Theodora Goss's Blog, page 41

Imaginary Travels

This one was very, very hard. There were fewer entries than last time, but all of you outdid yourselves. Of course, two of the entries didn't "count" since they came from past winners, but they were nevertheless wonderful, and I could see how much effort went into every description. Wow.

Since there were fewer entries this time, I only chose four honorable mentions, but even those were difficult because the quality of the writing was so uniformly high. But I did have to make a choice. The two winners are Emily Gilman, who chose to travel to the City at the End of the World, and whose description of it was both mysterious and magical, and meabhchildhoodreads, whose description of the forest that no longer exists was so beautiful and sad. The past is a foreign country we will never be able to access. I loved both of these descriptions – thank you both for posting them!

I'll be in touch with the winners by email!

From Emily Gilman:

For years I have wanted to make a pilgrimage to the City at the End of the World. I want to stand in the desert heat and feel how cool the stones of the white Wall are even at noon, how deceptively soft the winds have worn them. And I want to see for myself how the powder that coats my palm afterward glitters starlike – so different from the sand kicked up by the bus's tires.

I want to sit up late into the night listening to the story of the woman who wept. I want to hear her story in the strange syllables that are no language and every language, that all can understand but only those who make their home in the City learn to speak. I want to hear how the woman stood and wept so long that her hair turned white as bone and her clothes turned to rags and at long last the merciful wind blew her away, like sand, over the Wall to her beloved.

I want to watch the lights that churn and dance through the night dark above the Wall until they fade into persistent hallucinations with the dawn.

One thing stops me: I am afraid that if I travel to this City, if I feel the Wall under my hand like a cat that ever wanders and ever returns to this one spot, I will never leave. I am afraid that if I learn this of all languages I will never speak another, and that I could only truly love someone who spoke it back to me.

I fear that, for better or worse, if I meet the eyes of one of the silent priests I will be called to join them, to climb their tower and gaze deeply as we reach out to set the ashes of the dead free of our world.

From meabhchildhoodreads:

The entrance to a forest lies at the end of my small country road. Flanked by a green field and small brown bog water river, the tall conifers stretch into an almost always greying sky. The entrance is marked by a particularly muddy stretch of land: the kind you have to gingerly tiptoe through, for fear of sinking down to your ankles in muck. There's nothing really special about the forest, that exists purely for the harvesting of timber, deliberately filled with pine that grows quick and chops easy. But there are small moments of beauty inside.

Unintended willows grow upon ledges, whose branches drape over passers-by. There is a tiny bridge that an equally tiny river flows beneath. During the summer if the weather stays dry the cress starts to flower above the water, creating a river of white buds. Tree stumps sit idly covered in moss while pink ragged robin snakes around their roots. And, on those rare days when the stars line up and the clouds part ways, there is sunshine. Sunshine that escapes through the clouds and sends shafts down through the tall trees that are off the path. Rays of light that make the very dust in the air sparkle and land upon the pine needle carpet of the forest floor. I can almost imagine the ghost of a little red-haired girl in a white dress racing among the trees.

That was my very favourite place in the world. Last summer when I returned home to walk in the woods I discovered a heart-breaking sight. My grove of trees that had always caught the sunlight so perfectly, was gone. It was replaced by the open air and a sea of fresh tree stumps, raw and wounded. Their flesh was open to the sky, where I could count the rings. The little dancing girl was gone, forever.

If I could go anywhere in the world I would go back to when my forest was still whole and watch the sun amid the trees, just one last time.

As I said, I also have four honorable mentions, but the truth is that I loved all the entries, and although I didn't reprint it here, I would love to go on a journey to Middle Earth with Wendy S.! Seriously, after I had read all the entries at least once, I sat rereading them for at least an hour, trying to make a final choice.  Finally I had to, because it was almost midnight.  So here are the honorable mentions, but please do look at all of the entries, since they are quite wonderful.

From Shannon Blue Christensen:

I was told to pack lightly. It would be necessary to disturb unused paths to reach my destination.

So, I packed my books and my music and my boots and toothbrush and a change or two of underwear and my sentimental jewelry. I checked my tattoo for verification. I leafed through pages and pages to find the right paper and drawers and shelves to find the right pen. I brought no food, for this was a passage of purification; not of curiosity. My passport and car keys were unnecessary.

I began my journey in an overstuffed beaten leather chair. No footstool. I curled up and pulled an over-stuffed blanket over me.

My books didn't fit and had to be left on the floor.

I thought, "Surely a tiny iPod must be fine." But it didn't fit either.

My chair was full of me, the thoughts I feared most, the noise in my head, and the paper and pen daring me to write it all down.

It was terrifying. I was statue-like with solitude, frozen with confrontation. I could not hide from myself for my hiding spots were all on the floor. My fingers grew stiff with cold and I began to hyperventilate. "Quiet!" I told myself. "Quiet, or you'll find you!" And I tried. I tried until the tears slowly washed my face and my hands were numb. Exhausted, I stopped running. Closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. And peeped inside.

I saw a young girl, underfed but otherwise lovely, with the same pen and paper as I. I sat down across from her. She began to write – dreams emptied, wishes still floating, daydreams birthing. And I looked at my own paper. I had written the same pictures. We wrote together for ages and seconds until she looked at me. "You will return? No more shadow?"

After so many quests, so many vehicles of hunting and escaping, I finally found my prey. Sitting unobtrusively inside my soul, the one place I had always feared most. Yes, I will always return, now that I know where you are.

From emily:

I've always wanted to go see the Northern Lights, because I'm the kind of person who likes lights and colors and looking at the sky. So I would head somewhere north, Alaska perhaps? I've heard you can see the aurora borealis from most anywhere there during the spring in Alaska, considering 2012 is amongst the years of peak solar storms – one of the "reasons" the world is going to end this year. Once in Alaska, I would ask the locals for the best location to see the lights. "Any empty field with a clear view of the northern horizon will do, but one with a backdrop of a mountain range will add to the spectacle," they would say. So I would find myself an empty field with a clear view of the northern horizon and a mountainous backdrop to sit and wait, shivering because I never dress warm enough.

I don't want to expect anything of the aurora borealis for fear of disappointment. But it's too late for that. I can't pretend I don't expect it to be a fury of green streaks similar to a lighting storm without the thunder. Or swirls of green lines lingering in the sky in the pattern of my fingerprints. I can't pretend I didn't have that dream where time traveling was possible when the clouds turned green and the sky bright red, banded with more green. I mean how can I not expect anything short of spectacular of the Northern Lights, who once induced enough current into manmade telegraph lines that people could communicate cross-country without a power source? It's definitely too late to not expect anything of the Northern Lights.

From Jenny @ Stone Soup Books:

I have never seen this place, but I look for it wherever I go.

It is a small house with badly peeling white paint and a sagging front porch grown over with star jasmine and clematis. Ivy has infiltrated the house, crawling inside through a broken diamond paned window. The house has planted itself firmly on top of a hill that is covered in cornflowers, poppies, ox-eye daisies, sweet William, rocket, and Indian blanket. Small birds fly out of the grass that scratches my thighs as I approach.

Gossamer dresses and faded floral pillowcases are draped over the clothesline peeking out from behind the house. There are trees by the road; weeping cedars and a crab-apple. There is a pond almost hidden between two small hills. It is filled with arrowroot and snakes and the sunken remains of a rowboat.

I would walk up to the front porch and sit down on the rotting steps. I would let the sun spin my hair into gold and dazzle my eyes. I would let ants and ivy cover my skin. I would hold the house and the hill and the pond against my soul and thrill to the thought of being

very

very

vastly

alone.

From Margaret Fisher Squires:

In the Runcible Spoon restaurant, unique blend of smart bistro, Irish pub, and hippie coffeehouse, a Portal gives entry to the realm of Dalreyn, and its Friendly Forest. I have paid for my lunch and tipped. The wooden booths are empty of other patrons. This is my moment. I duck into the small cupboard below the stairs . . .

. . . and emerge in a grove of tehagon trees. Tall and straight, they bear summer foliage in shades of wine and gold and cream. Their spicy resinous fragrance exhilarates me.

I have come prepared, and dig into my pocket for a small bag. Kneeling, I heap nuts and fruits onto a cushion of moss as an offering to Derith, the forest's spirit. The forest is called Friendly, but isn't always. Best to be careful.

Following the chuckle of running water, I find a stream and walk beside it, accompanied by a large blue dragonfly that hovers over the dancing current. I wonder if I will hear the song of the Joy Bird, who was created by Yeshal the All Mother and her daughter Ayshulan of the Moon as they sat eating strawberries with Derith. Ayshulan designed its plumage, a tracery of pearly gray and indigo, silver and shadow-purple, and on its breast, an ivory circle glowing faintly like the full moon. Yeshal gave it a ravishingly sweet song. The three divine ladies rejoiced in this beautiful creature until the goddesses began to bicker over whose contribution was the best. They argued back and forth until Derith had had enough. She decreed that the Joy Bird would be visible only at night, and audible only during the day. Only on the Autumn and Spring equinoxes would the bird be both visible and audible. So saying, she sprinkled the bird with a dusting of iridescent laughter.

Either goddess could have reversed Derith's will; but sometimes mother and daughter are quietly glad when someone smooths the friction between them. So all remains as Derith decreed. And it is said that if the Joy Bird sits on your shoulder, you will be the happiest of mortals.

Deeply content, I walk listening to the chirping of finches. My stream flows out of the trees into a meadow, dividing into a score of interweaving purling strands. I stand surveying a mosaic of islets. An oak shades the largest of these, and a rowan tree graces one the size of a living room carpet. Others are no bigger than a dining table, a footstool, a slipper. Amethyst spirit flowers and yellow sun-badges spangle the grass. Stepping among them, I discover that every isle, every mossy pebbled bank, is home to a small frog, and each frog is a different color: Spring green, turquoise, tangerine, golden . . .

With my back against the oak's bole, I gaze in reverie until I am drawn through the Portal to share what I have seen.

Some Reviews

Reminder: Book Giveaway #2 ends tonight at midnight, so if you want to enter, take a look at the rules below and make sure you get your entry in the comments section!

Well, I know why I've been so tired for the last few days. I have some sort of stomach virus, the kind that makes you tired and achy, and makes you not want to eat anything. So I'm afraid you're not getting much of a blog post from me tonight.

Instead, I'm going to use this opportunity for what writers, using a technical term, call "shameless self-promotion." A number of wonderful reviews of The Thorn and the Blossom have come out recently, and I'm going to link to them here.

First, just today a podcast interview with me went up on Girls in the Stacks.  I had so much fun doing this one!

And here are some of the reviews that have gone up so far. I'm going to link to them on the Novels page as well, but I thought I would link to them here to let you know the latest.

Paul Goat Allen on Unabashedly Bookish: The BN Community Blog: Leave it to Quirk Books to – once again – blow me away with an insanely innovative release. [ . . . ] The bottom line is this: the initial appeal of The Thorn and the Blossom is its unique construction but what makes this such a memorable reading experience is Goss' poignant and deeply lyrical writing style. The fusion of contemporary romance and English folklore with the Green Man motif throughout gives this novel a dreamy feel and makes for an undeniably enchanting read – romance fans who enjoy their literary escapism flavored with myth and folklore will absolutely cherish this innovative and heartrending novel.

A Little Sun Shy: I loved The Thorn and The Blossom, and so will you if legends, love stories, and modern-day Victoriana tickles your fancy. Somehow, a blend of Charlotte Bronte, Iris Murdoch, and Neil Gaiman has been achieved in two counterpart, intertwined, novellas. My hat is off to you, Ms. Goss, my hat is so far gone that I've lost sight of it.

Things Mean a Lot: The Thorn and the Blossom was one of my most eagerly anticipated releases of 2012, chiefly because of Theodora Goss' lovely short fiction (some of which you can read online). As I was hoping, the book is full of elements I love – folklore, scholarship, echoes of medieval literature, and plenty of intertextual references. Although Goss' style is very much her own, what she does here reminded me slightly of other authors I absolutely love, such as A.S. Byatt or Elizabeth Hand.

The Geek Inside: As in any good love story, things come between Evelyn and Brendan, and I was anxious that their story be resolved in a happy way. I'll admit it here: I'm a sucker for a good story of Hope – the promise of happiness is so important and so many stories don't give you that. I enjoyed this book, it's shorter than most books I read but definitely packs a punch.

La Deeta Reads: This is a good story. It is a fantasy where cursed, starcrossed lovers are seemingly reunited through time. It is romantic, sad and of course you are led to believe that all could possibly work out in the end. I loved that it was in this quirky format, beautifully packaged. This book would make a lovely gift for Valentine's Day, an anniversary, or just for a loved one.

Karissa's Reading Review: Overall I really loved this book. I loved the beautiful writing, the subtle magic, and the literary references. I loved the haunting romance and the star-crossed quality to their relationship. It was a quick read, but a very enjoyable one.

Geekstronomy: I found it very refreshing to read a romance story that concentrates on the interaction of the couple, not the contrived situation they have put themselves into. [ . . . ] I would recommend this book to all those people who want a little romance in their lives, but have no interest in the bulging pantaloons.

Sapphyria's Book Reviews: This is one of the most unique novels and I'm glad I was given a chance to read and review this. [ . . . ] I'm extremely proud to place this accordian-style book on my bookshelf!! eReaders only wish they could be as awesome as this hardcover, accordion-style book!!!

Inside of a Dog: I loved the way the story of the modern lovers echoed the story of the medieval ones. I loved the lyrical language of this story. I thought the concept of the book design was intriguing and perfectly suited to the story that Ms. Goss was telling. I recommend this book highly both for its art and for the wonderful language.

Reeder Reads: If the creative aspects of this beautiful novel don't blow you away, the story itself will. [ . . . ] This is a beautiful, gripping love story told from two different perspectives that will take you about an hour and a half to read if you read it front to back. I started with Brendan's story, but it can be read from either perspective and you'll still get the sense of their love for one another because it's evident on every page.

The Crazy Life of a Bookaholic Mom: The writing and storytelling are stunning and charming. [ . . . ] This would make a wonderful gift for someone who appreciates unique books or one who appreciates romantic fairy tales. It is a book I will be proud to display on my bookshelves and one I know I will enjoy time and time again! It is a truly enchanting gem of a book!

The Bookworm: The Thorn & the Blossom A Two-Sided Love Story is a sweet and quirky little book about two star-crossed lovers and I enjoyed it very much. These two short stories made me smile and sigh and had me wanting more. [ . . . ] All in all, a charming little romantic book with some mythology in the mix, that left me with a smile on my face.

Impressions: The story itself is beautifully written by Theodora Goss. This is a combination of the contemporary and the mythological, as Evelyn and Brendan's story seems to mirror that of Sir Gawan and Elowen which is found in the medieval poem The Book of the Green Knight, simultaneously giving the reader a sense of a concrete present and a magical atmosphere. It's a wonderful combination.

The book comes out on Tuesday, and you know, I really, really hope that people will like it.  That it will find its audience.  I suppose that's what we all hope for our books.  They're like our children in that way – we know they're going to go out into the world on their own, and we just hope for the best . . .

Domythic Bliss

Reminder: Book Giveaway #2 ends tomorrow night! So if you want to enter, make sure to do so by Sunday at midnight: you only have one more day. If you do want to enter, take a look at the rules under Books Giveaway #2 below. Tell me where you would travel, and what you would do when you got there!

Some time ago, Grace Nuth, who blogs at The Beautiful Necessity, mentioned that she might start a blog specifically focused on mythic and fairytale decorating. And now she has!

It's called Domythic Bliss, and although she only has three posts up so far, they are just as interesting and beautiful as you would expect from Grace. I'm going to quote from her first few blog posts, because Grace expresses so much of what I've come to believe about decorating. She describes why she created the blog:

"I love interior decorating. I never get tired of looking through a really great book of interior design, and I've been known to spend hours on blogs and websites devoted to the fine art of turning a house into a home. But there has always seemed to be a gap in the blogosphere and book market. There were books and websites devoted to Victoriana. There were books and websites devoted to Country and Cottage style, Tuscan style, Bohemian and even Steampunk Style. I would peruse these books and websites and find bits and pieces here and there that spoke to me and seemed like what I wanted. But like Goldilocks, I was still in search of the decorating style that seemed 'just right.'"

I've felt this too. I love elements of cottage style, and bungalow style, and French country style, and Scandinavian style, but somehow none of those styles was exactly right. The books I bought could give me ideas, but none of them made me say, yes, this exactly.

"I love a room that spreads out before you like a feast to the eye no matter where you are looking. Even though it is often the opposite of sparse or minimalist, it shouldn't just be a jumbled mess of random objects. Instead every view should be full of magic and enchantment. It's a golden standard to which a homeowner can strive for years and decades before just the right combination is obtained, and usually is an amalgamation of family heirlooms, flea market finds, and one-of-a-kind artworks, sculptures, and handicrafts."

Well, that's certainly what I have: an amalgamation of family heirlooms, flea market finds, and one-of-a-kind artworks, sculptures, and handicrafts. But I think the important words in that paragraph are "magic and enchantment." The things you have should be magical. They should create a space that enchants. I think that's what is missing from most decorating books. There's loveliness, but no magic.

"Every room is laid out like a story – a fairy tale told right in front of you, full of magic, secrets, and wonder. And in fact, the decoration of the room revolves around narrative and storytelling . . . sometimes literally, as fairy tale volumes are displayed as decoration, and sometimes figuratively as a room is set up to remind you of an enchanted forest cottage or a queen's boudoir. That is the ideal Mythic Home, to which all of us who love the style strive. But don't despair! The process is a wonderful journey, and my goal with this blog is to share homes with all sorts of different degrees and levels of mythic accents and themes. And together we can work on identifying just what it is that makes a house transform from decoration to imagination – from practical to enchanting."

Exactly! The home needs to tell a story. And for the home to be enchanting, that story needs to be a magical narrative. Are you the princess? The witch? The fairy in the woods? What character are you, and what story are you telling about yourself? And if you think that's silly, remember that we are always telling stories. A home can just as easily say, "I am an investment banker" or "I don't spend a lot of time here" or "I don't really care how things look." It's always telling a story about you. This is about telling a more interesting story. Grace also gives some very useful advice:

"Here's a thought for decorating mythically and adding enchantment to your home: First see your home through the eyes of an adult, and then see your home through the eyes of a child.

"The house should be useful and practical, appealing to the senses and showing some sort of unifying theme of color or style (or multiple styles that somehow work together). But then once the "bones" of the decorations are in place, you can and should approach the rooms again, looking through the eyes of your child self. Did you love dragons? Tilt at windmills? Read fairy tales? Have invisible friends? Starting the decoration of a room by keeping in mind the 'rules' of decorating just means that when you reach the second phase, you can feel free to break every rule you just made, and create a chaotic wonderland just for you. Hang paper chains from the doorways. Attach fairy wings to the wall when you aren't wearing them. Paint your ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars. The sky was the limit to your imagination when you were a child. Try to rediscover what you dreamed about, and make it a reality as an adult. Create a home that the younger-you would enter and stare around in thrilled awe."

Reading these two paragraphs made me realize what's wrong with my decorating style. When I was a teenager, I tried to have a sophisticated, grown-up room, although even then it had elements of enchantment: the walls were a light, pale, dusty pink, and there was a tapestry on the wall that showed a view into a forest, in which there was a castle, with mountains in the background. And I had a very large, impractical old mirror with a chipped frame painted sage green. Also, curtains over my bed. Since then, I've had a sort of assumption that I should have a sophisticated, adult space – without really thinking about it. But why? There have always been touches of whimsey: I buy old silver plate in flower patterns, so it looks as though I'm eating with a silver garden, and I have ceramic bowls of pine cones and acorns on low tables. But the space, overall, is practical rather than enchanting.

I think it's time for me to rethink my decorating. And just so you have a good sense of what Grace is talking about, here is one of the pictures that she's posted on her blog. Enjoy, and then go over and see the rest of them!

Fairy Tales

Today I have been working very hard, but one thing I've tried to do for a couple of hours is revise poetry. Because, as I may have mentioned, I'm putting together a poetry collection.

I'm so tired that I'm not going to write much of a blog post, but I am going to show you some of what I've been working on. These are three older poems that I'm in the process of revising. They're all rather strange, and I've been seeing if I can make them work. All three are fairy tales of sorts (or snippets of fairy tales) that I've made up, so I'm going to give you Mother Goose telling her tales to the children:

And here are the poems.

The Mountains of Never

I went to the mountains of Never, which flourish their peaks for the moon,

white as the wrist of a lady, white as a fountain of may,

and the journey lasted forever, although it was over too soon,

for the mountains of Never are nearer, and farther, than away.

At the mountains I met a lady whose wrist was as white as the snows.

She sat with her white face lifted, blankened and blind, to the east.

I sat and watched her eyelids as a thousand moons arose,

and slowly the snows on her shoulders, flake by flake, increased.

Finally, where her face had been, there was only a hillock of white,

the white of the mountains of Never, that flourish their peaks for the moon,

so I turned to the hills and valleys that ranged beyond my sight

and sat with my white face lifted, still, and still, as stone.

Lucy

Lucy walked into the forest; the moon hung like a scythe

over a harvested landscape, bared by autumn and death,

and above the clouds moved silently with the swiftness of a breath.

She carried a wicker basket filled with necessary things:

a flask of dew, a tortoiseshell comb, a pair of butterfly wings

found on a budding rosebush, mysteriously, last spring.

She walked into a clearing and uttered a low, sweet cry

(I will not tell you the words of it, an ancient lullaby),

and then she stood and waited, and frowned a bit to see.

Then suddenly the Elder began to sway and turn,

and all of that grove of branches similarly to churn,

as though a command had animated the artwork on an urn.

The brown trunks twisted and trembled, the roots were pulled from the ground,

thick with the mud of ages, and ivy wreaths unwound,

and the trees stepped from their places, with a snap and a creaking sound.

Now Lucy stands among them, and gives them a smile and a glance,

and scattering the last of their leaves they bow and they advance,

and the Elder invites Lucy to participate in the dance.

The moon hangs over the mountains, curved like a scimitar,

and the clouds have gathered together to cover every star,

and the place where the trees are dancing appears as a long bare scar.

Far off in the towns the men are dreaming in their degrees,

but above the forest the death's-head of the moon sails on and sees

Lucy, laughing and prancing among the dancing trees.

Our Lady of the Nightmoths

When, one night, the nightmoths came,

powdered wings against her skin,

she lay down and closed her eyes,

slept and dreamed, and went with them.

Clutching tresses of her hair,

furred and squeaking like a mouse,

spread like parachutes in air,

they went any wind to north.

Nightmoths squealed behind her ears,

rubbed against her elbow joints.

She flew over valleys where

artist earth with icebergs paints.

She flew over mountains where

wolves elope with hungry ease,

where the caribou prepare

merger with the antlered trees.

Soon the nightmoths brought her north,

to the land were snows respire,

where each night the sky consumes

itself in multicolored fire.

There they settled her to wait

while her hair grew white like glass,

where the snow's white termites bit

through her legs and diamond grass

sprouted from her cheeks and chin.

She had waited half a year

when the Nightmoth Lady came,

winging steady through the clear,

dropping powder from her membranes,

clouded in the nightmoth swarm.

Furred antennae felt the cold maid,

slender feelers closed and made her warm.

I know, I used to write some pretty strange stuff. But then, I still do.

Long Sentences

I feel as though I've spent the entire day reading and sending emails! I haven't, of course: this morning I went to a ballet class, which reminded me that my body was made to move, not just to sit and type. But I have spent a lot of time on the computer today.

That reminds me of an article by Pico Iyer published in the Los Angeles Times called "The Writing Life: The Point of the Long and Winding Sentence." Here's how the article begins:

"'Your sentences are so long,' said a friend who teaches English at a local college, and I could tell she didn't quite mean it as a compliment. The copy editor who painstakingly went through my most recent book often put yellow dashes on-screen around my multiplying clauses, to ask if I didn't want to break up my sentences or put less material in every one. Both responses couldn't have been kinder or more considered, but what my friend and my colleague may not have sensed was this: I'm using longer and longer sentences as a small protest against – and attempt to rescue any readers I might have from – the bombardment of the moment.

"When I began writing for a living, my feeling was that my job was to give the reader something vivid, quick and concrete that she couldn't get in any other form; a writer was an information-gathering machine, I thought, and especially as a journalist, my job was to go out into the world and gather details, moments, impressions as visual and immediate as TV. Facts were what we needed most. And if you watched the world closely enough, I believed (and still do), you could begin to see what it would do next, just as you can with a sibling or a friend; Don DeLillo or Salman Rushdie aren't mystics, but they can tell us what the world is going to do tomorrow because they follow it so attentively."

I love the phrase "the bombardment of the moment." And I feel that – don't you? The bombardment of now, of what is happening now, and now, and now, every moment that we live in the world? If you become too involved in it, you begin checking the news regularly to make sure you keep up. Or even your facebook or twitter feeds, to make sure you don't get behind. It's as though we always have to know what's going on.

I understand Iyer's initial idea that the writer is supposed to gather and transmit information about the world, but it's wrong: we are not televisions. DeLillo and Rushdie may be able to tell us what the world is going to do tomorrow, but it's not because they follow it so attentively. It's because they have something else, a deep historical sense, a sense of intuition. That's not something that comes from focusing only on the now.

Iyer realizes some of this. He writes,

"Yet nowadays the planet is moving too fast for even a Rushdie or DeLillo to keep up, and many of us in the privileged world have access to more information than we know what to do with. What we crave is something that will free us from the overcrowded moment and allow us to see it in a larger light. No writer can compete, for speed and urgency, with texts or CNN news flashes or RSS feeds, but any writer can try to give us the depth, the nuances – the "gaps," as Annie Dillard calls them – that don't show up on many screens. Not everyone wants to be reduced to a sound bite or a bumper sticker.

"Enter (I hope) the long sentence: the collection of clauses that is so many-chambered and lavish and abundant in tones and suggestions, that has so much room for near-contradiction and ambiguity and those places in memory or imagination that can't be simplified, or put into easy words, that it allows the reader to keep many things in her head and heart at the same time, and to descend, as by a spiral staircase, deeper into herself and those things that won't be squeezed into an either/or. With each clause, we're taken further and further from trite conclusions – or that at least is the hope – and away from reductionism, as if the writer were a dentist, saying "Open wider" so that he can probe the tender, neglected spaces in the reader (though in this case it's not the mouth that he's attending to but the mind)."

And you know, I see his point. We do need, not more, but a deeper relationship with what we have. Not knowledge, or not just knowledge, but understanding. That's what writers give us. I think it can happen in ways other than by writing long sentences. You can achieve depth and nuance through a variety of techniques. But the important thing to remember is that the writer is not a television, just as the artist is not a camera. Both the writer and artist are there to convey what is underneath, rather than on the surface. To engage not the eye but the imagination, the inner eye.

Iyer's article makes me want to experiment with longer sentences, to see what I can do with them. Toward the end of his article, he gives a wonderful example, quoting Annie Dillard:

"Watch Dillard light up and rise up and ease down as she finds, near the end of her 1974 book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, 'a maple key, a single winged seed from a pair. Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world's rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit which bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down.'"

What's so wonderful about that sentence, what makes it work, is that it's preceded by the short "Hullo," which functions as a sort of anchor, a strong beat that grounds us before the lilting sentence begins, and the fact that the sentence itself moves like that windblown maple key. We can feel it moving as the sentence moves.

So, long sentences. But more important than that, nuance and depth. Those are the lessons for today.

Reminder: Book Giveaway #2 will be going on until Sunday night at midnight! If you would like to participate, look below for the rules.

The Green Valley

Reminder: Book Giveaway #2 started yesterday and runs until midnight my time, which is Eastern Standard Time, on Sunday the 15th (meaning that Sunday is the last day to enter). If you would like to enter, write a paragraph or so in response to the following question, and post it as a comment to Book Giveaway #2 below!

Here is the question: If you could travel anywhere, where would it be, and what would you do when you got there? It can be a real place, or a place that you or someone else has imagined. Again, be creative!

Today I'm very tired, so rather than writing a long post, I'm going to show you something. If you're the sort of person who reads this blog, I think you'll find it fascinating. It's a television show called Tales from the Green Valley that ran in 2005, but I just heard about it. Here's a description:

Down on the Farm – 1620's style

How do you gauge gas mark 7 when you're using a 17th century bread oven?

Why did people 400 years ago save up their urine to help with the laundry?

Why did farmers in Britain traditionally plough with oxen and not horses?

These are just some of the questions five historians and archaeologists asked themselves as they spent a whole year working a farm restored to how it would have been in the year 1620.

Tales from the Green Valley follows the five as they labour for a full agricultural year, getting to grips with period tools, skills, and technology from the age of the Stuarts, the reign of James I. Everything must be done by hand, from ploughing with a team of oxen using a replica period plough and thatching a cowshed using only authentic materials, to making their own washing liquid for laundry and harvesting the hay and wheat with scythes and sickles.



Each of the 12 half-hour programmes, made by Lion TV for BBC Wales, follows a month in the life of the farm situated on the Welsh borders. Far from being a reality series, these beautifully filmed programmes revel instead in the period's rich history, the British countryside as it changes through the seasons, and of course food. Every episode features a dinner cooked up using period breeds and varieties of animals, fruits, and vegetables, according to 400 year old recipes extracted from housewives' diaries, farming manuals etc.

The five specialists wear period clothing – because they're practical, real working garments, with the men in breeches so the bottoms don't get muddy and wet, and the women wearing long thick skirts which protect from brambles and keep them warm.

And when historian Stuart Peachey, costume and social customs specialist Ruth Goodman, and archaeologists Alex Langlands, Peter "Fonz" Ginn and Chloe Spencer don't have the answers, they call in outside experts: a host of traditional British artisans – charcoal burner, butcher, hedge-layer, candlemaker, dry-stone waller, thatcher . . . all working with period tools.

Now doesn't that sound fascinating? It certainly does to me. One of the wonderful things about being a writer of fantastical stories is that I get to go everywhere – all of space and time is open to me. I'm not confined to the present. But to make my stories real, I want to make sure that I'm presenting other times in a reasonably authentic way. (Reasonably because you don't want to write a history of a particular period, but a story in that period. So it's often more important to get the feel of a period than to make sure you know every single thing about it. But you don't want to get anything wrong – mistakes will inevitably stick out.) The other day, I found myself suddenly having to understand how a watermill actually works. Thank goodness for Wikipedia, which had a handy history of watermill construction! I could choose my preferred style of watermill from among the examples given. Programs like Tales from the Green Valley are so useful because they allow you to see the details: what food looked like, how clothes were made. The best thing, of course, is to experience some of these things yourself: find someone to teach you how to spin, spend some time among cows. This is one of my favorite things about being a writer: it constantly requires you to stretch, to learn more.

And I think fantasy does that more than realism, because when we say realism, we're really just saying "the reality we know." In 1620, people didn't live in that reality. If we want to write a book about the seventeenth century, or even a fantasy book sent in a period vaguely like the seventeenth century, we need to know about the reality of other times. We need to work harder than the supposed realists, who can look around themselves for their material.

I recently heard someone turn the old advice "Write what you know" around, into "Know what you write." In other words, if you don't know, do your research. And I think that's much better advice.

So, without further ado, here you go. Tales from the Green Valley, the Christmas episode (since many of us just celebrated Christmas, and the Solstice, and the end of the year in general):

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Book Giveaway #2

Thank you again to everyone who participated in Book Giveaway #1! Those of you who participated might like to know that the giveaway post and comments got hundreds of hits in just a couple of days, so there was a lot of interest in both the giveaway and the entries.  It was the most popular post so far this month!

This is the second book giveaway, and here is how it works. Once again, I'm going to ask a question and ask you to write a paragraph or so. Longer is all right if it's not too long – if you're wondering about length, take a look at the entries that won and got honorable mentions in the first giveaway, which are about the right length. But notice that length didn't necessarily help: some of my selections were relatively short.

Once again, the giveaway is for a signed copy of In the Forest of Forgetting and a signed copy of The Thorn and the Blossom, plus cool bookmarks, and there will be two winners.

Here is the question:

I've traveled a lot, and there's quite a lot of traveling in my stories. In The Thorn and the Blossom, Evelyn travels to the Cornish town of Clews, where she meets Brendan Thorne. If you could travel anywhere, where would it be, and what would you do when you got there? It can be a real place, or a place that you or someone else has imagined. Again, be creative!

I'm also going to post some pictures of me wrapping the books from the first giveaway, as well as from the auction for Terri Windling. Here are all the supplies laid out on the bed:

And the books being wrapped in gold and silver tissue paper before being put in bags that will keep them safe while en route:

And finally the wrapped books, before they are put into those nice gold bags, which are put in the envelopes:

Last time, quite a few people said that whether or not they won, it was a fun writing exercise, and I hope that once again this question will stir your imagination. Think of it as a way to write a prose poem or start a story!  Or even a novel! I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with . . .

Addendum: Sorry, a friend pointed out that I did not post how long this giveaway will last.  Like the last one, it will end on Sunday night, midnight my time (Eastern Standard Time).

Imaginary Gardens

It was so difficult to choose the winners of Book Giveaway #1! The descriptions of imaginary gardens were gorgeous: everyone who entered created magic, and I had a wonderful time reading them. I'm going to start by telling you about the two winners, and then I'm going to include six honorable mentions. I chose the honorable mentions because I did have such a difficult time, and I wanted to feature them as well. But please remember that my choices were subjective. They would not necessarily be your choices, and I was impressed by the poetry and imagination in every description. (I just wanted to mention, as well, that I recognized several former students of mine, and you all write beautifully!)

The two winners are Phillis Holliday and Anita Edmonds. I chose Phillis' because I loved the idea of a secret garden in which children can get away from their troubles and learn strength. It was a garden with a story – I can imagine an entire story coming out of it! And I chose Anita's because it was written by a true gardener, who knows what she's talking about. I don't know if it's a real garden, but it sure sounds real! And exactly like the sort of place I would very much want to live myself. Congratulations to the two of you. I'll be in touch by email to get your addresses so I can send you the books! (And as you've probably guessed, you won't be eligible to win in the second or third book giveaways, although you're still welcome to participate.)  Here are the two winning descriptions.

From Phyllis Holliday:

This is a small garden in the great city of secrets. There is the reek of garbage and sickness in the alleys and evil thoughts jumbled in lost minds. It is no place for a child. Yet the children do survive for they find a way to get into the garden. Some come through an alley, led by thin wise cats like shadows. Some discover the way by a tunnel under a rotting building. All in all they arrive and breathe in the scent of mint, clover, certain flowers they cannot name and vines on trees and no matter what the weather or time of day, there is always a blue sky and birds singing. There is a small playhouse with a mossy roof, and inside, a table set with tea party cups, teapot, tiny sandwiches and raisin cookies. Some play hostess or host and some go into the room with all the books and some find the musical instruments they suddenly know how to play. Out on the green lawn, surrounded by a thicket of thorns, they tell each other stories and how they will escape their dangerous alleys and frightening shadows. The garden is where they invent a life full of joy and magic and above all, how to live in danger and surpass it. This garden can be found in many cities and you could pass by the children and never know where they go when they are not seen.

From Anita Edmonds:

I live in a small, elderly, untidy cottage, filled with cats and books and yarn, built in a space carved from the forest. My garden is a glorious confusion of herbs and flowers, vegetables and the occasional fruit tree (persimmons!) . . . and it bleeds into the woods on all sides, where the squirrels chase each other up and down the trees (and in their spare time bury black walnuts everywhere), and the jays screech from the branches when they see me come out, and the cats stalk mice in the underbrush. There's a groundhog living under the front porch; I feed him apples and peanuts during the warm months, and he confines his depredations to the patch of greens planted near his house, and the clover in the path. There is a patch of nettles down near the beehives, and my medicinal herbs spill out from that, and behind them is a tangled patch of black raspberries, and a few blackberry bushes. The kitchen garden is just outside the back door; I can go down two steps and out the stepping-stone path down to the rosemary bush, clipping this and that as I go. Below that are vegetables: cucumbers and squash and lettuce of all kinds, tomato plants on a long trellis, tepees of beans and corn, rows of onions, and half a dozen hens scratching industriously between the rows and nipping the occasional bite of a green leaf. There's a huge old fig against the south side of the house, and flowers everywhere: clove pinks and gillyflowers, lad's-love and kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate, daisies and foxgloves, daffodils and crocuses and little wild violets that make lovely jam in the spring, hummingbird sage and Michaelmas daisies in fall, moss roses and lemon balm rampant along the path, and a bed of cowslips and lungwort under the maple tree . . . there are clumps of feverfew everywhere, pots of geraniums on the back porch, a spill of thrift over the edges of an old birdbath, and bird feeders hung in any tree I could reach. The cats and I sit on the front porch beneath the Japanese wind bell and the hanging baskets of petunias (grown from seeds my grandmother gave to me), and watch them, hour by hour, while I knit innumerable hats and contemplate my unbelievable luck at this, my one and only life, just as I dreamed it.

Here are the six honorable mentions. Again, I chose each of these because they engaged my imagination and transported me to places where I wanted to go. I'm sorry, I wish I could send you all books as well, but I'm going to announce Book Giveaway #2 tomorrow. Please feel free to enter again!

From Wendy S.:

My garden would be a dreaming garden where all the flowers, herbs and sagacious weeds would speak to me each night and tell me their stories. From the Old English Tudor Roses, I would ask if the War of the Roses caused any family feuds, much like the Capulets and Montague's and do they need any family counseling to mend old thorny wounds. I would ask my little Hearts-ease what I needed to do to heal a broken heart of long ago that still ached in the summer months. I would talk to Rosemary and ask her if Ophelia really did use her to remember anything logical before she decided to become the owls daughter. My Monkshood and Foxglove would whisper the secrets of the Fae who gathered each night and danced under their petals. And I would tell one of my most favorite flowers of all, the little modest, Wallflower that really she was quite beautiful and charming and just because the other flowers were showier or rambled on and on, that she didn't have to do anything but to be herself and she was a treasure unto herself.

From Lynn:

It would be a moon-garden of white flowers only, glowing under a full moon. It would never be found in the same place; neither would it ever look the same: sometimes huge and sprawling; sometimes small and intimate. There would be foxgloves taller than me; thick hedges of tea roses which would hide the rest of the garden from view; tiny lily of the valleys dotting the ground like pebbles marking my way. And there would always be one flower, not easy to find, lit from within by a brilliant opal fire. It would slowly swell open and on each of its petals would be tiny spider-silk writing telling a story of wonder, of landscapes, of adventures beyond any I could imagine.

From Arijah:

In my imaginary garden, there would be a wisteria arbor which would have musical stepping stones, each with a different tone so that one might spend hours hopping from one to the other. The path would lead to a Koi pond; a reflection pool with a small trickling waterfall. Opalescent pebbles would line the bottom and water lilies and frog pads would adorn the surface. Frogs would sing their songs there at night. The pond would be surrounded by fragrant herbs and grasses, and tea trees would grow at one side and small fruit trees to the other. Mushrooms that glow in the dark, in shades of white and blue would be scattered hither and tither. The path would divide into four around the pond. Each path holding mysterious and fun statuary amidst weeping willows . . . their long flowing branches make the best hidden tea rooms and hiding places. There would be a wide opening in the canopy to view the stars and full moon at night, and directly under would be planted peppermint. Throw a blanket over the peppermint to lie down and gaze up at the stars, and with every movement the smell of candy canes would fill the air. Wind chimes made of old things like Grama's silverware, pieces of tubing and odd things like keys, would hang from the branches so that they ting and clack in the breeze. Roses would grow to the east so they fill the air with aroma when the sun rises. On small tree stumps, fairy cups would be placed on fairy saucers to catch the rose morning dew. Moon-flowers would grow to the West along a tree line where the forest begins.There, dividing the garden from the forest would be a door. Mysterious noises would always emanate from the forest, so that the curious might get close enough, press an ear against the door, hear a faint step or whisper and then quickly retreat back to the safety of the garden . . . perhaps hiding under one of the willows. "Wishing fuzz" (at least that's what we used to call them), the seeds from dandelions, would flow in the breeze . . . illuminated by the sunlight through the branches,they look like little stars skipping along. Dragonflies would make home there, birds would find rest and nest there, and the occasional fox might make escape by way through there, but for sure there would always be magic there.

Arijah also included some illustrations on her blog.

From Jen Adam:

To find my garden you would have to follow a path of crescent moons pressed into the grassy loam by wild horse hooves. A strand of golden hair snagged from a banner tail and caught in the branches of a hawthorn, a tuft of silver tugged from a velvet coat by the grasping boughs of a holly hedge – these are signposts proving the trail. A curtain of wild ivy hides the entrance, stretched across a gate of tangled oak limbs and twisted birches. On the other side, willow trees and maples, ash trees and fir trees and cedars frame a clearing of soft grass.

There are no benches in my garden, but a fallen log on one side with a seat carved by the hands of time. Climbing roses screen a stone wall, relic of an old homestead and a promise that all things change. Violets and bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots hide in dim blue shadows while bolder black-eyed susans and flirting daisies and lilies of every color shine in brighter spaces.

In the center of my garden is an apple tree, the fruits of which may offer Truth, or Faith, or Freedom, or Courage . . .

. . . if the wild horses let you pass.

From Pat Bowne:

The garden obviously belonged to a person with many interests and a short attention span, for no two parts of it were alike and nothing in it was completed. The pond, for instance: bordered at one end with beautifully joined and polished stones, over which a fountain spurted from a bush cut into an impossibly detailed face, yet the other end of the pond shallowed into mud and mint, and the other side of the bush trailed off in spindly, sparse-leaved branches overcome at their ends by a pumpkin vine and two tipsy cabbages. One branch of the rosebush arched over a chair whose seat and arms were as polished as the pond's rim, its back and legs still bark-covered, while the others flopped into an untrimmed knot of lavender and kale, next to a patch of velvet-smooth lawn half bordered by thyme and half-hidden by the meadow grasses that flopped into it. Everything was just the size for one small person to sit or paddle or pluck or lie in. It was, in short, a witch's garden, and the garden of a clever witch at that. There was not a whole thing in it, not one item that any of the spirits dancing attendance upon her could take into itself and say "There I have you, now you are mine!"

From Matt:

"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything that you need." – Cicero

It is a garden full of stories, this one. If you stand in front of the gates – wrought-iron, crested by words in a language you don't recognize – and look through, it doesn't seem so unusual. Chinese red birches and Mount Etna brooms, cinquefoil and hyacinth, lotus and foxglove: though beautiful, not everything here is safe.

Inside are stone benches and great swaths of grass situated just so beneath the shady overhang of the trees; no matter which way the sun moves, the shadows remain in place, and the air feels right, whatever your clothing. A massive fountain spouts water from a central statue into a large round pool. A statue of what? I cannot tell you what you see. For me, it's an uncanny recreation of a woman I fell in love with pouring water out of a pitcher – an Aquarius of sorts. The sight comforts me as much as it breaks my heart. I told you there was danger here, didn't I? And this place is not about me, not exactly.

Run your hands through the water. Cold, yes? On some days, the water is like the Styx – one sip and you forget, not everything and not forever, but for a while. That's the nice thing about gardens and stories. The escape. Though it never can last. On other days, it's like the Fountain of Youth, but not exactly. Rather than making you younger, it brings back memories with such perfect clarity, it's like re-living them all over again. Perfect oblivion or perfect remembrance. Think long and hard before you drink.

The real draw, though, are the trees and the flowers. These are where the stories lie. On this leaf you'll notice a word: Life. The veins somehow form letters. Botanists regularly clamor to get inside here, but why spoil the mystery? In autumn, when the ground is covered in gold and orange and scarlet, you can trample your way through a whole library. Smell the flower. Any one will do. You hear it, don't you? A story. Building a world between walls. One artist's imagination made manifest. The wrong skin. Breathe it in, and the more you'll hear. Or take a little from here, a little from there. Make it your own. The stories don't live in a vacuum. They need you to live.

I want to particularly point out the roses. The thorns? Those rekindle heartache. But the scent? Oh that transports you to the moment – or moments, if you're a lucky sort – of purest joy. Love, often, but not always. Again, if you want to savor the good, you must risk the bad.

Whose garden is this? Mine? No, by no means. It belongs to everyone. Please visit again soon. Often. Tell people about it. If not, if this place is neglected . . . well. Everything here dies.

Fantasy Magazines

Reminder: Book Giveaway #1 ends at midnight, my time, tonight (in about four more hours)! So if you want to enter, make sure to get your garden description in by then. For the rules, look under Book Giveaway #1 below. I'll be reading the descriptions tomorrow and selecting a winner. And then I'll be announcing Book Giveaway #2!

I came to a realization today. First, Realms of Fantasy folded, and now Fantasy Magazine is being incorporated into Lightspeed. That means in one year, we've lost two dedicated fantasy magazines. I'm sure Lightspeed is going to be wonderful, and of course there are still many places to read fantasy, both in print and online. All of the major genre magazines publish it. But I miss having magazines that focused on fantasy, as opposed to fantasy, science fiction, and horror, as the online and print magazines do now. I want my fantasy fix.

Actually, you know what I really want? I want The Journal of Mythic Arts back.

Do you remember The Journal of Mythic Arts? It was published by Terri Windling from 2003 to 2008, and it was gorgeous. It reflected Terri's aesthetic, which is lovely and sophisticated and deeply informed by all the art I most love, and also her intelligence and knowledge of the fantasy field. You don't get a publication like The Journal of Mythic Arts without an editor like Terri Windling. It came out four times a year, once each season, and each issue was packed with fiction, poetry, essays, book reviews, and art.

The thing about a publication like The Journal of Mythic Arts is that you always know it's going to be wonderful. You always know that the quality of the contents is going to be high, and that the issue itself is going to give you visual pleasure. You can read it the way you would drink a really good cup of coffee. (Like a skinny peppermint mocha – sorry, ignore me, that's my current vice.)

The Journal of Mythic Arts also had a different point of view from the publication that are out there now. The ones out there now tend to be darker. What I always felt, when I read The Journal of Mythic Arts, was a sense of hope – a sense that the world was magical, and magic was a good thing, a sort of gift. I think we need that in fantasy now, to counterbalance both the dystopian tendency that seems to have taken over in literature and what we see happening in the world itself. We need some escape from that, some refreshment from it. We need to believe that magic is possible, despite all the tragedy we see every day (in literature and on the news). Don't get me wrong, we need tragedy, we need to explore dystopias. But we also need beauty and pleasure and respite.

I posted about this on Facebook, and didn't anticipate that people would immediately suggest my editing such an online magazine. I know how very, very hard Terri worked to make The Journal of Mythic Arts a reality. And my life is so full right now that I can't even think about it – not for a while. But I really do see the need for something different, a voice and viewpoint that we're losing.

We need a dedicated fantasy magazine.

I don't know what to do about that, not at the moment. But sometimes identifying a need will get a ball rolling, and then something positive will happen. So I'm putting the idea out there.

Universe, now it's your turn! (And if you want me to do something like this, to take on a significant project, you might give me some more time. Just saying.)

The above, by the way, is either Circe by John William Waterhouse or me thinking about how much we need a new fantasy magazine. But probably both!

Status Report

Sorry, this is going to be a boring post, because it's going to be about what of mine was published last year and what I already know will be published this year. It's a way of organizing myself, a way of seeing how I'm doing.

But first, a reminder: Book Giveaway #1 ends at midnight, my time, tomorrow night! So you have one more day to enter. For the rules, look under Book Giveaway #1 below.

So, what was published last year?

Well, first, two short stories of mine were published. "Pug" appeared in the July issue of Asimov's Science Fiction. "Christopher Raven" appeared in Ghosts by Gaslight as well as the November issue of Fantasy Magazine, where you can still read it.

Three short stories of mine were reprinted. "The Rose in Twelve Petals," my first published story, appeared in Happily Ever After. "The Rapid Advance of Sorrow" appeared in Kafkaesque: Stories Inspired by Franz Kafka and in the July issue of Apex Magazine. "Fair Ladies" appeared in Jonathan Strahan's The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume 5.

Also, in awards news, "The Mad Scientist's Daughter" was a finalist for a Locus Award.

I only had one poem published: "Binnorie" in the winter/spring issue of Mythic Delirium. But "Ravens" was reprinted in The 2011 Rhysling Anthology.

I was the Folkroots editor for the late, lamented Realms of Fantasy, which published five articles of mine: "The Femme Fatale at the Fin-de-Siècle" in the February issue, "Vampires in Folklore and Literature" in the April issue, "Fairies and Fairylands" in the June issue, "A Brief History of Monsters" in the August issue, and "The Myth and Magic of Narnia" in the October issue.

By the way, I still have a column that was supposed to be in the December issue. It's called "Planting a Magical Garden." Anyone want to publish an essay on magical plants? If so, let me know!

So that's it for 2011. What's going to happen in 2012? Well, of course, The Thorn and the Blossom is coming out in two weeks. That's the most important publication of mine for the year, I think.  (I would include a picture here, but you've seen so many pictures of it on this blog already, haven't you?  Let the other books have some space for a day.)

Then I have two stories coming out. "Woola's Song" will be in Under the Moons of Mars, which will be out in February. The other one I can't talk about yet because the editor has not yet make it public. But it's a terrific anthology, and I'm very excited to be in it.

I'm also going to have several stories reprinted. "The Mad Scientist's Daughter" will be in The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination, "Lessons with Miss Gray" will be in Witches: Wicked, Wild and Wonderful, and "Pug" will be in Rich Horton's The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy 2012.

I also have some poems that will be reprinted: "Binnorie" and "The Witch" will be in The Moment of Change: An Anthology of Feminist Speculative Poetry.

I'm currently working on a poetry collection, but I don't yet know when that will be published, so I'll tell you more as I know it myself. And there are a couple of other projects in the works.

That's not bad for a year, is it? Particularly the year in which I finished my PhD? Yes, I'm now Dr. Goss. Someone fetch my Tardis . . .

If you want to see me in the coming year, I will definitely be at Boskone, The International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts, the Arkansas Literary Festival, Readercon, and the World Fantasy Convention. The one place I usually go that I might not make this year is Wiscon. I need to go to London to do research for the novel I'm working on, and I need to save money.

So there you go, that's my status report. There will be more in 2012, I'm sure. Because you know what? I'm done with my PhD now, and what that means is all systems are go. Tardis or not!