[enter title here]

This is what a book tour looks like in ephemera. In boarding passes and train tickets and accidentally retained visitor passes.

That’s not even all of it.

I am in something that I could probably call Tour Recovery Mode right now. It mostly involves looking at all the stuff that has been neglected in my absence, from several email inboxes to that not-a-novel-yet to the newly-home fluffy cats and not having the mental capacity to deal with any of it. I’m feeling really guilty about it, too, but it seriously took all my energy just to make myself gluten-free pancakes with strawberries this morning and I have been trying to write this blog post for three days. Make that four days, pancakes were yesterday. Also it’s dark at 4pm lately and that makes me extraordinarily sleepy.

Speaking of extraordinarily sleepy, Tessa is in love with the faux-fur blanket I got to warm up the sofa. Maybe because she so nicely color-coordinates with it.

I’m exhausted. I thought after a few days of sleeping in my own bed and not having to be on airplanes I’d feel better but I’m still exhausted. I think I feel worse, actually, that whole object in motion stays in motion thing, and that object in motion suddenly taken out of motion feels dizzy and nauseous.

I’m not sure what I really want to say in this post. I’m not sure I’m coherent enough to say anything, really. Here, let’s have some points in something resembling an unnumbered list, because I can totally not handle lists with numbers right now.

  • If you are waiting to hear back from me about anything, please be patient. I am only one person with a very overwhelmed brain.
  • My brain would be overwhelmed even if I were only dealing with book stuff and nothing else, but I have a lot of other things going on requiring brain time right now. A lot. I will spare you the gory details but I think the internet already knows I’m getting divorced and that’s just one of the non-book things. Life has a way of happening all at once.
  • I straighten my hair nearly every day and yet I still managed to burn my ear on my straightening iron this morning. This is likely indicative of how I’m doing right now.
  • I would really, really like to be able to write now that I’m a real writer and all, but it is baffling how many non-writing things are involved in being a writer. I did look at the novel-in-progress today and it didn’t look half-bad considering the unfinished messy draft stage it’s in, so that’s something.

Okay, I can’t handle any more list things. I think my attention span has taken a vacation with my short-term memory. I hope they’re somewhere warm with umbrella drinks.

I should probably wrap up this post before my typing skills and ability to form sentences decide to join them.

To those still NaNo-ing, I raise my coffee to you in a caffeine-driven salute for these, the Final Days. If you’ve already won: Congratulations!!! You rule. If you haven’t yet crossed the finish line: You can do it, you still have time! If you’ve already thrown in the towel: It’s okay, and remember you wrote more this month than you might have otherwise. Also, remember where you put that towel because a towel is the most massively useful thing you can have.

I am working on a proper post about writing-related things to cover some of the more frequently asked questions of late. It’s like a baby step toward having a proper FAQ. And I will have more tour musings eventually, possibly with photos if I can figure out how to get them off my old phone.

For now I am going to give up on figuring out what to title this rambling ramble of a post and actually post it.

up to interpretation

She doesn’t call them tests, but that’s what they are. She tests me all the time, pulling single cards out at unexpected moments and holding them out to me, impatiently waiting for my interpretations, making me think on my feet without giving me time to consult dictionaries full of meanings.

It seems like one card at a time should be easier than complex layouts, but it’s hard for me to be concise. To pull out words and distill a symbolic image into coherent sentences. I was never all that good at coherent sentences.

Today the card that appears suddenly in front of me is The Lovers, and my heart feels heavy before my head can come up with a proper response.

It’s not about love, I say when I manage to untie my tongue. It’s about choices.

Good, she says as she puts the card back in the deck, a soft, sad smile tugging at her lips. Though if it is about love, there are no choices.


About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

how it ends.

I am done with touring for 2011.

I don’t think Thank You is enough for all the wonderful bookstores and booksellers, for all the readers (whether they’d read The Night Circus yet or not) who came to events and for everyone who organized so many festivals and signings and interviews and flights, but Thank You.

I am slowly re-acclimating to my normal time zone, which has involved sleeping a lot. I am also trying to catch up on things around here that have been neglected during the tour, like cleaning and unpacking things that somehow never managed to get unpacked over the summer.

I uploaded my photos from foggy Amsterdam:


More photos (and more fog!) over on my Flickr photostream.

It’s strange to be done, at least with the travelling. I have things to catch up on (if I owe you an email I’ll get to it soon(ish), hopefully) and the to-do list still seems never-ending and despite all that I know I need some rest. I am not used to so many things and people requiring my attention and I am still adjusting. Also, I’d like to be able to write again at some point.

It is an open-windows, reading in the park sort of day which is rare for this late in November. It’s lovely but not helping me regain my concept of time.

On the flight over to Amsterdam one of the in-flight movie options on the individual embedded in the seat in front of you televisions was Midnight in Paris. I had been told by several people that I would love it and they were correct, it is a marvelous magical fairy tale of a film and I loved it more than I have loved any new film in recent memory. And I’m not even much of a Woody Allen fan.

On the flight back to Boston I half-slept with DeVotchKa’s How it Ends on repeat. So I suppose that makes this the song of the end of the book tour:

new to the neighborhood

My parents made a big fuss about moving like I would find it traumatic to have to put all my stuff in cardboard boxes but it really wasn’t that bad. My room is bigger now and the window has a seat in it. And the new neighborhood is pretty much the same as the old one was except here the squirrels can talk.

They don’t stay in trees, they come up to the porch and sit on the steps. They’re terrible gossips, I knew the peculiar habits and naughty secrets of all the neighbors before they even started coming over with welcome-to-the-neighborhood pastries and casseroles.

The squirrels are pushy, too. They nag me about keeping my shoelaces double-knotted and they pull them loose if I forget. One of them tried to take my donut this morning and when I wouldn’t let him have it he swore at me and muttered something about reporting me to the magistrate and stormed off in a huff. I watched his fluffy tail disappear through the leaves while I ate my donut, which was chocolate-frosted, and wondered if I would have shared if he had just asked politely.

I told my mother about it and when I got to the bit about the magistrate she sighed and said we’d probably have to move again.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

Hello internet!

I am in Amsterdam. I have a crush on this city. It has canals and kittens and art and pretty, pretty architecture! I wish I had more time to spend here, and I feel I simply must return when it is slightly warmer.

I have been here courtesy of my lovely Dutch publisher, De Bezige Bij. They have my gorgeous Dutch cover all over the place:

Including on the street, which is both bizarre and delightful:

(Am not certain what the pile of dirt was about. It adds to the surreality of it all.)

Headed back to Boston tomorrow but have had a splendid time here & I believe I am done with travelling for 2011 once I’m home, so I will hopefully be able to catch up with blogging and email replies and everything else that’s been neglected during the whirlwind of the tour.

Also, I have lost all concept of time. Am hoping I’ll re-adjust once I’m in one place for a while.


Okay, I’m not sure this is all of them yet but here’s the up-to-date pile of books accumulated during the book tour. Some purchased, some gifted, others magically materialized the way books do.

(And also my raven mug, filled with jasmine tea.)

I’m going to need to reorganize some shelves.

coffee & pie

He went in because of the neon sign in the window advertising both coffee and pie but careful study of the printed menu revealed neither. There were lattes and macchiatos and cappuccinos but nothing listed as simple coffee. Tarte tatins and cobblers and even flan but no pie. His hopes lifted when he noticed an additional list written in chalk on the wall but it contained only a selection of cakes ranging from cup to cheese, food for devils and angels but still, no pie.

He shifted anxiously on the faux-leather bench as he waited for the waitress to approach and when she did he was relieved to see she carried a silver pot in her hand.

“Tea?” she asked, holding out the pot and he shook his head slowly, raising a hand to indicate the backwards neon letters in the window.

“Oh, we haven’t served coffee or pie in ages,” she said. “I don’t know why no one bothered to change the sign.”

He nodded once, sadly, and then started to cry. The waitress stood by silently for a few moments before moving to another table to refill someone’s tea.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

I still have so much tour stuff to catch up on and dozens of photos to share but at this point I suspect it will be easier to do a recap when I’m home for a decent amount of time.

I went on the shortest trip to London ever on Friday (got in Friday morning, left Saturday morning) to go to the Galaxy Book Awards and wear a sparkly dress and lose the International Author of the Year award to Jennifer Egan (I was rooting for Murakami, myself) and I am still rather baffled and honored that I was included in such esteemed company.

I had an all too brief stay at the St. Pancras Rennaissance Hotel, where the UK launch party I have not yet had time to blog about was held in October. (It’s also the former Midland Grand Hotel, which is featured in The Night Circus.) My room overlooked the adjoining train station. I took the rubber duck from my bathroom home with me. Apologies if I was not supposed to steal him, but how could I not?

He has stars! I love him. And for some reason I did not have a rubber duck, which seems like something everyone should have.

In other news, I hear tell my NaNoWriMo pep talk went out to all you daring NaNo-ers, hurrah! I hope you are properly pepped and inspired and not hitting that week-in “why am I doing this again?” stage now that the initial rush is starting to wear off. I am waving little black & white striped flags of encouragement for you! (The full pep talk is over here if anyone who didn’t get the email or simply isn’t NaNo-ing would like to read it.)

Tomorrow I am off to D.C. for an event at Politics & Prose! Also, I am behind on replying to pretty much anything that requires replying to, but relatively soon I will be off the touring carousel and hopefully I’ll be able to catch back up with my life.


still waiting for prince charming

I found a princess in the woods.

I was pretty sure she was dead, but she’s asleep. She looks dead, with wrong-colored clammy-slimy skin and a decaying gown, but she has a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s definitely a pulse.

I know the proper thing to do in such situations is to wake her with a kiss and I don’t want to, her lips are covered in dirt and moss and she looks like she’s been out here for a good long time. There are bugs in her shoes. She’s clearly been rained on. Her hands were probably folded at some point but one arm has fallen to the side and the fingers are mostly buried in the mud.

I shook her and yelled but that didn’t work, not that I expected it to. I could try to drag her out of the woods, but she’s heavy.

I should probably just call the police.

About flax-golden tales
. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.


I keep meaning to post proper links to my Night Circus playlist & I keep forgetting, so this time I shall not forget and even give them their own post.

The playlist is up on Spotify, here.

It is also up on 8tracks, which gave me a nifty little code for embedding:

You can also read explanations of all these songs over here via largehearted boy’s Book Notes.