...the chewing.

I woke up this morning to find my iPod on the floor, still tethered to the computer. Okay, whatever. Things on the floor don't necessarily mean there's been feline intervention; last night I, personally, was responsible for my alarm clock, three pillows, a duvet, a stack of books, and three My Little Ponies hitting the floor. (Myopic author attempts to navigate to the bathroom in dark house without donning glasses, film at eleven.) So I didn't think much of it until I was walking to the bus stop, and discovered that I had no volume.

I smacked the iPod. I re-set my settings, which usually results in temporary deafness. I smacked the iPod again. And then, my sleep-addled brain finally reached the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, it would be a good idea to check the headphones. The just-bought-last-week headphones, which had no reason to be malfunctioning.

Well. No reason except for the part where they'd been chewed clean through in three different spots. Which is really a pretty good reason for them not to be transmitting sound, if you really think about it.

I muttered. I swore. I rode to San Francisco in silence, which was vexing, and proceeded straight into the nearest CVS, where twelve dollars united me with a brand-new pair of headphones that had not been eaten by a Maine Coon, and were thus happy to transmit sound if I wanted them to. I am now wrapped in the warm embrace of the new Christian Kane album, and thus less inclined to make mittens.

So let this be a reminder: Kittens chew on things. I always forget this in the long gaps between kittens, and then the kittens come into my life, and things get chewed all over again.

It's a damn good thing they're cute.

So the discussion on my latest book piracy post is fascinating, and I fully intend to answer comments. However, right now, I'm not feeling terribly awesome, so I'm going to take some cold medication and go lay down. I just wanted to address a few high-level points first. Forgive the brevity, I really feel like crap.

Point the First: "Not everyone who illegally downloads your book would have bought it, so you shouldn't act like they would have."

True! That being said, I know enough people who have illegally downloaded books and then bought them, or have told me to my face (or via email) that they were planning to buy the book, only then got it for free, that I feel some consideration of the number of illegal copies is warranted. Just going off what I do know, I tend to assume about one person in ten represents a "lost sale." This accounts for new readers only, not people downloading copies of books they already own.

Point the Second: Downloading copies of books you already own is a morally gray area.

True. I completely understand and sympathize with people who download virtual copies of books they already own. Unfortunately, a) I don't own the e-book rights to my books right now, and thus can't say "sure, have a PDF with proof of purchase," and b) the methods for getting those downloads are non-legal. There's not a private literary speakeasy where you have to send in a photo of yourself with your legal physical copy before you get the download link. And so while I can understand the moral ambiguity of it all, I can't endorse the practice.

Point the Third: It's not piracy, it's copyright infringement.

Okay, true. For precision of language, I should call it copyright infringement. But the people who sometimes post intentionally inflammatory things on message boards aren't actually trolls, they're just being mean. In some cases, the prevailing language of the land is going to win out over precision. I apologize for any confusion.

Point the Fourth: "Does this mean you don't like me because I initially read your book in a sub-legal format?"

Did you buy the book? I mean, really, that's where my concern is here: In whether I can feed the cats. I first discovered the X-Men because my friend Lucy had an older brother who wasn't careful with his comics, and I didn't pay for those, either. As I said above, I can't condone illegal downloading, but once you've paid for the material, I lose all personal animosity.

Point the Fifth: Books and music aren't the same.

Most the research on illegal downloads has been in the music arena, and the numbers aren't the same. According to iTunes, the single song I have listened to the most often is the cover of "Livin' La Vida Loca" by Spork, which I have listened to 342 times. The single book I have read the most often is IT, by Stephen King, which I have read, if guessing generously, eighty times in the last twenty years. Many people don't re-read, or do so only sparingly. So saying that illegal downloads increase sales when you're only looking at music is like saying that breeding mice increases the elephant population.

Point the Sixth: Cory Doctorow does it.

Cory Doctorow is also recognized by my spellchecker, which doesn't recognize my name. He chose to distribute over the Internet, and it worked out awesomely for him. He's also doing Internet-savvy fiction, with a keen edge of interest for the online crowd. I write urban fantasies about women with silly names. We don't have the same target audience; it's mice and elephants again.

I'll come back and participate in the discussion more one on one later. Now? DayQuil and sleep.

I am about to preach to the choir, because I have no idea what else to do, and frankly, I am at a loss for other options.

I am a professional author. I have worked a very long time to reach a place in my life where I could make that statement and not feel like a fake. I have written books; publishers have judged them commercially viable and worthy of publication; my books can thus be purchased from bookstores and online retailers everywhere. Please note the word "purchased." My books, which cost me time and sanity, and cost my publisher time and money, can be purchased from bookstores and online retailers everywhere.

Or, if you'd prefer, they can be illegally downloaded from the Internet. Mind you, this will eventually lead to my being unable to justify the time it takes me to write them, since an author who cannot make a living through writing must make a living through other means. My cats don't understand "Mommy can't feed you because people don't believe she should be compensated for her work." They also don't understand "People say they like the things I write, but they'd rather steal them than make sure I can keep writing."

To be honest, I don't understand it either.

"See! Piracy is a serious problem." —Penny Arcade.

When I first started publishing, I had no real clue how big the book piracy problem was becoming (and it's continued to grow since then; the number of available torrents increases every day). I was honestly stunned when I got the first Google alert notifying me of an illegal download of Rosemary and Rue. Now, it's a rare day—and for "rare" read "non-existent," now that I have four books in print—that doesn't come with at least one torrent notification. Normally, it's more like four or five, and sometimes more, when some new site discovers my work and gets excited about the possibility of stealing it. Yes, stealing it.

Look: when you calculate the average author's royalties on a mass-market paperback, it comes to approximately fifty cents per copy. Let's assume I got paid $5,000 for Rosemary and Rue. I didn't just pull that figure out of my ass—that's the standard first advance for a genre novel, although very few people will get that exact number. Still, it's nice and round. Now, part of the standard publishing model says that I won't get any additional money for the book until it has managed to earn back the advance, which is done solely from the percentage of the cover price that "belongs" to me. So an author with a $5,000 advance must sell ten thousand copies of their book before they "earn out" and start making additional money. Authors who regularly fail to "earn out" will find themselves with decreasing advances, until the day that the number hits zero, and the party is over.

"Internet piracy isn't that big a deal," people say. "It can't hurt your sales that badly." Oh, really? Well, if I get one notification of an illegal torrent per day...let's assume that each torrent is downloaded three times at most. Okay? One torrent per day is 365 torrents per year, or 1,095 illegal downloads per book per year. This is a conservative estimate of downloads; most torrents will be downloaded more like ten times each. Gosh, I feel popular now! Or maybe violated, it's hard to say.

Returning to our $5,000 advance, I must sell—actually sell, from actual stores—10,000 books before my publisher realizes a profit and says "Yeah, okay, let's keep buying your stuff." Let's assume, this time optimistically, that all 1,095 people who illegally downloaded my book were originally planning to buy it new, before they found this awesome new way to save money and get the book magically delivered to their computer. So unless my book was guaranteed to appeal to 11,095 people, I may have just dipped below the magical 10,000 person mark. Goodie for me.

"Dear person online begging someone to upload an illegal copy of my book because you LOVE me SO MUCH: you don't love me. You love stealing." —Ally Carter, author of Heist Society.

I made the following statement in a relatively recent post:

"Why do book series end in the middle? Because not enough people bought the books. Sometimes they can live on, as with Tim Pratt's online serialization of his fabulous Marla Mason stories, but for the majority of authors, if the sales aren't there, the story's over. Why do midlist authors disappear? Because their sales weren't good enough to justify their continued publication. Why are TV shows canceled? Because not enough people gave money to their advertisers. All entertainment is profit-driven. We pay to play, and when we stop paying, they stop playing."

Several people promptly told me that I was wrong, and that authors who really want to continue their series can do so whether they have a publisher or not. My addiction to professional editing services and distribution is clearly a personal failing, and I should embrace this brave new world of working forty hours a week to pay for cat food, and then going home and working forty hours a week to Stick It To The Man by continuing my canceled series. Sadly, this isn't going to work. When I'm writing books for money, I go through a rigorous internal editing and proofreading process before anyone sees my work. When not writing books for money, I write for my own pleasure, and if there are a few typos or logical failings, whatever. That doesn't pay my bills.

I love my books. I love my art. If I were only in it for the money, I would be doing something else for a living, like selling my kidneys. But at the end of the day, if a series can't pay, I can't afford the hundreds of hours required to write the average book. It's just not feasible. Note the number of unpublished "first in series" books I have sitting around. Until they sell, I can't afford to write the sequels. No matter how much I want to.

"People will spend fifteen bucks on an ironic shirt." —Penny Arcade.

A paperback book costs ten dollars, retail, and less if bought at a discount or with a coupon. This is about the same as a ticket to the movies. Even if you read fast, it will probably take you a minimum of three hours to finish said paperback, and then it's yours to keep. The movie is over faster, and also not yours at the end of the evening. (This is not to say that people don't pirate movies, and that said piracy isn't a huge concern. They do, and it is. But that isn't my department, as yet. Believe me, I'll start researching film piracy the day that Feed is optioned for the big screen.) People are constantly willing to pay for things that are more transitory than books, yet seem to blank out when asked why stealing books is still theft.

"I'll buy it later." Really? "I just want to see if I like it." Okay, how about you download the free chapters from the author's website, and then go to a bookstore? "I want to see if the author has improved since the last one." See above. "I disagree with the author's moral or ethical stance, so I'm voting with my dollars." Okay. You're also voting through theft. Why not get the book from a library or support your local used bookstore instead? It would be a lot less sketchy.

I know plenty of people who would never dream of walking into my house and stealing a book off my shelf, but have talked themselves around to the point where downloading books illegally is just not the same thing, not the same thing at all. It's the same thing. Don't believe me? Ask Paul Cornell (taken from Twitter):

"Just saw download site with 2356 illegal downloads of Knight and Squire. You have no idea how angry that makes me. Bloody thieves."
"Thanks everyone who's said they're buying it. No thanks to: 'well, if it was legally downloadable...' Like they're forced to steal it."
"Just heard: average number of illegal downloads = four times legal sales. That's why your favorite title got canceled. No margin left."

The margin is what makes it profitable for publishers to keep publishing. The margin keeps their lights on, and keeps the creators receiving royalty checks, and now we're back to feeding my cats, which is a topic I think about a great deal. The cats don't give me a choice.

I leave you with this grim thought. Yesterday, I was sitting around, minding my own business, when a friend of mine (name redacted as it was a private conversation) messaged me with:

"Somebody went to the trouble to photocopy all of [upcoming, not yet released book] and put it up online."

This sort of thing tightens control over ARCs, which reduces their distribution to book bloggers, which makes it harder for you to find well-informed early reviews. It potentially hurts my friend's sales, which may result, long-term, in her being dropped from her publisher, which means no more books for her fans. So who does Internet piracy hurt?

It hurts you.

My last day in Australia dawned bright and disgustingly early, as I needed to be at the airport while the birds were still trying to figure out what the fuck was up with that big shiny "sun" thing. Jeanne and Mal drove me to the airport, where they dumped* me summarily on the curb and sped off into the sunrise. Jerks.

In I went, to check into my flight. I had made a point of arriving hours and hours early, since I needed an aisle seat. Bad back + seventeen hour flight + middle seat = removed from the plan by the EMTs, because I would no longer have been capable of moving my legs. As it was, by requesting an aisle seat at the absolute rear of the plane, I was able to get what I needed, and nobody had to get hurt. On I went, to security!

Security lines are so much faster, nicer, and less like being trapped in a really fucked-up post-cyberpunk horror movie when they're not controlled by Homeland Security. I'm just saying.

I wandered around the airport for a little while, buying breakfast, soda, and cheesy souvenirs for the people who would mug me at home if I didn't bring them anything, and managed to use up the last of my Australian currency. Then apologetic airport employees chased us all away from our gate, as Homeland Security requirements forced them to comply to American security standards...which, apparently, meant "make everybody mill and get frightened because you won't tell them what's going on." Yay! But eventually, there was a plane.

The actual plane ride was fine. I slept, I read the new Terry Pratchett (I Shall Wear Midnight), I watched a lot of movies, I finished the September Sparrow Hill Road story, I drank more Diet Coke than was strictly good for me. Because this flight was heading for America, land of the free, we were not allowed to congregate near the restrooms or be out of our seat for any "unnecessary" reasons. Like, you know, not becoming one gigantic muscle cramp due to sitting down for seventeen hours. I'm in favor of safety, America, but did it ever occur to you that crippling tourists hurts the economy? I'm just saying.

The plane landed. Ker-thump. And the fun part began.

See, in order to get to my flight from LA to SF, I needed to clear Customs. In order to clear Customs, I needed to clear Immigration. I was on a very tight transfer, so I was very grateful for the existence of citizen and non-citizen lines...until I got there and no one was respecting the damn signs, making all the lines a mixture of people returning, and people coming in. Why was this a problem? This was a problem because all visiting aliens must be photographed and fingerprinted and grilled at length, and this makes processing glacial.

I fidgeted. I squirmed. I tried not to panic. I passed through Immigration, trusting that someone on the other side would know what was going on, since I was exhausted, jet-lagged, and barely staying on my feet. I picked up my suitcases, asked several people where to go, and was pretty much shoved out of the terminal to sink or swim on my own, as was everybody else. A sign outside said to go right; I went right, because I obey signs when exhausted.

Sadly, the sign led to a large and very confusing airport terminal, with lots of lines and contradictory signs and people. I asked a pilot how to get to Gate 31. He pointed. I went. I went, and...there was no Gate 31. So I, exhausted and jet-lagged and not sure where my feet were anymore, started crying.

To the airport security employee whose name I didn't get, who helped a crying blonde girl with pink camo luggage by getting her to the correct security line, to the front of the line, and to her gate five minutes before her plane was supposed to take off: thank you so so very much. I hope you get many good things in this world, because you are all that stopped me from having a massive panic attack in the middle of LAX.

And after all that, of course, my plane was delayed. I sat down at the gate, plugged things in, and called people to let them know I was home, with periodic calls to Mom to update my projected arrival time in San Francisco. Eventually, they let us board.

I do not remember the flight from LA to SF. I passed out as soon as I sat down.

Mom met me at Baggage Claim in San Francisco, and answered the question of whether she'd heard about the Campbell by bringing me balloons and crying all over me. I gave away most of the balloons to small children at the carousel, with Mom's blessing, and then we finally, finally went home.

With a stop at the comic book store on the way. A girl's gotta have her priorities, after all. And that, oh best beloveds, was Australia.

I can't wait to go back.

(*By "dumped" I mean "respectfully off-loaded, and hugged me a great deal, before tearfully leaving." Isn't precise vocabulary fun?)

While I was in New York the week before last, I did a lot of traveling via the PATH Train, a fairly simplistic transit system whose entire purpose is to get people from Jersey City to Manhattan, and vice-versa. This is normal for me. I am an old hand at riding the PATH, and no longer become in any way distressed about it.

Only the thing is, on Sundays, the PATH bounces through Hoboken on its way from Jersey City to Manhattan. This is a very jerky, bumpy, throw-you-around-y section of track, since it's not part of the everyday commute. Also on Sundays, they run fewer trains, resulting in a greater density of people on each individual train.

Can you guess what's coming next? I bet you can guess what's coming next.

Sunday, Kate and I got on the PATH to head into the city to have lunch with The Agent and another of her clients, followed by dinner with Betsy (Wollheim, not Tinney; it would have been a clever trick to somehow have dinner with my Seattle Maine Coon breeder whilst in New York). The train was very full when we got on; we had to stand. I got whiter and whiter as the train moved, trying desperately to keep from crying.

When I started screaming every time the car jerked to one side or another, some nice people let me have their seat. Thank you, nice people. I took my emergency pain killers and cried. "Take more painkillers and cry" was pretty much the mantra of the day, which would otherwise have been absolutely lovely. Because Betsy is a golden goddess who shall be renowned in song and story, she even drove us back to Jersey City after dinner. I have sent her a thank-you card.

My back has been out ever since. It's getting better, slowly, but it's been long enough since I had a flare-up this bad that, well, I'm being sort of a wimp about it. I cry a lot. I've been to the doctor for more painkillers, and I'm trying to schedule a spinal epidural, but right now? Right now, I just cry a lot. Part of me is glad that I'm missing OVFF and World Fantasy and my Alabama corn maze, because I am in SO MUCH PAIN right now that I wouldn't really enjoy them anyway.

So if I seem a little curt, or a little out of it, that's because I am either in extreme pain, or legally stoned to prevent the extreme pain from being a problem. Show mercy, I beg of thee. And please, Great Pumpkin, let this be over soon.

My heart hurts.

To begin with, please go read Kate Harding's excellent post on childhood bullying. A lot of it applies universally. The part about people being willing to say "but he/she's really a good kid" about bullies especially speaks to me, because I heard that when I was younger. I heard that a lot.

So here, full disclosure time: I was a weird kid. I was too smart for my classmates and too socially inept for my teachers. I was years behind in the areas of "giving things up," clinging to My Little Ponies and imaginary friends long past the point where it was "cool." My family was poor. I didn't have fashionable clothes or lunch sacks full of things to trade. I couldn't throw birthday parties, and when it was my turn to bring things to share with the class, they were always homemade—not the best way to look cool when the other students could afford fancy things from fancy bakeries. I liked books better than I liked boys. I watched cartoons. I sang in public. I wrote weird stories for class assignments. I came from a single-parent household. I stood out, no matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to be "normal." "Normal" wasn't in my skill set.

The kids I went to school with were exactly as understanding of all this concentrated weirdness as you'd expect them to be. They pushed me around, made fun of me, stole my homework; they ripped my books in half, shoved me into closets, knocked my lunches out of my hands. I can't stand the thought of getting a library card, because they stole my library books, leaving me with a fine my family's welfare-level budget couldn't pay. I was from a family so poor that ketchup really was considered a vegetable, and the little creeps I went to school with stole my library books. Not because I fought back, because I didn't. Not because I'd done anything to them, because I hadn't. Because they thought it was funny.

I listened to the adults when they told me it was my fault for being different. That if I just ignored the bullies, they'd go away and find an easier target. That if I was willing to change, to conform, that the bullies would be my friends, and not my tormentors. Why I would want to befriend people who once pushed me into traffic because, again, they thought it was funny...that part was never explained. I ate a lot of lunches in the office or the library. I got better about keeping my head down, about not crying where anyone could see me, and about answering "How was your day?" with the obligatory lie.

Fine. My day was fine. I had a lot of "fine" days back then. It's amazing how often "fine" meant "horrible, terrible, mortifying, humiliating, dehumanizing, brutal." All I ever had to say was "fine."

By the time I was fifteen, I had attempted suicide multiple times. Luckily for me, the Internet wasn't around to make it easier, and I had to rely on (often inaccurate) second-hand information. Right around the time I started to fully understand what it would take for me to kill myself, I started meeting people who understood what it was like to be different, who didn't make fun of me for being myself. It helped that my high school was across the street from a junior college, giving me easy access to a whole new social circle. There are times when I honestly believe that if I'd gone to a different school, I wouldn't have survived to graduate.

In a way, I was one of the lucky ones. I was a member of my school's dominant racial group. It was a college prep school, and most of the students were too focused on scholarships and golden tickets to make hounding me their life's goal—I was a hobby, not a vocation. I was rarely the target of violence. When I came out of the closet, I got some additional mockery, but not much; not enough to truly make things worse than they already were. My life could have been much, much harder...and I say that as someone who literally developed stress headaches and ulcers by the age of seventeen, from the strain of coping with the bullying.

It didn't help that for decades—and I do mean decades—I blamed myself. There had to be something inherently wrong with me, right? Otherwise, the bullies would leave me alone. Especially since so many of the bullies had friends, had favorite teachers, were golden children who could do no wrong. I was convinced that I was somehow flawed, and that I was just too stupid to see it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Only it turns out that there's no explanation. Some bullies come from broken homes, or have low self-esteem, or need to prove themselves on the pecking order. Others...don't. Some bullies are wealthy, smart, attractive, and have everything in the world going for them. Some bullies do it because they can. Oh, I'm sure that every bully has a root cause, but at the end of the day, you bully, or you don't. One choice is right, one choice is wrong. And way too many people make the wrong choice, because it's easy, because it gives them power, because it's fun to kick the people that nobody will defend. Most bullies seem to learn early that their victims have been trained to "be the bigger person" and "turn the other cheek." You know what? Ignoring a bully just makes it more fun to torment you, because then, if they get you to react, they know they've won.

We've known for a long time that school bullying was out of control, but every time it gets "uncovered" again, people react like it's some sort of shock. Kids can be mean? HORRORS! Kids bully other kids? HORRORS!

Bullshit.

Everyone at my high school knew that bullying happened. If you were a bully, you knew. If you were bullied, you knew. If you were neither of the above, you tried not to align yourself too closely with the bullied, because there was a chance the big red target we all had painted on our backs might rub off. No one in the American school system is ignorant of bullying. But still, we take the word of the bullies over the word of the bullied. Still, we allow for the mistreatment and marginalization of anyone labeled "different."

And still, kids are dying over it.

This whole situation hurts my heart. Please, please, speak out against bullying. Break the cycle. Humanity will always have the potential to be cruel, but isn't the world already difficult enough? No one should die for the crime of being different. No one should learn the lessons so many of us were forced to learn.

No one else should die because we didn't stand up and say "enough" to the bullies of the world. The fact that I have to write "no one else," and not "no one," just shows how bad the situation has become.

Please. Break the cycle, before it's too late for someone else.

Please.

People of the Internet, please, please, please, when you use my website contact form to get in touch with me, please include an address so I can respond to you? Sending me messages with blank "from" lines just means...

a) I can't answer, even if you ask direct questions, and
b) I get really frustrated, because I at least try to answer all my mail.

So please, please provide me with an email address so I can answer you. It makes things a lot more stressy when you don't.

Thanks.

When I was a very small Seanan, I wore blue jeans and frilly pink dresses and liked to have my hair cut so short that I looked like I was auditioning to be one of the Midwich Cuckoos. (That impression was helped by the fact that I was a cornsilk blonde who spent all her time in the sun.) I caught lizards and snakes and crawdads and frogs; I collected buckets of garden snails and jars of rolly-polly bugs. I skinned my elbows and knees and stubbed my toes and once gave myself carpet-burn all the way across my face by goofing off on the stairs. I collected My Little Ponies and loved to read just about anything I could get my hands on. I watched He-Man and She-Ra and the Muppets and reruns of Doctor Who, and I never really gave any thought to whether or not I was acting like a girl.

When I was a slightly larger Seanan, I wore blue jeans and flowered jumpers and kept my hair in ponytails so it wouldn't get in my eyes while I was running around the creek or sliding down Cardboard Hill. I drew crazy pictures and read until my eyes ached and spent my Saturday nights watching horror movies and rooting for the monsters. I filled the bathtub with bullfrogs and tried to teach them to follow simple English commands (it didn't work). I still collected My Little Ponies, and my favorite author in the world was Stephen King. When asked what I was going to grow up to be, I usually answered either "a writer" or "a horror movie host, like Elvira," and I was totally planning to marry Vincent Price, because we could honeymoon in any one of his many, many haunted castles. And I still never really gave any thought to whether or not I was acting like a girl.

Somewhere around age eleven, things started changing. Suddenly, about half the things I liked, and had liked my whole life, were "boy things." My love of horror movies was a problem, not because it was going to give me nightmares or warp me into a serial killer, but because it was "worrisome" to other mothers, who thought I might lead their daughters into "bad behavior." This "bad behavior" would apparently involve, I don't know, being able to name the current lineup of the X-Men and explain the mechanics of spaceflight. I was naughty. Again, I was doing exactly what I'd always done, but the world around me was shifting, and I wasn't shifting fast enough to keep up with it. Now, some of this was my fault; I wasn't a very socially aware kid—there was always something more important to do!—and I didn't keep up with the cultural norms. But a lot of it was mystifying to me then, and is mystifying to me now. I'm fortunate to be cisgendered. I have always been a girl, felt like a girl, known I was a girl. I'm just a girl who likes horror movies and musicals, spiders and kittens, Stephen King and My Little Pony. So what the heck is the problem?

Apparently, that is the problem. If I'd been more of a tomboy, people would have had a convenient box into which I could be placed. My sisters, faced with the same issue, grew up to be James Dean and a goth Betty Page. I kept trucking along as Marilyn Munster, frustrating people who wanted me to be easy to categorize. That was okay, because they frustrated me, too. I always just assumed it would eventually go away, and we'd all get to be people, and the girls would do things like girls because girls were doing them, not because of some innate "girliness" of the things, and the boys would do things like boys for the same reason. Better still, maybe we'd all just do things like people.

It didn't go away. If anything, it's gotten worse, since now it's "cute" when I know horror movie trivia, and "totally predictable" when a spider scares the ever-loving crap out of me by dropping on my head while I'm trying to work. It's "strange and interesting" when a girl writes horror, even though the majority of people in your average horror movie audience are female. (Mind you, the gender ratio inverts for written horror, I think largely because there is so much rape in modern horror fiction. Every other chapter, the rape returns. I can skip it when reading, but I have real trouble writing it, current genre standard or not. Maybe I'm weird? But when I write a book, I want to enjoy it, and I don't really enjoy writing about rape.) I'm expected to be nicer, better-dressed, and work harder than the men of my acquaintance, just to stay on the same footing—because otherwise, I'm trying to get by on being a girl.

I am a girl. That's not changing. I am a snake-loving frog-catching horror-watching virus-studying skirt-wearing Midwich Cuckoo Marilyn Munster girl. I'm not getting by on anything. I'm not making comments on gender politics when I combine my Bedazzler with my chainsaw. I'm just being me. It's about the only thing I'm any good at.

Everything I do, I do like a girl. And that's okay.

So recently, I had an unwelcome house guest: an elderly black cat spent about a week and a half in the laundry room, waiting to be removed to its new home. There were a lot of very good reasons for the cat's presence, most of which I don't really want to go into. Lilly and Alice were fascinated by the interloper; Lilly wanted to kill it, while Alice wanted to PLAY PLAY PLAY. Behold the difference between "manic" and "temperamental," ladies and gentlemen. The cat was eventually removed, returning the house to its normal state...but a host's gift was kindly left behind.

We have fleas again.

This was discovered when I took Alice to the groomer on Saturday (she'd managed to develop belly mats, thanks to all my recent traveling, and I just wanted them gone so we could return to non-painful grooming). "Did you know you have fleas? Oh, the poor baby, she's just crawling with them."

As I'm sure you can imagine, I was...displeased. I fought a long, hard battle to get rid of the fleas last time this happened. Since Alice is a longhair and Lilly has a very dense, plush coat, it's possible for them to have fleas without my actually being able to see the signs. And since I brush both of them really regularly, they don't get as itchy as they might otherwise, so I don't get as much visible scratching. I went straight out and got flea medication, along with carpet powder and bedding spray. Then I came home and checked the calendar.

See, most flea treatments are given at one-month intervals, and I needed to be sure the second dose would come due after I got back from Australia. Today turned out to be the magical day. The day I poured poison on the cats.

Alice took it with good grace, because Alice sweats sedatives. Lilly was substantially more offended, and slunk off to glare at me for about twenty minutes. I don't care. THE FLEAS WILL DIE. Thus I swear.

Stupid fleas.

So here's the thing: I don't want to be lectured about my reliance on thumb drive technology. I've gone over the pros and cons with a dozen people, and for the most part, my methodology is very safe. I perform frequent backups of the whole drive, as well as doing local file backups and mailing files to off-site readers. I avoid contact with magnets and with other things that seem likely to do me a mischief in the woods. I am a careful person. Internet storage systems don't work for me, for a lot of reasons, and as long as I have a day job, I need to be able to transport my work with me, without being tied to a specific system or reliant on a stable Internet connection.

With all that said, this has been my weekend:

Friday night, I got home, watched an episode of The West Wing, and did my basic household chores. Then I sat down to get some work done. This began with the insertion of my thumb drive into the USB port. "The format of Drive G is not recognized. Format Drive G?"

Uh, no. I removed the drive, blew on it, and tried it in a different port. Same result. I rebooted. Same result. I pulled out my netbook, booted it up, and tried again. Same result. I called Rey in tightly controlled hysterics. He came over, and—after spending about an hour and a half fighting—took my thumb drive away. He's supposed to come back tonight to finish file recovery. I've done basically no work this weekend, but I've only cried myself to sleep once, so that's something, right? Right?!

Oh, Great Pumpkin, I need a drink.

In happier news, there are still pendants created from A Local Habitation available from Chimera Fancies. Not only are these amazing pieces of unique, wearable art, but there are three extra-special pendants currently up for small-scale auction, here:

1. Born to Neverland.
2. Save Faerie.
3. Tybalt's Magic.

These are just incredible. Plus I got to write BPAL-style bumper text for them, which was, like, super-fun, and I will probably be unable to resist doing in the future. I am such a geek. Anyway, pretty shinies to admire and desire and obtain, and you should totally take a look. I love Mia's work so.

More contests next week, more review roundups, and hopefully, more sanity, once I have my files back. I have not had a good weekend.

Last Wednesday, I was feeling lousy, in that annoying, "incipient cold" sort of a way. I spent the evening doing as little as humanly possible, and went to bed early, hoping this would be enough to stave off the inevitable.

It was not enough to stave off the inevitable.

I woke up on Thursday feeling like I'd been beaten up in the night. I couldn't breathe. Possibly because I couldn't breathe, I became dizzy if I stood up for too long, I couldn't focus, and anything more complex than dozing on the couch while watching endless episodes of The West Wing was pretty much beyond me. I literally called my mother to bring me orange juice and soup. Neither of which had any flavor at all. After sleeping through most of the day, I went to bed praying that the worst was over.

The worst was not, in fact, over, as Friday brought with it several exciting new symptoms, including a deep, bone-rattling cough and stomach issues, neither of which had been invited to the party on Thursday. Oh, yay! I got off the couch a bit more often on Friday, since I had to do some running to the bathroom, but it was still a primarily stationary day.

Why is this relevant to your interests, beyond the vague "aww, poor baby, you've been sick" factor? Because I just went literally four days with essentially no computer contact whatsoever. I didn't do any writing until Sunday evening, when I finished the Sparrow Hill story for August. I didn't answer any email at all. I didn't even put on outside clothes until Saturday. So if you're waiting for something from me, or you think that I'm ignoring you, I promise, it's just my mind-boggling nasty summer cold.

I still sound like I have tuberculosis, or at least a cousin of same, but I can walk now, and that's a massive improvement. Things are returning, glacially, to normal.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled babbling.

So here's the thing:

Sometimes I have bitchy days. Sometimes I've been woken up repeatedly during the night to arbitrate disagreements between the cats, or it was too hot to sleep, or I have lots of deadlines I need to take care of, or I just have a really painful zit in my ear. Whatever. I am a person, I have a right to the ball, and that ball includes the occasional bitchy day. Sometimes, I am not a happy little bundle of sunshine and zombie puppies, ready to spread my pathogenic joy across the world.

On those days, I tend to stay mostly in my room (or the nearest available equivalent), working industriously on whatever pisses me off the least, and interacting only with people whose response to my being snappy is "Yes, yes, dear, aren't you cute when you try to bite me, here, have a rawhide chew." I don't answer email unless I have to, because it's never nice to take somebody's face off just for asking when the next book is coming out (An Artificial Night, 9/10; Late Eclipses, 3/11; Deadline, 5/11, by the way). At that point, if you pursue me into my hole, well...

The reason I bring this up is that I've seen a tendency to write off female characters who aren't always sweetness, light, and the joy at the end of the sunshine tunnel. Jean Gray may destroy planets, but she does it while baking cookies, while Emma Frost saves the world and sneers. Jean is thus clearly the better heroine, more deserving of love and compassion and all that other wacky stuff. Wolverine, on the other hand, is an unremitting bastard, and that makes him cool. That makes him edgy. Because he's bad, see? He's bad.

I once had a proofreader return a scene from one of the Toby books with the note that Toby was being a real unbearable bitch. I wrote back, and suggested that for every instance of "October Daye," they substitute the male protagonist of their choice (they went with Harry Dresden) before looking at the scene again. The complaint was summarily withdrawn. To which I can only say, seriously, what the hell? Why is it tough and cool and all that other stuff from a male protagonist, but incredibly bitchy and hateful and awful from a female protagonist? Why do we all have to be Pollyanna, all the time?

Now, I am a natural Marilyn Munster, which means that ninety percent of the time, I'm happy and bubbly and ready to slather you in plague-carrying bats. But that doesn't mean that the Wednesday Addams girls are somehow less valid, or less deserving of their own stories. And it doesn't mean I'm not allowed to have a grumpy day once in a while. I'm just not allowed to use my grumpy day as an excuse for immuno-depressant smallpox.

Hmmph.

Today was my signing event at the Pleasant Hill Borders. I woke bright and early (too bright, and too early; after waking up at 6:20 AM, I went back to bed for another hour and a half), walked to the grocery store for a fresh fruit breakfast, and came back to the house to shower and watch The West Wing while I prepared myself for the day ahead. Wonder of wonders, Mom wasn't just on time, she was early, and we got on the road with time to spare.

After stopping at a yard sale en route, we reached the Borders, parked, hit the Farmer's Market for several pounds of cherries, and went into the bookstore, where I had a small table dedicated to my use, thoughtfully outfitted with some Sharpies and a few bottles of water. People showed up. I signed things. We chatted. It was very nice, although the sheer size of the stack of books made me feel rather like I was letting down the team, and should have been sneaking ninja-like around the store, sliding paperbacks into purses and making people pay to avoid shoplifting fines.

(One fascinating facet of being a "visiting author" in a bookstore: no one wants to meet your eye, for fear that they'll be forced by guilt to buy your book. Much like a Venus flytrap, I had to adopt a strategy of "ignore them until they're too close to escape." Also, once the bookstore employees stop looking you in the face, it's time to leave.)

We eventually took a break for lunch and errands, running to the Best Buy for a new camera* and then to the Texas BBQ for tasty, tasty lunch. I had BBQ chicken, and we split a blackberry cobbler, to which I can only say HOLY CRAP NOM. After that, it was back to the bookstore for a pleasant hour of reading all their comic books while not actually signing anything. Oh, well.

And then the fun started.

See, when we left the bookstore, the car wouldn't start. Several people ignored Mom's pleas for a jump, leading her to call a friend to come jump us. The battery was essentially a zombie at this point, obeying our commands only so long as we didn't feed it salt...so it was off to Pep Boys to buy a battery. Um, yay? I was so tired I was yawning the whole time, and read several old Women's World magazines, which taught me that a) desserts are good, but b) I shouldn't eat them ever, or I'll be fat and no one will love me, and c) men like sex, presumably after a good dessert that I'm not allowed to eat. Again, um, yay?

Having purchased a new battery, Mom drove me to the comic book store, and I salved my wounded soul with graphic novels. Which I will now read. So if you're wondering where I am? I'm in the back of my house, reading the new X-Babies.

Snikt.

(*Yes, this means kitty pictures soon. You're welcome.)

The other day, I needed to go to the mall to acquire a new bra. This happens periodically. It's a normal thing. I go to the mall for my bras because that's where the Lane Bryant is, and they make the best bras for my particular body type. What's more, I already know which of their bras will work for me and which won't, which takes a lot of the sting out of shopping. I've worked very hard to get to a place in my life where I could say "I need a new bra" and follow it up with "Let's go to the mall," rather than "Let's repair the old one with some safety pins and maybe a strip of duct tape, and I can buy the new one next month." This doesn't mean that I want to spend an hour digging through the racks, looking for the one that's Just Right. I want to know my options, I want to know what I'm buying, and I want to just do it already.

"Isn't this the store that made that ad?" Mom asked.

"Which ad?"

"The one they wouldn't show on TV."

"Oh. Yeah."

For those of you who managed to miss this whole thing, Fox and ABC refused to air a Lane Bryant commercial, saying that it was inappropriate, despite the fact that both networks air commercials for Victoria's Secret. Now, I've seen both commercials, and if you want to talk comparative nudity, well. The new line from Victoria's Secret is actually called "Naked." The Lane Bryant lingerie, on the other hand, covers a lot more, while committing the dual sins of a) being made for plus-sized women, and b) being reasonably attractive. That's obscene! We can't show that to our children, especially not during Dancing With the Stars, a show that features women wearing costumes that are closer to rumor than reality! That would be wrong! That would be...that would...

Wait, what?

Of course, the networks insist that this isn't a comment about Lane Bryant's lingerie being worn by plus-size models, even though, well, it's either that, or a comment on the immorality of wearing bras that come in colors. Rainbow Brite should be ashamed of herself. Meanwhile, over in Victoria's Secret-land, all the models are modestly wearing undies the exact color of their skins, making them look totally nude if you're not paying close attention. Much more modest.

"Why?"

"Because the models were fat, Mom."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"But that doesn't make sense."

"Tell me about it."

The current culture of fat shaming isn't just depressing; it's outright scary. It's dehumanizing. Fat women are "whales" and "cows," not just, I don't know, fat women. Women come in all shapes and sizes! Women are healthy at all shapes and sizes! My youngest sister weighs about fifty pounds more than I do, and she is smoking hot, like a plus-sized Betty Page gone tattoo model. She dresses like she's hot, she walks like she's hot, and you know what? She's hot! She's also healthy, active, smart, and all those other things that some people think "fatties" aren't allowed to be. She looks better at her current weight than I ever would, because she's built that way.

This may be a bit of a shock to some of the folks out there deciding what is and isn't "decent," but not all bodies were created from the same template. If Kate and I were to eat identical things and do identical amounts of exercise for a week, we would not lose identical amounts of weight. If Vixy and I were to each gain ten pounds, they would not distribute themselves in identical places on our bodies. I know people who can gain weight on nothing but broccoli and lean meat, and people who can lose weight on a diet of chocolate bonbons. Fat shaming solves nothing. It doesn't make the world's plus-sized population disappear in a puff of Twinkie-scented smoke; it just makes teenage girls develop eating disorders, grown women lie about their weight, and small children tell their mothers they don't want dinner because they're scared of getting fat.

"That's just stupid."

"I know."

"Those people should cut that out."

Also, on the practical side of things...women are more likely to go out in public, and exercise voluntarily, when they're wearing good bras. This goes double for plus-sized women, who are (surprise, surprise) more likely to have large breasts, and thus need the support and stabilization of a good bra. So if the goal is really making all the fat women into thin women, they should be getting government bra service as an incentive to get out and move around more. Not that exercise is the absolute answer for everyone—that's another can of worms, and goes back to my "not all bodies were created from the same template" point—but hell, it would be a start. Saying "ew, that's indecent" doesn't do anybody any good. Except maybe the viewing public that gets spared the sight of all those "fatties," and well. I'm not so concerned about them in this particular situation.

"I wish they would, Mom."

"Tell them that."

"Okay."

I am now somewhere in the region of 80% done with my insanely intensive and invasive dental work. Today's session was supposed to last about an hour and a half. It ran three hours solid, all of which was spent under nitrous oxide, listening to Adam sing version after version of "Rain King." (It turns out, by the way, that I can get through approximately twenty versions of "Rain King" in three hours, intermixed with a truly awesome number of alternate lyrics. In case you were wondering, this is all that keeps me sane when I have to face my ultimate phobia...the friendly, smiling Dr. Mason. The characters were named before I got this dentist, I swear.)

Three hours of nitrous leaves me woozy, unsteady, and barely able to stand up on my own. My mother, who is sometimes a cruel woman, finds this hysterical, and likes to point and laugh. Luckily, she also likes to take me to IHOP for the calories necessary to put my stomach back into its original position. I might otherwise be forced to kill her.

The cats also find this hysterical, as well as useful, since I mostly sit still with my laptop on my legs, petting the cats and watching DVDs of The West Wing. I really wasn't planning to spend my entire day in a drugged stupor, but there you go. Peh.

On the plus side, I finally finished Sparrow Hill Road #7, "Do You Want to Dance?" It's off with my first-pass proofers now, getting smashed to pieces with hammers. I like this stage. It's the stage that I have nothing whatsoever to do with. This leaves me with five stories to go before the big finish, and then...well, then, I suppose I'll be focusing back on Velveteen and her crew. I actually have an installment in process right now, "Velveteen vs. The Secret Identity," which will almost certainly prove to be messy for everyone involved. Fun!

Now I sit here in my leopard-print nightie, trying to figure out where I left my feet. I am really not recovering from today's procedure in anything resembling a swift or coherent manner.

Peh.

I do not have a library card.

I do not have a library card because I grew up poor—very, very, After-School Special poor, cockroaches in my bedroom and scavenging from trashcans poor—and I was badly bullied by the kids in my school, leading, eventually, to a group of girls stealing and destroying my library books. I couldn't pay the fines. I couldn't even tell anyone what had happened, because when the scruffy little poor girl complained about the sweet, well-groomed rich kids who had each others' backs, well...I had been down that road. The only people who would believe me were my mother and my teachers, and all I could do by telling them was upset them. I couldn't change anything.

I'm not that girl anymore. But the idea of getting a library card terrifies me, because some small, irrational part of me is convinced, incurably, that if I were to get a library card, those girls from school would show up, and slap my books out of my hands, and leave me standing alone on the sidewalk, sobbing over the loss of one of the things I loved most in the world: the ability to walk into a library with my head up, feeling like the books were free for anybody who wanted to read them.

The library books weren't the worst thing that happened to me during my school career. I was weird, I was geeky, I had frizzy hair and glasses and didn't really "get" a lot of the unspoken rules of the playground. I blew grade curves and didn't let people cheat off me on tests. I was basically invented to be the school punching-bag. But the library books were one of the things I never got over, because the library books taught me, once and for all, that sometimes the bullies win. Sometimes, you can't fight back, you can't stand up for yourself like the adults tell you to, and the bullies. Just. Win.

Phoebe Prince lost, too. But she's never going to be a grown-up, secure from bullies, writing a post like this one. Because she lost to the bullies so hard and so overwhelmingly that she killed herself.

Megan Kelly Hall is organizing YA authors against bullying, in memory of Phoebe Prince. Please. Go and read what she has to say. Consider what the current culture of bullying is doing to us, to our children, to our nieces and nephews, to the children of our friends. Even bullying that you survive can scar you forever, and Phoebe isn't the first to take her own life over this sort of thing. It's gotten so much worse than it was when I was in school, and I cried myself to sleep for years over the bullying.

This needs to stop. We need to stop it.

Please.

Hey, gang—

My webmaster's email address appears to have been compromised, and is sending out the classic "oh no I have been mugged and I'm trapped in a foreign country, send money and flying monkeys and the A-Team" email to everyone in his address book. This is not a real message. He doesn't need help, or flying monkeys, although he might welcome the A-Team; he's still here in California, and I'll make sure he knows about the situation as soon as he wakes up.

For right now, don't panic, and don't click anything he sends you.

Point the first: There has been an epic influx of new people around here in the past few days. Like, epic. The kind of influx which causes me to start doing careful web checks to see if someone has been claiming that I regularly give away chocolate, kittens, and live Suicide Girls. (Hint: I do not do any of these things.) In the end, I have to admit that I'm stumped. I don't know where y'all are coming from, and while I'm happy as heck to have you, I'd love to know where you're coming from. And yes, I get the part where I have a book coming out in three days and this might—might—potentially be influencing the sudden flood of new names and faces. Still.

Point the second: If you enter a CVS Drugs in search of the tiny, addictive balls of malted goodness called "Robin's Eggs" by the makers of Easter candy, you may find that there are no Robin's Eggs on the shelves. There are, instead, extremely similar-looking candies called "Speckled Malted Milk Mini Eggs." Now, this is basically what Robin's Eggs are, so you could be forgiven for saying "fuck it, buy generic" and picking up a bag. You would not be the first. Once you had purchased this cruel temptation, it would be understandable if you then opened the bag, and placed one of the little balls of sugar in your mouth. But I have walked this path for you, and I have come to tell you the truth:

Speckled Malted Milk Mini Eggs are NOT fucking Robin's Eggs, and whoever decided to market these things as if they were should be forced to drown in their horrific, slime-like pseudo-chocolate coating.

I suffer so you don't have to.

Point the third: My house is currently in the throes of a full-scale invasion. To be specific, it is currently inhabited by Betsy Tinney, her daughter Katie, SJ Tucker, Kevin Wiley, Alexander James Adams, and the people who normally live here. Plus my opinionated monster cats, who can fill a house all by themselves. On Monday night, the fabulous Amy McNally arrives. If we run out of coffee at any point, cannibalism cannot be far behind. You have been warned. Also, if fandom did reality show filming, we would so be prime time right now.

Point the fourth: Since A Local Habitation comes out in three days, and one of them is mostly over now, I have to warn you that I may go basically batshit at any moment, and need to be removed from the ceiling fixtures by men with tranquilizer darts filled with Diet Dr Pepper. On the plus side, again, Amy gets here Monday, and she will sacrifice herself upon my dark altar that you may all be saved. Be kind to her. She suffers for your protection.

Point the fifth: Here. Have a picture of Lilly and Alice, sitting together, without injuring each other.

Okay. So this article appeared in the New York Times, explaining, in brief, how authors are greedy bastards trying to screw the e-book reader. (I'm sorry, are my prejudices showing there? Oh, wait. Yes, they are. Because I like being able to feed my cats.) To quote one of the more charming bits:

"This book has been on the shelves for three weeks and is already in the remainder bins," wrote Wayne Fogel of The Villages, Fla., when he left a one-star review of Catherine Coulter's book KnockOut on Amazon. "$14.82 for the Kindle version is unbelievable. Some listings Amazon should refuse when the authors are trying to rip off Amazon's customers."

So let me see if I've got this straight, shall I?

1) The author sets the price, not the publisher.
2) The author is, apparently, getting a huge percentage of the cover price.
3) The right way to object to this is to make people think the book sucks.
4) It doesn't matter if this means the author can't sell another book; they shouldn't have been greedy.

Um, what?

There is this incredible, eye-burning, heart-shattering impression that all authors are rich; that we sign that first contract, receive that first check, and spend the rest of our days lounging on the beach in Bura-Bura while dictating our works of creative genius to a scantily-clad cabana boy named Chad. If this is true, something's wrong with my authorial contract. I've sold six books—by the standards of any beginning author, I'm doing pretty well—but Chad has yet to put in an appearance, and I'm still not sure where Bura-Bura is. Instead, I get up every morning at 5AM to travel an hour and a half to get to work, spend my evenings hammering away at my keyboard and praying for another sale, and all my grocery purchases are heavily influenced by what's currently on sale. I make a weekly trip to Target to stock up on frozen dinners and kitty litter, because I can't actually afford to let my cats crap on silken beds of cedar shavings hand-milled for them on a little organic farm in Minnesota. I buy sweaters at Goodwill, and consider myself blessed by the Great Pumpkin when I find an Ann Taylor top for five dollars, because it saves me a trip to the mall that I really shouldn't be making. And I'm doing well.

The fantastic rolanni has posted a very realistic view at a working author's finances. This is someone who's been publishing for years, and has actually reached the stage of getting royalty payments (not every book will reach the royalty stage; many books never actually earn back their advances). If anybody deserves their ticket to Bura-Bura, it's her. And she ain't on a plane right now.

Look: the $15 price point that some publishers are proposing is for the hardcover edition. The Kindle edition of Rosemary and Rue costs $6.39, which is 20% less than the price of the physical item. Because the physical books are published, at least currently, in bulk, 20% is a fairly valid reflection of the cost of paper and distribution. 80% of the cost of the book goes to the author, the editor, the copyeditor, the layout artist, the cover artist, the marketing department, and the magical mystery adventure we like to call "keeping the lights on at the publisher's office." Saying that an electronic copy of the book costs the publisher "nothing" is like saying that an MP3 of one of my songs costs me "nothing." So wait, I don't have to pay my recording engineer anything if I'm only selling virtual music? It's all free money? Score! Sure, Kristoph won't be able to make his mortgage payments or upgrade his equipment, but what do I care? Free money!

If publishers aren't allowed to charge more for the electronic editions of expensive books, they'll refuse to offer the electronic editions until the mass-market paperbacks come out. Hardcovers cost more for a variety of reasons—including the fact that often, hardcover authors are getting slightly larger advances. So that is, I suppose, a bit of authorial greed, because we're putting our desire to feed the cats (and ourselves) ahead of the consumer's desire to pay six dollars for something we spent two years writing. Sorry.

Also, these reactions are, well, hurtful. By saying that authors are "greedy" for wanting to make a living, people are saying that our time has no value. These are often the same people who will willingly pay ten dollars for a movie ticket (and ten more for popcorn and a soda), knowing that the actors were paid thousands, if not millions, of dollars to speak lines that somebody wrote. Every cool quip you've ever heard in a movie or on TV? Yeah, somebody wrote that. If somebody had been flipping burgers to keep the lights on, maybe somebody wouldn't have had the time to come up with that awesome line. Authors need to eat, and if we can't do that through our art, we'll find another way to do it...and things won't get written. I mean, look:

Time to write a book, six months to three years.
Time to sell a book, six days to eternity.
Time to edit a book, six months.
Time between publication and print, one to three years.

How much money do you make during that time? (Don't actually answer that, I don't want to know. I'm just making a point.) Unless you're Stephen King, writing is never going to make you rich, and saying you'd like to eat doesn't make you greedy, it makes you sane.

I am not saying that publishers should be charging whatever they want for everything—just that e-books cost money, too, and that not all the costs of creating a book are in the physical artifact you can point to and shout "book" about. My publisher wants to make money. My publisher wants me to make money, because when I'm making money, so are they, and more, when I'm making enough money, I can actually get that cabana boy and spend a lot more time writing. Right now, I'm literally working myself sick, spending three days in bed, and then doing it again, because that's the only way to stay on top of all the things I need to do.

Authors, as a class, aren't greedy. We're just tired.

Now where's my damn cabana boy?

People are talking a lot about eBooks right now. It would be impossible not to talk a lot about eBooks right now, given the recent mess with Amazon and MacMillan.* Before this, people were already talking about eBooks, for a lot of reasons. One of those reasons was what people are calling the "nuclear option": a tendency by some readers to go to Amazon.com and other review sites and post one-star reviews of products because those products are not available to them. The book you want isn't available in the country where you live? Give it a one-star review! That'll show 'em!

...except no. Not really.

People are talking a lot about book covers right now, and the fact that sometimes, the people on them don't actually look anything like the people inside the books. Sometimes they're bad. Sometimes they're terrible. And sometimes, yes, they're inaccurate enough to be insulting, presenting characters as the wrong race, gender, weight, sex, or species. (For a nice round-up on some recent cover issues, check out this excellent post by the always-charming jimhines.) This leads, periodically, to groups of people deciding that the best response is a boycott of the books in question—the classic "voting with your dollar" method that works so very well in other arenas.

...except maybe this one.

Authors have a surprisingly small amount of control over a lot of aspects of how their books are presented to the public. I say "surprisingly" because when I was a kid, I ranked "Author" as a position of power just below "Doctor Who," "The Great Pumpkin," and "God." Most people knock "God" off that list by the time they reach their teens (I did), but still, there's this innate assumption that the author has a lot of control over where their work goes and what it does.

...except no. Not really. Check out these lists for details.

Things the Author Probably Controls

* Whether the book gets written.
* Which publishing houses the book gets sent to.

Things the Author Probably Does NOT Control (unless the author is Stephen King)

* The cover.
* The title.
* The publication date.
* The format of the book.
* The cost of the book.
* Whether there's an eBook edition.
* Whether the book is published anywhere outside the US.
* Whether the book is published in more than one language.
* Whether there's an audio edition.
* Which stores, including Amazon, carry their book.
* How many copies are printed.

Who You Are Punishing If You Boycott the Book or Review It Poorly Because of Format, Not Content

* The author.

Who You Are NOT Punishing

* The publisher.

Now, I don't want my publisher punished, for anything. Both my publishers have been amazingly good to me. I love them like I love candy corn and fluffy little blue kittens, and I want everything they touch to turn to gold, because then maybe they can start paying me in remote islands and genetically-engineered dinosaurs instead of boring dollars. Plus, people take very poorly to being punished. If you hit me because I didn't bring you the sandwich you wanted, I'm not going to go and make you a fresh sandwich. If, however, you say "I'm sorry, I really wanted tuna," well, we can negotiate. The message you send when you pan a book for not being available in the format/language/region you want isn't "I really want this but you won't let me have it"; it's "this sucks." Remember, that nasty review is only going to be seen if someone takes the trouble to read it. Most people will just see what amounts to an announcement of "this is a bad book."

If there were a mass boycott of Stephen King or Tom Clancy, the odds are good that the publishing world would notice. Those are, after all, some damn big numbers. Most authors are not in that neighborhood. Most authors can't even get an invitation to that city. So for us, losing ten sales actually matters. For us. For our publisher...not so much. The message sent by a boycott is not "I am offended by this choice," it's "I am not a fan of this author." If enough sales are lost, the author won't be able to get another book contract, and will need to find another job. The publisher will keep publishing. Some of these choices don't punish the people you're trying to punish, and their side effects can be killer.

So how do you get your point across? Pick up a pen. If you're actively offended by a book's cover, try buying the book and mailing the cover back to the publisher, along with a letter saying something like "Thank you so much for publishing a book that was so well-suited to my interests and desires as a writer. Unfortunately, this cover is unsuitable, because..." Indicate that you wanted the author's work, but not the poorly-chosen cover art, and that you would love to see the book issued again with a better cover. Don't punish the author. If you wonder why a book hasn't been printed in a literary region other than the one where it was originally printed (so American books in Germany, German books in France, etc.), it's probably because the local publishers don't realize that interest exists. Write to them! Say "I am a huge fan of Author T. Author's work, and I was wondering if you planned to print their latest book." They might not know they want the work if they don't know there's a market. But don't hit the author for things that are entirely outside of their control. It's just not nice.

(*If you somehow missed the mess, here's a very quick-and-dirty summation: MacMillan said "we want to charge more for our books than you do. We also want to charge less for our books than you do." Amazon said "no." MacMillan said "but they're our books." Amazon de-listed all MacMillan titles, without telling anyone that they were going to do so. MacMillan got upset. MacMillan authors got upset, since the loss of Amazon as a retailer could potentially mean they can't afford cat food anymore. Non-MacMillan authors got upset, because dude, there but for the grace of the Great Pumpkin go we. Everyone did a lot of shouting. People who want cheap eBooks called MacMillan a bully. People who want authors to be able to sell their books called Amazon a bully. There are some very good accountings of the whole mess floating around the Internet; I recommend you go read John Scalzi's post if you want a solidly-researched starting point. This is not that starting point.)

Well, it's finally started: Rosemary and Rue is now showing up, with some regularity, on the various pirate sites. (No, I won't link to them, and no, those torrents don't stay up for very long; as soon as I find out about them, I report them to my publisher, who has them taken down.) I find this somewhat upsetting. Not because I hate the Internet. Not because I think that books should only be available to the wealthy. But because, at the end of the day, pirated books are really, really bad for my career.

Multiple studies have been done on the people who pirate music, and they've found that, on average, people who pirate buy more music than people who don't. That makes sense, if you stop and think about it, because music has a very high replay value. I discovered one of my favorite bands, We're About 9, when my friend Merav gave me a mix tape—the oldest form of music piracy—with one of their songs on it: I've since purchased several albums, including the one with that original song. I don't tend to listen to the full albums very often, but every time the individual tracks come up in my iTunes shuffle, I remember that I want to buy more music by these authors. It's music piracy as a form of private radio, and most people—not all, but most—understand that if you want to keep hearing things you like on the radio, you need to support the artists.

Just about everyone I know has at least a few pirated songs. I recently acquired a pirated copy of Freddy's Greatest Hits, a parody album featuring none other than Freddy Kreuger himself. It's been out of print for twenty years. I do not feel any shame about listening to this rare treasure from the horror graveyard...although I'll definitely buy the actual album, if I ever find it.

Book piracy is different, because the way people interact with the media is so different. According to my iPod, I've listened to the Glee cover of "Don't Stop Believing" over two hundred times. Two hundred times. Of course I paid for it. That song is part of the soundtrack of my life now. Looking at my bookshelves, the single book I've probably read and re-read the most times is Stephen King's IT, where I lost track at eighty. I'm a dedicated re-reader. I re-read IT at least once a year, and frequently more often than that. And I'm only up to eighty. Many people don't re-read the way I do, and very few people re-read immediately. So if I download a torrent of the new Ikeamancer novel, I'm pretty unlikely to run right out and buy myself a copy...and if I want to re-read the book six months later, I may just dig the file out of my hard drive, because it's there. Never underestimate the power of instant gratification.

Past experience tells me that this is the point where someone says "Does that mean you hate libraries/people who loan their books to friends/used book stores?", and the answer to all these things is the same: No. In all of these cases, someone has bought the book. In the case of libraries, the number of copies purchased by a given branch is determined by the number of people who request the book, or check it out once it's in the system. Yes, ten or twenty people may get to read a single copy, but with a pirated book, that number is a lot higher, and that initial sale may not have happened. If I loan a book to a friend, the book comes with a high recommendation ("Here, read this"), and even if my friend doesn't buy their own copy, we're looking at one sale for two people, not one sale (or one OCR of a library copy) for some unlimited number. Even used bookstores are limited by the size of the print run, since they can't get more copies than were initially sold, and are thus a vital part of building the readership for ongoing series. They're part of the natural ecosystem.

People complain about how slow some publishers are to adapt the e-book format, but honestly, the concerns over piracy are a really, really big deal, just because of the impact it can have on a book's overall sales—especially for a beginning author. No, I'm not saying that best-selling authors somehow "deserve" to be pirated, but piracy is likely to be a much smaller overall part of the book's footprint. Dan Brown is not going to be told not to write another sequel to The DaVinci Code over piracy. The author of the Ikeamancer books...might.

Publishing is changing. E-books are, and will continue to be, a big part of that. But unless people remember that book piracy isn't exactly the same as music piracy (and hence culturally viewed as "try before you buy," but almost always leading to that eventual purchase), they'll also continue to be a problem.

So in case you've managed to miss the news (I sometimes wish I'd managed to miss the news), Harlequin Romance has formed a new self-publishing imprint, Harlequin Horizons, and people are ticked off about it. By "people," I mean "the Romance Writers of America, the Science Fiction Writers of America, and writers here, there, and everywhere." The basic deal is this: you give Harlequin Horizons a substantial chunk of cash, and they will print your book. Oh, and if it's drop-dead awesome enough, they may allow you to sell it to them later (although they won't give you back your money at that point). In the meanwhile, you, too, can be a Harlequin author. Whee!

Watching reactions to this around the Internet has been fascinating, because there are a substantial number of people who don't understand why the community of authors is generally so upset. Unless, of course, we're just trying to keep ordinary people from discovering how easy and fun it is to write novels, and how quick you can get famous once you get past The Man who's been guarding the front gate. What they're overlooking is a set of rather nasty complexities attendant on the idea of this model.

With self-publishing, you must be able to pay to play. Being a first-time author is highly unlikely to make anyone wealthy unless they're already a celebrity. I don't know how much Stephanie Meyer got paid for Twilight, but I'll bet you she wasn't quitting her day job until the royalty statements started coming in. Under the normal model, your publisher pays you. That means that it cost me nothing but time to write Rosemary and Rue. Under the self-publishing model, it would have started off by costing me about six thousand dollars, and that doesn't include any sort of promotion, publicity, or advertising.

Writing is not an unskilled profession. Before you assume I'm saying that if you aren't published, you can't write, please hear me out. Like any creative profession, being a writer takes certain learned tools (a functional grasp of a language, for starters), combined with talent and lots and lots of practice. It's a weird cocktail, and the most intrinsically talented writers in the world still need all three components. How do you get practice? By writing, and by being forced to be critical with your own work. When I first wrote Rosemary and Rue, it was the best thing I'd ever written. By the time I finished rewriting it for publication, it was ten times better, and the first draft had become actively embarrassing. Does using publication as the gold ring work for everyone? No. There are some truly amazing authors who have never been published, either because they're writing things viewed as non-commercial, or because they just don't feel like taking the time. But for most of us, the need to improve in order to achieve publication is a lot of what actually drives our improvement. Taking that away is like saying "okay, you've read a bunch of anatomy books, now take out this woman's spleen."

It takes a village to raise a child. People involved with getting Rosemary and Rue to a bookstore near you: me. My agent. My editor. My publicist. My line-editor. My layout and graphic designers. My cover artist. The entire marketing team at Penguin. The guy who sold all of the above their coffee. People I had to pay for their help: the guy who sold us the coffee. People who knew more about what it takes to make a book successful than I do: everyone but the guy who sold us the coffee (and that's a guess; he may be a former publishing mastermind who just likes the smell of java). It takes an army of people to get a book from manuscript to market, and while you can potentially fill all those roles yourself, if you're not independently wealthy, it's going to be really, really hard. I thought I was pretty savvy about how publishing works; then I published a book. It turns out that what I knew was vague and superficial—now we're at "okay, you've watched a bunch of medical shows, now take out this woman's spleen."

We cannot be our own quality control with absolute accuracy. "But wait," you may cry, "it works in the fanfic mines." "Yes, that's true," I would reply, "but in the fanfic mines, you can edit your work for free." Once you expand to novel-length, the chance for errors expands exponentially, and once you've paid someone to put your book in print, your ability to fix them drops like a rock. Consider the number of errors in the average full-length published novel. Now consider the village that played whack-a-mole with the book before you ever saw it. Being expected to be so perfect that you don't need editing isn't just unfair; it borders on actively mean.

Now, all of these points may seem like they're anti-self-publishing, and the thing is, they both are and aren't. There are totally legitimate reasons to self-publish. Maybe you have six thousand dollars to spare, and you just don't like Disneyworld that much. Maybe you're printing a book of short stories written twenty years ago by your high school writer's group. Maybe you have a huge pre-existing Internet following (Monster Island and John Dies at the End, for example, although these were both small press, not self-published). Maybe you just want a printed edition of your grandmother's cookbook. Whatever makes you happy! Most comic books are self-published, and it works out fine for them (although most self-publishing comic creators also form their own imprints).

At the same time, taking aspiring authors and effectively telling them "you don't need to work to improve and learn, you don't have to deal with rejection and unwanted critique, you don't need to do anything but sign the check" is just...it's mean. It's preying on the vulnerability of young authors who don't want anything but to see their works in print. Sadly, most self-published books will never reach a wide audience; they aren't on the shelves in brick-and-mortar stores, they aren't in print advertising (unless you're really independently wealthy), they won't be sending advance copies out for review. They'll just appear in a catalog somewhere, and on the author's website, where the number of copies sold will depend on just how fast the author can tap-dance for the amusement of the masses. By adding the name of a big house to a self-publishing imprint, and the seductive offer of "maybe we'll buy it after all," Harlequin is effectively monetizing their slush pile, and potentially taking the opportunity to grow away from a great many of the aspiring authors involved.

If I had self-published ten years ago, I would never have improved enough as an author to write Feed, or Late Eclipses, or Discount Armageddon, or Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues. Now, your mileage may vary. But these are my concerns, and these are the reasons that I really think that this sort of "business venture" is just another way of preying on the vulnerable.

Point the first: I have drawn the winner for the first A Local Habitation giveaway! I literally do this by feeding the number of comments into a random number generator, and then counting (this is very laborious, but worth it). So our first winner is...

asthecrowfly!

Please email me—DO NOT use the LJ messenger function—with your mailing address. I will be mailing the ARC out after I get home from New York (so next week).

Point the second: I am about to shut down my computer, get into the car, go to the airport, and fly to New York City. I'll be online in the evenings, and may even be online from the plane, since I'm going to need distractions while in the air. I have a lot of writing planned for the actual transit portion of the trip, and a lot of business meetings planned while in New York. I'm going to be Seanan and Mira this time. Fun for the whole family. Plus, The Agent is taking me to Serendipity 3. Mmmmmm, frozen hot chocolate.

Point the third: Coyote has decided that I depend too much on modern technology, and my iPod has died. Hard. Like, I spent half an hour on the phone with Apple technical support, and finally got told "I think it's your hardware." No shit, Sherlock. Anyway, I'm going to go to an Apple Store in Manhattan, where hopefully they'll say something like "gee, this is still under warranty, have a new one." If not, I'm going to sell one of Brooke's kidneys (again) or something, because my mental health really hinges on having portable music, and I no longer have my faithful old Sony Discman (it died quite some time ago). My housemate has loaned me his iPod for the duration of my trip, largely, I think, because he was afraid I might eat him if he didn't.

And that's the news from California. There will be more contests and ARC giveaways in the months to come, including the first contest proposed by The Agent, and I'll let you know when I reach New York alive.

I am a professional. I am aware of what is and is not appropriate conversation for polite company (although I sometimes forget when the topics of "pandemic disease" or "zombies" come up; sadly, I can be goaded into gleeful explanations of latency and droplet-based transmission just about anywhere, including the dinner table). I wear real grown-up shoes when I have to take business meetings, and I have a calm, measured telephone voice.

All this being said, there's a reason I don't usually take phone calls in my house.

The Agent called to discuss my upcoming trip to New York, during which we're going to be doing several dinner-type things, some meeting-type things, and a lot of hanging out. During our forty-minute or so discussion, she was treated to...

"Ow! Ow ow OW! Goddammit, Alice, get your claws out of my fucking leg!"
"No. No, you can't have that. No, that isn't yours. No."
"Get off of there! Jesus, cat, I swear, I will skin you."
"I can get new cats, you know. Better cats. Smaller cats. Cats that don't do that."
"Alice, give back my bra."
"I'm serious, Alice. Give me back my damn bra."
"THAT'S MY FUCKING BRA, CAT!"
"Okay, I give up. Just do whatever the fuck you want."

...all while we were having a serious business discussion. I swear, the fact that she hasn't drowned me and put me out of her misery is something of a miracle.

Recently, I picked up a book that looked interesting. It hit many of my "sweet spots" for plot, description, and cover blurbs from people I trust. The cover didn't do it any favors, featuring, as it did, a generic Urban Fantasy Hot Girl standing in a Playboy circa-1984 pose, but I've enjoyed books with way worse covers. I entered the text in good faith.

By page two, I was ready to fling the book across the room. Why? Because the author had chosen to scramble the spelling of a common-to-the-genre word in a way that made it look not only pretentious, but difficult to read. This is a personal bug-a-boo of mine, since I really do feel that spelling was standardized for a reason, and while I managed to soldier through, it colored my ability to sink into the text for several chapters.

(As an aside, seriously: not all words become more interesting and mysterious when spelled with a vestigial "y." The worst example I've ever seen was in a YA series full of "mermyds," and the fact that I made it through all three volumes is a testament to the power of raw stubborn.)

One reader of Rosemary and Rue posted a lengthy, positive review, more than half of which was taken up by complaints about the pronunciation guide. Specifically, I didn't write down the correct pronunciation of "Kitsune." It's a fair cop—if you pronounce the word as written in the pronunciation guide, you'll be saying it wrong—and it's been corrected for A Local Habitation, but it was, for this person, as bad as if I'd spelled Toby's name "Aughtcober" and then claimed it was pronounced just like the month. Bug-a-boos for all!

Kate recently delivered a long and eloquent diatribe on "back cover buzz-word bingo," which I really wish I'd had a video camera running for, because it was awesome. The summation is that she watches the back covers of books for certain "buzz-words," and, if the book works up to a magical bingo score, she doesn't read it. I do something similar with bad horror movies, since there are specific buzz-words that mean "soft core porn" and "gratuitous torture," and those really aren't what I'm watching the movie to see.

So what are your bug-a-boos? Terribly twisted spelling? Pronunciations that you don't agree with? Buzz-words oozing off the back cover and getting all over your shoes? How about heroines with ruby hair and emerald eyes who aren't appearing in an Amethyst, Princess of Gemworld fanfic epic? Inquiring blondes want to know!

So here's the basic thing: I grew up below the United States poverty line. Way, way below the poverty line. "I really thought yellow boxes meant it was food" and "let's have government cheese sandwiches" levels of below the poverty line. One thing you don't get when you're below the poverty line in America? Dental care. Combine this with a dental phobia (brought on by the rare occasions when I actually saw a dentist, as the dentists assigned the charity cases were often shouty) and an adulthood spent largely temping, and, well. Nothing good can come of this.

Because I am a working author with a day job and good dental insurance for the first time in my adult life, I thought "hey, I'm finally in the position to actually pay to have all the necessary work done." Not "the cosmetic work." The "chewing is fun and awesome and I enjoy being able to do it" work. I found a dentist, I organized my finances as responsibly as I could so that I would be able to pay for everything...

...I got slapped upside the head with self-employment taxes, which, as anyone who's ever looked at the forms can tell you, is obscene. They don't adjust for your situation, either. There's no box to check for "I need lots of medical work, I am employed by a non-profit, and I live in one of the highest cost-of-living regions of the country, so please, don't assume I can afford what you're asking me for." If you make ten dollars income that can be hit with the self-employment taxes, the government wants between three and five dollars of that, even if you're not going to get any more money that year.

Why am I bitching about this now? Because I finally got my full estimate for the rest of my dental work. And that, combined with my final quarterly tax payment for the 2009 tax year, will basically kill my savings account, which I have worked so very hard to build. A lot of my expenses for the year have been deductible—including a lot of my medical, given the level of extensive that it's achieved—but the bills still have to be paid now. If it weren't for the sheer scope of the taxes I've had to pay this year, I'd be fine. Instead? I'm crazy irritated.

Screw you, too, Uncle Sam.

I get this question a lot lately. "Why aren't you rich yet?" It sometimes travels in a pack with its two kissing cousins, "Haven't you quit your day job?" and "What do you mean, you can't afford to ________?" I don't punch people who ask these questions, because let's face it, the authors most people think of when they hear the words "professional writer" are Stephen King and Tom Clancy and the like, and they are rich. They live in the country of rich people's problems.

I, as yet, do not. I live in a different zip code altogether. While I'd love to move to their country someday, the odds are very low; they don't issue many passports, and they're very particular about their citizenship applications. For now, I live where I've lived for most of my adult life, in the country of the lower middle class, where shopping runs to Target are a reality, you thank the Great Pumpkin for five-dollar generic prescriptions (and recognize how lucky you are to have medical insurance at all), fifty-percent-off "eat it before the flies come" meat is sometimes the best excuse for a barbecue, and used book stores are a fiscal necessity, rather than a fun form of antique shopping. I'm not dirt-poor. I've been dirt-poor, I didn't like it, I hope to never do that again...but that means I don't quit my day job, and I don't take day-trips to Peru, or whatever other crazy rich person thing people are proposing today.

Publishing is a business. Almost every author, myself included, works on the royalties system, which goes like this:

Person A writes a book. Person B agrees to give Person A five dollars for the right to publish that book, with the understanding that Person A will not need to return the five dollars unless they violate the terms of their contract. This is called an advance. A certain percentage of the cover price of every book sold will be applied against this advance. Let's say six percent, which comes to just shy of fifty cents on your average mass-market paperback. Now, until the cumulative percentages from books sold come to more than five dollars, Person A will not be getting any additional payment. This is called "earning out." If the cumulative percentages never come to more than five dollars, Person A is basically done.

Once the cumulative percentages exceed five dollars, royalties become an option. Awesome! But remember, Person A's agent will still get a percentage of that royalty payment, and Person A will also be taxed on that income. (Self-employment tax is a nasty beast. Seriously, it's the monster under my bed these days, because the taxation on book payments is terrifying.)

Selling a book doesn't automatically make you rich, and I highly recommend that the first thing any new author does after selling a book is contact an accountant who works with authors, because otherwise, the self-employment tax is going to eat their lunch. Selling a book doesn't mean you can automatically quit your day job, and doesn't magically create medical insurance out of the air. John Scalzi once said that a smart author would marry someone with a stable job. I continue to support this as a sensible, if mercenary, approach.

This post brought on by a) the questions above being asked, yet again, and b) a lengthy discussion with my dentist about the incredible amount of work we're about to have done in my mouth, none of which would be possible without my medical and dental insurance. Finances are fun. Self-employment tax is not.

This past Tuesday, a movie called The Thaw was released on DVD. Basically, Val Kilmer and a bunch of photogenic generic horror-movie twenty-somethings fight prehistoric parasites that come out of a really well-preserved mammoth corpse and try to eat everybody. From the trailer, they succeed in eating at least half the cast, which makes this film Highly Relevant To My Interests. Translation: I want it real bad.

Having failed to find the movie at Target—big surprise there, as they're not normally a real hotbed of hard-core direct-to-DVD horror action (unless it's a direct-to-DVD sequel to something that made mega-bucks)—I hied me over to Fry's, where I figured their low standards and massive selection would make me a happy little horror girl.

Issue number one: I couldn't find the damn movie. The horror section contained everything else that's ever been released and titled with something beginning with the letter "T," including The Tingler, which is pointless if you don't have someone standing behind you with a cattle prod (although I suppose you could lick batteries instead). Frustrated by the alphabet, I went looking for an employee.

I should probably have expected a problem when the employee called me "a nice young lady," as in "I'll be with you right after I help this nice young lady." Now, I don't object to any of these words, individually or as a group, and I don't even particularly mind them when applied to me. It's just that when I hear this phrase in a video store, it's almost always coming from someone who's about to try convincing me that I don't want what I want. But I was being hopeful.

"I'm looking for The Thaw. It came out Tuesday."
"Is that the new Sandra Bullock movie?"

Cue staring.

I eventually hammered it into his head that I was looking for a) a horror movie, b) a bad horror movie, and c) yes, I really meant it. He admitted that his computer was showing one copy in stock, and suggested I try the horror section. When I said I'd already looked there, he assigned one of the other clerks to help me find it (I think he didn't want to go himself for fear that they'd never find the body, as I was distinctly into "wishing you to the cornfield" mode). The clerk he sent proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes—as we went through the entire horror section, on the off-chance that it had been shelved wrong—trying to convince me that I wanted something else. Something nicer. From a different part of the store.

(Total aside: they put Ice Spiders out on DVD. ICE SPIDERS. Why the hell would anybody want to do that to an innocent blank disk?)

In the end, we didn't find my movie, I got tired of being looked at funny, and I went grumbling off to do something that didn't make me want to punch people. The utterly unhelpful clerk who'd been trying to shift me to the comedy aisle said I could special-order the movie. I told him that on Amazon, no one knows that I'm a perky-looking blonde.

Sometimes it's hard to be an old-school horror girl. And I still don't get to see Val Kilmer eaten alive by horrible prehistoric parasites.

Hmmph.

The human mind is an interesting thing. jimhines (who doesn't use tags, and hence isn't getting a link-back here—sorry, Jim!) posted a while back about how it takes ten positives to equal one negative, and he's basically right. I mean, seriously, think back. How many times have you seen a friend (or been the friend) who gets told "wow, that's a fantastic dress" twenty times, then gets told "that dress makes you look like a bloated rhino" once, and puts the dress away forever? Or better still, burns it?

We seem programmed to make negative connections much more quickly than we make positive ones. Example: when I was a kid, I loved-loved-loved strawberry ice cream. I loved it so much that I ate way more than I should have at my sixth birthday, and made myself sick. It was about ten years before I could eat strawberry ice cream again. Another example: I had a big fight with a close friend over a book that she liked and I didn't. I now feel sick whenever I think about re-reading the book to see if I might like it better the second time, because it is forever linked in my mind to the feeling of being yelled at by someone I trusted.

We make positive connections, too—the treasured doll, the lucky T-shirt, the special song that was playing when you kissed your high school sweetheart for the first time (sadly, in my case, the song was by Gwar)—but they tend to be slower to form, which I think is a tragic flaw in the human emotional programming. (I can also see how this is a survival trait, since the ten non-venomous snakes you catch do not keep the eleventh snake from killing you. This does not change the part where I'd really rather be happy for ten snakes than petrified because of that potential future snake with the bitey, bitey fangs.)

I find it sort of depressing that one unkind word can shatter a good mood, especially because we seem so easy with the idea of slinging nastiness at one another—an ease that just grows with anonymity and the Internet (see also Gabe's Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory). The resonance of negativity is tempting, because it's intoxicatingly powerful. If I'm having a bad day, everybody can be having a bad day, right? Yay! Bad days for everybody!

It's tiresome. I'd rather just have cupcakes and street pennies for everybody. The human brain is a mysterious and messed-up thing, and there are days when I really just want to take it apart with a chainsaw.

ETA: Jim found the post for me! Yay for Jim!

A brief primer for those who don't live in the San Francisco Bay Area:

The Bay Area is actually very large. Yes, there is life outside San Francisco, San Jose, and Oakland. I realize you may never have heard of any cities or towns outside these major population centers, but I promise you, it exists. Thousands of people live in places with names like "Albany," "Pleasant Hill," "Los Gatos," and "Hercules." I, myself, live in a city called "Concord," which used to be called, at various points in its history, "Canterbury," "Todo Santos," and "The Ass-End of Nowhere." The Bay Area contains mountains, small forests, inconveniently-placed hills, and lots of other quirky geography. Because of this, our roads and bridges are occasionally very odd, and do things that make little to no actual sense.

There are a multitude of ways to get around the Bay Area. If you're in the South Bay, you have CalTrain, a swift series of, well, trains that can get you to San Francisco. If you're in San Francisco, the odds are good that you never actually leave San Francisco, so your transit options are "car," "bus," "taxi," "foot," and "magic carpet." If you're in the East Bay, there's a good chance that you work in San Francisco or the Oakland/Berkeley area, and there is hence also a good chance that you depend on a magical thing called "BART" to get you to work each day.

BART stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit. It's the train system that covers most of San Francisco and the East Bay. It's also a contributing factor to Bay Area residents paying more per mile for public transit than almost anyone else in the world. I pay, quite literally, ten dollars a day for the privilege of leaving my house and going to work. (This assumes I'm not taking any buses, something that isn't always true during the rainy season.) And oh, right, they increased fares and cut back on service earlier this year—something most of us took with grumbling but no real complaint, because the economic realities of California are what they are. The system needs money to keep running. The money has to come from somewhere. Happy? No. Resigned? Yes.

Except now the union is threatening to strike Sunday at midnight. Happy? No. Resigned? No. Royally pissed off?

Oh, yeah.

The union isn't striking for fair working conditions, human rights, or the other things that unions tend to justifiably strike for. The union is, near as I can tell, striking for the right to pretend that we're not in a recession while the system continues to reduce services and hike costs in order to pay for the concessions the union is demanding. I'm a union girl. About two-thirds of my family has or has had union jobs. Unions are amazing things, and without them, the conditions under which the average worker has to labor would be a hell of a lot worse. Even if you're in a non-union job, the odds are good that you've benefited from the unions of the past. If nothing else, unions are at least part of the reason you get things like "breaks" and "bathrooms." All that being said?

Screw you, BART union. I've read all the documentation I could, trying to find a way in which this wasn't an insane thing to do, and I haven't found it. Even my cousin who works for BART has no clue what the hell this is supposed to accomplish, beyond possibly getting a few station agents lynched by their neighbors. Because there is genuinely no way for people who live where I live and don't have access to a car to get to San Francisco without the train. The closest bus route I can put together would take four and a half hours just to get me to the point of being able to transfer to the Transbay Bus to fight the traffic caused by dumping the 350,000 daily BART commuters onto our already over-taxed bridges.

I'm lucky. I probably won't lose my job, even if the BART strike prevents me from getting to work for a few days. But the people who are temping? Working minimum wage janitorial jobs in the city, because they can't afford to live closer, and can't find work anywhere else? Flipping burgers, making smoothies, and doing the things people who can afford to live in San Francisco can also afford not to do? Those people are going to get fired if they can't reach the office because the trains aren't running.

Strikes are good. Strikes are necessary. But maybe striking during a recession when you're already making a living wage and aren't being actively abused in some way is a dick thing to do. And maybe doing it when you know it's going to cripple local transit and lose a lot of people their jobs is a double-dick thing to do. Just in case you were wondering.

Beware. For today I wear the cranky pants.

One of the few black spots on an otherwise shining weekend involved...a shirt. A shirt, and an attitude that went with the shirt in question.

See, there was a lot of stupid pre-con surrounding the fact that OH NOES TEH TWILIGHT FANS ARE INVADING!!!! Never mind that Twilight, whether you like it or not, is speculative fiction, full of My Little Vampires, and has spawned a massively successful movie series. Never mind that this same complaint came up about the Harry Potter people, the urban fantasy people, and lots of other "not our kind" groups, before they became "our kind." TEH TWILIGHT FANS ARE INVADING!!!! IT IS TEH END OF DAYZ!!!! Worse yet, they're girls! Icky icky girls! The mainstream press—which still views the female geek as a charmingly endangered species, one which is potentially a myth—grabbed this and ran with it; if you go digging, you can find some...charming...articles about "the female invasion of Comic-Con" and "girls meeting geeks."

I first "invaded" Comic-Con thirteen years ago. Pretty sure I was a girl at the time. My boyfriend at the time definitely thought so, and as he had more opportunity to perform practical examinations than anybody from the mainstream press, I'm going to place bets that he was right. But anyway.

The Twilight girls, understandably, took offense, since they were being presented as fluff-brained bimbos who wouldn't know a comic book if it bit them on the booty. The general populace of Comic-Con wasn't offended, per se, although some offense started brewing when the Twilight fans started speaking up, since the cycle o' slag went media -> them -> us. But there was still the chance that everybody would be able to just get along. I know that I'm a lot more focused on getting where I'm going, at-con, than I am at playing Sharks vs. Jets in the middle of the Exhibit Hall.

But then came...the shirts.

Shirts on Twilight girls all over the convention. Shirts which read, in large, easy-to-read lettering, "Yes I am a real woman / Yes I am at Comic-Con / Yes I love Twilight." As a "real woman" who's been attending Comic-Con since before she could legally drink, these shirts awakened in my breast the deep and abiding desire to force-feed them to the people wearing them. I did not do so. Be proud of me. Be especially proud of me since large groups of the shirt-wearers—not all of them, by any means; I'm sure there were Twilight fans who were having a fantastic time without trying to piss in anybody's Cheerios—chose to stand around near the Exhibit Hall cafes and out by the Heroes carnival, making snotty comments about the costumes, figures, and overall appearance of the non-Twilight girls who went walking by.

Not cool.

I am a girl who likes the X-Men. I am a girl who likes horror movies. I am a girl whose favorite comics currently in print are Hack/Slash, The Boys, and Creepy. I am a girl who has spent a long damn time fighting for respect in her chosen geeky social circles, because we are still the minority in a lot of places, and it's difficult to convince your average horror geek that the female IQ is not calculated by taking the national average and subtracting her bra size. Twilight aside, there aren't enough of us to start playing this sort of game. Yes! You in the shirt, you're a real woman! And so am I! And so is every other girl at this convention! I did not give up my right to femininity just by deciding that I like to keep my My Little Ponies and my blood-drinking monsters separate, nor did you get a double-dose by combining the two. Women have been fighting for respect in comic and media fandom for a long time. Undermining that fight, even if you're doing it because you were provoked, just undermines us all.

No one has to like what I like. I try not to judge the likes and dislikes of others, and even when I can't avoid it, I try not to wander around in T-shirts that say things like "Every time editorial brings back Jean Grey, Magneto kills a kitten" or "Women Opposing More Bad Adapted Terror: JUST SAY NO TO STEPHEN KING MOVIES." All this could have been avoided if people hadn't been dicks to the Twilight fans in the first place...but I really do wish the Twilight fans hadn't felt compelled to be dicks to the rest of us in return.

There have been a couple essays in my series of thoughts on writing dealing with the fact that people are going to be mean to you, really, people are going to be mean to you, and validation's place is at the beginning of the party, not after the book hits shelves. You may want to read them. You may not want to read them, and honestly, either way is fine by me. I wrote them, they're there, and I've said what I needed to say on the subject. What I needed to say in a constructive manner, to the writers of the world, anyway.

This is something slightly different.

All of us have people who support us. You can be the worst writer in the universe and still have a "biggest fan," because people are awesome that way. These people aren't delusional. These people aren't wrong. These people love us, and that is awesome. Much like every baby is the most adorable baby, and every bride is the most beautiful bride, every story is the most amazing story, every sentence is the most amazing sentence, and every author is absolutely the most incredible talent the world has ever seen. The things we love are better to us, because we love them. (This is why, with very few exceptions, mothers do not make good beta readers. When your mother does make a good beta reader, shower her in chocolates, flowers, and all the filial affection you can muster.)

Maybe your own personal cheerleader is your mother. Maybe it's your husband. Maybe it's your sister, brother, boyfriend, girlfriend, teenage offspring, or freakishly intelligent parrot. That's cool. These people are a vital component of our mental health, because these people talk us down from the clocktowers we threaten to throw ourselves off of. They're uncritical when we need them to be uncritical, and they're the ones who put us forward when we're tempted to hide.

But these people have a dark side. Sometimes, when we're crying, "No, no, don't throw me into the bear cave!", they hear "No, no, don't throw me in that briar patch!", and since they love us, they're more than happy to throw us in. So this is a message for the cheerleaders of the world:

Listen. There is a difference between "bear cave" and "briar patch." Do not ask people "so what did you think of the book?" when we're standing right there, unless you know the answer will be a positive one. The thickest-skinned author in the world isn't going to enjoy watching someone squirm with the effort of finding something nice to say, and the nicest person in the world isn't going to be at their nicest when they're cornered like a treed raccoon. Seriously, if you pinned me down and demanded that I find something nice to say about IT—which just so happens to be my favorite book in the entire universe—I'd probably look at you like a deer in the headlights, stammer, "The Turtle couldn't help us," and run. If you cannot guarantee a positive review, do not ask on our behalf. Can we ask? Sure! But much like a woman on Weight Watchers doesn't want to be force-fed cheesecake, an author doesn't want to be force-fed criticism.

On the same level, everyone has a right to their opinion. If you don't like my book, my boyfriend does not get a license to punch you in the nose. Hell, I've had stories rejected by personal friends. Rejection hurts! I don't care who you are, I don't care if you're Stephen King, rejection hurts! My friends don't go out of their way to hurt me, but when I send Jennifer a story, I'm not Seanan letting her good buddy Jenn look at her work, I'm an author asking an editor to consider her submission. I don't lurk for editors in dark alleys. I don't hate my friends every time they have to say "sorry, not right for me." And I definitely don't let people grill them on my behalf.

If I don't want to risk someone rejecting a story, I don't submit the story. If I don't want to risk hearing that somebody disliked a book, I don't ask them if they liked it. And if you drag someone over to me and ask them on my behalf, I will, in fact, punch you in the nose. Or possibly do something less pleasant. Plague is always an option.

Bear caves and briar patches are not the same thing.

Seriously.

Late Eclipses—formerly Late Eclipses of the Sun, before I admitted that if even I wasn't calling the book by its full title, there was no point—was originally finished, in its first draft form, towards the end of last year. (This is the fourth Toby book, for those of you playing the home game. Which is essentially everyone but me, in this particular case.) It was a lumpy, sort of misshapen monster of a thing, but that's not uncommon for first drafts, and besides, it was mine, and I loved it. Not all of it, true, and there were some parts I even came close to outright disliking, but still. We try not to judge our children.

Thankfully, my various proofreaders—and perhaps more importantly, The Agent—have no such compunctions about judging me, and my manuscript was sent home beaten, bleeding, and covered in corrections. Many of them were structural, since there were large chunks of text that seemed intent on playing ring-around-the-rosie with one another.

(As a small digression, some of these same sequences would have seemed amazing if I'd produced them, say, a year ago. Two years ago? The skies would have opened and angels would have descended to sing "Listen to Jesus, Jimmy" in six-part harmony. This is the problem with writing constantly: you get better, and then people expect better, because they know you're capable of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm tap-dancing on an ice floe surrounded by hungry polar bears with attention deficit disorder. If I ever run out of shiny things, I'll become some lucky bear's new picnic basket, filled with lovely things to eat. Like my spleen.)

I've been working on revising Late Eclipses for the last several weeks, with varying degrees of success. Oh, I'm constantly succeeding—the text is changing, the book is getting shorter (it was previously almost 15,000 words longer than a "normal" Toby book, and it didn't need to be), and the action is getting more linear—but the rate of success is exceedingly variable, and can sometimes feel like I'm swimming through vanilla frosting. Mmm. Vanilla frosting. Anyway. Last night? Last night, I basically sliced the book open, ripped out half its guts, and stuffed them back into the chest cavity in a new, more aesthetically pleasing arrangement. Last night, I dropped from 115,000 words to 109,000, and the counter is still descending. I cut a chapter, transplanted another chapter to a point later in the book, and then combined the transplanted chapter with the chapter it was now adjacent to in a variety of interesting patchwork ways.

I am totally exhausted. My book is a battlefield. It's like Elm Street in here; dead darlings everywhere, blood on the ceiling, and the vague, sticky fear of a sequel (in this case, it's called The Brightest Fell). But the book is getting better. It's sort of awesome, in a "baby, when I finish this, plain ol' Philadelphia Burke is going to be Delphi forever and ever" sort of a way. Plus, it's eventually going to be fun to tell this story at conventions and watch people check their copies of the book for scars.

I just don't know if I'm ever going to get the blood out of my hair.

Did you know that a Microsoft Word error can not only crash your file, it can delete it?

The whole file?

The whole four hundred page novel file?

The whole four hundred page, no backups from this week file?

Pardon me while I go non-linear.

Am home from day two of Wondercon, subtitled 'Seanan wanders around a lot, misses her panels, delivers some CDs, goes to the movies with Jeanne, and acquires a bunch of free stuff.' It's a long subtitle, but it's still fairly concise for everything that it needs to cover.

One nice thing about the convention being a straightforward train ride from my home: when I finish this entry and find the strength to move, I'm going to bed. In my bed. Not a hotel bed. Mine. Where I will sleep with my plush toys, and my pointy blue cat. Not those hotel plush toys and hotel pointy blue cats.

I appreciate this convenience.

In other news, yes, I'll be back at the con tomorrow; yes, I still have art cards, although the number is dropping; yes, I would be happy to answer any questions that you might have about Rosemary and Rue, including my new favorite, 'what's rue?' (How people surrounded by mad scientists can avoid knowing even one meaning of the word 'rue' is something I hope to never know...)

I'm attending a bunch of panels tomorrow, and my head hurts. So, y'know. Bed now.

So my access to LJ is getting worse in some exciting ways; the landing page is now so scrambled that I can't find the 'log out' button, and access to comments is practically impossible. (Previously, I could answer them, just with a measure of exquisite slowness. Now there is no answering of anything at all.) Assume that I am down for the count until you hear otherwise. More importantly, assume that I absolutely will not see anything posted only and exclusively to Livejournal. Figuring 'oh, she knows' and carrying on your merry way is now officially a good way to cause confusion, because I do not know at all.

(Ironically, I can still post, although the posting page looks like it was coded in 1995. I'm having some vicious flashbacks. It's distressing.)

We have an Amy McNally all safe and sound and totally passed out on the couch. Her flight was delayed. Worse, her pickup was delayed, since Fishy -- who was originally planned to retrieve her, while the rest of us attended rehearsal in a fairly remote location -- came down with food poisoning, and we had to redirect her to a shuttle. But everybody's here now, and everyone's safe and alive. And I'm not even tormenting the unconscious.

Time to get to work on The Brightest Fell, but I wanted to make sure people were aware that for right now, if you want me, email me. It's seriously the only way to be sure.

Well, the weather outside is frightful...

...okay, yeah, that's about where it stops right now. Seriously. The snow in the front yard is up to mid-calf on me, and it is now snowing again. Huge, horrible flakes of white are pelting down on the world outside the window, getting thicker and heavier all the time. The weather forecast says that it's raining right now. Look, people. I'm from California, and even I can tell that THIS IS NOT RAIN, OKAY?!

So far, I've missed attending a Christmas party (due to frozen slush blocking access to the roads), and failed to convince Vixy to take me to buy groceries (due to frozen slush getting covered under a blanket of new-fallen snow). We are now seriously discussing the functionality of getting to Portland tomorrow. Perhaps what the weather does not understand is that if it tries to keep me from Voodoo Doughnut, I will cause it pain.

(Seriously, Persephone, I realize that you're having fantastic 'I just got home after six months of living with my mother oh my God that woman needs Prozac' sex with Hades all over the over Underworld, but you need to cut this shit out. If there's one more blizzard, I'm sending him a copy of Busty Chinese Moon Goddesses monthly and spiking your coffee with sleeping pills.)

The snow is falling even harder now, and is threatening to cancel tonight's rehearsal. Do not want. If you hear reports that the rest of my books are being ghost-written by Lilly, it's because I froze to death in Seattle. LAND OF SNOW.

My yesterday, in review:

5:30 AM: Get out of bed, go to work.
6:30 AM: Become vilely, graphically, and messily ill. Attempt to work anyway.
9:00 AM: Determine that this is absolutely not working. Go home.
10:30 AM: Go to bed.
3:30 PM: Wake up.
5:00 PM: Take some Tylenol, go back to bed.
8:30 PM: Wake up.
11:15 PM: Go back to bed.

I woke up at eight o'clock this morning with the distinct feeling that I had somehow traded Friday to the fairies for a handful of magic beans and a plush velociraptor. At least I like the plush velociraptor.

On the plus side, for all that I now have that faintly draggy 'you slept too much, you moron' feeling, combined with a double to-do list -- since I did basically nothing yesterday, and my average day's to-do is between fifteen and fifty items -- I no longer seem to be sick. It may just be that my body figured out that if it hit me hard enough, I'd lay down already. The possibility must be admitted to exist.

This is totally the way to make me miss my word count goals for a day. Make me too damn sick to die.

Bleargh.

"Why do you have that look on your face?"
"My head is full of bees, and the turtle cannot help me."
"...huh?"
"Ignore me, I have the dumb."
"Will do.

(Actual conversation with an actual human. Names omitted to protect the innocent, but I bet you can guess which one was me.)

So I am made of fuss and flail today, which basically means I'm totally unfocused and just want to go back to bed. As this is tragically not an option, I'm guzzling Diet Dr Pepper like a stretch SUV guzzles premium unleaded, and praying that dinosaurs attack San Francisco, forcing an evacuation and allowing me to, yes, go back to bed. Plus, people would probably get eaten by dinosaurs, and that always puts me in a better mood. (The 'always' in the following sentence may not apply when I'm the one getting eaten by dinosaurs, as I have yet to really enjoy any of the various reptile bites I've received, but hey. Maybe it's different when it's a velociraptor.)

Kate informed me this morning that we are now living in the future, as she has all these cool technological capabilities that seemed totally outside the realm of possibility* even ten years ago. I agreed that this was probably true, but the fact is that I'm currently living a little bit in the past, which probably accounts for some of my internal bees. See, a year ago, I hadn't...

* ...finished Newsflesh.
* ...finished Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues.
* ...even thought of the InCryptid books.
* ...rebooted Rosemary and Rue, and hence the entire Toby universe.
* ...signed with an agent.
* ...sold a book.
* ...gone to New York to visit a major publishing house. Especially not one where I belonged.

Basically? I'm not ready for the future that actually exists, because I'm living in the future that I dreamed about when I was nine years old. I have a bright orange bedroom. All my bedding is a) orange, b) green, or c) Halloween themed -- hell, one of my pillowcases is bright orange and covered in little white ghosts that glow in the dark. Brightly enough that I can use them as a nightlight, no less, which is really convenient for the hour or so after I first go to bed. I have a Siamese that is so ideal to my conception of The Perfect Cat that I may as well have designed her in a genetics lab. Horror movies are popular again. I can stay up as late as I want (even if I'm almost always in bed by nine-thirty). There's good stuff on TV, and my stepdad never turns off the movie when the scary parts make me hide under my sleeping bag. I'm sorry, but I'm quite prepared to sign up for the future that's happening to everybody else. I'm still enjoying the one where having an orange ceramic octopus and a plush velociraptor creates an ideal world.

In other news, I've started receiving edits on the first three chapters of The Brightest Fell, thus proving that my personal reality show is continuing to pull good ratings. ("Well, Barbara, they're in their fifth season, with countless spin-offs, and still going strong...") Recording for Red Roses and Dead Things is totally done, and my cover art is so awesome it makes me want to scream. Safeway has two-liter bottles of Diet Dr Pepper at buy three, get three free. And my head remains full of bees.

Bleah.

(*You think I'm kidding? Go back and read some of the really classic whizz-bang-pow science fiction from the 1950s to the 1970s, back when it was all jut-jawed heroes, pneumatic blondes, and phallic rocketships. Did they have Tivo, text messaging, downloadable libraries, terabytes of data-storage in an easily handled medium, reality television, blogging, or distributed informational hyperspace models? No. They had plastic spacesuits and freeze-dried ice cream. The world has changed so much, on such a mundane level, that we totally forget just how far into the future we actually are.)

The Elfish Gene: Dungeons, Dragons and Growing Up Strange, by Mark Barrowcliffe.
Soho Press, hardcover (US edition)
Macmillan, hardcover (UK edition)
288 pages/240 pages, memoir/comedy/let's slag on D&D for several hundred pages 'cause it's fun
US edition coming November 1st, UK edition available now

( What do you get when a humorist and recovering D&D junkie decides to write an accounting of his childhood? You get this, also known as 'the first negative book review posted in this journal.' Click at your own peril.Collapse )