Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 185

Monday, Hunting The Wild Copyedit

The downside of a highly productive weekend is that Monday comes and one is exhausted, washed-out, and moaning softly while staring at the pile of accumulated work on one's desk. On the upside, I got everything done, including laundry and the successful hunting, acquiring, and dragging back to the lair of Halloween costumes for the Little Prince and Princess. I did not even have to beat anyone over the head with a plastic gothic tchochke, because we were at the costume store before church ended on Sunday morning.

After church lets out, the crowds turn mean. You don't believe me? Hang out in the grocery store down my street about 11:30-11:45 next Sunday. I triple-dog-dare you. You couldn't pay me to be there, no thanks. I like my appendages all attached.

ANYWAY. Errands were run, costumes and a few decorations were acquired, the kids helped me clean up the yard and fill the bird feeders, kitchen and loos and laundry all addressed in their respective fashions, and winter thoroughly prepared for. So this morning, despite a hard run in the first real frosty-type conditions of the fall, I am blinking and feeling very much like I've been run over. I suspect another jolt of caffeine is in order before I can think about the copyedits, the revisions, the new wordcount I should produce on both the side project and the next book due…

…crap, my brain just froze. Like a rabbit sensing a coyote's hungry attention. The problem, I have decided, is in choosing what beast to leap on and slay first.

*rolls up sleeves, grabs harpoon*

Here, little tiny copyedits! Come on over here! I'm waiting for you!

See you 'round.

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Wallow, Then Get Back To Earning The Cookies

I'm going to have to write the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom next week. This week's just not conducive to sitting down and telling a really embarrassing story about a squirrel loose in my house.

What can I tell you? I'm hard at work on the next Bannon & Clare book; there are revisions for a brand-new YA sitting in my inbox, I am turning in eleven-minute miles. The revisions…well, I'm in the week after receiving the edit letter where I am just processing. I think I've written about it before–when I get an edit letter, I open it up and read. Then, I cry. I scream. I fling the pages across the room, I stamp, and I basically have a little hissy.

Look, I'm admitting it out loud. This is part of the process.

I get that out of the way, then I put the pages in a drawer and make a note in my calendar to come back in a week. Then I walk away. I bitch to my writing partner, who (having done this before) nods sagely and pours me a cuppa. I bitch to the walls while I'm taking a shower. I bitch while I'm running. That usually lasts about a day.

Then…I do my best to forget the damn thing exists.

A week later, I see my calendar, wince, and pull the pages out. I take a deep breath and put on my big-girl panties. Then I read the damn thing again.

And you know, this reading is much better. "Oh…hmmm, I suppose that is a plot hole. Yeah, and that's a good idea too. Well, I won't solve the problem that way, but the editor's right, it is a problem, and I can solve it this other way, which will also solve that. Huh. That's good feedback too…oh, hey, that came through! Awesome. All right. Well, this is doable. It isn't as bad as I thought."

I build that week's worth of crying, bitching, and forgetting into the revision schedule for every book. Every time I get an edit letter, I give myself that week. I let the editor know they won't hear from me during that week, that I need that time to process, and that I would really, really appreciate that time built into production schedule. 99% of the time, the editor understands, and is relieved that I have an actual process that I can tell them, reliably, works. (Once or twice I've had to compress that time because of tight turnaround schedules; in that case, I give myself a day or so, as much as I can. And I grin and bitch and bear it.)

So, you know all that. But these are the things I do NOT do when I get a revision letter:

I do not blog specifics about how much I hate the revision letter. I do not bitch about it on Twitter or Facebook. I don't call my editor during that week to blow off steam. I don't call my agent to complain. I do not bitch to people who are not prepared to hear me do this, who have not been warned, or who are untrustworthy. I don't use it as an excuse to stop turning in wordcount on the project I'm zero-drafting. I don't use it as an excuse to be short-tempered with friends, family, or the dog.

I do occasionally get into a blue funk thinking that the revision letter means everything I've ever written is crap, but you know, that masochistic little feeling will come around no matter what. If it's not triggered by revisions it'll be triggered by bad reviews, hormones, a bad day, or who-knows-what. The only cure I've found is to accept that feeling when it comes, buckle one's bootstraps, and say it may be crap, but it's my crap, and it's not going to be unfinished crap. So there. And then get back to work.

Every writer's revision process is going to be different. The key thing is to get some experience and figure out what that process is, be reasonable in what you ask for in terms of time and resources to get through it, and give yourself at least a day's worth of breathing time to wallow in just how meeeeeeean and unfaaaaaair it all is. Set a time limit and wallow like you mean it. Get it all out of your system so you can go back to work telling stories, polishing your craft, and earning your goddamn cookies.

Mmmh, cookies. Baking is a good way to distract oneself during the processing time, too. But that's (say it with me) another blog post.

Over and out.

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The Smell of Five AM

There's this scene in the first Tomb Raider movie, where Lara Croft's geeky genius robot-building sidekick Bryce is rudely awakened. "What's that smell?" he asks, and Angelina Jolie almost, almost rolls her eyes.

"Five AM," she says. "Let's go."

Five AM does have a definite smell. When I've been up all night, insomniac and frayed down to bare nerves, it's like burnt insulation. When I've had some sleep and I'm hitting the trail for a multiple-mile run, it's concentrated bullets of information. Temperature, humidity, someone's doing laundry and using different dryer sheets, wet grass, a dog, the dry raspy-oily of feral cats, the bloodred wash of new fear from the rabbits, exhaust from the cars I feel like I could outrace if I really wanted to, incipient rain or the edge of cold harvest-breathing wind…

Yeah, you can smell five AM. I like it better while running. Somehow the burnt-insulation smell of insomnia lingers all day, and I don't like it.

This morning it was utterly clear, the waning moon casting shadows less knife-sharp than the full moon does, Orion (or someone very much like him) riding in a sky the color of black velvet. My favourite mile has changed–it used to be the second one, when I was warmed up but before it became a struggle. Now it's the third that's my unqualified favourite. I'm warm, it's past the park where the footing is sometimes uncertain, I've settled into the rhythm, it's the "break mile"–after I run it, I'm on the downhill side, and I only have two more to go, may as well just get them done, right? That's also most often when Miss B's energy level drops a bit. I can feel the almost-thud as she settles back into her skin and all the fidgets have been worked out. All right, she says, glancing up at me with a big doggy smile. We're into it now, right, Mum? Let's boogie. And we run, my breathing and the slap of my feet mixing with the jangle of her collar and her happy panting.

Bands of smell like tree-rings–coffee from some houses, a clothes dryer venting from others, the one house where there's always sausage sizzling in a pan on weekday mornings. The honeysuckle has died back after several mornings where it burst with a last penitent sweetness. Dried leaves crunching, not yet wet, a sharp spice instead of the humus-rotting there will be later when the rains come in.

I'm ready for the rains, I guess. There's a certain semi-enjoyable component of physical misery in running through rain. The best part is arriving home, getting dry, peeling the socks off my wrinkled feet and shaking wet hair out of my eyes. But I don't have to worry about that for another little while. For right now it's the dry part of autumn, and the Halloween decorations going up around the neighborhood watch me with stupefied jack o'lantern eyes, sheaves of corn and hanging scarecrows rustling as I pass.

The rabbits have learned we won't bother them. Now, sleek with end-of-summer gorging, they'll wait on the concrete pathway as we run past the school, and Miss B goes mad with wanting. They flick their tails and hop away a little bit, just to be sure, and laugh at her. Phred the Coyote looms like a ghost, especially if the morning is misty. Miss B, having gotten a good snootful of him–and the coyote, I have to say, smells like grated ginger left out overnight, dry oil on fur, a breath of carrion and a sharp stink of wildness–bristles, her fur standing on end as she runs and the jagged copper-ceramic of adrenaline and alertness puffing up from her in waves. She was fine when she thought he was another canine, but one morning the wind veered, she inhaled, and gave one of her "I-mean-BUSINESS" growls. Yeah, that was fun. Of course, Phred just ran alongside us for a while, as is his wont when he's not rabbit-chasing. "DUUUUDES!" he'll pant. "YOU'RE, LIKE, WORKIN' TOO HARD. LOOSEN UP. HEY, DON'T SCARE THE RABBITS, DUDES, RIGHT ON." Then he'll yip and lope away, off to do his coyote business before the sun comes up.

And the sun is coming up later and later. Now there's only a faint smudge of gray on the horizon when I come home, dripping and victorious, Miss B ready for her real breakfast (she doesn't like running on a full stomach and neither do I) and Zen-calm now that she's done her job and shepherded me through the five miles. I open the door, and home enfolds me. The cats, sleek and full of kibble, disdainful of our heavy breathing and activity so early, the burst of steam from a Princess's morning shower, a faint ghost of warmth still lingering on my toss-turned sheets and blankets, lights on and the clatter of silverware as the Prince gets his cereal. The oily richness of peanut butter and yeast and wheat of bread as I make their lunches, coffee that smells best because it's my own, the dishwasher purring and giving out breaths of steam and lemon soap, paper and dust from the books stacked everywhere, and finally, the jasmine of shampoo as the salt veils from the morning's sweat run down the shower drain and I stand, for a moment, breathing in warmth and safety. The smell of five AM becomes the aromas of seven, seven-thirty, and the rush of getting everyone ready for school.

On the map of my day, the two blend seamlessly into each other. Yet I can close my eyes and evoke each moment, smiling. Every morning is a tiny bit different, the sensory map changing over time as seasons and morning habits evolve.

So, dear Reader, what does your morning smell like?

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The Convalescence of Neo

It was one of the few times in my life when I wished I played some form of incredibly violent team sport. Not only could I have used, say, hockey armor or an American-football helmet, but I also could have used some backup.

After all, I was going into the garage.

When last we left him, Squirrel!Neo, stunned and possibly concussed (that's a word, right?), was curled in a cat carrier in my garage. He had a bowl of shelled peanuts, a bowl of fresh water, and I'd made sure the cage door was locked. I spent a restless night, hoping I wouldn't have to dispose of yet another rodent corpse come dawn. I was running out of room in the Squirl!Semetery. Though I wouldn't put it past another one of the little bastards to rise from the grave again.

So, the following fresh warm morning, I got up, nervously checked out the websites of a few sporting goods stores, and thought of dealing with the questions I would encounter if I went in and bought a whole set of hockey pads, helmet, greaves, the works. Kevlar seemed like a good option. Plus, a few hockey sticks would be a good addition to my Sekrit Weapon cache. Bonus if I could roll them in tar and ground glass.

Look, I was just being careful, okay?

But in the end, I decided that one wounded squirrel in a cat carrier was probably not going to require me dressing up like a modern-day secutor. I mean, Neo was probably feeling a bit under the weather, although I doubted even at that moment that he would be harboring so much as a tiny shred of gratitude toward the big pink monkey who had gotten him out of the road and shelled his fucking peanuts. Probably, I thought, he's sleeping.

That was my first mistake.

My car was in the garage, so I decided swinging a Sekrit Weapon around was not going to end well for anyone. Thus it was, that unarmed and foolish, I went where angels fear to tread. Miss B was clipped to the couch–no, I didn't staple her or anything. I just put her on a leash that has the other end below one of the couch legs. It's what we use to keep her from bolting over the pet fence and out the front door to catch, say, a tender, juicy UPS driver. Or a departing guest she likes too much to let leave. (Annie Wilkes has NOTHING on Miss B, let me tell you.)

Yeah, well, we're working on Miss B's impulse control. She's getting better.

At least I had the presence of mind to put her on the leash and give her a Dingo bone (there is very little she won't do for squeezy cheez or a Dingo bone; I like Cheetos so I figure we're about even) and tell her to stay. She obeyed me for a full five seconds before going to the very end of the leash and giving me the Puppy So Sad You're-Stepping-On-My-Tiny-Dreams Look.

I already felt like a jerk.

ANYWAY. So I bopped to the garage door, listened intently, and heard nothing. Which wasn't at all unusual. But I figured if Neo was afoot in my garage, there would be Noise Of An Incredible Nature. All seemed quiet. Peaceful, even.

I twisted the knob and sallied forth into my carhaven. I left the door open behind me. I had some hazy idea of always leaving myself one avenue of escape. (It works out well in other areas of my life, okay? DON'T JUDGE.) Around the end of the car, thankful that the windows were rolled up, because all I needed was a squirrel in my car while I was driving down the street. (Remind me to tell you about how I had to have my windshield replaced one time.) I took a deep breath, looked down at the cat carrier…

…and froze.

The steel-grill door to the cat carrier hung ajar, its hinges squeaking just a tiny bit to add dramatic tension to the moment. You could almost hear the horror-movie music swell. The towels were shredded, the peanuts were gone, and the water had been violently upset.

I guess King Neo had recovered.

Now seriously, Friends and Neighbors, I want to ask you: How is it even goddamn possible for a squirrel to open a cat carrier door with a spring-lock FROM THE FUCKING INSIDE? HOW? Because I DO NOT KNOW. It is one of those grand life mysteries, like where the other half of a pair of socks goes or how wire hangers mate.

"Madre de Dios," I breathed. "Neo, goddammit–"

"BANZAI!" he screamed, leaping from a pile of boxed foreign editions. "I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUU!"

I flinched and screamed like a little girl, falling back against the car and barking my hip a good one. The car rocked on its springs, but Neo wasn't aiming for me. He was aiming for the car's roof, and he streaked across it like he was on wheels. Another leap, of effortless flying authority, and he vaulted from the hood…and barreled in through the door.

The open door. The door I had left open.

Into my house.

Into my goddamn kitchen.

In the distance, the barking began.

…To be continued

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Shame On You, Topeka

Last night, the Topeka, Kansas, city council voted to decriminalize domestic violence.

I can't say it any better than Jim C. Hines does: "To the folks behind this mess, congratulations! You not only fail as decent human beings, you also suck at math."

As Erik Scott deBie remarked: To paraphrase Kansas govt: "Down with the wimmins! Yays for abusers! LOL!" http://bit.ly/pwZ1a4 #ugh #electricshockneeded

So, yeah. In Topeka, beating your spouse is okay. Unless someone will foot the legal bills, in which case, it's wrong.

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Quiet Again

Some tidbits for your consideration:

* Dina James's new book is out! Dina is my Evil #1 over at the ELEW, and a lovely person.

* A call to action against a serial plagiarist.

* Topeka, Kansas, is looking to decriminalize domestic violence. To, erm, save money. (If I halt to comment on this, there will be a whole day's worth of ranting. I'll just skip it, and you can fill in your own.)

The kids are at school, the houseguests are gone, my street is empty, and I can hear the ticking of the cat clocks on my wall. Archibald Clare has a man in knee-deep Londinium sewer water, and has a mouthful of blood besides. I can feel the rest of the book calling me. Plague pits, sorcery, potential zombies, and a mad art professor beckon, and the hunt is afoot again.

I'm swamped.

See you guys around…

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The Hedgewitch Queen, Bannon & Clare, And My Opinions

By now most of you have already heard of the e-book launch of the Hedgewitch Queen.

[image error] Vianne di Rocancheil is a lady waiting at the Court of Arquitaine, where she studies her books, watches for intrigue, and shepherds her foolhardy Princesse through the glittering whirl. Court is a sometimes-unpleasant waltz, especially for the unwary, but Vianne treads its measured steps well.

Yet the dance has changed. Treachery is afoot in gilded and velvet halls. A sorcerous conspiracy is unleashed, with blood, death, and warfare close behind. Vianne must flee, carrying the Great Seal of Arquitaine–the one thing the conspirators need to rule, and they will not rest until they have it. A life of dances, intrigues, and fashion has not prepared Vianne for this. Nor has it prepared her for Tristan d'Arcenne, Captain of the King's Guard and player in the most dangerous games conspiracy can devise. Yet to save her country and avenge her Princesse, Vianne will become what she must and do whatever is required.

A Queen can do no less.

It's up for preorder at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and will be released on pretty much all ebook platforms as well. I am incredibly excited about it, I love this story. It's very different than anything I've ever had published before.

There has been some…speculation, let's say, about why it's ebook-only. First of all, this doesn't mean it won't be in paper later–you can let the publisher know if you'd like that! They're listening, believe me. They chose this book to start their ebook only line for a variety of reasons, very few of which have been shared with me; your thoughts and opinions, dear Reader, are very important to them.

Second, this book is not being released in ebook-only because it's "unsellable." (To those who suggested it, well. Yeah. Whatever.) You have got to realize I have over multiple series on the shelves as of this year, and at least as many unpublished manuscripts as published works. Five or six of the unpubs are trunk novels that nobody will ever see. The others haven't made it out because cannibalising my career by releasing a flood is so not in my best interests. So my agent tells me, and this is one of the things I trust her on.

Third, I'm getting asked, "But I thought you hated ebooks!" an awful lot. Guys, I don't hate e-books. I prefer paper, and will until the day I die. Perhaps I'm in a minority, but I don't think so, and it's too early to tell. But there is something I hate with a flaming, unholy passion.

I hate e-piracy. (This is not news.) That was one of my reservations about accepting the offer to have Vianne and Tristan's stories published in this manner. Thankfully, I've reached a point in my career where I could take a chance. Frankly, I'm not depending on Hedgewitch to pay my bills. (Other books, please God please, can do that.) A lot of authors do not have that luxury. This is why e-piracy means less of those things you love–because when an artist starts taking a look at the risks involved in that platform, they may choose not to go there.

All that aside, I'm very, very excited and happy. I'm glad to be able to offer my Readers a little something different, and I hope they like it.

Also, did you see the projected cover for The Iron Wyrm Affair, due out in early 2013? It's not final yet, mind you. But here. Feast thine eyes, my chickadees.

[image error] Archibald Clare is a detective of truly uncanny abilities—a mentath, capable of feats of deduction and logic that border on the supernatural. He is also abruptly, uniquely, the only unregistered mentath left alive in Londoninium. Someone has murdered the others and, if not for the timely intervention of the Prime sorceress Emma Bannon, there would have been no one left to stop… whatever is coming.

Mentaths and sorcerers are dying—or worse, being seduced into betraying Queen and Country. Bannon and Clare must uncover treachery, conspiracy, and sorcery of the blackest hue. And in a Britannia where magic has turned the Industrial Revolution on its head, time is short.

The game is afoot…

Guys, I love this book. I had such an incredibly fun time writing it–muttering about clockwork rats, logic engines, and Victoriana until everyone was ready to heave an antique or two at me. Again, it's something new and different, and I'm hoping you guys will like it.

Book two of Bannon & Clare is bubbling in my brainpan as I type. (Along with the head cold, but that's another blog post.) Incidentally, since I am currently suffering the last vestiges of a Cold From Hell, now would be a really good time for the Fairy of Website Work to come fluttering down and update my Books pages for me…

…oh, wait, there is no Fairy of Website Work.

Damn. Guess I'll have to do it myself.

Tune in next week for the continuing tale of Squirrel!Neo, plus the exciting saga of Phred and Miss B!

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Question Day!

Have a question you've been dying to ask me?

Well, head over to the Deadline Dames today and let loose. While you're there, look at the giveaways, prizes, and writing advice we've got up.

Because Dames rule.

See you there!

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Input and Output

It's another edition of Random Things Lili Thinks About, For She Does Not Have An Idea Worthy Of A Long Blog Post.

* Why the hell is Glitch so addictive? You'd think a game where you squeeze chickens, nibble and pet pigs, and make gardens would be boring. Instead, I can't stay away. It gives me a glow of accomplishment. Man, I'm boring.

* Boring isn't so bad. I've had enough excitement in my life that I can stand a LOT of boring. Like, until I croak. Because boring is safe, boring is predictable, and boring does not lead to bleeding, screaming, or pain. Well, at least, not my kind of boring. I'm pretty sure there's tortuous boredom out there that will make one scream and bleed. I am happy to avoid that.

* On the other hand, I am rarely bored. Apparently I am easily amused, and can amuse myself for long periods of time. This is not a bad thing.

* When I run, music often plays in my head. I don't use my IPod unless I'm on the treadmill; it's just too much of a hazard. My brain, however, apparently requires music, so it gives me a selection of hits. This morning it was Phantom of the Opera (in particular, Prima Donna and Notes; God, I love Minnie Driver even though the singing in that version is…meh, I mean, really, Gerard, did you have bad dental work? The lisp, my man, it's gotta go) and, of all things, AC/DC's Back in Black. (Which happens to be Graves's theme music near the end of the Strange Angels; he starts out with Chris Isaak's Let Me Down Easy and AC/DC's Highway to Hell.) I'm pleased to report Andrew Lloyd Webber and AC/DC go together rather well while I'm running in the dark.

* Oh, look, a Sekrit Hideout has been discovered. The story possibilities are endless.

* I'm told (hi, TP!) I must have a very sharp sense of smell, because of how I write. I don't think I do, but I do think I pay a great deal of attention to olfactory input. I am constantly aware of the smellscape around me. (When one has kids, it's always best, don't you think?) If I come down with a cold and a stuffed nose, I feel half-blind. There's also the funny things I call "misfires" or "auras"–that's when my brain doesn't know quite how to handle the input it's getting, so it gives me a smell/sound/taste/sight that cannot possibly be. Usually this shocks me into paying attention to something I wouldn't normally have taken a second look at; it seems to mostly be a way for my subconscious to warn me of possible danger. Most of the synesthesia I suffer is of this sort. (The rest of it seems to be excess energy in my neurons just slopping around.)

* I can finally listen to music with words again. Recently, finishing three zero drafts basically at once, I had retreated into classical and ambient music. Lyrics just scraped the inside of my head raw and irritated me right between the shoulderblades. Thankfully, the sensitivity retreated as it always does. It's funny, when I'm writing something dire I want bright pop music, when I'm writing something mannered and precise and historical I want punk or hard rock, when I'm writing romance I want angry music. It's as if the aural stim needs to be a balance to the weight on a certain set of creative muscles.

* I might–might, mind you–be reaching the end of my reading on the Eastern Front of WWII. If this is so I'm going to have to find another historical oddity to stripmine, since my tastes in fiction have also retreated like bruised anemones . I'm beginning to be unable to read in the genre I'm writing, or at least, not comfortably. It's hard to read for joy anymore, I'm so used to revision-reading. The nonfiction gives my brain a chance to spool down. Plus, it's a relief to read something I won't ever write about, almost (dare I say it) restful. Since rest is always in short supply, it's nice to find a few moments of it here and there.

Eh. I, I, I, me, me, me. Booooor-ing. I'd write the next chapter of the Squirrel!Terror saga, but all my focus is taken up with revising. Eh.

Over and out.

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Strawberry Autumn

This morning's run was wonderful. I felt like I had little wings on my feet. Every once in a while, everything clicks and a good run comes along. It's like a perfect day of writing. It keeps you coming back for more and enduring the days when it feels like peeling one's own skin off in strips.

I am full of pleasant thoughts today. You've been warned.

However, the predawn was incredibly foggy, which made me think of Stephen King's Strawberry Spring. Which led me to thinking about Springheel Jack. Along with plague pits, you can tell I'm working on the next Bannon & Clare. (Their first adventure, The Iron Wyrm Affair, is in revision now.)

I was planning what I'd do if Springheel Jack suddenly appeared in the fog, and perhaps that gave me some extra speed. "Be prepared" is not just a Boy Scout motto.

Let's see, what else? I'm glad you guys are enjoying the Squirrel!Terror serial. When Neo recovered, things got incredibly interesting, but I am not going to write that for a little while. Here, instead you can have a peek at the first chapter of Reckoning, which is due out soon. I am excited and sad all at once–excited to share the culmination of Dru's story, and sad to say goodbye to her.

I'm incredibly interested in and excited about Glitch right now. It's sort of like Animal Crossing for grownups. (Although Animal Crossing is nice too.) It's like WoW without killing, which can be a relief. (Sometimes, though, I just want to get a glass of wine and murder some pixels.) I like the idea of a game where you water plants, pet animals, build and cook things, and basically learn to be cooperative. It balances out my antisocial tendencies. *snort*

I'm very boring right now. I had some unpleasant news that knocked the wind out of me not too long ago; my writing partner, who is always full of good advice, has been reminding me to plan for what I'm frightened of instead of just thrashing about in fear. The planning certainly seems a more productive use of one's time, plus it provides an feeling of control. That feeling may be illusory, but it certainly helps. So I'm retreating into my shell for a wee bit, a process that is probably helped by the fact that a nice cool autumn is setting in and spending time curled up in the house is not only soothing but pleasant. I tend to be a winter writer, anyway–my most productive seasons are the ones with filthy weather.

Ach, I'm nattering on. It's Wednesday. I seem to have lost the knack of Wednesdays.

Over and out.

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