Let There be Cake (and a New Review)

* Also posted at my author website.

With Rachael, creator of the Perfect Cake

It was a busy book weekend!

We kicked off Friday night with a Book Launch Party for Keowee Valley, thrown by my wonderful parents in my hometown of Greenville, South Carolina. Saturday I headed back up to the mountains of Sylva, North Carolina, for a reading and book signing at the fabulous City Lights Bookstore.

** More on each of these events to come in a later post!

But for now, here’s a new review of Keowee Valley by reviewer Michelle Griep, up at the blog Novel Reviews.


I’ll leave you with a few photos of the utterly incredible cake my friend and the artist/baker Rachael Doss Muldrow created for the launch party Friday night. Made of chocolate, chocolate, chocolate and buttercream icing, the cake was a recreation of the cover of Keowee Valley, and quotes from the novel were iced around the sides.

 

And it tasted as GOOD as it looked!

 

 

Afterglow

What a lovely week it’s been! My first novel launched, the reviews are pouring in, and I’ve had nothing but kindness and support from my nearest and dearest.

Who could ask for more?

See. Look at these gorgeous flower arrangements. The one on the left is from the sweetest parents-in-law a gal could hope for, and the one on the right is from a wonderful friend.

There’s so much I could post about here, about the whole process, about what it feels like to finally hold that novel—the physical book—in my hot little hands. And some of this, I will certainly share (as soon as I come back down to Earth). I dreamed of publishing a novel for years, and the reality of it has been both nothing like what I imagined and even more than I’d thought possible.

Life, of course, has been busy--as it is for all of us. It doesn’t come to a screeching halt just for little ol’ me and my book, and that’s okay. On my plate the past week: grading college essays, reading and writing for graduate school, promoting Keowee Valley with emails, calls and letters; solo-parenting when my husband’s been away on business, and trying with all my might to convince my rascal of a 3 year-old—who’s been getting into big time trouble at preschool—that Mama is most definitely The. Boss.

Yes, it takes convincing. She’s not convinced. But she’s still cute.

See:

 

ARGH

 

But back to the week of the book.

 

Two things I’ve learned:

 

1.) Reading back over the Acknowledgements section of the novel (because of course I’ve poured over the whole thing, examining each and every page, time and time again), I came to an incredible realization.

 

Not one person, over the course of my life thus far, ever told me I couldn’t do it. That I couldn’t be a writer. In fact, every single person—family member, friend, family-friends, relatives, and teachers—encouraged me, spurred me on, and believed in me.

 

Imagine if I'd wanted to be a go-go dancer.

 

Kidding.

 

That kind of belief? It's a magical thing, my friends.

 

And

 

2.) Watching your loved ones read the Dedication and Acknowledgements sections of a novel, watching them read words you crafted so carefully in an attempt to thank them for all of that belief and encouragement … watching them tear up with emotion?

 

Pure joy.

 

So, though the initial excitement is wearing off, and it’s back to the work-teaching-grad school-writing-family grindstone (beautiful, exhausting, wouldn’t-trade-it-for-the-world life that it is), I’m still planning to savor the moment. And we’ve got some fun things in the works: launch parties in my hometown and in the town where I live, and more. Great book events at fantastic indie bookstores, participation in book festivals, library presentations and more.

 

It’s going to be a busy, busy Fall. I hope you’ll follow along!

 

 



 



 

New Publication Date for Keowee Valley

Hi, all!

Just got word from my publishers that the new, official publication date for Keowee Valley is September 27. In addition, pre-orders will be available within the next two weeks at places like Amazon.com, etc. So exciting!

More from me soon when things calm down about the tail end of the publication journey. For now, I'm wallowing in my last night at the beach with family and friends.

Countdown to Novel Publication

The official publication date for KEOWEE VALLEY is September 15, 2012!

I say "official," and that's what I've been told ... so, hopefully, this won't change.

It's hard for me to believe, and oh so very exciting: in 60 days, my first novel will become a real book, out in the word, corporeal, for all to see and hold and--dear Lord, please--read. I've spent a good deal of time avoiding this thought--my publication date--because, much as I hate to admit, I've got a bit of the fatalist in me. I need to hold that sucker in my hands before I truly believe that it's real.

There are a great many things that will occur in my writing world before September 15th.

1. The cover design must be completed by my publisher's design team.
2. More endorsements/blurbs from authors who are reading KEOWEE VALLEY need to come in. (Man, oh man, I hope they do. Though I've thankfully had some wonderful advance praise so far, I've got more great authors reading the ARC right now. Fingers crossed.)
3. A book launch party must be planned.
4. An author photo for the back of the book must be chosen.
5. I've got to do all sorts of pre-publication organizing, having to do with promotional materials, press releases, book store events and speaking engagements, etc.  

Here are the things that have to occur in my personal world: (What? I can't just smile and carry my book around like a blankie?)

1. My daughter's 3rd birthday (and party). Yikes.
2. A photo shoot with my very talented cousin-in-law, Paula Player, a photographer in Myrtle Beach (more to come about this), about 6 hours away from where I live.
3. A beach vacation with my family (including my parents, sister and brother-in-law, and all our dogs). Woohoo!
4. Planning for the English courses I'm teaching this Fall. Which begin next month. Oh, law.
5. A total body makeover, including toned abs, sculpted arms, and legs like Gwyneth Paltrow. Why are you laughing?
6. The possible almost maybe perhaps chance consideration of starting work on Baby #2. Did I just type that out loud?
7. Oh, yeah, and I'm still in graduate school.

All of these things are good things. I feel very lucky, and most fortunate, to have them occurring at this point in my life.

But the book, my novel ... the book is the thing.

Right now, it still looks like this:



The Advance Review Copy of KEOWEE VALLEY

Sort of like an elegant phone book, right? I can't wait to see what cover design my publishers put together. It's been an interesting process, the back-and-forth about the cover, but I'm confident it'll be a good one because I promised them my third-born child if it is. Did I just write that out loud?

More to come on the novel publication countdown, the process, and how I'm handling (or not) motherhood, wifehood, teacherhood, studenthood, and writerhood along with it. That's a lot of hoods.

Happy Readers, and the Writing of Friend



Image credit: serc.carlton.edu

Some days the sun just chooses to shine. In reality, in Western North Carolina today our weather's been cloudy and stormy. But the sun is shining in my Inbox. And for that I am thankful.

This morning I woke to two fabulous messages in my email Inbox, which I happened to catch as I was racing through the house trying to get myself and my two year-old ready to head to the Forest with a friend. I was literally skating through our living room in my river sandals, dodging Trigger (my daughter's rocking horse) and Scout (our real dog, who decided she'd be a third leg and make me feel especially guilty that I wasn't taking her with us) when a particular email address on my laptop screen caught my eye.

Here's why: Last night after I'd just finished the new release of a bestselling author I particularly admire--her novels are gorgeous and fabulous and lovely and soulful and with an awesome little Southern (as in the Southern U.S.) - Italian kick--I decided to write to this same author, asking if she'd be willing to read my novel, KEOWEE VALLEY, and if she liked it, to offer a blurb.

Well, she'd written back by this morning, not only graciously agreeing (wooohoooo!) but also congratulating me and encouraging me to "enjoy the moment." Her email was genuine and kind, and I'm still glowing from it.

Then, next to this message was another fabulous little ray of sunshine: A message from blogger Michelle Griep, a writer and reviewer who has an advance review copy of KEOWEE VALLEY. She loves the novel, she said, so much so that she mentioned it in her blog today. She'll be formally reviewing KEOWEE VALLEY for Novel Reviews when it's published late this summer.

Happiness!

Bascially, it's been a good day. Even the dog has forgiven me.

Henry David Thoreau
(photo from Wikipedia)

But before I forget, please check out my writer-friend Christine Byl's blog post at Beacon Broadside, in celebration of the 150th anniversary of Henry David Thoreau's Walden. Christine's debut, DIRT WORK, is forthcoming from Beacon Press in 2013. If you've ever wanted to head off into the woods, or to the beach, or to anywhere, alone, to sit and examine the natural world and your place in it... heck, if you've ever wanted to simplify, Thoreau is to be thanked.

May there be more sunny days ahead for us all.

Just Call Me Alexander



Cover art from the children's book by Judith Viorst

"I think I'll move to Australia."

~ Judith Viorst, from Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Last Monday, I sprained my ankle. I was trail running, about halfway through my run, and it just happened. Crunch. Stumble. Much cursing. (Unfortunately including the F-bomb. I'm certain I offended the rhondodendron, and I hope they'll forgive me.) It HURT.  

It took me about 40 minutes to hike out of the forest, and though I'd been giving myself a pep talk on the hike (okay, limp), by the time I got to my car I knew it to be true: I'd sprained my ankle badly enough to put me out of exercise commission for at least a week. 

It's difficult for me to sit still on a pretty day. And since I've just returned to trail running over the past few months, it thoroughly annoys me that this (insert Daffy Duck-stuttered expletives here) injury will set me back--in my fitness and weight loss goals. But that, I suppose, is life. The fact that  I haven't sprained an ankle since I was in my 20s doesn't help, either. Oh, and lest I forget: hobbling around on crutches while chasing a 2 1/2 year old is loads of fun.

So, the ankle sprain set me up for a week of sitting, elevating, icing, Advil-popping. I tried to stay off it as much as I could, but this was next to impossible.

You would think, wouldn't you, that this would be the perfect excuse for writing. That I'd embrace my immobility and get cracking on my new novel, or on the pages of creative and critical work I've got to send to my grad school advisor soon... too soon. But I couldn't make it happen. The words just weren't there, and neither was the (gasp) inspiration.

Lately, as I told my husband last night, I've felt a little lost. It's been a difficult period, this time after my first novel has been sold, edited, and is now awaiting publication. I'm a bit worn out. And I crave the thrill and excitement I felt when writing the novel: I miss those 16-page days where I wrote well into the night, on a writer's high. I want them back. 

Over the weekend, my husband took my daughter to see her grandparents on Hilton Head Island, where they live. It was the perfect, rare chance for me to have a weekend alone, just for writing--for me to work hours upon hours on my fiction and grad school assignments and on my teacherly schoolwork, for me to embrace being alone in my house for more than a few hours... something that is so rare I'm not actually sure when the last time was that this happened.

But I was... lonely. Surprisingly so. And uninspired. And really, thoroughly, annoyed about my ankle, which continued to ache. Normally, I adhere to the "suck it up" philosophy instilled in my sister and me by my Dad throughout our childhoods. Yes, it can be brutal. Yes, at times unsympathetic. But it's in me, and it isn't going anywhere. For some reason, though, I couldn't make it happen over the weekend. I had periods of efficiency and productivity, and then I slipped back into petulance. Like Alexander after he'd dropped his ice cream cone.

This is not attractive in a 30s-ish year-old woman, and I'm glad no one was around to see it. (Okay, my dog was there. And she just ignored me.)

I need a cure. A cure for this writerly ennui.

Anyone remember that fabulous Gilmore Girls episode, where Michel decides he's got ennui, and passes it on to Sookie. This is how I feel.

Any suggestions?



Dedications

I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've been thinking about the dedication for my novel, Keowee Valley, for quite some time. Long before it was bought by my publisher, long before I even found a literary agent. The thought of what I'd say, if and when I had the chance to say it, has probably been percolating for years.

I've always enjoyed novel and book dedications. For me, they're a magical blink at an author's real life--a glimpse under a faery raft at an artist's real world. Some are straight-forward, others mysterious; some are sad, some hilarious. And we never really know, do we, exactly what the author is trying to say, and to whom she's trying to say it.

Writing the perfect dedication, I'm finding, is a Herculean task. I honestly don't think anything I come up with will come out the way I want. Especially since this will be my first novel, and it's been a long time coming, and I've got so many folks to thank. I also live in fear that I'll leave someone out.

So, because the editing process on the novel is coming to an end (at least until the galleys, etc), I've had to actually get cranking on my own dedication. I went through my personal library (this, of course, being the stacks and shelves of books positioned haphazardly throughout my house) and picked my favorite books, flipping through to see how other authors have done it. How have they managed to determine just how to thank the people who've supported, encouraged, loved, and downright put up with them during their writing years?

What I've ultimately decided is that I like the way writers like Pat Conroy and Diana Gabaldon do it: they offer a short dedication, and then an acknowledgements page--sort of a supplement to the dedication, wherein they list the folks they can't possibly leave out. So if my editor and publisher are willing, I think--though I, and my book, are no Conroy or Gabaldon--that I'll do it this way, too. Besides, I've always been mouthy.

I'd love to hear about some of your favorite book dedications!

Just for fun, here are some of mine:

"For Jenny, who saved my life,
thus making it possible for me to write this book"
~ Lucy March, A Little Night Magic

"To the Memory of My Mother,
Who Taught Me to Read--
Jacqueline Sykes Gabaldon"
~ Diana Gabaldon, Outlander

"This book is dedicated to my lost daughter,
Susannah Ansley Conroy. Know this: I love you
with my heart and always will. Your return
to my life would be one of the happiest moments
I could imagine."
~ Pat Conroy, My Reading Life

"Lucinda Margaret Grealy
June 3, 1963-December 18, 2002
Pettest of my pets"
~ Ann Patchett, Truth & Beauty: A Friendship

"I    To my cousin, Lieutenant William Porter, the sec-
       ond Sergeant York: he has the courage and the
       bravery, and furthermore he practiced for years,
       firing at targets.
II    To my cousin, Professor B. O. Williams of the Uni-
       versity of Georgia: he has the knowledge and
       the vision and the power to inspire.
III   To my father: he is the salt of the Southern earth."
~ Ben Robertson, Red Hills and Cotton

"This book is for every roadside Picasso who paints heaven on a
weathered board, for every sculptor of found objects who twists a tin
can or a rusty timber saw into an objet d' art, and for all the other
dreamers who have the courage to create something wonderful out
of nothing."
~ Deborah Smith, from the dedication in On Bear Mountain

"Equitare, Arcum tendere, Veritatem dicere"
(To ride, to shoot, to tell the truth.)
~ Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa

Books and Old Boyfriends

Next week I'll be getting KEOWEE VALLEY back from my editor at Bell Bridge Books, and my part of the editing process will begin. I can't wait. Literally, I'm itching to start. I picked up the novel two weeks ago, sticky notes and pen in hand, and began rereading for the first time in months. I was Sherlock without the faithful Watson, but on the hunt for content irregularities--like the fact that in one scene I'd given my protagonist a single chair, and in another scene she has two--and other mechanics mistakes: a doubled word, an odd sentence structure. Being an English professor, I'm a stickler for clean copy; it'll kill me if the final version of my novel has a mistake in it.

Breathe, my editor says. Put the manuscript aside for a few days; wait, she says, until you get it back from me. Then work. And after, let it go.

I've tried to back off from my novel, though review copies of it sit in a cardboard box at my feet. Sometimes, especially after a compliment from my publisher, or receiving a thrilling blurb from another writer, I pick up the novel and randomly flip it open, looking for what they see. At times, I catch a glimpse... at others, I see only potential, and I have to physically restrain myself from the primal urge to "make it better."

This is exactly how I used to be about ex-boyfriends.

In my past life, I was one of those people. You know: the person who wants to stay friends with ex-boyfriends. I could never understand how so suddenly I was cut off from this person I'd cared about, how I was supposed to remove him from my life and to forget anything we'd shared. Granted, I was a bit of a commitment-phobe before I met my husband, and so the person doing the "breaking up" was, 99 percent of the time, me. This puts a different spin on things, I know, but hear me out.

It's not just that I wasn't ready to let go of that person--that old love--it was also that I was second-guessing. It started in middle school with a boy I'll call Sam. Sam was a tall, dark, teen-idolish 12 year-old who began his pursuit of me by making fun of the size of my boobs. (I was a tomboy in every sense of the word, and at this point in my girlhood this type of male attention freaked me out and ticked me off. In essence, I'd no idea it meant he liked me.) Sam got better. Eventually he brought me roses. They were gorgeous. Still, I was confused. I liked him--alot. But I didn't know what to make of him.

Eventually, our young love was brought to a screeching halt with a three-way phone call in which I was forced to choose between Sam and my best guy friend, (we'll call him) Bart. My preteen intellect and hormones were flying around like the ball in one of those baseball machines at the arcade--you know the ones, where you stand and work the "bats" with your thumbs, and the little players twist this way and that, and the ball goes banging haphazardly into other plastic players and obstacles, and sometimes drops in the right hole. Mine usually flew completely out of the game into the "you suck at this" gutter. I didn't know what the heck was going on: I just knew that I liked Sam, I also liked Bart, and our little drama fueled the middle school gossip mill for months.

After I chose Bart--a whole other story--I couldn't help but wonder about Sam. I'd see him walk the halls--black-haired and brooding--or flirt with another girl, and I'd agonize over my decision. I still wanted to be friends! I still liked him. But he wouldn't talk to me.

Same thing happened in college, with my first real boyfriend. (We'll skip high school. That's a Sweet Valley High-meets-90210 boondoggle for another post.) We'd dated in high school, ended up at the same university. I liked this guy (we'll call him Alan) so much: he was cute, funny, and he liked the things about me that used to confound other guys. But freshman year, the whole college experience opened up before me like the deep end spreads below an Olympic springboard diver, crystalline, cool and sweet--with nothing to do but leap. And boy, did I leap.

Not long after my full-gainer reverse dive into the undergraduate experience, Alan started squiring about another girl on my hall. And suddenly, Alan--and our fun, heady, coming-of-age romance--began to look better to me than it had the first time. For a while, he responded to my emails, wrote me letters. He still cared about me, he said. After a  mountain weekend in Tennessee wherein a ton of Southern frat boys and amiable girls holed up in a big cabin together with free-flowing kegs, liquor, and music for three days straight (sorry, so sorry, Mom), we ending up kissing again. He kissed another girl the next night. It didn't hurt. But I was done. And yet, years later, I still want to be friends. It's an illness. 

Lastly, my first and only serious boyfriend before my husband--a wonderful guy, truly one of the good ones. This relationship, too, I broke (glad I did, or I wouldn't be married to my husband, but still... I broke it bad). And afterwards, I thought I wanted it back. Him back. I wanted his friendship, and I wanted more. But I wanted it on my terms, and he, I can say without a doubt, did not. He just wanted me. For months I tried to make him see that we could be friends; and, for a while, he came around--great guy that he (still, I'm sure) is--but it was too hard. Zoom in to us tailgating at a Clemson football game, both leaned up against the side of my parents' car, serious, me telling him I wanted to see him AND other people, and him telling me he couldn't and wouldn't. (At stage right are my parents and assorted family friends, trying vainly not to look like they're eavesdropping.)

And though I knew, somewhere deep down in my real self, that he wasn't the one for me and I certainly wasn't the one for him, I balked. I second-guessed. I wasn't ready to let go. 

The problem is, I want it my way, and I want it all. This has not abated since I was a 12 year-old brace-face or a 20 year-old co-ed. But it's my personality. And it ain't pretty.

Years later, I'm still, really, not friends with any of these guys, much as I'd honestly like to be. Two of them are "Facebook" friends. The last, I'm afraid, is gone for good, and any chance at friendship gone with him. That's my fault. And that's okay. 

My job, now, is to look at my novel like I look back at that last relationship I had before meeting my husband: to think on it fondly about once a year, remembering the good moments, and then to bid it adieu, wish it--and whatever comes of it--truly well.

To do this, I think I need balance. In my life, in my work, and at my desk. If I can achieve said balance, my life, my schoolwork, my next novel, and my desk will be better.

But currently, here's the state of my desk:

Would it frighten you to know that I cleaned it last night?

Here's another angle of my desk. My dog is the sprawling black animal on the right. She knows it's a non-preschool day and so we won't be hiking, and she's choosing to ignore me.

Looks all cozy and writerly, right? (In addition to being messy.) It is. Until you factor in the balance-upsetter, the game-changer, the love of my life: my two year-old. Can anyone achieve balance with a two year-old?

That's a ponder for another time. For now, here's what my husband and I got to try to distract the kid so I might find some balance in my writing life: (this is about three feet away from my desk)

Balance? Ba ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha.

Happy Weekend, all!

Blurbs and Quotes for a First Novel: Or, It's Not All Greek To Me

I'd thought, after my novel was sold and the fairy dust cleared and settled, that the process of finding authors to read my work and offer a blurb or quote I could use to promote the work would be a bit like attempting to get into a sorority.

I don't know how it's done elsewhere, but in the South when a sweet girl goes off to the big university and decides (or others decide for her) that she'd like to be in a sorority, friends of the family who are alums will often write letters for said girl. They send them to the powers-that-be in that sorority, encouraging the powers to take a good, hard look at the girl: that she'd be perfect for their group. (I always imagined perky 21 year-old college seniors sitting around a pink office with Greek letters embroidered on everything--the stationary, the backs of chairs, cross-stitched and hung in pink frames on the walls. But that's not fair, because really, those girls could easily be sitting in a pub having beers, a stack of letters on the table before them.) The point is: I thought it'd be harder than it really is.

The fact is, authors have to work more diligently than ever to promote their own work. The times they are a changin'. So while I've utilized my literary agent and my editor when seeking those quotes and blurbs, I'm doing the bulk of it myself. And what I've found is that most writers are incredibly generous, willing to take the time to help out a first-timer in need. That's not only awesome, it's a relief.

I haven't followed any format. I simply made a list of my favorite authors, whether or not I thought I'd have a chance of getting a quote or blurb from them. I concentrate on (but don't limit myself to) historical fiction authors, because that's the genre of my novel. And then I do my research--entirely online as it turns out--learning the best ways to contact them. Some are easier to reach than others: they've got direct email addresses on their websites. Others insist you go through their literary agents or publishers, and yet others have online forms you can fill out (these concern me the most, for some wierd reason... because I wonder where that information is actually ending up). I also look into their places of business, especially those who also teach for a living, and find email addresses that way.

When writing to these folks, I write from my heart. I give the necessary information--my name, my novel title, my writing background, my publisher/editor's info, the publication date, etc--but I also let them know how much I admire their work. That is, of course, the reason I choose them: I love their stuff. I'm not afraid to admit that I fawn (and yes, it is fawning when you're openly praising a writer whose work you've loved for years), and I'm honest about it. Email is tough: so much meaning can be misconstrued. It's important to be straight-forward. Be yourself. This is my theory.

Authors who offer direct email addresses, I've found, respond the quickest. And they'll tell you, right away and often with regret, that they simply don't have the time to devote to reading your novel. Others will write back immediately, surprising you, and agree. They give a mailing address, I pop a Special Format Review copy of my novel in a big, manilla envelope with a handwritten "thank you" note (because, good Lord am I thankful!), and off it goes.

The worst case scenario is that the author just doesn't respond. But persistence (in every aspect of life, whether you're learning to cook creamy grits, garden successfully, or trying to potty train your dog or your daughter) is key. I'd attempted to contact one of my favorite best-selling historical novelists in every way I could find--via her online form, through Goodreads, through Facebook, through her publisher--but hadn't had any luck. I decided I'd send her one more quick, private Facebook message, and that would be it. By the next day she'd sent me a direct email, apologizing for taking so long at getting back to me, and offering to read my novel. She was honest: She couldn't promise a blurb, but she'd read it.

And that's all any first-time author can ask for. It's a review copy, so it hasn't been edited yet. More than that, I know that my novel won't be every person's "cup of tea." And that's okay.

So far, I've had two wonderful writers read my novel and offer blurbs. One, Darci Hannah (author of The Exile of Sara Stevenson and The Angel of Blythe Hall, two novels I love) I emailed directly using an address she offers on her web site. Another, Philip Lee Williams (a prolific writer in several genres, and the author of The Flower Seeker, The Campfire Boys, etc) I met through a fan letter, me to him. I'd read an essay he'd written about the place where my novel is set, and the essay affected me so deeply I just had to write him. We began a correspondence, and I asked if he'd read my novel. Both of these authors not only agreed, they were gracious, generous, and kind, and I'll be forever thankful for their praise.

I've got other authors currently reading my novel, and it's difficult not to worry on that: to hope like all heck they'll like the story I tried to tell. Some of them will, and some of them won't.

But I'm finding, more and more, that writers are--overwhelmingly--an interesting, generous, quirky, wonderful bunch. When you're a writer, your daily life can be quite solitary. You sit at your desk, staring at a computer screen (or a legal pad, if you're old-school), and you invoke the mystery. You pray for it to visit its magic upon you. You work by yourself, because no one can do it but you. It's easy to forget that you're part of a community--that you can be, if you want to be. You've just got to reach out.

I'm big on tribes. My tribe of friends, especially, is comprised of the coolest cats I know. But it's nice to know that I may just be joining another tribe soon, a tribe of authors I already admire. And as long as the hazing doesn't include zit cream, funneling really bad beer, or eating mystery food while blindfolded, I am all in.

Special Review Copies of Keowee Valley are Here!

A big, beautiful, brown box arrived at my door recently, bearing within it the Special Format Review Copies of my forthcoming historical novel, Keowee Valley. Since my two year-old was napping, I hefted the box in my arms, tip-toed across the hardwood floors of our 1940s house--trying not to trip over the 88 lb black lab at my heels--whipped a knife out of the chopping block, and went to town. I'd like to say that I slit open that box with the elegant precision of a heart surgeon, but since this is a moment I've been dreaming about since I was about 12 years old, I abandoned the knife halfway through and ripped, packing tape be damned.

I have to admit, it's a bit disconcerting to see your own face and name (in my case, three of them) on the covers of an 8 x 10 copy of a manuscript that you know, in less than a year, will be a book. I set the box beside my desk, which currently resembles a Jabba the Hut of exploding English essays, and stared at it. I gave it a wide berth on my way to other rooms. I eyed it warily, as if it'd pounce. And then I got to work.

Finding the right people--authors, industry experts, etc--to review your  novel and to perhaps provide a blurb or quote (or, God willing, praise) for it, is an interesting process, one into which I'm delving for the first time. A while back, after I'd finished the novel and found my literary agent, I did some big dreaming, forming a wish-list of authors for the job. Now that my novel has a home with Bell Bridge Books, and I've got those big, beautiful review copies in hand, that list has become a very real starting point--and a bit intimidating. Trying to convince experienced authors (some pretty darn famous) to take a chance on a debut novel and its fledgling writer is a much tougher process than you'd think.

So, I've reached out via whatever method I've found--email, Facebook, home addresses, agent addresses--with a letter of introduction and an earnest, honest request. I know that I'll be refused by most--they have, after all, their own novels and jobs and families tugging at their time--but maybe, just maybe, one of them will remember what it was like to be in my shoes, and give me a chance. It'll be interesting to see who does.

One very welcoming group I've discovered: bloggers. I've already had some great blogger/book reviewers request to read the novel and review it, and I'm hoping to discover plenty more. I just adore folks who love books, and love talking about books: they are my people.

My publisher will be sending out review copies to pertinent reviewers as well, but I'm all about being an active participant in the process. I think it's an adventure. And as anyone who knows me can tell you, I'm a sucker for a good adventure.

Stay tuned!

And, just because it makes me grin like a giddy kid, here's another photo of the Special Format Review copy of Keowee Valley:

The Flurry of Fall

Though Friday is officially this year's first day of Fall, here in the mountains of Western North Carolina it's arrived early: bringing with it cooler temperatures, chilly rain, tulip poplars already yellowing, and, in our family, the annual advance into the attic.

Our house, a small bungalow-type with a random 1950s addition, was built in either 1948 or 1949, and our attic is a walk-up: albeit, precarious and musty, but still a generous space--which in our case means plenty of room for a multiplying assortment of plastic bins. Last winter, our fifth as a married couple in the mountains, my husband trekked into said attic and in a move of sheer valiance (and desperation) spent several weeks laying out insulation. (Our sweet house lacks insulation in the walls, in the attic, in the floors, and we keep it COLD.) The arrival of our daughter insisted we warm things up a bit. Honestly, it gets old seeing your breath crystallize before your face as you huddle in your bed beneath sheets, a fleece blanket, and a corduroy quilt the width and depth of Texas. So stay posted, this winter, to see how we fare. Ha.

Last week, I made the first journey into the attic for the winter clothes. This is an inaugural trip, and I look forward to it. I love digging through my favorite fleece jackets, winter boots, toboggan hats and scarves; love shaking out my favorite pair of corduroys, my plaid flannel shirts I've hung onto since the grungy '90s. Despite the dusty, musty smell, and the knowledge that I've got several loads of laundry to do and an insurgence to launch against the summer clothes occupying my closet, this ritual is a precursor to my absolute favorite time of year. Once I've done this, Fall may just be a little bit closer. (Two other rituals of the cinematic type include watching Runaway Bride--who doesn't love rural Maryland in Autumn, small-town shenanigans, and a little Julia Roberts/Richard Gere action?--and also pulling out my complete seasons of the Gilmore Girls. For some reason, I'm hooked on cool-weather settings, small towns, and witty dialogue. For some reason, it makes me feel like Fall.)

Yummy Richard Gere with his yummy silver hair. Gorgeous Julia. On horseback. Gotta love it.

Picturesque Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Yes, it's fictional, but I miss it; I do.

Moving along. This time of year, things are in a flurry. There are my classes to be taught (if you saw the state of my desk, and the stacks of papers to be graded--by tomorrow--you'd wrinkle your nose in disgust), my daughter to get squared away at preschool, my house to be cleaned and dusted and prepared for closed windows and heat, a lot of football to be watched, a website to be created (for my novel, Keowee Valley, forthcoming from Bell Bridge Books in Fall 2012... cough), writing--any writing--to be done, a yard to be cleaned and a wilting summer garden to be cleared, and a decidedly insane (though inspired) journey back to graduate school--and all the work this entails--for which to be prepared. I've also got to actually pay attention to my husband. Really. The man gets lost in the shuffle, and though he's understanding about it, I'd like to remedy that.

In the midst of the flurry, I am determined to live deliberately. To embrace the chaos. To become adept at my many roles. I swear it: the attempt will be worthy.

In other news, I'm still doing the happy dance (even in public) about my novel being published by BelleBooks/Bell Bridge Books in Fall of next year. The official title: Keowee Valley. My official "author name": Katherine Scott Crawford. (Which is my real name, by the way. Really.) Currently, I'm working on the author/novel website and on building social media with two friends, high school buddies who are web designing and PR pros. My husband, a marketing guy, is set to be guru. I'm hoping to have these things--web site, Facebook site, etc--up and running by the end of this year. Then, in January, editing should begin on my novel, and I couldn't be more excited and ready for, and open to, the entire process.

In the meantime, I'm looking for advice for managing the chaos, embracing the moment, and enjoying Fall to the fullest. On the menu: cooking black bean chili later today, heading to Death Valley to watch Clemson play (and hopefully, whup up on--sorry, Seminole fans) Florida State on Saturday, grading essays while possibly enjoying some Gere/Roberts repartee (don't tell my students), and apple-picking at a local orchard with family and friends, later in the month.

What are your big plans for the Fall? Here is my dog's plan:

A Sale, a Start

Good things DO come to those who wait. (And persevere. And pray. But that's another story.)

I'm pleased to announce that I've sold my novel, KEOWEE VALLEY. A mainstream historical adventure and romance, it will be published in Fall 2012 by Bell Bridge Books. Set in the Revolutionary-era Carolinas and in the Cherokee Country, it's part the story of an independent young woman making a new life for herself against all odds, and part the story of an incredibly beautiful and dangerous country--and a mysterious, powerful people on the verge of life-altering change.

Whew. It's difficult to describe a 450+ page novel, particularly your own. I plan to get better at this as the year moves forward. The Publisher's Marketplace announcement does a much better job.

I couldn't be happier with my publisher(s). Bell Bridge Books is an imprint of Belle Books, a small to mid-sized (depending on whom you ask) press based in Memphis, T.N., which was founded and is run by smart, savvy women--most of them prolific authors. I had a chance to meet three of them in Asheville, N.C. a couple of weeks ago, and I walked away sure of my choice and hopeful for the future of my novel and my career. (I think I floated down the street. I wonder if anyone noticed?)

Going with a smaller press has many advantages, one of them being the opportunity to formulate and enact my own marketing plan in addition to the publishers'. So, while editing on the novel won't start until after the new year, I'm going to take the Fall to build a web site and to develop other opportunities for social media, etc. I've got some great guys helping me--my husband, and two of my best friends from high school--who are all experts in their fields (marketing and public relations).

This is going to be fun!

More about the process to come in the following weeks and months....