I'm tired.

I don't mean "Seanan needs a nap." I mean "crying at the slightest provocation, reciting primes to keep myself motivated to finish taking a shower, ready to curl up in a ball and die." So please. I am begging you here. I mean literally, I'm begging. Please...

...don't email me and then get angry when you don't get an instantaneous reply.

...don't ask why you can't have the next book NOW RIGHT NOW. I mean, unless your goal is seeing me cry. In that case, knock yourself out.

...don't tell me I'm neglecting my friends/social life/sanity when I don't come to your party. You know what? I know I'm neglecting those things. You know what else? I don't have a choice right now. I'm sorry. I wish I did. But I don't.

I am out of go. My candle is burning at both ends, and starting to melt in the middle. So handle me gently, do not prod me with sticks, and do not tell me I need to "take time for me." If the time existed, I would take it. It doesn't exist for me to take.

I'm tired.

In the interests of not turning a PSA into another source of stress, I will not be answering comments on this entry. Thank you for understanding.

1. I have done mailing! Very nearly all the mailing, in point of fact; the only things that are a) paid for/contest prizes, and b) still in my possession are Lu's posters (trying to make sure I didn't double-pack them) and seawench's ARC (returned by the post office, only just got confirmation that it was safe to ship a second time). So there is no mail waiting for me to do something with it! I dance the dance of joy.

2. Since this weekend is the Traveling Circus and Snake-Handling Show's fourth appearance at Borderlands, my mother's been cleaning my house from stem to stern, to get it ready for company. This, naturally, upsets the cats. Thomas has been expressing his displeasure by sulking in the kitchen and knocking over the trash can. He doesn't seem to understand that neither of these behaviors is going to do anything beyond getting him scooped and scolded.

3. Having assessed my current stress levels and their effect on my ability to get things done, I have taken a major step toward reducing them. Namely, I have set aside the to-be-read pile, turning my back on all those beguiling new stories and unfamiliar authors, and have picked up my dearest, most faithful literary companion: I am re-reading Stephen King's IT for the first time in well over a year. This is seriously the longest I have gone without reading this book since I was nine. So yes, it will be sweet balm for my stressed-out soul.

4. Safeway has two-liters of Diet Dr Pepper on sale for eighty-eight cents this week. This, too, is sweet balm for my stressed-out soul, but in a different way. A more hyperactive, I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME, kind of a way.

5. Still on the New York Times bestseller list. I check every day, just to see if I'm still there. Call it part of my monitoring routine against dimensional slide, and let it go. I feel like I should do something to celebrate, like another round of book giveaways or something, but that's going to have to wait until my capacity to cope catches up with the rest of me. Say around next Tuesday, at the current rate.

6. I am the Rain King.

7. Last night's episode of Glee made me happy the way the show used to make me happy in season one, and that was a wonderful thing. I'm glad I bought the soundtrack before the episode actually aired; it let me get used to the original songs the way I am to the covers, and assess the performance on the show based on the actual performance, not on "WAIT WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY SINGING." It's a thing.

8. Last night I dreamt a detailed remake of Nightmare on Elm Street, updated for the modern era, without sucking righteously. It was scary and strange and really awesome, and it says something about my psyche that I still don't think it was a nightmare. Sadly, I woke up before the end. Stupid alarm clock.

9. The bigger my cats get, the more I realize that I need a bigger bed. Which means I need a bigger bedroom. Which means I need a bigger house. Anyone know where I can find Dr. Wayne Szalinski's shrinking/enlarging ray?

10. Zombies are love, be excellent to one another, and party on, dudes.

Maybe deciding that I've had enough Diet Dr Pepper and cutting myself off doesn't do as much good if I promptly start drinking coffee instead.

Maybe this is why my hands are shaking.

Maybe I can vibrate through time...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleah.

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

Well, I'm over on Facebook now, for a variety of reasons, not least of which was -- let's be honest here -- I have a first novel coming out before too terribly much longer*, and it's a good idea to find anybody who might know me but not read this journal if I want them to be aware of that fact. In the current economy, skipping anything that increases potential readership is a little bit silly. Which doesn't mean I'm going to be standing naked on a highway overpass with a big sign reading 'BUY MY BOOK SO I CAN BUY SOME PANTS,' but when I hear about another small bookstore going under, well...the temptation is there.

So anyway, you can look me up as 'Seanan McGuire,' and get live pithy one-liners about the fact that I write a lot, watch a lot of television, and cook an awesome turkey. Thus far, mostly the former, the latter, and a lot of mentions of a) being too sick to die, and b) playing Rock Band 2. Did I mention that it was my Martian death flu that made Facebook look appealing? 'Cause yeah.

I have already found or been found by several people from high school, which I find somewhat daunting. But one of them may well be My Favorite Teacher Ever, so that's pretty awesome (I'm waiting for him to confirm or deny). It really is a fascinating networking model, one which honestly assumes that you'd love to get back in touch with your best friend from first grade. (I would. Natasha, call me.)

It's all very odd around here. And I have no DDP in the damn house at all.

(*Sadly, 'not terribly much longer' isn't a clever way of saying that I have a release date, 'cause I don't. It's a clever way of saying 'I had six hours of sleep, and am thus talking myself in pretty circles.' Well. Typing myself in pretty circles, anyway.)

Step one: Wake up. This is the least pleasing step. I was having a very pleasant dream about attending a convention in England with my agent and most of my crew of rotating musicians. Vixy and I got to raid a Tesco's. It was nice. Waking up was so not on the agenda.

Step two: Lilly realizes that I have woken up. On weekends, I tend to stay in bed long enough for Lilly to come over and spend some time on my chest, getting heavy-duty affection directed her way. This is because I foolishly believe that if I adore her enough before I start trying to do things, she might leave me alone to do them.

Step three: Check email. Hello, email. Yes, there certainly is a lot of you, and no, none of you really appears to matter. That's always a pleasant discovery on a Saturday morning, as the last thing I want is an emergency or for an unexpected deadline to pop up and wave to me.

Step four: Stare blankly at The Brightest Fell for about three minutes. After that, decide that I am not yet in the necessary head-space to struggle with navigating those particular waters, and close the file again. (Toby Daye, book five. Because finishing four of them in a year just wasn't enough.)

Step five: Copy-edit two chapters of the manuscript I'm currently copy-editing for a friend of mine. It's on today's to-do, even: 'edit chapters 10 and 11.' I am, at this point, sufficiently engrossed by the story that I wouldn't be surprised if that turned into 'and 12 and 13 and just keep going already,' but since I also have to finish the next Velveteen vs. today, it won't go on forever.

...and now, pants, and the ceremonial Saturday morning stroll to the 7-11, hence to obtain a soda whose volume is slightly more than the volume of my skull. Because that will make me feel better.

How's your Saturday?

Makeup: subtle, tasteful, not electric orange, good.

Shoes: sensible, cute, slight heel, do not hurt my feel, good.

Suit: still super-cute.

Manicure: exceedingly sparkly and orange, which has no possible negatives to it whatsoever.

Purse: capable of holding my usual day supplies, plus six CDs.

Pockets: ...yeah, I don't have any. Nor am I carrying any of my various sack or backpack-esque options. Which means I have no functional manner of transporting cans of DDP with me as I leave the house. My caffeine needs will have to be met entirely on the road.

Weep for New York. Weep for New York, and pray that they survive.