This is an occasional journal about how my life affects my writing and my writing affects my life. This journal is not to be a classic blog, in other words it's not interactive. It will not have photos either. Or links. Nor do I expect to write in it every day. And I don't want to have to moderate the thing. However, if you read something here that you want to respond to, send me email (janeyolen@aol.com) and I will write back. Please say whether or not you agree to have your email quoted somewhere in "Telling the True." I like getting questions from my readers--whether you are a writer or a book fancier, a teacher, librarian, or child. Note that the order of the entries is most recent first. Entries from earlier days are archived.

February 27-28, 2005:

One of the see-saw events in a writer's life is the book tour, or conference, or workshop. We go out to support our work, making charming small talk, giving speeches, signing books. Of course, all we really want to do is to stay home and write. Or smell the grandbabies and then write.

Some writers do the publicity circuit with great ease, some with gritted teeth. I fall somewhere in-between. The great moments on these tours are never the ones you expect, and the things you book a year in advance are suddenly upon you when you least want to go. I understand the importance of on-site publicity and the shaking of hands, but after 40 years of doing it, I am tired of hearing my own voice and have little left to say. I cannot stand doing the And-then-I-wrote speech, and almost always give a talk on writing or story or the importance of literature. But honestly, I could send a robot in my place primed with JY's Fifty Greatest Hits and no one would know the difference.

Well, of course they would--but only because robots aren't terribly sophisticated yet.

So there I was, flying off to Atlanta for the Georgia Reading Association's conference, knowing that 1. I really had a short story I wanted to write 2. a major snowstorm was on its way 3. I was about to do a LOT of traveling afterwards and 4. I hate flying.

It turned out both better and worse than expected. The flight was easy, the weather was cold and rainy (and I thought leaving New England for Atlanta would be a good winter choice), the Georgia teachers and librarians were very welcoming, I got a standing ovation for my talk, and sold a lot of books.

The surprise came the first night when six children--2 from elementary, 2 from middle school, and 2 from high school--were given awards for being great readers. They each delivered a speech, and it was all terrible moving. And I was reminded once again that the young readers out there are hungry for good books and what I do IS important.

I left the conference about an hour earlier on the second day than planned and raced for the airport to see if I could get on an earlier flight. Picture this: a short, slightly overweight, 66 year old white woman with a new knee and a bad back sprinting through the Atlanta airport like OJ back when he was a good guy and making commercials. Dear Reader, I made the flight with about a minute to spare. Did a good deed by changing seats with a husband and wife (and got the better seat for it, though I wasn't to know that until the last minute.)

I came home to a hot meal, a letter telling me that Dolly Parton (!) had chosen my book OWL MOON for her Imaginary Library (or maybe it was for her Library of the Imagination), the first copies of the paperback of my old (very old) novel WIZARD OF WASHINGTON SQUARE, a message that my editor who used to work for Tor, Jonathan, was to be my new editor at Harcourt on the Pit Dragon book (hurrah!) and lots of bills.

And then it began to snow. Lots and lots and lots of snow. By 9:30, when I would have been driving back from the airport if I had kept to the original flight, cars were slipping and sliding all over the highway. So, in fact, I was lucky to have made it home when I did. Sometimes the magic works. . .

 

February 26, 2005:

Boring, boring, boring taxes.

Alleviated by reading Newsweek, doing some crossword puzzles, reading Julius Lester's book on writing, watching tv.

But still the burden of the day was: Taxes--BORING.

Maddison worked hard on her play and dividing out the Girl Scout cookies. David worked hard on his upcoming trip to the Caribbean. We had Glen and her boyfriend over for a spaghetti dinner cooked by David.

And I spent most of the time (Boring) on taxes. Except for a couple of patches and the entire House section--which I will do in the morning--they are finished. Or at least my part is done. Now David takes his turn in the barrel. And I have a full year in which to recover.

 

February 24-25, 2005:

Some nice things happened: PERFECT WIZARD got a starred review in Publisher's Weekly, I had a lot of people at a Barnes & Noble reading/celebration of the DINOSAUR books (and sold about 50 books), got the programs/speeches written and planned for several upcoming travel dates, physical therapy is going along well enough.

And some not nice things happened: I have spent two days--and will need a third--organizing our taxes. I am always growly at this time of the year. If you value your life, don't phone to chat with me. Several friends, or parents of friends, are seriously ill and/or dying. And an editor called me up and yelled at me. In over forty years in the business that has never happened before. I pride myself on being cooperative--and nice. In fact, I won an award years ago, voted on by a number of people at a science fiction convention, for being the nicest person in SF. This phone call came out of the blue, and a day later, I am still shaken by it.

Didn't get any writing done these past two days, though I fiddled a bit with a short story about the prophet Elijah that is not going as planned. And is, alas, I am afraid overdue for the anthology that wanted it. This often happens to me. I am never late on books, but short stories are a different prospect altogether. I am not sure why this is so. I always mean to get them done in time. But they don't always cooperate.

Heidi is off helping a friend out in California and David and I--plus Brandon--are on Maddison watch. Note--it takes three of us to do what Heidi does by herself with grace and ease. This means not just making lunches to take to school and pick-ups and deliveries, but additional stuff. For example, Maddison volunteered (the Yolen woman's disease) to write her group's Egyptian play and to make all the costumes as well. I am able to help on the first, but hopeless and all thumbs with the second. However, I am a great audience.

 

February 23, 2005:

Early morning blood work after fasting, Usual stuff. I will have a black-and-blue mark on my arm, I always do. But they got it first stick which, for me, is a blessing.

Came home to finish up the DANCE book and shipped it out via email.

Then finished xeroxing and annotating stories and poems and essays for the World Con book and sent those off.

Finally, turned to the last bits and pieces I needed to rework on NAMING LIBERTY, which seemed to come all together. Great notes from editor Pat Gauch guided my hand, but some element of hindbrain (or subconcious) revising had been going on for the past two weeks. And when I sat down again with my research stuff spread about me, it fit together beautifully. Now I only hope Pat thinks so, too.

The young carpenter/handymanwe hired was busy repainting the downstairs blue bathroom and has started on rebuilding Maddison's closet. So there's a lot of hammering and paint smells wafting about. Gives Heidi headaches and the rest of us are constantly stumbling over STUFF. Never mind, we will be glad when it's done.

I turned to bill paying, filing, organizing, and off to an early dinner with David, Heidi, and Maddison at our neighbor, Jan's. Jan is family, really. Everyone should have such a loyal, loving sister. Her son (now a married man) took his first steps in our kitchen. All my kids babysat him. So it was a relaxing time. Except, as usual, she had about fifty books for me to sign. She gives them as gifts to her clients. (She owns and is CEO of a political polling firm.)

 

February 22, 2005:

Started the day with early morning physical therapy for my back, than returned home to do more work on the DANCE book.

Meanwhile, good news poured in. PAY THE PIPER, which will be published this July, has already been nominated for an ALA YA Best Books. Someone is reading the bound galleys and liking it. The publisher (and Adam and I) are extremely chuffed about that.
Then editor Jonathan Schmidt wrote saying how much he loved the proposal for the GOLEM novel (called alternately Big Ugly Guy, Goon's Revenge, and B.U.G.) So it's shipped off to the in-house editor, Susan Chang for her take.

"A Knot of Toads" was accepted for the anthology NOVA SCOTIA, though the adorable editors, with much trepidation, asked me for a small rewrite. I calmed their nerves, telling them that as I am a professional, I know that revision comes with the territory.

Off I went with all this news and lots of show-and-tell to my writers' meeting, and birthday celebration, and had just opened my presents, when Heidi called with the news that David had managed to catch an earlier plane and was landing in 3/4 of an hour. Since she was stuck at home with Maddison and a playdate, I was the one to go.

So I gave everyone at the meeting hugs and thanks and raced off, getting to the airport 45 seconds after David came out the door. Whew. Reunions, celebrations, jetlag--all that good stuff.

While David took it easy, I finished my revisions of the DANCE book and sent it on to Heidi. My changes in red, hers will be in green. When she's done, I will go over it all once more before shipping it to the editor.

Still plowing through lots of old mail, bills, magazines and feeling as if I am underwater. But never mind, it will all come out all right in the end.

 

February 21, 2005:

Snowing like a hamster outside, so I assumed we were going to stay in all day. The world looked beautiful, but not inviting. So I wrote. Or, rather, I revised, getting about half the DANCE book done, my additions in red so Heidi could then go over them and put any of her additions and other changes in green.

But halfway through the day, the siren song of Angela DiTerrlizzi called, and off Heidi and Maddison went to the mall while I continued to work. (I will do ANYTHING to avoid mall shopping.)

They came back at 4:45 for me, and we zoomed to Zanna's, our favorite shop, and met Angela there. I had $100 worth of free coupons that were due to xpire March 1. Of course at Zanna's one always spends more than the awards. But I needed the shoes anyway. And a pair of red earrings. And Heidi got a new sweater as well.

Then off to the DiT's for a pasta dinner and a look at the first half of the illustrations for Tony's new book. Wow! (Maddison posed for the mermaid picture.) His fairy wings are absolutely transluscent and the faerie critters have that wonderful gradation of color on fur and feathers and scales that one sees in nature but rarely in illustration. Tony is a bug collector, and his attention to detail lifts these pictures above the ordinary. As does his sense of humor, a combination of gonzo absurdity and loving familiarity.

Afterwards, we all played an hilarious electronic word game, along with both DiT's and Holly Black. Holly is a shark! I always want her on my team.

 

February 18-20, 2005:

This was the weekend of the Boston Science Fiction Convention (Boskone) and I was looking forward to seeing old friends and talking books and books and books. Little did I know what lay ahead for me. <Cue music.>

First I drove out to Whately where I picked up Allen Steele, the sf writer, and then we headed off to Boston, gabbing all the way. Allen is always fun to be with, and the miles sped by.

The convention was at the Sheraton, right off the Mass Pike by the Prudential Center. My room was big and airy and light, a corner room with windows on both sides, on the 24th floor. There was a bed large enough for six people to join me. I hung up my clothes and registered into the convention, and did my first panel (on YA books) and then went off for a lovely dinner with one of the Tor editors, Claire Eddy.
Now Claire is not my editor at Tor. I work with Patrick Nielsen Hayden and Beth Meacham on adult books, with Jonathan Schmidt and Susan Chang on middle grade and YA fiction. But Jonathan and Susan don't come to Boskone. Patrick had other plans. Beth--who was originally scheduled to take me to dinner--had broken her leg last week. So Claire flung her body into the breech. We were both actually delighted to go off to dinner together, because--though we rarely get to spend time together--we very much enjoy one another's company. So off we went to Atlantic Seafood. I had a bit of a time crunch because I was on something called "storytelling smackdown" at 9 with Bruce Coville and another storyteller, Barbara C.

Within 15 minutes of returning to the hotel, however, I was in my room writhing in pain, my stomach in spasms. My whole body was alternating hot and then cold, as if currents were flowing through it. I could barely get to the bathroom in time. Once back on the bed, I was almost too weak to move.

I did manage to called down to the front desk to ask them to notify the head of the convention that I wasn't going to make the storytelling after all. The person on the phone said, "What science fiction convention?" which is when we dropped into major bizarreness.

I wondered, in my fevered state, if I had food poisoning, or gotten Maddison's stomach flu, or was being hit with diverticulitis again, or (one's mind always makes that final leap, of course) developing stomach cancer. All I really knew was that I needed help.

Fumbling again with my glasses, I realized suddenly that there was an emergency button on the phone. I pushed it and it was answered at once. They sent up two security guards since clearly I was making little sense on the phone.

The men knocked three times on my door (I'd managed to crawl out of bed once again to go to the bathroom and, on the way back to bed had remembered to take the hinge bolt off the door. Lucky that, because I was now not in a state to move at all.) At each knock, I called out, "Come in." But my voice had no substance. I was in fever-whisper mode. The phone rang. I lifted it up. It was extraordinarily heavy. "Can the security guards come in?" someone asked me. "Yes," I uttered, and in they came.

Immediately I began shivering and stuttering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." One of the guards, with a lilting Jamaican accent, said, "Now Ma'am, you are our guest. We want to make sure you're all right." Then they proceeded to ask me my name, where I lived, and whom they could contact. It is very difficult with those kind of stomach spasms to remember one's own name or address, and especially difficult to recall the daughter's cel phone number. But I did.

Then they asked if I wanted the EMTs and we all thought that was for the best. I was dizzy now, somewhat shocky. I had to get up and rush for the toilet again.

When I was back on the bed once again, the two guards kept reassuring me until the EMTs arrived. These were a handsome young man and an even handsomer young woman who had only one hand. (I said this was bizarre.) Yet she still managed with economy of movement and ease to take my blood pressure, which had fallen through the basement. No wonder I was dizzy. However I did worry how she could give CPR with only one hand.

The EMTs wanted to take me to the hospital. They thought I probably had food poisoning as--by now--did I. But I kept thinking: a hospital in Boston on a holiday weekend, and no one knowing where I am. . .my daughter two hours away, my husband in England? I didn't think so.

They promised to return if I needed them. So off they went.

I slept on and off all night, still fully clothed. Woke every hour for more trips to the bathroom. By morning, drained, exhausted, I needed to get up. I had made plans to take my Scottish friend Christine's nephew (here on a junior year abroad at MIT) to breakfast and I had no way to call it off. He arrived with a French girlfriend and we went to a restaurant in the hotel. I know we chatted at breakfast. I have no memory of what was said. I do know I had tea and toast.

Then I was on three panels (all on fairy tales) I have NO idea what--if anything--I said on the panels either.

Tor's publisher Tom Doherty was wandering around and I joked with him that Tor was trying to kill me. "Not before you hand in your two books under contract," he joked back. I wondered aloud if that was a shot across the bow, though I am certainly not in any danger of being late on those books.

At 5:15 I had a meeting with Priscilla Olsen, who works with NESFA Press. She is putting together a collection of my stories and poems and essays--to be called ONCE UPON A TIME, SHE SAID for the Glasgow World Con. I took notes, but only vaguely remembered what we talked about. Then I went back to my room determined to get in a nap. Instead I was too figity, so I watched "The Incredibles" (enjoyable but too much like "Spy Kids") for a while and then dropped into a deep sleep.

My friend Andrew had been warned to wake me since I had a presentation at 10 pm, part of an award ceremony, for the wonderful Tamora Pierce who was (big surprise to her) winning the Skylark award. So Andrew phoned and woke me, I made it down, somewhat shakily, for my part in the ceremony, then went right back to bed and slept through till Sunday morning.

I had breakfast (a softboiled egg and more toast) with an old friend from my Quaker work camp days (back in the 1950s!) and then did a Koffeeklatsch where fans sit around with an author and talk about the work.There I managed to drop scalding hot tea all over myself and had to cut the discussion short, to go back to my room, use the blowdryer on my pants, and change clothes. NOT a good time.

At noon I gave a reading, of several poems, and several sections of PAY THE PIPER. A good crowd. I think I did all right.

And then thankfully, I headed for home, hoping against hope that I didn't have an accident along the way.

Obviously I got home safely (though I made one wrong turning, enough--I guess--to satisfy the God of The Three Bad Things.) And actually worked with Heidi revising three of the introductions to dances in our DANCE anthology. I also Xeroxed some of the things I had evidently promised Priscilla, since I found notes about them on a sheet of paper when I unpacked.

Now having written this journal piece, I can't wait to go to bed!

 

February 17, 2005:

First thing in the morning, I worked on trying to get the journal up and running on the Mass. computer, transferring stuff without David around. Even having him go through it with me on the phone didn't help. Clearly I am a Luddite. Will try again in the evening.

My first back PT with my wonderful knee therapist. I hope this goes well.

Then I raced out for lunch with my friend Leslea. Whenever I go off for lunches or dinners, I feel guilty taking time from work, but love it as well. I never cut myself any slack.

Heidi and I worked on several of the introductions for the DANCE book, edging towards completing it. It has been a long and difficult project and neither of us is happy with it.

I sat with Maddison when Heidi had to run off to pick up a neighbor's child from school. I read her three of the short stories from TWELVE IMPOSSIBLE THINGS, and we had a good time. She's still wiped out from the flu, though.

 

February 16, 2005:

Poor Maddison,she's a really sick cookie.

Meanwhile, I had two doctors' appointments. The back doctor put me on a PT regime which will start tomorrow. The ENT put a probe down my nose (shades of alien abductions!) and thinks I have laryngeal reflux. So I have medicine, diet, and am supposed to raise my bed head with bricks and/or boards. David will love that! Also my diet needs to be shorn of alcohol, caffeine, spicy foods, and fatty foods. Anyone who knows me, knows I don't drink, have been decaffinated for about 15 years, and don't eat spicy. That leaves only one culprit. Heidi feels that when she cooks, it's like trying to feed Jack Spratt and his wife (only the reverse) since David needs to be fattened up and I--well, meals should be ordeals now. Probably we need a button for that! MEALS SHOULD BE ORDEALS.

Then I did a grocery shopping, including stuff for sick Maddison like Pedialite pops and Gatorade.

Book news: Harcourt is giving me what I want for the fourth Pit Dragon book, so DRAGON'S HEART is a go. All I have to do is write 200 more glorious pages! A poem of mine--"Musings About Seth" has been nominated for the Rhysling Award (given by the Science Fiction Poetry Assn.), another poem (and one of Heidi's as well) are shortlisted for an anthology called GUY STUFF.

And I actually got to work some on the revisions of NAMING LIBERTY, maybe about an hour's worth.

 

February 15, 2005:

Travel day. Always fraught. I hate flying. But it started well--we were out to the car by 6 am and a tawny owl was calling right near the house. We took a moment to try and find it, finally had to give up as its call faded back towards the Lade Braes, the conservation area near our home. If there hadn't been a plane to catch, we'd have gone chasing.

No traffic of note. David dropped me at Edinburgh airport and in I went. Easy flight to Newark. Almost three hour layover, then easy flight to Hartford. Picked up by Heidi's ex-husband and home. No green lawns, no flowers, just a gray old snow overcoat. Heidi and Maddison were out at her fencing lesson, so I had a couple of hours to get a handle on the most important mail.

When they got home, Maddison with her own fencing foil (she's moved out of the absolute beginner level) we traded hugs, gifts, and I went to bed at 8:30. having been up in real time for 20 hours.
Middle of the night I awoke to an awful sound. Maddison was throwing up every hour on the hour. Stomach flu. Welcome home.

 

February 14, 2005:

First thing in the morning, I went over Adam’s revisions for TROLL BRIDGE, made a (very few) changes, and sent the mss. as an attachment to our editor. Amazing what one can do these days. I know that particular editor reads this journal (or at least his fiancee does) so will only add: Hope you like it and get to it ASAP! Actually, he has to. Tor already has the cover designed for the book.

Since I will have little time to get my hair cut in the US before all my conferences, conventions, and book tour stuff, I went this morning in St Andrews. I love having folk take care of my hair, rub my scalp, pamper me. God knows nobody else does! (Just kidding.) But I do have trouble making the requisite small talk. In Massachusetts small talk is easy because my hairdresser is the mother of Adam’s old high school girlfriend, so we have lots of friends (and children) in common. But here I am a stranger, an alien, a face among other faces, and the women who do my hair are younger than my children and probably even younger than my oldest granddaughter. We talked about movies and movie stars and, of course, the weather, that inevitable Scottish subject.

Hair done, I went on to buy a few presents to take home, AND a birthday present for David to give me. Finally! I’d been wanting a large flower vase for those times when someone brings (or I buy) long stemmed flowers. Found a fine one and told David I now had his gift in hand! He was much relieved and could stop feeling like a cad.

Came home to finish packing away and tidying up. That included getting stuff on a CD to take work home. Laundry. Packing clothes away so someone else can use part of my closet if they stay over. The usual.

And then I received the bound galleys for PAY THE PIPER which looks wonderful, with a great quote by Tamora Pierce on the front. Of course the young assistant editor sent it to Jane Yolan, and whoever filled out the Fed Exp sent it to Jane Nolan. It’s a wonder I got it at all. At least my name is spelled correctly on the book!

Heidi and I are very excited about the Amherst ballet’s upcoming production of two of the stories from our BAREFOOT BOOK OF BALLET STORIES and she has added a whole section about it to her website, which should not be missed: www.heidistemple.com We worked some on the narration. She’s a wonder, my daughter. And a good writer, too.

 

February 13, 2005:

Snow on the ground. Just a dusting, but the weather reports were for ice on the roads in Central Scotland, so we chickened out on the longer antiquing trip. If it hadn’t been my birthday, we might have been excused for thinking it April or May with the profusion of flowers in the garden that now lay under a dusting of snow. But that tiny snowfall and the cutting wind recalled us to winter.

So, instead we made a quick run to a closer antiques mall, purchased a few small (tiny) presents for other folk (not me) and a research book for David. Then on the way back, we stopped at the Swallow Hotel which was advertising a fishing/tackle show. David bought a Slater reel, quite a lovely wood and brass item, from the 1880s. And one of the those folding-up seat he can use in the field when bird recording. Again, no present for me. (It reminds me of the time he bought me a very special present—a lens for his camera!)

At home, I spoke to Adam about his revisions on TROLL BRIDGE and he said they were all but done. Promised to send them overnight.

I did almost all of my packing, two days early.

Nora came for a goodbye tea.

Then off we went to have dinner at the Inn at Lathones, with our friends Christine and John, for my final birthday celebration. The Inn is a bit outside of St Andrews near Largoward, and though we’d heard good things about it, we’d never tried it out before. Now that we have been, I expect we will frequent it often with guests. It has a wonderful nineteenth century charm and quite a fine menu. Christine had painted a small oil painting for me called "A Knot of Toads", and there was a large agate toad, and Celtic magic stones in a velveteen bag, as well as other toad/wind presents. Quite a wonderful end to my birthday among Fife friends.

 

February 12, 2005:

So I was lying in bed, trying to decide whether to get up or not (it was 6 am) and suddenly I realized I had a great big HOLE in my "Toads" story. So I lay there for another half hour figuring out how to solve it. Then I leaped out of bed, brushed my teeth, and hurried downstairs to my computer. (My daughter Heidi solves this by having her laptop by her bed, but I need to make some distinction between work and sleep or I’d never get any rest.)

In fact, it took another 200 words in various places to make a solid patch, but now I think it works. And I sent the revision off to the editors who, I hope, have not yet read the old version. This on is just a few words under the 10,000 mark. <Yeah! Jabs fist up at the sky, which is wonderfully blue and full of fluffy white clouds, the kind that East Neuk fisherman call Babylonians, God only knows why.>

Then, since I was already on email, I checked out what had been sent overnight. Several messages (including one from Australia) of folks reading the journal. Lots of birthday wishes. And an ongoing (sigh) cultural war on the ChildLit listserve between Intelligent Design backers and Evolutionists. I keep biting my lips, trying to keep out of what is a take-no-prisoners argument. I am married to a scientist and am an ardent believer in keeping church and state widely separate. But what gets my goat is when someone posts to the effect that their side is the side of morality. I may have to drop that listserve for a while until things cool down again. Or I cool down. Or angels begin dancing on pinheads again.

By the way, I checked the SFWA Nebula categories and in their count, "Toads" is a Novelette, not a Novella. For what it’s worth: Novelettes run 7500-17,500 words, Novellas 17,501-40,000 words, above 40,000 words comes the novel. I wonder if over 200,000 words is the Super Novel. Or the Uber-Novel. Or the SuperSizer Novel. Or just The Doorstop. As I never weary of explaining to my colleagues in the Science Fiction world, this leaves many children’s and YA novels as novellas, which I found out eighteen years ago when my book DEVIL’S ARITHMETIC was a Nebula finalist in the novella category. (Didn’t win.)

 

David and I were discussing the news of Arthur Miller’s death, and how some newspapers are calling him "The American Shakespeare." I felt strongly that it is much too soon to make any such comparison, and besides, only two of Miller’s play (I feel) are truly great: "Death of a Salesman" and "The Crucible." "All My Sons," "After the Fall," and "A View from the Bridge" are strong second rank, in my opinion, good theater but not masterpieces. And the rest, well. . .He wrote criticism and political diatribes which I certainly think were impressive. But to set that against Shakespeare?

We turned our discussion toward other American playwrights, trying to see if there was anyone who might be a closer fit. O’Neill? Several great plays. Same with Tennessee Williams (and some real stinkeroos as well.) Lillian Hellman? A few good ones. Mamet? Ditto. Albee. . . We’re talking Shakespeare here, folks. I even offered up Stephen Sondheim which I think gets to the popularity and broadness of Shakespeare’s appeal, and he writes music besides.

The problem with comparisons, besides being odious, is that a Shakespeare or a Mozart or a DaVinci are all sui generis. They are above their genre or they are their own genre. They are, by definition, incomparable. So says the person who has been called "America’s Hans Christian Andersen." Well, no. Not really. My work may be broader than his, more various, but certainly not as brilliant. I stand on his shoulders. He stood on no one’s.

David went back to work on his bird song project. He’s giving a talk on it down in England later next week, after I’ve returned to the States. So with the squeaks and trills of various thrushes careening around the room, I settled into another short story, this one a trickster tale about a girl who goes tracking sideways in time with that consummate tricky magician, Elijah. I already had a good 1200 words done, and so began by fiddling around and sharpening what was there. Then I added two lines and stopped dead in my tracks. Not a clue. Sigh. And the story is due at the end of the month if I am to get it into the anthology.

Never mind. This often happens. I finish a story a year or two past a particular deadline, and then have to find somewhere else to submit it. Lucky I don’t count on the income from short stories to keep the family afloat!

I came back later, added about 300 words and then realized, latterly, that they were dreadful. Or perhaps they were nearer the ending of the story. But I’d set up nothing to permit me to go there. The words and plot device I put down hadn’t been "earned," which is to say I hadn’t prepared the ground well enough for seeds to grow.

Oh well, maybe two stories in as many days would be too much to ask for. (Though of course I’d been working on "Toads" for a good deal longer than that.)

We watched a borrowed DVD of Spiderman 2. I have decided I don’t much like comics turned into movies. Didn’t much like Dick Tracey or Superman or The Mask or X Men or . . .Maybe if Sandman is ever made into a movie I’d like that better. It has much more resonance for me.

Then I began working on dinner, because Bob and Deb Harris were coming over to celebrate my birthday. They arrived with gifts (a hundred-year-old Bavarian tea-for-two set, quite charming) two books, and a present to take home to Maddison as well. We dove into the roasted lemon chicken with roasted new potatoes, veggies, salad, red and white wines. And a lovely fresh fruit salad made by Deb for dessert. The conversation roamed as usually, but we ended up with an hour dissecting American politics which depressed me as I am soon to go home.

Adam called all a-twitter with the news that the cover of his first novel had arrived. The blurb on the front was by Anne McCaffrey saying this was possibly the best first novel she’d read in years.

And afterwards, unbeknownst to us as we slept, it snowed. Just a scattering. Not at all like a real New England snow. But it reminded me of what lay ahead, when I return to Massachusetts on Tuesday.

 

February 11, 2005:

Today is my 66th birthday, which leads me to thinking about the aging process. I am 30 pounds over my college weight and I was never a sylph even then. I like to tell people I went from rompers to size 12 with no intervening steps. Well, some steps surely—after all, I was a dancer for many of those early years. Ballet through high school, then in college I took modern dance and fencing. After college I did a lot of folk dancing. (We are talking the ’60s after all.)

I have had some semi-serious health problems from the my 50s on—bad back (spinal stenosis and a herniated disk), chronic appendicitis which was finally diagnosed and dispensed with, a bad knee which was replaced in Dec 2003, and now some sort of sinus problem which won’t go away. I seem to be increasingly deaf. But given that many of my friends, compatriots and colleagues have recently died, I guess I am not doing so badly after all.

One of the worst things has been a growing loss of names and nouns. I call it Namesheimer Disease. I rarely find the missing names, but usually can find my way to the nouns after several minutes or so. Not a happy prospect for a writer, but it does have its amusements and I am getting quite good at synonyms!

But the storytelling ability and the impulse for poetic expression has remained and for that I am profoundly grateful. I hope that I die before I lose it, but on the other hand, I hope I live forever. Two mutually contradictory wishes. And I have no control over either event.

Most important, I think, I have a pretty solid grasp on my stature. I am not overly preening. I know myself to be in the upper middle ranks of professionals. I work damned hard. And I have, on one or two occasions, been gifted beyond my natural abilities. Those few times have astonished me and even made me a little wistful. But then gratitude returns. And luck.

 

All that is preamble to my day.

We walked about our garden, admiring all the flowers: white snowdrops in profusion, hundreds of yellow aconite buttons, small purple flowers with yellow eyes that I don’t know the name of, loads of lovely lavender crocuses, flowering quince, and a few jonquils (or perhaps daffs) just ready to burst open. The fence which had been broken in a gale is well on its way to being replaced, since the Princpal of the University lives behind us, the University is putting up the new fence and paying for it.

Then after doing some errands in town--like returning books to the library, mailing bills, bringing shirts to the laundry, we were off on an antiquing trip to Dundee and beyond. Alas, the shop I really wanted to go to was closed. We hope it’s for holidays and not for good. An architectural salvage shop had nothing of interest. So we headed home, thanking our local stars we’d come when we had, because the road we’d just be on was bumper-to-bumper with traffic because of an accident which must have occurred just after we’d gone by.

So home to work, and on my birthday. I was hoping to avoid that. I turned back to "Toads" and—with a rush and over 100 words—I finished the draft. I liked the ending, but I needed to thread back some of what I had discovered. And the thing was awfully talky, as we discover how wrong our heroine has been about, well, about everything. So that needed work.

And then, suddenly, I knew what to do and went back over the piece, shoving, pushing, molding, polishing, adding (subtracting, too.) And one little bit of research I’d uncovered earlier, about knitting needles and how the St Monans women were always busy, even walking about with their knitting so as not to ever be idle, really came in handy. And at 9570 words, I thought I was done.

David read the story (he’s my first reader and a great editor.) But before he was done, I realized I was missing one last thing. It needed a mention of the English king at the time who would be visiting in his royal yacht. George V.

All at once, David called out, "Boy, can you tell a story!" and I knew I was home free, even if the editors bounce the thing from their anthology.

So David and I talked a bit about a few final things wich I changed. I added the king thing and did another pass over the ending. And then I shipped it off via email attachment to the co-editors of the anthology, NOVA SCOTIA. Here’s hoping they like it, though I am pleased with it, whatever they decide. Final count, 9700+ words.

To celebrate my birthday (and the finish of the novella) we went out to dinner with our friends Ron and Ann who gifted me with a wonderful bouquet of flowers. The venue was the ever delightful Vine Leaf Restaurant. I ate too much, of course, but the food was all wonderful.

Then home to finish this journal piece.

 

February 10, 2005:

I began the morning adding to Heidi’s first pass on the introduction to Spanish dancing for our DANCE book, which took about an hour. She’s been doing splendid work so far, and I had little to comment on what she'd sent. But as I’d discovered two wonderfully informative little books on Spanish dancing in the St Andrews University library, I sent her back some very rough additional paragraphs to fiddle with. We are hoping to finish the book by the end of the month. My part of it is done and she is nose down and paddling madly. (Wow! A supreme mixed metaphor, Gentle Readers.)

Two emails about my journal from some quite well known children’s book authors made my day. (Well, began my morning anyway. As I write this, I have no idea how the rest of the day will shape up.) It’s encouraging to know that my visitors range from "just readers" as some describe themselves, to emerging writers, to fully-fledged authors much better known than I. And a couple of editors as well. And those are just the ones who have written to me. We know from the stats that I am getting 1000 hits a day for my website, many of those checking into the journal. Since my life is fairly dull and routine, I have to assume it’s what I say—and show—in the journal about the life of a working writer that’s of interest. Or else there are a lot of disappointed would-be voyeurs out there.

My first early morning pass on "Toads" netted me 400 new words, inching into the climactic scene. The problem is, that while I have a pretty good idea of some of the stuff I want in this scene—which characters and what action—I still have no idea what the story is really about. Last night before falling asleep I thought I had things pegged. There was to be a huge turn-around. A positive character would prove to be a great villain. I loved the idea. But on waking, I realized that it made no sense at all, that such an ending would be author-dictated but not character-driven. So I have to give it a rethink. Meanwhile, I shall inch along. Or as one friend wrote, millemeter along.

Most of the time that’s the only way for me to find the proper ending anyway, going in inches. I envy those folks who can know the direction of their books so thoroughly that they simply buy the ticket and get on board. Or maybe I don’t envy them because it all seems so cut and dried that way, and what I love best is the adrenaline rush when I get to find out what I’m doing.

My next pass, at noon, netted me another 250 words moving forward, but I also did a deep sweep through the entire story, which now stands at almost 8000 words. Onward.

Another pass (after watching Gregory Peck’s risible "Horatio Hornblower" which was oddly engaging for the first half) and I added another 450 words. But the climax is too easy right now and the meaning still elusive. Not to mention needing an ending. Bother. Time for another rethink.

Of course by then it was dinner time, which effectively ended any real work. And after dinner what I did was clean up my computer desk top, readying it for Monday’s CD sweep so I can bring back home what I worked on the five weeks here in Scotland.

 

February 9, 2005:

This morning I was reading Jo Walton’s blog, Bluejo at Live Journal, and came upon this. It’s part of a longer musing on the novel JONATHAN STRANGE & MR. NORRELL. "Fantasy approaches the numinous, that's my definition of it, that's what, for me, divides it from SF and historical fiction. There's a problem in writing about the numinous, especially about magic that works, denizens of faerie you can converse with, in that as you approach it, it becomes mundane. It approaches Clarke's Law from the other side, and magic risks becoming nothing but technology. The terrible enemy dissolves into an old cloak. (The Dark in Hambly's Darwath books are the easiest example of this.) There are ways of dealing with this, which have been laboriously worked out and laboriously copied -- Tolkien does it by sheer use of language, other people have explored what it would mean for magic to be technology. Magic has costs is one typical answer, seen well done in Hobb's Farseer trilogy and Kay's Fionavar. There's Dean's Dubious Hills answer, of what is numinous when magic is as everyday as making dinner. But part of the problem is the difficulty of approaching the numinous directly. Fantasy typically tries to edge around this and approach it from different directions."

Now Jo is a fantastic writer. Her TOOTH & CLAW has made it into my top ten favorite fantasy novels of all time. But she is also a terrific critic, with an ability to seamlessly make something appear so clear, you wonder why it hadn’t occurred to you yonks ago. It hadn’t occurred—duh!—because I haven’t got Jo’s brain. Not in my head and not on my desk, in a little bottle full of pickling liquid.

Must keep that "edge around this and approach it from different directions" as I work on "Toads," because I am certainly going for the numinous. I may not get there, but it won’t be for lack of trying.

Speaking of numinous, someone on line mentioned the following fact about fireflies: when eaten by a frog, they keep on flickering for a while in its throat. And I cannot get the image out of my mind. Maybe it’s another poem fragment--perhaps a haiku?

Frog eats fireflies;
His throat pulses with their light.
Dying, we should shine.

Or

Frog eats fireflies;
His throat pulses with their shine.
Another light meal.

Which do you prefer?

Some other good writing and workshopping hints at Will Shetterly’s site, especially: http://shetterly.blogspot.com/2005_01_01_shetterly_archive.html

My favorite bit is this: "Do I write every day? No. Life interferes with the best intentions. But I try to write every day. A writer who doesn't write is, at best, an author, and the best authors are dead. Writing is for the living. Try to live every day." But watch out—Will is addictive, occasionally arrogant, and sometimes infuriating. He’s like that in person, too. It doesn’t matter, as he is also often right. And when he isn’t, I argue with him. Sometimes. . .sometimes I win.

I spent much of the morning working on the next section of "Toads"—11 paragraphs, some 500+ words--which takes place in the kirk while my main character’s father is being buried. Not sure if the whole scene is necessary or not. But I wrote it anyway. Sometimes I have to write through a problem in order to see it whole. The second time around it was 700 words. The third time, in the afternoon, it had grown to nearly 800. I worked on it five revisions in all. Time to crack on to the climax, since the whole thing is now over 7300 words, 1500 today and boy! is my Numinous Meter tired.

In the evening, I made a first pass on a new revision of NAMING LIBERTY but will really have to work on it back in the States where all my research for this particular book lives. (See paragraph below.)

Now for some book and speaking news: A French publisher wants to do BRIAR ROSE. (Bon!) Tor wants to see numbers before committing to a second YEARS BEST, though this means we have to wait before catching up on reading for it. (Oy!) Scholastic wants to make HOW DO DINOSAURS into an oversize board book for the Costco type book clubs, with an awful royalty which would mean pennies on each book. (Geck!) Plus they have lost yet again the contract for a DINO book brought out a year ago September. (Double geck!) Another picture book has been rejected. (Sigh!) Editor Pat Gauch called with solid suggestions for revision of NAMING LIBERTY which she says she loves, loves, loves (Yay! No sale—it’s already under contract. See above paragraph.) And Scope Magazine has asked for an interview about DEVIL’S ARITHMETIC. (Some books never die. And thank God for that. Hurrah!)

Several invitations to speak, including North Adams, MA and Montana (Okay!) And arrangements for IRA, BEA, and ALA. For those not in the acronymic know, those are International Reading Assn (this year in San Antonio), Book Expo America (used to be ABA, this year in New York), and American Library Assn. (this year in Chicago.) I am going to all three.

Weather news: small gales. A good day to be inside. And I made great use of being in.

 

February 8, 2005:

Recently I have had to ruthlessly cut the following from my writing:

Every character seems to nod or grin or smile. Over and over and over again. Cut!

Every paragraph seemed to have at least one sentence in which a character "sees" or "looks" or "gazes" or "glances." Cut.

Pages are rife with British-isms, which are fine if the book or story is set in Scotland or England or Faerie, but not if it takes place in Northampton, Massachusetts or Minneapolis. Cut.

The verb to be: is, was everywhere. Cut.

There are too many sentences that are simple declaratives, one after another after another. Remember the gerund, Jane, I warn myself. The gerund can be a good friend and a mean enemy. Cut, slash, bash.

 

This was the first really rainy day in ages. A good day for staying in and working. So I turned once again to "Toads," inching towards a funeral and then (I hope) the march towards the climax. Maybe.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, and it was a friend for tea, setting up my birthday dinner (though for a day after the fact.)

Then back to "Toads" but the doorbell rang again. This time it was a delivery of the layouts for APPLE FOR THE TEACHER, a book of work songs for kids that Adam and I have coming out next fall. So of course I had to take three hours out of my projected work day to go over the pages carefully. It’s going to be a gorgeous book, illustrated with folk art from numerous collections, both public and private.But it is a very complicated project and I needed to read it slowly. After I was satisfied I’d caught everything, I phoned the editor to go over the pages with her, but she wasn’t in. At least this way she’ll have to call on their dime.

Next, I finished cleaning up from tea and from last night’s party, than went back to work on a final pass over ROGUE’s chapters 18-20, and sent them off by email to Bob Harris.

Then back to "Toads" for a few more sentences.

In the middle of making dinner, the phone rang: my co-editor for YEARS BEST with some last minute changes, all okay with me.Lucky we have a cordless phone.

After dinner, the APPLE editor called and we spent half an hour going over the layouts.She is as pleased with the book as I am, and I complimented her on how wonderful it looks.

And then, while David went to bed early, I wrote this journal piece. It was a good writing day, if a bit frenetic and pieced together, a crazy quilt of a writing day. But I enjoyed it.

 

February 7, 2005:

Not much writing done, but much happened during the day nonetheless.

A revision letter arrived for a poetry book which the editor is not taking. Nor does she seem to like it very much. Some of her revision requests make a great deal of sense, though. However, others show that she wants an entirely different book than the one I wrote. I do not have the energy at this time to tackle an entirely different book. Her last line was the old dodge: "If Jane is interested in revising the book in this way, we’d be happy to look at it again."

I spent an hour going over--once more--the sketches for BABY’S FIRST POEMS, and then called the editor and told her my few concerns. It was a wonderful, constructive phone visit.

Also I heard from my agent that I have gotten an offer for the fourth Pit Dragon book. Not quite as much as I want or was promised by the editor who has now left for greener pastures, but still with wiggle room for us to talk. But it will be a go, which is great since I’d already written 100 pages, and they are bringing the first three out in a boxed edition this fall. So when I get home, I will turn my attention back to working on it.I hope I can get it done by summer, but spring is a heavy travel time for me. Fingers crossed all.

I did some research on the Scottish poems needed for ROGUE’s 4-5 sections, so it will follow the pattern of the other four books.

But most of the day was not spent on work at all. In fact it was spent grocery shopping, getting reading for an SCBWI meeting here at Wayside, and a couple of hours at Bob and Debby’s house watching the Patriots beat Phildelphia. Barely. Bob had taped it, because it played live in the middle of the night here. And we were all careful not to read the news and thus find out the score beforehand. And of course watching it taped, meant we could mercifully speed through the ads and most of the halftime and just concentrate on the game.

In the evening, David and I hosted nine authors and illustrators from Fife. Four of us were Yanks! We had a grand evening introducing ourselves, our books, our hopes, and how we planned to make this sort of thing work in Scotland, where--unlike in America--folk are a bit wary of workshops and conferences.

 

February 6, 2005:

We both slept in today—for me that meant getting up at 7:30 am. So I didn’t get around to actually working until close to 10. Before that, I had tea, did email, had breakfast, watched the news, took a shower, started a laundry. And only then did I settle down for some work on the next chapter of ROGUE.

I did a full draft. Bob calls it chapter 19, but it’s really chapter 20. The novel is closing in on 40,000 words. I see ten more chapters, maybe twelve, another 10-15,000 words. Tomorrow there’s too much STUFF I need to do so there won’t be time for any actual writing, but I may be able to look up some poems for section openers so that the book matches the first three in appearance.
It was so lovely today—the bright blue sky with its three tiers of clouds—that we decided to try and travel roads in Fife we had never gone on before. Along the way we discovered some gorgeous plateaus we hadn’t known existed, south and east of Cupar, as well as some grand houses, mostly great farms, that gave me instant House Envy.

Then we came into the little town of Ladybank and remembered that we’d promised to give Nora the name of the stained-glass man who specializes in old glass. He’d done such good work on the two magnificent turn-of-the-century stained glass windows here in Wayside. Nora’s house is a few years newer, but not by much. However, when we were at Nora’s, we hadn’t been able to remember his name. We knew he’d worked in Ladybank for we’d visited him there six years earlier. So we drove around the town, which consists of one main street and several smaller roads off it, trying to find his workshop.

Nothing.

We assumed he could have moved, and I wanted to stop and ask locals. But David, being a man, doesn’t believe in asking for directions. <G> (Family joke: when driving once with Adam, I said, "Let’s stop and ask for directions." He pulled himself up in the driver’s seat and replied indignantly, "What? You think this is a pink car?" But now he is a family man and their secondhand station wagon is pink. So we assume he asks directions all the time now.)

Finally though, after we’d been everywhere in the town, David assented--as long as I did the asking. Of course, the minute he said that, the Ladybank streets were suddenly bare of citizens. We turned onto Church Street and, at last, saw two elderly men walking along slowly. I figured they’d been in town a long time and might know something. David stopped the car and I rolled down my window, called them over. They came, touching their ears, shaking their heads. When they signed that they couldn’t help, and then tried to explain, it was with the thick voices of people deaf from an early age. So there—the only two people we’d come upon, and we couldn’t communicate with them.

We thanked them and drove on, mortified, made a right turn off Church, and finally found a man washing his car. "Sorry, I’m a newcomer myself," he said, "and I don’t think there’s even a glazier in town." We tried several more people over the next ten or fifteen minutes, with no results, and at last gave up, heading out of town. But as we passed a large warehouse, I saw a sign that read: "Antiques and Auctions." "Perhaps," I told David, "someone there can help. Perhaps the only person who knows about a stained glass specialist would be someone who needs the work." The place was closed (it being Sunday) but two men were standing outside. When I asked, one said, "Ah yes, ‘Images.’" And David immediately remembered the name. The man gave us good directions— the workshop was actually right off Church Street—and we found it easily enough. Wrote down the name and phone from a poster outside the closed shop.

Then off we went home, first dropping off the information at Nora’s. Ah—a good deed done.

After tea, I started to work on "Toads" again, adding four paragraphs and kick-starting the plot. Up near 5000 words and not anywhere close to the the climax. I like the stuff in the story so far, but it’s less plot-driven and more region-driven, not something I’m used to doing, and I don’t know whether or not that’s good for it. In fact, I’m worried that I may have done too much research! However this is nothing I can judge until I have finished the draft.

A quick dinner of everything-in-the-fridge, then I did a bit more work on "Toads", and of course, wrote this journal piece.

 

February 5, 2005:

This day was dedicated (five more solid hours) to finishing the YEARS BEST galleys. Then I wrote down all the typos that needed fixing and all the other changes (actually very few), and shipped them off to my co-editor by email. (God bless email.) He has graciously (being in the USA and on the spot) volunteered to put my notes with his own so that we speak with one voice to the book’s in-house editor.

Then I did some crossword puzzles, read a bunch of the magazines my daughter had sent (including Locus, Chronicle, Newsweek) and watched a bit of Jurassic Park 3, just enough to remember why I had so disliked it.

In the evening, we watched a DVD borrowed from the Harrises—"Runaway Jury." Competant judicial thriller, hardly ground breaking. But always fun to watch Hoffman and Hackman. However, it’s the only movie I know set in New Orleans that doesn’t use the background at all.

 

February 4, 2005:

Much of the morning I spent reading YEARS BEST slowly, carefully. Normally I am a speed reader, but galleys demand a different kind of attention. Commas, semi-colons need to be checked. Inverted words cannot be elided over. So reading a short story can take an hour. There are at least ten stories (three of them novellas) in the book, plus front matter and back.

The mail delivery included a packet of sketches for BABY’S FIRST POETRY BOOK which I have done with English poet Andrew Fusek Peters. British artist Polly Dunbar is the illustrator and she is terrific; her work looks like a slightly nutty Sendak. I went over the sketches three times and do have a concern: There need to be more people of color in the book. Of course, as these are just loose black-and-white sketches, I am probably not realizing what Polly has already planned. But I’d rather be redundant on this point, than not. As soon as the editor is in (she works at home on Fridays) I will voice my worry though I’m sure this has already been taken into account.

I also received a FedExp package full of magazines (PW, Newsweek, Booklinks, Locus, F&SF etc.), newspaper clippings, and crossword puzzles from my daughter Heidi. Some to be read here, some to be time-wasters on the plane home. The news clippings were dismal: one neighbor has lost her entire house (which she and her late husband built 35 years ago) to fire. She and eldest son and his live-in girlfriend are now out on the street. That son was a close friend of both my sons back in high school. Another neighbor’s 49 year old son has just died of cancer. The snow in our area is up to people’s armpits. I won’t even go into the politics (both local and national) which are abhorrent. But at least my son Adam’s short story in Paradox Magazine got a rave review in Locus.

So then I turned back gratefully to YEARS BEST, getting about halfway through. I intend to finish it up tomorrow.

We ended the day with dinner at Bob and Deb Harris’ house, a fine prawn stir fry. We brought wine and chocs, the latter proving overkill after Deb’s smashing chocolate dessert.

 

February 3, 2005:

Much writing done this day, while the cleaning lady did the real work, and David went to play in a golf tournament into the teeth of a cold wind.

I started the day by reading the first story in the YEARS BEST galleys, the wonderfully charming, slightly anarchic "Faery Handbag" by Kelly Link. Close reading someone else’s story—as an editor or as a critic—helps a writer recognize interesting "tricks." Kelly is masterful in her use of the first person pov, addressing the audience with a sassy personality tinged with real pathos. The character invites the reader into the intrigue of the tale, all the while admonishing them not to believe a word of it. It works terrifically.

Then I revised Bob’s one chapter (ROGUE 18) into two (18 and 19). I massaged the setting, trying to make it more real. The editor of these books always reminds her authors not to let the characters "float" but rather anchor them in a real world. I also worked on the internal dialogue and reset the timeline a bit.

After lunch, I wrote a three-page proposal for book 3 in the Rock ‘n’ Roll series, about a Jewish kid who is bullied and makes a golem which, predictably, gets out of hand.

Then I went over the new cover for YEARS BEST sent to me in a jpeg. It’s gorgeous and much more of a pick-me-up than the original cover which was almost all type. But its genesis says LOADS about where publishing is today. Evidently the sf buyer for Barnes and Noble told Tor that he’d buy this big if there were a dragon on the cover. So even though this is an anthology of sf AND fantasy—a double intent which the original cover tried to address—the cover is now purely fantasy. However, the new jacket is also now really in-your-face. Very handsome and very inviting. And we do have a lot of fantasy inside with only a couple of truly sf pieces. Plus one dragon(ish) story.

Having written the above paragraph early this morning, I have been set straight by my co-editor of YEARS BEST. According to him, the person who saw the original cover was the Barnes and Noble YA buyer who said "that if we stuck to such an all-type look he'd be forced to buy it small; and he didn't insist we put a dragon on the cover, but rather said he thought we needed a more engaging, action-y image in order to reach younger bookbuyers. The fact that we wound up with a dragon doesn't say anything about "where publishing is today"; it says that the strongest unassigned painting our art director happened to have on hand was a Donato dragon." Well, PNH was there, so he certainly knows the story of what happened better than I. And we both agree that the cover is much stronger than before. But I still find it interesting that the covers are changed when the B&N buyer speaks. And while, as PNH so rightly remarks, "Few people have been more supportive of Tor's attempts to sell SF and fantasy through the YA channel" than that particular sf buyer, I find it an odd and slippery slope. But perhaps no odder and more slippery than the previous YA/Library connection that dictated to the market before B&N was ever on the scene.

Finally, I finished my writing day by revising the golem proposal, then shipped it off to Adam, my co-author, for him to massage and make magic upon. When he is done with it, we will discuss it a bit, and then I will polish it one last time and send it to editor JS who will then give us feedback and/or present it to the head of the department at Tor. I suspect they will not want to offer any contract until the first book—PAY THE PIPER—is out, in May. But perhaps they will surprise me. (Publishers always do.) And of course there is always the chance that they will decide to give it a miss entirely.

After dinner, David and I went to our friend Nora’s for dessert and gave her the copy of CARDS OF GRIEF, while regaling her with how we came upon it in Wigtown. Then we settled into the delicious chocolate cake she’d baked, with lots of conversation about books and movies. And politics, of course.

February 1-2:

We set off for another quick overnight trip, this time to Wigtown, Scotland’s Book Town. It is the North’s answer to Hay-on-Wye, England’s massive book centre. Wigtown has only 19 second hand bookstores, but that seemed plenty to us.

The trip itself was going to take 3-5 hours, depending on traffic, serendipity stops, meals. So we planned to stay the night. And lucky, too, because we didn’t arrive until 2 in the afternoon.

Along the way, we went through the Galloway Hills, which were gorgeous. They have some of the stark grandeur of the Highlands, but are a bit softer, rounder, more inviting. The winter colors were glorious if muted, a combination of deep amber bracken, soft green meadows, peaty black lochs with beige reeds. We saw a herd of wild goats, lorded over by a ram with a great sweep of horns. And we saw my favorite sign: "Butterflies and Carnivorous Plants." I wanted to introduce them to Northampton, Mass’ "Dave’s Soda and Pet Food City."

We entered Wigtown and drove up and down the High Street, checking the open stores before starting. Then we got out, the assault planned. We began at a place called "Reading Lasses," which turned out to be a feminist bookstore. As I was perusing some interesting diaries of strong women in medieval Britain, David laughed out loud. "Look!" he said.

He was holding up a copy of my novel CARDS OF GRIEF. As this was the very novel he had spoken about to our friend Nora when she was over for tea last week, and had promised her a copy, we bought it! We’re having dessert at her house on Thursday, so will bring it as a gift then. I also bought two other books.

On down the street, the very next bookstore we came upon was Byre Books and boy! was I in trouble. It specialized in folklore and fairy tales. I wiped out their stock. (Not really, but I made a serious dent!) Four bags full. The owner was delighted, of course, as February is not high season.

The next several bookstores had nothing we wanted. The most impressive store also had the nastiest owner. We found a smaller store with a stock we liked, and bought four books there. And then it was closing time.

So off we went to chase down a B&B. If we’d come in the spring or summer, we would have had to call ahead and make a reservation. But we drove around until in nearby Bladnoch we found The Old Coach House B&B. They had a lovely under-the-eaves room at a reasonable price. (David only bumped his head twice.) There was a perfectly nice restaurant next door where we indulged in a good meal, had a long talk with the proprietor and her husband, and then went back to the B&B and early to bed.

Right after breakfast, we had an hour before any of the bookstores opened, so we went for a walk that had been suggested by the B&B owner. Past the local brewery (Bladnoch Brewery) was a garden and long winding path. We stopped to listen to two song thrushes in a singing duel, found a bunch of other birds, hoped for but didn’t see otters, and returned back to the B&B for a quick chat with husband and wife. (They were Yorkshire folk who had lived near the Bronte’s house, and had run a fishing tackle shop before moving north.)

We went back into Wigtown proper, checked several bookstores but bought nothing more. And so off we went home. Made it before 5, having taken a lovely little side jaunt through Castle Douglas.
Awaiting me were the galleys for YEARS BEST which need close reading, the page proofs for BABY BEAR’S CHAIRS which are adorable, and one picture book rejection.