The massive trunk of my Phytolacca tree. Every part of it, bark, flower, leaves and sap, is poisonous.

The revision process for A Resurrection of  Magic book #3 is just now beginning. YAY! The editor and I are in contact and she will soon begin wading through  600 pages of strange people with weird, elongated lives. Sadima and Hahp began their stories in Book#1 living in the same city, but 200 years apart in time. That gap has closed, slowly but surely, and they are now breathing the same air and looking at the same sky. Except that it isn't the same. The magicians keep changing it. They won't listen to me or anyone else. They never have. 

Outside the Walls: The Maker's Place

       
           

      The Moon was windblown and bright. I could see the girl, but she was an outline, part of the night, and she didn't answer me. She just started walking again, heading back toward the wagon road. We followed her until she turned and gestured at us to stop. "Hide here and wait for me," she whispered. 

         Before we could react, she was running down the narrow, muddy track, disappearing into the trees. Fob and I looked at each other. I could tell he was still angry. I was, too, but that was the least of my worries. The girl was almost impossible to like, but I liked her anyway because she wasn’t afraid. I was. I had never known anyone who wasn’t afraid. So I started walking, following her.

            When I heard an odd sound, I ran and I could hear Fob’s footsteps behind me. We kept going, staying close to the edge of the rutted road so we could disappear into the trees if we needed to—then we finally stopped when we saw the glint of another metal cage shining in the moonlight.  It looked like the one we had seen on the wagon, except it was bigger and full of odd things: There was a pile of what looked like dried clover, a long, thin rake of some kind, a mound of blackish tar, and a row of woven baskets like the wagon drivers hired people in the Old City to make, but they were woven much finer, the sizes and shapes more complicated than any basket I had ever seen.

            Fob and I stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the cage until a little breeze ruffled the clover and I stepped back from a strong, strange smell in the air—just an instant before the girl was coming toward us, waving her hands,  screaming at us to run. We turned and sprinted back up the road. She caught up and we all kept running until we were back on the far side of the meadow, gasping for breath. Then she turned to me.  “What’s your name?”
            That pissed me off. Things were bad enough without stupid jokes. She was the only one who had kept her name a secret.
            “What’s your name?” she asked me again.
            “Dickens!”  I leaned toward her and shouted, hoping to startle her into jumping. But she didn’t. She just turned to Fob. “Tell me your name.”   
            He looked at me, then at the girl. “My name is Fob,” he said quietly. “You know that. What’s your name? Have you found a new one yet?”  The girl shook her head, and they stared at each other, like dogs that were about to fight.

            The girl glared at Fob for a moment more, then she exhaled and stepped back. “That was a makers-place. One where the poisons are made.”
            My  skin prickled. Fob and I had both awakened by the river without any memories. Everyone in the Old City does.  I looked at the girl. “The children in the wagon seemed so sad and—”

        “No,” she interrupted. Her shoulders dropped and she looked up at the moon before she answered.  “They are small but they aren’t children. Those are the makers.”

Russet (in progress)

    When the train slows, then stops, I close the curtain--all but a slit, so I can peek out. From where I am sitting I mostly see the tops of people’s heads. They are getting off the train, hugging the relatives and friends who are there to pick them up.  

     I am almost relaxed until I think I see the jeans-and-running shoes guy.

     
     I hold my breath.

     
     Yeah. It’s him.
     He’s pacing a wide circle, or I might never have noticed him. He’s not glancing up or down. He isn’t looking for me. He tilts his head and I realize that he has a phone against his ear. I sit up straighter. Is he talking to my father?

     I put the make-up back on in a few seconds.

     More this time.

     I want to look a little older, sixteen or seventeen, less gloss, more color on my mouth. 

     
     I leave my jeans on, switch to a soft pink tee that says “Geek
Magneto” under a loose, light jacket from the Salvation Army bin. It covers my lack of breasts and my battered knuckles. Then, once I am a girl again, I hurry.

     I swim upstream against the people boarding.

     When I finally get through an open door, the man is still pacing in circles.

      
      I fall into step with a group of people headed his way and strain to hear his end of the phone conversation. I slow down as we get closer and fiddle with my jacket zip, my back toward him, then pretend to answer my own phone before I walk past. I catch seven words: “No. Not yet. But he’s here somewhere.”  

       I keep walking, my skin crawling, my stomach tight.

Every morning I check email. This morning, among the fan mail, there was an especially kind letter from a reader in France who loved my books and was learning to speak English in part so that she could read my work in English. I skimmed her letter, then went down though other emails, answered a few business things,  cleaned out a few ads, etc, then went back to answer the fanmail and it was all there....except for the letter from France.

I tried to find it, and I have no idea how I lost it, but I did. So I apologize.

Dear reader in France, in case you read this blog, I want to thank you for the kind words and for liking my books and taking the time to write me. Your English is far better than my French will ever be and you made me smile. Thank you.

All best wishes,
kathleen

OUTSIDE THE WALLS

     I am always amazed at the evolution of any story I write. The more I   follow the characters around, the more I begin to understand their world, their hearts. This place is a bleak one, I knew that from the start. I have been reading about child labor, witch trials, faeries, folk tales, and the history of segregation in many cultures, recent and ancient. So.... 

Here is the first page of the book as of this morning. 

********************************  

   

                                               Chapter One  

                       

            The night-walkers only come when the moon is a thin, curved slit of cold light. They wear black robes and each one carries a sleeping child. Sometimes there are three or four night-walkers. Sometimes there are ten or twenty.  Each child is left to wake up on the riverbank below the Old City. 

            They don’t know where they are. 

            They don’t know who they are.

            They can’t remember where they came from or anything else.

            I couldn't.

            No one ever can.          

            A few of them will sit and stare at their own bare feet long enough to starve. Every year, some wander into the river, and let the water bury them somewhere far downstream. But most of them stop crying and start looking for food when the sun comes up. 

            Almost everyone helps them at first.

            We all know how hard it is.  

            But there are as many hungry children in the Old City as there are pigeons, crows, mice, rats and ants. And there is never enough food for all of us. Never. 

                               I don't use plot charts, but if I did, they would look like this: 

home again, home again....

I am working on the story that is evolving from the original Dickens and Fob idea. It has changed and grown and fascinates me. I am also writing Russet and it is astounding me. It's like nothing I have ever written. When one stalls, I switch. The day the editor is done with Book #3 Resurrection of Magic, I will begin revisions. This schedule feels like going home for me.

 (I wrote series for MG kids, 6-12 novels a year. (Proof here:  http://bit.ly/108o0Oh  They are all on Amazon, too, but eBay does better pics. )  And now...off to write.

Thank You

In the last three days, over a thousand people have read this blog. Some of you go way back and start at the beginning. Some of you leave comments, or email me later...
Thank you.

Thank you all for  liking my work. Thank you for saying my books have touched you. You have touched me.

I am grateful every morning for the people who write to tell me what surprised them in the story, what made them shiver. I love the notes that tell me which characters they are worried about, in love with, scared of, angry at.

I realized a few years ago that your responses to my writing were kind of guiding it. It has to be the same for all artists of all kinds. If the crowd stands up to applaud an amazing guitar-solo, that solo will probably be a little longer next time. With bigger reaches and faster runs. Because the guitarist will be braver.

Thanks to everyone reading about Russet and worrying about him. I am worried, too.I want him off that train, but I don't know if that will make him safer...

Thanks to everyone who is waiting for the third book in A Resurrection of Magic.I will begin the revisions soon. I will make the story exactly what it has to be in order to be true.

You are all making me braver....

...a little more Russet

While I continue to wait for editorial response to two different projects, I am writing the next novel: Russet.

At first glance, I probably look happy in the pic. I am not. I am standing up behind my chair, because I needed to back away from the screen. I'm wondering if what I just wrote could possibly be true.
If it is, I can hope again.
Here:
***********************************

           My father.

           He’s got gray-blue contacts, is shaved bald, has lightened his skin and changed his posture--but it’s him. I am sure of it. 

         My heart’s slamming against my ribs, but  he glances at me without interest, then looks at the next row of passengers. I yawn and slide down in my seat for a fake nap as he walks past.  

           He looks even more haunted than I remembered.

           I am about as tall as he is now.

           That feels strange. 
           My father is a monster, I know that. 

           He made my mother leave and he fucked me up past repair, I know that, too. 

           But I saw him.

           And he didn’t see me.  

Russet: 

       I told my first grade teacher about my father’s stories. She smiled at me. “Oh! He has such a great imagination!”

       

       She must have said something about it at the parent-teacher conference. I spent nine days in the basement. My dad cried when he let me out. He used to cry a lot. Punishing me hurt him. But they were watching us, he said. They would know if he wasn't trustworthy. 

      My memories are like riptides. I swim at an angle, work my way to the edge, then escape. I manage to stretch, refocus, stand up, then I catch my breath when I see a stranger in the mirror. 

Consultations and critiques

I have added a new level of consultation services this year, aimed specifically at authors who are getting requests for full manuscripts from agents and editors....and then receiving  a pile of  "Interesting premise but not quite ready" responses.  

This is me, after the National Book Award people called me, trying to believe that it happened.  

It is not a detailed, marked up, beginners' critique focused on craft. I read your book, whole, and respond with specific suggestions to make it impossible to put down. If you have skills that need sharpening to pull it off, we work with that. We will Skype or phone to go over everything real-time... I will ask what you meant to do, and help you do THAT.

I do this in my spare time....and there isn't a lot of that.  One or two people a month, tops. So if you are interested,   Contact me: kathleen duey at earthlink dot net 

I do critiques of  smaller writing samples for people who need skill-help.  http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2012/09/skype.html

and this explains why I began helping writers outside my usual conference appearances:
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/08/critiques-short-answer-is-yes-if-my-own.html

I don't quote fees until we talk. I don't have a cookie-cutter approach to this. I want to focus on each writer's needs.  kathleen duey at earthlink dot net 

The STORY Pile

my backyard last spring....

In the years  it took to finish A Resurrection of Magic, (and I am not quite done yet, the editor is reading it) I wrote only a few other things, mostly for younger readers--the polar opposite kind of story.

But I kept a running record of story sparks, writing down the bones of the vaporous ideas that just appear when I am watching people or that come in the night ::: the sharpened and the weird...

I have over 600 files now.


SO.....look out!

Russet is growing up into a real book (I think)

    While I wait for editorial feedback on the last book of the Resurrection of Magic trilogy, I am working on several other projects including Dickens and Fob (not the final title)  for 5-8th graders...(See the post below this one.)

    I have decided to finish Russet, too.  It's  a story for YA and adult readers I began writing  two years ago, then had to set aside to focus on the trilogy. It was an experiment, a story written in tweets and published real-time, online, no revision, and without me having any idea where it was going or where it would stop. There were 63 pages of tweets when I had to put it away in a cold file, all by itself.

     Over 3000 people were reading it online.  I was completely lost in the story.
     And now I am again.
 
     I'm pulling it out of the strict twitter format, but it still moves fast and keeps me up late, just like it did the first time. I love this weird story. Here is the rewritten beginning:

Chapter One

            I haven’t seen my father in eight years.

            

            I thought he was dead.

            

            He isn’t.

            I turned 18 yesterday and the letter came. When the house matron handed it to me, she was smiling.  I’ve been in this group home for five years and have never gotten mail. So everyone was watching, excited for me. I took the letter, put it in my pocket, then walked out the front door to go run my usual route.  

         
           Halfway into the park, I switched paths like I always do, and then I stumbled to a stop when I saw another white envelope. A blank one. There’s five hundred dollars in it. The money is folded into thirds, like my father always folded it in his wallet.           

                   

            So he knows where I am. When did he decide to fold paper money in a way I could never forget. Probably before I was born. It's possible. Shit. With my father, anything is possible.

     
           I didn't want him to find me. Ever. I’m afraid of him. If I wasn't I’d be in bed now, back at the group home, not walking the beach at sunset, trying to decide what to do. 

            

           It’s cold, windy enough to scatter the sand a little. 

           I walk up to that scrabbled old mall where we used to buy used clothes twice a week. It’s still there. The Salvation Army drop-off bin has a musty old sleeping bag in it. Good enough. I can sleep anywhere.  Sand will be fine. 

            

         On the way back down to the beach, I hear someone cough. Shit. There’s a guy behind me, maybe sixty yards back? Not too close, but not too far, either. He’s walking fast, long steady strides, staying at the edge of the sand. He hurries past a lighted sign. Looks like a gym teacher or a weekend runner.

            

            So.

            Some guy is just walking the beach in a cold wind at dusk like I am?

            At the exact same pace?

            I decide to jog. So does he.  I run. He does, too, but I run faster and I know this beach. There are dirt paths all along the bluffs. I find a way up and hide for so long that I am sure he's gone. I am about to walk back down when my phone goes off....

This is a photo I took in the Atlanta airport on my way to DragonCon.  The sculpture is meant to show the beginning of life, the creatures emerging, separating. If I publish Russet, and if you ever read it, you will know why this is the perfect illustration.....

WALLS

     Yesterday I sent a proposal and chapters to my agent. It's a cross-genre work with odd elements that fascinate me. Oh, I hope I get the chance to write this middle school series.

     Dickens and Fob meet on a cold misty morning, waiting on a rotting dock, hoping to be chosen, hired  for day-work. Neither of them want mine-work or stall mucking or ditch digging. Chimney sweeping pays best ......because it is so dangerous....

     Dickens is the seventh boy from the left. He is proud of the brass buttons on his coat. They don't match. He stole them one at a time, from different shops.  Fob is the second boy from the right. He is older than he looks--early starvation stunts a lot of the street children.  

Dickens voice:

     The first thing I remember is a cold, muddy road.

        I was small, scared and hungry, running alongside a painted carriage, crying, holding out my hand, begging for coins. I was sure that someday a pretty woman wearing a blue dress would notice me. She would stare out her polished glass window, then shout at the driver to stop the horses. When she opened the carriage door, she would burst into tears and pick me up—mud and all—because she was my mother.  

            I can’t remember who told me the story about mothers, but I believed it. So every night for a year I whispered to the moon, practicing what I’d say when she finally found me. Then one spring day, begging on the woods road again, I saw a dark-haired boy lean across his mother’s lap to look down at me through the glass, and I was sure he was my brother. My heart almost stopped—I ran to keep up, shouting, pleading, but no one looked back. The carriage left me behind.  

            So I began to wonder.

            I asked a few of the other boys how they had gotten to the Old City. No one knew. No one wanted to talk about it, either, because it didn't matter. The Old City has as many orphans as it has crows and rats and there is never enough food for all of us. 

Dear biggest fan, THANK YOU for getting in touch with me.

I try to thank everyone who writes to me. I can't keep up now, no matter how hard I try. The letters mean a lot to me--they make me smile and laugh and sometimes cry. The following message did all three. It came to me last night. I have no idea how old the writer is, and have taken out a few references to protect privacy. Here it is:

 

I'm your biggest fan!!
i loved and still love and will continue to love your skin hunger trilogy for a very very long time^^you have no idea how long i've been waiting for the third book of the series to be finished. Hopefully it will be published and within grasp of my sticky fingers soon. I've read your book at least 4 times and im reading it again right now as well since i heard the last book is finished. Please don't think im a stalker...haha im just purely(?) in love with your book. im a fantasy or supernatural lover and i have read many many books in these genres. and i can say with confidence that your books are among the best;)

I was just on your blog and i was supposed to just email you to be notified about the release date.
but i also wanted to say that i LOVE LOVE LOVE it,
i love the darkness and intensity of the book.
i love the fierceness and extremity of the storyline.
 i love the delicate and tense atmosphere.
i love Haph and Gerrard, the clumsy and blundering pair.
i love the power vibrating from each word.

I've introduced it to my little brother and read the whole book out loud for him and he would lie quiet next to me listening every words.

Now ending my endless chatter and going back to the original purpose of this email; please let me know when the book will be published. (pretty please) I have no doubt that the last book will be equally, if not more, brilliant^^I'm both very sad and very happy that the series has been completed but i will definitely support your future works.  Please keep writing^^

*****************************************************************************
((Dear biggest fan, thank you so much!! Letters like yours keep writers writing. I also want to tell you this:  You are good with words. I could hear a voice while I read this. Your voice. It touched my heart. You are a good writer...!))

THE DAY HAS ARRIVED!

I think we all know what this means?  

No, I am not finally flipping out. 

Yes.  The last book in the Resurrection of Magic Trilogy is finished!!!!

The editor has it.  The production phase has begun.  

A thousand thanks to everyone who stayed in touch, cheered me on and were so kind and patient. Thanks to the people who were not all that patient, actually extra thanks to all of you. 

I will let everyone who has sent me their emails know the same day that I know when it will be coming out.  If you want to be on that list email me at kathleen duey at Earthlink dot net.

Thank you!!!

People who are on my blog this morning from USA, Russia,Israel, UK, Mexico,Singapore,
Canada, France, Poland, Slovenia:    HELLO!!!


Dear everyone who is getting in touch,
If you have asked to be signed up for early release notice for book 3 of A Resurrection of Magic....you are ON the list. If not, you can get on the list here:  http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2012/07/blog-post.html

I am way behind on answering all kinds of messages. THANK YOU ALL!!!
Your kind words about my books are writer-fuel. They help me face the blank page and make the story breathe. 


UNICORNS!!!
Dear kids and parents writing to me about The Unicorn's Secret books, thank you!!  I will answer your messages as soon as I can!!

art copyright: Omar Rayyan

My office needs....a massive recycling event.

And no, it won't happen until the book is finished.

Hello! Today's visitors are from:

United States

Canada

Ukraine

France

Poland

United Kingdom

Australia

Indonesia

Russia

Germany
Italy

Thank you, readers of the world.  

SKYPE!!!

     Hello. I Skype classrooms, libraries, writers and writer's groups. 

EDUCATORS:   My fees are negotiable but if your school or library has NO budget, I am free. Most of my sessions are between 45 minutes and an hour, depending on the age and needs of the audience. 

WRITERS and EDUCATORS:
 I have written over 80 books for young people K-YA in the last two decades. My work has won starred reviews, kids' choice state awards, and Kirkus "Best of YA" featured/reviews.

Skin Hunger, a dark, complex YA fantasy was awarded a National Book Award Silver medal. 

(swoon)

I've been on faculty for MFA programs, critiqued manuscripts at countless writers' conferences, and have spoken at many of SCBWI's Los Angeles international conferences. I was part of an SCBWI mentorship faculty 2012 and hope to do it again soon.








So. Skype is not as good as being there in person, but it is still a great way to interact with kids and writers without involving planes.

More about my sessions for writers:
contact:  kathleenduey @ earthlink dot net

more info for writers:

Starting chapter 77

1. Lunch break here:  I am on chapter 77 and am stunned by what is happening.  I really didn't see this coming at all. This is where NOT outlining can be useful.
2. I did a blog interview on world building. This is the first half of the blog:  http://bit.ly/OBXI1M  The second half:  http://bit.ly/R9GSKR
3. In the picture below I am staring at nothing.  I stare a lot before the typing starts.
4. There is a reason there are no "author" reality shows

Adding this a day later. 

In Limori, the sun is just coming up. There are carts like the ones farmers use to carry potatoes to the wash tubs. The wheels creak, there is a hard plank for the driver to sit upon. The ponies cannot fly. There is no magic here, just a long, sad line of carts leaving the city. I think I know what they are carrying. Today I will find out.

Starting Chapter 76.  (Probably about three more to go)

Market Square is a din of voices, all of them full of hate, sharp with fear. Human history is clear on this: People who oppose their rulers rarely survive. So I am just trying to get my own hopes and wishes silenced so I can write the truth...whatever that turns out to be...