Sunday, July 22, 2012

Bewitching Book Tours: The Flower Bowl Spell w Guest Post by Olivia Boler

Writing Time—What’s That?
Thank you so much to A Chick Who Reads for letting me guest blog today. My new novel, The Flower Bowl Spell, is about Memphis Zhang, a San Francisco Wiccan who is trying to take control of her life by banishing magick from it, but finds that the magickal world doesn’t always cooperate. I’m finding that the mundane world doesn’t either.
 Today, for example—I’m mom to two young children, both in summer camp, and I mixed up the times for pick-up. My poor son was the last one at his camp, and his counselor was not too happy with me. In a way, this is a perfect illustration for the question I’ve been getting asked a lot lately: “When do you have time to write?” The answer, given with a slightly hysterical laugh: “I don’t.”
Not anymore. Not with a 4- and 7-year-old. Not with shuttling the kids to and from camp or school, gymnastics, ballet, swimming, singing, piano (remember, there’s two of ‘em). Not with work (I’m a freelance writer). Not with PTA. Not with being Room Parent. Not with promoting this novel. I am the personal assistant and chauffeur to three people, including me (my husband—well, I’m his personal clothes shopper, but that’s, like, twice a year, tops). Lots of balls in the air, people. Lots of balls in the air. Sometimes, they get dropped. Like not double-checking on camp pick-up times. Or making time for writing.
To be honest, the last time I wrote anything novel-length, my oldest was in utero. That’s right—it’s been over eight years since I drafted an original book-length anything! Since then, I’ve been editing and rewriting, or turning other projects, like a screenplay I wrote ages ago, into books, or writing short stories. Actually, after all these years of penning them, I have enough stories for a book-length collection, but somehow, I feel weird counting it.
Here’s the truth: I write with not a lot of regularity. I fit it into the nooks and crannies of my day-to-day, when I’m not compelled to do laundry, unload the dishwasher, or replenish our food stocks. I have many projects started, including a sequel to The Flower Bowl Spell, as well as a young adult prequel. There’s also a 99-percent completed first draft of an upmarket women’s novel about two sisters who own a San Francisco tearoom and their romantic (mis)adventures. What I need is focus, to concentrate on one of these projects and get it done.
What do you think, readers? Which project of mine would you like to read next?  

by Olivia Boler


Journalist Memphis Zhang isn’t ashamed of her Wiccan upbringing—in fact, she’s proud to be one of a few Chinese American witches in San Francisco, and maybe the world. Unlike the well-meaning but basically powerless Wiccans in her disbanded coven, Memphis can see fairies, read auras, and cast spells that actually work—even though she concocts them with ingredients like Nutella and antiperspirant. Yet after a friend she tries to protect is brutally killed, Memphis, full of guilt, abandons magick to lead a “normal” life. 

The appearance, however, of her dead friend’s attractive rock star brother—as well as a fairy in a subway tunnel—suggest that magick is not done with her. Reluctantly, Memphis finds herself dragged back into the world of urban magick, trying to stop a power-hungry witch from using the dangerous Flower Bowl Spell and killing the people Memphis loves—and maybe even Memphis herself.


"Olivia Boler's The Flower Bowl Spell is a genre-bending ride with sexy rock stars, Californian witches, children with potentially otherworldly gifts, and the occasional fairy. But it is also a story of identity, of the sometimes warring facets that make and shape a human being. Beautifully written, witty, and brimming with both ordinary and fantastical life, The Flower Bowl Spell will charm readers everywhere." -- Siobhan Fallon, author of You Know When the Men Are Gone

Book Trailer


I wake from a light doze, no more than ten minutes. Outside, the sun has barely shifted. Cooper lies by my side watching me, a smile on his lips, his eyes a little confused with love.
“Time for the sunset now?” I yawn.
“Yes, by all means. The sunset.”
He rolls to the edge of our bed and I watch him walk out the door to the bathroom. I hear him turn on the shower and start to mumble-sing “Toréador” from Carmen, his favorite shower song.
Cooper knows about my Wiccan upbringing and refers to me and Auntie Tess as the Asian Pagan Invasion. I’ve even shared tales of some of the more far-out stuff, like the green glow that would suddenly emanate from candles when our former coven would chant around a pentacle circle. But we don’t talk about fairies. Or inanimate objects coming to life. I tried to once, and he told me I had a very active imagination as a child, a sure sign of greatness of mind. Who am I to argue?
Besides, I knew he’d say something like that. Cooper is supportive and easy to read. It’s why I chose him. But he’s not able to handle the fact that my imagination only gets me so far. For reasons I don’t even understand, I can see and do things other witches can’t, things you read about in fairy tales. Only two others know about me. One is Auntie Tess, yet we never talk about it. Something stops me from sharing too much, and something stops her from asking. The other person—well, we haven’t spoken in a long, long time.
I study the ceiling, my old friend. There’s a crack that’s been there forever, before I moved into this place. I’ve never liked the ceiling light fixture and pretty much ignore it, even though each time I pass a lamp store I study the possibilities. Cooper tells me to wait until we buy a place of our own. But I doubt we’ll ever leave this apartment. Still, that lamp with its 1950s design of starbursts and boomerang angles just does not fit with the Edwardian crown molding and—
Something behind it moves.
My breath catches. I blink. What could it be? A mouse? A giant spider? Something small. Something that darts. With wings.
A face peeks over the rim of the lamp. As I sit up it ducks away, disappearing from my view. I feel something, almost like a raindrop, hit my belly, and I jump low into a crouch. Slowly I stand up on the bed, trying to balance on the lumpy old mattress. I reach for the lamp. I’m too short.
“Did you just spit on me?” I holler. “What do you want?” And where, I wonder, have you been?
Footfalls pound down the hall. Cooper stands in the doorway of our room, dripping wet and naked. He looks me up and down. The shower is still running.
“Why are you yelling? What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. There’s something there.”
I point. “The light. The lamp.”
For a second, I don’t think he’s heard me. He continues to stare at me like maybe this is the moment where he sees the truth about me and it all ends between us. It’s only a fraction of a second and then he steps onto the bed—he’s a good foot taller than I—and unscrews the knob that holds the shade in place. Carefully, he removes it before peering inside. He raises his eyes to me.
“You’re right. There’s something here.”
I open my mouth but don’t say what I’m thinking: Are you magickal after all? He pauses, making sure I’m ready. I nod. He holds the shade toward me like—I can’t help thinking with a wee shiver—it’s a sacrifice.
Inside are bits of asbestos. Dead flies. Lots and lots of dust.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.”
“Confess.” He wipes the dripping water from his wet hair out of his eyes. “You just wanted me to pull the ugly lampshade down. Am I right?”
I look up at the glaringly bright lightbulbs in their sockets. There’s a hole next to them—a swallow could fit through it, or something of that ilk.
“Yeah, big C,” I say. “You caught me.”
“You are a piece of work, Memphis Zhang.”
“You mean a control freak.”
Comme tu veux.”
Cooper goes back to the bathroom. He turns off the shower and I hear him toweling off. I stretch out on the bed and study my bod. The spot where I felt something drip on my skin is dry, clean as a whistle. Cooper comes back into our room and starts to dress.
“What did you think was there, anyway?” he asks.
I raise my hands in a helpless shrug. “A squirrel?”
He snorts. “A squirrel.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That’s crazy talk. It was probably a fairy.”
“Or the ghost of Columbus.”
“Ha ha.”
Yet, I know it was a fairy because he smiled at me.

Author Bio 

Olivia Boler is the author of two novels, YEAR OF THE SMOKE GIRL and THE FLOWER BOWL SPELL. Poet Gary Snyder described SMOKE GIRL as a "dense weave in the cross-cultural multi-racial world of complex, educated hip contemporary coast-to-coast America...It is a fine first novel, rich in paradox and detail."

A freelance writer who received her master's degree in creative writing from UC Davis, Boler has published short stories in the Asian American Women Artists Association (AAWAA) anthology Cheers to Muses, the literary journal MARY, and The Lyon Review, among others. She lives in San Francisco with her family. To find out about her latest work, visit


Olivia Boler said...

Thank you so much for featuring The Flower Bowl Spell today! Love the design of your website.

Cynthia ☮ said...

I love your blogs banner and I enjoyed this review. I am following. Take a peek at Feel free to leave a comment while you are visiting the site...possibly consider following.

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