2011

flax-golden tales: up to interpretation

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.

By erin, ago

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:

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: new to the neighborhood

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.

By erin, ago

greetings from amsterdam!

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.

By erin, ago

books.

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.

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: coffee & pie

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.

By erin, ago