Thanks to everyone who came by the Bitten By Books event yesterday! It was incredible fun. Also, over at the official Strange Angels website, there’s a chance to win all three books in the series! There’s all sorts of speculation going on over at the fan forum–guys, go easy on the spoilers, OK? Thanks.

And now I have another announcement to make. Longtime readers may recall that I volunteer for a local indie bookstore. Cover to Cover Books has graciously agreed to support Strange Angels (and me!) by offering signed/personalized copies as soon as Jealousy releases! That’s right. Contact Cover to Cover, they’ll tell you how much for the book and shipping (shipping’s pretty reasonable, considering, and they can send it almost anywhere), and once you’ve paid I’ll sign/personalize your very own copy of Jealousy! (Hint: they do carry plenty of my other books, too, and I can sign those as well.) You get to support an indie bookstore AND get signed copies! How cool is that?

And now I am going to take my release jitters and try to put them in the traces so they can pull a new story along. All that nervous energy has to be good for something, right? Right?

You’d think doing this over 20 times would make it easier. *snort*

Over and out.

Related posts:

1. Hunter’s Prayer
2. Release Week Madness
3. Zero Draft, Jealousy Giveaway, And Snapback

Anyway, I’m over at Bitten By Books today; there’s an interview with me and a contest for an Amazon gift card; plus I’m answering questions all day! You read that right–I will be dropping in over there all day and tomorrow morning to answer questions in the comments. Plus, in the interview, I get to talk about the first story I ever really wrote and jobs I’ve held. It promises to be a lot of fun, so hike on over and take a look if you’d like.

It’s been ninety-plus degrees here for the past few days, and the sky is that peculiar deep hot starving blue it gets in summer. I am thanking the gods for air conditioning, struggling to stay hydrated, juggling two new books, and about to start revision on a third–and, of course, gearing up for release week madness.

*stares longingly at bottle of whiskey*

*goes back to work*

See you ’round.

Related posts:

1. More Release Madness!
2. Got Zombies, Be Back In A Bit…
3. It’s Too Damn Hot

* We’re coming up on the release of the third Strange Angels book, Jealousy, next week. I’ve heard from a few people who have already scored copies; my fingers are crossed. I hope you guys like this one. My pre-release jitters are in full swing.

* I’ve been calming those jitters by climbing somewhat obsessively. I am now getting consistently to the top of 5.9s without getting so hashed I can’t cling at the end of the ascent. Climbing is a blessed relief for me, because once I’m on the wall I’m not thinking about anything other than the rest of the route. My busy brain stops eating itself, and that’s damn near priceless.

* But the BIG NEWS is something I can finally announce after sitting on it for literally MONTHS. I am really, really excited.

Longtime readers may remember a little story I called (very tongue in cheek) Weasel Boy. The title morphed to Carcajou, but I was overruled. I’m pleased and proud to report that Weasel Boy will now see the light of day as Taken, a Harlequin Nocturne coming out in February ’11. More details and links as soon as I get them, but I am so happy to be able to announce this. You just don’t know. This is one of my very favorite stories, and it’s a pretty gentle one (for me). I loved having the chance to play with the kind of were-animals I always wanted to read about!

That’s the news. Now the links!

* Writers talk about toiling on content farms. Eye-opening, and the bit about how you shouldn’t trust EHow.com is…well. Thought-provoking. To say the least.

* Io9′s Words to live by: Advice from 34 sci-fi and fantasy authors. Some great stuff in here, including a few that made me giggle like a little girl.

* The most interesting thing today I’ve seen is Tobias Buckell’s post on mid-career advice for writers.

The audience changes. For one, the aspiring authors, whether they realize it or mean to do it, start pushing back. If you start thinking out loud about problems they wish they had, there gets to be a certain tension. I full on encountered this when I had just finished my first novel. At a con a dear friend (and to this day still a dear friend and someone I respect a great deal) had asked what the toughest part writing this novel was. I’d responded that I’d just become noticed enough that halfway through I got asked to write two short stories, and paused the book to do so. My friend responded, ‘wow, I wish I had that kind of problem.’ At the time it was a punch to the gut, because I really wanted to struggle through talking about the difficulty of saying ‘no’ to opportunities I’d never had before, but then how it had killed momentum on the book and how hard it was to juggle what needed to be done, versus new chances. It’s a problem I still haven’t fully figured out. But it was clear that my privilege in having this tough choice mean I couldn’t clearly talk this out easily as I had when talking about beginner issues. (Tobias Buckell)

I’m struggling a little with this too, mostly when it comes to the Friday writing posts. Sometimes i feel like I’ve said everything helpful or useful that I can about writing, and that nobody wants to hear me go on and on like a cranky old lady about the same old things. I always seem to find something to say, but I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing, you dig?

The advice one can give and the problems one is working on are different at each stage, and I’m not sure just how much people are interested in hearing about deadline woes or the nuts and bolts of publishing. Some people seem fascinated, others just shrug and say “whatevah.” Plus, I come to writing as a working writer, someone whose bills don’t get paid if she doesn’t produce. My advice may not work for any number of people who come to writing as a hobby, or a Pristine Arte, or what-have-you. In gearing myself so specifically, I sometimes wonder if I’m running the risk of only speaking to a fraction of the people who wonder about what it’s like to write every. damn. day.

Speaking of which, I’ve got wordcount to grind out. More coffee, she cries. Into the breach! Make those characters sorry they were ever hatched!

And, um, let’s hope I can find a subject for tomorrow’s Friday writing post…:P

Related posts:

1. Link Salad, And Some Advice
2. There is too much. Let me sum up.
3. Some Short Advice

It’s a gray morning, and there’s a lot of work ahead of me. Which is the way I like it, and the way I like it. I like summer just fine, but the 90-100+ weather we had last year really put a dent in me. A nice cloudy morning and a sunny afternoon is just about perfect, and my garden agrees.

So, today there’s an essay to put the finishing touches on, one book to do a final revision pass on, another book to start the revision letter of a first draft on, and all-new wordcount on yet another book to grind out…you know, when I list it like that, it sounds almost doable.

Not long ago, at the Night of Powell’s Pwnage, someone asked how working writers prioritize the different tasks. I believe it was Devon Monk who first laughed and said, “Pure panic.” Which we all agreed with. There’s a certain component of triage any time you have more than one iron in the fire.

Anyway, off I go to get started. My stomach feels a little bruised and tender, and I’m pretty tired from one of the more, shall we say, exciting nights I’ve had in a while (the verdict is a mild stomach flu, not food poisoning, thank goodness) and I can’t seem to take in enough caffeine for my eyelids to prop themselves consistently wide enough. It’s a day for making a list and getting everything done in very small chunks.

Wish me luck.

Related posts:

1. How is this possible?
2. Slow And Steady
3. It’s 4AM. Do You Know Where Your Characters Are?

* Slushpile.net on Outdated, Stodgy Ivory-Tower Attitudes That Cripple Writers:

But, if you’re a writer who wants to be taken seriously by your peers? Then you’d better not do a damn thing other than put words on paper. And you certainly better not expect to earn any income from it. And in some ways, we hinder our own profession with that antiquated notion.

Yes, you have the choice to maintain complete focus on your writing if that is what you choose to do with your career. Take the Cormac McCarthy or JD Salinger route. Be “pure” and “unsullied.” That is a perfectly reasonable and respectable decision.

But don’t criticize another writer for diversification. (Slushpile.net)

I wrote my Hack Manifesto partly in response to this. I also wrote the Speshul Snowflake Bedtime Story partly in response to this dynamic. We have this ongoing assumption that writers don’t deserve to get paid for what they do, maybe because every fricking celebrity or chef can “write a book.” There is very little understanding of the hard cold fact that bringing an actual book (as opposed to a celebrity PR exercise) from original idea/inception to finished product is WORK. Lots of work, plenty of it thankless and drudging.

I’ve grown to hate it when people say, after finding out I write for a living, “Oh, that’s neat. I’ve always wanted to write a book. When I have time someday.” The assumption is that all they have to do is sit down and vomit up a few thousand unconnected letters, sentences, and paragraphs, and fame and fortune will inevitably result. I know they mean well, and I know they have no bloody idea. But I often want to reply, “What do you do? Oh, you’re a dentist? I’ve always wanted to come to a dentist’s office one day when I have time and mess around with the drills. How hard can it be?” I almost always restrain myself, and content myself with quietly pointing out that it’s hard work and I’ve been doing it for years, and only recently (by the grace of Steve, no doubt) have reached a place where it provides a decent, if not terribly steady, income.

The Slushpile’s point is slightly different, of course; I’ve yet to attend a group of writers where the implicit assumption that if you make money you’re not very good or dedicated or truly deserving to be called an artist doesn’t rear its ugly head at least once in some way. This assumption, that artists don’t deserve and shouldn’t sully themselves with cold hard cash, is endemic in our society. Personally, I blame the Puritans and their “anything that is a luxury is SINFUL, and writing is a LUXURY so it is SINFUL FRIPPERY” attitude.

Perhaps it’s just knowing what side my bread is buttered on, but I agree with Mario Vargas Llosa that writing, literature, etc., is not a luxury:

They earn my pity not only because they are unaware of the pleasure that they are missing, but also because I am convinced that a society without literature, or a society in which literature has been relegated–like some hidden vice–to the margins of social and personal life, and transformed into something like a sectarian cult, is a society condemned to become spiritually barbaric, and even to jeopardize its freedom. I wish to offer a few arguments against the idea of literature as a luxury pastime, and in favor of viewing it as one of the most primary and necessary undertakings of the mind, an irreplaceable activity for the formation of citizens in a modern and democratic society, a society of free individuals. (Mario Vargas Llosa)

I’m not saying I’m George Orwell or anything. But a vibrant literature holds a place for me to make a living, and my refusal to give anything less than my best to any project I sign a contract for is my implicit and explicit agreement with my Readers. From that agreement we both draw strength and sustenance. It’s bloody hard work that I do with a song in my heart because I believe it’s important.

* Stacia Kane approaches this from a slightly different direction in a wonderful essay:

But I do think there’s a weird kind of pressure on genre fiction writers to not let on that they see themselves or think of themselves as artists. There’s a definite pressure to act like their art means nothing to them, like it’s an entity completely separate from them.

Think of it this way. If a painter has a gallery show, and a critic ravages his work, does anyone frown and kick up a fuss if the artist gets upset about it? Does anyone remind him that reviews don’t exist to make him feel better, but to inform art lovers whether or not his work is worth their time? Not as far as I know. People expect the artist to be upset about terrible reviews. They expect him to be temperamental; hell, we all know what the phrase “artistic temperament” means, don’t we?

Now, I am NOT, absolutely NOT, implying in any way that reviewers don’t have the right to say whatever they want about books, or that reviews aren’t for readers and not writers–they absolutely are–or that writers should be allowed to freak out all over the internet and threaten people or name crack whore characters after people who gave them bad reviews or whatever. No, no, no, I’m not saying that at all, not one bit; you all know how I feel about that. This post isn’t about reviewers or reviews, except insomuch as they can be another example of what I feel is the expectation that genre fiction writers not consider themselves artists, not think or talk about themselves as artists, and not act as though their art is important to them. Like caring about your work has become synonymous somehow with freak-out rants and threats, instead of just…caring about your work. I’m not implying in any way that this sort of pressure comes solely from reviewers or readers, either; it comes from other writers just as much if not more. (Stacia Kane)

The implicit assumption that genre is filthy, “disposable”, and that only the idiotic hoi polloi read it as escapism is just as damaging as the assumption that artists don’t deserve to get paid. And you can tell just where I like to suggest people stick both those assumptions.

Later in the essay, Kane asks “We’re all so worried about being professional, about being easy to work with and seeing our work as a commodity and ourselves as commodities and all of that…have we become so focused on publishing as a business that we’ve forgotten about the magic of it?”

Which I think hits the nail squarely on the head. There is magic. The writer’s job is to show up consistently to help that magic birth itself, in a variety of ways. The reader plonks down hard cold cash because they like, want, and need the magic. Both invest time (in the form of money or effort) in the magic, and both get a reward from it. The difference is the writer’s reward is often implicitly denigrated, or it’s even suggested that the writer deserves no reward at all because they should be Just Doin’ It For The Arte And The Luv.

I don’t like this. For obvious reasons, I think it’s unfair. I’m not going to lose a lot of sleep or cry into my coffee over it, but neither do I have to put up with any shit over it. It’s about the best one can do in this situation.

* Which is why I love Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way and think it’s so valuable. Cameron unpacks this dynamic and the various ways the stereotype of the self-destructive artist and the idea that art is a useless frippery are both used, by artists and against them. And if you want a productive long-term career in the arts you could do a lot worse than the exercises she suggests for catching that dynamic and kicking it in the balls before it messes up your head, your workspace, or your life.

That’s pretty much all I have today. Now I’ve got to turn my attention to Perry and Jill and some very interesting implications of gifts and imputed obligation. Plus there’s the structure of the Essay of DOOOOOM to rip apart and put back together, and a couple edit letters to plug into and start thinking about. Never rains but it pours.

All else aside, I’m very happy about that.

Over and out.

Related posts:

1. The Myth Of The Destructive Artist
2. Selling Out? Says Who?
3. On Money, Or, Pay The Writer

…you know what? I’m going to set the timer for twenty minutes and take a nap. Because thinking of everything I have to do is just making me run barking in circles. And that’s not good for anyone.

Regular blogging will return tomorrow. Peace out.

Related posts:

1. Time To Get Laid Back
2. Good afternoon. And BREAD!
3. The Five-Minute Trick

So, first of all, I’m announcing the winners of the two signed copies of Jealousy! With the help of Random.org, I picked two commenters. The books go to:

#33, KLD, who said: So, so, so, so, so excited for Jealousy to come out! Huzzah!

And #67, A. Rick, who said: I am so excited for Jealousy!!!

Me too, guys! Me too. Now, listen carefully: use this link to drop me an email with your snail-mail addresses and I will get the books posted for you. You must, as I said, be in the US.

I’m chasing my own tail trying to get this thing finished and turned in on short notice, so that’s it for today. Go forth and be awesome, dear Readers. Today is your day.

Over and out.

ETA: This just landed in my inbox–a chance to win the upcoming Dark And Stormy Knights anthology! Come on, you know you want it…

Related posts:

1. Contest Winners!
2. Writer Swallowed By Furniture, Film At Eleven
3. How Often Do I Get This Excited?

It’s been a rough year. To say the least. Major Life Changes, some I talk about here and some I don’t, have come thick and fast. Eight months ago I wasn’t sure I’d make it. Three months ago I saw light at the end of the tunnel. A month ago I decided I was, in fact, okay and going to stay that way.

I’ve been writing all the while.

On Wednesday I finished the zero draft of the fifth Strange Angels book. I never leave the keyboard after I finish something, whether it be a chapter or a whole piece, so I opened up the next Jill Kismet book and tinkered on it a bit. Then I dragged my weary self to bed, nerves jumping and the flywheel that was powering the story still sparking and fizzing inside my head. Finishing a book is like that, for me–there’s a nervous sense of all that energy and focus bleeding away but not nearly fast enough to let me rest, everything in me raw and quivering. It’s kind of like the adrenaline aftermath of a crisis, before your body gets the memo that everything’s over and it can collapse.

I lay in bed, and I realized with a start that I’d actually finished three books since my life began to implode last May. I was afraid during each one that I wouldn’t be able to get to the end, that the crises would rob me of needed energy to finish or that without the fuel of adrenaline and pain I wouldn’t be able to write something good. This is a perfect example of the irrationality of severe stress, because I was afraid of contradictory things at the same time. Telling myself it was irrational did not help, because then I felt crazy. The only thing that helped was the habit of looking at what needed to be finished first, putting my head down, and plowing through. Breakdowns, crying jags, and dealing with the minutiae and paperwork of a life undergoing massive changes was all very well, but I had wordcount to achieve.

I was so afraid I wouldn’t make my deadlines. There’s no shame in admitting I was terrified. Would I lose my edge or my empathy for my characters if I wasn’t miserable? Would I have to find another job because the writing would suddenly fail? Would my editors look askance at the manuscripts I turned in and gently tell me, “This is unpublishable…just go away”?

I was afraid of all that, and more.

Yet I finished three books. My editors liked the first two as much as they’ve liked anything else, revisions were just the same as they always were. The third has to rest before I can make any judgment, but I suspect it will be no worse than any other messy, terrible, hole-filled zero draft.

Time and again I keep coming back to the simple fact that writing is what I was meant and made to do. I can’t imagine living without it. And writing keeps saving me long after it feels like the rest of the world’s given up. All I have to do is show up, and the Muse is there. As long as I suit up and start swinging, she keeps feeding me the balls. My end of the bargain is simply to make writing a daily priority, and writing takes care of the rest. It is my life-raft, my safety line, my rope, my net, the way I make sense of the world and the way the world makes sense of me.

At the rock wall on Thursday, one young man could barely get four feet off the ground. Shaking, sweating, but grimly determined, he would clip in and climb those four feet. The belayer on duty encouraged him each time. “It doesn’t matter how high you climb. It just matters that you get on the wall. It’s okay. Take your time. It’s not a race or a contest.”

Watching that, I thought of where I was months ago, too frightened to reach the top of the wall. Clinging, terrified, to any hold I could reach, despite marked routes. Just getting into my harness and clipping onto the rope was a victory. Just putting my hands on the wall was another. The actual climbing? A series of small victories. And I thought, as I dusted my hands with chalk and glanced at my belayer, real courage isn’t fearlessness. It’s trusting yourself despite the fear.

I keep coming back to this essential fact, over and over again. Writing has taught me this much, and writing keeps patiently reteaching me when I forget, as I frequently do. Sometimes I feel like an idiot when I realize that once again, I’ve proven to myself that all I have to do is show up and be ready to work, and the writing takes care of the rest.

I suppose I’d feel a lot more idiotic if I actually quit.

So here’s what I have to say this morning. Do that thing you love. Don’t stop. It doesn’t have to be writing. It’s whatever your thing is. But do it. Show up and swing. Get into the habit of doing it during the good times, so it can carry you through the bad. I can promise you that you will surprise yourself. You will eventually get to the top of the wall. You will eventually get to the end of the book. You will eventually get to wherever you need to go. That thing you love, that thing you do, it’s endlessly faithful. As long as you’re in there swinging, the Muse or whatever else will be right there with you. It’s not a contest; it’s not about winning. Or if it is, winning might not be what you think it is.

To me, right now, the winning is just showing up. It is looking back and realizing that once again, writing has saved my life, because I cared enough to show up every damn day. Even when I was half-dead of heartbreak, even when bathing or feeding myself seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, even when I didn’t know how I was going to get through another five minutes without the pain eating me whole, the writing was always there. The writing, for me, will always be there.

I kind of feel like a goober for doubting it.

Over and out.

Or actually, NOT over and out. I promised a giveaway of Jealousy, due to release on July 29. So here’s the rules: comment over at the Deadline Dames, by midnight PST on Sunday, July 11, (do NOT comment here!) and with the help of Random.org I will pick two winners to receive signed copies of Jealousy. I can only ship to those in the US; sorry about that, but that’s the way it is.

Good luck!

Related posts:

1. Keep Showing Up
2. Zero Draft, Jealousy Giveaway, And Snapback
3. I Am Not Them, But I’m Just As Scared

Anyway, I have great news and some links.

I’ve officially finished the zero draft for Strange Angels 5. This is the end of the series, and I cried like a baby last night when I wrote the last few chapters. My laundry pile is threatening to eat the living room and I just spent a couple hours weeding through email correspondence that I literally haven’t had time to touch for the past week. The race to finish the book meant dumping 4-5K out every day for the past four days–not that I’m under serious time constraints, because the first draft isn’t due for a couple months at least, but the story had taken me over and it wanted out.

It’s called a zero draft because it needs work before it turns into a reasonable first draft that I can send to my editor without cringing. Of course, I’ll cringe anyway. That’s just how it works–the instant I hit the “send” button, I am assailed by the “what if they don’t LIKE it?” tsunami. But before I can do that work and regard the zero draft as just raw material, I have to set it aside. I’m thinking this book needs to be completely out of my head for at least a month before I will have enough emotional distance from it to go back and see some of the flaws enough to correct them.

Now I’m firmly in the snapback phase, which is what happens to me after I’ve focused all this emotional, mental, and physical energy on finishing a book. I’m pretty much exhausted on all three levels, but the engine in my head is still whirring and pulling. It hasn’t calmed down yet; I’m still feeling the reverberations. So I’ll need a day or so to let the force bleed off and return my brain to normal. (Yeah, I know. Or as close to normal as my brain ever gets.)

The other news? Guess what arrived the other day. Go on, guess.

Some shiny new copies of the third Strange Angels book, Jealousy, due for release on July 29! Which means tomorrow there will be a giveaway for two signed copies on my Deadline Dames Friday writing post. Plus, I’ll be sending out a newsletter soon (I haven’t sent one out in months–sorry, Dark Siders! It’s been a bit crazy here.) And, because my faithful Dark Siders are so awesome, I’ll be running a giveaway for signed copies through the newsletter as well. Exciting, no?

Now for the links:

* Mario Vargas Llosa on why literature isn’t dead yet.

*Chapman/Chapman on failing harder.

* And in honor of Jealousy coming out, Graves appears on a list of hot boys over at Suzanne Young’s excellent blog. There’s also a Facebook release e-party gearing up.

That’s all I’ve got, dear Readers. My brain is mush. See you tomorrow.

Related posts:

1. Discombobulated? Why, Yes.
2. Win Betrayals!
3. Contests!

I spent Independence Day down at Fort Vancouver with the kids. There were vendors, stages, all sorts of booths, enough greasy food to make all of us gleefully sick, and the old fort itself was a wonderland for the little ones. The blacksmith’s shop was the hit of the day, with the carpenter’s shop a close second. I particularly enjoyed the guy in the carpenter shop talking about 19th-century water transport, but then, I’m a geek.

We got home well before dark and had an all-American meal of burgers and fries. Well, chicken burgers, and fries nobody wanted because we’d already had a bunch of them downtown, watermelon, tortilla chips and salsa, enough ice cream to float a boat. Then there was a long slow wait for it to get reasonably dark, and time for fireworks. Nobody lost any appendages this year, and we were finished before the entire neighborhood began to come under what sounded like an artillery barrage. The kids enjoyed it mightily until the mosquitoes bravely rallied through the smoke and sulfur, so we went inside. Everyone was tired and happy. I was actually mellow for the first time I can remember on the Fourth, but that might have been the consequence of two glasses of red wine and a bit of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream.

I put the kids to bed, wrote out a list of things I’m declaring my independence from, and toddled off to sleep. All in all, it was a grand day.

This week I’m pushing to get the zero draft of Sacrifice done, so I might not be around as much. I’m in that stage where I want to finish the damn book and everything that keeps me from doing so is an annoyance at best. My patience, never a quality much in evidence even at the best of times, must be carefully husbanded so I don’t snap at people who are Just Trying To Help, or who Actually Live With Me And Don’t Deserve Crap. It will be a great relief when I finally bring Dru’s adventure’s to their natural endpoint.

Hope your Fourth was as fun and relaxing as mine, dear Reader. And now, back to the grindstone. That’s one thing I haven’t declared independence from. I’m glad to have the luxury of largely choosing my chains.

Related posts:

1. Getting Better
2. It’s official.
3. Book Must Flow