Cherie Priest

Hey Louisiana readers: The St. Bernard Animal Shelter has a situation on its hands. About a hundred animals (70 dogs and 30 cats) must be adopted out at an emergency event this Saturday, lest they be euthanized due to lack of space. The shelter workers are doing their absolute best to re-home the animals — thus this emergency event — but overcrowding has hit critical mass and time is running out.

Most of the animals up for adoption are kittens and puppies.

So click the link for details, and please do consider bringing home a four-footed pal. Shelter animals make wonderful pets and excellent company — just ask Spain the Cat, who joined our household via a shelter in Red Bank, Tennessee back in 2002.

Thanks times a million or two for all the internet birthday wishes — you guys are wonderful, and I appreciate it tremendously. I must say, thirty-three doesn’t feel much different from thirty-two, except that today I have a belly full of Ellen’s cookies and Moon Pies (duly nuked and eaten with a fork).

Likewise I’m a little out of breath and wound up from spending the afternoon talking with Clarion workshop students, who are absolutely wonderful. They’re a welcoming, friendly bunch who let me babble at them for nearly two hours about life, the universe, and everything; and in the back of the room Chuck Palahnuik observed the proceedings. In fact, he seemed very nice, and he did not roll his eyes at me or anything, even though I was totally acting like an over-excited goober. I become so very goofy when I get to talk about writing stuff, because, well, it’s what I do and it’s what I’m most proud of, and I like to share. And when I get excited, I talk about 90 miles an hour and trip over my own exposition.

But everyone was really cool, and bonus thanks go to Maggie, who is apparently my biggest fan. She was ultra-enthusiastic and very informed, and she asked a lot of great questions. She saved me when I flailed, and she is awesome. Meeting such a fan — AND getting to talk to a room full of writers who didn’t seem inclined to throw anything at me — was just a wonderful birthday present from the universe, I swear.

Tonight, I’m not sure what’s on the agenda. There’s a giant bag o’ goodies from my husband on the table, and I’m trying not to open it until he gets home; though I confess that I cracked and read the card. It made me laugh. I will smooch him for it when he returns from work.

And for now, I have an errand or two to run before Aric arrives, so I shall log off — but not before leaving you with two links:

(1). Because I might’ve gushed at length about these cookies to the Clarion crew, here’s the recipe for Margarita Cookies (which I mistakenly identified as Tequila Cookies).

(2). Because it’s making the rounds and it’s deeply hilarious, Mom, Dad,
I’m Into Steampunk.

And that’s all I’ve got for now. More to come.
:)

The great joy of having half a dozen projects in the air is that, at any given moment, priorities can shift. Projects get bumped, declined, rearranged in a publisher’s queue, or simply dropped. And although none of those things has happened to me lately, I have gotten some editorial interest in one of the projects I set aside a few months ago.

Ergo, I am once again writing on my trashy adventure about a neurotic vampire/thief and her wealthy blind client, now with Bonus! half-Cuban drag queen and military intrigue. At least, I am writing on it until editorial process comes due on Boneshaker, which ought to be fairly soonish.*

So here are today’s stats, picking up where I left off:

Project: Bloodshot
New Words Written Today: 3657 (not bad)
Present Total Word Count: 33,187
Goal: 100,000 words





Darling duJour: “The sneaky black sedans moved with preternatural slickness, as if they were touring the town on a frictionless surface.”

Fiction Things Accomplished: Ran like the devil knew our name; got the hell out of Dodge (so to speak) just in time, leaving a handful of loose ends; prepared to break into top secret military storage facilities in Minnesota; considered a nervous breakdown, restrained self.

Real Life Things Accomplished: Picked up some allergy meds at Walgreens, plus three Moon Pies which are wonderful when nuked for about 20 seconds; did dishes and tried to start laundry, but did not have enough quarters and resolved to wait; re-read most of previous Bloodshot material in order to return to prior headspace.

Stumbling blocks: Stuffy nose, headache, and the general feeling of becoming ill; power tools being operated immediately outside my apartment door; general psychological refusal to change gears.

Reason for Stopping: I’m tired and thirsty, and if I don’t get up and around I’m going to fall asleep here on the couch with my laptop spread across my legs.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 246,292

I don’t usually repost Twitterings, but I’ve just enjoyed a good LOLLERSKAYTE all the way to the LOLSPITAL, and I feel compelled to share:

[cmpriest] But wouldn’t such a scented danglie thing … I dunno … chafe? (click here for the referenced hilarity, quasi-NSFW*) [14 minutes ago from web]

[acwilliams] @cmpriest: If one were to pull on it, I’d expect my arms and legs to go up at the same time. [8 minutes ago from web in reply to cmpriest]

So here’s some bullshit that went down in my neighborhood the other night. It happened down the street from my place, and I call “bullshit” on several fronts. First of all, I don’t care what kind of rush you’re in — you don’t use your car as a weapon (if in fact that’s what occurred). Second, I don’t believe for a moment that those cyclists were just minding their own business and the car randomly plowed through them, prompting the ridiculous riot scene that ensued.

Disclaimer: I do not own a bicycle (anymore) and I either hoof it or bus it most places around town, though I do occasionally drive. Therefore, I am approaching this issue as a car-owner. I’ve been watching the Critical Mass rides and Seattle cycling in general for a couple of years now, and I can only speak from personal experience and observation.

Let me be clear: I would be the very last person alive to say that Seattle is a city full of skilled and courteous motor vehicle operators, so this is absolutely not an invective against cyclists and an encomium for cars.

This having been established, if a cyclist is obeying traffic laws and behaving like a city vehicle on city streets, then that cyclist deserves all the patience and respect in the world.

But in my daily comings and goings I see proper cycle street behavior about one time out of every half dozen. More often, I see cyclists slashing across lanes of traffic, running stoplights, zipping between vehicles to dodge stop-signs, and swearing self-righteously at drivers who have to slam their breaks to prevent bicycle road pizza.

Now, I’m all for reducing your carbon footprint, and power to all you healthy folks who bike everywhere — especially in a geographically uneven city like this one. But when bike meets four-wheeled vehicle, the bike is going to lose almost every time. Yes, it’s up to those vehicles to look out for cyclists, absolutely … but it’s also up to cyclists to behave in such a manner that vehicles can reasonably accommodate them.

When bikes “cork” streets, deliberately impede the traffic flow, and hop from sidewalk to street level indiscriminately, those cyclists have no right to expect respectful treatment by vehicles (or pedestrians) in the correct flow of traffic. If cyclists are respecting the traffic laws, then everybody behind the wheel of a car needs to pay attention, give that bicycle some space, and be a little bit patient.

Jesus H. Christ, people. It’s not that complicated.
We all have to share the streets whether we like it or not.
Display the kind of respect you’d like to receive.

Some highlights.

More more more.
(Just click the link below)
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Yesterday turned out to be happily and excessively social; I did lunch and shared writer angst at Bad Albert’s with Kat Richardson; and then I came home to do some work, but Ellen swung by with wine and cheese.*

Tomorrow I will once again join forces with my neighboring purveyor of goodies, and together we shall visit the Woodland Park Zoo. While we’re there, I intend to take many pictures and create a whole new slew of icons for my livejournal, since I’m sort of bored with my existing assortment.

For now, I’ve a kitchen that needs cleaning, a cat who needs Furminating, and a partial project with which I need to reacquaint myself, stat. Time to log off and be productive. Stay tuned for pictures, safari stories, and the hypothetical possibility of pink flamingos.

I love Empire Magazine. Beneath that link you’ll find a shot-by-shot comparison of the Watchmen trailer and the graphic novel panels that inspired the imagery. Very nice.

Assuming that the bulk of this blog’s readers are at least peripherally familiar with the Batman franchise, I’ll skip the obvious summaries and overviews. You know what it’s about. There’s a guy who dresses up like a bat and fights crime. It’s a story that’s been told, retold, rebooted, re-filmed, and re-imagined countless times in film, graphic media, and print; but the devil is in the details, of course. And the details in Christopher Nolan’s interpretation of this story are very fine indeed.

I’m not going to gush or ramble indefinitely about this one, because plenty of other folks have done a damn good job already and I don’t feel compelled to merely echo them. But I do have a few thoughts on the movie, and all of them are going beneath a cut. [Or in other words, if you’re getting this page from an RSS feed, you should stop reading right about now.]

So here goes.
Spoilers beneath the cut.

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A few words on the theater-going experience: It sucked. People brought babies — yes, babies, the wailing kind who are terrified of the Joker — and the auditorium was chock full of people who had, as far as I could tell, never seen a movie before in their lives. In particular, the people seated behind us behaved as if they’d often heard a movie described, but had never actually been faced with one in person.

I shit thee not when I say that neither one of these idiots appeared to be even vaguely aware of what movie they were attending. I think maybe they’d wandered into the auditorium with a gas can, seeking directions to the oceanfront property they’d been promised in Idaho, and then the lights went out and they couldn’t find an exit so they found a couple of empty seats and made themselves comfortable.

Sample dialogue:

Him: Man, look at that guy! What’s he’s wearing!
Her: It’s some kind of suit. Is that some kind of suit? I think it’s a suit.
Him: I don’t know what’s up with all the muscles and padding.
Her: Me either. He looks retarded. He’s a retard.
Him: Totally. A total retard. Look at that retard. Only retards dress like that.
Her: OMG what’s he doing? What’s he doing?
Him: Fuck, what’s that guy doing?
Her: Look at that! It just totally blew up!
Him: What? Where? What blew up?
Her: That thing, that building, or whatever. It blew up. I saw it.
Him: I saw it too. Batman had something to do with it.
Her: What did?
Him: What?
Her: That thing you just said.
Him: What?
Her: That thing you said. I don’t know what that is.
Him: What what is?
Her: What you said. A batman? What’s a batman?
Him: It’s not the dude with the makeup. It’s the retard in the suit.
Her: The dude with the glasses?
Him: No, not him.
Her: The other guy?
Him: Yeah, the other guy. Not the dude with the makeup.
Her: Why not?
Him: I don’t think Batman wears makeup. I think that dude with the makeup is dead.
Her: Dead? He doesn’t look dead.
Him: No, I mean he died. Before the movie came out.
Her: What’s he like, a transvestite or something? I don’t get it.
Him: Look at that ugly chick. I hope she dies.
Her: She totally deserves to die. She’s a slut.
Him: You said it. Total slut.

[Ad infinitum]

And as if these two weren’t enough to clear the theater with the sheer stink of stupid, some young couple with two very small children had set up camp at the other end of the auditorium — with their two or three year old toddler, and an infant who was about a year old. Once or twice, the dad(?) removed the baby briefly when other people in the theater started yelling, “Take that goddamned baby outside” … but he always came back.

The older child was allowed to wander back and forth along the aisles and rows of (occupied) seats and play with a set of Matchbox cars [:: vrooom. vrroom. VRROOOOOOM! pew pew pew pew! ::] and every time things got loud the infant would bellow in terror, and I sat on the verge of homicidal mania for the duration of this 2-1/2 hour long movie.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with people.
You’re watching a MOVIE. You know how to BEHAVE.

It’s not some bewildering foreign luncheon with thirteen forks, a roll of silver knives, and a pair of gilded chopsticks beside your plate; you don’t need to speak Klingon or juggle chain saws. All you have to do is SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP. SERIOUSLY, IT’S NOT THAT DIFFICULT. And if for some reason these directions are too complex or demanding? Then you need to find something else to do with your free time. Go home and sniff glue or lick the cat’s ass, I don’t care — but stay out of the theater and leave the rest of us in peace.

Okay. [:: sigh ::] [:: cleansing breath ::]

I realize this did not turn out to be a review of The Dark Knight, and I do intend to write one, but not right now. Suffice it to say, I enjoyed the movie’s content if not its audience; and I’ll try to think of something smart later on.

But for now, I need to go have a nice hot cup of tea. Believe it or not, this isn’t actually the note upon which I want to begin my work-week.

The workshop went really, really well — seriously, I could not have guessed how nicely it’d turn out. We had exceedingly creative, driven, involved participants and much urban fantasy world-building (plus a side order of total goofiness) went down.

And now I’m too tired to say much more about it; but in other news, I finally got around to uploading some pictures to Flickr and lo — below the break — you shall find a truly hilarious shot of Mark & Caroline Henry’s dog, whose name I think was “Chaz.” Though I could be mistaken.

Utterly unrelated? Yes.
Utterly adorable? That too.

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Today, via the PNWA conference out at the SeaTac Hilton: From 4:00 to 5:30 in the San Juan Room, you can find Team Seattle* doling out a workshop on world-building in an urban fantasy setting. If you’re attending this conference, and if you’ve ever wanted to see us chewing up the scenery en masse, here’s your chance.

It took me two full work days to do it (minus some time for housework and laundry, and for lunch with Maudelynn), but I think I’ve finally fixed the problem chapter. At least, I’ve fixed it enough that I’ve successfully continued past the b0rked-up areas and moved on with the story, so I’m prepared to call it a Win. So here are today’s stats on the on the novel about a decommissioned Greek fury, her quasi-immortal Chinese ex-lover, and an Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem:

Project: The Engines of Wrath
New Words: 699 (but see below)
Present Total Word Count: 10,459 words
Goal: 100,000 words





Observations: Repeat to self — “The universal is the specific.” Once I finish setting up my three major players, this may well turn out to be the darkest damn thing I’ve ever done. This thrills me all the way down to my toenails; and I only hope I can live up to what I’m aiming for. The real trick will be writing this story — which features a deeply political undercurrent — in such a fashion that it’s not “about” the politics.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Lots of housework, even the kitchen floors, which were revolting; did laundry; bought new sheets that are pimp-a-rific, so hooray for Bed, Bath, & Beyond’s coupons; cleaned the litterbox; received strange mail; went grocery shopping for basics; attended the aforementioned luncheon at Alki with Maudelynn; agreed to a workshop appearance at this weekend’s PNWA conference with fellow members of Team Seattle.

Reason for Stopping: Because I’ve spent two days getting the chapter straightened out, and I finally did it. Technically, I came out ahead by only a few hundred words; but that’s a misleading stat. In fact, I deleted nearly 3000 words and rewrote them, plus change. So really, this was actually a very good work day, all things considered. And now, Aric will be home from work soon. Tonight, there will be a Mojito Party at the other end of town, and possibly a trip to the g0thbar. I guess I oughta throw on some eyeliner and drag out my knee-high boots, just in case.

Other Considerations: I need to calm the hell down about the (roughly) half a dozen potential new projects I have in circulation right now. I’m starting to fret and get obsessive; but at least there’s good news on the BONESHAKER front. The wonderful and talented Liz has given it a pair of enthusiastic thumbs up, and we’ll begin procedural work on it shortly, so that’s good, anyway.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 242,635

Here’s today’s kind-of-crappy stats on the on the novel about a decommissioned Greek fury, her quasi-immortal Chinese ex-lover, and an Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem:

Project: The Engines of Wrath
New Words: 2318 (meh)
Present Total Word Count: 9760 words
Goal: 100,000 words





Observations: Bloody hell, this isn’t working. This chapter just refuses to come together smoothly, which is frustrating, because it ought to be cool and dark, like a Dove bar. But it’s awkward and lopey, and I don’t like it, and I don’t know how to fix it. Time to set it aside and reread it with fresh eyes tomorrow.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Did a bunch of dishes, tried to do laundry but was thwarted (machines were occupied, may try again when I’m finished here), went to Trader Joe’s for some fruit because I was out of it, and I was dying for some. Talked to mom on the phone. Paid some bills. Mailed some things. Changed clothes several times because it was cold this morning, but the day warmed up nicely.

Reason for Stopping: Because I’m worried that I hopped into this new project too soon. Maybe I just wasn’t ready to write this, or maybe I’m only experiencing a temporary glitch and I’ll open the file tomorrow with a cry of, “Eureka! I see what’s wrong, and it can be easily repaired!” But for now, I’m having a little afternoon of crisis, wherein I wonder if I shouldn’t just sit back and wait for word from agent/editors about some of my other projects that are floating around at the moment. Maybe I should just wait and see if any of those “stick,” and then I’ll have a direction.

Other Considerations: Or maybe I should start working on THE CLEMENTINE, even though it isn’t due for ages and I thought I’d use this time to launch some new ideas. I think, for now, I’m going to give laundry another shot and then sit down to read. I have three books to review in the next couple of weeks, so I’d better get started.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 241,936

* I was going to do a post singing the praises and posting the pictures from a Team Seattle Girls’ Night Out and the Mark & Caroline Henry BBQ Spectacular, but Richelle has beat me to it. I love it when she does that. And on the subject of Team Seattle — I think it’s very much worth noting that I feel uncharacteristically lucky to have fallen in with them. Sometimes I’m afraid they’ll figure out what a goober I am, and either throw me out of the circle or start charging me dues.

* My pal Naamah Darling is trying to find a TEMPORARY home for three cats belonging to a friend of hers. Long story short, there’s an abusive relationship situation and Naamah’s friend has finally gotten a chance to flee … but she’s having a terrible time placing her cats in a foster environment. She has every intention of reclaiming these cats, so this is truly a plea for a TEMPORARY holding spot somewhere in the Perry area just northeast of Lansing, Michigan. Go here for details and contact information if you can help. (Note: the departure date has been pushed back a couple of days, so ignore that “Wednesday the 16th” bit.)

* Hellboy II — It lacked the shinier, sharper edges of the first one while simultaneously being prettier to look at and a little more awkward. Even so, there’s much to love about this franchise, not least of all the over-the-top modern steampunk done with verve and a very big budget; but I know I’m not the ONLY person who quietly wondered about the sheer geometry of Liz and HB being a couple. This is not to say I had a problem with the “coupley stuff,” because I didn’t. I merely wondered about the actual mechanics of their love life, and I kept picturing an event not altogether unlike a fly on a windshield.

* Hancock — Is just plain difficult. The first half is charming as hell, and it poses real questions about the nature of heroism vs. the nature of a hero. It also takes a look at loneliness and the redemptive power of optimistic expectations, and there’s much to recommend it. But then, somewhere around the mid-point, the story takes a hard left turn into what can only be described as distinctively lazy writing. It’s as if the storytellers felt they’d reached the end of their narrative rope, but they still needed another 40 minutes worth of content … so they started smoking the blue crack, and as we all know, that’s never the right answer. The saddest and most frustrating part (to me, as someone who writes stories for a living) is that it would’ve been so very easy to fix. But I can’t discuss that without resorting to major spoilers, so click below if you want to read it … or don’t.

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Due to some — oh, shall we say — “technical difficulties,” I haven’t had any internet since early this morning, and I’m desperately trying to play catch-up on emails and work projects that were set aside until I could get back online. However, I did get a fair bit of work done today on the on the novel about a decommissioned Greek fury, her quasi-immortal Chinese ex-lover, and an Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem:

Project: The Engines of Wrath
New Words: 3947 (pretty good)
Present Total Word Count: 7442 words
Goal: 100,000 words





Observations: First major segment/chapter wrapped up, second one underway. I’m switching POVs for this second one (there will be three total) and it’s a bit of a shift to get myself in someone else’s head, but that’s fine. The book begins with the quasi-immortal Chinese man, and chapter two is told from the perspective of the Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem. Three will be the decommissioned Greek fury.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Didn’t kill anyone, but the day ain’t over yet.

Reason for Stopping: Finally got the internet back, around 6:30 p.m. Was starving for it.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 239,618

I haven’t meant to be so quiet lately, but it’s been a weekend of ER visits and lazy movie watching, and I simply haven’t been online much.

To sum up the last couple of days: We saw Hellboy II and it was very pretty, if a little uneven. We saw Hancock and it was decidedly odd. I’ll try to find something smart to say about those two flicks later, maybe tomorrow.

And my husband, who yes was HIT BY AN SUV while riding a MOTORCYCLE didn’t actually break anything or need any stitches. He’s tore up from the floor up, but it’s mostly major bruises, hamburger knees and shredded hands — not anything that needs any treatment but Neosporin, Advil, and a few days taken easy.

Today’s version of leisure will be a food-filled meet-up with Team Seattle at the marvelous Mark Henry’s place; ergo, I’ll be absent for the rest of the day. Have a good rest-of-the-weekend, folks.

Regarding the recent postings on my Twitter stream: This is just a quick public entry to say that Aric will be all right. In short, he was riding his motorcycle home from work today, when an SUV made a last-second left turn across incoming traffic … and nailed him.

The bike is totaled, and the husband is a bit banged up; but really, it could’ve been much, much worse. Thank you, everyone, for your concern. You’re all perfectly lovely, and it’s greatly appreciated.

My sister, whose beloved cat “Carmen” had to be put down a few months ago, has recently adopted two new felines from a very fine organization where she sometimes volunteers — the Greater New Haven Cat Project in New Haven, Connecticut.

The first, a boy named “Chester,” was dumped and attacked by a coyote; then he had to have his tail amputated due to the ensuing infection, and spent weeks in rabies quarantine. The second is a girl called “Lulu” who joined the household last night. She’s been in the shelter for over a year, if I remember correctly, and was widely considered too people-shy to land a home. Yes, my sister is a sucker for a sob story. Yeah, well. So am I.

But I say all that to say this: It’s a wonderful organization, run by the sort of dedicated people who keep humane traps in their cars and kitty treats in their pockets, just in case. In fact, last night when Lulu was being delivered, my sister coaxed a badly injured tomcat out into the open and foisted him off on the poor lady who was bringing Lulu.

Because if you’ve ever been part of the rescue scene, you know it’s a dismal truth — there’s always more. You place one in a home, and two more show up. And you also know that there’s never enough money, and never enough volunteers to go around.

So yeah, I’m doing a pimp. If you’d like to donate to this exceedingly fine, all-volunteer organization, you can do so here, with ease. Donations are tax deductible, and can be made through the shelter website or the United Way if you’d prefer to go through them. Do it for a cat you love, or just do it for cats in general.

Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful weekend.

* Hola, bitches! Bush addresses the Italian prime minister in Spanish. “Amigo! Amigo!” Mr. Bush called out cheerily in Spanish when he spotted the Italian prime minister. “How you doing, Silvio? Good to see you!”

* Robert Downey Jr. set for ‘Sherlock Holmes’. Yeah, yeah — I know. But I thought he was an awkward and peculiar choice for Tony Stark, too, and I loved what he did with it. I’ll give it a day in court.

* Iran needs better Photoshop skillz. “As news spread across the world of Iran’s provocative missile tests, so did an image of four missiles heading skyward in unison. Unfortunately, it appeared to contain one too many missiles, a point that had not emerged before the photo was used on the front pages of The Los Angeles Times, The Financial Times, The Chicago Tribune and several other newspapers as well as on BBC News, MSNBC, Yahoo! News, NYTimes.com and many other major news Web sites.”

* Baaaaaby Turtles taking their first swim. Wee little leatherbacks in Palm Beach Shores, Florida, find their way to the ocean with a little helpful nudging from conservation volunteers.

* I totally love Ron Perlman. I’m just sayin’. “Hollywood’s modern man of a thousand faces, Ron Perlman, never minded hiding behind rubber masks and mounds of makeup early in his career…”

And now, today’s progress on the novel about a decommissioned Greek fury, her quasi-immortal Chinese ex-lover, and an Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem:

Project: The Engines of Wrath
New Words: 2137 (meh)
Present Total Word Count: 3495
Goal: 100,000 words





Observations: I’m not sure if this one will be slower going due to its content, or if I’m just too under-the-weather to manage my usual output. It’s early in the project. Time will tell. This first chapter needs to be just right before I really launch myself into production. Also, I had a maintenance guy coming and going all morning, which was pretty damn distracting.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Not much, frankly. I directed the maintenance guy and let him off the hook with a simple patch. I don’t care if he paints and sands the inside of the hall closet; and I do care about being able to throw all the storage stuff back into storage.

Reason for Stopping: Just too tired and distracted by allergies and/or a cold to sit here any more. I plan to get up and start reloading the storage closet, but I might lie down for a few minutes and take a nap.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 235,671

Most of the morning I had a man hanging around in my walk-in hall closet, cutting holes in my walls and carving out segments of rotted, rusted-through pipe like he was excising a cancerous growth. In the process, he emptied much of that walk-in closet (our only real storage) and the entire assortment beneath my kitchen sink. If you ever want to know how much crap can fit beneath a kitchen sink, yank it all out sometime and spread it around a kitchen. That’ll show ya.

The verdict: The actual leak really was located in our apartment, and not downstairs as I’d figured. My bad. When all was said and done, the plumber removed a 2+ foot segment of pipe that was so rusted and holey that it was doing all the good of a condom full of thumbtacks. I could’ve wiggled my fingers around in the holes on that rice-paper-thin, 50-year old pipe. It was downright amazing, and it was dumping all of our kitchen water run-off downstairs between the walls.

My second-floor neighbor has been out of town. Bless his heart, he’s going to come home to a surprise; because the water flow had gotten so bad that it was pouring down all the way to the first floor. [Note: I live on the third floor. Do that math and picture it, yes.]

[ That caption really ought to read, “Extensive water damage STARTS HERE.”]

So yes, the pipe has been replaced and yes, the water has stopped raining down upon my neighbors. The wall itself has yet to be repaired, and that’s going to be the bigger pain in the ass — because it won’t be done by a pleasant, efficient contractor*. It will be done by the same maintenance person who spent 2-1/2 weeks on the 3-day job that was supposed to be my closet and kitchen ceiling.

And now, not to put too fine a point on it, but my apartment smells like a swamp-yard privy. It seriously stinks. I’ve got all the windows open, scented candles burning, and essential oils bubbling in every room. I also hosed down the area with Lysol and shut the closet door because I just couldn’t bear to “air it out” any longer. It’s a vicious, creeping kind of stink coming from that hole in the wall; it’s a startling scent that gives me a kick of visceral confusion and honest fear every time I get a fresh whiff of it, and I can’t explain why.

But it’s awful, and I can’t stand it. You can peer down inside the hole and see all the hideously soaked drywall, wood, and whatever else is down there. And it goes all the way down to the first floor. All that mold, all that rot, and there’s nothing to be done but gut the place — which ain’t going to happen, and that means there’s nothing to be done but live with it for now, and breathe it in until the wall gets patched.

No wonder Aric and I have been so sick over the last week or two.

And Christ knows when that maintenance guy will come around to fix it. [Hint: It was supposed to be today.] Best of all, we can’t return our stored items to that half of the closet until everything is resolved, which means the cat’s litterbox is in our kitchen. Delightful!

Anyway, I’m tired of this. I’m tired of writing about it every bit as much as I’m tired of living it, so I’m going to shut up now — at least for the time being. It’s exhausting and gross, and I hate it. And maybe next year, if we batten down the hatches, we can buy a place. That’s the goal, and that’s the hope that keeps me from taking an axe and a molotov cocktail to this place.

In other news, I didn’t get much writing done today.
I’ll try to catch up tomorrow (depending on interruptions) and post metrics then.

Today, for the first time in months, I started something new. I have about half a dozen projects and/or proposals scattered across several editor/agent/first-reader types, and I can do nothing right now but await responses; so there’s no time like the present to get cracking on the thing that’s been eating my brain for the last couple of weeks.

Getting started is always the hardest part (for me; your results may vary), so I’m not beating myself up too badly over the day’s low word count. I went over these pages about a dozen times, trying to clean them up and make them sturdy enough to support the weight of the words to come. And yes, well. These things take time.

So what’s this new book going to be about? Well, it’s about a decommissioned Greek fury, her quasi-immortal Chinese ex-lover, and an Iranian astrologer with a drinking problem. Together, they fight crime! Sort of. To be a little more specific without giving too much away, they work against the justice system to avenge crimes which have gone undetected and heretofore unpunished. And their first collaborative effort is a doozie.

Project: The Engines of Wrath
New Words: 1358
Present Total Word Count: 1358
Goal: 100,000 words





Observations: This one has a very different feel from my last project or two; it’s much darker and yet more low-key in its own way. This is a study in blame — who own it, and (in more complex situations) how far back it can be traced … and how far back it ought to be pursued for punishment. I want this one to have a modern-yet-mythic underpinning the likes of which you’ll get a glimpse of in my next book out from Tor, Fathom; but unlike Fathom, this new story will be set in the present day, and it will be much more centrally plotted.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Didn’t kill anybody.

Reason for Stopping: Have a roaring headache from allergies and possibly a cold, I can’t actually tell if I’m sick or if it’s seasonal — but it’s miserable. Also, husband got home and it’s getting too warm indoors to continue sitting at my desk in the sun. And that’s okay. I think I’m pleased with what I’ve got; and from this springboard, I think I can begin a really great fable.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 233,534*

Let me clear up a thing or two about my previous post and then drop it, because it makes me mad and I’m trying to calm down. First of all, we can’t move right now. Period. Second, my husband is going to go chat at them tomorrow, which is not something I usually prefer; ordinarily, I like to handle my own conflicts, thank you very much. But (a). he lives here too, and (b). this is an instance wherein it is far, far better that I ask someone else to do the talking.

If I do the talking, the word “fuck” will feature prominently, accompanied by flying spittle. If I get really wound up, I might even resort to curses that begin, “May the thorny demon cock of Malgog the Insatiable …” And nobody wants that.

So for now, forget it.
I’m going out for drinks and swears with select members of Team Seattle.

Thank God I didn’t answer my phone while I was out with Psynde — otherwise I might’ve hopped up onto the table and started screaming bloody murder. The message I missed? That starting Wednesday morning at 8:30 a.m. a plumber is going to start pulling down the walls of my kitchen, hallway, and walk-in closet.

And now I am absolutely sick with dread, rage, and frustration.

Long story short: We discovered on the 4th that my kitchen sink is leaking down into my first-floor neighbor’s apartment. Maintenance man got called. Problem got confirmed. Management has arranged for a plumber to do some excavation and exploration, including (but not limited to) tearing out all the drywall.

This could go on for weeks, and to make their lives easier, they want us to move everything from that wall of the kitchen, to the corridor, and all but empty the hall closet (our only true storage area — which backs up to the sink wall of the kitchen). I guess they want me to stick it up my ass or something, because heaven knows there’s nowhere else for it to go.

The manager left a message saying to call if I had any questions or concerns, but I can’t deal with it right now. Not without screaming and throwing things. Instead, I will inform the husband that he’s going to inform them that they’ve already eaten weeks of our life, making us deeply miserable and disrupting our living space already. I think they owe it to us to at least COMMENCE their investigation DOWNSTAIRS, WHERE THE LEAK IS ACTUALLY LOCATED. Go bother somebody else for once. Go tear out the drywall in someone else’s living space.

I want to sit down and cry.
Instead, I guess I’ll sit down and write.

Maybe if I can write enough books (or sell them), or get more work, or whatever — maybe we can scrape up the money to put down on a home of our own. I hate this apartment from the blue-black depths of my coal-lump heart, and for the moment, we can’t really afford to leave it.

I swear to God, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I stayed in town for the 4th — even though I’d originally planned to go to Tacoma. It’s a long story, but it worked out pretty well. I wound up being part of an impromptu shindig with Aric, Alex, and Ellen, which eventually joined a shindig-in-progress with Suezie and her S.O. Keith. Their shindig took place in a cool empty apartment overlooking the city and its fireworks, and much hilarity was had by all.

Yesterday, I ran some errands and hit up the B&N down at Pacific Place, for it is a nice spot to hang around and read books. Besides, I needed to go back to the mall anyway to pick up some stuff I’d neglected to buy the other day, when I was out with Ellen. You see, she and I were killing time before seeing HULK, and we wandered into a very nice, high-end specialty olive oil store that also sells many fine vinaigrettes and other assorted noshables. Hurray and huzzah, they were having a massive 50% off sale.

But I did not buy anything at that time.*

Though the prices were very good and the goods were highly commendable, the lone employee on duty absolutely defied belief. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was the most sublimely creepy tool I’ve ever seen working a classy retail job.

He followed me and Ellen around the store, trying to start up awkward, suggestive conversations; and then he tried to corner us and stuff tiny spoon samples of various products into our mouths, whether we wanted them or not.

Then he tried to pick a fight with my dear foodie friend over the origins of some of the products. At least, I think that’s what was going down. He was as awkward a conversationalist as he was a seducer.

Ellen: [Says something about where the oil came from]
Salescreep: Well, where do you think you are?
Ellen: What? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.
Salescreep: Is this where you came from?
Ellen: I beg your pardon?
Salescrep: Where did you come from?
Ellen: Erm … here, I guess.
Salescreep: [Announces triumphantly] Well, I came from my father’s penis!

Ellen and Me: Yeah, we’ll just be going now.
Salescreep: Wait, wait, don’t leave!
Ellen and Me: [:: run like hell ::]

Since this exchange, we have wondered extensively how this guy ever landed his position in an otherwise estimable establishment. I mean, honestly — this wasn’t mere awkward dude-talk; this was the kind of guy who rides the short bus and licks the windows while fondling himself and thinking of clowns. I’m sorry, but in the course of selling fine gourmet cooking products, the genitals of a stranger’s parents should never, ever enter the conversation. And anyway, it’s hard to decide which was worse: his grasp of salesmanship, or biology.

So you must imagine my relief to see a very cute, very friendly punk girl working alone at the register when I peeked into the store yesterday afternoon. This different salesperson was helpful without being intrusive, and thanks to her professionalism and general politeness, I did indeed purchase my desired gift-type items for the birthdays of distant folks.

And all’s well that ends well, I guess.