Werewolves out in the World, Part IX

Nine of these already? I think so. I mean, I’m no expert professional seasoned counter or anything, and my roman-numeral-fu maybe isn’t operating at the absolute highest level, but still, here we are, I think.

And? Here’s where we’ve been:
one werewolf, two werewolves, three werewolves, fourFive werewolvessix werewolves, seven werewolves, and one more

That’s the thing with werewolves. You think you’ve taken care of them all, and then one’s got your throat in its teeth, is staring you in the eye.

But let’s stop with the words, get to images. Well, the images with me talking all over them, like:

Dude. At first I thought my eyes were all deceived, but then I refreshed the browser, refreshed my head, checked was I awake, and yep: that’s Mongrels, sharing some page space with STNG. 

Be still my beating heart:

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Think this mag is the second place that month I showed up alongside Molly Tanzer. Here’s to more and more and always:

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Sound effects? Always-always appreciated. Thank you, Ian:

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Same here: how to read with a dustjacket on? Somewhere I’ve got a White’s Boots box stuffed to bursting with dustjackets. Used to be the first order of business, after getting a book: peel it from its jacket. But then I started having books come out, and I felt different about them somehow. Like, they weren’t just in the way, they were intrinsically cool. But I still have to take them off for reading. Not only do they get in the way, but they get all torn up. And, how to see the yellow book’s red muscle tissue without taking the skin off, right? There’s a beating heart in there too:
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Oh, man, I’m made of glass, everybody can see the gears in my head. Again: my first novel, The Fast Red Road, the editor dropped me a note about this very thing. Which I didn’t even realize I was doing. And I have zero clue how to not do::

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Kelly Link: one of the cooler people and better writers on the scene. Or in the world. Also: ever.

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Ha. Too cool, this. However? My strong suspicion is that there were more gothy vampires at this particular concert. But the werewolves, they were out there, skulking through the parking lot, trying door handles:

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Thanks, Doug. The yellow book in Rapid City, too. I once over-wrote that place with a new world. I still kind of live there, too (The Bird is Gone).

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And, second time I’ve heard about somebody inhaling Mongrels at 37K away from Earth. Too, too cool. Next up: astronauts. Aliens. Transdimensional beings.

And, this—where I really felt like I was stealing that Lone Ranger bit from? King’s It, where there’s that bike “Silver,” and it’s always just barely getting everybody away from the Wolf Man . . .

 

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In grad school for a while, I finally had to make a rule for my stories: no more pets, dude. Because they always kind of met bad ends. Was becoming a go-to. Still, you’re completely right: they’re so delicious. Also, people who want the pets to make it to the end? Maybe stay away from the first story in Zombie Sharks with Metal Teeth . . .

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Did some research to make sure this line was accurate, and, yep: turns out it’s Tolberts all the way down, man. Who knew.

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Big not-secret secret? I went to grad school in ninja mode, with the excess purpose of sneaking in, stealing all the craft I could, to smuggle back out to the books I’d long-ago insulated my heart and my life with.

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Thanks, Rhett—whom I know, and expect to be seeing in all the table of contents before too long. And all the shelves. All the marquees and billboards.

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Hey—we need a werewolf emoji, don’t we? Or, doesn’t Mongrels. Though this third one here, I suspect it may have just SEEN a werewolf. And maybe that’s the real werewolf emoji.

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Dude. I watched Silver Bullet so many times, growing up. Not only did I want that bad trike, but I also wanted that badder werewolf. Finally I just had to write it  myself, I guess.

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Thanks for front-and-centering it, NYU bookstore. And thanks to Michael Piel for the snapshot:

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Thank you, Martin, thank you, keckles:

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And—if we started at STNG, then where to end but Hastings, right? When I got to 14 or 15 years old, in Midland, Texas, I came aware of Hastings. It had every magazine and book I could want. Every one I could dream of. I’d walk through that place like a church. And? It was right next door to Mr. Gatti’s. So, you could eat a week’s worth of pizza, play Galaga and air hockey until your eyes bled and your fingers were bruised, and then slide next door, spend an hour two working up and down those aisles, dreaming. 

So cool to be there. Thanks, Max Booth III, for the thoughtful snap:

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And, already got the tenth installment of this, starting to squirrel itself away. Thanks, all, for the thoughtful snaps. And, thanks even more for the reads. The yellow book’s sneaking into all the dark corners of the world. Mongrels is alive.

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