D. MacHale - SYLO

I love to travel.

Doesnt everybody?

Besides getting a break from the regular old routine, traveling is like going to school. In a good way, I mean. In school you are constantly exposed to new information, shown different ways of thinking, and introduced to people and places that you wouldnt ordinarily come across. I would love to go back to school for a while. Seriously. As long I could skip the tests and sleep late. But since that isnt likely, Ill stick to traveling.

Like most writers I enjoy exploring unique places and talking with people who have lives that are totally different than mine. You never know what you might discover. I was once in Venice, Italy, where I met a guy who said, If you come across small alleyways that look dark and forbiddingwalk in. Thats where youll find the hidden treasures. I thought that was great advice. (At least in Venice. Im not so sure its wise to go down small, dark alleys just anywhere.) His point was that its important to be open to new experiences and to always look beyond the superficial. Thats where the adventure lies.

As a writer its critical to explore those dark alleys, and the sunny streets, and everywhere else in between.

Young (and not so young) writers often ask me for writing advice. My number one suggestion for them is to write about things that they know. When you write about the people and places and emotions and conflicts youre familiar with, you will be writing with authority and readers will respond. The bottom line is that the more you know, the more youll have at your disposal to write about. Thats one of the reasons I love to travel. I am intrigued and inspired by the places Ive been to. Inevitably, they end up playing a role in my books.

It was while sitting on a remote beach in Hawaii shooting my TV show Flight 29 Down that I came up with the idea for the tropical island of Ibara in The Pilgrims of Rayne. A trip to Rome sparked the idea that brought Marsh and Cooper to the Coliseum in the Morpheus Road trilogy. The climax of The Black took place in New York Citys Grand Central Terminala place I have been through thousands of times. The abandoned subway station where Bobby Pendragon first entered the flume in The Merchant of Death was inspired by an empty subway station that I passed through on the train every day on my way to college classes. I can still remember straining to catch fleeting glimpses of the dark, forgotten platform and imagining what real-life stories might have unfolded there.

Images like those are constantly being gathered up and stored in the hard drive of my memory, waiting patiently for me to come calling in search of ideas.

Like SYLO.

When I was in college my friends and I would take road trips from our hometown in Connecticut to an island off the coast of Massachusetts called Marthas Vineyard. Im sure many of you have been there. Those who havent might know it because it was where the movie Jaws was filmed. The Vineyard (as they call it) is a timeless throwback to a simpler time. I hadnt been there since 1985 and its not an exaggeration to say than when I visited last year I found that it hadnt changed a bit. I half expected to find the can of Coke Id left on a fence near the beach in Menemsha twenty-five years earlier.

Okay, maybe thats a little bit of an exaggeration but there was something comforting about visiting a place that has held true to its time-honored traditions in spite of the chaotic changes that have swirled around it. It was like a secluded oasis, stuck in time.

It was perfect

and the perfect setting for a story about ordinary people fighting for their lives while friends are dropping dead all around them on an isolated island that is suddenly invaded by a mysterious, deadly force.

Hey, what did you expect? You didnt think I was going to write a story about some old farts rocking on a porch by the seashore sipping tea, did you? Give me a break.

A new adventure is about to begin and Im thrilled that youll be joining me. Before heading for the island, Id like to acknowledge some of the people who have helped bring this book to you.

This is the first book Im publishing with Razorbill, and I couldnt be happier about it. The team there has been wonderful from the get-go. Especially my editor, Laura Arnold. Laura embraced the SYLO story as if it were her own and has been its constant champion. She put an incredible effort into wringing the best out of every last wordand out of me. Her insight and talent show on every page AND she did it all while pregnant, no less. Amazing. Ive told her how much I appreciate her work a million times so this isnt news to her, but its always nice for readers to know who deserves a boatload of credit. Thanks to her and to everyone at Razorbill.

Big thanks go to my personal team of Richard Curtis, Peter Nelson, and Mark Wetzstein. They have been with me through good times and not-so-good-times. Im very fortunate to have those guys helping me steer the ship. Or the dingy. Or whatever it is weve got. Thanks.

My wife Eve and daughter Keaton are the best support group anyone could ask for. Eve is still my first and best critic, while Keaton is now weighing in with her own opinions about my stories. Im not sure if thats good or bad, but its inevitable and I couldnt be prouder.

Of course a lions share of thanks must go to you, oh holder-of-this-book. Whether youve been with me since Bobby Pendragon first jumped into the flume or the only reason you picked this up was because you wanted to know what the heck SYLO means, I am sincerely grateful that you will be reading my story. I hope you like it.

Ive made countless friends because of my books. I love answering your letters and corresponding online. Whenever I receive a note that begins, You must be sick of reading letters like this I want to shout out, No! Keep em coming! (Sometimes I do.) Trust me, its a great feeling to know that somebody has enjoyed one of my stories. Thank you.

Okay, housekeeping done. Time to kick this off.

Its an exciting moment when you begin to read a new series. You havent met any of the characters yet. You dont know what they look like or if youre going to like them or hate them or root for them or hope they die an excruciatingly painful death. Right now you have no idea what kind of challenges theyre going to face. Who will rise to the occasion? Who will crash and burn? Who knows the truth? Who has secrets?

Who will survive?

Its the same deal when you start to write a story. In the beginning you have no idea of whats going to happen. You just have to hold on and learn as you go. Its kind of like taking a trip and I love to travel.

I hope you do too because were about to begin another wild ride.

Hobey ho.

It was the perfect night for a football game.

And for death.

Not that the two have anything in common. When you hear the term sudden death, you normally dont expect there to be an actual loss of life, sudden or otherwise, but there was nothing normal about that night.

It was the night it began. The night of the death.

The first death.

I was sitting on the end of the team bench, more interested in the cheerleaders than the game. To be honest, I didnt have much business being on the team. There werent many freshmen on the Arbortown High varsity, but with a student population that barely squeaked past two hundred, if you had two legs and didnt mind being brutally punished by guys who were older, bigger, and faster than you, you were in. Im not exactly sure why I accepted the role of living tackling dummy, but I liked football and figured that in a few years Id be the one running over hapless freshmen. So I guess I was paying my dues.