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Or how to write fast and as well as you can at your stage (whichever that is.)

First – stop fighting the words.
Yes, yes, the words are important – eventually – but for now, stop fighting them.  Tell yourself before this is sent in, it will be read three or four more times, and you’ll catch that – then.   If you can’t remember an exact word, or if you know you’re repeating a word, let it go.  At this stage the lightening bug is as good as the lightening bolt, metaphorically speaking.  It’s easier to think ONLY words and get really good once you have the basic structure/scenes/characters down.

Second – Stop fighting the story.
Okay, for instance in A Few Good Men I realized with ages where they were, the ick factor for a particular event was THROUGH the roof.  (No, can’t explain.  Just trust me.  Yes, it made the victims more sympathetic, but, as a parent, it set off ALL sorts of alarms.  I couldn’t take it. ) So I aged everyone concerned four years.  Two problems.  First, my arithmetic sucks when I’m mid book.  Second, “Curse you search replace.”  So it made it to betas with screwed up numbers.  Sigh.  I’ll fix it on next pass, before editor sees it.  No big.  Allow for that.  Don’t drive yourself nuts.  Your first pass is not your last.

Third – if story changes mid stream, make notes, do not go back and change.  Say halfway through the book you realize your narrator is the murderer and you did not foreshadow.  Make notes at that point “First chapter, make sure he says…” Etc.  save it for revision.  When I started out and was still learning plotting, I often ended up with a beginning for one novel, a middle for another, and an end for yet another.  BUT that was still fixable in revision.  You just go back and make all the “pointers” match.  I use sticky notes for these, so often my desk looks like a porcupine at the end of the novel.  (And btw, these days novels don’t end up tri-partite often.  First novel that wasn’t that way was Draw One in the Dark.)

Fourth – don’t think of this as “your one and only” If you do that, then you want to make it perfect.  It will never be perfect.  The closest you’ll come to perfection will be your aggregate work, not each of them.  Make each as good as you can, but give yourself three revisions tops, then one after betaing.  If you do more than that, you’ll start introducing as many issues as you fix.  TRUST me.  If you think “But this is my one and only” think… if RAH had only written For Us The Living and tried to make it the BEST thing ever.  (Gags.)  And I’ll point out he got stuck trying to publish that for like… ten years.   Or if Pratchett had ONLY ever written The Carpet People and devoted himself to fixing it, forever.  Or if I had only written Glass Pedestal (cold dead hands, children, and not even then, as I’ll HAUNT anyone who publishes it.)  I came darn near only writing the pre-minoan thing — eighth novel — once I hit that.  It ate years of my life.  In retrospect… it couldn’t have been made publishable with what I knew at the time, which brings us to fifth

Fifth – sometimes you have to admit, to quote my son’s post on G-d and pantsing that you can write a kidney stone that even you can’t pass.  I.e. you’re creating a novel you can’t write yet.  This is good – you’re reaching, learning, stretching – but sometimes (not every time.  Then you have to just wonder if you’re a trifler with novels) – you have to wonder if you lack the… practice to write that.  Mirrorplay – the minoan thing – was that way for me.  I had no clue how to plot even one novel, and here I was trying to do an epic SERIES.  Now?  Now I can go back and do it, with multiple, fully realized characters.  I finished it, at the time, mind.  I just recognized it wasn’t very good, so it’s sat for near on twenty years.  Now it’s waiting for a time to go back and fix.  IF I’d insisted on just rewriting it till it was good, I’d never have done that learning.  (It’s different, trust me.  You learn different things from different novels.)  I have at least one ex-writers-group member who last I heard HAD spent the last twenty years rewriting her novel…  Not only doesn’t she have the knowledge to recast it, but by now it probably needs recasting.  No, seriously.  It will be soup.  Also, what if the reason it didn’t sell was not that it is badly done, but that the premise has one of the ick factors YOU are blind to?  (But the rest of the world isn’t?)  There are tons of this, but to give one that a friend told me about from when she was in RWA and her Critique Partner was obsessed with sweaty, unwashed for weeks men and couldn’t understand that other women would go “EWWWW”.
If that’s what’s keeping your book from selling (or doing well in the new market) you’ll NEVER know it.  Move on.  Grow up.  Eventually you’ll come back to it, and weirdly unless it’s a true fetish, ten years down the road you might go “WHY did I think that was cool/cute/whatever.”  Kind of likne in art, when you stick, you go away and work on another piece, then come back to that one.

Six – consider short stories.  Yes, they’re a completely different art form.  But it will teach you beginnings, hooks, how to introduce a character, etc. with MUCH less investment than a novel.  Try it on weekends, or some day when you’re not doing novel work.  Train yourself in writing those fast and under the principle “It doesn’t have to be perfect, it has to be good.”  Sometimes they become novels.  Deal.  And hey, you can use them as loss leaders, once you’re ready to get that novel out.

Seven – Keep writing.  If you keep writing your quota (mine is 5k words.  Other people are saner) a day, you WILL improve and gain experience.  At least, if you’re also reading and studying how people do things.

Now, stop reading the blog and go write

— wait, leave me a comment, first, so I know you read it AND got it ;)  NOW go write.

So, we’ve been talking about writers going solo and working without a net.  So far so good.  Writers can subcontract editing.  They can subcontract proofing. They can subcontract art and even document conversion.

Can they subcontract confidence?

What am I talking about, you say?  Well, I’ll be blunt.  First let me start with the fact that writers’ belief in their abilities and their abilities are often totally at odds with each other.  And rarely the way you’d expect.

Very few writers who suck on ice will believe they are the world’s gift to writing.  Oh, sure, there are a few, but those have usually got that way because of “critical acclaim” – also, they’re not usually bad as such.  They might not be to my – or your taste – but they are decent of their kind.

No, writers – absent a few strange wanna bes – after their earliest steps when everyone thinks their stuff is great because they don’t know enough to know it sucks, are alone among the creative professions by thinking, most of the time, that their stuff sucks.

I don’t know why.  Perhaps it is that we use words, which is what everyone uses to speak, normally.  So… how do you judge “good”.

Well, good is what holds your attention.  But you find out early on what holds your attention is not necessarily what holds other’s.  Besides, you have a vested interest in this world.  Otherwise you’d never have written it, right?

And then by the time you’re minimally published, you will know that people can find stuff in your books you never meant to put in.  I’ve been accused of everything and WORSE praised for things that I not only can’t see in my books but hope to heaven aren’t there.

So you get odd.  You start wondering what is there, and … is it any good?

For years, while I was unpublished, I used my writers’ group as my touchstone.  “Is it good, guys?  Is it good?”  Yeah, they were newbies too, but they lived outside my head.  And if they liked it… well… maybe other people would.

I confess for the last… five? Years I’ve used my agent mostly as a touch stone.  If the agent approved of it, well, she must know what’s marketable, right?  Even if it wasn’t true, it was encouragement…

So, now I’m agentless.  I’m putting a lot of my stuff up myself.  What sells is flabbergasting me, as it’s often my earliest, clumsiest work, or that with a really weird bend (Think back to the Muppets and HEAR this with the right voice “Nuuuuuns in SPACE!) Mind you I haven’t put up the juvenalia and won’t put that under my own name BUT well…  When you finish something… how do you know it’s good?

This has come home to me today because having finished A Few Good Men I’m trying not to rush the betas and ask how it reads and… do they think it will find an audience?  I really have no clue.  I see all the clumsy spots under a magnifying glass and I worry it sucks.

At the same time my older son and a friend who also finished work are convinced THEIRS sucks.  So… It’s like this – my husband has read son’s and says it’s quite good (And no, he’s not easy on us.  So likely he’s right.)

How do you know it’s good?

Well… first, accept you’re the worst judge of your own work.  It’s possible to gain perspective on it, sure.  First, forget you wrote it.  Then let it sit for ten years.

Oh, you don’t HAVE ten years?  Then accept.  You don’t KNOW if it’s good.  You just don’t.

Second – find ten friends.  Give manuscript to ten friends.  IF more than three find the same problem, you have an issue.  If not, ignore it.  And pay attention to the “general” feel.  Like “I couldn’t put it down.”  Or “You sent me that?  Are you sure?”  Or “Uh, it was great till chapter twenty.”  Or… if everyone is saying that (you’ll ALWAYS get a couple of those, but) or if eight people are saying one of those, then that gives you an idea where the book stands.

Third – Kris Rusch tells me after a certain level a writer is at a certain level.  Yes, I know “Oh, thank you, oh, great Sybil.  We bow before your knowledge.”  I find – though I had trouble believing it – it’s by and large true.  If you’ve written more than one “decent” story, by whatever means, chances are all of your stories are decent to an extent.  I.e. you’re not pulling beginning idiocy.  BUT… is it good?

Well, this defaults to:

Fourth – Alma Alexander told me at a con that everything you write will be someone’s favorite and someone’s most hated of your works.  This is very freeing.  Let it out.

Fifth – will it sell?  Oh, who knows?  I don’t know.  So, put it out and see.  It might shock you.  (nuuuuns.  In space!)

Sixth – You’re working without a net.  You can learn what sells, given time.  You can learn what’s good – to you at least – by reading your favorite writers and analyzing what they do.  You can have sense of where you stand – ask ten friends you trust – but in the end, you’re working without a net.

Are you going to do it?  Or are you going to go back and hide in the shadows, your words unread, your worlds unshared?

Which is it going to be?

You want to be a writer, do you?  There’s the tightrope.  Get up there and DANCE.

 

Update: As for check the statistics on what sells.  Well, I have 19 back list short stories out, so I just went and looked.  Yep.  Dragon’s Blood and With Unconfined Wings (a short about gun-packing sisters of St. Lucia of the Spaceways in a far frontier colony) are still outselling everything else by an unreal margin.  Does this mean I finally get to/will be forced to write Her Crown of Stars, Her Trusty Burner?

The other day while driving to Denver for Greek greasy spoon food (hey, listen, buddy, you have your addictions, I have mine.)   Dan and I found ourselves in the urgent need to discuss the implications and ramifications of The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag with the boys.

And I found myself thinking of it in terms of writing.  (Look, I realized I was in serious trouble – possibly of an eternal kind, if one believes in such things, and this one does – when I answered the eternal “Why would a just G-d allow evil in the world?” with “Because otherwise it would be a pretty boring plot and no one would read it.” [Am now trying to fight the horrible suspicion that what He’s writing is actually a series called “World Wars and The Fall and rise and fall of civilizations.]) Update:  This is a common perception of writers, hence my son’s post, here.

This led me by one of those sideways mental jumps one does to wondering about young writers and shoddy work.  And no, I’m NOT referring to Jonathan Hoag. I’m referring to the story in Jonathan Hoag where – SPOILER – the world is the creation of a young artist, who painted over an early and shoddy work.

And I thought of the experience I went through with writing this last book.  (Actually the last three.)  And realized that while there is the tendency, which I mentioned before, for young writers to end stories badly because that “feels” serious, it’s an odd sort of thing because you often feel that less than the smaller movements in the work of a more seasoned artist.

There is a line in Murder In Retrospect in which Poroit talking to the murderess talks of her not knowing: All the grown-up emotions – pity, sympathy, understanding. The only things you know – have ever known – are love and hate.

It is sort of like that for beginner writers.  It’s not easier to paint in primary colors, but it might look that way to the young, inexperienced and/or lacking in confidence.  It’s certainly easier to make an impact.  Paint a house so huge and so black (or red, or yellow) it can be seen across the room and people will notice it.  They might even admire it…

But it’s not grown up work.  The shading isn’t there, nor the fine tuning.  It’s unlikely you’ll cry at the sight of it, like grown ups can be brought to tears at the sight of some of DaVinci’s work.  (well, I can.   Your mileage may vary.)

Perhaps this is because I started attempting to write seriously very early, or perhaps – and my mentoring experience seems to indicate this – it is a curve every writer goes through, predicated less on lack of experience in the world than in lack of experience in expressing it.

The curve seems to be that you start out doing primary colors and big blocks – or in other words, dramatic emotions, big events.  Your character faces the death of his entire family.  And they were buried in a rain of fish.  And the entire world was turned into a fish fry.  And…

And none of it feel like much of anything, perhaps because they’re lost amid other blocks, all of them competing for attention.  It can be pulled off in a short story, but less so in a novel.

Then you start having a suspicion your work is crude and rough, and you try to refine it.  At the end of this process, you find yourself trying to avoid the big movements of the earlier work and all you have is small events, small actions, small emotions.  It’s all an indistinct pastel.  Very pretty at times, very artistic, but pastel.

If you get stuck in this phase, you get prizes and university professors speak of you in reverent tones.  And, if you’re very lucky, normal readers will keep your book on the bedside table for those nights they can’t sleep.

If that’s not your goal and you go past that, you find yourself where I’m now.  I’m not painting the big blocks of shouting color anymore, but I’m not afraid to have the occasional rotting fish fall on a character, or even have one or two of them killed by a plague of gnats.  Weirdly, I’m getting the other extreme in too which I could never do earlier – the humor – so that hopefully sometimes the reader finds himself crying through his/her laughter.

At least I hope that’s what I’m doing.  I might be doing a pastel background with the occasional blobby bit of red building.  Who knows?

But what it feels like is like I now have the softer emotions, but the occasional hard note too.  And those hard notes hit hard and seem to strip me of all defense and occasionally turn me inside out.  The impact is that much stronger, against the pastel background.

All this to explain why I now don’t need to destroy the world to “feel” it.  Sometimes it’s enough to give my character a bad day.  If the character is lovable enough.  If the day is bad enough.

[On reading my old stuff, etc, another collection of short stories “Five Unlikely Foretellings” (narrowly beat out Five Unlikely Ukases) is up on Amazon, Smashwords and B &N.]

With Much Delayed Directors Commentary On Witchfinder

I often think I came into writing by a weird route.  No, I don’t mean into publications, I mean into writing itself.  But perhaps we all do, because I’ve now mentored for something like ten years, and it seems like each person is highly individual.

Add to that that I THINK the fledgelings I attract are – at best – odd (there are probably other words for them, yes) and that means I often find myself flabbergasted by things in how to write manuals that inform you – rather solemnly – that “starting too early is a typical beginner mistake.”

Of course, the minute I come across something like that, I immediately acquire one or two fledgelings who do this.  Which is more proof that the universe is, if not solipsistic exactly, at least a tightly plotted novel written by a Writer who is fond of the ironic detail.

But there is one thing I ONLY ever found one fledgeling who thought – in fact a very talented, but for that massive fatal flaw fledgeling – that a novel was a length, and whom I could not get to understand that a novel is a unit of action.

And now a few of you are scratching your head (I wish you’d stop.  You’re leaving dandruff all over the blog.  Ew) and going “But isn’t a novel a length?”

Well, yes, of course it is.  And there are a lot of beginners who start writing a short story, then end up with forty thousand words which – well, this happened to me and it was the old days – means they have to figure out if it can be cut, divided into four coherent stories and/or expanded by double.  (Nowadays you sell it as a short novel on Amazom for some relatively cheap price, say 3.99.

What I mean is that a novel isn’t ONLY a length.  This is where I say I came into writing through an odd route – having a degree in literature because digit dyslexia forbid engineering, natural squeamishness barred me from medicine, I wasn’t larcenous enough for psychology, and law required my moving away from home, which my dad wouldn’t allow (and yes, there were other reasons, too.) – because I learned how to write novels by studying plays.  In plays, being less wordy, the structure is more obvious.  Oh, also Portuguese school system started pounding us with ancient Greek plays round about sixth grade and went all the way to Shakespeare in College.  (And Wagner.  There is a place in h*ll reserved for the German culture teacher who made us memorize Wagner librettos.  Don’t go there. {Well, it’s reserved for other reasons, too, since he was a defrocked priest who was well known to take liberties with female students stupid enough to attend office hours.  Oh, and also he didn’t wash.  Since I was not stupid enough to attend office hours, the only trauma I retain is that the mention of Wagner brings back the smell in that classroom.  Fortunately I never liked Wagner.})

In a play it becomes startlingly obvious that each act is a unit of action – there is a try fail sequence and something is solved, or isn’t – and that the play itself is a unit of action.

I made the mistake, when first coming into writing, of equating acts with chapters.  This meant at the end of a chapter, I gave the impression that problem was solved and now we’d move on. Yes, I know smart playwrights don’t do that either.  But still, if people are in a theater, likely they’ll stay.  With a book… well.

Lately my “acts” have been morphing into “Sections” of up to six chapters, which DST had, DSR came out with, and AFGM is big on.

But I still don’t close off the action completely in the section, or I am careful to introduce the next step.  (To train myself to do this, for years, I’d take the first paragraph of the next chapter and tack it at the end of the last chapter.  Nine times out of ten, it works.)

Anyway, a novel is a unit of action (so is a short.  Yes, the difference is size between a short and a novel.  BUT it’s unit of action between a novel and glop.)  It is about resolving something, be it concrete (the aliens took over the world, we must stop them) or emotional (I want to kill everyone, give me a reason not to) or artsy and pseudo-literary (we’ll stop when the reader feels like he’d rather chew off his own arm than read another pointless page.)

ANY coherent story is a unit of action, ranging from the short short at 2 thousand words to goat gagger at 200 000.

BUT if you think a novel is a length and you forget that it is a unit, then you end with glop.

To be honest, I don’t know if this is normal, or if it’s this particular writers’ issue.  It is possible that it’s based on some neurological thing, because the same writer has major, major issues with the symptom that leads up to this.  And that symptom, at least, is fairly common and I still battle against it periodically – though normally not to the extremes this writer does.  Frankly the only writer having issues approaching this is my friend who has Aspergers (highly functional Aspergers, but all the same) so I wonder if it’s related to emotional projection and empathy.

The problem that leads to glop – at least in its extreme – is the inability to properly weight incidents in your novel/short/whatever.  And no, by that I don’t mean you should tie led weights to your characters (don’t tempt me.  That and a dark river, and I’d be rid of some of them forever!)

I mean that your prison rescue where major characters die shouldn’t take the same page space, and certainly should have more feeling poured into it than the incident where the character’s favorite cup gets broken.  If you give them the same space, refer to them as often in subsequent pages, have an entire city mourn the loss of the cup, have your character traumatized by both incidents in equal measures, etc., you end up with glop.

Now, of course, I don’t have weighting problems to THAT extent.  But I do have them.  In fact, often this is what revision is all about.  Either because the pantser half threw fresh incidents in (I swear sometimes writing is a collaboration with myself!) or because the character changed in the writing, I’ll often discover that, oh, I need to give more weight to the thing with the dog, because it’s a sign he’s coming out of his shell – and able to attach to dogs, but not humans yet.  Or that some incident that was supposed to be funny has to be eliminated all together because it distracts from rising action.

Which is where we come to the director’s commentary for Witchfinder – you knew I remembered, right? – The only problem with the last chapter is something new I’m discovering ONLY with this novel – though I had this problem before, in a never finished novel that I call jokingly “A cast of thousands, with elephants.”: Each of the secondary pov characters is strong enough to sustain a novel

Honestly, I don’t know what to do about this, but I might borrow a page from Romance writers and truncate the secondary, tie up the principal (not literally, though trust me, I’ve thought of it too) and then spin off the secondary characters’ histories as sequels.

I won’t say I’m thrilled about his.  Just what I needed, another series.  But it seems to be what I have to do, unless I want to write a mega-goatgagger.

I was going to write this earlier, but I got highjacked by the big galloots who live in my household.  Seeing me in that rare time defined as “between books” they crowded around me early this morning and begged for waffles, which I’ve made and they’ve consumed.  (No, sending them to Denny’s or such won’t work, as these are low carb waffles.  So, I have to make them.)  Of course, I had to stay around while they ate and participate in the near limitless flow of very bad puns.

Robert (aka #1 son) and I have decided it would probably be best for BOTH of our sanities if we didn’t even get in touch after he left, because we seriously worsen each other’s mental health case.  If one of us can come up with a ridiculous premiss for a story, the other one goes “I can top that.”  And if I say I can write a novel in two days, he’ll say “Then I should be able to write one in one.”  And then of course I say “Twelve hours.  I bet I can do it in twelve hours.” Yeah, it’s that bad.  (I become a functional teen male in those circumstances.)  Even Christmas cards between us are likely to make us worse.  OTOH we enjoy each other’s company way too much.  I was telling him I woke up thinking how completely unmarketable A Few Good Men is and “What was I thinking?” and he said “Well, mom, I just spent Thanksgiving break writing “Catbo, first blood”” (which is not the title, but it’s close enough to the concept.  His story is actually called Ratskiller.)

So, this comes down to “writing what has to be.”  There is this thing every good writer knows, and every newby and wannabe thinks we’re nuts, which is called “What the story wants” and “the true story flow.”

What do I mean by that?  I mean that sometimes, just sometimes, you hit something in your story and you find you can’t write it that away.  And sometimes years later you realize the way it wanted to be was “right” in the sense that it made it deeper or more marketable, or fit better with what had come before.  Like, not making Tom’s father a total SOB in Draw One In The Dark, say.

But this is not always true.  And this is where being under contract to write something can drive the author insane, because you go “But I have to write it this way.  It’s what they bought on proposal.”  And sometimes the changes aren’t things that make the novel more marketable or better.  I’m very much afraid A Few Good Men is weird enough to not find a substantial public. (AND that’s JUST the Usaian religion which figures BIG.  We don’t even go into the rest.)   Of course, that doesn’t matter so much now, because if Baen doesn’t want it, I can bring it out, and if I put it at 6.99 and it sells 2k books, I can make what I make for most of my books.  And surely there are enough crazy people out there to sell 2k books.  It can be a cult classic!

I’m not joking when I say “without the possibility of self-publishing it would have died aborning.”  Is it a good thing I wrote it?  I don’t know.  It’s good for MY mental health, because when a character grabs you by the scruff that hard, you HAVE to write him.  If I’d blocked that one, I probably wouldn’t have written anything for a year.

But then there’s a ton of minor stuff.  Like, Seraphim being called Seraphim.  Or Kyrie being called Kyrie.  Actually names are a good example.  Both book titles and character names come to be from… somewhere (I suspect my toenails.)  This is how come one of the books in progress is Space Opera and insists its name is Winter Prince.  (In fact ALL the books have Prince in the title for that series.  WHY?  No clue.  Yeah, there’s a prince in it, but he’s the romantic foil, and for the love of BOB the main character’s nickname is Lucky (For Lucrezia.)  You’d think the first book being called Lucky’s Revolt would be better, right?  Nope.  Won’t work that way.)

So, where does that stuff come from?  Who knows?  I think we’re broken – as writers – in an interesting enough way that allows writing to occur, but brings into it interesting side effects.

My morning’s reading sort of brought this up, too, sideways, in a way, both in terms of “Can you write art when your contract says you must deliver a can of beans” (And let me tell you I totally understand this from the publisher’s perspective too.  They have to sell many more copies to make their nut, and… well if what they’ve readied for is a can of beans, well… They have to have THAT.)  And in terms of “Are we all nuts, then?”  

Both of those might be worth reading.  And now I’m going to dust, vacuum and draw spaceships.  (Dust and vacuum the house, not spaceships, just so we’re clear here. :) )

(Those of you looking for the Saturday Austen Fanfic, it’s posted in the post below.  I’m top-posting with an echo of my post at Mad Genius Club today, since this is something that ALL of you OFTEN ask me about.)  Considering the queries hitting my site every other Monday and twice on Sunday, I’m guessing people are getting impatient for my stuff.  I’m getting impatient for my stuff.  This was the first year in… five? that nothing came out.  No, it’s nothing serious just the unfortunate conjunction of the fact that two years ago I hit a wall, after years of pushing to deliver three to four books on schedule, and wrote only one book and that on spec, and that all the publishing houses seem to run slower than normal.  So, for those of you who would like to know what the state of the State (or the state of the Sarah) is, and given the way that I haven’t got around to fixing my stoopid website, here goes nothing:

First, I’ve started putting my back log short stories out with Goldport Press (you, at the back stop giggling.  Yes, Goldport is my made up Colorado Town.  Live with it.  I figure the press owns the Weekly Enquirer which is, in fact, the daily newspaper.)  There are 16 of them for 99 cents a piece on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Smash Words.   I know that 99c is nowadays the established price for a short story or a single song, but it still seems weird to me, so if you can stand to take some stories you might have seen or don’t like as much, I’m putting these out in collections.  Look for Five From Far And Weird and Five Far Futures.  Today I hope to put up Five Unlikely Foretellings, but it might be tomorrow because… well, see at bottom.  Anyway, these are 2.99, so it’s like getting two shorts for free.  Needless to say none of these are DRMed.  The links above go to Amazon, but you can find the same thing in Smashwords and Pubit.

I also have some short stories out with Naked Reader Press and I am way overdue doing the final edit on a short story set in the world of the Vampire Musketeers called First Blood.  It will go in a collection with Kate Paulk and Amanda Green called Sisters In Blood, which will be out next month, just in time for… Christmas?  Whatevers.  The collection will also contain a short story with Kate’s SF-addicted vampire and one with Amanda’s shifter-cop from Nocturnal Origins.  I’ve tried to convince the editorial board that really, really, really, we need three pictures of us aged about ten and photoshoped onto some Victorian scene, but it’s been born upon me that I’m the only one who looked like a vampire child.  (Eh.)

Also out with Naked Reader is A Touch of Night with Sofie Skapski.  Among the things I’m really late editing is A Flaw In Her Magic, not a sequel, but also set in the world of Magical British Empire, if Jane Austen had written in it.  A Touch of Night is Pride, Prejudice, Dragons and werewolves, and A Flaw In Her Magic is Mansfield Park, foretelling, magic, weredragons and werewolves.  I’m hoping to get to it (more explanation at the bottom) so it can also come out in time for Christmas.

Okay, now more traditional publishers.  As most of you know, I’ve delivered A Fatal Stain, the sequel to A French Polished Murder in February.  I’ve been informed it’s scheduled for October 12 — this is what I mean about elongated publishing schedules.  Normally this would have been out this fall, but never mind.  Meanwhile, because I know there are people out there dying for it, but  unfortunately, I can’t do an end run around the house and bring out the fourth before they bring out the third (publishing houses have this nasty habit of putting an option clause for the next book in the series in the contract.  Until they reject the fourth book, or I reject their offer for it — and I haven’t submitted the proposal yet, though it’s in the works) I can’t work in that series.

So, Naked Reader Press will be bringing out, around February/March, depending on my schedule, the first Orphan Kitten mystery by Elise Hyatt.  A math Professor at Colorado University Goldport (the infamous Cug) will move next door to Ben and Nick’s new house (chill),  two doors up from Dyce, Cas and E (chill again!) with his wife and two teen kids, of which the younger is a mathematical genius.  Let’s just say my kids might kill me for this book…  Anyway, the wife wants to be a mystery writer, but gets involved in kitten rescue, when someone drops a bag full of newborn kittens in her yard.  This will be called Deadly Paws. 

Next in order of how many fan mails I get a week is Darkship Thieves.  Here, the problem is entirely mine.  I let the house publishing my mysteries get so under my skin that I delivered Darkship Renegade shamefully late.  I’m hoping Toni can still schedule it for next year, but we’ll see, since I’m about to change the ending a bit.  Hopefully she hasn’t got to it yet.  To compensate, because I wuv you guys (okay, fine, because that’s how it came out) I’m doing A Few Good Men, book one of the Earth Revolution which will go to betas today and to Toni, G-d willing, early December.

Baen has also bought book three of the Shifter series.  For those non initiated book one and two are here  Look for my name or for Draw One In The Dark or Gentleman Takes A Chance.  The third book will be Noah’s Boy and it is the book currently between hands, save for explanation at end of this page.

Also coming out next year, also in October, (wait till you see that Darkship Renegades is scheduled for October.  I hope you guys save your money for that fatal month) from Prime Books  is the first book of the Vampire Musketeers, Sword And Blood.  It’s coming out under Sarah Marques, and it now has a cover:

If you want to read sample chapters, they’re here, but be aware they’re strong meat in the realm of sex and violence, compared to most of my stuff.  (Though A Few Good Men has the highest bodycount of named characters of a book of mine so far.  Eh.)

So, Sarah, a few of you, the brave, the insane, the ones who email me every other day, are asking “What about the Musketeer Mysteries?  Didn’t you promise us Musketeer’s Confessor?”  Indeed I did, but here’s the thing: the house is doing its best to ignore the fact that books two through five are out of contract.  I’m going to try to get a cease and desist letter from an IP atorney before Christmas and hopefully get the rights to those back by the beginning of the year.  I’ve already talked to Naked Reader Press, and they want them.  So, the plan is to get the rights back and then publish these one a month starting June next year, then publish The Musketeer’s Confessor at the end of the sequence and then continue from there.  The reason for the delay in publishing is that I’m unlikely to get all the rights back instantly.  Often takes months.  Even if it doesn’t, I need time to revise and edit, because these books suffered badly from my stress in working with the house.  Also, we’re going to restore the title, so A Death In Gascony will be The Musketeer’s Inheritance and Dying By The Sword will be The Musketeer’s Servant (with subtitles saying “formerly published as”.)  So, wish me luck with that fight.

Other parked stuff…  The Magical British Empire is not likely to revert any time soon.  Since it’s a self-contained trilogy, anyway, it’s not bugging me too much.  I am going to continue writing in the universe, and Witchfinder, the book I’m posting for free on my blog every Friday is in that universe, though a different world.

And for the die hards that want more Shakespeare series — we might get to that in the fullness of time.  I have two more books planned in the series, but it would require a space of time to do it, like, six months, to get into the lingo.

OTOH since I’ll be finishing and bringing out the (Christopher) Marlowe Mysteries with Goldport Press, perhaps they can piggy back one on the other.

Anyway, as you see, I have a full schedule ahead for the coming year and if you feel a TERRIBLE need to know what I was talking about when I said “more on that later” — there’s this horrible habit I used to have as a young writer of hitting the chapter before last and just wanting to make it ALL right for the characters.  I think it takes loving characters very much for this to happen.  Dan used to read my books and go “Right, now take that outline you used for a last chapter, and write the hundred pages.”  I seem to love the characters for the space operas very much.  I did this with both Darkship Renegades and A Few Good Men, so today is devoted to finishing fixing that (rolls eyes.)  AND THEN I can move on with Noah’s boy.

This, ladies, gentlemen and dragons has been a relatively short and hopefully clear summation of the state of the Sarah.  Feel Free to ask about anything I didn’t mention!

Lizzy had not had the least intention of dancing with him. Indeed she did not. And yet she found herself accepting, she found herself stepping out onto the dance floor with him.

And all the while she was sure that her friend Charlotte, with whom she’d been talking about the strangers just moments earlier, was laughing at her behind her fan, doubtless amazingly diverted. Lizzy had just been telling her how the tall dark stranger looked far too proud and better pleased with himself than with his company. And now she was dancing with him. What had come over her?

Nothing good. She felt as though she were drunk, or as if she had been dusted with some of that magical powder that the old legends her mother prized said the good neighbors could throw upon the eyes of the unwary and make them see something quite different.

In fact, she was very sure she was dreaming or otherwise suffering from a confusion of the senses, because the man’s dancing was the most exquisite pleasure she’d ever experienced. As they joined the dance and twirled together through the figures of the sets, she found that his movements exactly anticipate hers, melted into hers, his mind seeming to know hers.

It went so well, in fact, that she realized they’d almost completed the whole set and they’d not said a word to each other. Worse, he was looking at her with an odd expression, as if he were hungry and she were the only source of his sustenance. And she, in turn, was looking into his eyes and realizing that sparkles shone within their grey depths.

How strange that was. How unusual. It was as molten metal had formed his eyes, and only some parts were polished, shining like flecks of silver caught in stone. How could he have eyes like that? Such eyes weren’t human!

She thought of him riding through the moonlight on a horse she could not convince herself was a normal, mortal horse, and she shivered.

The eyes turned to her, with sudden concern and the features that still looked far too proud showed a little unbending, something like an almost smile. “Are you cold, Miss Bennet? Is something amiss?”

And in this strange place her mind had gone, Lizzy had no proper reply for him, and could think of no accustomed words. She drew breath quickly and looked away from the eyes that almost had an hypnotic hold on her. “No, no,” she said. “Oh, it is nothing, and it means nothing, surely.” And realizing that her words too meant nothing, of at least nothing sane, she shook her head. “It just occurred to me,” she said. “That I have been remiss. One should have some talk when dancing. A very little would suffice.”

“Indeed?” he said, and sounded curious. “Is that the local custom? That one must talk while dancing?”

She flashed at him, a sting of anger, which she tried to tamp down. What did he mean the local custom? What did he mean by treating her as if she were a mere provincial? Oh, that she might be. She was, surely. After all, her father had refused to go to London with them, even for the sake of giving Jane a proper season, much less to give Lizzy one. And Jane, with her beauty, would certainly have taken the town by storm, and there was no level of nobility to which she could not aspire. As for Lizzy, well! As her mama was wont to say, Lizzy was well enough, too.

But it was not to be. Her father had no interest in the society that had censored him for marrying a woman so far beneath himself, with connections in trade. It was possible – Lizzy thought – that he would have forgotten the sting of their spite had his marriage turned out to be blissfully happy. But mama… well, mama was mama, and no one could pretend that papa still reveled in his unconventional choice. And therefore they were at Longborne to stay. And therefore the girls might be provincial enough.

However, it neither became Mr. Darcy, with his mannered air, his polished appearance to remind her that she was beneath himself, nor was it any part of good breeding to act as though you were above your company. A waspish sting was in her voice as she asked, “I believe, sir, that it is custom, as you put it, everywhere.”

She expected offense, at least in reaction to her offense. Instead, she met with more curiosity – truly if he was such a mocker, ready to–

“But of what does one talk?” he asked.

Lizzy was startled by the question, by the genuine interest in the eyes. What did he wish for? Something in his eyes spoke genuine interest, but he could not have a genuine interest in his witless questions, could he? What on Earth could he mean by it?

And then she thought he was flirting with her. Which was just the sort of amusement that she had always heard wealthy London gentlemen engaged in with women from the country, who had no fortune and no connections. She looked away from him, “You could comment on the size of the room. I could say something about the number of couples.”

He frowned, his forehead creasing. “Why?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why should one have such a conversation, when one is not imparting any new knowledge to the other?”

“Because…. because…” she said, floundering and wondering if there was anything wrong with the gentleman’s head. “Because it is what one does. One cannot dance silently.”

He tilted his head a little. The oddest scent came from him, she realized, even as she also realized that the gentleman had the most unearthly regular profile she’d ever seen, and most exquisitely shaped lips she’d ever noticed on a male face. “Well, then,” he said, “Let’s speak of you.”

At that moment the figures of the dance separated them, and it was a while before they joined them again. Which was just as well, because Lizzy, her face burning, had time to calm down and to chide herself for – she was sure – staring at him, and for wondering what the gentleman was about. She was sure her mother would say that Lizzy had charmed him, and that now she only needed to secure him.

Lizzy could – all too easily – picture her mother fanning herself and swooning at the prospect of a son in law of such wealth. But Lizzy knew better. Jane charmed men. Lizzy was not known for it.

When the dance joined them again, she could say, with perfect composure. “Sir, I do not know what you mean.”

“What is your name?” he asked. “Pray, your full name.”

“Sir!”

“Surely I’m not asking anything improper?”

She didn’t suppose so, but it was the tone in which he asked it that discomposed her so terribly. He asked as if he really cared, as if this were far more than social chatter. Well, then, Lizzy would put him by truly giving him her full name. The name that made most people shy away from further acquaintance with her because it bespoke a family too eccentric to be easily endured. “Very well,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth Titania Bennet. And yours, sir?”

This was lightly said, but it had the effect it always had, of making the man draw in breath as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. It took him a moment to recover it. “Tita– Titania?”

“Indeed, sir,” she said, her eyes flashing challenge. “Do you object?”

“How can I object to your being named after a queen of ethereal beauty?” he asked. And she wished she could call him a liar, for she could see how discomfited he was.

“Ah,” she said, instead and wished her voice didn’t crackle with irony. “I see you read Shakespeare!”

“Shake– Oh, the bard. I’m not very well acquainted with him. Our circles rarely cross. But I know Marlowe passably well. He often comes to the grand courts.”

And now it was her turn to look – she was sure – confused. And perhaps that was his entire intent.

“Not that,” he added hastily, as if he thought he’d alarmed her. “Mister Marlowe is a part of my close circle. But we were speaking of you. How came you by such a beautiful name?”

She had to clear her throat – bewildered as she was by their conversation – before she could answer, and when she answered her voice was less than steady. “It was the name of an ancestress of my mother’s. And since then the name has been in our family. My grandmother was given it as a given name, but she was the last one. My parents thought it might be best to give it to me as a middle name.”

“A… a wise choice,” he said. “Oh, another set is starting. Would you dance with me again?”

She wanted to refuse. She should have refused. But the lateness of the hour, or something, made it impossible for her to answer in the negative.

---

“Oh, Mr. Bennet. Our girls were so admired,” Mrs. Bennet said, as she came into the house, tired and chattering. “There was nothing to it. At least Lizzy and Jane, for Mr. Bingley danced twice with Jane and–”

“Twice, did he?” Mr. Bennet said, with a doubtful, smiling look. “I see. Should I expect a visit from the gentleman?”

“Oh, no, papa,” Jane said, and blushed prettily. “At least… at least not … I’m sure he was just being civil.”

Mrs. Bennet cackled, an habit that her loving spouse had often and often told her was unsuitable, but of which she couldn’t seem to break herself. “Ah!” she said. “If you think that’s marvelous, you should know that Mr. Darcy danced with our Lizzy three times.”

“Three times?” Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows shot up, because surely that was making her the talk of Merryton. “Three times, Lizzy?”

Lizzy shrugged. “There were fewer men than women,” she said, tersely. “He meant nothing by it.”

“Oh, did he not?” Mrs. Bennet said. “And after the dances, he tried to convince her to go with him to the terrace.”

“He just said he wished to talk, Mama, do not–”

Mr. Bennet’s mouth pursed. “Should I expect a visit from this Mr. Darcy Lizzy?”

“I don’t think so,” Lizzy said. Or at least not in that way. You see, he is engaged, and his fiancé is a very fine lady.”

“Engaged is he? And his fiancé was present? This sounds like very strange behavior, Lizzy. I don’t say it lightly, but your Mr. Darcy sounds like a loose fish.”

Since Lizzy was inclined to agree, she didn’t protest. She just wished she knew what had compelled her to dance with him three times. Now she’d be a nine days wonder in the town, till something else eclipsed it.

But eventually something else would eclipse it. And she determined, in her heart, not to see Mr. Darcy again and certainly never to dance with him again.

UPDATE:  A SLIGHTLY EDITED AND PRETTIED UP COMPILATION OF ALL CHAPTERS UP TO A WEEK OLD IS HERE

*This is chapter ten of witchfinder, the Fantasy novel I’m posting here for free, one chapter every Friday.  I’ve been posting director’s commentary at the end of chapters, but I think it detracts from the experience, so I’ll do that on Sunday, instead, for the previous chapter.  If your conscience troubles you getting something for free, feel free to hit the donate button on the right side.  Anyone donating more than $6 will get a non-drm electronic copy of Witchfinder in its final version, when it’s published.  And, oh, yeah, the cover sucks, but I haven’t had time for a new one.

Oh, this is in pre-earc format, meaning you’ll find the occasional spelling mistake and sentence that makes no sense.  It’s not exactly first draft, but it’s not at the level I’d send to a publisher, yet.*

For first chapter, look here

For ninth chapter, look here

A Mother’s Heart

They were keeping secrets again.  The Dowager Duchess knew this, though she couldn’t tell about what exactly.

For the two days of her son’s illness – of his lying beneath healing spells, swaddled in blankets and force fed broth – she’d wondered how it had come to this.  And she’d wondered what Gabriel knew that she didn’t know.

Something it was, that she could be sure of.  For one, Gabriel’s face was always easy for her to read.  Had to be, as much as he resembled her own son.  The reasons for that, though she’d tried to forget them, couldn’t but confuse her feelings towards the boy.  She both loved him, almost like her own son, and she hated him as a reminder of a dark time in her own childhood and of the misadventure that had almost lost her to the world of humans.

It had been the same since the moment her husband had brought Gabriel in, and the truth was that if Gabriel hadn’t been a year older than Seraphim, and a few months older than their marriage, the dowager would have insisted on claiming him as a son and brazening the world and the ton with some excuse about one of a pair of twins stolen by magical beings.  But Gabriel was the elder, his age could be found by magical means not too difficult to employ, and there was no way to make that lie convincing.  Not when at the time of Gabriel’s birth the, then, Lady Barbara Hartwit had been dancing the night away at various soires and balls, slim as sylph and still unmarried.

Also, they couldn’t risk Gabriel inheriting.  Not with the blood in him.  Most other people would not have been sure about allowing him into the house.  She remembered her husband asking her “Are you sure Barbara?  We don’t know, after all, how he will turn out.  There are some who say–”

But all she’d done was nod, because he’d told her what he’d taken the boy from, and what fate waited him if his mother’s people got their hands on him, and Gabriel looked so much like Seraphim even then, that Barbara could not imagine consigning the child to death, or worse.  So she’d taken him into the house, and raised him as a fosterling, letting everyone know he was her husband’s son and that some provision would be made for him in the fullness of time.

They’d been more than ready to make provision, too, despite their straightened circumstances.  They’d sent him to Cambridge with Seraphim, and were ready to stand him his beginning in a small magic business, or, perhaps, in law.  Even the church, if he had a bend for it, though considering the magical trouble the boy got into, that seemed like a forlorn hope.

But now, standing in her room, pacing, Lady Barbara realized that had been the first sign of trouble. Gabriel had been sent down from Cambridge, for an offense that her husband would not speak about, that Seraphim claimed to be sworn not to disclose, and that Gabriel himself turned pale but refused to speak of it.

Something had happened there.  For a time, the Duchess had nurtured suspicions, but not if Gabriel was in a fair way to being engaged.

The problem was that she didn’t quite believe he was in a fair way to being engaged.  Not to Miss Felix, at any rate.  She didn’t know who the woman was, but she would bet she was not who she’d said.  For one, the Duchess could feel Miss Felix’s magic quite well.  And it was not the kind of trifling magic that would fall to the lot of an illegitimate daughter or the daughter of a poor family.  A woman who brought that kind of magic with her could aspire to the highest families in the kingdom.  She would not be considering Gabriel, such as Gabriel’s position and expectations appeared to be, and she would not be meeting with him on the sly.

No.  The girl was something to do with Seraphim.  And Gabriel was hiding what he knew of it, and what he knew of Seraphim’s injuries, too.  And it was no use at all denying it.  She’d marked how Gabriel stinted sleep to stay by Seraphim’s side and listen for any stray word, any casually dropped hint that might have told the dowager more than they wished her to know.

She took a deep breath.  She was afraid for the boys.  This time, whatever trouble they’d managed was far more severe than the forcing house.

A scratch at the door called her attention.  It was the sort of gentle scratching that she’d taught her daughter to employ, instead of the far more brash knocking.  “Come in,” she called.

Caroline came in.  She looked like a younger replica of her mother, her features small and well place in her oval face. Only her eyes were the same as her brothers’, the large, intensely green eyes of the Ainslings.  Right at the moment, they were wide open, and her skin, which tended towards a more golden color than that of the boys, had gone pale.  The dark hair which she wore in demure braids had become lose and she was clutching the skirts of her white muslin dress in great handfuls, probably as a result of having run up the stairs, “Mama,” she said, without preamble.  “There was someone…”  She swallowed hard.  “There is someone killed in the garden.”

The Duchess clutched at her skirt, in an involuntary reaction, “There’s been an accident?” she asked, and then as it occurred to her that the hour being late, her fifteen year old daughter, barely out of the nursery, and certainly not out of the school room, should not be up.  “And pray tell, where were you?  And why are you not abed this late at night?”

But Caroline only looked at her as though the dowager had taken leave of her senses.  “I was looking for Michael,” she said, as though that were of little or no importance.  “But Mama, there was a death.  Seraphim killed someone.”

“Impossible!  Seraphim is in no state to–”

“Pray, listen, Mama.  Just listen.”  The girl was far too high spirited, and now she would carry her point in the face of her mother’s disapproval.  “I went out to the garden, to look for Michael, because he is not in his room, and I thought he might be in his workshop.  You know how he can get absorbed in his magical machines, and forget the hour.  He didn’t come for dinner, either, so I thought I’d go and drag him indoors to eat and go to bed.”  She paused.

The dowager nodded.  Her daughter’s attachment to her twin was well known, though why she should fancy herself as though the boy’s mother, Barbara Ainsling would never understand.

“He was not in the workshop,” Caroline said.  “And I thought perhaps he’d come in and was in the library doing some research.  So, I came in through the side servant entrance, and that’s when I heard the footmen going out there.  They went by me in the second floor landing, and have no fear, Mama, they never saw me, for I knit myself with the wall, but they were talking, and they said his Grace had sent out a killing bolt.  That they’d felt it.  And it was no use at all Mr. Penn saying it had been in self-defense, because how could it be, when it must have sought out the poor bas– the poor victim at the bottom of the garden, as the cook had seen it fly, true and fiery all the way there.   It had to be a targeted murder, and his Grace probably had done it while out of his mind with fever and knowing no more what he was about than he’d known in his ramblings these last two days.”

“And you came to tell me of what you heard?” the Duchess asked.

Caroline looked faintly shocked at the idea, “Oh, no, Mama.  Nothing so cowhearted.  I followed them, of course, in the dark.  No, Mama, don’t scold, I promise they did not see me.”

At any other time, the Duchess would have scolded the hoydenish behavior, but now she could only say, “And then?”

“What do you think?  They got a man from the bottom of the garden.  A very well dressed man, Mama.”

“Alive?” the Lady Barbara asked, on a sudden impulse of hope.

“Oh, no, Mama, very dead.”  Caroline pulled back her hair, which had loosened completely from her braid and fallen in front of her eyes.  “And I’m sure it was done with a killing bolt, Mama.  It had that feel.”  For the first time fear superseded excitement and she added, “Only…  Mama, Seraphim can’t have known what he was doing.  They can’t hold him responsible, can they?”

Only the Duchess wasn’t sure that her son wasn’t responsible.  There was the something he and Gabriel were holding secret.  But the time for hesitating was over, “I don’t know,” she told Caroline.  “But I intend to find out.  You go to your bed.  You did well in telling me, but not well in wandering about the house at this hour.  Go to your room and to your bed, and leave me to find out what happened.  I’m sure your brother wouldn’t do such a thing unless there were a legally defensible reason for his actions.”  At least she very much hoped so.  As was, a problem of this magnitude, legal or not, might be the end of all his chances with Honoria, particularly on top of the shamefully delayed engagement announcement.  The unworthy thought that perhaps this was planned crossed her mind.  But no.  Why would the boy insist on the engagement, then seek to escape it by dangerous means?

She kissed Caroline’s forehead and said, “Go to bed now, child.”

The Duchess was out of her room and halfway down the hallway to Seraphim’s, before she heard her daughter’s voice at her back, “But Mama!  I still have not found Michael!”

I’m grateful to be here at all.  Since I fit into my dad’s size eleven shoe when I was born, that wasn’t a given.

I’m grateful for my birth family.  I’m grateful that my grandmother told me stories, my father read me poetry and my brother introduced me to science fiction.  I’m grateful my mom worked her fingers to the bone and managed things so that we survived despite their spending a small fortune on my health care when I was little.  And I’m grateful that all of them resisted the impulse to drown me though heaven knows, considering the escapades I remember, it must have been hard at times.  (Maybe I should also be grateful it was a bit of a walk to the nearest large-enough-to-pitch-a-kid-into river.  Gave them time to cool off.  Do you know how hard that was to arrange in Portugal?)

I’m grateful for my husband, and I’m grateful I found him at all.  I bet whoever arranged such things placed us on different continents thinking that would be SAFER.  Ah!

I’m grateful for his genius, his sense of humor, but most of all I’m grateful for his kindness.  (I think he’s hot too, but that’s my business, right?  All y’all practice discipline of the eyes NOW.)

I’m grateful my husband has never drowned me.  (Great foresight on my part living in Colorado and away from reservoirs, uh?)

I’m grateful for my kids.  Given six years of infertility before the first one, given that the second one was a complete and wonderful surprise, they’re both miracles.  And I’m grateful they’re the sort of kids who can make me laugh even when I feel like crying, and that they’re responsible, caring and far more talented than I’ll ever be.  (I think they’re cute too, but I’m their mom, so that’s suspect.)

I’m grateful that we bought Miranda-cat, the cornish rex princess to celebrate my first book sale, even if it seemed a bit like white-slavery.  She and the younger boy are inseparable and it’s just cute to watch.  And I’m grateful D’Artagnan cat walked in during a snow storm, even if at times it’s hard not to drown him when he pees out of place.  And I’m grateful Euclid-cat needed rescue.  And I’m grateful Havelock-cat came to us at the mini golf course, broken-tailed and filthy and… well.  That he stayed.  We love them all and they keep us connected to life.

I’m grateful for my friends, which connects with being grateful for technology and the internet, since I only met many of them due to the magic of the interwebs.  They argue with me, proof read me, beta read me, make me write and generally keep me sane.  And they make my life far less lonely than it would otherwise be.  Oh, yeah, and they can’t drown me over the internet (ah ah.)

I’m grateful I’m the sort of person who makes up stories.  They carried me through some very dark times.

I’m grateful that people like reading my stories — enough of them that I can make a living doing this.

I’m grateful for the ability to put my own stuff up.  Even if I always sell traditionally ALSO, the freedom to do for self is not to be sneezed at.

I’m grateful for the donations on Witchfinder, because they show me it’s appreciated, even if it is going literally to fund kitty kibble because Euclid turns out to be allergic to affordable cat food (yeah, I know.  So much for writing weekends.)  But I’m grateful we found that out, because cat who pulls out all fur from legs and tummy looks funny.

And I’m grateful for all of you who comment on this blog.  You keep me going when things seem hopeless and you’re too far away to drown me when I annoy you.

I suppose to most people this is not news.  In fact, it might seem odd that, having lived just a year short of half a century in the world, this is just starting to dawn on me.  (Though to be honest, it took me six years to realize I wasn’t a kitten, so allowances must be made for teh issues, which I clearly do have and in spades.)

It is tempting to blame the publishers and, if you read Amanda’s article yesterday, it’s hard to believe I shouldn’t, just because, in principle, one at times feels like blaming them for pretty much everything: stock market crashes, pestilence, rain of fish, teenage boys sulking, rainy days.

However, to give the publishers their due, it is not their fault.  To the extent they’ve treated me as a machine, I might have forced them into it.

It started long before the zombie career, before I was fully an adult.  You see, I was in one of those “advanced” high school programs, one of those in which each of the teachers thinks he’s your only teacher and gives you two hours of homework a night.

No, maybe it started before that, because when I came at that program I was already badly broken.  Broken in a “I’d rather break than bend” way.  Broken in a “I’ll be d*mned if I cry uncle” way.  So, faced with eight, or ten, or twelve (don’t ask) hours of homework a day, I’d give up sleep and sleep for two of three hours a night, then save the rest of the sleep for the weekend.  But the work got done.  (Which btw, was enabling behavior for those teachers, and probably the reason that I wasn’t too liked around the school.)

This, you can see, was perfect setup for the publishing age at the time I entered, when most writers got two books and out as a chance.  Part of the issue, of course, is that most writers aren’t insane.  Well, not insane enough.  Most of them don’t write because they have to.  Most of them don’t write to relax, when they run out of work.  I figured “Ah.  They’re weak.  I will not cry uncle.  I’ll stay in the field.”  And I figured three or four series are better than one, right, because then – ah, then, when one tanks the other one will keep you going.

Only I’m not a machine.  (I’m only coming to this conclusion now, yes.)

It’s not the volume of writing, I’m realizing, as I face the fact that my writing has SUDDENLY exploded.  It’s the scheduling.

Writing is not like school work.  It’s not learning, or reading, or even memorizing.  Yeah, there were times I wasn’t in the mood for math, but since all I was required to do was solve problems, my mood didn’t matter.

Writing is creating.  And to create you need several conditions.  Being in the mood is just the least of them.  Which means…  Which means that over the last few years I’ve a few times hit the wall of “I just can’t do this now” and let a book wait six months or a year.  While I forced myself to write another book I didn’t want to do.
So, what’s changing with being able to indie publish?  I’d think just about everything.

The first and most obvious change is that I can write things on spec – i.e. when I want to – and if someone won’t take them (or if the publishers in that particular area have failed to impress me, like, say, mystery) I put them up myself.  I told Toni years ago I hated having contracts, because I hated having stuff due.  At the same time, I hated not having contracts because stuff might never sell, and this meant I’d shut myself down mid writing it, out of sheer doubt.  Well, now I can do it.  I can write on spec.  I don’t need the contract and the arbitrary deadline hanging over me.  Mind you, my production might become very odd.  “This year I did five space operas, two shifters and two mysteries.”  BUT yeah, I expect it to become that prolific, so… who cares?  I’ll feed the fans more often than I have.

But there are other things, some which seem to me like they’d work, but I haven’t tried yet, so I’m going to put them here and let you tell me what you think:

1- Write what is pounding on the door.  But once started, whether novel, novella or short, finish it before moving to the next.  (Avoid popcorn kittens.)

2- the corollary is, “don’t force it” – I’ve written a couple of novels because they were grossly overdue, which frankly could have done with a bit more cooking in the back brain.  If you’re like me forcing it robs you of entire dimensions of subplots and links.  So, don’t force it, but also don’t sit idle.  Play with what’s ready to go.

3- Separate your writing and your editing time.  Like, one in the morning and one in the afternoon or perhaps “On Fridays, I edit.”  I used to do something similar with “secretary” work – i.e. proofing and mailing out of manuscripts, say.

4- Feed the beast. This will vary for different writers.  This varies for me.  Though mostly my beast runs to dinosaurs and long walks.  If I’m not on drop-dead deadlines, with the consciousness of it hanging over me, and if I am, in fact, writing more than I ever have, I can afford to take a long walk a day.  And maybe a weekend a month to go look at something dino related.  Or just walk in a nice place.  Or cook an elaborate meal, or… whatever.

4a – Read.  This is the need of every beast that writes.  Read.  Read everything.  Remember when you were a kid, and you read because it had printed words on it?  Like that.  Read.  Read in your free time, and in between writing times, but most of all – I’m going to try this – take a day a week and just read.  Just immerse yourself in it and enjoy it.

4b – Sleep.  Yeah, this works much better if you’re not wondering what those zany editors are going to do with your book, but it’s necessary, so… sleep.  Every night.  Or every morning, if you write at night.  Go to bed, turn off the brain and sleep.

4c – Do something non-writing related at least a few hours a week.  For me that’s usually playing with art.  Your mileage may vary.

5 – If you can’t pivot between works – always a big issue for me – take a couple of days off and do non-verbal stuff.  Paint walls.  Garden.  Whatever.  Then come back to it.

6 – Enjoy the journey.

7 – Stop berating yourself for not being a machine.

crossposted at Mad Genius Club