Monday, March 25, 2013

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:  They are all on Amazon, too, but eBay does better pics. )  And to write.

Monday, March 18, 2013

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....

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

...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.

           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.