I'm sick. I was supposed to start a story last night, but my head exploded. Full of snot and angst, I spent the night under the covers, reading and trying to sleep. Still, the excuse that my head feels stuffed with cotton won't fly for too much longer. No, I'll have to produce -- and soon.

Deadlines don't care about sick days. Remember that.

I'm putting together a collection of stuff. My stuff, mind you. About half of it will be reprinted material, and the other half will be new to this collection. Which is exciting. Except it means I have to write that other half. Not as exciting.

Now, to me, collections are like cake. They're a mix of distinct ingredients that all meld together to form something greater than the sum of their parts by a magic process that I like to call "flame."

So you take your eggs and sugar, and you...

I can't bake. I can cook. I can cook almost anything. I just can't bake. If it uses an oven and isn't just heating up frozen taquitos, then I'm lost. So really, I shouldn't be making baking analogies, but what the hell. How hard can this be, right?

You take your eggs and your butter, and you mix it up with your sugar and flour. Then you whisk it all together and spread it along a... a pan? And then you knead it, see, and pour it into a cake pan. Yeah, a cake pan.

You stop yourself before you toss it into the cake pan though, and add flour to the pan. Then you consider pouring it but wonder if using raw eggs is healthy. Then again, it has to be all right because you couldn't very well bake with scrambled eggs, now could you? Now… what were you even thinking? So you pour the cake into the cake pan.

Then you slap that puppy into the oven and have a drink and eat the frosting right out of the tin and run to the store to get more. While you're at the store you realize that you also need grapes, and apples, and you are pretty sure you ran out of the good Pop Tarts. You stop and wonder why you even have non-good Pop Tarts since you live alone, but you can't think about that now -- you have to deal with the problems at hand. So you get Pop Tarts, too and run back to the line and buy your grapes and apples and Pop Tarts. While you're in line you look at your watch and count backwards, trying to remember when you put the... cake... in... the... oh shit!

So you run back and take the slightly burnt cake out of the oven and look for the frosting. Except you ate the frosting, and you didn't get more, because you were obsessing over Pop Tarts. So you scrape the frosting off the Pop Tarts, hoping the heat of the cake will re-melt it, and then you let the whole thing cool.

That's how you make a collection. That's pretty much exactly it. Step by step, even. And when you hand out your cake to your friends and they ask you if that's Pop Tart frosting you'll say "no" and smile at them.

By the time you explain the frosting issue for the tenth time, you will not even remember that the answer is really "Yes, yes it is," but start believing your lie. By the fiftieth time, you'll suddenly remember the truth and admit it, laughing. Everyone else will laugh, too, assuring you that they only played along.

Of course, there's also the chance that your publisher head baker will see your cake and change his mind. And he'll ask you for cupcakes instead. But the thing he'll love the most will be that frosting.

And you might think I'm joking here. I'm not. But the big question, after all of this is done, is still: why did you even have the bad Pop Tarts in the first place? You don't even like those.

BONUS OTTER FACT: A group of otters are called a romp. As in, "That's a romp of otters bearing down on us, Marge. Git my gun."