Cayman Summer

Similans Diving

2012-02-04T20:44:00.000-08:00

Look, look, look! I got a picture of Honeymoon Bay in the Similan Islands where Suki sorely tempts Michael in UNBROKEN CONNECTION.

At first, I didn't think we'd get close enough to get a shot of it because our boat anchored around the backside of the island and then we were supposed to go on to another island for the second dive. But, to my surprise, the boat moved into a gorgeous spot called, "Hide-Away," off Islands #5 in the Similan chain--and I had this perfect view of Honeymoon Bay. I didn't actually get to put my toes in the sand and take closeups, but at least I got to see it. The bay is much smaller than I'd imagined. In fact, the whole chain is much smaller and closer together than I'd imagined.

Okay, I'm getting way ahead of my tale. If you'll bear with me, I'll switch to travelogue again and take you along with me for the day through the photos I managed to snap between dives.

The day started out climbing into the favorite mode of transportation in Khoa Lak--a small pickup truck with benches seats fitted up in back. All the local taxis are like this, too. It gets windy driving along and sometimes the exhaust fumes from the truck and the traffic are nauseating, so I wore my sea bands to keep from getting motion sick. Worked great.

This is the dock in Tap Lamu. It's still as icky as when I visited here before I wrote UNBROKEN CONNECTION. That time we didn't dive because it was off season. The big difference was people. Tons of people everywhere--heading to the boats, waiting for boats, getting in and out of vans and taxis. Mostly Europeans. This area is popular with Germans and has lots of service in German.

Here's the boat we spent the day on. We'd booked on a brand new, big speed boat that was supposed to get us out to the islands in just over and hour. They'd promised us lunch on the beach--Honeymoon Bay for sure. But they had mechanical problems, and we ended up on what divers call a big "cattle boat."

It took two and a half hours to cruise out to the Similans on this big boat. Even though it was a big, slow boat with forty people--many of them snorkelers--on it, it was organized well and the dive staff took pains to give us a good day of divers. The temperature out on the water was just perfect. Not too hot, but warm enough. Nice breeze. Flat seas. And the open air deck had enough shade and wasn't crowded. Turned out to be a great day after all.

First sight of the Similans. This was Island Number 8. There are nine islands. They are smaller and closer together than I thought.

Getting closer! We were eager to arrive and dive.

Look close. Through the window you can see the Thai captain and crew. I learned all the captains are Thai. I had Michael working on his captain's license--which he probably couldn't do here because it would all be in Thai! (Don't tell anyone, okay?)

This is Island #4 where we dove!

Here I am after our first dive. I wish I had underwater pictures. It was beautiful. We pulled in close to this beach--Princess Bay--to pick up the snorkelers. Isn't the water gorgeous?

This is Hideaway Bay where we had lunch. It was so pretty. The water is so blue. The spots you see are coral formations on the ocean floor. The rocky shore in the back ground is Island #5.

This tiny pile of boulders is Island #6. We dove around underwater boulders--very cool.

Our boat's dingy. Can you imagine Michael, Claude, Suki et al zooming around in it?

This is full shot of Island #5. Yup, that's the entire island. There are no hotels or restaurants in the Similans. It's a national park. You can camp on the beach, but there are no facilities.

I took about 130 pictures--lots of them of the water. It's kind of intoxicating to look at it.

Another shot of Island #4 and Honeymoon Bay. Islands 4, 5, and 6 are right close together. The park closes down in May when the monsoon season starts and doesn't open again until November. January/February is the high season. Perfect escape for winter-weary Europeans. We dove with an older German gentlemen who spends three months every winter here. He and his wife rent a bungalow at a green resort in Khoa Lak.

During the monsoon season, huge storms sweep down off the Indian Ocean and batter the Similans. They hit the backside of Island #4. The park is closed, but fishing boats sneak out here and ride out the storms protected in Honeymoon Bay. They fish when the seas are calm enough. It's not unusual for there to be 18-20 foot seas on the passage between Thailand's coast and the islands.

Close-up of the boulders on Island 5. The tropical jungle green is intense--so different from the desert back home. One interesting facts I learned talking to one of the dive masters on the boat--a guy from South Africa who'd spent years in Thailand, is there are two million more women in Thailand than men. That's why it's so easy for all the Western men who come here to hook up with Thai girlfriends.

As soon as we were out of the water from our second dive, the boat chugged off back to Tap Lamu. The sun was setting by the time we arrived. They served us yummy banana pancakes and fruit as we went to get our blood sugar back up post-dive. We had time to chill and relax.

Coming back into Tap Lamu.

This is the fishing fleet harbored at Tap Lamu. Our guides told us there is very little controls on fishing in Thailand. Most of Asia is like that. It's a huge industry and very valuable to the local economy. Not good news for divers--or the fish.

Saigon-style Wedding!

2012-02-01T00:43:00.000-08:00

After another lovely day with Kay's family and a delicious home-cooked Vietnamese luncheon, we got all dressed up and headed over to the New World Hotel for the big event. I'll let the pictures do the talking!

Al and I posing with a poster-size photo of Andy and Kay in traditional Vietnamese dress.

Al and I in the reception hall.

Andy and Kay with Kay's family.

These girls in pink helped greet guests and later danced. Andy and Kay personally greeted all 300 guests as they arrived and posed for pictures with everyone who came.

Bouquets of yellow roses flanked the stage and cheered every table.

Cutting the cake!

Andy and Kay on-stage with the MC. Kay's parents and Allen and I joined them. The two fathers spoke. Then Andy had a few words to say. Then a confetti canon went off!

The pink girls dancing.

This is our table. Nine dishes were served--one at a time on a circular disc that spun like laisy susan. Yes, I got sooo full!

The menu!

We had a fantastic time. Everyone was so kind and friendly to us. Both Andy and Kay were gracious and smiling through the whole evening. I was so proud of them. We're delighted to have Kay join our family--and feel like we've gained a whole new family in Vietnam.

Mekong Delta Trip!

2012-02-01T00:06:00.000-08:00

This has nothing to do with my books, but it was such an amazing experience I want to share it with all of you. I've adopted you all as family anyway. So you just have to be in on this event.

A week after I got back from VCFA's Winter Residency in Montepelier, VT, Allen and I flew to Saigon for Andy and Kay's Vietnamese wedding reception. Kay's family welcomed us with open arms and made us feel right at home. They fed us with delicious Vietnamese food. I love those flavors. So unique in Asian cuisine. We took a trip to the Mekong Delta on Saturday driving past pristine fields of rice. They look like velvet.

Notice the gravesites in the fields? Ancestors are revered.

When we got to the river, we boarded a boat that took us all along the river to markets, restaurants, coconut candy factories, etc. Here's some highlights.

Here we are with Kay's family and friends on the boat heading down the Mekong River

Coconut candy! It was delicious fresh and warm from the pot.

Here I am posing in the market. Kay's mom bought me one these bags.

I love rhythm instruments. I was excited to find one of these toe drums. It's really loud!

This family sang for us, one at a time. At the end, they all sang, "If you're happy and you know it!" In English even.

We rode in one of these narrow wood boats down this packed canal back to our larger boat out on the river. Quite a ride.

Lunch! It was the sweetest fish I've ever tasted.

This water buffalo joined us for lunch. That's my handsome boy, Andy, posing with him.

Next post . . . if all goes well with the internet and this one loads . . . pictures from the main event--the big Wedding Reception in Saigon!

Dancing until Midnight!

2012-01-15T14:49:00.000-08:00

Last night VCFA's fourth semester class threw a costume party to honor the graduating seniors. We all got to dress up as our favorite book character from childhood. I went as none other than Jo from LITTLE WOMEN. Louisa Mae Alcott is my hero and she is Jo. When I was in second grade, I discovered INVINCIBLE LOUISA--an old biography about Louisa as a child with a voracious need to tell stories. I loved her and still do.

The party was hopping and a few of the first semester students agreed to let me post pictures of them here. Thanks! My battery was low so the flash wasn't working, but you get the idea.

Meet the Pippi's and Fancy Nancy. True confession. I made my dress in high school for the 4-H Dress Review.

Ah, now here's all three Pippi's in the shot. True confession number #2, I won the 4-H Dress Review.

Ah, those darn Pippi's. Obviously Team Jacob!

Okay, from right to left. Me as Jo March, Harry, Hermione, and the end papers from A VERY HUNGRY CATERPILLAR. Bella and Edward were there, too, but they just stood around glaring at people.

It's Snowing!

2012-01-13T04:41:00.000-08:00

I woke up yesterday to a world of white and carried my camera around all day yesterday to capture the evidence. I hope it's sunny today because the bare tree branches are heavy with snow. Beautiful.

The view out my dorm room window yesterday morning.

College Hall in the snow.

Me all bundled up in front of Noble Hall.

And the snow kept falling.

SING ME TO SLEEP in the VCFA Bookstore.

Our MFA program for writing for children and young adults is 15 years old this year! They commissioned the bear from the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. Doesn't it have great taste?

Here's my radiator. It keeps my room cosy.

Here's the desk area in my dorm room,

These are the beds. I think they've upgraded the mattresses. I'm sleeping better this time. They bought pretty, fluffy blankets for all the rooms, but the laundry they sent them out to BURNT them, so this rez we're making do with the old ones.

View of College Hall from Dewey at the end of the day. The world has turned white.

Vermont College Musings

2012-01-10T11:20:00.000-08:00

I'm here at Vermont College of Fine Arts for their winter residency. I'm having a great time being a grad assistant. No new pictures yet. Keep forgetting. I'm enjoying being with supportive writers 24/7. Being here and listening the lectures is like having a warm dose of creative juice poured all over my head. I'm soaking it up.

The opening lecture last night got me so excited AGAIN about what I do. This is a tough, tough business, and we writers bare our soft-underbellies all the time. It's amazing to feel that what I knock my brains out trying to do has worth. Last night after the lecture I couldn't sleep. So I wrote this. It's my new anthem. Marching orders. Too bad it isn't a poem!

I love transformation. I love growth and change. I love to turn my work upside down, inside out and give it a good shake.

I love the divine creative power I'm blessed to weild. I love ending up with something so much more than I expected.

Out of pen and paper, brain and inspiration, we writers create a journey that can bring our readers to an inner awareness they've never know before--a glimpse of truth, a taste of hope.

Every time I get an email from a reader, who has had that experience reading my books, or a comment from one of you, I'm so grateful for the brief moment I was blessed to connect and commune with each individual. And I hunger for more.

When I feel like this business is too hard, the waiting too long, the mean-spirited critics too loud, I need to find that hunger, that truth, that hope. Nourish it. And release it to the world once more.

I especially love all of you. I love your patience and loyalty. I love your devotion to books--especially mine!

Next post, pictures! I promise.

CAYMAN SUMMER, A WHITNEY AWARD NOMINEE

2012-01-07T18:22:00.000-08:00

I'm excited to announce that CAYMAN SUMMER is an official Whitney Award nominee. Thanks to all of you who nominated it. And thank you to the wonderful community of readers who found this blog and followed while I wrote it. You added so much. If I could, I'd write all my books on the blog.

I'm packing my bags for another trip before I'm done blogging about my last big adventure. I'm going to save the pictures and story of my journey through Jerusalem for Easter. It's perfect to post around then. Meanwhile, I'm planning some new contests to keep things lively while I wait for word about SLIPPED and MY ONLY LOVE. I pray we have good news about them soon.

So, where am I headed? I'm leaving beautiful, sunny Arizona . . .

This is a sunset shot I took from my front yard. I love the desert. Especially in January!

And flying until midnight tomorrow night to get to Montpelier, Vermont for Vermont College of Fine Art's winter residency.

This is Vermont College last time I was there--in the summer.

I get to be a graduate assistant and help the incoming MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults candidates. It's supposed to be sunny--at least for a few days--but it's going to below freezing and will probably snow by the end of the week. I love Vermont College. It's worth getting cold to get to spend ten days with the best children's writers and faculty in the world. My time at Vermont College changed my life. I'm excited to reconnect with my mentors and mentor some younger writers. I'll try to post pictures (of all that snow!) and some reminiscences while I'm there.

Michael was born in a free write during my very first Vermont College residency. Leesie evolved in response to him. I wrote the poem about her experience with her grandmother after I had a similar experience at 3 a.m. in one those old dorm rooms. Wow, that was ten years ago this July. My grandmother still inspired me. I hope to start work on a middle grade novel inspired by my grandmother's illness told from my mother's point of view. Maybe I'll get some work on that done while I'm in Vermont. I'll keep you posted.

One thing I always do at Vermont is write poetry. Mostly poetry about writing. Here's one of my favorites.

Muse at Midnight

Settling to sleeping stillness--

fresh and tingling clear words

splattering

in a foaming tumble

crashing

swirling

in a whirlpool torrent

sucking me

churning, casting me

onto the page

beached and breathless,

aching,

bruised,

Awakened.

The Jordan River

2012-01-04T19:10:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I hope you are all blessed with health and happiness and lots of love in 2012. Thanks to the followers who entered my Christmas Week contest. You all win! YAY!

This is our last stop in Galilee--the Jordan River. There are two sites that claim to be the place where John the Baptist baptized Jesus in the Jordan River. It's all speculation and no one really knows. Our guide said he was probably baptized at the site closer to Jerusalem--where the Jordan River empties into the Dead Sea. We got there after dark, so couldn't see a lot. I just wanted to touch the water!

There's an area cordoned off so people can get in and be baptized. They rent white clothes at the huge gift shop. Yes, those heads are people in the water.

There was some kind of creature--muskrat or something like it--swimming in the river. You can't quite make it out.

This is the view upriver. I prefer this shot because it feels less commercialized and more authentic. John and Jesus could step out of the trees and right into the water.

On our way out, look what we found. A tree planted at the site by Glenn Beck on his trip to Israel last summer. Had to chuckle at that!

After a thorough search of the gift shop that yielded a very cute camel dress-up hat for my Nativity dress-up collection, we hopped on our bus and drove through the night two hours to Jerusalem. We ate a quick dinner and then the bus took us to an amazing olive wood shop. But we left our cameras at the hotel, so I don't have pictures of it. We bought a beautiful nativity carved of olive wood. The owner, an Islamic Arab, told us the shop where it was carved is in Bethlehem. Bethlehem is in the Palestinian controlled area, so to go there you have to plan to spend a few hours going through the checkpoint. We only had two days in Israel, so we couldn't go to the Savior's birthplace, so it was lovely to bring home a piece of it with us.

Yes, we did all of this in one day. Our heads were spinning. We spent the next day in Jerusalem. Watch for that in upcoming posts.

The Sermon on the Mount

2011-12-30T18:33:00.000-08:00

One last stop in Galilee. After our boat ride, we hurried on to the beautiful gardens where Jesus' Sermon on the Mount is commemorated.

Much of Galilee is lush and tropical like this. Our guide told us the Israeli's planted six million trees at the birth of their country to commemorate the six million of their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers who were slain in the Holocaust. Since then, they have planted an additional 100 million trees. It is beautiful!

Here I am on the path through the garden.

I was honored to read the Beatitudes from Matthew 5 to the rest of our group.

Here's the Sea of Galilee from the Mount of Beatitudes. We were constantly drawn to it.

Since this is our last stop in Galilee, I'm going to share a poem I wrote years ago. I found the first draft and cringed a little, but then I found a revision that I'm pleased to share with you today.

Walking on Water

If I could paint

the boatload of apostles

on the Sea of Galilee,

the wind,

the boisterous waves,

I wouldn’t paint Peter walking alone.

I wouldn’t paint him sinking in fear.

I wouldn’t paint, “O ye of little Faith.”

I’d paint the Savior catching him.

I’d paint them walking back to the boat—

together.

I’d paint the dry sandals and robes,

of the eleven tucked safely away in the ship.

I’d paint their faces longing

to be out there with the Lord--

like Peter.

Have a very happy New Year! There's about 24 more hours left to nominate CAYMAN SUMMER for the Whitney Award. And don't forget to enter my Christmas Week Giveaway. You have until January 3rd for that.

We Danced Where Jesus Walked

2011-12-29T16:39:00.000-08:00

The highlight of our first day in Israel was a boat trip on the Sea of Galilee. This beautiful, freshwater lake is where Jesus calmed the storm and on another occasion walked on water.

I love Peter because he tried to join the Savior. Peter had enough faith to get out of the boat. The rest of the apostles kept the firm wooden keel underneath their feet. Peter failed, but the Savior caught him. Good lesson for all of us, don't you think?

Swimmers in the Sea of Galilee.

Here's our boat coming in to pick us up. Archeologists found a wooden boat buried in the mud of the lake that they believe dates to the time of Jesus near here. There is a museum that displays the excavated boat. Our boat was modern, but built of wood and reminiscent of boats that plied these waters in Jesus' time.

Here's me and my husband waiting to board our boat.

A good view of the old-fashioned boats.

Don Perry, again, reminding us of events that took place on this sea. You can see the interior of the boat.

View from the boat in the middle of the Sea of Galilee. It was breathtaking.

Here I am with the Galilean hills in the background.

When we got out on the water, after Don spoke, we sang, "Master the tempest is raging," and then sat and enjoyed the peaceful place. Our hosts, who were Hebrew or Israeli, played some lovely music.

Another boat on the water.

We had several minutes to ponder enjoying scared music, but then our hosts got us all on our feet. We stood in a big circle and danced to, "Hava Nagila." (I know I'm spelling that I'll wrong. I'll have to look it up!) The dancing was so much fun. So now, I can say, we danced where Jesus walked!

Wooden floor of the boat--perfect for dancing!

The sun was setting as we returned.

Quite some time ago, I wrote a poem about Peter walking on the water. I'll try to find it and post it tomorrow.

Don't forget to enter the Christmas Week Giveaway! The New Year is just three days away. Wow, 2012! Are you ready for it?

Capernaum--Where they Believed

2011-12-28T13:19:00.000-08:00

Three more days to nominate CAYMAN SUMMER for the Whitney Award. Anyone, anywhere can nominate until December 31st. And don't forget to enter my Christmas Week swag giveaway. I promised I'd send out Michael and Leesie M&Ms when it was cold, so I didn't have to worry about them melting. Here's your chance to get a bag of your own.

Today I'm giving you a tour of Capernaum. Jesus lived here for eighteen to twenty months. Instead of trying to kill him, the people of Capernaum believed!

Capernaum had a population of 10,000.

Capernaum was a fishing town and sits on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. We fell in love with the Sea of Galilee and the beautiful hills surrounding it.

Here I am by the Sea of Galilee near Capernaum.

This is the view from Capernaum.

Capernaum was a large, prosperous town. Fishing from the fresh waters of Galilee was a key industry.

It was Peter's home town. There is a giant church built where they think Peter's house was, but there are also lots of ruins of buildings made with black, volcanic rock. They say these structures date to the time Jesus walked the streets here.

Jesus found his first disciples here. He called five of them to be apostles--Peter, James, John, Andrew and Matthew. Standing in the ruins of this once thriving town, you can almost hear the Savior say, "Follow me, and I'll make you fishers of men." You know, he said that to them after he'd miraculously filled their empty nets with more fish than they'd ever seen. And they forsook it all and followed him. Their lives would never be the same--but that's true for everyone who meets the Savior. He transforms a handful of fishermen to mighty apostles, water to wine, and makes of us something far greater than anything we could have ever imagined.

Jairus also lived in Capernaum, and when Jesus was rushing to his house to raise Jairus' daughter from the dead, the woman with an issue of blood touched him. Don, our guide, told us that if you were bleeding you couldn't go to the temple. Jesus healed her spiritually as well as physically. And the word that is translated as "daughter" meant "one of the converted ones."

These are millstones. Jesus could have sat in this very square, held a child on his knee, and told the people it would be better to have one of these stones hung around your neck and be cast in the nearby sea than to offend one of His little ones. We are all His little ones.

I would have liked to spend on day in Capernaum wandering, pondering. It is beautiful, and even though the parking lots was crammed with HUNDREDS of buses full of pilgrims like us, it was a place of peace, but we had a boat to catch! I'll share that tomorrow.

A Tour of Nazareth!

2011-12-27T14:45:00.000-08:00

Before I tell you about Nazareth, I have a big favor to ask. CAYMAN SUMMER is eligible for the 2011 Whitney Awards. I just need a few of you who loved it to nominate it. Anyone who doesn't have a financial stake in it can nominate it by filling in this simple online form. The deadline is December 31, 2011. Thank you!

Our ship docked in Haifa--the third largest city in Israel. One quarter of a million people make Haifa their home, most of them Hebrew. Some Arab. Our guide used these terms. He was a Christian Arab from Cana. He smiled and said he was the Lord's neighbor. As you can see, Haifa is a busy, modern city. Our guide told us 7 million people live in Israel. One million are Arab Moslems, and a 100,000 are Arab Christians. If I understood our guide correctly, an additional 3 million people live under the Palestinian Authority. Three million people visit Israel every year--70% are pilgrims.

Haifa, with the port and Mediterranean Sea in the background. Can you spot our ship?

Haifa is in the north--in Jesus day this was called Samaria. In Old Testament times these were the Northern Tribes--the ten who were lost.

On our way to Nazareth, we stopped at Mt. Carmel where this statue of Elijah depicts his triumph over 450 priests of Baal. Mt. Carmel overlooks the Valley of Megiddo.

Elijah chopping of an evil priest's head. He didn't mess around!

At the time of Christ, Nazareth was a small, insignificant village. Mary and Joseph lived here with only 400 people. Nazareth had only one viable spring to provide water. Other nearby villages had about 20 springs. Today, Nazareth is a crowded Arab city of 70,000 people. Thirty percent are Arab Christians. The rest of the population are Moslems. Our guide said there is a good relationship between the Arab Christians and Moslems in Israel.

Nazareth streetscape

We walked through the bizarre to get to the Synagogue Church where the Savior first preached.

This is the Synagogue Church.

Here's what it looks like inside. Old stones. No windows. A table in front where the scrolls could be read by the rabbi. Pictured is one of our guides, Don Perry, a professor of Biblical Hebrew from BYU. He studied Hebrew in Jerusalem at the Hebrew University and is one of the scholars who is working to translate the Dead Sea Scrolls. The church isn't two thousands years old, but it is built on a site where history records an old synagogue stood.

Jesus grew up in Nazareth. He began His ministry in a synagogue that looked very much like this. When he stood up in this synagogue and read from the sacred Torah scrolls, his neighbors got so angry they wanted to kill him.

Jesus miraculously escaped the angry people in Nazareth and went to Cana. Cana was a large aristocratic city with a population of 3,000. Jesus performed His first miracle, turning the water to wine for his mother at a wedding, in Cana. Jesus also lived in Capernaum. We didn't visit Cana, but we did see Capernaum. I'll share that visit with you tomorrow!

Don't forget to enter my Christmas Week swag giveaway.

Christmas Week Giveaway!

2011-12-26T12:41:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas! I'm back online. I missed everyone. I went on a Southern Mediterranean cruise (Turkey, Cyprus, Israel, Egypt) in November and was traveling again this month. I didn't get a contest organized earlier in the month, so I'm holding a M + L swag giveaway this week to finish the year out with a bang!

I have 20 more bags of Michael and Leesie M&Ms that I'm happy to mail around the world. Let's keep it simple, post your email address and Christmas greetings to the CAYMAN SUMMER family below. Entries without emails will be disqualified. One entry per person.

The giveaway runs until midnight, January 3rd!

I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and are looking forward to a wonderful new year. I hope to have good news to post soon. My agent is vigorously marketing both SLIPPED and MY ONLY LOVE--plus looking for new markets to introduce Michael and Leesie and Beth, Scott and Derek, too.

I had a fantastic time on my travels. I'll try to post highlights this week--especially of the places I visited in Israel--since it's Christmas time!

All my love,

Angela

SING ME TO SLEEP Wins USA Best Books 2011 Award!

2011-11-02T21:59:00.000-07:00

Celebrate good times!! I just found out SING ME TO SLEEP won for YA Fiction in the USA Best Books 2011 Awards sponsored by USA Book News. YAY!!! Dance and sing. And blog.

I did a marathon revision session for SING ME TO SLEEP, the Musical yesterday. I polished it up and sent it off to my collaborator, award-winning composer, Harriet Bushman, from London, England. We're hoping to produce it in 2013. Harriet wrote the music for "Beth's Song" and "Take me Home" so you know the music will be fantastic.

Would you like to read some? Here's the opening scene. It's a big, up-tempo dance number. Do you think I captured the scene? Writing it as a musical play is so different from a chapter in a novel. You have to sacrifice a lot of details, but it's fun to imagine it on the stage while you write.

SING ME TOSLEEP

adapted from thenovel, Sing me to Sleep by AngelaMorrison

Book by AngelaMorrison

Lyrics by AngelaMorrison

Music by HarrietBushman

ACT I

Scene 1

Setting: Thehalls of Port High School, designated by a row of lockers or locker flat.

At Rise: Lightsup on row of lockers, HIGH SCHOOL KIDS, COLBY, HORSEMAN2, milling in the hallbefore the first bell rings. COLBY is the center of everyone’s attention.

(Song:“WE’RE COOL, WE RULE”)

COLBY

I BUST MY BUTT TO MAKE PORTHIGH THE BEST

ALL GUYS

SATURDAY’SGAME WE’L FACE THE TEST

GIRLS

DON’TWORRY, GUYS—YOU ALWAYS WIN

ALL HIGH SCHOOLKIDS

LET’SDO IT ONE MORE TIME!

WE’LL BE LOST COLBY WHEN YOULEAVE

COLBY

IGOTTA GRADUATE—AND BE FREE!

ALL HIGH SCHOOLKIDS

WHOWILL TELL US HOW TO WALK AND TALK?

COLBY

I’LLSAY IT ONE MORE TIME—

I’MCOOL

IRULE

THERE’SNO PLACE TO HIDE FROM ME

FORLOSERS CRYING

ITAIN’T RIGHT.

ALL

WE’RECOOL

WERULE

WEKNOW WHAT TO WEAR AND DRIVE

NOTLIKE LOSERS CRYING

ITAIN’T RIGHT.

(EnterHORSEMAN1 with THE OFFERING. THE OFFERING wears only white briefs, black socksand tennis shoes.)

COLBY, HORSEMEN1 & 2

(sticka bike chain through THE OFFERING’s underwear and chain him to BETH’s lockerwhile singing)

NOWHERE TO HIDE FROM US,NOWHERE TO RUN.

PLACES PEOPLE THIS JOKE WILLBE FUN!

THERE SHE IS—WE’LL GET HER

ONE MORE TIME!!

ALL

BETH THE BEAST POLLUTING OUR HALL

SHE’S DAMN UGLY AND TOO DAMNTALL

FREAKS LIKE HER SHOULDN’T BE

ALLOWED TO BREATHE.

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

THERE’S NO PLACE TO HIDE FROMUS

FOR LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

WE KNOW WHAT TO WEAR ANDDRIVE

NOT LOKE LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

REMEMBER OUR FUNNY PLAYGROUNDGAMES?

BROKEN GLASSES—SUCH A CRYINGSHAME

VIPER, FOUR-EYES, SQUIRRELFACE CAN’T BE

ALLOWED TO BREATHE!!!

AND SCOTT THAT HYPER KIDGLUED TO HER SIDE.

WE KICKED HIM DOWN, HE RANHOME AND CRIED.

COLBY

ACT NATURAL—PLACES—PEOPLE

ONE MORE TIME!!!

(Musiccontinues under the action and dialogue. ALL take up natural places at lockersor in groups talking. Enter BETH, left. She walks hunched over, hiding behindher hair, watching her feet. Everyone pretends to ignore her, stares after herwhen she walks by. Ad lib, suppressed sniggering.)

(BETHsees the OFFERING, rushes up to him.)

BETH

Are you okay? Did they hurt you?

(BETHtouches THE OFFERING’s arm. He pulls back and stares at it like its going toturn to stone.)

THE OFFERING(frightened)

They said to tell you I’m the offering.They said the Beast requires a sacrifice every full moon.

(ALLgather behind BETH, laughing and catcalling.)

COLBY

Dude, the Beast’s got a mate.

BETH (ignoringthe crowd behind her)

It’s okay. We’ll get Mr. Finney to bringhis bolt-cutters. I don’t eat freshmen for breakfast.

THE OFFERING

That’s not what they said you’d do.

ALL

(Explodewith laughter. Music up. During the song, BETH tries to escape but they won’tlet her. Lots of pushing back and jeering. BETH keeps her head down, fightingback tears. BETH ad libs, “Excuse me.” “Let me go, please.” “Guys, come on.” etc.)

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

THERE’S NO PLACE TO HIDE FROMUS

FOR LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

WE KNOW WHAT TO WEAR ANDDRIVE

NOT LOKE LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

THERE’S NO PLACE TO HIDE FROMUS

FOR LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

WE’RE COOL

WE RULE

WE KNOW WHAT TO WEAR ANDDRIVE

NOT LOKE LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT

(Song:“BONES BLOOD AND FLESH” ALL continue to sing “WE’RE COOL WE RULE” in thebackground.)

BETH ALL

YOUR WORDS— WE’RECOOL

WHY DO THEY DEFINE ME? WERULE

WHY DO I BELIEVE YOU? THERE’SNO PLACE TO HIDE

YOUR FACE. FROMUS

YOUR LIPS, AND YOUR FINGERS— FORLOSERS

DON’T SPILL THEM ON ME. CRYINGIT AINT RIGHT

I’M BONES, BLOOD AND FLESH WE’RECOOL

NOT CLAY TO BE POUNDED WERULE

AND SCORCHED IN THE HATE YOU FEEL WEKNOW WHAT TO DRIVE

I BLEED WHEN YOU WOUND ME ANDWEAR

JUST LIKE THE PRETTY GIRLS DO NOTLIKE LOSERS CRYING

IT AIN’T RIGHT!

YOUR WORDS—

YOUR LIPS AND YOUR FINGERS

WE’RECOOL

WERULE

NOPLACE TO HIDE FROM US

(BETHgets frantic, trying to break free, plugging her ears. Enter SCOTT and MR.FINNEY, carrying bolt cutters. MR. FINNEY menaces bolt cutters at the crowd andshoos them away. BETH breaks free, almost falls, SCOTT steadies her. The crowdcontinues to sing or hum “WE’RECOOL WE RULE” as they saunter off to class. MR. FINNEY goes to THE OFFERING tocut him free.)

COLBY(encountering BETH)

Get out of my way, you damn ugly beast!

(Curtainor black-out leaving BETH and SCOTT in front of curtain or in a spotlight forScene 2. Everyone else exits.)

In Scene 2, Beth and Scott sing a duet that covers the second half of chapter one--the Beauty and the Beast scene. It's a huge contrast to this--fanciful and dreamy, with some funny parts, too. I'm traveling the next two weeks, but if I get a chance, I'll post some of that scene next.

SING ME TO SLEEP Released in Brazil!

2011-10-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

CANTE PARA EU DORMIR, SING ME TO SLEEP in Portuguese is out just in time for Christmas!

Summer 2010 I sent a few books down to bloggers in Brazil, and because of all the hard work those bloggers did promoting SING ME TO SLEEP, a year later, the Brazilian edition was released. Here's the cover.

Lais, from Fracky.com.br, already reviewed it. She told me they did an excellent job with the translation. I'm so happy to know that. Lais said, "I received from publisher soon as it was released and read again (and I cried again, of course). . . . [T]he translation to Portuguese was perfect, didn't lose the essence of the book."

I can't wait to get my own copy of it! I'm always amazed at how hard all you wonderful bloggers will work for books you believe in. I'm so thankful so many of you continue to believe in mine!

SLIPPED - Meet Jag!

2011-10-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

To celebrate finishing SLIPPED again, I want to introduce you to Jag, my intoxicating villain. At least he starts out as villain. This is a romance. You know he's not going to stay like that. Okay, here he is. Everybody says he's my hottest hero yet. What do you think?

from SLIPPED, Chapter Four

[If you missed my post of Chapters 1-3, go read that first! When Meg accidentally timeslips, she falls from the top of the tower. Enter Jag.]

The crowd around me seems to magnify and shrink. Bigger. Smaller.The arguing continues louder and louder. My moans increase. “Oh, God,” I prayagain, “save me.”

Then a face is quite close to mine. At first I think it isByron—that I have somehow dragged him down to hell with me. The young man hasdark hair, long but straight, not curling like the lord’s. Not dripping fromthe rainstorm. His eyes are golden brown like a jungle cat’s. His handsome,dark face is youthful but serious. There is nothing soft, pampered or boyishabout him.

He is not Byron. The poet is surely safe in the tower backin Switzerland with Rosalyn. And I am here—purgatory? This is no Heaven. Mybody, rather than lying inert in my former existence, is broken and bruised,unable to move, in more agony than I can describe.

And this boy—for the young man seems to be quite close to myown age—is speaking. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I try to turn my head away but can’t move it. All I canmanage is to close my eyes to block him out. Why are any of us thrust down to Hell?Perhaps I read one too many forbidden novels. He curses me in English—though heuses a strange accent. My only answer to him is an uncontrolled moan.

“Can you move?”

I moan, “No.”

Without warning, he pours a vile substance between my lips.I choke and sputter. He raises me to a sitting position. I scream with pain,but he holds me upright. “Swallow it.” He takes a cup of wine a wiry crone offersand puts it to my lips. I swallow.

“Relax. Remember T3-DV takes a minute to get into yoursystem.” He spits the words at me in disgust.

“What—”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Shut up. You’ve made enough of ascene.” He places an arm under my legs, supports my back with the other, andlifts me off the ground.

I wince but bite back the shriek from the painful jarring. Asoothing warmth begins to emanates from the center of my body. I catch sight ofan odd-shaped boot dangling high on a scaffolding above me. I blink and lookagain. My mind is clearing. Yes, that boot is most like Byron’s. I turn to mycaptor. “Stop!”

He ignores me.

I gaze up at the scaffolding searching for the boot againbut see only the faces of dirty men leering down at me. Imaginings. Foolishvision. As if Byron would come for me.

My rescuer carries me out of the courtyard. “How did youfind me?” His angry face frightens me.

I cower—hide my face against his chest. The warm feelingspreads throughout my body dulling the pulsing pain.

“You must be a new recruit.” His voice seethes with menace. “Noone I knew in the corps is fool enough to time slip from the top of a towerthat is under construction in the target era. The place must have gone to hellsince I left.”

I am confused by his constant references to Hell as if it isanother place from where we currently exist. Me a recruit? To the corps of Hell?Time slip? Target era?

“Your gown is early nineteenth century—more than fivehundred years off.”

I am bewildered, so I remain silent. He continues to carryme across the courtyard.

As we progress, strength and vitality flow into myextremities. I begin to feel self-conscious for my face presses hard againstthis young man’s muscled chest. The beat of his heart pulses beneath my cheek.His strong arms support my body. An exotic and beautiful scent emanates fromhis person. I breathe deeply and impulsively cuddle closer to him. I alwayswondered what Mrs. Austen’s Marianne felt when Willoughby carried her from thefield. I now know. I fill with desire for my strange rescuer. My lips are closeto his neck. It is all I can do to stop myself from pressing them against thisangry stranger’s skin. I pull away from the sweet temptation. Stare at hisscowling face. Inhale the intoxicating aroma of his breath.

My hand lifts. A finger touches his smooth tanned cheek. Hescowls and clenches his teeth. I draw my hand back, capture it with my otherhand, writhe with shame that I desire this creature who obviously loathes myexistence. This is Hell for sure.

Napoleon Dynamite's Stage!

2011-10-27T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'm back! Conference presentations and travel have kept me away from blogging. Apologies, apologies. I also had to dig into SLIPPED one more time. When I last blogged, I told you I'd sent it off to my agent floating on a cloud thinking at last it's perfect. Erzsi sent me back 12 pages of line-edits. Now that's a good agent. Thorough. Demanding. Helpful. So, I'm happy to say I finished the revision--again.

SCBWI-AZ's Welcome to our House was great, and I enjoyed presenting for SCBWI-UT the following week in Salt Lake City. Then I went up to Preston, ID. Oh, what a blast. It was freezing cold, snowing and rainy the morning I drove from SLC to Preston, but I got such a warm welcome. It is a cozy little town. And, the best thing, I got to speak on Napoleon Dynamite's stage!

I snapped this shot of it to prove it. I actually spoke in front of the stage, but I touched it, sat on it, even put my books on it. Preston, Idaho is where Napoleon Dynamite was filmed. They used the high school a lot and this auditorium. Preston high's principal told me that when it was time to film Napoleon's big dance scene, Jon Heder kicked everyone out of the auditorium because he was so embarrassed. That dance is now legend!

Preston is starting a new dance legend. I met a writer at the workshop I presented that evening for adults who started a ballroom dance troupe in Preston. They dance in Napoleon's footsteps! I love ballroom. I guess these kids do, too. They get up early every morning so they can dance before school starts. That's dedication.

More soon. I owe you a taste of my hero from SLIPPED, Jag. I think he's the hottest hero I've written yet. He starts out more of a villain. Maybe that's what makes him so appealing.

SCBWI-AZ'S Welcome to Our House Conference Oct. 1

2011-09-24T07:52:00.000-07:00

I'm excited. One week from today, October 1, is SCBWI-AZ's fantastic, "Welcome to Our House" Conference. They've got an amazing line-up of industry experts flying in from New York, plus--for the first time--they are featuring breakout sessions by local authors--including me!!

I get to share my, "Writing from your Inner Truth," workshop. I'm love that one. I'm thrilled to get to give it again. It's based on the struggle I had when I wrote TAKEN BY STORM. It was so hard to get the balance right between how much or how little of Leesie's faith to share. I was making a huge mess of it, so I took a break (well, I had to write my critical thesis and chose this topic!), and studied how other authors did it. I zeroed in on Katherine Paterson's creative and critical writing. She is still one of my biggest heroes.

She is so inspiring. Here's one of my favorite quotes from the presentation,

"What treasures we have inside ourselves—not just joy and delight but also pain and darkness. Only I can share the treasures of the human spirit that are within me. No one else has these thoughts, these feelings, these relationships, these experiences, these truths." (Katherine Paterson, “The Journey Inward,” The Writer, August 1995.)

No wonder Katherine Paterson is the National Ambassador for Children's Literature.

You Give = We Give

2011-09-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

Jess, from She Known as Jess, along with two of her fellow YA blogerina's in Australia are sponsoring a remarkable event to celebrate the giving season. If their followers send them books used or new books to put under three K-Mart Giving Trees in Australia (or donate cash so they can purchase books), they will give you lots of entries to contests for some amazing price packs!

I was happy to donate books to such a creative way to help others. SING ME TO SLEEP, TAKEN BY STORM, and a bag of beautiful Michael and Leesie M&Ms are part of one U.S. prize pack. Yeah. These prizes are huge.

Please check out their post to see what you can win. They have prize packs for Australia, UK, US and International prizes . . . so all of you can enter. Or click on their button that I'll have in the side-bar from now until Christmas.

Look what Windowpane Memoirs is Launching!

2011-09-20T09:49:00.000-07:00

Michelle over at Windowpane Memoirs is starting a fun feature on her site, "The Divine Secrets of the YA Sisterhood!" Michelle has been a huge supporter of Michael and Leesie--since the beginning of their journey. She was the one who started the "Don't Break the Connection" blog campaign that convinced me to release UNBROKEN CONNECTION independently and then share Michael and Leesie's final journey on this blog. She continues to come up with fun, exciting ways for the YA blogerinas to meet, connect, and share their passion for books! You go, Michelle!

SLIPPED--A taste for you!

2011-09-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

I made my deadline with SLIPPED last week. YAY! And to celebrate, I'm posting a big, fat chunk of it for you to enjoy. Here are my newly revised opening three chapters. This will give you a good sense of the Meg, my heroine, and where I'm going with the book. My only regret is you don't meet, Jag, my post-nuclear winter time-slipping assassin hero, until Chapter Four. My preview readers tell me he's my hottest hero yet. Maybe I'll give you a snippet of him later. He's worth a post of his own. This week, though, enjoy SLIPPED, Chapters 1-3.

SLIPPED

by Angela Morrison

Chapter One

Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn

Lord Byron, “Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage”

Halfway to the castle, the brooding clouds open. Rosalyn, my second cousin once removed, jerks my sturdy, black English umbrella from my grasp and holds it high over her head. I cuddle in close to keep my mourning pelisse dry.

“Don’t crowd so, Magsie.” Rosalyn, who I chaperone though at seventeen years I am barely a year her senior, elbows me into the downpour.

I relinquish all shelter and skip ahead of her. “Hurry up, then, Rosie!” A boisterous wave splashes the rocks that line Lake Leman’s shore. “Chillon awaits.”

“Don’t call me by that filthy name.” She knows I detest Magsie.

I’m Margaret Smith. My intimate friends at school called me Meg. It has been two long years since I heard that tender name.

Rosalyn scurries by me. “You’re mad!” She holds her violet pelisse out of the mud. She refuses to wear proper mourning for our mutual great aunt.

I was our aunt’s companion the last two years of her life—hardly fit training to be a wayward cousin’s chaperone while she waits her confinement. Here on the Continent I don’t care if Rosalyn wears mourning or not. Her mother will never know. I wear black for love of our aunt. I let Rosalyn wear what she wants.

My uncle’s money comes to me, so I decided the quaint Swiss village hard by my favorite castle in all the world was the perfect place for Rosalyn’s banishment. We arrived last night in a thunderstorm and despite today’s threatening clouds, Rosalyn and I set out for the castle first thing this morning. Her downfall is my good fortune. How often I dreamed of walking this very path!

I spin in the rain and laugh up at the storm clouds. “The castle is around the bend.” I wipe drops from my face. “Look, you can see the top of the tower.”

Rosalyn stomps in a puddle to splash me. “What do I care of another castle? Back home, I’ve seen more than I can count.”

“But this is Chillon!” I grab Rosalyn’s arm and hurry her along.

Rosalyn resists. “Which one is She-Yawn?”

“Julie’s castle.” The excitement builds inside me. Ah, to see the place in life that I adore in literature.

“Who is Julie?”

“You told me you loved her.” I drag Rosalyn forward. “Rousseau’s Julie—The New Heloise?”

“You mean Eloisa?” Rosalyn only knows a ridiculous English translation that took London society by storm two seasons back, even though they still blame Rousseau for the French Revolution, Napoleon, and every soldier and sailor we lost fighting him. “Why didn’t you say so.” Rosalyn scurries with me. “What a marvelous surprise.”

I’ve only been talking about Julie and Chillon since we left London. Rosalyn’s father’s tens of thousands educated her in every refinement, but I would not trade my youth in a charity school, an orphan dependent on my mother’s distant relations, for all Rosalyn’s beauty and wealth.

I know the real Julie. I secretly borrowed my French mistress’s well-worn copy and devoured the contraband volume while the other students struggled to memorize irregular conjugations. Mademoiselle never let on, but she knew full well I had it. Bless her. Julie changed me. She changed everyone. Everything. Even Chillon.

I stop running and stare at the wet paving stones beneath my feet. Another wind-whipped lake wave splashes up against the wall. “Good heavens! Rosalyn!” I squat and touch the stones. “It could have been this very spot.” My eyes move to the angry water tossing and churning so close to the path. My mind conjures the happy family party strolling along. Julie’s rascal son dashing about, slipping, falling into these very waves that splash at my feet. The brave mother plunging after him—saving the brat but catching her death, pneumonia. A tear stings in my eye and a lump pains my throat. My hand caresses the stony path, remembering Julie’s saintly death.

Rosalyn returns to me—holds the umbrella high over my head. “You look like a giant black toad squatting there like that. What happened here? I don’t recall.”

“Julie met her fate—on this very path.”

Rosalyn screws up her face attempting thought. “Her lover? No. He was her tutor. She met him in her schoolroom at home. I wish I had a tutor like that. Mine were all frights.”

“At the end?” I stare up at Rosalyn’s blank face. “She saves her son from drowning?”

Rosalyn shrugs. “I only read the first part. I got angry with Eloisa when she married that old man. Why didn’t she run off with her lover?” Rosalyn only read of Julie’s passion and downfall—and tossed aside hundreds of pages of redemption. She grabs my arm and jerks me to my feet. “How I envy her the beating her father gave her.”

“Cousin! For shame.” I grab hold of the umbrella below Rosalyn’s grasp. “Julie lost her child—lost her only chance to marry St. Preux.”

“Too bad my father is a soft-hearted man of industry. No violence in him.” Her eyes shy away her thickening waist. “No accident for me. So I’m stuck here with you.” Rosalyn will be brought to bed in five months time.

I rise and put my arm around her shoulders. “Did you want to marry him?”

“Him?” Rosalyn snorts and shrugs free of my comfort. “You are so simple. I made many conquests, Magsie, dear.”

I blush at her tone.

“I have no idea which one fathered the brat.”

I drop my arm. Part of me wants to hear more of her adventures. Part of me wants to stop my ears and run far away. We walk on to the castle, slowly now, battling the wind.

A gust hits us, and Rosalyn laughs. “If those ugly biddies in London only knew what their husbands were up to.” She notices my shocked expression. “Ah, yes. Husbands. Sons. Lord this. Sir that. They all wanted me. I chose the best—played them off one another.”

Thunder cracks over our heads. “Hurry, cousin.” I drag her around the corner. A full view of Chillon opens up to us. I gasp. “Look!” Ancient stone walls shrouded in rain. Waves breaking around her where she sits on a stone islet hard by the shore. Peaked roofs clothed in red clay tiles top walls punctuated with arrow loops, round corner towers, and the square keep tower jutting out of the center. A flower-decked wooden bridge beckons visitors where an ancient drawbridge once kept them away.

Rosalyn ignores the romantic scene in front of us. “That stupid Eloisa didn’t know what she was doing. Virtue? Useless in society. Pleasure, my blushing virgin cousin. It is all about pleasure. The intrigue doubles it. The challenge of a faithful husband is irresistible.”

And look where it got you, dear cousin. I am becoming inured to shocking statements from Rosalyn. She stops her ears at moralizing, so I don’t mar this moment replying to her.

Chillon’s battlements are far bolder, more medieval than the delicate castles where our kings and queens dwell in England. I smile. It is fitting to meet Chillon in a storm. The grand chateau looks like a ship tossed on the waves. A stone ship of massive dimensions.

The wind catches our umbrella and tears it from our hands. Rosalyn shrieks and dashes after it. I spy a battered gypsy awning and take shelter under it.

Rosalyn gives up the chase and follows me. “Make way, Magsie.” She shoulders the left side of my small person into the deluge. I give way. No matter. I am already drenched from head to toe. Must look a sight.

My teeth chatter. “Bonjour.” I greet the ancient gypsy who squats in the corner.

He turns yellowed eyes spidered with red-veins toward us. “Bonjour, bonjour, mademoiselles!” The greedy creature rubs his hands together. He rises, wiry and twisted. His shock of white hair is tied back with a filthy cloth. The stench emanating from his person forces me to bring the perfumed, black-bordered handkerchief I’ve carried since my aunt’s death to my face. The cloth is dripping wet.

Rosalyn snorts at me. “You are forever ridiculous, Magsie.” Her eyebrows knit together, and her mouth becomes a firm line. She studies the gypsy’s wares at her feet spread willy-nilly on a worn carpet—tin rush light shades, sooty oil lamps, a few dented tinder boxes, a collection of garish paper fans, a brass spigot, red papier-mâché cases for visiting tickets, pudding cloths, stirring spoons, and crude carved animals for child’s play. She bends her elegant head that remains perfectly coifed and dry beneath it’s lovely violet hat until her lips touch my ear. “I have a friend in town who says the gypsies on the continent sell a draught that will end a pregnancy. Ask him.”

My eyes grow round, and my mouth drops open.

She grasps my forearm and digs her gloved fingernails into my flesh. “Do it. Now.”

I don’t care what my cousin does or says. I won’t be an accessory to a crime. Poor misbegotten, babe. I stare at the pile of junk at our feet and mumble nonsense at the gypsy.

“Pardon, mademoiselle? Je ne comprehend.” Of course you don’t understand me.

“Ask him!” Rosalyn pinches my arm again.

I wrench free of her—take refuge closer to the gypsy despite his stench. I ask him for a healthful draught for a woman with child. Something that will help the babe, not hurt it.

This gypsy nods, smiles. “Ma femme.” He holds up a small bag concocted by his wife. He mixes a touch of powder into a steaming mug of cider and offers it to me.

I sip cautiously. The taste is vile—perfect to deceive Rosalyn.

“Let me try it.” Rosalyn grabs the mug—spilling it on my already drenched black gloves. Without hesitation, she gulps it. “Ouch.” She blows on the liquid and takes another swig. She makes a face. “How often do I take it?”

I confer with the gypsy. “Twice a day.” I reach into the jet-beaded bag my aunt gave me before she died for a few coins to pay him with.

“Anotre chose?” The ancient man wafts his hands over his rug.

I glance out of courtesy. Useless all of it, except perhaps—I bend and select a knife with an intricately carved wooden handle and a matching wooden sheath. I love old-fashioned curiosities. I’ve never seen a wood sheath before. I tug and the blade, dark with eons of grime, slides from the sheath. It is flat, thin, dull and curved at the tip, similar to a dagger. I hold it up to the light. The metal appears to be etched. “Combien?” How much?

“Pour vous, mademoiselle?” The gypsy’s ancient eyes rake me up and down. “Vingt franc.” A gust hits his awning and makes the whole thing rattle. Darker clouds roll down from the mountains.

I shake my head and re-sheath the knife. Twenty francs is surely a bargain for this specimen, but far more than I can spare. I hold it out to him. “Désolé.”

Rather than retrieving the knife from my outstretched palm, the vagrant grasps my hand with both of his and presses the knife hard into my palm.

I gasp and try to wrench free.

“Vingt franc,” he intones. His grip tightens.

“Non, monsieur.” I continue to struggle.

“Vingt franc, vingt franc, vingt franc.”

Rosalyn finishes the mug of cider. “Stop fooling with that, Magsie. Let’s make a dash for it.”

“I’m trying.” My fingertips begin to tingle. The unnatural sensation moves up my hand, evolving from numbness to a powerful vibration.

I am both terrified and fascinated. Powerless. I should run or scream, but the gypsy holds me captive with his strong grip, mesmerizing voice, and this bone-chilling sensation that has now overtaken my entire arm.

I cease my struggle, but the tingling only intensifies. It is a painful piercing buzzing unlike anything I’ve ever known or heard of. I nod and reach into my bag, hanging from the wrist of my captured hand. “Vingt franc.” Tears sting in my eyes.

Rosalyn glares at me and frowns. “You’re not buying that junk.”

“Vingt franc. Vingt franc,” the gypsy chants.

I pull out two Swiss bank notes.

He lets go of my hand to snatch the money.

Free from his touch, I break from the trance and run like a frightened child. Rosalyn dashes after me. “You truly are mad,” she screams.

By the time we make the shelter of the covered bridge, Rosalyn is as drenched as I am, but she’s laughing, beautiful, captivating. I clutch the cursed knife in my foolish hand.

“Whatever possessed you back there?” She brushes the water from her wool pelisse. It sheds it well. My wool is old and soaks the moisture up.

Possessed? My teeth chatter. “I don’t know.” The buzzing has begun to dull, but my hand and arm ache with cold, surging pain. I shove the knife into my beaded bag and collect myself as best I can. It is rather a hopeless task. I am a soggy wreck. The strange sensation in my arm ebbs away. But the pain remains.

“How do I look?” Rosalyn wipes the rain from her face.

“Entrancing. As always.”

She smiles. “Good.” She heads across the bridge.

I breathe overly fast—follow frightened, confused. I barely notice when we step through a massive entrance and into Chillon.

Chapter Two

In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old

Lord Byron, “The Prisoner of Chillon”

Rosalyn and I clatter over a grating and through the arched entrance. I regain my sense enough to gaze up and spy remnants of a pulley system that lowered and raised the old drawbridge. A thrill goes through me despite the wet chill and lingering fright.

A caretaker beckons us through a door that leads inside the square tower that guards the entrance. Rosalyn joins a fashionable group of holiday-makers waiting for the next tour to begin. I pay the caretaker for our tour and take up my post at her side. Most of the milling group is English—and quite dry, with one notable exception.

A young man with a trim athletic build—wearing a close-fitting, expensive black riding breeches and an oilskin overcoat—bends over squeezing excess water out of unruly black locks that curl wildly out of control. He throws his head back—sees us—and I almost faint. My mouth drops, and I stare. Lord Byron? Here? It’s as if the engraving of him in my well-worn copy of “The Corsair” had sprung to life thanks to the magic of Chillon. “It’s”—I bring my hand to my mouth, astonished—“Lord Byron.” I say it loud enough for him to hear.

Rosalyn elbows my ribs and speaks without moving her lips. “Hush. Don’t make a scene.”

The most notorious poet all of England smiles at my childish adulation—frank and friendly. I am about to push my way through the crowd to tell him I saved my pin money so I could purchase every volume he’s ever released to the public—that I cried over “The Corsair” and through every tragic line of “Lara”—that the London newspapers were horrid to publish his private sketches over his recent domestic troubles—that it must break his heart to be forever separated from his baby daughter—that Lady Byron should not have treated him so ill—the rumors were obviously wrong. Just look at him. Angelic. Innocent. His sweet boy-like face even more beautiful than I ever imagined. Rosalyn’s firm hand on my arm stops me.

His eyes move from me, short, bedraggled, pleasant but no beauty, wearing second-hand black mourning garb that drowns my small frame to Rosalyn. Tall, lovely, amply endowed. Her young, porcelain face tinged pink by the storm. Wisps of damp blonde hair curl on her forehead. Her lilac pelisse accentuates her voluptuous figure. She shows no outward sign of her scandalous condition. I watch Byron enjoy the glowing vision of Rosalyn, an exotic bloom amidst everyday herbs. He looks at her like a painter, a poet, a lover would.

The caretaker explains the room we’re gathered in was fitted with the large stone fireplace that is blazing warmth to our chilled bones when it was converted as a guardroom in the sixteenth century when the Bernese captured the fortress.

I whisper a translation to Rosalyn.

“I don’t care.” Her eyes are all for Byron.

Has she met him before in society? A man so famous—so loved—so hated. She would have bragged about him for sure. Unless . . . ? No, even Rosalyn didn’t move in his London circles. Of that I am sure. Lord Byron surely is not one of Rosalyn’s former conquests. Can I keep her from making him her next?

He continues to admire her through the caretaker’s hurried discourse. I am carried away with imaginings. He is so like the brooding heroes his pen brings to life. I discounted the rumor that in his Eastern travels, he saved a slave girl consigned to a watery death, and then wrote “The Giaour” in her honor. Gossips had it he loved her to distraction. Looking at him now, I believe him capable of anything.

He could fall in love with Rosalyn and immortalize her in verse—the secret affair, leaving her, wandering aimlessly, yearning for her, returning after many months determined to seduce her again. The beautiful Rosalyn hides all evidence of the child, rendezvous with him, and rushes off to Venice to live in a sprawling palazzo until he tires of her, and she finds another man.

I could go with them—care for Rosalyn’s child. She couldn’t hide it from him forever.

I have an affinity for the poor child she carries. A keen longing comes over me whenever I recall stolen moments in a noisy nursery at Christmas or Easter when my great, great aunt’s home filled with her progeny and numerous tiny cousinletts. Their tired nursery maids were always happy to thrust a screaming child in my arms. With no dowry and few attractions, no man will ever look on me as a wife or a mother. My refinements disqualify me as the wife of a humble cottager. Not even a curate with few prospects would waste a marriage proposal on me. I would be pleased to have the care of my cousin’s child—even without a poetic hero as master of the house.

I will volunteer as foster mother for her baby if one is proposed. Rosalyn will want to return to London when she is slender again. I will mother the child—give it all the lonesome love penned up in my breast.

The caretaker clicks his fingers in the air and leads us from the shelter of the guardroom into a rainy courtyard. Rosalyn hesitates at the door. The other travelers dash across the courtyard and disappear into another door, sheltering under large, sturdy umbrellas. We have none.

Lord Byron comes up behind us. “May I be of assistance?” He holds up two umbrellas.

Rosalyn gazes up at him through her long, dark eyelashes—as grateful as if he’d rescued her from pirates. “Why thank you, my Lord.”

He murmurs low in her ear. “So I’m not incognito enough?”

I blurt, “That would be difficult.” My cheeks flame.

Byron laughs and hands me an umbrella. He opens the other and shepherds Rosalyn across the rainy courtyard.

I’m rooted, staring—overwhelmed by the encounter. If we’d met Julie and her entourage come to life, I would have been no more thrilled—no more surprised than finding Lord Byron milling with a group of ordinary holiday-makers as rain-drenched as I am. I’ve lived in quiet all my life—and here is a hero straight from today’s most thrilling romance and most celebrated scandal gallantly escorting my cousin over slick cobblestones. My eyes drop to the umbrella in my hand. He touched it—gave it to me.

The caretaker makes an exasperated noise behind me. I struggle to raise the umbrella. He takes it, releases the clasp and pushes me into the rain.

I manage to run to the next door without falling. I dash inside, bump hard into Rosalyn and Byron who stopped just inside the dim chamber.

“Gracious, Magsie. Control yourself.” She scowls in my direction and moves toward a large arched window with her arm resting on Byron’s. I trip along after them.

Byron pushes his wet hair out of his eyes. “This is the entrance to the underground vaults. Bonivard’s prison is just ahead.”

Rosalyn nods like she understands, but she has no idea who Bonivard was. “You’ve toured Chillon before?”

“Yesterday. Shelley and I brought the yacht over from Clarens with—”

A party of ladies, no doubt.

“I rode over today through the rain. The others are holed up in a hotel in Ouchy. I wrote like a fiend all night, but I had to return—feel these stones, breathe this dank air once more.”

Rosalyn stares up at the vaulted roof. “It is fascinating.” Her gaze returns to Byron’s face. “You be my guide then. The caretaker is boorish and has horrid teeth.”

Byron ascents with a nod. I follow them away from the caretaker’s inventive rambling. Rosalyn notices me behind her. “That’s Magsie, my cousin and”—I can’t see her face but I’m sure her eyebrows shoot up—“chaperone. She’s a veritable dragon.” Her tone makes clear to Byron the dragon is easily hoodwinked.

I stumble over a broken stone, catch myself and doggedly follow, blushing as my cousin tries to impress Byron. He’ll see her stupidity immediately.

He guides her down a broken stairway into an even larger vaulted chamber supported by soaring stone pillars. I marvel at the stone spines that support the high ceilings.

Rosalyn shivers and presses close to Byron. “Is this the dungeon?”

He shakes his wet mane. “Count Pierre—who rebuilt and fortified the fortress in the 13^th Century—used this space to house his garrison.”

“Where are the prisons?”

“My you’re ghoulish. Come along—through here then.”

I’m loathe to quit the chamber so quickly. I loiter examining stone outcroppings. They could be ruins of even earlier buildings. I cross the room to an arched window—marveling that the stone casement surrounding it is more the five hundred years old. Five centuries. Half a millennium. I gaze out the window. The lake surges just below my perch. It’s disturbed, nearly black. Angry. Bottomless. The Dents du Midi peaks, across the lake on the French frontier, jut jagged out of the dark, low-lying cloud bank.

When I turn away from the scene, Rosalyn and Byron have disappeared. I hurry through two small rooms, angry with myself for losing her on our premier outing. I dash into a large vaulted chamber—identical to the garrison I left except the pillars each have an iron ring drilled into its base.

A gust blows through the unglassed windows. I shiver in my soaking gown. I fear the place is empty until I hear Rosalyn’s laughter and Byron’s deep, brooding tones.

I see them now. He squats in front of a column examining the metal ring protruding from its base.

They hear me approach. Byron scowls in my direction and then returns his gaze to the ring. Rosalyn tears her gaze off the bulging muscles in his crouching legs and scurries across the dungeon floor to my side. “Magsie be a good old girl and go back to the tour.”

My eyebrows draw close together. “The rest are hard on my heels.”

She glances back at Byron and says loud enough for him to hear above the gush of the surging water, “Isn’t he delicious?”

Byron looks up, impatient.

Rosalyn mouths, Is he looking this way?

I nod.

She wriggles like a sensuous cat and turns right around so she can watch his wet head that, once again, bends low over the iron ring. “He tells me the most fascinating tale. Some poor zealot—a Genevese I think—was chained to that very post he’s examining. The Bernese did it. I think. Or maybe the Bernese freed him. I’ve got it all in a jumble. He was stuck here a horrible long time.” She shivers.

I know very well the sad fate of Bonivard, the Prior of Saint-Victor Abbey, hero of Geneva. I read Bonivard’s story and all about the famed Counts of Chillon, with heavy emphasis on Pierre, the most heroic of the lot, who built and expanded the castle during centuries of conquest in the Complete History of the Swiss Peoples I borrowed from my uncle’s library before we sailed. I shall return it when he brings me home.

Rosalyn whirls back around to face me, her skirts swishing with the movement. “Byron says as soon as it is fine they are taking his yacht back to St. Gingolph. Perhaps, I can convince him to include us in the outing.”

“Lovely.” I surprise her with a smile. “I’d be delighted to join you. I’ll finish the tour another time.”

My cousin’s elegant hand—ensconced in rain-ruined champagne-colored kid gloves buttoned to her elbow with gleaming pearls—grasps my arm. “Dear cousin.” She only calls me cousin when she attempts to wheedle something from me. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of the tour. You’ve waited so long to visit Chillon.” Her voice gets hard and eyes turn steely. “Move on with the group. I hear their approach now. I remain here with Lord Byron.”

I square my jaw. “You know I can’t leave you alone with him.”

“If you don’t”—she flashes me an scheming smile—“I’ll write to my father and tell him I caught you in a hayloft with the hotel’s groom.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “He’s an old man.”

“My father does not know that.” She folds her arms across her chest and taps her foot.

I’d be disgraced—ruined. Penniless. Alone. Without my relations support, I’d be thrown upon the streets. I don’t have the luxury of the rich to flout morality. If my virtue is questioned, I wouldn’t even be able to find employ as a governess. I could go to the church for support, beg work at a mill, or find myself forced to—no. Unthinkable. I’ll never sink to that. I’d rather starve in a gutter.

I meet Rosalyn’s bold gaze. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

“Yes.” She snorts. “Quietly move on with the cattle, and I’ll quietly remain with the Lord.”

Chapter Three

None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined

Himself perforce around the hearer’s mind

Lord Byron, “Lara”

I trail the touring party through the grand hall—too worried to pay enough attention to the guide to understand his colorful Swiss French. My French mistress was a Parisian émigré. I was her best student but am not nearly as fluent as I thought—especially when the accent is strange. Rosalyn in the dungeon with Bryon preys heavy on me.

We move through a series of rooms where ancient oak pillars support the roof instead of stone ones. Then up a winding, narrow stone staircase. Two large halls. Bedrooms and the Duke’s private living quarters.

Standing in his chapel, I’m overcome with a sense of urgency. Rosalyn. I must return to her—drag her away. My uncle entrusted her to my care. Come what may, I have to stand up to her.

I quit the group. Brave the rain through three courtyards until I’m outside the door leading to the vaults. I push through it worried what I’ll discover. In the dim light of the first chamber, I lose my way, turn right instead of left, and find myself wandering through a maze of dark basement tunnels. I turn to go back—but cannot remember which way I should go. I reach an area where there are no windows. What happened to the light?

I breathe in and out too fast. My heart races. My palms sweat. Calm down. Keep going. Useless. I’m frozen in place. This is an old malady. My first year at school, a big girl locked me in a trunk. Hours and hours. Small. Dark places. No light. No air. No windows.

I scream.

Scream again.

It echoes back to me.

“Hello?” A deep voice calls.

I run toward it. “Where are you?”

“This way.”

I follow the sound. Running as fast as I can in my full skirt. I race around a corner and run against Lord Byron. I am aghast, embarrassed, sobbing. I grab his arms, shake them. “Where is she?” I cry. “Rosalyn? What have you done to her?”

He is a pirate. A brigand. The corsair come to life.

He scowls. “I sent her on with the tour. It was foolish for you to leave her. I’ve a mind to write to your uncle.”

The surprise I feel registers in my face.

He pushes his damp locks from his eyes. “I’m embroiled in trouble enough with one forward young lady I can’t seem to be quit of.” He shakes his head. “I do not need another. Please try to control your charge.”

No doubt he thinks I am one with her designs. “I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me. It is beyond my power to control her.”

“Enough. Calm yourself.” He leads me into the light of the first chamber. “I’m in the fit of a poem and can bear with no further distractions. Go. Now. Leave me with my gloomy thoughts and the ghosts of this place.” The wind blows in through the tall, open windows. Waves crash against the walls. The advancing clouds cast a shadow across Byron’s angry face.

I retrace my steps—running as if those very ghosts were hounding me away from the angry poet. I’ve heard he’s mad. I shudder as I reach the rain-drenched courtyard. Hesitate. I cannot bear to step into the deluge again. Window boxes cascading with red geraniums line every window. A half-barrel planted up with blooms sits in the middle of the courtyard. The blossoms are as beaten and torn by the incessant rain as I am—while Rosalyn is safe and warm with the caretaker and the fashionable group of travelers he spins yarns for. I resent it on behalf of myself and the flowers.

I am at the end of my stamina, shivering with cold, fatigue, fright—mortification. A small sign beside a door across the yard comes to my rescue. “La Tour.” The Keep Tower. I recall the caretaker mentioning the guided visit will end there. I dash across to the door, turn the knob. The door swings open, and I duck inside and begin to climb. Staircase after staircase. A rickety affair that could collapse any moment. When I gain the top of the tower, I collapse in an exhausted, wet heap. Wind whips through the four open windows. I am too spent to even gaze out at the vast panorama the height affords. I hide my face in my hands and battle on the verge of a fit of sobbing misery.

I have not felt this lost since the night I looked up from reading a thrilling novel by the stolen light of my great, great aunt’s best candle—to find her peacefully dead. No awful calamity seemed to have taken place. Just a pleasant journey. I was distraught to be left behind.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Dragon? May I be of assistance?” It is Byron, come upon me unawares. The storm and my inward battle masked his approach. He extends his hand to me in a most gentleman-like manner.

I blush and look down—examine his beautifully made boots. One is strangely shaped. The tales of his twisted foot must be true.

He gently grasps my elbow and raises me to my own feet. “I’ve followed you to apologize for my behavior in the dungeon. Young ladies like your cousin are one of my particular weaknesses. I’m afraid I’ve got another with child. What would I do with one more?”

I drop all pretense at his intimate confession. “Rosalyn is already with child.” I manage a nervous laugh.

“And her appetite is yet unchecked?” A wicked grin overtakes his face. “Perhaps I was too hasty in my rejection.”

“Sir!” I stammer and blush. “I must entreat you to stop—”

“Ahh.” He examines me as if seeing my person for the first time. “You are not confederate with her schemes.” Byron helps me remove my soaked pelisse. He hangs it over the stair railing to drip.

I slip off my gloves and wring the water from them. “Rosalyn will do what she may. Her parents and the expectations of English society did not stop her. I surely cannot. But I will protect and care for the child.” I’ve said far too much. I check myself and resort to examining how thoroughly wet my gown is.

Byron stoops so he can see my face. “You were exiled with her?”

I nod.

He gazes at me until I blush crimson and look away.

He speaks in a beautiful voice he has not yet employed. “I thought nobility dead—but here it stands before me shivering in a drenched mourning gown. Do you ever put on color, Mademoiselle Dragon?”

I cannot reply. It is all I can do to keep the one tear that escapes my eye and runs down my cheek from becoming a shower to compete with the storms outside.

Byron draws his own damp handkerchief from a pocket inside his oilskin coat and hands it to me. “You’re soaked to the skin. You must return to your hotel at once.”

“I wait for my cousin.” I sniff and try to conquer the shiver that rattles my teeth. “The tour ends here.”

“I shall escort your cousin safely”—his eyebrows arch in a most enchanting manner—“to your hotel.”

“I lost my umbrella. The wind took it right out of our hands. We took shelter with the gypsy—” I cannot continue when my mind reverts to how that gypsy mesmerized me. I rub my arm remembering the strange ache.

Byron takes a step closer to me and holds up the umbrella he borrowed from the caretaker. “Where is the one I gave you earlier?”

I blush. I have know idea where I set it down.

Bryon offers me his arm. “I shall escort you to your hotel and return for your cousin.”

I wipe my face with his handkerchief and hand it to him. “That is most noble of you.”

He pushes the handkerchief back in my direction. “Pray my intentions remain so.”

My wonder at his meaning—could he refer to me or simply my cousin—is interrupted by the drumming of many feet on the stair and enthused voices chattering. “It is no matter.” I glance toward the door. “They approach.”

“Then I will beg another umbrella and escort you both.”

I find it hard to form coherent thoughts with his eyes gazing into mine, but I manage to sputter, “My cousin is a most unnatural creature. Her enthusiasm for the flesh is keen, but I am convinced she has no heart within her,” before the subject of my discourse, Rosalyn herself, bursts through the doorway leading from the stairs. I’ve wrecked my fantasy of her running off with Byron, but I could not bear to watch her trammel his sensitive heart.

Climbing the stairs roused a rosy glow in Rosalyn’s cheek. She smiles like a mischievous kitten when she sees Byron, but her brows knit together in anger when she finds me at his elbow.

He moves towards her with the grace of an athlete, despite the slight limp. No wonder so many women fall in love with him. Under his brash frankness and evil weaknesses, there is a sad boy with an aching heart. Even I long to comfort him.

He addresses her in a different tone than our conversation ended. “Your cousin lost her umbrella again and became thoroughly chilled. I will escort you both to your hotel directly.”

“How gallant.” She glances over at me. “Magsie will be fine. She never takes ill.” Rosalyn takes Byron’s arm and maneuvers him to the window that affords the best view of the jagged peaks sticking up through the clouds. “Let’s enjoy the vista first. I will not make that climb again.” They gaze at the turbulent lake and alps growing upon alps.

It pains me to stand by as Rosalyn claims Byron. Jealous? Me? As I watch Rosalyn giggle and laugh, point out the window and touch his arm with her beautifully gloved hand, the sensation becomes most acute. I console myself with the memory of the velvet voice he revealed just to me.

Perhaps any girl, young or old, who has ever talked to the poet is deeply jealous of the girl he speaks to next. He is intimate and direct. His poetry romanced all of England. He could easily win any heart.

It becomes unbearable to continue watching him with Rosalyn who so expertly pleases and flatters the sensuous outer man. I turn away disgusted with myself. The small room is uncomfortably crowded. My ears begin to ring and terror rises in my throat. Not again. I exit the chamber and perch on the top step. I fall to examining the contents of my jet bag. A bit of air, a small distraction, and I will be fine.

Ah, the knife. I see the old man grimacing at me again. My face heats. My hands sweat. My claustrophobia worsens.

Vingt franc, vingt franc, vingt franc. The gypsy’s taunt haunts me.

I should toss the hideous thing into the lake. I breathe deeply and close my eyes until my heartbeat slows.

When my eyes open, they are drawn again to the knife in my lap. I examine it closely. Intriguing. I must keep it to remind myself of my folly. I slip the knife from its sheath and run my finger over the blackened blade. Maybe I can clean it. The wood carving on the handle and sheath is crude, but it pleases me. I rub grime off a spot just under the narrow, brass finger guard and hold it to the light. This is strange. A tiny line goes all the way around a three-quarters inch wide spot that isn’t repeated in the rest of the design.

I search my bag for my embroidery scissors, open them wide, place the tiny blade into the line, and pry up. The knife buzzes in my hand, and a thin cover swings open on minute hidden hinges, revealing a miniature compartment featuring a numerical display above red and blue dots. I’ve never seen anything so intricate. I touch the numbers, then one dot and the other. Nothing happens. I wonder if Byron can explain it. Perhaps it is some secret of modern soldiers or sailors. It has the look of an instrument, but not like any compass or sextant I’ve seen.

I re-enter the crowded room at the tower’s top and spot Byron and Rosalyn leaning out the far window—despite the rain that falls on them. As I cross the room towards them with the knife held out in front of me, my finger happens to rest on both dots.

My finger starts to tingle—just as my hand did when the ancient gypsy pressed the knife to my palm. All the fear of that moment returns in double measure. I panic and try to fling the cursed object from me, but my finger is fastened to it. I cannot shake it off. Silent suction, too powerful for me to overcome, keeps the knife adhered to my hand. The tingling advances to buzzing. The sensation travels up my arm again. I grab the knife with my free hand and pull. The old gypsy’s leering face comes into my mind.

“Help me, please.” My finger is sucked inside the knife. Bile bubbles up my throat.

Rosalyn and Byron turn toward me. She pulls a face. “That’s disgusting, Magsie. Stop it.”

“I can’t.” I’m panting, pulling against the knife, trying to stay calm. “Help me. Then my whole hand disappears into the knife handle. I wave my arm, trying to shake the knife off.

Lord Byron advances to my aid.

“Pull it off me,” I scream.

“Don’t touch her,” calls my cousin. “She may be bewitched.”

My arm slides into the ancient handle up to my elbow.

Everyone in the tower backs away from the spectacle I’ve become. The ladies begin to shriek, shrill and mind-numbing.

Byron and Rosalyn shout at me, but I cannot understand them. The vibration is too loud, too powerful. The pain of it too jarring. The terror of my disappearing self too rushed and too real. My shoulder and side disappear into the knife. “Please, God, help me,” I scream as my head gets sucked into the knife.

The rest of my person rapidly follows. I sense pressure on my foot—a hand pulling me. Is it Byron? Rosalyn? There is an acute wrenching, then all is lost to the overpowering buzzing. My entire body is squeezed inside the knife. All my being vibrates. Am I drugged? Poisoned? I sipped the draught the gypsy made up for Rosalyn. Surely this is crazed imagining or the work of nightmare. Madness? My phobic fits have never escalated in such a manner. The pain mounts, and I wonder that I continue to exist in the face of it.

A pinhole opens in the other side of the knife, and I am somehow forced through it into an elemental string speeding through black nowhere, faster and faster. The string of me winds, twists, tangles as it rushes onward. Still I tingle. The sensation crests and falls like waves through my impossible body. I strain to see, but I have no eyes. I try to breath, but I have no lungs. I try to reach out and touch the dark I race through, but I have no hands. There are no sounds because I have no ears. There are no smells because I have no nose. I taste something earwax bitter that causes me to gag, but I do not vomit for I have no stomach.

Am I mortally poisoned? This must surely be death. It is not the heavenly journey I witnessed on my dear aunt’s face. It is terror. Am I doomed to Hell?

The buzzing escalates into a soul-wrenching vibration. I cling to my brain, my thoughts, myself. It tears away from me, pushes out through a tiny hole in the universe.

A tiny hole in the . . . knife?

Pictures of Windy Bay--where Michael and Leesie begin and end

2011-08-24T16:09:00.000-07:00

Yes! I'm finally back with those Windy Bay pictures I promised. The only pictures we have of our lake front property there were taken when we were pretty young. Oh, my. Get ready. You'll have to add your imagination to modernize these shots and put Michael and Leesie in them. I'll point out ME when I'm in the picture. I hope my brothers and sisters forgive me for posting these darling pictures of them when they were much, much younger. We're all parents and grandparents now.

This is my last post devoted to CAYMAN SUMMER, but not the end of the CAYMAN SUMMER blog. I'm going to continue blogging here, sharing my comings and goings and giving you tastes of what I'm working on. I'm working hard revising SLIPPED and will introduce you to that before the week is out. I'm writing lots of all new chapters, so even if you've read the chapters from it on my website, you'll want to tune in and read the new first chapter. My heroine, Meg, needed a personality-lift. My heroines always do. Poor Leesie. She was a wreck until I let her write all her scenes in free verse poems.

Okay, more of Meg's issues tomorrow. Today, here's the site of Michael and Leesie's first date and another important first, my own family's lakefront property on Windy Bay, Lake Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Growing up, the lake was paradise to us. We never built a cabin there, but we had a regular house trailer on the lot. Most of these pictures were taken the very first summer after my mom, who had five kids, married my dad, who had six.

This is my step-brother, Dan, teaching his new sisters how to drive the little fishing boat we buzzed around the lake in. I'm the one on the right with my hands over my mouth. This is a rare shot of me with long hair.

The little guy with the oar is David--who took so many cool pictures for me and scanned all these pictures in. He took the photo for his wife's, Jennifer Shaw Wolf's, new book, BREAKING BEAUTIFUL.

Aren't my sisters pretty? I can't believe we're all in two piece swimsuits. None of us would ever let our daughters wear them. This gives you a sense of what the lot was like. We had a strip of grass and lots of wild woods that I loved to hike through.

Here's our famous sandy beach that washed away every winter. My dad really did dump a fresh load of sand on it every spring. The kids in the background are sitting on our cement dock. We always wanted a floating wood one, but the cement helped keep the sand from all disappearing. That dock is the spot where Leesie touches Michael's chest to show him how deep the water is.

Ah, there you go. That was our view and gives you a taste of why we loved going there. Water, woods, and blow-up rowboats. The canoe was my oldest step-brothers. I loved paddling in the blow-up boats almost as much as I loved swimming. Every summer I'd swim across the lake at least once. It looks really far in the pictures. Wow, I was amazing.

This is the actual bank Michael and Leesie climb down to get to the beach.

One more shot of water, pines, and another pretty sister. I loved lying in one of the boats, staring at the sky, breathing pine trees, and listening to the water lap against the boat. Ah, inspiring. When I wrote TAKEN BY STORM, I was so homesick for the special places I loved growing up. This was the most special place of all. That's why Michael and Leesie end up there. And why they go back at the end of CAYMAN SUMMER.

M+L 4VER M&Ms in the mail!

2011-08-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

Apologies, apologies. I disappeared this week, but I had a good reason--look what finally came? YAY!!!

I spent the rest of the week sending them out into the world. All the book prizes finally went out, too. They should land on your doorstep soon.

I didn't want to order the M&Ms until we were back from our vacation in July. I had nightmares of the shipment sitting on my doorstep melting into a puddle in the 107 F Phoenix summer sun. Then I had nightmares of sending them out in their pretty organza bags and having you open the packet to find a melted pink and purple disaster.

So I bought special foil envelops and mini-icepacks to go in in them to keep them cool.

But what if the ice pack causes condensation gets the organza and M&Ms wet? So I put the favors in Ziplocs before sealing them up.

It's August, so it's humid here instead of desert dry like the rest of the year. The icepacks caused condensation on the outside of the package. A few mailing labels shriveled a bit. I worried they'd all fall of, but they stayed stuck.

The clerk at the post office was really nice. He patiently weighted out each packet and printed postage stickers because we were sure stamps wouldn't stick to the foil. This ended up to be far more complicated than I dreamed when I created the giveaway. I hope it works! And you love them. If you go to your mailbox and find a foil packet with melted pink and purple M&Ms in stained organza bag, I'm sorry!

I hope you open the packet and find beautiful pale pink, dark pink and deep purple M&Ms with "M+L 4VER," my name, and Michael and Leesie's faces from their first cover smiling at you. Can you make them out? That's as close as my camera would get.

Phew! Now I can get back to the final photos for CAYMAN SUMMER. I'll post them Monday. I promise. And give you a sneak peak of SLIPPED--the book I'm revising right now.

Love you guys! Thanks to everyone who entered the contest and has been with me through Michael and Leesie's CAYMAN SUMMER journey. Stay tuned. I bought extra M&Ms so I can send some in my next contest. Maybe Christmas--when it cools off around here.

Romance Workshop Tonight!

2011-08-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

I'd like to invite all of you in the Valley of the Sun to a Free Romance Writing Workshop tonight at Barnes and Noble Shea on Tuesday August 16th, 2011 from 6:30 PM – 8:30 PM. The address is 10500 N. 90th St. in Scottsdale, located on the SW corner of Shea Blvd. and the 101 Freeway. Presenters include; Fantasy romance author Lisa Finder of Black Sand, YA romance author Angela Morrison (THAT'S ME!) of Sing Me to Sleep and the three books in the Taken By Storm Saga; award winning Regency Romance writer Donna Hatch, author of The Stranger She Married, Guise of a Gentleman and Queen in Exile; and multi-award winning YA and Sweet Romance author Janette Rallison who has sold more than a million copies of her 17 books, also published under her pseudonym - Sierra St. James. Hope to see you there!

I did find some pictures of our old lake front property that I used for the setting of Michael's and Leesie's first date and the big finale in CAYMAN SUMMER. My brother, Dave, has one of the family's old photo albums and scanned them all. I couldn't download them, so I'm waiting for him to send me good res digital copies. They are quite old and some are blurry, but priceless. Thanks for your patience. Check back tomorrow.

Today, please stop by Daph's Loving Books. She's having a huge birthday bash extravaganza, and she invited Scott from SING ME TO SLEEP. Way cool! He did a great job in the interview. She's also GIVING AWAY a copy of SING. You can get a sneak peak of the song I wrote from Scott and Beth to sing together in the second scene of SING ME TO SLEEP, the musical. Please stop in and wish Daph a happy birthday and give Scott some love! Michael and Leesie won't mind, I promise.

EPILOGUE PHOTOS--SPOILER ALERT

2011-08-12T15:26:00.000-07:00

I'd like to invite any of you who are close enough to Scottsdale to drop by the Barnes and Noble at Shea and Hwy 101 Tuesday night, August 16th, 6:30-8:30 p.m. I'm on a panel about writing romance with the amazing Janette Rallison and Lisa Finder. I'd love to see some of you there. For GPSers, the store's address is 10500 N. 90th St. Scottdale. We're going to chat about our books, read the most romantic scenes, and then answer questions. Feel free to bring daughters and students--anyone you know who loves to write or read.

Okay, if you've just stumbled onto my blog for the first time and haven't read TAKEN BY STORM or you've just read the first book, stop reading now. This post is a massive spoiler. But for those of you who've read the whole saga . . .

Here's some pictures of the Spokane Temple, so you can imagine Michael and Leesie coming out of it--him in a black tux and her in a princess-style wedding dress (with sleeves)!

This first one features me with a really red face. We stopped at the temple and my brother, Dave, took some pictures after I spoke at Tekoa High School. That was so cool. You can see photos of that on my website. Notice, I'm wearing a fringy leather jacket. In my presentation, I shared with the students that I kind of strangled the life out of poor Leesie at first--forcing way too much me into her character. Never a good thing. Then I pull out the jacket and tell them the things I did to change her up so she could grow into a fully-rounded, independent character--gave her long hair that smells like bananas and mangos and a cool suede jacket like one of my son's friends wore. When I was getting ready for my launch tour, I found this jacket on-line. It has turquoise beads that match the front cover. I just had to buy it. My kids were aghast when they saw pictures of me wearing it. "What do you have on?" was the reaction. Oh, well. I still love the jacket.

This next photo is the simply beautiful, amazing photo David took of the Spokane temple at night for me. It fits the scene in the middle of TAKEN BY STORM when Michael and Leesie go to the church dance and wander over to the temple. All it needs is snow falling.

Dave and his lovely wife, Jennifer, were amazing support when TAKEN BY STORM launched. I don't know what I would have done without them. I am so excited that Jen's book--oh, I mean--Jennifer Shaw Wolf's book, BREAKING BEAUTIFUL, will be out early next year. Your going to love it. It's gripping and heartbreaking. I couldn't put it down.

Okay, now I need to find some photos of Windy Bay and our old lakefront property. Tune in Monday for that.

PICTURES OF CAYMAN BRAC

2011-08-10T14:30:00.000-07:00

Look what I found! With a little help from Google, I found images of Cayman Brac. We visited the Brac before we had digital cameras, so I borrowed a few shots from generous sites around the web. This gives you a feel for the end of the book. Tomorrow I'll share photos re the epilogue.

This is typical Cayman Brac.

The island is made of coral.

This reminds of the resort where we stayed.

Awesome wreck diving!

Here's the airstrip. We flew there on a tiny plane. The ride back to Grand Cayman was so bumpy the lady behind us was screaming. There were only about eight seats on the plane. The flight there was bigger--a Dash-8 if I remember right.

This is the Bat Caves where I sent Michael and Leesie and friends to ride out the hurricane. The caves really are the island's hurricane shelter.

This picture shows damage after a hurricane.

Back from SCBWI-LA

2011-08-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

Sorry to disappear on you last week. I flew over to LA to attend the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators big annual conference. I'll be speaking at Arizona's yearly gathering on October 1st. This year we celebrated SCBWI's 40th Anniversary. Wow, they pulled out all the stops. In three days, I got to listen to Bruce Colville, who spoke about how our work is like throwing a stone into a pond and the ripples move out and change people's lives in unexpected ways, Jerry Pinkney, Libba Bray, Donna Jo Napoli, David Small--who was amazing, I want to read STITCHES now--the legendary Judy Bloom, who was one of SCBWI's first members, Jon Scieszka, as hilarious as his books, Norton Juster, who is celebrating THE PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH's 50th anniversary, Mary Pope Osborne, creator of the Magic Treehouse series, 3X Newbury winner and industry legend, Gary Paulsen, Richard Peck--always the most elegant speaker, he said, "Unless you find yourself on the page very early in life, you will go looking for yourself in all the wrong places." Amen! And, finally, Laurie Halse Andersen, who quoted T.S. Elliott, "Do I dare disturb the universe?" Yea. It was quite the weekend.

Here's a few pictures to prove I was really there.

Here I am with SING ME TO SLEEP at the reception they held for published authors attending the conference.

Dessert at the 40th Anniversary Golden Kite Award Luncheon.

Here's my agent, Erzsi Deak, on the far right, with a couple of my coop-mates. Ann Jacobus, the lovely blonde on the left, writes original, gut-wrenching YA. I hope you get to read some of it soon. She and Erzsi put on the Sequester at the royal abbey north of Paris where I met my editor!

Here I am--closing my eyes like I did in all the other pictures--with Barbara Younger, another writer at with Hen & Ink. She's published over 20 books with Abbingdon Press.

That's Richard Peck--take my word for it. It's really is him.

I know I owe you final pictures from CAYMAN SUMMER. And I've got a TAKEN BY STORM out-take that I haven't shared before. Tune in tomorrow. Thanks for your patience.

I've heard from most of the contest winners. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Prizes will be in the mail before the end of the week! I was hoping the trailer for CAYMAN SUMMER would be done by now, but alas. No such luck.

AND THE WINNERS ARE . . . !!!

2011-08-03T16:21:00.000-07:00

Drum roll, please. . . . I'm thrilled the announce the winners of the M+L FOREVER CONTEST!!! Cheering, jumping up and down, dancing on the table!!!

Nyra, Margaret Larsen, and Bonnie Harris won the three book sets of the TAKEN BY STORM saga. Congrats, girls. Please email me your mailing addresses.

Nichole Giles won the signed, first edition hardcover copy of TAKEN BY STORM!

PrimaryMary, Kristy, Mary Walling, Tiffany Drew, and Susan Jensen won paperback copies of TAKEN BY STORM!

Yel of Itzel Library, Andii, Diana, Delaney Howerton, and Bee won copies of the new edition of UNBROKEN CONNECTION.

Rebecca, Selene, Rachelle, Jenna, and Betsy Love won CAYMAN SUMMER!! YAY!!!

Winners: I will also email/or message you a notification. If I have your mailing address already, I'll send your prizes out next week. If I don't already have your mailing address in my database, I need you to claim your prize and send me your mailing address by August 20th. I'll redraw new winners for any unclaimed prizes on August 22nd.

As promised, the first 30 contest entrants will receive Michael and Leesie Forever M&Ms!!! I need mailing addresses for you, too. The thirty winners are . . .

Jackson Fernandes

Susan Haws

KatieB

Nichole Giles

Bonnie Harris

Selene

Gayle

Niii

Sandra

Rebecca

Nyra

Canda

Bee

Mary Walling

PrimaryMary

Betsy Love

Margaret Larsen

Jessy

Anne Marie Jenner

Wendy

Rachelle Christensen

Tiffany Drew

Sharli

Donna K. Weaver

Chaleese

Lynette

Lissa

Emily

Taffy

Sarah P.

Congratulations everyone! I hope you enjoy your prizes. Thanks for entering the contest and loving MICHAEL AND LEESIE FOREVER!

FINAL CAYMAN FAVORITES and FINAL DAY TO ENTER M+L FOREVER

2011-08-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

Hurry, hurry. Today is the last day to enter the M+L FOREVER CONTEST!!! And if you like my FB author page, you get an extra entry.

And I'm sharing with you a few final Grand Cayman favorite places. I hope I can find some photos of Cayman Brac where Michael and Leesie go in the end, and I might be able to get some photos scanned of sites from the epilogue, so stay tuned.

I'm announcing the contest winners, Wednesday, August 3rd and I SHOULD have a big new surprise for all of you Michael and Leesie lovers. Maybe even two surprises.

Here I standing in front of the most famous blow holes on Cayman. This is where Michael stops and asks "the universe" that critical question! That's one of the best scenes I've ever written.

This is the roadside stand by the blowholes where you can get yummy chicken.

Ah, the turtle farm. In that awful hurricane, Hurricane David if I remember right, the original turtle farm got washed out to sea. It was cool to dive after that. Huge turtles all over the place. They built a new, fancy turtle farm across from the beach where the old one was--complete with petting tanks.

Last, and probably least, let's drop by Hell. This is their actual post office. Tourists stop by to mail postcards to their friends from Hell. Kind of a hoot! It's on the north shore--not far from the turtle farm, DiveTech free diving, and Aunty Jazz!

MORE CAYMAN UNDERWATER

2011-07-29T01:00:00.000-07:00

I've been on a cruise ship all this week with zero internet access. Did I fool you? I haven't been able to post on FB or Tweet much or even check my email, but thanks to blogger's automatic post feature, I was able to keep posting through this last week of the tour.

MONDAY, August 1st, is the final day to enter my MICHAEL + LEESIE FOREVER CONTEST! And remember, if you like my author page on FaceBook, you get an extra entry. The contest closes 12:00 a.m. AZ time--same as Pacific Time!

I'll announce the winners on August 3rd!! I'm excited to send M+L M&Ms out to the first thirty who entered. I'm ordering special mini ice packs and padded foil envelopes so they don't melt in the heat wave. Phoenix is always too hot for chocolate in the summer, but this year the whole country is. I hope I don't have trouble mailing them internationally!

My husband and Rachel took an underwater photo course from the world-famous Kathy Church Underwater Photography school during one of our Cayman trips. They were using big strobe flashes, so the color is great. I'm supposed to be on the beach today, snorkeling. I'm in Bermuda--not Cayman--but I could see a lot of the same things. Except, of course, the statue. I totally forgot about that underwater statue on Grand Cayman. I've never done that dive. It's not where we usually go. That could have made an amazing scene. The swing and the statue. I missed out. You guys will have to use your imaginations!

CAYMAN'S NORTH SHORE--ENTER AUNTY JAZZ!

2011-07-28T01:00:00.000-07:00

The first couple times we visited Grand Cayman, my husband and I stayed at a lovely dive hotel and dove with DiveTech--one of Cayman's best dive operators. Hey, I'm wearing that exact same t-shirt while I sit here and type. It's my favorite jammie top.

Michael loves to dive on this side of the island because this is where he learned how to free dive! DiveTech is about the only dive op that teaches free diving in North America. Crazy. It's so popular in Europe and Asia, too. There was a huge write up about free diving in SKIN DIVER magazine when Michael was still gelling in my brain. I tore it out and added it to the collage on my bulletin board. I decided Michael's awesome breathe-hold skills would keep him alive when Isadore hit in TAKEN BY STORM. I researched free diving, but needed more hands on experience to write it. My husband and I took a free dive certification class from DiveTech. My husband was great. I was horrible, but I learned tons and got to watch the instructor dive effortlessly holding his breathe--just like Michael does.

Here's the hotel. It was badly damaged in a big hurricane that hit Cayman after our visit, but it is fine now.

We ate breakfast and dinner here. It was lovely, but there were mosquitos at night!

This is the entry to a great shore diving spot along a mini-wall. This is where we did our free diving class.

We swam out of this little coral cove and spent the day diving with no tanks! I did love the breathing. I get migraines, and I continue to use the deep breathing techniques to keep calm and increase the 02 to my brain. It helps. The Kirkus reviewer was shocked that I put such a dangerous activity in a novel for teens. She thought we should have included a warning to kids not to try diving a hundred feet underwater holding your breath. That's YA for you. Explicit incest and rape scenes are the norm. But free diving? Oh, no! All your readers will try it and drown.

Me at the free diving site.

The dock at the resort.

Our dive boats waiting to whisk us away for the morning.

Another Cayman sunset. That's me enjoying it.

This area of Cayman isn't ritzy condos and ocean front high-rise luxury hotels. It's chickens, rusted cars in the front yard, laundry hanging on the line, and shacks. There was a restaurant run by a local woman that we drove by a lot. We wanted to try it, but our meals were included with our hotel stay. Those humbler Cayman neighborhoods, the tiny tin roof stores and restaurants inspired Aunty Jazz.

BONNIE'S INTERVIEW and MICHAEL'S FAVORITE SWIM THROUGHS

2011-07-26T01:00:00.000-07:00

Today is the fourth installment of Bonnie's Interview! Thanks so much, Bonnie, for featuring me all month. I've enjoyed stopping by every week.

These underwater pictures were all taken in the East End. The best dives are when your guide leads you through great coral tunnels, or swim-throughs. There's loads of good ones to explore here. Let's call this one Michael's favorite. My favorite swim-through (and most likely Michael's) was on Little Cayman's Bloody Bay Wall--but we don't have pictures of that because it was before my hubby got his underwater camera. Oh, we have him to thank for all these shots. Thanks, honey!

You're right. This isn't a swim-through! The kids are kneeling on the sand working on training skills like mask clearing, regulator recovery, and stuff like that. Michael would teach his students like this!

Yes, that's me. Look at my awesome form. Are you laughing at my bug-eye mask face? Yes, scuba is way more glamorous than it sounds. Nothing sexy about scuba--except Michael and his roommates in CAYMAN SUMMER!

And of course, this charming lobster is sexy, too.

At last the swim-throughs!!

So much fun to swim through these. I'm bringing up the rear in this shot.

LIKE MY NEW FB PAGE and MICHAEL THE DIVE INSTRUCTOR

2011-07-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

Yikes! You have one week left to enter the Michael + Leesie Forever Contest! Today the tour goes to my new author FaceBook page. If you have already liked it, thank you! To show my gratitude I'm giving everyone who likes my page before August 1st at midnight when the contest closes, an extra entry in the contest. I'm automatically entering everyone who likes the page if they haven't already entered. So if you haven't liked yet--I won't cry--but drop by and like me and you'll get an extra contest entry.

I know you all love to hear about Michael. Today he takes us to work. Here is the training pool were he taught in CAYMAN SUMMER. Can you see Leesie sitting on the pool's edge with her arm in a sling watching Michael's every move?

This shot was taken in the Virgin Islands, but you can see what it's like training kids to use all that scuba gear. Yup, these are my kids getting their first scuba lessons.

This is my daughter, Rachel! See the sucba tanks behind her? That's what Michael has to lug off the boat and refill every night. He works so hard. I love that about him.

This is the small condo complex where Michael and Leesie's apartment with all those crazy divers was. Wonder which window was there's?

Once the classroom and pool work is done, this is where they take the students for their first open-water ocean dives. Nice office Michael's got, huh?

Rachel hooking up her regulators to the scuba tank.

Job well done!

Rachel likes to take up-close micro shots.

Leesie met her new roommates right here!

And woke up to this beautiful sky!

And sat on this beach until Michael got back from the morning's dives.

SEVEN MILE BEACH

2011-07-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

One of our trips to Grand Cayman we stayed near Seven Mile beach. That's the area where Michael and Leesie stay when they first arrive in Grand Cayman. Put Michael on this beach carrying Leesie with her cast on her arm, nose braced, bandaged head, and her wrapped up broken collar bone into the calm water. The hotel is fictional, the rehab center is made up, but this beach is very real!

MY TEN FAVORITE THINGS and UNDERWATER CAYMAN

2011-07-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

Andii asked me to tell her what my ten favorite things are for today's post on her cool blog, . It's very fun. Pictures. Short and sweet. AND she posted it in English and Spanish. Thanks so much, Andii! I've loved having you on this journey from start to finish.

Yesterday, you saw the best of Grand Cayman topside--gorgeous water, sand and sunsets. Today, let's check out how gorgeous it us under the that perfect turquoise water. Can you spot me in these photos with diving with my family? Look for the black flippy Force Fins.

Dueling lobsters!

Easy to want to leap into water this enticing.

Dive boats lined up along the wall. It gets busy at the best sites.

Yeah, that's me.

I'm holding onto the descent line here waiting out my ten minute safety stop. After every dive, a smart scuba diver waits ten minutes at 15' before surfacing to let nitrogen dissolved in her blood dissipate.

Sea turtles swim hold their breath when they dive--just like Michael. And they stay down a long time and dive even deeper than our hero!

Spotted Eagle Ray in the distance. My favorite Cayman critter!

IMMERSE YOURSELF IN GRAND CAYMAN!

2011-07-21T06:57:00.000-07:00

I'm running around packing for our vacation and, of course, I didn't get lots of posts written and set to post automatically while I'm gone. I'm taking my computer, so I should be able to stay in touch. Grand Cayman is one of our favorite places, so I did find loads more pictures to share with you!

My daughter, Rachel, took these shots at the East End dive resort where Michael and Leesie stayed. Can you imagine them walking along enjoying these sunsets? More tomorrow. I found lots of great underwater photos, too. And I'll be visiting Andii's blog--so that should be awesome! She asked me to post about my ten favorite things.

I forgot this swing was there. That would have made a good scene.

PUBLICATION WORKSHOP, TOUR STOPS, and LEESIE'S CRASH SITE

2011-07-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

I'm speaking tonight at a Writers Unite to Fight Cancer publishing workshop held at the Shea and Pima Barnes and Noble in Scottsdale. The event is free with proceeds from book sales going to AACR.

I'm speaking about how I got my contract with Penguin. I've also been asked to talk about traditional versus indie publishing. Queries, agents, ebooks, small presses, and print on demand will also be covered throughout the course of the evening.

It's going to be a relaxed, informal evening with lots of time for Q&A. The event kicks off at 6:30 p.m. at B&N, Scottsdale Fiesta Shopping Center, 10500 N. 90th Street, Scottsdale, AZ 85258. I wish you could all be there! If any of you are in the Phoenix area, I'd love to see you tonight.

Plus, We've got two tour stops. Today you can enjoy part three of my interview with Bonnie at Bonnie Gets A Say and my interview with Selene at My City of Glass--posted in both English and Spanish. (Thanks for translating me, Selene!) Huge thanks to both Bonnie and Selene for supporting the tour so generously.

And now for the pictures. I wrote the ending of UNBROKEN CONNECTION using Google Earth, but then I got to fly to Spokane for my high school reunion in Tekoa last summer. I rented a car and drove over to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho and on down the highway to Lookout Pass. I stopped in Kellogg, Idaho and took pictures of the hospital. I revised the scenes so they are more accurate than the original drafts.

When my mother read UNBROKEN CONNECTION, she called me and told me once when she was driving over LookOut pass on the way to Spokane, she hit ICE in that exact place and almost went over the edge. My mom's ice became an important part of CAYMAN SUMMER. Bits and pieces--that's what all my books are!

My City of Glass

2011-07-18T11:25:00.000-07:00

Ooh, the blog tour is at another beautiful blog today, Selene's My City of Glass. I'm working on an interview with Selene, too, and will update you on when that will run.

Picture today are photos on found on the internet when I was trying to write Leesie and Phil's drive through Montana. I've made that drive but needed GoogleEarth's maps and photos to jog my memory. I love GoogleEarth. You can actually "drive" down the highway. I also found a live traffic cam on the top of LookOut Pass.

I drove up there and took pictures last summer when I went back to Tekoa for my high school reunion. I'll share those tomorrow. And then we'll be ready for CAYMAN SUMMER photos. I started the blog with most of those, but I might be able to dig up a few more great photos of Grand Cayman. And some shots of the cave Michael and Leesie hid in on Cayman Brac.

Montana is so beautiful. Here's Leesie's take on it . . .

Bald foothills turning green

and deep blue skies decorated

with white tufted clouds

tune my soul to

the joy of God's creations.

I drink like a child who's

played outside too long in the wind

and finally come home to supper.

Some of these water shots are the Clark Fork. They inspired Leesie to write,

I-90 twists and bends following

the curves of Clark's Fork--wild and white--

overloaded with spring run-off.

I wonder if Clark really loved Sacajawea

despite his wife and kids back home?

How could he do that? Sure he felt sorry

for her. I do, too.

We all do. But he had a wife.

Don't let Charbonneau hurt her, Clark.

But, geeze, go back home.

Back to Venezuela with Nyra and Hong Kong Temple with Michael

2011-07-15T16:42:00.000-07:00

I'm back!! And very happy to take the blog tour back to Venezuela for a beautiful, touching review from Nyra Escribiendo! Nyra posted her thoughts about CAYMAN SUMMER in both English and Spanish, so I need you all to visit her blog and give her some love and hugs. I got all teary-eyed reading her post. Nyra is like so many of you--a golden reader, perfectly attuned to my books. Thank you, Nyra. Thanks to all of you. You warm my heart, and you're why I keep writing.

The next locale I want to share with you is the LDS temple in Hong Kong. That scene was one of the first UNBROKEN CONNECTION scenes that came to me. So, open your copy of UNBROKEN CONNECTION to Chapter 30 and read that scene again with these pictures in front of you. I still love Brother Gilbert. He's like many older Mormon men I've known--especially temple workers. So many started out just like Michael.

If I remember right, this is the street-side of the wall.

The garden is small but full of brilliant tropical blooms.

I love these doors. During the day, they are always open.

I believe this says, "Holiness to the Lord" in Chinese characters. Every temple has those words inscribed on it.

The Hong Kong temple is the first high-rise temple. The temple is on two floors and the other floors have chapels for local congregations to gather in, classrooms for Sunday school, scripture classes, and auxiliary meetings, mission offices, and offices for local leaders.

More of the garden where Michael meditated, haunted by Leesie.

Aren't the stone columns beautiful?

More lovely flowers.

When you step through the doors into the courtyard, you are welcomed by a bigger pool and fountain. The running water helps deaden the Hong Kong traffic zooming by on the other side of the wall. Temples are quiet, reverent places.

Ah, here's the door. Only adult members in good standing can go in the temple and do ordinances there. There are beautiful waiting rooms for wedding guests who are too young or aren't members of the LDS church. Couples married in the temple are sealed together forever--not just this life. Couples who weren't married in the temple can go there and be sealed to each other and all their children. The kids get to go in the temple then. Everyone wears white in the temple.

The garden is small, but raised beds and terraces expand the space.

I imagine Michael sat in a corner like this one.

Here's a better view of it. Picture Michael sitting with his head in his hands right there! Enter Brother Gilbert. If you are curious about LDS temples, you can visit www.mormon.org for more information.

Gone with the Pen

2011-07-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

I'm still at ANWA's very fun retreat--"Gone with the Pen." I went out for a beautiful early morning walk. Fresh mountain air. Warm pine scent. Restful. Still except for the birds and squirrels. I turned around to retrace my steps back to the cabin, and a deer bounded off into the woods. A few yards farther and I came across a second deer calmly nibbling on a bush. She stared at me. I stared back. I pulled my phone out to snap a quick shot of proof, and . . . I forgot to charge it last night and the battery was dead. I held my breath and smiled at the deer. She kept eating. I turned my phone off and on, and voila! I got a snippet of power and got this shot of her. I enlarged it some, but phone photos don't have the res to make them really big. I think you can see how bored she is with me.

I was fascinated watching her nibble at the bush. She kept stopping and staring at me. Okay. I get the hint. A little privacy, please. Wander back down the road with me. Breathe deeply. It's crisp and cool and perfect this morning. Leave the road and wander into the forest. Let your feet sink into the thick layer of pine needles and dead leaves. More Michael and Leesie memories tomorrow, but today I'm gone with the pen.

Here's the cabin we're all sharing. Hilarious bunch of talented women here.