What We're Writing: Queen of All Genre

JENN McKINLAY: I'm having a moment. Hopefully, just a moment and not a perpetual state of being. I am currently writing the second cozy fantasy book (WT: DEMONS OF QUESTIONABLE INTENT), which is the follow up to WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN (Oct 25) revising next summer's romcom THE SUMMER SHARE (May 26), and copyediting the next library lover's mystery BOOKING FOR TROUBLE (Feb 26). I have to work on all three at once so I don't fall behind. 

Three genres all at the same time. It's fine. Nothing to see here. Everything is awesome. Yes, that is my mantra, why do you ask? And, yes, this is why I'm feeling very Queen of All Genre. LOL.

Oh, and before I forget, there is a Goodreads Giveaway for WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN for those who want to score an early copy.

ENTER HERE!

Because I am hip deep in revisions, I will share a snippet of THE SUMMER SHARE, specifically, the meet cute if you can call it that. The premise is that Hannah Spencer and Simon O'Malley each inherit a summer cottage on the Outer Banks from their grandfather. The trouble begins when they arrive at the cottage and discover their grandfathers shared ownership of the cottage and now each of their plans for their inheritance is compromised by the presence of the other.

     Simon: A nudge on my fishing line brought my attention back to the task at hand. I pulled the rod to the side, tugging the lure a bit, trying to assess if I’d managed to catch anything. There was no resistance, i.e. no takers.

     “Dude! You get back here this instant!” A shrill voice broke the silence, startling a great grey heron out of the marsh. He launched into the air, beating his massive wings.

     I whipped around at the sound of footsteps behind me and saw a wild haired woman in cargo shorts and a tank top thundering down the narrow dock on the heels of a black and white horse—okay, more like a pony—that was headed straight for me.

     I quickly set my pole in the holder on the base of the dock and crouched down, putting up my hands in surrender as if the beast barreling toward me was there to rob me.

     “Whoa, whoa!” I cried. The behemoth didn’t slow down one bit. By the time it occurred to him to jam on his brakes it was too late. The beast slammed into my chest like a Mack truck and the next thing I knew I was flailing and free falling into the channel.

      The water was colder than I expected for late June, but what did I know? I hadn’t planned to go swimming. Instinctively, I started to kick up to the surface. I popped up to hear the woman, scolding her beastie.

     “Dude, what were you thinking? What if there are alligators in there? That man could be their lunch.” There was a pause and then her voice took on a harsh warning note. “Dude, don’t you do it. Dude!”

     I wiped the water from my face just in time to see the horse come flying at me. His feet were pedaling in midair as if he were still running. His tongue was hanging out and his ears flapping in the breeze. I only had a second to take in the sight of him, realize I was his target, and try to get out of the way before he hit the surface like wrecking ball. I didn’t make it.

     The monster hit me right in the solar plexus and I plunged below the surface and sank like a rock. The pony had knocked the wind out of me, but I’d spent enough time surfing the Carolina coastline to know not to try and breathe, still blacking out was a high probability as everything started to go fuzzy.

     A splash disrupted the water near me and I felt someone grab me by the collar of my shirt and haul me in sluggish yanks and tugs up to the surface. When we broke through, my diaphragm was still locked and I couldn’t breathe.

     “I think you killed him,” the woman gasped. Then she thrashed against me. “What was that? Something brushed my leg. Ah! I bet it's an alligator!”

     I would have told her to calm the hell down but I didn’t have enough air to form words. Instead, I started to slowly sink beneath the surface again.

     “Oh, no, you don’t.” She yanked me back up. “I did not risk getting eaten by a prehistoric creature just to have you drown.”

     Something splashed next to me and I recognized the big pink tongue as the pony swam beside us, kicking his long legs and enormous paws, without a care in the world.

     I tried to suck in a breath but my chest refused to move. I could feel a thrum of panic surge through me as I flailed to get to the dock.

     “It’s okay,” the woman’s voice was a husky whisper in my ear. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you drown.”

     As if I would! My pride took issue with this but I didn’t have enough oxygen in my lungs to protest. My argument would have to wait.

     She wrapped her arm around my torso and towed me to the lower dock where my boat was tied. The small horse was already out and bouncing on his feet, wagging his tail as if he was having the best day ever. Jerk.

     With a hearty shove, the woman rolled me onto the rough wood and then pulled herself up beside me. “Let’s get you on your side.” With a grunt she maneuvered me into a fetal position. Humiliating. And then she started to vigorously rub my back. “Try to relax. You just had the wind knocked out of you. Take small breaths. It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

     I managed a small sip of air and the darkness receded from my peripheral vision.

     “That’s it,” she said. She kept up the circular massage and I felt my diaphragm slowly loosen, allowing me to take deeper breaths.

     When I had enough air to be able to speak, I lifted my head and rasped, “I’m all right.”

     “Thank goodness.” She flopped onto her back on the dock beside me and panted. “I haven’t been a lifeguard in years. I was afraid I’d lost my skills. Plus, alligators.”

     I didn’t know what to say to that so I said nothing, closing my eyes as I concentrated on inflating my lungs.

     “I’m sorry about this. Dude has spatial awareness issues. He thinks he’s a lap dog and I can’t seem to dissuade him from that notion. He’s knocked the wind out of me a few times.”

     I held up my hand, opened it and then closed it, hoping that she could grasp the universal sign for “Stop talking.” Then I dropped my forearm over my eyes while I tried to catch my breath in between coughing and wheezing.

     She must have gotten the message because she said nothing. When my breathing became normal, I dropped my arm from my eyes and turned to face her.

     “Lap dog? I thought he was a pony.” I glanced up to see the biggest dog I’d ever encountered standing over us. His ears were perked and his his head tipped to the side. Was that how he looked right before he ate someone?

The PRH art department recently sent me three different covers for THE SUMMER SHARE that were all so good, my entire team was paralyzed with indecision. After a long chat with my editor, we're going to attempt a mashup of all three. And, yes, Dude (a Harlequin Great Dane) will be featured. Yay!

So, Reds and Readers, tell me. Do you follow authors who write in multiple genres or do you prefer if they stay in their lane fictionally?

My Coauthor is Slacking on the Job

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: When I first saw the title of this essay by Trisha Blanchet I was absolutely shocked. I thought ohhhh my goodness, what?

 I know Trisha, I thought, I know she writes the fantastic and imaginative Neath Trilogy--about a teenager who discovers the secret (and terrifying and fantastical) world that exists underneath Boston. (It's really cool, and completely imaginative, and trust me, you will never walk through the streets of Boston's North End the same way again.) 

Plus, I knew Trisha is the founder of Operation Delta Dog, an absolutely life-changing organization that matches rescue dogs with veterans. Isn't that brilliant?

But what I did not know was that she wrote with a co-author.

I paused, perplexed. Trisha has a co-author?

We'll let her explain.

My Coauthor is Slacking on the Job

(Time to rewrite the story of this long-term partnership gone wrong)

By Trisha Blanchet

“My goodness, thank you all so much for this incredible honor. I’m truly humbled and proud to receive this award from the literary community that I admire so much. I’m speechless. Well, I would be speechless if I hadn’t already prepared this speech, ha, ha!

Apologies for the note cards, here… Lots to remember! And so many people to thank. I’d like to start with my family, of course, and all my fellow writers. And let’s not forget my wonderful agent and editors. But most of all, I’d like to dedicate this award to the one who made it all possible. The fuel to my fire. The springboard to my success:

My stomach.

Dear, dear Stomach. As coauthors go, you’ve always been one of the best. All those words just don’t materialize out of nowhere, after all—they require a little help. Help like Quiche Lorraine, roast beef sandwiches, and Nachos El Grande. Gummy bears by the pound. Ravioli and meatballs. Hot coffee in the morning, and hot toddies at night. Whatever it takes.

Now, I know things have been a little tricky between us lately, which I guess shouldn’t be surprising. Fifty-plus years of collaboration don’t come without a few bumps. But I want you to know that I see you, I appreciate you, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get our partnership back on track.

If you remember, we got off to a great start. Well, mostly great. Our childhood collab had its challenges, what with all the boxed mac-and-cheese, birthday cake, and McDonald’s “orange drink” immediately followed by two-hour sessions on the trampoline. You didn’t love that. But occasional projectile vomiting aside, we did manage to produce some phenomenal work. Case in point: Our seminal Detective Ladybug Playground Mysteries, published on yellow construction paper with the help of a borrowed stapler.

Our college years saw much the same give-and-take. Just switch out the colors: Instead of “orange drink” and yellow paper, there were a lot of red Solo cups and two-liter bottles of Purple Passion. That was also the period of my unfortunate flirtation with songwriting and feminist books-in-verse, but you bore it all with good will.

Our relationship stayed mostly predictable into the early-adult years. If I’m honest, I just didn’t think about you all that much. (Nothing personal… I’m not close with most of my organs.) 

Then came those pregnancies in our thirties. That brought out a whole new side of you, didn’t it? Suddenly you were all “Give me raw meat!” and “Stay the hell off that glider chair!” I ignored your demands at my peril. But when you weren’t being bossy, you helped me write all those fun “Mommy Confidential” columns for the newspaper.

Our forties rolled by in a gastrointestinal blur, mostly because I was more worried about packing other people’s lunch boxes than my own. Kidding—I didn’t have any lunch boxes. I probably didn’t have any lunch. For a decade. Who remembers? Still, we kept at it, writing manuscripts that turned out to be half decent. Then, better than descent. Then, actually published by an actual publisher.

Then. Came. The fifties.

The half-century mark. And there you were, out of the shadows at last. All those years, you’d been ignored. “Well, no more, missy,” you told me. The message was loud and clear: I’d had my day. This was your show, now. I call that show, “WAIT, WHAT CAN’T I EAT NOW?” It’s streaming, on all channels, around the clock.

The trouble started at my local ice-cream stand. I began telling anyone who would listen that the mint chip was bad. Spoiled, maybe? Then another flavor, with the same result. I switched brands and locations, only to find that this shop, too, was trying to kill me. It was an ice-cream conspiracy.

It took a full year and countless more poisonings (milk, cream cheese, ranch dressing, mozzarella) for light to dawn on this foggy head. The culprit was lactose. Lactose? I didn’t even know what the heck that was. But you knew, didn’t you, Stomach? And you’d decided: No more.

With one fell swoop, you’d taken away most of my favorite foods. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. Just another one of middle age’s indignities. But you couldn’t stop there, could you? Nooooo. Now, suddenly, I can’t eat sugar substitutes. Or apples. You’re not crazy about caffeine anymore, either, or any kind of alcohol. And I guess I can forget about eating or drinking anything at all after 9pm.

Basically, you want me to live like a monk. While I’m at it, I might as well invest in a few monk’s robes, too, because despite not being able to eat anything good in my fifties, I also somehow manage to gain 15 pounds per week. Per day? Whatever it is, it defies all biological principles. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to find the “Mid-Life, Lactose-Intolerant, Stubborn Body Fat” section of the clothing store. So a flowy friar’s frock it is.

Sorry. I digress. And I seem to have lost my place in the notecards, here…

I guess what I’m trying to say is: This writing thing, this creativity thing, has always been a partnership. Didn’t we have fun back in the days when nausea was the exclusive province of seasickness and people guzzled “orange drink” without any idea of what it actually contained? When a full, happy belly was the perfect fuel for an active imagination? I know I took you for granted. But that happens in all long-term relationships, right? I swear, I can change if you can.

Let’s start here, tonight, at this beautiful awards ceremony. I think we’ve earned a glass of champagne, don’t you? Maybe a passed canape or two? If I promise to limit my intake, can you promise to limit our bathroom breaks to just, I don’t know…one or two an hour?

When they told us to take a bite out of life, dear Stomach, I think they might have meant it literally. So let’s do it. Just you, me, this incredible award, all these wonderful people, and a handful of Lactaid pills. Unlike us, friend, the night is young. And full of delicious possibilities.”




HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I am holding my stomach–with laughter! SO hilarious! How about you, Reds and Readers?  Is your stomach your co-author--or co-reader? Mine is very partial to lattes and almonds. And Crunchmasters crackers. Cheese sticks. And tohse little yellow tomatoes. It is no longer so fond of green peppers, and cannot even think about red onions. (This is rarely a problem, except with pizza.)


(PS. ANd the winner of Adele Parks’ FIRST WIFE'S SHADOW from yesterday is Alicia Haney! Email me at hank@hankphillippiryan.com with your address!

T.M. Blanchet is the author of The Neath Trilogy: Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans (OperationDeltaDog.org).


About THE NEATH TRILOGY

Ollie is trying. He really is.

He's trying to lose weight in the biscotti-and-bolognese wonderland of Boston's North End.

He's trying to recover from his mother's recent death.

Most of all, he's trying to battle the loneliness that comes with being 19, living in a shoebox, and working a dead-end job. No girlfriend, no parents, no friends.

Well, he does have one friend. Nell.

But she's gone missing.

At first, Ollie pretends that he hadn't noticed Nell's bruises and skittish behavior. Then, finally, he faces the facts: Nell is gone, and probably in danger. And he might be the only one who can help.

What he doesn't know--couldn't know--is that his journey to find her will take him far below the streets of the city into a dangerous, underground world: a place where magic spills like blood, humans are not quite human, and notions of justice and revenge are as murky as the cavern's brackish waters. And this time, trying just won't be enough.

What We're Writing: Revisions and First Drafts

JENN McKINLAY: First the news: I have some new deals!

 

I try to only work on one project at a time, but occasionally there is a log jam in the workflow and I end up writing a draft while revising another work. This has been my life over the past few weeks and while I'm happy to work on both it does require shifting gears especially when one is a fantasy and the other a romcom. 

Constant vigilance is needed or magic might appear in the romcom THE SUMMER SHARE (coming 2026) or an overly smexy scene will slip into the fantasy WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN (October 2025 - which is up for pre-order now - just click the title) although I think that's an acceptable crossover.

Thankfully, I turned in the revisions this weekend and I could not be more pleased with how my first fantasy came out. So, now I'm back in the saddle to finish the romcom in the next week so I can start the library lover's mystery mentioned above. A busy year - my favorite type!

Sneak peek at a bit of the cover which has not been finalized...yet.

Here's a snippet of WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN to encourage you to click that BUY link!

     October was my favorite month as the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans and sweater weather returned.  As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet. 

     The village of Wessex where I lived and worked was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school, leaving to go to university in New Haven and then doubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home. 

     As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses looked like real people as opposed to American television where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person. 

     I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex where everyone knew everyone, I wasn’t as worried about crime as I was a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn’t that bad things didn’t happen here, of course they did, it’s just that it was very rare and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass so it wasn’t a big surprise.

     Thump!

     The noise sounded again only more forcefully. I put my bowl down on the coffee table and shoved my chenille throw aside. I crossed the room to the front door and switched on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn’t want to get into with him. The porch was empty. 

     Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side. The only items were my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work that afternoon. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?

     I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn’t really Bill’s style, he was more of a dad joke type of guy, but he was the only person who knew about the mysterious book so logic dictated it had to be him.

     “Not funny, Bill!” I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there. 

     I picked up the envelope  and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I’d felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone not leaving ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn’t even felt hot. Okay, if this was a prank, it was next level. 

     I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. It was an old response I’d developed as a kid when my mother had used her witchcraft to make flowers dance in the air or gave our dog colored spots just to make me laugh. My father’s worry for her and his fear of something happening to her because of her magic had conditioned me to feel anxious whenever magic was present.

     I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, locking the deadbolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light, the edges of the pages were jagged and uneven, and the book’s hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use. I couldn’t tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife. 

     Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn’t budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn’t Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope go poof…nope. I refused to go there. 

     The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound. I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip of my middle finger to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin…on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting I was wearing my pajamas. 

     Relief whooshed inside of me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn’t work. It couldn’t…because I was already awake. 

     I glanced down at my kitchen counter where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.

      Shit! I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleep walking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin? Why? 

     I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the blood off the counter. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towel in the trash and stood staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag? 

     Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, I couldn’t quite hear the words, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goosebumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn’t and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.

     I’d had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.

The release date for WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN is October 28, 2025, which feels appropriate. I've already outlined book two in the series and will start writing that after I finish the library lover's, which means I'll likely be revising THE SUMMER SHARE at the same time. I'm trying not to think about it right now.

Tell me, Reds and Readers, when your life is a log jam of projects, how do you manage them? Any tips welcome.

It's All an Illusion, a guest post by Jeri Westerson

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I've been a fan of Jeri Westerson since way back in mumble mumble when I blurbed one of her early Crispin Guest historical mysteries, a terrific series she describes quite accurately as "medieval noir." This penchant for blurring the lines between genres - or for inventing her own! - has come to fruition in her newest series, the Enchanter Chronicles. Which are historicals. And fantasies. And steampunk. And mysteries!

The second in the series, CLOCKWORK GYPSY, is coming out oh-so-appropriately on Hallowe'en, which gives you time to get started on THE DAEMON DEVICE, which introduces Leopold Kazsmer, The Great Enchanter, and the Special Inspector from Scotland Yard, Mingli Zhao.

Today, Jeri is going to tell us about the fantastical lives of Victorian magicians - and how they inspired her steampunk sensibilities.

 

“Strange how people imagine things in the dark.”

–Ira Erastus Davenport, Showman/Spiritualist c. 1910

 

Yes, they do. That’s most of the magic of the stage magician and, ideally, a magician plying his trade in the late nineteenth century.

 

I was solidly immersed in the medieval era, writing my Crispin Guest Medieval Noir mystery series. Then I made a little side trip in my research into Jewish mysticism and discovered “daemons” (the helpful kind) as opposed to “demons” (the dangerous kind) and all the symbolism behind numbers, colors, and even “magic words” in Jewish myth and mystery.

 

Magic got me to thinking about the fascinating time period of magicians in the late nineteenth century, where séances and the investigation into the next world compelled and enthralled, and science was still crossed with a certain level of mysticism, where maybe magic was a real possibility.

 


 

So I ventured from writing medieval mysteries to steampunk—a subgenre of science fiction and fantasy inspired by the steam-powered era. Technology is strictly steam-powered, even advanced technology, inspired by the works of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne, steampunk masters though they didn’t know it. The aesthetic involves top hats, goggles, gears, corsets, dirigibles, magic, and devices.

 

Magicians of the late Victorian era fascinated with their supposed close association to the supernatural world. Sometimes they never dropped character so they would seem all the more mysterious to the public. Like nineteenth century African American William Ellsworth Robinson who went by the stage name Chung Ling Soo. He played his part so well no one knew he was American, let alone a black man.

 

 As magician Fred Kaps once said, “Misdirect all the time.”

 

 

Strangely enough, Chung Ling Soo is best known for the failed bullet catch trick…that killed him. On stage. During a performance.

 

Howard Thurston, another American magician known as “The King of Cards”, was a champion of card tricks. “My object is to mystify and entertain. I wouldn’t deceive you for the world,” he said, all the while deceiving you. That was the trick, after all. To make it appear as if it really were magic. As if there was no trick at all. The more dangerous the conjure, the more amazing the magician appeared as he walked back onstage after escaping certain death without a scratch on him.

 

Charles Joseph Carter performed his tricks on stages all over the world. You might recall his posters that bragged that “Carter Beats the Devil”. In fact, many of the colorful posters of magicians of the past—including Carter’s—featured demons, little devils, and ghostly apparitions.

 

Some magicians bragged that they used the help of spirits in their acts in a time when spiritualism was at its zenith, and many mediums of the day included the illusionist’s art when staging their own private performances that they called séances. The veil between magician and medium was very thin indeed.

 

It was little wonder I got the idea to make my magician, Leopold Kazsmer a man of Jewish/Romani blood and ashamed of both, and styled himself as an English gentleman. He knows how to perform illusions but also the dangerous art of summoning Jewish daemons in order to perform real magic for his act…and to occasionally save the world through sleuthing for Scotland Yard.

 

French magician Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, father of modern magic, (and incidentally where Harry Houdini got his stage name), said, “A conjuror is not a juggler; he is an actor playing the part of a magician…I may even add that where sleight-of-hand is involved, the quieter the movement of the performer, the more readily will the spectators be deceived."

 

I think writers have a little magician in them, especially mystery writers. Readers trust what we write. They believe. They are misdirected…if we can keep the reader from seeing just how the trick is performed.

 

And hey, if I have to summon a daemon or two to get the job done, I will. Nothing up my sleeve. Promise.

-------------

Los Angeles native JERI WESTERSON is the author of historical novels and fourteen Crispin Guest Medieval NoirMystery novels, a series nominated for thirteen national awards from the Agatha to the Shamus. Jeri also writes the Enchanter Chronicles, a historical fantasy/steampunk mystery series, the latest of which is CLOCKWORK GYPSY. See her other paranormal series and historical novels at JeriWesterson.com. You can also friend her on Facebook, follow her on Instagram as @jeriwestersonauthor, and chat with her about books on Goodreads.

Long Ago in a Galaxy Far Away

RHYS BOWEN: When I was a college student I adored science fiction. John Wyndham, Arthur C Clark, Heinlein, Asimov and especially Ann MaCaffrey (as I liked that touch of romance even in those days). Then real life intervened. I went to work. I married. I had kids and somehow distant planets and dragon riders lost their appeal. My escape reading became mysteries, apart from Connie Willis, whose brilliant writing has captivated me with each of her books. (And I still think Ray Bradbury's short stories are among the best ever written. Especially The Veld.

But this summer I was going through my bookcases, weeding out books I will never read again and I came upon Ann McCaffrey's Crystal Singer. How I loved that book when I was young!  I so I decided to re-read it and I find my love for galaxies long ago and far away to be rekindled. I've just re-read Restoree and some Ursula McGuin. Next up are the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy books, and John Wyndham. Did you ever read the Day of the Tryffids? Scared me silly when I was eighteen. I wonder if it will do so now?

So I wonder what this shows about my mental state? That I am itching to explore new worlds, stretch my horizons, OR that I just need to read something very different from the books I write.  So tell me, dear Reds, are you or were you ever science fiction fans? What do you read when you want to escape?

LUCY BURDETTE: Honestly, I don't think I've ever read any science fiction--except for Ray Bradbury. And he scared me so badly, I've never gone back. What would you recommend as a great starter book?

HALLIE EPHRON: I read a lot of scifi and fantasy when I was younger. One of my all-time favorites: Heinlein's STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND. Also Vonnegut's PLAYER PIANO and SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE and CAT'S CRADLE. I'm a huge fan of THE HUNGER GAMES. A scifi mystery novel I loved was THE EYRE AFFAIR (wit, time travel, characters from JANE EYRE get kidnapped.) I did read Day of the Tryffids. After I saw the movie. When I go to writing conferences it seems like all the talented young writers are writing YA sci-fi and fantasy.

RHYS: Oh yes, The Eyre Affair. Brilliant. I adore parallel universes and this one was so clever. Whole towns reciting Richard III together!



HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Yes, yes, love sci-fi. Although I guess I don't read it much any more  Hmmm.. DUNE, and STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND, which I have to say was profoundly life-changing for me, and i still think about it. (Lucy, maybe start there?)  Kurt Vonnegut? Yes, yes, of course, and Arthur C Clark, CHILDHOOD'S END. And Hitchhikers Guide--LOVE! (Don't panic!)


So here's a question for you. One of the best scifi pieces I ever read was about four children, woh lived in the woods or something, and they had magic powers but only when they were together. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the name of it. Anyone, anyone? It has been bugging me for decades.

Oh, and finally? My short story for the next X-FIles anthology was accepted. The X-Files people (the real X-Files people!) said I hit it out of the ballpark. Whoa. Whole new worlds--ha ha---open up.

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Rhys, I'm with you and love fantasy and science fiction. I grew up on the Narnia books, Ursula LeGuin, The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, and yes, the Anne McCaffrey books! (Especially dragon Song, Dragon Singer, and Dragon Drums.) As young adult I loved Stephen R. Donaldson' Mirror of Her Dreams books and everything by Neil Gaiman. And now it's all about George R.R. Martin, who needs to write faster!

One thing that occurred to me as I was recently rereading T.H. White's The Once and Future King is how many authors affected by World Wars I and II turned to fiction to express their ideas about a battle of good and evil. There's White, of course, and also C.S. Lewis, and J.R R. Tolkein, too. I am just rereading Lloyd Alexander's Taran Wanderer books with my son and finally put together that although Alexander was writing in the 60s, he was a World War II veteran. One of those things I ponder...

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Lucy, I agree--you might read Stranger in a Strange Land. When I read it as a teenager it seemed earthshaking. I wonder what I would think of it now? I read most of the books mentioned, as well as things like The Gormenghast Trilogy (which I didn't really like, but images from it have stayed with me all these years... Funny how that works.) I have NOT read The Hunger Games yet--I'm saving those for when I don't have a book due...

Susan, The Once and Future King is one of my favorite books of all time. And when I reread LOTR last spring, I kept thinking about the the effect the war(s) had on so many writers, and how they passed those perceptions on to us...

Hank, are you sure you're not thinking about A Wrinkle in Time? There were four children, although the older twins don't figure in the story as much. And there were definitely woods!

The sci-fi I've read most recently was The Shades of London trilogy by Maureen Johnson. So interesting how sci-fi/fantasy/paranormal fiction seems to be gateway reading for teenagers and young adults.

HANK: Nope, sigh, Debs, I know A Wrinkle in Time by heart. And I think about Once and Future King every day, Susan. EVERY DAY. Oh! I forgot, if we're doing YA fantasy, the very best ever, the Edward Eager books, like Knight's Castle. AND! A Diamond in the Window by Jane Langton. And--A VIsit to the Mushroom Planet!  Oh. Wonderful. But those aren't really sci-fi.


JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Oh, A Visit to the Mushroom Planet! How I loved that series as a child! Probably my gateway into science fiction, followed by Robert Heinlein's juveniles (as YA fiction was called back in the day) and then a drop off the cliff into the literary and New Wave SF of the 60s and 70s: Joanna Russ, Cordwainer Smith, Frank Herbert, Ursula LeGuin... now that I think about it, I can say science fiction helped make me a feminist, reading James Tiptree, Jr., Suzy McKee Charnas an, Octvia Butler, among others.

I really fell away from the currents of SF in the eighties and nineties - partially because college, grad school, law school and motherhood took up a lot of time when I could have been reading books! And partially because I never enjoyed cyberpunk or the post-human futurism that were the big platforms in those decades. I continued to read older authors - which is undoubtedly why my half-a-sf-novel was deemed out of date and unmarketable when I workshopped it at the World Science Fiction Convention in 1997. I still like to say I'm a failed SF writer who had to turn to mystery instead...

As "New Space Opera" ascends as the latest movement in SF, I'm reading contemporary novels a lot more. As a matter of fact, the most recent books I've read are all SF, because I can't touch crime fiction or thrillers when I'm writing! The End of All Things by John Scalzi, The Martian by Andy Weir (really, so good! Read it before the movie comes out.) Depth by AC Lev Rosen (a SF mystery) A Darkling Sea by James Cambias. Next up, Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie, a debut novel that won the Hugo, Nebula and Arthur C Clarke awards. (In crime fiction terms, that would be like a brand-new novelist sweeping the Edgar, Anthony, and Golden Dagger awards.)

And of course, I have to give a shout out again to my favorite author of all time, Lois McMaster Bujold. She has a new Vorkosigan book coming out in 2016, which makes me so happy I could go supernova.

RHYS: Thanks for the great suggestions, Reds. I have new reading material ahead of me. Any more books I should read, dear readers? Who is a fan of fantasy or science fiction?

Yes, Virginia,...

     DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
     Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
     Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
     Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

                               VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
                               115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Have you noticed a lot of people seem to get their noses
out of joint about Santa these days? Maybe it's just on the Internet, where we all feel compelled to give our unvarnished opinion as firmly as possible, but it seems like there's a cloud of disapproval over the jolly old elf. There are folks who don't like Santa elbowing infant Jesus out of the picture. There are folks who dislike Santa's tie-in to the commercial feeding frenzy. But most of the comments I've seen are from virtuous citizens who are shocked and appalled that we are LYING to CHILDREN. Won't someone think of the children?

As someone who makes a living by writing down lies and convincing others to buy them, this doesn't particularly bother me. I'm a great proponent of myths, fables, fairy tales and fiction. I've taught my kids that they should never let the truth interfere with a good story. There are many things that ought to be fixed in our society today, but an excess of fancy is not one of them.


Besides, I believe in good Saint Nick, and I'm, shall we say, considerably older than eight. When I was ten or eleven or so, my mother sat me down and had a serious talk with me. She explained that Santa was the spirit of loving and giving, and as such, could never die. The details of how that love and generosity made their way into the world were not the important part.

So how about you, Reds? What have you taught your kids or grandkids - and what did you believe when you were a little girl? What's your take on Father Christmas and his fellow travelers -  fairies and angels, ghosts and golems?


DEBORAH CROMBIE: I'm with you, Julia! I say, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story--or elf!" People who won't let their kids believe in Santa are just big spoilsports, in my opinion. My parents never had the "the talk" with me. They knew by the time I was about seven that I knew they were Santa, but everyone enjoyed the tradition too much to give it up.

We still have Santa at our house--only now my daughter does my stocking. I track Santa on NORAD on Christmas Eve.  Why take a little magic away from children, or grown-ups, when there is so much sadness in the world?


JULIA:   Deb, as an Air Force and Army kid, I used to listen to the hourly updates on Santa's flight on the Armed Forced Radio Service. Now, like you, the kids and I follow along online.


RHYS BOWEN: I'm another who has never stopped believing. We have one daughter who told her kids from day one that there was no Santa, and another daughter whose kids still half believe at ten (she's also the one who has her daughters put out their shoes on the night of the full moon and the moon fairy leaves a treat). The plan is always to keep these two families apart at Christmas time.

I think any ounce of innocence or magic has to encouraged in this commercial world where the media is full of violence and tragedy.



HANK PHILLIPI RYAN: This is the strangest thing. Reading your question, I asked myself--did I ever truly believe in Santa?  A person in a red suit who came down the chimney,etc?   And I don't remember. I don't remember. Oh. Did I just get old?

I DO remember, at some point, thinking "that's pret-ty unlikely." Don't get me wrong. Omens? Yes. ESP? Yes. Alien life on other planets? Possible.


JULIA: And thus, an investigative reporter was born.

HANK: I believe in secret gifts, and secret good deeds, and anonymous charity and outrageous tips for the holiday season.  But, did I ever believe in Santa? Let me think about that.

HALLIE EPHRON: I don't remember ever believing in Santa Claus, either. I remember thinking Santa was like the Wizard of Oz, a character in a story. Which was wonderful enough. I just asked my kids and they don't remember believing in SC either, though my younger remembers being terrified of him (she had a very bad feeling about the Easter Bunny, too.)

For me Christmas wasn't about religion or Santa Claus, it was about gifts and traditions passed down. And of course, food. Christmas morning: buttery scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and Wolferman's jams... growing up, it was the ONLY morning my mother ever cooked and the only breakfast we all sat down to together.


LUCY BURDETTE: Oh yeah, I believed in Santa. But when my sister (who is eleven months older than me) asked my parents how come the poor kids didn't get as much stuff as we did for Christmas, they sat us both down and told us the truth. I was shocked, I tell you, shocked. The curtain yanked away from the wizard at the age of seven.

But after that it was kind of fun to help spin the story for my two younger siblings. We made up a tradition called an "elf tree", which involved elves leaving a big branch decorated with ribbons and little presents on the front porch on Christmas eve. The whole family is still very attached to stuffing stockings with good loot--not too heavy on the tangerines and nuts, thank you very much:). Here's a joke I played on my family the year after someone complained that my stocking seemed to have more in it than theirs...

  (Bobbie is Lucy/Roberta's family nickname)


JULIA:  I'm sure they were very pleased to see what Santa had brought them, Lucy!

I'm going to leave the final word to my favorite author, Lois McMaster Bujold. From her book, MIRROR DANCE:

     “It’s like trying to give a Winterfair gift to Father Frost himself."

     “Yes, I’ve been puzzling over that one.”

     “Sometimes you can’t give back. You just have to give on. Did you, ah … sign those credit chits to the clones?”

     “Sort of. Actually, I signed them ’Father Frost.’ ” Mark cleared his throat. “That’s the purpose of Winterfair, I think. To teach you how to … give on. Being Father Frost is the end-game, isn’t it?"

     "I think so.”

     “I’m getting it figured out,” Mark nodded in determination.

 How about you, dear readers? Will you be leaving milk and cookies out tonight?