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.)

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.