Sense of Adventure

Almost cut my hair

Victor — Thu, 10 May 2012 22:05:15 +0000

Except, wait! I totally did*.

Again. Yes, it’s something I haven’t done a lot of the last few years.

This afternoon I did something I (rather inexplicably) have never done before: stepped out my front door and walked two blocks to Red’s barbershop on North Fourth. It’s in a small storefront in a block of none-too-upscale commercial spaces. (We don’t have a lot of upscale commercial spaces in this part of Albuquerque’s North Valley. That’s part of its charm.)

Red’s is tiny. It’s just a partitioned-off sliver of a different none-too-large business. It doesn’t even have its own discrete entrance. It’s a one-seater operation, with like an old red vinyl sofa and some even older wooden chairs for waiting, and a refrigerator for … not sure what, exactly. Red himself, the barber, is a soft-spoken, slightly gruff but pleasant older Latino gentlemen, who grew up not far from here when this part of the Valley was mostly farmland, and in fact still grows vegetables and fruit trees on his place a ways up north.

And see … this is kinda why I moved here, 25 years ago last month (!). Aside from the proximity to irrigation ditches where I love to walk. And of course the river, and the Rio Grande Nature Center. This part of the North Valley consists largely of weird, clapped-out looking commercial buildings (some of which house pretty good machine shops and auto repair garages, among other things) interspersed with pleasant neighborhoods – and some very rural areas. It’s not sterile. It’s bizarre and disreputable. That’s why I like it.

And Red’s is totally North Valley. It has a stuffed baby alligator on the front window sill and mariachi music softly playing on the radio.

Naturally, I fell in love with the place. I’ll be going back. Didn’t get a bad cut, either.

*But, as you know, I have no power over the desire to link to 1960s-early ’70s rock songs.

It has begun.

Victor — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 23:08:17 +0000

“Lord Karyl, I’m your death.”

Yes, that’s it: the first line of Book II of the Ballad of Karyl’s Last Ride: The Dinosaur Princes.

Except … not exactly. (Wait for it….)

So the last couple of posts you may recall my alluding to some momentous news which I was about to announce. And it was: I’ve decided – especially in light of recent events – to say screw it and go ahead and start writing the second book.

Monday. Today I planned to read through my synopsis and notes, and start fleshing it out so I have an idea of what the first few chapters at least are gonna consist of.

And it … didn’t quite work out that way.

Instead, as I was fixing my breakfast today (low-sugar red chile cream cheese fudge and coffee, same as everyday) it suddenly struck me: the opening words, and the visuals and much of the rest of the dialogue for the opening scene.

As I usually do when the Spirit comes upon me, I heeded the call and ran back in to the computer (and my poor broken-ass chair) to start writing stuff down. I initially thought of going with, “Lord Karyl, I am your death” – which I admit scans a trifle better, to me, but the way I have it sounds less fantasyese.

Later I remembered that a couple days ago I decided to make a different scene the Prologue. And I really like starting the book that way. As with Book I, we’ll kick it off with a hefty dose of weird and (SPOILER*) introduce the Big Bad right off.

So that’s the opening line of the first chapter of The Dinosaur Princes.

Then I went on and started reading through the Synopsis and all. As for whether I’ll finish off that scene or go hit the actual Prologue – well, I don’t know yet. One of those things.

Which should please Ty and Melinda, who have both been bugging me to just go ahead and Do It. Obviously, I figured out they’re right.

As for the video link up there, it was the phrase that kept ringing in my head when I started to think about writing this post.

See, every couple of years I decide the first Mortal Kombat movie (haven’t seen any of the others) is actually pretty cool and sit down to watch it. And I quickly realize it’s … well, not that cool. It’s not terrible, mind you (except for the woman who plays Sonya Blade. She’s pretty tragic.)

I mean, it’s not … Street Fighter bad. That’s the one that killed poor Raul Julia stone-ass dead. It didn’t do me much good, either: it’s one of three movies I’ve seen in my life that literally depressed me for days (Hook and the abomination which was the Hollywood adaptation of Damnation Alley being the others.) And that’s even considering my ex and I couldn’t watch past like the first thirty minutes of the awful thing.

But still, the Mortal Kombat movie is not actually good.

The soundtrack from the movie is good. Hell: it’s freakin’ awesome.

It’d be a terrific workout soundtrack. Every time I hear some of the cuts – especially where the guy hollers, “Mortal Kombat!” – I feel like running through a wall. Except it’s a bit … ballistic for taijiquan. And I’m afraid if I listened to it while doing kettlebell swings I’d blow out a ventricle.

I listen to it. A lot. And because it stirs me up so much … well….

Anyway. Keep your fingers crossed that the Rewrite Notes get here Real Soon Now. And stay tuned: in the next couple days I’ll post more sweet, value-adding DinoLords goodness.

And, as always – thanks for reading.

‘Cause I’m a-writin’!

*Okay, really? Not really. Spoiler, that is. I mean, why do you think I start the goddam novel with that scene? It’s not because a glimpse of the happy, simple pastoral life of Paradise is so goddam important to the rest of the book.

Obscene Moth Bombing Blockade

Victor — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 20:53:18 +0000

So as periodically happens in the Spring, Albuquerque has been overtaken with a Moth Deluge.

Mostly what I object to is the way the cats go into Total Instinct Mode, suppressing all individuality and judgement (such as they even have) and blasting around the house after the moths in frenzy fueled by rage at the cosmic injustice of the fact that moths can fly and cats cannot. Needless to such much that is movable gets forcibly moved, including paintings on the goddam living room wall. And much that is movable is also breakable, and, well….

But what I find I really object to is the way the moths seem to somehow infiltrate the front screen/security door. It’s annoying enough to have them swarm around me in their scores and vile hundreds every time I open the goddam door to go outside – fortunately, I can get the majority of them to fly out.

But what gets to me most is how the little fuckers crap all over me.

Now, I admit I’m not sure what they’re doing is exactly excreting on me. I just feel these little dabs of moisture on my exposed skin or even through the goddam hair on top of my head last time. I have no idea how moths shit. For all I know they may be pissing on me instead.

Or spitting to show their contempt.

In no case do I find this behavior goddam tasteful.

I’m not even sure what to goddam do about it. If I had better cash flow I could buy a leaf-blower – that’d make the little disgusting winged bastards stand back. Or wear a hat and raincoat every time I issue forth from the front door. It’s not as if I could make the neighbors think I’m any weirder.

In general I am a bit differently gruntled today. You could probably goddam tell. I had some difficulties with the Xbox seeing my home network this morning, meaning I couldn’t play the Renaissance (the time period, not the band. Although I am highly partial to both) music I wanted for my writing soundtrack. (Guess why?)

That distraction, minor as it was, put me out of sorts. Plus I find myself drained by the emotional gymnastics of the last few days.

(Also doing my kettlebell swings around 7:30 last night after I got home from taijiquan class may have a little something to do with my generally low energy level. Especially since I hit my new personal high of 66 reps. Yay!)

Anyway. As soon as I post this I’ll yank my shit together by whatever means necessary and crank out some material I need for the bill-paying writing, try to get it sent out. Then I’ll hop back on some of the subsidiary materials I’m doing for the light, short piece of fluff I like to call The Dinosaur Lords. Also … well, Something Else.

Something which I will announce. In a day or so. Because I am a bastard.

Also? Moths: fuck them.

Blessed relief

Victor — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 21:31:30 +0000

Movement on The Dinosaur Lords front!

No, the Official Editorial Rewrite Notes still haven’t gotten here. The good news is that there is reason to believe they are about to.

The bad news was I also got what I thought was reason to suspect the editor was going to ask me to make fundamental changes to the story I’m telling – which would mean, functionally, across the entire trilogy. And, short form: no.

The better news is that seems all cleared up now.

Emergency Kitten Blog! (Content unrelated.)

I won’t go into any great detail (given my propensity for Cyclopean posts, this is presumably a relief to all.) Basically, The Editor seemed to be hinting he wanted changes I just wasn’t going to make. Per Super Agent Kay’s excellent advice I straight-up braced him on it.

And he straight-up came back, right promptly, too, and said, no. No changing the story. He meant he wanted a lot of relatively small changes.

And … that’s cool.

I already intend to make a lot of changes. Many of them are in accordance with the phone notes The Editor gave me last summer.

What I want from The Editor is his help in making a good book into a great one. That’s basically been the plan since I decided to offer it for sale to a major publishing house: get a good-enough draft to shop around, and do that. Because any editor it landed with was going to want changes, realistically. So it made me no sense to do a last draft before that happened.

Also – as one of my dearest friends and most esteemed fellow writers reminded me yesterday – it can get to be impossible to see the forest for the trees on a project one’s been this wrapped up in for this long. Which as of my next birthday will be ten freakin’ years.

I am not one of these writers who believes my every word is sacred. In actuality that runs right counter to the habit of writing I’ve been trying painfully hard to counter for twenty years – and, finally, with substantial and growing success. (Yay!)I have known that long, for an absolutely demonstrated fact, that the best way for me to write by far is as fast and carelessly as possible. Especially first time through.

For a first draft I have exactly one specification: done. If it’s done, it’s automatically good. For each subsequent draft, the main spec is: better.

So it needs improvement (per the plan, remember!) And I welcome help in improving it, in part for the reason above, in part because different eyes always spot different things. Certainly the advice (and patience) of my writers group was invaluable in getting the book to good.

The Editor comes highly recommended in this regard. Some of my peers for whom I have the highest regard as craftspeople have dealt with him in the past. Even though their outcomes weren’t always as fruitful as they’d like, they spoke in glowing terms of his abilities. They also mentioned his track record of launching big fantasy hits, which, candidly, don’t break my heart either.

In fairness, one of our NM authors told me to expect half The Editor’s notes to be pure awesome, and the other half pure Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. And in fairness, that’s pretty much how our phone talk last summer shook out. Fortunately, the really substantive notes were pretty much the awesome ones, and the lesser points were the … let’s call them perplexing … ones.

So, we’re good.

In other news (huh – seems I was lying about the brevity of this damn post, too) and speaking in particular of kittens and emergencies, TJ Cat pitched one today. Though of course he’s been a Kitten Emeritus now way longer than he ever was a kitten. He’s also, of course, my little best friend.

So per my current habit I went out before breakfast (mine, not the critters’) to water my Square-Foot Garden. Yes, it’s up and – growing – now; updates anon. In the course of this I heard a cat meow once or twice from somewhere toward the front of the house. Emma Dog even barked briefly in response.

I went ahead and finished watering before going to check it out. Emma didn’t sound really urgent. And it’s not as if cat dramas are in short supply around here, either outside the house or on.

But when I went to the back door to go inside, it was open.

I had closed it. Twice. But apparently it still hadn’t taken.

Starting to feel trepidation I looked in the bedroom. Saw Squeak Kitty on the bed, as usual. But not her brother.

Looked out front. Nothing there. Tried calling Teej, outside and in.

Went out back again calling for him. Emma promptly took up station at the entrance to the north-side yard and barked. When I went over and looked there the little orange flake was, halfway to the gate, huddled against some kind of possibly-nonfunctional vet and not looking happy.

Part of it was, or quickly became, because Emma was crowding him, poking him with her nose and barking. He is her Beloved Pack Senior; she loves him and respects his Authoritah. Even though he never asserts it. (That’s Squeak’s job, as self-appointed Milán Pack Thug.)

But Emma is more than my bodyguard; she’s also Pack Sergeant-at-Arms. Which means that even if the Alpha Pet, TJ, acts up, she gets to straighten him out. Which she joyously was.

Also … TJ is not valorous. That’s okay – what do I want with a valorous cat? Anyway, that’s what we have Emma for. But if you look up fraidy-cat in the dictionary – yup, he’s right there.Still, he persists in wanting to go out in spite of my repeated warnings: “TJ, everything that lives outside would kick your ass.”

So, he’s never gotten near that far before on one of his escapades. And I think that terrifying fact had just hit him.

So even though he doesn’t like being picked up he made no fuss when I did so and carried him in. Then went out and praised Emma. She is a Good Dog.

So – whoa.

But – we’re all good now. I think I’ll recuperate a bit longer and get onto a different project that needs doing pretty promptly. Also, despite the fact the rewrite proper’s in limbo, I’m still driving ahead on needed ancillary and value-added materials. Expect to see some more of those up here ere long.

Oh, and it occurs to me that there’s actually some pretty momentous news on the DinoLords front after all. It’ll especially gratify some of my more importunate commenters.

But, you know how some authors like to end on a cliffhan

In which I am cheered up.

Victor — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 07:10:47 +0000

So tonight my friend Joe and I had our customary Thursday dinner at Sadie’s, followed as usual by a four-mile walk along the bike path that runs by the Rio Grande Nature Center. During the course of which I laughed so loudly at something he said that I set off a whole pack of coyotes to yipping and barking down by the river.

Afterwards, again per normal, we came back and sat in my living room talking and listening to music. We remarked on how lugubrious one song was – like a lot of Celtic music. I talked about how I really enjoy Celtic fiddle music. Except most of the songs are about horrible things. Which is why I’m partial to Celtic fiddle music.

Sometimes, though, even the melody is depressing. I mentioned one in particular: “The Skye Boat Song,” which while beautiful and poignant is so depressing I was glad I didn’t know what it was about, since I was sure it was incalculably depressing.

So naturally Joe had to tell me the words to the damn song. And guess what? IT WAS ENTIRELY DEPRESSING.

Ladies and gentlemen, my best friend.

Shakin’ all over

Victor — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 02:00:00 +0000

So when Emma Dog and I hit Bear’s Ditch, our favorite place to walk, the first thing she does is go in the water to drink and cool off. This afternoon after she’d waded around for a while she started to shake herself. As in, dry. Then she visibly caught herself and got this look like, “Oh.”

We play a little game. Or rather, Emma plays a game that I perforce have to play along with. When she gets out of the ditch she tries to shake water on me. If she does, she wins. (It’s not a sophisticated game. Emma is a straightforward kind of girl.)

I have few doubts that she does it deliberately as a game. For one thing, she knows perfectly well it bugs me: it makes me hop around and cuss. Which she obviously thinks is funny.

Fortunately it’s a broadside-only sort of weapon. I can foil her by either keeping out of range, or at least in front of or behind her. She sometimes tries to hold out. But since shaking herself dry apparently a reflex, usually at some point it gets the better of her and she simply can’t help herself.

But she will often try to outmaneuver me, somehow catch me in her field of fire – that’s another reason I’m sure it’s a deliberate game. And sometimes she succeeds.

Today she nailed me right off. I was standing with her on a short leash – got one of those Flexi-Lead things on a spring reel – by the side of the dirt road to let a woman with a dog pass. That’s our usual habit, as Emma is well aware. And since I was tethered right next to the little monster she got me dead to rights with no chance of escape.

Fortunately it was a warm day, with just enough of a breeze to take a little edge off without being chill. Accordingly, I was wearing shorts. When she gets my bare legs, which she mostly did, it’s not that big a deal. We live in the desert, for cripes’ sake; it evaporates. It’s when she blasts muddy water all up my freshly-washed trouser leg that she really racks up the points.

Then … the little monster caught me again. I tried calling foul; this time I was standing right beside her because I kindly stopped to allow her to say hi to a couple of her dog friends (she has those now) through their back fence. She wasn’t having any of it. Apparently I was unaware of the rule, all’s fair in splashing Daddy and war.

By the way, I honestly believe one major reason Emma doesn’t mind wearing her harness and leash is that she’s afraid that, without them, I’d wander off somewhere by myself and get in trouble.

As I indicated, it was a gorgeous Spring day in Albuquerque’s North Valley. The trees and grass and bushes are greening up nicely. Lilacs are in bloom, and I love them second only to honeysuckle. Of course I’d love it more if I could actually smell them. This damn stuffy nose got old months ago.

Still, I’m glad I can at least appreciate their lovely purple color, And at least remember how they smell.

There were plenty of birds, mostly this time of year’s Usual Suspects: geese, ducks, robins, some mourning doves. The spring migration should be in full bore; not much evidence I saw and heard today. Did hear cock-pheasants call twice, but they live here. And anyway I didn’t see them.

Still love the birds, though. And I try to appreciate even the commonplace ones.

Life goes well. I’m still hanging fire on a couple of writing projects, not least of which is of course the Great Dinosaur Lords Rewrite. But I continue to plug away at the tasks which, though still not writing actual story, much less getting the damn novel rewritten and delivered, must nevertheless be done.

If I don’t hear by tomorrow I’ll email The Editor again. It’ll be two weeks since he said “a week to ten days.” If nothing else I’ll ask him to send me the High Points – the biggest issue, or issues, he has with the novel, so I’ll have some idea of what I’m looking at.

Then I’m gonna sic Kay on him.

More soon. And as always – thanks for reading!

I get up. I get down.

Victor — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 23:43:12 +0000

So, having finally got my Exercise/Anti-Goathead Mat last weekend, I finally assayed the Turkish Getup in my backyard.

Actually, to start with, I did what Pavel calls the “Half Getup,” which means after you hoist the weight you push yourself up on one elbow. Thus:

Only you stop halfway.

Even the Half Getup turned out to be … not so easy as it looks. And if you don’t think that looks particularly easy … still, less easy.

And that’s with a kettlebell smaller than the one the young lady is using in the video. Who is just over half my weight. (I link to that particular video because even if I knew what the Hell I was doing, she’d look way better than me doing it.)

It turned out not bad. By which I mean, I did one half-getup from either side, more or less, without incurring any apparent structural damage. The Getup actually seems less risky to me in ways than my faithful swing, since you really have to be careful at all times swinging a kettlebell not to blow out a knee or your lower back.

Then again, if you’re not careful doing the Turkish Getup, there is a chance of dropping a 35-pound (or more) kettlebell on your face. Which Pavel suggests might be a Bad Thing. And who am I to question the Master?

So, like everything in life … tradeoffs.

Otherwise, things go well. My BFF Joe has at last Escaped from Los Alamos and begun a new life today feeling refreshed and invigorated after way more sleep than he’s used to getting. Which is cool.

While I alas remain hanging on the Dinosaur Lords rewrite notes – The Editor assures me he’s on it, so there’s that – I’ve made progress with various support materials for the book. Which is also cool.

Support material such as that map. Got it all labeled up and everything. Which was time-consuming but less stressful than anticipated. It makes it even busier, but I was trying to make version so the most important stuff will all be legible on one screen.

I will probably do a couple more iterations, including a detailed version that you’ll basically need to zoom in on individual areas to make much sense out of, and also one with, well, cooler labeling than currently exists. I will also chunk one or another version up here on the blog, this time with a link to the Full-Sized Version so you can. You know. See stuff.

Also I need to sit down and whip up a better sketch map than the not-entirely-explicably faded pencil drawing I have of County Providence, so’s I can give it the CC3 treatment as well.

This weekend I intend to go out and start grabbing plants seeds and get my square-foot garden going too. So: I continue to do more things, and more of them.

Which I find makes me happy pretty much most of the time. Who knew?

PS – If you get the reference in the name of Joss Whedon’s production company, you should get the reference in the post title. (Hint: remember my life is ruled by titles and lyrics from Sixties/Early Seventies rock.)

First Glimpse of Paradise!

Victor — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 02:02:21 +0000

Or at least part of it – the part of the world called Paradise where all the action in The Dinosaur Lords takes place: the Empire of Nuevaropa, which occupies the body of land called the Tyrant’s Head.

Visit scenic Nuevaropa!

I told you I was working on the map! See how wrong you were to doubt me?

It is, as promised, a glimpse and no more.

In fact the map is actually much larger and, hence, clearer. But since I haven’t yet labeled anything, there doesn’t seem much point. That said, this version does show the major features, plus several minor sites which figure prominently in the text. If you’ve read the swell free online sample chapters (and if you haven’t, why not?) or have read the Whole Damn Thing (if so, thanks!), you may well be able to pick them out. They’re Mirkgrad in the Misty March, where our protagonist Karyl hails from; Terraroja (called Tierra Roja in the online draft); and Providence Town, seat of County Providence, where coincidentally the book opens.

So a few quick hints on your Big Stuff: everything left of the mountains over there on the far right is Nuevaropa. The land mass is called Tyrant’s Head because of a fancied resemblance to the head of a Tyrannosaurus rex. (I don’t have to link that, right? You know what a T. rex is, and what one looks like, yes? Thought so. Moving on.)

The stuff east of the mountains is the Ovda Plateau, where Nuevaropa’s rival Turano empire is. They’re currently friendly to Nuevaropa. Mostly.

The big island just the other side of the channel from the mainland is Anglaterra. The smaller island way the Hell off west of that is Irlanda, where our (somewhat) faithful narrator Rob Korrigan comes from.

Also, the big opening battle takes place on the River Hassling, which runs to the east of the Tyrant’s Eye, the big bay or sea toward the top of the Tyrant’s Head. If you read the first chapters, and have a really exceptional memory: yep, in the online draft (and also the full draft I’ve shown to people) the Battle of Gunters Moll takes place west of the Eye. Yes, I’ve flip-flopped it, for good and sufficient reasons. No, it’s not the only geographical change that, ahem, having a map at last is either facilitating or necessitating, depending on how you take it.

Okay, if all that comes off a little loopy, I’m a little loopy. I’m still puzzling out my Campaign Cartographer 3 (CC3) program. Which I do know is swell. Makes purty pictures, don’t she? Anyway, I’ve been at the damn map since this morning, and have done little else today. In short, I’m beat.

But pleased. It’s coming together.

It damned well needs to.

More soon!

Involuntary vacation

Victor — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 22:14:29 +0000

So I’ve been taking off the last few days. I hadn’t really intended to. But there you have it.

So one thing I’ve been doing is playing around with … guess.

Just your average, everyday Thalassodromeus. If by "everyday," you mean, "108 million years ago. In Brazil."*

Yeah, so if I can’t play with dinosaurs (and their fellow Mesozoic beasties) why the Hell am I writing an epic fantasy novel called The Dinosaur Lords?

Or actually, rewriting.

And right now … I’m not even doing that. It’s what I find myself taking enforced time off from.

The story below….

So after a spell of waiting – also enforced – on editorial notes on DinoLords, I decided the deadline for Book II, The Dinosaur Kings, was getting uncomfortably close. So a week and a half or so ago I started in on rewriting the first one.

I did … well, to say the least. I set myself the goal of rewriting three chapters a day. Which for a book this size (“big”) translates into a solid month of rewriting. And – except for my second day, when various factors intervened and I only got through like a chapter and a half – I did.

It wasn’t hard. When I let myself go, master my fears, and just do, writing, and also as it turns out, rewriting just flows. But it also eats up a fair amount of effort. Like nine hours almost straight on one occasion.Basically: what it took, I did.

(It seems that rewriting is, for me, more time-consuming than writing, yet far less strenuous.)

And on the seventh day (Thursday last) I finally took the time to fire off an email to my editor at Tor, letting him know I was going ahead and doing the rewrite, and if while I was addressing the notes he had given me before, in ways which he had approved – and that the book was turning out damn swell – he could please send me his notes, I’d be much obliged.

See, when I set out to write the book – on my birthday, August 3rd, in 2002 – I intended to write a great book: the best I had in me. What I sent out to my superagent Kay McCauley, my eventual publishers, and my first readers (as well as put up a few chunks of right here online) was a good book. It has always been my intention that my last pass, what I consider a finishing or polishing pass, should be what makes it great.

And when I sent that email I felt myself right on target.

So in the midst of my rewriting frenzy for that day, my editors comes back with commendable promptness to say he’s in fact just finished the notes, and would have them to me in a week to ten days. And he suggested I not plan on the one-month deadline I told him in intended to meet, since he thought it’d take me time to digest those notes.

So this … upset me, is fair to say. I emailed back asking what I ought do? I was on a roll – and loath to break my brief, unprecedented habit of sustained productivity. Also, I can’t write the next book until I know what’s actually going in the first one, since of course that lays the foundation for everything that happens in Book II.

To my credit I finished rewriting a long and somewhat involved chapter. That was all I could bring myself to do, I admit.

Less to my credit, when my BFF Joe turned up that evening for our biweekly dinner out at Sadie’s + walk, I started dumping my frustration and dismay on him pretty much the instant I opened the door. (Well, he was foolish enough to ask how I was doing.)

And as the wisest man I know, Joe reminded me of these necessary truths:

Getting upset does not help. The opposite, in fact.
When I signed on to sell the book through a major publisher – which he advised me to do, and which I continue to believe was my best available course – I knew I was letting myself in for precisely this sort of thing.
The only thing I could do that made sense was down tools and wait until my editor told me what he wanted me to do.
As for my concern that he might want more … substantive changes than I cared to make to my novel: he who suffers before he must, suffers more than he must.

Like I said: wise. And after he thus talked me off the ledge, we went on and enjoyed a fine dinner, plus a swell nocturnal walk in the Vineyard.

And next day I emailed my editor to tell him the only sensible thing to do was stop work until I heard from him, so I was doing that thing. And he wrote back saying I was doing the right thing. So here I am.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve been doing nothing on my vacation. because, frankly, what fun is that?

See, this is one of the great bounds of progress I’ve made in the last few months: freeing myself (largely through mastering fear, as mentioned above) to realize that I take my greatest joy in doing – especially writing; but all kinds of doing – and, well, doing that.

So I’ve spent the last few days playing hard. Walking with Emma Dog, doing taijiquan (and I need to go back to class soon – between sickness and busy-ness I basically missed March), kettlebell swings (48 today!) Yesterday the magnificent Steve Kubica came and helped me put together my new Tumbler Composter. Which is freakin’ huge, and also duly set to composting.

Also, just because I’m not involved in actual re/writing of DinoLords – or the sequel – doesn’t mean I can’t useful work on them. By which I mean, play with them!

For example, I’ve been editing, rationalizing, and expanding a little thing called The Book of True Names. A hint: it’s what I was doing when I turned up the guy with the swell head pictured above. Plus a mess of other notes, expansions, and ancillary materials. Including the map I think I’m contractually obligated to do – I’d provide one to Tor anyway, plus I promised one way long ago to various readers and authors group members (I’m looking at you, Tregillis.)

Also, having returned to the blog with another outsized dump of post (though hopefully note dump of a post) I plan – along with learning to write shorter, more frequent posts! – to put up some more free sample chapters, as well as more An Adventurer’s Guide to the Dinosaurs of Paradise. Yeah, I know: all stuff I promised you last fall. When, yeah, reality intruded. As reality will. Bad, bad reality!

So, anyway, that’s what’s been happening on the “me” front. Time to get back to that confounded map!

*Why did Thalassodromeus live in Brazil, I pretend to hear you ask? It had wings!

Recliner’s decline

Victor — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 05:03:29 +0000

So my American Tolkien* recliner chair is broken. And as intrinsically not-very-important hassles go, this is a Big Deal.

But before I get to serious whingeing, enjoy this obscene song about a Pterodactyl, as animated by The Oatmeal guy.

Feel better now? I know I do. Also, anyone who rolls with Plateosaurus is a player. I’m just saying. (Thanks, I think, to Oliver Mellors, who posted the link over on the Facebook.)

So yeah. The recliner that serves as my current Chair of Command is jammed. The foot rest will not retract. The axle or bolt that connects the hinge mechanisms on both sides has apparently sheared through. And I can’t figure out if it’s going to even be possible to repair shy of replacing the whole assembly. Which I know would suck.

And this is a substantial pain in the ass. For one thing, this means it sticks way the hell out in the middle of my living room floor, which has no great overabundance of free space to begin with. I can manage that to a degree by angling it back out of the way when it’s not in use.

Also, it makes it kind of gymnastic getting in and out of it.

And, see, this is where I spend much of my life. It’s where I write, and surf the Net, watch anime via Netflix streaming, and generally where I socialize with company. If I’m not here or in bed I’m doing something, whether kettlebell swings, cleaning the house, or walking Emma Dog.

So it’s a hassle, and will be until I can resolve it.

At least the chair is still sittable. Except … it just now started acting squirrelly. A little rocky, as if now the foot-rest doesn’t want to lock in the “up” position. Oy.

Ah well: as I said, nothing truly major.

As for why I call it my American Tolkien chair, it was donated to me by George R. R. Martin, who was one of the friends whose generosity with their time, money, and arduous and often unpleasant effort saved my life. (Yes, other things saved my life as well – such as the doctors, nurses, techs, and my own choices and determination. I took a lot of saving.) In fact when I returned home from the hospital to see the in-effect new home my friends had provided me, a central piece was this very chair. Which had taped to it a sign announcing, “The American Tolkien sat here.” (My friends knew how endlessly tickled I am at George being characterized that way, since they read this blog.)

Otherwise … life is good. Really. Good.

Actually, it’s been so good I haven’t updated this blog in a scandalous long time. See, for me a good life is filled with doing. And the last couple months especially I have been doing more and more – hence enjoying life more.

Which has left me with limited time and energy to write this blog. Especially since a major part of all that doing has been writing and is now rewriting. Of which more anon. And on.

I’ll try to do better. There’s lots to talk about.

Stay well. And as always – thanks for reading!

*I was tempted to try to come up with some cheesy play on Game of Thrones for a title to this post. But hey, it’s late; I’m tired (see above: doing stuff.) And I still retain enough sense of shame to refrain from near-fraudulent search-engine baiting by actually incorporating the name somehow. But not, apparently, enough to omit making the title hack up there a link by which you can buy the HBO series on DVD off Amazon. Oh, and also, appropriately enough, The Oatmeal offers its own unique take on the series here and here.