On the Eleventh Day of Launchmas...

... a Charity Megastar, a Death Writer, and an Apocalyptic Redhead walked into a bar.  And then blogged about me.

And I hate that I'm posting this on Friday afternoon when absolutely no-one is looking, but I just can't not tell you about these three fabulous ladies, all of whom have gone out of their way to sing my praises this week.

Jodi Thompson is not a relative of mine.  And that is a damned shame.  Because, like a cheerful freckled Visa card, she's everywhere you ought to be: writing grants, volunteering for school events, doing charity drives and collections, you name it.  Right now, she's running the DFW Teen Writers Workshop (a phenomenal success-in-progress!) and organizing birthday parties for homeless children at her local church.  Yeah.  Kind of humbles your day-planner, doesn't it?

Anyway, she's a future-megastar you need to keep an eye on, because while you might guess that anyone with a heart that big would likewise write stellar, Grinch-bustingly wonderful protagonists, I've read enough of her work to tell you for a fact that she does.  Check her out at TheJodiThompson.com (and if you like, get squishy with me when you read all the nice things she said about me.)

And if Jodi is sweetness and light, Pamela "The Death Writer" Skjolsvik is a hearty dose of gin and vinegar.  Humble, introverted, and sweetly pessimistic, Pam is one of those rare few people whose friendship has genuinely surprised me.  Like, seriously, y'all.  This lady has worked in a prison.  Interviewed a man on death row, literally days before his execution (and kept up correspondence with his partner ever since.)  Talked with grieving parents, ridden with firefighters, and owned a party bus.  She is realness incarnate.  And while I'm continually amazed that someone with so many notches on her belt wants to be friends with a soft-bellied Shire hobbit like me, I am so glad that she invites me to her death-parties, delighted that she lavished love on me and my little book this week, and SO excited that her memoir, Death Becomes Us, is now being actively shopped for publication.  Go get to know her before she blows up!

Lastly, I don't know if you Texas folks know this, but the Four Redheads of the Apocalypse dwell within our borders - and Rhonda Eudaly is the Reaper Herself.  What you might not know is that she is also a hell of a good time, and will not actually kill you on sight!  I'm so flattered that she decided to spotlight me on her blog today, because not only did we literally just meet like, last weekend, but  by the time we did, I was a dozey space cadet.  But now we are firm DFW buddies, and I'm so looking forward to hanging out and seeing what she does when she's not out harvesting human souls.  Huzzah!

In other news, the map is nearly done - and while Sil is busy playing a high-stakes game, our man Elim is making a risky gamble of his own.

But even after that, even after he had loaded his rifle and snuffed out the lamps and holed himself up in the hayloft to watch the moon rise, there was no getting to sleep. The moon climbed and little fire-lights burned more brightly, not only inside the adobe houses and the back of the eastern promenade, but on top of them as well. Brightest of all were the red and yellow lights of the boarding-house at the end of the road.

Sil would be there; Elim would have guessed it even if he hadn't been told. Whether Sil would come back, on the other hand...
...
Elim leaned forward and drew his knees up, threading his fingers through his hair, and immersed himself in the smell of wood and straw and his own dirty clothes.

He liked hay lofts, generally. They were high and safe and shut-in, and there was none better than the one at home. He'd been used to play in it with Merry and Clem on rainy days. It remained his favorite spot even later, when the girls had grown out of that and he'd played just with Yellow Kelly, the barn cat. At some point, he'd left off playing altogether.

But that was all right. He'd grown up, that was all, and although it hadn't left him much time for play, it meant that he could handle harder things. In his braver moments, he thought he could even face whatever native gods or animal-men or nameless night-striding demons might be waiting for him out there.

Couldn't face Will Halfwick.

That went double for Nillie.

Elim climbed down from the loft.