Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 198

Friday Three

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames.

G'morning! I've updated the Strange Angels page for Defiance, and added a page for Taken, my Harlequin Nocturne coming out in February. I've been a busy little bee this morning. (I do hope to get a newsletter out by the first of the year, but don't count on it.) There is all sorts of fantastic news I can't share yet, but I can say that the busy will not abate. Which is good. I'm happiest when I'm working.

The alternative just doesn't bear contemplating.

So here I am on another Friday. There's a lot of work ahead of me today, I can't stay long, so here's Three Things That Hopefully Make A Post (two of them questions I've been asked lately):

1. How do you make a reader care about a Bad Man/Antihero/Almost-Villain? Well, first you have to be absolutely clear on what the Bad Man's motivations are. You have to know what his glass of water is. You have to know why they are doing what they're doing. Then, you need to figure out what the most effective way of getting that why across to the reader. Half the work in making a Bad Man (or Woman, I should add) is getting that understanding; understanding breeds compassion, as I kept saying to a certain Coyote until I was blue in the face. Once we understood Vader was Luke's dad, a whole lot more about Vader started to make sense and he became much more than a cardboard villain. (I am not even referring to those movies with JarJar. Just…no.) Sit down and make a list of why your Bad Man does the things he does; then decide if you want the reader to care, or to loathe, or both. Then you can write him (or her) effectively.

2. What if you run out of ideas? Look, the world is a smorgasboard. There are stories waiting all around you, just aching to burst into your consciousness. I don't believe there is any such thing as writer's block, and I have always seen the world as literally CROWDED with stories. Every car you pass on the freeway, every person on the bus, every light in the city at night, every person you see at the mall or at work or ANYWHERE, has their own story. Thinking "What if?" and "Why?" when you observe the people and things around you is fabulous creative fuel. I will never run out of ideas. Some ideas will not be plausible, some will not be ones I can pull off in novel or short story form, some will be unable to bear the weight of story structure, some I'm just not interested in telling the story around. But running out of them? Nope. Won't happen.

3. This isn't a question I've been asked, it's just a thing. I don't do arbitrary. There isn't room for arbitrary in stories. You curl your fingers around your swordhilt, you draw and make your cut, and you are either victorious or dead. I do not "throw in" romance because a particular genre "has to have a romance in the book." I write the story first and worry about what genre it sticks in later. If I'm writing to spec, I pick stories knocking around in my head that tally with the specs. (There's never any shortage–see #2.) But I do not arbitrarily put stuff in my books. If something's there, it's there for a reason. Sometimes that reason is just that I've made a choice, simple as that. But it's not arbitrary. I rather resent the implication that I just throw shit into the books without any care or thought. (As if you couldn't tell.) Right next to piracy (don't even get me started), this is a major irritant.

And that's three things that hopefully make a post. The current round of revisions is eating my head, and the proof pages I've got to get done this weekend (days off? What are those? Do they even exist?) are chuckling at me from their pile. Time to strap on the flamethrower and the red pencil and get to work.

Over and out.

Related posts:Kerfluffle! And Stories!
Words Of Wisdom
Friday, Friday, Give Me Your Answer, Do

Superman Shirt Does Plumbing

When last you saw me, dear Readers, I was wearing my Superman shirt, invoking the patron saint of plumbers and hoping I'd done all the sacrifices correctly. Either that or your prayers on my behalf must've done it, because get this: I made one trip to Home Depot. One. There was even a gentleman working in the aisle I needed, who kindly reassured me that I'd picked out the right parts. (It helped that I had the old parts, wrenched out from under the sink and clutched like a Grail in my hot little hands.) I just matched up the parts and voila! It didn't even cost more than six bucks.

I was a little taken aback by this, but I went home, did the Sacred Plumbing Dance, performed more sacrifices, and got down to work.

Twenty minutes and one mild cursing session later, I was done replacing the J-bend. (It went a lot easier once I put the washer on first.) I didn't even need the pipe wrench or the channel locks I had set out. God bless PVC pipe, I guess. I tightened everything up, then sent a tentative victory email to the Selkie. She had me fill the sink and drain it all at once, and…

…the J-bend held. Dry as a bone. It remained dry all through a dishwasher cycle too.

One trip to Home Depot. Six bucks. One cursing session. I am a little taken aback that it was so simple. I held myself braced for catastrophic plumbing failure all day, but so far everything's held.

That was all before 10AM, too. I also went climbing and beat the snot out of a purple 5.9 route that is referred to, lovingly or in tones of despair, as "Manic Depression" because it zigs to the left, zags to the right, stand up sit down fight fight fight. In other words, it's a real bitch, and I didn't do too bad for my first attempt–if I hadn't already done six climbs before it I would have spanked it instead of just getting to the last panel and a half. Still, I did well.

The day just kept getting better. I kept waiting for plumbing failure, and it didn't happen. I am cautiously beginning to relax. I am also now going to keep my Superman shirt in reserve, for whenever I need a little extra oomph to get through the day.

I saw a Green Lantern shirt at Target, too. This could be the start of something good.

Related posts:Circling the Drain
Spare Me, Don't Spare Me…Anything
Life and Art

Circling the Drain

Grab the kids and head for the hills. For today, my dear Readers, today…

…I plumb.

The J-trap on the kitchen sink has a cracked nut, and there are some other issues with it, too. (Don't ask. We've lived here 11 years, FFS. Things get worn out.) So, today's Grand Odyssey is tripartite:

1. Take off old J-trap. Figure out how to arrange things so I don't forget and turn the water on in the kitchen sink. Laugh at myself for the notion. Forget at least once, clean up resulting mess.

2. Go to Home Depot. Wander around for a little while, clutching my worn-out plumbing parts and looking like a fool. Find the plumbing section. Compare and contrast every available thing in the plumbing aisle to what I'm holding in my hot little hands. Try to figure out if I should get extras of anything. You know, JUST IN CASE. Maybe today the stars will align and someone in an orange apron will ask me if I need help. (I am not counting on this.)

3. Drive home, spread out all replacement parts, check the "Do It Yourself! Plumbing" book the Selkie so kindly jammed in her most recent delivery of Look, Stuff Lili Needs, and struggle and swear until I have it approximately fixed. Clean up resulting mess (again).

I am thinking Step 2 may need to be repeated several times. Apparently any trip I make to Home Depot bears stunning resemblance to circling a drain (ha, see what I did there? I KILL me!) and I usually find out, once I've hurt myself and achieved an atom-bomb level of frustration, that I'm missing one crucial bit and I have to go back.

So, I am as prepared as I can be for this. I'm wearing my Superman shirt and my lucky earrings. I have prayed to the gods and the patron saint of plumbers, and made suitable offerings. (Booze can't hurt, right? RIGHT?) Nos morituri, and all that.

I'll let you know how it works out.

Related posts:Winner, And The Kitchen Sink
Life and Art
Revisions piling up. Stop. Send coffee. Stop.

Monday's Saturday

It was a long weekend, but a nice one. Our teensy little book club read A Room With A View, and I stole a day from the round of work-reading to swallow it whole. I'd seen the Merchant-Ivory movie, of course, and to me Julian Sands will always be George Emerson. (Daniel Day-Lewis will always be Cecil Vyse, until he moves to America and gets all sweaty as an adopted Mohican.) And of course, there's That Kiss. It was a good palate cleanser. There is a suggestion afloat to read Maurice next, for compare/contrast.

*time passes*

Let's see, so far today I've run six miles, finished the Christmas shopping and wrapped presents, cleaned the kitchen, done my personal best on the blue 5.9 (otherwise known as the Blue Devil) at the climbing wall, given an interview and a pronunciation guide to the people doing a very awesome audio enactment of the Valentine books, and searched for a copy of Forster's Maurice. (No luck. Yet.) No wonder I'm tired. That's the thing about Mondays–I usually work through the weekends, so Monday is my catch-up day for errands and all sorts of things. It's my Saturday, if you will, only without the parties. And it's not over yet.

Anyway. The year is winding to a close. It seems like just a few weeks ago 2010 was just starting, and I was struggling to keep my head above water and close the door on one of the worst twelve months of my life. I've rebuilt a lot, and thankfully 2010′s beat the pants right off 2009.

One of the most profound things is learning (again) that the pain of missing someone does eventually fade a little with time. (Especially when that someone is well, not very nice.) Getting to the point where I can say, "I used to miss you very much…but now, not so much. And tomorrow, even less," is very healing. Accepting that you can't save someone unless they want to be saved is terribly difficult. It hurts each time. I should learn to pick my battles better.

Ah well. Next year.

Related posts:Goodbye, 2009
Slow And Steady
Putting The Book To Bed

On Rereading

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Check us out!

Here's one thing about the life of a working writer: there is nothing quite like rereading five books in one of your series so you can make the sixth and final a reasonable first draft, tucking in all loose ends and making sure all things you want to resolve are nice and square, and the things you don't want to resolve are done well.

For me, it's kind of a Purgatory. It's not quite hell, but it's not comfy either.

I am not generally fond of rereading my own stuff. For one thing, after revisions, copyedits, proof pages, and reviews, sometimes I just get exhausted with a book. For another, writers are inveterate fiddlers. If not for deadlines we would continue polishing things forever. (Or maybe that's just me.) I'm always seeing things that could be better, or catching little things I want to fix but can't. It upsets me.

There's the fact that while reading the book, I re-experience the emotional cost of writing it. I remember where I was when I wrote certain passages, what I was thinking about, what was happening around me. This particular series holds books that I wrote under acid-test conditions (to put it kindly) and remembering how I crawled into the story as a sharp-edged refuge is…well, a little difficult. Not only that, but I re-experience the characters' emotional cost. Yes, I'm terrifically hard on my characters (no risk, no reward, remember,) but I suffer right along with them. Their hard-won victories make me feel good, the prices they pay for those victories are to some extent paid by me. (Though I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, my characters, thanks.)

Add to that the fact that I'm saying goodbye to a character I've literally bled with, and no wonder I'm wanting to take this easy. I make notes on my trusty legal pad, I fold down pages in my working copies (I keep one copy of every book to write notes in or check when I need to) I do my best to read critically, even though I'm still too close to the work to see everything. And I think about what the series has meant to me, if I pulled off what I meant to, if I didn't punk out.

There are good things, too. I sometimes (not frequently enough, alas) run across passages I like. I usually don't remember writing them, there are occasionally chunks where I hit the sweet spot and the words came through me without any interference. And every once in a while I am surprised into a laugh when a character makes a comment. (If one can't find one's own books occasionally funny, well…)

So I'm in a very reflective mood this Friday. I am bracing myself for the plunge through the fifth book this weekend; in many respects, the next-to-last book is the hardest to write, and this was no exception. Plus, I was incredibly stressed while I wrote it, and I don't want to revisit that time. It's still too raw. Too bad. Got a deadline. Gotta make it.

If you're contemplating life as a working writer, just be prepared for the fact that the books don't go away even after they're published. They hang on your shell like barnacles, and sometimes you do have to scrape or feed them, or arrange them in different patterns, or just get them out and look at them. Wince at their imperfections, but try to be gentle with them and with yourself. Each book that makes it to the finish line is a victory; each book that makes it through the publication process is a double victory. To look back and say I could have done that better, yeah shows a certain amount of growth. That growth is a good thing, even if uncomfortable. Try to be gentle with yourself, and give yourself some credit for enduring, if nothing else.

I'm going to try to take my own advice on this. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Related posts:On Characters
Process, Part I
Go Forth And Kick Butt

The Corn Pops War: The Final Battle

Being the final Chronicle of Squirrel!Terror…

The second day of the Corn Pops war dawned just as rainy and cold as the first. I was up before dawn to hit the treadmill, and busy afterward, but I kept checking through my kitchen window. The main bulk of forces were still gathering, I guess, because all day long there was only one gull and one squirrel in the yard at any given time.

It wasn't the same gull or the same squirrel all day. No, as soon as another gull drifted down and landed, the one on guard would take off. Nobody touched the Fruit of Crunchy Discord, which was still scattered glaring-yellow right where I usually dump some torn-up bread for the birds. The feathers had mostly blown away, but the seagull, erm, dooky was still spattered from hell to breakfast all over.

I was beginning to regret buying the goddamn Pops in the first place.

Anyway, the squirrel changing-of-the-guard was a little more complex. It involved a semi-chase and a lot of angry chittering. The exchanges went a little something like this:

"CHRIST DON'T SHOOT! JEEZ! I'M ON GUARD NEXT!"

"THE HELL YOU ARE, I'M HERE UNTIL FOUR!"

"NO, NEO SENT ME. I'M YOUR RELIEF."

"DAMMIT, WHY DOESN'T SOMEONE TELL ME THESE THINGS?"

"LOOK, DON'T BLAME ME. THEY EXPECT YOU BACK AT HEADQUARTERS. HOW IS IT OUT HERE?"

"QUIET. TOO QUIET. HAVE FUN."

The three bluejays observed a scrupulous distance from the Pops. They contented themselves with the birdfeeder, and Romeo!Jay seemed nervous. He kept glancing at whatever seagull was on guard, and would hop a little closer to Juliet. Mercutio!Jay, of course, kept up a running commentary. "WHAT THE HELL? YESTERDAY THEY WERE FIGHTING OVER IT, NOW THEY'RE JUST LOOKING AT IT. STUPID RODENTS AND RODENT-BIRDS. WE SHOULD GO GET SOME OF THOSE YELLOW THINGS. THEN AGAIN, IF SEAGULLS WILL EAT THEM–HEY JULIE, LOOK AT WHAT I CAN DO! LOOK AT THIS!"

You get the idea.

Late in the afternoon, the crows showed up. They evinced no interest in the Pops, they just settled in the plum tree and the pines (the same ones that featured in the Battle of the Pine Boughs) and set up a racket. Finally, the largest, Bartholomew!Crow, coasted in. He hopped around the yard and eyed everything, from the Pops to the gull on duty–a dirty gray bird with a mean glint in his eye–and the squirrel on guard, who hunched nervously near the plum tree and tried to look everywhere at once. He shook his head, cawed a few times, and the crows lifted off.

I was beginning to get a bad feeling over this, but the gull left at sundown.

The next day, I hit the treadmill before dawn again. I got the kids off to school and came home in the rain. I was halfway home from the bust stop when the crows started setting up a racket. "HEY! HEY LADY! YOU'RE MISSING THE FIGHT!"

I ran for home, tripped through the front door, almost fell into the coatrack, got the door closed and locked, and hurried for the window.

The crows weren't wrong. It was 0815 hours, and the gulls had attacked in force. There was screeching, there was flapping, there were feathers flying. Oddly, none of the gulls were going after the Pops. They just ringed them, the Fruit of Crunchy Discord glowing a little as the sun broke briefly through crowds, and started pecking to determine who was going to get first crack. I stared, wondering if something else would happen–and wondering if I could go and get another cup of coffee to sip while I waited.

I should have grabbed a camera. The third and final battle of the Corn Pops War had begun.

0820 hours: Squirrel counterattack, supported by pinecone artillery from the pines to the north. The forces of Gull, slightly nonplussed, moved back. They took wing, but thankfully did not crap all over the yard. The Corn Pops just sat there.

0900 hours: Uneasy calm. No sign of gulls or squirrels. Bluejays retreated to pussywillow tree.

0945 hours: Squirrels moved out in force from southern hedge and western plum tree. The half-dozen from Day One of the War returned, battle-scarred veterans, supported by artillery and reinforcements–two or three younger squirrels. Wiser than the forces of Gull, the young ones descended on the Fruit of Crunchy Discord and began stuffing their faces and hauling it off. They were running it toward the juniper hedge, and Observer had mad thoughts of trying to explain to the neighbors why there were Corn Pops in their yard. Observer decided discretion was the better part of valor, and fetched the Sekrit Weapon. (See following transmissions.)

1013: The forces of Gull counterattacked, scattering the Young Squirrel Logistical Brigade. All hell broke loose. Artillery everywhere. Feathers flying. Bluejays entranced. Mercutio!Jay hopping up and down on pussywillow branches: "OMIGOD! OMIGOD! DO YOU SEE THAT? HIT HIM AGAIN–OH CRAP, THAT'S GONNA LEAVE A MARK! PECK AT HIM, YOU BASTARD, YOU'VE GOT A BEAK, USE IT–JESUS CHRIST, THEY DO KNOW KUNG FU! ARE YOU SEEING THIS SHIT? WHERE'S THE MONKEY?! THE MONKEY SHOULD SEE THIS!"

1100: Observer had to leave for climbing. Forces of Gull driven off at great cost; Squirrel Brigade tending to wounded and working frantically to reload ammunition and get the logistical pipeline up again.

1313: Observer returned through heavy rain. Battlefield drenched, soggy feathers and No-Longer-Crunchy Discord scattered instead of in a rough pile. No sign of Forces of Gull. One weary squirrel propped against plum tree, crooked tail drooping, black eyes scanning.

1330: All quiet. Furious rain. Crooked-tail squirrel still watching. Crows in northern pines rustling and watching. Observer took a break for snack and to move Sekrit Weapon to northern sunroom door. Civilian chickadees and blackbirds at feeder, nervous but hungry.

1400: Rain tapering off. Battlefield soaked.

1408: Observer pauses while loading dishwasher. Eerie silence.

1411: Observer yells "HOLY CRAP!" Forces of Gull attack in overwhelming force. Battlefield full of feathers, Forces of Gull making ungodly racket. Bluejays in western pussywillow, struck silent (for once) by ferocity of attack. No sign of crooked-tail squirrel on watch.

1413: The 101st Fighting Squirrel Legion (Neo's Fist) attacks with all available reinforcements. Pinecone artillery firing over open sights. Shouts, screams, chittering. The Champion of Gull crouches over biggest pile of No-Longer-Crunchy Discord, uttering high-pitched squeals.

1414: Challenge is answered by crooked-tail squirrel, who lets out THAT SOUND and hurls himself into battle.

1414-1418: Crooked-tail squirrel proves he does, indeed, know kung fu. Champion of Gull faintly discomfited. Flying roundhouse kicks. Amazing leaps and bounds. THAT SOUND still being made.

1418-1421: Champion of Gull pulls out his own kung fu. Feathers explode. Champion of Gull seems to have forgotten he is flight-capable. 101st and Forces of Gull both draw back, as their champions are dueling. Observer grabs Sekrit Weapon and heads for sunroom door. OBSERVER'S NOTE: You see, I'd made up my mind whose side I was on. The squirrels were the underdogs, dammit. And the gulls had crapped all over my yard.

1421: Observer reaches sunroom door. Rain begins again, though there is a break in clouds and sunshine. Crooked-Tail Squirrel Champion (codename: NEO) receives peck to head that leaves him stunned. Observer yells "OH HELL NO" and tears open sunroom door.

1422: Sunshine continues over soaked battlefield. Female jay (codename: JULIET) appears, diving toward Champion of Gull. Squirrel Champion (NEO) lying on Corn Pops, stunned. Observer using language not fit to be repeated. ("THAT'S MY GODDAMN SQUIRREL! YOU MOTHERF!CKING SEAGULL, YOU ARE GODDAMN F!CKINGWELL GOING DOWN!"

1423: Champion of Gull takes wing briefly, engages JULIET. JULIET is flung back. Silent male bluejay (codename: ROMEO) lets out massive scream. Forces of Gull move in for kill.

1424: Loudmouth male bluejay (codename: MERCUTIO) yells: "JESUS CHRIST ROMEO BUDDY WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? ATTACK! ATTACK!" Jay ROMEO engages Champion of Gull. Feathers fly.

1424: Help unlooked-for arrives. Crow reinforcements (codename: BARTHOLOMEW and his entire Legion Corvidae) descend upon Forces of Gull. JULIET stunned, flutters to her feet. ROMEO kicking living shit out of Champion of Gull. Fire! Flood! DOGS AND CATS LIVING TOGETHER! ANARCHY!

And that, dear friends, is how I ended up outside, brandishing a golf club and screaming imprecations, while Romeo!Jay beat the everliving hell out of that big fat white gull. Bartholomew and his Legion made short work of the rest of the Forces of Gull, and the 101st (Neo's Fist) went to town with the artillery. The Forces of Gull decided they'd had enough and lifted off, dumping another load of lightening-for-takeoff, and once again, miraculously, I was not spattered with gull poop.

I believe I have used up a lifetime's supply of luck in that regard.

Anyway, in less time than it takes to write it, the Legion had chased the Forces of Gull away. Neo sat up, shaking his little head, and glared around him. The Champion of Gull was last seen winging furiously away over the apartment complex, screaming in terror. Romeo!Jay returned and coasted down to land near Juliet, who had made it to an azalea near the fence. He pecked at her once or twice, reassuring himself she was all right, and they spent a few minutes in a low-toned conversation that needs no translation. (Juliet: "Why did you do that?" Romeo: "You mean you don't know? I…" Juliet: "Shut up and kiss me.")

Neo hunkered over the Corn Pops, his eyes gleaming madly. My yard looked like a war zone.

Mercutio!Jay hopped up to the scattered Pops, sunlight gilding every feather as rain kissed my arms and hair. "JESUS, MAN, YOU REALLY DON'T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT, DO YOU." He bobbed his head. "I CAN TOTES RESPECT THAT. SO WHAT ARE THESE THINGS, ANYWAY?"

Neo, his sides heaving, managed a shrug. "DUNNO," he chittered. "THEY TASTE ALL RIGHT, BUT THEY GIVE ME THE RUNS."

I lowered the golf club. Looked back over my shoulder. A rainbow had appeared, arching in the sky as the clouds covered the sun again and the rain intensified. My spectacles were spotted with drops and my feet were suddenly cold.

I realized, once more, that I'd charged shoeless into the fray. My heart was pounding. Romeo and Juliet took off and settled in the plum tree; as soon as Romeo landed he scooted as close to Julie as he could, and started smoothing her feathers with his beak.

I took a step backward.

Mercutio and Neo both looked at me sideways. Mercutio bobbed his head, grabbed a Corn Pop, and swallowed it. "THESE THINGS ARE NASTY," he commented. "HEY, MONKEY, WHERE'S THE BREAD? YOU USUALLY HAVE BREAD OUT. I COULD USE A SNACK AFTER ALL THAT."

Neo stared for a few moments. Then, deliberately, I swear to you, he nodded. He chittered a little. My squirreltongue could use some work, but I think here's what he said:

"THAT'LL DO, MONKEY. THAT'LL DO."

I retreated in a hurry. Closed the sunroom door, changed my socks, cleaned my spectacles off. At 2:40 (that's 1440 hours, if you're wondering) I made myself a cup of tea and looked out the window.

The crows were back, pecking at the pops. The Squirrel Logistical Brigade was out in full force too, stuffing themselves and carrying Pops off toward the hedge. Their overseer, a crooked-tailed champion, oversaw this, stopping every once in a while to pick at the Pops himself. Mercutio!Jay hopped among them, loudly complaining that the monkey hadn't brought out the bread.

And so, lo, peace is restored to the Kingdom of Backyard. For the forces of Bluejay and Squirrel hath reached a tenuous agreement, and the Peacekeeping Forces of Bartholomew Corvidae hath turned the tide of battle. Derring-do hath been accomplished, fair maiden hath been rescued and won, mighty feats of arms hath been performed, and love and brotherhood reign supreme. For Interspecies Harmony hath yea verily been restored, and the annals of Squirrel!Terror now reacheth their end.

…

Unless, of course, some damn thing else happens…

Related posts:The Corn-Pops War, Day One
Battle of the Pine Boughs
Book almost done. Send bazooka.

The Corn-Pops War, Day One

Gather close, my children, and let me tell you the tale of the three-day Battle of the Corn Pops, wherein Squirrel!Neo the mighty met his match, a bluejay found romance, and the hordes of Gull were beaten back! Yes, it was a terrible fight that raged from dawn to dusk, and dawn to dusk, and dawn to dusk again, while the mighty-thewed combatants struggled no less with their own exhaustion than with each other.

It all started with a Little Prince and a Fair Princess, and a box of Corn Pops.

I usually buy one box of "fun" cereal and one box of "healthy" cereal. They can eat as much as they want of the fun cereal, but once it's gone the healthy cereal has to be eaten before I'll buy another box of sugar-drenched marketing. I am Best Mum Ever while the fun cereal abounds, but not so much when they have to eat Cheerios or MiniWheats or something. Most of the time I let them come to the store with me and pick the fun cereal. But sometimes I am thrown back on my own resources to find a box of something that fits their exacting standards.

A while ago, I chose Corn Pops. But apparently the Pops were not fun enough. I had a bowl, and they didn't set me on fire. I figured that was because I'm not ten anymore. But the kids evinced no interest in the pure sugar, which is unheard-of. After asking them three or four times if they were ever going to eat the damn Pops, I got the bright idea of dumping them in the backyard where I usually scatter bread for the birds. (Yes, I armed myself with the Sandal of DOOM before doing so. No, nothing worth mentioning happened.)

For two days the Pops sat outside, and I was beginning to think eating a bowl of them had been a bad idea. It's like cockroaches and Twinkies–if the roaches won't even eat that (admittedly very tasty) plastic spongecake, no way on earth I'm gonna. Little did I know that it wasn't the Pops, per se, that made everything so quiet.

It was the gathering of forces, the logistics of warfare, that provided the false lull.

I was washing dishes when I saw the first wave. Four squirrels appeared, converging on the Pops. They started stuffing themselves as fast as they possibly could, and I actually felt good about that. You know how I feel about feeding squirrels, but I was just so glad someone would eat the damn things and I wouldn't have to rake up a soggy mess.

But then.

I was actually rinsing my frying pan when the seagulls appeared.

They descended, birds of white death. Seriously. Have you ever looked at a seagull compared to a squirrel, even a big fat crooked-tail ninja Terminator squirrel? I mean, I don't know about where you live, gentle Reader, but here we have garbage dumps, the river, and some seriously hulking seagulls. And they are nasty. They're the kind of birds who will knock you down to steal your French fries. (Long story, another day.) They're not as vicious as swans or as smart as geese, but their roaming-in-flocks thing added to their sheer weight means that the four squirrels on the ground were, to put it kindly, obliterated.

The squirrels fled, chittering. Neo was not among them, yet. They scampered away. One tiny gray fluffball did his best to stand his ground, but the seagulls just laughed and pecked at him, flapping their wings until they'd herded him to the juniper hedge.

I am not ashamed to admit I laughed. Loudly, up to my elbows in soapy water. I was not too happy about a sudden influx of gulls–they're all right, I have a soft spot in my heart for omnivorous trash animals, you should see my dating history, but they're messy. I stood there laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

Until, that is, the squirrels massed for counterattack.

"AT 'EM, BOYS! SHOW 'EM YOUR KUNG FU! YAH!" Squirrel!Neo led the charge, crooked tail held proudly, swearing like a drill sergeant. I would add "guns blazing" here, except he had no guns. He had only his Matrix training to protect him. It was a glorious charge, him and about five of his fuzzy little brethren. Yes, there were half a dozen squirrels in my yard, and they charged like the Light Brigade. Into the valley of seagull death rode the, um, six or so.

Alas, their heroism came to naught. Or to put it more succinctly, Neo got spanked.

I saw one fat white gull laughing as he flapped, harrying poor doomed Squirrel!Neo, the One of Rodentia, toward the plum tree. The squirrels would regroup and attack, and the gulls would fence up each time, pecking and flapping, dwarfing their rodent opponents. Juliet!Jay showed up halfway through, and sat on the fence watching with much interest. Mercutio and Romeo, however, stayed in the pussywillow tree, and I'm sure Mercutio!Jay was commenting, though I could barely hear him over the ruckus.

"HEY! HEY DIDJA SEE THAT? FUZZY PUNKS GETTIN' SERVED! YEAH! WHERE'S YOUR KUNG FU NOW, YA STOOPID BUSHTAILED RAT? HUH? WHERE'S YER KUNG-FU NOW? HIT 'IM ON THE HEAD AGAIN, FAT BOY! YEAH!"

I think I saw Romeo's beak move, too. "DUDE," he remarked, "YOU ARE NOT MAKING THIS ANY EASIER."

Mercutio kept laughing. Juliet was completely silent, transfixed.

Now, my fear of Squirrel!Neo is a healthy fear. I have a great respect for what that little bastard's capable of. But this was…well…

It was unfair.

I have this thing for the underdog. Mess with me, fine. I'm a big girl, I can handle it. But pick on someone half your size around me? No way, no day. A sizable proportion of the trouble I've ever gotten into has been me on my Rocinante, in my busted-ass tin armor, taking on a giant for the sake of the Little Guy. Besides, I felt kind of guilty. I had, after all, scattered the Fruit of Crunchy Discord in my own backyard. And the gallantry of the squirrels was kind of…moving.

I FELT BAD, ALL RIGHT?

I dropped the plate I was rinsing. I didn't stop to pick up the Sandal of DOOM. No, instead I grabbed one of the Little Prince's foam-wrapped baseball bats. That kid will not have a Louisville Slugger as long as we live anywhere there's glass to be broken, because if he has a ball a window will sooner or later get the full impact. (THIS is why I only buy wiffle balls.) It's not even his fault, really–I've seen balls curve to hit the house when he kicks them. They have it in for him.

Anyway. So I was out the back door, howling like a banshee, waving my bright purple marshal's baton. I was not, at this point, screaming obscenities. Instead, I yelled, "HANG ON, NEO! THE CAVALRY'S COMING! IT'S MY FAULT! JUST HOLD ON!"

I realized I hadn't even put shoes on as soon as I slipped in the wet grass, my socks immediately soaked. I saved myself with an amazing sideways lunge, and I almost punted a seagull. (He was probably one of the rear echelon troops, or a quartermaster. Maybe a cook.) For the record, this was the point where I started screaming obscenities. Something like, "OH FOR F!CK'S SAKE, YOU BASTARDS, I'M NOT EVEN WEARING SHOES, IMMA GONNA KILL YOU ALL!"

By now, the desired effect was achieved. The seagulls, while they had no trouble dealing with Neo and his plucky bunch of outcasts, did not know what to make of a crazy shoeless woman, spattering dish soap and suds everywhere, waving a kid's baseball bat. They shrieked. Total confusion reigned. The chain of command broke down. The plump white attackers scattered, and they did what every seagull does when frightened: they lightened for takeoff.

Fortunately, I was out of the blast zone. But their parting artillery shots got most of the squirrels and a liberal portion of my yard. The gulls fled, and I stood there, my sides heaving, still waving the bat. The squirrels were all frozen. A fine misty rain drifted over the battlefield.

Mercutio!Jay hopped up and down on his branch. "JESUS CHRIST, LADY! YOU SCARED ME! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? THOSE SQUIRRELS TRIED TO KILL YOU! ARE YOU INSANE?" Juliet bobbed along the fence, free of her stasis. Romeo looked ever-so-faintly disgruntled.

But Squirrel!Neo, showered in seagull poo, looked wearily sidelong at me. I could swear I saw a gleam of defiant respect in his beady little black eyes. The squirrels limped away, probably to hit the showers, and the jays came gliding down to pick over the battlefield and sample the crunchy discord. Feathers and seagull droppings were everywhere. It looked a scene of unspeakable carnage–but at least none of the Flying Brigade had pooped on the Corn Pops.

Or on me.

I beat a hasty retreat inside, changed my socks, and checked the back window frequently. The Corn Pops sat, soaking in the rain. The feathers blew around. The battlefield was empty all through the night.

The next day, the battle took a turn for the bizarre.

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A Squirrel's Classic Blunder

Birdfeeders, Gangster Squirrels, and Metamucil

I felt okay until about noon yesterday, when WHOMP! This damn virus descended on me. I'm producing all sorts of phlegm in varied rainbow colors. I'm sure I'm spreading the contagion over everything in my vicinity. I was tired and waspish yesterday, as my writing partner found out. (Sorry about that, kiddo.)

Anyway, there's very little to report. I sent off a short story and am editing Something Sekrit. I do have Very Good News, but I can't announce it until everything's all wrapped. Plus, I still have to write about the squirrels, the gulls, and the CornPops war. I have to wait until I can breathe, because just thinking about it makes me laugh.

I did manage to get out and purchase a "squirrel-proof" birdfeeder. It has a sort of wire cage around the tube holding the seed, and when a squirrel gets on it the cage slides down, barring it from getting any noms. (Almost like this guy, but more decorative.) We'll see how this works out. If all else fails, it should at least be hysterically funny. I kind of dread one of the little rodents getting a paw caught in it or something, though. Because let's face it, these squirrels would be the ones to do so. Especially Neo. He's having some bad luck lately.

ANYWAY, while I was purchasing this wondrous object, I also picked up twenty pounds of birdseed. (What? I like to be prepared. It was on SALE.) Then I turned around…and saw it.

SQUIRREL FOOD.

Can you believe that? I'll say it again.

SQUIRREL FOOD.

People pay money for this.

I stood there in the Fred Meyer aisle for at least twenty long-ticking seconds, dumbstruck and staring. Three shelves of squirrel food. I cannot believe people feed these fuzzy little cat-kicking ninjas. There was a wide array, from corncobs to corncob-shaped hanging loaves of seeds and nuts, to sawdust-looking cornmeal things that are probably the Metamucil of the squirrel world. There was tons of it.

"No way," I finally breathed.

At this point, I have to admit, I did think about buying some of the pressed seed loaves and hanging them up in the plum tree. Why? Aw, just for the lulz, maybe.

No, not for giggles. I'll be honest. Jesus, don't look at me like that.

AS A BRIBE, OKAY? As a kickback to the little fuzzy commandos so they won't break my windows with peanuts or anything. But then I thought, you know, you start paying the squirrel mafia off and sooner or later they'll start squeezing you for more.

"Oh hell no," I muttered. Well, maybe not muttered. Maybe sort of said out loud. "No way. I'm not being held hostage by a bunch of rodents."

I should mention that there was a lady in a red jacket at the other end of the aisle, looking at hummingbird feeders. She gave me a startled look and trundled her cart away maybe a little more quickly than was necessary.

I left the squirrel food where it was, shaking my head. All the way through the store I kept having one recurring vision–of nattily-dressed squirrel mobsters doing James Cagney sneers. "Eh, here, you see. We don't like dat boid feedah. We like the ones that are real easy-like. But if ya wanna keep that one, sport, all you gotta do is hang up some Metamucil. We likes it, see?"

…yeah, I amuse myself all the time like this. It's what makes me unfit for a great deal of normal life, I guess.

So. The new feeder is hanging up. The cats are agog, especially sweet dumb Tuxedo!Kitty, who crouches inside on the windowsill and keeps warbling his throaty little "ohpleaseohplease" song as the birds discover new munchables. No squirrel has attempted it yet. But I'm waiting. And as I sit here, looking out my window onto my front yard, I can see a couple bushy-tailed ninjas frolicking. They stop jumping around every once in a while to shoot me filthy looks through the window.

I have the sandal of DOOM right next to me. Let the games begin.

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Beastly cold

Headless Squirrel, Redux

So I was hoping that my third attempt to bury a squirrel would be, so to speak, the charm.

The first time, the squirrel wasn't dead. The second time, it was indisputably dead, being headless. The third time…

Okay. Let me start closer to the beginning. I thought it would be a great idea to scatter the pumpkin seeds from our jack o'lanterns over the grave. It did occur to me that pumpkin seeds are Squirrel Food, so I had some hazy idea of propitiating the squirrel gods and making an offering to keep the little headless bastard down. (You will notice that I am putting absolutely nothing past these fuzzy little ninjas.) Plus I figured it might be good for the bluejays and other little critters as well, since things were getting chilly.

I prepared myself with the Sandal of Doom and wandered out in broad midafternoon daylight, a huge metal Ikea bowl full of pumpkin guts covered with foil propped against my hip. The coast appeared clear.

Halfway across the yard, however, it became clear that things were not well at the gravesite. I'd buried the Headless One pretty deep…but apparently not deep enough. I stood stock-still, caught midstride, as I contemplated the disturbed dirt.

"Well, f!ck," I breathed, disgusted, and caught sight of the Mad Siamese Cat. This is the early cat that every morning attacks the wooden wall behind the huge dustbin I can see through the burned-out hole in my fence. He–I'm assuming it's a he, I haven't gone close enough to check–flings himself at the wood like it's personally insulted him. After a few bodyblows, he jumps up and digs his claws in, gets to the top of the wooden wall, yowls, and then flings himself off into space. The hedge means I can't see where he lands, but I'm sure it's spectacular. Every morning he does this.

I don't even know.

Anyway, the Mad Siamese was sauntering along the top of my fence, placing each paw gracefully. He leapt down near one of the blueberry bushes, stalked over to the back corner, and proceeded to flop himself down on the disturbed grave and start rolling in what seemed to be a brand of feline ecstasy.

"What the…" My jaw dropped. I could not even form words.

He rolled some more, then he jumped up, circled a couple times like he was going to lay down, lifted his haunches in the air, and started digging. Clods of wet dirt flew, and I gathered my wits.

"What the hell?" I yelled. "You're DISTURBING THE DEAD, you f!cking crazyass feline! What's WRONG with you?"

I must have scared him. Because he leapt–I am not kidding–at least four feet straight up and twisted, landed hard, staring at me with wide, crazed blue eyes. His tail was the size of a raccoon's, and a stripe of fur on his back stood straight up. He actually growled, too. I'm not up on my Mad Siamese, but I am fairly sure it translated out to: "BITCH I WAS HAVING FUN! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?"

Now, I hadn't gone through burying this squirrel twice to be scared off by an insane, inbred chunk of cat. "Oh, please," I said, shaking the sandal in my left fist. "I've faced down a zombie squirrel, a punkass cat like you is no trouble. I'll kick your ass, cat. Leave the dead in peace, willya?"

Mad Siamese took off to my left, yowling, heading for the juniper hedge. I felt good about that for all of about two seconds, because Juliet!Jay appeared out of nowhere, sailing after him with a gleam in her eye and business in every wingflap. I didn't think it was possible for a silent bird to chase an exponentially-bigger cat off, but Juliet was motivated. Plus, I'm sure my shaking of the sandal had something to do with it.

So I had to get out the shovel once more, because little bits of the Headless Squirrel were sticking up through the dirt. He really looked a bit worse for wear, poor thing, and I got him buried a little deeper and tamped down the dirt pretty hard. Juliet!Jay returned and watched from the fence. She was close enough that I could see every feather, and she examined the proceedings with bright-eyed interest.

"It's not Neo," I finally said, whapping the dirt with the shovel to pack it nice and hard. "Seriously. I've seen that little crooked-tailed bastard running around. You should stick to Mercutio!Jay, you know. He's a badass, and he's the strong silent type. You'll like that. Hell, I'd like that. You're lucky. Just consider it, okay? He really likes you."

I just want to register that I was reburying a headless squirrel and giving love advice to a lady bluejay in the middle of the afternoon, while a sandal dangled from my left wrist and a big bowl of pumpkin guts stood off to the side.

You cannot make this shit up. Anyway.

"HEY! HEY GUYS! WHATCHA DOING?" Romeo!Jay showed up, sailing across the yard and landing on the fence. He immediately started bitching because I wasn't spreading any bread. I swear to God Juliet rolled her eyes. I actually dropped the shovel, the goddamn loudmouth scared me so bad. "SERIOUSLY, WHERE'S THE BREAD? YOU'RE USUALLY SPREADING BREAD. I'M HUNGRY. HEY, THE BIRDFEEDER'S NICE AND ALL, BUT WHERE'S MY BREAD? AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT IS THAT IN THE SHINY THING? IS IT BREAD?"

I dumped the pumpkin guts over the grave. "Shut up," I told Romeo!Jay, who fluttered a bit and didn't screech. "Here lieth the Headless Squirrel, who is not Squirrel!Neo. Let's hope he stays buried, because this is really getting–"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" There it was. THAT SOUND. Again.

I let out a girly little half-scream and jumped out of my skin. For lo, Squirrel!Neo had returned.

He barreled along the fence from the plum tree, making that Sam-Kinnison-in-a-blender SOUND.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Romeo!Jay yelled. I bent, grabbed the shovel, and started backing up, trying to shake the sandal free just in case. I only succeeded in dumping the wadded-up tinfoil out, because I'd forgotten I was carrying the bowl. I didn't realize I was yelling too. I won't write what I was yelling, I'll just say it was obscene and leave it at that. (I think I used the F-bomb as every part of speech in the time it took Neo to get to the pussywillow tree.)

Juliet, however, held her ground. She drew herself up, and fire sparked in her little black eyes.

"WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?" she screamed, and took off for him. She hit him good, too, and he actually fell off the fence, through a blueberry bush, and bounced. He quit making THAT SOUND, probably because he was dazed.

I didn't blame him.

I was backing up, hopping down from the railroad ties, bowl in one hand, shovel in the other, sandal flapping, my jaw dropping. Juliet, however, was just picking up steam. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD! I WAS F!CKING MOURNING YOUR FUZZY ASS, WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?"

Squirrel!Neo, however doughty he may be, was no match for a pissed-off lady jay. He gained his feet and chittered, but she was having none of it. She zoomed down on him in a furious burst of blue feathers, and spanked him all the way back to the juniper hedge. He vanished into the hedge and she spent another few minutes flying back and forth and yelling at the top of her lungs.

"THAT'S RIGHT! THAT'S F!CKING RIGHT, YOU'D BETTER HIDE! WHEN I CATCH YOU I'M GOING TO, OOOH YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA DO, I WAS WORRIED ABOUT YOU! YOU IRRESPONSIBLE LITTLE FUZZY-ARSED MORON! SEE IF I EVER DRINK A POTION FOR YOU EVER AGAIN!"

Romeo!Jay had settled on the fence again. We both watched her in wonderment.

Finally, she'd finished, and she coasted back across the yard and settled on the fence, right where she was when the whole thing started. She gave me a baleful glance, and I raised both the shovel and the bowl, trying for a "hey man I'm harmless" stance. She glanced at Romeo, who actually hopped back nervously.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah. Uh. Okay." I took a couple steps backward. "I'll, just. Yeah. Go in and get some bread for you."

She made a little chittering noise. "SEE THAT YOU DO, MONKEY. JUST SEE THAT YOU DO."

Seriously, would you mess with her after all that?

So far the grave has stayed unmolested. All three jays have shown up like clockwork for bread every day, and I think Juliet might be taking my advice. Neo doesn't seem too heartbroken.

He has other problems. Like CornPops.

But more about that later…

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The Day After

No fresh writing post this Friday, due to Thanksgiving cleanup. (On the bright side, it's raining so hard I can't even go out and use the new leaf blower. So that's one thing crossed off my list.) Instead, I'm just going to point you to this wonderful post by Dame Jackie about Rejection Tactics. Or, how to deal with being rejected by an agent/editor.

I hope your Thanksgiving was wunderbar, and I hope you're avoiding the Black Friday crowds out there. You could not pay me to shop out there today. Normal blogging (well, normal for me, or regularly-scheduled, which is probably a better term) will return on Monday.

Have a good weekend!

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