This shall be a small pile of miscellaneous news. I know I have been silent, but it's because I have been touring and lurking in places with no internet. I've wanted to communicate with the outside world. Really. Truly. I have things to say. But my cell phone dowsing for signal has been unsuccessful. So. Without further ado:

1. The US paperback of The Scorpio Races is officially out today. It has some cool things the hard cover doesn't: several deleted scenes, my Printz speech, an interview with my editor, and the recipe for the November Cakes. The recipe you can already get online, but the other stuff is exclusive. It also has this new cover.

2. I am celebrating the release of The Scorpio Races by being in the part of the world I spent the most time researching the location of that book. The timing is coincidental. But I like it. Even though it is the reason why I don't really have any internet at the moment. Here is where I am:



3. On the heels of the 2013 Critique Partner Love Connection, it seems pretty appropriate that news of my next project just went live. Here's the official summary:

Maggie Stiefvater, Tessa Gratton and Brenna Yovanoff's THE ANATOMY OF CURIOSITY, a companion to their earlier THE CURIOSITIES, and a conversational step-by-step guide to their writing/ critiquing process and relationship, with new original stories by the authors in first and final draft forms, again to Andrew Karre at Carolrhoda Lab, for publication in Fall 2014, by Laura Rennert at the Andrea Brown Literary Agency for Stiefvater and Gratton, and Sarah Davies at the Greenhouse Literary Agency for Yovanoff (world English).

Like The Curiosities, it will involve new short fiction and doodled marginalia* from each of us, but unlike The Curiosities, we're really digging in to the critique and revision process and making a level effort to show our thought processes at every step of the writing process. To do that, we're going to dissect lengthy stories from each of us.

*here is what a sample page of The Curiosities looks like.



4. I did a quite extended interview with London Real and it's available on YouTube and on iTunes. It's an hour and a half long which means you will see more of my face than I see myself. We cover cars and fainting goats and The Dream Thieves.

5. Thus concludes my news.

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I guess it's that time of year again. I've been asked several times in the last few months if I would do another critique partner love connection on my blog and I now have enough requests that I'm going to go ahead and do it. These seems to be a yearly thing. I don't think I need to change the wording from the original Critique Partner Love Connection, so here we go:

Okay. As y'all know, I have two critique partners (Tessa Gratton and Brenna Yovanoff) whom I love dearly. They rip and tear at my manuscript with everything they have in them and they read what I read and love what I love and . . .well, after a long critique partner search, I have learned much about what I need in crit partners, and they are what I need.

However, it's come to my attention that not all of my blog readers have found what they need, and they're having a hard time putting out a call for crit partners on their own blogs because of traffic. Some of them are really good too -- agented or published or close to agented or published, and they need someone at that level. Others are just starting out.

So I thought I might do a Crit Partner Love Connection here on my blog, if anybody's looking. This is PRECISELY the way I found Tessa and Brenna.

Here are the rules, such as I ever have rules:

Post a comment saying the age range (adult, YA, MG), a brief, one-sentence blurb about your book or just the genre if you don't want to share more than that, and whether or not you have an agent, etc. Also the last book that you read that you loved that you feel epitomizes you as a reader.

ETA: Also note if you're writing in a language other than English (probably in caps, so you're easier to find for other folks writing in your language).

Then, if someone sounds appealing to you, you send them a message saying so and find out if it's mutual. If it is, you exchange the first 50 pages of your manuscripts, critique them, and return said critiques. If either of you doesn't feel like the crit relationship is working at that point, you get to smile and say thanks and walk away without any questions asked. That's the way it works.

NOTE: I myself am not looking for critters. Two partners is enough for me -- I can't keep up with anymore. I recommend definitely two or three partners for best results. That way when someone says "this sucks!" and someone else says "does not!" you can be the tie breaker. But if they both say "this sucks!" and you say "does not!" it means you're wrong. ;)

OTHER NOTE: I mirror this blog on Wordpress and Blogger and you might want to check the comments there, too.

Okay. Go!

P.S. As I'm in the UK right now, I just wanted to post a brief reminder of my two public signings.

Manchester, Saturday, March 23rd.

London, Sunday, March 24th.

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Hi all! Okay, I have an additional event to add to the UK schedule this month. This never really happens, not with only a week's notice, but this is a special case. I had so very many folks expressing sadness that Manchester was the only UK event and asking for a London one that I asked my publisher if we could do anything about it.

Waterstones at the O2 (Finchley Road) in London was very generous and let us set up an event on Sunday the 24th at 1:00 p.m. Here's the official event information. I'm happy to sign every book you bring so long as you buy one from the store to thank them.

Like I said, this is the first time an event to one of my tours has been added due to online fan requests, so I'm hoping you guys will prove me right, that online readers are a force to be listened to! I hope to see you there!

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As I packed my passport in my bag, I realized it has been a very long time since I've done a wrap up of foreign cover. Because they interest me, I'm going to inflict them on you. My apologies if I've posted any of them before or if I've missed anybody. You can get ALL of the foreign covers I have for each book by clicking on the linky above each set of covers.

The Scorpio Races


From left to right: Dutch, Lithuanian, Polish, Swedish, German, Brazilian, French, and Italian.

Lament & Ballad


From left to right: Czech, Czech, Italian, Hungarian

Shiver, Linger & Forever


Left to Right: Chinese, Latvian, Hebrew

The Raven Boys


Left to right: French, Hungarian, Swedish, UK

Also, my Swedish publisher just tweeted this photo of the Stockholm subway to me:



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I said: o.O

Okay. I'm off to Germany and the UK now. See ya there?

Oh, oh, oh. And I'm also going to be doing a Critique Partner Love Connection in a few days.

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I'm not going to be on the road as much this year as I'm working on the third faerie book, the second Spirit Animals book, and the third Raven Boys book, but I'm pleased to report I have a really lovely March schedule that I'm looking forward to.

Here 'tis:

TUCSON, AZ: TUCSON BOOK FESTIVAL
https://www.facebook.com/events/105124756324796/

March 9: Panel- Young Adult Fiction: No Boundaries?
4:00 PM - 05:00 PM
UA Mall Tent

March 10: Panel -Fragile on the Outside - Steel on the Inside: Gutsy Girls
10:00 AM - 11:00 AM
Education Building - Kiva Auditorium

March 10: Maggie Stiefvater - Solo Presentation
12:30 PM - 01:00 PM
Teen and Author Meeting Place

GERMANY: LEIPZIG BOOK FESTIVAL/ BUCHMESSE:
March 15: Maggie Stiefvater & Florens Schmidt present ROT WIE DAS MEER
3:30 P.M. Messegelände, Lese-Treff, Halle 2 E 313
https://www.facebook.com/events/408819382534143/

March 15, "Night of Youth Fiction" Bettina Belitz, Jennifer Benkau, & Maggie Stiefvater
7:00 P.M. Theaterhaus Schille, Otto-Schill-Str.7, 04109 Leipzig
https://www.facebook.com/events/191552144321442/

March 16, Maggie Stiefvater & Florens Schmidt present ROT WIE DAS MEER
11:00 A.M. Messegelände, Fantasy Leseinsel, Halle 2 G 307
https://www.facebook.com/events/140941846064276/

March 17, Maggie Stiefvater & Florens Schmidt present ROT WIE DAS MEER
12:30 P.M. Messegelände, Lese-Treff, Halle 2 E 313
https://www.facebook.com/events/474999725868776/

COLOGNE: March 14, Lit.Cologne, ticketed event -
5:30 P.M. Comedia - Theater KÖLN
https://www.facebook.com/events/312262375554572/

UK*

March 23: Manchester, UK
1:00 P.M. Signing at Waterstones, Manchester
https://www.facebook.com/events/339323229517062/

I'll be bringing some of my Raven Boys bookplates to the UK and German tours (I know I have a few reader requests for those left to mail out too; sorry, I'm behind!).


*I had thought I would have more public events set up in the UK (I have mostly school visits; I don't set up my schedule), but Manchester is the only public signing. I know there are folks in the south who'd like to get their books signed too, and I will be in London, but with no store events. So I might see about parking myself in a London cafe & letting the internet know where I am. It would be on the 24th if I could pull it off. Lemme know in the comments if you'd be interested and I'll see what I can do.

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This is a story about Las Vegas.

Now, I know if I tell you that, and I tell you I was there on my birthday, and I was driving a rental red convertible Camaro for the occasion and I got pulled over by the cops, you’re going to think this is a very particular sort of story.

But it is not that sort of story.

I was in Las Vegas for the NCTE conference (already this story has changed in your mind, I can tell), and it was the very last night of the very last day. At that point I had a very limited agenda: do the finest job of sleeping I could possibly imagine in order to not hate and destroy the world when I got up for my exceptionally early flight home.

I feel you can already sense this didn’t go well.

My hotel was pretty fabulous, I have to say, aside from the decor, which I’d describe as “tastefully misogynistic.”* The walls were sound-proofed within an inch of their lives, creating a pleasant, tomb-like existence which encouraged fantasies that I was the only person left on the planet.**

*much like a Cary Grant movie
**later I would regret this

And my room was massive. As I lounged against the kitchen sink and then the couch and then on the bed and then got lost in the palatial two-roomed bathroom, I realized it was larger than my first apartment by several degrees of magnitude.

The hotel room:

My first apartment:



The bathtub alone was larger than my first apartment’s bathroom. In fact, the hotel tub was one of those jetted numbers that promises luxury and indulgence and other words they often say in jewelry commercials. For my part, I don’t like sitting still and I don’t like bubbles, so all I could think was: they could have put a trampoline there instead.***

***Actually, it was Las Vegas. There probably were some rooms with a trampoline option.

But back to my tale. As I got ready for bed after a late night book event, I felt strangely creeped out. You should know that this in itself was unusual. My parents had an affection for old houses in my youth, and I have had an affection for shadows since I was germinated in one, and just, in general, I tend to be the most harmful thing in any given space. These things combine to mean that it’s hard to rattle me.

And yet, I was creeped out.

It is just the poster of the headless naked girl, I told myself. You’re just eager to be home, where her nipples will not glare so resentfully at you.

I turned off the light. I closed my eyes. I began to hear . . . sounds. Knocking. Thunking. Footsteps?

Recall how before I had been delighted by the room’s soundproofing. I had spent three nights in a tomblike hotel room and now NOW, where was my tomb? Moreover, the noise didn’t seem to be coming from the hall or the rooms adjacent. Instead, the sounds were coming from the bathroom. I’d like to refer you floor plan above. Do you see how it has an interior wall? That is where the sound was coming from — knocks on that. So my first thought was: someone is in here.

I did what any author would do if they believed someone was in their hotel room. I hit the lights, seized the telephone from beside the bed as a weapon, and leapt upright on the mattress. What a threatening and tastefully misogynistic form I must have cut as I bristled in my t-shirt and underwear, clutching a James-Bondesque retro telephone, ready to bash someone's brains in.

But of course there was no one there.

I turned on all the lights and checked the rooms out, but they were empty. I was in fact the last person on the planet. So I climbed back into bed. I turned off the light.

Sleep, Maggie. Your flight is in six hours.

SOUNDS.

Knocking! Thumping! Footsteps! The most annoying part was that I knew, now, that they hadn’t been going on while I was investigating the room with the lights on. I began to feel as if Something was toying with me.****

****I do believe in ghosts. I believe in them the same way I believe in albino squirrels. Sometimes, when you see something white, it’s an albino squirrel. But usually it is just a cat.

So I did what any author would if they believed there was a supernatural entity in the room with them. Without turning on the light, I said to the room, “If you’re a ghost, I’m not interested! I have heard far worse and I’m not in the mood!” And I closed my eyes.

Which is when a sound like a plane landing exploded from the bathroom.

I couldn’t immediately figure out what it was. It was, in fact, a stone-cold excellent first-place horror-movie sound. It roared, louder than anything, and it didn't stop. Its timing had been perfect. And while I still had heard worse, as I had promised the room just a moment before, it had been a very long time.

I will admit, this was when I first quailed.

But I couldn't just lay there. I very much would have preferred to. But instead I turned on the light, swore hatefully, and made myself go into the bathroom. I expected probably it was the last time, in fact, that I would ever go into a bathroom. Whatever was making the noise was going to kill me and in fact the story of Maggie Stiefvater was going to come to an end on the tiles of a Las Vegas bathroom, as so many stories do.

Spoiler: I did not die. The noise was the bathtub — all the jets had come on. Because I never use the things and because the jets were not really meant to be able to come on without water in the tub, it took me awhile to figure out how to turn them off.

Silence, finally. The hotel room really was tomb-like. Emphasis on tomb. Double emphasis on tombs have dead people in them.

I went back to bed. It took me a bit of resolve to turn off the light this time. I told the room, “I’m sleeping now. You may take a bath by yourself.”

I closed my eyes. Really hard. Like I meant it.

Sleep, Maggie, you have a flight in—

BAM!

I wish you guys were all right here so I could demonstrate where this next sound happened. If I was telling the story in person, it would involve me slamming one fist into another. And I would do it right beside your face. So you jumped and blinked at me.

Because this sound happened right beside my head, and it came with an actual thump of the bed shaking, as something hit the headboard from my side of the wall.

I turned on the light.

I sat up.

The nipples across the room looked at me pointedly.

I just slept on the plane.*****

 

 

*****When I checked out, I told the guy what had happened.
him: oh, that happens a lot.
me: the jets coming on by themselves? So it’s a malfunction?
him: oh, no, creepy things. People ask to change rooms all the time. But it doesn’t help. *laughs*
me: *laughs* *wishes she’d slept in the convertible Camaro*

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The Internet told me they wanted this video.

I'm just not sure they knew what they were asking for.

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Man. This is the part where I get to tell you the title and show you the cover for the sequel to The Raven Boys. I'm just . . . really excited.

Remember how I told the Canadian border guard that my license plate was spoilery?



And if you were on Twitter, remember that time I was looking for scrap paper on my desk and found this?



 

Well, if you combine those things, sort of, you get the truth of the sequel, which is:



It comes out September 17th, and right now I only have two pre-order links: Amazon and Barnes & Noble. But I'm going to add on Indiebound as soon as I can get my paws on a link.

And oh am I excited for you guys to read it. It has All of My Favorite Things. Which means I will be nervous as anything the week it comes out. But there you go.

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

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This is gonna be a writing one.

I haven’t done a writing post in awhile because I feel like, in many ways, I have said all the things that I can possibly say about writing. And in other ways, I feel like I am still trying to figure this whole literacy thing out for myself and who am I to tell you anything. Also, I don’t want to be that tedious person who talks about their job all the time. Blah-blah-blah-I-make-up-whole-worlds-for-a-living-blah-blah-blah.

However, I feel as if this topic is actually relevant to readers as well as writers, so I’m going to give it a go. I want to talk about how we, as writers, ought to think about how we say things on purpose and also say things by accident. And I also want to talk about how I don’t mean messaging or pedagogy.

Let’s do this thing.

When I first started out as a writer, I didn’t think about any of this. At all. I didn’t think about theme. I didn’t think about what people might take away from my writing. I couldn’t. Writing was a bunch of balloons and it took all my concentration just to hold them all. Sometimes one of the balloons would get away and I would just have to hope it was not an important one, because I didn’t have any hands free to try to grab it.

Now, however, I don’t write a scene WITHOUT thinking about this. Which brings me to:

SAYING THINGS ON PURPOSE

My novels are character-driven, which means reader satisfaction comes largely from seeing people change over the course of the novel. For instance, I knew I wanted Sean from The Scorpio Races to start out solitary and end up learning the power of human relationships. Right here: this is my first decision. I am consciously choosing to say that being solitary < good family relationships.* Sean Kendrick becomes a thesis statement and the novel’s events become my proof.

*this is grossly over-simplified but basically blah-blah-I-make-up-whole-worlds-for-a-living-blah-blah

At the very beginning of the novel, Sean-As-A-Child watches his father die messily during the races. It’s an action that could have many different effects on a person. As a writer, I have to make a choice for my character in this moment.

So, Sean sees his father die. As a result, he vows to never be afraid — his father had been afraid before he died — and he also withdraws from human contact.

Decision! Done! But if I’m a good writer, I’ll question it: Do I think I’m saying a true thing? Let's look. What I’m saying is I think seeing someone die could make you guard your heart against later damage. But what I’m also saying, you'll notice, is I think a kid can watch his father die and not be destroyed by it. I’m saying if you grow up on a savage island populated by savage creatures and men, you might already be inured to death as a child.

As a writer, I should know that I’m saying not one of these things, but all of them. And as a writer, I have to believe they could be true reactions, or I should change what I’m saying.

Now, this was why I got upset about literary rape earlier this year. Because I felt writers were thoughtlessly and simplistically using rape as a defining moment for their female characters. For instance, I read a novel where a woman was raped and as a consequence became a cold-blooded killer/ sex fiend. What the writer was saying, by choice or by not, was a thesis statement about rape. Yes, the writer says, I think it is plausible that being raped would remove all of your tender emotions and render you without empathy or soul. And also make you crazy for . . . more sex?

If that is what the writer believes, go for it. Write what you believe is true.** But as a reader, I want to feel that the writer has thought about it. That they know what they’re doing and are in control. That they’ve made character decisions they believe could be true. Not just character decisions that are easy.

**and yes, I do think all fiction of every genre should aspire to truth in order to have maximum emotional resonance.***

***and if you're not writing to make readers have FEELS, what in the world are you writing for?****

****fine, fine. But I'm talking commercial fiction here. It's what I do*****

*****blah-blah-I-make-up-whole-worlds-for-a-living-blah-blah

Which brings me to:

SAYING THINGS BY ACCIDENT
As writers, we all have our biases, and a good writer — one that’s learning how to hold all the balloons without letting them escape— will be aware of their own. And a good writer will know that it's hard to avoid saying things by accident. For instance, here’s some things I should know about myself:

1- I have no negative baggage with kissing. So I’ll tend to see a kiss as a positive. Not universally true, Maggie.
2 - I like living in the middle of nowhere. I have to work extra hard to not make all of my characters prefer the middle of nowhere. Some people prefer cities, Maggie.
3 - I play musical instruments. Not everyone plays musical instruments, Maggie.
4 - I freaking love cars. Not everyone cares about manual transmissions, Maggie.
5 - I have a complicated and adoring relationship with my father. Why you write so many daddy issues, Maggie?
6 - You have an underdeveloped sense of self-preservation, Maggie. Remember to make your characters afraid, Maggie!

We bring our own biases and beliefs and politics to the table as a writer. I don’t think we have to try to scrub them all out — specificity and voice are glorious things. But the more we make those subconscious choices into conscious ones, the more control we’ll have. And more control means better writing. Which brings me to:

MESSAGING

I don’t like it. People ask me a lot of time if I’m trying to send a good message to the youth of America, since I write for teens. I’m not, I’m afraid. I would if I was writing for middle graders. Because they are young and squashy and their heads are still being formed. But I write for upper teens, and I’m not going to condescend to Teach Them Lessons.

I did worry when I started this post that folks would read it as a handbook for subliminal messages and pedagogy. But when I say I’m choosing what my book is saying, it’s not because I’m trying to say what’s Right. It’s because I’m trying to say what’s True.

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Three things.

1. Today, my face exploded.

Not my entire face. Just a small part. Wait, maybe I should back up.

A new piece of furniture arrived at the Stiefvater Hacienda (spoiler: it is shelves. Whenever I buy new furniture, it is something designed to hold books) and Lover called for me to help carry it. I roused myself from editing and agreeably took one end. I had only made it a few steps when I thought to myself, a little dispirited:I believe I am about to die.

Now, I have pretty beefy arm muscles and we'd only been a few feet, so I was rather ashamed of myself. But I really did feel the old scythe coming down, heave ho, off with your head and all that. So I sat down in my office and put my head between my legs and discovered that I had in fact busted a vein in my temple.

So there is that.



2. Three days ago, I rebroke my pinky toe, the one I broke last summer. I'm telling you this now to cheer you up after the whole vein-busting story. I was tearing around my house barefoot, not a care in the world, and then I tripped.

Go ahead.

Ask me what I tripped over.



My new steel-toed boots. I took ibuprofen for the swelling, but they don't make a medication for irony.

3. Nine days ago, I did this:



to this:





for two days solid. We hit several snow banks, flattened two tires, and generally traveled exceptionally fast on very little sleep.

I injured nothing.

 

I'm telling you this because I want to impart an important lesson: life is safer with a roll cage.

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I’ve been a reading machine in the past eighteen days. In fact, I’ve read five novels, across five different genres. One was young adult literary, one was young adult genre, one was an adult literary, and two were adult contemporary fantasies.*

All five featured the main female character getting raped.

By the time I got to book number five, I was so weary, so emotionally drained, so angry. It took me quite awhile to calm down (even if the main character isn’t written as scarred by her experience, I sure as heck am) and parse the source of my rage.

I galloped over to Facebook and told the world how angry I was. I added that none of the male characters in these books had to undergo a sexually degrading experience in order to come of age or bulk up their character development or move the plot. Facebook replied with a host of suggestions for books with boys being raped in them, but that wasn’t really what I was after. I wasn’t really looking for equal-opportunity violation.

What I want is for there to be less gratuitous literary rape.

I’m not talking about books like Speak. I’m talking about novels where the rape scene could just as easily be any other sort of violent scene and it only becomes about sex because there’s a woman involved. If the genders were swapped, a rape scene wouldn’t have happened. The author would’ve come up with a different sort of scenario/ backstory/ defining moment for a male character. Really, this sort of rape is such a medieval, classical way to tell a story. Need to establish some stakes? Grab a secondary character and rape her. Possibly with a god or a mythological object if you have one handy.

And that starts to feel a lot less like realism and more like a malingering culture of women as victims. And it starts, especially when the author is male and the rape scene is graphic, to feel suspiciously like the goal is titillation. It starts to feel like the author believes the only interesting sort of GirlAngst is sexual abuse.

Yes. Having someone force themselves on us is pretty damn traumatic, folks. But guess what? Our personalities are formed by a whole host of experiences. Pretty much the same host of experiences that any man might encounter.

Now, on Facebook and Twitter, people said “but then you’d complain about rape and violence against women being under-represented in fiction.” First of all, no. I wouldn’t complain if there were no more gratuitous rape scenes. And second of all, the rape scenes I’m referring to are not scenes that are going to start dialog about rape. They’re scenes that enforce the woman’s role as Sidekick and Victim and Rescue Me! and I-Am-Only-The-Sum-Of-The-Places-On-My-Body-You-Can-Violate-Me.**

I want to know why this is an easy fall-back, rape. Some folks on Facebook said, “Because it’s the worst thing that can happen to a woman.”

Is it? Is rape then also the worst thing that can happen to a man? No? It’s different for women, you say? Why is it, then, that we as women should find having our sexual integrity robbed from us worse than torture and death? Is it because . . . I-Am-Only-The-Sum-Of-The-Places-On-My-Body-You-Can-Violate-Me?***

So what I’m saying is: yes, write about rape. I don’t believe in censoring fiction. But I do believe in writers knowing why they’re writing what they write. And if authors are writing a scene because they subconsciously believe that a woman’s sexual purity is the most important thing about her, they need to reconsider.

I can’t decide if a gratuitous rape scene offends me worse when it’s written by a man or a woman. One makes me angry because it feels like it’s selling rape culture. And the other makes me angry because I feel like women are buying it.

World, we need to talk.

*No, I’m not going to tell you what they were. A book that turns me off might be someone else’s favorite, so I try not to UNrecommend books. I prefer to just recommend the ones that I enjoy.

**Oh, wow. I am still very angry, it seems.

***Still angry.

[recommended reading given to me by readers: Seanan McGuire’s blog post on rape, and Women in Refrigerators]

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You guys probably all know that I have two children, Thing 1 & Thing 2 —they're seven and eight at the moment, but I'm guessing that will change. Anyway, the Things are quite enthusiastic about me being a writer. They follow all book conversations between Lover and I with interest. They know all of the characters' names and the rough plot lines.

Of course, they're not allowed to read any of them until they're, like, 30.

I have a nephew around that age as well, and he always begs for copies of my books. He has all of them! . . . in Lithuanian. And Italian. And Japanese. He can have English copies of them when he's, like, 30.

So, I'd been contemplating writing a middle grade book for them, but timing was never right, and the idea of trying to write a book without gore, swearing, or extreme nookie just seemed daunting. So when Scholastic asked me if I'd like to be part of a new middle grade project, I consulted the Things, and cheerfully said YES.

Here are the details (full story at Publishers Weekly):

Basically, it's a multi-platform series like 39 Clues and The Infinity Ring. We write the stories; a computer game springs up in response to those stories, and off we go. It's for ages 8-12, so rather younger than my usual audience, but I reckon folks will definitely be able to see the Maggieness in mine. As I wrote the outline for it, I realized that I can't really turn off the Maggieness even if I wanted to. I did at least remove the swearing, gore, and extreme nookie aspects.

Things 1 & 2 are so pleased.

Anyway, have a logo.



P.S. I know people will ask. I'm still working on the third faerie book. I am doing serious edits as I wasn't completely happy with my previous draft. Scholastic drums their fingers mildly. It is all me, the hold up. I'm sorry. Spring 2014 looks like the date for it at the moment.

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The randomly picked winner is https://www.facebook.com/tal.rejwan. Congrats and thanks everyone for entering!

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Today I was laying about and complaining about my missing teeth and eating ibuprofen and instead of working, I did a little doodle of the characters from The Raven Boys.



ME: I did this. Is it fan art if I'm the one doing it?
FACEBOOK: No. Yes. Maybe? Whatever! Give it away with a contest!

I always do what Facebook says, because surely, surely it is never wrong. So here's a contest for this doodle. Because it seems like not a very exciting prize to me, I'm also adding in a signed audiobook of The Raven Boys. Will Patton narrates it and does a freakin' fantastic job with all of the voices.

Because I'm mostly laying about being useless, I'm making this a really simple contest. Basically, change your icon on any of your social media sites — Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, whatever, to the cover of Raven Boys until this time tomorrow. Then post the link of where you've changed it into the Contest Machine site as your entry. Please note that unless you enter on the Contest Machine thingy, you are not entered! A blog comment doesn't count!

Here's the cover. You can right click on it to save and all that good stuff.



Tomorrow evening, I'll pick a random winner, double check that the icon of the person I drew is changed, and taDA. And everyone can change their icons back to their dogs and stuff. It's open internationally. Sound good?

Goooo.

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I want to know where all the pens go.

Every month I buy a new box of them. Not the box of six. The box of twenty. I used to buy nice ones. I read reviews. I asked around. I tested them. I weighed them in my hand like a #$%^%$#ing broadsword and I asked myself “is this a pen I want to spend some time with?” “Is this a pen I can do some damage with?”

Now, I just buy the cheap ones. There’s no point. We’re never going to have a relationship.

But I’m trying to understand.

I have a lovely office that I work in 80% of the time. The other 20% of the time I work on the couch. Pens are not allowed on the couch because they are sharp as #$%^%$#ing broadswords and might pierce the couch’s surface. So I have no reason to take the pens from my office.



That leaves Lover and Thing 1 and Thing 2. Things 1 & 2 are recently literate and Lover has been literate since I’ve known him, so it’s not inconceivable that they could be pen-stealers. Only the Lover has his own desk with his own pen can. I looked. Do you know what’s in it?

Pen caps.

Because sure as snot drips downhill there aren’t pens in it. Wherever my pens are going, his are on their way there as well.

This morning, I was so certain that Things 1 & 2 were to blame that I tossed their rooms (they are still young enough that tossing their rooms is considered culturally and psychologically acceptable)(i.e. any time under age 32). I looked under their mattresses. I looked in their closets. I looked underneath Thing 2’s rat cage and on top of Thing 1’s bookshelf.

I found a pen cap in Thing 1’s room under her ninja outfit, but it didn’t match any of my pens. It was pink and glittery. Thing 1 hasn't possessed anything pink and glittery for over a year, not since she decided to become a ninja veterinarian. So this was a cap for a long-ago pen. Without much hope, I searched for the rest of the pen, but it was nowhere in evidence.

All I had proven was that wherever my pens were going, Lover’s pens were also there, and so were Thing 1's.

I sat down and had a think about this. Actually I sat down at the dentist’s office and had a think about it. I thought about it for an hour in the waiting room and then I thought about it while they extracted two teeth and then I thought about it after I had returned home to sit in my office chair, wishing I had a pen.

Here we go.

Pens are time-travelers. That’s the only explanation. In some future time that none of us have gotten to, the world is made of pens. It is like a hideous Dali-Shakespeare-H.G.Wells landscape where the horizon is formed of tidal slopes of Bics, Papermates, and Staedtlers, rolling about in plastic, pigment, and spring-powered carcasses. Overhead an anemic sun the color of an egg yolk weeps a dry eye for humanity. You know why?

Because paper isn’t a time traveler.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and I have to agree. If I hung #$%^%$#ing broadsword on my wall, it would stay there. I hang a pen in the same place, and I guarantee you, this time tomorrow, that’s pen’s gone. To the future.

Which is where I’m headed now. Just, um. Slower.

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As a listener, I'm pretty sure my musical taste peaked sometime around the second half of 2010. That's when my iPod hit the commercially ideal ratio of indie songs no one had heard of but everyone could enjoy, songs everyone had heard of but hadn't gotten tired of, and the Beatles. All of my friends wanted playlists. And with an iPod like that, well, hey, they practically made themselves!

But something seems to have happened since then. The ratios have gone pear-shaped. The pie chart has now shifted to something more like this.


My 2012 musical conversations are rather different than my 2010 conversations.

2010 MOM: This is a lovely song about parting and loss. Who is it?

2012 MOM: I just walked into your office and a man in your speakers suggested that I "get crunk?"

Lover didn't even know what getting crunk entailed. As I explained it to him, it occurred to me that discussing the etymology of "getting crunk" with a loved one is the opposite of actually getting crunk.

I blame the most recent rash of music on the sequel to The Raven Boys. There is a character who is terrible in Raven Boys II, and I very much needed for him to stay terrible. As a writer, I have a tendency to secretly give all of my characters hearts of gold. You will spot this through my works. The ice queen with the heart of gold. The child abductor with a heart of gold. The teenage drug addict/ womanizer with a heart of gold.

This particular boy needed to remain black-hearted. To remind myself of that some people in fact have a deeply hidden heart of mulch, I created a playlist of terrible music that I played whenever he appeared on the screen. Mostly, I just picked songs that were slightly more offensive than I would like.

Which turned out to be a sliding scale.

Now, while much of my iPod is still dominated by acceptable songs that I can play in the car while riding with our distinguished realtor lady friend, there is now a not inconsiderable number of songs that advise my distinguished realtor lady friend to place her booty in someone's face and back it up. Others that confess that they will sleep with her friends. And still more that just scream at her in German.

I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm going to start off the year with a list of my recommended songs from 2012, but I'm going to warn you that my sense of what other people like might be broken. I don't think there's anything on this list that will take your wallet or your virginity, but . . . if there is, I'm sorry.

Mild:

1. "North Col" - Shearwater
2. "Dear Fellow Traveler" - Sea Wolf
3. "How Many More Times" - Field Music
4. "Lay it Down" & "The Best We Got" - The Rubens

Cheery

5. "Dissolve Me" - Alt J
6."YoYo" - Pop ETC (formerly the Morning Benders, if you care)
7. "I'm a Pilot" - Fanfarlo
8. "Submarines" - The Lumineers
9. "This is What I Said" - Cloud Control
10. "Rapunzel" - Drapht
11. "Can't Touch It" - Ricki Lee

Plain Awesome

12. "Sun" - Two Door Cinema Club
13. "Feels Like We Only Go Backwards" - Tame Impala
14. "Fingers Never Bleed" & "Longevity" - Yeasayer

Things that Sound Good While I Drive Sideways

15. "Fame" - Santigold
16. "Nothing Else is Real" - Mackintosh Braun
17. "Again (Original Mix)" - Elizabeth Rose feat. Sinden
18. "Monsoons" - Puscifer
19. "Love from a Stone" - School of Seven Bells
20. "Afterlife (Neon Feather Remix)" - Switchfoot

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Just this week, NPR asked me to share my top 5 YA of 2012 (it proved extraordinarily complicated, actually, to classify my 2012 reading that way — I read quite a lot in 2012, but not all of it YA, and of that YA, certainly not all of it was published in 2012, and the stuff that WAS published in 2012 I had in many cases read in advanced reader copy form in 2011 and so does that make it eligible for the list and also what am I to make of these crossover titles that are being sold as both YA and adult, do they count, and also, have I really exhausted my supply of cookie dough?). In addition to the list, they asked me to come in to the DC studio and talk about my absolute favorite YA of the year. You can find the list here, and the audio as well. I want to say something about the YA-dissing in the comments there, but I probably won't, because I'm too civil and the entire thing makes me feel weary and lofty.

So, I mention the trip to the studio because of something that happened on the way back. Where "something" means "foreshadowing." I drove Loki to the studio. This is unsurprising. For starters, it's my business car, all official with the IRS and whatnot, and so I'm supposed to use it for all businessy things so I can deduct my not inconsiderable fuel expenses.* And for finishers, I'm quite vain about cars in a way that I'm not about clothing, and I think Loki flatters me, especially my left side.

*Loki could never be construed as a fuel-efficient, environmentally friendly vehicle. Well, there is one case in which it would count, which we shall discuss presently.

Anyway, I did the studio bit and headed out of DC. It was all ghostly and quiet because of the impending holiday. And on I-66, Loki sort of went went "hockhock." Actually, in the words of James Herriot, “Well, tell me, do you mean two hocks or one hock-hock?"

Probably two hocks.

But nothing else came of it. I figured it was a spot of indigestion or bad fuel. Fast forward to the next morning. Time was of the essence as Lover and the Things and I were due to drive to Pennsylvania for holiday mirth. Quick as an assassin, I darted to FedEx to hurriedly pick up a delayed Christmas package. Of course, this happened:

If you like, you can add sound effects to this scene. You'll need a chorus of FedEx warehouse men hooting appreciatively from one of the warehouse bays, and a few FedEx customers saying things like "this is why I drive a Ford." Mechanical fuel pump, by the way, if you were wondering. I'm sure you were. That's the official term. The unofficial term is "broken."**

**Otherwise known as the only time Loki is considered a fuel-efficient, environmentally friendly car.

Anyway, I mention all this because readers of the Raven Cycle should know that every time Loki leaves me by the side of the road in real life, I write a scene where the Pig leaves Gansey in the lurch. That is all.

And now, without further ado, my complete list of favorite books I read this year.

1. The Secret History, by Donna Tart. I picked this book up reluctantly. Loads of people were reading The Raven Boys and saying it had the same vibe as this novel. Normally what happens in these situations is that I read the book in question and then feel sulky and deeply misunderstood. But not so with The Secret History. Instead I felt pink and flattered. Full thoughts here.

2. Code Name Verity, by Elizabeth Wein. I know if I tell you this is about a girl being tortured in World War II France, you won't want to read it. But I'm telling you to read it anyway. I tell you more here.

3. The Lock Artist, by Steve Hamilton. A pretty perfectly constructed little thriller. That sounds condescending, but it's not. It takes ever so much talent to write a book that is read so easily. More here.

4. Where Things Come Back, by John Corey Whaley. This book and I had a rocky start, as I wanted a book about helicopters, guns, and magic, and this book is about woodpeckers, missing boys, and missionaries. But I still loved it.

5. Mr. Chartwell, by Rebecca Hunt. Remember that one time I told you to read a book about a girl being interrogated during World War II? Now I'm telling you to read this book about Winston Churchill's depression. It's a big black dog. And it's here to stay. Read it.

6. Endangered, by Eliot Schrefer. I talk about this one a lot on NPR, but I'm going to direct you to where I talk about it even more on Goodreads.

7. Purity, by Jackson Pearce. I feel weird writing about this book because Jackson Pearce sometimes comes to my house and drinks my coffee and I know she reads my blog. So I won't write about it here. I'll instead talk about it on NPR. SHE'LL NEVER SEE THAT.

8. Seraphina, by Rachel Hartman. I only just finished reading this one and haven't had time to do a proper blog post about it. It's dragons, but wait! they're awesome. More about it on NPR, too.

9. The Lover's Dictionary, by David Levithan. I know everyone is talking about David's Every Day this year, but Lover and I both enjoyed this short novel of his — a story told in dictionary form. It sounds gimmicky, but I thought the story was astonishingly true feeling.

10. chapter 8 of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon. This book in its entirety was hit or miss for me, but that chapter. Best chapter of any chapter ever. That is all.

Probably I will be doing a best music of 2012 blog post this week, too. Once I put in a new mechanical fuel pump.

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I am in arrears on blog posts. I realized I had never posted about my tour, although I took a billionty photographs. If it is true that a photo is worth one thousand words, here are 22,000 words about my Raven Boys tour.

First, the airport. Signage is important, always, at airports.


While in NYC, I had to recreate my first Sharpie guitar so that I'd have one to give away both in New Jersey and in Toronto. Some quick hotel Sharpie-ing . . .

At one point, housekeeping came into the hotel room.
HOUSEKEEPING: Those guitars are lovely! Are they yours?
ME: Who . . . who else's would they be?
HOUSEKEEPING: Some of the guests here have guitars provided in their rooms for them.

WHY DID I NOT HAVE A GUITAR PROVIDED TO ME?

I had an impressive view from my guitar-providing hotel: I could see both up the Empire State Building and directly into a very expensive apartment across the street. I spent hours creepily watching the beautiful couple who lived within, enjoying the world's sketchiest soap opera. Look at him! He's tying a skinny tie in front of that antique mirror! Look at her! She's beautifully reading a book on her white canvas couch!


Don't judge me. I took a photo of their orchid for you. With a giant telescoping lens.


I feel marginally bad.

No, I don't. That's why there are curtains in this world and the next.

After NYC, there was some New Englandy stuff. I have some pretty definite ideas about many of Connecticut's residents. Connecticut did little to argue with me.


From New England, it was down to DC for the National Book Festival. I was put up in a horror film set:


And the next morning a national monument grew out of my head.


I saw this in DC, too. What's everyone else's excuse?


I then jumped on a plane for Toronto. I have no idea why this is the only photo I have from Canada.


My next stop was Traverse City, Michigan. A reader begged me to visit her guitar shop, Zamar Guitar, which I duly did, hoping for a big, Oprah-esque surprise appearance. In actuality, the man behind the counter professed ignorance of not only me, but also her, and possibly guitars in general. It was all very anticlimactic. But I took a photo as proof.


Then it was to Naperville, IL.

I . . . I don't know what's wrong with me. This seemed like a really good idea to Becky and I at the time.


Working my way west, I hit Denver and then ditched my rental car to drive to Salt Lake City. There was no mistaking the state line between Colorado and Utah. That asphalt line is a thing of precision beauty.


Probably I can't really explain how stunning Utah was.


And how NOT-EAST-COAST it was. It really felt like I'd traveled to a different country.


Lover flew out to join me in California, where I took him to see the redwoods at Muir Woods. These trees > other trees.




And I stood inside a tree, like they all did in THE RAVEN BOYS (although I had no visions, other than that of a cedar closet, which is what it smelled like).


I finished up the year in Las Vegas, where Scholastic rented me a red convertible Camaro for my birthday, and I escaped into the wilderness.




Here is a photo of my editor David Levithan taking a photo.


And here are more beautiful things.




Because I'm finishing up the sequel to THE RAVEN BOYS, expect other similarly lazy blog posts for the remainder of the year. I'm thinking there's gonna be a lot of BEST OF 2012 stuff going on here. Books. Music. Knock knock jokes?

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I've always enjoyed languages. I like 'em dead, really, because then they can't go round changing on you. Latin, my favorite in college, is beautifully, thoroughly, conclusively dead. No one is inventing any new Latin idioms any time soon. No one has to worry about "google" switching from a noun to a verb in the Latin lexicon. I'm telling you all this because I'm about to tell you about my first rally, and even though you might think this will be a post about cars, it will actually be a post about languages.

I guess I have to start with cars, though. Those of you who read the blog regularly will know that recently I bought a race car. How I arrived at purchasing a race car is a long, convoluted, and ultimately spoilery story that I cannot and will not share at the moment, but all you need to know is that I have been having a mid-life crisis since I hit age seven or eight. You never know, man. You never know when that scythe-guy is coming for you. BUY A RACE CAR NOW BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

This is the part where everyone always asks "do you mean Nascar?" No, I do not mean Nascar, because Nascar involves roads, and I think driving a car on roads is cliché. Everybody drives their cars on roads. My race car is a hipster car. It drives on gravel paths, which were cool before anybody even thought of asphalt.

I feel like I've already said the word "car" a lot of times for a blog post I promised wasn't about cars. I'm going to skip ahead. I'm going to skip to the part where we're all driving to our first rally, a Canadian race called Rally of the Tall Pines (which was not the species of tree I became the best acquainted with while there, but I get ahead of myself). We were in two cars — Lover and my dad in one, as I'm such a bad influence that they'd decided to race as well, and me in my Evo, listening to loud music that you will not like.

After about ten hours of driving, we arrived at the Canadian border. I arrived first, and even though I turned down my music, Canada didn't seem happy to see me.

CANADA: What is your destination?
ME: A rally race in Bancroft.
CANADA: What's that?
ME: A car race on gravel roads with lots of jumps and cliffs and stuff.
CANADA: Why would you do something like that?
ME: Are you questioning my life choices?
CANADA *coldly*: Explain your license plate.



ME: It's a reference to my next novel. It's sort of spoilery. I can't tell you.
CANADA: We need to see you in the office.

And then they sent me to be questioned in the building where all of the other punks sat while Canada searched their cars for drugs and illegal fruits and vegetables. I had to pull out my rally notes and explain I was an author (Canada was very unimpressed). Generally I flapped my hands around a lot and was charming.

CANADA: We see that you are charming. That might work back where you are from — Virginia — if you are even from Virginia. For our part? we are going to do a background check.

They did a background check. They asked again about the license plate. By this point, Lover and Dad were feeling a little tetchy about my life choices, too.

LOVER: You could have just gotten a normal license plate.
ME: Normal is so cliché.

Ultimately, Canada let me in, although she looked displeased about it. It just goes to show you, though, that people believe in the packaging. If the cereal box says "heart healthy!" they totally think it's good for their cholesterol levels. If the car says "THIEF," clearly the driver is a stone-cold bandit.

So in I stole to Canada (get it? get it?) and didn't even speed that much. I don't think, anyway. Everything is in kilometers in Canada and I find it hard to speed in kilometers.

Once again I find that this blog post seems to be about cars, and I promised languages. I'm going to skip ahead again.

Once in Bancroft, there was evidence of the rally everywhere:



Including my car. It was still white and naked — it won't be sexily vinyled* up to look like the book cover until the 2013 races. But I liked it anyway.


*I feel this is the most innocent use of the phrase "sexily vinyled" ever.

I wore my green sunglasses, because they make me faster.



So. Rally. The hipster roads we run on are unpredictable and rutted and lacking in guard rails and signage and all of the other things that humans have come to expect. Which means the Rally of Tall Pines (really, it should be the Rally of Tall Birches, but I get ahead of myself again) has an attrition rate of fifty percent. Most years sixty cars start and thirty cars finish. There's always a list of the cars that didn't finish and why and it usually looks like:

ROLLED
OFF ROAD
3 FLAT TIRES
MECHANICAL PROP.
ROLLED
ROLLED
OFF ROAD
OFF ROAD
FLAMES
CLUTCH
DROVE INTO LAKE
HORSE ATTACK

Some of those are lies. But most are not.

THIS IS WHERE I'M FINALLY GOING TO TALK ABOUT DEAD LANGUAGES.

In an attempt to make fewer cars and humans die, rallying has adopted stage notes. Each rally's Big Book of Misadventure/ Handbook for the Recently Deceased lovingly describes each turn, crest, jump, and distance. Like a bedtime story on fast forward, the co-driver reads these to the driver at precisely the correct time. With funny voices for the good parts. And this keeps all parties from being shocked by a suddenly tight turn with a cliff on the other side.


Allow me to translate. That would be

RIGHT 5 minus over a small crest into a LEFT 4 plus over a small crest, 80 meters, crest, BRAKING OMG BRAKING, RIGHT 6 into CAAAAUUUUTTTIIIOOOOON big jump! into crest, RIGHT 4 plus, off camber, and crest, 100 meters, RIGHT 5 short into LEFT 5 over small crest, 100 meters go go go!

What a fine bedtime story that is! You can see, in addition to its compelling prose style, how it would prevent the car from flying over a blind crest and off a cliff. You can also see how a, when the co-driver and driver are working perfectly together, you can hurtle along blindly, much faster than a) someone without notes or b) someone with common sense.

And did you notice that it is a lot like a DEAD LANGUAGE? A language without jokes, but still, a language. I'll admit that when I cooked up my plan to race with Bill, I fully intended to co-drive as little as humanly possible. All I really cared about was hurtling through the woods behind the wheel. But . . . color me fascinated. Driving + dead language = puzzle. It also helps that co-driving is really hard. As in, the hardest thing I think I've attempted in the last ten years, and that includes trying to make tortillas (I always somehow end up making the kitchen smell like fish). I'm sort of a practice junkie. I don't like not being good at something. Basically what I'm telling you is that you're going to be hearing rumors of me doing a lot of co-driving in 2013. And hopefully improving.

I think I'm done with the language part of this blog post. I think now I'm going to consummate my tree references by telling you that on the first stage of the rally, Bill and I hit a tree. A small one. Five inches diameter? Seven? It was not a pine, though. It was a birch, and it left a birch-shaped print on the hood of the car. Possibly the most interesting part of hitting the tree was lifting our eyes to where another rally car was buried in the trees a few yards ahead of us. Clearly someone had had the same idea as us, only they'd approached it with more enthusiasm. It was a cautionary tale.

We backed out of the tree and then the ditch. We were vexed, but there was no swearing. I generally use swearing very sparingly while driving.

Example A:

CAR: *hits tree*
MAGGIE: Hm.
BILL: Yes.

Example B:

CAR: *flies successfully over giant jump*
MAGGIE: %^&* yeah!
BILL: Yes.

And we continued racing. We didn't hit more trees. Instead, we passed forty cars. I'm not sure how to tell the next part, because it's not very plausible. It's this:



Really, this shouldn't have happened, as it was my first rally and Bill's first rally. And because we started off by hitting a tree. But we got better. You, gentle reader, might also be pleased to know that Lover and Dad did not roll over, crash, or otherwise destroy their car. I hear that they swore more than us, though. And I'm telling you now that Lover knows a lot of swear words. Some of the compound words he knows are linguistically incredible. I'd tell you, but there are children reading this blog, and they don't need to hear #$%^&nozzle in a sentence.

Anyway, the rally was brilliant. And I was looking forward to driving back over the border into the U.S. We used the Evo to recce the rally roads, and it looked delightfully disreputable, and I was certain that they'd be even more suspicious than Canada had been.

 


But this is what happened.

U.S.: Where are you coming from?
ME: Canada.
U.S.: Ha ha. Where in Canada?
ME: Bancroft.
U.S.: What was in Bancroft?
ME: A rally. I was —
U.S.: Tall Pines! AWESOME! How'd you do?
ME: First. I was —
U.S.: You can go. Great license plate, by the way.

So off I went back home. Listening to music you will like.

2013's going to be awesome.

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Do you guys remember that time I posted about bookplates that I was giving away if you sent me an SASE and a picture of you holding your copy of The Raven Boys? And I said it was U.S. only because the postage issues?

Well, Scholastic Canada has swept in and offered to help; I'm going to send them a Canadian chunk of bookplates and they will mail them out from Toronto. So if you're Canadian and want a signed limited edition bookplate, follow the directions in the video, but send all of your materials to:

Nikole Kritikos/ Bookplates
Scholastic Canada
604 King Street West
Toronto, ON M5V 1E1

A big thanks to Scholastic Canada for their help on this front and a note to everyone who's sent a letter so far: they'll probably get sent out in a big batch right after my first rally race at Thanksgiving. So they'll arrive in plenty of time for Christmas, but it'll still be a bit of a delay.

And here's the instructions for how to request a bookplate again:

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I've had over fifty spam comments on my LJ in the past two days, and all this deleting and being aggravated is getting in the way of me finishing the sequel to The Raven Boys on time (which is also why I've been completely behind in replying to comments and blogging). So I've turned on CAPCHA for non-friends for the moment. As soon as LJ gets their snot together (all the spam comments are from the same website), I'll turn the CAPCHA off because it is annoying. The end.

See ya on the other side.

ETA: For the love of . . . I just got rewarded with five more. I'm afraid I'm making the comments friends only until LJ figures something out. I'm sorry!

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I feel bad for the readers who wanted to make it to events on my Raven Boys tour but couldn't, either because of time or distance. I recently discovered that I have leftover limited edition bookplates in my office, and I reckon now's a good time to give them away to readers.

This is what they look like (they feature the colored pencil art I did for the Raven Boys animated trailer).



Here's how to snag one, if you want one. This isn't a contest, just a giveaway, and I'll keep sending them out until I run out. Unfortunately, because of my difficulties with IRCs, this has to be U.S. addresses only.

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This is a story about cars. Well, actually, I've told quite a few stories on this blog that are more properly about cars than this one, so I should be honest: this one is about mind-reading.

It happened while I was on tour for The Raven Boys, just last month. It was quite late in the tour, day 24 or 28 or something like that. It was far enough into the tour that when my Scholastic person Becky and I landed at the Denver airport, all I had had to eat that day had been a latte and a bag of cocoa-dusted hazelnuts. Part of this was because of lack of opportunity, and part of it was because, once I reach day 20 or 25 or 28 on a tour, I forget how to eat, sleep, or do things like a normal person. I become instead an imaginary creature that is found in hotel rooms and in the trunks of taxi cabs. This imaginary creature that is me late on tour is also fanciful and, like the ancient Romans, easily amused by spectacles of wonder, terror, and magic.

I believe the men at Hertz must have sensed this.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Becky and I staggered into the Hertz rental offices at the Denver airport, light-headed, as I said before, with our meal of coffee and nuts. I was in fact still clutching a bag of these cocoa-dusted hazelnuts. I should emphasize that they were delicious, even if they weren't a balanced diet. We were both feeling less than optimistic — our last rental car, a Nissan Altima, had murdered itself outside of Kalamazoo (this is a car story for a different time) just days before — and we were full of the bitter knowledge that our rental car would suck even if it did not self-immolate. As someone who adores driving and cars in general, this was like taking a chef to a Denny's. One knows one must eat. One knows one will not like it.

So all of this was going on in our brains as we made our way to the eventual head of the line. An older man was typing away on a computer. Seeing me clutching my bag of nutritionally bereft but culinarily delightful hazelnuts, he asked, "Chocolate covered coffee beans?"

"Nay," I replied. "Have some."

Ordinarily strangers would probably turn down brown food objects shaken from a mostly unmarked bag, but he did not. To the imaginary creature that was tour-Maggie at that point, this didn't seem very surprising. Of course he would be aware of the wonders I was offering him. It would have been more shocking for him to turn them down.

He began to process our reservation as he ate the two hazelnuts. He informed us conversationally that his name was Maurice, and that he was Peruvian, and that people often thought he was Italian. He also informed us that we were all set to pick up a mid-size car.

Warily, Becky asked him what kind of car that would be. Now, I hear people ask that question all the time at rental car places. They're told they are getting a fullsize or a midsize or a compact and they look confused and ask what sort of car it is. And then they are told it's a 300 or a 6 or a RAV-4 and it's clear that they don't know what this is, but they are comforted nonetheless because now it has a name. Something they can shout at it when it enthusiastically jumps a curb after getting the bit between its teeth or breaks down by the side of the highway after deciding it just can't go on like this anymore.

But when Becky asked this question, what she was really asking was, "Is it an Altima?"

Maurice said, "It's a Corolla."

Becky said, "Oh, that's fine."

But then Maurice the Peruvian turned and looked directly at me and said, "But you don't want a Corolla, do you?"

The truth was that I didn't want a Corolla, but I didn't see what that had to do with anything. I didn't want any rental car, actually. We were going to be doing quite a lot of driving in Colorado, and it had been twenty-odd days since I'd been home, and what I really wanted was my car.*



*on the left is the car that I have now. It is a blue 1973 Camaro named Loki and I love it like an inferno.**

**on the right was the car that I sold to get the car on the left. It is a 1973 Camaro also named Loki that broke down all the time and so I sold it and wrote it into The Raven Boys, renaming it "The Pig," as a form of therapy.

So all of this was going through my mind. I told him that, no, I didn't want a Corolla, but I guessed that's what I was going to get, and I'd made my peace with that.

Maurice the Peruvian said, "You're a Scorpio."

I am a Scorpio, because I was born on November 18th, so this was not new knowledge for me. It was, however, shocking to hear it said out loud, as I had not met Maurice the Peruvian before and I furthermore had not yet given him my license with my birthday on it. Cautiously I confirmed that I was.

Maurice the Peruvian said, "I am too. We Scorpios always know other Scorpios."

Now, this statement was false. Because under that reasoning, I would've known that he was a Scorpio, and I had not even considered the concept.

Maurice the Peruvian said, "It's in the eyes. You know that about Scorpios, don't you? We can read minds."

Well, that part was true. I can read minds. I'm reading yours now.

Maurice the Peruvian said, "And I'm looking into your eyes and I can tell that you don't want a Toyota Corolla."

Becky said, "I could've told you that beforehand."

Maurice the Peruvian said, "I'm reading your mind because you are a Scorpio and I am a Scorpio and what I can tell is that you would rather be driving . . . a red Camaro."

Becky and I looked at each other, and then we looked at Maurice the Peruvian, and then we ate two more cocoa-covered hazelnuts. As far as delight goes, I was pretty delighted. I told you, imaginary Maggie is easily pleased with displays of wonder and magic, and this qualified.

"That's true," I admitted.

Maurice the Peruvian said, "I think we can make that happen."

Now, Maurice the Peruvian did not have my Camaro. That would have been wondrous and magical even for a fellow Scorpio (also possibly worrisome, as he would've had to fetch it from my garage in Virginia). But he did have a new, red Camaro, and he did make it happen. And it was ever so much better than a Toyota Corolla.

For all of the Camaro's charms, however, it is not the acceleration from 0-60 that I remember when I think back on Denver. It is Maurice the Peruvian/Scorpio's mind-reading powers, exercised just when I needed them the most.

Also, the cocoa-dusted hazelnuts.

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It's true. I finally gave in and started a Tumblr.

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A reader recently asked me what she should do in college if she wanted to be a writer. This is what I have to say about it.

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