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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
Last day of the giveaway! Remember that you can comment five times (one per giveaway post) in order to be entered five times in the jewelry giveaway. Here’s another shot of that jewelry, just because it’s so pretty. 🙂
The book launch has been going well. If you’re one of the people who’ve finished the book already, Amazon reviews are most welcome if you feel so inclined. (Yeah, I know that’s shameless, but I’d really like this book to do well because I love it so much.) Lots of people have signed up for the Goodreads give-away and 165 people have added it on there.
Some of the interviews, reviews, and guest blog posts:
So here’s the last five of our images, left to right.
Image #1 accompanies the story “Angry Rose’s Lament.” It’s another of the images that remind me of a submarine, if you had one carved by Aztecs.
Image #2 was chosen to go with the story, “Long Enough and Just So Long.” I like this image to the point where I’m considering another tattoo, featuring this. I don’t know why it appeals to me so much.
Image #3 was chosen for its swordlike aspect to illustrate the superhero story, “Ms. Liberty Gets A Haircut.”
Image #4 is set with the story “Seeking Nothing.” This one’s half submarine, half brass musical instrument.
Image #5 illustrates the story “Surrogates,” because it often looks to me like a laughing jester’s face, of the sort that perfectly illustrates that story.
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Elspeth folded her hands in her lap, trying to keep her brows from knitting. She hated trains.
They were dirty, with bits of smut and coal blown back from the massive brass and aluminum steam engine pulling them along, and engrimed by successions of previous passengers.
They were noisy, from the engine’s howl to the screech of the never-sufficiently-greased axles as they rocketed along the steel rails with their steady pocketa-pocketa-pocketa chug seeping up through the swaying floor.
And they were oppressively full of people, all thinking things, all pressing down on her Sensitive’s mind, making her shrink down into the hard wooden seat as though the haze of thoughts hung like coal-smoke in the air and if she sank low enough, she’d avoid it.
She glanced over at her fellow Pinkerton agent, who returned her look with his own slightly quizzical if impersonal gaze. All of the curiosity of their fellow passengers was directed at him, perhaps the first mechanical being they’d ever seen, with silver and brass skin and curly hair, eyebrows, and moustache of gilded wire.
“They shouldn’t be keeping us back here,” she said for the third time in as many minutes. “If we’re his assigned bodyguards, they should let us up to inspect his compartment.”
“The porter said he’d tell them we were here,” Artemus said in precisely the same tone he’d used the first two times he’d said these words.
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