Anyway. Yes, CITY OF GHOSTS was released, and I feel all bereft and weird that my summer release odyssey is complete and there are No More Worlds To Conquer and all of that. At least not until I get books 4 and 5 written, which I shall be starting next month!

But let me quickly point out for those of you who haven’t seen that we’ve done some updates to the site here, including some Deleted Scenes from UNHOLY MAGIC. Check the Fun Stuff page for more, well, fun stuff, an the Media page for interviews and guest blog posts on all sorts of different aspects of the Downside books and characters.

I’ll be back Tuesday with a much longer and more in-depth regular post–tomorrow morning I’m heading to Orlando to crash RWA for a day or two–and in the meantime, my friend David Bridger has just had a book release with Liquid Silver, and here’s here to do a little guest post for me and be all mushy and romantic and stuff. No, seriously, I make fun, because I’m immature, but it really is a lovely post, and David is a lovely man, so enjoy.

Thanks for inviting me, Stace. It’s a pleasure and a privilege to be here with you today.

Since Beauty and the Bastard was released last week, I’ve been thinking about love a lot. Romantic love and other kinds of love, in life and in art.

I realised long ago that everything I write has love in it, and that came as no big surprise because I’ve always been a romantic. I’m someone who sees the romance storyline in action movies like The Terminator and Batman Begins. Yes, Stace, and Die Hard. [Hee! --SK]

Many paranormal romance and urban fantasy stories deal with love in its early stages, when everything is shiny new and heartstopping. And that’s great. I enjoy reading and writing that sort of love, especially when the world is exploding into some grim nightmare around the lovers and they have to deal with all that shit as well as coming to terms with their feelings for each other. It’s magical.

I’m on Team Terrible, by the way, but no spoilers please. Unholy Magic is still on my bedside table, waiting for this blog tour to end, and my pre-ordered City of Ghosts will arrive any time now, so you can bet my nose will be buried in them as soon as my feet touch the ground next week. Because Chess and Terrible? They’re exactly what I’m talking about here. (I hope. ? )

But the kind of love my thoughts have been dwelling on recently is an older love. One that’s had its share of good times and bad, yet still holds together. Maybe one that’s walked through hell and come out the other side, and still holds together.

My wife and I share a love like that.

We’d been married for nine years when our world slid into one of those grim nightmares, that are so great to read and write but not so great to live in. Up until then, we’d been through the normal variety of experiences and we were doing okay. We had three lovely daughters and each of us was enjoying a good career. Then I came home a bit war-damaged and everything changed.

I was paralysed at first, and we had no way of knowing if I’d ever move again. I did, but it was two years before that happened and several more years of wheelchairs and sticks until I got back on my own two feet again. It was very painful and very scary. And that was just for me.

She left her career to look after me. No quibble. No second thoughts. Just dropped it and came home to become a full-time carer. What neither of us knew about back then, is how full-time carers often become non-people as far as the rest of the world is concerned. So it wasn’t only me existing in a quiet cocoon while my old life sailed on without me. The same thing happened to her, too.

That part of our lives lasted about ten years, and it wasn’t fun. But she stuck with it. She’d be the first to tell you she isn’t a natural nurse, and that I’m certainly not a natural patient, but she stuck with me. And when we came out the other side, our love had been forged in fire. We’d been close before, but now we were a single unit.

Oh, I’m not going to pretend that we share some kind of hive mind. We’re two independent people and our ideas often differ. Sometimes loudly. But we’re strong together.

Which is why life became hell when she got sick last year. She was very ill for fifteen months. Still hasn’t recovered fully yet, but she’s on the mend now and it’s going to be okay. This time last year, though, we thought we were losing her.

I have never been so desolated, as the way I was when I considered what life would be like without her. At the time, she didn’t even know things were so bad. For the worst four months she was morphined up to the eyeballs and didn’t really know what was going on. But I knew, and I thought I was losing her.

It just hit me again now, remembering it.

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you? Our love, already strong and flexible and sharp, has been forged in the fire again. Twice-tempered steel has nothing on us.

That’s the kind of love I’ve been contemplating recently, and it’s that kind of love I want to write about soon.

First, don’t forget tomorrow’s #UFChat on Twitter, which I’ll be answering questions in. You can get a bit more information on it here, if you like. It starts at 6 pm EST (3 PST) and I really hope you all come and say hi! Well, really, I hope anyone comes to say hi. This is the sort of event that gives me nightmares imagining it will just be me sitting there and no one else showing up. Seriously.

Next, there’s a new interview with me at The Literary Project. It’s not really about the books, it’s more about writing and career and personal stuff, and a bit about the difference between urban fantasy and paranormal romance. So worth checking out if any of that interests you.

A review or two! Murder by the Book bookseller John does a joint review of UM and CoG here:

I can’t say enough about how wonderful this whole series [is]. The plotting over the three book arc is top-notch. Once I finished City of Ghosts I felt like the three books together told a bigger story. That doesn’t happen often with books in a series.

And Book Chick City gives CoG a 10/10 review(!!) and says:

Unholy Ghosts and Unholy Magic stayed with me long after I read them and it was no different with City of Ghosts. There’s so many layers from the complex characters to the awesome world building of Downside. It’s full of witchy magic, action and romance, I literally couldn’t put this book down until I had read the very last word. I could go on and on about these books, they are just so brilliant! If you haven’t started this series, you MUST!

And last but not least, don’t forget the big-ass Name a Character Contest! I’m really excited by the number of entries I’ve gotten so far, and I hope to get plenty more, too! And I’m really hoping word spreads and more people give the books a try, too.

But anyway! On to the excerpt!! This is from Chapter Thirty.

And again, it is a bit spoilery. I tried to find one that wasn’t, and this one isn’t terribly so, but do be warned. Click at your own risk!

(As always, this is from the pre-copyedited version of the ms, and may differ slightly from the final published version.)

Chess and Lex are investigating a body and some magic items found in the tunnels under the city, when they realize someone else is down there with them. The lights snap off.

Every muscle in her body screamed to run. They had to get out of there, away from [the] destroyed body, away from the lungs and the fetish, out of the tunnels.

But Lex’s hand squeezed her arm tight, like he knew what she was thinking. She heard the sound of his gun cocked slow in his other hand as his lips pressed to her ear. “Ain’t just go off now, tulip. On the minute, aye? Let’s us have a thought first.”

Water splashed; how far away was it? Was that a foot? Something else? She pictured things dropped into the little stream, curse bags and gris-gris and fetishes, things the water would carry to them and drag against their feet. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might literally leap into her mouth.

“Ain’t get that flash you got neither,” he continued. “No draggin them eyes our way. Gimme a hold-on, aye?”

She nodded, knew he could feel her move.

“Know my way right, I do. Door ain’t far, dig, back where we come. Stay on me, aye?”

She nodded again. Not enough air, there wasn’t enough air in the tunnel, not enough in the world. Fresh air, clean air, air that didn’t thrum with magic, lay thick and heavy in her lungs with it. Choking her. She clutched his arm, wiry and hard under her hand.

Gentle pressure forced her to step back, to turn slightly. Even her sense of direction started to fail her; had she turned all the way around, or just partway? Which way was she facing? The darkness around them was a solid thing, completely impenetrable.

They stepped forward. Chess tried to keep her feet on the curve at the bottom of the wall, out of the water. Lex tucked her hand around his waist so her chest pressed against his back. It made walking difficult but it wasn’t as though they were just taking a stroll anyway, and she had to admit it reassured her.

Which kind of pissed her off, but this wasn’t the time to start wondering when she’d suddenly gone soft. People, she was discovering, were like cockroaches; if you allowed one in, more were sure to follow.

Another giggle, low and smooth. Her head whipped around, eyes straining to see something, anything in the pitch black air. Was that closer? Where were they?

Lex didn’t stop. They took another step, another. Chess’s foot hit something heavy, something solid and unyielding and yet somehow…somehow dull, against her toes. [The] body. She swallowed hard, kept moving.
Something ran past them. She felt it stir the air against her skin and bit back a scream. Sweat trickled down her face, into her eyes; she wiped them against Lex’s shirt without moving her hand. Without stopping. They had to get out, get out, get—

A sharp tug on her hair. A scream; not hers, not her voice. Hot foul-smelling breath on her cheek; Lex yanked her to the side and the gun went off in a flash of white light. Hot blood spattered on her skin.

And they ran.

No more secrecy now. No more hiding. Still they didn’t use the light—all she saw were huge red spots before her eyes from the gun—but their feet splashed through the water, pounded the cement beneath them while voices screamed in rage and pain behind them. More than one voice, many voices, echoing around her, reaching into her and yanking out her soul.

Lex ran faster, pulling her along through the darkness. He was the only real thing in the world; this wasn’t real, none of it was real, it was a nightmare she had to wake up from.

They were being chased. The screams turned to howls, catcalls. And then, horribly, to barks.

Dogs. Vicious ones. Baying in the tunnels, their low deep barks scratching her, hurting her, and it wasn’t until her frantic mind realized they hurt that she realized why.

It wasn’t real dogs following them. Not living dogs. It was psychopomps.

A dozen maybe, or a hundred. She had no idea, no way to tell. Didn’t have the breath to tell Lex, and no point anyway; psychopomps couldn’t be shot, couldn’t be stabbed, couldn’t be killed. Couldn’t be stopped without magic, and even if she had time to get her supplies she somehow doubted these particular hounds would respond.

They hurtled around a corner with the barks getting closer, the unearthly howls of the psychopomps, sounds she’d never heard a psychopomp make before.

Her head turned to the left as they entered another tunnel and she almost fell. Their eyes. She could see their eyes, the dogs, their glowing purple eyes. Hundreds of them. Hundreds of eyes, oh shit oh fuck they were going to die, have their souls torn from their living bodies and devoured or savaged, those were not normal psychopomps holy fuck what were they she was going to die—

No! She ran harder. Pushed herself with everything she had, until she was even with Lex. She couldn’t look back, didn’t want to look back, couldn’t stand to see them ready to bite.

Lex jerked her to the side, yanked her arm up. She stumbled on the steps; her right hand hit gritty cement. The dogs were right behind them, so loud she couldn’t even hear herself scream.

See you Tuesday!

(One thing about the deleted scenes that I think will be really fun: I wrote a scene for UM that ended up getting cut. But I really really liked the scene, so I rewrote a little bit of it–the intro part, basically–and stuck it in CITY OF GHOSTS. But as I edited CoG, I decided the scene still didn’t work as written, so I rewrote it again, extensively this time. So there will be a few versions of that scene, and you’ll be able to compare them all, if you’re the type of person who enjoys stuff like that.)

So look for all of that soon. I’m really excited about it.

Another thing I’m quite excited about is the fact that my blog series “Be a Sex-writing Strumpet,” with which I know some of you are familiar, is now available on Kindle! So you can buy a paperback from Lulu, or an ebook from Lulu, or a Kindle version from Amazon. And of course, as always, the series is free here on the blog; just click the “be a sex-writing strumpet” tag in the sidebar.

I offer the series as an actual book because I had a lot of requests to do so, and I charge for it in those formats because people convinced me to do so by saying they wanted to pay me something for it, but you absolutely do not have to buy the book to read and enjoy the series. You don’t and you never will have to. I wrote it as a blog series, and it will remain a blog series. The book formats are just there to make it easier for people if they like, and so they don’t have to keep clicking all over my blog if they want to read it. I still get website hits for that series almost every day, which just stuns me; if you type “be a se” into google the second auto-finish term it offers is “be a sex-writing strumpet.” It’s just insane, it really is. I never imagined when I wrote it that people would enjoy it so much and find it so useful, and that’s amazingly gratifying. Also, having it on Amazon offers people a chance to write a review for it, which would be fantastic; it’d be really cool to see some feedback on it after all this time! And of course you could all review all of my books if you want, heh.

Also exciting to me is the Name a Character Contest! I’m thrilled at how enthusiastic you all are! Thank you so much! I did want to let you know that I am checking the #cityofghosts tag on Twitter regularly, and keeping track of the entries there, as well as the emails and blog post links I’m getting. If at any time you want to double-check the number of entries you have, feel free to email either the Downside Army email address or me, or use the contact form here on the site (which of course also comes to me). Make sure you include your Twitter name, if you have one, or whatever other information I might need to identify you.

Tomorrow evening sometime I plan to post a new snippety excerpt from CITY OF GHOSTS, so be on the lookout for that!

I know I say this a lot, and you guys are probably tired of hearing it, but I really honestly am amazed by how enthusiastic the response has been to the series. I never expected it, I really didn’t, and it’s absolutely amazing. I can’t thank you all enough.

So let’s see, what else? I’m going to be popping down to the RWA convention in Orlando next week for a couple of days. I know, I know, it’s RWA, but I’m not actually registering/paying for the convention, I’m just hanging out in the bar, really. I’d decided–and basically committed to–doing so when it was supposed to be in Nashville, which is only like two hours away. Of course, tragic floods intervened, and now it’s in Orlando which is considerably farther, but like I said, I’d already committed. And it’s not a bad drive. I like driving by myself. I mean, I like to drive, period, but I especially like driving by myself. I can turn the music up loud and sing along, I can flip through the radio stations all I want, stop or don’t stop as I please…whee! I’m almost more excited about the drive than the con itself, much like I was when I drove to Massachusetts to see Caitlin before we went to RT. Of course, I was excited about the convention, but that really was an awfully fun drive.

Anyway, I think this post is unfortunately a bit dull. Too much news and stuff to keep track of. I’ll try to be more fun again shortly. For now my head is so full of nervousness (over CoG’s release; what if you all hate it? What if nobody buys it?), projects I’m working on (loosely mentally plotting the 4th Downside book, and lots of stuff for the new WIP/series I’m working on), netbooks (hee, I am totally getting one asap!), our trip to Florida to see my BFF next month–we’ll be there for my birthday–and of course the usual family things. So forgive me, please. I’ll be more interesting next time. Anything you want me to blog about? Feel free to ask!

Oh! And speaking of questions, I wanted to let everyone know that this Saturday the 24th at three pm, I’ll be participating in Twitter’s first #UFChat! You can find a bit more info about it here. Either way, come and hang out, follow the hash tag, and please ask any questions you want, as many as you want! I’m hoping it’s going to be a lot of fun (and, you know, that people actually participate).

Anyway, in anticipation of that release, I’m posting the playlist for CITY OF GHOSTS, and a new excerpt!

1. MURDER CITY NIGHTS–Radio Birdman
2. BORN TO LOSE–Johnny Thunders
3. ONE TRACK MIND–Johnny Thunders
4. I LOVE LIVIN’ IN THE CITY–Fear
5. GLORIA–Them*
6. BORN WITH A TAIL–Supersuckers
7. SEARCH AND DESTROY–Blanks 77
8. GODDAMN BOTTLE–The Lazy Cowgirls
9. GO MOTHERFUCKER GO–Nashville Pussy

*This song was actually cut from the book at the last minute, when I’d already set up the playlist. Also, the list should include BLANK GENERATION by Richard Hell, which would go in between the two Thunders songs and Fear.

You can purchase the list through iTunes here, if you’re so inclined. Remember, I don’t get anything when you buy the lists; the bands do, which is great. I just set them up in case people are interested, and would like to hear/have the songs mentioned in the books.

And here’s a new excerpt! As always, this is from the pre-copyedited version of the manuscript, so may differ slightly from the final version. If you haven’t read UNHOLY GHOSTS or especially if you haven’t finished UNHOLY MAGIC, this will be spoilery, so read at your own risk! Also, if you haven’t yet dowloaded the three-chapter sample of the book and would like to, you can do so on the CITY OF GHOSTS page here on the site.

So, this is from Chapter Eight.

Once inside the car he thrust the file into her hands and shot the car off the curb in a maelstrom of squealing rubber. She looked at him sharply, her back tensing in anticipation of an argument.

She’d fucked him over hardcore. She’d betrayed him and she’d lied to him, and she knew as far as he was concerned she’d led him on and used him as well, had consorted with people who wanted to see him dead and given them information to help them make him so. Most of all she’d hurt him. And if the pain in her chest was anything close to what he’d felt she was more than willing to admit he deserved to get his own back. Was willing to do more than admit it; was willing to take it, in the hopes he’d eventually decide she’d been punished enough and they could maybe move on.

But at that moment they were on their way to interview the man—Ratchet—who’d found the body parts in the vacant lot. She needed her wits about her, not to be waiting for the next verbal barb or dirty look. He could slash at her with knife-sharp words later; maybe if he did it enough her blood would finally flow clean.

Somehow she doubted it ever would.

But he didn’t speak at all. He’d flipped on his sunglasses so she couldn’t see his eyes, but the set of his heavy jaw and lowering brow, the tension in his arms and the way his lips pressed together…

“Are you okay? I mean,” she added quickly, “do you feel okay. That guy back there, I don’t know about you but he made me feel kind of twitchy. He had some power and I felt it. So I just wondered if maybe you did too.”

“Ain’t no witch.”

“Yeah, I know, but you look like— He was creepy and I just wondered if you’d felt it too, is all.”

When he didn’t respond, she tried again. “That sigil in your chest, have you been feeling—”

“I’m right.”

“I’d really want to help—”

“Said I’m right, dig?”

She bit her lip and turned to the file. Thanks to his sneaky thief act the night before she hadn’t even had a chance to look through it, only to skim it before trotting outside like a good little doggie to wait for Lauren.

And she hadn’t missed much. At least she hoped she hadn’t; but no, they wouldn’t have stolen anything. Copied it, sure, she had no doubt. But not stolen.

Sun glinted off the heavy chain around Terrible’s right wrist and stung her eyes, and for once she had her sunglasses. She was digging around for them when he pulled the car up in front of an empty-eyed building with dead weeds poking out of the ground floor windows, its walls dark with remembered flames. A squat.

She grabbed her notebook and pen, secured the edges of the file with a rubber band and stuffed it into the depths of her bag.

He didn’t ask if she was okay, but opened his trunk while she climbed out of the car and stood on the patch of crumbled cement that had once been a small parking lot. Ahead of her dried blood crusted the street; she could still see the tire tracks he’d left when he peeled away the night before.

The pig carcasses were gone, of course. And now that she thought about it—yes, the air carried the faint fragrance of roasting pork. She couldn’t imagine the glee that little bit of magic must have left in the hearts and stomachs of the neighborhood, most of whom had probably never seen that much meat in their lives. Didn’t want to imagine if any of those lives had been lost in the battle over who got to eat it, either. None of her concern.

She tried to shrug off the heavy stares she knew the two of them were getting and headed for the empty doorway when she heard the trunk slam shut.

The entire bottom floor was choked with weeds as high as her chest, long spiky stalks of ivory-colored grass gone to seed, spindly bushes. A thin trail had been worn through them into a darker space in the corner. The stairs. Terrible slid in front of her without touching her and pushed his way along the path; the dead plants tried in vain to grab his arms as he passed.

Soft sounds drifted down the stairs when they hit the bottom. Chess paused, took a deep breath. Something rang in the building; so faint it was more of an implication than an actual fact, but there nonetheless. Magic. The slow, deep slither of magic, inching up her legs and along her arms, curling into her stomach.

Not just average magic, either. Almost everyone did some; there was an entire successful industry in spellbooks and items designed for the average person who had little or no skill or natural ability. Most of them didn’t really work. They relied more on the practitioner’s belief that it would be effective than any actual results.

She was familiar enough with how those spells and charms felt. She’d encountered enough of them in the homes of her subjects; dream safes designed to ward away nightmares, or charm bags for wealth or safety, or occasionally sex spells planted in bedrooms. Those tended to be the most effective—and thus the most irritating for Chess, who did not like sex magic—simply because sex was the most accessible type of energy for most people. Any idiot could get turned on.

But this didn’t have the blunt edge of amateur magic, not at all. Too subtle; too well-hidden.

She didn’t realize she was staring at the landing above them until Terrible’s low voice broke her reverie. “Any wrong?”

“Feels like magic in here,” she said, echoing his quiet tone.

“Some do, aye? Them with them luck spells or aught.”

“Not like this, though. Spells like that—spells done by people who really aren’t talented—they don’t feel…finished, if you know what I mean. They’re not well-formed, they’re just like little blobs of weak energy. This isn’t—” She stopped, suddenly aware that they were having a conversation. A normal conversation.

One that wouldn’t last if she even considered pointing that out. Oops. “This isn’t like that. Whoever’s been casting in here knows what they’re doing. And they’ve tried to hide it. The magic, I mean. They’re trying to hide what they’re doing.”

“All Bump’s here, dig. Them to keep the eye out. Ain’t should be doin up that shit here.”

“All of them? They’re all Bump’s people?”

He shrugged. “What they ought, aye.”

“I guess we should go see, huh?”

Another small shrug, like he couldn’t really be bothered to complete the movement, and he preceded her up the cement staircase. The floor had once been covered in linoleum; curled edges of it remained like bookends where the stairs joined the walls.

The smell hit her nose at the same moment her feet hit the landing. Terrible stopped short; she would have run right into him if she hadn’t done the same. He turned to her, and in that moment she wasn’t thinking about what she’d done or what he’d done or what she wished they could do. She was thinking about the scent of death and how it raised the hairs on her arms, and she was thinking things had just gotten a fuck of a lot worse. For everyone.

I think this perhaps happens a bit more in genre fiction. I do believe there’s a sense that literary fiction is more artistic, that it’s deeper and more expressive or whatever. I think literary fiction writers are allowed to “get away with” stuff genre fiction writers could never even attempt.

But why is that? Is it because we think genre fiction is easier to write? Anyone who’s tried to write it can tell you it’s not. Is it because we think since the stories have certain general tropes that they’re not as original, or again, that they’re easy to write? Maybe. Maybe there is a sense out there that genre fiction isn’t art because we’re just putting a bunch of elements together in the same way as everyone else does, and that it doesn’t require any real depth from the writer. Which, as we discussed a bit on Tuesday, I think is frankly bullshit. In order to create a fully fleshed-out character you have to do some digging. In order to create a real and complex world you need to do that. If you want to make your story mean anything to readers, elicit any emotion in readers, you need to elicit that emotion in yourself, which means digging deep and–again–being honest. You can’t hide or lie to readers in your work.

But I do think there’s a weird kind of pressure on genre fiction writers to not let on that they see themselves or think of themselves as artists. There’s a definite pressure to act like their art means nothing to them, like it’s an entity completely separate from them.

Think of it this way. If a painter has a gallery show, and a critic ravages his work, does anyone frown and kick up a fuss if the artist gets upset about it? Does anyone remind him that reviews don’t exist to make him feel better, but to inform art lovers whether or not his work is worth their time? Not as far as I know. People expect the artist to be upset about terrible reviews. They expect him to be temperamental; hell, we all know what the phrase “artistic temperament” means, don’t we?

Now, I am NOT, absolutely NOT, implying in any way that reviewers don’t have the right to say whatever they want about books, or that reviews aren’t for readers and not writers–they absolutely are–or that writers should be allowed to freak out all over the internet and threaten people or name crack whore characters after people who gave them bad reviews or whatever. No, no, no, I’m not saying that at all, not one bit; you all know how I feel about that. This post isn’t about reviewers or reviews, except insomuch as they can be another example of what I feel is the expectation that genre fiction writers not consider themselves artists, not think or talk about themselves as artists, and not act as though their art is important to them. Like caring about your work has become synonymous somehow with freak-out rants and threats, instead of just…caring about your work. I’m not implying in any way that this sort of pressure comes solely from reviewers or readers, either; it comes from other writers just as much if not more.

Let’s take the “book as baby” cliche. Now, I am 100% in favor of the “Your book is NOT your baby,” reply to that one. I’ve had two babies. I’ve written over a dozen novels. I can tell you they’re entirely different.

And yes, you should be able to distance yourself from your work to some extent. Your work isn’t you. People are going to have differing opinions about your work; some may love it, some may hate it. Just like some people like you and some people hate you, and we try to learn from an early age that a lot of peoples’ opinions just don’t matter, that the only people whose opinions we should care about are our families and close friends, our bosses, whatever. You know what I mean.

But at the same time, as we discussed a bit on Tuesday, when you write you do put a lot of yourself into the work. And a lot of people will decide from that work that they can judge or define you as a person; that they somehow know you because they’ve read your books. And as I said, maybe they do. I don’t know what people think of me after reading my books, or what sort of person they think I am, or what clues to that they’ve found in my work. And this sort of judgment has always taken place, and still takes place, everywhere from the largest newspaper in the country to the smallest review blog. People always want to analyze the writer through his or her work, and they always want to analyze the work by connecting it to what they know of the writer. That’s normal; it’s just the way it goes. But again, that seems to be the case for literary fiction and not genre fiction.

I don’t believe genre fiction is any less artistic than literary fiction. I don’t believe genre fiction writers put any less of themselves into their work or expose themselves any less, at least not good genre fiction writers. I’m tired of fantasy or science fiction or romance being treated like they’re not “real” books. But I also wonder, at what point does that become, not a self-fulfilling prophecy, but one which we ourselves contribute to?

See, every time we as genre fiction writers huff indignantly that our work isn’t that special to us, that it’s not our baby, that it’s not ourselves, maybe we contribute to the idea that genre fiction isn’t art and shouldn’t be treated/considered as such. Maybe we contribute to the idea that we haven’t put anything of ourselves into the work, that we haven’t actually written anything of depth or truth.

It comes into the “professionalism” argument as well. We’re all so worried about being professional, about being easy to work with and seeing our work as a commodity and ourselves as commodities and all of that…have we become so focused on publishing as a business that we’ve forgotten about the magic of it? About the art? Have we tried so hard to be seen as professionals, not as silly women writing silly things or whatever, that we’ve stripped away some of the joy, and turned art into drudgery? We don’t want to say our work matters to us because that’s not a professional attitude; but you tell me in what other profession people are expected not to care about their work? Why can’t we be professional and still deeply invested in what we do?

It seems sometimes as if that attitude, the “Oh, my work is just what I do for a living, it doesn’t really mean that much to me, I’m totally cool, yo,” attitude, is expected of us. And I’m not sure why. Is it because we do see the occasional stunning online meltdown, with ranting and name-calling and “Wicca curses” and the ever-popular “I’d like to see you write a book, mean girl!” and we all want to distance ourselves from that as much as possible? Maybe. Is it because in some ways genre fiction feels more like a popularity contest than literary fiction, by which I mean we’re expected to network with our readers and interact with them; we’re expected to be accessible and friendly and open, in a way I don’t think litfic writers are? (I could be totally wrong about that, it’s just the impression I get and something I’ve noticed). Litfic writers get on Oprah; genre fiction writers get on Twitter.

I love interacting with readers, I honestly do. I don’t mind the expectation that I promote and Tweet and blog and all of that other stuff, because I enjoy doing all of that. But again, I wonder if the desire to be liked by readers, the desire to be popular, to not offend them, to make them want to support us, has made us deny our art? Has made us put it down or act like it’s nothing special or important in order to seem like just one of the gals, as it were? If we say our work is important, or imply that we’ve done something special that only we can do (by which I mean expressing our own individual truth and telling our own individual story, not writing in general; certainly neither I nor any of my friends are the only people who can write) then we’re not implying to our readers that we think we’re better than them. We’re equalizing with them. We’re being careful not to let a hint of ego or arrogance leak into the air around us, because if they think we’re an asshole they might not buy our books. Hell, even just talking about what our goals were or what we hoped to accomplish with our books can be seen as pretentious or entitled or whatever else.

And I do think that’s part of it as well. Sometimes it feels as thought the denial of genre fiction as art is really writers being told to get the hell over themselves, they only wrote a fantasy novel, you know?

I admit part of that is true. As proud as I am of the Downside books and as much of myself as I put into them, I don’t think they’re WAR AND PEACE. I know they’re not.

But they are art. They are my art. They are an expression of something deep inside me and the way I see the world. That’s what art is; the expression of something to elicit an emotional reaction, remember?

I’m happy to distance myself from that art when necessary; I don’t show up screaming on review blogs if someone didn’t love my work. I don’t reply to Amazon reviews or whatever. That’s not my place. I will freely admit that my books are not my babies, and I will let them go, and let people interpret them as they may. All of that is fine, and expected, and right.

But what I will not do any longer is pretend that my books aren’t part of me, and that they don’t matter, and that they aren’t art. Because they are.

A few weeks ago over on the Romance Divas forum a discussion was started about honesty in your writing, and what that means. It moved on into discussions of art and connection to your work as art, which I’m also going to discuss. So basically we’re going to have a big mishmash of Stacia’s Deep Thoughts about writing, which will hopefully be fun for everyone, but of course we’ll see, won’t we?

Anyway. The initial question, posted by the lovely and talented Kate Pearce, was whether or not we, as writers, compromise ourselves–change what we want to write–in order to sell the work or make it “acceptable” to a particular audience; do we stop ourselves from writing things readers might react badly to. Keeping in mind we’re discussing genre fiction, and genre fiction has certain conventions and reader expectations. All of which are, of course, perfectly fine; readers are entitled to expect the book they pick up will be what the cover and bookstore shelving or whatever promises them it will be.

But at what point do we stop writing what we want to write in order to be successful? At what point do we suffer for refusing to do so?

The thing is, your writing should excite you. Not ‘excite” as discussed in the Strumpet series, lol (although sometimes it should, depending on what you’re writing), but excite as in fire you up intellectually and creatively. I firmly believe that if what you’re writing doesn’t do that, the reader will sense it. The writing will be flat. The story will seem cliche. And frankly, a flat, cliche story stands very little chance of selling (yes, there are exceptions, but in general, and especially when it comes to first-time authors or those just beginning careers). This post isn’t about writing techniques, though. It’s about the deeper aspects of writing, the emotional stuff, the stuff we couch in skill.

But how much is too much? What if the story that really excites you is one so out there that the odds of anyone wanting to buy or read it are infinitesimal? I believe fantasy, especially, is a genre with lots of room for growth and change. I believe readers on the whole are a lot smarter than some people give them credit for, and a lot more willing to and capable of stepping onto that ledge and seeing where the writer wants to take them. But if you’re writing a cannibal romance, you’re probably going to have a hard time, let’s face it.

We all know compromise is part of life, or rather, there is an element of compromise in life. We all know that we can stick to our guns, and write that romance where the hero and heroine sit down at the end to a nice big plate of baked human hearts with artichokes and mushrooms, with the freshly slaughtered carcasses stored in their deep freeze, but that may limit our publishing options. You might be able to sell that cannibal love story to a horror publisher or imprint, but it’s probably not going to fly with genre romance (hey, I could be wrong, this is just my personal feeling).

The problem–and the fundamental question here–is, at what point are you compromising too much? What is your work to you; is it stories you write for a laugh and to pay the bills, or is it an expression of yourself? (That’s not to say stories you write for a laugh and to pay the bills can’t be an expression of yourself. The difference is in how you view them, to some degree.) In other words, how much do you care about what you write, how much of yourself do you put into it? How deep do you go? How honest are you?

How deep should you go? How much do you need to expose yourself, if at all? How much should you expose yourself?

And how much of your decision is practicality, and how much is fear?

This touches on a larger, more fundamental question, which is whether or not fiction is art and whether or not writers are artists. And whether or not genre fiction is art. I think we’ll talk about that and the implications of it a bit more later, but we can’t really have this discussion without at least mentioning it first, so we have some kind of lens to view the discussion through.

My personal feeling is that every writer puts something of themselves into their work, whether they mean to or not.

Writing books is in some ways akin to exposing yourself. You write a book. You pour large parts of yourself into it. The characters may or may not be you–usually they aren’t–but if you’re really digging deep into the POV character, you are by necessity accessing parts of yourself and putting them on the page, no matter how ugly or embarrassing or painful they may be; no matter how joyous or fun or delightful they may be.

A book is the expression of truth as you see it and experience it. Every moment, every scene, every sentence is you expressing something important to you, no matter what it is. No matter what the plot is, no matter the setting or genre, you’re telling a story that came from you. You have to be in there; if you’re not, where and how is the book connected to you and to the rest of the world? If you’re not, what exactly are you writing, and is it what you really want to write or is it just something you’re writing to make money? How proud are you, or can you be, of the latter?

I think these are questions that can and do make a lot of people uncomfortable, and I have some thoughts on why, which we’ll discuss in the next post. But this is what I know. Writing something you really put yourself into is terrifying. Doing anything you really put yourself into is terrifying. And it is that way for a lot of reasons. Writing that way is akin to sharing your deepest secrets with a lot of strangers, and inviting them to poke and prod at your weakest points, your deepest insecurities. There are people out there who will look at your work and decide they know what kind of person you really are because of what you wrote. There are people who will decide that by exposing yourself in your work you have invited them into every other part of your life; look at the types of questions some erotic romance writers are regularly asked about their sex lives. There are people who will hate your book and be unable to separate that from you as a person. There are people who will decide that because you’ve written a certain type of character or story you deserve to be shamed or shunned; they will confuse you with the work to the extent that not just the work but you yourself become an object of derision, as if you are a book yourself with no feelings. And maybe they shouldn’t be able to completely separate you; who can really say? If you’re putting yourself that deeply into your work, are you actually stripping yourself, baring yourself? If they disagree with your truth, don’t they have a right to say that, and to say it about you and not just your work?

Perhaps eliciting that kind of reaction is a good thing. People may dislike the timid, but they don’t tend to hate them with such a passion. Maybe if you’ve done something that makes people that angry, it’s a good thing. I’ve never been someone who believes that the purpose of art is to shock or anger. But can we say that if you do shock and anger people, you’ve obviously touched them on some kind of deep level? And that perhaps an emotional reaction of that depth is the purpose of writing, and thus the purpose of art?

Perhaps if people hate you because of something you’ve written it’s because you refused to stay in the box they wanted to put you in. People don’t like it when you’re not easy to classify; they don’t like it when you try to challenge what they expect you to be. There are people in this world who dislike it when others show depth or intellect; there are people who simply cannot handle disagreement with them or the idea that others see things differently, people who are incapable of stepping outside of their own worldviews for a moment. Those people exist in every field, in every country, in every place, all over the world (look at some of the arguments people have over science questions, or politics, or about whether or not Spiderman could beat Iron Man in a fight. I’m not saying everyone who dislikes or diagrees with something or someone is being small-minded, that’s not remotely what I mean. I’m just saying that when you expose yourself and your work, or your theories or opinions, to the wider world, you have to be prepared for all kinds of reactions).

But eliciting that kind of reaction can be terrifying, too. Unnerving. And it’s something we don’t always prepare ourselves for. Something I’m not sure we can prepare ourselves for. No one can predict what kind of reaction a piece of writing or a piece of art–whether they’re different things or the same thing–will get.

The thing is, I don’t know a single writer who doesn’t feel emotionally vulnerable about their work, no matter how light-hearted the work is. I don’t know a single writer who doesn’t feel, after writing an intense scene or finishing a novel, as if they’ve just spent several hours being psychoanalyzed and poked with sticks. No, our characters are not us. But if our books are the expression of truth as we see them, if our books are expressions of ourselves, then we have exposed ourselves. If we’ve been honest in our work then we have essentially invited strangers into our minds and hearts, into our psyches, and invited them to rummage around a bit.

We’re trying to connect with people. We’re trying to connect with readers. We’re trying to share an experience with them, make them think and feel, and do it in the most honest way we can. (We’re trying to entertain them first and foremost, of course, but this is about the deeper aspects of our work.) We want them to connect emotionally with what we’ve written; there is no greater compliment than to be told by a reader that your work made them cry (um, assuming it was a sad or emotional scene, of course. It’s not a compliment if your light comedy made a reader cry through its sheer awfulness. Nobody wants a reader to put down their book, drop to their knees, and scream, “Why is life so terrible?!”)

Isn’t creating something with the intent to elicit an emotional response in someone else, art? Isn’t that the purpose of art?

And if it is, why do we so often shy away from calling it that?

We’re going to talk about that on Thursday.

Seriously, guys, I cannot recall ever being this busy in my life. I mean, in normal everyday life, not, like, the weeks before my children were born when suddenly the entire house needed to be scrubbed and redecorated, or the weeks before my wedding when the entire house needed to be scrubbed and redecorated and I had a houseful of guests and I needed to get manicures and hairdos and fittings and all of that stuff, or when we move. This is just my daily task-list growing longer and longer. (Oh, and before I forget, did you all see the UNHOLY MAGIC playlist on iTunes? You know I don’t get paid or anything when you purchase it, but the artists do; I just put them together in case anyone was curious about the music in the books and would like to hear it. This way you don’t have to hunt around and not know which songs are mentioned or whatever.)

I just finished a short story for an anthology; it’s a Downside story but because I didn’t want to give spoilers, and am well aware that most readers have never heard of me or my books, I wrote it from an outsider’s point of view, which was fun. You know what the most fun part of it was, though, which is really weird? Getting to actually describe Chess head to foot. You know, it’s hard to find ways to describe characters when you write from their POV; you don’t want to use hoary old tricks like them looking at themselves in the mirror, and really, just about any other sort of trick to describe your characters feel hoary.

MC: Oh, Friend #1, I hate my hair.

Friend #1: Nonsense. I wish I had long blond curls like yours.

Do you know what I mean? I don’t describe my characters too closely, I don’t think of them in terms of what actor they look like and would never describe them that way. I like to leave that up to you guys to fill in, really. Which makes me think of a fun contest! Which I may mention at the end of this post.

Anyway. So it was really fun to write a short where, because the MC of that story doesn’t know these people, he can actually take in the details of their appearances. They’re still not really facially described, but there’s a much more complete description, down to things like what Chess’s bag actually looks like. (I’ll share that one; it’s faded army-green canvas.) The story is tentatively titled Rick the Brave, but I’m still trying to come up with something better.

Now I have two other projects on my plate, one of which is another short for something else, and one of which is a new series-starter WIP which I’m extremely excited about. I’m not super far into it yet, but what I have I’m very happy with, which is a great feeling. It’s tentatively called Stone and Steam, but that will probably change.

I also have a to-do list which includes five interviews, which I really need to get to. And, I’ve got a couple of dozen emails and forum messages in my inbox from readers, relating to the Downside books, which I swear I will answer, my days have just been disappearing from me lately. But I do get those emails, I do read them, and I do appreciate them immensely. Nothing in this world is as amazing as getting an email from a reader who loved your work. (Well, okay. Sorry readers, but there are a few better moments, I have to admit. Holding your baby for the first time is pretty fucking amazing. But outside of stuff like that, reader email tops the list.)

BUT. That does bring me to a question most of the emails have been asking, and a ton of people on Twitter have been asking, as well as here on the blog. And I really wasn’t able to answer the question, although I’ve known the answer for, oh, three weeks or so now. Ready?

YES. There WILL be more Downside books!!

I don’t have any more details I can share as to number or dates or anything, although I think I can pretty safely say, considering it’s now July, that we’re talking about next year. We’re still working a lot of details out. But I’m extremely pleased and excited, and I hope you guys are too.

Oh, and this relates specifically to books with Del Rey, in the US. I have no definite word one way or the other yet as to UK/EIRE/AUS. Certainly I’m very hopeful, but I can’t say for sure.

This actually reminds me, in a roundabout way, of another question I’ve been asked a few times, and my answer to that. I’ve had a few questions regarding TV/movie adaptations. Honestly? There is essentially no chance in hell of something like that happening, lol. The books that get adapted, generally, are the big huge best-sellers etc. Books with a guaranteed audience of more than a few thousand. But, as I’ve said to those who’ve asked, and I say it as it relates to anything, not just me or my books: if you want it, let people in power know! Write to that TV network or production company, you know? Write to the publisher and tell them you want more books. I’m not, not not not not, suggesting some sort of campaign or anything like that. I feel hesitant saying this at all, because I’m aware of how it could possibly be misconstrued. But I believe, as I’ve said numerous times, that you guys are pretty smart cookies. You’re not going to go on some sort of rampage of calling editors or producers at home, and you’re not going to decide from reading this that I’m saying my books deserve this or it’s your job to do that or anything of that nature and start telling everyone online what a crazy egotist I am that I told you all to start letter-writing campaigns on my behalf. I’m not telling you to do that. I would never tell you to do that. I don’t care if you do or not, really, and this isn’t about me, it’s about you (you’ll see why in a minute). Like I said, this really isn’t about my books. And really, the bottom line–sales numbers, etc.–matter a hell of a lot more.

But with books, as with anything else, it’s good to make yourself be heard. For example, as you might know, I loved the show RENO 911! Shortly after it began I emailed Comedy Central to tell them i love the show and to ask if they were planning a DVD release anytime soon. They replied that no, they weren’t.

But like three months later they announced they were going to release it on DVD.

Was that because of my letter? No, I seriously doubt it. But if they realized they were getting letters requesting it, perhaps that moved it higher up the list. Maybe they just passed my email on to the producer of the show or whatever and I managed to make someone smile.

Here’s another story I told recently. Back when I worked the phone psychic line, I had a caller who literally made me physically ill. I have never in my life spoken to someone so negative. And she wasn’t negative because her life was awful. We had a woman who’d lost her baby to SIDS–horrible–who’d call us once a month or so; she’d call three or four times over the course of one or two nights. It was very difficult to speak to her. She broke all of our hearts, and she made all of us incredibly sad. But not sick. My negative caller wasn’t tragic; she was just, well, an asshole. She lived for free in a house her parents bought for her, but that sucked because she didn’t like the house, it wasn’t the one she’d wanted. She had a good job but that sucked because it was boring and she wasn’t getting promoted as fast as she’d have liked, even though other people were. Oh, but those who were getting promoted were just ass-kissers who spent all their time actually working, the brown-nosing bastards. She was way smarter than they were but because she refused to play their game she kept getting passed over. Oh, and sure, she could get a better job if she wanted to go back to school, but that was too much work and why should she bother with that? It was boring. She didn’t have a boyfriend, which sucked, because she was expected to demean herself by actually talking to them, and why the hell should she bother going out or trying to look nice for a man or being nice to them? No, she didn’t have many friends, because they always wanted to talk about stuff she wasn’t interested in and why should she do that? Why should she make any sort of effort at anything, when clearly society and the wrld in general owed her anything and everything she wanted?

Every suggestion I made to this woman was shot down. Every attempt to get her to see her life in a more positive light, to make constructive changes, to give people a chance, to give herself a chance, was pooh-poohed. Like I said, she was the single most negative person I’ve ever spoken to. Geez, lady, even Hitler smiled once in a while, you know?

It was like trying to chat with a Dementor. By the time I got off the phone with her–after twenty-five minutes or so that felt like a year–I was actually physically ill, and on the verge of tears. And I thought, yeah, lady, your life is always going to suck. I mean, you live for free in a house your parents bought for you, you drive a nice car they bought for you, you have a decent job; you know how many people in this world would kill for that? Do you know how many people I used to talk to a night at that job, genuinely caring, loving, wonderful people, who’d suffered a tragedy or a loss or a run of bad luck and were trying to keep their lives from falling apart completely, but who still had room in their hearts and souls for hope, and for helping other people? Who were still trying with everything they had to survive, and to stay positive?

But nothing positive would ever happen for her. I firmly believe that, and I believe the reason why is because she refused to put anything positive into the world herself.

If all you ever do is create and spread negativity, that’s all that’s ever going to come back to you.

I firmly believe that. That’s not to say it’s your fault when bad things happen, I don’t believe that for a second. But you can’t expect the world to just hand you everything you want.

So that’s my feeling. Getting emails from readers is like a little bit of positivity in my Inbox, and it’s fantastic. If there’s something you want, try doing something positive, something constructive. Send a letter to the HBO studios telling them they should consider making a TV series out of that book series you love; who cares what series it is, just go for it, why not? Send a letter to the publisher who put out that book series you love, asking them to buy more; who cares what series it is, just go for it, why not? While you’re at it, tell them how much you love their other books! Tell them what other sorts of books you’d like to read!

Everyone likes positive feedback. Everyone likes hearing from people to whom their work matters. So let yourself be heard.

Which brings us to a couple more quick things. First, I’ll be posting the first three chapters of CITY OF GHOSTS as a PDF download on the site tomorrow of over the weekend, yes.

Second, I’ve decided at the spur of the moment now to do a contest. I have UK editions of UNHOLY GHOSTS and UNHOLY MAGIC; I’ll send both to one random commenter. Yes, the content is the same, but these are UK editions, with different cover art and they’re a different size and all, and it might be kind of cool to have. (If you’re in the UK I’ll send you the US editions.)

What do you have to do to enter? Post in comments here what you think Chess looks like, for real. You can do a full description, you can compare her to famous people, you can post pictures or do a drawing, whatever you like. But what do you think she actually looks like? (I can assure you, she does not look like that girl on the US cover, lol. But then they never really do, do they?)

I’d looove to see how you picture her! And I’ll pick someone at random for the books. And if someone gets very very close to how she looks in my head, I might gave you a copy of the playlist.

No. It was the real Times, in London, the real national newspaper TIMES. They had a pullout section for summer reading, and UNHOLY GHOSTS was one of the six books their reviewer chose as their Summer Fantasy Picks!

So as you can imagine, I’m pretty excited about that.

Second, we have a couple of reviews for UNHOLY MAGIC, which, yes, will be released tomorrow*. From Abigail at ALL THINGS URBAN FANTASY:

Like any drug, the first taste gets your attention but its the second taste that gets you hooked. I though the first Downside Ghosts book, Unholy Ghosts, was an impressive debut, but UNHOLY MAGIC is even better. I am well and truly addicted to this dark, seductive urban fantasy series.

From Wicked Lil Pixie, FIVE stars:

Unholy Magic is book two in the Downside Ghosts series & without a doubt my favorite new series of 2010…I tried real hard to read Unholy Magic slowly, because the wait for City of Ghosts may be too much for me. I think I’m already going into withdrawals. Stacia Kane does not disappoint & crafts one of the most original new series of [the year].

*I’ve heard quite a few reports that the book is already on shelves, and have heard from quite a few readers who have already bought & finished the book. So it’s worth checking at your local bookstore today, if you don’t want to wait. As I’ve said in the past, I don’t care when you buy it as long as you do!

Also, yes, I will be excerpting the first three chapters of CITY OF GHOSTS, which will be out July 27 in the US (I believe the UK/AU release date is August 5[?]) here on the site, and will probably post those chapters next week, along with various excerpts here on the blog throughout the next few weeks.

And of course, since we have a release coming, we have an excerpt today. This is from Chapter Fifteen, as Chess investigates her latest Debunking case at the home of Roger Pyle, a television actor, and his wife Kym (I’ve truncated this excerpt a bit; the sequence is longer in the actual book):

Two hours later Chess sat once again in the orange-and-ivory living room, before a cheerful fire, and checked her notes. After she’d had a few quick words with the Pyles she could leave, and not a moment too soon. She wasn’t itching yet, but it would take almost an hour to get home and she wanted to leave herself some room.

Two other guards had seen ghosts. All of the descriptions were similar, and matched what she’d witnessed herself. The smell—it still seemed to cling to her nose when she thought of it—the man in the loose shirt, another man, the woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror.

A murderer and two victims. Only one man—she guessed it was the son—was still unaccounted for, unless he was the figure Roger had seen in the guest bedroom.

Then there was Oliver Fletcher. Interesting. Obviously a friend of Roger’s and an admirer of his talent. Just as obviously contemptuous of him and his family, no matter how many sex parties he attended at their house. She wondered if he’d flown in specifically for this one, or if he had some other reason to be there. He and Roger worked together on the tv show. Was he producing the film as well?

She’d ask Roger. Who was just walking into the room. Shit, she was going to have to come back with her Hand, put them all to sleep, and get into his office. Especially since another significant episode had occurred there.

This week was never going to end. Dead hookers at home, a cavernous house full of miserable people here, and not an answer in sight.

It could have been worse, yes. She knew that from experience. But the thought didn’t seem to help her the way it usually did.

“How are things going?” Roger asked. “Is everyone being helpful? They’re giving you everything you need?”

She nodded. “Everyone’s been great.”

He visibly relaxed. “Excellent. Excellent. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Actually, I was wondering something. Most of the staff members who’ve witnessed the entities report a particular smell. But you didn’t mention it when you told me your experiences. Was there an odor that you recall?”

Roger’s forehead creased. “Not…no, I don’t think so. I know I felt a little odd, but I assumed that was just because I’d drunk too much coffee. You know, caffeine makes me jumpy sometimes, a little fuzzy. But I didn’t notice a scent or anything.”

“Was that every time, or just that first time? The night of the attack in your bedroom, for example. You hadn’t been drinking coffee then.”

“No, no I guess I hadn’t. I don’t… I’m sorry, Miss Putnam, it was just so terrifying, I don’t remember if I smelled anything or not. I was so focused on Kym and her injuries.”

She nodded, smiled to let him know she understood. “Of course.”

“Have you read the articles? About the murders, I mean.” Roger shuddered. “I just don’t understand how someone could do something like that. And to think it happened here, on this land. Awful. No wonder they’ve come back.”

“Well, it isn’t always a matter of—”

“Do you think if we discovered who killed them they would go away? I wondered about that. Like in old books, you know, where they can let go of the trauma because the truth is known. Does that happen?”

She couldn’t help but smile. He looked so hopeful. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Pyle. It’s been tried, but we’ve discovered it really makes no difference. Even if we discover the truth, the dead don’t feel that knowledge. It just doesn’t affect them or get through to them, so they can’t move on. The ones who are trapped by it, I mean.”

And that was conversation number three on that subject. Surely that wasn’t a coincidence? What was she trying to tell herself there, what was she missing?

She changed the subject. “I met Oliver Fletcher. In the security office.”

“Oliver? That’s great. He’s an interesting man, Oliver. Helped me…well, I guess he’s been the best friend I ever had, really. I owe my whole career to him.”

“Now, darling, don’t be so modest. You got where you are by hard work.” Kym Pyle knew how to make an entrance, Chess had to give her that. Today she wore a snug black sweater with a deep v-neck and a pair of red cigarette pants, and her blonde hair was swept up into a smooth knot on the back of her neck.

She ran crimson fingernails through Roger’s hair, giving him a smile much warmer than anything Chess would have expected to see. Perhaps she’d worked off all her tension at the party.

Or perhaps the Pyles had decided it would be less suspicious if Kym didn’t act quite so much like a dominatrix who’d had a bad day.

Kym turned to her, the smile fading. “Miss Putnam. I thought you’d left over an hour ago, didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Tell me?”

“The snow. Haven’t you seen? It’s an absolute storm out there. I thought one of the staff had let you know—”

Chess leapt from her seat, Kym’s voice fading to a drone in the background. Thick orange curtains covered the broad windows; Chess yanked them apart and gasped. It wasn’t just snow. It was a blizzard, huge fat flakes obscuring everything.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck—

“I should go.” She snatched up her bag and yanked the zipper open. “I’m sorry, but I—”

“You can’t go,” Kym said. “It’s terrible out there. The roads—”

“But if I don’t try now who knows when I’ll be able to get out of here, right?” Keys, where were her keys? The security room, on the hook. She’d relinquished them when they parked her car.

“But I don’t think you’ll be able to get out of here now.” Kym settled into a chair. “Arden says it’s been snowing for over an hour. I’m so sorry. I was napping, and I guess with the curtains closed…I can’t believe no one warned you. Roger, I’m going to have another talk with the security staff, they’re not being very attentive. What do we pay them for?”

“No, I’m, I’m sure it will be fine, I mean, I’ve driven in snow before, so—”

“They don’t salt the roads out here,” Roger said. “The plows will be along eventually, but not until after it stops.”

“I’m sorry.” Chess slung her bag over her shoulder, blinking back tears. Oh shit oh fuck how had she let this happen? “I really need to at least try, I can’t impose—”

“It’s no imposition, don’t be silly. You must stay here, Miss Putnam. Have dinner with us, stay the night. We have plenty of room. It’s so miserable out there, you can’t drive in that.”

“I’m just going to have a look,” she managed, before escaping from the room and throwing herself down the long bright walkway.

It was impossible. Snow fell fast and thick, clinging to her eyelashes, coating her clothing. At least three or four inches of it already covered the ground; she couldn’t make out the wall at the edge of the property. Everything was white. No landmarks, nothing.

Nothing to look at. Nothing in her pillbox. Her hands shook as she raised them to her face, jammed her fist against her mouth.

How long did she have? Two hours, three maybe, before it started, and another couple of hours before it got really bad? There were a few hard candies in her bag, the sugar would help for a little while, but…a whole night?

Her eyes stung and she swiped at them, trying to will her heart to slow down. It was okay. It would be okay. The snow would stop in a few hours. It could stop any minute, right? And it was early evening. People would be commuting, the plows would come through, she could get out.

Surely the Pyles had a small plow or something, living out here. Maybe one of the security guys—maybe Merritt—would help her get out. If she could just hold on for a little while, an hour, two… She’d be okay. She’d planned on staying until six or so anyway, right?

Right. So she would be fine. All she had to do was wait it out, just hang out for a little longer, and she could go home and get her pills.

Just a little longer.

I’ve read the Twilight books. Well, okay, I read the first three. The second, if memory serves, was the one I liked best out of those, but I simply could not force myself to get through the last one. I was dreadfully bored, so I skimmed it, and got the gist, and that was more than enough. And again, I didn’t hate them. I didn’t love them, by any stretch. I didn’t particularly like them. But I didn’t loathe them. I even thought–and it’s not an uncommon thought, I don’t think–that there were some good ideas buried in there, some really cool shit. And I admit as well that one scene in the first book, the one at the lake when Jacob tells Bella the legend of the vampires, was pretty nifty. I dug that scene.

But yes, I also see the problems. I see the essentially abusive relationship, the completely ridiculous parents, the ha-ha-semi-rape-is-okay bits, the oh-sure-it’s-totally-cool-for-adults-to-fall-in-love-with-infants bits, the female-sexual-desire-is-gross-and-must-be-suppressed bits, the creepy-religion-y stuff…you name it. I know it’s there.

Am I happy that teenage girls all over the world wish a man would stalk them, scare them, destroy their possessions in order to get them to obey, patronize them, treat them like morons? No. Of course not.

But here’s the thing. What exactly are the other relationship alternatives we as a society are offering teenage girls?

How many stories do we see about teen pregnancy rates going up? How many of the fathers of those babies stick around? How many women and girls do you know who’ve slept with a man who said he loved them or cared about them, and then dumped them shortly after they had sex? How many times does our society tell young women that for them to expect to be loved and taken care of by a man is ridiculous, a silly fairy-tale dream, and that they better get used to relying only on themselves because men won’t stick around? How many girls out there are led to believe that their only value is as a sex object? That being a sex object is the most important thing there is? How many of these girls have fathers in their homes? How many see men as people who drift in and out of your life, treating you sort of okay sometimes?

It’s not just about sex. I don’t mean to sound like I’m on some chastity crusade. But what I do think is that girls today are being raised to believe that they shouldn’t expect respect, love, responsibility, or anything else from men. That being cheated on is just the way it goes. That the only way to get and keep a boyfriend is to not mind when he treats you badly, to give him things, to not act like you really care that much, to place no expectations on him.

I realize I’m exaggerating a bit. I realize there are still plenty of decent people out there. I realize that things can be just as tough for teenage boys.

But my point is, our society seems to be moving further and further away from the idea that love is a valuable and good thing, that people belong together, that girls have the right to expect to be treated with respect and kindness, and that boys have the right to expect the same.

And that, my friends, is one reason I believe the Twilight books are so popular. Yes, Edward is a controlling jerk. But Edward isn’t embarrassed to care (he even says the L word!), and he doesn’t leave Bella at home alone while he goes out with his friends picking up girls. He doesn’t refer to her as his “bitch.” Once he admits he cares, he is committed. Twilight offers girls a view of a relationship that, if it’s not a great alternative, at least seems more secure than a casual hook-up. It’s a world where girls don’t have to be embarrassed to want a solid relationship, with a man who will care for and about them, and wants to make a serious commitment to them. It’s a world where, for all that the sexual attitudes in the book are troublesome to say the least, Bella’s sexuality and willingness to sexually perform is the least important aspect of the relationship.

And in this world it’s okay, even right, if the desire to love and be loved is the most important thing in your life. That desire isn’t pooh-poohed or put down in those books. It’s not treated as frivolity. It’s not spoken about or represented as if it’s a shameful thing to want to be loved or to be in love, and that any girl who thinks about relationships and romance instead of college and their investment portfolios are obviously ridiculous, irresponsible creatures.

Twilight offers a skewed view of relationship, yes. Twilight does not contain what I would say is a truly healthy relationship.

But Twilight is about a relationship, and Twilight takes that relationship seriously and treats it as an important thing, a worthwhile thing, a thing of respect. Something fulfilling. Twilight doesn’t put down young girls for wanting a boyfriend, or for wanting that more than anything else. It doesn’t make them feel as if they’re not good enough if they don’t know what they want to be when they grow up, or aren’t spending their every waking minute working hard and collecting references for college applications.

I don’t think this is the only reason; it’s just the only one I can fathom, to be honest. And I’m not saying any of this is a good thing, or that I approve. And I’m not saying Twilight doesn’t deserve the criticism it’s gotten; it absolutely does.

But I also think that in relentlessly attacking Twilight, we’re once again attacking these girls, too. We’re telling them, once again, that they’re stupid and silly for believing in love and for wanting it. They’re ridiculous for wanting a man to truly love them and to see something special in them. We’re telling them that the desires of their heart and soul are unimportant, and foolish, and that if they aren’t focusing their entire selves on future earning power and getting ahead they’re wasting everyone’s time.

And to be honest, I don’t know which of those messages is worse.

And you know, I understand that to an extent. It’s scary. The economy is scary. Hell, everything is scary right now; our ocean is filling with oil and all anybody with the power to do something seems interested in doing is pointing fingers and sitting around talking and whatever. There have been earthquakes and tornados and volcanos and shit all over the world. Am I terrified that the world is ending? Honestly? Kinda, yeah. But then, I’m a bit of a pessimist when it comes to this sort of thing; I’m the only person I know who is terrified of outer space and doesn’t even like seeing pictures of it because it reminds me that the earth is this one small rock floating in nothingness and something could go wrong at any second and we could start plummeting, but there’s nothing to land on so we would just keep plummeting through the darkness forever. That’s not a pleasant thought.

It probably won’t happen, either. But I wonder if I start insisting often enough that it will, and get a bunch of people to also start talking about it and how the earth’s field of gravity is thinning, people will start to believe it.

Because it seems to me that everyone is talking about the demise of publishing, but there’s actually no real evidence that it’s dying. Everyone is claiming that ebooks will be the death of publishing, but I honestly don’t understand that at all; how is providing books in another format for people who like that format killing publishing? (Aside from the issue of piracy, which don’t even get me started on.) Aren’t we hearing about people buying more books now that they’re started reading ebooks?

I know a lot of it is just to get website hits, or because people have a specific axe to grind. And you know, none of us are without bias. I certainly don’t want to see publishing die, because it’s how I make my living. I don’t want to see us all switch to self-publishing, for reasons I’ve stated many times before but will recap quickly:

1. Ease of finding something worth reading (low when trying to go through thousands & thousands of self-published books with no quality control or vetting process)

2. Ease of publishing (sure, right now you can go to Lulu and set up a book for free; it’s what Jim Macdonald did for me with the Strumpet book. But do you really think if publishing fails, and self-publishing becomes the norm, those companies won’t start charging, or charging more?)

To be perfectly honest, my feeling is and has always been that if publishing “dies,” and everyone is self-publishing, you’ll soon have people offering to vet books for other people. You’ll have someone who realizes they can make some money by taking the best books out there and printing them for a cut of the money, and setting up some sort of nationwide distribution, and…lookie there, you’ve just reinvented a publishing house.

When people want a book to read, they want a book to read. They do not want to spend hours hunting around for something readable. (Don’t believe it will take hours, or be difficult? Here’s a site where people can post shirt stories for free, called Bibliofaction. It’s a nice site; it’s a fun idea. And I don’t link to it to pick on or put down any of the stories posted there; I link to it to show you how much there is on just that one site, and what a variety of quality there is too.)

Now I’m veering off into my big self-publishing rant again, and I’ve already covered that, so I don’t want to do it again. What I do want to say is that yes, times are a bit hard right now. Yes, I’m seeing good writers whose series don’t get to go on because sales that would have been good enough three years ago aren’t anymore, or if they do get contracted for more books their advances are lower. It’s awful and it’s sad.

But for every series that doesn’t do so well, there are series that are big hits and make tons of money. I’m tired of seeing that ignored. I’m tired of seeing specious statistics bandied about all the time, like the “95% of published books don’t sell more than 500 copies,” which sounds terrifying until you realize that the people who came up with that statistic were including every single book published, including self-published books, technical manuals, employee guidebooks, specialist textbooks, souvenir books, and whatever else. The idea that most NY published books sell less than 500 copies is simply incorrect.

This study by The Association of American Publishers estimates the publishing industry sold $23.9 BILLION worth of books in 2009. Yes, that’s down almost two percent from 2008 (although apparently in the last seven years overall it’s grown), but when you consider how the economy took a swim in Lake Shitty in early-mid 2008 especially, that’s really not that bad, is it? How much have other industries lost? If we can use this CNN article as any indicator, auto industry sales/profits dropped about 30%. Freddie Mac says home prices fell almost five percent in 2009 (it was a much bigger percentage in ’08).

Yes, it’s a scary time right now. Yes, we’re all watching it and keeping an eye on what’s happening. Yes, advances aren’t as high as they once were–at least so I understand. But we’re still getting deals. We’re still getting advances. Every day.

But that doesn’t mean we all need to start desperately casting around for some other way to earn a living, or start pontificating on how publishing is “broken” and it’s the end for it. It’s not. As long as people want to read books, there will be publishing. Quite frankly, for all the “publishing is dying” talk I hear online, it seems to be pretty limited to online; the average person–the average reader–has no idea this discussion is happening, and they care even less. And why should they? The only thing readers should–or should be expected to–care about is that they get books they want to read when they want to read them and in the format in which they want them, at an affordable price. (Readers are of course welcome to care more about it if they want, but it’s certainly not a requirement, is my point. I don’t want to bore my readers with talk about how my life will end if they don’t buy my books and I’ll end up selling matches on the street and how expensive everything is–like they don’t know that–and how I really need their help or whatever. As I’ve said here before, entertaining readers is my job. Yes, I want and expect to be paid for it, but beyond that they have zero obligation to me, and I certainly don’t expect them to give a shit about my financial situation. Remember how I’d rather not have people buy my books because I nagged them into it? Yeah. I’d rather they not buy them because I guilted them into it, either. I’m fucking lucky I get to write books for a living, and I try not to forget that and act like it’s some kind of burden.)

Anyway.

Whether the agent commission goes up to 20%, as the lovely Victoria Strauss suggests in this post (which also links back to me, making a nifty linky circuit), or whether more agents branch out into different areas of the business, or whatever…I think reports of publishing’s death are greatly exaggerated, and to be perfectly frank I’m tired of hearing about it. I don’t know if that’s me being sensible or being ostrich-like, but I’m tired of constantly feeling like the sword of Damocles dangles over all of our heads. I’m tired of feeling like there are crowds of people rubbing their hands together gleefully and waiting for publishing to fail, for whatever reason; I don’t understand it, as I don’t see why anyone would want to have to wade through slush for hours, but people can certainly do what they like.

I refuse to feel that way anymore. I refuse to listen to alarmists and bone-pickers. Will I keep in mind that things are tough all over? Absolutely. Will I remember how tight money is? Again, absolutely.

And I will use that knowledge to inspire me to write more and better books, to challenge myself more, to not take sales for granted but to remember that I need to push myself to be great, to be outstanding, to put everything I have into my work. I’ll use that knowledge to inspire me to write bigger stories, bigger worlds, bigger characters; to remember that “good enough” isn’t good enough. And so even if I don’t achieve that greatness and never get to be outstanding I at least wasn’t lazy. At least I tried. At least I didn’t forget that what it ultimately comes down to are readers, and what they want, and that my job is to try to give it to them, to impress and entertain them and make them think and feel.

So everyone else can sit around in the doom-and-gloom corner and decide the end is coming and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll be over here writing more books.

Because that’s what I do.