Massive Fantasy Novel Giveaway on the Enchanted Inkpot!

The Enchanted Inkpot is moving from Livejournal to Blogger! To celebrate, we are hosting a massive giveaway of fantasy novels for middle grade and YA readers. Just check out these three fabulous prize packages!

 Head on over to The Enchanted Inkpot  for information on how to enter.

If You’d Like Me to Come to Your Town

 I often receive emails, comments and messages from readers asking why I don’t come to their town for an author visit. This especially happens after I post the itinerary for an upcoming tour or I list an event on my blog or Facebook. No matter where I’m going, it seems the people who want to see me are somewhere else.

“Why aren’t you coming to my town?” they ask.

The truth is--I’d LOVE to come to your town—really, I would. I love to get out from under my keyboard and get out and meet readers. But even an author who is lucky enough to be sent on tour doesn’t generally get to decide where she goes.

The publisher makes those decisions.  My publicist will usually ask if I have any suggestions. If I’ve been hearing a lot from, say, Denver readers, I will mention it. Last time, I actually got on my Amazon author page and looked to see where my books were selling the most.

The publisher will also look at the size of the market, what book sales are like there, transportation costs, etc.

Beyond that, bookstores fill out request forms for authors they would like to host. Publicists quickly get to know which bookstores, libraries, and schools host awesome events that bring a great turnout. You will see certain bookstores hosting one event after another—because they’re so good at it. And when I have a great experience in a city or venue, I let my publisher know.

            My tours have been ~ten days long, meaning 8 or 10 cities. Plus some weekend gigs during the weeks surrounding the release. For efficiency and cost reasons, my tours usually focus on one region of the country. We try to switch around year to year.

Finally, if I’m aware of an event that would be the perfect place to showcase my book, I will ask my publisher to consider sending me. Sometimes my travel is sponsored by the bookfest/conference itself. For example, this year I’ve been to  Dragon*Con, The World Fantasy Con, and several bookfests, including Books by the Banks in Cincinnati, The Buckeye Bookfair, in Wooster, OH, the Montgomery County, TX Bookfest, and the Spartanburg Teen Reading Festival in South Carolina. I will be at the TBF Live! Bookfest in Rochester, NY in May.

Cons and bookfests are a great place for readers to meet many authors at once. And it’s a great place for an author to introduce her books to potential readers.

            Is there anything you can do to make it more likely an author will come to your town? Well, first, move to a major market. Sorry, but it’s true. Publicists want the most bang for their buck, so they will send authors where the most people are. If you don’t live in a large town, maybe there’s one within driving distance. Some times, ya gotta hit the road.   

Tell the author you would love to see her, of course. Also let her know if you know of an awesome venue in your town, such as a bookfest or a great bookstore. Offer to make a pitch/introduction. It often means more coming from a reader than from an author.

Speaking of, support your local bookstores. If they close their doors, there’s no venue to host an author appearance. Get to know bookstore owners, librarians, and teachers. Join your community library’s teen board. Ask if they ever host author visits. Tell them you would like to see your favorite author in person. If an in-person visit isn’t possible, perhaps a Skype visit can be arranged.

Many authors are willing to do school visits. Generally, the school pays a stipend and travel expenses. Often schools join forces to reduce the cost. Even a small market can snag an author visit if it’s in conjunction with a paid school visit. I’ve visited very small towns in southern Ohio and rural Illinois where librarians and teachers ganged up together and hosted me. Often librarians and teachers can access grant money to pay for author visits. Remember--one person on a mission can be very powerful. I have had visits happen because of one determined teen. 

What if your favorite author comes to your town? Do everything you can to get the word out. Encourage your friends to go, if they like to read. Attend the event yourself. Support the venue (and the author) by buying books. If the author has a great experience in your town, she will be eager to return. And it’s likely that publisher will send other authors your way, too. For example, I’ve been to Oceanside, CA twice because I’ve had great experiences there. I’m returning to TBF Live! This year because they rock.

There’s nothing worse than finding out your favorite author came to a town nearby and you missed it. Most authors have events listings on their websites, post upcoming events on Facebook and Twitter, or mail have email lists to notify readers. Follow your favorite authors and you won’t be disappointed.

If you want to receive messages from me about upcoming events and other announcements, you can join my Google Group on the front page of my website here  or on my blog here

You’ll find a listing of my upcoming events here. 

You can find out more about scheduling events with me on my website here.http://cindachima.com/Visit/Visit.htm 

When Readers Hate Your Books

I often get emails from people who like my books. It’s still a thrill, even  with six books in print. Hey, I say to myself, this person isn’t even related to me—in fact, he lives three states away—and he likes my book!

Anyone who takes the time to thank an author deserves a special place in heaven. We are needy people with fragile egos (well, most of us) and sometimes that email from a fan is just what we need to keep going when the muse is slacking and the words won’t come; when we find our books on the clearance table and our agents don't return your calls. Opportunities for humiliation are legion. Kind words are treasured up against those days.

My favorite emails are from those who tell me my books made them into pleasure readers. How cool is that? Because for me the notion of going through life without books is horrifying. Because books changed my life.

Sometimes readers will write to alert me to errors in a book. For example, "I’ve noticed that Leesha has different colored eyes in each book. What gives?" Or—“what’s up with the two Christmases in one year?” If the error is serious enough, my publisher can correct it when the book goes back to print.

Readers email comments about what they especially liked (Han is SO hot!) or concrete suggestions about what I could have done differently, e.g. Why did you kill off my favorite character? (or, conversely, why didn’t you kill off more people?)  Or, Raisa should dump Nightwalker.

They’ll tell me that the love scene at the end of the book should have been a lot longer. Or that I should have put in some dragons.

While I can't go back and change the book in print, specific feedback might give me guidance for future books. Of course, some people tell me just what they think should happen in that next book.

But sometimes I get emails from people who basically say, I read your latest book and it sucked. Or--I liked your old series but I don't like your new series. Or--I read your new series and liked it, but when I went back and read your old series, it sucked.

It would be easier if they at least agreed on which books suck and which don’t.

I’m not talking about reviews. Negative reviews can be painful, but at least they serve a purpose. Reviews are intended to help readers find books they might like and avoid the ones they won’t. A public service of sorts.

I'm never sure what I'm supposed to do with this sort of big-bore, non-specific negative feedback. I don’t expect everyone to like my books, but this is like telling someone her child is ugly and stupid, too.

I mean, it’s not like there’s gonna be a do-over.

Should I say I'm sorry? Promise never to write a crappy book again? Get all defensive and tell them that if they think it's easy to write a book, mr. smarty-pants, they should try it themselves? Look them up on Goodreads to see if they give everyone one-star reviews? Google the sender's name to try to figure out it’s really Harold Gallagher from third grade who always hated you?

Hit delete, eat chocolate and drink hard liquor?

Anyone?

Montgomery County Book Festival, The Woodlands, TX

Hope you'll join me, Kristen Cast, and six other awesome authors at the 2012 Montgomery County Book Festival on January 21 in the Houston area. The festival is FREE and open to the public. The fest features author presentations, book sales, and autographing.

You'll find all of the information here!

I've Joined the Twitterverse

For some time, I’ve been under pressure to Tweet. It’s apparently not enough to Facebook, blog, webpage, and email.

I resisted. I’m a fantasy writer. 140 characters is too small a space to turn around in.

The Twitterati persisted. “It’s really quick and really fun and really viral,” they said.

Really? I thought. Let’s just see who’s on there.

When I looked into it several years ago, it seemed like Twitter Literary was mostly librarians, language arts teachers, agents, editors, and writers avoiding their deadlines. Not so many teenagers, save the odd book blogger. 

“My audience isn’t on Twitter,” I said smugly. And put it into the old, “one day you’ll have time for this” file. Which usually means, “I’ll adopt this just as everyone else is departing for the next techstination.”

Facebook was like that. By the time I was on Facebook, your grandmother was pestering you with friend requests.  

While I dawdled, the Twittervirus sent its tentacles into every corner of my life. The cool writers became @libbabray, @sarahdessen, @realjohngreen, @neilhimself--even @SalmanRushdie--while I languished in digital darkness. 

I’d sit on author panels while everyone else—including my fellow panelists—tweeted away. I’d say something—anything—and hear people in the audience tapping on tiny keyboards. And I wondered—are they tweeting what I just said, or are they just checking email? 

So I’m at the World Fantasy Con, where @neilhimself is the guest of honor, and I’m hanging with awesome writers like @hollyblack, @cindypon, @malindalo, @kehealey, and @gregvaneekhout, and the topic of Twitter comes up. And I’m all, “That’s it, I’m going to do it, I’m going to get on Twitter.”

“You already are,” @cindypon says.

“No, I’m not,” I say.

“You have 80 followers,” @cindypon says. “@cindachima, I’ve been tweeting you all during the con.”

“Have not.”

“Have. @hollyblack has, too.”

Huh, I think. Maybe at some point in the past, in a frenzy of social networking guilt, I signed up.

“Um. Have I ever Tweeted?” I ask humbly.

“No,” @cindypon said.

“Oh, no,” I say. “You must think I’m stuck-up. Or I have nothing to say!”

“We just figured you were squatting on the site to keep anyone else from taking it.”

“Right. That’s exactly what I was doing. But now I’m really going to Tweet. And follow some people. And maybe create some tiny urls.”

I try every email and password I’ve ever used, and I cannot get into the @cindachima account. I keep trying until they lock me out.

I send a trouble ticket to Twitter. No dice. Unless I have the email address or password, I cannot access the account.

For over a week, every time an old password surfaces in my mental files, I hurry back to Twitter and try to get in. No luck.

Well, I think. I can always set up the @realcindachima account. And then tweet to whoever stole my @cindachima account. I’ll just give them a good scolding in 140 characters or less.

Then my agent emails me. He’s in LA, visiting with our film agent.

 Oh, by the way, Vince saw that @cindachima was available on Twitter, and he snagged it for you a while ago. Do you want it?

Oh.

So now I’m in. I’ve set up my profile, and I’m following a few people (always seems stalkerish, but I guess being followed is a good thing in Twitterworld. I’ve Tweeted, re-Tweeted, and created a tiny URL.

Hey! Where did everybody go?

I tweet @cindachima.

Now Autumn Burns

“Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.”—William Allingham

“Autumn burned brightly, a running flame through the mountains, a torch flung to the trees.”—Faith Baldwin

 “Why is it always fire?”—Han Alister, The Crimson Crown

On Sunday, it was blustery and warm, so we decided to take a hike, reasoning, as we do on every fine autumn day, that it might be the last of the season.

We drove up to North Chagrin Reservation, one of the Cleveland Metroparks, to join a walk along Beechnut Fox Trail with Mindy, a Metroparks naturalist.

Along the way, we saw wooly aphids clinging to a tree—bits of fluff that wriggle in an uncanny, rather creepy fashion.

Mindy pointed out “hickory drops,” parasitic wildflowers that grow on hickory roots. And we spotted a large, rather obscene burl on one tree.

After the organized walk, we decided to hike further on our own. Mindy suggested the Sylvan and Overlook Trails, which wind through A.B. Williams Woods, a first-growth forest named for the region’s first naturalist.

We scuffed through beech leaves, threading our way between towering red oaks, past the ruins of a nature center struck by lightning decades ago. We spotted a doe grazing along the trail. She didn’t seem particularly worried by our presence.

As dusk grayed the greens and browns of the autumn woods, the trail angled along a peninsula overlooking a deep ravine.

We looked down, and saw flames—like an angry, infected wound in the dark flesh of the woods.

We stared, open-mouthed for a long moment.  The flames swept outward in a large circle, driven by the fitful winds. It mostly grazed on the leaf litter on the forest floor, occasionally sending sparks into the treetops.

Possibilities stumbled through my mind. Was it some kind of bonfire, or circle of bonfires? Druids? Wizards? Underage drinkers?

I pulled out my cellphone and called the Nature Center.

“Hi. Um, we were just on the autumn hike. And now we’re on the Sylvan Trail and there’s a big fire.”

I explained it all to Tracy, the other naturalist, and she called Ranger Dispatch. We hiked back to the trailhead to meet the ranger. Meanwhile, Mindy hiked down to where we had spotted the fire.

All the way back along the trail, the ranger kept saying, “How much farther is it?” and “Do you think it’ll go out on its own?”

When he saw it, he said, “I’ll go call the fire department.”

My husband and I hung out with Mindy at the top of the ravine, waiting for reinforcements, feeling helpless since we had no water, no foam--nothing to put it out with. When the wind died, the flames would crouch low, dying in the sodden leaves at the bottom of the creekbed. When the wind picked up, the flames would roar up the ravine. It expanded significantly while we watched.

A panicked squirrel raced past me, and I kept thinking of the forest fire in Bambi.

Soon, we heard sirens all around us, and Mindy updated the firefighters via her cell phone. We saw emergency lights flashing on Chagrin River Road, across the ravine. But nobody could figure out how to bring any equipment close enough to work the fire.

And then, blessedly, the wind died. By now it was full dark.

Eventually, we saw flashlights, and heard the crackle of radios as fire fighters worked their way through the woods toward us. 

“Are you all right?” they called.

“We’re fine,” we said. “We’re glad you’re here.”

It didn’t take long for the Willoughby Eastlake firefighters to smother the flames on our side of the ravine. They were still working the fire along Chagrin River Road when we left. The firefighters loaned us a flashlight so we could find our way back to the trail.

The firefighters suspected arson. There had been several suspicious fires in the reservation.

How We Celebrate Hallowe'en Around Here--The Pumpkin Roll

After I moved to this quirky town, the natives told me about certain seasonal rituals. The spring Bacchanalia is known as Blossom Time—a three-day party that happens every Memorial Day weekend.

That first Memorial Day, I found out that this town knows how to throw a party.

The fall ritual is known as The Pumpkin Roll, and it happens—well—it’s a secret.

“What do you mean, it’s a secret?” I asked, instantly intrigued.

“Well,” my informant said, “It’s unsanctioned.”

“Unsanctioned? Why? What is it? Who does it?” I persisted.

She leaned closer. “On a secret night around Hallowe’en time, the junior and senior classes at the high school bring hundreds of pumpkins to the top of Grove Hill, smash them on the roadway, and then slide down on the pumpkin guts.”

“They do not!” I said.

“They do.  It makes a huge mess.”

            “That’s awful,” I said, thinking, That’s awesome! “Um. Where do they get the pumpkins?”

“They steal them. They call it ‘pumpkining.’ Around here, you have to watch your pumpkins.” 

I needed the down-low, so I got online.

According to Wikipedia, the tradition began in 1909 as a “dump and run,” but has evolved into a more elaborate event, beginning with a party in a barn. In 2005, a record 22,000 pumpkins were smashed on the hill, which made me wonder who counted them. Police interference has had little effect over the years, though students caught stealing pumpkins are arrested. There’s considerable underage drinking, numerous injuries, but there have been only three deaths. 

It sounded like sort of a local “running of the bulls.” Planned by teenagers.

I am amazed, delighted, and appalled, all at once. How could such an event keep happening, at a time when helicopter parents drive their children to the bus stop?

Me, I was determined to be on scene for the roll.

As the trees turned to red and gold, I noticed that the local greenhouse offered “Pumpkin insurance.” If you bought a pumpkin from them, and it was stolen, they would replace it. Once.

At the annual October cleanup, the ladies on the Beautification Committee were already complaining about stolen pumpkins.

“They stole them right off my porch,” one woman said. “That’s twice now. I’m not buying more.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “Um. When’s the pumpkin roll?”

They stared at me. “It’s a secret,” they said.

“How can I find out? I—ah—want to know when it’s safe to put my pumpkins out again.”

“Maybe you could ask somebody at the high school,” they say, edging away from me.

When I left for San Diego for the World Fantasy Convention, I warned my husband, “Keep an eye out for the pumpkin roll.”

“When is it?”

“It’s a secret.”

Naturally, the pumpkin roll happened while I was in San Diego. There was a photo in the local paper. Somebody tipped the media, obviously.

So I’m down at the salon and Hannah is cutting my hair and I mention the pumpkin roll.

“I was there!” she said. “It was awesome, because nobody got hurt this year. I always go and try and look out for the kids.”

“Have you…actually participated?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “When I was in high school. I got pretty badly hurt.”

“What?!”

“I was walking back up the hill, and these guys were coming down and wiped me out and I hit my head on the pavement and they had to take me away in an ambulance,” Hannah said cheerfully.

“And this is…a fond memory for you?” I ask cautiously.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I was the only one sober. Doesn’t it just figure?”

It does.