An open letter to my muse.
Dear Jane;
Hi. How've you been? I assume you've been pretty well, since I keep getting notes from you, and I don't recognize the names on half these napkins. In the future, I would be greatly appreciative if you could mail me the assignments for the week before you spill the vodka, as it's sort of difficult to read your handwriting even when it isn't soaked in alcohol. Perhaps you should consider getting another intern. Dierdre was a very nice girl, and she definitely made you easier to understand.
Now that we've concluded the pleasantries, let's get down to business, shall we? I'm writing three books right now, Jane. Three. One Toby book, one Margery book, and Newsflesh, which is a headache and a half, given the sheer volume of political research it's requiring me to do (even if it has served as an excuse for watching five seasons of 'The West Wing' in under six weeks). And after I finish at least one of those, I need to get back to work on Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues, and kick off the next Corey book before someone on my proofreading list rises up and kills me. So that's basically five.
Bearing this in mind, please listen when I say that I do not need another series. This isn't just a case of 'not needing another book', Jane; this is a case of my genuinely needing another series about as much as I need, say, to get kicked in the head by an alpaca. Less, in fact, because 'I started another book last night' elicits groans, whereas getting kicked in the head by an alpaca would at least leave me with an interesting story to tell.
I'll make you a deal: if you'll shut up about things I'd really rather not hear right now, I'll finish off at least one chapter of Newsflesh this weekend. Okay? Jane? Jane?
Crap.
Love,
Me.
Hi. How've you been? I assume you've been pretty well, since I keep getting notes from you, and I don't recognize the names on half these napkins. In the future, I would be greatly appreciative if you could mail me the assignments for the week before you spill the vodka, as it's sort of difficult to read your handwriting even when it isn't soaked in alcohol. Perhaps you should consider getting another intern. Dierdre was a very nice girl, and she definitely made you easier to understand.
Now that we've concluded the pleasantries, let's get down to business, shall we? I'm writing three books right now, Jane. Three. One Toby book, one Margery book, and Newsflesh, which is a headache and a half, given the sheer volume of political research it's requiring me to do (even if it has served as an excuse for watching five seasons of 'The West Wing' in under six weeks). And after I finish at least one of those, I need to get back to work on Lycanthropy and Other Personal Issues, and kick off the next Corey book before someone on my proofreading list rises up and kills me. So that's basically five.
Bearing this in mind, please listen when I say that I do not need another series. This isn't just a case of 'not needing another book', Jane; this is a case of my genuinely needing another series about as much as I need, say, to get kicked in the head by an alpaca. Less, in fact, because 'I started another book last night' elicits groans, whereas getting kicked in the head by an alpaca would at least leave me with an interesting story to tell.
I'll make you a deal: if you'll shut up about things I'd really rather not hear right now, I'll finish off at least one chapter of Newsflesh this weekend. Okay? Jane? Jane?
Crap.
Love,
Me.