Eeek. I’m running out of time. In a couple of weeks my book will be in the stores. Cover flats and two copies, now covered in drool, arrived today.
If you’d like a signed cover flat, join the riskies mailing list–and mine–by sending an email to firstname.lastname@example.org with COVER FLAT in the top line. Supplies are limited (five). First come, first served…you’ll know you’ve won if I email you back asking for a snailmail address.
So I’m barely back from Dallas, with a huge amount of laundry to do–funny, since I didn’t take that many clothes. Books I brought back are scattered randomly through the house. The cat is figuring out who I am again. I’m figuring out who I am again. The National conference is one of the few places where a writer can be a writer; where you’re in the company of people who hear voices in their heads and understand if you say things like, “I really want to kill off the cousin in chapter ten” or “I think I have insufficient character arc.” So coming back into the real world, where there are mice in the kitchen and a three-figure electricity bill, no one except me apparently knows how to recycle plastic bags, and everyone’s medication has run out at the same time, is a real shock.
And meanwhile the countdown continues.