What do I mean by the subject line, you ask?

Well. For most of this year I've been experiencing an increasingly unpleasant array of medical problems. There was the edema in my legs -- I've always retained water like a sponge, and indeed have looked 9 months' pregnant upon occasion due to the tummy bloat, but my feet and ankles were also starting to swell up horribly, which just wasn't good.

And then there were the heart hiccups, as I like to call them, or premature ventricular contractions as the medical profession prefers to call them. I've been having those since 2005 -- had them checked out by the doc at that point, he put me on beta blockers, and they did absolutely nothing. They seem to come more frequently in the time between my fertile period and my period period, but could pop up at any time.

And then there was the fatigue that would crash over me like a tidal wave, leaving my ass bone tired and unable to muster the energy to do even the simplest things like do laundry or write, for God's sake. I would literally stagger home from work, crash on the couch, get up reluctantly to go to sleep, then drag myself out of bed and head back to work. Weekends -- what weekends? I slept through them.

And then there was the lightheadedness, which was the final straw when it happened all during Gay Days and left me wondering if I was going to pass out a couple of times. It's also been kind of hard at times to think straight, which is just not good in my line of work.

Usually, these symptoms taken as a whole indicate some degree of heart failure, which would suck, but if that's what I had I needed to get it treated toot sweet. So I went into the doctor on June 22 and had a general physical and an EKG. On the plus side, my blood pressure was 120 over 80 -- it just doesn't get better than that. And my EKG showed normal sinus rhythm, so everything looked good from a cardiac point of view. My lungs sounded clear, and he didn't find anything wrong with my skin, joints or tummy -- all very good as well.

He was concerned about the edema, fatigue, dizziness and recurring heart hiccups, however, and sent me off to have some bloodwork done (CBC, sed rate, cholesterol, thyroid, and glucose), which required three test tubes of blood and three failed attempts at a venous puncture (and this is after I chugged a bottle of water) before the Pro from Dover was called in and nailed a vein in the back of my hand. Damn my tiny and painfully shy veins.

He also renewed my scrip for Synthroid. This is important, because while I waited for my current scrip to run out, I did some research on my symptoms. It turns out that a large number of people have experienced, well, pretty much everything I'd experienced this year while taking levothyroxine, the generic version of Synthroid. Apparently there are issues as to how levothyroxine is taken up and distributed by the body, plus different generics are not always bioequivalent and since your pharmacy could give you pretty much anything as long as it was generic, you could run into problems with how much hormone you were actually getting. And since Synthroid is a narrow-index drug (meaning small changes in the dosage could have major effects), receiving a varying amount of hormone based on what your pharmacy decided to dispense that month was Not a Good Thing Whatsoever.

So, my angels, three guesses what I've been taking since 2005 or so?

Yeah. So I refilled the scrip and told the pharmacist that I wanted the name brand of Synthroid, not the generic. Started taking that on June 25 -- within three days, almost 90% of the symptoms had disappeared (I still had the occasional PVC, but that may have been due to the Crimson Tide, which is when they tended to happen) and I started swimming every night. By July 1 I was getting housework done, swimming every night, writing every day, gardening out back (which included cutting the Triffid that hides the pump equipment back down to size), cleaning the patio area so that we could barbeque over the weekend, plus I planned on spending the three-day weekend getting the bedroom and master bath whipped into shape. Two weeks ago I was lucky if I could haul my ass upstairs to record a podcast. Yeah, you can't tell me that generic Synthroid and the name brand stuff are bioequivalent.

But still no blood test results, which bothered me some. And then yesterday the doorbell rang -- it was my neighbor from down the street, who had received the blood test results from my doc (this is normal for my neighborhood -- we routinely get other people's mail, and I just redeliver it). Slightly nervous, I opened the envelope and read the results.

Ta da! No diabetes, no cancer, no infections or any kind, no liver or kidney problems, heart's in good shape, and I just need to work on my bad cholesterol which is slightly elevated (watching fats and weightlifting will fix that, and my good cholesterol is at a nice level). Dr. Allen added a note saying that the labs were all good, asking how I was feeling, and offering to prescribe a diuretic if I felt I needed it (we have a very good working relationship, and he knows I won't ask for something unless I feel it's necessary).

I need to let him know what happened now that I'm on the name brand Synthroid. Who knew that something as simple as dumping a generic would have such a massive effect? Phoo.

That's really all I have to say today.  I would like to say a lot of other things, something profound and moving about the great blessings we enjoy in this great land, but can't.  The crazy amount of work that Ducky and I have done this week in preparing to launch our business has left me completely drained.  But even that could never have happened, for a hundred reasons, anywhere else on Earth.  God bless America, today and always.  Oyster out.

Writers find inspiration, like lint or spare change, in a variety of places. Historical writers will have different muses I'm sure from fantasy writers, etc. As someone who loves surrealism, and who would place their writing in the damp place between the umbrellas of "magical realism" and "fantasy" I have a few very special sources for inspiration.

I'll preface by saying that I do, of course, research any historical elements in my projects, and I do also find much of my inspiration from the world around me. TSM was found in an abandoned lot, where a single door had yet to be torn down.

I look to folklore and fairy tale, and my academic fascination with archetypes and oral lore definitely cross over into my fiction.

But there are times when neither looking around nor closing my eyes seems to get me what I need, and when that happens, I often turn to Duy Huynh.



A painter whose incredible palettes, sleepy edges, and stunning visuals capture me every single time, Duy is one of my favorite muses.

I'm lucky enough to own a very small glazed piece of his, with a dark-haired girl in a forest, held aloft by strings, on then end of which are yellow butterflies. My parents own a larger one with a train, the smoke of which forms a sleeping body. 



I invite you to check out the whimsy of Duy Huynh's work, regardless of whether this sort of thing inspires your writing or not. He's simply an amazing artist who deserves the following.

His Website.

Ah yes, another week of slush reading. Some of the more common reasons for rejection:

Head hopping.
Lack of emotional traction.
Lurid and impossible description.
Poor plot progression to description ratio.


And apropos of nothing, I'm almost ready to believe I can tell how fast something will be rejected by what font is used.

Okay, this'll be short, but here's the news: I revamped (no pun intended) my website! As usual, I'm a fan of very clean styles, without a lot of flashing stuff or movement. I think it's neater than the other, and for Eugenie fans: the Thorn Queen excerpt is live!

Okay, that's all I've got. Eight hours of mousing and typing has killed my hands, so it's time for a break. Happy Independence Day!

We managed to get back from the farmer's market with only four varieties of cherries, and having spent only about five minutes singing along with the busker who was doing Amazing Grace to the tune of House of the Rising Sun, Blind Boys style.

Good times.

And now it's just me, a sofa, a laptop, a cup of strawberry peppercorn tea, a Saturday, and forty student manuscripts.

Excelsior.

(348 miles to Isengard.)

Sometimes just to get writing I like cruising through artists galleries. Sometimes I'll see something that reminds me of a character or a situation, or I'll see a picture that inspires me to want to write about it.

I found these on a free wallpaper site here.
( cut for pics )
ok, now I gotta go do more in the kitchen.

Long story short — we started out like this (click to view larger):

And ended up like this (click to view larger):

And if you’d like to see more pictures from the big Fremont Zombie Walk ‘09, then you should click the little jump below and oh boy howdy, shall you have more gruesome pictures. This has already cost me about half a dozen followers of this mirror-blog on LiveJournal, but “Go for broke!” That’s what I say.

Click HERE for MAYHEM AND GORE »

[Crossposted to/from my website. If you'd like to comment, you can do so either here or there.]

I hope everyone is having a great Fourth of July, whether you're celebrating in the U.S. or just having a great Saturday somewhere else in the world. Mostly I'm writing today, but I am making a celebratory meal tonight: soft tacos and refried beans, because Mexican food is a fabulous way to celebrate American independence.

My personal extra reason for celebration: this fun interview by the good people of YA Highway! Take a look, check it out and be rewarded with a few small spoilers for HOURGLASS, AFTERLIFE and the SPELLCASTER series.

What do you think?

http://www.blackholly.com

.

Wearing my usual attire for the Fourth of July...



This tank top has survived my being thrown into the lake with the brits since 1998. I seriously wear it pretty much once a year, every year.

It is now TWICE AS FUNNY because of what I've been writing for Hetalia.

Also I haven't been outside yet today.

Happy Fourth, everyone.

.

In June, 1826 Roger Weightman, mayor of Washington, invited Thomas Jefferson to travel from Monticello to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence at the new capital. Jefferson, due to poor health, had to decline the invitation, but like seemingly everyone in that time, could not be content to simply write back "No, Thanks".......instead he sent a several page acknowledgement, in which he explained his hopes for the Declaration and its meaning as follows:

"May it be to the world, what I believe it will be, (to some parts sooner, to others later, but finally to all,) the signal of arousing men to burst the chains under which monkish ignorance and superstition had persuaded them to bind themselves, and to assume the blessings and security of self-government. That form which we have substituted, restores the free right to the unbounded exercise of reason and freedom of opinion. All eyes are opened, or opening, to the rights of man. The general spread of the light of science has already laid open to every view the palpable truth, that the mass of mankind has not been born with saddles on their backs, nor a favored few booted and spurred, ready to ride them legitimately, by the grace of God. These are grounds of hope for others. For ourselves, let the annual return of this day forever refresh our recollections of these rights, and an undiminished devotion to them."

Parade:

 This float gets my award for most fun!

Fun Fair Food:

  American Legion Fried Dough. With real maple syrup, it's one sweet indulgence.

Fun Fair Music:

  Nothin' sounds better than Cajun when it's hot and humid.


Finally,
a reminder of what it took to remain "one nation, indivisible" and of the cost of democracy:

  That's a member of the 18th Vermont, historic preservation volunteers devoted to Civil War battlegrounds, with a Norwich cadet and a current member of the Armed Forces.

Happy Fourth!

Happy Fourth!

today we are just chillin.


I have been using that Liquid Story Binder. WOW. Much geeky glee. I think, when I have it, I will shell out the money to buy it. SO worth it imo.

I've heard folks say there are too many bells and whistles. But for me the bells and whistles promote my creative side. Did that sound pompous? I hope not.

Anyways, hope yall have a good fourth.

Not sure I can make much of an entry today. My mind is too many places at once. But I shall do my best, which is usually what I try to do.

Good writing day yesterday. I had Spooky read back to me everything I'd written on "The Sea Troll's Daughter," and as she read, the ending finally occurred to me. So simple, I don't know how I took so long to see it. But that's how writing works. I wrote 1,373 words. Today, I will finish the story, one day ahead of my deadline.

Yesterday, well, more than anything, there was Palin's stunning resignation. Stunning or stupefying. I hear a lot of people telling me not to celebrate too soon, that this is too fishy, that "Real Americans" love their wolf-murdering, white-trash, Xtian beauty queen too much, that this has to be the start of something big, coming right before the 4th and all. Whatever. I'm sure we've not seen the last of the bitch. She will certainly foment much more atrocity before her dying breath (which cannot come too soon). However, I stand by my belief that a woman cannot resign the office of governor, just because, and expect to be rewarded with any higher office. Not even in America. The enemies of the GOP can spin, too, and no one will ever let that one go. When the heat got too much for her (in Alaska, mind you), she tucked her tail between her legs and ran...or strategically retreated...or what-the-hell ever. I say her days as a serious political contender are done, book deal or no book deal, GOP dominatrix fantasies or no. And that resignation speech, boy howdy. I wonder if she even knows what surreal means? To quote a twat from Adam Sessler, "Palin's resignation speech: It's like if e.e. cummings ran a pep rally...on the moon...which is like a balloon...."

And, please, let's not argue over Palin's political future. I'll just concede I know nothing about politics, and everyone knows it's foolish to debate politics with someone who knows nothing about politics. You'll be stuck with an empty, Pyrrhic victory.

Here in Rhode Island, almost all fireworks are illegal. Even sparklers require a permit. However, this did not stop a group of idiots from trying to blow up Federal Hill last night. It was rather awful, until the police showed up and shut them down. Problem is, people bring in fireworks from Massachusetts and Connecticut. And hey, I love fireworks, but not when they're being shot off beneath my office window. By idiots. Drunken idiots. Drunken idiots with small, flammable children.

Oh, I know something cool about yesterday. I had a Big Nerd Moment. The years have jaded me. I've met most of many of my literary heroes, and become friends with quite a few of them. So, it takes a lot these days to send me into fangirl mode. Something like William Gibson responding to me on Twitter last night. I actually giggled with shameless delight. Spooky found it charming.

A quiet anniversary. We made a big dinner. I did the salad, using the crazy mix of greens and onions we got from Spooky's dad on Thursday, and Spooky made baked portabellas stuffed with onions, garlic, red bell pepper, basil, a mix of parmesan, ricotta, and mozzarella cheese, and bread crumbs. Oh, and she made chicken sausages, made with spinach and feta. Yum. Then we played WoW (my Draenei paladin, Kalií, made Level 23) and read for a bit before bed.

Anyway...I should go. 'Cause the platypus says so, that's why.

…the dead will go for cocktails.

What started out as a perfectly nice day trip to Seattle to hang out with Team Seattle folks ended in a nightmare of biblical proportions…and I loved it.  The Fremont Outdoor Movies people pulled together a zombie walk/Thriller dance reenactment that clogged streets tighter than old man toilet and left blood smears on every sign, window and unsuspecting passerby.

And!!!!

We broke the world record, at last count the registration reported 3800 something, but expect that more like 6000 were in attendance, lots opting not to stand in the massive line.

So here’s a recap…

Started off the day driving our disabled temp-tired hybrid to the tire shop to fix a flat, which of course was in the side wall and therefore not fixable.  New tire.  Thankfully we had a warranty, because–little known glamorous author fact–when you’re as new at the business as I am, and as unlikely to earn out your advance, I don’t get paid with any great frequency. In fact, my last check came around April…2008. So there you go aspiring writers! The moral being, learn to budget that shit. Stretch it like sawdust in Wonder Bread and just be happy to be published. *end diatribe*

We fell in behind this nimrod.

And immediately fell into a discussion about how it was, here in 2009 with these trailer hitch scrotums on the market for well over 5 years now, that any self-respecting male without a micro-penis would actually hang these odes to insecurity off their pussy wagons. We started taking bets. Moderately overweight. Goatee. Pursed lips on a head nodding to the latest Dave Matthews/Lifehouse/OhMyGodKillMe band of your choice. 

Correct on all three counts. I’m glad people aren’t predictable.

We caught up with Synde and Cherie and after snacking on some delicious pineapple upside down cupcakes headed to Northgate to the most awesome costume shop for a big bag full of goriness.  Then it was off to lunch with the freshly straightened Richelle and that garlic fry eatin’ motha fucka she brought with her.  I myself had regular plain fries. Plain. How was I to know?

Makes me sick. *spits*

Cherie’s neighbors must be used to some zombies cuz we were spraying blood out of everywhere but our assholes and they barely blinked as they passed by.  To be fair, a trio of well dressed and summery gays were mortified and thought we’d been in a car accident–though they might have just been being kind.

A note on zombie make-up: It does not hold up well in 90 degree heat. I promptly sweated off the upper half of my slash wound and ended up looking like I’d just been beaten and summarily pissed on by a biker gang.  What can you do?

I’ll tell you what…MORE BLOOD!

It’s really the only acceptable solution.

We got to Fremont early, snatched up a primo parking space care of a certain somebody who collects things like parking spaces and popped in for a little zombie readin’ courtesy of Scott Browne (Breathers).

Irreverent, topical, and always poignant. Dude! Y’all should pick up Breathers now so you can tell all the losers that won’t have heard of it when the movie comes out that they suck and you read it sooo long ago. So long.

We filled up on caffeine at Fremont Coffee Company, them shits was so much better than Starbucks, I can’t tell you, care of Cherie’s husband, Aric (the artisinal roaster not the barista–though she was quite lovely).  Then it was time to go get in the mile long queue for the zombiefest.  Much more blood was spattered before we were ready to hit it up Angels-style (shout out to Farrah, RIP).

Then it was on mothafuckas!

We didn’t stay for the Thriller Dance, though I hear it was a spectacle of white guy overbiting. We ended up succumbing to oldness around 9:30 and spent a half hour after getting home scrubbing the makeup off. I’m pretty sure our bathroom looked exactly like it might if we’d cleaned up after a murder. Here’s a tip to all the wood be killers: Clorox wipes.

In conclusion, totally fun, I’d do it again in a heartbeat…or without.

Have a happy Fourth of July folks, don’t shoot any roman candles out of your ass.

Originally published at Mark Henry. You can comment here or there.

This is repost of livejournal entry dated March 12, 2007.  I received a couple of questions regarding how we broke into print and it seemed like a good idea to repost it.  This post is also available on the website on ABOUT page.

My story to publication is long and cringe-worthy.  Very cringe-worthy.

First of all, I never wanted to be a writer. Never. I wanted to be a scientist*. Writing was a nice hobby, something I did for fun, on the side. It was certainly not serious work. More of an extension of reading.

When I had to drop out of college and found myself at home with first one child and then the second child and a computer, it seemed natural that I would steal an hour or two a day and type out the weird stuff in my head for the heck of it. But still, I didn’t want to be a writer. I was just suffering a minor setback on my way to becoming a SCIENTIST.

I had two novels written when I decided to query an agent. I’ve done no research. I wasn’t sure what an agent did. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. So I took my freshly completed novel #2 (novel #1 was a part of a trilogy and I didn’t want to query until I had everything written out) and sent it to this nice person I saw soliciting submissions on one of the message boards.

I was sure she would sign me up. Positive. One hundred percent. I had this super cool story about a girl and werewolves and vampires. It was awesome.

For two weeks I kept checking my mailbox. One fine morning the package came. I tore it open and rejection. Boom. Pow. Crash and Burn.

At this point most people would do some research. I am not normal people. My attitude was, “To hell with the agents! I’m going to go straight to the publisher!”

So I sent the manuscript to one of the New York Sci-fi/Fantasy publishers. It came back, stamped, “We don’t accept unsolicited submissions.” Not sure what unsolicited submission was, I still deciphered that as a no.

So I tried an electronic publisher, Hardshell. Six months later I had my first legibile feedback and I remember it very well, “Your novel is filled with grammatic and punctuation mistakes. These mistakes can be fixed, however, it’s just like Laurel Hamilton’s story and we don’t need another heroine just like Anita Blake.”

Who the hell is Laurel Hamilton?

Having inhaled the first couple of Laurel Hamilton’s books, I started to suspect that my novel and her novel were not similar enough to warrant the feedback. Yes, they were in the same genre; yes, they both had a female heroine; but my Vera Voron wasn’t really similar to Anita Blake. (Still, just like there is no such thing as a harmless one night stand, there is no such thing as a harmless editorial feedback. I’ve thought about that crit for weeks.)

At this point, I felt like beating my head on the wall. Nobody wanted my stuff. Suddenly this hobby became a source of a lot of stress. I wanted to know why nobody wanted it. What the hell was so wrong with it?

I had been making circles around OWW, trying to decide if it was a scam. I’ve been in a small email critiquing group for awhile, and it was sort of falling apart. Having decided that OWW probably wasn’t a scam and if it was, I’d be out $40 – no big deal, I joined OWW. And got my very first crit, “Your characters are like cartoon characters, like Homer Simpson, or something. Your writing is like cartoon writing. It just terrible.”**

Okay. I was about to drop OWW like a bad habit, when my husband, who by that point started writing with me, suggested we wait for more feedback. So I did, and the next crit was from Jeff Stanley, who liked it. He liked it a lot. The next crit was from Larry Payne, who promptly took a grammatic rake to it and rubbed my nose in all the smelly spots. I went and got a grammar book. And read it cover to cover.

Okay, so I didn’t totally suck. I started posting chunks of the new thing I was writing, titled “The Dog and the Wheel” and one day Charlie Finlay found it and recommended it for an Editor’s Choice. The EC crit was harsh, but by that point I was used to harsh.*** The Dog and the Wheel made it into the Gallery Competition, the winner of which would be published as an e-book by… I don’t remember. Baen? Daw? I didn’t win. I didn’t even get the second place prize, which was an armfull of books. I got feedback however, and it was priceless. The feedback amounted to “this is excellent, but you rely on standard staples of the genre too much.”

I kept poking at the Dog and the Wheel for awhile. I still couldn’t sell a short story. I was generally pretty miserable about the whole thing. One day I sat down and wrote an opening. It was like nothing I had written before, but it was also a lot like the doomed #2 novel. Gordon was walking by and stopped. Read over my shoulder. “What is this?” “Ahh, just stuff.” He read more. He read the whole thing. “You should post this.” I posted the opening and got a weird reaction: more. More now. I remember Nora said, “I didn’t know you could write like this.”*****

Okay. I could do more.

I ripped up the plot from the novel #2, taking only the basic ideas, and Gordon and I wrote a new draft, titled “Lost Dog”. Boom, another EC. From Nalo Hopkinson. The EC basically said, “You’re a good writer, but your story is mostly doing things wrong.”**** I read that feedback. I read it very carefully. And I decided to ignore it. I had my ideas, I knew what the book was about, and I was sorry it didn’t click with her, but I wasn’t going to change it.

I polished and cleaned my thing and then, prompted by an announcement from TOR, who were looking for new contemporary fantasies, I submitted it.

Fast forward a year and a half, filled with rejection slips for various short stories, and a lot of failed starts on different projects. Finally one of the stories took off and turned into In the Name of the Realm. And I got another EC from Jenni. And that EC was awesome. I understood the criticism and I felt I had earned the praise. It picked me up and carried me through the next three months. Still, by New Year I was ready to be done. I had sunk what felt like years into this hobby with no payoff. It was causing me no end of stress.

I was on the computer, deleting my writing files and picking out stray school papers that had accidentally gotten saved in there, when Pen Hardy Imed me to chat. Let it be said that Pen Hardy is the sole reason I didn’t delete the entirety of my writing folder. Because I was ready. Done. Kaput. Basta.

Unless you’ve been there for a couple of years, it’s hard to describe the exact feeling of submitting story after story and getting rejected. The only thing I can compare it to is looking for a job. Picture yourself looking for a job and not being hired. You keep getting envelopes in the mail, but you know they are rejections. At first you apply to your dream job, then to your second-choice job, then to any job that would pay you. But nobody hires. You come to anticipate the words of the rejection letter, because you’ve seen so many. And you do this month after month after month. You do it for years, again and again, hoping one day somebody will hire you. Eventually you start wondering if there is something fundamentally wrong with you or with your brain, because no sane person would be subjecting themselves to this silliness. I was done. But Pen somehow talked me out of it. I still wanted to delete it all, but I promised her I would wait a month or two.

Next week Gordon was checking the email and said, “You have an email from TOR.”

The email was from Liz Gorinsky. It said that she read the novel and loved it and would fight for it. I felt like I was walking on a cloud. For about ten minutes. And then the brakes kicked in. I knew how this dance went: everything is great and then I don’t win. So I emailed her back and thanked her and settled into waiting.

Three months passed. I emailed to Liz asking if there was any progress. She said that unfortunately there wasn’t. She suggested that I give her a reason to bring it up again: sell a story to Big Three, get an agent, do something to make myself visible.

Sell a story to Big Three, hahahahahaha!

Oh fine. I’ll go try for an agent. I remembered reading SFF Crow’s Nest that had an interview with agents in it. I googled it, found the interview, read it again, and decided to try for Jack Byrne and another agent. Jack Byrne was experienced. The other agent just started out but one of the OWW people had signed up with him, and he seemed okay.

I sent off my electronic query and prepared to wait. Two requests for partial within two hours. Jack beat out the other agent by 45 minutes. I apologized to agent #2 and sent my partial to Jack. Three days pass, request for full. I printed the full out, drove to the post office, sent it out. A week later, a phone call, “Would you like to shake on it?”

Gordon and I had an agent.

Jack went to work. A month later he called. Despite the fact that Liz loved the novel, TOR didn’t seem interested. Instead of keep trying there, Jack wanted to withdraw and go someplace else. I shrugged. Story of my life, yes? Do whatever you want with it.

My life was falling apart by that point. Savings were running out. Gordon spent months trying to find a job – and unlike people who say they are trying, my husband actually worked at it. Finding a job for him became full time employment. These problems were causing stress on our marriage. On top of everything we really hated Oklahoma. As soon as I finished my semester******, we would take what was left of the money and get the hell out of Lawton.

In my free time, I didn’t write. The Realm was finished and starting a new project seemed pointless. I sunk into an WOW instead. I can level a priest from 0 to 60 in less than three weeks. Escapism R Us.

I was in Strat Undead, healing people, when Jack called. Gordon put the phone to my ear. I was casting spells left and right, trying to keep this idiot group alive. He said, “Anne Sowards at Ace would like to buy ‘Lost Dog’. Congratulations.”

I said, “That’s wonderful, Jack,” and typed “Get out of the fog! Get AWAY from the fog!” into the WOW window. We didn’t wipe, for which I take sole credit.

Then there was a phone call from Anne, and the editorial suggestions*#, and eventually the contract signing, and a little bit of money, of which we needed every cent. I will always be grateful to Liz Gorinsky. She is a wonderful person, who belived into the book when nobody else did. And I will always be grateful to Pen Hardy – that goes without saying. And to everyone who reviewed and critted and commisserated: my acknowledgments list in the book is a mile long.

I’m working on the sequel now. Believe me, you don’t even want me to go into problems I’m encountering there.

Magic Bites (Lost Dog title had to be changed since the dog was cut) will be out March 27. Will Gordon and I win or will we lose? It remains to be seen. If we lose, I don’t think I’ll become a scientist. I think we’ll change the pseudonym and try again.

UPDATE:

July 04, 2009

We’re now represented by Nancy Yost of Nancy Yost Literary Agency. Magic Bites was released in March 2007 to good reviews and decent sales. On April 20, 2008, its sequel, Magic Burns, placed #32 on NYT Extended Bestseller List.   In March 2009, Magic Strikes, the third book in the series, hit NYT Times printed list at #16 and USA Today Bestseller List at #109.

___________________________
* And I also thought I’d leave marriage and children to other, more patient, women. See how that turned out. O_o

** Yes, I remember that one pretty much word for word, too.

*** Six months on OWW, and you’ll smile in the face of most criticism and thank them for their opinion

**** Paraphrasing.

***** I’m sure by now you have figured out that I have memory like a stone tablet: it’s hard to get things in there, but once they are chiseled, they stay. Except for the names. I can’t recall people’s names for the life of me.

****** I had gone back to school to become a SCIENTIST.

*# Please cut this by one third.

Mirrored from One Crazy Dame. Comment here or there.

I know this will interested to 2.1 people in the whole world, but I figured out how to make wordpress have different backgrounds for different pages.

Lookit here:

http://ilona-andrews.com/

http://ilona-andrews.com/books/

I don’t know what to do with this new god-like power.

Mirrored from One Crazy Dame. Comment here or there.

Happy Holiday!

Mirrored from One Crazy Dame. Comment here or there.