Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 197

Done, Over, Finito, End

So…yeah.

Regular readers will have noticed that certain things haven't been mentioned here at Casa Saintcrow for a couple years. They will also have noticed that for the last year or so I've been working pretty hard on some personal, private stuff, and that I've largely retreated from talking about any aspect of my life that isn't "professional" or "worth a good belly laugh but in the end, not very revealing". (Yes, SquirrelTerror, I'm looking at you.) My level of stress has been abominable, but I haven't felt comfortable talking about it until certain things happened. Now I can finally say out loud now the Reason For All That.

My divorce is now, just this week, final. I am no longer married to the man I spent over a decade with. The split is basically amicable, but the legal aspects of the divorce dragged for nigh on two years. Which was extraordinarily stressful, for a variety of reasons I am not going to go into. The important thing is, it's finally irrevocably done.

This doesn't change a lot about my day to day life. I have essentially been a single mother for a very long time, well before the initial separation. This just makes it official, so to speak, but it doesn't change the routine I've built up over the years. Tomorrow I will still get up at five, run some ungodly number of miles, get my kids off to school, and write, lo even unto the breaking of the world or the summer vacation or the easing of deadlines. Whichever happens first.

This event does, however, largely relieve me of a crushing emotional burden and a great deal of worry and care. It frees up all that energy for me to use on other things. It also means I can be a little more open here, and that I may have the energy to interact more with the world at large again. In a little while. Once I've passed through the emotional decompression and it finally sinks in that it's over and done with.

I want to thank everyone who's been supportive of me through all this, and also thank those who deluged me with support right after the initial separation. I clammed up right after that, and I know many of you…wondered. Thank you for caring, and thank you for being so concerned for my well-being. And thank you to the people who didn't know they were being supportive, but who sensed I was in pain and offered to help. I appreciate it more than you can know, even if I didn't respond much at the time. Thank you very much.

That about covers it. Comments on this post tightly moderated, for obvious reasons.

Over and out.

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Cold. And Yet, Committed

It is bloody cold. So cold I am cuddled up next to the heater wearing a hat. So cold my tuxedo kitty doesn't even care to go outside. So cold…well, you get the idea. I'm drinking gallons of tea. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to run so many errands. Leaving the house is like embarking on a Siberian holiday; I bundle up in multiple layers and I still arrive home chilled straight through. It probably doesn't help that I lost so much weight. I've got no damn insulation, physically. It's interesting–the better I get at insulating myself emotionally, the less I need the physical padding.

Anyway, bitching about the weather isn't what you're here for, is it. (I'm also cranky because they're resetting routes in at the rock wall, so I've missed a couple climbs. We'll be back on a regular schedule next week.) I did make it all the way through the new Duffy CD yesterday, and the slower numbers improve the whole thing, but…that pop thing just isn't what her voice seems to be for. I went back to Rockferry and have been humming along with it ever since.

As far as writing…here, have a link, Theodora Goss on writing every day. WORD. I don't think it can be restated enough. But we all know how I feel about that.

I'm back at work, revising into a second draft of the final Strange Angels book. There's also the sorceress and mentath to consider and gear up for, and I'm being taunted by both the trailer-trash fae book and the cowboys-and-zombies book. So I'm going to have to do up a schedule and stick to it for a few months if I seriously want to get all this stuff done.

Oh, Lord. Did I just say that out loud? Guess I'm committed now. In one way or another…

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WhackAMole

So, it's the Monday after New Year's. Which means the kids are back in school, the house is quiet…and I had to get up at an ungodly hour to get my morning run out of the way before embarking on a chaotic mix of errands and writing that is my day today. I think, perhaps, the problem is that I'm not running enough–I put in six and a half miles this morning, with no nosebleed.

Yeah, we'll put that in the "things you didn't want to know" column.

I'm a little nervous about tomorrow, even though there's really nothing I need to do except sign a paper and wait for the news. *crosses fingers* Anyway.

I've got the new Duffy CD in, and I have to say, when she's belting out angry she's much better than this pop stuff they're trying to get her to sing. She's like Amy Winehouse without the trainwreck; but also without that razor edge. All in all, eh. I'll stick to the Rockferry album.

It's taken me about a half-hour to write this, because other things keep popping up and I keep bashing them on the head. My days are an endlessly-revolving parade of Whack-A-Mole. Who knew going back to work would be this much fun? Hopefully I'll be less scattered tomorrow.

There's always hope.

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Three Things, 2010

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where it's a party like it's 1999 ALL THE TIME!

2010 was a watershed year. '09 sucked pretty bad, but '10 has more than made up for it. That's the thing about learning: it's sometimes a painful process.

I plan on greeting the New Year sound asleep, actually, because I need sleep more than celebration at this point. For lo, I am old and boring. But, to mark the fact that I made it through another fifty-two weeks and have largely gotten things Under Control and Well Situated, here's three things I learned about writing in this last year. (Because one can always learn something new about writing, I think.)

* Changing creative fuel doesn't have to be hard. "Creative fuel" can be different things for different artists. Some writers use emotional drama to fuel their writing. Messy personal lives are a good source of fuel, it's true–but the cost of using that fuel can make it unsustainable. It can provide an occasional "kick", too, and I'm a firm believer that there's no better way to process something than to strip-mine it for material (that car crash in '06 was priceless, let me tell you) but constantly using conflict or emotional drama as fuel is not a happy cupcake. Letting go of using that fuel is scary–it's reliable, it's fast, it plays into the create-more-drama loop, and it's got a hell of a rocket kick. But one needs longer-term sources of fuel, especially if one wants to have a longer-term career.

The good news is that other sources of fuel are available pretty much by default, and one is already using them, since one can't write by drama alone. I can categorically insist and promise with a clear conscience that the other fuels are there, they provide just as much kick, and the hangover from using them is way less intense. You don't have to worry about whether you'll have Things To Write About or fuel for writing if you move away from the drama. You will have more Things To Write About, and fuel that doesn't make your life look like a smoking crater afterward. Which is really a pretty good deal.

* Trust the work. This is more in the nature of recovered or confirmed knowledge instead of "new" knowledge, but it bears repeating. I've been terrified over the past year that I wouldn't be able to produce (due to a number of Personal Reasons we won't go into until I can make the Public Announcement and get it over with) or that if I did, it wouldn't be my usual quality. "Terrified" is not too strong a word for how much I've feared that.

But my editors are happy. They say I've actually gotten better. (Readers' opinions may vary, of course. I'm okay with that.) And I've made every deadline and to spare these past two years, no matter what was going on or how I felt about it. The habit of just Sitting The $% Down and Doing It has never stood me in such good stead; and I've found comfort and solace in the things I've finished. Being able to crawl inside another world, one where I have a measure of control and free will that I might otherwise lack, has been a lifesaver. If you commit to the work, it will help you.

* Physical movement helps. Again, more in the nature of "recovered" knowledge here. I hadn't realized, until I started losing weight, how physical a writer I truly am. Once my body gets over the "Christ what did I do to you, why are you DOING this to me?" moment at the start of every run, I settle into a peculiar meditative state where plots germinate, characters speak, and things just generally shake into place. I've come to depend on that time (see, an alternative source of fuel! I'm so sneaky!) as a part of the creative process.

I am not saying you have to run however-many miles in the morning to be creative. Far from. I'm saying to never underestimate the power of some kind of physical movement to shake things free inside your brain. Got a plot tangle? Character giving you trouble? Go for a brisk walk, do some jumping-jacks, put some music on and dance around a bit. More often than not (okay, a ridiculously high percentage of the time) this will shake it loose, make the character behave, take the work in a new direction. Plus, it's good for you. We tend to forget how physical an act writing truly is. The brute work of typing 60-100K words for a zero draft of a novel (not to mention however many thousands in revision, dear God) is hard on the body. It's hard on the fine structures of the fingers and wrists, it's hard on the forearms, sitting for that long is hard on the back and the legs and your core. Moving around is good for you and will help ameliorate the purely-physical cost of writing.

There you have it, three things 2010 taught me about writing. They're maybe not new things, and other people found them out way before I did. Still, I gained what feels like a greater understanding. And, you know, I'm stubborn. Mostly, people can't tell me a damn thing. I have to run into it and bark my toes (or other more tender places) before I Figure It Out. Oh well. There's always next year.

Assuming I want to change that about myself, that is. I'm not so sure. But that's (say it with me) another blog post.

So, a safe happy New Year's to you and yours. Enjoy, be responsible, have some fun, and let's do that time warp again…

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Snapback

When something takes years of effort, and it's finally done, there's a certain amount of emotional snapback. Which is pretty much where I am right now–brain is very mooshy, I'm tired, and as soon as I have lunch I'm ready to go back to bed. It's not a question of having the energy–honestly, I've never had so much energy in my life, which is a good thing, because I'm juggling several chainsaws–but of wanting to retreat and curl up for a while.

When one adds the emotional snapback of sending off the first draft of the last in a series, it just gets compounded. Which is all a very roundabout way of saying I'm as close to zombie as I've ever been, the past couple days. I'm not watching movies or even listening to music–that sort of freaks the kids out, because I have music going all the time, normally. But I just can't handle the sensory overload.

So what am I doing? Reading military history. Poking at a trunk novel that makes me happy, even if it is a gawdawful beast and I'm only adding a hundred words at a time, if that. Making cookies to take into the climbing wall. Feeding the next book I'm going to be working on, which is starting to bubble and ferment in a most interesting way in the back of my head. Wandering away from tasks halfway (it's taking me a long time to write this post, FFS). And just generally sticking close to home and not wanting to do anything else.

It's important, when you've been running the emotional engine high, hard, and hot for a long time, to let it cool down once the pressure's off. I liken it to a flywheel spinning down, and part of that flywheel is the adrenaline-twitchy OMG KEEP MOVING KEEP MOVING LIONS TIGERS ZOMBIES ARGH! You get to where the itching under your skin to move is overwhelming, but if you move you're just going to tire yourself out with fruitless thrashing. I've learned (at least, I've tried to learn) how to clamp down on some of that, so that I can let the rubber band relax instead of yanking it until it breaks.

And so…updates here will be spotty until the first of the year. By then I suspect I'll have good news to share, and I'll be ready to hit the ground running.

See you 'round.

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A Very Fond Farewell

I am not my characters, and I am under no illusion that they are objectively real, but while I'm creating, they are real to me. And when we are done with each other, it's like a good friend is moving to another planet–someplace where the communication isn't frequent or even feasible.

Last night I sent off the first draft of the final Jill Kismet book, Angel Town, to agent, beta reader, and editor. I cried when I finished the zero draft, I cried when I finished first-revision, and I cried right after I hit the "send" button and the first draft took its first few toddling steps into the world.

I'll see it again, of course–there's edits, then copyedits, then proofs to get through–but in a very real way, Jill is gone. Her story is done. I had more to say, certainly, but six books is enough. I can say what remains in other ways. Or, if I can't, maybe it should remain unsaid.

Jill's been a difficult character. Not as difficult as Dante, certainly, but aching in her own way. It was hard to say goodbye to Danny and Japh, too. I suspect a lot of it is just that when one spends a long, long time inside characters' heads, sharing their triumphs and failures, one is bound to feel a certain amount of grieving afterward. I grieve for Jill and Saul, for Galina and Theron, for Anya Devi and even, a very little bit, for Perry.

So today I'm a little raw and tender. It's a day for listening to the rain on the roof and watching Romeo!Jay and Juliet!Jay at the birdfeeder. Maybe some easy cookie-making with the kids later on in the afternoon. That sounds good.

Vaya con Dios, Kismet. And thank you. You got me through some rough spots, and it's been a Hell of a ride. (Get it? Arf arf…)

Over and out.

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A Gift, Given

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Have a great holiday!

I honestly couldn't figure out why I couldn't string a thought together inside my noggin until I realized I hadn't had coffee before I left the house this morning. Now, safely returned and soaking up caffeine, I'm amazed nobody got hurt. It's a big ol' zoo out there. I'm glad to be settled in now, listening to my windchimes rattle and watching rain speckle the window.

This Friday, instead of a process post, I thought I'd get into the holiday spirit (so to speak) and list a few things writing has given me. It's difficult for me to understand how people get on without writing, but a lot of people find it just as difficult to understand how I get along without watching telly. Fair's fair.

Writing is what I was made and designed to do. I suspect that when I was being made someone poured a dose of graphomania into my bones. I cannot conceive of not writing, I know I would not have survived a few things if not for the act of stringing words together. That act, an old and deep magic, has saved me uncounted times, and it continues to save me every day. These are a few things writing has given me, or taught me:

* Endurance. I'm a big fan of stubborn endurance anyway. Well, maybe not "fan". Maybe "unsuspecting idiot who can't do anything else". Writing, especially writing for publication, has fed that deep-down stubborn refusal to quit I've carried around like a load of lead in my bones my entire life.

Example? When I was learning to ride a bicycle, I didn't get that you had to pedal backward to brake. It just made no sense to me. So I simply got up to speed, and when I wanted to stop I just picked something to run into. This was a bit uncomfortable (it's a miracle I didn't break anything, really) and it took a month or two before the "click" happened and my body figured out about the pedaling-backward-to-brake thing. I could give another hundred examples, but I think that one will do. I approached publication basically the same way: I kept going until I found out how to make it work. And the several iterations a book has to go through before it's publishable (draft, draft, draft, copyedits, proofs, ARGH) are a test of that stubbornness. Good or bad, writing fuels it, and in doing so, writing has taught me a lot about just picking up and carrying on.

* The habit of observation. The world can be a cruel, malicious, terrible, nasty, brutish place. Human beings seem to love nothing better than helping it along down that path. Or at least, that's what I was convinced of decades ago, growing up in an emotional desert and struggling to survive. The habit of observation to gather material for writing, however, has crept in and loosened some of that. Yes, the world is a nasty place sometimes. But it is also good. Things work out a ridiculous amount of the time. Not only that, but the act of observation is critical to the act of art, which is (to me) the act of transforming the world. Observing in service of writing has taught me that yes, life is suffering (thank you, Buddha) but it doesn't have to stay that way. Beauty lies under the surface, and the potential for beauty can be seen and made.

* Value. Or perhaps more accurately, worth. For most of my life, I have struggled with an acute sense of worthlessness. I was told over and over that my value was essentially zero, or even negative. Writing taught me this was a lie. Not because I write things people eventually end up buying (though that is super-awesome, don't get me wrong). No, it's because the act of writing, of creating something out of nothing, has to have value. When I say writing has saved more than my life, this is what I mean: writing, creating something that wasn't there before, teaches me in a very basic way that I have worth. Over and over again, this magic is performed for me. I just have to show up.

* Everyday increments count. This is my bargain with the Muse: as long as I keep swinging, she keeps pitching. I make the commitment to show up every day, and she brings the rest with her. I may only get a couple steps staggered down the road some days. But each inch I move forward gets me closer, and sooner or later, I get to the top of the mountain. Writing has taught me about breaking a journey to Mordor up into single steps, and taking each step one. at. a. time. Boring? Sometimes. Slogging? Yes. Thankless? Mostly. But it gets me there.

* Holding the line counts too. I got a lovely Christmas card from a reader. Inside, she wrote, "Thanks for throwing the line."

I cried.

Writing is pursued in solitude. It's easy to lose track of the outside world when you're sewn up in a manuscript. When the book goes out into the world, it's hard to remember that other people are picking it up and handling its internal world. Shouting into the void is a writer's trade, and when the void answers…well, I can't easily describe the feeling. I've had so many people write to me, or tell me at signings, of one of my books affecting their lives. Giving them strength or an escape, a shock of recognition or a few hours of release. It's humbling and proud all at once. And it makes me ever more determined to hold the line, since you never know when someone might catch at the other end.

* Companionship. Writing has been my spur, my solace, my refuge, my vehicle, my weapon, my shield, a faithful friend and a constant lover, a source of strength and comfort, a necessary frustration and a saving grace. Whatever it is in me that searches for words to build a framework on, whatever accident or quirk that cracked the bedrock and gave me this secret spring, is a reminder that even in the desert I have an inner resource. One can be lonely even in a crowd, but writing makes my essential aloneness less lonely. Writing has never disappointed, failed, or betrayed me. It has literally saved my life and soul, and it asks so little in return–just the commitment to show up every day.

There are other things writing has given me, but this would turn into a Gormenghast of a blog post. (Can you tell what my reading project in the new year will be?) Anyway, this is just a few of the reasons why I write, why I will continue writing, why I can't see stopping and why I say writing saved me. It has given me so much. And now we come to the point. (Yes, I had a point.)

You, whoever you are, have something similar inside you. Your bedrock is cracked too, and you have a secret spring. Don't be afraid of it, or minimize it. Get down there and drink all you can. It doesn't matter if it's genius or pedestrian, if it's novice or amateur or professional, it just doesn't make a damn bit of difference. There is something inside you that can transform the world. It will always be there for you, no matter what. It's yours, and nobody can ever take it away. It will remain with you always, and it is never too late to start dipping your cup.

This is a gift that is given. Grab it with both hands.

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A Few Things Make A Post

Monday I drove out to the wilds of Tigard to get a new author photo taken. I loathe being photographed–it stresses me out like you wouldn't believe, for a set of reasons that have everything to do with my childhood and almost nothing to do with whoever is pointing the camera at me. However, the photographer came highly recommended, and his work is gorgeous. If anyone can make me look decent, he probably can. Heh.

Yesterday evening I got this sudden urge to listen to Wham! I ended up dancing around my living room to old videos, especially this one. Oh, and this one. (God bless YouTube.) That, of course, led me to one of the few Christmas songs I like. (I'm also fond of Carol of the Bells, especially when the Muppets do it, and Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.) Oh, the scarves! The smouldering angst! THE FEATHERED HAIR!

Incidentally, I was also just introduced to Robert Earl Keene's Merry Christmas From The Family, which I found hilarious and oddly touching.

Hmm, what else today? Laura Anne Gilman on epirates. I'll just point and say, "what she said." Sometimes I wish my work wasn't in ebook format, because of the sheer effrontery of the jackasses who STEAL it, then get snitty with me when I ask them politely and publicly not to, you know, STEAL.

Tomorrow is when I do a final round of the grocery store for the little things I must have on hand for the foodathon of the Eve and the Big Day. (The children were scandalised at the thought that they could open one or two presents for Yule, so they're waiting until the 25th, the hidebound little dears.) I plan on using the self-checkout, since that way I don't have to talk to anyone. Apparently the little sign on my forehead that says, "Please tell me about all your troubles and every embarrassing thing in your life RIGHT NOW WHILE WE'RE IN LINE" lights up in neon during the holidays. You would not believe the sh!t I get told in lines between Thanksgiving and New Year's. It's not that I begrudge a little listening, it's just that I don't have the emotional energy to try to fix the things strangers tell me.

My solstice passed quietly and without a lot of comment, which is getting to be just the way I like it. Someday when the kids are older and I'm back to my normal nocturnal habits I'll get back into holding vigil on the solstices again. But for right now, the gods know I need sleep to be an effective human being. If they have a problem with that, they shouldn't have designed life this way.

Anyway, that brings the random catchall to a close. Something is banging about my chimney, and I think it may be a squirrel. It certainly isn't Santa. I'm going to go check.

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Small Graces

I literally have not stopped running since I climbed out of bed this morning. I even braved the post office, picking up a package–now there was an inspiring moment. Everyone was quiet, calm, smiling, and well-behaved. Considering that most trips to the post office during the holiday season are brutal survival-of-the-fittest scrums, I felt lucky to witness a half hour of strangers standing in line and making small talk, grinning at the antics of a small child, and actively helping other people out.

Today is for beating on a zero draft to finish getting it in respectable shape. I already know two major changes I have to make, but they were things I suspected would end up changing when I wrote them, so I'm not stressed. The most difficult part of this is saying goodbye to characters that have occupied my headspace for multiple years now. That part is never easy, especially when one suspects one could have told their story better, if one had just known.

Anyway, I finally managed to eat something and get some more coffee down, and now I have a whole afternoon to spend in the laborious process of revising and bidding farewell. I probably won't cry until I get closer to the end.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm going to be a leaky spigot. Fetch me the Kleenex and pay no attention to the sobbing. This is still the greatest job in the world.

Over and out.

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Got My Fire Back

If you've sent me an interview request and haven't heard from me, it's because I'm snowed under. Deadline Hell proceedeth apace, and between that and Christmas, I haven't been able to take a deep breath. I probably won't until January 1. So, please be patient. If you've heard from me and sent me interview questions, and I haven't returned them, please gently ping me through email. If you sent an interview request and don't hear from me before the end of the year, please ping me–again, gently–through email. I do try to at least answer requests, even if I can't spend the time on in-depth interviews.

I did manage to bash the proof pages into submission. They fought back, but my strength was greater–barely, but greater. Now it's revisions on short stories and finishing the process of getting Angel Town into first-draft shape. I have to make sure the ends are tucked under and everything's all squared. It's going to be incredibly difficult to say goodbye to Jill. I don't know if I'm ready, but…life moves on, whether one's ready or not.

I'm in a somewhat philosophical mood today, mostly because I was on the treadmill this morning thinking about the past year. I did everything I set out to do, which is a good feeling. 2009 was utterly terrible, but 2010′s been a year I can feel good about. I went back over my checklist of goals-not-resolutions, and I was amazed that I'd pretty much done every one. (I haven't had time to go back to Latin yet, but I'm working on it.) What was also amazing was how the tiny baby steps I've taken all through the year have let me arrive here, stunned by the fact that another year's ending but pretty much okay.

Well, not pretty much okay. Pretty much fabulous.

So I'll take the deadline hell and the agony of proofs and the days where I can't even catch my breath. It's better than 2009, which is probably my benchmark for "worst year of my adult life" so far. It didn't quite reach the level of suck I endured while younger, but it tried pretty hard. (Gets an A for effort, that year does.) But it failed to put me down, and as Ellen Foster so memorably said, "I got my fire back in me now."

It's good to be back.

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