Giveaways!

Giveaways! Two of them!

The first is a Goodreads giveaway for IN THE COMPANY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, now through October 20:

9781605986586

Kirkus says: The range of the 15 new stories here is remarkable. One of the best, Sara Paretsky’s “The Curious Affair of the Italian Art Dealer,” is the most conservative, taking true delight in approximating Watson’s turns of phrase. Michael Sims retells “Silver Blaze” from the title character’s perspective. Cornelia Funke displays Holmes’ magnanimity toward a young thief who invades 221-B Baker St., and Nancy Holder provides a sad, spectral sequel to “The Beryl Coronet.” John Lescroart shows an aging Holmes helping out in the Dunkirk evacuation. Since Holmes can never die, Michael Connelly reimagines Dr. Watson as a deputy coroner working with Harry Bosch’s LAPD, and Jeffery Deaver, in a characteristically twisty tale, sets a Sherlockian wannabe against New York’s East Side Slasher. Holmes is only one among several inspirations behind Laura Caldwell’s “Art in the Blood,” Denise Hamilton’s “The Thinking Machine” and co-editor Klinger’s “The Closing.” Leah Moore and John Reppion resurrect Holmes in a fast-moving comic book, and Andrew Grant even more breathlessly abridges The Hound of the Baskervilles for social media. Harlan Ellison’s wild fantasia, the strangest item here, is more Ray Bradbury than Conan Doyle. And in the wittiest story, Michael Dirda unmasks Doyle as a Strand house author whose byline conceals the identities of many contributors.

 

Sign up for the In the Company of Sherlock Holmes giveaway on Goodreads, or on Facebook.

But wait, there’s more!

And to help you get all hot and bothered about Dreaming Spies, Random House are giving away a whole bunch of copies of Garment of Shadowsalso on Goodreads:

Garment-of-Shadows-202x300

 

Sign up for that giveaway here–and I hope you all win lots of copies!

Mary Russell’s War (nine): Gold braid and child snipers

29 September 1914

Catastrophe has struck. It is the end of everything. And I have no one to blame but myself.

On Saturday afternoon, at long last, the Parents took Levi and me into their confidence.   Too late.

The letter Papa received from the War Office concerned his intention to enlist in the American army. We are neutral, yes, but that does not mean the government wish to be unprepared. His ability with languages, his family connexions, and some ill-defined (to us, his family) connexions with the Intelligence community conspire to mean that he could be of considerable value, to this country and to England. Not at the Front—even if his limp would allow him to be sent overseas—but in an office in Washington, DC.

Both he and Mother have known for some time that this was coming: this, it seems, was the cause of their disagreement last month. Her immediate impulse, on War’s declaration, was to go home to England, but his utter conviction and her common sense came together in a decision that England was no place to take a family. Once that agreement was reached, they were merely waiting for certain arrangements to be made before revealing their plans to us.

Bitterly, I now learn that Mother was on the edge of convincing him that San Francisco was the safest place for us: that she, Levi, and I would to remain here, continuing with our schooling and her aeroplane-fundraising, rather than (as he wished) that we retreat to my grandparents’ house in Boston. She was on the edge, I say, until…

My fault. Had I not tried to do my part for the War effort, had I not gone after a German spy, the three of us would be waving Papa off at the train station next week. Instead, we shall all board the train with him. It seems that he cannot trust his fourteen year-old daughter to stay out of trouble. Cannot trust his wife to keep control over said daughter. We shall go to Boston, to that fatuous woman, my grandmother, with her small dogs and her flowery hats and her too-warm house that smells of lavender.

Papa had Micah help haul the trunks from the attic, and Mama has begun to pack them, without knowing for how long. Papa wants to go down the Peninsula to the Lodge on Saturday, to retrieve some things we left there on our July holiday there, and to close it up for the coming months. Even years. I would like to accompany him—would like the whole family to go, since it is a place where we have been happy, and which we may never see again. But Mama says we may not be sufficiently packed up by the week-end, and that we probably won’t have time.

My fault, all of it.

And in Europe, the War continues to sink its teeth into civilisation.

Uniforms of French Officers Good Targets

Expert Declares Disproportionate Loss Due to Too Much Gold Braid

and Lace on Clothes.

 

GERMAN AEROPLANE DROPS BOMBS ON PARIS

Man’s Head Blown Off, Child is Crippled and Damage is Done to Buildings.

 

A Twelve-year-old boy has been fighting hard in the rifle pits in the public gardens at Belgrade. He is the pet of the full-grown soldiers and lives the same life as they do, and takes his full share of the sniping, as he is a first-class shot.

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And in further news, a Christmas ship full of gifts is being put together for Europe. No one talks any more, of the War being over before then.

LuRKing on the Web

The Laurie R. King web site has dozens of corners and byways that, if you haven’t gone exploring there in a while, you may not have seen.

For example: If Watson were a Woman—not by Laurie King, but by guest author Fred Erisman, who explores an assertion made in 1941 by Rex Stout, that Watson was in fact a woman.  Yes, before Lucy Liu was even born.

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As Professor Erisman says:

The Watsonian voice, with all its assumptions and elisions, is so much a part of the Holmes stories that it raises a compelling question: what if Watson were someone else, and, more particularly, what if Watson were a woman?

“If Watson Were a Woman,” nestled in the LRK site, here.

TBT: Aww, isn’t Laurie cute?

“Cute” may not be a word that comes immediately to mind when you think of Laurie R. King.  But Laurie Richardson? On a Throwback Thursday? Oh, why not? LK and dogs

This was taken in 1966, when I was fourteen, about the age of Mary Russell in Monday’s ongoing Mary Russell’s War.  I was living in Saratoga, CA, and remembering the size of the house, it was a good thing the dogs, which belonged to my sister, were only visiting.

Anyone else out there remember a wardrobe entirely out of hand-sewn garments? That used to be the cheaper alternative…

Countdown to Dreaming Spies: galley proofs

The proof, or galley stage of a book is when I receive a stack of printed matter that shows what the book will actually look like. This is always a surprise: Wow, it’s a real book! With margins! And pretty stuff!—since the publisher’s art department loves to contribute their little extras to the reading experience, whether it’s the choice of font, a design for the chapter heads, or the pages that separate the book’s sections.DS page

If you look closely at the picture, you will discover a book in progress. Little marks in the corners indicate where the page will be cut for the hardback, with the target-mark at the sides showing the exact halfway point. A line of words and numbers at the bottom tell you my surname, the13-digit ISBN number (part of which is the publisher designation, Bantam books), that page’s number, and a bunch of in-house code that tells them what book they’re looking at. Over at the right, it tells precisely when this set of proofs was printed off.

The proofs are the last time I will have to change things, so I go over every word to make sure that the audio book doesn’t have peculiar juxtapositions, that I’m not repeating myself, that I’ve explained sufficiently but not too much, that I’ve spelled things right, that I haven’t overlooked a passage I’d meant to take out. And individual words—this time I discovered an overuse of the word interesting. Sigh.DS MS

The way to find these mistakes is not to lay the pages down on a desk and go over them with pen in hand. The way to find them is to read every word, aloud, slowly and with attention. I can only do about 40 pages a day before my voice and my brain begin to wander, but when I do find errors, I often am nervous about correcting them then and there. If I’ve used the word interesting twice in a paragraph and want to change one of them to, say, intriguing, what if I used intriguing a few lines before? Because I’m not sure my tongue will have remembered it, I stick a Post It on the side and, at the end, go over the whole thing a second time with the laptop open, doing a word search to check. There are also Post Its to double-check on whether I’ve made proper use of a planted phrase or clue, whether I’ve sufficiently explained a situation, whether the wording on this section is clear enough, whether…

Which is why, by the time I send the proofs back to my editor after two or three weeks, I NEVER WANT TO READ THE THING EVER AGAIN REALLY NEVER.Dreaming Spies

This explains why readers should never regard those Advanced Reading Editions as the final work: AREs are the proof pages, not the corrected proofs. Not only do you get little oddities like wonky spacing (resulting in the word somemeansofkeepingboredomatbay) and a few places where the typesetter has picked up a word from the wrong row in the copy edit (“devoid of passengers” has become “devoid of indicated”) but you’ll also find irritating things like anachronisms (but “hairdo” sounds so Twenties) and a young woman who sits down in Russell’s kitchen in Oxford and takes off a coat that an earlier scene has established she is not wearing,

Things change, up to the last minute. All to make a smoother read for you guys.

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Dreaming Spies publishes five months from today.  I know it’s early, but if you’re on Goodreads, you can note that you’re looking forward to reading it here; if you’d like to pre-order a copy, you can do that now too, with a signed copy from Bookshop Santa Cruz or The Poisoned Pen, or from Barnes & Noble, or from Amazon,