It has been scientifically proven that happy employees work harder.

It is about to be scientifically proven that a bunch of male bosses who subject a bunch of female employees to eight hours of mandatory overtime on Mother’s Day weekend are not long for this world.

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Very truly yours,

A devoted underling who fears for her employers’ lives

(In no small part because she has been assigned the task of disposing of the bodies)

(Yes, I persist with the futile argument of reason.) 

Author A and Author B have completed manuscripts of equal brilliance and originality. They send them off to Fabulous Editor. The manuscripts sit side by side in Fabulous Editor’s inbox. Fabulous Editor grabs Author A’s manuscript first and falls ass over teakettle in love with it.

Does Fabulous Editor subsequently dump everything else in the inbox into the trash because she has found The Next Big Thing and never needs to look at another manuscript again?

No. Fabulous Editor continues mining for gold in the slush because Fabulous Editor intends to have a career beyond next year.

I have it on good authority Fabulous Editor would be running round the office screaming “This is the best fucking day of my life!” if the next manuscript she read also made her fall ass over teakettle in love with it.

Therefore, Author A’s manuscript is in no way impeding the publication of Author B’s manuscript.

Author A’s book and Author B’s book hit the shelves at the same time and, by happy coincidence, are placed side by side.

Discerning Reader finds both covers equally compelling and takes a look at both books. The back-cover copy is equally interesting. A quick skim of the contents suggests the books are equally brilliant and original, and Discerning Reader wants both. Equally.

So Discerning Reader buys both.

Yeah, but what if Discerning Reader has only enough money in her pocket for one book? Huh? What then, smarty pants?

Discerning Reader eeny-meeny-miney-moes her choice and comes back on payday to get the other one because she can’t get it out of her mind.

Therefore, Author A’s book is in no way impeding the sale of Author B’s book.

I don’t dispute the existence of competition, but it is not between writers. The competition is between reader interest and reader disinterest as it pertains to an individual story, whether that reader is an editor, an agent, a contest judge, or a book buyer. All of the above are looking for an engaging read—or two or twenty or eighty-six. No reader has ever bemoaned the agony of having too many exciting stories to choose from.

Once a writer sends a story out into the world, it stands or falls on its own. Nobody props it up. Nobody trips it. If it’s not universally embraced as a work of genius, that is not the fault of any writer other than the one who produced it, and spending even one minute of one day spewing about how someone else has ruined your chances of success is a waste of time you could have spent writing something new, something better, something that will juxtapose asses and teakettles everywhere.

(End rant. Please deposit nonsensical outbursts in the appropriate receptacle.)

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(Make your own self at South Park Studio.)

Also, if you have exhausted your creative reserves, facilitate your production of bilious correspondence with the aid of the Hate Mail Generator.

In completely unrelated news, I have experienced one of the pitfalls of predominantly electronic banking: I have three books of checks left but have run out of register in which to record transactions, and banks—I went to mine and three others at which I am not a customer, and it’s a universal phenomenon around here—don’t give those away. I have to order checks to get another register, which means I’ll have an entire box of checks next time I use up a register and have to order more checks to replace it… Nice racket they got there, yeah?

They don’t know who they’re messing with. I got a puter and a printer and reams of paper in pretty colors. I’ll make my own, and it will be so much better than theirs…

In even less-related news, I watched Enchanted last night, and despite it being insanely predictable from frame one, I kinda liked it. I even got a little teary at the HEA for abso-frickin’-lutely everybody. If you like cute (which I don’t usually, so go figure…), definitely check it out. It’s also very kid-safe (no violence, no face sucking, no adults behaving badly except for the evil queen and, well, she’s evil, so what do you expect, really?) if you have little ones.

In my RTB post, I forgot hotshot pilots, intergalactic Vikings, AND the hottest of all heroes:

see more crazy cat pics

I had a bunch of REQUESTED MATERIAL to take to the post office. I wanted to do it Monday morning, but there was a line around the block (last-minute tax filers), so I put it off until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, it was nice and quiet at the post office. The first thing I noticed upon entering was the lack of the number dispenser. Oh, we’re now to be trusted to wait in a single-file line until it’s our turn to go to the clerk? Don’t be silly. Apparently one of yesterday’s disgruntled patrons picked it up and heaved it over the counter to express his displeasure, so the number dispenser is out of commission for a while.

I overheard this story because the sole clerk at the counter shared it with the customer she was with when I entered. She was still chatting 10 minutes later. No transactions taking place, just yakking.

After I’d been standing there for 20 minutes, surreptitiously trying to make the clerk’s head explode with my as-yet undiscovered telekinetic death ray, another clerk came to the counter and waved me forward. I’ve been through this before, knew what I was doing, had an efficient system in place that should have gotten me out of there in a mere 2 minutes. I put my envelopes in stacks on the counter. The 3-chapter requests have to go Priority Mail because of weight. First Class is fine for the 50-page requests. And may I please have a book of Forever stamps, please and thank you.

“Do you want to send this overnight?”

No, thanks. Priority Mail for these, First Class for these. And stamps. Please. He got through the Priority Mail stack without further incident. Then:

“Do you want to send this overnight?”

No. As I’ve already explained, I want this and everything else remaining in this pile sent First Class. Thanks.

“How about Priority Mail?”

For every single envelope left on the counter, we had to do the whole offer-of-every-option-other-than-the-one-I-specifically-requested-from-the-beginning rigamarole. I was with that guy for another 20 minutes, by which time my own head was in danger of exploding. Paid the man. Took my receipt. Thanked him for his tremendously thorough help. Stalked out to my car.

Where I realized that although I had been charged for stamps, I had not been handed them.

Needless to say, it was a wise decision not to put the number dispenser back out on the floor because on my second trip inside, I had given up on the death ray and was ready for batting practice.

I bypassed the line entirely. I entered through the exit area. The brave soul who voiced a protest shut up right quick when I gave him the crazy eye. I thrust my receipt toward the clerk, smiled (hey, I tried, even if it was more of a rictus-of-death thing at that point). Pardon me, sir, but you seem to have forgotten to give my my stamps.

“Well, you had so much stuff, I’m not surprised something got forgot.”

Bit my tongue. Got my stamps. Apparently teleported to my car through some sort of blood-red haze, since I don’t remember walking. Contemplated crashing my car through the glass wall in search of fleshy speed bumps. Decided against it because I just washed my car for the first time in a year and the tires are so shiny and clean.

Went home and investigated the feasibility of a digital scale and print-your-own postage in an attempt to avoid a future conviction for multiple murder if I ever have to go back to that place.

Remember, postage goes up a penny on May 12! Visit your local post office and show your support today!

Trish (clicking through a million digital photos in search of one appropriate to submit to the GH committee): There is not a single picture of you, dating back to infancy, in which you are not doing something goofy.

Me: I’m goofy looking. It’s okay to be goofy looking when you’re being goofy. Otherwise, it’s just sad.

Trish: Perfect Jr. has one on his desk. Your face is relaxed and pretty and normal in that one.

Me: Great. Scan it. Send it. Problem solved.

Trish: There’s a small problem. Your face is good, but you’re wearing an Organization XIII cloak and a purple-and-black wig.

Me: (snicker) Cosplay. Halloween anytime.

Trish: Pretend to be normal for a minute. (grabs digital camera and snaps several pictures; repeatedly looks from in-the-flesh subject to camera’s display screen) What the hell? You don’t look like this!

Me: Told you I was goofy looking.

Trish: I’m looking right at you, and you are not this pale, this shiny, or this shapeless.

Me: Ah, you have discovered my supervillainess power: image distortion. Even if I’m caught in the villainous act by security cameras, the evidence won’t hold up in court because clearly that’s not me. (points to computer screen) What about that one?

Trish: That’s from 2000, and it’s goofy.

Me: It’s by far the least goofy of the bunch, and who cares how old it is? Not like I’m going to be at the conference to show off my advanced age. You were looking back to baby pictures, for crying out loud.

Trish: It was better than your brilliant idea of sending a picture of Kate Beckinsale.

Me: But not as brilliant as the distant, grainy, out-of-focus Bigfoot sighting-esque picture idea…

“Step off, punks! I shall never divulge my haircare secrets to scruffs such as you!”

From Crisis Core © Square Enix

You can never have too much Sephiroth.

Although… that 12-foot sword has to be compensating for something.