BIG NEWS!

I wrote a book! And it's going to be published! This is more exclamation points than I used in the entire manuscript!!!

Yay!

(Actual website coming soon!)

A Brief Tour of My New Office

Since it will never be this clean again.

Needs more bookshelves.

1. Poster to cover oversized mirror on the wall.
2. Oversized mirror.
3. Hat.
4. My grandmother's roll-top desk.
5. Chair the cat is supposed to sit on.
6. Chair the cat actually sits on.
7. Reading couch.
8. Seedling starts for the garden. (Mostly cabbage.)

I Would Also Accept Shrubbery

I recently was in Santa Fe, where I had a chance to visit the Georgia O'Keefe museum. It's a lovely place and I highly recommend it. They, quite reasonably, have a lot of restrictions on taking pictures of the paintings, but none at all for the quotes posted on the wall.


This is about painting, obviously, but I think it applies equally well to story ideas.

And this one I could just relate to in general.

Giant Killer Everything

The problem with (best part of?) reading science news is how much of it would make awesomely terrible (terribly awesome?) book plots. For example:

The First Sea Monster
Title needs some work, but set that baby loose on an unsuspecting* seaside town and/or freighter filled with illicit cargo and dangerous characters and let the magic** begin!


Prefer your disasters a little more global in scale? Well, no worries, Nature's got you covered.

Supervolcanos are nice enough, if you like that sort of thing, though the action is kind of a one-off and it's hard to sustain an entire story unless you can find a way of including Pierce Brosnan. Though I do like the idea of scientists cavalierly drilling into the top of an active volcano, unaware of the havoc they're about to unleash. But maybe that's just me.

Fungus could be interesting, but only if it's like that one that infects ants, takes over their brains so they climb to a high point and then explodes its spores out of their heads. That's a parasite with a sense of drama.

Solar flares have been done. A gamma burst is probably only going to be good if you want to set up a post-apocalypse situation, since there doesn't seem to be anything to be done about it.

But underwater landslides? Now we're talking. Especially if, let's say, a megalomaniac tycoon had just built an ultra-luxury underwater hotel in a remote part of the south Pacific, and in his careless pursuit of profit triggered a small but deadly slide, and created the potential for a much larger one threatening the coast of, let's say, Australia.

I think you can take it from there.



*As opposed to all those seaside towns that are constantly suspecting extinct underwater creatures.
** Where magic=decapitations.

Springtime For Deathtraps

No musical numbers, but my newest Death Traps story has just been published by the brilliant podcasters over at Escape Pod. In it, Xnab and his crew address the eternal question of what to do when you have locked the keys inside your treasure chamber, and whether the apocalypse is really just a case of bad QA.

Coming Up For Air

Things I have been doing lately: Moving, preparing for a wedding, finishing up a massive work project.
Things I have not been doing lately: Blogging, sleep.

These things are not likely to change soon, but I did want to stop by and say hi and share some good news, now that the check has cleared: The fine people at Escape Pod have purchased another one of my Death Traps stories for podcast publication on some future date yet to be determined. Obviously, I will let you know when I find out more, but for now I can tell you that the title is Springtime for Death Traps and it is about, among other things, toads, calendars, career choices and what happens when you lock your keys inside the temple.

A Hundred Acres of Shadows

(Inspired by a true story. Loosely. With thanks to @bmahersciwriter and Captain Morgan.)

The bear lowered his rotund form into the chair and contemplated his guests.
"Well, gentlemen, I think you know why I've brought you here."
As they protested their ignorance, he slid a stoneware jar across the table and pointed to the label.
"Do you know what that says?"
The rabbit was the first to assay an answer.
"Um, well, it's supposed to be 'honey' but it's not spelled--"
"That's right, honey. And do you know what is actually in that jar? Or, rather, what isn't?" He held up a paw before they could respond. "Never mind, I'm sure you do. I'm sure you are aware that when the boys in my lab ran some basic tests on this alleged top-quality domestic honey you were so good to provide for me, they found that all of the pollen had mysteriously vanished from it."
"There must be some mistake," the owl protested weakly.
"Oh, a mistake?" The bear turned to the small pig who had been sitting in silence to his right
"Mr. Let, these gentlemen think that your boys made a mistake. Do you think that is possible?".
The pig shook his head slowly. "Never. Not a chance."
"Well, there you have it," said the bear. "I have to say, gentlemen, I am very disappointed in you. I have been running this operation under the name of Saunders," he indicated the sign over his head. "For many years now, and never before has this good name been sullied in any way. And now you have put me in the very uncomfortable position of having sold counterfeit Chinese honey to my valued customers."
"I assure you," said the owl. "We would never have--"
"Do you know what the Chinese do to their honey?" the bear went on, unheeding. "They water it down. Replace it with beet sugar, high fructose corn syrup. They let it get contaminated with antibiotics."
"Over in that room," he said, pointing to an interior door. "There is a baby kangaroo in the throes of a serious allergic reaction. He'll live, thanks to my doctors, but his mother is understandably concerned. Have you ever been kicked by an angry female kangaroo, gentlemen? No? Well, I wouldn't recommend it."
The pair on the other side of the desk looked at each other, then around the room for possible means of escape. But there was only one exit to the outside, and the bouncer was blocking it, poised to spring.
"We had no idea," the rabbit pleaded. "We were operating on good faith, I swear."
"Of course you were," the bear soothed. "Why wouldn't you be? Why would anyone take a cheap product and sell it at an incredible markup by claiming it was something else?"
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Of course I believe you. My friend here," he pointed to the donkey at his left. "He always sees the worst in everything, but I believe in fair play."
The bear stood up.
"My friends here are going to take you down to the footbridge over the creek. It would be a good idea for you to go with them quietly. When you get to the bridge, you are both going to jump off on the upstream side. One of you will come out the other side first. And the other one. . . won't."

Department of Story Ideas: The Meat-Eaters

The Inspiration:
A conversation over lunch during which someone mentioned ongoing efforts to create lab-grown meat. Apparently, it needs to be kept moving by the application of electrical shocks in order to develop properly. You see where I am going with this.

The Story:
As above, with some minor variations. Rather than using muscle cells directly from domestic pigs, the researchers choose a hardier variety of wild boar, genetically crossed with goose for flavor. In addition to the electricity the pieces of meat are given rudimentary nerve systems to increase their mobility and improve their texture and the ability to digest a variety of food sources so that manufacturers can alter the feed according to material prices. Everything is going great, until one night, when the power goes out to the feeding tanks and the meat gets hungry. . .

The Pitch:
It's Jurassic Park meets bacon.

The Tagline:
"Dinner is coming. . . for you!"

"Fancy": A Revisionist Version

You know how sometimes there's a song you really kind of like, but you can't stand to listen to it because the lyrics are basically about how if you're a poor woman all you're really good for is prostitution? Well, for me, Reba McEntire's "Fancy" is that song. I have to admit, the chorus is very catchy, and she sings it with conviction, but I just can't get past the fact that the story she's telling is basically, "We were poor, so when I was a teenager my mom told me my only chance in life was to sell myself to men, so I did and now everything turned out great." Which doesn't strike me as the most woman-positive message you could send, so I thought I'd try my hand at fixing it up.


Fancy
By Raymond Douglas Davies
(Additional lyrics by Daisy James)


I remember it all very well lookin' back
It was the summer I turned eighteen
We lived in a one room, rundown shack
On the outskirts of New Orleans
We didn't have money for food or rent
To say the least we had no loot
Then Mama spent every last penny we had
To buy me an interview suit

Mama washed and combed and parted my hair
And she told me to stand up straight
Then I stepped into my brand new suit
That was pinstriped and charcoal gray
It was a linen-blend and it fit me good
Standin' back from the lookin' glass
There was a job candidate where a half grown kid had stood

She said here's some nice pants Fancy don't let me down
Here's the number for the jobs board Fancy don't let me down

Mama picked up my new notepad
And she kissed my cheek
Then I saw the tears wellin' up in her troubled eyes
When she started to speak
She looked at a pitiful shack
And then she looked at me and took a ragged breath
She said your Pa's run off and I'm real sick
And the baby's gonna starve to death

She handed me a heart shaped locket that said
Illegitimi non carborundum
And nodded as I threw away
My wad of chewing gum
It sounded like somebody else that was talkin'
Askin' Mama what do I do
She said be nice to the administrative assistants Fancy
And they'll be nice to you

She said here's the classifieds section Fancy don't let me down
Here's your Monster account Fancy don't let me down

Just remember everything I've taught you,
because if you want out
Well it's up to you
Now don't let me down you better start
movin' uptown

Well, that was the last time I saw my Ma
The night I left that rickety shack
The welfare people came and took the baby
Mama died and I ain't been back

But the wheels of fate had started to turn
And for me there wasn't time to lose
And it wasn't very long 'til I was waiting
In a temp agency in my sensible shoes

I knew what I had to do and I made myself this solemn vow
That I's gonna be successful someday
Though I didn't know when or how
I couldn't see spending the rest of my life
Playing a sucker's game
You know, I might have been born just plain white trash
But Fancy was my name

Here's your company dossier Fancy don't let me down
Here's your annual reports Fancy don't let me down

It wasn't long after that I got a job
Filing papers and printing spreadsheets
And one week later I was a permanent employee
In a five room office suite

I worked late, on weekends
Got a night-school MBA
Then I got me a nice apartment
And an off-lease Cabriolet
And I ain't done bad

Now in this world there's a lot of small-minded people
Who'd never think I could achieve
And criticize Mama for telling me
No matter what, always believe

But though I ain't had to worry 'bout nothin'
For nigh on fifteen years
I can still hear the desperation in my poor
Mama's voice ringin' in my ear

She said, here's your one chance Fancy don't let me down
Here's your one chance Fancy don't let me down
Don't let folks tell you, you can't do
'Cause if you want out, well it's up to you
Now don't let me down
Your Mama's gonna send you uptown

On the Inspirational Properties of Travel

I'm back!* Yes, having survived my sojourn to the wilds of the Northeast, during which I had to contend with my inadequacies at a) candlepin bowling, b) pool and c) explaining what it is I do for a living without giving away the fact that I don't entirely understand it myself, I have returned home and to my true calling of writing severely run-on sentences for the internet. And despite what I just said, the trip was actually pretty good, though more so in the parts where Cameron and I were visiting Mary and Sean's lovely place in Cambridge, and less so when I struck off on my own for the work conference at the site in not-exactly-as-lovely Worcester. But, hey nothing wrong with meals you can expense.

There were plenty of interesting and informative presentations at the conference, some of which I even stayed awake for, but by far the best thing I learned there is that our company's laboratory site in that city** was built on the grounds of an old insane asylum. My boss, who was sitting next to me at the table at dinner when we learned this (and is aware of my not-exactly-literary ambitions) immediately declared that I should write a book about that, and I think he may be on to something. I mean, just think of the possibilities!

It starts slowly; a mysterious image in the UV picture of an agarose gel, a pool of blood on the floor that everyone blames on the guy doing the whole-blood work, even though he swears he didn't do it. Then all the mice in the animal facility start murdering each other, and someone discovers that the cold room has been maintaining its temperature despite the fact that the compressor has been broken for several months, and whenever anyone tries to generate a protein sequence all they can get, no matter what the real sequence, is a long series of repeats of "aspartic acid-isoleucine-glutamic acid."*** Then someone stays to work late, and the next morning his body is found in the autoclave, and pretty soon all kinds of science-type Hell is breaking loose. 


I think it could be a hit.


*Since Wednesday night. But I think it's petty to dwell on details like that, don't you?
**I'm avoiding mentioning my employer by name here on the off chance that someone there has figured out how to use google alerts, and puts me on some kind of watchlist.
***For assistance in understanding this joke, please see this page.

Is It Chilly In Here?

Of course not, I'm in California. But I do feel a freeze coming on . . .

That's right, economic observers, time to kiss the recovery goodbye, because Daisy's going on another buying freeze.*

No particular reason for this round, except that tax time is coming, and it felt like a good moment for it. But there's a twist-- I'm not giving myself a firm end date. Instead, I have decided to give up shopping until I finish the first draft of Land Squid. That's right, until I write The End on the last page of land-locked tentacle-y mayhem, there will be no cute skirts, no patterned coats, no bags with birds on them, no fancy cheese serving plates. And, laugh if you will, but I am going to say it: There will be no shoes.

(Okay, you can stop laughing now. Seriously. It's not that funny.)

The way I figure it, if anything is going to get me to keep my butt in the chair and my mind on new ways to describe dismemberment, it is the knowledge that if I don't I will never have a new pair of earrings again. Also, if I ever do quit my job and go to writing full-time, there's no way I'm going to be able to afford any of this, so I might as well get used to it now.


*For those of you not familiar with my powers, please be aware that the first time I did this, I crashed the entire global economy.**
**I said I was sorry.

Schrödinger’s Cat Lady, Now Available

Listen or read it here.

I wonder what I should do for a follow-up? Occam's Razor Case? The Millikan Oil Drop Vinaigrette? Fermat's Last Theorem Before Bedtime, I Mean It Mister?

Twenty-Four Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three

That's how may words I have to write in the next five days to make my (set months ago) goal of making it fifty-thousand words in the book I'm working on by the new year. (That should get me up through the Italian restaurant dinner, the people who think they're hunting vampires, the reality show celebritard,  and the guy from the EPA. Also, at least two more squid attacks. Maybe three.) I have the entire week off from work and I plan to spend every day latched to my computer*, writing my little heart out, chasing down my artificial deadline.

I'm pretty sure I'm not going to make it.


UPDATE: I'm not going to make it.

UPDATE II: I didn't make it.


*Except for tomorrow afternoon, when I'm getting together with Abigail in the city. Also, lunch.

Air Squid II

I'm not saying why I keep posting links to stories about squid that propel themselves through the air. I'm just saying: plot point.

Shoesday: Jingle Shoes

If you happen to have visited my twitter or Facebook or have been within about ten feet of me in the last couple of weeks, you may have heard about how I just sold my short story "Schrödinger's Cat Lady" to the fine people at Escape Pod, for publication as a podcast and text in mid-January. That would be excitement enough all on its own, but making it even better is the fact that they have become successful enough to pay professional rates for their stories which is very exciting indeed. So, of course, I did what I always do when faced with an unexpected financial windfall, and spent it on shoes.


I love these shoes. They're a great shade of candy-apple red, there's a hidden platform that keeps them from being too high and padding in the footbed to make it possible to stand in them for more than ten minutes at a time.

But the best part (and the problem) is what's on the back:

Awesome, yes? I could never bring myself to get any additional piercings on my body, but I love them on my shoes. And the metal heel is just the right touch of basassitude for the holidays. But there is a problem.

You know what happens when a metal charm hits a metal heel? Clinking. Jingling, even. But that's okay. I figure either I'll where these to a Christmas party and the noise will be blamed on someone else's novelty sweater, or a club and pretend it's just part of the music.

Because, jingling be damned, with imaginary cats as my witness I promise you this: I will wear them.

A Nidiface of My Own

As it happens, I'm a big fan of words. (Pause for Cameron to say, "Really?" in a deeply sarcastic tone of voice.) Big words, little words, words I don't know how to pronounce because I've only ever seen them written. Which is why this project appeals to me so much. It's an attempt being made by the makers of the Oxford English Dictionary to save words that are in danger of being lost to the English language forever, by having people adopt and use them.

I was only going to take "nidiface," which means "nest," but then I saw "Ichthyarchy*" and I knew I had to have that too. Look for these to turn up regularly in my blog posts and twitter, until they either reenter normal usage or everyone stops talking to me.

(If you adopt a word of your own, please share it in the comments, and we can try and come up with sentences for them.)

(Thanks to the Fug Girls for the tip.)

*Kingdom of fishes.

To Die, To Sleep No More On My Supremely Comfortable Sealy Posturepedic Mattress

Lately, I've been trying to come up with a way to make a lot of money without doing any work (because, frankly, the other way around hasn't been doing it for me). But rigging the lottery would take too long, and hassling people for spare change outside of Draeger's requires too much human interaction, so I was at a loss. Until I read this post about the hilariously blatant product placement in the soap "Days of Our Lives" and this review of a book in which the author replaces the names of characters in Chekhov's stories with those of current celebrities* and suddenly, my destiny was clear: I am going to rewrite public-domain classics to include paid references to everyone's favorite brands in the text.

I know! Don't you just hate yourself for not having thought of it first?

Obviously, I'll have to work with my customers to determine exactly what books are the best fit for their brands (and budget), but here are a few examples that should give you a sense of the tremendous marketing potential of this new and innovative concept.**

First, something accessible for your mass-market product:

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Bonus Content)

Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs.  And, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet?

So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there.  Then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows.  We took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. We was lucky enough to have a whole case of cool, refreshing Coca-Cola Classic with us in the canoe, which Jim said was powerfully refreshing and just what a body wanted after a long day of being an escaped slave.

Sometimes, the text itself presents the perfect opportunity for a promotional partnership:

Ulysses: Enhanced Edition

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.
—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?
He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:
—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave with care. He slid his Philips Norelco 7310XL across his cheek, exulting in patented Reflex Action System that automatically adjusted to the contours of his face and neck.
—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.
—Yes, my love?
—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

And, of course, everyone knows that if you really want to make money, you need an assist from Jane Austen:

Pride and Prejudice (Extended Author's Cut)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a responsible financial adviser from Merrill Lynch, the most trusted name in wealth management.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be over here shopping for my first private island. How many helipads do you think I'm going to need?


*This took what, about an hour on TMZ and twenty minutes of find and replace? And now he has a book deal? That guy is a genius.
**Like that? It's totally going in my sales materials.

Bouchercon Baby Gone

Saturday and Sunday-- Let's put this one in the books.

I said I was going to bring my boots, and I did. (I tried them with some floral patterned tights, but in combination with the floral dress I had (Target!), it seemed like a little bit much.) And despite an array of very interesting looking panels, something, possibly related to the open bar on Friday, but I am making no accusations. My apologies to the people who spent great time and effort in constructing and organizing their morning panels, but if it's any comfort, I probably would have just fallen asleep anyway.

While I was lying in bed, nursing my inexplicable headache, Cameron was out running sixteen miles. Just thought I ought to share that.

In the afternoon, Karen and I attended one panel, along with her three-month-old daughter, Kate. (More on this interaction later.) Moment of the day: When one author started an anecdote with the phrase, "When I was on tour in France" and Karen and I turned to each other with the simultaneous, unspoken thought: "I want to go on a book tour in France."

Which I'm sure we are both going to do, assuming the people of France have any interest in land-based cephalopods.* Hey, they like Jerry Lewis; anything is possible.

Bouchercon For the Money

Because it was a great location, but I have to say, that hotel room was not cheap.

Day 2, Shoe 1:

One problem with my shoe-centric convention plan was that it was kind of incompatible with pants. Which is too bad, because I'm a big fan of pants. But these are the kinds of sacrifices we have to make if we are going to go around using our material possessions in our desperate bids for attention. Which is a long way of saying I spent a lot of time in skirts, with a heavy reliance on pieces from the last Target designer collection.*

I tried to wear my cut-out booties to Cornelia's panel ("Nancy Drew Was a Cosmo Girl"***), but it was so crowded I would have had to spend the entire time crouching on the floor. So I took myself off to the Sisters in Crime-hosted hospitality suite, for some of the generously provided snacks (best acquired when panels were in session,  due to the lack of competition).

Besides, I needed the sustenance for the next panel I attended (and got an actual chair! kind of had to fight for it though), on Ancient Greek and Roman-set mysteries, featuring every heavyweight**** best-selling author in the genre, plus Gary Corby, my twitter pal and a debut author, holding down the Greek end of things. I'd have to say it was the best panel of the convention, as measured in the number of wacko stalkers who turned up during the Q&A period (two).

By the way, I feel like I should mention that while all this was going on, it was also my thirty-third birthday. I am now firm in my belief that all birthdays should be celebrated in the company of 1400 mystery authors and fans. Also, Cameron gave me a mini video camera, and as soon as I figure out how to work iMovie it's going to be all cat videos, all the time around here. You have been warned.

Bouchercon and Done

You want to make a bad business decision? Try hosting a convention of writers in your hotel and closing the bar at midnight. That should do it.

Last weekend Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, was held in San Francisco and, aside from the management's lack of vision with regards to beverage profits, it was an exceptional experience. I could tell you all about the panels, the authors, the massive bag of free books and/or the very stylish but completely impractical design of the hotel,* and maybe I'll get to that. But first, let's talk about the shoes.

The Puccis I Didn't Pack

My shoes, of course. As promised, I packed an entire separate suitcase for them, plus the overflow that made it in the main suitcase. I had to make some tough calls, like leaving behind my beloved Puccis, and most (but not all) of my boots. And, of course, anything with any claim to sense or comfort.

Would have been perfect, if I didn't have heels

Actually, that's not entirely true. I did try (and fail) to have comfortable shoes, by wearing my black flats for the trip over. I had to do something, because the first part of my plan was to drop off my car at the shop in SOMA where it's getting a new engine (long story**), walk from there to BART and take the train to the Embarcadero, where the conference hotel was located. Unfortunately, what I had forgotten was that I didn't have heel padding in those flats, which meant that my freakishly nobby heels rubbed with every step, which meant that I was blistered before I even started.

This shoe thing, you have to be tough.

(Continued after the jump.)