I am thankful for my family. My friends. As much as I complain about it, I'm thankful to have a job that pays the bills, keeps a roof over my head and food on the table. I'm thankful for my agent and editor. I'm thankful for my readers. I'm thankful for the poor bird that gave his life so I can eat like a little piggy today. (Boy, I bet he wishes he'd been born a pig, eh?)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Part 6:
Nick slid out of bed, one hand wrapped around the bedpost as he balanced himself. He’d never felt this weak in his life. Glancing down, he saw that he was naked and had the brief thought that he should put something on in case his mother came back into the room. The thought was too much to hold onto, and the act of pulling on a pair of trousers too much trouble so he shrugged it off.
He tottered to the window on unsteady legs and pushed aside the curtain. As early morning sunlight strained through glass frosted with snow, he winced. His head immediately began to throb. He dropped the curtain to rub his forehead. As soon as the room darkened, his headache lessened.
A knock sounded on the door. “Just a minute,” he called and stumbled back to bed. As soon as he was modestly ensconced under the covers, he bade his visitor to enter.
Doc Cummings strode into the room, the broad grin on his face making his big gray moustache twitch. “When your mother told me you’d regained consciousness, I was overjoyed, son. Overjoyed!” He set his black doctor’s bag on the mattress. Leaning forward, he picked up Nick’s left hand and placed his fingers on Nick’s inner wrist. “Let’s just see how you’re doing, shall we?”
After a few moments he frowned. “That’s odd. I can’t seem to find...” He shook his head. Letting go of Nick’s hand, he rooted around in his bag and pulled out his stethoscope. He fussed with the earpieces, then placed the end of the device over Nick’s heart.
Nick jumped at the coldness of the metal.
Doc Cummings mumbled an apology and took a moment to warm the piece in his palm. Once he’d placed it on Nick’s chest again, he listened a moment, then blinked. He moved the chestpiece over a bit and blinked several times. His gaze met Nick’s as the doctor placed the chestpiece over his own heart.
He pulled the earpieces out of his ears and held the stethoscope loosely in one hand. “I don’t understand this,” he said slowly, his gaze never leaving Nick’s. “You got no pulse, son.” 
40 years ago in the June 1969 issue, The Writer posted these "don'ts":
Never write for money. The work itself should be your only consideration while you write.
Never write for a "market." "Market" means "formula." Sneaky little hesitations creep in.
Never write for an audience less--or more--intelligent than you think you are. If you do, you'll write down to it or up to it. You are your audience.
Never write out of a total preconception of what you mean. It takes every word, every idea, every metaphor, one after the other, to come to that outcome or meaning, and unless it is predigested stuff--in other words, propaganda--you don't know it yet.
Never be grateful, loyal or vindictive in your writing. The truth won't be found if any of these emotions bend your literary intent. Write fantasy, farce, science fiction or whatever, as long as you are discovering--really discovering--which means that you are receptive to the ideas you come upon.
So, you tell me. Are these still relevant, 40 years later?
Sorry I'm a little late with this today. Slept in and had to dash off to work this morning.
Hopefully he was worth the wait...
How to Give a Cat a Tablet
Pick the cat up and cradle in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth pop pill into it, allow cat to close mouth and swallow.
Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind the sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.
Retrieve cat from bedroom and throw soggy pill away. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.
Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call partner in from garden. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get partner to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.
Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from the foil wrap. Make note to buy a new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines from hearth and set to one side for gluing later. Wrap cat in large towel and get partner to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force cat's mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.
Check label to make sure pills not harmful to humans, drink glass of water to take taste away. Apply plaster to partners forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap. Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed and get another pill. Place cat in cupboard and close door onto neck to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon and flick pill down throat with elastic band.
Fetch screwdriver from garage and put door back on hinges. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus jab. Throw t-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom. Ring fire brigade to retrieve cat from tree across the road and apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid the cat. Take last pill from foil wrap. Tie cats front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy duty pruning gloves from shed and pry cat's mouth open with a small spanner. Push pill into mouth followed by a large piece of fillet steak. Hold head vertically and pour a pint of water down throat to wash down pill.
Get partner to drive you to the Emergency Room and sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearms and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call at furniture shop on way home to order new table.
Arrange for ASPCA to collect cat. Ring local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.
How to Give a Dog a Tablet
Throw it in the air.
Say "Catch."
When Harlequin recently announced they were opening an e-pub only division, I was cautiously optimistic, even if they've indicated they'll only pay royalties twice a year. (Most e-pubs pay at least quarterly. I don't know anyone who can budget effectively with just 2 paychecks a year...) However, and it's a big however, Harlequin has also just announced their partnership with Author Solutions, a vanity press. EVERY author whose manuscript Harlequin rejects will receive a letter pointing them toward Harlequin Horizons, a vanity press (i.e., self-publishing). According to the press release, it's "an accessible opportunity for emerging authors to bring themselves to the attention of the reading public."
Can I just say WTF?!? I have been telling everyone I know that in this business the money should flow TO the author, not FROM the author. Yet here's Harlequin, the largest publisher of women's fiction, with their sharp spoons out, ready to dig into the unwary and desperate-to-be-published author. And it's more than just "suggesting" Horizons to rejected authors. They're also holding out this carrot: "Harlequin will monitor sales of books published through the self-publisher for possible pickup by its traditional imprints."
So, not good enough to be published with the Harlequin logo on the spine of your book? Just wait and hope. Spend the money and maybe, just maybe, someone at Harlequin will take notice and pick up your book for one of their traditional imprints.
On their website they tout that as a self-published author you retain the rights to your book, unlike the traditional publishing route. But along with retaining your rights to the book, you also are the one responsible for marketing, distribution and sales of your book. Then start piling on the fees. Want an ISBN assigned to your book? Be ready to fork over $2300. (Now, granted, there are other "perks" included in this price--the lowest one, by the way--25 author copies of the book, formatting in e-book format, U.S. copyright registration, and author website set-up, to name a few.) But my point is, that's $2300 the AUTHOR has to pay out, upfront, with no guarantee of future income, let alone a guarantee he/she will recoup their investment.
It's just wrong. It's predatory publishing at it's finest. Or worst. I'm disappointed and disheartened that Harlequin chose to go this route. And not that it probably makes any difference to them (this move by Harlequin is about the bottom line, pure and simple), but Romance Writers of America (RWA) has quickly and bravely taken the stance that Harlequin Enterprises no longer qualifies as an eligible publisher. That means nothing to most of the book-buying world, but it's a huge thing within the romance writing industry.
Now I'm not naive here. I understand that publishing is a business, and publishers are here to make their shareholders money. But that they're now willing to do it from the hide of the author is what I have a problem with.
Edited to Add (6:11 p.m.): Apparently Harlequin has not been unaware of the furor this has caused in the author community. Check out Kristin Nelson's blog today, in which Harlequin sent her an email that states, in part:
Most importantly, however, we have heard the concerns that you, our authors, have expressed regarding the potential confusion between this venture and our traditional business. As such, we are changing the name of the self-publishing company from Harlequin Horizons to a designation that will not refer to Harlequin in any way. We will initiate this process immediately. We hope this allays the fears many of you have communicated to us.
I'm very glad to hear this, and surprised that they seem so, well, surprised at the outrage this caused. (And I'm surprised that they seem so very surprised that RWA took the stance it did to remove them as a recognized publisher. I mean, come on. If every single rejection letter is going to point authors to your vanity press, what did you expect?!?) The letter states also that Harlequin's intention is to provide authors access to publishing opportunities, traditional or otherwise. Which I have no problem with. But when the "otherwise" is vanity publishing?
No freaking way.
ETA (6:48 p.m.): Mystery Writers of America has also put Harlequin on notice that they are "breaking the rules" of being an eligible publisher with their organization.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Part 5
Nick glanced at his bedroom window. The sky was beginning to lighten. “How long was I unconscious?” he asked his mother.
Margaret Reed moved back to his bedside and perched on the edge of the mattress. “Just overnight. Six hours or so.” She leaned forward and stroked the hair from his brow. “We were so worried.”
Nick’s gaze fastened on her neck, at the pulse pounding in her vulnerable throat. Life thrummed beneath that soft skin, beckoning him. He found himself leaning forward, lips parted, and caught himself. He jerked, smacking the back of his head against the oak headboard, and swore beneath his breath.
What the hell was wrong with him? Looking at his mother as if she were...
Food.
“Nick?” Margaret reached for him again, and with a snarl he knocked her hand away.
“Get away from me, Mother.”
She frowned and slowly stood. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Just...” He shook his head and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Then he realized that was the first breath he’d drawn upon waking. He ran his tongue over dry lips. As he drew his tongue back into his mouth, it scraped over a sharp upper canine tooth, drawing blood. Deep, dark hunger flared. His eyes began to burn, his gums tingled at the base of his canines. He looked at his mother and rasped, “Leave me alone. Please. For your own safety.” Because he very much felt like lunging at her, trapping her in his embrace and fastening his teeth in her neck to feast until he appeased this damnable hunger.
“I’ll just fetch the doctor,” she murmured and left his room. She closed the door quietly behind her, but even that soft click sounded loud to Nick’s ears.
What was going on? What had happened to him? Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t natural.
He had to remember the events of the attack. And the sooner the better.
