Thursday, February 26, 2009
Concerning the Release of Book Two
Huzzah.














Okay folks, here's the deal....

Whatever release date you've heard for book two is simply untrue. There is no release date because the book isn't finished yet. I'm working on it right now. Or rather, I would be working on it if I wasn't writing this blog.

Yeah. It sucks. I wish it was finished too. My life would be really great right now if book two were done.

I've been avoiding writing this blog for a while. It's not fun to write, and it's not going to be fun for most people to read. The truth is, I'd much rather work on the book.

But recently, a remarkably courteous and lucid e-mail from a fan made me realize that a lot of people out there are more curious than pissed about it.

So. There's the news. The Wise Man's Fear won't be out for a while. This won't come as a surprise to many of you. Especially those who know not to trust everything Amazon says. Plus, I've been pretty open about the fact that I'm still working on revisions.

You see, even if I finished the book today and it was perfect, it couldn't be on the shelves by April. It takes a long time to get a book into print. Months and months. There are a lot of steps.

Since many of you will be disappointed by this news, I figure the least I can do is explain why it's taking so long.

If you don't care about that, skip down to the bottom and check out "The Upside." That's the good news.

For the curious among you, here are some of the reasons My revisions are taking so long.


My book is long.

Over the last six weeks, I have written roughly 60,000 words. Pretty good words if I do say so myself.

To give you a bit of perspective, there are entire novels that are only 60,000 words long. Stardust, for example. Coraline was only 30,000 words long. (I mention these two because I just listened to an interview with Neil Gaiman.)

That means that since the beginning of the year, I've already written an entire novel's worth of text.

The Name of the Wind is bigger than that. It was over 250,000 words. The Wise Man's Fear is looking to be even longer, maybe more than 300,000 words.

Why did my book need these 60,000 words? Well, I realized part of the book wasn't as well-developed and satisfying as it needed to be. It needed more action, more tension, more detail. It needed to be re-worked, expanded and generally betterized.

It took 60,000 words to do the job. My book effectively ate an entire novel's worth of text. A short novel, admittedly. But still, it gives a sense of perspective.



My book is different.

In case you hadn't noticed, the story I'm telling is a little different. It's a little shy on the Aristotelian unities. It doesn't follow the classic Hollywood three-act structure. It's not like a five-act Shakespearean play. It's not like a Harlequin romance.

So what *is* the structure then? Fuck if I know. That's part of what's taking me so long to figure out. As far as I can tell, my story is part autobiography, part hero's journey, part epic fantasy, part travelogue, part faerie tale, part coming of age story, part romance, part mystery, part metafictional-nested-story-frame-tale-something-or-other.

I am, quite frankly, making this up as I go. If I get it right, I get something like The Name of the Wind. Something that makes all of us happy.

But if I fuck it up, I'll end up with a confusing tangled mess of a story.

Now I'm not trying to claim that I'm unique in this. That I'm some lone pioneer mapping the uncharted storylands. Other authors do it too. My point is that doing something like this takes more time that writing another shitty, predictable Lord of the Rings knockoff.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to write a that sort of book. It would be nice to be able to use those well-established structures like a sort of recipe. A map. A paint-by-numbers kit.

It would be so much easier, and quicker. But it wouldn't be a better book. And it's not really the sort of book I want to write.


I'm still pretty new to all of this.

Two years ago, I was a part-time teacher. I was poor, obscure, and pretty content to stay that way. I learned to write as a happy, carefree nobody. No deadlines. No editors. No stress.

Since then I have somehow become an international bestselling author. I've paid off my credit card debt. I own a house. I own a car. I get fanmail and invitations to conventions.

And, honestly, for big parts of this time I have been pretty miserable.

The reason for this is Psyke 101 simple. Stress is caused by change, and the last two years of my life have been nothing but change. Some bad. Some good. But it all boils down to the stress of suddenly having a completely different life.

It's taken me the better part of these two years to get my feet under me again. It's been hard for me to get back to the familiar headspace where my good writing happens.

I'm glad to say I seem to have finally made it. My writing is finally going well. I've made great additions to the book over the last three months, where before that when I sat down to write it was like masturbating with a cheese grater. (Vaguely amusing, but mostly painful.)

Not only do I seem to be back in my happy place, but I've managed to do it without destroying my relationship, developing a substance abuse problem, or getting all twisted up and bitter inside. I'm pretty pleased about that.

Best of all, I feel like myself again. But it was a long, slow while in coming.


I am obsessive.

A week or so ago, I wrote a sentence that wasn't quite right. It bothered me like a popcorn husk stuck in the back of my throat. The problem was the word 'girlish.' It wasn't the right word. Close, but not right.

I thought about it when I went to bed that night. I thought about it in the shower. And the next day when I was driving into town to buy groceries it came to me. 'Childlike.' That was it. The perfect word.

You need to understand that I am a freak, and words are just the tip of the iceberg. The order of scenes, characterization, tension and subplot. I obsess about these things. I don't want them good. I want them perfect.

I like to think this obsessive attention to every little thing is a part of what makes my books worth reading twice. Worth telling your friends about. Worth writing smutty yaoi fanfic about. But it takes time.

One word down. 299,999 to go.


I have a life.

Last but not least, I do have a life.

I have everyday things that need doing. I have a sidewalk to shovel, a lawn to rake, groceries to buy, and dishes to do. These things take time.

Okay. I lie. Sarah does the dishes.

I have a job. Part of that is writing book two, true. But part of it is also working with my foreign translators. We've sold The Name of the Wind in 27 countries so far, and there are a lot of seemingly innocent things in the first book that are important later on. I have to try to make sure these things are not lost in translation. That takes time.

Part of my job is also going to conventions, doing readings or workshops. I have taxes to manage. (And I fucked that up this year, let me tell you.) Part of my job is talking with movie people, or game people, or comic book people. This takes time.

Also, I like to have fun. I have a girlfriend who is good at kissing. I like to play boardgames. I enjoy role playing, though I don't get much chance these days. I like reading books and watching movies. These things are important. Without them I would become a dry, joyless husk of a man.

A dry, joyless husk cannot write a book that is full of wonderful things.



"Gee Pat, what can I do to help?"

Goodness. What a considerate question. Thanks for asking.

In concrete terms, there's not much you can do to speed book two along. Ultimately, nobody can write it but me.

That said, it would be nice if everyone was conscious of the fact that I am a person, not a whirling machine that does nothing but churn out EFP.

It would also be nice if folks avoided bitching to me about the delay. It's really counterproductive. I actually do read all my e-mail and the comments on my blog. When someone goes out of their way to snipe and bitch at me... Well, the best possible outcome is that it makes me tired and depressed.

At worst it makes me think things like, "You little fucker, I'll be damned if I write you a book! I'm going to play Spore for 15 hours just to spite you!"

Now I'm not saying you can't be pissed. Feel free. And I'm not saying you shouldn't express those honest emotions. Don't keep it bottled up. It's not healthy.

What I *am* asking is that you don't bring your frothy rage round here to my house. Screed away on your own blog, curse my name on a discussion board, punch your pillow. By all means, vent your spleen. Just don't vent it at me. It makes me hurty inside.

I say that as a joke, but like most jokes it has a grain of truth to it. That's the reason I've turned the comments off for this blog. I know they would break down roughly like this:

30 considerate, supportive comments.
20 touching, heartfelt comments.
15 funny comments
10 comments saying, "Meh, I already knew."
5 passive-aggressive snarks masquerading as one of the above.
1 comment from some anonymous frothy dickhole.

And you know which comment I'd focus on? Yeah. The last one. It would sit there like a steaming turd in my bowl of cereal. It doesn't matter how delicious the cereal is. It could be Fruity Pebbles, or even Cookie Crisp. But in a situation like this it doesn't matter. You can't just eat around it. All you can do is focus on the turd.

That's why I've turned the comments off for today. I'm really fond of y'all. Over this last year, interacting with my readers has been one of the true, rare joys in my life. You have shown yourselves to be intelligent, funny, and generous. And many of you continuously surprise me with how are gracious and kind-hearted you can be. Many of you are enthusiastic to the point where it gives me a tingle.

I'm not just glad to have you as readers, I'm proud to have you as readers. You are my Cookie Crisp, and I don't want one turd to spoil how I feel about you.

Good lord. I'm pretty sure I just wrote a completely new sentence. I'd be willing to bet what I just wrote up there has never, ever been said before in the history of history. Hallmark should turn that into a Sweetest Day card. I'd buy one.

Okay. We good here? Yeah. We're good. Let's move on to....


The upside.

A while back, I was thinking to myself, "This fictional release date is going to cause problems. My lovely readers will be powerfully ensaddened. What could I possibly do to ease the sting of it a little?"

Then someone sent me a link to something Brandon Sanderson was doing.

So here is the silver lining. I'm going to hold a lottery, and the winner will get to have their name in book two. Maybe your name, or your mom's, or your kid's. Your choice.

Now I'm not saying that I'll stick *any* name in. If your WOW character is named Wonkerbee Bumchuck, it just won't work. But I'm sure the two of us will be able to get to a place where you're happy, and the name is a welcome addition to The Wise Man's Fear rather than something that compromises the integrity of the story.

I'm still working out the mechanics. But it will be free, and it will be open for everyone. When I get all the details worked out, I'll make an announcement here on the blog.

This is my way of apologizing for the delay. It's also my way of thanking you all for being gracious and patient with me. This I appreciate more than words can say.


Fondly,

pat

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Monday, February 16, 2009
My Trip to LA: Part Two

Just a reminder folks. This is part two of a longer blog. Part one is over here.

[...]

I've had the chance to hang out with some pretty cool people over the last year: Peter S. Beagle, Tad Williams, Neil Gaiman. Folks I've idolized for a long time. But I never had this strange vertigo with any of them.

I've thought about it a lot since then, and right now my best guess is this.

I think talking to someone you've seen on TV is like meeting someone you already know. Your brain has become familiar with the image of this person, you know the texture of their voice, their body posture. For all intents and purposes, you know them.

Except you don't. You're just familiarized to the sensation of them. What's more disorienting is that if they're an actor, the personality you've attached to their image isn't really their own. Or at least it's not *entirely* their own.

I don't think it's the same with writers. When you're experiencing our work, you don't see our faces. You might get a peek inside our heads (or think you get a peek) but that doesn't lead to the same visual imprinting that you get from watching someone on screen.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I've probably watched Dr. Horrible over a hundred times since it came out. I haven't watched The Guild *quite* as much as that, but if you count the times I've re-watched each of the individual episodes, I've probably moved into the triple digits by now.

This means that in the last year, I've seen Felicia Day's face more than I've seen the face of my own sister. More than I've seen the faces of any of my friends who all live out of town. More than any real-world face except Sarah's, and honestly, during the week when Dr. Horrible was first released, that particular race might have been too close to call.

I think that's what where this strange vertigo came from. It was some rational part of me hitting my the degauss button in my brain again and again. Helping me realize that the person in front of me was fundamentally different from the person I had been watching on the screen of my computer.

And eventually it worked. I was able to settle down and talk with her and the moments of odd vertigo grew farther and farther apart. Unfortunately one of those moments happened when I was signing a book for her. A signing that I screwed up to a degree that still embarrasses me.

I also have to say that I was really impressed with everyone else at the signing. I know a lot of people must have recognized her, but from what I saw, nobody freaked out on her or hassled her.

Part of this I'm guessing has to do with the fact that we were in LA, but I'm willing to lay a lot of it on the fact that my readership seems to be composed of very cool, intelligent people.

For example, when I was signing books after the reading, a couple folks came up to the front of the line, and thanked me for introducing them to Dr. Horrible on my blog.

I motioned them a little closer and they leaned in. "Be cool about it," I said quietly, excited to get the chance to tell someone who could appreciate the news. "But Felicia Day is here. She's behind you, standing in line!" I grinned, vibrating with geeky joy. Probably looking like a garden gnome who has recently stumbled onto the a particularly interesting patch of mushrooms.

"We know!" They grinned too, just as excited as me.

After the signing, the lot of us went out to dinner: me, my gracious hosts, a few of their friends, and Felicia day.

We ended up at a small restaurant, where I had the best Thai food of my life. And I must say, sitting there, surrounded by rocket scientists, librarians, and other persons of eclectic occupation. Chatting and trading stories with Felicia day. It was my own personal Valhalla.





Lastly, since we're talking about public appearances, I'm going to be having a little reading up here in Hayward in a week or so.

So if you live up here in the north woods of Wisconsin and are not an elk, feel free to swing by. It should be a nice cozy event with just a few of us, so I'll have plenty of time to chat with everyone who comes. Plus, I hear there will be cookies.


February 26th, Thursday, 6:00-8:00

Hayward Public Library
10788 HWY 27/77
Hayward, WI 54843

For more info call 715-634-2161


And back to work for me,

pat

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Saturday, February 14, 2009
My Trip to LA: Part One

So, it's been about a month since my trip to LA.

Now some folk will quibble and say that I was in *Pasadena,* not LA. But that is a distinction that matters primarily to folks who live in the LA area. To the rest of us, that entire gob of city there in Southern California is all LA.

It's best not to split hairs about these sorts of things. If we're going to get technical, I would have to explain to people that I'm not originally from Madison proper. I'm actually from the Town of Burke, right next to Madison. And right now I'm not in Hayward, hiding from the world and writing, I'm in the nearby township of Lenroot, or something like that.

These are pointless little truths that don't do anyone any good.

This is the art of storytelling, you see. Telling small lies in pursuit of a larger truth. The art of being a reader is being willing to work a little to get at the meat of the story, while at the same time accepting the occasional bent technicality and comma splice.

Anyway. LA was awesome. I was flown out by the lovely folks responsible for one of the winning pictures in the photo contest. Not only are these ladies lovely and willing to get naked for my book, but they are also rocket scientists. Seriously. So while I was out there, I got to take a tour of JPL and look at cool spaceship stuff.

I got to see oranges growing on trees. Which might not seem like a big deal for most of you, but for me it was pretty cool. I also saw lizards running around wild, and can now identify a eucalyptus tree. I got to play some new board games and walk around outside without wearing a coat or hat or anything.

The book signing itself turned out to be a marvelous success. We had a surprising number of people show up, I'm guessing 100 or 120. They had to bring out a bunch of extra chairs, and even then people were standing in the isles and sitting on the floor.

It was a good crowd. I read a few Survival Guides, a poem, and a snippet of book two. I told some stories, answered questions, and got a few laughs. Afterwards, I signed a buttload of books and got to chat one-on-one with folks. Someone brought me wine, someone else brought me an entire care package including memory sticks and tickets to Disneyland.

Though I love the swag, I feel obliged to remind folks that the "Something Cool" rule only applies to books you're mailing in for me to sign.

That said, if you have something you'd *really* like to give me, far be it from me to stop you….

Of particular interest was something that happened halfway through the reading. I was answering some question or another, and I looked out and saw Felicia Day sitting at the back of the crowd.

Now this is the point in the story where I don't exactly know what I should say. Normally when I'm telling a story out of my real life, I go with the truth, even when it's embarrassing or unflattering. I don't know exactly why I feel obliged to do this, but I do.

But for some reason, as I tell this story, I want to lie. I want to pretend I was laid-back about it. Pleased, of course, but also nonchalant. I'd like to portray myself as relaxed… cool. Like the Fonz from Happy Days. Or like the modern-day fantasy author version of the Fonz: Neil Gaiman.

I've seen Neil Gaiman a couple times. He's a great public speaker, funny, insightful. He knows how to work a crowd, and he's irritatingly good at reading his own work out loud.

Even better, he's terribly gracious in person. I once watched him get ambushed by a fan who was desperate to have Gaiman read his manuscript. The guy clung to Gaiman and wouldn't take no for an answer. I found it irritating from a distance of fifteen feet, but Gaiman was unfailingly polite through the whole exchange.

I'm not graceful in that way. I honestly don't know how I come across in public, but sometimes I expect that it's something like the way my old dog, Pup, used to behave.

He was a big liony mutt that I grew up with as a kid. An outside dog who never knew a fence, as we lived out in the country and let him run wild. He a smart dog, and a vicious hunter. He patrolled our house, protecting us from pretty much anything.

Despite the fact that he was a great hunter and defender, he was also very friendly. Unfortunately, it was like he never figured out that he wasn't a puppy anymore. When someone came over for a visit, Pup would jump up on them, putting his paws up on your chest (or your shoulders, if you were shorter) and lick your face.

This is fine behavior if you're a fluffy puppy with milk-breath, or if you're an adult dog hanging out with your family. But Pup treated everyone that way, even when he was full grown, shaggy, and smelling of whatever interesting he had found to roll in.

I suspect that's what I must be like when I'm in public most of the time. I'm this great shaggy beast who gets excited about meeting new people, and does the conversational equivalent of jumping up on people and licking them in the face.

This means that when I want to be socially graceful, I need some sort of internal touchstone about how I should act. So when I see Felicia Day sitting in the back of the room, I think to myself: WWNGD?

I'm guessing he would not, for example, stand up at his own reading and say: "Holy shit everybody! Felicia Day is here!"

So I didn't either. But I tell you, it was a near thing. I'm pretty sure I kept my game face on, and kept answering whatever question I was in the middle of. But the truth is, inside I was standing up and pointing, shouting: "Holy shit! Everybody! Felicia Day!" with all the enthusiasm of a four-year-old who has just seen his first real firetruck drive by on the street.

(Re-reading this, I think I need to add another item to my ever-growing list of Things You Should Never Compare a Woman to Under Any Circumstances. Number Seven: Firetruck. Perhaps any type of truck.

For the record, please note that this particular use of firetruck is being used to describe my reaction to Felicia, not Felicia herself.)





Anyway, after the reading, I managed to grab Felicia and chat for a bit before I started signing books. By this point I'd settled down a bit and was able to behave like a regular human being.

But still, every once in a while, my head would spin around a bit and I would think, "Wha? Who is this? Holy shit. I'm talking with Felicia Day!"

*****

Well folks, due to my tangential nature, this particular blog has ended up being WAY longer than I'd intended. I'll post the rest of it in a day or two, how's that?

In the mean time, if you don't know what the big deal is, you can go check out Dr. Horrible, where Felicia plays Penny. Or The Guild, which Felicia writes and produces in addition to playing the part of Codex.

Later,

pat

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Wednesday, February 11, 2009
My Funny Valentine

One of the side effects of working on the book intensively is that everything else tends to fade from my awareness. I fall behind on e-mail, miss scheduled appointments, ignore Sarah, and tend to let the blog slide.

So yesterday, as I hauled firewood into the cabin, I thought, "Is it February? Isn't Valentines Day coming up?"

Then I thought, "Won't I be up here in Hayward, shackled to The Wise Man's Fear over Valentine's day?"

I realized it was true and went inside to call Sarah. I asked if she was cool with that.

She was cool with that.

I went back to carrying firewood and found that I couldn't remember when I'd last posted a blog, or what it had been about.

Then I thought, "I'm pretty sure I've written a Valentine's day column at some point in the past. If I could find it, that would save me some time."

So, after I was done schlepping in the wood. I dug through my files and found I was correct. I had written a Valentine's Day column. In fact, I had written several of them over the years.

Then I found this one. A column I had written several years ago and forgotten about until now.

This, my friends, is what we writers refer to as serendipity.

[Editor's note. For a few of the references in this column to make sense, you have to understand that by the time I did this column, I had been writing it in the local paper for over seven years and actually had a sponsor who underwrote the column. This provided me some much-needed ad revenue, and let me offer prizes to people who wrote in letters. Usually a gift certificate from a local coffeeshop.]

[Editor's note - This isn't really an editor, by the way. It's just me. But "Pat's note" doesn't sound nearly as official.]


Dear Pat,

A friend gave me a copy of your College Survival Guide Collection for Christmas and I spent all break reading it. It was awesome getting to read all the columns from back before I came to School here.

After reading those old columns, I realized your newer columns are a little... angry. Compared to those earlier ones. They're still funny, but they're also kinda grim.

I was just hoping we could occasionally see the kinder, gentler Pat. The Pat that gave advice to the girl with all the scars back when I was a freshman, or wrote the Christmas column in your book. Focus on the positive.

Kaitlin

*****

Pat,

My girlfriend keeps talking about you. All the time. She's all like, "Pat Rothfuss is the funniest guy! OMG! I can't believe the things he says!" Honestly, I'm pretty sick of it.

It's gotten worse since you put up that Myspace page. She read more of your stuff and found some pictures of you and thinks you're "the cutest." So now I'm officially pissed. I'm her boyfriend, I'M supposed to be CUTEST!

So I was thinking I only have two ways to solve this problem.

You could go out on a date with my girlfriend. It would be like a Valentine's day present to her. AND I'm guessing after she meets you she'll realize you're not all that.

We could trade girlfriends. Mine is obsessed. And I'm guessing yours is probably pretty sick of you.

Sad About My Inappropriately Excited Girlfriend

Well SAMIEL, flattered as I am by your proposal, I find myself skeptical. Lately, people have been writing in fake problems just to get free coffee from the Mission. So I suspect that this letter is pure bullshit. Well, maybe not *pure* bullshit, but at least three-nines fine.

First off, there are no photos of me up at myspace, only illustrations. Secondly, nobody says: "OMG!" And lastly, I have a hard time believing anyone would offer their girlfriend a date with someone else as a V-day present.

I expect it's much more likely that this is a blatant attempt to get close to my girlfriend.

While my cynical nature inclines me toward the first possibility, I'm going to take Kaitlyn's politely-phrased suggestion and focus on the positive in this column. I'm going to assume that you're smitten with my ladyfriend, and, with V-Day coming up, you decided to make your move.

No offense to your girlfriend SAM. She's obviously a woman of impeccable taste. But she can't hold a candle to my girlfriend.

My girlfriend's name is Sarah. She is, to put it plainly, the best of all possible girlfriends.

Some of you might remember the V-day column from a couple years back when I bitched about how girls get to cash in on Valentine's day, while guys got screwed in the deal? Well, last Valentine's day, Sarah bought me flowers and candy, took me out to dinner, and gave me a backrub. How's that for cool?

But that's only the tip of the iceberg. She's hella smart, a great writer, and better at math than me. She does community service, keeps up on current events, and makes awesome banana bread. Her hair smells really, really, good.

Sarah is also hot. Beyond hot. I'm not even kidding here. You know when you see a geeky guy walking around an absolute bombshell and you think, "The hell? How did he end up with her? She's a thousand times hotter than him!" Well Sarah and I are like that, with the main difference that I'm pretty damn sexy too.

It's like a story problem: if Sarah is a thousand times sexier than Pat, and Pat is fifty times sexier than you... Do the math: (Damn sexy x 1000 + boobs = Sarah.)





Shes so sexy that Homeland Security is worried about her falling into the hands of the terrorists. Fema has passed a special set of laws requiring her to always wear at least three layers of clothing whenever she's in public. If she wears only one layer, she causes car wrecks. If she wears a tank top, men without protective eyewear have grand-mal seizures and passing women become suddenly bi-curious.

When she gets naked, the sexiness she throws off is like the radiation from a nuclear bomb. If we hadn't lined the walls of her bedroom and bathroom with three inches of lead, no man in Stevens Point could wear tight fitting pants, and every woman in Central Wisconsin would be gay.

I'm running low on space here, so I can't go into details about the sex. So let me just say this: Damn.

Perhaps most importantly, Sarah is sweet. I have a tendency, as Kaitlyn pointed out, to get a little grim. I tend to waver back and forth between a raging inferno of furious anger, and a chilly pillar of bitter cynicism. But being around Sarah is like a drink of cool water. When she's nearby, you realize that the world is a pretty nice place after all. Sometimes her influence is all that keeps me from turning into a cussed, crotchety old bastard.





Love ya sweetie, happy Valentine's Day.

*****

Awww.... Isn't that sweet?

If you'd like to leave a comment for Sarah telling her how lovely she is, feel free.

That said, don't get too fresh. She is, after all, My Girl.

Unless you are lady-types, of course. Then you can get as fresh as you want. Be my guest.


Later all,

pat

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Friday, February 6, 2009
A non-event event

I have a lot of opinions.

I mean, a lot. A super lot. It's kind of what I do. It's my defining characteristic.

You know how most people are 85% water? I am 85% opinions. And most of the time my opinions are... rather strong. They may change from day to day, but there's usually some degree of passion driving them.

When you combine this with a reasonably clever turn of phrase, a tendancy to over-share, hyperbolize, froth, and occationally make bad cussings, you have something that's occationally entertaining to watch from a distance, and somewhat less entertaining to live with.

That said, sometimes I end up with something I feel I *should* have an opinion about, but I really don't.

It's a rather odd sensation. Sort of the mental equivolent of *knowing* your carkeys should be in your pocket, then reaching down in there and having your hand close on nothing. Then you root around, searching, only to find even more nothing. Extra nothing.

That is how I feel about this:






Apparently it's a real book that will be coming out soon.

I thought some of you might find this interesting. Or might have strong opinions of your own. That's why I'm sharing it.

But as for me, I don't have anything to say about it. At all.


Not a thing,

pat

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Monday, February 2, 2009
A writer's job...

Friend and fellow fantasy author Drew Bowling just sent me the following story. It amused me, so I thought I'd share....
I keep running into random people who have read The Name of the Wind. Most of these incidents are pretty damn funny, but I usually forget to send them your way. Here's the most recent:

New Years Eve, I'm partying in Bethesda (city on the edge of Washington D.C.). The ball drops, and a girl starts kissing one of my buddies. When that's all over and done with, I decide to say hi to her, in order to make sure she isn't a succubus (sober, I was not).

We trade pleasantries, and I tell her I'm a writer. She thinks this is cool, especially since I write fantasy, because she loves fantasy.

"What's your favorite book?" I ask. Well, it turns out to be your book, Pat. So I tell her I've meet you, that you're a cool guy, and that no, I doubted you actually knew a name for the wind - other than wind - which would make it do magical things (yes, she really asked me this, and yes, she also had been drinking).

At that point, I suddenly become very cool, or at least much cooler that I was before (which, in hindsight, wasn't cool at all, but rather something of a sweaty mess). So my friend wanders over, and I, being a pillar of loyalty, wander away - but not before I hear the girl say: "I wish Pat had been here at midnight."

I love a story with a happy ending.

If only I *had* been there. I can picture it clearly in my mind. The party is dimly lit, she sees me across the room, her eyes widen in surprise. Then I hear the three words every man longs for...

"It's a bear!" she screams drunkenly. Then, mad with terror, jumps through a plate glass window and falls three stories to her death. Probably landing on my car.

Seriously though. How come I never end up at parties with hot qua-succubi who want to get all makey-outy with a fantasy author? We need kissings too, you know. For research. Into.... verisimilitude. Kvothe does eventually engage in the wicked co-mutual pressing of lips, you see. And I worry if I don't gather enough data before finishing those scenes I won't be able to make it really *real* for the reader.

Yeah. That's it.

pat

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posted by Pat at 38 Comments



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