I had hoped to sneak through the week without an updated blog post, but since my fans (particularly one Judie T. of Maine) have grown increasingly ornery, here it is.
I couldn’t update the blog on Saturday because I spent Thursday through Sunday working at the Hebron Harvest Fair. As a board member of the New England Horror Writers, it was my duty to sweat my butt off, trying to pawn off free short stories to passerby who were quite frankly more interested in the fried dough than the literary gems I was handing out. After being ignored for most of the afternoon the first day, I decided to pull out the big guns. I dug through my closet to find the lowest-cut blouse I owned. Miraculously, my sales doubled (to two) the next day.
It was a hot weekend, and my sunscreen gave out about two hours in on Saturday. I wound up baking like a potato, and am now unable to breathe too deeply without my skin cracking. It was all for the sake of art, so I guess it was worth it. Plus, when my tomato red finally fades to a toasty brown, I expect to save a ton of money on foundation, so that’s a help.
Greeting the public as a horror writer was a little different than just hanging out at a convention debating small press versus self publishing with other writers (sure, you might find that boring, but to us, it can spawn hours of intellectual discussion. That and the debate about who is cooler: Gambit or Wolverine.) But with the general public, the questions I heard were a lot different: “Why did you decide to become a writer?” “Does your mother know you write this sicko stuff?” And, by far, the most popular question: “Have you ever met Stephen King?” (A question that I’m sure one Judie T. gets often simply because she lives in Maine. But I digress.)
It was hot. I was tired. After four days of the same questions over and over, my answers became fairly rote. I became a writer to scare the crap out of little children like yours. My mother is the lady in the back of the booth there handing out ‘buy my daughter’s book’ buttons. And yes, I’ve met Stephen King, and he told me to tell you he hates you.
At the end of the week, I was not one of the most popular authors there. The rest of the writers made me sit in back with my mom, even though I thought it was silly for me to be handing out ‘buy my daughter’s book’ buttons. I was accused of being crabby. I was ticked off that Kurt Newton (author of Ultimate PerVERSEities, buy it here) kept trying to fry an egg on my sunburn. I had to face it: I was simply not capable of maintaining perkiness for longer than 48 hours.
Which is why, Miss Judie, I did not post my blog this week. Forgive me. I will be back on Saturday as usual. Hopefully, my perkiness will have returned, but if not, at least I will have a killer tan!
I couldn’t update the blog on Saturday because I spent Thursday through Sunday working at the Hebron Harvest Fair. As a board member of the New England Horror Writers, it was my duty to sweat my butt off, trying to pawn off free short stories to passerby who were quite frankly more interested in the fried dough than the literary gems I was handing out. After being ignored for most of the afternoon the first day, I decided to pull out the big guns. I dug through my closet to find the lowest-cut blouse I owned. Miraculously, my sales doubled (to two) the next day.
It was a hot weekend, and my sunscreen gave out about two hours in on Saturday. I wound up baking like a potato, and am now unable to breathe too deeply without my skin cracking. It was all for the sake of art, so I guess it was worth it. Plus, when my tomato red finally fades to a toasty brown, I expect to save a ton of money on foundation, so that’s a help.
Greeting the public as a horror writer was a little different than just hanging out at a convention debating small press versus self publishing with other writers (sure, you might find that boring, but to us, it can spawn hours of intellectual discussion. That and the debate about who is cooler: Gambit or Wolverine.) But with the general public, the questions I heard were a lot different: “Why did you decide to become a writer?” “Does your mother know you write this sicko stuff?” And, by far, the most popular question: “Have you ever met Stephen King?” (A question that I’m sure one Judie T. gets often simply because she lives in Maine. But I digress.)
It was hot. I was tired. After four days of the same questions over and over, my answers became fairly rote. I became a writer to scare the crap out of little children like yours. My mother is the lady in the back of the booth there handing out ‘buy my daughter’s book’ buttons. And yes, I’ve met Stephen King, and he told me to tell you he hates you.
At the end of the week, I was not one of the most popular authors there. The rest of the writers made me sit in back with my mom, even though I thought it was silly for me to be handing out ‘buy my daughter’s book’ buttons. I was accused of being crabby. I was ticked off that Kurt Newton (author of Ultimate PerVERSEities, buy it here) kept trying to fry an egg on my sunburn. I had to face it: I was simply not capable of maintaining perkiness for longer than 48 hours.
Which is why, Miss Judie, I did not post my blog this week. Forgive me. I will be back on Saturday as usual. Hopefully, my perkiness will have returned, but if not, at least I will have a killer tan!
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