Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 184

Cats and Brie

I am munching on crackers, Brie, and grapes. This means, according to the tortoiseshell cat, that I am the New Best Friend and my lap is meant to be purred upon. You'd think cats wouldn't want Brie–I mean, it's fermented, right? It can't smell good to them. I am mystified. Also, I am a little annoyed at how the cat seems to think I'm loading the cracker with Brie for her. She even tries batting at it as it's on its way to my waiting mouth. This does not end well–she gets put on the floor, as gently as possible, and springs back into my lap the instant my hands are occupied with the food again.

I suspect we will not reach a detente, but neither will we war openly.

Five miles run this morning, at about 9:39 per mile. Another personal best, fueled by the adrenaline I'm burning off from last night. Since the flu episode and adding the fact that the weather has turned positively filthy, I've bagged the 5AM runs for a while. I miss Phred the Coyote and the stillness of that early morning, but nearly spraining an ankle because I can't see what's living at the bottom of a puddle in the dark Taught Me A Lesson. (Do NOT ask. You don't want to know. Trust me.) For once, I am choosing discretion over valor. Or something.

The leaves have mostly turned, all at once. The crisp nights have given them fantastic shades of red and orange and yellow. This is the best year for leaves easily in the last decade, or maybe I'm just seeing them afresh. Things do seem a lot brighter this year than they have for a while.

I am not upset at the weather, though. People who move to the Pacific Northwest and bitch about the rain are like…people who move to LA and complain about heat and gridlock, or New York and noise. I happen to love the rain. When it taps on a roof and I'm warm and dry inside, there are few things better. The luxury of running in the rain, getting physically pretty miserable, then coming in and drying off is pretty intense. Winter also tends to be my most productive period as a writer. I guess maybe it's that there's not much else to do but hole up and tell stories when it gets gray? Plus, it's harder to guilt me into leaving my house in wintertime. I really am quite happy as a hermit, thankyouverymuch. I'm not quite a Henry-Chinaski-class lover of solitude, but it's pretty close.

It's taken me a long time to write this, between stuffing my face and fending off a very vocal and indignant tortie who wants some damn Brie, nao plz! I have the shades all drawn, and the door locked, and the house to myself while the kids are at school. The current revision–a fresh new YA–is calling my name. It needs a scene between a princess and a huntsman in a fairy housekeeper's kitchen. Also, it needs more gunfire.

It's shaping up to be a beautiful day.

Related posts:Little Things
No Fish Today, My Dears
Cat vs. Treadmill, Round One

Authorfest, Shame Edition!

Crossposted to the Deadline Dames. Go check us out!

I promised an Authorfest post! And lo, here I am. I took tons of pictures, but unfortunately, most of them were blurry to the point of being unsuable. The fever-shakes had me pretty bad–I hope I was not contagious, since my recovery since Sunday has been pretty steep. (Still can't breathe near the top of some climbs, though.) Anyway. The majority of un-blurry photos I did manage to take were part of a shoot involving Devon Monk and a fan dressed as her character Shame.

Well, you know, if anyone had showed up dressed like Japh, I probably would have bolted for the exit. He's not an encouraging sight.

[image error] You can't quite see her, but on the left a few people back is Ursula le Guin. She's signing for a HUGE line of people. The Selkie was a trouper, and stood in that line so I could get my battered mass-market paperback of Tombs of Atuan signed. Later, when the crowd died down, I got to go stand in the line and just tell her "Thank you for Tenar." I have to admit that I broke down and cried. It was that awesome. She was marvelously kind, and the fire in her eyes is scorching as ever.

[image error] Feverish and shaking, I clambered up on a chair (not a good idea) and got this shot of the authors and some of the crowd. I would guess there were 150-200 people there in line alone, plus members of the 501st and of course, thirty-plus local authors. (There's a reason I call Peter H., the sci-fi/fantasy guy at Cedar Hills Powell's, "Saint Peter.") It was packed.

[image error] Recognize this guy? If you're one of Devon Monk's readers, you do. Readers, meet Shame. At first I thought he was one of Devon's sons' friends; I was all, "Do I need to teach this punk a lesson, Devon?" Then she explained, and he was in-character until he cracked a wide, electric smile. He was a good sport, especially with we dragged him out into the hall for a photo shoot with Devon.

Speaking of which…

[image error] Dame Devon's going to kill me, but I couldn't pass this up. Here, perfectly encapsulated, is the relationship between Author and Character. Feel the love? I bet you do.

Big thanks to Peter, and L.D. the Bookweasel, as well as the staff of Cedar Hills Crossing Powell's, for another wonderful event. Also, a big heart-you goes out to my fellow authors, all of whom were very gracious when my big mouth opened and fever-induced mania came out. (Mary Robinette Kowal, who everyone should be reading, and Barb Hendee, TEAM LEESIL, in particular, and Meljean Brook.) And, last but certainly not least, thank you, dear Readers, for showing up in force. (Especially M. Oyen, but NOT Flinx–where were you, man? *grin*) It was a lovely event; I wish my health had been better.

Now I've got to go cower in the corner in case Dame Devon comes looking for me. I promised not to post anything. *evil grin* Hopefully, she'll show some mercy, because I didn't post the video…

…oh, my, I wasn't supposed to mention that, was I?

*flees*

Related posts:Dame Smackdown Winner!
Dame Smackdown!
The Triple-Team Powell's Pwnage

Patient Bruce Wayne, Zombie Austen, and a Twofer

I may have kicked the flu virus in the nads hard enough to flee its clutches and live to fight another day. Still, I'm sucking down hot water infused with lemon and shredded ginger like there's no tomorrow. One can't ever be too sure.

I have Authorfest photos that I should put up, but that's going to have to wait.

* A lot of you write to me asking about the cover models for the Strange Angels series. Guys, I do not know. You would do better asking the publisher, Razorbill. As an aside concerning Dru and the gang, I am now getting a bumper crop of mail from teachers, librarians, and youth counselors. Dear Readers…thank you. Thank you very much. I am glad to hear what you have to say. Bless you.

* Here, have Bruce Wayne's medical report. I haven't laughed like this since Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex.

* Jane Austen might have died of arsenic poisoning. Note that the poisoning was most likely accidental, say, a medicine to help her rheumatism. Nevertheless, I have a mad idea of a lady novelist dead of arsenic, resurrected by a form of clockwork science, and shambling toward those who pique her with the jawbone of a literary critic clutched in one rotting speckled hand…

* Oh yes, and you get a twofer: two short stories by me, released through Orbit Short Fiction. Unfallen, the prime story, was inspired to a great degree by Slacktivist's (ongoing) reading of the Left Behind series so we don't have to. (Incidentally, Mr. Clark, if you would like a gratis copy, please do email me.) Also included, I believe, is The Last Job, an Izzie Borden super-short that pleases me quite a bit, and is a sort of homage to Hammett, Chandler, and Woolrich. I rather like Izzie and would love to write more shorts featuring her.

Unfallen by Lilith Saintcrow

by Lilith Saintcrow

I do realize I need to post pics from the Authorfest and write the second half of the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. I'm getting there, I promise. IN the meantime, I am fueling my recovery with pita chips and ginger water (this is the first time I've felt actually hungry in days) and sheer stubbornness.

Over and out.

Related posts:Unfallen, Izzie Borden, and Hedgewitch
DragonCon Musings
Me, On The Web, and Elsewhere

Authorfest!

A quick note/reminder: I am attending the Sci-Fi Fantasy Authorfest at Cedar Hills Crossing Powell's Sunday (tomorrow) at 4:30PM. Due to the flu I may have to leave a trifle early, but I will definitely show up and stay as long as I can to sign books and caboodle. Other fantastic and much more interesting authors like fellow Dame Devon Monk and Ursula LeGuin will be there, too. So come on out and have a good time!

Related posts:Authorfest!
Dame Smackdown Winner!
Events in May

On Endings

Let's talk, dear Readers. Let's talk about endings. (If you haven't read Reckoning yet, I'll do my best not to spoil you.)

I'm getting a lot of hatemail about the ending to Reckoning. Plenty of people are "disappointed" with "who Dru ended up with." Really? Seriously? You honestly think that I would write a series where the end-all and be-all of a teenage girl's life would be who she was dating? I don't think who a girl is "with" defines her at any point in her life, teenage or otherwise. I have always questioned whether Dru needs to "end up" with anyone. Especially after she had to deal with the zombie that was her father, being hunted across a continent, and several other situations that were far more important, not to mention, oh, life-threatening. Who a girl decides she likes is not the hugely important thing our society would have one believe it is.

And let's look at her options! There's Graves, who was living in a mall, has abuse issues, and ends up Broken. Dru is wonderful at fixing things, but a relationship with someone you need to "fix" does not normally end well. There's Christophe, who knew her mother, and is still a teenager inside (psychological standards for djamphir, he often notes, notwithstanding) and who is also controlling and does not give her the information she needs to make her choices. Is there anyone else? Well, there could be–but there's the little matter of her running for her life. This isn't conducive to dating. The wonder is that she had time to think about her options at all.

Other things are mentioned in the hatemail. You think I have left unanswered questions, dear Readers?

I beg to differ.

Why does Christophe smell the way he does? It could be because he's a glutter. It could be because Dru's "touch" is telling her (like it warned her of danger before she bloomed) that he is safe. It could be that her "touch" is telling her he's not safe. It could be he's a good genetic match for her. It could be that he wears a pie-filling cologne. You are encouraged to believe any combination of the above, or to bring your own answer to the question.

I like giving you options, dear Reader. Questions with only one answer are sometimes boring, and don't invite you to spend time and thought on their ramifications.

Other questions arise–whose was the blond hair in her room in Betrayals? Was it Dibs? Anna? Some other wulfen or a traitor djamphir who died in the fire afterward? What really happened to Graves when Sergej had him? What is the bonding that happens after three gulps of blood shared between djamphir? Again, the answer to the last is complex. It could result in an inability of either djamphir to attack the other. It could bind a djamphir to a svetocha and turn him obsessive. It could show a svetocha everything about a certain djamphir, and hence expose secrets most of them don't want out in the open. Any combination of the above is, as I said above, likely and I highly encourage you to decide for yourself.

I have left you breadcrumbs. It is, in the end, all a writer can do.

I do not rule out returning to Dru's world. I have certain foggy notions of a Maharaj girl's story. But Dru has grown up. When she lets someone go, and feels the peculiar adult wrenching of realizing that she cannot fix everything, that she cannot make everything better, that indeed, despite what she thinks, she cannot and is not required to fix everything…that is when adulthood happens, for her. When one is young, one has an absolute lack of proportion. One thinks anything that goes wrong in the world is one's own fault, because of course the world revolves around you. Growing up shows you that the world doesn't revolve around you (hopefully) but the added lesson that you don't have to fix everything is one I think a lot of girls miss out on. Our society, after all, says we are responsible for fixing everything for other people in a hundred-plus overt and covert ways. Or maybe I'm just projecting, because it is a lesson I am struggling to learn even now, thirty*mumble* years into my current tenure on this marvelous, painful, beautiful life.

I understand you may be frustrated, dear Reader. My stories do not often have neat, happy, Disney-esque endings. The fact that you are so incredibly involved, and so unwilling to let go of Dru and her world, humbles and comforts me. I take the demands to write one more Dru book as a sign that I succeeded in a writer's job of making the reader care. I am sorry for your frustration, and Dru's frustration too. And I believe with everything in me that I gave Dru the right ending.

I would not have written otherwise.

I owe you, dear Reader, no less than my absolute very best with each story. I owe you the last drop of heart's blood if I am going to write these stories. I can give no less, and I furthermore owe you what I believe with every fibre of my being is the right ending. Not the happy ending. Not the ending I want, or someone else might want, or the characters might want. The right ending. Even if it hurts.

I ached for everyone involved at the end of Reckoning, for different reasons. I was tempted to end it differently, but that would have been punking out and betraying you, dear Reader. Rage at me all you like, but I will never, ever betray you in that manner. I just can't do it, and furthermore, I won't do it. There is my line in the sand.

That is all. Over and out.

Related posts:On The Writing Of Half-Vampire Puberty
Questions, Questions
Your Shapechanger, Fear

An Ill And Tired Little Mongoose

So I've been glassy-eyed with mild fever for a few days, aching all over, and with a nose not as full of snot as it could be. It took my writing partner saying, "Maybe it's flu?" for me to figure out that perhaps, yes, some sort of virus. Great. Just wonderful.

What the hell? I hate being sick. I don't have time. I have climbing to do, running to get out of the way six days a week, revisions packed tight for the next six months and oh yes, two books to write in the next six months too. (Well, six to ten months. STILL.) My immune system needs to get on the stick, for heaven's sake.

Let's see, what can I report? Copyedits for the first Bannon & Clare were finally bled dry and sent in a neat package back to the editor today. The Little Prince has expressed a desire to take karate classes. (This is going to be fun.) I am still addicted to Glitch. (Also fun.) It's concert season for the Princess's choir. (Oh God.) Plus, I am eying the upcoming holidays the way a mongoose eyes a cobra she's not quite sure she's big enough to bite to death. (I could write about why my childhood makes me view holidays as poisonous, but that would take more energy than I have today.) Oh, and one of those books I have to write? Deals with plague. OH, THE IRONY.

I know I should write the last half of the Battle of Pelennor Sunroom. It's just…release hath followed upon release, and I went on an Internet semi-fast for a little bit. Just didn't have the bandwidth, plus, it is my firm belief that a writer should not respond to reviews, and if one cannot keep one's mouth shut it is best and easiest just not to look. This is the same principle I avoid watching television on.

On the other hand, the smell of autumn and falling leaves does not disturb me nearly as much as it has in years past. The Moon last night smiled down at me as I jaunted out to the rubbish bin, and it struck me that at this time two years ago, I was just barely afloat; a year ago I was healing but still fragile. The faith that time will heal a wound or two is a fragile thing, and cold comfort at best, but it kept me going during the dark times. (Along with a healthy dose of tough love from my Chosen Family.) It is always a shock to look back and see how far one has come.

Now if I could just kick this virus in its snot-soaked, irritating little nads and send it crying away, I'd be all set.

Related posts:Tired.
Weight, Food; Cocoon, Flight
Cookiepalooza!

In Battalions

So last night's fall at the bouldering wall seems to have no lasting soreness. It was just one of those sessions where I was clumsy all the way through, always fun. I went up to grab a hold from an undercling, missed it, and tumbled. Fortunately I was relaxed when I hit, I landed on a well-cushioned part of my anatomy (seriously, you'd think I would have no ass left with as much as I run, but OH NO) and I rolled. I stretched out after the session, came home, drank a bunch of water, took ibuprofen, and went to bed smelling of homemade Tiger Balm. (My writing partner has many, many talents.) This morning…no soreness, barely even a bruise. Which is good, because I'm climbing again today (I promised) and dealing with copyedits, which means a lot of sitting on that tender, much-abused buttock.

I know, I know, you really wanted to read about that.

Let's see, what's the news? I have a story, Gallow's Rescue, in the just-release Courts of the Fey. Like Eleni, Wolf, and Tarquin, Gallow and Robin have a much longer history, and I wish I could write their story. Trailer-park fey and epidemic disease, who wouldn't want that?

Also, I'm over at John Mierau's place talking about Frank Herbert's Dune, the Litany, and how I wanted to be a Bene Gesserit. And the winners of the belated release day prizes are up!

Other than that, I'm hip-deep in copyedits for the first Bannon & Clare, and the water is rising fast. Plus I've got to update the Books page, and that sound you hear? It's the gears inside my head gummed up by snot. That's right, I'm coming down with a cold.

Not in single spies, but in battalions. By the way, if you have a good smartphone app that can alert one to changes in barometric pressure, let me know? I'm tired of the pressure changing and half my head wadding up like agonized tinfoil.

Anyway, I'm going to climb, fill myself to the brim with fluids and vitamin C, and fillet more of these copyedits until they are bled dry. The crankiness of physical misery might even add something.

Over and out…

Related posts:Turning In Different Directions
Linkage, plus Bannon & Clare
Strawberry Autumn

Reckoning Release!

Weren't we just here, where I tell you how nervous release days make me? It seems like we were just here. *blinks*

I am proud and happy (as well as knocking knees with fear) to tell you that Reckoning, the fifth and final in the Strange Angels series, is officially released!

[image error] Nobody expected Dru Anderson to survive this long. Not Graves. Not Christophe. Not even Dru. She's battled killer zombies, jealous djamphirs, and bloodthirsty suckers straight out of her worst nightmares. But now that Dru has bloomed into a full-fledged svetocha – rare, beautiful, and toxic to all vampires – the worst is yet to come.

Because getting out alive is going to cost more than she's ever imagined. And in the end, is her survival really worth the sacrifice?

Now available at Barnes & Noble, Indiebound, BooksAMillion, Powell's, the Book Depository, and Amazon!

I am sad to be saying goodbye to Dru. From the first moment I saw her standing in her kitchen, staring at the back door while a zombie's fleshless finger tapped against the glass, I've known that she would grow up and continue on. It's very bittersweet, but I'm proud of her. She's learned a lot along the way, and through it all she's remained that same smart, driven, incredibly loyal girl. Growing up is never easy–it's even less easy when there's vampires looking to tear your head off and betrayal lurking around every corner.

But I think she's done just fine, and I'm glad she has exactly the right ending.

Now I'm going to go be a puddle of frayed release-day nerves. See you around.

Related posts:Hey, Jealousy!
Strange Angels: Betrayals!
DEFIANCE Release!

The Battle of Pelennor Sunroom

"SHIT!" I screamed, as I skidded around the corner into my kitchen from the garage. "NO NO NO! NOOOOO!"

The squirrel wasn't listening. The dog, attached to the couch, was barking hysterically.

When we last saw Neo, he had voiced his battlecry and flung himself into my unprotected house. This was a fine way for the goddamn rodent to repay me for not leaving him in the road to die. Gratitude may be a virtue, but I really am beginning to think it's one this little asshole doesn't possess.

Several thoughts flash through one's head when one has inadvertently let a demonic tree-rat into one's house. Let me see if I can list them in some kind of coherent order.

1. OH JESUS CHRIST SQUIRREL RABIES AUGH!!!

2. None of this would have happened if I'd left him outside like a less goddamn charitable person would have.

3. A FUCKING SQUIRREL IN MY HOUSE!

4. How am I going to clean this up? Will bleach get squirrel out of the linoleum?

5. AUGH! SQUIRREL! WILD ANIMAL CRAWLING WITH FILTHDISEASENASTY IN MY KITCHEN!

6. I am really questioning my own intelligence at this point.

7. HOW DID HE GET OUT OF THAT FUCKING CAT CARRIER?

8. Thank God the dog is tied up–wait.

9. AND MY DOG IS TIED UP AND CAN'T DEFEND HERSELF AUGH!

10. The cats! OMG the cats!

11. HE KICKED ONE CAT IN THE HEAD, WHAT IS HE GOING TO DO TO THE OTHERS?

…you get the idea.

I found out I was carrying an axe handle, and put on the brakes in the middle of my kitchen, barely aware I was screaming obscenities.

What? The axe handle? They're cheap, they make good weapons, and you can prop them near doors. I like having reasonable weapons in each room, and something within arm's length at any moment. I AM PARANOID, OKAY? DON'T JUDGE. The axe handle had been right by the garage door. I'd picked it up by the wrong end, but it can still be a bludgeon. At least it wasn't the Sekrit Weapon. And I just couldn't throw it, because with my luck it would go straight through a window, and explaining that to anyone who came to fix it would just not…wait, where was I?

Oh yeah. Middle of the kitchen, jerked up short like a dog on a chain, the chunk of wood in my left hand dangling once my arm dropped. The obscenities cut off midstream, I choked on something that sounded suspiciously like "–damn hamsterf!cking crazyass rodent!" and froze.

An uneasy silence fell.

The cats, you see, had come to investigate the ruckus. Sweet dumb Tuxedo Kitty, who had been kicked in the head by Neo lo these many ages ago, Lemur!Cat, and Cranky Old Duck Cat. He's our oldest, he's cranky, and if you surprise him he actually quacks. Like a duck. (Look, all my animals are strange. I can't help myself, I pick up the rejects and the outcasts. This explains not only the Duck Cat, the Stupid Tuxedo, and Miss B, but also my dating life. ANYWAY.)

Cranky Old Duck Cat, his oddly-shaped ears flat against his head, crouched and examined this New Thing In The House. He regarded it exactly the way he regarded Miss B when I brought her home. "WHAT IS THIS THING?" he grumble-quacked. "IT LOOKS SNACK-SIZED. PROBABLY TOO MUCH TROUBLE, THOUGH. WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE NOW, MONKEY?"

Tuxedo Kitty, eyes wide and tail twitching, was near the dining-room table. "I THINK I REMEMBER YOU," he was saying. "I'M ALMOST SURE I DO. HANG ON."

Lemur!Cat, huge, long, and lean, with a face that looks like a tree lemur's (cat's eyes are HUGE, OMG) and all the mental horsepower of a fat wet rock, stood chewing air and regarding this intruder with a gleam in his eye I'd seen a few times before. It was the gleam I saw, accompanied by the throaty pleaseohplease noises he was making now, right before he launched himself at the sunroom window to try to get at the birds at the feeder hanging outside.

He still hasn't grasped the nature of the barrier that bonks him on the nose each time. (Look, he had some problems growing up, okay?)

Lemur!Cat's haunches went up. He crouched, and Neo, his tail twitching, stood at the edge of the rug. I cleared my throat, nervously, and nobody moved. "Okay," I said, quietly. "Let's just all calm down and think about–"

"I KNOW KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!" Neo took the only route of escape left, through the almost-closed glass door into the sunroom. I leave it open a bit so the cats can get out to their kibble and litterboxes, but closed enough so Miss B can't get her fat ass through it. (She has a distressing fondness for Catbox Roca.) I bolted for the door, to shut it before the cats got through. If he was in the sunroom I could go out through the garage and open the outer sunroom door, and he could get out into his kingdom once again.

I'm pretty fast, especially when spurred by adrenaline. However, I am no match for three cats. Lemur!Cat had sprung, and Tuxedo!Kitty, not wanting to be left behind, took off after him like a rocket. Crab!Kitty, dimly understanding everyone was running for the Room What's Got The Kibble, let out a yowl and sprang forth to get his fair share.

"CHRIST NO NOT THE PLANTS!" I yelled.

Right before I ran into the sunroom door. I'm just goddamn lucky the chunk of wood in my left fist didn't shatter some glass and add to the fun.

Cursing, rubbing my nose, I wrenched the sunroom door open.

My plan at that point was to get through into the sunroom, close the door behind me, and open up the door to the backyard, then figure out how to get the goddamn squirrel out. The cats would probably chase him into the wild green yonder, and once Neo had some room to maneuver, I was a bit more sanguine about the end of this little episode not involving bloodshed, broken glass, and yowling. It was the best I could come up with. It was even a cunning plan.

Unfortunately, the goddamn animals had other ideas.

Neo leapt for the high ground–the picnic table where I keep the jungle of houseplants I am nursing to health, or someone moved and I can't just throw them away, or I found them shivering on a streetcorner and just had to take them in. (SHUT UP.) Lemur!Kitty was right behind him, and the desperate battle was accompanied by my despairing cry and CrankyOldDuck!Cat quacking "ALL YOU KIDS STAY AWAY FROM MAH KIBBLE!" and Tuxedo!Kitty's yelling "I REMEMBER! I REMEMBER! YOU KICKED ME IN THE HEAD!" And Neo making THAT SOUND again, in between warcries involving "GONDOR NEEDS NO KUNG FUUUUUU!" and "FIGHT YOU AAAAAAAALLLL!"

I was still kind-of-thinking at this point. I wrenched the door to the outdoors open, trying not to break it with the axe handle, heard a terracotta pot shatter, and realized far too late that the dog was too quiet and I'd left the other sunroom door open.

From the depths of the house came help unlooked-for.

"HEEEEEEEERD IT!" she bellowed. "MUSTER THE ROHIRRIM! CALL UP THE DEAD! HEEEEEEERD IT!" She hit the doorway in a flurry of fur and baying. "I AM NO MAN!"

The quiet I'd noticed earlier? That had been her worming out of her collar. When a dog is motivated, I guess, miracles happen.

Three things that were not miraculous happened at once.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I yelled.

"THE DOG! THE DOG!" the cats screamed in unison.

And, of course, "KUNG FUUUUUUUUU!" Neo.

I now pause to inform you that Aussies, champion herding dogs that they are, consider things like a heavy-duty picnic table that weighs as much as I do not as a "deterrent" to rounding up and herding three cats and a squirrel. Nope. No, definitely not a "deterrent." More like "enjoyable but not very complex challenge."

I could only stand still…and watch.

…To be continued! Also, don't forget the giveaway over at the Deadline Dames–there's still time to win a copy of Angel Town.

Related posts:Squirrel!Matrix
Beastly cold
Cat vs. Treadmill, Round One

PSA, Plus Win A Copy of Angel Town!

First, the serious: Jim C. Hines on reporting sexual harassment in the SFF community. The comments also mention Gavin de Becker's The Gift of Fear, which I also can't recommend enough.

Then, the fun! Would you like to win a signed (in the US) or free (outside the US) copy of my just-released Angel Town? Or a copy of fellow Dame Keri Arthur's Darkness Rising? Or would you, perchance, like a $15 Amazon gift certificate? Would you?

Well, you're in luck! Just head over to the Deadline Dames' latest Release Day Giveaway. All you have to do to get a chance to win is comment there. The Dames, we believe in making it easy to win.

We're cool like that.

While you're there, you can also find tons of other cool things, like the Readers on Deadline contests and helpful writing/publishing advice. And as soon as we figure out how to give out pie over the Internet, we'll probably do that too.

Because we're Dames. And Dames rock.

Related posts:The Personal Slush Pile, And A Contest!
More Release Madness!
Heaven's Spite, and Giveaway!