So, I’m eligible for the Campbell.

I’m in superexcellent company, which Mary Robinette Kowal points out, so I have no expectations. I’m frankly excited just to be eligible.

In early 2007, I was working at a job I hated. I hadn’t written anything in two years – the same two years I had been at my job, which didn’t occur to me until later. (I was a genius.) I had one short story to my name; I figured it would never go anywhere, and when a friend made me submit it somewhere, I thought, “This is pointless.”

The day 29 Union Leaders Can’t Be Wrong ran in Strange Horizons, I gave notice at my job.

Things have since improved.

When I realized I was eligible this year, I called my mom to tell her. I explained what the eligibility meant, so she didn’t confuse it with a nomination, and reminded her which story it was (she only knows this one by name; everything else I have ever written is named “That Weird One”).

She said, “That’s great! Under your real name?“

Earlier this week we had to go to The Mall to pick up a holiday gift item. While we were there, we passed Hot Topic, and there was no way I wasn’t going in there.

You guys, it was awfultastic. I lasted about forty-five seconds, and that was all I needed to see.

The good news is: if you didn’t think Christmas was good the first time, it’s never too late for a do-over as long as it’s Twilight stuff!

For The Special Girl in Your Viewfinder: a tee that tells her why you care enough to rent that cherry picker all the time.

For The Man You’ll Regret Marrying by the Time You’re Twenty: a pair of rings that reminds you of your place any time you feel like having an opinion.

For Your Child Who’s Probably Going to Resent You Anyway: might as well!

Yes, these are actual items. I don’t know what to tell you.

In better news, what I actually got for Christmas:

* A pair of loafers. They’re orthopedic. (What? Your arches aren’t gonna support themselves! See you when I’m eighty, suckers!)

My family is super pragmatic and tends to give totally unsurprising and useful gifts. My sister got a wind-up radio/flashing help signal for her trunk. It’s awesome.

So, it’s Halloween! I do not really participate in Halloween these days, since I subscribe to the “Go Big or Go Home” philosophy, and I am too lazy to go big, so I end up going home. (‘Big’ in this case meaning ‘actually clever’ or ‘well-made’. Inflatable Sumo-wrestler suits are neither of these things, dude from my office.)

However, I had some fun costumes back in the day! I think. I only remember four. Memory like a sieve, me.

Enjoy this handy guide! None of these costumes makes any sense.

Bag of Jelly Beans:

I was: Eight.

You will need: Black turtleneck and pants, white tulle, balloons.

It takes: Ten minutes to baste the tulle into a big bag, two minutes to thread ribbon around the top to tie around your neck, one million hours to blow up all the balloons.

You cannot: Sit down. Ever.

School Bus

I was: Nine.

You will need: magazine with pictures of people’s faces, huge cardboard box as long as you are tall, paint, refractive stickers, ropes for over your shoulders, really strong little horse-legs, patient relatives willing to get high off glue fumes for two days in advance getting this thing together.

It takes: A hundred million hours.

You cannot: Ever forgive that kid who dressed like a table set for dinner with his face bulging out of a bucket of pasta and walked right in front of you all night somehow no matter what houses you skipped trying to get ahead of him, and everyone was in raptures, and when the rest of my family asked excitedly, “What did people think? What did they say?!” I had nothing to tell them because all people said was, “Look how great this costume is – a table with pasta!”

Marie Antoinette:

I was: Sixteen.

You will need: 9 yards of brocade from the bargain bin, lace for the sleeve cuffs, ribbon for the front panel, cotton batting for a wig, white base, bright red lipstick, black pencil for the beauty mark, appropriate black pumps, a fake corset, a bum and hip roll you make out of some crazy series of stuffed pantyhose, a total lack of concern for what anyone in your high school thinks about your costume.

It takes: Ten hours for the dress, twenty hours for the wig, which will still look like shit no matter what you do, so you go to school looking like Marie Antoinette and the Cotton Candy Incident.

You cannot: Look at it ever again once you learn how the costumes were actually constructed and how much of it you did wrong.

Gandalf:

I was: Seven.

You will need: A long grey tunic your mom makes you, a grey cape, an awesome-ass cotton-batting beard, a big walking stick, brown pillowcase for candy, a witch hat from the dollar store covered in dark blue glitter.

It takes: Three hours.

You cannot: EVEN IMAGINE how many people don’t recognize Gandalf on site. I was appalled. I spent all of Halloween like this:

Neighbor: Oooh! Are you a wizard?

Me: [snottiest, most vicious tone imaginable] I am not A WIZARD, I am GANDALF THE GREY.

Neighbor: Who?

Me: Gandalf? The Hobbit? Lord of the Rings?

Neighbor: Well, you little boys certainly read a lot these days!

Me: …keep the candy.

I was such a little bastard. (I am still a bastard. I’m just bigger.)