Dear 2013

Dear 2013,

you were a good year.
You were also a long and often boring year, but that's okay. I missed traveling, that's why you seemed to drag a bit. But the good things far outweigh a few days of boredom. Really.

Let's see.
You started out as always, with a nice party and lots of champagne, and with disappointingly mild weather, when we all wanted snow for Christmas and NYE. You heard us ask for that, and you brought us the coldest spring in history, only you forgot the snow. I'm telling you, icy cold without snow just isn't fun!
The one thing that made your tantrums bearable – except hot chocolate and heating – was this:

My second book won the Silver Independent Publishers Award.
I'll not lie. It was totally unexpected. Under the Same Sun was my second book, and I felt totally insecure about it. My first book, Distant Shore, had been ripped out of my hands by my publisher before it was even properly finished; I'd written it for myself, and never thought of publishing, and there I was, in May 2013, with two published books, and both of them with awards.
Unreal.

In July, my third book was released by my publisher Buddhapuss Ink.
In a moment of quirkiness I'd asked them if the launch day could be my birthday, and they readily agreed. So that's what happened: we had double reason to celebrate!

My mom made that marble cake. The cream cake is a caipirinha cake, made by my daughter-in-law.
And yes, that's a theme cake, with my book cover on it! For those who want to know: there was chocolate cream cake under the marzipan.

I took a huge risk writing Song of the Storm. My publisher wasn't very happy when I first told them that I was going to write about 9/11, but once the book was written and the good reviews started rolling in they breathed a breath of relief, and I knew I'd done the right thing.
Readers posted pics of themselves, reading Song of the Storm:

and

and

and this is how my copies arrived: with the IPPY certificate, and the medal for Under the Same Sun as an extra-bonus!

And the coolest EVER for a writer is to see their books at the bookstore!

While all this went down, I wrote two new books.
They're prequels to the Stone Trilogy, and they'll be released next year.

No, wait. THIS year! It's 2014, and that makes THIS year the year these two will be published:

So all in all, you were a very good year, 2013.
I have a lot to be thankful for: my family is healthy and doing well, we live in a country where it's peaceful and we don't have to worry about bombs, persecution, hunger or repression.
I have wonderful friends, both near and far, and some of those far away I'll be seeing again this year.

This is what I wish for all my friends and family for the new year:
stay safe, stay healthy, have a lot of fun! Thank you for being in this world!

Tales from Frewyn Blog Hop!

Follow the tour!


Once again, author friend Michelle Franklin rocks the boat with her Frewyn stories! Follow her on her blog hop to celebrate Tales of Frewyn Vol.2 and meet all the lovely characters as they stumble, wander and trot through their adventures!


Featuring appearances from thirty of the Haanta series' most beloved characters, Tales from Frewyn Volume Two pays tribute to the animals that inhabit the world of the Two Continents. From Mr Cluck, the rooster that refuses to crow, to Tuatha, the stubborn Westren longhorn, the series boasts a multitude of strange and wonderful creatures, including traveling mice, mischievous mares, vicious rats, and eloquent gulls. Join everyone in Khantara Ghaasta, the Diras Castle keep, and the far reaches of Westren and Haantaledhran in honouring their feathered companions and furred friends with this collection of their most daring and delightful episodes.

Buy the book at: Amazon | Barnes and Noble | iTunes | Smashwords

Read-Along: The Rat, Pt. 3

To the barracks they went, leaving Martje to fumble about in the wreck of pots and pans hunting for her new nemesis.
"Not another mouse is it?" said Sheamas, setting his consignment down.
"Worse," said Shayne.
Sheamas looked dreadful. "Gods be praised, it's never a rat, is it?"
"So I heard."
Sheamas removed his hat and held it to his heart. "May the Gods preserve us," he said solemnly. "Martje will tear the place apart lookin' for it, even if it's not in the kitchen anymore. Once, when Ma was just teachin' her how to cook, she found a rat scratching about in the pantry. It was a small one, but it scared her somethin' terrible. Lochan had been keepin' it as a pet for the winter and was lettin' it wander around the house. He kept it clean and it was harmless, but the moment Martje saw it, that was the end of all peace. She hollered and hallooed, and chased it round till she flattened it with her pan."
Shayne grimaced.
"Aye. She cleaned it up and buried it outside, but when Lochan heard about it, he cried for a week." Sheamas replaced his cap and scratched his neck. "On the farms, we all got mice, but they mostly stay in the barn or keep to themselves. Nothin' to be done for it in the country. Here in the city, though, a rat in a home means somethin' else. Worse on you, Shayne, if you ever got a mouse or a rat in your cottage."
"If I do somewheres, I hope she never finds 'em," said Shayne, with a horrified aspect. "She near broke the furnace when it wasn't heatin' proper. I can't think of what she's gonna do to the range if she sees a mouse a-scurryin' across it." Shayne mused momentarily, taking his pipe from the front of his overalls and chewing on the end. "But she grew up on the farm," he said, confused. "Mice are everywhere in the fields, a-runnin' across your feet and all."
"You're assumin' she ever left the house," Sheamas chuckled.
Shayne made a grave thrum and folded his arms, biting the end of his pipe.
Sheamas secured the lid on the consignment and prayed to the Gods, asking that the rat, wherever it was, have the good sense to leave the keep before Martje find it. His heart went out to the creature, for having seen how the business was handled when there was a mouse in their mother's home, he sincerely wished that no creature be put through such torment for doing what nature had designed. It was only cold and hungry and probably lost, but Shayne was asking Sheamas to come into the armoury and say hello to Tomas, and the rat must be left to its fate.
Word of the rat's presence soon spread throughout the keep, and from everyone's reaction, the small creature might as well have been a vulture, come to roost on the battlement and lay siege to the castle: the nobles locked themselves in their apartments with their card tables and tea, the servants lifted the hems of their skirts and hid in the servants' hall, and though everyone was in some manner or other aware of the creature skulking and slenching about, no one was more sensible of its presence than the king.
The moment the commander broke the news to him, the king replied with a slightly discomposed "Oh..." stood from his seat in the library, where he was looking over the matters at court for the day, and began inching toward the door. He looked under tables, around corners, behind chairs, even beneath his parchments. "Well," said Alasdair, after a moment's pause, "I'm certainly glad I didn't eat anything this morning."
"It probably wandered in from the square," said Boudicca. "It is collection day. It probably came from one of the waste carts."
Alasdair was instantly horrified. "That means it's going to bring all its filth and disease here." He shuddered in quiet anguish and sidled the commander, looking charily about his feet.
"Diras Castle is the cleanest home on the Two Continents, Alasdair," she laughed. "One rat shall not ruin your reputation as the shining master of Frewyn's premiere house."
"No, but the rat might find its way into my closet and gnaw on my jerkins and gnash through my bow strings."
"Poor you, Alasdair. And this is what discomposes Frewyn's king, not a declaration of war, not a rebellion, not even the sight of Rosse's unconscionably tight galligaskins, but a rat."
"As horrifying as Rosse's clothing choices are," said Alasdair, searching under the nearby tables, "they are not contagious."
"I daresay they are. Atrocious fashion is far more catching in the courts than disease can ever be."
"Rats can carry rabies."
"And nobles carry fatuousness, which is the worst of the two, I assure you. Bilar can treat illness, Alasdair, but no cleric's remedy can cure ignorance."
Alasdair sighed. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm overacting--" but just then, a skree was heard in the hallway, the shrieks of young girls echoed throughout the keep, and Alasdair nearly leapt on the commander. "I'm calling the trapper," he said, in a panic.
"I think you need not trouble yourself when you have many proficient hunters in the keep, Alasdair. Gaumhin or Brigdan might help you."
"They are in the yard training with the Royal Guard. I'm not going to trouble them for this."
"But their king is in distress, and it is their duty to protect him."
Alasdair gave her a flat look. "I might ask the whole armed forces to search for the rat for that reason."
"And why not? It should be an excellent exercise for them. The Royal Guard are so busy marching about the borders of the keep, they might be in want of a little amusement. And what of Ennan? It might be good practice for him to be shooting at such a quickly moving target."
"If the rat should bite him, I would never forgive myself."
"You might ask Soledhan to charm it out of the keep."
"I want none of the children near it."
"And Khaasta?"
"Martje would never allow that cat in her kitchen again after all the milk it spoiled."
"My mate can be asked."
"So he can skin it and gut it and wear it as a trophy?"
The commander shrugged. "It will be dead, at least."
"I want no one I love going near it--not even Rautu. I know Martje is determined to kill it herself, but I cannot allow it knowing what infections this thing might be host to."
"Alasdair," said Boudicca laughingly, shaking her head, "you are far too scrupulous."
"I think you mean endearing in this instance."
"That as well. And what of your queen, Alasdair? Her workplace is not far from the kitchen. The rat might be lurking about her tailor this very moment."

---

About the Author: Michelle Franklin is a small woman of moderate consequence who writes many, many books about giants, romance, and chocolate.
Follow the author at: Website | Facebook | Twitter

Giveaway is open internationally and ends on December 25, 2013. Winning entry will be verified prior to prize being awarded. No purchase necessary. You must be 18 or older to enter or have your parent enter for you. The winner will be chosen randomly via Rafflecopter and announced on the widget as well as emailed; they will have 48 hours to respond. Failure to respond will result in a new winner being selected. This giveaway is in no way associated with Facebook, Twitter, Rafflecopter, or any other entity unless otherwise specified. Number of eligible entries received determines odds of winning. Giveaway was organized by Paper Crane Books and sponsored by both the press and the author. Void where prohibited by law.
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The Perfect Gift

Reposted from my publisher, Buddhapuss Ink:

Did you know that you can give someone one of our kindle ebooks as a gift to anyone with an e-mail address?

Kindle book gift notifications can be sent to any e-mail address. The recipient can read the book on a registered Kindle device or with any free Kindle reading application on their smartphone, pc, or more. You don't need a Kindle device to send or receive Kindle books as gifts!

Here's how:
 
From the Kindle Store, select the book you want to purchase as a gift.
  

On the product detail page, click the Give as a Gift button.

Enter the personal e-mail address of your gift recipient.

Enter a delivery date and an optional gift message.

Click the Place your order button to finish your gift purchase using your Amazon 1-Click payment method.

Just think, no crowds, 

no gift wrapping, 

and for all you procrastinators  

 You can order on Christmas morning and they'll get it within minutes!

Why I Hate You

Of all the words in the universe (and the English language) my least favorite is probably "aspire".
Don't get me wrong - it's a nice sounding word in itself, and who ever made it up was probably very happy with it.
But… aspire.
Let's take a look at aspire. It feels like a thorn in my side, like something that hurts and itches every time I take a breath. What does it mean, this "aspire"?

I think the context in which I most hate it is when someone says, "I'm an aspiring writer".
That's something that, as a writer, I do notice, and hate.
Why do people say that of themselves, I wonder? Where do they think that line is, where they cross  from "aspiring" to "no-longer-aspiring", finished, or whatever they believe comes after "aspire"?

If you write, you're a writer. End of story. There's nothing to aspire to, in writing. The moment you start writing, you're a writer.

You can aspire to be a famous writer, an award-winning writer, a bestseller author. But if you're writing, you're a writer, and aspire – nothing.

"Aspire" has something painfully unfinished about it. It's a word of defeat before even having tried, a minimizing of possibilities, an admission of not being good enough for what you want to do.
It sounds like an excuse for a failure that hasn't even happened, like a formula of comfort if things go wrong.
It's a shield to hide behind when things don't go the way they were imagined.
Is it easier to say, "I'm aspiring to be a writer, but it's not working for me yet" than "I'm an unpublished writer looking for a publisher"?

How do we measure success? What makes a writer a writer? A finished manuscript? A published book? An award, a movie deal?

I think it's a measure of how seriously you take yourself as a writer, to be honest.
"Aspire" leaves that back door open for you to stop, give up, start something new without finishing what you previously started. "Aspire" is another word for "I can do whatever I want, and no one will blame me for it".

"Aspire" is the opposite of "dedication".
Being dedicated to your project means seeing it through, writing all the way to the end, editing it, and sending it off in a submission.

If you want writing advice from me, this is what you'll hear over and over again:
sit down, write, edit, submit.
It's that easy, and that hard. Don't aspire. Be dedicated.

Forget aspire. Find dedicate.

Blessed

Today we went Christmas shopping.

It's the last day of November, one day before the 1st. Advent Sunday, and the city was crowded.
It felt as if everyone was there, trying to spend their Christmas gratifications with a vengeance.
And yet, even though a million people are out and about, I love how relaxed most of them are. Sure, there's the occasional temper tantrum thrown by a kid who didn't get what they wanted (or maybe it was me, seeing a purse that made my heart beat fast).
What I like about Christmas shopping is the leisure, the thoughtfulness of picking things for people I love.
I like the shopping malls with their lights and Christmas decorations (and yes, that's my hubby's cut off arm), and I even like the special shopping bags with Christmas motives.

Being downtown, seeing all the people with their parcels and shopping lists, sitting down to a lovely Thai lunch, I got to thinking.

Do we even realize how blessed and privileged are? Do we take a pause often enough to appreciate what we have?

We sat down to lunch, my hubby and I, our full shopping bags somewhere under the table, and watched the Christmas parade through the window: Santa, the elves, the angels, music, glitter, and lights, children waving, parents watching, and without fear, without any worry.
At the table next to us sat another elderly couple, doing pretty much what we were doing. They were talking about the gifts they'd bought, and those they still wanted to buy, and smiled at the parade.

Blessed. Safe, spoiled, and blessed.
That's what we are. And I want us to stop and think about it for a moment.
Let's count our blessings: we live in the peaceful part of the this world. We have roofs over our heads, we are well-fed, healthy, we have houses or apartments with heating, warm water, light. We have beds! We have TVs and consoles, and computers, and cell phones, and most of us have at least one car.
We are blessed.
We have more than many on this planet will ever own, or even dream of owning.

These weeks before us, the December weeks that lead us to Christmas, will mean stress, impatience, even family drama and discontent to many among us.
Kids will complain because they're not getting the new Playstation 4, the new bike, a car, the iPhone 5s even though it was AT THE TOP OF THEIR LIST.
But there are kids who have never seen a Playstation, who don't even know what that is. Kids who'd be happy to have a better place to sleep than a corner of a refugee tent.
Some will complain about the family, about having to spend Christmas with them, about wanting quiet holidays, and not getting them.
But there are people who are lonely, who will spend their Christmas Eve lonely, wishing for family with all their hearts.

We are blessed.
We don't have to live in Syria and dread bombs and poison gas.
We are blessed, we don't have to sleep in gutters and beg for food.

I feel blessed. I'm grateful for having my family, my job, my cozy home. I'm grateful for my friends, for the love in my life, for the security and comfort.
It's Christmas time. It's the time when, even in the turmoil of shopping, cooking and baking, we should take that moment and step back from our busy lives, and realize: we are blessed.

Driving Home

It's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I'm reading all those posts on Facebook and twitter about friends rejoicing that their kids have arrived, are on the way, that they're going to the airport now to pick them up.
Others are on the road themselves, braving the storm and rain, or snow, to get to people they love and want to spend the weekend with.
Recipes have been posted back and forth, the grocery shopping for tomorrow has either been done, or is underway right now. I know that the stores are crowded, there may be little dramas unfolding about where to get the right kind of dinner rolls, or what kind of punch to brew.
Uh oh – that turkey will be too small for all of us, it's too big for the oven, did you remember to bring the cranberry sauce, and would someone please decorate the Christmas tree?

Thanksgiving, and how I've always envied my American friends.
There's something special, something very festive about Thanksgiving. It opens Christmas season in a wonderful way: families gather for a very special dinner, they go home, knowing everyone else will be there, too.

My favorite Christmas song has always been Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas.
We've often listened to it, driving into town for some Christmas shopping, and it made me happy and a bit heart-sick at the same time.
Going home for Christmas, that wasn't an option for us. Most of our Christmases were small, were celebrated with just the little family of my husband, me, and our two boys.
My parents didn't celebrate Christmas (my father being from India), and my parents-in-laws preferred to spend the winter on a tropical island, in the sun.
I've always wanted one of those big family gatherings. I'd have loved to sit down at a long table with my sister, her family, my husband's family, his sister, her kids.
I'd even gladly taken on the role of hostess, but it wasn't meant to be.
Now it's too late for that, of course. There comes a moment when everything changes, when you can't go back to what the family once was, or should have been.

Maybe it's me. Maybe it's because my family was always so splintered.
Maybe that's the reason why I miss these family gatherings so much.
I can even hear you say, "Oh, be happy you had small and peaceful Christmases! Family is such a chore!"
Yes, maybe they are. But they're also family.

So, all of you driving home today, enjoy your families. Yes, even that uncle or cousin that makes you want to go crazy.
Even the old aunt who knows everything better.
Please enjoy them. They're your family, and they love you.

And drive safely.





.

Somewhere Else

I don’t know what happened.

One moment I was in my apartment getting ready for bed, and the next I’m here. 

I remember exactly what I was doing: the cat had puked into my slipper. She always does that. Seriously, I should just get an extra pair of cheap shoes and put them out so she can barf into those and I won’t have to wear the ones I just cleaned when they’re still wet and all. 

So I’d cleaned the slippers, washed my hands, and brushed my teeth. I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, thinking that I was getting old. There are gray streaks in my hair now, and lines on my face. Mind you, not too many, and most of them are around the eyes, where you can always say they’re laugh wrinkles or whatever you call them. My knee was giving me hell again, like it always does when it’s wet and cold outside, and my boobs—seriously. Didn’t anyone in charge consider gravity  when they decided to give women boobs? I mean, really?

No wonder we get invisible when we reach a certain age. Who wants to see boobs that lost their battle with Planet Earth. No one. Not even me, and the stupid things are a part of me. 

It was raining. I clearly recall how it was splattering against the window, making that soothing noise that always lulls me to sleep right away. I’d brought out another quilt, and I could hardly wait to slip into my bed and snuggle up with the cat. I’d put on fresh sheets, too, which always makes going to bed an extra treat.

I like sleeping. I really do. I could sleep twelve hours every night, easily, and not be the worse for it. I could stay in bed all the time, the covers drawn up to my ears, always nearly asleep, half in a dream and half listening to the rain or the sound of traffic from the street below.

I’ve been thinking that I’m still there, maybe still dreaming. That would make sense. I’m dreaming this. This is nothing but a very long dream. I’m stuck in that place between waking and sleep, and this is where my dreams took me. 

That thought is really the only one that makes sense, and the only one that keeps me sane.

Just think: one minute you’re in your bathroom, staring at your boobs in dismay, and then WHAM you’re on a beach. And it’s not just any old beach, it’s a special beach, a weirdo beach, not a beach you’d find anywhere on Earth.

No.

It’s a beach with lavender sand, and the water isn’t any shade of blue or green or gray, it’s red. A deep, crimson red, like blood, like blood from a vein even, not the bright, gushy blood you get from an artery. It’s the dark, deep color of a garnet. There are trees lining the beach, but I’ve never seen that kind before. They’re a bit like palm trees, but then again not. Their fronds seem to be moving on their own accord, even against the wind, as if they’re alive. It’s very creepy. And they aren’t green as they should be, but cobalt blue. So is the grass under them. Bright blue. So blue it nearly hurts the eye.

The creepiest thing of all though is the sky. 

There are wheels and wheels of galaxies spinning up there, bright and sparkling galaxies, and they seem as close as the Moon would, on Earth. And even though the sky is dark, down here, on this damned beach, it seems the sun is shining. Only there isn’t any sun at all.

There’s a slight breeze from this freaky ocean, a breeze that smells of flowers and wet soil, not, as it should, of seawater. And there are no shells. Nothing. Nada. It’s as clean as a private beach at a very expensive resort.

Sometimes I think I can hear voices from somewhere under the trees, but I can’t make out what they are saying. Every time I walk toward them, they fall silent or seem to move away. 

I’m all alone. I’ve been alone for what seems like a small eternity. And I don’t know what happened. I’m here in this place in my pajamas. I’m not hungry, not sleepy, not thirsty, and time doesn’t seem to pass.

Maybe I’m dead. 

Maybe I died there in my bed, after falling asleep, and no one noticed, not even me. Maybe my decaying body is still there, and the cat is starving. 

Or maybe I’m just dreaming, and in a moment I’ll wake up, and the little beast will be there calling for her breakfast.

Or maybe I’m no longer on Earth.

Maybe I’m really on a different planet, transported here for a reason I still need to figure out, and I’ll never go back home again.

I think it’s time to leave the beach and venture inland. Who knows what I’ll find. Maybe there are others here. I’m tired of guessing and being alone.

And I really, seriously hope someone feeds the cat.