Oh Lord. So my kid just threw up all over the bookstore. I really thought he was fine, he habitually doesn’t want to eat in the mornings so I had no warning. I made him take a couple bites of Cheerios…dropped off the teenager…went to the bookstore to help move things around.

And lo and behold, the Little Prince spews just after the Selkie says, “Is he okay? He seems a bit subdued.”

I say, “He’s probably mad at me for making him eat his Cheerios. I got him up before he was ready, we had to take the teen to school.”

Cue urpiness.

Of course, he was all happy when we got home. “Mommy, I puked on your hand.” And he laughs…then urps again and produces bile.

Lovely. I am now officially the worst mother ever. And the worst employee ever.

*hangs head*

First of all, a big “hello” to Drew out in Guam. Nice talking to you, kiddo!

This last weekend was pretty insane. The DHM is in California taking care of family business, and sad family business at that. I know these sorts of things mean closure to the people involved, but sometimes closure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes even closure hurts.

True to form, I chose therapy by baking this past weekend. Three pumpkin pies. Pan de compagne that just didn’t work out the way I wanted–I think I need to fiddly with the whole-wheat/rye flour ratios, because the first loaf was just awesome but the other loaves have been nothing to write home about, really. Maybe I’m making the refreshments too dry.

And a whole TON of sugar cookies. I did a triple batch and got a biscuit-cutter to cut them, so they all have lovely scalloped edges. And they are lovely–just a touch of browning on the bottom, and full of yellow buttery sugary goodness on top.

We also picked up pumpkins for the kids to carve. The Princess, of course, wanted the biggest she could find. The UnSullen One wanted the most deformed. And for the Little Prince, it was all about how much he could taunt his sister while making his choice.

Kids. Can’t live with the arguing, can’t taser them to make them behave…

Yes, I’m sure my weekend sounds boring to you. But since I’m still hacking and coughing up interesting bits of my lungs, boring was what I wanted. No excitement like Jill, who is now in a big pickup with a fellow hunter–a man who has a disturbing habit of closing his eyes while he drives at high speed. It’s the kind of excitement I could do without.

Anyhoo, I’m off to take a shower, then it’s time to sink back into the manuscript and see what more trouble I can get my friendly neighborhood hunter in. Sorry to be boring, but even us madcap writers have boring stretches. And are right damn glad for them, too, I reckon–as my grandfather used to say.

Happy Monday, everyone!

My weekly post is up at The Midnight Hour. It’s about the Internal Censor, and what a slippery bastard he is.

Today I am sick. The cold has settled in and decides it wants to stay awhile. I’ve taken all my vitamins and have blocked out today for laying around and recovering. Lots of fluids, maybe some toast with honey, and a lot of rest while the cold medicine makes me dizzy.

If all goes well I shall be my usual nasty self tomorrow. What a thing to look forward to.

Have a good weekend, Readers!

My nose has turned into a spigot, my head hurts, my hips ache, my muscles are sore, my throat is on fire.

Yup. I’m sick. It had to happen–the workout I’ve been giving my immune system lately could only end in Bad Things. (I have even been listening to Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, like, nonstop. A cold was inevitable.) So today is a day for chicken soup with garlic, the bread I baked yesterday, slow moving around the house, and maybe getting out the telly so the kids are taken through their own Valley of Mucus with something to distract them.

On the one hand I am cranky, and on the other hand is a substantive post I promised earlier in the week. I suppose there is no getting around it. You ready? Onward, then.

There is no such thing as writer’s block.

Read On, If You Dare »

I realized yesterday that I had to take out the explosion and put in a hellbreed. It’s funny when the Muse says, “Hrm, I didn’t quite think that through, did I. How about…this? That might work…okay, run with it.”

Certainly gives one a funny feeling to realize that even the frocking Muse is winging it. Even twenty thousand words in that’s disconcerting. At twice that (which is a good chunk of half a book) it’s marvelously entertaining for anyone who really likes to see me panic. Great fun.

On a side note, I am kind of upset that I haven’t had time to go back to my Latin. I want dead-language drills, dammit! Maybe after the first of the year. Until then I need to be a busy little bee with other things.

I’m working on another post, but these chatty little asides deserved their own place to breathe, I think.

I just realized this morning how effective I’ve gotten at filtering out atmospheric noise. The cats and children can gallop through the house screaming, and I barely notice. Or more precisely, I note it and continue with what I’m doing, intervening only if the galloping is broken by a cry of pain or a silence that means someone is Up To No Good. (Or, as the case may be, a crash and a sudden shocked quiet. Or a change in the galloping that means Someone is Messing With Someone Else.) It’s one of those mummy radar things.

Right now the Little Prince is spreading every toy from the living-room bins over every available surface in search of one particular piece of molded plastic. However, he is being distracted by make-believe with other pieces of molded plastic, especially the Darth Vader figurine. Darth is having quite the day, smashing into cars and flying to save a Ninja Turtle from a fiery crash.

Is it wrong that I see a great deal of similarity between this and the way the Muse treats her victims?

Anyway, the leaves have turned and started to fall. The wind is up today, which means it’s chilly with a bit of rain. It smells like autumn. That scent–dead leaves, cold earth going to sleep, and rain–is associated, for me, with a number of painful memories. I suppose that’s why the Jill books have heated up this time around–putting myself in the sensory wash of a desert tends to efface some of the hideousness. And it is nice to be inside, watching the trees paint the wind with whirling, seeing the rain come down but not being under its stinging-cold lash.

I may even drag the telly out and watch Paris, Texas just for the desert scenes. Just for a little contrast. Have a good day, Readers.

P.S. Darth is having severe problems. He’s been hit seven times by the same semi truck. I hope the Force is strong enough with him to keep him together during this time of trauma…

Because I am hopelessly scattered this morning, we shall have a numbered list of things. Really, I can’t string them together with any kind of coherency; and if you have any questions, dear Reader, you know what to do.

Okay. Let me ’splain.

No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

1. Saturday I worked. And the Kiwi brought me a Julia Child cookbook. Much rejoicing ensued, despite:
2. The Kiwi witnessing a horrific car accident the night before. Ugh.
3. Crab Caution was FrankNFurter onstage. (yay!) Unfortunately my stomach was acting up so I didn’t get there. (booooo!) I know Rocky Horror is the place for all sorts of behavior, but Technicolor yawning is not one of them.
4. I have decided to make a pumpkin pie. Further bulletins as events warrant.
5. Yup, Saint City Sinners is now live at Amazon. Still waiting for that first sighting in a bookstore, tho.
6. I am getting really tired of paying to send books out of the country, then getting them returned to me. Why is Customs rejecting freaking BOOKS, for gosh sakes?
7. I win at the wheat bread. Chewy, flavorful, tender…yummy. Oh, and to the Reader who suggested King Arthur flour: you were right. Thank you.
8. I am about to win at the brioche. Glaze, pastry brush, and slightly cooler oven, not to mention more dough, all adds up to yumminess.
9. Unfortunately, while I win at baking, I lose at the stress-induced stomach troubles and migraines. DO NOT WANT. I can do without ulceration and headaches, yes I can.
10. Sunday everyone around the house pitched in. The lawn is mowed. The gutters are cleaned. The car is cleaned out. The windows are washed. The laundry is folded. The new clothes for the Princess are bought. It was a very busy day. Consequently I feel like I had no weekend. Ah well.
11. Bruce Springsteen’s new album has all kinds of Muse crack on it! Currently I am listening to Magic over and over again. Have I mentioned I’ve always been a huge fan of the Boss?
12. The Selkie gave me a copy of Riders of the Purple Sage, the book that spawned a thousand cliches. I agree with her that one should read the origin of the cliches just to understand the genre. But Jebus, how many times can one write the word purple? And turgid, swollen prose? I need a canoe just to navigate a chapter.
13. I am currently reading through what I have on Redemption Alley, both to tighten it up and to gather all the plot threads before I start braiding them together. Work is a panacea; the only time I don’t feel sick lately is when I’m sunk in a story. There’s something to be said for the curative and tranquilising properties of art.

That’s about all. Between Springsteen’s Magic and Mika’s Grace Kelly there are a lot of nasty things brewing in the current book.

There’s one more thing. Fall is officially here, and the leaves have turned but have not largely dropped yet. So the Princess and I are in a continual state of wonder while driving or walking, seeing the paintbrush trees.

It is one of the sweeter things in the world to hear her cry, “oooooh, Mummy! Look at that one, isn’t it beautiful!” My little angel.

That is all. Happy Monday, everyone. Be kind to yourselves today. The world is hard enough on its own; we don’t need to add to it.

Well, that didn’t take long, did it?

Saint City Sinners is now live at Amazon! Which means it will only be a matter of time before the bookstores have it in.

Pardon me, my dears. I am just going to go faint in the corner now.

So…guess what came in the mail yesterday.

No, guess. Give up? Heh. I’ll tell you.

A lovely envelope from my editor with two copies of Saint City Sinners (the fourth Valentine book) in it. I’m told Amazon will start shipping soon, and of course, when they do you’ll be hearing me squealing. Because that’s not all, my dear chicks.

No, yesterday I ALSO got my hands on the November Romantic Times Book Review. Which gave SCS four and a half stars, a Top Pick, and a good review.

That shadow you see? Look up and you’ll find me walking on sunshine. I needed a little boost yesterday, and boy howdy did I get one.

Things are a little crazy here a la Casa Saintcrow. I’m getting ready for the November scramble–World Fantasy Con, OryCon, and a sci-fi/fantasy event at Powell’s in Beaverton. I will barely have time to catch my breath. But it will be nice to get out and see fans and be on panels and do the craziness that is Convention.

So, um, I’ve got a ton of work and the new book to get finished, so I’m going to keep this short and sweet. More tomorrow–today there is serious writing and celebration that needs doing.

In a few minutes I’m going to be on a phone meeting with one of the Sullen One’s advisers. I understand they like it much better when you just shut up and do what they tell you, but unfortunately that is not the way I’m made. If they want him to waste three hours a week on a bus for a twenty-minute meeting, when he could be doing homework, they’d better have a damn compelling reason they can express to me rather than “He just needs to do it.”

Because that’s not a reason. That’s a petty exercise of bureaucratic power, which is one of those things that sets me in my ever so polite, “I don’t understand this, help me understand” mode. Translation, “You’d better give me a good reason, because I’m not going to roll over, sir/madam.”

It is interesting for me to note the change in attitude between institutional letters or messages sent to the Sullen One as a powerless, hapless victim, and the attitude evinced when I, as an adult, step in. People who don’t think twice about treating Le Sullen badly because of his age and social status are suddenly brought up hard and short, strap their “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” on tight, and suddenly become reasonable.

It’s also fun to see them meet me in person and register the nose ring. I think everyone should have a little uncertainty in their social hierarchy, and sometimes it’s my duty to provide it. By which I mean I enjoy in effect saying “F%$k your preconceived notions. I’m an adult and an equal, and you are going to treat me like one.”

I don’t mind tilting at bureaucratic windmills for the sake of mah kidlings. The Selkie’s remark that I tend to look for offense on behalf of the wee ones is valid here. I try to be reasonable–that’s why I use the “Help me understand” method. Because I often don’t. These little people are human beings too, and treating them like pegs to be fitted into holes OR like robots whose compliance can be forced doesn’t make sense to me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Teachers largely go into teaching because they like children and want to make the world a better place. (It sure as hell isn’t for the money.) Unfortunately, our society decides to spend a million times more on war than it does on education, so teachers get brutally economically abused. That sort of thing will leave a mark even on the most idealistic.

Remember that scene between Carl the janitor and Richard the assistant principal in The Breakfast Club? Where Carl says, “They didn’t change. You did.”

A certain amount of that solidification is necessary to become a reasonably adult human being. Ideally, it should be that you learn not to let things bug you. But all too often it becomes a blind grasping for control, wherever and however one can grab it. Kids hate that and will resist it with every fibre of their beings, and I’m not so sure they shouldn’t. And unfortunately, teachers get tired, and that blind grasp for control is just so they can get through one more day.

So I guess I’m pointing out that I’m not blaming the teachers or the kids. I understand both sides and both sets of motivations. But I’ll be damned if I let that stand in the way of my kids. I vote for school bonds, I pay taxes, I’ll pick up the slack too and advocate for my wee ones. (Yanniconny, some day I want to get together and pick yer brains and have a good old-fashioned henclucking session about this.) It’s my job to do that without being a total beeeyotch. Which I’m trying, really hard, to do.

Anyway, it’s time for the call. I’m waiting for it. I’ve got my uniform on, my smile strapped in place, and I’m ready to play. I’m good at this game, which is really no solace. I wish it wasn’t necessary.

But it is. So I’m going to be as good at it as I have to be, I guess. While smiling and being polite.

Beware the smiling woman with the nose ring, man. She’s dangerous.

UPDATE: Well, the meeting went off fine. The compromise I proposed turned out to be the compromise they took over and proposed to me. I managed to sound like it was a new idea and a relief.

Heh. That is called catching more flies with honey than vinegar. But really, my gramma would say, who wants flies?

That’s the trouble with cliches. They end up ruining perfectly good metaphors. They are truly…

…wait for it…

…flies in the ointment.

I’m going to go make cookies now.

I am about to make artisan bread, a sort of two-day sponge affair. I’m going to try pan de compagne too, catching wild yeast to make a sponge. Which should be either intensely awesome or intensely frustrating.

We’ll see.

I am about to dive back into Jill. If she’s going into the Kat Klub she’s going to need every spare ounce of aggression I can come up with. It’s time to get the Cure’s Wrong Number out and play it over and over again, as that is her “I’m in a fight” music.

See? Perfect for fighting hellbreed. And disturbing imagery to boot. Speaking of hellbreed, there’s a song for Perry too.

Why don’t you LIKE me, why don’t you like me without making me try?

*shivers* Creepy, eh? That’s the trouble with Muse crack. When you write creepy things you get to scaring yourself. It’s like some kind of law. I’m not sure you can write effectively without scaring yourself or making yourself just slightly uncomfortable. There’s that feeling of being on the precipice that moves everything along.

Eh, I’m babbling. The kids are watching the second Witch Mountain movie. Good fuel, too.

Have a good Monday, my dears.