why are you reading this

Hey.  Look at this: I was Shortlisted for the David Gemmel Award.  It’s a nice thing.  I don’t think there’s anyone on that list I would mind winning.

Also, look at this: my Babel Clash with Ari Marmell is over.  So sad.  You can read it all in the backlogs if you missed it.  Or you could just go read Patrick Rothfuss and Jim Butcher sloppily make out over two weeks.  You know.  If you like that sort of thing.

These are all neat things to talk about, but look at this.

…yeah, you’ve already seen it, haven’t you?  That’s because this is the internet.  You probably found it whilst browsing for your pornographs or looking at feline pictures or whatever it is you kids like to do.  And this being the internet, it’s pretty much everywhere.

Truly, it kind of depresses me.  Mostly because I lament how easily it could have gone. If she had simply asked if he got the emergency backup copy instead of “YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG,” it might have gone better.

I think there’s this weird sort of perceived animosity between reviewers and authors, like they’re the mongooses to our cobras slithering in baby cradles.  I suppose that’s understandable; there are some reviewers out there that seem to believe this totally and take it upon themselves to try to be as aggressive as possible, even at the expense of honesty.

I don’t think I’ve ever met one, though.  I’ve had chats with some reviewers who liked my book (whee) and some who didn’t (aww).  It’s not that big a deal.  In general, I think most reviewers enjoy talking about what they’ve read.  Just talking with them like they’re people tends to work pretty well for me.  And if not, there’s nothing wrong with just…not going berserk on them.

This is a short post.

I am watching Traffic Light on Hulu starring that asshole from The Office that you didn’t like and a British guy.  They drive around, talking about stuff that happened in college and talking about relationships.

Relationship humor is the lowest form of comedy.  This I truly believe.

My wife occasionally asks me to contribute to the well-being of our household by doing menial chores that occupy my time that I might rather spend doing other things.  We’ve all been there, right, fellas?  The other day I was watching television and she came in and said: “Sam Sykes, you are a man who occasionally indulges his own hobbies and/or leisure time at the expense of what society demands I, as a woman, must want.  A good example of this behavior would be that I occasionally wish to discuss the shoes I bought at the store, while you are watching football.  You possess a penis and I a vagina.  We are in a relationship.  This is comedy.”

And you know what?  It was.  I laughed.

I laughed all the way out of the chair.  I laughed as I got into the car.  I laughed as I drove down to the old quarry.  I laughed as I tied a rock around my leg and hurled it off.  I drowned laughing.

Sam Sykes is dead.

Relationship comedy killed him.

It will kill you, too.