Eagles Over the Kennebec

Learning how to fall takes an unexpected amount of courage, if you happen to be a person who has a lifelong commitment to not falling.

In the normal way of things, if I feel myself start to fall, I will twist, and grab at anything to stay upright, which usually, yes, Just Makes It Worse.

Steve -- who wrestled in high school -- would say, "Just fall," like that was something any sane person would do. The ground, my child, is hard. I know this because I've fallen on the ground and I never, ever want to do that again.

Which, honestly? Is probably not a goal that's within my grasp, if I'm going to persist in this Getting Old(er) thing.

So, today at PT? I Just Fell. Onto a (slightly) padded platform, into walls, and doors, into my therapist. Someone else who was taking PT at a station near us said that I reminded him of when he had taken parachute training -- "If you roll after you hit, you'll be OK."

Eeek.

Also?

Ouch.

Lunch is heating up, and I do believe I'll be having aspirin with that.
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First taste test. Chocolate Truffle Tea, which smells terrific.
. . .
So, the chocolate truffle tea is ... interesting. The taste is dark, or maybe I mean heavy, and a little bitter, like baking chocolate. Not quite what I'm looking for in a "chocolate tea." It's drinkable, but I won't be ordering a full tin.

In other news, I've spent the last hour pinned under a coon cat, who was doing her damnedest to put me to sleep, and, yes, she succeeded.
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Things I have forgotten to mention today Part One:

For those still interested in yesterday's discussion regarding characters and lit'rachur, and all like that, you will at this link, directly under my post, find the Cereal Theory of Writing from our very own djonn. It's worth reading and a worthy Working Theory
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Things I forgot to mention today, Part Two:

If you're not following David Mattingly's diary of his career you really ought to do so. As you know, David did many, if not all, of the covers of the novels we did for Baen. I think that's 25 covers. David is not painting anymore, and has turned to writing as an outlet for creation.

You can read past entries and/or subscribe here
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And, finishing up!

A photo of Rookie doing his impression of The Most Interesting Cat in the World:

Coon cats first.
 

The morning cuddle:




Rookie inna winda:

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Yes, this is much better...

"Homemade lightning is never as good as the real sort."

"Things are either real or they're not. I know this. I have medicine."

And not to forget: A chocolate you don't want to eat does not count as chocolate.

SOMEONE MOSTLY MORTAL. SOMEONE LIKE YOU.

Sigh. Reading protocols.

The book I gave up on is set in The Real World; it's based on a Real Incident that took place in the Real City (not Small Town; and I say this as someone who hails from a City) of Lewiston, Maine; addressing the culture clashes born of the influx of Somalis into that same Lewiston, Maine.

You would think that, the author's interest obviously having been snagged by this incident, that her work would reflect that interest. That she would, dammit, love her characters.

Only she doesn't. Or maybe that's -- I hope she doesn't. Because these are not lovable people. It's not that they're flawed, or even that they're strange. We're all flawed. And strange. It's not that there's a tragedy in their shared past. Perhaps it's that they're caught in a shared net of meanness and dislike that none of them even tries to cut through.

Perhaps it's because the author doesn't love her characters, and so she keeps them at arm's length, reduced to telling us that Bob is lovable, without showing us that Bob is doing lovable things.

Mind you, the author is a Pulitzer Prize winner, so by definition she knows what she's doing, and I'm talking through my hat. Best to keep that in mind while I rant on.  Since I'm apparently going to rant on...

Of all of the characters I met before I bailed, it is Bob -- supposedly lovable, insightful, and empathic -- who ought to have changed the course of this terrible family of hateful individuals. But Bob is sunk is self-pity. He's in his fifties, his wife has left him (of course), he's been unable to father children (I have no idea if the author is an academic, but ghod that is such an academic fiction thing), and drinking cheap wine out of coffee cups, which, OK, as a sign of moral decay, not having a wine glass is kind of -- cute.

And the Heroic Big Brother, who is falling apart at the seams -- a grown man, a trial lawyer, does not scream at this brother over the phone calling him a useless retard over and over again unless something is very Very wrong there, and I still fear for his wife, though I don't like her, either.

And, yes, I'm aware that not all characters have to be likeable. They do, however, have to be relatable. 

*deep breath*

Pratchett clearly loves his characters, flawed and strange and deeply, Deeply improbable as they all are. He doesn't tell you that Jeremy isn't a bad man. He doesn't tell you Jeremy's a good man. He does need medicine, but who among us has not needed medicine? And who among us at least doesn't know someone who has stopped taking their medicine, because everything is So. Much. Clearer. without it?

(And the flashback that explains the advent of the medicine -- Something like, "after the hammer is taken out of the fist, and the blood has been cleaned up." Bang. No need to say any more than that. We Get it.)

Igor -- gods, I love the Igors. So naive, so able. So wise. So very fitted for Mad Science, and in love with their lightnings.

And, yanno, if we want to talk about Family Dynamics, there's Susan and her grandfather. Both flawed. Both strange. At odds more than they're in agreement. And yet -- MEET ME, says the note, and Susan goes to find out what her grandfather might need from her. Because they're family. And they only have each other. If you don't count Death of Rats.

And of course Lu-Tze, the Sweeper, not holy, not a monk, designer of bonsai mountains, and unwilling teacher of a boy who is far too smart, and who remembers his lessons instead of learning them.

Deep breath.

Circling around again to reading protocols. In science fiction, and in fantasy, the reading protocol demands that the reader allow that the author is telling them the truth, no matter how improbable it seems. This is called "The Willing Suspension of Disbelief," and it's actually a requirement for anyone who reads fiction. Because the author is not telling you the truth, no matter how much she may herself believe what she's writing. That's why it's called "fiction."

So, I'm wondering if my apparently on-going problem with non-genre fiction set in the here-and-now is that the authors don't do any worldbuilding. Why bother? Look around you. I've also heard it said by literary writers that characterization is . . . I can't think of the word -- in essence, a cheat. A crutch. When -- at least in my not at all humble opinion -- characterization is the greatest strand in the braided art called storytelling.

Eeep.

I think I may be ranted out.

Who are your favorite characters in fiction -- and! Bonus Question: Why?

PSA: The below is a rerun from This Date in 2025 (with adjustments to bring it current to today). It should answer questions generated by the post I made last evening.

On October 4, 1988, an orange-and-white UHaul truck with a governor on the accelerator, closely followed by a black Chevrolet Beretta, entered Maine via Routes 2 and 4 in Farmington and made their way to Skowhegan.

In the UHaul was Steve Miller, PIC, copilot Arwen deGrey, and what was left of the Miller and Lee Household — records and books; a stereo system; an old wooden Philco cabinet radio that didn’t work, but served as our mantle; kitchen supplies, and an almost-new microwave oven; two Kaypro computers; a 9-pin printer; and two so-called computer desks, brand-new and still unassembled in their boxes.

Piloting the Beretta was Sharon Lee, copilot Archie McGee, and passenger Brandee Whitchin. In the trunk was a copy of a manuscript entitled Carpe Diem, the Important Life Records of both pilots and cats, a dictionary, a Scrabble set, two suitcases, and cat supplies. In the back seat were a few small boxes of this ‘n that, and the cat carrier occupied by our passenger.

We arrived in Skowhegan and went to the address that had been given us five days prior, to pick up the key to the rental house. Instead, we came away with our deposit, in cash, because the daughter of the gentleman who had rented us the house by phone had left her husband during the time the happy caravan was climbing slowly north from Maryland, and needed a place to live.

We then went downtown, to let the editor at the Skowhegan Reporter know that Mr. Miller, whom he had hired after two extensive phone interviews, was in town and ready for work. Unfortunately, in a game of Editorial Spin the Bottle indulged in by the owner of the syndicate, the Skowhegan editor had been reassigned, and the new editor had neither news of, nor desire for, a spanking new reporter who didn’t know the beat.

Considerably let down, the Plan in shambles, but still determined to continue, the pilots drove out to the edge of town, where they found a campground motel that was in the process of being shut down for the winter. The combination of Steve’s golden tongue and the kindness of the campkeepers saw us in possession of both a very tiny cabin, and a promise that they would tell the crew to winterize that cabin last, so we could have time to find a more permanent solution.

That done, we drove to the other edge of town, rented a storage unit, stashed our stuff, went to the local Hannaford, got salads from the salad bar, and the big bottle of Gallo, returned to our cabin, and the cats. We ate, played a couple games of Scrabble, and went to bed.

The next morning, there was snow on the ground, and, after breakfasting at the Burger King around the corner from the campground, the pilots drove to Augusta to return the UHaul truck, then went back to the cabin in Skowhegan, and sat down to make a New Plan.

. . . we stayed in the camp for two weeks while we looked for someplace to live in Skowhegan and in Waterville. For some reason, nobody wanted to rent to a pair of scruffy writers from Away, with three cats and no visible means of support. We finally lucked in to a "two bedroom" apartment in a converted barn, where we lived for the next year-and-a-half. After we got the apartment, we went down to the post office to rent a PO Box, and across to the bank to open a checking account. We had phone service installed, and called our agent, who wanted our address, because she had a revision letter from Del Rey to send to us.

While we were waiting for the revision letter, we put together the computer desks and fired up the Kaypros, then we looked for jobs. For some reason, nobody wanted to hire a high-falutin' executive secretary from Away, so I signed up with Kelly Services, who found me a cushy job inside the Number Two Paper Machine at Scott Paper. My shift started at 5 a.m. Steve picked up the Adult Ed Writing Course that had been being taught by the now-relocated editor, and started work as the midnight manager at the Cumberland Farms.

The letter from Del Rey arrived and the revisions were . . . massive, requiring a lot of rewriting. Steve worked on those before he was due at work. When I got home, I'd start typing where he'd left off.

The question that is not answered in this is -- how old were the children when they started on this adventure? Answer One: Old Enough to Know Better. Answer Two:  Steve was 38; I was 36.
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Sunday, October 4, 2026.  Got up at six. Made a video, which is really stretching my skillset. It's probably not long enough, but here we are.

Started writing/revising at 9, working through til 1:30, broke for lunch and a run at FB, then back to the office with the intent to do more work, but my eyes have voted otherwise, so! One's duty the cats has not yet been accomplished, and there are dishes to wash, so it's not like I'll be idle. I'm trying not to be grumpy about the fact that I used to be able to Screen for 8 hours at the day-job, come home and do another 4 hours at the home computer, while simultaneously ignoring the other fact -- which is that -- yeah, that's very likely why I can't do that any more.

Tomorrow, I am due in Augusta at 7:15 A! M! for car inspection, oil change, &c, &c. I will byerlady go to City Hall and pay the excise tax on that same car before I come home to, hopefully, write.

I'm really missing Tali, who had Very Strong Opinions on when Stoopid Humans ought to sit down and Make a Lap, and wasn't shy about making them known. The other cats miss her, too -- this my guess by the fact that they're still working a three-sided schedule. I was unsupervised for several hours this morning, and Firefly actually looked shocked when she arrived for her shift and found me alone. Also, Firefly is not wanting to sleep on the bed without backup, which is sad, and I hope she'll get over it, though, thinking back, I believe she has always had back-up for bed-sleeping. Belle, Sprite, and Trooper certainly slept with us/me, and Tali overlapped Trooper . . .

For the curious, Rook will sleep with me, but his schedule is freeform. He'll arrive at some point midnightish, and curl up on my hip. I don't usually feel him leave, but I do note his arrival around 6, when I'll either get up, or go back to sleep for an hour.

Sigh.

Cat chess.

And! Chores

Once More Into The Breach

Friday evening.

I had One. Last. Go. at the whole Patreon thing, and guess what?

I found it! And I also found that I'm already on "subscription billing," so I can forget about this all over again.

For those who are as confused as I was, you need to go down the side of your home page -- down, down down, no, even further down, below your subscriptions to other creators, to those stupid three dots. See them?

Good. Click on them. You'll get an unpromising looking little box:
Appearance
Settings
Support
Log Out

Click Settings, which will open up a much more promising and larger box. Under Creator Settings, right above Account Settings, there you will find Billing and Payouts. Click. And right at the top of the new page will be Billing Schedule.

Sheeeeeesh

For my next trick, I have another damned email from the Anthropic legal team, allowing me to know that yet another of my titles is "disputed." Man, I'm tired of this game. Can we play Boggle now?

Oh. Wait.

PSA:  This whole kerfuffle has nothing to do with Patreon subscribers aka Patrons.  Purely an administrative funtime for creators.

Errands Being the Order of the Day

Saturday. Sunny, cool; last night's rain still lingering in the grass. Leftover (and rewarmed) macaroni and cheese custard for breakfast with a little hoarded can of pineapple juice on the side.

I slept a long, long time, and here you will see that I am Inconsistent. I worry when I sleep four hours, and I worry when I sleep nine. Especially I worry when I sleep nine and the toy on my wrist tells me that stress while I slept kept me from recharging sufficiently unto the day.

Today's theory is that I'm Just Exhausted. Everything, it is finally Too Much.

Moving on.

Today, Errands Come First. I have already informed the cats, who have gone to their posts in Steve's office. No one has ever said that coon cats are slackers.

It is, I'll note, very quiet in the house. Apparently Tali took up a lot of room, and RookandTali was a whole 'nother cat.

Finished listening to Chanur's Homecoming last night. "I'm real fond of you, too, Skkukuk." That being so, I really need to bear down on the book club book (The Burgess Boys), which I'm finding to be hard going. I did figure out that "Shirley Falls" is meant to be Lewiston -- I was thrown off by the description of it being a "small town" -- but I've yet to find a character I can connect with, even a little bit. Given that I identified with the Hani the first time I read them, and greeted them on this reread with the joy of reconnecting with old friends, this probably says terrible things about me as a human being.

What else? Oh. I need to make a video. Probably that's for tomorrow. Also, I need to make an order with Upton Tea -- I'm almost out of Russian Caravan.

All that being said, and my tea mug empty, I'd better get on the road. Errands ain't gonna run themselves.

Whatcha got on for the weekend?

Oh, Patreon.

So, Apple is bullying Patreon into changing how it does things again, this time insisting that everyone, everywhere, and solely for its own convenience adopt what Patreon is calling "subscription billing." Creators must insure that they are on "subscription billing" by November 1 or Patreon will do it for them, and nobody wants that.

I am somewhat at fault, because I usually ignore Helpful Advice from Patreon, because I don't partake of any of the fancy things that others of my colleagues delight in using.

However, I figured I could at least check what sort of billing I favor by following the directions given, to wit: "You can confirm your billing model at the top of your BILLING AND PAYOUT SETTINGS" under the heading 'Billing Schedule.'"

You're ahead of me, I know. Yep. No Billing Schedule. No Billing and Payout Settings. I have Payouts, certainly, which tells me how much money has been collected, deducted, and forwarded.

I further read that all creator pages launched on, or after September 27, 2022, are automatically on "subscription billing," which is, yanno, good to know. However, our page went live sometime in 2015, so I guess I'm really going to have to talk to Patreon Support.

Argh.

* * *
In other news, it's Friday, and going to be warmer rather than cooler. I've picked up the house so Sarah has a clear field in which to perform her miracles. I've shared a cup of tea and sunlight with Firefly, gotten Perry Wink on the road, looked at my mail queue, and at Patreon, and I'm thinking I'll be having a scone for breakfast and another cup of tea before I write to Support.

There were deer in the Long Back Yard again this morning. They're getting quite bold. Right up to the deck they were. I went out to introduce myself, and they ran off. Honestly.

So! How's Friday looking from your window?

Coon cats first

Firefly:



Rook:

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Wednesday. Cloudy and cool.

Hard to get out of bed this morning. Rook finally had to resort to sitting on my head and chewing my hair.

Read about a quarter of the WIP, breaking to make macaroni, some of which will become part of lunch; the rest of which will become part of lunches going forward. Also have to do some banking.

Came across a recipe for scallion-and-cheddar scones, which I do believe I'll be making this afternoon; they actually look like Real Food, in addition to being tasty.

The Lawn Guy has been by and done his thing, being as it's not Actually Raining at the moment.

The question How Are We/I Doing? has been asked. The answer "I've been better," may be seen as flippant, and "Working," may be seen as not being kind to myself.

A story. Steve and I many years ago attended the Universalist/Unitarian Church, where I was also a volunteer with the Evening Sandwich Program.

Now, Unitarians are kind of the Virgos of organized religions. There are many variations on the joke that starts out with a question like What Do The Religions Do When Their Church Catches on Fire, and it's inevitably the punchline that the Unitarians call the fire department.

At our particular church, there was a tradition when those in the congregation who had experienced a Good Thing in their lives during the previous week, were asked to stand up and share this with those gathered. One Sunday, Steve stood up and talked about some writing triumph that I no longer recall, and got A Look from the pulpit.

At coffee, after, the minister came up to him and said, "The Good Thing is supposed to be personal, you know. About your life. Not business."

To which Steve famously said, "But writing is my life."

All this to say that when I say I'm going to work, it doesn't mean that I'm being mean to myself or exceptional in my dedication to my job. I'm writing. It's what I do. Worry when I don't do what I do.

. . . and that's the bell for the pasta.

How's everybody getting by today?
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There was a call for the scone recipe, which is rendered below:

Scallion Cheddar Scones
This is supposed to make 12 scones. I made 16, because I have a scone pan and it has 16 spaces.

From the King Arthur All-Purpose Baking Companion

2 cups (240g) unbleached all-purpose flour OR (224g) unbleached pastry flour (I used white whole wheat, because that's what I had)

1/2 tsp salt

1 Tbs sugar

1 Tbs baking powder

6 TBS unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces

2 large eggs, beaten

1/3 cup (77g) cream or sour cream (I used sour cream)

1 TBS Dijon mustard

1 cup (112g) grated sharp cheddar cheese

3-5 (56g) scallions, chopped (I used shallots because no scallions)

Preheat oven to 375F. Sift together flour, salt, sugar, baking powder. Rub in butter with fingers.

Mix together eggs, mustard, cream. Add to dry ingredients. Stir in grated cheese and scallions. Mix until just combined.

Liberally flour the counter and your hands. Pat the dough into a 6x9 in rectangle about 1 inch thick. Cut the rectangle into 6 smaller rectangles, and cut each smaller rectangle into two triangles to form 12 triangular scones. Place on well-greased baking sheet.

OR 1: Squish even amounts of dough into each space in a dedicated scone pan

OR 2: Make 12 even amounts of dough into balls, put on well-greased baking sheet.

BAKE for 20 minutes, or until nicely browned.

Mine just came out of the oven:

. . .I have conducted a Quality Control Taste Analysis.  These?  are good.

The vet called with his report: A perfectly healthy cat, he said. Except for the being dead part -- he did not say. Heart perfectly fine. Can't look at the brain, because cats have hard heads, surprise me.

Tissue going to the lab. Another little cedar box will be ready for me to pick up on Friday.

This is going to be ... difficult.

Rookie did come to bed with me when I finally decided that I had to at least lie down, despite the fact that Tali most consistently slept with me.

Unfortunately, he got up in a couple hours and stamped around the house, calling, and going downstairs to bang on the two closed doors, which ... was actually pretty smart. I got up, picked him up, opened the doors, and showed him that Tali wasn't locked in anywhere.

He was present when Tali died, and I made a point of allowing him and Firefly to pay their respects before I put her in the fridge. I think Firefly Gets It, but Rook hasn't seemed to put the poor dead kitty and Tali in the same sentence yet.

She was only here for 19 months, but she leaves a big hole.

I? have a raging headache, no surprise, and can't see too well. Probably the smart thing to do, after I've managed to talk to a human at the emergency vet, is sit down, close my eyes and listen to music, or a book, or ... something.

While I do realize that Tali -- and I -- were "lucky" that this happened so quickly, and apparently painlessly, just like Steve -- and I -- were "lucky" for the same reasons -- it's ... a lot.

A lot.

I may be off-line for a few days.

Thanks to everyone for your care. The cats and I appreciate it.

So, yesterday went a little pear-shaped. I had planned on an all-writing day, but Real Life intervened, which meant I got a couple hours of writing done, plus my duty to the cats, plus some little bit of embroidery while listening to Chanur's Venture. I did chat a bit on Facebook, mostly about cats. To wit:

Answering the question that went past and now I can't find it again: Is Tali the biggest Maine coon currently in house?

The contestants are:
Firefly, calico -- 6 years, 11 lbs
Tali, orange tabby -- 4 years, 13 lbs
Rook, black-- 2 years, 13 lbs

Ladies and gentlebeings, we have a tie!

Biographical notations:
Firefly is petite, for a Maine Coon. She's also an adult, by Maine Coon reckoning, and the most retiring of the present lot of supervisors. She's affectionate, but easily overwhelmed, and can frequently be seen thinking. It is well to recall that Firefly has taken . . . many losses: Belle, Steve, Sprite, and Trooper.

Tali is the most compact of the three; when she lands on your lap, you know you've been landed on. She is the supervisor who demands the most lap-time. Very bossy, our Tali.

Rook is a growing boy; easily distracted, very affectionate, and scary smart. He and Tali have formed a partnership -- he keeps time and she registers the complaint.

More about Maine Coon growth stages here.

The above led to the question of which was the largest Maine coon we had owned, to which I answered: You know? I'm not sure. Hex(apuma) was pretty big, but lanky. I thought Mozart--our first Maine Coon--was Ginormous when I first saw him. I think he might've clocked in at 14 or 15 pounds. Trooper was 17 pounds FORever, and in her heyday Belle had a pound on two on him. Sprite was right around 15 pounds. To put all of this into perspective, a Bichon Frise (aka "the little white dog everybody has"--I finally asked someone what breed her dog was) will weigh between 12 and 15 pounds.

This answer led to the evergreen But I thought Maine Coon cats were HUGE! To which I answered: Breed standard for Maine Coons is females 12-15 pounds, males 18-22. So, yeah, I guess I've had small Maine Coons. Given that domestic cats average from 8-12 pounds, that's big enough.

Maine Coon breed standards here.
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All of which leads us handily into today, which I believe to be Friday--sunny and going to be warm-but-not-hot.  Tomorrow, we're looking for the rainy rags of the nor'easter that's been plaguing downcoast to arrive.

I had flat egg and Swiss cheese on homemade bread for breakfast, I am updating my blogs while I drink my third cup of tea, and will shortly be moving back to Steve's office to accomplish some work on the WIP. For lunch, I have my choice of warming up a pre-cooked pork chop with ... I think there's carrots left over, or warming up leftover chicken pot pie.

Not a particularly ambitious day, but mine own.

And hoping yours is enjoyable.

The coon cats were keeping a Very Close Eye this morning.  Photographic proof here

Wednesday. Sunny, clear, and cool.

The misdelivered box came home this morning. The heat pump situation has been rectified and a tutorial received. I've read 150 pages/24,000ish words of an incomplete Jethri novel which I think was being set up to explain why Jethri's genes were all over Spadoni Station in "Revolutionists," with a side of Shakespeare. Written in 2020.

The bit I remembered is part of the Spadoni Station/Shakespeare fragment (if you can call a quarter-book a "fragment"), and while it could be hammered into what I'm working on, I think it will better serve as what's nowadays called a "short novel" (Remember when ALL novels were 50,000 words? Yeah, yeah, and cost 25 cents.). It won't be canon, but we've done this before. So! This bit gets put aside for later finishing and publication through Pinbeam Books.

I still have 37,000ish words to read of yet another "failed" piece -- this one recognizably coming off of Fair Trade, written in September 2022. Fair Trade was published in May 2022.

Just for fun, I also have 3700ish words of a short story, that I wrote in November 2001, passed to Steve, and it got set aside in the Press of Other Business. What in Ghu's name were we even doing in November 2001? We were still with Meisha Merlin, and Balance of Trade wasn't published until 2004. Why was Jethri even -- oh, wait. "Balance of Trade," the novella, would have already been published in Absolute Magnitude. That's why Jethri was even, and makes more sense of the story, too. We were thinking ahead, as we tended to do. Anyhow, I've only glanced at it, not really read it. Might be able to be finished without too much trauma, if I get enough flex in the rest of life.

Pay copy comes first.

The rest of today is, alas, chores.

I finished reading The Glass-Cursed last night -- it's a cozy, I guess, because the decision was made to let the Group Handle It, rather than allow one of their number to take the whole cost of the thing onto herself, despite her part in having created the problem in the first place. "Many hands make the work light," and also "Grace to those who fought." I did finish it, but it was starting to wear on me after a bit, which I means that, for me, it could've been shorter. Also, there are serious timing problems at the end when the characters don't seem to know if something took two days or seven months, and the Really Important Question of How a certain thing got produced, given that there's no X, and also Y is completely ignored.

I started the book club book at lunch, The Burgess Boys, by Elizabeth Strout, partially set in Shirley Falls, Maine, which is big enough to have a hotel, so it can't actually be set in Skowhegan, which was where my mind went.

And that? Is all my news.

What's yours?