Piracy...the issue that will not die...

Warning: This post is LONG

Every once in a while, the huge, ugly, flatulent elephant-in-the-room of ebook piracy raises its trunk and trumpets, splitting eardrums far and wide, and showering those unfortunate enough to be standing too close in a nearly invisible mist of elephant snot (eww!). And for the last week, there's been a lot of discussion going on about piracy and its effect on readers and writers--not the least of which is Astatalk's startling recent announcement, presumably in reaction to a bombardment of infringement complaints to their ISP, that fiction uploads are now banned from their site. Followed almost immediately by their claims that shutting down pirate sites like Astatalk will do nothing but hurt authors' sales... Hmmm...

This post, by author Tiffany Clare, raised some hackles, that's for sure. Dear Author linked to it, as well as to another, more prosaic post on book piracy by Tobias Buckell, and the umbrage in the comment thread flew fast and thick. A day later, Azteclady put up her own post on piracy--one that expresses for the most part how I feel about things, which is somewhere in between Tiffany Clare's understandably extreme views on the problem, and Tobias Buckell's more moderate, "meh, whatever" stance.

While I'm no longer mired in the futile outrage that plagues most new authors like Ms. Clare (and myself, not so long ago), I don't tend to agree with Buckell that piracy of books is an essentially effect-neutral issue. Though I'm intelligent enough to concede that not every illegal download = a sale lost, and therefore $2 not in my pocket that should be in there, I DO NOT buy into his assertion that all illegal downloaders fall into three basic categories: 1) content collectors who will never read your book, but get a kick out of hoarding tens of thousands of books they have no interest in reading just to say they have them, 2) paying-super-fans-in-the-making, who'll illegally download to sample your work, and who, if they like it, will go on to legally purchase your next book, and your next, and your next, and 3) people in less privileged parts of the world, who through economic disparity between our world and theirs, simply CANNOT legally acquire a book that essentially costs them a week's pay.

In the first case, you haven't lost a sale, because the downloader would never have purchased your book in the first place--hell, he's not even going to read it. In the second, you stand to make MORE sales than you would have otherwise, once those downloaders sample your work for free and discover you're worth their dime. In the third, not only aren't you losing a sale, but the very act of piracy is portrayed as encouraging literacy and is seen as a charitable act toward the less fortunate (and I have to say, this is a category of illegal downloaders I find it very hard to resent).

But I think there are other categories of illegal downloaders:

The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter: I've wrangled with this type before. They download illegally, they read what they download, and they view having to pay for it as an injustice of the first order. They see no value in the "gate-keeping" service publishers provide (having never been paid to read slush, one would presume), nor any value in paid-for editing, marketing and distribution. They believe a world without copyright will be a wondrous Utopia filled with beautiful stories that are free for everyone to enjoy--stories that were somehow transformed from raw manuscripts into shining examples of quality fiction through the dogged, though unpaid, labor of enthusiasts who do their part out of the sheer joy of the work.

The problem is, editing, marketing, and distribution ARE work, and often less than joyful. Ask any editor. Hell, ask any self-published author. And no one likes to work for nothing, even when they enjoy what they do. Likewise, writing itself is work, and it's work that for most doesn't even amount to minimum wage.

I'm a single mom. I've been solely financially responsible for myself and my three kids for more than two years. I work 20-30 hours per week waiting tables, and have a half-duplex in BC I rent out for less than market value because the tenant is so reliable. My kids and I live comfortably, though very modestly (IMO, the best way to raise a child is poor, hungry and desperate, lol). The royalties from my four published books represent, on average, a mere 10-15% of my monthly income. I earn five times as much waiting tables in a 20 hour work week as my four books bring me in the same amount of time.

Very few authors are looking to get rich from their writing. Even if it's a dream (OMG, I could quit my job, hire a maid, and get to have an actual, you know...life and stuff, woot!), most of us have at least one toe of one foot planted in the soil of reality, and understand the unlikelihood of us earning a cushy living, let alone millions, from writing fiction.

But here's the thing: We still want to get paid for our work.

First, writing costs money. You need a computer (the days of tapping away on a second-hand Smith-Corona are long gone). You (arguably) need a website, and that requires hosting, which costs. You need an internet connection. Even if you're self-publishing, you'd be advised to have a professional editor look over your manuscript...unless you're perfect, like me, and your words are pure gold the moment they materialize on the screen, heh.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, writing costs time. Time with your butt in chair, hands on keyboard. Time I could be putting toward any number of other things--cleaning my bathroom, playing cards with my kids, cutting the grass, or earning $20-30/hour at my day job. Time I could be spending in the pursuit of leisure activities, like watching movies, reading other people's books, mooching dinner and beers off my parents, going out to play pool, or just sitting on my ass, staring into the middle distance and thinking back on the good old days before I had kids and a house and bills to pay, that long-ago time when being bored was a BAD thing, rather than a rare and beautiful occasion when, holy shit, there's nothing that requires my immediate attention for the next ten minutes.

I'm a creative person at heart. I will always make up stories. I started in my early teens, in the twenty minutes every night before I fell asleep--imagining characters of my own creation acting out scenes behind my closed eyelids. Daydreaming. But if it hadn't been for the possibility of eventual publication (and money), I might never, at age 15, have started writing those stories down. And once I got married and had kids, and a house to look after, and a job, and bills to pay...well, everyone has to prioritize, right? We have to decide what's most important to us, and what's least, and what falls in between. And if there'd been no potential to ever earn anything from my writing, well, writing would have been at the very, very, very bottom of my list of priorities. I'd have gone back to daydreaming, enacting my stories in my own head, and forgoing the time and effort involved in putting them on paper.

And my responsibilities and burdens have only increased since I split with my ex-husband. It's hard to find the time and energy to even daydream, let alone write. Today, the mere potential of eventual earnings wouldn't be enough to convince me to invest any time in it. If I wasn't already earning money from my writing, if it hadn't already been demonstrated that I can write a publishable novel and sell it to a publisher and make some dough, well...

Writing is something I will always enjoy doing. But it's something I can and do spend time on only because I can earn money from it. And for my publisher, publishing my books is something they do because they can earn money from it. My editor picks through manuscripts until they're as close to perfect as she can get them, because she can earn money from it. Everyone involved in the process is motivated by money to some degree or another, no matter how much they enjoy what they do.

The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter will insist that in the brave new world of no intellectual property rights, there will still be tons of great stories out there, even if no one makes any money on them. But none of those stories would be mine, because I'd rather be a financially comfortable full-time waitress than a starving part-time waitress/writer. Most authors are regular people with regular jobs and bills to pay and a few little people who look like them depending on their income for things like diapers and school supplies and braces. And yeah, maybe some would keep writing if there was no earning potential in it--but they'd write less, because they'd have less time to write. And some of those would write one or two books for the personal validation and feedback they'd get out of doing it, and then get distracted by all the other things they could be and should be investing their time in, rather than this silly writing business that doesn't and won't ever earn them anything but a feeling of accomplishment and a pat on the back.

The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter will insist that in this brave new Utopia, there would be other ways authors could monetize their work--like merchandising or movie rights. But those alternate revenue steams are also dependent on copyright. Without copyright, anyone could profit off exploiting my story or characters in any way they wanted, and wouldn't have to pay me one dime. The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter will insist that a "tip jar" on an author's website would bring in plenty of money, the way an open guitar case attracts coins for a busker from passersby. But there's something very different about standing and enjoying a few songs on a street corner, and then walking away while the musician watches without throwing in a coin, and downloading a book for free. An author can't SEE you reading and enjoying his book. An author can't SEE you not throwing in those few quarters. And frankly, for many people, as long as no one SEES them behaving like a turd-ass, they feel perfectly fine in doing so. There are lots of people who would "tip" an author whose work they'd enjoyed. But there are also lots and lots and lots of people who wouldn't.

The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter is loathe to acknowledge the role profit plays in any creative endeavor, from the invention of the light bulb, to the creation of software programs like Windows, to writing fiction. The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter believes rightly that necessity is the mother of invention, but he refuses to acknowledge that potential wealth is its semen-providing father. The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter believes that fame and social status are enough to keep creative types creating and putting their work out there--and for some that may be true. There's a reason why, when my guy talks about me to his friends, he tells them I'm an author or a writer or a novelist, rather than a waitress, even though I spend way more time and earn way more money serving food than I do writing books. It's social cred, for sure. But social cred doesn't pay your phone bill, does it?

There's nothing that will convince The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter that his vision of a copyright-free paradise is misguided in any way. Even if his wish came true--copyright was abolished--and all that resulted was one giant, hideous pile of slush rather than sunshine, lollipops and high-quality, cost-free fiction galore, he'd insist that unforeseen forces had interfered with what would otherwise have been a golden age of fiction. So debating copyright with him is about as amusing as talking socio-economics with a gang of upper-middle-class born, teenage, quasi-communist, wannabe-street-kid, preach-socialism-from-the-cradle-of-privilege activists. Talking to people who base their philosophy on a world they wished existed but never can, rather than a better permutation of the world that is, well, it's essentially like talking to a brick wall.

So since there's nothing that will convince The Anti-Copyright Freedom Fighter to change his ways, we'll move onto the next category of illegal downloaders I've encountered.

The Super-Fan Who Still Won't Pay: She loves your books. She gushes about them to all who'll listen. She read your first and second titles and was so impressed, she's been lauding you all over the forum. Then she posts her request: "Hey guys! I adore this author! You should read her, she's fantastic! But I can't find her third book on the torrent site where I got her first two--anyone here have it to upload?"

This downloader stumbled on a pirate site one day, saw craploads of books she wanted to read, all available for nothing, and never looked back. Her very first post went along the lines of, "OMG, you have Nora Roberts' latest??!! So cool! I've been wanting that one for months! And to think I used to actually PAY for her books! I'm so grateful to have found you guys!"

The community felt warm and welcoming. And she got some serious warm fuzzies from uploading books from her own computer, and "sharing" all her favorite reads with her new friends. She believes them when they tell her it isn't stealing. And they're right--it isn't stealing.

But it isn't sharing, either. Sharing requires that you give up something in order to give something to someone else. When you share a cookie with someone, you no longer get to eat the whole cookie, do you? When you share a physical book, you have to hand it over to the other person and trust that they'll give it back when they're done. What she's doing isn't sharing--it's copying and distributing. Illegally. She doesn't have to give up one damn thing in order to get the good feeling of providing something of value to others. She didn't put in any of the work needed to create the book (hell, she might not have even paid for it), she doesn't own the rights to distribute the work, but she'll happily give it away to 4000 of her closest buddies, soak up their praise and gratitude, and in doing so, cut the content producer right out of the equation. She's trampled on the authors' right to decide where and how to make their books available to readers. She's taken something of value that someone else owns, given it away for nothing, and gets a shit-ton of backslapping in return. She's become the hero, and the author is forgotten. And no matter how much she adores your writing, she won't pay you one thin dime for it.

She understands that it's illegal to do what she's doing. She may even understand that it hurts authors--emotionally if not fiscally. But she doesn't care, as long as she gets what she wants...for free.

But there may be a way to reach some of these downloaders. A year or more ago, I stumbled into a blog discussion on the "feminization" of science fiction. The guy who wrote the OP insisted it was part of a feminist political agenda to girly-up everything that used to be just for the boys. A commenter--one known for his penchant for wearing only designer clothes, so presumably not on his last nickel--chimed in to say the latest Star Trek was an awesome movie. He'd ripped it off the net and watched it three times. Shit, why don't they make more movies like THAT? To which I replied, "Well, boys, you have your answer right there. Young men like those movies, but young men don't like to, you know, actually pay to watch them. They rip stuff off the net instead. So movie studios make sure that all their films will appeal to the ladies in some way or another--because women drag their boyfriends to the damn theater, and that's the only way studios have a hope in hell of earning back their $300 million in production costs. Want more movies made just for you? PAY for the movies you want to watch."

Producers get paid to produce. Consumers pay to consume. That's the way commerce works--even when that commerce involves creative content. And if readers want books they like--especially ones that are not quite mainstream--they need to pay for them if they want more of that sweet, sweet content.

Authors' careers are made by the sales they make, and they're likewise broken by the sales they DON'T make. Sometimes the difference between a second contract and the effective end of a career is as little as a few thousand copies. And no amount of pointing to a pirate site and saying, "I have a readership in the tens of thousands who adore my books--look at them discussing me all over the forum and singing my praises!" will do an author any good. Because just as there's no way to prove that those readers AREN'T members of Buckell's second category of downloaders--those paying-super-fans-in-the-making--there's no way to prove to your publisher that any of them ARE. All the publisher sees is a reader base that would rather illegally download your book than pay for it.

Which brings me to the downloaders I feel can be turned around, if only everyone can just stay calm, state their case, and try not to sling mud or be judgmental.

The I Didn't Realize: Believe it or not, there are people out there who simply have no idea how publishing even works, who have no notion of how squeaky the profit margins in the industry are. Who just don't realize that if you're not Stephen King of Nora Roberts or JK Rowling, chances are you don't earn--and might never earn--a comfortable living from your books. I encounter these people all the time--customers and coworkers and acquaintances who express astonishment that, "What the heck? You have four books published? What are you doing still slinging hash?"

Movies like "Stranger than Fiction" portray authors as some mythical upper/outer economic class of people who are so financially valuable to publishers that they have "handlers" and "assistants" who are paid to babysit them while they work. People envision things like book tours, which are pretty much non-existent unless you're one of Oprah's darlings. The common assumption is that books are big money, when in reality, 80% of traditionally published books already LOSE money for the publisher, and are subsidized by the profits earned through the big name workhorses in the stable. The prevailing wisdom is that artists often starve, even after they've been discovered, but writers stop starving the moment they get a contract.

The general sentiment is that publishers have bottomless pockets, and their wallets can take any number of hits and none of it will ever trickle down to the lowest person on the profit totem pole--the newb or midlist author. But a little time on Holly Lisle's website certainly cured me of any ideas of getting filthy rich off my books. She's a successful, midlist author who had 14 books in print and earning steadily for her before she felt it was safe to quit her day job. And the digital publishing industry is so unstable--between fly-by-night publishers, piracy, and the big industry boys stirring up the waters and fucking with everything--that I don't know if I'd ever feel safe to quit mine.

And when you consider that profits from authors like Nora Roberts are what allow big publishers to take chances on untried newbs, and keep taking chances on them even after their first attempts didn't do as well as projected...well, all of a sudden piracy doesn't feel so harmless, even if you're only illegally downloading one of LaNora's books, does it?

The I Didn't Realize has no idea that most authors have to forcibly wedge time to write in between the job that gives them a stable income, household chores, kids and a million other things their mother-in-law thinks would be a better use of their time. Like dusting the tops of doors and making the beds and stuff. And because the I Didn't Realize isn't actually stealing, and because the I Didn't Realize doesn't realize how tenuous an author's career can be, it's hard to see that illegally downloading does any real damage.

Illegal downloading is not the same as theft. It's less obviously harmful, but more insidious in its potential to do lasting damage, because it ISN'T theft. It's like jumping the turnstile and riding the subway for free. People can justify it so easily because the subway is going that way anyway, and as long as they're not taking a seat away from a paying rider, what's the problem? Except that on the digital subway, there's an unlimited number of seats, so no matter how many people ride for free they're never taking a seat from someone who's paid their fare. Until, of course, there are no seats at all, because hardly anyone's been paying for the ride, and the transit authority can no longer justify the conductor's salary or the price of fuel.

This is the very real fear authors have regarding piracy. Because the more people do it, and justify it, the easier it is for others to rationalize joining in. Especially when so many people out there are I Didn't Realizes.

It's the I Didn't Realizes who need to be educated and encouraged to support their favorite authors, to vote with their wallets, to reward the people who produce the books they love so writers can keep writing them, and publishers will keep publishing them. Because that's what we all want, isn't it? For the authors we love to keep giving us great books to read. And for me as a reader, my part in that equation is to purchase those books as much as I can, or get them from a library that purchased them, or buy a used copy that will fall apart eventually and have to be--you guessed it--purchased again at some point if it's to be read again.

As I've said elsewhere, creative work is not the same as "regular" work, even when that regular work requires skill and training. Writing fiction, or designing buildings, furniture or clothes, or painting, or sculpting, or writing/performing songs is not the same as being a pilot, or a receptionist, or a waitress, or a nurse, or a mechanic, or a drywaller, or a crane operator, or an accountant, or the guy who screws caps on tubes of toothpaste in a factory. Creative work has--or should have--a different perceived value than other kinds of labor, both to the creator and to the consumer. Because any mechanic can adjust your timing chain, but nobody but me can write MY books. Every book, every song, every painting, every sculpture ever produced is something unique that was generated essentially out of nothing, through the determination, imagination, and craft of the people involved. If I quit my day job, they'd just hire another waitress. Ribs and drinks would be delivered to customers, dirty dishes would get cleared away. But if I don't write my books, no one else will ever write them, because no one else can. They just won't exist, because they're my creations.

Because of this, the 10-15% of my income that I earn through writing means much more to me than the other 85-90% I get from other sources. That 10-15% is HUGE, because I earned it producing something no one else in the world could ever, or will ever, produce--books that came out of my imagination, books where every single sentence was of my creation. And this is why I feel it's so difficult for most authors to do as Buckell advises and simply divorce emotion from a cold, logical analysis of the economic effects of piracy. Because though there's no reliable way to quantify what pirating may or may not cost me, there's no escaping the feeling that it costs me something, even if that something is essentially unknowable. Even if that something is only control over how and where and for how much my work is distributed. Even if that something is just the right to say, "My book is worth $4, and if you want to read it you should pay that, or get it from the library, or get it second hand so that I know someone, at some point, paid for that copy of it."

People who pirate my books are in essence demonstrating to me that my work is worth nothing to them, even when they enjoy reading it, even when they rave about it. They're telling me that I should not have a say in how my work is distributed. Their constant congratulating of each other is like telling me that their role--as uploaders of my books--is as worthy of recognition among their peers as, or more worthy than, my role as the person who actually wrote them.

And that...well, it's discouraging. And it's also discouraging to realize that the number of downloads of one of my books from a single pirate site is often greater than the number of copies of ALL my books that have ever been legally purchased.

I have excerpts posted on my website to give readers a taste of my style, and there are reviews of my books that are easily found around the internet. Anyone who wants to sample my writing can do so legally, and if they decide that the size and quality of that sample isn't enough to justify them risking the price of a Starbucks latte on the actual book...well, I suppose that's fair enough. I've heard lots of downloaders insist what Buckell insists--that most of them are paying-super-fans-in-the-making--but I've seen plenty of evidence that even people who've read and adored my books, hell, who are panting for them, are often unwilling to pay for the next one if they can get it for free.

I've heard the DRM argument, and the geographical restrictions argument, and the price-point argument--all of which are valid, but none of which can be applied to my publisher's books, which are DRM-free from their own storefront, available to purchasers worldwide, downloadable infinitely and in multiple formats for one price, and priced more than reasonably. Those are some of the reasons I chose the publisher I did--I wanted to make it as easy and inexpensive as possible for people to purchase and enjoy my books. And yet people still pirate them. Lots of people. Not just citizens of Third World countries who couldn't otherwise afford them, but people from North America and Europe who easily can. Not just people who tried me out and said, "meh," but people who think I'm the cat's pajamas.

So I don't know what's to be done to fix the problem. I just know that for an author, it's very, very hard not to take it personally. And the only tactic I think will have any bearing on anyone is to calmly and clearly state our positions, as authors who want more time to devote to writing, not less, and more opportunities to convince publishers to take on our work and get it out there, not fewer.

Anyway, that's my take on the subject. :)

Life's been pretty sweet

Okay, it hasn't been all sweet, by any stretch of the imagination. But the good has mostly outweighed the bad of late. It has been really busy, though, which is no excuse for not blogging, but it's all I've got, so there you go.

My personal life has been kind of all over the place. The divorce drama has not died...it's merely mutated into something less costly in the financial sense, but more frustrating and disheartening than ever. This latest to-do (and no, I'm not going to elaborate in public, but it's probably even worse than what your imagination can conjure) has made me wonder, yet again, how some people can be terrified of marriage because it's a "serious commitment", but will often think nothing of having a child with that person they're too chicken to marry. You want to be stuck dealing with someone for the rest of your life, no matter how much you'd like to never see or think of him again? Have a dang child with him. Marriage is easy to get out of--especially these days. Kids are forever. Oy.

My job is going well. I like almost all the people there, and there's so little of the bullshit that went on at my previous job. It's fewer hours than the breakfast place, and I therefore have less money piling up under the mattress, but I still have plenty to get by, and enough to even exercise a little largess here and there. Likewise, the kids are all right. Steady as we go, onwards and upwards, and all that.

My royalty checks are still nice and big(gish), though they'd be bigger if I had more books out, for sure. Working on that. :)

I've been seeing someone fairly steadily since mid-November. It's been bumpy, but somehow we've managed to hang in there this long. He's...well, he's funny and brilliant and kind and honest and sweet. And a little weird--perhaps just weird enough to appreciate my own particular weirdness. And he's pushing me to write, and I think I need that kind of kick in the pants to launch myself full-on back into the habit at this point. So if I have a new book contract in the next month or so, you'll all know who to thank.

I'm still largely ignoring housework, and most of the writing I've been doing has been in emails to friends rather than fiction, or comments on blogs. I've been trying to stir up enough interest to join in on some discussions going on in the online romance community, but lately there hasn't been much posted around the neighborhood that arouses my passions, so to speak. Anybody feel like posting something outrageous enough that I can't resist jumping in, please do so. I'd appreciate it. :)

So there's the update. Still alive, cautiously optimistic about my life, but still dealing with stuff I'd rather wash my hands of. Gonna try to blog more, if I can think of anything to say that won't bore you all to tears, lol.

Hugs.

busy busy busy

So I was out all morning yesterday, but my amazing 15-y/o daughter fielded the delivery confirmation call from Leon's, gave the guy directions to the house, reviewed the invoice, and had her older brother sign for the bunk beds that arrived while I wasn't here. (Yet somehow she can't manage to throw her granola bar wrappers in the trash, even when the trash can is 4 inches from the table where she's left the pile of wrappers. Hmmm.....)

So now I will spend my day moving furniture, lugging the rest of the scrap from the wet bar out onto the back patio (to be carted away in the spring when the condo board brings back the "big bin"), and putting the boys' bed together. And working at 5, as usual.

Also spent my morning sorting out my money, trying to figure out how to juggle bills and stuff from my 4 bank accounts at 3 different banks (necessary, between rental income, debt payment and my US income, but annoying and a little confusing to keep track of, all the same).

My daughter's computer finally died the other day, so now I not only need a new one for my oldest (his planned x-mas gift, to replace the one he's outgrown), I need to look into a laptop for her if I ever want to get 5 minutes on my own computer again. So Christmas will be a little more pricey than I'd thought--but still essentially workable.

My sofa looks awesome, and I managed to fit it into the available space without having to rearrange everything in the room, which is cool. And it had a little bit of damage on the upholstery, so I called and they gave me a 15% discount on it--preferable to having another one delivered, and then having my kids end up doing the same amount of damage in the space of a week, no? Nicest thing about it is the lack of squabbling over couch space, though I'm sure they'll find something else to pick at each other about soon enough, lol.

Now that the wet bar is out of the way, the amount of space downstairs is HUGE. At least compared to what it was. The old sofa should fit there perfectly, and I'm planning a built-in computer desk that will serve all the kids. It should be a nice place for them to hang out when it's done (drywalled and painted)--less like a squat in a condemned building and more like an actual, you know, room. And finishing it will up the value of my sister's place, which will make me feel better about her giving me a break on the rent.

I'm getting lots of shifts at work--more than I really want or need--but at the same time, I do need to get a pot together for Christmas, so I'm letting that slide a bit. It's going to be busy over the next few weeks, but I'll manage. :)

Augh!!!!

Okay, for someone who thought she'd removed one of the stressful things in her life (I've taken a doctor-recommended leave from my day job--my last day was Sunday), today is shaping up to be one of those days where my head goes all explodey and showers bits of skull and brain matter all over the place.

I made an appointment for a pro carpet cleaner to come do these hideous carpets this morning. Last night, Firstborn and I lugged all the dressers, desks and assorted stuff out of the upstairs bedrooms, and this morning I finished up by removing my daughter's bed. All this stuff (more furniture than should reasonably even be in two bedrooms, really) is now piled in the middle of my living room, (and kitchen and dining room), which is also full of assorted toys (legos and bionicles everywhere, OMG). It's quarter past ten and I'm wondering where the guy is, so I phone. He's fucking sick in bed. Can't even get up. But couldn't call last night to let me know he was really sick and had to cancel, apparently. Aughhhhh!!!!!

There is no other pro carpet cleaning outfit in town, and the people in the next town aren't answering their phone. "We're probably out cleaning someone's carpet" the message says.

To add insult to injury, my parents arrive tonight. Yes, tonight. And Firstborn has been sleeping on the sofabed downstairs (where my parents sleep when they visit), and Blammo has been sleeping on the couch in the living room. The couch is now buried under a mound of bedroom stuff, and the boys' beds are stacked in the family room, which leaves no floorspace for "camping out" there and so basically, there's only two usable beds in the house--the sofabed and my bed. And two extra people looking to sleep here tonight.

I suppose I could leave a message at the other place, but I have a feeling I'll be waiting all day to hear back, only to be told no, they can't come out. So now I'm stuck renting a Rug Doctor and hoping beyond hope that it works 100x better than the home-model Bissell my friend loaned me.

I swear, I could kill something right now. Like, kill, kill, kill.

On top of that, my ex's lawyer has missed yet another deadline (Monday), and MY lawyer, courteous, non-litigious guy that he is, is going to phone his office to double-check that no response is forthcoming before he sets a date for a case conference. Dude, am I going to be married to this guy forever, or what?

I think I need a drink. It's gotta be past noon somewhere in the world, right? I mean, screw the whole 5 o'clock saying--as long as it's afternoon, it's fine, right? Right?

ETA: Okay, so I rented a Rug Doctor, and yeah, they're a LOT better than the home-model I was using. Way more suction, and the brushes? Holy cow, you can hardly hold onto the thing, those babies are shaking so hard. I'm 1/3 of the way done the big, huge room, and it looks good so far, and the carpet doesn't go "squoosh" when I walk on it, either. So I'm hoping that the blammo suction that's pulled all that moisture out, well, maybe it's pulling more crap out too, and I won't end up with ugly brown patches as it dries. I may go over it twice, just to be sure. Oh, and it might even be dry enough to put some of the stuff back by tomorrow.

AND, I had some bacon-wrapped chestnuts (my toaster still works since the power surge, it just doesn't get quite as hot as it did), and I'm having a glass of wine, too. Just a little one.

AND my mom phoned to say they'll be here early--like dinner time--and did I want her to get me a bucket of KFC on the way up? Holy hell, yeah! Nice, salty, greasy, KFC smothered in a gallon of KFC gravy? And that way, dinner's taken care of too! So I'm feeling better. Yay!

ETA II: So I'm 2/3 done the big room, and the brushes stop brushing. Ack! I felt the top of the machine, and it's really hot, so maybe it just needs a rest? I hope? If not, I'll have to return it and get another one. Bluh.

Getting busy...

Not writing, so much, though I have been trying to find an hour or two every day to devote to finishing my many stalled WIPs. We'll see how that works out, heh. My editor hasn't heard from me in so long, she's probably gone through all seven stages of loss and accepted I'm gone for good. I can imagine seeing something from me in her inbox at this point would be as likely to induce severe myocardial infarction as pleasant surprise.

Mostly I've been trying to get my house in order--cleaning, washing walls, patching drywall, painting, getting the plumbing sorted out (the guys who built this place were clearly stoned, and according to my plumber, not overly concerned with legalities, either), getting ready to fork over some serious cash to deal with the drainage problems in the backyard, and summoning the will to trim out my laminate floor and grout my tiles.

In a week or two when the weather turns, I'll call my parents (otherwise known as the Fifth Elite Domestic Viking Brigade) in to help me haul a shit-ton of stuff to the dump and thrift store, get the lawn, flower beds and rock walls looking nice, and help my kids prioritize their belongings into two piles: 1) can't bear to part with this, and 2) pitch that shit in the dumpster.

Then it's time to stage the place and hopefully unload it before BC's Harmonized Sales Tax (11% on house sales and realtor commissions? yikes!) and new mortgage regulations for first time buyers (possible 20% down payment? double yikes!) get together in an orgy of fiduciary devastation and send property values plummeting.

So no, I won't be around the internets much, either here or elsewhere. Not that that isn't much of a change from the status quo, mind you. It's just that instead of moping, obsessing and contemplating the gruesome demise of the men in my life (except for my plumber, who has proved himself both useful and not a turd-ass), I'll be actually doing something constructive.

And if any of you all know how to slap paint on a wall or use a nail-set, you're welcome to come over and help me out. I have beer and sandwiches. :)

I am NOT in the mood...

CAUTION! Downer post ahead:

Ever read in the news about that family whose house burned down Christmas Eve, three days after someone broke in and stole all their kids' presents?

Ever hear about the guy who won millions in the lottery only to have his wife leave him and a con artist filch him for every penny two months before he dies of terminal cancer?

Ever imagine the sound of a phone ringing on death row delivering a pardon from the governor, two minutes after the executioner pushed the plunger?

Ever see that episode of King of the Hill, where Peggy leaps from the airplane yelling, "I feel so freakin' alive!" just before her chute malfunctions and she hits the ground at terminal velocity?

That's what this Valentine's Day feels like for me. And granted, it would feel like that even if it weren't Valentine's Day, but the irony of the day is almost enough to make me start writing depressing litfic about nice guys who finish last (or not at all), and villains who get cookies instead of comeuppances.

When I think about all the good deeds I've been depositing into my Karma account for the last year or more, and the steaming rain of shit I've received as a return on my investment, I can't help but wonder if maybe--just maybe--I've been prepaying the consequences for that one really, really, really bad thing I'll be able to do and get away with. And frankly, there's no shortage of ideas in my morbidly creative mind as to what that really bad thing will be, nor a shortage of candidates vying to be its recipient, heh.

I'm currently trying to write the prequel to The Chancellor's Bride, the story of Collin and Harral's first meeting. It's a story of one man placing all his trust in the hands of another, taking that huge leap and just knowing the man he loves won't let him plummet and end up a proverbial pancake on the sidewalk. And even as I write it, every fiber of my being is screaming, "Don't be an idiot! WTF, are you crazy??!! He is not going to catch you! You're setting yourself up for an ironic tragedy!" Which tells me I may not be in the right headspace to be working on this particular WIP, lol.

I'm pretty sure this feeling will go away eventually, but maybe I should concentrate my efforts on Lianon and Rhianna's story for now.

In the interim, I'll just say this: If you have a Y chromosome, I reserve the right to hate you for no reason. Not that I WILL hate you, I just reserve the right to. So be warned.

And because I don't begrudge others the joy they find on this day or any other, I'll give you all a heartfelt Happy Valentine's Day. I really do mean it. Unless you have a Y chromosome...

AWOL

Okay, just a small update for you all. I've been kind of incommunicado these days. I have a shit-ton of stuff to deal with, most of it less than pleasant, and haven't had the energy or the right mind-set for writing or blogging or even having long, convoluted email conversations with my online friends.

But, never fear. None of this is anything that a battalion of family law attorneys, a couple cases of beer judiciously applied and some primal scream therapy can't fix.

On the bright side--just so I don't close on a down note--I got my hair cut and it looks totally blammo. :P

All ur head are belong to us!!

So the rotten little girl was at my house when I got home from work Friday night.

Not IN the house, mind you, because she's not allowed. But she was standing outside the downstairs window with a Gamecube controller, playing Smash Bros with my three kids. My buddy (who's living with me until the end of the month) wasn't aware my daughter and her "friend" were playing fast and loose with the letter of the law, but had been wondering why the dog was growling and barking the whole time I was gone (George used to belong to my bud when she lived three houses down from rotten little girl, who made a habit of taunting and harassing the poor thing--the dog absolutley detests her).

This girl is absolutely the worst kind of influence. At only 11 years old, she's already manipulative and sneaky, and her parents just do not keep track of her. She'll knock on your door at 7 AM on a Saturday, and not go home until after 11 at night--and they don't even worry. They don't wonder where she is or what she's doing, or even whether she's eaten. They once phoned at around midnight wondering if I might know where she was. They didn't seem distraught. The mother told me "Oh, I know she's probably just sleeping over at a friend's house." WTF?

And she has lice. Ugh. I have a friend who works at the elementary school. She told me she spent the whole school year having the girl and her sister shower at school (they don't at home), and trying in vain to get rid of the damn things. But without the cooperation of the parents, it's a losing battle. And it's now been six weeks of summer vacation. Six weeks since the last treatment. I can only imagine the level of infestation at this point.

And guess who now has the little bastards crawling around in their hair? My damn kids. There were no nits to speak of (that I could see), but Blammo, especially, is crawling with the little buggers.

So guess how I get to spend my days off? Scrubbing my kids' heads with extra-strength Denorex (apparently salicylic acid works well), and washing all the bedding in hot water. I am overjoyed, as you can probably tell.

I rinsed them all with vinegar tonight, combed through their hair and picked out all the adults I could find. By the time I was done, it was almost midnight.

All I can say is, "Some people's kids..."

Sigh.

August Excerpt Monday!

Time for yet another Excerpt Monday. This week, for lack of anything more timely, it's a snippet from my recent Samhain release, The Chancellor's Bride (m/m/f polyamorous erotic fantasy romance), which is selling like whoa and like damn at MBaM (but could always do better *ahem*).

And miracle of miracles, this excerpt is actually clean enough for my mom to read (if she were so inclined), but hopefully intriguing enough to, uh...intrigue you all. Yeah, so I used "intrigue" twice in the same sentence. It's late. Go ahead and sue me, I dare ya.

Hope you guys enjoy it. If you do, and you want a copy for nothing but a cheesy pick-up line, allow me to direct you to my currently stagnating cheesy pick-up line contest. Because the stagnant cheese is getting a little ripe--as stagnant cheese will--and all I need is a few more entries and I can wrap that baby up. :)

In other news, I am not in the nuthouse just yet. Ask me again in a week.

OMG help me

Well, we're well into week two of my buddy and her three-year-old demon spawn staying at my house, and not surprisingly, nothing is getting accomplished. My word-meters are stagnant, emails in my inbox go unanswered and there are still 842, 560 dirty dishes in the sink. Every time I go to work, I think to myself, "I don't want to be here, but god help me, I do not want to go home." On top of which, she won't be able to move out for another week or so. Oy. My liver ought to give me a medal for not descending into full-on alcoholism at this point.

But lo, it is a long weekend, and the little guy's dad is going to take him for three nights. Angels are singing right now, I can hear a whole choir of them in my head as I type this.

Does this mean I'll be able to get my house clean or my WIPs written or anything productive done between now and Monday? Probably not. But I will make myself at least start an article for Victoria Janssen's blog--we're tentatively scheduled for August 28th, which is later than I'd like, but I did leave it til the very last second of the very last minute so I'm not about to complain. It also gives me more time to procrastinate, and my therapist says my self-esteem benefits from concentrating my efforts on what I do best, so procrastinate I shall.

For article ideas, I'm thinking "Writing F/F for Fun and No Profit", lol. Or how about "F/F/M: Two Hot Babes Seein' to Mah Manly Needs"?

Um, no.

I think my topic of discussion will be "F/F/M: Not Just a Straight Guy's Fantasy". Coming on the heels of Bound by Steel's print release (August 4th, BTW), and in light of my EC-aimed project, Vessel, I think it's topical, at least for me. I only hope I can do the subject some justice, especially since my brain no work so good right now.

I also have to arrange for some promo for next Wednesday (the 5th) to do at the Samhaincafe, and plan a contest or something for a print copy of BbS.

And I know most of you all have not entered my (admittedly half-assed and hurried) pick-up line contest for The Chancellor's Bride (still holding at #6 on Samhain's bestseller list), which is something that will have to change, because I absolutely refuse to announce a winner when there are only three qualifying entries. So get to it! I mean it. I'd say all the cool kids are doing it, but clearly most of the cool kids have other things to do.

And that's about all the coherence my brain can manage today--which does not bode well for my performance at work tonight, but oh well. They love me there, even when I mess up every two seconds and can't string an understandable sentence together.

Hugs. And if I don't blog again for a while, it will be because I've been committed--perhaps voluntarily. Maybe in the nuthouse, I'd get five minutes in the bathroom without all hell breaking loose on the other side of the door. A girl can dream...

Something Smells Rank

...and it's Amazon.

Well, proving once again that even the irresistible marketing force that is Amazon is prone to hubris and hypocrisy equal to any soulless government bureaucracy, Amazon's PTB have rejiggered their sales ranking system to exclude what it deems "adult content".

By Amazon's definition, "adult content" = books on parenting for gays and lesbians, YA fiction with sex or gay characters, erotica, GLBT romance (even the sweet variety), dozens of Aphrodisia and HQ Blaze novels (and mine, I would assume), and Lady Chatterly's Lover.

By Amazon's definition, "all-ages content" = Mein Kampf, books on dogfighting, Playboy: Wet and Wild Complete Collection, Playboy: The Complete Centerfolds, graphic novels depicting incest orgies, the memoirs of porn stars, and American Psycho.

Clearly, their first concern is the moral well-being of the children. We must think of the children!

Why is this a problem, you ask? Because Amazon's sales ranking system and search engine are symbiotic. Exclusion from the sales ranking means your book will not turn up on the search engine--or in those stupid emails they're still sending me (after buying ONE book from them) suggesting that because I bought Stacia Kane's Personal Demons, I might like every other urban fantasy ever written. It's the brick and mortar equivalent of a bookstore removing your book from the shelves and making readers go to customer service to request it by name.

It also means (oh, the irony) that when gay and lesbian parents looking for info on raising kids enter the keywords "homosexual" and "parenting" into the search engine, it will spit out A Parent’s Guide to Preventing Homosexuality.

I'd laugh if it wasn't so stupid.

But there are things that can be done. You can sign a petition here.

You can write a nasty email addressed to ecr@amazon.com or phone them at 1-800-201-7575.

And the Smart Bitches have a cunning (and winningly bitchtastic) plan to mess with Amazon's Google presence. All you gotta do is stick this link: Amazon Rank somewhere conspicuous and encourage people to click on it. A lot. As the number of clicks increases, that post will creep up the Google ranking, and eventually, when people google Amazon Rank, they'll be directed first to the awesome new definition the SBs have come up with.

So, go on, have at them. Do your worst.

Ooooh, shiny!

My new website, that is. After many trials and tribulations (which almost culminated in me seeing just how many billion pieces I could smash my new Vista-powered laptop into when it flat-out refused to unzip a zipped folder) I have built a new Wordpress website.

Well, actually, Elle Media designed it. And my fellow Diva and new favorite person evah, Jeannie Lin, whose book Butterfly Swords recently finaled in RWA's Golden Heart contest, went into the bowels of my webhost's FTP and actually got it up where it's supposed to be. Suffice to say, I now dream of Jeannie with the dark brown hair, her slender, gracefully tapered fingers stroking her keyboard and lovingly caressing my website into submission--much more effective than my standard bash-with-hammer-see-what-falls-out method.

This new site is not as graphics-heavy as the old one (not many nekkid pictures for y'all, sorry), but it will be super-amazingly easy to update. My old sitebuilder required me to have a huge program installed on my computer, to make any changes on that computer, then save them, then publish them to the project, then log onto my host and upload the altered file. I had to do this whether making a whole new page, or changing one typo.

Plus, there was no way to update from another computer, unless I wanted to go in and rewrite code onsite--and you can probably imagine how THAT would have turned out. Not long ago, I added a page (my Purple Panties story *ahem*), and it made all the content on my Kaemon & Egraen story pages disappear. I couldn't even figure out what had happened, let alone how to fix it.

Now, I can log on from anywhere, and make whatever changes I want in about three minutes, yay!

So with this new, easy-peasy to update site, what can you all expect? More news. More free reads. More ME! Hooray!

About freaking time!

The Chancellor's Bride is now done--69 000 words of spectacular (I hope!) m/m/f action, all tied up in a nice, fantasy romance bow. All I need to do now is sit on it for a few days, give it one more look-see, and then send it in to my editor.

But DAMN, this is a long time coming. It feels like this book has taken forEVER. I started it last summer and had initially estimated I could finish by the end of October--my editor, Bethany, even dangled a January release date in front of my nose if I could get it in by then. When Halloween came and went and I was barely half-done, I promised her the end of January. Then, a few weeks ago, I emailed her to say I only had a few thousand words left, and it should be done anytime.

Even those last few thousand words have been agony.

Holy crapping damn, this book has put me through a wringer. Part of me wonders if it's the fact that there are two heroes. My feelings about men have been a tad cool since my separation in September, and I've been distracted by thoughts of a new project--an f/f novella that will be a prequel to Crossing Swords.

Kids, yeah; work, yeah; housework, yeah yeah yeah--they're all great excuses for putting off doing what I'm supposed to, which is working on making writing a career. That ain't gonna happen if it takes me three-quarters of a year to write a relatively short novel. So as soon as this one is in the post, I'm buckling down and getting that prequel onto my hard drive. No more excuses, no more whining (and no more male heroes to put a damper on my creativity, heh. At least, not for a while). I'm planning between 30 and 50k for it, so it shouldn't take me long (famous last words, I know), and because the hero* is my favorite character ever, Lianon al-Sylphae, I'm hoping the words will continue to flow effortlessly.

In honor of this new project, I'm posting a new word-meter in my sidebar so you can all nag me when I deserve it. Please, don't be gentle--if my slacker ways are allowed to continue unchecked, I'm going to end up one of those writers who put out a book every two years, and none of us want that. So crack the whip, baby. I can take it. :)

*Yes, hero. Lianon may be a woman, but she is definitely NOT your typical romance heroine. She's even inspired me to write (hopefully in time to make the Samhellion newsletter deadline) an article on romance and the female hero. If you all have any suggestions of female heroes you've encountered in romances you've read, I'd be much obliged if you'd mention them in the comments.

Hugs.

Global Warming...

...where are you?

In all my years living on the North Island, it's never been so cold for so long so early in the season. I mean, yes, we've had snow in the past. It typically falls for a few hours sometime in January, then melts before the kids have time to finish building their snowman. Sometimes it sticks around for a day or two--just long enough to pay for the local body shop owner's vacation in Mexico--before our regularly scheduled rain resumes.

And yes, we've had freezing conditions before. But I've never seen the water that runs in ditches and cascades down the embankments along the highway frozen solid. Last year, for a week or so, I had to go out each morning and break the crust of ice on the top of the water in my dog's bowl. This year, we had to bring the bowl inside--once we'd chiseled it off of the surface of the deck--because it had four inches of solid ice in it. As I watched a group of poor, brave, foolhardy, insane kids sledding across the street, the wind tore a Crazy Carpet from a little girl's mittened hand to carry it half a block before depositing it on the roof of my neighbor's toolshed. Guess when you only get snow a few days a year, it's hard for a kid to pass up the chance to play in it--even when you stand to lose a body part.

Now I know all of BC--all of Canada, in fact, and a good portion of the States--is in a deep freeze. And I know, those of you in Winterpeg or Edmonton or Toronto or Halifax are probably muttering under your breath right now about where I can stuff my wussy -5C (to which I will give the standard British Columbian's reply of "But, it's a damp cold."). But with gale force gusts nudging the windchill down to -10 and lower, with snow piling up inside my carport, with the windows rattling and the heat in my barely insulated house cranked, I feel like I've earned the right to moan.

So hear it is, my big whine: It's effing cold. I don't like it. So if the Sierra Club or whoever is in charge of this global warming stuff wanted to send some my way, at this point I wouldn't complain. Come on. All I'm asking for is five degrees.

No, it Isn't Snow

It's dog hair.

Yes, it's that time of year once more: Shedding season.

"What's this?" you say? "A dog, shedding in the fall? But spring is the time of year for dogs to molt!"

To you doubters, I say "Pooh"--right after I spit out a mouthful of dog hair.

Every October my fat, stupid, lazy, coffee table of a dog drops her entire coat. Yes, her entire coat. Like any fashionista, she is unsatisfied with merely expanding her current wardrobe--twice a year, she requires a completely new one.

This means for about three weeks, the rest of us are forced to wade through drifts of soft, ivory fluff that aspire to the ceiling. Woe betide the child who climbs sticky-fingered onto the sofa. We hostages to the hair wear dark colors at our own peril. Why, just this morning, I couldn't get the F on my keyboard to function. The problem? A matt of dog hair stuck under the key.

There's dog hair in the butter dish, dog hair in my freezer, dog hair sprouting from the window screens, dog hair stuck to my mascara wand. And yet there is still, defying all laws of physics and common sense, dog hair on the dog. I can brush her for hours, harvesting bales of the stuff, and three and a half minutes later she'll wander by in a cloud of freshly molted fur, depositing her dubious bounty on every piece of furniture within fifty feet.

I have fought this biannual war of attrition with a multitude of inadequate weapons: brooms, dog-combs and vacuum cleaners, lint-rollers and sticky tape. I have even considered applying a generous coat of spar varnish to the dog so the whole mass comes off in one, solid shell. But this year, I simply no longer have the energy to fight. I concede defeat. The hair wins.

I'm not even going to vacuum until the saturation bombardment of dog-follicles ceases. The battle is unwinnable, so why even try?

If any of you all are looking for me, I'll be under the dog hair until the second week of November.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part...

Warning: huge, whiney, complainy post ahead...

Ever have one of those days where it just feels like you're waiting and waiting and waiting? For me, that day is today.

Waiting on that first royalty statement to find out how Healer's Touch did in its release month. Will it sell better than Crossing Swords did? I have to assume so, since it actually made the top ten at MBaM for almost a day, yay! Will Crossing Swords experience a surge in sales this month due to Healer's' release?

Waiting on final approval for the cover for Bound by Steel, which is so smokin' hot as is that I can only imagine how scorching it will be if it's undergoing a face-lift.

Waiting for reviewers to do their thing. I only wish they were all as flattering as Madame Butterfly was in her haste to read and lavish praise on Healer's Touch. At the same time, dreading the moment when those reviews go up, on the chance that they are scathing, or worse, tepid.

Waiting for my stepson and his friends to go home so I can have my house back. You have no idea what it's like to have four 21-year-olds, three kids and two adults living in a 1200 square foot, three bedroom, 1 1/2 bath house with no basement.

Waiting for my kids to go back to school so I can actually write.

Waiting for October, when Bound by Steel releases. At the same time, dreading October because I promised my editor I would have Chancellor's Bride finished and in her hot little hand by Hallowe'en.

Waiting for the rain to stop and the sun come back. Please, please come back, summer.

Waiting for customers to walk in the door. I mean, it's the last dang Wednesday of the month (otherwise known as "Welfare Wednesday"), the day everyone's government money comes in: GST rebates and child tax benefits and guaranteed income supplements and welfare cheques and pension cheques and all that, and usually it's so busy in here I can't even check my email. But today, for some reason, I have had two--count 'em--two tables since I came in at 11. It is now 1:30.

Waiting waiting waiting for the other waitress to get here at 5 so I can go home. And wait some more.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that the weather is to blame for my discontent. It's been pouring rain and cold (12C) all week--we even had hail, ffs. I guess we already had our summer on the North Island, and it was all of three and a half weeks long.

*sigh*

This Pain in My Knee is a Pain in the Ass

Just got back from the doctor, and the x-rays were fucking normal. The verdict: Patellofemural Pain Syndrome.

Ugh.

Why do I say "ugh"? Because it means they can't fix it with surgery, won't go in with a scope to see what's under the kneecap, won't spring for more effective imaging than an x-ray, and pretty much the only treatments available are the ones I've already been using with less than spectacular results. Those treatments--taking painkillers, walking to relieve the discomfort, and applying ice--are either inconvenient or of questionable effectiveness.

How much does it hurt? Well, speaking as someone who has given birth to an 11+ lb baby the natural way, this latest flare-up--at its worst--hurt as much as early to mid-stage labor. Only you don't get that couple of minutes between each wave of pain--it just hurts all. The. Time. And it isn't dull or throbbing, either. It's like someone is jamming a knife under your kneecap.

All. The. Time.

The swelling is disturbing. The heat of the inflamed tissues, even immediately after you take the ice pack off, is alarming. Advil (even twice the maximum recommended dose) does not touch this pain. Codeine is its bitch. The only things that have worked for me is walking, and ice. Unfortunately, I can't even use this as an excuse to take time off work--being a waitress means my job is like physiotherapy.

Not being somnambulatory, I am left with one option at night. Every three hours or so, my knee wakes me up to let me know my ice pack needs changing. The walk to the freezer is a welcome relief, and by the time I return to bed, I can usually almost stand it. Sometimes, I need to walk circles in the living room for five or ten minutes before I can lie back down.

Of course, this flare-up could not have happened at a worse time. Sitting hurts. Driving is excruciating. Driving six hours so I could sit through my cousin's wedding ceremony and reception dinner was agony, even with an inexhaustible supply of ice from a cute bartender at the reception, and enough codeine to drop a bull elephant. In spite of all that, I managed to have a wonderful time. My cousin was handsome and charming, his bride beautiful and gracious. The ceremony was short and sweet, the venue stunning, the weather glorious, the food delectable and--most importantly--the bar open. Wild horses stamping violently on my bad knee couldn't have dragged me away.

That was more than a week ago. The pain and swelling have mostly subsided now, but the doctor gave me a prescription for naproxen sodium to take the next time it acts up. Of course, after looking at the list of side-effects in the product monograph, ice is looking better all the time. Generally, ice doesn't give you intestinal bleeding, heart attack or stroke.

But ask me again during the next flare-up. I'm notoriously fickle when I'm in agony.

The Everyday Writer I Ain't

You spend any time among authors and you hear a lot of advice on writing. Much of it has to do with the oddly yet aptly monikered habit of BICHOK. Butt in chair, hands on keyboard. The belief is that the proper, disciplined, career-oriented writer needs to write every day. Anything less, and you're just a wannabe.

Well, anyone who has been paying attention to my word meters ===> to the right will have noticed they aren't zooming into the stratosphere of late.

Okay, let me clarify. I have been writing plenty, mostly making a pain of myself on other people's blogs and forums, offering my opinion even (perhaps especially, hehe) when I know it might not be appreciated. And I've been doing a little proofing of my WIPs, tweaking sentences and trying to get back in the mood. But to be honest, I don't think I will get back into the required brainspace for writing fiction until after my cousin's wedding on the 20th, when most or all of my invading hordes--I mean, visiting relatives--will head back home.

According to prevailing wisdom, I should live by the code of BICHOK. I should sit in my chair every day and make myself write, even if all I produce is crap. But I just can't make myself do this. It seems like pointless self-flagellation to force out words when I'll likely just end up deleting them anyway. It isn't as if I haven't tried this exercise in futility. But writing scenes that start out as garbage and end up that way, too, can't help but make me doubt my abilities as a writer--and honestly, this business already provides writers with enough reasons to doubt themselves.

Plus, forcing myself to do stuff I don't wanna do is NO FUN.

I write in spurts. I'll spend weeks daydreaming and getting nothing accomplished, and then BAM! I'll finally sit down and bang out 15 000 words in a few days. I know myself better than any self-appointed expert ever will. Taking a day or a week or a month off will not be the end of my career.

So a big NYAHHH! to prevailing wisdom. I'm not your BICHOK. I don't have to do what you say. Those word meters will move when I'm good and ready.

For now, I'm off to Dear Author to see if I can't annoy someone I don't even know. Wheeeee!

Name This Baby - Contest!!

I need help, people, and in more ways than one. Given my growing urge to punish my latest, stubbornly unnamable novel, and in honor of the Smart Bitches' recent shenanigans, I hereby announce my first ever Purple Title Contest!

Read yon blurb. Post appropriately over-the-top, lilac-tinted title in the comments. Next week, a panel of three self-appointed experts will determine the most godawful, painfully purple example, and level a suitable punishme--*ahem* award the winner a free copy of the ebook in question (when it releases)--or Crossing Swords (out now) or Healer's Touch (August) if you prefer your gratification closer to instant.

Blurbage:


“I’ve been thinking about Kaela…”

There they are – the words that lead Gil to suspect Lianon his wife is falling in love with someone else. Not with another man – with Kaela, the traumatized girl they rescued from certain death six months before, the sweet, beautiful young woman who’s been living with them since that terrible night at Flaxton’s Inn. Gil has no idea how to compete with a woman for his wife’s affections, and part of him isn’t interested in trying. Because Lianon has plans for the three of them, plans that worry Gil less and less as he begins to fall under the spell of Kaela’s tarnished innocence.

But even as Gil, Lianon and Kaela succumb to the growing desire between them, the two Emissaries are drawn against their will into the intrigues and vendettas of Belthalas’ elite. When Lianon is kidnapped, Gil finds himself caught between one of the city’s most powerful politicians and those who seek to destroy him. Gil must weave a dangerous path between one adversary’s ambition and another’s lust for vengeance, even as Kaela works her way further under his skin. By the time Kaela is finally reunited with her disapproving family, Lianon’s heart isn’t the only one that stands to be broken.

One way or the other, it could be a very unhappy ending for everyone…

~

There you have it. Despite my editor's flagrant taunting and my own growing annoyance with the entire ordeal, I am reluctant to name this book One Sword, Two Scabbards. So have at it, one and all. Do your downright, despicably flowery worst!

And if any of you can think up a suitable title in a more utilitarian shade of say, brown or ecru or Navaho white, feel free to email me. At this point, I need all the help I can get!

Edited to add: The deadline for entries is Thursday, May 29. The winner (or winners, depending on how tough the decision is!) will be chosen Saturday and announced immediately thereafter.

Name This Baby

When I had my boys, I knew right away--before I was pregnant, even--what their names would be. Strong, traditional, simple, masculine names. Names that have stood the test of time. Names any boy or man would wear with pride, ones that suited my husband's taste and my own.

With my daughter, not so much. She was, in fact, nameless for the first twenty-eight days of her life, at which point, the government forced my husband and me to come to a compromise and slap a sticker on the poor girl. We were neither of us overjoyed with the name we ended up picking, but we met each other halfway and our daughter is now thankfully in possession of a moniker other than "Baby Girl S.".

As authors we are often told, "your book is not your baby", a sentiment I wholeheartedly second. But right now, the book in my editor's hot little hand is behaving exactly like my daughter. My first two books, Crossing Swords and Healer's Touch, pretty much named themselves, the words appearing in my head in a burst of creative clarity. But this book, the sequel to Crossing Swords, is stubbornly resisting any semblance of labelling.

Add to this irritation the fact that my editor, the incomparable Bethany Morgan, is holding my contract in reserve, awaiting only the christening of this recalcitrant manuscript. In her words: "If someone were to name her book, she might receive an email..."

Yet we remain at an impasse, my book and me. The 80 000 words of this story poured from my fingertips and onto my hard drive with an effortless certainty. But the two to five words that will encapsulate the tale for the benefit of readers continue to elude me. To be honest, I'm not sure these words even exist. Perhaps in Esperanto?

This book being an erotic romance/fantasy featuring a sword-wielding hero and two--count 'em, two--heroines, the possibilities for title cheese are as endless and seductive as the oh-so-subtle symbolism of swords and *ahem* sheaths.

So that's it. I'm putting my foot down. If this thing doesn't tell me it's freaking name by tomorrow night, it will be contracted under the dignified moniker of One Sword, Two Scabbards.

Take that.