Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 192

DEFIANCE Release!

That's right–the fourth book in the Strange Angels series, Defiance, is officially released today!

[image error] Dru Anderson has always been a good listener. She listened to her dad, but had to gun him down herself when he turned zombie. She listened to the Order, but got nothing but lied to in return. She listened to Christophe, and lost the only friend she had left.

Time to buckle up, boys and girls. Dru Anderson is done listening. From here on out, she'll face the King of the Vampires on her own terms. And if the Order has a problem with it, they can kiss their sweet little svetocha goodbye…

There's a free excerpt here, and Defiance is available through Barnes & Noble, Borders, Booksamillion, the Book Depository, and Amazon.

If you want a signed copy, no problem! Just drop an email to the friendly folks at Cover to Cover Books. Of, you can tune in later on in the day to my giveaway. Stick around!

Related posts:Hey, Jealousy!
Strange Angels: Betrayals!
The Eternal Kiss…And Redemption Alley!

Your Shapechanger, Fear

You know, dry pants do help to civilize one.

This morning I ran several errands with Miss B. along. She still isn't too sure about car rides, but one of the errands was a 2+ mile walk in the rain, and she was glad to get back into the car after that and spent the rest of the errands snoozing.I did not think of myself as the type of high-energy person who could wear out an Australian shepherd, but apparently, I am. My vision of myself as a sedentary, ambitionless lump is taking rather a hard knock or two.

However, breaking up the errands with that walk meant that for about an hour and a half I was wandering around soaked from mid-thigh down. My feet were okay–wool socks and combat boots, so my toesies were damp but not cold–but my jeans were absolutely dripping. I'm sure I left a trail of moss behind. I have to say, peeling out of wet clothes and into dry is one of the most sensual, civilizing experiences I've had the pleasure of encountering. It's right up there with hot tea, good Thai food, a glass of Sangiovese, and the ability to press a button and hear Beethoven.

Ahhhh.

Anyway, it's Friday. I've grown away from doing Friday writing posts. It's not that I ran out of things to say. Far, far from. There just hasn't been a lot of bandwidth available, what with three books due this year, another few books in revision and proofs and copyedits, gah, plus the constant chaos of two kids, now with extra dog.

*time passes*

I wrote all that this morning, then left for afternoon errands. Now I'm here trying to pick up the train of thought that derailed when I looked at the clock and thought oh, dammit, almost late! It was very White Rabbit of me. In any case, I have limited time now before the set of evening tasks rises up to gnaw at my ankles and demand my attention, so let's get on with it.

To quote Stephen King: Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about fear.

One of my afternoon errands was lunch with my darling Princess, who is on the honor roll at her school. Afterward, I walked her to her English class, and got roped into a question-and-answer session. I didn't kick very hard–I love those kids, they're so bright and energetic. Every class visit, I notice something. At least one (but usually several) kids ask me the same question many adults ask me, over and over again.

How do you get over the fear?

Fear is a shapechanger. What if nobody likes it? What if I have no talent? What if I'm rejected? What if everyone laughs at me? What if I never finish? What if I finish and I never write anything else? What if I'm a freak passing for human and this shows everyone my secret, and they hate me because I'm alien? (Okay, maybe this one is just me.) What if I never finish anything? What if I'm a crappy writer? What if I'm a horrible human being who doesn't deserve to live, let alone write? What if the sun goes out and I'm responsible? AAAAAAAAAAGH! *Insert your own particular bugaboo here.*

This is the fear that fuels paralysis. Sometimes one calls this paralysis writer's block. Look, "writer's block" does not exist. But fear most definitely does. The fear will take a million shapes, like the demon hurling scary shit at Buddha under the Bodhi tree. Its purpose is to shake you. I am going to tell you a couple things about fear, and then I'll leave you to it.

* Fear as the speed of light. Einstein turned physics on its head by saying, "Fine, let's treat the speed of light as a constant, then we'll get some shit done." Quitting writing will not stop the fear; it will simply take different shapes and return in other areas of your life. Accept that while you're alive, you're going to be afraid of shit. It's the human condition. Courage does not lie in stupid-ass foolhardiness, it lies in feeling the fear and forging ahead anyway, in however-tiny increments. Don't think that the fear is a reason to quit. Instead, accept it as a constant, plug it into the equation so you can plan around it, and get some shit done.

* Sometimes, you aren't afraid, just tired. Or lazy. Sometimes, if you look very closely at what you're feeling, it's not fear. You just don't wanna. Well. If you honestly, really don't wanna, then don't. Go do something you do wanna, be a plumber or an opera singer or a high-priced plate whisperer, whatever. There is enough fear in everyone's life, don't add more to your burdens by calling exhaustion or laziness something they're not. Human beings are already tottering under a load of (sometimes very real and very reasonable) fear; why would you want to pick up more?

* The place where you're weakest is your strength. That fear you feel when you sit down to write, guess what? Someone else, probably several someones, feels it too. That fear is an invaluable gift. It shows you exactly what your reader will nod their head at while reading. Your reader will recognize your honest fear. It is a hook that will drag the reader into your story, because your reader knows what it's like.

I had such a difficult time in ballet class; I was gawky, self-conscious, clumsy, terrified. One day, Madame called us all together, fixed us with her eagle eye, and said something like this: "Girls, while you are at barre, you are thinking everyone is looking at you. They are not. Every girl is busy being afraid you are looking at her. Nobody is watching you. Sometimes, even I am not watching, for there are twelve of you and only the one of me. Stop being silly, eh?"

This was a revelation. (Thanks, Madame. you kicked my ass, but I loved it.) The older I get, the more I find out that everyone around me is just winging it, the same way I am. The things I'm afraid of–my loved ones being hurt, being lonely when I get old, heights, confined spaces, zombie apocalypses–are common human fears. I can describe them and most people will nod because they know exactly what I'm talking about. They've felt it too. That moment of sympathy is part of what it means to be human, and it is pure goddamn gold when you're looking to pull a reader into your world and tell them this amazing story you love.

Just in case you think you're the only one, let me tell you: You're not. I am terrified too. Every time I finish a book, I am terrified nobody will like it. While I'm writing books I've been contracted for I'm terrified they will suck and the publisher will want the advance back and my career will end. Every time I write a short story I'm afraid of the editor sending it back with a note like "OHAI THIS IS TRASH, U R REJECTED, SEE YOU LATER." There is at least one other person on God's green earth that is just as afraid as you are, and that person is me. Take some comfort in that.

I've got the other end of this line, kid, and as long as you hold on, I'm going to as well. Despite the storm of fear, this rope–the sympathy we can feel for fear we know we share, the transformation of the world through our art–can hold us both. I promise.

Now. Put your chin up and your shoulders back. Spit in fear's eye. Get out there and kick some ass.

Over and out.

No related posts.

Managing Weirdness

Today, every other word is an obscenity. I have the worst case of pottymouth in a while, and really, that's saying something. It took a physical effort to keep it relatively PG until the kids left for school. There's no particular reason, mind you. It's just one of those hair-on-fire, coffee-not-working, mouth-brain filter disengaged type of days.

I have those a lot. It's probably a mercy I work from home.

The trainer (I adored her on sight, and even more after meeting her own dogs and seeing how she greeted Miss B) came yesterday, watched me interact with Miss B., and told me I was being too passive. Which was thought-provoking. I never used to have any problem telling a dog what to do. But Miss B is very smart and driven, and I'm a little more laid-back than I should be. I finally said, "You're telling me I need to be more of the alpha bitch."

The trainer blinked and nodded. "For her safety, yes."

No problem. I can so do that. And it will be good training for the rest of my life. I am a doormat for those I care deeply about, but that's not good for me sometimes.

Yesterday also marks a first in my life: for the very first time, I let a trusted editor see work in the raw stage. That is, I let someone see an partial draft.

Normally nobody else will see a work until I've finished at least the zero draft, barring little tidbits and darlings I send to whet an editor's appetite and prove I'm hard at work. I just can't handle someone else's eyes on it until it's at least at the zero-draft stage. The wrong feedback can make things very difficult, if not kill the work outright–and by "kill" I mean send me into a tailspin of performance anxiety so severe it becomes obscenely agonizing work to literally sit and force myself to finish. I don't mind hard work, but it's ridiculous to make it even harder on oneself. Ergo, nobody but nobody sees the draft until I say it's zero time. (There's the added fillip of having any reasonable expectation of privacy shot all to hell during my childhood, not to mention during a couple of relationships, which turns me into even more of a paranoiac about this issue. That's a whole 'nother blog post.)

I felt a little silly going over ground rules with the editor before I handed the unfinished baby over, but at least I was clear about what kind of feedback I needed. "The only thing you are allowed to tell me is what you LIKE about this. Unless it is a huge flaming pile of dogshit that makes you want to take the advance back and never speak to me again. I need to know either of those two things, but nothing else." God bless her, she agreed.

There's a balance to be struck between keeping the tender shoots of the manuscript from a killing frost, and being so precious about it nobody will EVER see one of your works because you can't handle the strain. Maybe one day I'll reach a point where I won't care if someone sees the work in-progress. Until then, I just have to plan and work around my own weirdness. Which is, really, an everyday task, in life as well as writing. It is not necessary to trick yourself into being where you want to be–but it sure as hell helps sometimes. Writer, know thyself.

Over and out.

Related posts:Weasel Boy, We Hardly Knew Thee
Time To Wheeze Out The Old Brain
Revisions…And An Icon Contest!

Snap, Bite, Growl, Anyway

I'm over at Bitten By Books today, along with the rest of the crew from the Those Who Fight Monsters anthology. There's a contest, too, tempty-tempty.

Now for the not-so-pleasant. Oh, tax time. You know, as a single mother, maybe I shouldn't be penalized so heavily. And really, if I have to pay this amount in taxes, why can't I have better schools? Better roads? And universal health care? Oh, that's right–because I exist only at the pleasure of the corporations who are people now. And because the super-rich have managed to ram through a budget that cuts social safety nets to ribbons so they can feed the war machine. We can afford wars, but we can't afford to relieve some poverty. The commie poor might get ideas above their station, after all.

I wouldn't mind paying goddamn taxes if the cash was spent on infrastructure, education, and a social safety net instead of corporate welfare and the goddamn war machine. Oh, don't mind me, I'm just bitter. Jesus. ANYWAY.

It's a nice day, sunny and beautiful. I'm shifting between Bannon & Clare and a separate project I can't announce yet. (So exciting.) Miss B., after a morning walk in which she was absolutely full of all sorts of vinegar and baking soda, is now sacked out at my feet and evinces absolutely no desire to go outside. This will change once the Little Prince comes home from school, I fancy.

One of the things I'm struggling with while writing now is just how much verite to put into a sort of alternate-historical fantasy. I am playing fast and loose with Londinium and with history. No doubt there will be a great deal of screaming. No actual cities are ever harmed in the making of these books, but plenty of electrons are terribly inconvenienced, to mashup a phrase.

Anyway, it's time to turn to the Sekrit Projekt and do some pen and paper work. I can barely sit still, it's so exciting. This is another Year Of Doing Things I've Never Done Before, and I'm terrified enough to think it's grand fun. Off I go to get into more trouble…

Related posts:Ride of the Mama Bear
Eurgh.
Full of Win

The Sea Came To Me

Morning walk was a treat. Sometimes when the wind is just right, you can even smell the sea, which scratches that itch quite nicely. I don't feel like myself if I don't see crashing waves every now and again, but I don't get out to the beach nearly as often as I should. That may change this summer, with a dog and a decent car. We'll see.

Unfortunately, I'd have to clear three months' worth of work before I could afford to take a weekend off. No pain, no gain.

Miss B. is sacked out at my feet–I worked her hard this morning. I'm even wearing out a mini-Aussie, for heaven's sake. I didn't think it was possible. Oh well, a tired dog is a well-behaved dog, and all that.

Spring Break is over, the house is quiet because the kidlings are back at school, and I'm settling in. Before I turn off the wireless and get cracking writing the destruction of a whole Londinium shipyard, though, here's some linkage!

* This is why I'm not letting Miss B. go outside alone. Also, when you have to use baby strollers as bait to catch squirrels…yeah.

* Courtesy of the lovely Mazoku, a little cautionary tale about caffeine. Well, maybe not cautionary. Maybe more like, I'd try this at home just to see the dude in the Matrix coat.

* This morning's musecrack from my writing partner: a Laura Marling video. There's a selkie story just begging to be written there.

* Just a note: the Reckoning cover that's making the rounds on Goodreads? It's not the final one, guys.

And now I need to plan that shipyard rumble with the assassin, the mad Bavarian genius, the mentath Clare, and a couple of prematurely-awakened mecha. This afternoon will be given over to revising a certain Sekrit Project I hope to announce soon. Let's just say that if you like the way I write fantasy, you're in for a treat.

Over and out.

Related posts:Long Night Is Over
The Glorious Advent Approacheth
Expanding The Household

Finishing Requires Finishing

It is really hilarious to have a herding dog. This morning she tried to herd some crows. They laughed at her, she kept bellowing "HEEEEEERD IT!" and I was laughing too hard to step in as soon as I should have. Also, this morning's three-mile walk was full of squirrel reconnaissance. They kept poking their heads out of shrubs and mumbling into their walkie-talkies. I was concerned, but Miss B gave my fears short shrift. "LET 'EM COME! I'LL HEEEEERD THEM TOO!"

After the exciting walkies, Miss B is all knackered, with the result that whenever I go into another room she follows me, then flops down heavily with a sigh and stares at me like you're not gonna make me move again, are you? Poor thing. I didn't think I could wear out an Aussie, for heaven's sake.

So I'm settled in with a cuppa and a metric ton of triple-ginger gingersnaps. (I have absolutely, positively no self-control when it comes to these gingersnaps. I will eat a whole tub of them in a day unless I hide them from myself, and sometimes even then.) And it's time for a Reader Question! I had planned to put this in the podcast (still working on #2, sorry) but it's probably better to do it here. Today's question is from Reader Anna C:

I'd like to think of myself as a bit of a writer, although in everything I try to write, I hit a stumbling block after thirty pages or so.

Your blog has helped me immensely over the months but I keep getting stuck at The Hole. I've got the idea and a chunk of writing down and it's very shiny and golden and the style is exactly how I want the rest of the book to go. But then I fall into The Hole and the writing steadily disintegrates from there. The style differs greatly from when I've begun and it just seems to get worse and worse.

Your advice so far seems to consist of putting my head down and plodding along and its seeming to work (I set a New Year's Resolution of at least 1K a day). I was just wondering if there was anything else I could do to help it along, or whether I should just finish the damn thing and work on revisions to get the style right. (Reader Anna C., from email)

Try to consider this idea: perhaps your "style" isn't changing. Perhaps your perception of your "style" is changing. You may just hit the Slough of Despond part of writing a novel. Every time one sets out to write a novel, there's the "oooh shiny!" in the beginning, and then, sooner or later, it becomes The Book That Will Not Die No Matter How Many Times You Stab, Slash, Hack, Burn, Or Otherwise Try To Murder It.

The interesting thing about the slog, for me, is that it started out being at the end of the first third of a book. Nowadays, it's reliably after halfway or at the very latest, two-thirds of the way through that it will hit me. Working through it time and again seems to have inoculated me, at least slightly. Total immunity, I'm afraid, is not really possible.

Your perception of your "style" changing from "golden" to suckage is not unique. This alchemical reaction happens to every writer (indeed, I'd bet money it happens to every every artist, no matter the medium) and, like puberty, it's overwhelming and robs you of perspective. I haven't found any cure for this. The only thing that helps me is the snarling stubbornness. So it sucks? Fine. I'll make it be the best suckitude EVER. Take THAT, self-doubt! Nyah!

Not very adult, but it gets me through.

Above all, keep writing. If you have not finished a piece yet, you need the experience of finishing in order to gain some small amount of perspective on the process, and to prove to yourself that you CAN. It wasn't until my third or fourth finished manuscript that I began to see the pattern and the various ways I would try to trick or sabotage myself out of getting the damn thing well and truly done. Like facing any fear, the first time is often the hardest. Then you know you've done it at least once, and you have object proof that the world didn't end and it perhaps wasn't as bad as you thought it was going to be.

When faced with this, I am reminded of something Stephen King had Adrian Mellon, a minor character in IT, say. "It may be a terrible novel," the writer remarks, "but it will no longer be a terrible unfinished novel." That's always stuck with me. Whether the book sucks or not is not important. You can't hope to get better at writing a complete book without writing complete books, which means finishing. Just try to keep in mind that the perception of your "style" changing and suddenly sucking may not be the absolute truth, and if it is, well, you've a better chance at fixing it when it's seen in relation to the whole, finished story.

Over and out.

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I Never Know

Neo & Miss B

Got the end of a kidnap attempt, a messy bloody death, a visit to Wilde the Sorcerer, and the tracing of a shipment of Prussian capacitors to write. This morning was interval training and a multiple-mile walk with Miss B. I think I tired her out. The only drawback is that I can't nap like she does.

But I have a story to tell you first. Yes, Miss B met Neo the other day. As luck would have it, this was the first Squirrel-and-B interaction I had the pleasure of witnessing, and it just had to be the Terminator ninja death squirrel.

Picture this, a cloudy day, Miss B snoot-deep in backyard grass, Yours Truly leaning against the sunroom wall watching, yawning and holding an afternoon cuppa. It's a tranquil scene.

From the clouds of blossoms on the plum tree, Neo sallied forth, crooked tail held high. Nobody had informed him of the Glorious Advent.

"Oh, Christ on a cracker NO–" I began. The last thing I wanted was my dog kicked in the head. That would get things off on the wrong foot. Plus, Tuxedo Kitty was never the same after his head trauma. I started forward, tea sloshing, Miss B turned to see what I was looking at…

..and froze, ears perked so far they almost started from her head, one paw lifted, barely even breathing.

How Neo missed an exponentially-bigger animal covered in russet fur staring at him as her haunches slowly sank in preparation, I'll never know. He sauntered away from the tree, chittering a little as he encountered a small pile of grass clippings. Maybe he thought it was a fine place to bury a spring nut or two. Maybe he was so used to the calm in the back yard he literally didn't notice. Maybe he was simply overconfident.

The preparation only took a few seconds, but it was long stretched-out nightmare time for me. You know those dreams where you're running, but everything's made of lead and you just can't move fast enough? Yeah. Like that.

Still deadly silent, Miss B bolted.

"Watch out!" I yelled, hot tea slopping in my cup. "HE KICKS PEOPLE IN THE HEAD!"

Now, I was prepared for a short sharp flurry and a howling Miss B. She's up on her rabies shots, though–it had been less than a week since her last jab.

I fully admit I underestimated my dog.

"HEEEEERD IT!" she bellowed in midstride, and was across the yard in an eyeblink.

"WHAT TH–EEEEEEEEE!" Neo started Making That Sound again. He bolted for the plum tree, but Miss B cut him off.

I watched my new mini Aussie herd the Terminator death ninja squirrel across my hard, harrying and nipping, turning on a dime, anticipating, and generally treating him like a flock of sheep. Now, squirrels are generally very nimble little critters, and Neo doubly so. But Miss B had her nose down, and she cut him off every. Single. Time. Grass flew. Neo stopped making That Noise. I suppose he thought he was running for his life and needed the oxygen. Back and forth they went–Miss B got him turned around near the fence, he feinted, she took the bait, he reversed–but so did she, with sweet natural grace, nipping at his crooked tail for good measure.

I stood there, mouth ajar, tea pouring out of my dangling cup. It was actually the boiling-hot tea splashing through my pants that restored me to some kind of sanity. "B—-!" I used her full name and my You Are My Child voice. She skidded to a stop, head up, eying me.

Neo darted for the shelter of the plum tree. Miss B quivered with anticipation. "No," I said, "let the fuzzy little bastard rest. You've had your fun."

She chuffed and trotted back to me, head high, her hindquarters wriggling with delight. "I HERDED IT! IT WAS A QUICK LITTLE BASTARD TOO! DID YOU SEE ME HERD IT? IS THAT MY NEW JOB?"

"Just be careful," I told her, snorting for breath through the laughter. "That's no ordinary squirrel. Plus he's probably going to bring backup."

Blossom-laden branches shook violently. Squirrel!Neo was invisible, but I could certainly hear him. "WHAT THE…WHAT WAS THAT? WHAT IS THAT? THE MONKEY'S TALKING TO IT! THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE YARD! FIRE! FLOOD! ANARCHY! IT NEARLY GOT ME!"

That did me in. I leaned against the house and fair wheezed with laughter. My stomach hurt and I had to blow my nose by the time I was done. Miss B, of course, kept one eye on me and one eye on the plum tree, waiting for Round Two.

This is gonna be good.

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Bloody Introductions

My morning started with a banana and a three-mile run at the low end of my pre-injury pace. This was made easier by the fact that I have finally kicked the flu's ass and sent it howling. Which meant I could breathe, always a plus.

Then it was time to wash the dried blood out of my hair. Now, starting a Monday morning with dry claret spattering one is de rigeur for my characters, not so much for me (anymore), so this may require a little explanation.

This came about because I'm tall.

Well, not precisely tall. I am a respectable 5'6", though I look MUCH bigger when I'm angry or determined. (This is, incidentally, partly why it's so difficult to buy clothes for me. Or maybe my mouth just makes me seem a lot bigger on a daily basis. Your choice.) This is, however, multiple feet taller than any of the animals in the house. I forgot, while supervising a visit between Miss B and the Tuxedo Kitty* (sounds like an indie band, doesn't it) that I would be the tallest thing around, and hence the safest route of escape for said feline.

Now, Tuxedo Kitty is sweet-stupid, and normally very calm. I am unsure why he's not adjusting to the new addition as well as Cranky Quacker, our oldest cat. (He doesn't miaou. He quacks. Seriously.) CQ has found out that if he hisses, Miss B takes notice and backs off. (Her former home had children and cats, I checked before adopting.) So, while Miss B is dying of curiousity about the little furry crankpot, he is controlling the interactions, and doing a handy job of it, too. Tuxedo, though, is hiding with the youngest, and doesn't come out until night or during Miss B's daily walks.

Now, Tuxedo Kitty was never really the same after he got kicked in the head by a squirrel. He seemed to feel the need to prove his masculinity, which led to a lot of Brokeback scenes around the house until Cranky Quacker and Lemur (our youngest kitty) staged an intervention. Two days solid of hissing, batting, chasing, and yowling.

Fun times. Anyway. Afterward, Tuxedo seemed to have something to prove. He's just as sweet and stupid as ever with humans, but new critters get short shrift from him.

So there I was, Tuxedo Kitty coaxed out and made much of, petted and soothed. Miss B was quiet and composed, about four feet away. Then…I don't know. Something exploded. I was on my feet, Tuxedo Kitty got the bright idea that UP was where he wanted to go, and it ended up with me bleeding from the face, head, shoulder…You know, I'm always surprised by just how damn messy head wounds are.

Funny thing about dogs and kids–they'll handle all sorts of things with incredible aplomb as long as the alpha keeps her cool. Miss B, of course, had no clue what had just happened. "HEY, WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? MY BUTT SMELLS FUNNY. IS THAT FOOD? WHERE ARE YOU GOING? IS THERE FOOD THERE?"

Little Prince was slightly less clueless. "Wow. That's a lot of blood. Are you okay? Want me to help? I can help. I know where the BandAids are."

The Princess had her own set of questions. "What happened? Want me to get the cat? He's hiding under the bed. Oh, wow, you're bleeding. Did you know that?"

I think it probably says something that I'm calm even with blood running down my face. Of course, I had two animals to corral, and the kids heard the ruckus and had to be kept copacetic. Once there's bleeding, something clicks inside my head and Disaster Management Lili takes over. And let me tell you, that bitch has brass balls, plus ice water in her veins. So at this point, I was the calmest organism in the room. "You. Sit there. You, back up. You, get in the loo and grab the Bactine. Move."

And lo, they hopped to obey. After a few minutes of Bactine-spraying, Neosporin-smearing (because cat scratches, ZOMG, who knows what those little bastards have on their Scythes of Doom?) and bandaging, I was right as rain. At that point I was more amazed at how high Tuxedo had managed to climb than anything else.

Little bastard was motivated.

So that's how I ended up washing dried blood out of my hair this morning. I seriously thought I'd outgrown that sort of thing, but there you go. I'll tell you, it's a lot happier to be doing it after cat scratches than after a barfight. But that's (say it with me) another blog post.

Tune in tomorrow, incidentally, for the tale of Miss B meeting her first squirrel! *evil twinkle*

* All names have been altered to protect the innocent, guilty, and just plain unlucky.

Related posts:Squirrel!Matrix
The Glorious Advent Approacheth
Birdfeeders, Gangster Squirrels, and Metamucil

Fish April And Squirrel Ballad

It's Fish of April! Here's the obligatory prank. There, now we've gotten that out of the way.

It's a Friday and I'm flying low, so…under the cut, the long-awaited picture of Miss B, plus a squirreltastic treat. (ETA: Plus, the Evil League of Evil Writers totally made me cry this morning.)

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Hello world, it's Miss B!

There she is, the newest addition to Casa Saintcrow. This morning she helped me mow the lawn and sat, head cocked, while the yappy terrier next door went absolutely nuts. He was Protecting His Human From The New Canine, and B found this highly amusing. "Dude," she seemed to say, "chillax. The humans are talking." The terrier would have none of that, though, and Miss B grinned at him with great good humor, which infuriated him even more.

I love this dog.

Miss B. has not yet seen a squirrel, although she alerted me to a cat in the neighbor's yard this morning during my run. "Okay," I said, "I see it, settle down." And she did. What a good girl, eh?

Speaking of squirrels, the multi-talented Monica Valentinelli sent me a Further Ballad of Neo, with More Than A Nod To E. A. Poe. Enjoy!

THE SQUIRREL

–Monica Valentinelli

Once upon an evening dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

How to script an ensuing volume for my readers galore,

While I nodded, nearly dozing, suddenly there came a scraping,

As of some one gently chafing, up against my screen porch door.

`'Tis my fuzzy feline,' I muttered, 'chafing at my screen porch door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was an overcast day in November,

And each separate dying leaf dragged its dry bones across the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

Whence my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for a lost amore -

For I'm but a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Saintcrow -

A goddess in my house for evermore.

Alas! My children's laughter, diving headfirst in my box of chocolates

Distracted me – filled me with fantastic delights never felt before;

Oh no! Dear, kitty! To still the beating of my happy heart, I stood repeating

I forgot about my kitty entreating entrance at my back porch door -

My hungry kitty is still entreating entrance at my back porch door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Dearest kitty,' said I, `truly your forgiveness I must implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping my back door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' – here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Saintcrow!'

This name I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Saintcrow?'

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the living room turning, questions within me burning,

Soon again I heard a scratching somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is my kitty at my screen door;

Let me see then, why he's sore with me, and this mystery I'll explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis my kitty and nothing more!'

Open I slid my door like butter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately squirrel of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched outside my screen porch door -

Perched upon a gazing ball just beyond my screen porch door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this gray creature beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be white and fuzzy, thou,' I said, `art sure no yellow bird.

Ghastly foul and ancient vermin wandering nightly because you could -

Tell me what thy lordly name is within this Green Man's wood!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly pest to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer had much meaning – and its similarity to my own it bore;

Still, we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with a talking squirrel just outside his screen door -

Bird or beast above a mirrored ball just outside their screen door,

Bearing such a name–or any other–as stately as `Saintcrow.'

But the squirrel, sitting lonely on the gleaming orb, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not his furry tail he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have climbed before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have climbed before.'

Then the pest said once more, `Saintcrow, Saintcrow!'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what name it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught no doubt by some rabid reader whose unmerciful teasers

Followed fast and followed faster till his decrees one burden bore -

Till the chants of his hope for my next book his burden bore

Of "Saintcrow" and nothing more.

But the squirrel was still beguiling my remaining kitties into smiling,

Straight I ushered a tuxedo-furred feline in front of squirrel and ball and door;

Then, upon my pillow sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this plague-carrying pest of yore -

What this grey, grim, disgusting, gaunt, and plague-carrying pest of yore

Meant in groaning o'er and o'er: `Saintcrow.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the creature whose beady eyes now burned into my dear kitty's fur;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On my cushion's silken lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

His memory shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the autumn air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by tree limbs whose bare arms wafted through my window yore.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee

Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy owner's memories from before!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget all that came before!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

`Augur!' said I, `thing of evil! – augur still, if squirrel or demon! -

Whether agent sent, or whether readers tossed thee in my grassy knoll,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this fairy land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -

Is there – is there books in Hel? – tell me – tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the squirrel o'er and o'er, that one dire word: `Saintcrow.'

`Augur!' said I, `thing of evil! – augur still, if squirrel or demon!

By the Heavens that bend above us – by those gods we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance fading,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Saintcrow -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Saintcrow?'

Quoth the squirrel slowly, lowing: `Saintcrow.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, squirrel or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the wood and the Night's ghostly shores!

Leave no grey tuft as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the ball outside my door!

Take thy teeth from out my heart, and take thy form evermore!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

And the squirrel, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid ball of gazing just outside my screen porch door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 'cross my floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

Beautamous! Take a bow, Ms. Monica! *claps vigorously*

Over and out!

Related posts:Ballad of the Headless Squirrel
Squirrel!Matrix
Battle of the Pine Boughs

Mailbag and Worldbuilding

Okay, so not really from the mailbag, more like from the last Dames Question Day post. No matter. We shall forge onward. There were a couple of specific queries, and then I'll talk a little bit about worldbuilding.

Dame Lili- There's one more book in the Strange Angels series after Defiance, right? –Amanda W.

Yes, the book after Defiance is Reckoning, which is the final installment of Dru's adventures.

This is for Lilith Saintcrow. In Dante Valentine Series, Where is Saint City supposed to be located? –Jessica R.

In my mind, Saint City is a strange melange of Seattle and Portland, 600 years in the future. Some bits are from the Seattle of my youth, others are from the Portland of my adult years. There are a couple other Pacific Northwest locations that worked themselves in, but really, Santiago City is a sort of in-between place.

Now, let's talk about worldbuilding! Sometimes (never as much as you want to) you can just use the FM wand. But if you want to build a world, well…I'll give you all the advice I can.

* Figure out your personal sensory hooks. I'm very visual, and a lot of the way I work centers on that. Mostly everyone has one sense they tend to focus on. You cannot just write that one sense without boring your reader to tears–but you can use that sense to build the world very vividly for yourself.

People often ask me, "How can you keep your stories separate?" They usually look a bit puzzled when I tell them the lighting is so different for each story, I have very little trouble. For example, Jill Kismet's world is very blue-toned, like the color palette of the first Underworld movie. Dante Valentine's look was very Blade Runner, and very red with orange undertones. Dru Anderson's world is lit very crisply, like sunlight bouncing off fine granular snow on a very, very cold day. See? I can shut my eyes and build (on the underside of my eyelids, thank you Nabokov) a complete rendering of a scene. I use a lot of film metaphors because I do stop the "action," pan around, and take different angles. From there it's just a short hop to step into the scene, and let the characters tell me just where they're aching and how the sweat is stinging their eyes, what it smells like, what they hear.

If you've got a sense you like, spend a twenty-minute session (kitchen timer, remember? Writer's best friend.) with your eyes closed, think about how your character looks/smells/sounds/you get the idea. You can also think about the feel of a particular place in your story, etc. A slight warning, though: this can turn into a form of work avoidance. Use sparingly.

* It's an iceberg. You cannot cram everything you love about your world into a book. It's not possible. A Reader only needs and wants the tip of the iceberg, the cream of the crop. You will be aware of the massive bulk under the water. This is your private playground, the foundation that holds up the rest of your world up in the light. Spend some timed sessions playing around there–think about the history of your world, your characters, why they do the things they do, invent their life stories and play them inside your head. Again, can turn into a form of work avoidance, which is why I recommend the timer.

* Just pick the best. A lot of worldbuilding is putting in sensory hooks, hoping to find one that will tickle the Reader just the right way. Sometimes I'll put in three or four sensory hooks, then edit out everything but the best one later. Keep the snippets in a killfile, though.You never know when they might come in handy later.

* Sink or swim. I tend to throw a Reader in and let them build the world through inference. This works very well sometimes, but it's not everyone's cuppa. Some Readers want things spelled out more, others are furious if they sense you're holding their hand.Try to strike a balance, and understand you're not going to hit it just right for every reader. Your editor, however, is trained in the art of helping you reach as many Readers as possible. Which is just another reason to listen to him or her.

* Practice evocative restraint. This is just a fancy way of saying "you can let the Reader scare/seduce herself." You don't have to describe every baroque curlicue of Cthulu's tentacles. You can let the reader hear them rubbing against each other with a sound like tearing wet gristle, while the misshapen bulk looms threateningly above them. Plenty of Readers will take it from there, and remember your monster vividly because they filled in the scariest bits–unique to each person–themselves. One good sensory hook and an invitation for the Reader to scare himself works wonders.

As usual, your mileage may vary, all applicable disclaimers, yadda yadda. I'll be checking in at random intervals today over at the Deadline Dames; if you have other questions on worldbuilding I'll see if I can answer a few there.

Now I've got a tired dog to pet and a sorceress to get into some dire, most unladylike trouble. See you around.

Related posts:Revising That Fight, Part 2
Why Would You Kick The Sh!t Out Of Your Characters?
Worldbuilding And String