Lili St. Crow's Blog, page 205

Introducing the Hedgewitch Queen!

Yes, you read that right. Remember that book I was talking about–the alt-France epic fantasy thing? Well, my dears, I am pleased and proud to announce the release of The Hedgewitch Queen.

"If not for a muddy skirt, I would be dead like all the rest. Dead…or worse, perhaps."

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Vianne di Rocancheil has been largely content to play the gawky provincial. As lady in waiting at the Court of Arquitaine, she studies her books, watches for intrigue, and shepherds her foolhardy Princesse safely through the glittering whirl. Court is a sometimes-unpleasant waltz, especially for the unwary, but Vianne treads its measured steps well.

Unfortunately, the dance has changed. Treachery is afoot in gilded and velvet halls. A sorcerous conspiracy is unleashed, with blood, death, and warfare close behind. Her Princesse murdered and her own life in jeopardy, Vianne must flee, carrying the fate of her land with her— the Great Seal of Arquitaine, awake after its long sleep. Invasion threatens, civil war looms, and the conspiracy hunts for Vianne di Rocancheil, to kill or to use her against all she holds dear.

A life of dances, intrigues, and fashion has not prepared her for this. Nor has it prepared her for Tristan d'Arcenne, Captain of the King's Guard and player in the most dangerous games conspiracy can devise. Yet to save her country and avenge her Princesse, Vianne will become what she must, say what she should, and do whatever is required.

A Queen can do no less.

You can read an excerpt here!

I am so excited. This is my very first ebook-first release. You know how I feel about ebooks, but I am in a position to take a bit of a chance here. Besides, I love and trust my editor. (Did you hear that, Miss DP? *cowers* Please don't hurt me.) So this is a new thing, and during the month of December the book is priced at $2.99 in the US.

I am receiving two questions right now:

* "Will it be available in my country?" Hedgewitch is available in the US, UK, and Canada; check your favourite ebook retailer. I don't know anything else; quite simply, I am not told.

* Will there be a paper version? I can only say (and I quote) "There are no plans for a paper release at this time."

Unfortunately, those are the only answers I can give. The good news is that Book 2 of the series (it is a duology and only a duology, alas), The Bandit King, will be available digitally in June 2012.

I am pleased and proud as punch, dear Readers. I hope you enjoy Vianne's adventures…

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The Proper Proportion of Girlfriend

I keep being told "less roller derby, more girlfriend" for this book, and it puzzles me. I thought the problem a lot of people had with my books was too much girlfriend. But what would I know? I'm just a cranky, bitter little writer.

Yep, you guessed it. Edit letter time! That marvelous moment when one receives a letter detailing every way your cherished manuscript is ugly, needs work, or just doesn't make the grade. To be fair, every editor I work with understands to give me a sweet little bit of fruit, something they liked about the story first–before getting down to what needs to be done to make it better. I understand the editor just wants to make it better. I want it to be better too. After a week of muttering and grousing, I'll be ready to roll up my sleeves and start tweaking, shaping, filling holes and fixing highlights.

But there's a good deal of thrashing about that happens at the moment an edit letter lands in my inbox. My writing partner is rolling her eyes apace, God bless her.

I've written before about my method of dealing with the beasts. It doesn't get any easier, though it is fractionally more familiar each time. This time around, I want to keep picking at the letter like a scab, when I know–believe me, I know–that the best thing to do is just put the damn thing down and don't look at it for a week. I give myself such very good advice…

I had a post planned about moving goalposts, and the crazymaking that happens with that, but all the running around today has just scrubbed anything substantive clean out of my pointed little head. So I'm going to shut off the wireless, get a glass of water, and return to the world of the zombie cowboy story I'm consoling myself with now. It's the only proper course. I hear the edit letter, locked in its little drawer, tempting and taunting me. Not gonna respond, though. Just not going to do it.

Not even a little peek.

Famous last words, right? Wish me strength.

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No More Moving Goalposts

I am grateful for this last Thanksgiving. There was plenty of food, my sister visited, I made a lemon cake (my first ever) from scratch, and all was pretty relaxed. There was even piiiiie. (Said with a long, drool-filled i, no less.) Growing up, holidays were incredibly stressful, because they had to be Perfect, and the goalposts for Perfect kept moving. I'm everlastingly thankful that I don't have to do that now as an adult.

I even turned in a revision almost two weeks early (I like working ahead, it soothes me) so I could concentrate on cooking and having a bit of a rest. And I could poke at the zombie cowboy story, which will probably get a fair bit of work done on it between now and my drop-dead date for beginning the next Bannon & Clare. Forcing myself to take a break is a good idea, even though my "breaks" look just the same as "work" to the untrained eye. *waggles eyebrows* The need to write is unceasing.

My irritation with the "holiday season" is likewise unceasing. Eh. I've complained about that elsewhere.

It's taken me, what, five hours to get this far on this post? I've been doing a rush edit job for a friend at the same time, and my brain has been sieved. At least there was some quiet while I focused on it. Even if that quiet made me start up suspiciously sometimes, thinking that it was too quiet and the kids were Up To Something. Soon they'll be home, and there will be the usual level of noise and frolic.

I can't wait.

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The Dragons Are Mourning

I got to push Anne McCaffrey's wheelchair once.

It was at an event in Seattle–the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, I believe. One of Anne's researchers was a friend, and I pitched in to help that weekend, as well as to attend the ceremony.

The best part was standing next to Anne, in front of a glass case holding the typed manuscript of Dragonflight. I'm not gonna lie: I cried. It was that beautiful. It was something I never in a million years I thought I would have a chance to do. It was magic.

Anne was warm and generous, with an ever-mischievous twinkle in her eye. We emailed a bit. I will never forget how gracious she was to a starting-out author. She told me she liked the Watcher series and the Danny Valentine books. I'd sign copies for her, and her researcher would send them to Ireland. It made me warm and happy inside to think she was reading them–that I could maybe, in some small way, give her a tiny bit of joy in return for the great gift of Pern, the dragons, Restoree, the coelura…such richness she gave us, so unstintingly.

Anne passed away today. The world is sadder, duller, and a little more frayed. The dragons are mourning, and the harps are stilled.

Rest peacefully, ma'am. Thank you for your books, and thank you also for having time to be gracious to a scared newbie writer. You were endlessly kind, and I thank the gods we still have your books.

Thank you. Thank you so much. Sleep well.

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On Readiness

Steel-toed boots. Eyeliner. A good-quality trenchcoat. A Zippo, just in case. A pocketknife, a handkerchief or two, electrical tape, and a tiny first-aid kit. These are the things no girl should be without. You can, I suppose, substitute duct tape, but a roll of that is kind of hard to stick in a pocket. Though I have. Once or twice. Just to be sure.

"You need chains," the Selkie told me, and proceeded to equip me with such. They go in the back of the car, along with the two first-aid kits (softcover survival and hardcover medical), the gallon of distilled water (great for washing the floormats after Sir Pewksalot gets excited), some rolled-up towels, bungees (you can never have too many) and granola bars, the roll of toilet tissue and the extra plastic bags knotted up and stuffed into a milk crate. Antibacterial handi-wipes and extra ibuprofen in the center console, a Sharpie, a tiny tub of Carmex (even if it melts, it will be okay, unlike a tube) and a multi-tool that can break a car window and slice a seatbelt…just in case. Ice scraper. Extra dog leash.

In the garage: the axe handle, the heavy bag, canned supplies and water, extras and just-in-cases on shelves next to the decorations and the boxes of author's copies. (Maybe I could chuck them at an intruder. That might work.) In the house: bokkan scattered about, the linen closet stocked with first-aid and cold medicine and light bulbs, cleaning supplies, and a weapons check every day. Going through each room and making sure that no matter where I am there is a weapon within easy reach. It doesn't have to be anything someone else would think of as a weapon, just something I can use for self-defense. Even the souvenir rocks from road-trips can be chucked at a poor soul who won't know what hit them until too late.

Baby wipes. Sleeping bags. Extra umbrella. Go bags by the front door, both for paranormals (haven't had a client in years, but still keep it packed and ready) and for emergency/disaster. Important paperwork stashed. Extra pens. Scarves hanging on pegs, gloves in a bucket just in case, flashlights checked and batteries tested. Charcoal, tealights, another survival kit, spare sheets for God knows what, a stack of rag-towels for sopping up spills or ripping into bandages. A stack of old cloth diapers, because they are useful. Cat litter, not just for the cats but also for cleanup of who-knows.

I was told, all during my childhood, that I was flighty. That I'd never make it in the real world, because my head was in the clouds. Instead, I'm the one with a stick of gum, the aspirin in the bottom of the purse, the pocketknife, the GPS or the candle or the cigarette lighter. Motherhood taught me some of that, but my instinct, even while living rough, has been to prepare, as far as possible, for whatever.

I am either going to be in great shape when the zombie apocalypse hits…or on an episode of Hoarders. It's anyone's guess which.

The weird thing is, I still think of myself as stupid and flighty. I still have the knee-jerk "oh, I'm a mess, I'm never prepared," even when I'm the one with the spit and baling wire. I am rarely caught-without in any major way, which is probably helped by the fact that I've lived in this house for a good decade now. Which is another thing–even after that long, I'm ready to move at any moment. Ready to pack and torch and flee if necessary. I always have been, but if it hasn't been necessary for the past ten years, well.

My point (and I do have one) is that readiness is a process, and that I am rarely as helpless as I am afraid I might be. As life lessons go, it's a good one. I just wish I could get it into my skull so I could relax. Well, at least fractionally. But until that happens, it's the trenchcoat and a pocket check before I leave the house. It's checking the go-bags every month and eying the linen closet weekly. It's packing for just in case and hauling what I might need if disaster, either physical or otherwise, hits. It's getting ready, being ready, as a state of mind.

What do you do to get ready, kids? I'm interested. I'm always looking for readiness tricks to shamelessly steal borrow. Yeah, borrow. That's it.

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A Warning

I know you read this.

I know you're watching.

I know you sweat sometimes, thinking of the secrets I hold. I know you think that just because you terrified me many years ago that I'm terrified now. There is, however, one thing you've forgotten.

Let me just take it from the top.

While you were busy fucking with those weaker than yourself, I was busy getting strong. Every time I hit the floor, it was only to get back up again. Every hit, every stab, every moment of abuse made me stronger. Did you not realize you were training me to become dangerous? Did you not think that one day, the small helpless thing you did whatever you wanted to would grow teeth and claws?

I got out. I got away. I glued the broken bits back together. The idiot stubbornness in me that kept me getting up off the floor every time you beat me down has become a bright polished edge. I wrapped my hilt with leather, I trained myself to push past the pain, I did what I never thought I could do. While you have contented yourself with fat laziness, carrion-picking at the bones of easy prey, I have become something else, whether I wanted to or not.

And I have been patient.

I have been so fucking patient for other people. The comfort of those still in your orbit has been my reason, because no matter how little I care for you, I care for them a great deal. I have kept secrets that eat me from the inside out like swallowed glass shards, for their sake. I have kept my mouth shut, I have swallowed rage and the unwitting insults of people who love me and just wish everyone could get along. I have relentlessly tried to be a better person than I ever thought I could be, because, after all, I did not want to be like you.

But you have gone too fucking far.

You make the mistake of thinking that because I am gentle, I am also stupid and harmless. You are, quite simply, wrong.

Here it is: you have been adrift in the shallow, warm waters of my patience. This is no longer the case. Put one toe over my boundaries again, disturb my peace, engage in that manipulation or that naked aggression you are so used to deploying, and you will no longer be in that safe harbour.

I am no longer a child you can injure with impunity. I am a grown-up. More than that, I am a mother, and my curses carry weight. More even than that, I have the ability to dial 911, and I have the ruthless willingness to do whatever is necessary should you trouble me one iota further.

I have put up with this for years. I am serving notice: that phase is over. You have been warned.

That is all.

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On Retail, Food Service, And Speshul Snowflakes

Cats and Brie

I am munching on crackers, Brie, and grapes. This means, according to the tortoiseshell cat, that I am the New Best Friend and my lap is meant to be purred upon. You'd think cats wouldn't want Brie–I mean, it's fermented, right? It can't smell good to them. I am mystified. Also, I am a little annoyed at how the cat seems to think I'm loading the cracker with Brie for her. She even tries batting at it as it's on its way to my waiting mouth. This does not end well–she gets put on the floor, as gently as possible, and springs back into my lap the instant my hands are occupied with the food again.

I suspect we will not reach a detente, but neither will we war openly.

Five miles run this morning, at about 9:39 per mile. Another personal best, fueled by the adrenaline I'm burning off from last night. Since the flu episode and adding the fact that the weather has turned positively filthy, I've bagged the 5AM runs for a while. I miss Phred the Coyote and the stillness of that early morning, but nearly spraining an ankle because I can't see what's living at the bottom of a puddle in the dark Taught Me A Lesson. (Do NOT ask. You don't want to know. Trust me.) For once, I am choosing discretion over valor. Or something.

The leaves have mostly turned, all at once. The crisp nights have given them fantastic shades of red and orange and yellow. This is the best year for leaves easily in the last decade, or maybe I'm just seeing them afresh. Things do seem a lot brighter this year than they have for a while.

I am not upset at the weather, though. People who move to the Pacific Northwest and bitch about the rain are like…people who move to LA and complain about heat and gridlock, or New York and noise. I happen to love the rain. When it taps on a roof and I'm warm and dry inside, there are few things better. The luxury of running in the rain, getting physically pretty miserable, then coming in and drying off is pretty intense. Winter also tends to be my most productive period as a writer. I guess maybe it's that there's not much else to do but hole up and tell stories when it gets gray? Plus, it's harder to guilt me into leaving my house in wintertime. I really am quite happy as a hermit, thankyouverymuch. I'm not quite a Henry-Chinaski-class lover of solitude, but it's pretty close.

It's taken me a long time to write this, between stuffing my face and fending off a very vocal and indignant tortie who wants some damn Brie, nao plz! I have the shades all drawn, and the door locked, and the house to myself while the kids are at school. The current revision–a fresh new YA–is calling my name. It needs a scene between a princess and a huntsman in a fairy housekeeper's kitchen. Also, it needs more gunfire.

It's shaping up to be a beautiful day.

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Authorfest, Shame Edition!

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Go check us out!

I promised an Authorfest post! And lo, here I am. I took tons of pictures, but unfortunately, most of them were blurry to the point of being unsuable. The fever-shakes had me pretty bad–I hope I was not contagious, since my recovery since Sunday has been pretty steep. (Still can't breathe near the top of some climbs, though.) Anyway. The majority of un-blurry photos I did manage to take were part of a shoot involving Devon Monk and a fan dressed as her character Shame.

Well, you know, if anyone had showed up dressed like Japh, I probably would have bolted for the exit. He's not an encouraging sight.

[image error] You can't quite see her, but on the left a few people back is Ursula le Guin. She's signing for a HUGE line of people. The Selkie was a trouper, and stood in that line so I could get my battered mass-market paperback of Tombs of Atuan signed. Later, when the crowd died down, I got to go stand in the line and just tell her "Thank you for Tenar." I have to admit that I broke down and cried. It was that awesome. She was marvelously kind, and the fire in her eyes is scorching as ever.

[image error] Feverish and shaking, I clambered up on a chair (not a good idea) and got this shot of the authors and some of the crowd. I would guess there were 150-200 people there in line alone, plus members of the 501st and of course, thirty-plus local authors. (There's a reason I call Peter H., the sci-fi/fantasy guy at Cedar Hills Powell's, "Saint Peter.") It was packed.

[image error] Recognize this guy? If you're one of Devon Monk's readers, you do. Readers, meet Shame. At first I thought he was one of Devon's sons' friends; I was all, "Do I need to teach this punk a lesson, Devon?" Then she explained, and he was in-character until he cracked a wide, electric smile. He was a good sport, especially with we dragged him out into the hall for a photo shoot with Devon.

Speaking of which…

[image error] Dame Devon's going to kill me, but I couldn't pass this up. Here, perfectly encapsulated, is the relationship between Author and Character. Feel the love? I bet you do.

Big thanks to Peter, and L.D. the Bookweasel, as well as the staff of Cedar Hills Crossing Powell's, for another wonderful event. Also, a big heart-you goes out to my fellow authors, all of whom were very gracious when my big mouth opened and fever-induced mania came out. (Mary Robinette Kowal, who everyone should be reading, and Barb Hendee, TEAM LEESIL, in particular, and Meljean Brook.) And, last but certainly not least, thank you, dear Readers, for showing up in force. (Especially M. Oyen, but NOT Flinx–where were you, man? *grin*) It was a lovely event; I wish my health had been better.

Now I've got to go cower in the corner in case Dame Devon comes looking for me. I promised not to post anything. *evil grin* Hopefully, she'll show some mercy, because I didn't post the video…

…oh, my, I wasn't supposed to mention that, was I?

*flees*

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Patient Bruce Wayne, Zombie Austen, and a Twofer

I may have kicked the flu virus in the nads hard enough to flee its clutches and live to fight another day. Still, I'm sucking down hot water infused with lemon and shredded ginger like there's no tomorrow. One can't ever be too sure.

I have Authorfest photos that I should put up, but that's going to have to wait.

* A lot of you write to me asking about the cover models for the Strange Angels series. Guys, I do not know. You would do better asking the publisher, Razorbill. As an aside concerning Dru and the gang, I am now getting a bumper crop of mail from teachers, librarians, and youth counselors. Dear Readers…thank you. Thank you very much. I am glad to hear what you have to say. Bless you.

* Here, have Bruce Wayne's medical report. I haven't laughed like this since Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex.

* Jane Austen might have died of arsenic poisoning. Note that the poisoning was most likely accidental, say, a medicine to help her rheumatism. Nevertheless, I have a mad idea of a lady novelist dead of arsenic, resurrected by a form of clockwork science, and shambling toward those who pique her with the jawbone of a literary critic clutched in one rotting speckled hand…

* Oh yes, and you get a twofer: two short stories by me, released through Orbit Short Fiction. Unfallen, the prime story, was inspired to a great degree by Slacktivist's (ongoing) reading of the Left Behind series so we don't have to. (Incidentally, Mr. Clark, if you would like a gratis copy, please do email me.) Also included, I believe, is The Last Job, an Izzie Borden super-short that pleases me quite a bit, and is a sort of homage to Hammett, Chandler, and Woolrich. I rather like Izzie and would love to write more shorts featuring her.

Unfallen by Lilith Saintcrow

by Lilith Saintcrow

I do realize I need to post pics from the Authorfest and write the second half of the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. I'm getting there, I promise. IN the meantime, I am fueling my recovery with pita chips and ginger water (this is the first time I've felt actually hungry in days) and sheer stubbornness.

Over and out.

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Authorfest!

A quick note/reminder: I am attending the Sci-Fi Fantasy Authorfest at Cedar Hills Crossing Powell's Sunday (tomorrow) at 4:30PM. Due to the flu I may have to leave a trifle early, but I will definitely show up and stay as long as I can to sign books and caboodle. Other fantastic and much more interesting authors like fellow Dame Devon Monk and Ursula LeGuin will be there, too. So come on out and have a good time!

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