Behold: a (modest) mountain of mountains with doors.
My editor/publisher brought me a bagful of these when she met me for lunch, last week. I returned to the day job with them and immediately sold two, to co-workers who won’t be able to come to my launch. The apparent glee with which they carried them away made me reflect on how very lucky I’ve been, in my writing career—even before it was a career. Parents who encouraged me to bury my nose in other people’s books, and then my own. The teacher who suggested that I work on my novel as an independent study project in grade 12 English, and allowed another student to read it instead of an actual, published novel. The first-year undergrad English prof who encouraged us to do one of our assignments as a creative writing piece, read mine, and phoned me to tell me ask what else I’d written, and when he might be able to pick it up at a bookstore. (14 years later, as it turned out.) The Ontario Public Service managers who’ve understood and valued what I do when I’m not in an office. The co-workers who’ll buy anything I write, even though many of them don’t like fantasy and won’t make it past page 15.
I’m so grateful. I’ll express this gratitude publicly on June 1. Please join me.