Science Fiction San Francisco Issue 152

Another article about writing challenges was included in this month's SF/SF!

Check out how my February LetterMo went at: http://efanzines.com/SFSF/SFSF152.pdf

My Thoughts on Books 1-3 of The Glamourist Histories by Mary Robinette Kowal

Without a Summer by Mary Robinette Kowal
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Reviewing a single book in a series is often difficult. As a "series addict," I believe books should both 'stand on their own merits' and 'be read in context.'

In the spirit of full disclosure, I sometimes choose to only read a series-author's books if there IS a series, and if it is (mostly) DONE. In the spirit of Inigo Montoya, "I hate waiting." And I also like more of a good thing. With no waiting.

Having finished book 3 of the Glamourist histories, I feel challenged to say why I gave 5 stars to Books 1 & 3, but only 3 stars to book 2. I also feel that it is important for me to acknowledge that while my "stars" tend to be entirely emotional, given upon immediately finishing, when I choose to write reviews, they are after...at least a few moments of reflection. Today, over an hour! (sadly if I wait too long they do not get finished)

Technically, all three books feel similar, but books 1 & 3 have 2 specific things that book 2 does not. (Sorry readers - I apologize openly for the numbers).

First, I am loathe to say it, but I think that perhaps...perhaps it is because in Without a Summer, we once again experience our beloved Jane as the inadvertent protagonist-as-antagonist. Our dear, flawed Jane makes a mess of things. And again, as in book 1, her sister bears the brunt of Jane's fallibilities.  Jane's messes lend a huge amount of valid suspense, and are allowed to resolve in a way that keeps me, as a reader, in love with her as fallible and forgivable.

Second, as in book 1, book 3 has a single, actual antagonist. Someone evil, in the background, creating a bad situation for Jane and those around her. A really good bad guy makes a book truly great.

Book 2 was good, and enjoyable, but didn’t have the punch-in-the-guts that comes from foiling a villain. The reader isn’t carried along on the rising tide of Jane’s tendency to make matters worse before they get better. That is replaced with a main course of heroism and a side dish of tragedy.

I feel privileged to have accompanied Jane through book 2, but book 3 is a happy return to what I enjoyed about book 1, while book 2 lacked the direct action...and mistakes...that are uniquely "Jane."


View all my reviews

Angry crushes Sad, Sad cuts Joy, Joy covers Angry

Today, in the women's quarters of Casa de Bessey, is a solo game of Emo Rock Scissors Paper that I now dub Angry Sad Joy. I'm not sure who is playing. My personal angel from the right shoulder, versus my personal devil from the left is what I suspect.

They have been at it now for almost 12 hours. The extreme fatigue in my body when I awoke tells me they kept at it all night. I'm really getting tired of the game. Every time I think one of them is poised to finally win, the other one says, "Best out of 100,000?" And they keep at it. I would think the angel would know better.

I admit that after all of the "how to" articles I read about letting go of anger and practicing compassion I find it weird that breathing and telling yourself "good stuff" over and over and over...I'm happy, I'm happy, I'm Happy, I'm grateful, I'm grateful, I'm Grateful, I'm Safe, I'm safe, I'm safe...DOES NOT WORK.

I also tried to deliver some buddha-style compassionate forgiveness and blessings on the person "hooking" me, and that made me want to vomit. Seriously. I haven't had breakfast. I was feeling too sick at the idea of trying to think good thoughts for a "crappy person." That's in quotes, and has a link because the universe delivered me some fresh strategies by a LinkedIn INfluencer that my Inbox informs me you should be following. 

What the hell. It could have been revelatory. It could have given the angel an edge.
It was not. It did not.

The advice the article gives for dealing with crappy people is to ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. It doesn't seem like BAD advice; It just doesn't apply to my situation. You have to trust me that the crappy people in my life are not ignore-able for the long-term. They will come back around until I'm dead, or they are. That's my definition of "family."

In particular, the person I had dealings with yesterday does a great job of evoking My Critic from My Writing Team, which I blogged about awhile back. She might be the devil in my Angry Sad Joy game, and the poor angel really has no hope of winning.

My Critic (sorry if you read the prior post) is my defense lawyer. She is motivated by two things: joy of winning and fear of losing. When she is on, whether she is writing contracts or merely shuffling CYA paperwork, she has to be fed. And today, I found out that she doesn't only eat compliments and kindnesses, she really, REALLY likes insults.

Go ahead. Insult me. My Critic will build a case to take you down. She has access to all of my memories and she will find what she needs faster that Google search. She is a list compiler. Every bad decision, every crappy thing you've ever done is right at her fingertips, documented, with video, audio, and reliable witnesses. I know, because she makes me watch them.

There's a problem: She has no place to take her case too. If she was the angel, I guess she could make a case to God that person A, B, or C should be wiped from the face of the planet, Bambi meets Godzilla style...but she's the devil.

Who does the devil go to?
Whoever she thinks is desperate enough to sell a soul.
All she can do is make me feel bad...try to make me DO bad things to elevate awareness of the bad things someone else does, until she has an actual court to put her case in front of.
Case in front of society: BOOM!
Case in front of a custody judge: BOOM!

It isn't enough to accept the betrayal, hurt and abuse WE have undergone at the hands of Crappy Person as a part of the past, not the present. Not enough for her to finish her job once she has criticized and judged the behaviors and actions of Crappy Person, and be satisfied. She really wants to call down Godzilla.

The angel just wants the Crappy Person to change (So Easy!) into a Happy Person so we can stay out of it.

So I went for a bike ride with the dog.

I am estimating the anger levels and trauma flashbacks now reduced by 20%. I still feel 80% bad and want nothing more than to go back to bed with a fantasy novel...which evokes My Critic all over again. She thinks she's there to help me live my life, which means get-shit-done, not sleep-all-day.

The reality is that the situation I am in is Sad. There's nothing I can do to fix it, but the Angry crushes the Sad. The Angry makes it impossible to just have a good cry, be Sad and move on. The Angry is the emotional blocker, the energetic powerhouse, My Critic, My Devil.

Writing helps a little. Writing is a Joy...but I deeply fear that like the original game idea, Joy only covers Anger. It is momentary - It isn't a final win. The Anger is still there.

Version Control

Here are the two versions of the same story. The first one is as I wrote it, by hand, looking at the image:

The second is what I tried to reconstruct from memory. Now I can think about where the *ideal* story falls - maybe someplace in between these two....

Which do YOU like better?

Original Story, Gypsy Bride For The Book Of Possibilities:

He knew nothing was impossible when he found the four-leaf clover outside the fortuneteller’s wagon. True, his jaw ached from the hard left-hook he had taken across the mouth from the young Gypsy man standing over him, shouting...But among the crushed turf where he had landed stood the talisman of natural luck; Strong and unscathed from his fall.

The yelling of her angry brother, and the footfalls of every gypsy in the camp were silenced as he picked the clover carefully, stood up in the circle of violence, and brandished the little plant: “May I marry her now?”

As Remembered, For The Book Of Possibilities:

 He knew nothing was impossible when he saw the four-leaf clover in front of the gypsy fortune teller’s caravan. His jaw hurt where the left-hook had landed. Despite the grass crushed by his fall, the little plant stood tall and unscathed.

Her brother stood above, taunting and cursing him furiously. The ground he lay on pounded with the footsteps of every gypsy in the camp running toward the shouting. Silence fell when he plucked the clover, stood up in the circle of violence, brandished the small green talisman and cried, “May I marry her now!?”

Differences:

Camp NaNoWriMoUpdate, April 8

Hello, Muddah
Hello, Faddah
Here I am at
Camp Write-on-nah....

Okay that's all I've got. 
I love those of you who got the joke, and now have a soundtrack for this post running through your head.

The NaNoWriMo for The Midlife Crisis piece has had a wonderful response.

I'm not sure if folks are interested in what goes on inside my head, or interested in the NaNo traveling circus wagon I jumped on wholeheartedly...but in either case, I thought you should all know: I'm at Camp! I Love it! There's so much to see and do here!

Here's what it looks like:

SHORT Stories

I am writing a long-ish short story this month for Camp NaNoWriMo and I've decided to write MANY other shorter short stories...even one about Short People (Thanks, Nikki!). I'm working on short stories because I find the available scale of possible writing quite difficult. Small ideas requiring a whole novel to work out; huge ideas completely encapsulated in as few words as possible. 

Yesterday, I wrote a story on-demand, based on a visual, postcard prompt. I finished an entire, coherent, dramatic, action packed, rich story...in maybe 100 words? 

WHAT. A. BLAST. I WANNA SHARE IT!
But I hand-wrote it...in someone else's notebook. 

I was asked to participate in this exercise by a friend.  She wanted some interactive materials for an upcoming festival 'seeded' with examples of writings based on images, with or without prompts. I was happy to help with such 'kleenex' writing...just blow it out there, never expecting to need it again.

But today I am haunted by it. 
I want to read it again. 
I want to read it out loud to my husband. 
I want to text it to friends. 
I want to share it on my blog and be like, "Holy Shit! Look at THIS! I did THIS! I'm a fucking writer!" I would go so far as to say I think Neil Gaiman might like my miniscule story. Uh Huh. BOO-YAH!

And I'm also terrified.
What if it is only good in my mind?
What if I only THINK it is good because of the drug like adrenaline rush of fun ideas penned to the page.
What if the only reason I think it is so awesome is because I can't SEE it. I don't HAVE it. I GAVE IT AWAY TO SOMEONE ELSE. Now it is more precious than anything else I might write today...My Precious....

So in an effort to purge the residual story from my brain, here is the experiment: 

I am going to re-write it from memory.
The Writing Coach I work with said that opening a fresh page and starting over from memory is actually a specific technique for editing. (Albeit one that sounds like a nightmare to me, but then, I get a little attached to my THINGS, as you can see).

I will have, and post the ORIGINAL next week.
We can see how it differs!

For The Book Of Possibilities:

 He knew nothing was impossible when he saw the four-leaf clover in front of the gypsy fortune teller’s caravan. His jaw hurt where the left-hook had landed. Despite the grass crushed by his fall, the little plant stood tall and unscathed.

Her brother stood above, taunting and cursing him furiously. The ground he lay on pounded with the footsteps of every gypsy in the camp running toward the shouting. Silence fell when he plucked the clover, stood up in the circle of violence, brandished the small green talisman and cried, “May I marry her now!?”

The image I wrote from looked like this:

Courtesy of Google Images

NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis

Below is the complete version of "NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis" with the graphics laid out correctly. Written for and first published in Issue 151 of Science Fiction/San Francisco April 2014.

NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis

My “midlife crisis” 40^th year culminated with the decision to write a novel.

I wrote 50,453 words in 30 days, and at the end of the experience, I not only felt good, I described myself as rejuvenated, proud, and a better person.

So when comparing the stereotypical midlife crisis (sports cars, infidelity) to mine (writing every day for a month), I’m going to go for all-out pompous and say:

“My Way is Better.”

These days it’s hard to know when to have your midlife crisis. I don’t know if I’ll live to be 50, like my maternal grandmother; 80, like my paternal grandmother; or if I will surpass them both and make it to centenarian. Like most other appointments in my life, at 40 I was either late or early to the midlife crisis game, depending on which way you were betting.

Early, late, or punctual, it was a shock to find myself 40 years old.

It felt like other people’s lives were ending and I was anxious about where mine was going.  And, while some might say I was two years early, “What is the meaning of Life the Universe, and Everything,” came up on a regular basis.

Because of the number of transitions I was going through, I allowed life at 40 to “catch up” with me in a new way.

The devastation of hoping to visit a cousin, but learning via Facebook that she had died days before didn’t fade away quickly. Owning my own business seemed like a bet I was riding the rest of my life on. Yoga twice a week could not re-mold my middle aged, pudgy midriff. Crying a lot after attending what felt like a barrage of funerals didn’t release me back to my old self.

Big things needed to happen.

I dyed my hair purple.

I trained physically to ride my bicycle 545 miles in 7 days, from SF to LA.

I raised over $8500.00 for AIDS Lifecycle.

But it wasn’t enough to do things to ride out the crisis, or just to get all introspective ‘n shit…I decided to write it out.

I was inspired by a convention panel at Westercon 66 to try National Novel Writing Month: NaNoWriMo for short…NaNo for even shorter. The convention I attended was in July, weeks after my bicycle trip through California. After listening to the panel of writers discuss how productive they were in just one month, I decided I would do NaNoWriMo…some year when I had a story idea.

Not having an idea didn’t stop me from wanting the recommended text, so thanks to hotel WiFi and The Power of The Internets, before I left the panel I had already downloaded a copy of No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty. Baty was one of the founding “WriMos.” Just so that you don’t get lost, a WriMo is someone who participates in NaNo. All the words have to be very short because anyone participating will have to say them at least 5 times a day.

No Plot? No Problem! is an inspiring and funny read.  It includes the history behind how and why Baty and friends began the noveling craze in 1999, but more importantly it contains crucial guidance about why you will have to explain NaNo so often.

Yes, part of belonging to the group of 437,920 people around the world who participate is having a secret set of code words no one else understands. WriMo doing NaNo is a fun way to identify those IN and OUT of the community.

Code words are also great for making people ask, “Rye-What? Nan-Who?” And you get to tell them: “I’m writing a novel this month – Want to hear about it?”

You might be surprised by how many people say YES.

And how much fun it is to tell your whole world you’re doing something crazy.

That is a big part of Baty’s theory of writing a novel: it should be FUN. I really got behind content like, “No matter what your talent level, novel writing is a low-stress, high-rewards hobby.” And took it to heart when Baty said, “To really…understand the books you love…it helps to write one yourself.”

In July I thought, “some year when I have a story idea.”

The story idea showed up in September.

With Baty’s book in my Kindle app, I embraced the fact that I had only the very vaguest idea. I wanted to write about a character my age, dealing with some of what I had dealt with, but also tackling WAY more. I thought that would make me feel much better about the numerous big and small crises during my 40^th year. I thought writing might soothe my anxiety when I found myself asking, “What does it all mean?” 

Noveling was a clear way to let my “why” and “what now” questions really sink in instead of ignoring them. When a character and an idea presented themselves, I decided I could “fictionally” answer my questions by sitting down and participating in NaNoWriMo. I wrote a novel that included all of my chaos by giving it away: I gave the questions to a character…then suddenly, two different characters. I came up with an imagined scenario, a setting, and added themes that I was struggling with. 

Instead of getting into a fancy new car or cheating on my husband, I wrote an average of 1,681 words per day.

I learned all about “pantsing” – writing by the seat of your pants. At first, I did not believe it was possible to write when you have nothing to write about. SPOILER ALERT: You CAN write tens of thousands of great, fun, words with absolutely no idea where you’re going.

Writing can be as fun as a game of free-association. Just shout “PANTS!” to yourself, and write whatever comes next. What pants do you like? How about pants your character likes? Hates? What pants would she wear out on a Saturday night date? Any word, any phrase can become a starting place for MORE WORDS. And that is all NaNo is: WORDS.

Only 1,667 a day will get you to 50,000 total, if you want to ‘Win.’

And No One Ever Reads Them.

They PROMISE.

The idea was so freeing! The words were JUST FOR ME!

I started my novel with an idea and a list of 10 things that I thought might be in the book. That didn’t get me very far. The rest was pantsing. During NaNo it is not just acceptable to write words freely and freely and freely (and even repeat them, if you run out of ideas), it is ENCOURAGED! And ENCOURAGED is in caps because no WriMo is alone. There is a website. There is online support and regional, topical, neighborhood, local, genre…groups of all kinds. Groups of people writing like crazy, with 437,920 reasons to be doing it.

I met two or three times a week with a core of 3-4 other writers. We all sat around my house, staring at our laptops and listening to each other type.  We didn’t speak much. Sometimes we wore headphones. We typed into what was no longer fearful, anticipatory, I CAN NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH silence. That soft sound of keys popping up and down became one of the most comforting noises I know. It became a symbol of the fact that I do not struggle alone to find the words…we all do it alone, together.

In addition to the in-person fun and side effects of communal tea, cheese, and cookies, I became a NaNo twitter feed addict. That sounds bad, but seriously, for a creative writer, it is heaven. WriMos getting together on twitter to “Word Sprint” on outlandish prompts, taking advantage of the affinity with 437,920 people who participate. Never done a word sprint, here’s an example:

GO!

And then you can post how many words you got written in that 5, 10, 20, 30, 60 minutes. You can be encouraged by the range of words, typing skills, and creative successes flowing across the Twitters. Writing becomes a collective sport. And when you are assimilated into the collective it feels GREAT.

Support for WriMos is fantastic. Live web videos, hangouts, and chats. A staff member available to answer questions and respond to crises, either fictional or reality based. Regional leaders who help people get together for competitive “Write-Offs,” or just to facilitate supportive discussions on how everyone is doing. There is cheering. A LOT of cheering.

But the most fun element of NaNo for me was experiencing characters doing their own thing. There was a moment when I was writing as fast and furiously as I could and realized all I was doing was trying to catch up. My characters had left the building. They had an agenda they didn’t bother to share with me, and they walked off and did the most incredible things.

I had been told, but I did not believe until about one week into writing, my main character suddenly chewed out someone who had come to help her. WHOA! Instead of a guide into uncharted territory, that character now had nothing. And she did that to herself. I would never have been so mean – I sent the guide in the first place - but the character couldn’t accept it. The tension went up a notch, the stakes were raised, and all I could do as an author was say, “Well, if that’s how you want it to be…” and keep on following her.

Noveling became an effort in trailing my character like a private detective, seeing what she saw, listening to what she said, and interpreting how she felt without being seen myself. It was an unbelievable journey for me to suddenly be so immersed in my own imagination that it took control.

The way to arrive at the ultimate creative high that I am describing for you is to “…leave your Inner Editor here with me at the fully licensed, board-certified No Plot? No Problem! Inner Editor Kennel,” according to Baty. Seems easy enough, but as one of the fantastic Westercon 66 panelists had pointed out way back in July, it can take 20,000 or 30,000 words before that critic on your shoulder will Just. Fuck. Off.

Instead of cursing at a part of yourself, you can learn in a supportive environment how to kennel your editor during NaNoWriMo. And the skill you need for sending your critic on a long vacation will be critical in the throes of a midlife crisis. Because really it’s that critic who is behind all the angst of whatever “big decade” birthday you are facing.

So I mean it when I say participating in National Novel Writing Month will make you a better person. It can help you gracefully through a midlife crisis. You should practice sending that inner editor out for a long succession of three martini lunches. Because while you are plagued with a critic, it is impossible to live your life. That editor wants to know, “Where are we going next?” “How are we getting there?” and “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

But with encouragement like, “There’s a book in you that only you can write,” Baty - and every person who has ever been a part of NaNoWriMo - will help you with whatever comes. During and after your NaNo experience you will learn to tell yourself with confidence, in as many words as it takes, “I have no idea what will happen - and that’s okay, because in life, having no plot is no problem. I just show up and the words will come.”

My Writing Team

I just finished a piece last week about NaNoWriMo for SF/SF. I will link here when the 'Zine goes live, but I wanted to write a bit more about how this piece leads me to work with my Critic.

Please note that my Critic is not my Inner Editor; my Editor and I get along really well most of the time. She is a kindly young schoolteacher who uses a blue, green or purple pen (never a red one).  She waits patiently for me to turn in assignments more often than she hangs over me, reading as I write. She wears postwar 40's sundresses with a scattering of chiffon flowers, sensible shoes, and a straw hat when she goes walking. I enjoy working with her.

On the other hand, I am trying to work out some kind of mind time-share, or possibly a professional barter with my Critic. My Critic is a dark and evil shadow. She looks like I would look if I was an anorexic corporate lawyer. Her conservative suits are expensive and stunningly tailored over a perfect figure. Her fingernails and high heels are dangerous weapons in daring colors. Her sharp cheek and collar bones allow her to cut through any defense. She is always right. I revere her, because she fights my battles, as a good lawyer must, but I long for a relationship with her that is symbiotic instead of parasitic.

Parasitic, you ask? Yes. As averse to food as her anorexia has made her, she vampirically sucks up the positive feedback that comes my way. Here's what she ate this week:

"I loved your article. Very inspiring, entertaining and well-written."

"Yeehaw! That was a rollicking good time! wonderful revisions, Yvette...How could anyone fail to feel the thrill of joining in NoNoWriMo after that? So great. Let me know when there's a link to the online 'zine! I'll pass it around."

I'm happy to receive all this praise, and yet the warm, suffusing glow of pride and self-love lasts a fraction of a moment. My Critic sucks it away:

"What do they know? Why would you trust THEIR opinions? It wasn't that great. It needed more work. It was sloppy. I'm sure you missed something. I'm sure you spelled something wrong, changed tense mid paragraph, mixed your metaphors and left behind evidence they can use to convict us. They will find out we can't write. They will see we are merely pretending...and they will GET YOU. *I* can hardly do EVERYTHING around here! Work harder! Be better! Stop being blind and stupid and making messes!"

Seriously, she is the meanest bitch on the planet. And she is undoubtedly me.

How can I work with someone so toxic? In the past, I just let her drain away all the compliments. Sated for the moment, she would lick them from her lips and merely remind me to BE CAREFUL. 

I believe I am ready to stop feeding her, but I don't know how. I believe that if I kept some of those kind words for myself and my hardworking Inner Editor, we would be more prolific. Certainly we wouldn't have to scrounge in secret for a guilty slice of ciabatta, covered in leftover sharp goat chèvre and sweet fig jam. We could picnic together on praise, and toast our hard work with distilled encouragement to make ourselves feel better.

I've got to find a way to kick my Critic habit; pull her from the pedestal and bar her from the bar. Convince her I am not on trial all the time. 

I need to retire her permanently to a far away not-for-profit. Send her to fight a useful battle. Make her feel great about what she does, and write her lots of thank you cards and love notes. 

Maybe that would even work...she's damn smart. I need her. She snaps me out of any tendency toward complacency...but maybe I don't need her all the time.

Behind Pitchapalooza

"Why *wouldn't* you?" asked my writing teacher, when I mentioned that I had an opportunity to submit a book pitch to be picked at random and critiqued as a part of NaNoWriMo.

Why indeed.
Only 250 words to sum up the 50k I wrote, plus a bit about myself as an author (Hah!).

Based on 10 tips, I started off with an excerpt and a synopsis of 464 words. Ready, Cut, Go! Get 214 words - almost 50% - out of your drafts.

It took time. It took effort. It felt impossible.
I got it done...with 45 minutes to spare!

So, in case you have any interest in a preview of my pitch, plus what I started from and where I got to, here it is.

Inner Editor Geekery Engage:

The Final Pitch:

Excerpt from The Joiner:

Janette wanted to join, not watch. Thousands of revelers moved as fast as their feet could carry them. Human chains moved through a darkened hall, hand-in-hand becoming one enormous spiral. Frustrated, fixed in place, Janette considered ignoring the witches’ caution: only Graces and Dragons may add to the dance.

Then, among hundreds of strange faces was one she knew: her Father’s. He blurred past, a pretty witch on either side…though he had been cremated six months before. Ten feet away it was unmistakably him curving out of sight. Janette’s heart raced. She knew why it had become so crowded.

The beloved dead were here.

About The Joiner:

After a year full of death, Janette was tired of grieving.

She needed closure. Or Fun. 

Or Both. 

So she tagged along with a pagan friend on Halloween. At a ritual for saying goodbye to the dead, Janette expected beautiful costumes, dancing, and a hot date. It was supposed to be an alternative to being alone, handing out (scarfing down) Halloween candy.

But Janette’s “beloved dead” were not ready to say farewell.

Now on the wrong side of the veils between the worlds, Janette must navigate the Isle of the Dead. If she can make peace with every dead person from her life - and FAST - she might get back to the world of the living in time for her date.

About The Author:

 Yvette decided to test the hypothesis that a B.A. in Literature must be good for something, right?

The Drafts:

Excerpt from The Joiner:

There were so many people, thought Janette. Each moment there seemed to be more and more and she could barely move. How had we all fit into this space sitting, lying down, sprawled out, she thought. The long lines of people holding hands moved first clockwise, and Janette watched lines begin to move, begin to coil in on itself. A second line moved in the opposite direction, so that the two lines faced each other. Janette could see the opposing lines full of people walking, skipping and chanting face to face, seeing each other in a moment of recognition, love or the simple acknowledgement in the beauty of a stranger’s face.

Soon Janette picked up the chant and started to sing. Singing felt great, but after all the sitting she wanted to MOVE too. She was standing in an awkward location however, near the fairy altar, and partly blocked by a beribboned tree.  A Grace and a Dragon stood near her, protecting the tree from any out of control dancing, but she couldn’t seem to get into the line, no one grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dancing. She watched as each line connected and began to move, until almost all the people were moving – she was the only one standing still. The head witches had cautioned that only graces and dragons could connect people to the circle, but she felt strange  - was she really the only non-moving person?

It was in that moment that she saw her father’s face moving past, one row away, and she knew why there were such multitudes within the hall. The beloved dead were HERE. This hall – this theater – THIS is where the dead had gone. THIS place she stood in is what was on the other side of that cave.

About The Joiner:

After a year full of the deaths of friends and family, Janette was tired, emotionally hollowed out, and in need of closure. 
Or Fun. 
Or Both. 
So when her pagan friend Allie invited her to a Wiccan "ritual" with costumes, dancing, and an introduction to a hot guy she wanted to meet, it seemed like a good alternative to a night alone handing out (scarfing down) Halloween candy. 
As it turned out, Janette's dead were not as ready as she was to say farewell.
Now on the wrong side of the veil between the worlds, Janette has to navigate across the Isle du Mort, making peace with "beloved dead" who want to weigh her down with rummicube rules, very odd favors, and midlife crisis advice. If she can make peace with every dead person she has ever known - and FAST - she might make it back to the world of the living in time for her date.

Book Review

So there's this 'write everyday' thing that all Real Writers claim is the key to writerdom. I find that I truly enjoy writing book reviews, so here's a link to the one I wrote in the middle of last night, after finishing the next-to-last Jane Austen Mystery Series Novel.

As always, feedback is very welcome - especially whether or not the Review was enjoyable to read in-and-of-itself and whether it would be helpful to you, if you were going to consider reading this book.

(Those are the goals of a book review, right?)

Jane and the Madness of Lord Byron by Stephanie Barron
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This installation of a series beloved to me seems to have less "Jane" and more madness. While I am glad that Jane and Henry get to enjoy each other's company, the other characters, and even the settings of this book, feel less solid than I have come to expect. Perhaps as there is more fiction - fewer of Austen's actual letters to hang the fiction on - I found the descriptions of Brighton, pavilion, rooms, less clear and immersive than previous works. Still, the action led to an interesting plot; As with all mysteries, the blinds and dead ends were enjoyable. Unfortunately, Jane's single minded coherence is lost in the efforts of too many characters, going to too many places, causing a tumbled, unstructured narrative that feels different than Jane writing to herself in her little journal. Despite the more 'active' nature and pace, I was still able to linger over some description. I enjoyed the Master of Ceremonies character who socio-autistically recalls every person, every dance, and every aspect of 'toilet' for every Assembly. Useful in a murder investigation, to be sure. The flirt with Lord Harold's broader tale - then continuation of The Elephant In The Room - was disappointing, and made Mona feel less a 'friend' than a haute ton convenience of plot. Still, I enjoy every one of these novels like canvassing what is new with old friends: this one is just more like tepid coffee with an old friend who is having an off day.


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