Cherie Priest

Wow. I guess L. Ron Hubbard had it right. Success really is inventing your own religion. Welcome to all you newcomers, and Steve bless the lot of you. Welcome to the non-douchey side. Come on in. Sit a spell. We serve brownies, and we don’t lick ‘em first or nothin’.

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So today was my third visit to the dentist in the last six weeks, which sounds excessive, I suppose — unless you keep in mind that heretofore it’d been ten years between visits.

The first trip was a general evaluation and enough foul-tasting, bite-sized X-rays to stuff a turkey. The second involved a somewhat nasty, damp, and unpleasant process called “debridement,” wherein the hygienist basically said, “JESUS H. CHRIST!!!” and then she used a spleen-meltingly awful sonic tool to blast off the worst of the gunk as part one of a three-phase cleaning extravaganza.* Today was trip three, whereupon I underwent the first of two “planing” sessions.

That’s right. My mouth has acquired so much funk that it’s taking fully three sessions to clean it out. Mind you, I’m not complaining. It’s at least partly my own damn fault I’d gone so long without a check-up;** so I came prepared so suck it up and tough it out — which was good, because the aforementioned hygienist was prepared to get medieval.

How medieval? I’ll tell you how medieval. She basically told me she wouldn’t perform the service unless I’d subject myself to a series of five numbing shots that would effectively turn my face to Play Doh. And oh yeah, “There’s gonna be a lot of blood. Seriously.”

So I reclined, winced, took my shots, and while we waited for them to fully kick in, we talked about survival horror video games — a shared interest we discovered during the debridement (or rather, before and after it; not a lot of talking goes on when you have a spleen-melting sonic tool in your mouth).

Hygienist: Have you played the new Resident Evil yet?
Me: Not yet. We don’t have a console and it isn’t out yet for PC.
Hygienist: Aw, man. I already beat it. But you played through the new Silent Hill, right?
Me: Yeah, a bew weeps ago.
Hygienist: I’m sort of stuck at the other town, you know? In the cemetery?
Me: Oh, sure. Bat part’s prebby conbusing.
Hygienist: I’m trying not to resort to GameFaq, but I’ll probably cave.
Me: I reppomend it. Bup bee warned - bee emdings are all prebby dubb.
Hygienist: The endings are pretty what? Dumb?
Me: Weah. Bubb.
Hygienist: I think that stuff’s just about taken hold.
Me: Bat buld beem doo bee buh capse.

There was, in fact, a lot of blood; and when it was over I had roughly the muscle control of the undead. But what would you expect from a hygienist with an inordinate fondness for survival-horror video games? Finally, she was done; and finally, I could go home.

I could not, however, manage to correctly close my mouth. Nor could I feel anything from my chin to my cheekbone. I wasn’t in any pain, precisely, but that kind of sensation absence is highly distracting. I kept touching my lips and playing with them, which drew laughter from the one kid sitting in the lobby. He pointed at his mom and giggled, and said, “Look at that lady! Her face is all messed up!”

To which I replied with a lopsided glare, “Yore bext.”
And I’d like to think that he was.

(Steve, forgive me.)

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The electricians were appropriately sympathetic when I returned home. If they pointed and laughed they did it behind my back like civilized men; and then they gave me an amazing surprise. They said, “That’s pretty much it.” It turns out, while I was getting my mouth manhandled, they were installing the last of the electric work in the bedroom and bathroom.

I could’ve hugged, them, one by drywall-dust-covered one. But I restrained myself. It’s not like I’m never going to see them again. They’re right next door, tearing up our neighbor’s apartment and hanging out in the stairwell/foyer, toting equipment and nattering into their walkie talkies. These guys are going to be a persistent feature of my life for the next few months, at least.

It’s nice to have them out of my work space, though.

This is not to say that I can’t hear them anymore (all afternoon, I could. And I did.); and this doesn’t mean that I can wave goodbye to the construction and demo teams. For one thing, a wall of our closet is still exposed — requiring sheet rock and paint in the near future; and for another, there are still a number of plastered-over holes that require sanding and painting.

And of course, in a few weeks we’ll have the plumbers tearing out our bathroom and kitchen walls and floors. So it’s not like there’s any real peace and quiet in my future.

But it’s better than nothing. And I’m trying to be optimistic about the fact that progress has, in fact, been made. The new fixtures are pretty nice. Most of the dust has been cleared out, and my allergies are doing better already. I can feel my whole face again, and I’ve even consumed a grilled-cheese sandwich without drooling it all over my lap.

So things are looking up, I guess.
Vaya con Stevos, everybody.

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* Just kidding. She’s actually quite cool.
** For about eight of the last ten years, I haven’t had any dental insurance. I had it the last year I worked in Tennessee, and I’ve had it for about a year here in Seattle … so there were clearly windows wherein I could’ve gone to a dentist, but didn’t.

It’s probably no surprise that I’ve been getting emails about the First Church of the Intergalactic Fruitbat Steve, given how much joking, joshing, and general tomfoolery has taken place both online and in public on this spiritual subject. So a little bit of context is due.

Picture it: The Paranormal Bender Tour, Day One. March 10, let the record reflect. After a late start to our travels, Mark, Mario, Caitlin and I found ourselves approaching California. There upon the border, we spied a fruit checkpoint. Yes, a fruit checkpoint. Looks like a toll booth. Makes everybody stop before crossing that blessed state line, and be subjected to an interrogation on the subject of fruit.

I had never heard of such a thing.

At first I thought this was some kind of weird pop quiz, like before you’re allowed to come into California you must demonstrate that you know the difference between an orange and a clementine, with bonus points for correctly identifying a nectarine, or something like that. Since I am from Florida where we also grow a great deal of fruity-type substances, I was pretty confident of my ability to pass such a quiz, and therefore suspected that I’d be an excellent spokesperson in the event of tollbooth citrus Jeopardy.

In fact, the point of this checkpoint is to make sure that we, as ostensibly law-abiding citizens, were not bringing unauthorized fruit into the state of California. I had no idea there was any such thing as “unauthorized” fruit, much less that California would be so vigorously on guard against it.*

But you learn something new every day, I suppose, and when we finally drew up to the booth, Mark rolled down the window. Inside the booth was a woman with a ponytail and a fondness for pink sparkly lipgloss. She had a wad of gum in her mouth. She leaned very slightly towards the Impala**.

Fruit checkpoint lady: [:: snaps her gum ::] You got any fruit?
Mark: Um… no?
Mario: [:: quietly, from the backseat ::] We got a fruitbat.
Fruit checkpoint lady: Okay. Have a nice day.
Mark: Thanks!

We cackled to ourselves for the next few miles, imagining what it would be like if we actually had a fruitbat stashed on board. And somehow, out in the craggy hills of northern California, what began as a whispered giggle took on a life of its own. It blossomed. It snowballed.

Caitlin named the imaginary fruitbat “Steve.” Someone came up with a baseline theology: “Thou shalt not be a douchebag.” And lo, Steve did enter our hearts and we were blessed with divine understanding!

Before long, we had a full set of “battitudes” — including (but not limited to) such inspired declarations as, “Blessed are the fabulous, for they shall have doors opened for them everywhere.” “Blessed are the groovy, for they shall get down forever.” “Blessed are the goths, for they come pre-accessorized for this faith.”

Steve’s communion wafers are Doritos, for they are shaped like his mighty wings. And also, for they were what I’d picked up from the last gas station.

Steve accepts no tithes nor donations. Steve ain’t in it for the cash.

Steve urges us to love the douchebag, but hate the douchebaggery.

He requires no house of worship; anyplace where a polite, considerate person is mindful of others … there you will find him.

And we spoke of the things which Steve would endorse, and revile:

Steve greatly loveth all things sweet and squishy, and he sheds his mercy upon those who correctly use their blinkers; likewise, he smiles upon drivers who know how to merge, and who can correctly form a fucking zipper for God’s sake;*** and his heart is warmed by salespeople who leave you alone while you’re trying on clothes. He is gladdened to see bartenders who don’t skimp the sauce. He is pleased by those who share their Doritos.

But Steve abhors a faux-hawk. He is much offended by posers who roll up one pants leg even though they haven’t ridden a bicycle since third grade; and he loathes a man in a neckerchief. Steve does not ever want to hear you shout, “WOOOOO!” in a crowded elevator just because you’re drunk and it’s Vegas and you’re with your girlfriends. High-heeled flip-flops are an abomination — doubly so if you’re three sheets to the wind and counting.

It took on a life of its own.

Before long, we were speculating sadly about how Steve needs to shine his goodness and light down upon that asshole taxi-driver who rode our bumper in San Francisco and honked wildly all the while; we considered how badly Steve’s influence was needed among the bitchy, liquored-up grandmas at the slot machines in the Bellagio; and we marveled at how his kindness could have improved the service at that Starbucks.

So, What Would Steve Do? Well, Steve would probably walk forward on his wee little elbows and nom a bit of fruit. But he wouldn’t be a dick about it, that’s for damn sure.

Now all we need are some chick tracts and an outreach program, and baby, we are golden.

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* Though we concluded that “Clandestine Banana” would make an awesome band name.
** Which is to say, the Kia Rondo we named “Impala.”
*** We spent a lot of time driving in southern California, okay?

Electrician: These ceilings are pretty tall. What are they, maybe ten feet?

Me: Something like that.

Electrician: Thus the step-ladder in the kitchen, eh?

Me: Natch.

Electrician: [:: looks at the foyer ceiling ::] What about the smoke detector? Can you reach it, even with that ladder? What are you, five foot nothing?

Me: Five foot five, thank you. And the answer to your question is, “Sort of.”

Electrician: Sort of?

Me: Sort of. In fact, just the other day the battery began to die, and I had to knock it down and swap it out. I managed just fine, I’ll have you to know.

Electrician: Wait, what? Knock it down?

Me: Yeah, I had to … okay, see — my husband is tall enough to reach the smoke detector using just the step-ladder, but he was out of town for his brother’s wedding, and the damn thing was beeping every five minutes. So I knocked it down myself.

Electrician: Knocked it down, like, with a baseball or something?

Me: With a metal spatula.

Electrician: You whacked at it with a metal spatula?

Me: Obviously that was not my tactical starting point. First, I simply tried to reach it with the step-ladder. Didn’t work.

Electrician: So you went and got a spatula.

Me: No. I went and got a pair of high heels.

Electrician: [makes this face: O_o]

Me: Yeah. See, even standing on the step-ladder I wasn’t tall enough to reach it, right? So I went into the closet, dug out my highest high heels, slipped them on, then climbed the ladder and tried again.

Electrician: I’m just getting this vision, of you in high heels on a step-ladder with a spatula. It’s … weird.

Me: In my pajamas.

Electrician: What?

Me: It was nearly midnight. I was in my pajamas. And high heels.

Electrician: With a spatula.

Me: Yes, a long metal one. So I was standing on the step-ladder in polka-dot pajamas and high heels, with a stainless steel spatula in one hand and a glass of wine in the other–

Electrician: Wait now. What? You’re making this up.

Me: I told you, it was midnight. I was having a nightcap.

Electrician: Jesus …

Me: So I whacked at the smoke detector like it’s a pinata, and finally, on the fifth or sixth try, I dislodged it.

Electrician: You frighten me.

Me: Sometimes, I frighten myself.

Electrician: It’s a wonder you didn’t break your neck.

Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Electrician: But I note that the detector is properly affixed now.

Me: My husband did come home, eventually.

Electrician: Brave soul, that.

Must be hasty, while the internet still holds — drat those power-cutting-off-but-kitty-loving electricians:

• 50 ubergeeks worth following on Twitter. I made this list? Someone’s smoking the blue crack (but at least I’m in good company).

• Bleeders and Readers glamour shot. That event on Sunday night went pretty well; neat audience, new listeners, peculiar (but entertaining) sketch comedy*. Sweet picture wherein Cait looks great, and I look only marginally stoned/psychotic; taken by Angel Leigh McCoy, who drew us into this event in the first place.
  

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* Not so much improv. I found its advertisement as “improv” to be peculiar because frankly, I’d be more inclined to pay money to see a zombie/horror sketch comedy troupe than an improv troupe — but hey, maybe that’s just me. They were pretty good, though. I’d be interested in seeing more of their material.

Just got the copyedits for BONESHAKER. They aren’t due for another couple of weeks, thank God. Yes, that’s an ordinary can of Diet Coke (with Splenda!) sitting in front of it, for size comparison.

And what was the official Spain the Cat reaction to this delivery?
Click the jump to see.

(more…)

Sorry to have been so intermittent lately, but the electricians are on the warpath in my apartment, and I have only sporadic access to the internet (and sometimes, to power at all); so things have been a little touch-and-go over here.

But while I’ve got a moment with a steady connection and no electricians swarming my premises (they’ve gone home for the day), I wanted pass along the following: As the inimitable George R. R. Martin reports on his Not-a-Blog, it’s going to be a Wild Cards Christmas! SUICIDE KINGS is slated for December, and that’s wonderful news for all and sundry.

It’s particularly thrilling news for me, personally, because I’ve recently been inducted into the wicked little consortium of folks who compose the WILD CARDS stories, and I’ve proposed a handful of characters who have been accepted for future use. (OMG1!!!1!!!!!eleventy!!!1!1!!)

So the fact that SUICIDE KINGS is safely in the can makes me very, very hopeful about the prospects for future projects, in which case I would be absolutely FRANTIC WITH SQUEE for the opportunity to write for this franchise. And if you think FRANTIC WITH SQUEE does not warrant its own all-caps in this instance, then clearly you don’t know me very well … because I’m tempted to festoon the letters with glitter and blinkies, give them red and purple stripes, and sent them scrolling merrily across the screen, followed by a train of booty-dancing exclamation points for emphasis. (NOT KIDDING.)

But in lieu of that vivid and baroque handling of the situation, I’d like to express my deep and abiding thanks to George for inviting me aboard — and to Bill, who (I am led to understand) recommended me for the gig in the first place.

[:: squishes them both in a ridiculous digital bear hug ::]

Hello all. I’m coming at you live from down the street, where a coffee shop has free wifi, hurrah. For you see, at some point during my day (wherein electricians did spend literally 8 hours drilling holes in my walls, and turning my power on and off) … our internet decided, “Screw this noise. I’m outta here.” And yea verily, it did vanish.

We’re in the process of trying to get it sorted out, but heaven knows how long it’ll take us. I’m still Twittering because I can do that from my phone, but otherwise, you may want to consider me offline until further notice. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, “further notice” won’t be any longer than a day or two. But we’ll see.

So if you require my immediate attention with something, the phone’s a better bet.
Over and out for now …

Tonight, 7:00 p.m. at the Historic University Theater, Seattle (in the U-district). Bleeders and Readers with yours truly, Caitlin Kittredge, and the Blood Squad.

Come on out! We’d love to see you there.
Tickets are ten bucks at the door.

I’ve been sitting on this since I was out of town last week, because that’s just how these things go sometimes, but now it can finally be shared, so here I go, sharing it.

As most of you know, I spent the first half of last year working on a steampunk novel called BONESHAKER. I referred to it as my “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” book; and although it has only recently made the rounds in advance advance reader’s copy form* … the reception has been really phenomenal.

Due in part to this fact (and due in huge part to the persistence of my editor and agent), while I was on the road somewhere between Sacramento and Las Vegas I got the call that a formal offer had been made for a another novel set in the Clockwork Century.

So it is with great pleasure and pride that I warn you of DREADNOUGHT — which shall henceforth be known as the “battlefield adventure about a widowed nurse from a Confederate hospital aboard a west-bound train pulled by a Union war engine — now with military intrigue, murderous plots, the treachery of spies, bushwackers, bandits, sabotage, and epic scenes of mayhem.”

I’m so excited about this that I can scarcely keep from vibrating; and very shortly, I’ll begin work upon it. Expect to see progress updates here as per usual, and brace yourself for Major Squee…

[:: over and out for now ::]

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* In order to drum up early-early word-of-mouth in-house and out, a special version was printed up in quasi-bound small form and distributed to a handful of readers. The proper ARCs will be on the way shortly.

Sunday night this is where you’ll find me — reading like a madwoman, knocking back a few drinks (maybe not in that order), and kicking it with my buddy and fellow writer Caitlin Kittredge, plus the horror-comedy improv troupe The Blood Squad.





All the mayhem goes down at 7:00 in the Historic University Theater in the U-district, Seattle. ONE NIGHT ONLY, YO. Tickets are $10 and are available at the door or right here. Seriously, come on out and see us. It’s going to be a goddamn hoot.

[And stay tuned here, folks. I’ve got a couple of big fat announcements to make in the next day or two; I’d do it now, but I want to let this notice sit up top for a bit — and anyway, the tension is downright delicious. I am vibrating, you guys. The squee is absolutely giving me wings.]

As you know Bob, I just spent a week out of town with Mario Acevedo, Mark Henry, and Caitlin Kittredge. — undergoing my first ever book tour. This tour took us out to Las Vegas, over to San Diego, up to Los Angeles, and on to San Francisco … then back up to Portland, and then home to the Seattle area.

Or to put it more succinctly: four authors, one car, eight days, six stops, and 3300 miles.

Nobody killed anybody (of which I am aware). We didn’t sleep enough, we ate poorly — mostly gas station munchies and fast food — and we slept in hotels that ranged from four stars to about a quarter of a star. We listened to many a road-tripping iTunes mix. We Twittered like fiends. We missed many phone calls, all but abandoned the internet for the week, and invented our own religion based around an intergalactic fruit bat named “Steve.”

But we did take lots of pictures, and the easiest way to talk about the tour without spending all evening recounting every little moment … is to create a highlights version with Bonus! pictorial evidence.

So. Kindly click the “Read More” jump below to see much mayhem and wackiness :)
(more…)

If anyone reading this has ever been interested in picking up a copy of Those Who Went Remain There Still, there’s no time like the present. My publisher is down to the last 25 copies, and those aren’t expected to stick around long.

For the moment, you can still find this book:

• direct from the publisher
  
• from Amazon.com
  
• and from any retailer who still has stock.

To get an idea of how the book has been received and what it’s about, go poke around my ‘Reviews’ page. (Scroll past the FATHOM stuff to reach the TWWRTS stuff.)

We are now officially back home from the Paranormal Bender Tour, but it is not officially over. Not yet. Tonight we’ll have our final hurrah at the U-district bookstore, 7:00 p.m. There, we’ll be joined by special guest Mark Teppo — whose novel Lightbreaker ought to hit shelves oh, right about any second now. I think. It’s quite good. I got to read it a few months ago.

[:: gives it a big thumbs up ::]

I’d like to sit down and take an hour to do a nice, fat wrap-up of our adventures last week; but for now you’ll have to settle for some pictures and the short version: Four authors in one big car, six events in eight days, and 3300 miles across California, Oregon, and Nevada — yet no one drove anyone crazy, or to homicide. It’s a miracle, really.

Speaking of miracles, remind me later on to tell you about Steve…

The time has come to make official proclamations, announcements, and disclaimers regarding the Paranormal Bender Tour, which gets underway tomorrow. I’d like to say it begins tomorrow, but in fact only the level-grinding begins tomorrow — which is to say, come morning I’ll be hitting the road with Mario Acevedo, Mark Henry, and Caitlin Kittredge. After a brief California stop-over, we’ll be heading to our first event in Las Vegas, at the Clark County Library (in the Jewel Box Theater).

In fact, here. Let me list out the entirety of our itinerary.
It goes as follows.

Clark County Library, Jewel Box Theater
Las Vegas, NV
March 11, 2009. 7 PM
………………….
Mysterious Galaxy
San Diego, CA
March 13, 2009. 7 PM
………………….
Dark Delicacies
Burbank, CA
March 14, 2009. 2 PM
………………….
Borderlands Books
San Francisco, CA
March 15, 2009. 7 PM
………………….
Powell’s Books
Beaverton, OR
March 16, 2009. 7 PM
…………………..
University of Washington Bookstore
U-district, Seattle, WA
March 17, 2009 (Time uncertain; will update later)

So if you and/or any of your friends happen to find yourselves in any given one of these locales, we’d love to see you. Please, come on down! We love and encourage readers, book-buyers, or general curiosity-seekers of all stripes. And now, a few formalities before I log off and call it a night.

1. I do not know how often we will have internet access, if at all. I make no promises about email responses, comment replies, or other kinds of online wackiness while we’re out of town.

2. This will not prevent me from posting our progress, adventures, problems, thrills, and observations to the internet. Heavens no. But I cannot swear that I will have access to my main website, CheriePriest.com (again, it will depend on our internet access).

3. Therefore, please allow me to direct you to a couple of other sites. This is my Twitter page. Only just recently, I have achieved the ability to post mini-updates from my phone, which previously refused to configure. And this is my LiveJournal, through which I have the capacity to make voice posts, also from my cell phone.

I’m sure that someone, somewhere, has an app that would let me make voice posts to my personal/quasi-professional page; but I don’t have such an app right in front of me, enabled at this time. So if you want to hear the melodious sound of my voice, you’ll have to click over to LiveJournal to give me a listen.* Likewise, I’m sure there’s some brilliant way I could post to my main webpage via cell phone, but let the record reflect — I have a Razr, and its stupid little keys are not so much text-friendly. It’s just as well I’m sticking to Twitter for the micro-updates.**

So. There you go. That’s how you can find me for the next week, both in real life and online, and I beg your indulgence if you send me any email and I’m a slouch about responding. I will be off adventuring!

Yes, adventuring. It is my personal goal that — decades from now, should some struggling grad student opt to write my biography — the Paranormal Bender Tour will warrant its own chapter. And I want it to be the most ROCKIN chapter in the book.

Thanks for reading, everyone. Stick with me. There’s more to come, and it’s probably going to be pretty awesome. I’m just sayin’.

:-)

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* I have my LJ set so that only recognized “friends” can transcribe my voice posts. I’ve had … shall we say … “problems” in the past, with people just writing whatever they felt like on the transcription, posting personal rants and links and such. Bad form, folks. Bad form.
** Speaking of which, I can’t promise you real-time posting. My connection to Twitter’s phone post option works so poorly that at first, I didn’t think it worked at all. I only noticed that my test-tweet finally appeared about 12 hours after the fact. I’m not saying that it took 12 hours to post; I’m just saying that I waited, refreshed, and swore for so long that I gave up on it posting, and therefore didn’t realize my success until later.

Last night, Team Seattle (at least, those members who are presently in town) got together to celebrate the birthday of our friend and associate Psynde. Over in Queen Anne we did Mexican food and margaritas, then coffee. It was a marvelous evening, and I fervently hope we did credit to our guest of honor. Really, she deserves the best.

I feel like I’ve been all but offline for the last week or so now, and that there are many additional things about which I should update here; but nothing is springing immediately to mind. Mostly, the last week has been a time of (interesting, challenging) forehead-wrinkling day job and creative work, good news that must stay quiet for a bit, some very fine socializing, a bit of unexpected snow, electrician accommodating and dodging, and preparation for the upcoming Paranormal Bender Tour.

These tour preparations have included (but were not limited to) such diverse elements as a marathon of hair dyeing, testing and charging of electronic devices, wrapping up dayjob responsibilities in favor of next week’s dayjob responsibilities*, and shopping like a madwoman for travel supplies — plus a few clothes that might trick people into thinking I’m a moderately civilized adult. It’s amazing how working at home for a couple of years will lead to an utter collapse of civilized adult clothes.

Today I plan to do a little more running around, nabbing last-minute essentials (am out of face soap, for example). I need to do laundry something awful. I need to change the cat box, establish the fish in cleaner quarters, and begin to sort stuff for packing. Got to get myself in gear, roll up my sleeves, and make sure everything is squared away before I take off for a week.

But man.
It’s going to be an adventure!

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* I’ll be working on the road. Actually, I think we all will. I just thought it’d be easier/best to wrap up the one project, and start a new one fresh in the car on Tuesday.

• Mario Acevedo is a madman. In this video (which, after his introduction, becomes a stop-motion LEGO animated book trailer for JAILBAIT ZOMBIE), Mario is the madman in the trunk. Yes, this is one of the 3 people with whom I’m about to spend a week in a car, on tour. We are not planning to travel all across the west with him duct-taped up in the trunk … but we’re leaving that option on the table.

• Godmother. Carolyn Turgeon sent me wee tiny glass slipper temporary tattoos! They are adorable, and I thank her most thoroughly. You should all go take a look at her new novel, Godmother. It is deeply wonderful, I swear.

• Second Skin. My exceptional buddy Caitlin Kittredge, she of the pink-and-black hair and the killer boots, has likewise just released a new novel in her Nocturne City series. Go ye thereforth and give it a look. Her stuff is wild, and sharp, and slick.

• A Criminal Minds Production Diary. Audio version of the diary is on sale now for just five smackeroos via the incomparable Wil Wheaton, who has gone to great lengths to create this bad-boy in a DRM-free format. The final product is about 188 minutes long, so that is some EPIC LENGTH entertainment for about the price of a Taco Bell value meal.

• My thanks go out to the Green Man Review. One of their fine reviewers has posted a most friendly write up of the third Eden Moore novel, Not Flesh Nor Feathers. This was easily the hardest book of the three to write, and I’m very pleased with the end result. Even if there aren’t any more Eden books in the pipeline (or plans for any, at this time), I feel like NFNF was a solid way to bring the story arc to a close … while leaving open the possibility of future adventures.
  

I’d like to take a quick moment this afternoon to thank the folks at Blood of the Muse, who took the time to compose a really wonderful write-up of Those Who Went Remain There Still.

I love this book, and I’m very grateful that their reviewer seemed to love it too, because as I’ve said before: It was a significant departure for me. You see, after writing several books that were primarily occupied by women, this time I took a stab at writing one that’s almost completely peopled by men. I’m overcome with relief and delight when the men who’ve read it seem to think I got it right.

As a dorky aside: I know you’re not supposed to do the whole, “My parents/sister/brother/grandma totally loves my work!” But here you go. My dad phoned me out of the blue to talk about this book — and this is a man who’s read and fervently supported everything I’ve ever composed. But this is the book he rang me up to discuss, even before I could call him every damn day asking if he’d finished the ARC yet. (Yes, I am a giant pest.) It totally filled my heart with squee that before TWWRTS had even hit the stands, it had one solid vote of approval from the dude I’ve known the longest.

I assure you that I do have content-driven things about which to post; but at the moment I can’t scavenge together an hour to write it all down. So for now? You get something easier. Something funnier. That’s right … you get a kitty video! The first thirty seconds consist of smacking noises and nose quivers. The second half explains why I sometimes dream of bullfrogs, and awaken confused.

For best results, crank up the volume.
(And ignore the birds outside; the was window open.)

• Angel of Death. “Nobody looks for the Beretta, when all they see is a slinky chick in a cocktail dress. Noir comic book legend Ed Brubaker cuts deep with the story of Eve, a hot woman with a heart of ice.” And I ask you, WHAT’S NOT TO LOVE ABOUT THIS?!?

• Leo Weekly (Louisville’s alternative weekly magazine) pretty much digs TWWRTS. Just this once I’ll respond just a smidge to a bit of criticism — not because the criticism isn’t valid, but because there’s an explanation: The most sympathetic characters in Those Who Went Remain There Still are the men who left Kentucky … because I got the original family legend from the branch of the Coys who … well … left Kentucky. It wasn’t personal, I swear; nay, I rather like Kentucky and have often thought that Louisville might be a great new home town, should I ever make it back to my native quadrant of the continental 48. [Edited to add - their site seems to be having trouble. Check again later for review if you can’t see it.]

• Ain’t too proud to beg. Yeah, I’m still trawling for Amazon reviews — and I most heartily thank those of you who’ve already responded to the call. In particular, it makes me sad that Fathom and Those Who Went are yet so sparsely discussed. Reviews really do make a difference to sales and word of mouth, so if you’ve read either of these books (or any of my others) and feel moved to comment thereupon, I’d be immensely grateful.

• Not just radioactive. Not just a sex offender. Sounds like the makings of a supervillain to me! “Judge John Price said: ‘Please warn officers that when he is arrested he might be radioactive.’ He added: ‘This is not a joke.’”

• Triple rainbow, baby. I took this picture this morning, while driving down the 520 and rejoicing because my dentist visit could’ve gone SO MUCH WORSE. I have but one wee cavity, though I’ll need several sessions of hygienist work to get the calcified gunk out of my mouth — so I’ll be making a total of four trips back to the doc over the next month or two. But seriously. After ten years with no dentist? I expected half a dozen root canals and a 3-day seminar on the subject of my great and odious FAIL.