Recomposing

I am inching closer to trying to get some of my musical compositions published. Lately I have been combing through my choral scores, adding rehearsal piano parts and turning these, without the choir parts, into keyboard works that I could publish under the same opus number with an "a" added. In some cases I have still need to type in lyrics, dynamics, and articulation marks, and there have been a lot of typos to correct. Also, I scoped out a publisher and found out how to submit my work to them for consideration. So, perhaps in as little as a week or two, I will be ready to start courting rejection.

My seven-stanza chorale fantasy on Luther's Easter hymn, "Christ Jesus lay in death's strong bands," now exists as a complete work for SATB a capella choir (with rehearsal piano), a less demanding version for a modest church choir (with keyboard obbligato), and as a purely instrumental piece for 2-manual organ with pedal (including a rough approximation of how the organ is to be registered throughout the piece). I completed the original draft of this piece the same week as organ preludes on two other hymn tunes, one of which I have already taken for a test drive during services at my church. Plus, I'm trying to teach the Easter piece to my church's choir.

After I perform some needful services to the scores of a half-dozen other hymn-based choir pieces, I'll be ready to face the publishing world with a catalogue of preludes, fantasies, partitas, and motets on 24 different chorales. This isn't an awfully huge output for the last dozen years of my composing career, though it doesn't count a setting of the Divine Service, a Psalm, and selections from the Easter Vigil, plus some original hymns. Hopefully enough of of these pieces will find favor in some publisher's eyes, and come to the attention of choir directors or an organists at traditional, hymn-oriented churches. Then, perhaps, I'll be better situated to make money doing this...and, thereby, enabled to do more of it!

Fruity Tackiness

Today is the First Sunday in Lent. If you attended a church with a reasonable semblance of liturgy, you may have heard the story of the temptation and fall of Adam and Eve from the third chapter of Genesis. That being the case, you'll appreciate the tackiness of today's lighted sign at the ELCA church down the road:

FORBIDDEN FRUITS CAUSE MANY JAMS

Gosh! Who would have thought a church could make sin sound so yummy!

Mr. B's Again

On Thursday night, I went back to Mr. B's and ordered the steak sandwich that another customer had so highly recommended. The waitress taking my order said, archly, "Ah! The infamous steak sandwich!" Then she offered me a choice of having it on plain French bread or on garlic cheese bread. I decided to go with the plain version this time.

What was served was, in fact, simply a steak on plain bread. But the bread was wonderfully fresh, and the steak was juicy, tender, and full of good flavors. I added a bit of A-1 to the second half of it just to see what would happen, but that was an error.

Mr. B's steak sandwich comes with a dinner salad covered in shredded cheese and your choice of dressing (I had their orangey-sweet French), plus a side of tender-crisp fries; to say nothing of the basket of fresh and toasted bread that appears on the table regardless of what one orders. All that together costs $9.99 plus tax and tip; with a Peroni lager added, my bill came to under $15. What do you think of that?

What I think is, I'm going to have to try that sandwich with the garlic cheese bread next time. And if I can ever catch a slice of that chocolate mint cake before it sells out...

Mr. B's Bar & Grill

In St. Louis' south city there is a cramped triangle of streets where Watson Road (heading northeast) merges into northbound Hampton Avenue, while just short of that junction Southwest Ave. (counterintuitively running southeast) plunges right through both of them. On the next block, Southwest comes within a thin sliver of a block of Arsenal Street, but jinks eastward and runs parallel to Arsenal for the length of two blocks before curving northeastward. Right in the middle of that Arsenal-Southwest bottleneck, at the corner of Dalton and Southwest in the famed Hill district of the city, is a bar and Italian restaurant called Mr. B's.

It has been there long enough for the original signage to fall into disrepair. A new sign has been erected next to it. For the past three years, I have lived five blocks from Mr. B's as the crow flies. It is also five blocks, straight down Southwest, from the school where I have voted in every election since 2006. Evidently I don't often visit the stretch of Southwest east of Hampton Ave., because I had no idea where Mr. B's was.

I found it by reading the address (5800 Southwest Ave.) off a Restaurant-Dot-Com coupon I had purchased, and following the descending street numbers all the way from Manchester Road (where I turned onto Southwest on my way home from work). If you ever want an interesting driving experience, try following Southwest Ave. It jukes and jumps in all directions, shares a really weird interchange with I-44, and disappears for two whole blocks during which you have to turn twice (including a 5-way intersection) to get back on it. But at least the numbers descend in an orderly manner from the 7200s near Manchester (where the street begins) and the 4900s at Kingshighway - where it suddenly turns into the 2300 block of Vandeventer Avenue.

So the people who planned the streets of this town were sick in the head. There is evidence of spiritual wellness, at least, inside the doors of Mr. B's Bar & Grill. Once you negotiate the steep driveway to the parking lot, you're going to be OK. They have a nice selection of beer in the bottle, including Peroni: a decent Italian lager I have enjoyed before. I had two of them last night. Beware, however, of dark ale that also comes under the Peroni label; I stumbled on that a few years ago at a restaurant that only carried it when their lager order got screwed up. The darker Peroni is has a sickeningly sweet flavor.

Beginners included a basket of bread, stuffed with both toasted and fresh slices of baguette. On the table was a choice of bread dressings, including both olive oil and margarine, plus grated parmesan, salt, pepper, and I forget what else. The waiter even hinted that he could produce real butter if I wanted it; margarine was OK with me.

I also ordered an appetizer I hadn't tried before: toasted artichoke hearts. What came out of the kitchen was a generous serving of two-bite-sized piece of artichoke, breaded and deep-fried, with a lemon wedge and two dipping sauces on the size. Sauce #1 was forced butter with garlic; Sauce #2 was a warm, chunky marinara sauce. Both went well with the artichoke, though I thought a squeeze of lemon made the most improvement.

While I munched on these starters, I had plenty of time to look around at my surroundings. It's a fairly small joint, dimly lit in the evening. The side facing the parking lot has a stained glass window with the letter B on it in Gothic script. The walls are painted in swirls of paint in an orangey-tan color and hung with old photos that look like somebody's Italian great-grandparents (I should know; I saw pictures quite like them at my Grandpa's funeral last August). There were also decorative ceramic wall-hangings depicting merry gentlemen with captions such as "GOOD FOOD FINE WINE." In short, it looked like it had been decorated with family heirlooms and relics of an old family restaurant, rather than the Pier One shopping-spree look many of their competitors have.

The entree came with a salad. I went with the house dressing, since it was my first time at Mr. B's and I had nothing against it. It turned out to be a creamy, sweetish ranch dressing with a healthy tang of garlic. It wasn't bad at all, but it won't be to everyone's taste. Under the dressing was the usual iceberg lettuce, rings of raw red onion, and generous handful of shredded cheese that so many Italian-American eateries have in common. It's as if we wops (in my case, hemi-demi-wop) must be bribed to eat our salad, bribed with an excess of fat, salt, and sugar. I suspect the cheese was Provel, a locally popular substitute for mozzarella that I don't hold with, but I didn't mind it so much with the salad and dressing.

For my main course, I couldn't decide between manicotti and cannelloni. The difference, for those of you tuning in late, is that the former is stuffed with cheese and the latter with sausage. Other than that, they are the same big, hollow pasta cylinder, stuffed and baked in sauce. I've had many restaurants' versions of each, and I've made my own as well, so I have opinions on what makes them work. So as I mulled over which dish to order, I started stretching my food-critic muscles. The waiter helped me by pointing out that I could order one of each, a dish called Roman Twins. So that's what I did!

The element of surprise was, understandably, the last ingredient I expected. The two pieces of stuffed pasta were presented in a V shape, one of them (the manicotti) covered in marinara sauce, the other (cannelloni) in alfredo sauce. I was amazed to see the latter on my plate. Looking back on other Italian dining experiences, I think I can remember having the option of white or red sauce offered to me, but I never thought of substituting alfredo for marinara on a dish like this.

I asked the waiter about this. He confirmed that both the cannelloni and the manicotti are served with both sauces. I think it's rather daring of the chef to force his customers to try these pastas both ways, and to think about them in a new way. While I would still choose marinara over alfredo when asked to decide, I did enjoy the cannelloni alfredo in its own way.

I still had time to blow, and my discounted gift certificate was burning a hole in my pocket, so I asked about dessert. The waiter gave me two choices, both of which made my mouth water. The first, which I requested on his recommendation, was the chocolate-mint cake. But it seems the cake had sold out earlier, so I was forced to change my final answer. Instead, I had an amaretto cheesecake topped with slivered almonds, with a caramel drizzle on the plate. Wow!

I went into Mr. B's Bar & Grill blind. My eyes have been opened. I will be back, coupon or no. I plan to try their steak sandwich next, since it was highly recommended by a customer at a nearby table. Maybe I'll luck out and catch a slice of that chocolate-mint cake. My only regret is having to walk through the bar side of the joint (complete with a cloud of smoke that clung to my clothes the rest of the evening) to get to the non-smoking dining room. I believe there is a door in that room that leads out into the street. It was locked from the outside last night. Maybe next time I'll call and ask if I can be let in that door.

Two Book Reviews

The Hidden Land
by Pamela Dean
Recommended Ages: 12+

This sequel to The Secret Country started life as the last third of that book. Like other second books of three, its splitting-off proved fortunate for the series and for us readers. It's also a good thing that it's only the middle of the trilogy, or else its ending would cause actual pain. The middle part of a trilogy should move the story forward and leave you longing for more; this book does both of these things in grand style.

When we last saw siblings Ted and Laura and their cousins Ruth, Patrick, and Ellen, they had discovered the real world behind the fantasy-land they had created together over a series of summers. No longer mere make-believe, it had real people, real places, and some unbelievably real things: castles, unicorns, wizards, and kings.

Caught up in the roles of royal princes and princesses, the children could scarcely keep up with the demands of pretending to be what they were not. They stumbled from crisis to crisis, arguing about whether it was real, fretting about why certain things were different from what they had imagined, and wondering how to change the story so that the king might not have to be poisoned, and so Ted might not have to die in battle and return from the dead, only to face his best friend in a mortal duel.

All of those dreaded events still lay ahead at the end of The Secret Country, but they rush upon the cousins now - complete with inexplicable variations from the story they had planned. Mysteries multiply. Who is Claudia and whence comes her awful power? Why is Laura having visions, and what do they mean? What will happen when Laura plays the flute of Cedric and finds the unicorn in winter? What happened to the real princes and princesses, and how can they be restored to where they belong?

As it grows in danger and urgency, what began as a game feels less and less like fun to the Carroll children - and ever more enjoyable for us. Pamela Dean claims that, in writing this book, she found herself caught up in her characters' dilemma regarding "the responsibility of the imagination." Intriguing as that sounds, it is their increasing desperation that will envelop you. And when this book comes to its stunning conclusion, you will be caught up in a web of unresolved plot threads leading irresistably to Book 3, The Whim of the Dragon.

The Little Grey Men
by BB
Recommended Ages: 10+

BB was the pen name of Denys Watkins-Pitchford (1905-1990), who wrote and illustrated this book, as well as many books for adults and children celebrating the natural world of England. Currently available in an attractive HarperCollins edition as part of the Julie Andrews Collection, and with a warm note of endorsement from Julie Andrews Edwards herself, this book relates the adventures of the last gnomes in Britain.

Pint-sized brothers Dodder, Baldmoney, and Sneezewort have lived on the banks of the Oak Pool longer than anything. They are fairly content with their slow-paced life, fishing from the stream and foraging for nuts, honey, mushrooms, and berries. The only burr under their saddle is the fate of their brother Cloudberry, last seen setting out on a quest to find the source of the stream.

The younger two gnomes decide to go in search of Cloudberry, in spite of Dodder's resistance to the idea. They build a clever boat and lay in stores for a trip upstream. Nothing goes as planned, however. The three brothers find themselves hunted by stoat, fox, pike, and man. They battle starvation on a desert island. They risk being seen in broad daylight. They make friends with rabbits, birds, an otter, and a squirrel. They bear witness to death. They fight for life. They experience changes of seasons and a wide range of natural wonders. And in spite of a long habit of being quiet homebodies, their adventurous spirit comes out to shine.

Taking its cue from a theory that the real little people are the wild birds and beasts of the countryside, this is not just a book about little men; it is also a vivid account of the rich variety of plant and animal life along one English stream. It also has a bit of business concerning Pan, the god of small creatures (occult-sensitive readers take note). If you fancied The Wind in the Willows but wished there was more of it, or if your only complaint about The Wonderful Adventures of Nils stemmed from your unfamiliarity with Swedish geography, you'll find just what you like in this book. Plus, it has a sequel: Down the Bright Stream.

This book won the 1942 Carnegie Medal for Literature. It includes a loving portrait of a seven-year-old boy named Robin, probably inspired by Watkins-Pitchford's son Robin who passed away at that age. And it inspired a group of the author's fans to form the BB Society. So it is a very special book in many ways. You can earn more about this author and his works here or here.

Funny Street Names

Let's have some fun with the names one might spot on street signs around St. Louis. I've been thinking about pulling this gag ever since I spotted Tholozan Ave. (named after one John Tholozan), a street in my neighborhood. The name instantly struck me as a great trade name for an antidepressant. I've noticed many other cool street names around town, commemorating such immortals as Goethe and Beethoven - but mostly people who are only remembered today because someone bothered to record whom the streets were named after.

The time has finally come to air my pride in a city that really knows how to turn out a memorable street sign. And so, with thanks to the St. Louis Public Library, may I recommend for your amusement...

• Acme Ave. - Site of Wile E. Coyote's favorite mail-order company
• Aero Dr. - The very name gives one a lift, doesn't it?
• Alamo Ave. - Where no one lasts long, but we'll remember them
• Aldine Ave. - Known, until 1929, as Lucky St.
• Aloe Plaza - Not as soothing as it sounds; named after one Louis Aloe
• Bacon St. - Not as yummy as it sounds; named after one Henry Bacon
• Bisque St. - All right, I'm getting hungry now.
• Blow St. - Don't laugh; it's named after Henry Blow
• Cadet Ave. - Actually named after Pierre "Cadet" Chouteau
• Cardinal St. - Amazingly, this street in the City of the Cardinals is named after one Jean Marie Cardinal!
• Checkerboard Square - Named for the Ralston Purina headquarters
• Chevrolet Ave. - Named after the General Motors plant
• Cologne Ave. - By any other name, the German city of Köln smelleth, er...
• Euclid Ave. - Named not after the great Greek mathematician, but for a street in Cleveland, Ohio.
• Eureka Ave. - Named not for an expression of joyous discovery by the ancient scholar Archimedes, but for the state motto of California. Nevertheless, if you find this one-block-long, unmarked street, you'll probably say "Eureka!" in the original sense of the word.
• Frisco Lane - "Frisco," also the name of a favorite Ted Drewes flavor, evokes no less scenic a vista than the freight yards of the St. Louis & San Fransisco Railway.
• Gas Light Square - You'll think I'm trying to drive you mad when I tell you this street was named for a theater district that no longer exists.
• Gay St. - Would you want to live there, even if it is named after a certain John Gay?
• Grape Ave. - A very refreshing place to live!
• Gravois Ave. - How would you feel if you knew that one of the south city's busiest streets is named for the French word for gravel?
• Half St. - Just because it was really narrow
• Hydraulic Ave. - Because of the nearby Hydraulic Press Brick Co.
• Itaska St. - Misspelled from Itasca, the lake at the headwaters of the Mississippi River, this name sounds for all the world like it means something in a Native American dialect. Actually, it was coined from the Latin words veritas caput, meaning "true source." How do you like that?
• Iron St. - After the industry
• Ivory Ave. - After one John Ivory
• James Cool Papa Bell Ave. - Don't you want to live there? It's named after a baseball hero of the old Negro Leagues.
• January Ave. - Another street in my neighborhood, surprisingly named after one Derrick January!
• Limit Ave. - Because it was located at the city limits
• Natural Bridge Ave. - Because (duh) the road crossed a natural-arch bridge
• Pacific St. - Not beachfront property at all, it's named for the Pacific Railroad.
• Palm St. - It sounds so warm and tropical, but really it's named after one William Palm.
• Quiet St. - Mum's the word!
• Race Course Ave. - After a track that no longer exists
• Produce Row - Near Commerce Row and Market St. I'm not kidding!
• Saloma Ave. - Bad taste and bad spelling come together in this street named in honor of a biblical villainess.
• Sublette Ave. - A landlord's worst nightmare? Or named in honor of William and Solomon Sublette?
• Teachers Dr. - If you want to avoid catching dirty looks, avoid this street in the neighborhood of Harris-Stowe College.
• Unter den Linden - Huh? Oh, yeah...it's also the name of a street in Berlin, Germany.
• Valentine St. - I don't know if it's a great place to go as a couple, but it's named after a Capuchin monk who served as St. Louis's first Catholic priest.
• Vest Ave. - I hear cummerbunds are out and vests are in, but this Vest is named after one George Vest, whose memory is decidedly out.
• Violaview Dr. - I'm really curious about what this is supposed to mean. Was this street the home of a nude string quartet that played with the drapes open?
• Vulcan St. - Though named in honor of the nearby iron works, it still sounds like a nice place to live long and prosper.
• Zepp St. - Notable only because it sounds funny, and it's at the end of the alphabet.

If you've spotted any doozies that I've missed, let me know! Or, if you know of another city that outdoes St. Louis in the funny-street-names dept., feel free to drop some examples in the Comments!

My Interview with N. D. Wilson

Recently, when my rave review of N. D. Wilson's 100 Cupboards was published on MuggleNet, a publicist from Random House emailed me in appreciation. She then offered to send me an Advance Review Copy of the sequel, Dandelion Fire, to be released February 24. As you know by now, I enjoyed the book and said so in a review.

The result was yet another offer: an opportunity to give away free copies of both books (which we are doing via a writing contest on MuggleNet). Since the author and his publicist were in such a good mood, I decided to ask for a chance to interview Mr. Wilson. I submitted my questions, and now the answers have arrived. With deep gratitude to both Nate and Meg, here is our interview. My questions and comments are in bold type; Mr. Wilson's responses are in plain type.

It's not hard to pick up on a spiritual dimension in the 100 Cupboards trilogy. I can't help but be curious about the religious background you are writing from, especially knowing that you edit a journal titled Credenda/Agenda. Could you unpack the description of Credenda/Agenda as a "trinitarian" journal? What can you say about its/your general doctrinal position, denominational affiliation, etc.?

I don’t usually get asked “religious questions” in reaction to my fantasy, so this will be fun. Here’s the best nutshell description I can give of my religious background: I was raised by a couple Jesus people hippies who gradually (throughout the course of my life) became Presbyterians. My father was the pastor, and I grew up attending his church in all of its hilarious permutations (meeting in parks, auto-body shops, etc.). I attend it still with my own young tribe. The hippiness has matured into something more liturgical and formal—historic creeds, confessions, weekly sacrament, and so on. To some, it might appear Anglican (there are similarities), but it belongs to a small Presbyterian denomination. It is still nomadic--currently meeting in a gym.

My parents soaked me in Tolkien and C.S. Lewis from a very young age, and my father was involved in starting a classical school in our small, rural town so that my sisters and I would get Latin and wrangle with big stacks of classics, ancient and modern. I studied some Philosophy of Religion after my undergrad but ended up with a broader MA in liberal arts from St. John’s College (Annapolis, MD).

That’s my background, but you asked about “trinitarian.” I believe in a triune Artist/Creator God, which means that I believe that at the very root of reality there is paradox and mystery, there is eternal love and tension and balance. I think that has to be part of why I love fantasy. Looking out of my eyes, we are all living in one. Which is to say that fantasy is just another take on realism.

How have your religious beliefs influenced the overall shape of the 100 Cupboards?

My religious beliefs are part of who I am, so they influence everything I do. But I wasn’t setting out to write a religious story. I wanted to write a good one. Of course, what I think is good is informed by my beliefs. I see patterns—triumph through sacrifice, death and resurrection, small foolish things overthrowing powerful things—everywhere in the world, in history, in literature, in mythology. And I find those patterns beautiful and work to imitate them. I also see the world crawling with mystery, every corner crammed with life and the secrets that sustain it. That is certainly something I try to communicate.

Would you say that the series has an overarching spiritual message?

Not in the way that most people would think of a “spiritual message.” But also yes. Sure it does—in the same way that life has an overarching spiritual message. Only my stories are distilled and stylized. There are a lot of themes that run through the books, but one of the most important things I’ve tried to communicate is a sense of wonder. I want kids to close the book and step back into their own world with wide eyes, marveling at the grass and the wind and the sun and the trees. In some ways, this is anti-escapism. Don’t grow bored with this world and lose yourself in books. Lose yourself in books to wake up in this world. Nothing I can paint with words could ever surpass the artistry in any child’s backyard—the earth beneath, the sky above, the many narratives between.

How has your spiritual worldview influenced the development of Henry York as a character?

Henry begins in a place where many modern kids can relate to him, and then he becomes the vehicle for the wonder I described above. Henry discovers the true overwhelming madness of the world and then his place within it. He discovers strength and an ability to affect and change the world. He begins as a weak and lowly character but rises up to shake the foundations of evil. It’s one of the great patterns in literature (and history), one that not only applied to Christ (born in a barn), but also to the various Hebrew prophets, judges, and even kings in the Old Testament—Moses, David, Elijah, Deborah, etc.

Where in your thinking did the christening scene in Dandelion Fire come from?

I actually partially stole it from an old Scottish legend about a pastor (and seventh son) abducted by faeries. He could only briefly return at the christening of his son. That legend was one of the important inspirations for the whole 100 Cupboards series. But it also got me thinking about the power of naming, and I loved how it trumped faerie magic. From my earliest imaginings of the story, the christening scene was always going to be a lynchpin.

As for the flavor of the scene, Henry is stepping into a city with both Hebraic and Byzantine echoes. I wanted the christening to smell and feel like something descended from those two cultures.

What idea, when it came to you, made you sure 100 Cupboards was a story you had to write?

There are so many places in history and literature and legend that I would give anything to see. So, when I first had this image in my head of an attic wall cluttered with small, mismatched doors, and I began to think of the possibilities, well, then I was completely hooked. I couldn’t turn my head off, and I can’t tell you how many dreams I’ve had about it.

Is there a character in this trilogy you find especially difficult, or especially easy, to write about?

Henry is an old and familiar friend. (And it isn’t hard to relate to fear and surprise.) Henrietta is also a quick fit for me. But the characters that are really hard to write (and not just in these books), are the wise and noble folks. Flaws and immaturity are easy. We can all relate to them. But how do you write someone with profound insight (when you, the author, don’t have any)? Given that, I’ll leave you to figure out which characters I struggled over.

I felt a sense of closure at the end of Dandelion Fire. Was there a time when you considered ending the series at two books? How much has the overall shape of the trilogy changed in your mind during the writing process?\

When I first set out to write this story, I wanted it to be a single volume. And I actually wrote that single volume. It was bloated, enormous, and it didn’t breathe, but it was a single volume nonetheless. I still loved the story (and my characters), but I abhorred the execution. So I began to think about how to break it into two. The only problem was that it was built (roughly), on a three act structure. Through some funny circumstances (and miscommunication), that bloated manuscript was sent out to editors, and I started getting some very nice rejection letters. Could you break it into a pair? Could you cut it in half? Too long for us. That sort of thing. But it was an editor at Random House who asked to see a proposal for how I would break it into thirds—which was certainly the most natural fit. I put together that proposal, loved it, and then, rather than digging right back into the story, I got to work on a different one. I wanted to write something tight, perfect, simple, and disciplined before sweating through the more intricate story around the 100 Cupboards. That smaller book was an adventure story called Leepike Ridge, and it was sent back to RH along with my trilogy proposal. The end result was a four book deal, and we all lived happily ever after.

Actually, by the time I’d gone through the editing process on Leepike and had come back to 100 Cupboards, the ideas and characters had matured a great deal in my mind. So I rewrote the books virtually from scratch (recycling the best bits, of course). So now, when readers pick up 100 Cupboards or Dandelion Fire in stores, they are getting the final incarnation of something that began in 2002—the butterfly as opposed to the fat, greasy caterpillar.

In your autobiographical blurb, you discuss how you wanted to combine fantasy stories like Narnia and Middle Earth with a direct appeal to the imagination of American kids. Could you explain in more detail what you feel needs to be added to the world of fantasy?

It’s not that I see a problem or a profound lack in the current world of fantasy. But I think you could call it a growth opportunity. American kids have plenty of fantasy that appeals to them. The question is only how they feel about their own lives and environments when they’ve finished reading. On my last book tour, I ran a little experiment. I would ask groups of kids which country they needed to live in if they wanted to have magical adventures. Of course, fantasy and magic are global. They can wander anywhere. But that’s not what I was told. The answer (always shouted back), was England.

I love English fantasy, and that nation (in my own humble o.) has produced the best fantasy to date (a few times over). But I wanted magical imaginations to broaden, to more thoroughly include the taste of Americana mythic. I want kids to look at lonely red barns in the same way that I would have looked at a wardrobe discovered in an empty room. I want the whole world to be seen as magical, including our part of it. And so I use baseball and wheat fields and a tiny rural town in Kansas. Thanks to Oz, we know anything can happen in Kansas.

In your efforts to place magic in the middle of America, you are in good company. How would you rate L. Frank Baum, Carl Sandburg, Edward Eager, or other American authors as influences on your work?

Well, I just referenced Baum’s Oz. I play around with a few of his types as a sort of acknowledgement. But (if we are looking for honesty here), I am far more a product of the British writers. I first heard Tolkien and Narnia in the comfort of my high chair (literally). They remain the standard for me, the benchmark of creativity. But I owe debts to others outside the fantasy genre as well. Of the Americans, Twain left the most residue on me. John Buchan influenced me in ways that would be hard to describe. G. K. Chesterton’s nonfiction (though I didn’t read him until adulthood), has flavored my perspective on magic more than almost anyone. I also love Borges and his magic realism. Oh, and Tintin.

In 100 Cupboards, the titular cupboards seemed to lead to as many different worlds scattered through time and space. In Dandelion Fire, however, we learn that several of them lead to different places within the same world. Is there an overall name for this world? Is it a version of Earth? Can you spare a little description of the overall layout of this world?

At first, I thought that the world would have a name. But do we have a name for ours? It is simply the world. We call the planet Earth, but the world is nameless. And so it is for those inhabitants in that other world. To them, it is not the other world. It is the world. I’m tempted to really dig into this, but I probably shouldn’t. I’ll be the good author and refuse to give away too many of my secrets. But I will say this (a description that occurs within the books as well): it is not a version of Earth. It is branch on the same tree, a twig on the same tumbleweed. Move down to the trunk, and it is all only one single world. Move up, and history forks and splinters into different branches of reality. Does that help?

According to Dandelion Fire, that world also contains magical doors that enable people to travel huge distances within the same world. How is the magic connecting different parts of this world similar or different to the magic connecting the world of Hylfing, Byzanthamum, and Fitz-Faeren to Kansas?

Maybe I should keep mum, but I’ll give you a little something here. There are a couple types of magic in the trilogy. The most basic breakdown is between natural and unnatural. An example of natural would be the magic of the faeren. They are able to do what they are able to do in the same way that a bird is able to fly. The wizards (for the most part) are using unnatural magic. They are like men in helicopters—they have to manipulate and force the world to give them its strength. (Not that I have anything against helicopters.) The seventh sons are men with natural magic like the faeren—the world gifts them with different strengths and allows them a measure of control. Darius and Nimiane are blends, but I’ll say no more about them.

The doors... now we must apply this to the doors. The faeren have their own “natural” fluctuating connections between distant places which they can control. The forgotten wizards set themselves “unnatural” gashes in reality, and fixed them in place with stone. The cupboard doors are primarily natural connections—but they have been collected and arranged and manipulated in an “unnatural” and dangerous way.

The world that opens to us in Dandelion Fire seems very complex and fascinating. One senses there is still much to discover in it, such as the Empire that was mentioned a few times. Can we expect to see more of it in The Chestnut King? And/or will we explore other worlds connected to those Kansas cupboards?

Expect the story to focus in on the tensions left at the end of Dandelion Fire. I want to say more, but I shouldn’t. You’ve already got me spilling beans.

In her Tough Guide to Fantasyland, Diana Wynne Jones claims that a map is practically a sine qua non of a fantasy novel. Interestingly, the 100 Cupboards books begin not with a map of the world surrounding Hylfing, but with a fascinating illustration of the wall in Henry's bedroom, along with a page of notes on them from Grandpa's journal. Can you remark on the connection between fantasy fiction and a fascination with maps and complex charts? Did you make and use a map of the Hylfing world as you wrote these books? If so, can you explain the decision not to include it in the book?

I have the world pretty well mapped out. And it was helpful to me as I wrote. But I didn’t generate a map that would have been publishable, and my editor didn’t feel that one was needed, especially given the door chart that was included, and the story’s focus on the cupboards.

All right, readers have to be curious about Henry's brothers. He is supposed to be the seventh son of a seventh son, but we haven't met any of his older brothers. What information about Mordecai's first six sons can you share right now?

Ha. Look at me. Finally, a picture of self-restraint. I say nothing.

Do your kids inspire you as an author of juvenile fiction? In what ways?

Absolutely. They keep my imagination rooted. They’re young (seven and under), but they regularly gather around at night and become story beggars. As I work to construct tales for them, I’ll frequently come across ideas, characters, settings, and creatures that I fully intend to use in the future. And all the ideas have been field-tested in advance. Perhaps more importantly, having young children has enabled me to see the world through their uncalloused eyes. Turns out, it’s an amazing place.

Are any characters in the 100 Cupboards trilogy based on yourself or people you know?

Some are similar to an acquaintance or two, but the similarities were discovered after the fact (and mostly unintentional).

Assuming that you read around the genre in which you write, what handful of books would you recommend to readers who love 100 Cupboards?

I try not to read in my genre too much (especially when I’m writing). I’m too easily influenced. And when I have read, it can be unwise to comment on the work of my peers. But I can plug the Attolia books by Megan Whalen Turner. They are some of the most original fantasy that I’ve encountered in a while, and I enjoyed them immensely. {I wholeheartedly agree!}

Can we expect more juvenile fiction from you when this trilogy is done? In general terms, what do you plan to do next?

Yes you can. Expect away. I’m actually working on the structure of a rather ambitious series right now (also with Random House). Can’t say more yet, I’m afraid. But I’m quite excited. I also have a standalone to finish (more in the vein of my first book—Leepike Ridge), and an adult novel I hope to sweat over sometime in the next couple years.

Do you think (or hope) your work will make the world better? In what ways?

Of course, I would be thrilled if the world were to improve thanks to my labors. But I think of myself as a cook (a chef on my fancier days). I want to feed as many young imaginations as I can. I want to feed them well. I want them healthy. I can hope that my readers will be improved and go on to improve the world around them. But more immediately, I can hope that I have given them friends and siblings and cousins in my characters. I can hope that I am brightening days and weeks and dreams.