Critiques. The short answer is: Yes! If my own books aren't eating me alive.

I have been doing critiques for writers' conferences for years.  Because I couldn't attend SCBWI LA this year to do them at the conference, I decided to make amends to the 18 people I had let down by doing their sessions by phone and Skype, expanding from 20 minutes to at least an hour, and doing only 1 a day so that I could focus on each writer's work. This arrangement gives me enough time and emotional bandwidth to do my own writing, too, which is ever and always my priority.

The sessions have been amazing.  Each writer provided ten pages and a synopsis.  I read each ms carefully and marked up the pages with comments and suggestions.  Then we scheduled a phone or Skype appointment. 


At conferences, even the ones I love best, there is always a hurried feeling. This time, I could focus on the work, not the clock. We began by talking about the author's intent. Then we did a line by line examination of the 10 pages/synopsis. Once I understand what a writer is trying to create, I can focus on character voice, how to gracefully salt in backstory, build a seamless movie in the reader's mind, make sure the plot works, etc, etc...tailored for each writer. I always give concrete examples to support concepts and try to make sure everything is useful and tied to each writers' current work.  With a longer session, I could do all of that MUCH better. I can't describe how lovely it has been. I have never done crits like this, without a conference as the backdrop.  Each one was targeted and long enough to teach, instead of explain, writing skills.

So thanks to everyone who has been in touch. Yes, I am doing longer format critiques when I can fit them in. As much as I love to teach, I love writing far more, so I am sometimes unavailable. For rates, choices and all other details, you can contact me at kathleen duey at earthlink dot net 

*I feel compelled to add--I will send you the info and never bother you again. I only do a few critiques a month--and sending out the info to those who request it is NOT a way to build a mailing list. You will never hear from me again. I promise. I don't want a lot of critiques. I want to work with a few serious writers and save them all a couple of years. 



****Almost every critique so far begins with a discussion of voice. One writer I helped just sent me a redone/re-imagined first page. The voice is **astonishing.**   ((yay!))

*** Yes, I can evaluate a manuscript written for adults. Half my fan mail comes from adults. I am an adult. The writing skills needed for YA storytelling are the same as those needed to produce stories for adults.   

*** Long session yesterday and it was like watching a flower bloom. Lovely! 

***Two more long sessions...it is so much fun to watch people light up when I point out the places where the text fails the story and they begin to see how a word, two words, can make all the difference.  

*** A great session with a writer who had created a really interesting premise, then got lost in the woods trying to do re-writes. We spent most the time relocating the core of the story, then finding ways to salt it into the shadows, the daily life of the character, the escalating uneasyness of the reader.

Photo by Roxyanne Young, author and friend...taken in San Louis Obispo 2012.  I got to teach two three hour sessions with published and prepublished authors. It was fun!

***Someone has asked if I am a harsh critiquer. NO. I'm a writer. I have friends who beta read my work before my editors see it. I know how it feels to hold your breath while someone reacts to your manuscript. I tell the truth, yes. Always. And I try to make it so that you can apply whatever skill we are addressing to everything you write from then on. 

Me. Closing speaker for the SCBWI international LA conference, staring out at 1200 writers and hoping to say at least one thing they could take home and USE. 

Thanksgiving. It's complicated.

Thanksgiving is an odd holiday for me.
It's complicated.
Twice.
Or maybe three times.

1.
My grandparents moved  from Tennessee to Colorado when my father was five years old.  I loved my  quiet and reserved Grandpa and tried to love my irritable and opinionated grandmother. Grampa's Thanksgiving prayer was always short and sweet, but I remember him including the "Cherokee Nation" once or twice, because his mother--my great grandmother--was half Cherokee. He explained to me that the earliest colonists would never have made it through the first winter without a lot of "Indian" help. He said all the tribes got a "raw deal".

When I was in forth grade, my father began to buy me books about the Cherokee. I remember him turning it into a math lesson:  Great Gramma was 1/2 Cherokee so Grandpa was 1/4,  which made my dad 1/8 and me 1/16th.  My father was proud of our fractional heritage. I heard him tell  people that he had both Irish and Cherokee blood, so I started saying it too. The books he gave me on birthdays and Christmases taught me more about about the Cherokee culture. I read about the atrocities, too, the 1500 mile forced march from the Cherokee's home to a reservation in what became Oklahoma was called the Trail of Tears. Underfed and exhausted children who died were left by the wayside. Some mothers pretended their babies were alive, carried them day after day, desperate not to leave them to the crows and coyotes and ants. Old people who could not keep up were left behind, too. And there is more, so much more to lament and be ashamed of in the long, cruel history of the "settling" of America. I finally realized years later that was what my grandfather had called a "raw deal."

my great grandparents and their first four children.

2.
My great grandmother was half Cherokee. Her other half  never came up at the dinner table. My grandfather never mentioned or prayed for that side of his heritage and I don't think anyone ever wondered why. I didn't. The books all said many Scotts-Irish people and others  married Cherokee people in Eastern Tennessee long before and long after the Civil War.

 My grandfather died when I was eleven.  Years later my cousin told me they found his KKK card in his sock drawer after the funeral. He was a gentle, kind man and I was stunned. Some people said that  when he was growing up the Klan was like a service organization, a club that helped out members in need. Maybe he believed that. I can't. It weighed on my heart and still does. I can't reconcile it with the sweet and soft spoken man I knew.

One of my cousins researched our family history. He found relatives none of us had ever met and documents we had never  known about. There were a few vague references that made me wonder if we had a third heritage that had never been talked about or honored. But all hints were blurred and old and where there was ink on paper, it was faded and uncertain. I wanted to have more strains of humanity in my genes. I was writing by then and visiting schools. I would have loved to claim a broader heritage -- but no one found anything of substance. I was sure I would never find out, never know.

3.
Years later, when my father's Alzheimer's became profound, I was the one who took care of him, spending many hours every week  in the fenced-in old house that had been transformed into a small care facility. I spent the last few months of those days sitting with him, interpreting his tangled, associative way of speaking for the caretakers on staff, and treasuring the times when he was suddenly himself for a minute or two.

One day, about six months before my father died, we were sitting side by side on the slumpy green couch in the TV room. He was relaxed, not agitated or scared as he was so often then.  A new employee walked past us, a wonderful caregiver who had come to the US from Haiti. My father focused on her as she asked him if he would like a glass of water. She waited for him to answer and when he didn't she patted his hand and said she would ask him again later.

As she walked away, Dad gripped my arm hard enough to hurt. "You can't tell anyone," he whispered, then repeated those four words two or three times, looking into my eyes.
"Ok," I answered, "tell them what?"
"That we're part negro. Give me your word."
He was shaking and sweating and I wanted to ask him so many questions but I knew he wouldn't be able answer them. At that stage of his decline, his clear moments were truly just....moments. So I told him it didn't matter anymore, that lots of  families had mixed heritages, that it was common and accepted by most people.
He cried.
My father cried.
And then he thought I was his brother and he asked me if I wanted to go fishing in Oregon come spring. I sat there, feeling light and changed, holding both his hands as I promised to get his tackle box cleaned out soon.

So my family tree is taller and wider than I thought.   I am very thankful for that.



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*Adding this later, their children's names:  William Wynne, George Franklin, Andrew Thomas, John Kinser, Ira Walter, Samuel Edward, Joseph Lequire, Rosanah Arty, Lennie Ann, and James Harvey Peery

writing updates #5

I have been writing about my writing, avoiding spoilers, but trying to paint a portrait of the day-to-day oddness that is the core of writing any novel.
I want to thank the kind people who have been waiting for this book for far too long (there are reasons, not interesting ones, for the delay).  

Welcome!!  readers from the Philippines, Germany, Poland, France, Canada, Russia, United Kingdom, USA, Georgia, India, Australia, South Korea,Latvia,Czech Republic, South Africa,
Hungary, Macedonia, Malaysia, Ukraine, New Zealand, !!  


Hello and thank you!!   I love it when you find me on FB, here, my website: http://www.kathleenduey.com, and twitter @kdueykduey


If you want to read the writing updates in order here are the links:

http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/05/writing-updates-all-projects-2.html
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/06/writing-updates-3-2011.html
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/07/writing-updates-4.html

......Or you can start here and fly on
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7.29.2011

Olive trees, those ancient, patient trees that watched Rome rise and fall. 

Today's writing will take me back to a place I don't want to go. The characters are real to me, especially now, in the third book of the trilogy...





I wrote most of the chapter yesterday, was amazed at the turn it took, stopped writing and answered fan messages for an hour or two instead of facing what I knew was coming.  Today, NOW, I have to go back.  


The City of Limori has been destroyed by war so many times over the centuries. Wizards and kings, back and forth, the people  swept up into a battle they become convinced is their own.
But it isn't.  It never was.


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7 30 2011

This is a Euphorbia. The thorns keep it safe. And if that isn't enough, the milky white sap can burn your skin or blind you. 

I was awake much of last night and slept in until 7:30am-- unusual for me.  I have been sitting at the desk, writing notes from last night's insomnia-blast of revelations. I am just about to start writing for the day, a chapter with Hahp and Gerrard. They have learned to survive the pressure and disorientation of the dark passages they live in, the strange tests they are given. But now, the wizards are gone and everything has stopped. Why?  


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The moon and one star. Taken with a shaky handheld camera, the lens madly searching for light. I held my breath and counted to sixteen before the shutter finally snapped.  

8.1.2011
I spent a lot of yesterday rereading what I have written so far. I also read first person accounts of coal miners and documents from early American mines that describe the effects of working and living underground--and being trapped there. So now I know that what Hahp said yesterday is true, that what he is feeling is not unusual and what he intends to do is a typical human reaction. And I know now what will happen to him if he manages it... 


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8. 5. 2011


I do critiques sometimes and yesterday was full of talking to people about their work.  It's always interesting and always makes me see my own work more clearly. So today I am going back into the dark stone corridors with no idea what will happen, just that I need to be there to record it when it does. 

Silk floss trees would rather be in  South America, but they tolerate California. The thorns are huge, and store water in dry seasons.  They can grow to 60 feet. mine is about 20 feet tall now.

The blooms always surprise me, like they were meant for some other more delicate, more poetic, less thorny tree. I am hoping for unexpected blooms today, for Sadima and Hahp. And Gerrard. Maybe especially for Gerrard.

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A bio-green-building in Paris....the windows are  reflecting the trees across the street. Do they talk? The wall-plants and the ground plants--do they discuss flat ground and roots pointing down vs. roots clinging to wire frames filled with soil three stories up and having roots parallel to the ground?

  The grand plan for a foggy Sunday:  Three writing sessions today. First 90 minutes on A Resurrection of Magic #3. Thanks to everyone writing to ask when it will come out. I KNOW it is taking too long, but it is a complicated book and I am writing as fast as I can. It is intensely emotional for me to write--if you have read the books, you know why.  Second session will be two projects I am not talking about yet, still exploring what will come next. Third session back to Limori and book #3. Now, off to DO all that....


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8.9 2011
An amazing thing is happening in Limori. Last night, the people in Market Square were stunned into silence, and so was I.  This morning, I will go back and see if I imagined it, if it was an illusion, or real. If it is, I have no idea what will happen to Sadima now, or the boys inside the cliffs. 

This is the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the picture was taken on an night walk.  When the tower was built, it amazed the world, a triumph of art and  steel, built to awe anyone who saw it. 

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Did more critiques yesterday, two by Skype.  Critiques in LA: twenty minutes (they have to, the volume of writers is massive) When I do them from home, average time about an hour.  Two more today, later in the day. For now, I am about to sneak onto the green of Limori's Market Square in the middle of the night and see if I can find out who is building this thing. (see below)  And why.

This ceiling is in the United Emirates,  in a hotel that was built to accommodate royal visitors. The gold is really gold. The "opera balconies" are about 40 feet overhead.  Sunlight pours through the high windows.  Somehow, nothing echos, all sounds are hushed. So I was standing in a hotel lobby feeling like a transfixed, rural pilgrim,  staring up at a cathedral/shrine/temple roof in 1429.  Strange and lovely.

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This is in Fez Morocco, a family business of leather tanners and dyers. It was amazing to watch them work, moving sheep skins from one basin to anther. . In Sacred Scars it is the tannery where Sadima sometimes goes to sit beneath the nearby trees, protected from interruption by the piercing stench, knowing that both Grrur and Charlie are close, as close as they can be now. 

I thought I knew what Somiss wanted, what he has searched for all this time. And I was wrong. I have three writing sessions planned today interspersed with my usual critiquing, tree trimming, planting, gardening, etc. The deepest insights come when I am outside doing something physical.  This one did, yesterday. I dropped the shovel and ran for my office.




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8:18:2010


I sort of auto-wrote something last night, right before I shut down to go to bed. I was in that tired, defenseless, fluid/creative state that disconnects writer-support from the character--and they begin to breathe on their own. I think it is the protagonist of the next book talking to me. I hope so. If it isn't, whoever she is, she will get a book out of me
someday.  (or the reverse?)


**added two days later***....below the photo is a short excerpt of what she said to me last night: 

This is an old butter churn.  I used it for years...then stopped spending every second of every day  to  grow and make food....so I could write books. It sits on my kitchen counter, a reminder and an old friend.  The voice that came to me has a butter churn just like this one. But she doesn't use it to make butter--or anything like butter.

The Mystery Voice

“It’s not what you think, this ain’t any thimblerig. I’ve never been afraid of my mother. She’s no help, not ever, but she never hurt me nor Kerf, not once.  It’s just that no one has seen her, not even Grabbat and she wouldn’t dare buy from no one else.  I’ve wished for that. For her going missing, staying gone. I’ve hoped for the day of never again having to help her come up with enough for one of Grabbat’s little blue bags. But Kerf is sick. He needs food and I can’t leave him alone to go work the station crowd. The hat boxes are all empty. I don’t have one single thing left to sell.”


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8. 24. 2011


This is Heather Brewer, me, and Ellen Hopkins, in Rochester NY, at a book festival (an AMAZING one) a few months ago. I am including it here because sometimes the weirdness of writing (like any other weirdness) can only be honestly discussed with friends who share it.  So, Yeah. We talked writing!!! And when any of us mentioned hearing voices, the other two just nodded.  

Last night, just a few minutes before I closed up shop, Hahp started talking to me on the screen. And now I understand something in Skin Hunger that had never made sense to me before. I am about to start today's work. Hahp is near the lake, searching that huge dark chamber...he is hoping.  And so am I. 


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8. 26. 2011
About to start writing for the day. I kind of dread it this morning because I have come to love Limori and some of the things happening in the city of Limori are happening in my country, right now, too. So I guess even in books people are...people...wary and unfair. 

This is a South American ice cream bean blossom. It's a pretty, rangy, tree with weirdly shaped leaves. New leaves are a deep blood red that changes to vivid green as they grow...Inga edulis is the Latin name. The fruit, which is not really a fruit, is amazing. It took me a long time to try it, I think because the tree itself is so...unfamiliar. 



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8.30. 2011
The thing I am wrestling with now is that I have come to love the characters or pity and understand them, or I wish I could help them....so the hard scenes are REALLY hard to write.  I have to write with hope, but I have to record what happens without making it up.  And, yes, I know that sounds silly, but that is how it feels to me. If *I* write this story, it is going to be untrue--probably at least a little sappy with almost everyone surviving and finding some kind of life. And I know that isn't what really happens. It couldn't. 

There are too many isolated, protected, powerful people involved. There are too many descendants of massive wealth in the city of Limori, most of whom harbor old hatreds, old rivalries.  There is so much decadence, extravagant entertainments,exotic foods and a life-long feeling that they deserve to live this way as the step around the beggar children, annoyed at unpleasant smells.  But there is no one with the means to stop it because they also pay guards and buy their loyalty. 

I woke up this morning knowing this: There are a lot of desperate poor people in Limori, too, many more poor than rich, as is always and ever the truth.  

This is a teapot, decorated with a bracelet. It sits on a table in South End, in a quiet room waiting for children to arrive. The woman who owns the tea pot is named Theodora Nerak. You haven't met her yet, but you will. 




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Writing updates #4

If you want to read all the recent  updates you can find them here:

http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011_04_01_archive.html
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/05/writing-updates-all-projects-2.html
http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/2011/06/writing-updates-3-2011.html

Or you can just start with this one and fly on....


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July  8 2011

Book #3 of A Resurrection of Magic, in progress:

Late last night I finally understood the difference between  the acceptance of  love and the call of duty for three of the characters. I don't like what this means in terms of where I have to start today, but I don't have a choice. And it is after ten o'clock am here in CA and I need to stop procrastinating NOW.  Sigh.  Sometimes writing is painful.
The first two of the trilogy:

art copyright David Ho

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It is astounding what people can build from stone and mud: from hope and courage: from despair and longing.  

July 10 2011
Before I start to write my current work today:
Free Rat: a story that has been incubating inside me for almost 15 years. It might be the next YA  book, or maybe next to next. It took over my fingers and my brain last night again. Sometimes all I can do is listen and type.  I am thinking about it more and more because even though I began weaving it a long time ago, it seems to be weaving itself now.Maybe because every time I read the news, I realize how close to my own world it really is. Mine and yours.

And now, back to the city of Limori, and everything it is hiding...

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July 13th, 2011

Trees have even more moods than people do-- This one matches mine this morning, perfectly, as I stare down the barrel of the chapter I am about to start... 

In Limori Sadima is isolated and facing a decision so huge that I keep starting the scene over and over, because it hurts to write it and the last part will be the worst if it goes the way I think it might. Hahp and Gerrard are still both alive, both angry, and scared.  I am hoping for some kind of happy ending but I can't see it from here. Yet. I am about 3/4s done. I think. I hope. It is getting longer and longer..

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I wrote a scene last night that I am almost sure will be "questioned" once the book is out. Sigh. I will read it again this morning and see if I was right about it being inevitable, necessary. I am almost sure it is. No actual sex involved...but there are other things.  Fantasy seems to slip past the censorship fans. We'll see.

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7 20 2011

This is me, typing.  And typing.

I am getting into the part of the book where things tighten and slowly begin to fall into place. I  find there is almost nothing I can say that isn't a spoiler. Market Square is a dangerous place now.  The poor people hold their children close and the rich are hiring guards.

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7.21.2011

First, I want to thank the people from all over the world who are reading this blog--about 500 of you this week so far!

Next:
Thanks to everyone on Face Book and Twitter who stay in touch and read these updates!!

WRITING UPDATE
In Limori, there is a rising chaos. This is the first time in the city's history that powerful merchants and City Magistrates (most descended from the old royal houses) are dealing with Magicians who have prolonged their lives in order to perfect magic. This is the first time Eridians have had both wealth and influence. There will be no easy victory this time, fought only by guards hired by each faction. There will be no behind-closed-doors compromises made.

Sadima, Hahp and Gerrard are still alive... and that's all I can say without spoilers. (trust me, I just tried four or five times to be vague enough and couldn't.)

Thanks for all the messages here and FB and Twitter and my website http://www.kathleenduey.com
Every kind word about my books is wonderful and appreciated.

Taken from a train window on the way to San Luis Obispo....marshes are lovely to me.  There are marshes north of Limori's South End. Sistra's mother is buried there. I had no idea how important that would become in the third
 book. .....where and how she was buried. 

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7 22 2011

Sometimes it is music that shows me how to write a scene.  This morning, thanks to Elvis Costello and Fiona Apple for a lesson in immersion, conflict and  pain.  (and thanks to Richard for sending this to me weeks ago. I have watched it many times since) 

  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiOmhOumh-w

San Luis Obispo train ride...The tracks come so close the the edge of the bluffs...so close ..... 

bombax blooms!

 bombax flowers begin as green and brown pods that elongate slowly, then erupt overnight into full bloom.  This one is in my back yard.  Click any of these twice for max enlargement. 

The flowers last only a day or two, and I love them even  more because of that.  I have decided that they grow in Limori, inside the cliffs, in Jux's forest, magically, unnaturally, on command.... 

Writing updates book #3: 2011

image copyright Omar Rayyan, 1999

I love this illustration, created for The Unicorn's Secret.  It's a series, eight slim books written so that third graders can read it, but almost half the fan mail is from adults.  The story came from dreams I had in gradeschool, contiguous dreams that went on for about a year and a half and  felt like a second life. Every night I went back to the same place, then, when night fell in the dream, I would go to sleep there and wake up *here*.  Writing these books was the beginning of my strong preference for letting the story write itself. 

http://www.kathleenduey.com/KidsBooks/  for first chapter excerpts.

okay, on to much darker things.....

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Resurrection of Magic book #3---in progress. 

Traveling always interrupts my work, but it also provides distance. After a week of teaching writing, I spent the first two days here at  home rereading.  Here's what I know now. Hahp has passed a point of no return--and he knows it.  Gerrard is hiding something, from me, from everyone.  Sadima's choices are heartbreaking, logical, impossible. I can only hope.

An acacia tree that died, maybe...didn't.

I have almost 50 solid chapters now, and the time lines are crossing, converging. The city is on the edge of terrible things and the boys in the cliff are almost beyond fear. Almost.  I have one more conference next weekend--four days counting planes days--and am taking my Neo with me.  Then I have a whole month at home. This is so hard to write. I love these people.  

Thanks to everyone getting in touch to ask when the book will be finished. Soon. Probably all too soon...

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6 26 2011

Euphorbias -- the fleshy cactus-like limbs sometimes drop and rot, but the thorns live on and on and on....like bones. 

Just returned home from two conferences, back to back. I'm always amazed by the blooming writers in my class sessions and critique sessions. My two-day home-again acclimation is over. The garden is tended, the jet lag is gone and about half of the third Resurrection of Magic book is now sent off to gather early feedback. I will start the day by rereading chapters, listening to my recorders, reading the pile of notes from me to me... and then, probably around noon, I will start writing. 

There is so much trouble in the city of Limori.  The boys in the cliffs can't hear the shouting or see the guards' hands, always on their sword sheaths. They can't see the beggar children in South End who stand silently, one hand out, afraid to speak, to ask anyone for food...but they can feel something changing, collapsing... 

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6 29 2011

between thunderstorms in Florida...

Last night, very late and very sleepy, I might have gotten a glimpse of how things will end.  I cried, then smiled, then wrote the notes and filed them.  I am a long way from writing those end scenes...but not THAT long...so it's good to have the future revealing itself.  

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6 30 2011

I woke up dreading the place I have to start today.  Immediate, unscripted, un-outlined writing is all about not letting yourself blink, or run away.  I know what will probably happen and I just have to record it accurately whether I am right or wrong.

some trees are like poems 

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The backstory in this trilogy is so intricate that I find myself rereading sections of the first two books to check details, to make sure the physical set up of some part of the city is consistent, but then I keep reading far past what I needed to read, notice small things that set me thinking and I finally look up from the book when I realize I am hungry. I am a deep writer. Maybe not an efficient one, though.

But there is THIS:

Karen Bale and I wrote this book for middle grade readers many years ago. It stays in print--and once in a while, gets translated again.  This is the brand new German version--a reminder that life and death drama never gets old. Heroism--and the lack of it--play a part in every life. 

WIFYR (( Writers and Illustrators for Young Readers conference...))

I am just back from an WIFYR  conference in Utah. I met with my class for five days--four-hour sessions each day. It was the best teaching experience I have ever had. We critiqued as a group and I tried to tell them everything I know--and/or suspect about writing. Writer-bloom filled the room!!!

This is the view from the campus....the colors change with every shift of light, every cloud shadow.



The lovely, incredible and famous King's English
Bookstore  was kind enough to hold a pot-luck
dinner for authors and others. The food was so good! The people were wonderful....

and oh, the BOOKS!!!






THE BOOKS...

THE BOOKS!!!
The store is in an old and beautiful neighborhood. There are five or six interesting book rooms, a gorgeous and artsy patio, amazingly informed and helpful staffers and, as befits a premier independent bookstore....an *astounding* range of books.

The faculty http://www.wifyr.com/   was full of people I like and admire, including the brilliant Holly Black, so every meal was a writer-fest.
and .....




I got to see Shannon Hale  at The King's English Bookstore!!  We once shared a panel in San Antonio and try to keep in touch. She is fun, funny, and one of the nicest people I know.




I am just hoping WIFYR will ask me back. (Are you listening Carol?)

thanks!!!

this picture was taken in Wisconsin, a state full of odd and lovely trees and very nice people.

Thanks to everyone for writing to me, leaving comments here, getting in touch through FB, Twitter, my website, my publishers, etc.  It makes me write better, and sometimes faster. In a few days, I fly to Utah to talk to writers about their work http://www.wifyr.com/ .  Then I will be back in CA for three days before I go to join http://www.marjettageerling.com/ and Michelle Burke of Random House publishing and everyone else at http://www.scbwiflorida.com/details.htm.

THEN, SCBWI LA (after all)

After that I have a blank calender until October.  I will be chained to my desk during that time--finishing (then revising) the third book of the trilogy. I can't wait to hear your reactions. I think...I hope, it is going to be amazing.

P.S.  I think I will be going to SCBWI after all, mostly living in the critique room...!
http://www.scbwi.org/Conference.aspx?Con=8



this picture was taken in Wisconsin, a state full of odd and lovely trees and very nice people.

Resurrection of Magic

 Two stories, 200 years apart. The first story causes the second one.



I am writing the third book now. Click the red link for more news:  http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/

Rochester NY Teen Book Festival. WOW.

 Heather Brewer, me, Ellen Hopkins


Terry Trueman


Plus twenty- four more teen and tween authors.....and about 4,000 other wonderful  people...
   

Teachers and teens fill the room... Ms. Johnston loves literature!! Her students learn about peanut butter poofs, her family in Germany--and how to read deeper and write better.

....Everyone had a fabulous time at The Rochester Teen Book Festival.  We had amazing transportation...a lovely vintage bus, classic cars!!! A marching band and a Drum Corps met us at the gate. There was amazing food, a beautiful campus, a little misty rain, and BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS.  (Note to all the teen boys who did not come to the book festival. Look at the above photos carefully. Lots of girls. Smart, interesting, girls. Next year, get on the bus!!)

Check out the art behind Heather and me...even the faculty dinner restaurant was amazing.




YAY Rochester!!!  A thousand thanks to Stephanie A. Squicciarini  and her amazing staff. Nothing went wrong, EVERY SINGLE THING went right.  If you can get to Rochester next year, do it. I am hoping to be there.