Paranormal Mates Society and My Big Squishy Brain

Remember a couple of years ago I did a story for the Changeling Valentines collection, Paranormal Mates Society? Well, the stories have been collected into an anthology or three, and they're now available in print. Go grab a copy from Amazon!

Here are my author copies, which arrived yesterday, being displayed by the lovely Spike. Who is clearly so overwhelmed with awe that he's just had to have a little nap.



A week ago I did a supervised IQ test in London. I figured I'd probably get a letter back from Mensa comparing my IQ to that of a plant. Imagine my surprise when I get a letter this morning telling me I'm in the top 2% of the population as a whole (is the nation really that stupid?), which means I've been invited to join Mensa.

I tried to do the Mensa puzzle in the Express today. I failed.

New glasses

Except that I haven't got them yet, I have to wait a week. I'm not good at waiting. But anyway, I figured it was time for a change--I've had my specs two years now and they're getting a little scuffed. Plus, I'm bored. You wouldn't wear the same earrings every day for two years, would you--and glasses are a lot more noticeable than earrings (at least, than most earrings).

So, after a lot of dithering and trying to work out how much money I can borrow off my dad, I picked out two pairs (Specsavers and their 2 for 1 deal, bless them). And here for your entertainment is a (rather bad) mock-up (using images I nicked from their website) of the first pair, which I saw last year and coveted then (yes, I know, sad little life).

And the second pair, which took me aaages to pick out (Mum kept trying to talk me into the designer ones...which ain't gonna happen because the only ones I liked were the really expensive ones!). They're semi-frameless, which looks a little weird here because I couldn't be bothered to actually make a proper image. But you get the idea. I had frameless glasses before but they always felt like cheating--like I was pretending I wasn't wearing glasses. But these are quite funky, bronze semi-frames and black/turquoise arms. Shiny!

Brains, funerals and Spaceport

In that order. I think. Anyway, I know I've been absent but that pesky thing called Life kept getting in the way. I know, who'd have guessed?

First, brains. I did an IQ test on Saturday and am fully expecting a letter from British Mensa along the lines of, "Wow! We've never had results like this. It's completely astonishing. It's never happened before. How can it be that someone with your IQ is actually walking and talking? When we got your test we thought it had been filled out by brain-damaged ant."

Now the real reason I've been absent all week, which is the depressing habit I've picked up of losing grandparents. To quote Lady Bracknell, it looks like carelessness. Well, either way, there aren't any more to lose. This time the mental anguish isn't from anticipating a punch-up at the funeral (it was all disappointingly civil when my maternal grandmother died, last month), but from trying to stop my dad turning it into something from one of the more melodramatic kinds of soap operas. He keeps searching for readings and music that will be, and I'm using his word, 'tear-jerking'. Or is that two words?

Eventually I snapped and told him that if he plays Barbra Streisand singing The Way We Were, I'll give up and wait outside. Actually, I didn't, but I did tell him it was incredibly tacky. Judging from the florid verses on the sympathy cards lining the windowsill, it would probably be appreciated by the congregation, but that doesn't mean we have to stoop to anyone else's level and denigrate the dignity of the occasion. It's just that deliberately choosing 'tear-jerking' music seems to me like going around and pinching people to make them cry. If they're sad, they'll cry. It's a funeral. Unless the deceased was a horrible, horrible person, and my nannan wasn't, then people will cry. If you make people cry on purpose, then how can you believe their sorrow was genuine?

Besides, if he plays The Way We Were, the only person sobbing will be me, at such a hackneyed choice of music.

All right, rant over. Today I finished my latest Changeling story, horribly late, but see above re: Life. It's for the new Spaceport line, which is very exciting and which I can't remember if I've mentioned before. It's really the bastard love-child of many fathers, or mothers, really, and our collective love affair with Firefly and various other shiny, sexy sci-fi shows (um, others were mentioned but I haven't seen them so I can't, er, remember). Mine is called Incognito and features a bounty hunter on the raggedy edge and a fallen socialite with blue tattoos. And a couple of very clever space cats.

And more will follow, because the cover is in progress and it's going to look gorgeous...

I'm officially grandparentless

Yeah, sorry it's been more than a week since I posted. Nothing much happened, and, well, then something did happen. My dad's mum died this afternoon. Again, it was totally expected, and my dad was actually there, which is nice. And at least time there are no family feuds...that I'm aware of...so it should all be straightforward.

I'll blog in a bit about the return of Doctor Who and the end of Torchwood (will there be more? Will there? What about Owen, I was just starting to fancy him!). And about Spaceport.

Later.

There's a mouse loose...

...about this office. I think Spike may have taken it to heart when I pronounced the rat my dad found in the garden to have died of natural causes. Sugar used to bring in mice and birds all the time (and then when I found her, she'd roll around looking smug, and the little bugger would escape).

Last night I heard an odd mew (Spike squeaks, cries, and chirrups, but doesn't often miaow) outside my office door, and lo, there he was with a mouse in his mouth. he came in, dropped the mouse, spent a minute or so trying to worm it out of the corner while I tried to stop it going any further into the room. Because even tidy, this room has lots and lots of places a mouse could hide. And last night, it certainly wasn't tidy. Last night, it looked like this:

I am not a tidy person.

So I started trying to clear up some stuff, and I got lucky. Mice freeze motionless when frightened, and a giant human is pretty frightening to most mice. So I grabbed the bugger by the tail and dropped it out of the bathroom window (it's only a drop of about three feet, I saw it run away over the conservatory roof).

About an hour after I'd been in bed, I heard that strange miaow again, and with a cry of, "Spike, you little bastard," got out of bed to find he'd brought the mouse back in. This time, he lost it under the futon, which has so much stuff on it there's Christmas wrapping buried under there somewhere.

I gave up and went to bed. This morning, Spike was curled nonchalantly in the corner by the radiator, and if there was a mouse in the room it didn't seem to be bothering him. Of course, it could have gone anywhere in the night (I block this door open, because it doesn't shut properly from the outside, so Spike can always get in, but if it falls shut from the inside, he gets stuck, and starts destroying things).

So, today instead of working on the three or so stories I ought to be finishing, I'm putting my new Sony Walkman through its paces and tidying up. I may be gone some time.

Especially since Spike is determined to help:


14:11 ETA: Guess who I found? Curled up down by the shelves where I keep files and things (if it'd been the other shelves, where I keep books, I might not have cleared out the stuff in front, but I try to keep contract, statements etc. in some sort of order). One tiny mouse, curled in a terrified ball, not particularly happy to be picked up by his tail and carried downstairs. Yes, I know, but have you ever tried picking up a wild mouse around the body? Four sets of claws and one set of teeth, and I know I had a tetanus jab recently, but I'd still rather not test it).

Set the poor bugger out on the patio. Pepper desperately interested. Spike asleep on his chair in my office the whole time. Lazy little bastard.

But I swear, if that's the same damn mouse he keeps bringing in and I keep rescuing, then one day I'm just going to let him eat it, because damn, that thing's an evolutionary cul-de-sac.

San Francisco's not that great, you know. Bad climate.

I was just looking at the things Almost Human's won in the past. You know, wondering if perhaps it was stupid of me to enter for the Ritas a book that was really terrible. And I added up:

Three 'involuntary' award nominations (eg reviewer's choice awards) and three shortlist award placements, leading to
Three awards (of which one was involuntary)
Six five-star reviews, and four more 4.5-star, plus four stars from Romantic Times

So, you know. Who cares about a smelly old Rita? Chance and Dark rock, and I don't need a fairy on a rock to tell me that.

And now I'm going to eat the rest of him.

RWA have announced the 2008 Rita and Golden Heart finalists. Congratulations to all. you might notice that I'm not on that list, but like the Murphy's, I'm not bitter. I'm just going to eat lots of cake and look at all the other shiny awards my entry has won.

And rant in private about bias against erotic romance, and how ER should be judged on its own merits, because it's as unfair to put ER against mainstream as it is to judge inspirational romance against other books because it's so dependant on content that might, let's face it, offend lot of people. If erotic romance can't be judged on its own merits, in its own category, then they shouldn't pretend it's welcome, and save a lot of authors time, money and fingernails.

But then I suppose it's like fuel tax, isn't it? It's not about saving the planet, it's about making money.

Hmm, that wasn't a private rant, was it?

I just ate David Tennant

And he was very tasty.

Must...not...make pun!


And no, I didn't eat him all in one go, I took my time. A nibble here, a nibble there...

Oh, this is too hard.

Look what I woke up to!

It's been snowy on and off for a couple of days, but I didn't expect any of it to settle. Didn't expect settled snow at all this year!

See how thick it is on the branches? It's Easter Sunday, and there's snow nearly an inch deep.

I mean, snow and daffodils? Poor shivery flowers. They're spring flowers, not winter.

Whoops, it's been a week

Sorry about that, loyal readers. Well, loyal reader. But I always found this whenever I tried to keep a diary: that if something interesting was actually happening, I was far to busy to actually write it down.

Anyway, this week hasn't been particularly interesting, but it has been busy, and exhausting.

Monday was my birthday, which, being St Patrick's Day, coincided with a lot of Guinness. I got a very pretty pink Sony Walkman Video, which sounds fabulous and is exactly what I wanted. Had a great day.

Tuesday morning was spent sleeping off Monday. The afternoon was spent worrying about Wednesdays upcoming soap opera. The evening was spent in Cambridge, going to see The Feeling, who are just the best band I've ever seen, ever, and definitely took my mind off Wednesday.

Wednesday was my nannan's funeral. This involved a three hour car journey just to get there, and then the unspoken horrors of the funeral home. I half wanted to laugh, it was creepy. I've never been to one, you see--the only other close family member to die was my granddad when I was very young, and I just don't remember the details, but I don't think there was a trip to the eerie Victorian-meets-1970s House of Death that was the funeral home. There was a whole room for flowers, and every surface held a box of tissues. I declined to go and see the body--and I'm glad, because my mum said she looked wrong, very stern and angry, which just wasn't her at all. My nannan was perpetually good-natured and quite funny, and that's how I'll remember her.

The funeral itself wasn't as terrible as I'd thought. My dad read a eulogy, because since it was at the city cemetery, the presiding priest was kind of a rent-a-vicar, although he did read a lovely service. I read a reading (I suppose that's the right verb!) by Henry Scott Holland, and I've no idea how it went other than that I managed not to burst into tears, which was my fear. I expect half the crowd didn't understand my accent, since I grew up in Essex and they're all solid Sheffield folk.

Punch-ups were in short supply, although faces were averted from any possibility of eye-contact. I did get to see my uncle Alan, who was in an accident 16 months ago that left him in a wheelchair, following a brain injury. He looked quite well, however, and smiled and said hello. I probably lost Family Funeral Points for looking so happy to see him, but I don't care. I was happy to see him.

Thursday, my friend Patrick took me out for lunch, which he said was a late birthday present, despite actually seeing me on Monday night for a couple of drinks. I think he was actually being kind because I'd been telling him about the funeral. We were all exhausted on Thursday--Wednesday was a long day, hour-wise, and just draining.

Yesterday, I made some attempt at getting some work done, but it was only finishing off a scene. I'm glad I got the Still Waters edits out of the way on Sunday, so all I need to do is a final read-through before I send them back.

Today, we're going out for dinner for my birthday--since it fell on a Monday and I figured it'd be too quiet, and besides, I wanted to celebrate the week being over!

Updates

I have final line edits to do for Still Waters, the fourth Sophie book, and I can finally show you the cover (I had just typed that it wasn't official yet, then I went to get the link and saw it up there on the Samhain site...which means it is official, and I can share it!). Everybody bask in its gorgeousness.

Reckon I've finally got a title for Kett's story (the Almost Human sequel). How does Dead of Knight sound? It makes sense when you read it, honest.

It's nearly finished, so hopefully that can get submitted soon, although I don't have high hopes for a release before Christmas (!). I've been procrastinating by, as usual, designing my ideal cover. But I haven't got very far--Samhain (to whom I'm submitting it) use stock photography, so I've been browsing the sites I know their artists use. (It's all because of Still Waters--I started looking for art to be used on that cover, since neither me nor the artist could think of anything!). But I haven't found anything that's right for Kett. Really, I want to steal Lilith Saintcrow's cover for Steelflower, because it's awesome and very, very Kett. Actually, I must buy and read that book, because it looks as awesome as the cover.

In other news, the trainwreck that is planning a funeral when half the family isn't talking to the other is going full steam ahead. Won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say it's starting to resemble one of those plays where everyone dresses in black and seethes with bitterness.

My local pub, the Dog and Duck, has re-opened under new management. It's very exciting, in a way that tells you how much excitement I don't get.

Old photos

Y'see, my brother was looking for an old photo. "You know, that one with the Dutch girls (that would be Danielle and Jill, who visited on a school exchange program) and Junior being really short." I knew exactly the one he meant. I directed him to the shoeboxes in the garage where I'd not only stored old photos, but in a fit of Monica-ness, actually labelled with the appropriate year (just the boxes, I didn't label the photos. Although I did label the wallets they came back from the developer in). But, as you can see, in the past I was hella geeky!

This is the one Rich was looking for. From the left: his best friend (then and now) Dan Oakley, Rich, Alex "Junior" Oakley, Danielle Genders, Jill Pisters, me. Yep, me. Reckon I was about 13 or 14 there. Youch.

While I was looking through the photos (they're like Pringles: once you pop, you just can't stop), I found a lovely one of the family when we celebrated my nannan's 50th wedding anniversary. My granddad actually died about twenty years before this, but that didn't stop my nannan having a party. That's her at the front, second from right. I'm at the back, second from left. I'd probably have been about fourteen there, I think. See how tall I am? In the next three years, I grew to the height of my uncle, on my left. And then, thank God, I stopped.

When Sugar and Spike were babies I took zillions of pictures. They're all safely stowed here on my computer, and on my backup old computer, and on a disc. But when Tinker and Willow were babies, I was six, and there was no such thing as a digital camera. I reckon the one we used back then had a separate flashbulb. but anyway, look at these two. If I thought S&S could be gratuitously cute, I'd forgotten about the originals...

Here's Tinker again, under his own parasol (I have another one of Willow in the same place). All the digital pictures I have of him are as an old man, and at the end he was really bony, his fur all matted. But he was (as TS Eliot said), in his youth, quite the smartest of cats. Look at the gloss on his fur! He was the original Gorgeous Boy, a title he passed on to Spike, who grew into it beautifully.

You know I said I was tall? Well, look at me outside this tent...okay, it was a kid's play tent, but still. Check out my sweater, though: Crazy Cat. I'm amazed I didn't write 'Lady' on it...

Yet more proof I knew how it was going to end. In case you can't read the caption on my nightshirt, it says 'When I grow up, I want to be a cat'. 'Nuff said.

Any Harry Enfield fans out there? Caption this "Poor Lulu." Actually, there's another one, where Rich is beaming at the camera and I'm bawling my eyes out. I guess we can call that the 'after' shot.

This is how I remember family holidays. What you can't see is that, outside the little world of the parasol and the windbreaker, it was actually raining. My dad (captured in a series of blackmail-worthy photos) was actually wearing a wetsuit and surfing, or trying to at any rate. The three of us, plus Honey, huddled up for warmth. English seaside holidays, huh? Can't beat 'em.

I want to show this one to Pepper. See, I'm going to say to her, see how nicely Honey got along with the cats? This one is Candy, our little abused baby, who was terrified of pretty much everything. But Honey, daft as an old brush and twice as useless, was impossible to be frightened of.

I so want to title this picture 'Young Dr Doolittle', but I don't expect my brother will thank me for it.

Today, I realised as I looked at the date, would have been Meu's 16th birthday. She died four years ago, nearly five. She wasn't halfway old enough. Here she is, enjoying her favourite activity.

And here enjoying her second--and showing off the belly she got from the first. Love you, sweetheart. Miss you.

A hymn to him

By Spike, with a nod to Alan Jay Lerner

Why can't a dog be more like a cat?
Cats are so handsome, so thoroughly wise;
Eternally noble, with beautiful eyes
Who doesn’t bark, and seldom bites; now that’s a cat.
Why can't a dog be like that?

Why does every one do what the others do?
Can't a puppy learn to use its head?
Why do they do everything you don’t want them to?
Why don't they grow up, well, like a kitten instead?

Why can't a puppy take after a cat?
Cats are so pleasant, so easy to please.
Whenever you're with them, you're always at ease.

Would you be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?
Would you be livid if I forgot a walk or two?
Would you be wounded if I stopped you from eating flowers?
Well, why can't a dog be like you?

One cat in a million may scratch a bit.
Now and then, there's one with slight defects.
One perhaps whose loyalty you doubt a bit,
But by and large we are a marvellous pet!

Why can't a dog take after a cat?
Cats are affectionate, well-mannered and kind.
A better companion you never will find.

If I were hours late for dinner would you fret?
If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?
Would you complain if I fussed over someone else’s pet?
Why can't a dog be like us?

Why can't a dog be more like a cat?
Cats are so charming, so pretty and soft;
Ready to comfort you whenever you’re lost;
Never ask for anything, and we never whine.
Why can't a dog be that fine?

Why is thinking something that dogs never do?
And why is logic never even tried?
Making a big mess is all they ever do.
I suppose it matches all the mess that's inside?

Why can't a dog behave like a cat?
If I was a dog who'd been for a walk,
Been hailed as a poppet by all who could talk;
Would I pee everywhere like a bathtub overflowing,
Or keep on barking at things that live up trees?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a dog, well, be like me?