Whatever

Athena attempts making bread for the first time. At this particular juncture, she’s more amused by the mess than anything else. We’ll know how the actual bread has turned out in a couple of hours.

In this look back, we remember just how much I like to anthropomorphize my books.

JANUARY 9, 2007: Broken-Hearted Books

Michael Berry, who reviewed Old Man’s War and The Ghost Brigades for the San Francisco Chronicle (and who put TGB on his holiday recommendations list), explains on his blog why he’s not reviewing The Android’s Dream for the Chron. Basically it comes down to the fact he can’t review every single thing I write if he wants to cover a wide range of authors and books in his reviews.

This is a perfectly reasonable explanation, of course. But try explaining that to a neurotic book:

Me: TAD, I’ve got some bad news. Seems you won’t be getting a review in the San Francisco Chronicle.

TAD: But… why not? They reviewed your other books.

Me: Well, that’s just it, TAD. Since the guy’s reviewed the other books, he kinda feels that he has to pass you up in order to be fair to other authors and books.

TAD: It’s because of the sheep, isn’t it?

Me: Come on, TAD. Let’s not do this again.

TAD: “Don’t put sheep on the cover,” I said. “People get nervous around sheep.” But you said it would be fine. Now look. I’m being ignored. Over livestock.

Me: Don’t be like that. People love the cover. And you’re getting tons of reviews. You even got written up in the New York Times.

TAD: Don’t talk to me about the New York Times review. Stupid Dave Itzkoff.

Me: Hey, now. I had lunch with Dave. He’s a nice guy.

TAD: He thought I was crap! He should be slashed with tetanus-laden razor blades and then dropped into a pool of iodine. And then fed to cats. Feral ones.

Me: I liked Dave.

TAD: Sure, because he liked your other books. The ones without the farm animals. You know what it is. I’m too fat.

Me: What?

TAD: Look at me! I’m 400 pages!

Me: That’s not fat.

TAD: People look at me and wonder if I’m the new Robert Jordan book.

Me: They do not.

TAD: I’m fat and I’ve got sheep on my cover. You might as well just set me on the remainder table right now.

Me: You don’t think you might be being a little overdramatic about this.

TAD: Don’t patronize me, Mr. Campbell-Cheese-Board-Award.

The Ghost Brigades (entering the room): Hey, John, I have a question –

TAD: Oh, look. One of the favored children. The Chronicle reviewed him.

TGB: Uh… Did I come in at a bad time?

Me: We’re having a moment.

TGB: Again?

TAD: I heard that!

TGB: You know, I think I’ll come back later.

TAD: That’s right! Run from me. Like everyone else. Bastard.

TGB: Yeah, okay. I’m just gonna go.

(leaves)

TAD: (yelling after TGB) I hope you fall off the Hugo ballot and break your neck!

Me: Now you’re just being mean.

TAD: (sniffles) I just feel vulnerable, you know? I think it’s because I’m a stand-alone. Ghost Brigades has Old Man’s War. I’ve got no one.

Me: Well, I’m writing a followup to you now.

TAD: Really?

Me: Really. That should make you feel better.

TAD: (sniffles again) It does. I mean, maybe a little.

Me: You know what would make you feel even better?

TAD: Ice cream?

Me: Ice cream.

TAD: (claps) Yay! Ice cream!

We do this every day. Sometimes twice. So for all you book reviewers, if you don’t want to review The Android’s Dream, that’s totally your call. Just remember what I have to do on this end when you don’t. The ice cream bills alone are killing me.

The Last Colony had its official UK release yesterday (it had been available before that as an import but is now out via Tor UK), and today saw a nice review of it in the Guardian, which called it “a fast-paced political thriller laced with observant characterisation, great dialogue, and some genuinely original science.” Can’t complain about that. So if you’re in the UK and have been holding off for an official UK edition, head to the stores. It’ll be there, waiting — nay, pining – for you. Note also that if you shop for your science fiction at Forbidden Planet, The Last Colony is part of a special discount promotion there through the end of the year.

Let’s go back a couple of years and admire some artistry:

JANUARY 19, 2006: Selected Creatures from the Athena Collection, With Artist Commentary

“He’s just a mixed up monster. Because he has crab arms, and an oval body and he has two ears that are, like, from an animal, I think? Is that right? Yeah. Probably a dog sticking up its ear, only it’s not pointy. He’s a monster, he destroys towns so his ears are always up because he’s angry all the time. Well, he’s not really angry, he’s just really mean.”

“He’s two-headed, and they both have one leg to make two. The one on the left has really big eyes and is really freaky looking, and the one on the right side is really freaky too, but you can choose which one you like better. I think I like the first one better, because he’s cooler looking, but the one the right looks dumber, doesn’t he? There’s a little town in front of them, it’s so small that you can’t even see it, and they’re mostly just that kind of monster.”

“A boy thinks this little girl is cute, and you can see little hearts coming from him, and I made an arrow so you know who he’s in love with, and then he walks over (but I didn’t put that on the board), and she turns HUGE and has razor sharp teeth and eats him! It’s really cool in the picture. Because she’s a monster, she was just in disguise. She has a little button to push her big and small and to disguise her mean eyes and razor sharp teeth. The boy will just live in her stomach and then he’ll turn into poop. You can fall in love with this girl. Just don’t get near her.”

“Which one is your favorite in all of them?”

For everyone who sent something in: Got ‘em, looking at ‘em, be in touch with you soon about ‘em. Thanks! Also, if you’re an author/editor/publicist with a new book, it’s not too late to get in on the action.

Just a reminder to folks: Just because we’re at an interesting point in the political cycle for both sides is not an excuse for you folks to start losing your shit at each other in the comment threads. If I wanted to watch people lose their shit in comment threads, I could go to Little Green Footballs or Daily Kos.

So remember: when talking about politics, be polite and kind to other people in the comment threads, even if they’re completely and totally wrong. Beat on the politicians and take the air out of arguments other people post, but if you go personal on other commenters, that’s when I’m going to have to break out the Loving Mallet of Correction.

Also remember that this site gets lots of people of all sorts of political persuasion visiting, including persuasions that aren’t mine, and I see that as a feature, not a bug. Also, you know what? Each of them are my guests. Please don’t be rude to my guests. Because then I might be compelled to be rude to you. And as we all know, I’m really good at being rude. Plus I can delete and/or ban your ass, so you can’t be rude back. It’ll just be me laughing and pointing. No one wants that.

Finally: When in doubt, read the site disclaimer and comment policy. They are your friends.

I know this will be the last time I have to bring this up this entire election cycle.

Rather than post a previous entry today, I thought I would do a little fan service for the cat crowd and take you back to 2003, and the first appearances of one of The Intarweeb’s most famous felines. Yes, people, it’s time for:

Ghlaghghee, The Early Years

The very first picture of Ghlaghghee, taken the day she arrived, May 27, 2003.

Ghlaghghee immediately made herself useful by troubleshooting a balky USB connection…

… and by keeping the rebellious boots in line.

And here she is, copyediting some text.

Ghlaghghee admiring some ScalziProduct™, in this case one of my “I Hate Your Politics” mugs.

And here she is, attempting to consume my big toe. She was not successful.

Ghlaghghee looking pensive, and perhaps wondering how she would be affected by the vicissitudes of life, particularly as they relate to the confluence of her and breakfast meats.

Being the subject of all these pictures has plumb tuckered her out. It’s time for a nap.

And there you have it. Kittens galore.

For all the Republicans who are exulting that there’s now a “rock star” on the GOP ticket (and all the Democrats who are freaking out about it), there is one minor detail that’s worth considering in the days and months ahead. And that is that the “rock star” on the Democratic ticket is actually the person who is running for president, while the “rock star” on the GOP ticket… isn’t. At the top of the GOP ticket is a 72-year-old man who just gave a mediocre speech that served primarily as an attempt to suggest that a fellow who’s spent two and half decades in Washington and voted with the extremely unpopular current president 90% of the time somehow represents change. That’s the guy going up against the Democratic rock star.

And to the surprise of absolutely no one, the Democratic rock star knows this perfectly well. This is why yesterday when reporters tried to get Obama to react to Palin’s attacks on him, his reponse was to say, more or less, “whatever,” and to note his presidential opposition was McCain, not Palin. This is also why outside of the hothouse atmosphere of a political convention, Palin’s sniping at Obama is likely not to hit the radar screens, because when all is said and done, she’s the VP candidate, and the press is covering a presidential election, not a vice-presidential one.

Obama’s already signaled he’s not going to bother with her; she’ll be shopped out to Biden — or even better, Hilary Clinton, who I would expect is privately fuming that the McCain and the GOP think so little of her positions and personality that they expect her supporters to be swayed by someone who holds antithetical political positions, simply because that person’s got fallopian tubes. If the GOP wanted to keep the Clintons on the sidelines this election, this was not the way to do it.

Beyond this we’ll see what value being a “rock star” really brings to the table, which I suspect is rather less than what people suppose. The GOPers ecstatic over their new star might remember that a) Obama’s rock star status hasn’t kept this election from being reasonably close so far, and b) that Palin’s “rock star” status is not yet two days old, based on a speech written for a generic GOP VP candidate with some personal touches bolted on. Two and a half days ago people were wondering if she would have left the ticket by today. It’s fair to say Palin’s been up and been down. And starting today she and Joe Biden begin their descent into the shadowy netherworld of VP candidates on the campaign trail, to be largely ignored save for the occasional snipe or screw-up. It’s nice to be a “rock star” politician, but let’s just say I’m not 100% convinced the “rock star” shine is all that it’s cracked up to be, especially when at the end of the day you’re the political equivalent of the opening act.

And at the end of the proverbial day, this election is the guys who are the headliners: about McCain and Obama, and their policies and plans, or lack thereof. One of these guys is a rock star, and the other isn’t — and to be honest, I hope that doesn’t matter, either. What should matter, and what I hope will matter, is the substance of the two candidates. Substance is not what people come to “rock stars” for. But it should be what we look for in a president.

Spotted in various places on the Internet, in response to Governor Palin’s “community organizer” jab at Obama:

“Jesus was a community organizer. Pontius Pilate was a governor.”

And oddly enough, Palin’s GOP role is to try to do to Obama what Pontius Pilate did to Jesus.

Mind you, look how that eventually turned out for Jesus. And also for Pontius Pilate.

How do a graduate student’s observations of fish in a laboratory wind up fueling not one but two science fiction series? Well, first, it helps to have that graduate student be Julie Czerneda, who would become the Prix Aurora-winning author of In the Company of Others (also a Nebula Award nominee), and whose latest novel, Riders of the Storm, is most recent installment of the “Clan Chronicles,” which encompasses a pair of separate yet interconnected trilogies. From fish to science fiction, here’s Czerneda to explain how you get from the one to the other.

JULIE CZERNEDA:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who would — diurnal cycles being what they are — read by moonlight. Her parents had the silly notion that lights should be turned off by 1 am. Alas, she was never completely satisfied by what she read. Stories seemed to stop short. They failed, in her opinion, to go over the next hill. To dare more …

Thank goodness she discovered science fiction. And the value of a flashlight.

Once upon a somewhat later time, there was a grad student who would — diurnal cycles being what they are — observe fish (fathead minnows) in a damp dark basement at 1 am. The fish had the silly notion it was a spring morning (because of clever tank lighting and temperature) and performed extraordinary, life-threatening feats in the name of sex. Alas, while being very careful to record her data faithfully, the student was never completely satisfied. Ideas seemed to stop short. Her hypotheses, and those in the literature, failed to dare more … .

I remember walking home at some ungodly hour — not that it mattered in January in northern Saskatchewan, it was dark from teatime to coffee break — my parka cracking in the cold, tears freezing my glasses to my face as usual, and thinking what I needed was science fiction.

You see, there are times when it isn’t enough to think outside a box, you need to blow it away. Science fiction is that to me. A potent blend of reasoned questioning and eye-popping wonder. Permission to take risks and make extrapolations. To grasp for ideas that are both incredible and essential, in hopes of better understanding, well, everything. Go over the hill. (I’m very impatient with things like hills.) See what’s there.

Which led to my first attempt to finish a piece of fiction, my first attempt to sell it, and my first sale: A Thousand Words for Stranger. But what really matters, of course, is the Big Idea and that basement of fish.

How powerful is sexual selection? As species evolve, mates choose sex partners based on whatever they see, hear, smell, touch, or taste that convinces them this one (or however many) will do better than all those others. Being a biologist, my use of the term “do better” is all about the success of the generation that results from that partnership. (Aside: I picked well. We have great kids. Although I can’t say I was thinking along those lines at the time.)

I could see in my tanks the cost in energy, risk, and survival male minnows paid to attract females. Or flipped around, the price expected by the females. Many would only breed once in a lifetime, if that. From all evidence, this extreme works for them.

What about us? How far could sexual selection go within a species that understood its own biology? Surely intelligence would curb extraordinary, risky behaviour. (I can hear you snickering, but I’m talking species here, not teens.)

Science fiction lets us create experiments unthinkable or impossible in the real world. I postulated a species where females had a specific way of identifying the ideal mate. A test, so to speak. You pass, you get to pass on your genes to the next generation. I assigned a cost to being attractive. More on that later.

First I leapt over the next hill and made up a wonderful future of aliens and interstellar travel and amazing things in which to play. I see no reason thought experiments can’t be fun.

Thus came the Clan into being: an alien species with extraordinary mental abilities (easier than antlers or rubbing pads) in which females test prospective mates in a contest where only a male as strong or stronger will be chosen, ie. succeed. To make things interesting, the more powerful members of this species have the ability to teleport, ie. move from place to place using another dimension. Handy thing, that. However, being intelligent, you’d expect they’d notice that encouraging more and more power in their females might increase this ability but also will one day seriously limit the number of suitable mates — especially if failure to be chosen means death.

So what would they do?

I set the experiment in motion with Sira, the main character of Thousand. She’s the Clan’s first female who is too powerful for any male to match, and the proof that their population is in serious trouble. Her attempt at a solution leads to all manner of adventure and trouble. I was happy with the story … so were readers. (Thank you!) There were two sequels, comprising the Trade Pact trilogy. By the second, though, I knew something important.

I knew — alas, or otherwise — that it wasn’t enough for me to write an adventure derived from the Big Idea. I had to poke at it. I wanted more. How could the Clan be as I portrayed? What could possibly solve their problem — if anything? Where could they fit in the predominantly human plus varied alien society I’d envisioned? What made it all work!? (Aside: Also, by this time I’d written enough not to be afraid of revealing the Big Ideas in my stories. Little did I realize …)

So was born what DAW and I now call The Clan Chronicles: Stratification, the Trade Pact trilogy, and Reunification.

Stratification is the prequel. Where the Clan came from, how they arrived in human space, why they are as I’ve shown them. It began with Reap the Wild Wind and continues in Riders of the Storm, released this week. Stratification has already proved to be the hardest, most challenging thing I’ve ever done. The completely new story and characters were fine — the difficulty lay in having to write match/explain/foretell what was already in print, namely in the Trade Pact books. I have notes, maps, journals. At times I felt as though I was doing grad studies again, this time in my own fictional world. A shame I’m not as easy to work with as minnows. Rift in the Sky will take the Clan to the Trade Pact. My last chance to get it all right. Wish me luck!

The best, however, is the groundwork for the finale to come. I can’t wait. Because when I write Reunification, I will go over the next hill. I already know what’s there. It’s nothing I imagined that dark Saskatchewan night. It’s stranger and far more wonderful and bigger than here or then. I’m not at all surprised.

You see, since I was a girl who read by moonlight, I knew that’s what science fiction was.

Glad I found it before the minnows.

—

Riders of the Storm: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Powell’s

Read an excerpt of Riders of the Storm here. Visit Czerneda’s newsgroup here.

People are curious about the bacon-flavored jelly beans that made an appearance in this entry (they’re actually interested in the whole described event, actually, but I think some things are more amusing left unexplained), so here they are, naturally posed with Ghlaghghee, i.e., Bacon Cat, who as before looks somewhat less than impressed with the whole thing. The Bacon Beans were a gift from Phil Plait, i.e., The Bad Astronomer, who snuck up on me while I was doing a signing at Dragon*Con and presented me with them (photographic evidence of our meeting is available here). Sadly, except for this brief moment, I didn’t get to hang with Phil, but clearly the gift he gave added to the overall fun of Dragon*Con, as evidenced by their involvement in a conga line and/or with sweaty gay men. Really, who could ask for anything more.

Yes, yes, you say, we already know about the conga line and the sweaty gay men. But how do they taste? Well, assuming you mean the Bacon Beans and not the sweaty gay men (whom I did not sample, possibly to the disappointment and/or relief of many), I cracked open the tin and tried one just as I was writing this up. The verdict: Gaaaaaaaah. Bacon + jelly beans = JUST NOT RIGHT. Fortunately I had Coke Zero and strong minty gum nearby to wash the taste of flavor abomination out of my mouth. But for everyone else who might be tempted to try these things, there’s a reason things like this are known as “gag gifts.”

That said, I was and continue to be utterly delighted with the gift — it really is the thought that counts — so thanks, Phil.

I’m happy to say that up to this point, the concern in this following archived entry has not been realized.

JULY 15, 2003: Strippers With Swords

All right, I’m officially a science fiction writer (I’ve got the SFWA membership to prove it) so let me just say this: Please God, never let me have a book cover whose images would be equally at home airbrushed onto a van. This fervent prayer came to me while I was looking at this, a cover for the Science Fiction Book Club catalog I got in the mail (not the regular catalog but the one they send to get you to join).

In it, as you can see, strippers from the Kitty Kat bar unsheathe their weapons and do battle with orcs. We know these women are brilliant fighters because while the orcs are all compactly and heavily armored, our gals feel confident wearing flowing, flimsy robes which conveniently ventilate in the ass and breast regions. They are so good, in fact, that they don’t even bother looking at the enemy which they are slaughtering in its vile dozens; instead, their gaze is affixed upon you, as if to say, yes, it’s vitally important that we skewer these vile creatures in order to acquire the Orb of Thangulzon, thereby allowing the anointed King of The Many Globes to return to Gingdor Castle and once again rule all breeds justly and fairly. But what we really want to do is service each other while you watch and then jump your scrawny, pale 14-year-old bones. After all, that is the dream of all strippers-turned-fantasy heroines. They’re just pneumatic with desire.

This is not be read as a slam on Luis Royo, the artist who provided this bit of nonsense to the SFBC. Royo is a fine artist, if you go for this sort of thing; in the genre of “improbably clad people with weaponry,” he’s on the tier with Boris Vallejo. The fact SFBC, in its infinite wisdom, determined that this graphic would be just the thing to suck in new members indicates that someone somewhere thinks this sort of thing is popular, which means that it probably is. I know enough to know that when I was 14, I would have sensed this picture’s ridiculousness, yet at the same time I’d still want to have sex with the brunette one, so there you have it.

Be that as it may, I wouldn’t want this, or something thematically like it to grace the cover of one of my books. Neither I nor writers other than the most very successful have control of these sorts of things. We can make suggestions but the publishers sign off on the artwork, and you have to trust them, because it’s their job to know how to sell these books. But in my dream world, my cover artwork is clean, visually arresting, contextually appropriate, and devoid of random boobies and ass shots. SF/Fantasy is full of fanservice shots; let the geeks go elsewhere for that. Give me something I’m not going to be embarrassed to show to my mother-in-law.

That still leaves a lot of latitude — my mother-in-law is not a prude or anything. But it does leave out strippers with swords. I’m good with that.

Did this cinematic summer of dark knights and iron men and Chaplinesque droids teach us anything about the state of the industry? Sure it did. And I wrote about what those things might be in my AMC movie column this week. Go and bathe in summery wisdom (or, at least, me cranking out 800 words on the subject). And as always, when you want to tell me how very right I am — or how very very wrong — be sure to leave your thoughts in the comment thread.

I despise shaving, first because it’s damn annoying and second because there are certain specific spots on my face and neck which, regardless of how much care I take or what razor or shaving cream I use, scrape raw every single time I shave. Because of this if I try to shave more than once every two or three days, not only do I look like I’ve rubbed my neck across asphalt while traveling at 30 miles per hour, I’m also in a little bit of pain — not enough to arouse genuine sympathy in others, mind you, but enough that I notice. Basically, shaving sucks.

Last year as I was about to start my book tour, I went to the store to see if I could find a can or tube of shaving cream that was less than three fluid ounces, that being the maximum amount of any fluid substance one is allowed in a carryon by the TSA. I didn’t find any, but I did find this stuff: Shave Secret, some weird concoction of oils whose makers promised the best shave I’d ever had from just three drops of the stuff on my face. It’s fair to say I was highly skeptical, but on the other hand it was small enough to carry on a plane and cheap enough that if failed in giving me a close shave I wouldn’t feel too taken. So I bought some of the stuff.

Somewhat to my surprise, the stuff works exactly as advertised: I put few drops in my hand, rubbed it across my face and did my razor swiping as usual, and then for the first time in twenty years didn’t feel like neck was on fire after I was done. And I got a pretty good shave out of it too.The major drawback of the stuff is that it clogs up your razor something fierce if you’ve got a multiblade setup (I use the Gilette Fusion myself), so you’ll spend a fair bit of time trying clean out your blades. But given cleaning out my razor and feeling like someone’s been sandpapering my face, I know which I’ll go for.

So, while I don’t make a whole lot of explicit product endorsements, if you’re someone who experiences a whole lot of razor burn, allow me to suggest you try this stuff out. I still despise shaving, but now mostly because it’s annoying, not because of what it does to my neck and face. That’s an improvement.

This is why:

5:06pm, September 3, 2008: Complete short story entitled “Denise Jones, Super Booker.”

5:09pm: Submit it to Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press.

5:15pm: Bill Schafer buys the story.

5:16pm: Payment for story arrives in my Paypal account.

5:19pm: Story is posted at Subterranean Online.

Total elapsed time from completion to publication (including payment): 13 minutes (actually 12 minutes and change, but let’s round up).

Note also that Bill did not know the story was coming, i.e., this is not a coordinated stunt. It’s just how business (can) get done online.

Any questions?

As an FYI, the novel I was writing in this 2001 Whatever entry was Old Man’s War.

JULY 16, 2001: “Working on the Novel”

What a wonderful phrase: “Working on the novel.” Writers know exactly what the means: Not a damn thing. Everyone who is a writer, was a writer, or wants to be a writer is “working on the novel.” There’s not a single journalist I know that isn’t always “working on the novel” — usually a crime thriller in the journalist’s case, don’t ask me why. I think that’s just what journalists are supposed to write, much in the same way women who have lots of candles and listen to Stevie Nicks are supposed to write fantasy novels, or Bennington alumni are supposed to write about their nihilistic drug and bisexual experiences. However, there’s a vast difference between working on the novel and, say, actually writing the novel. Writing involves actually typing. And we all know what a pain in the ass that is.

Working on the novel, on the other hand, merely involves thinking about the novel in a pleasantly detached sort of way. Coolly observing the scene, you know. Taking notes. Discerning the little nuances in behavior others (i.e., people not “working on the novel”) miss. And so on. That takes up a lot of time. And given the typical writer’s disposition and ability to rationalize any behavior in terms of generating raw material for writing, one is more or less always working on the novel. The drawback is that time spent coolly observing is not actually time spent writing, and if one is not careful one can coolly observe all the way to the grave. You can see that epitaph: This is great research for my novel.

Writers feel compelled to state they’re working on a novel for the same reason your waiter feels compelled to inform you that he also acts; it supports the idea that one is doing something noble with one’s life (or has plans to), even if what one is really doing at the moment is entering in box scores or fetching you your iced tea. There’s no real harm in it, as long as the box scores are entered and the iced tea delivered, but the fact is, until you have the novel in hand or the play on the stage, very few people care what you’re doing in your secret, offstage life.

I try to be honest with myself regarding “working on the novel.” If I’m actually writing, then I’m working on the novel; if I’m not writing, then I’m not working on the novel; I’m procrastinating, screwing around or (as the civilians like to call it), “having a life.” I think that in a general sense, writers who are not actually physically working on writing a novel shouldn’t say they are; the Writing Police will not beat you with truncheons if you dare to state that at the moment you’re not working on a novel, nor do you have plans to do so any time soon. The Writing Police don’t exist, anyway, because if they did, Tom Clancy would be serving hard time in a SuperMax facility, and fashioning a shiv out of his toothbrush for an encounter in the yard. And he’s not, damn the luck.

If you want to write a novel, don’t “work” on it — write the thing. It’s a simple enough process: Turn on the computer. Write for 90,000 words. Stop. Then comes the rewriting. And that could take years.

Hey. “Rewriting the novel.” That sounds ever so much better. But for the record, I am working on the novel. And for what it’s worth, I also act.

Which is to say I’ve downloaded the new Google browser and have been playing with it today.

Early thoughts: Meh. It’s okay so far. It doesn’t compel me to switch my default browser from Firefox, but it’s not bad. I’ll play with it some more and let you know what I think.

I think I’ve figured it out. The vetting process for Sarah Palin as McCain’s VP makes sense if:

Every single person on McCain’s vetting committee is a sleeper cell Democrat.

Discuss.

Fellow authors (and related editors, publishers, and publicists), if you’ve been asking yourself, “Hey, how do I promote this book I will soon have in the stores, to up to 40,000 unique readers daily, all of whom have some interest in the written word?” I may have a solution for you. As you know, I run a feature here called “The Big Idea,” in which authors talk about the big idea behind their latest works, and playing with those ideas affected the writing of the book. Here are some recent examples of the feature. And it’s open to writers of all genres of fiction and non-fiction, because variety is good.

How do you get in on the action?

1. Have a book (not self-published or vanity press; small press is fine) being published, oh, let’s say, between now and the end of 2008 (I’ll begin scheduling for 2009 later this year, probably early December).

2. Send me an e-mail about the book, letting me know who you are, what the book’s about, and the week it’s schedule to be published (editors/publicists, let me know who the author is, etc). Do me a favor and put the words “Big Idea Proposal” somewhere. You may also send along a copy of the book, if you like (I do like seeing the books in question).

3. I’ll check my schedule and see what’s available (I usually try to do a “Big Idea” once or occasionally twice a week, usually on Tuesday and Thursdays). When at all possible I like to run Big Idea pieces on or near the book’s release date. If there’s something available, I’ll let you know.

4. The author then goes off and writes the Big Idea piece (here’s a primer on how to write one — I suggest checking it out) and then sends it in, at least a week before his/her scheduled appearance.

5. It goes up and we all bask in its awesomeness, and rus