Guest blog by Michelle Richmond
Michelle can be found online at michellerichmond.com

In the past year, I've visited many book clubs for The Year of Fog. One of the things I've learned from this experience is how deeply books live inside the minds of their readers: once a reader opens a book, the story is never exactly what the author intended it to be. It takes on a new life, a life informed by the very unique perspective of each reader. The reader is not simply a separate being in a chair, holding a book in her hands. The reader is always part of the story.

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Guest blog by Meg Waite Clayton, author of The Wednesday Sisters
Meg can be found online at megwaiteclayton.com

The history of my writing starts with a brown paper lunch bag. Like Linda does in my novel, The Wednesday Sisters, my first writing teacher dumped a collection of "interesting things" onto a table and told us to write about anything that spilled. She swore we wouldn't have to read. Then she called time after five minutes, and called on me to read first.

Which is the good news: If she hadn't, I'd have ducked out before she could call on me second. It had taken all the nerve I had just to get to that class, to admit that, yes, I dreamed of writing novels. I thought writers leaped tall buildings in single literary bounds, and that's not me.

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Guest blog by Laila Lalami, author of Secret Son
Laila can be found online at lailalalami.com

For the first two years during which I worked on my novel, I didn't have a title for it.  It was simply labeled The Novel, both in my computer and in my head.  Perhaps this was because I really wasn't sure what the book was going to be about.  It started out as a historical novel, following two generations of two Moroccan families after independence; then I cut out the historical part; and eventually I got rid of one of the families.  As my focus narrowed, my story became clearer to me.  The Novel was about Youssef, a student and movie lover, who lives in a slum outside Casablanca.  He discovers that his entire existence has been a lie--his dead and respectably poor father turns out to be a wealthy businessman who is very much alive.  This discovery sets him on a journey to find his father and the truth. 

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Guest blog by Hillary Jordan, author of Mudbound.
Hillary can be found online at hillaryjordan.com

Before I was a novelist, I was clever for a living. I was an advertising copywriter for twenty some-odd years, first for various agencies and then, eventually, freelance. I'm in recovery now, although I confess I still take on the occasional assignment when I need a quick infusion of cash. In my long career, I conceived, wrote and produced TV and radio commercials, print ads, billboards, web banners, table tents, door hangers, and sundry for everything from Acura to Zoloft: cars, batteries, chicken parts, dog food, sneakers, shampoo, Champagne, paper towels ("It's quilted once, then quilted again!"), perfume, tortellini, vacuum cleaners, blue jeans, tacos, antacids (one of my favorite spots for this product was a horror spoof called "Children of the Corn Dog"), men's leisure wear, chocolates, home theater systems, hair gel, beer, banks, sanitary napkins (the dreaded briefing for that one took place on what I called "Tuesday Bloody Tuesday"), Texas Tourism, an English cider, a Korean cosmetics line, a Russian oil company, and various prescription drugs ("Side effects may include dry mouth, insomnia, sleepiness, nausea and diarrhea"). And this is just the tip of a massive adberg.

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When I was a teenager, my mother gave me some advice which I almost immediately ignored. We were both avid readers who preferred reading to talking and most of our limited conversation was about what we were reading.

She had enjoyed English novelist Norah Lofts's trilogy about the history of a house and the stories of the people who had lived in it over a century. "Make sure," she said," to start with the first book." But when I went to the library, it was out, so I started with the second, then went back to the first. Although I still enjoyed the books, reading the middle before the beginning and then jumping to the end gave me a kind of Alice in Wonderland sense of disjointedness. It taught me a lesson: I always try to start a series at the beginning.

A few years ago, I made a rule for myself and then quickly ignored it. (Do I ever learn?) I decided I was keeping details about characters in enough mystery or police series already and that I would not start any new such series. That didn't work, so I modified it: I would start no series involving a protagonist who had no business getting involved in one murder after another. That vow was much easier to keep and, except for an occasional reviewing assignment, I don't think I've broken it.

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Guest blogger: Jonathan Evison, author of 'All About Lulu'

For thirteen years I've been stocking the shelves at The Book Cathedral, and it is my love story. You will probably not remember me by my name, but call me Ishmael. Or Tom Jones, or Tom Sawyer, or Elmer Gantry, or McTeague, or The Idiot, if you like. You may not remember me for my wispy hair, or brick-shaped loafers, nor for the wealth of cat hair clinging to the seat of my faded dockers. I distinguish myself by my love of books, and by never using the search function--I've no need of it.

Ask me who's between Allende and Sherwood Anderson, and I shall tell you without pause, Martin Amis, between Sarte and Schulberg, Saunders, and at the end of the line, you'll find Zusak, unless of course we're out, in which case you'll find Zafon. Blindfold me and spin me around in circles, then set me straight and run my fingers down the spines, and I'll tell you when we get to Proust, or the shorter novels of Melville. Ask me where to find Silas Wegg and I shall point you to Dickens. Ask me where is Oskar and I'll tell you he's banging his tin drum between Golding and Graves. And if it's Sancho Panza you're after, you'll find him chasing windmills with Quixote just to the left of Chaucer.

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