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Two Out Of Three

Well, as a speculative fiction writer I'm sure this isn't anything for me to worry about. Romance writer investigated as terrorist. Confiscated all her stuff: computer, disks, all her research materials, paper, stamps, pens, the CDs she listed to as she wrote, everything. You know how those romance writers are. Dangerous, dangerous people. As opposed to sf writers, who, despite our excessive consideration toward such things as alien invasions, demonic possession, and heroic warriors breaking into wizard's towers to rescue the princess, are really harmless. No, really.

My writerly news consists of a 17 day friendly reject from Flytrap, and not one but two sales: "Erin and the Dinosaurs" to Abyss & Apex, and a soon-to-be retitled story to Scattered, Covered, Smothered. What the hell? Nothing for ten months, and then two within fifteen minutes of each other. Oh, and I've also an unusual blend of exuberance and paranoia going on.

Reading: Pratchett's Hogfather.