K. Eason's Blog, page 12

my new asshole neighbor

A young grey squirrel, eating spent grain and soggy cheetos left in the pot for sparrows and whatever the little brown-headed birds are called.

No. She is not cute. She's a tree rat. And unlike the actual rats (because we have real live wild rats--brown AND grey!) who live around here, she has no concern for the cats who haunt this patio on a regular basis.

Also, today, she ate the avocado. You can just see it in the photo, that slender green stalk of potential baby plant sticking up beside the hummingbird feeder (that's the black metal rod, which terminates in a glass bulb full of sugar water, which so far has escaped the squirrel's notice.) Against all odds, it was surviving my plant-care system of benevolent neglect. It was, like, still green and everything.

And today: broken. Devoured. Only a sad little fractured stem. Only I kill the plants on this patio, squirrel.

THIS MEANS WAR.

who wants to live forever?

We begin this post with a cat picture, as is the custom of the interwebz, and also because Skugga looks very grave and dignified in this instance (which took place about 3 seconds before he decided he needed to gallop around the living room).

It is that point the quarter where, as one can see by the gap in the posts, I've been slammed under endless student drafts. This is because I teach the entry-level college writing class, which means a lot of writing and a lot of commentary to be made on the writing. My students are not good writers. That's why they're there. It's no shame to them; most of them are international students, or generation 1/1.5. That they're taking college classes in a language they've been speaking for 4 years is a testament to their badassery. But they still need a lot of feedback, and that is where my energy goes.

It'd be easy to say my energy goes there because that's why I get paid. I mean, that's true--the university pays me to teach, and by all the good green gods, I will do that. They don't pay me to care, though. I do that for free. And because I care, and because my dedicated peer tutor cares, we spend maybe more time than is union-mandated doing the work for which we are paid. (I have never understood why people go into teaching if they don't love it. It's not a place for people who 'can't do anything else'. It's the place people go when they want to make a difference and get, like, zero fame and recognition for it, except from one's students and maybe one's colleagues.)

I choose to teach because I think the job fucking matters, and because I'm good at it. I teach this particular course and level of writer because I see the biggest improvements and evolution in student writing and thinking. There are other courses that are easier, from an instructor's perspective. This one's a constant push of writing and commenting. But when I read a Boss Fight draft, and see a kid who's gone from omg Nicomachean Ethics and Beowulf I don't get it to a cogent examiniation of courage in poem and philosophy... yeah. Okay. I feel pretty good.

And yeah. Aristotle and Beowulf. Because if it's hard for everyone--and it is--no one feels stupid, and at the end, everyone feels like they accomplished something (because they did). And also...I don't know when or where else a student's going to get any exposure to ethics, unless they seek it out in an elective. People are very good at talking about their hearts, and following their feelings, and jesus, okay, fine. But Aristotle emphasizes reason, and so my kids have to think about that, too: their motives for doing what they do, and whether or not those motives are noble, or under compulsion, or from passion, or whatever.

One of my students observed that a truly virtuous teacher, by Aristotelian standards, would kindly sacrifice her time to her students because it was noble to do so, and because she reasoned her efforts would have some result; the teacher who is kind from compulsion is not really virtuous, even if her efforts also bring results. I joke with Nous that I am the citizen-soldier of teachers, acting for honor's sake, because of the shame I would earn if I did not perform my duty. That's not true, though. I respond poorly to external compulsion of all varieties.

But my gods, if it's internal--if, like, I think I need to finish a project no matter fucking what because I don't leave things unfinished--I can make myself pretty miserable. Like, 93k words of miserable that just keeps going in the wrong direction compounding itself because I will get this done. If this WIP had been a sweater, or any other knitted project, I'd've frogged it. No. I'd've cut the yarn and thrown the whole damn thing out.

So I did.

I could simply pretend this toadshit comes from starting the project when I was carrying an extra course last spring and I proved simply unable to balance Teacher Brain and Writer Brain. There's even some truth to that. And yes, external stress didn't help--isn't helping, thank you election--because I started this story in a dark, low-contrast world of competing political world-views and morally ambiguous characters a protagonist who was not a hero and then I realized--oh. I've read this before. Like 100 times. Am I adding to this conversation about moral ambiguity? Am I elucidating some angle of the non/human psyche, or leveling a critique/observation about the real-world context? Am I just exploring motives and underpinnings for why someone acts like they do, the literary equivalent of making excuses?  I grew to like the characters. I just kinda hated their world. It looked too much like this one, even with aliens and spaceships and cyborgs. It was cynical. I'm tired of cynical.

I had my students read an essay last week discussing the changes made in the 2007 Zemeckis Beowulf movie from the original poem. My students were struck by the difference in Grendel's mother, between poem and film, from (arguably) scariest monster in her underwater lake who almost eats Beowulf, to Angelina Jolie in gold shiny skin with a tail. They liked that movie-Beowulf seemed more mortal, more human, in that he allowed himself to be seduced; but they were pretty convinced he was a damn fool for having done so, and they would never make that mistake. I posed to them this dilemma, then: make a deal now, for success your whole life, your life's dream, and then die, rather horribly, sometime around 60; or muddle along, doing your thing, for the next 80 years with no particular success or failure. Just, you know, middlin'. There were some wide eyes. There were some thoughtful stares. There was a sudden sympathy for movie-Beowulf.

(And I thought--yeah, okay. If you told me--trade the last 20 years of your life so that something you wrote lasted for the next thousand plus years and left a mark on the culture--like Aristotle or Beowulf--I'd have to think long and hard about that bargain.)

A fair number of my students condemn poem-Beowulf because his motive for killing the monsters is always his fame, his glory, his legacy; they want something more pure for his courage than even Aristotle's cold reason. They want him to be brave because it's just right. They want him to be a damn hero.

I think maybe that's the story I need to tell right now. A hero. Not an unproblematic one, maybe; but still, someone who actively tries to do good things because it is noble to do, and base not to do so, and that means a society that isn't so mired in cynicism that public opinion means something.

Oh. Hm. I feel a story coming on.

devil winds

I am certain I've used that title before.

The Santa Ana winds (aka devil winds) came late this year (or, if not late, then after a spell of proper northern-mid-latitude autumn cool that tricked us all into thinking we lived in a different climate zone). So this last weekend, it was all triple digits. First real day of instruction, 106. Yay!

At least I got my latest ink during the cool spell, so I could wear long sleeves without courting heat stroke. Some instructors get dry erase markers for the start of the school year. I get Yggdrasil (which is fitting. I'm teaching Beowulf). 

The heat and dry are one thing. The associated atmospheric gymnastics are quite another. Caffeine is fantastic for migraines, but it can do jackshitall for sinus pain. So, having done my week's commenting on student writing, I find myself with time to destroy in a fit of despair work on Current Project and an uncomfortable awareness of every. tooth. in my head. Also, my eyes feel like sandpaper marbles. I wrote large swaths of Enemy and Outlaw with headaches (I started Enemy during the Santa Anas). I have a different selection of character aches and pains for this one.

So yeah. Not banging my head against plot right now. I will blog instead. That's writing. Right? That counts. Really, I'm hoping that if I look over here, the resolution to the story will show up. The real PITA about being a pantser (discovery writer sounds so much less terrifying and chaotic than my process) is that, well, sometimes the pants rip out in inconvenient places (to strain the metaphor). I'm also at that stage where I'm sure I am the WORST writer ever, and that this is the WORST novel ever written, and also I should just not write this genre because reasons. Eyeroll. It's all toadshit, and I know it's toadshit, but that doesn't change the anxiety attacks when I sit down to write.

I could be watching trashy Netflix series. I didn't do a lot of that this summer, in a break in pattern, because I was trying to write this monstrosity manuscript (and also replay the Mass Effect trilogy to see if I could make friends with the end this time. No, but we're at least cordial). I define trashy as anything I can binge-watch while knitting, but wouldn't want to watch with Nous because it's hard to hear dialog over the bitching, er, the critiques. Not just his. I can't get through an episode of Blue Bloods without pontificating at length at the sexism, the shallow plotting, or Danny's sheer assholery. But it's a solid B- series. I mean, there are no surprises. Ever. It does its genre relentlessly. I can appreciate an unimaginative exercise in genre, particularly when I am knitting something repetitive. (Only in TV though. Not in books.)

(Are you looking for a point? There is no point. This is not an essay. I need to listen to the new Kidney Thieves and this is my chance.)

a thing I have learned this week

I like having the back of my head shaved. I do not like having the sides of my head shaved. Fortunately, I have only shaved one side, and my hair grows quickly, and SoCal is not known for cold. (Daring you, weather gods. Prove me wrong. Prove me wrong.)

Why the hell did I wait so long to learn this?

needles

So the touch-up work on the valkyrja ran about two hours, because essentially Adam re-lined and shaded them both. It's like getting a new tattoo again. This means the ink is black and crisp and the skin under it is red and bruised. Nous takes tattoos beautifully. I look...abraded. (Which, you know, is kinda what happened. Abrading with poking.)

So I am rediscovering all the ways in which inner forearms are inconvenient--like, they brushed ribs when sitting to type. They are remarkably battered by the act of pulling garments over one's head (double points for things like athletic tops, because elastic).

They are not concerned by gaming (with console or with dice) so clearly that is what I should be doing.

Instead I wrote, goddammit. So when you're reading Current Project after it becomes a novel someday, and you get to the part where the main character's got surface damage on one forearm that annoys her but does not debilitate--that's for real. (For some version of real.) It was inspired.

In a week, we (read: Adam) work(s) on fresh ink on the back of that arm, winding up past the elbow and down around the wrist. I better make wordcount now, while I still can.

perambulations

My BP is a little bit up, at the moment, because of day job toadshit which it would be impolitic to discuss publicly, so... I won't. Instead, I will talk about cats! Yay, cats!

Skugga, in July: 11 months oldSpecifically, my cat. This cat. Skugga Jamison Ragnar Blood-axe, although we have only rarely needed to get past Ragnar to achieve, if not compliance, then at least cessation of whatever annoying thing prompted the naming in the first place.

Skugga, you may recall (or not) came to us last November a scant few days after Idris died. (I am not linking to that post. I still cry.) He was not a replacement, but he was the kitten (with all of the needs kittens have) and the next cat who would have to carve out a place in the family.

He is not Idris. That was part of the reason he came home with us. He was physically different. Bigger. Fluffier. Clearly Maine Coon in the mix. He was also older and not as dependent. And most importantly, for me, he seemed pretty confident.

I had hopes of getting someone more like Pooka, my first cat, who was an unflappable badass (and a little bit of an asshole, because he was the boss cat, and made sure all the other cats knew it).

Instead, I have a sweet, gentle lummox (in the photo, he was 13 lbs. Now, a month later...he's a little bit bigger). Louhi can back him down if she needs her space, even though he's twice her size.

Skugga's been much slower to develop, both physically and emotionally/intellectually. He's been big all along, but he had that kitten sprawl much longer than any of the others. You know. Knobby elbows, barrel belly and narrow shoulders, feet too large. He had this little tiny head until suddenly he didn't; he had all belly fur for 8 months, and this sad little floof of a ruff; all of a sudden all the fur's the same length, the ruff is respectable, and he looks like a cat instead of a fiber-arts experiment. He's not stupid, but he's also not precocious. Once he learns a thing, he's got it, and he can apply the principle consistently. He just takes longer to get it in the first place. Like, he took about 2 months to learn his name (and to come when called): wait, what is this skoo-gah you keep saying, OH THAT'S ME GIVE ME THAT TREAT.

He's not aloof, but self-contained. Curious and cautious. So I decided to see if we could do leash-training. Pooka, alone of all the other cats, had the badassitude to walk around on a leash. He was also a big cat, and we still have all his gear. We started Skugga at about 13 weeks--not going outside, just getting used to the harness. Then a little outside. Nothing too regular, because putting the harness on was a crisis, and I didn't want him to hate it.

Then, as with all things Skugga, there's a tipping point. One day, nope. The next day, it's all good. We went from duck and sulk at the harness to sitting by the harness-drawer and meeping (because he has the tiniest meow, like he still is that 5 lb kitten) and looking hopeful.

And now it's a nightly event, our perambulation. (Which, between the time I started this draft and the time of posting, has doubled in distance and gone from cautious meander to determined patrol of the borders, and also climbing the cork trees.)

ants

We were invaded yesterday. Nous was making dinner and felt something crawling on his leg. When he checked, he discovered it was several somethings. I noticed this--interrupted the liberation of the Citadel, in fact--when he starting loudly brushing his legs (he can do that. It's a superpower) and announcing that We Have Ants.

And we did, indeed, have ants: a column of tiny little brown ants marching from the hinge-corner of the front door, past the welcome mat and around the shoe-rack, gentle bearing right at the shoe-rack, then a harder right into the kitchen just past the alter. And then they promptly disappeared under the dishwasher, with the occasional sideways step into an empty cat bowl. This was an organized, orderly procession, maybe 3 inches wide and, well, a good 15 feet long.

Not okay.

welcome in my houseAnts are a feature of SoCal, and by feature, I mean unfortunate inevitability. We had them in student housing in the bathroom; they came up through the gaps between pipes and plumbing fixtures. They're kind of everywhere. And while I have no special objection to bugs, the rule is Outside Unless You're A Spider, Motherfucker.

Spiders, however, have a tendency to die in this house, since Skugga is Enemy of All Things With Exoskeletons except ants, which he was more interested in observing. Clearly we would need to find another solution.

So here is how you stop ants from trafficking all over your apartment, without poison.

Murder.
Cinnamon.
Vinegar.

Kill a bunch of ants. Leave their little corpses where you smashed them. Their compatriots will find them by the trail of the distressed hormones. Put cinnamon (or garlic powder, or peppermint) along where they're getting in. I sprinkled cinnamon all over the carpet procession. There was immediate panic.

There was more panic in the kitchen, where Nous was gleefully smashing ants.

Then we removed the cat bowls from the fray and... left it. It's hard to step around ants in your kitchen, but patience is key. The ants cleaned up the majority of the corpses. Within an hour, they were gone. No more ants anywhere. I washed the floor, and then I sprayed some vinegar under the dishwasher, just in case. I left a pile of cinnamon at their initial entry point, so the front door area smells like autumn baking and not The Hell That Is Summer.

And that ends the story of the ants.

at home with monsters

...is the name of the Guillermo del Toro exhibit at LACMA right now. OF COURSE I took Tuesday off manuscripts and research and went to see it with Nous.

the faun from Pan's Labyrinth






del Toro allegedly calls his home in Los Angeles the Bleak House, not because the décor is bleak (I suppose it is, if you're easily disturbed), but because it's full of unexpected twists and rooms. You turn a corner, you think you know where you're going, and --nope. Look. Another cranny, with and things in it. Beautiful things. Fantastic things. OMGWTF things.





another creepy dude from Pan's Labyrinth












The exhibit contains pieces from his personal collection, and it chronicles and illustrates (literally) his creative process. There are notebooks (his notebooks! so amazing), concept art that he's drawn, concept art that other people have drawn, original art from Mike Mignola and Will Eisner, old books, Giger paintings, Moebius paintings... and the seller for me, the life-sized models of the monsters from his films.

Imagine having THEM in your house.



But there were also just beautiful things. Strange things. My camera phone (and the photographer wielding it) cannot do justice to the play of light and shadow in these paintings.




And then the concept art from Sleeping Beauty. Ah, Maleficent. I always did like you. (It's the dragon. I wanted to be Smaug, see, so Maleficent was just about perfect in my estimation. And clearly maligned. Stupid prince, anyway.)

Blog Tour Round-up for Enemy and Outlaw

You may have noticed I've not been posting here much. There's a reason! I was posting all over other places. So here is a list:


Five Books Where the Dead Don't Stay That Way

Institutions As Villains - About the world-build of Enemy and Outlaw

Silent Waters: Narrative Music - a challenge from Hardboiled to relate a story told in lyrics; this story comes from Finnish myth, and the band, Amorphis, figures heavily in my playlists for writing On the Bones of Gods

Interview at The Qwillery about Enemy

Imagining the Real (and Knowing What You Write)

Interview at SFFWorld about Outlaw

And a kick-ass review of Enemy from To The Shelves 

i've been through the desert in a mini named red jenny

the desert is bright and full of sunlight

Whirlwind trip back to see the parental units (both sets). We've learned that we hate stopping unnecessarily, so we typically do a 12 hour driving day first, then the shorter one so we have time to "do something" at the destination.


This time, the long hell day was the first and the very last. We also had an adventure (for us), and took the I-40 route back from Colorado, rather than I-70 across the mountains. Nous wanted to go to Santa Fe, so we did that (and had excellent rellenos and a thunderstorm and a mini-hike through the pinon pines above St. John's College). And I have a hoya cutting to root and nanking cherry bushes to sprout, gifts from the BIL, that I will endeavor not to kill.







Utah Arizona
heart-home, inbound.  snow! into the storm
at Flagstaff
Now... I have a manuscript to rescue from itself. I suck at talking about projects in progress, but Nous is patient, and gods know there is nothing else to do during large stretches of Nevada, Utah, and Arizona. He mostly let me talk out loud, and now I think I have the problem pinned down. Now to fix it. (Or trash the whole thing entirely and start over. That remains on the table, too.) The original idea was more...word word word... romantic, I guess. What started writing itself became markedly less so, very rapidly (not a surprise), but it needed a Why. Nous helped me out with that. The How is still my problem, but it's always my problem.

The hours of forced inactivity (read: thinking) may have helped. I reminded myself that Enemy has a file of 40K discarded words, scenes, chapters: places the story went that did not work out, and that had to be pruned. So far I have a manuscript full of motivational holes and a small list of scenes that need to be written before I can move forward (at least in my own head). I am generally a Finish It sort of person, except with my writing. Then it's all about sitting in the land of the possible, exploring permutations, wondering about maybes and might-bes, and generally being reluctant to commit. I also reminded myself that sometimes you have to write 40K words before you can figure out what you need to be writing, and that it's okay to throw things away. I'm not on a deadline. And I can always make more words.