Rose-Owls and Pumpkin Girls

I hate making posts like this one, so I'm just going to go ahead and get to it. Here we go:

I am not a vending machine. You can't put a quarter in me to get free stuff exactly when you want it. You can't actually put a quarter in me at all. You can give me a quarter--I like quarters--but I am not a coin-operated story dispenser. I am a people.

I give away a lot of free fiction around here, both via my website (InCryptid shorts, Toby Daye shorts) and via this blog (Velveteen stories). In the case of the website shorts, they represent a lot more than just my writing time. I commission (and pay for) the story covers. In order to make the reading experience as easy and pleasant as possible, I have to ask my friend Will to convert the text files to ePub, MOBI, and PDF (which is, by the way, why I tend to shrug when people report typos; they're free, and the conversion is done on a volunteer basis, which means I am not going to ask him to completely reformat a file unless the error is so catastrophically large as to make the story unreadable). Once the stories are prepared, all the uploading and formatting on my website is done by hand, by me.

There is a lot of invisible back-end labor involved with bringing you a free treat. That's part of why I do the tip jars: they don't just justify my making time to write the stories, even if it means I might have to pass on an anthology. They pay for the covers, and for the administrative time I have to take away from writing in order to make sure everything is working correctly.

This is not me gearing up to asking for money, by the way: there was no tip jar in October, in part because one of the stories funded by the last tip jar has not been posted yet. Because even a "prioritized" story has to fit in around all my other publications and commitments, all the release dates I have to promote, all the conventions I have to attend. Because at the end of the day, while I want to tell you these stories as much as you want to hear them, I still have to be able to tell my publishers that they will come first. They pay my bills. They keep my main series going. They have to come before the freebies.

So why am I saying all this?

Because people keep emailing me going "hey when do we get the next free story." And this makes me feel terrible. It makes me feel like a party trick, like a vending machine, like I have no value apart from what I give away for free. I released a novel in November! I had several short stories come out, in several different genres! But when is the next free story. When is the next free story. Why don't we have it yet. Why aren't you doing it.

I understand eagerness. I genuinely do. I understand wanting to know what happens next now. I used to follow Kelley Armstrong's free fiction, back when she posted it regularly on her website; I get frustrated when my favorite fanfic writers don't publish chapters on schedule. But I am so outnumbered, and when all I hear is "why aren't you giving us more," it's really demoralizing. It kills my desire to give things away for free, and it makes it harder to keep working on those stories.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring. But please, remember that I am a person, not a vending machine; I am not just here to give things away. And if I'm not posting something new, it's probably because I'm working my ass off at the things that keep the lights on, not because I'm lounging on a beach somewhere. Please have patience.

Thank you.

It is August now. The Hugo voting is closed; the ballots have been cast, and what remains is fussing and fretting, putting on our finest things, and walking to the presentation room like Tributes to the Hunger Games (although we don't have to kill each other to win, which is probably* a good thing). Nothing we can do now changes anything.

I mostly haven't talked about my feelings about the Hugos, because it felt a little too much like campaigning to me, like even saying "I liked this" or "I didn't like this" would be casting too much weight behind an opinion. I'm not saying that my feelings are accurate; I've seen a lot of people dissect the ballot, and I don't think any less of them, and they didn't sway my votes. But it's hard to ignore the small, scared voice in your head that says "don't do that, it's not allowed," and I've been too tired to fight it.

I have strong feelings about almost every category. I have the Winners I Want, which may or may not bear any resemblance to the Winners Who Win. And no, I am not the Winner I Want in every single category. While I desperately want to win (please, Great Pumpkin, please), I actually want to be beaten in at least one category. I want to see people I love win. I want to see people I respect win. All the nominees are incredibly deserving of victory. Barring a statistically unlikely mass tie, not all the nominees are going to win.

And yes, I'm terrified. I'm the first woman ever to make the ballot four times in a single year, which is amazing, but if I become the first woman ever to lose four times in a single night, I'm not going to be in a very good mental place. More like a "hand me the port, lock me in the bathroom, and walk away before the crying starts" place. And it's not that I'm a bad loser, and it's not that I don't know every single winner will deserve it. It's that broken hearts are painful, and I've met me enough times to know that I'll be devastated, no matter how often I'm told not to be.

It is an honor to be nominated. I do, genuinely, want to win. I don't think there's anything wrong with my expressing that honest sentiment after voting has closed; it can't change anything, and no matter who does win, I know that they'll deserve it.

This is huge. It is amazing. It is an honor to be nominated, it is mind-blowing to look at the ballot and think, "these are some of the giants of science fiction and fantasy, and there I am, me, and my friends, some of my best friends, and we're with them, and to a little girl like I was, looking at this ballot in twenty years, we'll be them." When I was a little girl looking at pictures of Isaac Asimov's Hugo Awards, I asked Santa to bring me one (maybe I should have asked the Birthday Skeleton). Now I have the chance to get one the legitimate, non-supernatural-being-initiated way. And it's huge, and it's terrifying, and I have a very pretty dress, and two very pretty dates for the ceremony, and...

And it's August. It's almost here.

Oh Great Pumpkin who waits for Harvest, hallowed be thy patch...

(*Only probably. The Valente/Hines/Cornell/Bear/McGuire alliance would take out half of the science fiction community before we were forced to turn on each other. My dress has big skirts. You can hide a surprising number of knives under big skirts.)

One month from today (give or take a few days, given shipping times and shelving patterns), Discount Armageddon will be officially released into the wild. People will be able to buy it, not just pre-order it. Reviews will hopefully become more common, without becoming dramatically meaner. My teetering pile of ARCs will be replaced by a teetering pile of author copies. The beat, as they say, will go on.

This is the first new series I've launched under my own name since 2009, when Rosemary and Rue came out. Feed was released in 2010, and I was a nervous wreck about it, but at the end of the day, Mira Grant was another person; if she failed, I would cry a lot, because Feed was a book I really, really loved, but it wouldn't crush me. But this...

I've had some people email me to sadly ask whether I'm tired of Toby. I'm not, and the sixth book comes out this fall (Ashes of Honor). She's just emotionally exhausting, and it's hard for new readers to get into the series without feeling daunted. Whereas InCryptid is something I've really wanted to write for a long time, with characters and situations that I really love, and it's a series and world I've put together with more experience under my belt, allowing me to avoid some of the flaws in Toby's world. Yes, flaws: Toby's world, for all that I adore it, is innately Eurocentric, and can be confusing sometimes, even though the only type of supernatural creatures to exist are the fae. There's a lot of history, and I sort of assumed everyone understood feudalism. It's my world, I made it, and I love it, but there's something amazing about starting from scratch.

A month before Rosemary and Rue came out, I was vomiting with terror. I'm calmer this time, although I'm still anxious as all hell. Will people like my baby? Will it do okay? Will the other new releases beat it up and call it names? Will sales be strong enough that I'm allowed to continue past the second book? It would make a tidy duology, but you've met me: two is never enough. I want to go much, much further in this world, and whether I get to do that will depend partially on book one. I am a bundle of anxiety and neurosis.

But it's almost here. No matter what else happens, no matter what comes next, Discount Armageddon is almost here.

That's pretty much amazing.

So as I get ready to leave, I begin addressing the administrative funtimes that are my inbox. Which leads us to today's exciting question:

"Why hasn't my _____________ been mailed?"

This question comes in three flavors: books, shirts, and ARCs. If you are currently expecting a book from me, it has been mailed. If you don't have it, it's either in transit, or the post office has eaten it. I sadly don't control the post office, and I can't afford to pay for confirmation on every package I send, so unless you sent me money for postage that included tracking, I don't have a way of knowing where it wound up. I'm sorry.

If you are currently expecting a shirt from me, we just received the last box from the printer. It's a small shirt shop, and they were as overwhelmed as I was by the size of the response. We're still packaging and mailing, and will finally be able to start packing and mailing out those shirts that previously didn't exist. Thank you very much for your patience. I can look up individual people on the list, but I ask that you email Deborah at the merchandise account, not me directly; Deborah has the files, and time spent digging through the list of shipped shirts for your name is time I'm not spending putting shirts in envelopes.

If you are currently expecting an ARC from me...here's where things get fun. See, my email? Is apparently broken. As in, "no longer accepting mail from my website contact form." So the addresses of the winners of our last contest never reached me. If you're reading this, please try sending your address again, via LJ messenger this time; my webmaster, Chris, is trying to isolate and repair the problem, but I have no idea how long that's going to take. For the moment, assume that if you've emailed me, I didn't get it.

Because administrative chaos right before a week in Florida is so totally what I needed this year. Happy holidays!

I haven't been blogging about my cats recently.

Some of you may have breathed a sigh of relief when you realized that you had entered a relatively feline-free zone. "Finally," you said. "She's going to talk about something that doesn't meow." Others may have been concerned. (I've heard from the concerned contingent, not from the relieved, but I have no trouble with the idea that both sides exist. Honestly, I don't demand that anyone be interested in everything I have to say, and that includes my cats, machete collection, horror movies, the X-Men, and candy corn.) Even more of you may well have been confused, given how focal cats have traditionally been around here. But I haven't been blogging about my cats.

John Scalzi has just made a lengthy post about the shit female bloggers get that he doesn't get. Go and read it. I'll be honest: after more than a decade on the internet, I find his experiences to be pretty spot-on. I make a controversial comment, I get death threats, comments about my weight, accusations of bitchiness, comments about my weight, offers to "fuck the stupid" out of me, comments about my weight, insults, comments about my weight, and, best of all, people swearing up, down, and sideways that I deserve whatever I get. It's been a few years since I've had a really bad troll problem, but when I had one, it was...

It was bad. It was "Kate monitored my journal and deleted comments before I could see them" bad, with a side order of feeling sick every time I considered getting online. I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, and I was scared all the time. It's invasive, and it's scary. Cracks about my weight aside, I'm not that big, and if someone wanted to fuck me up, they could. Easily. (Is this a motivator for my large and oft-discussed machete collection? Possible! Anybody comes to my house with the intent of doing me a mischief in the woods, they will not be thrilled by the results.)

And I haven't been blogging about my cats recently.

I'll be honest: I understand people being dicks for the sake of being dicks. We're all a little mean when we've had a bad day. My mother used to snap at me, even though she loved me. Sometimes I pick fights with my friends, or snarl at my co-workers. Human nature sometimes trends toward asshole, and no matter how hard we work to control it, it's going to happen. What I don't understand is why being a dick towards a woman on the internet so often turns into a) threats of violence, b) sexual insults, c) threats of sexual violence, or d) comments about perceived attractiveness/weight. Or violence toward the things that woman loves.

I haven't been blogging about my cats recently, because someone has been sending me email, from dummy accounts, threatening to kill my cats. In graphic detail. They know what my cats look like, thanks to the amount of blogging I have done in the past, and they've been able to get really, really specific in what they're going to do. Why? Because I got my cats from a breeder, and not from a shelter, and that means I need to suffer in order to understand the suffering of the cats waiting for adoption. "Bitch," "cunt," and "whore" feature heavily in these emails, which is always a nice seasoning for my rage and terror stew. It's all very gender-specific.

And they're threatening to kill my cats.

So no, I'm not going to talk about them right now; not until this email stops, not until the trolls find something else to chew on. And yes, I realize that making this post may reawaken some of my old trolls (and oh, Great Pumpkin, I hate it so much that I even have to take that into consideration), so I'm going to be watching comments carefully. Anything insulting will be deleted. Anything malicious will result in an immediate banning. I mean that. I am not going to let that shit stand.

We need to stop acting this way toward one another. We need to remember that there are humans on the other side of all those keyboards. We need to be decent human beings, because otherwise, everything is going to fall apart.

And none of this changes the fact that if the fucker who's been telling me what he's going to do to my babies comes anywhere near them, I will probably be going to prison for assault.

Some days I hate being a girl.

I'm tired.

I don't mean "Seanan needs a nap." I mean "crying at the slightest provocation, reciting primes to keep myself motivated to finish taking a shower, ready to curl up in a ball and die." So please. I am begging you here. I mean literally, I'm begging. Please...

...don't email me and then get angry when you don't get an instantaneous reply.

...don't ask why you can't have the next book NOW RIGHT NOW. I mean, unless your goal is seeing me cry. In that case, knock yourself out.

...don't tell me I'm neglecting my friends/social life/sanity when I don't come to your party. You know what? I know I'm neglecting those things. You know what else? I don't have a choice right now. I'm sorry. I wish I did. But I don't.

I am out of go. My candle is burning at both ends, and starting to melt in the middle. So handle me gently, do not prod me with sticks, and do not tell me I need to "take time for me." If the time existed, I would take it. It doesn't exist for me to take.

I'm tired.

In the interests of not turning a PSA into another source of stress, I will not be answering comments on this entry. Thank you for understanding.

1. If you want to reach me, please, email. Not Facebook messenger; not LJ messenger; email. If you don't have my email address, the "contact" form on my website is extremely easy to find, I promise. I get those messages.

2. That being said, I am not the world's fastest email correspondent. I do my best, I really do, but I have a) email from my day job, b) my personal mail, c) my business mail, d) Mira Grant's mail, and e) all my other mail to deal with. Expect at least a seventy-two hour delay on anything that's not urgent.

3. Unless you're my agent, my publisher, or my boss, I decide what's urgent when it's in my inbox.

I'm as slow as I am because, in addition to all the things above, I'm trying to write three books, keep up with the comments on this blog, make new entries on this blog, update my website, and two or three dozen other things at any given time. The only way I could answer every email I receive in a swift and satisfying way is if I stopped doing anything else. My publishers would not be okay with this decision. Honestly, neither would I, as I think my head would explode.

So please, if I am not swift in answering your email, be patient. I understand wanting a reply now now now—I do it too; I'm doing it right now, waiting for answers on some really cool website graphic possibilities—but I just can't. Not if you want me to stay on top of everything else.

Thanks for understanding.

So wow. February is more than halfway over, and I'm trying to clean everything up on my end of things, in the hopes that doing so will enable me to, you know, accomplish something for a change. Because I've just been sitting around doing nothing up until now. So...

1. All the damaged Wicked Girls CDs have been claimed, although some are still pending payment. It's highly unlikely that any more damaged CDs will show up; Mom and I have checked the boxes thoroughly at this point, and it looks like the unpleasant surprises are over. Thank the Great Pumpkin.

2. I am mailing the last of the paid-for "Wicked Girls" posters tomorrow. This means that, if you are waiting for a poster, you should have it in approximately a week (all the posters being mailed are going to US addresses). If you have requested a poster but not yet paid for it, you have ten days before I delete your name from the list, and release any held numbers back into the wild. If you're not sure whether you've paid or not, you can always contact me.

3. I'm going to be setting up my final pre-release giveaways over the next week or so. Finances are forcing me to restrict them to US addresses/international addresses only if you're willing to pay for postage. I'm really sorry about that. It's just that it costs me approximately three dollars to mail a book inside the US, and outside gets very spendy, very fast. Specific rules to come.

4. I'll doubtless be saying more about this later, but as we're getting into the period where people start getting excited about Deadline: I do not have ARCs. I am not going to have ARCs. Please don't ask me for them, please don't comment on other giveaway posts saying you'd take an ARC of Deadline instead of the stated prize, just please, please, don't. There are no ARCs of this book. I'm not holding out on you, I just don't got the goods.

...and that's our administrative junk for the night. Join me next week, when "administrative junk" will probably include port and drunkenly yelling at my rambunctious kitten.

I try to answer all comments on this journal, because it just seems polite. But after spending the night worrying about my sick cat, and spending the morning medicating her (which she hates), I honestly can't bring myself to answer individual comments on my post about her illness. It's just going to make me start crying again. So...

Thank you all, so very much, for your kind wishes and concern. Alice is still sick, but seems to be on the mend—she felt well enough to glare at me this morning when I hauled her out from under the couch and pumped her full of sticky pink antibiotic goo. Thomas and Lilly are confused and clingy, since they don't understand what's going on, and everyone is thrilled by the sudden wide availability of tuna.

Medicating Alice is easier than it could be, because she is seriously one of the world's most civilized cats; she mostly just squirms and scowls at me, like her infection is my fault, and not the fault of rapidly-replicating bacteria. I cannot explain epidemiology to my cat. I know. I've tried.

I'll keep you posted, and thank you again. I really appreciate it.

It's official; convention season is starting. I'm in the process of getting ready for Marcon. Kate and I are on a Thursday morning flight so early that it's effectively a Wednesday night flight, which is always fun, and will either result in my having my usual weird mid-air dreams or in my getting a lot of work done. The jury is still out on which that's going to be. We're coming back to California on Monday.

The following Saturday (June 5th), I'll be appearing at the Borders Books and Music in Pleasant Hill, California. This is my first-ever Borders event. The Saturday after that (June 12th), I'll be at SF in SF with Deborah Grabien. This is my first-ever SF in SF. Sensing a trend yet?

Somewhere in June, I have to cram in a few rehearsals with Paul Kwinn, my partner in crime, because 4th of July weekend is the combined Westercon/Conchord. I'm Westercon's Music Guest of Honor, and Conchord's Guest of Honor (Paul is the Conchord Toastmaster), and I guess that means we shouldn't suck. July 10th, I'm with Jennifer Brozek at Third Place Books in Seattle; July 17th, I'm with Jennifer Brozek at Borderlands Books in San Francisco. The weekend after that is the San Diego International Comic Convention, which is going to be huge and exhausting, as always, and the weekend after that is Spocon, in Spokane, Washington, where I'm going to be their Music Guest of Honor. (Tanya Huff is their Writer GoH. Urban Fantasy Mafia in the house!)

August is Australia. And the Campbell Awards. And the twitching.

Somewhere in there, I need to finish The Brightest Fell and make some serious headway on Blackout, since they have, y'know, due dates. I only have five more Sparrow Hill Road stories to write, which is a good thing, but they're some of the most important in the series, which is less good. So if I seem a little hyper in the weeks to come, it's just because I have replaced my blood with embalming fluid and espresso.

Whee! Convention season is fun!