Despite my gloomy mood the past few days, there’s actually plenty to be optimistic about. When the kids aren’t picking at each other, it’s fun to have them around more.

And I’m floored by the number of you who feel the same way I do about having them under foot! I wonder if I’ve just had the gumption to say something you all are feeling but are scared to say.

Trevor would tell you to get over the fear and come out with it, you know. Saying things like “I can’t stand having my kids at home!” is very liberating.

So that’s good stuff. Want some more? Netta at Word Webbing blew me away last night. I’m talking goosebumps, guys. And then when I read what she’d written to the Tour Manager, I got ’em again. And tears, too.

And why not? No one’s ever said this about me before:

…establishing Susan Helene Gottfried as a born storyteller with a romping, evocative, insider’s look at what it’s like to say, “I’m with the band.”

Yeah. And that’s only PART of it. Read the rest for yourself. If you don’t have the Demo Tapes yet, now’s a good time — but a month from now (give or take a few days) will be better. With The Demo Tapes: Year 2 set to debut on September 12 at the Bridgewater Book Fest, I’ll start taking preorders for the book soon … and will offer a deal if you buy both volumes directly from me.

Onward to the weekend. It’s supposed to rain here, locking us in the house some more, but with a review like that, who cares?

ETA: Check out the interview, too!

There Will Be No Thursday Thirteen This Week

1. Because I am exhausted.
2. I am typing words with the letters reversed.
3. I was up at four this morning.
4. My brain was whirling with story ideas.
5. And then the day kicked in.
6. A workout
7. and then busy with kids.
8. I miss them being in school.
9. Even though they’re fun to be with.
10. When they’re not whining at each other.
11. And I need to finish my book for book club this week.
12. And have I mentioned
13. I’m totally addicted to the Tour de France???

Before I get to the WAY overdue awards, let me announce the winner of Hank Phillippi Ryan’s Prime Time. It’s Teresa W. I’ll be contacting her today.

Thanks to everyone who entered. We just might see more book gives in the future. Anything to help get the word out.

Speaking of getting the word out, here’s the WAY overdue award acknowledgment post:

However you look at it, I love it when you guys include me in your awards. I say it every time, and every single time, it’s true. And yes, when I get down, I DO come and hug them all.

It’s a writer thing. We get down and feel unloved. We don’t all have Trevor’s ego. Or, at least, I don’t.

Anyway, let’s see who’s got what sort of love for me. Lots of good stuff ahead, so be warned!

First off is Aerin, who has the coolest spelling of her name, don’tcha think? The only spelling that could be better would be Aeryn — all you fellow Farscape fans follow my thinking. Aerin’s blog is In Search of Giants, and she gave me the Your Blog is Fabulous Award. The giants in her blog name refer to all things literary. We like Aerin, and we LOVE her 7 questions author interview. Wow. Good stuff; be sure you check it out.

Now it’s time for another favorite: the Proximidade award. My friend Missy, at the Incurable Disease of Writing, passed this along to me. We don’t leave each other comments nearly as much as we used to, but then, I am leaving fewer comments of late. Working on three books at once will do that to you. And yes, one of those three IS the Demo Tapes, Year 2.

The ever-awesome JM at Fiction Scribe didn’t just review Demo Tapes, Year 1 (didja see that?), she also handed me the Premio Dardos award. That’s Italian for Prize Darts, which makes perfect sense to me… uh-huh… sure… Whatever. It could mean Eat Poison Dart Frogs and I’d love it. The award. Not eating poison dart frogs, which I don’t think is a particularly good idea.

Three of my book blogging friends passed the Sisterhood Award along. Hopefully they’re sisters like Amy is a sister to Mitchell, and not like the mean step-sisters of Cinderella fame. Who are these lovelies, you ask? Good question. The first is Serena, she of the Savvy Verse and Wit. If you’re into poetry at all, you ought to hang at Savvy Verse. The poets she finds makes Roadie Poet look like the rank amateur he is.

The next Sisterhood friend is Drey, of Drey’s Library. Drey is the latest book blogger I’ve been swapping e-mails with. I couldn’t be having more fun if I was Trevor, and me and Drey were swapping spit. Drey’s awesome, so be sure to stop in and meet her, too.

Another Sisterhood friend is Redlady, of Redlady’s Reading Room. Bonnie’s her real name and she’s mega cool. She is one of the many reasons of late why my Google Reader is impossible to keep up with.

Enough sisterhood; how about some chicken? The Zombie Chicken, who’s been making the rounds of late. He’s finally arrived at West of Mars (looking for the famed Mars spaceship, most likely). My long-time friend Cherie of CheriePie’s books, sent him to put Trevor in his place. Because we all know it takes a zombie chicken to do just that.

So did Anna, my friend who runs Diary of an Eccentric. Maybe I’ll forgive her and Serena for going to BEA without me. Maybe.

Tia at Tia’s Writing Blog loves my blog. I love hers; both of them. If you don’t know Tia, you should take the time to check her out. She runs the much-lauded Fantasy Debut site. You guys know I dig fantasy, and I’m all about debuts, so… I love Tia and what she’s doing.

Am I a super commentor? Some of you seem to think so, and I certainly try. That’s why I’m not surprised Alice has handed me the Super Comments award. Way cool. Alice. The Award. Both.

Want a sixpence of awards? Patricia at Subjective Soup handed me six lovely awards. Six, I say. Wow. And she says I’m kind to authors and struggling writers.

You know, I feel like I don’t nearly enough for authors and struggling writers.

J. Kaye might be among the many who disagree with that. She’s given me the Heartfelt Award. And when she says she owes me and Bridget a huge debt for posting her gives for her at Win a Book… wow. J. Kaye, you don’t owe either of us anything. But if you insist, we’ll take a book or two…

(Have you SEEN the size of Mt. TBR lately? That is an entirely empty statement. No need to send books. Seriously.)

To all of you guys, all I can say is a heartfelt thank you. Many of these are way overdue in being acknowledged; sorry about that. Between the success of Win a Book and the work involved with The Demo Tapes — and my own natural inability to express gratitude with graciousness or in a timely fashion — well, what can I say?

Instead of passing these awards on, let me point you to some friends I’ve made. Old and new. ’cause, you know, if *I* say someone’s cool, they are.

Mason Mania If this sock puppet doesn’t dissolve you into laughter, nothing on the planet can. Catch this bandwagon early on ’cause we’ve got a phenomenon on our hands!

Marcia at MeeAugraphie has been a stalwart friend and fan. Be sure to stop by and check out her poetry.

And, of course, everyone else I’ve already mentioned. Every last one of these blogs is worth your time — for more than a skim, I’d like to mention.

Go for it. Make some new friends. Blame it on Trevor; we all know you like him better than me anyway. (As well you should! I’m boring.)

Reader alert: there’s the middle part of the old sex, drugs, and rock and roll happening in the following fiction. If that bugs you, stop reading here. I’ll understand. I’ll think you’re missing out on a really good moment, but I’ll… make fun of you when you can’t see or hear.

There was nothing comfortable about lying on a picnic table. Nothing. Apparently, a guy couldn’t get stoned enough to make a picnic table comfortable.

They were only here because it was a band bonding moment. Trevor and Mitchell had agreed: no matter how much they liked Daniel and Eric, they weren’t going to bring them to their spot on the river. Since Mitchell knew the way into the Park after sundown, this was where they’d come instead. Even if Daniel had wussed out on them. Again.

It was a pretty cool place once it emptied out of screeching little girls and whining and crying babies and their not-so-hot-at-the-moment moms. He’d seen a few bats before they’d smoked much. And Eric had been convinced they’d heard a coyote.

The park was definitely cooler after dark. It had this edge to it, like something deliciously bad lurked in every shadow. And there were lots of shadows. Trevor had wanted to explore them. Mitchell had said no, not this time.

So here they were, three guys on three picnic tables, getting stoned. Whoopee.

Eric mirrored Trevor’s position of flat on his back, knees bent – and the joint held in the air while he examined it. “What is it,” he asked, “about the condition of being human that makes it such a hard state to be in?”

“Everyone else around us sucks,” Trevor said before he could think. But that’s how it was when you were stoned, sometimes. The words slipped out.

Good thing he was here and not at Hank’s. It was bad when words slipped out around Hank.

“No, not everyone,” Eric said slowly, like he was trying to think and talk at the same time. “I’m not an asshole.”

“Yes, you are,” Trevor said and sat up. He had to turn to face Eric, but that was okay. It let him put his feet on the bench. “You’re such an asshole, I don’t know why I let you in my band.”

“Whose band?” Mitchell asked from Trevor’s other side. “And Eric’s not the asshole. You are. Remember? You made me promise to not let anyone in the band who’d take that title away from you.”

Trevor stood up, lunged for the joint Eric was still holding but not smoking, and delivered it to Mitchell’s face. “You need more.”

Mitchell batted him away.

“See?” Trevor said, resuming his seat on his picnic table. “I’m an asshole!”

“Yes, Trevor, but why are you an asshole?” Eric asked. He, too, sat up.

Trevor figured the guy was looking for his stolen joint and didn’t bother to answer. No real need to. Not when he held the remains of the last joint.

“Is it because of your home life?”

“My home life is with the Vosses.” Trevor looked over at Mitchell, who hadn’t gotten off his back yet. That wasn’t like Mitchell. This was the sort of talk he loved to be part of.

“Do they remind you of what it means to be human and not some… some…”

“Eric, let it go,” Mitchell said quietly.

Trevor felt, somehow, the force of Mitchell’s words ramming through him on the way over to Eric.

“So what is it about being human?” Eric asked.

“It’s about me knowing it’s time to split,” Trevor said, jumping off the table. He liked the way it felt, with his hair flopping behind him, his wallet chain jingling, and his boots thunking on the concrete pad in the picnic pavilion.

There was no way to put it in words, let alone words that Eric would understand, but that was what it meant to be human. It was all right there, in the act of jumping off the table.

Maybe Mitchell got it, Trevor thought, because the big blonde was right beside him. “You know you can’t go home without me.”

“You’re just worried your precious ass will get in trouble.”

“I get in more trouble when we’re together.”

Mitchell threw a look over his shoulder at Eric, who was starting to catch the drift. Time to go. “I think it’s part of being human.”

“Yeah, but…” Eric sputtered, then trailed them out of the picnic pavilion without another word.

Feel free to see what other people are scribbling about.

Okay, so today isn’t Friday anymore. But I had to hold off until Leah went live with my guest post over at her place. Otherwise, I’d have sent you on a wild goose chase and while those can be fun, I’m not sure you’d go back to Leah’s to see what I’m up to.

For you e-book readers, or you who are desperate to get a free copy of The Demo Tapes, I’m giving away a download of the book. Be sure to leave comments — not only does your comment enter you for a chance to win The Demo Tapes, but Leah’s keeping track of who comments, for weekly AND one grand prize. How nifty is that?

Happy Fourth of July, my American friends. Come on over to Leah’s and celebrate with me.

Ahh, the things I dream about…

1. Getting The Demo Tapes 2 done on time. Release date is September 12. Shouldn’t be hard.

2. Seeing the Demo Tapes 1 be a best-seller for the Kindle. (You picked up on that, right? That’s what Trevor was going on about last week.) It’s only $4.99. Half the price of the print version!

3. Having the time to submit some of the short stories and outtakes that have piled up around here. And figuring out which of them should go up on the downloads page, instead.

4. Writing a guest blog for JM of Fiction Scribe about my self-pubbing experience, and why I’m glad I did it. Or maybe relieved is a better word.

5. Watching Win a Book grow and get more involved in helping authors get their names out. I’m a bit bummed with the hundred or so giveaways for James Patterson. The idea here was to help the mid-list, not the best-seller!

6. Doing more Featured New Releases here, and running more contests for the current one, for Hank Phillippi Ryan’s Prime Time.

7. Actually writing the fiction that has been dancing in my brain, teasing and tormenting me.

8. Working on the Merchandise Table. Have you seen the new logo shirt yet? I wore one at the Lori Foster event. Got a million and five comments on it.

9. Having time to catch up on the 500+ books waiting for me. Some have been here for years. That’s a travesty of good literature!

10. Back to that bit about the fiction dancing in my brain… more Trevor, Mitchell, Kerri. More of some of the minor characters you’ve met here. More blog fiction in general. I love it as much as you do.

11. Being able to make enough money from the Merchandise Table and the Demo Tapes sales that I can upgrade to a Premium store at CafePress AND pay Bridget for all the time she puts in a Win a Book.

12. Having time away from all this writing/blogging/book stuff. Like taking a bike ride. C’mon. Five miles. Is that too much to ask for?

13. Having more time to visit all YOU guys. You’ve got cool things to say. I dig it. Don’t stop. Don’t change, unless it’s to get better.

Thanks to the generosity of my bud Hank Phillippi Ryan, I’ve got one autographed copy of Hank’s debut novel, Prime Time, to send to a friend in the US. (This is the re-release on Mira Books, with the sexy cover. Check it.)

Prime Time… let’s talk about it ’cause you do NOT want to miss its re-release. Why not, you ask?

WELL. Look at the accolades it won:

Winner of the prestigious AGATHA Award for Best First Novel
RITA Nominee Best First Novel and Best Romantic Suspense
DAPHNE Nominee Best Romantic Suspense
RT Reviewers Choice Award Winner and TOP PICK

Hello? You missed it???? I’ve got my copy sitting on the floor behind me (along with the follow-up, Face Time). I’m going to read it and then we’ll have more Hank goodness around here.

Here’s the cover blurb:

PRIME TIME introduces forty-something investigative reporter Charlotte (Charlie) McNally. Charlie’s smart, savvy and successful—but she’s worried her news director is about to replace her with a younger model. Now—she’s on the hunt for the story that will save her job.

Is it hiding in her email? Charlie begins to suspect some of that annoying Spam clogging her computer is more than cyber junk. She discovers it actually carries big-money secret messages to the big-shot insiders who know how to decode it. Problem is, the last outsider who deciphered the system now resides in the local morgue.

It’s either the biggest story of Charlie’s career—or the one that may end her life.

Charlie’s also facing another dilemma: what happens when a top-notch TV reporter is married to her job—but the camera doesn’t love her anymore? It’s an action-filled page-turner, with humor, romance and a scheme so timely and innovative you’ll wonder why someone hasn’t tried it. A twist of an ending will have readers going back to the beginning to check for all the clues they missed.

To enter, leave a comment. Yep, I’ll give extra entries for anyone who blogs about this or otherwise spreads the word (Twitter, Facebook, or if your friend enters and says you sent them).

You have until next Tuesday, July 7, and then I’ll contact the winner, so be sure to leave your e-mail address! No contact info, no entry. I’ve got books to read and, more importantly, books to WRITE.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is toys. I was flummoxed by this prompt, as I’d had my heart set on posting this. And then I realized I could: Kerri and Trevor toy with each other. Is it a stretch? You tell me.

One more thing before we get to the fiction, and that’s the subtext here. There’s a lot being alluded to but not said. How much can you pick up on, including a reference to our latest friend, Soul Bendorff?

Rusty and Mitchell stood side by side, not touching. That fact alone was enough to make Trevor stop and stare at them. Then he noticed what was on the TV.

Jackson Alcott had died. He’d been fifty-four.

Trevor lit a cigarette and came to stand beside Mitchell. He nodded at the TV. “What’s up?”

“They’re saying massive heart attack. I can believe it.”

“Did he sniff too hard?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Mighta swallowed wrong.” He grabbed Trevor’s cigarette and tossed it on the floor. The sound of his stomp broke up the hypnotic chatter from the tube. It also broke the trance Rusty had fallen into.

“He was supposed to do some shows next month.”

Trevor groaned. Rusty couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d tried to be.

“We’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t say it.

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“You think with Amy hovering over us like some fucking worried mother, we’re not okay? You’re fucking stupid if you think she’s not watching every last move we make.”

“She called me about ten minutes ago. As soon as we get home, she’s sending me to a cardiologist for a stress test,” Mitchell said. He snorted. “Like I need it. Onstage two hours a night. In the pool a couple days a week. I’m in good shape.”

“You smoke,” Trevor pointed out, holding his thumb and index finger to his mouth.

“Not as much as I used to,” Mitchell said. “I used to smoke a lot more than that.”

“Score one for me,” Kerri said.

Mitchell pulled her into his arms.

Trevor fought the need to gag. Of course these two could turn death into something sappy. Of fucking course.

“Oh, honey,” he said in his best fake-woman voice. “I couldn’t live without you.”

“But you won’t need to,” he said, switching over to a male voice. “Even if I die, I’ll be here. With you. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart and raised his head as if he was swooning.

To his surprise, Rusty broke away from Mitchell and kissed his cheek. “Whether or not you mean it, Trev, you will be there. I couldn’t get rid of you if I hired an exterminator.”

“Tried, huh?”

“Everything but,” she said.

He wandered off, not thinking about Jackson Alcott nearly as much as he was thinking about the fact that no matter what happened to him now, Rusty was stuck with him for life.

Alive or dead. He’d never leave her alone. There was something perfectly delicious about that.

You’ll see why this is part of Only the Good Friday as you read on. Trust me. And yes, this time, you’ll want to trust Trevor, too.

kindle

Now here’s a good one for you. Kindle. Like kindle a fire. I get that. It’s not always the easiest thing on the face of the fucking planet to get a good fire started. Eric can do it. Eric likes to go camping and do all that outdoorsy shit. So when Eric tells yours truly that it takes some work to get a fire started, it takes a special kind of wood he calls kindling, that you have to nurse a fire and urge her along like some shy fan, I get that. I’ve had to nurse my fair share of girls. It’s not always worth the effort, believe me. Girls. They’re a crapshoot.

Eric says fires usually are worth it.

Fire’s some cool shit.

So why the fuck don’t we kindle cigarettes? Or candles?

And what’s with this kindle shit and books? That makes no fucking sense. It’s a stupid piece of plastic that shows the words in a book. No special firewood needed. Hell, no fucking fire involved. It doesn’t even look like a piece of kindling. Not that I really know the difference between kindling and any other stick in the fucking forest. Forests give me hives. No wonder Mitchell likes to hang out in ’em. He knows I won’t follow him there. Wanker.

But I gotta talk up this stupid-assed thing called the Kindle ’cause you can now make my book zing through thin fucking air and read it on your thingie named after a stupid stick. That means Susan gets money, and she’s worth money. She lets me take this place over like I’m doing now. And she’s got a small enough ego to know I’m the one you all stop in to see.

And while we’re talking about the stupid stick, did you know you can make it show this blog? You bet your titties.

I still don’t get why a book’s named after a stick. I hear it’s all black-and-white and it doesn’t have the pretty colors a fire’s got. I’ve got a band to stir shit up for, you know? What the fuck do I care about books?

Except I star in one. So you gotta read it. You know you love me and need more of me.

I have NO IDEAS what to write a Thirteen on this week. That’s SO not like me.

I keep opening windows and shutting them, ten words in.

NO IDEAS.

This, friends, is a problem.

1. Problem: 1 a: a question raised for inquiry, consideration, or solution b: a proposition in mathematics or physics stating something to be done2 a: an intricate unsettled question b: a source of perplexity, distress, or vexation c: difficulty in understanding or accepting

2. In the grand scheme of life, is one difficult Thirteen so problematic? I mean, think about it.

3. Cats and dogs need homes and people to love them.

4. Hell, so do many children. Orphaned or not.

5. Have ya seen the economy? THAT is a problem.

6. Ever noticed there’s a scale to problems? There’s your problem, which is always the biggest and most Earth-shattering, and then there’s everyone else’s.

7. Including the problems of cats, dogs, and kids.

8. The problem isn’t that I have no idea for a Thirteen. It’s that something’s sapping my creativity.

9. I know what it is. It’s an addiction.

10. See? I told you it was a problem.

11. I’m trying to wean myself off this addiction.

12. You can help. Leave me lots of comments. I’ll return the visit.

13. And you can have more Trevor.

Dewey used to do a Sunday Book Coveting post that I always loved to scroll through.

Now I’m doing one of my own.

I’ve come across two books that I am dying to read. They’re very different books, yet they’re both perfect Susan reads.

The first is Do the Devil’s Work For Him: How to Make it in the Music Industry (and stay in it!)

(Why do non-fiction books ALWAYS have these really long titles????)

Authors Amy Sciarretto and Rick Florino have teamed up and interviewed lots of music biz folk. It sounds like Amy joined the industry not long after I left it; heck, I could have been her. So of course I’ve GOT to read what she’s got to say.

And to switch gears to a nice paranormal romance, Number One Novels alerted me to this one. It’s called Salt and Silver, and it is the debut novel by a woman named Anna Katherine. I love the mental image of a guy sitting by a trap door all day long, waiting for demons to escape through it. Just… ooh. I love it. I’ve got to read this and see where it goes.

So… to the authors of these two books, I invite you to send me a review copy. While I don’t review books here on the site, I would be glad to hook up with my good friends at Front Street Reviews, or with any of my many book blogging friends and guest review over there.

Those of you who remember my recent introduction of Soul Bendorff have been wondering just why I felt the need to create him. Here’s your answer. This was inspired by a true story.

Lately, new people been contactin’ Chelle. Seems there’s more goin’ on in the music world that has nothin’ to do with shows and new CDs and all the musical goodness we be used to.

Chelle’s thinkin’ this is some good stuff that’s happenin’, even if it’s got to do with someone Chelle wouldn’ta thunk of. That’s probably good, too. Even Chelle needs her eyes opened every once in awhile.

It’s them schools up in Riverview that’re behind this. The same schools that educated our four favorite boys in ShapeShifter. Seems they’re smart enough to understand that people’re pouring into Riverview right about now, and all because they want to get close to where the latest music revolution began.

Them educators in Riverview know this. They thought they’d praise one of the influences of ShapeShifter. They want to remind their teachers to get off their duffs and open their eyes. Try new things that’ll benefit not just their kids, but every last body in the world.

They put pictures of Soul Bendorff all over the schools. The administration offices, their mission statements, even the stuff to hang in the schools. They want the teachers and the students to think beyond.

That’s a good idea. Chelle thinks everyone oughta think beyond.

Of course, not everyone be seein’ things the way Chelle does. There’s been some people who think that a drunk like Soul Bendorff ain’t the best role model for the kids of Riverview. They been openin’ their mouths and soundin’ off.

The school answered them by sayin’ that Soul was brave enough to be a revolutionary. That if he was a kid today, maybe the way things is right this second, with everyone so uptight about every last thing, Soul woulda turned out different. Maybe sober. Maybe with a minimum wage job and a lot of regrets.

By usin’ Soul as an example, they say, they’re pushin’ kids to be different. To think big and reach for something great. To think about the tragedy that Soul turned into, drinkin’ himself to death and all the way he did. Greatness takes discipline, they say. The school ought to be teachin’ their kids both greatness and discipline.

You heard it first and you heard it here: Them schools in Riverview are aimin’ to be every bit as revolutionary as Soul himself was. Chelle’s so into it, she’s thinkin’ of movin’ out there and goin’ back to high school, herself.

I originally wasn’t going to answer this week’s Booking Through Thursday question, but Marie at The Burton Review stopped in and said she was looking specifically for it.

Like Trevor, I take requests.

Here’s the question.

One of my favorite sci-fi authors (Sharon Lee) has declared June 23rd Fantasy and Science Fiction Writers Day.

As she puts it:

So! In my Official Capacity as a writer of science fiction and fantasy, I hereby proclaim June 23 Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Day! A day of celebration and wonder! A day for all of us readers of science fiction and fantasy to reach out and say thank you to our favorite writers. A day, perhaps, to blog about our favorite sf/f writers. A day to reflect upon how written science fiction and fantasy has changed your life.

So … what might you do on the 23rd to celebrate? Do you even read fantasy/sci-fi? Why? Why not?

Well, the 23rd is next Tuesday. I’m not big on Tuesday celebrations; I don’t even mark Fat Tuesday. But … there’s a first time for everything.

HOW I’ll celebrate needs the second half of the question answered. Do I read Fantasy and Science fiction?

HELL YES.

In fact, I was at a book sale last week with my best friend Bridget, she who is my right hand at Win a Book, and I handed her a copy of the classic William Gibson novel, Neuromancer. Her son may or may not be ready for it; he’s pretty advanced for his age and frankly, it’s been so many years since I read it, I can’t remember much more than how mind-blowing it is. I ought to read it again, just to see how it’s held up.

The best science fiction, we were taught in that class in graduate school (the class in SciFi/Fantasy, of course!), was prophetic. Certainly, most days, I feel like we’ve moved firmly into an Aldous Huxley world. Brave New World, meet the present. Shit, I even get spam trying to sell me soma.

For me, it’s more than the prophecy. It’s the world-building. Be it space ships or a truly new race of being, think about it. We writers talk often about world-building. But in Science Fiction and Fantasy, world-building is taken to new levels. Everything from the ground the characters (do or don’t) walk on to the air they breathe. From how they dress (why don’t the skimpily-clad women ever fall out of those obnoxious tops they’re always given?) to what they eat. From their government structure to society’s structure…

Okay, this brings us back to how I’ll celebrate SciFi/Fantasy day. During that class I mentioned taking in graduate school, the one that exposed me to A Scanner Darkly, to Vonda McIntyre, to Kate Wilhelm’s brilliant Where Last the Sweet Birds Sang. Sheesh. It’s been fifteen years and these books, bought used and well-worn, still hold an honored place on my shelves, even as books that have been autographed to me by friends come down. (No offense to the friends; in fact, it’s a good thing, as my book spines have faded over the years from the natural light in here)

Wow. That was quite the run-on. Sorry. I got carried away with the great books I read that semester. (and that was only the tip of the iceberg!)

It seems to me that the best way to celebrate is to pull out the world I began building. It was the option offered to the creative writer in the class: write your own science fiction.

You never really appreciate how hard it is until you try to do it yourself.

In the meantime, while you’re checking out those great books I mentioned, check out these authors, too:

Roger Zelazny’s Amber series
Robin Hobb’s entire body of work

All this and I didn’t even tell you about how I got started reading SciFi/Fantasy.

Ah, well. That’ll keep for another day.

Go read.

Ugh. My brain is whirling, and I’ve been thinking about this all day.

The worlds of Science Fiction and Fantasy are rich. They’re lush. They ARE for everyone; it’s a matter of sampling bunches of it and finding what you like.

Go for it. I promise. You’ll love what you find.

In celebration of yesterday, when a woman at the pool wouldn’t give her lounge chair to a woman with a bad back but instead insisted that it go to her friend’s apparently invisible kids, I bring you…

Thirteen Examples of Bad Behavior, ShapeShifter style

1. Call Mitchell Mitch.

2. Argue religion with Eric. Deliberately.

3. Scalp counterfeit ShapeShifter tickets.

4. Sell unauthorized t-shirts in the parking lot for ten bucks before and after the show.

5. Shove die-hard fans out of your way so you can be in the front of the pit, where you prove to the world you don’t know the band’s songs.

6. Approach any of the guys when they’re out at a restaurant, having a meal. Bars are fine; ask for all the autographs you want. But don’t come between a ShapeShifter and his food.

7. Jumping on top of the two girls beside you to get the pick Eric’s just thrown into the crowd.

8. Bugging the band for an autograph that you turn around and sell on eBay.

9. Ladies who hog Trevor. There’s more than enough of him to go around.

10. Fans who tailgate before the show, getting so drunk, they puke and pass out before ShapeShifter hits the stage.

11. When the band reaches out to slap your hand, don’t grab on. Fingernails, even short ones, can cut.

12. Saying, “You look taller on stage.” Particularly to Trevor, who’s not giving the Tallest Man in the World any night sweats, ifyouknowwhatImean.

13. Anyone who tries to steal the band’s gear. Any band’s gear. Hands off. Get your own.

Party on the bus
After the show.

Too many beers
And cookies.

The kind with the
Great
Big
Blob
Of icing
On top.

Beer and cookies
Don’t mix.

Or beer and icing.
Who knows.
Doesn’t really matter
Except that
Whoever brought those cookies
Ought
To be
Shot.

The cats woke me, as they’ve been doing lately, this morning at six. A sliver of sunshine was trying to sneak its way into my North-facing bedroom and I smiled.

Last night, my Penguins won the Stanley Cup. Pittsburgh became the first city whose sports teams won the Cup and the Super Bowl in the same sports year.

Now, regular readers around here, or those of you who know me via Facebook, know that the Tour Manager and I have been Penguin season ticket holders for years. Heck, I moved to the corn-and-soybean fields of NorthWest Ohio (I’m always West of things, it seems!). For two years, I existed on a steady diet of ice hockey while I earned my MFA in … ice hockey? The diploma says creative writing, but the experience was heavily weighted toward the ice.

I learned to play. To coach. I’d spend my Saturday nights at the ice arena, watching the Falcons (interestingly, I arrived the year after current head coach Dan Bylsma left). After the game ended, I’d take myself home and flip on my TV, settling with a manuscript in front of Hockey Night in Canada. (do NOT try telling me Don Cherry’s a jerk. You’ll only make me think you’re one, yourself.) The rest of the week, it was ESPN’s Hockey Night. Detroit’s Fox 50’s broadcast of Red Wings games. Whatever I could find. I wanted hockey.

I have been saying lately that after all that hockey, I moved back to Pittsburgh a fan of … all the Canadian sports teams. Not a fan of the Wings. I can’t tell you why.

Most likely, it’s a ‘Burgh thing, as we like to say. There’s a vibe this city has, one you feel as soon as you get here. Long gone are the smoky skies and bad air (unless those power plants West of us — see? West again — blow their badness our way). What’s here instead is a first-class city. Top-notch health care. Twenty-two colleges and universities. Amazing arts and leisure activities. Three rivers.

And champion sports teams.

Yeah, I know, the Pirates haven’t had a winning season since before the Pens won their first Cup. But this is Pittsburgh. We’re a hopeful bunch, always reaching for bigger and better. The Buccos will get there. The Pens returned. So did the Steelers.

Hell, so did I.

I left Pittsburgh, determined never to return, three times.

I came back, like some yo-yo, three times.

I’m glad I did. Not just because I’m now here to witness this amazing explosion of sports excellence. Not just because the Tour Manager was here, unbeknownst to either of us, waiting for me.

It’s because of that Blue Collar reputation the city’s got. People here work for what they want. They don’t wait for their dreams to come to them. They go out and make them happen. Like The Demo Tapes. Like the Penguins. Out of the playoffs last January, this dude who’d done his undergrad in NorthWest Ohio breezed in and turned things around. An entire city returned to a dream of Stanley Cups at the bottom of Mario’s pool.

There are promises that come with championships won. Promises of excellence, of an ether filled with dreams. One day, that’ll be me, we all think. Maybe it’s not our hands on the Stanley Cup that we’re dreaming of. Maybe it’s a book for sale in a bookstore. Maybe it’s to be able to live without pain. Maybe it’s something as simple and yet monumental as being able to find your strength and reach for a better life.

This is what it means to be from Pittsburgh. West of Mars is simply a location that’s part of Pittsburgh. Part of this legacy of the quest for greatness.

Pardon me now, please. I’ve got some dreaming to do.

After the Lori Foster/Dianne Castell author-reader weekend, I’m on a high. I wanted to share cool promo stuff with you.

1. Let’s start with a guest blog appearance. I’m over at Bookish Mom Reviews, talking about how awesome it is when someone new to my world loves my little book.

2. My favorite promo item that came home with me? Post-it notes. All you authors out there, take note!

3. Given my absolute love of Amazon, it surprises even me that I’ve sold out.
You can now download this here meet and greet if you’ve got a Kindle.

4. I’ll be adding the Win a Book blog over there as soon as I get the time. All you Win a Book fans, watch for it!

5. I’ll be guest blogging at drey’s Library on the 19th. Mark your calendars.

6. drey and I have cooked up a few surprises for you.

7. If you’ve missed any earlier guest blog posts I’ve written, check out the links to all of them here.

8. I made promo postcards for the weekend, but am thinking that given my love of bookmarks — and sharing those bookmarks when I trade a book online — I need some of those, too.

9. What do you guys think? Do you like author bookmarks?

10. It struck me as funny that I’ve done more guest blog posts than I’ve done interviews. It goes to prove my theory that I’m essentially not very interesting, but I can say interesting things about my books until the cows come home.

11. There are no cows currently living at West of Mars.

12. That means for me to talk about my books until the cows come home… well, you’re smart. Think about it.

13. There’s more of this sort of fun to come. Be sure to pick up a copy of The Demo Tapes: Year 1 (especially as Year 2 will be debuting in September) so you don’t miss out!

As with album cover art (and yes, I mean ALBUM. As in Record album. Vinyl. 33 1/3 and all that fun stuff), the posters and flyers that bands, venues, and concert promoters work up to advertise upcoming shows tell stories. They reflect the pop culture of the times in which they were made, or of the subculture they represent.

Yes, that was me all those years ago at the famed Fillmore West, staring open-mouthed at the gig posters hanging on the walls. Yes, that was me with the gumption to ask for a VIP pass — not to meet the band. Who cared about them when there were these amazing posters on the walls?? I could meet the band some other time. I couldn’t drink in this amazing history when the band next played at Generic Center.

Yep, for real. I’d have traded meeting some of my musical heroes for the artwork hanging on the walls. Can you blame me?

I’ve found two cool ways to do make up for the lack of VIP pass that night.

First is a website. It’s called Gig Posters, and I totally need to spend time there. Lots of time.

And secondly, check OUT this cool new movie!

American Artifact Movie is all about, they say, concert posters. The history. The new renaissance of gig posters.

If you’re going to be West of Mars, or thereabouts, anytime this summer, on a lesser scale, The Warhol Museum will be hosting the Warhol Live exhibit. This is all about the influence that music and dance had on the artist’s life. It’s not nearly as sexy as gig posters, but … it’s live. And it gives me an excuse to try to not get lost on Pittsburgh’s North Side…

Still basking in the Penguins’ victory last night, which had the guy who sits beside me rubbing my head with each of the Penguins’ four goals (and me fondly evoking memories of when I used to rub my cousin’s head for good luck), I’m now changing gears from the sports fan into…

Reader Fan Girl.
Cool-assed Rock and Roll Author.
Book Lover.
Road Tripper.

Take your pick. They all fit. (and yes, that’s Trevor saying I’m cool assed, although the teacher I just met with up at the kids’ school loved my t-shirt and may agree, also.)

Yep, I mentioned it last week, so here it is again. I’m off to the Lori Foster Reader-Author weekend. If you’re in the Cincinnati area on Saturday, drop by the West Chester Marriott between 2 and 4. I’ll be there with copies of The Demo Tapes that you can buy, and so will other authors. LOTS of other authors.

1. Allie K. Adams, Eve Adams
2. Liz Andrews
3. Kristi Ahlers
4. Vivian Arend
5. D. Renee Bagby, Zenobia Renquist
6. Laura Baumbach
7. Jules Bennet, Sophia Rae
8. Jacki Bentley
9. Faith Bicknell-Brown, Zinnia Hope, J. Emberglass
10. Trinity Blacio
11. Brit Blaise, Judi Thoman, Lee Avalone
12. Toni Blake, Lacey Alexander
13. Stephanie Burke
14. Rhian Cahill
15. Stella Cameron
16. Mari Carr
17. Dianne Castell
18. Billie Warren Chai
19. Sam Cheever
20. Ann Christopher
21. Lisa Cooke
22. Paige Cuccaro, Allison Paige
23. Bianca D’Arc
24. Kensana Darnell
25. Jami Davenport, Sofia Hunt
26. Gia Dawn
27. Vivien Dean
28. Blake Deveraux
29. Cheryl Dragon
30. Monette Draer, Rae Morgan, Monette Michaels
31. M. A. Ellis
32. Pepper Espinoza, Jamie Craig
33. Lori Foster
34. Jacquelyn Frank
35. Shelley Galloay, Shelley Shepard Gray
36. Eliza Gayle
37. Liane Gentry Skye
38. Xandra Gregory
39. Cynthia L. Hall
40. Susan Gee Heino
41. Leanna Hieber
42. Joey W. Hill
43. Jenni Holbrook
44. Emma Holly
45. Carolann Ivey
46. Julie James
47. Lorelie James, Lori Armstrong
48. Maddie James, Mia Jae
49. Marcia James
50. Sandy James
51. Jambrea Jo Jones
52. Marteeka Karland
53. Tambra Kendall, Keelia Greer
54. Beth Kery
55. Angela Knight
56. Rosemary Laurey/Georgia Evans/Madeleine Oh
57. Jamaica Layne/ Jill Elaine Hughes
58. Bonnie Rose Leigh
59. Lora Leigh
60. Mary Lennox
61. Michelle Levigne
62. Cathy Liggett
63. Marjorie M. Liu
64. Melissa Lopez
65. Dianna Love
66. Donna MacMeans
67. Annie Marshall
68. Janie Mason
69. Lissa Matthews
70. Kelsey Maxwell
71. Janice Maynard, Elizabeth Scott
72. Belinda McBride
73. Erin McCarthy, Erin Lynn
74. Sarah McCarty
75. D. McEntire
76. LuAnn McLane
77. Patricia McLinn
78. Bethany Michaels
79. Jodi Leisure Minton
80. Natasha Moore
81. Kerri Nelson
82. Lorie O’Clare
83. Sarah Parr
84. Sandy Patsy
85. Anne Rainey
86. Tonya Ramagos
87. Tracy L. Ranson
88. S.J. Ronayne
89. Lexi Ryan
90. Jayne Rylon
91. Patricia Sargeant
92. Jan Scarbrough
93. Kay Stockham
94. Violet Summers, Sierra Summers
95. V.J., Violet Summers
96. Veronica Towers
97. Aeryn Traxx/Aislyn Faye/Alyce Mitchell
98. Harrison Turner
99. Paige Tyler
100. Shiloh Walker
101. Ann Warner
102. Joanna Waugh
103. Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Allie Mackay
104. J.C. Wilder
105. Emma Wildes
106. Gwen Williams, Denise Gwen
107. Michelle L. Witvliet
108. Tianna Xander

Mind-boggling, isn’t it?

You’ll get lots of tales of fun when I get back. And those of you wondering what I’ll be doing with the very dead Soul Bendorff, stay tuned. There’s much to be done with Soul. Stay tuned.

For something I’m working on behind the scenes, I needed to create a new character. Here he is, about 13 paragraphs or so. Let me know what you think.

Soul Bendorff

Born Saul Bendorff, Soul’s name was changed for him by the kids at school. No real reason other than it was an easy way to try to get under the guy’s skin.

It didn’t work.

Soul’s got dark, dark hair. Almost black. It’s straight. Pretty thin. He wears it chin-length, lets it hang. It can’t cover up the massive acne scarring on both cheeks that leaves him pitted and almost disfigured, but it also sets off his very high cheekbones. Think Eastern European aristocracy. He’s got very dark, dark blue eyes, too.

Soul picked up a guitar in the sixties. Started bending strings and doing things with reverb that no one had thought about doing, let alone had tested to see if it was possible. For a lot of the wanna-bes, it wasn’t possible. But that was Soul. He had a gift.

He was also grouchy as hell when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He discovered fast that if he set his guitar on fire at the end of the show, that meant he didn’t have to play an encore.

Soul went through a lot of guitars that way.

Fortunately for him, the company who made his favorite guitar liked the way he stretched its boundaries. They made him custom guitars. Kept him well stocked for his bonfires.

Those bonfires and that noise-called-music he made fueled him into the public eye at a time when rockers were truly bad boys. (we’re talking late sixties, hippie revolution, Woodstock, Altamont… you get the idea). He became the poster boy for the rock revolution. And Soul embraced it. Lived the life. Never appeared in public without his dark glasses, bottle of bourbon, and a pretty, lithe blonde draped on him. He wore dark blue suede fringe vests, jeans with bell bottoms and custom embroidery. All the flies buttoned; he wouldn’t wear pants with zippers. Skin-tight pull-ons (the precursors to spandex?) in polyester were his favorites.

And tennis shoes. Everyone else wore mod boots. Soul wore tennis shoes. Grungy dark blue Chuck Taylors.

Dark blue was Soul’s color. It matched his eyes. Or so people said; with those dark glasses, no one could get close enough to see his eyes.

Not even his blondes. Apparently, Soul kept the glasses on at all times.
He was wearing a pair when he was found dead. Alcohol poisoning. Or maybe his heart gave out while busy with a blonde. Maybe she poisoned him. The authorities found traces of her. They knew she’d been there when he died.

No one ever knew who she was. No one ever found her. She’s the only one who knows what happened to Soul Bendorff.

Dead at 25.

***
Be sure to visit the other Thursday Thirteeners and see what’s going on in their worlds.