I’m beginning to think that this is the busiest week I’ve ever had writing-wise. Not only am I slogging away at Demon # 3 (and I’m not sure slogging is the right word. Is there a word for wading through piranha-infested plot-stealing quicksand?), but I have a short piece to write for a friend who needs writing anecdotes for an article he’s working on, plus I have a short story that I’m already late on that I need to finish by the beginning of January, plus I was contacted yesterday and asked if I’d be interested in writing an article for [fairly prestigious magazine] and could I turn it in by the end of the week?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m elated on a thousand different levels to have so much work, and I’m deeply, viscerally aware of how lucky I am that things have worked out so well for me. But, holy crapoly, I really need about ten more hours in each day.

Plus, there’s this little holiday coming up called Klismouse… Kreesmas… something like that. I think I’m supposed to shop for it or some such thing?


My husband has begun reading Blood of the Demon. (I don’t let him read it until it is completely finished, edited, revised, and proofed.) This morning he asked me if it was too late to change the title of the book. “Yes, it’s definitely too late,” I replied. “Go ahead, get it off your chest,” I said, knowing that he was dying to give me some sort of smart-ass commentary. He smiled and said, “I just think that you’d sell a couple hundred thousand copies right here in Louisiana if you changed the title to Who Dat Say Dey Gonna Beat That Demon!”

Heehee! I think he’s right, too! Woo, Saints! 13-0!