Zombie Dishwasher

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

For months now, I’ve been dealing with a slow breakdown of every appliance in this house: from a leaking washer to an exploding refrigerator shelf, I’ve walked with Murphy beside me all the days of my life.

Frankly, the last time this happened I was trying to collaborate with Eric Flint and right now I was considering going back an finishing that collaboration, so I’m so totally blaming him for this.  My appliances hate Eric Flint.

Anyway, that’s not the alarming part.  That’s an annoying part, and expensive in time and money, but particularly time — which is why we’ve put off shopping for new appliances till after the cons.  It’s easier to do dishes by hand and hit the laundromat once a week than to spend a week or two shopping and then clear the basement for washer delivery

Meanwhile, the weirdest thing has happened.  My dishwasher was DEAD — as in, electrically dead.  This wasn’t even surprising because this dishwasher has had the control panel replaced upteen times, and going electrically dead is what it does.  It’s been that way for about two months now.  I was using it as a glorified dish rack, to keep the kittehs off te dishes and I left the door slightly open so stuff dried.

So, yesterday, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and talking to the guys and I look over at the dishwasher panel and see lights on.  For a while all I could do was point and go “the… the… the….”

We took shameless advantage and ran  a load of dishes, figuring this was a weird fluke and we’d get exactly ONE wash out of it.  However, today it continued to function, and I ran another load.

Now I’m worried.  This is akin to your dead-and-buried pet coming back into the house, or the best friend that you saw shot to death yesterday sitting up in his coffin.  I’m all for a working dishwasher, of course. Leaves me more time to write in.  Still, it’s hard to escape the feeling it’s a zombie and it will start making unnatural demands pretty soon.

Do zombie dishwashers wash your brains?

Masquerading as an Adult

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

Do you know how many people tell me that if writing just one novel a year doesn’t pay enough to live on I should get a “real job”?

Leave aside the fact that writing is a job — it’s a skilled profession, editors expect us to act professionally, and we put in as many hours in it as in any other job.  No, I’m not subscribing to the Marxist theory of labor.  I know you can spend hours polishing a dog turd and it still won’t be worth much.  However I also know my books continue to be published by publishing houses which are, presumably, businesses and don’t do this stuff out of charity.  Therefore I am not, presumably, writing dog turds.

I also know that the business is broken.  Even more so than other arts.  And so the producers end up making very little indeed, even when people in the middle DO make money.  (Have to.  Come on, the stores and publishing houses don’t stay open on air and promises.  Yeah, I know they’re failing, but still.  And don’t get me on that subject, trust me.)

So, is the suggestion that I get a real job and write on the side a good one?  Perhaps, from a monetary point of view.  Except that in my own, personal situation, it’s almost impossible.

First of all I don’t write just a novel a year.  There are many reasons for this, but the most important is that I can’t write just a novel a year or that novel will become unreadable.  Maybe I’ll explain that in a future post…  Just take me on faith for now.

More importantly, writing is not my only job.  Oh, it’s my only paying job.  But in the long road to publication, I became other things — mother, housewife, refinisher of furniture, cook, etc, etc, etc.  Some days I can barely fit in the writing and I know from past experience if I have a full time job, I won’t be able to fit in the writing.

So what’s the solution?  Danged if I know.  I have to find new ways to market my writing, maybe, now that electronic publishing is available.  I have to write new things and hope they pay better.  And then, too, some of my other jobs will change — I mean the boys will move out eventually, right?

When I was a kid I used to think I would grow up and have it all and it would be effortless.  Now I know better.  I can have it all, but it will be effort-ful.

Little, insane doggies

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

One of the things we don’t normally mention (much) is the animals that help writers.  I mean, inspiration, help (they do press keys) and reassurance on those days when it seems like nobody loves you…

As everyone knows — right? — my normal helpers are five very dedicated (possibly to eldritch gods) cats, four indoor, one outdoor.

However, when visiting my inlaws, before World Fantasy Con I benefited from the editorial and supportive services of two insane doggies — my in-laws little toy poodles.  Their names are — SUPPOSEDLY —  Sandy and Rusty, but my husband had them answering to  Fluffer and Nutter, which really fit their personalities.

Fluffer is on the left, and Nutter asleep next to him, below.  My husband “killed” them with tiredness by playing with them too much.  Cruel.

My husband and little insane doggies

Blogging Nano

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

I have decided to commit NaNoWrimo.  I’ve done this before but not for the last two years.  This is because November is a spectacularly bad month for us to try to do this in.  There are two birthdays in the family, in addition to the holiday and preparing for the December holidays.  However, I have a book — The Brave And The Free — that’s three quarters done and one — A Fatal Stain — that’s started, and they both need to be finished ASAP so I can move on to other projects.  So, there it is.  I’ll be Nanoing and reporting on it.

It started badly as yesterday and today were consumed by what can only be called “stupid cat tricks.”  Miranda-cat swallowed what appears to be an entire spool of black sewing thread, causing us to take her to the emergency room yesterday. 

For a while we feared surgery would happen, but it turns out no, she actually passed the thread after “a massive amount of laxative” (in the words of the vet’s assistant.)  She will be home as soon as daddy can pick her up, and I’m sure she’ll have words with us.  Meanwhile I’ll go and pick up the highschooler at three something, and then try to settle down and write.

To Sleep, Perchance

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

One of those odd nights — does anyone else have these?  No, Sarah, just you — where I felt I slept too deeply and woke up as though I were at the bottom of a deep dark well, holding myself so resolutely "in" that my shoulders hurt from the strain.  No idea what these nights are all about.  Not going to give my head to anyone for shrinking, but I do hate them…

So, I’ve told you all I’m trying to finish the book, even as I try to do laundry, all before the fateful, fast approaching date to head South and East.  The question is… what novel I’m trying to finish.

Well, those of you who visit the diner know.  It takes place somewhere around 300 or so years after DST.  Things have changed.  For one space colonization has happened.  There are probably around 60 human worlds.  (How did the population expand that much.  Well, they have bio-wombs, but there are other reasons, though nothing you’ll hear of until Doc Les Johnson and I have time to finish a proposal we started mulling at ConStellation last year. — wink.)  Meanwhile Earth has become sort of a globular Belgium (at least in Belgium’s dreams) from which the human worlds are run.  So, why don’t the other worlds — many of which are explicit "states" of an entity called Human Worlds, the others are colonies, and some are trying very hard to be free worlds.  Others frankly, no one wants — kick free.  Well, because Earth has an iron clad grip on the means of transport.  Or at least on the men trained to make the transport work.

Anyway — it’s complex. Perhaps too complex.  To make things better, I’m stuck with an inadvertent unreliable narrator.  Inadvertent how?  Well, she doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.  And a counterpoint character who is slipperier than a heel and who had me fooled for a great part of this.  So…

In case you wonder, yes, indeed, I DO still have some hair.  Things fell in place beautifully about two days ago, but I’m trying to connect all the bits I have, before I forget all the twisty linky parts.

A French Polished Murder

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

*HOW did I forget to give you guys a taste of this? It came out in April. A French Polished Murder, by Elise Hyatt. Yeah, it’s me, of course.*

A French Polished Murder

The Fast And the Electrically Furious
We were thirty years old – and, in his case, a couple of months — when I came to the sad conclusion that I would have to murder my friend Benedict Colm.
This was as sad as it was necessary, but there was no getting from the fact as my son, Enoch – whom I called E in an attempt to save him therapy bills as he got older – came speeding into the living room, atop Ben’s Christmas gift to him.
The gift was an electric toy motorcycle with a top speed of ten miles per hour, an acceleration that might seem impossible for a small boy in a home that was less than seventy feet in either direction, but which E managed, quite often.
I heard the horn blare a moment before E came riding in and, with the practice born of two weeks of terror, dove behind the sofa, while Ben, who stood square in the middle of the living room, his arms crossed on his chest, became an impromptu traffic circle.
E sped around him once, twice, then headed the other way, at an increased velocity.
“What do you mean you’ll have to kill me?” Ben asked, obtusely, looking at me. “And what are you doing behind the sofa?” Continue reading “A French Polished Murder” →

Mama said there’d be days like this

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

So the novel I’ve been working on — The Brave and The Free seems to be the working title. No, I don’t know why reversed — and which is, metaphorically speaking, all in pieces on the garage floor, possibly mixed with a clock’s innards, finally became clear last night. All of a sudden I knew which pieces went in, which pieces got chucked and which pieces were disguised as something else, and therefore will need a big reveal to make the reader understand them as well as a couple chapters of foreshadowing on the way there.

So… woke up at six thirty am today. Went on long walk while thinking. Came back energized and eager to write. Was reminded fifteen year old needs clothes for vacation. Cue in the shopping experience now even more fun with sullen teen. (His fault for having a massive growth spurt the last month.)

Right now I should be cleaning and taking the new bookcases to the attic. (What, don’t you buy bookcases everytime you go out? Why, I thought it was the law!) Only I am desperately trying to get some writing in, before the grand, glowing vision fades.

Oh, and by the way, the bed is still unmade and I have approximately three thousand loads of laundry to do. Wheee!

Going Bump In The Night

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

So I wake up in the middle of the night, with something akin to the sound of a sailing ship under stress in a high gale. “creak, creak, creak.”

I get up and realize it’s Havey cat — who weighs approximately three tons, give or take a hundred pounds — who, for reasons inexplicable, has decided to promenade himself across the printer and other equipment at the other end of our bedroom.

Remove Havey cat. Explain inadvisability of this, while he looks at me with his confused little eyes. Pet him a bit. Go back to bed. Start sort of falling asleep…

CREAK, CREAK, CREAK.

Remove Havey from printer. Scold him in whisper so as not to wake up husband, go back to bed.

CREAK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Havey has jumped in a single leap (imagine a big, heavy white pillow taking flight) five feet up to the back of my research chair, which is now being subjected to downward pressure, for which it wasn’t designed, and which must approach that under which coal turns to diamond.

At that point I realize that Miranda-cat, who normally sleeps with #2 son is watching this interestedly from top of research desk. This puts it in perspective. What I’m watching is not casual cat nuttery but, somehow, a battle in the bizarre war between the two white cats in the house: Havey and D’Artagnan. (No, don’t ask why. They both are convinced There Can be Only One. Perhaps they each think the other is a rogue clone.) Miranda, who rules the house with an iron paw, is clearly the referree.

Try to defuse the situation by grabbing D’Artagnan — who is the least hygienically challenged of the white cats — and take him to bed with me. He curls up at my feet. Miranda, uninterested, leaves the room. Ahhhhh. Sleep at last.

Creak, creak, creak.

Get up, half asleep, grab Havey-cat. Toss him out the door. Close the door. Get back to bed. Euclid and D’Artagnan sleeping respectively at Dan’s and my feet. They’re polite cats who ask to go out to use the box, so no problem, right?

Start drifting to sleep. Wake up to sound of almighty cat battle at my feet. “Wha?” Not only are the only two cats Euclid and D’Artagnan, but anyone capable of picking a fight with Euclid would be able to pick a fight with cheese. Euclid JUST doesn’t fight back, unless it’s his tail that he’s fighting.

As eyes focus — slowly — realize that D. has decided this is his chance to have mom and dad all to himself and is biting Euclid till he screams.

Lean down confusedly and swat first lump. Bad luck, it’s Euclid. Who immediately decides I’ve gone nuts and skeedadles to the door, where he begs me to let him out.

Deciding to make the best of a bad thing, grab D. under my arm, open door, and throw him out at the same time Euclid goes out.

Go back to bed. Ahhhhhhh. Repose at last…

Knock, knock, knock.

Half asleep brain thinks “Kid must be sick and need me.”

“Yes, who is it?”

MEOOOOOOOOW OW OW. — in demanding tones.

“Oh, go increase and multiply” (not that politely.) “Since when do you knock on doors. Leave me alone.”

Knock, knock, knock. MEoooow ow! ow!

Put pillow over head and manage a semblance of sleep.

Free Ebook and Sample

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

*I’ve collected all my Elizabethan Era short stories into a short book called The Private Wound. The title story is an alternate history with Queen Elizabeth. The book also contains two mysteries and (I’m sorry!) a vampire story. About half of the stories are unpublished.  One way or another, it is rather Marlowe Infested. If you like these stories, consider taking a look at my book No Will But His, the story of Kathryn Howard. sarahahoyt.com/nwbh-excerpt.html*
 

The ebook is available in various formats here:  http://cornerbooth.sarahahoyt.com/blueplate.html

Feel free to download, pass the links around and/or mug innocent passerbyes and make them read.

This is an excerpt from The Private Wound: 

 
Elizabeth was the last one to leave the choir, at the end of the line of grey sisters of the tertiary order of Saint Francis.
A thin young woman, her pale face looked out of the dark headdress, its perfect features seeming rather to belong to an ancient idol lovingly carved in ivory.
She lingered and dawdled, at the end of the line.

If pressed she might confess that she wanted nothing more than a respite from the company of the other nuns, like her cloistered prisoners of this inglorious convent. A respite from company and a moment alone…………..

And from Juggling, another short story in the collection:

 
"Be it a crime, then? To be a juggler?" the young man in the fine lawn collar asked. His fashionable black velvet doublet — close fitting, winged at the shoulders, tapering at the waist slashed through to show taffeta in a bright flame-color like a harlot’s stockings — couldn’t have looked more out of place in this tavern, filled with rough-dealing men and the lowest grade of itinerant laborer that England had to offer during the reign of Good Queen Bess.

He seemed unaware of, or untroubled by the crowd that surrounded him, though they were out of their seats, their mugs of beer abandoned, their mouths distorted in menace, their hair matted, their clothes dirty and ragged, their hands big and calloused and half-tightened in menace.
Kit Marlowe knew well enough that had this crowd not had sport enough on their hands for this evening, they would have turned on him with like fury, because he was different, with his fine clothes, his scholarly manner, the courtly affectation of his gestures. Nor could he tell what drove him to this class of tavern, where cutpurses and their molls, beggars and their doxies gathered. Except maybe that very danger that they would turn on him. Except the pulse-pounding excitement of traipsing into the forbidden and walking into the yawning maw of fear.
Kit, you are an idiot, he told himself…