C.S. Harris's Blog, page 21
May 17, 2013
Pomp, Circumstance, and a Promotion
I'm afraid I haven't managed to get much writing done this week. Wednesday was the medical school's awards assembly and hooding, and then, yesterday, my daughter and her husband officially became doctors.
Since my daughter is also in the Air Force, today she officially went on active duty and was promoted to captain, with Steve and her husband pinning on her captain's bars.
And yes, her mother is very, very proud of her.
May 11, 2013
Fort Proctor
Let me say, first off, that I am not related to whatever unknown Proctor had this fort named after him. But it's a fascinating place, nonetheless.
Built in the 1850s by P.G.T. Beauregard, Fort Proctor was originally intended to be part of a string of forts protecting the approach to New Orleans. But construction was still in progress at the outbreak of the Civil War, and the fort was finally abandoned without ever being garrisoned.
At the time it was built, Fort Proctor was something like 150 feet inland. It is now 250 feet from shore and can only be reached by kayak.
A rock levee has recently been built around the fort in an attempt to save it from the waves and the hurricanes that batter it (the bits of grass you can see are simply growing in sediment washed in amongst the rocks).
Fort Proctor is located in St. Bernard Parish, to the southeast of New Orleans in Lake Borgne, near the mouth of Bayou Yscloskey. The aerial photograph is from Wikipedia and was taken by Eric Botnik in 2008. All other photos by my daughter, who paddled out there last weekend to celebrate finishing medical school.
Built in the 1850s by P.G.T. Beauregard, Fort Proctor was originally intended to be part of a string of forts protecting the approach to New Orleans. But construction was still in progress at the outbreak of the Civil War, and the fort was finally abandoned without ever being garrisoned.
At the time it was built, Fort Proctor was something like 150 feet inland. It is now 250 feet from shore and can only be reached by kayak.
A rock levee has recently been built around the fort in an attempt to save it from the waves and the hurricanes that batter it (the bits of grass you can see are simply growing in sediment washed in amongst the rocks).
Fort Proctor is located in St. Bernard Parish, to the southeast of New Orleans in Lake Borgne, near the mouth of Bayou Yscloskey. The aerial photograph is from Wikipedia and was taken by Eric Botnik in 2008. All other photos by my daughter, who paddled out there last weekend to celebrate finishing medical school.
May 8, 2013
Candy's Semi-annual Cover Rant, May 2013 Edition
I've just seen the cover for Why Kings Confess, the next Sebastian book, and, well... Let's simply say that they're redoing it (which is really, really nice of them, by the way).
Why is it so hard to come up with a good cover? Part of the problem is that art departments are overworked; a handful people (who'd probably rather be doing something else) are tasked with dreaming up and executing hundreds of covers a year on a limited budget. Coming up with a good cover image must be difficult, because if you look at book covers, most of them are terrible. I know; I just spent all afternoon staring at so many I'm blearing-eyed, searching for inspiration. I've decided I had a lot of nerve to complain.
It isn't just about good design, although that's really important. Covers also need to be right for their genre in order to send the correct, subtle message to readers (I think some of the Sebastian covers fail here). But some covers rise above the rest to the level of pure genius. Take this one, for instance:
Not only is it striking graphically, but the image of a woman holding out an apple says something about temptation, sex, and danger that is instantly understood. Then there's this guy:
Terrible title and boring cover, but I guess once you're a phenomenon, neither really matters.
What drives me crazy is the cavalier attitude shown by many art departments toward historical accuracy. Consider this cover of Tracy Grant's latest book; gorgeous, eye catching, and totally wrong for her period, which is Paris 1815. But since it's so striking, I understand why they left it alone. (I once complained about a cover that was very historically inaccurate but other wise a good cover; what I got in its place made me want to weep.)
My friend Laura Joh Rowland consistently has some of the best covers I've seen. It's hard to pick a favorite, but here is one of them:
So, can you think of any book covers you've found especially striking and appealing? What works for you as a reader? What doesn't work?
UPDATE: Someone just sent me a link to a very interesting article where some very creative people have participated in a game of "flip that cover," where they took a well-known book and redesigned the cover to create a very different impression. See it at Huff Po here .
Why is it so hard to come up with a good cover? Part of the problem is that art departments are overworked; a handful people (who'd probably rather be doing something else) are tasked with dreaming up and executing hundreds of covers a year on a limited budget. Coming up with a good cover image must be difficult, because if you look at book covers, most of them are terrible. I know; I just spent all afternoon staring at so many I'm blearing-eyed, searching for inspiration. I've decided I had a lot of nerve to complain.
It isn't just about good design, although that's really important. Covers also need to be right for their genre in order to send the correct, subtle message to readers (I think some of the Sebastian covers fail here). But some covers rise above the rest to the level of pure genius. Take this one, for instance:
Not only is it striking graphically, but the image of a woman holding out an apple says something about temptation, sex, and danger that is instantly understood. Then there's this guy:
Terrible title and boring cover, but I guess once you're a phenomenon, neither really matters.
What drives me crazy is the cavalier attitude shown by many art departments toward historical accuracy. Consider this cover of Tracy Grant's latest book; gorgeous, eye catching, and totally wrong for her period, which is Paris 1815. But since it's so striking, I understand why they left it alone. (I once complained about a cover that was very historically inaccurate but other wise a good cover; what I got in its place made me want to weep.)
My friend Laura Joh Rowland consistently has some of the best covers I've seen. It's hard to pick a favorite, but here is one of them:
So, can you think of any book covers you've found especially striking and appealing? What works for you as a reader? What doesn't work?
UPDATE: Someone just sent me a link to a very interesting article where some very creative people have participated in a game of "flip that cover," where they took a well-known book and redesigned the cover to create a very different impression. See it at Huff Po here .
May 3, 2013
The Case of the Wandering Email
I made a rather unpleasant discovery yesterday, thanks to this guy:
His name is Angel (a name that has nothing to do with his temperament, by the way; he once had a sibling named Buffy...) and he has a bad habit of sprawling all over my papers when I'm sitting on the sofa and trying to write. Well, yesterday, he was sleeping on the outline for Who Buries the Dead, the tenth Sebastian St. Cyr book. Not wanting to disturb him, I decided simply to email myself the outline and consult it on my iPad. So I did. Only, it never arrived.
Since Angel ambled off soon afterwards to stick his face in his food bowl, I didn't think too much about it until Steve came home and said, "Why did you send me your outline?"
I went, "Huh?"
He said, "I thought maybe something's wrong with your printer, so I ran it off for you."
Assuming I must have sent it to him by mistake, I went to my computer and looked. But no; I had indeed sent the outline to myself, and myself alone.
"Here's the weird thing," said Steve. "Right after I printed it, it disappeared out of my inbox. I didn't delete it; it just went away."
About this time, my computer chimed at me, and there was the outline in my inbox where it should have been two hours before. There was nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, to indicate that it had been on an unauthorized detour.
Now, I don't know about you, but this has thoroughly spooked me. Because I sometimes include information in my emails that I really, really wouldn't want other people on my email contacts list to read.
Have you ever had a similar experience? Any ideas as to how one can prevent this from happening? It isn't exactly as if we can quit using email or even avoid saying things that are intended only for the eyes of the recipient.
His name is Angel (a name that has nothing to do with his temperament, by the way; he once had a sibling named Buffy...) and he has a bad habit of sprawling all over my papers when I'm sitting on the sofa and trying to write. Well, yesterday, he was sleeping on the outline for Who Buries the Dead, the tenth Sebastian St. Cyr book. Not wanting to disturb him, I decided simply to email myself the outline and consult it on my iPad. So I did. Only, it never arrived.
Since Angel ambled off soon afterwards to stick his face in his food bowl, I didn't think too much about it until Steve came home and said, "Why did you send me your outline?"
I went, "Huh?"
He said, "I thought maybe something's wrong with your printer, so I ran it off for you."
Assuming I must have sent it to him by mistake, I went to my computer and looked. But no; I had indeed sent the outline to myself, and myself alone.
"Here's the weird thing," said Steve. "Right after I printed it, it disappeared out of my inbox. I didn't delete it; it just went away."
About this time, my computer chimed at me, and there was the outline in my inbox where it should have been two hours before. There was nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, to indicate that it had been on an unauthorized detour.
Now, I don't know about you, but this has thoroughly spooked me. Because I sometimes include information in my emails that I really, really wouldn't want other people on my email contacts list to read.
Have you ever had a similar experience? Any ideas as to how one can prevent this from happening? It isn't exactly as if we can quit using email or even avoid saying things that are intended only for the eyes of the recipient.
April 25, 2013
When Life Moved at a Slower Pace
While researching immigrant populations in London the other day, I stumbled across this rather fascinating (and short) film clip showing traffic on Blackfriars Bridge in 1896. That's 70+ years after the end of the Regency period, but it's still a good reminder of just how slow life was in the days before the adoption of the automobile. Many of the wagons are only moving at the same pace as the walkers.
And wouldn't you like to know what is in the newspaper that boy is walking along reading?
And wouldn't you like to know what is in the newspaper that boy is walking along reading?
April 22, 2013
The Original Black Cat
The black cat in What Darkness Brings is inspired by this guy:
Huckleberry is a cat with serious attitude. He's big and beautiful and very smart, and he knows it. By the time he was six months old, we had to change all the old lever-type door handles in the house because he'd figured out how to open them. If this were a perfect world, Huckleberry would be an only cat. But this isn't a perfect world, which makes Huck cranky.
He likes to pretend he's not loving; he won't jump up in your lap and ask for pets, and if you pick him up, he'll tolerate it for about a minute, max, before he squirms and wants down. If you want pets, you need to go to him--preferably when he's in his tower, or on a pile of freshly laundered bedding. That is, after all, the proper way to show the worship he thinks is his due.
But the truth is, Huckleberry is secretly a very affectionate cat. He follows me from room to room, all day long, curling up nearby while I work. He especially loves to sit on the sofa beside me while I play my guitar--actually, that's the only time he will sit on the sofa beside anyone.
He really, really hates it when I go away for any length of time. Once I went to Morocco for three weeks and came home to found him ratty and half dead; he'd refused to eat, drink, or bathe while I was gone, despite the fact that Danielle and Steve were home with him. When I go up to the lake for a week of intensive writing, Huckleberry goes with me--not only because he's company and he loves it up there, but because he's miserable if I don't take him.
Will the black cat be back in Why Kings Confess? What do you think?
Huckleberry is a cat with serious attitude. He's big and beautiful and very smart, and he knows it. By the time he was six months old, we had to change all the old lever-type door handles in the house because he'd figured out how to open them. If this were a perfect world, Huckleberry would be an only cat. But this isn't a perfect world, which makes Huck cranky.
He likes to pretend he's not loving; he won't jump up in your lap and ask for pets, and if you pick him up, he'll tolerate it for about a minute, max, before he squirms and wants down. If you want pets, you need to go to him--preferably when he's in his tower, or on a pile of freshly laundered bedding. That is, after all, the proper way to show the worship he thinks is his due.
But the truth is, Huckleberry is secretly a very affectionate cat. He follows me from room to room, all day long, curling up nearby while I work. He especially loves to sit on the sofa beside me while I play my guitar--actually, that's the only time he will sit on the sofa beside anyone.
He really, really hates it when I go away for any length of time. Once I went to Morocco for three weeks and came home to found him ratty and half dead; he'd refused to eat, drink, or bathe while I was gone, despite the fact that Danielle and Steve were home with him. When I go up to the lake for a week of intensive writing, Huckleberry goes with me--not only because he's company and he loves it up there, but because he's miserable if I don't take him.
Will the black cat be back in Why Kings Confess? What do you think?
April 9, 2013
A Garden of Roses
One of my passions is old roses. I dream of tearing down my neighbors' houses and filling the resultant empty lots with roses (note to neighbors: it's nothing personal). New Orleans isn't the best place in the world to grow roses, but the warmth that nurtures vulnerable varieties does help make up for the blackspot and balling and the other problems caused by our humidity and heavy rains and hurricanes.
This isn't the most glorious spring I've seen, but spring is always lovely. If I had to pick a favorite rose, it would be this one: Souvenir de la Malmaison. I love the scent, the color, the buds, the open, knotty blooms, the name, the history, the endless blooming, the polite, mannerly growth... I just love this rose.
But this one--Sombreuil, a climber--comes a close second. It climbs up one of the pillars to my gallery, and also splays across the back wall (I didn't mean to buy two; one came disguised as something else, but I didn't really mind).
I also love Prosperity, another climber, entwined with a lemon tree next to the fish pond. It blooms its heart out all year, and smells heavenly. (It also helped pull the fence down in Hurricane Isaac).
And then there's Lamarque, growing up the back pillar to the screened-in gallery (home of Whiskies and Nora).
As you can see, I'm partial to peach, pink, blush, and white; Steve loves red. I let him bring in a few, although I fuss and groan over every one. Space is so precious, and there are so many more roses I'd love to have. At last count, we had seventy, which is ridiculous because we don't have that big of a yard and we have two massive oak trees (hence my coveting of my neighbors' yards). And of course, roses aren't the only things I grow. At the moment, the columbines are lovely...
I could go on and on like this. I love my garden. When I get stuck in the writing of a book, I go outside and work in my garden, or just walk around and breathe. I always helps. I call it garden therapy.
April 3, 2013
WHY KINGS CONFESS, Chapter One
I hope y'all don't see this as unmercifully teasing, since I know the book is still eleven months away from release, but I thought you might like a peek at the first chapter of Why Kings Confess, book number nine in the Sebastian St. Cyr series.
Chapter 1
St. Katharine’s, East London
Thursday, 21 January 1813
Paul Gibson lurched down the dark, narrow lane, his face raw from the cold, his fingers numb. There were times when he wandered these alleyways lost in brightly-hued reveries of opium-induced euphoria. But not tonight. Tonight, Gibson clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the icy cobbles, the reedy wail of a babe carried on the night wind—anything that might distract his mind from the restless, hungering need that drenched his thin frame with sweat and tormented him with ghosts of what could be.
When he first noticed the woman, he thought her an apparition, a mirage of gray wool and velvet lying crumpled beside the entrance to a fetid passageway. But as he drew nearer, he saw pale flesh and the gleaming dark wetness of blood, and knew she was only too real.
He drew up sharply, the dank, briny air of the nearby Thames rasping in his throat. Cat’s Hole, they called this narrow lane, a refuge for thieves, prostitutes and all the desperate, dispossessed of England and beyond. He could feel his heart pounding; the stars glittered like shards of broken glass in the thin slice of cold black sky visible between the looming rooftops above. He hesitated perhaps longer than he should have. But he was a surgeon, his life dedicated to the care of others.
He pushed himself forward again.
She lay curled half on her side, one hand flung out palm up, eyes closed. He hunkered down awkwardly beside her, fingertips searching for a pulse in her slim neck. Her face was delicately boned and framed by a riot of long, flame-red hair, her lashes dark and thick against the pale flesh of her smooth cheeks, her lips purple-blue with cold. Or death.
But at his touch, her eyelids fluttered open, her chest jerking on a sob and a broken, whispered prayer. “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs…”
“It’s all right; I’m here to help you,” he said gently, wondering if she could even understand him. ”Where are you hurt?”
The entire side of her head, he now saw, was matted with blood. Wide-eyed and frightened, she fastened her gaze on him. Then her focus slid away to where the black mouth of the passage yawned beside them. “Damion…” Her hand jerked up to clutch his sleeve. “Is he all right?”
Gibson followed her gaze. The man’s body was more difficult to discern, a dark, motionless mass deep in the shadows. Gibson shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Her grip on his arm twisted convulsively. “Go to him. Please.”
Nodding, Gibson surged upright, staggering slightly as his wooden peg took his weight and the phantom pains of a long-gone limb ripped through him.
The passage reeked of rot and excrement and the familiar coppery stench of spilled blood. The man lay sprawled on his back beside a pile of broken hogsheads and crates. It was with difficulty that Gibson picked out the once snowy-white folds of a cravat, the silken sheen of what had been a fine waistcoat but was now a blood-soaked mess, horribly ripped.
“Tell me,” said the woman. “Tell me he lives.”
But Gibson could only stare at the body before him. The man’s eyes were wide and sightless, his handsome young face pallid, his outflung arms stiffening in the cold. Someone had hacked open the corpse’s chest with a ruthless savagery that spoke of rage tinged with madness. And where the heart should have been gaped only an open cavity.
Bloody and empty.
Chapter 1
St. Katharine’s, East London
Thursday, 21 January 1813
Paul Gibson lurched down the dark, narrow lane, his face raw from the cold, his fingers numb. There were times when he wandered these alleyways lost in brightly-hued reveries of opium-induced euphoria. But not tonight. Tonight, Gibson clenched his jaw and tried to focus on the tap-tap of his wooden leg on the icy cobbles, the reedy wail of a babe carried on the night wind—anything that might distract his mind from the restless, hungering need that drenched his thin frame with sweat and tormented him with ghosts of what could be.
When he first noticed the woman, he thought her an apparition, a mirage of gray wool and velvet lying crumpled beside the entrance to a fetid passageway. But as he drew nearer, he saw pale flesh and the gleaming dark wetness of blood, and knew she was only too real.
He drew up sharply, the dank, briny air of the nearby Thames rasping in his throat. Cat’s Hole, they called this narrow lane, a refuge for thieves, prostitutes and all the desperate, dispossessed of England and beyond. He could feel his heart pounding; the stars glittered like shards of broken glass in the thin slice of cold black sky visible between the looming rooftops above. He hesitated perhaps longer than he should have. But he was a surgeon, his life dedicated to the care of others.
He pushed himself forward again.
She lay curled half on her side, one hand flung out palm up, eyes closed. He hunkered down awkwardly beside her, fingertips searching for a pulse in her slim neck. Her face was delicately boned and framed by a riot of long, flame-red hair, her lashes dark and thick against the pale flesh of her smooth cheeks, her lips purple-blue with cold. Or death.
But at his touch, her eyelids fluttered open, her chest jerking on a sob and a broken, whispered prayer. “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs…”
“It’s all right; I’m here to help you,” he said gently, wondering if she could even understand him. ”Where are you hurt?”
The entire side of her head, he now saw, was matted with blood. Wide-eyed and frightened, she fastened her gaze on him. Then her focus slid away to where the black mouth of the passage yawned beside them. “Damion…” Her hand jerked up to clutch his sleeve. “Is he all right?”
Gibson followed her gaze. The man’s body was more difficult to discern, a dark, motionless mass deep in the shadows. Gibson shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Her grip on his arm twisted convulsively. “Go to him. Please.”
Nodding, Gibson surged upright, staggering slightly as his wooden peg took his weight and the phantom pains of a long-gone limb ripped through him.
The passage reeked of rot and excrement and the familiar coppery stench of spilled blood. The man lay sprawled on his back beside a pile of broken hogsheads and crates. It was with difficulty that Gibson picked out the once snowy-white folds of a cravat, the silken sheen of what had been a fine waistcoat but was now a blood-soaked mess, horribly ripped.
“Tell me,” said the woman. “Tell me he lives.”
But Gibson could only stare at the body before him. The man’s eyes were wide and sightless, his handsome young face pallid, his outflung arms stiffening in the cold. Someone had hacked open the corpse’s chest with a ruthless savagery that spoke of rage tinged with madness. And where the heart should have been gaped only an open cavity.
Bloody and empty.
March 27, 2013
Whiskies
I'm tired of looking at that Penguin Twitter giveaway post, but the plotting of Who Buries the Dead is giving me fits and I can't focus enough to write anything coherent, so... Here's Whiskies!
Whiskies is one of a litter born three years ago to a pregnant stray rescued by my daughter. The mama cat evidently decided she was too malnourished to support all of her kittens and was going to let one die. The chosen sacrifice was Whiskies. By the time my daughter (sitting beside the laboring cat in the backseat of a car barreling down the I 10) realized what was happening and tore open the membranes, Whiskies was suffering from oxygen deprivation. In other words, this is one retarded cat. Sweet, but dumb, dumb, dumb.
Now, you might think, how smart does a cat need to be? Well, he needs to know that it is not sufficient to stick his head over the poop box. His failure to grasp this concept has earned him a place on our screened-in porch with another cat suffering from "improper elimination issues" (as our vet calls it).
And yes, I know he's obese; unfortunately, also affected by the lack of oxygen was the part of the brain that should tell Whiskies to stop eating. And since his fellow improper-elimination-issue screened-in porch resident is a geriatric female, we really can't restrict his food. So he just keeps getting fatter.
I've come to the conclusion every cat should have access to a screened-in porch; they love watching the bugs and birds, and smelling all those lovely smells, and the birds and lizards love being safe from pounces (not that Whiskies could catch anything even if he wanted to). Their life is not hard; Steve and I both try to spend time out there with them every day; they have heated cat houses and cooling pads and bamboo shades, and if the weather gets really nasty, they come inside...all of which is probably more than you ever wanted to know.
So if my daughter is the one who rescued the cats, how is it that I ended up with the retarded one? Isn't that what mothers are for?
March 22, 2013
Penguin Giveaway on Twitter
Penguin is doing a Twitter giveaway today, March 22, between 10 AM EST and 3 PM EST on (at?) @penguincozies. There will be three winners, with winners given a choice between a copy of WHEN MAIDENS MOURN or WHAT DARKNESS BRINGS.
Personally, I have a hard enough time doing Facebook; Twittering (or is it Tweeting?) is beyond me. But if you're on Twitter, be sure to head on over there!
