the ninth ring

I actually don't remember my Dante well enough to say  if there even is one that deals with weather in Inferno. If there isn't, there should be. I mean, it was 91 degrees at 6AM in late October, on its way to triple digits. (And in the time it took to write this post, yes, we hit 100).

I just finished the first draft (as opposed to the zero-th) of WIP,* which is not really IP anymore, but also is because it's not finished. But it's tacked together enough that I can send it to Nous, and send it back to The Rat, who read the subzero-th version already, and eventually, to The Mighty Agent. I have, like, 40K in scrap notes, which is what I had for Enemy, too. The detritus of world-building. The ways plot could've gone, and didn't. Still way better than the aborted 93K novel from last autumn. No, WIP is not book three of On the Bones of Gods. That manuscript has a name (Ally) and will be forthcoming in 2018, barring disaster. Expect much fanfare as the details become more clear. Expect the revisions on that to be eating my head soon enough.

I had started to post about the MeToo hashtag--

--which I participated in on Facebook (and not on Twitter), but--well. I didn't have anything to add, you know? There are so many of us, and so much overlap. I was struck by the number among my friends who hesitated to post (myself included) because we didn't think our experiences were serious enough. Catcalls and creepers and men from whom we could walk away without penalty didn't seem legit in the face of the assaults other women reported. That's toadshit, of course. I did not encounter any of the assholes some of the others did--the men whose comments made it about them, the women who said this is shaming, or not enough, or too much, or elevating victimhood, as if we are all asking for pity. And wait, what? I don't feel shame because some dude pulled up beside my twelve-year-old self and exposed his penis to me, or because some guy slapped my ass, or because a guy assessed me as fuckable (or not, depending on the encounter). I feel anger. I always have. And anyone who thinks I should feel something other than that can shut the fuck up--

--but decided I should work on this Tolkien class I just agreed to teach at the high school during the spring semester, which is a particularly long 17 class days of 2.5 hours each and no, we are not watching the LoTR and The Hobbit trilogies in their entirety. (Although that remains an option, I guess. But if I can't get the damned films done in one class, what's the point?) I had been intending to teach Zombie Lit, for which I have a syllabus already prepared, but the students I guess wanted Tolkien, and the boss asked who wanted to do that, so.... I am now researching, finding excerpts, coming up with (or borrowing) lesson plans. These are creative writers. We can do some cool shit. But it's also a lit class, so we don't do a lot of writing, which means I will need to PDF (it is too a verb. Shut up) all manner of things. Eventually. Not today. It's too hot to fight with the scanner today.

I have rediscovered Tolkien fans, though. Whew. Also too hot to get into that right now. But let's say I'm gonna have to watch the 3rd installment of The Hobbit and I intend to have beer and ice cream when I do it. Self-medication at its finest. (I'm going to hope Smaug wins, and write fanfic in my head where he does.)

mountains

I am sitting here in a little cabin in Estes Park, listening to the rain fall. It has been so long since I've heard rain in a chimney. Or smelled wet evergreens. Or been in Acts of God storms in the mountains. I have done all of those things in the past two days.

Tomorrow, I get to go hiking and spend a little time in the tundra above treeline, which is my favorite place in the whole world (at least until I see Iceland, at which point I may have to re-evaluate). We may get very wet. That is okay. We have a fireplace in the cabin. We may also see wildlife, which is great! Except bears. I don't need to see a bear up close, please and thank you.

It's a cold, wet July, which is also awesome. While I confess I'd like to see my beloved Flatirons as I drive through Boulder, I am happier with the temps hovering in the 60s than up in the 90s. I can layer. Life is good.

As long as we get to the top of Trail Ridge before the AoG storms start up again, because we don't mess with alpine lightning.

The Eddas tell the story of the jötun Thjazi,  who was killed in one of Loki's shenanigans gone bad. His daughter, Ska∂i, a creature of snow, mountains, and cold, comes looking for vengeance. She is offered a husband as compensation for her father's death from among the Aesir and the Vanir. She wants to pick the man with the best looking feet. (Do we believe that? Feet? I think it's a euphemism.) She chooses Njord, who makes his home by the sea. Ska∂i  is of course from the mountains. The marriage has some issues, because the couple cannot decide where to live. Ska∂i dislikes the sea and the crying gulls. Njord, on the other hand, cannot stand the cold winds and the howling of wolves.

I came to the sea for Nous (who came for grad school). It had nothing to do with feet or compensation or bloodfeud (though grad school does share some other elements in common with Icelandic sagas). But I have not made friends with the gulls or the ocean. The air is too thick. The winds are too tame. And there is no tundra anywhere.

Screw Njord. Bring on the wolves and the winds and the snow.

not at all lazy days

Summer is almost over. We are not amused.

I'm in the middle of teaching my final project for the American Viniyoga teacher training. It's a 6 class series themed around The Avengers and aimed at Geeks with Ambition, which is to say--people who spend too much time sitting in front of computers, but who also have aspirations to badassery like their favorite characters. So yeah, aiming at the Comic Con crowd. In reality, I'm teaching 1-3 students a session. I don't know how I feel about it yet. Teaching yoga and teaching writing have a lot in common. I'm not exactly nervous, except that I'm not as much an expert in yoga as I am in writing. But I also don't know if I like it that much, teaching yoga. Still deciding. I do like creating sequences. That's more like algebra. There are rules to follow, and a certain elegance when those rules are well-executed.

I'm gathering courage to actually cut the Icelandic colorwork sweater I made for Nous so I can install the zipper. I have a deep-seated aversion to actually cutting stitches. This may take another week of courage.

Round two with the agent and revisions. I was not in a good place at first, having to do another round. You know. The doubts descend: it's clearly not good enough, just fucking quit and go watch more Veronica Mars (which I recommend with some reservation) and get on with knitting those baby hats.  For the record, the agent's been stellar and nothing but encouraging, so the issues are mine; I think she's trying to get this manuscript as clean and flawless as humanly possible, because the style's difficult and it won't be an easy sell (which I knew, and I'm happy as hell I found someone in the field who also likes a book where you have to pay attention to the words). The Rat has agreed to read the whole damned thing again, which only proves she's the best friend in the world.

Baby hats, yes, but not my baby. The Rat and Shan are having Evan in October, probably right around the day that revisions are due, school starts, and my final yoga weekend commences. The hats, by the by, are finished. Shan hopes very much that Evan's head is as tiny as the hats appear.

Visited parents. Parents visited here. Next year I'd like to spend a week in CO, in a cabin someplace where we can bring the cats, and just get some damned hiking in. People can come up and see us. We shall see. The job hunt begins again for Nous, so next summer is this vague shape of Things Will Happen.

Honestly, I like my summers blank and dull, with a few weeks of interesting, so that I can catch up on knitting projects and get some actual writing done. I've been lax on the latter this summer, or at least, I have produced nothing of length for submission. I do have a pile of books to read for research, however, for the next project.

And! This is how I started my summer. I tell ya, if I'd had tattoos in my 20s, I'd've been a lot more diligent with the sunscreen. This is the Hårdby swordwoman they found, which lots of folks are calling a valkyrja, and which lends support to the idea that women in the Viking age might've fought.

oseberg prow

...on my tricep. The older tat above it is the Suontaka sword hilt. (This is my viking women arm. The sword maiden is coming).

The red will fade once my skin forgives me.

heart-truth

Good mythology--good stories--are heart-truth. They speak to the soul of things. That soul may be steel and blood, or gears and wire, or ghosts and death, or joy and grief--but a good story finds the essence.

This story does exactly that.

If you read nothing else this month, please, go read "The Witch's Friend."