They're coming to take us away. Our internet, I mean, and also everything else in our house. The theory is that we will get our stuff back in our new house, and it will have internet on Monday, but not one other thing in this move has gone according to plan, so I'm not counting on that, either.
I am, however, hoping for a kind and naive neighbor with an unsecured wireless connection. If I don't get that, I will see you when I see you.
As I was shutting down my computer prepartory to moving, I found a number of half-finished posts and posts I never got around to, you know, actually posting. And I thought I would leave you with one of them. This I wrote after I wrote the fanfic warnings post, because, let's face it. Published writers need warnings at least as much as we do. So I thought I would come up with just a rough start - I mean, obviously there are many many many more warnings needed. Feel free to leave them in the comments. Maybe we can get together a definitive list.
(And, yes, I had at least one specific published writer in mind for each one of these. I offer bonus points, which can be redeemed for many imaginary prizes, to anyone who can guess which writers go with which warnings.) Published Author Warnings
WARNING: I used to have a three-dimensional character, and then I fell in love with him, and now he is Prince Sparklepants Shinyhorse, the most perfect man/vampire/werewolf/demon/half-unicorn/w
hatever in all of creation. Also, if people criticize him, or my writing of him, I will go off the rails. On the internet. It will be funny in that way where you keep wondering why my family and friends aren't taking care of me.
WARNING: I write fiction, but I believe every word. If you don't, I will send my characters to kill you.
WARNING: If you read one chapter of any of my books, you will end up reading my entire body of work in a week and a half. After it's all over, you will find you are unshowered and vaguely sticky. You'll have blank spots in your memory and a pervading sense of shame you can only cure by fucking a stranger in the backseat of your grandfather's convertible. (If your grandfather doesn't have a convertible, you're out of luck.)
WARNING: If you read anything I write that isn't fiction, you'll never be able to read my stories again. (Special Certain Science Fiction Writers Corollary: If you encounter me on the internet, there's a 35% chance you'll give up on fiction entirely.)
WARNING: I am so done with this series, but, dude, I bought a house back on book 5 and I've got payments to make. Look forward to the next dozen installments, all of which will read like pastiche from increasingly unskilled hands.
WARNING: I'm not done with this series; I'm afraid of it. I spend all my time thinking of creative ways not to write another word of it. Please stop asking me about it; I'm already heavily medicated and hiding from my fans.
WARNING: I'm a big name. I don't have to listen to my editor anymore.
WARNING: I've decided I'm not writing the hard parts anymore. No more plot that makes sense! No more actual story! From now on, it's bad jokes and sex scenes all the way, baby.
WARNING: I don't think I'm my character. I just wish I was. She's shiny! And perfect! (Special Dorothy L. Sayers Only Exception: If you're Dorothy L. Sayers, you can get away with this. If you aren't, you can't
. This means you. Yes, you too. Sorry! It was a one time deal, apparently.)
WARNING: I'm starting to hate my main character, but I'm not going to stop writing about him.
WARNING: I really love myself. A lot. Every word I write is spun gold in text form.
WARNING: I was really, really depressed when I wrote this. I'm hoping I can pass the trauma on to you.
WARNING: I did my research, and by god, you will know it if I have to hit you over the head with fifty pages of utterly extraneous exposition.
WARNING: I didn't do my research. If you notice, obviously you don't care about my art.
WARNING: I am completely fucking crazy. Seriously. All my sentences end with special crazy-flavored periods, and all my articles are special crazy-thes and crazy-ands. And that's just my fiction. In real life, I am even worse
. I don't know why they're still letting me attend cons, or indeed leave my house.
WARNING: I...don't really get why we have to have women. I mean, in the species. They just bother
me. I can think of only two uses for a woman:
- To give birth to everyone in the story.
- To act as anti-gay buffering devices. (Stories written since 1970 only.)
Fortunately, it turns out they can mostly fulfill these functions and still be a) dead b) entirely off the page or c) non-sentient.
WARNING: Turns out writing novels really doesn't work instead of therapy, but that hasn't stopped me from trying. For the last 35 years.
WARNING: I wrote this thinking of the movie rights. It's not really a novel, per se - it's more of a pre-novelization.
WARNING: I hate you.