Next Up: And in all together more thrilling news, I got my first ARC in the mail yesterday. I am SQUEALING with joy over that. Its Patricia C. Wrede Thirteenth Child. While I dont normally read YA, this was free and Im enjoying it so far. Sort of a young persons introduction to Steampunk or Weird West. Ill have a formal review in April, so keep your eyes peeled.

I have a nice load on my plate right now, wrapping up some edits on UnHero, my first serious novel. (As serious as my novels get anyway.) I look forward to hooking up with J.R later so she can tell me how much it sucks and I can tell her how right she is.

I had initially gotten this last round of edits together with the intention of submitting it to a contest in early February. (This one, to be exact.) While musing over a chapter rewrite I still need to do, I went over some of the fine print and was made nervous by some of the details. The grand prize winner gets a contract with Penguin, which is awesome. Apparently though, that contract is non negotiable and includes a lot more rights then a writer with an agent might normally give up.

At least, that was my suspicion from my stalking reading various and sundry agents who blog. With that suspicion in mind, I wrote to an agent asking him what he thought about the contest.

I gave it some thought, and still am, but I think this contest is for a different kind of manuscript than what I've written this time around. More importantly, I was surprised and delighted that this agent, who wouldnt know me from Adam took a minute or two out of his day to answer my question. (Except that I have breasts, and I dont remember the Bible mentioning that Adam had DDs.) Would that have happened before the internet? I dont know, but I really dont think so.

Anyway, thank you again Algore and your precious creation Teh Internets for the precious knowledge I have discovered within your tubes. Thank you also, Agent, for answering my question, though I doubt youll read this blog to know.

I guess Ill just have to sell this damn book the old fashioned way, by dressing it in a mini skirt and heels and sending out to the street corner.

Coming up: Book Reviews. No, really.

Bonus Question: Is it weird that my Creative Writing professor didnt know what the word ichor meant?

Between Tina and the ocean were sand dunes of staggering size. Everything was staggering size when you were just under two years old. She had not known salt water since the womb. Still, the ocean called. The trip through the dunes was winding and lined with tall alien beach grass and birds whos call were entirely unfamiliar too her. What was more, the trip promised a new adventure.

She looked up to her mother with bright eyes and asked without language for permission to adventure. The sun that warmed her face grew temporarily eclipsed by her mother's towering shadow. Mother studied daughter, and with eyes sqinting in the summer sun, she nodded. "Go ahead, baby. Run."

Tina let go of her mother's hand, toes digging into the sand, and ran to follow the curve of a dune as fast as her legs would let her.

Well, I was a bit upset a few days ago when I lost some shiny bottle-caps that I quite liked, but, I found 'em and ever since it's been damn good times. I'm feeling very very happy and I never felt healthier. I have a good life. Thank you! - Micheal J. Nelson MST3K

It's a nice way to put things in perspective, and Mike delivers it with this open faced sweetness that makes me want to cover him in strawberry colored lip gloss kisses. (Not a sexual thing, believe it or not.) Tragedy can be as big as your whole country being wiped out, but for most of us Internet postgenxers, it's usually more about having lost some shiny bottle caps.

Some days, I freak out over nothing. My head gets filled with nervous energy and there is no problem that can be solved, no matter how gargantuan or infinitesimal.

(ican'twritecan'tkeepthehouseglobalwarmingamaterrible

motherfriendwifeamsofatjesuschristcan'tmakegrilledcheese

withoutburningitcan'tdoanythingwritegasprices!)

On those days problems all become the same value, bottle caps if you will, and since I can't solve some of them immediately, none of them can be solved. I do my turkey-getting-her-head-cut-off-behind-Sara-Palin for a while. Somewhere along the way, I picture Micheal J. Nelson and his plain Minnesota-y manner talking about his shiny bottle caps. Bottle caps don't really matter. And in a zen like moment, all the bullshit I'm beating myself up with separates itself out and I can think like a human being again.

Thanks Mike.

My monster is alive over at Flames Rising. It's a fun little piece, and I'm excited to see it up. It was very wired to see my name next to Monty Cooke's on the Flame's Rising livejournal update. Does that give me geek cred? I hope so.

Most of the time I don't know where my inspiration comes from. Rarely, it comes from a movie, or a book or a conversation. In this case, I know exactly where it came from. A lot of JR's photography tells a story. Actually, a lot of it tells so complete a story that I rarely feel the need to write anything with it. In this case, I was fortunate enough that she left just enough room in her visual narrative for Eloise to be born in my brain.