Uninvited Guests

Our hotel at Yulara Resort in outback Australia is beautiful—definitely a three-wastebasket facility. But I noticed an interesting information card in the bathroom. It was titled “Uninvited Guests.”             
You may notice one or two uninvited guests. Please do not be alarmed, they are native to the area and it is quite normal for them to appear throughout the resort. If, however, you are disturbed by their presence, please contact reception.           

It was unusually circumspect, like they didn’t want to frighten you by actually naming some of the uninvited guests you might encounter. However, its lack of specificity invited worrisome speculation as to what kinds of uninvited guests to expect. Sneak thieves? Freeloading relatives? Late night partiers?

Or maybe they meant intruders from the natural world. Dingoes or wallabies? Rose-breasted cockatoos, who flew in colorful and gossipy flocks from tree to tree, but which our tour guide described as pests. Cockroaches or cane toads? Deadly poisonous snakes or scorpions or spiders (we are in the Australian desert, after all.) Maybe the notice referred to the little clouds of flies we take with us everywhere?

            Or possibly they meant the three-foot long goanna lizard I encountered in the laundry room. 

Sheepish in New Zealand

We get an introduction to all things sheep at the Agrodrome, an agricultural demonstration show in Rotorua.

A mulleted host in a wifebeater comes out on stage, telling jokes as his comely assistant leads out nineteen different breeds of sheep, from Merinos to Lincolns to Romneys. I remember some of the names from my spinning and weaving days.
A sheep shearing demonstration follows. A wary ewe emerges from a doorway on stage right. After a few moments struggle, the host deftly flips her onto her back, where she sits, legs dangling foolishly in front of her. Perhaps closing her eyes and thinking of England, she allows the shearer to have his way with her. In less time than it takes me to get a haircut, the fleece is razored off and the sheep looks about half its original size.

When he asks for volunteers for milking, I impulsively raise my hand and join the other two victims on the stage. After all, I’m scheduled for a farmstay the next day, and I might need me some skills. Last time I volunteered and was called up on stage, it was for a wine-tasting. And that worked out all right.
Happily, we are milking a cow instead of a sheep. Somewhere, I’ve read tips for successful milking. Or maybe it was those lactation pamphlets I read after my sons were born.
This cow’s udder has been liberally greased up with some unknown farm substance. I don’t know if this is intended to make it harder or easier. Trying to remember the particulars, I grasp the udder firmly at the top and strip my hand downward, using my best empty toothpaste tube technique. Success! A thin stream of blueish milk splashes into the pail. The host looks mildly surprised and a little disappointed. I receive a certificate of “udderance.”
There follows sheepdog demonstrations in which one of the dogs herds several ducks back and forth across the stage and other dogs race across the backs of the mildly interested sheep in a technique called, understandably, backing. It’s kind of like a sheep mosh pit. It’s unclear whether this has any practical purpose but it makes for interesting and difficult to interpret photos.

I am convinced that nobody loves his work like a sheepdog. If they were any more alert and eager they would explode. They ought to show videos of sheepdogs at employee meetings instead of hiring motivational speakers.
The show closes with a mock fleece auction in which a reluctant Korean woman ends up owning an armload of unwashed wool redolent of lanolin. Then everyone repairs outside for a sheepdog demonstration with actual sheep.
All in all, I had a great time, but I think I have more of a future in wine-tasting.

In the Land of Second Breakfasts

Having just come off a ten-day book tour in the U.S. and Canada, I’ve learned that the wise traveler seizes any opportunity to eat, no matter how marginal the provender. When food is on offer, we furtively stuff our pockets, too, preparing against a lean future. Flying U.S. airlines these days is like visiting those inhospitable relatives who, even if you appear at mealtime, have always just eaten or make it clear they have no intention of breaking out the food and drink until you leave.
So it’s quite the shock to be traveling in the South Pacific and discovering that, around here, airline meals is one corner that’s not yet cut. Or maybe places are just so far apart they have to bring provisions.
Remember that scene in Fellowship of the Ring when hobbits Merri and Pippin are traveling with Aragorn the Ranger and realize that mealtimes are going to be few and far between. “What about second breakfast?” Pippin says plaintively. “Elevenses? High tea?”
We’ve had a spate of second breakfasts. Following experience, we eat before we get on the plane. And then they feed us on the plane. Or we eat on the plane, and then they feed us at the hotel on arrival.
The breakfasts on Air Pacific have been hearty but peculiar. Both have consisted of lamb sausage, omelet, corn, hash brown potatoes, fruit cup, and juice.
What’s the deal with the corn? My ingrained nutrition training and Yank sensibiities say, no way there should be hash browns and corn at breakfast. No corn at all unless it’s grits or muffins. I try to tie it to British heritage, but corn is a New World vegetable.
There’s also a dearth of sugar free and diet foods. Perhaps people around here move around more than we do in the States. And the diet soda vends under different names. At our hotel, Pepsi Light and Pepsi Max were both on offer. I had to read the label carefully to determine that they were both sugar-free.
On the upside, the yogurt tastes much more like yogurt than what I’ve been getting at home. More like milk and less like carageenan. And I’m loving the exotic fruit—papaya and mango each morning at breakfast.
And they have this delicious rich ice cream in New Zealand called hokey-pokey. It tastes like homemade.
Note to self: move around more.

Hanging with the Presidents

If you want to go to Australia, you pretty much have to go through LA. So we flew into Los Angeles this morning, arriving about 10:30 a.m. Unfortunately, our plane to Fiji didn’t leave until 11:30 p.m. (2:30 a.m. by my home town clock).  Fortunately, our travel agent gave us passes to the Continental President’s Club.

I’d always gazed longingly at those fancy wood-paneled doors, wondering what delights lay within. So I was practically giddy with anticipation as we pressed the little doorbell and were admitted.
OK, I’m a writer—my imagination always surpasses reality. But it was still very nice—much better than huddling in a cracked vinyl chair in the boarding area or wandering the concourses, looking for a place to plug in my power-depleted laptop.  There were work carrels with power outlets, lights, and telephones. There was wireless Internet access throughout the club. There were comfortable chair groupings with more power outlets. There was a pantry area with tea, coffee, water, and snacks including crackers and cheese and fruit.

            Did I mention there were power outlets?

            I did a last quick-edit of The Exiled Queen before sending it off to my editor using the handy wireless access. My husband updated my website with photos from the Demon King tour. I looked around at the other patrons, wondering if they were really presidents or if they’d got in on a pass like us.

            I couldn’t help thinking that it would be nice if such a lounge was made available to airline passengers if, say, their flights were cancelled or delayed through no fault of their own. Recalling my night spent sleeping on a baggage cart in Laguardia Airport (it was raining), and my night spent sleeping under a chair in Heathrow Airport (air traffic controllers strike) it would have been much more pleasant to have spent them hanging with the Presidents.

            My husband and I took photos of each other sitting in the President’s Club, because who knew if we would ever get there again.

The Ecstasy

I’ve said it before. Author tours are The Agony and the Ecstasy.

Monday night was The Ecstasy.

When language arts teacher Beth Duncan of Vista Academy is on a mission, it is impossible to say no. I had corresponded with Beth several times over the past year and arranged to send ARC’s of The Dragon Heir to her middle school students for their review. When Beth found out I was touring for The Demon King, she emailed me and said, “How can I get you to come to San Diego?” I put her in touch with my publicist, who wisely made it happen.

So Monday I arrived at Vista Academy in Vista, Ca to find that Beth had mobilized the entire school (it seemed) to make me welcome. I presented to the 6th, 7th, and 8th graders. (where's the author?)

Her videography students filmed an interview. I toured their annual haunted house, which this year was loosely planned around an Heir Series theme, with forests and castles and a dungeon. The students paint all the sets and play scary roles during the haunting. Here I am with Vista students in the dungeon!

That evening, Beth and her co-conspirator, Lisa Haynes, the Community Relations Manager of the Oceanside Barnes & Noble, had put together an awesome event—an author signing/masquerade/Halloween party.

I signed with author Alyson Noel, whose Immortals series is OWNING the bestseller list. (I felt like I was opening for the Rolling Stones.)

Here are me, Beth, and Alyson at the signing table.

There was a special Demon King menu in the café, featuring the Seven Realms Seven Layer Bar and Dancer’s Dare Hot Apple Spice Cider and Raisa ana’Marianna’s White Chocolate Mocha. Yum!

Lisa was dressed as a Clan Matriarch in a gown and feathered headdress. The rest of the staff and many of the attendees dressed up, too. Me? I was dressed as a YA author at the end of a long tour. Thanks to Beth, Lisa, and everyone for making this happen!!

Road Warrior

OK, so I’m nearly at the end of my official Demon King author tour, and I’m realizing that all my good intentions of blogging every day, posting photos, etc., and basically immortalizing every fantastic moment were as optimistic as the Official Author itinerary:           

2 p.m: Visit six bookstores in the Greater Toronto area, sign stock, return to hotel and relax, have early dinner, and leave for seventh bookstore for evening event at 6:15 pm.                                   

Ha!

Tips for Other Authors

1.     Never leave for the airport in flip-flops without checking the weather report.

2.     Never approve an itinerary that includes the phrase “check out of hotel at 5 a.m.”

3.     Never wear the same jacket at every event because your spouse will post up event photos on the website and you will be so busted.

4.     Never iron clothing in the hotel room because I don’t want to have to do it.

5.     Never present to high schoolers at eight a.m. If you do, don’t wake them up.

6.     Plan an answer to the question, “How much do authors make?” Practice keeping a straight face.

Shadowslayer Symphony Wins Salvner Music Award

This is just so cool, I have to share it.

The Warrior Heir was one of the featured books at the 2009 Youngstown State University English Festival. Ursuline High School students John Vitullo and Dan Catello wrote the Shadowslayer Symphony, a composition based on The Warrior Heir. It depicts the events in the graveyard after Jack digs up the sword, Shadowslayer. The symphony won the festival's annual Jeremy Salvner Memorial Music Award. This award is given to junior and senior high school students participating in the English Festival who create the best original music compositions inspired by one or more of the books on the festival's reading list.
Click here to hear their stellar work.