"Harpy Holiday"; I mean, what would life be without some grim humor? I received some gifts that surprised me: from a company with which I do business, and from publishers. Remember, it was only yesterday that I was beneath the notice of publishers, and I am a bit uncomfortable with first-class treatment, as any writer would be. Do leopards change their spots? But there is of course a price tag: now a publisher wants me to go on an Author tour to promote a novel. I hate to travel, but if it puts my novel on the hardcover best-seller lists... sigh.

Another problem is interviews. After four consecutive interviews from which I received no feedback—no copy, no news, except some secondhand remark that somebody had seen it somewhere—I decided that it was time to stop.

If I never see a copy, I have no notion of the errors that may have been made. The main difference, as I see it, between fiction writers and journalists is that the fiction writers make sure of their facts. Then came news of a fifth: being published in a magazine with which I regard myself to be on bad terms, because of that same looseness with facts. I used to wonder why successful folk tended to isolate themselves from the public; now I am learning the answer. With interviews comes the nuisance of pictures. I had 128 little pictures of me I could send to readers who requested them; I ran out, and can't take the time to have more taken. But I have to make time to pose for photos whose rights do not belong to me, so cannot be used to replace my stock. So, after the session that occurred during this novel, I'll probably cut the line on that too. No, nothing wrong with the picture taker; it's just the time, and the fact that my dandruff reserved this occasion to come out in force. I am however conscious of the anomaly of having an attractive young woman taking pictures of a middle-aged man; sexist that I am supposed to be, I feel it should be the other way around.

While we're on the subject of evil, there is the matter of reviews. These seem to vary inversely with a writer's success, and I am getting the brunt of it now. Some of it is the arrogance of ignorance. One fan reviewer berated me for publishing a 27,000-word story as a novel. He was talking about Steppe, on sale in paperback at this time. That novel is actually 61,000 words long. He also commented on the Incarnations series: #1 was wonderful, #2 was