Life with Coon Cats – Page 9 – Sharon Lee, Writer

. . .for a hamburger today

Nope, still no checks.

No books, either.

Preliminary numbers on the Roll Call, adjusting for those who have written private emails, or checked in from Goodreads, LiveJournal, or other venues where this blog mirrors — and also adjusting for those people who are amusing themselves. . .

I presently have 500 answers.

My thanks to everyone who took this request seriously. If you do read here and have not checked in, you still have time. The post will remain at the top of this blog through June 30.

Set to be even hotter today than yesterday. The cats are cat-footing about, trying to get all their important work done before the heat hammers down. I will be shortly following their example.

More words added to the manuscript last night. Rough drafty words, those, which have allowed me to think more deeply on the scene, and locate places where I can deepen characterization and the chemistry between the two characters. This is why we are such “slow” writers. We keep going back and layering stuff in. I wish I, at least, could be a bright and breezy writer, who gets it right the first time, but…alas. Thank you all for your patience.

Progress on Book the Next
35,492/100,000 OR 35.49% complete

Am I being managed?” he asked mildly.

Today’s blog title brought to you by J. Wellington Wimpy.

Bless your children, give them names

Words are being added to the manuscript, more slowly than I would like, but. . .words being added instead of subtracted has to be a good thing, amirite?

Checks are still AWOL, which is. . .unfortunate. Of the three still outstanding, we know the sums of two. The third will be. . .a surprise. I suspect not a pleasant one, but then I tend toward pessimism.

We are today awaiting the delivery of several boxes of hardcover books to sign. Or not.

In short, this is one of those days when one thinks fondly of day-jobs and berates oneself for having opted for an artistic life that is, um, free of constraints. This is nonsense, of course, and I strongly suspect that, had I remained at the last day-job, at least, I would have never written another word. Still, there’s something to be said for a Lack of Surprises.

Let’s see, what else?

The cats are taking up position for the Afternoon Melting. Belle felt that my desk chair would be perfect for her Melting. She has been persuaded otherwise. Windows are open, the sunlight is sharp edged and hard, but there’s a breeze, so that, at least.

The internet is full of outrage and stupidity — but you knew that.

I have too many t-shirts.

Still not king.

. . .I think that about covers it.

Hope everyone has a pleasant day, and a Blessed Midsummer to those who celebrate.

Progress on Book the Next
34,465/100,000 OR 34.47% complete

Val Con turned up the collar of his jacket as he followed the narrow, overgrown path, circling tighter and tighter in toward the center of the garden, of the House. One might even say the center of the clan, save one did not wish to encourage an ego that was sufficiently well-grown.

Today’s blog title brought to you by Bruce Springsteen, “Does This Bus Stop At 82nd Street?” Here’s your link.

In which it’s time to start the next book

So, today I read what there is of Book the Next, formerly Fourth of Five.

. . .it’s not bad.

It is, of course, all in narrative chunks by character. Structure-wise, it may stay that way. Or not. I still have about a quarter-zillion pages of hand-written notes to go through, but the happy news is that the action in The Gathering Edge — which y’all won’t get to read until next May — actually fills a vexed hole in the story lines, instead of Making Moot All that Has Been Written. I really wish my back-brain would get me the memos on this stuff before I decide that I’m the least competent author in seven states.

In other news, it’s Quite Warm here at the Cat Farm and Confusion Factory. All three of the coon cats were in the living room with me, early, helping to read the manuscript. Because of the creeping warmth, I had revolving occupation of my lap, starting with Belle, who was replaced by Trooper, who was replaced by Sprite. Right now, Trooper and Sprite are assisting me in my office, where the lights are out, the fan is on, and the windows are open. The good news is that the weatherbeans are calling for a much cooler tomorrow, which is great, though I’ll note that the average daily temp for the next ten days is tending toward warmer, rather than cooler.

Oh, well. I suppose it has to be summer some day. Or even two.

In addition to reading the manuscript for the next book, Steve and I have been making plans and reservations for the Alliance of Equals Northern Kingdom Book Tour, in July.

For those who came in late, the schedule for that tour is:

July 5, 7 pm: Flights of Fantasy, Albany, NY
July 8, 7 pm: Annie’s Book Stop of Worcester, MA
July 9, 2 pm: Toadstool Books, Milford NH
July 14, 7 pm: Pandemonium Books, Cambridge MA
July 16, TBA: Children’s Book Cellar, Waterville ME

Also! Because people have been asking — “Wise Child,” a new Liaden Universe® novelette, will be published to Baen.com on or around June 15.

Because we haven’t done enough driving in the last four days, I’m toying with the notion of driving down to the ocean on Tuesday, in order to stay out of range of Politics. Right now, though, Tuesday’s weather downcoast includes thunderstorms, but, yanno — it could change.

In the meanwhile, I guess I’d better take a look at those notes. . .

In which adulting is hard

So, yesterday was a dead loss, which I mostly spent huddled on the couch, regretting my birth. Man, these are some fun meds. The Crack Coon Cat Nursing Team sprang into action and, around about suppertime, I was feeling closer enough to the thing to actually finish my WorldCon survey, and edit the interview.

Lest you think they’re slackers, the CCCNT also took the night shift; at one point, I woke up to find Sprite draped across my stomach, Belle curled on my shoulder, and Trooper stretched out along the length of me. It must have been cozy, because I went right back to sleep.

This morning, we appear to have reached an accord, whole-body-wise, and! the swelling and redness have definitely diminished. We’re not out of the woods yet (and still six days to go with the meds), but apparently we’ve found the path.

Obviously, there will be no pickleball for me, today. I had held out some idea that I would go to the gym and putz about (gently) with the strength machines, but…I will err on the side of conservatism, stay home, catch up the work I should have done yesterday, and get on with today’s business, most of which can be done from the Comfy Chair.

I do need to call my boss at the hospital, explain the situation, and figure out how we want to handle my Wednesday shift.

. . .and I think that’s all the news from the Cat Farm for the near past. Hope y’all have a good start to your week.

In which there is weather

Well. . .nuts.

It snowed on the overnight — wet, gloppy snow, which then changed to driving sleet-and-rain, the so-beloved Wintery Mix. We woke up, early, because Tai Chi class on Wednesday, to a driving rain. The surface of the driveway was a kind of mud slurry, iced with brittle snow, and when the town plow went by, the blade was pushing a wave that would have been credible off of The Big Island.

Since I don’t believe in winter road surfing, I decided to give Tai Chi a miss and practice my small dance here at home.

However, today is also Hospital Day, so, after breakfast, when the rain stopped, I again surveyed the situation.

Long story short, the car is presently stuck in the mud. This situation will rectify itself overnight, when it’s supposed to get cold again, but for right now…the writer is in.

The cats have declared a Snow Day and are lobbying hard for everybody to go back to bed. Steve is currently under assault from Belle and Scrabble, who are practicing the deadly Synchronized Snoring.

Speaking of Belle, last night’s dream (she was sleeping on my stomach for a while), concerned a Big Jumble of people and furniture; if I had to guess, I’d say that we were living in shared housing of some kind, and our apartment/rooms were going to be painted, so we had to move all our stuff to a holding area. In the process of doing that, and relocating our four cats, I discovered in our space, a plush white cat with grey cloud markings, black tips on her ears, and a little grey mustache perfectly placed under her pink nose. She was very friendly, and obviously “knew” me. I was confused, and texted Steve, “Do we have FIVE cats?” Very vivid, especially the feeling that the cat knew me.

Well.

Here’s the quality of help I currently have to call on in my office:

Sleeping with cats

So, Belle is our Champion Napper here at the Cat Farm. She really enjoys her naps, and often does two at once. She seems to prefer company, but will happily nap alone, if that’s how the dice roll.

I don’t even have a rating as a Napper — it’s a tough field — but I do like company in my poor efforts, and Belle has taken to tutoring me in the fine points.

I’ve noticed a couple of things, napping with Belle, that I don’t notice when napping with the other cats — or, in fact, when I go solo.

First is that her purr is incredibly soothing. I’ll lie down with my head awhirl — the normal state of the inside of my head is a kind of barely controlled thought-twist, which, like the ringing in my ears, can’t ever be said to go away entirely; the range of action is something like: Kind of Loud, Loud, Awfully Loud, Way too Loud, and Batten the Hatches.

But, Belle’s purrs cut through all that noise. It takes a few minutes, but she’s also a champion purr-er, and has real staying power. And she manages to achieve silence inside my head, a state I’ve noticed now several times in the millisecond before the purr does its final work and puts me to sleep.

The other thing I’ve noticed when napping with cats is the quality of dreams. Despite my whirlwind head, I very rarely dream, or — for those who insist that everyone Does Too dream — remember my dreams. If I’ve had cat assistance, I do dream, and often remember my dreams, and I wake up a shade more relaxed than I would do, sleeping alone.

Belle-induced dreams though, are — a little different.

They are almost all in the genre of Saving the Kittens. I have, in recent dreams, rescued kittens who were stuck behind a large appliance; stood between kittens and a large, noisy machine; and moved a number of kittens to a place of safety after one was grabbed by a Bad Person and thrown.

These are not restful dreams, though they are infused with a sense of purpose and determination. I wake up a little more alert, it seems, and attentive to possible threats — to the kittens. It’s an odd feeling, though not necessarily unpleasant.

. . .and I wonder if these are shared dreams — that is, if Belle, having been a Mom Cat in what I know to be a very safe place for cats, still reviews these themes in order to keep her edge, if, yanno, kittens fall into her way again.

On the other hand, it could just be my subconscious having some fun with association.

Either way, it’s striking and notable, and I have, therefore, noted it.

Boston, we are in you

Playing catchup here.

Left the Cat Farm at O-Ghod o’clock on Thursday, to catch the 7:00 am train out of Brunswick. We had a pleasant, which is to say non-eventful trip, watching the scenery go by while we ate packed-in baloney-and-cheese sammiches and drank high-test Amtrak coffee. How do they consistently get that slightly burnt undernote in the coffee, no matter what train you happen to be on?

Our room was ready for us when we hit the hotel — a very nice room, high-ish up, with a view of the harbor and of the planes coming in to Logan.

We napped and set up Field Headquarters, chatted with a few other early arrivals, gathered up our convention badges, and crashed early.

This morning, we had a pleasant extended breakfast with Christie Meierz and Jeff Mierzejewski. Afterwards, we toured the facility, started an early pile of books behind Larry Smith’s table, and retired to field headquarters to do some work before lunch. Lunch having now been achieved, I’m taking this opportunity to catch y’all up before The Con Gets Real.

Still no word on the Friends of Liad Breakfast — we’re still shooting for a Sunday morning event, Saturday’s schedule being what it is.

I would be a Bad Cat Mom if I did not mention that today marks the 6th anniversary of the birth of Kelimcoon’s Belle of the Ball. We plan to have a belated celebration when we get home again to Maine.

Also, Number Ten Ox, running Linux Mint, version Cinnamon, is performing without nary a stumble nor a stagger.

Y’all have fun; I’ll check in as I can.

My bags are packed, I’m ready to go…

. . .though there was one terrifying moment when I thought I hadn’t left enough room in my backpack for my book. Turns out that there was just enough room. Close one, though.

So, the important news first: SFWA has named C.J. Cherryh its 32nd Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master.

And there was much rejoicing.

She was a huge influence on me, as on several generations of writers. Why? The list is long, including a long list of believably alien aliens from the Iduve, straight through to the Atevi; top-notch worldbuilding that left no detail to chance; complex, compelling stories, (most of which have aged very well), and human characters that are as complex and multifaceted as any real human you might encounter, and writing that is always strong and clear.

If you haven’t read any Cherryh, now might be the time to sample her. Hunter of Worlds, Cuckoo’s Egg, The Faded Sun Trilogy: Kesrith, Shon’Jir, and Kutath — that’ll get you started.

Very well deserved.

Back here at the Cat Farm and Confusion Factory, we’re packed and ready to head out ‘way too early tomorrow morning to catch the first train from Brunswick to Boston. Despite urging from their fans, the cats have decided to remain at the Farm, in order to entertain the house-sitter, who would otherwise be all by herself, and where’s the fun in that?

So, Steve and I will be at Boskone — alone and unsupervised! For those coming in late, here is the Lee and Miller Schedule, and here is the Full Boskone Schedule.

We will be reading from Chapter 7 of Alliance of Equals during our scheduled reading time at noon on Saturday.

I’ll check in intermittently from the con for those who can’t attend this year. If you are attending — we’re looking forward to seeing you!

Today’s blog post brought to you by John Denver, “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” Here’s your link.

By Grabthar’s Hammer, by the suns of Warvan, you. . .will be. . .remembered

Or, to riff off of Oscar Wilde: To lose David Bowie is a tragedy; to lose David Bowie and Alan Rickman inside of one week can only be carelessness.

. . .Well. And no one ever said that the universe cared. . .

So, today.

Today was vacuum the house day, and make lentil stew for lunch day. Since I’m a linear girl, I was going to vacuum first, then make stew.

That plan got kicked out when Dyson (the vacuum cleaner is a Dyson, name changed from The New Vacuum a couple years ago when I realized that we’d purchased it with royalty money from Meisha Merlin, which has been closed for eight years). . .when Dyson screamed a mighty scream, which usually means that a string has gotten ’round the rollerbar, or cat fur. . .

Well, it was cat fur — about a coon cat’s worth of cat fur — and it looked for a while there that the cats’ clever plan to murder the cat-eating machine had borne fruit, because I couldn’t even get the face-plate off to begin to deal with the problem.

Steve saved the day, with Trooper and Sprite close at hand, to observe the process.

I fear they may have a upgraded murder plan in the works.

While Steve was working on Dyson, I started the lentil stew, and observed progress on The Leeewit, which I had resurrected in order to try my hand at Linux one! more! time!

. . .this may require some background.

See, like Everyone Else on PC World, I have been being badgered by Microsoft for months and months, to take my “free” upgrade to Windows 10 (I run Windows 7). In addition to being a Linear Girl, I am a Girl Who Does Not Like to Fix What Ain’t Broke, and I have been ignoring these importunate messages.

However, it seems that Microsoft will eventually just be pushing 10 down as an “upgrade,” which is horrifying beyond belief. The desktop is my work machine. And though it is backed up, my life is on this machine. I cannot risk losing anything.

So, I figured that I would install Windows 10 on Number 10 Ox, the Acer laptop, also running Windows 7 Pro, and Pay Attention.

The installation went smoothly, though it was slow (by today’s standards; I’m old enough to remember having to pretty much block out a day to sit in front of the computer and swap out a quarter-zillion disks-then-a slightly lesser number of CDs), but it was after the install that the fun began.

That was when I tried to find and turn off all of the spyware and “helpful” options in the “free” software. Stuff like — if a computer on the internet is updating to Windows 10 and your computer happens to be on the internet, too, it may be pressed into server duty, in order to serve software to this other computer. And — oooooh, keystroke logger! and we’ll helpfully send those keystrokes to Microsoft, so your computing experience can be “fine-tuned”. Dude! I work on this machine, and the internet is more often on than not. Are you really going to be pushing ads for the Quality Inn Solcintra to my computer?

Long story short, the experience left me wanting to never do it again. Apple is too expensive for me, and subject to its own slings, if not outright arrows, so the obvious answer is — Linux.

Long-time readers of Eagles Over the Kennebec, will recall that I at one point had a Linux box. There was an uneasy peace between us, and occasional flashes of real affection, but we never loved each other. And eventually, I went back to Windows, as being easier on my brain.

I am told that nowadays Linux Mint is Doing The Thing Right, so I pulled the Leeewit, the by-today’s-standards-ancient Asus eeePC, out of the closet and downloaded the newest Mint (which for some reason is called Cinnamon) to it. Then, of course I couldn’t install it, because even the best software can’t wipe the drive it’s living on, then install itself. Duh.

Steve once again came to the rescue, downloading the OS to a stick. We then had to go ’round the barn three times in order to convince Leeewit to actually boot from the stick, but we got there eventually, and as I type, I have a functioning 32-bit Atom-powered netbook running a full edition of Mint Cinnamon (Rosa) 17.3. LibreOffice comes with, so I’m ready to rumble, and?

We shall see.

Somewhere around all those adventures, lunch was served and eaten, and vacuuming was done.

I wanted to talk about vacuuming. Well, actually, I want to talk about Trooper.

Let it be said upfront that Trooper is Not Dyson’s Biggest Fan. When the machine roars to life, he immediately runs to my office (my office being, despite innumerable demonstrations to the contrary) considered by catkind to be Safe. Sprite makes right for the basement, and Scrabble — poor Scrabble — freezes on top of the file cabinet in Steve’s office, and (unless I want a drooling, shivering basket case on my hands, which I don’t) must be picked up and brought to the basement stairs. When you put her down, she wails piteously, runs down to the bottom of the steps, and gazes up at you, still wailing, until you close the door and get on with things.

Today, however, when I escorted Scrabble to the stairs, and she descended, crying — Today, Trooper came out of my office, and went downstairs, pausing a few steps above her, and spoke to her in his mid-range, not-squeaky voice — and here’s the amazing part — Scrabble not only didn’t lay into him with ears back and claws extended, she actually stopped crying, and accepted a head-butt.

I am amazed.

I also learned today that Belle? Can levitate.

I thought she’d gone downstairs, like the practical mom-cat she is. I thought wrong. She had retired into the basement of the Cat Castle; all the way in the back corner of the basement, where she was apparently determined to wait it out.

Then the vacuum entered the living room, approaching the Cat Castle, and — she lost her nerve.

Remember that I thought she’d gone downstairs, and thus was completely taken by surprise by the Very Large Orange Feline bursting out of the basement and into the air. I swear she was heading directly for my head, did a mid-flight adjustment, landed on the far side of the Mencken table, and bolted for — downstairs?

Silly person.

Under the bed.

I collapsed, heart pounding.

And Belle has a new nickname to go along with “Mom.”

Flying Lion.

And so that.

Time for me to get to work.

Here, have a picture of Trooper, bird-watching.

Adventures in coon cats

This morning, we got up early (for the third morning in a row. Yes, I have a call in to the Auditing Department.), in order to adorn Princess Jasmine Sprite in her travel regalia — the sparkly pink-and-purple leash, the red harness, the royal ladybug ruff, this morning augmented by the sable fleece blanket.

Her Highness had, sadly, forgotten the appointment she had directed Staff to make with her physician, and, as I gathered her up in my arms and started for the kitchen door, she made one loud, anguished cry that sounded for all the world like, “Dad!”

We settled in the passenger side, and she managed to work herself into quite a state by the time we reached her physician’s office, where she immediately transformed herself into a Frozen Not-There Cat for the duration of the physical.

She is, as we suspected, Perfectly Healthy, weighing just a whisker (almost literally; coon cat whiskers are. . .not insubstantial) under 15 pounds. She received her two-year distemper vaccination and was given a chip, which puts her in the vanguard of Feline Technology at the Cat Farm.

Princess Sprite is now resting comfortably on the blue rug (her Turkey carpet, formerly Trooper’s Turkey carpet, formerly Sharon’s Turkey carpet) in my office, after a brief sojourn in her Secret Aerie to recruit her strength and recharge her Princess Powers.

The mail had been delivered at home by the time we returned. The mail consisting of two books, and! my new waterproof, lined, winter gloves from Duluth Trading Company. I am remiss in reporting that my slip arrived yesterday, as did our Yule gift to each other — a case of mixed wines from nakedwine.com.

I think that leaves two shipments outstanding, which I expect to see next week.

Speaking of yesterday, it turns out that though pickleball is on the schedule at the Champions Fitness Club in Waterville on Tuesdays and Thursdays, attendance is sporadic. I went in yesterday, hoping for a game, waited around for half-an-hour, nobody showed, so I left to do errands. Sigh. Next opportunity to sport the pickle — Wednesday morning.

I did learn yesterday that, if I decide to make enough of a habit of pickleball that I’ll want my own equipment, I will not want a wooden paddle. The paddle I was loaned last Wednesday was aluminum, I suppose, and it was like an extension of my hand; I hardly knew I was holding a paddle. The wooden Club paddles weigh a ton, and I can see it wearing my wrist out inside of a (short) game.

Hmm. I wonder if I can play left-handed, anymore. Over the years since the nuns changed my handedness, I’ve become more and more right-hand-oriented. Something to experiment with, I guess.

After supper yesterday, Steve and I drove out to Skowhegan, on purpose to visit the New Balance Factory Store, Steve being in the way of wanting a pair of tennis shoes — about which more in a moment. I did not intend to buy tennis shoes, myself, but a pair of blue cross-trainers with orange laces called my name and I did not resist long. I’m wearing them right now, and myghod, they weigh nothing. Maybe I’ll be able to fly again, like when I was a kid in the first new sneakers of summer.

But! We were speaking of tennis shoes.

I asked the young lady on the floor at New Balance for “tennis shoes,” and she obligingly showed me the tennis shoes on offer, helpfully pointing out the pivot point on the sole. Because “tennis shoe” is a technical term.

I chewed my lip for a minute, and then said.

“Back in the dark ages, we called all the kid’s casual canvas shoes tennis shoes. Nobody really played tennis in them. There’s another word — sneakers? Soft shoes that are not created for a single task, but that you can walk and play games in? I’m looking for sneakers.”

“Oh,” she said. “Cross-trainers. Right over here.”

On the one hand, good on her for being patient and guiding me to what I really wanted. On the other hand, I feel like I’m needing to give a history lesson every time I want to buy something, lately. Anybody else having this. . .experience, or am I just hopelessly behind the curve?

And! For those who Await, a photo of — no, not the new sneakers — Princess Sprite and Trooper, doing the taxes.