Magic on the Page

Google Alerts notifies me when one of my book titles or my name appears online. This helps alert me to reviews I’ve missed, awards nobody told me about, or mentions of my books—good and bad—on people’s blogs.

Every so often, it will turn up a link to a post on Yahoo Answers or a torrent site that goes something like this:

I LOVE LOVE LOVE Cinda Williams Chima’s books. Anyone know where I can download them for free?

Call me crazy, but I’m just not feeling the love here.

Book and music piracy is stealing. It is not a victimless crime as some people seem to believe.

I know—I’ve heard all the arguments used to justify piracy, some of them from people who wouldn’t think of walking into a store and walking out with a ham, a pair of jeans, or a physical book without paying for it. Somehow, that ink and paper book has value. The message I’m getting is that the work that I do does not.

YA authors Laurie Halse Anderson  and Mary Pearson have done a good job of addressing those arguments on their blogs so I won’t repeat them here. I believe that people steal books and music because 1) they don’t view it as hurting anyone, really, and 2) they’re unlikely to get caught.

Recently, I was directed to a website that offered illegal downloads of three of my books. Total downloads: 781. And that was just one site. Not all of those downloads represent lost sales, but a hundred books here and a hundred books there--it adds up. And as e-readers proliferate, it’s bound to get worse, unless we—all of us—take action.

In any given week, my publisher knows just how many books of mine have sold. Guess what—if I don’t sell enough books, my publisher isn’t going to publish any more of them. I’m not a musician. I can’t take my show on the road and sell tee shirts and merchandise. Touring authors don’t draw huge crowds of paying customers. I’m not an entertainer. I’m a writer.

So I’ll have to find something else to do for a living. I can’t afford to work this hard at something for free. With a few notable exceptions, most writers—even successful ones—make a modest income. Can’t wait for the next book in your favorite series? Well, it’s going to take a lot longer if your favorite writer is working a day job. If he or she is able to write at all. I left a day job that I loved because I was exhausted.

All you aspiring writers out there: speak up now, or say goodbye to a future as a professional writer. If your friends are illegally downloading books and music, call them on it. Let them know you don’t approve.

To any pirate reading this: I know you don’t mean to, but when you illegally download an e-book, I can’t help but think you are targeting me, because what you are taking is what I contributed. The story. Not the ink and paper or the fancy binding. It may not seem real to you, but it sure seems real to me.

It takes me a year to write a book. And I hope you think it’s worth paying for.

In my last post, I responded to a young writer who asked what to do when you hit the wall after 25-50 pages. I discussed how layering conflict and characters can expand the scope of story from novelette to novel.

A second reason your story may fall short is if you are delivering your story too much in narrative instead of scene. Your story may involve lots of characters and lots of conflict, but you are not allowing your reader to experience it properly.

Consider a movie, and then consider somebody telling you about that movie. It takes a lot less time to have someone tell you the movie than to experience it. Not only that, it’s boring, right?

Make sure the important events in your story happen onstage, with a full cast and dialogue. It takes more space, but it’s much more effective. 

Here’s a pivotal scene delivered in narrative:

Raisa was just getting ready to leave Jemson’s office when a scruffy-looking boy burst in. Amon recognized him as Han “Cuffs” Alister, streetlord of the Raggers gang, who was suspected of several murders. But when Amon tried to arrest Cuffs, the streetlord grabbed Raisa and threatened to cut her throat.  

That doesn’t take much space, does it? Not very interesting, is it?

 

Here’s the same events in scene:

They turned toward the door, but before they could reach it somebody barreled through it. It was a young man, Raisa’s age, or a little older, with muddy red-brown hair, dressed in clan leggings and shirt.

“Jemson! Three of the Raggers have been nabbed by the bluejackets. Seems they mean to make an example of….” His voice trailed off when he saw the people gathered in the room. “Oh. Sorry, Sir. I didn’t know you had company.”

His eyes flicked to Averill, then Amon, and widened in alarm.

He recognizes them, Raisa thought. 

“Let’s discuss this later, Hanson,” Jemson said quickly, jerking his head toward the door.

Hanson began backing from the room, but Amon said, “Wait! What’s that about Raggers?”

The boy blinked at him, blank-faced. “Raggers? I didn’t say nothing about Raggers.”

“Yes, you did,” Amon said, walking purposefully toward Hanson. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

“Ah, no,” the boy said. “Not likely.” He was tall, nearly as tall as Amon, though more slender in build, with brilliant blue eyes. His face bore evidence of a recent beating. His right eye was blackened and there was a blue and yellow bruise over one cheekbone. His right forearm was splinted, but he didn’t favor it. He seemed to be trying to keep his face turned away from them, as if he was embarrassed by his injuries.

This must be one of Jemson’s students, Raisa thought, with a rush of sympathy.

 “What happened to you?” she asked, moving closer so she could examine his face at close range. She touched his arm. “Who did this?”

Hanson flushed. “Wasn’t nothing. Just…my da. Gets mean sometimes when he’s in his cups.”

Just then Amon’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the boy’s splinted arm and raked back his sleeve, exposing a wide silver cuff. “So, Hanson,” he said. “I think we have met, after all. You ever go by the name Cuffs?” he said.

Cuffs? Raisa looked from Amon to the other boy. Wasn’t that the gangleader who’d killed all those people?

Then it seemed like everything happened at once. The boy slammed his free fist into Amon’s face and twisted away with the ease of long practice. Amon drew his sword and stepped between the boy and the door, yelling for the guard. And then the boy called Cuffs grabbed hold of Raisa, drawing her back tight against him. She felt the prick of a blade at her throat and tried hard not to swallow.

“Hanson, no!” Speaker Jemson shouted, pale with horror.

“Now then,” Cuffs said, close to her ear. “Back off or I cut the girlie’s throat.” His voice shook a little, with fear or nerves or excitement—Raisa couldn’t tell.

Raisa thought of the six, dead in the street. Tortured, they said. Done by this pretty blue-eyed boy holding the knife. –The Demon King

             Which is more interesting?

Delivering action in scene will not only make your work longer, but will engage readers more effectively.   

Young Writer Writes,
I recently started writing about a year ago. All my friends say i have really good ideas but I keep hitting a wall. I plan everything out but for some odd reason at like 35- 50 pages i run out of ideas....It is very frustrating... :/ Do you have any advice?

Dear YW,
This malady is common in writers, old and young, and it may happen for several different reasons. You may find my earlier post on Writer’s Block helpful.
If you run out of plot before your novel is of publishable length, you may be writing a short story. There may not be enough characters and conflict to warrant a novel-length work.
If you want to write a novel, you will need to introduce more conflict, characters, and subplots. New writers tend to be very linear in their thinking. This is the character, this is the problem, and this is what happens. It doesn’t take much space to deliver that kind of story. In writing a first draft, allow your mind the freedom to create connections and conflicts that you hadn’t anticipated or planned at the front end.
Play the “what-if” game. What if, in addition to being besieged by wizards at home, Raisa’s mother plans to marry her off as soon as she turns 16 to a suitor who might cause a civil war? Plus, the young soldier Raisa is in love with is ignoring her, and the ambitious prince of a neighboring country is threatening to invade?
What if Jack’s aunt actually turns out to be….
Consider yourself—your life is full of dramas, big and small. Consider your friends. They all have their own agendas, relationships, conflicts, and desires.
Layer those other conflicts and subplots onto your skeleton of story in order to flesh it out.
Here are some examples:
In addition to being the last of a guild of magical warriors being hunted by wizards to play in a magical tournament to the death, Jack’s girlfriend just broke up with him and the town bully is out to get him, and he doesn’t get along with the principal at the high school, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to make the soccer team. –The Warrior Heir
Not only is Seph a wizard who can’t control his powers, he’s been booted out of every school he’s attended, he’s an orphan who has recently lost his foster mother, and he’s responsible for the death of a friend. –The Wizard Heir
Madison Moss wants to be an artist, but there’s no money for college and her mother is flighty and irresponsible, leaving Madison to care for her younger siblings. A local coal company wants to force her off the mountain she loves. Plus Madison is thought to be a witch in her home town. –The Wizard Heir
More on this topic in my next post.

So I’m at Walt Disney World, World Headquarters of princesses. There are many princess and princess-like characters on the prowl here. Little girls can sign up to attend special Princess dining events including Perfectly Princess Tea parties ($250 for two,) Princess Storybook dining and Cinderella’s Happily Ever After dinners.
Everywhere I turn, there are princesses in frilly yellow and pink and purple dresses with lace sleeves and flounces.

I even find a princess dancing to the British Invasion Beatles tribute band in the UK pavilion.

There are grown-up princesses here as well. I shared a story with a real fairytale princess here.

They even had pink and green camouflage princess caps.

Here’s the thing--I saw no princes at all. There are no prince luncheons—not even pirate beach parties or brigand barbecues, though you can dine with Mickey, Donald, and other Disney characters.
No wonder princesses have to hang with the rest of us—there seems to be a prince shortage!
We take the Three Caballeros boat tour through “Old Mexico” at Epcot. In the seat behind us a young pirate is wailing. “It’s all right honey,” his parents croon. “This isn’t one of those scary rides.”
Next to him sits his princess sister in fancy dress and face paint, singing along to the Caballeros.
“Hey,” I say, twisting around in my seat. “I usually don’t see princesses hanging out with pirates. This isn’t a kidnapping situation, is it?”
The pirate stops sniffling and stares at me.
“It’s more like the princess kidnapped the pirate,” Mom says.
My kind of princess.

I’m ambivalent about princesses.
When I was a girl, my mother made me a princess costume one year for Hallowe’en. I was a princess, and my sister was an angel (this likely represented some wishful thinking on my mother’s part.)
My princess costume was tasteful gray satin with cathedral sleeves and a velvet bodice, and included a tall, conical princess hat with a scarf flying from the top. I almost immediately lost the hat, but I wore the dress all through winter and spring. I wore that dress until I could no longer shoehorn my growing self into it.
In recent years I was a regular patron of medieval dinners. Did I dress as a serving girl, or even a member of the burgeoning middle class? Oh, no—why squander a perfectly good opportunity to wear princess bling? I mean, princesses rule. Or they should.
But in traditional tales, princesses are too often passive creatures: waiting for rescue by someone else; held captive in towers, and enchanted by witches (and not in a good way). The archetypical princess is beautiful, kind-hearted, delicate and swoony. They spend a lot of time dreaming of their one true love, who miraculously turns out to be a prince—or at least a knight who can be polished up.
When a knight wins a kingdom, a princess is thrown in to sweeten the deal. They are often the equivalent of the winner’s purse when it comes to valiant quests, witch hunts, etc.
Sometimes I find myself rooting for the witch.
Princesses should be powerful figures, yet so often they are not--in literature, drama, and film, anyway. These days we have fire fighters and police officers, not firemen and policemen. But there are no princepersons. Princess is one of the few jobs that have retained that gender-specific title—perhaps because princes and princesses have had very different roles. Princes make things happen; princesses have things happen to them.

One of the viewpoint characters in the Seven Realms series is a princess. I almost cringe when I have to say that in my elevator speech. No, not that kind of princess, I want to say. Raisa is a kick-butt princess, frustrated with the expectations and restrictions of court life. She is the heir to the throne, and she intends to seize control of her future and create change in her queendom.
While she knows how to navigate a ballroom and salon, she spends much of her time in leggings and deerskin overshirt, hunting with her father’s clan relatives. This princess carries knives, and she knows how to use them.
For example, Raisa is attacked in an alley by a drunken assailant. After disabling him with streetfighting techniques, she presses a knife to her attacker’s throat.
“You touch me again, you arrogant Ardenine swine, and I swear on the blood of Hanalea the warrior, I will geld you. Do you understand?”
One of my readers described Raisa as a playgirl—and she is. Like many a princeling before her, she intends to play the field before she makes a political marriage. She is a cynic when it comes to love—at first, anyway.
NEXT: Princess Central

I've been receiving a lot of requests for information about the sequel to The Demon King, The Exiled Queen. Since my website is under construction, I thought I would post a sneak preview on my blogs.

This is the preliminary cover art for The Exiled Queen. It will be used on the galley cover, but is not the final version.

And below is a draft of the flap copy for EQ. WARNING: if you have not read The Demon King, there be spoilers below!!

Haunted by the loss of his mother and sister, hunted by the powerful Bayar family, Han Alister makes a devil’s bargain with the clans. If they sponsor his schooling at Mystwerk Academy at Oden’s Ford, he will become their magical sell-sword against the power-hungry Wizard Council.
Han and his clan friend Fire Dancer undertake the dangerous journey south through war-torn Arden. Once in Oden’s Ford, it doesn’t take long for the smoldering feud between Han and Micah Bayar to kindle into flame. After several attempts on his life, Han knows he has to find a way to defend himself.
In the magical dream world of Aediion, Han meets the mysterious Crow, a wizard with a long-standing grudge against the Bayars. Crow offers to tutor Han in wizardry in exchange for his help. Han agrees, once again forced into a bargain he hopes he won’t regret.
Meanwhile, Han’s friends Fire Dancer and Cat Tyburn struggle with their own demons. Dancer is determined to become a clan flashcrafter, despite his charmcaster status. Cat carries a load of guilt, as the only survivor of the slaughter of the gangs in Ragmarket and Southbridge.
Resuming her disguise as gently-born Rebecca Morley, Princess Raisa ana’Marianna travels with her friend Amon Byrne and his triple of cadets to Wien House, the military academy at Oden’s Ford. There she hopes she will find both temporary sanctuary from a forced marriage and the education she needs to succeed as the next Gray Wolf queen.
Much of Raisa’s education takes place outside of the classroom. As she mingles with students of all classes from throughout the Seven Realms, she forges the kind of friendships that don’t happen amid the cut-throat politics of the Gray Wolf Court. She also struggles to deal with her attraction to Amon—an attraction he seems determined to discourage.
When Han Alister asks the girl he knows as Rebecca to tutor him, she agrees. The streetlord turned wizard with the complicated past fascinates her, and he makes it clear the interest is mutual. But Han blames Queen Marianna and the Bayars for the loss of his family. As their relationship deepens, Raisa suspects that if Han knew her true identity, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her.

Do you ever find yourself sounding like your parents? It’s scary, man.
A year or so ago I did a bookstore appearance in Frisco, Tx. An aspiring writer who’d friended me online was there with her mother. During the Q&A, the mom raised her hand and said, “Don’t you think that someone who wants to be a writer should also get a degree in a field where they can actually make a living? To fall back on, I mean?” During this, her daughter glared at her mother in a way that said, My life is over, and it’s your fault.
“Great,” I said. “There’s no way I can answer this without getting into trouble.”
Last week, a boy emailed me to say, “I’m in middle school, and I would like to be a writer when I grow up. Can you tell me, on average, how much writers make in a year?” The boy was planning ahead for poverty.
And then, recently, at a writing workshop, a mother told me that her eleven-year-old daughter was a talented writer. She asked for my advice.
“Well,” I said, “it’s great that she’s already writing. She should keep that up, and read as much as possible, too. And she should choose a career that will support her while still allowing her time and energy to write.”
The mother looked taken aback, like I was in the business of killing dreams and kittens. “Don’t you think that would be very difficult?” she said. “To try to write while working a day job?”
Well, yes, I thought. It is difficult. And exhausting. I speak from experience.
“I want her to be able to focus on writing,” the mother went on. “We’re more than willing to support her until she gets established.”
As if that wouldn’t be a high pressure situation.
I’m not exactly a model of career planning and efficiency. I mean, really—my first degree is in philosophy. Finding it difficult to secure employment as a philosopher, I took a post-bacc and master’s in nutrition and practiced as a dietitian for years.
I began to write, yes, as a second job, although in the beginning I could have worked retail and made more reliable money.
I recommend that beginning writers plan for a day job for several reasons. Firstly, of course, to buy food, shelter, Internet access, books, and subscriptions to writing magazines. Secondly, day jobs provide an alternative place to achieve those small successes that keep us going. Maybe you’ve just received your twenty-fifth rejection for a novel that took three years to write. But maybe you’ve also completed a fabulous project at work or seen understanding kindle in a student’s eyes.
Planning ahead may mean you can choose a career that doesn’t suck up your time and wring out your soul, leaving you in no condition to write. Professionals are better able to request flexible schedules and can make more money doing part time work. Some writers choose to work in a field aligned with writing—teaching English, say, or business writing. Others prefer the perspective of doing something completely different. For some, the day job is raising children when someone else in the household brings in an income.
Don’t overlook the fact that other careers can provide you with grist for the writing mill. Lawyers and doctors often turn to writing fiction and nonfiction related to their areas of expertise.
But the most important reason for having a day job as a writer is that it prevents the quest for money from killing your love of the craft. It allows you to enjoy your writing, to follow the muse wherever it takes you. It gives you the freedom to become the best writer you can be without feeling like you constantly have to hustle for a buck.
It’s bad enough to have your work rejected without facing eviction as a result. And it’s easy to devalue your writing when you are desperate for a sale and it’s not happening. There’s so much we don’t control about success as a writer. Talent and hard work are necessary but not sufficient for success. Desperation can squeeze the joy right out of your art.
That said, if you want to transition into writing full time, do your homework, set up a plan and work it. It also helps to marry someone with insurance.
I used to do a lot of freelancing, which brought in some money. I made a conscious decision to turn away from that and focus on novels, even though I knew there was a chance I would never make a dime. But I knew that freelancing would always be a part time gig. I could never make enough freelancing to leave my day job.
That was in 2002. My first novel was published in 2006. My fourth book is coming out this week.
I left my day job in May, 2008.

There are no poisonous snakes in New Zealand, nor scorpions nor deadly spiders, either. That’s a plus, in my eyes.
Australia is different—it is home to more poisonous snakes, frogs, spiders, lizards, stingrays, jellyfish, vertebrate fish, and other dangerous creatures than anywhere else on earth.
It’s become politically incorrect in the U.S. to demonize animals—even dangerous predators—as vicious killers. We even tend to romanticize businesslike kill-or-be-killed lifestyles. Nothing personal, but I’m above you on the food chain.
Australians, on the other hand, seem to embrace the dangers of life in the bush with relish.
It reminds me of the old Crocodile Hunter show—“These are the most DANGEROUS animals in the world!” And it was true in his case—he died of a stingray sting in the chest.
While in Sydney, I stopped in at Galaxy Bookstore, a specialty sci-fi and fantasy bookstore. I was chatting with one of the clerks, and said I was just beginning a tour of Australia.
“Watch yourself out there,” she advised me. “There’s lots of snakes.” Meaning, don’t let down your guard, even though right now you’re in the middle of a major metropolitan area.
Turned out she knows what she’s talking about. She’s specializing in reptile studies at university. Seems like a good field to go into down under.
We visited Sydney Wildlife World, which was teeming with deadly creatures—dangerous birds, snakes, lizards, insects—you name it. In case you missed anything, lurid warning signs highlighted the most dangerous creatures on display.
Not enough worries? Across the way was the Sydney Aquarium, displaying deadly denizens of the deep.
Whatever the topic, it seemed to stray onto deadly subject matter. The guide at the seemingly low-risk koala breakfast explained to us the difference between poison and venom. “Venom works through the bloodstream,” she said. “It’s injected. Poison, on the other hand, can be ingested in different ways. We can touch a poison frog, eat a poison mushroom, breath in poisonous gases or brush a poison plant. Got that?”
Remember the Foolhardy Family? They wouldn’t last a minute in Australia. Get past the fauna, and the flora and the terrain is dangerous, too—blistering deserts, unpredictable seas and shipwreck coasts, bottomless crevasses, unstable cliffs, and poisonous plants. Of all the rogue introduced plants, it seems the only ones that have caught on are the noxious ones.
I’m a writer. My fertile imagination tells me there’s danger everywhere. I hiked through Alaska, singing at the top of my lungs, to drive off the bears. I walked through Florida wetlands scanning the underbrush for wolf spiders and alligators. I hiked through the “national forest” – ha! – desert in New Mexico, my eyes darting to either side, searching for rattlesnakes.Never thought I'd have to watch out for the lizard in the laundry room!
My advice: Watch yourself out there—it’s a dangerous world.

That's one week from today! I'll be signing books at the Barnes & Noble at Eton Collection for the Shaker Heights Middle School Bookfair on Monday, December 14, from 7 to 9 p.m. Other local authors will be there. Come hang out!

The Demon King Releases in the UK February 4 and Australia March 1!
The Demon King is named to the Indie Next Winter 2010 List!
The Demon King is named to the Lone Star Book List 2010!

I’ve been gone a while, so time to catch up on some news. The Demon King is pubbing in the UK with this cover



Which is the same art as the Dutch version.

This is my second book to make the Lone Star list (The Warrior Heir was on it) and my first book to be named to the Indie Next list. Here’s a shout out and thank you to independent booksellers and librarians in Texas!

OK, so I went to Fiji, and it was frickin’ freezing It wouldn’t be so bad except that my expectations were so very different. We planned to launch our journey to Australia and New Zealand with two days baking in the Fijian sun, recovering from jet lag. Instead, we departed the airport in a fine rain that continued all day, off and on. Gamely, I plastered on sunscreen and headed out to the beach in my shorts and tee shirt. Gale force winds blew in from the sea, sending surf crashing up over the reef a short distance out. Gray clouds boiled over the horizon as resort staffers nailed up storm shutters. Before long, I had layered on a hoodie and eventually gave up and put on long pants again. It was more Lake Superior than the South Pacific.
Apparently the sun shines here sometimes. I have travel brochures to prove it.
Mind, this is nothing new for me. I’m used to traveling places and having people say, “Sheesh! This is unusual. I’ve never seen it snow this time of year!” Or, “Thank God the drought has broken.” I once went tent camping in the Painted Desert—a places that gets only 7 inches of rain a year. Two inches came down the night we camped—causing a massive hatching of Mormon crickets. As they scratched against the tent, trying to get in, I was sure we were being invaded by an army of half-drowned scorpions.
Looking for unusual weather? Tired of the same old same old? Invite me to come visit.

Our hotel at Yulara Resort in outback Australia is beautiful—definitely a three-wastebasket facility. But I noticed an interesting information card in the bathroom. It was titled “Uninvited Guests.”
You may notice one or two uninvited guests. Please do not be alarmed, they are native to the area and it is quite normal for them to appear throughout the resort. If, however, you are disturbed by their presence, please contact reception.
It was unusually circumspect, like they didn’t want to frighten you by actually naming some of the uninvited guests you might encounter. However, its lack of specificity invited worrisome speculation as to what kinds of uninvited guests to expect. Sneak thieves? Freeloading relatives? Late night partiers?
Or maybe they meant intruders from the natural world. Dingoes or wallabies? Rose-breasted cockatoos, who flew in colorful and gossipy flocks from tree to tree, but which our tour guide described as pests. Cockroaches or cane toads? Deadly poisonous snakes or scorpions or spiders (we are in the Australian desert, after all.) Maybe the notice referred to the little clouds of flies we take with us everywhere?
Or possibly they meant the three-foot long goanna lizard I encountered in the laundry room.

We get an introduction to all things sheep at the Agrodrome, an agricultural demonstration show in Rotorua.

A mulleted host in a wifebeater comes out on stage, telling jokes as his comely assistant leads out nineteen different breeds of sheep, from Merinos to Lincolns to Romneys. I remember some of the names from my spinning and weaving days.
A sheep shearing demonstration follows. A wary ewe emerges from a doorway on stage right. After a few moments struggle, the host deftly flips her onto her back, where she sits, legs dangling foolishly in front of her. Perhaps closing her eyes and thinking of England, she allows the shearer to have his way with her. In less time than it takes me to get a haircut, the fleece is razored off and the sheep looks about half its original size.

When he asks for volunteers for milking, I impulsively raise my hand and join the other two victims on the stage. After all, I’m scheduled for a farmstay the next day, and I might need me some skills. Last time I volunteered and was called up on stage, it was for a wine-tasting. And that worked out all right.
Happily, we are milking a cow instead of a sheep. Somewhere, I’ve read tips for successful milking. Or maybe it was those lactation pamphlets I read after my sons were born.
This cow’s udder has been liberally greased up with some unknown farm substance. I don’t know if this is intended to make it harder or easier. Trying to remember the particulars, I grasp the udder firmly at the top and strip my hand downward, using my best empty toothpaste tube technique. Success! A thin stream of blueish milk splashes into the pail. The host looks mildly surprised and a little disappointed. I receive a certificate of “udderance.”
There follows sheepdog demonstrations in which one of the dogs herds several ducks back and forth across the stage and other dogs race across the backs of the mildly interested sheep in a technique called, understandably, backing. It’s kind of like a sheep mosh pit. It’s unclear whether this has any practical purpose but it makes for interesting and difficult to interpret photos.

I am convinced that nobody loves his work like a sheepdog. If they were any more alert and eager they would explode. They ought to show videos of sheepdogs at employee meetings instead of hiring motivational speakers.
The show closes with a mock fleece auction in which a reluctant Korean woman ends up owning an armload of unwashed wool redolent of lanolin. Then everyone repairs outside for a sheepdog demonstration with actual sheep.
All in all, I had a great time, but I think I have more of a future in wine-tasting.

Having just come off a ten-day book tour in the U.S. and Canada, I’ve learned that the wise traveler seizes any opportunity to eat, no matter how marginal the provender. When food is on offer, we furtively stuff our pockets, too, preparing against a lean future. Flying U.S. airlines these days is like visiting those inhospitable relatives who, even if you appear at mealtime, have always just eaten or make it clear they have no intention of breaking out the food and drink until you leave.            

So it’s quite the shock to be traveling in the South Pacific and discovering that, around here, airline meals is one corner that’s not yet cut. Or maybe places are just so far apart they have to bring provisions.

            Remember that scene in Fellowship of the Ring when hobbits Merri and Pippin are traveling with Aragorn the Ranger and realize that mealtimes are going to be few and far between. “What about second breakfast?” Pippin says plaintively. “Elevenses? High tea?”

We’ve had a spate of second breakfasts. Following experience, we eat before we get on the plane. And then they feed us on the plane. Or we eat on the plane, and then they feed us at the hotel on arrival.

The breakfasts on Air Pacific have been hearty but peculiar. Both have consisted of lamb sausage, omelet, corn, hash brown potatoes, fruit cup, and juice.

What’s the deal with the corn? My ingrained nutrition training and Yank sensibiities say, no way there should be hash browns and corn at breakfast. No corn at all unless it’s grits or muffins. I try to tie it to British heritage, but corn is a New World vegetable.

There’s also a dearth of sugar free and diet foods. Perhaps people around here move around more than we do in the States. And the diet soda vends under different names. At our hotel, Pepsi Light and Pepsi Max were both on offer. I had to read the label carefully to determine that they were both sugar-free.

On the upside, the yogurt tastes much more like yogurt than what I’ve been getting at home. More like milk and less like carageenan. And I’m loving the exotic fruit—papaya and mango each morning at breakfast.

And they have this delicious rich ice cream in New Zealand called hokey-pokey. It tastes like homemade.

Note to self: move around more.

If you want to go to Australia, you pretty much have to go through LA. So we flew into Los Angeles this morning, arriving about 10:30 a.m. Unfortunately, our plane to Fiji didn’t leave until 11:30 p.m. (2:30 a.m. by my home town clock).  Fortunately, our travel agent gave us passes to the Continental President’s Club.

I’d always gazed longingly at those fancy wood-paneled doors, wondering what delights lay within. So I was practically giddy with anticipation as we pressed the little doorbell and were admitted.            

OK, I’m a writer—my imagination always surpasses reality. But it was still very nice—much better than huddling in a cracked vinyl chair in the boarding area or wandering the concourses, looking for a place to plug in my power-depleted laptop.  There were work carrels with power outlets, lights, and telephones. There was wireless Internet access throughout the club. There were comfortable chair groupings with more power outlets. There was a pantry area with tea, coffee, water, and snacks including crackers and cheese and fruit.

            Did I mention there were power outlets?

            I did a last quick-edit of The Exiled Queen before sending it off to my editor using the handy wireless access. My husband updated my website with photos from the Demon King tour. I looked around at the other patrons, wondering if they were really presidents or if they’d got in on a pass like us.

            I couldn’t help thinking that it would be nice if such a lounge was made available to airline passengers if, say, their flights were cancelled or delayed through no fault of their own. Recalling my night spent sleeping on a baggage cart in Laguardia Airport (it was raining), and my night spent sleeping under a chair in Heathrow Airport (air traffic controllers strike) it would have been much more pleasant to have spent them hanging with the Presidents.

            My husband and I took photos of each other sitting in the President’s Club, because who knew if we would ever get there again.

I’ve said it before. Author tours are The Agony and the Ecstasy.

Monday night was The Ecstasy.

When language arts teacher Beth Duncan of Vista Academy is on a mission, it is impossible to say no. I had corresponded with Beth several times over the past year and arranged to send ARC’s of The Dragon Heir to her middle school students for their review. When Beth found out I was touring for The Demon King, she emailed me and said, “How can I get you to come to San Diego?” I put her in touch with my publicist, who wisely made it happen.

So Monday I arrived at Vista Academy in Vista, Ca to find that Beth had mobilized the entire school (it seemed) to make me welcome. I presented to the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. (where's the author?)

Her videography students filmed an interview. I toured their annual haunted house, which this year was loosely planned around an Heir Series theme, with forests and castles and a dungeon. The students paint all the sets and play scary roles during the haunting. Here I am with Vista students in the dungeon!

That evening, Beth and her co-conspirator, Lisa Haynes, the Community Relations Manager of the Oceanside Barnes & Noble, had put together an awesome event—an author signing/masquerade/Halloween party.

I signed with author Alyson Noel, whose Immortals series is OWNING the bestseller list. (I felt like I was opening for the Rolling Stones.)

Here are me, Beth, and Alyson at the signing table.

There was a special Demon King menu in the café, featuring the Seven Realms Seven Layer Bar and Dancer’s Dare Hot Apple Spice Cider and Raisa ana’Marianna’s White Chocolate Mocha. Yum!

Lisa was dressed as a Clan Matriarch in a gown and feathered headdress. The rest of the staff and many of the attendees dressed up, too. Me? I was dressed as a YA author at the end of a long tour. Thanks to Beth, Lisa, and everyone for making this happen!!

This is just so cool, I have to share it.

The Warrior Heir was one of the featured books at the 2009 Youngstown State University English Festival. Ursuline High School students John Vitullo and Dan Catello wrote the Shadowslayer Symphony, a composition based on The Warrior Heir. It depicts the events in the graveyard after Jack digs up the sword, Shadowslayer. The symphony won the festival's annual Jeremy Salvner Memorial Music Award. This award is given to junior and senior high school students participating in the English Festival who create the best original music compositions inspired by one or more of the books on the festival's reading list.
Click here to hear their stellar work.

So I’m in Houston for a series of school visits. But don’t think the title of my piece has anything to do with that: I am having an awesome time—everyone has been gracious and these kids are whipsmart.
I’m staying at a business class hotel. My room is spacious and there’s even a refrigerator I can put things into! All that is good.
But not perfect. They have those Styrofoam cups that I despise, and there’s powdered creamer in the little packets that come with the coffee maker. I am resourceful, though. I bring up some real cream from breakfast and put it in the refrigerator. As for the Styrofoam, I can deal. All part of life on the road.
But I have no wastebaskets. None at all. I search the room twice. You don’t realize how often you use a wastebasket until you don’t have one. Well, I think, surely when Housekeeping makes up the room, they will notice there are no wastebaskets to empty, and they will remedy it. Meanwhile, I strew trash around, which is not the way I was raised.
When I return from the school visit, Housekeeping has been there, they have taken the trash, but there are still no wastebaskets.
Maybe, I think, in their efforts to go green, the hotel has resorted to the “pack in, pack out” policy. Whatever trash you generate, you have to take with you.
I call down to the desk.
“Are you sure?” the desk clerk says.
“Well, yes,” I say. “I’ve looked three times.”
“We have a couple down here,” she says.
“Great,” I say. “I’ll come get them.”
But when I get there, the clerk looks apologetic. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought there were some, wastebaskets here but Housekeeping must have taken them.”
I envision that somewhere there is a hoard of wastebaskets guarded by the Dragon of Housekeeping.
“I’ll tell them to bring you some, though,” the clerk offers.
Some time later, a Housekeeper comes to the door clutching two wastebaskets. “Are you sure? No wastebasket?” She stalks around the room, checking under the desk and in the bathroom, and finally leaves two wastebaskets in my custody. I try to use them a lot after that.
The day isn’t over yet. I go out to dinner with some librarians—we have a great time. When I return, I get on the elevator. I look down and see that someone has apparently defecated on the floor.
I sniff, and there is no apparently about it.
I call down to the desk.
“Um, you may want to alert Housekeeping that there are feces on the floor of the elevator.”
“What?” the clerk says.
“There’s poop in the elevator. On the floor,” I say.
“Are you sure?” the desk clerk says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”
“Oh!” the clerk says. “Sorry. I’ll take care of it right away.”
Since then, I’ve huddled up here in my room, afraid to chance the elevator again. And that’s the way it is, out here in the wastelands.

So.  For the first time, my publisher is sending me on an official book tour beginning next week. You can also find out where I’ll be at my website. I am really excited and nervous and eager to meet you all. Even the librarian’s sister.