Game time: I'm giving away 3 signed copies of Making Waves

Let's play a game.

I'm making this game up on the spur of the moment because...um, well, I can.

A few weeks ago, I spotted my book in my local WalMart for the first time. I was so ridiculously, dorkishly excited that I started taking pictures of it.

Then I enhanced my dork quotient by asking a stranger to take a picture of me with the book:
I swear it wasn't a sales tactic. I was just genuinely giddy, and probably a little socially inept.

But within three minutes, every single copy of my book had sold. Apparently, acting like an idiot draws attention, and drawing attention to a book tends to make people want to buy it.

Go figure.

I filed the experience in the back of my brain, not quite sure what to do with it.

This is where the game comes in, and here's how it's played:

1. Go to your nearest WalMart, Barnes & Noble, or any other local bookstore you know has a copy of Making Waves.
2. Do whatever it takes to get a stranger to purchase it.
   
3. Email photographic proof of this transaction to me at tawnafenske at yahoo dot com, along with your snail mail address.

Everyone who does this gets an autographed Making Waves bookmark. In addition, I'll draw three entries to receive a signed copy of the book.

I know this sucks if you live somewhere without a bookstore or a WalMart. If that's the case and you really, really want to play, I'll still consider entries that get into the spirit of the game. Like, um...let's say you send an email to all your friends urging them to buy Making Waves, and you include all the links to purchase it on Amazon or Barnes and Noble or Powells Books or IndieBound. And let's say one of your friends replies and says, "hey, I bought it, thanks for the suggestion."

I'll count that.

I'll probably count just about anything that demonstrates an effort to urge strangers or friends to purchase Making Waves. And I'll be eternally grateful if you show proof of success in one form or another.

Deadline for entries is this Sunday, September 4 at 5 p.m. PST. Email me your evidence by then, and you're in the game.

Questions? Leave 'em in the comments.

And thanks, guys. Really. I mean it.

Burning up, and I kinda like it

For the last week, I’ve been walking around with red eyes, a slight headache, and clothing that reeks of smoke.

No, I haven’t been hanging out in a hash bar.

This is Central Oregon in the summertime, where a weird convergence of dry, desert landscape, big trees, and frequent late-summer lightning storms results in an abundance of forest fires each year.

Currently, more than half-a-dozen fires are burning over 60,000 acres. That might sound like a lot, but it’s actually a pretty slow fire season for us.

There are obvious downsides to having everything around you in flames. Aside from the occasional risk of, you know, BURNING TO DEATH, you deal with runny eyes and noses, occasional breathing difficulties, hazy skies, and hair that smells like you’ve been rolling in an ashtray.

But there’s an upside to all the summer forest fires. Every year, I make it a point to pour myself a glass of wine, retreat to my back deck around 8 p.m., and revel in that upside.

Yes, the forest fires make for excellent sunsets. The smoky haze creates an incredible filter for the slowly sinking sun, sending up bursts of technicolor orange, yellow, red, and a whole lot of other colors seldom found in the Crayola box.

Even after a few glasses of sunset-enhancing wine, the metaphor isn’t lost on me. No matter what sort of lousiness life might throw at you, there’s always something positive you can take away from it. Even when everything goes up in smoke, there’s an upside somewhere. Always.

You just have to look for it.

That’s true whether you’re talking about natural disasters, setbacks in your writing career, trauma in your personal life, or walking face-first into a door at work and breaking your nose but being kinda glad you did it because you didn't get stuck in that boring 10:30 meeting.

Hypothetically speaking.

My first book deal that fell through in 2006 when Harlequin canceled the Bombshell line?

I'm so glad now that book never hit shelves. My writing has improved and my voice has changed to the point that I almost don't recognize that story as something I produced.

The unexpected divorce that gobsmacked me earlier this year?

I would never have known how much happier I could be if I hadn't been hit squarely between the eyes by that two-by-four.

Can you think of a time you were surrounded by crummy stuff but saw a silver lining anyway? Is it generally tough or easy for you to do? Please share!

And if you’re having trouble coming up with something, I’d like to humbly invite you to my back deck this evening.

I’ll supply the wine.

Who reads this smut?

Me with Kristina McMorris and
Elisabeth Naughton (in the background
trying desperately to warm her ears)

Saturday afternoon, I had the pleasure of taking part in the 2011 NW Author Fair in Lincoln City, Oregon.

The Sourcebooks publicist arranged for me to be there, and I was giddy at the prospect of hanging out on the Oregon coast with 60+ authors who are much cooler than me.

Besides, nearly every reviewer has called Making Waves a “beach read.” What better place to sign it than at the beach?

OK, so the Oregon Coast isn’t exactly Barbados. I might have lost a few toes to frostbite. It was totally worth it to huddle up with fellow romance authors Kristina McMorris and Elisabeth Naughton and gush to strangers about each other’s books.

Within the first hour of the event, something became pretty obvious. If a customer over the age of sixty strolled past our little romance writer threesome, she was most likely to make a beeline for Kristina’s World War II love story.

I’ve read Letters from Home myself and adored it in spite of the fact that I’m not currently a member of AARP. Still, it’s not tough to see why older readers would be drawn to it.

Pretty soon, I began watching for my stereotypical reader. It took awhile to figure out what she looked like, but I soon found myself perking up at the sight of a woman in her late 30s or early 40s. She was often accompanied by another woman joining her for a girlfriends’ getaway at the coast, or maybe a teenage daughter in tow.

Either way, she had that hungry look in her eye. The look that said, “I need a good, fluffy beach read or a strong cocktail. Maybe both.”

As for Elisabeth – who writes dark, steamy paranormals – I noticed she seemed to catch the attention of anyone with a cool, edgy haircut or more than one piercing. Double bonus points if the piercing was someplace besides the earlobe.

But you know what? We often guessed wrong.

There was the woman in her late 60s with an appliquéd sweatshirt who buzzed right past Kristina and snapped up all of Elisabeth’s titles. There was the middle-aged gentleman who talked to me for a good ten minutes about the evolution of romantic comedy before snagging a copy of Making Waves. There was the woman who made a disparaging comment about “bodice rippers” before buying a book from each of us.

All that to say, you can’t judge a book by its cover – not the books themselves, nor the people who read them.

Well, OK, I might be a little judgmental of the woman who brusquely asked to take a picture of me, “in case you’re famous someday."

Still, since the release of Making Waves, I’ve been endlessly surprised at who’s buying it. Did I expect male readers to love the story, or grandmothers to giggle over the giant purple vibrator, or teen readers to relate to my 37-year-old heroine and 42-year-old hero?

Not really, but I’ll take ‘em. It’s a good reminder to me that even if I have a “target audience,” I’m wise to keep an open mind and remember that readers can come in all shapes and sizes.

Do you have a stereotype in mind when you picture readers of a certain genre? How does a sci-fi reader differ from a memoir fan? Who’d win in a cage fight between a YA reader and one who loves thrillers? Please share your stereotypes.

Then tell me about a time you got it wrong. It doesn't have to be with readers – it can be any stereotype. Surely I'm not the only one?

Way to work that wood

Every now and then, my parents get a chance to remember why I shouldn't be allowed out in public.

They got to rediscover this on Friday at the Oregon State Fair when we stumbled upon the nation’s premier lumberjack competition, the STIHL® TIMBERSPORTS® Series. The event is touted as, "wood-chopping, saw-slicing, heart-pumping lumberjack action."

You already see where this is going, don't you?

I sincerely wish I'd had an audio recorder or a notepad with me to record the running commentary from the ESPN announcers. As it was, I missed a lot of the play-by-play because I was on my knees howling with laughter as tears ran down my face and my mother simultaneously pretended not to know me and not to be every bit as amused as I was.

Here's the gist of what had me in stitches:

Announcer 1: Let's talk a little bit about the wood out here today.

Announcer 2: Yes, definitely! You know, a lot of people don't realize the hardness of the wood makes all the difference when it comes to a competition like this one.

Announcer 1: And believe me, this is some hard wood these guys are dealing with!

Announcer 2: Well, it's not just the wood, but the way the guys handle it. Stepping up to the platform now we have Floyd Jones. Now this man knows how to work the wood!

Announcer 1: Indeed he does. Watch the power behind that motion! He's really putting some muscle into it.

Announcer 2: You really have to appreciate the technique when he's working it from the front like that. A lot of people don't realize the force you need when you come at it from above.

Announcer 1: Oh, things are really heating up now! Look at the precision when he moves around to get at it from behind. That wood is about to give!

Announcer 2: And he's down!

We only got to watch one round before my parents decided we might be better off in the livestock barn.

If you've ever seen ram testicles, you already know that was a severe miscalculation on their part.

So how was your weekend? Any good wood whacking or other forms of unintentional risque humor? Please share!

You ARE a real author, dammit (still! always! yes!)

I've found myself at a lot of book signing events lately. The most perplexing thing about that is that I'm the one doing the signing.

I still can't wrap my brain around that, but if you happen to be in Oregon and you're craving a trip to the coast this weekend, I'd love to see you at the Northwest Author Fair on Saturday, where more than 60 authors from around the region will be hanging out hoping it doesn't rain on us.

The fact that I've been allowed out in public with my author hat on a lot lately has me thinking about a blog post I wrote 16 months ago – just a few months after my agent landed me this amazing three-book deal with Sourcebooks. I was responding to the way people began treating me differently once they learned I had a book deal.

Now that the book has been on the shelves a few weeks and seems to be getting a lot of very lovely buzz, I'm noticing it even more. For that reason, I want to resurrect the post.

I'm editing a couple words from the original to reflect a change in marital status because...um, well, it's my blog, and I can do stuff like that. And I suppose I should change my age from 35 to 37. Oh, and I guess I have to knock a few pounds off my weight because going through divorce means you eat a lot of cold cereal and frozen peas for dinner.

But otherwise, it's the same damn post that ran last April. I still believe every word of it.

So should you.

Friday, April 23, 2010

You ARE a real author, dammit

There’s a list of questions you aren’t supposed to ask a woman, and I’ve never minded answering any of them.

I’ll cheerfully tell you my age (37), my height and weight (5’4” and 113 pounds), or the reason I never had kids (I didn't particularly want them).

But until eight weeks ago, there was one question I truly dreaded:

How many books have you published?

Though the answer now is the same as it was eight weeks ago (none, yet), I can at least follow up by giving details of my upcoming releases.

But I still hate the question. Because let’s face it, the reason the person is asking is to determine if they’re talking to a “real author,” or…well, something less than that.

And that’s an implication that makes me uncomfortable even now that I have a three-book deal that apparently entitles me to carry the “real author” license.

It’s not just people unfamiliar with the publishing industry who seem hell-bent on distinguishing between “real authors” and whatever the opposite of that would be (unreal authors?) We do it ourselves as authors every time we sell ourselves short and allow people to make us feel inferior for the mere fact that we haven’t yet reached that next stage.

I guess this is why I find myself bristling now when someone suddenly treats me differently upon learning about my book deal. There’s a certain level of respect that comes along with that, and I’m not entirely comfortable with it.

I know I sound like an ungrateful bitch, but that’s not it at all. The thing is, I’m the same damn author I was eight weeks ago. Or eight years ago.

If you want to split hairs, two of the three books in my contract started with partial manuscripts I wrote nearly three years ago under a previous agent who just wasn't interested in them. These are the same damn books my current agent adores and my new editor recently gushed over, saying, “everyone here is just in love with your voice.”

So I haven’t changed, right?

But I have, at least in the eyes of writers and non-writers alike. In some ways, this makes my heart swell like a boner in a bad porn.

In other ways, it makes me angry. I’m angry on behalf of every author who’s ever felt sub-par because the magic wand of dumb luck hasn’t yet waved over her head and granted her an agent or a book deal or the level of respect she deserves just for trying to break into publishing.

Writing books is hard work. Everyone who’s ever attempted it deserves the “real author” label and all the respect that seems to come with it.

Whether you’re a brand new writer with distant dreams of publication or someone who’s lost count of the number of weeks spent on the New York Times Bestseller list, you’re still a “real author.”

You have to remember that. The world is primed to make the unpublished author feel inferior, and that can kill your self esteem even more than a bad critique or an outright rejection.

You are a “real author.”

Now go write some real books, dammit.

Do you fake it when you just can't finish?

Sometimes you just can’t finish. You desperately want to, and you try ‘til your eyes roll back in your skull, but there’s a point you know it’s just not going to happen. Then shame sets in, and you wonder if you should admit it or just go ahead and fake it with a gratuitous, “wow, that was really great.”

I’m talking about books, you perverts.

When I was young, I felt it was my duty to finish any book I started reading. It didn’t matter how boring I found the story or how uninspiring the characters. I had to keep going. I owed it to myself, my parents, my library, the author….well, I wasn’t actually sure who I owed it to, but I knew failing to finish a book was a failure of the highest magnitude.

I’ll never forget the first book I gave up on. It was about ten years ago, and no, I won’t name it here. I will say it was a popular bestseller that just didn’t make my toes curl. I felt bad about that. Other people were panting with ecstasy over this book. Why couldn’t I?

But there was something liberating about that first unfinished book. Since then, I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve given up on dozens of books. I’ll usually try for at least 50 pages, but if I’m not feeling the love, I don’t feel the need to keep going.

And yes, I’ve been known to fake it. Come on, we’ve all done it to spare the ego of the person breathlessly waving the tattered paperback and gushing, “I know you’ll love it, it’s my favorite book in the world.”

Sometimes that noncommittal murmur of shared pleasure is all it takes to get the person off your back.

I guess the reason I’m thinking about this is that I did it again yesterday. I didn’t hate the book, and I probably could have kept going, but why should I? I didn’t like the characters, the plot was sluggish, the dialogue stilted, and my to-be-read pile is teaming with other books I’d much rather read.

But I’ll admit there’s still a little guilt involved. Maybe it’s that the book is in the romance genre, so there’s a slim chance I might someday be asked about it. Do I fake it? Or do I perform the, “it’s not you, it’s me” dance and blame my own lack of response instead of the author’s failure to stimulate me?

What do you do in these situations? Do you ever give up on books when they fail to rub you the right way? Please share!

Oh, and congratulations to Judy, Judy, Judy for winning a signed copy of Making Waves in Tuesday’s Fake Q&A contest. Her answer made me laugh, plus I figure the use of multiples in her name should counter-balance the bad climax karma I’ve generated by talking so much about faking this week. Judy, Judy, Judy (yes, yes, yes!) send your snail mail address to me at tawnafenske at yahoo dot com and I’ll hook you up with that signed copy.

Drunk guys say the sweetest things

On Saturday, I attended the Bend Brewfest. It’s a three-day event featuring more than 80 fine beers from craft breweries across the region.

In other words, a great place to get sloshed.

Not that this was my goal. While it’s true I enjoyed my share of delectable adult beverages, I always find it more entertaining to watch other people get hammered.

I hadn’t been there more than twenty minutes when I found myself ravenously hungry. I wandered over to the food court and selected a tasty gourmet sausage made with curry and lemongrass. They served it to me on a stick, so I carried my treat back to the common area to search for my friends.

Within seconds, a strange man in a stained blue t-shirt staggered up with a glazed expression and a mug he struggled to hold upright.

“You know you’re driving every guy here totally crazy,” he slurred.

I looked behind him to see if there was an angry mob forming. I didn’t see one, nor could I recall having done anything to impact the gentleman’s sanity.

I looked back at him. “Come again?”

He closed his eyes and groaned. “Yeah.”

He opened his eyes and nodded at my snack. “You with that sausage. You’re so f**king hot.”

It finally occurred to me what he was getting at, and I tried to discretely wipe sausage juice off my hand to avoid additional comment.

“Sure,” I said as I backed away. “I’m sure it’s especially hot the way I just bit the end off and chewed it into a million little pieces.”

He laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Then he fell over in the grass.

I continued on with my evening, consuming a whole lot of good food and beer and watching as everyone began looking a lot more glassy-eyed. I excused myself at one point to visit the porta-potties. After making use of the facilities, I emerged to discover the hand-washing station had run out of water and paper towels.

Naturally, I didn’t discover this until after I’d soaped up my hands.

A guy beside me made the same discovery, and looked at me with a tipsy grin. He held up his hands for my inspection. “Can I dry them on your shirt?”

“No thanks,” I replied as I focused on pumping a few meager tablespoons of water from the portable sink.

Undeterred, the guy grinned wider. “You want to dry your hands on my pants?”

And just in case I hadn’t understood the offer, he thrust his pelvis at me.

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, backing away. “How about you wipe your hands on your own pants?”

He looked down, probably assessing whether that was an acceptable substitution. “Hey, my fly’s down.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I hear that’s what all the ladies find charming.”

“No shit?”

I wandered away and returned to my evening of excellent beer and food. Still, none of it impressed me quite as much as the creativity of those alcohol-saturated Romeos. Though I doubt either gentleman remembers his romantic gesture, they can rest assured I do.

What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard a drunk person say? For that matter, has someone ever informed you of some pearl of wisdom you’ve offered up after a few too many? Please share.

I’ll be over here deciding whether my dinner sausage would be best accompanied by Pumpkin Ale or Pineapple Wheat Beer.

Win a signed copy of Making Waves for a fake Q&A

There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

It's possible it's an oncoming train, but I'm hopeful it's actually a sign that I'm nearing the end of the Virtual Book Tour that's been devouring my time this past month. I'm also hopeful life might slow down just a bit after this week when my year as the Friday blogger at The Debutante Ball comes to an end.

For now though, I'm still in the thick of it. I wish that were as filthy as it sounds.

Since I'm getting a little loopy answering interview questions these days, I figure I might as well share the joy with you guys. I should probably also share a prize, which is a signed copy of Making Waves.

Here's your task:

1. Write an interview question. It can be a question for me, for yourself, or for anyone you've ever wanted to interview. Be sure to specify who you're aiming your question at when you leave it in the comment trail.
2. Answer your own question. Feel free to be as silly or as serious as you want.

That's pretty much it. I haven't decided yet how I'll pick the winner, but I'll announce it on Thursday's blog. Any questions? Leave 'em in the comments and I'll try to answer.

Otherwise, commence mock interviewing in 3, 2, 1...

Addendum

Just to clarify (since I was probably ridiculously unclear in my original instructions, your interview question doesn't have to be for me. Like, yanno, for example, if you wanted to ask Daniel Craig if he's ever considered leaving his wife and running away with a hot romantic comedy author, that would be good. Hypothetically.

The screwy evolution of author fears

It wasn’t long ago I spent an inordinate amount of time hating my mailman.

OK, I didn’t actually hate him. I hated the sight of him.

Those were the days when a lot of agent queries happened via snail. Each time I saw that battered mail truck creeping along my street, I had a sick feeling he was bringing another rejection. While my natural optimism had me picturing sunshine and rainbows and good news most of the time, there were still days I wanted to shoot out the tires of that truck with a dart gun.

Those days passed after I got an agent, but a new set of fears arrived after that. When we began submitting my work to editors, I got nervous each time I saw my agent’s name in my inbox or on my caller ID. It was still a fear of rejection, but a different sort. I fretted that each time an editor said, “no thanks,” it pushed my agent that much closer to wondering what drugs she’d been taking when she signed me, and whether she could acquire enough to endure the misfortune of keeping a dead-weight client around.

After the book deal came through, I began wondering what my next big fear would be. Bad reviews? Poor sales? A disturbing fungus contracted during a book signing at a nudist resort?

I actually hadn’t put words to my current fear until Friday afternoon when I was getting ready for an event at Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon. I mentioned to my agent that I was nervous, and she asked why.

She probably expected me to express a fear of public speaking or that no one would show up. I probably should have feared those things, given my foot-in-mouth tendencies and the fact that most people have better things to do on a Friday evening than drive to a bookstore to listen to an author yammer.

But what really bothered me was knowing I wouldn’t be able to spend quality time with the people who did show up.

Having survived a similar book signing event before, I already knew the difficulty of trying to connect with everyone. As much as I want to hug all the attendees until their eyes bug out, there just isn’t time (nor does everyone enjoy being mauled by strange authors).

I want to make eye contact with people when I’m reading or answering questions, but I get distracted and end up staring at the weird guy in the back row wearing a fedora and an apron.

I want to chat for hours with everyone who hands me a book to sign, but I can’t seem to pull it off. I’m not saying I’ve got giant lines of people winding halfway down the block, but even a handful of people can get bored and meander away if the author spends too much time gabbing with others about traffic and giant purple vibrators. When I see people leave the line, I panic. Do they hate me? Do they think I’m a snob?

Or more likely, did they mistakenly believe it was the line for free popsicles and now they’re forced to make a hasty exit before things get awkward?

When I was at RWA Nationals, an author pal with a fairly recent book deal was approached by another writer who wanted to go out for drinks. Exhausted and overcommitted, the author politely declined.

“So you think you’re too good to hang out with unpublished authors now?” the other writer snapped.

That story breaks my heart because I know with absolute certainty that’s not how the author was feeling. I know what it’s like to be exhausted to the point of delirium, and I know that’s the state she was in that evening.

But I also know how things can be perceived, and I hate the thought of people perceiving me that way. Am I a snob because I seldom respond to blog comments like I used to? Am I a bitch because I’ve dropped the ball on a handful of interview requests in recent weeks?

Er, don’t answer that. There’s seldom a right answer to a question that begins “am I a bitch?”

I am curious about the subject of fears. What was your biggest fear a few years ago? How has that changed today? How do you expect it to change in the future?

Please share!

I should probably go apologize to the mailman for the dart thing, huh?

Untidy thoughts from a filthy mind

Because I blog every Friday at The Debutante Ball, it's the one day a week I cut myself some slack here on this blog and write my post in the morning instead of the night before.

I went to bed last night thinking I'd get up this morning and organize all my thoughts into a nice, tidy, Friday morning blog post.

But the tidiness isn't really happening in my brain right now, which I'm sure you can either attribute to a filthy mind or the fact that my brain actually exploded sometime back at the beginning of August and I've been operating these last few weeks with something resembling butterscotch pudding between my ears.

So today, you get a scattered blog post.

Since I mentioned The Debutante Ball, I should point out that this week's post on the topic of characters marks my second-to-last appearance at this amazing group blog that chronicles the debut year of five authors from different genres. I feel a funny sense of nostalgia and relief – it's been a crazy one-year ride. One thing that makes me very, very happy is that my beloved agency sistah, Linda Grimes, snagged one of the coveted slots for next year's Debutante Ball class. You guys, she's fabulously funny, and you're going to love both her Debutante Ball posts and her hysterical debut novel, In a Fix, which comes out July 2012.

***

Speaking of posting in other places, my Virtual Blog Tour continues to surge along. Check the column over there to the right to see where I've been and what I've been blogging about in random, wild places. Most of them involve giveaways, so go win some free books!

***

This was a funny week of "yes, this is real" validations. First off was a conference call chat Monday evening with the amazing women of the Bookhungry Book Club. I had a great time answering questions and blathering nonsensically, though I suspected at several points they wanted to demand I shut up and put the real author on the phone – preferably someone much cooler and funnier.

Anyway, several of those ladies also reviewed the book on their blogs (which is part of the fun of being a member of a virtual book club). You can check those out those posts at the links here:

Patty Blount
Kelly Breakey
Abby Mumford
Karla Nellenbach
Cynthia Reese

***

Another "yep, it's real" moment came yesterday afternoon when the Sourcebooks Publicity Goddess called to tell me Library Journal gave a starred review to Making Waves and noted, "Great fun from an inventive new writer; highly recommended for all libraries." You can read the whole review here. While I've adored every single review I've gotten, there's something particularly validating about the ones like Library Journal or Booklist (the latter is the one that said, “Fenske’s off-the-wall plotting is reminiscent of a tame Carl Hiaasen on Cupid juice.”) Part of me has this expectation that librarians are only interested in real books, and then I have to hit myself with a ruler because DUH, I've written a real book. When is that going to sink in?

***

Yet another surreal author moment came yesterday afternoon when I was typing away in my office for the day job and the front desk guy came back and knocked on my door. "There's someone here to see you," he told me. "He says he was your teacher a long time ago."

And lo and behold, there was my fifth grade teacher – a guy I haven't seen for at least twenty years, and who lives in a town 2.5 hours away, which is why it was especially odd to see him standing there in my office acting positively giddy that one of his former students has published a book.

I should note that of all the teachers I've had through grade school, middle school, high school and college, this guy was hands-down my favorite, most memorable, most influential instructor. Part of me couldn't believe he'd bothered to track me down to congratulate me about the book, and part of me wanted to reassure him that someone else wrote all the naughty parts.

Anyway, here's a pic of Mr. Baker and me with his two copies of Making Waves:

And last but not least, just a reminder to all my friends near Portland, Oregon that I'll be signing books and trying not to make an ass of myself at the Beaverton Powell's Books this evening at 7 p.m. I'd love to see you there! Details can be found here.

So what are you doing this weekend? Who was your favorite teacher? Is there one in particular you'd love to have read your book someday (or on the flip side, that you quiver in fear will read your book someday?) Please share!

Have a great weekend, everyone!