Floods and Rafts and Mail

It's cloudy today, the sky all low and swollen: grey, silver and green. I grew up in the mountains where thick, moist, rainforest cloaks the village and clouds roll through the main street, and although I'll swear black and blue that my favourite climate is northern hemisphere autumn, the older I get the more certain I am that the subtropical moisture of my childhood made its way beneath my skin. There's something about such settings that makes me feel positive, creative, grounded. I can still touch the memory of being a small person at school: the smell of wet hair, damp fleece, and muddy shoes; lights on in the daytime; the thrill of wet weather policy (inside play! silent reading! art instead of sport!).

I've been thinking about place a lot lately. In particular, the way people and places become tied. The recent floods, I'm sure, have something to do with it. I was away on tour during the end of 2010 (an amazing couple of months about which I was determined to keep you updated. . . next time I will do better!) and soon after I got home Queensland suffered through a major flood event. Farms, towns, great sweeping plains: all were drenched. The capital city of Brisbane wasn't spared either, as the great muddy river that flows slowly through the sprawling suburbs broke her banks, spilling thick brown water over streets and through the centre of people's homes.

Water isn't supposed to flow through houses. It's strange and disconcerting, even uncanny. And this was a different type of flooding. Flash floods come from above, this flood came from below. Water that had nowhere else to go pushed up through the street grates and kept on rising. It took forty-eight hours to reach its peak and once it started there was nothing to be done but watch and wait. You can tell a lot about your feelings for a place (or person) when it is hurting, and seeing my current home town drowning in mud brought out feelings of affection and loyalty I hadn't known were there. 

Much was written about the flood and many incredible pictures were published. This is one of the best articles I saw. The Queensland Writers Centre has launched an initiative called Writers on Rafts to raise money for flood victims all over Queensland. If you're so inclined, please feel free to check it out. I'll be taking part in a High Tea which sounds very fancy and rather fun. 

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It's raining now. Light but steady onto the already sodden ground. I can see a mighty red gum from my window, always beautiful but somehow startling in this light.

Over the past few months I have been sent quite a few links to reviews of The Distant Hours and will post some here. I'm delighted that the story, its people and place, has spoken to so many of you. I miss the sisters Blythe, and Milderhurst Castle, too.

www.1776books.blogspot.com

http://erikarobuck.wordpress.com/2011/01/15/review-the-distant-hours/

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/136781696

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And now, it's been a long time since I've answered questions and the mailbox is overflowing so I'm going to devote the rest of this journal entry to playing catch-up. 

Q: I've just started to read The Distant Hours and can't bear to put it down. Where can I read further about the 'Mudman'? Is it British folklore or did you invent? Loving the story.

Thanks, Linda Z 

The Mud Man is an invention. The title of Raymond Blythe's book, The True History of The Mud Man, was one of the first figments of story I had when I started writing The Distant Hours. The precise nature of the tale took a little longer though, and I was well into writing the novel before I realised who and what the Mud Man was.

The portion of Raymond's Blythe's rather spooky story came to me in a flash, on a cold, wet winter's evening. I was alone in a cabin in the forest, mist had rolled up the mountain, and I was sitting by the window watching night fall. All of a sudden I was struck by an image of a young girl perched upon a bookcase at the top of a castle tower. She was looking over a dark landscape, dreaming about her future, when down below her, deep in the muddy moat, something began to stir.

I raced to my computer and wrote the prologue in a single sitting. All the other pieces of the puzzle slotted into place once I found my Mud Man. 

Q: I am trying to find out the name of the artist and/or title of the picture in front of the book, The Forgotten Garden. It is the one with the three fairies. I would so appreciate an answer.

Thank you, Katie.

The divine illustration on the endpapers of the US edition of The Forgotten Garden is by Arthur Rackham. For non-US readers, this is the illustration in question. Isn't it purty?

  

Q: I note from both House at Riverton and the Forgotten Garden (and the preview of The Distant Hours) that there appears to be a theme of one of the main characters not getting on with their mother but of excellent relationshiips with grandchildren. Is this an intentional feature? I can't remember when I read two books I have simply loved and felt genuine sadness when they ended. Long may your writing career continue.

Alison

Hmm . . . you are correct, and no, it's not an intentional feature. I'm not sure why I'm so unkind to the mothers in my stories. My own mother is a delight and I love her very much. I like to write about families and secrets and generational relationships, and perhaps these become more interesting when direct relationships are compromised? I also like elderly people. Growing up, some of my closest friends were decades older than I was, and I find relationships between the young and the old very rewarding to write.

Q: I love your books. In fact I can't decide which is my favorite. When can I expect another? I hope it's soon, but if not could you recommend an author with a similar style of writing? The way you tell the story is remarkable. Thank you for writing.

Merritt

I'm right at the very beginning of a new story so I'm afraid it will be a little while before it's published. I'm not the fastest writer in the world, but I put a lot of love into my books. It would be breaking trust, I think, to do otherwise. 

In the meantime, you could track down the novels by Barbara Vine (Ruth Rendell's nom de plume). They're family mystery stories with past and present threads that weave together. A Dark-Adapted Eye and The Brimstone Wedding are two of my favourites, and The Chimney Sweeper's Boy, too; Asta's Book. . .  they're all great reads. I think she's awesome. 

Q: The 'girls' in my family (mid 20s and above!) have been trading your first two books around since a blissful trip to the beach over the summer. My mom gave me a copy of The Distant Hours for Christmas as a gift that was expected to be given back when I was finished. :) We are considered to be 'bookies' in our family and are SO excited to have found you and the worlds you bring to life. Congrats on another fantastic book that doese not cease to twist and tangle the imagination of this very appreciative 'bookie'! Please say there will be more books to come! Do you have any books that you love to further inspire the girls?

~ Sara Clarke

Thanks, Sara. I'm very happy to be traded between the 'bookies'. The Barbara Vine books are great, as mentioned above, and I can't not recommend Daphne du Maurier's books, in particular Rebecca. I haven't yet read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, but my husband tells me it's every bit as good as people say, so it's next on my list.

Q: Hi there, I just finished The Forgotten Garden, my first novel by Kate Morton and I'm now addicted . . . it was AMAZING!! Loved it. I heard there is a sequel to that book? Could you please let me know the title so that I can get it on order? Thanks! Keep 'em coming!!

Carmen 

There's no sequel to The Forgotten Garden. Perhaps you're thinking of The Distant Hours, my third book? It's a book about secrets and family and the present and the past, but it's unrelated to Forgotten Garden.

*** 

All right. It's really pouring now. Teeming, even. As I've been typing, the bucket beneath my window has acquired two inches of water. I'm going to sit outside for a while and watch it fall.

Coming to you from . . . Auckland!

Hello, I'm in New Zealand. I flew in today and my first impression, from the plane window, was that it looked a lot like Australia. Then we got closer and I revised: it looks a lot like Australia. . . except that the hills are pointier, the trees are lacier, and the water of the harbour is far more aqua in colour. Which leaves . . . not so much. Which is great. It's the differences that make travel exciting, don't you think?

By the way, I was fascinated to discover that Auckland was once flat (long, long ago, before it was Auckland at all, but you know what I mean); the current geography was formed by the eruption of numerous volcanoes and the consequent spill of molten lava. Also, that much of the metropolitan area sits atop a volcanic field that is currently dormant but likely to erupt again in the next hundred to thousands of years (the blink of an eye in geologic terms). And that New Zealand was a land without predators, and that's why the kiwi and the local moor don't fly. They didn't need to. 

Anyway. Volcanoes and kiwi birds aside.

The Distant Hours tour officially starts tomorrow. I'll be speaking with Greg Prebble on Easy Mix FM in the morning, then Dave (who's filling in for Mike Yardley) on Newstalk ZB Christchurch around 11 am.

In the PM I'll be at the Auckland Hilton, in conversation with fellow-author and books editor of the Herald on Sunday, Nicky Pellegrino. There are goody bags for everyone, and proceeds (tickets are $12) go to the Starship Foundation. It's going to be lots of fun.

You can find more information here.

And tickets are available here. 

***

And finally, Happy Hallowe'en! Have you given somebody you care about a scary book? If not, there is still time. Go on: give someone the gift of a delicious spine-tingle. 

PS The picture of a Kiwi came from here and the map of the Auckland volcanic fields was originally published in 1863.

Fashion. Book launches and art. Other things.

The past fortnight has been all about publicity. Which is good because it means talking about my books, but not-so-good because it means talking about my self. I don't particularly enjoy doing that. I'm pretty private by nature and public exposure can make me want to curl up in a ball and roll somewhere dark.

The other day, though, I had a very strange experience. For the first time whilst doing an interview I realised something about myself that I hadn't before. Well, not in so many words. And not with absolute clarity. A number of disparate things linked up to form a pattern and -- at the risk of overstating it -- I experienced a revelation. Are you ready?

I am not a fashionable person. 

I know. Shocking. But see here: I've never really belonged to a social clique (didn't even know they existed until high school and by then I was too much in the habit of being friends with people I, er, liked, to be bothered much); I've never worn clothes or listened to music that was fashionable, unless by accident (The Beatles in the eighties, anybody?); I've never had a hobby that wasn't decades out of date; and I've never read or written books I didn't enjoy simply because they were deemed (by whoever decides these things) to be Books du Jour.

The reason is pretty simple. Due to a peculiar twist of geographical and technological circumstance -- I grew up in a small rural community before the interweb was woven -- I had no idea, as a kid, that there were fashions. Seriously. No idea. (To put this in context for you, I rarely wore shoes.) 

It never occurred to me that people might choose to do or say or wear something for any reason other than that they wanted to, or that they might conceal their true opinion because it was out of step with a trend; it certainly didn't cross my mind that there was any reason to read or write fiction other than because it felt really, really good. 

I'm a grown up now, and (hopefully) less naive than I was back then, but old habits die hard. Happily. I can't tell you my relief that when people ask, 'Why do you write the sort of books you write?' I can answer with absolute sincerity: 'Because it makes my heart sing.'

***

Speaking of the place where I grew up, I had a mountain-top book launch last Sunday. It was at Secret Garden, a gallery and book shop specialising in children's literature, original illustrations and, happily for me, books by Kate Morton. Janene and Mary (the owners) are lovely people and their shop is a place of wonder. Creativity everywhere and a back garden that goes on forever.

This is me in the process of signing a book. (Well, holding it up somewhat stiffly with help from Pauline. Thank you, Pauline.)

You see over my shoulder? Those pictures hanging on the wall are original illustrations from a new children's book called Last Tree in the City. It's by a man called Peter Carnavas and is about a little boy called Edward who lives in a big monochrome city with a single tree in a secret spot. Edward visits the tree everyday, then one day the tree is gone . . . I know! It's very sad, and the illustration of Edward's despair is beautiful. But there's a happy ending. Really, there is. I bought a copy and my children made me read it to them three times. In a row. 

I also bought two of the illustrations because they're delightful. These are them:

And here is Edward in the tree. 

I had to have him because that's how I spent much of my childhood -- sitting in an avocado tree with a book, hiding from the world. Minus the duck. Though I'd have loved a duck who read over my shoulder.

And I tell a lie. We did have a pet duck. His name was Dandy.

***

Finally, for all writers out there, it's NaNoWriMo time again. Less than a week to go - get your pencils sharpened!

***

And now, I must go. I have a date with a classroom of seven-year-olds. We're sneaking through the back of the wardrobe to find out what Aslan promised the White Witch in order to secure Edmund's release . . . 

An unexpected collaboration. And more endpaper love.

I think I might have mentioned the shiny first editions that have started arriving at my door. You remember -- gorgeous covers, thick powdery pages (oh, so many pages!), and the most glorious endpapers you've ever seen. This divine image from the front of the UK edition made me cry when I first glimpsed it, and I'm not an easy-crier. The artist actually made real Juniper's lost letter. There's an historically accurate stamp, a proper postmark, and don't even get me started on the scratchy handwriting and the little mouse nibble at the bottom.

Yes. I'm not afraid to admit there has been much stroking of said covers, much gazing at endpapers and an awful lot of page sniffing going on around here. Which is probably why it struck me so hard when I opened the door to my office this morning and found my two year old, who had been out of sight no more than a minute, standing at my desk with his red felt pen poised. 

There is a lot of clutter on my desk. I am not a neat worker. There were any number of things on which he might have chosen to focus his attention. 

He chose my newest arrival and augmented it thus. This is the dedication page. I'm not going to show you the endpapers. Or the cover. Suffice it to say, they have also been amended. 

It is our first collaboration and, although unexpected, I think he has a point. What isn't improved with a bold splash of red? (And, I'm sure you'll agree, for a two year old he draws a mean circle.)

I think I will put the book away somewhere safe and give it to him one day when he's all grown up and has long forgotten his fondness for covering every unsuspecting surface with circles. 

***

Incidentally, the dedication to The Distant Hours reads:

For Kim Wilkins, who encouraged me to start; and Davin Patterson, who was with me to the last full stop.

Davin is my husband (and for his work on the frontline deserves far more than a dedication), and Kim is my friend and a fellow author. (She also writes under the nom de plume Kimberley Freeman.) 

The Distant Hours is done!

Which means I'm back in the real world and it feels wonderful. That is, it does now. It didn't immediately.

The final period of a book's creation is such a dense and lush and all-encompassing place to be, that when the final pages are finally wrested away and sent to the printer, there comes an inevitable slump. A hole. A gap. A nervy, tic-inducing period in which people say things like 'you must be so pleased', and 'now it's time to relax', and although you smile and nod, what you really want to whimper is 'but I miss them all so much!'

At least that's how it always plays for me. It doesn't last forever (the new characters and stories are too determined to let that happen) but it's a dazing and distancing time, characterised by a strange sense of something that feels an awful lot like loss. I find myself standing in my office, aimlessly surfing my computer, rearranging my desk, flicking through my research books, and feeling oddly unsettled.

Then the ARCs go out, the first editions arrive at my door (pictured here are the Australian and the UK Distant Hours; my ears are tuned to the doorbell awaiting the courier with the US edition), and slowly, slowly, a few eager, early books begin to find their way to readers. 

And that's when the sense of being untethered starts to disappear. Because no matter how much I adore writing, no matter the pleasure my stories give me, it isn't until books are read that they really start to breathe.  

***

PS There's a brand-spanking Events page under construction that will list all the upcoming tour dates. Until it's finished, though, US readers can find details here.