It’s an exotic experience to hear words that you agonized over read professionally. I just about came out of my skin, I was jumping up and down and squealing so hard. This is the first time I’ve had the chance to listen to my own work in audiobook format. It’s so strange. But ZOMG, wow. I was blown away.

Little things like this totally make my day.

I have to zip, because I’m in a ticklish spot with the current book and I want to get a good handle on a showdown scene before everyone comes home for the day. But I just had to pop in and tell you that. Plus, stay tuned for an upcoming contest! I have a Reader Request for the mark Japhrimel put on Dante’s shoulder; I know what it looks like but I think I need an artist to draw it for me. I think this particular Reader is planning to do something with whatever I come up with, so that’s a consideration.

If you’re not an artist, don’t worry. There will be a contest for you to win something too!

Anyway, off I go. I am grinning foolishly and not at all calm right now.

Some days I love being me.

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This Friday’s writing post is a bit late because, well, life happens. As it is, I was taking a cake to a sixth-grade classroom this morning (long story, don’t ask) and I ended up giving an impromptu Q&A about the life of a working writer for about an hour and a half.

Oh, my God, you guys. Sixth-graders are brutal. I think the second question was, “What do you make a year?” The kid asking it was genuinely curious. The teacher looked horrified, someone else said, “You don’t ask that!” and I grinned and took it as an opportunity to explain just how much of the cover price an author actually gets from each book, how an advance works, and how many books have to sell before a profit is made.

The kids were fascinated. Their faces squinched up as they did the math, and I could see comprehension spreading through them. They were overjoyed to have a Real Live Writer in front of them, and asked about everything

I got a lot of questions about writers I knew–”Do you know X? What about Y?” And there was one young man who bonded with me over The Breakfast Club, of all things.

I love talking to kids, especially about writing and the writing life. They have great questions, they’re not afraid to ask a single one, they’re smart, and once they relax they’re hilarious. I loved watching them put the math together about how many books would have to sell to earn out a $60K advance. Oh, and we talked about genre, what it is and what it isn’t. I was able to tell about the bad and the good parts of being a writer. And no, I didn’t cuss once.

I also got to tell them why it was OK to not finish every story, and why I never have a problem finding stories. That the world was full of stories, and that a book I write about werewolves is not going to be the book they write about werewolves, because we’re different people. That people are unique, and the odds of us all being alive together in the same room are so astronomical that everyone in there has to have a story. To never doubt that they have a story to tell, something unique and marvelous inside them that deserves to be told. That telling a story is an act of faith, a line thrown into darkness–and reading a story is catching that line, from inside your own dark hole.

It was a great morning.

Then there was a trip to Ikea to get bedroom furniture for a certain Princess. Afterward, at lunch with the Selkie, there was sharing of plot points and much trash-talking and nuts-and-bolts talk.

It’s absurdly awesome to spend almost the whole day talking and thinking about writing. The sixth-graders were so awesome, and there’s nothing quite like getting a platter of Indian food and hashing over plot, continuity, human foibles, grist for the story mill, and war stories with your writing partner. I haven’t spent a more enjoyable day in a long while.

Writing is a very solitary, self-driven art. At a certain point, there’s just you and the words. You can’t get away from long hours spent with just the words and the people in your head to keep you company. The social part of a writing career–not making a fool of yourself with editors, agents, marketing people, and just generally acting professionally at conventions and otherwise–takes up a lot of time too, and sometimes it’s work instead of pleasantry.

And then a day like today comes along, where I get the chance to talk about something I love, something I am so passionate about. That class full of kids, so full of wonder and courage, reminded me of the other part of why I do this job. And trash-talking with my writing partner is another way for me to talk about the down and dirty of something I love with someone who understands, someone who gets it and speaks my language.

Now I’ve got some wordcount to get in. I get to go back to the solitary part of my job renewed and energized. And feeling pretty damn good about this whole gig. It’s great to share my passion–and it’s also great to be able to go home and find that passion still waiting for me. A most enchanting lover built of words and scenes and raw beautiful emotion, always here and always just a few moments of concentration and effort away.

Come in, the stories say. Come in and settle down.

We’ve been waiting for you.

It’s nice to feel wanted.

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2. Doing NaNo This Year
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Ahem.

Today is the day I take myself on a Valentine date. *primps hair* I’ll report back on the Wolfman tomorrow.

Oh, also, yesterday I goofed. Fellow Razorbill author Suzanne Young is signing tonight out at Cedar Hills Crossing. The Princess loved her book, The Naughty List, and Suzanne is a ton of fun. If you can, go out and show some love! I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out there, but I’ll be there in spirit cheering her on.

Before I take myself on a date, however, I have to make a stab at a short story. 5K, five scenes 1K apiece. This is going to have to be careful, delicate surgery, my dears, requiring gallons of caffeine and lots of staring into the distance, turning the story over inside my head before I draw and make my cut.

Wish me luck.

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And Philip? Next time I’m sticking to vodka. That green stuff is dangerous.

Well, I’ve revisions to stick my nose back into and fresh wordcount to pick up on several items today, including a short story that I’m really excited about but can’t announce yet. So I’ll bid you a fond farewell. Happy Wednesday! Tomorrow is Reader Question Day, I’ve got a few from the mailbag just dying to come out and play.

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2. oh monday…
3. Contest Winners!

* It’s the one-year anniversary of the Deadline Dames. Come over for giveaways, prizes, exclusive spoilers, and more!

* Plus, Philip Palmer (the coolest Welshman since Daffyd op Owen) has started a new feature: the SFF Song of the Week. Check out this week’s offering.

As for me, I’m still working away on Dru 4. Tentative title: The Blooming. The book’s taken a weird left turn, which is both terrifying and a Good Sign. Plus, today’s laundry day. The fun just never stops here at Casa Saintcrow.

Catch you later…

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I’ve been writing about writing pretty much every day this week, and I’m fighting off a cold, so I’m staring at the Friday blog post and wondering what the hell to say. The week has somewhat sneaked-up on me, batting its eyelashes and promising me that I’d be able to get everything done.

Then it turned around and ran away laughing. That should have been my first clue.

Anyway. I am low on patience and advice this morning, mostly because of the cold but also because my personal life has settled down somewhat and I’m back up to normal productivity. Which means I’m wandering around all day with a head full of story, just itching to get it down. Everything that isn’t writing is suddenly like a brassiere that doesn’t fit right–an annoyance at best, a painful annoyance at worst. I am either typing madly, or rushing through what I need to get through in order to make the house function so I can get back to typing…or I am doing what I call “doing story”. Which looks a lot like staring into space with bright eyes and an abstract expression.

When I sit and stare out the window, I am not just staring. Far from. I am putting together pieces inside my head, engaged in a focused type of creative dream that could be mistaken for no work at all.

Someone once told me that the most productive hours a child’s brain spends is when it’s daydreaming. That daydreaming was essential and necessary, and to just let kids do it. It’s not like I needed the advice–I think I was, what, sixteen? But I always remembered it, for some reason, and nowadays I think it’s true. Not just for children but for creatives as well.

There are quite a few “altered states” that give me grist for the writing mill. One is a sort of half-dream I fall into while exercising. Sometimes I’ll even try dialogue out loud while I do this–I think best while I’m moving, and I tend to try spoken lines aloud a couple times to make sure I’ve got the rhythm and tone right. Another is the “checkout”, where during a conversation a chance comment or expression will trigger a breakthrough in a story, and I’ll zone out, sometimes midsentence, while all my brainpower shifts over to testing and filing that breakthrough.

People who know me are used to this, and they usually just wait until I come back a few seconds later, then prompt me to finish my sentence. God bless ‘em. It can’t be easy talking to me on days like that. I AM paying attention, I just get hijacked every once in a while.

There’s also a sort of right-brain state that happens while driving, where a lot of plot tangles get sorted out and a-ha! moments happen. Driving is great for the creative muscles.

But by far the most intense state is when I’ve reached the end of a scene I can clearly see, and am faced with the fogbank of What Comes Next. This is when I look out the window, frowning a little, and the wheels inside my head turn. I can’t tell you what I’m thinking at times like this; it’s a nonverbal state of focused wonder. I am not quite seeing what I’m looking at, but I’m not quite blind either. The world is full of magic, and the magic coalesces–sometimes with a snap, sometimes gradually. But it always comes clear, and then I know What Happens Next. Of course, I think. It makes perfect sense. Oh, that’s why!

I sometimes think that state–the focused wonder–is the drug that keeps me coming back to writing. Because it feels so goddamn good. Sometimes, the fierce relaxation of being really in the groove and going along, each sentence unreeling to thread me through the labyrinth, takes on that aspect of working wonder and it’s those times, my friends, where I feel like I’m flying over the page.

I suppose a neurologist could tell me what was going on inside my brain at those times, at least chemically and electrically. That would lessen the magic not a whit. Reliably getting into that state, figuring out how to trigger it and how to keep it going, is something every writer has to find for him- or herself. This is part of why the habit of writing is so important, why I harp on doing it consistently. Training yourself to use that creative frame of mind is just like training yourself for anything else, it takes effort. Catching that brainwave and riding it gets a lot easier with consistent practice.

What, you thought I’d tell you there was an easy way? Ha. You don’t know me vewwy well, wabbit, if you thought that.

Anyway. The impatience is mounting, I have this scene to get back to, and I know exactly what happens next. Catch you later, gator.

And keep writing.

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Today I underwent pain for something I love.

I’m not quite a tattoo junkie, but I do crave ink sometimes. The endorphin rushes–I think your body runs out of pain transmitters and starts firing feel-good across the gaps to compensate–are a reward during the process, but it’s really afterward when the work is done and a full-body flush and tingle hits that I understand why I crave it. I’ve been working off and on at getting my back tattooed the way I want it, and I underwent an hour and a half today. A major step forward.

I started out when I was barely legal, with two crows on the back of my shoulders. (They are related to Huginn and Muginn, of course.) At the base of my spine is a serpentine dragon twisted into an 8 for infinity–you could call it Kundalini if you wanted. The big piece across my midback is a half-skeleton crow with two Eyes of Horus in its wings. The last piece I don’t talk about, but it will go at the top, and there will be tribal work to tie it all together into a unified whole. After that I’m done with ink, I’ll have done everything I needed to with it.

The tattoo artist was fascinated with the idea of writing for a living. It went a little something like this.

“How do you get started doing that? I mean, where do you even begin?”

I explained how I’d got there, and also a little of my philosophy–how failing wasn’t an option, how I just kept going, and how I was happy, every day, to be doing what I love.

“Yeah,” she said, pausing with the needle for a moment. “I sometimes think I should do something else, you know. Because when you do something you love all the time, maybe you can get burned out on it. That would be awful.”

I considered this, wincing internally as she started shading in a particularly sensitive spot. “I guess so. But even–ouch–with all the copyedits and deadlines and proof pages and reviews, I never get tired of it. I get excited every day. Plus I’m saving on ulcer medication, because I like my job.”

“Oh, I hear you.” The buzz of the needle underscored her words. “That’s a good way to look at it. But so many people seem to like being miserable. It’s like they pursue it. It’s so hard not to get sucked into that. It’s a bad place to be, you know. You just catch yourself actively making yourself miserable.”

I laughed, taking care to hold still and sucking in my breath afterward as she went back to that spot. It hurt like hell.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, that just hurts like a bitch.”

“Well, yeah. I’m going to be working around it, so it’ll feel like I’m doing it right there. Promise I’m not.”

“Go for it.” And then I settled down to endure.

Driving home afterward, my back tender and the to-do list for the day beating inside my head, I thought a little bit about it. Yes, this career has its down side. No insurance, no salary, you’re basically freelancing. And you’re judged every moment, whether it’s in the slush pile, in revision, or out on the shelves. Very little security. And everything depends on keeping the creative muscles limber, on self-discipline, on just plain guts.

And I would not trade this for anything.

I’d get a day job if I had to. I’d work nine to five, be a single mum, and write at night. I’ve done it before, it’s exhausting. But giving up the writing is not an option. It demands to be done, and I will do it until they pry the keyboard out of my chill slack dead fingers. I love it that much. It’s what I was meant and made for.

So. If this is what you were made for too, dear fellow writer, then do it. Keep at it, don’t ever give it up. Do this thing that you love and let it make you happy. I realize both the tattoo artist and I are on the fringes, making a living in the “artistic” field. But she’s been in business for over ten years, I’ve got a few books out, and both of those things require discipline. Your dreams do not just fall into your lap. You have to actively reach up and grab.

While you’re grabbing, though, don’t let go of the joy. Doing the thing I believe I was meant and made for provides me with a satisfaction that is hard to put into words because it is so deep and abiding. It’s how I imagine a cheetah must feel when it runs something down. Or how a racecar must feel when it takes a fast curve; or a plane as it lifts from the ground. An elegant, perfect satisfaction that I call joy because there is simply no other word for it.

This is partly why I make time for writing. Because it just feels so damn good.

How about you?

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My editor called me not half an hour ago with the news that Betrayals, the second in the Strange Angels series, is #5 on the New York Times Children’s Paperback Bestseller list for Dec. 6th. I think I screamed in her ear for five minutes straight.

I am now sitting here alternately stunned, screaming with joy, or weeping with joy. I’ve called my writing partner, Coyote Boy, my agent, my sisters, my friends. Everyone agrees I need champagne. The kids are pleasantly happy for me, though they have no idea what the heck is happening. They just know Mum’s really excited.

I have only two words: thank you.

Thank you to Linda K. for believing in me. Thank you to Miriam, my wonderful agent, for believing in me. Thank you to Devi P. and Jessica R., editors who believed in me too. Thank you to my friends, thank you to my sisters, and thank you to my children for being wonderful. Thank you to Coyote Boy for holding the line.

Last, but most important: a great big THANK YOU to you, dear Reader. Thank you for reading my stories. Thank you for showing your appreciation. Thank you for being there. Without you, I’m just shouting in the wind.

Thank you all, each and every one of you, so, so much.

I’ve got to go cry (with joy) a little more. I keep repeating “Oh my God” and “thank you” and “Happy Thanksgiving” like a broken record.

Once more, then, because it really bears saying, and I really mean it:

Thank you. I am so happy right now. Thank you all.

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And, yesterday, guess what happened? I was just hanging out on my front step, minding my own business, when FedEx dropped off a box. Guess what was in it. NO, GUESS! Okay, I’ll tell you.

Copies of Betrayals, that’s what!

Isn’t the new cover gorgeous? I really like this one. It’s due out November 17th, and I’m so glad to get a few of them early.

Of course, the Princess screamed in anticipation and grabbed one, and last night retired to bed with it. “I can’t wait to find out what happens to Dru!” she told me at least five times during dinner.

It’s nice to please even one reader.

So, I’ll be running giveaways, I guess. Stay tuned–I’ll probably give one away this Friday on my regular writing post. And of course readers of my newsletter, The Dark Side, get special giveaways just for them. I’m just sayin’.

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This weekend I also updated my events page and made my events calendar public. (Not that there’s ever much on there, I’m a homebody.) I also got a Blackberry, because Richelle Mead’s smartphone saved our lives several times while traveling. Not only that, but the publisher loved her tweets while we did events.

I want my publisher to love me, too. Plus I needed a PDA without adding another electronic device (to go wrong or get dropped or fail on me) and my friend Monk has had a Crackberry for three years now. I was in love with his little device before I went and got my own.

So, I’m just popping in to say hi before popping back out and starting the huge mess of revisions. In the meantime, you can check out this piece, with Neil Gaiman as a literary Chuck Norris. And this one, about how luck is a myth if you want to have a writing career. Oh, and Al Franken shows us how Congresscritters and Senate critters should behave. Not to mention a Threadless T-shirt contest, kind of. (Yeah, I’m shameless. So what?)

And with that, I’m turning my router off and diving into the fray. Get my chainsaws, piano, and kitchen ready…

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