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On this day, ahead of a predicted storm, I'm happy to share these three images—snapshots of books living forward.

Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir will be released in a month or so by Avery—its fourth printing—with a newly crafted afterword (featuring some of the newly read memoirs and evolving memoir theories I've had since Handling was first released in August 2013).

Going Over will be released by Chronicle as a paperback in November, following a happy run as a hardback (thank you, kind librarians, teachers, readers).

Small Damages has just been released by Speak (Penguin Random House) in its second edition paperback—slightly different packaging, same story, and much gratitude to those who found and read the book either as a Philomel hardback or a first-edition Speak paperback.

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I know I'm out of school and all, but some things have happened this summer to cause me to seriously investigate my family tree. Fortunately, there are simply floors of paintings here in Castle Nyx . . . dozens of dark, mysterious paintings of the Nyx ancestors with eyes that I swear move! Most of them are of people long dead -- great-great-great something-or-others, but there are a few that looked to me as if the paint were fresher. It was these I studied.

First, in the hall to the first floor dining room was an old portrait of a cat-eyed woman dressed for safari. According to the brass plate screwed into the frame, this was my wicked Auntie Fae, who disappeared somewhere in the Australian Outback in '89. With a little help (1-800-CUZFNDR) I discovered my Aunt had had a son some years ago whom she had abandoned on the steps of the Public Library of New South Wales in Sydney. Trooper Cordell.

Second, in the west wing, just below the servants quarters, hung a portrait all in greys -- a face I could barely distinguish beneath the strange cape and hood he wore. Coincidentally (dun-dun-dun) as I pondered, the door rang and there stood a hooded figure claiming to be a Nyx cousin thrice removed - an enigmatic shadow-boy with arms full of books who called himself the Velvet Pickle.

Third, in the observatory is a portrait of someone Grandmama calls "That cousin who lurks on the moors." Of course my ears perked up at the word cousin -- but it turned out he was dead 54 years past, or was he? I stowed away on the next ship to Cardiff to find my dark eyed cousin (or is it his descendant?) Gabriel Gethin, who was wandering the moors with a dog-eared paperback copy of Wuthering Heights clutched in his long fingers and looking not a day past 16.

By now I'm sure you're wondering, where are Twyla's dearest evil cousins, Avery and Aislinn? Sadly, oh so sadly for me, they have spread their wings and started their own blog of reviews called nineseveneight. Read them, I command it, for though they have broken my dark heart, they write the most fawesome of reviews.

Welcome my 3 long lost cousins, and fare thee well Avery and Aislinn. I pray you'll stop by for a visit, my dearest ones -- for you will always be my Evil Cousins!

Yours truly,
Twyla Lee

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