Of Kittens and Keyboards

Since we lost Impy a few weeks ago, the kitten, Thor, has pretty much taken over the house.  Kittens have a habit of doing so, mostly because they're so curious that they constantly get into trouble.  Unfortunately for Thor, his favorite pastimes get him into trouble.

When he's really spunky, he's swinging from my curtains or the furniture or the top of the bookshelf, wailing piteously for rescue.  That's funny and cute--except on the curtains, which now have a plethora of teensy little claw marks, or the furniture now that I've finally trained the big cats to avoid. (they associate claws in the furniture with a water gun. Heh.)  Thor, unfortunately, loves water.  He jumps into the bathtub without checking first, which has resulted in several episodes of dripping kitten.  He plays in the water bowl.  He turns on the kitchen faucet.  Therefore, he is impervious to the water gun and thinks I'm playing with him when I hose him down.

Poor Thor.  Since he loves water, he gets punished with timeout.  He gets put into the bathroom with a stern, "NO!" and left there, to meow and yell and wail for a few minutes until I take pity on him and let him out.  Then he jumps up on me and purrs and chin rubs and cuddles before he takes off to get in more mischief, which usually involves torturing Elf, that cat who most claims me as 'his human.'

But that's not the worst of it.

Thor has several favorite napping places, but his unquestioned favorite is the keyboard of my laptop.  He's still small and lightweight so when he lies down he doesn't depress the keys, but it's damn hard to write with a kitten sprawled out over qwertygfdsacx and z. If I move him, he complains.  If I try to type around him, he yawns and takes up uiohjkb and n as well.  Sometimes we compromise, and he gets right up beside the back of the computer or underneath it when I'm writing on the couch or the bed.

*sigh*

Kittens. 

He's starting to lose that kitten fuzz now, and is more properly an adolescent cat at almost five months.  But he still acts like a kitten, and I have the horrible fear that he's always going to prefer napping on my laptop keyboard.  In another year or so, he'll weigh fifteen pounds and the only letter I might be able to hit is the / or the ' or ] -- which would totally suck. 

But then again, I know now what to do with this laptop when I retire it in favor of a new one. Some cats may like their soft little animal beds, but Thor will always sleep on my old, dead laptop.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

...a not quite as serious post.  Ye olde blogge has been a little on the grim side as of late, so tonight while I loosen up my mind for a big writing binge that'll probably end up being an all-nighter, I thought I'd try to lighten things up a little bit with some random thoughts.

Random thought # 1--Just got done watching The Voice.  Christina--FIRE YOUR DRESSER. Child, you don't have any business prancing around in THAT outfit. EVER.  Those thighs were eating those pleather shorts. Seriously.

Oh, the singers?  For me no contest--the two bald ladies on Christina's team and the two guys on Blake's team. Best singer of the night--Beverly. Best performer of the night--Frenchie.  Best moment of the night--Ce Lo singing Queen. 

Random thought # 2--Two great things happened for me in the world of sports today. First, Tyrelle Pryor has ditched Ohio State for his senior season. (there is a God)  Then, Mike Hamilton, the alleged athletic director at my beloved University of Tennessee resigned. (there is a God who wears orange and white) Personally, I think this is a great thing for both schools.  Tennessee can now hire Phil Fulmer, who at least has integrity and knowledge of the area, and Ohio State can have the ultimate honor of me condescending to appear at one of their football games--which I swore I'd never do as long as Tyrelle *Mika Vick* Pryor played there.  That being said, now there are serious grumblings in Columbus on the nightly news about tens of thousands of dollars Pryor allegedly accepted, and people in Knoxville are tossing pictures of Lane Kiffin into bonfires built with Hamilton's office furniture.

Ah yes, a great day in the world of college football.  Now, if they'll only strip USC of their 2004 BCS Championship, my week will be perfect.

(Perfection attained in 3...2...1...)

Random Thought # 3--Right now, the cats are have a demolition derby in my living room.  The favorite and current points leader is Thor, the 5 month old kitten, who is outweighed by the next smallest competitor by at least four pounds.  The cats are all fine--it's the living room that's demolished.  Thor was chasing Sapphire, our sedentary, portly Siamese and they hit a pile of mail and papers on the desk.  Right now, our floor looks white instead of a warm, mellow aged oak color.

And because this is a perfect week, thanks to USC being stripped of their title, someone other than me is picking everything up.

And finally, Random Thought # 4--If I stick to my current writing schedule, What A Pretty Necklace will be completed in 6 days. Right now, Jack the Ripper and my ultimate villain are plotting the demise of my heroine--who, unfortunately for them, has developed a weapon they'll have no defense against.

Ah, steampunk!  I think I'm starting to like you.

Why You Need To Think Twice Before You Self-Publish

Lately, I've been overwhelmed by the foul tempers prevailing in writing forums on any thread that has to do with self-publishing.  I'll admit it--this is partically my fault.  I'm so sick of hearing sad stories from authors who "just wanted to hold my book in my hands" and then are faced with the consequences of their decision to self-publish that are dismissed and scoffed at by people who are absolutely certain that self-publishing is the end of the traditional publishing industry.

But before we begin, a caveat: I BELIEVE (capitalized for emphasis) that in SOME cases, self-publishing is an appropriate choice-- such as books for niche markets, poetry chapbooks, non-fiction with a limited target market. I ALSO BELIEVE (again, capitalized for emphasis) that in the case of fiction, self-publishing should be the LAST choice, not the first.

Now before the self-appointed SP cheerleaders start to divebomb me with their pom-poms, here's why I believe this way...in a bulleted list for your reading ease and comfort.

(Yes, I'm feeling a little snippy)

1. Self-publishing burns your first rights.
2. Self-publishing at this point is consigning your book to the bottom of the publishing pond.
3. Self-publishing doesn't equate with 'published.'
4. Self-publishing companies don't care how many books you sell. Their purpose is to get as many books as possible.
5. Most self-published authors suffer from the stigma of not being legitimately published.
6. 90 % of self-published books are crap, and that figure is low.

Now that I've pissed all of them off, let's elaborate.

First publishing rights are a huge deal.  You aren't going to land an agent or a trade publisher (read: NY publishing house) with a self-published book UNLESS you have immense sales and maybe not even then. Yes, yes...Amanda Hocking. I know.  She had over a million sales, right?  Okay...that's ONE author out of how many?  According to Bowker, there were over 760,000 self-published books in 2009.  Now think--how many other authors have you heard of with sales like this?

Right. And why is that?

Because a self-published book sinks right to the bottom of the publishing pond.  The books that sell the most are the ones that get publicity--trade published books, independent press books and e-published books.  The self-published books that break through those to rise to the top either have an author with a well-known name (like Stephen King) or a well-known platform (either because of a built-in readership or through the marketing efforts the author puts into the released book).  Most self-published books don't get that.  They get bought by family and friends, who leave glowing reviews on Amazon that nobody reads.  Self-published authors also find it difficult to get reviewed, one of the traditional methods of getting people interested in their books.  Do you know why?

Right. Because most people don't equate self-publishing with actually being published.  Agent Rachel Gardner said it best on her blog in a November, 2009 post:

The lure and the prestige of getting a book published has always been based on... what? Exclusivity. It's exciting to get a book deal because many want one, and few can get one.

Published books have always been respected because of the many gatekeepers they had to go through to get on that bookstore shelf. Numerous people had to agree that the book was worthy of publication. Large companies had to invest money and time. All of that added to the value of each book.

Writers had to endure rejection, and be persistent. They had to keep trying harder, improving their writing, to get to the point of being published. And they had to impress a lot of people.

With no more gatekeepers, no more exclusivity, no more requirement to actually write a good book, won't published books lose value? If anybody can get a book published, doesn't that diminish the perceived status of all authors?

That kind of sums it up. The majority of self-published books are pretty awful, to be frank.  Obviously, I haven't read every self-published book in the world but come on, already.  How many of those self-published books are in reality unedited first drafts, thrown out there by people who stupidly buy into the myth that "You, too, can be a publisher author on the road to fame and riches!!!!" by self-publishing companies who don't give a crap what they're publishing.

What?  Oh, of course I have cites for that.

“It used to be an elite few,” said Eileen Gittins, chief executive of Blurb, a print-on-demand company whose revenue has grown to $30 million, from $1 million, in just two years and which published more than 300,000 titles last year. Many of those were personal books bought only by the author. “Now anyone can make a book, and it looks just like a book that you buy at the bookstore.”

See what I mean? It looks just like a book that you buy at the bookstore.  From the same article, there's this too:

Indeed, said Robert Young, chief executive of Lulu Enterprises, based in Raleigh, N.C., a majority of the company’s titles are of little interest to anybody other than the authors and their families. “We have easily published the largest collection of bad poetry in the history of mankind,” Mr. Young said.

Pretty scary. Especially when paired from this quote I found on How Publishing Really Works:

Lulu.com, one of the most popular and cost-effective of the POD services and still independent despite the apparent trend toward consolidation among POD services, is explicit about its long tail business model. In a 2006 article in the Times UK, its founder identified the company's goal: "...to have a million authors selling 100 copies each, rather than 100 authors selling a million copies each." A Lulu bestseller is a book that sells 500 copies. There haven't been many of them.

Doesn't that just make you throw up a little in your mouth?  It does me. Why would you want to consign your novel to a company that wants ten thousand more of you only selling ten books to your family and friends...or yourself?

And if you only sell to your mom and dad and the other eight copies are bouncing around in the trunk of your car, then are you legitimately published?  Are you put on the same level as...well, shall we say, an e-published author?

No.  Because of one line you can find on many major review sites:

We do not accept self-published material for review.

Not too long ago, that line read: We do not accept e-published or self-published material for review.

Again--you sell a million copies, and you get to shed the self-published stigma.  But let's face it: any schmoo who ekes together some kind of guide for pedophiles and self-publishes it on Amazon, then causing a controversy as outrage ripples throughout the www is going to manage to sell 50 books.  Most self-published books don't sell half that number--and the self-publishing companies like it that way. Again--read what those execs had to say. They don't care that because you've self-published your book, people are going to automatically assume it's crap. They LIKE crap, particularly the kind of crap that a deluded author is going to pay premium prices for their ultimate services. But the inescapable sad, tragic fact is that most self-published books ARE crap.

Look, I don't have a motive here unless it's to ease my own conscience.  Over the past year, the number of queries I've received from self-published authors who genuinely believed they could bypass the whole submission process and have a bestseller is staggering.  I looked through my records today, and approximately 40% of the submissions I've received since June of 2010 fit into this category.  These authors are upset and looking to rectify their book's invisibility through any means possible.

"I thought self-publishing was the way to go, but I've only sold five copies in eight months..."

"I really believed that once people started to review my book, I'd get the exposure I needed..."

"I invested almost two thousand dollars into this book and I have to find a way to recoup my losses..."

And so they send those manuscripts to me, hoping that somehow I'll be willing to overlook the fact that their first electronic rights have been burned irrevocably.  And because I'm a sucker, I'll request the whole book. And without exception, those books aren't in any condition to be turned over to my staff for editing much less out there on display for the whole world.  Out of those submissions, I have not accepted one.

Not. One.

So, yes--I'm damn good and mad about this!  I'm inundated with those self-publishing popups everytime I hop online. I could open any website right now and there will be that damn ad I've seen every stinking day for three stinking months.  I really wish I could spam them all with an email that reads, "I'M NOT STUPID. THANKS."

But I can't. My situation is different too. I'm an established author with a very decided career plan, one that I work on every single day for eight hours a day. Self-publishing is not an option for me at this stage of my career. Perhaps later, if I reach a certain undefined level of success, I may self-publish my earlier works when the rights revert to me.  Who can say?

But YOU--the writer who's just finished your first novel and are trying to make a decision as to what's best to do. (and this doesn't apply to people who just want to publish for their own pleasure)  Aside from following my mantra of "write, edit, rewrite, rewrite again, rewrite some more, edit, proof, repeat" (meaning don't ever send out a first draft as a finished product), what else should you do?

If you want a career as a writer, why consign your book to the bottom of the publishing pond?  Start at the top and work your way down.  Try for an agent first, then smaller presses, and then e-presses before you decide to self-publish. Why be one of thousands of writers selling only ten copies?  Strive to be one of ten authors selling thousands...MILLIONS of copies.

Always, always reach for the top of the game, not the bottom, and I'll do the same.  Perhaps we'll meet there someday. I certainly hope so.

Sunburned the Brains Right Out of My Skull

So the big news in the Summers household this week is the new pool.  We all discussed it and decided that not only would a pool be great for the baby (so I can teach him to swim) but also for me.  My back limits a lot of exercise, but if I just walk in chest-high water, I'm getting five times the benefit as if I was walking on the road.

And never breaking a sweat.  That's important to a lady.

*Yeah, I just said that. Now shut it with the laughing.*

At any rate, so the pool is in and we filled it up earlier the week, braving the ICE COLD water just because...well, hell-we have a POOL.  We've spent the time since then (now that the solar cover is warming the water up) lounging in and around the pool, taunting our unfortunate neighbors with the glorious blue jewel glistening in the back yard by splashing, squealing and playing with water toys as much as possible.  My daughter, her daughter and I all now have glorious sunburns--the kind that gives you color without hurting too badly.

Except on our legs. WTF is up with that?  Audrey and I can get all kinds of sun on our faces, arms, backs and shoulders, but both of us are still sporting pasty white legs, damnit.

So I rigged up a little writing area for me on the back deck, thinking that I could switch back and forth between the pool and working on the WIP.  It's nice, with a comfortable chair and a table for the laptop (and an outlet--very important)--far away enough from the pool that my computer won't bite it from a misplaced splash but close enough so I can monitor my non-swimming daughter and her twenty-month-old baby.

I completely forgot about how hard it is to see a monitor in the glare of the sun. Or how quickly you can get really, really hot while trying to write outdoors.  Or how distracting things like the neighbors' boxers when they get let out of the house and want nothing more than to howl at whoever is splashing in the pool.  Or how little Aurora wants her Nana right there in the water with her and has no qualms about running over to where I'm sitting with the computer and lifting her arms to be picked up--while spraying chlorinated water all over my computer.

*sigh*

Yes. This vampire's first exposure to the afternoon sun in about twenty years must have fried every last bit of common sense right out of my echoing head.  There's a REASON I haven't been hanging out at poolside in recent years.  Okay, several.  First off, I'm a redhead. Yeah...I don't tan, I BURN and then MOULT like a freaking snake.  Second off, I'm creeping up to the midway point between forty and fifty. (It's perfectly okay to tell me how young of a grandmother I am, by the way.) The reason I don't look like a grandmother is because I haven't exposed my face to the sun willingly in decades.  Third off, I can't work outside. I don't like the heat. I don't like barking dogs. I don't like the sounds of traffic. I don't like the people across the street.  And while I LOVE the pool, I don't particulaly relish the thought of people driving by and wondering how that bizarre red-and-white whale got beached in Ohio.

So yeah, I'm staying in today to work. I'll hit the pool later when it won't affect me as much.  Like maybe midnight or something.

The sacrifices I make for my art.

Oh, by the way--I'll be a grandmother of THREE sometime in mid-December.

Bigotry in Writing

This week, Nobel Laureate V. S. Naipaul stirred up a big stinky pile of controversy. Here's the jist of what he said, as reported by Bookseller.com and initially from the Telegraph:

"Women writers are different, they are quite different. I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me." Naipaul said this was due to their "sentimentality, the narrow view of the world". He added: "And inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too. 

"My publisher, who was so good as a taster and editor, when she became a writer, lo and behold, it was all this feminine tosh. I don't mean this in any unkind way."
On Jane Austen, he added that he "couldn't possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world".When asked if he considered any woman writer his equal, the 78-year-old answered: "I don't think so", the Telegraph reports.

Now, as a woman writer, I find that pretty offensive. Interestingly enough, however, the editor whose work he dismissed as 'feminine tosh' is acclaimed author and biographer Diana Athill, of all people!  I've read Athill's Somewhere Towards the End, and I'm absolutely positive that it's NOT 'feminine tosh.'  Athill's response to Naipaul--also from the Guardian--is worth noting:

"I was a 'sensitive editor' because I liked his work, I was admiring it. When I stopped admiring him so much I started being 'feminine tosh'," she said this morning. "I can't say it made me feel very bad. It just made me laugh ... I think one should just ignore it, take no notice really."

Naipaul has "always been a testy man and seems to have got testier in old age", said Athill. "I don't think it is worth being taken seriously ... It's sad really because he's a very good writer. Why be such an irritable man?"

It's not the first time the pair have clashed. When Athill told Naipaul that his novel, Guerrillas, did not ring true, the move led, indirectly, to his departure from André Deutsch. And Athill has previously said that, when she needed cheering up, "I used to tell myself: 'At least I'm not married to Vidia.'"

Amen, my sister. From some of the horrors I've read about Naipaul's marriage, I think I'd be able to say that to myself in jail.

Okay--here's my point: there's a longstanding and inherent bias against female writers.  We are dismissed instantly as writing 'bodice-rippers' or 'feminine tosh.'  When I tell people I'm an author, their first question is usually, "Oh, romance?" with an intonation in their voices that just drips disdain.  It's like no one can imagine a woman writing strong, relevant, gripping literature.  This is insulting on several levels. 

First off, women write in all genres and not just romance. Look at some of the powerhouse women in fiction right now. Can anyone dare to dismiss female writers when the most successful writer in history is JK Rowling? Can anyone honestly sneer at the work of Barbara Kingsolver? The Poisonwood Bible is one of the toughest books I've read in a long time--and absolutely lovely.  And then I think of some of my friends and acquaintances in speculative fiction, like Kelly Meding and Gini Koch, and I have to kind of laugh.  These ladies don't waste their time on feminine tosh, not when their heroines are kicking everything's ass in sight.

Second off, romance books are NOT EASY TO WRITE.  I've tried to write a straight-up contemporary romance novel; I can't. I'm not wired that way.  And when you look at some of the greatest classic pieces of literature, those books were romances written by women.  Jane Austen? The Brontes? And those writers aren't equal to Naipaul?  Come to think of it, I'm reasonably positive Naipaul would chew off his own leg to have a fraction of Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele's sales.  The Nobel prize is nice and all, but you can only eat off it for so long. But Naipaul doesn't see it that way:

Of Austen he said he "couldn't possibly share her sentimental ambitions, her sentimental sense of the world". 

The author, who was born in Trinidad, said this was because of women's "sentimentality, the narrow view of the world". "And inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too," he said.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I am the complete master of MY house. Even the cats acknowledge that.

But finally, and most importantly, the main reason this disturbs me is simple. Naipaul, as a Nobel prize winner, has a platform--one that will reach millions of people.  He's used that platform in the past to denigrate third world countries, including his native Trinidad, and to express his loathing for people of color.  Now, he's using it to sneer at the accomplishments of women in literature, setting himself up on a pedestal and proclaiming the inherent inferiority of female writers. 

(In the interests of transparency, I've read some of Naipaul's work.  I like his earlier stuff; am not quite so fond of his later stories. I've found an underlying strain  of bigotry permeating his work, and felt that as he aged he got really, really preachy.  I've felt that way for years, which is a shame because I found A House for Mr. Biswas a lovely, evocative work.)

As writers, we should all be aware of the power of the written word. What we write can influence people, sometimes beyond anything we could possibly hope to expect.  Ever see a movie theater on opening night of a Harry Potter movie? Or, even stranger, the day a Harry Potter book was released? It's crazy. Did you witness the Team Edward/Team Jacob madness a few years ago?  Yes, writers have power.  We have the power to entertain, to inform, to invoke thought. Unfortunately, we also have the power to promote bigotry and prejudice through the employment of the language of hatred.

It's easy to dismiss Naipaul's comments.  After all, the gentleman is getting on in years and there's every chance that he might just be batshit crazy. This could just be jealousy rearing its ugly head, from a writer who once was very important and pissed away his momentum by alienating people in the industry and his readership.  Or, he could just be stupid.  Considering that eighty percent of the fiction-reading public are women, a writer would have to be an idiot to go out of his way to piss all those book-buying women off.  A writer on a forum I frequent made the mistake of saying that as this was just Naipaul's opinion, it was okay.

But it's not okay.  The language of hatred is NEVER okay. When a writer with the acclaim and notoriety of a V.S. Naipaul dismisses women at all levels of the publishing industry, it's most empathically NOT okay.  I mean look at precisely what he said: Sentimentality. Narrow view of the world. Feminine tosh. Not a complete master of a house. Banality.

Are women writers his equal? "No, I don't think so."

Come on.

Naipaul was slipping into obscurity before this interview, resting on the laurels of his prior acclaim and out of the public spotlight.  Now he's right back in the middle of it, but at what cost?  Even his authorized biographer, Patrick French, described Naipaul as, "bigoted, arrogant, vicious, racist, a woman-beating misogynist and a sado-masochist."

As writers, we need to be aware of the potential power of our words. Always.  Even a spec fic genre hack like myself can wield influence in the world--probably never at Naipaul's level, but some.

Very rarely, I'll find myself so disgusted with an author's political views that I won't buy his/her books.  Orson Scott Card is a good example of this; Ender's Game is one of the greatest spec fic books written in my lifetime, and yet his blatant hatred and prejudice of the gay community will keep me from ever putting a dime into his pocket.  It's sad, really, that V.S. Naipaul is now floating along in the same boat with Card.  That boat now has a Nobel Prize for an anchor, but it's powered by the sails of bigotry, hatred and prejudice.

Sail away, gentlemen. Sail far, far away.

Requiem for a Collaborator

Impy 1999-2011

Strange, to be coming back to my  blog.  My days have been so busy that blogging falls way down on the list of priorities.  But right now, I feel like I need to blog about something very unusual--at least for this blogger.

Last week, we lost our cat Impy.

Now before you run away, screaming, to something more interesting than a post about a cat, let me tell you about Impy first.  Impy was my first writing partner.  He was a young stud Maine Coon when I wrote the prologue of The Reckoning of Asphodel, which was the first significant writing I'd done in over ten years.  He sat on my lap for hours back in the days when we were too poor for luxuries like internet and cable, when my husband was working two jobs to keep our heads above water and I was too badly injured to work.  He would curl up in a ball--all twenty plus pounds of him, purring, and somehow manage to stay out of my way while I worked.  When I got up to get something to eat, he'd follow me to the kitchen.  If I took a bath, he sat on the edge of the tub.  When I went to bed, he shared my pillow.  And then, the next morning when I started writing again he was right back in my lap, shooing away the other cats.  In many ways, Impy was my collaborator--not only in writing, but in life.

Everybody loved Impy.

I loved him from the moment my husband and I walked past a wire cage full of kittens at the pet store, and one fuzzy little gray-striped Maine Coon tabby climbed straight up the bars yelling at me to pick him up.  I did pick him up--after all, what could one kitten cuddle hurt?--and walked out ten minutes later with my first cat.  Impy had endearing traits that enchanted everyone who met him.  We had a roommate who called him "Pimpy" because he said Impy was so cool even a pimp would love him.  Other people called him "Grimpy" because there wasn't a child or a kitten he didn't grandfather affectionately. When the grandbabies were infants, he would set up in front of their car seats or cribs and guard them--from everyone except their mothers and me. No other cats were permitted to get close to the babies, and definitely no people. He gave his love freely, finding a way to climb on every visitor's lap and never happier than when he was sleeping between my husband and I in the bed at night.  He loved to eat (most Maine Coons do) and he was gorgeous, with a full ruff around his neck, big padded paws, tufts of hair right in front of his ears and a big plume of a tail.

That tail lost some volume for a few years when he set it on fire from a candle.  Poor Impy!  He was accident-prone, but that just made him more endearing.

There was a time five years ago when Impy wasn't doing that well.  He was chewing on the end of  his tail and We were on our way home from my mother's funeral when my mother in law (who was a cat owner for over fifty years) called and said, "You're going to have to put Impy down.  He's got a tumor so big in his abdomen that it's pulling his insides out.  That's why he's pulling all the fur out of his tail."

Tearfully, I put my beloved cat in his carrier when I got home and took him to the vet.  The vet picked Impy up, examined him, snorted and said, "This cat isn't dying. He has a potbelly and is allergic to cats."

Yes, I had a cat that was allergic to himself. From then on, Impy got shots and I never listened to my mother-in-law's veterinary advice again. And as he aged, he wasn't quite as pretty. He got a hematoma in one ear, and it ended up folded over in a sassy quirk.  The picture of Impy with this post is the last picture I ever took of him--a month ago.  But he was still so beautiful to me, with all that luxurious fur and that sweet, loving look in his huge green eyes.

Impy is the only cat I've ever seen that I knew for a fact could smile.

Two years ago, Impy was diagnosed with feline diabetes, heart disease and feline neuropathy and that's when the real battle began.  He was twenty-two pounds at his vet appointment in 2008.  He weighed eight pounds at his last vet appointment. I won't go through everything we did for him--that's irrelevant now.  What's important is what's happened the last six months.

Impy has always been my cat.  He was independent, naturally, but I was the human he owned and everyone knew it.  Over the past six months, Impy became gradually clingier. He would leave me for a little while--usually to go play with Aurora, whose favorite game was to drag a cat toy behind her for Impy to chase.  (Aurora, by the way, said "Impy" before she said my name)  But then, he'd come right back to me, patiently waiting until I put my work aside and he could get on my lap. At night, when I settled down to sleep he'd crawl up under my chin like he had when he was a kitten.  And gradually, he became more lethargic, more tired.

I think I knew Impy was leaving us. I think he knew too.  But Shannon and I couldn't accept it.  We fought Impy's dead so hard.  We gave him the medicine, we tried every cat food known to man to tempt his appetite.  We pureed food and syringe fed him. We took him to the vet.  We looked up alternate treatments online.   And it seemed to work.  One day he rallied, eating on his own and showing a bit more energy.  I rejoiced, thinking we'd beaten his enemy. He walked around the house, spending time with each of our other cats in play or cuddles or bathtime.  He played with Aurora. He spent a long time watching the birds outside the window.

But the next day, he was worse than before.

Impy lay on the hardwood floor, barely moving, just watching me.  I tried to get him to eat or drink.  He wasn't interested.  The other cats came up one at a time, licking his face or rubbing cheeks with him.  The kitten brought him the toy they'd fought for the week before, nudging it in front of his face and trying to lure him into play.  Impy just watched me.

When I got up, he would get up too.  He'd move just the right amount of space to be the same distance from me and lie down again.  If I went to sit beside him, he started to purr loudly, and if I petted him, he'd swipe my hand with his tongue and purred louder.

And because Impy and I were so close, because he was my collaborator, I knew what he was telling me.  He was tired.  He wasn't going to get better.

He was ready to go.

We took him to the vet in his cat bed, not the carrier. I didn't want him to get upset because of the lack of familiar things. He sat on my lap the whole trip, purring and happy.  He might have been looking at things outside the window, but I don't think he was actually seeing anything.  It was like he was putting on an act for me--being brave so I would be comforted.  And in a strange way, I was.

And once the vet had examined him and offered the opinion that Impy wasn't far from death, I wasn't surprised.  Impy lay back down at the news and sighed, and the sound of his loud purr echoed in that room. I petted him, talking to him and crying, while he purred and nudged against my hand--just a little...just enough to let me know that he heard me.  The vet was sobbing as he prepared the injection. So was his assistant.  Shannon and I were both stroking Impy as he was given the shot.

I was right by Impy's face.  His ear twitched, he licked my hand one last time--and ten seconds after the shot, his purr just faded away. 

Impy had given me a gift no other creature in this world ever has--his absolute trust and unconditional love.  And although we grieved for him and still are grieving,  I couldn't help but be glad that he wasn't hurting any more.  Impy thanked me with that last lick, that last purr, and his death was as easy and as natural as any other exhalation of breath. We brought him home and buried him next to his brother, Dante, who passed away last fall, with his favorite cat toys.

Since then, the other cats have been looking for him.  Aurora takes the cat toy and calls, "Impy! Impy!"  At first she cried when he didn't come.  Now, she sighs and puts the toy away.

And me?  Last week, I couldn't write.  This week, while I was away, I was able to churn out more pages than I have in months.  So when I got back, I moved his cat bed right by my writing station.  For a day or so, it sat empty and so did the pages of my manuscript.

But then, the kitten moved in.  And now Thor is starting to act like Impy did.  He meets us at the door.  He comes running to find his human (me) as soon as he wakes up.  He sleeps in my lap or in the cat bed while I write.  He plays with Aurora, batting the toy for her without claws. And the words began to come once more.

These words were hard to write. I still look for Impy, just like the cats, just like the baby, and I'm always kind of surprised when he's not here. Twelve years of unconditional love is hard to replace once it's gone.  I miss his distinctive meow, I miss his insistence on getting between me and the laptop, I miss everything about him.  But I kind of feel like Impy spent his last weeks teaching the kitten what he needed to do for his humans, especially the strange one who stays up all night tapping away at that glowing, annoying contraption that's warm on the bottom. 

Impy's legacy, then, is so amazing.  Seventeen novels and three novellas in eleven plus years. Countless bewildered cats rescued from places of horror, taught to be loving, affectionate companions. A pair of children who learned to love animals from an early age. For my family, one of the most extraordinary human-animal relationships I've ever heard of.

Impy.  How I will miss you.

Thor 2011-

Aurora Regency Welcome To Spring Blog Contest!

As some of you know, I'm also the managing editor of Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals.  Aurora is running a Spring Blog contest, where readers can win downloads of Aurora books.  On this blog, one lucky reader (or more if the contest warrants it) can win a free Aurora book from any author they want!  Here's what you do--

First, add as a follower to the Aurora Regency blog at http://www.auroraregency.blogspot.com/

Then, comment on the Spring Blog Contest post there -- http://auroraregency.blogspot.com/2011/03/spring-blog-contest-win-up-to-five-free.html

Then, comment in this thread. 

If you do all three, you'll be eligible to win a free download from me and be registered to win a prize package of FIVE Aurora books from FIVE different authors on the Aurora blog!  Sounds easy, yes?  And, to make everything more...Spring-y, you can enter every participating Aurora author's contest.  Just once per blog, of course, but still...

Links to the participating authors' blogs can be found on the Aurora Regency contest thread.  Enter them all! This may be the easiest batch of e-books you've ever gotten--for FREE!
Take a few minutes and get to know the wonderful authors of Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals.  So get yourself entered--and good luck to you all!

The End of an Era

Yep. The end of one of MY eras.

My last contracted e-book comes out from Aspen Mountain Press this month.  The Vampire Covenants, a trilogy I began with co-author Rob Graham, concludes with Defying the Covenants on March 21, 2011. Although Rob and I co-wrote the first two books, the final book is all mine.  I wrote it by myself, which seems fitting as it's the last one.

For some reason, this book was harder to write than the others.  I hemmed and hawed for a long time over the characters, the ultimate resolution of the plot (which changed drastically from what Rob and I had discussed) and how to bring the story to a final culmination.  I'm not used to writing 'final' in any of my stories. I always like to think that even if I never write another word in the world, the story somehow goes on.  The characters have amazing adventures without me, until they pass into the history of that world.  Then they gradually adapt, becoming first a memory, then a legend and finally a myth.

But with Marguertie in the Covenants series, things are a little different. This is her last story. In a lot of ways, she is representative of me.  Marguerite slides from the limelight, while I move from one sphere to another.  I think that's very fitting.  Marguerite has been one of my favorite characters ever.  She's so different from Tamsen (Asphodel) and all my little goddesses from the Mythos series.  Marguerite is a tragic character in a lot of ways.  She finds ways to make her own happiness, true, but she also finds ways to screw that up.  She didn't start out as a heroine, a woman destined for greatness.  She falls into heroism because of a series of events completely out of her control, and throughout the three books her primary quest is to regain control over herself and her life.  And, at long last, she accomplishes that goal--but at a terrible cost.

I'm very proud of Defying the Covenants. I think this book is an earmark of the change in my writing style, the maturation, perhaps, of how I develop characters and plots. I also think this story is true to my narrative voice.  I was writing this book at the same time I was writing Theater of Seduction so that change in voice had already taken place.  This book is darker, and yet at the same time more emotionally honest than its predecessors.  A couple of the best scenes I have ever written are pivotal moments in the story.

Have you ever had one of those?  A scene that for some reason works so well that it evokes the emotions in you, the writer, that you'd hoped to inspire in the reader?  I had one of those in Apostle of Asphodel, with Anner's death. In Defying the Covenants, there are a couple of those--scenes that I re-read and that actually suck me into the story.  One gives me shivers. The other...well, I've opened the document about thirty times to change that scene, thinking I needed to revise the ending of the story.  But then, I'll read that scene over and I just don't want to touch the damn thing.  So it stays, and because it stays I've stuck with an ending to the story that conventional wisdom would advise against.

That ending is a risk, and therefore I love it.

So now my last countdown clock is up for the vampires of the Covenants, counting down the hours and seconds and minutes when they will at last emerge into the light--figuratively of course. The feeling is bittersweet, which makes it all just that much more amazing. 

I hope you love Defying the Covenants as much as I do.  And just to give you a feel for it, take a moment and get a taste of what Marguerite and Gunther and Marcellin will bring to the table this time.

And farewell to this second era of my writing career.  I hope the next era is as incredible as this one has been.

The Vampire Covenants 3: Defying the Covenants

by Celina Summers

buy page--http://www.aspenmountainpress.com/coming-soon/coming-soon/defying-the-covenants/prod_383.html

Coming March 21, 2011 from Aspen Mountain Press

Synopsis

As the Conclave prepares to confront the Russian renegade Grigori Volkonsky, Marguerite von Wittershiem has been shunted aside. Her husband and mentors hope to keep her out of danger by assigning her the unglamorous task of protecting the written lore of their people.

But their plans go awry when a traitor within the Conclave betrays them all to the enemy. As the most powerful vampires in Europe fall to Volkonsky’s minions, Marguerite must find not only the strength to stand alone but the ability to withstand the greatest threat that the hidden world of vampires has ever faced. If she fails, the immortal races and humanity will be destroyed.

In order to ward the Covenants as she has sworn, Marguerite must be prepared to defy them as well.

EXCERPT

* * * *

The Russians have surrounded us at Notre Dame! Calmet and Marcellin fight alone! Help us!

I was so close. I could make out the brass handle on the great door, gleaming with oily allure through the gloom. Something slammed into my body and hurled me into the pedestal of a statue warding the cathedral doors. I rolled to my feet, the sword in one hand and the dagger in the other. My foe laughed and circled me.

More vampires were dropping from the air now, most of them turning immediately to me. Marcellin was fighting against seven or eight immortals, all thralls, who had surrounded him but couldn’t get past the flashing guard of his blade.

“Come, little one,” the Russian nearest me said in atrocious English. “We will not harm you.”

Somehow, the new arrivals had gotten between me and the cathedral doors. There was no way I could speed through them and head for the sanctuary. I’d lead them right to it—and Calmet’s library. Desperately, I looked around for some other option.

I threw the knife at the Russian who’d spoken. He fell, screaming, to the ground with the blade protruding from his eye. I took advantage of his compatriots’ confusion and leapt for the narrow balustrade before the huge rose window.

My feet scrabbled on the edge of the stone railing, but I leaned forward and threw my arms around the Virgin Mary’s legs. The sword fell from my hand, spinning to the earth below. I didn’t wait to see what the Russians did next. As someone shouted below me, I ran across the narrow ledge to the southwest corner of the cathedral. I began to climb up the staggered bricks.

Overhead, the clouds that had been gathering over the death throes of the France I’d loved, rumbled ominously. I turned and barely bit back a scream. One of the gargoyles was right beside me, sneering over the embattled street below. I used the sculpture’s head to help me vault onto the ledge on its other side. By the time I reached the second balustrade between the twin towers of the cathedral, lightning flashed across the sky. It illuminated the false front of the façade and, for just a second, the steeply angled roof beyond it. I squeezed through two of the fluted columns and found myself standing on the peak of Notre Dame’s roof.

I sobbed, unsure which prospect was more terrifying—the Russians or the roof. Before I realized what I was doing, I mentally screamed, Gunther!

Every ounce of my power went into that psychic shout. Somewhere to the south and then, incredibly, to the north, I felt another immortal’s reaction to that desperate call. I didn’t have time to ponder who these vampires might be. Instead, I bit my lip and took my first step out onto the roof.

I couldn’t walk on the apex of the roof itself; decorative swirls and spikes of metal were enough to warn any vampire away. Instead, I progressed one step down from the peak, using the decorative ironwork to keep me balanced. I would never have attempted such a thing if I wasn’t able to turn into a bat if things went wrong. Regardless, I didn’t relish the idea of sliding down that pitched roof and forcing the shape shift before landing on the stones below. A vampire could experience all the pain of—and live through—breaking every bone in their body. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect at all.

While the storm gathered strength overhead, I scurried across the roof, keeping as low as I could and moving as quickly as I dared. Even to my ears, the sounds of battle were fading. I didn’t know if I was being pursued or not; I didn’t dare take the time to look. As I neared the first of the great flying buttresses, I had an idea.

Maybe I could conceal myself under one of those the same way Marcellin and I had hidden under the Pont Notre Dame. The towering spire reared in front of me. I scrabbled the rest of the way across the roof to it and pulled myself over the railing into the bell tower. For a moment, my legs wobbled in relief.

It didn’t matter that I could fly; all I knew was I could fall.

The massive bells hung in their frames as I slipped through the precarious walkway among them. I glanced over the edge of a landing into a stairwell that descended into the cathedral. For a moment I was tempted. Perhaps I could speed down those stairs and make my way to the crypt, obeying Marcellin’s orders and sealing the sanctuary against any who came. But a tickle at the back of my mind alerted me that others were nearing the spire.

I would give Calmet’s secret away if I followed my desire.

I crept around the huge bell in the center, easing my way toward the northern wing of the cathedral. The wood framework of the building would magnify even the slightest noise, betraying my position to any immortal nearby. I had to remain as stealthy as possible. Occasionally, I caught a whiff of some sour smell—an unwashed vampire, perhaps, still reeking of his last meal. The aroma overwhelmed the other, natural odors of this place—the warm spiciness of the wood, the metallic tang of verdigris and a lingering scent of spices from the cathedral below.

I froze. No, that aroma wasn’t the normal scent of the Catholic service. I was smelling myrrh.

Dear God—it’s Emmanuel Lando!

Terror, thick and cloying as the sickly sweetness of the myrrh, rose into my throat. I ducked under a smaller bell, edging around to the aperture that would lead me back to the roof and the buttresses keeping Notre Dame intact. If I was being stalked by Emmanuel Lando and not Volkonsky’s minions, things were worse than I could ever have imagined. Calmet’s blood, the blood of the eldest of night’s children, ran through my veins—his gift of healing.

Lando could not be allowed to drink from me, to add that power to his already considerable strength.

I slipped over the rail and back out onto the roof. I could hear the sounds of battle continuing hear the West Façade, punctuated by screams and clouts of power. It seemed as if there were more vampires involved now—probably Leandro had come at last to Marcellin and Calmet’s aid. I turned back to glance over my shoulder and one of the lead tiles loosened beneath my foot. I couldn’t help it; I screamed.

I slid toward the edge of the roof, grabbing desperately at tiles to slow my fall. I managed to grab hold of a gargoyle just as my feet and legs flew over the edge of the foot. I dangled there for a moment, relieved beyond measure at the sight of the gargoyle’s laughing snarl.

Lightning flashed above the cathedral, illuminating a lone figure at the top of the roof looking down at me. I didn’t have to see his sallow, drawn face or the tattered remnants of his Venetian robes to recognize Emmanuel Lando’s leering face.

I let go of the gargoyle.

The Denouement and Narrative Pace

When you write serial stories like I do, the denouement can be the most difficult thing to accomplish.  The early books in the series have to resolve some facet of the plot while still perpetuating the overall main plot.  The final book has to tie up all the loose ends, including the subplots of the earlier books.  So getting to the resolution requires a lot of organization and planning.

Right now, I'm finishing up Theater of Cruelty.  As you know, I'm not an outliner.  I write by the seat of my pants save for one exception--I always know what the ultimate resolution of the plot is going to be before I ever write a word.  Other than that, I write organically.  Then, after the first draft is completed, I go through and outline the plot.  I usually set it out on long pieces of butcher paper, so I can have a linear chart above my desk that lets me see the plot points, the twists in it and ultimately, the resolution.

The reason I do this is to make sure I've addressed every single plot and subplot.  It's also good for watching the development of character arcs, tracking the changes in a character from beginning to end.  So honestly, I don't write to outline--I outline to writing. 

At any rate, Theater of Cruelty is the final book in a three-book series.  Therefore, I have to make sure that every plot point is resolved not only from that book, but the previous two as well as the theme for the whole series.  Right now, I have three strips of butcher paper over my desk.  They're probably pretty incomprehensible to anyone but me.  They don't look like outlines--they look like flow charts, with arrows going from one sheet to the other to indicate a thru-line. 

Definitely not the heights of elegant office decor.

I have about 25k left in which to wrap everything up.  The ultimate plot resolution--the BIG climax--will take up about 10k: setting up the situation, working through the resolution (and you just know it's a big old battle scene), and then dealing with the aftermath.  Ten thousand words sounds like a lot.  That's what? Forty pages roughly? But when you're wrapping up 1100 pages of plot, it's really not. 

And that's where a lot of writers run into trouble.  Here's the big payoff, the stage they've been setting throughout the whole darn story.  No one wants to rush the great moment. We want to savor it, to set the scene lovingly and in great detail and to describe every single blow and twist and turn of phrase.  And in doing so, we can forget the most important factor of any great denouement--pacing.

When I'm writing, I think of the story like a mountain.  The pace is always rising, always escalating.  And, just like most mountains, there are small plateaus--breaks in the action where the reader and the plot can catch their breaths.  Then, it's back to the precipitous increase of energy and pace.  But if a writer gets all caught up in the importance of the climax of the plot, setting all the details and getting ensnared by the urge for description, the denouement falls flat.  Instead of being the *steepest* part of the plot, the story plateaus and then the reader usually throws the book across the room.  I had a huge problem with that in an early novel of mine.  It took me months to figure out what the problem was.  I mean, I had all of the ingredients so why was the plot resolution...boring?

And then it hit me: the plot resolution was boring because I'd focused on the ingredients and not on the dish.  I'd plateaued my plot.  Instead of increasing the energy and pace, I'd slowed everything down because I was so caught up in getting everything set perfectly.

(Yes, I could name examples of books that do this--in my opinion--and no, I'm not going to.  I'm not going to use another author's work to prove my point.  Better to just use my own.)

If you find yourself in this situation, I've found the only thing that works for me.  I thought I'd share it with you, and this works for pantsers or outliners.  When you go through on your first draft to write the climax for the first time, skip right over the setting of the scene.  All of that is detail and can be added judiciously later.  I write the story to the natural point where the denouement would be set up, then skip straight to the meat of the resolution.  I start at the very beginning of the action and write straight through the resolution without stopping.  This is where my flow charts or your outline comes in handy, and the main reason I use something big to chart it out like butcher paper or posterboard. I can look up and instantly see what I have to resolve.  I get my protagonist and antagonist on the stage and get them going.  I don't give a fig about writing *well*--my first draft denouement is chock full of adverbs and dialogue tags and I'll admit it.  That's because I can go back later and rework all of that cleanly.  The tags and adverbs give me the mood of the scene, and since I'm writing quickly I don't have time for all the frills and furbelows I usually use.

I find, too, that when I write quickly through the resolution, the pace of the narrative increases.  This makes it easier for me to go back after the fact and determine exactly how much description I need.  I don't want to affect the pacing of the story, so my descriptions and internal dialogue tend to be streamlined--much as they would be in any real life situation where everything is on the line.  I mean, think about it: say your significiant other was rushed to the hospital from work.  You get a phone call at your work, telling you he's been taken by ambulance to the emergency room.  Now, what happens next?

You haul ass to the ER.  You don't notice the weather, or what some other person is weaing, or think about all the good times you and your lover have had in the past.  You grab your keys, get in your car, cuss at the old geezer driving 30 mph in the middle of the road, break the speed limit, park half in and half out of a parking space at the emergency room.  You run into the ER and head straight for the desk and the hospital staff sitting there, where you demand to know where he is and what's going on.  Right?  As you're running into the ER, are you thinking about how many people are there?  What the furniture looks like?  What's playing on TV?  No.  Your mind is focused on only one thing--getting to your spouse NOW.  In a crisis situation, your mind eliminates everything other than your goal and what you need to do to attain it.

That's what happens in a good denouement. You focus your narrative, your characters, on what they need to do to resolve their crisis.  Everything else is just fluff.  The first drafts of my plot resolutions are quite literally stripped down to action.  I find that the crudeness and starkness of that narrative suits the escalated pace of the narrative and enhances it.  And then--after a couple of days off to let the scene rest--I go back in.  I check my resolution to make sure every single loose end has been addressed.  Then, I can work in whatever extra details are needed to complete the scene without tampering with the energy.

As I said, this is what works for me when I'm writing a denouement.  Maybe this will work for you, too, but if not you'll be able to find your own path.  The main thing you have to remember is really important--don't let your pace plateau during the climax of your story.  Don't get so caught up in "sounding like a writer" that you indulge yourself with lavish descriptions, flashbacks, and sensory details.  Concentrate instead on creating a fast-paced, high energy escalation of the action so that when, at last, the plot is resolved everyone--especially the reader--has to sit back and take a deep breath.

After all, the last thing you want to have happen is a reader throwing your book against the wall in disgust.  I've done that three times in the past week, and it's hell on book spines.

An Advice Post? From Me? You Bet--How To Make Edits Work For You

You bet your sweet patootey.

Normally, I talk on this blog as a writer.  Today, I'm putting on the editor's hat, so take a deep breath and get ready.

Let's talk about edits, and how to make the process work for you.

The editing process is a collaboration between an editor and author to make a good book into a great book.  This fact is something that professional writers--and editors--inherently understand.  Without that collaboration, the quality of the story is diminished.  But unfortunately, I'm seeing a disturbing trend among writers that look upon editing--or even critiques/beta reads--as insults.

First off, if you can't take criticism you're in the wrong darn business.  How are you going to handle rejection, which is a major part of any writer's life, if you can't take criticism?  Exactly. You won't. As you approach the editing process, you need to stop and check yourself.  Regardless of who accepted your work for publication, I can guarantee you that the story is NOT perfect.  I have yet to see a story that doesn't require editing.  Some require a lot less than others, granted.  But every manuscript that has ever crossed my desk (including my own) needs that critical, unbiased eye.  So, repeat to yourself: there is no such thing as a perfect story.

Again.  There is no such thing as a perfect story.

Once you've convinced yourself of that, you're ready to begin the editing process with the right attitude.

Second, your editor doesn't make corrections just for the hell of it.  Believe it or not, most editors would love to get a manuscript that only needed a couple of typos fixed.  I've edited hundreds of manuscripts in my career, and I have NEVER found a manuscript yet that only needed a couple of little spelling corrections.  NEVER.  When I go through a manuscript, I am looking for anything that doesn't quite work--continuity issues, anachronisms, underdeveloped story arcs, character problems, grammar, punctuation and spelling.  I'm looking for pet constructions, overused words, weak sentence structures.  And why am I looking for all these things? To make the story BETTER.  Sure, I could just go through and fix typos and a few dangling participles, but then I wouldn't be doing my job.  What's the good in releasing a story that's spelled perfectly, but with a character that's talking on a flip cell phone in 1989?

You're right. No good at all.  Between the reviewers who would flay the author alive and the readers who would hurl the book across the room and never buy another of that writer's books, a lazy editing job has far-reaching ramifications that are bad.  Really bad.

Third off, when you're reviewing your editor's first set of edits, take a deep breath before you lose your temper.  Look--countless times when doing edits, I've yelled something uncomplimentary at my computer screen, like, "You idiot!  I already explained that in the last damn chapter!" That's normal.  But usually, when I think about the comment further, I realize that the editor is pointing out a flaw in my story.  Maybe I didn't make the reference clear enough.  Maybe I was too vague.  Maybe (and this is usually the case) I forgot that the reader doesn't know everything in my head.  Regardless of what the problem is, the editor has pointed that out for a reason--and that reason is usually to make me think. 

As an addendum to that, the worst thing you can do for your story or your career is to lose your grip over your edits.  Getting into a sniping battle with your editor is without a doubt right at the top of the list entitled "Bad Career Moves."  Most of the time, the writer is contracted to perform reasonable edits on their stories--and very rarely are the edits not reasonable.  When the editor leaves a comment on your manuscript, don't be stupid enough to leave a snippy comment back.  You're not obligated to take every editing suggestion in regards to content--but you are obligated to be respectful and professional when you disagree. By approaching your edits in a confrontational manner, all you're doing is shooting yourself in the foot. 

Literally.

Doing edits is a stressful time for any authors.  It's hard not to take some comments personally.  You can help by making absolutely certain that your manuscript is as clean as possible when you submit it to your editor--formatted correctly, checked over thouroughly for spelling and grammar--

(Oh! And spellcheck/grammar check on your word program?  Worse than useless.  Go through your manuscript with a grammar book (I like Strunk's) and doublecheck any spelling you're unsure of.  As of late I've seen way too many manuscripts with basic homonym errors--their/there/they're or to/too/two.  Any of those issues should be eliminated before your editor ever sees your manuscript!)

--and analyzed for continuity issues (ie--making sure you resolve all your plot and subplot storylines).  This is just basic professional courtesy and will save you and your editor a lot of time.  And then when you get your manuscript back, remember that every bit of work your editor put into your manuscript, every comment and correction, every suggestion or red-lined strikeout, was done with YOUR welfare in mind.  To make YOUR book better.  To help YOU learn how to improve your writing.  Instead of being resentful, be grateful that your editor cared enough to make such an effort on your behalf.

And then, in the next manuscript, implement what you learned from your last edits into your new story.

Your editor is your best damn friend in the period between the acceptance of your manuscript and the release of your book.  If you keep that in mind, the editing process will not only be positive and productive, but will help you to become a better writer.

I Can't Believe I've Been This Busy...But I Have

I have never taken this long off from blogging since I began way back in the day.  To be honest, I should be ashamed.  And I am.  So, as a Valentine's Day present from me to you, the Elf Killing desk is back open and ready for business.

Because that's what I've been dealing with--lots and lots of business.

To start off with...the big news.  As the result of a pitch I did at the World Fantasy Covention, I am now agented!  Cherry Weiner, of the Cherry Weiner Literary Agency, now represents all my work!  So while she has manuscripts of mine off on submission, I'm working double time to get more of my backlog of manuscripts ready to go out.  This is one of the great things about having a backlog of manuscripts ready to go.  Many of them I could have consigned to e-publication if they didn't attract interest in the querying process.  But, because I held on to those manuscripts, now I have a lot of work to present to my agent and that's a great thing.

So therefore, as a result, my final contracted work with Aspen Mountain Press will be Defying The Covenants, the final book of the Vampire Covenants series.  In another change, although Rob Graham and I co-authored the first two books, this book was written entirely by me.  Defying the Covenants will come out in March, and later this week I'll have publication dates and cover art to share.

And the remainder of my time has been spent with Aurora Regency/Aurora Regency Historicals. Our release schedule has been like clockwork since we launched in October, with a new release every two weeks at the very least. We have a growing stable of wonderful authors, several of whom have multiple releases with us, and the first reviews for our books are starting to roll in.  I must be honest--there's a real feeling of accomplishment now whenever I look at the Aurora site or blog and see all those lovely book covers. We are doing precisely what we set out to do. We are publishing high quality historical fiction--and the blend between traditional Regency romances and historicals is just about perfect--and building up a good reputation quickly.  I've actually hired editors now, who will take over the burden of day to day editing for the most part, which will enable me to concentrate on acquisitions, operations and promotional work.  I'm very excited by what I see going on at Aurora--you should go check it out when you get a chance.

Although this is a little late, I do have a New Year's Resolution to share.  I promise to faithfully blog at least three days a week from here on out.  Now that the craziness is subsiding into a regular schedule, Elf Killing goes back on my list of things to do.  I won't neglect you again--I promise.

So where do we go from here?  Well, Elf Killing is going to be making a shift.  As my priorities change professionally, this blog is going to reflect that.  I'd expect some serious retooling in the next few months and hopefully some changes that will make everyone happy.  We shall see.  But until then, we'll muck along as we always have--a little sarcastically, rather entusiastically and a lot more regularly.  Okay?

Deal.

World Fantasy Convention 2010--Day Two

Gini and I stayed up talking all night last night.  Not too smart, considering the wake up call was set for 8 am. After breakfast, while Gini was busy, I did a lot of people watching and this is what I've got.

Today, I was accosted with the worst pick up line EVER.  While I was smoking outside, this fellow came up to me and said, "I've only ever seen you with a girl.  Are you a lesbian?"

Seriously?  I mean, seriously, dude, does that kind of line ever work?  Somehow I don't think so.  So now, I've got the line of the convention and I'm going to repeat it until people's ears bleed.  Because, you know, it wasn't enough that this moron insulted lesbians everywhere by assuming a pair of straight chicks hanging out at a convention were lesbians simply because they were not with this particular troll-like speciman of humanity.  No clue who said dude was.  All I need to know is this: what a loser.

The smoking area has been renamed 'the pariah portico.' I take total credit for that name, by the way.  One thing I've definitely learned--make a point of hanging out on the smoker's patio at some point during every convention.  You'll run into some fascinating and important people.

I have a feeling that Lewis Carroll's rabbit hole actually runs smack dab through the center of the Columbus Hyatt Regency.  I keep wondering if I've fallen into Wonderland or if I've just accidentally wandered into asshole. It's easy to determine what category these writers fall into.  Those who I would gush over meeting?  They're polite and always happy to talk to another author or a fan.  Those who I've never heard of?  They're the ones sitting around the bar area with their noses in the air, pattering away on their laptops hoping someone will either recognize them or ask what they're writing.  If nothing else, it's a huge lesson in what NOT to do at a convention.

Here's another.  If someone expresses interest in your project, that isn't an invitation to whip out the I-pad and show them all your research.  Trust me.  It makes people cringe.

I've been watching an extraordinary agent at work throughout this convention and I have to say--I've learned more from watching her for a couple of days than I have from all my research over the past few years.  I've been learning the language of the sale.

And yes, Modesitt's vest was even more colorful and elaborate than the day before.  We said hello to him again today, and he was just as polite as before. I think he's starting to recognize us, though.

The mass signing tonight was precisely that: a MASSIVE signing.  The Regency ballroom was very hot and stuffy.  I spent that three hour block holding down real estate in the bar.  (What? I was thirsty, and besides--how was I going to pick which author's books to get signed?  Besides Gini, of course.)  After that, we went to a couple of small press parties.  We hung out for a while with the folks from EDGE--all very nice and lots of fun--and then went on to the Chi-Zine party, where I got to get a good look at the really outstanding books they're putting out as well as pulling out bottles of beer from the tub.  Pretty darn cool.

Today I met both Elizabeth Bear and Anne Bishop.  Very nice, interesting ladies both. Gini ran into a fan in the elevator, which was totally cool, and believe it or not, we managed to drag our exhausted butts off to bed by the reasonable hour of 1:30.

World Fantasy Convention 2010--Official Day One

---Okay, so Gini invited me to stay with her in her hotel room for a couple of nights of the convention.  I thought that would be a great idea--it would let me stay longer and get out into the action earlier (which seemed like a good idea at the time) and work out a whole mess of business.  So yeah. Good idea, right?

Right. It was, as a matter of fact. I'm known for some pretty darn clever ideas, but that Gini Koch.  Genius. Sheer genius.

We saw LE Modesitt again.  I think I must be destined to run into him and his lovely vests.  Interesting thing about Modesitt--he's always very polite but he's always also just a little wild-eyed if you approach him.  I'm thinking some half-insane fan has approached him at some point in his past, the poor man.  Very charming overall, though, and there's always that moment of "Oh my gosh--that's LE Modesitt!"

My fangster pal Beth Bernobich's Passion Play (just debuted from Tor) is visible everywhere.  Interestingly enough, right after I wrote that in my journal, Tom Doherty (as in Mr. Tor) walked by and I nearly fell through the floor.

Today is the first official day of the convention, and while there were lots of people in the hotel last night, tonight is absolutely packed with a whole slew of folks that look like speculative fiction writers, editors and fans.  It's kind of like this:  I've been to romance conventions, and there really isn't any way to look around and say, "Oh yeah--romance people."  But sci fi or fantasy?  You'd better believe it.  Overall, it's a very comfortable place to be, and thank God it's more than acceptable to do jeans and tennis shoes.  Gini is introducing to me to scads of people and I'm ashamed to admit I have no clue who ninety percent of them are.

Maybe I should take some time off from writing and do a little reading in my field?  Nah.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the convention so far has been listening to some old school gossip about some of the greats in the field back in the day.  I spent quite a bit of time with my mouth hanging open, looking like a starving Venus fly trap, while I assimilated information that under no circumstance would I ever be able to write about in this blog.  So forgive me for that "I know something you don't know!" moment.  I just couldn't help it.

But I do know something you don't know.  Just so you know.

The company was so interesting that we completely missed the opening ceremonies, but I'm thinking we didn't need to know that the convention was now officially open.  The madness in the bar made that obvious enough.