The other day I wrote a little post on LJ in reference to this Bookslut article. I like the article, and I’m delighted that it was written. I find it flattering and warm-fuzzy-inspiring — but it prompted an awful lot of email from people who wanted me to dish details about the scandal hinted at within. The details, so far as I can be motivated to dish upon them, are available here.
Sometimes people think it’s strange that I won’t mention my ex-publisher or his company by name (even though Bookslut has no problem doing so), but I have my reasons.
Let me put it this way: about ten years ago I parted company with a truly atrocious guy. He used his one phone call from jail to make an impassioned plea for my continued datingship, and I gleefully dumped him on the spot. Perhaps it sounds cruel, but you must understand — I’d been trying to get rid of him for months, and every attempt to disentangle myself ended in death threats and other bullshit. So when I learned that he’d been arrested in another state, and that he couldn’t make bail this time, I was overjoyed. Ha! Keep him there, and throw the book at him. That’s what I said.
Eventually he got out of jail and got over it,* but for some reason — once every blue moon, for several years — he would drop me a phone call … and these phone calls inevitably came right after he’d somehow come up in conversation. It was like he had some weird sixth sense about it, and it happened so relatively frequently that we began referring to him by his first initial followed by an “uh” sound (so his handle rhymed with “duh,” which was appropriate). Think “BeetleJuice.” If you said his name 3 times he might appear.
Well, so too is it with my ex-publisher. He only rears his head once he’s been spoken of. He’ll show up on a panel talking about me, he’ll approach a writer friend of mine with a “business proposition,” he’ll somehow wander into my public circle or mention me in an interview (no, I won’t link the ones I know of). Etcetera. Much like the ex-boyfriend of years past, he has a gift for embarrassing me, infuriating me, and generally making me want to break things and kill people. Ergo, while I’d like to think that I learned a lot from my experiences with both of these men, I still would prefer to pretend that none of it ever happened.
So. No names. No criminal specifics. If anyone really wants to find out, it’s easy to do — it’s not a secret or anything — but I refuse to feed the google beast. I ain’t taking the high road; I’m just being superstitious.
* * *
In something more like actual news, though, for those of you in the Seattle area who might want to come out and say ‘hello’ … I’ll be doing a reading/signing at the University Bookstore (main branch in the U-district) on March 9th at 7:00 p.m. I’ll be sharing time and space with the marvelous Richelle Mead whose book Succubus Blues will be out any minute now, if it isn’t already (feel free to correct me, dah-link!).
So come check it out. Two hot young redheads who write scary shit. What’s not to like?
* I’m skipping quite a lot of the story here, yes. Suffice it to say, no one died.