New interview posted with Yasmine at Flames Rising.
Posted by VS
3.31.2008
3.28.2008
Romance Writers Rock
A Note:
I'll be posting a few blogs here until we get Wordpress up for those who don't want to go to MySpace or Live Journal. Once we get wordpress installed on my site, I'll be closing both this blog and the mirrored on on LJ for good. My MySpace page will remain open and active.
Blog:
I've decided I want to make something clear. I label my books urban fantasy rather than paranormal romance because they are urban fantasy, really. The focus is different—yes, there are relationship issues in the books, and sex, but the focus is on saving the world first and foremost.
This does NOT mean that I am embarrassed to have the label "paranormal romance" on my books. I just don't want readers to expect one thing and get something else. And what goes on the spine is not under my control.
What are my feelings on the romance genre? Years and years ago, I admit—I looked down on some of it. Oh, I loved gothics, but I shamefully admit that I lumped most romance in with 'fluff.' And then I realized that Rebecca is a romance—my second favorite book of all time. And Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights, and the Ghost and Mrs. Muir and Nine Coaches Waiting and Touch Not the Cat--all romances. And I realized I *do* read romance, but most of it is paranormal to some extent.
And then I met my mentor. A woman who helped me through the times before I got my first book contract, who was a mentor second, but first and foremost a dear friend. She's brilliant, she's caring, she has been a very quiet, gentle support for years. And—she writes romance. While our relationship has changed—we're now good friends instead of mentor-advisee—my respect for her continues to flourish.
She taught me a valuable lesson, though even she doesn't know it. I learned that romance writers work damned hard at their work. Most of them love what they do. I learned that romance usually includes other elements—mystery, fantasy, erotica, tragedy, suspense—it's a complex form to write.
I learned that romance makes up over 50% of the fiction market out there—and that a number of romance writers can live off their work. And I learned that women and men both read romance, of every age bracket, every income level, every profession. I learned to respect the genre, and I learned to respect the writers of that genre. I learned that romance writers are among the funniest, most helpful and brilliant people I've met.
And I learned that most romance writers get about as much respect for the long hours and hard work they put in as a mole in a garden gets. Nada. Zip. They get subjected to questions about why they write pornography, why they waste their time on 'hack work,' why don't they get a real job, aren't they ashamed to have their names on the cover, and even more embarrassing confrontations.
So when I tell people my books are urban fantasy, it's simply to keep them from being disappointed that there's no HEA (happily ever after) ending. And if and/or when I write a true paranormal romance someday? I'll be damned happy to have that designation on the spine of my book.
Yasmine—paranormal romance and urban fantasy author and proud of it
I'll be posting a few blogs here until we get Wordpress up for those who don't want to go to MySpace or Live Journal. Once we get wordpress installed on my site, I'll be closing both this blog and the mirrored on on LJ for good. My MySpace page will remain open and active.
Blog:
I've decided I want to make something clear. I label my books urban fantasy rather than paranormal romance because they are urban fantasy, really. The focus is different—yes, there are relationship issues in the books, and sex, but the focus is on saving the world first and foremost.
This does NOT mean that I am embarrassed to have the label "paranormal romance" on my books. I just don't want readers to expect one thing and get something else. And what goes on the spine is not under my control.
What are my feelings on the romance genre? Years and years ago, I admit—I looked down on some of it. Oh, I loved gothics, but I shamefully admit that I lumped most romance in with 'fluff.' And then I realized that Rebecca is a romance—my second favorite book of all time. And Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights, and the Ghost and Mrs. Muir and Nine Coaches Waiting and Touch Not the Cat--all romances. And I realized I *do* read romance, but most of it is paranormal to some extent.
And then I met my mentor. A woman who helped me through the times before I got my first book contract, who was a mentor second, but first and foremost a dear friend. She's brilliant, she's caring, she has been a very quiet, gentle support for years. And—she writes romance. While our relationship has changed—we're now good friends instead of mentor-advisee—my respect for her continues to flourish.
She taught me a valuable lesson, though even she doesn't know it. I learned that romance writers work damned hard at their work. Most of them love what they do. I learned that romance usually includes other elements—mystery, fantasy, erotica, tragedy, suspense—it's a complex form to write.
I learned that romance makes up over 50% of the fiction market out there—and that a number of romance writers can live off their work. And I learned that women and men both read romance, of every age bracket, every income level, every profession. I learned to respect the genre, and I learned to respect the writers of that genre. I learned that romance writers are among the funniest, most helpful and brilliant people I've met.
And I learned that most romance writers get about as much respect for the long hours and hard work they put in as a mole in a garden gets. Nada. Zip. They get subjected to questions about why they write pornography, why they waste their time on 'hack work,' why don't they get a real job, aren't they ashamed to have their names on the cover, and even more embarrassing confrontations.
So when I tell people my books are urban fantasy, it's simply to keep them from being disappointed that there's no HEA (happily ever after) ending. And if and/or when I write a true paranormal romance someday? I'll be damned happy to have that designation on the spine of my book.
Yasmine—paranormal romance and urban fantasy author and proud of it
3.27.2008
Good News
My agent just let me know that Dragon Wytch, Night Huntress, and Demon Mistress have all sold foreign rights to Germany, so at least the first six books of the series will be in German translation! I still haven’t got the go-ahead to tell you my OTHER good news, but it shouldn’t be long now. ~smiles~
Bright Blessings,
Yasmine
Posted by V.S. for Yasmine
Bright Blessings,
Yasmine
Posted by V.S. for Yasmine
3.26.2008
The Wonderful Book of Marvels
A long blog for you today.
Note: I've adjusted my blogging schedule to where-unless it's breaking news-I'll be blogging on Mondays and Thursdays, hopefully with some regularity. I am hibernating to write, write, write and get pages made.
In the past couple of weeks, we have a new car (2009 Toyota Camry) and we love it! Our old car is being donated to Volunteers of America. I stabbed myself on a sliver of plastic that splintered off my office floor mat under my chair and punctured my heel Monday night, and it hurts like hell. Norwescon has come and gone-missed some of the panels but made it to all I could. Had fun-enjoyed seeing people I haven't seen in a year, and generally, yeah, was cool. Wish I could have stayed at the hotel but that just wasn't going to happen.
For upcoming events: on May 3rd, I'll be giving a workshop at the Olympia WA, RWA group on organization for writers. I believe you have to be a member or a guest of a member.
May 10th I'll be joining Stella Cameron and Jayne Ann Krentz at the Tukwila Barnes & Noble for a panel discussion and signing. Both ladies are generous, caring, and absolutely wonderful and I look forward to being the 'newbie' (compared to them, trust me, I am) kid on the block. Sitting between two incredibly powerful players in the romance world would be enough to shell shock me if I didn't already know and feel comfortable around them. ~grins~
July 12th, I'll be signing at Seattle Mystery Books for Dragon Wytch (and most likely scheduling a few more signings during July).
I've accepted an invitation to give a workshop at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference on July 20th-it will be focused on Urban Fantasy. I'll also be attending the autograph session there on the evening of the 19th.
Today, I'm going to reprint here an essay I wrote. It's appeared here and there online, but it struck me today, how once again, my life has taken twists and turns to get to the point I have. It's never been easy, but there have been a few people who have helped along the way. One of the first-that I knew in person and not from the pages of a book-was my fifth grade teacher. Mrs. Weed.
The Wonderful Book of Marvels
By Yasmine Galenorn
Every year, during late August, my thoughts return to my childhood and elementary school. Autumn was skulking just around the corner, beckoning me in, and school shopping was about to commence. I loved picking out new notebooks and pens and crayons, and each year I was allowed to choose a new lunch box. The annual shopping trip had become a ritual for me, a ritual signaling frosty mornings and crisp autumn leaves and sitting in rows with my friends. It signaled the thrill of new discoveries about the world around me. I loved elementary school and each year I looked forward to the first day with a fervor matching only an evangelist's. I was going to be a writer, and by God, school was my ticket to the gates of that ink-stained heaven.
Then, at the end of my fourth grade year, I got my report card.
Each June at Lincoln Elementary we would open our report cards nervously. At the very bottom was a note informing us whether or not we had been promoted to the next grade. On the same line, we found the name of our teacher for the next year. On the last day of fourth grade I opened the envelope, trembling. I never had any fear of being held back, but fifth grade was critical because of the choice of teachers.
Please, I thought, please don't let it be Mrs. Weed. Anybody but Mrs. Weed.
She was old and mean, all the kids whispered behind her back about what a horrible teacher she was. Some teachers were old and nice, but Mrs. Weed was old and mean. She tolerated no back-talk. She twisted your ear if you misbehaved. She stood at the front of the class, staring from behind her black, horned-rimmed glasses with the silver chain that allowed them to dangle around her neck, defying anyone to challenge her. Nobody ever did.
I withdrew the slip of folded paper predicting my future and cautiously peeked inside.
Mrs. Weed.
Oh crap, I thought, although with a decidedly milder expletive. It couldn't be true. But there it was, in clear, black type. I shoved the paper back inside the report card and went home.
Summer lost it's luster. Each day brought me a day closer to the dreaded class of the school's most feared teacher. Come late August, it was school shopping time again and as much as I always enjoyed the ritual of choosing a new lunch box and trying (unsuccessfully) to get my mother to buy me the clothes I liked, the specter of Mrs. Weed hovered over me like a dark cloud.
I went to school the first day, gritting my teeth. How could the school do this to me? I loved school. The school loved me. I was one of their best students. How could they put me in the class that I knew would be jammed with troublemakers? Mrs. Weed got assigned all the problem children because the mere sight of her cowed them into submission.
Mrs. Weed stood at the front of the classroom when we shuffled in, and she wouldn't let us choose our own desks but instead, assigned us seats in alphabetical order. The desks had been moved to form a three-sided square so that at any given moment, Mrs. Weed could see exactly what any student was up to. There was no way to hide from those glinting eyes.
My distress increased when I realized that I had been assigned to sit next to one of the rudest, crudest boys in school. He was a known troublemaker, and just because our last names happen to fall next to each other in the roll book meant that I was going to have to suffer his teasing for as long as Mrs. Weed decided to punish me. I gave him a nasty glare as I sat down, hoping to stave off any conversation. Vincent promptly stuck out his tongue.
Over the next few weeks I finished all my work, tried to ignore Vincent (who didn't want to be ignored), and basically did my best to avoid any confrontation with Mrs. Weed.
She daunted me. Not only was she old (she must have been over fifty, I thought), but she was tall and full-figured. My mother was a large woman, but she dressed homespun, making most of her clothes. Mrs. Weed was tall and large and wore business suits long before dressing for success became a catch-phrase. And she saw everything that went on from behind those butt-ugly horned-rimmed glasses.
A few months into the school year, Mrs. Weed brought a book to class. It was a thick book and it had a gray cover with a red spine. She said that she was going to read to us everyday. Being an aspiring author, I immediately perked up. If she liked books, she couldn't be all bad.
Then, she opened the book, began to read, and I found myself instantly transported to worlds I never dreamed existed.
Richard Halliburton's Complete Book of Marvels. Written as if to a class of young students, Richard Halliburton opened the door to adventure as he traveled around the world. With Mrs. Weed at the helm, we journeyed through both ancient and modern wonders that made my head spin with images of far away exotic lands.
We climbed the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. We explored Pompeii and shivered when we found those ancient bodies hardened by volcanic ash, still struggling to get away from the danger. We sighed through the beautiful love story buried in the Taj Mahal. We scaled Mount Everest, and fought our way through the jungle to visit Angkor, the Walled City that was protected by giant seven-headed stone cobras. Each day we would take another journey and each day my imagination leapt into another world, another time. And then, Mrs. Weed made us an offer. Any student who wanted to, could take the book home during the weekend. No one took her up on the challenge...except me.
I was enchanted. I loved hearing the stories and imagining myself there, right at Richard's side. Mrs. Weed seemed pleased when I asked if I could take the book home and for the first time, we really smiled at each other. Perhaps she saw in me the spark she was trying so hard to kindle. Perhaps I saw in her the teacher desperately trying to open up new worlds to her students.
I took the book home for the weekend and my mother and stepfather liked it as much as I did. They immediately went down to the local bookstore and ordered a copy.
Monday morning, I carried the precious volume back to school. It was a large book and on the way, I accidentally dropped it. Mrs. Weed's bookmark fell out and blew away in the wind.
I panicked. I had lost both her place and her bookmark and the pages had gotten dirty. She'd be furious. I'd get in trouble and she'd never trust me again. Her reputation for punishing delinquent students, now established as fact rather than rumor, suddenly swelled before me like a dark shadow and I crept into class, ready to cry. My childhood was harsh and I'd always learned it was safer to confess to my crimes than get caught in a lie. So I approached her desk. She smiled at me and said good-morning.
Guilt washed over me. I knew that she would never again trust me with another book, and somehow I knew that still other mysterious and fascinating volumes lay beyond the wonderful Book of Marvels.
"Mrs. Weed," I began, my voice shaky. Then, because I could stand it no longer, I blurted out the truth. I'd dropped her precious book, it had gotten dirty, I'd lost her place and in the process, lost her bookmark.
Mrs. Weed stared down at me. What she saw, I can only imagine. A chubby little girl with brown hair so long she could sit on it, wearing a clumsy home-made dress, clutching the book so tightly that she might have been glued to it while desperately trying not to cry.
She must have sensed that my fear of her was secondary to my fear that I'd never be allowed to touch another one of her books. For, in looking at Mrs. Weed that day, in seeing her eyes crinkle with a smile even as she soothed my worry, it suddenly dawned on me that, old as she was, stern as she was, Mrs. Weed shared my love of adventure. She shared my joy of books and knowledge and she was doing her best to help me reach my goal.
I don't remember what she said, but my fear of her seemed to float away as she took the book, dusted it off, and quietly marked her place with a new bookmark. I hadn't counted on the fact that she would remember where she'd left off.
After that day, Mrs. Weed and I became friends. She gave me extra assignments when I became bored with the regular homework; she pushed me to do as much as I could and helped me learn self-discipline in my studies. I had always been a good student but Mrs. Weed motivated me to become the best student I could be. And, when the other kids whispered about her, I defended her. Even though I gained the reputation of the teacher's pet, I stood up for her and at the end of the year, I was actually sorry to leave her behind.
Mrs. Weed has long since disappeared from my life, and I've little doubt she no longer walks this earth. Today, my mother's copy of Richard Halliburton's Complete Book of Marvels sits on my bookshelf.
As for me? I did exactly what I said I would. I grew up to become a bestselling author. Now, my own novels and nonfiction sit on the shelf next to that grand and wondrous book I so loved as a child, and I get letters from young and old readers alike, thanking me for inspiring them with my work.
And every now and again, especially on cold, rainy days, I take Richard's book off the shelf, feeling the hefty weight in my hands. I curl up on the sofa and once again, I'm swept off to far-away sights in distant lands, adventuring with the lost explorer. And I always remember the stern, towering, gray-haired lady who first introduced me to a world brimming with marvel, and I wonder who her guiding star was.
Posted by V.S. for Yasmine
Note: I've adjusted my blogging schedule to where-unless it's breaking news-I'll be blogging on Mondays and Thursdays, hopefully with some regularity. I am hibernating to write, write, write and get pages made.
In the past couple of weeks, we have a new car (2009 Toyota Camry) and we love it! Our old car is being donated to Volunteers of America. I stabbed myself on a sliver of plastic that splintered off my office floor mat under my chair and punctured my heel Monday night, and it hurts like hell. Norwescon has come and gone-missed some of the panels but made it to all I could. Had fun-enjoyed seeing people I haven't seen in a year, and generally, yeah, was cool. Wish I could have stayed at the hotel but that just wasn't going to happen.
For upcoming events: on May 3rd, I'll be giving a workshop at the Olympia WA, RWA group on organization for writers. I believe you have to be a member or a guest of a member.
May 10th I'll be joining Stella Cameron and Jayne Ann Krentz at the Tukwila Barnes & Noble for a panel discussion and signing. Both ladies are generous, caring, and absolutely wonderful and I look forward to being the 'newbie' (compared to them, trust me, I am) kid on the block. Sitting between two incredibly powerful players in the romance world would be enough to shell shock me if I didn't already know and feel comfortable around them. ~grins~
July 12th, I'll be signing at Seattle Mystery Books for Dragon Wytch (and most likely scheduling a few more signings during July).
I've accepted an invitation to give a workshop at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference on July 20th-it will be focused on Urban Fantasy. I'll also be attending the autograph session there on the evening of the 19th.
Today, I'm going to reprint here an essay I wrote. It's appeared here and there online, but it struck me today, how once again, my life has taken twists and turns to get to the point I have. It's never been easy, but there have been a few people who have helped along the way. One of the first-that I knew in person and not from the pages of a book-was my fifth grade teacher. Mrs. Weed.
The Wonderful Book of Marvels
By Yasmine Galenorn
Every year, during late August, my thoughts return to my childhood and elementary school. Autumn was skulking just around the corner, beckoning me in, and school shopping was about to commence. I loved picking out new notebooks and pens and crayons, and each year I was allowed to choose a new lunch box. The annual shopping trip had become a ritual for me, a ritual signaling frosty mornings and crisp autumn leaves and sitting in rows with my friends. It signaled the thrill of new discoveries about the world around me. I loved elementary school and each year I looked forward to the first day with a fervor matching only an evangelist's. I was going to be a writer, and by God, school was my ticket to the gates of that ink-stained heaven.
Then, at the end of my fourth grade year, I got my report card.
Each June at Lincoln Elementary we would open our report cards nervously. At the very bottom was a note informing us whether or not we had been promoted to the next grade. On the same line, we found the name of our teacher for the next year. On the last day of fourth grade I opened the envelope, trembling. I never had any fear of being held back, but fifth grade was critical because of the choice of teachers.
Please, I thought, please don't let it be Mrs. Weed. Anybody but Mrs. Weed.
She was old and mean, all the kids whispered behind her back about what a horrible teacher she was. Some teachers were old and nice, but Mrs. Weed was old and mean. She tolerated no back-talk. She twisted your ear if you misbehaved. She stood at the front of the class, staring from behind her black, horned-rimmed glasses with the silver chain that allowed them to dangle around her neck, defying anyone to challenge her. Nobody ever did.
I withdrew the slip of folded paper predicting my future and cautiously peeked inside.
Mrs. Weed.
Oh crap, I thought, although with a decidedly milder expletive. It couldn't be true. But there it was, in clear, black type. I shoved the paper back inside the report card and went home.
Summer lost it's luster. Each day brought me a day closer to the dreaded class of the school's most feared teacher. Come late August, it was school shopping time again and as much as I always enjoyed the ritual of choosing a new lunch box and trying (unsuccessfully) to get my mother to buy me the clothes I liked, the specter of Mrs. Weed hovered over me like a dark cloud.
I went to school the first day, gritting my teeth. How could the school do this to me? I loved school. The school loved me. I was one of their best students. How could they put me in the class that I knew would be jammed with troublemakers? Mrs. Weed got assigned all the problem children because the mere sight of her cowed them into submission.
Mrs. Weed stood at the front of the classroom when we shuffled in, and she wouldn't let us choose our own desks but instead, assigned us seats in alphabetical order. The desks had been moved to form a three-sided square so that at any given moment, Mrs. Weed could see exactly what any student was up to. There was no way to hide from those glinting eyes.
My distress increased when I realized that I had been assigned to sit next to one of the rudest, crudest boys in school. He was a known troublemaker, and just because our last names happen to fall next to each other in the roll book meant that I was going to have to suffer his teasing for as long as Mrs. Weed decided to punish me. I gave him a nasty glare as I sat down, hoping to stave off any conversation. Vincent promptly stuck out his tongue.
Over the next few weeks I finished all my work, tried to ignore Vincent (who didn't want to be ignored), and basically did my best to avoid any confrontation with Mrs. Weed.
She daunted me. Not only was she old (she must have been over fifty, I thought), but she was tall and full-figured. My mother was a large woman, but she dressed homespun, making most of her clothes. Mrs. Weed was tall and large and wore business suits long before dressing for success became a catch-phrase. And she saw everything that went on from behind those butt-ugly horned-rimmed glasses.
A few months into the school year, Mrs. Weed brought a book to class. It was a thick book and it had a gray cover with a red spine. She said that she was going to read to us everyday. Being an aspiring author, I immediately perked up. If she liked books, she couldn't be all bad.
Then, she opened the book, began to read, and I found myself instantly transported to worlds I never dreamed existed.
Richard Halliburton's Complete Book of Marvels. Written as if to a class of young students, Richard Halliburton opened the door to adventure as he traveled around the world. With Mrs. Weed at the helm, we journeyed through both ancient and modern wonders that made my head spin with images of far away exotic lands.
We climbed the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. We explored Pompeii and shivered when we found those ancient bodies hardened by volcanic ash, still struggling to get away from the danger. We sighed through the beautiful love story buried in the Taj Mahal. We scaled Mount Everest, and fought our way through the jungle to visit Angkor, the Walled City that was protected by giant seven-headed stone cobras. Each day we would take another journey and each day my imagination leapt into another world, another time. And then, Mrs. Weed made us an offer. Any student who wanted to, could take the book home during the weekend. No one took her up on the challenge...except me.
I was enchanted. I loved hearing the stories and imagining myself there, right at Richard's side. Mrs. Weed seemed pleased when I asked if I could take the book home and for the first time, we really smiled at each other. Perhaps she saw in me the spark she was trying so hard to kindle. Perhaps I saw in her the teacher desperately trying to open up new worlds to her students.
I took the book home for the weekend and my mother and stepfather liked it as much as I did. They immediately went down to the local bookstore and ordered a copy.
Monday morning, I carried the precious volume back to school. It was a large book and on the way, I accidentally dropped it. Mrs. Weed's bookmark fell out and blew away in the wind.
I panicked. I had lost both her place and her bookmark and the pages had gotten dirty. She'd be furious. I'd get in trouble and she'd never trust me again. Her reputation for punishing delinquent students, now established as fact rather than rumor, suddenly swelled before me like a dark shadow and I crept into class, ready to cry. My childhood was harsh and I'd always learned it was safer to confess to my crimes than get caught in a lie. So I approached her desk. She smiled at me and said good-morning.
Guilt washed over me. I knew that she would never again trust me with another book, and somehow I knew that still other mysterious and fascinating volumes lay beyond the wonderful Book of Marvels.
"Mrs. Weed," I began, my voice shaky. Then, because I could stand it no longer, I blurted out the truth. I'd dropped her precious book, it had gotten dirty, I'd lost her place and in the process, lost her bookmark.
Mrs. Weed stared down at me. What she saw, I can only imagine. A chubby little girl with brown hair so long she could sit on it, wearing a clumsy home-made dress, clutching the book so tightly that she might have been glued to it while desperately trying not to cry.
She must have sensed that my fear of her was secondary to my fear that I'd never be allowed to touch another one of her books. For, in looking at Mrs. Weed that day, in seeing her eyes crinkle with a smile even as she soothed my worry, it suddenly dawned on me that, old as she was, stern as she was, Mrs. Weed shared my love of adventure. She shared my joy of books and knowledge and she was doing her best to help me reach my goal.
I don't remember what she said, but my fear of her seemed to float away as she took the book, dusted it off, and quietly marked her place with a new bookmark. I hadn't counted on the fact that she would remember where she'd left off.
After that day, Mrs. Weed and I became friends. She gave me extra assignments when I became bored with the regular homework; she pushed me to do as much as I could and helped me learn self-discipline in my studies. I had always been a good student but Mrs. Weed motivated me to become the best student I could be. And, when the other kids whispered about her, I defended her. Even though I gained the reputation of the teacher's pet, I stood up for her and at the end of the year, I was actually sorry to leave her behind.
Mrs. Weed has long since disappeared from my life, and I've little doubt she no longer walks this earth. Today, my mother's copy of Richard Halliburton's Complete Book of Marvels sits on my bookshelf.
As for me? I did exactly what I said I would. I grew up to become a bestselling author. Now, my own novels and nonfiction sit on the shelf next to that grand and wondrous book I so loved as a child, and I get letters from young and old readers alike, thanking me for inspiring them with my work.
And every now and again, especially on cold, rainy days, I take Richard's book off the shelf, feeling the hefty weight in my hands. I curl up on the sofa and once again, I'm swept off to far-away sights in distant lands, adventuring with the lost explorer. And I always remember the stern, towering, gray-haired lady who first introduced me to a world brimming with marvel, and I wonder who her guiding star was.
Posted by V.S. for Yasmine
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