And my annual holiday edit-and-critique sale has five more days to run. From now through Twelfth Night (5 January 2019) , my usual rate for a standard-sized novel goes down from $1500 to $1000, and my $2000 rate for 100,000-words-plus doorstops goes down to $1500.
Twelfth Night around our house is also the official date on which the Christmas tree comes down — a rule I instituted after one year a couple of decades back when (for reasons that I no longer remember, except that it had been a particularly grey and dreary winter), the tree didn’t get hauled outside until almost Easter.
Me: Why, O Cat, when I have gone to the trouble of providing you with a perfectly cromulent catbox and high-quality kitty litter, do you nevertheless persist in using, instead, the floor directly adjacent to same?
Cat: Meow. (If you really understood me, you wouldn’t have to ask.)
Me: Why, O Cat, when I have gone to the trouble of acquiring for you a warm, high-sided, fleece-lined cat bed, which last winter pleased you entirely, do you this winter insist on once again ignoring it in favor of sleeping draped across my forearms while I’m trying to type?
Cat: Meow. (That was last year. Now it’s this year. Get with the program, human.)
Me: Why, O Cat, do you complain vociferously if you do not get your daily ration of wet cat food along with your dry, and then ignore it until it dries out from the winter cold?
Cat: Meow. (Have you considered microwaving it? You don’t eat your food cold, do you?)
And so it goes. I tell myself that they are transitioning from middle-aged cats to older cats, and getting crotchety in their later years.
A word of warning to anybody contemplating the acquisition of offspring: Be aware that anything you do for Christmas just once instantly becomes a Hallowed Holiday Tradition, and you fail to do it again every year thereafter at your peril. By the time all your kids are teenagers heading for college, you will inevitably be dragging a whole sled-load of Tradition behind you as you head into the joyous season.
And a further, happier thought: If you’re still stumped over what to give as a holiday present to the writer in your life (even if that writer is you), remember that my seasonal sale of editorial and critique services is ongoing through Twelfth Night (5 January 2019.)
Because storytelling is a good thing to do at the turning of the year, whatever the tradition:
It’s time for my annual holiday gift sale! From now through Twelfth Night, my usual rate of $1500 for a standard-sized novel drops down to $1000, and my rate of $2000 for a 100,000-word-plus door-stopper drops to $1500.
If you’re a writer, you can buy a gift certificate for yourself and redeem it when you’re ready; if you have a writer in your life you’d like to support and surprise, you can buy one for them. (It comes with a personalized .pdf certificate, suitable for printing out and putting into an envelope and hanging from the tree/slipping into a stocking/presenting in your favored manner to your favored person.)
More info on formats, payment, and the like can be found on my about page.
Old-timers who remember SFF-Net may remember Robert W. Glaub, who was a regular poster there and later on Making Light. He was also a long-time worker for the Federal government, which has — in accordance with unhallowed tradition — repaid him in his recent retirement by shafting him big-time. The following message is reposted from his Facebook group at his request:
I need help. The government says they overpaid me and emptied out my bank account. I have no money for food or insulin. Plus since I declared bankruptcy my credit union will close down my account on Friday. So if you can send me what you can to my PayPal account by Thursday, that would be a big help. email@example.com.