As of about fifteen minutes ago, the last of the first run of Wicked Girls shirts has been packed for mailing. As of this afternoon, the last fifty or so have gone out into the wild. They should be received over the next three to thirteen days or so, allowing for international postage. On Monday, when I get back from Texas, last ten will go into the mail. And then I will be done, except for the inevitable cleanup and sorting out of the last few issues.

At the moment, there are five shirts, belonging to three people, that haven't been packed. This is because three of those shirts appear to either a) be missing, or b) not exist. We're not sure which it is. Mom will be cleaning the entire shirt staging area over the weekend to figure out which is the case; considering that it was a total print run of almost three hundred shirts, three misprints is actually really good...unless one of those misprints was yours. On Monday, I'll be emailing anyone whose shirt still hasn't shown up to see how they want us to proceed.

(The options, if you're morbidly curious: refund, replacement with one of the shirts we still have, or replacement shirt printed in the next batch. Which yes, we are going to do. Now that we know where the pain points and delays are, we should be able to achieve the whole thing much more quickly, from initial order to final receipt.)

I have not, thus far, heard from anyone who received the wrong shirt, and I'm hopeful that this means nothing was mispacked at any stage during the entirely manual shipping process. "Hopeful" doesn't mean "certain." If you receive the wrong shirt, please let me know ASAP, as we only printed what was requested, and we'll need to figure something out.

Thanks again to everyone for your patience during this long, slow experiment. You've been awesome, and I really hope you like your shirts.

Recently, I got to meet An Author* who was hugely important to me as a child and young teen. The Author was settling in for a signing, which is, in my admittedly skewed little mind, the only time when it's totally appropriate to go "OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN IT'S YOU OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN I LOVE YOUR WORK OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN YOU MOLDED MY BRAIN AND NOW I AM A GROWNUP ADULT WHO WRITES THE BOOKS AND TELLS THE STORIES AND IT'S PARTIALLY BECAUSE OF YOU OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN." (This is accompanied by vibrating and doleful resistance of the urge to make with the flappy hands.)

I waited until The Author was properly settled, and then went up, introduced myself, flailed a bit, and said, with deep sincerity, "I've read everything."

Without missing a beat, and without laughing or otherwise tempering the statement, The Author replied, "No, you haven't."

It wasn't nicely said. It wasn't kindly said. It was just said, flatly and declaratively, like I would tell you to remove the dead rat from my kitchen table.

I was, to be absolutely honest, floored. The rest of the interaction was awkward and strained, and I walked away feeling utterly dismissed. I had been looking for a moment of connection with someone whose work had been enormously important to my life. I wound up wondering if I should have apologized for my enthusiasm, like I had somehow broken a rule. And that isn't how it's supposed to be.

I've been on both sides of this table. I've done signings where I was tired, where I had a headache, where my feet hurt so badly from pounding pavement all day that I just wanted to crawl back to my hotel room and die (guess which of these was at the San Diego Comic Convention). I know that sometimes, the last thing in the world you want is icepick enthusiasm drilling another hole in your head.

But.

If you have come to see me, unless I am so sick that you're getting hand sanitizer with your signature, I feel that I should answer your enthusiasm with a smile, and say "thank you" until I turn blue in the face. I am my own person when I'm not behind an autographing table. I have likes and dislikes and opinions, and even my best friends in the whole world sometimes make me want to hit them with a shoe. I get grumpy, I get crabby, I threaten to ignite the biosphere. If you accost me on my way to the bathroom, I probably won't be all that charming. I'm a human being, not whatever creator/author construct you may have in your head. When I sit down behind a table and pick up a pen, that changes.

When I am seated behind an autographing table, you get to expect my attention (although how focused it is will be heavily influenced by how hard it is to spell your name). You get to tell me how much you loved (or hated) my most recent book, how much you loved (or hated) that plot twist, whatever it is you want. And yeah, if you tell me you're planning to murder me in an alley, I'll holler for security so fast that you'll believe my teenage scream queen dreams came true, but that's an extreme case.

I'm sure that I, and every author, will eventually cause a fan to walk around feeling the way I felt when I met one of my childhood idols. Sometimes the tired gets through; sometimes the cranky shows. But I am going to hold fast to that feeling, and do my best to remember that graciousness counts, especially when I'm behind that table. Because one harsh word changes everything.

(*Names withheld to protect the innocent, and because "oh oh oh it was THIS PERSON OVER HERE" is sort of counter to the point.)

I haven't been blogging about my cats recently.

Some of you may have breathed a sigh of relief when you realized that you had entered a relatively feline-free zone. "Finally," you said. "She's going to talk about something that doesn't meow." Others may have been concerned. (I've heard from the concerned contingent, not from the relieved, but I have no trouble with the idea that both sides exist. Honestly, I don't demand that anyone be interested in everything I have to say, and that includes my cats, machete collection, horror movies, the X-Men, and candy corn.) Even more of you may well have been confused, given how focal cats have traditionally been around here. But I haven't been blogging about my cats.

John Scalzi has just made a lengthy post about the shit female bloggers get that he doesn't get. Go and read it. I'll be honest: after more than a decade on the internet, I find his experiences to be pretty spot-on. I make a controversial comment, I get death threats, comments about my weight, accusations of bitchiness, comments about my weight, offers to "fuck the stupid" out of me, comments about my weight, insults, comments about my weight, and, best of all, people swearing up, down, and sideways that I deserve whatever I get. It's been a few years since I've had a really bad troll problem, but when I had one, it was...

It was bad. It was "Kate monitored my journal and deleted comments before I could see them" bad, with a side order of feeling sick every time I considered getting online. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, and I was scared all the time. It's invasive, and it's scary. Cracks about my weight aside, I'm not that big, and if someone wanted to fuck me up, they could. Easily. (Is this a motivator for my large and oft-discussed machete collection? Possible! Anybody comes to my house with the intent of doing me a mischief in the woods, they will not be thrilled by the results.)

And I haven't been blogging about my cats recently.

I'll be honest: I understand people being dicks for the sake of being dicks. We're all a little mean when we've had a bad day. My mother used to snap at me, even though she loved me. Sometimes I pick fights with my friends, or snarl at my co-workers. Human nature sometimes trends toward asshole, and no matter how hard we work to control it, it's going to happen. What I don't understand is why being a dick towards a woman on the internet so often turns into a) threats of violence, b) sexual insults, c) threats of sexual violence, or d) comments about perceived attractiveness/weight. Or violence toward the things that woman loves.

I haven't been blogging about my cats recently, because someone has been sending me email, from dummy accounts, threatening to kill my cats. In graphic detail. They know what my cats look like, thanks to the amount of blogging I have done in the past, and they've been able to get really, really specific in what they're going to do. Why? Because I got my cats from a breeder, and not from a shelter, and that means I need to suffer in order to understand the suffering of the cats waiting for adoption. "Bitch," "cunt," and "whore" feature heavily in these emails, which is always a nice seasoning for my rage and terror stew. It's all very gender-specific.

And they're threatening to kill my cats.

So no, I'm not going to talk about them right now; not until this email stops, not until the trolls find something else to chew on. And yes, I realize that making this post may reawaken some of my old trolls (and oh, Great Pumpkin, I hate it so much that I even have to take that into consideration), so I'm going to be watching comments carefully. Anything insulting will be deleted. Anything malicious will result in an immediate banning. I mean that. I am not going to let that shit stand.

We need to stop acting this way toward one another. We need to remember that there are humans on the other side of all those keyboards. We need to be decent human beings, because otherwise, everything is going to fall apart.

And none of this changes the fact that if the fucker who's been telling me what he's going to do to my babies comes anywhere near them, I will probably be going to prison for assault.

Some days I hate being a girl.

1. I have been blazingly ill since Sunday afternoon, and spent most of yesterday and Monday in a cold medication haze. I am thus behind on LJ comments, email, snail mail, passenger pigeon mail, Facebook mail (well, I'm always behind on Facebook mail), sending out the mail, opening the mail, and anything else that required actual effort on my part. If you're waiting for a response from me, please, be patient. If your request is urgent, please, mail again. If I do not consider your request to be actually urgent, like you're asking for kitten pictures or something, I reserve the right to delete your email and scowl in your general direction.

2. Despite being blazingly ill, I managed to make my word counts on Blackout both days, and am on track to hit 100,000 words on April 23rd. This is good, since it means I may actually finish the book, you know, on time. I love finishing things on time. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and slightly less completely deranged.

3. Saturday night was GP's birthday party! I did not come home that night, as it was late and we were all exhausted and sort of drunk (and yes, this may have dealt my immune system the fatal blow). Thomas showed his disapproval by climbing onto my computer desk, gently nudging aside the dolls on the second shelf, pulling down the jar in which I store my earplugs, opening the jar, dumping out the earplugs, and eating half of them. I do not know why he is so obsessed with eating the damn things, but he's why I bought that jar in the first place. Now he shits little pink bullets, and looks smug.

4. My vet has confirmed that this won't hurt him, but is also sub-optimal. I have moved my earplugs.

5. The first draft of "Crystal Halloway, Girl Wonder, and the Terror of the Truth Fairy" is finished and being hacked at by the Machete Squad. This is seriously the most depressing, nihilistic story I think I've ever written. Which makes it appropriate that I wrote it while I was sick even unto death. This thing reads like the prologue to a Vertigo comic series.

6. I am not writing a Vertigo comic series. Unless, of course, DC asks me to.

7. I also got started on the first draft of "Rat-Catcher," a Tobyverse story set in London, in 1662 (yes, only a few years before the Great Fire, and the Great Plague). In it, a young Prince of Cats named Rand must stop playing theater cat at the Duke's Theater long enough to find a way to deal with his father, keep his sister from doing something monumentally stupid, and oh, right, maybe save the Cait Sidhe of London from a fate worse than death. Is this Tybalt's origin story? Why yes. Yes, it is.

8. Things already pulled from my research shelf in service of "Rat-Catcher": The Writer's Digest Guide to Character Naming (second edition), London: A Biography, Sex and Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, and The Wordsworth Dictionary of Shakespeare. Make of this what you will.

9. Being sick did allow me to catch up on some of my cache of SyFy Original Movies, including the second half of Meteor with Marla Sokoloff. This was a disturbingly good, surprisingly high-budget feature, especially for a SyFy Saturday. Also, not only were women competent and realistic characters, they didn't all die. Well done, SyFy. Keep up the good work.

10. Zombies are still love.

What's up with you?

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.

My mother called me last night just before nine o'clock. "I thought I should let you know," she said. "My car threw a rod today."

Not being a driver myself (which is why there are so many entries that include the phrase "and then Mom drove me to..."), I asked naively if this was a bad thing. She explained that yes, it was a bad thing, and that further, given the age of her car (a third-hand station wagon we bought in early 2010, when her prior car, a fifth-hand station wagon that I think she bought from evil gnomes), it would be cheaper and safer to buy a new car than it would be to buy a new engine.

Well, crap.

So now we need to find a car. As cheaply as possible, since the money isn't exactly flowing like water around here. My mother gets me to the majority of my book events, as well as needing a vehicle to, you know, work. (One of the sad ironies of our current culture: She can't afford to live where there's good, dependable public transit, so she lives in a place where you have to have a car, but she can pay the rent. Take away her car, she has to move to where there's dependable public transit. Only she can't do that, because there is no more dependable public transit in even semi-affordable places. So she needs a car...)

If you know of anyone in the Bay Area who is selling a vehicle and not too wedded to using the money to buy a boat, please let me know? A station wagon would be preferred, since Mom regularly hauls a lot of crap around, including me.

I swear, it never rains but it pours.

Okay. So. If you made me make a list of my favorite movies of all time, the movies that make me stop when I flip past them on basic cable, the movies that I saw in the theater more than three times, both Resident Evil and Resident Evil: Apocalypse would be in the top ten. My cube at work is decorated in RE movie posters. I carry an Umbrella Corporation umbrella. For years, I basically lived in my zip-up S.T.A.R.S. sweatshirts, and only stopped because a) they died horrible, gruesome deaths and b) Hot Topic no longer carries them. At the same time, if you made me make a list of my most hated movies of all time, the movies I have tried to delete from my memory, Resident Evil: Extinction would also make the top ten. There are a lot of reasons for this. They comprise a rant that takes about twenty minutes to fully deliver. Suffice to say, in my world, it didn't happen. So...

Sunday, my housemate and I went to see Jonah Hex (I had promised him Toy Story 3, I couldn't deliver, he got to pick the replacement movie). I found it decent. It wasn't a waste of two hours of my life, and sometimes that and air conditioning are all I can ask from a summer movie. Anyway, as we settled into the all-encompassing seats of Barney-colored love with our popcorn and our drinks, the trailers started to roll. I love trailers. I am a simple soul in some regards.

Establishing shot: a dark intersection full of people. Very film noir, very black and white. Zoom in on a woman's high heeled shoes. Her blue and red piped high heeled shoes.

Her Umbrella Corporation-colored high heeled shoes.

I was sitting up in my seat, practically panting, even before the voice over started telling us exactly how the infection began. As the trailer went on, I got more and more excited, despite the fact that my brain was chanting "no no no no no" very, very loudly. The brain was not under consultation. The brain was not invited. By the end of the trailer, I was ready to run out, buy my tickets, and invest in a whole new assortment of Umbrella co-branded merchandise.

I have been subliminally conditioned into brand loyalty to the Umbrella Corporation.

Does anybody else see a problem with this?

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

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

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

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

And then the fun started.

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

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

Snikt.

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

1) I find it really interesting how many people, when presented with a time travel thought experiment, will proceed to do things that result in their original timeline being immediately and irrevocably destroyed. Time paradox is not a cuddly kitten that you want to bring home and play with! Time paradox is bad! Remember, kids, friends don't let friends mess around with the laws of time.

2) Books I have read and loved lately: I Am Not A Serial Killer. Saltation. Freaks: Alive On the Inside (which I found at the used bookstore, signed!). Unshelved: Volume I.

3) Books I have written and loved lately: Deadline. The Brightest Fell. This is a much shorter list, and that's a good thing, because it means I probably haven't actually sold my soul to the devil. Much.

4) I love superheroes. I love Disney. I love these Disney heroines presented in glorious super-heroic style. I especially love the zombified Snow White. This is because I am, in many ways, predictable, and I am not ashamed of that fact. Not in the slightest. Nor do I think I should be, really, as my predictability makes me easy to shop for.

5) Lilly and Alice have figured out that, together, they now possess sufficient mass and surface area to prevent me from moving when they don't want me to move. This is fine when I have a book with me and nothing in the oven, but other times...not so fine. In other news, the house did not burn down, although it was a somewhat close thing. And it wasn't my fault.

6) What he said.

7) This looks like it's going to be an amazing season for movies. My favorite so far this year are How to Train Your Dragon and Kick-Ass, with The Crazies coming in as a close third, but oh! The glories ahead! Nightmare on Elm Street, Iron Man 2, Prince of Persia, Shrek Forever After, and Letters to Juliet! Splice! Even Resident Evil: Afterlife, because my love for the franchise outweighs my scars from the third movie. What a wonderful thing a movie ticket can be.

8) I appear to be thinking in almost purely short fiction terms right now, as I recover from finishing Deadline and tackle the trickier bits of The Brightest Fell. So far this week, I've finished two Toby shorts, started a third, finished an InCryptid short, and started my story for an invite-only anthology. I'm hoping I can even get a Vel piece shoved in somewhere, before the steam runs out.

9) Guess what I get tomorrow. I get a Vixy. Do you get a Vixy? No, you do not. I am not much of a gloater, but right now? Right now, oh, I'm gonna gloat. Because I get a Vixy. Of my very own.

10) Jean Grey is dead, James Gunn needs to call me, and zombies are love.

"When I was a kid, I always imagined I'd be normal by now." —Hannelore, Questionable Content.

I had a phone interview the other day in which I was asked about my writing process. I explained it—the checklists, the word counts, the editorial process—and the interviewer laughed and said, "So it's almost like an OCD thing, right?"

"Not almost," I said. "I have OCD."

He stopped laughing.

On most weekday mornings, I get out of bed at 5:13 AM. I write this in my planner. On Wednesdays, I get out of bed at 5:30 AM. I write this in my planner, too. On the weekends, I sleep later; last Sunday, I slept until 8:23 AM. I know this, because I wrote it in my planner.

After I get up, I dress, ablute, and check in online. This is done by visiting Gmail, personal mail, Twitter, LiveJournal, and FaceBook, in that order. Always in that order. I pack my lunch. On weekdays (except for Wednesdays) I leave the house at 5:34 AM, to catch the first bus. I know this, because all these things, too, are written in my planner. So is everything else. What exercises I will do, what my assigned word counts will be, what to remember to say to my roommates, whether it's time to brush the cat...everything.

I have been a member of Weight Watchers since late 2004. I like Weight Watchers. It gives me an excuse to write down everything I eat, and turn every activity into a number to be added to a little column. In the times where I can't attend meetings and get new "official" trackers, those same counts wind up going into my planner, along with a record of what time I took my multivitamin and how much water I've had to drink. What shows I watched that day. What books I read.

Tiny columns of numbers march along the sides of the calendar—how many days to book release, how many days since book release, how many days since I did something that I'm waiting to hear more information on. I record the return dates of shows that I watch, the release dates of movies, the official dates of conventions. Birthdays and ages. I celebrate friendship anniversaries and remember strange holidays that, having made it into my calendar once, are now a permanent part of my personal year.

When I see street numbers or phone numbers or the like, I will automatically start picking them apart to determine whether they are either a multiple of nine or a prime number. Either of these is deeply comforting to me. Numbers that are one digit off in either direction can be distracting, if I've been having a bad enough day. I would be perfectly happy eating the same things for every meal, every day, for the rest of my life.

People sometimes ask me how I can bear it; how I can break my life down into schedules and checklists and tasks without going crazy. But the thing is, that's how my brain works. I look at other people's lives and wonder how they can bear it—having to agonize over menus, not knowing where to sit, not remembering the order of the primes, not knowing when all their favorite TV shows come back on the air. I find the framework of my life to be freeing, not confining, and I don't really comprehend living any other way.

And yes, sometimes I have to make concessions in order to remain stable. I arrive at the airport two hours before my flights, period. I don't care if I have to miss things to do it; the rules say "two hours before," and I arrive two hours before. I become uncomfortable and have difficulty focusing if someone takes my chair in a setting where I have defined patterns. Some things have to be done in a certain order, and if I try to do them in a different order, I am likely to become very difficult to deal with. Failure to complete a to-do list is upsetting to me on a deep, profound level that I have difficulty explaining in verbal terms; it's just wrong. My friends learn that if you're going on a social outing with me, you need to arrive on time or deal with me having a meltdown, that I do not want to have adventurous food, and that I will throw you out of the house if your arrival interferes with standing scheduled events. And the beat goes on.

Because I am very functional, and because the standard image of "someone with OCD" is Adrian Monk or Hannelore, I do occasionally have to deal with people assuming I'm exaggerating. I don't compulsively wash my hands or clean my kitchen, I'm definitely not a germaphore, and if I re-type books completely between drafts, well, that's just a quirk. But obsession and compulsion both take many forms, and while I have found peace with mine, and consider them a vital part of who I am, that doesn't mean they don't exist. (Why I would joke about having something that is considered a mental illness, I don't know.)

Remember that just because someone is a functional, relatively normal-seeming human being, that doesn't mean they're wired the way that you are. I have to remind myself that not everybody wants their day broken down into fifteen-minute increments, because for me, that is the norm. The human mind is an amazing thing, full of possibilities, and each of us expresses them differently. I am a cybernetic space princess from Mars, and that's not a choice I made; that's the way I was made. I can get an address on Earth, but Mars will always be my home.

Whatever planet you're from, that's okay. Just try not to assume that everyone you know is from the same place. I'd be willing to bet you that they're not.

I was talking to a friend of mine—who shall remain nameless, unless she chooses to name herself, because I don't throw anyone out of the closet unwillingly—who said "I am glad I know you, for I can admit to a person on Earth that I still secretly love My Little Ponies." This, coming less than a week after someone reacted in horrified confusion when I admitted to sharing my bedroom with more than two hundred of the plastic darlings, made me decide that it was time to stand up in bold defense of Ponyland. Because sometimes, a girl's gotta do what the talking horses tell her to do, goddammit.

(Please note that I am not defending Ponyville, home of the current My Little Pony line. The denizens of Ponyland would have beat down these little pink pretenders all the way to the glue factory, where they would doubtless be rendered into cheap, glittery paste that didn't actually hold anything together for very long. No. I'm talking about the originals, the Ponies that started with Megan and Firefly and expanded to encompass Spike and Wind Whistler, and oh, it was one hell of a time...)

Girl's toys tend to be pink, and pastel, and visible from space. Girl's toys tend to be anthropomorphic, and look more like cartoons than human beings. Girl's toys tend to be short on projectile weapons and high on castles and the trappings of a romantic fairy tale past that never really existed. These aren't things that most girls get a say in; that's just the way the toys come. And yes, that's what some little girls want, while other little girls would be a lot happier if they were allowed to play with the He-Man guys once in a while. I was fairly equal-opportunity as a kid—I'd play with anything—but my true passion was reserved for the infinitely expanding stable that contained the My Little Pony world.

My first Ponies were Cotton Candy, a pink horse with white speckles on her rear and pink hair, and Minty, a green horse with clover markings and white hair. Minty wound up getting her tail braided by my grandmother (something I allowed almost no one to do, ever), and became the My Little Pony housekeeping service, because she could use her tail to sweep the floors. The herd sort of exploded from there, growing to overflow shelves, fill a large trunk, and generally make me the darling girl of Hasbro's Marketing Department. If they made it, I wanted it. My room was a sea of pink. And yet...

See, during the 1980s, people were so worried about violence in cartoons aimed at boys that they kept all the censors busy watching GI Joe and Masters of the Universe. No one was paying attention to what was happening over on My Little Pony and Friends. Let's start with the special, wherein a pink pegasus named Firefly crossed the rainbow to kidnap a farmgirl named Megan in order to save the rest of the Ponies. Save them from what?

THE DEVIL.

Because, you see, THE DEVIL was harassing the Ponies, largely by kidnapping them and turning them into GIANT FUCKING EVIL DRAGONS. Once they were GIANT FUCKING EVIL DRAGONS, they would go kidnap more Ponies, so that THE DEVIL could turn them into GIANT FUCKING EVIL DRAGONS. His plan, once he had enough GIANT FUCKING EVIL DRAGONS, was to unleash his sack o' dark shit that, y'know, was bad-ass enough to turn magical teleporting unicorns into GFEDs, and bring about eternal midnight. Also, evil. Also, did we mention that the sparkly pink horses were fighting THE DEVIL?

After the My Little Ponies made their entrance by kicking the ass of THE DEVIL, they went on to fight against the evil witches who lived in the Mountain of Gloom. They, like many people, only saw the fact that the Ponies were pink, and never bothered to ask themselves how insanely badass something would have to be to have that little natural camouflage and yet still survive to procreate. My Little Ponies, like poison arrow tree frogs, are brightly colored for a reason, and that reason is to provide an immediate and easily visible warning of the fact that if you mess with them, they will FUCK YOUR SHIT UP.

The witches unleash the Smooze. The Smooze is like "Yo, I am coming to FUCK EVERYONE UP." The Smooze makes its case by eating the Rainbow of Light, which was previously used to defeat, as you may recall, THE DEVIL. So the Smooze is also pretty badass, and messes solidly with the normal "frolic, nap, frolic" schedule in Ponyland. The surviving Ponies travel to Flutter Valley, where they meet up with the Flutter Ponies, who look like they should be easy to kill with a fly-swatter (and are thus, naturally, the baddest badasses in the world). The following occurs:

MEGAN: Rosedust, Queen of the Flutter Ponies, the Smooze fucked everyone up.
ROSEDUST: Sucks to be you.
MEGAN: Please come fuck the Smooze up.
ROSEDUST: No.
MEGAN: Guess we'll just live here, then.
ROSEDUST: Let's fuck up some Smooze!

Then here's a musical number, and then? Smooze-fucking. Big fun.

The cartoon went on from there, and taught an entire generation of girls that it was okay to be pink and pretty and also FUCK SHIT UP. My Little Pony was like Gormenghast with frills. The boys got bloodless battles and exploding helicopters and moral lessons, and bad guys who never went away. My Little Pony got THE FUCKING DEVIL. And anybody they beat down? Stayed beat down.

My Little Pony is FUCKING METAL, yo.

(Also, for a laugh, check out My Little Demon. I have way too many of these hanging in my house.)

Okay, so here's the situation:

The electronic edition of A Local Habitation [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy] has been delayed twice now, resulting in people who were looking for the electronic edition seeing a slowly-shifting date that didn't necessarily make sense. It didn't make sense to me, either, since I don't really work on that side of the publishing process (and I've been a little busy with the whole "book release" process). I've been getting a lot of emails, blog comments, and Tweets about the electronic edition, so I'm aware that it's been frustrating, and I'm sorry.

I spoke to my publisher this morning, and confirmed that there was a problem with the file, which is now being fixed. The electronic version should be available in one to two weeks. This has been technical, not financial or anything else silly like that. Promise. I'll post when I have an exact date, or you can follow @dawbooks on Twitter, since that's a good way to stay on top of things.

In the meantime, if you really don't want to wait, please consider buying a copy of the physical book and donating it to a women's shelter, local library, or other charity of your choice when you're done. I realize that's not a perfect solution (among other things, if you're on a limited book budget, it can be impossible), but it's the best one I have, and it means that you not only get to read the book now, you get to bring the gift of literature to someone else when you're finished. Otherwise, well, chalk this one up to the learning curve of a changing industry, and you should be able to get your hands on A Local Habitation sooner than later.

Thank you so very much for your patience. It really means a lot to me.

Hey, gang—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Um, what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now where's my damn cabana boy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Run while you can.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because understanding what a thing is makes that thing less arcane and mysterious, and I like people understanding what the hell I'm talking about, I'm providing a handy guide to the stages a book goes through as it trudges its way towards publication. (I said this to a friend of mine, who replied with, "Like the life cycle of a butterfly?" After some thought, I have decided that this metaphor doesn't work. It's more like the life cycle of a fricken—half-frog, half-chicken, all abomination of nature. Tadpoles with feathers are just sort of sad.)

You can thank me, beat me, or march on my castle with an army of angry peasants, later.

***

THE LIFE STAGES OF A BOOK: FROM PAGE TO PUBLICATION.

***

Stage I: The Larva (IE, "The Manuscript.")
We're picking up with the assumption that the book has already been written, approved by your agent/primary beta reader, and sold to a publishing house (or, if you prefer, your frickens have already done the nasty in the romantic swamp setting of their choosing, and have laid the fertilized eggs in a suitable pool of semi-stagnant water). Now, your manuscript gets to go into something called "editorial review." Different houses and different editors will have different names for this process; when I'm doing it to myself, I tend to call it things like "why God why" and "getting blood on the ceiling." This is the stage where you'll actually have some input, and can even argue.

Some manuscripts sail the waters of editorial review with nary a ripple. Others will be shredded and stapled back together several times before they're allowed to take the next step forward. Whatever the case happens to be with your manuscript, assume that it's going to take some time, and just keep breathing.

Stage II: The Hatchling (IE, "Copy-editing.")
So you've made all the changes your editor requested and returned an approved manuscript to your publishing house. Awesome. Your beloved baby book has emerged from its gooey amphibian egg and is now thrashing around the puddle, downy feathers all plastered down and making it swim more slowly, thus becoming an easier target for predators. In this case, the predator is someone with a red pen and an eye for typos. Your manuscript will take some time to review, because they're trying to be thorough; a book pushed out of the puddle before it has time to mature is probably going to get punctuation all over the floor.

You may or may not ever see your copy-edited manuscript. I have a clause in my contract that lets me see mine, because I'm neurotic that way. Lilly appreciates this clause, because she likes to sleep on manuscripts. I, also, appreciate it, because every typo that slips past me is a dagger in my soul, and I try to remain as un-stabbed as possible.

Stage III: Adolescence (IE, "Page Proofs and ARCs.")
Once your copy-edits have been made, two things will happen at basically the same time. Think of them as your weird little tadpole starting to sprout legs and flight feathers at the same time. The poor guy is all over the place, and both flying and swimming are out of the question until he figures out which direction is "up."

Your page proofs are basically a bunch of loose pages comprising your entire copy-edited book. As the author, you will generally get the opportunity to go through them and catch any little things that might have been missed earlier in the process. Note the stress on "little." The idea is not to rip out that chapter you've always hated; it's to catch that three-word continuity error on page seventeen, and that slightly out-of-synch tense on page eighty-four. By the time a book reaches proofs, it should be essentially ready to go. The ARCs, on the other hand, are your Advance Review/Reader Copies. These will be bound editions of the manuscript, potentially with covers, probably with any blurbs you've managed to collect, sent out to reviewers, trade publications, and major genre bookstores about four to six months before publication.

Stage IV: Frog (IE, "Publication.")
After your page proofs have been returned and your ARCs have been sent out, your book will go to press, and your weird-ass feathered frog will hop free of the puddle it was born in for the first time. Printing and shipping will take however long your publisher thinks it should; you can make sure there are no delays on your end by turning in your proofs by the deadline. You should have a publication date. Cling to it as best you can.

Watch your feathery amphibian creation fly.

Over the past week, my house has developed two new bathroom-based rules. First off, even if you just dropped a tissue into the water, you need to flush. I don't care if it wastes water. If you're that worried about wasting water, throw your tissues in the trash, not the toilet. Second off, close the lid. Not the seat; the lid. Why?

Because Alice, like so many Maine Coons, likes to play with water. And the toilet? Is full of water. Once your nasty tissue has been in my toilet, I don't particularly want the cat to fish it out and bring it to me, thanks.

Last night, when I got home from work, I performed the standard checks—are both cats present? Are both cats breathing? Have they managed to break anything large and/or visible? After confirming yes, yes, and no, I went about my business. At some point during the "business" part of the program, Alice wandered off to do kitten things. This didn't concern me much; kittens are mysterious creatures, and spend a lot of time off doing kitten things, which usually end with a loud crash and a startled-looking puffball racing back into the bedroom. No big deal.

After I'd finished unpacking my bags, scanning some art cards, and eating dinner, I proceeded to the bathroom. The toilet lid was down. Repeat: the toilet lid was down, indicating safety. I began to sit.

The toilet said, inquisitively, "Mrph?"

Having seen approximately eight hundred hours-worth of horror cinema in my lifetime, I was once more fully dressed in less than five seconds. Furthermore, I was standing in the bathtub, that being the furthest I could reasonably get from the toilet without having the presence of mind to flee the bathroom entirely. I looked into the toilet bowl. Alice, balled calmly in the bottom of it, looked back. Meet my kitten, the TOILET SHARK.

I got her to leave the toilet by putting a few inches of water in the tub and encouraging her to play with that instead. She happily submerged several of her feather toys and went off to coax Lilly into the bath. Lilly, being, I don't know, an actual cat, was having none of it. (Alice got her comeuppance later, when her aquatic adventures required her to have a good brushing. Somehow, I doubt this is going to make her learn.) At least I know why she's damp all the damn time...

You know, the horror movies of the 1980s taught me to check toilets before I sat down, because they might contain monsters. It took me years to break this habit, thinking it was a foolish fear. Shows what I know. In conclusion, when you come over to my place...

...look down before you pee. You might be sorry if you don't.

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

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

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

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

Hello! Would you like to take a trip to Writerland, where all the writers are? You can see them frolic in the Fields of Verb, boldly venture into the Adjective Woods, and sink like stones in the infamous Editorial Swamp (home of the deadly White-Out Anaconda, capable of swallowing both man and manuscript in a single gulp). In an effort to help you survive your visit, we here at the Writerland Tourist Bureau have prepared this handy phrasebook, designed to help you understand our natives a little better.

You Say: "How much do you get paid?"
We Hear: "Did you know that being a writer means it's not rude to ask you about money?"

You Say: "How big was your advance?"
We Hear: "My use of industry jargon means you'll tell me."

You Say: "So when are you going to quit your day job?"
We Hear: "Since you're obviously making pots of money JUST TELL ME ALREADY."

You Say: "Where do you get your ideas?"
We Hear: "I would like it if you would punch me in the face."

You Say: "I always wanted to be a writer."
We Hear: "How hard can it be?"

You Say: "Why do you waste your talent on that trash?"
We Hear: "It's been too long since the last time you punched me in the face."

You Say: "Why do you need an editor? Aren't you good at this yet?"
We Hear: "Punching isn't good enough. Get the cobras."

You Say: "How long are you going to just sit there?"
We Hear: "I've come to distract you! Thank me later."

You Say: "Is it really that hard to be published?"
We Hear: "I would like a double order of cobras, and maybe some scorpions."

You Say: "Did you publish this yourself?"
We Hear: "Make those scorpions radioactive, if you would be so kind."

You Say: "How much writing do you have to do?"
We Hear: "I know you're just screwing around and being anti-social."

You Say: "Will you read my story?"
We Hear: "Litigation is fun!"

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

Up until recently, I was unaware that sometimes the reason I can't find certain books in certain stores is because those stores have just sort of decided not to carry them. This process is called 'skipping.' Books can be skipped because the store doesn't have room on the shelf for another new author, because their historical-romances-with-sharks section just isn't that big, because your last book didn't perform well enough, or because they don't like your cover. (I suspect this last is unlikely, but I'm not a book-buyer, so who knows?)

Now, this practice is absolutely not always malicious or cruel or even ill-intended. The economy is hitting everyone pretty hard right now. My favorite independant bookstores are being forced to make some very tough choices, and most of us -- myself sadly included -- will probably reply to 'we don't have that' with 'I'll just go elsewhere for this one,' rather than waiting for the special order.* So either they buy one of absolutely everything to avoid 'skipping,' or they only buy what they know is going to sell, and maybe lose a few sales as people don't go there for the other books. Bit by bit, the lack of disposable income nudges the bookstores towards whatever is currently 'mainstream.' No malice. Just money.

(*I did this just last week, when Other Change of Hobbit didn't have the new Kelley Armstrong. In my defense, I really needed the book to read during my flight to Ohio. That's still money that they didn't get from me, and would have had they either had the book in-stock, or had I been willing to wait.)

There's a fascinating post on being skipped and what it means here, which is really what got me thinking about the topic. I mean, no one wants to be skipped. The idea of being skipped has given me something entirely shiny and new to worry about, along with 'will my cover be awesome?,' 'will my reviews be good?,' and 'will the zombies come before my book comes out?' Now we have 'oh dear stars, will my book be skipped?'

The answer is, at the end of things, no, yes, and maybe. Will every store stock my book? Nope. Will most stores stock my book? Everything going well, yes. Will some stores order my book after the initial sales figures start coming back? Almost certainly.

There are some additional issues to be considered, and it's important to remember that threats of boycott and such have a nasty tendency to result in stores getting sour grapes and saying 'well, fine, I just won't stock any giant shark books at all, then,' which does no one any good.

It's a big topic. It has a lot of factors. It's a little daunting. But we shall be okay! Because our strength is as the strength of ten, and also, we have cookies.

Today is World Virus Appreciation Day, the day when we give our most dearly beloved pathogens just that extra little bit of love that they so richly deserve. In honor of this infectuously awesome holiday, I'm offering my favorite entries in the fields of horrible diseases. Namely, some lists. How I adore lists. Especially lists of ten things.

( Click for Seanan's ten favorite movies about disease, books about disease, and, well, diseases. Because sharing is super-fun.Collapse )

Happy World Virus Appreciation Day! What's your favorite virus?

Take four slices of bread, two tomatoes, ketchup, A-1 steak sauce (original), black pepper, and granulated garlic. Instructions are per sandwich.

Apply ketchup to the bread, thoroughly. I mean, you want to just goop it on there like you were trying to use it as a hair gel substitute in a high school production of Grease. Once your bread is all ketchup-ed up, apply A-1 sauce. Just puddle it on one piece of bread, and then stick the bread together to spread it.

Put the black pepper on one slice of bread. Put the granulated garlic on the other slice of bread.

Slice a tomato as thinly as possible, and stack on one slice of bread. Close the sandwich. Repeat with the second sandwich. Now eat as quickly as possible, as your condiments have already begun to consume the bread.

Does not travel well.

As a rule, I'm working on a minimum of three projects at any given time. For 'working on,' read either 'writing' or 'seriously and intensively revising.' (There will usually be other projects overlapping, but they're generally the sort that require less constant attention -- processing light edits, outlining, setting up the continuity guide for a sequel.) Right now, those projects are Late Eclipses of the Sun (Toby four), The Mourning Edition (sequel to Newsflesh), and Discount Armageddon (Incryptid one). A month ago, they were Late Eclipses of the Sun, Newsflesh, and Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues. What a difference a few weeks can make, huh?

I like working on multiple projects at the same time. When something is really on fire, I can buckle down and dig my heels in, and when everything is just chuckling along at a normal pace, it means I keep myself rotating so that nothing ever has the chance to get stale. I know something is going well when I start thinking about the next thing. I'm really comfortable inside a book when it's so familiar that it's practically transcription of things I already know, and that frees my mind to go pondering what happens next in the next thing in the cycle.

When I finished last week's chapter of The Mourning Edition, I was immediately thinking about a pacing problem in the last quarter of Late Eclipses, and finally figured out how it could be repaired. While I was dealing with Late Eclipses, I found myself thinking about Verity, and ways to keep things moving without losing the quixotic edge that makes her story so damn much fun to write. And now that I'm back on Discount Armageddon, I'm pondering what's going on in my happy zombie wonderland. As long as I know what happens next, my mind is free to roam, and the text is almost always the better for it.

People periodically ask me how I juggle things. It's one of those questions that sort of causes me to look blank and blink a lot, because I really just do. I write about as fast as I think, and I need to pause sometimes and think about what I'm going to do next; that's what the alternate projects are for. As for making sure each gets its fair share of my attention, well, that's why I keep to-do lists.

My week so far has looked like this:

MONDAY: Work on revisions to the end of Late Eclipses.
TUESDAY: Finish revisions to the end of Late Eclipses, process reader edits.
WEDNESDAY: Agent revisions to An Artificial Night, start on chapter four of Discount Armageddon.

Today, I'm finishing chapter four of Discount Armageddon, and tomorrow I'll be starting on the next chunk of The Mourning Edition, with a break to work on my story for Grant's Pass. My to-do lists are robust and sassy, and glad to assist me in making progress.

Life is good.

I've been editing Feed for the past several days. It is thus, perhaps unsurprising that my Gmail's targeted advertising currently thinks it should be trying to sell me zombies. That being said?

I am not in a very good mindset to have the news box at the top of my email announce 'WARNING: ZOMBIE OUTBREAK' when I load my inbox.

I'm just saying, maybe the people who do this targeted advertising stuff should pause and consider whether telling their system to go ahead and pick up on certain key words will cause the recipients of those targeted ads to start scrambling for their emergency zombie survival kits and scaring the folks around them. And that maybe, they should further consider that if those recipients were to, say, take a machete to someone who happened to be walking a little funny, they might try launching a frivolous lawsuit. 'But Officer, Gmail swore that there were zombies!'

Maybe.

In other news, I have resumed breathing.

Dear brain:

'Chair' and 'cherry' are not the same word. If, by some horrible quirk in the functionality of the universe, you manage to begin dictating what things mean, please consider screwing with some other words. Words which do not have an impact on a major part of my summertime diet. Because seriously, here, I don't want to eat my desk chair, and I don't want to sit in my cherries.

In other news, you're very strange sometimes.

Love,
Me.

Kate is attempting to get me ready for New York City. This involves, tragically enough, Dressing Like A Human. Now, my wardrobe consists of three basic modes: 'I own more T-shirts than any single woman ever needs,' 'the zombie apocalypse is coming, and I plan to have front row seating,' and 'Marilyn Munster asks me for fashion tips.' I have been assured that none of these is actually suitable for a New York business setting, even when your business is publishing and the people you're dealing with are used to the fact that they work with authors.

Yesterday's trip was an exercise in the word 'no.' From Kate, I got 'no, you can't wear that, it's synthetic'; 'no, you can't wear that, it has no sleeves'; 'no, you can't wear that, it makes you look like a barge.' From me, we got 'no, I won't wear that'; 'no, I will not wear that either'; 'no, I don't want to wear a jacket'; 'no, I refuse to wear heels when I don't know how much walking I'm going to do.'

It is honestly a miracle that both of us walked away from yesterday alive.

(This makes it sound much more unpleasant than it was. Kate is very patient with my ignorance of many aspects of living like a grownup, and I'm generally willing to take correction, as long as the rules make sense. The issue here is that the rules of the fashion world don't make sense, and there are a whole lot of them. I swear, I'm just going to wind up wearing my Marilyn Munster-meets-Elle Woods pink dress, curling my hair, and singing 'I Am So Much Better Than Before' on a street corner somewhere until somebody makes me stop.)

We're planning to hit the mall on Sunday, which will hopefully end with something other than Kate dragging me off to food because I look like I'm about to gnaw my own leg off. At the hip. New York draws closer, and they don't let you fly naked!