sea & salt & submersion

So last week the power of Twitter manifested Neil Gaiman’s upcoming The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

I said this:

 

Truthfully I thought maybe someone at his publisher would have a spare ARC, and if I were lucky I’d get one in a few weeks.

Before the end of the day I’d played Twitter tag with publishing types in both the US and the UK and then one lovely person led to another and then the name “Neil Gaiman” turned up in my email inbox, so a couple of days later I had these:

ocean

Top one is the US version (I love that cover) and the hardcover beneath it is a special edition proof from the UK. They are both beautiful and they are being treasured and petted and read.

I am a very, very lucky girl and I didn’t have to make out with anyone, but if any of the lovely people who led to this want to take me up on that, that’s totally cool.

I curled up with it over the weekend and I wasn’t sure what to expect because I knew nothing about it. Read it in one sitting and loved it. As I said on Twitter afterward, it is soaked in myth and memory and salt water and it is so, so lovely.

It feels as though it was always there, somewhere in the story-stuff of the universe, and I’m glad Neil captured it on paper so well.

And it made me want to write again.

I’ve been working, sorting through notes and drafts and the last of the cardboard boxes, but I haven’t really been doing much raw storytelling writing in that itchy to put things on paper way and this lit that spark again, which is impressive since it lit it with water.

And I got to email Neil Gaiman and thank him personally for that, which is delightful and yet more proof that Twitter is magic.

(I promise to only use the power of Twitter for good and books and not abuse it.)

So I have had oceans on the brain and then yesterday my teal chairs finally, finally arrived (they’d been held hostage in a warehouse and no one thought to call to arrange delivery until they were inquired about, several times) and they are even more gloriously teal and deco than I’d expected and I love them.

And they made me realize that my decorating concept is basically Bioshock.

I can think of worse decorating concepts than “underwater art deco city.” And I like it, it’s cozy. It’s a flavor I can work in.

bioshocky

I’d been thinking about the new novel as an air and glass sort of thing, where the circus was very much paper and fire and earth. And it has been curled up near the sea but I hadn’t thought of it as a water creature until now, and in its way it really is.

It’s very much like figuring out the soup you are cooking needs more salt. It seems too simple but it’s true.

It took oceans on the brain and teal chairs to realize it, even though I think it was there all the time.

Now that I’ve finally had the time to write I’ve been gathering up all my ideas and bits and pieces of scrawled drafts and I’ve been dipping my toes back in to get myself re-acclimated. I think I hadn’t been sure what this story was or wanted to be and over the last week I’ve had a couple of those salt water epiphany sparks and while I don’t know what it wants to be, exactly, I have a better idea.

I figured out over the last two years that while I can write little bits of things I can’t develop a whole novel-world unless I can shut everything else out and live in that world. I need that full-on imagination submersion. And for various reasons I’m only now getting to the point where I can do that.

I’m remembering how to breathe underwater so I can properly submerge myself.

I know I have something here, and I want to get it right.

flax-golden tales: in gratitude to the lions who guard the saints

the lions who guard the saintsin gratitude to the lions who guard the saints

To the lions who have taken their solemn vows

To keep ever-watchful eyes on all that approaches

To carry concerns and worries so that others may continue without fear

And who bear burdens not their own upon their backs.

For your generosity we offer our gratitude and small sacrifices of time

We bring flowers and wine and wishes for your good health

Prayers for strength of body and mind.

We hope you hold your posts with pride

And remember always that whilst you guard the saints

The saints guard you as well.

 

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

tumblr & yarn

So I asked Twitter if I should have a tumblr since it’s the one other social media thingamajig that intrigues me and the general consensus was that it would eat all my time but I should have one anyway, so I do now even though I haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. I suspect it will take me a while to get the hang of it.

It can be found at the likely guessable address of http://erinmorgenstern.tumblr.com

Right now it’s just lucky cats and poetry but I suspect there will be more stuff, particularly things from Instagram and will likely be a good in-between betwixt Twitter & here for things that are too big for tweets but too insubstantial for here. Not that we stay all that substantial over here. Have yet to decide if flax-golden tales will be cross-posted.  I might pull old ones to feature over there, since there’s a lot of them now. (This week’s will be #191)

I also believe I promised a picture of the scarf I had been working on forever that’s the first thing I’ve knit in ages.

new noro scarf

It’s several different variegated Noro yarns striped in a 1×1 rib pattern because I am a knitting masochist and also I like knitting things that look cool but don’t require much math or counting.

In other news, I am finally almost to the point of being caught up with things and unpacked that I’d wanted to be at the end of January, so that’s something. I am having ideas about things and generally in one of those buzzy moods that comes from being extra creative and also eating too many Cadbury mini-eggs. Went to the Morgan Library over the weekend and saw their lovely Drawing Surrealism exhibit and it jostled my imagination in just the way I’ve been itching for something to jostle it.

So I have a sugar & surrealism infused brain and a scarf and a tumbly tumblr and almost all of my furniture (my teal chairs are being held hostage) and somehow it is March. All strange but all good, I suppose.

flax-golden tales: order here

order hereorder here

I noticed the neon sign in the kitchen before I went to bed, in that too-tired haze that also leads to mistaking the cat for a dragon. (Though I have seen the cat breathe fire, even in mid-afternoon. I don’t know much about cats and my roommate says it’s just a trait of the breed, whatever breed it is.) So I thought maybe I imagined it.

But in the morning the neon sign was still hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen and while I got my coffee I wondered what “REDRO” meant and then I realized I was looking at the back and it really said “ORDER” in glowing red over a white arrow pointing down accusingly at an unassuming square of linoleum near the sink.

“What’s the sign for?” I asked my roommate when he shuffled in wearing his bunny slippers with the dragoncat draped around his shoulders. The cat sneezed a little puff of smoke.

“It’s for ordering things,” he said, pouring two cups of coffee, one for him and one for the cat. “I thought it might be useful, just stand under it and say what you want and it’ll show up.”

I figured it was for ice cream or pizza, but it works for anything.

 

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

on ARCs and blurbs and (yet again) time

For those of you who don’t know (and I, despite years as a rather avid reader, had no idea until I started figuring out how to get published) an ARC is an Advance (or Advanced) Reader (or Reader’s or Reading) Copy (the C seems to always be for copy). They are also sometimes called galleys, for additional confusion. They’re sent out to booksellers/librarians/reviewers before the book itself is published so people can decide to stock or sell or review it, and they also send them to authors in order to get the little quotable endorsement phrases (blurbs) on the covers or on posters or t-shirts or whatnot. (Blurbs on t-shirts might not be a thing, actually, but someone should look into that. For BEA, maybe.)

So you have likely all seen blurbs on books. You may have already seen blurbs by me on books, of which there are two that are already in book form and two more on their way to being books (I shall give you a peek at the third at the end of this post). I have, to date, blurbed four whole books. I have been sent a lot more than that, though.

This is my current pile of things received late last year & year-to-date, with a bunny on top:

giant arc pile with bunny

 

It’s already more books than I could read in a year, especially a year where I should be writing a novel. (A novel which is requiring reading other not-in-the-pile books for research-esque purposes, too.) Which brings me to a sad but true confession:

I’m a slow reader.

Not like, glacial slow but it takes me a good chunk of time to read a standard length novel. I’ve been trying to keep track of everything I read this year and so far I’m managing about four books a month. So, no too shabby, but not enough to keep up with my for-my-own-entertainment, for writing research *and* please-blurb-me books, especially since the blurb-requesting ones are time sensitive. Like little book time bombs. Luckily they remain readable after the time limit expires. I am working on a way to stop time in order to read more, but so far I haven’t mastered it.

I’ve been trying my best to reply to the expired ones (just sent another batch of analogy-filled emails today) as much as I can, though sometimes I can’t find a specific contact email, and one of the emails I sent in this batch came back with an autoreply stating the editor no longer worked at the publisher. Oops.

Luckily I still have some time to possibly read a decent percentage of the pile but the other thing I have learned through this whole process is that I am absurdly picky. I like a lot of books but the ones I love enough to press on others and put my name on in blurby endorsement form are rarer.

Maybe there’s a book I’ll love in the pile somewhere or one will arrive in an envelope sometime soon (they arrive quite frequently) and hopefully I’ll manage to read it in a timely manner. It’s strange to be asked for such things, and even stranger to me that my name on someone else’s book makes any sort of difference. But I’m glad to be able to help boost the signal when I read something extraordinary.

So the next thing that will be appearing on bookshelves with my name on it is a book I mentioned very briefly in my list of books I read & enjoyed last year. It’s called The Resurrectionist, it unfortunately doesn’t come out until May but I was given an early copy and it’s even more gorgeous than I’d expected.

resurrectionist

 

resurrectionist blurb

 

I got to use so many of my favorite words in that blurb.

That’s another thing, for things I do blurb I try to avoid the “This book is better than kittens” generic sort of quote and try to be as descriptive and evocative of what I liked about it as I can. I won’t tease you with anything about blurbed book #4 since it won’t be out until September, but I seriously spent hours coming up with the right combination of words and I’m still mildly bitter that I didn’t manage to get the word “salt” in there somewhere.

And the moral of this post is I need more time to read. Or more time in general, that would be nice.

flax-golden tales: three small deaths on the back gate

three small deaths

three small deaths on the back gate

When I found the deaths hanging on the back gate I went back in the house to tell my mother, but once she came outside to see them for herself she didn’t seem very concerned.

Oh, they’re just small deaths, she said, picking up the whispy corner of a tattered robe. It slipped through her fingers like water and returned to its ominous hovering. I think the skeleton-face wearing it frowned, but it was difficult to tell.

What’s a small death? I asked.

Death of a hope or a dream, maybe an opportunity, and that slightly bigger guy on the end could be the death of a relationship, but if he is I doubt it was a particularly long one. 

Three seems a lot of deaths all at once, I said. She nodded.

Life insists on happening all at once, she said. So does death.

 

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