Warhead On Legs

Welp. I just read the first page or so of Pen Bryton to an Open Mike. No agents or editors there (alas!) but! I got some lovely positive feedback. One person who didn't know how such a hard voice could come out of such a "diminutive, soft spirit" (HEE!) and wondered if I was writing from experience. "God no," I replied. "I'm an anthropologist."

They laughed.

A lot of people liked it. Sounded like I was writing from experience, they said, or reminiscent fo the hard-boiled novels I was trying so hard to emulate. One or two guys said they thought it had cinematic value. One guy took me aside afterwards and said he liked it, that he'd never heard of a hard-boiled detective heroine that he could remember. I muttered something about reinventing or renewing the genre and slipped back to my seat so as not to interrupt the next reader.

Was reading at 11.10, though. The thing was supposed to be over at 11 pm.

Heading to bed now. Early morning tomorrow, but damn. That felt good.

People are never who you think they are. It's not a good thing or a bad thing, it just is.

I have a sudden craving for Starburst.

The fact that Laurell K Hamilton is making scads of money off bad porn really irritates me. I'm not sure why in particular, except for the fact that I used to like Anita Blake and now if I saw her on the street I'd put one between her eyes. The woman had a good thing going and she turned her heroine into Slut-Queen of the Paranormal. Mary Sue Slut-Queen of the Paranormal, no less. There's nothing she can't do except keep her legs shut and her tongue in her mouth.

Yes, there's the whole, if she can get published I bloody well can, thing. But it's not that simple. Today, I wish it were. But it's not.

I'm here at work on a day I really don't want to be. I'm worried, tired, stressed. I want the banging to just fucking stop from the kitchen. I want things to get where they're supposed to go on time. I want to be able to mail out things on time, like the goddamn query letter and thank you card that was supposed to go out Wed and I still haven't written yet. Too scared? And too tired. Things that aren't time-sensitive have been pushed back to a lower priority than sleep not involving teeth falling out and black and bloody dreams. I swear. My mouth looked like a pirate's last night. I didnt' even lose teeth, I lost gum. I had pointy molars an inch and a half long sticking out from a bloody island of gum. And when I say bloody, I don't mean the epithet. And black stains.

Not the kind of nightmare I want to have when I'm already worried and upset. And I come into work exhausted the next day. No customer better get shirty with me, that's all I'm saying.

I need a break. I just do. I'm not going to get one for a good two months or so. But I need a break. Maui's coming up and right now all I want to do is get it over with.

HOLY SHIT! I GOT A RESPONSE ALREADY!

AN INTERESTED RESPONSE!

I'm crying. I'm ... holy SHIT!

[cut so's I don't get in trouble for pasting confidential? information...]

Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod.

OKAY!

After two days of concert, power on again off again, and various house renovations... two days? Three? I don't know.

The next three days will involve sewing and writing. Sewing, and prepping Dragons, Pen Bryton, and Storms for the manuscript marketplace; I went with three. From ten down to three. Funny how paying 50-150$ A BOOK will cut down your ambitions. Ah well.

Toodles.

ETA: Why am I always surprised how BIG these skirts are when I sew them? I made it! I know how much fabric went into it and how long the seams are! And yet, whenever I hold up the finished or near-finished product, I always go, holy shit. That's a lot of skirt. Go figure.