Snips, Snails, Sugar, Spice

Assorted things to follow, both nasty and nice.

I am, officially, the worst fish-sitter in the world. Though D. knew about the catastrophe with Fishy, the murdered goldfish, he still asked me to care for his 2 betas. I really didn't have much choice; he was leaving town and didn't have anyone else to care for the violent little finned beasts. So I reluctantly agreed. Thinking that I'd learned my lesson, I put the two-chambered tank up on a high counter, beyond (I thought) the reach of the ravenous cats. Moreover, the fishtank had a lid, so I thought surely it would be fine.

When I got back from taking Meg to the airport last night, I found the lid off, an empty tank, water everywhere, and no fish.

The cats burped quite discreetly.

Do not give me any more fish, people! They die, and not happily or peacefully, either!

Saw Orson Scott Card (referred to hereafter as "Scott"; don't get confused) on Saturday. I forget how popular the guy is. I mean, he's bought me Brazilian food, I've listened to him critique the quality of an Italian restaurant's parmesan cheese, I've seen him sweaty after his morning jog. Any hero-worship I had for him rubbed off years ago. The bookstore was jammed, though, standing-room only, and me and Meg and D. (who took the Scott Card workshop with me way back in the day; that's how we became friends, and how D. realized that fiction writing was not his True Calling) had to stand way in the back.

Someone asked Scott whether he ever did any teaching, and he said that he did from time to time, and then proceeded to be all self-deprecating for a while, saying that at best he gave his students a little boost, teaching them things that the serious ones would have learned on their own eventually and that the unserious ones didn't need to know. Then he mentioned that one of his students was in the room, one of the good ones that had kept writing. That'd be me-- he saw me standing back there. He said I was a good writer before he ever met me, though. Such a nice thing to say! I wish I'd had something of my own to sell to the crowd. :)

Me and D. got to talk to Scott briefly after the reading. It was pretty funny; the woman running the reading let me zip all around the signing line and talk to Scott, then held back the other people who tried to surge forward, saying "No, don't bother him, that's one of his former students." Ah, sweet weapons of privilege.

Scott's so great. He asked me to email him a list of the URLs where my stories have appeared lately, and I did so. I got email back from him that same night, saying that he'd get his assistant to print out the stories so he could read them. Man. I hope he likes them. I want Scott to respect me as a writer.

He's such a good public speaker. All the theater he did back in college really comes through. He's got a great sense of humor, he's generous... and man, can he write. I'm reading Shadow of the Hegemon and it's fabulous.

I haven't had a chance to buy a parking permit yet, so I have to either feed the meter for a couple hours after work or park a couple of blocks away. That blows. I'll have to take a morning off work to get a permit.

My job still sucks. Not so hell-stressful today, but I worked 9 hours and didn't get nearly everything done that I needed to. I'm going in early tomorrow, I think. Maybe I'll get caught up. I'm beginning my next battle with the Job Goblin as well. Tonight I drafted a new résumé, and I think it looks pretty good. Professional and quite adaptable. It's a wonder I got hired at all with my old résumé. That one looked like monkey scribbles. It's a good thing I'm charming and well dressed. (That there's a bit of self-deprecating irony, y'know) I wrote cover letters, and I'm sending applications for a couple of university jobs tomorrow. One of them would be so dreamy-grand... but I won't talk about it for fear of jinxing (I'm a superstitious atheist, aren't I?).

Little birds tell me that one of my stories is being recommended to the Stoker preliminary ballot, specifically "The Dog Boys" That's unlikely to amount to anything, but it's still nice that somebody in HWA thinks well of my work...

Rejections today. The nice form from Asimov's, and a weird quasi-form from Byline. Got a bounce from Dave Truesdale at Black Gate a couple of days ago. He dug the story, but his publisher (who has final say-so on the stories that get bought) didn't think it was right for the magazine. Tra la. Also got a bounce from Strange Horizons for a poem; it was a close-but-not-quite, runner-up for January. They asked for more. I sent more. That's what I do.

I sent a couple of stories back out today. Rejection rain is falling. I gotta get busy with that bailing-bucket.

I miss Meg. I miss Meg! I'm lonely. This is dreadful.

I've got an idea for an historical sf piece, I think I might send it to Would That It Were. I did a little research tonight on 1890's Kansas, the Kickapoo, and those lovely rascals the wandering rain-makers. The story could be something good. Could turn to smoke and sodium chloride, too, though. If I write it, it'll be short and fun.

New addiction: Jamba Juice. Meg dragged me into the place last week and got some raspberry thing. I don't even like raspberry, and I liked it. Who knew puréed fruit could be so good? I went and got the citrus one a couple of days later, and tonight I had a big ol' grape thing. So grapey it made my jaw hurt, but delicious.

Y'all don't get it. That's what I had for dinner. That's all I've eaten today, except for a little popcorn. Mushed grapes, ice, other random fruit things, and echinacea and stuff because I have a cold and I'm willing to try anything. I didn't even have my morning bagel. I'm not starving. I'm quite content.

This is a strange and disturbing development. I should be craving milkshakes and cheese fries and, well, meat. But I'm not. Odd.

I could keep enthusing and complaining. But I should save something for tomorrow, right? I rather expect that I'll get back into my comfortable journal-updating rhythm, writing and posting these just before bed, so that you all get a yummy treat in the morning (except for that one guy who always reads my journal at 2 a.m.; but he's probably in some weirdo time zone).

Yawn, yawn. Good night, my peeps.