Happy Birthday Book/Happy Birthday Dad!

It’s my book’s birthday! Here is The Strange Land‘s back cover. In the spirit of birthday, I have given the bear a lollipop and a party hat. (Hey … it’s better than some other things she could be eating!)

Hope this is not too silly for you. I just figured that faithful blog readers have already seen so many pictures of The Strange Land leading up to today’s release date.

Now you can buy The Strange Land on Amazon or on Bookshop. And, if you have already pre-ordered it (thankyouthankyouthankyou), it should start shipping out to you soon.

If it happens that you have not read the first book in the series, The Long Guest, you can buy it here or here and read it as a prequel. (I decided not to photoshop a birthday hat onto Nimri. You are welcome.)

The release date for The Strange Land was chosen in honor of my father, who turns 70 in conjunction with the book coming out. Happy Birthday, Dad! I am a natural reader and probably would have discovered books without your influence, but luckily, we never had to find out whether that would be the case. Instead, your gift for languages, sense of humor, love for literature and the extremely print-rich environment you provided were perfectly in line with my gifts and interests and gave me a huge leg up on eventually becoming an author, not to mention many hours of culture and enjoyment, and a safe environment in which to develop. It is safe to say that without you, the world would never have been introduced to the universe of the Scattering Trilogy. Now you are 70, which in the world of the Scattering means you are barely middle-aged. May you live to be 130, like Nimri. I love you!

Mongolian Throat Singing!

So, this cool dude is ripped from the pages of The Long Guest. Singing, with his daughter, on a little stringed instrument, about … what else? … horses. In Mongolian. In Mongolia.

Except he is even cooler than any character in my book, because he does “throat singing,” which as far as I can tell, basically involves turning his voice into a digeridoo.

Also, his daughter is adorable.

This video just makes me very happy.

Here is a link to the Classic FM article which gives some background about the singer and about throat singing.

“Don’t Eat My Family”

Here is Ikash, who was a teenager when he was the protagonist of my novel The Strange Land. Now he is a husband and father, and he is doing what husbands and fathers do … trying to protect his family from the scary things in the world. (Of course Hyuna could help with this too, but as you can see, she recently had a baby, so she needs him to do the heavy lifting.)

This exact scene does not happen in my third book (at least not yet!), but it does illustrate his basic stance throughout that novel.

The black and white drawing did not scan great … a lot of detail was lost … but I needed something to post.

Are you perhaps feeling like this right now?

Raised by the Dictionary

[Five-year-old] Thomas sat on the dusty brown carpet between his two brothers with a well-worn dictionary in his lap. He kept it with him when he watched TV in case he came across a new word.

“What is it Mom and Dad do with these people?” he asked.

[Thomas’s brother] Henry stared at the TV and pushed the buttons on the remote. “Exorcisms,” he said.

“Exorcisms,” Thomas thought out loud as he flipped through his dictionary. “How do you spell that?”

Henry smiled derisively. “X-O-R-S-I-S-U-M-S.”

Thomas raised a skeptical eyebrow and flipped to the “E” section.

The next half hour passed quickly as he read about existence, existentialism, exit permits, exorcism, exoskeletons, and exotic dancers.

–The Resolve of Immortal Flesh, by Rich Colburn, p. 13

Dad of the Year

“Mississippi family of four miraculously survive tornado inside concrete room”

This man, his wife, their 2-year-old and their 6-month-old baby survived a tornado that took their entire house … except the concrete room where they were sheltering … which room they had recently bought the house for.

They had been in the house with the safe room mere weeks.

The dad had been in the safe room 20 seconds before the tornado hit.

“I’m just going to let the insurance handle it and trust in the good Lord,” says Andrew Philips.

You may be a prepper, but you’ll never be a prepper like this guy.

“Book, Don’t Fail Me Now”

The following is a poem by Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet. Bradstreet was a poet and a mom. This poem compares publishing a book to sending your child out into the world: you dress the kid as best you can, attempt to wipe his or her face, and just pray that he or she doesn’t embarrass you out there.

I was introduced to this poem in an American Lit class in college, and even then I thought it was clever. At the time, of course, I had no children and had not published anything.

In the years since, I’ve thought of this poem once or twice whenever I do manage to publish something and find that it can look very different staring up at you from a newspaper than it looked on my laptop. Truly, works of literature, like children, when we turn them loose on the world do not always behave the way we hoped they would.

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends less wise than true,

Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th’press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array ‘mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.

In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known,

If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

The Author to Her Book, by Anne Bradstreet, via poetryfoundation.org