Monday, December 10, 2012

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.
            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.....

Wednesday, December 05, 2012


     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. 

Thursday, November 29, 2012

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...!))

Thursday, November 15, 2012


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.

Saturday, November 03, 2012

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 are ON the list. If not, you can get on the list here:

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. 

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

Thursday, October 18, 2012

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
United Kingdom

Thank you, readers of the world.  

Sunday, September 30, 2012


     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. 

 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. 

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. I will be in Monterey CA teaching at their festival of the arts this summer and on faculty for the Wisconsin SCBWI conference this fall.

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:

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

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:  The second half:
  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.

Thursday, September 06, 2012

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...

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

It is a strange morning in Limori.  South End is full of things I don't understand and can't describe yet. There is some line crossed, some violation, some reckless step has been taken that is going to change...everything.

The picture is a tree trunk. It has given the moth a place to hide.  If you look at it long enough, you can see a sleepy eyed owl in the bark,  it's head half turned to look at the moth, its beak ready snap it up.

Saturday, August 04, 2012

About to start Chapter 75 ....all the odd numbers are Sadima's story.  She was born in the first chapter of Skin Hunger.  Her story has covered about 200 years so far.  I have no idea how this will end.  None. I know what I want to have happen. I don't think it can....maybe five more chapters to go? Maybe seven?

Thanks to the 154  166   230  people who have joined the list so far.
 If you want to sign up for early release, cover reveal, short stories, etc.....

Monday, July 23, 2012

Starting chapter 74.

Me, sliding into character....about to write.

I am getting close writing to the ending...If you want to be on the early release info list and get to read short stories set in Limori while we all wait for the book to go through production....

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Almost DONE....

Thanks to everyone signing up for early publication notification and the Limori stories I will write while you wait for the third book to come out. 

If you want to join us: 

It was a wonderful conference full of serious writers. The falls are beautiful and strange and wonderful and deafening!.  I have more pics of them on FB.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Letters Written to Writer Fans

Hello! I am thrilled that you like my books and I am equally thrilled to know that you want to write books, too. If I tried to explain how to get published ((with lots of details as you have requested)) it would take me a year or two. Really, it would. And I wouldn't be giving you the advice you need now.

So here it is:
Don't worry about how to get published yet. Throw all your energy into writing better. When you can fit it in with schoolwork, write. Every summer, write another book. If you have to get jobs to make money, write at night or early in the morning. Don't use the first ideas that pop into your head. Use the BEST ones. It takes time to get good at writing. It takes a LONG time. Every successful author I know wrote for 10-15 years before they were published. Some started in grade school. I did. Some were in their thirties or older before they could find the time to really get good at it. Some of them graduated from universities with degrees in writing and literature. Others found different ways to learn.

Each book you write will teach your something. It will be better than the one before it. Check out 100 books about writing from the library (not all at once, of course) and read them all carefully. I did. Practice making the words sing. Practice making the reader see what you are seeing in your mind. Practice creating characters that are so real the reader will cry when something bad happens...and be overjoyed when something good happens. Don't rush. Just love writing and keep writing.

Pay attention to the world. Listen to people talk. Notice how they pause, when they lower their voices and when they glance away. Notice everything. Feel the rain and hear the sounds in the forests and the cities. Absorb life and keep journals. Pay attention to your own feelings. READ a lot of great books and try to see all the ways the writer made the story work well (or failed to!)
That's it. Truly.

If you want to be published, if you want people to love your books...first, learn to write really, really well. It takes years of effort. I think it's fabulous that you are so young and already working on a book. Even if you decide not to be a professional writer, learning to write will teach you about people,about life. Your books will be treasured by you, by your family, your kids, your friends, even if you don't get published. Writing is a way to hand down what we learn about the world and being human. Writing time is never wasted.

And if you do end up as a professional writer, you will get letters like the one you wrote me...and they will all make you smile. I am delighted that you like my books. I hope someday I get to read yours.
I wish you all good things!

ANOTHER letter to a fan just graduating high school.


I read it.
It's a mess, yes, but I can feel the sparks. That's GREAT news! You have a long way to go--this is more a duo of two omniscient-voice character sketches than the beginning of a story, and you don't understand character VP and many, many other things...but it is engaging, and I was not bored.

(Let me repeat that. I, who live chest-deep in story soup, was NOT bored) 

I think you might have the story instincts that, with MUCH work, can become the craft...and with more work...the art...of writing. (...perhaps not in that order, it varies) I absolutely encourage you to continue. I think you can learn to write well if you are willing to work at it. I NEVER say that to anyone if I don't believe it and I am not kidding when I say *work*.

From the day you get serious, you are typically facing a 5-10 year intensive learning curve, after which you will continue to learn, usually at a somewhat slower rate. Writing, done well, is difficult, eternally challenging--it never gets easy. (Easier, yes, easy, never). This is why I love it.  My job will never allow me to be on auto-pilot emotionally or intellectually.

Anyone can get "published" now. Things on the business end are changing in almost violent, relentless, fascinating ways. Don't rush anything. First learn to write. If your early work sucks, that's because you are one of us. ALL our early work sucks. Once we actually know how to write, most of our work still sucks in first drafts (and often longer than that.) as we carve the thing out, nail it together.

Go back and forth to your library. Check out and read every single book on writing they have this summer. Some will be stupid. Some will try to sell you on the idiotic idea that there is a template to follow that guarantees success. Some will be so arty-farty that you want to kill the author with a pitch fork....but you will learn something from all of them if you are trying to learn. None of them will paint the whole picture. None of them will fit you perfectly, you will build your own way to write as you go on. But read them all and while you do that, keep writing so you can try things on for size...

And....find a writing/critique group. There might be some in your school, your town. 

Check out
They have world wide regional chapters that bring in authors, agents, real editors, etc. I speak at lot of these every year. It has become almost a "guild" structure and I treasure it. So many people helped me, with their presentations and speeches, and with their off hand comments standing in the bathroom line. So many have become good friends. SCBWI will help you form a community of writers to lean on, a vast pool of thoughtful beta-readers. They can help teach you to write well if you are serious about learning--and you will help them, too, if they are serious. The membership and the conferences are not free. That's because they are good. 

I hope this helps, I hope you keep writing. I really did feel the sparks.

Monday, January 09, 2012

Writing updates #8

Dear world, you can buy my books (and almost anyone else's books) here:  They ship free, world wide

Writing updates, short and sometimes odd.
Often with pictures.
NEVER with spoilers.

If you want to go back to the beginning:

Or you can just start here:::
A Resurrection of Magic is a trilogy. Two books are finished: ((see the books))  and I am writing the third one now. In these books there are two voices and two stories that go back and forth, every other chapter. The stories begin  200 years apart and the first one causes the second one...

Yes, I am doing some writing consultations and critiques when I can fit it in. Here's the what and the why:


1.9.  2012

Two people might be dead. 
I can't find them.
No, they aren't real, but they are--to me. Writing a trilogy is a long, life changing thing sometimes.  These books have dragged me into the dark woods of my own ethical  connundrums. Today's writing  is going to hurt, I think....which is why I am fiddling here, on the blog , instead of writing. By the time anyone reads this, though, I will be back in Limori, walking the paths that connect South End with Ferrin Hill. I intend to stay well below Market Square. I don't want to know if Thomas Marsham had anything to do with this. Not yet anyway. 

This is a Beaucarnea Recurvata with a nearly 200 year old broad leafed vine climbing inside it. I watered the vine too much (or too little) this year and killed it. Every time I think about that, I wince. I should not be trusted with exotics. I should plant beets. I know how Sadima feels this morning.  


1.13. 2012

Thanks to everyone getting in touch to say they are waiting for the book. It helps me with the hardest thing of all--the first few sentences of the day. I wrote this at about 7:00 am :  

 The paths were less used here. It was quiet. Too quiet. No birdsong, no rustling in the deep carpet of pine needles. Everything seemed wrong. Her hopes felt too big for her body. Her fears were sharp and close. 

Then I wrote seven more pages. I also played in my little late-season garden and made a compost heap and trimmed the bougainvillea in the back yard. A lovely day.  Thank you all. 



There are things I have wondered about since the beginning of this trilogy.  The answers are finally emerging and they make perfect sense. People who send their children into the cliffs are not simply seeking a connection with the wizards. It isn't that simple.... how could it be?

     I clicked this picture while traveling because these children (and the dog) were overtired, flushed with heat, crying, (panting) wanting to get out of the crowd.  I overheard the parent on the left lecturing  his daughter, insisting she would remember everything she had seen on their journey. She started kicking and chanting  "No I won't, No I won't" which embarrassed him into setting her down. And then he walked away. He walked slowly, but without looking back. I assumed she would run after him but....she hesitated for so long that I wondered if I should intrude, or at least follow to make sure she found her father. Then the train came and she ran after him and I lost track of them in the crowd.  Her father's need to remind her that he didn't have to take care of her--and her hesitation--made me wonder about a lot of things that have ended up in this trilogy.

1 . 21 . 2012

 Yesterday's writing was painful for me. Painful but true.  I tend not to plot, not to know what will happen next. I birth characters in order to follow them around and record what happens. And yes, that sounds silly to me, too, but there it is. For me anyway, book-people are real.

This Jacaranda tree came up from a seed about 10 years ago. I noticed it hiding before it was an inch tall, barely rooted in a tiny crack between the driveway and an old railroad-tie planter.

I admired its courage and tenacity, then forgot about it until I realized it was almost a foot tall. I kept thinking I should transplant it, move it, but it was fascinating to watch it shove back the old asphalt bit by bit and, somehow find enough water and light to keep growing.

That's what I am hoping for the people I love in Limori.  Some of them are missing now and no one knows why. Including me. I want them to find light and water, but I know they might not.


1 . 27 . 2012

6:15 am here in CA USA.
I have a routine. I am usually up by six, and usually start writing about an hour later, after I tend to FB, twitter, this blog, and answer at least a few fan letters then do a critique or work on a presentation or speech, etc.

Today, I woke up with a character explaining something to me. I don't usually hear characters' voices until my hands touch the keys, but this was important. I know where to look for one of the missing people now and even though the city of Limori is dangerous, I am almost sure she is safe. Oh, I hope so, she has helped so many people in South End.

This is a ginger bloom. They are patient and last for months, each layer unfolding so slowly that the changes are impossible to see day to day. They should write novels.

2. 2. 2012

The updates are getting farther apart. It's getting harder to say anything without giving away the story.    

Limori--the name of the city where people I have come to love are trying to stay alive--is a real gypsy word. It means "graveyard".

The magicians and the magistrates (who almost all come from what were once royal families) are preparing for another war. South End boys are being hired, scrubbed up, given swords, training, and colored tunics. For the first time in their lives, they find themselves standing up straight, looking at the well-dressed Ferrinidies families in Market Square with their chins up, shoulders back. And they glare at each other if their tunics are different colors.

  When they are marched to the many warehouses in South End where they live now, sleeping on cots, eating decent food, they have no idea that they are the twentieth generation to feel this misplaced pride, this same false promise of respect.

And none of this will change unless the people I love most in Limori can somehow the impossible.

This NYC.....but it could be Limori's Market Square, if you could fly over it like the magicians can.  Somiss has changed the Square since you saw it last,adding paths and buildings -- and the trees have grown over time. To the right is Middle Park, the center of the city where Sadima lived almost 200 years ago. Beyond it, out of sight, are the beautiful hills and the scattered, grand old mansions where the Ferrenidies live. South End is the curved, smokey, distant jumble of buildings straight ahead. Beyond it are the docks, the bay and the river that Hahp saw six years ago from the seat of the carriage once the pony had pulled them high into the air. That was the  day his father gave him to the magicians. He almost jumped out of the carriage, knowing the fall would kill him. He wanted to. For a long time, he thought it was cowardice that had held him back, but it wasn't.


Tomorrow I will get on a train. I love trains and this one will be going through beautiful places, taking me to a writers' event. I have my whole class figured out, I know what I am going to teach, so I will be taking the first 70 chapters of the third book with me, to read and ponder. I am beginning to see the light cast by the ending of the story, but isn't clear to me yet. I will just have to keep writing toward it, staying hidden, being silent and invisible, standing in the shadows, watching , listening, hoping.

The moon, the trees, the wind, and the clouds, all in my back yard.


pic taken by Roxyanne Young, friend and author   

I spent a day in San Louis Obispo, teaching serious writers that there are no freakin rules. They were kind enough to let me pace the floor, sit on the table, and listen to them read aloud with my eyes closed. I love writers. They notice everything. They are awake..they keep me awake.

On the train up and back (14 glorious hours of train) I reread the first 70 chapters of book #3. The story is telling itself, or so it seemed to me. And now....onward.

PS.  One writer got in touch to thank me for being the only writer she had ever heard say there were no rules who then did NOT provide a sequence of rules to follow. I should probably add that there were no beginners in the room. But even if there had been, I am convinced that craft often overwhelms art and our books are not what they could be because of that.

*a few days later::  I am NOT saying art will bloom if craft is not learned. I am saying that once craft is strong and solid--which can be a long learning curve for many of us--art should probably run the show whenever possible.

This is the cover art of the first book I ever wrote--

Just a quick note. I am buried in the last book of my trilogy ( A Resurrection of Magic). I just wanted to thank everyone who gets in touch to tell me they are excited about the third book because they loved the first two.

 I can't begin to explain how much this helps any writer...keep writing, write deeper, stay brave, stay honest.          ........Thanks.


After a few days of straightening out an emotional arc and condensing two chapters in one strand, then adjusting the other strand to fit that change.....I am moving forward again on book three. YAY!  But I am headed toward the scenes that are going to be really painful to write.  Ten boys were marched into the cliffs in the first book. Most of them will not be walking out. Maybe none. I have to write what's real and I never know what that is until I write it. All I can do now is chase the story....

Two crows.  The whole flock --at least a hundred birds---went overhead while I dug my camera out of my backpack.  I barely managed to fit the last two into one frame. They were talking to each other, call and response, like an old church song, like coyotes, like friends.


Climbing roses.
They take over if you let them. Like books do. I am writing writing writing

Sadima is alone. She has dropped a cooking pot.   We are both listening to its clanging on the stone floor...we are both waiting, holding our breath, hoping no one else has heard it.


This is weird. I am seeing elaborate set ups in books one and two that I had no idea I had put in...but that totally pave the way for things that are emerging now. Sorry for the vagueness, but you know....

When I finish this trilogy, the research and idea materials will finally be put to bed. On the other side of this pile, in the black file cabinet, there are drawers stuffed with articles, cavers and trapped miners interviews, stacks of notes about the city of Limori, accounts of historical toppled kings, the gypsy dictionaries, the maps I have drawn, etc. (and more etc.)


Something about one character has finally come clear to me today. It fits, perfectly, all the way back to the first time I met him in Skin Hunger (Book One)  I just somehow never saw it before. I should have. It obvious.

Below are the keys Sadima once found inside the cliffs. I have put them up here before, a long time ago. I thought they were lost forever to her, to me.... but maybe not.  

(these keys belong to a school principal in Abu Dhabi, who was kind enough to let me stay in her house while I was there appearing at schools.)


I am rereading chapters 1-70 for continuity and progression--and rewriting some sections as I go. I am also dreaming my way through the last 10-15 chapters, asking the characters what happens and why. Their answers are stunningly different than what I thought before I dropped back to do this read-through. So it's good I gave them time to think....

Sky, Cloud, Sea, and land.... This place looks almost exactly like the coast off  South End, up past the marshes where the Eridian's held their meetings for years until the night of the fire...

And this is in my backyard. Every few years an acorn lodges in a palm trunk and starts to grow. I try to transplant them before they have time to remind me that oaks win most their arguments.


Morning update:
Fifty chapters are polished up, dead end stuff taken out, the emotional arcs making sense. All three of my digicorders (each one holds 1,000 entries) are almost full of details to check as I go.  The next 10 chapters have almost no mark-ups from the recent train-ride read-through. The characters are completely running the show now...

This was taken in Fez, Morocco, in the medina, a maze-like ancient city that is now surrounded by the modern city. This is a student's window, a place to study with enough light to read without a lamp most of the day. There are many places in Limori's cliffs that are this old, this interesting. I wonder sometimes if the boys will ever find them. If they don't, I will move them to the next book somehow. They are too amazing to leave unfound.


4. 11. 2012

 Sadima passed a point of no return late last night.  She can't go back and I can't see any possible way to go forward. I will just have to spot her in Limori today, follow her around, try to keep her from coming apart. She couldn't have stopped what happened. I only hope she can live with it.

In the woods, full-moon-night, trying to see though the trees, trying to understand what the magicians are doing...and why.

A tiny bit of yesterday's writing: 

“I can hear you breathing,” the boy whispered. “Are you lost?”
“Yes,” I whispered back, and it was the truest thing I had said in a long time. 
“I can show you the way out,” he said quietly. Then, after a hesitation, he said this: “I have to get back to my parents, too.” 
I quieted my breath, trying to think. Parents? Was he real?

  Shhh. Hear that? It's the last of a hard rain rolling down the wet, dark stone. The moon is rising above the forest that separates the magicians' cliffs from the city of Limori.  And Sadima is crying.