Sunday snippet: sample chapter from THE BETRAYAL

Sample from The Betrayal copyright © 2008 by Pati Nagle and Del Rey Books. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author. Exceptions are made for downloading this file to a computer for personal use.

Alpinon

A footfall on the forest floor below brought Eliani's head up sharply. The scroll in her hands curled back into itself. She had not been reading it-her thoughts had drifted long since. The Lay of the Battle of Westgard had failed to entrance her today.

She leaned out from the branch where she sat and peered down between the leaves of her favorite oak, seeking the sound's source. A shadow of movement below, the edge of a cloak curling out of sight. Not a kobalen, then. Nor could it be a guardian, for Alpinon's patrols were always at least three strong.

Eliani laid a hand against the oak's trunk-slender here, near its top-and closed her eyes. The tree's khi was slow and deep. She sent her own khi through it and out into the forest: roots running strong into the earth, whisper-fine grasses moving with each light breeze, small creatures dwelling in branch or under root. A much brighter, stronger pulse of khi reverberated through the wood, one that could only be ælven. Eliani drew back from it, as the ælven did not trespass upon one another's khi.

She opened her eyes and carefully set her scroll in a notch of two branches where she had stored little treasures since childhood. She loved the old ballad-heroic mindspeakers and soul-consuming alben warlords still thrilled her despite her inattention today-but her curiosity about the intruder was more immediate.

She moved stealthily down to the oak's lowest limbs, making no sound at all, for she could have climbed the tree blindfolded in any direction. Peering on a lower branch, she saw a solitary figure walking away northward: tall, male, pale-haired.

She caught her breath, thinking for an instant that it was an alben. Fear set her heart pulsing before reason reminded her that an alben would not be walking in daylight, even if he dared to cross the mountains into Alpinon.

No, it was a Greenglen, his hair not white but pale blond, as was common to his clan. He wore a cloak of Clan Greenglen's colors-sage lined with silver-and carried a long bow slung over one shoulder.

Greenglens were rarely seen in Alpinon, though their homeland of Southfæld shared a nearby border. Eliani had met only a handful of them in her short fifty years, and none recently.

She smiled a hunter's silent pleasure. She would track this foreigner, try to glimpse his face, see how long she could follow him unnoticed. It was the sort of game she most enjoyed, and she was good at it, having spent the last two decades in Alpinon's Guard. She felt a moment's wistfulness, reminded that soon she would become the Guard's commander. The other guardians would call her "Warden" instead of "Kestrel," the nickname they had given her.

Tomorrow, on Autumn Evennight, she would be confirmed in her majority and formally named heir and designated successor to her father, Felisan, Governor of Alpinon. The command of the Guard would pass to her as well. This was her last day of youth and irresponsibility. A little mischief might be forgiven her, this last time.

Grinning, she turned her attention to her quarry. She tensed her thighs, balanced carefully, and sprang to the forest floor, making no more sound than the falling of a leaf.

~~~

Turisan walked at his ease, enjoying the rich earthen smell and myriad colors of autumn leaves, only mildly curious at first about his pursuer. He was not quite certain how long he had been followed.

He was not averse to meeting a patrol from Alpinon's guard. In fact he half hoped to encounter one, for he had not previously been in this realm and did not know the way to Highstone. His pursuer, however, though certainly ælven, was evidently not a guardian. Such a one would have challenged him, not stalked him. He therefore continued to stride through Alpinon's fair woodlands, which were full of life and untouched by ælven hands, as unlike as could be to his home in Glenhallow.

Pausing to examine a spray of scarlet leaves, he saw a flicker of movement above. His brow creased in a slight frown. It was impolite to treat a visitor so, whether or not they knew who he was. He began to tire of the game.

And now he could hear his father berating him for not bringing along an escort suitable to his dignity. Had he been accompanied by ten of Southfæld's Guard, as Lord Jharan had wished, no zealous Stonereach would have dared to stalk him. In Jharan's view, a member of Southfæld's governing house should never travel unattended, though he walk through the most benign lands. Indeed, he should not walk. He should ride a finely caparisoned steed, or better yet take his ease in a chariot emblazoned with marks of state, surrounded by a mounted escort.

It was such excess of ceremony that made Turisan long so often to be gone from the court at Glenhallow. The more he learned of the intricacies of governance, the more he yearned for the simplicity of a wild wood, a clear stream, and the flicker of stars through leafy branches.

This journey was in part an escape from court formalities, though at the end of it they awaited him again. His father had sent him here on a visit of ceremony, to pay respects and carry messages to Lord Felisan, the governor of Alpinon, and to witness the confirmation of his heir.

Turisan had made no objection to this errand, for he knew it to be his duty as his father's nextkin. Lord Jharan's eyes, so often stern, grew soft with fondness whenever he spoke of Felisan, and that alone made Turisan curious to know him. He also expected the visit to Alpinon's woodlands to satisfy his longing for wildness. Yet even here in the forest he was to have no peace, it seemed. Annoyed all at once, he turned in mid-stride and nocked an arrow to his bow, aiming it amidst the branches overhead.

"You have followed me half the afternoon. Come down and declare your business with me, or begone."

A moment's silence. Then a rustle in the branches, and a lanky ælven female in worn and dusky hunting leathers emerged, landing softly before him. She brushed a strand of nut-brown hair from her green eyes and stood gazing at him.

"Peace to you, friend. I meant no harm. We seldom have visitors from the south."

Turisan lowered his bow. "And who are you?"

The little chin went up, then a corner of her mouth curled. "I am called Kestrel. I am kin to Lord Felisan."

Surprised, Turisan paused to return arrow to quiver while he reevaluated her status. No rustic this, whatever her appearance. Even a lesser relative of Lord Felisan deserved his respect, though she had not given her true name. He bowed.

"It is to bring messages to Lord Felisan that I have come. Will you honor me by guiding me to his house?"

The green eyes lit. "Messages? From Southfæld?"

Turisan smiled. "From Glenhallow."

He had thought mention of Southfæld's seat of government would thrill her. She drew a breath, as of deep pleasure, then surprised him by replying with quiet dignity.

"It will be my honor to guide you."

She turned and with a friendly glance over her shoulder, started northward. Turisan hastened to come up with her. Though not as tall as he, she had a guardian's purposeful stride. She looked at him sidelong as they walked apace.

"Forgive my discourtesy, I pray. What visitors we do receive from Southfæld generally come by the trade road."

Turisan smiled to show he held no grievance. "I prefer the woodlands."

"So do I. You have no horse? Glenhallow sends its messengers on foot?"

"I have a horse. I left it with the guardians at Midrange, thinking to enjoy a walk this fine day. I believe it is not far to Highstone?"

"No, not far." She smiled, her mouth twisting up in some private amusement.

Not a rustic, and not quite so young as he had first thought. Turisan observed her while she answered his polite questions about the land through which they walked.

She was fair of face and form, her coloring middle-dark as was common in the Stonereach clan, her figure well enough though leaner than the gently-bred maidens of Glenhallow's court. Turisan, being accustomed to receive the open admiration of every maid he met, was intrigued and somewhat abashed to realize that this female seemed more interested in his messages than in himself.

It would be a lesson to him, he acknowledged silently. He had indeed dwelt too long at court.

The woodlands, all ablaze with autumn, grew denser. Turisan's legs told him they were climbing, though at first the slope was scarcely noticeable. It became a true hill before long, and led to numberless others increasing in size, greenleaf trees giving way to tall pines as they proceeded from foothills into the mountains proper. Though he would have enjoyed a rest, his guide seemed unweary and he followed her onward, reflecting that the day he could not outmarch a slip of a Stonereach girl was the day he should renounce his heritage and become a magehall acolyte.

The mountain air took on a chill as evening fell, and warm glints of light had for some time been showing through the trees when they reached a road that sloped upward along one side of a pine-filled valley. It led to a town centered on a level shelf of rock, where houses spread out from an open public circle and clung to the steep, rocky walls above and below. A pale river cascaded through the chasm to the north, and he heard the distant roar of a waterfall.

His guide paused at the edge of the circle. "Welcome to Highstone."

This was Alpinon's chief city, then. Smaller than Turisan had expected. The houses were built of stone with steep, slated roofs to shed snow. Their ornamentation was minimal and rough compared with that of Glenhallow's graceful buildings, but after the long walk the glow of their lighted windows in the blue-shadowed dusk was especially welcoming.

The grandest structure was a long hall situated on an outcrop commanding the valley a little way above the public circle. Its roof timbers were carved with stag's heads, the token of Clan Stonereach. A row of tall, arched windows gave a muted glow through tapestries already drawn for the night.

"Felisanin Hall. Come, they will be at table. We are in time to join the meal."

"I would not intrude on Lord Felisan. Will you show me to a place where I can await his leisure?"

She grinned. "We are not so formal here. He would berate me for keeping an honored guest waiting. Surely you are tired and hungry?"

"Ah-yes."

"Come, then."

She led the way across the circle with a backward glance to see that he followed, and started up the steep stone stair beyond that led up to the governor's hall. Reflecting that a lack of formality did not necessarily imply a poor table, Turisan hastened after his guide.

~~~

Eliani could not wait to see the faces of the household when she introduced their exotic guest. She was certain now that he was high-ranking. Elusive, too; he had said little about himself, and had turned aside a probing question or two with practiced ease.

She had longed to question the visitor about his homeland and what was happening outside Alpinon, but as he had clearly not wished to discuss such things with her, she had refrained. When asked the same questions by her father he could scarcely refuse to answer, and so she would hear the news all the same.

Pausing in the hearthroom that served as entrance to Felisanin Hall, Eliani warmed her hands by the welcoming hearth and looked more closely at the stranger while he gave his cloak, bow, and small pack into the keeping of the attendants who came forward to welcome him.

He was tall and slim, though his firm shoulders told of strength with bow and sword. The hunting clothes he wore were of fine, soft leather, dyed in subtle shades of green and richly embroidered. The silver clasp that pinned his cloak was intricate in design and bore a large, glinting white stone. He left it in the cloak as it was taken away, as if its possible loss would mean little to him, though it was finer than any jewel Eliani possessed.

How rich his life must be! How simple he must think what she deemed grand and fine. She felt as if she were watching a creature out of another world entirely, one to which hers bore no comparison. Even his person was of rare and unusual beauty-fine features, long graceful fingers, hair of rich gold, eyes like dark pools of shadow.

Abruptly he glanced up at her and smiled. Caught in her curiosity, she returned the smile and stepped forward.

"May I know your name, so that I may give you proper introduction?"

He seemed to hesitate for an eyeblink, then answered quietly. "It is Turisan."

"I have heard that name." Eliani gazed at him, frowning slightly, certain they had never met. "I do not remember when."

His lips twitched. "It matters not. I am ready, if you will lead me in."

She started into the hall, pushing the tapestry aside. No doubt he was used to much grander feast halls, but at least she need not be ashamed of her house's hospitality.

Torches burned brightly, musicians played in a corner of the hall (for Lord Felisan was very fond of music), and the household talked merrily around the long table. Eliani was glad to see that the meal was not very far progressed. Her father looked up and beckoned to her, but instead of taking her place beside him she strode up to his chair, bowed formally, and stepped to one side. The conversation fell away as the household became aware of the stranger she brought with her, thus it was to the accompaniment of music alone that she made her announcement.

"Lord Felisan, I bring you a visitor from afar. May it please you to welcome Turisan, who bears tidings from Glenhallow."

The murmur that followed confirmed the importance of their guest. Her father rose, and she was pleased to see that he wore one of his better robes of deep blue velvet, broidered with gilt thread and pinned at the neck with a large violet stone. No doubt he had put it on in honor of their kindred Beryloni, who was to be handfasted three days hence.

Felisan glanced at Eliani, his eyes glinting mischief. The next moment it was gone as he turned to greet Turisan.

"Welcome indeed!" Lord Felisan smiled broadly as he offered his arm. "I was present at your salutation-day, but you will not remember that, of course. Lord Jharan does me honor to send his own son with his tidings."

Eliani drew a sharp breath. She hoped it would go unnoticed, and quickly assumed a disinterested smile. As Turisan clasped arms with her father she thought his glance flicked to her.
Lord Jharan's son, was he? Heir to the governance of Southfæld, the second-oldest and second-largest ælven realm. She closed her eyes briefly, silently chiding herself for not remembering where she had heard his name.

"I thank you, Lord Felisan, and crave pardon for arriving unheralded."

Felisan waved dismissal. "Jharan and I have been friends for centuries. There is no need of ceremony between our houses. Come, sit beside me and give me news of your father! These are all my household, I will not trouble you with their names just now. And two of my theyns, Luruthin and Gharinan, there at the end. My daughter you have met."

Eliani, standing beside her chair, was gratified to see Lord Turisan glance up at her in surprise. Her suspicion was correct, then-he had thought her of little importance. She returned a sweet smile, and he acknowledged her with a bow before taking his seat. This appeased her somewhat. Even more so did the kind thanks he made to the cousin who gave place to him.

Eliani helped herself to warm bread from the basket before her, listening to the pleasantries that passed between her father and his guest. Lord Jharan's messages would be given later and in private. She intended to be present, and Lord Turisan might make of that what he would.

"Your mountains are beautiful. I have seldom seen such richly timbered woods, and some of the prospects are breathtaking."

Felisan looked pleased. "You have yet to see the best of them, having arrived from the south. Ask Eliani to show you the Three Shades. It is a high fall of water not far from here, a very pretty spot, with some interesting legends attached to it."

Turisan's gaze shifted to Eliani and he gave a solemn nod. "I would be honored if Lady Eliani would show it me."

Eliani felt color rising to her cheeks. No one had called her "lady" before. That honorific was reserved to governors and their heirs, the masters of guildhalls, and other persons of high responsibility. She was not yet formally her father's nextkin.

She returned Turisan's nod, then glanced away and took a sip of wine. She did not know why she should find Lord Jharan's son any more disconcerting than she had found a nameless high-ranking Greenglen, but so it was. Perhaps because she had always thought of the people of House Jharanin as stately beings, dwelling in luxurious palaces and occupied with lofty concerns of governance.

Turisan did not fit this picture at all. What governor-elect of any self-importance would undertake a day's journey on foot and alone?

She would. She laughed and choked a little on her wine.

~~~

THE BETRAYAL is a March 2009 release from Del Rey Books. More about the book and links for ordering at aelven.com

Promo Comes in Unexpectedly Handy

Recently I had one of those rare and glorious days when a check comes in from the publisher. After enjoying the glow, I dashed off to the bank to deposit it.

Since writers receive checks rarely, and in my case the checks are usually (alas) larger than the bank account balance, bankers look askance at such deposits. They like to place holds on the funds, just in case you were making it up or something. What, you getting a big check from Major Publisher, Inc.? A likely story!

Therefore I wasn't surprised when the teller started yakking at me about the check. Since I couldn't hear her over the drive-up speaker, I went inside, and in the spirit of self-promotion (and because I still have some to give away), I took a couple of my Ælven calendars in with me.

As I'd suspected, she was concerned about the check from Major Publisher. Had I written a book for them or something?

"Why, yes!" quoth I, and handed her the calendars. "This book."

Suddenly all was well, my check was deposited, my funds unrestrained. My investment in promotional materials justified.

Maybe she'll even think about buying the book.

Boxing Day

Lots of traditions are associated with Boxing Day. The one I remember is that of the nobility boxing up the leftovers from the Christmas feast to give to the poor or to their servants, depending on who's telling the story.

These aren't exactly leftovers, but they're fond memories of the holiday season. They're also grist for the writer's mill.

Earlier this month my husband and I took a quick trip to Carlsbad, New Mexico, with a couple of friends to view the Christmas on the Pecos light show. This is a one hour boat cruise along a stretch of water that’s not actually part of the Pecos River. It’s surrounded by beautiful homes, most of them with beautiful light displays.

I found out just how hard it is to take photos at night from a moving boat. The full moon floated overhead, as if to say that no matter how much effort man puts into light displays, Mother Nature can’t be beat.



Before heading home the next morning, we drove down to Carlsbad Carverns to take the Left Hand Tunnel tour. This is a guided walking tour by lantern light. On the way in, the only light we were permitted was that of the candle lanterns issued to each of us. This is the way the cave’s first explorer, Jim White, saw it, except that he was alone and instead of a candle lantern, he had a coffee pot full of oil with a rope for a wick.

Our guide, Ranger Rick (I kid you not), was terrific and reassuring from the start. Before the tour began, the lights in the cave went out a few times due to high winds up top. I was glad we were going to have our own lanterns. Glad to be in the calm, pleasantly cool cavern, too, instead of being buffeted by 60 mph winds.

The footing in the tunnel was rough and we had to help each other avoid obstacles. Ranger Rick told great stories about the filming of a bad TV movie (Gargoyles) in the tunnel in the 70s, and a hostage situation that also took place in Left Hand Tunnel that I'd never heard of.

On the way out we could take flash pictures, including these of drapery and a stalagmite. It was fun, if a little scary at times. I would do it again in a hot second.

—Pati Nagle

(PS—I still have 2009 year-at-a-glance calendars. Send me your mailing address and I'll send you one for free.)

Sunday snippet: "Glad Yule"

"Glad Yule" first appeared in An Armory of Swords, an anthology edited by Fred Saberhagen and set in his Swords universe. Fred was a kind and gentle human being and is greatly missed. His invitation to write a Swords story meant a great deal to me. As today is Yule, I'm inclined to curl up by the fire with a cup of mead and drink to Fred's memory. Here's a snippet in his honor.

"Glad Yule" Copyright © 1995, 2008 by Pati Nagle. All rights reserved.

~~~~~

Trent opened the door to a cozy chamber where a fire crackled on the hearth. Heavy curtains had been thrown back from tall windows to give the ladies of the house, seated around a table, light to work by. Elian and Mari were stitching golden trim to a half-cape of dark green, while Sylva fashioned a wreath out of sprigs of holly. They looked up at Trent, who smiled and swept them a bow. He knelt beside Elian's chair and kissed her hand. "Fair lady," he said, "your father sent me to tell you that the Midsummer mead is palatable."

She smiled down at him in amusement. "Oh, I'm so relieved," she said. "How much is left?"

"Plenty," said Trent. "Shall I bring you some?"

"Thanks, I'll wait till tonight."

Trent shrugged, smiling, and wandered over to sit beside Sylva. "What are you making? A crown?"

"Yes, for the Holly King," said Sylva with a sly glance at him.

"Who's that?" asked Trent.

"The Holly King," repeated Mari, opening her brown eyes wide. "Don't you know?"

Trent shook his head, his face all innocent puzzlement.

"It's one of our customs," said Elian. "Every Yule the young girls all share a cake with a bean baked into it. Whoever finds the bean gets to choose the Holly King, and he presides over the Yule festival."

"And he has to dance with all the girls, and be merry all night long," added Sylva.

"Ah," said Trent. "Sounds like hard work."

"Not for you, my Lord." Elian smiled."

Trent glanced up at her inquiringly.

"If King Nigel requires you to dance, you've had good training."

Trent laughed. "True. Do you think I would make a good Holly King, Sylva?"

"I don't know," said Sylva. "Let's see." She placed the wreath on his head, dark green leaves glinting against his soft brown hair. "Not bad," she said. "What do you think, Mari?"

"I think he's perfect," said Mari, then she blushed and looked down at her stitching.

Trent laughed again. "Thank you, kind lady," he said, coming around the table to kiss her hand. "If you find the bean and choose me, I'll dance with you all night long."

Mari giggled and smiled at him shyly.

"You would be a fine Holly King," said Elian, regarding him with her calm green eyes. "You can make anyone laugh, and you are always merry yourself."

"Not like Lord Paethor," said Sylva. "He never smiles."

"Oh, he does," said Trent. "You just have to be watching."

"Why is he so glum?" asked Sylva.

"Why? Well—it's because he's heartbroken, lady. All his life he has wished he had red hair."

The girls laughed.

"No," protested Trent. "It's true. And now he comes and meets you, Sylva, with the prettiest, reddest hair in all the world." Trent sat beside her again and picked up a strand of her hair, stroking it with his fingers. "Redder than sunset, and softer than a rabbit's fur. No wonder he's mad with grief.

Sylva laughed again and punched his arm. "Be serious!"

"I am!"

"No, I mean tell me! Why is he so sad? What's the truth?"

"Don't pry, Sylva," said Elian.

"The truth? The truth, dear lady, is that I don't know. I'm not in his confidence." Trent sighed. "He isn't always this gloomy. At King Nigel's court I've seen him dance through the night. The ladies there are all mad for him, but not one of them has ever touched his heart. Not that I know of, anyway." He looked up and found the girls watching him, even Elian, whose needle lay forgotten in her lap. He broke into a foolish grin. "You shouldn't listen to me, though," he said. "I never tell a tale the same way twice."

Sylva frowned, laughing, and took the wreath from his head.

"Have I displeased you?" said Trent in mock alarm. He knelt beside her chair. "Tell me how to make amends. I want to be worthy of the holly crown!"

"Help me finish it, then," said Sylva. "Hand me that ribbon. "

"I hear and obey," said Trent, jumping to his feet and snatching up a ribbon from the table, then presenting it to Sylva with an exaggerated bow. She laughed and took it from him.

"Now a piece of holly," she demanded, enjoying the game.

Trent scooped up a sprig and yelped as a thorn pricked his thumb. He squeezed it and a bright red drop appeared.

"You're supposed to take the thorns off first!" said Sylva.

"Are you all right, my Lord?" asked Elian.

Trent smiled sheepishly, sucking at the wound. "Fine," he said. "It's nothing but my own carelessness. My own stupid folly, for playing with holly—"

Sylva giggled, taking the sprig from him and snipping off the thorns with a little pair of scissors.

"Folly, lolly, lolly—" sang Trent, picking up two more sprigs by their stems and making them dance on the tabletop.

The girls laughed, and Trent kept them laughing until they'd finished their regalia. Then Sylva made him try it on, and he struck a royal pose, the cape lightly draping his shoulders, holly forming a halo around his head.

"I hereby decree that mistletoe shall hang in every doorway, and anyone who doesn't smile shall be sent to the kitchens to wash the dishes," he pronounced.

"Paethor, be warned!" said Elian, taking back the cape. "Come, Sylva. It's late, and we still have your dress to trim."

Sylva reached for the crown and Trent gave it to her, lifting her hand to his lips. She smiled coyly at him, picked up a leftover sprig of holly and stood on tiptoe to tuck it behind his ear. Then she and Mari tossed all their odds and ends into a large basket and ran to the door where Elian waited.

"Thank you for your help, my Lord," she said. "We'll see you this evening."

Trent bowed and watched them go, then grinned to himself and made his way back to his chamber.

~~~~~

The full text of "Glad Yule" is available at BookViewCafe.com

Becoming a Writer

When people ask "How long have you been writing?" I'm stumped. There are too many answers.

It happened in stages, not all at once. I did not spring forth with "WRITER" stamped on my brow.

Some of the essential ingredients (in my case):

Imagination. There was never a time when I did not make up stories. It's how I got to sleep at night when my brain was too busy. I'd tell myself a story, act it out in my mind (sometimes playing all the parts) and somewhere I'd fall asleep. I still do that, though now it's usually part of something I'm writing.

Reading. I read voraciously from an early age, and learned most of what I know about grammar and sentence structure from reading fiction, from Jane Austen to Roger Zelazny. Lots of non-fiction, too. Curiosity is very helpful for someone who needs to make up whole worlds.

Decision. Dave mentioned this in his post on Monday. There is a moment of decision which for many writers happens when one reads a book and thinks, "I can write better than this." That happened for me. I don't remember the book I was reading (it wasn't memorable), but I do remember the moment and it was indeed a turning point for me.

Technical Tools. In high school I decided to write a Star Trek novel. It was Unspeakably Bad, but it was a gift to my future, because in the process I taught myself how to type. I improved on this skill in college when I got a part-time job typing technical stuff and thereby learned to use a word processor.

Other Writers. I moved in with a writer friend who needed a roommate. She talked me into joining her critique group. I wrote a story and showed it to them. It was Unspeakably Bad, but they were kind and encouraging to me, and I started writing more stuff. The writers in this group also introduced me to other professional writers in the area, great contacts for a fledgling career.

I've had good luck with critique groups, mostly. It's extremely helpful to have knowledgeable first readers, and it's also important stay connected with one's peers in the industry. They're the support group that every writer needs at the inevitable moment when the writer must be told, "No, you're not crazy."

Education. I learned about the publishing industry. The critique group pointed me in the right direction for submitting my work to professional markets. I read books and magazines about how to get published (not so much how to write). Later on I attended professional workshops, which also focused mainly on the industry and how it works. Invaluable.

Sales. After writing and mailing out a lot of short stories, some of which were Unspeakably Bad, I began to sell a few. One was bought by a magazine editor who later became my teacher and mentor in workshops for professional writers. Another was bought by an anthology editor who asked if I had anything else he could look at, and eventually bought a novel from me, my first book sale.

Mistakes. Oh, yes, the painful part. Everyone screws up some time or another, and I've made my share of boners. You learn from them, and go on. (Maybe that editor will someday forgive me for the late-night phone call...oops!)

The Most Crucial, Super-Secret Ingredient for Becoming a Successful Writer. Anticlimactic, I know, but in the final accounting the most essential part of writing is simply writing, as much and as often as possible. I've done that for as long as I've known how. Not always with the intention of becoming published—that came later on—but always telling stories. I do it every day. Here's a great post by Barbara Bretton about the importance of writing on a regular basis.

A writer is never finished practicing and honing her craft. There's always room for improvement, and always another story to tell.

—Pati Nagle

Small World by Laura Resnick

Welcome to our newest additions to the Mad Genius Club (Writers Division): Pati Nagle and Jennifer Stevenson! Jennifer will be blogging on alternate Sundays. (And I gather that on the other Sundays, we'll have naked dancing boys. Or possibly just guest-bloggers if we can't book the dancers.)

And Pati and I will be sharing this slot, i.e. each of us will blog alternate Fridays from now on. It took me only two Fridays in a row as a Mad Genius to realize I couldn't possibly do this every Friday.

I owe books to three publishers, I owe short stories, I owe a monthly opinion column, I owe a master's thesis, I have my own website, I blog monthly on Ninc.com's blog (which blog Pati and I helped create), I'm still president of Novelists, Inc., I travel a few times a year to do public speaking, and—oh, yeah, I almost forgot--I actually have a personal life, too (which also includes traveling). So I can't also blog weekly here. I'm not Super Woman. (I'm not even Adequate Woman. I am Befuddled And Overwhelmed Woman.) But rather than drop out, I asked Sarah Hoyt a.k.a. She Who Must Be Obeyed, if I could share my Fridays with someone who also can't participate every week. Enter, La Nagle!

I know Jennifer Stevenson from an sf/f e-list that I founded a few years back, and which she joined. I subsequently turned over ownership of the e-list to someone else and left, after belatedly remembering that I can't stand writers. Jennifer and I finally met in person when we were both at the same mass-signing for authors at an RWA National conference in Dallas. I don't really remember anything, though, after Jennifer told me that there was a margarita in her travel mug. I instantly became obsessed with also getting a margarita and don't recall anything else we discussed that day. I think that the same sf/f writers e-list may also be where I originally know Pati from... but I know Pati from so many places that memory fades. I also know Pati because we were signed with the same publishing house for a while, and working with the same editor for a while. Pati's former literary agent represents a friend of mine, and I've known Jennifer's former literary agent (which agents are not the same agent) for years. I myself am way ahead of these two writers, as I have four former literary agents. (As much as I can't stand writers, it turns out I can stand agents even less.) But I digress. I know Jennifer's current editor, and Jennifer and Pati are currently at the same house, though I can't remember if they have the same editor. One of my current editors at another house used to work at the house where Pati and Jennifer currently are, and my dad was under contract at that house for a while (where his editor was the ex-spouse of an editor who acquired some of my old reprints for another house).

I also know Pati and Jennifer from Novelists, Inc. (Ninc), which I'll blog about next time. I'm the 2008 president of Ninc. Pati Nagle is co-chair of the website committee and therefore in co-command of Ninc.com, the organization's website (which we have recently launched after a massive redesign, restructure, and update of the old site, so go check it out). Jennifer is a member of Ninc, though I don't think I've yet got around to roping her into any volunteer duties there. (But, again, memory fades. I've wrestled so many people to the ground in Ninc, their names and faces have become a blur by now.)

Sarah a.k.a. Queen Of The Mad Genius Club is also a member of Novelists, Inc. But that's not where I know her from. I think I originally know Sarah from another sf/f writer e-list, which was founded years ago by Dean Wesley Smith and Kristine Kathryn Rusch. But I know Sarah from sooooo many places, I'm not really sure. I also know Sarah from the sf/f writers e-list which I founded and then abandoned. I know Sarah's former agents and her current one. I know several of her editors. She and I have a number of mutual friends (and probably a number of mutual enemies). I know her from Colorado Springs, where I've spoken a couple of times (and where I am returning to speak again, in April/09), and where she and her esteemed spouse have taken me site-seeing. I know her from the short fiction anthology she edited and was kind enough to invite me into, Something Magic This Way Comes. I've also been in a couple of anthologies that her talented and handsome husband, whose taste and judgment are above reproach, invited me into: Fate Fantastic and Better Off Undead. And I know her from the various late-night emails we exchange.

Writing is kind of a small world, as you may have gathered.

And now, thanks to Sarah, I've also made contact with the other Mad Genius clubbers: Dave Freer, Louise Marley, Rowena Cory Daniells, and John Lambshead! Laura Resnick www.LauraResnick.com