I have all these things I want to talk about. Like, my little running junk file contains about three dozen links, and a long list of blog topics (written in my customary all-caps shorthand, so the word "fuck" is pretty heavily represented—sometimes I'm a Kevin Smith movie). Instead, I spent much of my morning mastering the phrase "working for our robot overlords—did I say 'overlords'? I meant 'protectors,'" in American Sign Language. This is a highly useful phrase, and one which I am currently using quite a lot. Sure, I'm using it quite a lot because I just learned how to say it, but the theory is sound.

Other things I can say in ASL:

* The turtle couldn't/can't help you/me/us.
* I will kill you with a chainsaw now.
* I have a parasite inside my brain.
* Ninja!
* Giant metal Santa Claus.
* The salad of infinite despair.
* Moose lobotomy time. Call the moose lobotomist.
* Die in a fire.
* The Black Death.
* Octopus fellatio.
* Science/mad science.
* I want to eat your brain.
* ZOMBIE.

Naturally, I have learned these specific phrases because they are extremely useful in my daily life, and not because I enjoy signing "the salad of infinite despair" at people when they annoy me. Honest.

My current adventures in ASL are strongly fueled by the fact that I have essentially managed to freezer burn my brain as I race through Deadline like I'm being pursued by a pack of rabid weasels. The book is about 15,000 words from over, and I have a very solid idea of what all those words need to be; it's just a matter of getting them onto the page. I alternate between wanting to snarl at anything that keeps me from writing, and wanting to keep myself from writing, since soon, I won't have a book anymore. There will be other books. There will be edits and revisions on this book. But it won't be the same, and it will never be the same again, and after this, I only get to spend one more book in this universe. That's going to hurt. In the course of three volumes, I'll have essentially written four and a half Toby books-worth of story (these are big-ass books), and that makes the Masons and their companions really well-established denizens of my head. I'm going to wind up writing the parasite trilogy just to get myself through the grieving stage. This is, by the way, why I am drowning in series.

(I have friends who only write in single volumes. Bam bam bam, book book book, done. They view my addiction to series with horrified confusion, and some of them have commented that they wish they could do that. In the spirit of the seaweed always being greener in somebody else's lake, I envy the people who can write a book and be done. The closest I get to writing a book and being done is plotting to give certain characters only one POV volume in the InCryptid series. My brain is wired oddly.)

One of my "waiting in the wings" protagonists is a woman named Alice Price-Healy (Verity's grandmother), whose tastes run to camouflage pants, fabrics that can be easily treated for bloodstains, and lots and lots of weapons. She's a hopeless romantic, having spent the last thirty or so years spelunking through the various dimensions surrounding her own as she tries to find her missing husband. Who is probably getting punched in the face if and when she finally finds him, since she's been scared to death for decades now. Anyway, my darling fireriven pointed me to something on Etsy, and in browsing the seller's other items, I found a red glass heart pendant with an old-fashioned six-shooter charm dangling from it. I stared. My inner Alice announced her covetousness.

I bought the necklace. It arrived in yesterday's mail, and it is awesome. Best of all, when someone asked me where I found it and what made me buy it (since I don't buy much jewelry that isn't from chimera_fancies), I was able to honestly reply "Oh, the one of the people who lives inside my head told me to." Sowing confusion is fun!

Seriously, though, I think my brain is bruised. I'm going to go home tonight and knock out another 3,000 words or so before watching Leverage, and tomorrow night, I'll go home and knock out 5,000 to 8,000, since I have no bedtime on Fridays. And after I do this a few more times, the book will be over, and I'll need to start occupying my time with something else. Like The Brightest Fell, and starting Blackout, and petting the cats. Oh, and learning how to say "behold, for now I wear the human pants" in ASL.

You know. The important things.

To celebrate Valentine's Day (and the excuse that it provides—I might as well be celebrating Champion Crab Races Day on the 18th), I've decided to do something truly awesome: a three stage ARC giveaway. Yes! Three ARCs of A Local Habitation will be awarded to three lucky entries over the course of the next week!

Here's how it works:

1. Comment on this entry telling me who your favorite character in Toby's world is, and why. Be as detailed as you want. (Yes, technically, this does make the contest open only to those who've read Rosemary and Rue. As this is a sequel, I don't feel bad about that.)
2. ...that's all, actually. Your part in things is now done.

I will select winners via random number draw tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday. All winners will be selected at noon PST. All winners must contact me via my website "contact" link before eight PM PST on Sunday, or another winner will be selected, and I will shake my head in sorrow.

Game on!

Once again, my big list o' holidays* says that today is a holiday that is very important to me, and makes a big impact on my life. Maybe not as big an impact as Virus Appreciation Day (October 3rd), which I celebrate every year by not unleashing the pandemic, or Cuckoo Warning Day (June 21st), which is best celebrated by evolving parasitic wasps into telepathic humanoids, but still, it's important to me.

Today is Australia Day.

So today we celebrate the existence of Australia, the continent which proves that evolution did a lot of drugs when it was young. Today we celebrate the fact that Australia is full of things that want to make us all die, the fact that Australia is frequently on fire, and the fact that Australia essentially hates humanity. Specific things to celebrate about Australia include venomous snakes, spiders the size of dinner plates, marsupials, really interesting money, the koala (which will totally rip your face off if you poke it), and the cone snail, which is the size of a man's thumb and can kill you extremely dead. This is why you do not fuck around with the native wildlife of Australia.

Tonight I will celebrate by going to Kate's house to eat tasty Indian food and tell her things she never wanted to know about the many ways in which Australia can render you extremely deceased. There will be expository hand-gestures, and possibly even diagrams. Kate puts up with a lot from me, really. And later this year, I'll belatedly celebrate Australia Day by actually going to Melbourne, Australia, for the glory of WorldCon.

Thank you for existing, Australia! Today is your day. Your venomous, deadly, kicking-your-ass, being eaten by koalas day.

Hooray Australia!

(*I have a list containing a holiday for every single day of the year. Some days have more than one holiday listed. The world needs more excuses for a party.)

"You talk about your cats a lot."
"You talk about your kids a lot."
"It's not the same thing."
"My Maine Coon flushed a seven inch long alligator lizard down the front hall toilet."
"..."
"It's exactly the same thing."

As most people know, I live with cats. One Siamese and one Maine Coon, to be precise. They are blazingly intelligent, easily bored, and utterly spoiled in the way that only blazingly intelligent cats with indulgent owners can ever get (since dumb cats never realize how much they can actually get away with). This means that my life is never boring, although I do occasionally have to tell people I can't go out, the cats are requiring me to stay in. This is not an ironic statement. The cats are fully capable of hiding my keys, my glasses, and—on one impressive occasion—the contents of my underwear drawer. Contrary to popular belief, I am not going to walk to Safeway without a bra, socks, or panties. Just no. Also, the cats like to unplug my alarm clock when they feel that I've been out of the house too much. They dislike the alarm, they like me sleeping in, problem solved!

Smart cats are their own problem. Smart cats with extremely clever paws are occasionally a circle of hell.

Yesterday morning, I was in such a hurry to get out of the house that I forgot to check the level of food in the cat bowls. Now, my girls each have their own bowl, although they're fed side-by-side, to prevent Lilly eating Alice's food to show dominance. (They still occasionally trade food, but it's just that: a trade. It's like watching kids swap pudding cups.) Alice gets Royal Canin Maine Coon blend; Lilly gets Royal Canin Picky Bitch, which is technically named something like "sensitive feline," but let's get real. When you have to feed this stuff to your cat, your cat is picky. Very, very picky. Royal Canin makes Siamese blend, but Lilly doesn't like it. When given Royal Canin Siamese, Lilly eats all of Alice's food, and since Alice prefers Royal Canin Maine Coon, Alice proceeds to harass me until I feed her the right stuff...which Lilly then proceeds to eat. So it's Maine Coon and Picky Bitch blends for my girls.

Anyway, upon arriving home yesterday evening, I was met at the door by two very angry cats who wanted to lecture me on my failure to feed them. They told me I was a bad pet owner. They told me I had Done Them Wrong. They kept telling me as I filled their dishes...and they then did not eat, as they were too busy telling me what a horrible person I was. Seriously. Alice even took some kibble from the dish and dropped it on my foot to illustrate the point that I Had Failed Them, and I Needed To Apologize. I apologized. I stroked them. I made soothing noises. I brushed Alice. I let Lilly have my purse (which she promptly began to chew on). I hung my head in shame. Satisfied, they finally ate.

I woke up this morning with kibble on my pillow. I am not yet forgiven.

"Alice, why don't you let me use the remote?"
"Mrrrrrrr."

Last night, while watching Bones, I got a lapful of Lilly. This is normal. Lilly proceeded to flop onto her back, stretch out, and cross her ankles, looking like a coney prepped for roasting. Also normal. Alice, meanwhile, hopped up onto the empty couch cushion, sat on her rump with her tail sticking out to one side, and started grooming. Still normal. Then she leaned over, took the remote off the couch, and cuddled it like a teddy bear. And refused to give it back to me. No matter how nicely I asked her.

Tragically, this is still normal. The only way to get the remote back was to give her the DVD remote instead...and that's why the DVD tray was sliding in and out and in and out for the next twenty minutes, as the cat happily played with the "eject" button.

There is a reason I talk about my cats as much as I do. Because if I didn't, none of you would have any warning on the day when they finally decided to conquer your puny planet.

Run while you can.

The aliens are here! And they're offering you an all-expenses paid trip to their home planet, where you will spend a mutually agreeable amount of time learning from their advanced culture before doing whatever it is you do after the aliens bring you back. Because they're friendly, they say you can bring three changes of clothing, basic toiletries (toothbrush, hairbrush, etc.), food samples for their replicators, your laptop computer (if you have one), and any pets you absolutely must have to remain essentially sane. They're also willing to let you bring ten "personal items" on your trip, since you'll be out of contact with Earth until you get back.

So what do you bring?

I'd have to take Lilly and Alice, of course, so my first two items go them. Under the "care and feeding" clauses, their food and litter box don't count; instead, I'm bringing their orange cat tree (necessary for their mental health) and Alice's squid on a stick, which both of them can play with for hours and which can be easily repaired.

That leaves me with eight. First up, my iPod. It doesn't fall under the "sanity" heading, but it definitely falls under the "keep Seanan from killing anyone" setting. Next, a copy of IT by Stephen King (ultimate comfort book), my plush velociraptor, and a bottle of Bad Luck Woman Blues from the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. I'm going to call my little pen case one item, despite it containing multiple pens, because these are generous aliens; that, and a sketchbook, will see me through a lot.

With two items remaining, I'm going to bring my planner and my turtle bag. I am now ready for an alien field trip. How about you?

I am not a Triskaidekaphobe; if anything, I'm more of a Triskaidekaphile. I love the number thirteen. I spent the entire year that I was thirteen wandering around feeling lucky (and even extended it into my fourteenth year by quite a bit, insisting that I needed to get thirteen months, weeks, days, and hours of being thirteen). I've always considered Friday the 13th to be "my lucky day," and I love years like 2009, where the stars align just right and we get three Friday the 13ths in a single calendar year. (This year, 2010, the stars have not aligned just right, and we're only getting one, in August. I hope to spend it in Australia, where I will use its potent payload of sheer good luck to not die horribly.)

But why is Friday the 13th unlucky? One could argue that it has become unlucky because so many people believe it is, and there's value in that position, but what started it? Here's the fun part: no one really seems to know for sure. It's a combination of unlucky thirteen and unlucky Friday, and it just bumbles around being baleful at all the other days on the calendar.

So why is thirteen unlucky? Some people claim that Judas was the thirteenth person to join the table during the Last Supper (which doesn't explain why "thirty" isn't unlucky, too, that being the number of pieces of silver he's supposed to have received). Others think it came from the Norse, where alternately, Loki was regarded as the thirteenth god of the pantheon, or just the thirteenth person to show up at Baldr's funeral, having also arranged Baldr's death. (So you know, if you arrange my death, you're not invited to my funeral.) There's an old superstition that says that when thirteen people gather, one of them will be dead within the year, which is statistically viable in certain cases, and not so much in others.

There are also a lot of cultures that hold thirteen to be lucky, one way or another. The Torah describes the thirteen attributes of mercy, and boys become men on their thirteenth birthdays. Italy considers thirteen to be a lucky number, as does Colgate University. Thirteen is when kids can see PG-13 movies unaccompanied, and believe me, that is incredibly lucky when it happens. Also, thirteen is a prime number, which always leaves me well-disposed.

So maybe it's all Friday's baggage. Sure, we tend to regard Friday as lucky in the modern era—it's the last day of the work or school week, it's the day when all the new movies open, and it's the day when bedtime is suspended—but for a long time, Friday was viewed as unlucky. Maritime folklore holds that it's a bad idea to start a long voyage on a Friday. Jesus may or may not have been crucified on a Friday, and "Black Friday" either means "day of horrible disaster" or "the day after Thanksgiving, when we create horrible disasters in the mall parking lot." Who knows?

The theories on why we've decided Friday the 13th is singularly unlucky range from the ancient (Frigga is pissed off about Christianity) to the political (the early Christians made thirteen unlucky because the pagans considered it lucky) to the osmosis of popular culture (Thomas W. Lawson's 1907 novel, Friday, the Thirteenth). Regardless of why it happened, it's unlikely to unhappen any time soon, especially not if Jason and his machete have anything to say about it.

Happy Wednesday the thirteenth! Try not to walk under any ladders.

Hello, and welcome to my journal! I'm pretty sure you know who I am, my name being in the URL and all, but just in case, I'm Seanan McGuire (also known as Mira Grant), and you're probably not on Candid Camera. This post exists to answer a few of the questions that I get asked on a semi-hemi-demi-regular basis. It may look familiar; that's because it gets re-posted roughly every two months, to let folks who've just wandered in know how things work around here. Also, sometimes I change the questions. Because I can.

If you've read this before, feel free to skip, although there may be interesting new things to discover and know beyond the cut.

Anyway, here you go:

( This way lies a lot of information you may or may not need about the person whose LJ you may or may not be reading right at this moment. Also, I may or may not be the King of Rain, which may or may not explain why it's drizzling right now. Essentially, this is Schrodinger's cut-tag.Collapse )

So I have a reporter from the Contra Costa Times coming over this afternoon to interview me and take some pictures for a local author profile piece. This is pretty cool. I've never been profiled in the newspaper before. We've cleaned the whole house (for values of "we" that mean "mostly my mother"), my room is slightly less of an EPA hazard zone than usual, and the cats have been thoroughly lectured on not throwing up in front of the cameraman. After a great deal of discussion, I have agreed to the following list of Things Seanan Isn't Allowed To Discuss With the Reporter (unless she starts it):

1. The Black Death.
2. Parasites.
3. How parasites caused us to evolve gender.
4. Endemic bubonic plague in California's ground squirrels.
5. The X-Men.
6. Crazy Australian mermaid shows.
7. Anything involving venom.
8. Dinosaurs.
9. The inevitability of the zombie apocalypse.
10. Anything that involves socially unacceptable hand gestures.
11. The ineffective nature of H1N1 as a slatewiper pandemic.
12. How my pandemic would be better.
13. Pandemics, period.
14. My collection of My Little Ponies.
15. My collection of plush weaponry.
16. My collection of plush viruses.
17. Banana slugs.
18. How to evolve a society of pseudo-mammal telepaths from parasitic wasps.
19. Why you would want to do that in the first place.
20. Giant squid.
21. Reality television.
22. Bedbug reproduction.
23. Anything Kate won't let me talk about during dinner.
24. Necrosis.
25. The slow conversion of aspartame into formaldehyde.
26. Monkeyspheres.
27. The fact that the turtle couldn't help us.
28. My limited and specialized knowledge of ASL.
29. The virtues of the machete vs. the meat cleaver.
30. That vial of liquid mercury I bought at a garage sale.
31. Tarantulas.
32. Cheese.
33. Jerusalem crickets.
34. What I did last summer.
35. The vast disparity between women's "appropriate" weight and the things women eat in television commercials.
36. Evil Dead: the Musical.
37. Why you should turn to cannibalism immediately when stranded on a desert island.
38. Kuru.
39. Flensing.
40. Parthenogenic reproduction.
41. Reasons to go crawling around in a sewer.
42. Observing autopsies.
43. Why yoga is better with Rob Zombie.
44. SyFy Original Movies.
45. The drinking games that accompany same.
46. Why I went to Waverly Place last time I was in Manhattan.
47. Pie.
48. Pi.
49. Structured poetry.
50. People as an available source of protein.

So I'm past the hangovers and sugar-crashes and travel and oddly excessive number of cookies, and it is now time to begin assessing my current status. Beyond "awake," I mean. It's 2010! It's a whole new year! Sadly, the old year did not do all the dishes before it left, but hey.

Books. I have three coming out in 2010: A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] and An Artificial Night as me, and Feed [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] as Mira Grant. I have one currently due in 2010, Blackout (the sequel to Feed).

In addition to the books that are already sold/slated for publication, I have one finished October Daye book, Late Eclipses, and one finished InCryptid book, Discount Armageddon. I am currently working on The Brightest Fell (Toby five), Midnight Blue-Light Special (InCryptid two), and Sit, Stay, I Hate You (Coyote Girls two). In 2010, I'm planning to finish all three of these, start on Deadline (Newsflesh three), start on Ashes of Honor (Toby six), and start on Hunting Grounds (InCryptid three). I am not planning on a particularly large quantity of sleep.

Short Stories. I'm one of the 2010 universe authors for The Edge of Propinquity, which will be running my Sparrow Hill Road series from January through December. The first story, "Good Girls Go To Heaven," has been turned in, and I'm about two-thirds of the way through the second story, "Dead Man's Party," which should be finished by this weekend. After that comes "Tell Laura I Love Her," which should be a lot of fun. This is a series heavily influenced by the mythology of the American highway, and with a very strong soundtrack accompanying every story. There will be playlists! Much fun.

I have various other short stories out on secret missions, including two Fighting Pumpkins adventures ("Dying With Her Cheer Pants On" and "Gimme a 'Z'!"), my first-ever steampunk piece ("Alchemy and Alcohol," which comes complete with cocktail recipes), and an actual Mira Grant short story ("Everglades"). I'm noticing a high level of dead stuff in my recent short story output. Somehow, this is not striking me as terribly surprising.

Non-fiction. My essay in Chicks Dig Time Lords [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] will be available in March, along with, y'know, the rest of the book. So if you've ever wondered why I love math and have trouble with linear time, you should probably pick up a copy of this book. (You should do that anyway, because the book is awesome, but that's beside the point.) My introduction for jennifer_brozek's In A Gilded Light will also be available with the rest of the book, sometime in mid-2010.

Albums. Work on Wicked Girls is proceeding apace, and beginning to pick up speed as we get deeper into the process of mixing and arranging songs. I'm scheduling my various instrumentalists to come into the studio and get their parts recorded, and some of the arrangements are just going to be incredible. I still need to confirm the covers for this album, and start thinking about graphic design, but I'm still really, really pleased. There's no confirmed release date yet, and there's not going to be one until we're a lot closer to done: as I've said a few times, as soon as there's a deadline, this ceases to be fun and relaxing, and right now, we're too far from finished for that to be a good idea.

I'm within a hundred copies of being entirely out of Stars Fall Home (my first studio album), and right now, I couldn't tell you if or when there's going to be another printing. I'm doing a little better for Pretty Little Dead Girl, but at the current rate, I'd estimate that I'll be out (or very close to out) by this time next year. Red Roses and Dead Things, being my most recent release, is also the one with the most remaining stock (paradoxically, it's also my fastest seller, since a lot of folks don't have it yet). In summary, if you're missing any of my first three albums, you may want to consider whether you're going to want them, because when they're gone, they're gone.

Cats. Thanks to Susan's lovely gift of triple-strength catnip mice, I have discovered Alice's response to catnip. Basically, she goes batshit moonmonkey pumpkinfuckers INSANE for about half an hour, before singing arias to the invisible bug-people for the rest of the night. Lilly, on the other hand, takes advantage of Alice's, ahem, "delicate condition," and spends several hours gently shoving her off things.

And that's the local weather report. Back to you, Ken.

My recent radio silence has been the result, not of traumatic head injury or watching all of The West Wing in one huge gluttonous marathon, but of having a lovely time in Seattle with some of my favorite people in the world. (Seriously, I sometimes think my definition of "absolutely perfect" would include a guest list of about eight people, bribing Betsy to let us come have a kitchen party at her place, and "accidentally" cutting the phone lines.) Also, everyone here tends to sleep until noon when not actively poked with sticks, and I get up at seven-thirty, so I've been doing a lot of catch-up work, very little of which sparks my brain to post.

I shall say interesting and insightful things later; for right now, this is a random time for random things, because I need to clean up my tabs again.

rivkat has tossed a short review of Rosemary and Rue into the fray, and says "It's a good debut, giving information at the right pace and creating an engaging urban fantasy world." I approve.

There's also a short review over on Just Finished, which says "McGuire, a local author who is also a must see feature on the local SF convention scene due to her off the cuff witty remarks, does a good job with the first book of this planned series." (Also, the complaint that I sometimes get overly wrapped up in things that won't happen for eight books is fair. I've gotten much better about it, promise.)

Vixen's Daily Reads posted a review, and says "I read this a few weeks ago, but wasn't sure how I would write a review that would do this justice. I honestly still don't think I will do the book justice, but I want to write the review before the new year. This is one of my favorite books of the year. This is an amazing, intelligent, action packed story that I could not put down once I started it. Well, I had to put it down to sleep at some point, but I didn't want to." I'm in your library, stealin' your sleep!

2009 is officially used up, and I've made jennifer_brozek's (who edits The Edge of Propinquity) Best Reads of 2009 list! Yay! In related news, the first Sparrow Hill Road story is turned in, and should be going live on the 15th of this month. Watch for it!

Finally, for the good of all, here are Ten Words You Need to Stop Misspelling. Thanks to The Oatmeal for educating us all.

And therein endith the random. For now.

Some of you may remember how last year I took my crazy little bluepoint princess, Lilly, to enjoy a memorable meeting with Santa Claus. (She was the first cat this particular pet store Santa had ever encountered "on the job." Interestingly, he declined to return to the store this year, forcing us to go elsewhere for our Yuletide cheer. I can't swear that this is because of my pointy little princess, but when the red velvet hat fits...)

Because I am an equal-opportunity torturer of my cats, I decided that this year, it was Alice's turn to go out and meet the big man. So I called my mother, slapped a temporary harness on my normally collar-free cat, and went haring off for a date with destiny...or at least, a date with the local pet store Santa who hadn't retired due to cat.

The proof is in the picture:



Alice was very well-behaved. She didn't claw, hiss, spit, bite, or try to get away, although she did sing opera to express her displeasure with the time spent in the carrier. (Much like Lilly, she calmed immediately once I got her out of the box and just held her.) This Santa was definitely happier about having a cat in his lap, and admired her at great length.

It occurs to me that last year, I took Lilly to see Santa, said jokingly that I hoped she hadn't wished for a pony, and wound up bringing home a Maine Coon.

I'm scared now.

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my mind
Were hitchhiking ghost-girls and struggles unkind,
And fairy tale murders and pandemic flu—
My friends hope my holiday dreams won't come true—

And Tara has finished the graphics so fine
To help and promote that new novel of mine
(The sequel to something you just might have read,
With Toby and Tybalt and new things to dread).

My tickets are purchased, my plans are all set,
I'm wracking my brain to guess what I'll forget,
And Vixy and Tony are waiting with glee
For the holiday gift that I'm giving them—me.

Two thousand and nine is a year nearly through!
Oh, the things that we did, and the things left to do!
I'm still with the agent who signed me last year,
She still knows I'm crazy, and yet she's still here.

The first of the Toby books sits upon shelves,
Full of wise-cracking Cait Sidhe and put-upon elves,
And two more adventures are coming this year,
Which ought to be good for your holiday cheer.

In March, Habitation, in May, you'll get Feed
(My evil twin, Mira, knows just what you need),
While "Sparrow Hill Road" will take twelve months to drive,
And Rose knows that nobody gets out alive.

InCryptid and Velveteen, Babylon Archer,
And so many more are prepared for departure
At seanan_mcguire the updates are steady—
I'm keeping you posted. You'd better get ready.

The year yet to come will bring wonders galore,
And I can't start to guess at the great things in store,
So whatever you celebrate when the world's cold,
Be it secular, modern, or something quite old,

I hope that you're happy, I hope that you're warm,
I hope that you're ready to weather the storm,
And I wish you the joys that a winter provides,
All you Kings of the Summer and sweet Snow Queen brides,

And I can't wait to see what the next year will bring,
The stories we'll tell, and the songs that we'll sing.
The dead and the living will stand and rejoice!
(I beg you to rise while you still have a choice.)

The journey's been fun, and there's much more to see,
So grab your machete and come now with me,
And they'll hear us exclaim as we dash out of sight,
"Scary Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!"

1. Remember that voting is still open for the second A Local Habitation ARC giveaway, and while there are a few clear favorites, it's still anybody's game. I'll announce the third giveaway as soon as I figure out exactly what it's going to be.

2. A Local Habitation gets a little closer every day, as this page on the Penguin Group website can attest. It's still weird and wonderful and a little terrifying to look at websites and go "wait, that's my book, I wrote that, oh whoa, that's Toby." I am assured this feeling will eventually pass. I'm...not sure I want it to.

3. If you want to see me compared to an Emma Frost-esque diamond golem, click here and join the giggling. I don't object to being a golem, or being made out of diamond, and I admit it, my productivity is occasionally terrifying even to me. I am also assured that this phase in my life will eventually pass. That idea scares me.

4. Things about this weekend that I'm really excited about: the first holiday party of the season. Getting more time to work on Blackout. The premiere of the Alice miniseries on Syfy. It's by the people who did Tin Man last year, and while it doesn't star Zooey Deschanel (a definite minus if you ask me), it looks absolutely incredible. Plus it has Connor from Primeval, and he is mad hot.

5. Matt Fraction has declared that Emma Frost is the love of Scott Summers's life. Matt Fraction is my new favorite person, at least for right now.

Tonight, I'm going out with my cousins to do something mysterious which required me to buy two rolls of quarters from the bank. I am wary but interested to learn what lies in store on the misty streets of San Francisco. Here's hoping you're planning for a wonderful weekend of your own, and feel free to let me know what you have going on!

Winnowing down the number of amazing entries we got on the second ALH ARC giveaway was borderline impossible. So I selected my five favorites, solicited favorites from a few friends who didn't have entries, and let the random number generator fill out the rest. Please vote for your favorite picture or pictures; winners will be announced on Monday, December 7th.

Since we got such an amazing range and variety of entries, I'm going to expand the number prizes to four. First place gets first pick, second place gets second pick, and so on. The prizes are:

* An ARC of A Local Habitation.
* A copy of Rosemary and Rue (which I am happy to sign to someone else, if the winner wants it to be a gift).
* Two signed cover flats of A Local Habitation.

And now...the voting!

First off, remember that I'm still taking entries in the A Local Habitation ARC contest! To answer two questions I've been asked a time or two, no, the pets don't need to be yours, just photographed with owner consent, and yes, this contest is open to everyone, not just US residents. (To answer a third question, yes, you're welcome to cover your book with snails or give it to an octopus, but in those cases, I won't replace it. "Book eaten by tiger" is an accident, "book given to marine resident" is a very odd choice and an excuse to go to the bookstore.)

I'll take entries until the end of the weekend, and open voting Monday or Tuesday. Pet photography is fun!

( Now, what is the power of kittens compelling you to do this time? Click to find out. Alice says hello.Collapse )

There was a contest on Twitter earlier this week, wherein those of us who had nothing better to do with our time tried to compose complete, if very short, stories involving serial killers in order to win a book about a serial killer. I don't think I won, but wow did I have a lovely time, and as exercises in brevity go, this one was awesome. I give you...serial killer party!

"Corn mazes are full of shadows and, at Halloween, full of screams. She moves amongst artificial monsters, natural and sharp."

"Some like the personal touch: razors, throats, the copper taste of blood. Others think larger. Don't drink the water."

"They always blame the men with the axes, not the little girls who inexplicably survive. Beware the ones in the red hoods."

"Every time Jean Grey dies, I kill a redhead and set the body on fire. They just killed Emma Frost. Time for the freezer."

"Tapeworm eggs easily survive the blender. My friends love my protein shakes, and they all die thin and oh-so-pretty."

"Horror movie extras often go missing. Everyone thinks they're lazy or drunk. No one notices the blood on the caterer's hands."

"Who stalked who was open to debate. One had a razor; the other a roll of duct tape. It was either love or killing time."

"Murder is like Chinese food. An hour later you're hungry again. Waitresses in Chinese restaurants often walk home alone."

I am sometimes way, way too easily amused, I swear.

[Nine nervous aspiring authors stand on a pair of low bleacher-style steps, arranged to make it very obvious that there used to be more of them. It's equally obvious that they would really rather be clustered together like chickens in a hurricane. They're dressed in their Make A Good Impression best, which means that only a few stains and patches are visible, and most of their clothes actually fit. At the front of the room stands a familiar face, sleek and well-groomed, with professionally-styled hair and makeup that wasn't purchased from Target: Gloriana Goodthrob, the best-selling romance author whose books have dominated the national charts for the last ten years. Behind her is a panel of expert judges. No, really, we swear, they're experts. Gloriana says so.]

GLORIANA: Welcome, authors. You're looking very professional today. [Nervous laughter from the authors.] You're all familiar with our prizes. The winner will be signed with one of the best agencies in the world, Elite Author Management, be featured in a six-column interview in Publisher's Weekly, and receive a book contract with a guaranteed print run of fifty thousand copies. You all know our judges. The first is the noted book cover artist, Peter Penciler.

PETER: Hello, authors.

GLORIANA: Critique artist and ghost-writer, Mister Thomas Hack.

HACK: Authors.

GLORIANA: And our guest judge for the evening, the lovely and talented Miss Ivana Cut, agent extraordinaire.

IVANA: Hello, authors.

GLORIANA: Now this week, you were asked to write a science fiction epic, featuring thrilling exploits, original characters, zippy dialog, and most of all, a heavily marketable theme. You've received your critiques, both individually and as a group. There are nine of you in front of me, but I only hold eight manuscripts in my hands. These manuscripts represent the eight who are still in the running to become America's Next Top Author. The author whose name I do not call must immediately return to the house, pack your belongings, and go home. The author whose name I call first will have their manuscript made available for free download on the Kindle (tm) for the next week, thus increasing your visibility and potential readership.

[Pause for dramatic tension.]

GLORIANA: The first name I'm going to call is...Dave.

[DAVE walks forward to take his manuscript with visible relief.]

GLORIANA: Dave, you wowed us this week with your use of adjectives, your fire, and your willingness to completely mimic the last big thing, burying your own standards to succeed. You're still in the running to become America's Next Top Author.

DAVE: Thank you. [He moves to his place against the wall.]

[GLORIANA calls the next six authors, leaving only two standing on the bleachers, both looking terrified.]

GLORIANA: Will Suzi and Damon please step forward?

[Two trembling authors approach the front of the room. DAMON needs a better haircut. SUZI needs new shoes.]

GLORIANA: Two authors stand before me, but I only have one manuscript in my hands. This manuscript represents the writer who is still in the running to become America's Next Top Author. Suzi, you've wowed us week after week with your sizzling, inappropriate sex scenes and your creativity with props. But this week, when you were given the whole galaxy as your prop, you became timid, cautious...predictable. Your titillation wasn't so titillating. And Damon, when the judges look at you, they see an author who has the whole package—looks, verve, literacy—but when we read your work, we find ourselves wondering if you'll sell to the public. Your idea of "out of this world" is just a little too "out there." So who stays? The talented seductress who may limit herself when she's nervous, or the intellectual abstract artist who leaves us feeling cold?

[Close up on DAMON and SUZI, looking terrified. GLORIANA holds out a manuscript.]

GLORIANA: Suzi. You're still in the running to become America's Next Top Author. But next week, that manuscript had better be smokin'.

[SUZI bursts into tears, takes her manuscript, and runs for the safety of the others. DAMON looks at GLORIANA, expression stoic and unwavering.]

GLORIANA: Damon, you have so much potential! There's a bestselling author inside you, just aching to break free! Learn to stop taking too many chances. Reel it in a little. Add some hot, steamy sex, and the world could be yours.

[DAMON nods, eyes filled with unshed tears as he turns, waves, and exits the room. Fade to shots of him packing his things in the cramped house shared by the contestants.]

DAMON, voiceover: Well, yeah, I did expect to go a lot further, but I'm not ashamed of myself. I'm not sorry I wrote what I wanted to write. If it doesn't have an audience, who cares? I'll keep writing. I'll always keep on writing...

Saturday, I participated in LitCrawl at Borderlands Books in San Francisco. When I mentioned this on Twitter, someone said this made them think of ArtCrawl from The Middleman, and asked if I was going to perform "Hey, Mr. God," supposedly the world's worst spoken-word piece (also from The Middleman, naturally). Being a deeply silly blonde, I replied that if Rosemary and Rue was Borderlands' top-selling paperback again for October 2009, I would not only perform "Hey, Mr. God," I would record it as an MP3 and put it up for free download.

Sadly, I made this reply in public. So here, because I am a shameless creature, is the official challenge:

If enough people buy Rosemary and Rue from Borderlands to make it their top-selling mass-market paperback for October 2009, I will go into Kristoph's studio and record an MP3 of the "Hey, Mr. God" monologue from The Middleman episode "The Boy-Band Superfan Interrogation." I will then post this MP3 for free download. I will have no shame during the recording, which means I will sound like a complete idiot. You can probably use this MP3 to blackmail me in fifteen years, which I am less young and stupid.

(Yes, they take Internet and telephone orders; yes, they ship; yes, they have signed books.)

My plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity.

1. Practically all of my books have acronyms, because that makes it a little easier for me to put book-related tasks in my planner. Most of them are easy to decode, like "R&R" for Rosemary and Rue, or "DA" for Discount Armageddon. The only book I've written so far that has no acronym is Feed (although it had one during the writing process, before the title change—the acronym for Newsflesh was, naturally, "NF.") The only book whose acronym makes no sense at all is Blackout, which I still refer to as "TME" (for The Mourning Edition) when writing notes to myself. This is because I refuse to have tasks related to "BO."

2. I tend to work out tricky bits of dialog by talking to myself. Maybe this wouldn't be so silly if I only did it at the privacy of my own keyboard, but I also like to take very long walks. The whole "hold your cellphone up to your ear and pretend that you're on a call" doesn't really work when you're actively keeping up both sides of a violent argument. I'm reasonably sure all my neighbors think I'm dangerously insane. That's actually just dandy by me, since it keeps them out of my yard.

3. Sometimes, what looks like me goofing off is actually the hardest part of the writing process. If I get really, really stuck on something, I'll generally respond by either a) stomping into the back room of my house and putting on the dumbest horror flick I can find, or b) leaving the house entirely and going to the movies. This allows me to disconnect approximately half of my brain—the half that gets in the way of seeing the story clearly—and really focus on what needs to happen next. At the end of Hellboy II, I literally responded to "What did you think of the movie?" by bursting into tears and wailing about a character's hair being the wrong color. I work very hard when I don't seem to be working at all.

4. Part of why I tend to be working on several projects at once is my tendency to get really depressed when I finish something. It's like I was on a wonderful adventure, and now it's over, and all I can do is look at the pictures I took while I was there, and maybe plan to take another trip someday (but you know it'll never be the same, because it never is). Editing and revisions are exciting in their own way, but they're really the equivalent of scrapbooking that first amazing trip. The best way to avoid the depression is to make sure I'm never left with the time to just sit on my hands and mope.

5. I draw lots and lots and lots of little scribbly maps on Post-It notes and stick them up around my computer, so as to make sure I don't lose track of where things are. In the case of large combat or action scenes, I'll frequently sweep everything off my bed and start blocking out the scene, using My Little Ponies to represent normal-sized people, and scaling up (or down) from there. Being represented by a sparkly purple unicorn does nothing to improve Toby's overall mood. Just in case you were wondering.

6. I inevitably wind up re-typing the entire book between drafts one and two. I guess it's a holdover from the days when I worked entirely via typewriter and didn't have a choice. I just find that I get a better feel for the sentences and the way they all sort of slot together on the page if I'm remaining as tightly engaged with the text as possible. Fortunately, I also type at a hundred and twenty words a minute when I'm really focused, so the continual re-typing doesn't slow me down as much as you might expect.

7. I have an irritating tendency to hide big plot twists from everyone, including myself, to prevent accidental spoilers. Seriously! I'll spend two hundred pages setting something up, and then consciously realize it's about to happen roughly two sentences before it actually does. Reviewing the text makes it clear that whatever it was, it was totally inevitable and the gun's been on the wall since page six. I still won't see it coming until it gets there, even though my notes will read like I was totally playing with everybody's heads on purpose. This is sort of awesome, since it means the stories stay surprising even to me. This is sort of crazy-making, for the same reason.

8. Years ago, I named my muse. My muse's name is Jane. Jane is a flaky alcoholic who doesn't believe in deadlines. I'm a Type-A neurotic who doesn't believe in being late. We're like the Odd Couple, only she doesn't exist and I'm always the one cleaning up after her. Sometimes I think that if I got three wishes, one of them would be the delicious opportunity to punch my own muse in the face.

9. When books start to lag or I start to lose interest in them, I often motivate myself to keep going by starting to get excited about the next book in the series. In fact, that's usually the sign that I'm really ready to engage with the text and just power on through. When I start wanting to talk about the awesome thing that happens in the third chapter of the sixth Toby book, that's when you know I'm about to find that final burst of creative wind and slam through the remainder of book five.

10. I really do write constantly. Even when I don't have a piece of paper in front of me, the odds are good that I'm thinking about what I'm going to write the next time that paper is available. Weekends, holidays, sick days, birthdays, trips to Disneyworld, it doesn't matter; I'm thinking about writing. This used to get me into trouble with a few of my boyfriends, who had a nasty habit of asking me what I was thinking about, and then getting annoyed when I gave them honest answers.

My love for you is jellyfish love. It is the kind of love that you can only give when you happen to be a delicate floating construction of diaphanous membranes, primarily water-based fluids, and stinging tendrils. That makes it very difficult to see before it brushes up against you, and kind of cool, but not if you happen to be adverse to lumps of formless ooze. Or stinging fronds. But because my love for you is jellyfish love, you are not on my list of things to sting, paralyze, and eventually engulf. Be glad.

Jellyfish spend most of their time floating aimlessly through the ocean, going wherever the current takes them, generally just chilling out. When they encounter something they can eat, they casually wrap it in their stinging fronds and keep on going, off to do whatever it was they were doing before lunch came along. Jellyfish things, like processing edits, or picking blackberries, or watching too much television. Or maybe just bobbing around in the surf and sending unsuspecting swimmers to the emergency room, if you want to be literal about things. It doesn't matter to me. Because see, those jellyfish float along in huge, beautiful schools of delicately layered membranes, and once something has been caught by the tendrils of one jellyfish, they all get a little bit to eat. They aren't greedy, those jellyfish. They share.

If you watch jellyfish floating along, you'll see that they're constantly twining over and under and around and even through one another, like this giant, glorious underwater macrame, and yet somehow, they never get knotted up. They're always together, but they're always willing to let each other go. And that? That is how I feel about you. I totally spend my days wrapping my long, stinging tendrils around delicious things, because I know that even if you float away from me, you'll come back, and you may need something to engulf.

Only they aren't real stinging tendrils. And we all have skeletons. And if you decide to try to exist by absorbing raw fish and plankton through your porous skin, you're probably going to need to eat a sandwich, too, because man cannot live by metaphorical osmosis. But the basic concept is there. I spend my days floating free, loving you.

My love for you is jellyfish love.

Bloop bloop bloop.

I, Seanan McGuire, having now survived the release of my first novel without bludgeoning anyone to death with a copy of Child's Traditional Ballads of England and Scotland, have once again started pondering resolutions. After all, I've posted my personal resolutions (see also "Flowers, Chocolates, and Promises You Don't Intend to Keep"), and I've posted my "don't be an asshole" resolutions (see also "A Vague Disclaimer Is Nobody's Friend"), I figure it's time to post the third set of resolutions. The ones that keep me from destroying the universe in a fit of pique.

I. I will acknowledge that no matter how fast I write, I still have a limit to how many books I can finish in a year, and while I will continue to pursue however many projects I feel like pursuing, I will not commit to delivering more than I can actually deliver. Biting off more than you can chew is a good way to end up like that python that tried to eat an alligator. No fun.

II. I will prioritize the things that I have committed to delivering over the things I haven't committed to delivering, even when I'm working well ahead of my deadlines, because deadlines make me crazy. (I'm a little worried that I'm committed to writing a book called Deadline, because deadlines make me crazy. On the plus side, Kate will beat me if I get out of control.)

III. I will continue to make sure everyone knows what I'm working on, because that reduces the number of people asking "but when is _____ going to be done?" I will also continue to remember that having ten people asking "but when is _____ going to be done?" doesn't mean I have to prioritize that project, or that it's okay to set them on fire. Everyone has their limits.

IV. I will do my best not to snap at people for asking questions which have been answered, in detail, on my website FAQs. Sometimes you just want to have an answer that's yours, rather than going to the author's website and poking around. The answers won't change, mind you, but I'll still try to be polite while giving them. (I do not, however, promise not to cut-and-paste from the FAQs when faced with questions I've answered ninety times already.)

V. While I may find discussions of the contents of Toby's cupboards endlessly fascinating, I will remember that other humans don't, necessarily, and will try to refrain from dominating dinner table conversation by explaining which brands of soup she prefers. (Vegetable barley and Spaghetti-Os, if you were wondering. Which you probably weren't.)

VI. I will continue to work as far ahead of my deadlines as possible. This has the twin benefits of not causing things to become completely uncontrollable if something comes up that can't be avoided, like last month's bout of Martian Death Flu, and of keeping me from totally scrapping a book and starting over when I get a review that upsets me. Too late! The sequel's already turned in!

VII. I will not allow myself to fall into the comfortable trap of "oh, this is what worked last time, let's just do it again, only moreso." Yes, series books and sequels will always have a tendency to be "more of the same, but moreso." That's natural. At the same time, if you hike the stakes too high, you actually run out of places to go. I'd rather do new things, and enjoy them.

VIII. I will, however, keep doing the old things that are awesome, rather than going "oh, you liked that? Well, I won't do that anymore." While that might make every book an exciting adventure, it would also make hiding from my readers an exciting adventure, and that's one exciting adventure more than I can take.

IX. I will absolutely continue to get spun-up and faintly crazy every time I have a book coming out, because I have met me. I will, however, also make it a point to thoroughly document each book release, which will have the double benefit of telling me what to expect, and telling the people who help me organize launch events what to expect. When they see checked-off to-do lists that include "wax the cat," they may realize that I mean it.

X. I will not wax the cat.

XI. I will internalize valid critique, and attempt to incorporate it into whatever I'm working on, even if my tendency to work ahead of my deadlines means that it may take a while for anyone outside my head to see the change.

XII. I will occasionally take my own advice, put down the keyboard, and go out into the big blue room where all the nature lives. I like the nature. The nature likes me, too. The nature stings and bites and generally does its best to destroy me, and I really appreciate that. Good things happen when I go out into nature. Sometimes the good things include antivenin, and I'm cool with that, too.

XIII. I will write.

Hey, folks! Lots of you suggested fanart contests of one type or another, but we've had very few entries in the latest ARC giveaway! Please join in the fun, and make something surreal for the rest of us to stare at.

Remember, original art, photography, icons, and just about anything else are being gleefully accepted.

Oh, and I got home alive from San Diego.

It's July, it's a week to the San Diego International Comic Convention, and it's been a while since I posted a Rosemary and Rue ARC giveaway. These things aren't intrinsically connected, but my need for distraction makes them acquire a natural bond. At the same time, I feel the need to be more creative than my exhaustion is presently allowing. So here's the deal:

1) To participate, comment on this post with a suggestion for what the next ARC giveaway should be. Get creative! We've had a poetry contest and a LOLtest so far—is it time for round two? Is it time for a break-dance competition? "Conquer a nation, win an ARC"? Well, maybe not that last one. Try to make it something that people can actually accomplish.

2) Weigh in on other suggestions, if you feel the urge to do so.

3) Just before I leave for Comicon, I will select one of the suggestions to be ARC giveaway #7. The person who makes the winning suggestion will be the winner of this giveaway.

Game on!

I, Seanan McGuire, am intending to be writing books, stories, and other bits of fiction for the foreseeable future. Because I am a reasonably nice person (except when I'm not) who likes not being lynched (except when I do), I have decided to make the following promises. They're sort of the other side of my personal resolutions (see also "Flowers, Chocolates, and Promises You Don't Intend to Keep"), only they're a little more geared toward stuff I won't do because I don't want to be an asshole.

I. If something is part of a series, I will say that it is part of a series. I won't stealthily trick you into picking up a book and then spring a cliffhanger on you. I won't promise that stand-alone books will never develop sequels, but I promise that as soon as I know, I'll get the information out there. (Kate will tell you I don't write stand-alone books. Kate is sadly probably right.)

II. If I discover that a book has been packaged in a way that does not clearly indicate that something is part of a series, I will make doubly sure to include series information in a prominent place on my website, because a little typing now is a lot more fun than a lot of getting yelled at later.

III. I will do my absolute best to end every book in a way which makes it perfectly okay to say "right, done now." If this isn't possible, for whatever reason, I will only end a book on a cliffhanger or unresolved note when I can provide a guaranteed publication date for the sequel.

IV. I will not change genres in the middle of an ongoing series just because I've decided that I really want to be writing steampunk horror instead of urban fantasy and don't want to go through the work of starting something new. (Actually, I always want to go through the work of starting something new. Still, it's nice to be upfront.)

V. If I get tired of a series, I will bring it to a reasonable and satisfying conclusion, rather than continuing to beat the dead horse for another eighteen volumes out of inertia.

VI. I will keep my FAQs up-to-date and accessible, thus making it a little less annoying when I become completely overwhelmed and answer ninety percent of the questions I receive with "it's in the FAQs." (This should also give me time to answer the remaining ten percent in English, not Typo. Typo is a strange and difficult language, and I've never really mastered it.)

VII. I will continue to put myself through rigorous and vicious editorial, because the editing process is fun. Also because if I stop allowing myself to be edited, Vixy and Brooke will come for me in the night. They will come for me in the night with very sharp sticks, and they will edit me.

VIII. I will not answer fair and reasoned critique with "oh yeah? Why don't you come over here and say it to my face, punk?" For one thing, some people might, and those are usually the people that are bigger than I am.

IX. I will not rewrite my work to meet unfair and unreasoned critique. Not everyone is going to like me. I will attempt to be at peace with that. When I am not at peace with that, I will attempt to do something other than "hide under the bed and hope they go away."

X. I will not answer "you killed my favorite character" with "it sucks to be you, doesn't it?" I also won't resurrect anybody whose resurrection was not already planned. No, not even if you cry.

XI. If you say "Bob is my favorite character," and then we have a big fight, I will not take it out on Bob. That isn't fair to Bob. It isn't fair to my plot, either. But damn, I'll probably be tempted.

XII. I will not write a book just for the purpose of "creating real literature" and "finally being taken seriously as an author." I take horror movies, My Little Ponies, and street pennies seriously. I thus must assume that some people will take me seriously no matter what I do, and since they don't require me to wear a powder blue pantsuit and go on Oprah, they're the ones that matter.

XIII. I will remember that I am Christopher Walken, and enjoy every minute of it.

So the "Wicked Girls" party game—in which I let people suggest fictional girls, and wrote them apocryphal verses to the tune of "Wicked Girls"—is finally finished. I didn't write every request, but wow did I write a lot of them! You can view all the verses by clicking the link to the post; the girls involved, with source material, were...

( Click here, 'cause it's longer than I thought it was.Collapse )

...that's a lot more than I thought it was. Um. Wow. Anyway, done now; thanks to everyone who played, whether I met your request or not.

People keep trying to define me. This is okay, because it is funny. In the past few months, I have been called...

...the bastard love child of Neil Gaiman and Charles de Lint. (Biologically implausible!)
...Charles Addams crossed with Dorothy Parker. (This would make an awesome alternate-world supernatural romance FROM HELL.)
...a combination of Stephen King, Warren Ellis, and Rainbow Brite. (Angry cartoon horror author attacks city, film at eleven, evacuation at eleven seventeen.)

Have I mentioned recently that I am way too easily amused?

I try to avoid posts consisting of nothing but links, I really do. But this made my day so much better that I felt the need to share:

The A to Z of Awesomeness.

Truly the world is a wonderful place.

Stolen from a variety of sources, many of which didn't explain the meme; I had to backtrack to confirm that yes, what it wants is the first line of any and all of your works in progress.

Oh, you poor fools.

Long-form works.

"The downtown San Francisco Safeway was almost deserted."—Late Eclipses, Toby Daye book four.

"The sword swung for my face in a hard, fast arc."—The Brightest Fell, Toby Daye book five.

"Our story opens where countless stories have ended in the last twenty-seven years: with an idiot—in this case, Rebecca Atherton, the head of the After the End Times Irwins, three-time winner of the Golden Steve-o Award for valor in the face of the undead—deciding it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens."—Blackout.

"Boys get weirder when they hit puberty."—Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues.

"The whole concept of 'conservation of mass' is dependent on the belief that matter is somehow stable."—Sit, Stay, I Hate You.

"Verity danced circles around the living room, amateurish pirouettes and half-practiced leaps accompanied by cheers and exultations from the horde of Aeslin mice clustered on the back of the couch."—Discount Armageddon.

"There was nothing unique about the little house on Cherrybrook Way."—Babylon Archer and the Unmarked Path.

"I know that I swore I’d never use my special birthday journal with the real gold leaf on the cover and the glitter in the paper until I landed a recurring role on a daytime soap opera or married one of the Jonas Brothers, but I can’t find my regular journal anywhere, and this is an emergency."—Upon A Star.

"Beyond the edge of the world that men understand—the world that men believe in—there is another world, half-forgotten and slowly fading away, worn down by the passage of years and weakened by enemies from both without and within."—Babylon Archer and the Forgotten Kingdom.

"My face is presently being displayed on every television set and billboard in North America, my iguana ate half my toast because it had raspberry jam on it, and I still have unexplained traumatic amnesia, which makes me a) the likely suspect of a Lifetime Movie of the Week, assuming anyone is ever insane enough to dare a major movie studio’s battalion of bloodthirsty attack lawyers, and b) very, very happy, as my blissful inability to remember the past two years of my life means that I am probably not going to succumb to the siren-song of the Dark Side of the Force any time soon."—Shining Star.

"If you have found this journal, please mail it to the address above, which I’ve included to keep this journal from going the way of the last six."—Chasing St. Margaret.

"Jonathan Healy died screaming."—untitled InCryptid project.

Short fiction.

"Anthony was nine years old the first time he saw the vampire."—Anthony's Vampire.

"Please be aware that we here at Polytechnic Engineering and Research practice non-discrimination in our hiring policies."—Office Memos.

"Everyone’s got something that they’re just plain good at."—Applejack Tucker Learns to Play the Banjo.

"Maybe Mama raised a few fools—I can’t speak for my father, never having met the man—but I’m not proud."—Pixie Season.

...according to this list, I need to write more short stories. Okay!

So—for a variety of reasons—I've had the song "Wicked Girls Saving Ourselves" stuck in my head for roughly a week now. This has started to drive me insane. Consequentially, I spent a good chunk of yesterday composing new verses, just so I'd be singing something different. I found this so entertaining that I've decided to make it a party game (yes, this is now officially a party). Give me a girl from folklore, myth, literature, or hell, modern media, and if I have a clue of who she is, I'll write a verse.

A few rules:

1. Fictional people only. Real people go in the bridge, and I already re-write that every time we do the song live.
2. One girl per customer.
3. Jean Grey is not eligible.
4. Don't make me come over there.

Game on!...and now, game off. I already have more than I can handle, and I can't handle no more. Thanks for all the great suggestions, and please don't provide any additional girls for consideration in today's admissions.

( Click here for the girls we've invited to join us so far.Collapse )

1st place, and an ARC of Rosemary and Rue, goes to mpoetess. mpoetess, please get me your mailing address as soon as you can.

2nd place, and choice of either a cover flat or a set of my albums, goes to jjloa. Same request applies.

3rd place, and whichever prize remains, goes to ink_books_punk. Same request.

Everyone, thank you for playing!

You may or may not remember my delighted review of Evernight [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxies] by Claudia Gray. What's more, you may not remember my enthusiastic recommendation of the sequel, Stargazer [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxies]. That's okay, because I remember these things, and I'm always more than happy to remind you. I try to be generous that way.

I got bored and was left unsupervised with art supplies. This is never safe for the people around me. What's more, I was left with art supplies, the desire to make a book advertisement, and the capacity to compose cheesy lyrics. Be afraid! And so I give you...

The Evernight Alma Mater.

Dear Evernight, so tall and proud
And spookily you stand
Like something from a horror film
That lays waste to the land.

Your looming windows watch the night
Like blind and angry eyes,
Your judgment falls on each of us
As from your steps we rise.

Dear Evernight, with pride we come
To learn what you impart,
We pray that you will let us live,
Though you don't have a heart—

Your uniforms are well-designed
To make the bloodstains blend,
And what we learn to shatter here
We also learn to mend.

Dear Evernight, your hallowed halls
Will teach us how to thrive,
And those of us who graduate
Are lucky to survive!

...it sort of scares the cats when I sing it in the shower.

Welcome to the first Toby LOLtest voting post! I've selected ten entries, through a magical mixture of "oh, I really liked that one" and "random selection." (The order in which they are presented is not the order in which they were chosen. It's mostly the order in which they appeared, for ease of browsing.) I've included links to the entries themselves below the voting poll, so that you can make an informed decision.

Game on!



1. "I'm not working..."
2. Solvin' ur murders.
3. No harm.
4. "Hard werk raisin hooman..."
5. "Tybalt? R u there?"
6. "Iz faerie now."
7. Normal life.
8. "Whatchu mean, 'no'?"
9. Cursin' u.
10. Not all Tinker Belle.

Voting will close Friday morning.

I'm off for DucKon bright and early tomorrow (Thursday, June 11th), so please consider this your last reminder that the first-ever Toby Daye LOLtest is still open for entries. To recap...

1. Entries must be graphic. There are no restrictions on type of graphic, providing they follow the LOL___ format popularized by the LOLcats movement. LOLcats, LOLold fairy tale illustrations, LOLmy cover art, LOLhome photography, whatever. Dress yourself, a friend, or a really tolerant squirrel up as Toby and knock yourself out. Whatever makes you happy.

2. Entries must be related to Rosemary and Rue in some way.

3. Entries must be posted on the original contest announcement.

We're getting some great submissions. In the interest of preserving my sanity (and recognizing the fact that hey, I'm about to go away to a weekend-long convention), we'll keep taking entries until I open the floor for voting on Tuesday, June 16th. Since we're getting such awesome submissions, I'm going to do first, second, and third prizes, namely:

FIRST: an ARC of Rosemary and Rue.
SECOND: a set of my CDs or a cover flat, if you already have the CDs.
THIRD: whichever prize second didn't take.

Good luck!

Hello! We're glad to hear that you've been enjoying your time in Writerland, the native country of the written word. You've seen the writers frolic in the Fields of Verb, boldly venture into the Adjective Woods, and sink like stones in the infamous Editorial Swamp (home of the deadly White-Out Anaconda, capable of swallowing both man and manuscript in a single gulp). Because you have already covered the basic phrasebook of our fair land, we here at the Writerland Tourist Bureau have decided to present you with the advanced course. Thanks to all our contributers.

You Say: "How much did you pay to have that published?"
We Hear: "I know you're not as good as you think you are."

You Say: "Will you introduce me to your agent?"
We Hear: "I am worth more than your professional reputation."

You Say: "I have this really great idea. How about you write it up, and we'll split the profits?"
We Hear: "I would like two orders of radioactive scorpions, one for me, and one for my lawyer."

You Say: "Why do you look so tired? It's not like you have a real job."
We Hear: "I have always wondered what it's like to go for a ride in a wood chipper."

You Say: "You have so much talent. You should be published!"
We Hear: "So stop screwing around already, you little slacker."

You Say: "I promise I won't bother you while you work."
We Hear: "I am the human incarnation of Chinese water-torture, come to punish you for your sins."

You Say: "Which one of these characters is you?"
We Hear: "Either you're an egotist or you need therapy. Which is it?"

You Say: "Which one of these characters is me?"
We Hear: "This question has no right answer. Run for your life."

You Say: "When did this happen to you?"
We Hear: "No matter how much of it I read, deep down, I still believe 'fiction' is just fancy gossip."

You Say: "I got your new book yesterday. When is the next one coming out?"
We Hear: "I do not believe that authors eat, sleep, or socialize. Would you like to hit me with a fire axe?"

You Say: "Didn't they do this plot on an episode of The Twilight Zone?"
We Hear: "Nothing you say will convince me that you didn't steal this, so just admit it."

You Say: "Why did you do that thing in chapter eight? You ruined the series!"
We Hear: "I have more right to my opinions than you have to your art."

You Say: "Did you see that review where they said you murder the English language and eat kittens?"
We Hear: "Since you're already evil, would you like to amputate my arms and legs with your fire axe?"

You Say: "Don't worry about your numbers. You can always get a real job."
We Hear: "No matter what you say, everyone knows you've been goofing off for years."

Please submit any further suggestions for our phrasebook to the Bureau, and have a nice day!

If you didn't enter or didn't win yesterday's trivia contest, all is not lost! Remember, the first-ever Toby Daye LOLtest is still going! To recap...

1. Entries must be graphic. There are no restrictions on type of graphic, providing they follow the LOL___ format popularized by the LOLcats movement. LOLcats, LOLold fairy tale illustrations, LOLmy cover art, LOLhome photography, whatever. Dress yourself, a friend, or a really tolerant squirrel up as Toby and knock yourself out. Whatever makes you happy.

2. Entries must be related to Rosemary and Rue in some way.

3. Entries must be posted on the original contest announcement.

Again, I'll be taking entries until Friday, June 12th, and then opening the floor for voting. There's definitely an ARC in it for the winner, and depending on number and variety of entries, I may also be supplying a few runner-up prizes.

Good luck!

The pumpkin-fucker orange* cat tree in my bedroom comes equipped with a little loop from which dangly toys can be suspended, allowing the cats to amuse themselves once in a while. I treasure the dangly toy loop, as without it, I would have serious difficulty ever being allowed to do anything that didn't involve feather toys and claws. Since the cat tree's installation, the dangly toy on the tree has been Mr. Happy Dangle Fish, Esq. Pictures of Mr. Happy Dangle Fish have been posted here, generally showing him locked in mortal combat with Alice, who seemed endlessly game to battle her piscean rival. Until last night.

Last night, she killed Mr. Happy Dangle Fish.

(*This is a technical term.)

I wasn't home to witness the actual murder. I returned to the house to find Mr. Happy Dangle Fish lying in the hallway, his string cruelly sundered (in a way which made repair impractical), the plush flesh of his belly rent along one of the seams from what I can only imagine was a cataclysmic collision with the floor. Weep for Mr. Happy Dangle Fish, who will never more dangle his happy way among us.

Alice was initially confused by Mr. Happy Dangle Fish's sudden failure to dangle, and then, as she realized he wasn't coming back, became more and more distraught. We're talking "full-out mourning for the plush fish on a string." She worked herself into a lather worthy of a contestant on America's Next Top Model. After climbing to the top of the cat tree, she would wail mournfully, bat at the inch-and-a-half of string that remained, wail again, bat again, look to make sure I was watching, flop over on her side, moan like she was dying, and then—surprise, surprise—start over from the beginning. It was my very own personal soap opera. Complete with fluff.

Eventually, I got tired of listening to Alice's Shakespearean monologue mourning the death of her dangle, and went searching for the backup dangle (the tree came with two, because the manufacturers are smart). I eventually found it cunningly hidden on the stuffed animal shelf, and began trying to install it. Issue: installing the new dangle meant touching the sacred string. I was profaning the memory of Mr. Happy Dangle Fish! I was a heathen! Alice promptly attacked my fingers. Vigorously.

It took roughly five minutes to remove the broken string and get Ms. Happy Dangle Mouse tied to the cat tree...at which point Alice immediately forgot her grief in the ecstasy of having a new enemy to attack. She and Ms. Happy Dangle Mouse were still engaged in the dance of death when I put in my earplugs and went to bed.

Ah, cats. Because apparently, our lives contained too much sane before.

It's time for another ARC giveaway! Because you were starting to think I didn't love you anymore. Now, you may remember that I hinted at this giveaway being a little more "graphic" in nature. I give you...

The LOLtest. Yes, if you hate LOLcats, you probably want to shoot me right about now, but that's okay, because I love the freaky little guys, and I'm not asking people to invade your blog with countless graphics of the things. So what do you have to do to enter? Simple. You have to make a LOL___ and post it here. What do I mean by LOL___?

LOLcats. LOLold fairy tale illustrations. LOLmy cover art. LOLhome photography—if you want to take a tip from A Softer World and take your own pictures, be my guest. (Toby is brunette, fairly pale, and tends to wear sensible clothing. You want to slap a leather jacket on your girlfriend/best friend/self and take pictures solely for captioning purposes, I'm down with that.) For examples of the inimitable LOLcat in its natural habitat, see I Can Has Cheezburger, along with countless other sites in the same vein...and then knock yourself out.

Post your contest submissions on this entry. Because this is a project that could require a bit more effort, I'm going to be taking entries until Friday, June 12th, and then opening the floor for voting. I'll definitely be giving away one ARC through this contest; depending on the number and variety of entries received, I may well increase that to two, as well as putting together a few runner-up prizes (who wants a CD?). This contest is open to everyone, including my mother, my agent, God, and people who have already won ARCs. Bring out your LOLcats, and rock the world.

Game on!

EDIT: To be clear, all LOL___ must be Toby-related to be considered actual entries. Although all LOL___ are cute and make me smile.

I, Seanan McGuire, am a first-time novelist. (I refuse to say "first-time author," because that wouldn't be just disingenuous, it would be silly, and nobody wants to see what people would dredge out of their closets if dared to do so by such foolish comments.) My first book comes out on September 1st of this year. Naturally, I'm petrified. And so, in an effort to save some sanity—not mine, as that's basically a lost cause—I am making the following promises. To myself, if to no one else.

I. I will not read Amazon reviews. I keep saying this, and reminding myself that Kate will beat me if I so much as twitch toward the page, but that doesn't matter, because obviously, I need the reminder. I. Will not. Read. Amazon. Reviews.

II. If people insist on forwarding me Amazon reviews, notifications that my book is on eBay, or other things that are either guaranteed to upset me, things I've promised not to look at, or both, I will give one warning, and then I will start deleting their mail. Because dude, I don't need an extra dose of crazy pie to go with the crazy pie I already have over here.

III. I will not call my publisher unless I have a reason to call my publisher.

IV. Wanting to talk about the new season of Supernatural does not count as a reason to call my publisher. Neither does that cute thing my cat just did.

V. My agent probably doesn't want to hear about the cute thing my cat just did either, and even if she does, I should maybe not call to tell her about it after midnight.

VI. No matter how much I think the populace is going to march on the house with torches because they don't like my book, the odds are very low, and I probably don't need to triple the fire insurance protection. I will not call the fire department every time I think I smell smoke.

VII. I will not allow my mother to post reviews without clearly identifying herself as my mother. Actually, if at all possible, I will not allow my mother to post reviews, as this rarely ends well.

VIII. I will continue to breathe. Holding my breath has been clinically proven not to make my publication date come faster.

IX. I will not spend the entire month of September hiding under my bed. For one thing, there are probably spiders down there. For another, the cats would insist on hiding under the bed with me, and the bed isn't big enough for that to be even remotely comfortable. Also, as there is no television in my bedroom, I would probably go into withdrawal or something.

X. I will not start a new series in an effort to distract myself.

XI. Okay, so maybe I will. But I won't start anything more than three books long.

XII. While I am aware that no amount of saying "I will not take negative reviews personally" will change a damn thing, I will discuss negative reviews with people I trust, remember that nothing is universally adored, and refrain from eating more than three bags of candy corn. Sugar doesn't fix everything. It just makes me care less.

XIII. I will occasionally stop running.

Today (May 21st) is National Memo Day—the day when we celebrate the memos of the world, both written, unwritten, and really rather needing to be written. In honor of this most honored of days, I present some truly vital memos.

***

To the fall television schedule:

Because you have given me a third season of Chuck and a second season of Fringe, I will let you live. But don't think I'm going to forget that you took Cupid and The Eleventh Hour away from me. I was only just starting to forgive you for Freakylinks, and now you pull this? Uncool, television, uncool. I've got my eye on you. Play nice or prepare to taste my wrath.

***

To Wild Republic:

While I appreciate the ongoing diversity and awesomeness of your Cuddlekins plush collection, I am afraid I have to point out that there are still dinosaurs available in England that I can't get here in North America, and that this is still not okay with me. I need more herbivores! My collection of meat-eaters is starting to look at me funny. Really, since I probably account for a large percentage of your annual sales, shouldn't you be placating me more?

***

To Emily Stone:

Best of luck in your new endeavors. Hack/Slash won't be the same without you.

***

To Lilly and Alice:

I love you. You know that I love you. I love you more than I love almost anything. And if you decide to have another wrestling match on my face at two o'clock in the morning, I'm going to replace you with taxidermy. Soft, fluffy, interesting to look at, does not try to claw me open in the night.

***

To Jane, my alcoholic and emotionally unstable muse:

I do not need to know what happens in the ninth Toby book. Please go drink a pint of absinthe, hook up with a hottie from an under-occupied pantheon, and leave me alone for a little while. I refuse to be responsible for the consequences if you don't.

***

Anybody got any memos?

Hooray, hooray, it's Limerick Day! The day of limericks! Last October, I posted a bunch of limericks based on books that I really love. This is because I am arguably insane. Also, really easily amused.

And now, in honor of this fabulous holiday, some literary limericks. You're welcome.

( We cut both because we care and because many of you are probably armed.Collapse )

And now, because I really care, something a little more...topical:

InCryptid:

They're sisters and lovers and wives,
Or the one girl who somehow survives.
Best play fair and play nice
When you're dating a Price,
Because crazy gets all of the knives.

Happy Limerick Day!

Alice is four months old today (she was born on December 19th). I say my kitten is four months old, and people immediately form certain assumptions about her size. I'm sorry to say it, but these assumptions are, almost invariably, incorrect.

The following picture was taken earlier today.

( We cut because we care. Also because large graphics are never a good surprise, not even when they're pictures of beautiful kitties.Collapse )

Time once again for my favorite semi-regular feature, Horrible Things What Seanan's Proofreaders Say To Her. Today's special guest star is Brooke, taking us for a tour of her wonderful, terrible lagoon with the following gems.

* "Sort of" and "real" need to have a totally hot double date together in the wishy-washy modifier bistro, which is way more romantic than this sentence. Hop in, guys! Alligatormousine will take you right there! Chop chop! Cupid awaits!

* This digression is mildly boring. Toby is bored because she's bad at it, but not the kind of bored where she starts fights, so I'm bored too.

* Needs a serving of Pronoun-Aid, The Handy Kitchen Helper That Clarifies While-U-Wait.

* That would be a really affecting sentence except for how it starts with almost. ALMOST! ALLIGATOR AQUACISE HOUR! 10% discount when you sign up for two classes at the Lagoon fitness center!

Bless you, Brooke, for the way you abuse me. Also, I suggest you lock the doors tonight before you go to bed. I know where you sleep.

My love for you is komodo dragon love. It is the kind of love that you can only give when you happen to be an endangered species of fourteen-foot-long predatory lizard whose spit is filled with toxic bacterial soup. That makes it very rare and kind of cool, but not if you happen to be afraid of lizards. Or toxic spit. But because my love for you is komodo dragon love, you are not on my list of things to bite. Be glad.

Komodo dragons are cooperative hunters. That means that when a komodo dragon sees a goat, he bites it with his many, many sharp teeth and fills the bite with toxic spit, and then goes back to doing whatever it was he happened to be doing before the goat came along. Komodo dragon things, like reading, or playing with Photoshop, or watching bad horror movies. Or maybe just basking in the sun and frightening small children by being fourteen feet long and capable of eating people, if you want to be literal about things. I'm good either way. And see, the goat? The goat is now full of spit, which is full of toxic bacterial soup. That doesn't work out too well from his point of view, because eventually he sort of falls over and dies, and does that decaying thing. The bacterial soup helps with the dying. Also with the decaying.

And then another komodo dragon comes along and finds the dead goat, and it's hey, free lunch. And that? That is how I feel about you. I totally spend my days biting goats, because I know that even if I don't eventually get to eat their decaying carcasses, someone that I love will get a meal out of it.

Only they aren't real goats. And nothing really dies. And if you actually eat my metaphorical goats, you're probably going to need to take some multivitamins or something, too, because man cannot live by metaphorical goat alone, and besides, you'd probably get scurvy if you tried. But the basic concept is there. I spend my days biting goats for you.

My love for you is komodo dragon love.

Crunch.

(The scene: riding around in the car with Mom, doing errands. Because there are always errands to be done. But as these errands included getting the frame order for my book covers placed, neither of us really minded.)

Mom: So I finished my book.

(She looks sorrowfully towards Goblin War, barely visible in her bag.)

Me: Cool.
Mom: Is he writing another one? I'm going to write him a letter and tell him he has to write another one.
Me: I don't think he's writing another one right now.
Mom: He has to.

(I pause to consider the idea of what my editor -- who is also Jim's editor -- would do to me if my mother went to his house to make him write another Jig novel.)

Me: Well, maybe someday. Mermaid's Madness comes out in October.
Mom: The Jig books were so good. I loved the way [spoilers redacted]. And when I found out he was [spoilers redacted], I just about died. I did not see that coming.
Me: So you liked them.
Mom: Hell, yeah.
Me: Cool.

(More discussion follows. And then:)

Mom: So you're going to meet him while you're in Michigan?
Me: Hope so.
Mom: Tell him Smudge needs to find a Lady Smudge.

(There is a pause as I consider this. Finally...)

Me: It'll be all Charlotte's Web meets Firestarter up in the caves.
Mom: Exactly.

So Jim, your seduction of my mother continues. I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE. In other news, Rosemary and Rue comes out in 164 days. 164 is the smallest number which is the concatenation of squares in two different ways. I really love the word 'concatenate.'

That is all.

Hey, folks -- the Bay Area convention season is kicking off, and that means it's time to return to our fannish roots and celebrate with geeky bling. I mean, of course, BADGE RIBBONS. Because nothing says 'love' like pieces of fabric that you can stick to yourself. (Some people say that ribbons are over. I say that these are people who never played Halloweentown fairy princess when they were kids. We shall love our accessories until we die.)

So what do you think I should put on ribbons for this year? Suggest anything you like, from the silly to the sublime, and we'll see where things wind up going. Suggest a ribbon that I actually make, and I'll send you one, even if you're not attending the convention. Keep in mind that we're trying to drum up interest and attract attention, but should still make a vague amount of sense while we're doing it.

Game on!

So, remember that discussion with Amy? The one where we spontaneously did all of Little Red Riding Hood as if done by I Can Has Cheezburger? It turns out that some things in this world really do cry out for illustration in more minds than just mine, and talkstowolves -- an enchanting and erudite woman in her own right; I highly recommend attending to her words, and not just because she likes my books -- has kindly filled this sucking void in our existence:

LOLRed: A Cautionary Tale In Three Panels.

Truly, I live in the best of all possible worlds.

Chainsaws and killers and creatures that slaughter,
Signs that suggest you stay out of the water.
Killer bees bred to have flesh-eating stings.
These are a few of my favorite things.

Rust colored padlocks and barbed wire fences,
Horrible things tearing down your defenses.
Black bats that fly with the moon on their wings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

Scientists laughing and playing with lightning,
Movies designed to be nasty and frightening.
Martian invaders that swallow prom kings,
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the sun shines,
When the bird sings,
When they've all gone mad,
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad!

(Remember the last time we did this...?)

Me: Rar!
Amy: Eeee! O halp, I is attacked by seananbeest!
Me: Dese dark woodz. U followz me into dem.
Amy: I dunno, dere'z dis bukkit I has fer gramma.
Me: Bukkit u sayz? Wut bukkit?
Amy: Sick grammal'rus needs her bukkit.
Me: OK. U takes her bukkit. I not sneakz ahead an eat her, k?
Amy: O gud! *traipses gaily*
Me: OM NOM GRAMMA NOM.
Amy: knokknok Gramma? U feelz ok? U wantz bukkit?
Me: U comez here now needz to see you bettah.
Amy: OK Gramma...
Amy: woah, dem's big eyez...
Me: Iz so's I can seez u bettah.
Amy: U must can see me waaaay gud.
Amy: Woah, dem's big eerz, Gramma.
Me: Iz so's I can hearz u bettah.
Amy: Ooh. Dem's...Dem's awful big teefs, Gramma.
Me: Iz so's I can nom you bettah.
Amy: Nom? O Noes! U not Gramma!
Me: Nope! Iz da Big Bad Woof! OM NOM NOM DUM KID IN CLOAK NOM NOM.
Amy: HALP HA---*squeeek*
Me: I can haz little girl. Iz like cheezburger. Only more dum.
Amy: *dies laughing*
Me: We are...very odd.

There are days when I worry about our sanity, since I'm reasonably sure that normal people don't break into spontaneous LOLcat retellings of Little Red Riding Hood. And then I realize that if we didn't do that sort of thing, I would have no idea who we were.

One hundred and seventy-nine days to Rosemary and Rue. Do you know where your granddaughter's basket of goodies is?

* Item: according to the latest issue of one of the totally random-ass gossip magazines that I like to read while I'm waiting for my groceries to be rung up, Miley Cyrus is in talks to play Snow White in the adaptation of The Stepsister Scheme. Now, Jim keeps insisting he knows nothing about this rumored movie project, but I see how it really is. He just doesn't want everyone he knows with nieces under the age of sixteen to mob him demanding Hannah Montana tickets. YOU CAN'T FOOL ME, JIM. I'll be expecting tickets for Gracie and Alanna stat. And me, of course. I'll, uh, need to keep them company. That's it.

* Item: I sometimes wish we had a gossip-column for the urban fantasy circuit, not because I actually want to get stalked, but because I want an excuse to write sentences like 'Is the author of Dead to Me a secret serial killer?' or 'Has David Wellington managed to wake the Great Old Ones in Central Park? WE HAVE PICTURES.' And then I remember that I don't actually need an excuse, and my life becomes awesome once more.

* I'm doing my editorial revisions on An Artificial Night, sort of hand-in-hand with my second rewrite of Late Eclipses of the Sun. I'm really not sure which is more painful, although right now, I'm inclined to vote editorial revisions. It's incredibly difficult to keep my inner perfectionist from kicking in when I'm just supposed to be making small changes, and I'm pretty sure I'd get in trouble if I let myself get sucked into a full revision. (As for who I'd get into trouble with, well...trust me, there'd be a line. It would form remarkably quickly, and many of them would have access to sticks. Sharp, pokey, pointy sticks.)

* Anyone who thinks it's strange that I'm editing book three when book one (Rosemary and Rue, mass market paperback, DAW Books) isn't coming out until September needs to have a long chat with Kate about the sort of lead time I prefer to build into my projects. There may be flow charts involved. Wear comfortable shoes.

What's up with all of you?