I still do it, on a schedule, for one simple reason: You can lose track of the ways your life can be royally screwed up if you don’t. Start practicing financial discipline, because (here’s a clue) writers don’t get paid regularly. Oh, yeah, you get your advances and royalties. But royalties can come quarterly, or biannually, or (sometimes, in some cases) monthly except for when they fall below the price of a latte. And royalties vary widely–they depend on sales that you have absolutely no control over. They can be a delicious surprise or a crushing disappointment. And advances are great, yes–but contracts (which you sign before you get the damn advance) can take a glacially long time to get to you. Basically, your income may fluctuate wildly, but your landlord/mortgage company and your utilities do not look kindly upon you offering them a similar deal. (They get cranky.) Take a business or life-skills class if you have to. Get comfortable with the idea that money is your friend and you need to have an okay relationship with it in order to do the thing you want to do–eat enough to be able to write.

3. Hire if you gotta. If you’re self-publishing, spend decent money for a decent editor. (Not to mention graphic design for your cover and copyediting…) Quality control is worth paying for so your name doesn’t get associated with shoddy, slipshod work. This is, incidentally, the cost a publisher would take on to produce a product they expect to make some money on. You don’t want to be associated with a bloated, error-filled piece of trash. And expecting to be one of the (admittedly lucrative) bloated pieces of trash that strikes it huge is like counting on the lottery for retirement. It’s stupid, and you’re not stupid. You’re a dedicated wordslinging monkey, and you will take your lumps and take no prisoners.

*clears throat* Ahem. Sorry. Got carried away there. The point is, hire if you have to. The chances of you being a great graphic designer AND editor AND copyeditor WITH time to burn to make it cost-effective for you to do all those things for yourself are incredibly miniscule. It is not cheaper to do a halfass job and hope nobody notices. Your readers–and the IRS–will notice.

See how I brought it back to taxes there? Soon I go visit the accountant, whom I pay with a smile because it’s more cost-effective for me to spend my time writing than keeping up with tax law. *shudder*

There it is, then. Over and out.

photo by:


Horia Varlan

Clear Strong Channel

Morning. A wet nose in my face, several small licks. Miss B doesn’t care that it’s an hour early, she cares that my nifty sunrise alarm clock has started glowing, and that means it’s time to play oh Mum I missed you sleeping all night what are we doing now so much fun fun fun!

She’s a morning dog. I don’t even know.

Odd Trundles is more my speed in the morning–his little bulldog face is always squinched-up when he wakes, and he yawns and smacks his lips while ambling for the back door, usually underfoot, with Miss B crowding both of us to get going, get going, she has a schedule, dammit!

From there it’s the usual morning rodeo–getting the kids up, making sure lunches are made, stealing time to sit and stare at yesterday’s wordcount, sinking back into the story. The push for the end of the book has begun, that itchy time when the story is under my skin and struggling to get out, and everything that isn’t writing is a distraction at best, to be dealt with effectively so I can rip these spiky things from under my skin. Get them OUT so I can think again.

I like the race to the finish, the lunge for the end. Even if it’s sometimes uncomfortable, there’s something about all engines go and all weight brought to bear that is oddly soothing. I’ve set up the dominoes, now all I have to do is touch and everything will fall where it must.

But first, I’ve to get the kids to school and run with Miss B. Take care of the physical so the story can have a clear strong channel to come through.

Over and out.

photo by:


martinteschner

Orchids, Sun

Another shot with that gorgeous late-winter, early-spring light. Also, you can see the dusting I should be doing more frequently…

Dawn

Slowly absorbing my coffee this morning while glancing out the office window. Tree branches silhouetted against the slowly-lightening sky, strengthening daylight picking out details in bark and moss.

The current book is bubbling under the surface of my brain. I can tell that soon the mad lunge for the end will begin, but first I need to arrange everything beforehand correctly. Which means going back and unpicking certain strands, knotting them differently. Getting it to hang right over the underlying structure. And not so incidentally, swearing under my breath at the Muse for shoehorning in a scene that rather changes EVERYTHING. I think it’s her idea of a joke, but I’m missing the humor at the moment.

If I hit wordcount goal today, I may reward myself with finishing Lust, Caution. The movie has started me on an Eileen Chang kick, which has been fascinating.

Soon I have to tell you guys about how Odd Trundles tried to save Napoleon!Squirrel from his ladylove Josephine. Who kind of isn’t so much of a lady, when it comes to Napoleon. But for right now, there’s coffee, and another story, and getting a sorceress kidnapped. (That’s going to be no end of fun.)

Over and out.

photo by:


NeilsPhotography