I got back early last night from Spokane. A big thank-you goes out to Jonathan and his wife Holli out at the Spokane Valley Mall, as well as Dale and all the other employees at the Waldenbooks, who made me feel so warmly welcomed. Another big thank-you goes to the Spokane Fans, who made me feel like a princess. Thank you so much for inviting me out and making the signing such a success!

Driving out to Spokane was nice; we took 84 east and went up 395 and 90 (which probably means very little to anyone who doesn’t drive in Eastern Washington.) The weather held, dry and sunny and cold, all the way. The hotel (Oxford Suites, right across the street from the mall) was very nice despite the lack of room service. Normally I’m not a room service type of girl, but after driving for eight hours my brain had turned to complete mush and I didn’t even want to walk across the street to a restaurant. We made do with hummus and pita bread instead.

I say “we” because I took the Froop along as my assistant. He kept me awake and navigated me through the confusing tangle of interchanges near Pasco, as well as scolding me to eat and remembering Daylight Savings Time when I didn’t. If not for him I’d probably be lost near Yakima somewhere (still).

After the signing we went with Jonathan and Holli out to Red Robin, for Yours Truly desperately needed a margarita. Jon and I geeked Very Hard about Star Wars and Joss Whedon. It’s amazing that you can go anywhere in the States and find Star Wars, Whedon, or LOTR fans. And once you show a bit of knowledge and interest, all sorts of fun doors open up to you. Jonathan is very charming, with an encyclopaedic knowledge of sci fi and not such a bad grasp of everything else, and Holli is very fetching and enthusiastic. I had a great amount of fun.

Driving back we chose to come up 14 on the Washington side of the Columbia Gorge instead of 84 on the Oregon side. It’s a prettier drive, even if twisty and time-consuming. UNfortunately, there’s also almost-no restrooms for eighty-odd miles of a particular stretch, and we were both too hungry to appreciate the scenery; but we stopped at a mini-mart somewhere along the way which, thanks be to every god there is, had a lovely little painted-red loo. The place was an answer to our prayers.

After that the drive was pure magic, with all the right songs on the Ipod coming through the car radio and a wonderful clear sunny day to enjoy them. We stopped at Stonehenge and I took oodles of pictures, and we stopped in Bingen for Mexican food before burning up the road all the way home. There was a half-moon out, reflecting in the water like a swan. The last few miles of 14 are very twisty, but passed quickly and then…we were on familiar ground, and home a few minutes later to a windy night. I even managed to unpack last night instead of spreading the unpacking out over a week.

It is a wonderful thing to wake up in the morning to your cat (that is, the one that has chosen you to be their human) making a nest in your hair and nibbling your ear. It is even more wonderful when this is your final “welcome home.”

Tonight I hand out candy to ghosts, ghouls, and goblins, clean out my fireplace, and leave a white candle burning to light the way for those who have gone before. Plus,I get to dress up the Princess as a witch, complete with broom.

She can’t wait, and neither can I. It’s good to be home.

Happy Samhain and a wonderful new year to all.

Is there anything left to say?

The surest torture for a writer is finding a place where words will not do.

On October 24, 2006, our friend Teri Smith passed away. Teri was one-half of the team behind Crescent Blues and the coauthor of With Nine You Get Vanyr. She was my angel at Dragoncon earlier this year. She was a writer, reviewer, best friend of JM Ward’s, the wife of SJ Smith, a grandmother and mother, and a friend.

And she was so much more. She was a thrush in flight, a flame dancing, a wise old crone and a spring-faced girl when she grinned. She had a heart bigger than Chomo Lungma and would fight like a tiger to protect those she loved.

She was my editor and my friend.

I did get to hug her at DragonCon. I got to lay my head on her shoulder and laugh with her and hash out the manuscript I’d given her for Samhain Publishing. I got to eat with her, and I got to smell her Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab imps. I am so very glad and grateful I was given that chance. Teri was in a lot of pain. Her health wasn’t good. Still, she loved everything about DragonCon and was pleased as punch to be there, playing guardian angel to those who were at the con for the first time and attending panels like it was going out of style. She enjoyed herself so much it was impossible to have a bad time around her.

There are spaces and places where no word helps.

We think of people as eternal while they are with us. And they are eternal, in our minds, our hearts. The soul lives on, by itself and in memory.

But it does not ease the pain of those left behind. My heart aches for JM and for SJ, for Bree and for the others to whom Teri was special. Including me.

Teri, I wish you safe flight and soft dreaming. May your gods hold you close, and may we remember you as you would wish to be remembered.

Blessed be.

I dreamed last night, another dream of scorching personal impact. It involved two brothers, one of whom had a little blood-drinking problem, and a house with paper-yellow walls.

I really need to take more care with my dreaming. Maybe I should eat something before bed. I wonder if it’d help.

On to other things!

I knew Beowulf and Grendel was probably not going to be a good thing. It’s a great epic poem, but it always seemed a bit thin for film or renovelization (the big exception is, of course, Grendel, and always will be) and a linkie on my f-list (I think it was on matociquala’s) led me to this review, which just bears out my sad sinking feeling. *le sigh* Warning: do NOT drink hot coffee while reading the review. Just don’t do it.

*winces in pain*

Something happened yesterday, and it’s a little too painful to talk about. So I will instead say that I am a COMPLETE GODDESS, because I proofed 215 PAGES OF TEXT IN FIVE HOURS, in between feeding children, driving a child to school, doing laundry, and getting up to check my email.

I have given myself a stadium’s-worth of applause, too. Because I think I earned it.

The morning is clear and cold. Yesterday I also finished Hibbert’s The Days of the French Revolution and went straight on into Napoleon’s Master: A Life of Prince Talleyrand (bought the British edition because the American doesn’t come out for MONTHS and I cannot abide that.) I adore Talleyrand in all his flawed glory. And his bon mots don’t hurt either. I couldn’t get through Neville’s The Eight, which had him as a starring player, but after reading about the French Revolution and going straight into Napoleon it is impossible to get out without falling in deep love or bitter hatred with Talleyrand. At least, in my humble opinion. After filling my head with the sans-culottes and the brutality of the Terror, the Directorate (no less bloody) is almost a relief and Napoleon seems an absolute boon. Even if he was an arrogant little cuss, too smart for his own good.

Well, duty calls. Today is the last Very Full Day before I start packing and arranging last-minute things for the trip out to Spokane. If I get through today without pulling my own hair out in fistfuls it will be a miracle.

I like miracles.

It’s raining today, obviously a day for great philosophical thoughts. Or just fuzzy weird pre-coffee thoughts.

I woke up out of a chaos of dreaming. I dreamed I was on a long, winding, hilly forest road; suddenly, the steering wheel turned into a live thing against my hands, struggling wildly. There was a crash in slow motion, but I felt cushioned on air. The sense of tumbling and broken glass intensified, and I spun out of the car and rolled on the ground, which was soft as feather pillows.

When I got up, the car was a mangled hunk and I walked toward the edge of the woods. Before I knew it, I was going down rough-hewn stone stairs.

Read On, If You Dare »

Let’s get the ordinary out of the way. I did a ton of work this weekend, both in meatspace and on the Web, getting stuff updated and (not so incidentally) putting together the Japhrimel Lives! bumper sticker. Then, yesterday, I did some Halloween shopping (I will only decorate for ONE holiday per year, and All Hallows is IT) and…

…went to go see The Prestige with the Quiet Selkie.

Oh. My. God. Can we say pure, total, uninhibited Muse crack?

I knew we could.

Read On, If You Dare »

Yes, the moment you’ve been waiting for. No, wait, you haven’t been waiting for this, because I didn’t tell anyone I planned to do it. Shoot. Now I’m all confused.

*clears throat prepatory to cheap shillsharing good news*

Ladies and gentlemen, Faithful Readers, I present to you:

The Necromancers Have Mortgages Too coffee mug, and the Japrimel Lives! coffee mug.

Because I am a geek.

I have big plans for a “Japhrimel Lives!” bumper sticker, too. If, you know, anyone’s interested…

UPDATE: The Japhrimel Lives! bumper sticker. Enjoy.

Check out this ad. It’s done by the same guys who did all the colored balls in San Francisco ad, and it’s spectacular.

As the Selkie remarked, the Diet Coke and Mentos guys have nothing on these boyos.

Look yonder! It’s another Thursday Revue!

For the first third and the last eighth of Sarah Monette’s Melusine, I was in sheer despair. After all, I’d heard so many good things about this book. Why was it giving me so much trouble?

The basic premise goes like this: there’s this world, see? And it’s historical, and magic works. There’s a wizard who was once a prostitute (Felix Harrowgate, a great name) and a guttersnipe cat burglar (Mildmay, an even greater name) and on them rests the destiny of the Dickensien, fabulous (in the old sense) city of Melusine, where the rich lead lives of hardscrabble ambition and the poor die as easily as flies. Felix the wizard is used in a dastardly plot to destroy the Virtu, the magical thing that keeps the city safe, and Mildmay is drawn in despite himself, terrified of becoming a victim either of his own secrets or of the high-stakes game he finds himself in.

I loved Mildmay. I mean, actual throat-clenching, pure penguin love. I adored Mildmay’s parts of the book–in the first third and the last eighth I had to force myself not to skim through Felix’s parts. And herein lies the first problem with this otherwise very solid book.

Read On, If You Dare »

Why is it that when I have something to say about writing, Elizabeth Bear says it better? *sigh* And that she just happens to be right on all counts is kind of depressing, too. There goes that blog post I wanted to write.

Note: the last two sentences in the above paragraph were delivered with a twinkle in the eye and a wide grin.

In other news, I’ve been feeling ridiculously better since I started taking a B-complex daily. Like, utterly, completely better to a ridiculous degree. Plus my red sweatpants are refusing to stay up and fit properly, as well as my jeans. This is the first indication I have of the working-out and the attention to my mood during eating actually providing a sea change in how I regard nutrition. Before we get started, though, I want to register that I don’t want to be thin.

I want to be healthy, and strong enough to beat the schnoogies out of anyone who invades my house or threatens my kidlings. There’s a difference.

Read On, If You Dare »

Note: In this blog, all names except mine are changed to protect guilty and innocent alike. Just so you know.

Saturday was busy–attending Boy Scout’s Masonic hoo-haw with the Selkie and the Froop. (I was there in support capacity for the Selkie.) Then came heading over to the bookstore for work, which was my dismal failure of the day. I managed to get almost nothing done, being utterly robbed of ambition after my eight o’clock wakeup, hitting the track, and keeping a straight face during pomp and circumstance. I am so irreverent, it’s a miracle when I can keep the smile and wisecrack back for more than ten minutes.

Sunday I spent trying to rag Those Who Live With Me into housework, with limited success. So I knocked off about two PM and went to get books and wine. Hey, it was a weekend, right?

Note to the winedrinkers among ye: Chateau Lorane’s 2002 Marechal Foch kicks major bootay. It was smooth but not overly sweet (I hate gagging-sweet reds) with a lovely full body and pleasant finish; it was good right after opening and only got better and more complex as it breathed. I’m thinking further about the Luna Vineyards 2003 Sangiovese I picked up; it had a charcoal breath when I opened the bottle and a port-like bouquet after a bit of breathing. I’ll need another interaction with this wine before I decide how I feel about it. But the Marechal Foch was spectacular.

So as you can guess, I was pretty mellow all evening. I scored some Lemony Snicket books for the Princess (she was utterly grateful, now needing only the last three in the series) and an anatomy book for artists for the Froop (also grateful, BTW. Good kid.) For me there was a Nabokov, of course–Look at the Harlequins!–and for the Dear Husband Muffin there was Bob Woodward’s State of Denial. Which I promptly stole from him as he was making homemade pretzels (love that man) and am now 250 pages or so into.

It’s a good thing I was mellow, for there is much in this book to cause spleen to vent. And that’s all I’m going to say.

Oh, there’s an interview with me over at AustGate. I talk about the post-Buffy fantasy world, tropes and archetypes, and assorted other fun stuff. Enjoy!

Happy Monday to you all. I’m going to go back to Woodward and suck on a bit of coffee. It is, after all, a Monday.