The Seven-Petaled Shield: I haz author happy smile!

Barb Caffrey of Shiny Book Reviews had glowing praise for The Seven-Petaled Shield.

THE SEVEN-PETALED SHIELD is spiritually deep in a way I rarely see in fantasy. Ms. Ross did an outstanding job in rendering a strong and quiet woman who takes comfort in books, and shows just how relevant such a heroine can be. (I could live without Zevaron, quite frankly, but I know he’s needed for the sequels.)

Bottom line? THE SEVEN-PETALED SHIELD is an exceptional epic fantasy, one that’s deep and broad in ways that I’ve rarely seen. More epic fantasy should be like this. Highly recommended!

Buy it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Powells, or your local bookseller. 

[link] Art Holcomb on Steps Toward Becoming a Professional Writer

I knew Art Holcomb decades ago -- gosh, have we been around that long? -- and always respected his insight into writing and publishing. He's a guest blogger over at Larry Brooks's "Storyfix" and has some interesting things to say. He doesn't address how to write, but rather the equally important question of what attitudes and habits comprise a professional attitude.

My favorite is Don't Wait For Perfect. Perfect is the enemy of done. And it's also toxic to the creative space so many of us need -- the self-confidence to try new things, but the insecurity to look critically at what we've done. Being a writer (for me, anyway) is a high-wire act, holding that paradox. Perfectionism slams me into paralysis. I have to be willing to be incredibly imperfect in order to take the risks to be great.

Short #BookReviews: The Shop of Lost Things

Lost in the Moment and Found, by Seanan McGuire (Tordotcom)

When her father dies, Antsy—too young and playful for her full name, Antoinette—faces a grim choice: to risk the increasingly creepy attentions of her stepfather, or to run away. Chance and fear drive her through a mysterious door—excuse me, Door—to a Shop of Lost Things. It’s a wondrous place, the epitome of the magical antique store, filled with strange objects from magical lands. Soon Antsy herself is visiting those places, beginning with a market where blue-furred people trade in luscious pastries. Soon Antsy suspects all is not benign in the Shop as she ages prematurely. There is a cost to going through a magical Door, a cost in time she can never get back.

With masterful skill, Seanan McGuire takes us on a point-of-view evolution from a bewildered young girl, struggling to come to terms with the loss of the father she adored and the increasingly creepy advances of her new stepfather; to the child adventurer, thrilled by the adventures and mysteries unfolding before her; to the too-soon-grownup, grappling with the loss of innocence and the impossibility of ever going home again. The continuity of voice comes across in perfect balance to its maturation. As usual, McGuire imbues her story with compassion, understanding, and rip-roaring action. And the twist at the end had me both teary-eyed and cheering.

Cheering Each Other On

"When someone does something good, applaud!" said Samuel Goldwyn. "You will make two people happy."

The past few years in the science fiction and fantasy communities (no slight to you horror fans, you can have your share) have been rife with insults, denigration of one another's work, and -- not to put too fine a point on it -- downright nastiness. More than once I have wondered why folks who think that tearing down someone else's book will somehow make theirs better. This is not to say there is no place for literary criticism or personal taste. Not every book that's published qualifies as great literature. I've done my share of scratching my head, clueless as to why a book that did nothing for me has made best seller lists. And there are authors I won't read because I find their public statements, actions, or subtext abhorrent. (When Mein Kampf goes off copyright anon, I doubt I'll purchase a copy.) So the discourse about negative reactions to authors and specific books is complex.

I find the reverse to be quite simple. If I enjoyed a book, I like to praise it. Or a movie, or a piece of music, or a painting, or a dance, or any of the thousand other things that light up my day. It might not be perfect, but a thing doesn't have to be flawless to be enjoyable. When I share my private delight with others, I find it makes me even happier. If the other person also loved whatever it is I'm applauding, that's even better. Curious, how human nature works. We all smile together. Our hearts lift.

And of course, whoever created the thing I'm applauding is happy, too. I've been on both sides -- giving and getting applause. How great is that?

The thing about writing is that so much of it is done in solitude, where our fears and self-doubts multiply in the dark. No matter how thick-skinned we tell ourselves we are, we are not immune to gloom. So instead of looking at another writer's success and thinking, "I suck, I'll never be that good" or "There goes my readership" (or reeling under a review or a rejection letter that compared my work unfavorably to a piece by A Bigger Name -- don't laugh, both have happened to me), I remind myself that no matter who wrote it, the world is a better place with this story in it. I'm a happier reader for having found it. Some day, I'll write a story that makes other people this happy. The other author's success shows me that mine is possible. It gives me hope, as well as something to aim for.

Short #BookReviews: Four Girls in a Majorly Creepy Town

Where Darkness Blooms, by Andrea Hannah (St. Martins/Wednesday)

Bishop, Kansas, appears to be a classic Midwest town, with fields of sunflowers and wind storms that keep everyone hunkered down. But Bishop is no ordinary place, and darker secrets lie beneath. Literally beneath. As in the soil itself, which manifested a lust for human blood a century ago. Since then, raging wind storms keep the town’s population from venturing far afield, those fields being endless stretches of sunflowers that seem to be watching everything that happens.

Today, four girls have banded together, sharing a dusty, broken-down house after their mothers mysteriously disappear. In addition, equally mysterious deaths—always women—including the girlfriend of Whitney, one of the girls. The friends have their own secrets: Jude, Whitney’s sister, had a fling with her friend Delilah’s boyfriend; Delilah can’t stand anyone’s touch, including the boyfriend’s; and Bo’s perpetual anger hides a trauma she can’t speak of. During the memorial for the missing mothers, the storm reveals a terrible secret that sets the girls off on a mission to discover what’s really going on.

With the exception of the (very brief) prolog that establishes the thirst of the soil for blood, the story kept me turning pages, engaged with the characters, alternately terrified for them, rejoicing in their strength and insights, hoping that at least one of them gets a happy ending, and ready to strangle the men than keep them in windy chains. All in all, this was a great read. I’ll be looking out for the author’s next.