. . .but then what? See, that may be true--and I've found it to be such--but after the initial thrill is over, there's nothing left but the arguing over who has control of the radio station.

So here I am, on a website devoted to the kind of person I am. I write, I read, I watch bad movies, I watch good movies, I discuss books while sipping a whiskey on the rocks, I collect genre related toys and fill my desk with them, I used to game a lot until I became a writer, and while I miss it, I've published a great deal since I decided I had to pick one or the other.

Sitting on my butt all day didn't do a thing for my waistline, but that's all changed in the last year and now I devote at least an hour a day to exercise and watch what I eat a bit more. Result? 100 pounds lost and forty more to go. I'm not obsessive about it by any means, and if I'm out with friends I might just steal a bite or three from your creme brulee while you're not looking.

Actually that's not true. I'll probably do it while you are looking.

I did the military thing when I was younger. Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I've also played drums since I was eight but don't have a set at the moment.

I've been a regular haunt of the SCA, been invited to attend science fiction conventions as a panelist and taught myself to cook.

Well.

Too well.

Way too well.

I'm fluent in all things science fiction--how can you possibly only like parts of it, anyway?--and love to go camping with friends at least once a year.

Firefly is the universe's gift to humanity. Don't argue, just nod your head.

You wear ridiculous jewelry when you want. Your hair is meant only to be a palette for your creativity. You leave the stamp on your hand for three days after the event until you accidentally wash it off while tackling the pile of dishes in the sink (you had no time for such trivial nonsense until now, there was a Doctor Who season to watch after all.) You either make music or wish you could. You hate the dealer's room at the convention because you haven't yet won the lottery. You throw something at me when I unintentionally interrupt you in the middle of a chapter, but make sure you either miss or that it's soft enough not to cause any permanent damage. You think nothing of standing in line for the midnight premier of a movie. You take your love-life seriously, but not so seriously as to not understand that sex is grown-up play. You have your own career, and are passionate about it. You pester me to write the next chapter and glare at me when I won't let you read it yet.

You are you, and feel no need to be other than that.