Been up since 6AM. The most recent album by local band the Caves is pretty good, especially the tracks Closure and Samurai. Highly recommended, if you want some good indie rock music full of all sorts of Musecrack-y moments.
3k of space opera fell out of head yesterday.
Further bulletins as events (and further caffeine-ation) warrant. Why did the Muse taunt me with fantasy opus and stick me with sweaty spacepunk opera? I was trying for Tristan, and instead I got Cap’n Rodias Mathiew, thank you very much, who just wants to go on his way with his ship the Surdus. Which is appropriate in ALL SORTS OF WAYS, given the story.
*headdesk*
I know it’s a bad story but I can’t stop writing it. I love it and it keeps falling out of my head, like the Josiah suspense story. The one my agent loved, even though I think it’s not a very good piece of work.
Funny how that works. I guess one just has to slam the dice down–again–and hope for the best.
Guh. Maybe my Muse is just clearing her throat. But somehow I doubt it.
*shakes fist* Muse! Oh Muse! Why do you taunt me?
Maybe if I give her bonbons and watch Ladyhawke again, she will relent?
One could spend hours poking and giggling at Mssrs. Zooty and Flappers. Or just Mr. Man-Behind-Zooty-And-Flappers. The spelling errors alone are enough to send a writer into a twitching coma of merriment or irritation, depending on mood and temperament.
Now, I’m not saying the publishing industry is perfect. Far from. There are a lot of things that make it hard for the producers in the industry (i.e., writers) to get a living wage. And forget health insurance for producers! That’s just crazy!
But what doesn’t make it better are predators outside the pool, trying to make a quick buck off someone’s desire to be published.
Now carry me to the bonfire with pitchforks and screaming if you want, but I’m going to say right here and now that not everyone deserves to be published. It’s not an inherent right like breathable air or food security, or like liberty (though the current administration has done its bit to return us to tyranny. That’s off-topic.) Like any job/career, you need a certain amount of training and proficiency to make a living, and even that isn’t assured. It’s serious work. I don’t know why people expect it not to be, but I suppose there are those who want to take shortcuts in any industry. Sometimes a shortcut turns out to be valid. Most of the time, however, shortcuts are a scam.
It’s not easy to pour your heart and soul into a manuscript and have it rejected. It’s not easy to deal with multiple rejections and trying to “break into” publishing. It’s not easy to get an agent or a book deal. It’s not easy because publishers need to make their money back, and consumers don’t want to pay for crap. Nobody can tell when or what the next Harry Potter will be, (consumers are fickle) but publishers have to guess. That makes them nervous, because they have kids to feed and jobs to keep too.
Again, the industry is far, far from perfect, especially when seen from the writer’s point of view. But those offering “shortcuts” that disobey Yog’s Law are predators and nothing but.
There’s a difference between paying a proven editor for his/her time and effort, especially when that said editor makes no promise to publish the work. Paying someone to query-blast or e-publish you is a scam. And scammers usually get nasty when exposed. *sigh* Hence, Internet amusement. I’m left shaking my head when reading stuff like Zooty & Co. I mean, I derive a certain amusement from the errors and the flailing, but I also sigh at the thought that some nascent writers are going to get soaked, and soaked good, and maybe quit writing because of it.
Which is outside my control and power, but it still makes me sad. Even if one doesn’t get published, the exercise of writing is valuable in and of itself. I felt that way before I ever got paid a dime OR got a rejection slip. (And not just blogging, which I distinguish from the art of writing fiction and the exercise of writing a paper diary.)
Anyway, wacky Internet hijinks. I suppose, since I’ve done nothing but bitch and complain in my last few posts (health has not been good, but we’re working on that) I should offer some entertainment, at least.
Here’s the absolute funniest thing I’ve ever seen on SNL, Andy Kaufman and the “Mighty Mouse” bit. Every time I see this, it slays me.
And to add to the Andy K fun, his Elvis was always more Elvis THAN Elvis. And we all know how I feel about Elvis.
And to round it off, Gene Wilder doing “Pure Imagination”. Which was my favorite part of the old Willy Wonka movie, and a song I still sing to the little ones every now and again.
God bless YouTube. Last but not least, to leave you with a smile…
ROBIN OF SHERWOOD PLUS BONNIE TYLER EQUALS WIN!!!!!!
There now. Wasn’t that worth getting up out of bed for? I certainly thought so. And yesterday, when I was so determined to go slow?
Three thousand words of space opera fell out of my head. It seemed so easy and innocent. Jeez. Why does my Muse taunt me with fantasy and then spit out space opera? It just doesn’t make any sense.
After a lot of stress, the emotional snapback can be murder. The body, performing under great stress with grace and alacrity, takes its vengeance afterward. The snapback attacks the weak spots in health, and the urge to lie on the floor and stare on the ceiling for a great length of time returns. When the last of one’s strength is utterly plumbed, both physically and mentally, the road to recovery begins…with a complete and total frockin’ breakdown, often masquerading as the flu.
Body aches. The feeling as if one’s thinking through cotton. Dry mouth no matter how much water one drinks. Stuffy nose, and the persistent feeling of chill that accompanies a slight fever.
One needs to be gentle with oneself sometimes. This is one of those times. Time to turn the heat up, drink a lot of juice and mineral water, and moooove verrrrrry slowwwwwwly, stretching every twenty minutes or so. Going to bed early tonight. Very early. Will make teenager do dishes too, since I am a Mean Mum.
The kids like this sort of slow sleepy day, since I fix snacks all day instead of insisting on proper meals. And they also love it when I say, “Let’s take a day off/a day slow.” They work so hard learning all the time that it feels like a vacation when I put on DVD lecture on art theory. Little do they know they’re learning incognito. *ebil glint*
A slow day ahoy. I’m feeling good about the prospect. I’m not going to work on anything hard, but I am going to write for my own enjoyment instead of for a deadline today.
Yes, still alive. The weekend was busier than weekends usually manage to be. Why is it that sometimes I feel like it takes half a week for me to recover from the week before?
To Kristina: I don’t know if Kat and Mitch (from the short story in My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon) will ever get a book of their own. They seem to be just short-story characters. Though I do sometimes wonder how things will work out for them.
I finished proofing a book today, and have set myself the ambitious goal of chicken soup for dinner, since nobody in the house seems to be feeling a hundred percent. Chicken soup with a mighty load of garlic should help. If not, well, at least it’s a recipe I can put together in my sleep.
The Muse has been satisfied with both Pitch Black and Chronicles of Riddick these past few days. I have to say, Hutch was correct in advocating for Pitch Black as the better movie, and it stood up better on re-viewing than I could have hoped for. I think people like Riddick because he’s an antihero, but his Everyman Doing Everything mixing with Sooper-Alpha-Violent Male mix doesn’t allow for a lot of character growth or ambiguity. The junkie merc in PB and the Necromonger couple (Karl Urban and whatsherface, her name escapes me) in COR are MUCH more interesting characters, and I think they are what primarily drive the story instead of Riddick himself.
Though I will advocate once more for Vin Diesel’s shoulders. On my List Of Things To Do Before I Die are two items in particular: one, to touch Vin Diesel’s shoulders, and two, to touch Bruce Campbell’s chin. I realize these are creepy, totemic desires, but they’re still on the List. I would never engage in either desire without first finding a way to politely broach the subject to the actors in question, in a non-stalkery, respectful sort of way.
Which will, let’s be honest, never happen. But I figure a List Of Things To Do Before I Die must have at least one or two unattainable items on it, just to keep the gods guessing. Heh.
And now, to writing. I’ve got a couple scenes that need to get out of my head. And the Space Opera, which I suspect the Muse really wants to write, is bugging me too. Specifically, a couple of plot points, which I have to shake in my little cup before I slam it down and see where the dice land.
Writing. It’s like dicing with destiny, only you never really get to see the numbers and once the cup is slammed, there’s not much a girl can do except shake again.
Argh. Not making sense even to self. Welcome to my brain on Monday, dear Readers. I hope your M-day is going better than mine. *wink*
Today is just getting started for me, at six PM. This is the first time today I’ve felt fully awake, and I suppose my entire body clock was thrown off by Seattle and by last night’s insomnia. (Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.) Plus I’m a little worried about some personal stuff, but the most intense worry stands a good chance of fading soon.
The thing about internet stalkers and trolls is, they don’t realize what a huge footprint they leave behind every time they stalk/flame you. And that electronic trail of footprints is like wabbit twacks in old Elmer Fudd cartoons–they lead right down the wabbit hole. They’re proof, as The Lawyer pointed out, and proof is a Good Thing.
So that eases my mind. But still.
I’ve also been under siege by the cats today. They want to be in my lap, petted and stroked, and will fight the kids for it. The Princess isn’t so needy–she just wants a day off from the grind of schoolwork (which, since we’ve upped her grade level, is actual WORK now and not play) but the Prince has missed me, and takes every opportunity to climb into the papasan and rest his feet right in my lower back.
Thanks, kid. Heh.
In any case, I’m heading for a weekend that will be Full Of Interesting Things. I’ve got a book I need to proof, and I can feel myself gearing up for another burst. I think the second Steelflower book is about ready. She’s elbowing with Tristan to get her way out, which will make me a Very Confused Writer for the foreseeable future.
But hey, that’s what we live for, eh?
Ah, and for readers of the Keeper books: thank you. I’ve received several of your emails over the last few days, and I thank you for the support as well as for the kind words. They’re not very good books technically, I think, but I like them and I’m glad that you guys seem to like them too. I had no idea so many people would want to read them. *boggle* But thank you, thank you for the support. It means so much to me.
And before I get misty-eyed, I’m going to go eat some Chinese food and start the weekend right.
By folding laundry. A huge mound of it.
*sigh* I’ll just keep repeating, “I’m making order out of chaos. Making order out of chaos.” It’ll be a mantra.
Can I has morphine pleez? Or some form of analgesic?*
The week’s been a gruesome one–friends suffering setbacks and Bad Things, cold cold weather making the joints ache, health concerns, and a silly Internet stalker/troll to compound the whole thing. I HAD planned on getting a lot of stuff done, but it looks like the most fantastic accomplishment I can claim this week is keeping my temper.
Well, I did finish the draft of Redemption Alley; if “finish” is translated out to “got so damn sick of that book, handed it over to the editor and am glad to be free of it.” One gets to a certain point with a book–living with it, sleeping with it, eating with it, having it take up the inside of one’s head–and one gets so, so sick of the damn thing.
The Riddick dreams have calmed down, and I’m reading fantasy epic (Joe Abercrombie’s most excellent The Blade Itself, recommended by my editor and thoroughly enjoyable) and thinking of watching Ladyhawke again. Steelflower fans will be glad to know I’m probably going to be switching back and forth between Tristan and Kaia. (I never thought I would write that sentence.)
Although, as Red Argyle pointed out yesterday, Chronicles of Riddick was a fantasy epic. Along with Hutch (I think it was Hutch? correct me if I’m wrong) calling it the third-best Conan movie, maybe I’ve been wrong about the Riddick dreams not fueling my fantasy writing muscle.
Hee. Like I need an excuse to watch Vin Diesel’s shoulders again. Oh, oops–you didn’t know a little birdie brought me both Pitch Black and Chronicles of Riddick on DVD?
Someone who loves me and wants me to get my books done, apparently. *wink* Or someone who wanted to foist bad, bad movies on me.
Weekend ahoy. I’m holding onto my liferaft and looking forward to the beach. I’ll be glad when this week’s over.
How about you, dear Reader?
* Not that I advocate morphine use except under the supervision of a qualified professional. KTHX.
I got my mind on eternity, Some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me…
Item two: Tom Cruise is not just crazy. He is some kind of super-level crazy we don’t even have words for yet. Hey, Tom? I got to the part where you started saying that either people have to get on your playing field or get out of the stadium, then I flashed onto V for Vendetta and wondered if a masked man was going to start calling you “Chancellor Sutler”. I won’t say what other historical eras I flashed onto, because it’s so gauche to start listing fascist regimes when in reality, this is just Hollywood. So Cruise is the nutty-ass Howard Hughes of our generation, big whoop. Christ. At least Hughes was INTERESTING. I just get this idea that after five minutes of conversation with Cruise I’d make a polite excuse and flee, bored out of my skull by the one-note symphony that is his love for himself. Scientology’s just a mirror. He could have ended up with just about any cult and done the same thing.
Item three: WHY, I ask you, WHY, am I having Chronicles of Riddick dreams? I AM WRITING FRENCH RENAISSANCE FANTASY EPIC AND URBAN FANTASY WHUPASS. I do not need big-shouldered homicidal space-candy. If you see my Muse, can you please give her the memo?
On the other hand, I do agree with the Selkie that Vin Diesel’s shoulder’s are one of the modern wonders of the world. Shoulders are her particular weakness, and I cannot disagree. One of the finer moments of the recent remake of I Am Legend was Will Smith’s shoulders.
GUH. Hormone moment. Excuse me.
All right. Random Wednesday over. It’s back to work. I’m going to finish that draft today or go nuts trying.
So, as you can tell, I’m doing the final revise on Redemption Alley before it goes to the editor and my agent. Which means:
* I am so sick of this book I wish I could throw my laptop across the room, but I can’t because I paid good money for the laptop and it doesn’t deserve, faithful workhorse that it is, to be tossed at the opposite wall because I’m mad at myself for not writing this book as well as I cold have.
* I am at that stage of the book writing where every negative voice in the writer’s head screams you are so full of trash, you shouldn’t be writing, who the hell do you think you are? Curse you! Cue terrible self-doubt and gigantic sucking depression. Work the only cure.
* I really, really, want to be doing something else. Like going and seeing a movie. I hear Into the Wild is out in theaters again, and I found Jon Krakauer’s book about McCandless extraordinarily moving, especially since that yearning–the urge to head off into the sunset–is something I understand.* (Krakauer’s one of my automatic buys as an investigative journalist/writer, his Under the Banner of Heaven was bloody fascinating.)
* Chocolate. I’ve got half a bar of Truffle Pig and I don’t think it’s going to survive.
One of the things about being a writer is that feeling of huh, I’ve been here before when one gets to a particular stage of the writing process, especially the depression of revisions. It doesn’t get easier, but at least one recognizes the landmarks.
*Note: Yearning, not any preparation to actually do. As much as I might yearn for Life On The Road, I’ve seen enough of it that I know it’s not for me. Too much cruelty, not enough safety, and far, far too hard on Little People. Maybe I’ll travel when I’m older (i.e., when the Little People are older) but until then, I have Kerouac and the track when the urge strikes me. Besides…Into the Wild is a tragedy. McCandless’s feeling of disconnection is so, so sad.
I’m back home from Seattle. The signing went well, and Richelle has pics up on her blog. I don’t photograph well AT ALL, so I should just add that I AM roughly the size of a house in real life, despite recent weight loss, though not nearly so double-chinned. (Heh.) Mark Henry also blogged about the earth-shattering event. Richelle gave a fantastic reading, hilarious and well-accented, about pothead demons. I read the first two chapters of the upcoming first Jill Kismet novel, Night Shift. Mad props to Duane at the University Bookstore, who puts together these events and is always a darling, darling man.
Confession time, dear Readers: I am terrifyingly, mortifyingly, horrifically shy. That’s why I hide behind a laptop, yanno, and write these stories. So readings are a particular species of nerve-wracking valleys of darkness for me. (I had to grab the water bottle and hold it under the podium so the shaking of the liquid inside wouldn’t show how hard I was trembling.)
I put up a good front, having had enough experience by now in being in front of a group of people to not…well, faint. Though the roaring in my ears and the hammering of my pulse did make me shaky (and I suspect, not my usual self during the question and answer section) I don’t think I did too badly.
People are often surprised when I tell them I’m shy. I certainly don’t seem shy here on the blog, or in my books. That’s because I have the laptop as a screen–a shoji, if you will–between me and the vast masses of humanity. But at a signing, I am often seized by the terrifying thought that suddenly everyone is going to start laughing at me–and not because I’ve made a joke. I’ve evolved a series of strategies for dealing with this crippling, mind-numbing, heart-racing terror (and do NOT think I am exaggerating. If anything, I am downplaying the exact size of this irrational fear) and most of the time they work pretty well.
Then there’s times like the signing on Friday, when my mind blanks and I am frantically trying to remember who I am, what I’m doing, and what I should be doing next. I suppose it’s the writer’s version of vapor lock.
Anyway, that’s boring, and I suspect I’m laboring the point. On to interesting things. After the signing we PARTIED.
We all went to Richelle’s beautiful little condo and had a wonderful time. Kat Richardson, Mark Henry, Cherie Priest–all the Seattle greats were there. Kat and I are double trouble when we get together, and I did my standard thing at parties–I shut out the idea of a crowd by just focusing with all my might on one person and what they’re saying to me. Reflective listening skills happen to block out my shyness, and if I focus one-on-one the shyness isn’t nearly so bad. Plus there was social lubricant–aka a glass of rum lightly misted with lemonade, then some red wine–to take the edge of panic off, and I’m hoping a good time was had by all. Halfway through the party the fire department was called–by the apartment complex ACROSS THE STREET, no it was NOT MY FAULT, but you could immediately tell the writers in the room because we clustered around Richelle’s French door and watched the fire engines in search of research material.
Heh.
I was driven back to the hotel by a very nice young couple whose names I have forgotten, because I am Very Bad with that sort of thing and they were introduced while I was on my third glass of wine. The husband is a teacher, I think, and we spent some time discussing Kirkland, what it would take to start a barfight in downtown Kirkland, the male psyche, Oprah, and several other items that I can’t repeat. The wife was completely sober (a Designated Driver for the evening, bless her) and found all of us highly amusing. So: thank you, both of you.
Anyway, I stayed an extra day in Seattle just to take a wee bit of vacation, and also to recoup my strength. Which was nice–if you live in the Seattle area, the Malabar on 42nd and University serves some very fine Indian food. I eat a LOT of Indian food, and I have to say this is some of the best I’ve had. I also spent a great deal of time in Twice Sold Tales, talking to the cat and poking around in stacks of used books.
The drive home was sunny and mid-Sunday traffic was light, so I’m home safe and getting back into the swing of things. It’s sunny and cold, and I’m emotionally exhausted for reasons that have little to do with the signing. So today’s recoup. I have a few things I’d like to get done around the house, not the least of which is hoovering, but that’s going to have to wait until after lunch.
I hope your weekend was as fun but not as nervewracking, my dears. All in all, it was a good time and I’m glad I got to meet so many fans. I just wish I could find the switch inside my head to make the irrational terror go away.
Tonight I’m signing with Richelle Mead at the University Bookstore in Seattle. So excited. Half-packed and going nuts, so I’m signing off. Wish me luck and safe travel.
