Into 2011

From My Cover Art

Welcome to 2011

I am already falling behind. Some of it is not my fault. I started out the year with the worst backache I have every suffered with. For more than a week, starting on December 29th, I could barely walk from one room to another. The problem is almost entirely cleared up. It was difficult even to sit at the desk and work, but I fought my way through what I had to and got FM up for the year as well as Vision, in its new glorious Joomla form. I think I am going to truly enjoy working with as soon as I figure out the archive function.

I wrote over a million new words last year. No surprise there, really. Several novels, a number of short stories, articles and outlines. This year I started out with the Devlin's Team #4: Missing Persons and it's moving along fine. Then on Sunday I decided to start a short story: And Wings to Fly is already done. It went over 6k and I hope to write more short pieces over the year. Shorter than 6k in fact. I'd like to do some flash fiction, I think. Maybe even some 100 word drabbles.

I am also editing Circe's Gifts, which is kind of a young YA or maybe even a MG book. I'm not very good at judging them. It needs considerably more work than I had expected, though. It's going to take me a few months to work my way through it, and likely need a last clean up after that since I'm changing so much.

I am working on two outlines -- In the Shadow of Giants (still working at it, and I hope to start it in March) and another one called The Shades of Death. It's going to be a busy year for writing, I hope! I really like all the stories, though the last one is giving me some trouble.

Somewhere around the first of the year, an odd story idea began to grow in my head. It started haunting me and talking to me and a couple days ago I finally started writing it down -- no world building, no outline, just the voice talking to me this time. That used to happen now and then, and I think if I move carefully, I can handle this one. It's a first person tale, titled Istavian after the huge city in which it takes place. It's likely only going to move a few hundred words at a time, but I'm finding it intriguing. So here is the opening (a little edited from the version I posted in my LJ and a bit more added at the end):


Istavian is a crossroads city, and that's what has made her great and left her so embattled. She sits on a wide bay at the far end of the Inner Sea, with the Kolti sailing at her from the west, the Tassanians marching in from the east, the Silnans sending marauders from the north . . . and the oh-so-civilized Tacana's sending only their spies and assassins from the south.

There is a legend that Istavian has never gone more than three generations under the same flag and I think this might be true. My great-grandfather served as a minister for the Kolti when they last held the city. My father fought in the army against the Silnans when we lost that war. And when I turned twelve, we were back in Kolti hands again, but with the Tassanians not far off, watching for their chance.

There's a joke in the city that if someone asks you whom you serve, you ask which way the wind is blowing today.

Such a city is rife with intrigue, of course. No group ever fully leaves, but some part of them goes underground and works again to bring their side back to power. They dig down into their burrows and send out their worker ants to find out what is going on and whom they can betray.

And sometimes the burrows go so deep that those worker ants, like me, never really see whom we're working for.


I stood outside the doorway of the Pritelin Temple, the one dedicated to the god of lame soldiers. Its popularity probably says something dire about my city; that such a temple not only exists, but flourishes. I lived there with the other maimed soldier who had nowhere better to go. I had lost my leg below my right knee in the battle with the Silnans when I was nineteen, and no, I will not tell you that nightmare tale. When the Istavian army finally freed the prisoners the Silnans had taken, I came back to the city a changed man and for more than the loss of my leg.

I wanted answers when I came back. Why, why why?

For a while, I buried myself in the underside of Istavian -- in the alleys and cesspits on the north side where the poor build their ramshackle homes of brick, dirt and rock debris in the old marshes. Over the generations, the houses had fallen and been rebuilt so many times that they had a sort of bedrock beneath them, though seething here and there with mud and muck. It's still called The Marshes, though. You could see the pile-on-pile of buildings down there from the doorway of the temple on the heights. I often stopped and looked down into an area that seemed habitually filled with smoke and fog.

People died there every day in a battle they fought against a different enemy than the one I had faced. They fought -- and mostly lost -- their war against destitution, disease and despair. I never found my answers there and eventually I moved up to the heights. I remember thinking one day that I wanted to breathe fresh air again. Even the breeze off the ocean carried the scent of dead fish over buildings since the docks are downwind of the area. There is nothing good in The Marshes.

Except for a few people, and I missed them in an odd way. Ah, Jemia and her warm, soft hands that could make me forget for at least a little while -- but I left even her behind because she could not tell me why. On a fateful day in spring I had climbed slowly up the path from The Marches to the Temples, hobbling along on the crutches I'd made and learned to use so well.

And here I'd stayed -- one year, two. I had, I realized, turned twenty-three somewhere not long in the past. Four years, and I still did not have my answer.

So there it is. I have actually made something of a map of the city -- the only world building I've done -- and I can see things there. My so far unnamed MC is looking for answers to something that happened during the war with the Silnans (a name that I think is going to change). The tale is set in my Tales from Another Place world. Silky takes place there, among many many other stories. I need to get the old map out of the world and fit this one in. I know the location. I know two of the groups named -- the Tassanians and the Kolti, who have had a long, old war with each other. This city is a jewel; rich with trade and ancient and filled with secrets.

Sunday Sample Reading

From My Cover Art

I hope to take part in the Twitter #SampleSunday listing for Indie authors. Below is the first chapter to a book I completed at the end of 2010. Once it goes through my editor, it should be available at the new Conspiracy of Authors site. I hope you enjoy it!



WAITING FOR THE LAST DANCE





Chapter One

I spent another Friday night working at the library, looking forward to the weekend -- if it would just stop raining. I put another pile of books on the wide desk by Gian when, by chance, I glanced out the huge glass door. There, through the pouring rain, I saw a flash of unnaturally-blonde hair as someone leapt from a car at the curb and started up the steps. I barely restrained an urge to curse aloud, recognizing Missy by both the hair and the inappropriately short blue skirt and skin tight blouse she wore -- and the fact she left her car in a no parking zone, of course. Rules did not apply to Missy.

If she came out in a rain storm as bad as this one, it wouldn't be for anything good. Missy Murphy was a harbinger of bad things. She gloried in it.

Missy nearly slipped on the top step and I did my best not to smirk. Those spike heels weren't made for this kind of weather, but Missy would never sacrifice style for appropriateness. I glanced down at my baggy shirt, warm sweater and blue jeans. I was not the poster child for good style, that was for sure -- but at least I wasn't going to fall on my ass rather than forgo wearing $200 shoes with spike heels in the rain.

"Missy is coming in," I warned, looking over my shoulder to where Gian sat, his wheelchair rolled up to the desk where he sorted books to be re-shelved.

He frowned and pushed back his hair, craning his neck so he could see around the counter where I stood. He didn't look any happier than I was about the arrival of our high school companion.

Missy pulled the door open, cursing far too loudly as she entered the building. The few people still there turned to stare at the overly-dramatic entrance: Missy always made certain she was the center of attention. I found myself rolling my eyes and finally leaned against the counter, watching as she spotted me and hurried my way.

She didn't come to the library for a friendly chit-chat. Missy didn't have any real friends since she also delighted in tearing everyone down. She'd been that way from grade school: drama queen, gossip and fashinista. She'd have been very lonely, I thought, except people swore her parties were just The Best and she gave at least one a month. I never went to them. I wouldn't have even if she had asked.

Missy paused midway toward the desk and glanced around -- an amusing look when I realized she had probably never been inside the building. She finally spotted Gian behind me and gave a quick nod of relief. She hurried faster, shaking water off her arms, and not giving a damn where it fell: books, the newspaper rack, or on other people. Someone protested, but she didn't seem to hear, she was so intent on reaching the counter where Gian and I were trapped.

Mrs. Berlin looked up from the desk in her little side office and frowned as Missy cursed again, but for no apparent reason. I hoped she might step in and send Missy Murphy on her way before she reached us. Instead, she looked back at her computer and went back to work, leaving the problem to us.

Missy stomped across the marble-tiled floor and the loud tap of her heels made a rude counterpoint to her dripping water. I was already unhappy long before she reached us.

And then I saw her malicious smile and how her eyes looked almost fever bright. That meant she had bad news. Missy was never happy unless she had some dirt to tell about someone else. I wondered what she had that could be of interest to either Gian or me.

I didn't expect it to be something that would interest both of us.

"Damn rain," she said, too loudly. She had a South Carolina drawl, faked since she hadn't been anywhere near Raleigh since she turned five. Apparently she thought it sounded sexy for something. It suited her and her fake nose and boob job. "Going to sue the library," she said, looking at Mrs. Berlin in her little office. "Wrenched my ankle. If I can't walk at graduation --"

"You'd lose the case," Gian said, his soft voice interrupting just as she began her tirade. Missy scowled, her mouth still open, but I thought she'd lost track of what she'd been saying only a moment before. I had always suspected there was no connect between her mouth and her brain. "No one wears heels like that in the rain," Gian finished and frowned.

"I do," she said, as though that's all it took to make it right. Her answer didn't surprise me at all. After all, the universe revolved around Missy.

I glanced at the clock. Time slipped away while Missy stood there, dripping water everywhere, her hand on the counter. I thought I could smell something a little stronger than beer on her breath, and that didn't surprise me much, either.

"Do you want something, Missy?" I finally asked, leaning against the counter. She pulled back a little, as though she expected me to attack. I'd already had more than enough of her theatrics. "Gian and I have some work to finish here."

"Oh, that's right. You volunteer here, don't you?"

"As you well know, since you came here looking for us," I replied and this time didn't hide my smirk. Honestly, how stupid did she think we were?

Her face reddened beneath dangling limp, blonde hair, and her eyes narrowed in anger -- green today, but they were apt to change color, depending on what contacts she grabbed. She stood more than a head taller than me, some of that from the heels. Until the tenth grade she had out-bulked me as well, but she'd turned almost wraith thin for the last couple years. I didn't worry as much about getting into a punching match with her as I had when we were in the fifth grade and she could knock me down and sit on me.

We'd never been friends. We never would be. That made me momentarily happy.

I saw Mrs. Berlin looking our way again, and knew that she wasn't going to stand by and let us gab for very long. She'd laid out the rules the first day -- no socializing at the library. She told us to take the job seriously, even if we were unpaid volunteers. And I did. I found I liked working here, and no one complained about how I looked, even if I was a bit more punk then they were used to.

"You wanted to tell us something, Missy?" Gian finally prompted again. Even he sounded out of sorts by now.

She looked down at him and I saw that look come over her again. This wasn't going to be good. My skin began to prickle and my mouth went a little dry even before she spoke.

"I just heard from my father that Seiji Kimura blew is brains out this afternoon at work," she said.

And then she grinned.

"Damn," I whispered, grateful I had been leaning against the counter after all. The news shocked me. I felt ill. This kind of thing didn't happen in Deervale.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Missy asked. Her voice grew louder, and her right hand waved as though she had no control over it. Was I the only one who suspected she had gotten heavy into speed and God knows what else the last couple years? The woman was out of control. She looked at me, her eyes brightening again and then back to Gian. "You know who's going to show up for the funeral, right? That little bitch, Akio Kimura is going to be here! Bet you can't wait to see her, right Gian?"

My breath caught and my own arm started to move. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to grab her by the arm and throw her out the door and hope that she broke her stupid, petty neck on the steps. Of all the damn, cruel, thoughtless things to say --

I turned away from her to get control of my rage and found myself looking at Gian instead. He had paled, and I could see the little scar on his right cheek, a souvenir from the last time he and Akio had met -- that and the wheelchair he now sat in.

He looked up at Missy as if she were some kind of alien creature who spoke a language he didn't even understand. I don't think she noticed. I would have died if I'd had won a look like that from him.

I knew my reaction, and probably Gian's, only fueled her joy. She smiled brighter. "I can't believe they let her out of the treatment center." She runs you down, and she gets to laze around in a hospital for a year or so, and then she's cured? What kind of justice is that, huh?"

"Missy," I said, hoping my voice remained calm. I had shoved my hands into my sweater pockets, just to make certain I didn't swing at her. My fingers formed fists, the nails dug into the palms, but I still forced myself to speak calmly. "You know, this isn't the place for this kind of discussion."

"What do you care? Or are you upset that we're talking trash about your good friend Akio around you?"

"You couldn't say anything about her that I haven't already thought." I met her vulture look and forced a smile. It had to look fake, but I doubted she would know the difference, especially since Missy kept staring at Gian. Her face had flushed almost a dark red with excitement, her eyes grew wider. This was dirt heaven for her.

"It's time for you to go, Missy. You wouldn't want people to see you spend too much time here," Gian leaned back in his chair and looked deceptively relaxed. "People might think you're actually working on your term paper rather than buying one."

Oh hell. . . .

I thought I would have to throw myself on her to save him. I almost pushed away from the counter, but Missy didn't even take his snipe badly. Instead, she gave a little snicker of a laugh and another wave of her hand. "True. Besides, there are places I got to be. See ya'll Monday in school. Be good."

She spun and sauntered away, her heels sounding like one of those tin drums kids get at Christmas, and the tune tapped out by someone with no sense of rhythm. She headed straight across the room to the door, forcing a woman with her child to sidestep before she shoved them away. I started to protest, but that might stop her. I wanted her away, and in a moment, she threw open the door and headed out into the pouring rain again.

I stared, hoping she'd fall and break her neck. I hated feeling that way, but the anger overwhelmed me. I wanted revenge and justice and Missy Murphy looked like the perfect enemy right now. If I had been any closer, I might have shoved her myself. I took the coward's way out and asked God to do it for me.

But she made it down the steps and into the little Jaguar that she'd left in the no-parking zone. I could hear the wheels spin on the wet pavement as she hit the gas and hurried away to spread the good word.

I stood there by the counter, trying not to gasp as the rage rose inside me, threatening to come out in a scream or a curse -- or worse yet, to make me weep like a little girl. I would not cry, not here, in front of Gian -- the one who had really suffered in this tragedy. I stared out into the rain, trying to count the splatters as the drops hit the steps, like I had done as a child. I wanted anything that would help me to stop thinking about Missy, and all she had told us.

Silence filled the library, and I could hear nothing more than a page turned and Gian breathing behind me. I wanted to be somewhere else. I had buried the nightmare. How dare she --

"We better get these books shelved," Gian said. I looked at him, trying to find the right words to say, as he propelled himself away from the desk.

I watched him head into the maze of book shelves. My breath still came very short, and I hadn't dared push away from the counter because I felt so weak.

Mrs. Berlin left her desk and came toward me, a wad of paper towels in one hand. Great. Not only did I have to put up with Missy's bullshit, now I would have to clean up after her as well.

"You handled that very well, Marisha," Mrs. Berlin said. She wiped the table where Missy had left a hand-sized puddle while she told us the news. "Thank you. You better go help Gian now."

"Thank you," I said, and felt my first true warmth for the woman I had been working with for the last three months. She patted my shoulder the way my mother sometimes did, and nodded toward the place where Gian had disappeared. I thought I saw worry in her face and liked her even better for it

I went as far as the first rows of books, stepped out of sight, and stood there, gasping in the scent of books, ink and dust. My hands were still in my pockets, my fingers still in fists. I tried to push the scene away -- both Missy's announcement and the memory of what had happened on that late fall night over a year ago.

The reports the police finally gave out had said Akio, drugged out of her mind, had been driving her father's car home from a Hollywood Hills party. A witness -- underage and unnamed in anything we got to see -- said she had purposely turned the car toward Gian and hit the gas and ran him over. On purpose. There was no doubt.

I hadn't heard about the accident until the next morning when I came down for breakfast. That same feeling of disconnect came over me again, the cold ice from the pit of my stomach to the top of my head. My arms began to tremble. Not Gian, I thought. No one would hurt Gian. Not on purpose.

Not Gian, whom I had been in love with since probably fifth grade, but who didn't know me as anyone but the girl who lived next door. I was the girl he played baseball with in the summer and who had gone camping with his family when she was twelve.

They hadn't told me for another day that Akio had been the one driving the car. That had been another, different cold shock. Akio had been my best friend. I hadn't wanted to believe she would do such a thing.

It still hurt. God, it hurt, there in the depth of my soul, as the feeling of betrayal rose within me again. I had treated Akio like a sister -- better than I treated my own older sister, probably. We'd been more than friends --

Then, for a brief moment, I remembered Gian the last time I'd seen him walking. It had been earlier the day of the accident, just after school. I was heading home but he was heading to the school gym to work out. He had been head of the dance class at school, and though he was never going to be a Baryshnikov or anything, he'd loved it. Loved to dance, and play baseball, and run track --

And I remembered how I smiled as I saw him jogging away, his hair bouncing at his shoulders. He'd leapt a small wall and headed up the grassy area --

"Hey!"

I spun, startled at the sound. Gian sat at the end of the aisle. I wondered how long he'd stared at me. Half the books still sat on the tray in front of him, and I knew those were the ones he couldn't reach to put away.

At least Gian was much better than he had been the first months after the accident. He could stand now with the help of crutches, and I had heard his mother say he might be up to a cane by this time next year.

I wanted that to happen. I wanted it very much.

I followed him through the dusty shelves to put books away, finishing up our little good deed for the day. It felt trite and stupid in the face of everything else, but Gian kept at the work, so I couldn't sulk. We had less than an hour before the library closed and we still had a lot of work to do. Just as well. It kept my mind off everything -- at least until I would see Gian staring out the door into the darkening night, his face bleak and the loss too plain in his dark eyes.

It had been raining that night too. I wondered if he hated the rain now. We never talked about it.

Gian's father came to drive him home after work, the van pulling up where Missy had been parked. Gian rolled down the ramp and I waved goodbye, wondering what Mr. Calabria would say to his son. I wondered if it would help.

I wondered if he could say things to me that would help me, too.

Stupid feeling. I stayed long enough to watch Gian pull himself from the chair to the front seat and his father hastily pack the wheelchair away in the back of the van. I could see Gian, his head bowed a little, and I thought maybe his lips moved, though his father hadn't climbed back into the van yet. Did he pray? What did he ask for on a night like this?

When they pulled away, I hurried to the parking lot beside the library, nearly slipping on the slick pavement. I through myself into my little white Mustang, glad to be out of the rain, and sat in the relative silence for a few moments.

I had to fight back a demon I thought I had tamed a long time ago.

The demon came from guilt. I knew it was not my fault, what had happened to Gian. I hadn't been responsible for what Akio did: I wasn't in the car with her and I hadn't given her the drugs. I hadn't even seen her since English class that morning.

But....

But Akio Kimura had been my best friend. Except for Gian, there had been no one outside my family whom I cared for as much as I did her. She had become my little sister and I'd found delight in helping her learn English and in sharing my world with her. I hadn't laughed with my older sister as much as I had laughed with Akio.

And she had betrayed me. She had tried to kill the boy I loved -- the one she had been getting closer to, as well. Double betrayal. Little Akio, who hardly spoke any English when she had first arrived two years before; who had always been so shy and lost that even Missy showed occasional kindness to her.

She'd barely been in America two months when her father met and married Nadine O'Hara, a wannabe actress with pretensions that put Missy Murphy to shame. We had all felt sorry for Akio.

The question of why it had happened had plagued me for months. School councilors had tried to help. None of it made sense, and in the end that was what I had been forced to accept.

I'd been okay with it, until tonight and Missy's cut that opened the wounds again.

Only Mrs. Berlin's car remained in the parking lot, and I didn't want her to find me here when she came out. Unfortunately, I didn't want to be anywhere else. I would have to go home and deal with my parents. My father worked with Seiji Kimura, and I only now remembered he had died today. Mr. Kimura had seemed almost as lost as his daughter sometimes. And Nadine had left him within a year of the accident. I felt badly that I hadn't even thought about him.

I didn't need a new form of guilt.

I had thought -- well, not that the nightmare was over, because I saw Gian every day, and couldn't just forget about why he sat in the wheelchair. But the pain had died down over the last year and a half. I had seen Gian improve. I had hopes that things would, somehow, get back to normal.

A stupid, childish wish. I knew that now.

The lights went out in the main part of the library, the huge glass front going dark. Only a few circle of lights filled the darkness and I suddenly felt very alone. Mrs. Berlin would be heading for her car, the SUV next to mine. I needed to be away.

I started the car and began to press down on the gas, anxious --

Too anxious. The wheels spun and I almost lost control just backing out. That brought me back to my senses. I didn't want to end up in an accident -- I thought about hurting someone the way Gian had been hurt. The thought made me so ill I almost couldn't move the car at all.

Control. I could handle a little rain. I made myself back up slowly and go carefully out of the water slick parking lot onto the road. Streetlights made to look like old gas lamps lit puddles and emerging flowers. Nearly summer. Graduation and prom were coming soon. Next fall I'd be in college, away from Deervale and everything that had happened here.

Away from Gian.

It was a good thing it was raining. No one would notice my mascara running from the tears.

Welcome to 2011

So far I'm not impressed. It's VERY cold. My back is giving me an incredible amount of trouble and there is snow that needs shoveled (not a good combination). I stayed up past midnight and did some writing, though not very much. I've started the 4th Devlin book, and I think it's going to be better once I feel up to actually sitting in chairs and stuff.


So, overall, it's hard to approach the start of 2011 with any kind of enthusiasm when you are walking like Igor and mumbling under your breath as you move from room to room.


My total number of words for 2010 was 1,039,963 -- which is better than I had hoped to do. Of that, there were nine novels, though only two were brand new. It was my year for reworking older stuff from scratch, and that worked out VERY well for me. I am somewhat starting out this year in the same way, though I also have two huge projects in the outline/world building phase.


Last night I decided that I want to write more short stories, too. I like that idea.


So my plans for 2011 are somewhat nebulous this year. I have work that needs to be done and things I hope to do for fun. Right now, though, most of me wants just a quiet, calm writing year with fun stories. I think I can manage that if I put my mind to it.


Here's hoping that 2011 goes well for all of us.

Step one is done

Over the last couple days, I put a novelette up on both the Nook and the Kindle site for $1. This was an attempt to see if I could get the formatting right for epub stuff and actually get it up on the sites without totally messing things up. I wanted to know before I went on with other, longer material.

Nook version: http://bit.ly/gdM0av  and Kindle version: http://amzn.to/faegvd

No Beast so Fierce is the story of two shapeshifters in the far future as they battle a group of dangerous vampires. The story was originally published by Darwin's Evolutions.

The majority of material I have scheduled for the Nook and Kindle are previously published books, though I do intend to try a few new pieces as well. This is an attempt to pick up just a little bit more income to help in my private life as well as with Forward Motion and Vision. I might as well do this and have fun and still be writing new material. It's an experiment, and I have a couple other people watching on who are close to dropping into the ACOA game as well.

ACOA = A Conspiracy of Authors

This is an invitation only publisher, with an editor on staff and a block of ISBNs. There will be print and ebook versions of the work once things get ironed out -- and yes, I am doing the majority of the work to help get things moving. I'm also volunteering a lot of my work for the experiment before anyone else joins in. I can afford to play around with some of my books. I have books to spare, and even if I started publishing one a month it would be over five years before I would have to worry about running out -- and that's providing I never wrote another novel again. I do not plan to put out a book a month, by the way. I'm just saying I have enough books (and never mind the shorter work), that I can do this without fear of ruining any chance to submit to other publishers and agents.

A book a month. Zette's Book of the Month Club. Why does this make we want to laugh hysterically?

This is where being prolific actually starts to pay off in more than entertaining myself with tales. It is not, of course, quite where I saw myself going a decade ago -- but a decade ago, the market started to change so much that I started finding it harder to locate things I wanted to read. That meant, of course, that what I wrote wasn't really in line with what was being published. And now, over the last couple years, the changes in the publishing world have been so drastic that yeah -- I'm ready to try something new.

Very early on, I submitted to ebook publishers and ezines -- long before Kindles and such. I loved it. I still make sales on a number of those original novels, almost a decade later. I've never been afraid of trying something new in the writing world and this entire ACOA project is going to be my experiment for the year. It's something I probably should have considered before now, but I've just been so busy with Vision and Forward Motion that I let just about everything on my writing front go except for the writing itself.

Ah yes, writing. I am working on outlines for next year and finishing up my last little bit of work for this year. I am also working on Vision, which should be going to a Joomla! set up this year, if I get it all worked out. That will make back issues far easier to deal with once I get them all in hand. That's going to be a project from hell -- ten years of articles to copy over and tag. But I'll get there eventually!

My tea machine is beeping at me to let me know I have another wonderful pot of tea done. And it occurred to me that it was, in part, the triniTEA that pushed me into this little change in plans in my writing life. I bought the tea maker and felt guilty about it. (It has, actually, cut so far down on my Diet Pepsi consumption that it's good for both money and health reasons -- but that's something else.) Then, as I started getting used to it (addicted, probably), I realized that I want to be able to buy myself little things again and not have to worry. Not a lot of things, not big things -- but things now and then and not have to remind myself that I need to pay for websites, Vision articles, food, cat food, etc. None of these is all that expensive. I don't need a lot of money.

But I have something like 80 novels completed in at least the first draft. Why should they just be sitting there? There are people who like my writing. I hear from them now and then -- but since I don't put a lot out, I lose track of them and they forget about me.

Time to put stuff out and get back to work on marketing -- but do it professionally, so to speak. Nothing will go out that hasn't gone through at least one editor other than me. This doesn't mean perfection, of course, but I won't expect readers to have to report easily corrected mistakes at every turn. Problems with formatting -- yeah, I'll want to hear about those because the whole epub thing is new to me.

This also means, of course, that it's time to start submitting to other places again, too. Forward Motion and Vision will do fine without me hovering over them every moment, and if I do actually make a little extra money, then it will help even more.

But even more than the money, the idea that I might go out and find readers again pleases me. I've missed that these last few years while I fretted over home, work and FM/Vision. I have not fretted over writing. I refused to let that whole attitude slip into that part of my life.

Which means, of course, that I wrote over a million words again this year. Just so you know.

That includes seven novels.

Maybe that Zette Novel of the Month Club isn't so bad an idea after all.

Into the Great Unknown

That's how I'm starting to view 2011. I have things I'm doing that are entirely different from my usual track. I'm excited about it in many ways, but in others -- well, it's not the path I was on, and the footing looks a bit treacherous out there.

But it is a path that is increasingly popular among previously published authors. I've been picking up wonderful books by favorite authors lately in self-published ebook editions. And, as I've pointed out a few times before this, I am not connecting with the current science fiction and fantasy book market. I'm not even sure I could if I wanted to because the material that is popular right now is just not what interests me. There's nothing wrong with that -- we aren't all required to like the same things.

Getting my end of the project ready is difficult, though. Not that I don't have things ready -- but that I don't have time to keep moving forward and I am running out of time if I want anything up and going on January 1, 2011 -- or at any time in January, for that matter. I need to get to work on a schedule. I've been working on a plan, but not really timing things out. I need to get the work linked to a timeframe now and make myself move on it.

Good idea.

So I am sitting here with a cut of Wild Strawberry tea from Adagio (heavenly!), giving Zaphod a bit of the Cheddar Cheese and Broccoli soup (also heavenly on a grey, dreary day -- and Zaphod agrees), and piling up notes and work lists and ideas for what I really need to do.

Running out of time, Zette. Get moving.

Or not. The tea is very nice. We're supposed to have snow tomorrow. Maybe that will get me moving on stuff and just get a few more things done. Maybe I need a couple days of just messing around with stuff.

I know it's going to get down to the last of the year and I'll still be looking around wondering why I haven't gotten things done! I think this year just wore me out for some reason. Maybe a little rest won't hurt. (As long as I don't look at the list of things I need to get done.)

I don't have much to worry about for writing over the next couple weeks. I don't have much to finish up this year. I am putting together an outline of something to start on January 1, if I can just get it to fall together right. So far -- a lot of bits and pieces, but not a huge big 'this is it' moment for me. Very odd, so that's going far too slowly -- I need to focus on it better. I also have Vision to get done, of course. And the DAZ newsletter, which I am a bit behind on today. Oops. Need to get to work on that one!

I also need a plan my writing for next year. I know part it will revolve around more Devlin books -- those have been great fun. I need to outline the next three, at least.