Cherie Priest

This beluga whale will sing to you his songs of love. They will sound like opera being sung through a funnel, at the bottom of a bucket. You will fall head over heels. Your parents will disapprove.

So I took a whole bunch of pictures, and if you click the little link at the bottom of this entry, you’ll find a rather fat assortment of them. Go on. Do it. Damp snuggles and mellow musk ox await you, now with Bonus! Spain the Cat macro.

[ETA: We spent most of our time hanging around the aquarium; we arrived somewhat late in the afternoon and were compelled to concentrate our fascination on the wetter corners of the park.]

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* Every Friday at 12 noon UK time the wonderful webcomic FREAKANGELS is updated, courtesy of Warren Ellis (author) and Paul Duffield (artist). Go check it out. Because this is the way the world ends: strangely, and with beauty.

* I’m hunting for suggestions re: Twitter; which is to say, I want suggestions that don’t involve nuking their servers and cackling with maniacal glee. Really, I’m looking for a good client that will tell me who has added me to their watchlist. I’m supposed to get notifications when this occurs. In real life, I receive about one out of four, and no, they’re not being eaten by my spam filters. [Edit: For the record, they’re not all bots, either.]

Lately I’ve gotten some email asking about how a novel’s Draft Zero becomes a Draft One, and what the difference is between them. I can only speak for myself, of course; your processes may vary; offer void where prohibited, commentary sold by weight and not volume, etcetera.

Draft Zero: When the final period is typed and the whole story has been told, that’s my Draft Zero. It’s probably a mess. It probably has scenes it doesn’t need — maybe even whole chapters or characters it doesn’t need; and it is almost certainly chock full of continuity errors. The days and nights are unlikely to match up. There is almost certainly going to be at least one paragraph in which I make this face: (0_o) and wonder what the hell I was thinking.

So I comb through it, leaving notes in the margins. These notes ask questions like, “What time is it? I thought it was still morning, why is this scene taking place in the dark?” or “Does this character have any good reason to know this yet?” Often I also make suggestions to myself, like “Escalate the threat level here,” or “Remember that X dislikes Y,” or “Put down the crack pipe and slowly back away. This doesn’t make any sense.”

On my second comb-through, I start answering the notes and deleting them one by one. Sometimes I preemptively put commentary to my editor in the margins, marking things I think she might wonder about. For example, Boneshaker takes place in an alternate history version of 1879, so I made a few notes here and there with regards to how plausible some of the pop culture and/or technology might be.

When all the questions I could ask myself have been answered, and when all the reasonable tweaks and tightenings have been undertaken, and I can’t think of any other way to improve it … then it’s time to seek out the helpful brain of my editor.

I give her the result of my squinty-eyed combing, aka Draft One. It won’t be perfect by a long shot, but it’ll be more or less structurally sound — and I’ve spent so much time so very close to it, that I am no longer a good judge of what’s required to make it better. And rest assured, it will still have oodles of room for improvement. But once my editor gets her hands on it, she’ll give it a read-through and tell me how she feels; and then that manuscript is on its way.

Anyway, there you have it in brief. That’s how I do it.
Any other writers want to chime in on this one?

In 1993 I was living in the girls’ dormitory at a Seventh Day Adventist high school in Florida. Inside “Little Alcatraz,” I was one of about a hundred teenagers deprived of television and radio (among other things); so I think we could be forgiven for being very confused when, at the end of February that same year, our high school came under a strange sort of assault.

Graffiti appeared, declaring the students and faculty “cultists,” and glass bottles were thrown at the buildings. Small fires were set. A police presence was summoned. Our ordinarily absurd, restrictive curfews and social boundaries became even more pronounced, and finally we learned the source of all this peculiar strife: Out in Waco, Texas, the ATF had stormed a compound and the big siege had turned a national spotlight on SDAs everywhere.

I’ve long joked that SDAs are like the Libertarians of protestant denominations. They may have some good ideas, but they attract a boatload of crazies; and God knows, the crazies get all the press.*

But contrary to persistent reports during that dreadful week, David Koresh was not an SDA. In fact, he was originally part of a fringe group (the “Davidians”) that had split from the SDA church back in the 1920s, and then split again from itself in the 1930s, and subsequently split yet another time in the 1950s. The Branch Davidians were an offshoot of an offshoot of an offshoot of the SDA church. But far be it from slathering media coverage to do its homework. Hell, the government couldn’t be bothered either. If you’ll recall, the final raid took place on a Sunday morning, under the idea that everyone would be in church, and taken by gentle surprise. Hard to believe a bunch of people who worshiped on Saturday would still be in bed asleep on a Sunday morning. No, they weren’t Adventists, but the group had risen out of that fold — and they still kept the Jewish Friday-night- to- Sundown-Saturday for Sabbath.

It wasn’t exactly a secret.

But I say all that to say this: For many years, when you thought of an isolated cult in Texas with a deranged figurehead who practiced and encouraged extensive polygamy with underaged girls, well. You thought of a mocking acronym — We Aint Coming Out.

So if I seem to have a somewhat morbid and intense interest in how members of Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are being treated by the state and by the media, well, there you go. It’s not altogether a dispassionate, passive curiosity.

And now I’m going to cut this entry, because it’s going to run long and rambly. Click the link below for some disjointed thoughts on misogyny, religion, separation of church and state, the obligations of outside observers, and why it’s all a lot more complicated than it looks.

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‘Wolverine’ frogs pop retractable claws from their toes.

In the X-Men comics, the superhero Wolverine is armed with three sharp claws on each arm. They extend through the skin of his hand, and the resulting wounds are closed by up his superhuman ability to heal. Now, in a bizarre case of life imitating art, scientists from Harvard University have discovered that a group of African frogs use similar weapons.

The frogs defend themselves with sharp bone claws on their hind feet but to do so, the animals have to drive the claws through their own skin. It’s an extreme defense that is completely unique in the animal world…

* Sunday was spent thrifting/shopping with Ellen. The take: Two fantastic tee shirts, a hoodie, and a pair of groovy Converse All-Star lace-less flats. Ellen acquired skirts. Surprisingly little money was actually spent, as I am the Patron Saint of Bargain Hunting. Gaze upon my receipts, ye mighty, and tremble.

* Afterwards, we went with Aric to go see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull — which was genuinely charming, if not profound. I’ll put my thoughts about the flick under the cut tag at the end of this entry, for there will be spoilers.

* Yesterday we enjoyed Memorial Day goodies over at the aforementioned Ellen’s place, where we were treated to some exceedingly good company, quite a lot of food, and some cider that knocked me out for naptime. Later that afternoon I discovered that I’d been bitten by a spider or something, and I had a gruesome, painful rash across the back of my hand and wrist, but a slathering of hydrocortisone cream and a few Benedryl later, and it’s nearly gone. It still burns/itches a little, but I’ll survive.

* Speaking of which, just now I found a huge spider in my bathtub. He was massive, but mellow — and I strongly doubt that he’s the culprit who bit me. I would’ve noticed this guy. Ergo, lacking any evidence of his guilt, I scooped him up in a cup and deposited him outside in the hanging planter. I don’t know what kind he was, but I took his picture before setting him loose. Don’t click if you don’t want to see it.

Okay. That’s all for now, except the Indy 4 thoughts below the cut.

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I spent part of my afternoon at Crypticon, a charming and ambitious horror convention held out at Seatac — in the same hotel as Norwescon. The convention is chock full of wonderful guests who were gracious, pleasant, and easily accessible due to a somewhat sparse attendee turn-out.*

In fact, they might’ve been a little too accessible. I say this because I am still blushing from the 15 minutes I spent making a complete and total doofus of myself, gushing fannishly at William B. Davis.

No, seriously. I was about as graceful as a three-legged bunny in a blindfold. I approached the table where he was sitting, and the conversation went something like this, only (believe it or not) much less slick on my part:

Me: ZOMG!!111! [:: flails like I’ve just walked through a spider web ::]

Him: Erm…hello.

Me: It’s you! I mean, obviously it’s you, I mean. Here you are with a sign and everything. And all these pictures of you from the X-files. I mean. I bet. Uh. [:: embarrassed laugh with a snort in the middle ::] I, um. Oh God, I bet you’re sick to death of hearing about the X-Files, I mean, people coming up to you and blabbing on, and on, and on about it.

Him: No, it’s okay. That’s kind of what I’m here for.

Me: Oh good! Because, there was this one episode — and it was my favorite episode EVAR — and I just loved it so much because you were so awesome, and I loved the Smoking Man, and he was awesome, and it was awesome, because. Erm. Okay, when was that? I guess I was about 18 or 19, and see, okay wait. You know that episode where we get all that great backstory on the Smoking Man, right? And he’s all trying to sell his short stories, yanno?**

Him: Yup.

Me: Okay, see, I was just a kid, sort of, but I was just starting to really try and break into publishing in earnest, and it was really really hard, and I got all depressed and discouraged because I thought it was never going to happen, and I thought I must totally suck because I couldn’t get anyone to buy my stories. But THEN! Then I was watching my favorite TV show in the whole wide world and THEN there was like, my FAVORITE CHARACTER and he ALSO CAN’T SELL HIS STORIES and it was like we were practically SOUL MATES or something, and it totally INSPIRED ME to just KEEP ON TRYING, and then I just, and I just, and I just totally loved you. Him. I mean, you being him. Uh. Yanno.

Him: Aw, thank you. Did you ever sell your stories?

Me: Oh yeah! Totally! Like, I sold a bunch of them. I write books!*

Him: You do?

Me: YEAH! I’ve sold like, five of them [ed. note: this was incorrect. I was babbling.]. And I’m going to sell some more of them, I hope. I pray. I bet. We’ll see.

Him: Well congratulations, then. Any options for movies, or TV, or anything like that?

Me: Nope. Nothing that cool, I’m afraid. I mean, maybe someday we’ll get a nibble. Maybe the werewolves will get picked up. I like werewolves. People like werewolves, right? Werewolves are hot right now. But OMG it’s you! And I’m so glad you’re here! And I know that this convention is a little quiet, but this is the first one, and I’m so excited to see really cool guests like you here and I hope that there’s another one next year, and oh my God, I’ve just now realized that I have no idea how to stop talking. I don’t even know what to say now. I’m totally out of things to say, and yet my lips are still moving and sounds are still coming out. I’m so sorry. I’m so excited. It’s so cool to see you here, I had to come over and talk to you and now I can’t stop. This is embarrassing. But you’re awesome. And I’ve got a panel to do at four, so I should just walk away now. Yup. That’s what I’m going to do. Here I go. Oh God, I’m still talking …

[:: face palm ::]
[:: dies of stupid ::]

The weekend awaits. I leave you with a pic of Spain the Cat commandeering yet another Tor envelope, and admiring her caricature (drawn by San). One more shot below the jump.

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* My P.O. box expired, and the post office wanted about $380 a year to keep it open. I love you guys, and I love having the option of receiving mail safely, and signing/returning books with ease … but it just doesn’t happen often enough for me to justify that kind of expenditure. Ergo, I’ve simply closed it out. I’m sorry if this inconveniences anyone or tweaks anybody’s plans, but in the last six months I’ve only gotten 5 pieces of actual mail through that box, and 3 of those pieces were Christmas cards.

* If it looks like my mail volume is going to uptick precipitously, I’ll go to the private postal store down the street and open another box. But in the meantime, if you have anything you’d like to send me — anything which cannot be transmitted by email, that is — please direct your attention to my contact information page. You can reach me through the Donald Maass Literary Agency, courtesy of my agent.

* If you’ve sent anything to my P.O. box very recently and I’ve not received it yet, don’t worry. It’ll be forwarded to my home address.

* I’ve spent the last couple of days eyeballs-deep in the pass edits for FATHOM. Sorry to be so quiet, but I’ve found that when I’m too busy to actually blog, Twitter really scratches that same itch to communicate in a public fashion … but it’s much less time-consuming. So if you haven’t seen me over here for a couple of days, and you wonder what I’m up to, try over here. [Edit: this service has been down as often as it’s up, lately. I’m not sure what the problem is, but I am assured that it’s somewhat unusual, and that normal operation should return at some soonish point.]

* Tomorrow I’m going to be participating in a new horror convention here in the Seattle area — an event called Crypticon. To be more precise, at 4:00 out at SeaTac’s Double Tree hotel (the same one used for Norwescon), I’ll be nattering on about survival horror and video games. Come on out, if this looks like your kind of thing. I suspect that it’s going to be a hoot.

Last night The Helvetica Quartet rocked it out once more, pulling third place in the West Seattle pub quiz. This was due largely to the efforts of the other party members,* as I blew a brain fart over the “Friends” category; and likewise I mysteriously forgot a few key particulars from my embarrassingly comprehensive mental compendium of 80s music trivia.

I’m not sure what was wrong with me. I’d only ingested a couple of ciders, so I really have no excuse for forgetting that the song by Wham! which goes, “And I’m nevah gonna dance again / guilty feet have GOT no rhythm …” was actually called “Careless Whispers.” I knew that. I know I knew that. It was the slow-dance snuggle-grope special when I was in 7th grade.

Oh well. We’ve killed second place (last week) and kicked the ass of third, so one of these days we’re bound to take the top title away from The Dharma Initiative or SMRT — the two teams that seem to be our biggest rivals.

And I hope we do it soon. I’m not sure how many more beer/whiskey advertisement tee shirts of near-victory I can reasonably stuff into my closet.**

Draft Zero for the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War … has been achieved. Here are its stats:

Project: The Boneshaker
Total Word Count: 141,685 words
Goal: Met.





Observations: It’s way too long.
Goal for Draft One: Perhaps 125,000 words
Estimated Date for Draft One Delivery: June 1, possibly sooner
First Sentence: “She saw him, and she stopped on the second step from the bottom.”
Last Word: “go.”
Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 210,251

And now I’m going to do what I always do when I’ve just finished a project — stand around fidgeting, feeling like I ought to be doing something. But I need to set this down and let it cool off for a few days before I begin hacking it down to Draft One. This is not up for negotiation. I must impose distance, because if I try to clean it up too soon, I won’t do a very good job.

No, nobody gets to see Draft Zero.

It’s a strange and somewhat disconcerting feeling, being so suddenly finished with Part One of a book. It’s both liberating and unsettling, particularly with this novel — because Boneshaker is the last book for which I’m under contract. I have several more percolating in my head, yes; and I have three more books coming out in the next two years … but this is the last one I had to actually write.*

So I guess that’s the next thing in the queue: clean up sample work, establish outlines/proposals, and plot out what I’m going to work on next. I’ll get started on that this week, in between clearing up the Fathom pass revisions. And then, next week, it’s back to the Boneshaker until I have a clean enough draft that I can pass it along without fear of editorial reprisal.

[:: sigh of exhaustion ::]

ARRRRRRGH. So close, and yet so far, dammit. I really, really, really wanted to knock out Draft Zero of The Boneshaker today, but I just can’t make it happen. I’ve exhausted my creative reservoirs, and I must return tomorrow to wrap this bad-boy up. I only have about half a scene left to write, plus a short epilogue.

What? I like epilogues. They make me happy. It’s like the bonus scene you get if you wait through a movie’s credits. I mean, you have to stick around for it. Maybe you’ll get to see Samuel L. Jackson in an eye-patch or something.

So here’s today’s progress on the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:

Project: The Boneshaker
New Words: 7746 (which might actually be a personal record)
Present Total Word Count: 137,733 words
Goal: NOW I JUST WANNA FINISH IT





Observations: Yes, the new target word count is 140,000. Shut up.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: I only just now — when I sat down to tally up the daily count — realized that I’ve broken 200,000 words for this year. That blows my freakin’ mind. More than that, it gave me an idea for a more realistic, doable, flexible goal than my original New Year’s Resolution.* Henceforth, I want to average at least 1000 words a day for one full year; and at this rate, I’ll kill that off and then some. No, I don’t intend to use the added cushion to slow down.

Reason for Stopping: I just. Can’t. Type. Another. Line. Of. Dialogue. This last half of this last scene is one of the most important ones in the book, and I don’t want to write it with half my brain burned out. I’d rather come at it fresh in the morning.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 206,299 (holy crap)

This afternoon at 2:00 p.m. Cory Doctorow will be at the library, signing books and being cool. I know his schedule says the “Seattle Public Library,” but it’s not the downtown one; you’ll find him at the Ballard branch, 5614 22nd Ave NW.

I’m going to zoosh out and pick up a copy of Little Brother as soon as I’m finished with breakfast, so I’ll have something new for him to sign.*

Today I went down to Olympia to play with Caitlin. We didn’t get to perform as much recon as we’d hoped, but we tootled around the old brewery property nonetheless and took a few pictures. Later, there was shopping and I found a vintage button-up wool skirt for thirteen dollars. Following this, there was ice cream, and we hung out lazily around her place.

Good times!
Good pictures! Lot’s of ‘em.

Click the link.

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I spent most of the day out of the house, because how could I not? It’s beautiful out there. As I’ve learned the hard way, I must take advantage of it while I can, because God knows it won’t last long.

During my morning circuit of the post office, the eyeglasses shop (to get mine tightened up), the drug store, and the pet store … I ran into Psynde — which was delightful, as always. We hung around and chatted for awhile, and then I came home to clean the apartment from top to bottom except for the floors — which I simply couldn’t be bothered with. Even Howard got a thorough tank cleaning to go with his spanky new plants.

Right now, the handy-dandy thermometer mounted above my desk says it’s 77 degrees. All the windows are open, and the cat is whoring herself out to a sunbeam. All things considered, life could be worse.

I’ve posted pictures after the following word count statistics. Click the jump to see Spain the Cat belly-up and toasty, and Howard the Fish checking out his new, freshly scrubbed digs.

But first, here’s today’s progress on the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:

Project: The Boneshaker
New Words: 2418 (in a very brief period of time this afternoon, so this is good)
Present Total Word Count: 129,987 words
Goal: 135,000 words by July 1st.





Observations: I know, I know. I keep saying, “Maybe it’ll be just a little bit longer than projected — and yes, I’m about to say that again. But this time, I mean it. I only have a scene and a half left to write, and I honestly think I can make it happen in less than 5000 words. I love this story so much that it almost pains me to finish composing its content. I won’t say it pains me to “finish it” because that’s not what I mean; once it’s a Draft Zero, it’s all trimming, polishing, and fine-tuning from there. It doesn’t remotely mean that anything is “finished.” But Draft Zero does mean that the story has been fully told.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Everything you see above in the first couple of paragraphs, plus I sat down with Zeke’s parallel storyline and shuffled it into Briar’s narrative. I think I split it up/arranged it/organized it fairly well. Of course, I might re-read this bad boy from start to finish and conclude that I’m crazy.

Reason for Stopping: Husband came home from work. Reached a good stopping place. It’s Friday afternoon and dammit, I deserve a little break.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 198,553
And now, click the link for pictures of Cat and Feesh.

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I didn’t get much fiction work done yesterday — only a few hundred words. Instead, my husband took a “working from home” day, wherein I tagged along while he ran a bunch of errands. None of it was very interesting, but it was all pleasant and different, which was helpful. Sometimes I just need to get out of the house, you know?

Today the weather is beautiful, and it’s going to continue to be beautiful for another 3 or 4 days before the sky once again descends into its perennial suck. I have all the windows open, and the front door as well (save the screen). The cat is asleep beside me, lounging on the back of the couch and catching the first sunbeam she’s seen in weeks. It’s nice. When I finish this post, I think I’m going to make myself a snack. That will be nice, too.

But anyway, here’s today’s progress on the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:

Project: The Boneshaker
New Words: 4293 (most of that today, so it’s pretty good)
Present Total Word Count: 127,560 words
Goal: 130,000 words by July 1st.





Observations: It’s going to be wicked trouble blending these two POVs, but I think it’ll be worth it. I finished Zeke’s perspective this afternoon — reaching the point at which his narrative and his mother’s narrative will reunite into one story. The end really is in sight. I just need to kill off one more guy and make an awkward getaway that may or may not be wholly successful. Then there’s just the wind-down, and the fat lady sings. Man. I can’t believe it. I love this project so much; I’m so proud of it — it’s the most ambitious thing I’ve ever tried to write, and I think it works.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Not much, honestly. Batted some email correspondence back and forth; received, signed, and sent back a contract for my employment at the Evil Empire (as I jokingly call it). This was a good thing. There’d been some paperwork tangles, and several invoices have logjammed to the point where I’m expecting several thousand dollars spread across several invoices, sometime in the next week or two. Ah, the life of a freelancer.

Reason for Stopping: Got to a good stopping spot. Getting munchy. Want to pry myself away from Twitter and go run around outside while it’s pretty enough for me to do so.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 196,135

Listen.

Last night The Helvetica Quartet* won second place in a pub quiz, and today we proudly sport our victory trophies — alcohol-themed tee shirts. Mine is a kicky baby-doll number with a Jameson logo splashed across my boobs. Do I drink Irish Whiskey? Generally speaking, no. But I do look smashing in a good emerald green, so I’m pleased all the same.

I’m really enjoying these quiz nights, but this most recent installment of trivia and strife may have cost me a little faith in the process … even though I understand that the M.C. had no way of knowing that — lurking within the seething throngs of cheerfully drunk trivia aficionados — she had a small table that was populated with grammar pseudo dominatrices.

I say “pseudo” because it’s like this: having a well-versed and thorough understanding of correct grammar does not mean that any given one of us is (necessarily) likely to use it. We aren’t the sort of folks who go around with red pens, correcting the spelling inside bathroom stalls; and we aren’t even the kind of people who can remember, off the top of our heads, the rest of that whole “i” before “e” except after “c” rule.

Nay. We are the kind of dorks who find it damn near hilarious to talk out loud in LOLCAT. So let it not be said that we are Accuracy Nazis when it comes to English language usage.

HOWEVER. As we learned last night, if you sufficiently liquor up a woman with a master’s degree in that subject who furthermore writes for a living, and then you try to dock her team points over a correctly deduced apostrophe misfire, then by God you’d better be prepared to run faster and climb higher than a drunkenly irate author with a belly full of hard cider and jalepeno poppers.

It was not my finest hour.
But. For the record.

Correct: The trivia question and its potential answers were unclear at best.
Incorrect: Cherie chewed on the M.C.’s microphone and it’s stand.

Correct: This is about honor. It’s not about inebriated indignation.
Incorrect: Well, I got this question off an English website so its right.

Correct: Use that excuse all you want, but it’s not going to cut it at the MLA.
Incorrect: But its just a trivia question. Its no big deal!

Correct: Of course it’s a big deal! There are free tee-shirts at stake!
Incorrect: Fine. I guess its a bad question and we’ll throw it out.

Cherie: Wiktory!
M.C.: (mutters) Jesus H. Christ in a chicken bucket …

Here’s today’s progress on the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:

Project: The Boneshaker
New Words: 3510 (pretty good!)
Present Total Word Count: 123,267 words
Goal: 130,000 words by July 1st.





Observations: Steampunk is fun to write. It is also complicated, and reaching the end of this book has started to feel like a sisyphean undertaking. But if nothing happens to eat my life during the rest of this week, I might be able to cough up a Draft Zero by Friday afternoon. Then again, I might be an overly optimistic liar. Stay tuned.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: Two loads of laundry, including bedding; sent off book review; corresponded extensively with distant friends and colleagues; learned my way around my twitter account a little better; determined that I might be far too boring to maintain this twitter account; decided that maybe I’d just use it as a link dump or something, but I don’t want to ditch it yet; spent a downright silly amount of time chatting in gmail with my college roommate and a fashion-fixated Australian woman.

Reason for Stopping: Came to the end of my chapter. Also, it’s Tuesday night — and that means that The Helvetica Quartet shall ride again … or at least, we shall drink and giggle and participate in a pub quiz over in West Seattle. Ergo, I ought to brush my hair or throw on some respectable clothes or something. Also [:: glances out the window ::] I need to drag out my rain boots. The weather is sucking ass.*

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 191,842

Spain the Cat has developed a real fondness for cheese slices — which she prefers to consume directly off the couch. Yes, that’s right. I have to tear the cheese into pieces and let her lick them off the leather. Gruesome? Perhaps. But it beats the hell out of shoelaces and hair twisties.

(1). Those of you who’ve read or seen Dreadful Skin may remember that it was illustrated by a guy named Mark Geyer — the same fellow who illustrated Stephen King’s The Green Mile. If you’d like to get an advance peek at some of the artwork for my next Subterranean offering, Those Who Went Remain There Still, then you should click this link and go looking for the hillbillies and the bird monsters.

(2). Because I am a procrastinating dork, I spent a frankly ridiculous amount of time today noodling with my livejournal’s settings and appearance. Now, I think, its color scheme and general mood is more in tune with my formal webpage. Erm. Sorta.

(3). I have succumbed to peer pressure and started a Twitter account. I’m not sure how useful I’ll find it, or how often I’ll use it, but here it is, if you’re interested. Feel free to add me. I’m sure it’ll become less of a mystery to me over the next few days.

(4). Here’s today’s progress on the west coast steampunk Victoriana book with zombies, air ships, toxic gas clouds, mad scientists, dead folk heroes, secret criminal societies, and Bonus! extended deleted scenes from the Civil War:

Project: The Boneshaker
New Words: 1879 (meh)
Present Total Word Count: 119,757 words
Goal: 130,000 words by July 1st.

119,757 / 130,000 (92.1%)

Observations: I’m almost to the point where Zeke and Briar’s narratives will knit back together again. This is trickier to navigate than I expected, but I think it’ll work out all right. I’ve started making lists of the things that need to occur in this chaotic pre-reunion scene — who lives, who dies, who gets eaten by zombies … etc.

Things Accomplished in Real Life: I spent the weekend preoccupied with freelance work and Emerald City Comic Con [see previous post], but today I got Draft Zero accomplished on all outgoing independent projects.

Reason for Stopping: I’d like to see Draft One accomplished on two of the three projects by this evening. Also, I’m trying to upload a video of Spain the Cat licking cheese off the couch, because it is gently hilarious. In the event that YouTube ever agrees to host the damn thing, I’ll post it here this evening.

Total Fiction Words Composed in 2008: 188,332

Yesterday I did Emerald City Comic Con; but alas, I will not be attending Day Two. I have deadlines which must be addressed, and besides — my phone number has been dispersed like so many dandelion seeds, so if anyone wants to tear up the town after convention hours, I’m easy to find. For now, I have a book to finish reading, a review to write, and two small articles to tackle.

Yes, I’m blogging instead. I know.

So yesterday was damn-near perfect. I arrived at the convention floor fairly early, and immediately commenced Internet Bingo … which involved a series of text messages back and forth between the pre-approved Yeah Let’s Totally Meet Up or Something crew and standing in a few lines. In this manner, I was able to visit briefly with Ed, a man with a most excellent hat, and Joanne, who had promised to grievously abuse my phone number.

I roamed around with Joanne and her boyfriend Mark for awhile, including a jaunt through a line to see Jamie Barber; but it cost $25 to have him sign his name on anything, so I bowed out of that queue. Unless he was signing his name on a check made out to me for $25, I couldn’t see the point.*

Likewise, Julie Bentz was in attendance, and I felt like a total dumbass when I realized that she was both Rita on Dexter and Darla on Buffy/Angel. How I never made that connection (since I’m a fan of both franchises) I have no earthly idea. I saw her when she was pretty much alone, and I kind of wanted to approach her and do a little “OH HAI! You’re really great!” … but I got the impression that maybe she wasn’t feeling well, so I didn’t want to bother her.

And, of course, I waited my turn to chat up Wil. He and I have a few friends in common, and we’d exchanged a brief comment or two here and there online, so I figured it wouldn’t be the weirdest of all possible things if I just waited through the crowds and said something awkward like, “Erm, I believe we’ve met on the internets.” And then I assumed he’d make a politely confused face and say, “Oh yes. Miss …um … well, it’s quite nice to meet you. Gosh, look at that line. Well, moving right along … ”

But instead, I got a marvelous warm welcome that revealed he knew who I was(?!) he’d read my books(!?!) and Jesus H. Christ in a little red hat, he’s been known to read this blog(!?!?!). Only sheer astonishment prevented me from doing a little bootydance right there in front of God and everybody. And as if these revelations weren’t enough to make my afternoon, he was warm and friendly and funny, too.

I hope he doesn’t read this and conclude that he’s narrowly escaped from a fangirlish freak-out or anything. It’s not like that; I was just so thoroughly charmed to learn that he was every bit as pleasant as I’d been promised. It really did make my day.**

Following this delightful development, I left the premises in search of lunch. I moseyed over to Pacific Place (because it was close and I am lazy), and there I visited with Psynde — who was rocking out in the Barnes & Noble. She made me sign books on my day off, that tricky little tyrant! But she was so much fun to chat with that I’m prepared to forgive her, just this once. And maybe next time. We shall see.***

Later, my husband appeared and together the pair of us wandered the convention floor in search of schwag and toys. This incarnation of ECCC was much bigger than the year before last — which was the last time I attended — and I was pleased with the offerings. But eventually we called the convention “Done” and went back home, where we ate chips and salsa, goofed off on the internet, watched TV, and awaited further instruction from the out-of-towners.

Further instruction came around 6:30 when Wil called about drinks and supper. Down at the Tap House we met up with him, and Joanna and Mark again, plus Bill and Henrietta. The Tap House was crowded and loud, but posh in an odd way that included Wheel of Fortune being played on very expensive TVs over a glorious glass-and-brass bar … which is to say, it was peculiarly swank. I dug it. The beer selection featured an assortment of tasty flavored ciders (SCORE), and the food was good and reasonably quick.

It would be no exaggeration to say that copious geekery did fill the next few hours.

In case I haven’t said so lately, sometimes I feel like I really am the luckiest girl in the world. I love these events, and I feel deeply privileged to be even the most minor, peripheral part of this convention community. The weekends may wear me out, but they make me so ridiculously damn happy that Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be attending ’till I’m old and gray.

It took me long enough, but I finally found my tribe; and all omens to the contrary, it turns out that we’re all right after all.

Wil Wheaton totally made my day.

Sorry about the quiet over the last couple of days — I’ve been working, that’s all. But today, I’m going to squeeze in a little playtime. If you’re here in Seattle, come on out to Emerald City Comic Con,* at the trade center downtown.

I’m a shortish, skinnyish, 30-something with glasses and bright orange hair. If you see me, say hello or something.