As all y'all know, one of the things--perhaps the primary thing--I try to do with this blog is demystify the sausage publishing industry.

Well, Michael Cisco is talking openly now about some problems he's been having with Prime Books. And I'm here to publicly back him up: I have now heard from four or five friends and at least three acquaintances that Prime doesn't pay, doesn't pay on time, or doesn't pay without regular dunning letters.

Ben Peek shares his own stories of deals with Prime here.

Leah Bobet comments on the issue.

Now, what I'm saying here is not "Don't buy Prime Books." They publish any number of amazing authors--Ben Peek, and Michael Cisco, obviously. Sarah Monette. Ekaterina Sedia. The list goes on.

What I'm saying is, it might behoove Prime Books to conduct their business in a professional manner. And until they do--it's damned courageous of Cisco to publicly identify the problem, for the benefit of other authors who may be entertaining an offer from this company.

1,188 words on "Smoke and Mirrors," today, because that's what I'm supposed to be working on.

Not.

Todd is always happy to rattle on, though. It's nice to have characters who are happy workers. In fact, being a writer himself, he actually forces in the other characters in stories where he has POV to work harder. He grasps narrative.

Channeling the Pixies:

"Where is my mail?"
"Where is my mail?"
"Where is my mail?"

Ahh, the joys of living by your wits making a career in the arts. Allegedly, my agent received the publication check for Dust a couple of weeks ago, and I was supposed to have it this week. Alas, as of yesterday, it was not here.

Good thing I believe in keeping a lot of carbohydrates around in case of slow cash flow. I'm also still waiting on the delivery checks for Ink & Steel and Hell & Earth, and considering I've already returned the copyedited manuscript of the first of those, it would be nice to have the money for the work I did last October. Not that I need to pay my rent and insurance and utilities and student loans, or anything....

(There's also a couple of foreign rights deals that might pay me sometime this year, but I don't actually budget around those.)

Anyway, I'm going to be here with my Raison d'etre, if my horribly unreliable mailperson who tends to jam letters into the box any which way (fold, spindle, and mutilate) ever shows up.

It's probably mean of me to enjoy reading TWoP so much when I don't ever comment over there. But really, I have no idea what I would say to the cadre of Criminal Minds fans on that board who seem to think that cops and FBI agents get an enormous amount of psychological support and it's unrealistic that they would have emotional breakdowns, make bad judgment calls due to stress, got to work every day while suffering PTSD, or have problems with addiction.

Because somebody would notice and intervene!

Wonder if they've ever met a cop.

Listen. There's a hell of a good universe next door. Let's go.

I really need to stop goofing around on the internet and pack. I was hoping to get to 149,000 words first, and was close, but then I found one of the spots that needed a chunk of exposition added.

My editor's job is to follow me around with a highlighter, highlight stuff, and say "SPLAIN!"

Man, I have to take these contracts to VP and sign and mail the damned things. Argh!

...or maybe you're just ready to hear it?

Dear Universe:

Why is everybody and their uncle suddenly blogging about how fear of failure is the enemy of art?

All right, all right.

I'm listening.

Except I haven't figured out what you think I'm scared of yet.

Love, Bear