Musings on writing, people, and life in post-Katrina New Orleans. From Candice Proctor, writing as C.S. Harris, C.S. Graham, and herself.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Booksighing at Garden District
I had my first When Maidens Mourn booksigning at Garden District Bookshop on Saturday. I have a wonderful group of friends from SOLA, our local chapter of RWA, who loyally turn out for my booksignings every year. But this year I actually didn't know over half the people there, which made me feel pretty good until the bookstore staff started telling me about a bestselling vampire writer who'd just done a signing there. She's on a multi-state bus tour with her male cover model (complete with red contact lenses), a small army of staff, and a promotional budget that included a case of champagne and a giveaway in which the grand prize was an iPad (one per signing). Sigh.
Still, I had a great time, and I hope everyone else did, too. Thanks so much for coming!
When Maidens Mourn officially went on sale yesterday. Did you know that people call their author friends and wish them "Happy Pub Day"? It's true.
I spent yesterday clearing leaves out of my garden beds, spreading mulch, and mowing the lawn. It was a lovely, lovely spring day, and I was determined not to waste it. Plus, working to repair the last six months' neglect seemed far more productive and sanity-preserving than the way some writers of my acquaintence spend their pub day, namely obsessively checking their books' sales rank at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Oh, look! It's up to 142 on Kindle! Oh, no; now it's fallen to 351! But wait... Much better to spend the day bagging leaves and smelling roses.
The photo above is of a bloom on my orchid tree. The flower is as big as my hand and has a lovely light fragrance. The tree is about fifteen feet high, and this year our winter was so mild that it is breathtakingly covered with blooms. Much more pleasant to contemplate than Amazon's sales rankings!
I practice my morning yoga to a CD that concludes with Loreena McKennitt's haunting rendition of Tennyson's poem, "The Lady of Shalott." I've owned this recording for years, and yet my heart still aches each time I listen to it. The idea for the story that eventually became When Maidens Mourn developed slowly, over many months of mornings. It began with an image of a woman who had devoted her life to research and writing, only to realize she was missing out on the important things in life. And then, as she reaches for life, she dies...her body cast adrift on an ancient waterway.
The YouTube link above has Loreena McKennitt's song. The words to Tennyson's poem are below. And When Maidens Mourn officially goes on sale Tuesday, 6 March!
The Lady of Shalott
On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early, In among the bearded barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, burning bright, Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance -- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right -- The leaves upon her falling light -- Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."
One of the things that make this writing business a bit crazy is that authors are usually one or more books ahead of their publishers. For those of us on a one-book-a-year schedule, our next book is typically due on our editor's desk at the beginning of the same month our newest release is coming out. Thus, with the release of When Maidens Mourn scheduled for 6 March, the final manuscript for the next book in the series, What Darkness Brings, was due 1 March. This has two effects. First of all, authors find themselves suddenly having to talk about a book they finished some twelve months before and generally wiped from their minds in order to focus on the story at hand. But perhaps the most brutal aspect of this kind of schedule is that an author can find herself frantically pushing to finish a manuscript at exactly the same time she needs to devote loads of time to scheduling book signings, doing interviews, writing guest blog posts, updating websites, designing newsletters, etc, etc. It can make life pretty insane.
So this year I was feeling rather cocky. Once, I'd had dreams of finishing the eighth book in the Sebastian series by last fall, which would have given me four or more "found" months to start a new book. That didn't happen, thanks to some scary family illnesses, my daughter's wedding, and a ton of houseguests. But I still finished my manuscript with weeks to spare. And I thought, This is nice; for once I'll escape that deadly double crunch that always comes right before a book's release.
But you know what? Having finished book #8, I'm now deep into the planning of book #9. This is, for me, one of the most intense and pleasurable of the stages of writing. And just when I want to lose myself in the creation of this new story, I find myself instead constantly answering emails from my editor and publicist, designing newsletters, trying to remember when my next interview is. Which just goes to show that there's no pleasing some people.
An updated schedule of events:
February 28, 6:30 PM & March 3, 12:30 PM (CST) Interview with Susan Larson on "The Reading Life" Listen live on line or access the archives at wwno
Saturday, March 10, 2-4 PM Garden District Book Shop Corner of Washington Avenue and Prytania Street New Orleans, Louisiana Book signing
Saturday, March 25 Tennessee Williams/ New Orleans Literary Festival 11:30 AM-12:45 PM panel—"Bet You Can't Read Just One: Mysteries for Fun" Muriel's Jackson Square New Orleans, Louisiana With Ace Atkins, Barbara Hambly, and Greg Herren
Saturday, March 31, 4:30 Murder by the Book 2342 Bissonnet Houston, Texas Booksigning
I'll also be doing a guest blog on Wednesday, 29 February at Paperback Dolls.
Now you'll have to excuse me, because in the mists of my imagination, Sebastian is on his way to confront Marie-Therese, the daughter of Marie Antoinette. And Gibson has just rescued this lovely Frenchwoman with a mysterious past who....
Note: the above beautiful image is by Jon Miller Whiteny. Visit his site at jomiwi.com.
Last year, PW's reviewer really savaged Where Shadows Dance, so I was quite relieved when this year's offering received their nod of approval. Here's the Publishers Weekly review:
When Maidens Mourn: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery C.S. Harris. NAL/Obsidian Set in August 1812, Harris’s intriguing seventh Regency whodunit featuring aristocratic sleuth Sebastian St. Cyr (after 2011’s Where Shadows Dance) marks a return to form. St. Cyr has just married Hero Jarvis, the fiercely capable daughter of his bitterest enemy, Charles, Lord Jarvis, a cousin of the Prince Regent and the power behind the throne. The stabbing murder of Hero’s antiquarian friend, Gabrielle Tennyson, who was studying excavations at Camlet Moat in Trent, disrupts the newlyweds’ honeymoon plans. That Camlet Moat and the legendary Camelot may be one and the same is a more-than-academic point at a time when radicals are “calling for King Arthur to return... and save Britain from the benighted rule of the House of Hanover.” The couple pursue their investigations separately, at the risk of their fragile new relationship. Established fans will best appreciate the personal convolutions, but newcomers will have no trouble keeping up. Agent: Helen Breitwieser, Cornerstone Literary. (Mar.)
A former university professor with an incurable case of wanderlust, I write the Sebastian St. Cyr Regency mystery series under the name of C.S. Harris and thrillers as one half of C.S. Graham. I’ve also written historical romances as Candice Proctor.
