Wow. My publishing company, Musa Publishing, is six hours away from opening.
I'm not going to blog much about Musa here. This is my writing blog, not my Musa blog. But today is kind of a special day for me. All those times I sat around in my darkened office, grumbling over a beer and a smoke and saying, "If I was a publisher, I wouldn't be THIS stupid." are coming back to haunt me now. Now OTHER people will be saying that about ME.
Hopefully not.
At the moment, I think we're in outstanding shape. We have a HUGE release schedule, going to 7 or 8 books a week by December. We have a core of 80 authors and 24 staff members, and everything has been working so well. Everyone is excited and putting their best foot forward and we are turning out some amazing books. You can take a look at our initial offerings at www.musapublishing.com to see what I mean.
AND, that includes the Aurora Regency imprint I slaved over the past year and a half. We managed to buy the imprint from the original publishing company. While it felt a little...erm...unfair that I paid to get my own work, I was extremely happy that the Aurora authors--all of whom are friends of mine now--were freed from the fiasco now ongoing over there.
I can't even express how much of a relief it is to believe in the publishing experience again. The pressure is gone. The stress is totally different--still stress, but pleasant now. Everyone has been excited and just happy to be working to create something instead of trying to fix it.
Do I think we've solved all the problems of small press publishing? *snort* No. Duh. But I do think we've resolved the issues that were driving us mad at our previous publisher. If nothing else, this company will never suffer from lack of communication, or transparency involving royalties, or books that don't come out on time. That much I can promise.
As for the rest? We'll tackle it as it comes. Feeling optimistic for the first time in a long time. If what we are doing helps to bring confidence and joy to the authors we publish, then that's more than enough for me.
Welcome, Musa.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
The Annual Autumnal War
Every year around this time I start getting antsy.
Part of it is the change of weather. The nights are getting brisk, the sky takes on that deeper blue and the leaves start to turn. I take my sweaters out of storage, do my fall housekeeping and then...it hits me.
They are almost here.
They fall upon us like an annual first week of October zombie convention. They start showing up in town, hauling their bizarro trailers behind their ratty, duct-taped together circa 1978 Ford pickup trucks. Chewing tobacco stores get low in the convenience stores. Can't find PBR 24-packs in any of the drive-throughs. Rally's starts to get really, really busy. Mothers start to herd their kids in from the backyard well before dark and I get really suspicious when anyone who looks like he might be one of them lumbers down the street in front of my house, heading for the Circle K and the 33 cent hot dogs.
An annual fog descends upon us, almost like a pre-autumnal stench, a miasma that overpowers the dusty smell of changing leaves and newly fired up fireplaces; an unusual smell that doesn't necessarily smell bad just...different.
Yep. I can smell it.
The carnies are coming.
Oh, granted: I still have a week or so before they are all here. Two weeks before the war begins. I need to stock up. I need to be certain my bunker is adequately prepared for the safety of me and mine. The conflict between us is of long standing. They--the carnies--and I have a long, terrible history that goes all the way back to the days when I worked in the bar across the street from the fairgrounds and they invariably tortured me every night after the county fair closed down. They came swaggering through the front door, their pockets crammed with the money they had taken from the unwary with their rides, and games, and freak shows, and candy apple booths. Oh, I can spot a carny from a mile away.
Yes, they brought the money of Fairfield county into my bar in their pockets, and I got them stinking drunk and took it all away from them! Took that money for my community! For the town I love! And yet they never got the hint. Every year, like clockwork or a cabbage-smelling plague, they come back...looking for me.
So far, I've always won. So far, I've always managed to come out on top. I have always emerged as the victor in the annual war with the carnies, like I'm the brave English and they are the garlicy French in our Hundred Years' battle over tip money.
But this year, they mounted a sneak attack. They must have bribed someone very close to me considering the predicament I'm in. This year, they are arriving in droves, scenting victory on the fall air.
This year...I have toddlers.
God help me.
The carousel. The pony rides. The little airplanes that go in a circle. Not to mention the cotton candy, the funnel cakes, the hot dogs, the lemonade turn-ups, the sasparilla, the game where you throw a ring around a goldfish bowl or a bottle and get a live rabbit.
Oh...they are out to get me no doubt. They are probably plotting right now in their pop-up trailers. I can sense it.
"That Celina woman is DOOMED. Let's get one of those shoot the water into the clown's mouth games. Those kids will LOVE those. Mwa ha ha ha ha."
I'll admit it; I've been a little apprehensive this year as we crept closer to Fair Week. I've hidden as much of it as I can from the toddlers--no need to get them to be willing stooges of the enemy. I detour around the Fairgrounds, so they don't notice the growing influx of campsites. I hurry them back inside whenever a suspiciously bright-colored semi comes rumbling past on the road. I don't allow them to watch any local television. And yet, somehow the toddlers know, like all kids know, that a huge opportunity for mischief is on the horizon, one that will allow them to yell "Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!" for a whole two minutes per three dollars worth of tickets.
But I have a secret weapon, one that will see me through this annual battle with my customary aplomb. One they will never expect. One the toddlers will be overjoyed about. Oh yes, I have my own secret weapon in this battle with the carnies that they'll never figure out--one that begins with a Z and ends with an O.
No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but I'll give you a hint. It involves animals and a slightly better-dressed foe.
Heh. They will never see it coming.
*Celina's annual battle with the carnies was abbreviated last year, but there are years' worth of carnie-related posts on this blog. For previous installments, just check every October's first week of blogs. This blog post has been carnie approved.*
Part of it is the change of weather. The nights are getting brisk, the sky takes on that deeper blue and the leaves start to turn. I take my sweaters out of storage, do my fall housekeeping and then...it hits me.
They are almost here.
They fall upon us like an annual first week of October zombie convention. They start showing up in town, hauling their bizarro trailers behind their ratty, duct-taped together circa 1978 Ford pickup trucks. Chewing tobacco stores get low in the convenience stores. Can't find PBR 24-packs in any of the drive-throughs. Rally's starts to get really, really busy. Mothers start to herd their kids in from the backyard well before dark and I get really suspicious when anyone who looks like he might be one of them lumbers down the street in front of my house, heading for the Circle K and the 33 cent hot dogs.
An annual fog descends upon us, almost like a pre-autumnal stench, a miasma that overpowers the dusty smell of changing leaves and newly fired up fireplaces; an unusual smell that doesn't necessarily smell bad just...different.
Yep. I can smell it.
The carnies are coming.
Oh, granted: I still have a week or so before they are all here. Two weeks before the war begins. I need to stock up. I need to be certain my bunker is adequately prepared for the safety of me and mine. The conflict between us is of long standing. They--the carnies--and I have a long, terrible history that goes all the way back to the days when I worked in the bar across the street from the fairgrounds and they invariably tortured me every night after the county fair closed down. They came swaggering through the front door, their pockets crammed with the money they had taken from the unwary with their rides, and games, and freak shows, and candy apple booths. Oh, I can spot a carny from a mile away.
Yes, they brought the money of Fairfield county into my bar in their pockets, and I got them stinking drunk and took it all away from them! Took that money for my community! For the town I love! And yet they never got the hint. Every year, like clockwork or a cabbage-smelling plague, they come back...looking for me.
So far, I've always won. So far, I've always managed to come out on top. I have always emerged as the victor in the annual war with the carnies, like I'm the brave English and they are the garlicy French in our Hundred Years' battle over tip money.
But this year, they mounted a sneak attack. They must have bribed someone very close to me considering the predicament I'm in. This year, they are arriving in droves, scenting victory on the fall air.
This year...I have toddlers.
God help me.
The carousel. The pony rides. The little airplanes that go in a circle. Not to mention the cotton candy, the funnel cakes, the hot dogs, the lemonade turn-ups, the sasparilla, the game where you throw a ring around a goldfish bowl or a bottle and get a live rabbit.
Oh...they are out to get me no doubt. They are probably plotting right now in their pop-up trailers. I can sense it.
"That Celina woman is DOOMED. Let's get one of those shoot the water into the clown's mouth games. Those kids will LOVE those. Mwa ha ha ha ha."
I'll admit it; I've been a little apprehensive this year as we crept closer to Fair Week. I've hidden as much of it as I can from the toddlers--no need to get them to be willing stooges of the enemy. I detour around the Fairgrounds, so they don't notice the growing influx of campsites. I hurry them back inside whenever a suspiciously bright-colored semi comes rumbling past on the road. I don't allow them to watch any local television. And yet, somehow the toddlers know, like all kids know, that a huge opportunity for mischief is on the horizon, one that will allow them to yell "Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!" for a whole two minutes per three dollars worth of tickets.
But I have a secret weapon, one that will see me through this annual battle with my customary aplomb. One they will never expect. One the toddlers will be overjoyed about. Oh yes, I have my own secret weapon in this battle with the carnies that they'll never figure out--one that begins with a Z and ends with an O.
No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but I'll give you a hint. It involves animals and a slightly better-dressed foe.
Heh. They will never see it coming.
*Celina's annual battle with the carnies was abbreviated last year, but there are years' worth of carnie-related posts on this blog. For previous installments, just check every October's first week of blogs. This blog post has been carnie approved.*
Friday, September 02, 2011
The Day You Never Forget
Most of the time, people think I'm a pretty tough kind of gal. I am, I suppose, in a lot of ways. I say what I think--sometimes at a cost to myself--and once I finally learned to be at peace with myself (a process I don't discuss with anyone other than my husband, perhaps, and my daughters) I was able to walk that fine line between assertive and bitch fairly well.
Unless I get mad, which is a whole other story.
I think every generation has a day they'll never collectively forget. For my father and his siblings, it was Pearl Harbor. What else could compete with that event marring their young lives? For my mother, it was a dual memory--the Nazis fleeing Paris and the Allies entering it. There were several that vied for that title in my youth. I vaguely remember Watergate; I had chicken pox and was home from first grade and there was NOTHING ELSE ON TV. Then President Reagan getting shot. And Pope John Paul II. And John Lennon. Then, when I was in college, the Challenger disaster, brought home to me on a whole new level because the daughter of one of the crew members went to the same school in the same department that I was in and I knew her.
But will anything take the place of 9-11?
I'm not going to go into that particular day. That story isn't important. But I'm sitting here now, ten years later absolutely glued to the television set watching all these terrible shows. I'm morbidly fascinated by hearing the experiences of these survivors and the stories of those who didn't. I'm glued to the TV screen, listening to the analytical details of how the structures were compromised, how the passengers fought in Pennsylvania, how the firefighters in that one lone stairwell managed to walk away. That day marked me in so many ways that even now, ten years later I can still feel all the shock, the horror, the absolutely gut-wrenching fear those events caused.
And yet, I can't escape it, and don't even try.
In a way, that whole day is kind of a blur. Our workplace didn't close, despite the whole state of Ohio rolling up like a big carpet. I was stuck there, at Applebees, and only two tables came in. So we were sitting there, with all that news coverage on all those television sets. And that's when, to me, one of the most shocking things of that whole damn day happened.
I was watching the beginning of President Bush's televised address when one of the other servers came up and grabbed my arm.
"Hey," he said. "I need you to lead the birthday song for my table."
Do what? This guy was a nice enough fellow, but he was also a member of a church that doesn't believe in celebrating birthdays. The table he was referring to was a group of young women in their early twenties. All I could think of in that moment was the absolute irony, the insensitivity of his request. I threw his hand off my arm and snarled, "No one will ever have a birthday on September 11 again, you *bleepity-bleep* moron. Sing it your own damn self if it's so important to you."
He looked kind of puzzled and said, "But I can't sing happy birthday--"
"God will forgive you for that quicker than for pretending that this--" and I pointed at the screen "--didn't happen."
He went away.
Strange. Now I don't remember what the President specifically said during that speech. I remember the feelings I had as I watched it, and the tiniest little moment of reassurance afterwards. I remember the phone call I got from a friend in New York who'd been off that day from work at Windows Over The World and thus escaped the destruction of the World Trade Center. I remember long hours of working to gather water bottles and shoes and non-perishable food and shipping it off to the rescue workers at Ground Zero. I remember the restaurant down the street, not two block from where I'm sitting now, pouring out every bottle of French wine from its incredible wine cellar into the street when France refused to cooperate in the allied war in the Middle East.
But instead of remembering what the President said to reassure the country, I remember that callous request, and the look of surprise on that young server's face when I yelled at him. I was too immature to realize that maybe that callousness was the result of a young man in his early twenties, seeing the face of war rise over the horizon. I was just mad--furious and seething and pissed off--and he was too insensitive to recognize that emotion swirling through all of us there that night.
My reputation was solidified in this town after that night. I was thought of as a bad-ass from that night on, something only reinforced by years of tending bar after that.
And yet, all these years later when I watch these shows, that grief hasn't really lessened. I watch the Twin Towers come down, and the Pentagon security camera film, and all those poor, doomed people who chose the death of the freefall over the death of the flames and I still sorrow for them all.
That day, 9-11-2001, marked not only MY generation, but my parents and my children's. Now my son-in-law is stationed in the Middle East, still fighting the war that began that day, while my daughter and her daughter live with me, and I realize that 9-11 has also affected my granddaughter's generation. She's been without her father now for half of her two years, and the first time I sang "Happy Birthday" again after that one day almost ten years ago, was last October for her first birthday.
Everyone has a day they'll never forget. I have a feeling that when it's my time to go, no matter how old I am, and my life flashes before my eyes, I'll still see those incredible terrible pictures interspersed between all the lesser moments in my comparatively inconsequential life. I have a feeling the rest of the country feels the same way--judging from the reaction America had to UBL's long-delayed demise.
Some days should never be forgotten. And in this country, apparently, never will be.
I guess I'm not so tough after all. Everytime I see those videos, I still cry. And I probably always will.
Unless I get mad, which is a whole other story.
I think every generation has a day they'll never collectively forget. For my father and his siblings, it was Pearl Harbor. What else could compete with that event marring their young lives? For my mother, it was a dual memory--the Nazis fleeing Paris and the Allies entering it. There were several that vied for that title in my youth. I vaguely remember Watergate; I had chicken pox and was home from first grade and there was NOTHING ELSE ON TV. Then President Reagan getting shot. And Pope John Paul II. And John Lennon. Then, when I was in college, the Challenger disaster, brought home to me on a whole new level because the daughter of one of the crew members went to the same school in the same department that I was in and I knew her.
But will anything take the place of 9-11?
I'm not going to go into that particular day. That story isn't important. But I'm sitting here now, ten years later absolutely glued to the television set watching all these terrible shows. I'm morbidly fascinated by hearing the experiences of these survivors and the stories of those who didn't. I'm glued to the TV screen, listening to the analytical details of how the structures were compromised, how the passengers fought in Pennsylvania, how the firefighters in that one lone stairwell managed to walk away. That day marked me in so many ways that even now, ten years later I can still feel all the shock, the horror, the absolutely gut-wrenching fear those events caused.
And yet, I can't escape it, and don't even try.
In a way, that whole day is kind of a blur. Our workplace didn't close, despite the whole state of Ohio rolling up like a big carpet. I was stuck there, at Applebees, and only two tables came in. So we were sitting there, with all that news coverage on all those television sets. And that's when, to me, one of the most shocking things of that whole damn day happened.
I was watching the beginning of President Bush's televised address when one of the other servers came up and grabbed my arm.
"Hey," he said. "I need you to lead the birthday song for my table."
Do what? This guy was a nice enough fellow, but he was also a member of a church that doesn't believe in celebrating birthdays. The table he was referring to was a group of young women in their early twenties. All I could think of in that moment was the absolute irony, the insensitivity of his request. I threw his hand off my arm and snarled, "No one will ever have a birthday on September 11 again, you *bleepity-bleep* moron. Sing it your own damn self if it's so important to you."
He looked kind of puzzled and said, "But I can't sing happy birthday--"
"God will forgive you for that quicker than for pretending that this--" and I pointed at the screen "--didn't happen."
He went away.
Strange. Now I don't remember what the President specifically said during that speech. I remember the feelings I had as I watched it, and the tiniest little moment of reassurance afterwards. I remember the phone call I got from a friend in New York who'd been off that day from work at Windows Over The World and thus escaped the destruction of the World Trade Center. I remember long hours of working to gather water bottles and shoes and non-perishable food and shipping it off to the rescue workers at Ground Zero. I remember the restaurant down the street, not two block from where I'm sitting now, pouring out every bottle of French wine from its incredible wine cellar into the street when France refused to cooperate in the allied war in the Middle East.
But instead of remembering what the President said to reassure the country, I remember that callous request, and the look of surprise on that young server's face when I yelled at him. I was too immature to realize that maybe that callousness was the result of a young man in his early twenties, seeing the face of war rise over the horizon. I was just mad--furious and seething and pissed off--and he was too insensitive to recognize that emotion swirling through all of us there that night.
My reputation was solidified in this town after that night. I was thought of as a bad-ass from that night on, something only reinforced by years of tending bar after that.
And yet, all these years later when I watch these shows, that grief hasn't really lessened. I watch the Twin Towers come down, and the Pentagon security camera film, and all those poor, doomed people who chose the death of the freefall over the death of the flames and I still sorrow for them all.
That day, 9-11-2001, marked not only MY generation, but my parents and my children's. Now my son-in-law is stationed in the Middle East, still fighting the war that began that day, while my daughter and her daughter live with me, and I realize that 9-11 has also affected my granddaughter's generation. She's been without her father now for half of her two years, and the first time I sang "Happy Birthday" again after that one day almost ten years ago, was last October for her first birthday.
Everyone has a day they'll never forget. I have a feeling that when it's my time to go, no matter how old I am, and my life flashes before my eyes, I'll still see those incredible terrible pictures interspersed between all the lesser moments in my comparatively inconsequential life. I have a feeling the rest of the country feels the same way--judging from the reaction America had to UBL's long-delayed demise.
Some days should never be forgotten. And in this country, apparently, never will be.
I guess I'm not so tough after all. Everytime I see those videos, I still cry. And I probably always will.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Cogito ergo sum
I think therefore I am.
For me, it could just as easily be "I think I am" or Cogito sum, instead. Or maybe Cogito quae facio? Like the little engine that could? (Reading lots of books to babies these days) Yes, my Latina lingua is rusty. But I kind of feel that way--I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...
While my agent shops my manuscript around New York (gods help her!) I've been busy with a new project. Last week, I helped to launch Musa Publishing as part of a four-person partnership. We're full of ideas these days, working 18-20 hours a day (six of that is my writing; I'll be honest) to create a small press that encompasses all the problems we identified within epublishing in our experience and addresses them. I'm pretty excited--you can check out the work in progress at www.musapublishing.blogspot.com for yourself.
In the meantime, I'm putting the finishing touches on my steampunk Ripper story What a Pretty Necklace. It might actually be more of a gaslight fantasy, but the setting of 1891 New York and the added benefit of Jack the Ripper scenes to satiate my lust for descriptive brutality is a lot of fun to deal with. I really think..hesitantly at least...that this may be my new milieu. The blend of technology, fantasy and history is pretty seductive to a girl like me. If you ever read this book and see the term *copperplate* applied to a JTR murder scene, run. That's all I have to say.
Aside from that, things are starting to settle into a routine. I'm not really talking about what happened with my last publisher, so don't ask. I'll just say that I'm heartbroken at leaving, am completely tragic that I lost the imprints I'd work so hard to build up, and have resolved to move on without bitterness or recriminations.
Yep. The high road. Me. See? Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am--not playing that game.
And in the near future, you guys may be hearing more about Asphodel. Just sayin'...
For me, it could just as easily be "I think I am" or Cogito sum, instead. Or maybe Cogito quae facio? Like the little engine that could? (Reading lots of books to babies these days) Yes, my Latina lingua is rusty. But I kind of feel that way--I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...
While my agent shops my manuscript around New York (gods help her!) I've been busy with a new project. Last week, I helped to launch Musa Publishing as part of a four-person partnership. We're full of ideas these days, working 18-20 hours a day (six of that is my writing; I'll be honest) to create a small press that encompasses all the problems we identified within epublishing in our experience and addresses them. I'm pretty excited--you can check out the work in progress at www.musapublishing.blogspot.com for yourself.
In the meantime, I'm putting the finishing touches on my steampunk Ripper story What a Pretty Necklace. It might actually be more of a gaslight fantasy, but the setting of 1891 New York and the added benefit of Jack the Ripper scenes to satiate my lust for descriptive brutality is a lot of fun to deal with. I really think..hesitantly at least...that this may be my new milieu. The blend of technology, fantasy and history is pretty seductive to a girl like me. If you ever read this book and see the term *copperplate* applied to a JTR murder scene, run. That's all I have to say.
Aside from that, things are starting to settle into a routine. I'm not really talking about what happened with my last publisher, so don't ask. I'll just say that I'm heartbroken at leaving, am completely tragic that I lost the imprints I'd work so hard to build up, and have resolved to move on without bitterness or recriminations.
Yep. The high road. Me. See? Cogito ergo sum. I think, therefore I am--not playing that game.
And in the near future, you guys may be hearing more about Asphodel. Just sayin'...
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Just When You Think You've Got It All Together...
We all have plans. I have all sorts: plans for my family, plans for my life, and sort of at the top of the list at the moment are the career plans. I'm at the point in my life that I'd always said I would get around this age: devoting myself to my writing. (Yeah, I'm editing too, but that goes hand in hand with it. Every manuscript I edit makes my own writing better--I see my own flaws on someone else's page. At any rate) And right at the moment in my personal journey when I'm ready to break ahead and take that next step, something happens to screw it all up.
As life-altering changes go, this one isn't THAT bad. The artifical disc that was supposed to last forever and eliminate my back pain didn't do either. I have to have another back surgery--a fusion to stabilize the broken prosthesis. A few days in the hospital, a few months in a back brace with very limited physical activity, probably a year or so of physical therapy--and a best case scenario prognosis for the relief of 60% of my pain.
Maximum. More likely? Less than half.
The surgery isn't optional; it has to be done. The broken prosthesis can't be removed. I'm stuck with it. And, as a result, will always have pain. None of that really bothers me. This is how stupid I am: I'm worried about not getting the WIP done on schedule--a self-imposed schedule at that. I'm not worried about dying on the operating table or the pain (although that isn't pleasant to consider) or anything else except how long it will take me to be able to stand sitting at my computer and getting back to my story.
Yeah, I realize that for the first week at least, more likely two, I'm not going to give a rat's ass about the story, and with a big incision in my back I'm not going to want to lie down with the laptop either.
But three months????
Three MONTHS!
Damn.
So. The best I can do is to write as fast as I can now and hope for the best. I figure I'm within 100 pages of the end. Maybe...just maybe...I can get this done. And even if I can't, I'll spend a lot of time thinking about it, reconfiguring it, twisting and turning it.
And yes, I find the fact that the story is about Jack the Ripper quite ironic, thank you very much.
As life-altering changes go, this one isn't THAT bad. The artifical disc that was supposed to last forever and eliminate my back pain didn't do either. I have to have another back surgery--a fusion to stabilize the broken prosthesis. A few days in the hospital, a few months in a back brace with very limited physical activity, probably a year or so of physical therapy--and a best case scenario prognosis for the relief of 60% of my pain.
Maximum. More likely? Less than half.
The surgery isn't optional; it has to be done. The broken prosthesis can't be removed. I'm stuck with it. And, as a result, will always have pain. None of that really bothers me. This is how stupid I am: I'm worried about not getting the WIP done on schedule--a self-imposed schedule at that. I'm not worried about dying on the operating table or the pain (although that isn't pleasant to consider) or anything else except how long it will take me to be able to stand sitting at my computer and getting back to my story.
Yeah, I realize that for the first week at least, more likely two, I'm not going to give a rat's ass about the story, and with a big incision in my back I'm not going to want to lie down with the laptop either.
But three months????
Three MONTHS!
Damn.
So. The best I can do is to write as fast as I can now and hope for the best. I figure I'm within 100 pages of the end. Maybe...just maybe...I can get this done. And even if I can't, I'll spend a lot of time thinking about it, reconfiguring it, twisting and turning it.
And yes, I find the fact that the story is about Jack the Ripper quite ironic, thank you very much.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Of Kittens and Keyboards
When he's really spunky, he's swinging from my curtains or the furniture or the top of the bookshelf, wailing piteously for rescue. That's funny and cute--except on the curtains, which now have a plethora of teensy little claw marks, or the furniture now that I've finally trained the big cats to avoid. (they associate claws in the furniture with a water gun. Heh.) Thor, unfortunately, loves water. He jumps into the bathtub without checking first, which has resulted in several episodes of dripping kitten. He plays in the water bowl. He turns on the kitchen faucet. Therefore, he is impervious to the water gun and thinks I'm playing with him when I hose him down.
Poor Thor. Since he loves water, he gets punished with timeout. He gets put into the bathroom with a stern, "NO!" and left there, to meow and yell and wail for a few minutes until I take pity on him and let him out. Then he jumps up on me and purrs and chin rubs and cuddles before he takes off to get in more mischief, which usually involves torturing Elf, that cat who most claims me as 'his human.'
But that's not the worst of it.
Thor has several favorite napping places, but his unquestioned favorite is the keyboard of my laptop. He's still small and lightweight so when he lies down he doesn't depress the keys, but it's damn hard to write with a kitten sprawled out over qwertygfdsacx and z. If I move him, he complains. If I try to type around him, he yawns and takes up uiohjkb and n as well. Sometimes we compromise, and he gets right up beside the back of the computer or underneath it when I'm writing on the couch or the bed.
*sigh*
Kittens.
He's starting to lose that kitten fuzz now, and is more properly an adolescent cat at almost five months. But he still acts like a kitten, and I have the horrible fear that he's always going to prefer napping on my laptop keyboard. In another year or so, he'll weigh fifteen pounds and the only letter I might be able to hit is the / or the ' or ] -- which would totally suck.
But then again, I know now what to do with this laptop when I retire it in favor of a new one. Some cats may like their soft little animal beds, but Thor will always sleep on my old, dead laptop.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
And Now For Something Completely Different...
...a not quite as serious post. Ye olde blogge has been a little on the grim side as of late, so tonight while I loosen up my mind for a big writing binge that'll probably end up being an all-nighter, I thought I'd try to lighten things up a little bit with some random thoughts.
Random thought # 1--Just got done watching The Voice. Christina--FIRE YOUR DRESSER. Child, you don't have any business prancing around in THAT outfit. EVER. Those thighs were eating those pleather shorts. Seriously.
Oh, the singers? For me no contest--the two bald ladies on Christina's team and the two guys on Blake's team. Best singer of the night--Beverly. Best performer of the night--Frenchie. Best moment of the night--Ce Lo singing Queen.
Random thought # 2--Two great things happened for me in the world of sports today. First, Tyrelle Pryor has ditched Ohio State for his senior season. (there is a God) Then, Mike Hamilton, the alleged athletic director at my beloved University of Tennessee resigned. (there is a God who wears orange and white) Personally, I think this is a great thing for both schools. Tennessee can now hire Phil Fulmer, who at least has integrity and knowledge of the area, and Ohio State can have the ultimate honor of me condescending to appear at one of their football games--which I swore I'd never do as long as Tyrelle *Mika Vick* Pryor played there. That being said, now there are serious grumblings in Columbus on the nightly news about tens of thousands of dollars Pryor allegedly accepted, and people in Knoxville are tossing pictures of Lane Kiffin into bonfires built with Hamilton's office furniture.
Ah yes, a great day in the world of college football. Now, if they'll only strip USC of their 2004 BCS Championship, my week will be perfect.
(Perfection attained in 3...2...1...)
Random Thought # 3--Right now, the cats are have a demolition derby in my living room. The favorite and current points leader is Thor, the 5 month old kitten, who is outweighed by the next smallest competitor by at least four pounds. The cats are all fine--it's the living room that's demolished. Thor was chasing Sapphire, our sedentary, portly Siamese and they hit a pile of mail and papers on the desk. Right now, our floor looks white instead of a warm, mellow aged oak color.
And because this is a perfect week, thanks to USC being stripped of their title, someone other than me is picking everything up.
And finally, Random Thought # 4--If I stick to my current writing schedule, What A Pretty Necklace will be completed in 6 days. Right now, Jack the Ripper and my ultimate villain are plotting the demise of my heroine--who, unfortunately for them, has developed a weapon they'll have no defense against.
Ah, steampunk! I think I'm starting to like you.
Random thought # 1--Just got done watching The Voice. Christina--FIRE YOUR DRESSER. Child, you don't have any business prancing around in THAT outfit. EVER. Those thighs were eating those pleather shorts. Seriously.
Oh, the singers? For me no contest--the two bald ladies on Christina's team and the two guys on Blake's team. Best singer of the night--Beverly. Best performer of the night--Frenchie. Best moment of the night--Ce Lo singing Queen.
Random thought # 2--Two great things happened for me in the world of sports today. First, Tyrelle Pryor has ditched Ohio State for his senior season. (there is a God) Then, Mike Hamilton, the alleged athletic director at my beloved University of Tennessee resigned. (there is a God who wears orange and white) Personally, I think this is a great thing for both schools. Tennessee can now hire Phil Fulmer, who at least has integrity and knowledge of the area, and Ohio State can have the ultimate honor of me condescending to appear at one of their football games--which I swore I'd never do as long as Tyrelle *Mika Vick* Pryor played there. That being said, now there are serious grumblings in Columbus on the nightly news about tens of thousands of dollars Pryor allegedly accepted, and people in Knoxville are tossing pictures of Lane Kiffin into bonfires built with Hamilton's office furniture.
Ah yes, a great day in the world of college football. Now, if they'll only strip USC of their 2004 BCS Championship, my week will be perfect.
(Perfection attained in 3...2...1...)
Random Thought # 3--Right now, the cats are have a demolition derby in my living room. The favorite and current points leader is Thor, the 5 month old kitten, who is outweighed by the next smallest competitor by at least four pounds. The cats are all fine--it's the living room that's demolished. Thor was chasing Sapphire, our sedentary, portly Siamese and they hit a pile of mail and papers on the desk. Right now, our floor looks white instead of a warm, mellow aged oak color.
And because this is a perfect week, thanks to USC being stripped of their title, someone other than me is picking everything up.
And finally, Random Thought # 4--If I stick to my current writing schedule, What A Pretty Necklace will be completed in 6 days. Right now, Jack the Ripper and my ultimate villain are plotting the demise of my heroine--who, unfortunately for them, has developed a weapon they'll have no defense against.
Ah, steampunk! I think I'm starting to like you.
Monday, June 06, 2011
Why You Need To Think Twice Before You Self-Publish
Lately, I've been overwhelmed by the foul tempers prevailing in writing forums on any thread that has to do with self-publishing. I'll admit it--this is partically my fault. I'm so sick of hearing sad stories from authors who "just wanted to hold my book in my hands" and then are faced with the consequences of their decision to self-publish that are dismissed and scoffed at by people who are absolutely certain that self-publishing is the end of the traditional publishing industry.
But before we begin, a caveat: I BELIEVE (capitalized for emphasis) that in SOME cases, self-publishing is an appropriate choice-- such as books for niche markets, poetry chapbooks, non-fiction with a limited target market. I ALSO BELIEVE (again, capitalized for emphasis) that in the case of fiction, self-publishing should be the LAST choice, not the first.
Now before the self-appointed SP cheerleaders start to divebomb me with their pom-poms, here's why I believe this way...in a bulleted list for your reading ease and comfort.
(Yes, I'm feeling a little snippy)
1. Self-publishing burns your first rights.
2. Self-publishing at this point is consigning your book to the bottom of the publishing pond.
3. Self-publishing doesn't equate with 'published.'
4. Self-publishing companies don't care how many books you sell. Their purpose is to get as many books as possible.
5. Most self-published authors suffer from the stigma of not being legitimately published.
6. 90 % of self-published books are crap, and that figure is low.
Now that I've pissed all of them off, let's elaborate.
First publishing rights are a huge deal. You aren't going to land an agent or a trade publisher (read: NY publishing house) with a self-published book UNLESS you have immense sales and maybe not even then. Yes, yes...Amanda Hocking. I know. She had over a million sales, right? Okay...that's ONE author out of how many? According to Bowker, there were over 760,000 self-published books in 2009. Now think--how many other authors have you heard of with sales like this?
Right. And why is that?
Because a self-published book sinks right to the bottom of the publishing pond. The books that sell the most are the ones that get publicity--trade published books, independent press books and e-published books. The self-published books that break through those to rise to the top either have an author with a well-known name (like Stephen King) or a well-known platform (either because of a built-in readership or through the marketing efforts the author puts into the released book). Most self-published books don't get that. They get bought by family and friends, who leave glowing reviews on Amazon that nobody reads. Self-published authors also find it difficult to get reviewed, one of the traditional methods of getting people interested in their books. Do you know why?
Right. Because most people don't equate self-publishing with actually being published. Agent Rachel Gardner said it best on her blog in a November, 2009 post:
That kind of sums it up. The majority of self-published books are pretty awful, to be frank. Obviously, I haven't read every self-published book in the world but come on, already. How many of those self-published books are in reality unedited first drafts, thrown out there by people who stupidly buy into the myth that "You, too, can be a publisher author on the road to fame and riches!!!!" by self-publishing companies who don't give a crap what they're publishing.
What? Oh, of course I have cites for that.
See what I mean? It looks just like a book that you buy at the bookstore. From the same article, there's this too:
Pretty scary. Especially when paired from this quote I found on How Publishing Really Works:
Doesn't that just make you throw up a little in your mouth? It does me. Why would you want to consign your novel to a company that wants ten thousand more of you only selling ten books to your family and friends...or yourself?
And if you only sell to your mom and dad and the other eight copies are bouncing around in the trunk of your car, then are you legitimately published? Are you put on the same level as...well, shall we say, an e-published author?
No. Because of one line you can find on many major review sites:
We do not accept self-published material for review.
Not too long ago, that line read: We do not accept e-published or self-published material for review.
Again--you sell a million copies, and you get to shed the self-published stigma. But let's face it: any schmoo who ekes together some kind of guide for pedophiles and self-publishes it on Amazon, then causing a controversy as outrage ripples throughout the www is going to manage to sell 50 books. Most self-published books don't sell half that number--and the self-publishing companies like it that way. Again--read what those execs had to say. They don't care that because you've self-published your book, people are going to automatically assume it's crap. They LIKE crap, particularly the kind of crap that a deluded author is going to pay premium prices for their ultimate services. But the inescapable sad, tragic fact is that most self-published books ARE crap.
Look, I don't have a motive here unless it's to ease my own conscience. Over the past year, the number of queries I've received from self-published authors who genuinely believed they could bypass the whole submission process and have a bestseller is staggering. I looked through my records today, and approximately 40% of the submissions I've received since June of 2010 fit into this category. These authors are upset and looking to rectify their book's invisibility through any means possible.
"I thought self-publishing was the way to go, but I've only sold five copies in eight months..."
"I really believed that once people started to review my book, I'd get the exposure I needed..."
"I invested almost two thousand dollars into this book and I have to find a way to recoup my losses..."
And so they send those manuscripts to me, hoping that somehow I'll be willing to overlook the fact that their first electronic rights have been burned irrevocably. And because I'm a sucker, I'll request the whole book. And without exception, those books aren't in any condition to be turned over to my staff for editing much less out there on display for the whole world. Out of those submissions, I have not accepted one.
Not. One.
So, yes--I'm damn good and mad about this! I'm inundated with those self-publishing popups everytime I hop online. I could open any website right now and there will be that damn ad I've seen every stinking day for three stinking months. I really wish I could spam them all with an email that reads, "I'M NOT STUPID. THANKS."
But I can't. My situation is different too. I'm an established author with a very decided career plan, one that I work on every single day for eight hours a day. Self-publishing is not an option for me at this stage of my career. Perhaps later, if I reach a certain undefined level of success, I may self-publish my earlier works when the rights revert to me. Who can say?
But YOU--the writer who's just finished your first novel and are trying to make a decision as to what's best to do. (and this doesn't apply to people who just want to publish for their own pleasure) Aside from following my mantra of "write, edit, rewrite, rewrite again, rewrite some more, edit, proof, repeat" (meaning don't ever send out a first draft as a finished product), what else should you do?
If you want a career as a writer, why consign your book to the bottom of the publishing pond? Start at the top and work your way down. Try for an agent first, then smaller presses, and then e-presses before you decide to self-publish. Why be one of thousands of writers selling only ten copies? Strive to be one of ten authors selling thousands...MILLIONS of copies.
Always, always reach for the top of the game, not the bottom, and I'll do the same. Perhaps we'll meet there someday. I certainly hope so.
But before we begin, a caveat: I BELIEVE (capitalized for emphasis) that in SOME cases, self-publishing is an appropriate choice-- such as books for niche markets, poetry chapbooks, non-fiction with a limited target market. I ALSO BELIEVE (again, capitalized for emphasis) that in the case of fiction, self-publishing should be the LAST choice, not the first.
Now before the self-appointed SP cheerleaders start to divebomb me with their pom-poms, here's why I believe this way...in a bulleted list for your reading ease and comfort.
(Yes, I'm feeling a little snippy)
1. Self-publishing burns your first rights.
2. Self-publishing at this point is consigning your book to the bottom of the publishing pond.
3. Self-publishing doesn't equate with 'published.'
4. Self-publishing companies don't care how many books you sell. Their purpose is to get as many books as possible.
5. Most self-published authors suffer from the stigma of not being legitimately published.
6. 90 % of self-published books are crap, and that figure is low.
Now that I've pissed all of them off, let's elaborate.
First publishing rights are a huge deal. You aren't going to land an agent or a trade publisher (read: NY publishing house) with a self-published book UNLESS you have immense sales and maybe not even then. Yes, yes...Amanda Hocking. I know. She had over a million sales, right? Okay...that's ONE author out of how many? According to Bowker, there were over 760,000 self-published books in 2009. Now think--how many other authors have you heard of with sales like this?
Right. And why is that?
Because a self-published book sinks right to the bottom of the publishing pond. The books that sell the most are the ones that get publicity--trade published books, independent press books and e-published books. The self-published books that break through those to rise to the top either have an author with a well-known name (like Stephen King) or a well-known platform (either because of a built-in readership or through the marketing efforts the author puts into the released book). Most self-published books don't get that. They get bought by family and friends, who leave glowing reviews on Amazon that nobody reads. Self-published authors also find it difficult to get reviewed, one of the traditional methods of getting people interested in their books. Do you know why?
Right. Because most people don't equate self-publishing with actually being published. Agent Rachel Gardner said it best on her blog in a November, 2009 post:
The lure and the prestige of getting a book published has always been based on... what? Exclusivity. It's exciting to get a book deal because many want one, and few can get one.
Published books have always been respected because of the many gatekeepers they had to go through to get on that bookstore shelf. Numerous people had to agree that the book was worthy of publication. Large companies had to invest money and time. All of that added to the value of each book.
Writers had to endure rejection, and be persistent. They had to keep trying harder, improving their writing, to get to the point of being published. And they had to impress a lot of people.
With no more gatekeepers, no more exclusivity, no more requirement to actually write a good book, won't published books lose value? If anybody can get a book published, doesn't that diminish the perceived status of all authors?
That kind of sums it up. The majority of self-published books are pretty awful, to be frank. Obviously, I haven't read every self-published book in the world but come on, already. How many of those self-published books are in reality unedited first drafts, thrown out there by people who stupidly buy into the myth that "You, too, can be a publisher author on the road to fame and riches!!!!" by self-publishing companies who don't give a crap what they're publishing.
What? Oh, of course I have cites for that.
“It used to be an elite few,” said Eileen Gittins, chief executive of Blurb, a print-on-demand company whose revenue has grown to $30 million, from $1 million, in just two years and which published more than 300,000 titles last year. Many of those were personal books bought only by the author. “Now anyone can make a book, and it looks just like a book that you buy at the bookstore.”
See what I mean? It looks just like a book that you buy at the bookstore. From the same article, there's this too:
Indeed, said Robert Young, chief executive of Lulu Enterprises, based in Raleigh, N.C., a majority of the company’s titles are of little interest to anybody other than the authors and their families. “We have easily published the largest collection of bad poetry in the history of mankind,” Mr. Young said.
Pretty scary. Especially when paired from this quote I found on How Publishing Really Works:
Lulu.com, one of the most popular and cost-effective of the POD services and still independent despite the apparent trend toward consolidation among POD services, is explicit about its long tail business model. In a 2006 article in the Times UK, its founder identified the company's goal: "...to have a million authors selling 100 copies each, rather than 100 authors selling a million copies each." A Lulu bestseller is a book that sells 500 copies. There haven't been many of them.
Doesn't that just make you throw up a little in your mouth? It does me. Why would you want to consign your novel to a company that wants ten thousand more of you only selling ten books to your family and friends...or yourself?
And if you only sell to your mom and dad and the other eight copies are bouncing around in the trunk of your car, then are you legitimately published? Are you put on the same level as...well, shall we say, an e-published author?
No. Because of one line you can find on many major review sites:
We do not accept self-published material for review.
Not too long ago, that line read: We do not accept e-published or self-published material for review.
Again--you sell a million copies, and you get to shed the self-published stigma. But let's face it: any schmoo who ekes together some kind of guide for pedophiles and self-publishes it on Amazon, then causing a controversy as outrage ripples throughout the www is going to manage to sell 50 books. Most self-published books don't sell half that number--and the self-publishing companies like it that way. Again--read what those execs had to say. They don't care that because you've self-published your book, people are going to automatically assume it's crap. They LIKE crap, particularly the kind of crap that a deluded author is going to pay premium prices for their ultimate services. But the inescapable sad, tragic fact is that most self-published books ARE crap.
Look, I don't have a motive here unless it's to ease my own conscience. Over the past year, the number of queries I've received from self-published authors who genuinely believed they could bypass the whole submission process and have a bestseller is staggering. I looked through my records today, and approximately 40% of the submissions I've received since June of 2010 fit into this category. These authors are upset and looking to rectify their book's invisibility through any means possible.
"I thought self-publishing was the way to go, but I've only sold five copies in eight months..."
"I really believed that once people started to review my book, I'd get the exposure I needed..."
"I invested almost two thousand dollars into this book and I have to find a way to recoup my losses..."
And so they send those manuscripts to me, hoping that somehow I'll be willing to overlook the fact that their first electronic rights have been burned irrevocably. And because I'm a sucker, I'll request the whole book. And without exception, those books aren't in any condition to be turned over to my staff for editing much less out there on display for the whole world. Out of those submissions, I have not accepted one.
Not. One.
So, yes--I'm damn good and mad about this! I'm inundated with those self-publishing popups everytime I hop online. I could open any website right now and there will be that damn ad I've seen every stinking day for three stinking months. I really wish I could spam them all with an email that reads, "I'M NOT STUPID. THANKS."
But I can't. My situation is different too. I'm an established author with a very decided career plan, one that I work on every single day for eight hours a day. Self-publishing is not an option for me at this stage of my career. Perhaps later, if I reach a certain undefined level of success, I may self-publish my earlier works when the rights revert to me. Who can say?
But YOU--the writer who's just finished your first novel and are trying to make a decision as to what's best to do. (and this doesn't apply to people who just want to publish for their own pleasure) Aside from following my mantra of "write, edit, rewrite, rewrite again, rewrite some more, edit, proof, repeat" (meaning don't ever send out a first draft as a finished product), what else should you do?
If you want a career as a writer, why consign your book to the bottom of the publishing pond? Start at the top and work your way down. Try for an agent first, then smaller presses, and then e-presses before you decide to self-publish. Why be one of thousands of writers selling only ten copies? Strive to be one of ten authors selling thousands...MILLIONS of copies.
Always, always reach for the top of the game, not the bottom, and I'll do the same. Perhaps we'll meet there someday. I certainly hope so.
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Sunburned the Brains Right Out of My Skull
So the big news in the Summers household this week is the new pool. We all discussed it and decided that not only would a pool be great for the baby (so I can teach him to swim) but also for me. My back limits a lot of exercise, but if I just walk in chest-high water, I'm getting five times the benefit as if I was walking on the road.
And never breaking a sweat. That's important to a lady.
*Yeah, I just said that. Now shut it with the laughing.*
At any rate, so the pool is in and we filled it up earlier the week, braving the ICE COLD water just because...well, hell-we have a POOL. We've spent the time since then (now that the solar cover is warming the water up) lounging in and around the pool, taunting our unfortunate neighbors with the glorious blue jewel glistening in the back yard by splashing, squealing and playing with water toys as much as possible. My daughter, her daughter and I all now have glorious sunburns--the kind that gives you color without hurting too badly.
Except on our legs. WTF is up with that? Audrey and I can get all kinds of sun on our faces, arms, backs and shoulders, but both of us are still sporting pasty white legs, damnit.
So I rigged up a little writing area for me on the back deck, thinking that I could switch back and forth between the pool and working on the WIP. It's nice, with a comfortable chair and a table for the laptop (and an outlet--very important)--far away enough from the pool that my computer won't bite it from a misplaced splash but close enough so I can monitor my non-swimming daughter and her twenty-month-old baby.
I completely forgot about how hard it is to see a monitor in the glare of the sun. Or how quickly you can get really, really hot while trying to write outdoors. Or how distracting things like the neighbors' boxers when they get let out of the house and want nothing more than to howl at whoever is splashing in the pool. Or how little Aurora wants her Nana right there in the water with her and has no qualms about running over to where I'm sitting with the computer and lifting her arms to be picked up--while spraying chlorinated water all over my computer.
*sigh*
Yes. This vampire's first exposure to the afternoon sun in about twenty years must have fried every last bit of common sense right out of my echoing head. There's a REASON I haven't been hanging out at poolside in recent years. Okay, several. First off, I'm a redhead. Yeah...I don't tan, I BURN and then MOULT like a freaking snake. Second off, I'm creeping up to the midway point between forty and fifty. (It's perfectly okay to tell me how young of a grandmother I am, by the way.) The reason I don't look like a grandmother is because I haven't exposed my face to the sun willingly in decades. Third off, I can't work outside. I don't like the heat. I don't like barking dogs. I don't like the sounds of traffic. I don't like the people across the street. And while I LOVE the pool, I don't particulaly relish the thought of people driving by and wondering how that bizarre red-and-white whale got beached in Ohio.
So yeah, I'm staying in today to work. I'll hit the pool later when it won't affect me as much. Like maybe midnight or something.
The sacrifices I make for my art.
Oh, by the way--I'll be a grandmother of THREE sometime in mid-December.
And never breaking a sweat. That's important to a lady.
*Yeah, I just said that. Now shut it with the laughing.*
At any rate, so the pool is in and we filled it up earlier the week, braving the ICE COLD water just because...well, hell-we have a POOL. We've spent the time since then (now that the solar cover is warming the water up) lounging in and around the pool, taunting our unfortunate neighbors with the glorious blue jewel glistening in the back yard by splashing, squealing and playing with water toys as much as possible. My daughter, her daughter and I all now have glorious sunburns--the kind that gives you color without hurting too badly.
Except on our legs. WTF is up with that? Audrey and I can get all kinds of sun on our faces, arms, backs and shoulders, but both of us are still sporting pasty white legs, damnit.
So I rigged up a little writing area for me on the back deck, thinking that I could switch back and forth between the pool and working on the WIP. It's nice, with a comfortable chair and a table for the laptop (and an outlet--very important)--far away enough from the pool that my computer won't bite it from a misplaced splash but close enough so I can monitor my non-swimming daughter and her twenty-month-old baby.
I completely forgot about how hard it is to see a monitor in the glare of the sun. Or how quickly you can get really, really hot while trying to write outdoors. Or how distracting things like the neighbors' boxers when they get let out of the house and want nothing more than to howl at whoever is splashing in the pool. Or how little Aurora wants her Nana right there in the water with her and has no qualms about running over to where I'm sitting with the computer and lifting her arms to be picked up--while spraying chlorinated water all over my computer.
*sigh*
Yes. This vampire's first exposure to the afternoon sun in about twenty years must have fried every last bit of common sense right out of my echoing head. There's a REASON I haven't been hanging out at poolside in recent years. Okay, several. First off, I'm a redhead. Yeah...I don't tan, I BURN and then MOULT like a freaking snake. Second off, I'm creeping up to the midway point between forty and fifty. (It's perfectly okay to tell me how young of a grandmother I am, by the way.) The reason I don't look like a grandmother is because I haven't exposed my face to the sun willingly in decades. Third off, I can't work outside. I don't like the heat. I don't like barking dogs. I don't like the sounds of traffic. I don't like the people across the street. And while I LOVE the pool, I don't particulaly relish the thought of people driving by and wondering how that bizarre red-and-white whale got beached in Ohio.
So yeah, I'm staying in today to work. I'll hit the pool later when it won't affect me as much. Like maybe midnight or something.
The sacrifices I make for my art.
Oh, by the way--I'll be a grandmother of THREE sometime in mid-December.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Bigotry in Writing
This week, Nobel Laureate V. S. Naipaul stirred up a big stinky pile of controversy. Here's the jist of what he said, as reported by Bookseller.com and initially from the Telegraph:
Now, as a woman writer, I find that pretty offensive. Interestingly enough, however, the editor whose work he dismissed as 'feminine tosh' is acclaimed author and biographer Diana Athill, of all people! I've read Athill's Somewhere Towards the End, and I'm absolutely positive that it's NOT 'feminine tosh.' Athill's response to Naipaul--also from the Guardian--is worth noting:
Amen, my sister. From some of the horrors I've read about Naipaul's marriage, I think I'd be able to say that to myself in jail.
Okay--here's my point: there's a longstanding and inherent bias against female writers. We are dismissed instantly as writing 'bodice-rippers' or 'feminine tosh.' When I tell people I'm an author, their first question is usually, "Oh, romance?" with an intonation in their voices that just drips disdain. It's like no one can imagine a woman writing strong, relevant, gripping literature. This is insulting on several levels.
First off, women write in all genres and not just romance. Look at some of the powerhouse women in fiction right now. Can anyone dare to dismiss female writers when the most successful writer in history is JK Rowling? Can anyone honestly sneer at the work of Barbara Kingsolver? The Poisonwood Bible is one of the toughest books I've read in a long time--and absolutely lovely. And then I think of some of my friends and acquaintances in speculative fiction, like Kelly Meding and Gini Koch, and I have to kind of laugh. These ladies don't waste their time on feminine tosh, not when their heroines are kicking everything's ass in sight.
Second off, romance books are NOT EASY TO WRITE. I've tried to write a straight-up contemporary romance novel; I can't. I'm not wired that way. And when you look at some of the greatest classic pieces of literature, those books were romances written by women. Jane Austen? The Brontes? And those writers aren't equal to Naipaul? Come to think of it, I'm reasonably positive Naipaul would chew off his own leg to have a fraction of Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele's sales. The Nobel prize is nice and all, but you can only eat off it for so long. But Naipaul doesn't see it that way:
I don't know about the rest of you, but I am the complete master of MY house. Even the cats acknowledge that.
But finally, and most importantly, the main reason this disturbs me is simple. Naipaul, as a Nobel prize winner, has a platform--one that will reach millions of people. He's used that platform in the past to denigrate third world countries, including his native Trinidad, and to express his loathing for people of color. Now, he's using it to sneer at the accomplishments of women in literature, setting himself up on a pedestal and proclaiming the inherent inferiority of female writers.
(In the interests of transparency, I've read some of Naipaul's work. I like his earlier stuff; am not quite so fond of his later stories. I've found an underlying strain of bigotry permeating his work, and felt that as he aged he got really, really preachy. I've felt that way for years, which is a shame because I found A House for Mr. Biswas a lovely, evocative work.)
As writers, we should all be aware of the power of the written word. What we write can influence people, sometimes beyond anything we could possibly hope to expect. Ever see a movie theater on opening night of a Harry Potter movie? Or, even stranger, the day a Harry Potter book was released? It's crazy. Did you witness the Team Edward/Team Jacob madness a few years ago? Yes, writers have power. We have the power to entertain, to inform, to invoke thought. Unfortunately, we also have the power to promote bigotry and prejudice through the employment of the language of hatred.
It's easy to dismiss Naipaul's comments. After all, the gentleman is getting on in years and there's every chance that he might just be batshit crazy. This could just be jealousy rearing its ugly head, from a writer who once was very important and pissed away his momentum by alienating people in the industry and his readership. Or, he could just be stupid. Considering that eighty percent of the fiction-reading public are women, a writer would have to be an idiot to go out of his way to piss all those book-buying women off. A writer on a forum I frequent made the mistake of saying that as this was just Naipaul's opinion, it was okay.
But it's not okay. The language of hatred is NEVER okay. When a writer with the acclaim and notoriety of a V.S. Naipaul dismisses women at all levels of the publishing industry, it's most empathically NOT okay. I mean look at precisely what he said: Sentimentality. Narrow view of the world. Feminine tosh. Not a complete master of a house. Banality.
Are women writers his equal? "No, I don't think so."
Come on.
Naipaul was slipping into obscurity before this interview, resting on the laurels of his prior acclaim and out of the public spotlight. Now he's right back in the middle of it, but at what cost? Even his authorized biographer, Patrick French, described Naipaul as, "bigoted, arrogant, vicious, racist, a woman-beating misogynist and a sado-masochist."
As writers, we need to be aware of the potential power of our words. Always. Even a spec fic genre hack like myself can wield influence in the world--probably never at Naipaul's level, but some.
Very rarely, I'll find myself so disgusted with an author's political views that I won't buy his/her books. Orson Scott Card is a good example of this; Ender's Game is one of the greatest spec fic books written in my lifetime, and yet his blatant hatred and prejudice of the gay community will keep me from ever putting a dime into his pocket. It's sad, really, that V.S. Naipaul is now floating along in the same boat with Card. That boat now has a Nobel Prize for an anchor, but it's powered by the sails of bigotry, hatred and prejudice.
Sail away, gentlemen. Sail far, far away.
"Women writers are different, they are quite different. I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me." Naipaul said this was due to their "sentimentality, the narrow view of the world". He added: "And inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too.
"My publisher, who was so good as a taster and editor, when she became a writer, lo and behold, it was all this feminine tosh. I don't mean this in any unkind way."
On Jane Austen, he added that he "couldn't possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world".When asked if he considered any woman writer his equal, the 78-year-old answered: "I don't think so", the Telegraph reports.
Now, as a woman writer, I find that pretty offensive. Interestingly enough, however, the editor whose work he dismissed as 'feminine tosh' is acclaimed author and biographer Diana Athill, of all people! I've read Athill's Somewhere Towards the End, and I'm absolutely positive that it's NOT 'feminine tosh.' Athill's response to Naipaul--also from the Guardian--is worth noting:
"I was a 'sensitive editor' because I liked his work, I was admiring it. When I stopped admiring him so much I started being 'feminine tosh'," she said this morning. "I can't say it made me feel very bad. It just made me laugh ... I think one should just ignore it, take no notice really."
Naipaul has "always been a testy man and seems to have got testier in old age", said Athill. "I don't think it is worth being taken seriously ... It's sad really because he's a very good writer. Why be such an irritable man?"
It's not the first time the pair have clashed. When Athill told Naipaul that his novel, Guerrillas, did not ring true, the move led, indirectly, to his departure from André Deutsch. And Athill has previously said that, when she needed cheering up, "I used to tell myself: 'At least I'm not married to Vidia.'"
Amen, my sister. From some of the horrors I've read about Naipaul's marriage, I think I'd be able to say that to myself in jail.
Okay--here's my point: there's a longstanding and inherent bias against female writers. We are dismissed instantly as writing 'bodice-rippers' or 'feminine tosh.' When I tell people I'm an author, their first question is usually, "Oh, romance?" with an intonation in their voices that just drips disdain. It's like no one can imagine a woman writing strong, relevant, gripping literature. This is insulting on several levels.
First off, women write in all genres and not just romance. Look at some of the powerhouse women in fiction right now. Can anyone dare to dismiss female writers when the most successful writer in history is JK Rowling? Can anyone honestly sneer at the work of Barbara Kingsolver? The Poisonwood Bible is one of the toughest books I've read in a long time--and absolutely lovely. And then I think of some of my friends and acquaintances in speculative fiction, like Kelly Meding and Gini Koch, and I have to kind of laugh. These ladies don't waste their time on feminine tosh, not when their heroines are kicking everything's ass in sight.
Second off, romance books are NOT EASY TO WRITE. I've tried to write a straight-up contemporary romance novel; I can't. I'm not wired that way. And when you look at some of the greatest classic pieces of literature, those books were romances written by women. Jane Austen? The Brontes? And those writers aren't equal to Naipaul? Come to think of it, I'm reasonably positive Naipaul would chew off his own leg to have a fraction of Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele's sales. The Nobel prize is nice and all, but you can only eat off it for so long. But Naipaul doesn't see it that way:
Of Austen he said he "couldn't possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world".
The author, who was born in Trinidad, said this was because of women's "sentimentality, the narrow view of the world". "And inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too," he said.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I am the complete master of MY house. Even the cats acknowledge that.
But finally, and most importantly, the main reason this disturbs me is simple. Naipaul, as a Nobel prize winner, has a platform--one that will reach millions of people. He's used that platform in the past to denigrate third world countries, including his native Trinidad, and to express his loathing for people of color. Now, he's using it to sneer at the accomplishments of women in literature, setting himself up on a pedestal and proclaiming the inherent inferiority of female writers.
(In the interests of transparency, I've read some of Naipaul's work. I like his earlier stuff; am not quite so fond of his later stories. I've found an underlying strain of bigotry permeating his work, and felt that as he aged he got really, really preachy. I've felt that way for years, which is a shame because I found A House for Mr. Biswas a lovely, evocative work.)
As writers, we should all be aware of the power of the written word. What we write can influence people, sometimes beyond anything we could possibly hope to expect. Ever see a movie theater on opening night of a Harry Potter movie? Or, even stranger, the day a Harry Potter book was released? It's crazy. Did you witness the Team Edward/Team Jacob madness a few years ago? Yes, writers have power. We have the power to entertain, to inform, to invoke thought. Unfortunately, we also have the power to promote bigotry and prejudice through the employment of the language of hatred.
It's easy to dismiss Naipaul's comments. After all, the gentleman is getting on in years and there's every chance that he might just be batshit crazy. This could just be jealousy rearing its ugly head, from a writer who once was very important and pissed away his momentum by alienating people in the industry and his readership. Or, he could just be stupid. Considering that eighty percent of the fiction-reading public are women, a writer would have to be an idiot to go out of his way to piss all those book-buying women off. A writer on a forum I frequent made the mistake of saying that as this was just Naipaul's opinion, it was okay.
But it's not okay. The language of hatred is NEVER okay. When a writer with the acclaim and notoriety of a V.S. Naipaul dismisses women at all levels of the publishing industry, it's most empathically NOT okay. I mean look at precisely what he said: Sentimentality. Narrow view of the world. Feminine tosh. Not a complete master of a house. Banality.
Are women writers his equal? "No, I don't think so."
Come on.
Naipaul was slipping into obscurity before this interview, resting on the laurels of his prior acclaim and out of the public spotlight. Now he's right back in the middle of it, but at what cost? Even his authorized biographer, Patrick French, described Naipaul as, "bigoted, arrogant, vicious, racist, a woman-beating misogynist and a sado-masochist."
As writers, we need to be aware of the potential power of our words. Always. Even a spec fic genre hack like myself can wield influence in the world--probably never at Naipaul's level, but some.
Very rarely, I'll find myself so disgusted with an author's political views that I won't buy his/her books. Orson Scott Card is a good example of this; Ender's Game is one of the greatest spec fic books written in my lifetime, and yet his blatant hatred and prejudice of the gay community will keep me from ever putting a dime into his pocket. It's sad, really, that V.S. Naipaul is now floating along in the same boat with Card. That boat now has a Nobel Prize for an anchor, but it's powered by the sails of bigotry, hatred and prejudice.
Sail away, gentlemen. Sail far, far away.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Requiem for a Collaborator
Impy 1999-2011
Strange, to be coming back to my blog. My days have been so busy that blogging falls way down on the list of priorities. But right now, I feel like I need to blog about something very unusual--at least for this blogger.
Last week, we lost our cat Impy.
Now before you run away, screaming, to something more interesting than a post about a cat, let me tell you about Impy first. Impy was my first writing partner. He was a young stud Maine Coon when I wrote the prologue of The Reckoning of Asphodel, which was the first significant writing I'd done in over ten years. He sat on my lap for hours back in the days when we were too poor for luxuries like internet and cable, when my husband was working two jobs to keep our heads above water and I was too badly injured to work. He would curl up in a ball--all twenty plus pounds of him, purring, and somehow manage to stay out of my way while I worked. When I got up to get something to eat, he'd follow me to the kitchen. If I took a bath, he sat on the edge of the tub. When I went to bed, he shared my pillow. And then, the next morning when I started writing again he was right back in my lap, shooing away the other cats. In many ways, Impy was my collaborator--not only in writing, but in life.
Everybody loved Impy.
I loved him from the moment my husband and I walked past a wire cage full of kittens at the pet store, and one fuzzy little gray-striped Maine Coon tabby climbed straight up the bars yelling at me to pick him up. I did pick him up--after all, what could one kitten cuddle hurt?--and walked out ten minutes later with my first cat. Impy had endearing traits that enchanted everyone who met him. We had a roommate who called him "Pimpy" because he said Impy was so cool even a pimp would love him. Other people called him "Grimpy" because there wasn't a child or a kitten he didn't grandfather affectionately. When the grandbabies were infants, he would set up in front of their car seats or cribs and guard them--from everyone except their mothers and me. No other cats were permitted to get close to the babies, and definitely no people. He gave his love freely, finding a way to climb on every visitor's lap and never happier than when he was sleeping between my husband and I in the bed at night. He loved to eat (most Maine Coons do) and he was gorgeous, with a full ruff around his neck, big padded paws, tufts of hair right in front of his ears and a big plume of a tail.
That tail lost some volume for a few years when he set it on fire from a candle. Poor Impy! He was accident-prone, but that just made him more endearing.
There was a time five years ago when Impy wasn't doing that well. He was chewing on the end of his tail and We were on our way home from my mother's funeral when my mother in law (who was a cat owner for over fifty years) called and said, "You're going to have to put Impy down. He's got a tumor so big in his abdomen that it's pulling his insides out. That's why he's pulling all the fur out of his tail."
Tearfully, I put my beloved cat in his carrier when I got home and took him to the vet. The vet picked Impy up, examined him, snorted and said, "This cat isn't dying. He has a potbelly and is allergic to cats."
Yes, I had a cat that was allergic to himself. From then on, Impy got shots and I never listened to my mother-in-law's veterinary advice again. And as he aged, he wasn't quite as pretty. He got a hematoma in one ear, and it ended up folded over in a sassy quirk. The picture of Impy with this post is the last picture I ever took of him--a month ago. But he was still so beautiful to me, with all that luxurious fur and that sweet, loving look in his huge green eyes.
Impy is the only cat I've ever seen that I knew for a fact could smile.
Two years ago, Impy was diagnosed with feline diabetes, heart disease and feline neuropathy and that's when the real battle began. He was twenty-two pounds at his vet appointment in 2008. He weighed eight pounds at his last vet appointment. I won't go through everything we did for him--that's irrelevant now. What's important is what's happened the last six months.
Impy has always been my cat. He was independent, naturally, but I was the human he owned and everyone knew it. Over the past six months, Impy became gradually clingier. He would leave me for a little while--usually to go play with Aurora, whose favorite game was to drag a cat toy behind her for Impy to chase. (Aurora, by the way, said "Impy" before she said my name) But then, he'd come right back to me, patiently waiting until I put my work aside and he could get on my lap. At night, when I settled down to sleep he'd crawl up under my chin like he had when he was a kitten. And gradually, he became more lethargic, more tired.
I think I knew Impy was leaving us. I think he knew too. But Shannon and I couldn't accept it. We fought Impy's dead so hard. We gave him the medicine, we tried every cat food known to man to tempt his appetite. We pureed food and syringe fed him. We took him to the vet. We looked up alternate treatments online. And it seemed to work. One day he rallied, eating on his own and showing a bit more energy. I rejoiced, thinking we'd beaten his enemy. He walked around the house, spending time with each of our other cats in play or cuddles or bathtime. He played with Aurora. He spent a long time watching the birds outside the window.
But the next day, he was worse than before.
Impy lay on the hardwood floor, barely moving, just watching me. I tried to get him to eat or drink. He wasn't interested. The other cats came up one at a time, licking his face or rubbing cheeks with him. The kitten brought him the toy they'd fought for the week before, nudging it in front of his face and trying to lure him into play. Impy just watched me.
When I got up, he would get up too. He'd move just the right amount of space to be the same distance from me and lie down again. If I went to sit beside him, he started to purr loudly, and if I petted him, he'd swipe my hand with his tongue and purred louder.
And because Impy and I were so close, because he was my collaborator, I knew what he was telling me. He was tired. He wasn't going to get better.
He was ready to go.
We took him to the vet in his cat bed, not the carrier. I didn't want him to get upset because of the lack of familiar things. He sat on my lap the whole trip, purring and happy. He might have been looking at things outside the window, but I don't think he was actually seeing anything. It was like he was putting on an act for me--being brave so I would be comforted. And in a strange way, I was.
And once the vet had examined him and offered the opinion that Impy wasn't far from death, I wasn't surprised. Impy lay back down at the news and sighed, and the sound of his loud purr echoed in that room. I petted him, talking to him and crying, while he purred and nudged against my hand--just a little...just enough to let me know that he heard me. The vet was sobbing as he prepared the injection. So was his assistant. Shannon and I were both stroking Impy as he was given the shot.
I was right by Impy's face. His ear twitched, he licked my hand one last time--and ten seconds after the shot, his purr just faded away.
Impy had given me a gift no other creature in this world ever has--his absolute trust and unconditional love. And although we grieved for him and still are grieving, I couldn't help but be glad that he wasn't hurting any more. Impy thanked me with that last lick, that last purr, and his death was as easy and as natural as any other exhalation of breath. We brought him home and buried him next to his brother, Dante, who passed away last fall, with his favorite cat toys.
Since then, the other cats have been looking for him. Aurora takes the cat toy and calls, "Impy! Impy!" At first she cried when he didn't come. Now, she sighs and puts the toy away.
And me? Last week, I couldn't write. This week, while I was away, I was able to churn out more pages than I have in months. So when I got back, I moved his cat bed right by my writing station. For a day or so, it sat empty and so did the pages of my manuscript.
But then, the kitten moved in. And now Thor is starting to act like Impy did. He meets us at the door. He comes running to find his human (me) as soon as he wakes up. He sleeps in my lap or in the cat bed while I write. He plays with Aurora, batting the toy for her without claws. And the words began to come once more.
These words were hard to write. I still look for Impy, just like the cats, just like the baby, and I'm always kind of surprised when he's not here. Twelve years of unconditional love is hard to replace once it's gone. I miss his distinctive meow, I miss his insistence on getting between me and the laptop, I miss everything about him. But I kind of feel like Impy spent his last weeks teaching the kitten what he needed to do for his humans, especially the strange one who stays up all night tapping away at that glowing, annoying contraption that's warm on the bottom.
Impy's legacy, then, is so amazing. Seventeen novels and three novellas in eleven plus years. Countless bewildered cats rescued from places of horror, taught to be loving, affectionate companions. A pair of children who learned to love animals from an early age. For my family, one of the most extraordinary human-animal relationships I've ever heard of.
Impy. How I will miss you.
Thor 2011-
Monday, March 14, 2011
Aurora Regency Welcome To Spring Blog Contest!
As some of you know, I'm also the managing editor of Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals. Aurora is running a Spring Blog contest, where readers can win downloads of Aurora books. On this blog, one lucky reader (or more if the contest warrants it) can win a free Aurora book from any author they want! Here's what you do--
First, add as a follower to the Aurora Regency blog at http://www.auroraregency.blogspot.com/
Then, comment on the Spring Blog Contest post there -- http://auroraregency.blogspot.com/2011/03/spring-blog-contest-win-up-to-five-free.html
Then, comment in this thread.
If you do all three, you'll be eligible to win a free download from me and be registered to win a prize package of FIVE Aurora books from FIVE different authors on the Aurora blog! Sounds easy, yes? And, to make everything more...Spring-y, you can enter every participating Aurora author's contest. Just once per blog, of course, but still...
Links to the participating authors' blogs can be found on the Aurora Regency contest thread. Enter them all! This may be the easiest batch of e-books you've ever gotten--for FREE!
Take a few minutes and get to know the wonderful authors of Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals. So get yourself entered--and good luck to you all!
First, add as a follower to the Aurora Regency blog at http://www.auroraregency.blogspot.com/
Then, comment on the Spring Blog Contest post there -- http://auroraregency.blogspot.com/2011/03/spring-blog-contest-win-up-to-five-free.html
Then, comment in this thread.
If you do all three, you'll be eligible to win a free download from me and be registered to win a prize package of FIVE Aurora books from FIVE different authors on the Aurora blog! Sounds easy, yes? And, to make everything more...Spring-y, you can enter every participating Aurora author's contest. Just once per blog, of course, but still...
Links to the participating authors' blogs can be found on the Aurora Regency contest thread. Enter them all! This may be the easiest batch of e-books you've ever gotten--for FREE!
Take a few minutes and get to know the wonderful authors of Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals. So get yourself entered--and good luck to you all!
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
The End of an Era
Yep. The end of one of MY eras.
My last contracted e-book comes out from Aspen Mountain Press this month. The Vampire Covenants, a trilogy I began with co-author Rob Graham, concludes with Defying the Covenants on March 21, 2011. Although Rob and I co-wrote the first two books, the final book is all mine. I wrote it by myself, which seems fitting as it's the last one.
For some reason, this book was harder to write than the others. I hemmed and hawed for a long time over the characters, the ultimate resolution of the plot (which changed drastically from what Rob and I had discussed) and how to bring the story to a final culmination. I'm not used to writing 'final' in any of my stories. I always like to think that even if I never write another word in the world, the story somehow goes on. The characters have amazing adventures without me, until they pass into the history of that world. Then they gradually adapt, becoming first a memory, then a legend and finally a myth.
But with Marguertie in the Covenants series, things are a little different. This is her last story. In a lot of ways, she is representative of me. Marguerite slides from the limelight, while I move from one sphere to another. I think that's very fitting. Marguerite has been one of my favorite characters ever. She's so different from Tamsen (Asphodel) and all my little goddesses from the Mythos series. Marguerite is a tragic character in a lot of ways. She finds ways to make her own happiness, true, but she also finds ways to screw that up. She didn't start out as a heroine, a woman destined for greatness. She falls into heroism because of a series of events completely out of her control, and throughout the three books her primary quest is to regain control over herself and her life. And, at long last, she accomplishes that goal--but at a terrible cost.
I'm very proud of Defying the Covenants. I think this book is an earmark of the change in my writing style, the maturation, perhaps, of how I develop characters and plots. I also think this story is true to my narrative voice. I was writing this book at the same time I was writing Theater of Seduction so that change in voice had already taken place. This book is darker, and yet at the same time more emotionally honest than its predecessors. A couple of the best scenes I have ever written are pivotal moments in the story.
Have you ever had one of those? A scene that for some reason works so well that it evokes the emotions in you, the writer, that you'd hoped to inspire in the reader? I had one of those in Apostle of Asphodel, with Anner's death. In Defying the Covenants, there are a couple of those--scenes that I re-read and that actually suck me into the story. One gives me shivers. The other...well, I've opened the document about thirty times to change that scene, thinking I needed to revise the ending of the story. But then, I'll read that scene over and I just don't want to touch the damn thing. So it stays, and because it stays I've stuck with an ending to the story that conventional wisdom would advise against.
That ending is a risk, and therefore I love it.
So now my last countdown clock is up for the vampires of the Covenants, counting down the hours and seconds and minutes when they will at last emerge into the light--figuratively of course. The feeling is bittersweet, which makes it all just that much more amazing.
I hope you love Defying the Covenants as much as I do. And just to give you a feel for it, take a moment and get a taste of what Marguerite and Gunther and Marcellin will bring to the table this time.
And farewell to this second era of my writing career. I hope the next era is as incredible as this one has been.
buy page--http://www.aspenmountainpress.com/coming-soon/coming-soon/defying-the-covenants/prod_383.html
As the Conclave prepares to confront the Russian renegade Grigori Volkonsky, Marguerite von Wittershiem has been shunted aside. Her husband and mentors hope to keep her out of danger by assigning her the unglamorous task of protecting the written lore of their people.
But their plans go awry when a traitor within the Conclave betrays them all to the enemy. As the most powerful vampires in Europe fall to Volkonsky’s minions, Marguerite must find not only the strength to stand alone but the ability to withstand the greatest threat that the hidden world of vampires has ever faced. If she fails, the immortal races and humanity will be destroyed.
In order to ward the Covenants as she has sworn, Marguerite must be prepared to defy them as well.
The Russians have surrounded us at Notre Dame! Calmet and Marcellin fight alone! Help us!
I was so close. I could make out the brass handle on the great door, gleaming with oily allure through the gloom. Something slammed into my body and hurled me into the pedestal of a statue warding the cathedral doors. I rolled to my feet, the sword in one hand and the dagger in the other. My foe laughed and circled me.
More vampires were dropping from the air now, most of them turning immediately to me. Marcellin was fighting against seven or eight immortals, all thralls, who had surrounded him but couldn’t get past the flashing guard of his blade.
“Come, little one,” the Russian nearest me said in atrocious English. “We will not harm you.”
Somehow, the new arrivals had gotten between me and the cathedral doors. There was no way I could speed through them and head for the sanctuary. I’d lead them right to it—and Calmet’s library. Desperately, I looked around for some other option.
I threw the knife at the Russian who’d spoken. He fell, screaming, to the ground with the blade protruding from his eye. I took advantage of his compatriots’ confusion and leapt for the narrow balustrade before the huge rose window.
My feet scrabbled on the edge of the stone railing, but I leaned forward and threw my arms around the Virgin Mary’s legs. The sword fell from my hand, spinning to the earth below. I didn’t wait to see what the Russians did next. As someone shouted below me, I ran across the narrow ledge to the southwest corner of the cathedral. I began to climb up the staggered bricks.
Overhead, the clouds that had been gathering over the death throes of the France I’d loved, rumbled ominously. I turned and barely bit back a scream. One of the gargoyles was right beside me, sneering over the embattled street below. I used the sculpture’s head to help me vault onto the ledge on its other side. By the time I reached the second balustrade between the twin towers of the cathedral, lightning flashed across the sky. It illuminated the false front of the façade and, for just a second, the steeply angled roof beyond it. I squeezed through two of the fluted columns and found myself standing on the peak of Notre Dame’s roof.
I sobbed, unsure which prospect was more terrifying—the Russians or the roof. Before I realized what I was doing, I mentally screamed, Gunther!
Every ounce of my power went into that psychic shout. Somewhere to the south and then, incredibly, to the north, I felt another immortal’s reaction to that desperate call. I didn’t have time to ponder who these vampires might be. Instead, I bit my lip and took my first step out onto the roof.
I couldn’t walk on the apex of the roof itself; decorative swirls and spikes of metal were enough to warn any vampire away. Instead, I progressed one step down from the peak, using the decorative ironwork to keep me balanced. I would never have attempted such a thing if I wasn’t able to turn into a bat if things went wrong. Regardless, I didn’t relish the idea of sliding down that pitched roof and forcing the shape shift before landing on the stones below. A vampire could experience all the pain of—and live through—breaking every bone in their body. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect at all.
While the storm gathered strength overhead, I scurried across the roof, keeping as low as I could and moving as quickly as I dared. Even to my ears, the sounds of battle were fading. I didn’t know if I was being pursued or not; I didn’t dare take the time to look. As I neared the first of the great flying buttresses, I had an idea.
Maybe I could conceal myself under one of those the same way Marcellin and I had hidden under the Pont Notre Dame. The towering spire reared in front of me. I scrabbled the rest of the way across the roof to it and pulled myself over the railing into the bell tower. For a moment, my legs wobbled in relief.
It didn’t matter that I could fly; all I knew was I could fall.
The massive bells hung in their frames as I slipped through the precarious walkway among them. I glanced over the edge of a landing into a stairwell that descended into the cathedral. For a moment I was tempted. Perhaps I could speed down those stairs and make my way to the crypt, obeying Marcellin’s orders and sealing the sanctuary against any who came. But a tickle at the back of my mind alerted me that others were nearing the spire.
I would give Calmet’s secret away if I followed my desire.
I crept around the huge bell in the center, easing my way toward the northern wing of the cathedral. The wood framework of the building would magnify even the slightest noise, betraying my position to any immortal nearby. I had to remain as stealthy as possible. Occasionally, I caught a whiff of some sour smell—an unwashed vampire, perhaps, still reeking of his last meal. The aroma overwhelmed the other, natural odors of this place—the warm spiciness of the wood, the metallic tang of verdigris and a lingering scent of spices from the cathedral below.
I froze. No, that aroma wasn’t the normal scent of the Catholic service. I was smelling myrrh.
Dear God—it’s Emmanuel Lando!
Terror, thick and cloying as the sickly sweetness of the myrrh, rose into my throat. I ducked under a smaller bell, edging around to the aperture that would lead me back to the roof and the buttresses keeping Notre Dame intact. If I was being stalked by Emmanuel Lando and not Volkonsky’s minions, things were worse than I could ever have imagined. Calmet’s blood, the blood of the eldest of night’s children, ran through my veins—his gift of healing.
Lando could not be allowed to drink from me, to add that power to his already considerable strength.
I slipped over the rail and back out onto the roof. I could hear the sounds of battle continuing hear the West Façade, punctuated by screams and clouts of power. It seemed as if there were more vampires involved now—probably Leandro had come at last to Marcellin and Calmet’s aid. I turned back to glance over my shoulder and one of the lead tiles loosened beneath my foot. I couldn’t help it; I screamed.
I slid toward the edge of the roof, grabbing desperately at tiles to slow my fall. I managed to grab hold of a gargoyle just as my feet and legs flew over the edge of the foot. I dangled there for a moment, relieved beyond measure at the sight of the gargoyle’s laughing snarl.
Lightning flashed above the cathedral, illuminating a lone figure at the top of the roof looking down at me. I didn’t have to see his sallow, drawn face or the tattered remnants of his Venetian robes to recognize Emmanuel Lando’s leering face.
I let go of the gargoyle.
My last contracted e-book comes out from Aspen Mountain Press this month. The Vampire Covenants, a trilogy I began with co-author Rob Graham, concludes with Defying the Covenants on March 21, 2011. Although Rob and I co-wrote the first two books, the final book is all mine. I wrote it by myself, which seems fitting as it's the last one.
For some reason, this book was harder to write than the others. I hemmed and hawed for a long time over the characters, the ultimate resolution of the plot (which changed drastically from what Rob and I had discussed) and how to bring the story to a final culmination. I'm not used to writing 'final' in any of my stories. I always like to think that even if I never write another word in the world, the story somehow goes on. The characters have amazing adventures without me, until they pass into the history of that world. Then they gradually adapt, becoming first a memory, then a legend and finally a myth.
But with Marguertie in the Covenants series, things are a little different. This is her last story. In a lot of ways, she is representative of me. Marguerite slides from the limelight, while I move from one sphere to another. I think that's very fitting. Marguerite has been one of my favorite characters ever. She's so different from Tamsen (Asphodel) and all my little goddesses from the Mythos series. Marguerite is a tragic character in a lot of ways. She finds ways to make her own happiness, true, but she also finds ways to screw that up. She didn't start out as a heroine, a woman destined for greatness. She falls into heroism because of a series of events completely out of her control, and throughout the three books her primary quest is to regain control over herself and her life. And, at long last, she accomplishes that goal--but at a terrible cost.
I'm very proud of Defying the Covenants. I think this book is an earmark of the change in my writing style, the maturation, perhaps, of how I develop characters and plots. I also think this story is true to my narrative voice. I was writing this book at the same time I was writing Theater of Seduction so that change in voice had already taken place. This book is darker, and yet at the same time more emotionally honest than its predecessors. A couple of the best scenes I have ever written are pivotal moments in the story.
Have you ever had one of those? A scene that for some reason works so well that it evokes the emotions in you, the writer, that you'd hoped to inspire in the reader? I had one of those in Apostle of Asphodel, with Anner's death. In Defying the Covenants, there are a couple of those--scenes that I re-read and that actually suck me into the story. One gives me shivers. The other...well, I've opened the document about thirty times to change that scene, thinking I needed to revise the ending of the story. But then, I'll read that scene over and I just don't want to touch the damn thing. So it stays, and because it stays I've stuck with an ending to the story that conventional wisdom would advise against.
That ending is a risk, and therefore I love it.
So now my last countdown clock is up for the vampires of the Covenants, counting down the hours and seconds and minutes when they will at last emerge into the light--figuratively of course. The feeling is bittersweet, which makes it all just that much more amazing.
I hope you love Defying the Covenants as much as I do. And just to give you a feel for it, take a moment and get a taste of what Marguerite and Gunther and Marcellin will bring to the table this time.
And farewell to this second era of my writing career. I hope the next era is as incredible as this one has been.
The Vampire Covenants 3: Defying the Covenants
by Celina Summers
Coming March 21, 2011 from Aspen Mountain Press
Synopsis
As the Conclave prepares to confront the Russian renegade Grigori Volkonsky, Marguerite von Wittershiem has been shunted aside. Her husband and mentors hope to keep her out of danger by assigning her the unglamorous task of protecting the written lore of their people.
But their plans go awry when a traitor within the Conclave betrays them all to the enemy. As the most powerful vampires in Europe fall to Volkonsky’s minions, Marguerite must find not only the strength to stand alone but the ability to withstand the greatest threat that the hidden world of vampires has ever faced. If she fails, the immortal races and humanity will be destroyed.
In order to ward the Covenants as she has sworn, Marguerite must be prepared to defy them as well.
EXCERPT
* * * *
The Russians have surrounded us at Notre Dame! Calmet and Marcellin fight alone! Help us!
I was so close. I could make out the brass handle on the great door, gleaming with oily allure through the gloom. Something slammed into my body and hurled me into the pedestal of a statue warding the cathedral doors. I rolled to my feet, the sword in one hand and the dagger in the other. My foe laughed and circled me.
More vampires were dropping from the air now, most of them turning immediately to me. Marcellin was fighting against seven or eight immortals, all thralls, who had surrounded him but couldn’t get past the flashing guard of his blade.
“Come, little one,” the Russian nearest me said in atrocious English. “We will not harm you.”
Somehow, the new arrivals had gotten between me and the cathedral doors. There was no way I could speed through them and head for the sanctuary. I’d lead them right to it—and Calmet’s library. Desperately, I looked around for some other option.
I threw the knife at the Russian who’d spoken. He fell, screaming, to the ground with the blade protruding from his eye. I took advantage of his compatriots’ confusion and leapt for the narrow balustrade before the huge rose window.
My feet scrabbled on the edge of the stone railing, but I leaned forward and threw my arms around the Virgin Mary’s legs. The sword fell from my hand, spinning to the earth below. I didn’t wait to see what the Russians did next. As someone shouted below me, I ran across the narrow ledge to the southwest corner of the cathedral. I began to climb up the staggered bricks.
Overhead, the clouds that had been gathering over the death throes of the France I’d loved, rumbled ominously. I turned and barely bit back a scream. One of the gargoyles was right beside me, sneering over the embattled street below. I used the sculpture’s head to help me vault onto the ledge on its other side. By the time I reached the second balustrade between the twin towers of the cathedral, lightning flashed across the sky. It illuminated the false front of the façade and, for just a second, the steeply angled roof beyond it. I squeezed through two of the fluted columns and found myself standing on the peak of Notre Dame’s roof.
I sobbed, unsure which prospect was more terrifying—the Russians or the roof. Before I realized what I was doing, I mentally screamed, Gunther!
Every ounce of my power went into that psychic shout. Somewhere to the south and then, incredibly, to the north, I felt another immortal’s reaction to that desperate call. I didn’t have time to ponder who these vampires might be. Instead, I bit my lip and took my first step out onto the roof.
I couldn’t walk on the apex of the roof itself; decorative swirls and spikes of metal were enough to warn any vampire away. Instead, I progressed one step down from the peak, using the decorative ironwork to keep me balanced. I would never have attempted such a thing if I wasn’t able to turn into a bat if things went wrong. Regardless, I didn’t relish the idea of sliding down that pitched roof and forcing the shape shift before landing on the stones below. A vampire could experience all the pain of—and live through—breaking every bone in their body. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect at all.
While the storm gathered strength overhead, I scurried across the roof, keeping as low as I could and moving as quickly as I dared. Even to my ears, the sounds of battle were fading. I didn’t know if I was being pursued or not; I didn’t dare take the time to look. As I neared the first of the great flying buttresses, I had an idea.
Maybe I could conceal myself under one of those the same way Marcellin and I had hidden under the Pont Notre Dame. The towering spire reared in front of me. I scrabbled the rest of the way across the roof to it and pulled myself over the railing into the bell tower. For a moment, my legs wobbled in relief.
It didn’t matter that I could fly; all I knew was I could fall.
The massive bells hung in their frames as I slipped through the precarious walkway among them. I glanced over the edge of a landing into a stairwell that descended into the cathedral. For a moment I was tempted. Perhaps I could speed down those stairs and make my way to the crypt, obeying Marcellin’s orders and sealing the sanctuary against any who came. But a tickle at the back of my mind alerted me that others were nearing the spire.
I would give Calmet’s secret away if I followed my desire.
I crept around the huge bell in the center, easing my way toward the northern wing of the cathedral. The wood framework of the building would magnify even the slightest noise, betraying my position to any immortal nearby. I had to remain as stealthy as possible. Occasionally, I caught a whiff of some sour smell—an unwashed vampire, perhaps, still reeking of his last meal. The aroma overwhelmed the other, natural odors of this place—the warm spiciness of the wood, the metallic tang of verdigris and a lingering scent of spices from the cathedral below.
I froze. No, that aroma wasn’t the normal scent of the Catholic service. I was smelling myrrh.
Dear God—it’s Emmanuel Lando!
Terror, thick and cloying as the sickly sweetness of the myrrh, rose into my throat. I ducked under a smaller bell, edging around to the aperture that would lead me back to the roof and the buttresses keeping Notre Dame intact. If I was being stalked by Emmanuel Lando and not Volkonsky’s minions, things were worse than I could ever have imagined. Calmet’s blood, the blood of the eldest of night’s children, ran through my veins—his gift of healing.
Lando could not be allowed to drink from me, to add that power to his already considerable strength.
I slipped over the rail and back out onto the roof. I could hear the sounds of battle continuing hear the West Façade, punctuated by screams and clouts of power. It seemed as if there were more vampires involved now—probably Leandro had come at last to Marcellin and Calmet’s aid. I turned back to glance over my shoulder and one of the lead tiles loosened beneath my foot. I couldn’t help it; I screamed.
I slid toward the edge of the roof, grabbing desperately at tiles to slow my fall. I managed to grab hold of a gargoyle just as my feet and legs flew over the edge of the foot. I dangled there for a moment, relieved beyond measure at the sight of the gargoyle’s laughing snarl.
Lightning flashed above the cathedral, illuminating a lone figure at the top of the roof looking down at me. I didn’t have to see his sallow, drawn face or the tattered remnants of his Venetian robes to recognize Emmanuel Lando’s leering face.
I let go of the gargoyle.
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