I got the contracts for Blood Engines and Untitled Novel last night, and read my way through many pages of eye-watering legalese. It all looks good, and book #2 isn't due for, like, eleven months. Shouldn't be a problem, as I expect to have it done in three or four months. This also means the first chunk of my advance is inching closer to arrival. Our ship is coming in. We'll pay off a big chunk of credit card debt, buy a new couch, get the busted windshield wipers in the car fixed, pay some dental bills, have an extravagant meal or two... it'll be great. (Until the time comes to pay taxes, of course, but I'm sensibly putting some money aside against that eventuality.)

Assuming nothing catastrophic befalls us, we should be out of debt in a couple of years -- or at least have reduced our debt until it's small enough to drown in a bathtub.

I never dared to hope that writing would dig me out of the hole of my fiscally irresponsible twenties, but there it is. I'm indescribably lucky. And I'll be a good boy from now on.