Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 200

Squirrel, Revivified

So there I was. In the rain. Digging a grave.

OK, OK, let me back up. This was about a week or so ago, the day after Squirrel!Neo and Juliet!Jay had their little interaction and Mercutio!Jay entirely lost his shit. Anyway, for some reason I hadn't had coffee with my oatmeal that morning, I was just going to deal with caffeination after I ran some ungodly number of miles. Just…remember that the series of events I am about to relate happened while I was completely uncaffeinated.

So. Kids were off to school, it was raining, I went out to put my freshly-charged IPod on the treadmill before I changed into my running togs. I yawned, glanced out into the back yard…and paused. And stared.

There was a dead squirrel in my back yard. He lay on his back, little paws curled up, soaking in the rain and covered with what looked like mud. I couldn't tell at that distance. I just saw his white chest and his little spattered belly, and he was so, so still.

"Oh, Christ Jesus," I actually breathed. "Neo!"

I considered just doing my morning run and then dealing with the, ahem, crime scene. But then I thought of running six miles and staring at a dead rodent, and it just didn't seem appetizing.

So I went to fetch a shovel.

This was the straight-edge shovel I bought when we needed to scrape moss off the roof ages ago. It's practically new, and it's a Serious Effing Shovel. Red and black and heavy-reinforced enough to be deadly in the right hands. You could seriously whap someone with this shovel and then use it to dig a grave in rocky soil. I believe in quality.

So there I was, in the rain, near where the compost pile used to be. I was half-soaked by the time I had a decent hole. I didn't want the cats digging him up, or the possums, or anything. The little peanut-flinging cat-kicking bluejay-ambushing bastard was annoying, true. But he had also provided me with priceless amusement and (more importantly) several blog posts. I wanted him buried decently, at least.

I trudged across the wet, ankle-high grass (look, okay, I mowed this past week, all right? Don't look at me like that.). My yard shoes were soaked, my socks were wet, the persistent rain was working its way through my hoodie, and my spectacles were already spattered with rain. But I was determined to Do The Right Thing. I approached the dead rodent with all due reverence, and gently worked the shovel underneath his supine form.

He was heavier than I thought he'd be. Dead weight, I thought, and I immediately felt bad, because I snickered. I tried to observe a proper gravitas as I carried him across the yard. My yard shoes are more like clogs, so I was shuffling through very wet grass and squelching a bit, which sort of defeated the gravitas. But I tried. I even kept my head up despite the rain smacking my spectacles. I figured a good show was the least I could give, right?

It took some doing to slide him gently into the hole.

I didn't want to just fling him in, all right? I also didn't want him to land all cockeyed and have me out there with the shovel trying to arrange him for his eternal rest. I am many things to many people, but a rodent undertaker is just not in my job description. He was sopping wet and covered with something that looked like mud and dried blood, and his fur was all rucked up already. His tail was a wet draggle. I just, I don't know. I wanted him to be comfy in his little squirrel grave, all right? Don't judge.

So I slid him gently off the shovel bed, and thank God he landed kindly. The bottom of the hole was very, very wet–I dig a good grave, thankyouverymuch. I believe in quality work. I took a nice big shovelful of wet, rocky dirt, steeled myself, and sprinkled it in the hole over the poor, wet, draggled little corpse.

I swear to God I heard thunder crackle. The next thing I knew, I was screaming "JESUS CHRIST!"

Because Squirrel!Neo? Had shot up into a crouch. His little black eyes snapped open, and he filled his teensy lungs. He began to produce a sound I can only describe as a squirrel's imitation of Sam Kinison in a blender. It almost drowned out my scream.

This is the point at which I will kindly ask you to remember that I had not even had any coffee that morning.

So there I was. In the rain. The squirrel was screaming at me, I was screaming, I stumbled back and lost one of my clogs. My sock squelched in mud, and Squirrel!Neo hopped up to the edge of his grave and KEPT. MAKING. THAT SOUND. He moved quick, too, for a little bugger who had just been singing with the choir eternal. Once he'd gained the lip of his own grave, he actually bounded at me.

His eyes were on fire. His coat was shedding water and mud in rivers. I was out of my mind with fear.

I threw the shovel.

Yes, friends and neighbors, I threw a shovel half as tall as I am at a tiny revivified rodent. But that's not the worst part. Oh, no. Are you ready for the worst?

I missed.

The shovel sailed over Neo's head. It hit the corner between my and my neighbor's fence with a clang that probably woke all the other dead wildlife in a mile radius. I should remind you that the squirrel was still making THAT NOISE and I hadn't run out of air yet, so I was making a high-pitched squeal like a girl in a horror movie.

Hey, I'll admit it. I'm not proud.

I kept backing up, wet sock flopping, spectacles now drenched, and Squirrel!Neo bounded forward twice more. Mud flew. Now, it was a scene of utmost tension, and I'm not sure I heard him right. But I think what he was saying went something like this:

"WHAT THE F!CK ARE YOU DOING? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU? WHAT THE HELL? ONE MINUTE I'M JUST MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, THEN NEXT–LOOK AT THIS! LOOK AT MY COAT! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? BITCH, I KNOW KUNG FU!"

At this point I'd run out of "Jesus Christ" and the horror-movie squeal, so I was cussing back. I tripped and went down–on my ass, thank you, and since I lost a lot of weight it hurt, and my teeth clicked together hard. Plus my pajamas–oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? I had not even changed out of my sleeping gear–now had mud and grass stain on them. And my spectacles were wet, goddammit.

So I was using Language Unbecoming. Example? Okay, here goes: "MOTHERF!CKER! DON'T YOU KUNG FU ME, YOU WERE DEAD! I WAS F!CKING TRYING TO PROVIDE A DECENT MOTHERF!CKING BURIAL, YOU RODENT-ASSED JACKASS!"

Yeah, something like that. Squirrel!Neo bounded forward again. It was like the little bastard didn't even need to breathe, because he was making THAT NOISE again, while he was cussing me out. I yelled something about zombie-f!cking-oatmeal-squirrels, grabbed my other shoe–my only remaining weapon other than my devastating ironic wit–and flung it at him.

This time, my dears, Li'l Lili Oakley didn't miss. I nailed him with my yard shoe. He made an ulp! sound that would've been funny if I hadn't immediately felt mortified. Yes. You read that right.

I felt guilty over hitting him with my shoe.

At least it stunned him into silence. He went ass over teakettle, fetched up on the edge of his own grave, stood up, shook himself like a golden retriever coming up out of the water, and dashed to my left. He made it to the juniper hedge and vanished.

Which left me in the rain, on my ass, shoeless, half-blind, calling down the wrath of God onto zombie Frankenstein ninja squirrels and their progeny yea unto the seventh generation. (Who knows? I'm a witch, it might stick.) I finally collected enough of my wits to stand up, shut my fool mouth, collect my shoes, and retreat inside to peel off my muddy clothes, wash my spectacles, and take my morning run. Oh yes, my dears. I ran six miles after that little episode, and I didn't feel a single one of them because of all the adrenaline soaking through my nervous system.

But I sat down and had a cup of coffee first. My hands shook. I kept scanning the backyard nervously, and the rain intensified all that afternoon.

I left the goddamn shovel out there for a couple days, but I couldn't leave it forever. The day I went out to get it, well.

Things got interesting.

Related posts:Squirrel!Matrix
Squirrel Wars
A Squirrel's Classic Blunder

Interspecies Elizabethan Insults

What is that huge yellow fiery thing in the sky? It's November, for heaven's sake, we're not supposed to see it! It burns! Augh!

…yeah, the sunlight's making me a little silly today. It's warm and the wind is up, whistling and calling my name as well as pawing through the windchimes. I did managed to get the lawn mowed, and was bombarded by pinecones. I think it was just the wind pulling them off the trees. I'm fairly sure it's not Squirrel!Neo.

He's got other problems.

So I promised I'd write what happened after the Battle of the Pine Boughs. To do that I'm going to have to take you back a week or so, to a gray rainy morning, dawn just coming up–I was on the treadmill early, and not happy about that. By the time I'd gone a couple miles it was light gray instead of pitch black outside, and the little woodland creatures were beginning to show up. Chief among them was Squirrel!Neo, and he had his eye on a lovely little lady bluejay–

Wait. I should tell you about Juliet!Jay. She's a sweet little thing, and both Romeo!Jay and Mercutio!Jay appear to dance attendance on her. She's not a hussy, she rarely shows up with both guys. When she does, they seem to want to outdo each other. Mercutio, of course, makes a godawful racket, screeching and "showing" her the bird feeder at least twenty times per visit. Romeo just sidles up and gives her longing looks while they're both pecking at the bread I've scattered. I can't tell who she likes better, although when she does show up with just one of them, it's Romeo. At least, I think it's not Mercutio, because he's not screaming his tiny little head off.

Anyway, okay. So there's Squirrel!Neo, and he's acting kind of strange. Well, stranger than usual. He's hopping once or twice, digging a bit, then looking coyly over his shoulder. After a while, I see a flash in the blueberry bushes–they're turning lovely colors this year, really–and I realize Juliet is perched there, watching him intently. He keeps giving these sneaky little looks, and after a little while, she flies down to investigate.

Now came one of the strangest interspecies dances I've ever seen. Neo would dig a little, glance back at her, and hop away. Juliet would hop shyly up to the location, peck a little bit, and cock her head as if to say, nothing here, what's wrong with you?

Each time, Neo stood a little bit closer to her. Then he led her to one of his favourite nut-burying hummocks, and dug. Hopped away, but not nearly as far as before. Juliet sidled, pecked a bit, and came up with something she apparently found very tasty and agreeable. She pecked for a little while, tilting her head back between bites to make everything slide down easy. Neo sidled closer and closer, and I was about to yell or something to warn her, because, well. Who knew what the fuzzy little bastard had planned? I popped my earbuds out and got ready to make a sudden noise, the pounding of my feet on the treadmill all but forgotten as I watched him get closer and closer. I didn't even realize I was sweating, I was so absorbed.

I swear I saw one of Squirrel!Neo's tiny little paws reaching out, as if he wanted to touch. Just the edge of her wing, maybe, some of her pretty plumage.

I think Juliet would've let him, too. But just then, Mercutio showed up, a ball of blue feathered outrage. Since I had my earbuds pulled out, I heard him clear as day in the dawn hush.

"HEY! HEY YOU, FUZZBUCKET! WHAT'RE YOU DOING WITH MAH GIRL, HUH? FETCH ME MY RAPIER, IMMA SPANK SOME SQUIRREL ASS!"

Juliet took wing, Squirrel!Neo scampered up into the plum tree, and Mercutio chased him from there into the juniper hedge, screaming Elizabethan bird-insults. (I swear I heard "mealymouth peasant" and "crude cockerel" in there somewhere.) Then Mercutio spent about ten minutes roaming my backyard, yelling at everything, even perching on the birdfeeder and chewing me out. Maybe I was supposed to be Juliet's duenna or something, I don't know. I don't think I've ever seen a bluejay that angry.

He was pretty incoherent, and Julie had vanished. I didn't see her for a couple days after that, despite keeping my eyes peeled on the treadmill every single morning.

A couple days later, I found a body in the yard.

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Mental Health, and Pumpkin Butter

I should know better than to declare any day a mental health day. It only leads to trouble. Still, all's well that ends well, and it's only 11AM.

How was your Samhain, dear Reader? Ours was fabulous. The pumpkins were carved, the trick or treating was accomplished–and let me tell you, I'm shocked that the Little Prince was finished only an hour or so into the trick or treating; in my day we went until the porch lights flicked off. It was a couple of very tired, very happy little ones I put to bed after the ceremonial burning of the New Year wishes on perfumed joss paper. This is the only holiday I really go all-out for, and I love it every year. I even attended a party this year. Our across-the-street neighbors threw a Halloween bash, and I went to a real actual grown-up, social party. It's been years.

You can tell I don't get out much.

I had an extra pumpkin, so today I'm attempting to make pumpkin butter for the very first time. We'll see what happens. Also this week, I think I'll attempt curried squash soup. I feel the need for comfort food, and although I hate squash with a passion (long long story) I'm told the soup is quite good. Curry will overcome my squash-loathing.

News! I will be announcing the winners of the Release Week giveaway on Friday. On November 13 I'll be at the Auburn Public Library, from 2-3PM. I'll be talking about how much I love libraries, the Strange Angels series, and answering all sorts of questions. You can bring your books, too, and I'll sign them. No word yet on whether we'll have books to buy.

I'm also trying to get together another giveaway for the newsletter. I know I haven't sent out a newsletter in a while, but it's about time. It's just been…well, you know. Even if I don't say much about it here, I think it's obvious that the past two years have been…interesting. Thank goodness everything is calmed down and getting back on track now.

Also, today is the first day of NaNoWriMo. I'm not sure I'm participating this year; I have to see what my revision load for the last Kismet book is. If I do participate it will probably be something steampunky. If you're doing NaNo this year, yay for you! Count me in for cheerleading you on!

That's about all the news for right now. There is more SquirrelTerror, but I have to wait until I can really sit down and do it justice. Frankly I'm a little creeped out by the whole thing, but…well, you'll see.

Anyway, today is for recuperating from Halloween. ("Candy is goooood," the Little Prince chimes in.) And the pumpkin in the oven is starting to smell kind of…good. I'll wait until the molasses and sugar and apple cider vinegar is added to really make my decision on the whole pumpkin butter thing.

Over and out!

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Yo Ho Yo Ho…
All Saint's Day

Heaven's Spite, and Giveaway!

[image error]That's right, it's the release week for the fifth Jill Kismet book, Heaven's Spite.

To celebrate, I'll be giving away three signed copies, over at the Deadline Dames. I regret that I can only ship inside the US, but that's the way things are. To make it even, I'll also be giving away a $20 Amazon gift certificate. And what must you do to win these wonderful prizes?

Simple! Just comment on this Deadline Dames post by midnight on Sunday, October 31 (the witching hour on Samhain, even). But not just any old comment, please. You can give your favorite quote, give a Dame a compliment, tell us your favorite Halloween candy or spooky story. The winners will be picked with the help of Random.org, and I may pick a special prize for originality. You never can tell.

I'll announce the winners next Friday, and (I promise! I promise!) will have the long-awaited next Process Post then.

Thank you for reading! I'm very excited that Jill's next adventures are out in the world.

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Heaven's Spite Release Week!

[image error]Thanks for all the great congratulations and well-wishes during this release week! It's been a wait, I know, but I am pleased and proud to say that Heaven's Spite, the fifth Jill Kismet book, is now out in the wild.

When a new hellbreed comes calling, playing nice isn't an option. Jill Kismet has no choice but to seek treacherous allies – Perry, the devil she knows, and Melisande Belisa, the cunning Sorrows temptress whose true loyalties are unknown.

Kismet knows Perry and Belisa are likely playing for the same thing–her soul. It's just too bad, because she expects to beat them at their own game. Except their game is vengeance.

Nobody plays vengeance like Kismet. But if the revenge she seeks damns her, her enemies might get her soul after all…

Now available at Indiebound, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Powell's, Book Depository, and Amazon!

This was one of the most difficult Kismet books to write. I was coping with immense changes in my personal life, and the book itself is…difficult, in terms of what I had to put Jill through. I mean, I always knew this was coming, it's the arc beginning in Night Shift and reaching through the final book, Angel Town, which I just finished the zero draft of recently. (It's resting before revisions.) It's also extraordinarily difficult to bring Jill's story that much closer to closing. There is much more I would want to say through her, but it's time to let her go.

But not for one more book. *grin*

Anyway, I hope you enjoy Heaven's Spite. I'll be doing a contest later in the week, so stay tuned!

ETA: I almost forgot! Yes, you can still buy signed and personalized copies through my local indie bookstore, even though they had a fire recently. Drop them an email–they even ship overseas!

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Permission To Create "Bad" Art

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, who have a shiny new website!

I've spent the last two days heaving blindly into whatever receptacle I can find. My stomach staged revolt, right when I had revisions under a tight deadline. So I'm going to bring out an old Midnight Hour writing post for this Friday's offering. This is from April 25 of 2008, and I don't think I've ever put it here before. Enjoy.

Permission to Create "Bad" Art

April 25, 2008

True to form, life hath served me my Friday post. Last Wednesday I was at a signing for for Elizabeth Lyon and saw some of my old writing students; we chatted a little bit about this very thing. And I've been reading f-listers' thoughts about this particular issue all week. A lot of people seem to be struggling with it, so I'm going to give my two cents.

Coffee? Check. Comfy chair? Check. Idea firmly in mind? Check. Settle in, dear Reader.

Here's what I want to say in a nutshell: It is perfectly okay to write dreck.

I've seen a lot of people lately agonising over the 'fact' that they write, well, crap. The plotting is clumsy, pacing nonexistent, they see the book so clearly in their heads but then go back and look at what they've written and it seems pale. Spiritless. Stupid. Pointless. They might as well just give it up because it's not perfect or even very good. After all, they'll only get rejected. Or they've gotten rejected several times already. And it's horrible, but they're starting to question this whole writing thing.

And I reply: God, don't stop. This is when you're getting better.

Assuming you are consistently practicing your writing, about every six months, stop and look back over something you haven't touched for the past half-year. Open up the document and read it. And notice what you'd do differently now. When you're in the wilds of practice, concerned with camping on the plain of the story every night, you don't have time to notice how far you're walking, how far you've come. You do have to stop and look back hard to realize it, and to realize how your 'muscles' have hardened and your craft grown more sure.

The willingness to engage in consistent practice is the willingness to learn. You're going to have 'crutches' and things you rely on. (Like "that"–one of the most overused words in the English tongue–and dialogue tags, my particular follies. But I digress.) That's why an editor and a good beta are worth their weight in gold and platinum. (Again, I digress.)

Practice has to start out somewhere. We all start out not knowing a story from a scene, the right verb from the wrong adverb, a passive action from an active one. And we all start out, from Chaucer to Hemingway, writing utter crap.

That's why I call it writing "practice." It's just like dance class or tennis practice or even practicing your scales on the piano. You've got to make mistakes and stumble in order to learn.

Writing is a little odd in that we see the finished product on the shelves–the months and years of work that went into it are invisible. It takes far, far less time to read a book than it does to:

1. Write the first draft.

2. Get critique/let the manuscript sit

3. Write other drafts, from one to ten

4. Submit and get rejected a million times

5. Get accepted, wait for contract, wait for revision letter

6. Write other revised drafts

7. Arrive at final draft

8. Get copyedits

9. Get proof pages

10. Wait, biting nails, for the book to come out

That process–of a manuscript becoming a book–is so long and complex, and it allows a book to get better. It also grants a book a stamp of reality the half-finished noddles on my hard drive don't have, the imprimatur of someone actually paid money for this.

Is it any wonder writers feel uncertain? Especially unpublished ones?

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to the point I started out wanting to make. This is what I used to tell my writing students.

The first million words are practice. They can be as bad as they want to be while you're learning. It is not important WHAT you write. It is important THAT you write, and write consistently, and keep looking for ways to make your writing better.

As long as you can open up something you wrote six months ago and see that you've made some progress, don't sweat it so much.

You are going to have to accept that you may be too close to your own work to judge it for what it is. Most of the time, this leads to harsh self-judgment, not a clear-eyed appraisal of the work. Plus, the whole system of: crit readers who have egos to feed (possibly at the expense of yours, since there are bullies everywhere), toxic writing groups and classes (not all of them, but we all know my prejudices on this point), rejection by the bucketload (because publishing is a business; it is not about craft but about money, but writers often forget that and think it's about Them Personally), even more rejection (because your manuscript may be meat to one agent/editor and poison to another), and EVEN MORE REJECTION (insert all other types of rejection here)…well, even the sanest, most thick-skinned writer could be reduced to a bleeding wreck twitching in the water by the end of it, you dig?

You have to find a way to write through all that. You have to give yourself permission to write something that may not be perfect. Even the Grand Old White Men of Litrachur had stinky-ass half-finished pieces of fanfic in their attics. We just don't hear about those because the books they wrote after ages of practice are now taught in high-school classes. And not only that, but some of the Auld Classics are even crappy books. I can't read Faulkner to save my life, and some of Dickens's stuff bores me to tears. I love Dumas but I know lots of people who would rather shoot themselves in the head than read Louise de la Valliere. Even the classics are not immune from bad writing.

If Hemingway, Dumas, Faulkner, and yes, even Shakespeare (dude, have you READ some of the historical plays? YAWN.) struck out occasionally, what makes us think we won't? Even Heinlein and Bradbury had their less-than-stellar moments. We just didn't get to see the really horribly dreadful ones while they were learning their craft.

One of the most liberating things I ever read in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way was this: you have permission to create "bad" art.

Yes, we try to be as good as we can, and a certain level of technical achievement is necessary to get published. But you will never reach that level of technical achievement if you're not willing to make mistakes. Mistakes will teach you much more than noodling over an easy, perfect piece. Every mistake is a chance, every stumble an invitation to create a new dance step. You are allowed to do something badly while you are learning to do it.

Christ, I struggled with this. My parents were insistent that I had to do everything perfectly the first time–which is, I've come to learn, par for the course in abusive or dysfunctional households. Just wrapping my lips around the concept that I could write total crap and have it be okay was a brain-bender right up there with the nature of suffering and the existence of the Divine. It still is. I still get wrapped around the axle of "this can't possibly be good enough."

Especially when I'm about three-quarters of the way through a Book That Will Not Die, under deadline and short of sleep, and the entire world seems designed to drive home to me how inadequate I am as a writer and a human being. That's when it's hardest to give myself permission to just write the damn thing, get the corpse out on the table and then cut it up and prettify it.

Yeah. Like that.

But that's another blog post.

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Cleaning Up

Well, we found out how many people it takes to pack up a bookstore in under 24 hours. The fire was Thursday evening, serious packing started at about 3pm on Friday, and by 2pm on Saturday the owner and I had locked up the empty store. There's still things there that have to be counted and inventoried for loss, but everything that could possibly be salvaged–around 14 tons of books, shelves, furniture, counters, even Shirley the plastic penguin–is gone. Oh, the espresso machine and pump is still there; a servicing by regular company should clean both of those. Also, I'll be taking the plants and seeing if I can't rehabilitate them.

But, yeah. The darling Scupperlout came out and worked her buns off, the owner's husband is a Mason so plenty of his buddies came by and worked their buns off, and a group of very nice boys from Servicemaster came out. They had no buns to work off–I wanted to feed them, they were all the rangy type. I settled for giving them doughnuts. BUT, they worked hard and in about 24 hours, the entire place was stripped.

"It's kind of terrifying," the owner said to me as we headed for our cars in the parking lot, breathing deep.

"At least we know now what happens after a fire. It's all material," I replied.

I think she probably wanted to hit me before she saw my tired grin and realized I was messing with her.

The most annoying thing was the vultures and lookie-lous. People would just wander in past the yellow fire tape. "Oh, are you guys closed?" I mean, there's no electricity. The place is being torn apart. There are signs up front saying "THERE WAS A FIRE. DON'T COME IN." But in they came. Oh, and people trying to take stuff from the pile out back while the Servicemaster guys were loading. What is wrong with people? Jeez.

Anyway, I've been smelling smoke since, even though I immediately washed up when I got home and got what I'd been wearing into the laundry posthaste. It's weird that smoke-reek lingers so long; we kept having to bug people to take breaks and stand outside to clear themselves out. (My snot's been gray all weekend. Yeah, TMI. I know.)

It's weird, but I was too busy to even realize the emotional impact until the Servicemaster guys were carrying out the very last pile of stuff–water heater for the espresso machine, whiteboard I use for my writing classes, miscellaneous things–and I suddenly felt like crying. The store's been a Safe Place and a home away from home for years now. It's where I go to give good news and celebrate, and where I go when I don't want to go home but I need to sit and collect myself in a friendly environment. The books in there are all friends, and I know every inch of the place. To see it all empty and dark because the power's off, ceiling tiles crumbling onto the floor, everything reeking of fire and the carpeting swelling from water still seeping through, already looking sad and abandoned…that was rough.

Still is.

I don't know what's going to happen yet. So much depends on the insurance and if there's a viable way to get the shop up and running again. The owner and I are already talking about the reshelving party–beer, pizza, and a whole ton of people to get the cleaned and revivified books back up on the shelves. "Careful," I warned her. "I'm hell on wheels when it comes to inventory, reshelving, the whole deal."

"You be bad cop," she said with a grin. "I'll be good cop."

Which is pretty much the way it works out anyway. At least some things are eternal.

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News, And A Little Process

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Check us out!

You can see the pictures from last night's Educator Appreciation shindig here; many thanks to Jason of Bluewater Comics for manning the camera! He makes a great paparazzo. I got a chance to hang out with Darren Davis of Bluewater as well, who is just the most darling and scorchingly funny man since Mark Henry. (Which is high praise, believe me.)

In other news, the building that houses our very own favorite indie bookshop, Cover to Cover, caught fire yesterday. Smedley the cat is fine and currently lounging at hus summer home well away from the hustle and bustle, none of our employees were hurt, and we'll be working on getting things squared away over the next few months. It's a hell of a thing, and if there's a call for help from C2C I'll pass it along here.

Last but not least, I am pleased and proud to announce that today I horked up a big 6K chunk of wordage…and finished the zero draft of Angel Town, the final Jill Kismet book. It needs work before I can turn it in as a reasonable first draft, but I have time to do that now before deadline. Which is a huge relief to me.

That's a part of process I'm going to talk about today, but very briefly because my brain is dry and squoozled. My deadline for this book is two and a half months away, but I need that time for revision and was stressing over getting a zero draft out in time. Part of process is learning what you need in order to turn in publish-quality work, which is not just the first draft that claws its way out of your cerebellum and lands squalling and bloody on your laptop. It pains me to ask for the month of padding I generally need to let a work rest before I can go back and hammer it into first-draft form. There's always the temptation to bow to the pressure of getting it in sooner, which naturally editors like. Compounding this difficulty is the natural aversion I have to saying "no".

I've learned that a little discomfort when one is negotiating deadline dates is well worth the feeling of having enough time.

I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to get this book finished, ever. That's also a part of my process–that long trudge three-quarters of the way through the book, when it seems like the damn thing will not die no matter how much you stab it, that you'll be writing this forever, that every ounce of your brain is squeezed dry and it's an unfinishable monster, you'll miss your deadline, it's all crap, GOD THE WORLD WILL END AUGH!

The only cure I have found for this is putting my head down and bitching and moaning while I plow straight through. Discipline is essential.

At some point, I will hit a dry spot where I can only produce a couple hundred words a day, but I'll go back and tighten what's happened before. This phase frustrated me to no end before I realized it was my engines winding up for the big push. Because sooner or later, after a couple weeks of frustration, suddenly I'm catapulted forward and I'll have a string of 6-10K days. This won't stop until I hit the end of the book, at which point I sit there, blinking, and have to shake my head and stare some more to verify that I have, indeed, finished the zero draft.

The first few times, the dead spot in the middle and the frustration phase literally reduced me to tears. I thought I was Doing It Wrong. It wasn't until it dawned on me that this had happened with every book I'd finished that I started to treat it as just a normal part of the process, for me.

This does not ameliorate the pure frustration or the tooth grinding. It just makes me less likely to give up.

I keep promising you guys process posts, and this one is rather short, but I suspect lots of other writers (or creators) have the same frustration, perhaps at different points in the arc. It might help the tender new writers–or even the slightly more grizzled–to know someone else suffers it too. So, my dears, do you have a similar frustration point, and if you do, where does it occur?

And now I need to go soak my poor head in a bucket. Tune in next week for more SquirrelTerror, and another Process Post!

Related posts:Time To Wheeze Out The Old Brain
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Process, Part I

Tonight At Barnes & Noble…

I'll be at the Vancouver Plaza Barnes & Noble from 4-6pm today, for the Educator Appreciation Night.

We celebrate all sixth through 12th grade educators with prizes, goodie bags, treats, special deals and popular teen author Lili St. Crow and graphic novel creator and publisher Darren Davis! Homeschoolers welcome.

I'll be giving (as far as I know) a short talk, then doing a Q & A. I believe Mr. Davis will be doing the same, and I'm looking forward to it. Come out and see us, if you like!

There's more to be entered into the annals of SquirrelTerror, but not until next week, because tomorrow is the Friday Writing post and today I'm already behind and flying low to catch up. Plus I've got six miles to run, especially since I'm going to be engaging in public speaking tonight. The terror at such a prospect is wonderful fuel for physical fitness, let me tell you.

Catch you later…

Related posts:Tonight's The Night
Back On The Treadmill
Strong Opinions and Rewards

Battle of the Pine Boughs

I was just ho-hum, tossing some carbohydrate largess to the avians, when the bombs started falling.

It was early in the morning, after my usual five-mile run, the day after my fence had been fired. I had a largish store of crusts to crumble for the feathered friends, and I was waiting for the local murder to figure out I was scattering calories for them. They usually sound the alarm, but Mercutio!Jay is always the first and bravest, swooping down after the crows start making their distinctive "OMG FOOD!" calls.

Anyway, there I was, humming a little song, looking forward to going inside and getting a fresh hot cuppa. All of a sudden, there were little plopping sounds.

What the hell?

I looked up. The sounds continued, and I finally realized I was under attack. Pinecones were being hurled from the trees in my neighbor's yard, and an angry chittering broke the morning hush. Not one of the cones hit me, though they came awful close. I stood there with three plastic breadbags in one hand and a fistful of almost-molding potato rolls in the other, staring at the pine trees.

"Neo," I said, out loud, "your aim sucks."

I should not have taunted the rodents.

Then Mercutio!Jay arrived, screeching his head off. A flash of blue, feathers flying, he streaked across the yard from the opposite direction. He was utterly heroic. As close as I can figure, he was yelling, "TO ARMS! TO ARMS! FAIR LADY, FEAR NOT! TO ARMS!"

Well, of course, the crows heard his racket, began making a racket of their own, and they swooped in too. That's when things got interesting.

So there I am, sweat still drying on me in the middle of a ring of breadcrumbs, jaw agape, the pinecone barrage halting as the crows flailed into the pine trees. Mercutio!Jay was in a perfect ecstasy of rage, hopping from foot to foot in the pussywillow tree and screaming "GET IN THERE, FELLOWS! TALLYHO! SPANK THOSE RODENTS!"

I started laughing. I couldn't help myself. The pine trees looked like they were caught in a high wind, thrashing and cawing and chittering issuing from the darkness still caught in their branches. Then the pinecones started up again, and I learned something valuable: they hadn't been trying to hit me.

No, I was just the bait. Because a tiny pinecone hurled out of the tree and smacked Mercutio!Jay, who make a strangled ulp! that might have been funny if it hadn't sounded like it hurt. I gasped, he went over in a flurry of feathers, and the next thing I know he'd zoomed past me, flapping furiously, still screaming. "GODDAMMIT WOMAN GET UNDER COVER! IT'S ARTILLERY! MURDER! FIRE! ANARCHY! HALP!"

I stumbled backward, still laughing breathlessly, and I again discovered they weren't aiming at me. Because I tripped over Tuxedo Kitty, who was belly down in the dew-laden grass, watching all this. I hadn't even noticed him creeping out behind me, and I almost went ass-over-teakettle. Tuxedo Kitty squawked as I almost-stepped on him, and he shot off to my left toward the fence. On the way he was peppered with no less than three pinecones.

Squirrels are crack shots, apparently. Bombing me had just been to get everyone's attention. I don't know whether to feel grateful or insulted.

So there I was, regaining my balance with a dance step Ginger Rogers might've envied, dropping the rest of the potato rolls and furiously waving the plastic bread bags to signal distress, the ship's going down, someone do something, while the pine trees thrashed and the crows made an absolutely unholy noise and the squirrels gave their rallying cries.

Then he showed up, winging majestically across the yard in his Capulet blue. It was Romeo!Jay, Mercutio's best friend, the strong silent type. (Well, as silent as a bluejay ever gets, but still.) He nipped smartly into the pine trees' recesses, and the tumult reached a fresh pitch.

I was still backing up, trying to look everywhere at once, and Mercutio!Jay circled back to me. He didn't seem to be any the worse for wear, but he harried me across the yard until I was reasonably safe by the sunroom door. Then he wheeled about and zoomed up into the pine trees.

The Battle of the Pine Boughs lasted about ten seconds after that. Abruptly, a battlefield silence fell. I found out I was actually hugging myself, and my tongue was dry because my mouth was open, I was out of breath from helpless laughter, and I was cold. I watched the pine trees nervously. Nobody is going to BELIEVE this, I thought. Seriously. Squirrel artillery. What next?

The jays appeared first, fluttering down and landing in the middle of the bread. "DUDE," Mercutio was saying. "DUDE, DID YOU SEE THAT? DID YOU? YOU WERE ALL, POW, AND BARTHOLOMEW!CROW WAS ALL LIKE ZAP! AND THOSE SQUIRRELS, MAN. DID YOU SEE WHAT THEY DID?"

Romeo!Jay shrugged, pecking at the bread. Both of them ignored me.

The crows came down one by one, (Bartholomew the largest was first, as usual) and the usual feeding-scrum developed, with Mercutio yelling at the crows and them laughing at him and eating anyway. I felt for the doorhandle, slid the French door open, and stepped inside to welcome warmth, backward so I could keep an eye on the yard. There was no sign of poor Tuxedo Kitty, who I had almost flattened. (It was his own damn fault anyway.)

A tiny movement caught my eye as I was bracing the door closed with a dowel. (Just to be sure, you understand.) I straightened, quickly, my back giving a twinge and gooseflesh all over me.

There in the back corner, perched on the fence behind a screen of blackberry leaves, was Squirrel!Neo. His tail was twitching furiously, and his beady little eyes were fixed on the birds. His little mouth moved, and even at that distance and without much knowledge of squirreltongue, I figured out what he was saying with little trouble.

"You bastards," he was mouthing. "You bastards. Just you wait."

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