If It's Sunday, We Must Be ....Where?

I'll admit it. This morning I'm mentally lost, or at least in a fog. Part of it is because I'm hurting (nothing major, just annoying) and didn't sleep very well. Part is because my mind is on a project I've been working on with deadlines looming faster than I'd like right now. More on that as the time gets closer -- assuming I have any sanity left. I know, I know, the state of my sanity has always been questionable. What can I say? I'm a writer. ;-)

As I started pulling the blog together this morning, I came upon something I think every writer should be aware of, especially writers who have had or currently have or are considering signing a contract with Bloomberg Press. Three days ago, the Authors Guild posted a letter to its members warning them about the impact of a contract amendment being sent to Bloomberg authors by John Wiley & Sons (JW&S has aquired Bloomberg). The basic import of the letter is that the contractual amendment sent by Wiley would change the royalty system of some contracts from being based on retail price to net price. This could, according to AG, decrease royalties up to 50%. More than that, according to AG, Wiley would be able to keep a book in print with a "lowball print on demand royalty of 5%of net proceeds." Wiley has responded, claiming AG's representation of the letter and contractual amendments included in it is misleading at best and that the royalty changes will benefit the authors involved. Sorry, but I don't buy it. Any way, you can judge for yourself. Here's a copy of Wiley's letter. Read it and judge for yourself. For me, the most troublesome part of the letter is the inclusion of the print on demand language which reads, to me, as their way of keeping a book "in print" so the rights never revert back to the author. Your thoughts?

In other news around the internet, agent Rachelle Gardner says to get to a bookstore. I happen to agree with her. I've blogged before how, as writers, it's important that we read. But it is as important that we take time on a regular basis to visit our local bookstores. Not only does it allow us to see market trends and talk to other readers and pick their brains about what they are reading and why, it allows us to connect with the bookseller. That connection can lead to a recommendation of OUR book to a reader who is looking for something new and exciting. So, the next time you have a few minutes on your hands, get thee to your nearest bookstore.

Agent Janet Reid has an interesting post about how to format an electronic query. As someone who learned to type on -- gasp -- an IBM Selectric typewriter (yes, kiddies, there was a time when computers weren't in every room of the house) old habits about the formatting of a business letter die hard. But Ms. Reid's example and explanation hit home. That said, the caveat of this is to read the guidelines for the agency or publisher you are querying and follow them...no matter how strange or out of date or silly they might seem.

On the topic of following guidelines, agent Jennifer Jackson has two recent posts that show the importance of not only reading the guidelines but following them. The first post encourages us, as writers, to be persistent. Just because an agent turns down our first submission to them, it doesn't mean that agent won't like something else we've written. So, when you have another work ready, query them. This is especially true if you received an encouraging rejection letter from them on the first project. However, don't -- let me say that again, DON'T -- query that agent three or four times in a week on the same or different projects, especially if the guidelines tell you to submit only one project at at time. Submit, my children, wait for a response, wait a few weeks or more and then submit the next project.

Ms. Jackson's second post also concerns guidelines, this time highlighting some of the more odd comments she has seen included in query letters. Comments that shouldn't have been there had the sender simply taken time to read and follow the guidelines. For example, "...if I don't hear back from you within three days, (I'll assume) you aren't interested." WHAT?!? If you can show me any agent's guidelines that says you'll hear back within three days of submission, I have a book or three ready to send. Seriously, the query letter is meant to show us in our most favorable light as writers. Statements such as the ones Ms. Jackson highlights do the exact opposite and are so easy to avoid -- if you read the guidelines.

Finally, for those who write series, and even for those who don't but who have words or names or other conventions in their writing that might not fall under the standard style sheets currently used, agent Jessica Faust recommends you keep your own style sheet and even send it with your pages when you submit them. While it might not keep the copy editor from changing things, it will help. Along those same lines, agent Nathan Bransford recommends for those writing a series that you keep a series bible to help keep all those pesky details, names, places, and descriptions straight from one book to another.

So, any thoughts on these recommendations? Any news from the industry you want to share? The floor is now yours.

Is it Still P.C. to Call Them Small Presses? -- by Dave Boop

(For those of you looking for the complete version of It Started With the Cat, please check the entry just below this one. Thanks to everyone who contributed to the round robin. If you enjoyed it, or if you just enjoyed reading the submissions as they came in, let us know in the story comments. Thanks again and now back to our regularly scheduled blog. Let's give a big welcome to Dave Boop.)

Timing, they say, is everything. Who the “they” are and what the specifics of “everything” are going to have to be left to the imagination. For me, the timing of my first novel, She Murdered Me with Science was everything.

Let’s take the Delorean up to 88 MPH and scoot back to 2006. I had workshopped and revised three chapters of my yet untitled book. They were, as it turned out, three really good chapters followed by several mediocre ones. I was considering what to do; send the three chapters out with an outline, or finish the novel? As is most the cases with my incisiveness, the decision was made for me thanks to higher powers at work.

I attended a local convention named “Mile High Con” that October and attended a pitch session by a small press. The publisher was looking for manuscripts. I printed out and gave him my first three, more for the critique than anything. He loved them and wanted the rest of the novel. As I set about the task of finishing, I considered my options; again, I could go with an untested publisher in an unsaturated market, or if his tastes counted for anything, maybe the book was worth shopping to the major houses?

About that time, Denver was chosen to by the site of the 2008 Worldcon. The big leagues were coming to Cow-town and, while I had a few short stories under my belt, I was nowhere near ready to meet some of my idols with no novel to speak of. [Note: This was my own damage and should not imply that you must be published to attend WC. I’m in therapy for my delusions of grandeur. Thank you for the well wishes.] After the publisher read the manuscript and offered to publish it, I told him I had one condition; it had to be out by Worldcon. And it was! I was a published author, finally.

But is quicker always better? Not necessarily. While the editing job on my piece was stellar, I’ve read several novels released by independents that were not. It’s bad enough when self-publishing houses allow crap to hit the bookshelves, but when a small press leaves typos, poor punctuation and seizure causing grammar on the first page, then they are not doing the author, the industry and potential sales any favors. I read another that left a first chapter filled with technical inaccuracies. If I could spot them, so could others.

That being said, I don't want you to think that it’s small press bashing time. I can cite a dozen different independent publishers doing it right, as shown by their representation at the Hugo and Nebula awards. I’ll give a shout out to Fairwood Press for a commitment to excellence, Apex Books for a dedication to breaking new ground and Night Shade Books for supporting The Wind-Up Girl the way a novel of such caliber should be promoted.

There is good, bad and fugly in the world of independent publishing. Some presses will remain small. Others are destined for greatness and longevity. Tread with caution and do your research before entering into any agreement. Remember, it’s not the size of the press that matters, but what they do with it.

It Started With the Cat -- complete

(I promised you guys that I'd post the "completed" work, so here goes. Thanks to everyone who contributed. Everyone here at MGC hopes you had fun with it. If you did, post in the comments to let us know and to let us know if you would like to do this again. Edit: Mike, I just saw your last comment. Sorry I didn't include it, but I'd already compiled and set to post what had been submitted. Keep it and we'll try to use it in the next round. -- Amanda)

It started with the cat. Well, kitten really. A sweet, fluffy little ball of yellow and white fur. Who could have turned away from the forlorn look or the unmistakable disdain for Mother Nature being so foolish as to rain on the fur ball? Besides, the one blue eye and one green eye seemed to captivate me. Little did I know that rainy evening in June that my life would never be the same. Well, how could it be when that's the night the world ended.

I couldn't possibly help the poor thing. I just couldn't. After all, I was allergic to pet hair. And my lease specifically forbade pets. None of which seemed to matter in the least when I looked into those mismatched eyes. As soon as we made eye contact I was lost, as lost as she was.

So I decided to get an electric razor. I confined her in my little patio area and went to buy a razor. Only thing to do. If I could just shave her down, I could have her in the apartment. And I could say she was an alien, not a pet. Nothing in the lease said anything about aliens! Only on the way to the store, I met zombies. No, I'm not joking, real zombies, like in night of the dead again or whatever it was. Here I am, in my best stiletto heels and mini-skirt, just having come off my shift as a dancer at the Wet Dog Cafe, and my car gets surrounded by all these guys.

Not that this is unusual, but these guys... well, first I thought their sense of fashion was really bad. They were wearing double breasted wide-lapel suits, for crying out loud. And some of them had fedoras on. Others had like... wide ties. It was a nightmare, I thought. And then I noticed their faces.

Hey, I went through high school with this kid, Poindexter Archimedes, who ought to have been in the Guinness Book of World Records for worst zits ever. I flashed back to that horrible party where someone spiked the punch and I kissed Poindexter. Only these guys were worse. These guys were Poindexter times ten. I slammed my car into reverse and hit the gas. Suddenly allergies and leases seemed unimportant. The two zombies behind the car jumped up on the trunk. I spun the wheel, slapped the gearshift and pretended I was driving a race car.

I drove a mile. Then another mile. The two zombies on my trunk were moaning "brains... BRAINS!" And that's when I saw the road in front of me. It was littered with squirrels. Zombie-squirrels. The HORROR!

I smashed the gas and ran them over. ALL of them. It sounded like thousands of watermelons being hit by a snow plow.

I hurled my car into my parking space and rolled down the window. The cat jumped in. I floored it and we fled down the highway, thousands of zombies and zombie-squirrel bodies crushing under the tires. The two zombies were still on my trunk and smashing through the rear window...

What could I do? The cat looked at me with those eyes, and I could see that he was both arching an eyebrow (a cat eyebrow!) and inclining his head slightly to the left...I looked in the direction he was indicating, then threw the Mustang (did I mention the Mustang?) into a hand-brake turn, flinging the zombies into the dirt. We laughed, the cat and I, and thundered off into the night.

The 24 hour Walgreen's was just down the road. I told the little fuzzball that I would be right back and wiping my watering eyes and running nose I ran in the store and headed straight to the decongestants. Securing a handful of nostrums I hurried over to the hair care aisle and grabbed a Wahl Home Hair Cut kit. My boy friend would never believe the scratches on his car came from a zombie horde. But a fur-less, alien cat?

Done deal.

Unfortunately the WalGreens was located near a "green area". Lots of bush and shrubbery.Good cover...for critters.Worse than zombie. Cyborg Possums.One was sitting on the trunk of the car looking into the passenger compartment. Even from a distance I could see the laser diode in it's eye...blinking...blinking....

That's when the kitten showed its true nature. One minute, a sopping wet mop of yellow and white fur, with one blue eye and one green eye. Then a breath later, a dragon, with blue scales and green scales in a strange pattern on its body, sat there. It turned its head toward me, and one yellow eye and one white eye looked at me. Then the yellow eye winked. And the dragon launched itself in a dive at the cybernetic monstrosity.

The dragon kitteh . . . hugged the cyberpossum?

Daiquiri stared in disbelief as the two odd animals had a sort of beeping trilling conversation. They swapped nods. The cyberpossum trundled back into the woods. The Dragon shrank, contorted, the colors inverted, eyes going blue and green, fur yellow and white.

"Mrrow?" It looked at me with the level of innocence only a very bad kitten is capable of. It hopped casually back into the car and curled up in my lap. Purring.

I put the car back in gear and drove down the road, peering right and left, waiting for the next weird thing to leap out at me. As I rounded the curve, I could see all the way down the hill to the Bridge. The bridge wasn't the only way out of town, it was just the only one that could get you anywhere a sensible person wanted to go, in a reasonable amount of time.

There was a big black semi parked crossways across the road, completely blocking the bridge. I could see people dressed in black and or camoflage standing guard on the truck. Or more likely, the bridge. Others were grouped around a bunch of equipment.

"Oh, oh, I think they're from the government, and I'll bet they're here to help us."

I pulled up to the road block and rolled down my window. Never take me for a shrinking violet or pale pansy or whatever the heck. True, some people might be a bit intimidated by a bunch of hunky guys wearing night goggles and setting up machine guns on tripod stands but what part of "hunky guy" are they missing, huh? The cat hopped over to the passenger seat and hissed as tall dark and handsome #1 leaned down to look in the window.

Daiquiri rolled the window down, and hissed, "Jump in the back, quickly!" Tall, dark and handsome looked surprised, until he turned and looked where Daiquiri was staring. The black tentacles from the river were quickly dragging the rest of the people and equipment over the sides of the bridge and into the water. The semi was gouging holes in the road as the blown tires crumbled. The body of the truck was crumpled where the black tentacles wrapped around it. The sounds of the semi and equipment scraping along the ground drowned out most of the screaming.

Tall, dark, and handsome pulled the door open and dove over Daiquiri into the back. Daiquiri slewed the car around in a u-turn as tight as she could manage, then floored it and drove into the night as the door slammed shut. The kitten hissed at the backseat, where thumps and groans indicated how hard it was for a tall, well-muscled man hung with equipment to fit himself into the backseat of a Mustang. Actually, Daiquiri would have sworn it wasn't possible, but apparently whatever that was that came out of the water had made him willing to force the issue.

Daiquiri looked at the kitten. "Where should we go?" The kitten winked both eyes, then stood up in the seat and put its paws on the dashboard, looking out the window. After a moment, it looked right, and Daiquiri squealed the tires as she took the turn on two wheels. The kitten meowred.

There was a head in the rearview mirror. Daiquiri glanced at the wide eyes, and said, "Hi. I'm Daiquiri. Who are you, anyway?"

He growled, "I think that's my question, Miss."

He was very large and agreeably ugly. Well, ugly. There was something stenciled across the breast of his uniform. Daquiri tried to read it backwards in the mirror while driving. Ar...chi...

She hit the brakes and skidded to a halt, turned around and stared from name to face. "Poindexter?"

"Who else?" He looked at me with those dangerous blue eyes and I tried to see that pizza faced kid I'd kissed. Problem was, I'd spent a whole lot of time trying to forget that. "How you been, Daquiri?"

The gravel on the edge of the road scattered as I jerked the car back between the yellow lines. How could I get him out? He'd burst into howling laughter. He was mad!

"All those years, Daquiri, and no one loved me for myself, but I've gotten back at you all!"

I sent a desperate but wordless plea to the cat. If a cyber-possum rated a dragon response, what did Poindexter rate? There was movement in my headlights. Not more of them!

"Dex," I hollered as the first double breasted zombie bounced off the hood of my car, "as revenge goes, the zombies are just plain sloppy."

Then the car crested a hill, and I saw it. I slowed down and stopped. In the glare of circling military helicopters, it sat on the former site of our town high school, which was a bit of a relief, because we hadn't lost anything important. But...

The ground had erupted, and what looked altogether too much like a green jello volcano was gleefully blowing penguins all over the place. Well, I have to admit, I don't know if it was really gleeful, since as Dr. Smythe used to tell us in English class, objects don't have emotions, only people do. But it certainly was shooting penguins all over the place.

Even Poindexter quieted down, looking at that amazing green jello volcano. I mean, who knew that you could get that much green jello in one place?

And then he started babbling. "I didn't do that. No way. Sure, you can blame me for the zombies, even for the Cthulu in the river, but I did not do that."

"And it's really the government's fault! I was too brilliant, too well self-educated! I didn't need to go to college, but then I couldn't get a job. And, well, I thought the Army would cure my nerdness." He stuck his arm in my face. "And they did! Feel that bicep!"

"What does that have to do with zombies?" I was frantically looking for a way out. The kitten was listening with narrowed eyes, not interrupting.

"They made me a guard on a Top Secret Biowarefare lab. I pulled a lot of night shifts, me an Cthulu got pretty friendly, shared a late night snack, whenever I was there. Loves pretzels. The zombie juice was just supposed to influence mens fashion sense - the director of the Lab is this man eating hag. The skin and mental side effects were unintended. Honest. Then they were going to terminate Cthulu. I decided it was time for a bit of revenge. I sprayed those stuck up scientists who wouldn't ever listen when I told them what they were doing wrong. Then I sprayed the teachers at the High School.

"Those wretched squirrels chewed a hole in the side of the sprayer, last I saw they were raiding a doll store for cloths. So I'm out of juice. Pity. I was really looking forward to you getting worse zits than I ever had."

I removed my eyes from the jelly volcano long enough to glare. Then I looked back at the sight. "Did it pop up out of the ground, or did it crash there, forming a crater? If I wasn't afraid of sounding a looney as you, I'd think that just might be a spaceship."

The kitty meowed and I looked back at him in sudden realization. "The Biowarefar lab? Bioware? You worked for BIOWARE?"

I slammed the car to a stop next to the jello volcano-spaceship-underground base thingie and lept out (momentarily coming to a hault in my leaping to undo the seat belt which had decided to respond to my leaping by strangling me).

I pulled him out of the car. "There was no excuse for how bad Dragon Age was! Bioware knows better than that!"

Fist met face as I punched-flung him toward the jello volcano. He would have hit it, head first, but a door in the side magically splush-sucked open. A pleasant fragrance of orange jello wafted out. Followed very quickly by a cute, cuddley, mutant-zombie kangaroo with lasers (of DOOM!).

Needless to say I was at a loss for words. The kitty meowed.

The mutant zombie kangaroo jumped Poindexter. It stood on its tail and whapped him with those big feet. Bam, bam. Poindexter managed to get his hands up, and grabbed one leg, then the other leg. He grinned at the kangaroo. "What you gonna do now, big boy?"

That's when the little joey popped out of the pouch and punched Poindexter. You could hear his stainless steel cup reverse its curve with a sharp ping. The little joey had quite a punch!

Poindexter lost his grip on the legs, and folded to the ground.

The mutant zombie kangaroo turned around. It started to hop toward Daiquiri. She didn't wait for it, she took two quick steps, then leaped. A grand jete, straight up, and a high kick at the top. Ping! One stilleto heel, placed right in the mutant zombie roo's left eye. And with a twist of her ankle, she ground it deep into the brain of the beast. "That's why I get the big tips at the Wet Dog Cafe!"

Then she slipped her foot out of the shoe, leaving it in the roo's head.

But when she lightly touched down, the kangaroo just kept coming. Apparently mutant zombie kangaroos don't depend on their brains.

The lasers of doom were starting to pulsate. Daiquiri turned her purse upside down, and scrabbled through the pile that cascaded out. "Lipstick, mascara, blusher... oh, that's where that credit card went..." Then she grabbed her makeup mirror and looked up at the kangaroo. "Go ahead, make my day."

The laser blasted. And Daiquiri flipped the mirror into the beam, and carved the kangaroo into huge hunks with the reflected fire.

Poindexter looked up from the ground. His mouth flopped open as he stared up at Daiquiri standing over him on her one stilleto heel and mini-skirt.

She looked down at him and said, "What do you think you're looking at?"

I jumped back into the car and backed it off a few hundred feet. Driving had just taking me into deeper weirdness . . .

Poindexter caught back up with the car and reached for the passenger side door. I hit the lock. The kitteh nodded her approval.

All around, penguins were biting zombies. They were having a bit of trouble with the squirrels, but in zombie form at least the squirrels weren't climbing trees. The bitten zombies appeared to be disoriented. I could barely hear the background chant of "Brains, brains" any more. The penguins were being attacked in turn by various cyber animals.

Poindexter ceased pounding on the window, and watched with his back to the car.

"I don't suppose you could tell me what happened here?" I eyed the kitteh.

How Split Personality is a Good Thing

It's amazing how often you discuss writing with people and come across the same quaint notions of what a writer is. (I'm not even going to touch the popular image where we are all filthy rich layabouts like the guy in Californication with agents who pander to our every whim.)

You hear things like:

"People say it's lonely being a writer. You spend your life alone."

Hmmn. Well I guess there is no physical person actually sitting beside you, but I'm sure most writers would agree its pretty crowded in that particular space. So many characters either trying to talk at once, or waiting their turn. Either way they and the universe you are trying to create are there with you.

Then, once the writing part is over and it's time to sell the manuscript, there is no such thing as simply wrapping the thing in brown paper, licking on the stamps, posting it off to some distant publishing house and waiting in the silent parlour for a reply. At least not anymore.

People talk about the writer living in the garret, working away in the bliss of artistic isolation. In this image the writer is uncomfortable with people, introverted to the point of dysfunction. Maybe they start that way.

All the successful writers I know are incredibly dynamic. They might be an introvert at heart, but they have all worked damn hard to become just about everything else as well. Effective networkers that can move through a crowd. Polished performers that rattle off anecdotes in a seemingly spontaneous manner, keeping a workshop or panel crowd entertained while simultaneously informing and promoting themselves and their work. Strategic thinkers who can plough their way through Internet sites and magazines and absorb a bird's-eye-view of the industry, much as any steel-trap minded lawyer or analyst might.

So who exactly is this author person? An artistic introvert at home in their own skin? A networker who delights in the company of others? A performer who feeds off the room? A cool-thinking analyst, capable of ruthlessly pursing their goals who would put Hannibal Barca to shame? Which one? All of them?

It's enough to put a psychologist into a mental hospital. How on earth can one person be all this?

Any clues? Have I missed out any additional split personalities?

Attack of the World Building Bunnies

(Or: A diversion on writing process)

So there I am, sleeping peacefully - or as close to it as this narcoleptic gets (kind of a drugged doze, usually) - and I get ambushed. This happens with disturbing frequency.

I know you're not supposed to admit you get ideas from dreams, but I do, often. What I don't get are plots, which means after the idea makes its appearance there's an incubation period of indeterminate length while the idea ferments and characters start lurking behind odd corners of grey matter waiting for their chance to ambush me. Occasionally they'll insist I tell their story without letting me know what the end is, but usually I have to pry it out of them. There are times when I wish for a crowbar, then I remember they live inside my skull, and the result of me applying a crowbar to that wouldn't be all that scenic.

Anyway. So I wake up with this haunting image and a data dump about this world and setting. It's SF mixed with steampunk, an accidental colony on a world that's a) orbiting a huge star close enough that the thing positively looms in the sky, b) has a moon that's also huge (it may actually be effectively a binary planetary system, but that's not entirely relevant) and in geostationary lock, c) has a ridiculously long rotation period, d) has an even more ridiculously long planetary year (as opposed to what the locals call a year), and e) the entire civilization has grown up from its origins during a solar eclipse. Oh, and the world is very volcanic. They use this as a power source, and live in perpetual twilight.

The image is glimmerings of a dark orange sun around the edges of shadow against the silhouette of Victorian-esque buildings. It comes with a sense that the whole place is doomed - Nightside is largely unexplored, cold, and people who explore there don't come back. It's relatively warm with the eclipse: full sunlight will be too hot for fragile humanity. And vulcanism is tearing the land apart.

All of this is quietly simmering somewhere in the back of my head, accumulating depth and history and waiting for the right character to emerge and to carry a story which I suspect will involve an apparently doomed battle to survive the combination of an increasingly hostile physical environment and a decadent cultural environment. And just to prove that the way I build stories is... interesting, I now have the titles of at least two books in this world: Twilight, and Nightside. It's going to be dark. I suspect 'lyrical' may creep in just from the feel of the place in my mind.

Yes, this is what passes for my process at the very beginnings. Whether this one goes anywhere will depend on whether a character emerges to carry the piece. It's a rather complex synergy for me, requiring any number of pieces to land in place. If/when they do, I have a story which will devour what I laughingly refer to as my spare time. Until then, I have an annoying itch in the back of my head and some odd mental imagery.

To those of our readers who write, how do your stories start? What is your 'seed' and how does it grow? To everyone - do you want to hear more of the progress of this particular seed as it happens? If so, are there any special requests? I can't make any guarantees - at this stage it's quite possible the whole thing will die - but I'll do my best to oblige.

When The Music Stops

(With footnotes, which is how you know Mad Genius Club is CULTURE.)

Years ago, when – I thought – I lay dying in a hospital bed at 33, I realized I could no longer afford to play at writing. Instead I had to go into it fully, no holds barred. Because other than the obvious regrets – my younger son was only one a couple of months. My older son was five and a very little – what loomed largest in my mind was the fact that all my unpublished worlds would die with me. The feeling that I had been given something precious that I failed to pass on.

What does this mean? Don’t worry. There’s no dire announcement coming. Though we’re all mortal, and I’m starting to hit the age where I hear of friends’ deaths more often than we attend weddings. *

However, since that moment of clarity, on that hospital bed, I’ve been driven to write and submit, and try to infect others with these worlds in my head before I die. I am humbly aware that at the rate ideas rise up, I’ll probably die with three or four – or more – books unfinished. But I view it as my duty to write as many of them as possible. Or at least my need.

This week I had a minor reminder of this – very minor – as I came down with a serious case of stomach flu. Possibly the most severe I’ve ever had. Now some of you know it takes a lot to bring me to a complete stand still, but this did it. All of yesterday, I slept and woke and slept again, until... the evening. Then the evening and today, I was in true torment – I was well enough to want to write, but not well enough to write.

I know they say that when time comes to die no one regrets spending too little time at the office. This might be true for most people. It’s not for me. Yes, I love and enjoy the time with my family, but I feel the same need towards my writing. Balancing the two is a never ending act.

What do you feel compelled to write? If you faced the end, with no buffer, what do you think you’d regret? Is there a story you’d particularly regret leaving unpublished? A world that calls out for other minds to make it live? A character you’d mourn no one else having known?

Carpe Diem*1and tempus fugit *2 Oh, yeah, and Ars Longa, Vita Brevis.

* This is because few people have the foresight of the Portuguese king Pedro (O Cru -- i.e. the Raw) who is said to have married his five year dead mistress Ines de Castro, in a high ceremony the whole court was required to attend. Oh, yeah, and kiss the queen's hand. This is denied by a lot of Portuguese historians but embraced by others. No reports on whether the wedding breakfast included brains.
*1-The monkey is wrong – this means “the days are crxp”)
*2 (which means “if I put you in a temporary fugue state, can I write a novel before you realize it?” Trust me. Very compact language, Latin. Admirable, really.)
*3 (which means “my xrse is getting large, but I’ll write a brief biographical novel.”)

Doing the Happy Dance!

This is one of those happy days. You invite the whole family to watch you unpack the books. Then the cat turns up and investigates to see if this box is a good place to sleep.






You slave over a book for X years, do the structural edits, line edits, copy edits and finally ... drum roll ... your publisher sends you copies of your printed book!

You pick up your book, (smell it - don't you love that new book smell?) and then you suffer every writer's dilemma. What if no one buys it?

So, here I am, asking your advice.

I'd like to do a blog tour. (I have time to plan this, as the books isn't released until July 15th). Can you recommend any blogs I could approach? I'll offer to do a give-away of the book. I'll research the Australian blogs, but I'm at a bit of a loss for the US blogs and the UK blogs.

The other thing is this. My friend Richard Harland is on a US and UK tour. Sounds like he is having a wonderful time. Marianne de Pierres and I were thinking what if we could get a grant to travel to the US?

Which would be the best Conventions or events to attend? We've looked at the Romantic Times Convention. Now there is a lot of people who love reading. And then there's Dragon Con. What is the best way to connect with readers?

All advice welcome!