Books, puppy, books: so just the same as usual, really.

I am very nearly to the stage of Thermionic Night known as fidgeting. I still have beta readers who will get me comments, so I have not declared it done for the time being, but the stuff I'm tweaking still is of dubious value and along the line of 5-10 words worth of change, not even 50, much less 5000.

(This last is probably a good thing, as someone who loves me will come along and whack me with a stick if I add 5K to this book without also cutting 5K. I don't know which someone who loves me. But there are options.)

In this sense, the work on Sampo is probably good, because I can roar through it with my pink pen of girly death and do something and not just twitch. So yarg, said the girly death of adverbs.

Gloom, doom, and despair: Ista has discovered toilet paper. While I was in the shower. (She is desperately jealous of my time in the shower.) From the evidence at the quote scene of the crime unquote (and no, I didn't take thirty-seven color glossy photos -- although there is one Ista pic over on novel_gazing), she first tore off a long strip and then taught herself to delicately remove one piece at a time. The tears along the perforation are perfect.

As if we needed a thirty millionth reminder that "smart" and "well-behaved" are not the same thing....

She's learning good things, too, though. When she was dancing on lydy's head with such joy the other night, it didn't sound like she was biting, just mostly licking. So yay. (I told Lydy that we could remove the dog if she wanted us to. When she could speak again through her laughter, she said no, she was having a good time. Apparently it is the rule that all members of our household have to be able to break the Lydy laughing.) She also has sniffed at timprov's toes and refrained from chomping on several occasions, although to be fair she has also bit at them a couple of times. Still, much improved.

So. What are you reading? I've finished the latest New Scientist this morning and F&SF yesterday, so I'm out of periodicals for the moment. I'm neck-deep in Dorothy Dunnett's King Hereafter, still, and it's making me want to write the Aesir noir novel, which is just sad and shows a disturbed turn of mind. (Dorothy Dunnett...Raymond Chandler...Snorri Sturlason...uhh, sure, Mris.) I'm in a part with insufficient killing right now. A killing lull. I should pick it up again right away, because I feel sure that there will be more killing, and I am in the mood to jump up and down with the shrink yelling, "Kill! Kill! Kill!"

I'm going to go listen to something that is not Arlo Guthrie now, for obvious reasons. And those of you who have never heard "Alice's Restaurant," ummmm...well, go do so, for one thing, but for another, please don't worry about me and the shrink jumping up and down yelling kill. While they might pin a medal on me, hardly anybody is likely to mistake me for their boy.

(Yes, it's one of those moods. Sorry.)

Ohhhhhh, the draaaaaaama

Helpful hints in dealing with the Mris from this week:

1) (from today) Random unsolicited criticism of my life and/or my family, especially without observation or context, is not going to make me a huggy happy girl. If you only stay on people's friendslists when you can make that kind of comment with no cranky response, you'll probably be happier elsewhere. I'm not sure where, since few people in my experience actually find that fun and useful. But elsewhere, anyway. Consider it fair warning.

If you don't think I'm doing a good job raising my dog because the said dog bit you or in some other way misbehaved, please do let me know if I didn't observe the misbehavior or did not seem to find it a problem. (Some people, for example, do not want dogs in their laps; let me know if you're one of them, and I'll do my best to keep her off you. Other people want small dogs in their laps, so I don't consider it a general misbehavior.) If you don't think I'm doing a good job raising my dog but you haven't actually even met the beast, keep your mouth shut.

This goes double for kids, when we have them.

Further, if you don't like how I'm handling my writing career, my relationships with friends and family, my health, my religion, my politics, my yardwork, my hairstyle, or my collection of interesting Belgian cheeses, odds are still fairly good that I didn't ask you. If I become pantingly eager to know if you think I'm doing all right with these things, I know where to find you. Really.

ETA: Please note that, say, a political argument is not the same thing as a personal criticism on political grounds. Right way: "Here's why I think working within the two-party system is more effective on the national level." Wrong way: "You're a member of the [third party]s? You must be stupid!"

2) (from yesterday) The great thing about arguing with me is that I'm here to do my side! You don't have to do my side! You can just do your side! I will take care of telling you what I think!

I know e-mail can take forever. Up to two weeks, even, when I'm busy! But I feel sure you can wait. It is perfectly okay to say, "Do you think X? Is that what you're saying?" This is reasonable. This is useful. Proceeding to phrase the rest of your argument as though I have argued X, and that you have defeated my argument of X! you emerge triumphant! scoooooore! may have worked to win points in high school debate. But it is not actually a way to conduct an adult argument where both sides are interested in what the other side has to say. If you are more interested in "winning," congratulations! You win! I forfeit; I'm done. But for me, even conversations that have become arguments are still supposed to be conversations, so assuming I mean something I haven't even slightly said and then doing your victory dance because you've out-argued yourself? Called a straw man. Not cool. Cut it out.

So okay? Okay.

Some days I hate the internet.

Why I revise first drafts before *anyone* sees them

"Minttu broke off, a complaint about apprentices dying on her lips as Ansa entered the room."

Umm. While you can parse this with some effort, the possibility of apprentices dying -- possibly even on Minttu's lips! -- seems cause for complaint indeed. New sentence required here, fast. Sometimes people rave, "You write such clean drafts!" No, dear hearts, I protect you from the ragged ones.

I seem to be channeling my sophomore year high school English teacher, Smilin' Bill Novak, who would just write, "NO" in the margins of particularly bad arguments. I do that. I have not yet gotten to, "DON'T WASTE MY TIME," but I fear it's coming before I get through this book.

(I used to have dreams of him turning up at my first book signing with a book he'd already scrawled that in. My brain apparently has moved on, because I don't dream that any more. And really I would be overjoyed to see Smilin' Bill at a signing. Or, y'know, at Perkins. Whatever.)

I am avoiding referring to this book by name enough that it seems pretty clear that Sampo is the wrong thing. The right thing has not yet come calling, and Zed hasn't had the time to read Thermionic Night, so I'd have to give him lots of lead time to work his magic on this one.

For some reason, all this revision makes me feel much more cheerful: think of all the things I'm able to not screw up now! Think of how much better this book is already! Leaps and bounds! I am able, in this stage, to compare it to what it has been rather than what it could be. It reminds me about the bit in Madeleine L'Engle, where one of the old Christian ladies is cheered by the notion that she has come from a monkey, because it makes her feel like she's accomplished so much already. I fear that this book's evolutionary destination may be more lemur than man now, twisted and....right, let's just squash that one on its way out.

This is what happens when I try to talk myself into a good mood: I start channeling Jordan from "Real Genius." Sigh.