Blog Without A Name

Books read in 2017

35. White Hot, Ilona Andrews (e)
34.  The Orientalist: Solving the Mystery of a Strange and Dangerous Life, Tom Reiss (e)
33. Mouse and Dragon, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller (e)
32. Caszandra, Andrea K. Host (e)
31. Lab Rat One, Andrea K. Host (e)
30. Stray, Andrea K. Host (e)
29. The Cat Who Turned On and Off, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
28. Apprentice in Death, J.D. Robb (e/l)
27. The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
26. The Face in the Frost, John Bellairs (e)
25. Hanged for a Sheep, Frances and Richard Lockridge (e)
24. Xamnesia, Lizzie Harwood (e)
23. Convergence, C. J. Cherryh, (read aloud with Steve)
22. Rock Addiction, Nalini Singh (e)
21. The Stranger in the Woods, Michael Finkel
20. Etched in Bone, Anne Bishop (e)
19. Rider at the Gate, CJ Cherryh (re-read)
18. Small Gods, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
17. Silence Fallen, Patricia Briggs (e)
16. The Cold Eye, Laura Anne Gilman
15. The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
14. Memory, Linda Nagata (e)
13.  Bonita Faye, Margaret Moseley (e)
12.  Burn for Me, Ilona Andrews (e)
11. Snuff, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
10. A Taste of Honey, Kai Ashante Wilson (e)
9.  Some Danger Involved, Will Thomas
8.  Thud!, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
7.  White Tiger, Kylie Chan
6.  The Hanging Tree, Ben Aaronovitch
5.  Trading in Danger, Elizabeth Moon (e)
4.  The Wolf in the Attic, Paul Kearney (e)
3.  The Cat Who Saw Red, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
2.  Inside the Texas Chicken Ranch: The Definitive Account of the Best Little Whorehouse, Jayme Lynn Blaschke (e)
1. Sand of Bone, Blair MacGregor (e)

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Up before the school bus

Asyouknowbob, we live in the country, surrounded by woods and fields and occasionally the Mice of the Field will send a Covert Operative into the basement to see if we’ve let our Security Contract lapse.  In fact, we haven’t, and while the fate of the Covert Operative isn’t necessarily foregone, it does appear that the Mice of the Field are usually in receipt of the message that, whatever is in that basement, It Got Charlie, too!

Last night there was apparently An Infiltration about the time we were winding down to go to bed.  Sprite heard the perimeter alarm go off, and rushed down to the basement, followed by Belle, with Trooper bringing up the rear.  When I looked down before lights-out, Trooper was sitting in back-up position at the foot of the stairs; his job to make sure that the Covert Operative did not make it upstairs.  Neither Belle nor Sprite was in evidence, and the basement was Vewy, Vewy Quiet.

I went to bed.

Now, usually in the course of these Operations, a cat will make a point of stopping by the bed at some point in the evening, just to check in and make sure we’re dreaming right.  Last night there was no check-in.  Not one.  Which, when you’re used to being walked on by cats when you sleep can be a little disorienting.

I woke up around five, took my Necessary Medications, noted the lack of cats on the upper levels, put on my robe, and opened the basement door.

Trooper immediately charged up the steps, and gave me multiple hugs around the legs, possibly encouraging me to stay abovestairs, but I was adamant, and down I went.

I was met by Sprite, who, prancing, led me to the sad remains of the Covert Operative.  Belle was nowhere in sight.

I went upstairs to procure a coffin, so that we might show proper honor to a worthy opponent.  Belle appeared as I came back downstairs; she and Sprite and Trooper stood by solemnly while the late Operative was transferred to his empty butter cup.  Trooper and Sprite came upstairs with me, as an honor guard, while Belle stayed behind to continue her survey of the perimeter.

The Covert Operative was consigned to the gentle grasses, and I went back inside, now thoroughly awake, to find Steve up and about, also, having heard the kitchen door close.

So, we praised the cats, who came upstairs in shifts, drank coffee; and were just finishing breakfast when the school bus went by.

I see a nap in my very near future, but, for now, since I’m up and caffeinated and all, I should probably do some work.

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Books read in 2017

34.  The Orientalist: Solving the Mystery of a Strange and Dangerous Life, Tom Reiss (e)
33. Mouse and Dragon, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller (e)
32. Caszandra, Andrea K. Host (e)
31. Lab Rat One, Andrea K. Host (e)
30. Stray, Andrea K. Host (e)
29. The Cat Who Turned On and Off, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
28. Apprentice in Death, J.D. Robb (e/l)
27. The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
26. The Face in the Frost, John Bellairs (e)
25. Hanged for a Sheep, Frances and Richard Lockridge (e)
24. Xamnesia, Lizzie Harwood (e)
23. Convergence, C. J. Cherryh, (read aloud with Steve)
22. Rock Addiction, Nalini Singh (e)
21. The Stranger in the Woods, Michael Finkel
20. Etched in Bone, Anne Bishop (e)
19. Rider at the Gate, CJ Cherryh (re-read)
18. Small Gods, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
17. Silence Fallen, Patricia Briggs (e)
16. The Cold Eye, Laura Anne Gilman
15. The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
14. Memory, Linda Nagata (e)
13.  Bonita Faye, Margaret Moseley (e)
12.  Burn for Me, Ilona Andrews (e)
11. Snuff, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
10. A Taste of Honey, Kai Ashante Wilson (e)
9.  Some Danger Involved, Will Thomas
8.  Thud!, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
7.  White Tiger, Kylie Chan
6.  The Hanging Tree, Ben Aaronovitch
5.  Trading in Danger, Elizabeth Moon (e)
4.  The Wolf in the Attic, Paul Kearney (e)
3.  The Cat Who Saw Red, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
2.  Inside the Texas Chicken Ranch: The Definitive Account of the Best Little Whorehouse, Jayme Lynn Blaschke (e)
1. Sand of Bone, Blair MacGregor (e)

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In which the author has a question for — YOU!

This post is reflected, though slightly amended, from Facebook.

I have a question, O, Internets:

A little background, first. Many years ago, after we had sold our first three books, and been cut loose by our publisher — but hadn’t yet given up hope of finding a new publisher, and selling more books, it was said in some quarters that Miller and Lee were “writer’s writers” and as such would probably not be able to make a living, as writers. There’s some precedence for this, as writers read differently than even experienced readers, and tend to be delighted by V. Strange Things™, and in general Just Aren’t The Target Market.

There are a couple of cures for being a “writer’s writer.” One, of course, is to Take the Memo and quit writing. The other is to learn how to write to the market. We didn’t do either of those things, either because (1) we’re idiots (a theory that has some strong evidence supporting it), or (2) we knew that sometimes it takes longer than 2 years and/or 3 books to find a readership, and that, afforded enough time, we would find that readership.

So, here’s my question — actually TWO questions:

1. When did you — yes, YOU — start reading the Liaden Universe®, and!

2. Are you a writer?

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In which the author is out of words

So, I haven’t done a catch-up post in a few days. That would be because — there’s nothing really to catch up on.

We took a drive down to Old Orchard Beach last weekend and had a nice, relaxing time walking the beach and the town, sitting in the sun on the mall, eating ice cream and people-watching.  Hard to get enough people-watching.  Or, yanno, ice cream.

Steve and I have been alternating reading stories aloud for bi-weekly posting on Patreon, where they’re available to patrons only for a month, before being moved to Splinter Universe, for the perusal of all.  Tomorrow, around noon, Eastern, “The Beggar King” will reveal itself, read by me, with a little help from Scrabble.  Previous readings have been, Steve reading “A Night at the Opera;” me reading “The Gift of Music;” and Steve reading “Charioteer.”  It’s about time for “Opera” to disappear from Patreon and re-appear on Splinter Universe.

For those coming in late, the Lee and Miller Patreon page is here.  Back in April, we introduced a new goal of $2,500/month.  As of this writing, we are a scant $96 from realizing that goal.

We’ve also been participating in #1stChapterFriday on Twitter, along with many of our colleagues.  Follow the hashtag for some provocative reading.  Or, here’s a link that may or may not work (the ways of Twitter remain a Mystery, I fear).

As some of you may know, the twentieth novel set in the Liaden Universe®, and the fifth detailing the on-going adventures of Theo Waitley, aka The Gathering Edge, was published earlier this month.  This is where I ask those who have read it to please take the time to leave a review on Amazon, BN, Goodreads, or other sites.  As last year, with Alliance of Equals, we’re hoping to hit the Magic Number of 100 Reader Reviews on Amazon.  Alliance wound up with 263 reviews, and TGE is well on her way, with 87 reviews already posted.

I find, in fact, that I am remiss in announcing here that The Gathering Edge hit Number Four on the Bookscan Bestseller list for the week of May 11.

And that?  Is all I’ve got, except a sincere Thank you! for everything you do, from reading our books, to recommending them to friends, to donating to our various causes, to writing encouraging letters.  We’d couldn’t have gotten so far on this long, strange, sometimes scary, artistic journey we set ourselves on, without you.  Every one of you.

So, give yourselves a pat on the back, and bask for a moment in the gratitude of authors (I naturally can’t promise you the gratitude of cats, though I’m sure they’d appreciate y’all too, if it happened to occur to them) — and enjoy the weekend.

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Books read in 2017

33. Mouse and Dragon, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller (e)
32. Caszandra, Andrea K. Host (e)
31. Lab Rat One, Andrea K. Host (e)
30. Stray, Andrea K. Host (e)
29. The Cat Who Turned On and Off, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
28. Apprentice in Death, J.D. Robb (e/l)
27. The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
26. The Face in the Frost, John Bellairs (e)
25. Hanged for a Sheep, Frances and Richard Lockridge (e)
24. Xamnesia, Lizzie Harwood (e)
23. Convergence, C. J. Cherryh, (read aloud with Steve)
22. Rock Addiction, Nalini Singh (e)
21. The Stranger in the Woods, Michael Finkel
20. Etched in Bone, Anne Bishop (e)
19. Rider at the Gate, CJ Cherryh (re-read)
18. Small Gods, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
17. Silence Fallen, Patricia Briggs (e)
16. The Cold Eye, Laura Anne Gilman
15. The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
14. Memory, Linda Nagata (e)
13.  Bonita Faye, Margaret Moseley (e)
12.  Burn for Me, Ilona Andrews (e)
11. Snuff, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
10. A Taste of Honey, Kai Ashante Wilson (e)
9.  Some Danger Involved, Will Thomas
8.  Thud!, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
7.  White Tiger, Kylie Chan
6.  The Hanging Tree, Ben Aaronovitch
5.  Trading in Danger, Elizabeth Moon (e)
4.  The Wolf in the Attic, Paul Kearney (e)
3.  The Cat Who Saw Red, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
2.  Inside the Texas Chicken Ranch: The Definitive Account of the Best Little Whorehouse, Jayme Lynn Blaschke (e)
1. Sand of Bone, Blair MacGregor (e)

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First Chapter Friday: Carousel Tides

This is the book about the haunted carousel.  Except the carousel isn’t exactly haunted, and, though I adore carousels, especially old wooden carousels, what I really wanted to write about was a rock.

A rock and the town of Old Orchard Beach, Maine.  That’s where the rock is — Googin Rock (or Googins Rock, according to some), a genuine, actual, historic rock* — Old Orchard Beach.

I adore both town and rock, though I’ll allow both to be an acquired taste, and I said for, oh, five years, maybe, that one day, I’d write about about both.

In 2007, someday arrived.  I wrote the book; sent it to our agent, who sent it ’round, and it was roundly rejected until, in 2009, it found a home with Baen, and was published right around Halloween, 2010.

If you like this taste of the Maine coast, you can continue the story in ebook format, from Baen ebooks and the Usual Suspects.  Carousel Tides is also available in trade paper — from the Usual Suspects — and as an audiobook, from Audible.

Full disclosure:  Carousel Tides is the first book in a trilogy.  Carousel Sun follows and the story concludes in Carousel Seas.

Enjoy!

___________
*5. Oct. 1675 – “Battle of Googins Rocks” Capt. Wincoll of Kittery and 11 militia men marching on the seashore to aid settlers at Pine Point are attacked by 150 Saco Indians. By hiding behind the rocks successfully drive the Indians off without the loss of a single man, even though the tide is rising.  (More info here)

Excerpt from Carousel Tides, © Sharon Lee 2010

ONE

Tuesday, April 18
High Tide 2:29 a.m.
Sunrise 5:54 a.m. EDT

I almost missed the left onto Route 5, which would’ve been embarrassing as hell. Luckily, I recognized the intersection before I was through it, snapping dry-mouthed out of a quarter-doze. Luckily, the Subaru answered quick to the wheel.

Luckily, there wasn’t anybody else fool enough to be driving this particular stretch of Maine highway at this particular ungodly hour of the morning-or-night. If there had, I’d’ve been toast.

Route 5 twisted, snakelike, between parallel rows of dark storefronts and shuttered motels. I pushed myself up straighter in the seat, biting my lip when the pain knifed through my chest, and tried to stay focused on the matter at hand. Not long now. Not long.

Going home, after all this time.

No matter how many words they use to say it, people only ever leave home for two reasons. Money, that’s one. Love—that’s the other.

The reasons people come home again . . . it could be there are more than two. Me, I was worried about my grandmother. Worried enough to risk a homecoming. Trust me—that’s some kind of worried.

Mind you, the crisis or calumny that Bonny Pepperidge—that would be Gran—couldn’t settle with her off hand while cooking breakfast wasn’t something that was likely to roll over and play dead for the likes of me. Still, there was the bothersome fact that the phone had rung empty the last six times I’d called—and it was just like Gran not to bother with an answering machine or to pick herself up a cell—and the downright terrifying reality of the foreclosure notice from Fun Country management.

Perfectly reasonable for Fun Country to contact me; my name’s right there on the lease as co-owner. But I’m only an Archer—a half-Pepperidge, and not the best half, either. It’s the Pepperidges who’ve owned and operated the merry-go-round at Archers Beach since right around the dawn of civilization, Maine time; and Gran who’s had the care and keeping of the thing since well before I’d been born. The size and shape of the disaster she’d allow to threaten the carousel was—almost unimaginable.

Unfortunately, I’ve got a vivid imagination; and Gran’s my last family, so far as I know. Given the combination of circumstances, I could no more have stayed away than flown to the moon.

Not to say that Gran didn’t have a lot of friends in town—as old or older than she was, some of whom didn’t look kindly on me. And of course, there was the family lawyer. But Henry’d been out of town when I called, according to the message on his answering machine, due back some days after Fun Country wanted their money.

Which is why I was here, driving uncertainly down Maine Route 5 at oh-my-God-o’clock in the morning, toward the home I’d forsaken, and trying not to think of what was likely to be waiting for me there.

The headlights picked out a deserted parking lot on the right. I pulled in next to the boarded up ice cream stand, “For Sale” sign hanging at a crazy angle from the storm shutters, slid the car into park, and fingered my cell phone free of its pocket on the outside of my backpack.

I hit speed dial and held the unit to my ear, listening to my grandmother’s phone ringing, ringing, ringing on the other end.

Sighing, I thumbed “end” and sat holding the phone in my hand, staring out into the dark. No doubt about it, I was going to have to go in—back to Archers Beach, which I hadn’t left on the best of terms. That would teach me to burn my bridges.

Or not.

I slid the phone back into its pocket, ratcheted the stick down to drive and pulled back onto 5. Soonest begun, soonest done, as the saying goes. And the devil take the hindermost.

Mist began to creep across the road as I went on. I kept my foot on the gas, and I won’t say I wasn’t holding my breath when the Subaru crossed the town line, which was a waste of perfectly good anxiety—nothing out of the ordinary happened, unless you count an increase of mist.

Breathing carefully, I turned off Route 5 and headed down into town.

The street lamps were out on Archer Avenue, and the Subaru’s headlights illuminated swirls of sea mist pirouetting before boarded-up storefronts. At the bottom of the long hill was the Atlantic Ocean, hidden by a full-fledged fog.

I rolled the window down, shivering in the sudden cold breeze, and took a deep breath of salt air. My eyes watered—which was the salt, or maybe the breeze—and slammed on the brakes as a dark form loped across the street directly in front—but no. It was only the mist, playing games.

I took my foot off the brake and let the car drift.

At the bottom of the hill, where Archer Avenue crosses Grand, I tapped the brakes again. It was five-ten by the clock on the Subaru’s dash; twenty minutes shy of Gran’s usual rising time, though I told myself I no longer expected to find her at home. That last phone call, made just outside the town line, had been pretty definitive. Even Gran isn’t stubborn enough to ignore her phone ringing at four-thirty in the morning.

I should, I thought, go straight on to the house, but habit decided me otherwise. Habit and the fact that I could hear Gran’s voice just as plain as if she sat in the passenger’s seat beside me—“Did you pay your respects to the sea?”

The fog played its game of hide and seek as I felt my way ’round Fountain Circle and pulled the Subaru head first into the center of the five municipal parking spots that face the ocean across a wide stretch of fine, pale sand. In Season there would be signs posted, warning drivers of a ten minute limit on parking, and a strictly enforced tow away policy.

In April, the signs were still in the Public Works garage, and you could park facing the ocean for weeks, and nobody’d notice. Or care, if they did.

I put the Subaru into park, turned off the engine, and sat, taking stock.

My head throbbed and my chest ached—nothing unusual, these days. Not to mention that I was standing on the chancy edge of being ’way too tired, which driving three days non-stop’ll do for you, even if you’re in the pink of health.

Damp breeze danced in the window, chilling my ungloved hands. Faintly, very faintly, I could hear the sound of the surf, slapping and sizzling against the sand.

Walk light on the land,” I whispered to myself, which was something I hadn’t done since I was a kid, new-come to the Beach and afraid of it all. “Walk light on the land and everything’ll be fine.”

Or not. And it wasn’t like I had a choice, anyway. Peril Number One, and counting.

I rolled up the window, popped the door, grabbed my cell, on the vanishingly small chance that I’d get a call; and went down to the water.

The tide was going out. I slogged through shifty dry sand to the firm wet stuff, the fog running cold fingers across my face; a blind thing trying to puzzle out my features. Turning up my collar, I pushed my hands deeper into my pockets, wishing I’d remembered how cold an early morning in April could be, here on the Maine seacoast.

Shivering and out of breath, I stopped at the water’s edge, the toes of my sneakers on the tide line. I shook my hair back out of my eyes, squared my shoulders, and waited for what the sea might bring me.

Wavelets struck the shore and fizzed. The breeze swung ’round, freshened, trying to push the fog back out to sea.

A wave smacked against the sand, sudden as a shotgun blast, and water splashed over my sneakers.

Swearing, I jumped back, and looked down.

Wet sand was all I saw; that, and a little rag of foam.

I bit my lip. What had I expected? It was my good fortune that I’d gotten nothing worse than wet shoes.

I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket and took a look at its face: five-thirty-five. The sea had taken its own sweet time getting back to me. Turning my back on the water, I squinted uphill, barely making out a blue smear that was the Subaru, waiting patiently where I’d put her. To my right, the Archers Beach Municipal Pier hove out of the fog like a ship out of stormy seas; to my left Fun Country sat like a broken dream, sea mist toying with the shrouded rides. The carousel was invisible, gray steel storm gates absorbed by the gray fog.

I lifted my soggy right foot and shook it; did the same for my left—and stood for a moment, weighing the cramped agony in my chest against the long slog back up to the parking lot. Up above the fog, a gull screamed an insult, and somehow that decided it. I turned right and started walking, keeping to the damp sand, but well out of the splash zone. Under the Pier I went, making for the townie side of town, and one particular old house facing the water across the dunes.

“ ’Mornin’.” The voice was deep, soft as the fog itself.

Gasping, I spun, wet sneakers skidding on wet sand. The owner of the voice stepped out of the fog and raised his hands—one empty, one holding a Styrofoam coffee cup—and stopped where he was, letting me get a good look at him.

Tall—’way taller than I am—broad and powerful-looking. His face was high-cheeked and brown; his black hair cropped, except for a thin braid that snaked across his shoulder, falling almost to his waist. His jeans were as soft as salt and weather could make them, and he wore a brown leather jacket open over a green work sweater. He looked to be maybe thirty, thirty-five. I didn’t recognize him—but, then, there wasn’t any reason why I should.

“ ’Morning,” I answered, on the general principle that it’s prudent to be polite to guys who’re bigger than I am. “Pleasant day for a walk.”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and lowered his hands. “Well, it’s not. But I was up anyway, hoping it would clear in time to go out.” He had a sip from his cup, and jerked his head at the fog-shrouded ocean. “No going out in this, and by the time she burns off, the tide’ll have turned.” He gave me nod. “I fish Mary Vois’ boat for her, since the sea took Hum, couple years back.” A pause for another sip from his cup. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around before. Visiting?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that my business was none of his—and then I thought better of it, recalling small town manners that were rusty with disuse. He’d given me info, and now he was asking for info in return. Fair enough.

Visiting,” I agreed, trying to reckon how much I needed to put on the table to balance my social debt. I was ’way too tired for that kind of subtle calculation, though, and in a couple seconds I gave it up and just told him what passed for the truth. “I grew up in town, and my grandmother’s still here.”

Don’t say.” He sounded genuinely interested, which of course he would be. Parsing lineage is an ancient Maine pastime. “Who’s your gran, then?”

Should’ve seen that coming. I sighed lightly, but forked over. It wasn’t like it was a state secret, and if I spent more than two hours in town, he’d hear it from somebody else anyway. “Bonny Pepperidge. She runs the carousel.”

Sure she does!” He grinned. “You must be Kate.”

Yep, I’m Kate. And you are?”

Borgan.” He gave the name readily enough, and between it and the information that he fished Mary Vois’ boat, I had enough to pin him down for any townie I met. Just in case I should need to, which I really hoped I wouldn’t.

I could use a cup of coffee,” I said, which was nothing less than the truth. The fog had chilled me straight through while we’d played Twenty Questions, and I was shivering inside my denim jacket. “Anything open this early?”

Borgan held out the Styrofoam cup. “Bob’s.”

There wasn’t any reason why I should’ve been startled, but I was. Exhaustion, maybe. “Bob’s is still there?”

Was ten minutes ago.”

Well, I’m going in the right direction, then.” I cleared my throat and gave him a civil nod. “Morning.”

See you around,” he answered easily, and raised his cup to his lips.

Social obligation discharged, I put my face into the wind and began to walk. Happily, Gran’s house on Dube Street was only three blocks up from the Pier, and Bob’s Diner was conveniently located at the bottom of the street. I’d check the house first, I thought, and glanced over my shoulder.

All I saw behind me was the shadow of the Pier, black inside the fog.

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Books read in 2017

32. Caszandra, Andrea K. Host (e)
31. Lab Rat One, Andrea K. Host (e)
30. Stray, Andrea K. Host (e)
29. The Cat Who Turned On and Off, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
28. Apprentice in Death, J.D. Robb (e/l)
27. The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
26. The Face in the Frost, John Bellairs (e)
25. Hanged for a Sheep, Frances and Richard Lockridge (e)
24. Xamnesia, Lizzie Harwood (e)
23. Convergence, C. J. Cherryh, (read aloud with Steve)
22. Rock Addiction, Nalini Singh (e)
21. The Stranger in the Woods, Michael Finkel
20. Etched in Bone, Anne Bishop (e)
19. Rider at the Gate, CJ Cherryh (re-read)
18. Small Gods, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
17. Silence Fallen, Patricia Briggs (e)
16. The Cold Eye, Laura Anne Gilman
15. The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
14. Memory, Linda Nagata (e)
13.  Bonita Faye, Margaret Moseley (e)
12.  Burn for Me, Ilona Andrews (e)
11. Snuff, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
10. A Taste of Honey, Kai Ashante Wilson (e)
9.  Some Danger Involved, Will Thomas
8.  Thud!, Terry Pratchett (read aloud w/Steve)
7.  White Tiger, Kylie Chan
6.  The Hanging Tree, Ben Aaronovitch
5.  Trading in Danger, Elizabeth Moon (e)
4.  The Wolf in the Attic, Paul Kearney (e)
3.  The Cat Who Saw Red, Lillian Jackson Braun (read aloud w/Steve)
2.  Inside the Texas Chicken Ranch: The Definitive Account of the Best Little Whorehouse, Jayme Lynn Blaschke (e)
1. Sand of Bone, Blair MacGregor (e)

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Five Minutes of Fame

So, yesterday, Steve and I journeyed to Augusta, where we meeted and greeted and talked and signed and importuned people who were on important errands and in general had a very good time being Authors on Display at Barnes and Noble.

We sold out of the Carousel Tides.  Apparently, if I could have somehow wandered the country, pressing the book into the hands of young women while whispering haunted carousel, I’d’ve had a bestseller on my hands.  We also sold a smattering of other books, including the new one!, and had a bunch of interesting conversations.  Only one person said “Ick!” (literally), when we told her the books were science fiction and fantasy, and several people took bookmarks/postcards for their sons, sons-in-laws.  Apparently, there are no daughters/daughters-in-law who read science fiction or fantasy.

Today, it’s back to work.  Steve is re-reading Neogenesis; I’ve just finished recording “The Beggar King,” which will be posted on Patreon on May 27, and, when I’m finished this blog post, I’ll meander out to the kitchen to put together a pot of lentil soup against the general gray-and-pouring-down-rain-ness of the day.

And so it goes.  We don’t have anything but writing a book on the professional calendar until August.  On the Real Life calendar, aside the ubiquitous health things, there’s the possibility of going to the Kite Festival at Bug Light Park on Saturday, and scheduling the installation of the new roof (metal this time), but nothing really pressing there, either.  A quiet-ish few months.  That’s not all bad.

Hope everyone is having a pleasant weekend.

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