Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 193

Fish April And Squirrel Ballad

It's Fish of April! Here's the obligatory prank. There, now we've gotten that out of the way.

It's a Friday and I'm flying low, so…under the cut, the long-awaited picture of Miss B, plus a squirreltastic treat. (ETA: Plus, the Evil League of Evil Writers totally made me cry this morning.)

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Hello world, it's Miss B!

There she is, the newest addition to Casa Saintcrow. This morning she helped me mow the lawn and sat, head cocked, while the yappy terrier next door went absolutely nuts. He was Protecting His Human From The New Canine, and B found this highly amusing. "Dude," she seemed to say, "chillax. The humans are talking." The terrier would have none of that, though, and Miss B grinned at him with great good humor, which infuriated him even more.

I love this dog.

Miss B. has not yet seen a squirrel, although she alerted me to a cat in the neighbor's yard this morning during my run. "Okay," I said, "I see it, settle down." And she did. What a good girl, eh?

Speaking of squirrels, the multi-talented Monica Valentinelli sent me a Further Ballad of Neo, with More Than A Nod To E. A. Poe. Enjoy!

THE SQUIRREL

–Monica Valentinelli

Once upon an evening dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

How to script an ensuing volume for my readers galore,

While I nodded, nearly dozing, suddenly there came a scraping,

As of some one gently chafing, up against my screen porch door.

`'Tis my fuzzy feline,' I muttered, 'chafing at my screen porch door -

Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was an overcast day in November,

And each separate dying leaf dragged its dry bones across the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow

Whence my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for a lost amore -

For I'm but a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Saintcrow -

A goddess in my house for evermore.

Alas! My children's laughter, diving headfirst in my box of chocolates

Distracted me – filled me with fantastic delights never felt before;

Oh no! Dear, kitty! To still the beating of my happy heart, I stood repeating

I forgot about my kitty entreating entrance at my back porch door -

My hungry kitty is still entreating entrance at my back porch door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Dearest kitty,' said I, `truly your forgiveness I must implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping my back door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' – here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Saintcrow!'

This name I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Saintcrow?'

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the living room turning, questions within me burning,

Soon again I heard a scratching somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is my kitty at my screen door;

Let me see then, why he's sore with me, and this mystery I'll explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis my kitty and nothing more!'

Open I slid my door like butter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately squirrel of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched outside my screen porch door -

Perched upon a gazing ball just beyond my screen porch door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this gray creature beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be white and fuzzy, thou,' I said, `art sure no yellow bird.

Ghastly foul and ancient vermin wandering nightly because you could -

Tell me what thy lordly name is within this Green Man's wood!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly pest to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer had much meaning – and its similarity to my own it bore;

Still, we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with a talking squirrel just outside his screen door -

Bird or beast above a mirrored ball just outside their screen door,

Bearing such a name–or any other–as stately as `Saintcrow.'

But the squirrel, sitting lonely on the gleaming orb, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered – not his furry tail he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have climbed before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have climbed before.'

Then the pest said once more, `Saintcrow, Saintcrow!'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what name it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught no doubt by some rabid reader whose unmerciful teasers

Followed fast and followed faster till his decrees one burden bore -

Till the chants of his hope for my next book his burden bore

Of "Saintcrow" and nothing more.

But the squirrel was still beguiling my remaining kitties into smiling,

Straight I ushered a tuxedo-furred feline in front of squirrel and ball and door;

Then, upon my pillow sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this plague-carrying pest of yore -

What this grey, grim, disgusting, gaunt, and plague-carrying pest of yore

Meant in groaning o'er and o'er: `Saintcrow.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the creature whose beady eyes now burned into my dear kitty's fur;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On my cushion's silken lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

His memory shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the autumn air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by tree limbs whose bare arms wafted through my window yore.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee

Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy owner's memories from before!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget all that came before!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

`Augur!' said I, `thing of evil! – augur still, if squirrel or demon! -

Whether agent sent, or whether readers tossed thee in my grassy knoll,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this fairy land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -

Is there – is there books in Hel? – tell me – tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the squirrel o'er and o'er, that one dire word: `Saintcrow.'

`Augur!' said I, `thing of evil! – augur still, if squirrel or demon!

By the Heavens that bend above us – by those gods we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance fading,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Saintcrow -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Saintcrow?'

Quoth the squirrel slowly, lowing: `Saintcrow.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, squirrel or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the wood and the Night's ghostly shores!

Leave no grey tuft as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the ball outside my door!

Take thy teeth from out my heart, and take thy form evermore!'

Quoth the squirrel, `Saintcrow.'

And the squirrel, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid ball of gazing just outside my screen porch door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow 'cross my floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted – nevermore!

Beautamous! Take a bow, Ms. Monica! *claps vigorously*

Over and out!

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Mailbag and Worldbuilding

Okay, so not really from the mailbag, more like from the last Dames Question Day post. No matter. We shall forge onward. There were a couple of specific queries, and then I'll talk a little bit about worldbuilding.

Dame Lili- There's one more book in the Strange Angels series after Defiance, right? –Amanda W.

Yes, the book after Defiance is Reckoning, which is the final installment of Dru's adventures.

This is for Lilith Saintcrow. In Dante Valentine Series, Where is Saint City supposed to be located? –Jessica R.

In my mind, Saint City is a strange melange of Seattle and Portland, 600 years in the future. Some bits are from the Seattle of my youth, others are from the Portland of my adult years. There are a couple other Pacific Northwest locations that worked themselves in, but really, Santiago City is a sort of in-between place.

Now, let's talk about worldbuilding! Sometimes (never as much as you want to) you can just use the FM wand. But if you want to build a world, well…I'll give you all the advice I can.

* Figure out your personal sensory hooks. I'm very visual, and a lot of the way I work centers on that. Mostly everyone has one sense they tend to focus on. You cannot just write that one sense without boring your reader to tears–but you can use that sense to build the world very vividly for yourself.

People often ask me, "How can you keep your stories separate?" They usually look a bit puzzled when I tell them the lighting is so different for each story, I have very little trouble. For example, Jill Kismet's world is very blue-toned, like the color palette of the first Underworld movie. Dante Valentine's look was very Blade Runner, and very red with orange undertones. Dru Anderson's world is lit very crisply, like sunlight bouncing off fine granular snow on a very, very cold day. See? I can shut my eyes and build (on the underside of my eyelids, thank you Nabokov) a complete rendering of a scene. I use a lot of film metaphors because I do stop the "action," pan around, and take different angles. From there it's just a short hop to step into the scene, and let the characters tell me just where they're aching and how the sweat is stinging their eyes, what it smells like, what they hear.

If you've got a sense you like, spend a twenty-minute session (kitchen timer, remember? Writer's best friend.) with your eyes closed, think about how your character looks/smells/sounds/you get the idea. You can also think about the feel of a particular place in your story, etc. A slight warning, though: this can turn into a form of work avoidance. Use sparingly.

* It's an iceberg. You cannot cram everything you love about your world into a book. It's not possible. A Reader only needs and wants the tip of the iceberg, the cream of the crop. You will be aware of the massive bulk under the water. This is your private playground, the foundation that holds up the rest of your world up in the light. Spend some timed sessions playing around there–think about the history of your world, your characters, why they do the things they do, invent their life stories and play them inside your head. Again, can turn into a form of work avoidance, which is why I recommend the timer.

* Just pick the best. A lot of worldbuilding is putting in sensory hooks, hoping to find one that will tickle the Reader just the right way. Sometimes I'll put in three or four sensory hooks, then edit out everything but the best one later. Keep the snippets in a killfile, though.You never know when they might come in handy later.

* Sink or swim. I tend to throw a Reader in and let them build the world through inference. This works very well sometimes, but it's not everyone's cuppa. Some Readers want things spelled out more, others are furious if they sense you're holding their hand.Try to strike a balance, and understand you're not going to hit it just right for every reader. Your editor, however, is trained in the art of helping you reach as many Readers as possible. Which is just another reason to listen to him or her.

* Practice evocative restraint. This is just a fancy way of saying "you can let the Reader scare/seduce herself." You don't have to describe every baroque curlicue of Cthulu's tentacles. You can let the reader hear them rubbing against each other with a sound like tearing wet gristle, while the misshapen bulk looms threateningly above them. Plenty of Readers will take it from there, and remember your monster vividly because they filled in the scariest bits–unique to each person–themselves. One good sensory hook and an invitation for the Reader to scare himself works wonders.

As usual, your mileage may vary, all applicable disclaimers, yadda yadda. I'll be checking in at random intervals today over at the Deadline Dames; if you have other questions on worldbuilding I'll see if I can answer a few there.

Now I've got a tired dog to pet and a sorceress to get into some dire, most unladylike trouble. See you around.

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Long Night Is Over

Well, Miss B.'s first night went about as well as could be expected. She was spayed and uprooted yesterday, so it took her a while to settle in, and there was some Intestinal Distress. That was to be expected, and was prepared for, but I suspect neither of us got much sleep. She's still not wanting a lot of food, though she'll take the treat that gets stuffed inside the little rubber chew toy.

I am happy to report that even under such stress as this, Miss B. is a sweet, loving, kind, and very smart dog. She doesn't nip or bark; she gets excited and jumps a bit but quits immediately when given a firm "no." She adores the kids, is cautious of the cats–I noticed in her initial paperwork that she came from a home with both cats and little ones, which was a factor in my agreeing to take her.

So. There will be a writing post up later today, but for now…I am sitting here, typing, with a calm dog next to my chair. It just does not get any better than this.

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The Glorious Advent Approacheth

Today is the day! Miss B., our rescued, red tricolor miniature Australian shepherd, comes home late this afternoon. She will be kind of groggy, since she'll be fresh from a spaying–and let me tell you, I am already angry at her former owners, who let her get to be three years old without spaying her. (It really is best. ANYWAY.) Everything is prepared–a nice canvas crate for her to retreat to, a couple of doggie beds in rooms we'll spend a lot of time in, fresh bowls (one for water, one for food, one for the dishwasher) and food and treats, toys, a spare leash and two spare collars, bags for waste removal, toenail clippers and brush–when I went to the pet store yesterday, the clerk insisted on helping carry my purchases to the car. I guess it was a bit overwhelming.

Miss B. comes from the Humane Society for Southwest Washington, an excellent organization. They've been just wonderful! Funny story: my regular climbing partner volunteers there on a weekly basis, and after climbing yesterday I went to go see Miss B. and let her know I hadn't forgotten about her. My climbing partner showed up during the visit too, and we had a nice chat. And then there was a tap at the window, and I look up–and there's my across-the-street neighbors; they are contemplating a play partner for their current hound. Small, small world. Miss B. gave me an arch look, like "Do you know EVERYONE here, human?" Then she went back to giving kisses and being a guard dog.

I got a chance to get to know her a little better during my visit. She's extraordinarily smart and inquisitive, very agile, and a very loving dog just aching for a job and a family. As soon as we got it settled I was the alpha she immediately started looking for things to do to help me. She adores giving kisses, loves leaning up against me or resting her head on my knee, and is very interested in what's happening around the perimeter of her territory. Plus, she's so adorable it just short-circuits me.

I will try to keep the updates to a minimum, since spamming the airwaves with "OMG NEW DOGGIE SQUEE" gets old after a while. And please understand if I don't post many pictures. We are going to be very busy, but I'll at least try to get a couple shots up.

Last night I went to a climbing clinic over at PRG with my bouldering partner. It was fierce. We both had a great time, and I am sore this morning. Dropped knees, high steps, flagging, severe overhangs…we did it all. My bouldering partner's a very Zen climber–she's methodical, and is grace personified on the wall. Me? I just throw myself at it and hope something sticks. I climb like the Tasmanian Devil dances. *wry grin* Sheer enthusiasm sometimes makes up for a lack of technique.

Anyway, today I have last-minute errands to run and checks to make sure the house is prepared for the Glorious Advent. The cats are all excited too–they know something is happening, and the two older ones are all, "WE HAVE SEEN THIS SORT OF THING BEFORE" while glaring at the youngest, who is mystified and kind of oblivious. (Miss B.'s former home had felines, so that's good.) The kitties have several places to go to escape, should they need it, and the introductions are well-planned. I expect our oldest, crankiest cat to simply perch on something high up and announce his displeasure; our middle cat (sweet little tuxedo kitty, our lover, who got kicked in the head by Squirrel!Neo) will be upset until he figures out Miss B. is WARM and FURRY and NEEDS LOVE, at which point they will become bestest friends; and our youngest cat will hide under my daughter's bed, like he does every day. He's the kitty who will have the most difficult time adjusting, I think, because he only likes my daughter. She's his human, and he is not interested in anything or anyone else unless it's the food bowl. In any case, we'll work through problems as they arise. It should be hilarious.

Since Miss B. is a herding dog, I expect her to try to herd the cats. Fun times will be had by all. Also, for those of you asking, I do not know how she responds to squirrels. I did try to explain to her yesterday about Squirrel!Neo ("He's got a crooked tail, and he's magic. Plus he knows kung fu. I AM NOT KIDDING.") but she just gave me another arch look. "REALLY, HUMAN," she seemed to comment, "I CAN HANDLE A RODENT OR TWO. THEY HAVE THOSE IN AUSTRALIA. BIG ONES. THAT KICK YOU IN THE HEAD."

Oh, Lord. This is going to be fun…

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Expanding The Household

It's been fifteen years, and I think I'm about ready again. Well, I was willing a long time ago, but now I'm able.

That's right. We're getting a dog.

I went down to the shelter yesterday and we found a very sweet miniature Australian shepherd; a working dog. (They get a little antsy if they don't have a Job, and I sympathize. And there's plenty for her to do around here.) Venturing into the shelter is a particular type of hell for me–I want to take home every dog there and feed them and love them, but I can't. I was even prepared not to find a dog who wanted me, but my luck was good–as it always is, with canines. She looked at me, I looked at her, and I swear she cocked her head and said "GO HOME NOW PLEASE?"

It was that simple. Just like always.

Unfortunately, I had to explain that she'd be staying there just a little bit longer to handle the spaying, but I don't think she understood. In any case, I'll be bringing her home very soon, and the upheaval will be glorious. I was surrounded by canines growing up, and it's always been odd to not have a dog during my adult life. Now that I'm in a position where I can take care of one, huzzah! It will be good for me to have a hound around, it will keep me active, and oh, my God, I've missed having a dog so much.

I suspect the excitement (plus the tail end of a vicious flu bug) is what woke me up at 3am this morning. I gave in to the inevitable, got up and wrote for an hour before hitting the treadmill, and felt Very Virtuous. Still do, though I suspect I will need a nap before long. Before then, though, I'm on a roll. I have managed to introduce the assassin into the mix, and we're about to have a lovely knife-throwing, and a little blood shed, and an oath or two sworn in good faith. All in all, it's not a bad way to spend a morning.

I'm too excited to settle to much beyond writing and preparing the house for tomorrow. So, there it is. Further bulletins as events warrant.

Over and out!

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…sick…

Gormenghast to Ziggurat

I can't afford to get sick. I have too blasted much to do. Unfortunately, my body is not listening, recalcitrant thing that it is.

For those of you asking: I don't know what's going on with Those Who Fight Monsters. It was supposed to ship in March; the publisher will have a clearer idea of what's up. (ETA: There's a giveaway here.)

I've also finished the Gormenghast novels. I was ambivalent about Titus Groan, I quite liked Gormenghast, but Titus Alone lost all the goodwill the first two books earned. (Can we please stop having the Callow Adventurer being so Irresistible To The Laydeez? GAH.) Peake's genius for names and the decaying Gothick splendour of the castle itself were magical, and I could even see the first two books as a sort of social allegory. Steerpike was my favourite character, with Fuschia and the Doctor as close seconds; but Peake betrayed every single woman in the book dreadfully. Anything with ovaries was a cipher, and not a very well-drawn one at that. However, props to Peake for taking Steerpike to his logical conclusion, and not flinching. I said it before and I'll say it again: I think Dr. Prunesquallor was Peake himself, and Titus was what Peake wanted to view himself as. This leaves Steerpike as the id, or the Shadow. (My vote is for Shadow, but I might be biased.) Once Steerpike was gone, the book ended. If the story belongs to the character that changes the most (as Laura Kalpakian, I believe, said, though I've attributed it before to Karen Fisher), then the Gormenghast books belong to Steerpike.

End result: I'm glad I read it, though I probably never will again. I may go back to Gormenghast and read for Steerpike, but that's about it.

A majority of this weekend will be spent sucking on cough drops and helping with the grand reopening of Cover to Cover, my favourite local indie bookstore. I was down there today, breathing in the new paint fumes as bookcases (recently cleaned of smoke, the old location suffered a dreadful fire) were carried in, as well as various sundries–and I just got a call telling me that the gigantic ziggurat of book boxes was making its way into the store. The books were lovingly cleaned and taken care of by the staff at Servicemaster (who have been incredibly wonderful, and gentle, thorough, and kind) and are almost ready to go up on the shelf. We just have to drag the shelves around and reassemble them.

So yeah, there's my weekend. There will be pizza, and sore muscles, and a great deal of dust and excitement. All in all it's a good way to finish saying farewell to a character or two. The old Cover to Cover saw many a long discussion with my writing partner, where we both hashed over aspects of a book (hers or mine, didn't matter) or generally noodled on about writing. Soon we'll start treating the book-lined walls of a new place to long discussions of plot and genre and animus, pop culture and lit fic and ships and seas and sailing wax, cabbages and kings.

You can tell I'm excited. I have a ton of pictures from the moving in. Including pictures of Shirley the penguin, perched on a high shelf as is her wont, staring dramatically at the ceiling. (Yes, we have a two-foot high plastic penguin, and her name is Shirley. Just one of the many reasons I love this store.)

Oh, and there's more trouble to get Bannon & Clare into as well. I think it's about time they met an Adventurer…

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The Shadow Journal is now up!

Valley Of Plot Tangles

A busy day looms ahead of me! First off, I'm over at Tynga's place with an interview and giveaway for Paranormal Spring Break. Also, neat stuff: how pain and the sense of smell appear to be linked.

We're right on the cusp of spring. The plum tree out back is dragging its feet over blooming; the snowball bush down the road only has a few lone petals standing out like white rags on a sinking ship, the birds are going nuts but the squirrels are oddly quiet. It feels like the world's holding its breath before the plunge into blooming and growing again. I'm okay with this.

…I just deleted a whole long entry about how terrified I am about taking on yet another project that involves a type of book I've never written before. Going outside my comfort zone is good; I think I can do this, I think it will stretch me and I will (hopefully) grow. Of course, I could end up in a flaming wreck on my living room floor, sobbing and drooling with my cerebellum fused, my agent and editors and readers dumping me in disgust. Too soon to tell. Of course, the fear threatens paralysis, and sheer stubborn bloody-mindedness is the only way through.

Good thing I'm good at that. Or at least, well-practiced.

With that cheerful thought, I'm going to go get started on the rest of the day. Yea though I walk through the valley of plot tangles, I shall fear no revision, for I've got the Muse chained up in the basement and neither of us are leaving until we've given this our best shot. *cracks knuckles* I may end up a drooling mess, but at least I'll have tried it. That's all I can hope for.

Over and out.

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Questions, Questions

I've been receiving a deluge of questions lately, some of which I can answer in the upcoming podcast (still hard at work on that, in between Other Stuff) and some I can just answer here.

* Are you going to be at X convention? Or, when will you visit my town? Unfortunately, I don't travel much. This is not solely because I do not wish to be pawed by a stranger, though that is a consideration. A more compelling consideration is that my kids are not at an age where I can leave them for overnight trips, childcare is expensive, and I can't afford multiple trips for all of us either. So, for the time being, I am extraordinarily limited in the conventions or signings I can attend. This may change in the future–I wish I could travel and see you, dear Reader–and when it does, I'll let you know.

If you would like to get a book signed by me, there is a way to do it! Just contact Cover to Cover Books. They can ship signed copies of anything out on the shelves; their shipping is quite reasonable. C2C has sent signed copies of books to the Philippines, Australia, Britain, and numerous other places. Plus, they're indie.

* Is there an excerpt from Defiance yet? You bet. It's right here, courtesy of the fine folks at Penguin AU.

* Who is the model on the cover of the Strange Angels books? I don't know. Authors generally have very little (read: no) control over their covers. I don't know the model's name, who she works for, or what kind of sandwiches she likes. All I know is that she was a professional model we picked out of a laydown–there were three choices, and I think the other two were blonde, so they weren't Dru, and that was it. If you like the covers, tell the good folks at Razorbill. They'll be happy to hear your feedback.

* Can you send me an ARC for review? I hate to break it to you, but I only get ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies) for the first book in any series, and even then I generally only get one or two for my reference shelf. If you want to get on a publisher's review list, go to the publisher's website and find a link for their marketing/press department, and make your case to them. I can't get free books sent to you.

* Can I interview you? I try to respond to all interview requests. Sometimes they fall through the cracks–if you don't hear from me within a week, ping me again! I get 50-100 emails a day just through my website alone; unfortunately I can't answer all of them and sometimes an interview request will get buried under the landslide.

There are more, but I think that's about it for today. I am itching to get back to the gryphon stables and get my characters in some more trouble. Plus, the next scene involves capacitors. BIG FUN. I am actually wriggling with delight while writing this book, it's amazing.

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From Hives To Cabana Boys

I'm starting out the week with hives. Actually, they started yesterday. I think I'm allergic to becoming vertical and achieving waking consciousness, since that's when they happen. Solution: stay in bed all day. (BRILLIANT!) Only I can't. (Bummer.) Besides, today I need to get two characters out of the Wark and separated, and introduce An Adventurer into the tale. That will be too much fun for me to stay away. I am literally chortling every time I think about this particular character's entrance.

Here's Courtney Milan on 99-cent ebooks:

Now, I don't deny that books are imperfect substitutes for each other. And I don't deny that this results in price competition. But as a general rule, the better the author, the harder it is to find a good old-fashioned economic substitute for her. Conversely, the worse the author, the easier it is to substitute. It's really easy to bore people. It's hard to entertain them. And the authors who can make you laugh consistently–or keep you on the edge of your seat–or have you reaching for your hankie–you know they are not interchangeable. (Courtney Milan)

The underlying assumption in the "race to the bottom" plenty of analyses of e-publishing are based on is that books are interchangeable units, which may be so for some (very limited) statistical purposes but is definitely NOT so for most statistical purposes, or in practical reality. This core assumption raises its ugly head in a number of ways, but most often (and most maddening) when non-professionals lecture writers about e-publishing. If I had a dime for every time someone not in the industry tried to "school" me with fuzzy illogic based on this assumption, I wouldn't have to write. I'd be relaxing on a beach somewhere with the cabana boy rubbing my feet.

Anyway. That's a rant for another day.

Spring proceeds apace, with new projects, trees just beginning to bloom, and the Scotch broom down the street sending up its yellow flags. The usual storms are coming through, the usual restlessness taking hold. I have itchy wandering feet, and it's not just because of the hives.

See you around.

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Turning In Different Directions

Lots of little things to report today!

* I'm over at Orbit today, talking about why series drag on, and why they should end. Also, why I think James Bond would be a bad writer.

* Last night I ran a short #askauthor session on Twitter. (I forgot how fun those were!) Don't worry–if you missed it, you can hop over to the podcast page and submit questions that way. I am working on the next podcast; it will probably be out next week sometime.

* We're coming up on the release of Defiance, the fourth in the Strange Angels series. Also, Penguin AU put an excerpt up.

* The last Jill Kismet book, Angel Town, is now finished and in production, ready for copyedits and proofs. I'm having a difficult time saying goodbye to Jill; writing her got me through some terrible moments. But I'm glad she's reached where she needs to be as a character, and I think both she and I will be just fine. I'm very excited to start in on Bannon & Clare, and turn the engine in my brain in a different direction.

That's pretty much all the news from Casa Saintcrow. I'm hard at work, as usual, and the plum tree in my back yard is starred with a few blossoms. It's not quite spring yet…but it's getting there.

I can't wait.

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