The R⌀ and Why it Matters

What is the coronavirus R0? And how does it help guide as as to what happens next, and where the pandemic is going? On your block, neighborhood, city--and world?

Simply put, R0 is how many people one infected person can infect on average.

But it is a changing and context-dependent number, not a constant.

It's important to understand what it is, and what it is not.

The following is from emcrit.org, bringing "the best evidence-based information from the fields of critical care, resuscitation, and trauma and translate it for bedside use in the Emergency Department (ED) and the Intensive Care Unit (ICU)", dated 3/2/20:

"R⌀ is the average number of people that an infected person transmits the virus to.

"If R⌀ is <1, the epidemic will burn out.

"If R⌀ = 1, then epidemic will continue at a steady pace.

"If R⌀ >1, the epidemic will increase exponentially."

It took me a while to really get it, so give yourself another read to digest this.

And what's the number? As of this month, "current estimates put R⌀ at ~2.5-2.9 (Peng PWH et al, 2/28)."

That means that every person who is infected will infect, on average, 2.5 to 3 more people. That means that the epidemic will increase exponentially.

Remember, it's not a constant. "R⌀ is a reflection of both the virus and also human behavior. Interventions such as social distancing and improved hygiene will decrease R⌀."

Here's what we know: "Control of spread of COVID-19 in China proves that R⌀ is a modifiable number that can be reduced by effective public health interventions."

So R0 changes over time. R0 changes with circumstances. R0 changes with human behavior.

You can influence it. Each and every one of us can.

Here's an example of influence:

"The R⌀ on board the Diamond Princess cruise ship was 15 – illustrating that cramped quarters with inadequate hygiene will increase R⌀ (Rocklov 2/28)."

Fifteen.

This means that for each person who was infected in that closed environment, fifteen other people got sick. Makes sense, though: cramped quarters, inadequate hygiene, and people who are already infected. High transmission context.

So the goal is to do the opposite, and that's what all the advice is about, how to lower R0. How?

Social distancing, good hand-washing, disinfectants for inanimate objects like plastic, steel and glass. Staying home when you're sick.

That's how.

Waiting's a poor plan. That just means more cases. Even R0=1 means new people get infected. Maybe you, or someone you care about.

We have to get R0 below 1 to turn the tide, or it's going to be a long, unpleasant trip. You, me, and even them.

Everyone matters.

Truth and Lies in the Time of the Pandemic

There is a lot of misinformation floating around about #coronavirus. While new information is coming every day, and there's plenty we don't know, we do know a lot.

The other day, a man told me that he was sure he'd heard on CNN that 80% of people already had the virus, so obviously it wasn't big a deal.

I told him he was wrong, politely, then again. Then I wished him a good day and left.

I bothered to talk with him because someone like this will make bad decisions--about his own hygiene, about social distancing, about his own illness should he get sick--and those decisions put himself and others at greater risk.

He will pass on incorrect information, and--like the virus itself--that information spreads, creating patterns of action or inaction that affect us all.

I am learning to tell people that they are wrong gently. Because either they're tending toward being open to what I say, or they're tending away from it.

If the former, my being emotionally loud creates more emotional turmoil in the interaction, which is likely to get them defensive and less able to hear me.

Sure, it might make me feel better for a moment and help me let off steam from my own stress around all this, but does it accomplish any goal of communicating new ideas?

Not so much.

Or, in other words, if someone is hard of listening, speaking louder doesn't work better.

So, how to asses the veracity of information? Ask yourself some questions.

Who is telling you this? Can you find another, corroborating source? Who else is saying something similar? Are any of the sources reputable?

Think critically before you post, or email out to a list. When you have a readership, you have a greater responsibility to spread good information. Don't trust something just because someone says they're an expert, a doctor, a researcher.

Every person is part of this disease transmission. We are all truly connected, and this pandemic is showing us this, up-close and personal. What we believe affects how we act, and that has everything to do with infection vectors.

Here are some lies, or myths, making the rounds. Give them a quick look.

And if you have more such lists, let me know.

• https://abcnews.go.com/Health/debunking-myths-avoid-cure-coronavirus/story?id=69578209
• https://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/novel-coronavirus-2019/advice-for-public/myth-busters
• https://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/health/conditions-and-diseases/coronavirus/2019-novel-coronavirus-myth-versus-fact

Juggling Baby Dragons

I was in a virtual reality last night, juggling baby dragons. An apt metaphor for life, that.

I'm helping them learn to fly, goes the narrative, conveniently calming any concerns I might have about the consent of small, adorable critters to being tossed around.

My VR-related fiction and non-fiction has made it into publication, and might well again, so I keep up on the industry, which is why I am at this showcase of VR Hackathon winners, waiting to go in to the dragon-juggling demo.

Goggles on, handsets ... handy. And: go!

I'm on a stone platform, staring out across a rock-strewn table, into an open, cloud-spotted sky. At the other end of the rock table is a amiable-looking dragon, staring off into space. The mom, I presume, since there's a line of baby dragons between me and her.

One by one they launch themselves into the air at me. I grab. I miss. I drop. I try again. The ones that go down, or get thrown clear of the platform, fade or fly away, seemingly none the worse for wear.

When I do catch them, they make the most adorable little sounds. Sort of an "oh!" of delight. Catch two at once, and they do it harmony. "ooohh!"

The juggling part is not quite as easy as I imagined. Yes, I know how to juggle. Not well, mind you, but I've managed it a time or two. For a moment.

Part of the problem is that I'm distracted, by, well, everything. The clouds. The scenery. The tree. What happens to the ones who go over the side.

They could tune this to make me seem a better juggler than I am.("Virtual" reality, after all. Not "you-suck" reality. Which I do.)

Ah, but I can slow down time! Now the babies launch slooow. But now it's also a little dull. There is something delicious about seeing them soar, and a slow float just isn't the same.

So they're coming at me -- whoosh! -- one after another, and despite my heroic agility, I'm dropping them, then looking down to see where they went, and missing more of them.

It's immersive, so I want to look around and try other things. Can I hit that far tree? Can I throw a baby dragon through the rock circle? Or two into each other? (Oooo, they make a new sound!)

I toss one high into the air, watching it flap in the sun. I'm missing more and more of them, but I'm having fun, and isn't that what it's about?

Well, it's also about sharing. I can't see it, but I'm aware that there's a line forming behind me, back in the not-so-virtual. I reluctantly take off the goggles and hand the controls to the woman next in line. I sit down to watch.

The moment she gets in to the VR, she starts hurling the dragons at the rock-strewn table. Rock by rock, she cleans the platform of debris. With baby dragons.

"No one's ever done that before," says one of the creators with a bemused look.

She wasn't there to juggle. She was there to do something else. Clean up. And she did.

When she was done, she took off the controls, and smiled at those of us watching. "I failed juggling in middle school."

What I learned last night, juggling baby dragons:

• Life is full of baby dragons. They just keep coming. I don't have to catch them all. Let some drop, and others sail on by. They can take care of themselves.
• Some people make their own rules and still win.

My muse added this: "Wait until they grow up to full-size, still thinking they're small enough for you to juggle. Then, when they launch themselves at you, you're really in trouble."

Honesty, Openness, Ocean

Someone mentioned honesty and openness to me today, and here's what I said. I think it's something like the ocean. You think, oh, wow, this -- the ocean! How cool is this? Maybe you stand on the beach and put your fingers into foamy surf for the first time, and you think, oh, sweet: I've touched the ocean!

Then you go out on a boat, and dangle your legs over the side, and oooo it's sooo cold, all the way up to your calves and you think now -- NOW I've really touched the ocean. I know what honesty and openness really is.

One day, on the boat, you slip, and fall in. You're okay, a little shaken maybe, but fine. Getting back into the boat, dripping wet, you know something: you haven't felt the ocean this way before. It's new. It makes you wonder what else you don't know.

Then, one day, you scuba dive, and everything changes. Again.

The Game is Born

Shocked! Shocked to find out that there's gambling going on here...!

For months I've been working with award-winning game designer James Ernest on a game for the sequel to The Seer. That is, a game that lives inside the story. James enjoys the challenge of creating in-world games.  He's done it before, bringing Tak to life from the pages of Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicle.

Me, I didn't want to be trouble or nuthin', so I assured him I could just handwave the game a bit if need be. After all, I've played poker and even bridge, once. How hard could it be?

Ah, ignorance.

But I allowed as how it would indeed be exceptionally cool to have the help of someone of his caliber, if he were so inclined. Lucky for me, he was.

Fast forward to now, and people are actually playing this game that James and I made up together. (Now, when I say "made up together" what I really mean is, "James created with his astonishing depth of gaming knowledge, and let me join in.")

When we began all this, James asked me what I needed from the game. A gambling game, I said, one that could be affected by precognition. But not a clone of poker or bridge. Y'know, something different. Something new... that also seemed old. Really old. Like it grew up in the world of The Seer, over thousands of years, the way the standard 52-card deck did in our world.

We started with the structure. What is now called the Roche Deck has six suits of different counts, for a total of 54 cards. My job was to design the suits and all the cards. The resulting deck, we agreed, would be much like the Tarot's Major Arcana, but based in the world of The Seer.

That all sounded pretty straight forward until I started actually doing it. No getting around it: I'm the resident expert on the world of The Seer, so I figured that selecting 54 archetypes and deciding how each one should look in card form and what it meant -- how it connected to its suit and all the other cards -- would be... well. Not that hard, surely.

The best part about doing something you've never done before is that you have no idea how hard it is until you've said yes. That mountain of challenge shook me off, again and again, like a wet dog. As I did more research -- a common stuck-writer-trick -- I realized that the Tarot deck itself was far from flawless in its symbolism, that it was the result of historical accidents as well as a mash of cultural influences, and that our Roche Deck could -- and should -- seem just as organic and messy.

Thus was the game of Rochi born, atop the 54-card Roche Deck, along with some variants, including dice and coins which are still coming to life.

You probably knew this, but I didn't; it turns out that common poker terms are historical and whimsical and come from all over. So we likewise created a set of slang terms for Rochi.

I've played Rochi now a bunch of times now. With two people, with three, with six. It's fast and exciting, but it feels ancient and exotic. It feels like it comes from somewhere else.

Because it does.

I can confidently say that no matter how much card gaming, gambling, or James Ernest you've played, you've never played a game like this one before.

But now you can. The beta test version of the game -- along with the rule set and a brief in-world overview of Rochi's origins -- are right here, for your reading and playing pleasure. Free.

As an author, it's magical to see parts of my world come into this one. Rochi is an aspect of the intense world building that I put into my fiction. To hold the Rochi deck in my hands is to feel worlds touch.

Change is Possible. With Cats

I have this cat. A bit under two years ago, I changed her vitamin mix, and she went from anxious and reactive to calm and damn-near approaching mellow.

Back before the new supplementation, this would happen: I'd be be walking by her and she'd tense up, lurch to one side. I'd veer, not wanting to trip over her, and then she'd dash in another direction, usually exactly into my leg, careening off of it, forcing me to then trip-hop over her. Then she'd make a mad rush to the other side of the house, where she'd hide, because, from her point of view, she'd just been attacked.

All because... well. Because she was, at baseline, hyper-vigilant and super anxious.

She is now a changed cat. In that same scenario, she simply stands there, unconcerned, and lets me walk by. Or step over her. Less wasted energy and -- needless to say -- a far more pleasant experience for us both.

I rather doubt that before her biochemistry changed, she saw herself as tense, nor do I think that afterwards she thought of herself as relaxed. She doesn't think that way. Not much for self-reflection.

No, from her point of view, the outside world just got better. Things were more settled, humans were kinder. More predictable. Some of this is credit to her walnut-sized brain's ability to re-pattern -- to learn -- to see things differently, when things felt different.

This is what's called a "virtuous circle" -- the better things get for her, the more she is able to see those things that are better for her, and the less she is looking for -- and finding -- things that are worse. Like clumsy humans trying to kill her with her their huge columns of legs, necessitating a mad dash for survival.

I'm not trying to make a particular point here. I'm observing patterns I've seen recently, up-close and personal. In my cat. And yes, in humans as well.

That our internal and external states influence and reinforce each other is hardly news, but how powerful that effect can be is sometimes shocking. My cat's baseline has changed radically, and her behavioral alterations are both obvious and significant, improving the world for her human companions as well. Her new ability to see the good in her world changed her world -- for the good.

Does she see that the change in her world originated inside herself? I rather doubt it. Could this have happened without that baseline change to her biochemistry? Alas, no.

Extrapolating to humans, we cannot simply will ourselves to see things differently -- it's not enough. We must touch and change the many systems that touch us. I tried to tell my cat that all her problems were attitude many times before the biochemical change, and it made not one whit of difference.

In this way people are not so unlike cats. We are each of us made up of multiple interlocking biochemical systems. We are part of multiple interlocking social systems. Many multitudinous and complex, interlocking systems, all affecting the other systems swirling around and through.

My cat didn't listen to my advice about her attitude. My fine lectures were twitched away by her feline ears.

The world is not simple. We are not simple. But change -- significant change -- is possible.

An Apology to Editors Everywhere

A writer friend of mine, trying his hand at editing for an online fiction magazine for the first time, dropped me a note. It's written as an open letter to editors everywhere, but I think it might be better reading for new writers everywhere.

I'm sure he assumed only I would see it, but it was too good to keep to myself.

Dear Editors,

I've got no shame admitting I didn't really take Standard Manuscript Format all that seriously. Indenting every paragraph? How silly! Page numbers? Utter fancy! My job is to write an amazing story, not worry about inches and margins and page breaks. Let the editor squint at the screen and dope out the minutia.

I felt this way until I read a story that didn't simply ignore Standard Manuscript Format, but left it clear out in the cold. Let it stand there holding a wilted posey watching the story breeze by it on the way to the big school dance with the varsity quarterback and not even getting a glance back.

No page numbers to guide me through the maze, no indication of when the story changed scenes until I was a dozen words into the next sentence and thoroughly confused. Page after nonsensical page that challenged my comprehension and, to the pain of the author, my interest.

Sisyphus never nudged such a burden as I while reading this story.

So to you, editors who suffered and labored to grasp what I aimed for without making myself clear, leaving you no footholds to scale the mountain, making no effort to be plain and precise so you may read the story rather than grapple fruitlessly with the way it was written, I am sorry.

I didn't know, and it's a pitiful excuse to make, but I really didn't. I get it now, maybe too late but I get it. I finally understand the importance of following, nay, championing Standard Manuscript Format. It couldn't be taught or explained to me. I had to suffer to reach the realization. And suffer I did.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph with a cherry on top of each, I'm sorry.

-- Prodigal Guest Editor

Some references for those new to the game:

• Manuscript Format - SFWA
• Shunn's Proper Manuscript Format : Short Story Format
• Wikipedia's take on the subject

THE RULES (Writers and Rejections)

The Rules

From the Writer Rejection Points Rules Committee

POINTS. You, the writer, will be awarded points for every story you write that is rejected. SFWA qualifying markets are not required, though you must be rejected by someone who could actually have published you, for actual readers, had they said yes. Which they didn't.

WHAT, YOU DIDN'T KNOW? Didn't know about the rules before? No problem! You still get points. Yes, retroactively! Yes, we mean it!

POINTS EXPIRE. Point expire any time you win a major writing award (Hugo, Nebula, Dragon, etc), or make it to the NYT Best-seller list or the like. You know what I'm talking about. Yes, you do. At that moment, your talley gets cleared.

POINTS REDEEMABLE? You bet. Points are redeemable for pretty excellent prizes, if we do say so ourselves. You can be deliriously happy, you can be artistically miserable. We also have a goat behind one of the doors. Points are redeemed at random, by forces beyond your control. You'll know it when it happens.

FEELING COMPETITIVE? No problem. To remove points from another's tally, do something that results in them getting published, like introducing them to an editor or publisher, or advocating their story directly in some fashion that results in the thing hitting ink.

BONUS POINTS! if your story gets rejected with a scathing critique that leaves you feeling flattened because in your heart of hearts you know the grains of truth are going to crunch as you chew on them, you get bonus points.

NO CHEATING. You can't just resubmit for more points. You get rejected once per market. C'mon, you knew that. There are other ways to cheat, too, and you're already thinking about them. Cut it out.

AND... GO! Write something! Submit it! For The Win!

On the merrits of being unplugged (not really about thumbs)

I didn't expect to be completely unplugged for the long weekend. No wifi, that I already knew that the cabin lacked. But that's okay, I told myself, because my phone can do all those things via cell.

At the cabin and all over the town: rushing river, tall pines. Deep quiet.

No cell.

Wait, no cell? No CELL? But... but...

"You're going to be fine," I tell myself reassuringly, as if addressing a small child who has misplaced a thumb or two. "You can go without cell for a few days."

Days? You want me to go without internet and SMS and email ... and...and...

"There, there," I tell myself, perhaps less gently than I might. "You don't need thumbs anyway, and it's high time you learned to go without. Just for-- " And this next part I admit I say through clenched teeth:"-- a few days. Get a grip."

You want me to grip without thumbs? Without Internet?

My lower lip threatened to tremble.

Many alive today remember a time when most trips to remote areas meant going without communication devices. That's just how it was, and it wasn't a big deal.

But you get used to things. You think of them as yours. As thumbs.

Apparently I was no longer able to make the smooth jump to a thumbless existence.

For three days.

But three days later..

You know what? Being unplugged was some kind of awesome. The quiet wasn't just in the trees, or the river, or the land. It was in me.

No more checking messages in multiple places. No more shredded focus. Just me, the river, and my thoughts.

So if you call me, text me, ping me, chat me, skype me, or some such, and I don't reply, I might be indulging in a little unplugging.

I recommend it. Turns out you get to keep your thumbs after all.

Reflections on a violent encounter

It's a privilege to come out of an assault intact.

I say that because, as those of you in the field of self-defense know, it's far more often about luck than skill. Staying alert, knowing what to do -- yes, these are good things. But there's more going on in a violent encounter that you can't control than that you can.

Today I was lucky.

The man who came into the cafe wasn't after me. He was after another woman. He didn't have a weapon, but he had fists, elbows, a loud voice, and a shocking willingness to do damage to everyone between him and her.

I knew the moment I heard the tone of his voice that he was dangerous. We don't always get that kind of warning, but I did.

I dropped down out of sight, behind a cement barrier -- because I didn't know what weapons he might have -- and called 911. I wasn't his target, the cafe was small, and other people were confronting him, so that was clearly my job -- to make sure someone called for backup.

And backup was exactly what it was, because despite being in-city, by the time the cops arrived, some 10 minutes later, the man in the baseball cap and blue hoodie yelling threats at everyone including a pretty dark-haired woman he didn't know -- and then picking up a table and slamming it against the door that had been closed against him -- was long gone.

So I stand corrected: he did have a weapon. A table. He had been pushed outside, the door shut against him, and he picked up a table and slammed it against the glass door until it broke. Yelling, screaming, but unable to get back in, he finally left.

I found out later that the woman who was the target of this assault had just come in. He'd started yelling at her on the sidewalk up the block, out of the blue. She'd run into the cafe for sanctuary. He followed, yelling, threatening. Swinging fists and elbows.

She didn't know him. Had never seen him before in her life.

If he'd had a gun, or a knife, I am sure he would have used it. He didn't, so the woman was scared, shaken, but physically whole.

I've practiced these types of scenarios across the years. Today I saw that my training actually works; I knew what to look for, what to listen for. I knew what to do and how to do it.

More importantly, I knew what he could do, and what I could do in response.

I don't want to talk about weapons, or how to control them. I don't want to talk about mental illness, or violence. These are topics in heated discussion today.

Today I just want to say this:

Violence can be fast, unpredictable, and senseless. Sometimes, no matter what you do, no matter how fast or strong or prepared you are, all that stands between you and being the target of that violence is luck.

Today I was lucky.

Words about words + Emu Eggs

I've been writing about writing a fair bit lately. Along with topics like character creation, world-building, and, of course, emu eggs.

An interesting time, to be sure.  Some fascinating questions have been thrown at me.

Here are the goods, so you can see for yourself.

Success or Death – Making Every Character Count

April's theme at Fictorians was memorable characters, in which Ace Jordyn interviews me about the characters in The Seer. When she asks me about the Hidden City, I show her pictures. You can see them, too.

The Big Idea

Author John Scalzi gives writers a chance to talk about the Big Idea in their books. Here I dive into the particular challenges of writing a main character who can see into the future.

"I had stepped into a very large pile of metaphysics; if someone can see the future, this implies significant truths about the nature of reality, truths that ripple out across this created world.What had I gotten myself into?"

A Dish Best Served Light 

Inkpunks is a collective of authors, editors, and various other creatives. In this article, I compare narrative to fine dining.

"Remember in that one book, how you skimmed part of the narrative because it wasn’t all that tasty? Entirely skippable? Like smooshed peas, or aunt Cora’s beet-and-anchovy salad, a narrative you just didn’t want to consume?"

Book Bites: For Appearances

A humble recipe by my own self, inspired by one of many working lunches at the royal palace.

"This man is the Lord Commander of the empire, so he’s not going to be eating cheese and meat and a hunk of bread for a working lunch. How would that look? Appearances, after all."

Will Build Worlds for Spare Change

Why money matters so very much in world building. About coins, symbols, and historians who hate fantasy.

"I'm an historian", she said darkly. "I don’t read fantasy novels. They get the details all wrong."

Yes, that's an emu egg

Eating Authors

Author Lawrence Schoen interviews me about some memorable meals.

I end up telling him how to prepare emu eggs.

A Reader Reports Back

I met Mary last year. She immediately struck me as intelligent and thoughtful. I mentioned my book The Seer to her, and that it would be coming out this year.

A bit like Game of Thrones, I told her.

"I don't know, then," she said, doubtfully, glancing down at her four-year-old, holding her hand as the girl fidgeted. "I got through the first two books and the story is good, but way too violent. It was making me paranoid. I love to read, but that..." she shook her head. "I had to stop. It was too much."

At that point I was finishing up the final draft of Seer. I had been wondering if the story's harsher parts were hitting the right note. It was important to me that the rough sections weren't gratuitously violent.

I asked her if she would tell me what she thought of it, if she read it. "Even if you don't finish it," I said, "That's fine. I just want to know what you think. You, especially."

"Sure," she said.

Since Seer's launch a month and a half ago, I've heard from some readers who found the book darker and rougher than they expected. When someone writes that they found the story too violent, or that they were negatively triggered by it, I think about it. I take such comments to heart.

Because I don't write for the spectacle of gore. I write for story and characters. For a plot that matters. For the ring of truth.

Today I saw Mary for the first time in months. When she came up to me and said, "I finished it!" I had some trepidation about what she would say next.

She smiled hugely. "I loved it," she said. "So much. It was great!"

For a moment I just let that sink in. Author food, every word.

And the violence, I asked?

"It was fine. It was there, sure -- that's the world -- but it wasn't... for show. You didn't dwell on it.  It was appropriate to the story."

She went on, listing the many things she liked.

"The ending," she said. "I loved how you wrapped things up, without being depressing, like so many books. There was hope. A lot of it."

Yes.

When a reader understands my story, I feel a soaring joy, a deep humility. I become keenly aware of the connection I've made with this other human being who has taken taken the time to journey through my world.

"I want the next one!" she added, taking her daughter by the hand.

This. This is why I write.

The View from the Other Side of the Autograph Line

A week ago, my novel The Seer was released into print. (An interesting phrase, isn't it? I can almost see a large purple book flapping its covers and taking flight into the air. Fly free, my released darling! Fly!)

That very night I read aloud to a group of people from chapter one at the University of Washington bookstore. Everyone who showed up, it seemed, wanted me to sign their copy. Not just sign it. Personalize it.

A few days previous I had bought Jump Start Your Novel from Mark Teppo at the Rainforest retreat. The book he gave me was already autographed, so I asked him to personalize it.

"To Sonia," he wrote.

"No, wait," I said, laughing. "That's only my name." I handed it back. "I want something personal. Just write something. Anything you like."

It seemed perfectly reasonable to me. After all, how hard could it be to write a quick note to someone you've talked to for hours over the course of a few days? Heck, we were practically friends.

Some ten minutes later, I got the book back from him, with a few sentences scrawled in a barely legible hand. Good enough, I decided, and thought nothing more of it.

Back to the night of my reading, where a growing number of people want me to sign their book. Fast, because the store is closing in mere minutes.

And, in addition to their name, could I personalize it? Write something? Anything I like.

My mind, ever the stalwart companion, goes utterly blank.

What is this close friend's name again?

Oh, how very different all this looks from the other side of the line.

As a reader I think I'm being all agreeable and easy-going by saying, just write what you like. But the catch is that we readers don't mean that. We want something unique, something that reflects our connection to the author and this special moment we're sharing together.

This moment in which the author is signing as fast as they can and horrified to discover that she can't remember your name.

You know what the author really truly wants to write in your book? I'll tell you: whatever will make you happy, as long as you spell it out for her, word by word.

"Just tell me," I beg a woman with what I hope is a charming smile but is probably a stressed, maniacal grin. I try not to look past her to the growing line of people, many clutching multiple copies.

She gives me a confused look. Which I understand. As a reader, I expect the author can write something easily. Just a line or two. Small, but witty. About that one time we went camping together, maybe. Or that joke we shared. Remember? Come on, I'm not some stranger. You know me!

Meanwhile, the clock is ticking, the store is about to close, and the only clever thing I can think to write is: "Thanks for all the fish," and that's not okay.

I had no idea it would be this hard, being on the other side of the table. My mind has never been so clean.

I'm not complaining, you understand. This is the best possible outcome for a book launch, to have lots of people want a signed copy. It's an honor, and truly, I do love this. I just want more than a few seconds per person to do it right. A lot more time. A week per autograph ought to do it.

I muddle through. I come up with what I hope are a few slightly witty things, and I make liberal use of the phrase "remind me how you spell your name again?" and hope it's not "M-A-R-K." (Sorry, Mark.)

The line shrinks. The clock strikes the hour. After a few more minutes, it's over.

Later, over a much-appreciated glass of red wine, I reflect on the evening. That's when my exchange with Mr. Teppo comes back to me. I wince, remembering what I said to him.

I send him an abject apology, explaining that I didn't know what it was like.

He writes back: "Delighted that you had a line of people, and I appreciate that you now understand the complete terror that comes with 'oh, write whatever you like!'"

Boy, do I ever.

So the next time I'm the reader, standing in line to get an autograph -- especially from a new author like myself -- I'm going to tell them exactly what I want them to write. Word for word.  I will not say, "whatever you like," or "make it personal -- you know me!"

And then, even if I've known them for twenty years, I will say my name. Because now I know what it looks like from the other side.

I'll even spell it for them.

Real World Magic

So much research went into The Seer, from weapons to central heating, from shoe-making to the arcana of various magic systems.

Magic. Some people will tell you that we don't have magic here, in this world, the one in which my book is published, the one with lattes and doctor appointments. But let me tell you what I saw the other day.

I'm at my doctor's office, at lunchtime, finishing up an appointment. I show off my ARC -- that's the Advance Reader Copy, also known as an uncorrected proof -- to a woman behind the reception desk. Let's call her Ann.

Ann is delighted. She says she must, right this moment, now that it's her lunch break, start my book. I have to take my ARC with me, so I direct her to my publisher's website where the first ten chapters are available for free. She starts reading on her computer, as I stand there.

She laughs. I'm hoping that's a good thing, since it's not exactly comedy, chapter one. She glances at me, then back to the book.

"I like this," she says.

"I'm glad," I answer. I'm a little stunned at this suddenness, this enthusiasm, but very pleased. I'm a writer, of course I'm pleased. I gather my things to go.

"Oh," she breathes, reading on. "Just my kind of book!" Again, she sends a grinning look my way.

"Thanks," I say.

I turn to leave. I pause. I turn back.

She's still reading.

I've never seen this before, a near-stranger reading my book with this immediacy and gusto. Surely, I think to myself, she'd rather read it without someone watching her, let alone the author. I mutter something polite, something about leaving, hoping she'll say goodbye or wave or some other indicator that she's done with me.

Aloud she wonders what will happen next.

A reader wants to know what will happen next. These are the words writers live for.

Right in front of me, my world and characters are taking shape in the mind and heart of another human being. There is no sensible reason for me to stay here and watch, but I can't seem to make my feet move.

Minutes pass.

More minutes pass.

"Well," I say. "Guess I'd better go."

She cackles at some action in the story. My story. The one I wrote.

"Yes, I'll just --" I say, as if I'm just coming to this idea. I'll just what? "-- just get on with the day," My words are undercut by how stationary I seem to be.

See, she's reading. My book.

I feel foolish, standing there, but also I feel something else I can't quite name. In another moment it comes to me: I am awestruck. Spellbound. I want to pull out my phone and take a picture to mark this moment, but of course I don't, because it would break the spell.

When at last I summon the will to leave, it's been over fifteen minutes of me standing there, watching Ann -- still smiling and chuckling -- read my book. This is a magic I have never before had the privilege to witness, to see a new reader step into my world.

I give myself another moment to take it in. This moment. This magic.

Finally I go to the door, my eyes misty and my smile wide. I glance back before I leave.

She doesn't look up.

She's reading.

Manuscript Launched

I've just sent back the manuscript for The Seer, after reviewing all 695 pages of edits and questions.

Twice.

I've had my works edited for publication before, but that experience was nothing like this - not this large a work, nor reviewed in this level of detail. It arrived bristling with post-its, issues I needed to resolve with minimal changes. I had never seen anything like it, and it turned out I had no idea what I was in for.

Sure, going over every word and note was hard. At times wrenching. I laughed. I ranted. (No, not at my editors. If there was any target, it was me). Sometimes the process was really unpleasant. Sometimes it was exhilarating.

And yes, I'm very glad to be done. But here's the thing I didn't expected to be telling you now:

It was an amazing experience. I'm a better writer now than I was three weeks ago.

Why? Line by line, I got to see my work through my editors' eyes. I saw my mistakes highlighted. Some issues that I thought were settled I had to readdress, like why some people's titles are capitalized where others aren't. I spent a lot of time with the Chicago Manual of Style, re-reading other fantasy authors, discussing the nuances of language with others similarly obsessed. I found answers. I learned.

It was a crash course in what's good and what's weak in my writing, applied by the deft (and merciless) hands of two professional editors, both of whom want the same thing I do, for the novel to be the best it can possibly be. No one was concerned about my feelings at this point, nor should they have been; this was where all our non-trivial efforts came together to produce one final thing:

The story.

Prior to this, I would have thought this part of the process would at best teach me about narrative and flow. Commas maybe. Continuity, perhaps. But no - it was far more than that. This process gave me a view onto my novel that I had never had before. It underscored for me the point of all those words: to build a captivating world, characters who come alive, action that's vivid and meaningful.

Of course the work remains imperfect. I managed to accept that no matter how many times I went through it, mistakes were going to slip by. There is no absolute control over a work of this size.

Nor, perhaps, does there need to be. Because the important thing, again, is the story.

When I shipped the book back to the publisher, I felt the sorrow and elation of something ending and another thing beginning. It's out of my hands, now. I've done everything I know how to do to make the story ring like a bell.

Not quite mine any more, this world. Soon it will belong to my readers.

That's going to be a fine day.

Launched.

Chapter one is here.