Letters to the world.

Dear Lilly and Alice;

I love you more than I love just about anything else in the world, including candy corn and my My Little Pony collection, but seriously, if you wake me up at two in the morning to ask me to open the window one more time, you're going to be mittens. I can get new cats. Better cats. Cats that won't do that kind of shit.

Annoyed,
Your human.

*

Dear My Little Pony collection;

You're made of plastic. Please stop reproducing when you think I'm not looking. I am rapidly running out of shelf space. Last night, cleaning out the random accessory bin, I found complete sets of Pony Wear from 1982. This is becoming creepy. Cut it out.

Spooked,
Your collector.

*

Dear retail outlets of the world;

Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I really appreciate that you've noticed how stressed I am and are trying to take steps to reduce my unhappiness, but the fact that you're already putting out the Halloween decorations is a little bit disturbing. It's August. Since you're not selling Halloween-themed school supplies (which you totally should be), this seems a little unfair to the people heading back to class and just trying to find a cheap number two pencil.

I would really appreciate it if you'd go back to putting out the Halloween decorations in mid- to late-September, and then leave them up until, I don't know, Halloween. That way, the stores wouldn't suddenly be set for Thanksgiving while last-minute shoppers are trying to get their candy for trick-or-treat, and we might not have time for the Christmas music to make us actively homicidal before the end of the season.

Just a thought.

Respectfully,
Your customer.

*

Dear candy corn;

Om nom nom nom nom.

Nom,
Your consumer.

*

Dear Great Pumpkin;

O He who is in the patch down the street where they give hayrides in that sort of rickety-looking tractor, hallowed be thy name. May you be adored and adorned with candles, spooky faces, and, when the time is come for your death and resurrection, with graham cracker crust and sweet whipped cream. May you rise to walk the haunted corn mazes and the suburban streets, delighting the faithful and frightening the unbeliever with your fixed and luminous grin.

Great Pumpkin, I will write you more thoroughly later, but I just wanted to say, you da squash, thank you for the candy corn, and I hope to have an incredible, amazing time in Australia, where they have weird blue zombie pumpkins, which just reinforces my belief that it is, in fact, the promised land. Thank you for everything, Great Pumpkin.

Trick or treat,
Seanan.

Just here to kick ass and chew bubblegum: the shifting face of the urban fantasy heroine.

In keeping with their great love for chart porn, Orbit (my/Mira's science fiction publisher) has posted a fabulous comparison chart of 2008's urban fantasy heroines vs. 2009's urban fantasy heroines. According to the sample set they have scientifically* assembled and presented for your viewing pleasure, stiletto heels and pouty lips are out, while sensible shoes and kicking your ass is in.

Check out the chart. Now check out this blog post by sandramcdonald, which includes a handy visual guide to many "classic" urban fantasy poses. What I find interesting is that the majority of these covers are classic-turned-cliche; they're not bad, they're just things that were very, very popular, and were consequentially overdone.

When I first sold the Toby books, a few people said to me, "You realize Toby's going to be a busty blonde with a tramp-stamp, right?" I acknowledged that I did, in fact, know this, but that I was okay with it if it would get the book out into the world. When my editor at DAW asked if I had any requests for the cover, I said I had two.

"I'd like her to have brown hair, and wear clothes."

Anything else? Nope. Just brown hair, and clothes. Toby is not the sort of girl who goes out in a miniskirt and a halter top—not unless she's under extreme duress—and she's never dyed her hair. I was incredibly lucky, and got what I asked for, along with a leather jacket, a petulant expression, and a gloomy, atmospheric backdrop. She didn't look much like an urban fantasy heroine (a few people even thought she was a boy), but she looked exactly like I wanted her to look. Now, a year later, she looks a lot like an urban fantasy heroine, because the rules have been changing. And it's wonderful!

Don't take this as "all urban fantasy covers used to be bad," because they weren't, and I really, really like a lot of them. All the elements currently in decline have their place in the genre. Toby doesn't have any tattoos...but Alice does (Alice is practically a biker gang all by herself), and so do pretty much all the lycanthropic teens in Clady's universe (since that way, your body can be identified even if you die when not in human form). Toby doesn't wear stiletto heels...but Verity does, and thanks to her specific combat style, she would be more than happy to kick your ass while she's wearing them. I just think it's fantastic that the genre has managed to expand to the point where it can include all these different types of heroine, all presented the way they should be presented, not according to some focus group-ideal that half of them don't live up to.

Evolution is awesome...and, apparently, wearing comfortable shoes.

(*In this case "scientifically" means "whatever the summer intern could get her hands on." It's a generous definition.)

Corner turned. I am now a magical murder pixie with a chainsaw.

Well. There we go. As of roughly an hour ago, I'm done with my next-to-last pass through Deadline, incorporating commentary from The Editor, a vast file of notes from Vixy, and a lot of extremely useful technical detail from Alan, aka "my new things-that-kill-people expert." All hail those who actually know what the hell they're talking about!

I still have some work to do—the nature of my revision process means I'll be getting notes from my editorial pool for a week or so, and I want to go back and add a few things here and there throughout the text—but the heavy lifting is essentially done. The most thought-intensive part that remains is writing the acknowledgments page (which I hate doing, almost as much as I hate gargling with Spaghetti-Os). It's all commas and commentary from here to Australia...and it looks like I'll be making my "turn it in by" date, allowing me to spend the trip focusing on The Brightest Fell. Total win.

The nicest thing about final-pass editorial is that it generally happens after the book has been in someone else's hands for weeks, if not months, allowing the text to "age out" and turn alien to me. I remember writing scenes, but not sentences; I remember pages, not paragraphs. So I can rip things out with impunity, having lost all emotional attachment to the words in favor of being emotionally attached to the core point of the scene. This stage can also be dangerous, as the urge to rewrite entire chapters into something better is always there. It's the Mad Science Editorial phase.

(Appropriately enough, as I write this, my iTunes is producing a run of songs that can really only be referred to as "Seanan's greatest mad science hits." Seriously, it's played three versions of "Maybe It's Crazy" in the last half hour. Apple wants me to ignite the biosphere.)

I am done with book two of the Newsflesh trilogy. And because I've met me, I can say with certainty that while I'm busting ass on The Brightest Fell, I'll also be taking the first happy steps into the world of Blackout. It's...a little sad, actually. I only get to spend one more book with these weird, wonderful, fascinating, fucked-up people. I think I'm going to have separation anxiety when I get to the end of book three.

But I'm not there yet. Right now, I'm at the end of book two. And while the final stats are not yet ready, I believe I can say with assurance that I am now a magic murder pixie with a chainsaw.

DINO DANCE PARTY!