I live next to a cemetery. James G. Blaine, Maine’s most famous senator, sleeps at the top of the hill. Just down from him is the Turner family, resting together. The youngest Turner, Page, was born on my birthday in 1889. She would have visited the original Lithgow Library during her lifetime. But she didn’t live very long. Page died in 1906, just shy of seventeen.
It seemed so sad to me that someone named Page Turner should die before her life really got started. So I wrote a book for her. A little austenesque, a little steam punk, a little weird, Page in my book is defined by her name. All the characters are, like self-aware Dickens characters who can’t escape their fates because of a few letters applied like a spell to their destinies.
The book is mostly fit for young readers with the possible exception of one death. It’s in self-defense, but death-by-pencil is still a bit grizzly. If you’ve the stomach for it, Page Turner is, well, it lives up to its name.
In honor of Lithgow’s reopening, I’ve dropped the prices on Page Turner as low as I can go on Amazon and kindle. Go to Lithgow, then take a trip up the hill to visit Blaine and catch Page on the way back down.