You're writing a blog? After all your ranting and gobbling about privacy?

Well . . . yes. You've no doubt noticed, furthermore, that its title is 'Days in the Life.' Well, I don't have time to take on anything else to write a blog about: see the blog itself for way too many details. So, yes, irony is rife.

A blog seemed like a good idea at the time. Or rather it seemed like the less bad idea. It was nowhere near as cut and dried as I like to make it sound, but shortly before the blog's inception I was having a conversation about My Career with my relentless positive and forbearing agent, Merrilee Heifetz. I was about to have two books out in two years, DRAGONHAVEN autumn '07 and CHALICE (which at the time of the conversation had just been scheduled) autumn '08, which is the first time in a thirty-year (eek) professional career as a writer that I've had two novels out in two years. This is the sort of thing that your agent, as your business manager, wants to take advantage of. She'd been talking about this to my publisher and was now braced for argument with me. Merrilee has this very brisk, no-nonsense tone when she's about to tell you something she knows you don't want to hear, like your algebra/chemistry/insert-subject-you-were-worst-at teacher reminding you that the midterm is next week. You know when midterm is. I knew that two books in two years is something we should do something with or about—and that it would behove me to cooperate. Oh dear.

The purport of what Merrilee had to tell me was: blog or tour.

I hate touring. I still remember the SUNSHINE tour as something I death-defyingly got away with and nobody is that lucky twice. (I'm also not going on another of these eighty cities in fourteen days tours till they get a few more little wrinkles ironed out of the Patriot Act. Having a schedule where you're getting back on a plane every five and a half hours or so makes every terrorist alarm bell in the entire air travel infrastructure go off at triple volume with optional banshee shrieks, and I got tired of being treated like a serial murderer and of having my suitcase ravaged. And I mean ravaged. It would come off the carousel with its zip half undone and its contents as if dug through by badgers looking for leatherjackets. I bought the first power suit of my life for the SUNSHINE tour, and it did not amuse me to have it wrung like a floor mop. Eighty cities in fourteen days is grisly enough without superfluous discord.) So I said I'd blog.

And as CHALICE came on toward pub day a year later, Merrilee told me nonchalantly that the memo from headquarters was that it was nice I was blogging and all, very nice, keep it up, but now, what about the tour?

I'm not touring. I'm still blogging however. The really funny thing is that I enjoy it—barring my continuing failure to find the little valve to put the bicycle pump to and blow the day up from twenty four hours to, oh, thirty six or so. It's got to be here somewhere. Bah humbug. Ahem. But there's a recipe thing called Playing With Your Food and a reader-recommended booklist slowly appearing on librarything, and there’s some other stuff to come as I can get my head around it and Blogmom can translate it to virtual reality, so the blog isn't all about me.