After all the months I’ve spent focused on school board obligations and the crisis our district has been facing for all of the 2023-2024 school year, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to focus on other aspects of life. Like writing.
Wait.
Am I an author?
I…I have a new book coming out later this year? What do you mean I have to promote it? What is this other side of my life?! Have I done this before? I don’t recall. Everything prior to July 9th, 2023 seems kind of fuzzy…
So imagine my surprise when I realized that September is less than six months away.
<slides from school boardroom, changes into daytime pjs, pivots to author cockpit>
Okay. Now I’m ready. (Just kidding. No one is ever ready for this. Regardless, onward.)
On September 24th, 2024, you’re invited to join me in celebrating the release of my fifth book, MARIT UNSANCTIONED, a young adult fantasy set in a new world full of familiar hopes, dreams, fears, and atrocities. Because teen life is anything but boring when it comes to fantasy fiction. So, what’s in store? Magic, adventure, newly-forged friendships, betrayal, self-acceptance, angst, and a maybe a taste of first love along the way.
When a girl who shouldn’t exist ends up with powers meant for the highest of nobility, she, a nobleman’s son, and their motley crew of friends race to discover the truth behind the long, bloody history of a powerful council that wishes them both dead thanks to the mix-up. What they learn can reshape the future for the better…if they can stay alive long enough to tell their story.
And so…without further ado, the cover reveal for MARIT UNSANCTIONED, with a very special thank you to artist, AK Westerman for her incredible work, even when I was indecisive and surely an annoyance to work with. (Love you, Angela! Thanks for crafting another spectacular cover!)
(Don’t you worry. I see that open space at the top… Hopefully, Kirkus reviews has good things to say before we head to print! <crosses fingers>)
Ever have the best news and no one to share it with? Ever have months of fighting for the rights of your children only to win in a zoning hearing and not quite believe it? Ever face eight vicious months of unprompted and intense attacks on your community, your person, and your school district?
I hope you never have to. I hope you never have to know the pressure and devastation of what we’ve faced this last year. I hope you never have a natural disaster that brings out the worst in some people while also bringing out the very best in others.
Last night, at 11:30 p.m., long after the rest of my family was in bed, I was still sitting in our school’s auditorium at the zoning hearing board meeting, waiting for a verdict.
Last night, our kids won.
After months of attacks on our children, our teachers, our school board, and our administration by residents whose solution to everything is to tell others, “You should move,” we finally have school buildings for our middle and high school students.
On Monday, I sat through three hours of a zoning board hearing that determined our elementary school could be reconfigured to be used for grades 3-8. Last night, I sat through four and a half hours of a second zoning board hearing that determined the building that houses K-3 could be switched to use for grades 9-12 next year. (Yes, we have a plan for K-2, it’s just not set in stone yet. One step at a time, please.)
So what’s the big deal? Why is this a victory so worthy of tears of relief? Because in the time since the school district announced its plans, it has been faced with constant challenges by the borough council and by residents who live near the schools, who bought or rented houses on the same block as schools, in neighborhoods that house schools. Why the adversity? They say don’t want students and traffic on their blocks, in front of their homes. The houses…already on the same blocks as schools that have been in use for decades and have daily traffic at drop-off and pick-up times? Those houses?
Yes, friends. I, too, am stunned. I certainly wouldn’t purchase a home next to a cow farm and then complain about the smell of manure and try to get the farm shut down. I wouldn’t purchase a house across from a factory, where tractor trailers may come in and out at all hours with goods being picked up or delivered, then expect the factory to cease to operate because I live there. And I wouldn’t purchase a home next to a school and then be angry at traffic and children every day. This is part of life when you’re living in a mixed-use neighborhood. Indeed, that section of our neighborhood is more urban than suburban with regards to street layout and building structures. Both the automobile and foot traffic that exist there have always been there.
In the last eight months, I have seen dozens of people come to school board meetings and hundreds show up at town hall meetings. The school’s predicament has served as a source of division and unity all in one.
I listened to old men cry out in anger about the public parking spaces they felt entitled to. I listened to irate opportunists who thought this was their chance to get the state to step in, prompt the school to fold entirely, or force another school to take over—people who were more concerned with their taxes than they were with the education of our children. I listened to furious old women complaining about the test scores, as though the value of our children is determined by a number printed on a standardized test score sheet.
These are human beings! I wanted to scream. These are children. Babies! Yes, even the sixteen-year-olds, the seventeen-year-olds. These are children. The mama bear I didn’t know I had inside came out of hibernation in full force. I have never been more glad to have been elected to the school board. I have never been so relieved to be in a position to say, “No. I will NOT let you force our children into a virtual education just so you can have a convenient parking spot. I will not let you take their childhood.”
And I wasn’t alone.
Friends, I wasn’t alone and that is the most glorious part of this entire tragedy. I found a fierce group of community members who were willing to protect these students like I was. They reached out to the local government, sat down with the superintendent to have the hard conversations, they spoke with local news stations, and they wrote and met with state lawmakers. These are the people who organized, created an informative and supportive website, made easily-sharable graphics, and rang the warning bells far and wide. They fought for our children the way no one else would. And the kids? Well, the graduating seniors made a documentary. The last few months have been like watching a Lifetime movie…in real life. And these are the people I am proud to call my neighbors and my friends.
I wish none of this had been necessary. I wish the state and federal governments had delivered when they promised help and financial aid. I wish the angry, isolated residents who want our children to cease to be part of this community hadn’t been given the opportunity to spread hate in the echo chamber of their community Facebook pages. I wish these people never heartily believed they could challenge the right of a school to exist in a neighborhood and win. I wish I hadn’t spent months terrified they might…but there was definitely a piece of me that wondered, “What if? What if they win and we have no school to send our children to? What if the opinions of 3 or 4 people on a zoning hearing board side with angry residents over our community’s children? What will we do?”
There are so many ugly pieces to this story that it’s hard to encompass them in one blogpost. Suffice it to say, many of the issues brought up by residents might not have been brought up at all if our neighborhood wasn’t one of mixed races and ethnicities. One resident who spoke last night made sure the audience understood just what he meant when he said the school district “didn’t used to be like this. In the sixties, it was better.*” Unironically, this was the same resident who openly admitted to hitting a kid with his car. (Even though no such report ever made it into the public eye or to the school board.)
*whiter
I’m appalled that anyone feels expressing such a sentiment is okay. I’m appalled that anyone believes feeling such a sentiment is okay. It’s not. It never has been. And it never will be. Not on my watch. And not on the watch of the hundreds of community members who fiercely bonded over this terrible shared experience and refused to let our children be placed second to the whims of the small portion of the community who are angry, racist, and misogynistic.
In the months leading up to this week’s zoning hearings, death threats were made against the school’s superintendent. Board members were bullied, threatened, and insulted online and in person. I was called a lapdog, a witch, and a ho. All because the school district needed a temporary plan to get our children learning in-person this year and a longterm plan to get our children learning in their own buildings next year and beyond. All because the school district was unwilling to view our children as test scores and a tax burden.
In this, I have at least found one beautiful silver lining. The parents, grandparents, neighbors, friends, students, and community members who came together to save this district and get our children in schools next year embody the words “We are the heroes we’ve been waiting for.” They lined up by the dozens last night, signing up as parties of interest, meaning they could actively be involved in the zoning hearing and participate in an appeal should one be necessary. Dozens. The line to sign up as a party of interest stretched down the aisle of the auditorium all the way to the back and beyond. I choked up, my heart swelling with hope that our school district and our students would emerge victorious, with love for so many of my new friends.
The children are children, and last night, they won. But it will take years, maybe decades to undo the damage caused by select residents of our community. The kids likely won’t forget. I only hope they also remember how many in our community truly believed in them and fought for them.
Oh dear. It’s mid-way through February and I haven’t yet written a blogpost. Let’s have at it, shall we? Let me spill the tea in all the ways about why I’ve refrained from writing, why I’ve abandoned the dear blog, and why I’ve put every ounce of my energy into things other than writing at the moment.
But first.
A celebration! Temper the Dark was selected as a finalist in the 2023 Ozma Fantasy Fiction Awards by the Chanticleer International Book Awards. My fierce dragon girl and her desire to change the world around her is near and dear to my heart. And…ironically, the situation at hand.
Storms! What’s the situation?
I’ve mentioned before that I was elected to our local school board. I love this job. With a passion. I love the children and the educators and the opportunity to be part of the change to make things better. But.
Board work has been all-consuming. In July, our district suffered a devastating flood which completely destroyed our middle school/high school, leaving our 7th through 12th graders without a building to call their own. This news hit more than just a little hard as my oldest child is a senior this year. This is the last year they get to spend in this district before moving on to new things. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. But when it comes to feeling the effects of losing a building, both of my children have had to make many concessions this year.
The good news? We found creative solutions. And we know where we’d like to be for next year. The bad news? The plan moving forward for next year and beyond requires the local borough to help rezone the school buildings we currently have. And rather than write a text amendment within their wheelhouse and allow everyone to move forward without further ado, they say they must “follow protocols” by insisting the district go before the zoning hearing board, adding an extra several months to the process.
Additionally? An extensive (and extremely expensive) traffic study is required. I’ll spare the details, but suffice it to say that very few people understand why these extra barriers are being required when the buildings in question are currently being used as schools within the district and are occupied *daily* by students. Changing grade configurations within the existing buildings is the only goal. (Disclosure: Renovations within the existing footprint of the buildings must be done in order to accommodate for grade changes.)
Bear with me. I’m bringing the entire story back around. I promise.
What so many of us cannot understand is that the borough council members who insist on laws and protocols being followed are the very people who can, quite literally, change the laws as needed. Of course I want our children safe. Of course I want inspections done and buildings up to code. But this is no normal situation where the school district is swapping grades because it feels like it might be fun to do or beneficial to the administration somehow.
The district is in a crisis and it seems to me like borough council doesn’t recognize the direness of the situation, like they can’t remember the natural disaster that was the heart of this entire set of circumstances.
Part of me wonders if they like hiding behind the laws they have the power to change. And part of me wonders if they maybe just don’t understand they have the power to change them…
How this relates to Temper the Dark. I told you I’d come back around. Remember that fierce dragon girl who wants to change her world? Our students want the same.
The only option the students grades 7 -12 have been given by the borough if the school isn’t allowed to rezone and renovate the buildings for appropriate grade levels is to “just go virtual.” (Yes, this was a statement shared by several of the council members, who apparently seem to have forgotten how much learning loss occurred during the Covid-19 pandemic, loss that still hasn’t been fully recovered.)
Our students are amazing and fierce and everything that’s right in this world. Unsatisfied with taking no for an answer, these kids have contacted news organizations and planned a walkout this week. They’ll visit borough hall with their signs and their chants and they’ll demand change. They’re standing up for their education, their lives, their futures. Our students are taking the civil rights lessons they’ve learned in the classroom and living them.
The word ‘proud’ doesn’t begin to cover what I feel for the children who are so much more mature than I ever needed to be at that age. These kids should be riding bikes and playing video games, hanging with their friends and watching soccer games.
Instead, they’re fighting for their future as fierce, independent teens who know their own worth.
So maybe my books aren’t fiction after all. Maybe there’s a bit of truth to be had.
I’ve written before about my neighborhood, the community, and how amazing this place I call home truly is. None of that has changed. But in being elected to the school board about eight months ago, I have seen a side of this community I never could have anticipated.
I’ve mentioned how our school faced devastating flooding in July that rendered an entire building unusable, displacing 550+ students. We’ve made do. We’ve shuffled everyone and everything and turned education on its head. We’ve found creative ways to keep kids in the classrooms and learning. Our teachers, faculty, and administration are actual magicians. There’s no other word for what they’ve done. It’s sheer magic. (And we’re so grateful for the partnership we’ve had with a local church and an area college.)
Now, as we consider long-term options, the cretins have begun to emerge. The people who would hate on our kids, judge them by state test score averages alone, believe them to be violent like no other generation, and think all they’re good for is sucking taxpayer money from the community (while ignoring the fact that someone else once paid for their schooling, too) – they’re screaming that every option we have available to us is the wrong one. All the while, they provide no alternatives of their own.
Paranoid and panicked, these people are stuck in endless loops, parroting one another, creating an echo chamber of anger and hatred. Everything they can do to make progress more difficult, they will do. Everything they can say to tear down board members, parents, teachers, and children, they will say.
“Merge with another district!” they scream. (We’ve been actively looking into all options, so this is already something we’re examining.) “Wait, not THAT district!” they yell. (“We don’t want our property values to drop!”) “The state should force a merger!” (Not legal according to the Pennsylvania constitution, but okay.) “Why don’t you let the Pennsylvania Department of Education step in?” they demand. (That’s not their job, nor do they want the burden of figuring out what the district is going to do moving forward.) “We can’t buy a building! Why don’t we fix what we already have?!” (Because fixing the flooded building and updating it to code is far more expensive than buying and utilizing another building already built within the district.)
It’s been like this since mid-July. And the questions? They circle around and around. And around. I have answered the same fifteen to twenty questions a dozen times each since the disaster. As has every other school board director.
But with the bad also comes the good. And those are my people. The ones who step forward and plan a music festival in less than 2 months’ time, those who create dozens of small fundraisers, who partner with other districts’ sports teams for help, and other community members who create and sell their art for the good of the school. The people who volunteer at the endless school events – teachers and parents and kids who show up and put in the time and effort because they love this community, this district.
Those times when the critics and naysayers wear me down are washed away when I see the number of people who pull together to make a difference, the number of people who feel about this community the way I feel about this community. Can we raise $60 million for a new school building? No. But can we each play just a small part in making things better? Yes. Yes, we can.
So, my friends, remember as you play your part in your own community, we have a choice. Every single day, we have a choice. We can be part of the problem, or we can be part of the solution.
I know what part I want to play.
Flooding devastated the school and community on July 9, 2023. The middle-high school has been unusable since.
But the part I neglected to mention is that pushing yourself to the max when you have a chronic illness is exhausting. And not in the “I’m really tired” sense, although there is, of course, regular fatigue to be reckoned with.
So instead of painting a picture with broad, unhelpful strokes, I’ll go ahead and make this image as detailed as possible so you, reader, can understand the full extent of what living with an invisible disability is like.
I’ve known for some time that I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS), a connective tissue disorder that’s the result of my body not producing (or not correctly processing) collagen. What does this mean? Well, it means anything and everything can hurt, ache, overextend, or be injured at just about any time. Tendons, muscles, ligaments, organs — all of it subject to issues cropping up at any time. Folks with hEDS? We’re the ones who injure ourselves by turning our head the wrong way. (It’s not wrong, for the record… It’s just temporarily wrong at that specific moment in time when a ligament, tendon, nerve, or bone has decided it should slip at precisely *that* moment.)
In a normal week, I keep my body in check with the amount of activity I engage in. If I push too hard, do too many loads of laundry at one time, spend too long in the kitchen or at the sink on my feet, I feel it. I develop a bone-deep ache in my entire body that’s only really fixable by sitting or lying down for a few hours. Essentially, this means in order to function in any normal capacity, I must take frequent breaks. To keep up with the regular hullabaloo, I nap almost daily.
But I only had two and a half days last weekend to catch up with friends after 26 years apart. There was a lot of information to cover, hundreds of stories to tell, and so much laughter to be had. So I pushed myself. I pushed far beyond where I should have. And I suffered as a result.
On day 1, I spent six and a half hours in the driver’s seat, which is already painful. Four hundred mg of ibuprofen and a heated seat helped significantly. But my tailbone is prone to shifting at times, so when we stopped for a coffee, I didn’t get out of the driver’s seat because getting out might mean not being able to sit down again. Best not to get up at all. Additionally, holding a steering wheel for this length of time also means my neck, shoulders, and upper back muscles tend to seize up, which they did. Again, the ibuprofen made all of this bearable. I could even forget after a while that my body had a problem at all.
Once at our rented home away from home, the four of us went out for dinner, during which we laughed and talked, ate amazing fare and drank expensive wine. By the end of dinner, my tailbone was screaming. Hard restaurant dining room chairs are not meant for people with mobile tailbones… (Hmm. I suspect tailbones aren’t meant to be mobile.)
Those are some hard chairs…
A quick trip to the grocery store involved more walking than I wanted to do, but was unavoidable. When we got back to the house, I settled on the couch in the living room, where we caught up on more gossip until one in the morning. My throat was painful and stretched tight by the time I headed to bed. Another dose of ibuprofen fixed everything enough to allow me to fall asleep.
On day 2, my entire body reminded me from head to toe that even though I was reminiscing about old times, I was not actually still eighteen. In fact, people with hEDS have bodies that act and feel more like twenty-to-thirty years older than their given age. So yeah. I definitely felt seventy-five that morning. But guess what? Another dose of ibuprofen helped!
And so I physically pushed through the day, walking two and a half miles through the local town, shopping along Main Street and enjoying the time together until we returned home for dinner and cocktails.
“How about we order take-out and eat in tonight?” I suggested. The idea was met with approval. I was grateful, oh so grateful! Did my friends know how much pain I was in? Did they know the reason I wanted to eat in was because I no longer had the energy to be in public any longer? I don’t know. But they agreed. Indian food take-out for the win. Maybe a personal win.
After dinner? The same routine as the night before, except this time we stayed up laughing and talking until TWO a.m. instead of one. My body was aching long before I went to bed, my throat screaming, this time so badly that it felt as though I was coming down with something. (I wasn’t.) So another dose of ibuprofen around ten p.m. and I was set to enjoy the rest of the evening.
It’s a terrible thing to feel sick and not be sick. (I mean, it’s terrible to feel sick and actually be sick, too, but…) Feeling this way takes every moment of joy and stains it with pain. I’ve never resented this disease so much as I did this weekend. It stole from me what should have been an effortless weekend with friends, making me constantly aware of just how hard I was pushing my body and just how long I was going to need to recover when I finally did get home.
Sure enough, a dose of ibuprofen on Saturday night was just what my body needed to pretend to be normal. But two late nights in a row talking and laughing was taking a major toll on my system. I awoke Sunday morning feeling as though I’d been hit by a truck. I’ve never been hungover in my entire life (I don’t really drink much), but I felt quite sure that this is what it must feel like. Another dose of, you guessed it, ibuprofen, and an hour later I felt ready to face the day.
We had a lazy start to the day, spent an afternoon walking along the bay, eating lunch at another amazing restaurant, and taking a brief shopping trip to Trader Joe’s. (We don’t have one near us. What a novelty!) By the time we got home, my entire body was, once again, screaming.
Funny thing about hEDS. I can push hard for a day, but then I have less reserve for the following day. Pushing hard for two days means even less left in my energy tank, and for three days even less than that. For people with chronic illness, it’s all about those spoons.
Nevertheless, knowing that this was our last night, I did the dumb thing, pushed through, and stayed up until one a.m. yet again, completely aware that my drive home was going to be an exceptionally difficult one. More ibuprofen before bed, and another dose first thing in the morning.
The drive home was hard. My vocal cords were shot, my throat tight and dry, and every muscle in my body ached. One of my friends rode with me, which kept me from thinking too much on my discomfort, but when I got home, everything caught up with me in about ten minutes’ time and I crashed. Unable to attend that night’s school board meeting in person, I called in via teleconference and took part from the warmth and comfort of my bed.
I continued to crash most of the next day, getting up to drive kids to school and appointments, and coming home to sleep again. It’s taken the better part of the week for me to regain my voice and even now, it’s still scratchy.
For the record, I’ve stayed away from the ibuprofen since returning home. One of my friends asked over the weekend if I ever varied my pain meds so as not to be so hard on my body, and I had to admit I don’t usually push this hard or need so much in the way of medication. Which is all true.
It’s difficult, though. It’s hard to see people my age with energy reserves vastly different from my own — ready to go out, able to stay up late and not feel terrible the next day, fine with walking miles upon miles several days in a row. It’s hard to see them so active and know I can’t be. On a regular day-to-day basis, my condition doesn’t bother me, but when I can’t keep up (or I pay dearly for trying to keep up), it’s eye-opening.
Still worth it? Hell, yes. The warmth and belonging felt by connecting with friends from long ago will always outweigh the physical hardships of travel and activity for me.
I’m learning, though. I’m learning how to say, “This is my limit” or “I can’t.” And the people who love me? Accept my limitations without bias.
True friends, through and through.
Oh, and also?
A reminder for whenever you spend time with your chronically ill friends!
This past weekend, I finally had the chance to meet with three high school friends for a getaway in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. We’ve been attempting to plan this trip since 2019 with our original date and location being October 2020 in Montreal. Suffice it to say, everyone knows what happened in 2020 and so our girls’ trip was pushed back.
And back.
And back.
With one of us living in Los Angeles, one in New York, and one on either side of Pennsylvania, it wasn’t easy to find the right place. Or time. After Covid struck, we ended up with many potential trips booked, then cancelled.
But we finally managed to pull it off. The 26-year mini-reunion. (Ew. How is that possible?)
What ensued was a weekend filled with more laughter than I’ve had in the last ten years. And I have a happy marriage and silly kids. Still. So much laughter. So many stories. So many memories. And…as the title of this post would imply, so many Aperol Spritzes.
I’m reminded of an old Daisy song we were made to sing in the eighties, before we had any idea what the words really meant.
Make new friends, Keep the old. One is silver, And the other is gold.
(PSA: A Daisy is a young girl scout. Daisies come before Brownies and Brownies before a Girl Scout. I never made it past Daisy, mostly because I hated that awful blue smock).
While I understood the poem’s meaning long before this weekend, the last few days are solid, irrefutable proof that every word is true. There’s something to be said for spending time with people who knew you in your truest, most innocent form — the friends who have watched you grow up, who have grown up beside you, who have shared with you the most intimate stories of joy and grief. (Let’s be real. There’s a lot of joy and a lot of grief in high school no matter what decade you attended.)
For a brief moment in time, we were teenagers again. No responsibilities, no reasonable bedtimes, no thoughts of work or families. For one weekend, each of us was stripped down to the core of our being.
It was glorious.
Reader, if you have the time, you should-
Reader, make the time to connect with old friends. Make the time to remind yourself who you used to be, to find out who you are now, and to realize those two people are not as far apart as you might think…
I’ve been meaning to write another blogpost for a while now, but whew. There’s been…a lot to deal with here.
As a school board member of a district with a recently flooded school in which everything was a total loss, the last month has been hectic to say the least. I am in awe of the administrators, the teachers, and the hundreds of volunteers who have stepped up to see that our kids have somewhere to go for their education when school opens in just two weeks.
I have been less impressed by the government we’ve been waiting on for help…who doesn’t seem to see or understand the urgency of the situation. As a perpetual optimist, I want to believe everyone will pull together. As a realist, I can see that’s not happening. And so my mind has been elsewhere these days. Writing has taken a back seat.
But it shouldn’t. Two exciting developments occurred in the last month and, had it not been for a flooded school, I would have been crowing about them from the start.
First, Temper the Dark received glowing praise from Kirkus Reviews. The full review can be found here, but if you want the highlights:
“The author is to be applauded for the smooth manner in which she has combined disparate elements.”
“Storms…carefully unspools a complex backstory, rewarding the reader with little nuggets that prove to be gold in the end.“
“[A]n engaging romp through a fascinating land.“
“A tumultuous love story blends with an uphill battle against evil in this entrancing work.“
Yes, Kirkus Reviews – THE Kirkus Reviews – had wonderful things to say about my fierce dragon girl and her cohorts. Friends, I floated on those words for at least a week before my feet touched the ground again.
Yesterday, I received word that Temper the Dark advanced to the Long List in the 2023 Chanticleer International Book Awards (The CIBAs) Ozma division for Fantasy Fiction. The Ozma Book Awards recognize emerging new talent and outstanding works in Fantasy Fiction.
To be included on the long list? A dream. I am so grateful to everyone involved and am honored to be in the company of so many talented storytellers.
So squee with me, friends! Life is a rollercoaster. Alongside the lows, life can deliver some pretty amazing highs. You just might have to climb to the roof to recognize them.
Release days are always a big occasion in this house. Mostly because I insist on it. So happy birthday to Temper the Dark!!! There will be large, decadent cookies later today.
Would you like to know a secret? (There are so many in publishing…) The original title of Temper the Dark for years was Witchling. But two years ago, another author came out with a book called Witchlings, which was just too close for comfort. So, it underwent a name change.
And then another name change.
Lo and behold, Temper the Dark.
What do authors have to say about Temper the Dark? Well, Tessa Barbosa, author of The Moonlight Blade, calls it:
“An engaging, romantic tale of a girl coming into her power, and a boy grappling with the legacy he inherited, set in a lushly original world ripe for adventure.”
“An evil emperor. An unexpected alliance. Magic and rebellion. What more could you want? How about dragons? You’ll root for Alaris and Kagan by page one!”
So if you haven’t already placed your order, what are you waiting for? Hit up your local indie bookstore to order it, grab it at B&N, order it from Amazon or get a signed copy directly from me! (I’ll also be at Cupboard Maker Books for their multi-author Night of Fantasy tomorrow, June 28th, from 5 – 8 p.m.) Or whet your appetite with a couple of excerpts before you place your order.
And friends? Thank you, THANK YOU, for your support. I am so very grateful.
I spent Friday afternoon at the Hilton Harrisburg for the annual PSLA Conference. No, I’m not a Pennsylvania School Librarian, but I do know a few of them, and so I went to participate as a local author on the vending floor.
What a delightful day!
And back to my first thought… I love librarians. Even more so, I love introverts. We are the most interesting elusive creatures, aren’t we? We’ll stroll by a booth with books, take covert glances, grab a bookmark to study somewhere beyond the author’s line of sight, stroll by a second time, examine a banner, and basically do ALL the research before we finally work up the courage to talk to the author and look at the featured books. (This is, for the record, 100% what I do before talking to someone. Research, so much research.)
Yesterday’s librarians made me smile because if there’s anyone I can relate to, it’s them. One grabbed a bookmark “for later,” and came back after three and a half minutes when she’d gone to Goodreads to view the ratings on my book. She doesn’t buy anything with less than 3.5 stars, so she wanted to check in with her trusty Goodreads pals to ensure she wasn’t about to buy something she’d be disappointed in.
Another sauntered over to my booth after telling me she had just gone online to read the synopsis – probably on Amazon or Goodreads or B&N…even though she just as easily could have picked up the book and read the back cover copy.
Yet a third asked me if I had a rating anywhere on the series that says it’s meant for middle schoolers. (It’s rated 7th-12th grades in online categories.) She was hoping to put my first book in the middle school library, but, according to school policy, there must be a statement confirming it’s meant for those ages. Then she bought a copy anyway – for herself. As a school librarian, her word should be enough. <wink>
L. Ryan Storms 