Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 191

Questions, Questions

I'm getting an avalanche of mail about Reckoning, the fifth and final of the Strange Angels series. Yes, it is the last book, and it will be out in November 2011. I am glad you guys don't want to see the last of Dru, but her story will be finished then. I am hard at work on other books now, other characters are getting their chance to have their stories told. I may conceivably, at some point, return to Dru's world–there's a Maharaj girl who very much wants her story told–but that depends on so many factors right now, it's just pie-in-the-sky and may never happen.

I'm also getting an avalanche of mail with "PLEASE REPLY" and various permutations thereof sprinkled liberally in caps throughout. Guys, I wish I could reply to each and every one of you. It pains me that I can't. It's just not physically possible. I do read everything you send me, though. Every single word, praise or hatred, does pass under my gaze. If many of you have the same question, I answer it here.

One of the questions I get a lot is whether I "like" Graves or Christophe "better for Dru." I like some things about Graves–his loyalty, his ironic sense of humor, how he rolls with the punches of finding out about the Real World–and I dislike some things, like his inability to tell Dru how he feels and his maddening habit of making assumptions. I like some things about Christophe, like his brains and his determination to protect Dru; I dislike some things, like his creepy factor and his unwillingness to tell Dru things he feels are unnecessary. Neither of them are great boyfriend material, though I can see why Dru likes them both. In her position, at her age, I would like both of them too. But if Dru was my daughter, I'd encourage her to realize she doesn't need either of them to be a complete human being. She's already complete just within herself.

Another giant group of questions I'm getting ask in one way or another if I will post excerpts from Reckoning. I do not want to, and I probably will not. I don't want to tease. If my editor thinks it truly necessary or even just a very good idea, I'll consider it.

Last but not least, I've been getting a swamp-full of questions involving possible movies etc. Guys, I can't make a movie out of any of my books. I do not have the deep pockets of a production company. We haven't had an offer for any of the film rights for any of my books. There's been interest, sure, but in this type of affair, it's not definite until the check has cleared. (When dealing with Hollywood, this is always the safest bet.) I have very little control over whether or not there is a movie. If that ever changes, it will be posted here on the FAQ.

There are other questions I've been getting, but none I can answer here. I do read them all, even the hate mail. Thank you for writing; I wish I could answer more.

Over and out.

Related posts:More Release Madness!
Shake That Into Place
Answering Questions

Introducing Steerpike!Squirrel

It's a bright sunny day. Which means two things: spring is here, and after I take the kids to the dentist (boo!) I can take them to the park (yay!). The Princess is excited about staying home from school and sleeping in, while the Prince is downcast because he will miss his friends. I am cautiously waiting to see if the mercury will reach 70F today, which will be a cause for celebration–or, more likely, just a mowing of the lawns. For lo, the herbiage around my humble abode doth need a clipping. If only to make the approaches more visible so the squirrels can't sneak up.

Though really, I think the squirrels have decided Miss B is too much trouble, since there is internal strife in Squirrelandia. Yes, Neo's throne…is in danger.

Now, Squirrel!Neo's leadership was much in evidence during the Corn Pops War, and all through the wet, mostly-warmish winter we had. Despite that, there must have been grumbles of discontent–war heroes can't live on their laurels forever. The little rodents were pretty active this winter, because the temperatures didn't plunge nearly as much as they had in winters past, but the fact that it was, well, you know, winter meant that there wasn't much in the way of calories to fuel that activity. The proportion of idiots in my neighborhood who actually feed the blasted animals seems to be constant, but there still wasn't enough food to go round.

Squirrel!Neo savaged local birdfeeders, ravaged bulb plantings, and led his people all through the dismal winter, but now it's spring and there's a fresh crop of young squirrels looking to get a piece of the alpha squirrel action. Or something. Chief among them is a wiry reddish-coated lad I've named Steerpike!Squirrel, for his habit of pawing his way delicately along my back fence as if he's tiptapping over Gormenghast roofs. He moves with much deliberation, this kitchen-boy-turned-wannabe-squirrel-dictator.

Anyway, this little guy has pounced on Neo and gotten smacked down more than once. Neo looks unconcerned–or, you know, as Ruler of Squirrelandia he has bigger problems. Steerpike!Squirrel doesn't seem to be a Brutus, since he and Neo aren't friends–he's more a Cassius, a lean and hungry type.

Such squirrels are dangerous.

Miss B doesn't like Steerpike!Squirrel either. Instead of the way she watches Neo–ears perked, body tense, grinning happily, just aching for him to come down and play so she can HEEEEERD him–with Neo, she narrows her eyes and sits, never keeping her back to him. And should he be in the yard when she goes out to do her business there is no HEEEEERD-ing. There is a low snaking motion of her head, and she bolts right for him, teeth bared.

I think she sees Neo as a playmate, and Steerpike as potential food. Or, you know, vermin.

Anyway, Squirrelandia is feeling the tension these days. The food situation has eased up, but the rodents are still restless. Whenever Neo appears, doing his squirrel-business, I can usually look and find Steerpike in some shadowed corner. Watching. Waiting.

This does not bode well.

Related posts:Neo & Miss B
Birdfeeders, Gangster Squirrels, and Metamucil
A Squirrel's Classic Blunder

The Matrix Can Haz You

My first review for Spiral Rhythms is up. I'm excited to be reviewing for them; it's a good way to stretch my capabilities, and the editor's a sweetheart. Go check 'em out, if you like.

I've just finished eyeballing the two books in copyedit, back to back. Looking over CEs requires an entirely different set of mental muscles than writing, I'm feeling a bit bruised and strained right now. Plus I keep mumbling "stet, dammit, stet," at weird times while my head jerks sideways. It's like a tic, only not so nice. I am currently listening to Aretha Franklin wailing gospel and trying to calm the hyperventilation. I've two interviews and wordcount left to do today.

*weeps*

Of course, I've run errands and paid bills today, as well as delivered a care package to my favourite local bookstore. I ran three miles, took the dog on a two-mile hike, and loaded and unloaded the dishwasher twice. (I am gratified to report that I did NOT unload dirty dishes, as I have sometimes done while under deadline crunch.) I feel productive, but also slightly battered.

So that's it from me today. I wish I had something Amazingly Relevant and Entertaining to report, but I got nothin'. My only amusement today has come from looking at the dog while paying bills and saying, "They're right, Miss B. You CAN feel the Matrix when you do this!" and watching a frisky young squirrel trying to muscle his way up the backyard hierarchy. Neo is taking a Very Dim View of the latter event, indeed.

More later. Gotta run. Ciao.

Related posts:Yes, I'm Okay
Braincramp!
Long Night Is Over

Decompress Smart, Not Hard

Just a little catch-up today, since I have two books hanging fire in copyedits and another round of revisions.

For those of you asking when RECKONING will be out, I think it's later this year–November 2011, if my memory serves me correctly. Yes, it will be the last book in the Strange Angels series. Dru's story must and will come to a close.

Libba Bray tells you what it's like to write a book, every time. I laughed so hard I almost cried, nodding my head over and over.

Here's a post from Jaym Gates on decompressing, and how it's necessary.

I do not disagree with Ms. Gates, but my non-disagreement comes with a couple important codicils. I am firmly in the "Gotta write every day" category. I don't see how it's possible to produce quality work in a timely manner without that practice and habit being built up over a reasonable period of time. This is my opinion, and I'm sticking to it. I've gotten flak for it, sure, but I've never seen a compelling argument for any other way.

That being said, there does come a point, when you have professionally or consistently written for a while, when you can take some time off. Because even during the time off, some part of your brain is still working on the story. It becomes a reflex. Still, this is dangerous. It's easy to get out of the habit of writing every day, it's easy to procrastinate, just like it's easy to get out of the habit of regular physical workouts. An occasional day off, or a necessary decompression or two, is something one grants oneself while hopefully being fully aware of that danger. It's good to take a vacation, but the hard part is getting back up on the horse again afterward. It is that–the determination to get back up on the horse–that is critical and crucial, and being in the habit of writing every day maximizes one's chances. Human beings are wired for habit; make it work for you.

Here's another codicil:

Back in the long ago days when I actually WROTE on a regular basis, that quote headlined every writing advice post I read. That was back when I had all sorts of world-building charts and questionnaires and Debated About First Person Vs Third with Great Seriousness on Official Writing Forums. At that point, you could probably have told me that standing on my head would get me published, and gotten instant obedience. (Jaym Gates)

World-building charts and questionnaires might be useful tools in moderation, but they're not writing. Debating on online forums is not writing. A lot of new or aspiring writers make the mistake of thinking procrastination or the Internet is actual writing work. It's the same principle the diet or self-help industry makes its money from: people confusing the effort of reading the books/watching the DVDs/whatever for actual effort spent getting exercise or doing hard nasty self-work. One gets an ersatz jolt from the book/CD/DVD, there is a flush of feeling good, then sooner or later the flush wears off, the problems reassert themselves, and a new diet/self-help book is sought.

I'm not saying you shouldn't spend time outlining or on the Internet. That would be hypocritical as well as false. What I'm saying is: when you think you're burning out on writing, look at the effort you're spending on things you mistake for writing, and cut those things out first. Do not cut out the writing first thing. The writing is the whole point, cutting it out is shooting yourself in the foot. If you've cut away the procrastination, the Internet, all the little fiddles and indiscretions we use to hide from the writing, and you're still burning out on producing the story, then it's time to consider decompression.

And now, time for me to take some of my own medicine, get the hell off the Internet, and get some of these copyedits wrangled. I've got wordcount to get in today, too.

Over and out.

Related posts:Pics!
Ritual And Habit
I Should Be Over This By Now

You're Asking What?

He has been scrutinized for months now, his accuracy questioned and his decision to return to school second-guessed. He has never bristled, showing the kind of composure that any coach would love to see in the pocket.

There have been fun moments like the ESPN feature with former NFL coach Jon Gruden and his famously intense film study. There have been awkward times, too. Like the interview question from a team that threw Locker for a loop: Would you give your 16-year-old daughter birth control.

"It caught me off guard," he said. "Maybe it was to see how I would respond." (Boston Herald)

Well, yes. That would catch one off-guard, wouldn't it.

This is a guy being drafted into a football team. He will be playing a made-up game that glorifies violence and aggression, and probably be paid very well for it. That's his choice, I have no problem with that. I like rock climbing, he likes throwing a pigskin for imaginary points. One man's meat, and all.

Here is what mystifies me: why the hell are "they" (I presume this is a team he might be drafted into) asking him a question like this? The underlying assumption is that he would "give" or "allow" his daughter birth control. Well, if the alternative is a teen pregnancy or an STD, such a move might be considered responsible parenting. Parents are here to teach their children to be adults, and to help kids in the years before their ability to understand consequences is fully developed. (If you even try to trot out the old canard about abstinence education being effective, just stop right there.) I've written before about the pervading and pervasive cultural assumption that women are property, passed from their fathers to their husbands in no unequivocal terms. Is this question an outgrowth of that assumption? That troubles me on a meta level, but what troubles me even more is that this is a throwaway line in the middle of a piece of reporting*, obviously considered of little consequence except for its "entertainment" value. (I actually got the link from a Mental Floss tweet.) It's considered no big deal. The indifference is breathtaking.

My answer to a question like that would be, "What? Why the fuck do you think that is your business? It's my family's business, and beyond that, it's my daughter's business, and what is a collection of men doing asking about this?" I'm fairly sure I would give whoever asked such a ridiculous, repugnant, invasive question a stinging verbal dressing-down before leaving the room determined never to do business with them again, in any way, since they are capable of (and have no qualms about, apparently) such inappropriate asshattery. This is what I immediately thought, "What the hell is this guy doing, sitting there calmly while a bunch of jerks asks him this?"

He's a college player, so it's vanishingly unlikely that he has a 16-year old daughter, or that he will for quite some time. You could argue, I suppose, that they wanted to "provoke" him to see how he would respond on the field. My reply is: bullshit. This man is going to make a living playing a violent game that encourages, facilitates, and rewards violent behavior. A question this stupid, phrased this casually, especially when it's totally irrelevant because the guy is what, 20?, is not going to give you any goddamn idea of how he's going to behave after you finish another few years of rewarding the type of behavior football requires and endorses from its players. It's like asking a llama how it feels about tap dancing–it just doesn't even fricking apply.

And, I reiterate: the whole thing is just thrown into the middle of a "news" article, like it's no big deal. Wink wink, nudge nudge, isn't this funny, the important thing is this guy can play this made-up game and might be invited to play this made-up game somewhere else for a lot of money.

It just boggles the mind.

* However much sports "reporting" can qualify for that name, that is.

Related posts:Uncool, dude. Uncool.
"Artist" Is Not A Dirty Word
On Money, Or, Pay The Writer

Absurdity of Every Day

A reminder: the winners for the Defiance contest are posted here. I have not heard from all of the winners yet! Please pipe up by Friday at midnight PST.

Facing a bright, beautiful, sunny day with a low-grade fever makes the absurdity of everyday life painfully, hilariously obvious. I'm not sure when I've been this amused and amazed. I mean, normally I'm in a state of amused amazement anyway–you could say, along with sarcasm, that it's my natural default. But today just seems designed to remind me that the world is far weirder than anything I could ever dream up, and I'm just along for the ride.

Things I have seen this morning:

* Several couples out walking. The absurdity: invariably, one-half of these couples has a cellphone firmly clasped to his or her ear. A bright sunny day, you're out walking with someone, and yet the only thing you can do is yap on your phone? Added bonus: 90% of those on the cells are conversing loud enough to be heard across the street.

* A truck loaded with scrap metal slowly cruising the neighborhood, windows down, a cigar-chomping man with a red bandanna around his head singing along at top volume to ranchero music. This would have been okay if he hadn't been singing rousing round after round of "Row Row Row Your Boat" in merry defiance of his blasting radio.

* A trail of Almond Joy wrappers along my usual route, as if a suburban Hansel and Gretel had pillaged the witch's house and decided to go a-wandering.

* A fierce battle among six crows for an empty McFlurry cup. Screeching, cawing, wing buffets, it was incredible. We didn't get to see who won.

* A ragged man weaving down the middle of the (deserted, residential) street, carrying on a (VERY LOUD) conversation with the surrounding air about red cockroaches. Miss B. eyed him with much suspicion. I reached for my cell phone–he looked like he was having a rough time of it. I figured the least I could do was call someone to help restrain him from wandering out into traffic. I didn't have time. The man suddenly stopped, tore his shirt off, and bolted. Miss B. looked like she wanted to HEEEEERD him, and by the time I had her convinced it wasn't a good idea because I wasn't going to run and after all, there was the little matter of a leash attached to my wrist that I was not going to let go of, he had disappeared. The shirt was still lying sodden in the middle of the road when we returned from our walk.

* A squirrel interrupted in the act of apparently trying to make sweet sweet love to a sad, abandoned, punctured football. Despite Miss B.'s usual quivering glee at the idea of even getting close enough to one of Neo's furry brethren to heeeeeerd it, she just looked at this particular amorous rodent and cocked her head, then looked at me. What, um, should we do about this?, she seemed to say.

"Just…oh, God. Just leave him to it, I guess." I twitched the leash and we kept going. However, we must have broken the mood, for the lonely squirrel beat a hasty retreat to the shelter of a dead tree.

I don't even know.

Anyway, that was the morning's walk. (I could go on and on, but you wouldn't believe some of the other stuff.) I would blame most of the absurdity on the low-grade fever and exhaustion, but every day is a new cavalcade of weird here in our humble neighborhood. I can't tell if it's because I live here, or just because people are really that strange, and now that it's spring they can just let their freak flags fly.

Related posts:Bag of Random Things
Neo & Miss B
Kaleidoscope Weekend

Winners! Revisions! Worm-eaten brainmonkeys!

The winners for the DEFIANCE contest are posted here at Deadline Dames! Thanks for all the great trivia–I learned an incredible amount reading those comments. My Readers have a vast store of knowledge. When I take over the world, I shall be depending on each of you to advise me.

My weekend was long periods of intense work broken only by moments of reaching for the next batch of Easter candy to shove down my gullet. Yes, that's right–I was revising. Or, if you want to be precise, doing the first revision after an editorial letter for a book I wrote three years ago or so. I kept looking at the screen in disbelief, shaking my head and tasting vomit because I'd written something that sucked so hugely. Which is a normal thing for me during revisions, really, but looking at any work more than six months old is an incredibly disheartening experience. I take comfort in the fact that, while I might not know if I've gotten better in the intervening time, at least I know my writing style has changed.

This particular book started out at about 100K words, and now stands at about 125K. This is, for me, an absolute doorstop of a book. My editor wanted more more more, so I obliged, and since the work had good bones…well, I guess I'll find out what she thinks in a little bit. Since I've finished and sent it back early, pleading for her to be only as savage with it as she must.

Notice I don't ask for kindness. Kindness, while it may save whatever tattered shards of ego I have left, will not make the book better.

Anyway. I am looking forward to announcing this project as soon as I get the official okay-go-ahead. In the meantime, here, have some Chuck Wendig: 25 things a writer should know. I'll just point and say, what he said.

After the push to get the revisions done (steady progress yesterday was marred by a corrupted file and the loss of an hour's worth of work, thank God it wasn't more, but it was in the last twenty fricking pages and I almost wept like the little girl I pretend to be sometimes when luring my victims in, whole 'nother story, tell you later), catching up (mostly) on correspondence, and finishing a review that had been languishing on my hard drive for two weeks, I don't have a lot of usable gray matter left in my tiny little skull. If you need me, I'll be over in the corner rocking back and forth and reading about the Ardennes offensive. *whimpers*

Over and out.

Related posts:Jealousy Winners!
Revisions Deathmarch
Slow And Steady

DEFIANCE Giveaway!

[image error]That's right, yesterday was the official launch of the fourth in the Strange Angels series, Defiance. I celebrated with Episode 2 of my podcast, Ragged Feathers. But that wasn't nearly enough celebration, so today, I'm giving books away!

What you can win: There will be four (4) winners. I will be giving away three (3) signed copies of Defiance (note: if you're outside the US, I will have to send books to you through BookDepository instead, sorry about that.) ONE lucky winner will get a set of all Strange Angels books so far–Strange Angels, Betrayals, Jealousy, Defiance–again, signed if you're in the US, sent through BookDepository if you're not.

What you do: In the comments of this post over at the Deadline Dames, you've got to tell me the best piece of trivia you ever found. I'm not talking about the most arcane, or the one you think will impress other people. I'm talking about that useless fact you found that made you deeply happy, made your socks roll up and down and your pants fly off. The winners will be picked with the help of Random.org; if the random spits out a comment number that has no trivia I'll pick another. Remember, you must go to the Deadline Dames post to comment in order to win!

Ready? GO!

Related posts:Heaven's Spite, and Giveaway!
DEFIANCE Release!
Contest Winners!

DEFIANCE Release!

That's right–the fourth book in the Strange Angels series, Defiance, is officially released today!

[image error] Dru Anderson has always been a good listener. She listened to her dad, but had to gun him down herself when he turned zombie. She listened to the Order, but got nothing but lied to in return. She listened to Christophe, and lost the only friend she had left.

Time to buckle up, boys and girls. Dru Anderson is done listening. From here on out, she'll face the King of the Vampires on her own terms. And if the Order has a problem with it, they can kiss their sweet little svetocha goodbye…

There's a free excerpt here, and Defiance is available through Barnes & Noble, Borders, Booksamillion, the Book Depository, and Amazon.

If you want a signed copy, no problem! Just drop an email to the friendly folks at Cover to Cover Books. Of, you can tune in later on in the day to my giveaway. Stick around!

Related posts:Hey, Jealousy!
Strange Angels: Betrayals!
The Eternal Kiss…And Redemption Alley!

Your Shapechanger, Fear

You know, dry pants do help to civilize one.

This morning I ran several errands with Miss B. along. She still isn't too sure about car rides, but one of the errands was a 2+ mile walk in the rain, and she was glad to get back into the car after that and spent the rest of the errands snoozing.I did not think of myself as the type of high-energy person who could wear out an Australian shepherd, but apparently, I am. My vision of myself as a sedentary, ambitionless lump is taking rather a hard knock or two.

However, breaking up the errands with that walk meant that for about an hour and a half I was wandering around soaked from mid-thigh down. My feet were okay–wool socks and combat boots, so my toesies were damp but not cold–but my jeans were absolutely dripping. I'm sure I left a trail of moss behind. I have to say, peeling out of wet clothes and into dry is one of the most sensual, civilizing experiences I've had the pleasure of encountering. It's right up there with hot tea, good Thai food, a glass of Sangiovese, and the ability to press a button and hear Beethoven.

Ahhhh.

Anyway, it's Friday. I've grown away from doing Friday writing posts. It's not that I ran out of things to say. Far, far from. There just hasn't been a lot of bandwidth available, what with three books due this year, another few books in revision and proofs and copyedits, gah, plus the constant chaos of two kids, now with extra dog.

*time passes*

I wrote all that this morning, then left for afternoon errands. Now I'm here trying to pick up the train of thought that derailed when I looked at the clock and thought oh, dammit, almost late! It was very White Rabbit of me. In any case, I have limited time now before the set of evening tasks rises up to gnaw at my ankles and demand my attention, so let's get on with it.

To quote Stephen King: Let's talk, you and I. Let's talk about fear.

One of my afternoon errands was lunch with my darling Princess, who is on the honor roll at her school. Afterward, I walked her to her English class, and got roped into a question-and-answer session. I didn't kick very hard–I love those kids, they're so bright and energetic. Every class visit, I notice something. At least one (but usually several) kids ask me the same question many adults ask me, over and over again.

How do you get over the fear?

Fear is a shapechanger. What if nobody likes it? What if I have no talent? What if I'm rejected? What if everyone laughs at me? What if I never finish? What if I finish and I never write anything else? What if I'm a freak passing for human and this shows everyone my secret, and they hate me because I'm alien? (Okay, maybe this one is just me.) What if I never finish anything? What if I'm a crappy writer? What if I'm a horrible human being who doesn't deserve to live, let alone write? What if the sun goes out and I'm responsible? AAAAAAAAAAGH! *Insert your own particular bugaboo here.*

This is the fear that fuels paralysis. Sometimes one calls this paralysis writer's block. Look, "writer's block" does not exist. But fear most definitely does. The fear will take a million shapes, like the demon hurling scary shit at Buddha under the Bodhi tree. Its purpose is to shake you. I am going to tell you a couple things about fear, and then I'll leave you to it.

* Fear as the speed of light. Einstein turned physics on its head by saying, "Fine, let's treat the speed of light as a constant, then we'll get some shit done." Quitting writing will not stop the fear; it will simply take different shapes and return in other areas of your life. Accept that while you're alive, you're going to be afraid of shit. It's the human condition. Courage does not lie in stupid-ass foolhardiness, it lies in feeling the fear and forging ahead anyway, in however-tiny increments. Don't think that the fear is a reason to quit. Instead, accept it as a constant, plug it into the equation so you can plan around it, and get some shit done.

* Sometimes, you aren't afraid, just tired. Or lazy. Sometimes, if you look very closely at what you're feeling, it's not fear. You just don't wanna. Well. If you honestly, really don't wanna, then don't. Go do something you do wanna, be a plumber or an opera singer or a high-priced plate whisperer, whatever. There is enough fear in everyone's life, don't add more to your burdens by calling exhaustion or laziness something they're not. Human beings are already tottering under a load of (sometimes very real and very reasonable) fear; why would you want to pick up more?

* The place where you're weakest is your strength. That fear you feel when you sit down to write, guess what? Someone else, probably several someones, feels it too. That fear is an invaluable gift. It shows you exactly what your reader will nod their head at while reading. Your reader will recognize your honest fear. It is a hook that will drag the reader into your story, because your reader knows what it's like.

I had such a difficult time in ballet class; I was gawky, self-conscious, clumsy, terrified. One day, Madame called us all together, fixed us with her eagle eye, and said something like this: "Girls, while you are at barre, you are thinking everyone is looking at you. They are not. Every girl is busy being afraid you are looking at her. Nobody is watching you. Sometimes, even I am not watching, for there are twelve of you and only the one of me. Stop being silly, eh?"

This was a revelation. (Thanks, Madame. you kicked my ass, but I loved it.) The older I get, the more I find out that everyone around me is just winging it, the same way I am. The things I'm afraid of–my loved ones being hurt, being lonely when I get old, heights, confined spaces, zombie apocalypses–are common human fears. I can describe them and most people will nod because they know exactly what I'm talking about. They've felt it too. That moment of sympathy is part of what it means to be human, and it is pure goddamn gold when you're looking to pull a reader into your world and tell them this amazing story you love.

Just in case you think you're the only one, let me tell you: You're not. I am terrified too. Every time I finish a book, I am terrified nobody will like it. While I'm writing books I've been contracted for I'm terrified they will suck and the publisher will want the advance back and my career will end. Every time I write a short story I'm afraid of the editor sending it back with a note like "OHAI THIS IS TRASH, U R REJECTED, SEE YOU LATER." There is at least one other person on God's green earth that is just as afraid as you are, and that person is me. Take some comfort in that.

I've got the other end of this line, kid, and as long as you hold on, I'm going to as well. Despite the storm of fear, this rope–the sympathy we can feel for fear we know we share, the transformation of the world through our art–can hold us both. I promise.

Now. Put your chin up and your shoulders back. Spit in fear's eye. Get out there and kick some ass.

Over and out.

No related posts.