Monday, October 5, 2015

Cover reveal: The Passion of Dolssa, coming April 12, 2016

I'm excited to share the exquisite cover of my upcoming young adult novel, The Passion of Dolssa, coming April 12, 2016 from Viking Children's Books in North America. Isn't it pretty? My thanks to the talented design team at Penguin Young Readers Group.

This has been my most engrossing, challenging, and heart-rending project to date. It's a historical drama and romance, and I'm thrilled (and a little nervous!) to share it with the world. Set in medieval France, it tells the story of Dolssa, a mystic girl whose tales of her visions earn her a sentence of execution for the crime of heresy. When she manages to escape her burning and flee across southern France as a fugitive from the friar obsessed with finding her, she encounters Botille, a peasant girl whose desire to help a poor stranger brings peril down upon her entire village and family.

I'll be posting more about the book and my travel schedule soon. Meanwhile, anyone interested can add it to their Goodreads to-read shelf, pre-order it from their favorite bookseller, or request it from their local library.


Here's the copy available online:

I must write this account, and when I have finished, I will burn it. 
 Buried deep within the archives of a convent in medieval France is an untold story of love, loss, and wonder and the two girls at the heart of it all. 

Dolssa is an upper-crust city girl with a secret lover and an uncanny gift. Branded a heretic, she’s on the run from the friar who condemned her mother to death by fire, and wants Dolssa executed, too.

Botille is a matchmaker and a tavern-keeper, struggling to keep herself and her sisters on the right side of the law in their seaside town of Bajas.

When their lives collide by a dark riverside, Botille rescues a dying Dolssa and conceals her in the tavern, where an unlikely friendship blooms. Aided by her sisters and Symo, her surly but loyal neighbor, Botille nurses Dolssa back to health and hides her from her pursuers.  But all of Botille’s tricks, tales, and cleverness can’t protect them forever, and when the full wrath of the Church bears down upon Bajas, Dolssa’s passion and Botille’s good intentions could destroy the entire village. 

From the author of the award-winning All the Truth That's in Me comes a spellbinding thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the final page and make you wonder if miracles really are possible.
ISBN: 0451469925 

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Writing Advice from Inside a Dog

Last March, I guest-blogged for the State Library of Victoria, Australia's groovy blog for YA readers: Over the course of the month I wrote eight posts about writing. Enough time has passed that I should repost them here, with links to the original. Enjoy!

Where in the World is Julie Berry? 
"Why do we do this? Do you have the same crazy appetite that I do to chuck three-dimensional, ultra high-definition reality for the hazy murk of a fictive world? To disappear like a drop of ink soaking into paper into an altogether imagined place? ... Writing is just as immersive as reading. it's the same kind of deep dive, the same thrill, the same high. Only with a lot more grumbling, and revision, and deadlines."

Creating from Chaos
“As far as I can tell, creativity springs from chaos. The universe swirled into being via a colossally explosive mess. Life begets life in a similarly messy way. The artists and writers I know can’t always find their calendars or their keys, but something loud and messy is generally brewing inside.” 

“I’m going to die in here.” Loraine didn’t realize she was thinking out loud.

“I had so many more meals I wanted to eat,” said Phil. “Sandwich meat to steal. Who knows? Maybe, someday, start a family.”
Loraine gasped. A guy who valued the simple things...

This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home ... 

"Revision, people seem to think, is the Dark Side of writing, the necessary evil, the cross to bear. Making a story could be fun, they concede, but fixing it is like surgery without anesthesia."

“When I was a kid in school, I hated group projects. I begged my way out of them whenever possible. “I’ll do twice the work,” I would plead. “Three times. Four. Only don’t make me collaborate, pleeeeeeze!” The truth was, I was a bossy little snobby-pants who didn’t like compromising. I didn’t want somebody else to miss a deadline and lower my grade. Bottom line: I didn’t play nicely with others.”

“The impulse to protect the character is strong, and not just for beginning writers. I thought I was immune to it. In all my classes, I preach the gospel of suffering. But in the book I’ve been working on most recently, it took me about four passes through to succumb to all the hard things I needed to do to one particular character. Some part of me knew it, all along, but I wouldn’t admit it.”

“You must know your characters as fully as you can, in order to bring them to life on the page. The overarching lesson about knowing is context.  To know someone, we must know where they’re coming from, and what they’re coming from. Not just Bosnia, but a refugee camp. Not just the suburbs, but a dysfunctional, abusive home there. Not just Manhattan, but a penthouse suite, with maids and chauffeurs. Not just high school, but a military school where you’re tormented for being gay.”

Sunday, February 22, 2015

On rest, on sleep, on Sabbath love

When I was a young (so very young!) bride-to-be, the women at my church threw me a bridal shower. Among the dishes, towels, and utensils I received from this coven of kind and knowing women was a gift that did not seem to fit--a slim, beige volume of poetry: Sabbaths by Wendell Berry, published in 1987 by North Point Press, San Francisco. The friend who gave the gift was undoubtedly making a little joke about what my name would be when I married Phil Berry. I confess that at the time I didn't appreciate this gift fully; we were poor college students, grateful for every spoon. I'd never heard of Wendell Berry. To be sure, I loved "literature," whatever that meant to me then, but my first glance through the book didn't grab me, and I had impending marriage on the brain, agitating and addling it.

This week I will celebrate my twentieth wedding anniversary. The towels have frayed, and the dishes broken, but two marriage gifts have remained with me: this little volume, and Phil himself. Time has polished and elevated them both in my estimation. Here's Athena the Cat with my original book.

Marriage and maturity both settle down with time, like the moldering leaves in Wendell Berry's Kentucky woods. Neither can stay in the flighty, angsty, hormone-crazed place in which they begin. They settle in time into a Sabbath peace. I needed to grow up into these poems, just as I have grown up into life with Phil. I never was an adult without him; perhaps we haven't become adults yet. Just tired adolescents with adolescents of our own.

When I reach for Wendell Berry, it is usually on a Sunday, when I search, so often in vain, to infuse a bit of Sabbath rest into my sabbath. Mr. Berry the poet spent seven years embarking on a similar search. From 1979 to 1985, he spent Sabbaths in solitary reflection in the woods and fields near his home in Kentucky. From his meditations came this book of poetry. It's out of print now, replaced with an updated and expanded book called This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems (2014, Counterpoint). His Sabbath musings and writings have become a lifelong labor of love, and how lucky we are for it. I shall treat myself to the new edition as an anniversary present for me. (I could give it, ahem, to Phil, but he might as well buy a chainsaw for me. We are neither of us fooled by such tricks at this point.)

There are several poems I'd love to share here, but to preserve Mr. Wendell Berry's copyright, and to entice you to lay hands upon this collection if you can, I will content myself with a few teasing snippets. Oh, but they're a butchery; each piece demands its whole.

On Sabbath rest, from the end of poem II, 1979:

The mind that comes to rest is tended
In ways that it cannot intend:
Is borne, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend.

Your Sabbath, Lord, thus keeps us by
Your will, not ours. And it is fit
Our only choice should be to die
Into that rest, or out of it. 

These two stanzas are all the sermon I will ever need.

Here's all of poem X of the same year, a poem that speaks as much to farm work as to the work of art, and to the work of building a life, a love, a family:

Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat. 

And yet no leaf or grain is filled 
By work of ours; the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we're asleep.

When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good. 

All we've ever grown, or built, written, performed, or birthed is contained in this graceful piece. Phil and I have learned to work well together.

Finally, tucked away in 1982 is poem VIII, "To Tanya," a poem on the occasion of their twenty-fifth anniversary. Some excerpts here:

Our household for the time made right,
All right around us on the hill
For time and for this time, tonight,
Two kernels folded in one shell,

We're joined in sleep beyond desire 
To one another and to time,
Whatever time will take or spare ...

... In faith no better sighted yet
Than when we plighted first by hope,
By vows more solemn than we thought,
Ourselves to this combining sleep

A quarter century ago,
Lives given to each other and
To time, to lives we did not know
Already given, heart and hand.

Would I come to this time this way
Again, now that I know, confess
So much, knowing I cannot say
More now than then what will be? Yes. 

This week I must leave Phil on a business trip, and though I travel often, I'll be a piece demanding its whole. Sabbaths are more than a day in the cycle of seven to rest, though that itself is more than a gift. A sabbath is a place, a time, a space, a person in which we find our heart's rest. To live, to die, to sleep, to rise into the rest I find with Phil has been and will forever be my wedding gift.