The Day of Small Things--Another Look

                                                                           

There were bits of The Sky Club (see post of a few days ago) that made me think of my own Day of Small Things. It seemed like time to revisit Birdie's story which was published almost fifteen years ago. It was my favorite of my books till Crows--and I'm still quite fond of it. 

Some years ago I spoke to a MLAS class at UNC- Asheville.  What is a MLAS class? I didn't know either, but I looked it up. Masters of Liberal Arts and Sciences is "a broadly interdisciplinary program designed for a wide spectrum of adults that provides a challenging, structured liberal arts curriculum at the graduate level." 

The class was using Francine Proses's How to Read Like a Writer, and they were assigned (among works by other local writers) The Day of Small Things to analyze -- paying attention to the writer's choice of words and construction of sentences and paragraphs. Their teacher Tommy Hays had asked me to come in and answer questions.

Which I was delighted to do but I decided that first I'd better read the book -- I'd written it almost ten years before, and I wanted to be sure I remembered various points, so I'd be able to answer any questions semi-intelligently.

I knew I was proud of the book, but this re-reading had me really loving every word and every character -- well, except for the evil guy. I also realized that, in a way, this book was written just for me and no one else will ever appreciate some of the little hidden things about it as I do. 

No matter. I enjoyed answering the questions the class had -- questions like "Where are you when you write -- mentally and physically?" (Mentally, I'm in the head of my characters; physically I'm in a chair, feet up with a lap top.) and "What was the most challenging thing about writing this book?" (Bowing to my editor's insistence that I revise and tell the story chronologically rather than using the present-day story as a frame with the bits of Birdie's early life interwoven. And having to go back and change the protag's hair from pale gold to chestnut, due to the art department's cover with dark hair. They said the pale hair just made her look like an old woman.) 

Some of the comments were thought provoking. "How do you balance the harsh/scary/intense scenes and the beautiful scenes?" (I prefer writing the beautiful scenes, but the harsh/scary/intense scenes are necessary to provide tension/conflict and to move the plot along. 

Tommy commented that I was good at writing evil characters, saying that he had trouble with this.  Actually, I struggle to make people do bad things. I realized some time ago that most of my villains are either crazy in one way or another or, as in the case of two of the Black Hats in DST, semi-mythical personifications of Evil rather than real people.

It was a pleasure talking with the class and a pleasure spending time with Miss Birdie and her friends. At this long remove, all the toil and agonizing that went into the book is forgotten and it's very much like reading a book someone else wrote -- someone who has an uncanny knack for my sort of story. 

How Old Is Miss Birdie Anyway?

I got to thinking about this this other day--if Miss Birdie was eighty-four in Signs in the Blood, how old is she now? When I wrote Signs, I just pulled that number out of the air. Eighty-four seemed so very old, compared to Elizabeth's, what was it, fifty-four, I think.  (As I recall, I originally made Elizabeth my age--at the time, sixty-four--but decided to make her ten years younger, fearing to have the book branded as Matron Lit.)

Now, twenty-some years later and only a year away from eighty myself, I'm closer in age to the Birdie of Signs than I am to the Elizabeth. Funny how that happens. (But please don't call me Miss Vicki.)

There are several books I've read and re-read over the past seventy-odd years that have made me aware of my shifting empathy with various characters. As I've aged, the generic unhappy/angry/idealistic young daughter has become less interesting to me than the generic cranky mother whose unspoken past may explain her difficult personality.  

But I digress. 

How old is Birdie? I took a look at the opening of The Day of Small Things. Says right there Least/Birdie was born in 1922. Which makes her 100 this year. But the month isn't given. And there's no vegetation to hint at time of year, just those brooding dark hemlocks. The cabin door is open so it must be a warm time --May, June, July? 

I guess I'll have to talk to Birdie to find out the date. Or maybe someone versed in astrology could suggest a suitable birthdate for this redoubtable woman.

 

Revisiting The Day of Small Things

Last night I spoke to a MLAS class at UNC- Asheville.  What is a MLAS class? I didn't know either but I looked it up. Masters of Liberal Arts and Sciences is "a broadly interdisciplinary program designed for a wide spectrum of adults that provides a challenging, structured liberal arts curriculum at the graduate level." 

The class are using Francine Proses's How to Read Like a Writer and they were assigned (among other local writers) The Day of Small Things to analyze -- paying attention to the writer's choice of words and construction of sentences and paragraphs. Their teacher Tommy Hays had asked me to come in and answer questions.

Which I was delighted to do but I decided that first I'd better read the book -- I wrote it almost ten years ago and, though I  skimmed it last year, preparatory to speaking to a book club,  I wanted to be sure I remembered various points so I'd be able to answer any questions semi-intelligently.

I knew I was proud of the book but this re-reading had me really loving every word and every character -- well, except for the evil guy. I also realized that, in a way, this book was written just for me and no one else will ever appreciate some of the little hidden things about it as I do. 

No matter. I enjoyed answering the questions they had -- questions like "Where are you when you write -- mentally and physically?" (Mentally, I'm in the head of my characters; physically I'm in a chair, feet up with a lap top.) and "What was the most challenging thing about writing this book?" (Bowing to my editor's insistence that I revise and tell the story chronologically rather than using the present day story as a frame with the bits of Birdie's early life interwoven.) 

Some of the comments were thought provoking. "How do you balance the harsh/scary/intense scenes and the beautiful scenes?" (I prefer writing the beautiful scenes but the harsh/scary/intense scenes are necessary to provide tension/conflict and to move the plot along. 

Tommy commented that I was good at writing evil characters, saying that he had trouble with this.  Actually, I struggle to make people do bad things. I realized some time ago that most of my villains are either crazy in one way or another or, as in the case of two of the Black Hats in DST, semi-mythical personifications of Evil rather than real people.

It was a pleasure talking with the class and a pleasure spending time with Miss Birdie and her friends. At this long remove, all the toil and agonizing that went into the book is forgotten and it's very much like reading a book someone else wrote -- someone who has an uncanny knack for my sort of story. 

Yunwi Tsundi and a Drawing!

I'm recycling two older posts and having a drawing today. Read on . . .

This gorgeous boulder lies at the edge of our orchard and things live under it. Possibly a groundhog or two, maybe some rabbits or there could be snakes. But whenever I see that long dark opening, I think of Little People -- not the Munchkins of Oz but the really little people - Shakespeare's English fairies small enough to use a shed snake-skin as a wrap and his elves who make jackets of bats' wings. Or maybe the Yunwi Tsunsdi.

It was the Cherokees who once hunted in this area that told of the Yunwi Tsunsdi - a race of Little People living in caves of rock here in the mountains. Handsome and well-formed, with flowing hair reaching almost to the ground, they were reckoned to be kind, helping lost people and especially children to find the way home. But, the old legends warn, the Little People value their privacy and if any traveler attempts to follow the sounds of their drumming to their dwelling-place, the Little People will cast a spell that will send the wanderer even further astray, turning him around and around and bewildering him forever.

Fairy crosses or fairy stones are formed from staurolite, a combination of iron, silica, and aluminum that often crystallizes into cross-like shapes. Traditionally carried for luck, fairy crosses are said to protect against witchcraft, disease, and disaster.

Cherokee legend says that the Little People, the Yunwi Tsunsdi - a race of tiny reclusive beings known for their ability to find lost people -- were dancing and drumming and singing at a location near today's Brasstown, NC when a messenger arrived, bringing news of the Crucifixion. The terrible story made the Little People cry and when their tears hit the earth, they turned into the tiny crosses that can still be found in the area today.

 

The fairy crosses in the picture are very small -- about the size of my little fingernail. (No, I didn't find them myself -- they came from the Silver Armadillo in Asheville.)  And come Monday,  I'll draw two names from all the comments on this post to receive one of these little treasures.

The section below in italics is from THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS -- where Least is given a fairy cross.

She was like a half-tamed woods creature -- poked her head out the bushes a little ways and waited. Big blue eyes in a dirty sun-brown face, hair a greasy snarl, and a dress no better than a feed sack with holes in it.

I can do something about that, I thought and I felt in my skirt pocket for my charm.

'Come up here, honey,' I called and she inched out of the bushes and up the steps, her feet a-dragging.

But when she got close, she looked me in the eyes even afore she looked to see what was in my hand and that was when I knew.

'Oh, honey,' I said, feeling as if I might bust out crying, 'they's so many things I have to teach you and likely not much time. But we'll make a beginning with the story of the fairy crosses and how they came to be.'

When I put the little cross in her hand, she studied it close, running her finger up and down over its ridges. Then she looked up and whispered, 'This is from the little things, ain't it?'

Law, they was a catch in my heart at them words.

 

Blog Tour - Fourth Stop

Fourth and next-to-last stop on the Day of Small Things whirlwind blog tour. I'm doing an interview over at Blind Pig and the Acorn -- Tipper Pressley's wonderful down home take on all thing Appalachian.  I'd be proud for you uns come along, if you've a mind to.

It won't be up till around 7 AM -- US eastern standard time. And there will be another drawing for a copy of the new book.

Blog Tour - Third Stop

I'm off to the third stop on my Book Blog tour.  Today I'm at Meanderings and Muses, talking about Fierce Old Women I have known.

You all have been so good about commenting on my guest stops -- know that I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. 

And yes, there'll be yet another drawing for a fresh copy of The Day of Small Things. Leave a comment  over there to be entered.

July -- and another blog of sorts...

I told you I was getting excited. And the really wonderful blurb I just received from Deborah Crombie has lifted me right out of those red-headed stepchild doldrums.

You can see it over at my Day of Small Things blog. Or in my monthly Goodweather Report. I'm quite proud of it since Deb is a writer whose work I really admire.

Just to reiterate -- the new Day of Small Things blog is really more of a website. I won't be doing posts, as such, just adding updates as reviews, etc. come in.  I've got the FAQ page up -- many thanks to those of you who had questions -- and will happily add to it if anyone has more questions.  I have ideas for more additions. If you have any thoughts on this, do let me know.

And of course, I'll be blogging right here, right along.  

See you tomorrow.

Good Things -- and a Request

More glorious rain! Sunday's rain ended with a fine rainbow but last night's rain was after dark. There was a fine light show in the east as we sat on the porch drinking coffee and enjoying the cool air.

The turkeys are becoming regulars -- in the early morning we are likely to hear a soft chirping  just outside the back door as the two mamas lead their babies along the bank behind the house, on the way to the bird feeder. 

I mentioned yesterday that I was newly energized to begin work on the promotion aspect of the next book.  To that end, I'm setting up another blog just for The Day of Small Things. 

It won't be a blog like this; instead I see it as more like a small website -- which I can update as needed. At present I have a media page with bios and a photo and another page with an excerpt from the book.

I'd like to add a Frequently Asked Questions page.  I have one already on my website but it's about five years old so I'd like some fresh questions.

Which is where you all come in -- all questions gratefully received. Is there anything you would would like to know about me or my writing?

I'll post a link to this new site in a few days, after I've ironed out a few of the kinks and after I've set up the FAQ page. And then I'll take suggestions for more additions.

A Hint of Excitement . . .

I've been enjoying this break from writing (no, still no word from my editor about UNDER THE SKIN) and it's been pleasant to wake in the morning with nothing on my mind beyond working in the garden, planting some more day lilies, and checking on the Japanese iris.

But then I received a few bound galleys of The Day of Small Things. These bound galleys replace the ARCs (advance reading copies) the publishers used to send out to reviewers. I assume it's a cost cutting measure; I think it's limited to mass market paperbacks such as mine.

Frankly, I've been feeling like the red-headed stepchild ever since I heard there wouldn't be ARCs and haven't been thinking much about the book's release. But when I saw again the words that I'd struggled with for so long, a tiny surge of pride and optimism ran through me and suddenly I was back in gear.

In a sudden burst of energy, I emailed the various booksellers who've hosted me in the past and began the process of setting up events for my book's release. And, taking a deep breath, I signed up for  Bouchercon, the big mystery convention which is in San Francisco this October, just a few weeks after The Day of Small Things hits the shelves. It was the attendees of this convention who nominated In a Dark Season for an Anthony last year so I can hope that this book will have a decent reception there.

I'm really proud of this book and want to do everything possible to ensure its success. The way a book sells in the first month or six weeks after its release is something publishers pay a lot of attention to --- so, I'll give it my best shot.

There'll still be time to watch the figs ripen. . .

  ... and to keep an eye on that gang of turkeys.

The Day of Small Things

 
Well, look what showed up on Amazon!

The book won't be out till September 28 but it's nice to see its shining face at last.

I wrote a while back in my newsletter blog The Goodweather Report,  about my trials with this cover and how I had to change my protagonist's hair color to suit the cover. I'm reasonably pleased with it (though her arms look a little weird to me -- and where's the rest of the fence? -- quibble, quibble.)

And I don't know why the bottle is there. Or what's in it.

Opinions?

Is She or Isn't She?

... only her editor knows for sure!

Yesterday Herself (my redoubtable editor) sent me preliminary cover art for the Miss Birdie book, The Day of Small Things!

I've been wondering what they would come up with as this book isn't part of the Elizabeth series -- and also because Jamie Warren Youll, the talented woman responsible for my previous covers, is no longer with Random House. Jamie always read (and said she enjoyed) the books before designing the cover and I think it showed.

But I was delighted with what Herself sent . . . as was my agent. It's a striking image -- a photo showing a young girl in a white old-fashioned dress, balancing barefoot atop a rail fence and looking at a misty pasture and deep woods beyond. You don't see her face but her long dark hair tumbles down her back.

As I said I loved it immediately. There was just one little problem. In the Birdie book, the young Birdie has pale blond hair -- moony . . . silvery-gold -- were two of the ways I'd described it.

But this cover was so compelling . . .

I immediately emailed Herself, pointing out the problem and offering to change the young Birdie to a brunette.

Herself responded by asking Art (a department, I believe, not a guy) if the image could be manipulated to make the hair blond.

But not too blond, I cautioned -- not golden blond!

Herself responded that they'd do the best they could but I might have to accept a compromise if I didn't want the figure on the cover to look like an old woman with long white hair.

Meanwhile I was skimming through my copy of the manuscript, trying to see just how much would have to be changed if Birdie went dark-haired. About six or seven references were all I found -- not bad.

I had a feeling that a blond girl on the cover wouldn't have near the impact that the dark-haired one had, that she wouldn't stand out against the muted background -- but I was certainly interested to see what Art came up with.

A few hours later Art emailed Herself to say that the change to blond looked too manipulated and Herself asked if I was willing to bring the text in line with the picture.

Out went the silvery-gold hair, in came a shining dark waterfall; out went pale, in came dark.

Herself said that this was the first time she'd asked an author to change the text to fit the art but she thought that it was worth it.

And so do I.

Of course I wanted to show you the cover but for various legal reasons I'm not allowed to just yet. But I really think it's a goodie.

First Snow

We woke Saturday morning to drifting snow. And as the day went on, so did the snow.

Fortunately, there was no need for the dash to the grocery for bread and milk and diapers that so many folks in this county seem to perform as a reflex in response to the first flakes.

There was one thing to do -- walk barefoot in the first snow to ensure health all year. Eddie tells me he's safe.

And now so am I.

(I don't always walk so spraddle-foot; that was me being ultra-cautious on a slick surface, not wanting to be healthy but with broken bones.)

It was a perfect day to sit by the fire with our five dogs, as well as Justin and Claui's two who were dropped off for doggy day care.

And I had the page proofs of The Day of Small Things which arrived late Friday! I have to read through all 400 plus pages very, very carefully in search of typos and other errors.

I've been away from Day and so deep in Under the Skin that it's almost like reading someone else's book.

And, though I'm only a third of the way through it right now, I've got to say that I'm glad it was I who wrote it.

Seriously, I've almost made myself cry a couple of times (not an easy thing to do.)

I'm looking forward to the rest of it -- I hope it's as good!