When I was a kid growing up below the poverty line in California, I had a lot of toys that were "the hot new thing" about ten years before they wound up in my grasping little hands. This included the glory of the Creepy Crawlers machine, from Thing Maker. (Modern parents, prepare to be completely and utterly appalled.) It consisted of a small, open-faced grill component capable of baking things at incredibly high temperatures, nine solid metal molds, a metal hook for lifting the hot molds out of the "oven," and a bunch of bottles of liquid sludge called "Plasti-Goop." You plugged the oven in, chose a mold, filled it with multi-colored ooze, and then watched in amazement as heat slowly transformed harmless slime into boiling molten death plastic, and then into cheap quarter-machine plastic bugs, amphibians, and reptiles.

Best. Toy. Ever.

If my mother thought it might be dangerous for me to spend hours sitting on the steps in front of our apartment wearing cut-off shorts and breathing the fumes from a boiling cauldron of molten plastic, she never said anything; really, she probably figured it was cheaper than eating paste or sniffing markers until they dried out (big hobbies with the other kids on my block). Besides, my infinite supply of interestingly-colored plastic creatures meant I only tried to beg for quarters when I wanted gum or a superball, and that was much more reasonable than trying to feed my endless hunger for hideous horror movie props.

I was, I think, nine when my sister (Rachel, the youngest one) wandered innocently out onto the porch, grabbed hold of the cord on my Creepy Crawler machine, and gave it a good yank. The machine promptly flew into the air and stuck to the side of my right calf, at which point I began wailing like a banshee on acid. The machine fell down; the mold didn't. My mother came running out of the apartment and sensibly grabbed my little sister, who was in serious danger of being pitched off the balcony once I finished screaming, and then ran back inside to get some ice. I managed to knock the mold off my leg, leaving an enormous glob of bright orange molten Plasti-Goop behind. More screaming.

Mom came out, and wiped away the plastic; my leg was already starting to blister. I still have the scar, a strawberry-shaped white patch about the size of a man's thumb print on my right calf. It makes an entertaining conversation piece, since "Where did you get that scar?" is rarely answered with "My sister spilled a molten plastic caterpillar mold on my leg."

I miss my Creepy Crawler machine. And if I had it, there's not a parent I know who'd let their children near my house ever again.

I am in the fascinating position right now of having two books in the ARC stage—A Local Habitation (Toby two) and Feed (Newsflesh one)—at the same time. This means there are ARCs all over my house, making people feel that I have an extravagent number of the things. My care and caution with giving them away is hence viewed as channeling my inner Scrooge, rather than conserving limited natural resources. (This makes me think of ARCs as some sort of rare bird. The migratory North American ARC, majestic in flight, aerodynamic like a brick.) The cats view them as natural enemies which Mommy Likes Better, and stalk them with ears flat and whiskers in full threat position. My mother attempts to steal them. And, occasionally, reviewers request them or contest entries win them. Right now, they're worth their weight in kittens, and as the window of their usefulness is narrow, I'm enjoying them while I can. Reviews of A Local Habitation are starting to appear, and various bloggers are starting to announce that they've received their copies of Feed, which means reviews of that should start appearing right about when I get my equilibrium back. Fun!

People periodically ask me* how ARCs get out into the wild. Well, there are three main ways, not counting contests. Namely...

1) You are already on a list, which is in the possession of my publisher, and they will send you one automatically. Most large review outlets are in this category. Feed is being sent to Fangoria Magazine, which is sort of like saying "Seanan, we're going to dip you in chocolate, roll you in selected pages from the script of Night of the Living Dead, and deliver you to James Gunn with a gift tag."

2) You contact my publisher and request an ARC. You probably need to prove that you have a review site or an affiliation with a legitimate review outlet. Your Livejournal is unlikely to count, I'm afraid. I'm sure there are exceptions, but you'll need a readership the size of like, Ohio.

3) You contact me through my website and request an ARC. I go through a lot of the same vetting steps as my publisher—I'll go read your blog, I'll look up the magazine you say you're affiliated with, I'll ask the magical moon ponies whether they've really seen you dancing naked at midnight in the middle of Mare Imbrium—before I decide one way or another.

Be aware that any time you elect for an option that includes the word "ask," you may get told "I'm sorry, no." ARCs are an extremely limited commodity, and just to make things more fun, the number printed tends to decline with each book. It's reasonable math. Your first book, you want to spread it as widely as possible. So you give more copies away, trying to create as much early excitement as possible. Your second book, well, some of that buzz already exists, right? So you don't need quite as many free copies out there, circulating and being read before the actual release date. As the number of people asking for ARCs goes up, the number of ARCs to be had goes down. This isn't the author being mean, or the publisher being dumb. This is using your promotional dollars as sensibly as possible.

What do ARCs have to do with promotional budgets? A lot. Page for page, making an ARC costs more than printing a hardcover. The print runs are small enough that they never tip over into bulk pricing, and since ARCs have no resale value (people selling them on eBay and earning my eternal annoyance aside), there's no way to recover the cost, beyond praying that sending the ARCs out into the world will result in positive reviews and higher sales. So as the "spread the word" value of the individual ARC goes down, the number of overall ARCs printed will also decline, putting those dollars back into the promo budget. I've been very lucky, and have received a decent number of ARCs for all three books to date. The definition of "decent" will continue to shift as days go by.

As a secondary note, if you ask me for an ARC, and I say "yeah, okay," and the ARC then shows up on eBay, I'm afraid I won't be sending you any further books. I can't afford the copies or the postage.

Hope this helps.

(*For values of "me" that mean "the Internet at large, only they use my name, so my Google spiders pick up the post and bring it back to me.")

Words: 3,086.
Total words: 103,325.
Estimated to go: 21,675.
Reason for stopping: I fly to Seattle tomorrow, it's time to stop.
Music: the Midnight Blue-Light Special playlist, oddly enough.
Lilly and Alice: cat tree and cardboard box, respectively.

I have reached the irritating and fiddly bit of setting things up before blowing them up. I hate this bit. It's difficult and irritating and also, yes, fiddly. I have also reached the fascinating bit where I can literally see the ending, it's right there, and the book will pay off soon. Hopefully it will pay off big time, and then there can be the finest muffins and bagels in the land. Until then, I shall scowl at the keg of victory, and pack my socks for tomorrow's long-distance voyage.

Whee.