The Character of the Environment

It’s raining out, in that silvery downpour way it has around here. Raindrops dripping from trees, sky the color of mist, it’s 52 degrees and the high is predicted at 54, with increasingly steady showers. Typical weather here. Here are two pictures I just took out the window looking into the back yard.





I was asked in an interview question yesterday whether I thought weather affected my writing. And yes, it does. You’ll notice in my books that the weather and environment play the part of a character, really. That’s because the environment around me is so alive and vibrant that it can’t help but creep into my books. We have, here in Seattle, 226 cloudy days, and 82 partially cloudy days a year. We walk in mist and fog and swirling skies of silver and gray, and while we are not at the top of the list for amount of rain per year, for number of days—we rock out at 154 days of rain yearly. Usually, a slow constant drizzle. A few years ago, we had 45 days where it rained in a row, with three days exception.

The environment is a constant factor here. Hardcore Seattleites don’t often use umbrellas because we get wind with our rain—wind that can rip the shreds out of an umbrella. When the sun comes out, we revel until it gets too hot (and too hot around here is 80 degrees for a lot of us), and then people are griping about ‘when will it rain?’

Western Washington stands between the rolling Pacific and the mountains. The ocean roars in on the inlets that filter in through western Washington.



We live in a wealth of greenery. To my west, stands the Hoh Rainforest—one of only two-three temperate rain forests in the lower forty-eight states. (this photo courtesy of Dept. of Parks & Recreation; public use allowed).



To my east, the Cascades—a chain of still-active volcanoes, and the Mama of all the Cascade volcanoes: Mt. Rainier. One of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, she stands tall, watching over Seattle and Tacoma and Olympia.



How can this backdrop not play a part in my writing, especially since I write regional series? I could no more ignore the land around me than I could any of the main characters. The sound of the rain, the smell of cedar and fir just after a rain, the scent of moss and toadstools, the feel of the moss soft against the trees and taking over the lawn…it all plays in. Although I admit: I do make it snow more in my books than it does around here, but we have had a few doozies of storms so I figure that’s just going to be okay.

(And if you want to know how conducive the weather is to writing, just look at some of the authors who call this area home, among the better known: Stella Cameron, Jayne Ann Krentz, Ann Rule, Terry Brooks, Greg Bear, Katie MacAlister).

So, tell me, do you pay much attention to the weather around you? If you write, does environment play a big part in your work?

Yasmine

NIGHT MYST Thursdays, Part 6

I have a surprise for you! I’m going to attempt a regular blogging schedule, to be interrupted by mostly great announcements (if I have any) or massive work deadlines (a given). This doesn’t mean an every day schedule, but I’m going to try to hit the blog more regularly than I have been and lay off hanging out on Twitter and FB so much.

And for a treat, each Thursday’s post will be an excerpt from Night Myst until the book comes out.

Since the first chapter is up on my site, I’m giving you excerpts from the beginning of Chapter 2. (And don’t get greedy—no complaining or I stop). And if I find anybody reproducing this on other sites--I stop and everybody loses out. That means: NO cutting/pasting/copying/sending through email.

Chapter 1
NM Thursdays Part 1
NM Thursdays Part 2
NM Thursdays Part 3
NM Thursdays Part 4
NM Thursdays Part 5

NIGHT MYST:
CHAPTER 2 (part 6)

Copyright 2010 Yasmine Galenorn
DO NOT REPRODUCE


Deciding to leave the unpacking for later, I pulled my tank top over my head. The room was cool and I shivered as I exposed my skin to the air.

Banding my upper left arm, a pair of blackwork owls flew over a silver moon with a dagger stuck through its center. A matching tat banded my upper right arm. The owl was my familiar, though I didn’t have one, and never had. Owls responded to me, though, and I was drawn to them. I gazed at them, and once again, it felt like they were there for a reason, but I didn’t know why.

Every tattoo inked on me had a meaning. My fingers trailed down my left breast, lingering over the gently raised skin against which blossomed a deadly nightshade plant. A feral, wild girl peeked out from behind the glossy leaves and drooping violet blooms, with her shadow creeping along behind her. I didn’t know what she stood for, either, but she was there for a reason. Slipping out of my jeans, I traced the vine, dappled with silver roses, that trailed up my left thigh, across my lower stomach, ending near my ribs under my right arm.

Entwined among the roses glimmered a trail of violet skulls, and right above my navel, a wolf stared out at the world through emerald eyes.

Grieve . . . the wolf was for Grieve, though I couldn’t remember why I associated him with the animal. I’d had it inked on me when I was fourteen. As I gazed at the tattoo, a shiver raced through my stomach, and the wolf let out a low growl, his breath light against my skin. My body was hungry, and the feel of his soft breathing made me ache.

I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Time to get moving. We had no time to waste—Heather could be out there, hurt. Or worse. Practical possibilities raced through my mind—she might have fallen and hit her head, or broken a leg and found it impossible to manage the walk home. Any number of things could have happened. And yet . . . and yet . . . I knew that wasn’t the case.



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To the Idiot Who Smashed Our Car

Dear Mr. Man who practically totaled our Car:

I have a bone to pick with you. How the fuck did you get a license? If you can’t wait one minute to see if it’s safe to turn left you deserve to have your license taken away. You also deserve to pay through the nose for your insurance since this was YOUR FAULT ENTIRELY. Guess what? You don’t own the road! You don’t have a right to drive recklessly. You don’t have the right to put my husband’s life in danger because you can’t control yourself, you son of a bitch.

If you can’t see whether it’s safe to turn left or not, you WAIT UNTIL THE CAR BLOCKING YOUR WAY FINISHES ITS OWN TURN. Somebody could be coming up in the center lane. Oh wait! There was! My husband! And now thanks to you, our car is practically totaled. And we have the inconvenience of a rental and dealing with YOUR insurance (I hope they nail you).

And guess what: if you’d hurt my husband, you’d be in the hospital by now because when I saw you in the parking lot there, I would have been all over your ass, beating you senseless. Seriously. I do not lie. Nobody does something stupid and puts my loved ones in danger. And if the cops stopped me, I’d find ways to make your life a living hell for as long as it took my husband to heal up. So you’d better thank your lucky stars you weren’t one step closer to having me for a full-blown enemy.

So Mr. Man who smashed our beautiful car—the first new car we’d ever owned—guess what? If there’s a way to press charges, yah, we’re going to. If there’s a way to get you ticketed for your insanity on the road, man, I’m there. So there. And I don’t “turn the other cheek.”

And to anybody reading this who decides to save some time by texting while driving, making an illegal turn, cutting corners, running a red light, think twice before you do it. There might be somebody in the car you hit who isn’t as nice as me.

Yasmine

Night Myst Thursdays Part 5

I have a surprise for you! I’m going to attempt a regular blogging schedule, to be interrupted by mostly great announcements (if I have any) or massive work deadlines (a given). This doesn’t mean an every day schedule, but I’m going to try to hit the blog more regularly than I have been and lay off hanging out on Twitter and FB so much.

And for a treat, each Thursday’s post will be an excerpt from Night Myst until the book comes out.

Since the first chapter is up on my site, I’m giving you excerpts from the beginning of Chapter 2. (And don’t get greedy—no complaining or I stop). And if I find anybody reproducing this on other sites--I stop and everybody loses out. That means: NO cutting/pasting/copying/sending through email.

Chapter 1
NM Thursdays Part 1
NM Thursdays Part 2
NM Thursdays Part 3
NM Thursdays Part 4


NIGHT MYST:
CHAPTER 2 (part 5)

Copyright 2010 Yasmine Galenorn
DO NOT REPRODUCE


“Then I guess our next step is to search the forest, and for me to contact Grieve. Do you have anybody that can help us? Maybe your boyfriend?”

She let out a long sigh and nodded. “I haven’t talked to him about Heather yet, because his sister was one of the Society members and she vanished, too. And he was studying wortcunning—herbal lore—with Heather. She really liked him and ever since Elise vanished, Heather acted as kind of a buffer for him—almost like his aunt. I didn’t want to put him through the pain of losing someone all over again until I knew for sure. But I guess . . . do you think she’s really gone? Could I be wrong?”

I hated breaking the fragile hope in her voice, but right now, we needed to face reality. “Yeah, and if we don’t find her soon, who knows if we’ll ever have the chance? You call Leo while I get my things from the car and take a shower. Then we’ll bundle up, and head out to the woods to see what we can find.”

And just like that, without ceremony or even time to sit and chat, I was home.

While Rhiannon called Leo, I headed upstairs to my mother’s old room, to unpack and take a shower. The incident at the hotel had made me so uneasy that I’d slept in my clothes, not wanting to be caught unprepared. After two days on the road, I was overripe and ready to hose myself off.

The thought of looking for Grieve weighed heavy on my heart, but I had to face him sometime. The memory of his skin against mine, of his lips against my lips flashed through my mind and I bit back my heartache. I loved him. I’d always loved him, but when he wanted me to stay, I’d still been too young to commit myself . . .too afraid of what it meant to bind myself to someone so strong and so different. Now, at twenty-six, nine years distance had put a lot of mileage on my soul. I’d seen the worst of the worst. I was ready to come in out of the cold, to build a hearth fi re. The only question was: Did I still have a chance with him? Was he even still around?

The room was just like I remembered it, in shades of violet and ivory, which seemed out of place for my junkie mother, but then again, she’d just been starting down that road the last time she was here.


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Pre-Order Harvest Hunting from Amazon, Borders, BN.com

NIGHT MYST Thursdays! Part 4

I have a surprise for you! I’m going to attempt a regular blogging schedule, to be interrupted by mostly great announcements (if I have any) or massive work deadlines (a given). This doesn’t mean an every day schedule, but I’m going to try to hit the blog more regularly than I have been and lay off hanging out on Twitter and FB so much.

And for a treat, each Thursday’s post will be an excerpt from Night Myst until the book comes out.

Since the first chapter is up on my site, I’m giving you excerpts from the beginning of Chapter 2. (And don’t get greedy—no complaining or I stop). And if I find anybody reproducing this on other sites--I stop and everybody loses out. That means: NO cutting/pasting/copying/sending through email.

Chapter 1
NM Thursdays Part 1
NM Thursdays Part 2
NM Thursdays Part 3

NIGHT MYST:
CHAPTER 2 (part 4)

Copyright 2010 Yasmine Galenorn
DO NOT REPRODUCE


Dizzy, I glanced at her. “Did Marta say anything about what’s going on? And by the way, I’ll need to talk to her lawyer, if Heather was right and I inherited her business.”

“Oh, you are her beneficiary, all right. I’ll give you his name and you can talk to him tomorrow.” Rhiannon shrugged. “The past six months, Marta closed down. She kept to herself a lot, and now she’s dead. In the past three months, five members of the Society vanished without a trace, and three others are dead.”

“Fucking A. That leaves . . .”

“Four. There are only four left of the local group. Rupert and Tyne. LeAnn, and Heather. And now Heather’s gone. And it’s not just the magic-born, but townsfolk. Marta mentioned a few weeks ago that she was getting a lot of business for protection charms and amulets. People are afraid.”

She was whispering, but that wouldn’t stop prying ears. There were always creatures listening. The wind carried secrets. I could hear them. “Whatever attacked me, whatever’s behind the shift in this town, it’s hiding in the ravine out there. And the woods beyond.” I frowned, thinking. “When was the last time you went into the forest? Or Heather, that you know of?”

She thought for a moment, then said, “At least a couple of years for me. As far as my mother . . . I don’t know. She does a lot of wildcrafting in the forest. I doubt if it’s been more than a few months. The energy was slow to show itself at first, like a storm gathering offshore. Nobody thought it would stick around. I guess we didn’t take it seriously. And then, one day a few months ago, we woke up and the town was engulfed in a shadow. Shortly after that, the Society started to fall apart. People began to vanish.”

“Heather said Marta’s throat had been ripped apart, she’d been drained of blood. But your mother also said she didn’t think it was the vamps that did it. What about you? What do you think? I know the bloodsuckers aren’t to blame for everything, but when trouble comes home to roost in a supernatural way, nine times out of ten vampires are involved.”

Rhiannon blushed. “Honestly? No, I don’t believe they did it. My boyfriend, Leo, is a day runner for Geoffrey. And while Geoffrey admits that the energy feels similar to his people’s, he insists that they aren’t to blame for what’s been going on.”

That was news. First that Rhiannon had a boyfriend—she’d always been rather shy—and second, that she was dating someone who worked for the vamps. The Vein Lords—also known as the Crimson Court—kept to themselves for the most part, but on occasion, they mingled with people. As in socially, not a feeding frenzy. They tended to hang out with the magic-born more than anybody else. The vamps had their bloodwhores, but most of them were willing humans, only too happy to play host for their masters.

My aunt and cousin had kept me abreast of the latest exploits of the bite-me set over the course of our phone calls and my brief visits home.

“But can we believe Geoffrey? I’m not up to snuff on vampire lore, but they are predators. There’s nothing to say they can’t lie.”

“I think we can take his word for it. The Vampire Nation has a lot to lose if they’re lying. They’re stronger than we are, but they are stuck in stasis half the time, and the retaliation would be horrible if they turned on their word. No, our problem is hiding out there.

“No.” She shook her head and glanced out the kitchen window. “Whatever caused those deaths, and the deaths of our Society members, whatever is taking the people of New Forest, isn’t human. And I don’t think it ever was.”


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It's All About The No, Today

I don’t like having to make posts like this but I think it’s time. I have to say “No” to people more and more. And people are getting grumpy about it. People need to pull up their big-girl/boy panties and deal with the realities, though, disappointing as they can be.

I am writing three books a year—and I know you guys love that because you tell me so! But to continue to do so, I have to lay down some ground rules. I have to learn to say “No” more and you guys have to accept it. Now, most of my readers are friendly, understanding people. Most. But…a few…make posts like this necessary.

So for the few—the very few but very vocal:

Sorry, but I cannot ‘make’ you into a published author. I cannot give you the magic key—there is no magic key—only hard work and years of time spent in isolation at the keyboard. I don’t have time to mentor you. You need to learn the way I did: by doing the legwork yourself. Read through my past blog posts—I talk about writing in it. Check my forums when they go back up, I’ve answered some questions in it. Check my site—I have a website, an extensive website, with all sorts of info on it including some writing advice (and scour the site for it, don’t write to ask me where it is—you need to learn to do the legwork and research on your own).

No, I cannot and will not introduce you to my agent or my editor—for one thing, my editor only accepts agented material, and if I refer someone to my agent, I am—in essence—vouching for them. And sorry, I don’t vouch for anybody I haven’t read. Which brings me to:

I cannot read your unpublished work. I just can’t—in the first place, there are far too many legal ramifications. Too many people are ready and willing to sue an author if they think that the author ‘lifted’ their material. Let me tell you—this supposed theft of ideas happens far less than people think and most cases are thrown out of court (the concept of a wizard’s school, of magical games and contests—a dime a dozen for the number of times people have thought of them. Rowling didn’t steal from you or anybody else). But even just the threat of accusation is too great. In the second place: I don’t have the time. You may not realize it but I get dozens of these requests per week. I write three books a year, and have my own life. My job is to write books, not mentor others.

I cannot tour much for a number of reasons. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to hit all the little towns where people want me to go. I pay for all the traveling we do—not my publisher. And every time I take time out of my schedule to go somewhere and (hopefully) talk to three or four people and sign a few books, it’s that much less time that I have to write the books you love to read. Most book signings attract only a scant handful of people—usually my time is spent sitting there, directing people to the bathroom (not so much fun). ~grins~ But here’s the good news: You can get signed copies through Seattle Mystery Bookshop. In fact, if you pre-order the books there before they come out, I will personalize them for you!

My assistant answers my fan mail. Yes, she does and I’m sorry if that disappoints you but know that I do read it, and that if she didn’t answer it, there would be no answers. I simply don’t have enough time to go around.

No, I don't approve of fanfiction, I won't read it, and if you post it and point it out to me, I'll insist it be taken down. That's my legal right as an author, that's my honest feeling--it makes me queasy to see people write about my characters, making them do what they would not do, pairing them with people they would not be with, creating scenarios that would not happen/did not happen, etc. I'm not apologizing. Find an author who doesn't mind this to do it to, please.

For published authors: Most likely, I can’t endorse your book. I now and then will give a cover quote but I want my ‘blurbs’ to mean something so don’t hand them out like candy. But just because I don’t have the time to read your book to see if I am comfortable having my name on it doesn’t mean I think it will be bad. It means, I don’t have the time to read it. If you’re a friend and you get mad at me because I can’t, well, I am sorry but that says something about the supposed friendship.

Speaking of friends: I don’t friend people on my private facebook page and I don’t follow many people on Twitter (though I always check my @ replies). On Facebook, I have a fan page, where I interact with readers, and that’s where you can find me. I really need my personal FB page to be private—for close friends and family only. I don’t bandy the word ‘friend’ around easily.

I do interact with people on Twitter, too, though, but no I do not follow everybody who follows me and I don't #FF my fans because it would be insane to try to include everybody, and I won't hurt feelings by only #FFing a few.

So yes, you can find me online but you have to look in the right place. The crunch time for me also means cutting down on online interaction. But you’d rather have the books, right? And I’d rather see comments in my blog than miss comments pointed at me because I can’t get online enough. I’d rather blog than spend an hour on Twitter or FB without realizing the time’s slipping past.

My forums will be back up shortly, btw—sorry they’ve been down, but we had to make some changes.

Anyway, that’s my “No” post. Authors have to balance writing with interacting. But so should everybody else. There’s a fantastic saying that I absolutely love: How You Spend Your Time Is How You Spend Your Life. I lived by that for a long while and now, I need to return to it. And I’d rather spend my life writing books, than frittering my time away on time-wasting activities that I don’t enjoy as much. Planned recreation is great, but I need to curb my dallying around again.

Cheers,
Yasmine

Meeting Myst (Well, running the hell away from her)...

So the night before last I had a dream. A nightmare. I was in the forest, somewhere, and it was snowing during the night. I was running from something and terrified. As I looked behind me, I caught a glimpse of a driving vortex of snow, and in the center of the snow, was Myst, Queen of the Indigo Court, pushing the storm on before her as she made her way into the area. A host of the Vampiric Fae followed behind her.

I remember sensing the power of her madness, the vicious nature of her blood, the feeling that she was unstoppable. And I ran, as fast as I could, screaming so that anybody near could hear me. “GET OUT OF HERE! MOVE! Myst is coming!” And the dim wood seemed to stretch on forever.

I woke then, breathless and shaking. After I realized where I was, I sat on the edge of the bed for a good ten minutes, catching my breath and shaking off the fear.

I don’t know how many writers dream of their characters. I tend not to dream of the main characters, but of the villains—and the cruelty behind them often leaves me wondering just what my subconscious is capable of creating. But it also makes me, I think, a stronger writer. My villains aren’t easy to kill, they aren’t paperweights just waiting to be tipped to the side. They take on a life of their own as strong as the heroines.

I think I don’t dream about my main characters because they live in my head so much. No, the villains come through my subconscious, and they let me see their true nature, and that’s when I realize how much my main characters have at stake, and how much they will lose if they aren’t able to conquer the enemy.

The last villain I dreamed about was Karvanak from Dragon Wytch and Night Huntress—the Rāksasa, and he scared the hell out of me but not like Myst. No…I think I may be having nightmares about her for years to come as the books spin out. In a very warped way, I look forward to it.

And for those who haven't seen the Night Myst video, here it is:



Yasmine

Night Myst Thursdays: Part 3

I have a surprise for you! I’m going to attempt a regular blogging schedule, to be interrupted by mostly great announcements (if I have any) or massive work deadlines (a given). This doesn’t mean an every day schedule, but I’m going to try to hit the blog more regularly than I have been and lay off hanging out on Twitter and FB so much.

And for a treat, each Thursday’s post will be an excerpt from Night Myst until the book comes out.

Since the first chapter is up on my site, I’m giving you excerpts from the beginning of Chapter 2. (And don’t get greedy—no complaining or I stop). And if I find anybody reproducing this on other sites--I stop and everybody loses out. That means: NO cutting/pasting/copying/sending through email.

Chapter 1
NM Thursdays Part 1
NM Thursdays Part 2

NIGHT MYST:
CHAPTER 2 (part 3)

Copyright 2010 Yasmine Galenorn
DO NOT REPRODUCE


“I have to go look for him. He might be able to help us.” “Are you sure? Maybe he doesn’t want to be found, considering you turned him down.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I have to try.”

Rhiannon yawned, looking more exhausted than I felt. “I’m so tired. I haven’t slept a wink since night before last. When I realized Heather was gone and not just out on an errand somewhere . . .” Her voice softened and she looked near tears. Rhiannon called her mother by her first name, as did I. It seemed to run in the family.

“I didn’t sleep so well myself. I had a little adventure out near the diner. Not one I care to repeat.” As we headed into the kitchen and she poured me a cup of tea, I told her about my experience at the motel.

We settled in at the big oak table and Rhiannon let out a long sigh. “I think the men who followed you might have been from the Lupa Clan. Remember, lycanthropes have a strong dislike and distrust of the magic-born and they’ve been on edge lately. The whole town has. And whatever that thing in the shadows was . . . I don’t know. All I know is that nobody hangs out after dark anymore except the vamps.”

“What the hell is happening, Rhia?”

“It’s all over town. The kids at the school feel it. I can tell—I watch them. They hurry to their classes, as if they don’t want to be outside too long.”

Rhiannon worked at the New Forest Conservatory, one of several academies across the country for the gifted. And by gifted, I mean advanced students with supernatural talents, who aren’t entirely human. Mostly the magic born. Some vampires, a few Fae. The Weres usually kept to themselves.

I stared at my cup. “This is a nice friendly street, with nice friendly neighbors. Everything looked so normal as I drove across town today.”

Rhiannon bit her lip as if she was trying to decide how much to say. “Be cautious, Cicely. You actually use your powers, unlike me. I think whatever this thing is, it eats magic, like food. People have gone missing, people have died. I don’t know if Heather told you on the phone, but a number of members of the Thirteen Moons Society have vanished or turned up dead.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The faint taste of leather and sweat and passion. And something behind it. Magic rode the currents. Shadow magic, spider magic, blood magic. The taste of sweet poison and wine. The energy swept over me like a web, muting my ability to sense my touchstone. Whatever this force was, it was strong. Powerful. Old.