In an effort to clear out everything before the dreaded e-mail, I've been reading like mad. I finished my commitment for the EPPIES and am powering through a stack of books I promised reviews on. My plan is to get through January's reads by next weekend.
(Helen, I know you read this, so don't even think twice about asking me to beta read your MS. You know I'd do my swooning diva act if I was truly overwhelmed.)
But I'm flirting with danger here because I'm reading through the calls for submissions, and there are a couple that I might just squeak under the deadline if I get strict and write all weekend. You probably know how I feel about vampires by now, and I feel almost the same way about werewolves, but for some reason I'm mightily tempted to try to pull off a South American pulp fiction style La Lupa story. Because, you know, I'm insane. But before I delve into that one, I have to write a new Toy Box story with Master Ophir and Chris, since I promised an Ophir fan I would. Tick. Tick. Tick. I can hear those deadlines bearing down on me like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And of course I have my punk rocker who I left jumping on his bed, skull fucking a teddy bear while his neighbor watches him through the window. He's probably tired of bouncing by now, poor dear. No one ever said a rent boy's life is easy though.