Lili St. Crow's Blog, page 206

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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On Endings

Let's talk, dear Readers. Let's talk about endings. (If you haven't read Reckoning yet, I'll do my best not to spoil you.)

I'm getting a lot of hatemail about the ending to Reckoning. Plenty of people are "disappointed" with "who Dru ended up with." Really? Seriously? You honestly think that I would write a series where the end-all and be-all of a teenage girl's life would be who she was dating? I don't think who a girl is "with" defines her at any point in her life, teenage or otherwise. I have always questioned whether Dru needs to "end up" with anyone. Especially after she had to deal with the zombie that was her father, being hunted across a continent, and several other situations that were far more important, not to mention, oh, life-threatening. Who a girl decides she likes is not the hugely important thing our society would have one believe it is.

And let's look at her options! There's Graves, who was living in a mall, has abuse issues, and ends up Broken. Dru is wonderful at fixing things, but a relationship with someone you need to "fix" does not normally end well. There's Christophe, who knew her mother, and is still a teenager inside (psychological standards for djamphir, he often notes, notwithstanding) and who is also controlling and does not give her the information she needs to make her choices. Is there anyone else? Well, there could be–but there's the little matter of her running for her life. This isn't conducive to dating. The wonder is that she had time to think about her options at all.

Other things are mentioned in the hatemail. You think I have left unanswered questions, dear Readers?

I beg to differ.

Why does Christophe smell the way he does? It could be because he's a glutter. It could be because Dru's "touch" is telling her (like it warned her of danger before she bloomed) that he is safe. It could be that her "touch" is telling her he's not safe. It could be he's a good genetic match for her. It could be that he wears a pie-filling cologne. You are encouraged to believe any combination of the above, or to bring your own answer to the question.

I like giving you options, dear Reader. Questions with only one answer are sometimes boring, and don't invite you to spend time and thought on their ramifications.

Other questions arise–whose was the blond hair in her room in Betrayals? Was it Dibs? Anna? Some other wulfen or a traitor djamphir who died in the fire afterward? What really happened to Graves when Sergej had him? What is the bonding that happens after three gulps of blood shared between djamphir? Again, the answer to the last is complex. It could result in an inability of either djamphir to attack the other. It could bind a djamphir to a svetocha and turn him obsessive. It could show a svetocha everything about a certain djamphir, and hence expose secrets most of them don't want out in the open. Any combination of the above is, as I said above, likely and I highly encourage you to decide for yourself.

I have left you breadcrumbs. It is, in the end, all a writer can do.

I do not rule out returning to Dru's world. I have certain foggy notions of a Maharaj girl's story. But Dru has grown up. When she lets someone go, and feels the peculiar adult wrenching of realizing that she cannot fix everything, that she cannot make everything better, that indeed, despite what she thinks, she cannot and is not required to fix everything…that is when adulthood happens, for her. When one is young, one has an absolute lack of proportion. One thinks anything that goes wrong in the world is one's own fault, because of course the world revolves around you. Growing up shows you that the world doesn't revolve around you (hopefully) but the added lesson that you don't have to fix everything is one I think a lot of girls miss out on. Our society, after all, says we are responsible for fixing everything for other people in a hundred-plus overt and covert ways. Or maybe I'm just projecting, because it is a lesson I am struggling to learn even now, thirty*mumble* years into my current tenure on this marvelous, painful, beautiful life.

I understand you may be frustrated, dear Reader. My stories do not often have neat, happy, Disney-esque endings. The fact that you are so incredibly involved, and so unwilling to let go of Dru and her world, humbles and comforts me. I take the demands to write one more Dru book as a sign that I succeeded in a writer's job of making the reader care. I am sorry for your frustration, and Dru's frustration too. And I believe with everything in me that I gave Dru the right ending.

I would not have written otherwise.

I owe you, dear Reader, no less than my absolute very best with each story. I owe you the last drop of heart's blood if I am going to write these stories. I can give no less, and I furthermore owe you what I believe with every fibre of my being is the right ending. Not the happy ending. Not the ending I want, or someone else might want, or the characters might want. The right ending. Even if it hurts.

I ached for everyone involved at the end of Reckoning, for different reasons. I was tempted to end it differently, but that would have been punking out and betraying you, dear Reader. Rage at me all you like, but I will never, ever betray you in that manner. I just can't do it, and furthermore, I won't do it. There is my line in the sand.

That is all. Over and out.

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An Ill And Tired Little Mongoose

So I've been glassy-eyed with mild fever for a few days, aching all over, and with a nose not as full of snot as it could be. It took my writing partner saying, "Maybe it's flu?" for me to figure out that perhaps, yes, some sort of virus. Great. Just wonderful.

What the hell? I hate being sick. I don't have time. I have climbing to do, running to get out of the way six days a week, revisions packed tight for the next six months and oh yes, two books to write in the next six months too. (Well, six to ten months. STILL.) My immune system needs to get on the stick, for heaven's sake.

Let's see, what can I report? Copyedits for the first Bannon & Clare were finally bled dry and sent in a neat package back to the editor today. The Little Prince has expressed a desire to take karate classes. (This is going to be fun.) I am still addicted to Glitch. (Also fun.) It's concert season for the Princess's choir. (Oh God.) Plus, I am eying the upcoming holidays the way a mongoose eyes a cobra she's not quite sure she's big enough to bite to death. (I could write about why my childhood makes me view holidays as poisonous, but that would take more energy than I have today.) Oh, and one of those books I have to write? Deals with plague. OH, THE IRONY.

I know I should write the last half of the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. It's just…release hath followed upon release, and I went on an Internet semi-fast for a little bit. Just didn't have the bandwidth, plus, it is my firm belief that a writer should not respond to reviews, and if one cannot keep one's mouth shut it is best and easiest just not to look. This is the same principle I avoid watching television on.

On the other hand, the smell of autumn and falling leaves does not disturb me nearly as much as it has in years past. The Moon last night smiled down at me as I jaunted out to the rubbish bin, and it struck me that at this time two years ago, I was just barely afloat; a year ago I was healing but still fragile. The faith that time will heal a wound or two is a fragile thing, and cold comfort at best, but it kept me going during the dark times. (Along with a healthy dose of tough love from my Chosen Family.) It is always a shock to look back and see how far one has come.

Now if I could just kick this virus in its snot-soaked, irritating little nads and send it crying away, I'd be all set.

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In Battalions

So last night's fall at the bouldering wall seems to have no lasting soreness. It was just one of those sessions where I was clumsy all the way through, always fun. I went up to grab a hold from an undercling, missed it, and tumbled. Fortunately I was relaxed when I hit, I landed on a well-cushioned part of my anatomy (seriously, you'd think I would have no ass left with as much as I run, but OH NO) and I rolled. I stretched out after the session, came home, drank a bunch of water, took ibuprofen, and went to bed smelling of homemade Tiger Balm. (My writing partner has many, many talents.) This morning…no soreness, barely even a bruise. Which is good, because I'm climbing again today (I promised) and dealing with copyedits, which means a lot of sitting on that tender, much-abused buttock.

I know, I know, you really wanted to read about that.

Let's see, what's the news? I have a story, Gallow's Rescue, in the just-release Courts of the Fey. Like Eleni, Wolf, and Tarquin, Gallow and Robin have a much longer history, and I wish I could write their story. Trailer-park fey and epidemic disease, who wouldn't want that?

Also, I'm over at John Mierau's place talking about Frank Herbert's Dune, the Litany, and how I wanted to be a Bene Gesserit. And the winners of the belated release day prizes are up!

Other than that, I'm hip-deep in copyedits for the first Bannon & Clare, and the water is rising fast. Plus I've got to update the Books page, and that sound you hear? It's the gears inside my head gummed up by snot. That's right, I'm coming down with a cold.

Not in single spies, but in battalions. By the way, if you have a good smartphone app that can alert one to changes in barometric pressure, let me know? I'm tired of the pressure changing and half my head wadding up like agonized tinfoil.

Anyway, I'm going to climb, fill myself to the brim with fluids and vitamin C, and fillet more of these copyedits until they are bled dry. The crankiness of physical misery might even add something.

Over and out…

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Reckoning Release!

Weren't we just here, where I tell you how nervous release days make me? It seems like we were just here. *blinks*

I am proud and happy (as well as knocking knees with fear) to tell you that Reckoning, the fifth and final in the Strange Angels series, is officially released!

[image error] Nobody expected Dru Anderson to survive this long. Not Graves. Not Christophe. Not even Dru. She's battled killer zombies, jealous djamphirs, and bloodthirsty suckers straight out of her worst nightmares. But now that Dru has bloomed into a full-fledged svetocha – rare, beautiful, and toxic to all vampires – the worst is yet to come.

Because getting out alive is going to cost more than she's ever imagined. And in the end, is her survival really worth the sacrifice?

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

I am sad to be saying goodbye to Dru. From the first moment I saw her standing in her kitchen, staring at the back door while a zombie's fleshless finger tapped against the glass, I've known that she would grow up and continue on. It's very bittersweet, but I'm proud of her. She's learned a lot along the way, and through it all she's remained that same smart, driven, incredibly loyal girl. Growing up is never easy–it's even less easy when there's vampires looking to tear your head off and betrayal lurking around every corner.

But I think she's done just fine, and I'm glad she has exactly the right ending.

Now I'm going to go be a puddle of frayed release-day nerves. See you around.

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The Battle of Pelennor Sunroom

"SHIT!" I screamed, as I skidded around the corner into my kitchen from the garage. "NO NO NO! NOOOOO!"

The squirrel wasn't listening. The dog, attached to the couch, was barking hysterically.

When we last saw Neo, he had voiced his battlecry and flung himself into my unprotected house. This was a fine way for the goddamn rodent to repay me for not leaving him in the road to die. Gratitude may be a virtue, but I really am beginning to think it's one this little asshole doesn't possess.

Several thoughts flash through one's head when one has inadvertently let a demonic tree-rat into one's house. Let me see if I can list them in some kind of coherent order.

1. OH JESUS CHRIST SQUIRREL RABIES AUGH!!!

2. None of this would have happened if I'd left him outside like a less goddamn charitable person would have.

3. A FUCKING SQUIRREL IN MY HOUSE!

4. How am I going to clean this up? Will bleach get squirrel out of the linoleum?

5. AUGH! SQUIRREL! WILD ANIMAL CRAWLING WITH FILTHDISEASENASTY IN MY KITCHEN!

6. I am really questioning my own intelligence at this point.

7. HOW DID HE GET OUT OF THAT FUCKING CAT CARRIER?

8. Thank God the dog is tied up–wait.

9. AND MY DOG IS TIED UP AND CAN'T DEFEND HERSELF AUGH!

10. The cats! OMG the cats!

11. HE KICKED ONE CAT IN THE HEAD, WHAT IS HE GOING TO DO TO THE OTHERS?

…you get the idea.

I found out I was carrying an axe handle, and put on the brakes in the middle of my kitchen, barely aware I was screaming obscenities.

What? The axe handle? They're cheap, they make good weapons, and you can prop them near doors. I like having reasonable weapons in each room, and something within arm's length at any moment. I AM PARANOID, OKAY? DON'T JUDGE. The axe handle had been right by the garage door. I'd picked it up by the wrong end, but it can still be a bludgeon. At least it wasn't the Sekrit Weapon. And I just couldn't throw it, because with my luck it would go straight through a window, and explaining that to anyone who came to fix it would just not…wait, where was I?

Oh yeah. Middle of the kitchen, jerked up short like a dog on a chain, the chunk of wood in my left hand dangling once my arm dropped. The obscenities cut off midstream, I choked on something that sounded suspiciously like "–damn hamsterf!cking crazyass rodent!" and froze.

An uneasy silence fell.

The cats, you see, had come to investigate the ruckus. Sweet dumb Tuxedo Kitty, who had been kicked in the head by Neo lo these many ages ago, Lemur!Cat, and Cranky Old Duck Cat. He's our oldest, he's cranky, and if you surprise him he actually quacks. Like a duck. (Look, all my animals are strange. I can't help myself, I pick up the rejects and the outcasts. This explains not only the Duck Cat, the Stupid Tuxedo, and Miss B, but also my dating life. ANYWAY.)

Cranky Old Duck Cat, his oddly-shaped ears flat against his head, crouched and examined this New Thing In The House. He regarded it exactly the way he regarded Miss B when I brought her home. "WHAT IS THIS THING?" he grumble-quacked. "IT LOOKS SNACK-SIZED. PROBABLY TOO MUCH TROUBLE, THOUGH. WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE NOW, MONKEY?"

Tuxedo Kitty, eyes wide and tail twitching, was near the dining-room table. "I THINK I REMEMBER YOU," he was saying. "I'M ALMOST SURE I DO. HANG ON."

Lemur!Cat, huge, long, and lean, with a face that looks like a tree lemur's (cat's eyes are HUGE, OMG) and all the mental horsepower of a fat wet rock, stood chewing air and regarding this intruder with a gleam in his eye I'd seen a few times before. It was the gleam I saw, accompanied by the throaty pleaseohplease noises he was making now, right before he launched himself at the sunroom window to try to get at the birds at the feeder hanging outside.

He still hasn't grasped the nature of the barrier that bonks him on the nose each time. (Look, he had some problems growing up, okay?)

Lemur!Cat's haunches went up. He crouched, and Neo, his tail twitching, stood at the edge of the rug. I cleared my throat, nervously, and nobody moved. "Okay," I said, quietly. "Let's just all calm down and think about–"

"I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!" Neo took the only route of escape left, through the almost-closed glass door into the sunroom. I leave it open a bit so the cats can get out to their kibble and litterboxes, but closed enough so Miss B can't get her fat ass through it. (She has a distressing fondness for Catbox Roca.) I bolted for the door, to shut it before the cats got through. If he was in the sunroom I could go out through the garage and open the outer sunroom door, and he could get out into his kingdom once again.

I'm pretty fast, especially when spurred by adrenaline. However, I am no match for three cats. Lemur!Cat had sprung, and Tuxedo!Kitty, not wanting to be left behind, took off after him like a rocket. Crab!Kitty, dimly understanding everyone was running for the Room What's Got The Kibble, let out a yowl and sprang forth to get his fair share.

"CHRIST NO NOT THE PLANTS!" I yelled.

Right before I ran into the sunroom door. I'm just goddamn lucky the chunk of wood in my left fist didn't shatter some glass and add to the fun.

Cursing, rubbing my nose, I wrenched the sunroom door open.

My plan at that point was to get through into the sunroom, close the door behind me, and open up the door to the backyard, then figure out how to get the goddamn squirrel out. The cats would probably chase him into the wild green yonder, and once Neo had some room to maneuver, I was a bit more sanguine about the end of this little episode not involving bloodshed, broken glass, and yowling. It was the best I could come up with. It was even a cunning plan.

Unfortunately, the goddamn animals had other ideas.

Neo leapt for the high ground–the picnic table where I keep the jungle of houseplants I am nursing to health, or someone moved and I can't just throw them away, or I found them shivering on a streetcorner and just had to take them in. (SHUT UP.) Lemur!Kitty was right behind him, and the desperate battle was accompanied by my despairing cry and CrankyOldDuck!Cat quacking "ALL YOU KIDS STAY AWAY FROM MAH KIBBLE!" and Tuxedo!Kitty's yelling "I REMEMBER! I REMEMBER! YOU KICKED ME IN THE HEAD!" And Neo making THAT SOUND again, in between warcries involving "GONDOR NEEDS NO KUNG FUUUUUU!" and "FIGHT YOU AAAAAAAALLLL!"

I was still kind-of-thinking at this point. I wrenched the door to the outdoors open, trying not to break it with the axe handle, heard a terracotta pot shatter, and realized far too late that the dog was too quiet and I'd left the other sunroom door open.

From the depths of the house came help unlooked-for.

"HEEEEEEEERD IT!" she bellowed. "MUSTER THE ROHIRRIM! CALL UP THE DEAD! HEEEEEEERD IT!" She hit the doorway in a flurry of fur and baying. "I AM NO MAN!"

The quiet I'd noticed earlier? That had been her worming out of her collar. When a dog is motivated, I guess, miracles happen.

Three things that were not miraculous happened at once.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I yelled.

"THE DOG! THE DOG!" the cats screamed in unison.

And, of course, "KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!" Neo.

I now pause to inform you that Aussies, champion herding dogs that they are, consider things like a heavy-duty picnic table that weighs as much as I do not as a "deterrent" to rounding up and herding three cats and a squirrel. Nope. No, definitely not a "deterrent." More like "enjoyable but not very complex challenge."

I could only stand still…and watch.

…To be continued! Also, don't forget the giveaway over at the Deadline Dames–there's still time to win a copy of Angel Town.

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PSA, Plus Win A Copy of Angel Town!

First, the serious: Jim C. Hines on reporting sexual harassment in the SFF community. The comments also mention Gavin de Becker's The Gift of Fear, which I also can't recommend enough.

Then, the fun! Would you like to win a signed (in the US) or free (outside the US) copy of my just-released Angel Town? Or a copy of fellow Dame Keri Arthur's Darkness Rising? Or would you, perchance, like a $15 Amazon gift certificate? Would you?

Well, you're in luck! Just head over to the Deadline Dames' latest Release Day Giveaway. All you have to do to get a chance to win is comment there. The Dames, we believe in making it easy to win.

We're cool like that.

While you're there, you can also find tons of other cool things, like the Readers on Deadline contests and helpful writing/publishing advice. And as soon as we figure out how to give out pie over the Internet, we'll probably do that too.

Because we're Dames. And Dames rock.

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Angel Town!

*clears throat*

Angel Town, the last of the Jill Kismet series (for now) is now shipping from Barnes & Noble, Powell's, and Amazon.

[image error] She wakes up in her own grave. She doesn't know who put her there, she doesn't know where she is, and she has no friends or family.

She only knows two things: She has a job to do: cleansing the night of evil. And she knows her name.

Jill Kismet.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be hunched in a corner shaking, as is my usual wont on release days. You'd think they would get easier to handle, but no–I feel the same fierce anxiety each time.

Over and out!

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Monday, Hunting The Wild Copyedit

The downside of a highly productive weekend is that Monday comes and one is exhausted, washed-out, and moaning softly while staring at the pile of accumulated work on one's desk. On the upside, I got everything done, including laundry and the successful hunting, acquiring, and dragging back to the lair of Halloween costumes for the Little Prince and Princess. I did not even have to beat anyone over the head with a plastic gothic tchochke, because we were at the costume store before church ended on Sunday morning.

After church lets out, the crowds turn mean. You don't believe me? Hang out in the grocery store down my street about 11:30-11:45 next Sunday. I triple-dog-dare you. You couldn't pay me to be there, no thanks. I like my appendages all attached.

ANYWAY. Errands were run, costumes and a few decorations were acquired, the kids helped me clean up the yard and fill the bird feeders, kitchen and loos and laundry all addressed in their respective fashions, and winter thoroughly prepared for. So this morning, despite a hard run in the first real frosty-type conditions of the fall, I am blinking and feeling very much like I've been run over. I suspect another jolt of caffeine is in order before I can think about the copyedits, the revisions, the new wordcount I should produce on both the side project and the next book due…

…crap, my brain just froze. Like a rabbit sensing a coyote's hungry attention. The problem, I have decided, is in choosing what beast to leap on and slay first.

*rolls up sleeves, grabs harpoon*

Here, little tiny copyedits! Come on over here! I'm waiting for you!

See you 'round.

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Wallow, Then Get Back To Earning The Cookies

I'm going to have to write the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom next week. This week's just not conducive to sitting down and telling a really embarrassing story about a squirrel loose in my house.

What can I tell you? I'm hard at work on the next Bannon & Clare book; there are revisions for a brand-new YA sitting in my inbox, I am turning in eleven-minute miles. The revisions…well, I'm in the week after receiving the edit letter where I am just processing. I think I've written about it before–when I get an edit letter, I open it up and read. Then, I cry. I scream. I fling the pages across the room, I stamp, and I basically have a little hissy.

Look, I'm admitting it out loud. This is part of the process.

I get that out of the way, then I put the pages in a drawer and make a note in my calendar to come back in a week. Then I walk away. I bitch to my writing partner, who (having done this before) nods sagely and pours me a cuppa. I bitch to the walls while I'm taking a shower. I bitch while I'm running. That usually lasts about a day.

Then…I do my best to forget the damn thing exists.

A week later, I see my calendar, wince, and pull the pages out. I take a deep breath and put on my big-girl panties. Then I read the damn thing again.

And you know, this reading is much better. "Oh…hmmm, I suppose that is a plot hole. Yeah, and that's a good idea too. Well, I won't solve the problem that way, but the editor's right, it is a problem, and I can solve it this other way, which will also solve that. Huh. That's good feedback too…oh, hey, that came through! Awesome. All right. Well, this is doable. It isn't as bad as I thought."

I build that week's worth of crying, bitching, and forgetting into the revision schedule for every book. Every time I get an edit letter, I give myself that week. I let the editor know they won't hear from me during that week, that I need that time to process, and that I would really, really appreciate that time built into production schedule. 99% of the time, the editor understands, and is relieved that I have an actual process that I can tell them, reliably, works. (Once or twice I've had to compress that time because of tight turnaround schedules; in that case, I give myself a day or so, as much as I can. And I grin and bitch and bear it.)

So, you know all that. But these are the things I do NOT do when I get a revision letter:

I do not blog specifics about how much I hate the revision letter. I do not bitch about it on Twitter or Facebook. I don't call my editor during that week to blow off steam. I don't call my agent to complain. I do not bitch to people who are not prepared to hear me do this, who have not been warned, or who are untrustworthy. I don't use it as an excuse to stop turning in wordcount on the project I'm zero-drafting. I don't use it as an excuse to be short-tempered with friends, family, or the dog.

I do occasionally get into a blue funk thinking that the revision letter means everything I've ever written is crap, but you know, that masochistic little feeling will come around no matter what. If it's not triggered by revisions it'll be triggered by bad reviews, hormones, a bad day, or who-knows-what. The only cure I've found is to accept that feeling when it comes, buckle one's bootstraps, and say it may be crap, but it's my crap, and it's not going to be unfinished crap. So there. And then get back to work.

Every writer's revision process is going to be different. The key thing is to get some experience and figure out what that process is, be reasonable in what you ask for in terms of time and resources to get through it, and give yourself at least a day's worth of breathing time to wallow in just how meeeeeeean and unfaaaaaair it all is. Set a time limit and wallow like you mean it. Get it all out of your system so you can go back to work telling stories, polishing your craft, and earning your goddamn cookies.

Mmmh, cookies. Baking is a good way to distract oneself during the processing time, too. But that's (say it with me) another blog post.

Over and out.

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