Cherie Priest

Tiny Godzilla since 1975

can I get a w00 w00?

7 years, 9 months ago, in the late evening

My husband has always been an exceptionally good critic when it comes to all things written, played, or filmed — and he is, therefore, one of the tougher readers I have to please. Though he often golf-claps politely at my pseudo-literary efforts, and he usually confesses to my greatness (when pressed) … the poor man is so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stuff that I shove under his nose* that it’s fairly rare for him to stand up and cheer without provocation. But twice now in the last week this very thing has occurred.

So from this day forward, let the record reflect that Aric is quite taken with both “Our Lady of the Wasteland and the Hallelujah Chorus,” which is the concluding novelette in Dreadful Skin — and “Wishbones,” which is my short story lurking between the covers of the Aegri Somnia.

Man. I must’ve really had my A-game going.

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* Sample dialogue: “Did you read it yet? How about now? What about now? Now? OMG J00 READ IT, HOOORAH! DID YOU LIKE IT DID YOU LIKE IT DID YOU LIKE IT OMG TELL ME YOU LIKED IT ALREADY, TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME!!! Okay, cool. Thanks. Now you must read this one…”

that’s ms. preist to you

7 years, 9 months ago, mid-afternoon

Yesterday I mailed off the sig sheets for the special editions of Aegri Somnia, so that Apex Digest can print them all up together — and lo, there will be copies of the anthology signed by all of us contributing authors.

Also, there will be some confusion, I bet, because I’m not exactly doing posterity any favors here. In the marvelous and unlikely event that I become studied by future generations, then some future grad student is going to have a field day doing a master’s thesis on my hypothetical drug use and/or possible schizophrenia. This is because I appear to be fundamentally incapable of signing my own name correctly more than twice in a row.

It’s like this: I rarely write in cursive. Almost never. I compose in a quickie, sloppy, chicken-scratch print that has served me well through many a long note-taking session — and the rest of the time, I type. In fact, I type about 90-100 words per minute, so do you think I do a whole lot of long-hand letter writing? No. No, you do not.

But this means that on the occasions when I’m required to sign my name to something, I get a little stupid. Lest you think I’m exaggerating, I’ve had banks call on two separate occasions — wondering if someone was trying to pass checks in my name. It would seem that I’ve identified myself on checks as “Cheerie Preist” and “Cheire Preest,” respectively, and the bank representatives thought to themselves, “Selves, surely if this check were actually written by Ms. Priest she would have signed her name correctly!” But they would be wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

In my defense, in cursive the “i” and “e” don’t look very different, now do they? And sometimes when I’m scrawling merrily along, doing one loopty-loop of an “e” — the momentum gets away from me, and whoops! There goes a second one. Dammit. Sometimes I stop and correct the problem, but I tend to be more neurotic about a tidy-looking signature than I am about having a correctly-spelled one, so crossing out the offending string of curly-cues is not an option. Usually, I just suck it up and let it ride. Hell, maybe no one will notice.

Unless, you know. I post about it online or something.

Anyway, I apologize in advance to the purchasers of the signed Apex anthology. I swear to God, I sat there and signed every single one of those sig sheets. I didn’t outsource the project to Bangladesh or anything … I’m just a moron with a pen, that’s all.