While I was in the Americas, fending off food poisoning, fainting spells, and the head cold from hell, I sold a novel.

Actually, that is total lies. My agent sold the novel. This is why I have an agent. Here is a dramatic reconstruction of how things might have gone without him.

Many Years From Now:

Publisher: "Your little book finally slid out of the towering pile of unsolicited slush and into our vaguely interested hands."
Karen: "REALLY??"
Publisher: "Yes. We would like to acquire all rights in perpetuity to your not totally worthless work for the princely advance of one penny."
Karen: *hyperventilating* "An AMERICAN penny?"
Publisher: "Yes. And I have just found some lint in my pocket. You may have that too."
Karen: "OH MY GOD, YES. YES. I LOVE YOU I'LL SIGN ANYTHING WOULD YOU LIKE MY SOUL ALSO?"
Publisher: "Young woman, this is a respectable establishment!"

Some Time Later:

Robyn: "You know, I didn't patiently read over every draft and let you bore me for months so that you could cheerfully place yourself in penury."
Karen: "..."
Robyn: "..."
Karen: "..."
Robyn: "STOP POLISHING THAT PENNY."

AHA! I lie again! My publisher (my publisher) is Little, Brown, and the people I have met there are class acts who would not defraud anyone, unless it was for maybe a diet coke. Little, Brown also publishes the Gossip Girl series. Anyone who has been subject to my rapturous response to each fresh episode of this year's favourite TV show would instantly surmise why this fact is a source of purest happiness to my tattered heart.

You guys, Guardian of the Dead is going to be a real book with pages and suchlike! At least in North America! In the autumn of 2010! I am full of joy! Joy, and lies. Joy, and lies, and snot.

Joy-infused snotty lies of glory.