Tomorrow is the day, 6 years ago, that my son Seth died. He was twenty-five. I still cry every day. I can now weed the garden or do the laundry while I cry; you learn what you have to learn. But I would do anything to bring him back, to let him have the rest of his life.

Anything.

Happy News.

The deal with S&S Aladdin just closed. I will soon be writing the four book set: The Faeries Promise. It's set in the same place as The Unicorn's Secret, an eight book set, also from Aladdin.
Lord Dunraven's lands were the focus of my dreams in the 3-4th grades. For about 18 months, I went to sleep here and woke up *there*. And when the stars came out there, I would fall asleep and wake up *here*. It was like having two lives. I can't wait to start.

.The picture is the North side of Lord Dunraven's castle (currently in either Bologna or Modena, Italy, my photo notes got lost.) A girl with wings is trapped there and has been for a long, long, time. She has a terrible responsibility. She didn't ask for it, and she doesn't want it. But there it is.

time, time, time...

These cobbles are in Paris. I have moved them to Limori's slum South-End, a dockside squalorous place--and where Sadima is now.

The writing is flying again. The time line is resolving itself. About 200 years pass in one story and less than 10 in the other. I have been pacing a lot, considering various devices. But the every-other-chapter format is enough. I don't want devices and visible structure to upstage the characters. Not even a little. So I am going straight at it, and I think (hope, want to believe) it's working.

fan,fanatic,fancy....

I get emails and letters from people who read my books. It's wonderful. It keeps me going. I am so grateful. Some of them say things like, "I am such a fan " or, from the youngest readers, "I'm your biggest fan!!!!!!!!". (Current record number of exclamation points 62). Sometimes people send me stories they have written using my characters. Sometimes I get wonderful artwork.

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This morning there were more missives than usual, and it set me wondering. Mr. Google, Ms. Firefox and friends, always eager to help me avoid real work, led to this:

There are two proposed etymologies, which seem to me like phases in the same process.
1. Fan is a shortened form of "fanatic". Fanatic, in 16th century England, meant "insane person". The Latin root word is fanaticus, which also meant "insane person" but adds the nuance of "divinely inspired". Similarly rooted words meant "sacred place" or "temple" Somewhere around 1647 'fanatic', the adjective, began to mean "extremely zealous" and a few years later, it slipped into noun-hood.

2. The word "fancy" was used in 19th century England to describe a longing or wish. Then it was used to describe boxing enthusiasts. The first shortened form was "fance", then, later, "fan"--both words born to describe boxing enthusiasts. Since most boxing enthusiasts then were very, very enthused, the word fan was later transferred to people who were excitedly devoted to other things.

and now, off to write about a fanatic...

Limori's neighborhoods

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.Limori, once you are up the hill from the docks, out of South -End's squalor and jumble, is a city of wood and brick. Beyond that, Ferrin Hill has estates, massive homes of quarried stone, built, like castles, to last generations. I realized this morning that I pictured the neighborhoods around Market Square like some of the older ones in Boston-a city I have visited only three times.

Writing about book-building here has made me notice where things come from, how I paste realities together to form a tangible fantasy, while I think I am just following the characters around. The Eridians have basis in fact, too. Writing all those middle grade historical novels left me with piles and e-piles of research, all of which include great stories I couldn't use at the time. America has a long history of cultural experiments.

cottonwoods: life, not death.

I am writing about water. Which made me think about cottonwood trees.

Which made me remember the Alamo.

Left, the Alamo. Right, the Alamo museum,

Alamo, in Spanish, means "cottonwood tree". The Omaha tribes named them maa-zho. Lakota call them canyáh'u, which means "peeling off the bark". Alamo, in Texan, means, "never give in" which is far different than "never give up." The Alamo, which was moved to San Antonio, is associated with death--brave, stubborn, glorified death.

But the cottonwood tree meant life on the great plains in the millennia before wells and dams. If you see them at a distance, you know you won't be thirsty long. They line up along creeks and rivers. They put little white mary-poppins umbrellas/flotation devices on their seeds so their children can root downstream. I have had two close cottonwood friends. One was scared and scarred by a fire in Grand Junction, Colorado. The other one still holds a rope swing across Clear Creek, in Golden Colorado.

This is a ceiling, a dome that is part of a hotel lobby in Abu Dhabi, a hotel built, in part, to receive royal visitors. I took the shot straight up, bending backward to try to get the kaleidoscope effect that was so amazing standing beneath it. The curved balconies are really balconies and the gold is really gold.

This dome found its way into Sacred Scars yesterday. It is now part of the palace in Limori, part of the king's library. The arrangement of the books is designed not for ease of use, but for difficulty. Knowledge is power there. And power, in that world, it not shared. Nor in ours, sadly. Not often enough.

Keys to...?

These keys are part of collection belonging to a wonderful school principal in Abu Dhabi. I stayed with her for a week--it is an astounding and interesting city. The big key on the left is the key to the cage in Sacred Scars. The other two are tucked in Sadima's bodice as she runs. I have no idea what they open yet. I don't think Somiss knows, either...

BEA (book expo america) Independent booksellers are to literacy what water is to gardens.

Just got back from BEA. Thanks to everyone who stood in line so long at the signing. All the kind things you said about Skin Hunger will make Sacred Scars better.

I love BEA because I love being around book-people. Independent booksellers are to literacy what water is to gardens. There's a state by state list of children's bookstores--and bigger stores with great children's departments--on my website: wonderful bookstores. If you know a great, community-active store that I have missed let me know, please, and I will add it.

Peripheral Amazing moments:

1. The shuttle bus driver was Mayan, a life-long student of his people's history, both written and oral.

2. The Grand Central Market had Queen Ann cherries for 69 cents a pound.

2.a. I can eat 1 1/2 pounds of cherries in one night.

3. The Pharmacy at third and Broadway had hundreds of magic oils, labeled for intent and purpose: Curative; I will destroy you; strengthen love; bring gold/wealth; ambition restored; protection; etc. There was an altar with a skeleton wearing a red cape and somber-eyed patrons sitting beside it. The counter guy recited a roster of Catholic saints, then told me their names in three other languages, one of them African. He kept saying, "They are the same. All the same, all over the world, the same with different names. You can ask them for help." I sort of knew about this amalgam of religions mixed with early/primative (or new age, take your pick) belief that focusing thought and ritual can change the facts, but it was amazing to see. We all do it, one way or another, when life thwacks us hard enough...I was looking for chapstick. I found a book spark.

4. Universal Studio's backlot burned. The areal shots were astounding. The MTV awards were not delayed, the theme park never closed, the show must go on.

5. Mine, too. Back to work...

This is a student's window overlooking a courtyard in the oldest university in the world. It is deep in the maze of the medina in Fez Morocco, the old city, a labyrinth built to discourage and repel invasions. Unesco Word Heritage Project has a quick video. It's an amazing place. Parts of it are in Sacred Scars.

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click to appreciate the incredible delicacy of the wood carving.

This is a Moroccan Palace door. I just stood in front of it thinking: That's it. The rest of the doors can just go home now. This one wins...

Click on it to appreciate the mosaic details.

It's here in the blog today because I woke up thinking about it ...and about doors, what they mean to me. I have hundreds of photos of doors from everywhere I have ever been. Not sure why. But this one has found its way into the new book...the one to follow the Resurrection of Magic trilogy. It's just a note file now, but it glows in the dark for me. I know the title and much of the story. This door belongs to a man who is holding my protagonist captive. It is the door she must somehow open. So she can run.

the exit?

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These stairs are in Volubilis, the ruins of the southernmost outpost of the Roman Empire, in Morocco.

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I am moving them into my book, Sacred Scars, near the ancient city of Limori, placing them where Sadima might find them. But I don't think she will. Not yet.

May Gray

May Gray, That's what the locals call these wonderful foggy mornings. I love them. I get a lot of writing done. Which is good because I have a lot to do--several projects in motion. Sacred Scars is primary.

It's time to get back to work.

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I live in southern CA.

This is the Atlantic , Rabat, Morocco.

writing is so weird

The woods, the woods....

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I was flipping through old pic files just now and stopped to stare at this one. This is exactly where Sadima is, where I left her last night at midnight, not because I was tired, but because it hurt. These are the trees, the fading light. She is running, jerking her long skirt free, stumbling, running...

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The photo was taken in the Shenandoah Forest, several years ago at an SCBWI writers' retreat. Enlarge it and look at the horizon line, left of center. You can see her silhouette. I can.

gravity defying plants in Paris

This living façade was intended to be temporary, but everyone liked it so much that they kept it.


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Standing in front of it, I was astonished at how it made me feel. Then my analytical brain kicked in and wanted to pin the logistics, the how of the whole thing. I have two plausible theories for anyone interested. No one? Right.
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However it was done, it's just wonderful.




















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stone

The whole time I was in France, I was entranced by the long human relationship with stone. Who, I mean, really, who among us was the first one to look at a jagged piece of rock and think...I could take a year or two of my life, find some tools, chip away at it and turn it into something like these:

(as always, high-res pics, click to really see the sculpture)

It's an astonishing leap, isn't it? A leap of imagination, of mind, of concept, of art, of madness.

By the way,
French and Italian food IS better. Fresher, realer, riper, yummier...

Angela Cerrito ,whose lovely blog has the same color scheme as mine, tagged me. Tagged? Well, yes. Me and four other lucky souls. Here is the task I have been assigned:

The rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book.

2. Open to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences.

5. Tag five people and post a comment to Bish's blog once you've posted your three sentences.

So...Nearest Book: Sue Munk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees:

That night, when the darkness was weighed down with singing crickets and Rosaleen was snoring right along with them, I had myself a good cry. I couldn't even say why. Just everything, I guess.

It's a great book. I recommend it.

And now, to tag five others...mmmmm...off to facebook, I think, to victimize the kind people who have friended me there...

wonders of the world

The Eiffel Tower is a landmark of my childhood. Maybe yours, too? I remember staring at pictures of it in the third grade back-of-the-classroom library in my little Colorado town. The same book had the pyramids, the Great Wall of China, the Taj Majal...and it was proof that the world was big and mysterious. I loved knowing that. I still love knowing that.

Paris

I expected the Paris/Bologna trip to feed the plot and the atmosphere of the current project--Sacred Scars. It's set in a city with a long, murky history, knotted and curled so tightly that no one can unravel it. What I didn't expect was how easily and perfectly what I saw (smelled, tasted, touched) would fit into the book.
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This is a wash basin in a restaurant bathroom. On a busy corner with both tourists and locals at the tables, this is where you wash your hands. It's a high-res picture. Click on it. Please. Next time I wonder where artistic inspiration comes from, someone remind me, please: Simple things. Like bathrooms in Paris.

More later--it was a wonderful trip....
k