My sense of humor is changing

After immersing myself in narratives of the London Blitz I seem to be developing the kind of black humor common to cops and emergency room doctors. Last night I totally cracked up over this story and read it aloud to the First Reader:

"Air raid wardens had no authority to make people take shelter. One night, we were passing a block of flats [apartments] and this man was standing outside. 'You should get into a shelter!' we said, and he told us what to do in no uncertain terms. So we left him standing there and walked on. When we came back, he was still outside the block of flats. His head was about four steps further along."

The First Reader suggested gently that maybe I should take a break from Blitz research, go back to reading Orkney folk tales and the rules for Regency dances.

I thought it was fantasy

I've been waiting to edit An Annoyance of Grackles until the end of the month, because I got slightly ahead of the calendar while writing; it's set in January 2018, and as you may have noticed, January isn't over yet. I keep thinking, "What if something actually happens this month which my characters would have to take notice of?"

That was before this week.

In the book, I needed Austin to be shut down by snow and ice for one day. In the book, that was a Tuesday.

So... guess what happened last Tuesday? It wasn't as pretty as my description - we didn't get nice fat snowflakes falling out of the sky, just ice on the streets - but yep, it pretty much shut down the city.

It's rather exhilarating to have paranormal powers. I'm debating what to write next.

"The author of An Annoyance of Grackles made the NYT best-seller list" is... possibly a bit of a stretch for my new powers.

So is "The author of An Annoyance of Grackles lost twenty pounds after she finished the book."

I have a feeling I should start small and use my powers for good. Any suggestions?

Double stacking

One stack of books includes Portrait of Orkney, Georgette Heyer's Regency World, Orkney Folklore,A Dance with Jane Austen,Orkney Tapestry, and I'm waiting for The Victorian Domestic Servant.

The second stack consists of diaries and memoirs of the London Blitz, and those are going to be relevant in the fourth Stars book when I get around to writing it.

Right now I'm taking a break from the Stars series to work on my Regency fantasy The Finwife's Tail.

There are people who write two or more books at the same time - Cedar Sanderson has three going, as well as a day job and her art work - but I don't think I can. I feel schizophrenic enough already, reading about people being bombed out during the Blitz while writing about the Finfolk of Orkney; if I don't watch it I'll have my finwife observe the bombing of Scapa Flow!

By the way, the Finwives are not exactly like traditional mermaids. They have two legs and all the other equipment of human women; it's just that they also have a long flowing tail sprouting from the lower back. When swimming the tail is unfurled and when on land they wrap it round them like a skirt. I'm going to have fun getting a cover artist to illustrate that!

Finished!

The third book in the STARS fantasy series, An Annoyance of Grackles, is done! Well... except for reading it five or six times for typos and infelicitous wordings, because I never catch all of them on one reading. But I won't start that until after Christmas, and if possible I won't start plotting a new book until after New Year's. Oh, heck, let's be wild and reckless and not get back to work until Epiphany.

This book is a little shorter than the first two. But in the spirit of Lincoln's "A man's legs should be long enough to reach the ground," I'm going to declare, "A book should be long enough to tell the story."

Now, apart from wrapping presents, I plan to kick back and do nothing writing-related beyond saturating my brain with Orkney folk-lore and Regency manners, for the historical fantasy in the back of my head.

First it flows, then it floods

The period of heaping stones ended without warning, and for a few days I've been typing like a maniac to get An Annoyance of Grackles finished. The words are there now, and saved in multiple places, and I'll proofread it after Christmas. Right now I need to wrap Christmas presents and.... What do you mean, you have a spiffy idea for a fourth book in this series?

Telling the Muse "go away" or even "hold that thought" is dangerous. So okay, I'm going to wrap presents AND make some notes about this hypothetical fourth book. If the whole plot chooses to flood into my head the Christmas gifts may have to go without bows and glitter.....

Gun research

The Organizer and her future husband are coming over today and I'm going to pick his brains about guns; why rely on the Internet when you have experts practically in the family?

Those of you who've read some of my books know that firearms don't play a large part in the stories. In fact, the only bit I can remember is in Flameweaver, which begins with Tamai's search for Martini-Henry rifles to help her tribe defend against Russian aggression.

However, the upcoming urban fantasy series has two issues I need to get right - no, three, but the First Reader resolved one by telling me that Glocks don't have a safety. I've also got what I hope is a funny scene in Book 2 where a CIA agent is yelling at the TV about the mistakes in a spy show, and a tense scene in Book 3 involving a sniper with a scoped rifle.

And who better to vet those scenes than an ex-Special Forces guy who has a gun collection and goes to the range regularly?

Finally one of my daughters is bringing someone useful into the family!

Worst. Rejection letter. EVER.

The Daily Mail recently published what really has to be the worst rejection letter in the entire history of rejection. This is it:

"Dear Sir,
No, you may not send us your verses, and we will not give you the name of another publisher. We hate no rival publisher sufficiently to ask you to inflict them on him. The specimen poem is simply awful. In fact, we have never seen worse."

Amazingly, the recipient of this letter not only did not commit suicide, he continued self-publishing his poetry for another decade.

The Daily Mail quotes some lines of his "poetry," which support the notion that the writers of the rejection letter were absolutely right, but I don't want to dwell on that. Rather, I plan to inscribe the name of Frederick Charles Meyer upon my heart, as a guiding light to follow.

Henceforth, when tempted to say, "This indie publishing is too damn hard, I don't know how to market my books," I shall respond, "Did Frederick Charles Meyer allow such minor obstacles to stop him? He did not!"

When growsing, "I don't get any reviews," I shall remind myself that Frederick Charles Meyer didn't either.

And when whining, "I don't have any talent," the response will be, "Neither did Frederick Charles Meyer!"