I tell my creative writing students that their readers will surprise them. I say that, once their story’s out there, someone will come up with a theme they’d never thought of, or a take on a character that’s strange and new and yet totally credible. I tell my students this because it’s happened to me. (My favourite example: two very thorough thematic analyses of my first book, posted on the Internet on the same day—one by a Wiccan, the other by a born-again Christian. Both loved the book; both had odd, compelling, somewhat disquieting things to say about it.)

It’s just happened again.

Bianca finished The Pattern Scars a few weeks ago. Ray finished it around the same time. Their reactions to the book’s protagonist were so deliciously, diametrically opposed that I asked them to write said reactions down, for my own blogging purposes. Which is exactly what they did. (And they did not read each other’s pieces.)

If you’ve read the book, you may continue reading this post. If you haven’t read it and intend to, stop right here, because everything that follows will be rife with spoilers. (I’m going to try to insert a “cut”. We’ll see how that goes.)

Without further ado: heeeeere’s Ray.

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I haven’t had any trouble with each of my three books’ dedications. With the wording, perhaps, but never with the names, which slipped onto those first blank pages as if I’d been turning them over in my head for as long as I’d been writing the books. (Yes, OK, so maybe I had.) But an Acknowledgements section? Nope. Never. What if I forgot someone? What if, in the process of not forgetting anyone, I ended up with an Acknowledgements section as long as a really, really tedious Academy Awards acceptance speech? That, or a Yearbook entry unintelligible to anyone but the person being written to: Ohio ’88—mustard and inflatable eggs! Never forget! So normally I’m loath to say my thank you’s in a public forum. But my book launch, on Saturday, November 5, was different.

Great, thought I, in the days leading up to the event; I know exactly whom to thank. No need to write anything down. And if I get overwhelmed and goofy [and, as it turned out, virus-ridden], I can simply scan the attendees for faces that’ll make me think: Oh yes! How could I have forgotten you?

This worked, right up until the end of my gloriously notes-free speech. It worked until the point when I should have thanked someone whose contribution to this book was profound and immeasurable—and didn’t.

So here’s what I said—or should have.

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The first line of the Bakka-Phoenix invitation to this launch was: CAITLIN SWEET IS BACK! And it’s true: I’ve been away for a long time; nearly seven years. Today, though I normally avoid acknowledgements, I do have thank-you’s to say—because there are so many people who supported me, even unintentionally, during the writing of this book.

Everyone at Bakka-Phoenix Books. They’re awesome, all of them, and I think they’re responsible for every single sale of my second book. Their support of local authors is unrivalled—and I’m delighted that my third book launch is also my third book launch with them.

Dave Nickle. Who said to me, one day over sushi, “You know, you really should show this manuscript to ChiZine. Want me to send them an email about it?”

ChiZine Publications—which is to say: Sandra Kasturi, for being the second wonderful editor I’ve ever had (and for teaching me that “Welsh rabbit” doesn’t actually contain bunny). Brett Savory, for driving my advance copies to me and always being so tireless and reassuring—and for forgiving me when I called him “Brent.” (And really: Savory & Sweet—how cool are we?) Sam Beiko, for impressing me with her proofreading skills and then blowing me away with her endpaper-designing ones. Erik Mohr, for the cover that still takes my breath away. Ryan McFadden, for the Baby Duck (though he gave me this years before he turned my manuscript into an ebook).

My sister Sarah. Yes, the book is dedicated to her—and yet in the dedication I merely allude to her effect on my work. I’ve depended on her incisive and impassioned critiques ever since she was about ten, sitting cross-legged on my single bed, telling me what did and didn’t work in Rowansong (my once-and-probably-forever unpublished YA fantasy). The Pattern Scars was withering on the vine when I gave it to her to read, and she resuscitated it—paradoxically enough, by telling me to get rid of Book II (25,000 words of it). I continue to need her quite desperately.

Peter (Tall Science Fiction Writing Husband). When I met him, I’d already been working on the book for a little over a year. When I finished the first draft, one late July night/morning at 2:30 a.m., he was still awake, across the city, and he got all teary because he understood my own wobbly joy so well. And then there was that evening, six months later, when my agent dumped me over the book. It also happened to be Peter’s birthday. There was no celebratory dinner: just me in the foetal position, and him still, always understanding.

Each and every U of T student I’ve had since fall 2007. I started the book then, and shortly thereafter began regaling my classes with examples that I hoped would illustrate both craft- and business-related elements of writing—by which I mean: I really needed to vent, and they were incredibly generous ventees. I continue to hope that the venting sounded like insight. Special mention goes to Leigh-Ann, who somehow managed to be student and mentor at the same time. (The Merlot was helpful, too.)

My Kids. I sometimes got cranky when the writing wasn’t going well. I sometimes got cranky when it was. They coped admirably. Also, they watched several Harry Potter movies in a row while I sat on the porch and scribbled the last chapter of The Pattern Scars—and they only asked for popcorn once.

Chris Szego. Though she is, of course, a stellar bookstore manager, she’s also been much more, to me. She brought me packing material when I was moving. She came to my place armed with books and helpful advice when I was newly agentless and floundering, wondering what to write next and whether this even mattered. She’s the steadiest, most steadying kind of friend.

And now. Now, at last:

Martin Springett. I thought I was lucky, when he did the cover for my first book. A once-in-a-lifetime experience, I thought—and yet, nine years later, there he was again, putting images to my words. And what images they are: bones, trees, eyes, a girl’s face, a woman’s—all dark, stark, and beautiful. The Pattern Scars is so much richer for them.

So thank you, Spong, for these images. For Nola and Borl and Uja, sketched on pieces of tracing paper and taped together; now hanging, gloriously framed, on my dining room wall. And thank you for your friendship of these many, many years. I am so much richer for it.

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Now for some photos—all of them taken by Martin’s amazing daughter Rebecca.

Autumn makes me crazy, in a prickly, poignant kind of way.  Twenty years ago, I would have used the word “aching” to describe how I was feeling about it. Indeed, I likely would have needed a copy editor to point out that I’d used this word ten times in three pages. (Aching-ness tends to get in the way of careful writing.)

Things happen to me, in autumn. Obviously things happen to everyone, all year—but for some reason, autumn things feel different to me. Among them: Giving birth to my first daughter. Sitting by my best friend’s bed as she died. (She was also a first daughter, as am I.) Walking into a bungalow so magical that I bought it without looking at any other houses.

Loss and joy and change, all reflected in the pathetically fallacious mirror of a sky that’s either suddenly golden or sullenly bruised. (To say nothing of those gorgeous, falling leaves.)

This autumn:

My newest U of T class begins on October 4.

A phone call will summon me, if available, to the birth of a friend’s first daughter. (She is, in fact, due on October 4—though first babies often make you wait.)*

That first daughter** of mine turns 12 on October 9.

My book appears on shelves the week of October 10.

Anticipation and memory—such a poignant, prickly, seductive mess.

*Baby Penelope decided to arrive right on time: Oct. 4 at 4:45 p.m.  I stumbled from the hospital (where I’d spent a night and a day) to the university an hour later.  I’m fairly sure it was a class of questionable quality.  On the up side, though: baby Penelope is here!  Safe and sound.

**Though I’ve made repeated mention of them, I in no way mean to imply that first daughters are better than subsequent ones.

Colin Harvey and I met in August 2009, under the fearsome gaze of an angry robot. In fact, the robot wasn’t all that angry – more cranky, and quite cute. It was Worldcon, that annual gathering of geek, and this particular party was on an upper floor of the Delta Hotel in Old Montreal. Angry Robot Books was launching some novels, and I arrived at the festivities before my friends did. I sat alone for a few moments, sipping a tepid and tangy white wine from a delicate plastic cup. But then one of the Angry Robot authors introduced himself – Colin Harvey, from between-Bristol-and-Bath – and I wasn’t alone any more.

There was much jollity, that night. Months later, via email, our conversations remained witty (well, they did!), but they were also threaded through with a quiet sort of seriousness – about day jobs and night jobs, school, family, cats and dogs, Sunday dinners – and about how to write, in and around all these other things.

Colin died on August 15, at 50, of a stroke.

He asked me, early in our correspondence, for a 300-word piece about teaching creative writing; he wanted to feature it on his blog. I assured him for months that I’d get it to him, but I never did. The emails had slowed by mid-2010, thanks to various forms of chaos on our respective sides of the Atlantic. But I knew he was still there. You expect this of certain people – that they’re continuing, more or less as you are. Only now he’s stopped. And I reel with selfish, helpless, dizzy thoughts:  It’s not fair   He was so young   He had loads more books to write   Why didn’t I get him those 300 words and why does this matter so much to me now?

I went back through our emails, of course – at first just to hear his voice again, and then, this morning, in search of a Snapshot of Colin Harvey’s Wonderfulness that I could share. There were many contenders. This one won.

We found a baby hedgehog at the weekend. He got dubbed Spike (of course). He ate a whole load of chicken, made Alice [the blue rowan cocker spaniel] very jealous, and got so restive — having recovered from whatever ailed him in the first place — that we had to let him go Saturday night. And then he was gone.

And I miss him.