First, the updates: there’s the Bitten By Books interview with me, where I answered a ton of questions. I had a great time. Go check them out! Plus there’s a new interview with Tanith Lee, my all-time favorite author. And, in case you haven’t heard, here’s the SFWA’s statement on Harlequin’s proposed vanity press imprint. (Ilona Andrews has a link roundup about this.)

My writing post is very short and simple today, mostly because I am working under a severe time crunch.

Last night I went outside. It was warm and windy, little spatters of rain. I was standing in my driveway, thinking about things, when all of a sudden…it was like a weight lifted and I knew I was going to be OK. Way down deep, in the nonphysical (but still in-my-body) core of me, there’s a band of steel. It can get beat up, heated red hot, ground at, and bent, but it’s always there. And it just gets stronger.

Writing has taught me a lot about that steel. One of Jill Kismet’s most admirable (or maddening) qualities is that she doesn’t know when to give up. Quit is so not in her dictionary. I like that about her, even if other aspects of her personality infuriate me. (I do not often like my characters. I don’t have to–I just have to write them.) Dante Valentine endures whatever the world throws at her, and struggles to endure on her own terms. Many of my characters have that core of resiliency, of inner strength. Finding it in a character helps me find it in myself.

I think everyone has some steel in them. Some more, some less, but everyone has some. The trick is, when everything is whirling around you like a snowglobe full of razorblades, to find the stillness, the strong space inside you. No matter how battered I get, that steel is there. Sometimes it cuts deep, but when I need something other than my spine to carry me, well, it takes up the job.

Being reduced to your steel is an uncomfortable experience. You may find yourself rejected for publication so many times you wonder if it’s worth carrying on. You may find yourself in much worse situations where you wonder if it’s worth surviving at all. The steel doesn’t count the cost and it doesn’t care about what you think you can do. It’s a tiny piece of irreducible grit we’re all built around. We’re pearls, but at the heart of each pearl is that harsh speck of irritation.

I just finished Kage Baker’s Empress of Mars. It’s about a woman who has that steel. Several times things would be easier if Mary just quit. But she’s staked her claim, dammit, and nobody is going to make her back down or give up. It hurts, it’s goddamn uncomfortable sometimes, but that steel is a gift from the gods. When you cannot rely on anything else, if you can find your core it can and will carry you through.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own steel. I was wondering if it had vanished, burned or melted away. I was wondering if I was ever going to feel strong again.

Last night, with the wind pushing wet dry leaves and warm rain spattering down, I felt that slender core of strength inside me. Sometimes it does cut, worse than anyone else’s words or actions could. I’ll take it, even if it does. When it comes right down to it, that steel has seen me through much worse than a broken (and mending) heart.

I’m just glad I found it again. Of course, it needs to be used responsibly, because even a healer’s knife can cut…

…but that’s another blog post.

Keep writing.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

ETA: There’s an interview with Christophe over at LiyanaLand, for all you Christophe fans!

Today I’m over at Bitten By Books to celebrate the release of Betrayals! There’s an interview with me, and I’ll be popping in there to answer questions and comments all day. There’s also a chance to win a $15 Amazon gift certificate. So, come on over and have some fun.

Right now, though, I’ve got to hit the treadmill. I’ve been on the phone all morning, what with one thing and another, and I need to get the daily run out of the way. It’s beyond me why I struggle and suffer and sweat on the treadmill while I could be eating choco, but I guess it will help me live longer so I can eat more choco. Delayed gratification, the hallmark of adulthood.

I just wish gratification wasn’t delayed so long.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

That’s right! Today marks the release of the second in the Strange Angels series, Betrayals. And do I have some treats for you.

* You can go to Bitten By Books and vote for Lucifer from the Valentine series as the best villain of all. I’ll also be at BBB all day tomorrow for their big Betrayals event.

* I have a guest post over at Fantastic Book Review–Werewolves vs. Vampires. Go and tell everyone who YOU like best!

* LiyanaLand’s Betrayals week just keeps on going with an interview with your favorite loup-garou, Graves. (Christophe’s interview is tomorrow.) Go find out what he wants to be when he grows up–and find out what he thinks of Dru.

And now, ladies and gents, I give you…Betrayals!

Dru Anderson’s parents are long gone, her best friend is a werwulf, and she’s just learned that the blood flowing through her veins isn’t entirely human. (So what else is new?)

When murderous vampires start showing up and the body count begins rising, Dru has to figure out who to trust and when to run–or tonight might be her last…

Available now at Barnes & Noble, Indiebound, Borders, & Amazon

Don’t forget, if you don’t win a signed copy this week with all the giveaways, you can easily buy one by contacting Cover to Cover Books. Their shipping rates are quite reasonable and I can sign and personalize books for them with no trouble at all.

Once again, dear Readers, thank you for reading. I can’t wait to hear what you think of Dru’s further adventures.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

This Wednesday I’ll be over at Bitten By Books, pretty much all day. There’s even a contest. If you’re interested, RSVP here (it gives you extra entries into the contest) and then come by on Wednesday and check it out.

Also, there will be upcoming interviews with Graves and with Christophe Reynard at LiyanaLand this week. Stay tuned!

Now, back I dive into revisons…

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

When I am so discombobulated I can’t even remember how to run my coffeemaker…

…you know it’s time for Revisions Deathmarch. The blessed caffeine is going to be hitting my bloodstream during the typing of this short post, so forgive me any irregularities. Oh, and check out Marjorie Liu’s post on the five stages of decline in a writer’s career. It’s well worth reading.

Want to win a signed copy of Betrayals? LiyanaLand has her contest up for one signed copy. She’ll also have interviews with Christophe and Graves later this week. Also, tomorrow is the launch date, so I’ll be running another giveaway. And the newsletter giveaway is still upcoming too.

Right now I’ve got revisions for the third Strange Angels book, Jealousy, on my docket. After that it’s revising Heaven’s Spite into a reasonable first draft. Then I get to dive into writing again, all while keeping my NaNo wordcount up.

Dear God. Eating and washing myself may become of secondary importance if this keeps up. One good thing about it: other stuff has kept me from having the usual pre-release jitters. Still, I’ll take the jitters over personal crisis any day.

Okay. I’ve got to get this opened up and start surgery. This revision looks like it’s going to be blood and guts all over. *rubs hands together with an evil smile*

Wish me luck.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where you can find tons of writing advice, fun stuff, and giveaways. Check them out!

When I start out the day singing the Indigo Girls in the shower (Come On Home is Saul’s song for Jill) you know it’s a bittersweet day.

Dishes stacked, the table cleared
It’s always like the scene of the last supper here
You speak so cryptically that’s not news to me
The flood is here it will carry you
And I’ve got work to do. –Indigo Girls

I do indeed have work to do. It’s the same work I do every day, pulling words out of the air. It’s not the only magic I know. I can soothe a frightened child, produce dinner for seven out of chicken and noodles, ease a nightmare or hold a friend while she cries. There’s no end to the ordinary magic I can do. I think a lot of times we don’t step back and look at the miracles in our daily lives.

Writing, too, is a miracle. I am reminded of this each time I fall into a story. Yesterday I reread smoke and mirror and realized that I do like those books very much, still. I learned a great deal writing them, and am still half-finished with avatar. More importantly, I read them and saw how far I’d come, both personally and with the craft of writing. It’s a good thing to look at a sorcery you worked a long time ago and still see its effect. I don’t like Rose, but by the end of mirror she’s starting to buck up and take her hero’s journey instead of being so passive. And crucifying Constantius was strangely satisfying–he’s a manipulative bastard. (Guess who everyone loves, though? The girls adore him.)

Ahem. Pardon, I got distracted.

I’ve had a hard go of it lately. I’ve finished a book while suffering a broken heart and various personal upheavals. I’ve got a merry go round of revisions on two books and a fresh short story to write too. It’s better than the alternative–no work at all.

I am wondering, when I see the book I’ve just finished on the shelves (and isn’t that an odd feeling, to see something you worked on so hard and that was so personal, out there to be handled in public) if I will remember how much I cried while writing it. I wonder if I’ll remember, when I get to certain passages, how much my heart was breaking. How much I had to just shut out the pain and plunge through, desperately using the words to stay afloat. I wonder if anyone else reading it will be able to tell where I grabbed the lifeline and pulled myself up.

This is separate, of course, from wondering if my pain and distraction turned the book into a steaming pile of crap not even an editor will be able to save. But if I worry about that I’ll go nuts and have another nervous breakdown, and that’s not good for anyone. It might be a terrible book, but it is no longer a terrible unfinished book, and that has got to be good enough for now. It can be fixed in revision. (Yeah, famous last words…)

I am standing on the shore, shivering, looking at the water I was just recently drowning in. It’s lapping at my toes, and its cold little fingers are stronger than they should be. But there’s the lifeline, snaking off through the sand and the grass. It’s made of words twisted together, and made of the ordinary magic of each day. It’s a fragile line when compared to the abyss, indeed.

But it’s there. And it hasn’t let me down yet. When I see the book I just finished on the shelf somewhere, in the dim future I can’t even imagine yet, I may take it as visible proof that I’m a survivor. I may remember that the words are always there, and they always carry me. Each time I fling myself out into space, heart in mouth and terror behind my eyes…I fly. The net catches me, and I wonder why I ever thought it wouldn’t.

So here’s my Friday writing thought this week, dear Readers: the net will catch you. Some days the words are all we have. Some days the ordinary magic is all we’ve got. Between the two, we can manage. Or, at least, fake it until we make it. (But that’s a different blog post.)

So keep holding on, keep writing, and keep looking for the ordinary miracles. We are all magicians in our daily lives. Don’t forget it.

It just might pull you out of freefall–or out of the water–someday.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

I’ve been shamefully neglecting blogging lately. Partly because the only things I’m thinking about, really, are personal things I’m not sharing with the world. It might not seem like it, but I am a very private person. Here, you get to see some parts of me.

But not all.

Anyway, I woke up this morning feeling a bit down, but then I got on the treadmill. Exercise helps. I did the shovelgloving. That helped too. And by degrees I arrived at a place where I’m feeling OK. Really OK, not just “make do with less pain than usual.” The feeling might not last–if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past couple months it’s that the waves can pour over you at a moment’s notice. (That’s why they call them feelings, I guess.) But it’s good while it’s here, and I can focus on extending it and knowing it will return. I’m struggling free of that place I retreated to, the safe place where I had to curl up and lick my wounds for a while. Pretty soon I’ll dry my wings off…but not yet. Right now I’ve just got part of me free, and I’m breathing some good air.

Part of the good feeling is making decisions about things to cut out of my life I am a curious mixture of contradictory things, and “doormat for the people I love” is one of them. I can’t afford to be a doormat anymore, love or no love. It’s too damaging. It sucks up all one’s time and energy and leaves nothing but an empty shell–especially if you love someone who takes without giving.

I’m worth more than that.

Still, I’m having to be careful what kind of music I listen to. Love songs still hurt. I’m sticking with instrumentals, breakup songs (the cheerier the better, but still used with caution) and flamenco. The love-song rule doesn’t count if they’re singing in a language I don’t understand very well, I can just listen to the phonemes.

Anyway, enough of that. I’m only checking into NaNo every few days, so my wordcount jumps are not at all how I’m getting the daily wordcount done. My brain is still dry and empty from finishing the zero draft of Heaven’s Spite. (It’s not pretty, but it’s done.) I’ve got revisions coming up, a short story to write, and cover blurbage to organize. Along with yoga to squeeze in today between all the errands.

No rest for the wicked. Really, I suspect the wicked prefer it that way. I know I certainly do.

Over and out.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

ETA: I forgot to mention, there’s an interview with me up over at the Book Butterfly. Enjoy!

Yesterday was a comedy of errors, ameliorated somewhat by my friend Red Argyle and his girlfriend coming over for family bowling night. We had a lot of fun, and I tried a new recipe. It came out very well, even if I couldn’t find flank steak.

The cavalcade of errors included my kitchen sink suddenly refusing to work, despite Drano and plunging. I am proud to report that this morning I took the trap off, cleaned everything out, swore five or six times, and restored order. At least under-the-sink gets clean and now I know how to take the trap off. So, it’s all good.

And now my website is back up and working again! Huzzah! So, am announcing the winner of a copy of Betrayals–remember that? And the winner, picked with the help of Random.org, is…

…comment #12, Terry! Who said:

Throwing up in my hotel room (very bad fish from the hotel restaurant) prevented me from likely being being ensnared from what I hope was a beautiful Russian spy (lovely phone voice).

This was in Moscow during the cold war and those things did happen back then.

I have no idea if she really was a “swallow” (old spy slang term, look it up ) and I certainly was no catch but the whole meeting sounded wrong (too long to tell here) and before I could make up my mind, the fish decided to swim to freedom through my throat.

Whether it was luck, bad luck and/or a really complex (and likely weird) conspiracy by the soviets remains unknown.

Terry, if you’ll email me your snail mail address, your signed and personalized copy of Betrayals will be on its way to you! Thanks for commenting!

There will be another giveaway, and I’m working on the most current installation of the newsletter, where there will be yet another giveaway. But first, today, I have to get out to Home Despot. I need plumber’s putty, some dowels, and a snake.

Don’t ask. I just like to be prepared.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

Today’s writing post is another oldie–from April 27, 2007. For various reasons, once I reread it this morning I started crying. I still believe, very strongly, that art saves lives. I have made it through two marriages now, and the Infamous Vampire Novel I refer to below has been sorta-published. But I still hold to everything I say here.

At my blog today I wrote about how deciding not to engage can save one’s life. Here, because I am feeling both introspective and ambitious, I want to talk about writing saving one’s life. Really, any art can save you, but writing’s what I know. So here goes.

I got my first intimation of the power of art while I was a teenager. I was dating a man seven years my senior, who had a taste for very young girls and using his fists on the same. Yes, I was stupid–but what fourteen-year-old isn’t? I had no means of measuring the threat this predator represented, and I had no other benchmark for affection other than abuse. As a matter of fact, the kid my own age I dated before that was so nice I got nervous and broke it off with him, because he didn’t hit me. It just didn’t feel right if someone wasn’t whaling on me.

So there I was, getting it from both ends, and I discovered alcohol. I’m sure I was drunk through most of my junior-high and high-school. I still pulled a respectable GPA–academics were, at that point, still a fun game for me and I have never lost my taste for learning. But I was desperate. There was literally nowhere I could turn. I had grown used to keeping secrets by then, and staying on top of this pile of things I couldn’t talk about was wearying, to say the least.

This was also the time I was reading (please don’t laugh) Uncanny X-Men. A LOT. Especially when Claremont was writing and Lee was drawing. The idea of being a mutant, with these fantastical powers and loneliness, was very appealing.

So I did what any redblooded junior writer would.

I started writing fanfic in spiral notebooks. Obsessively. I even cut back on the drinking so I had more time to write. It started out so innocently, a story about Wolverine and a mysterious assassin who seemed to heal just as fast as he did. Then there was the Colossus-Storm mix, because I thought Forge was a wimp and Ororo deserved someone nice. Then I started interjecting my own characters–Mary Sues and Gary Stus, to be sure, but they felt good at the time.

Things crept into my writing. Descriptions of punches I’d recorded in my diary, things I noticed about the world, snippets of conversation I’d heard. I cut back on the drinking even more to have more time to write. I wrote in the bathroom in the middle of the night, my heart in my mouth, sneaking out of my boyfriend’s parties to write on the porch, hiding my notebooks in my locker because my mother went through my diaries at home once or twice and administered a whuppin’ because of what she found.

The writing was always there. I could take almost anything because I was thinking, when I get by myself I’ll write about this. Fixing my attention on that was a disassociative trick to be sure, but it worked. It gave me a future to look forward to.

Eventually, the fanfic stories grew thin. I wanted other characters, I wanted other settings. I had this idea for a book…a fantasy book. And with my heart in my mouth, I tried writing it. Took me years. And I started not writing the X-Men stuff so much, and started writing other little slushy snippets of things. Here and there. Bit by bit.

I moved away from home and in with another boyfriend. That didn’t work out so well. I bounced around different homes, different relationships, writing all the while. An old friend died and I cried with my notebook in my lap, struggling to put the hurt into words so I could get some sort of handle on it–any handle would do, I just needed one.

I found it in the first few paragraphs of another novel–the infamous vampire novel, of course. Which, like the First Fantasy, will never see publication because it’s so sloppy and uneven. But my God, it felt good to write, and it felt good to bleed off some of the pressure of guilt and grief into the structure of a story.

I’ve gone through a marriage and a half since then, and the birth of two children. And several other life events. Writing has been there all the time–the friend that gives me strength to go on when I don’t think I can. The way of transforming the world to make it reasonable, or at least a little less scary.

A few Decembers ago I was in a bad car accident. (Twisty road, nighttime, a deer on its way home and me trying not to kill Bambi.) Hanging upside-down in the truck’s cab, one part of me was screaming in hysterical fear. The largest, Mommy-based part of me was calmly saying, first let’s get this seatbelt off and kick out a window.

Another part of me, the writer, was considering all of this and taking notes. So that’s what this feels like. Damn, it’s good material.

I was fairly calm, all things considered.

It all started with me and a notebook, the pen in my hand and my heart in my mouth, daring to do that most subversive of acts–tell my own story. To honestly and simply tell any story is an act of magic, an act of liberation. It is a lifering when you’re drowning, a way to scramble for higher ground when the water rises. It is sorcery, a way of remaking the world. I felt like a mutant when I was scribbling in those spiral-bound notebooks. Dangerous, lonely, and socially sneered-at–but with a secret power, a talent I could use for good or for evil, something I could do.

And each one of those words saved my life, over and over again. Each was a step up out of the abyss of believing myself worthless, a waste of skin and breath. Even today, each word, over and over, saves my life. It is a net when I’m falling, a rope when I’m drowning, a reminder to be calm when I’m in the middle of smashed metal and glass, smelling gasoline and so scared I can barely breathe.

I once received a fan letter from a woman who rescues elderly cocker spaniels. She said that some of my books had given her hope, that sometimes when she was feeling down about the plight of these poor dogs abandoned by their owners she could read them and forget, or read them and get a little bit of hope. Just a tiny sprinkle.

I cried.

Because if writing can save my own life, and if it can give someone else a little bit of hope, then I consider it one of the greatest acts of magic I’m capable of. Getting paid for it is nice, sure–I have kids to feed, after all. But if something that saved my life can also give someone else a little bit of hope…that’s damn precious. If even one person feels the world is a better place because of this story I’ve told as well as I’m able, I consider my time on earth well-spent.

And that’s really all this writer asks for.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

At the end of this post you’ll get a chance to win a signed copy of Betrayals. I’ll just tell you that up front.

My beautiful weekend suddenly sprouted Things To Do like a wet log in the forest sprouting mushrooms. Not even the good kind of mushrooms either–not edible or, ahem, fun ones. No, these mushrooms are slimy and gunky and poisonous and…oh, yeah, some of you may be trying to eat. Sorry about that.

Well, it’s better than knocking around the house bored. And after Friday I’ll be able to get back into the swing of yoga. That will help tremendously, I suspect. The deep breathing and stretching does wonders.

The Little Prince has fallen in love with, of all things, Mozart. He has a Mozart CD that must be played during schoolwork or at bedtime. If we can’t find the Mozart CD, it is a tragedy comparable to the sinking of the Titanic. Complete with tears, teeth-gnashing, the whole nine. Funny little guy.

And now, for your chance to win a copy of Betrayals! Don’t forget, you can also win a copy over at the Deadline Dames–the Readers on Deadline event ends Wednesday Nov 12th.

But here, it’s a little different. You know I’m doing this luck experiment, right? And it seems to be working. So I want to hear about the luckiest thing that ever happened to you, dear Reader. Put it right in the comments HERE. The contest closes Saturday the 7th at midnight, and I’ll use Random.org to pick a winner from the comment numbers. Please note that I can only send prizes to US addresses. (Please do not tell me what a horrible person I am for not being able to send stuff overseas, mmmmkay?) You will get a signed, personalized copy of Betrayals. And if that ain’t cool, I don’t know what is.

See you tomorrow–the Friday post will be late, because I’m due at the airport in the morning. (Don’t ask.) But I will be around.

Now, tell me about that lucky thing.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

So, here’s the first giveaway for a copy of Betrayals. Are you ready?

To enter, go here, to the Deadline Dames. I’m offering a copy of the second Strange Angels book (the one that isn’t even out yet) as a prize for Dame Rinda’s Readers on Deadline #9. Go, have fun! Participants have a shot at winning the book! Signed, no less.

I will be doing other giveaways starting this Friday, both for my blog AND for my newsletter. I don’t have many copies, so stay tuned and keep nimble.

I’m keeping this short and sweet today, because things are crazy with a capital cray-cray. They’ll calm down soon–I’m just putting my head down and moving steadily onward. Some days that’s the only way you get anything done.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

I signed up for NaNoWriMo this year, but I haven’t finished the one book I was working on. ARGH. This is going to be fun.

On the bright side, this will give my discipline a little extra boost. I can always use that.

So if you don’t see me around for a while, I’m probably hunched feverishly over a keyboard somewhere, tryi like hell to get 3K a day out. My brain is going to feel like a wrung-out sponge at the end of this.

Buckle up, baby. We’re going to ride.

Posted from A Fire of Reason. You can also comment there.

This post is from the old Midnight Hour writing blog, where I used to do Friday posts. The Midnight Hour is defunct now–sad because I liked it so much. But I managed to get my entries off before it went bust, which means I can offer you this one. This is from November 23, 2007, and I think it’s still timely. Another note: this is crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where there is all sorts of great advice and giveaways.

Critique is like marriage counseling. One does not want to admit that one has done something that matters so much less than perfectly. Critique in a workshop/convention setting is even more dangerous, because there is the added fun of exhaustion, convention emotion, and fluid interpersonal rules.

I very rarely do critique sessions, mostly because I have beta readers I’m comfortable with. And I hate having to pick apart a stranger’s work, unless it’s in the comfort of my home where I can read a book and bitch in peace. Plus, in a group, there’s the whole group dynamic to worry about, and I’m usually far more concerned with people getting along than with the work at hand. Which is why I work alone, I reckon.

But I realize other people feel differently about it. So, in the interests of making things easier (always one of my favorite things to do) I’m going to offer some thoughts and tips about critique sessions.

Recently I participated in a Clarion-style critique session, where the more experienced critiquer goes first, everyone gets five minutes, and the writer is only allowed to respond during the brainstorming session. A fellow published author and I** were critiquing two unpublished authors, and the two unpubs were critiquing each other too. Which is a good way to get a range of advice.

One critique session went smoothly, the other not so smoothly. The one that went smoothly had an author who managed to keep his mouth shut and really listen to the advice being offered despite it being about one of his babies. He held his peace and during the brainstorming mentioned that he had majored in drama, so he could understand our concerns about dialogue. He asked our advice about specific ways to solve the problems inherent in the stories and took notes. Not only did the story impress me, but (and this is critical) the author’s taking of the critique impressed the editor in me. The guy seemed like he would be easy to work with, and that leads me to the first major thing critique sessions should never be used for.

Pitching. Please, dear God, DO NOT pitch your story to a published author or an editor during the critique session. It’s in bad form, especially to the others being critiqued. If they like your story, they may give you submissions tips, but that’s as far as it goes. Critique is supposed to make you a better writer, not sell your fantasy epic.

It is vital as well that you not seek to explain your story. If you have to explain your story during a critique session, you haven’t done your job as a writer. The story needs to stand without explanation, and most critique sessions will show you where the weak spots are that keep a story from doing so.

I don’t think any writer really loves to critique. We understand how dreadful a feeling it is to have one’s baby flayed and pinned to the wall, the flaws on open display. (Note: there are some toxic critiquers who delight in emotional banditry, insulting others’ stories. This post isn’t about them.) We don’t want to tell someone else what is wrong with their story–but we will in a critique session, because the information is valuable. It could be the difference between the slush pile and a contract. Try to remember that the critiquers by and large are overcoming their own natural reticence to help your story.

Above all, don’t get loud. If you disagree, wait for your turn and say, “I disagree.” But come on–if two of your critique partners agree on something, it’s something you need to seriously take a look at, not disagree with. At the very least there is a problem that might need tweaking in your text. But do not get loud. Do not blame your editor, or say that your story is for a small select audience who will Understand.

Because that sort of shit means you’ll never get published. An editor sees that sort of behavior and thinks, thank God I don’t have to work with that. You’re in the slush pile regardless of the quality of your work, and that is something no writer needs. Conversely, you can never tell when an editor will recognize your name and associate it with the great way you took a critique. Remember, editors are people too…and if they have to make a choice between 1. moderate quality and a person who’s easy to work with, and 2. higher quality but an a$$hole to work with, guess what they will choose most of the time? (Hint: it isn’t #2.)

Critiquers understand this is a delicate and explosive situation***. That’s why there are Rules. The Rules are there to take the emotion out or at least tone it down, to mitigate the hurt, and give a framework that makes it easier for us to be human beings instead of screaming emotion-driven banshees. Of course, Rules are only as good as the people playing by them or breaking them…but that’s beside the point.

So, things not to do during a critique:

* Don’t try to explain your story.
* Don’t get loud or combative, or distraught.
* Do not blame your editor, your beta reader, the sad state of literacy in America, the stupidity of readers, etc., for the fact that your story is inoperable.
* Do not talk when you’re not supposed to.
* Do not take the critique as a personal attack.
* Don’t try to sell or pitch the story.
* Above all, do not be rude.

Things to do during a critique:

* Take notes. You won’t remember everything without help.
* Keep your trap shut when you’re supposed to.
* Try to divorce yourself from the story for an hour. The clearer and more dispassionate you can be, the better.
* Be polite. Be polite, be polite, be polite.
* Thank the critiquers.
* Don’t ask how you can sell the story. Ask how you can make the story better.
* It is perfectly acceptable to ask for clarification. Use this with caution, though, as it is easy to slide down the rabbit hole into Defending Yer Story.

As usual, thy mileage will vary, my ducks. Take all my advice with a grain of salt, since this is only my personal perception, etc., etc., ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

Disclaimer done. Good luck out there.

* Heh. I make this joke only because I saw “kretek” on every packet of clove cigarettes I ever smoked.
**Not that I believe published authors are “higher” on the food chain. It’s just that they found something that worked and so, are uniquely placed to give advice.
***At least, the good ones do. There are still those emotional bandits, who are still another post.

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There’s an interview with me up over at Publishers Weekly’s Genreville. They asked me all sorts of questions about urban fantasy.

And, yesterday, guess what happened? I was just hanging out on my front step, minding my own business, when FedEx dropped off a box. Guess what was in it. NO, GUESS! Okay, I’ll tell you.

Copies of Betrayals, that’s what!

Isn’t the new cover gorgeous? I really like this one. It’s due out November 17th, and I’m so glad to get a few of them early.

Of course, the Princess screamed in anticipation and grabbed one, and last night retired to bed with it. “I can’t wait to find out what happens to Dru!” she told me at least five times during dinner.

It’s nice to please even one reader.

So, I’ll be running giveaways, I guess. Stay tuned–I’ll probably give one away this Friday on my regular writing post. And of course readers of my newsletter, The Dark Side, get special giveaways just for them. I’m just sayin’.

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I do not like American football^[1]. For a long time I have considered it a shameful waste–a waste of young men, a waste of tax revenue for the stadiums, a waste of energy and enthusiasm. I realize not many people share my views. That’s OK. I’m used to that.

When I was running at the track over at the middle school, I would always dread this time of year. Because American football tryouts and practices would be going on in the field inside the track. I hated the aura of effort and misery over the young kids. I hated how the parents would yell from the sidelines, looking to live vicariously through their poor kids instead of working to live as adults. I absolutely loathed how the “coaches” would yell abuse at the kids. If someone talked to my kid that way, there would be consequences. Someone would lose their job and I’d make a lot of trouble for the school. I realize I am an administrator’s worst nightmare. So be it. Nobody verbally abuses my children, thank you.

Sometimes, when the wind is right this time of year, I can hear the whistle blowing and yelling from the middle school. I’m glad I have the treadmill and I do my running in the morning now. My heart would ache for the poor kids every time I went running over there during American football season.

This little trip down Memory Lane was spurred by this Malcolm Gladwell article in the New Yorker, titled Football, Dogfighting, and Brain Damage. Go read it. (Seriously, go. I’ll wait here.)

Catchy title, isn’t it? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The first brain McKee received was from a man in his mid-forties who had played as a linebacker in the N.F.L. for ten years. He accidentally shot himself while cleaning a gun. He had at least three concussions in college, and eight in the pros. In the years before his death, he’d had memory lapses, and had become more volatile. McKee immunostained samples of his brain tissue, and saw big splotches of tau all over the frontal and temporal lobes. If he hadn’t had the accident, he would almost certainly have ended up in a dementia ward. (Malcolm Gladwell)

Ten years, okay. But surely if a kid stops early they don’t get as damaged. Right? You think it’s okay for a kid to play this “sport”? Really?

McKee got up and walked across the corridor, back to her office. “There’s one last thing,” she said. She pulled out a large photographic blowup of a brain-tissue sample. “This is a kid. I’m not allowed to talk about how he died. He was a good student. This is his brain. He’s eighteen years old. He played football. He’d been playing football for a couple of years.” She pointed to a series of dark spots on the image, where the stain had marked the presence of something abnormal. “He’s got all this tau. This is frontal and this is insular. Very close to insular. Those same vulnerable regions.” This was a teen-ager, and already his brain showed the kind of decay that is usually associated with old age. “This is completely inappropriate,” she said. “You don’t see tau like this in an eighteen-year-old. You don’t see tau like this in a fifty-year-old.” (Malcolm Gladwell)

Yeah. Harmless, aggressive fun. Well, what about those super helmets that are supposed to be coming out now, that are supposed to cut down on brain trauma?

“People love technological solutions,” Nowinski went on. “When I give speeches, the first question is always: ‘What about these new helmets I hear about?’ What most people don’t realize is that we are decades, if not forever, from having a helmet that would fix the problem. I mean, you have two men running into each other at full speed and you think a little bit of plastic and padding could absorb that 150 gs of force?” (Malcolm Gladwell)

The most maddening part of the Gladwell article comes when he’s interviewing Ira Casson, who “co-chairs an N.F.L. committee on brain injury.” Casson is careful to engage in lawyerly doublespeak, and avoid all real responsibility.

“We certainly know from boxers that the incidence of C.T.E. is related to the length of your career,” he went on. “So if you want to apply that to football—and I’m not saying it does apply—then you’d have to let people play six years and then stop. If it comes to that, maybe we’ll have to think about that. On the other hand, nobody’s willing to do this in boxing. Why would a boxer at the height of his career, six or seven years in, stop fighting, just when he’s making million-dollar paydays?” He shrugged. “It’s a violent game. I suppose if you want to you could play touch football or flag football. For me, as a Jewish kid from Long Island, I’d be just as happy if we did that. But I don’t know if the fans would be happy with that. So what else do you do?” (Malcolm Gladwell)

In other words, as long as there’s money to be squeezed out of the public’s hunger to see men beat the shit out of each other, people like Casson will be all too willing to profit. The fact that it’s killing people, driving them to dementia and scarring their brains, doesn’t matter. There’s cash to be had. As long as people will pay, hey, people will play. And that’s it.

The problem is that this breaks the implicit contract between players of American football and the “managers” and “coaches” who push them to give their all. If you are going to push a dog, a child, or a man to give you their best effort, their everything, it is incumbent upon you, as Gladwell points out, not to march them off the end of a cliff. It is not enough to “lead.” One must lead responsibly. Why is this simple fact not taken into account? Oh, yeah. That little thing called profit.

Now, when I hear the whistles floating over from the middle school and the sound of kids flinging themselves at each other, I am going to be even more disgusted. If I’m ever over at the track while “practice” is going on, Jesus, I don’t know. It’s going to be difficult to watch. There are those kids, thinking that their parents and coaches know best. They wouldn’t ask us to do this, or let us do this, if it was dangerous, right?

Right?

Right?

^[1] To me, real football is what Yanks call soccer. American football is something different. YMMV

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Cotton wool stuffing my skull. Stuffed nose. At least the cold doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. I can still hit the treadmill in the mornings, which is a step up from the last round–that was the Travel Cold From Hell. *shivers* Ugh.

I am in the stage of writing a Kismet book where I have an acute attack of nerves. Nobody’s going to like it, I don’t know what I’m doing, who do I think I am… The usual. The good thing is that I’ve done this so many times by now that I’m prepared for the emotional upheaval. The bad news is…emotional upheaval. And I’ve been writing this book under acid-test conditions, as it were.

I just keep reminding myself: if I could go through pregnancy, 11+ years of being a mother, and getting published in the first place, this is small potatoes. Well, maybe small yams. Or something. I’ve done this before, I can do it again.

Last night I did some yoga on the Wii. It was actually really cool. I’m avoiding Downward Dog (the trainer tells you to put half the weight on your arms, instead of keeping most of it in your legs) and the shoulderstand (what, do I look like I shoulderstand? Not on your life, buddy). But the Palm Tree, Sun Salutation, Grounded V, Chair Pose? Oh yeah. Those I can do. And I feel so good after it’s finished–I think it’s the deep breathing.

Of course, doing yoga with a head cold is hilarious. If only because of the noises one’s nose makes during the deep breathing section of the festivities.

And now, because I’m sure you’re bored of hearing about All That, a link!

Very short stories, courtesy of Wired. com. I love these, especially Margaret Atwood’s. I found a book of 50-word stories once, including one (maybe by Chekhov?) about a woman named for a wolf. When you have so few words, each one counts for more than itself.

And with that, I’m taking myself off to a lunch of tomato soup and yesterday’s bread. Yum. I just wish I could taste it through this damn cold.

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Yesterday my friend MakeMe took me to the mall. We ended up going down to the Hawthorne district in Portland too, to visit Chopsticks and the Gold Door. It was good to get out of the house, and even better to spend some time with a good friend. Unfortunately, I caught a cold somewhere in the crowds of Sunday browsers.

So this morning I’m logy. Enjoying the rain coming down outside, it’s starring the puddles over and over again. It makes me feel all nice and cozy, nevermind sniffles or the mud that’s sure to be tracked in.

I’ve finished reading Kage Baker’s Company novels (at least, I think Sons of Heaven is the last one) and a couple books of short stories in the Company universe. I think Baker really got her feet under her with Mendoza In Hollywood , and after reading the anthologies I’ve found the immortal I identify closest with is Lewis. Though I’d probably get stuck with Joseph’s job.

Anyway, I’ve moved on to Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study In Scarlet and finally managed to get past the slog in the early part of The Talented Mr. Ripley. I couldn’t watch the Ripley movie, it was just too slow for me.

So today is for light exercise, wordcount (I’ve reached the point where I have to read the beginning of the current book so I can pick up the threads and start tying them off) and a little bit of reading. And chicken soup with tons of garlic. Thank goodness I’m feeling more like cooking again.

But more about that tomorrow.

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Crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where there are contests, more writing advice, and occasionally giveaways. Go take a look!

It’s no use fighting it. I’m a winter writer.

I actually never thought about it until the Selkie looked at me over dinner one evening and said, “You didn’t know that? You get all your work done in the winter. It’s like you’re powered by rain.” (Or something to that effect.)

I’m not sure whether it is the rain and the fact that there’s nothing to do outside (except drown, of course, this being the Pacific Northwest and all) or whether it’s just that I’m physically so uncomfortable in the summer. I hate the heat, I dislike sweating, sunshine makes me feel odd. Plus there’s all that activity outside during the summer–the kids like playing, and I like being with them. It seems too busy to settle down.

In winter, however, I turn inward. Seeing the stories inside my head gets easier. The sound of rain on the roof makes me happy, and the chill outside makes me the perfect temperature inside. Plus, there’s the longer nights, and night-time is when the static of so many people doing their daytime thinking goes down. I have always functioned better at night. (Which makes the fact that at least one of my children is a morning person verreh ironic.) Of course I cram in the work whenever I can, it being the way I feed myself and the little darlings, but I’d be a fool if I didn’t notice what times were easiest for me. I try to arrange my life so I have the prime writing time open.

Which brings me to my point. My dear fellow writers, are you a winter or summer writer? Morning or night? Does temperature or weather matter to you? How do you arrange your writing schedule to take advantage of that, or do you?

I’m curious, you see. My besetting sin.

And now, it’s raining pretty heavily. Which means it’s primetime for me. Off I go to write…

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You can win a copy of Strange Angels over at the Library Lounge Lizard. (Just one of those sentences I never thought I’d type. Wow.)

Really I am very boring today. There is not much to report. So here, have a few links:

* The Symphony of Science, or Carl Sagan rocks the Universe. The videos made me cry. We do indeed live on a wondrous planet in the middle of a wondrous universe. Anyone who is bored has only to look at their own hand, or barring that, out their window. There is stuff to be interested in all over.

* Maria Geraci on “why read things that offend you?” Here’s the germ of it:

I guess what I’m trying to say is that stories are about real people. And real people (especially single men and women in their 20’s and 30’s and beyond) have sex, occasionally cuss and do other assorted things/behaviors that you’d find in any movie/TV series out there. Here’s another big shocker: Teenagers also have sex and use profanity! Maria Geraci

* Hivelogic’s Podcast Equipment Guide. I keep thinking I’ll do some podcasting one of these days, maybe when the kids are in school and I have some time and quiet.

Yeah, time and quiet. Why are you laughing? It could happen.

* Kit Whitfield, on how submissions are like dating. Hilarious, and full of no-nonsense advice and information.

You say: ‘I know you don’t usually accept unsolicited manuscripts, but please, just have a look at this.’
Dating equivalent: ‘I know you’re married, but please, just go out with me once.’ Kit Whitfield

*snort* *giggle* *choke* *guffaw*

In other news, I’m thinking of putting together a new section for the website, where I’ll list the “soundtracks” to all the books. It will be a Project, and an enjoyable one. Once I finish the current Jill book (hit 50K last night, huzzah!) I’ll look into that. If, of course, there’s interest. Would anyone care to hear about the songs I put together for, say, the Valentine series? The Watcher books didn’t get a soundtrack, but pretty much everything else has. Drop me a line in the comments if you’d be interested in that section on the site, mmmkay?

Last but not least: Tzia, thanks for pointing out I’d forgotten to link to Borders. I’ve fixed that. And to Maria from Russia, thank you for your kind letter. It is very good to know one’s work has made someone else happy. I don’t mind your questions, even though I can’t answer a lot of them–I am just thrilled that you’ve read the books so deeply as to have those questions. Thank you very much.

And now I bid you a civil adieu. I’ve got Perry strapped into an iron frame and Jill standing there with a flechette. Methinks this is about to get interesting.

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News! I’m over at Book Chick City, talking about why I write urban fantasy. You can win a signed Strange Angels or Night Shift, too! (Sorry, US residents only.) Also, I’ve updated the Strange Angels and Kismet pages with new information. You may also want to check out the forum, too.

I hear about these wonderful, mythical things. Days off. The very sound slips past the lips–the sibilance in the middle, the “f” at the end sliding between top teeth and bottom lip. Oh, what a magical phrase.

Today is my “rest” day from running on the treadmill. Which means I only have to shovelglove, and I decided to go through the Wii aerobics stuff. After unlocking the 6 and 10 minute Super Hula Hoop, I decided to try the Basic Step, and felt like I was stumbling around in a new dance class. Finally my feet caught the groove, and I can tell I’m going to be doing it again. Persistence pays off in more than writing.

That’s just the beginning. There’s schoolwork to supervise, a trip to buy a new toilet seat (don’t ask, it’s kids, they jump on things, we’re just lucky nobody broke a leg) and another difficult scene in the WIP. I want to do some skateboarding on the Wii later too.

Shut up. It’s fun and it makes me feel better. Exercise is nature’s antidepressant, dammit.

It’s raining, too, a fine thin mist like a silver veil. The pine needles outside my window are full of filigree, and when the slight breeze touches them they let loose a shower of watery sparks. It’s the kind of day I put my spectacles in my pocket and go walking on. Maybe after dinner I’ll get a chance to, but by then it will be dark and wandering around in the dark without my spectacles is a Bad Idea. I suppose I could wear them anyway. It’s not like they don’t wash off.

I’m on the third day of the luck journal. Changing one’s habits is hard work. (I’ve heard it takes 90 days, which makes me think maybe I should extend the luck journaling.) The only salvation is that it will get easier the longer I do it, and soon I’ll have a new crop of habits, healthier ones. Or at least less-destructive ones.

My heart is still broken. The good news is, I’ve come to a place where I’m seriously considering that it might be for the best. I am finding positive things about being alone on that level–I can find out who I am without pleasing another person, cleaning up is easier, I no longer have to feel “less-than” or be afraid that someone is going to leave me. The worst (for my heart, that is) has happened, and I’m still alive and reasonably OK. Ambulatory, getting things done, still with a great deal to feel lucky about. Best of all, this pain truly is temporary. Everyone who told me it was, over and over again–because hell, you need to hear that when you’re in pain, you need to hear it over and over again because HELLO? YOU’RE IN PAIN!–was right. Each day is a little better than the day before. Sometimes only marginally, but I’ll take it. Sometimes, often, more than marginally. I haven’t had a step back yet.

That’s not to say there won’t be setbacks and stumble. But all in all, I can see I’m moving forward. I’m not going to feel this way forever, because the tide of pain is retreating. It still hurts, but it’s manageable now.

Thank God.

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