Tam: Did she send you?

(The question hits Christopher out of nowhere–and it instantly raises his hackles. The suspicion that he needs to move again, to lose himself in the anonymity of a new city, has been nagging at him for weeks. Someone’s been watching him; he’s seen the same ragged old woman on Seattle’s streets five times now in as many weeks, studying him with knowing eyes, but he hasn’t been brave enough to confront her. And now? Here’s another stranger, one he’s sure has also been watching him, at least today. And this stranger seems much more hostile.)
Christopher: You got a problem there then? Do I know you?

(Tam steps back from Christopher, who stands at least a head taller than him, and raises one hand as if to protect himself.)
Tam: Did she send you?

(Wait. Confusion briefly strikes the young Newfoundlander before he realizes that this stranger looks as nervous as he himself feels. Hard on the heels of that a second realization strikes him: this one, whoever he is, isn’t human. Not entirely, anyway. Questions flood him then, but he forces them down; it’s none of his business, not if he’s leaving Seattle soon. That nervousness, though… it gives him pause. He backs up a step. The strap of his bouzouki’s gig bag slips a bit on his right shoulder, and he grabs at it to keep it in place, but keeps his other hand out, palm up.)
Christopher: Swear t’ Jesus, man, nobody sent me. Just lookin’ for somewhere to busk tonight, is all.

Tam (relaxing a bit): So you’re a musician?

(Christopher grins crookedly, his hand clutching the strap on his shoulder a bit more tightly; the bouzouki’s weight at his back is a comfort. His guard’s not down, not yet. But of all the words that could describe him, ‘musician’ is perhaps the truest… and the safest. At least until he learns the measure of this stranger.)
Christopher: Yeah… well, I knock around on the zouk a bit, anyway. When I can. (He nods ahead towards the nearest bus stop on the block, and then casts a glance behind him.) And there’s an old lady wit’ a whistle two blocks back. I… ah… thought I’d jump the 43 and try downtown.

(Tam looks puzzled at the instrument case.)
Tam: “Zook?”

(This begins to bring down the Newfoundlander’s guard; maybe he read this stranger wrong? All at once he’s weary, tired of scanning every face around him for any signs of a threat. Maybe this other man is simply nothing more than what he is–a wanderer, ill-fitting his current surroundings, though truth be told he knows he stands out more himself, with a brogue that flags him as Not From Around Here with the first word out of his mouth. Jesus, he could be Warder-blood for all I know, he thought. Not that he can ask, not right out here on the street in earshot of who knows how many passing grungy college kids passing them along the sidewalk of the Ave. And so he opts for the safe topic at hand, swinging the instrument bag forward just enough to reach its zipper so he can undo it and show just enough of the neck of the instrument inside to give the stranger a look.)
Christopher: Bouzouki. The Irish kind. Kind o’ a big mandolin.

(The dark-haired stranger smiles, surprised, and quietly reads the engraving on the instrument’s neck
Tam: Airson mo mhac Crìsdean.
(His accent on the Gaelic words is peculiar and slightly off, about as different as Spanish from Portuguese, but his voice is softly resonant, and the sunlight drifts across the inscription as he reads it, as though reflected off the window of a passing car.)

(Christopher goes still, staring, stunned that the other man gets the pronunciation almost correct. For a moment, memory flares: another voice murmuring those same words. For my son Christopher. His reluctant grin fades, skewing, though his face is no less earnest as he zips the instrument bag closed to protect its cargo from the drizzle in the air. Turning his th’s to d’s, his accent thickens, while he casts one more glance back over his shoulder.)
Christopher: That’s my zouk. (He pauses, then, in a sudden burst of sympathy, he adds…) Listen, man, you want t’ come along, there’s a pub in Ballard lets me play, sometimes. Nothin’ else, we could get a pint.

Tam: Sounds good to me. (Holds out hand) I’m Tam, by the way. Sorry to pick up your name by stealth, Crisdean–it was not my intent.

(The sound of the Gaelic form of his name is enough to ease Christopher considerably, all by itself. It’s not wise, perhaps. But memory still lurks behind the tall Newfoundlander’s eyes, and now the sound of a pint sounds appealing indeed, along with the idea of company, for once. He takes the offered hand and shakes it; his own’s sturdy, a working man’s hand, though with enough calluses on his fingertips to suggest he plays that instrument of his sometimes without a pick. At the bus stop ten feet away, a Metro bus pulls up.)
Christopher: It’s okay. C’mon with you then–that’s the bus that’ll get us to that pint.
(The bus isn’t terribly crowded, not at this hour. But there are enough riders on it to keep Christopher on the alert, and he can’t quite hide his relief that the old woman he’d seen, the woman in the fedora with a whistle in her hands, is nowhere in sight. He doesn’t say much, not while the bus wends its way from the U-district to Ballard, nor once he and his companion are off again and heading on foot towards Molly Maguires. There’s music already there; it’s open mic night and the stage is occupied by a black-haired girl with a bodhran and a grizzled old fellow pulling away on a squeezebox. But Christopher, after tossing off a wave to the tender at the bar, aims for a booth towards the back–where he, and his companion for that matter, can keep an eye on the door. Somehow, for reasons he’s not quite ready to put a finger on, it seems apt.)

Tam: So the writing on your, um, Zook–was that… (He trails off, does not complete the question.)

(One of the young waitstaff of the pub comes over to take both men’s orders; absently, Christopher asks for a Pyramid ale. He waits politely until his companion’s placed his own order, and waits again until the server’s gone on his way, safely out of earshot, before he replies.)
Christopher: Gaelic. Scots Gaelic. My… (A beat.) My mum spoke it. (Another beat.) You say it differently.

Tam: She cares a lot about keeping you safe.

(Present tense. Not past, which is the truth of it. Christopher hasn’t missed that, but he doesn’t bother to correct it, not even with a bottle of local beer to blunt the reminder of memories he’d rather not consider. He’s changed the subject, and Christopher knows it; his hazel gaze swings back to Tam, shadowed now, more than a trifle wary. But he’s promised an amiable pint, and that’s what he’s going to give–even though he’s sure once again that he’s dealing with someone not entirely human. The server comes back again with his bottle of Pyramid, and he thanks the youth by rote, barely aware of his passing. Except to mark when he’s gone… and when, therefore, it’s safe for him to speak beneath the music from the stage.)
Christopher: Y’get that then, from one glimpse of my instrument?

Tam: And from your being so far from home.

(One corner of his mouth quirks up in a grin, though, as he takes a pull off that beer. ‘Far from home’–oh, yeah, quite an easier guess when a man has but to open his mouth and talk. How much he can guess off this Tam, though, is another question entirely. There’s nothing so blatant a clue as an accent, or anything the other man is carrying marked in an obvious other tongue… but still, Christopher has his suspicions.)

Christopher: That I’d be, yeah. I’m thinkin’ you’d know somethin’ o’ that yourself, too.

(Tam smiles and raises his bottle.)
Tam: I hope it’s far enough.

(Habit makes Christopher cast a glance around the place, but most everyone in the pub is focused on the duo of musicians on stage. In the booth he’s claimed with Tam, there’s the relative safety of anonymity. Now there’s the acknowledgement, given and received, that he’s got at least something in common with this other man. He’s dying to know now what more there is–and if this Tam is shirking from crossing paths with the old woman, just as he. Christopher MacSimidh has no talent for dissembling, and so he opts for as direct an approach as he can take without risking sounding daft. He leans forward where he sits, the better to keep his voice pitched low.)
Christopher: I hear that, yeah. Look now… I don’t know who your she is, but if it’s the old woman I saw, the one wit’ the whistle… I’m duckin’ her too.

(Tam cocks an eyebrow.)
Tam: Old woman with a whistle?

(Christopher blows out a breath, ill at ease all over again for having to muster words to come close to what’s been gnawing away at him for weeks in this rain-washed northern city, and never mind saying it outright. The beer helps, but only so much, and only because it gives him something to do with his hands when breaking out the bouzouki isn’t yet an option.)
Christopher: Yeah. I’ve seen ‘er, downtown sometimes, Capitol Hill, Queen Anne… (He frowns and waves a hand towards the door by way of punctuation.) Here, sometimes, but not tonight. If she’s what I think she is, she’s… (How in God’s name can he put this?) She’s someone I’m better off avoidin’.

(Tam stops drinking and sets his bottle down. He examines Christopher carefully for a moment, with a serious look on his face.)

Christopher: Does the word ‘Warder’ mean anythin’ to you?

(A pause. Tam shakes his head.)

(He’s in it now. Christopher braces himself, and it plays out on his face, for a tightening of his jaw betrays his tension. Tam’s not of the line, then, not hiding like he is. Which means he’s something else. There’s a tang of Sidhe about him–but not enough for the Newfoundlander to be certain. Not with his own Warder blood no more than latent, able only to whisper guesses, and sometimes warnings. That he feels no warning now is all that makes him brave enough to answer.)
Christopher: She’s one. The old woman. Means she’ll have a way o’ knowin’ things about this city, who’s in it… and who shouldn’t be.

Tam (Concerned, thinking this through): And she’s after you. Is warder a. . . a euphemism, like “fair folk” or “kindly ones”?

(Christopher almost laughs. Tam’s answer is enough to tell him his instincts were sound–this man does know at least something of the very world he’s avoiding. The relief of that knowledge is strong; at least he won’t be written off as a madman. He glances to the door again by reflex, smiling without any particular humor, eyes distant.)
Christopher: Nah. (His gaze comes back.) But a Warder knows the meanin’ behind those words.

Tam: That’s good to know. The energy coming off you is. . . out of place. I mean, it’s yours, but there’s something about it, like it needs to come to rest. If that’s what she’s after, then you have to get it tucked away, or it’ll be way too easy to peel it off of you.

(All color drains out of Christopher’s face and he slumps back in the booth, tilting his head back a moment, clamping his eyes shut. He does laugh, now, and it’d be a good laugh if it had any pleasure in it; as it stands, it sounds more like fear. )
Christopher: You… you can tell?

(Tam utters a mild profanity in a language similar to, but not the same as Gaelic, the same language he seemed to speak when he read the words on the bouzouki. He slowly, carefully, looks around the room before speaking again.)
Tam: Yeah. I can tell. I shouldn’t have said.

(And now, with a pause in the music as the duo on the little stage gives way to an older woman with a guitar, those not-Gaelic words are clearer to Christopher’s ear. He looks again at his companion, then waves off those last words and plucks up the bottle before him again to drain it dry.)
Christopher: I thought you would. It’s okay. (He sighs.) Well then, Tam, I can say this. If she’s good at the Wardin’ she’ll know you’re here. If you’re after keepin’ your head down, and if you’re passin’ through, she’ll not care. (When his bottle is empty, he sets it back down before him and stares at it, his voice gone very low.) If trouble finds you on Seattle ground, though… that she’ll care for.

Tam: I see. (Pause.) If that’s the case, then why is she after you?

Once you’ve read Cindy’s post, be sure to check out my entry on Fraser Sherman’s blog, and to read the posts of other authors in the tour.  Thanks to Angela Korra’ti for organizing the tour.  And now, without further ado, Heeeeeeeeere’s Cindy!

_____

I’ve been writing since I was in my early teens, but I never felt like a real author until I took a class in college called “Publishing the Magazine.” It was exactly that – a class that took its staff of students (a mix of volunteers and people taking the class…) through every aspect of publishing a magazine. We had to get ads, write a story, sit without twitching while someone edited the story, everything. It was even listed in the Writer’s Market, and there was an actual slush pile.

I remember sitting at the round table, presenting my ideas to the gathered…mostly the professor, Dr. Alan Natali, and the student editor. I kept presenting ideas, and Alan kept rejecting them. “There has to be something interesting…something that only you can write about.”

At which point, shyly, I put forward the fact that my father was a blacksmith and that we used to go to craft shows. This was the first time in my life that a) I felt like maybe I was an interesting individual, and b) that yes, people would think the fact that my father was a blacksmith was really COOL.

It was an amazing experience. I learned that editors are your friends. That I have a voice, and it’s a good one. That non-fiction can actually be a lot of fun to write. And I got to experience that feeling, that pride one can feel, the relief and joy and “OMG ieeee flail!” at seeing one’s words in print.

And I stayed part of the magazine (called Flipside) for the rest of my college years. All my really good memories start from that story. It also taught me a ton of things that I use in my everyday life – how to do design and layout, how to copyedit, and how to get rid of passive voice. So, while it’s not the first real publishing experience, or a story about finishing my first work, I think that it’s the first, honest step I took to where I am now.

Not what it sounds like.  A colleague who did programming for Pi-Con last year is now doing an internship for Circlet Press, and they asked her to come up with an idea for an e-anthology.  She picked up the idea for a sex magic anthology from a panel I moderated at Pi-Con (and Arisia, and LunaCon) last year.  I didn’t realize who was behind it, so I was discussing it in a friend’s blog and the person editing the anthology identified herself.  I think it’s the only time I’ve ever been personally solicited for a story in another person’s blog.

 So now I’m on task to write some porn with literary merit.  It’s been a fun little project, and I’m proud of what I’ve written on it so far (about 2,400 words).  I started with a heroine who really shouldn’t seem appealing, and I gradually open her up, let you see who she is and what she’s about–and let her discover herself a bit as well. 

Well, it turns out that the names Rachel didn’t recognize included Laura Boss (editor of the poetry journal Lips and an excellent poet in her own right), Maria Mazziotti Gillan (founder of a couple of major NJ poetry centers and editor of the Paterson Literary Review–which years ago made the unusual decision to accept my poem “Decline of the Beat Poets” but reject my bio).  Also reading were John McDermott, R.G. Rader, and Linda Radice. 

It was good to hear works by Laura Boss (who has a quirky and whimsical style not unlike Sharon Olds–the most memorable poems of the evening included one about her refrigerator feeling unloved because she was dieting and another in which her boyfriend comes back from the dead and her first thought is to get him to write a will and have it notarized before he dies again and his cousin gets the rights to his work) and Maria Maziotti Gillan (who writes powerful thoughtful pieces and reads them with a stern serious delivery, even those parts you would think were tongue-in-cheek when you saw them on the page.  Her very precise insights often mask an emotional sledgehammer coming up behind you as the poem progresses).  I was also impressed with several works by the other featured readers, most notable John McDermott’s poem “More,” about the second word his son learned after “mama.”

The open mic was pretty good as these things go.  There is always some dreck at these things, and this one was no exception, but there was a lot less than one would expect from an open mic, and everyone was limited to one piece because of time constraints.  My favorite from the open mic was a poet whose name I did’t catch writing about how your officemates descend like buzzards to steal your supplies when you leave.  I also enjoyed a poem by Gail Gerwin about the difference between young parenthood and being the mother of adults–though I must admit her nostalgia doesn’t match the stress level of my current experience.  There was a surprisingly moving reading of the lyrics to Don McLean’s “Starry Starry Night,” and a blink-and-you-miss-it epigram by Mark Brunetti, who was giving out free copies of his award-winning indie mag The Idiom. 

The Idiom’s mission statement emphasizes work that is immediately interesting and intertaining over the stuff that takes multiple readings to sink in.  Skimming it afterwards, I found some intriguing stuff, although their idea of immediate entertainment seemed to dwell much too heavily on Bukowski-type grit (I like Bukowski, but immediate entertainment for me also includes stuff like Shel Silverstein and Peter S. Beagle).  Still, making good poetry in the mold of Bukowski is an impressive feat, when his style has inspired so much bad imitation. 

There was also a flyer for the magazine Lips, and I plan to order a copy and see what sort of stuff Laura Boss likes to publish, since her whimsical style seems much closer to my esthetic sense than most of what’s out there in the literary journals.

I put some Drollerie Press flyers on the table, and some of the business-card-size flyers for Shadow of the Antlered Bird.  Unfortunately, I forgot to shill my book when it was my turn to read.  But I gave a good (IMHO) reading of Wind in the Reeds.  I did lapse into “poetry voice” a couple of times–in part because I was afraid people would object to my reading a prose piece at a poetry reading, but from the comments afterwards and the looks on the audience’s faces, I think I caught people’s attention in a positive way.

I hope to be able to go again next month and both be a little less shy about mingling with the crowd and to bring some other writers with me, including the one whose success inspired the envy that sent me out the door int he first place.

I mean, if I went with the manners I grew up with, I’d never post anyone’s name without asking their permission first.  But then, the manners I grow up with would tell me not to read anyone’s journal, either, which would make blogging a pointless exercise in the first place.

It seems like a certain amount of shouting out, as it were, is essential to the exercise of blogging.  Even articles by people who blog for a living will tell you this–that you’re expected to mention other people by name, and give links to their blogs, Web sites, recent publications, and so on.  But it still feels like there are times when you aren’t supposed to do that, like if I say, “Oh, I was at thus and such event last weekend, and I ran into this or that person, and we talked about blah blah blah,” then with some people it feels like I’m giving them publicity they want, with others it feels like I’d be showing off just by saying I know the person in question, and sometimes I just can’t tell.  And, of course, when you’re not sure, then you’re usually also not sure if dropping someone an e-mail just to ask would be an annoyance.

Is there any rule for this beyond just going with your gut?

I just got word from Sara M. Harvey that her new book Convent of the Pure is now available for preorder from Apex Publications. 

More after the jump

I met Sara at Arisia this year; I was trying to decide whether to add Pi-Con to my calendar, so Rachel and I got into a conversation with her, and we wound up picking up her book.   And she came to my reading (which upped the attendance by about 20%).  You can read my Goodreads review of her first novel, A Year and a Day, here.  And check out Sara’s blog about that trip to Arisia, in which she calls my work “wild and fantastical and so very intriguing!”  

OK, you have to search a bit to find the stuff about me, but it is there, and I’m still at the phase where I find it cool to be blogged about. 

Convent of the Pure can be ordered here.

An excerpt of the official press release appears below:

Sara M. Harvey – THE CONVENT OF THE PURE

Secrets and illusions abound in a decaying convent wrapped in dark magic and scented with blood. Portia came to the convent with the ghost of Imogen, the lover she failed to protect in life. Now, the spell casting caste wants to make sure that neither she nor her spirit ever leave.

“The Convent of the Pure is a compelling blend of the numinous and the creepy, with a rich, atmospheric setting. I devoured it in a single sitting!”
– Jacqueline Carey (Kushiel’s Dart)

Publication Date: April 1st

http://www.apexbookcompany.com/cart.php?m=product_detail&p=78