I was just talking to my author friend Marcus Damanda on the phone about an online promotion we are doing together on Thursday October 26th, 3:30 to 4:30. It's the seventh birthday party of the press on which he and I both publish our young adult fiction, Evernnight Teen.  Marcus and I are both two thirds of the way through a trilogy of books.  Mine are time travel, set in the 70's, and his are dystopian fiction, set a generation or so in the future. 

We'll be giving away audio books, ebooks, and tie dye. You need an invite!  Click here if you want one!

Both our main characters happen to be named Rebecca.  Rebecca is my time traveler Bean's real name.  And Rebecca  also is the name of the spunky, courageous gal fighting her way to freedom in The Salvation State and Absolution Island.

Marcus Damanda and I are both English teachers.  He's still teaching--in the trenches in a mid-Atlantic junior high.  I pleaded age a few years ago and sat down to write full time.  We're both into the power of the word. 

So yeah, I'm promoting an event, and promoting my books and Marcus' books.  And I'm doing it because I think it's important.  We are all of us on the planet living through tough times just now: earthquake, fire, and flood.  LITERALLY!  Those of us in the United States find ourselves questioning our neighbors and even family members in bitter ways we thought we never would, or could.  There often seems to be more heartbreak around than there are hearts to hold it.

What do you even do with all that stuff?  How do you navigate it?

I think the key is in The Story and The Song.  Those things been sustaining human beings since we first gathered around the fire thousands of years ago to share them, to tell them and sing them.  Fiction is The Story touched with magic.  Okay, so that sounds kinda woo-woo, but there  you have it.   I believe that  stuff. And I am honored to have a place near to the fire where I can get  up and tell the stories in my books.   I think they're pretty darn good.  Marcus' books are terrific. 

So clicky-click! Thursday the 26th of October, 3:30 to 4:30! Come to the party! 

So I have another book of poems coming out in the spring sometime, on Kelsay Books,  hooray.  It's called Unforgetting, and it's about my parents and my family.  It is the closest thing to a memoir I have ever written, hence the title--which also reflects the way people with dementia often make up details to fill in when their memories fail.   "Unforgetting" is a made-up word for that, although I bet someone else has thought of it besides me. I think that unforgetting must be like writing fiction.

I'd been shopping Unforgetting around a bit, and I was delighted when Kelsay took it.  Their books are lovely, and a number of poet friends publish there.

I'm also a little surprised--but I guess I should have known.  The blue heron has been around our creek a lot.  She's (I'm convinced she's a she) good luck.  By the way, the picture on the right is not her (although I imagine it could be; I took it at a lake just a couple of miles from here). 

I want to make it absolutely clear that the blue heron on our creek is a very good blue heron.  So is the one in the picture.  She was even gracious enough to pose for me.  I've only ever met one blue heron who was bad.  And that was not my assessment of the bird.  It was the assessment of a tired-looking server at a waterfront shrimp restaurant in Florida.  There was a spectacular blue heron who hung out near that establishment, and apparently it swiped people's steamed shrimp and butter while they were at the bar getting another round of beer.  "Nobody likes him," said the server to me, when I told her how gorgeous that heron was.  "He's bad."

That sounded kind of brutal to me, and I immediately wanted to give the bad blue heron some of my shrimp.  But he flew away.  (I don't know how I know it was a he, by the way.)

I saw my oldest and dearest friend Nancy Quaglia this afternoon.  She's the one who did the artwork on my other poetry collections.  You can have a look at them on my Amazon author page, if  you want; they're the two to the far right.  The other two books on the page are my YA time travel novels, illustrated by Evernightteen's amazing Jay Aheer.  I'm richly gifted with art!  

Nancy and I think she'll do a painting of the Hudson River from Dobbs Ferry for the cover. The Hudson is a very big part of this new book of poems, because my family has been living near it since Dutch New Amersterdam days.  Really!  I'm descended from a 17th century silversmith named Jurian Blanck (my maiden name was Blanck).  

So I have had a bunch of work accepted lately, and I will be busy this fall and winter--and this spring. 

I have never written as hard in my life as I have since last November.  The world darkened so much then...and writing and telling stories and collecting poems into a book seemed to be the only logical response.  And now, too--horrible hurricanes and earthquakes...and absolutely toxic politics...

I have a bunch (a bunch!) of books coming out, though, and they are books that I might have not written if I hadn't been on fire to give the world some light.  Which sounds kind of self-important, and I don't mean it to.  But it's what writers do.

Cool spoon though, huh?  Jurian couldn't have had it easy, either. 

Sometimes I have moments--as I did just yesterday, sending some books as a prize for young readers to a library in Illinois--when I think, "Hey, I'm living the life.  I write NOVELS!"  Waggled my hips all the way back to my car (whose name is Franz, if you care), got in, and drove home like a...writer.

This should not be confused with driving home like a boss.

Not that I am complaining.  I write books and poems and people read them, and that rocks.  I get to do this highly cool thing.  But I am not eating bon bons as I write this post, nor am I sitting in bed with my keyboard on a foofy pillow.  The truth is, I am an ink-stained (well, eye-strained-from-staring-at-the-screen) wretch.  Just like most folks who write seriously. 

My husband (who truthfully, puts up with PLENTY), likes to tell people that he tip-toes around the house while I am drafting or revising my books, so as not to disturb the Genius At Work.  This is not true.  Ken, a classically-trained tenor, can make more noise just sneezing than two or three of your average leaf-blowers.  Fortunately, noise doesn't bother me.  Thinking I really should clean the cat's litter pan bothers me.  Because if I have forgotten to do so, our older cat will poop in the dracena plant next to my husband's pipe organ.  And my husband will set about practicing the damned Pachelbel Canon anyway, because he has another wedding and it's making him grumpy. He hates the Pachelbel Canon, whether or not there is a cat turd in the plant next to him.   But the brides have to have it, so practice it he will.   It's all on Pachelbel. The cat turd is never an issue for Ken.

Except then I will have to clean the litter pan AND the plant.  And listen to that stupid canon. My husband will clean the cat's pan if I ask him to, but asking him to starts The Game.  The Game is this: how long can I NOT do the thing I have been asked to do because my wife is trying to write?  An hour? Two? Three?  Wait...I still hear her typing.  I've got tons of time. 

Meanwhile, I am thinking, screw it. I definitely smell cat poop. I should just stop writing and go clean the pan.  I get up and trudge upstairs from my study. 

"Oh!  I was just going to do that!" says my husband, who, by the way, is Not Practicing. 

So first rule in the care and feeding of a writer is to pretend you are your neurotic mother and CLEAN SOMETHING.  Like maybe THE CAT'S PAN! That made sense, right?

Okay, the feeding part. 

I really don't hate cooking for myself.  Or for others.  It is the thing I like to do the most, next to writing and listening to music that isn't The Pachelbel Canon.  However, having a takeout meal brought in and served to me in an attractive fashion is one of my very favorite things in the world.   Especially if I haven't been asked what I want to eat first, because I don't know, although I'll tell you a secret: I'd really like some sushi. 

Perhaps I'd like that sushi now.  And by the way, "in an attractive fashion" means I require napkins.   And utensils on the table.

That's really all there is to it.  My needs are simple. 

By the way, two new novels coming soon--from me, and from some daft ghost-chaser who calls herself Aletta Thorne.  

Yeah, that's a William Blake engraving of ghosts doing their ghostly ghosting.  I love Blake for lots of reasons, but even if I didn't, this picture would have won me over.  I just wrote a ghost story.  A long ghost story--a novel-length ghost story.  And it's just a bit naughty.  Got me an acceptance on it from Evernight Publishing, and I'll be releasing this book under a pen name for the first time--Aletta Thorne.  It's a family name--a little 19th century girl who died when she was barely a toddler.  I hope my Victorian forebears won't be too horrified at what the ghosts in my book do.  Shall we say that Blake would approve?

The book's called The Chef, The Inspector, and The Ghost of Bartholomew Addison Jenkins.  It should be out for your Halloween enjoyment.  It's set in 1982, and its main character is a woman chef.  Two ghosts, all sorts of silliness, a good dose of spice, and some characters I really enjoyed getting to know.  All in the early MTV era in a pretty town somewhere near Athens, NY.  It'll probably be a stand-alone book, but I left a little something open at the very end so that I could do a series if there's interest. We shall see!

Being just a bit naughty in print is a new experience for me. Generally, it's been a relief to NOT cut to waves crashing on the beach.  I'm deeply proud of my naughtiness! 

In the G-rated part of my writing life, I finally finished the revisions on What Time Is It There? The Bean Books, Book 3. Bean is 19, in her sophomore year of college--and she's lost track of Zak, except through her ability to travel in time. The book contains the most epic paranormal scene I've written yet, a really fun Thanksgiving scene, and some sweet stuff around Christmas.  It really is a Christmas story--deeply  peculiar Christmas miracle and all.  I'm super-pleased with it, and you'll be hearing about that soon, too.

Phew!  Two novels in a year.  For us ink-stained wretches on the romance end of things, I understand that's just called Tuesday.  Or in this case, Thursday. 

Happy Thursday, everyone!  And if you need any of my books...click here!

   

 On our way back from The Women's March in January, my sister and I stopped in Philadelphia to see Independence Hall and The Liberty Bell.  We were both exhausted from the excitement of having been in such a huge protest--and heartbroken at the ugliness that was stirring in our country.  Susan had never been to Independence Hall.  I think I had--but not in years.

Visiting in that context--and seeing the Independence Hall copy of The Declaration of Independence--was a profound experience.  I cried lots.  Although the March had happened on an overcast, mild winter day, the weather had turned.  Our tour took place on a blustery afternoon of wind-driven rain.  I learned something about Independence Hall then: it has a voice.  It sings in windstorms. The sound is like a violin or a cello, a low note--and it's loud!  Independence Hall sang to my sister and me that day, and its song was as mournful as I felt.

About a week ago, my friend Treavor Hastings, who produces the news at ABC radio in New York, wrote to ask me for a July 4th poem they could broadcast.  I'd been slammed with trying to get two novels--one for teenagers, and one for ghost-loving grownups--off my desk.   So I gave myself one day to write the poem, and I'm proud to say I got it done and voiced within 48 hours of his request.  It was an deep and extraordinary experience, and a great honor.  I felt like I was writing the inaugural poem for a President I wouldn't want to protest.  I ended up writing about the Founders, about being American, not about being political.  My poem starts with Independence hall singing in a storm--and ends with fireworks.  I'm awfully glad I got the chance to write it and record it for broadcast on July 4th.  It will be on the air at different times throughout the USA, on ABC radio affiliates. 

Just for the record, "America, The Beautiful" makes me cry, too, especially the verse about the alabaster cities "undimmed by human tears." 

 
And today, when I logged on to social media, I found out from The Anne Frank Center For Mutual Respect that it would have been Anne Frank's 88th birthday.

Probably more than any other book I read as a very  young person, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl moved and changed me.  I read it at about the age Anne wrote it, and that resonated with me hugely at the time.  It felt like a letter from a very gifted friend. 

When I finally saw the rooms that the Frank family hid from the Nazis in, in Amsterdam, they felt almost familiar.  I remembered how Anne had described their ordeal as almost an adventure at times--and how she'd had the same complaints about cranky family members and the same desire to love and be loved that I did then. 

As an author who aims much of her work at young people, I have to stop and remember Anne from time to time.  The great power of her book is how much she was and is all of us.  Happy birthday, Anne!  I hope you are resting in light and power!

And what a great job I have, getting to put these words on paper--or a glowing screen in this case--or speak them into a microphone...  Thank you for reading my work!  And now, on to an afternoon of doing it!

By the way, here's my Amazon author page, with links to all my books! 

If I've been thin in the blog department these past few weeks, it's because my life has been rich, full, and crazy.  Just the way I like it, although it would be nice to have time to breathe a little bit.

Before I go any further: lookie at that picture on the right.  This is what happens when Christine Vitale, the new DJ at Area24radio.com tells me that she's got a few friends coming to help out with her Sunday night show.  Yes, that is really The Persuasions in our tiny internet radio station studio, a miracle that happened on the scale of I don't know: Santa Claus? Maybe that.  DJ Christmas. They sang like amazing, soulful, fabulous birds, we have an archive, and we're gong to shine it up a little and stream it, you betcha. Happened last night.  I still cannot believe it.  Thank  you Christine Vitale!  THANK YOU, The Persuasions!! 

So,  yeah. Bean, my 1970's time traveling YA heroine would have been about as speechless as I was.  Thank you, cosmos!

And in other news. 

(Holy crap!!  The PERSUASIONS!)

Ahem.  It's almost the end of National Poetry Month.  I've written a poem every day over at The Waters, which is the internet's coziest place to draft new work.  I haven't written my poem for today yet, so I'd better get my bloggin' floggin' done and tap into The Song pretty soon.  I have a bunch of individual submissions out places.  I have completed the manuscript for Unforgetting, which will be my third collection of poems, and I'm in process of deciding where to submit and whom to work with on it.  Stay tuned.  The collection is largely memoir, lots of it grown out of process writing I did around the Bean Book Trilogy--so there are plenty of poems about life in the 60's and 70's.  It's also very much about my mother, and about the death of my father.  It was difficult to write, and I'm very proud of it.

Bean 3 is also done and awaiting a time later in the year for one last read before I get the thumbs up or down from Evernight Teen--but I'm optimistic that it'll meet their requirements.  It's a Christmas story, and I don't want it to come out in the middle of the summer.  Bean 1, TIME RUNS AWAY WITH HER and Bean 2, IN HER OWN TIME, are available from Evernight Teen and Amazon in both paper and ecopies.  Evernight Teen is running a 99 cent special on Bean 1 right now if you read ecopies, so if you want a cheap 'n' delightful trip back to the good old days, why not go for it?

And there's also a top-secret project that I won't be advertising along with my work for younger folks--a dare I took some of my romance-writing colleagues up upon.  There are ghosts.  I'll need a pen name for that one.  That's all I'm sayin' here.

Stay tuned for some blogging in other places on Bean 2--news on the poetry book, AND the high sign when Bean 3 goes into production.  I've been a busy girl.

(And might I say again--the FREAKING PERSUASIONS!) 

That's what Zak from the Bean books would say. A month has passed since I have last written here--and it feels like a year. The weather has been as nuts as the politics in these United States: spring-like 50 and 60 degree days in February--and one week with two really significant snow and ice storms.  Those of us in the lower Hudson River Valley have built fires, opened windows, searched out t-shirts and sandals, and then stuck our freezing toesies back in our Uggs--sometimes in the space of one day.

There have been days where I've awakened, checked the headlines on my laptop, and had trouble getting out of bed, so discouraged by the mean-spirited, racist, anti-woman, anti-public education, anti-art and literature spew coming out of DC was I.  And there have been days where I have been giddy-happy with the strength of the resistance.

The Woman's March was a life-changing, patriotic, heartening thumb in the eye of the new Trump Administration.  I am proud to have been part of it. 

And on the writing front:

Bean 3 (Working Title: The Time She Forgot) is pretty much ready for submission, but I'm waiting  for one last Beta reader, and for the season to turn a tad more; it's an autumn-to-Christmas story, and I don't want it to come out before late summer.  But I'll drop plenty of hints here, trust me.  Watch this space! There are some epic special effects (according to my fave Beta reader, who has a book of his own just about to drop).  Bean is in college in the third book--and there are some of the same characters--and some new ones that I had a blast and a half writing.  In fact, drafting Bean 3 is what kept me from dissolving in grief after the election this fall.  So far, it's my favorite of the three.

I've also been working on poetry submissions and my third book-length collection of poems.  I wrote a short story set in 1943 with a young adult heroine that I think I could maybe spin into a YA book, although I don't know whether it would be straight historical fiction or time travel.  It was composed as an entry for the New York City NPR station WNYC's Historical Fiction Challenge.  I suspect the competition will be absolutely ferocious, but a girl can dream.

My poem "Receptionist, 1972" is in the current (Spring) Rattle, and I have poetry in both the new Peacock and Eclectica Anthologies.  I am deeply, deeply grateful to have a righteous publisher of fiction in Evernight Teen, a good store of poetry to revise and fit into my new po-book, and the space to do those projects.

And yet I am more worried about the country I love, the place where ancestors of mine have lived since Dutch New Amsterdam, than I ever have been in my life.  I've long dreamed of maybe retiring to Nova Scotia, but now that things actually seem dire enough that my friends and family have seriously entertained the thought of leaving...Lord, I don't want to--although I'll be glad to visit there this summer. 

It's almost the end of February.  Our daffodils are up, as are the scallions in our vegetable garden.  But it's not supposed to be 66 degrees outside, with the air as thick as June, and there's not supposed to be a Severe Thunderstorm Watch.  I guess I'm doing what we all are doing: watching--and waiting.  And calling my senators and my congresswoman--like almost every day. Things HAVE gotten Severe, but so far I'm still clicking the computer keys. 

Keep on keepin' on!  And yeah--maybe buy my books.  Thanks!

The picture above is my mother on Election Day.  She's 93.  She posed for me after I brought her back from the polls, where she had the experience of voting for a woman for President of the United States.  When my mother was born, women in this country hadn't even had the right to vote for five years.

She has two daughters and a foster son.  We all did okay--my sis as a writer and editor and internet retail pioneer, my brother and me as teachers, and me as a teacher and a writer both (and also a cook for quite a while; I'm proud of that, too).

My mother was a bit of a proto-tiger-mom.  I remember her telling me to try to imitate her still-outstanding handwriting when my fourth grade teacher complained about my illegible scrawl. (It didn't work.) She was as quick to criticize as she was to praise. She went back to work, where I think she was probably the happiest, when most of the moms we knew were still throwing bridge parties and baking cookies.  At work, she was a powerhouse--an executive secretary in the days when such women quietly ran American commerce.  Simply put, nobody messed with her.

I was the eldest, and I fear I reminded her of my hot-tempered dad.  I was unladylike, I let both her and my dad know when stuff bothered me (and stuff bothered me a lot), and I wrote poems and stories.  She liked it that I was imaginative, she said, but cautioned me never to write down anything that I really cared about.  It would be used against me, she was sure.

So of course, at the age of 64, I am still writing poems and stories, and casting them out into the world, where they might be used against me--that is, if enough people actually read them.  Insert bitter cackle here.

The one thing I do not know how to do is NOT WRITE.

Getting as old as I am frequently is accompanied by small amounts of self-knowledge, and I understand now that I am an introvert with a damn good social front, happiest behind my computer fiddling with words.  I like to be left alone to do that in peace.  I am married to a man who loves travel, and while I can build up temporary enthusiasm for its glamor, I have literally zero sense of direction and regard being on the road as a weird, higher state of homelessness.  I want my study.  I want my desktop computer.  I don't even want to go out to dinner. 

So of COURSE I am getting on the Amtrak for Washington DC tomorrow to swim against the tide of Inauguration Day crowds, somehow get to my hotel (good luck with that, me), and be part on the 21st of the Women's March.

I am doing it for my mom, whose tough love made me the woman I am today.  I am doing it because it isn't just donkeys and elephants and the usual political circus this time.  I am doing it because of the darkness I fear descending upon my country.  I am doing it because of the men my mom worked for--the ones who should have been working for her.  And for my main character in my YA time travel books, Bean.  She's a little bit me, but not as much of a scaredy-cat. She'd do it.  I am doing it for everyone who'd rather sit in her study and write, because I've gotten to do that--like, a lot.

 

So, off I go. Got me an Evernight Teen colleagues' Work In Progress to read on the train, and I'm thinking peaceful protest first amendment rights thoughts.  God bless us, every one.  

Greetings, friends!  Today is the day I finish the manuscript for Bean Three, The Time She Forgot.  Meanwhile, here are some smart, sensible words about good old genre fiction in troubled times from my colleague at Evernight Teen, Elizabeth Spencer!   So--without further ado: take it, Elizabeth!!

  Why Genre Fiction Is More Important Now Than Ever
 
Hey there! I'm Elizabeth Spencer, author of the YA fantasy Justice Unending! Today, Christine's asked me to write about something pretty big: why is YA fiction so necessary in these angry, turbulent times? 
 
And… oh. Phew. That's a big one.
 
No matter what you believe or where you live, 2016 has not been anyone's idea of fun. It's been a year full of prominent deaths, high tensions, big politics, and a constant undercurrent of divisive rhetoric. There's a sense of utter dread on the Internet these days—an undercurrent of fear and anger that seems to haunt every passionate social media thread, every unintentionally political comment section, and every forum you'll ever visit.
 
And this, I think, is when we need genre fiction the most.
 
Stories are magical—I mean, that's why humans have been telling them for as long as we've had words. Stories do amazing things for our souls. They comfort us. They help us understand our feelings. They help us feel like we're not alone.
 
It's easy to argue for the importance of literary fiction. They're the stories that look at all the hard issues in the world—at discrimination and hatred, fear and prejudice.
 
But I… actually don't write literary. I write action adventures. I write fantasy—the fun, fluffy kind—with magic, immortal spirits, giant steam-powered machines, and battles that involve ten-year-old girls flying around and shooting arrows at people. And in times like these, it's tempting to say that this is not particularly helpful—that it's just fluff, and not the life-changing kind.
 
But that's really not true. Genre fiction is just as important as the big, heavy stuff. Here's why.
 
I recently published a YA steampunk fantasy called Justice Unending. It's about a teenage girl in a faux-Victorian society who is having a delightful time being a tomboy when her sister is possessed by one of the immortal spirits who rule over their country. This is an incredible honor for Faye's family—except it also means that Faye's sister will die so this spirit can use her body as she pleases. And when Faye decides to see her sister one last time, she stumbles on a dead man, his murderer, and things go terribly, horribly wrong.

It's an action-adventure. Faye's on the run for most of the story. There's a train chase and an exploding laboratory. There are immortals who fight with glowing weapons and hold onto hundreds of years of grudges. It's fun, it has a happy ending, and while it gets serious, it doesn't get very dark.
 
This is the kind of story I self-medicate with. There are times when you want to get neck-deep into a deeply important, monumentally critical issue, when you want to be afraid and angry and overwhelmed so you can do something about it.
 
But sometimes you just want to watch someone fight, and survive, and win their happy ending. See, genre fantasy does some magnificent things:
 
Genre fantasy gives us hope. In action adventure fantasy it's a time honored tradition to make your characters' lives as utterly miserable as possible. And it's great! Sometimes we need to read about people overcoming huge obstacles to remind us that we, too, can overcome our own. Maybe we won't be fighting immortals in this world, but we all have challenges—and when we imagine our heroes with that kind of strength, it reminds us that we have it, too.
 
Genre fantasy shows us ourselves. And holy moly, is that ever important for young adult fiction. It's hard enough to discover who you are when the world doesn't feel like it's going up in flames. It's important—now more than ever—to show that there are lots of heroes in this world, of all shapes and sizes and types, who are still succeeding and surviving. And so can we!
 
They bring us together. I mean, seriously, have you seen fandoms? Have you seen the way a single piece of art brings people together? In a world where there are so many things that keep us apart, it's important to remember that we're not all that different—we all love engrossing tales and wonderful characters, and we can all find common ground in the things we love.
 
We've all almost survived 2016. And for me, it's the genre novels—the adventures, the little triumphs, and the happy endings—that are going to be what get me through these crazy times.
 
And I hope, no matter what you read, novels will be a refuge for you, too.
 

 
Elizabeth Spencer is the author of Justice Unending, a YA steampunk fantasy available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and the Evernight Teen website. You can read more about her novels and short storieson Elizabeth-Spencer.net