Ready for more new fiction from Peter?

Tachyon Publishing sent along an email about the next novel from Peter which comes out in Modwinter when, if you’re like me, you’ll be craving something rather good to read!


imageIn Calabria by Peter S. Beagle

ISBN: 978-1-61696-248-7 Published: February 2017 Available Format(s): Hardcover ($19.95) and Digital Books ($9.99)


From the acclaimed author of The Last Unicorn and Summerlong comes a new, exquisitely-told fable for the modern age.

Claudio Bianchi has lived alone for many years on a hillside in Southern Italy’s scenic Calabria. Set in his ways and suspicious of outsiders, Claudio has always resisted change, preferring farming and writing poetry to the company of others. But one chilly morning, an impossible visitor appears at the farm. When Claudio comes to her aid, an act of kindness throws his world into chaos. Suddenly he must stave off inquisitive onlookers, invasive media, and even more sinister influences.

Lyrical, gripping, and wise, In Calabria confirms Peter S. Beagle’s continuing legacy as one of fantasy’s most legendary authors.


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Peter on his favorite folk song

Our post is rather special this time as it’s Peter on his favorite song or tune:

I know way too many folk songs to have a special favorite, Cat. Besides, I’m not always sure what counts as a folk song. Big Bill Broonzy used to say, ‘I guess all songs is folk songs – I never heard no horse sing one.’ When Merle Travis was asked to write an album’s worth of folk songs and explained to the producer that you don’t write folk songs – they just sort of spring up, like grass – the producer replied, ‘Well, then write some stuff that sounds like folk songs.” Travis came up with, among others, ‘Sixteen Tons’ and ‘Dark As A Dungeon,’ which any number of people still present as a folk song. And Aristide Bruant (Toulouse-Lautrec’s buddy, the guy in the black hat and red scarf) wrote ‘Sur La Route De Louviers’ – I don’t know how many times I heard that as a folk song in Berkeley, in the old days…’

I do love the haunting old French song ”A La Claire Fontaine,’ and my friend Phil and I still love to sing ‘The Miller of Dee’ when we get together. But if I had to pick just one, it might be a strange, utterly surrealistic tune called ‘Nottymun Town’ that I picked up from Jean Ritchie. I’m teaching it, on the rare occasions we’re able to jam together, to the guys of Emerald Rose, a great Celtic band, who could do it justice.

And then there’s wonderful ‘Tumbalalaika’ in Yiddish, and ‘La Llorona’ in Spanish…But in the end, my favorite song of all is still ‘Au Bois De Mon Coeur,’ which is not a folk song, but was written by Georges Brassens – so there you are. Go figure…

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New York Times review of Summerlong

We reviewed Summerlong over at Green Man Review but this fine Autumn morning I’d like to send you over to the New York Times, yes The Grey Lady herself, for N.K. Jemisen’s review of this splendid novel in which she sums up her review in this manner: ‘It’s a rare story of summer that feels like the summer — like dreamy intense passions rising and arcing and then spinning away; like beauty underlaid with a tinge of sadness because it is ephemeral. Beagle has captured that seasonal warmth here, beautifully, magically.’
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An Important Announcement

This message is approved by Peter S. Beagle, who says: “I support Patrick Lake. I urge anyone who has ever ordered any merchandise from Conlan Press, and received neither their merchandise nor a refund, or has complaints about Connor Cochran’s business practices, to please contact Patrick’s legal representation, David M. Helbraun, at

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A Very Special Offer from Peter

Okay, fans of Peter S. Beagle, I have both good news and bad news for you. The bad news is that Peter is broke, due to the nefarious actions of Connor Cochran (who gets most of the money that is rightfully Peter’s by diverting it into his own pockets). Once Peter wins his lawsuit against Connor and his sham press, that will not be the situation, but it is sadly true now.

Before I tell you the good news, I’d like to thank all of you who’ve supported him in this effect to win back his name. He really appreciates it.

Now the good news. Peter has agreed to create brief original poems, story snippets, song lyrics — whatever he’s in the mood to write, but just for you. This is a unique offer! I know we all cherish our personally-signed books and such, but this is even better!

(A reminder is due here. Do not buy anything signed that Connor is selling, be they prints, TLU cels and so forth, as these monies go into his pockets, not Peter’s. The same holds true for any showings of The Last Unicorn that Connor is currently doing.)

This will be limited to 20 people maximum. The deal would be that the first 20 people who donate at least $150 will get an original, and unique to them, short tidbit personally from Peter by way of thanks. (Of course, this is non-exclusive; we want to be sure Peter retains his copyright to everything he writes.) The donor would be namechecked and the piece would be signed. It wouldn’t have to be fiction: a memory, a snippet, a song lyric. It would be new, nothing recycled. It would be at least a paragraph in length, but not more than a page.

If you feel like giving more, please do so. A hundred percent of these monies (less of course PayPal fees) will support Peter.

The fine print: in order for this to work, you’ll need to include a note with your PayPal donation. The note must include your name and postal mailing address, as well as the statement that you would like to take advantage of this offer; if you want someone else’s name to be included in the piece (rather than your own), or if you have any other specific requests, say that as well. Please note that Peter is not guaranteeing that he will be able to fulfill any specific request, other than including a specified name in the finished work. If you’re not one of the first 20 people to respond to this, your money will be refunded.

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A new novel is coming out!

Beloved author Peter S. Beagle (The Last Unicorn) returns with his long-anticipated new novel Summerlong – a beautifully bittersweet tale of passion, enchantment, and the nature of fate. One family will become forever entwined with a enigmatic young woman whose strangely-compelling charm seems to affect even the weather.

For more info, click here.


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A special announcement on today, Peter’s birthdays!

Balticon is pleased to announce the appearance of Peter S. Beagle at Balticon 50, May 27-30, 2016, in Baltimore, Maryland at the Rennaissance Baltimore Harborplace Hotel. Peter Beagle was the Special Guest at Balticon 40 and is returning as part of Balticon 50’s Bring ‘Em Back Project, along with 19 Guest of Honor Alumni.

For more details about Balticon’s 50th anniversary convention, go here.

Oh and yes it’s his birthday today, so let’s all Peter both many more birthdays and a quick and favorable resolution to his legal battles!

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A Fundraiser for Peter and A Lot of Damn Fine Reading as Well!

Some volunteers have collected a nice little pile of books written by Peter S. Beagle or edited by him. We also have a couple of collections in which he participated, and books for which he wrote the foreword. And do check this page again and again as we’ll be adding more books and other goodies over time,

Please note that these are signed books, all of them physically on hand, waiting to go into mailing envelope and be sent out by media mail within the United States. Unfortunately, media mail to anywhere outside the US doesn’t exist, and the alternatives would, in some cases, cost more than the book, so bear that in mind if you live outside the United States, and want any of these titles.

We’re asking for the original cover price of the book plus the cost of shipping. (The one exception is the “Folk Of The Air” title – these are a rare edition, hardback, so we’re asking $50 for each of these.) Of course, you can add whatever donation you want on top of the final cost of whatever you buy. All proceeds from the sale of these books go directly to Peter Beagle. There is no middleman.

To buy, please send the name of the title or titles you’d like, along with your address in the “instructions to seller” area on Paypal. Payments should be made by Paypal only, at And since this is a fundraiser, please click the “gift” or “Friends and Family” box on Paypal.

All orders will be processed and sent within 48 hours of receipt. And thank you so much, from Peter and from the many people who love him and his work, and who want to help.


14 Mirror Kingdoms:  The Best of Peter S. Beagle (Peter) 75.00 (Very limited run!)
Urban Fantasy Peter (editor) 15.95
3 Secret History of Fantasy Peter (editor) 15.95
1 Treasury Of the Fantastic Peter  (foreword)  19.95
Sleight of Hand Peter 14.95
1 A Fine & Private Place Peter 14.95
10 The Line Between Peter 14.95


$5 s&h for one book. Add $1 for each additional book shipped.

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The Last Unicorn film Tour investors file a lawsuit against Connor Cochran

Fans Against Fraud reports that The Last Unicorn film Tour investors have now filed a lawsuit against Connor Cochran and his associated companies, marking the second time that he has been sued recently for fraud, breach of duty, and more. If I were a betting man, I’d wager good odds that there will be more such lawsuits filed.

The site breaks down the details of the lawsuit by The Last Unicorn Tour investors this way:

* Connor Cochran used a shell corporation as a personal piggy bank.  The funds were supposed to be scrupulously managed only for narrow purposes, but he helped himself to hundreds of thousands in his care.

* He kept no records of how the funds were used, and refused to give accounting.  He drained them entirely until he can’t pay them back.

* He’s still exploiting the Last Unicorn movie (and Peter’s name and work) for his own enrichment, while everyone goes empty-handed.

They’re suing Cochran for $450,000, based on the original investment, not to mention punitive damages for fraud and all legal costs incurred by them. You can read the sordid details here in Sandbox-Complaint-for-Damages.

There has been no public acknowledgement of this lawsuit from Cochran. If only the investors had children that he could turn against them!

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An Unkindness of Authors: A conversation with Peter S. Beagle

On a warm midsummer night in August of 2008, the Green Man is nearly empty.

It’s a fine evening for a pint, mind you, and the barkeep’s not short of customers. It’s a matter of location; no one seems to want to stay inside. The new moon is a patch of pale, straight as a precision cut against the horizon. Something about that distant line of pearl is drawing everyone out of doors, to wander, to settle. Even the regulars who prefer to take their drinks in two or three yeasty mouthfuls are taking the time to savor. The conversations are idle, scattered, voices hushed down as soft as the night air.

The pub’s not completely empty, though. There are two people inside, a man and a woman, deep into a rapid-fire conversation. They’re discovering shared memories, shared places in times long past.

There are also ravens — five glossy birds, settled along the back of a booth. They’re having a little natter of their own.

No one saw them fly in. It’s a trick ravens have, for night flying; they become part of the darkness, their wings and backs just another pattern of blackness stitched against the sky. Four of them had come in together, an unkindness flying straight and low. Heading for their usual corner, they’d stopped mid-flight, and gone into hover mode. The bird at the front let out a loud, irritated clack.

‘Right, boys, look lively, now.’ The comment, aimed at his mates, moved along lines of thought, audible only to those at whom he’d aimed the comment in his head. ‘Luke, Matthew, Mark, careful now. There’s someone taken our spot.’

The bird already in possession watched the others approach. At first glance, all five were cut from the same cloth. A closer look, however, revealed subtle differences, and one obvious one — the newcomers were larger by far.

‘Evening, mate. Shove over and give us a bit of room, will you? Ta.’ The leader settled down, the others following suit. A rhythmic pattern of sound echoed out across the nearly empty public.

The two humans lifted their heads a moment, glancing at the ravens across the empty tables and half-full glasses. The woman smiled, nodded, the man lifting a hand in a passing salute, a moment of acknowledgement — the man knowing his own raven, the woman knowing her unkindness. They went back to talking.

‘Haven’t seen you round the old Green Man before, have we?’ The leader of the unkindness had his head tilted, regarding the stranger. ‘Name’s John. These here are my mates — the big one’s called Luke, and that’s Matthew and Mark, the little one down at the end. You?’

‘I don’t have a name.’ Her jerked his head toward the humans. ‘He never gave me one. I’m just the raven.’

Deb: …I love that t-shirt. Django Reinhart? Perfect. You like wearing black — do you know Neil Gaiman?

‘You’ve got no name? That’s just wrong.’ Luke had his wings folded back; he looked enormous and imposing, but his voice was friendly. ‘She gave us names. Maybe it’s just easier for them to name us when there’s more than one. Where are you from, mate? That’s a weird accent you’ve got.’

Peter: Neil and I ended up onstage together at Balticon in 2006 — a last minute thing. We were there for five minutes, two guys wearing all black, leather jackets and all, and we went straight into this spontaneous father-son shtick, like Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner doing their 2000-year-old Man routine. Why?

Deb: Neil once said something about how he was going to wear black until someone invented something darker. That’s why I asked. But I can totally see you guys riffing.

‘I’m from the Bronx. Top end of the New York City map. I spend a lot of time in the cemetery up there. You? European, I’m guessing, from the accent and the size.’

Peter: …I’m a big fan of Georges Brassens — he was a cat person, did you know that? I learned French by playing and singing Brassens in a supper club. Some nights, there would be one person eating while I played…the problem with learning French that way is that Brassens was from the south of France, so that was the accent I developed. A friend told me that my accent had moved so far south, it had left France and was now in North Africa.

‘Here, there, everywhere.’ John winked. ‘Bit of London, bit of the country, wherever she sent us off to. Always been in the UK, though. Nice to get a bit of real travel under our wings for a change. So, what did he have you doing, then? We were guarding a human after a plague — bit simple, Ben was, but a brill painter.’

Deb: Omigawd, I love Georges Brassens! Brassens, Aznavour, Yves Montand, and of course there was Piaf — we had all their albums in the house. Part of the music I grew up listening to. Remember that Montand cover, with the kitten poking its head out of his jacket? All cat guys.

‘Jesus, listen to those writers. Still talking. Don’t they ever shut up? Hang on a minute, will you? I’ll be back.’ The American raven lifted suddenly, heading for a table across the room. He landed, clumsy and grappling for a hold, just long enough to dip his beak into a glass full of amber liquid.

Deb: …Peter, I brought you a bribe. Confession time — I, um, well, stole your raven from A Fine and Private Place, and used it in Plainsong, so I brought you a copy. That scene at the beginning, the raven stealing the bologna from the Bronx deli? I have mine stealing pie to feed their human after a plague wipes out nearly everyone. You’re the only living writer I can think of who wrote a book I can actually point to and say, that book had a direct influence not only on the way I write, but on how I process the universe around me.

‘Cider. Man, that’s good stuff.’ The nameless was back, belching. ‘Sorry, what did you want to know? Oh, what did he write me doing? Same thing she wrote you doing, pretty much. I had a disgraced pharmacist who’d been living in the cemetery for about a jillion years. I used to swipe food to keep him alive. Well, you know what that’s like, I’m sure.’

He lifted his shoulders, spreading the feathers, letting them settle again. ‘Didn’t she just say she stole the idea? That makes me your father, or something, I guess. How should I know? I’m just a bird. Boy, would you listen to them? Talk talk talk, they never shut up. People don’t, do they? Oh Christ, he’s talking about cemeteries again. What is it, with people and holes in the ground?’

Peter: …You know Miles Davis is buried at Woodlawn Cemetery? Have you seen his gravestone? It’s huge, shiny black marble, sheet music carved across the bottom, a trumpet, and big letters saying ‘Sir Miles Davis.’ Then just across the path there are stones, set almost flat into the ground. If you didn’t see them, you might even walk on them or trip over them. Those are the graves of Duke Ellington and his parents. Nearby there’s a series of stones, members of Duke’s band. If he wants to jam, his guys are buried close enough to sit up and grab their axes. You look at Miles’ stone, you can’t imagine anyone daring to get close enough for that.

‘Crikey, mate, you’re right. All they ever do is rabbit and write, people do. Blah blah blah, words words words.’ Matthew, listening and absorbing, suddenly lifted himself off his perch, moving fast, a bit clumsy. ‘Excuse me a moment, but I fancy a beer.’

Up, over, a table close to the two humans. He dipped, drank, paused to listen a moment, and drank again.

Across the pub, Luke snorted. ‘He looks like one of them bobbing bird toys. What’s he doing, then? Eavesdropping? Can’t imagine why he’d bother. They can’t have anything interesting to say, you know?’

Deb: …Marilyn Monroe? Really?

‘How right you are, mate. They’re talking about some woman who had It. Not a clue what It is, though, and I don’t give a rat’s arse, either.’ Matthew, hovering, looked a bit shaky. He had a mean look in his eye. ‘Shove over, mate, give a bird a place to sit. Nice beer, but strong stuff.’

Peter: …Really. She and my cousin were walking down the street together. Marilyn was wearing an old raincoat, no makeup, and people were walking right past her. No one gave her a second look. She asked my cousin, You want to see me turn it on? My cousin swore Marilyn hadn’t done anything different, but suddenly, heads were turning and people were whispering and it was Marilyn Monroe. It was as if she’d flicked a switch. She told my cousin, It’s a trick.

Deb: My own theory is that it’s pheromones. Send out a banner scent on the air — that whole trick, pheromonal control, that’s a form of witchcraft, magic.

‘Matthew, you sozzled or something?’ John was watching his friend, who seemed to have a serious tilt backwards. ‘Oi! Might want to straighten your back there, mate. You’re going arse over teapot, you don’t watch it.’

Deb: …Holy shit, you didn’t like Bob Dylan either? Saw him live when I was barely an adolescent and thought he was a pretentious snob with adenoids. It took me twenty years to appreciate anything he did at all.

Peter: …A friend of mine at the time told me Dylan was going to be huge. I thought he was crazy, and said so. The guy couldn’t sing, couldn’t play guitar, couldn’t even blow a good harmonica. My friend said, he’s going to be huge because he wants it so much more than anyone else out there.

The nameless lifted off, heading back to what remained of the cider he’d raided. Unluckily, he got there just as the barmaid, reaching the table a nanosecond before him, was reaching for the glass. He let out a loud croak, and moved; his beak rapped the table no more than an inch from her fingers. She jumped back, met his eye, and moved away, leaving the cider where it was.

The bird took another few hits from the glass and went back to the unkindness, muttering to himself; he seemed to be going from irritable to morose. The two humans, watching him with some amusement, noted the slight weave to his flight pattern, and went back to their conversation.

Peter: …had a dog, years ago, around 1974. Part coyote — her name was Maya. She was very shy, very nervous. We loved that dog. One day, a friend came to visit. He was driving an old van, and the clanking and the noise scared the dog and she ran away. She was gone for days. I was working on a script for Earl Hamner, Jr., the guy who did The Waltons, and I couldn’t get any work done. Too worried about the dog, and the kids were devastated. Hamner called me to ask how it was going, and I had to tell him, it wasn’t. I told him about Maya. He said, Peter, I really need that script. But listen, my wife has this animal deity thing, and when she really wants something, she visualizes it and talks to it. She calls it Superdog. Want me to ask her to talk to Superdog for you? I said, sure, couldn’t hurt.

Deb: …!!!! Earl Hamner’s wife knew a TRICKSTER GOD!

Peter (grinning): Around midnight that night — I am not making this up — we heard a scratching at the door, and there was Maya. She was thin, sore patches all over her, crying and weak and scared but she was THERE, she was home. The kids were all over her, hugging her, my wife was crying. I called Hamner — I woke him up — and said, kiss your wife for us, because it worked. So now, whenever I need to pray to anything, I just pray to Superdog. We should probably think about heading out…Deborah, can you get the barmaid’s attention? Oh, hello, listen, we need a couple of pints, cider and ale — no, not for us, but put it on our tab, and can we settle up?

The barmaid, a brimming glass in each hand, headed for the ravens. She did a wide circle, taking the long way round, approaching with one cautious eye on the birds. She set the glasses down at the ravens’ booth. ‘Compliments of Uncle Fox and the Rocker Chick,’ she told them, and backed away.

‘Now, I call that civilized. What have we got, then? Cider and pale ale?’ John, about to dip in, caught a look from Luke, and sighed. ‘Right, okay, designated flyer. Price of leadership. Cheers, mate. Help yourselves. I’m flying dry tonight — I’ll lead the way home.’

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