What shall I blog about today? Let's run through the hot topics of the moment:
1. Authors Behaving Badly! I won't bash rookies, and I haven't seen much in the way of established writer bad behavior lately. Would some of you old pros please go out and plagiarize someone, have a screeching tantrum about the biz, or at least pour a coke on David Brin's head, and then e-mail me some details? Thanks.
2. Hate Mail! All of my readers have been remarkably upbeat and positive; they write to me and say nice things about my books. I have no idea what's the matter with them. Where's the hostility, people?
3. ARC-selling reviewers! Tempting, but I think Mary Janice Davidson has dibs. I also did something similar last year, and I'm trying not to repeat myself.
4. Sex is porn! If all romance novels with sex in them are porn, then sex is porn, and any book with sex in it is porn. Which would mean the Bible is porn. Maybe we should rethink this logic. Anyway, Alison and company do a better job than I can of taking on the lock-kneed.
5. Vampire fiction sucks! Euuuww. Nasty stuff, loving the cursed undead. And having sex with them? Necrophilia, that's all it is. Definitely not romance. Hang on, I forgot, I write it. Never mind.
6. What's wrong with SF today! Oh, please.
7. Agonized lit-heads suffering! Stephen Leigh (who is not me, btw) already elegantly nailed them.
8. Publishing Dirt! Alas, I know too much stuff that I have promised to keep to myself. Besides, we'll all just end up being an item in PW Daily.
9. Pathetic self-promotion! Been there, (yawn) parodied that.
10. PBW's weblog! I'm posting too many cute animal stories lately, aren't I? Harry must be in agony. What else? I haven't done any promo for Dark Need other than giving away books. I abandoned you guys last weekend. And I just suggested that the Bible is porn. Someone should be burning me in effigy within the hour.
I guess there is nothing in WriterLand that is really worth blogging about at the moment, except maybe a certain Scot who is sitting on his backside doing nothing. The disgust. The horror. The homemade sausages. We should notify the Friends of Rodents Society about this menace, post-haste. Or go see what Mr. Rickards is up to; he's always good for a decent outrage.
I know, I know. Get back to work.