Rachel Neumeier's Blog, page 371

Nice moments for a writer

Here’s something pretty snazzy: Looks like BLACK DOG was the third best-selling trade paperback in May’s list, according to Locus. How about that?

1) Annihilation, Jeff VanderMeer (Farrar Straus Giroux/FSG Originals)

2) Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, Ransom Riggs (Quirk Books)

3) Black Dog, Rachel Neumeier (Angry Robot/Strange Chemistry Us)

4) Carousel Sun, Sharon Lee (Baen)

5) Indexing, Seanan McGuire (47North)

So go me! I’ve read Miss Peregrine’s Home, and while it was okay, I did not realize going in that it was just setting up a series. I actually liked it better before the main character found out more about what was going on, too. Very neat use of all those pictures, though.

I believe the data that went into compiling these lists was from February, meaning the month BLACK DOG was released. It would be nice to think it will still be on the list next month, but I don’t know how likely that is. Still, good news!

May’s been a good month so far in other ways. I’ve gotten pretty far with my current WIP (KERI, if you’re keeping track); I’m at about 45,000 words, which might be as much as half done, depending. A good rule is everything takes more pages than you expect. As far as that goes, I sent my agent, Caitlin, the first 100 pages a few days ago and she just sent me comments. Too repetitive. I knew that, actually; that’s something she wouldn’t have seen if I had written the whole thing and then polished it up before I sent it to her. Can we see more of the main character’s backstory, can we get to know her a bit better? Hey, probably that’s a good idea! Too slow to start, can we get to the main problem faster? Yes, yes we can, so I am revising now rather than pressing forward. Re-ordering events is a tedious exercise, I must say. But the main problem is that I really prefer revising to writing new scenes (usually), so I’m not sure it will be easy to start moving forward once more after dealing with this revision. Oh, well.

This is the first time I’ve ever sent anybody a chunk of an unfinished work, and let me just say, it’s weird. In some ways I’m glad to get those comments now, and in other ways, it makes me uneasy to let anybody comment before I have a completed ms. Well, it’s good to know that Caitlin isn’t all, This isn’t working, start over.

And she says she will have comments about KEHERA soon, too. So there will be a need to switch back and forth between projects, hoorah.

Basically a good month, though, and that best-selling trade paperback thing is the kind of practical feedback that makes me want to go write stuff. Did I mention YAY!? Because YAY!

Puppy update: Here’s a nice picture of Ish at four months.

Recent Reading: Chalice, by Robin McKinley

Because she was Chalice she stood at the front door with the Grand Seneschal, the Overlord’s agent, and the Prelate, all of whom were carefully ignoring her. But she was Chalice, and it was from her hand the Master would take the welcome cup . . . Their new Master was coming home: The Master thought lost or irrecoverable. The Master whom, as younger brother of the previous Master, had been sent off to the priests of Fire, to get rid of him.

This book is like a dream. It’s slow and graceful and, well, dreamy. The nonlinear structure of the story contributes to the dreamy feel, though honestly, on this re-read, I’m not sure I appreciated the structure. I think possibly this story would have worked better for me if told straight through, from front to back. On the other hand, if you want to start the story with the scene above, the you have to start in the middle and work your way out.

I like the bees. And the honey. I’m not especially fond of honey in the real world, but I love the honey in this story.

All honey was good for wounds and burns, but there was a lengthy folklore of specific honeys that declared, for example, that oak honey was the most nourishing for invalids and lavender honey was an appropriate gift from a lover to his or her beloved — and the honey from Willowland’s willows was for wisdom and decision-making … it was this honey she put in the Master’s welcome cup.

I like this even though I know perfectly well that oaks are wind pollinated and there’s no such thing as oak honey. Actually, I know this REALLY WELL, since every spring here, the pollen of oaks and hickories fills the air and coats absolutely everything with yellow dust. I don’t even try to keep up with the dusting during oak season (I’m bad enough at keeping up with the dusting at other times of year).

Anyway, CHALICE is a charming story, just right if you’re in the mood for a slow, sweet story, beautifully told but with little action.

A handful of links that caught my eye:

Duranna Durgin’s great post about her recent performance weekend. I love love love how she figured out what the Issue was for Dart and Connery on the day. Every now and then you do figure out what a dog’s Issue is in a particular circumstance and then ever after you are more willing to believe that your dog really does have a reason for his (her) weird behavior.

I remember once — this was a very obvious Issue — early on in Pippa’s performance career, when we were working on her simple Novice title and she was busy NQ’ing in a different way in every trial, she was doing great on this one day. Only the judge, who was ninety years older than God, crept creakily up to her on the Stand for Exam. That is an exercise where you tell your dog to Stand and walk away and then the judge comes over and touches her on the head and runs a hand down her back and then he walks away. Then you come back and walk around behind your dog until you’re back at heel position. Shifting a foot won’t disqualify a dog, but jumping on the judge or sitting will.

Anyway, this judge creakily bent down over her like a very strange robot rather than a normal person — he had jingling keys in his pocket, too — and Pippa was so weirded out she tucked herself down into a sit, which is a submissive thing to do. I was so mad! At the judge, who couldn’t help being old but could have got rid of those keys, and at myself for putting Pippa into that situation. It took some time to re-solidify her Stand for Exam after that.

So, anyway, good job by Duranna’s beagles, qualifying despite being Looked At. Nice pictures, too, if you click through.

Oh, hey, look, Brandy has an early review up for Merrie Haskell’s CASTLE BEHIND THORNS. So glad she loved it!

The story here is wonderful. I love political intrigue and there is quite a bit of that, but most of all it is a tale of friendship, perseverance, and the power of forgiveness. What I loved about the forgiveness aspect is that it is not about the power to affect the forgiven, but the forgiver, that release that comes from letting your anger and bitterness go so that it no longer consumes you. The way Haskell wove this into a thoroughly original retelling of a fairy tale makes this my favorite “Sleeping Beauty” retelling of all time.

I haven’t read many (any?) Sleeping Beauty retellings other than this one, but in fact I have another one on my wishlist right now (WHILE BEAUTY SLEPT by Blackwell). But for me, regardless of the others I may read, I believe CASTLE BEHIND THORNS is going to be like McKinley’s BEAUTY — definitive.

I have to admit that I find Slushpile Hell hilarious. There isn’t a new entry all that often, which is probably reassuring, but it always makes me laugh when I remember to check in. I mostly don’t even feel guilty for laughing.

Nathan Bransford did a poll: how do you plan to publish your WIP? 76% of the respondents are considering self-publication. For every single person who is thinking about self-publishing, I suggest you check out Lindsay Buroker’s site. I found it because Sherwood Smith recommended her books; I have THE EMPEROR’S EDGE on my Kindle now (I haven’t read it yet, but here’s Sherwood Smith’s post. Buroker’s experience as a self-pub-only author is worth checking out.

Okay! I’m off to transplant shrubs and write the rest of today’s pages of my WIP.

Baby’s first turtle

Honey discovers the first turtle of 2014

Ish asks: But what is the *point* of turtles?

Nebula winners –

So, too busy for a real post, but did you know the Nebula winners have been announced?

Naturally the sole contender I’ve actually read is ANCILLARY JUSTICE. But hey, it won, so there you are! I couldn’t have voted fairly since I haven’t read the rest, but I’m glad it won. Have you all read it by now? Great book. I’m looking forward to the sequel, which is coming out this fall, I believe. You can click through to see the lists for the shorter forms, btw.

Best Novel

• Winner: Ancillary Justice, Ann Leckie (Orbit US; Orbit UK)

• We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, Karen Joy Fowler (Marian Wood)

• The Ocean at the End of the Lane, Neil Gaiman (Morrow; Headline Review)

• Fire with Fire, Charles E. Gannon (Baen)

• Hild, Nicola Griffith (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

• The Red: First Light, Linda Nagata (Mythic Island)

• A Stranger in Olondria, Sofia Samatar (Small Beer)

• The Golem and the Jinni, Helene Wecker (Harper)

I do have HILD on my wishlist. You know I loved loved loved Griffith’s THE BLUE PLACE mystery/suspense/whatever trilogy. I thought HILD was a straight historical, but since it was up for the Nebula, I suppose it had fantasy or magical realism elements. I do long to read it. Probably this fall.

Andre Norton Award for Young Adult Science Fiction and Fantasy

• Winner: Sister Mine, Nalo Hopkinson (Grand Central)

• The Coldest Girl in Coldtown, Holly Black (Little, Brown; Indigo)

• When We Wake, Karen Healey (Allen & Unwin; Little, Brown)

• The Summer Prince, Alaya Dawn Johnson (Levine)

• Hero, Alethea Kontis (Harcourt)

• September Girls, Bennett Madison (Harper Teen)

• A Corner of White, Jaclyn Moriarty (Levine)

Yeah, I am SO behind. I haven’t read a single one of these YA nominees, either. It’s terrible.

On the other hand, I am really enjoying my re-read of The Fall of Ile-Rien! In some ways I’m loving it even more as a re-read. I mean, this time I know that despite the best efforts of self-serving politicians, Ixion will get his. Go, Nicholas! Ile-Rien is quite different the second time through, partly because it’s the second time and partly because I’ve read THE DEATH OF THE NECROMANCER now, which I hadn’t the first time. Still a wonderful trilogy.

And yes, progress is happening on my WIP, too. Tonight the good guys should figure out what is actually wrong, though they won’t figure out how to fix it. (I don’t know how to fix it myself yet.)

Spring!

A dark, thundrous sky is great for pictures. Plus, you have to take pictures of irises and peonies quick before it rains! Because they may get smashed to the ground and there you will be, with nothing.

I grant you, those Viburnums are tougher. That was last week. Kenya surrounded by a blizzard of white flowers! Very cute.

Update: Yeah, so I’ve been taking a break for a few days. I read UNDER THE LIGHT by Whitcomb, sequel to A CERTAIN SLANT OF LIGHT. I loved the first book, but I’m sorry to say the sequel did not work for me at all. What a shame!

I started CHIME by Billingsley, but although I admire it from a technical standpoint, I don’t actually like it. I put it aside — I do mean to finish it — and re-read THE DEATH OF THE NECROMANCER by Martha Wells. Not my favorite of hers, but I was just in the mood for it. Then I started re-reading The Fall of the Ile-Rien trilogy by Martha Wells. Probably a terrible idea, since I do want to start work on my next WIP tomorrow! But I couldn’t help myself.

This weekend: lots of weeding (lots!!!), read Ile-Rien, and definitely pick up my WIP! It’ll be busy and I bet I don’t read any more fiction this month.

Recent Reading: Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell

Okay, FANGIRL. It’s one of the few contemporaries I’ll read this year, but yes, I may very well pick up other titles by the same author.

I’m not going to really review this, because plenty of other people have and I don’t think I can improve on their reviews. Like Angie, for example, whose review persuaded Chachic to pick it up, and then I saw Sherwood Smith’s review on Goodreads, and FINE, I eventually picked this one up because of all the PRESSURE, I swear.

And, with one fairly important caveat, I really loved it! But I still don’t want to write a review as such. Instead, here are the characters –

Cath:

It felt good to be writing in her own room, in her own bed. To get lost in the World of Mages and stay lost. To not hear any voices in her head but Simon’s and Baz’s. Not even her own. This was why Cath wrote fic. For these hours when their world supplanted the real world. When she could just ride their feelings for each other like a wave, like something falling downhill.

Cath again:

When they turned down the hallway, they could see Levi sitting against their door. In no circumstance would Cath ever run squealing down the hall into his arms. But she did her version of that – she smiled tensely and looked away.

Wren:

Wren usually lost interest in a guy as soon as she’d won him over. The conversion was her favorite part. “That moment,” she told Cath, “when you realize that a guy’s looking at you differently – that you’re taking up more space in his field of vision. That moment when you know he can’t see past you anymore.”

Dad:

Dad? Call me.

It’s Cath again. Call me.

Dad, stop ignoring my voice mail. Do you listen to your voice mail? Do you know how? Even if you don’t, I know you can see my number in your missed calls. Call me back, okay?

Dad, call me. Or call Wren. No, call me. I’m worried about you. I don’t like worrying about you.

Dad, are you eating? What are you eating? What did you eat today? No lying.

Reagan:

Reagan wore eyeliner all the way around her eyes. Like a hard-ass Kate Middleton. And even though she was bigger than most girls – big hips, big chest, wide shoulders – she carried herself like she was exactly the size everyone else wanted to be. And everyone else went along with it.

Levi:

Levi was wearing a black sweater over a white T-shirt. He looked like he’d just gotten a haircut – shorter in the back but still sticking up and flopping all over his face. He called out someone’s name and handed a drink to a guy who looked like a retired violin teacher. Levi stopped to talk to the guy. Because he was Levi, and this was a biological necessity.

Nick:

[Nick] looked up at her and smiled crookedly, holding out a few sheets of paper. “Will you read this? I think maybe it sucks. Or maybe it’s awesome. It’s probably awesome. Tell me it’s awesome, okay? Unless it sucks.”

The writing fic:



“Also, the car? No. No to the vintage Volvo.”

“It’s a character detail.”

“It’s a cliché. I swear to God, every surviving Volvo produced between 1970 and 1985 is being driven by quirky fictional girlfriends.”

Nick pouted down at the paper. “You’re crossing out everything.”

“I’m not crossing out everything.”

“What are you leaving?” He leaned over more and watched her write.

“The rhythm,” Cath said. “The rhythm is good.”

“Yeah?” He smiled.

“Yeah. It reads like a waltz.”

I loved so much about this book. I loved Cath, and I loved how her tight pov led the reader through the story. I loved her dad — I wasn’t sure until the thing with Wren after she’d been in the hospital, but yeah, I LOVED her dad. I swooned over Levi. Such a great “nice guy” character, not too perfect nor too simple, but just right. I loved Reagan.

I loved the presentation of writing.

Sherwood Smith said:

The entire thread about writing, fiction, fan fiction, characterization, and all related subjects was one of the best parts of the book. Cath’s creative writing teacher will not accept fan fiction as writing, period. Cath struggles to the very end with having to write “real” fiction. I appreciated how Rowell brought up all these points of view sympathetically, realistically, without passing judgment, underscoring how many ways of being creative there are (which acknowledging patterns in certain kinds of storytelling).

Me, too. Loved this. Loved it. BTW, I don’t agree with Cath’s teacher. As her teacher, I might have insisted that Cath step outside her fanfic world, but I would never have told her that fic is plagiarism, because please. There is no intent to deceive with fic, and to me that is the actual defining characteristic of plagiarism. I say that as someone who has never and will never write fic, btw, but that’s because I can’t, not because I think it’s “not real writing.”

Never mind, this element worked in FANGIRL, and I bet some teachers do feel the same way as Cath’s teacher.

I see some reviewers skipped the fanfiction bits. I didn’t. I loved the fanfiction bits and how the experience of writing was presented. I say this even though I thought Simon Snow (Harry Potter, basically) was rather an idiot and also surprisingly self-absorbed — Baz (Draco Malfoy) was far more interesting and sympathetic in the tiny bits we see.

I loved the bit about writing feeling like a wave, like falling downhill, because that is exactly how writing does feel to me, when it’s at its best. Which is not all the time (it is generally a small percentage of the time, alas).

What I didn’t love: am I the only one who thought the ending failed to tie up loose threads?

I thought the story really needed at least one more scene with Cath’s mom. In fact, I think another scene with the mom could have been used to set up the snippet of Cath’s fiction that closed the book.

I would have liked to know for sure that Cath finished “Carry On, Simon” before the release date of the eighth canon novel.

I would have liked to know whether she had the Mage betray Simon, and whether she went through with killing Baz or whether Wren talked her out of it.

And so on.

Nevertheless, I smiled all the way through this book, bookmarked many pages, and will certainly read it again.

Following the rules

I don’t need your stinking rules, says Chuck Wendig over at Terrible Minds, and I agree. Fun post, also totally spot-on.

Chuck is, of course, referring to the Rules for Writers you see around and about, such as:

Don’t open on weather.

Don’t open with a character looking in a mirror.

Don’t open on a character just waking up.

Never ever use an adverb ever.

And for all that’s fucking holy, writing a prologue is a major biggum no-no . . .

Then Chuck takes all this apart, as well he should. Hey, remember when somebody criticized Lois McMaster Bujold for the look-in-a-mirror thing and the book was MIRRORDANCE? The critic just hadn’t noticed that maybe the mirror thing was appropriate in this particular case?

Patrick Lee’s THE BREACH opened with a character driving somewhere, a Bad Thing according to the Rules. Fabulous thriller, Lee’s truly gifted, btw; I have occasional plausibility issues with his books, but not with his writing.

I can’t think of a great book that opens with a character waking up just at this precise moment, but I’m sure there are dozens. Hundreds.

Anyway, after trashing the idea of rules, Chuck then adds the conclusion that makes the whole post true:

With this, I offer two very important caveats:

First, just because everything is permitted doesn’t mean everyone likes those particular things. . . . second, if you are going to break any of these prohibitions, know that they exist for a reason. Defying them is meaningful — an act of rebellion that says two things: one, “I don’t give a shit about your rules,” and two, “I am good enough to step on them and break their little bones.

Yes, it does. The only real rule is: You can do whatever you’re good enough to get away with.

Even write a prologue.

Beginnings: PURE MAGIC

While we’re on the topic of novel beginnings, here are the first few pages of PURE MAGIC, in which a brand-new protagonist is introduced.

* * *

Justin had not been looking for a church. Sanctuary . . . that, maybe.

Not, God knew, from enemies. He had no enemies. Was it logical to want sanctuary from your friends? I heard what happened, Justin, I’m so sorry. How are you doing? Do you want to talk about it? He did not want to talk about it. Nothing would get better just because he talked about it.

Worst of all were the ones who tried to say something unique and creative, because whatever they said, it came out stupid or offensive. At least you’re not too young, you’ll get over this, you’ll be fine.



Justin had wanted to shout, “Don’t tell me I’ll be fine!” He’d wanted to put that on a tee shirt, violent blood-red letters on a black shirt – maybe that would have gotten the idea through a few dense skulls. He wanted a tee shirt that said You can’t help, so just shut the hell up. That would shock everyone who thought he was so even-tempered, such a nice guy.

But he wanted everyone to know what had happened. He wanted the world to stop. The clear sunlit beauty of the desert spring was an offense. He wanted to tear the blossoms off all the flowers.

He couldn’t stay. Everyone had thought that after the funeral, he would go back to Roswell with his grandmother. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear her grief layered on top of his own. He’d left a note and his cellphone in the middle of his mother’s desk, in her study, on top of a stack of ungraded tests that he supposed now some TA would have to grade, and cleared out the account that was supposed to be for college, and walked out.

And now he was here. Not anywhere in particular, because he had no idea where he was going. Just here, wherever here was: one nondescript town in a chain of nondescript towns, linked like gritty beads on the necklace of the train tracks. The train conductor had announced the town’s name, but Justin couldn’t remember it now. He didn’t care. He hadn’t cared, when he’d walked out, where he was going. Just away, out, gone. Out of the desert, north and east into a cold country where the gray weather knew how to echo loss. To this grimy street in this nameless industrial town with a cheap bar on one side of the street and a ridiculously gothic church on the other. Was it possible to want sanctuary from yourself?

Stopping, his hands jammed in his pockets and the collar of his jacket turned up against the chill, Justin looked up the church’s wide, curving stairway. It led, in a smooth arc containing fourteen rises and thirteen runs, with a total rotation of . . . just over a hundred and four degrees, up to a pair of great carved doors standing between panels of stained glass.

Justin had meant to go into the bar, get a burger or wings or something. A beer. They probably didn’t card, in a place like that. A beer would be good.

But now there was this church. Somehow, despite its grimy surroundings, despite the smells of hot oil and stale beer emanating from the bar, the church contrived to look solid and honest and perfectly at home. A sudden sharp longing for the hot wind of the desert, for the homey scents of hot concrete and acrid mesquite, closed Justin’s throat. His mother had always insisted he attend mass with her . . . he hadn’t minded.

So, yeah, maybe he was looking for sanctuary. Following a half-felt impulse, he put his foot on the first step.

Then someone opened the door from within, came out, closed the door behind him, and turned, with a jingle of keys, to lock it. Then he turned again, caught Justin’s eye, and paused.

Justin, obscurely embarrassed, took his foot quickly off the step and pretended he had not meant to go up the stairs to those doors.

“Sorry!” said the man. He was a big man, comfortably heavy without actually being fat, with a round good-natured face and an easy smile. He was wearing ordinary clothes: a tan jacket and jeans. Justin wouldn’t have realized he was actually a priest except for the white collar showing at his throat.

The priest said, “I lock up at six unless there’s a late service. I don’t like to, but I also don’t like to find drunks in the sacristy when I come in in the morning! But I can leave it till later just this once, if you’d like to come in.”

“No,” Justin said hurriedly. “No, never mind. I mean, thanks anyway, but it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s no bother,” said the priest, and, looking at him closely, added, “Or come back to the rectory, if you like. I’m not much as a cook, but I was just going to heat up some baked beans, make toast, fry some ham. And there’s a cake. I didn’t make it, don’t worry about that!”

Justin felt his face heat. “You rescue runaways? That your thing? Because I’m not –”

“I know!” the priest said quickly. “You don’t look like you’re down to your last dollar, son, but, see, you do look like you might do with an hour of friendly company over buttered toast and baked beans. You’d be doing me a favor, believe me! I hate eating alone. I was going to walk down to the art show they’ve got set up down by the river, but to tell you the truth, the blues they’ll be playing, not my favorite. Do join me. I’ll do the talking if you don’t want to. You’ve probably noticed I don’t mind the sound of my own voice. Good thing for a man in my line of work, don’t you think? There’s plenty of ham. Spiral cut,” the priest added in a coaxing tone. “Honey baked. And the cake’s coconut.”

Friendly company for an hour sounded unexpectedly good. The company of a priest who liked people but didn’t know anything. That sounded . . . like a not-terrible idea. And supper didn’t actually sound bad, either. He gave the priest a narrow look. He seemed like a decent guy. Probably the man just genuinely liked people. Justin could usually tell. “Coconut, huh?”

“Beautiful thick frosting,” the priest assured him. “The rectory is just around here . . .” he gestured to the right, where a narrow alley led back and around the church.

Justin took a step after him. “You invite everyone in for supper do you? Isn’t that kind of risky? Father,” he added belatedly.

The priest smiled back over his shoulder. “Mark. Father Mark. Yes, well, a nice young man like you, why not? Life’s too short to worry about every little thing, don’t you think? So tell me, are you on your way to someplace, or away from someplace? Don’t answer that if you don’t want to. Right, here we are.” He shoved open an unlocked door in a small brick-fronted house, indistinguishable from all the other buildings along this street except for the small stained glass panel set in the door and, beneath a shuttered window, an ugly concrete window box, empty of flowers in this chilly country where winter lingered into what ought by rights to have been spring.

The door opened right into the rectory kitchen. The smell of baking ham rolled out to meet Justin before he even set foot on the steps, overcoming his last reluctance, and he followed Father Mark up onto the narrow porch and into the house.

The kitchen was cramped, but bright and scrupulously clean and filled with good smells. The promised cake, one thin slice already missing, was four layers tall and frosted with great swoops of coconut icing. It stood on a platter in the middle of a butcher block counter that divided the kitchen from the small . . . not really a dining room, Justin decided. The little odd-shaped nook was neither formal enough nor large enough to deserve the name. But there was room for three or four people to sit around the little table, if they were friendly. A barred window above the table looked out into the alley. Justin wondered who would put a window where it would look out into nothing but an alley, but maybe there was no better view anywhere in this city apartment. And the window did let in the light. The last rays of the setting sun turned the dingy brick of the opposite building a warmer shade of red and almost made the alley attractive, in a cramped sort of way.

“Silverware’s in that drawer, napkins over there, plates up there. You want coffee?” asked Father Mark. “Tea, milk – whole milk, two percent’s terrible stuff. Tastes like water.”

“Does it?” Justin’s mother had always bought two percent. Justin took silverware out of the drawer, mildly surprised to find it was real silver. His mother had said silver was her one totally unnecessary luxury. She’d said everyone was entitled to one totally unnecessary luxury . . . he was struck with a sudden vivid memory of sitting with his mother at their huge dining room table with a can of polish and all the silver spread out between them. He had complained about having to polish it. He’d said it wasn’t his totally unnecessary luxury. His mother had said he didn’t have a luxury yet, so he might as well enjoy part ownership in hers.

He asked quickly, to block the memory, “If two percent tastes like water, what does skim milk taste like?”

“Diluted water,” the priest said promptly. “Here, let me just grab the can opener. You like canned beans, I hope. I love ’em. They’re sweet, sure, but baked beans are supposed to be sweet. Wish I had some nice crisp bacon to add to ’em, but who can think ahead that far? Good thing they’re tasty like this.”

Justin’s mother had always cooked beans from scratch. She’d made New England baked beans sometimes, but never too sweet. He couldn’t remember whether she’d added bacon to her beans. It seemed wrong that he couldn’t remember. He said, “Sure.”

Father Mark gave him a swift, assessing look, but said only, “Want to slice the bread? It’s good. Whole wheat this week. One of my parishioners bakes it for me. Wonderful woman. Bakes bread every Sunday, brings me three loaves before mass. Bakes for the bereaved, too.” He paused.

Justin looked at him.

“Bereavement does leave its mark on a person, I find,” the priest said gently. “It’s different for everyone, of course, but somehow there’s a look to it. You learn to spot it. Your father, was it? Mother? Girlfriend? Don’t answer if you don’t want to.” He turned away, busying himself with the ham rather than looking at Justin.

Justin didn’t intend to answer, but something about the Father Mark’s calm neutrality made it possible for him to say, “My mother. I never – I never knew my father. But my mother –” he stopped, and then couldn’t go on.

“Hmm. Supper first, do you good to get yourself on the outside of some of this ham. You can tell me about it – or not, up to you – after cake and coffee. Toaster’s right over there, butter in the fridge. My mother, now, she passed away nine, ten years ago. Cancer, poor woman. We all knew her time was limited, but even when you know it’s coming, it’s somehow still a shock. And then when the struggle’s over for the dying, it’s just starting for the bereaved, isn’t it? You think you’re going to get used to it, you know, but you don’t, exactly. But –”

Justin had been listening, half hypnotized, to this easy flow of talk. He hadn’t even begun to decide whether he found Father Mark’s words offensive or comforting, or to decide whether he might actually stay in this warm, plain, cramped kitchen that was nothing at all like his mother’s kitchen, let this priest talk to him, maybe even answer. The first batch of toast popped out of the toaster and Father Mark was just saying something about butter . . . and something hit the door, shattering the little pane of stained glass and shaking the whole door in its frame. Justin turned, butter knife in one hand. Father Mark turned, too, holding the little pan of baked beans he had just been putting on the stove, his round face blank and startled.

Then another blow broke open the door and flung the shattered remnants of wood and glass into the kitchen, and a monster shouldered its way through the doorway.

In that first instant, Justin thought it was a bear. It was huge like a bear, with a massive head. It had a shaggy pelt and heavy shoulders and powerful limbs, and when it reared upright, it lifted paws armed with long black claws that might have been a bear’s. But it wasn’t a bear. The fluid way it moved made it look almost like a big cat, a lion or something, but it sure wasn’t a cat. It looked a little like a dog, a mastiff maybe, but too big and not right. Its glowing orange eyes weren’t like the eyes of any natural animal, and its fangs, showing as it snarled, were black as obsidian. It wasn’t anything Justin had ever seen, or even imagined. He threw the toast at it, and then, more sensibly, the toaster, which slammed into its face and made it flinch and roar. But the roar wasn’t any sound an animal might have made: it was almost like a laugh and almost like a curse, and it held intelligence as well as fury and hatred.

* * *

There you go: Justin, a new protagonist for this book! What do you think of him so far?

I love Father Mark; he was supposed to be fairly important, but in fact I couldn’t find anything crucial for him to do and the book was showing signs of stretching out, so he is not going to appear except in this early scene. Sorry.

This chapter started as chapter 1, moved down to become chapter 2, then moved up again to take the chapter 1 spot after all. Ah, deciding about the structure of your book! I had a hard time deciding whether I had to start with a familiar character or whether it would be okay to start with a new one. Caitlin thought it was better to start with Justin, and I do really love this opening scene.

Incidentally, I also just saw the first version of the PURE MAGIC cover, which features Justin and Natividad and which I like a lot.

You may be asking yourselves now: are we looking at a new love triangle? Justin vs Ezekiel, Natividad torn between them, unable to make up her mind?

Can’t answer that, I’m afraid. You will just have to wait and see. Thinking about my other books, do you have a guess?

a) Yes, definitely a love triangle, it’s obvious from this introduction to your new character.

b) No, definitely no love triangle, that would never happen in a Neumeier story,.

c) Can’t tell.

Finally read through all my Kindle samples –

I love the “sample” feature, which basically mimics the ability to take a book off the shelf and read the first bit to see if you like it, without committing to buying it. I should use that more often, since I hate being stuck with a book I don’t even like. I try to shuffle those off the “device”, but I wouldn’t mind being able to get them out of the “cloud”, too. I never have created a “Meh” folder to keep them out of sight, though. Yet.

Anyway! I deleted six samples, but I bought a couple, including this one:

CONFIDENCE TRICKS by Tamara Morgan

The stiletto heel pressed against his jugular had yet to break the skin.

It was a small comfort — Asprey’s only one at the moment. Gravel dotted painfully into his cheek and temple, and his armhung limp athis side. Only a few cords of fiery, razor-edged nerves seemed to connect the bones of his shoulder to the rest of him, and every movement was a clear reminder that he lay completely at this woman’s mercy.

I believe this one will be silly, but fun, and fairly well written. The sample I read contained all of Chapter 1 and part of Chapter 2, so I think I have a decent feel for the story and the writing. Here is one where the sample does more for me than the cover, which is a generic Romance cover and basically turns me off. Woman clutching dude, wow, that’s different. Probably someone recommended this on Twitter and I picked up the sample based on that, without looking at the cover.

I also bought SINNERS and SAINTS by Eileen Dreyer, who writes medical-themed thrillers or mysteries with trauma nurses as the protagonists (I believe she is a nurse herself), and also romances, Regencies, I think, under a different name. I actually tried this title because I recently met Michelle, a beta reader for Dreyer. Michelle and I had a nice conversation about dogs (she has Malamutes) and books, and I thought sure, why not, and tried a sample of the Dreyer title that sounded most like my cup of tea. Here is how that one starts:

Omens come in all sizes. Hair standing up at the back of the neck. Crows on a telephone wire. Shapes in a cloud or a chill in the wind. A hundred innocuous things designated by tradition or superstition, and a thousand more kept in a personal lexicon.

Chastity Byrnes carried around quite a full lexicon of her own. Not just the regular omens handed down from generation to generation of Irishwomen, like birds in the house meaning death or uncovered mirrors at a funeral meaning death, or any of the other myriad Irish omens meaning death. Chastity embraced a plethora of personal portents inexplicable to anyone but her.

Chastity was a trauma nurse, and only ballplayers and actors were more superstitious.

I like this. I didn’t even read the full sample before buying this one. Plus, way better cover (for my tastes), though since I bought the Kindle version, that doesn’t matter much.

Samples I ditched: RESURRECTION, a zombie novel by Michael Totten. Looked okay, but the author kept using the past tense when I think he should have used the past perfect, and that bugs me. Also, right away I believe his main character misses something very obvious and that was going to REALLY bug me. I didn’t read the full sample before ditching this one.

A sort of real-world post-apocalyptic political thriller, LIGHTNING FALL by Bill Quick. Way too many point-of-view characters. This was undoubtedly a deliberate choice, to give the reader the best overall look at the world as it falls apart, but I thought it looked like it was going to be too depressing (world falls apart!) for me to endure, given a probable lack of emotional investment in any specific character.

A murder mystery set in contemporary Japan: THE CHERRY BLOSSOM MURDER, by Fran Pickering. The voice just did not grab me. Unhelpful, I know, but I sympathize with agents and editors who say this, because it is true. I might be able to put my finger on what bothered me if I thought about it, but why go to the effort? It just didn’t work for me. Plus, having the protagonist be a British woman in Japan seemed like . . . well, like it might be making her special because she is British. I expect she is going to solve the murder, so she will have to be smarter than the police or any secondary character. Why not a Japanese main character to be the smart one who solves the murder? I expect the author is British, but still. If you can handle Japanese secondary characters, you should be able to handle a Japanese main character. Or so it seems to me.

And a handful of nonfiction titles that I found interesting, but not interesting enough to buy or discuss.

Now all I have on my Kindle are full novels. Maybe I’ll actually read one. Though, since I brought my laptop along to this show, I ought to work on something useful. Later. Right now, gotta take the girls out, bring them in, wash off their feet — horrible parking lot grime — touch up their ears, and get ready to go find the show site.