2012

bookaversary thank you

A year ago today The Night Circus was published, official US publication date and all. I suppose that makes this some sort of book birthdayaversarysomething.

(I remain inordinately fond of the number 13.)

I am still in a little bit of disbelief that it’s even a proper book. You would think that would have sunk in by now. Though I think the fact that it’s a proper book in a great many languages, including Japanese, makes the whole thing extra surreal.

 

I can’t believe it’s been a year. It seems like everything went by so fast and yet last autumn seems so long ago.

And in some ways I feel like I didn’t really do that much this year, since the book was already finished and my year was spent on airplanes going from place to place to read aloud and babble and sign a great many copies of it to the point where my signature deteriorated (I am still crossing the t and it has developed an occasional loop after the n) and meet so many lovely people, returning home only to nap for weeks at a time.

Things happened around me, in strange and wonderful ways, thanks to a lot of people.

And now somehow it is September 13th again. Strange time, the way it continues ever onward.

So thank you. Thank you to every single person who has read the book. Everyone who came to events in so many cities that I lost count. Everyone who had a book club meeting with a color scheme.

Every bookseller who has hand-sold the book and everyone at a great number of publishing houses, particularly all my Random House lovelies.

Everyone who has tweeted or reviewed or blogged or sent me email that I am still woefully behind on.

Everyone anywhere who has donned a splash of red not for the book, but for the circus itself. Because really, that’s what it’s for.

Thank you, truly.

I hope your scarves keep you warm as we tumble into autumn, and I hope your dreams are sweet.

 

(A lucky NaNoWriMo donor will be getting these kittens inscribed in a copy of The Night Circus.)

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: dangerous games

dangerous games

They play games of chance when the boredom sets in.

The boredom comes often, settling like heavy fog over seemingly endless time.

So they play.

There are complex systems and penalties but rarely rules, and if they do add rules for the sake of variety those rules are often broken.

Not that any rules matter much to them, since they do not wager anything they hold particularly dear.

They risk only the possessions of others. Dreams and wishes, accomplishments and hopes and treasured memories.

If they become what they consider extra bored, the stakes are raised. Wagering fears and loves, trumped only by souls or lives.

There is but a single firm guideline: they never choose their victims, the choosing is always left to the dice.

 

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

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: warning sign

warning sign

There was indeed a warning sign, as people mentioned repeatedly after the fact.

In her defense, it was difficult to read.

The sign had once been clear and foreboding, though perhaps over the years it tired of its assertive manner and as fewer and fewer people passed by to read it stopped trying so hard.

And perhaps it is only a coincidence of erosion that the letters spelling out the key word “not” were the first to fade, leaving “do” and “drink” and “this” and “water” mostly legible.

(If it was a purposeful deceit, the sign will not confess.)

But whether she followed the legible instructions instead of the original posted warning or simply didn’t notice the sign at all and drank to quench a thirst, she can no longer say.

Her own voice is gone, vanished as soon as the water–clearer and crisper than any she had tasted before–touched her tongue.

Now her head is filled with thousands of other voices whispering secrets and confessions, answers to unsolved mysteries and long-lost truths since replaced by lies.

The authorities (likely the same ones who posted the sign so long ago) put her in a locked room while they decide what to do with her.

She continues to clearly indicate that she would like a pen, but they are all too afraid of what she might write.

 

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

By erin, ago

a few things and a few photos

  • There is an interview with me featuring hostile questions from Daniel Kraus over here on Booklist. (He signed my copy of Rotters “Daniel Kraus loves Erin!” so I don’t know what his problem is now.)
  • Start Here reached its funding goal YAY! Thank you to all who chipped in. Though this means I have to finalize my Neil Gaiman recommendations. Hrm.
  • I have been missing in action from the internet for the last while partially because I spent last weekend in the land of lousy cell phone service known as Cape Cod for my sister’s wedding. Everything was beautiful, even the weather cooperated, and I couldn’t be happier for her and my new brother-in-law. There will possibly be proper photos of me in bright blue chiffon forthcoming but for now here are a few Instagram-captured snippets of the weekend.
  • (Yes, she got married under a striped tent, though the stripes were also blue.)

 

 

By erin, ago

flax-golden tales: relics

relics

My grandmother started the collection but my father kept adding to it once he inherited. He’s already explained the key rule to me in case I want to continue it myself someday: they have to have been used.

There are antique hand-painted porcelain ones and cheap plastic versions with muddied features. Some are exaggerated cutesy cartoons while others are properly proportioned with highly detailed suits and gowns. Tiny top hats. Minuscule lace.

A few have traces of long-dried frosting clinging to hems or dusting shoes like sugar snow.

I wonder what each pair’s wedding was like. What they saw through unblinking eyes before being taken down from their tiered cake watchtowers.

I know realistically it’s unlikely that each miniature couple’s life-sized counterparts lived happily ever after, but I hope that they did.

 

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

By erin, ago