People ask me "well, did you have fun?" a lot. After conventions, after signings, after anything that would have involved me appearing in a professional capacity. I generally smile and say I had a very nice time, but that's not always enough. Some people want to know, for sure and for certain, that I had fun. That I am riding my giddy inner parade float off to Candy Mountain, land of sweet sugary joyness, and not counting the minutes until I can take off my shoes and stop trying to interact with humans.

This is difficult for me.

Here is what I do for fun at a convention: I cruise the dealer's room, sometimes for hours, looking at things I have no intention of buying, spending too much money at the same time. I go back to my hotel room and eat M&Ms while watching cartoons on whatever kid-oriented channel the hotel includes as part of its cable package. Sometimes, when I have a few hours of downtime, I attend a concert or get someone to drive me to the nearest Target, where I buy cranberry juice and Diet Dr Pepper and more M&Ms.

Here is what I do not do for fun: everything else.

I love being a guest at conventions. It's one of my natural environments. I grew up at cons, I'm good at cons, I always have a nice time. I always have a good time. Even at the con where I had an allergic reaction so severe that I spent literally three hours in my hotel room huddled around the toilet bowl and crying, I had a good time. But I don't have much fun. Fun is not the reason I am there. Like the girls on reality shows who aren't there to make friends, I am not there to enjoy myself: I'm there to work.

When I am a guest at a con, I am there to help you have fun. I'm there to listen and speak and sign and sometimes give hugs. I'm there to hand out ribbons and admire tattoos and do whatever is asked of me, because I'm working. I am at work. My job is awesome and enjoyable and I am so, so lucky to have it; sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am to have it. I wouldn't change it for anything. But every time I do something I consider "fun" (latest example: chasing lizards around the rocks at Disneyland), I am reminded that no, I am not at conventions to have fun. And that's a good thing.

I am making more fun for you.

One week from today, Sparrow Hill Road will be on bookstore shelves everywhere, and you will finally be able to learn the tale of Rose Marshall as she always intended it to be told.

According to my file dates, "Pretty Little Dead Girl," the song that introduced most people to Rose, was written on December 17th, 2004. The first story appeared in The Edge of Propinquity in January of 2010. Six years to get from song to story, and that wasn't the end of it. Those original stories have been rewritten and revised and ripped up and ripped away until their bones showed through, and now, on May 6th, 2014, you finally get to see the actual shape of things. It only took a little under ten years.

According to Publishers Weekly, which got a few of the facts of Rose's complicated origin wrong, but got the feeling right...

"McGuire (the InCryptid series) brings empathy, complexity, and a shivering excitement to this well-developed campfire tale. Many stories have been told about a hitchhiker, a young woman—sometimes dressed in a prom dress or jeans and a T-shirt—who roams the highways in search of a ride. Rose Marshall is that hitcher, also known as the Ghost of Sparrow Hill Road. Rose has two purposes: one is helping the newly dead make the transition between states, and the other is hunting down Bobby Cross, the man who killed her in order to gain immortality. This is the story of her death, and her life. This mesmerizing tale had its beginnings in the short story The Edge of Propinquity; McGuire has smoothly turned it into a powerful blend of ghost story, love story, and murder mystery, wrapped in a perfectly neat package."

One week.

Rose is finally almost home.