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Archive for The Space Between – Page 2

Crunch Time

July 5, 2018
Posted by Susan Rooke
18 Comments

I’ve been doing a lot of cooking over the past couple of months, as you could probably tell from the crawfish, the ice cream with chocolate shell topping, the vichyssoise and the Caesar Salad of the last four consecutive posts. (And let’s not forget the Sweet Batter Bread!) Sometimes that nesting, nurturing mood strikes me, and when it does, there’s no telling what will come rolling out of the kitchen. The house will smell delicious, there’ll be homemade bread in the toaster and something savory roasting in the oven or bubbling on the stove.

Well, it’s a good thing I got to indulge those kitchen cravings when I did, because now my cooking is on hold. Twelve days ago I broke a bone or two in my left hand while doing the laundry. And the important contributions an uninjured left hand makes to almost everything I do came as an unpleasant surprise to my right-handed self. For instance:

• Making the bed (However, I can still do a better job with one hand than Glen did [once] with two. It was sweet of him, though.)
• Showering, getting dressed and flossing my teeth
• Taking care of our Australian Shepherd Lucy and Queen of All She Surveys Phoebe (Thank heavens The Daughter was here for a visit when I hurt myself. She fed the animals and cleaned Phoebe’s Cat Box of Diabetic Doom for three days before she had to fly back to Colorado. Thank you, Katie!)
• Driving anywhere (Grocery shopping, PO Box checking, appointment-keeping? Cancelled. All of it.)
• Cooking, of course (Thankfully, Glen knows his way around a kitchen, so we’re not going hungry. In fact, we’ve learned that his breakfast tacos are better than the ones I make with both my hands.)
• But here’s the one that feels like the biggest hindrance: typing. Since the laundry accident, typing has become a task I have to perform almost entirely one-handed, although the injury is getting a little better. Slowly.

Glen calls me “Monkey Arms” because I have a history of flailing my limbs about and banging them into things. Years ago I broke my right hand in an inglorious moment during a throw cushion/glass-topped coffee table incident. (Don’t ask.) The result of this current round of gracelessness is that I’m behind on finishing The Realm Below. I’d still like to have it out before January 2019, but this is crunch time now; we’re in the butt end of 2018 already. I have a few thousand words to go, and then comes beta-reading and editing, formatting, etc. It may be doable, but I’m trying not to get overly stressed in case it isn’t. I’ll just have to give it my best shot.

So unless I make tremendous progress on the sequel to The Space Between over the coming two weeks, the July 19th blog post will likely be a rerun of an earlier one. (This one is post # 92, so I have a few to choose from.) Please forgive me, but doing that would give me a much-needed month to focus entirely on finishing the writing of Book 2 (and all that typing!). After that, the rewriting shouldn’t be much of a problem. Fingers crossed. I’ll also be saving time on some household chores. Like the laundry, for example, which I plan never to do again.

Some of you might be wondering, “But how on earth do you break your hand doing the laundry, Monkey Arms?”

In these two easy steps:

1. You remove Glen’s damp blue jeans from the washing machine and, using both hands, begin to vigorously shake the wrinkles out of them before throwing them into the clothes dryer.
2. You’re still shaking them when your left hand loses its grip on the denim, and you watch helplessly as this appendage goes crashing at top speed into a corner of the dryer’s exterior. *crunch*

(There was a third, verbal step, but it isn’t repeatable.)

That’s the method I used, at any rate. And guess what? It worked like a charm!

Blog, family, Featured Post, Publishing, The Realm Below, The Space Between, Writing

The Story Behind the Story

April 26, 2018
Posted by Susan Rooke
10 Comments

Hi, Everyone! So here we are after successfully dodging the latest End of the World on April 23rd (henceforth to be known by the acronym EOW, and pronounced YOW!). For many reasons, I’m glad we aren’t all toast (so many cocktails, so little time!), but chiefly because I want to share some exciting news concerning The Space Between. No, not lead-story-on-Entertainment–Tonight news. Guillermo del Toro and Peter Jackson aren’t in a bidding war for the movie rights. Yet. (She says hubristically.) This news is about an honor I first learned of in January, four months after the book was published September 12, 2017. All the recognized authors were asked to keep quiet about it until the results were released a few days ago. Et voilà. Behold my happy results from the Shelf Unbound book review competition:

I can’t tell you how good this feels. As many of you know, The Space Between (TSB) was over a decade in the making. I typed the first word on September 1st, 2005. Twelve interminable years later, it was finally published. Why so long? Three reasons:

1. I sometimes put the manuscript aside to percolate while I worked on its sequel and on writing poetry. Those were weeks and months well spent. By the time TSB was published last year, dozens of my poems had appeared in dozens of wonderful publications (with three poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize and one for Best of the Net), and the TSB sequel was ¾ complete.
2. I occasionally sought traditional publication, querying several agents and a handful of publishers (two behemoths and a few small independents). Three of the small publishers folded after I queried them. Those were weeks and months completely wasted. While the novel was making the rounds, the lighthouse at Rubjerg Knude could’ve fallen into the North Sea in the time I spent waiting for replies. (The very positive comments I got from two publishers helped keep me going.)
3. But here’s the biggest reason. I wrote the 1st draft—51,000 words—in 30 days. That’s right. I’m a NaNoWriMo veteran.

NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is a wonderful concept. Founded in 1999 by Chris Baty, NaNoWriMo offers foot-dragging writers one simple premise: Yes, you CAN write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. All you have to do is meet a daily word count goal and muzzle your snide inner critic until it’s time for the revision process. Since I already had four or five unfinished novel manuscripts laying about, one almost 80 pages long, I found the idea hugely appealing. My m.o. was to start writing a novel with enthusiasm, then get bogged down in minutiae and over-editing, unable to advance the plot. NaNoWriMo, I was sure, could push me over the novel-finishing hump.

For some reason, Mr. Baty chose November for the endeavor, but, what with Thanksgiving and all the other obligations of the holiday season, I thought November was a terrible idea. So I chose September. The Daughter’s high school fall term was back in session, and the home coast was clear for the quiet pursuit of novel writing. 1,667 words per day. Glen and I made several day trips that month, but I took pen and paper with me. I never missed a day’s total. And I got it done.

Except . . . I didn’t, really.

Yes, for the first time ever, I had the first draft of a novel on paper. But it was short. More of a long novella, actually. And yes, the story arc was complete. But only to encompass those 51,000 words. Why was that a problem? Because I hadn’t written a slim volume of literary fiction or an Agatha Christie-style murder mystery. I’d written a multi-worldbuilding fantasy, and at 51,000 words, I was still at least one world short.

So I kept going, draft after draft. Over the next eleven years and eleven months, vital characters surfaced from my subconscious, insisting on being included in the book. I wove them in, creating an intricate, twisting plot with several timelines. In doing so, The Space Between grew plumper by 100,000 words. In the final eighteen months before publication, I trimmed it back 25,000 words, and that’s where it stayed.

When I began writing TSB’s sequel, The Realm Below: The Rise of Tanipestis, I knew if I followed the NaNoWriMo method I’d be faced with the same problem at the end of the first draft. So I took a deep breath, and (nervously) embarked on it the old-fashioned way. Happily, my successful NaNoWriMo experience gave me much-needed confidence, and my characters, both old and new, pitched in to help.

Despite the difficulties the process presented, it’s not an overstatement to say that NaNoWriMo changed the course of my life. Without it, The Space Between probably wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t be writing this post today. I wouldn’t have that fancy Notable Indie badge to flash. And most important of all, I wouldn’t have you.

You, dear readers, are the reason The Realm Below will be out by the end of this year instead of, oh, let’s say another twelve years from now. Thank you. I’m blessed to have you in my life.

And honestly, we’re all blessed we didn’t get smacked by the planet Nibiru. Yet. (EOW!)

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, The Realm Below, The Space Between, Writing

The Realm Below: A Sample

April 12, 2018
Posted by Susan Rooke
6 Comments

The sequel to The Space Between is getting closer to completion every day. Well, maybe not today. Glen and I are on vacation today, drinking The Daughter’s sophisticated hand-crafted cocktails, eating The Son-in-Law’s fabulous Eggs Benedict (I wish I’d taken a picture of the plated effect, but I was too busy devouring them to think of it) and enjoying some colder weather. (With April snow! It started as we were leaving a casino in the mountains of Colorado.)

But soon vacation will be over, and I’ll get back to writing The Realm Below: The Rise of Tanipestis. It’s the second book in the Space Between series, and publication is planned for later this year. The closer I get to finishing the manuscript, the more excited I am to share snippets of the book with readers. Starting today, with the prologue. First, a bit of background:

It is the dead of winter. Satan is in hiding in the Space Between, abandoned by his baffled army of followers after his unexpected transformation into a snakelike creature, thanks to the cat Kindle’s act of retribution. Alone and cold, he has sought warmth and refuge in the burning corpse of Fellson, the corrupt Penitent, and wishes desperately for his “pet,” the monster Tanipestis, to come to his aid.

Prologue: Satan Wakes

From dreams of warmth he woke freezing. The pyre of his former lover Fellson’s body had burned down around him, most of it reduced to ash, and now the cold iron of the winter soil chilled his dry, scaly skin. He coiled more tightly around himself, burying his reptilian nose in the flesh sheathing his countless ribs. If only Tanipestis were here! But he had called and called, his mind imploring, hurling thoughts toward the monster’s cavern dwelling place deep in the Realm Below, and Tanipestis could not hear him. How he missed the comforting blue flame! Now he was on his own, lost in the Space Between, without any notion of how he was to return to his kingdom.

He felt terribly exposed. The cold night sky glittered overhead, the midnight blue heavens slowly turning, visible through the cage of Fellson’s charred ribs that arced above him. Fruitlessly he strove to burrow his slim, triangular head down into the earth. As if purposely preventing him from entering, the earth remained a stony, closed door. For Tanipestis the earth would open willingly, he thought, and accept the last Titan to its accustomed home. But such was not the case for Satan, the lord of the Realm Below. No. Foolishly he had left Tanipestis behind, thinking he would have no need of the creature here. Now he was alone and barred from safety. The earth here did not open for him. And he did not dare venture out to slither across the ground. Not even in the night.

In another world entirely, but in other ways quite near, in the way of time, for instance, someone else awoke from dreams. It was the Titan of the Fire in the Earth, and its name was Tanipestis. Neither male nor female, carved not from flesh, but from sharp anthracite, it burned with a low, constant blue flame. Scattered here and there on its flinty body, high and low, front and back, were numerous eyes. Tanipestis saw things with a clarity multiplied many times, for each eye was a faceted diamond that glinted from one of its gleaming black surfaces. Perhaps such clarity of sight negated curiosity, as the creature always saw nearly everything there was to see. Usually that was quite enough. Now it looked about the cavern of its master Satan, and saw that its master still had not returned. Then, into its incurious mind came a thought, as though willed to do so. Tanipestis was certain the thought had originated outside of itself. It begged him, in words something like this:

Come to me, Tanipestis. I need your flame!

The thought persisted over time, often quite forcefully, until Tanipestis grew accustomed to it, never troubling itself to identify the source. The months went on. In the Space Between, a year of seasons passed. Winter gave way to a wet spring, which became a humid summer, and then autumn’s golds and russets painted the land. At last ice again rimed the banks of the fast-running river by the Keep, and snow frosted the heavy limbs of the ancient yew tree—the Tree of Life—in the Garden Field.

In the Realm Below, however, there were no seasons, merely a dull uniformity of days—a brownish haze of perpetually chilly air, a muted light from the feeble disc in the sky. In such timelessness, Tanipestis did not notice when the thought dimmed at last to silence.

**********************************

Thank you, Dear Readers! Back soon . . .

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, The Realm Below, The Space Between, Writing

Does This Suit Come in Purple?

November 9, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
6 Comments

Do you know what shagreen is? Here’s a picture of a wallet in shagreen:

Until I read a magazine article about it some years back, I didn’t know that shagreen is what’s more commonly known as stingray hide. Appreciated for its striking appearance and lasting durability, it’s been in use for hundreds of years, to make items ranging from book covers and sword hilts to lampshades, bracelets, boots . . . even nightstands. And boy, could I use a suit of shagreen to wear right now. Because, not for the first time in my life, I’m going to need a tougher hide.

The Daughter warned me many revisions ago that I’d written a polarizing book. That once it was published, I should be ready for hate mail. I agreed with the thrust of Katie’s argument. With its reimagining of Old Testament themes, The Space Between has the potential to offend people at all points on the spectrum of religious belief. So I was more or less prepared for the woman so affronted by the subject matter of my book that she refused to review it. It controverts her idea of a Supreme Being, evidently. Okay, score one for Katie’s predictive skills. But I wasn’t prepared for the reviews that have materialized. Not because they’ve been bad. The majority have been decent so far and some have been great. (That doesn’t mean five bad ones won’t appear in the next 24 hours, of course.) It’s the fact that people have opinions about the book at all that’s surprising. That’s what I was not prepared for.

Was that naïve of me? Maybe, but my hopes for the book have been fairly modest from the beginning. What I envisioned was that friends and family would buy it, read it or not depending on their literary tastes, and then the whole episode would quietly subside until the sequel came out. Did I expect total strangers to read it? No. Despite all the promotional magic my favorite publicist Danielle performed to try to bring that about—the Facebook ads and the Goodreads giveaway, just for starters—I really didn’t. I sort of wished they would, but after the manuscript spent twelve years mostly hidden away in my computer, it seemed impossible that The Space Between should ever cross any random stranger’s reading radar. But the book has been out almost two months now, and some random strangers are indeed reading. And they’re beginning to express themselves.

Imagine people openly discussing your child or your spouse and not caring if you overheard. They could be lavishing your loved one with admiration and praise, but if you’re anything like me, you’d be anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop, the part where they’d say, “Of course, there’s that really annoying thing he does when he . . .” Or, “She could do so much better if only she would try to be more . . .” So it isn’t just the bad reactions I fear, it’s every reaction. Whether it’s good, bad, or meh, I realize I’m happier not knowing any of it. That fear creates a state of nail-biting anxiety, and living in it makes me yearn for supreme self-confidence and complete indifference, or, failing both of those, a shagreen suit.

I want to be one of those writers who never reads their own reviews, never gives interviews, and just carries on with the job of writing. Occasionally I would emerge from my sanctum to make ice cream or drink cocktails or clean Phoebe’s Catbox of Despond. Unfortunately, that’s all just a pipedream.

Instead, I’ve been asking myself, What on earth have I done? Well, I’ve dropped my literary child out the third-floor window of a burning building and it’s landed headfirst on a cement trampoline, that’s what.

It’s much too late to go back to the way things were. To quote from James Thurber’s charming book, The 13 Clocks: “The fat is in the fire, the die is cast, the jig is up, the goose is cooked, and the cat is out of the bag.” I wished for it. I got it. I’m stuck with it.

Last night while we were watching a segment about Russian oligarchs on the national news, I told Glen I wanted to be an oligarch too. “How does one get to be an oligarch, anyway?” I asked him.

He fixed me with a loving, but uncompromising, gaze. “Sell more books.”

Oh, what the heck. In for a penny, in for a pound. Book 2 should be coming your way later next year. In the meantime, I’ll find some purple shoes to match my shagreen suit.

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, The Space Between

Soul-Searching, Five Years On

September 28, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
18 Comments

Five years ago at the beginning of this month, Glen and I put our Austin house on the market for the first time, getting serious about our dream of moving to the country. Six months later, after a hard-fought contract fell through, we took the next six months off to reclaim some sanity. Being forced to maintain constant household readiness and submit to the whims of looky-loos with no intention to buy was draining. And humbling. “I don’t like being able to see the kitchen when I walk in the front door,” sniffed one woman. Well honey, you really wouldn’t like the house I have now.

Standing in the kitchen. Hey, whaddaya know? There’s the front door. And Lucy.

So after a breather, we put the house on the market a second time. At last, after another sixteen months, we were free. Good-bye City, Hello Country.

But was it really our dream? If you’d asked me thirty-five years ago, I’d have said, “It may be Glen’s, but it’s sure not mine!” At that point, we weren’t married yet. Thirty-five years ago, I was all about dieting into designer jeans (remember those? Charlotte Fords were my favorite), experimenting with new eye makeup and going weekly to the late, great Steamboat, a Sixth Street Austin music venue, to see the Austin All Stars play. Oh—and straightening . . . every . . . last . . . bit of curl out of my hair, at temperatures that could fry catfish. I was so successful that, until I gave up flat ironing thirteen years ago, Glen had no idea I had curly hair. And just how curly. (To be honest, I was a little surprised too.) Now he claims I married him under false pretenses. He probably would have a case against me for fraud.

After we married, we did move to the country. Still not my dream, but I would have followed him anywhere. Our first house together was east of Austin in a tiny farming community. (That was where the FBI came knocking at our front door one day, asking probing questions about one of the neighbors.) Over the three years we lived there, we managed to keep up a semblance of city life, driving to Austin daily for all errands and fun excursions. We were much younger then. We could maintain the pace. When we moved back into Austin again, though, we chose an area removed from the city’s heart, which was fast becoming a hotbed attracting throngs of residents. And over time, we found ourselves moving farther and farther into the outskirts. Turns out it was just one short step from that to owning cows.

Some people will always thrive on the lively turmoil of city dwelling. Glen, on the other hand, came to need the serenity of quieter surroundings, with great dollops of nature to nourish his soul. It came as a surprise when I found I needed these things too.

Now we have a place with great neighbors, who live more than fifteen yards away. We can watch a bald eagle standing tall in a treetop as it observes its youngster’s awkward swoops and glides. Or note the predictable daily habits of black cattle who retreat beneath the shade trees each morning, then emerge to bathe in the stock tanks each afternoon. The simplicity of such routines brings focus to our minds, as well as a measure of comfort and reassurance. And a sense, however illusory, that all will continue just the same when we’re gone.

This time, unlike thirty-five years ago, we share the same dream. Thank heavens. After too much noise for too many years, I think I needed the emptiness of days spent watching the changeable, eloquent face of the sky.

Glen asks me every week if I’m happy here. I try to reassure him, but he still remembers the girl with the straight hair who wanted to go out and have fun. I remember her too. She would have thought this place was lovely, but living here would have been hard for her. I’m not that girl anymore, Glen. I have to tell you, though, even then, it was just as it is now. All I really ever need for happiness is to be with you.

However. I’m obligated to point out that it wasn’t just me who wasn’t being entirely honest when we married.

I only surprised you with curly hair. You surprised me with . . . cows.

A huge thank-you to everyone who’s been reading The Space Between! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review on Amazon!

Blog, country living, cows, Featured Post, moving, The Space Between

The Space Between: IT’S HERE!

September 14, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
18 Comments

Ladies and Gentlemen, September 12th has come and gone. You know what that means, don’t you? The Space Between is now released, and climbing to the top of the bestseller charts!

Well, okay, it’s ranked on the bestseller charts. Somewhere . . .

But the point is, it’s finally published. And I can’t quite believe it.

I’m writing this on September 13th, the day after the release. I’m dadgum exhausted. Apparently my condition is not without precedent. My favorite publicist Danielle likens putting out a book to birthing a baby. This particular baby gestated for 12 years. No wonder I’m plumb tuckered out. (Not sure why I’m indulging in corny, outdated idioms, but plain old “tired” didn’t seem to cover it. And I just looked up the plural for “idiom” to be sure “idioms” is correct. It is, but did you know that the rare plural form, seldom used nowadays, is “idiomata” [which my spellcheck didn’t even recognize as a word {it recognized “spellcheck,” though!}]? Anyway, kind of like “stigmata.” Isn’t that cool??)

I digress. Yesterday was a day of highs and lows, with the highs supplied by the stream of congratulations from family and friends. Thank you all so much! I wouldn’t be writing this today if I didn’t have you in my corner. The best moments of the day came from Glen’s sister Denise, who’s flying in later this month to help us celebrate the book’s release. Denise revealed last night that she didn’t wait for me to present her copy in person when she arrives. Instead she ordered one from Amazon so she could read it again, then advertise it on the plane and in the airports on her way to Texas. Years ago, Denise was the first person to read the manuscript when it began to resemble what it is today, even before Katie and Glen did, and she’s been my tireless supporter ever since. You can see why this is the book’s dedication:

Today brought more joy, as my brother’s wife Jean sent me this incredible photo of what had just arrived in her mail:

Jean is the corporate accounting brain behind my new publishing company, and all the attendant permits and documentation that requires. (What an awakening that’s been. Luckily Jean has infinite patience with my cluelessness.) There are no better sisters-in-law than these two! I’m so grateful and blessed to have loved ones like this in my life.

So it’s clear why there have been such highs. The source of the lows is more complicated. Being tuckered is a factor, certainly, but there’s more to it than that. When I look at the book I see all of those 12 years, and I’m saddened when I think of the changes they’ve brought. There have been too many deaths; there has been no stasis. Time demands from us constant change, whether joyous or adverse, as its toll. Nothing ever stays the same. Whether or not time is an artificial construct, it’s our perception of it that matters, and time’s methods are heartless.

Then there’s the feeling that some large hand wielding a pair of pinking shears has scissored a hole out of the center of my life. Since I began writing The Space Between on September 1st, 2005, not one day has passed that the book hasn’t been in my thoughts or directly in my field of vision. And now at long last, I’ve let it go, sending it out into the world. On its own.

In a span of hours I went from birthing a baby to sending a child off to college. I’m surprised I could even get out of bed this morning. As it was, I spent some time in “Okay, now what?” mode, my sense of purpose unbalanced, requiring a dose of rigor. Happily, I’d resumed work on the sequel on Labor Day. Today, as soon as I stopped dwelling on the child that’s flown the nest and returned my focus to the one still in its infancy, balance was restored.

And good bubbly always helps. The evening of the 12th, Glen and I opened a bottle of very special champagne. We’d had it for a couple of years, holding on to it while we waited for the commensurate very special occasion to arise. We decided this occasion fit the bill.

To all of you. To The Space Between.

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, Reading, The Space Between, Writing

We’ve Got to Stop Meeting Like This

August 31, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
12 Comments

Before I begin, I’d like to tell all of you about two blog posts from my friends Diana Conces and Carie Juettner. They’ve each written a thoughtful essay in the wake of the calamitous Hurricane Harvey. Diana’s “The Strangeness of Safety” is a poignant memorial to the South Texas Gulf Coast the way it used to be before Harvey transformed it—perhaps forever—into something unrecognizable. Carie’s post, “Be the Rubber Band,” is a meditation on the search for meaning in the mundane, and for peace while the world around us spins into chaos. These women are gifted poets and writers. Diana was my guest blogger September 2016 with her post “Inside the Brown Bag.” Their words written in the wake of the storm moved me, and I want to share them with you. Here are the links:

Diana Conces “The Strangeness of Safety”

Carie Juettner “Be the Rubber Band”

And now I have an announcement, Dear Readers. This will be my last weekly post for the next few months. (And by the way: To everyone who didn’t receive the Thursday afternoon email last week, I apologize. No idea why some of those blog notifications went out late or not at all. The Ether moves in mysterious ways.) But I promise it’s for a good reason. Monday, September 4th, I’m observing Labor Day by resuming work on the second book in The Space Between series. And I can’t tell you how much it thrills me to say that. (It also scares the pants off of me a little.)

The first book, The Space Between: The Prophecy of Faeries, will be released on September 12th. That seems like a small miracle, considering what it took to get to this point. Before I embarked on this adventure, I had no idea how much work goes into prepping a manuscript for publication. Turns out it was a lot, but it was doable. There were the edits:

• by me
• by the developmental editor
• me again
• by the first copy editor
• me again
• by the final copy editor
• me again
• a last, close scrutiny by the final copy editor
• and me . . . AGAIN

It was all meant to craft the book into its best possible self, and to catch any remaining typos/errors. But even then it wasn’t done. After that came the proofing: of the print copy, the e-copy, and then the re-proofing of both when The Daughter threw a monkey wrench into the final 10 pages (see August 17th’s post, “The Space Between: NOW It’s Done“).

I estimate that in the past sixteen months alone I’ve reread that book at least six times. And that doesn’t count all the times I reread it while doing prior revisions in the previous 10.75 years. (Yes, I’m keeping track. Can’t help it.)

But, as I say, it was doable. Then it came time to promote the book. And this is the part that took me by horrified surprise. Start a Facebook page? Open a Twitter account? But I did that already! What do you mean, that’s not enough? I’m making great promotional strides here!

Oh, how naïve I was. There’s much more to promotion than that. So much that I can’t even hold it all in my head at once. (Probably because I’ve got at least fourteen versions of The Space Between in there.) I tried to keep it all straight, but it was like trying to nail Jell-O to the wall. At that point I just kind of threw up my hands and said, “I can’t do this!” Danielle Hartman Acee, wearer of many hats at The Authors’ Assistant, saved my bacon. Again. Thank you, Danielle, for your amazing promotional skills!

And now we arrive at the end of August, and this, my 70th blog post. Summer is creeping along towards fall. It seems like an auspicious time to shift my focus back to writing fiction. Next Monday I’ll return to writing The Realm Below: The Rise of Tanipestis. (That’s the working title. It’s been tweaked a couple of times. This one feels like it should stick, though.) I’m 87,000 words in already, which I call a good start. I’m excited to share little bits and pieces of it with you in the coming months.

Pretty soon my characters will begin speaking to me in dreams again. They’ll give me news of themselves, they’ll judge me, they’ll praise my intuitions, they’ll condemn my inevitable shortcomings. There will be some I’ve never heard from before, and I look forward to cultivating relationships with them.

So, to allow them the freedom they require to set up housekeeping in my subconscious again, I have a proposal for you. I’ve enjoyed our assignations these past 70 weeks very much. Let’s please continue them. With one small change. Could we meet every other week instead?

I’ll be here if you will . . .

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, Reading, The Realm Below, The Space Between, Writing

The Space Between: NOW It’s Done

August 17, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
12 Comments

This morning I put on my T-shirt inside out and backwards. Then it took me an hour-and-a-half to notice. Since I’m pretty sure I’m only going to get worse, I need to go on record right now with a disclaimer that should hold up in any court:

From now until the release of The Space Between on September 12th, I cannot be held accountable for my actions, due to diminished capacity.

That sounds legal-ish, doesn’t it?

“I’m sorry, your Honor. Exhilaration made me do it.”

“Understandable, Ms. Rooke. Promise me you’ll stay away from Krispy Kreme in the future and I’ll consider your case dismissed.”

Even in my excitement I’d been managing to keep a lid on myself, but then this came in the mail on Monday:

It’s the proof copy. The one I examine to be certain it’s printed exactly to the specifications. Holding it in my hands (FYI, I don’t have man-hands. Those are Glen’s) just about made me swoon. It took twelve years to bring this baby into the world, and there were many, many days I thought it would never happen.

Needless to say, I’m giddy with delight. Even though I already knew when Glen opened the package that the proof copy was wrong. And it’s all The Daughter’s fault.

A few days before the printed proof copy was shipped, the e-book proof copy was ready. Like the print copy, it also had to be carefully screened for errors. We were pretty confident that typos had been eliminated by that point, but there were persnickety things to screen for, like:

• Text cut off the page or disappearing into the crease
• Images out of place
• Fonts or characters not displaying properly

In other words, every page of the e-book had to be scrutinized to be sure it looked the way it was supposed to.

I had a lot of other things on my plate, so I hired Katie to do the job.

This was the first time she’d read The Space Between since [what I foolishly believed was] its final revision. She loved it. All except for one problem that she couldn’t get past. She believed I had treated cavalierly a character I’d killed off near the end of the book. It distressed her that this character was never mentioned again after I’d snuffed him/her. She wanted me to fix that, believing that the character deserved better, and that it made me look careless and forgetful as the author.

I argued my point with her. I hadn’t forgotten, but the character was so insignificant that I had seen nothing wrong in complete erasure. Besides, I said, it was probably much too late to do anything about it now.

She disagreed with everything I said. The worst part was, I had disappointed her.

I thought it over for all of five seconds before realizing she was right. But what could I do? Quickly I read over the trouble spot, and saw an easy repair. All it would take was the addition of two short lines of dialogue. A total of nine words. The manuscript’s formatting was complete, though. Even adding two lines could make an annoying, troublesome difference, meaning those last ten pages would have to be reformatted.

Enter Danielle.

I’ve told you about Danielle Hartman Acee before. She and Mindy Reed own The Authors’ Assistant. She’s my final copyeditor, as well as my publicist. She’s also responsible for formatting both the e-book and print volume. Here she is:

I fired off a panicky email to Danielle describing the problem and my proposed solution. She responded at once with capable calm. Then, after fiddling with the e-copy for the rest of the afternoon, she fixed it. The two new lines inserted, the reformatting accomplished.

Thank you, Danielle! Katie was hugely relieved and so was I.

Some characters exist only to be killed off: shock value, their sole purpose in a story. This character was so very minor that I had seen nothing wrong in discarding him/her like gnawed chicken bones. Not all characters are created equal. Yes, they can certainly surprise you. Main characters can assume less importance and be sidelined. Minor characters can become the point upon which the story’s climax hinges. But a few characters are there just to up the body count. Even so, they should be treated with respect. I can’t just pretend they never lived at all.

When the kerfuffle broke out, the printed proof copy pictured above was already rolling its way to me. Of course. Therefore, there will be a printed proof copy #2. The final, final revision. In a few days I’ll be opening a new package. The right one.

Thank you, Katie.

Peekaboo, I’ll see you September 12, 2017!

Blog, Featured Post, Publishing, Reading, The Space Between, Writing

The Space Between: From the Tasting Menu

July 27, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
8 Comments

Monday was the birthday of the noted English poet and novelist, Robert Graves. He would have been 122 years old. Graves wrote the historical fiction masterpiece I, Claudius and its sequel, Claudius the God (both of which I loved), and many, many other works. But until reading about him on Monday, I didn’t know just how many. Turns out he wrote more than 120 books.

Now see here, Mr. Graves. You and I both know that’s just showing off.

120 books. Pondering this, I slumped a little deeper into the sofa. I’ve written 2. Or, for those who want to quibble, 1.75.

But then a couple of cheering thoughts occurred to me, which I now respectfully submit for your consideration:

1. Robert Graves didn’t blog.
2. Robert Graves didn’t have a Facebook page.
3. Robert Graves sure as hell didn’t tweet.

Therefore, in a happier frame of mind, I present to you an excerpt wherein our heroine, Mellis, meets Lugo, Master of the Penitents’ Keep. From Chapter Two of my—admittedly—first book, The Space Between. In this, my 65th . . . weekly . . . blog post.

Take that, Mr. Graves.

From Chapter Two: Lugo and the Sibyl—

Mellis heard the crowd stirring behind her. Without knowing how it happened, she realized she was no longer staring into the fire. Instead, she was looking down at a highly polished pair of boots, made of thin, supple oxblood leather. Her eyes flew upward. Standing before her on the hearth was a man of medium height dressed in dark clothing, well-fitted to his form. He was trim and long-limbed, good-looking, with gleaming chestnut hair that fell past his collar. Mellis felt her mouth open, but no sound came out.

With studied grace he approached her. She wanted to step back from him, but forced herself to be still. With his hands clasped behind his back, he slowly looked her up and down, from the top of her russet hair down to her scarlet and gold satin slippers. Only his eyes moved as he examined her. His gaze traveled back up to her face and lingered there. Then his dark eyebrows drew together. Mellis stared at his grey eyes, trying to force them to meet hers, but could not. It was as if he looked at an object rather than a person.

He unclasped his hands, and, without speaking, indicated that she should turn for him, by twirling one finger in a circular motion. The gesture was brusque and imperious, and she disliked him instantly for it. Nevertheless, she obeyed, but evidently turned too quickly to suit him, because he had her do it again. This time she turned more slowly, and when she came around to face him once more, she fixed her eyes on the stone hearth under his elegant boots. She felt her face growing warm at his careless humiliation of her. Nothing she had experienced in this place had prepared her for such treatment. No one had been anything but kind to her and Orlando. He must think he’s better than the rest, just because he’s not deformed. How shallow! She stared at his boots, which looked very expensive. They were perfectly molded to his long, slender feet.

Her eyes moved up his frame as she waited for him to finish his appraisal of her. It was then she saw the two thin little legs that dangled from the back of his left hip. They were clothed in dark, fine silk trousers that matched the others he wore. On the small, useless feet were tiny polished duplicates of the oxblood boots. Mellis looked back down at the hearth quickly. His austere, handsome face and his bearing had misled her. He was not set apart from the others by anything other than his evident importance. In affliction he was the same.

Finally, he spoke, but not to her. “Fetters. Feldspar. Come forward.” At the sound of his voice, Mellis looked at him. His tone was casual, as if he’d been ordering people about all his life.

A nervous voice answered. “Yes sir?”

Feldspar’s long fair hair brushed her shoulder as he and Fetters took their places beside her. They looked uncomfortable.

“I believe you’ve succeeded this time—”

“Oh, thank you—” Fetters began, sounding relieved and eager, but the gentleman cut him off.

“—in bringing us a viable possibility.” His voice was smooth. “I hope to know more after we hear what the sibyl has to say.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Mellis saw an apprehensive look pass between them as they melted back into the crowd.

She tensed. What on earth is a sibyl? And I’m a “viable possibility?” For what? Had she been wrong in believing these people meant her no harm?

In the same careless tone he had used on Fetters and Feldspar, the gentleman spoke again. “Deirdre.”

Deirdre came forward, hunched, and looking weary. Her dress was a somber color, and far plainer than the clothing the others wore. Her iron grey hair hung in its heavy braid.

“Deirdre, if you would, please.” The gentleman extended a long hand with thin pale fingers and beckoned. Mellis saw a silver ring set with a smooth dark stone. It gleamed against his skin.

The old woman nodded and turned to someone beside her, a woman who looked very like her—of the same size and shape, but younger. Her face was unlined next to Deirdre’s creased one. She also was clothed plainly, and a faded rose-colored scarf covered her head. Deidre encouraged her forward, speaking to her softly.

The second woman put her hands up to her throat and began with clumsy movements to untie the knot in the scarf. The gentleman leaned forward, as if wishing to hurry her along. At last she was done, her head bared and her hands hanging at her sides. The rose-colored fabric trailed from her fingers to the floor. Her face was blank, as were her unfocused eyes.

When Mellis saw what the woman had uncovered, her knees buckled underneath her and her mind gave way.

Coming September 12, 2017

Blog, Featured Post, The Space Between

The Space Between: A Scene from Chapter Two

July 20, 2017
Posted by Susan Rooke
8 Comments

Katie, aka The Daughter, arrived Tuesday for a two-week visit! She came bearing gifts:

She came with food requests:

1. Lobster for dinner one night
2. Cinnamon Ice Cream
3. La Louisane Dip (which will have a post to itself someday)

She has essential shopping to do:

1. Jeans

She has nonessential shopping to do:

1. Anything in the greater Central Texas area, up to, but not including, jeans

So for the next two weeks there will be cooking. And mother-daughter shopping. And many, many games of Munchkin. All enhanced by the wearing of flashy socks.

As a result, this post and next week’s will feature snippets of my fantasy novel, The Space Between, coming out later this summer! Today we meet Lugo, Master of the Penitents’ Keep, as he speaks with Deirdre about Mellis, the young human woman kidnapped and taken to the Space Between by the Penitent faery tribe.

From Chapter Two: Lugo and the Sibyl—

“You really believe she’ll do?”

“Yes, I think she will.”

“We’ve been wrong before.”

“The last failure was not because we were wrong.” The speaker put a slight emphasis on “we.”

“We’ll have to guard against mistakes this time.”

“Yes. We will,” Deirdre said. Again she stressed the word a touch.

Her companion was a man. The two were in the center of a large, high-ceilinged chamber, lit only by the logs burning in the two fireplaces at opposite ends of the room. Parts of the chamber were quite dim. Shadows clung to the corners.

“Where is she now?” the man asked without much interest.

“She’s in the same room as . . . as the previous choice. Blodgett and Laurel are taking care of her.” Deirdre paused. “And of her dog.”

“Dog? She was allowed to bring a dog?”

“Well, we couldn’t just the leave the poor thing to fend for itself in the woods. Fetters and Feldspar chose to fetch the two of them together, and I think they acted rightly. The creature’s presence seems to reassure her. The befuddlement charm I used helped too, of course, and the Jerusalem roses are very soothing. She appears to be comfortable, all things considered. More so than any of the others were at first.”

“Of course she’s comfortable—how in Heaven’s name could she not be?”

Deirdre regarded him in silence.

He began to pace about the room in an aimless way, pausing at one wall to touch an enormous tapestry, one of many that decorated the room. He looked at it absently as the fingers of his right hand caressed the silk threads. On his next-to-last finger he wore a silver ring set with a smooth, dark stone freckled with rust-colored spots.

Its dull, firelit gleam caught Deirdre’s eye. Bloodstone. The martyr’s stone. She was thoughtful as her companion continued to stroke the tapestry, which depicted a great, pale reptilian beast: a white dragon. It stood rampant on its hind legs, rearing up with translucent wings spread wide, scarlet flames shooting from its yawning jaws.

“Of course. How could she not be comfortable?” Deirdre said at last in a weary voice.

“When will I see her?” He turned from the tapestry to look at Deirdre. She stood with her rough fingers interlaced, her heavy grey braid draped down her bosom.

“When do you wish to see her?”

“Oh, there’s no real hurry, I suppose. We don’t want to be too hasty. More important to be certain she’s the one.” He waved his hand in vague dismissal, brushing the subject away. The dark stone in his ring glinted. “Whenever you think she’s presentable. And ready, of course.” He turned back to the tapestry and then was struck by a thought. “How is Leucaspis, Deirdre? I haven’t heard much news of him recently.”

Deirdre looked at Lugo, Master of the Penitents’ Keep, for a few moments before answering. “About the same, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. I expected as much.” He sounded bored again—as if he’d lost interest in her reply before she had made it.

He moved away from the tapestry and paced restlessly along the wall. He stopped before a tall, rectangular mirror and turned to scrutinize himself in its face. As he did so, the pair of stunted, supernumerary legs that dangled from his left hip swung outward and flopped against his side with a soft thud. The dark silk trousers that encased them whispered as the legs rubbed limply together. Polished, pliant leather boots, the color of oxblood, covered the tiny feet. He paid them no attention, instead leaning in close to the mirror to watch himself pluck a speck of lint from his silk sleeve.

After waiting a few moments to see if Lugo would decide to speak again, Deirdre withdrew from the room.

Coming September 12, 2017

Blog, family, Featured Post, The Space Between
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