Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 180

A Morning of Pathological Extrovert

This is the difference between my two dogs:

Me: *tosses handful of shredded lettuce from my sandwich down for them*

Miss B: *sniffs daintily* WHAT IS THIS GREEN SHIT? I MEAN, IT CAME FROM THE MONKEY SO IT MUST BE GOOD…BUT REALLY, WHAT IS IT?

Odd Trundles: *leaps on it* MANNA! MANNA FROM THE MONKEY! OM NOM NOM!

So I gave in and tossed a handful of Cheetos too, but Miss B was having none of THAT either. I believe her pride had been touched. So I, the sucker, fed her Cheetos by hand while Odd slavered and cleaned the floor.

Anyway, I’m home from a day spent in the lounge of the car dealership. I walked over to the bookstore nearby (please, dear God, don’t let that one close) and had some lovely quiet time until some jackass decided to use the cafe as his office and started making loud phone calls about just how important he was. Whoever he was trying to impress, I don’t think it worked. That drove me back to the car dealership, where I sat and read while a huge television in the corner yapped with some sort of talk show. I tuned it out as best I could, especially the commercials.

It’s a funny thing; after not having a television for two solid years when I first met my ex, I sort of lost the trick of watching it. Commercials make me antsy and the constant blather that usually says nothing at all of substance grates. The canned laughter on most sitcoms grates too–I mean, come on, do you think I’m so stupid you have to tell me when to laugh? I’ll laugh when I please, or not at all, dammit.

Then I got one of those priceless moments of material: into the lounge, where four women were sitting reading quietly (two with ebook readers, one with a magazine, and me with a paperback) came what I can only describe as a pathological extrovert, a woman who literally could not stop talking. She had manicured claws in one of the mechanics, and bent his ear for a good fifteen minutes, loudly, about the weather in Arizona. (I kid you not.) Then she circled the room looking to attach herself to one of the reading women, most of whom gave polite but noncommittal replies and returned to their books. I didn’t respond at all, so she settled and began loudly playing with her phone, talking in response to texts or emails she had apparently received. It was sort of fascinating to observe, and saddening too. I wondered why she was so hungry for talk, I wondered why she needed the attention. I wondered what her story was, and what it was like to be her, all day every day.

Sometimes I feel guilty that everything and everyone around me is material for the story-mill inside my head. There’s always that part of me taking notes, analyzing, observing and weighing and remembering for later stories. The reflex is so ingrained now, I don’t think I could shut it off if I tried.

I got my car back, ran a few more errands, grabbed lunch at the bagel shop (I love that place) and retreated homeward, where I was greeted by overjoyed canines who thought that OBVIOUSLY the lunch I carried was theirs. It is blessedly quiet, and I can mull over everything I saw and sensed today, to see where it fits in the mosaic of unformed tales.

Aaaaah, yes, that’s better.

photo by:


Tambako the Jaguar

The Problem of Change

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames.

For the first time in my life I have an office, a room of my own to write in. I finally have it arranged reasonably, too–an actual desk, shelves of reference books, the printer on its own table, supplies neatly shelved. Outside my window I can see the nest that may have held baby hawks this last summer; stripped of its greenery, the tree it was in is instead robing itself with moss. The cedars murmur and let loose a shower of silver raindrops when the wind rises. I’ve hung up the picture of the samurai and a print of one of the few Picassos I like. I have my canvas map of 1860s London next to me. The Bannon & Clare series bible is within easy reach, and everything is organized to a fare-thee-well.

And…well.

I can hear the eyerolls from here. Go ahead, Lili. Tell us how you’re having trouble writing in this lovely nest you’ve created. Poor little you! Enjoy it! Stop whining!

It’s not that I’m having trouble, precisely. It’s that I’ve spent my life writing in the spaces-between, and having actual space now is somewhat…unsettling. It’s like having a variety of the bends. I’m used to contorting myself into the smallest possible ball and having to fight tooth and nail to concentrate long enough to get a chapter in. Working for so long in those pressure-cooker conditions, no wonder I’m feeling a bit bug-eyed now that the lid’s been popped and I’m where I set my sights on being.

I am not complaining, just to be crystal clear. I love this. I would not trade it for anything. I certainly don’t want to go back to that pressure cooker, no way, nohow. I endured being married to a man who didn’t want to work, with two small children to feed and oh my God what am I going to do? I would sooner dig my own eyes out with cafeteria sporks than go back, I worked like hell to get out.

It reminds me of the Tombs of Atuan. To be reborn, you must die. It’s not as hard as it looks from the other side. Change is scary, and change in an area that defines a lot of me–writing is not just something I DO, it is an integral piece of my identity–is exponentially more terrifying than just the garden variety hey, I gained a couple pounds or something.

The conditions under which a writer writes become their own set of necessities after a while. The engine that drives creation has varying levels of complexity (and no, that doesn’t excuse Speshul Snoflake-ism; there’s a whole blog post there but it will have to wait) but two constants, just like a car: it needs periodic maintenance, and it needs fuel. If it is broken in under certain conditions and those conditions change, its tune-ups and fuel probably need to change with it.

Which brings me to what I wanted to talk about. I rarely hear other writers talk about difficulty during a change in writing spaces or rituals, but I’m sure I can’t be the only one. (Or, you know, maybe I’m an alien freak, that’s not entirely out of the question.) The only cure I’ve found so far is sheer persistence and habit, the same as always–ass in chair, fingers on keyboard. The fact that the chair is now an office chair instead of a papasan and the keyboard is an actual keyboard instead of a laptop balanced on my knees doesn’t matter.

Or maybe it does. When you’re used to working furiously, shutting out all the noise around you, fighting hard to claim and catch your own little slice of the world, the sudden freedom and quiet is overwhelming. Maddening. All that pressure, all that focus, is a searchlight with a fiery glow–you don’t feel the heat unless you’re standing right in front of it, and then it’s unbearable. Finding just the right distance from the searchlight is trial and error, and it takes knowledge of one’s own working style and comfort levels.

I know I can write in bathrooms, stairwells, between the demands of people needing to be taken care of. What I’m less sure of is how to deal with it when I actually have space and the demand is that, just simply, I write. I’ve moved the office around a couple times, searching for the right configuration. There’s a proper desk–never written at an actual desk before, my previous writing table was a nightstand–and my back is not to the door. Everything I need is within easy reach, except the comfort of habit and familiarity.

A human being is a complex system, writing is a complex system, and when the two get together all sorts of weird and wonderful irrational things happen. Managing that weirdness ona day to day level is the only way to produce reliably. First it takes the willingness to do so, and the absolute refusal to quit despite discomfort. What I’m left wondering is, how difficult is the refusal to quit despite comfort itself? I’m reminded of Bukowski commenting that a man writes better on a full stomach than an empty one, and Julia Cameron’s insistence that the myth of the tortured artist is just that, a myth.

Before, I felt guilty because writing was stealing time and attention–my upbringing had raised me to insistently believe that my only value was how much I could take care of others and negate my own desires. Now I feel guilty because I have this wonderful office, this space all my own, and I have the gall to find things just as difficult. Only the scenery’s changed. The problems are still there, because they’re mine, I’ve paid for them, and isn’t that what Stephen King says? What you pay for, you own. It could be that this is just the same old seductive timesink of procrastination, that Lernaean Hydra of the creative life. The only cure is to go straight through, to get to work and stay there.

But I would be lying if I said it was easy. So much about writing is just stubbornly refusing to know when to quit.

What about you, fellow penmonkeys? Do you have trouble when your writing space changes? If you have, how did you find your way through it?

photo by:


Museum of Hartlepool

Lili Goes To School

I have (mostly, I think) survived the plague. I am still weak and shaky, but the cough no longer brings up hard bits of stuff and my nose has largely decided to shut off overtime mucus production. (Bet your life wasn’t complete without knowing that, right?) I am fairly sure I am non-contagious, which is a good thing, because today I dress up (as much as I ever do, that is) and go answer the questions of a fourth-grade class about being a writer.

Kids are a tough audience–they take absolutely no prisoners. Plus, they can smell fear. I usually bribe them with baked goods, but it will be all I can do to drag myself through the shower and into something that doesn’t look slept-in. I’m reserving the bulk of my energy for when I sit on the floor with them and answer questions. I’ll come back and edit this post later with the most hilarious, candid, or just plain awesome questions they ask.

So, off I go, and wish me luck. I’m pretty sure I can outlast most of them running, but they’re quick in the short distances. Guess all that agility training will begin paying dividends now…

ETA: The fourth-graders were curious, bright, generally well-behaved, and attentive. Of course, this is a class that I’ve gone on field trips with (and been the “bad cop” during) and they’re used to seeing me around the school, so there was that going in. There were a lot of questions.

I’ve noticed that middle-schoolers ask about getting an agent, movie rights, how much of a book’s price an author gets, and if you really can write whatever you want even if it’s dirty or mean? Elementary-schoolers ask more basic questions having to do with the magic act and brute mechanics of writing itself. These are the ones I can remember, and it’s by no means an exhaustive list:

* How do you get the picture on the front of the book?

* How many books have you written?

* When did you start writing?

* How do you write long stories?

* Are there bad words in your stories?

* Where do you get your ideas?

* What do you do when you don’t know what to write?

* How long does it take you to write a book?

* Do you write horror?

* Do you write on a computer or with a pen?

* Will you write a story for us?

* Did you go to college to be a writer?

I took along a few samples of my books to show them, as well as ARCs, different editions, and a revision letter and bound manuscript to show them what a book looks like in different stages. We talked about being specific (the difference between She wore a skirt and Becky wore a long purple skirt, frex) and about revising (it gave me some pleasure to hear them giggle when I told them how much I hated revising too) and about how to write longer stories (one word at a time). I was hugged and told I was an inspiration. We talked about leads (first sentences that have punch and pizazz) and how long I’ve been writing (thirty years or so) and how long I’ve been published (six years? Seven?) and how many books I have out now vs. how many I’ve finished. (Hint: the latter number is MUCH LARGER, and we talked about why those books won’t be published.) I circulated while they had their private writing time, and several of them wanted to show me their work.

One particular young gentleman (the one who asked if I went to college) informed me that he was going to go to college for a long time, because he was going to be a biologist-engineer-writer. (“You’ll have plenty to write about, then,” I said.) One young lady told me “I have six story leads now!” (“See? Those are all stories only you can write, and they’re waiting for you.”) Another young lady confided, “Sometimes I add things that didn’t really happen. Like, my stepfather didn’t shoot a bear. He shot a bobcat. I saw the claws. He’s got lots of guns.” (“That’s pretty scary. But maybe a bear is better for your story. Also, you’re ten, so whoppers are expected.” Boy, did her eyes light up. I may have misjudged that one.)

So all in all, it was a great visit, and I didn’t drop a single obscenity. (Those who know me will appreciate that.) I did have to tell the kids there were plenty of bad words in my books, and the how and why of using bad words (“they’re like pepper, a little makes it tasty and real but a little too much and it’s nasty and gross and mean. You have to know when NOT to say them.”) and that was when the “will you write US a story, one that WE can read with no bad words?” came up.

Yeah, I walked right into that one.

They also made me promise to come back when they “publish” their own stories. Which means I’ve got a deadline for a certain story having to do with aliens landing in the soccer field behind their school. I have a monstrous headache, and my flu-scraped throat can barely produce a croak now after the nonstop answering.

Still, though, I feel pretty damn good. There may be better jobs than mine, but you know…today, I doubt it.

Canis et Pueris

So yeah, this morning involved:

* Cleaning up dog puke, twice. Don’t worry, Odd is fine. He just ate something outside that didn’t agree with him. Grass, dirt, part of a pinecone maybe. (Most likely dirt. I don’t even.)

* Cleaning up a whole cup of spilled espresso and cream. Because a certain Australian shepherd decided I needed help walking around this morning and consequently kept trying to herd me.

*A four-mile run, broken into bits. Part of the Zombies, Run!5K program. I’ve come too damn far to take a day off, even if I am coughing up chunks of…stuff.

* Oh yeah, hacking up a lung. That was awesome. Fortunately I’ve perfected my “stride and spit” technique, and it really helps to have the solid nuggets to expectorate. Yeah, you really wanted to know that, didn’t you. Bonus info: I didn’t take Miss B on today’s run because I figured I’d need all my concentration for moving, none left over for anticipating when she’s going to try to cut me in half by lunging for traffic. I WAS RIGHT. Related: she is casting me various reproachful looks as I type this.

* Listening to both dogs go absolutely nuts while my old Enigma (remember them?) CD plays. I can’t tell if they love it or they want to get at the noise to eat it.

*Sneezing so hard in the shower I knocked over a shampoo bottle, which triggered a frantic rescue attempt by the canine population of Chez Saintcrow. I think they believed some sort of monster had burst through a transdimensional hole and into the Magical Wet Cubicle Where The Monkey Ends Up Smelling Weird. Needless to say, it ended with me stark and dripping (again) yelling at them to cut it out I’m perfectly fine!

* Also, before the Princess left for school this morning she was in my room petting Miss B and solicitously inquiring after my health. B seemed transported by whatever was on her fingers. “Maybe she’s realized you’re made of meat?” I suggested, and the Princess actually goggled at me before laughing and announcing that she was just, uh, gonna go to school now and leave B to her…thoughts. And wasn’t I glad I was going to be home with the dogs today?

That kid. Too bright by half.

All that, and it’s not even noon. I’m exhausted. Thursday, why you gotta be this way?

photo by:


Esparta

*kaffhackSNORTkaff*

So the Little Prince and I both have the same deep chest cough and general meh. It did not stop me from going out and doing a short (just a couple miles, I swear!) run today, though by the end of the second mile I was awful glad that all I had to do was walk home. I’ve just now amped up my training schedule, I can’t afford to lose a day. I’m going to drink a tonne of tea and water, and make chicken soup tonight, and generally baby both myself and the little ones. (It’s Finals Week for the Princess, which probably means she needs the babying more than she’ll ever admit.)

I had mad thoughts of taking Miss B and Odd to the dog park, but have decided against it. It’s cold, the forecast calls for rain (FINALLY!), and every time Odd goes to the dog park he gets so excited he comes home, staggers to his bed, promptly has a seizure, and throws up. He literally excites himself into passing out and puking. I can’t decide if he’s just at frat-boy age for a dog, or if he’s the Little Prince’s (remember, his other name is Sir Pewksalot) spirit animal.

So yeah, gallons of hot tea. Moving verreh slowly. I have to get a sorceress involved with a fight against a mad semi-ghost coachman, and also get the trailer-park fae hero to the tavern where he and the heroine will begin their mutual dance of distrust and recrimination. That’s the thing about working from home, there’s sometimes just not a good reason to take a day off, even when you’re coughing up chunks of lung.

Yeah, you’re welcome for that mental image.

Over and out.

photo by:


Esparta

The Deadly Slog

So yeah, today I hit 40K on The Ripper Affair. Which means the deadly slog of the Middle of the Book is nigh, and I’m not sure I can outlast this mofo. This is the point during every book where I completely doubt my ability to endure long enough that the goddamn book gets tired and finishes first.

*clears throat, delicately* Ahem. So to speak.

It doesn’t help that it hasn’t rained in days. Where’s my gray, dreary PNW winter? WHERE IS IT? I DEMAND IT! Or, you know, this being the West Coast, I just sort of ask politely and hold up my hands to show my nonaggression, and say please, if you would, I really miss the rain.

We’re pretty polite out here. Except over the mountains, where they’re not so polite at all. And oh my God, I should tell you all about the time I went to Forks. Yes, that Forks. Hint: it was way before the Cullens ever knew that place existed. Another hint: it did not end well.

Last but not least, the Jill Kismet omnibus is out! You can find it at Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and also at indie stores. I am amazed and gratified. I got a copy in the mail just today and hugged it and told it how pretty it was.

*clears throat again* I am not sorry, but I am slightly ashamed.

Who am I kidding? I’m not ashamed at all.

Anyway, off to go reward myself by writing some more trailer-park fae…

photo by:


aveoree

A Long Letter Indeed

Never before have I written so long a letter. I’m afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers? –Martin Luther King

We are not yet in that Promised Land. Let us keep trying, hoping, loving, and acting.

Old, Fairytales, Dog Judo

Anyone under 30 is starting to meld together in a group of “awww, they’re so young”.

I found this out the other day while dropping the Princess off at school.

ME: *notices strange man watching kids* Who’s that? He doesn’t belong here.

PRINCESS: That’s a security guard, Mum.

ME: Really? He’s awful young. He looks like a nice boy.

PRINCESS: He’s your age.

Me: He can’t be. He has no gray.

PRINCESS: Neither do you. Yet.

ME: …

I feel like one of those signs at the grocer’s–We card anyone who appears under 45! This is, incidentally, part of why I don’t date. Either you’re my age and presumably already have a marriage and/or a divorce, or you’re Too Young For Me. (There’s also the part where I don’t have time, because I gotta write to feed the mortgage and the kids, and if I’m not doing that I’m cleaning or baking or some damn other thing.)

Anyway.

I’m also thinking about fairy tales a lot lately. Mostly because is due out in a few months, and I’m revising the second in that series as well as deciding what aspects of another fairy tale I want for the third. The tales grow and mutate over time, and digging to find their bones–as well as which bones you choose to unearth, and which you choose to leave in the mouldering–says a lot about one’s deep assumptions or internalized sort-of-truths, both personally and culturally. It’s no secret a lot of fairy tales are gruesome, and that even more of them highlight problematic family relations. Others talk about the use and misuse of power, the charged field of human sexuality, and so on, so forth.

I don’t have a particular point to this ramble, I’m just turning over different stories inside my head, examining them to see what makes them tick. Getting under the hood and seeing what makes it go, what I can poke and prod to make run smoother, what I can update and what’s best left in place. Some of what you leave is just a matter of preferences, or personal choice, or blind chance. Maybe every writer starts messing with fairy tales at least once in their writing life, just out of fascination and curiousity.

The other thing on my mind this day is getting Odd Trundles taken in to get his nails cut. He won’t let me do it, and he’s grown to the point where I can’t judo him anymore without all sorts of stress on both our parts. The groomer can do it quickly and humanely, and we’ll all be happier.

But I suspect Odd won’t like it one little bit, and I’m almost afraid of the story I’ll have to tell afterward.

Over and out…

photo by:


zoethustra

Doors, Dogs, Chaos

I forgot about the giant burn on my forearm (look, baking isn’t necessarily a contact sport but things happen) until I got in the shower and ran hot water over it. My hissing in-breath and following “Yowch!” made Odd Trundles concerned for my well-being, so he stopped trying to catch the drops from the other side of the glass shower door (it’s one of his favourite games, and it’s no wonder he has a flat nose from ramming it into things so frequently) and proceeded to try to climb the shower door, barking excitedly.

“I’LL SAVE YOU! *snortwhistle* MUM I’LL SAVE YOU!”

This of course brought Miss B from the other room, where she was enjoying a little well-deserved rest after going running with me (it is no longer so icy I fear for her paws) and, as usual, when she found a closed door in her way, she didn’t hesitate. I am still not sure how she managed to bust the door open–the door appears still functional and none the worse for wear, and I can’t see that she’s developed opposable thumbs yet–but I do know that said door managed to hit Trundles, who was staggering back from his attempt to scale the glass shower door.

*sigh*

The result of this was a predictable series of howling and yips, for Odd voiced his shock and Miss B, thinking he wanted to play, snapped at him, and they fell on each other in a cascading chain of mutually-assured destruction that was only halted when I burst from the shower, stark and dripping, and yelled at them both to “SETTLE DOWN I AM TRYING TO CLEAN MYSELF!”

They both stared, and I felt ridiculous, but then Odd wriggled up to me and began licking my ankles in an ecstasy of relief. “*snort* *licksnort* YOU’RE SAFE! *snortwhistle* *lick* *fartloudly* *licksnortwhistle* YOU’RE SAFE! OH MUM, YOU’RE ALL RIGHT. *licksnort* WHAT’S THAT SMELL?” And Miss B eyed me quizzically, perplexed by both my sudden appearance from the Magical Wet Cubicle and the sudden stench from Odd’s boiling, ever-active intestines.

Even toddlers were not this much trouble. Christ.

I finished my shower in (relative) peace, despite Odd trying to catch the raindrops from the other side of the door (again). “I should have named you Christopher Robin,” I muttered as I was toweling off. “Or Hoggle.”

And the damn dog was so excited at the prospect that he fell over and began snoring hugely.

I don’t even know.

Snow, Tea, Heal

A light dusting of snow this morning, which meant: all the drivers on the way to the Little Prince’s school were bloody insane, Miss B did not get to go on the morning run with me (I am concerned for her paws), Odd Trundles is Extremely Needy (any change is BAD, and means we must stay close to Mum AT ALL TIMES, even when Mum is in the shower), I have a slight but persistent sinus headache (running helped, I guess), and I’m drinking tons upon tons of genmaicha to keep warm.

I acquired the taste for genmaicha before my divorce, and it’s odd how much the taste takes me back. Not in a bad way. It reminds me of the good bits before things fell apart. So it’s nice, but it’s also a creator of small internal shiftings. Relaxing enough to let those things fall where they will is one of the very good things about being an adult, and it’s why I wouldn’t be younger again if you paid me. The further I am from the helplessness of my childhood and the terror of my adolescence, the more I can lay both to rest and let the broken pieces inside me have the space and air they need to bring themselves together in a new pattern.

Sometimes things don’t heal, but you can glue them together in a different way and encourage them to hold.

And so I go onward, now that the dogs are both snoring next to me in the office and I can see squirrels (not Napoleon, thank heavens) running in bare branches outside my window, vanishing into the cedar hedge’s thick green shelter. The sky is that gray infinite you only see when snow comes, but it isn’t the iron of a deep fall. It’s more the haze of tiny stinging snowflakes. Living in Wyoming, as I did for a while, I kept wishing there were different words for “snow”. Then I read Smilla’s Sense of Snow, which remains one of my very favourite books ever, and found out there are. (But not in English. It’s like living in the Pacific Northwest and trying to find words in English for the thousand different types of rain.) I should probably read Smilla again, the prose is so sharp and spare and she is such a well-written female character, it’s almost unreal. After I finish today’s work, maybe I’ll treat myself.

But first, another pot of tea, another small smile at the spaces inside me, full of air and light now, so that the jagged edges in the deep dark can breathe.

Over and out.

photo by:


State Library of New South Wales collection