Tag Archives: Kristin Cashore

Author Loyalty

This morning, Dear Hubby started packing.  His hunting gear taunted our geriatric lab as she watched him pile guns, boots, jackets and shock collars.  She got herself so worked up, she was foaming at the mouth and quivering by the time Eldest lifted her into the back of the truck.

Truth be told, I feel that way about certain authors and their new releases.

While I never camped out in front of a book store for two days, it nearly killed me to wait for each new installment of The Hunger Games trilogy and The Bartemaeus Trilogy.  I’m still drooling for Bitterblue.  Likewise, I darn near gave myself hives waiting for the release of Jackson Pearce’s Sweetly.

Back in the day–when our family didn’t have a television set, we lived smack dab in the middle of cornfields and our only library was the teeny traveling bus visiting from lands unknown–I had no clue when my favorite author of the time would release her next book.  Scholastic book orders were my literary life line.

One day, I’d open the book order and see the cover for the first time.  Descriptions didn’t matter.  The author’s name did.  At home I’d meticulously fill out the book order and drop my ninety-nine cents in an envelope.

My method of book-buying has changed.  Now I keep very close tabs on the authors I adore.  I know when their next books will be released and have preordered some because I’m impatient and me-centric when it comes to reading.  I’m also fiercely loyal to my beloved authors.

Give me a great book and I’m  yours.  Give me two and I’ll grovel at your feet.  I’d even exchange my first born for your next release if I thought you’d want a 17-year-old who looks like my hubby.

In some ways, I’m an author stalker.  I’ll buy e and dead tree versions.  I’ll follow you across genres and age groups.  I’ll even buy your nonfic when it comes out–and I don’t read biographies.  But only if you deliver.  Otherwise, your paper back will be tucked into a box in the basement, only to come out for the library book sale fundraiser.

Dear readers, do you have a bad case of author loyalty?  If so, which authors do you love and why?  Are you willing to genre hop with your beloved author or are you more apt to find a replacement the moment BA writes outside your preferred reading list?  What kinds of things make you ditch your BA in favor of a new beloved?

Curious minds want to know.

*Also, check out our MAD review of Want to Go Private? to get the teen perspective of Sarah Darer Littman’s engaging novel on cyber predators.

Confession

I am not Catholic, but if I could and knew how, I would crawl into a confessional and admit my guilt.

Sadly, my confession will firmly place the blame on another person.  One I don’t know, but will blame anyways for my inability to accomplish anything important yesterday and today.

The first half of my confession is to admit that I am a hopeless book addict.  Over the years, I have gotten much better, and can actually read a book over an entire month.  I hate to do that, as  I love sitting down with the characters and the story and gorging myself on their lives.  However, Real Life usually gets in the way and I have to read a book in bite size pieces and be content with a page or two at a time. 

A few days ago, I finished Graceling.  Kristin Cashore’s debut novel was such a delight that I couldn’t stop reading until I devoured the entire thing in less than a half a day–with interruptions.  Oh, the dreaded interruptions.

Which leads me to the second half of my confession.  Last night, I cracked open the companion book to Graceling.  Fire was just as riveting and amazing and heartfelt as the first.

I read myself to sleep and (don’t hate me, dear fam) couldn’t wait to rejoin the characters again this morning.  I almost pushed my kids off to school and I’m quite certain DH felt more than a little confused at my rushed peck and absent-minded good-bye as he left the house.  My book was waiting.

*sigh*

I blame Ms. Cashore.  Her charge is writing a great book.  I hope someday to write lyrical tales that make people want to kick their family out of the house, curl up with a blanket, a cup of hot coffee and live in a land of my make-believe. 

If I ever succeed in doing this, I will gladly take the blame for loyal readers hurriedly sending their families away and coveting hours of solitude where they get absolutely nothing done.  I would love nothing more than to learn that someone cared enough about my characters to forget the laundry in the wash machine.  It would make me giddy to envision a reader pulling her nose out of my book, blinking into the waning light and realizing with a rush of excitement and disappointment that an entire day had magically slipped away.

Kudos to Kristin Cashore for giving me one spell-binding day in which the laundry is unwashed, the dishes piled in the sink and dinner a slap dash of whatever there is in the house.  I hope to pull myself together and pull off the illusion that I did, indeed, accomplish something before DH gets home.  Otherwise, he may not feel so inclined to let me purchase her next book.

And that would be a tragedy.