Thank you! And if you don't want to read excerpts, stop NOW...!

Dear All--

Many thanks to the dedicated (that sounds so much better than, say, "obsessed," let alone "clinically deranged") souls who did so much in championing me to the first place in the National Book Festival's Favorite Author poll!


I would not, of course, want to be accused of bribery, even _ex post facto_, so I won't say this is a reward for such a gallant effort [g] But as I've been reading these excerpts from Book Eight at the various events this week, I thought it was only fair to share them with those who couldn't make it to one or another of the book-tour appearances.


[Meaning--if you want to avoid excerpts from Book Eight...


STOP
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READING
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NOW
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Still with me? [g] Well, alrighty, then!


Book Eight excerpt
Copyright 2010 Diana Gabaldon


JEM IN THE TUNNEL


He must be getting near the end of the tunnel. Jem could tell by the way the air pushed back against his face. All he could see was the little red light on the train's dashboard--did you call it a dashboard on a train? he wondered. He didn't want to stop, because that meant he'd have to get out of the train, into the dark. But the train was running out of track, so there wasn't much else he could do.


He pulled back a little bit on the lever that made the train go, and it slowed down. More. Just a little more, and the lever clicked into a kind of slot and the train stopped with a little jerk that made him stumble and grab the edge of the cab.


An electric train didn't make any engine noise, but the wheels rattled on the track and the train made squeaks and clunks as it moved. When it stopped, the noise stopped too. It was really quiet.


"Hey!" he said out loud, because he didn't want to listen to his heart beating. The sound echoed, and he looked up, startled. Mum had said the tunnel was really high, more than thirty feet, but he'd forgot that. The idea that there was a lot of empty space hanging over him that he couldn't see bothered him a lot. He swallowed, and stepped out of the tiny engine, holding on to the frame with one hand.


"Hey!" he shouted at the invisible ceiling. "Are there any bats up there?"


Silence. He'd kind of been hoping there were bats. He wasn't afraid of them--there were bats in the old broch, and he liked to sit and watch them come out to hunt in the summer evenings. But he was alone. Except for the dark.


His hands were sweating. He let go of the metal cab and scrubbed both hands on his jeans. Now he could hear himself breathing, too.


"Crap," he whispered under his breath. That made him feel better, so he said it again. Maybe he ought to be praying, instead, but he didn't feel like that, not yet.


There was a door, Mum said. At the end of the tunnel. It led into the service chamber, where the big turbines could be lifted up from the dam if they needed fixing. Would the door be locked?


Suddenly he realized that he'd stepped away from the train and he didn't know whether he was facing the end of the tunnel or back the way he'd come. In a panic, he blundered to and fro, hands out, looking for the train. He tripped over part of the track and fell sprawling. He lay there for a second saying "Crap-crap-crap-crap-crap!" because he'd skinned both knees and the palm of his hand, but he was OK, really, and now he knew where the track was, so he could follow it and not get lost.


He got up, wiped his nose, and shuffled slowly along, kicking the track every few steps to be sure he stayed with it. He thought he was in front of where the train had stopped, so it didn't really matter which way he was going--either he'd find the train or he'd find the end of the tunnel. And then the door. If it was locked, maybe--


Something like an electric shock ran right through him. He gasped and fell over backward. The only thing in his mind was the idea that somebody had hit him with a light-sabre like Luke Skywalker's, and for a minute, he though maybe whoever it was had cut off his head.


He couldn't feel his body, and could see in his mind his body lying bleeding in the dark and his head sitting right there on the train tracks in the dark, not being able to see his body and not even knowing it wasn't attached anymore. He made a breathless kind of a noise that was trying to be a scream, but it made his stomach move and he felt that, he felt it, and suddenly he felt a lot more like praying.


"Gratia...Deo!" he managed to gasp. It was what Grand-da said when he talked about a fight or killing something and this wasn't quite that sort of thing, but it seemed like a good thing to say anyway.


Now he could feel all of himself again, but he sat up and grabbed his neck, just to be sure his head was still on. His skin was jumping in the weirdest way. Like a horse's does when a horse-fly bites it, but all over. He swallowed and tasted sugared silver and he gasped again, because now he knew what had hit him. Sort of.


This wasn't quite like it had been, when they'd all walked into the rocks on Ocracoke. One minute, he'd been in his father's arms and the next minute it was like he was scattered everywhere in little wiggly pieces like the spilled quicksilver in Grannie's surgery. Then he was back together again, and Da was still holding him tight enough to squeeze his breath out and he could hear Da sobbing and that scared him and he had a funny taste in his mouth and little pieces of him were still wiggling around trying to get away but they were trapped inside his skin...


Yeah. That was what was making his skin jump now, and he breathed easier, knowing what it was. That was OK, then, he was OK, it would stop.


It was stopping already, the twitchy feeling going away. He still felt a little shaky, but he stood up. Careful, because he didn't know where it was.


Wait...he did know. He knew exactly.


"That's weird," he said, out loud without really noticing, because he wasn't scared by the dark anymore, it wasn't important.


He couldn't really see it, not with his eyes, not exactly. He squinted, trying to think how he was seeing it, but there wasn't a word for what he was doing. Kind of like hearing or smelling or touching, but not really any of those.


But he knew where it was. It was right there, a kind of...shiver...in the air, and when he stared at it, he had a feeling in the back of his mind like really pretty sparkly things, like sun on the sea and the way a candle-flame looked when it shone through a ruby, but he knew he wasn't really seeing anything like that.


It went all the way across the tunnel, and up to the high roof, too, he could tell. But it wasn't thick at all, it was thin as air.


He guessed that was why it hadn't swallowed him like the thing in the rocks on Ocracoke had. At least...he thought it hadn't, and for an instant, worried that maybe he'd gone sometime else. But he didn't think so. The tunnel felt just the same, and so did he, now his skin had stopped jumping. When they'd done it, on Ocracoke, he'd known right away it was different.


He stood there for a minute, just looking and thinking, and then shook his head and turned around, feeling with his foot for the track. He wasn't going back through that, no matter what. He'd just have to hope the door wasn't locked.


[end section]




Book Eight Excerpt
Copyright 2010 Diana Gabaldon


JAMIE/LORD JOHN



He’d been quite resigned to dying. Had expected it from the moment that he’d blurted out, “I have had carnal knowledge of your wife.” The only question in his mind had been whether Fraser would shoot him, stab him, or eviscerate him with his bare hands.


To have the injured husband regard him calmly, and say merely, “Oh? Why?” was not merely unexpected, but…infamous. Absolutely infamous.


"Why?" John Grey repeated, incredulous. "Did you say 'Why'?"


"I did. And I should appreciate an answer."


Now that Grey had both eyes open, he could see that Fraser's outward calm was not quite so impervious as he'd first supposed. There was a pulse beating in Fraser’s temple, and he'd shifted his weight a little, like a man might do in the vicinity of a tavern brawl, not quite ready to commit violence, but readying himself to meet it. Perversely, Grey found this sight steadying.


"What do you bloody mean, 'why'?" he said, suddenly irritated. "And why aren't you fucking dead?"


"I often wonder that myself," Fraser replied politely. "I take it ye thought I was?"


"Yes, and so did your wife! Do you have the faintest idea what the knowledge of your death did to her?"


The dark blue eyes narrowed just a trifle.


"Are ye implying that the news of my death deranged her to such an extent that she lost her reason and took ye to her bed by force? Because," he went on, neatly cutting off Grey's heated reply, "unless I've been seriously misled regarding your own nature, it would take substantial force to compel ye to any such action. Or am I wrong?"


The eyes stayed narrow. Grey stared back at them. Then he closed his eyes briefly and rubbed both hands hard over his face, like a man waking from nightmare. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes again.


"You are not misled," he said, through clenched teeth. "And you are wrong."


Fraser's ruddy eyebrows shot up--in genuine astonishment, he thought.


"Ye went to her because—from desire?" His voice rose, too. "And she let ye? I dinna believe it."


The color was creeping up Fraser's tanned neck, vivid as a climbing rose. Grey had seen that happen before, and decided recklessly that the best--the only--defense was to lose his own temper first. It was a relief.


"We thought you were dead, you bloody arsehole!" he said, furious. "Both of us! Dead! And we--we--took too much to drink one night--very much too much...we spoke of you...and... Damn you, neither one of us was making love to the other--we were fucking you!"


Fraser's face went abruptly blank and his jaw dropped. Grey enjoyed one split-second of satisfaction at the sight, before a massive fist came up hard beneath his ribs and he hurtled backward, staggered a few steps further, and fell. He lay in the leaves, completely winded, mouth opening and closing like an automaton's.


All right, then, he thought dimly. Bare hands it is.


The hands wrapped themselves in his shirt and jerked him to his feet. He managed to stand, and a wisp of air seeped into his lungs. Fraser's face was an inch from his. Fraser was in fact so close that he couldn't see the man's expression--only a close-up view of two bloodshot blue eyes, both of them berserk. That was enough. He felt quite calm now. It wouldn't take long.


"You tell me exactly what happened, ye filthy wee pervert," Fraser whispered, his breath hot on Grey's face and smelling of ale. He shook Grey slightly. "Every word. Every motion. Everything."


Grey got just enough breath to answer.


"No," he said definitely. "Go ahead and kill me."


[end section]

Never Been Viral Before...

...but the fabulous Nikki has done it! Don't think it'll last [g], but her terrific book-trailer at http://www.youtube.com/user/voyagesoftheartemis?feature=mhum#p/a/u/0/D-BRb2ipU5I has had 2750 clicks in the last day and a half---causing YouTube to ask whether we want to take ads for our "viral video." [g]


We don't, but we surely do appreciate all the clicks! (And we hope you'll enjoy the book as much as the trailer...!)

Methadone Thumbnails

Quickie here (things are hotting up as we get closer to The Exile release): Barnes and Noble asked me a little while ago to give them three book recommendations for a guest feature. In case you need something to read over the next three days [g]...


http://bnreview.barnesandnoble.com/t5/Guest-Books/Diana-Gabaldon/ba-p/3159

New Interview - New Book-Trailer!

Boy, it's been an eventful day, so far!


First the fabulous Nikki Rowe, who manages my YouTube Channel with such flair and grace, puts up a wonderful new book-trailer video for THE EXILE (featuring several new art samples!).


AND she also deftly snares a brand-new video interview I did for NovelsAliveTV (whom I met at DragonCon earlier this month)!


HERE is a link that will take you to both.


Don't say we don't try to keep y'all entertained....[g] Hope you enjoy them!

THE EXILE - LAUNCH PARTY!!

ONE WEEK AND COUNTING!! (September 21st!)



OK, time to get out the book-touring clothes and check for sweat stains…! (Well, yes, I do. Performing raises my body temp about five degrees, no matter what the ambient temperature is. I figure it’s all the energy pouring in from the audience. Y’all are great—and hot. [g])


Now that I’ve taken to Twittering (I’m “Writer_DG”), I notice that a few people seem to think that THE EXILE is just OUTLANDER done in pictures. If you’ve been following my blog for a bit, you’ll already know that’s not the case—EXILE is a brand-new story, though if you’ve read OUTLANDER (and I’m sort of figuring most of you have [cough]) you’ll recognize some of the main incidents.


You will, though, also have an all-new storyline, _and_ perhaps learn a few things people tell me they’ve wondered about from the original novel: Who was the mysterious girl in France? Where did Jamie get his mother’s pearls? What did Mrs. Fitz make of Claire’s bra? [g]


NOW—the LAUNCH PARTY!!


The Poisoned Pen bookstore has always done launch parties for my books, God bless them—but this time it’s gonna be Special.


We sort of outgrew the confines of the bookstore with A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES, and so they hosted the last launch (for AN ECHO IN THE BONE) at the Biltmore Hotel—it was great! For this time, though—we have not only me and a pile of books [g], but also Hoang Nguyen, the wonderful artist who did the artwork, and we’ll be doing a knockabout cross-talk act…er…a collaborative program, I mean, in which we want to show you some of the cool art while we talk about it (explaining, for example, how we eventually came up with Jamie’s Butt), and that meant finding a venue where we could have good projection equipment and good seats for you to sit in while looking at it. (Though I must say that the imagination boggles a bit at the notion of an enormous projection of Jamie’s rear end…)


So. The Pen’s arranged to do this at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts, which has a lovely, brand-newly remodeled auditorium. And since we’re making such an Occasion of it, food and drink will be provided by Arcadia Farms. Aaaaand…


We’ll have music, courtesy of OUTLANDER: The Musical. I _will_ (God willing and the international shipping company cooperating) have CDs of OTM on hand to sell—but the Center for the Arts has a good sound system that will let us play the CD for you prior to the event, so you’ll have a chance to listen to it.


(As a Special Added Attraction, I _will_ read one or two excerpts from Book Eight. Just in case you were wondering how Jem’s doing in that tunnel, or What Jamie Said to Lord John next. [g] See below.)


Anyway, I expect a great time to be had by all, and hope to see y’all there, glowing like embers. [g] (I _will_ wear deodorant, in honor of the occasion.)



P.S. Since the launch party is in a special venue—which had to be rented for the occasion—there _are_ tickets for it. Each ticket includes the price of a signed book (it can be signed by me alone, by Hoang alone, or by both of us!)—and if you want to bring a friend, you can get a “companion” ticket for an additional $5. Book tickets here.




JEM


He must be getting near the end of the tunnel. Jem could tell by the way the air pushed back against his face. All he could see was the little red light on the train's dashboard--did you call it a dashboard on a train? he wondered. He didn't want to stop, because that meant he'd have to get out of the train, into the dark. But the train was running out of track, so there wasn't much else he could do.

He pulled back a little bit on the lever that made the train go, and it slowed down. More. Just a little more, and the lever clicked into a kind of slot and the train stopped with a little jerk that made him stumble and grab the edge of the cab.

An electric train didn't make any engine noise, but the wheels rattled on the track and the train made squeaks and clunks as it moved. When it stopped, the noise stopped too. It was really quiet.

"Hey!" he said out loud, because he didn't want to listen to his heart beating. The sound echoed, and he looked up, startled. Mum had said the tunnel was really high, more than thirty feet, but he'd forgot that. The idea that there was a lot of empty space hanging over him that he couldn't see bothered him a lot. He swallowed, and stepped out of the tiny engine, holding on to the frame with one hand.

"Hey!" he shouted at the invisible ceiling. "Are there any bats up there?"
….


JAMIE/LORD JOHN


He’d been quite resigned to dying. Had expected it from the moment that he’d blurted out, “I have had carnal knowledge of your wife.” The only question in his mind had been whether Fraser would shoot him, stab him, or eviscerate him with his bare hands.

To have the injured husband regard him calmly, and say merely, “Oh? Why?” was not merely unexpected, but…infamous. Absolutely infamous.

"Why?" John Grey repeated, incredulous. "Did you say 'Why
'?"

"I did. And I should appreciate an answer."
…

Urram do Mair

It's Gaidhlig ; it means


"Honor to the Dead"

Incoming...!

That would be me.


In answer to questions about my immediate whereabouts this weekend at the Bookmarks Book Festival in Winston-Salem, NC:


1:00 - 1:45 PM - talk/reading on Main Stage


1:45 - 3:30 (with bathroom break somewhere in there, I hope) - book-signing
(No, there will NOT be copies of THE EXILE available; it won't be released until the launch part on Sept. 21)


3:30 - 4:15 - Panel discussion with two NC authors (whose names I unfortunately forget) about "Sense of Place" - on Main Stage


4:15 - more book-signing, if anyone still needs it.


MANY thanks to all the kind people who've welcomed me to NC and invited me to come places, eat with them, etc. I'm afraid that I'm only there for the one day, though, and am meeting with smaller groups all morning, and dining with the Festival organizers Saturday evening. Much Obliged, though, and I'll hope for more leisure to meet with y'all next time!


Oh--while we're at it, I see the Poisoned Pen has put up a Really Nice blogpost about the launch part for THE EXILE at



http://penandtheexile.blogspot.com/

Unexpurgated Artwork

Right, unexpurgated art. Well, here's the deal: There is a section at the end of THE EXILE (the new graphic novel), titled "The Making of THE EXILE," which is a behind-the-scenes look at the collaboration between me and Hoang Nguyen, who did the artwork for the book. It includes a mention of one panel, showing part of Jamie and Claire's wedding night, where the publishing people (reluctantly [g]) decided that the art was a little _too_ graphic, and opted to have Hoang draw a blanket over part of the view. However, Betsy Mitchell, the editor, told me that I could put the original panel up on my website and blog, once the book was out--and I mentioned that while writing my part of the "Making Of" section.


Well, next thing I know, someone tells me that Random House Canada (who are also publishing the book) have uploaded the "Making Of" section to scribd--the link is
here--and all kinds of people are going nuts looking for the dirty art. [g]


I hadn't expected the "Making Of" section to be available prior to publication, so the art wasn't up yet. (And it's not _that_ explicit, anyway) But I was away from home when all this hit over the weekend, so just now having time to get it up. There you are--enjoy!

Yeah, it WAS busy!

Monday, Monday…


Or at least I _think_ it’s still Monday. Leapt into a plane this morning and flew home from Atlanta, after a delightful—but busy!—weekend at DragonCon and the Decatur Book Festival. (Well, it was Monday when I started this; now it’s Tuesday…my, how time does fly…)


Both these events are wonderful, but it would be hard to imagine two gatherings (both involving thousands of people) more dissimilar. The Decatur Book Festival is charming: it’s held in Decatur (reasonably enough), a suburb some eight miles outside Atlanta, a small town with an old-fashioned Southern (with a capital “S”) feel to it, and occupies the center of the town, with white tents arranged around the Old Courthouse, and reading venues here and there—I spoke in the Presbyterian Church, which is their largest venue (someone told me it holds 900 people, and there were just about that many in it, I think).


There’s a street filled with food-vendor’s booths, selling everything from ice-cold lemonade (regular and cherry (pronounced “cheery”)) to fried dough (with powdered sugar) and fried fish and dirty rice. The tents running up and down the streets hold everything book-related (and a few things having Not That Much to do with books, like jewelry and music CD’s): the publications of various companies, small and large, writer’s organizations, book-binders, literacy organizations, children’s books, travel books, philosophical and spiritual books, and a group called Muslims for Peace, handing out information and answering questions about Islam.


The streets themselves are full of families; there’s something for everyone—including the “Ladybug Girl Parade” and a storyteller’s tent, to say nothing of the readings and talks for more adult guests. But the mood is cheerful, laid back, and peaceful; there’s something going on everywhere you look, but the overall sense is one of happy, calm expectancy.


DragonCon is…er…NOT calm. [cough] This is (I think) the biggest sf/fantasy convention in the world. It occupies the entirety of _five_ huge convention hotels in downtown Atlanta, and hosts something like 50,000 people.


You know how one describes any outre’ social gathering as being “like the cantina scene in “Star Wars””? Well, the public aspect of DragonCon _is_ the cantina scene from “Star Wars”.


There are bars (multiple; impromptu portable bars are set up around most of the escalators) on all the floors, thronged with…well, you name it. If you can imagine it, you’ll see it there—and a Whole Lot of Stuff Nobody Ever Even THOUGHT of Before, too. (Thinking here specifically of the man—naked save for a fur Speedo—painted red from scalp to shoe-sole, with four nails through each nipple. (I told my husband about this and he said, “Either he has big nipples, or they were small nails.” Small nails. Real ones, though.)


About half the participants are in costume, and I do mean “Costume.” As in, these people take their costuming Very Seriously, and dress up as anything from their favorite anime character to an undead cabaret dancer (one of the finalists from last year’s masquerade—which I had the privilege of judging, meaning I got to see everything from a distance of about six feet), Chthulhu, or a Black Ops team from Another World (which one, I don’t know; I was afraid to ask. They aren’t _supposed_ to carry real weapons, but…). There’s an official parade in costume on Saturday morning, but believe me, you can see just about everything simply by standing in one place in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency (the main hub of the con) and letting it all thunder past you. (“The nerd herd is particularly thick tonight,” one panelist remarked, explaining his late arrival, disheveled and panting.)


While the Decatur Book Festival lasts two days and is impeccably organized, DragonCon lasts four (more or less) and…well, in all justice, _I_ wouldn’t want to be responsible for scheduling several hundred presenters and allotting them room in a multi-hotel labyrinth that would baffle the Minotaur.


Several of the hotels are linked physically, both above and below-ground, and all of the “writer’s-track” panels and events were held in the bowels of the earth, two or three stories _under_ the hotel complex. This made finding the locations for various panels a little challenging, but the hotels did tend to scatter staff members with a lavish hand, so it wasn’t that hard to find someone to ask. Still, the schedulers were inclined to put eight people or so on a panel, just to insure that three or four of them showed up on time—with the result that sometimes you really _had_ eight or nine people on a panel, which is a little unwieldy.


I was the official guest of the Decatur Book Festival, but the DBF is more than generous in sharing guests with DragonCon, and goes so far as to provide free transportation back and forth between Decatur and downtown Atlanta (and the airport) during the weekend. I took full advantage of this, as I had to make _three_ round trips on Friday, in between DragonCon events.


My chief reason—other than the fact that I enjoy it [g] –for attending this year was to promote the upcoming publication of THE EXILE (yes, yes, yes, I know you want the unexpurgated artwork from the wedding night scene; it’ll be along in the next blog entry), and I was delighted to have everyone show such enthusiasm for the book! (My editor, Betsy Mitchell, came to DragonCon to do a panel on the graphic novel with me, and brought me a copy of the Actual Book! Always a thrill [g], when something you’ve worked on for months or years is suddenly embodied and you hold it in your hands—and this is a particular pleasure, since it’s physically beautiful, as well as A Real Book.


I did have other minor things to do, though; I did a number of panels on writing—always a lot of fun—and a very interesting one in Decatur, with several YA authors, for an audience of younger readers (and their parents). Don’t know as they’ll ask me to do that one again, though, as one of the questions was which book I remembered most vividly from my teen years and I replied—honestly—that it was FANNY HILL. [cough]


Also brought a number of the Outlander: The Musical CD’s with me, and sold them at my signing in Decatur, courtesy of The Little Shop of Stories, who hosted my event. Happy to say I sold pretty much all of them—though I’d given some to my son (see below) to carry in his suitcase, and neglected to get them back before the event. (No worries; I’ll take those with me to the Bookmarks Festival in Winston-Salem next weekend.)—and people seemed thrilled to have them.


(I’m planning to have at least some CD’s at all the independent book-store events on the book-tour, later this month, so if you’d rather not go to the bother of setting up a PayPal account (and paying shipping) or waiting ‘til we get the Amazon/iTunes connections going, _and_ you’ll be in one of the places I’ll be….I’ll have a CD for you there! [g] (Special Event Price - $15.00!))


Beyond the pleasure of meeting fans, talking about writing, and sharing fabulous music, I was also supporting the efforts of a couple of Worthy Young Men.


First of these being Samuel Sykes (www.samsykes.com), hot new author of heroic fantasy, and [cough] my son. His first novel, TOME OF THE UNDERGATES, was published in the UK earlier this year, but comes out in the US this month. Having got an agent, a three-book contract, published in six countries, and good reviews, all on his own, he’s now willing to admit that he’s related to me. [g]


Sam was at DragonCon, promoting the US release of TOME, so I took a copy with me to my various panels and talks and was allowed to brag on it and show off the very attractive cover (see above). Pleased to note that Sam’s publisher had brought 50 copies of TOME to the Con—all of which sold by Sunday morning. (I didn’t do _nearly_ that well with _my_ first book…)


The second young man being Allan Scott-Douglas, who sings the role of Jamie Fraser on the Outlander: The Musical CD. Allan told me that owing to the kind interest of all the Outlander fans, he was #2 “most viewed actor” on the UK castingcallpro website for professional actors—“Only behind the new girl on Coronation Street.” I laughed and said that if he wanted to be #1, I’d mention him while in Atlanta, and we’d see what happened.


So…I did, and y’all made him #1 within about 24 hours—MANY thanks!


(Though I think I rather shocked him by reporting that I’d had a good response to his photo (in kilt) at the “Sex in Science-Fiction” panel. “How on earth did you manage to use my picture in a panel on sex?!” being his rather agitated reply. “I’m glad they liked it…but a little weirded out!” (Granted, that sort of panel usually starts on a low note and heads straight downhill, but not to worry; I didn’t do anything even slightly undignified. It’s just that the moderator’s first question was, “So…what do you personally find sexy in sf or fantasy? Let’s start with you, Dr. Gabaldon…” –whereupon, moved by inspiration, I pulled Allan’s photo out of the folder I was carrying and solemnly displayed it to the crowd, all of whom burst into applause. Responding to the iconic “Man-in-Kilt” image, I mean, not Allan’s personal attributes. (Coulda been worse. One of the DragonCon events was (I kid you not) “Men in Kilts…woman with leaf-blower.”))


Only justice, though, that a man in a kilt then made _me_ blush, in Decatur. [g] During the Q&A following my talk, a tall, nice-looking gentleman at the back of the church stood up and told me that he’d been impressed by the accuracy of my depictions of the area of North Carolina near where he lived, and would like to offer his services if I needed any research—adding that he would put his resources at my disposal.


OK. I’d already told all my indelicate kilt stories. [cough] So I laughed, thanked him, and said, “In terms of resources—I won’t ask whether you have a kilt.” Whereupon he stepped out into the aisle, arms spread, displaying…a very becoming kilt. [g]


Anyway, it was a terrific weekend—if Really, Really Busy—and I had a wonderful time meeting so many nice people!

And to Entertain You While I'm Gone...

Here are some brief video clips from the live launch of "Outlander: The Musical" in Aberdeen last month!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i37mvexRYUk


(Apologies for the poor sound; these were done with a small hand-held camera.)

BUSY WEEKEND IN ATLANTA!!!

IT’S GONNA BE A BUSY WEEKEND!!


I’ll be appearing at the Decatur Book Festival and Dragon*Con in Atlanta this weekend—pretty much simultaneously! Events and times are listed below (please note that I won’t be doing the events scheduled for Monday!).


Now, normally, I don’t Twitter [g]--no time!--but it strikes me that this weekend might just be the kind of situation where that might be helpful. So—just in case y’all want to follow me temporarily, my Twitter ID is “Writer_DG.”


DECATUR BOOK FESTIVAL


All my events in Decatur will be on Saturday afternoon (Sept. 4):


1:00 PM – “Meet and Greet” in the AJC tent. This is a brief opportunity to chat with readers. It’s not a book-signing.


3:00 PM – main talk/reading – Presbyterian Church. I’ll talk about anything y’all would like to hear about , but will certainly include the new graphic novel (THE EXILE), OUTLANDER: The Musical, and maybe even read a cliffhanger pickup or two from Book Eight!


(The talk will be followed by a book-signing—usually held across the street. !!!I will have a limited number of Outlander: The Musical” CD’s!!! available at this signing. (limited by the number I can carry…))


5:00 PM – Panel. “Break in Case of Emergency: This Book Could Save Your Life!” on The Escape teen stage. (Advice from adult authors on books to read.)



DRAGON*CON

***An Hour with Diana Gabaldon
D. Gabaldon; Mon 10:00 am; Intl. C
[W]


Outlander in Graphic Terms
Diana and Betsy discuss how the graphic
version came to be and the transition
from prose to graphic novel. D. Gabaldon,
B. Mitchell; Fri 5:30 pm; Fairlie [H]
(We'll be showing off some of the art--and will have an Actual Book to show, too!)


Sexy Science Fiction
What makes a book sexy? Naked women
and actual sex scenes? Or are there other
literary pheromones at work? J. Ward,
G. Martin, D. Gabaldon, D. Whiteside, G
Mitchell (M); Fri 10:00 pm; Fairlie [H]


Trends in Paranormal/Urban Fantasy
Fiction
This panel will discuss the very fluid
paranormal/urban fantasy fiction market.
C. Burke, C. L. Wilson, J. St. Giles, D.
Gabaldon, L. Gresh, D. Knight; Fri 11:30
am; Manila/Singapore/Hong Kong [H]


Pros Discuss Plot Development
These pros discuss methods of developing
unpredictable, but believable plots. C.
Burke, J. Moore, J. Sherman, J. Maberry,
D. Gabaldon, L. Gresh; Sat 8:30 pm;
Manila/Singapore/Hong Kong [H]


Ingredients for great fiction
A little sugar, a little spice? A surprising
plot, a great cast of characters, intriguing
settings blend into great fiction. N.
Knight, G. Watkins, J. Wurts, A. Sowards,
M. Resnick, C. Eddy, S. M. Stirling,
D. Gabaldon; Sun 5:30 pm; Manila/
Singapore/Hong Kong [H]


***Roundtable
Got a question? This is a question and
answer panel that will address questions
from the audience. S. Chastain, D.
Dixon, J. Moore, C. Douglas, J. St. Giles,
D. Gabaldon; Mon 1:00 pm; Manila/
Singapore/Hong Kong [H]


***The Future of Fantastic Fiction
This panel explores markets with wellestablished
authors making suggestions
for audience members. G. Hayes, A.
Martin, E. Moon, J. St. Giles, D. Gabaldon;
Mon 4:00 pm; Manila/Singapore/Hong
Kong [H]


*** I’m sorry to miss these events—especially the “Hour with Diana”!—but the unfortunate fact is that the DragonCon programming committee didn’t bother to send me this schedule. I got it from a fan who’d picked it up from the website three days ago—by which time I (rather naturally) had already booked my flights, leaving Monday morning. Will hope to catch up with y’all at one of the other events over the weekend, though!

Cliffhangers

Why, yes, actually I _have_ (in and amongst everything else) been working on Book Eight. [g] I think I showed you a brief snip of the pickup to the Jem-in-the-tunnel cliffhanger last month; here's a likewise brief snip of the one between Jamie and Lord John:


Excerpt, Book Eight
Copyright 2010 Diana Gabaldon


He’d been quite resigned to dying. Had expected it from the moment that he’d blurted out, “I have had carnal knowledge of your wife.” The only question in his mind had been whether Fraser would shoot him, stab him, or eviscerate him with his bare hands.


To have the injured husband regard him calmly, and say merely, “Oh? Why?” was not merely unexpected, but…infamous. Absolutely infamous.


"Why?" John Grey repeated, incredulous. "Did you say 'Why'?"


"I did. And I should appreciate an answer."


Now that Grey had both eyes open, he could see that Fraser's outward calm was not quite so impervious as he'd first supposed. There was a pulse beating in Fraser’s temple, and he'd shifted his weight a little, like a man might do in the vicinity of a tavern brawl, not quite ready to commit violence, but readying himself to meet it. Perversely, Grey found this sight steadying.


"What do you bloody mean, 'why'?" he said, suddenly irritated. "And why aren't you fucking dead?"


"I often wonder that myself," Fraser replied politely. "I take it ye thought I was?"


"Yes, and so did your wife! Do you have the faintest idea what the knowledge of your death _did_ to her?"


The dark blue eyes narrowed just a trifle.


"Are ye implying that the news of my death deranged her to such an extent that she lost her reason and took ye to her bed by force? Because," he went on, neatly cutting off Grey's heated reply, "unless I've been seriously misled regarding your own nature, it would take substantial force to compel ye to any such action. Or am I wrong?"


The eyes stayed narrow. Grey stared back at them. Then he closed his eyes briefly and rubbed both hands hard over his face, like a man waking from nightmare. He dropped his hands and opened his eyes again.


"You are not misled," he said, through clenched teeth. "And you _are_ wrong."

The Laird of Balnamoon

Well, having embarrassed the heck out of Mr. Scott-Douglas, [cough] allow me now to introduce you to Mr. Kevin Walsh!


(I showed this picture to our excellent web-mistress, who said, “Does every Scot have a kilt pic? What they don’t realize is, all they have to do is go on any Diana Gabaldon fan board, and pick up any single woman they want, from anywhere in the world! *g* Doesn't even matter what they look like, they just need the kilt and the accent.” )


Kevin is both the singer and the song. By which I mean that he’s the composer and creator of all the music for the Outlander: The Musical CD—and also sings the voices of Dougal MacKenzie and Ian Murray _on_ the CD. (You can hear him as Dougal in “The Message” and as Ian in the hilarious “Why Did I Marry a Fraser?” (in which Jamie and Jenny bicker in the background as Ian and Claire condole with each other: Ian/Claire: “[Frasers]…they’re awkward/and sulky/bad-tempered/and vain” (Jamie: “VAIN?!” Claire: “Yes, you strut about there like a Highland John Wayne…”)) as well as a brief bit in “I Am Ready”).


Kevin’s also aka the Laird of Balnamoon – pronounced, he says, “Bonny Moon” in old Scots—this being the name of his house, “Cotton of Balnamoon,” an ancient structure once belonging to a Jacobite laird named James Carnegy-Arbuthnott*)


* James Carnegy-Arbuthnott, Laird of Balnamoon, favoured the Jacobite cause and was known as the Rebel Laird. He was Prince Charles Edward Stuart's Deputy-Lieutenant of Forfarshire and an officer in Lord Ogilvy's Angus regiment. He survived the Battle of Culloden in 1746 and fled to Glen Esk where he was harboured by locals until he was betrayed by the local Presbyterian minister. Sent for trial in London, he was acquitted on a misnomer. (In 1745 he had added his wife's surname and territorial designation of Arbuthnott of Findowrie to his own name, from whence arose the confusion). [From Wikipedia]

Pictures, You Say...

Pictures, you say. Well….see, the thing is, if I’m taking pictures, I’m always looking around for something to take a picture _of_. Which is not an unreasonable thing to do, but it stops me actually _seeing_ things.

And it gets in the way of the things that are looking for me.

For instance, the last bit of the recent trip was two and a half days in Ireland. This was research, as part of SCOTTISH PRISONER takes place there—but rather random research, as I wasn’t looking for a specific battlefield or anything of that sort, but just absorbing the vibes of County Galway and Limerick (as well as Dublin) and sitting around in pubs listening to people talk (I have some slight ear for Scots, but none at all for Irish regional accents or idiom).

Well, so. Our path to Limerick took us (by plan) through Athlone, as a certain amount of 17th-century Jacobite plotting went on there, and I thought it might be useful. Nothing specific in mind, though, so we were just driving through the city, looking round in a vague way for the castle. “You don’t know where it is?” asked my husband (gallantly doing all the wrong-side-of-the-road driving, and thus slightly white-knuckled in the narrow streets).

“Nope,” I said cheerily. “I may not even need it, but if I do, I’m sure we’ll find it.” So on we went, reaching the far side of the city pretty fast (it’s a small city, Athlone). Rather than get onto an unfamiliar motorway, we pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center—which was across the street from a park, with a river running through it.

OK. One of my basic principles when on foreign ground is that you always head for water. River, lake, ocean, pond—it doesn’t matter. Something interesting is always going on near water. So we crossed the road, and Doug headed—with logic—right for the river. I stopped dead, at a ratty little poster in a frame, showing faded depictions of the flora and fauna to be found on the River Shannon (that being what we standing next to). I took a quick, but intense look at this, and when I spotted “amphibious bistort,” I heard, clear as anything, the following:
“Fraser glowered at the plant in his hand.

“And what’s that?”

“An amphibious bistort, if I’m not mistaken,” Grey replied, with some pleasure at the name.

“Can ye eat it?”

Grey surveyed the spindly thing critically and shook his head.

“Not unless you were starving.”

“I’m not. Put it back and let’s go.”

Right. So the River Shannon and the amphibious bistort were looking for me—but I certainly wouldn’t have found them, if I’d been looking for church spires or cud-chewing cows to take photos of. (No, I have no idea why these people are where they are; I just know they _are_, because I’ve just seen them there.) And on the way back through town, sure enough, Castle Athlone materialized right in front of us, and I spent a blissful twenty minutes climbing through it. So when the time comes, I can pull that memory up entire, from the tiny flowering plants growing in the cracks of the black stone, to the way the arrow slits widen on the inner aspect, to allow for someone drawing a bow—and I know that a bow-shot from one of those slits would have reached a boat coming ashore from the Shannon (having come down from Lough Rea—don’t ask me who’s in the boat or who’s shooting at them; I don’t know that yet), because I know how far it is from the Castle to the River—not far at all.

And that’s why I don’t take pictures when I travel. (I _do_ collect postcards from art museums.)

So I’m afraid the only picture I came home from Scotland with is the one above, of me and Big Bir—er, me and Mr. Allan Scott-Douglas (the voice of Jamie Fraser on the outlanderthemusical CD), who very graciously came to have a drink with me and sign a bunch of CD’s. (NO, I have _not_ just made some scandalous remark that caused Mr. Scott-Douglas to blush—would I do that? He’s just got a ferocious sunburn from outdoor rehearsals for his next show, “King Arthur”, which is being performed at Craigcrook Castle near Edinburgh, later this month. See here for details.)

[As an afterthought, it seemed only fair to show you a photo of Allan _in_ character, though he's no less charming as himself.]

Oh—before I forget, there’s a brand-new video of the song-snips from Outlander: The Musical, here! (And many, many thanks to the talented Michelle Moore, who made it!)

Not that I have been _entirely_ frivolous over the last couple of weeks. I've also just finished a novella titled "Lord John and the Plague of Zombies," and here's a bit of it, for your entertainment--hope you enjoy it!


“Lord John and the Plague of Zombies” - excerpt
Copyright 2010 Diana Gabaldon

[This will be published in an anthology titled DOWN THESE STRANGE STREETS, edited by George R.R. Martin and Gardner Dozois. No, I don’t have a pub date for this yet, but am assuming sometime in 2011.]

“Your servant, sah,” he said to Grey, bowing respectfully. “The Governor’s compliments, and dinner will be served in ten minutes. May I see you to the dining room?”

“You may,” Grey said, reaching hastily for his coat. He didn’t doubt that he could find the dining-room unassisted, but the chance to watch this young man walk…

“You may,” Tom Byrd corrected, entering with his hands full of grooming implements, “once I’ve put his lordship’s hair to rights.” He fixed Grey with a minatory eye. “You’re not a-going in to dinner like that, me lord, and don’t you think it. You sit down there.” He pointed sternly to a stool, and Lieutenant-Colonel Grey, commander of His Majesty’s forces in Jamaica, meekly obeyed the dictates of his nineteen-year-old valet. He didn’t always allow Tom free rein, but in the current circumstance, was just as pleased to have an excuse to sit still in the company of the young black servant.

Tom laid out all his implements neatly on the dressing-table, from a pair of silver hairbrushes to a box of powder and a pair of curling tongs, with the care and attention of a surgeon arraying his knives and saws. Selecting a hairbrush, he leaned closer, peering at Grey’s head, then gasped. “Me lord! Tthere’s a big huge spider--walking right up your temple!”

Grey smacked his temple by reflex, and the spider in question—a clearly visible brown thing nearly a half-inch long—shot off into the air, striking the looking-glass with an audible tap before dropping to the surface of the dressing-table and racing for its life.

Tom and the black servant uttered identical cries of horror and lunged for the creature, colliding in front of the dressing table and falling over in a thrashing heap. Grey, strangling an almost irresistible urge to laugh, stepped over them and dispatched the fleeing spider neatly with the back of his other hairbrush.

He pulled Tom to his feet and dusted him off, allowing the black servant to scramble up by himself. He brushed off all apologies as well, but asked whether the spider had been a deadly one?

“Oh, yes, sah,” the servant assured him fervently. “Should one of those bite you, sah, you would suffer excruciating pain at once. The flesh around the wound would putrefy, you would commence to be fevered within an hour, and in all likelihood, you would not live until dawn.”

“Oh, I see,” Grey said mildly, his flesh creeping briskly. “Well, then. Perhaps you would not mind looking about the room while Tom is at his work? In case such spiders go about in company?”

Grey sat and let Tom brush and plait his hair, watching the young man as he assiduously searched under the bed and dressing-table, pulled out Grey’s trunk, and pulled up the trailing curtains and shook them.

“What is your name?” he asked the young man, noting that Tom’s fingers were trembling badly, and hoping to distract him from thoughts of the hostile wildlife with which Jamaica undoubtedly teemed. Tom was fearless in the streets of London, and perfectly willing to face down ferocious dogs or foaming horses. Spiders, though, were quite another matter.

“Rodrigo, sah,” said the young man, pausing in his curtain-shaking to bow. “Your servant, sah.”

He seemed quite at ease in company, and conversed with them about the town, the weather—he confidently predicted rain in the evening, at about ten o’clock--leading Grey to think that he had likely been employed as a servant in good families for some time. Was the man a slave? he wondered, or a free black?

His admiration for Rodrigo was, he assured himself, the same that he might have for a marvelous piece of sculpture, an elegant painting. And one of his friends did in fact possess a collection of Greek amphorae decorated with scenes that gave him quite the same sort of feeling. He shifted slightly in his seat, crossing his legs. He would be going into dinner soon. He resolved to think of large, hairy spiders, and was making some progress with this subject when something huge and black dropped down the chimney and rushed out of the disused hearth.

All three men shouted and leapt to their feet, stamping madly. This time it was Rodrigo who felled the intruder, crushing it under one sturdy shoe.

“What the devil was that?” Grey asked, bending over to peer at the thing, which was a good three inches long, gleamingly black, and roughly ovoid, with ghastly long, twitching antennae.

“Only a cockroach, sah,” Rodrigo assured him, wiping a hand across a sweating ebon brow. “They will not harm you, but they are most disagreeable. If they come into your bed, they feed upon your eyebrows.”

Tom uttered a small strangled cry. The cockroach, far from being destroyed, had merely been inconvenienced by Rodrigo’s shoe. It now extended thorny legs, heaved itself up and was proceeding about its business, though at a somewhat slower pace. Grey, the hairs prickling on his arms, seized the ash-shovel from among the fireplace implements and scooping up the insect on its blade, jerked open the door and flung the nasty creature as far as he could—which, given his state of mind, was some considerable distance.

Tom was pale as custard when Grey came back in, but picked up his employer’s coat with trembling hands. He dropped it, though, and with a mumbled apology, bent to pick it up again, only to utter a strangled shriek, drop it again, and run backwards, slamming so hard against the wall that Grey heard a crack of laths and plaster.

“What the devil?” He bent, reaching gingerly for the fallen coat.

“Don’t touch it, me lord!” Tom cried, but Grey had seen what the trouble was; a tiny yellow snake slithered out of the blue-velvet folds, head moving to and fro in slow curiosity.

“Well, hallo, there.” He reached out a hand, and as before, the little snake tasted his skin with a flickering tongue, then wove its way up into the palm of his hand. He stood up, cradling it carefully.

Tom and Rodrigo were standing like men turned to stone, staring at him.
“It’s quite harmless,” he assured them. “At least I think so. It must have fallen into my pocket earlier.”

Rodrigo was regaining a little of his nerve. He came forward and looked at the snake, but declined an offer to touch it, putting both hands firmly behind his back.

“That snake likes you, sah,” he said, glancing curiously from the snake to Grey’s face, as though trying to distinguish a reason for such odd particularity.

“Possibly.” The snake had made its way upward and was now wrapped round two of Grey’s fingers, squeezing with remarkable strength. “On the other hand, I believe he may be attempting to kill and eat me. Do you know what his natural food might be?”

Rodrigo laughed at that, displaying very beautiful white teeth, and Grey had such a vision of those teeth, those soft mulberry lips, applied to—he coughed, hard, and looked away.

“He would eat anything that did not try to eat him first, sah,” Rodrigo assured him. “It was probably the sound of the cockroach that made him come out. He would hunt those.”

“What a very admirable sort of snake. Could we find him something to eat, do you think? To encourage him to stay, I mean.”

Tom’s face suggested strongly that if the snake was staying, he was not. On the other hand….he glanced toward the door, whence the cockroach had made its exit, and shuddered. With great reluctance, he reached into his pocket and extracted a rather squashed bread-roll, containing ham and pickle.

This object being placed on the floor before it, the snake inspected it gingerly, ignored bread and pickle, but twining itself carefully about a chunk of ham, squeezed it fiercely into limp submission, then, opening its jaw to an amazing extent, engulfed its prey, to general cheers. Even Tom clapped his hands, and—if not ecstatic at Grey’s suggestion that the snake might be accommodated in the dark space beneath the bed for the sake of preserving Grey’s eyebrows, uttered no objections to this plan, either. The snake being ceremoniously installed and left to digest its meal, Grey was about to ask Rodrigo further questions regarding the natural fauna of the island, but was forestalled by the faint sound of a distant gong.

“Dinner!” he exclaimed, reaching for his now snakeless coat.

“Me lord! Your hair’s not even powdered!” He refused to wear a wig, to Tom’s ongoing dismay, but was obliged in the present instance to submit to powder. This toiletry accomplished in haste, he shrugged into his coat and fled, before Tom could suggest any further refinements to his appearance.

###

WHEW!

I’m actually a trifle disappointed. I have a nice official-looking card, signed by my surgeon, informing the world that I have a knee replacement, to be presented to the TSA as needed—and I didn’t need it! Apparently my new knee doesn’t contain enough metal (or not the right kind of metal) to set off most metal detectors in airports. Not that this is a ¬_bad_ thing, mind you…I was just all prepared to have sirens go off and then…nada. Quite the let-down!


On the other hand, if you’re going to spend 21 hours (count ‘em, 21! That’s just about One Whole Day _and_ Night!) getting home from Scotland, having been routed from Edinburgh to Paris to Minneapolis to Phoenix, anything that makes the passage through airports even minimally less complicated is welcome.


(I now have a new unfavorite airport. Granted, Charles DeGaulle is not _quite_ as horrible as JFK—where all the worst experiences of my long traveling life have taken place—but only because it’s newer and the people are somewhat more polite (no, really) while doing irrational things (after sending us through _two_ levels of security, including a hand-search of our cabin luggage, they sent us down a ramp to the gate. Only there wasn’t a plane at the end of it; we debouched into the street _outside_ the terminal, where we were obliged to wait fifteen minutes for a bus--whose driver then got LOST on the way to the plane (not kidding; he circled the terminal three times and kept making U-turns, dodging sewage-pumping trucks and construction equipment as we got closer and closer to flight time). It’s fortunate that among the few French things I know how to say is, “C’est mon mari!” (“That’s my husband!”), because otherwise, I would have lost Doug in CDG for sure…)


But we’re HOME, which is wonderful—the dachshunds were ecstatic at our reappearance and went in for exaggerated writhings of welcome, flinging themselves on the floor at my feet and peeing on the floor in demonstration of their delight--and we had an absolutely great time, zipping (in a leisurely fashion) from Edinburgh to Inverness to London to Ireland and back to Edinburgh.


We arrived in Edinburgh during the Fringe Festival, and left it on the first weekend of the regular Edinburgh Festival—both times, staying at The Scotsman, a delightful (if really eccentric—it used to be the office building for “The Scotsman” newspaper, and rather than gut the building, they just sort of…fitted…bedrooms into it, resulting in some truly peculiar rooms) place on the North Bridge, just off the Royal Mile.


Which I mention only because the Royal Mile in Festival time is something to see. There’s a great Scots word for that—“hoaching.” As in, “the place was hoaching with…” In this case, with hundreds of visitors fighting their way up and down the Royal Mile, or sprawling in tiny chairs outside restaurants with ice cream cones and pints of beer, or—like one family we saw, consisting of a father and four small boys—simply sitting on the pavement in a row, legs outstretched among the throng, placidly eating chips and vinegar out of cardboard trugs.


The Edinburgh Festival is a great cultural extravaganza: plays, musical performances, art exhibitions, literary readings, the Military Tattoo… “Fringe” is the Fringe Festival; a period before the regular Festival, featuring everything anybody wants to do and can find a place to do it in. The whole town becomes a warren of numbered “venues” (ranging from regular theaters to disused toilets), and street performers (you don’t see that many mimes and living statues anywhere else, even in Italy) and hawkers of Fringe performance tickets just about out-number the visitors. It’s the sort of experience that people call “colorful,” out of sheer inability to describe it more closely.



Now, I’ve performed myself a couple of times at the Edinburgh Literary Festival (a separately organized bookish part of the Festival season), but had never experienced “Fringe” before. As Doug observed, the people who benefit most economically during Fringe are the printers, who work day and night madly printing handbills, cards, brochures, posters, tickets, etc. for the constantly-changing array of performances—and the people (mostly young girls) who are hired to cruise through the crowds with litter-grabbers, picking all this stuff up off the street.



Naturally, some of what’s going on is great, and a lot of it is…well, it’s entertaining (or at least forces you to look at it, in the manner of traffic accidents). One heck of a lot of energy, though; the Royal Mile zaps and sparks like an electrical conduit, pretty much twenty-four hours a day. (Both Fringe and Festival occupy a lot more space than the Royal Mile, of course—but given limited time and the location of our hotel, we hung out mostly on the Mile and up in New Town.)



We were privileged to be invited to the dress rehearsal of one of the Fringe plays, a musical comedy translated from the Czech original, called “Desire.” Deeply entertaining, though I admit that attending in a mildly intoxicated state (believe me, the whole _town_ is mildly intoxicated during Fringe) probably helped.



Edinburgh wasn’t strictly for fun, though; while there, I met with Mike Gibb and Kevin Walsh, the creative team behind Outlander: The Musical, and we went together to confer with a couple of nice folk at the Scottish Department of Culture, regarding possibilities both for doing the showcase of songs at Tartan Day in New York next April, and for expanding to a full-scale stage production. A lot of encouragement, some useful suggestions—and Mike tells me he’s been sequestered at his hideout in Perthshire for the last two weeks, working feverishly on the complete libretto—can’t wait to see that!



In re knees, though, I will say that hauling up, down, and sideways over the steep terrain of Edinburgh did a lot for my rehab efforts. The next stop in Scotland did even more, that being a castle with a 99-step spiral staircase [g]—and a haunted room at the top. But it’s 4 AM here now, so Castle Stuart is a story for tomorrow!

Live Launch!

Just a quick report from the Aberdeen front: The official “live” launch of OUTLANDER: The Musical took place yesterday, as part of the Aberdeen Tartan Day festivities, and a Really Good Time was had by all, or so I’m told. [g]


Here’s the Official Tartan Day Photo (as taken by the Official City of Aberdeen Photographer—meaning it’s in focus) of the scene in St. Nicholas’s Kirk. And here is the link to the slightly less official but very exciting photos taken by Shona Duthie during the performance. (The white-haired gentleman visible in one of these photos is Mike Gibb, the lyricist who wrote the songs.)


I’ve had lovely emails and enthusiastic messages from a number of people who were there, and Mike reports: “Great performances and amazing audience reaction. Quite a few American and Canadians in the audience who were ecstatic about the whole thing. We were basically full for all three performances with SRO at the first.”


I have family visiting, so we celebrated modestly with a bottle (or two) of wine, and I played the songs for the assembled company from my laptop, showing the pictures from Aberdeen. Spontaneous applause, much admiration for Allan’s socks [g] (not sure that the ladies viewing them realized that he’s wearing ghillies with wrapped garters, rather than having a truly eccentric Argyll pattern decorating his ankles—hard to see fine detail on a laptop screen (well, and there was Rather a Lot of wine, too…), and a general hope that he grows his hair out longer before the next appearance. Sue’s and Allan’s vocals hugely enjoyed, and general raising of glasses to Mike, Kevin, and all the performers (being not limited to the actual stage, I could play them the whole song-cycle. We waited until the young men in the party (aged 17 to 26) went off to their own devices before playing “Say the Words” (the duet between Jamie and Black Jack Randall in Wentworth), though.)


Anyway, congratulations to all involved with OUTLANDER: The Musical!


Anyone wanting to check out song samples, or order a CD of the complete song-cycle, can do so here.



And now I must go and start packing for Scotland! So I’ll be scarce online for the next couple of weeks—might manage one more post before I leave-- but will hope to come back with nice pictures.

And Here's Claire!

Or rather, Sue Robertson [g], who sings the role of Claire (and _very_ beautifully, too; she's got a lovely warm, cut-crystal voice).


Sue Robertson (Claire)


Sue started on stage at the grand old age of 16 with Dundee Operatic Society (DOS) with whom she has played many principal roles over the years such as Nancy in ‘Oliver’, Minnie-Fay in ‘Show Boat’, Adelaide. in ‘Guys & Dolls’ and Millie in ‘Thoroughly Modern Millie’. Sue has also had the privilege of working alongside playwright Mike Gibb playing the part of Grace on four occasions during 2005 - 2007 in theatres across Scotland in his musical play ‘Five Pound & Twa Bairns’ and Barbara in ‘Sunday Morning on Dundee Law’ which Kevin Walsh wrote the music for. She has also been in the ‘The Steamie’ playing Doreen in 2002 and again in 2004. Sue has recently enjoyed playing the ‘mad’ role of Helen for the second time, working with the cast of ‘The Berries – Twa an’ a Half Pence a Pund’, written by her husband Dundee author, poet and playwright Gary Robertson.

Jamie and Claire in Aberdeen this Saturday!

Edinburgh born actor and singer, Allan Scott-Douglas has worked extensively in various musical and theatrical productions all over the UK since graduating with distinction from drama school in 2006.


In 2009, he had the distinct honour of being cast as 'Scotland's favourite son', poet Robert Burns in 'Ae Fond Kiss: The Life and Loves of Robert Burns' for which he received critical acclaim. This included recording his first ever 'Original Cast Recording CD' which has been useful experience for his work on 'Outlander - The Musical'.


He has also recently been involved in a modern day re-telling of the legend of King Arthur, playing the Macchiavelian war monger Sir Breunor. The play had it's World Premiere in 2009 at the Edinburgh Fringe and is currently being re-rehearsed for an open air run in a castle in September. It is then likely to be touring all over the UK in 2011.


Allan is absolutely delighted to have joined the Outlander universe and hopes he can live up to the expectations and fluttering hearts that Jamie's words have set over the years -- if all else fails, he is at least a 6'4" redhead who regularly wears a kilt and whose nose is slightly too long...so at least he's got that part of Jamie covered!



Sue Robertson (Claire)

(sorry, no picture available yet!)

Sue started on stage at the grand old age of 16 with Dundee Operatic Society (DOS) with whom she has played many principal roles over the years such as Nancy in ‘Oliver’, Minnie-Fay in ‘Show Boat’, Adelaide. in ‘Guys & Dolls’ and Millie in ‘Thoroughly Modern Millie’. Sue has also had the privilege of working alongside playwright Mike Gibb playing the part of Grace on four occasions during 2005 - 2007 in theatres across Scotland in his musical play ‘Five Pound & Twa Bairns’ and Barbara in ‘Sunday Morning on Dundee Law’ which Kevin Walsh wrote the music for. She has also been in the ‘The Steamie’ playing Doreen in 2002 and again in 2004. Sue has recently enjoyed playing the ‘mad’ role of Helen for the second time, working with the cast of ‘The Berries – Twa an’ a Half Pence a Pund’, written by her husband Dundee author, poet and playwright Gary Robertson.





July 31st—that’s THIS Saturday!—is “Tartan Day” in Aberdeen. Which would naturally be cause for great excitement on its own [g]. However…


This Saturday is also the Official Launch of OUTLANDER: The Musical, with three live showcase performances of songs from the show. Mike Gibb, lyricist and producer of the show, says:


“The showcases are in the Drum Aisle (where the ancient "Drum of Irvines" were buried) of St Nicholas Kirk in the centre of Aberdeen at 1.00, 2.15 and 3.30 on Saturday. Admission is free. Any Gabaldonians wanting to come should email me (info@hamepages.com) so I can reserve seats. Reckon all will be "sold out" as it is at a Scotsman’s favourite price! Lots of overseas holiday makers over here just now as well and an article going into the local press on Thursday.”


Those of us not fortunate enough to be in Aberdeen this weekend are promised later video of the event, though! If that works out, it’ll be up on the OUTLANDER:The Musical YouTube Channel as soon as possible.

REASON AND EMOTION (Excerpt)

Inspired by a remark anent rationality and emotion in the last post, I thought I'd put up a brief excerpt illustrating the point. [g] This is from a short story (well, all right, it's 25,000 words, but still...) I've just done for an anthology. The story was originally called "Terror Daemonium" and is the story of what happened to Michael Murray (the middle brother, between Young Jamie and Young Ian, Janet's twin) and to Joan MacKimmie (Laoghaire's younger daughter; Marsali's sister) when they went to France at the end of AN ECHO IN THE BONE. I later changed the name to "The Space Between", but it'll be up to the anthology editor as to which title he prefers.



Excerpt from "The Space Between" (aka "Terror Daemonium")


After a short tour through the rooms of the gaming club, Michael indicated a desire to play whist. Cards weren’t Charles’s favorite; he preferred the excitement of dice. Neither was whist at all fashionable; the tables were in a small, dingy salon at the rear of the establishment.


“Whist is too much like work,” Charles grumbled, though good-naturedly. “That’s why you like it, no doubt. Your Scottish sense of virtue doesn’t allow you to do something just for fun.”


There might be something to this. Beyond such philosophical questions, though, the choice of whist did allow Michael to control Charles’s gambling to some extent. Charles had a wife, two sons, and a mistress to support, and while Michael disapproved the existence of the mistress, he did like the lady—and pitied the wife. Michael shrugged and smiled, they found a pair of Italian gentlemen willing to play, and settled down to a peaceful evening of cards.


It _was_ peaceful. Much to his surprise, Michael found after an hour’s play that the thorns of his personal briar patch had coiled themselves up and withdrawn. His mind was quiet, and if he was not happy, he wasn’t actively miserable, either.


He shuffled the cards and laid them out, counting under his breath. Count to ten, he heard, in the back of his mind, and his Da’s laugh. He smiled involuntarily.


The one thing good about the manner of his father’s dying had been that there was time. He wouldn’t wish such a death by inches on anyone, but it had at least allowed all the children and grandchildren to come to Lallybroch, to see each other, to test the bonds of their family and find they held steady, despite years and distance. And time to talk with Da.


Who had, in the course of one conversation in the kitchen with his sons, pointed out a little-known use of mathematics.


“Ye ken how they say ye should count to ten before ye speak, if ye’re blazin’ wi’ fury?”


“Aye. So?” Young Jamie raised a brow.


“Well, that’s because ye canna think of numbers and be angry at the same time. That’s why I took up the study o’ mathematics when I met your Mam.”


There was laughter, and a certain amount of skepticism expressed, but Da insisted it was so, and Michael and Young Ian had undertaken to insult Young Jamie while the latter did sums, by way of experiment, but this enterprise had broken down into giggles as the insults grew sillier, and finally into open roaring, when their mother walked in unexpectedly, in time to hear her youngest son call her oldest son “Ye whore-mongering son of a hypotenuse!”


“Really, Michel,” Charles said to him disapprovingly in English, “you mustn’t grin like that, even if your cards are stunning. It makes them nervous.” He nodded slightly toward the two Italians, who were regarding Michael with an obvious suspicion.


Michael’s cards were in fact mediocre, but he subdued his grin to a satisfied smile, which unnerved one of the Italians sufficiently as to make him throw in a much superior hand. His partner glared.

_Well, then_, Michael thought, feeling better. _I should ha’ thought of that before. I’ll take to solving problems in geometry, just before bed. That’ll put paid to the dreams. Maybe._


###

NEW Outlander:The Musical Website is UP!

Logo Credit: David Stout, of "Sketchpad"


Ta-Dah!


With immense thanks to Michelle Moore, who popped up like a fairy godmother and offered to make a website for Outlander: the Musical….and _did_, in less than 48 hours….


Here it is:


OUTLANDERTHEMUSICAL.COM


Complete with pictures and bios of the performers, ordering links and information (yes, in the fullness of time, you’ll also be able to do this via Amazon and iTunes, but we aren’t quite there yet), a downloadable version of the complete “Blood of my Blood” song, aaaaannnnd….a complete list of the songs, each with its own sample snippet to listen to!


Huge applause for Michelle, and great thanks to Kevin Walsh, who kindly supplied the musical snips! Also to all the performers, who did an amazing job on this project. I hope y’all will enjoy it as much as I have!

INFLUENCES

I know writers of novels who say they don't read fiction at all while working on a book, out of fear of "being influenced" by what they read. I am struck by horror at the thought of going years without being able to read fiction (though perhaps these people write faster than I do, and take long vacations between books?)—but more struck by the sheer silliness of this.


Everything writers see, think, and experience influences their work. How could it not? Now, it's true that people do ask writers, "Where do you get your ideas?" and that writers--out of facetiousness or desperation--give answers like, "From the Sears catalog" (or "From Ideas.com," depending on the writer's vintage). But the truth is that writers get ideas from every damn thing they see, hear, smell, touch, taste, think, feel, or do—including the books they read.


Naturally, one wants to develop a unique voice, but do kids learn to talk without ever being talked to? You have an individual voice, by virtue of being an individual. And your individuality is composed of your essential God-given spark of personality and of the sum total of the things you encounter in life. Now, whether each encounter is a bruising collision or a fruitful act of love…who knows? But all of it is grist to a writer's mill; so much should be obvious, if one reads at all widely.


Personally, I learned to read at the age of three, and have read non-stop ever since. I'm 58 now; you can read a lot of books in fifty-five years. I'm sure that every single book I've ever read has had some influence on me as a writer, whether negative (I've read a lot of books with the mounting conviction that I would never in my life do something like that) or positive.


When I first began to write fiction, though, I was deliberately looking for positive influences, and luckily had quite a few to hand. During the writing of my first novel (OUTLANDER/CROSS STITCH, which I wrote for practice, not intending to ever show it to anyone), I consciously considered the art and techniques of these five writers in particular:


Charles Dickens – Nobody does characters like Dickens did, and that's why his books endure. He told excellent stories and painted a vivid portrait of Victorian society, but that society consists of people who live, breathe, and speak on the page. I learned from him the art of evoking a character: naming and describing people in such vivid detail as to make them live.



Robert Louis Stevenson – One of the earliest and best of the romance writers—back when "romance" meant adventure and excitement, escape from daily life. TREASURE ISLAND? KIDNAPPED? THE MASTER OF BALLANTRAE? The titles alone are enough to transport you, but the clean prose and vivid characters bring you back again and again.


Dorothy L. Sayers – Mistress of dialogue, character, humor and social nuance. From her, I learned that dialogue is the single most defining trait of character, and just how much you can do with accent, idiom, and dialect. Also, that a character is embedded in his or her social matrix, and that matrix is as important as the individual's personal characteristics.


John D. MacDonald – John D. was a prolific writer, with more than five hundred novels to his credit, in more than one genre, but was best known for his Travis McGee mystery/thrillers. From him, I learned how to sustain characters over the course of a long series, how to maintain a narrative drive, how to write action, and how to pace a story.


P.G. Wodehouse – one of the most popular humorists ever. Pelham Grenville Wodehouse taught me how much sheer amusement you can derive from the English language—and the art of constructing a plot that works so seamlessly that it doesn't matter how absurd it is. And no one who's ever had the pleasure of meeting Bertie Wooster and his gentleman's personal gentleman, Jeeves—let alone his bevy of friends and nemeses (Gussie Fink-Nottle and his Aunt Agatha, to mention only two)—will ever forget them.


I learned a great deal from all these writers—and from hundreds more. What every
writer on this list of personal muses has in common, though, is great skill in the matter of creating characters. And character, I think, is the single most important thing in fiction. You might read a book once for its interesting plot—but not twice. When you meet a fascinating person in the pages of a book, though, you come back, discovering new relevance, seeing new depths—or just enjoying the renewal of a long and lasting friendship.

Appearances for the Rest of 2010

APPEARANCES FOR THE REST OF 2010


JULY

July 17th – Flagstaff Celtic Festival
Foxglenn Park, Flagstaff, AZ
Reading – 1 PM, book-signing – 2-4 PM


AUGUST

August 7th - International Clan MacKenzie Gathering/Strathpeffer Highland Games
Grounds of Castle Leod, Strathpeffer
Times TBA, but probably there from noon to 4 or 5. No reading, as the clan chieftain (aka the Earl of Cromartie) tells me the sound system is too antique to provide an adequate level of quality, but will have books for sale, and will sign books people bring, as well. And you get to see the Castle!
http://www.highlandgames.org.uk/highland_and_border_games_in_sco.htm



August 28th – Tucson Circle of Book Clubs Salon (open to the public)
4-6 PM. Short talk, followed by book-signing.
Windmill Inn
4250 N. Campbell Ave., Tucson, AZ
Books will be available for sale, courtesy Antigone Books
Contact Judy Ranzer (judy@ranzer.com) or Donna Grant (grantlimpan@aol.com) for further details.


August 28th – Tucson RWA Chapter (members only)
10:00 AM – speaking, book-signing


SEPTEMBER

September 3-6 (Labor Day Weekend)

Decatur Book Festival
Downtown Decatur, GA (8 miles from Atlanta)
No set schedule as yet, but I always do at least one major talk, plus one or more book-signings.

and

Dragon*Con
Atlanta (This con is immense, and held in four hotels at once. I don’t yet have any sort of schedule, but will be attending with Betsy Mitchell, the DelRey editor for THE EXILE, and we’ll be doing at least one panel together, with slides of artwork from the graphic novel. I’ll certainly also be doing autographing.)

I’ll be switching back and forth between the Decatur Festival and Dragon*Con, so catch me at whichever one is most convenient and/or suited to your personal style!


September 11 – BOOKMARKS Book Festival
Winston-Salem, NC
Speaking and signing - times TBA.
www.bookmarksbookfestival.org for details.


September 21st – LAUNCH PARTY FOR THE EXILE!!
THE EXILE is the new graphic novel, with Jamie’s (and Murtagh’s) side of the OUTLANDER story, script by me, spectacular artwork by Hoang Nguyen.

The launch will be held at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts (http://www.scottsdaleperformingarts.org/ ),
And will feature not only me, books, and food—but also a slideshow with commentary by me and Hoang Nguyen, who did the artwork for THE EXILE, and who will also be available to answer questions and autograph books.

While this event is sponsored by (and books supplied by) The Poisoned Pen Bookstore, they asked me to inform you that instead of reserving a book at the bookstore, you need to buy a ticket from the Center for the Arts (http://tickets.scottsdaleperformingarts.org/tickets/calendar.aspx ) to the event, and the price of your book is included in that. (You can also buy a ‘companion’ ticket for $5, if you want to bring a friend who doesn’t want a book.) [NB: The Center may not yet have their September program up; if not, please check back in a week or two.]

If you won’t be in town, or don’t live here, but would like to order a copy of THE EXILE signed by me, Hoang, or both of us, pleased contact Patrick@poisonedpen.com, or phone the bookstore at 480-947-2974.


Then comes a short(ish) book-tour. This is arranged by Random House, the publisher, and so far, I have only the following information available:

September 22nd – Tattered Cover
Denver, CO

September 23rd – Rainy Day Books
Kansas City

September 25th – National Book Festival
Washington, DC

September 28th - Book Passage
San Francisco, CA
Joint talk & signing with illustrator, Hoang Nguyen.

September 29th - San Diego Booksellers Coalition (Warwick’s, Mysterious Galaxy, Book Works)
Actual venue TBA, but somewhere in San Diego
Talk & signing


September 30th - Vroman’s
Pasadena, CA
Talk & signing


October 2 - Barnes & Noble
Tucson, AZ
Talk & signing

October 3rd – Borders
“The Waterfront,” Scottsdale, AZ
1-3:30 PM – book-signing; don’t know if they’ll be set up for speaking.

October 7th – Borders
Westbury, NY
Talk & signing—10/7

October 8-10
New York Comic-Con/ Special guest spotlight panel, signing
(with Betsy Mitchell, editor for THE EXILE)


October 17th - West Virginia Book Festival
www.wvbookfestival.org
(Yes, I am on the program, even though not listed on the website at the moment.)


October 22-24 - Surrey International Writers Conference
Surrey, BC
This is a paid writers conference (and an excellent one; the only one I do every year), but they do also have an open-to-the-public mass autographing session on Friday evening. This is held at the Guildford Sheraton Hotel, which hosts the conference, and is usually from 5:45 – 7:30 PM.

I may do one or two outside (public) events to promote THE EXILE while I’m attending the conference, but no information on that as yet.


NOVEMBER

November 11-14 - Scribbler’s Retreat Writers Conference
St. Simon’s Island, GA
www.scribblersretreatwritersconference.com


November 16th – Arizona Library Association conference
Radisson Hotel, Scottsdale
Contact Jennifer.Whitt@pima.gov for details.


For other inquiries regarding book-tour appearances, please contact
Katie Rudkin | Publicity Manager | Random House
1745 Broadway | New York, NY 10019
Tel: 212-782-9356 | krudkin@randomhouse.com

Steinkreis 1.1

In an amongst all the exciting and impending New Stuff, I mustn't omit to note the recent publication in Germany of DER MAGISCHE STEINKREIS, which is...

Well. For starters, the book that was published in the UK as THROUGH THE STONES, and in the US as THE OUTLANDISH COMPANION, was published in Germany as DER MAGISCHE STEINKREIS. Now, personally, I dislike this title very much; it means [gag me with a spoon] "The Magic Stone Circle". As I keep telling careless interviewers, there isn't any magic anywhere _in_ the books, unless you want to count a little voodoo in VOYAGER. [g]

But that's what the German publisher called it (I'm not all that mad about any of the German titles, but most of the rest aren't awful, either).

Well, the original COMPANION/STEINKREIS has been very popular, for which I'm glad. The book was an attempt on my part to answer all the questions that people have asked me over the first ten years and four books of the series. And people have been kind enough to tell me that they've found it entertaining in itself, as well as a helpful adjunct to an enormous, complicated...chronicle/legend/saga/series, whatever.

Right. Now I am working on (slowly, in the interstices of Real Writing [g])the second volume of the COMPANION, but that's nowhere near finished and won't be for awhile. The German publisher, though, got the bright idea of updating the original volume--sort of a COMPANION 1.1, if you will.

I told them I was WAY too busy to undertake anything of the sort, but they asked Barbara Schnell, my valuable and excellent translator, if she might undertake it, with occasional suggestions and assistance from me. She very nobly did this, and the devil of a sweat it was, too, I can tell you.

I actually ended up writing synopses for THE FIERY CROSS, A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES, and AN ECHO IN THE BONE, which are included in this updated volume. I also gave Barbara _all_ my interview files [g], from which she culled an enormous new FAQ section. She also removed some of the material (like websites) that was obsolete, and included some of her own spectacular photography of Scotland, and me in Scotland, and so on. And we found a couple of "out-takes" from the series to include, in lieu of excerpts of upcoming books.

ANYway...that's what it is. I know some people have been wondering--and one misguided soul has (I'm told) already put up a comment on amazon.de accusing me of "finding a new way to rip off readers."

(Now, normally, I just don't read amazon comments, even in English; there's just not world enough or time. And generally speaking, I'd pay no attention to the opinion of someone who patently hasn't looked at the book, and does not understand the concept of free choice. HOW, exactly, does one "rip off" anyone by offering anything whatever that people are free to look at and then buy or reject as they like? But I will admit to finding this a little raw.)

OK. The book _is_ available only in German. There will NOT be a version 1.1 in English--because there WILL be a _completely_ new VOLUME II in English, probably within the next year or so (this will include FC, ABOSA, ECHO, _and_ the Lord John series, plus recipes, costumes, maps, and timeines, among other things). But...we don't want the English readers to feel left out, entirely. [g] (I may update the first volume, too, but only insofar as deleting obsolete references and maybe redoing the Glossary.)

So here's one of the out-takes we included in DMS. From the date on the file, it was originally written for FIERY CROSS, but just didn't really fit anywhere. This doesn't happen often; usually a bit that doesn't fit in one book _does_ fit into the next one (waste not, want not, you know). In this case, though, that didn't work, both because Jemmy's age and Roger's knowledge of Gaelic were too advanced by the time I got to work on ABOSA. So here you go:




I could hear Jamie and Roger on the other side of the screen of bushes that divided the clearing from the creek. They were talking casually together in Gaelic as they stripped for bathing, and Brianna tilted her head toward the bushes, frowning in concentration as she listened.

"It's a lovely language, isn't it?" I said.

"Unique, at least," she said, grinning as Roger repeated a phrase several times. Whatever it meant, it began with a peculiar noise that resembled nothing so much as the inadvertent exclamation of someone stepping unexpectedly on a slug. "What did he say?"

"I don't know. I don't think I've heard that one before."

Jamie's voice came back, sounding amused and questioning. Evidently he hadn't heard it, either. There was a splash, a high-pitched exclamation, another splash, another exclamation, and a chorus of breathless male laughter. Bree smiled, listening.

"Do you know very much Gaelic, Mama?" She reached out a hand and deftly collared an escaping Jemmy, grabbing him under the stomach and swinging him up onto her lap.
"Here, a chuisle, let Mama wipe your face."

"Well, I understand quite a lot by this time," I said. "Which is occasionally very helpful indeed. I'm not sure I could _speak_ it if my life depended on it, though. I have inborn prejudices that inhibit me from making some of the necessary noises."

In fact, I understood Jamie much better than I did Roger, when it came to Gaelic. The language appeared to have evolved somewhat over the two hundred years between them, and while the overall effect seemed quite the same to the naked ear, Jamie spoke something Roger referred to --with an academic fascination that Jamie bore fairly patiently--as "Erse."

I had been exposed to the dialect Jamie and other Highlanders spoke for some time, now, whereas I had never heard much modern Gaelic at all.

"_Cac_," said Roger, through his teeth. I did know that one.

So did Brianna, evidently.

"Are you all right?" she called through the bushes.

"Fine," Roger shouted back. "Stubbed my toe on a rock. The water's murky here."

Jamie said something I didn't catch, and both men laughed. The splashing grew louder, and Jemmy made urgent noises and struggled to get away, obviously wanting to go join the fun with the other boys.

"Cut it out," Bree said firmly. "Here, look here. Look, where's Mommy?" She held up a linen towel in front of her face, then lowered it, peeking over the top. "Peek-a-boo!"

Jemmy gave his funny deep laugh, and watched enchanted as the towel went up again.

"Boo!" Brianna appeared again suddenly. "[Where's Mommy?"]"

It occurred to me to wonder why Jamie had at once begun teaching Brianna Gaelic; he had never tried to teach me, though he would obligingly translate for me in any setting where the talk was chiefly Gael.

"Did Roger teach you any Gaelic?" I asked, curious.

Bree lowered the towel, stuck out her tongue and wiggled it at Jemmy, who went into ecstasies.

"No," she replied, pulling up the towel again, "he doesn't know a whole lot himself--just bits he picked up from the fishermen he used to work with in the summertimes. He says it's a real education to talk to Da."

"Yes, it must be," I said, privately wondering what the hell else Jamie was teaching Roger. The two of them were up to something, that was clear enough--to me, at least--and something they thought a mnai--the women--were better off not knowing. I wondered whether Brianna was also aware of it, and whether I ought to say something.

Jamie wasn't given to keeping secrets from me, no matter how unpleasant the news. If he was doing it now, it could only be because Roger had decided not to tell Bree.
Sloshing noises on the other side of the bushes announced the emergence of one of the men from the water. "Whoo," said Roger under his breath, quite near to hand. Noises came like a dog shaking itself, and drops spattered on the ground as he squeezed water from his hair.

"Boo-boo-boo-boo-boo!" Brianna emerged from her towel, and tickled Jemmy into a frenzy of giggles, her long hair falling down over him as she bent forward.

Jamie said something from the creek in a mildly imperative tone that sounded like "..._seil-uisge a cnapach_."

"Eh?" said Roger, on the other side of the bush.

"_Seil-uisge a cli\pachd_," Jamie said, quite clearly.

"Aye?" Roger sounded questioning. "[What does cli\pachd mean?] [and] _cnapach_?"

"Cli\pachd is the floppy bit under a turkey's chin," I called back, seized by a desire to show off. "You know--the wattle. I don't know what a _cnapach_ is, though."

"A little bump or a lump, I think." Brianna looked up, hair falling back from her flushed face. "And _seil-uisge_ is a leech, right?" She made a moue of distaste at the thought; no one shared my regard for leeches, no matter how I sang their praises.

"Oh, aye?" Roger sounded rather uncertain, as well he might. No turkeys about that I could see. "It's a colloquialism of some kind, then? A, um, popular term that means something besides the formal meaning of the word?"

There was a moment's silence. I could feel Jamie--who knew quite well what a colloquialism was--choosing his words carefully.

Then he spoke in English, with the clarity and diction of a BBC announcer.

"I _said_," he repeated in slow, cultured tones, "there is a leech...on...your...cock."

[end section]