Well, that's that; my magical murder pixie toils are done, and they have borne sweet, sweet fruit, has the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy, Deadline, has just been sent back to my publisher in final draft form. Barring acts of god or unforeseen gaping plot holes, my part in this book is over until the page proofs. Which will probably hit around October, assuming we follow the timeline we followed for Feed. Post-It notes in Ohio, here we go again!

Final book stats, including Dedication and Acknowledgments:

150,001 words.
525 pages.
Twenty-seven chapters.

When asked to say something about the book, Vixy says, "Fucking brilliant. Gripping. Terrifying. Satisfying. It's about heroes." So, you know. Fucking brilliant. You heard it here first, folks. Really, I'm scared out of my mind—I always am at this point—but I'm also deeply relieved, because it's done. It's finished. My baby is heading out into the great wide world, and there's no more chopping or stitching or graverobbing to be done. (What? You mean everyone doesn't assemble their offspring out of transistors and corpse parts?)

I'm done.

One more book, and this grand adventure is over; one more book, and we find out whether or not I can stick the landing. I think I can. I hope I can. I believe I can. Because alive or dead, the truth won't rest.

Rise up while you can.

Well, here we go: I am now officially 90% of the way packed for my trip to Australia. My suitcases zip with relative ease. I still need to load up my thumb drive, since The Big Laptop isn't making the journey with me, and I have a few CDs scheduled to be delivered later this week that I'm really hoping to get onto my iPod before I fly, but that's about it. It's all dumping out my purse and finding my spare laptop battery from here.

It's weird to sit here and realize that in forty-eight short hours, I will be on a plane, about to land in Los Angeles, where I'll get on a second plane and begin the long journey to Melbourne. Because it's a night flight, I'll probably sleep for the first five or so hours, then wake up, blink groggily, and start working. That's just what I do on planes. (You think I'm kidding. I point to Exhibit A, Chasing St. Margaret. It's a romantic comedy. About jetlag. I wrote it, primarily, on my flight from San Francisco to London, and finished it on the flight from London to San Francisco. Because I am bitchin' productive when I'm several thousand feet up in the air.)

I have wanted to visit Australia since I knew there was an Australia to visit. To be quite honest, for a long time, I wanted to move there, until I realized a) my friends would miss me, b) quarantine would be hell on the cats, and c) Australia's immigration laws mean I couldn't move anyway. So visiting will have to be enough. I'm a little scared and a little excited and a little totally ready to be on my way, because seriously, I have no attention span and no brain left. It's sad, except for the part where it's funny for people who aren't me.

I will come back with wonderful stories and probably a sunburn, souvenirs, memories, and the strong desire to sleep for a week. Hey, who knows—maybe I'll even come back with a tiara. That'd sure make my mother happy.

Two days to Australia. That's too soon; that's nowhere near soon enough.