And the Winner is...

One of the most delightful oddities of life is that magic happens when you least expect it.

It all started when I decided to throw joy out into the universe with no expectation of anything in return. I had read three decidedly crappy novels, felt my feathers ruffled with the precious time spent between those pages, and decided to make the entire farce into a game. I held a contest, mailed those books out to the (un)lucky winners, and started searching for three new replacement authors to grace my shelves, to introduce to my blog readers, to take into my classroom.

What I found was Cindy Pon. And new blog friends. And the synergy crafted from the writerly electrons tossed into the blogosphere by all you who entered. What a magical weekend -- and I'm still visiting your blogs and still getting to know all of you -- and I'm thoroughly enjoying the experience.

Thank you for celebrating Cindy Pon (her up-coming book, the Silver Phoenix, and all of her adventures in Chinese paint brush, feasting, and travels) with me and for giving her such a warm welcome.

And finally, the part you've all been waiting for, the part where the winner of Pon's ARC is announced. Well, actually, Cindy already announced it. I'm just re-announcing here because it's so much fun! Choosing at random, Cindy drew the name out of the proverbial hat this morning. Without further ado, I present you Llehn.

Llehn: please contact me so that I can send you your book!

Oh, and about that magic? Try your hand at tossing joy into the universe. It has a way of splashing the hand that tosses it.

Why I'm Blue on Christmas Eve

The love of my life, the darling of my heart, the sunshine in my day, the sparkle in my eye -- who was supposed to visit for Christmas -- had to move far far away. Instead of playing with my nephew and showering him with Christmas gifts and chocolate and love, I have to settle for pics. I am blue and sad and pouting and barely holding back the indignant tears.

This one just came in this morning. Isn't that a face you'd gladly hock your house for?

O Happy Day: Amazon Delivered Another Alex

We're an academic and writerly family, both of us English majors and both of us enamored with the written word. What does this mean in the real world? Well, ahem, some days that means that the both of us live in an alternate universe: things like picking up the mail or turning off the back burner on the stove are less important than, say, finishing J. A. Hunter's book or adding the finishing touches to a chapter.

That being said, I cannot say how long Anthony Horowitz's books languished in my post office box. As of last night, however, I have the first three books of the Alex Rider series sitting in my hot little hands. I am so excited that I'm considering canceling classes and making all students read just so I can get started.

Errr, that was a joke. If any parents are reading this, that was a joke. Seriously.

I am obviously out of the loop (by quite a bit, I imagine), since I hadn't realized they'd made Stormbreaker into a movie two years ago! (Like Anthony, no TV for us and few movies.) Another Alex, Alex Pettyfer, starred in it, though I've no idea if it was a decent watch or not.

Anyway, Stormbreaker, here I come!!

Divine-Feline Photo Essay: Never Before Seen Photographs Reveal the Cat Behind the Name

Just as J. W. Waterhouse used the same model as the inspiration for many of his paintings, so the resident divine-feline inspired Maryn, the guardian of Ceilyn. Maryn is a central figure in Ceilyn's Calling, appears briefly in Ceilyn's Curse, and then reappears for an intriguing role in Ceilyn's Crown. I often wonder if Garth Nix has a white cat that he fashioned Mogget after.

After Anthony & Kiersten commented on the delights of Maryn, I couldn't help but post the following photo essay in honor of the little darling. These photos are intended to provide an intimate look at the various faces of His Majesty in all of his reigning glory. Oh, all right: They're actually just aimed at pleasing the divine-feline since he loves staring at his own precious mug and since he insists upon lounging on my lap whenever I type.

The Secret Garden is one of his favorite places to hang out. Surrounded by barberry, the tiny space has a section of lush grass and a brick patio, replete with tiny table and chairs, perfect for royal relaxation. Sunlight filters through the leaves of the lone cherry tree planted in the center of the postage-sized expanse of grass -- and which also doubles as the perfect scratching post.

Intensely self-indulgent, he shows great interest in words penned about him. He is particularly insistent upon sharing lap time with the laptop, indignant that anything should receive more attention than paid to him.

Here lies the Royal Rug, where his majesty spends an inordinate amount of time. Whenever the words "outside" are muttered, he races to his rug, sprawls upon it, and pretends that he is in the middle of a thorough washing. Here he is studiously ignoring the tiny pink and white mouse lying beside him in case excessive movement earns him banishment to the outdoors.

Yes, he is darling. Yes, he is the tyrant of my heart. Yes, I pet him excessively.

Although there is a "cat couch" (the futon you see in the background of the laptop picture), His Majesty insists upon relaxing upon the other resident male's armchair. Nope. He ain't spoiled at all. He's simply made for indulging.

Sunday Musings

Sunday morning. Grey sky, wet streets, stillness freezing the view outside my window. Only the slight tremble of a nearby branch reminds me it's real, not some painting I've hung on the wall. Of course, my inclination was to be more descriptive: overcast skies with the peculiar white brightness painting a uniform sheen, reflected in the sleek dampness of the pavement...but grey and wet seemed more direct, somehow.

My memory of Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning" holds little of the actual poem. Nursing a mug of cross-bred coffee (one half Kirkland brand with Starbucks -- extra bold African blend), smug and chocolaty and rounded, temperature perfect, mug ancient and cracked and full of memories, all hopeful and sunlit, I remember only what I want of the poem: a lazy Sunday morning in pajamas with streams of sunshine and a green cockatoo. A Sunday paper graces the floor and all is well with the world...

A steady drizzle mars the silver perfection of street puddles and the prickles add movement to an otherwise motionless scene. The very mundane nature of it enfolds me, gives joy, comfort, a sense of rightness in the world. I feel a connection to Stevens' poem.

I slip back to the computer, do a google search for "Sunday Morning." I'm better served by my memories, my flashes of dark hardwood floors, careless silks, slices of orange, feathers of green. Unbidden, a smile steals across my face and I click close the site. I return to my chair by the window, listening to "It feels just like it should" instead of Mozart, the rain increasing in tempo and intensity, a few birds finding their flitting way into the fine whip-like branches of the snowball tree that serves as wall and guard and art form and nurturer.

My husband sits nearby, his silence a blanket I hold close, his attention within the depths of some article. All is right in my world, this world unconnected to any other, common and unaffected and everyday, but certainly the best I've ever known.

Falling in Love Again

Thanks to David Bridger, I can fall asleep tonight in the ethereal arms of this blessed angel.


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Of course, I'm jumping up to NaNoWriMo at the break of dawn.

Filling the Bucket

I know we're supposed to have 'a cup that runneth over,' but I've always been a nonconformist. Well, that and overly inclined to bite off more than I can chew. I have a bucket. Because I live where I do, my bucket is usually full to overflowing simply because all I have to do is look outside. Zing! Instantly joyful to the brim.


This weekend, however, I decided to immerse myself completely. Thanks to D. M. McReynolds (you are awesome!), I left for parts unknown, happy that my blog was in good hands. I left all writing implements behind, suited up in hiking boots and long underwear, slipped into waterproof outerwear, and spent two days hiking my little heart out. In the rain. The fog. Brilliant bursts of sunshine. The vastness and the closeness vied for dominance in my brain: Grand vistas stretched for miles, and once on top or on a point or on a bare ridge, all you had to do was turn and look and be amazed. At other times, deep in clumps of tag alder and the crimson leaves of huckleberry plants, you couldn't see beyond the leaf or branch in front of you. The majority of my time was spent in the dense foliage, pushing through wiry branches and tripping over the hidden ones snaking about at ground level. Even this was glorious, with the sweet scent of spruce and elderberry and moss producing a heady mixture of happiness.


Oddly, it was in the midst of a particularly difficult section of trail that I stumbled upon a sequence for unraveling a gnarled bit of plot in Conscripted. The harder I pushed myself on the trail, the clearer this portion of my book appeared. Sometimes, getting away from it all produces the best results. Sometimes, physical exhaustion produces hallucinations. I contend, however, that it is the beauty of nature, the scent of pristine wilderness, the mountains that stretch forever...they unlock a piece of humanity that we've tucked away deep inside, the part we've told ourselves that we've 'evolved' past, the sliver that unites us with the universe at large and its Creator, the best part of who we are.


So, here I am, back in the midst of humanity, getting ready for another Monday on the job... and filled to the brim with equal parts joy and soreness, giddiness and exhaustion. My bucket is full to overflowing, and I can't wait to get home again to start working on my novel. Some days it feels like we're fighting through the tag alder, unable to see anything beyond the branch that just slapped back into our faces -- but it's all worth the struggle once we make it to the top: the chance to look back where we've come from and to look ahead to where we're headed makes every hike worth the welts.

Monday Mullings

I love autumn:

the crisp crunch of air that swirls up skirts and the skitter of leaves creeping across the drive;
and the scent of smoke and pine, fresh honesty and cinnamon, sprinkled with nutmeg;
the golden glow that imbues the natural world with a wild sort of wisdom and the bulging yellowed moon recalling favorite mistakes.

Most of all, I love living here in the wilderness, the place I call home, the home where I feel complete and whole and unashamed, a child of the flowers, the trees, the sky, and the silky streams tinkling their icy sweetness.

Most Influential Poet: John Keats

I discovered Keats as a sophomore; he still speaks to my heart almost twenty years later. It's been a beautiful day of firsts for me, so I wanted to spread the joy around. I can think of no better way to accomplish that than to leave you with the words of a magnificent poet. Here are my favorite three stanzas (out of eight) from "Ode to a Nightingale."

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

...

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

...

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

Do you have a poet (or poem) that influenced you or gave you strength or made you laugh?