July 19th, 2014.
"In looking at the biological structure of the screwfly, the real question isn't 'what was evolution thinking,' it's 'are any of you paying attention to me, or should I just stop talking and put all of this on your final exam'?" Professor Michael Mason picked up one of the books on his desk and dropped it without ceremony. The resulting boom made half the students jump, and made almost all of them guiltily focus their attention on the front of the lecture hall. Michael folded his arms. "Since you're all clearly sharing with the rest of the class, does anybody feel like sharing with me?"
Silence fell over the class. Michael cocked his head slightly to the side, watching them, and waited. Finally, one of the students cleared her throat and said, "It's just there are these crazy stories going around campus, you know? So we're a little on-edge."
"Crazy stories? Crazy stories like what?"
One of the football players who was taking the class for science credit said, "Like dead dudes getting up and walking around and eating living dudes."
"We're living in a Romero movie!" shouted someone at the back of the room, drawing nervous laughter from the rest of the students.
"All right, now, settle down. Let's approach this like scientists—if it's important enough to distract from biology, we should think about it like rational people. You mentioned Romero movies. Does that mean you're positing zombies?"
There was another flurry of laughter. It ended quickly, replaced by dead seriousness. "I think we are, Professor," said the herpetology major in the front row. She shook her head. "It's the only thing that makes sense."
Another student rolled his eyes. "Because zombies always make sense."
She glared at him. "Shut up."
"Make me."
"Now that we have demonstrated once again that no human being is ever more than a few steps away from pulling pigtails on the playground, who wants to posit a reason that we'd have zombies now, rather than, oh, six weeks ago?" Michael looked around the room. "Come on. I'm playing along with you. Now one of you needs to play along with me."
"That Mayday Army thing." The words came from a tiny biochem major who almost never spoke during class; she just sat there taking notes with a single-minded dedication that was more frightening than admirable. It was like she thought the bottom of the bell curve would be shot after every exam. She wasn't taking notes now. She was looking at Professor Mason with wide, serious eyes, pencil finally down. "They released an experimental, genetically engineered pathogen into the atmosphere. Dr. Kellis hadn't reached human trials yet. If there were going to be side effects, he didn't have time to find out what they were."
She sounded utterly serene, like she'd finally found a test that she was certain she could pass. Michael Mason paused. "That's an interesting theory, Michelle."
"The CDC has shut down half a dozen clinical trials in the last week, and they won't say why," she replied, as if that had some bearing on the conversation.
Maybe it did. Michael Mason straightened. "All right. I'm going to humor you, because it's not every day that one gets a zombie apocalypse as an excuse for canceling class. You're all dismissed, on one condition."
"What's that, Professor?" asked a student.
"I want you all to stay together. Check your phones for news; check your Twitter feeds. See if anything strange is going on before you go anywhere." He forced a smile, wishing he wasn't starting to feel so uneasy. "If we're having a zombie apocalypse, let's make it a minor one, and all be back here on Monday, all right?"
Laughter and applause greeted his words. He stayed at the front of the room until the last of the students had streamed out; then he grabbed his coat and started for the exit himself. He needed to cancel classes for the rest of the day. He needed to call Stacy, and tell her to get Phillip from the preschool. If there was one thing science had taught him, it was that safe was always better than sorry, and some things were never on the final exam.
***
Professor Michael Mason has announced the cancellation of class for the rest of the week. His podcast will be posted tomorrow night, as scheduled. All students are given a one-week extension on their summer term papers.
When will you Rise?
"In looking at the biological structure of the screwfly, the real question isn't 'what was evolution thinking,' it's 'are any of you paying attention to me, or should I just stop talking and put all of this on your final exam'?" Professor Michael Mason picked up one of the books on his desk and dropped it without ceremony. The resulting boom made half the students jump, and made almost all of them guiltily focus their attention on the front of the lecture hall. Michael folded his arms. "Since you're all clearly sharing with the rest of the class, does anybody feel like sharing with me?"
Silence fell over the class. Michael cocked his head slightly to the side, watching them, and waited. Finally, one of the students cleared her throat and said, "It's just there are these crazy stories going around campus, you know? So we're a little on-edge."
"Crazy stories? Crazy stories like what?"
One of the football players who was taking the class for science credit said, "Like dead dudes getting up and walking around and eating living dudes."
"We're living in a Romero movie!" shouted someone at the back of the room, drawing nervous laughter from the rest of the students.
"All right, now, settle down. Let's approach this like scientists—if it's important enough to distract from biology, we should think about it like rational people. You mentioned Romero movies. Does that mean you're positing zombies?"
There was another flurry of laughter. It ended quickly, replaced by dead seriousness. "I think we are, Professor," said the herpetology major in the front row. She shook her head. "It's the only thing that makes sense."
Another student rolled his eyes. "Because zombies always make sense."
She glared at him. "Shut up."
"Make me."
"Now that we have demonstrated once again that no human being is ever more than a few steps away from pulling pigtails on the playground, who wants to posit a reason that we'd have zombies now, rather than, oh, six weeks ago?" Michael looked around the room. "Come on. I'm playing along with you. Now one of you needs to play along with me."
"That Mayday Army thing." The words came from a tiny biochem major who almost never spoke during class; she just sat there taking notes with a single-minded dedication that was more frightening than admirable. It was like she thought the bottom of the bell curve would be shot after every exam. She wasn't taking notes now. She was looking at Professor Mason with wide, serious eyes, pencil finally down. "They released an experimental, genetically engineered pathogen into the atmosphere. Dr. Kellis hadn't reached human trials yet. If there were going to be side effects, he didn't have time to find out what they were."
She sounded utterly serene, like she'd finally found a test that she was certain she could pass. Michael Mason paused. "That's an interesting theory, Michelle."
"The CDC has shut down half a dozen clinical trials in the last week, and they won't say why," she replied, as if that had some bearing on the conversation.
Maybe it did. Michael Mason straightened. "All right. I'm going to humor you, because it's not every day that one gets a zombie apocalypse as an excuse for canceling class. You're all dismissed, on one condition."
"What's that, Professor?" asked a student.
"I want you all to stay together. Check your phones for news; check your Twitter feeds. See if anything strange is going on before you go anywhere." He forced a smile, wishing he wasn't starting to feel so uneasy. "If we're having a zombie apocalypse, let's make it a minor one, and all be back here on Monday, all right?"
Laughter and applause greeted his words. He stayed at the front of the room until the last of the students had streamed out; then he grabbed his coat and started for the exit himself. He needed to cancel classes for the rest of the day. He needed to call Stacy, and tell her to get Phillip from the preschool. If there was one thing science had taught him, it was that safe was always better than sorry, and some things were never on the final exam.
***
Professor Michael Mason has announced the cancellation of class for the rest of the week. His podcast will be posted tomorrow night, as scheduled. All students are given a one-week extension on their summer term papers.
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood:
tired - Current Music:PLDG, "Phantoms of Summer."
July 18th, 2014.
It began nowhere. It began everywhere. It began without warning; it began with all the warning in the world. It could have been prevented a thousand times over. There was nothing that anyone could have done.
It began on July 18th, 2014.
At 6:42 AM, EST, in a hotel in Columbus, Ohio, Susan Morris rolled over in her sleep and sighed. That was all; the starting bell of the apocalypse was a simple exhale by a sleeping woman unaware of the transformation going on inside her body. Marburg Amberlee and the Kellis cure fell dormant as their children, their beautiful, terrible children, swarmed through Susan's blood and into her organs, taking over every function and claiming every nerve. At 6:48 AM, Susan's body opened its eyes, and the virus looked out upon the world, and found that it was hungry. She would be found clawing at the door three hours later when the maids came to clean her room. The room did not get cleaned.
At 9:53 AM, CDT, in the city of Peoria, Illinois, a man named Michael Dowell was hit by a car while crossing the street at a busy intersection. Despite flying more than three yards through the air and hitting the ground with a bone-shattering degree of force, Michael climbed back to his feet almost immediately, to the great relief of bystanders and drivers alike. This relief turned quickly to bewilderment and terror as he lunged at the crowd, biting four people before he could be subdued. By nightfall, the first Peoria outbreak was well underway.
At 10:15 AM, PDT, in the town of Lodi, California, a woman named Debbie Goldman left her home and began jogging along her usual route, despite the already record-breaking heat and the recent warnings of her physician. Her explosive cardiac event struck at 11:03 AM. Death was almost instantaneous. Her collapse went unwitnessed, as did her subsequent revival. She staggered to her feet, no longer moving at anything resembling a jog. As she made her way along the road, she encountered a group of teenagers walking to the neighborhood AM/PM; three of the six were bitten in the struggle which followed. The Lodi outbreak began to spread shortly after two o'clock that afternoon.
At 11:31 AM, MDT, at the Colorado Cancer Research Center in Denver, Colorado, two of the patients from the Marburg Amberlee cancer trials went into spontaneous viral amplification as the live viral bodies already active in their systems were pushed into a form of slumber by the encroaching Kellis-Amberlee infection. The primary physician's administrative assistant, Janice Barton, was able to trigger the alarm before she was overtaken by the infected. The details of this outbreak remain almost entirely unknown, as the lab was successfully sealed and burned to the ground before the infection could spread. Ironically, Denver was the source point for one of the two viruses responsible for ending the world, and yet it was spared the worst ravages of the Rising until the second wave began on July 26th. Some will say that the tragedy which follows will come only because of that temporary reprieve; they weren't prepared. Those people will not be entirely wrong.
And so it went, over and over, all throughout North America. Some of the affected suffered nosebleeds before amplification began, signaling an elevated level of the Marburg Amberlee virus; others did not. Some of the affected would find themselves trapped in cars or hotel rooms, thwarted by stairs or doorknobs; others would not. The Rising had begun.
At 6:18 AM GMT on July 19th, in the city of London, England, a man waiting for the Central Line Tube to arrive and take him to work felt a warm wetness on his upper lip. He touched it lightly, and frowned at the blood covering his fingertips. He hadn't had a nosebleed since he was a boy. Then he shrugged, produced a tissue, and wiped the blood away. Nothing to be done.
And so it went, over and over, all throughout the world. The end was beginning at last.
***
Reports of unusually violent behavior are coming in from across the Midwest, leading some to speculate that the little brown bat, which has been known to migrate during warm weather, may have triggered a rabies epidemic of previously unseen scope...
When will you Rise?
It began nowhere. It began everywhere. It began without warning; it began with all the warning in the world. It could have been prevented a thousand times over. There was nothing that anyone could have done.
It began on July 18th, 2014.
At 6:42 AM, EST, in a hotel in Columbus, Ohio, Susan Morris rolled over in her sleep and sighed. That was all; the starting bell of the apocalypse was a simple exhale by a sleeping woman unaware of the transformation going on inside her body. Marburg Amberlee and the Kellis cure fell dormant as their children, their beautiful, terrible children, swarmed through Susan's blood and into her organs, taking over every function and claiming every nerve. At 6:48 AM, Susan's body opened its eyes, and the virus looked out upon the world, and found that it was hungry. She would be found clawing at the door three hours later when the maids came to clean her room. The room did not get cleaned.
At 9:53 AM, CDT, in the city of Peoria, Illinois, a man named Michael Dowell was hit by a car while crossing the street at a busy intersection. Despite flying more than three yards through the air and hitting the ground with a bone-shattering degree of force, Michael climbed back to his feet almost immediately, to the great relief of bystanders and drivers alike. This relief turned quickly to bewilderment and terror as he lunged at the crowd, biting four people before he could be subdued. By nightfall, the first Peoria outbreak was well underway.
At 10:15 AM, PDT, in the town of Lodi, California, a woman named Debbie Goldman left her home and began jogging along her usual route, despite the already record-breaking heat and the recent warnings of her physician. Her explosive cardiac event struck at 11:03 AM. Death was almost instantaneous. Her collapse went unwitnessed, as did her subsequent revival. She staggered to her feet, no longer moving at anything resembling a jog. As she made her way along the road, she encountered a group of teenagers walking to the neighborhood AM/PM; three of the six were bitten in the struggle which followed. The Lodi outbreak began to spread shortly after two o'clock that afternoon.
At 11:31 AM, MDT, at the Colorado Cancer Research Center in Denver, Colorado, two of the patients from the Marburg Amberlee cancer trials went into spontaneous viral amplification as the live viral bodies already active in their systems were pushed into a form of slumber by the encroaching Kellis-Amberlee infection. The primary physician's administrative assistant, Janice Barton, was able to trigger the alarm before she was overtaken by the infected. The details of this outbreak remain almost entirely unknown, as the lab was successfully sealed and burned to the ground before the infection could spread. Ironically, Denver was the source point for one of the two viruses responsible for ending the world, and yet it was spared the worst ravages of the Rising until the second wave began on July 26th. Some will say that the tragedy which follows will come only because of that temporary reprieve; they weren't prepared. Those people will not be entirely wrong.
And so it went, over and over, all throughout North America. Some of the affected suffered nosebleeds before amplification began, signaling an elevated level of the Marburg Amberlee virus; others did not. Some of the affected would find themselves trapped in cars or hotel rooms, thwarted by stairs or doorknobs; others would not. The Rising had begun.
At 6:18 AM GMT on July 19th, in the city of London, England, a man waiting for the Central Line Tube to arrive and take him to work felt a warm wetness on his upper lip. He touched it lightly, and frowned at the blood covering his fingertips. He hadn't had a nosebleed since he was a boy. Then he shrugged, produced a tissue, and wiped the blood away. Nothing to be done.
And so it went, over and over, all throughout the world. The end was beginning at last.
***
Reports of unusually violent behavior are coming in from across the Midwest, leading some to speculate that the little brown bat, which has been known to migrate during warm weather, may have triggered a rabies epidemic of previously unseen scope...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood:
excited - Current Music:Bruce Springsteen, "The Rising."
Atlanta, Georgia, July 17th, 2014.
"We have a problem."
Ian Matras looked up from his computer screen, and blanched, barely recognizing his colleague. Chris looked like he'd managed to lose fifteen pounds in five days. His complexion was waxen, and the circles under his eyes were almost dark enough to make it seem like he'd been punched. "Christ, Chris, what the hell happened to you?"
"The Kellis cure." Chris Sinclair shook his head, rubbing one stubbly cheek as he said, "I don't have it. I mean, I don't think. We still can't test for it, and we can't afford to have me get sick right now just to find out. But that's what happened. That's what's happening right now."
"The McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment." It wasn't a question. Ian was abruptly glad that he hadn't bothered to stand. He would have just fallen back into his chair.
"Got it in one." Chris nodded, expression grim. "They died, Ian. Every one of them."
"When?"
"About an hour and a half ago. Dr. Li was on-site to monitor their symptoms. The first to start seizing was a twenty-seven year old male. He began bleeding from the mouth, eyes, nose, and rectum; when they performed the autopsy, they found that he was also bleeding internally, specifically in his intestines and lungs. It's a coin-toss whether he suffocated or bled out." Chris looked away, toward the blank white wall. He'd never wanted to see the ocean so badly in his life. "The rest started seizing within fifteen minutes. An eleven year old girl who'd been accepted into the trials a week before the Kellis cure was released was the last to die. Dr. Li says she was asking for her parents right up until she stopped breathing."
"Oh my God..." whispered Ian.
"I'm telling you, man, I don't think he's here." Chris rubbed his cheek again, hard. "You ready for the bad part?"
Numbly, Ian asked, "You mean that wasn't the bad part?"
"Not by a long shot." Chris laughed darkly. "Everyone who had direct contact with the patients—the medical staff, their families, hell, our medical staff—has started to experience increased salivation. Whatever this stuff is turning into, it's catching. They're sealing the building. Dr. Li's called for an L-4 quarantine. If they don't figure out what's going on, they're going to die in there."
Ian said nothing.
"The malaria folks? We don't know what's going on there. They stopped transmitting an hour before the complex blew sky-high. From what little we've been able to piece together, the charges were set inside the main lab. They, too, decided that they needed a strict quarantine. They just wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was going to have the chance to break it."
There was still a piece missing. Slowly, almost terrified of what the answer would be—no, not almost; absolutely terrified of what the answer would be—Ian asked, "What about the Marburg trials in Colorado?"
"They're all fine."
Ian stared at him. "What? But you said—"
"It was spreading, and it was. Half of Denver's had a nosebleed they couldn't stop. And nobody's died. The bleeding lasts three days, and then it clears up on its own, and the victims feel better than they've felt in years. We have a contagious cure for cancer to go with our contagious cure for the common cold." Chris laughed again. This time, there was a sharp edge of hysteria under the sound. "It's not going to end there. We don't get this lucky. We can't get this lucky."
"Maybe this is as bad as it gets." Ian knew how bad the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth, but he didn't—he couldn't—call them back. Someone had to calm Cassandra when she predicted the fall of Troy. Someone had to say "the symptoms aren't that bad" when the predictions called for the fall of man.
Chris gave him a withering look. "Say that like you mean it."
He couldn't, and so he said nothing at all, and the two of them looked at each other, waiting for the end of the world.
***
The CDC has no comment on the tragic deaths in San Antonio, Texas. Drs. Lauren McKenzie and Taylor Beatts were conducting a series of clinical trials aimed at combating drug-resistent strains of tuberculosis...
When will you Rise?
"We have a problem."
Ian Matras looked up from his computer screen, and blanched, barely recognizing his colleague. Chris looked like he'd managed to lose fifteen pounds in five days. His complexion was waxen, and the circles under his eyes were almost dark enough to make it seem like he'd been punched. "Christ, Chris, what the hell happened to you?"
"The Kellis cure." Chris Sinclair shook his head, rubbing one stubbly cheek as he said, "I don't have it. I mean, I don't think. We still can't test for it, and we can't afford to have me get sick right now just to find out. But that's what happened. That's what's happening right now."
"The McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment." It wasn't a question. Ian was abruptly glad that he hadn't bothered to stand. He would have just fallen back into his chair.
"Got it in one." Chris nodded, expression grim. "They died, Ian. Every one of them."
"When?"
"About an hour and a half ago. Dr. Li was on-site to monitor their symptoms. The first to start seizing was a twenty-seven year old male. He began bleeding from the mouth, eyes, nose, and rectum; when they performed the autopsy, they found that he was also bleeding internally, specifically in his intestines and lungs. It's a coin-toss whether he suffocated or bled out." Chris looked away, toward the blank white wall. He'd never wanted to see the ocean so badly in his life. "The rest started seizing within fifteen minutes. An eleven year old girl who'd been accepted into the trials a week before the Kellis cure was released was the last to die. Dr. Li says she was asking for her parents right up until she stopped breathing."
"Oh my God..." whispered Ian.
"I'm telling you, man, I don't think he's here." Chris rubbed his cheek again, hard. "You ready for the bad part?"
Numbly, Ian asked, "You mean that wasn't the bad part?"
"Not by a long shot." Chris laughed darkly. "Everyone who had direct contact with the patients—the medical staff, their families, hell, our medical staff—has started to experience increased salivation. Whatever this stuff is turning into, it's catching. They're sealing the building. Dr. Li's called for an L-4 quarantine. If they don't figure out what's going on, they're going to die in there."
Ian said nothing.
"The malaria folks? We don't know what's going on there. They stopped transmitting an hour before the complex blew sky-high. From what little we've been able to piece together, the charges were set inside the main lab. They, too, decided that they needed a strict quarantine. They just wanted to be absolutely sure that no one was going to have the chance to break it."
There was still a piece missing. Slowly, almost terrified of what the answer would be—no, not almost; absolutely terrified of what the answer would be—Ian asked, "What about the Marburg trials in Colorado?"
"They're all fine."
Ian stared at him. "What? But you said—"
"It was spreading, and it was. Half of Denver's had a nosebleed they couldn't stop. And nobody's died. The bleeding lasts three days, and then it clears up on its own, and the victims feel better than they've felt in years. We have a contagious cure for cancer to go with our contagious cure for the common cold." Chris laughed again. This time, there was a sharp edge of hysteria under the sound. "It's not going to end there. We don't get this lucky. We can't get this lucky."
"Maybe this is as bad as it gets." Ian knew how bad the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth, but he didn't—he couldn't—call them back. Someone had to calm Cassandra when she predicted the fall of Troy. Someone had to say "the symptoms aren't that bad" when the predictions called for the fall of man.
Chris gave him a withering look. "Say that like you mean it."
He couldn't, and so he said nothing at all, and the two of them looked at each other, waiting for the end of the world.
***
The CDC has no comment on the tragic deaths in San Antonio, Texas. Drs. Lauren McKenzie and Taylor Beatts were conducting a series of clinical trials aimed at combating drug-resistent strains of tuberculosis...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood:
geeky - Current Music:Glee, "Hey, Soul Sister."
Aigh! How is it already mid-May? How is it already past mid-May? Seriously, this isn't cool, people. But since life marches on, here are some random updates about things you may want to know.
Wicked Girls T-shirts.
The spreadsheet has been finished and handed off to my lovely assistant, aka, "Deborah," who is now using our peachy-keen new merchandise email address to send out the order confirmations. So if you requested a shirt, you're going to hear from Deborah! She'll be asking you to verify that we have the right information, requesting shipping information, and setting up things so you can pay. Please, please, remember that we must receive payment to place this order. That's why the original post said "cash in the cookie jar." If you can't pay for your shirts, we may have to remove you from the spreadsheet, depending on how long it takes for everyone else to pay.
Welcome to Bordertown about to hit shelves.
The new Bordertown anthology is just about out, and it's amazing. Mia (
chimera_fancies) will be doing pendant sales of special Bordertown pendants soon, and there are contests and giveaways and blog tours, oh my! It's an incredible book. If you love urban fantasy, you should absolutely buy this book. This is the city whose foundations informed us all, and it's finally opening its doors again.
Oh, right. Also, Deadline.
I, too, have a new book coming out. Deadline will be released on May 31st, which makes it technically a June book (ah, the wonders of reporting). So you'll be able to buy it from a bookstore near you, and you totally should, especially if you enjoy my cats being full of catfood, and not full of my delicious flesh. They eat a lot! I'll be in New York for the next week, which sadly limits the number of pre-release blog giveaways I can do (having no books as yet, the current number is "zero"), but I'll be doing fun things up until then. Primarily the ongoing, and increasingly grim, countdown to the Rising. You're welcome.
Book Expo America!
Why am I going to New York? For Book Expo America! This is going to be my first BEA, and I'm mad excited. I'll also be seeing friends, eating artisan frozen treats, and visiting both my publishers for an entire day, thus guaranteeing that they'll be sick of me and give me things in order to make me go away and leave them alone. I'm basically an animate mixed blessing. I'm planning to have a fabulous time, because I always do, and when I leave, I'm heading for...
Wiscon!
It's my first time. Be gentle. I'll be mixing drinks at the Whedonistas party, which is good, since I don't like trying to mingle at these things, but I loooooooooooove making mai tais and mojitos. Donations of strawberries gratefully accepted, because I always need more than I think I will. If you're over twenty-one and planning to be at the convention, you should come see the gleeful mania that is me with a cocktail shaker.
Cats.
Blue. Also, fluffy.
Monster High.
New dolls should be hitting the shelves ANY DAY NOW, and the search is driving me batty. The universe needs to stop taunting the happy fun blonde and gimme already, before my already strained patience decides that the time has come to snap.
...and that's my status for the day. How's by everybody else?
Wicked Girls T-shirts.
The spreadsheet has been finished and handed off to my lovely assistant, aka, "Deborah," who is now using our peachy-keen new merchandise email address to send out the order confirmations. So if you requested a shirt, you're going to hear from Deborah! She'll be asking you to verify that we have the right information, requesting shipping information, and setting up things so you can pay. Please, please, remember that we must receive payment to place this order. That's why the original post said "cash in the cookie jar." If you can't pay for your shirts, we may have to remove you from the spreadsheet, depending on how long it takes for everyone else to pay.
Welcome to Bordertown about to hit shelves.
The new Bordertown anthology is just about out, and it's amazing. Mia (
chimera_fancies) will be doing pendant sales of special Bordertown pendants soon, and there are contests and giveaways and blog tours, oh my! It's an incredible book. If you love urban fantasy, you should absolutely buy this book. This is the city whose foundations informed us all, and it's finally opening its doors again.Oh, right. Also, Deadline.
I, too, have a new book coming out. Deadline will be released on May 31st, which makes it technically a June book (ah, the wonders of reporting). So you'll be able to buy it from a bookstore near you, and you totally should, especially if you enjoy my cats being full of catfood, and not full of my delicious flesh. They eat a lot! I'll be in New York for the next week, which sadly limits the number of pre-release blog giveaways I can do (having no books as yet, the current number is "zero"), but I'll be doing fun things up until then. Primarily the ongoing, and increasingly grim, countdown to the Rising. You're welcome.
Book Expo America!
Why am I going to New York? For Book Expo America! This is going to be my first BEA, and I'm mad excited. I'll also be seeing friends, eating artisan frozen treats, and visiting both my publishers for an entire day, thus guaranteeing that they'll be sick of me and give me things in order to make me go away and leave them alone. I'm basically an animate mixed blessing. I'm planning to have a fabulous time, because I always do, and when I leave, I'm heading for...
Wiscon!
It's my first time. Be gentle. I'll be mixing drinks at the Whedonistas party, which is good, since I don't like trying to mingle at these things, but I loooooooooooove making mai tais and mojitos. Donations of strawberries gratefully accepted, because I always need more than I think I will. If you're over twenty-one and planning to be at the convention, you should come see the gleeful mania that is me with a cocktail shaker.
Cats.
Blue. Also, fluffy.
Monster High.
New dolls should be hitting the shelves ANY DAY NOW, and the search is driving me batty. The universe needs to stop taunting the happy fun blonde and gimme already, before my already strained patience decides that the time has come to snap.
...and that's my status for the day. How's by everybody else?
- Current Mood:
busy - Current Music:The "Monster High" theme song.
Allentown, Pennsylvania. July 13th, 2014.
After six days of snooping, bribery, and the occasional outright lie, Robert Stalnaker had finally achieved his goal: a meeting with the college student who blew the whistle on the leaders of the Mayday Army. It had been more difficult than he expected. Since the death of Dr. Kellis's husband—something which was not his fault; not only did his article not say "break into the lab and free the experimental virus," it certainly never said "beat the man's lover to a bloody pulp if you get the chance"—the security had closed in tighter around the man who was regarded as the state's star, and really only, witness to the actions of the Mayday Army. Robert carefully got out his pocket recorder, checking to be sure the memory buffer was clear. He was only going to get one shot at this.
The door opened, and a skinny, anxious-looking college boy stepped into the room, followed by a uniformed campus security guard. Stalnaker would have attempted to convince him to leave, but frankly, after what had happened to John Kellis...these were unsettled times. Having an authority figure present might be good for everyone involved.
"Thank you for meeting with me, Matthew," he said, standing and extending his hand to be shaken. The college boy had a light grip, like he was afraid of breaking something. Stalnaker made a note of that, even as he kept on smiling. "I'm Robert Stalnaker, with The Clarion News in New York. I really do appreciate it."
"You're the one who wrote that article," said Matt, pulling his hand away and sitting down on the other side of the table. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered dog's, assessing the exit routes. "They would never have done it if you hadn't done that first."
"Done what, exactly?" Stalnaker produced a notepad and pencil from his pocket, making sure Matt saw him getting ready to take notes. The recorder was already running, but somehow, that never caused the Pavlovian need to speak that he could trigger with a carefully poised pen. "I just want to know your side of the story, son."
Matt took a shaky breath. "Look. I didn't—nobody told me this was going to be a whole thing, you know? This girl I know just told me that Brandon and Hazel could hook me up with some good weed. I was coming off of finals, I was tense, I needed to relax a little. That was all."
"I understand," said Stalnaker, encouragingly. "When I was in college, I heard the siren song of good weed more than a few times. Was the weed good?"
"Aw, man, it was awesome." Matt's eyes lit up. Only for a moment; the light quickly dimmed, and he continued more cautiously, "Anyway, everybody started talking about revolution, and sticking it to the Man, and how this dude Kellis was going to screw us all by only giving his cold-cure to the people who could afford it. I should have done the research, you know? I should have looked it up. It's contagious, see? Even if we'd left it alone, let Dr. Kellis finish his testing, we would have all been able to get it in the end. If it worked."
Something about the haunted tone in Matt's voice made Stalnaker sit up a little bit straighter. "Do you think it doesn't work? Can you support that?"
"Oh, it works. Nobody's had a cold in weeks. We're the killers of the common cold. Hi-ho, give somebody a medal." Matt shook his head, glancing around for exits one more time. "But he didn't finish testing it. Man, we created an invasive species that can live inside our bodies. Remember when all those pythons got into the Everglades? Remember how it fucked up the alligators? This time we're the alligators, and we've got somebody's pet store python slithering around inside us. And we don't know what it eats, and we don't know how big it's going to get."
"What are you saying?"
Matt looked at Robert Stalnaker, and smiled a bitter death's-head grin as he said, "I'm saying that we're screwed, Mr. Stalnaker, and I'm saying that it's all your fucking fault."
***
The trial of Brandon Majors and Hazel Allen, the ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army," has been delayed indefinitely while the precise extent of their crimes is determined. Breaking and entering and willful destruction of property are easy; the sudden demand by the World Health Organization that they also be charged with biological terrorism and global pollution are somewhat more complex...
When will you Rise?
After six days of snooping, bribery, and the occasional outright lie, Robert Stalnaker had finally achieved his goal: a meeting with the college student who blew the whistle on the leaders of the Mayday Army. It had been more difficult than he expected. Since the death of Dr. Kellis's husband—something which was not his fault; not only did his article not say "break into the lab and free the experimental virus," it certainly never said "beat the man's lover to a bloody pulp if you get the chance"—the security had closed in tighter around the man who was regarded as the state's star, and really only, witness to the actions of the Mayday Army. Robert carefully got out his pocket recorder, checking to be sure the memory buffer was clear. He was only going to get one shot at this.
The door opened, and a skinny, anxious-looking college boy stepped into the room, followed by a uniformed campus security guard. Stalnaker would have attempted to convince him to leave, but frankly, after what had happened to John Kellis...these were unsettled times. Having an authority figure present might be good for everyone involved.
"Thank you for meeting with me, Matthew," he said, standing and extending his hand to be shaken. The college boy had a light grip, like he was afraid of breaking something. Stalnaker made a note of that, even as he kept on smiling. "I'm Robert Stalnaker, with The Clarion News in New York. I really do appreciate it."
"You're the one who wrote that article," said Matt, pulling his hand away and sitting down on the other side of the table. His eyes darted from side to side like a cornered dog's, assessing the exit routes. "They would never have done it if you hadn't done that first."
"Done what, exactly?" Stalnaker produced a notepad and pencil from his pocket, making sure Matt saw him getting ready to take notes. The recorder was already running, but somehow, that never caused the Pavlovian need to speak that he could trigger with a carefully poised pen. "I just want to know your side of the story, son."
Matt took a shaky breath. "Look. I didn't—nobody told me this was going to be a whole thing, you know? This girl I know just told me that Brandon and Hazel could hook me up with some good weed. I was coming off of finals, I was tense, I needed to relax a little. That was all."
"I understand," said Stalnaker, encouragingly. "When I was in college, I heard the siren song of good weed more than a few times. Was the weed good?"
"Aw, man, it was awesome." Matt's eyes lit up. Only for a moment; the light quickly dimmed, and he continued more cautiously, "Anyway, everybody started talking about revolution, and sticking it to the Man, and how this dude Kellis was going to screw us all by only giving his cold-cure to the people who could afford it. I should have done the research, you know? I should have looked it up. It's contagious, see? Even if we'd left it alone, let Dr. Kellis finish his testing, we would have all been able to get it in the end. If it worked."
Something about the haunted tone in Matt's voice made Stalnaker sit up a little bit straighter. "Do you think it doesn't work? Can you support that?"
"Oh, it works. Nobody's had a cold in weeks. We're the killers of the common cold. Hi-ho, give somebody a medal." Matt shook his head, glancing around for exits one more time. "But he didn't finish testing it. Man, we created an invasive species that can live inside our bodies. Remember when all those pythons got into the Everglades? Remember how it fucked up the alligators? This time we're the alligators, and we've got somebody's pet store python slithering around inside us. And we don't know what it eats, and we don't know how big it's going to get."
"What are you saying?"
Matt looked at Robert Stalnaker, and smiled a bitter death's-head grin as he said, "I'm saying that we're screwed, Mr. Stalnaker, and I'm saying that it's all your fucking fault."
***
The trial of Brandon Majors and Hazel Allen, the ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army," has been delayed indefinitely while the precise extent of their crimes is determined. Breaking and entering and willful destruction of property are easy; the sudden demand by the World Health Organization that they also be charged with biological terrorism and global pollution are somewhat more complex...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood:
accomplished - Current Music:Lisa Loeb, "Torn."
Reston, Virginia, July 10th, 2014.
The sound of the front door slamming brought Alexander Kellis out of his light doze. He'd managed to drift off on the couch while he was waiting for John to come home with dinner—the first time he'd slept in days. His first feeling, once the disorientation passed, was irritation. Couldn't John be a little more careful? Didn't he know how exhausted he was?
Then he realized that he didn't hear any footsteps. Annoyance faded into concern. "John?" Alex stood, nudging his glasses back into place as he started, warily, toward the foyer.
( We cut because, for many people, this is when things start getting unpleasant. You have been warned.Collapse )
The sound of the front door slamming brought Alexander Kellis out of his light doze. He'd managed to drift off on the couch while he was waiting for John to come home with dinner—the first time he'd slept in days. His first feeling, once the disorientation passed, was irritation. Couldn't John be a little more careful? Didn't he know how exhausted he was?
Then he realized that he didn't hear any footsteps. Annoyance faded into concern. "John?" Alex stood, nudging his glasses back into place as he started, warily, toward the foyer.
( We cut because, for many people, this is when things start getting unpleasant. You have been warned.Collapse )
- Current Mood:
sad - Current Music:Christina Perry, "Arms."
Atlanta, Georgia. July 8th, 2014.
Chris Sinclair's time at the CDC had been characterized by an almost pathological degree of calm. Even during outbreaks of unknown origin, he remained completely relaxed, calling on his EIS training and his natural tendency to "not sweat the small stuff" in order to keep his head while everyone around him was losing theirs. When asked, he attributed his attitude to growing up in Santa Cruz, California, where the local surf culture taught everyone to chill out already.
Chris Sinclair wasn't chilling out anymore. Chris Sinclair was terrified.
They still had no reliable test for the Kellis cure. Instead of charting the path of the infection, they were falling back on an old EIS trick and charting the absence of infection. Any place where the normal chain of summer colds and flu had been broken, they marked on the maps as a possible outbreak of the Kellis cure. It wasn't a sure-fire method of detection—sometimes people were just healthy, without any genetically engineered virus to explain the reasons why. Still. If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick...
If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick with this sickness that wasn't a sickness at all, this stuff was spreading like wildfire, and there was no way they could stop it. If they put out a health advisory recommending people avoid close contact with anyone who looked excessively healthy, they'd have "cure parties" springing up nationwide. If was the only possible result. Before the chicken pox vaccine was commonly available, parents used to have chicken pox parties, choosing sickness now to guarantee health later. They'd do it again. And then, if the Kellis cure had a second stage—something that would have shown up in the human trials Alexander Kellis never had the opportunity to conduct—they would be in for a world of trouble.
Assuming, of course, that they weren't already.
"Still think we shouldn't be too worried about a pandemic that just makes everybody well?"
"Ian." Chris raised his head, giving a half-ashamed shrug as he said, "I didn't hear you come in."
"You were pretty engrossed in those papers. Are those the updated maps of the projected spread?"
"They are." Chris chuckled mirthlessly. "You'll be happy to know that our last North American holdouts have succumbed to the mysterious good health that's been going around. We have infection patterns in Newfoundland and Alaska. In both cases, I was able to find records showing that the pattern manifested shortly after someone from another of the suspected infection zones came to town. It's spreading. If it's not already everywhere in the world, it will be soon."
"Have there been any reported symptoms? Anything that might point to a mutation?" Ian filled his mug from the half-full pot sitting on the department hot plate, grimacing at the taste even as he kept on drinking. It was bitter but strong. That was what he needed to get through this catastrophe.
"I was wondering when you'd get to the bad part."
"There was a good part?"
Chris ignored him, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found a red folder. Flipping it open, he read, "Sudden increased salivation in the trial subjects for the McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment. That was the one using genetically modified yellow fever? Three deaths in a modified malaria test group. We're still waiting for the last body to arrive, but in the two we have, it looks like their man-made malaria suddenly started attacking their red blood cells. Wiped them out faster than their bone marrow could rebuild them."
"The Kellis cure doesn't play nicely with the other children," observed Ian.
"No, it doesn't." Chris looked up, expression grim. "The rest of these are dealing with subjects from the Colorado cancer trials. The ones that used the live version of the modified Marburg virus. They're expressing the same symptoms as everyone else...but their families are starting to show signs of the Marburg variant. Somehow, interaction with the Kellis cure is teaching it how to spread."
Ian stared at him, coffee forgotten. "Oh, Jesus."
"Not sure he's listening," said Chris. He handed his colleague the folder, and the two of them turned back to their work. They were trying to prevent the inevitable. They both knew that. But that didn't mean they didn't have to try.
***
Effective immediately, all human clinical trials utilizing live strains of genetically modified virus have been suspended. All records and patient lists for these trials must be submitted to the CDC office in Atlanta, Georgia by noon EST on July 10th. Failure to comply may result in federal charges...
When will you Rise?
Chris Sinclair's time at the CDC had been characterized by an almost pathological degree of calm. Even during outbreaks of unknown origin, he remained completely relaxed, calling on his EIS training and his natural tendency to "not sweat the small stuff" in order to keep his head while everyone around him was losing theirs. When asked, he attributed his attitude to growing up in Santa Cruz, California, where the local surf culture taught everyone to chill out already.
Chris Sinclair wasn't chilling out anymore. Chris Sinclair was terrified.
They still had no reliable test for the Kellis cure. Instead of charting the path of the infection, they were falling back on an old EIS trick and charting the absence of infection. Any place where the normal chain of summer colds and flu had been broken, they marked on the maps as a possible outbreak of the Kellis cure. It wasn't a sure-fire method of detection—sometimes people were just healthy, without any genetically engineered virus to explain the reasons why. Still. If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick...
If only half the people showing up as potential Kellis cure infections were sick with this sickness that wasn't a sickness at all, this stuff was spreading like wildfire, and there was no way they could stop it. If they put out a health advisory recommending people avoid close contact with anyone who looked excessively healthy, they'd have "cure parties" springing up nationwide. If was the only possible result. Before the chicken pox vaccine was commonly available, parents used to have chicken pox parties, choosing sickness now to guarantee health later. They'd do it again. And then, if the Kellis cure had a second stage—something that would have shown up in the human trials Alexander Kellis never had the opportunity to conduct—they would be in for a world of trouble.
Assuming, of course, that they weren't already.
"Still think we shouldn't be too worried about a pandemic that just makes everybody well?"
"Ian." Chris raised his head, giving a half-ashamed shrug as he said, "I didn't hear you come in."
"You were pretty engrossed in those papers. Are those the updated maps of the projected spread?"
"They are." Chris chuckled mirthlessly. "You'll be happy to know that our last North American holdouts have succumbed to the mysterious good health that's been going around. We have infection patterns in Newfoundland and Alaska. In both cases, I was able to find records showing that the pattern manifested shortly after someone from another of the suspected infection zones came to town. It's spreading. If it's not already everywhere in the world, it will be soon."
"Have there been any reported symptoms? Anything that might point to a mutation?" Ian filled his mug from the half-full pot sitting on the department hot plate, grimacing at the taste even as he kept on drinking. It was bitter but strong. That was what he needed to get through this catastrophe.
"I was wondering when you'd get to the bad part."
"There was a good part?"
Chris ignored him, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found a red folder. Flipping it open, he read, "Sudden increased salivation in the trial subjects for the McKenzie-Beatts TB treatment. That was the one using genetically modified yellow fever? Three deaths in a modified malaria test group. We're still waiting for the last body to arrive, but in the two we have, it looks like their man-made malaria suddenly started attacking their red blood cells. Wiped them out faster than their bone marrow could rebuild them."
"The Kellis cure doesn't play nicely with the other children," observed Ian.
"No, it doesn't." Chris looked up, expression grim. "The rest of these are dealing with subjects from the Colorado cancer trials. The ones that used the live version of the modified Marburg virus. They're expressing the same symptoms as everyone else...but their families are starting to show signs of the Marburg variant. Somehow, interaction with the Kellis cure is teaching it how to spread."
Ian stared at him, coffee forgotten. "Oh, Jesus."
"Not sure he's listening," said Chris. He handed his colleague the folder, and the two of them turned back to their work. They were trying to prevent the inevitable. They both knew that. But that didn't mean they didn't have to try.
***
Effective immediately, all human clinical trials utilizing live strains of genetically modified virus have been suspended. All records and patient lists for these trials must be submitted to the CDC office in Atlanta, Georgia by noon EST on July 10th. Failure to comply may result in federal charges...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:REM, "It's the End of the World As We Know It."
Somewhere in North America, July 7th, 2014.
The location doesn't matter: what happened, when it happened, happened all over North America at the same time. There was no single index case. It all began, and ended, too fast for that sort of record-keeping to endure. Listen:
On migratory bird and weather balloon, on drifting debris and anchored in tiny gusts of wind, Alpha-RC007 made its way from the stratosphere down to the world below. When it encountered a suitable mammalian host, it would latch on with its tiny man-made protein hooks, holding fast while it found a way to invade, colonize, and spread. The newborn infections were invisible to the naked eye, and their only symptom was a total lack of symptoms. Their hosts enjoyed a level of health that was remarkable mostly because none of them noticed, or realized how lucky they were. It was a viral golden age.
It lasted less than a month. Say July 7th, for lack of a precise date; say Columbus, Ohio, for lack of a precise location. July 7th, 2014, Columbus: the end of the world begins.
The only carrier of Marburg Amberlee in Columbus was Sharon Morris, a thirty-eight year old woman celebrating her second lease on life by taking a road trip across the United States. She had begun her Marburg Amberlee treatments almost exactly a year before, and had seen a terminal diagnosis dwindle into nothing. If you'd asked her, she would have called it a miracle of science. She would have been correct.
Susan's first encounter with Alpha-RC007 occurred at an open air farmer's market. She picked up a jar of homemade jam, examining the label with a curious eye before deciding, finally, not to make the purchase. The jam remained behind, but the virus which had collected on her fingers did not. It clung, waiting for an opportunity—an opportunity it got less than five minutes later, when Susan wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. Alpha-RC007 transferred from her fingers to the surface of her eye, and from there made its entrance to the body.
The initial stages of the Alpha-RC007 infection followed the now-familiar pattern, invading the body's cells like a common virus, only to slip quietly out again, leaving copies of itself behind. The only cells to be actually destroyed in the process were the other infections Alpha-RC007 encountered in the host body. These were turned into tiny virus-factories, farming on a microscopic scale. Several minor ailments Susan was not even aware of were found brewing in her body, and summarily destroyed in Alpha-RC007's quest for sole dominion.
Then, deep in the tissue of Susan's lungs, Alpha-RC007 encountered something new; something which was confusing to the virus, in as much as anything can ever confuse a virus. This strange new thing had a structure as alien to the world as Alpha-RC007's own, half-natural, half-reconfigured and transformed to suit a new purpose.
Behaving according to the protocols that were the whole of its existence, Alpha-RC007 approached the stranger, using its delicate protein hooks to attempt infiltration. The stranger responded in kind, their protein hooks tangling together until they were like so much viral thread, too intertwined to tell where one ended and the next began. This happened a thousand times in the body of Susan Morris. Many of those joinings ended with the destruction of one or both viral bodies, their structures unable to correctly lock together.
The rest found an unexpected kinship in the locks and controls their human creators had installed, and began, without releasing one another, to exchange genetic material in a beautiful dance that had begun when life on this world was born, and would last until that life was completely gone. Oblivious to the second miracle of science that was now happening inside her, Susan Morris went about her day. She had never been a mother before. Before the sun went down, she would be one of the many mothers to give birth to Kellis-Amberlee.
***
It's a beautiful summer here in Ohio, and we have a great many events planned for these sweet summer nights. Visit the downtown Columbus Farmer's Market, where you can sample new delights from our local farms. Who knows what you might discover? Meanwhile, the summer concert series kicks off...
When will you Rise?
The location doesn't matter: what happened, when it happened, happened all over North America at the same time. There was no single index case. It all began, and ended, too fast for that sort of record-keeping to endure. Listen:
On migratory bird and weather balloon, on drifting debris and anchored in tiny gusts of wind, Alpha-RC007 made its way from the stratosphere down to the world below. When it encountered a suitable mammalian host, it would latch on with its tiny man-made protein hooks, holding fast while it found a way to invade, colonize, and spread. The newborn infections were invisible to the naked eye, and their only symptom was a total lack of symptoms. Their hosts enjoyed a level of health that was remarkable mostly because none of them noticed, or realized how lucky they were. It was a viral golden age.
It lasted less than a month. Say July 7th, for lack of a precise date; say Columbus, Ohio, for lack of a precise location. July 7th, 2014, Columbus: the end of the world begins.
The only carrier of Marburg Amberlee in Columbus was Sharon Morris, a thirty-eight year old woman celebrating her second lease on life by taking a road trip across the United States. She had begun her Marburg Amberlee treatments almost exactly a year before, and had seen a terminal diagnosis dwindle into nothing. If you'd asked her, she would have called it a miracle of science. She would have been correct.
Susan's first encounter with Alpha-RC007 occurred at an open air farmer's market. She picked up a jar of homemade jam, examining the label with a curious eye before deciding, finally, not to make the purchase. The jam remained behind, but the virus which had collected on her fingers did not. It clung, waiting for an opportunity—an opportunity it got less than five minutes later, when Susan wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. Alpha-RC007 transferred from her fingers to the surface of her eye, and from there made its entrance to the body.
The initial stages of the Alpha-RC007 infection followed the now-familiar pattern, invading the body's cells like a common virus, only to slip quietly out again, leaving copies of itself behind. The only cells to be actually destroyed in the process were the other infections Alpha-RC007 encountered in the host body. These were turned into tiny virus-factories, farming on a microscopic scale. Several minor ailments Susan was not even aware of were found brewing in her body, and summarily destroyed in Alpha-RC007's quest for sole dominion.
Then, deep in the tissue of Susan's lungs, Alpha-RC007 encountered something new; something which was confusing to the virus, in as much as anything can ever confuse a virus. This strange new thing had a structure as alien to the world as Alpha-RC007's own, half-natural, half-reconfigured and transformed to suit a new purpose.
Behaving according to the protocols that were the whole of its existence, Alpha-RC007 approached the stranger, using its delicate protein hooks to attempt infiltration. The stranger responded in kind, their protein hooks tangling together until they were like so much viral thread, too intertwined to tell where one ended and the next began. This happened a thousand times in the body of Susan Morris. Many of those joinings ended with the destruction of one or both viral bodies, their structures unable to correctly lock together.
The rest found an unexpected kinship in the locks and controls their human creators had installed, and began, without releasing one another, to exchange genetic material in a beautiful dance that had begun when life on this world was born, and would last until that life was completely gone. Oblivious to the second miracle of science that was now happening inside her, Susan Morris went about her day. She had never been a mother before. Before the sun went down, she would be one of the many mothers to give birth to Kellis-Amberlee.
***
It's a beautiful summer here in Ohio, and we have a great many events planned for these sweet summer nights. Visit the downtown Columbus Farmer's Market, where you can sample new delights from our local farms. Who knows what you might discover? Meanwhile, the summer concert series kicks off...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Ludo, "I'd Do Anything For You."
Manhattan, New York. July 7th, 2014.
In the month since his report on the supposed "Kellis cure" had first appeared, Robert Stalnaker had received a level of attention and adulation—and yes, vitrol—that he had previously only dreamed of. His inbox was packed every morning with people both applauding and condemning his decision to reveal Dr. Alexander Kellis's scientific violation of the American public. Was he the one who told the Mayday Army to break into Kellis's lab, doing thousands of dollars of damage and unleashing millions of dollars of research into the open air? No, he was not. He was simply a concerned member of the American free press, doing his job, and reporting the news.
The fact that he had essentially fabricated the story had stopped bothering him after the third interview request. By the Monday following the Fourth of July, he would have been honestly shocked if someone had asked him about the truth behind his lies. As far as he was concerned, he'd been telling the truth. Maybe it wasn't the truth Dr. Kellis had intended, but it was the one he'd created. All Stalnaker did was report it.
Best of all, he hadn't seen anyone sneezing or coughing in almost two weeks. Whatever craziness Kellis had been cooking up in that lab of his, it did what it was supposed to do. Throw out the Kleenex and cancel that order for chicken soup, can I hear an amen from the floor?
"Amen," murmured Stalnaker, pushing open the door to his paper's New York office. A cool blast of climate-controlled air flowed out into the hall, chasing away the stickiness of the New York summer. He stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and waited for the applause that inevitably followed his arrival. He was, after all, the one who had single-handedly increased circulation almost fifteen percent in under a week.
The applause didn't come. Bemused, he looked around the room and saw his editor bearing down on him with a grim expression on his face and a toothpick bouncing between his lips as he frantically chewed it into splinters. The toothpicks had been intended as an aid when he quit smoking the year before. Somehow, they'd just never gone away.
"Stalnaker!" he growled, shoving the toothpick off to one side of his mouth as he demanded, "Where the hell have you been? Don't you check your email?"
"Not during breakfast most mornings," said Stalnaker, taken aback by his editor's tone. Don never talked to him like that. Harshly, sure, and sometimes coldly, but never like he'd done something too wrong to be articulated; never like he was a puppy who'd made a mess on the carpet. "Why? Did I miss a political scandal or something while I was having a bagel?"
Don Nutick paused, forcing himself to take a deep, slow breath before he said, "No. You missed the Pennsylvania police department announcing that the ringleaders of the Mayday Army were taken into custody Friday afternoon."
"What?" Stalnaker stared at him, suddenly fully alert. "You're telling me they actually caught the guys? How the hell did they manage that?"
"One of their own decided to rat them out. Said that it wasn't right, what they were doing." Don shook his head. "They're not releasing the guy's name yet. Still, whoever managed to get an exclusive interview with him, why. I bet that person could write his or her own ticket. Maybe even convince a sympathetic editor not to fire his ass over faking a report that's getting the paper threatened with a lawsuit."
Stalnaker scoffed. "They'd never get it to stick."
"You sure of that?"
There was a moment of silence before Stalnaker said, reluctantly, "I guess I'm going to Pennsylvania."
"Yes," Don agreed. "I guess you are."
***
While the identity of the Mayday Army's deserter has been protected thus far, it must be asked: why did this man decide to turn on his compatriots? What did he see in that lab that caused him to change his ways? We don't know, but we're going to find out...
When will you Rise?
In the month since his report on the supposed "Kellis cure" had first appeared, Robert Stalnaker had received a level of attention and adulation—and yes, vitrol—that he had previously only dreamed of. His inbox was packed every morning with people both applauding and condemning his decision to reveal Dr. Alexander Kellis's scientific violation of the American public. Was he the one who told the Mayday Army to break into Kellis's lab, doing thousands of dollars of damage and unleashing millions of dollars of research into the open air? No, he was not. He was simply a concerned member of the American free press, doing his job, and reporting the news.
The fact that he had essentially fabricated the story had stopped bothering him after the third interview request. By the Monday following the Fourth of July, he would have been honestly shocked if someone had asked him about the truth behind his lies. As far as he was concerned, he'd been telling the truth. Maybe it wasn't the truth Dr. Kellis had intended, but it was the one he'd created. All Stalnaker did was report it.
Best of all, he hadn't seen anyone sneezing or coughing in almost two weeks. Whatever craziness Kellis had been cooking up in that lab of his, it did what it was supposed to do. Throw out the Kleenex and cancel that order for chicken soup, can I hear an amen from the floor?
"Amen," murmured Stalnaker, pushing open the door to his paper's New York office. A cool blast of climate-controlled air flowed out into the hall, chasing away the stickiness of the New York summer. He stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and waited for the applause that inevitably followed his arrival. He was, after all, the one who had single-handedly increased circulation almost fifteen percent in under a week.
The applause didn't come. Bemused, he looked around the room and saw his editor bearing down on him with a grim expression on his face and a toothpick bouncing between his lips as he frantically chewed it into splinters. The toothpicks had been intended as an aid when he quit smoking the year before. Somehow, they'd just never gone away.
"Stalnaker!" he growled, shoving the toothpick off to one side of his mouth as he demanded, "Where the hell have you been? Don't you check your email?"
"Not during breakfast most mornings," said Stalnaker, taken aback by his editor's tone. Don never talked to him like that. Harshly, sure, and sometimes coldly, but never like he'd done something too wrong to be articulated; never like he was a puppy who'd made a mess on the carpet. "Why? Did I miss a political scandal or something while I was having a bagel?"
Don Nutick paused, forcing himself to take a deep, slow breath before he said, "No. You missed the Pennsylvania police department announcing that the ringleaders of the Mayday Army were taken into custody Friday afternoon."
"What?" Stalnaker stared at him, suddenly fully alert. "You're telling me they actually caught the guys? How the hell did they manage that?"
"One of their own decided to rat them out. Said that it wasn't right, what they were doing." Don shook his head. "They're not releasing the guy's name yet. Still, whoever managed to get an exclusive interview with him, why. I bet that person could write his or her own ticket. Maybe even convince a sympathetic editor not to fire his ass over faking a report that's getting the paper threatened with a lawsuit."
Stalnaker scoffed. "They'd never get it to stick."
"You sure of that?"
There was a moment of silence before Stalnaker said, reluctantly, "I guess I'm going to Pennsylvania."
"Yes," Don agreed. "I guess you are."
***
While the identity of the Mayday Army's deserter has been protected thus far, it must be asked: why did this man decide to turn on his compatriots? What did he see in that lab that caused him to change his ways? We don't know, but we're going to find out...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood:
awake - Current Music:The cats chirping at the birds outside the window.
Berkeley, California. July 4th, 2014.
The Berkeley Marina was packed with parents, children, college students on summer break, dog walkers, senior citizens, and members of every other social group in the Bay Area. A Great Dane ran by, towing his bikini-clad owner on a pair of roller skates. A group of teens walked in the opposite direction, wearing clothes so brightly-colored that they resembled a flock of exotic birds. They were chattering in the rapid-fire patois specific to their generation, that transitory form of language developed by every group of teens since language began. Stacy Mason paused in watching her husband chase her son around the dock to watch the group go past, their laughter bright as bells in the summer afternoon.
She'd been one of those girls, once, all sunshine and serenity, absolutely confident that the world would give her whatever she asked it for. Wouldn't they be surprised when they realized that sometimes, what you asked for wasn't really what you wanted?
"Where are you right now?" Michael stepped up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and planting a kiss against the side of her neck. "It's a beautiful day here in sunny Berkeley, California, and the laser show will be starting soon. You might want to come back."
"Just watching the crowd." Stacy twisted around to face her husband, smiling brightly up at him. "Aren't you supposed to be watching something? Namely, our son?"
"I have been discarded in favor of a more desirable babysitter," said Michael gravely. His tone was solemn, but his eyes were amused.
"Oh? And who would that be?"
Behind her, Phillip shouted jubilantly, "Oggie!"
"Ahhhh. I see." Stacy turned to see Phillip chasing Maize in an unsteady circle while Marigold sat nearby, calmly watching the action. Mr. Connors was holding Marigold's leash; Maize's leash was being allowed to drag on the ground behind him while the Golden Retriever pursued his toddler target. "Hello, Mr. Connors! Where's Marla?"
"Hello, Stacy!" Mr. Connors turned to wave, one eye still on the fast-moving pair. "She went down the dock to get us some lemonades. Hope you don't mind my absconding with your boy."
"Not at all. It'll do both of us some good if our respective charges can run off a little of their excess energy." Stacy leaned up against Michael, watching as Maize and Phillip chased each other, one laughing, the other with tail wagging madly. "Maybe they can wear each other out."
Michael snorted. "That'll be the day. I think that boy is powered by plutonium."
"And whose fault would that be, hmm? I just had to go and marry a scientist. I could have held out for a rock star, but no, I wanted the glamor of being a professor's wife."
This time, Michael laughed out loud. "Believe me, I count my blessings every day when I remember that you could have held out for a rock star."
Stacy smiled at him warmly before looking around at the crowd, the sky, the water. Phillip was laughing, his sound blending with the cries of seagulls and the barking of over-excited dogs to form just one more part of the great noise that was the voice of humanity. She had never heard anything so beautiful in her life.
"I think we should all be counting our blessings every day," she said firmly. "Life doesn't get any better than this."
"Life can always get better." Michael kissed her one more time, his lips lingering light against her cheek. "Just you wait and see. This time next year, we won't be able to imagine looking back on this summer without thinking 'oh, you had no idea; just you wait and see.'"
"I hope you're right," said Stacy, and smiled.
***
The annual Fourth of July laser show at the Berkeley Marina was a huge success this year, drawing record crowds. Replacing the firework displays as of 2012, the laser show has become a showpiece of the year's calendar, and this year was no different. With designs programmed by the UC Berkeley Computer Science Department...
When will you Rise?
The Berkeley Marina was packed with parents, children, college students on summer break, dog walkers, senior citizens, and members of every other social group in the Bay Area. A Great Dane ran by, towing his bikini-clad owner on a pair of roller skates. A group of teens walked in the opposite direction, wearing clothes so brightly-colored that they resembled a flock of exotic birds. They were chattering in the rapid-fire patois specific to their generation, that transitory form of language developed by every group of teens since language began. Stacy Mason paused in watching her husband chase her son around the dock to watch the group go past, their laughter bright as bells in the summer afternoon.
She'd been one of those girls, once, all sunshine and serenity, absolutely confident that the world would give her whatever she asked it for. Wouldn't they be surprised when they realized that sometimes, what you asked for wasn't really what you wanted?
"Where are you right now?" Michael stepped up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and planting a kiss against the side of her neck. "It's a beautiful day here in sunny Berkeley, California, and the laser show will be starting soon. You might want to come back."
"Just watching the crowd." Stacy twisted around to face her husband, smiling brightly up at him. "Aren't you supposed to be watching something? Namely, our son?"
"I have been discarded in favor of a more desirable babysitter," said Michael gravely. His tone was solemn, but his eyes were amused.
"Oh? And who would that be?"
Behind her, Phillip shouted jubilantly, "Oggie!"
"Ahhhh. I see." Stacy turned to see Phillip chasing Maize in an unsteady circle while Marigold sat nearby, calmly watching the action. Mr. Connors was holding Marigold's leash; Maize's leash was being allowed to drag on the ground behind him while the Golden Retriever pursued his toddler target. "Hello, Mr. Connors! Where's Marla?"
"Hello, Stacy!" Mr. Connors turned to wave, one eye still on the fast-moving pair. "She went down the dock to get us some lemonades. Hope you don't mind my absconding with your boy."
"Not at all. It'll do both of us some good if our respective charges can run off a little of their excess energy." Stacy leaned up against Michael, watching as Maize and Phillip chased each other, one laughing, the other with tail wagging madly. "Maybe they can wear each other out."
Michael snorted. "That'll be the day. I think that boy is powered by plutonium."
"And whose fault would that be, hmm? I just had to go and marry a scientist. I could have held out for a rock star, but no, I wanted the glamor of being a professor's wife."
This time, Michael laughed out loud. "Believe me, I count my blessings every day when I remember that you could have held out for a rock star."
Stacy smiled at him warmly before looking around at the crowd, the sky, the water. Phillip was laughing, his sound blending with the cries of seagulls and the barking of over-excited dogs to form just one more part of the great noise that was the voice of humanity. She had never heard anything so beautiful in her life.
"I think we should all be counting our blessings every day," she said firmly. "Life doesn't get any better than this."
"Life can always get better." Michael kissed her one more time, his lips lingering light against her cheek. "Just you wait and see. This time next year, we won't be able to imagine looking back on this summer without thinking 'oh, you had no idea; just you wait and see.'"
"I hope you're right," said Stacy, and smiled.
***
The annual Fourth of July laser show at the Berkeley Marina was a huge success this year, drawing record crowds. Replacing the firework displays as of 2012, the laser show has become a showpiece of the year's calendar, and this year was no different. With designs programmed by the UC Berkeley Computer Science Department...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:Metallica, "Enter Sandman."
Allentown, Pennsylvania. July 4th, 2014.
The streets of Allentown were decked in patriotic red, white, and blue, symbolizing freedom from oppression—symbolizing independence. That word had never seemed so accurate. Brandon Majors walked along, smiling at every red streamer and blue rosette, wishing he could jump up on a bench and tell everyone in earshot how he was responsible for their true independence. How he, working in the best interests of mankind, had granted them independence from illness, freedom from the flu, and the liberty to use their sick days sitting on the beach, sipping soft drinks and enjoying their liberty from the Man! They'd probably give him a medal, or at least carry him around the city on their shoulders.
Sadly, their triumphant march would probably be interrupted by the local police. The Man had his dogs looking for the brave members of the Mayday Army, calling them "eco-terrorists" and making dire statements about how they'd endangered the public health. Endangered it how? By setting the people free from the tyranny of big pharma? If that was endangerment, then maybe it was time for everything to be endangered. Even the Man would have to admit that, once he saw how much better the world was thanks to Bradley and his brave compatriots.
Brandon walked toward home, lost in thoughts of glories to come, once the Mayday Army could come out of the shadows and announce themselves to the world as saviors of the common man. What was the statue of limitations on eco-terrorism, anyway? Would it be reduced—at least in their case—once people started realizing what a gift they had been given? Maybe—
There were police cars surrounding the house. Brandon stopped dead, watching wide-eyed as men in uniform carried a kicking, weeping Hazel down the front porch steps and toward a black and white police van. The back doors opened as they approached, and three more officers reached out to pull Hazel inside. He could hear her sobbing, protesting, demanding to know what they thought she'd done wrong.
There was nothing he could do.
He repeated that to himself over and over again as he took two steps backward, turned, and began to run. The Man had found them out. Somehow, impossibly, the Man had found them out, and now Hazel was going to be a martyr to the cause. There was nothing he could do. The pigs already had her, they were already taking her away, and this wasn't some big Hollywood blockbuster action movie; he couldn't charge in there and somehow rescue her right from under the noses of the people who were taking her away. Her parents had money. They would find a way to buy her freedom. In the meanwhile, there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do.
Brandon was still repeating that to himself when the sirens started behind him, and the bullhorn-distorted voice announced, "Mr. Majors, please stop running, or we will be forced to shoot."
Brandon stopped. Without turning, he raised his hands in the air, and shouted, "I am an American citizen! I am being unfairly detained!" His voice quaked on the last word, somewhat ruining the brave revolutionary image he was trying to project.
Heavy footsteps on the street behind him announced the approach of the cop seconds before Brandon's hands were grabbed and wrenched behind his back. "Feel lucky we're arresting you at all, and not just publishing your name and address in the paper, you idiot," hissed the officer, her voice harsh and close to his ear. "You think this country loves terrorists?"
"We were doing it for you!" he wailed.
"Tell it to the judge," she said, and turned him forcefully around before leading him away.
***
The ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army" were arrested today following a tip from one of their former followers. His name has not been released at this time. Brandon Majors, 25, and Hazel Allen, 23, are residents of Allentown, Pennsylvania. Drug paraphernalia was recovered at the scene...
When will you Rise?
The streets of Allentown were decked in patriotic red, white, and blue, symbolizing freedom from oppression—symbolizing independence. That word had never seemed so accurate. Brandon Majors walked along, smiling at every red streamer and blue rosette, wishing he could jump up on a bench and tell everyone in earshot how he was responsible for their true independence. How he, working in the best interests of mankind, had granted them independence from illness, freedom from the flu, and the liberty to use their sick days sitting on the beach, sipping soft drinks and enjoying their liberty from the Man! They'd probably give him a medal, or at least carry him around the city on their shoulders.
Sadly, their triumphant march would probably be interrupted by the local police. The Man had his dogs looking for the brave members of the Mayday Army, calling them "eco-terrorists" and making dire statements about how they'd endangered the public health. Endangered it how? By setting the people free from the tyranny of big pharma? If that was endangerment, then maybe it was time for everything to be endangered. Even the Man would have to admit that, once he saw how much better the world was thanks to Bradley and his brave compatriots.
Brandon walked toward home, lost in thoughts of glories to come, once the Mayday Army could come out of the shadows and announce themselves to the world as saviors of the common man. What was the statue of limitations on eco-terrorism, anyway? Would it be reduced—at least in their case—once people started realizing what a gift they had been given? Maybe—
There were police cars surrounding the house. Brandon stopped dead, watching wide-eyed as men in uniform carried a kicking, weeping Hazel down the front porch steps and toward a black and white police van. The back doors opened as they approached, and three more officers reached out to pull Hazel inside. He could hear her sobbing, protesting, demanding to know what they thought she'd done wrong.
There was nothing he could do.
He repeated that to himself over and over again as he took two steps backward, turned, and began to run. The Man had found them out. Somehow, impossibly, the Man had found them out, and now Hazel was going to be a martyr to the cause. There was nothing he could do. The pigs already had her, they were already taking her away, and this wasn't some big Hollywood blockbuster action movie; he couldn't charge in there and somehow rescue her right from under the noses of the people who were taking her away. Her parents had money. They would find a way to buy her freedom. In the meanwhile, there was nothing, nothing, nothing he could do.
Brandon was still repeating that to himself when the sirens started behind him, and the bullhorn-distorted voice announced, "Mr. Majors, please stop running, or we will be forced to shoot."
Brandon stopped. Without turning, he raised his hands in the air, and shouted, "I am an American citizen! I am being unfairly detained!" His voice quaked on the last word, somewhat ruining the brave revolutionary image he was trying to project.
Heavy footsteps on the street behind him announced the approach of the cop seconds before Brandon's hands were grabbed and wrenched behind his back. "Feel lucky we're arresting you at all, and not just publishing your name and address in the paper, you idiot," hissed the officer, her voice harsh and close to his ear. "You think this country loves terrorists?"
"We were doing it for you!" he wailed.
"Tell it to the judge," she said, and turned him forcefully around before leading him away.
***
The ringleaders of the so-called "Mayday Army" were arrested today following a tip from one of their former followers. His name has not been released at this time. Brandon Majors, 25, and Hazel Allen, 23, are residents of Allentown, Pennsylvania. Drug paraphernalia was recovered at the scene...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Brooke Lunderville, "I Wish I Had My Time Again."
Denver, Colorado. July 2nd, 2014.
Janice Barton knocked twice on the door to Dr. Wells's office before opening it and stepping inside, expression drawn. "Do you think you can see three more patients today?" she asked, without preamble.
"What?" Dr. Wells looked up from his paperwork, fingers clenching involuntarily on his pen. "I've already seen nine patients so far! I've barely finished filing the insurance information for Mrs. Bridge. How am I supposed to see three more before we close?"
"Because if you'll agree to see three more, I can probably convince the other nineteen to come back tomorrow," Janice replied. For the first time, Dr. Wells realized how harried his normally composed administrative assistant looked. Her nails were chipped. Somehow, that seemed like the biggest danger sign of all. A man-made virus was on the loose, Marburg Amberlee was doing...something...and Janice had allowed her manicure to fray.
"I'll see the three most in need of attention, and then I have to close for the night," he said, putting down his pen as he stood. "If I don't get some sleep, I won't be of any use to anyone."
"Thank you," said Janice, and withdrew.
She was gone by the time he emerged from his office, retreating to wherever it was she went when she was tired of dealing with the madhouse of the waiting room. On the days when it was a madhouse, anyway. This was definitely one of those days. The gathered patients set up a clamor as soon as he appeared, all of them waving for his attention, some of them even shouting. Dr. Wells stopped, looking at the crowd, and wondered if the other doctors involved in the Marburg Amberlee tests were having the same experience.
He was deeply afraid that they were.
The trouble wasn't the patients themselves; they looked as hale and healthy as ever, which explained how they were able to yell quite so loudly for his attention. Their cancers were gone, or under control, constantly besieged by their defensive Marburg Amberlee infections. It was the people they had brought to the office with them that presented the truly alarming problem. Husbands and wives, parents and children, they sat next to their previously ill relatives with glazed eyes, taking shallow, pained-sounding breaths. Some of them were bleeding from the nose or tear ducts—just a trickle, nothing life-threatening, but that little trickle was enough to terrify Dr. Wells, making his bowels feel loose and his stomach crawl.
They were manifesting the early signs of a Marburg Amberlee infection, during the brief phase where the body's immune system attempted to treat the helper virus as an invasion. That was the one stage of infection that could be truly harmful; when Marburg Amberlee was hit, it hit back, and it was more interested in defeating the opposition than it was in preserving the host. These people were infected, all of them.
And that simply wasn't possible. Marburg Amberlee wasn't transmittable through casual contact. Pointing almost at random, he said, "You, you, and you. I can see you before we close. Everyone else, I'm very sorry, but you're going to have to come back tomorrow."
Groans and shouts of protest spread through the room. "My baby's sick!" shouted one woman. A year before, she'd been dying of lung cancer. Now she was glaring at him like he was the devil incarnate. "What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to see you tomorrow," said Dr. Wells firmly, and waved for the chosen three to step through the door between the reception area and the examination rooms. He retreated with relief, the feeling of dread growing stronger.
He honestly had no idea what he was going to do.
***
Rumors of an outbreak of hemorrhagic fever in and around the Colorado Cancer Research Center have, as yet, been unsubstantiated. The head doctor, Daniel Wells, is unavailable for comment at this time.
When will you Rise?
Janice Barton knocked twice on the door to Dr. Wells's office before opening it and stepping inside, expression drawn. "Do you think you can see three more patients today?" she asked, without preamble.
"What?" Dr. Wells looked up from his paperwork, fingers clenching involuntarily on his pen. "I've already seen nine patients so far! I've barely finished filing the insurance information for Mrs. Bridge. How am I supposed to see three more before we close?"
"Because if you'll agree to see three more, I can probably convince the other nineteen to come back tomorrow," Janice replied. For the first time, Dr. Wells realized how harried his normally composed administrative assistant looked. Her nails were chipped. Somehow, that seemed like the biggest danger sign of all. A man-made virus was on the loose, Marburg Amberlee was doing...something...and Janice had allowed her manicure to fray.
"I'll see the three most in need of attention, and then I have to close for the night," he said, putting down his pen as he stood. "If I don't get some sleep, I won't be of any use to anyone."
"Thank you," said Janice, and withdrew.
She was gone by the time he emerged from his office, retreating to wherever it was she went when she was tired of dealing with the madhouse of the waiting room. On the days when it was a madhouse, anyway. This was definitely one of those days. The gathered patients set up a clamor as soon as he appeared, all of them waving for his attention, some of them even shouting. Dr. Wells stopped, looking at the crowd, and wondered if the other doctors involved in the Marburg Amberlee tests were having the same experience.
He was deeply afraid that they were.
The trouble wasn't the patients themselves; they looked as hale and healthy as ever, which explained how they were able to yell quite so loudly for his attention. Their cancers were gone, or under control, constantly besieged by their defensive Marburg Amberlee infections. It was the people they had brought to the office with them that presented the truly alarming problem. Husbands and wives, parents and children, they sat next to their previously ill relatives with glazed eyes, taking shallow, pained-sounding breaths. Some of them were bleeding from the nose or tear ducts—just a trickle, nothing life-threatening, but that little trickle was enough to terrify Dr. Wells, making his bowels feel loose and his stomach crawl.
They were manifesting the early signs of a Marburg Amberlee infection, during the brief phase where the body's immune system attempted to treat the helper virus as an invasion. That was the one stage of infection that could be truly harmful; when Marburg Amberlee was hit, it hit back, and it was more interested in defeating the opposition than it was in preserving the host. These people were infected, all of them.
And that simply wasn't possible. Marburg Amberlee wasn't transmittable through casual contact. Pointing almost at random, he said, "You, you, and you. I can see you before we close. Everyone else, I'm very sorry, but you're going to have to come back tomorrow."
Groans and shouts of protest spread through the room. "My baby's sick!" shouted one woman. A year before, she'd been dying of lung cancer. Now she was glaring at him like he was the devil incarnate. "What are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to see you tomorrow," said Dr. Wells firmly, and waved for the chosen three to step through the door between the reception area and the examination rooms. He retreated with relief, the feeling of dread growing stronger.
He honestly had no idea what he was going to do.
***
Rumors of an outbreak of hemorrhagic fever in and around the Colorado Cancer Research Center have, as yet, been unsubstantiated. The head doctor, Daniel Wells, is unavailable for comment at this time.
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: accomplished
- Current Music:The song of being ALL CAUGHT UP at last!
[NOTE: I am a day behind, due to the convention I attended this past weekend. This should have gone up yesterday; after the next one, I'm all caught up.]
Atlanta, Georgia. June 18th, 2014.
The atmosphere at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia was best described as "tense." Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and had been waiting since reports first came in describing the so-called "Mayday Army's" release of an experimental pathogen into the atmosphere. The tension only intensified when Dr. Alexander Kellis responded to requests for more information on the pathogen by supplying his research, which detailed, at length, the infectious nature of his hybridized creation.
One of the administrative assistants had probably put it best when she looked at the infection maps in horror and said, "If he'd been working with rabies or something, he would have just killed us all."
If he was being completely honest with himself, Dr. Ian Matras wasn't entirely sure that Kellis hadn't just killed them all, entirely without intending to, entirely with the best of intentions. The proteins composing the capsid shell on Alpha-RC007 were ingeniously engineered, something that had been a good thing—increased stability, increased predictability in behavior—right up until the moment when the Mayday Army broke the seals keeping the world and the virus apart. Now those same proteins made Alpha-RC007 extremely virulent, extremely contagious, and, worst of all, extremely difficult to detect in a living host. The lab animals they'd requested from Dr. Kellis's lab in Reston were known to be infected, but showed almost no signs of illness; four out of five blood tests would come up negative for the presence of Alpha-RC007, only to have the fifth show a thriving infection. Alpha-RC007 hid. It could be spurred to reveal itself by introducing another infection...and that was when Alpha-RC007 became truly terrifying.
Alpha-RC007 was engineered to cure the common cold, something it accomplished by setting itself up as a competing, and superior, infection. Once it was in the body, it simply never went away. The specific structure of its capsid shell somehow tricked the human immune system into believing that Alpha-RC007 was another form of helper cell—and in a way, it was. Alpha-RC007 wanted to help. Watching it attack and envelop other viruses which entered the body was a chilling demonstration of perfect biological efficiency. Alpha-RC007 saw; Alpha-RC007 killed. Alpha-RC007 tolerated no other infections in the body.
What was going to happen the first time Alpha-RC007 decided the human immune system counted as an infection? No one knew, and the virus had thus far resisted any and all attempts to remove it from a living host. Unless a treatment could be found before Kellis's creation decided to become hostile, Dr. Matras was very afraid that the entire world was going to learn just how vicious Alpha-RC007 could be.
Dr. Ian Matras sat at his desk, watching the infection models as they spread out across North America and the world, and wondered how long they really had before they found out whether or not the Mayday Army had managed to destroy mankind.
"Cheer up, Ian!" called one of his colleagues, passing by on the way to the break room. "A pandemic that makes you healthy isn't exactly the worst thing we've ever had to deal with."
"And what's it going to do in a year, Chris?" Dr. Matras shot back.
Dr. Chris Sinclair grinned. "Raise the dead, of course," he said. "Don't you ever go to the movies?" Then he walked away, leaving Dr. Matras alone to brood. It wouldn't be long before they all had cause to regret those words.
***
The Centers for Disease Control have issued a statement asking that people remain calm in the wake of the release of an unidentified pathogen from the Virginia-based lab of Dr. Alexander Kellis. "We do not, as yet, have any indication that this disease is harmful to humans," said Dr. Chris Sinclair. A seven-year veteran of the Epidemic Intelligence Service, Dr. Sinclair graduated from Princeton...
When will you Rise?
Atlanta, Georgia. June 18th, 2014.
The atmosphere at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia was best described as "tense." Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and had been waiting since reports first came in describing the so-called "Mayday Army's" release of an experimental pathogen into the atmosphere. The tension only intensified when Dr. Alexander Kellis responded to requests for more information on the pathogen by supplying his research, which detailed, at length, the infectious nature of his hybridized creation.
One of the administrative assistants had probably put it best when she looked at the infection maps in horror and said, "If he'd been working with rabies or something, he would have just killed us all."
If he was being completely honest with himself, Dr. Ian Matras wasn't entirely sure that Kellis hadn't just killed them all, entirely without intending to, entirely with the best of intentions. The proteins composing the capsid shell on Alpha-RC007 were ingeniously engineered, something that had been a good thing—increased stability, increased predictability in behavior—right up until the moment when the Mayday Army broke the seals keeping the world and the virus apart. Now those same proteins made Alpha-RC007 extremely virulent, extremely contagious, and, worst of all, extremely difficult to detect in a living host. The lab animals they'd requested from Dr. Kellis's lab in Reston were known to be infected, but showed almost no signs of illness; four out of five blood tests would come up negative for the presence of Alpha-RC007, only to have the fifth show a thriving infection. Alpha-RC007 hid. It could be spurred to reveal itself by introducing another infection...and that was when Alpha-RC007 became truly terrifying.
Alpha-RC007 was engineered to cure the common cold, something it accomplished by setting itself up as a competing, and superior, infection. Once it was in the body, it simply never went away. The specific structure of its capsid shell somehow tricked the human immune system into believing that Alpha-RC007 was another form of helper cell—and in a way, it was. Alpha-RC007 wanted to help. Watching it attack and envelop other viruses which entered the body was a chilling demonstration of perfect biological efficiency. Alpha-RC007 saw; Alpha-RC007 killed. Alpha-RC007 tolerated no other infections in the body.
What was going to happen the first time Alpha-RC007 decided the human immune system counted as an infection? No one knew, and the virus had thus far resisted any and all attempts to remove it from a living host. Unless a treatment could be found before Kellis's creation decided to become hostile, Dr. Matras was very afraid that the entire world was going to learn just how vicious Alpha-RC007 could be.
Dr. Ian Matras sat at his desk, watching the infection models as they spread out across North America and the world, and wondered how long they really had before they found out whether or not the Mayday Army had managed to destroy mankind.
"Cheer up, Ian!" called one of his colleagues, passing by on the way to the break room. "A pandemic that makes you healthy isn't exactly the worst thing we've ever had to deal with."
"And what's it going to do in a year, Chris?" Dr. Matras shot back.
Dr. Chris Sinclair grinned. "Raise the dead, of course," he said. "Don't you ever go to the movies?" Then he walked away, leaving Dr. Matras alone to brood. It wouldn't be long before they all had cause to regret those words.
***
The Centers for Disease Control have issued a statement asking that people remain calm in the wake of the release of an unidentified pathogen from the Virginia-based lab of Dr. Alexander Kellis. "We do not, as yet, have any indication that this disease is harmful to humans," said Dr. Chris Sinclair. A seven-year veteran of the Epidemic Intelligence Service, Dr. Sinclair graduated from Princeton...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Glee, "Baby."
[NOTE: I am a few days behind, due to the convention I attended this past weekend. So I'll be posting several of these today. We're almost there, I promise.]
Reston, Virginia. June 15th, 2014.
"Alex?"
All the lights in the main lab were off. Most of the staff had long since gone home for the night. That made sense; it had been past eleven when John Kellis pulled into the parking lot, and the only car parked in front of the building was his husband's familiar bottle-green Ford. He hadn't bothered to call before coming over. Maybe some men strayed to bars or strip clubs. Not Alex. When Alex went running to his other lover, he was always running to the lab.
John paused to put on a lab coat before pushing open the door leading into the inner office. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Alex further by providing another source of contamination. "Sweetheart? Are you in here?"
There was still no answer. John's heart started beating a little faster, spurred on by fear. The pressure had been immense since the break-in. Years of research gone; millions of dollars in private funding lost; and perhaps worst of all, Alex's sense of certainty that the world would somehow start playing fair, shattered. John wasn't sure that he could recover from that, and if Alex couldn't recover, then John couldn't, either.
This lab had been their life for so long. Vacations had been planned around ongoing research; even the question of whether or not to have a baby had been put off, again and again, by the demands of Alex's work. They had both believed it was worth it for so long. Was one act of eco-terrorism going to change all that?
John was suddenly very afraid that it was.
"I'm back here, John," said Alex's voice. It was soft, dull...dead. Heart still hammering, John turned his walk into a half-jog, rounding the corner to find himself looking at the glass window onto the former hot room. Alex was standing in front of it, just like he had so many times before, but his shoulders were stooped. He looked defeated.
"Alex, you have to stop doing this to yourself." John's heartbeat slowed as he saw that his husband was alive. He walked the rest of the distance between them, stopping behind Alex and sliding his arms around the other man's shoulders. "Come on. Come home."
"I can't." Alex indicated the window. "Look."
The hot room had been re-sealed after the break-in; maybe they couldn't stop their home-brewed pathogens from getting out, but they could stop anything new from getting in. The rhesus monkeys and guinea pigs were back in their cages. Some were eating, some were sleeping; others were just going about their business, oblivious to the humans watching over them.
"I don't understand." John squinted, frowning at the glass. "What am I supposed to be seeing? They all look perfectly normal."
"I've bathed them in every cold sample I could find, along with half a dozen flus, and an airborne form of syphilis. One of the guinea pigs died, but the necropsy didn't show any sign that it was the cure that killed it. Sometimes guinea pigs just die."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand the problem."
Alexander Kellis pulled away from his husband, expression anguished as he turned to face him. "I can't tell which ones have caught the cure and which haven't. It's undetectable in a living subject. After the break-in, we're probably infected, too. And I don't know what it will do in a human host. We weren't ready." He started to cry, looking very young and very old at the same time. "I may have just killed us all."
"Oh, honey, no." John gathered him close, making soothing noises...but his eyes were on the animals behind the glass. The perfectly healthy, perfectly normal animals.
***
Dr. Alexander Kellis has thus far refused to comment on the potential risks posed by his untested "cure for the common cold," released by a group calling itself "the Mayday Army" almost three days ago...
When will you Rise?
Reston, Virginia. June 15th, 2014.
"Alex?"
All the lights in the main lab were off. Most of the staff had long since gone home for the night. That made sense; it had been past eleven when John Kellis pulled into the parking lot, and the only car parked in front of the building was his husband's familiar bottle-green Ford. He hadn't bothered to call before coming over. Maybe some men strayed to bars or strip clubs. Not Alex. When Alex went running to his other lover, he was always running to the lab.
John paused to put on a lab coat before pushing open the door leading into the inner office. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Alex further by providing another source of contamination. "Sweetheart? Are you in here?"
There was still no answer. John's heart started beating a little faster, spurred on by fear. The pressure had been immense since the break-in. Years of research gone; millions of dollars in private funding lost; and perhaps worst of all, Alex's sense of certainty that the world would somehow start playing fair, shattered. John wasn't sure that he could recover from that, and if Alex couldn't recover, then John couldn't, either.
This lab had been their life for so long. Vacations had been planned around ongoing research; even the question of whether or not to have a baby had been put off, again and again, by the demands of Alex's work. They had both believed it was worth it for so long. Was one act of eco-terrorism going to change all that?
John was suddenly very afraid that it was.
"I'm back here, John," said Alex's voice. It was soft, dull...dead. Heart still hammering, John turned his walk into a half-jog, rounding the corner to find himself looking at the glass window onto the former hot room. Alex was standing in front of it, just like he had so many times before, but his shoulders were stooped. He looked defeated.
"Alex, you have to stop doing this to yourself." John's heartbeat slowed as he saw that his husband was alive. He walked the rest of the distance between them, stopping behind Alex and sliding his arms around the other man's shoulders. "Come on. Come home."
"I can't." Alex indicated the window. "Look."
The hot room had been re-sealed after the break-in; maybe they couldn't stop their home-brewed pathogens from getting out, but they could stop anything new from getting in. The rhesus monkeys and guinea pigs were back in their cages. Some were eating, some were sleeping; others were just going about their business, oblivious to the humans watching over them.
"I don't understand." John squinted, frowning at the glass. "What am I supposed to be seeing? They all look perfectly normal."
"I've bathed them in every cold sample I could find, along with half a dozen flus, and an airborne form of syphilis. One of the guinea pigs died, but the necropsy didn't show any sign that it was the cure that killed it. Sometimes guinea pigs just die."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand the problem."
Alexander Kellis pulled away from his husband, expression anguished as he turned to face him. "I can't tell which ones have caught the cure and which haven't. It's undetectable in a living subject. After the break-in, we're probably infected, too. And I don't know what it will do in a human host. We weren't ready." He started to cry, looking very young and very old at the same time. "I may have just killed us all."
"Oh, honey, no." John gathered him close, making soothing noises...but his eyes were on the animals behind the glass. The perfectly healthy, perfectly normal animals.
***
Dr. Alexander Kellis has thus far refused to comment on the potential risks posed by his untested "cure for the common cold," released by a group calling itself "the Mayday Army" almost three days ago...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: accomplished
- Current Music:Emiliana Torrini, "Dead Things."
[NOTE: I am a few days behind, due to the convention I attended this past weekend. So I'll be posting several of these today. Please don't tell me how it's not spam.]
Denver, Colorado. June 13th, 2014.
Suzanne Amberlee had been waiting to box up her daughter's room almost since the day Amanda was diagnosed with leukemia. It was a coping mechanism for her. Maybe some would call it morbid, the way she spent hours thinking about boxes and storage and what to do with the things too precious to be given to Goodwill, but as the parent of a sick child, she'd been willing to take any comfort that her frightened mind could give her. These were the things she would keep; these were the things she would send to family members; these were the things she would give to Amanda's friends. Simple lines, long-since drawn in the ledgers of her heart.
The reality of standing in her little girl's bedroom and imagining it empty, stripped of all the things that made it Amanda's, was almost more than she could bear. After weeks of struggling with herself, she had finally been able to close her hand on the doorknob and open the bedroom door. She still wasn't able to force herself across the threshold.
There were all Amanda's things. Her stuffed toys that she had steadfastly refused to admit to outgrowing, saying they had been her only friends when she was sick, and she wouldn't abandon them now. Her bookshelves, cluttered with knick-knacks and soccer trophies as much as books. Her framed poster showing the structure of Marburg EX19, given to her by Dr. Wells after the first clinical trials began showing positive results. When she closed her eyes, Suzanne could picture that day. Amanda, looking so weak and pale, and Dr. Wells, their savior, smiling like the sun.
"This little fellow is your best friend now, Amanda," that was what he'd said, on that beautiful afternoon where having a future suddenly seemed possible again. "Take good care of it, and it will take good care of you."
Rage swept over Suzanne as she opened her eyes and glared across the room at the photographic disease. Where was it when her little girl was dying? Marburg EX19 was supposed to save her baby's life, and in the end, it had let her down; it had let Amanda die. What was the good of all this—the pain, the endless hours spent in hospital beds, the promises they never got to keep—if the damn disease couldn't save Amanda's life?
"I hate you," she whispered, and turned away. She couldn't deal with the bedroom; not today, maybe not ever. Maybe she would just sell the house, leave Amanda's things where they were, and let them be dealt with by the new owners. They could filter through the spindrift of Amanda's life without seeing her face, without hearing her voice talking about college plans and careers. They could put things in boxes without breaking their hearts.
If there was anything more terrible for a parent than burying a child, Suzanne Amberlee couldn't imagine what it would be. Her internal battle over for another day—over, and lost—she turned away, heading down the stairs. Maybe tomorrow she could empty out that room. Maybe tomorrow, she could start boxing things away. Maybe tomorrow, she could start the process of letting Amanda go.
Maybe tomorrow. But probably not.
Suzanne Amberlee walked away, unaware of the small viral colony living in her own body, nested deep in the tissue of her lungs. Content in its accidental home, Marburg EX19 slept, waiting for the trigger that would startle it into wakefulness. It was patient; it had all the time in the world.
***
Amanda Amberlee is survived by her mother, Suzanne Amberlee. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be sent to the Colorado Cancer Research Center...
When will you Rise?
Denver, Colorado. June 13th, 2014.
Suzanne Amberlee had been waiting to box up her daughter's room almost since the day Amanda was diagnosed with leukemia. It was a coping mechanism for her. Maybe some would call it morbid, the way she spent hours thinking about boxes and storage and what to do with the things too precious to be given to Goodwill, but as the parent of a sick child, she'd been willing to take any comfort that her frightened mind could give her. These were the things she would keep; these were the things she would send to family members; these were the things she would give to Amanda's friends. Simple lines, long-since drawn in the ledgers of her heart.
The reality of standing in her little girl's bedroom and imagining it empty, stripped of all the things that made it Amanda's, was almost more than she could bear. After weeks of struggling with herself, she had finally been able to close her hand on the doorknob and open the bedroom door. She still wasn't able to force herself across the threshold.
There were all Amanda's things. Her stuffed toys that she had steadfastly refused to admit to outgrowing, saying they had been her only friends when she was sick, and she wouldn't abandon them now. Her bookshelves, cluttered with knick-knacks and soccer trophies as much as books. Her framed poster showing the structure of Marburg EX19, given to her by Dr. Wells after the first clinical trials began showing positive results. When she closed her eyes, Suzanne could picture that day. Amanda, looking so weak and pale, and Dr. Wells, their savior, smiling like the sun.
"This little fellow is your best friend now, Amanda," that was what he'd said, on that beautiful afternoon where having a future suddenly seemed possible again. "Take good care of it, and it will take good care of you."
Rage swept over Suzanne as she opened her eyes and glared across the room at the photographic disease. Where was it when her little girl was dying? Marburg EX19 was supposed to save her baby's life, and in the end, it had let her down; it had let Amanda die. What was the good of all this—the pain, the endless hours spent in hospital beds, the promises they never got to keep—if the damn disease couldn't save Amanda's life?
"I hate you," she whispered, and turned away. She couldn't deal with the bedroom; not today, maybe not ever. Maybe she would just sell the house, leave Amanda's things where they were, and let them be dealt with by the new owners. They could filter through the spindrift of Amanda's life without seeing her face, without hearing her voice talking about college plans and careers. They could put things in boxes without breaking their hearts.
If there was anything more terrible for a parent than burying a child, Suzanne Amberlee couldn't imagine what it would be. Her internal battle over for another day—over, and lost—she turned away, heading down the stairs. Maybe tomorrow she could empty out that room. Maybe tomorrow, she could start boxing things away. Maybe tomorrow, she could start the process of letting Amanda go.
Maybe tomorrow. But probably not.
Suzanne Amberlee walked away, unaware of the small viral colony living in her own body, nested deep in the tissue of her lungs. Content in its accidental home, Marburg EX19 slept, waiting for the trigger that would startle it into wakefulness. It was patient; it had all the time in the world.
***
Amanda Amberlee is survived by her mother, Suzanne Amberlee. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be sent to the Colorado Cancer Research Center...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Ludo, "Anything For You."
[NOTE: I am a few days behind, due to the convention I attended this past weekend. So I'll be posting several of these today. Sorry about the spam.]
The lower stratosphere. June 12th, 2014.
Freed from its secure lab environment, Alpha-RC007 floated serene and unaware on the air currents of the stratosphere. It did not enjoy freedom; it did not abhor freedom; it did not feel anything, not even the cool breezes holding it aloft. In the absence of a living host, the hybrid virus was inert, waiting for something to come along and shock it into a semblance of life.
On the ground, far away, Dr. Alexander Kellis was weeping without shame over the destruction of his lab, and making dire predictions about what could happen now that his creation was loose in the world. Like Dr. Frankenstein before him, he had created with only the best of intentions, and now found himself facing an uncertain future. His lover tried to soothe him, and was rebuffed by a grief too vast and raw to be put into words.
Alpha-RC007—colloquially known as "the Kellis cure"—did not grieve, or love, or worry about the future. Alpha-RC007 only drifted.
The capsid structure of Alpha-RC007 was superficially identical to the structure of the common rhinovirus, being composed of viral proteins locking together to form an icosahedron. The binding proteins, however, were more closely related to the coronavirus ancestors of the hybrid, creating a series of keys against which no natural immune system could lock itself. The five viral proteins forming the capsid structure were equally mismatched: two from one family, two from the other, and the fifth...
The fifth was purely a credit to the man who constructed it, and had nothing of Nature's handiwork in its construction. It was a tiny protein, smaller even than the diminutive VP4 which made the rhinovirus so infectious, and formed a ring of Velcro-like hooks around the outside of the icosahedron. That little hook was the key to Alpha-RC007's universal infection rate. By latching on and refusing to be dislodged, the virus could take as much time as it needed to find a way to properly colonize its host. Once inside, the other specially tailored traits would have their opportunity to shine. All the man-made protein had to do was buy the time to make it past the walls.
The wind currents eddied around the tiny viral particles, allowing them to drop somewhat lower in the stratosphere. Here, a flock of geese was taking advantage of the air currents at the very edge of the atmospheric layer, their honks sounding through the thin air like car alarms. One, banking to adjust her course, raised a wing just a few inches higher, tilting herself hard to the right and letting her feathers brush through the upper currents.
As her feathers swept through the air, they collected dust and pollen...and a few particles of Alpha-RC007. The hooks on the outside of the virus promptly latched onto the goose's wing, not aware, only reacting to the change in their environment. This was not a suitable host, and so the bulk of the virus remained inert, waiting, letting itself be carried along by its unwitting escort back down to the planet's surface.
Honking loudly, the geese flew on. In the air currents above them, the rest of the viral particles freed from Dr. Alexander Kellis's lab drifted, waiting for their own escorts to come along, scoop them up, and allow them to freely roam the waiting Earth. There is nothing so patient, in this world or any other, as a virus searching for a host.
***
We're looking at clear skies here in the Midwest, with temperatures spiking to a new high for this summer—so grab your sunscreen and plan to spend another lazy weekend staying out of the sun! Pollen counts are projected to be low...
When will you Rise?
The lower stratosphere. June 12th, 2014.
Freed from its secure lab environment, Alpha-RC007 floated serene and unaware on the air currents of the stratosphere. It did not enjoy freedom; it did not abhor freedom; it did not feel anything, not even the cool breezes holding it aloft. In the absence of a living host, the hybrid virus was inert, waiting for something to come along and shock it into a semblance of life.
On the ground, far away, Dr. Alexander Kellis was weeping without shame over the destruction of his lab, and making dire predictions about what could happen now that his creation was loose in the world. Like Dr. Frankenstein before him, he had created with only the best of intentions, and now found himself facing an uncertain future. His lover tried to soothe him, and was rebuffed by a grief too vast and raw to be put into words.
Alpha-RC007—colloquially known as "the Kellis cure"—did not grieve, or love, or worry about the future. Alpha-RC007 only drifted.
The capsid structure of Alpha-RC007 was superficially identical to the structure of the common rhinovirus, being composed of viral proteins locking together to form an icosahedron. The binding proteins, however, were more closely related to the coronavirus ancestors of the hybrid, creating a series of keys against which no natural immune system could lock itself. The five viral proteins forming the capsid structure were equally mismatched: two from one family, two from the other, and the fifth...
The fifth was purely a credit to the man who constructed it, and had nothing of Nature's handiwork in its construction. It was a tiny protein, smaller even than the diminutive VP4 which made the rhinovirus so infectious, and formed a ring of Velcro-like hooks around the outside of the icosahedron. That little hook was the key to Alpha-RC007's universal infection rate. By latching on and refusing to be dislodged, the virus could take as much time as it needed to find a way to properly colonize its host. Once inside, the other specially tailored traits would have their opportunity to shine. All the man-made protein had to do was buy the time to make it past the walls.
The wind currents eddied around the tiny viral particles, allowing them to drop somewhat lower in the stratosphere. Here, a flock of geese was taking advantage of the air currents at the very edge of the atmospheric layer, their honks sounding through the thin air like car alarms. One, banking to adjust her course, raised a wing just a few inches higher, tilting herself hard to the right and letting her feathers brush through the upper currents.
As her feathers swept through the air, they collected dust and pollen...and a few particles of Alpha-RC007. The hooks on the outside of the virus promptly latched onto the goose's wing, not aware, only reacting to the change in their environment. This was not a suitable host, and so the bulk of the virus remained inert, waiting, letting itself be carried along by its unwitting escort back down to the planet's surface.
Honking loudly, the geese flew on. In the air currents above them, the rest of the viral particles freed from Dr. Alexander Kellis's lab drifted, waiting for their own escorts to come along, scoop them up, and allow them to freely roam the waiting Earth. There is nothing so patient, in this world or any other, as a virus searching for a host.
***
We're looking at clear skies here in the Midwest, with temperatures spiking to a new high for this summer—so grab your sunscreen and plan to spend another lazy weekend staying out of the sun! Pollen counts are projected to be low...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:Ludo, "Skeletons on Parade."
Berkeley, California. June 11th, 2014.
"Phillip! Time to come in for lunch!" Stacy Mason stood framed by the back door of their little Berkeley professor's home (soon to be fully paid-off, and wouldn't that be a day for the record books?), wiping her hands with a dishrag and scanning the yard for her wayward son. Phillip didn't mean to be naughty, not exactly, but he had the attention span of a toddler, which was to say, not much of an attention span at all. "Phillip!"
Giggling from the fence alerted her to his location. With a sigh that was half-love, half-exasperation, Stacy turned to toss the dishrag onto the counter before heading out into the yard. "Where are you, Mister Man?" she called.
More giggling. She pushed through the tall tomato plants—noting idly that they needed to be watered before the weekend if they wanted to have any fruit before the end of the month—and found her son squatting in the middle of the baby lettuce, laughing as one of the Golden Retrievers from next door calmly washed his face with her tongue. Stacy stopped, biting back her own laughter at the scene.
"A conspiracy of misbehavior is what we're facing here," she said.
Phillip turned to face her, all grins, and said, "Ma!"
"Yes."
"Oggie!"
"Again, yes. Hello, Marigold. Shouldn't you be in your own yard?"
The Golden Retriever thumped her tail sheepishly against the dirt, as if to say that yes, she was a very naughty dog, but in her defense, there had been a small boy with a face in need of washing.
Stacy sighed, shaking her head in good-natured exasperation. She'd talked to the Connors family next door about their dogs dozens of times, and they tried, but Marigold and Maize simply refused to be confined by any fence or gate that either family had been able to put together. It would have been more of a problem if they hadn't been such sweet, sweet dogs. Since both Marigold and her brother adored Phillip, it was more like having convenient canine babysitters right next door. She just wished they wouldn't make their unscheduled visits so reliably at lunchtime.
"All right, you. Phillip, it's time for lunch. Time to say good-bye to Marigold."
Phillip nodded before turning and throwing his arms around Marigold's neck, burying his face in her fur. His voice, muffled but audible, said, "Bye-time, oggie." Marigold wuffed once, for all the world like she was accepting his farewell. Duty thus done, Phillip let her go, stood, and ran to his mother, who caught him in a sweeping hug that left streaks of mud on the front of her cotton shirt. "Ma!"
"I just can't get one past you today, can I?" she asked, and kissed his cheek noisily, making him giggle. "You go home, now, Marigold. Your people are going to worry. Go home!"
Tail wagging amiably, the Golden Retriever stood and went trotting off down the side yard. She probably had another loose board there somewhere; something to have Michael fix when he got home from school and could be sweet-talked into doing his share of the garden chores. In the meanwhile, the dogs weren't hurting anything, and Phillip did love them.
"Come on, Mister Man. Let's go fill you up with peanut butter and jelly, shall we?" She kissed him again, and his giggles provided sweet accompaniment to their walk back to the house. Maybe it was time to talk about getting him a dog of his own.
Maybe when he was older.
***
Professor Michael Mason joins our Biology Department from the University of Redmond, where he taught for three years. His lovely wife, Stacy, is a horticulture fan, and his son, Phillip, is a fan of cartoons and chasing pigeons...
When will you Rise?
"Phillip! Time to come in for lunch!" Stacy Mason stood framed by the back door of their little Berkeley professor's home (soon to be fully paid-off, and wouldn't that be a day for the record books?), wiping her hands with a dishrag and scanning the yard for her wayward son. Phillip didn't mean to be naughty, not exactly, but he had the attention span of a toddler, which was to say, not much of an attention span at all. "Phillip!"
Giggling from the fence alerted her to his location. With a sigh that was half-love, half-exasperation, Stacy turned to toss the dishrag onto the counter before heading out into the yard. "Where are you, Mister Man?" she called.
More giggling. She pushed through the tall tomato plants—noting idly that they needed to be watered before the weekend if they wanted to have any fruit before the end of the month—and found her son squatting in the middle of the baby lettuce, laughing as one of the Golden Retrievers from next door calmly washed his face with her tongue. Stacy stopped, biting back her own laughter at the scene.
"A conspiracy of misbehavior is what we're facing here," she said.
Phillip turned to face her, all grins, and said, "Ma!"
"Yes."
"Oggie!"
"Again, yes. Hello, Marigold. Shouldn't you be in your own yard?"
The Golden Retriever thumped her tail sheepishly against the dirt, as if to say that yes, she was a very naughty dog, but in her defense, there had been a small boy with a face in need of washing.
Stacy sighed, shaking her head in good-natured exasperation. She'd talked to the Connors family next door about their dogs dozens of times, and they tried, but Marigold and Maize simply refused to be confined by any fence or gate that either family had been able to put together. It would have been more of a problem if they hadn't been such sweet, sweet dogs. Since both Marigold and her brother adored Phillip, it was more like having convenient canine babysitters right next door. She just wished they wouldn't make their unscheduled visits so reliably at lunchtime.
"All right, you. Phillip, it's time for lunch. Time to say good-bye to Marigold."
Phillip nodded before turning and throwing his arms around Marigold's neck, burying his face in her fur. His voice, muffled but audible, said, "Bye-time, oggie." Marigold wuffed once, for all the world like she was accepting his farewell. Duty thus done, Phillip let her go, stood, and ran to his mother, who caught him in a sweeping hug that left streaks of mud on the front of her cotton shirt. "Ma!"
"I just can't get one past you today, can I?" she asked, and kissed his cheek noisily, making him giggle. "You go home, now, Marigold. Your people are going to worry. Go home!"
Tail wagging amiably, the Golden Retriever stood and went trotting off down the side yard. She probably had another loose board there somewhere; something to have Michael fix when he got home from school and could be sweet-talked into doing his share of the garden chores. In the meanwhile, the dogs weren't hurting anything, and Phillip did love them.
"Come on, Mister Man. Let's go fill you up with peanut butter and jelly, shall we?" She kissed him again, and his giggles provided sweet accompaniment to their walk back to the house. Maybe it was time to talk about getting him a dog of his own.
Maybe when he was older.
***
Professor Michael Mason joins our Biology Department from the University of Redmond, where he taught for three years. His lovely wife, Stacy, is a horticulture fan, and his son, Phillip, is a fan of cartoons and chasing pigeons...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:Vienna Tang, "Shine."
Allentown, Pennsylvania. June 11th, 2014.
Hazel Allen was well and truly baked. Not just a little buzzed, oh, no; she was baked like a cake. The fact that this rhymed delighted her, and she started to giggle, listing slowly over to one side until her head landed against her boyfriend's shoulder with a soft "bonk."
Brandon Majors, self-proclaimed savior of mankind, ignored his pharmaceutically-impaired girlfriend. He was too busy explaining to a rapt (and only slightly less stoned) audience exactly how it was that they, the Mayday Army, were going to bring down The Man, humble him before the masses, and rise up as the guiding light of a new generation of enlightened, compassionate, totally bitchin' human beings.
Had anyone bothered to ask Brandon what he thought of the idea that one day, the meek would inherit the Earth, he would have been totally unable to see the irony.
"Greed is the real disease killing this country," he said, slamming his fist against his own leg to punctuate his statement. Nods and muttered statements of agreement rose up from the others in the room (although not from Hazel, who was busy trying to braid her fingers together). "Man, we've got so much science and so many natural resources, you think anybody should be hungry? You think anybody should be homeless? You think anybody should be eating animals? We should be eating genetically engineered magic fruit that tastes like anything you want, because we're supposed to be the dominant species."
"Like Willy Wonka and the snotberries?" asked one of the men, sounding perplexed. He was a bio-chem graduate student; he'd come to the meeting because he'd heard there would be good weed. No one had mentioned anything about a political tirade from a man who thought metaphors were like cocktails: better when mixed thoroughly.
"Snozberries," said Hazel, dreamily.
Brandon barely noticed. "And now they're saying that there's a cure for the common cold. Only you know who's going to get it? Not me. Not you. Not our parents. Not the kids. Only the people who can afford it. Paris Hilton's never going to have the sniffles again, but you and me and everybody we care about, we're just screwed. Just like everybody who hasn't been working for The Man since this current corrupt society came to power. It's time to change that! It's time to take the future out of the hands of The Man and put it back where it belongs—in the hands of the people!"
General cheering greeted this proclamation. Hazel, remembering her cue even through the haze of pot smoke and drowsiness, sat up and asked, "But how are we going to do that?"
"We're going to break in to that government-funded money-machine of a lab, and we're going to give the people of the world what's rightly theirs." Brandon smiled serenely, pushing Hazel gently away from him as he stood. "We're going to drive to Virginia, and we're going to snatch that cure right out from under the establishment's nose. And then we're going to give it to the world, the way it should have been handled in the first place! Who's with me?"
Any misgivings that might have been present in the room were overcome by the lingering marijuana smoke, and the feeling of revolution. They were going to change the world! They were going to save mankind!
They were going to Virginia.
***
A statement was issued today by a group calling themselves "The Mayday Army," taking credit for the break-in at the lab of Dr. Alexander Kellis. Dr. Kellis, a virologist working with genetically-tailored diseases, recently revealed that he was working on a cure for the common cold...
When will you Rise?
Hazel Allen was well and truly baked. Not just a little buzzed, oh, no; she was baked like a cake. The fact that this rhymed delighted her, and she started to giggle, listing slowly over to one side until her head landed against her boyfriend's shoulder with a soft "bonk."
Brandon Majors, self-proclaimed savior of mankind, ignored his pharmaceutically-impaired girlfriend. He was too busy explaining to a rapt (and only slightly less stoned) audience exactly how it was that they, the Mayday Army, were going to bring down The Man, humble him before the masses, and rise up as the guiding light of a new generation of enlightened, compassionate, totally bitchin' human beings.
Had anyone bothered to ask Brandon what he thought of the idea that one day, the meek would inherit the Earth, he would have been totally unable to see the irony.
"Greed is the real disease killing this country," he said, slamming his fist against his own leg to punctuate his statement. Nods and muttered statements of agreement rose up from the others in the room (although not from Hazel, who was busy trying to braid her fingers together). "Man, we've got so much science and so many natural resources, you think anybody should be hungry? You think anybody should be homeless? You think anybody should be eating animals? We should be eating genetically engineered magic fruit that tastes like anything you want, because we're supposed to be the dominant species."
"Like Willy Wonka and the snotberries?" asked one of the men, sounding perplexed. He was a bio-chem graduate student; he'd come to the meeting because he'd heard there would be good weed. No one had mentioned anything about a political tirade from a man who thought metaphors were like cocktails: better when mixed thoroughly.
"Snozberries," said Hazel, dreamily.
Brandon barely noticed. "And now they're saying that there's a cure for the common cold. Only you know who's going to get it? Not me. Not you. Not our parents. Not the kids. Only the people who can afford it. Paris Hilton's never going to have the sniffles again, but you and me and everybody we care about, we're just screwed. Just like everybody who hasn't been working for The Man since this current corrupt society came to power. It's time to change that! It's time to take the future out of the hands of The Man and put it back where it belongs—in the hands of the people!"
General cheering greeted this proclamation. Hazel, remembering her cue even through the haze of pot smoke and drowsiness, sat up and asked, "But how are we going to do that?"
"We're going to break in to that government-funded money-machine of a lab, and we're going to give the people of the world what's rightly theirs." Brandon smiled serenely, pushing Hazel gently away from him as he stood. "We're going to drive to Virginia, and we're going to snatch that cure right out from under the establishment's nose. And then we're going to give it to the world, the way it should have been handled in the first place! Who's with me?"
Any misgivings that might have been present in the room were overcome by the lingering marijuana smoke, and the feeling of revolution. They were going to change the world! They were going to save mankind!
They were going to Virginia.
***
A statement was issued today by a group calling themselves "The Mayday Army," taking credit for the break-in at the lab of Dr. Alexander Kellis. Dr. Kellis, a virologist working with genetically-tailored diseases, recently revealed that he was working on a cure for the common cold...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:People typing; fans.
Manhattan, New York. June 9th, 2014.
The video clip of Dr. Kellis's press conference was grainy, largely due to it having been recorded on a cellular phone—and not, Robert Stalnaker noted with a scowl, one of the better models. Not that it mattered on anything more than a cosmetic level; Dr. Kellis's pompous, self-aggrandizing speech had been captured in its entirety. "Intellectual mumbo-jumbo" was how Robert had described the speech after the first time he heard it, and how he'd characterized it yet again in communication with his editor.
"This guy thinks he can eat textbooks and shit miracles," that was the pitch. "He doesn't want people to understand what he's really talking about, because he knows America would be pissed off if he spoke English long enough to tell us how we're all about to get screwed." And just as he'd expected, his editor jumped at it.
The instructions were simple: no libel, no direct insults, nothing that was already known to be provably untrue. Insinuation, interpretation, and questioning the science were all perfectly fine, and might turn a relatively uninteresting story into something that would actually sell a few papers. In today's world, whatever sold a few papers was worth pursuing. Bloggers and internet news were cutting far, far too deeply into the paper's already weak profit margin.
"Time to do my part to fix that," muttered Stalnaker, and started the video again.
He struck gold on the fifth viewing. Pausing the clip, he wound it back six seconds and hit "play." Dr. Kellis's voice resumed, saying, "—distribution channels will need to be sorted out before we can go beyond basic lab testing, but so far, all results have been—"
Rewind. Again. "—distribution channels—"
Rewind. Again. "—distribution—"
Robert Stalnaker began to smile.
Half an hour later, his research had confirmed that no standard insurance program in the country would cover a non-vaccination preventative measure (and Dr. Kellis had been very firm about stating that his "cure" was not a vaccination). Even most of the upper-level insurance policies would balk at adding a new treatment for something considered to be of little concern to the average citizen—not to mention the money that the big pharmaceutical companies stood to lose if a true cure for the common cold were actually distributed at a reasonable cost to the common man. Insurance companies and drug companies went hand-in-hand so far as he was concerned, and neither was going to do anything to undermine the other.
This was all a scam. A big, disgusting, money-grubbing scam. Even if the science was good, even if the "cure" did exactly what its arrogant geek-boy creator said it did, who would get it? The rich and the powerful, the ones who didn't need to worry about losing their jobs if the kids brought home the sniffles from school. The ones who could afford the immune boosters and ground-up rhino dick or whatever else was the hot new thing right now, so that they'd never get sick in the first place. Sure, Dr. Kellis never said that, but Stalnaker was a journalist. He knew how to read between the lines.
Robert Stalnaker put his hands to the keys, and prepared to make the news.
***
Robert Stalnaker's stirring editorial on the stranglehold of the rich on public health met with criticism from the medical establishment, who called it "irresponsible" and "sensationalist." Mr. Stalnaker has yet to reply to their comments, but has been heard to say, in response to a similar but unrelated issue, that the story can speak for itself...
When will you Rise?
The video clip of Dr. Kellis's press conference was grainy, largely due to it having been recorded on a cellular phone—and not, Robert Stalnaker noted with a scowl, one of the better models. Not that it mattered on anything more than a cosmetic level; Dr. Kellis's pompous, self-aggrandizing speech had been captured in its entirety. "Intellectual mumbo-jumbo" was how Robert had described the speech after the first time he heard it, and how he'd characterized it yet again in communication with his editor.
"This guy thinks he can eat textbooks and shit miracles," that was the pitch. "He doesn't want people to understand what he's really talking about, because he knows America would be pissed off if he spoke English long enough to tell us how we're all about to get screwed." And just as he'd expected, his editor jumped at it.
The instructions were simple: no libel, no direct insults, nothing that was already known to be provably untrue. Insinuation, interpretation, and questioning the science were all perfectly fine, and might turn a relatively uninteresting story into something that would actually sell a few papers. In today's world, whatever sold a few papers was worth pursuing. Bloggers and internet news were cutting far, far too deeply into the paper's already weak profit margin.
"Time to do my part to fix that," muttered Stalnaker, and started the video again.
He struck gold on the fifth viewing. Pausing the clip, he wound it back six seconds and hit "play." Dr. Kellis's voice resumed, saying, "—distribution channels will need to be sorted out before we can go beyond basic lab testing, but so far, all results have been—"
Rewind. Again. "—distribution channels—"
Rewind. Again. "—distribution—"
Robert Stalnaker began to smile.
Half an hour later, his research had confirmed that no standard insurance program in the country would cover a non-vaccination preventative measure (and Dr. Kellis had been very firm about stating that his "cure" was not a vaccination). Even most of the upper-level insurance policies would balk at adding a new treatment for something considered to be of little concern to the average citizen—not to mention the money that the big pharmaceutical companies stood to lose if a true cure for the common cold were actually distributed at a reasonable cost to the common man. Insurance companies and drug companies went hand-in-hand so far as he was concerned, and neither was going to do anything to undermine the other.
This was all a scam. A big, disgusting, money-grubbing scam. Even if the science was good, even if the "cure" did exactly what its arrogant geek-boy creator said it did, who would get it? The rich and the powerful, the ones who didn't need to worry about losing their jobs if the kids brought home the sniffles from school. The ones who could afford the immune boosters and ground-up rhino dick or whatever else was the hot new thing right now, so that they'd never get sick in the first place. Sure, Dr. Kellis never said that, but Stalnaker was a journalist. He knew how to read between the lines.
Robert Stalnaker put his hands to the keys, and prepared to make the news.
***
Robert Stalnaker's stirring editorial on the stranglehold of the rich on public health met with criticism from the medical establishment, who called it "irresponsible" and "sensationalist." Mr. Stalnaker has yet to reply to their comments, but has been heard to say, in response to a similar but unrelated issue, that the story can speak for itself...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Brooke Lunderville, "My Time Again."
Reston, Virginia. May 15th, 2014.
The misters above the feeding cages went off again promptly at three, filling the air inside the hot room with an aerosolized mixture of water and six different strains of rhinovirus. The rhesus monkeys and guinea pigs who had entered the cages five minutes earlier, when the food was poured, ignored the thin mist drifting over them. Their attention was focused entirely on the food. Dr. Alexander Kellis watched them eat, making notes on his iPad with quick swipes of his index finger. He didn't look down.
"How's it looking?"
"This is their seventh exposure. So far, none of them have shown any symptoms. Appetites are good, eyes are clear; no runny noses, no coughing. There was some sneezing, but it appears that Subject 11c has allergies."
The man standing next to America's premiere expert in genetically engineered rhino- and coronaviruses raised an eyebrow. "Allergies?"
"Yes." Dr. Kellis indicated one of the rhesus monkeys. She was sitting on her haunches, shoving grapes into her mouth with single-minded dedication to the task of eating as many of them as possible before one of the other monkeys took them away. "She's allergic to guinea pigs, poor thing."
His companion laughed. "Yes, poor thing," he agreed, before leaning in and kissing Dr. Kellis on the cheek. "As you may recall, you gave me permission yesterday to demand that you leave the lab for lunch. I have a note. Signed and everything."
"John, I really—"
"You also gave me permission to make you sleep on the couch for the rest of the month if you turned me down for anything short of one of the animals getting sick, and you know what that does to your back." John Kellis stepped back, folding his arms and looking levelly at his husband. "Now which is it going to be? Marital bliss and a lovely lunch, or nights and nights with that broken spring digging into your side, wishing you'd been willing to listen to me?"
Alexander sighed. "You don't play fair."
"You haven't left this lab during the day for almost a month," John countered. "How is wanting you to be healthy not playing fair? As funny as it would be if you got sick while you were trying to save mankind from the tyranny of the flu, it would make you crazy, and you know it."
"You're right."
"You're damn right I am. Now put down that computer and get your coat. The world can stay unsaved for a few more hours, while we get something nutritious that didn't come out of a vending machine into you."
This time, Alexander smiled. John smiled back. It was reflex, and relief, and love, all tangled up together. It was impossible for him to look at that smile and not remember why he'd fallen in love in the first place, and why he'd been willing to spend the last ten years of his life with this wonderful, magical, infuriating man.
"We're going to be famous for what we're doing here, you know," Alexander said. "People are going to remember the name 'Kellis' forever."
"Won't that be a nice thing to remember you by after you've died of starvation?" John took his arm firmly. "Come along, genius. I'd like to have you to myself for a little while before you go down in history as the savior of mankind."
Behind them, in the hot room, the misters went off again, and the monkeys shrieked.
***
Dr. Alexander Kellis held a private press conference yesterday to announce the latest developments in his oft-maligned "fight against the common cold." Dr. Kellis holds multiple degrees in virology and molecular biology...
When will you Rise?
The misters above the feeding cages went off again promptly at three, filling the air inside the hot room with an aerosolized mixture of water and six different strains of rhinovirus. The rhesus monkeys and guinea pigs who had entered the cages five minutes earlier, when the food was poured, ignored the thin mist drifting over them. Their attention was focused entirely on the food. Dr. Alexander Kellis watched them eat, making notes on his iPad with quick swipes of his index finger. He didn't look down.
"How's it looking?"
"This is their seventh exposure. So far, none of them have shown any symptoms. Appetites are good, eyes are clear; no runny noses, no coughing. There was some sneezing, but it appears that Subject 11c has allergies."
The man standing next to America's premiere expert in genetically engineered rhino- and coronaviruses raised an eyebrow. "Allergies?"
"Yes." Dr. Kellis indicated one of the rhesus monkeys. She was sitting on her haunches, shoving grapes into her mouth with single-minded dedication to the task of eating as many of them as possible before one of the other monkeys took them away. "She's allergic to guinea pigs, poor thing."
His companion laughed. "Yes, poor thing," he agreed, before leaning in and kissing Dr. Kellis on the cheek. "As you may recall, you gave me permission yesterday to demand that you leave the lab for lunch. I have a note. Signed and everything."
"John, I really—"
"You also gave me permission to make you sleep on the couch for the rest of the month if you turned me down for anything short of one of the animals getting sick, and you know what that does to your back." John Kellis stepped back, folding his arms and looking levelly at his husband. "Now which is it going to be? Marital bliss and a lovely lunch, or nights and nights with that broken spring digging into your side, wishing you'd been willing to listen to me?"
Alexander sighed. "You don't play fair."
"You haven't left this lab during the day for almost a month," John countered. "How is wanting you to be healthy not playing fair? As funny as it would be if you got sick while you were trying to save mankind from the tyranny of the flu, it would make you crazy, and you know it."
"You're right."
"You're damn right I am. Now put down that computer and get your coat. The world can stay unsaved for a few more hours, while we get something nutritious that didn't come out of a vending machine into you."
This time, Alexander smiled. John smiled back. It was reflex, and relief, and love, all tangled up together. It was impossible for him to look at that smile and not remember why he'd fallen in love in the first place, and why he'd been willing to spend the last ten years of his life with this wonderful, magical, infuriating man.
"We're going to be famous for what we're doing here, you know," Alexander said. "People are going to remember the name 'Kellis' forever."
"Won't that be a nice thing to remember you by after you've died of starvation?" John took his arm firmly. "Come along, genius. I'd like to have you to myself for a little while before you go down in history as the savior of mankind."
Behind them, in the hot room, the misters went off again, and the monkeys shrieked.
***
Dr. Alexander Kellis held a private press conference yesterday to announce the latest developments in his oft-maligned "fight against the common cold." Dr. Kellis holds multiple degrees in virology and molecular biology...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Ludo, "All the Stars In Texas."
Denver, Colorado. May 15th, 2014.
"How are you feeling, Amanda?" Dr. Wells checked the readout on the blood pressure monitor, attention only half on his bored-looking teenage patient. "Any pain, weakness, unexplained bleeding, blurriness of vision...?"
"Nope." Amanda Amberlee let her head loll back, staring up at the colorful mural of clouds and balloons that covered most of the ceiling. They'd painted that for her, she remembered, when she was thirteen; they'd wanted her to feel at ease as they pumped her veins full of a deadly disease designed to kill the disease that was already inside her. "Are we almost done? I have a fitting to get to?"
"Ah." Dr. Wells smiled. "Prom?"
"Prom."
"I'll see what I can do." From most patients, Dr. Wells took impatience and surliness as insults. Amanda was a special case. When they'd first met, her leiukemia had been so advanced that she had no energy for complaints or talking back; she'd submitted to every test and examination willingly, although she had a tendency to fall asleep in the middle of them. From her, every snippy comment and teenage eye-roll was a miracle, one that could be attributed entirely to science.
Marburg EX19—what the published studies were starting to refer to as "Marburg Amberlee," after the index case, rather than "Marburg Denver," which implied an outbreak and would be bad for tourism—was that miracle. The first effective cancer cure in the world, tailored from one of the most destructive viruses known to man. At thirteen, Amanda Amberlee had been given six months to live, at best. Now, at eighteen, she was going to live to see her grandchildren...and none of them would ever need to be afraid of cancer. Like smallpox before it, cancer was on the verge of extinction.
Amanda lifted her head to watch as he drew blood from the crook of her elbow. "How's my virus?" she asked.
"I haven't tested this sample yet, but if it's anything like the last one, your virus should be fat and sleepy. It'll be entirely dormant within another year." Dr. Wells gave her an encouraging look. "After that, I'll only need to see you every six months."
"Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but that'll be awesome." The kids at her high school had mostly stopped calling her "bubble girl" once she was healthy enough to join the soccer team, but the twice-monthly appointments were a real drain on her social calendar.
"I understand." Dr. Wells withdrew the needle, taping a piece of gauze down over the puncture wound. "All done. And have a wonderful time at prom."
Amanda slid out of the chair, stretching the kinks out of her back and legs. "Thanks, Dr. Wells. I'll see you in two weeks."
***
Denver, Colorado. May 29th, 2014.
"Dr. Wells? Are you all right?"
Daniel Wells turned to his administrative assistant, smiling wanly. "This was supposed to be Amanda's appointment block," he said. "She was going to tell me about her prom."
"I know." Janice Barton held out his coat. "It's time to go."
"I know." He took the coat, shaking his head. "She was so young."
"At least she died quickly, and she died knowing she had five more years because of you." Between them, unsaid: and at least the Marburg didn't kill her. Marburg Amberlee was a helper of man, not an enemy.
"Yes." He sighed. "All right. Let's go. The funeral begins in half an hour."
***
Amanda Amberlee, age eighteen, was killed in an automobile accident following the Lost Pines Senior Prom. It is believed the driver of the car had been drinking...
When will you Rise?
"How are you feeling, Amanda?" Dr. Wells checked the readout on the blood pressure monitor, attention only half on his bored-looking teenage patient. "Any pain, weakness, unexplained bleeding, blurriness of vision...?"
"Nope." Amanda Amberlee let her head loll back, staring up at the colorful mural of clouds and balloons that covered most of the ceiling. They'd painted that for her, she remembered, when she was thirteen; they'd wanted her to feel at ease as they pumped her veins full of a deadly disease designed to kill the disease that was already inside her. "Are we almost done? I have a fitting to get to?"
"Ah." Dr. Wells smiled. "Prom?"
"Prom."
"I'll see what I can do." From most patients, Dr. Wells took impatience and surliness as insults. Amanda was a special case. When they'd first met, her leiukemia had been so advanced that she had no energy for complaints or talking back; she'd submitted to every test and examination willingly, although she had a tendency to fall asleep in the middle of them. From her, every snippy comment and teenage eye-roll was a miracle, one that could be attributed entirely to science.
Marburg EX19—what the published studies were starting to refer to as "Marburg Amberlee," after the index case, rather than "Marburg Denver," which implied an outbreak and would be bad for tourism—was that miracle. The first effective cancer cure in the world, tailored from one of the most destructive viruses known to man. At thirteen, Amanda Amberlee had been given six months to live, at best. Now, at eighteen, she was going to live to see her grandchildren...and none of them would ever need to be afraid of cancer. Like smallpox before it, cancer was on the verge of extinction.
Amanda lifted her head to watch as he drew blood from the crook of her elbow. "How's my virus?" she asked.
"I haven't tested this sample yet, but if it's anything like the last one, your virus should be fat and sleepy. It'll be entirely dormant within another year." Dr. Wells gave her an encouraging look. "After that, I'll only need to see you every six months."
"Not to seem ungrateful or anything, but that'll be awesome." The kids at her high school had mostly stopped calling her "bubble girl" once she was healthy enough to join the soccer team, but the twice-monthly appointments were a real drain on her social calendar.
"I understand." Dr. Wells withdrew the needle, taping a piece of gauze down over the puncture wound. "All done. And have a wonderful time at prom."
Amanda slid out of the chair, stretching the kinks out of her back and legs. "Thanks, Dr. Wells. I'll see you in two weeks."
***
Denver, Colorado. May 29th, 2014.
"Dr. Wells? Are you all right?"
Daniel Wells turned to his administrative assistant, smiling wanly. "This was supposed to be Amanda's appointment block," he said. "She was going to tell me about her prom."
"I know." Janice Barton held out his coat. "It's time to go."
"I know." He took the coat, shaking his head. "She was so young."
"At least she died quickly, and she died knowing she had five more years because of you." Between them, unsaid: and at least the Marburg didn't kill her. Marburg Amberlee was a helper of man, not an enemy.
"Yes." He sighed. "All right. Let's go. The funeral begins in half an hour."
***
Amanda Amberlee, age eighteen, was killed in an automobile accident following the Lost Pines Senior Prom. It is believed the driver of the car had been drinking...
When will you Rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Ludo, "Too Tired to Wink."
Dear Great Pumpkin;
It has been some time since I last wrote to you, but you have never been far from my thoughts. I just thought you might like me to do my own planting for a change. Since our last correspondence, I have not started any political movements or debunked any major scientific theories for my own amusement. I have loved my friends and looked upon my enemies with tolerant disdain, as opposed to reaching for the machete. I have shared my cookies. I have not brought about the end of all mankind, nor lured the unwary into the cornfield. I have continued to make all my deadlines, even the ones I most wanted to avoid. I have not talked about parasites at the dinner table. Much. So obviously, I have been quite well-behaved, especially considering my nature.
Today, Great Pumpkin, I am asking for the following gifts:
* A smooth and successful release for Deadline, with books shipping when they're meant to ship, stores putting them out when they're supposed to put them out, and reviews that are accurate, insightful, and capable of steering people who will enjoy my book to read it, while warning those who will not enjoy my book gently away. Please, Great Pumpkin, show mercy on your loving Pumpkin Princess of the West, and let it all be wonderful. I'm not asking you to make it easy, Great Pumpkin, but I'm asking you to make it good.
* Please let me finish the current draft of Blackout on time and without anything exploding when it's not supposed to, drawing this trilogy to a satisfying conclusion. I've never finished a series before, Great Pumpkin, and I admit, I'm nervous. I want to do this world, and these characters, justice; I want to make the people who've been with me since Feed was a crazy idea called Newsflesh proud. I know it can be done, and that I have the skills necessary for the task. All I ask is that you help me do it.
* And when that is done, o Prince of Patches, I ask that you help me to find my way back into the depths of Ashes of Honor without that changing-genres stumble; let Toby and her world open their arms and welcome me home, that I might transcribe the story that is already making my fingertips ache. There is so much that I want to do in this book, and only so many pages for me to do it in. Please help me find my way, and help me tell this story. It needs telling.
* I thank you once again for my cats, Great Pumpkin, who are everything I could ever ask for in feline companions. Alice is huge, puffy, and utterly without dignity. Lilly is sleek, smug, and satisfied with herself. Thomas is playful, expanding rapidly, and too smart for his own good. I have never been happier with the cats who share my life than I am with this trio, who delight me in all ways. Please, Great Pumpkin, keep them healthy, keep them happy, and keep them exactly as they are.
* I haven't said anything up to now about what I really want this year, Great Pumpkin, but...you know I've been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Novel. You know, because you know everything. You know that if I win, I'll be given a rocket ship in Reno, with my Amy and my Vixy in attendance. Neither of them could be there in Australia, and it would mean the world to all of us if they could be there to see this happen. Please shine your holy candle upon the Hugo, Great Pumpkin, and, if you see fit, I will thank you in any speeches I have to give (you know I'm good for it, I did it last time).
I remain your faithful Halloween girl,
Seanan.
PS: While you're at it, can you please turn your graces on Harvest? I sort of really want to tell this story. It centers on Halloween, you're going to love it.
It has been some time since I last wrote to you, but you have never been far from my thoughts. I just thought you might like me to do my own planting for a change. Since our last correspondence, I have not started any political movements or debunked any major scientific theories for my own amusement. I have loved my friends and looked upon my enemies with tolerant disdain, as opposed to reaching for the machete. I have shared my cookies. I have not brought about the end of all mankind, nor lured the unwary into the cornfield. I have continued to make all my deadlines, even the ones I most wanted to avoid. I have not talked about parasites at the dinner table. Much. So obviously, I have been quite well-behaved, especially considering my nature.
Today, Great Pumpkin, I am asking for the following gifts:
* A smooth and successful release for Deadline, with books shipping when they're meant to ship, stores putting them out when they're supposed to put them out, and reviews that are accurate, insightful, and capable of steering people who will enjoy my book to read it, while warning those who will not enjoy my book gently away. Please, Great Pumpkin, show mercy on your loving Pumpkin Princess of the West, and let it all be wonderful. I'm not asking you to make it easy, Great Pumpkin, but I'm asking you to make it good.
* Please let me finish the current draft of Blackout on time and without anything exploding when it's not supposed to, drawing this trilogy to a satisfying conclusion. I've never finished a series before, Great Pumpkin, and I admit, I'm nervous. I want to do this world, and these characters, justice; I want to make the people who've been with me since Feed was a crazy idea called Newsflesh proud. I know it can be done, and that I have the skills necessary for the task. All I ask is that you help me do it.
* And when that is done, o Prince of Patches, I ask that you help me to find my way back into the depths of Ashes of Honor without that changing-genres stumble; let Toby and her world open their arms and welcome me home, that I might transcribe the story that is already making my fingertips ache. There is so much that I want to do in this book, and only so many pages for me to do it in. Please help me find my way, and help me tell this story. It needs telling.
* I thank you once again for my cats, Great Pumpkin, who are everything I could ever ask for in feline companions. Alice is huge, puffy, and utterly without dignity. Lilly is sleek, smug, and satisfied with herself. Thomas is playful, expanding rapidly, and too smart for his own good. I have never been happier with the cats who share my life than I am with this trio, who delight me in all ways. Please, Great Pumpkin, keep them healthy, keep them happy, and keep them exactly as they are.
* I haven't said anything up to now about what I really want this year, Great Pumpkin, but...you know I've been nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Novel. You know, because you know everything. You know that if I win, I'll be given a rocket ship in Reno, with my Amy and my Vixy in attendance. Neither of them could be there in Australia, and it would mean the world to all of us if they could be there to see this happen. Please shine your holy candle upon the Hugo, Great Pumpkin, and, if you see fit, I will thank you in any speeches I have to give (you know I'm good for it, I did it last time).
I remain your faithful Halloween girl,
Seanan.
PS: While you're at it, can you please turn your graces on Harvest? I sort of really want to tell this story. It centers on Halloween, you're going to love it.
- Current Mood:
hopeful - Current Music:Ludo, "Skeletons On Parade."
I am sick even unto death, and so I am not really capable of the kind of coherent and thoughtful blogging that I try to provide. Instead, I am going to provide something truly awesome: a starred Publishers Weekly review of Deadline. Behold:
( Cut for FEED spoilers!Collapse )
( Cut for FEED spoilers!Collapse )
- Current Mood:
sick - Current Music:Counting Crows, "Washington Square."
As of today, we are seventy-five days from the release of Deadline [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy], the second book in the Newsflesh Trilogy, and the direct sequel to Feed.
This is the weirdest feeling. Feed started as a thought-experiment, a way of studying the possible behavior of virological "zombies" in a post-Rising world. I wanted to poke at the idea that maybe, humanity was bad-ass enough to survive an apocalypse of its own making, and see if we could come to terms with the zombie virus, the way we've come to terms with so many other viruses throughout our history. It's less smallpox and more Marburg, not quite stopped, but...handled a bit better than it might have been.
It was always meant to be a stand-alone. Even when I was getting excited about the book, it was a stand-alone, no sequels, no second chances. But then GP asked me, when I was complaining about a particularly tricky plot point, "Why do your zombies have to be dead?" And suddenly, they didn't have to be, and I had to revise 200 pages of text...
...and there were sequels. Two of them. A trilogy, which wound up titled "Newsflesh" (after the original title of book one), but could as easily have been called "Seanan fucks with the Masons." And it was huge and scary and maybe I could do it, if I tried really hard.
And now the second book is coming out. And I'm both impatient and nowhere near ready.
When will you rise?
This is the weirdest feeling. Feed started as a thought-experiment, a way of studying the possible behavior of virological "zombies" in a post-Rising world. I wanted to poke at the idea that maybe, humanity was bad-ass enough to survive an apocalypse of its own making, and see if we could come to terms with the zombie virus, the way we've come to terms with so many other viruses throughout our history. It's less smallpox and more Marburg, not quite stopped, but...handled a bit better than it might have been.
It was always meant to be a stand-alone. Even when I was getting excited about the book, it was a stand-alone, no sequels, no second chances. But then GP asked me, when I was complaining about a particularly tricky plot point, "Why do your zombies have to be dead?" And suddenly, they didn't have to be, and I had to revise 200 pages of text...
...and there were sequels. Two of them. A trilogy, which wound up titled "Newsflesh" (after the original title of book one), but could as easily have been called "Seanan fucks with the Masons." And it was huge and scary and maybe I could do it, if I tried really hard.
And now the second book is coming out. And I'm both impatient and nowhere near ready.
When will you rise?
- Current Mood:
anxious - Current Music:Glee, "Do You Wanna Touch?"
April: Short story, "Riddles," in the anthology Human Tales from Dark Quest Books. This is a fairly small press, so you may need to buy the book online or ask your local bookstore to special-order a copy if you want one.
Short story, "Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box," through the Orbit electronic fiction program. This story is being released on April 18th, as a Kindle download. It's a Mira Grant story, but is not set in the Newsflesh universe.
May: Novel, Deadline, from Orbit/Orbit UK, under the name Mira Grant. This is the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy. I do not have ARCs. Please do not ask me for ARCs. Deadline is e-ARC only, and I do not have download codes or physical copies. All asking does is add stress to an already stressful time, and then I have to go hide under the bed for a little while.
September: Novel, One Salt Sea, from DAW. This is the fifth of the October Daye books, and was preceded by Late Eclipses. It will be followed by Ashes of Honor, probably in September 2012.
March 2012: Novel, Discount Armageddon, from DAW. This is the first of the InCryptid books, and will be followed by Midnight Blue-Light Special, probably in March 2013. Yes, InCryptid is taking the March slot in my year. Yes, I consider this a good thing. Doing two Toby books a year is fun, but I need to diversify sometimes.
That's the schedule!
Short story, "Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box," through the Orbit electronic fiction program. This story is being released on April 18th, as a Kindle download. It's a Mira Grant story, but is not set in the Newsflesh universe.
May: Novel, Deadline, from Orbit/Orbit UK, under the name Mira Grant. This is the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy. I do not have ARCs. Please do not ask me for ARCs. Deadline is e-ARC only, and I do not have download codes or physical copies. All asking does is add stress to an already stressful time, and then I have to go hide under the bed for a little while.
September: Novel, One Salt Sea, from DAW. This is the fifth of the October Daye books, and was preceded by Late Eclipses. It will be followed by Ashes of Honor, probably in September 2012.
March 2012: Novel, Discount Armageddon, from DAW. This is the first of the InCryptid books, and will be followed by Midnight Blue-Light Special, probably in March 2013. Yes, InCryptid is taking the March slot in my year. Yes, I consider this a good thing. Doing two Toby books a year is fun, but I need to diversify sometimes.
That's the schedule!
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Tori Amos, "Suede."
It's Friday. There's barely a weekend between us and Late Eclipses [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy], which officially hits store shelves in four days. I can barely believe that it's so close. I'm still a little stunned when I look at my shelf at home, and there's book four, staring at me. But the show must go on, and in honor of that fact, here are four exciting things coming in the next year.
4. Well, naturally, Deadline. The second book in the Newsflesh trilogy is coming out at the end of May, and it's exciting and terrifying and Feed was so well-reviewed that I'm considering disabling my Google spiders and hiding under my bed for a week when this one comes out, just to escape the inevitable comparisons. I think it's a good book. I even think it's maybe a better book. But it's not a sequel in the "do the same, only bigger" sense, and that makes me twitchy.
3. "Through This House" is my first novella set in Toby's world. More, it's my first novella appearing in a Charlaine Harris/Toni Kelner anthology, which still has me a little WAIT WHAT NO WHO IS DRIVING? BEAR IS DRIVING!! HOW CAN THIS BE?!? about the whole thing. I love the story, which bridges the span between Late Eclipses and One Salt Sea, but isn't necessary to enjoy either. And I love that I was somehow lucky enough to be allowed to write it.
2. Book Expo America! This is one of the biggest literary trade shows in the world. It's like, the Emerald City of giant book expos. I've never been before. And this year, I get to go. Lemme hear a "woo" from the crowd! Hell, I'll do it myself. WOO!
1. One Salt Sea. It comes out in September; I'm in final editorial revisions now; it's the book where, well, once again, everything changes. It's also the book I sometimes thought I would never finish, because it required admitting to myself that the series would make it five books, and I never quite believed that. But I did, and it did, and soon, you'll get to read it, and I'm so excited.
And that's four exciting things in the year ahead.
4. Well, naturally, Deadline. The second book in the Newsflesh trilogy is coming out at the end of May, and it's exciting and terrifying and Feed was so well-reviewed that I'm considering disabling my Google spiders and hiding under my bed for a week when this one comes out, just to escape the inevitable comparisons. I think it's a good book. I even think it's maybe a better book. But it's not a sequel in the "do the same, only bigger" sense, and that makes me twitchy.
3. "Through This House" is my first novella set in Toby's world. More, it's my first novella appearing in a Charlaine Harris/Toni Kelner anthology, which still has me a little WAIT WHAT NO WHO IS DRIVING? BEAR IS DRIVING!! HOW CAN THIS BE?!? about the whole thing. I love the story, which bridges the span between Late Eclipses and One Salt Sea, but isn't necessary to enjoy either. And I love that I was somehow lucky enough to be allowed to write it.
2. Book Expo America! This is one of the biggest literary trade shows in the world. It's like, the Emerald City of giant book expos. I've never been before. And this year, I get to go. Lemme hear a "woo" from the crowd! Hell, I'll do it myself. WOO!
1. One Salt Sea. It comes out in September; I'm in final editorial revisions now; it's the book where, well, once again, everything changes. It's also the book I sometimes thought I would never finish, because it required admitting to myself that the series would make it five books, and I never quite believed that. But I did, and it did, and soon, you'll get to read it, and I'm so excited.
And that's four exciting things in the year ahead.
- Current Mood:
thoughtful - Current Music:Christian Kane, "Whiskey River."
So wow. February is more than halfway over, and I'm trying to clean everything up on my end of things, in the hopes that doing so will enable me to, you know, accomplish something for a change. Because I've just been sitting around doing nothing up until now. So...
1. All the damaged Wicked Girls CDs have been claimed, although some are still pending payment. It's highly unlikely that any more damaged CDs will show up; Mom and I have checked the boxes thoroughly at this point, and it looks like the unpleasant surprises are over. Thank the Great Pumpkin.
2. I am mailing the last of the paid-for "Wicked Girls" posters tomorrow. This means that, if you are waiting for a poster, you should have it in approximately a week (all the posters being mailed are going to US addresses). If you have requested a poster but not yet paid for it, you have ten days before I delete your name from the list, and release any held numbers back into the wild. If you're not sure whether you've paid or not, you can always contact me.
3. I'm going to be setting up my final pre-release giveaways over the next week or so. Finances are forcing me to restrict them to US addresses/international addresses only if you're willing to pay for postage. I'm really sorry about that. It's just that it costs me approximately three dollars to mail a book inside the US, and outside gets very spendy, very fast. Specific rules to come.
4. I'll doubtless be saying more about this later, but as we're getting into the period where people start getting excited about Deadline: I do not have ARCs. I am not going to have ARCs. Please don't ask me for them, please don't comment on other giveaway posts saying you'd take an ARC of Deadline instead of the stated prize, just please, please, don't. There are no ARCs of this book. I'm not holding out on you, I just don't got the goods.
...and that's our administrative junk for the night. Join me next week, when "administrative junk" will probably include port and drunkenly yelling at my rambunctious kitten.
1. All the damaged Wicked Girls CDs have been claimed, although some are still pending payment. It's highly unlikely that any more damaged CDs will show up; Mom and I have checked the boxes thoroughly at this point, and it looks like the unpleasant surprises are over. Thank the Great Pumpkin.
2. I am mailing the last of the paid-for "Wicked Girls" posters tomorrow. This means that, if you are waiting for a poster, you should have it in approximately a week (all the posters being mailed are going to US addresses). If you have requested a poster but not yet paid for it, you have ten days before I delete your name from the list, and release any held numbers back into the wild. If you're not sure whether you've paid or not, you can always contact me.
3. I'm going to be setting up my final pre-release giveaways over the next week or so. Finances are forcing me to restrict them to US addresses/international addresses only if you're willing to pay for postage. I'm really sorry about that. It's just that it costs me approximately three dollars to mail a book inside the US, and outside gets very spendy, very fast. Specific rules to come.
4. I'll doubtless be saying more about this later, but as we're getting into the period where people start getting excited about Deadline: I do not have ARCs. I am not going to have ARCs. Please don't ask me for them, please don't comment on other giveaway posts saying you'd take an ARC of Deadline instead of the stated prize, just please, please, don't. There are no ARCs of this book. I'm not holding out on you, I just don't got the goods.
...and that's our administrative junk for the night. Join me next week, when "administrative junk" will probably include port and drunkenly yelling at my rambunctious kitten.
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:Dar Williams, "The Easy Way."
A little while ago, Lauren (who designed the fantastic covers for Feed and Deadline) emailed to ask if I might have a parody of "The Night Before Christmas" that related to dead things just, you know. Lying around. I did not. But I did have a history in filk, and access to the original poem. So fifteen or so minutes later, "I do not" became "sure!" and I was able to send Lauren a nice, zombie-filled bit of Christmas fear.
Because Lauren is insanely awesome, she promptly turned it into a poster. And because Orbit is insanely awesome, you can now download this gruesome collaboration in a variety of exciting formats. It's suitable for use as an e-card, a computer wallpaper, or even a printed holiday letter.
So from all of us to all of you, have yourself a scary little Christmas now.
Because Lauren is insanely awesome, she promptly turned it into a poster. And because Orbit is insanely awesome, you can now download this gruesome collaboration in a variety of exciting formats. It's suitable for use as an e-card, a computer wallpaper, or even a printed holiday letter.
So from all of us to all of you, have yourself a scary little Christmas now.
- Current Mood:
crazy - Current Music:Oh, you don't even really want to know...
Okay, bits and pieces, because I am a crispy, crispy cookie right now. Seriously, I wrote ALL THE THINGS last night, AND indexed half a box of My Little Ponies, AND updated my spreadsheets, AND cleaned up after Thomas, who had inexplicably decided to make a horrible mess in the bathtub (I'm sure I'll be dealing with this more in the days to come, and will spare you any further details; at least he did it on an easy-clean surface). Then, this morning, I got up to discover that my transit card had vanished in the night, leading to a pre-6:00 AM shredding of my bedroom. So I am not the bubbliest bunny in the burrow.
So first, Orbit is giving away poster prints of the covers to Deadline and Feed as part of the Epic Loot holiday series. Details are available at the link above, and they're selecting their winner tomorrow, so you should head over there and sign up if you're interested. They're gorgeous pieces. They'd look amazing on your wall.
The best thing about the people that I love is the way that they make me lizard-happy. I'm just saying. Find something (or someone) that makes you lizard-happy, and hug it a whole bunch. Assuming this won't get you slapped with a restraining order, injected with neurotoxic venom, or just plain slapped.
It's no secret that I'm a My Little Pony nut; see also, "regular references to cleaning and sorting and indexing the collection, so that I can figure out which Ponies I still need to either upgrade or acquire." (Hint: The answer is "quite a few.") Well, I'm also a big My Little Demon fan, and wanted to be sure you'd seen these ultimate expressions of my 1980s horror girl heart. I have Sparkle Plague framed and hanging in my bathroom, and I'm looking wistfully at Toxic Popsicle and Voodoo Vixen. It's possible that my home decor is a trifle unnerving.
(I will be working industriously at making it more unnerving in the weeks to come, as I should be receiving my cover flats for Deadline, have received my art prints for Bill Mudron, unearthed a few old commission and art pieces in a drawer, and have a companion piece to my Princess Alice in production. So eventually, people will walk into my house, look at the walls, and run screaming before something eats them. This is a goal.)
I'm trying to get all caught up with the world, but things are slipping a bit just now. So I beg you, be patient with me, and do not force me to devour your soul to demonstrate the foolishness of prodding tired blondes with sticks.
Happy Tuesday!
So first, Orbit is giving away poster prints of the covers to Deadline and Feed as part of the Epic Loot holiday series. Details are available at the link above, and they're selecting their winner tomorrow, so you should head over there and sign up if you're interested. They're gorgeous pieces. They'd look amazing on your wall.
The best thing about the people that I love is the way that they make me lizard-happy. I'm just saying. Find something (or someone) that makes you lizard-happy, and hug it a whole bunch. Assuming this won't get you slapped with a restraining order, injected with neurotoxic venom, or just plain slapped.
It's no secret that I'm a My Little Pony nut; see also, "regular references to cleaning and sorting and indexing the collection, so that I can figure out which Ponies I still need to either upgrade or acquire." (Hint: The answer is "quite a few.") Well, I'm also a big My Little Demon fan, and wanted to be sure you'd seen these ultimate expressions of my 1980s horror girl heart. I have Sparkle Plague framed and hanging in my bathroom, and I'm looking wistfully at Toxic Popsicle and Voodoo Vixen. It's possible that my home decor is a trifle unnerving.
(I will be working industriously at making it more unnerving in the weeks to come, as I should be receiving my cover flats for Deadline, have received my art prints for Bill Mudron, unearthed a few old commission and art pieces in a drawer, and have a companion piece to my Princess Alice in production. So eventually, people will walk into my house, look at the walls, and run screaming before something eats them. This is a goal.)
I'm trying to get all caught up with the world, but things are slipping a bit just now. So I beg you, be patient with me, and do not force me to devour your soul to demonstrate the foolishness of prodding tired blondes with sticks.
Happy Tuesday!
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:The theme from "Dexter."
Psst.
I've been sitting on this for months and months and months, and now, finally, I can show you something totally bitchin' that you really want to see. I mean, assuming you like things that are awesome, that is, and that you include FEED on that list.
Go ahead. Take a peek.
( Cut-tagged for the protection of your friends' list, which really doesn't need something this huge suddenly showing up without warning. But trust me, you should totally click.Collapse )
I've been sitting on this for months and months and months, and now, finally, I can show you something totally bitchin' that you really want to see. I mean, assuming you like things that are awesome, that is, and that you include FEED on that list.
Go ahead. Take a peek.
( Cut-tagged for the protection of your friends' list, which really doesn't need something this huge suddenly showing up without warning. But trust me, you should totally click.Collapse )
- Current Mood:
ecstatic - Current Music:Journey, "Faithfully."
Well, that's that; my magical murder pixie toils are done, and they have borne sweet, sweet fruit, has the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy, Deadline, has just been sent back to my publisher in final draft form. Barring acts of god or unforeseen gaping plot holes, my part in this book is over until the page proofs. Which will probably hit around October, assuming we follow the timeline we followed for Feed. Post-It notes in Ohio, here we go again!
Final book stats, including Dedication and Acknowledgments:
150,001 words.
525 pages.
Twenty-seven chapters.
When asked to say something about the book, Vixy says, "Fucking brilliant. Gripping. Terrifying. Satisfying. It's about heroes." So, you know. Fucking brilliant. You heard it here first, folks. Really, I'm scared out of my mind—I always am at this point—but I'm also deeply relieved, because it's done. It's finished. My baby is heading out into the great wide world, and there's no more chopping or stitching or graverobbing to be done. (What? You mean everyone doesn't assemble their offspring out of transistors and corpse parts?)
I'm done.
One more book, and this grand adventure is over; one more book, and we find out whether or not I can stick the landing. I think I can. I hope I can. I believe I can. Because alive or dead, the truth won't rest.
Rise up while you can.
Final book stats, including Dedication and Acknowledgments:
150,001 words.
525 pages.
Twenty-seven chapters.
When asked to say something about the book, Vixy says, "Fucking brilliant. Gripping. Terrifying. Satisfying. It's about heroes." So, you know. Fucking brilliant. You heard it here first, folks. Really, I'm scared out of my mind—I always am at this point—but I'm also deeply relieved, because it's done. It's finished. My baby is heading out into the great wide world, and there's no more chopping or stitching or graverobbing to be done. (What? You mean everyone doesn't assemble their offspring out of transistors and corpse parts?)
I'm done.
One more book, and this grand adventure is over; one more book, and we find out whether or not I can stick the landing. I think I can. I hope I can. I believe I can. Because alive or dead, the truth won't rest.
Rise up while you can.
Well. There we go. As of roughly an hour ago, I'm done with my next-to-last pass through Deadline, incorporating commentary from The Editor, a vast file of notes from Vixy, and a lot of extremely useful technical detail from Alan, aka "my new things-that-kill-people expert." All hail those who actually know what the hell they're talking about!
I still have some work to do—the nature of my revision process means I'll be getting notes from my editorial pool for a week or so, and I want to go back and add a few things here and there throughout the text—but the heavy lifting is essentially done. The most thought-intensive part that remains is writing the acknowledgments page (which I hate doing, almost as much as I hate gargling with Spaghetti-Os). It's all commas and commentary from here to Australia...and it looks like I'll be making my "turn it in by" date, allowing me to spend the trip focusing on The Brightest Fell. Total win.
The nicest thing about final-pass editorial is that it generally happens after the book has been in someone else's hands for weeks, if not months, allowing the text to "age out" and turn alien to me. I remember writing scenes, but not sentences; I remember pages, not paragraphs. So I can rip things out with impunity, having lost all emotional attachment to the words in favor of being emotionally attached to the core point of the scene. This stage can also be dangerous, as the urge to rewrite entire chapters into something better is always there. It's the Mad Science Editorial phase.
(Appropriately enough, as I write this, my iTunes is producing a run of songs that can really only be referred to as "Seanan's greatest mad science hits." Seriously, it's played three versions of "Maybe It's Crazy" in the last half hour. Apple wants me to ignite the biosphere.)
I am done with book two of the Newsflesh trilogy. And because I've met me, I can say with certainty that while I'm busting ass on The Brightest Fell, I'll also be taking the first happy steps into the world of Blackout. It's...a little sad, actually. I only get to spend one more book with these weird, wonderful, fascinating, fucked-up people. I think I'm going to have separation anxiety when I get to the end of book three.
But I'm not there yet. Right now, I'm at the end of book two. And while the final stats are not yet ready, I believe I can say with assurance that I am now a magic murder pixie with a chainsaw.
DINO DANCE PARTY!
I still have some work to do—the nature of my revision process means I'll be getting notes from my editorial pool for a week or so, and I want to go back and add a few things here and there throughout the text—but the heavy lifting is essentially done. The most thought-intensive part that remains is writing the acknowledgments page (which I hate doing, almost as much as I hate gargling with Spaghetti-Os). It's all commas and commentary from here to Australia...and it looks like I'll be making my "turn it in by" date, allowing me to spend the trip focusing on The Brightest Fell. Total win.
The nicest thing about final-pass editorial is that it generally happens after the book has been in someone else's hands for weeks, if not months, allowing the text to "age out" and turn alien to me. I remember writing scenes, but not sentences; I remember pages, not paragraphs. So I can rip things out with impunity, having lost all emotional attachment to the words in favor of being emotionally attached to the core point of the scene. This stage can also be dangerous, as the urge to rewrite entire chapters into something better is always there. It's the Mad Science Editorial phase.
(Appropriately enough, as I write this, my iTunes is producing a run of songs that can really only be referred to as "Seanan's greatest mad science hits." Seriously, it's played three versions of "Maybe It's Crazy" in the last half hour. Apple wants me to ignite the biosphere.)
I am done with book two of the Newsflesh trilogy. And because I've met me, I can say with certainty that while I'm busting ass on The Brightest Fell, I'll also be taking the first happy steps into the world of Blackout. It's...a little sad, actually. I only get to spend one more book with these weird, wonderful, fascinating, fucked-up people. I think I'm going to have separation anxiety when I get to the end of book three.
But I'm not there yet. Right now, I'm at the end of book two. And while the final stats are not yet ready, I believe I can say with assurance that I am now a magic murder pixie with a chainsaw.
DINO DANCE PARTY!
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:Emilie Autumn, "Dead is the New Alive."
It's August 15th, and that means I need to take a break in my preparation for Australia and make my monthly current projects post. This is the regularly scheduled update which provides the only non-hysteria-inducing answer to the question "What are you working on?" It has the extra added bonus of proving that I am able to stop time, since otherwise, even I don't quite understand how the hell I'm getting everything finished in a timely manner. Seriously, I don't think I sleep. This is the August list of current projects, because I am the gift that keeps on giving.
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that all books currently in print are off the list. Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent. Late Eclipses is off the list because it has been turned in to The Editor.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that all books currently in print are off the list. Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent. Late Eclipses is off the list because it has been turned in to The Editor.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Vixy and Tony, "Paper Moon."
* Locate my little glass pumpkin full of Australian currency, and figure out exactly how much of it I have. This will be the start of my WorldCon budget, and no matter how much I enjoy sticking my fingers in my ears and going "LA LA LA LA LA," I really need to stop doing that and start coping with the fact that it's almost time to fly.
* Revise and process the editorial notes on the next twenty pages of Deadline. I'm currently through the end of chapter four, and I'd really like to get through the end of chapter five before it's time for bed. I also need to finalize my dedication, and start thinking about my acknowledgments, which is always fun like sticking needles in my eyes. Oh, how I love this part of the process. Not.
* Attempt to unearth my dresser from beneath the epic pile of crap that has accompanied me home from San Diego and Spocane. This may or may not be something I can accomplish without the use of a flamethrower.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Brush the cats.
* Attempt to integrate the epic pile of crap that accompanied me home from San Diego and Spocane into my bedroom without causing some sort of avalanche or otherwise hitting critical mass and opening a black hole into another dimension. Of course, if the objects responsible for opening the black hole influence the dimension on the other side, it will be a dimension filled with flesh-eating My Little Ponies and telepathic velociraptors. So that might be a nice place to have a vacation home.
* Trade the July pages in my planner for the shiny, new, relatively unmarked September pages. Immediately start filling the September pages with to-do lists, deadlines, goals, and the other unavoidable roadmaps of being me. I actually find this process quite soothing, in a nit-picky, obsessive sort of a way. Here is my month. I have scheduled panic attacks, showers, and laundry. Go me.
* Pick up my mats from the Aaron Brothers, allowing me to frame the latest batch of art. This batch includes the cover to Late Eclipses, two original Skin Horse strips, and the original artwork for Amy Mebberson's amazing Sarah Zellaby sketch. I need more walls. I seriously need to move into a house designed by Escher, just to give me sufficient walls.
* Laundry.
* Go to the comic book store and collect my latest dose of four-color sanity check. I also need to update my pull list, as it's time to (once again) winnow my monthlies down to trades. It saves space, money, and staples, as Lilly really likes to eat comic books. No, I don't know why. I've asked her, but she just meowed and wandered off to chew on the shower curtain.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Inform Alice that I am not going to fish the cat toys out from under the bed a third time.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Finish composing my first blog entry for the Babel Clash I'm doing with Jesse in September. Since we're both going to be traveling when the blogs go up, they have to be pre-written, and since I've been traveling so damn much recently, I haven't had a chance to pre-write anything. This would be funny, if it weren't verging on becoming an emergency.
* Continue my quest for a dress for WorldCon, since the dress I was having made isn't going to be ready for this year, due to bad time management on my part coupled with a really silly comedy of dropped clauses and missed connections. I keep thinking I've found a dress, only to discover that no, it's not going to work out. I'm considering hysteria.
* Ignore the Maine Coon telling me that her toys have disappeared under the bed.
* Watch Warehouse 13.
* Sleep.
* Revise and process the editorial notes on the next twenty pages of Deadline. I'm currently through the end of chapter four, and I'd really like to get through the end of chapter five before it's time for bed. I also need to finalize my dedication, and start thinking about my acknowledgments, which is always fun like sticking needles in my eyes. Oh, how I love this part of the process. Not.
* Attempt to unearth my dresser from beneath the epic pile of crap that has accompanied me home from San Diego and Spocane. This may or may not be something I can accomplish without the use of a flamethrower.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Brush the cats.
* Attempt to integrate the epic pile of crap that accompanied me home from San Diego and Spocane into my bedroom without causing some sort of avalanche or otherwise hitting critical mass and opening a black hole into another dimension. Of course, if the objects responsible for opening the black hole influence the dimension on the other side, it will be a dimension filled with flesh-eating My Little Ponies and telepathic velociraptors. So that might be a nice place to have a vacation home.
* Trade the July pages in my planner for the shiny, new, relatively unmarked September pages. Immediately start filling the September pages with to-do lists, deadlines, goals, and the other unavoidable roadmaps of being me. I actually find this process quite soothing, in a nit-picky, obsessive sort of a way. Here is my month. I have scheduled panic attacks, showers, and laundry. Go me.
* Pick up my mats from the Aaron Brothers, allowing me to frame the latest batch of art. This batch includes the cover to Late Eclipses, two original Skin Horse strips, and the original artwork for Amy Mebberson's amazing Sarah Zellaby sketch. I need more walls. I seriously need to move into a house designed by Escher, just to give me sufficient walls.
* Laundry.
* Go to the comic book store and collect my latest dose of four-color sanity check. I also need to update my pull list, as it's time to (once again) winnow my monthlies down to trades. It saves space, money, and staples, as Lilly really likes to eat comic books. No, I don't know why. I've asked her, but she just meowed and wandered off to chew on the shower curtain.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Inform Alice that I am not going to fish the cat toys out from under the bed a third time.
* Fish the cat toys out from under the bed.
* Finish composing my first blog entry for the Babel Clash I'm doing with Jesse in September. Since we're both going to be traveling when the blogs go up, they have to be pre-written, and since I've been traveling so damn much recently, I haven't had a chance to pre-write anything. This would be funny, if it weren't verging on becoming an emergency.
* Continue my quest for a dress for WorldCon, since the dress I was having made isn't going to be ready for this year, due to bad time management on my part coupled with a really silly comedy of dropped clauses and missed connections. I keep thinking I've found a dress, only to discover that no, it's not going to work out. I'm considering hysteria.
* Ignore the Maine Coon telling me that her toys have disappeared under the bed.
* Watch Warehouse 13.
* Sleep.
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Glee, "Faithfully."
And now it is June 15th, which is sort of upsetting me a little bit, and that means it's time for my monthly current projects post. This is the regularly scheduled update which provides the only non-hysteria-inducing answer to the question "What are you working on?" It has the extra added bonus of proving that I am able to stop time, since otherwise, even I don't quite understand how the hell I'm getting everything finished in a timely manner. Seriously, I don't think I sleep. This is the June list of current projects, because I am the gift that keeps on giving.
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first three Toby books (Rosemary and Rue, A Local Habitation, An Artificial Night) and the first Newsflesh book (Feed) are off the list because they are now in print. The second Newsflesh book (Deadline) is off the list until The Other Editor tells me otherwise. Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first three Toby books (Rosemary and Rue, A Local Habitation, An Artificial Night) and the first Newsflesh book (Feed) are off the list because they are now in print. The second Newsflesh book (Deadline) is off the list until The Other Editor tells me otherwise. Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Rhianna, "Good Girl Gone Bad."
Yes! I have the sign-off, and the second book in the Newsflesh trilogy, Deadline, has been sent safely off to my publisher, where it can be someone else's problem for a little while. (Note that this doesn't actually mean the book is in its final form, since Orbit has the right to request changes and edits—I made changes and edits to Feed after it had been turned in—but I become a much happier bunny after it's slammed down on my editor's virtual desk. That means I made my deadline. I win)
Final book stats:
149,142 words.
513 pages.
Twenty-seven chapters.
I love finishing the process of finishing a book (and yes, that sentence is supposed to look like that; finishing things is hard). It lets me fall in love all over again. I talk about writing books like it's building a house. Revisions are what happen when the house is flawed, and needs to be torn down and built back up again. But finishing is just going through and making it a showplace, ready to be shown off to the world. The heavy lifting is done, and suddenly the book...the book is just amazing all over again. It's a book.
If there's any point during the process where I am totally uncritical of myself, it's this moment, right here. Don't worry, it will pass.
Now I get to settle in and work on the third book in the trilogy, and then...then I'm done. All finished, no more effort, no more struggle, just done. I love these people. I've loved them for years. I hope that when you meet them, you'll love them, too. But for now, I'm turning it in.
Yay.
Final book stats:
149,142 words.
513 pages.
Twenty-seven chapters.
I love finishing the process of finishing a book (and yes, that sentence is supposed to look like that; finishing things is hard). It lets me fall in love all over again. I talk about writing books like it's building a house. Revisions are what happen when the house is flawed, and needs to be torn down and built back up again. But finishing is just going through and making it a showplace, ready to be shown off to the world. The heavy lifting is done, and suddenly the book...the book is just amazing all over again. It's a book.
If there's any point during the process where I am totally uncritical of myself, it's this moment, right here. Don't worry, it will pass.
Now I get to settle in and work on the third book in the trilogy, and then...then I'm done. All finished, no more effort, no more struggle, just done. I love these people. I've loved them for years. I hope that when you meet them, you'll love them, too. But for now, I'm turning it in.
Yay.
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:Jets Overhead, "George Harrison."
So currently, I am...
...working on The Agent's revisions to Deadline, all of which have been totally awesome, erudite, and coherent (at least so far; for all I know, I'm going to hit page 200 and suddenly she'll be demanding I insert evil clowns and flying monkeys). I'm addressing the manuscript 10% (IE, fifty pages) at a time, so that I can imagine a little progress bar guiding me sweetly toward the conclusion of draft two. Currently, the status bar stands at 20%. Since I started work yesterday, I am not yet freaking out over this.
...hammering away on The Brightest Fell (Toby Daye, book five), which, like, woke up one morning and just decided that it wasn't going to suck anymore. Seriously. This book has been a petulant brat for ages, and then bam, all of a sudden, it was all "La la la, I am ready to play nicely with the other children." So now I'm burning pages, the stakes are getting higher, the action's getting tighter, and Toby's having one of her Worst Weeks Ever. I'm always happy when Toby is having one of her Worst Weeks Ever. This is why Toby will eventually find a way to kill me in my sleep.
...getting content up on MiraGrant.com. If you go there right now, you'll still get the splash page, but I promise you, Behind The Scenes, Things Are Brewing. We'll be ready to launch super-soon, and when we do, look out world! Tara has done an incredible job with the site design, and Chris has done an equally incredible job with the coding. And of course, there's things afoot over on the Orbit side of things, and soon the whole world will be asking the question that's been gnawing at me for a while now: When will you rise?
...writing two short stories for the same anthology, since that's the only way to have a proper cage match between the two (thus letting me determine which one works better). In this corner, Toby, Danny, and Quentin do stuff involving poking things with sticks and following the basic rules of horror movie survival (IE, "When the house tells you to get out, you leave"). In this corner, Alice, Thomas, and the mice go wandering around the woods looking for fricken nests, and face the usual dangers inherent in doing what a tribe of talking pantheistic mice tells you to do. Fun!
...finishing the sixth Sparrow Hill Road story, "Last Dance With Mary Jane," in which we finally find out what actually happened on the night Rose Marshall died. This is sort of where the series turns, and where everything else that happens becomes inevitable. I'm really excited.
...really in need of a nap.
I will have a silly, silly contest starting later today, and remember, the various cage matches are still going on. Help Toby deliver the ULTIMATE SMACKDOWN, thus earning her a pretty tiara that she won't wear and a Starbucks gift card that she will use up in an afternoon.
...working on The Agent's revisions to Deadline, all of which have been totally awesome, erudite, and coherent (at least so far; for all I know, I'm going to hit page 200 and suddenly she'll be demanding I insert evil clowns and flying monkeys). I'm addressing the manuscript 10% (IE, fifty pages) at a time, so that I can imagine a little progress bar guiding me sweetly toward the conclusion of draft two. Currently, the status bar stands at 20%. Since I started work yesterday, I am not yet freaking out over this.
...hammering away on The Brightest Fell (Toby Daye, book five), which, like, woke up one morning and just decided that it wasn't going to suck anymore. Seriously. This book has been a petulant brat for ages, and then bam, all of a sudden, it was all "La la la, I am ready to play nicely with the other children." So now I'm burning pages, the stakes are getting higher, the action's getting tighter, and Toby's having one of her Worst Weeks Ever. I'm always happy when Toby is having one of her Worst Weeks Ever. This is why Toby will eventually find a way to kill me in my sleep.
...getting content up on MiraGrant.com. If you go there right now, you'll still get the splash page, but I promise you, Behind The Scenes, Things Are Brewing. We'll be ready to launch super-soon, and when we do, look out world! Tara has done an incredible job with the site design, and Chris has done an equally incredible job with the coding. And of course, there's things afoot over on the Orbit side of things, and soon the whole world will be asking the question that's been gnawing at me for a while now: When will you rise?
...writing two short stories for the same anthology, since that's the only way to have a proper cage match between the two (thus letting me determine which one works better). In this corner, Toby, Danny, and Quentin do stuff involving poking things with sticks and following the basic rules of horror movie survival (IE, "When the house tells you to get out, you leave"). In this corner, Alice, Thomas, and the mice go wandering around the woods looking for fricken nests, and face the usual dangers inherent in doing what a tribe of talking pantheistic mice tells you to do. Fun!
...finishing the sixth Sparrow Hill Road story, "Last Dance With Mary Jane," in which we finally find out what actually happened on the night Rose Marshall died. This is sort of where the series turns, and where everything else that happens becomes inevitable. I'm really excited.
...really in need of a nap.
I will have a silly, silly contest starting later today, and remember, the various cage matches are still going on. Help Toby deliver the ULTIMATE SMACKDOWN, thus earning her a pretty tiara that she won't wear and a Starbucks gift card that she will use up in an afternoon.
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Glee, "Proud Mary."
Mindy Klasky has been talking about "author branding" lately. Is it a bad thing that my brand is "slightly maniacal but easily distracted Disney Halloweentown Princess on a never-ending quest to dominate your puny planet"? I mean, it doesn't fit very easily on a T-shirt...
Anyway, today is a day for awesome news that is awesome. Those of you who followdianafox will have already seen the first part of this: the Newsflesh trilogy (Feed, Deadline, Blackout) has sold to Egmont in Germany. Egmont is also the German publisher of the Toby Daye books. Because of this (and some questionable black marks on Mira's legal record, but that's beside the point), they'll be publishing the Newsflesh trilogy under the name "Seanan McGuire." I like being confusing!
Meanwhile, rights to the first three Toby books (Rosemary and Rue, A Local Habitation, and An Artificial Night) have sold to Azbooka in Russia. Vixy is very excited, because she actually speaks Russian, and will thus be able to read my books in a whole new language. I'm very excited because dude, Russia.
Soon, my conquest of your world will be complete, and my collection of foreign language editions will require its own shelf.
Yay!
Anyway, today is a day for awesome news that is awesome. Those of you who follow
dianafox will have already seen the first part of this: the Newsflesh trilogy (Feed, Deadline, Blackout) has sold to Egmont in Germany. Egmont is also the German publisher of the Toby Daye books. Because of this (and some questionable black marks on Mira's legal record, but that's beside the point), they'll be publishing the Newsflesh trilogy under the name "Seanan McGuire." I like being confusing!Meanwhile, rights to the first three Toby books (Rosemary and Rue, A Local Habitation, and An Artificial Night) have sold to Azbooka in Russia. Vixy is very excited, because she actually speaks Russian, and will thus be able to read my books in a whole new language. I'm very excited because dude, Russia.
Soon, my conquest of your world will be complete, and my collection of foreign language editions will require its own shelf.
Yay!
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:Lady Gaga, "Love Game."
Current stats:
Words: 6,330.
Total words: 145,067.
Reason for stopping: The book is over, long live the book.
Music: the Deadline play list and random shuffle.
Lilly and Alice: the tan cat tree and the orange cat tree, respectively.
First draft stats:
Pages: 498
Chapters: twenty-seven, plus a coda
Started: July 26, 2008
Finished: February 20, 2010
Feed took from September 2005 to December 2007 to write—roughly twenty-seven months. Deadline took me nineteen months to write. This is a good learning curve, and hopefully means that I can write Blackout in eleven months (hey, a girl can dream, right?). These are monster-length books, especially when compared to my normal, conservative "101,000 to 112,000 words" word count volumes. But they're necessary words. These books aren't padded at all. They're the length they are because that's the length they need to be.
And it means we get to spend more time together. I really miss and mourn my books when they're finished, and yeah, draft two gets to happen now, but draft two isn't the same. Draft two is about smoothing out the continuity, fixing the pacing, and picking up any dropped threads. Book three is where I get to start making things up again.
I'm amazed and shaky and a little off-balance. I am now going to go eat ice cream and watch Cabin Fever 2 (bought for just this occasion).
Words: 6,330.
Total words: 145,067.
Reason for stopping: The book is over, long live the book.
Music: the Deadline play list and random shuffle.
Lilly and Alice: the tan cat tree and the orange cat tree, respectively.
First draft stats:
Pages: 498
Chapters: twenty-seven, plus a coda
Started: July 26, 2008
Finished: February 20, 2010
Feed took from September 2005 to December 2007 to write—roughly twenty-seven months. Deadline took me nineteen months to write. This is a good learning curve, and hopefully means that I can write Blackout in eleven months (hey, a girl can dream, right?). These are monster-length books, especially when compared to my normal, conservative "101,000 to 112,000 words" word count volumes. But they're necessary words. These books aren't padded at all. They're the length they are because that's the length they need to be.
And it means we get to spend more time together. I really miss and mourn my books when they're finished, and yeah, draft two gets to happen now, but draft two isn't the same. Draft two is about smoothing out the continuity, fixing the pacing, and picking up any dropped threads. Book three is where I get to start making things up again.
I'm amazed and shaky and a little off-balance. I am now going to go eat ice cream and watch Cabin Fever 2 (bought for just this occasion).
- Current Mood:
blank - Current Music:Hem, "We'll Meet Along the Way."
Words: 14,029
Total words: 138,737.
Estimated to go: 6,063.
Reason for stopping: This is actually from last night. It was time to stop writing and get some sleep.
Music: Lady GaGa, Glee, the Counting Crows, and the cats complaining about being ignored.
Lilly and Alice: probably asleep right now, the little feline traitors.
So despite my somewhat belated realization that the book was 20,000 words longer than I originally thought it was going to be, things are chugging right along, and I'm on target to finish the first draft this weekend. Luckily, I have Sooj and K showing back up at my place on Monday, thus giving me an excuse to celebrate successful completion with cupcakes. My current estimates say that I'm a chapter and a half and the coda away from being done done done-y mcdonecakes. Whee!
(I also have a list of elements/themes to look for during the revision, and things that either need to be tightened up, redacted for being unnecessary, or reworded to make sense to people who don't think reading about the life-cycle of Ebola is fun. But that's what the second draft is for.)
I feel both insanely accomplished and very sort of shell-shocked, like this is the beginning of the ending. I've grown to really love this world and these characters. I've been a horror girl all my life, and Feed was my first horror novel, and Newsflesh my first horror series. But now book two is ending, and book three will only last a year, and then...
Well, then, I guess it's back to the drawing board to find something else to scare me. Six thousand words to go.
We're almost there.
Total words: 138,737.
Estimated to go: 6,063.
Reason for stopping: This is actually from last night. It was time to stop writing and get some sleep.
Music: Lady GaGa, Glee, the Counting Crows, and the cats complaining about being ignored.
Lilly and Alice: probably asleep right now, the little feline traitors.
So despite my somewhat belated realization that the book was 20,000 words longer than I originally thought it was going to be, things are chugging right along, and I'm on target to finish the first draft this weekend. Luckily, I have Sooj and K showing back up at my place on Monday, thus giving me an excuse to celebrate successful completion with cupcakes. My current estimates say that I'm a chapter and a half and the coda away from being done done done-y mcdonecakes. Whee!
(I also have a list of elements/themes to look for during the revision, and things that either need to be tightened up, redacted for being unnecessary, or reworded to make sense to people who don't think reading about the life-cycle of Ebola is fun. But that's what the second draft is for.)
I feel both insanely accomplished and very sort of shell-shocked, like this is the beginning of the ending. I've grown to really love this world and these characters. I've been a horror girl all my life, and Feed was my first horror novel, and Newsflesh my first horror series. But now book two is ending, and book three will only last a year, and then...
Well, then, I guess it's back to the drawing board to find something else to scare me. Six thousand words to go.
We're almost there.
- Current Mood: thoughtful
- Current Music:Brooke Lunderville, "My Time Again."
It's Lupercalia, and more, it's time for me to make my monthly current projects post, wherein I prove to the curious that I either don't sleep or have access to some mechanism for stopping time (don't I wish). There's a reason I start to giggle and twitch whenever someone asks me "What are you working on?", and this post provides a bit of explanation. It also serves as something I can point to when the question gets asked, which it does. This is the February list of current projects, because I am the gift that keeps on giving.
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first four Toby books are off this list, because they have been finished and turned in. You can purchase Rosemary and Rue [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. You can pre-order A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. An Artificial Night and Late Eclipses are off the list until The Editor tells me otherwise.
The first Newsflesh book, Feed, is off the list because it has been turned in to The Other Editor. Not only that, but my page proofs have been finished and returned. You'll see this bad boy again when it comes rolling off the presses! Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first four Toby books are off this list, because they have been finished and turned in. You can purchase Rosemary and Rue [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. You can pre-order A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. An Artificial Night and Late Eclipses are off the list until The Editor tells me otherwise.
The first Newsflesh book, Feed, is off the list because it has been turned in to The Other Editor. Not only that, but my page proofs have been finished and returned. You'll see this bad boy again when it comes rolling off the presses! Discount Armageddon is off the list because it has been turned in to The Agent.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Random shuffle, "Earthquake Weather."
I have all these things I want to talk about. Like, my little running junk file contains about three dozen links, and a long list of blog topics (written in my customary all-caps shorthand, so the word "fuck" is pretty heavily represented—sometimes I'm a Kevin Smith movie). Instead, I spent much of my morning mastering the phrase "working for our robot overlords—did I say 'overlords'? I meant 'protectors,'" in American Sign Language. This is a highly useful phrase, and one which I am currently using quite a lot. Sure, I'm using it quite a lot because I just learned how to say it, but the theory is sound.
Other things I can say in ASL:
* The turtle couldn't/can't help you/me/us.
* I will kill you with a chainsaw now.
* I have a parasite inside my brain.
* Ninja!
* Giant metal Santa Claus.
* The salad of infinite despair.
* Moose lobotomy time. Call the moose lobotomist.
* Die in a fire.
* The Black Death.
* Octopus fellatio.
* Science/mad science.
* I want to eat your brain.
* ZOMBIE.
Naturally, I have learned these specific phrases because they are extremely useful in my daily life, and not because I enjoy signing "the salad of infinite despair" at people when they annoy me. Honest.
My current adventures in ASL are strongly fueled by the fact that I have essentially managed to freezer burn my brain as I race through Deadline like I'm being pursued by a pack of rabid weasels. The book is about 15,000 words from over, and I have a very solid idea of what all those words need to be; it's just a matter of getting them onto the page. I alternate between wanting to snarl at anything that keeps me from writing, and wanting to keep myself from writing, since soon, I won't have a book anymore. There will be other books. There will be edits and revisions on this book. But it won't be the same, and it will never be the same again, and after this, I only get to spend one more book in this universe. That's going to hurt. In the course of three volumes, I'll have essentially written four and a half Toby books-worth of story (these are big-ass books), and that makes the Masons and their companions really well-established denizens of my head. I'm going to wind up writing the parasite trilogy just to get myself through the grieving stage. This is, by the way, why I am drowning in series.
(I have friends who only write in single volumes. Bam bam bam, book book book, done. They view my addiction to series with horrified confusion, and some of them have commented that they wish they could do that. In the spirit of the seaweed always being greener in somebody else's lake, I envy the people who can write a book and be done. The closest I get to writing a book and being done is plotting to give certain characters only one POV volume in the InCryptid series. My brain is wired oddly.)
One of my "waiting in the wings" protagonists is a woman named Alice Price-Healy (Verity's grandmother), whose tastes run to camouflage pants, fabrics that can be easily treated for bloodstains, and lots and lots of weapons. She's a hopeless romantic, having spent the last thirty or so years spelunking through the various dimensions surrounding her own as she tries to find her missing husband. Who is probably getting punched in the face if and when she finally finds him, since she's been scared to death for decades now. Anyway, my darlingfireriven pointed me to something on Etsy, and in browsing the seller's other items, I found a red glass heart pendant with an old-fashioned six-shooter charm dangling from it. I stared. My inner Alice announced her covetousness.
I bought the necklace. It arrived in yesterday's mail, and it is awesome. Best of all, when someone asked me where I found it and what made me buy it (since I don't buy much jewelry that isn't fromchimera_fancies), I was able to honestly reply "Oh, the one of the people who lives inside my head told me to." Sowing confusion is fun!
Seriously, though, I think my brain is bruised. I'm going to go home tonight and knock out another 3,000 words or so before watching Leverage, and tomorrow night, I'll go home and knock out 5,000 to 8,000, since I have no bedtime on Fridays. And after I do this a few more times, the book will be over, and I'll need to start occupying my time with something else. Like The Brightest Fell, and starting Blackout, and petting the cats. Oh, and learning how to say "behold, for now I wear the human pants" in ASL.
You know. The important things.
Other things I can say in ASL:
* The turtle couldn't/can't help you/me/us.
* I will kill you with a chainsaw now.
* I have a parasite inside my brain.
* Ninja!
* Giant metal Santa Claus.
* The salad of infinite despair.
* Moose lobotomy time. Call the moose lobotomist.
* Die in a fire.
* The Black Death.
* Octopus fellatio.
* Science/mad science.
* I want to eat your brain.
* ZOMBIE.
Naturally, I have learned these specific phrases because they are extremely useful in my daily life, and not because I enjoy signing "the salad of infinite despair" at people when they annoy me. Honest.
My current adventures in ASL are strongly fueled by the fact that I have essentially managed to freezer burn my brain as I race through Deadline like I'm being pursued by a pack of rabid weasels. The book is about 15,000 words from over, and I have a very solid idea of what all those words need to be; it's just a matter of getting them onto the page. I alternate between wanting to snarl at anything that keeps me from writing, and wanting to keep myself from writing, since soon, I won't have a book anymore. There will be other books. There will be edits and revisions on this book. But it won't be the same, and it will never be the same again, and after this, I only get to spend one more book in this universe. That's going to hurt. In the course of three volumes, I'll have essentially written four and a half Toby books-worth of story (these are big-ass books), and that makes the Masons and their companions really well-established denizens of my head. I'm going to wind up writing the parasite trilogy just to get myself through the grieving stage. This is, by the way, why I am drowning in series.
(I have friends who only write in single volumes. Bam bam bam, book book book, done. They view my addiction to series with horrified confusion, and some of them have commented that they wish they could do that. In the spirit of the seaweed always being greener in somebody else's lake, I envy the people who can write a book and be done. The closest I get to writing a book and being done is plotting to give certain characters only one POV volume in the InCryptid series. My brain is wired oddly.)
One of my "waiting in the wings" protagonists is a woman named Alice Price-Healy (Verity's grandmother), whose tastes run to camouflage pants, fabrics that can be easily treated for bloodstains, and lots and lots of weapons. She's a hopeless romantic, having spent the last thirty or so years spelunking through the various dimensions surrounding her own as she tries to find her missing husband. Who is probably getting punched in the face if and when she finally finds him, since she's been scared to death for decades now. Anyway, my darling
fireriven pointed me to something on Etsy, and in browsing the seller's other items, I found a red glass heart pendant with an old-fashioned six-shooter charm dangling from it. I stared. My inner Alice announced her covetousness.I bought the necklace. It arrived in yesterday's mail, and it is awesome. Best of all, when someone asked me where I found it and what made me buy it (since I don't buy much jewelry that isn't from
chimera_fancies), I was able to honestly reply "Oh, the one of the people who lives inside my head told me to." Sowing confusion is fun!Seriously, though, I think my brain is bruised. I'm going to go home tonight and knock out another 3,000 words or so before watching Leverage, and tomorrow night, I'll go home and knock out 5,000 to 8,000, since I have no bedtime on Fridays. And after I do this a few more times, the book will be over, and I'll need to start occupying my time with something else. Like The Brightest Fell, and starting Blackout, and petting the cats. Oh, and learning how to say "behold, for now I wear the human pants" in ASL.
You know. The important things.
- Current Mood: tired
- Current Music:Jonathan Coulton, "Chiron Beta Prime."
Dear Great Pumpkin;
In the days since I last wrote to you, I have continued to be reasonably well-behaved, within the limits of my circumstances. I have comforted those who needed comfort, and refrained from feeding those who caused them to need comfort into any wood-chippers that happened to be sitting around. I have listened to the troubles of others. I have shared my ice cream, willingly, without being blackmailed. I have not summoned the slumbering Old Ones from their beds beneath the Pacific, or commanded them to destroy all humans. I have continued to make all my deadlines, even the ones I most wanted to avoid. I have not talked about pandemics at the dinner table. Much. So obviously, I have been quite well-behaved, especially considering my nature.
Today, Great Pumpkin, I am asking for the following gifts:
* A smooth and successful release for A Local Habitation, with books shipping when they're meant to ship, stores putting them out when they're supposed to put them out, and reviews that are accurate, insightful, and capable of steering people who will enjoy my book to read it. Please, Great Pumpkin, show mercy on your loving Pumpkin Princess of the West, and let it all be wonderful. I'm not asking you to make it easy, Great Pumpkin, but I'm asking you to make it good.
* Please help me finish Deadline in a satisfying, explosive, timely way, hopefully including lots of zombies and horrible perversions of medical science. I'm about twenty thousand words from the end of this book, which is both not nearly enough, and way too many for me to be happy about it. I want to bring this book to a close, so I can get back to work on the fifth Toby book and start working on the third Newsflesh book. What I have is good. Please let the rest be amazing.
* While I'm asking for miracles, please let the rest of The Brightest Fell suddenly come clear to me, so that I can begin working at my usual disturbingly rapid speed. I was hoping to have this book finished before A Local Habitation hits shelves. That's obviously not going to happen, which means I've already been punished for my hubris, and deserve to have things start moving again. Right, Great Pumpkin? The more time I have to spend stressing out over this book, the less time I spend preaching your gospel to the unenlightened, or lurking in corn mazes scaring the living crap out of tourists. You like it when I scare the crap out of tourists, don't you, Great Pumpkin?
* My cats are fantastic, Great Pumpkin, and I'm so very grateful. Alice is huge now, and has truly grown into her birthright as your spiritual, if not literal, daughter. When she runs through the house, it's like watching a burning cornfield through thick smoke. Lilly is smug and satisfied, as is only right and proper for a Siamese, and watches her sister with easy disdain. Please let them stay healthy, Great Pumpkin, and please let them stay exactly as they are. I couldn't be more appreciative of their glory.
* Well-staggered and easily-managed deadlines for my various anthology and short story projects through the next six months—and while I'm making requests, please let me keep getting anthology invitations, as they are sort of the ultimate literary trick-or-treat adventure. I have written you two of the three short stories with the Fighting Pumpkins cheerleading squad that I originally promised, and I'm planning the origin stories for Hailey and Scaredy for this Halloween. I keep my promises. Now please keep giving me reason to promise you things.
* A successful launch for Mira Grant, my evil twin, Lady of the Haunted Cornfield, Halloween Trick to my Halloween Treat. The books I will be publishing under her name are incredibly dear to me, and I hope and pray that they become equally dear to the rest of the world. I am an old-school horror girl, Great Pumpkin, and these are my offerings to the holy genre. Let others love them as I do, and let Mira be welcomed by the readers with open, eager arms. I want to conquer the world in your name, and this is a very important step.
I remain your faithful Halloween girl,
Seanan.
PS: While you're at it, can you please turn your graces on InCryptid? I really love these books. I want to be able to write more of them.
In the days since I last wrote to you, I have continued to be reasonably well-behaved, within the limits of my circumstances. I have comforted those who needed comfort, and refrained from feeding those who caused them to need comfort into any wood-chippers that happened to be sitting around. I have listened to the troubles of others. I have shared my ice cream, willingly, without being blackmailed. I have not summoned the slumbering Old Ones from their beds beneath the Pacific, or commanded them to destroy all humans. I have continued to make all my deadlines, even the ones I most wanted to avoid. I have not talked about pandemics at the dinner table. Much. So obviously, I have been quite well-behaved, especially considering my nature.
Today, Great Pumpkin, I am asking for the following gifts:
* A smooth and successful release for A Local Habitation, with books shipping when they're meant to ship, stores putting them out when they're supposed to put them out, and reviews that are accurate, insightful, and capable of steering people who will enjoy my book to read it. Please, Great Pumpkin, show mercy on your loving Pumpkin Princess of the West, and let it all be wonderful. I'm not asking you to make it easy, Great Pumpkin, but I'm asking you to make it good.
* Please help me finish Deadline in a satisfying, explosive, timely way, hopefully including lots of zombies and horrible perversions of medical science. I'm about twenty thousand words from the end of this book, which is both not nearly enough, and way too many for me to be happy about it. I want to bring this book to a close, so I can get back to work on the fifth Toby book and start working on the third Newsflesh book. What I have is good. Please let the rest be amazing.
* While I'm asking for miracles, please let the rest of The Brightest Fell suddenly come clear to me, so that I can begin working at my usual disturbingly rapid speed. I was hoping to have this book finished before A Local Habitation hits shelves. That's obviously not going to happen, which means I've already been punished for my hubris, and deserve to have things start moving again. Right, Great Pumpkin? The more time I have to spend stressing out over this book, the less time I spend preaching your gospel to the unenlightened, or lurking in corn mazes scaring the living crap out of tourists. You like it when I scare the crap out of tourists, don't you, Great Pumpkin?
* My cats are fantastic, Great Pumpkin, and I'm so very grateful. Alice is huge now, and has truly grown into her birthright as your spiritual, if not literal, daughter. When she runs through the house, it's like watching a burning cornfield through thick smoke. Lilly is smug and satisfied, as is only right and proper for a Siamese, and watches her sister with easy disdain. Please let them stay healthy, Great Pumpkin, and please let them stay exactly as they are. I couldn't be more appreciative of their glory.
* Well-staggered and easily-managed deadlines for my various anthology and short story projects through the next six months—and while I'm making requests, please let me keep getting anthology invitations, as they are sort of the ultimate literary trick-or-treat adventure. I have written you two of the three short stories with the Fighting Pumpkins cheerleading squad that I originally promised, and I'm planning the origin stories for Hailey and Scaredy for this Halloween. I keep my promises. Now please keep giving me reason to promise you things.
* A successful launch for Mira Grant, my evil twin, Lady of the Haunted Cornfield, Halloween Trick to my Halloween Treat. The books I will be publishing under her name are incredibly dear to me, and I hope and pray that they become equally dear to the rest of the world. I am an old-school horror girl, Great Pumpkin, and these are my offerings to the holy genre. Let others love them as I do, and let Mira be welcomed by the readers with open, eager arms. I want to conquer the world in your name, and this is a very important step.
I remain your faithful Halloween girl,
Seanan.
PS: While you're at it, can you please turn your graces on InCryptid? I really love these books. I want to be able to write more of them.
- Current Mood: hopeful
- Current Music:Jonathan Coulton, "Chiron Beta Prime."
Words: 21,383.
Total words: 124,708.
Estimated to go: 20,292.
Reason for stopping: ...I appear to have just finished Book IV. I think that makes it time to stop for the night.
Music: random shuffle, heavy on the Rob Zombie. It seems appropriate.
Lilly and Alice: bed and cat tree, respectively.
Holy crap.
That is all.
Total words: 124,708.
Estimated to go: 20,292.
Reason for stopping: ...I appear to have just finished Book IV. I think that makes it time to stop for the night.
Music: random shuffle, heavy on the Rob Zombie. It seems appropriate.
Lilly and Alice: bed and cat tree, respectively.
Holy crap.
That is all.
- Current Mood: blank
- Current Music:Stars Fall Home, "Earthquake Weather."
If you go browsing around my blog today, you may find yourself faced with a few...surreal...changes. For one thing, the tag labeled "deadline" suddenly points to a lot of entries (as opposed to the tag labeled "deadlines," which mostly points to panic attacks). For another, clicking on that tag will take you to a lot of current project and word count posts, going back quite some time.
No, you haven't slipped into a parallel universe. The second book in the Newsflesh trilogy has changed titles, going from Blackout to Deadline, which was originally the title of the third book. The third book is now titled Blackout, bringing us full circle in our ride on the Ferris wheel of what-the-fuck.
No, I didn't do this just to be confusing. While I, personally, wouldn't put that sort of thing past me if I got bored enough, The Other Editor would never let me do it. So why the title change? Several reasons, really. Let me explain.
When I got the new issue of Locus, I saw that Connie Willis had a new book coming out. Now, Connie Willis is an author I very much respect and admire, and I was very excited. She wrote some of my favorite books, like Promised Land and Bellwether. So I looked up the name of her exciting upcoming release...and saw that it was a hardcover titled Blackout. Whoops.
The normal life-cycle for hardcovers has them coming out in paperback six months to a year after the original hardcover release. This seemed to me to be uncomfortably close to the release of the second Newsflesh book, and so I contacted The Other Editor to flail a bit. I'm good at flailing. Once I was finished flailing, we took a critical look at all three titles, and realized that they were wrong anyway. Book two is about racing a deadline you can't see or stop, and book three, well...book three makes a much better Blackout.
Trust me.
Now, I might have been a little more unhappy about the title changes, if I weren't so busy doing the dance of joy. It's pretty common knowledge that deadlines make me crazy. I was thus reasonably concerned about what would happen when I spent an entire year writing a book that was actually titled that. "I have to make the deadline on Deadline" just seems like the sort of statement that's designed to make me start biting people at random. Switching the names means that I just spent an entire year working on a book called Deadline, only I didn't realize it, and hence didn't freak out. Score one for weird psychology.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Newsflesh trilogy:
* Feed, May 2010.
* Deadline, May 2011.
* Blackout, May 2012.
When will you rise?
No, you haven't slipped into a parallel universe. The second book in the Newsflesh trilogy has changed titles, going from Blackout to Deadline, which was originally the title of the third book. The third book is now titled Blackout, bringing us full circle in our ride on the Ferris wheel of what-the-fuck.
No, I didn't do this just to be confusing. While I, personally, wouldn't put that sort of thing past me if I got bored enough, The Other Editor would never let me do it. So why the title change? Several reasons, really. Let me explain.
When I got the new issue of Locus, I saw that Connie Willis had a new book coming out. Now, Connie Willis is an author I very much respect and admire, and I was very excited. She wrote some of my favorite books, like Promised Land and Bellwether. So I looked up the name of her exciting upcoming release...and saw that it was a hardcover titled Blackout. Whoops.
The normal life-cycle for hardcovers has them coming out in paperback six months to a year after the original hardcover release. This seemed to me to be uncomfortably close to the release of the second Newsflesh book, and so I contacted The Other Editor to flail a bit. I'm good at flailing. Once I was finished flailing, we took a critical look at all three titles, and realized that they were wrong anyway. Book two is about racing a deadline you can't see or stop, and book three, well...book three makes a much better Blackout.
Trust me.
Now, I might have been a little more unhappy about the title changes, if I weren't so busy doing the dance of joy. It's pretty common knowledge that deadlines make me crazy. I was thus reasonably concerned about what would happen when I spent an entire year writing a book that was actually titled that. "I have to make the deadline on Deadline" just seems like the sort of statement that's designed to make me start biting people at random. Switching the names means that I just spent an entire year working on a book called Deadline, only I didn't realize it, and hence didn't freak out. Score one for weird psychology.
Ladies and gentlemen, the Newsflesh trilogy:
* Feed, May 2010.
* Deadline, May 2011.
* Blackout, May 2012.
When will you rise?
- Current Mood: geeky
- Current Music:Miley Cyrus, "Party in the USA."
Words: 3,086.
Total words: 103,325.
Estimated to go: 21,675.
Reason for stopping: I fly to Seattle tomorrow, it's time to stop.
Music: the Midnight Blue-Light Special playlist, oddly enough.
Lilly and Alice: cat tree and cardboard box, respectively.
I have reached the irritating and fiddly bit of setting things up before blowing them up. I hate this bit. It's difficult and irritating and also, yes, fiddly. I have also reached the fascinating bit where I can literally see the ending, it's right there, and the book will pay off soon. Hopefully it will pay off big time, and then there can be the finest muffins and bagels in the land. Until then, I shall scowl at the keg of victory, and pack my socks for tomorrow's long-distance voyage.
Whee.
Total words: 103,325.
Estimated to go: 21,675.
Reason for stopping: I fly to Seattle tomorrow, it's time to stop.
Music: the Midnight Blue-Light Special playlist, oddly enough.
Lilly and Alice: cat tree and cardboard box, respectively.
I have reached the irritating and fiddly bit of setting things up before blowing them up. I hate this bit. It's difficult and irritating and also, yes, fiddly. I have also reached the fascinating bit where I can literally see the ending, it's right there, and the book will pay off soon. Hopefully it will pay off big time, and then there can be the finest muffins and bagels in the land. Until then, I shall scowl at the keg of victory, and pack my socks for tomorrow's long-distance voyage.
Whee.
- Current Mood:
zombified - Current Music:Sixpence None the Richer, "Kiss Me."
Words: 8,232.
Total words: 100,239.
Estimated to go: 24,761.
Reason for stopping: end of chapter eighteen; hit 100,000 words.
Music: the Midnight Blue-Light Special playlist, oddly enough.
Lilly and Alice: cat tree and bed, respectively.
In case you ever wondered, jumping around punching the air and whooping is a much better idea when you're not recovering from a nasty head cold which has turned into a chest cold (complete with horrifyingly unpleasant-sounding cough). I sound like death under normal circumstances right now, and the circumstances following sudden calisthenics were...unusual. On the plus side, I didn't die, and the cats have calmed down, although things were a little touchy here for a few minutes, on account of my choking and their freaking out.
So I am now 100,000 words into Deadline, and have hit the point where it's about to become all boom, all the time. I have some plans in the next week (movies on Friday, the Burns Supper on Saturday), but I expect that by this time in two weeks, I'll be done with the first draft. I'm on-target for my end-of-January goal. That gives me five months, maximum, to go through revisions and redrafts before my editor would really, really like to see proof that I actually wrote a book, rather than, I don't know, going to Disneyworld for the year. And then, Deadline, the book where I put paid to everything. Everything.
This has been exhilarating and terrifying and amazing and a whole bunch of other things. This is my first trilogy, for all that we sold three Toby books in the first contract; it's the first set of stories that are really just all steps along the road to the same story, pieces of a greater whole, and I couldn't be more excited.
Alive or dead, the truth won't rest. When will you rise?
Total words: 100,239.
Estimated to go: 24,761.
Reason for stopping: end of chapter eighteen; hit 100,000 words.
Music: the Midnight Blue-Light Special playlist, oddly enough.
Lilly and Alice: cat tree and bed, respectively.
In case you ever wondered, jumping around punching the air and whooping is a much better idea when you're not recovering from a nasty head cold which has turned into a chest cold (complete with horrifyingly unpleasant-sounding cough). I sound like death under normal circumstances right now, and the circumstances following sudden calisthenics were...unusual. On the plus side, I didn't die, and the cats have calmed down, although things were a little touchy here for a few minutes, on account of my choking and their freaking out.
So I am now 100,000 words into Deadline, and have hit the point where it's about to become all boom, all the time. I have some plans in the next week (movies on Friday, the Burns Supper on Saturday), but I expect that by this time in two weeks, I'll be done with the first draft. I'm on-target for my end-of-January goal. That gives me five months, maximum, to go through revisions and redrafts before my editor would really, really like to see proof that I actually wrote a book, rather than, I don't know, going to Disneyworld for the year. And then, Deadline, the book where I put paid to everything. Everything.
This has been exhilarating and terrifying and amazing and a whole bunch of other things. This is my first trilogy, for all that we sold three Toby books in the first contract; it's the first set of stories that are really just all steps along the road to the same story, pieces of a greater whole, and I couldn't be more excited.
Alive or dead, the truth won't rest. When will you rise?
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:Lady Gaga, "Bad Romance."
It's the ides of January, and that makes it time for the monthly current projects post, wherein I prove to the curious that I either don't sleep or have access to some mechanism for stopping time (don't I wish). There's a reason I start to giggle and twitch whenever someone asks me "What are you working on?", and this post provides a bit of explanation. It also serves as something I can point to when the question gets asked, which it does. This is the January list of current projects, because I am the gift that keeps on giving.
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first four Toby books are off this list, because they have been finished and turned in. You can purchase Rosemary and Rue [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. You can pre-order A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. An Artificial Night and Late Eclipses are off the list until The Editor tells me otherwise.
The first Newsflesh book, Feed, is off the list because it has been turned in to The Other Editor. Not only that, but my page proofs have been finished and returned. You'll see this bad boy again when it comes rolling off the presses! Discount Armageddon is off the list because the first draft has been finished, and it'll be a little bit before revisions start.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
To quote myself, being too harried to say something new: "These posts are labeled with the month and year, in case somebody eventually gets the crazy urge to timeline my work cycles (it'll probably be me). Behold the proof that I don't actually sleep; I just whimper and keep writing."
Please note that the first four Toby books are off this list, because they have been finished and turned in. You can purchase Rosemary and Rue [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. You can pre-order A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] now. An Artificial Night and Late Eclipses are off the list until The Editor tells me otherwise.
The first Newsflesh book, Feed, is off the list because it has been turned in to The Other Editor. Not only that, but my page proofs have been finished and returned. You'll see this bad boy again when it comes rolling off the presses! Discount Armageddon is off the list because the first draft has been finished, and it'll be a little bit before revisions start.
The cut-tag is here to stay, because no matter what I do, it seems like this list just keeps on getting longer. But that's okay, because at least it means I'm never actively bored. I have horror movies and terrible things from the swamp to keep me company.
( What's Seanan working on now? Click to find out!Collapse )
- Current Mood: busy
- Current Music:Meat Loaf, "Good Girls Go To Heaven."
Words: 4,606.
Total words: 92,007.
Estimated to go: 34,993.
Reason for stopping: done for tonight.
Music: mostly Meat Loaf and selections from Broadway.
Lilly and Alice: on the orange cat tree.
Tonight's word count is less based on "I have achieved some great goal," and more on "I am done for tonight and wanted to actually post about my progress for the first time this year." I've managed to break 90,000 words, which is pretty awesome; as you can see by the new column, "Estimated to go," I have a decent grasp of how much work is still ahead of me, and I'm on target to finish my first draft in a reasonable amount of time.
Deadline is the first book I've written while under contract, which has been an interesting experience for me. I'm used to setting all my own deadlines, creating a feeling of artificial urgency that's really just based on wanting to finish the book before it stops being a friend and starts becoming that house guest that just won't go the hell away. Now I have real deadlines, and real urgency. It's been less jarring than I was afraid it would be, probably because I had already written Feed when we sold the trilogy. I know where I'm going, I know how I'm going to get there, and now all that's left is finding out where I'll be stopping along the way.
I figure that from here, all the territory is familiar and awesome, and that's pretty damn cool. My focus is starting to narrow as I knock the short stories and blog posts off my "to do" list, honing in on what really matters: the end of the world.
When will you rise?
Total words: 92,007.
Estimated to go: 34,993.
Reason for stopping: done for tonight.
Music: mostly Meat Loaf and selections from Broadway.
Lilly and Alice: on the orange cat tree.
Tonight's word count is less based on "I have achieved some great goal," and more on "I am done for tonight and wanted to actually post about my progress for the first time this year." I've managed to break 90,000 words, which is pretty awesome; as you can see by the new column, "Estimated to go," I have a decent grasp of how much work is still ahead of me, and I'm on target to finish my first draft in a reasonable amount of time.
Deadline is the first book I've written while under contract, which has been an interesting experience for me. I'm used to setting all my own deadlines, creating a feeling of artificial urgency that's really just based on wanting to finish the book before it stops being a friend and starts becoming that house guest that just won't go the hell away. Now I have real deadlines, and real urgency. It's been less jarring than I was afraid it would be, probably because I had already written Feed when we sold the trilogy. I know where I'm going, I know how I'm going to get there, and now all that's left is finding out where I'll be stopping along the way.
I figure that from here, all the territory is familiar and awesome, and that's pretty damn cool. My focus is starting to narrow as I knock the short stories and blog posts off my "to do" list, honing in on what really matters: the end of the world.
When will you rise?
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:Counting Crows, "Hard Candy."
Words: 6,064.
Total words: 87,401.
Reason for stopping: end of chapter sixteen.
Music: Girlyman and Glee.
Lilly and Alice: sleeping in my backpack.
As of this evening, I have managed to break three hundred manuscript pages. Exactly. (To be fair, I cheated juuuuuuust a little, and went ahead and wrote the blog post that opens chapter seventeen. Come on, it was that or walk away at two hundred and ninety-nine pages. That's the kind of choice that leads to getting up at three in the morning to start writing again, and that's just no good for anybody.) I'll probably break 90,000 words by the time I get to Seattle, what with that whole "airplane ride" that I have to take to get there. Great Pumpkin bless my Netbook, that's really all I have to say about that.
My page proofs for Feed have been finished and returned to my publisher. I have cover proofs for the US and UK editions of the book; they keep surprising me when I see them out of the corner of my eye, like "Who wrote that? Who's Mira Grant?" followed by "Oh, yeah. I did. That's me." It's like having a secret identity, only instead of being a superhero, she's a total bad-ass horror movie heroine, ready to kick ass and take names (all while having fabulous hair, naturally).
I estimate I have about another 38,000 words to go on this book, give or take a couple of thousand. That's a lot of wordage...but it's a lot of plot. And then I get to revise, and rewrite, and finally stand on the edge of yet another precipice, looking out over the unexplored country of Blackout. I'm almost there.
When will you rise?
Total words: 87,401.
Reason for stopping: end of chapter sixteen.
Music: Girlyman and Glee.
Lilly and Alice: sleeping in my backpack.
As of this evening, I have managed to break three hundred manuscript pages. Exactly. (To be fair, I cheated juuuuuuust a little, and went ahead and wrote the blog post that opens chapter seventeen. Come on, it was that or walk away at two hundred and ninety-nine pages. That's the kind of choice that leads to getting up at three in the morning to start writing again, and that's just no good for anybody.) I'll probably break 90,000 words by the time I get to Seattle, what with that whole "airplane ride" that I have to take to get there. Great Pumpkin bless my Netbook, that's really all I have to say about that.
My page proofs for Feed have been finished and returned to my publisher. I have cover proofs for the US and UK editions of the book; they keep surprising me when I see them out of the corner of my eye, like "Who wrote that? Who's Mira Grant?" followed by "Oh, yeah. I did. That's me." It's like having a secret identity, only instead of being a superhero, she's a total bad-ass horror movie heroine, ready to kick ass and take names (all while having fabulous hair, naturally).
I estimate I have about another 38,000 words to go on this book, give or take a couple of thousand. That's a lot of wordage...but it's a lot of plot. And then I get to revise, and rewrite, and finally stand on the edge of yet another precipice, looking out over the unexplored country of Blackout. I'm almost there.
When will you rise?
- Current Mood: ecstatic
- Current Music:The Last Five Years, "Goodbye Until Tomorrow."
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