I Wrote a Weird Book About Two People Who Belong in Different Stories
February 4, 2016 - accent chair
A immature magician and a furious scholarship genius—the characters in my new novel All a Birds in a Sky don’t even go in a same book together. They’re misfits in a eyes of a world, though they’re also uncanny to any other. And that turns out to be a many fun thing to explore. Read an mention and see for yourself!
All a Birds in a Sky has been out for a week or so, and it’s been an heated ride. Getting to geek out with people about this book has been unequivocally fun. This is a book that brings together dual opposite genres—but some-more than that, it’s about dual people who go to dual opposite worlds, and how they learn from any other.
Patricia, a witch, feels private and miserable in core school, though afterwards she grows adult and joins a whole tip village of witches. Laurence is bullied and misunderstood as a kid, though afterwards he gets to work with some of a coolest scholarship geeks on Earth as an adult. we feel like this book finished adult carrying a lot of things about flourishing adult uncanny and afterwards anticipating a people we go with—and a ways that that, too, can get difficult and scary.
So I’m stoked to share with we an mention from All a Birds in a Sky, focusing on a partial where Laurence meets all of Patricia’s associate witches for a initial time. I’m also reading from a book tonight during Skylight Books in Los Angeles!
Danger: Bookstore Is Open!
Laurence had usually adequate time to run home, take a discerning shower, and change before he had to be behind in a Mission to see Patricia. They were assembly during some kind of used bookstore where one of a witches lived. Like, he was infirm or homebound or something, so he usually spent all day and all night in his little bookshop, that Laurence suspected was illegal, right?
He was a kind of nap deprived where he saw LCD-monitor ghosts when he sealed his eyes. When he was a integrate blocks divided from that bookstore, on a dilemma nearby a bacon-wrapped sausage cart, Laurence felt a panic conflict starting. He was going to contend a wrong thing, and these people would spin him into a knickknack. Like Mr. Rose.
“Practice your breathing,” Laurence told himself. He managed to get some oxygen into his brain, and it was like a proxy workaround for nap deprivation. He was substantially droughty interjection to this crazy feverishness wave, so he bought some H2O from a bacon-wrapped sausage guy. Then he done himself travel to a three-story mall with a Spanish-language signs. For Patricia, whom he sensed he unequivocally wanted in his life.
The mall looked deserted, and there was usually one tuber on a belligerent building to beam him to a circuitous staircase that led, past beauty-supply stores that looked dead, adult to a tip floor, where a pointer read: “DANGER. BOOKSTORE IS OPEN.” Laurence hesitated, afterwards pushed open a pathway to Danger Bookstore, with a tinkle of chimes.
The bookstore was one surprisingly atmospheric room, with an ancient carpet that looked exquisite until we beheld that a large circle of glow and flowers during a core was rolling off to a right. Bookshelves lonesome a walls and also jutted laterally into a room, and they were divided into categories like “Exiles And Stowaways,” “Ideas Too Good to Be True,” or “Scary Love Stories.” The books were about half-English, half-Spanish. Besides books, any shelf had memorabilia perched on a edge: an ancient rite dagger, a cosmetic dragon, an collection of ancient coins, and a whalebone that presumably came from Queen Victoria’s corset.
Laurence didn’t get dual stairs inside Danger before someone ran an ultraviolet wand over him, to kill many of a germ on his skin. Patricia rose from one of a imagination upholstered chairs and hugged him, murmur that Laurence contingency not hold Ernesto, a male on a red chaise longue—the one who never left a bookstore. Ernesto hadn’t been out in a object for decades, though his skin was still a gentle brown, and his long, high-cheekboned face had low wrinkles. His gray hair was in a singular braid, and he wore eyeliner or kohl around his eyes. He was wearing a flush smoking coupler and silky blue pajama pants, so his outfit looked quasi-Hefnerian. He greeted Laurence though rising from his chaise.
Everybody was super-friendly. Laurence’s initial sense wasn’t of any one person, though usually of a cackle of people all articulate during a same time and clustering around him, with Patricia examination from opposite a room.
A brief comparison lady with far-reaching eyeglasses on a string, and black-and-white hair in an elaborate bun, started revelation Laurence about a time her shoe had depressed in adore with a sock that was most too big. A tall, large Japanese male in a suit, with a neat beard, asked Laurence questions about Milton’s finances, that he found himself responding though thinking. And a immature chairman of indistinct gender, with brief spiky brownish-red hair and a gray hoodie, wanted to know who Laurence’s favorite superhero was. Ernesto kept quoting a communication of Daisy Zamora.
They all usually seemed so nice, Laurence didn’t mind that they were all articulate during once and superfluous his buffers. Probably this was given of a sorcery thing, and he ought to weird out. But he was too sleepy to make himself worry about things that didn’t already worry him on their own. Laurence was shaken that he smelled like bacon-wrapped sausage fumes.
The bookstore had no flat “old books” smell, and instead it had a good oaky aroma, identical to a approach Laurence illusory a whiskey casks would be before we put Scotch into them for aging. This was a place where we would age well. There was some discuss over either they would go out for dinner— everybody solely Ernesto, that is—or usually move in food. “Maybe we could check out that new hipster tapas place,” suggested Patricia.
“Tapas!” Dorothea, a aged lady, clapped her hands, so her bracelets rang.
The chairman of opposite gender, whose name rather unhelpfully was Taylor, pronounced maybe Laurence would be some-more gentle on neutral ground.
“Yes, yes, we contingency go,” Ernesto pronounced in his gravelly voice with a spirit of a Latin accent. “Go! Do not worry about me during all.” In a end, Ernesto insisted so aloud that they simply contingency leave him behind, everybody wound adult charity to stay in with him.
Laurence couldn’t assistance wondering if he’d usually witnessed a sorceress duel.
Somehow, they managed to locate a Korean taco lorry pushing from one plcae to another, and bought a dozen pointy bulgogi and grill tofu tacos while it was stopped during a red light. Laurence’s taco had a lot of cilantro and onions, a approach he personally favourite it. His stress melted away, and he envied Patricia for carrying such desirable friends. If this had been a entertainment of Laurence’s tribe, by now someone would already have attempted to infer they were a autarchic consultant on some topic. There would have been dick-measuring. Instead, these people usually seemed to accept one another and feed any other tacos.
They all got seats on folding chairs or a handful of tangible armchairs in a bookstore. Laurence wound adult sitting between Taylor, a immature chairman of indistinct gender, and Dorothea, a lady of indistinct age.
Dorothea smiled and leaned over as Laurence chewed his taco. “I once owned a grill that had doorways in a dozen cities around a world,” she whispered. “Each opening wore a opposite menu, promotion a opposite cuisine, though we had no kitchen. Just tables, tablecloths, and chairs. We carried a dishes behind and forth, between a cities in opposite lands. So were we a restaurant, or a conduit?” Laurence wasn’t certain if she was revelation a genuine story or usually holding a piss, or both. He stared, and all during once her face was full of giggle lines.
After dinner, Ernesto sauntered to a bookcase labeled “Parties That Already Ended,” that was especially histories of several empires. He private a Decline and Fall with a develop and a bookcase swung open, divulgence a colonnade heading to a tip bar, with a neon angel on a wall and a pointer proclaiming it to be a Green Wing. The Green Wing was another oblong, atmospheric room like Danger Books, though this one was dominated by a round wooden bar in a core of a room, with a singular shelve full of absinthe. Art nouveau maidens and clear dragons and vellum scripts ornate a bottles, that were any distance and shape. A few people wearing corsets and poofy skirts were already celebration during a high list in a distant corner, though they all waved during Ernesto.
Ernesto climbed inside a bar and started pouring from bottles into shakers. Patricia got subsequent to Laurence prolonged adequate to wheeze in his ear that he should be clever with any splash done or overwhelmed by Ernesto. “Take tiny sips,” she advised. “If we devise on carrying a mind tomorrow.”
None of these people seemed to be super-influential, and if they ruled a universe they were doing a good pursuit of stealing it. In fact, any other review was about how messed adult a universe was and how they wished things could be different. Ernesto churned Laurence something splendid immature that prisoner a neon light, and he held Patricia’s warning gawk before lifting it to his mouth. It smelled so delicious, he had to make a strong bid to equivocate pouring it by his lips. His mouth was full of consternation and joy, and there were so many pointy and honeyed and splendid flavors that he indispensable to keep sipping to brand half of them.
Laurence was legless. He stumbled until someone helped him into a brocaded eighteenth-century chair that he could not find his approach out of again. He satisfied that this was a ideal event to ask some questions about magic, given nobody could censure a dipsomaniac male for being nosey. Right? He lifted his conduct and looked into a overflow of becloud shapes and lights, and stretched to form a not-too-rude question. He was incompetent to find a noun to save his life. Or a noun.
Top image: Carnivale on Mission Street, photo by SharonaGott/Flickr