Fledgling (50 page)

"I am humbled," she said, and the phrase she had memorized as mere rote was suddenly, achingly
true
. "I am humbled before my ancestors, Mother, and will strive to do my best, in honor of those who went before me."

She stepped back, the packet still cradled in her hands. There was silence. Kamele's face was wet with tears, through which Theo plainly saw pride, and love—and, yes, amazement.

"Congratulations, Theo," Father said quietly. "I am proud that you are my daughter."

Daughter of the Thing that Swallowed Georgia
or . . . 
Why This Book is Special

All books are special. Writers invest so extravagantly in their work—time, love, money, worry—how can the result be anything other than special? To say that one story is more special than another . . . That's a matter of taste, really.

So, when we say that
Fledgling
is something a little out of the common way—
special
, in a word—we're referring not so much to the story you've just read, but to the circumstances of its birth.

Fledgling
is a child born of necessity, fostered onto the internet, and left to soar.

That it did . . . but we're getting ahead of ourselves.

In December 2006, it became apparent that our long-time publisher's "cash-flow problems" had impacted our household finances, and not in a good way. Our situation was on the approach to dire, and we were seriously looking at having to live outdoors—not optimum in a Maine winter. We needed to do something, fast, in order get that old cash flowing, and there's only one thing we really know how to do—

Tell stories.

The rights to the "main line" Liaden books rested with our publisher. But we had this character, this off-the-beaten-universe story, this
side book
that we felt—not only
confident
that we could write, but that it would
be fun
to write. Ghu knew, we needed a little fun in our lives about then.

So, we announced to our readers on the internet that we would be starting a new project: We would be writing the first draft of a novel, live on the web. We'd post the first chapter on January 22, 2007. Subsequent chapters would need to earn $300 in donations before the next was posted. Readers who donated $25 or more would receive one copy of the dead tree edition of the novel, if it was ever published.

We figured, you see, that we would start off strong, then donations would slope away, and we'd be posting a chapter every, oh, two or three weeks.

Before December was over, readers had funded ten chapters. By the time the first chapter was posted, we were committed to writing twenty weekly episodes in the life and times of Theo Waitley.

But our readers did more than donate; they took an interest—in Theo, in her problems, in her growing up, in the writing, and in the LiveJournal community created to discuss the progress of the plot. They nourished the story; encouraged the heroine like fond aunts and uncles, commiserated with her, and loved her, with all her faults and foibles.

They gave Theo her wings, and they cheered when she soared.

In between it all, we had put aside enough of that flowing cash to print a paper edition of
Fledgling
limited to those people who had donated $25 or more, through our own small publishing company, SRM Publisher, Ltd.

By then, though, our former publisher had returned the rights to the mainline novels, and Baen Books had expressed an interest in new Liaden material.

So, we asked our agent to contact Baen, to see if there was interest in publishing
Fledgling
for a wider audience.

The answer was a resounding
YES
.

And that—all of that—is what makes this book special. What makes it . . . magical, really. Without the eager participation of hundreds of readers, and a publisher's willingness to try something new, you would never have met Theo.

There's more, though.

Not only did the readers nourish Theo, they nourished us; and the writing—well, we'd
thought
it would be fun, and it was. Maybe even a little
too
much fun.

In January 2008, we commenced writing the second novel about Theo Waitley,
Saltation
. Watch for it soon, from Baen Books.

Thank you—all of you—so very much.

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
Waterville, Maine
January 1, 2009