Lilith Saintcrow

Well, here it is. The trade paperback of smoke is now live.

I have not yet proofed the hardback edition, so I don’t recommend anyone buy it just yet. You can also get an ebook version here. Please, please don’t buy the hardcover until I’ve proofed it! I’m sure it’s okay, but I want to look at it before anyone spends any money.

A word about the prices: unfortunately, I have no control over them. The publisher sets them and the distributor has strict rules in order to get the books into brick-and-mortal and Amazon. (That sound you heard? That was my heart rabbiting into my throat.)

I repeat once more, these really aren’t very good books. I offer them only if you’re curious about my evolution as a writer, and if you want to see my take on vampires.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go have a nervous breakdown. It’s long overdue.

No, I’m kidding. No breakdowns. Just nervousness.
Enjoy.

My weekly post at The Midnight Hour is all about Themes. You know, those Little Big Things that crop up in your work over and over again that keep the critics busy. *grin*

And just because I’ve been on a Muppets kick recently, here’s one of my favorite Sesame Street songs.

Poor Bert. He is the patron saint of geeks and nerds everywhere.

Here’s my favorite song ever, bar none.

Last but not least, the best advice ever for young artists. Especially the “don’t worry if it’s not good enough…”

Yeah. Like that. “Happy” doesn’t mean “saccharine” and “sad” doesn’t mean “makes you cry.” Rather, I’d say “happy” means “true” and “sad” means “false to yourself.”

But that’s just me. I’m finding deep meanings in simple things today. Which is part of a writer’s job, I suppose.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

After a run of nights when I can’t sleep until 4AM and get up around 8, last night hit with the old insomnia. Finally stumbled to bed about 7. Jeez.

This no sleeping thing sucks.

On the good side, I finished the revisions on mirror. Now comes proofing etc. The proof copy of smoke should arrive soon. *shifts nervously*

Oh, and I folded a bunch of laundry. But almost passing out on a pile of clean clothes in the middle of a lecture on Crassus and Pompey gives one Extremely Odd Dreams, not even usable for plot bunnies.

Okay. If I have the energy I’m going to dye my hair.

On second thought, that’s probably not such a good idea when I’m this tired. Disaster could result.

I’ve been playing this song over and over again. Try to ignore the creepy cartoon, kay? The song kicks major bootay.

mmmmh nice.

Pack some Midol and get out the fire hoses. Yes, dear Readers, prepare thyself for a rant.

While doing my daily poking around over at Smart Bitches I found a bit about Christopher Hitchens’s January Vanity Fair article, thoughtfully titled “Why Women Aren’t Funny.”

I’ll just take a little nugget to give thee a taste, dear Reader.

For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle….

Men are overawed, not to say terrified, by the ability of women to produce babies. (Asked by a lady intellectual to summarize the differences between the sexes, another bishop responded, “Madam, I cannot conceive.”) It gives women an unchallengeable authority. And one of the earliest origins of humor that we know about is its role in the mockery of authority. Irony itself has been called “the glory of slaves.” So you could argue that when men get together to be funny and do not expect women to be there, or in on the joke, they are really playing truant and implicitly conceding who is really the boss….

If I am correct about this, which I am, then the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates….

Childbearing and rearing are the double root of all this…. As every father knows, the placenta is made up of brain cells, which migrate southward during pregnancy and take the sense of humor along with them…. (Vanity Fair)

Oh, you can already sense my blood pressure rising. (You can check out Ann Althouse, Melinda, and JenIsFamous for other responses to Hitchens. The discussion thread over at Jen’s is fantastic.)

Mine is below the fold.

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