Well, it's done. I've ordered the ISBN numbers.

Almost nerve-wracking. There is this realization that "hey stupid, you're doing something serious here so don't screw up!" that just adds that element of screaming chimpanzee to the entire enterprise. This is one of those lines separating stuff for fun and stuff for serious. This makes it real. I can be distributed through national chain stores now. It messes with your head.

MO is a good book. Aquaria is a good book. I know I'm a good writer. Complete strangers have told me so. This is the only future I've ever wanted. The fan club, the harem, the getting invited to cons as a writer, the obsessed fans, the marriage proposals from strangers, the mysterious lost weekends where I'm doing nothing more than locking myself inside a closet with my laptop to get some work done. The activisim through fiction to get our collective butts off this mudball and out into the universe. The getting lost in my own head and talking to people who don't exist. The carpal tunnel syndrom and repetitive stress injuries and my eyes going bad from years of staring at monitors. The parts of me that will live so long as the copyright lasts. The whole nine yards.

Great Force. It's actually happening.

I'm going to go sit in the Temple and cry now, and talk to a ghost or two.