Unfortunately, I’m at the end of a long stretch of revisions right now, and it would break my stride to write an appropriately frothy, bile-filled screed about this most abhorrent of qua-holidays.

Then I realized I didn’t need to write a new screed. I probably had an old one on file from when I wrote a weekly advice column for the college paper.

So I dug around in my files a bit and found one. Actually, I found several, but here’s the one I liked the best.

Share and Enjoy:

Dear Pat,

What are your feelings towards Valentine’s Day? Personally, I believe it is just another Hallmark holiday in which consumerism reaches its ugly hand in the picture, forcing couples to exchange gifts and singles to feel like crap.

By the way, what are you getting your girlfriend/sister? Teehee.

Jessie

For those of you who missed last week’s column, the last line of Jessie’s letter is a reference to a joke I made. Just so nobody is confused let me re-state again, for the record, that I am NOT dating my sister.

Not that there’s anything wrong with my sister, mind you. She’s great: smart, funny, and hot. It’s just that we’re really good friends, and I worry that getting into a relationship might jeopardize that.

*ahem* Okay. Moving on.

Honestly Jessie, I’d all but forgotten that Valentine’s Day is coming up. You see, I don’t pay much attention to crap like that. And that’s what VD is: a big, steamy pile of crap in a shiny heart-shaped box.

You were right in your letter. As a holiday, it’s made-up bullshit. But Hallmark didn’t start it, Chaucer did. He wrote “The Parliament of Fowles” back in the late 1300’s. I tell you, there’s only one time in history that more crap has been spawned from bad poetry, and that’s the musical Cats.

Now I don’t want to get a bunch of huffy letters with people telling me VD all started with St. Valentine, the priest who was imprisoned and fell in love with the jailer’s daughter. If it were true, February 14th would be Go-Fuck-A-Priest day. A holiday, I might add, that I would wholeheartedly endorse.

But no, what we have is Valentine’s Day. The day designed to convince you that if you don’t spend money on someone, right now then you’re not really in love. Prove your eternal devotion through a four-dollar greeting card sporting some freakishly deformed bug-eyed puppy on the front. Go ahead and give someone the severed sexual organs of a plant. Diamonds are forever. Every Kiss begins with Kay.

(You can tell it’s an older column, because Brett’s illustration
is in B&W and optimized for newspaper printing.)

Now I’m not just saying this because I don’t have a girlfriend and I’m frothing at the mouth with bitter loneliness and rage. Contrary to what you might think, I do have a girlfriend.

I know, it seems to go against all the laws of god and nature. But not only do I have a girlfriend, not only have we been in a happy, healthy relationship for almost six years, but Sarah is sweet, kind, smart, funny, and almost unfathomably hot.

I know, it boggles the mind.

There are many theories among my family and friends as to why someone like her would take time to smile in my direction, let alone date me for six years.

Some of my more religious-minded friends used to believe that she was working off a hefty karmic debt from a previous life. But this theory lost credibility when one of my calculus-savvy Buddhist friends did the math for me, showing how much bad karma Sarah was actually burning off by dealing with me on a daily basis.

What it boils down to is this, if Sarah had, say, beaten a nun to death with a bag of kittens in a previous life, she could have worked that off in about three weeks of putting up with my endless bullshit. In fact, after six years of living with me she’s built up so much good karma that she’ll most likely reincarnate as a transcendent being composed entirely of white light and multiple orgasms.

Other theories held by my friends and parents include: blackmail, Truman-Show style conspiracy, and the suspicion that she is performing a prolonged psychological experiment.

What does Sarah herself say? I’ll go ask….

In response to the question, “Why the hell do you love me, anyway?” Sarah responded thusly:

“Some part of my soul recognizes part of your soul as being really awesome. And sometimes you take out the trash.” Sarah then made several sexually explicit comments that cannot be reprinted here. Suffice to say that apparently I possess certain skills that shall remain nameless.

Lastly, she gazed rapturously at me and said that I was “gorgeous.”

All this seems to confirm my personal theory, that she has some kind of brain tumor that makes her love me. Really, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

The only other explanation is that I treat her with kindness and respect. Or because when I give her a gift she knows it comes from a sincere upwelling of emotion, not because it’s National Buy-A-Gift Day (TM). Maybe it’s due to the fact that I make a habit of not taking her for granted, and I tell her I appreciate her, rather than buying a card that says it for me once a year.

Yeah. I know. Too crazy. I’m sticking with the tumor theory myself.

That’s all I’ve got for now, folks. I hope each of you end up enjoying V-day in your own special way. If that means drinking a pint of rye whiskey and cursing the unfeeling sky, more power to you.

pat

When I was younger, I was the guy all the girls came to for relationship advice. Don’t ask me why. I’d never actually had a relationship. But I was thoughtful, and a good listener, and I didn’t openly gawk at their breasts. (I did gawk, of course, I just wasn’t rude about it.)

These three things may not seem like much, but from what I understand they rarely come together in a 16 year old boy. The result was that most girls found me to be trustworthy, fun to be around, and neuter as a Ken doll.

But I learned a lot by listening to their relationship problems. I learned what irritated them, what they really wanted in a relationship (or said they wanted, anyway), and the sort of jerky things guys were capable of.

Eventually I started to develop a list of things you should never do in a relationship. Rules of conduct that should never be broken. I continued building that list all through college.

Now I’m not talking about the obvious stuff here. Rules like, “Don’t sleep with your girlfriend’s sister.” or “Don’t jab her in the eye with a pointy stick.” Shit like that is obvious.

My rules were more specific, but other people had paid for them in blood.

A few real examples:

* Never tell a woman she looks like her pet.

* Never compare a woman to a cow.

* Never compare a woman to any sort of cheese.

Maybe those last two don’t happen so much outside of Wisconsin. But trust me, you really can’t pull them off. Dairy products are fine. If you’re careful, you can use creamy or milky. You can even, depending on the situation, get away with buttery. But cheese is right out. It can’t be done in a good way.

Later on in life, as I started to date more, I began to add new rules based on my own experiences. Things like:

* Don’t break up with a girl then send her roommate a love letter.

* Don’t invite four different women to the same poetry reading. Especially if one of them is your ex-girlfriend, one is your current girlfriend, and one is the girl who kinda wants to be your girlfriend.

That last one might seem a little specific, and it is, I suppose. But if I can keep even one other person from making that mistake, I will be doing the world a very big favor.

Now some of you may scoff at my list of rules. Thinking them bizarre and overly specific. I don’t really feel the need to defend myself or prove the efficacy of my system. Simply look at me, then look at my past girlfriends, all of whom have been lovely, intelligent, and sexy as hell. My results speak for themselves.

I’m not claiming to have it all figured out. Far from it. I’m still adding things to my list all the time.

For example, the other day I’m laying in bed with Sarah and little Oot. Because Oot is a happy little bundle of cute, Sarah experienced a moment of what I call Mom Bliss. I’m pretty sure this is an evolutionary thing. Specifically, it’s a rush of endorphins designed to make moms adore their children, rather than devour them.

So we’re all on the bed and Oot kinda squirms around, looks up at us, and gives us one of his trademarked triple-distilled cuteness grins. Then he makes a happy little shriek that sounds like he’s trying to speak dolphin.

This presses Sarah’s mom button, and the endorphins hit her brain like a pixie stick dissolved in a jam-jar full of heroin.

“Oh!” Sarah says, her eyes all dewy with Agape-style love. “This is so great! I’m in bed with my two favorite people!”

“Yeah,” I say, pretty much agreeing with her. “It’s kinda like a lame three-way.”

New rule: Do not refer to quality time with mom and baby as “kinda like a lame three-way.”

Here endeth the lesson.

pat

I started writing this blog mostly to relax, share interesting news, and amuse myself. I like to cuss in my posts and make the occasional odd joke about clown sex. But, strangely enough, I don’t feel comfortable doing those things in the middle of a charity fundraiser.

Now that we’re done being all charitable on the blog, I can get back to buisiness as usual here. Which is to say I can get back to not doing business and start screwing around instead.

Rest assured that in a week or so I’ll post up some final details about the fundraiser, and some exciting news about a few things that happened right at the end. But right now we’re dealing with the aftermath, assigning prizes, waiting for checks to clear, and preparing to wrap and package roughly a zillion books.

[Editorial note: Don't email me asking if you won anything. Seriously.]

As many of you might remember from last year’s fundraiser, Sarah was my plucky assistant who worked tirelessly behind the scenes, helping me manage donations, take pictures of books, and package all the prizes.

This year, however, she’s been absolutely no help at all. When I asked her why she was being such a slacker, she reminded me that we had a baby now, and that boobing him took priority over pretty much everything else.

What’s that? Can I post a picture of him? You bet your ass I can….

(Click to Embiggen.)

Here Oot accompanied by one of his compatriots: Friendly Carrot. Not pictured here are Crazy Chicken, Subtle the Colorful Not-Mime, and Perverted Elephant.

Anyway, since Sarah is busy cooing and gurgling, I needed someone else to help me tend to the shop, as it were. That meant that until little Oot is old enough to copyedit, I needed an assistant.

So, without any further ado, I’d like to introduce you to Valerie:

(Say it with me now, “Hi Valerie!”)

Valerie has been helping me take care of a lot of the epiphenomena that tend to clutter up my life. She does research, organizes stuff, takes care of mail, runs errands….

Generally speaking, she takes care of a bunch of stuff for me, leaving me more time to work on the book.

Over the last two months, that means Valerie has been doing a lot of the heavy lifting behind the scenes of Worldbuilders. She takes pictures of the donations and has managed all the personalized books and posters people bought to support the cause.

She’s also been stockpiling the materials we’ll need to package up this year’s prizes.

(It’s fun to play with big rolls of bubble wrap.)

Suffice to say that without her help, Worldbuilders would have been a chaotic mess, and I wouldn’t have gotten a lick of work done on my revisions.

Anyway, she’s been working really hard on all this stuff. So I figured it was high time I introduced her…

Say hello Valerie.

Hello.

No. Sorry. That won’t work. You can’t be purple, Sarah’s purple. There will be mass confusion. You’ll have to pick a different colour.

I like green. Can I be green?

That suits you, but it’s a little too bright. Could you bring it down a bit?

How about this?

Perfect.

Everyone, meet Valerie. Valerie, this is everyone.

Say hello, everyone.

pat

Or rather, let me tell you a story about a story. (For those of you who know me, this shouldn’t come as a surprise.)

Back in 2001, when I was toiling in the salt mines of grad school, my girlfriend Sarah and I had very different sleep schedules. I was up late, and she went to bed early.

One night, when she was going to bed, she jokingly asked me to tell her a story.

So I did, starting with with the most saccharine faerie-tale beginning I could think of: “Once upon a time,” I said. “There was a Princess who lived in a Marzapan castle….”

The story was so cute and sweet that it began to irritate me even as I was telling it. And so I twisted it around until it was something entirely different. Something dark and strange. An older sort of Faerie tale.

When I finished, Sarah lay in bed, looking up at me with big eyes. “Now I can’t sleep,” she said.

So I told a second ending to the story. A sweet ending. A funny ending. A happy ending. An ending that made everything all better again. Sarah relaxed.

But that second ending irritated me again. It was too sweet and perfect.

So I gave the story a third ending. The perfect ending. An ending with teeth in it.

That night Sarah didn’t get to sleep in any sort of timely fashion, but the next day she told some friends about it. I repeated the story for them, and one of them said, “I’d love to draw that.”

Now a lot of times, that’s where things would stop. But the friend who spoke up was none other than Nathan Taylor: he’s the guy that drew the map for the US edition of the book. And he turned my puerile scrawlings for the Worldbuilder logo…

Into something cool and respectable looking:

I knew Nate was a great cartoonist and illustrator, as you can see for yourself over here or here.

But he completely blew me away with the illustrations he did for the Princess book. Here’s a little taste:

(Awww…)

Just yesterday, Subterranean Press announced The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle: the Thing Beneath the Bed on their website, making it available for pre-order.

So I wanted to mention it here on the blog as quickly as possible. Apparently it’s been selling really quickly, and the limited leatherbound edition they’re printing is already half sold-out. So if you want one of those, you should get over there and order it sooner rather than later.

Edit: Apparently everyone wanted a limited edition, so they sold out about 9:00 this morning. Sorry about that. I don’t think anyone expected it to sell quite so quickly as that.

That said, it’s only the limited edition that sold out. There are still regular hardcovers available.

Also, Bill over at Subterranean Press has offered to throw five ARC copies of the princess book in with his other donations to Worldbuilders. If you win one of those, you get to see the finished product months before it comes out.

• Five ARC copies of The Adventures of the Princess and Mr. Whiffle: the Thing Beneath the Bed by Patrick Rothfuss and Nathan Taylor. Signed by the Author.

It’s a picture book that’s not for children. I can say with some certainty that it should never be read to children. But it’s perfect for adults with a dark sense of humor and a love of old-school faerie tales.

Stay tuned. We still have a lot more to come. New blogs every day or so…

pat

As always, with thanks to: Subterranean Press.

Because:

There are many of you out there who deserve to hear this news by phone. Or by getting an e-mail. Or through a sarcastic gorrilagram of some sort. But I just can’t manage it right now. As you can see by the picture, we’re all pretty tired around here.

Everyone always says things like, “The labor was 8 hours long…” or “She was in labor for 15 hours.” Or something like that. I don’t know where to officially start counting the official labor, but she started having contractions Friday night, and we had the baby Tuesday morning. So no matter how you count it, it was long.

The end result is pretty good though. Little Oot is healthy and happy. He resembles his daddy in that he likes boobs and sleeping. Everything else will be sorted out later.

I won’t trouble you with his measurements. I’ve never really understood the desire people have to quantify a baby. “He’s X big and Y long,” As if the baby is a fish you’re not sure you’re going to keep. Or some prize potato you’re hoping will win a prize at the county fair.

Rest assured that he does posses mass and volume. He has all three dimensions and the requisite number of usual parts. He is a boy child. A Libra. Full of grace. An ox. Pinkish in color. Soft. And we have just received independent verification that he is cute as a button.

I’ve been stockpiling blogs over the last couple months, so you’ll see some of those when I’m too busy writing and being domestic to write a new one. If anything, posts will probably be more frequent for a while.

If you have a piece of baby advice (and it seems like everyone I meet does) feel free to post it below. I will also accept cute baby stories. Everyone likes cute baby stories.

Sweet dreams everyone,

pat

In order for you to appreciate this, I should mention that I don’t usually remember my dreams. Sarah does. She has a vivid dream life. Crazy dreams. Every night.

So I’m thinking that Sarah will be impressed. Not only did I remember this dream, but you have to admit it’s reasonably weird. Plus it has Nathan Fillion in it, which shows that my internal casting director is finally getting a decent budget to work with.

So I summarize my dream for Sarah. There isn’t much more to it other than the fact that Nathan Fillion was teaching my Dad some of the finer points of computer programming. Except, perhaps, to mention that Fillion was quite gracious about the whole thing, and was willing to come out to our house in order to make things more convenient for my dad.

When I finish, I expect Sarah to say something appreciative. Something like, “Wow,” or “Freaky,” or “You’ve really got to get over Firefly.”

But instead, without missing a beat, Sarah says, “I had a dream where I was going to marry Nathan Fillion, but I was really nervous because he had a horrible addiction to hobby farming. He was working really hard to overcome it, but I knew he was probably going to relapse pretty soon.”

She shrugged. “Still, I was going to help him get through it. I knew I’d stay by his side no matter what. Very loyal of me. I think there were sheep involved.”

And the winner is….

She’s all mine, boys. Stay away…

pat

Before I start talking about my trip to Europe, I should mention that in many ways I am embarrassingly American. I’m monolingual. I’m fat. And in many ways, I’m terribly ignorant of the shape of the world. For example, until a couple years ago, I didn’t know where Belgium was. True story.

This means that about 95% of my knowledge about Italy comes from two sources. 1) The movie Hudson Hawk. 2) The episode of Angel where they go to Rome to face down the Immortal.

This is important because Rome was going to be our first stop on our European walkabout.

Sarah was good about preparing herself for the trip. She did research. She got phrase books. She looked at maps. I was too busy getting the first draft of the book ready to do much preparation. I didn’t study any languages. I didn’t look at any tourist guides. I know that somewhere in Rome there’s old stuff and a cool fountain. I know that somewhere in England there’s Stonehenge. Somewhere in Amsterdam there are whores. Other than that, I’m flying blind….

And I do mean flying. Our flight goes from Central Wisconsin –> Detroit –> Amsterdam –> Rome. I’ve done a lot of flying in the last couple years, but this is different by an order of magnitude. Pretty much a whole waking day spent in the air.

Interesting fact: When you get pregnant, your body makes a bunch of extra blood. Pints and pints. Sarah told me this. She’s a font of bizarre information about pregnancy. “Today Oot is growing a pancreas,” she’ll say. “Now he has gills like a fish.“

I’m fairly certain that she makes a lot of it up. But still, I look attentive whenever she gives me these facts. Partly because I prefer things that are interesting to things that are true, but also because Sarah will cry at the drop of a hat under normal circumstances. Pregnancy has magnified this amusing quirk in a exponential way.

I actually took a video of her crying on the trip. Yes really. These things need to be recorded for the sake of science. She cries because she’s upset, then I cheer her up and she cries because she’s happy. Then she cries because she loves me. Then she cries because she’s crying.

I probably shouldn’t post that video without asking her, but here’s a picture, just add a little verisimilitude.

Witness my mad comforting skills. She was weeping just minutes before this picture. After all these years with Sarah, I can stop someone’s crying jag with two hugs and less than 50 words. You’ll be tear-free in 60 seconds or your money back.

By the way, Oot is the baby’s in-utero name. I figured we couldn’t just call it “it” until it was born, so I gave him a temporary name. It’s pronounced like “boot” without the “b.” Just so we’re clear.

Anyway, the point is that pregnant women have a lot of extra blood. So Sarah says. I can’t remember her saying if it happens to all women, or just her. For all I know it might be something Sarah decided to do on her own.

Either way, apparently all this extra blood makes it a bad idea for her to sit still for long periods of time. There’s a risk of blood clots. To prevent this, she has special stockings to wear and instructions to get up and walk around regularly.

Luckily, the guy next to me is willing to switch seats so Sarah can sit next to me. It’s easy to forget if you watch too much news, but the vast majority of people in the world are kind and generous.

The down side is that Sarah’s fear of blood clots combined with her favorite hobby, peeing, means that she wants to get up every three and a half minutes. This means that I, sitting in the isle seat, have to get up so often you’d think I was doing jumping jacks.

Why didn’t I just give her the isle seat, you ask? Well… mostly because I like the isle seat. And jumping jacks, for that matter.

Eventually we made it to Amsterdam. And while Sarah and I were walking to the new gate so we could catch our connecting flight to Rome, I hear two people talking behind us. They’re speaking Italian, and I hear one of them exclaim, “Mama Mia!” He says it twice in the time it takes us to get to the gate.

What really throws me off is the fact that he sounds like a bad stereotype. His accent sounds exactly like someone pretending to have an over-the-top Italian accent. If a really bad sitcom was going to have an embarrassingly unoriginal Italian character, that character would say “Mama mia!” in exactly this way.

Since this is, in many some ways, my first European experience, I can’t help but wonder: is all Europe going to be like this? Are all the stereotypes true? Will a dark, handsome Italian man try to seduce Sarah? Will English food be horrifyingly bad? Are the French going to wear berets and mime at me?

These were my thoughts as our plane touched down in Rome….

Here are a few general comments and some answers to questions in response to the hubbub.

To my German Readers:

Oh my German readers. I do love you. I love you with a fierce love that is big as the sky. I know there are many of you. I know you would like me to stop in your country and sign books and do various authory things.

Do not think that I scorn you. Do not think that I neglect you. Do not think I fail to appreciate you, because I do. It is because of you that I can now legitimately call myself “International Bestselling Author” Patrick Rothfuss.

Before that, I was forced to call myself merely “Skilled Lover of Women” Patrick Rothfuss or “That Strange Guy Who Sits in the Back of the Coffeeshop All the Time” Patrick Rothfuss.

I appreciate this. You must believe me. I love you.

But as for making a stop in Germany this time around. I just don’t think I’m going to be able to.

You see, Sarah, she says. “I would like to go to Rome.”

And I think, “Rome? Have they done five hardcover printings of my book in Rome? No. That was Germany. Did my book get all manner of cool reviews in Rome? No. That also was Germany. What of the swank little bookmark? Surely that was Rome? No. It was not.”

But you see, Sarah, she has this baby in her. This baby gives her remarkable powers.

I say to Sarah, “Where would you like to go on your trip to Europe?

Sarah says, “I would like to go to Rome.”

And lo. We go to Rome.

Sarah says, “Also, I would like to see Paris.”

And suddenly, it is so.

I’m not saying I’ll never visit you, Germany. I will. I promise. It’s just that when I do visit, I want everything to be perfect. I don’t want to rush this part of our relationship. I don’t want to go too fast. We need to be sure we’re both ready. I want this to be special for both of us.

Perhaps I’ll come to visit when book two is translated. Or maybe when your paperback comes out. Hopefully, if the German publishers are willing to help, we can do it up proper and I’ll hit a bunch of places all over Germany, rather than just making a two-day stop in one city.

Be patient, I love you.

Sincerely,

pat

To my readers in Dublin:

As above. I was really hoping to make it there during this trip, but it just didn’t work out. You’ll see me before too long. I promise.

To my readers in other countries:

I would love to come to Sweden. To Ireland. To Spain. To Belgium. To Estonia. To Finland. I would love to come to Russia. To the Czech Republic. To Turkey. To Wales. To Portugal….

I’m sure you can see the problem.

If you can’t see the problem, it’s this: if I went to all of these countries, I wouldn’t have time to do anything but drive around. I wouldn’t see anything except through the window of a train. It’s pure logistics. I can’t do it all this trip. Someday. Hopefully.

To people eager to help schedule a signing:

1. If you want your local bookstore to host a signing, you need to tell *them* you’re excited about it, not me. I’m already interested in doing a signing. So are you. We’re on the same page. We’ve established a rapport.

But without the bookstore it’s just not going to work out. It’s like a three-way. It doesn’t matter how much you and me want it. Without that third person, it just doesn’t work out.

2. If you have a friend/relative/lover/former roommate that works in a bookstore, and you think they’d be excited to help schedule a signing. Contact *them* about it, see if they’re really interested, then have them drop me a line if they are.

3. If you want to contact me about a potential signing, use the contact form. If you post it in the comments, I won’t know how to get in contact with you. I will be similarly helpless if you shout the information out your window, or write it on your bathroom mirror. Sad but true.

4. If your town isn’t on the list of places I’m stopping, I probably won’t be able to come out and do a signing. The possible exception to this is Manchester, as it’s on my way between London and Edinburgh. But even that depends on the interest of the local bookstore. (See #1)

That said, if you’re actually one of the folks in charge of scheduling events in a bookstore or a library, and you’d REALLY like me to stop in, you can still drop me a line.

A few quick answers:

Q: “Will I be posting up the dates, times, and places of the eventual signings?”

A: Um… Yes? Rest assured. I’ll be posting them here on the blog, and on the Tour Schedule Page.

Q: “How’s the book going?”

A: Very well. Don’t bug me about it. It harshes my vibe.

Q: “Does Sarah have any news about the baby?”

A: I just asked her. Sarah says: “It’s freaking huge.”

Q: “I live in a town in Europe! We have a bookstore! You should come here!”

A: That is not a question. Also, please see above points one through four inclusive.

Hugs and kisses,

pat

Thanks to everyone who offered their congratulations.

(I’d be more properly verbose and flowery, but I have to be brief here. I’m using borrowed internet up here in the northwoods of Wisconsin, and this place is closing in 15 minutes.)

Second: The Tour

A while back, I promised Sarah a trip to Europe. Now, with the baby coming, I’m realizing I’m going to have to either make good on that promise, or wait for years until we no longer have a newborn. Because dragging a newborn around an international trip is not cool on many levels.

So we’re going. Sarah deserves her trip for putting up with my endless bullshit.

Soon I will be turning over a solid draft of my book for my editor to read and… well… edit. This will take her a while, because the book is beastly long and she’s good at her job.

While she’s doing that, I have a window of opportunity. Rather than sit around, twiddle my thumbs, and fret over what my editor will say, I’m going to take Sarah to Europe before she gets too big with baby to do more than waddle to the fridge and make me rub her feet.

I’m looking forward to the trip. It will do me good to take a break from the book for a bit. If I don’t get a few weeks away from it in between drafts, I lose perspective.

Also, it will be nice to have a bit of a walkabout on my own before finalizing Kvothe’s own set of adventure as he goes out to make his fortune in the wide world.

Third: Sending out the Call.

For years now, I’ve had folks in the UK and the rest of Europe saying things like, “When are you going to be coming to [insert name of foreign country here]??!!?”

Well now’s the time.

I’m more that willing to do signings at the cities I’m stopping at. But since this is happening on the spur of the moment, I don’t have time to go through official bookstore channels, or perform the typical courting dances with foreign bookstores: first researching, then calling around, then playing phone tag, then trying to convince them that it would be worth their while to order a dozen of my books and set up a card table….

By the time I finished that, I’d already be back in the US.

So here’s where you come in.

I’m posting my itinerary below. What cities I’ll be and where. If you own a bookstore (or work in one) and you’d like me to come in and do a signing, lovely. Drop me a message off the contact form and we’ll set something up.

If you don’t work in a bookstore, but you know a cool one you think would be interested, ask them if they might be interested. Then, if they are, drop me a message. Or have them do it.

May 8-11 Rome

May 13-15 Amsterdam

May 17-19 Paris

May 21-25 London (And environs.)

May 27- 28 Edinburgh

May 30 Glasgow

Crap crap crap. The place is closing.

More later,

Fondly,

pat

Guess who’s having a baby?