Lili St. Crow's Blog, page 199

Usual Cure

If I get my morning wordcount in, I can go to the hardware store and get the single piece I need to repair the dishwasher door. The glamour of the writing life, right there. I also have a mad idea of pricing wheelbarrows and concrete forms–there’s a space in the backyard where grass won’t grow, so I’m thinking a tiny cobblestone-concrete patio with moss coming up between the stones. Irish moss, perhaps. Given the sheer amount of acid pine needles that fall in the yard, it’s probably for the best, and the entire northern half of the yard could probably use a labyrinth or a quarters-garden. I’m still thinking and planning that.

This summer will be busy, and if I’m working in the yard it will mean I have plenty of dirt under my fingernails to grow a novel or two. I’ve been feeling scraped-thin lately (butter over too much bread, like Mr Baggins) and yesterday things somewhat bottomed out. To restore my faith and confidence, I turned to my usual cure: telling other people what I admire and like about them, and thanking them. It works wonders when one is down very, very low.

A good session of writing a trunk novel (there may or may not be Conan the Barbarian fanfic running around inside my head) and watching Seven Samurai helped, too. The Princess came in, and we marveled at Kurosawa together. He takes exactly as long as every scene should take, no more and no less, and he isn’t afraid to stay on a character’s face and show the myriad small changes that can happen in even the most phlegmatic of people. He drew out the very best in his actors, too, though it must have been gruesomely hard on them–sort of like one actress’s (I think it was Michelle Williams?) comment on Ang Lee, that he isn’t satisfied until he gets the raw emotional honesty in a scene, and it can break an actor down. Difficult work.

I suppose writing is somewhat easier, in the sense that there’s not a pile of people around watching you bare yourself while you’re creating. The jabbing and jeering comes later. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure it’s easier. Any sort of creation is like walking naked down the street, really.

With that cheerful thought, I’ll get back to the superspies and a shootout, probably in El Paso. That’s another thing about writing–the pleasures are largely solitary, but my goodness they are deep.

Over and out.

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Who’s Watching Over Boo Radley?

This morning: my 9th fastest tempo run, according to Runkeeper. Performed in the rain, of course, since I waited to see if the soggy was just a squall I could wait out and finally decided fuck it, let’s go. Now that I’m finally dry and settled with some tea, the rain’s stopped. Miss B doesn’t care–she’s wash and wear, having an amazing Aussie coat that shrugs off dirt and water with astonishing ease. She is currently a little damp and just a tad fluffy, and supremely happy with the world since she had bacon grease with brekkie and a run with Mum.

The news broke this morning about a “new” Harper Lee novel. At first my response was “RING ALL THE BELLS, HOLY HELL, THIS SOUNDS GREAT! PREORDER IT NOW NOW NOW!”

And then…I started thinking, and I arrived very much where this Jezebel writer did.

“The existence of ‘Go Set a Watchman’ was unknown until recently, and its discovery is an extraordinary gift,” said HarperCollins publisher Jonathan Burnham in a statement.

But was the gift willingly given?

“After much thought and hesitation I shared it with a handful of people I trust and was pleased to hear that they considered it worthy of publication,” Lee said in a statement of her own. “I am humbled and amazed that this will now be published after all these years.”

That might seem like confirmation of Lee’s willing involvement in Go Set a Watchman’s publication, except for the fact that we know about Lee’s messy relationship with her attorney (who, again, often gets her to sign things that she doesn’t understand) and Lee’s own publicity-shy character. (Jezebel)

What emerges after a little digging (try this Vulture piece first, then go see what else you can find) is a situation that sounds incredibly sketchy. Harper Lee lost her sister, the lawyer Alice Lee, who Harper called her “Atticus in a skirt,” and since then, things have gotten shadier and shadier, culminating in this “mystery” find of a Mockingbird prequel and its sale.

Now I’m torn over whether or not I want to buy it. On the one hand, To Kill A Mockingbird is transcendent, and I’d gladly read other things Ms Lee wrote–if I was sure she wanted them read. On the other hand, an almost-century-old woman is in assisted living, signing papers or statements she may or may not understand, may or may not be pressured to sign, and the things she valued all her life–her privacy and her decision to let the one book stand alone–are being broken. I dread the thought of a frail Lee being milked as a cash cow, I loathe the thought of being part of such a milking. It doesn’t seem ethical.

I haven’t decided yet; it bears some more thinking. But I have to say, right now I’m leaning towards the idea that it would be an insult to Lee to participate in this frenzy.

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Less Serious Business

Oh, what fools we mortals be. No reason in particular for me to realise this now, but it’s been in my head all morning. Motherhood is, among other things, an education in just shaking your head and carrying on, figuring “it’s mildly weird but not hurting anyone.” One’s metric for deciding “how worried will I get about this” goes something like: 1. Is anyone dead? 2. Is anyone bleeding? 3. Is anyone otherwise injured? 4. Will anyone die from this in the next 24 hours? 5. Is there major property damage? If all that is no, there’s no need for crisis mode. It’s taken me a long time to stop using crisis mode for small things, mostly because I was trained very harshly, from a very young age, to consider any small change in an adult’s mood as a potential explosion.

I had a big long post about serious business in my head for today, but it’s been pretty grim around here lately, so I’m shelving that. The weekend was full of all sorts of crazy–I unfortunately had to go to the grocer’s on Friday so the Princess could make homemade Nutella as a birthday present for one of her friends. It was madness, and the madness didn’t end there. I suppose American football (bread and circuses, bread and circuses) makes people a little odd. Sunday morning, while I was out for my run, I was almost run over twice by weaving drunkards who had decided to kick the game off early. I saw other instances of bad driving and some more out and out “too blitzed to be on the road.” Add insomnia Saturday night to the mix, and I was ready for the weekend to be over, over, over.

So today, I have tea, bread dough is rising, and I’m washing sheets. (It’s about damn time, I didn’t get a lot of housework done yesterday.) I’ve figured out why the superspies-with-viruses book wasn’t working–I was writing the wrong scene. Too much boyfriend and not enough roller derby. I’m about to shake that up with a convenience-store robbery and some good old-fashioned fisticuffs. Also, there’s citric acid in the bread dough, since I want more sourdough tang than I’m getting, even with starter or levain.

I also realized, recently, that I hadn’t been filling the creative well enough. I can’t keep up a breakneck writing pace without giving the internal engine visual and textual food. So I’m building more movie-watching and much more reading into my schedule, even if it means I have to meet a deadline a week early instead of a month. (TORTURE. SHEER TORTURE. I like being early.) I binged on Kurosawa and Bogie/Bacall, and now I’m needing something pretty but without a lot of plot meatiness. Which means at some point today I’m to go through the DVDs, to find pretty shinies for the Muse to snack on.

As for textual, well, Ulysses isn’t really feeding much. I enjoy the allusions, of course, and the glimpses of historical Dublin. But I find Stephen Dedalus an insufferable, pretentious twit of an authorial insertion. Adulterous Bloom isn’t much better–I can see why Penelope/Molly would cuckold him–but at least his POV is enjoyable. I understand the literary devices Joyce is playing with, but the aroma of dead white man in the pages makes the game rather less enjoyable. I’ll finish it–I can’t do otherwise, now it’s a personal labor, much as cleaning the Augean stables–but having finished it, I doubt I’ll ever revisit. Historical and informative, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I can’t wait to go back to Pliny. Who is a dead white guy too, but at least he didn’t indulge in such blatant authorial insertion.

And there we have it. A lean banquet indeed.

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Exothermic

Hellebore Plans

Hellebores! One of my favorites, also called Lenten Rose. I plan on planting one along the back fence, in the cedar shade, for every year I’ve lived here. Now’s a good time to get them in the ground.

Preorders Ahoy!

News! And lots of it. I got this in the mail yesterday–an advance uncorrected proof of Midian Unmade, which yours truly has a story in. It was lovely to hear from Joseph Nassise that the anthology had gotten off the ground, and the story, Bait and Switch, is one that had been knocking around inside my head ever since he told me there was a chance at a Nightbreed anthology. It was loads of fun to take Barker’s universe for a spin. It comes out in August, but you can get your preorder on now.

Also upcoming is the last Tale of Beauty & Madness (which was not my idea for a series title, I preferred Human Tales): Kin. It’s due out in the very beginning of March, and should you feel so inclined, you can preorder it as well. Preorders are very helpful to authors, they make for good arguments when contract time comes back around, so if you’ve been waiting for another book from me, might I suggest Ruby’s story? It’s the last in the trilogy, and my last YA offering for a while. I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to writing young adult stuff.

Last but not least, there’s Trailer Park Fae. (Again, not my idea.) It’s due out near the end of June, and again, preorders are very helpful to authors.

I’m also working on self-pubbing a retelling of my favorite fairy tale of all–Beauty and the Beast. That process is moving ahead smoothly, and I should have more news about it soon. I’m playing with the idea of releasing it in paper first, ebook later, but we’ll see. I’m also offering editing packages again.

Thus concludes my not-very-frequent shilling of my creative wares. One of the things about publishing is that it’s a waiting game, a book takes a while to move through any quality-control process, and I can’t imagine just throwing a manuscript out unedited as some people seem to be doing nowadays. I am, however, considering posting a trunk novel on Wattpad under another name, just so you can see what unedited raw stuff looks like. We’ll see.

For now, though, I’ve two virus-soaked superspies to get into trouble, and some recovery from yesterday’s frantic rushing around to attend to.

See you in a bit, dear ones.

Skeleton Right

Fireside issue #20 is out! Which means another chapter of She Wolf and Cub is out, too. Abby and Geoff, sandworms (so many homages to Dune in this thing, OMG) and gore, oh my.

Yesterday was full of appointments that necessitated the leaving of the house, which went as well as could be expected. We’re having a rather mild winter, not counting the icecapades earlier, so there was actual sunlight. That’s one thing about the Pacific Northwest–one day you can have all your windows down, the next you’re in a sweater because it’s chilly. The favas are doing incredibly well, and I’ve put the paperwhites back into the ground where they belong. In another couple years they’ll bloom again, this time outside with their white Narcissus habits. I’m considering a cold frame or two, just to extend the growing season for greens.

For today, though, there is tea, and words that must be written. I finally got those two characters out of the kissing scene and into a pickup truck, and I suspect the book feels disjointed because so far I’ve skipped over the secondary characters and the “villain” POVs. I tend to fill out the primary character arcs first, then go in and do the secondary–mostly because each “secondary” scene has to pull double its own weight, teaching us something about the secondary characters AND about the main shape of the plot. I don’t want to go back and begin the interstitial weaving just yet. I want the skeleton right before I drape the flesh on it, so to speak.

And with that lovely mental image, I shall leave you, dear Readers. There’s a couple book releases coming up, so stay tuned for that.

Over and out.

Another Present

I almost brought this sock monkey home, in order to give it to my writing partner as a cadeau de tourment. Unfortunately, he had a foul enough mouth to give even me pause, so i refrained, for which my writing partner was very grateful.

It just means I’ll have to find her another present, that’s all. *evil laughter*

Interpretive Gif Dance

*sigh*

My day started like this:

With Odd Trundles beginning to groan at 5am that he needed to peeeeeeeeeeee, despite having been out before bedtime last night. His real goal, of course, was climbing onto my bed when he got back inside, because I will occasionally on a Sunday let him do so. The fact that I did not this morning–I wanted another little bit of sleep before my alarm rang–has made the Cruelest and Most Unjust of Humans.

And then there was this:

What happens when a car backfires while Lili and B are running? LOTS OF ADRENALINE, THAT’S WHAT. Also, getting home and checking email, and taking a deep breath to open the filtered emails, and seeing the toxicity in there. Dear trolls, maybe you should take up knitting? You seem a little wound up.

And now it’s like this:

Because I accidentally dumped a quarter-cup of heavy cream in my tea, and couldn’t drink it, as my arteries began screaming as soon as I looked at it. (Waste of a good cuppa. Sigh, again.) And Trundles is groaning because he’s finished his morning nap but Miss B is exhausted from running so she won’t play with him, the Mad Tortie is wailing to go outside, I have on three layers of eyeliner already, and these characters won’t stop kissing.

Wake me up when it’s bedtime.

Like Scrubbing

It’s a day to curl up after I’ve chipped whatever words I can out of my cranium, watch the threadbare winter sunshine out my office window, and take a few deep breaths. The characters aren’t speaking, and I’ve worked around them as much as I’m able. There’s also the damn cabinets to get done. I am determined, the task has assumed an importance completely out of proportion to its necessity.

Which probably means that I need some manner of soothing repetitious motion, like scrubbing, to jostle the words loose and make the characters start talking again. A walk might do it, but the prospect of being cheerfully hailed by other people out with their pets or just taking a constitutional makes me shrivel a little inside. Solitude is what’s needed, my own warm nest.

So. I have a cup of ginger peach tea, a few more sentences to string in Cal and Trinity’s story, and then it’s to the cupboards. I wish you, dear Reader, just as much peace and tranquility as I expect to have today. (Note I don’t say “as much as I get.” I’m well acquainted with the curse such a phrase might call down.)

Over and out.

Too Soon To Tell

I finished Killer Elite last night, and am attempting Ulysses next. Which will be a tiny bit of a change, I’m sure. Joyce doesn’t interest me as much as he probably could–except for his love letters to Nora–mostly because he’s one of the Dead White Men of Litrachur. (And frankly, Nora’s vanished letters interest me much more.) All the same, reading to understand allusions other authors have made is good for one’s soul, and one should try things one suspects one will dislike regularly, in order to keep a certain flexibility.

Other than that, work continues, as usual. I was a trifle surprised yesterday when someone labeled me a “hater” for saying “you might want to think about why your mind immediately went that, good luck.” Of course, the instant one doesn’t respond the way someone else thinks one should, the labels start to fly fast and furious. I noticed this in the most recent breakup as well. Most people have a script, and if you don’t give your line, they suddenly become towering, rage-filled petty dictator-directors, throwing the pages at you and screaming “you’ll never work in this town again!”

My response to that has become strangely blasé. Mostly because I grew up in an environment with constantly changing “scripts” roiling around me and the adults in my life ready to severely punish any wrong answer. I’ve become troublingly good at unpacking the response the other person truly wants, not just what they say they want. (Like any sharp tool, it cuts both ways–but that’s say it with me, another damn blog post.) The luxury of therapy is that I’ve trained myself to stop and make a conscious decision to give what the other person wants or not, and feel much less guilty when I misread someone else’s agenda. Gone are the days when I jump simply because someone applies the electrodes of “I NEEEEED this from you!” Which is a pretty damn good feeling, actually.

That all brings me to another article I read yesterday, on what grown children might “owe” to abusive, toxic, or destructive parents. I went round and round, in therapy, over my feelings of obligation versus my need to keep my psychic, emotional, and physical integrity intact so I can care for those I have a greater obligation to–namely, my children and the one or two people who have proven themselves to be trustworthy friends. In the end, the guilt is less than the damage that would be done if I ever re-engaged with any number of toxic people. I suppose getting older means weighing two evils in just such a manner, and choosing the less cumulatively calamitous one.

Outside, the hyacinths and crocuses have lifted their little green heads. Daffodils have begun showing signs of tiptoeing forth as well. It’s a bit early, but after our last deep freeze winter’s been very mild, all things considered. It might turn out to be a good year for the garden.

Of course, getting older also means you look at a sentence like that and constantly think, well, it’s too soon to tell.

Indeed.

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Indy Charlie