Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 188

Announcements!

It is just way too bright and sunny today. And it's a good thing I'm damn stubborn, or I would have quit after three miles today and not had that awesome endorphin-kick runner's high. Not to mention the drift of honeysuckle, the cheerful "good morning"s from other runners–I content myself with a "Morning!" in return, because I can't be cheerful while struggling to stay upright and moving. I would have also missed having the shaded park all to myself for a few glorious circuits. That was nice.

So, announcements!

* If you've ever wondered how Selene returned to Saint City, you can read the brand-new Selene and Nikolai story, Just Ask in the upcoming Mammoth Book of Hot Romance.

* Also upcoming is Reckoning, the final book in the Strange Angels series. The end of August will see a bindup of bboks one and two, Strange Angels and Betrayals with an all-new, lovely cover.

* November will also see the final Jill Kismet book, Angel Town.

* You can now buy all five of the Dante Valentine novels in one smoking-hot omnibus. (Personal demon not included, sorry.) Also, Graphic Audio has released parts one and two of Working For The Devil, I believe part 1 of Dead Man Rising is also available.

* I will be attending SpoCon in August. Not quite sure what my schedule will look like, but I'll be there on panels etc. I will also be at the Cedar Hills Crossing Powells annual SF/F Authorfest in ?November?, more details on that as it gets closer.

* There's an interview with me up over at the Gatekeeper's Post.

* I can't really talk about this yet, but it's up on Amazon. Tempty tempty.

* A big "welcome home" shout-out to TP, back from the wilds of Europe. *evil wink*

…I'm sure there's something I've forgotten, but I haven't even finished my coffee yet, so forgive me. Off I go to find a name that means "a hunter" for a wooden garden-boy. He wants Calhoun, but I'm not sure he should have it. He's not the protagonist, so he doesn't really get what he wants as far as names.

Damn characters. Over and out.

Related posts:Short Story Madness, and Updates!
Me And That Sea Pirate
A Couple Of Cool Things…

Does It Build Character?

Yesterday I was out of commission for a variety of reasons. Today I'm back on the horse while recovering–well, sort of. Sort of back on the horse, not sort of recovering. Recovery is going just fine.

Argh. I can already tell stringing words together is going to be fun today.

I'm at that stage with a new series–too far into the first book to back out, not far enough along that I can see that I have a chance at finishing it–where every single word I put down seems wrong. The world the characters inhabit is opening up, slowly but surely, and everything I wrote up until I felt the first click in the lock of the story seems dead wrong. It's not, it will just need tweaking. The biggest danger now is going back and getting caught in the death spiral of reworking the beginning so many times one doesn't finish the rest of the damn book. Which I frankly can't afford.

I know the solution is just to push through, that this is a part of the process, that I go through this every time, that it will get better as I gain momentum. Unfortunately, all the calm soothing self-talk in the world will not make the feeling of panic any smaller. The only thing that will help is lowering my head and diving right through. Maybe I'm a freak, I don't know. I just know that the process does not grow any easier. It grows more tolerable with experience, but not easier.

There might be a lesson in that. *sigh* Maybe it builds character or something. When I build enough character, maybe I won't feel like tearing my hair out and weeping when I start a new series. Won't that be nice.

Over and out.

Related posts:Peace At Last
Small Graces
Drying the Wings

Just Another Saturday Night

So I had an odd weekend. Well, I take that back. I had an odd Saturday night; the rest of the weekend was pretty ho-hum.

I helped box the leftovers from a library sale for Cover to Cover Saturday afternoon, then headed home. As I drove past the liquor store near my house I saw the first intimation that tonight was going to be One Of Those Nights. There was a line.

Out the door.

Of the liquor store.

Now, this sometimes happens at New Year's, or the Fourth of July. Or pretty much any time there's a holiday and the locals need sedation or lowered inhibitions. See, down in Portland they're pretty classy when they drink. (Well, mostly.) Out here in semi-rural Vantucky, we're more like, hmm, how do I put it? Well, we're kind of like Portland's trashy older sister. The one with the jeggings, blue eyeshadow, and the perpetual can of Coors. Normally I like that about this part of town–there's not a lot of pretension.

Sometimes, though, it gets weird.

So I got home, intending to lock my doors, pull the shades, and just let the neighborhood stew in its own inebriation. As a matter of fact, I was sitting at my desk, looking out my writing window onto the street, fooling around a little bit on Twitter, when…look, I'll just post the tweets, okay?

When the liquor store has a line out the door, you know it's time to go home and lock your doors. #holdme

Plus: naked man in wheelchair rolling down my street. When did this become a college town? #littleconfused

I just…I did NOT need to see that. *sigh*

So there I was, about to pull the shades in the living room even though it was still sunny. And then.

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS.

YOU GUYS. HE IS DOING LAPS. #hideyoureyes

OH CHRIST NOW THERE ARE FIRECRACKERS.

I want to go out in the front yard and find out what he's singing as he's riding his motorized wheelchair, naked and throwing firecrackers.

I suspect it is "We Are the Champions." But I'm not gonna go find out.

Monica Valentinelli and Yasmine Galenorn both wanted me to go and find out. My response?

I AM NOT F!CKING GOING OUT THERE. HE IS NAKED WITH FIRECRACKERS.

A few minutes later, the fuzz rolled up.

Annnnnnd cue cop car. Lights, siren, the whole works. I pity the poor officer having to sort THIS one out.

I am going to sneak out in my driveway and see if I can observe all shady-like. #cannothelpmyself #stopme

So, yeah. I tiptoed out to the end of my driveway–actually, I have to be honest here. I hid.

In the hedge.

Twenty minutes or so later, I was back to report. (Monica was actually worried about me.)

Well. THAT was interesting.

Hang on while I get a glass of wine. My nerves are shot.

Okay. So I learned a couple things tonight. 1. Naked people are slippery and difficult to handcuff.

(Although you could file that under things the cops learned, not direct knowledge. At least, not tonight.)

2. Naked man in electric wheelchair cannot outrun cop car. #lifelessons

3. He was indeed singing "We Are The Champions." I am faintly disturbed that I called that one. http://youtu.be/xdCrZfTkG1c

4. Naked man was perfectly capable of running. Evidence: he scrambled out of the electric wheelchair and bolted down the street.

Toward me.

While I was hiding in my hedge.

5. Two pretty heavily-laden cops have a difficult time chasing down a naked running man. Boy could move, even though he was barefoot.

6. Catching a naked singing man is difficult when he's throwing firecrackers.

At this point I should note that he had the string of firecrackers lit before he bailed out of the motorized wheelchair; he ended up flinging them when they started popping and crackling.(Lucky he didn't blow his fool fingers off.)

7. He ditched the lighter in my driveway.

8. While Naked Running Man had speed, he did not have endurance. Cops caught him near my neighbor's mailbox.

9. They were amazingly gentle with him. He kept yelling that he wanted Shannon to call him back.

10. They assured him that she would, if he would behave, and he settled right down.

11. Well, kinda. #lifelesson: After they have the handcuffs on is the wrong time to begin negotiating. Or writhing.

12. Two cops can indeed carry a naked squirming man back to their car. He tried passive resistance.

13. It didn't work.

So tonight was a learning experience for us all.

At this point Twitter was exploding with questions.

Note: The wheelchair is stuck down the street in another hedge.

Also note: the cops looked back at me standing in my driveway. They didn't ask a single question. Maybe it wasn't worth it.

I'm not sure if this is the kind of situation that just explains itself, maybe?

Best part? I get to keep the lighter. #score #earnedit

Two more cop cars came by afterward, lights but no sirens.

For those of you asking, no, I am not going to kipe the wheelchair. Think of where it's been.

The lighter was a black plastic Bic, plenty serviceable. After I washed it. And I should note that the officers were very gentle with Naked Singing Firecracker Man. I think they figured he had enough problems already.

Neighbor just came by. "So…did you see that?" Me: "Ten bucks says wheelchair's gone by tomorrow." Neighbor: "You're on."

Neighbor: "Did you catch what he was singing?" Me: "Queen." Neighbor: "…I can believe you know that."

I won the bet. I don't know if the cops came back to get the wheelchair, or if someone else decided to joyride. (Both are equally likely.) I also do not know if Shannon will ever call the naked man back. (I hope she doesn't. For her sake.) I did end up pulling all the shades.

Kids: "It's still light, why are you–"

Me: "Shhh."

Of course, the kids were back in their rooms, on their respective computers. They didn't hear a thing.

I'm not sure if I should feel as relieved about that as I do.

So. How was your Saturday night?

Related posts:I Can Just Tell
What A Weekend
Anxiety Ruffles And Singing Weird

The Maybe Game

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where there are giveaways. And advice. And pie. Check us out!

I was raised to (by and large) obey unquestioningly.

Jesus. Stop laughing. I'm serious.

I was trained, while very young, to not just listen to what an authority figure said but how they said it. Even today, I am incredibly sensitive to tone and body language. You tell me the sky is blue, I'm not just taking into account the information you've offered about the shade of the heavens, but also how you said it, what you looked like when you said it, what preceded this observation both physically and emotionally. Growing up, "the sky is blue" could mean anything from "go mow the lawn" to "tell me I'm pretty" to "I am about to hit you." I became incredibly hypersensitive. While this was great practice for learning how to do characterization, it's not so good for carrying on reasonably healthy relationships with relatively well-adjusted people. Most relatively healthy/sane adults get freaked out when one starts dissecting their most casual comments with the sort of intensity usually reserved for neurosurgeons with their fingers in someone's brainpan. Plus, it's exhausting to pay that sort of attention all the time. I couldn't afford to relax as a child. I'm over thirty blessed years old and just learning how to unclench a little bit.

I'm on the far end of the continuum. But when it comes to writing, I'm a lot closer to the norm than you'd think.

Writing as a career can turn even the most well-adjusted person into a quivering, hyperattentive wreck. There's the rejection, for one thing. Then there's the revision letters, where a simple sentence like "I'm not sure of this character's motivation here." can turn into a huge steaming pile of "I HATE YOU AND THIS BOOK IS CRAP" in seconds flat. If that doesn't make you goddamn crazy, let me just tell you about Amazon reviews.

No, wait, don't let me. On that path lies madness.

The work of a writer lies in not only riding the swells of criticism and revision and rejection, but also the act of setting your compass.

You, as a writer, do not have power over whether or not an editor likes your work. You can hone your craft and maximize your chances by not being a jerk, true. But in the end, you do not have control. Nor do you have much control over what the revision letter contains or the cover eventually looks like. You have zero control over what other people think of your book, and what they write on Amazon or on their blogs or what-have-you.

The control you have is small but critical. You have control over writing the best damn book you can, and you have control over how you react.

I don't let any draft out of my hands until it's as good as I can make it. Each time, I strain myself to the utmost. Everyone in the goddamn world might hate the goddamn book, but I will have the (admittedly small) satisfaction of knowing I worked as hard as I could and did my best. Do I go back and look at some of the storytelling choices I made and cringe? You betcha. The thing that keeps me from going stark-raving (admittedly a very short distance from where I stand now) is that I know, deep down, that I did my best. I could not have worked any harder, and I could not have done any less. A reviewer or an editor can judge me until the cows come home, but I am much harsher on myself than they could ever be. I have to satisfy myself first about the quality of what I let out of my hands. If I err, well, at least I know it's honest.

It sucks that I can't lie to myself about that part of it. Lying to yourself is a losing game, no matter how successfully or for how long you keep it up. There's always a worm in the bottom of your soul that knows.

I also have control over how I take rejection and the various slings and arrows of revision and reviews. I can play what I call the "Maybe It's Just" Game. (Which I stole, shamelessly and with great abandon, from The Work of Byron Katie. Mad props to her; it's incredible stuff.)

Here's the thing about being raised with one finger on the pulse and the other on the trigger: You get to where you think it's your job to find the right thing to do to make everyone happy, to fix the world. It sends you off on a spiral of grief and trying-harder, scrabbling in the dirt of fear and shame. It also fucks up your sense of proportion bigtime. The only way I've found to halt it is by asking a couple of questions and playing the Maybe Game.

It's hard to think that an editor doesn't like my stuff because I personally am the worst human being in the cosmos. It's hard to think a reviewer doesn't like my stuff because I'm personally the worst human being in the cosmos. It's hard to think that a revision letter is a personal judgment on me because…you get the idea. But maybe, must maybe…

Maybe my work isn't all there is to me.

Maybe the editor had indigestion that day.

Maybe the editor knows something I don't about the state of the market and how not-hot steampunk werellama romances are right now.

Maybe the reviewer just isn't ever going to like anything I write.

Maybe the reviewer was upset.

Maybe the revision letter is more about the book than me.

Maybe I could stand to work on the few things the editor underlined.

Maybe this rejection is the last one.

Maybe I got this rejection so I can make the book a little better.

Maybe I got this rejection so I could focus on writing this new book/short story/poem/manifesto.

Maybe the reviewer just isn't a fan of the genre.

Maybe there are nine billion people in the world and I'm not going to please every single one of them.

Maybe there's something I haven't considered here.

Maybe it's not so bad.

When I start playing the Maybe Game, a funny thing happens. Possibilities open up, perspective is restored (well, as restored as it ever gets–have you seen my TBR pile?) and all of a sudden the world thunks back into its normal dimensions as a weird but ultimately manageable assortment of sensory stimuli instead of a gigantic animal out to crush me.

The Maybe Game works for other things too. Maybe I can climb that huge gnarly rock. Maybe I don't have to jump when someone I used to love applies the pressure. Maybe I don't have to feel ugly and unloved all the time. Maybe I can figure things out. Maybe I can trust some people.Maybe I am not as terrible a writer/person as I think I am. Maybe I can't see some things clearly and they look like gigantic mountains when they are, in face, molehills. Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe there's hope.

It's better than hypervigilance, that's for damn sure. It's a shame it took me thirty-odd years to learn this game. Still…I intend to keep playing.

Over and out.

Related posts:From Hopeful Kindle-Killer to I Game To Not Think
Writing Can Save Your Life
The Room And The Will

Sunburnt, Dirty, And Terribly Happy (Smith Rock 1)

So, Saturday was my first time climbing outside. The Spider Girls (as our little climbing group calls itself) hired a couple of guides (highly recommended) and went to Smith Rock. We climbed on the Monument face–I think it was Monument South, I remember one of the routes was Snow Bunny.

And it was AWESOME. Picture and video-heavy, under the jump.

[image error]

We packed enough supplies for a small army. There were jokes about making it to the border on what we had brought...

[image error]

We're heeeere! Wait, now we need to hike?

[image error]

Can we climb that? We can totally climb that...

[image error]

We can totally climb this too. Couldn't we?

[image error]

Let's find a shady spot.

[image error]

Dammit, Lili, quit using your knee!

[image error]

Just past the crux

[image error]

Thinking about things

[image error]

Why is the crux always at the bottom?

I have tons more pictures, but I'll take mercy on you and ration them over the next couple days. I'll leave you with this video, of the beginning of my second climb.

Related posts:Gnomepocalypse!
Powells Pwnage, May '11 Edition
Shiny Betrayals!

Frisbees On The Roof

This morning's earworm: Pumped Up Kicks. Hope the rest of Foster the People's album is this good.

I've been AWOL, dear Readers, because I'm six scenes or so away from finishing The Bandit King. Yesterday I dumped 4K out of my aching head and made structure-notes for the last few scenes. Hopefully I can get this all done before Saturday. (A vain hope, yes, and Saturday is an arbitrary metric. Still…I can dream, right?)

This morning my neighbor said, "Hey…you can use my ladder if you want to get those Frisbees down from your roof."

"Actually," I said a little ruefully, "I kind of leave them up there sometimes. Because as soon as I get them down, the kids throw them back up."

"Well, I thought you wouldn't have any trouble getting up to get 'em–I saw your rock climbing videos."

I laughed, we talked about how we were both uncaffeinated (it was pretty early this morning) and we both trundled back to our respective domiciles to get some java. It made me think.

I'm afraid of heights. Getting up on the wall is a victory over my own fear each time. There's an arete at my regular climbing wall that freaks me out, and whenever I do corner-climbing it's claustrophobia and acrophobia all at once. Good times.

I don't like to run away from things that scare me. If you run, the thing you're scared of is now behind you where you can't watch it, and you're only exhausting yourself. So every time I clip in, it's a victory. Every time I touch the wall it's another. And every time I make it even halfway, it's yet another.

I had vague thoughts of rock climbing making it easier for me to get on ladders. I was wrong. I fear and loathe being on my own roof. (Cleaning the gutters multiple times in fall/winter is always incredibly FUN.) It is not any easier now that I'm climbing multiple times a week–just like slogging through the Slough of Despond part of writing a novel never gets easier. At least, it hasn't for me–or if it has, the easing has been in recognizing the Slough as part of the process, an obstacle instead of a barrier. I could start viewing the shaking nervousness on ladders as just part of the process. It's hard to do when your body's high on chemical fear.

There are things to run away from in life. (Gunfire, abusive relationships, and restaurants that epic-fail their health inspections spring to mind.) Sometimes avoidance is a valid solution. Just be very clear on what you're avoiding/running from. And that is my deep thought and possibly-useless advice for the day.

Maybe I should get the Frisbees off the roof today. *sigh*

Related posts:Two speeds. One I use way more than the other.
Reaching Higher
Happy Dance and Defiance Reading

On Running

Today's post comes to you courtesy of Reader Kassandra A., who asked me:

Long shot here to get a response from you but still worth it for me to try. I am going to attempt to start running. I am a 34 year old mother of two who tends to delve into my enormous TBR pile of books to escape the reality of life more times than is most likely healthy. *shrug* The way you have talked about your running routine has brought an already (although very dormant) existing interest in doing the same for myself to light. If you have insight into how I can get started (and keep going) I would love to hear your thoughts. (from email)

I got this email and thought, but why would you ask me? I'm not a professional or anything. Then I sat down and looked at my running journals. They're year-long sort-of-diaries (I like this kind) where I can note mileage, my route, speed (if applicable) and notes about how a particular run felt. I've been running for almost three years now, keeping a log for about a year and a half. So, maybe I do have something to say, even though I'm not a professional.

I don't run for speed. I don't run to race. I do not do team sports–for one thing, I am too much of a control freak, and for another, I do not play nicely with others, and for a third, I have a giant problem with authority and coaches yelling at me. I started running because it was something I could do on my own, and because I had a little extra to invest in a treadmill. That meant I could work out but still be in the house if the kids needed me. As a single mum, that was incredibly important. Plus, to be totally honest, it saved me from having to go out in public and sweat and puff. I had fifty extra pounds of misery hanging on me, and running in public sounded like the kind of gruesome torture you read about in a Stephen King novel. (Remember Ben Hanscomb from IT? Like that.) So, running on a treadmill in my sunroom satisfied a lot of my requirements–something I could do alone, something I could be on call for the kids during while I did it, something I could work into my daily schedule that didn't require much of a commute.

The book that probably helped me the most was No Need For Speed. From that, and from the Couch to 5K plan, I got the idea that I didn't have to run fast, or even very far, to start out with. The permission to not be very good at it at first was a godsend.

So, right now I'm clocking in five miles a day, four or five days a week. I run about an eleven-minute mile, more or less. Which isn't very fast according to some, but considering I've been sedentary most of my life, I find it pretty goddamn impressive. However, it took me over two and a half years to get here. I repeat: Nearly. Three. Stinking. Years.

I started out with six minutes of walking at two miles an hour on the treadmill, then one of "jogging" at 2.5mph. For a half hour. For a month. Then it was five minutes walking and one "running." I was stuck there for a while. Four and one. Three and two. Then, two minutes walking and three running. Then I increased the speed slightly, so I was walking at 2.5mph and running at 3. Then, one minute of walking and four of running, repeated for a half hour. Then, eleven minutes running and one minute walking.

Then, one day, I did my first 20-minute run.

It was the first time in my LIFE that I had ever run for 20 minutes solid. I finished shuddering, shaking, heaving, sweating.

I was hooked.

Since then I've pretty much stuck to the ten percent rule, with a speed-or-effort rule added on. That ten percent increase can be either in speed or mileage, but it cannot be both. Which means I have to keep track of things pretty carefully, so I finally broke down and got a training diary. That's been the #1 tool to keep me motivated–looking back over it, or (what I've taken to doing) writing down goals for the week's workouts and then marking them off as I hit them.

So, here's my advice for starting to run, and for (hopefully) keeping up with it:

1. Get or make a running journal. Even if you're starting out with the walk/run, keep a record. This will help with motivation and with getting into the habit of organizing things later when you have actual mileage to keep track of. If you can do it on a spreadsheet and make graphs, go for it.

2. Start small. Remember what I keep saying? It is not important what you write, it is important that you write. The same goes for running. This is an investment in you. Be conservative. Weekend warriors burn out. The smaller you start, the more gradually you add, the longer you're going to keep doing this. It's like weight loss–the small, steady, incremental loss sticks around the longest.

3. You are not in a race with anyone, even yourself. I had a lot of trouble in ballet until Madame told us all, "You think everyone here is looking at you. They are not. They are watching their own silly self in mirrors, girls. Nobody cares about your bottom. They are too busy with their own." (And with how hard she worked us, damn. She was right.) This was one of the Two Most Useful Pieces Of Advice I Ever Received.[1] When you're exercising, you feel like the world is staring at you. Just try to keep reminding themselves that they're not–if you're on a treadmill at the gym, the other people around you are thinking you're looking at them, which makes them too busy to critique you.

4. Be kind to yourself. Look, I know myself. I know that if I get sick or injured, I will push it. I will ignore the signals my body is giving me, because I'm terrified of being lazy. I have this weird mental thing that tells me "If you skip even one day you'll skip another, and then you'll wake up in six months without having worked out and you'll have eaten a store's worth of Cheetos and choco donettes and YOU WILL BE FAT AND FUCKING MISERABLE!"

My issues, let me show you them.

Now, rationally, I know this is a cognitive distortion. I know that I am capable of going back to running even after I miss a few days/weeks because of travel, illness, injury. But each time I have to throttle back, even if it's something as simple as just realizing I'm coming down with a cold and maybe I shouldn't go at my usual pace, or as overwhelming as the Great Bouldering Ankle Sprain Ridiculousness (MONTHS. Months of training I lost out on, and my ankle is still a little tender after a hard run on pavement. Dammit.) each bloody time I have to struggle with that perfectionist, workaholic part of me. The judgmental, critical, nasty voice inside that pushes me in an unhealthy way. The gentler I am with myself, the more I ignore that nasty voice, the more I end up running in the long run. (Ha ha.) There's another thing:

5. Remind yourself about the long-term. Publishing and parenting are great practice for this. I'm used to things taking an aeon, to small sustained efforts that build up to a finished product. The trouble is, with exercise, you don't get a finished product unless it's greater quality of life sometime down the road. Running is a process, not a destination. I am not logging miles to stop once I hit some number. My goal is simple: to just keep going, no matter how fast or how slow. Long-term, I am going to be glad I did this when I'm eighty. (My knees may not be so glad, but the rest of me probably will be.) Plus, I feel better when I run. The endorphins and burning off of stress hormones evens me out, makes me less anxious. In the long term, that makes me a more effective writer, parent, and human being. I have no trouble being the tortoise here.

6. Make It A Habit. Nevertheless, there are days when I just don't fucking want to run. I'm tired. I'm upset. I'm achy. I have cramps. I got a bad review or two, or a revision letter. Or some other goddamn thing. This is when the habit kicks in. I'm a great believer in training your habits. My morning runs actually start the night before when I put the pile of exercise clothes on the chair next to my bed. I get up and immediately put a Sports Bra of DOOOM on. After that, well, I can't just take it off, so I have to put on my running pants and shirt. Then it's time to let the dog out, get breakfast, and get laced up because I'm already in my running clothes and I'd feel ridiculous taking them off at that point. See? The habit literally forces me to run. So does the "Feel Better After" Rule.

7. The "Feel Better After" Rule. When even habit isn't cutting it, I make myself a bargain: if I do not feel better after a run, I'll quit for good. The thought of never having to run again holds a certain attraction on those days, and I start out determined to have the worst run ever. After about fifteen to twenty minutes of sustained effort, what do you know? I start feeling better. I lose the bargain every stinking time. Plus, if I'm having a low-down day, often a run will pep me up and give me the energy to get through it. It's kind of counterintuitive that effort will actually give you more energy, but I swear it's true.

8. The Five-Minute Trick. I love the Five-Minute Trick. Cliffs Notes version: do not think about the total run. Just think about the next five minutes. (Or if it's that bad, the next three minutes.) This is easy to do on a treadmill, you can often program them to keep track of the total time for you so you don't have to. When I run outside (which I've only recently started doing) my version of this is the touch-it trick–I have frequent little posts that I tap or I give myself a little nod when I pass. That way, I'm not thinking about a five-mile run. I'm thinking about making it to the driveway of the middle school, to the walkway to the elementary school, to the park, past the house with the yappy dog, past the chihuahuas, past the sharp turn at the end of the Green Track. See? Little tiny bites to make it manageable. Plus, every little one is a reward. It's the same frequent intrinsic rewards principle videogames are built on. By treating each five-minute chunk as a task and marking it in my head as I pass, I get a shot of happy dopamine telling me I'm a good girl. It works wonders.

9. I will if you will. My climbing partner's husband tells me this is the longest she's ever stuck with a sport. "It's because she has a partner," he told me, nodding sagely. This goes both ways. On days when I don't want to push myself to climb, I go anyway because she's depending on me. I end up climbing, having a good time, and feeling better. Running is a solitary sport for me–I can't stand running with a partner unless it's Miss B. I know a lot of people find partners to run with. That might work for you. On the other hand, you might be a solo creature like me.

We live in different parts of the country, but I'll make you a bargain, Kassandra. If it helps you to think of it this way, I'll keep going if you will. How does that sound? If you want to start, know that I'll be over here cheering, and that I'll keep going with you.

And now that I've rambled on like I know something about something, it's time for me to brave the grocery store for some watermelon. Yes, I know it's going to be a roller derby in there, it being a holiday and all. (Happy Fourth, by the way. Tonight's going to be loud.) I'm prepared. I ran this morning and I have sharp elbows.

Bring it.

[1] The other came from my grandfather: "People may or may not be smart. Mobs are always stupid. You remember that, you'll do just fine."

Related posts:If I Could Do That, I Can Do This
The Five-Minute Trick
A Milestone

Hippo Birdie, Miss Crab!

Just a couple of quick things:

* "Hippo Birdie" to the lovely and talented Miss L. D., otherwise known as the Martian Mooncrab. Research assistant, author helper, amanuensis, and organizer extraordinaire, she is a shining light. *throws confetti* You go, girl!

* I am trying to get another podcast together. So far I have a couple Reader Questions and a request to do my Hans & Franz impression. The next few weeks are hair-tearing busy, between writing, proofs, and various other things. But I'm working on it, guys.

* There's a couple updates on yesterday's plagiarism story. I won't say more, because otherwise my head might asplode. The awards ceremony this year is going to be a dilly.

* Creepy Whistling Dude was at it again this morning. The new twist? A wooden train whistle. Maybe he thinks he just isn't being overtly creepy enough?

And that's about it for a while. I've got to plunge back into fresh wordcount. This book wants to be born. It's dropped down and my brain's dilated.

…yeah, bad metaphor. Sorry about that.

Over and out!

Related posts:Un Petit Linkspam
The Bars Are For YOUR Safety
Safely Home

Giving Out Awards

I broke my best speed for running outside today–five miles, 54 minutes 24 seconds. I'm pretty damn proud of that. Yet one more funny thing about stress, cortisol, and adrenaline–I can feel it burning off while I run, and and I can smell the flat mineral tang of my body metabolizing the stress hormones. At the same time, stress forces me to push and run faster, so I end up going faster or longer or both. Plus, getting back into the swing of five miles four or five days a week does things to my appetite–I start craving lean protein and not wanting so many sweets or junk. (Well, there's choco–the more I run, the darker I want my chocolate to be.) The ankle is holding up fine; I think it's pretty much rehabilitated.

I think we've found a winner for the Stupidest and Most Blatant Plagiarist of the Year Award, and it's only June. Bonus points for the woman's website About page, where she says "I love to write I just started do this January of 2011 and have grown a lot where it comes to my books." (See for yourself. Caution: Twilight wallpaper ahoy.) It's been a week for stupidity–you probably heard about the "writer" who decided fake kidnappings were a great way to get an agent's attention. (Hint: IT'S NOT. And the "publisher" he finally got to take his book? POD or vanity? You make the call.) I think these two are neck and neck for the "Ways To Destroy Any Chance You Ever Had Of A Writing Career" prize this year, too. It's been a busy week.

If you need an anodyne after that, the JFK turtles are back. Their Twitter is hilariously cute, too.

With that, I'm off to go bouldering. Play safe out there.

Related posts:Happy Solstice!
Home, Again
Subjective Monday

The Bars Are For YOUR Safety

Look out. The writer is cranky today. Yesterday she killed a protagonist. (You'd think they wouldn't line up to have her tell their stories, the way she mows them down.)

That's enough third-person, but you get the idea. Today's like a perfect storm of Things That Piss Lili Off. If it's not hormones it's the short workout (Wednesday is my easy day, only three fast miles instead of the endurance-burn of five) or the appointment to talk about Financial Stuff (doesn't piss me off, just stresses me out) or the fact that I'm on the last third of the current book (yep, the one I just killed the protag in, bastard had it coming like you wouldn't believe) and everything that pulls me away from writing earns resentment. Or the Creepy Whistling Dude who thinks that a jogging woman in exercise gear with a working dog in saddlebags clearly has time to stop and pay attention to him. (Miss B. does not like him one little bit. Maybe it's the fact that I don't either.) Or it could be the weather (though actually, I like the cool and rainy summer we're having), or a couple other things happening behind the curtain of my personal life. (Don't ask.)

Every once in a while, one just has a day where the sharp edges are out. It's time to throw away the scabbard and take no prisoners. Of course, I do have to play gentle today–there's children, and I'll be in public for a short time. But other than that? Just throw some choco through the bars and thank your gods I'm on this side.

Over and out.

Related posts:One story down…
On Retail, Food Service, And Speshul Snowflakes
Short Story Madness, and Updates!