the writing life – Sharon Lee, Writer

For a fee, I’m happy to be

Sunday. Grey and damp, but not snowing yet.

This morning while taking my shower, I learned that Joan Jett had covered “Dirty Deeds,” which, had I taken a Moment’s Thought, I would have said, “Of course she did,” but there we are.

I am, let it be known, Very Fond of “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap,” AC/DC, and here we find the fundamental problem with humankind. It’s a song about a hitman soliciting business, and assuring customer satisfaction through a variety of means. It is, in a word, a terrible song. And yet, yes — I do love it. Why do I love it?

Well. Beyond the fact that it is of course always a pleasure to hear someone who is happy in their work (I’m especially fond of the list at the very end of AC/DC’s version: “Concrete Shoes. Cyanide. Neckties. Contracts. High Mountains!”); it’s manic; and, so I choose to believe, meant to be a parody. Also, because it may remind me of home — gently raised as I was in a blue collar family in a violent, ugly, port city.

I also learned that I need to find a source for the particular fuzzy little balls that Rookie dotes on and then hides so effectively I can’t find any to throw for him, leading to Sadness of the Tiny, Abused Coon Cat variety.

And! I’ve also learned that my tea has brewed, and Firefly is waiting for me on the comfy chair.

What’s one of your favorite songs — and why?
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Had a lovely chat with Sean Hazlett for the Baen Free Radio Hour. We talked about Liaden Universe Constellation Six, Duainfey and Longeye, The Wire, and had a fine time.

Rook and Tali joined me for moral support, and even Google chimed in at one point, thinking, apparently, that I had asked it a question.

For the curious, it has not snowed, but the skies have opened several times to let St. Peter dump out his washtub.

I’m off for the rest of the day, I think.

Everybody stay safe.

Look at these guys; are they pros or what?

Today’s blog post title from, of course, AC/DC, “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap“

Saturday at home

Well. Saturday. Damp and cooler.

My dishwasher may either be broken, or it’s current state of semi-functionality is an artifact of the water main work going on down the street. I checked the circuit box this morning, and started another cycle was this morning, but it’s not sounding good. I’m not hearing water moving in that box, which — at least it’s not leaking, amirite? So! I’ll be doing a dishwasher full of dishes by hand some time today. That’ll be fun.

It will also prepare me for doing my dishes by hand going forward, because a new dishwasher is so not in the budget.

What else?

Not much, I’m thinking.

Breakfast, I do believe, will be oatmeal, then I’m hitting the manuscript until lunch time, then dealing the domestic mini-crisis, then The! Studio!

A plan.

What’s your plan for the day?
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Saturday evening.

I am half-way through formatting The Fey Duology — which means I’ve finished with Longeye. Duainfey will go slower, not because it needs more work, but because I have a busy patch coming up.

Tomorrow afternoon, I have an interview scheduled. Sean Hazlett and I will be chatting about A Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 6, soon to be arriving in bookstores everywhere. Monday is a meeting of the book club, after our winter hiatus, Tuesday is of course needlework, and Wednesday is my date with an alpaca. None of these are all-encompassing, but they do mean I can’t just sit down for a bunch of hours at a stretch to do my job.

In preparation for Wednesday, I found my hiking boots. I was . . . somewhat taken aback to find that these are Rather New hiking boots. Hardly used, in fact. When I went into the closet, I had in my mind my old hiking boots, which memory now reminds me had been retired when the soles got too smooth for safety.

I’ve also done some research about how I should comport myself, so as not to offend alpaca-kind, and I now know not to wear strong scent, or noisy things (which means my keys will stay in the car, with the exception of the car fob itself, which will go into my pocket, instead of the three of them riding on a belt loop as per usual), or very bright colors. Wednesday is supposed to be cooler than it has been for the last few days, and I’m eyeing my dull purple hoodie, as most likely not to be missed in case I am spat upon.

I’ve also been informed that alpacas prefer to take the initiative, so I should not rush my walking companion on Wednesday, and that I should in no case try to pat an alpaca on the head.

I finished grinding my glass pieces, and this evening I will consult my book to refresh myself on foiling.

I put out a call on the Waterville Facebook page, seeking someone competent to repair a dishwasher, in case there’s an easy fix.

I did, for the curious, wash the dishes that were in the dishwasher, which was oddly calming.

I think that catches us all up.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Ah. The second daffodil of spring. I note that the Weatherbeans are calling for snow tomorrow.

Proof of Spring

Friday. Cloudy, damp, temps forecast to rise into the mid-60sF.

A thunderstorm rolled into town at bedtime last night. I got up from the couch, moved to the comfy chair in my office, opened the curtains, cracked one of the windows, and watched the storm for an hour. We don’t get nearly enough thunderstorms at this location, so we need to celebrate those we do get.

House has been picked up and Sarah’s due in at 9ish. I’m about to retreat to Steve’s office and start working on getting the Fey Duology ready for prime time.

What’re you doing today?

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Out to the post office and back. Lunch prepared and et. I have done some research and it may be — that is may be — possible to offer a softcover edition of the Fey Duology through Draft2Digital that does not involve Amazon’s marketing arm. I’ve always found D2D … kinder than Amazon. I will continue exploring.

Perusing the reviews for Duainfey and Longeye (I’m looking for a — one — glowingish professional pull quote, and it’s being tough going — I’m again struck by things like the reviewer complaining about made-up words, and I’ve gotten the distinct feeling that some had decided what the books were going to be about, and then were thrown off by them being, err, different.

There are also the odd reviewers who remark — back to back — on the fact that the two books have different voices (yes? this would be why there were two books), and complaining that they were forced to buy two books when a “rigorous editing” could have pared the entire tale into one book.

And then there are the reviewers who found Our Heroine Useless and Too Stupid to Live because she managed to survive a completely alien situation, learn the workings of said alien situation, make her way through trauma and fear back to love and morality — a lengthy road that I believe rightly passes through Anger. Those folks remind me of the people who found it Unbelievable that a woman as brilliant as Aelliana Caylon was “supposed to be” would have allowed herself to be abused.

That said, I’ve been sitting for some time with the problem of how I’m going to survive, going forward, especially as a writer, because I can’t simply just bear down and do everything that both of us did (ref Useless and Too Stupid to Live, above) without becoming a Rolanni-sized ember. Sarah’s visit this morning illuminated my situation. When I needed help cleaning the house, I hired somebody to help me. When it became clear that I couldn’t cope with the website that Steve had maintained, I hired somebody to help me.

So, it will be no shame to hire somebody to help me with PR, and possibly other administrative tasks, so I can write, meet my deadlines, interact with my readers, and Have A Life. You wouldn’t have thought that coming to this realizaton would have taken this long, but here we are.

It’s a pretty day outside. I have all the windows that will open, opened, and now it’s time to go back to Steve’s office and format me some more manuscript.
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So! I’m a third of the way through the Easy Part of the job. Tomorrow I may not be so speedy, as I do fully intend to spend at least an hour in The! Studio! with my glasswork.

Fans of Rookie will be interested to know that he conned me out of a tidbit of hardboiled egg at lunchtime and snabbled it right down.

Tali, offered her own bit of egg was — confused.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Proof of spring:

And she’ll tell you she’s an orphan

And I have finished reading Longeye.

I’m so angry, I’m weeping.

There is nothing wrong with these books, and I refuse to put a trigger warning on them that says, What? These are so well-written that they may make you feel that over-riding someone’s will is wrong?

Weren’t we just having a conversation about how wrong it is to subjugate another person?

I’m going to go break things, now.
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This is the cover art for the e-omnibus including the reprints of Duainfey and Longeye, with an Explanatory Foreword from the surviving author. This e-omnibus will be coming out from Pinbeam Books (aka, the Sharon Lee & Steve Miller Publishing Empire) RealSoonNow. I’ll tell you when.

I went back through the professional reviews for Duainfey and Longeye, and am kind of struck by the confusion of the reviewers — even the reviewers who liked them. It reminds me in a way of the reviews for Ondine (which I adore, predictably), in which the biggest complaint was that the filmmakers “couldn’t decide” if they wanted to tell a fantasy or a present day story. When in fact what the filmmakers did (I have no idea, obviously, if they intended this) very well was to juxtapose fantasy and present day, which I think? is pretty common, and I never did figure out why none of the pros could figure that out.

Anyhoots! I have a cover for The Fey Duology (including Duainfey and Longeye in one! convenient! package!), and now all I have to do now is edit the manuscript, reformat it 18 times, write cover copy, and a preface, and all like that. As before, I don’t dare try to sell this through Amazon, because I really can’t depend on them understanding stuff like “rights reverted,” and “I wrote them.” Amazon has had trouble with these concepts before, and I can’t risk the dozens of Pinbeam Books books that are already on sale at Amazon for one title.

And now! I need to go do my duty to the cats.

Blog title . . . Yeah, still with The Black Crowes. Been that kind of a day.

The pain gonna make everything all right

Thursday?

. . . let’s go with Thursday. Damp and cool, but by no means cold.

Breakfast was rice crackers, cream cheese, and grapes. Lunch will probably be fried potatoes and onions and a protein to be named later. The to-do list is everything I didn’t do yesterday.

I am three-quarters of the way through Longeye and There. Is. Not. ONE. THING. Wrong. with these books. I’m actually quite angry with the people who made me ashamed of my own work and very nearly caused me to abandon my art. And while Steve said all the right things — one of Steve’s many talents lying in the direction of selling sno cones to penguins. At a profit. — I doubt he would have given up writing, and I’m not sure the partnership would have survived my withdrawal.

Side story: We had friends who were musicians, a duo, who played gigs in the neighborhood. One day, one of the duo called and asked to meet us for a drink; she had something she wanted to talk out. So, we met her, and it turned out that she had met another musician whose art ignited her own in a way that playing with the other half of the current duo, also her partner, did not. She really wanted to play with this other person, and expand her art. I can still hear the raw anguish in her voice when she said, “And the problem is, I never made a distinction between being with [partner], and playing with [partner].”

Sometime after that, the original duo vanished from the local scene, and we heard, eventually, that they had split and she had left the area.
The moral of this story being that the partnership Steve and I shared was fluid, and informed everything we did. I lost track of how many times we were asked: “You’re married? And you write together? How does that even work?” It worked because we were together.

*deep breath*

Going back to the Fey Duology — I will, indeed, be reissuing these books. Proudly reissuing these books. Under our names.

And now? I b’lieve it’s time to go to work.

How’s everybody doing?

Today’s blog post title comes courtesy of The Black Crowes, “She talks to angels“

Follow the compass that beats in your chest

Wednesday. Grey, damp, and warm.

Today is the day I was to have turned Kin Right in to Baen.

I have a bunch of clerical tasks to finish with today, so that’s what will be happening. I also need to chop and freeze onions, figure out if I can freeze lemons, and also sliced deli ham (I went a little nuts at the grocery and bought a fresh-deli pack of black forest ham and another, of baby Swiss, because damn, I miss ham sandwiches). My desire having been somewhat slaked, I realize that I had better freeze what’s left and parcel it out later.

Lunch will be a salad, on account I have lettuce, tomato, cooked potatoes, pickled beets, olives, cottage cheese, and I can have tuna, if the whim so takes me. Breakfast was ham and Swiss on whole wheat with mustard. Third mug of tea is brewing.

The cats have relocated themselves to the front of the house, which is where my office is located. No one is actually in my office with me at the moment, but all are within the sound of my keyboard.

I started reading Longeye last night, and have yet to encounter porn. I will backtrack to Duainfey briefly, reminded as I was by the audiobook company that sought out the Fey Books, signed a contract, and then pulled out, giving as their reason, and I quote: “Chapter Thirty-Seven!”

Now, Chapter Thirty-Seven is … hard. Even very hard. Or, one might say, effective. Not porn, and I contend that no one would have paled, had Our Heroine instead been multiply and terribly wounded in a gun fight, or tied to a post and whipped.

I further note that we apparently have always wanted to talk about Power’s drive to subsume and control Art/Soul/Love/Innocence.

What else?

Ah! A book came across my newsfeed — Falling Forward, which apparently discusses the Myth of Resilience. As someone who still finds herself saying at least once a day, “I can’t do this,” I’m interested in what this book has to say, and I wonder if anyone here has read it, and what you thought.

I think that’s it for the Morning Edition.

Today’s blog post title brought to you by Sail North, “Compass.”

Here, have a picture of Rookie before he jumped up into my chair in the dining room and went to sleep:

Cultural Genetics

Monday. Cloudy and damp. Bed’s been stripped, towels are drying, eggs on to be boiled hard, submitted news of LUC6’s imminent publication to MWPA’s newsletter. Sea Shanties streaming. Apparently the week’s theme is Sea Shanties.

Waiting for a friend to come by and pick up a thing, after which I b’lieve I’ll wander out into the day and perform this list of errands.

Many thanks to all (on FB) who weighed in on yesterday’s discussions regarding cultural relativity.

I’m a little past the half-way point in Duainfey. Altimere’s invention has been proved, and I haven’t seen any porn yet. I do see that we were very subtle on the SF underpinings, which is to say, I knew it was a First Contact novel, and Steve knew it was a First Contact novel, but we might’ve been the only ones. Though one of course must feel for poor Charlie Mason, taken up by the Purity League for building his steam carriage. Also, Points to the authors for that very telling discussion of duty in which Altimere likens his care for Becca to her care for her horse.

What else? Not much. Oh. I’m feeling some sharper today, which tells me that not only is writing a book much more wearing using only one brain, but recovery takes longer. Information, I suppose.

How’s everybody holding up?

One of the other things roused up out of muck at the bottom of my brain relative to yesterday’s conversation — there had used to be what were called “racy” or “naughty” novels. The Night Life of the Gods by Thorne Smith is my benchmark “naughty” novel, though Topper will do in a pinch (I adore Topper; I’d read it again, if I wasn’t afraid the book will fall apart on me). It seems to me that there are no more “naughty” novels, though I’d be pleased to be proved wrong (titles, anybody?), that we have various kinds of Romances — sweet, sexy, hot, and so on — and of course we have porn, but nothing that’s just … bawdily flirtatious.

Someone in yesterday’s discussions mentioned Nick and Nora Charles, who were more flirtatious than naughty; they teased each other: elegantly, wittily, playfully, sexually. It was play, and illustrated that they each felt safe in their partnership and with each other.

One of the things that continually startles me, in my Brave New World, is how carefree (“carefree” meaning “free of care”) and playful I was able to feel, knowing that I had backup, and genuine affection in my life.

Anyhoots! The eggs are cooling, and I need to get the towels out of the dryer.

. . .that followed, followed after

What went before: Well. I finished Crystal Dragon last night. When it comes time, I’ll be talking about Soldier and Dragon as one work, which they are (much as The Queen of Attolia and The King of Attolia are one book, IMHO). I do remember thinking that we ought to have included “The Hound of Heaven” (Francis Thompson) previous to the text. Steve argued that it would confuse more than illuminate, though, in my head at least, Dragon has its (very deep and complex) root system there. He was probably right, though. Nobody reads the classics anymore.

In any case.

Saturday! Sunny; rained overnight, looks like. Not going to be nearly so warm as yesterday. I’ve got The! Studio! warming up, and will today remember to turn OFF the heaters before I turn ON the grinder.

My first cup of tea has just finished brewing and Firefly is stamping her tiny slippered foot — ahem. Her large, furry foot, wanting me to get into the chair so we can have our morning chat.

Later.
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End of Saturday report.

The day was partially taken up with This Old House stuff — circuit breakers that wouldn’t unbreak, toilet that wouldn’t behave. I fixed all of it, eventually, and spent a little time with my glass project, cut out pattern stars for another project, and shared some lying-on-the-bed time with Rook (who took over my stomach) and Tali (who found a corner of folded-over blanket (Tali prefers blanket, God She knows what we’ll do when summer finally arrives). Since the reason I was lying down in the bed was to do my PT exercises, this was, as you might imagine, Vastly Convenient. But very comforting. Apparently, I’m on the lists as needing comfort.

I’m having some doubts about stained glass as an art that I’ll want to be pursuing, it taking more dedication than I’m free to give it, given the press of my primary art. Also, I’m having some serious trouble (1) scoring a line and (2) making it straight. I’ll visit The! Studio! again tomorrow and do some more grinding; there’s no rush, after all.

I started reading Duainfey at lunch (taking a break from the Liaden re-read; it strikes me that Crystal Dragon is a good place to pause), since I’m looking to republish it and Longeye.

Is there any interest in me discussing those books after I read them?

Other than that, I am not bouncing back as quickly as I feel that I should from having finished the book. OTOH, the absence of Steve was acute after I turned in the manuscript, and then the news of eluki’s passing.

Oh, and genocidal maniacs who have access to the means to make their threats good. That, too.

Rough month, all of a sudden, and it’s only the 11th.

Well.

I hope everyone’s doing as well as possible. Stiff upper lip, and a stiff drink, too, if it will help.

Stay safe. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Today’s blog post title taken, in fact, from “The Hound of Heaven,” by Francis Thompson, which includes a very specific flight along shifting ley lines.

Big Brown Truck delivers

A few minutes ago, a Big Brown Truck arrived in the driveway and offloaded a box of shiny, brand-new Liaden Universe Constellation Volume 6.

Proof of books:

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Despite a general feeling that I’ve been wandering around aimlessly for the last two days, I note that Steve’s office has been cleared of the Detritus of Creativity, surfaces dusted and rugs vacuumed.

This, mine own, desk sports two small, tidy piles to be dealt with in an on-going fashion. I need to fill out my To-Do pad for next week, but otherwise?
We’re good.

I think that tomorrow I will go visit My! Studio! reintroduce myself to my project and set up the grinder. That sounds like a good use of my time.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe.

I’ll check in tomorrow.

Finishing up the Fey

It is, by the way, snowing here in Central Maine.

From the mailbag: Why didn’t you stop writing?

And the answer to that is — you know this, surely? — Steve.

Possibly missing fact: I was lead on the Fey books; Steve was writing the chapter-a-week for Fledgling and then Saltation.

Continuing the story of why I didn’t quit writing:

I was in moderate hysterics, having come home from a bad day of secretarying, to find my mailbox full of mail hating on the Fey. Steve had hauled me to the kitchen table, poured the wine and said, “Tell me.”

And I told him: I told him that I loved to write but I couldn’t take the hate and the screaming and people telling me I was a pervert who wrote bad porn, and how dare I sully their eyes —

And he said. “So, are they bad books? Did you cheat? Did you deliberately write badly?”

And I kinda laughed right there and said, “Honestly? What bugs me the most about the porn comment is that it’s bad porn. If I’m gonna write porn, it’s going to be the best porn you ever read. And no, I didn’t cheat. They were hard — you know how hard they were — but I did my best by them.”

“OK,” said Steve, “so what’s bothering you is the hate mail. Don’t read it.”

“But we always answer mail from our readers.”

“Forward it to me. I’ll deal with it.”

“OK…”

“Anything else?”

“Well . . . I’m afraid I won’t be able to write anything, because I’ll be afraid of being screamed at.”

At this point, I believe the glasses were refreshed.

“We got into this because we wrote for each other,” Steve said. “And we said we’d stop, if it wasn’t fun any more. If it’s not fun any more, tell me. We don’t have to do this.”

And I said, “Let me think about it.”

We finished the bottle, as one does, and a couple days later, I started to write a story for the next SRM chapbook, and forwarded all my reader mail to Steve, who probably had written a script to send them immediately to trash-and-delete, and — here we are.