So I'm sitting here at my desk, trying to get some work done before Chris* gets here, and the cats keep telling me that I am failing. I am failing as a human being, failing as an author, and most importantly, failing as a monkey. I am not a) petting them, b) brushing them, c) letting them stick their claws in my thighs, d) feeding them, or e) going to the back room where they can sprawl on me and purr loudly, like I was a dragon they had just felled through sheer force of arms.

I think this is why so many authors have cats. They're always happy to tell us that we're flawed, and equally happy to tell us that they love us anyway, as long as we do what they want us to do. It's a perfect preparation for life as a working writer! Although most writers don't have cats that can actually physically restrain them when they feel the need (in other news, Thomas has had a growth spurt).

I really need to a) clean my room, and b) spend a few hours just taking pictures of toys, because most of them are creepy, and they watch me sleep, so you need to understand just how creepy they are. I want you to understand my pain. The cats do not mess with the creepy dolls. That's how creepy the creepy dolls are.

I don't think this post has a point beyond "life goes on." So this is my still life with cats and dolls. Happy Saturday!

(*Chris. One of my dearest friends of the last decade, although he lives just far enough away that I don't see him more than once or twice a month, and he doesn't do many conventions, so most people won't have met him. He's my horror movie buddy. This is just one of the many, many grenades which he cheerfully throws himself upon.)

So when I was in high school -- yes, it's time to date myself -- I used to hang out in various online chatrooms, like so many other high schoolers of my generation. And I wound up spending a lot of time chatting with Some Guy On The Internet. No, not in that way. We talked about poetry, and the books we were going to write someday, and shoes, and ships, and ceiling wax, and yes, cabbages and kings. We had entire email conversations in poetry, some of which was actually decent (and considering the condition of the majority of my high school poetry, this is an impressive statement).

Eventually, we lost touch. Then one day, I got an email from someone asking whether they could publish one of my poems -- not one of the bad ones -- in an online magazine. Yup. It was Some Guy. And that was, in fact, my first professional sale under my own name. I did not frame the check. I considered it. Hard.

A few years after that, I stumbled over a book called The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl, written by Some Guy...also known as Tim Pratt (tim_pratt). I was enchanted by the fact that he'd actually managed to get a book published, so I bought it. And read it. And discovered that it was REALLY GOOD. Like, squeal, dance, recommend to your friends, write songs about the book good. Which makes sense, given that he's, y'know, one of the youngest Hugo winners ever.

Why am I telling you all this? Two reasons.

First off, Tim is appearing at Borderlands Books, home of the freaky alien demon suede kittyfaces, tomorrow at three. It's going to be a lot of fun, and if you're local, you should absolutely come out. Support your home town authors and your totally kick-ass local bookstore at the same time.

Secondly, well, I know that not all of you can make it to Borderlands tomorrow. For one thing, the bookstore's not that big. Luckily for you, Tim is running a fiction sale, via which he will happily and enthusiastically hook you up with the sort of books that are well worth the reading. Also chapbooks and 'zines and damn near anything else you might need, all of it fabulous.

Tim Pratt. He used to be Some Guy. Now he's living in fear of my unleashing his ancient poetry on the world. Show the love!

Yesterday afternoon, I took Jon for what is becoming my regular tour through Borderlands Books, aka 'home of the freaky alien demon suede kittyfaces.' (Tip to the bookstores of the world: if you want me to come over a lot, get yourselves a naked cat. If you want me to avoid coming over, get, I don't know, a Persian.) We arrived to find the entire hive of demon cats playing bezoar in the back room, because nothing makes a bunch of naked cats cuter than becoming an undifferentiated ball of heaving, speckled flesh. Er, wait...

Jude was in the store, and I took great pleasure in showing her the cover print for Rosemary and Rue, which she was properly appreciative of -- I figure an author with new cover art is much like a parent with new baby pictures; you can hate it, but when they whip out their wallets, you'd better be prepared to coo over the fact that baby's got four limbs and a head -- before chatting for a bit about our various cats and the fact that All Cat Breeders Are Crazy. (It's true. It's just that some, like Betsy, are good crazy, while others are creepy won't let you into the house because maybe you're carrying the plague under your fingernails crazy.) Everyone's very much looking forward to Alice's arrival. Any bookstore that invites you to bring your Maine Coon for a visit with the creepy demon cats is a good bookstore.

Jude also rousted Ash for us, so that Jon could have his proper introduction to the glorious freakiness of the Sphinx. This was deeply pleasing unto me. I adore the freaky suede kittyfaces, and any day that they choose to grace with their presence is a good day for all of me.

As Jon and I were on our way out of the store (Jon having, naturally, purchased a souvenir postcard of Ripley), Jude stopped us. See, she was on the phone with Phil, confirming that the store had received their copies of Ravens in the Library. Yes: Borderlands has five copies of Ravens! They're gorgeous. And if you go down there, thus supporting your local bookstore and your local Sooj, you can totally buy one. Better still?

After Jude got off the phone, she asked if I wanted to sign them.

Nobody's ever asked me that before.

So yes, I signed their copies of Ravens in the Library -- signing several hundred CDs really makes you good at signing your name -- and walked home in a happy haze. You should, if you're local and haven't already ordered a copy, really go and pick one up. It's a truly gorgeous book. Better yet?

It's signed.

Kelley Armstrong, author of the Women of the Otherworld series, will be signing tonight (July 28th, 2008) at Borderlands Books. The signing is to celebrate the release of her first YA novel, and is in conjunction with a signing by Melissa Marr. The signing is at seven.

I'm very much looking forward to this. This is going to be Kelley Armstrong's first American signing appearance, which makes it sort of a big deal, and I've always enjoyed her work. Hopefully, it'll include a talk or a Q&A, as I'm really curious about her recently-announced book, Men of the Otherworld. Hmmmmm, says I...

Hope to see you there!