Anyway, for your Friday lolz I
More here. (check out the Deadwood one on page 5 that I am not posting here because of Delicate Young Eyes)
Also, I am guilty of six of the 20 most overused things in YA literature. The shame.
17 August 2007
Friday lolz
I used to love the idea of these books as a kid, but was always deeply disappointed. I also went through a phase where I read those Fighting Fantasy books, which was like a Choose Your Own Adventure but played with dice. Except I always cheated - cause who's gonna know?
Anyway, for your Friday lolz Ipurloin present: The Choose Your Own Adventure Novels That Never Quite Made It.
More here. (check out the Deadwood one on page 5 that I am not posting here because of Delicate Young Eyes)
Also, I am guilty of six of the 20 most overused things in YA literature. The shame.
Anyway, for your Friday lolz I
More here. (check out the Deadwood one on page 5 that I am not posting here because of Delicate Young Eyes)
Also, I am guilty of six of the 20 most overused things in YA literature. The shame.
13 August 2007
03 August 2007
Scrivener (a somewhat advertorial post)
So instead of talking about the book that just came out on the shelves, I thought I'd talk about the book I just finished writing. (writing the first draft of, that is).
Actually, I'm not going to say anything about the new book, other than: It was so much fun to write.
What I am going to talk about is how I wrote it.
I wrote it without Microsoft Word.
(shh, don't tell Bill Gates)
Scrivener is a word-processor for people who write books. Or plays, or films, or articles. People who write stuff.
It does everything that Microsoft Word doesn't do - and you don't realise exactly how much Word doesn't do, until you've tried Scrivener.
Scrivener sorts your book into chapters. You can split the main window if you like, and work on two chapters simultaneously (awesome if you're cutting and pasting, or doing Big Edits). Or, if you'd rather, you can have a chapter open in one pane, and an image/website/audio file/video file/pdf in the other and transcribe.
It also has some unreal subject/category sorting things, so you can just hit a button and see how many times I've talked about spelling in a chapter. Or how many times Tarni does something dumb.
I'm currently loving the target options. I can say: My novel needs to be 40 000 words. This chapter needs to be 2500 words, and I want to write 1000 words in this session. And it will give you lovely sliders to show you how you're going on all these.
Ooh! And research. You can attach research to any section or chapter, and have notes and things just sitting there all the time, when you need them. And link to other bits in your book or another file or website.
BUT
Here are my two favourite things.
Thing #1: Full Screen Mode, to Avoid Distractions:
Thing #2: The Corkboard, for the Structure Fiend in You
And the icing on the cake?
Microsoft Word Professional costs US$399.99.
Scrivener costs US$34.99.
Bill Gates can bite me.
Actually, I'm not going to say anything about the new book, other than: It was so much fun to write.
What I am going to talk about is how I wrote it.
I wrote it without Microsoft Word.
(shh, don't tell Bill Gates)
Scrivener is a word-processor for people who write books. Or plays, or films, or articles. People who write stuff.
It does everything that Microsoft Word doesn't do - and you don't realise exactly how much Word doesn't do, until you've tried Scrivener.
Scrivener sorts your book into chapters. You can split the main window if you like, and work on two chapters simultaneously (awesome if you're cutting and pasting, or doing Big Edits). Or, if you'd rather, you can have a chapter open in one pane, and an image/website/audio file/video file/pdf in the other and transcribe.
It also has some unreal subject/category sorting things, so you can just hit a button and see how many times I've talked about spelling in a chapter. Or how many times Tarni does something dumb.
I'm currently loving the target options. I can say: My novel needs to be 40 000 words. This chapter needs to be 2500 words, and I want to write 1000 words in this session. And it will give you lovely sliders to show you how you're going on all these.
Ooh! And research. You can attach research to any section or chapter, and have notes and things just sitting there all the time, when you need them. And link to other bits in your book or another file or website.
BUT
Here are my two favourite things.
Thing #1: Full Screen Mode, to Avoid Distractions:
Thing #2: The Corkboard, for the Structure Fiend in You
And the icing on the cake?Microsoft Word Professional costs US$399.99.
Scrivener costs US$34.99.
Bill Gates can bite me.
02 August 2007
I'm a Thinking Blogger!
The tiny and delightful Lisa has given me a Thinking Blogger Award. I am quite flattered.
My bloggy birthday passed several months ago, and I didn't even realise. It's been lovely and surprising how many people come up to me and tell me that they read (and enjoy) my blog.
Here are the TBA rules:
1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote.
So here are Five Blogs that Make Me Think:
1. Misrule, for thought-provoking and interesting things about the world of children's and YA lit.
2. Audrey and the Bad Apples, for ranting, raving and being rosy-cheeked, all with astonishing style and poise. (and also for proving that bloggers can become Real Live Friends)
3. eglantine's cake, which takes equal parts of thinking, feeling and laughing and bakes something very tasty with it all.
4. Justine Larbalestier, who has the amazing gift of being prolific and not-boring at the same time, AND managing to write kick-arse books while she does it.
5. the munkey can type, who doesn't blog nearly often enough, but when he does it's always made of awesome. Even when it's about Big Brother.
Go forth. Read and think.
31 July 2007
Scatterheart in the wild
I have just received a missive from the delightful Simmone Howell telling me that Scatterheart has been sighted in the wild! (in Readings, to be precise).
Hurrah! I declare this to be Scatterheart Release Week, and tomorrow I will blog in more detail and maybe even think of a Competition.
Hurrah! I declare this to be Scatterheart Release Week, and tomorrow I will blog in more detail and maybe even think of a Competition.
27 July 2007
This is why the world is fucked
In the US...
1/3 of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives.
42 percent of college graduates never read another book after college.
80 percent of U.S. families did not buy or read a book last year.
70 percent of U.S. adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years.
57 percent of new books are not read to completion.
70 percent of books published do not earn back their advance.
70 percent of the books published do not make a profit.
53 percent read fiction, 43 percent read nonfiction. The favorite fiction category is mystery and suspense, at 19 percent.
55 percent of fiction is bought by women, 45 percent by men.
About 120,000 books are published each year in the U.S.
A successful fiction book sells 5,000 copies.
A successful nonfiction book sells 7,500 copies.
On average, a bookstore browser spends 8 seconds looking at a book's front cover and 15 seconds looking at the back cover.
Each day in the U.S., people spend 4 hours watching TV, 3 hours listening to the radio and 14 minutes reading magazines.
From here.
1/3 of high school graduates never read another book for the rest of their lives.
42 percent of college graduates never read another book after college.
80 percent of U.S. families did not buy or read a book last year.
70 percent of U.S. adults have not been in a bookstore in the last five years.
57 percent of new books are not read to completion.
70 percent of books published do not earn back their advance.
70 percent of the books published do not make a profit.
53 percent read fiction, 43 percent read nonfiction. The favorite fiction category is mystery and suspense, at 19 percent.
55 percent of fiction is bought by women, 45 percent by men.
About 120,000 books are published each year in the U.S.
A successful fiction book sells 5,000 copies.
A successful nonfiction book sells 7,500 copies.
On average, a bookstore browser spends 8 seconds looking at a book's front cover and 15 seconds looking at the back cover.
Each day in the U.S., people spend 4 hours watching TV, 3 hours listening to the radio and 14 minutes reading magazines.
From here.
23 July 2007
Spoilery Pottery Initial Thoughts
I have such a complicated relationship with Harry.
I approach him as a reader, a fan, a critic, a children's literature professional and a writer.
I spent the weekend with my peeps, curled up on sofas under doonas, munching on pumpkin cupcakes and bagels and listening to Snaz read the book aloud. It was awesome. We laughed, we cried, we complained at the huge tracts of exposition. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, as I always have whenever I've read a HP book.
There are a lot of criticisms I could make, but I'm going to skip over most of them. You can overlook a lot of faults for a book that inspires so much hype, joy, love and enthusiasm.
BUT.
There's just this one thing.
The muggles.
I really, really, really wanted there to be a Muggle in the final battle. I wanted, just ONCE in the entire 7 part series, for there to be a Muggle who was a Good Guy. Not someone nasty or stupid or ineffectual. Someone GOOD. I really thought that we might see the New Improved Dudley again.
And after the series railed for so long against the Slytherins and Death Eaters for their attitudes towards halfbloods and mudbloods and purebloods - what happened with the Good Guys in the end? All the wizards married wizards and had little pureblood wizard babies. No mixed marriages. No 'squibs'. It just totally validated everything the bad guys were gunning for.
Even the single interracial relationship (Lupin and Tonks) wasn't permitted to exist in the Happily Ever After. And tell me Dobby wasn't totally the black guy who dies in the first half of an action movie.
Finally, I just need to share the cover of Melbourne'sright-wing tabloid propaganda machine Sunday Herald Sun, on the day when most of the English-speaking world were reading Harry Potter:
For a moment I wasn't sure if I was seeing the Herald Sun or the Daily Prophet. Then I saw that peculiar use of the word Wizard! and wondered if there was a Harry Potter musical.
I approach him as a reader, a fan, a critic, a children's literature professional and a writer.
I spent the weekend with my peeps, curled up on sofas under doonas, munching on pumpkin cupcakes and bagels and listening to Snaz read the book aloud. It was awesome. We laughed, we cried, we complained at the huge tracts of exposition. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, as I always have whenever I've read a HP book.
There are a lot of criticisms I could make, but I'm going to skip over most of them. You can overlook a lot of faults for a book that inspires so much hype, joy, love and enthusiasm.
BUT.
There's just this one thing.
The muggles.
I really, really, really wanted there to be a Muggle in the final battle. I wanted, just ONCE in the entire 7 part series, for there to be a Muggle who was a Good Guy. Not someone nasty or stupid or ineffectual. Someone GOOD. I really thought that we might see the New Improved Dudley again.
And after the series railed for so long against the Slytherins and Death Eaters for their attitudes towards halfbloods and mudbloods and purebloods - what happened with the Good Guys in the end? All the wizards married wizards and had little pureblood wizard babies. No mixed marriages. No 'squibs'. It just totally validated everything the bad guys were gunning for.
Even the single interracial relationship (Lupin and Tonks) wasn't permitted to exist in the Happily Ever After. And tell me Dobby wasn't totally the black guy who dies in the first half of an action movie.
Finally, I just need to share the cover of Melbourne's
For a moment I wasn't sure if I was seeing the Herald Sun or the Daily Prophet. Then I saw that peculiar use of the word Wizard! and wondered if there was a Harry Potter musical.
18 July 2007
Guess the Book Title!
What book am I quoting from?
#1
He walked right around the cave, touching as much as the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backwards and forwards over a particular spot, until he finally stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.
'Here,' he said. 'We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.'
...
He stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a powerful light behind the crack.
still wondering? try this bit:
#2
...a dead man lying face up inches beneath the surface: his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and robes swirling around him like smoke.
'There are bodies in here!'
Anybody? Anybody?
#1
He walked right around the cave, touching as much as the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backwards and forwards over a particular spot, until he finally stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.
'Here,' he said. 'We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.'
...
He stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a powerful light behind the crack.
still wondering? try this bit:
#2
...a dead man lying face up inches beneath the surface: his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and robes swirling around him like smoke.
'There are bodies in here!'
Anybody? Anybody?
14 July 2007
Film Festivals: A Cautionary Guide
I love the Melbourne Film Festival. I go every year. A lot. But I've learnt a few things about which films are good, and which ones make you want to stick blunt pencils in your eyes. So I've cast my eye over the 2007 program, and want to share some thoughts.
Avoid all films which contain the following in their descriptions:
"harrowing"
"questions the very meaning of existence"
"a thought-provoking exercise in stretching film vocabulary to its limits"
"casts an austere gaze"
"the human need for emotion and tenderness"
Lars von Trier
"gritty metamorphosis of deeply wounded people"
"bitter and broken"
"walking the fine line between derision and sympathy, pessimism and very dim hope"
France
"passive and isolated"
"grim"
"hypnotic"
"stark"
"organic and raw"
"a whimsical exploration of existential angst"
"oppressive reality"
"sumptuous mood piece on longing and mourning"
"a sculptress whose marriage is an unfeeling abyss"
"unrelenting"
"this muted drama builds into a brooding study of loss, responsibility and incomprehension"
"a gruelling, often painful, occasionally dangerous marathon"
"introspective and minimalist"
Are you getting the picture? Some of these films SOUND like a good idea. Oh yes, a film about the relationship between an elderly couple, where, half-way through, they switch locations froma village to a hospital and replay all of the dialogue from the first half? Sounds interesting. Sounds experimental.
Consider this. According to an online calculator, I have 479688 hours left to live. I expect you have something not dissimilar. Do you REALLY want to spend two of those hours watching something described as a "free and minimalist portrait of nascent narcisissm?"
Avoid all films which contain the following in their descriptions:
"harrowing"
"questions the very meaning of existence"
"a thought-provoking exercise in stretching film vocabulary to its limits"
"casts an austere gaze"
"the human need for emotion and tenderness"
Lars von Trier
"gritty metamorphosis of deeply wounded people"
"bitter and broken"
"walking the fine line between derision and sympathy, pessimism and very dim hope"
France
"passive and isolated"
"grim"
"hypnotic"
"stark"
"organic and raw"
"a whimsical exploration of existential angst"
"oppressive reality"
"sumptuous mood piece on longing and mourning"
"a sculptress whose marriage is an unfeeling abyss"
"unrelenting"
"this muted drama builds into a brooding study of loss, responsibility and incomprehension"
"a gruelling, often painful, occasionally dangerous marathon"
"introspective and minimalist"
Are you getting the picture? Some of these films SOUND like a good idea. Oh yes, a film about the relationship between an elderly couple, where, half-way through, they switch locations froma village to a hospital and replay all of the dialogue from the first half? Sounds interesting. Sounds experimental.
Consider this. According to an online calculator, I have 479688 hours left to live. I expect you have something not dissimilar. Do you REALLY want to spend two of those hours watching something described as a "free and minimalist portrait of nascent narcisissm?"
13 July 2007
Punctuation is Awesome
?
Did you know that the question mark is a stylised q on top of a very tiny o? It was monkish shorthand for questio, which they used to write at the end of a sentence to indicate it was a question.
!
Oh, and the exclamation mark is a stylised io, which means "exclamation of joy" in Latin.
&
This little critter didn't get a name until the 19th century, when it was taught as the 27th letter of the alphabet. The kiddies felt Awkward saying "w, x, y and and", so they said "w, x, y and, per se, and". Which turned into ampersand.
via Neatorama.
Did you know that the question mark is a stylised q on top of a very tiny o? It was monkish shorthand for questio, which they used to write at the end of a sentence to indicate it was a question.
!
Oh, and the exclamation mark is a stylised io, which means "exclamation of joy" in Latin.
&
This little critter didn't get a name until the 19th century, when it was taught as the 27th letter of the alphabet. The kiddies felt Awkward saying "w, x, y and and", so they said "w, x, y and, per se, and". Which turned into ampersand.
via Neatorama.
11 July 2007
I love Eight, Eight is Great, Eight is the Number I Do Not Hate
From Penni.
Here are the rules:
A. Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
B. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
C. [there is a Rule C about tagging 8 people, but given that most of my friends have, of late, fallen off the bloggery bandwagon, I shall make this a bit more open] If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged.
1. I was born in the front room of the house where my parents still live. They buried the placenta in the garden and planted a tree on top of it. The tree died.
2. I am scared of vomit, infidelity, heights and rollercoasters that go upside down.
3. I am not scared of spiders.
4. I am an atheist.
5. I am waiting for the day when scientists invent a) an electric blanket that can cool you down in summer, and b) mashed potato that makes you thin.
6. I am an insufferable know-it-all.
7. At my year 12 formal, I took the first boy I ever had a real crush on, although I no longer had the crush. My ex-girlfriend took my then-boyfriend. It was a really good night.
8. I am an only child, and I wouldn't have it any other way. My only regret is that I'll never be a real auntie.
Here are the rules:
A. Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves.
B. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed.
C. [there is a Rule C about tagging 8 people, but given that most of my friends have, of late, fallen off the bloggery bandwagon, I shall make this a bit more open] If you're reading this, consider yourself tagged.
1. I was born in the front room of the house where my parents still live. They buried the placenta in the garden and planted a tree on top of it. The tree died.
2. I am scared of vomit, infidelity, heights and rollercoasters that go upside down.
3. I am not scared of spiders.
4. I am an atheist.
5. I am waiting for the day when scientists invent a) an electric blanket that can cool you down in summer, and b) mashed potato that makes you thin.
6. I am an insufferable know-it-all.
7. At my year 12 formal, I took the first boy I ever had a real crush on, although I no longer had the crush. My ex-girlfriend took my then-boyfriend. It was a really good night.
8. I am an only child, and I wouldn't have it any other way. My only regret is that I'll never be a real auntie.
06 July 2007
Four Reasons Why Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer is the Best Film You Will See This Year
(spoilers, but really, like you're ever going to see it)
1. Jessica Alba had lots to do as the only woman in the film. Like... whinge about how her wedding keeps getting interrupted by having to save the world. And not quite be able to hold up the London Eye (resulting in a nosebleed). And... be sensitive and the catalyst for the Silver Surfer not to kill them all because she reminds him of his shiny silver girlfriend back home. Oh, and die.
2. The villain was awesomely cool. I mean, what could be cooler than the shiny silver guy from Terminator 2, with Laurence Fishburne's voice (sounding a lot like Legion from Red Dwarf for all the geeks out there). ON A MAGIC SURFBOARD. (oh, except he's not actually the villain. The villain is really The Nothing from the Neverending Story.)
3. The bit at the end where Ioan Gruffudd (Hornblower! What happened to you!? You went all blah!!) looks around at downtown Shanghai, looks at poor eat-a-burger Jessica Alba and says "This gives me an idea". Cut to... them getting married... in Japan.
4. Julian McMahon's success-fat.
1. Jessica Alba had lots to do as the only woman in the film. Like... whinge about how her wedding keeps getting interrupted by having to save the world. And not quite be able to hold up the London Eye (resulting in a nosebleed). And... be sensitive and the catalyst for the Silver Surfer not to kill them all because she reminds him of his shiny silver girlfriend back home. Oh, and die.
2. The villain was awesomely cool. I mean, what could be cooler than the shiny silver guy from Terminator 2, with Laurence Fishburne's voice (sounding a lot like Legion from Red Dwarf for all the geeks out there). ON A MAGIC SURFBOARD. (oh, except he's not actually the villain. The villain is really The Nothing from the Neverending Story.)
3. The bit at the end where Ioan Gruffudd (Hornblower! What happened to you!? You went all blah!!) looks around at downtown Shanghai, looks at poor eat-a-burger Jessica Alba and says "This gives me an idea". Cut to... them getting married... in Japan.
4. Julian McMahon's success-fat.
01 July 2007
Holding it in your hands...
...is an incredibly exciting moment.
It’s a huge relief that it’s actually finally actually finished. It’s also terrifying. I can’t bear to actually read any of it, in case I find a bit where James is called Jack (he was in an earlier draft) or Molly “closes her eyes” (she only has one).
More terrifying is that people are actually going to go and read it now. What if they hate it? What if they find typos? What if they get bored and never finish it?
Anyway. It’ll be on shelves in a month. There’ll be a launch. I’ll let you know.
It’s a huge relief that it’s actually finally actually finished. It’s also terrifying. I can’t bear to actually read any of it, in case I find a bit where James is called Jack (he was in an earlier draft) or Molly “closes her eyes” (she only has one).More terrifying is that people are actually going to go and read it now. What if they hate it? What if they find typos? What if they get bored and never finish it?
Anyway. It’ll be on shelves in a month. There’ll be a launch. I’ll let you know.
The Soundtrack to my Life
It is Sunday, so it is time for a Meme. This one is stealed from Penni.
The usual iTunes on Shuffle thing. No cheating. If my life were a movie, this would be the soundtrack:
Opening Credits
Thanks a Lot by Third Eye Blind
hmm, not really a cheery one, but at least there are zombies
Waking Up
Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band by The Beatles
it was twenty years ago today…
First Day At School
Just B’Cos, Machine Gun Fellatio
I see your shape in the crowd
I turn to know where you are
But all around is a stage of high-density housing
Falling In Love
Hernando’s Hideaway by Doris Day (from The Pyjama Game)
I know a dark, secluded place
a place where no one knows your face
a glass of wine, a strong embrace.
I’m going to fall in love in a speakeasy!
Fight Song
Happy Feet by Kermit the Frog
can’t you imagine him kicking someone in the head to this?
Breaking Up
The More You Ignore Me by The Smiths
Beware! I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges
Prom
A Little Less Conversation by Elvis (via JXL)
A little more action, please!
Life
Great Southern Land by Icehouse
so you look into the land and it will tell you a story
story 'bout a journey ended long ago
if you listen to the motion of the wind in the mountains
maybe you can hear them talking like I do
Mental Breakdown
Dive by David Bridie
the ocean is rising, i feel the water storming in
the ocean is waiting, it's waiting for me to dive right in
Driving
Sparks by The Who
Flashback
A Menuetto from the Bach Cello Suites, performed by YoYo Ma
Getting back together
Wingspan, by Cymbals.
Spread your wings so wide / Free your mind
Wedding
There is a Light that Never Goes Out, Neil Finn
And if a double decker bus kills the both of us
Today by your side, is such a heavenly way to die
If i ever get married, this is totally going on the playlist.
Birth of Child
Caroline by Old Crow Medicine Show
They say you were born in St. Claire’s hospital
I say you were born up in the sky
You come floatin’ down over New Orleans
To the sweet green levee on the river side
And your voice chirped like old squeaky shoes
Final Battle
Sad Professor, by REM.
Dear Readers, I’m not sure where I’m heading
I’ve gotten lost before.
I’ve woke up stone drunk face-down on the floor.
Death Scene
Every Day Is Like Sunday by Morrissey
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon - come armageddon!
Come, armageddon! come!
Funeral Song
Sing by the Sesame Street Kids.
Sing, Sing a Song. Sing out loud. Sing out Strong.
Sing of good things, not bad.
Sing of happy, not sad.
wow. i totally want that at my funeral!
End Credits
Calling all Angels, KD Lang and Jane Siberry
but if you could...do you think you would
trade in all the pain and suffering?
ah, but then you'd miss
the beauty of the light upon this earth
and the sweetness of the leaving
Hmm. Doesn't sound like it's going to be a feel-good romcom type of film/life. Oh well.
The usual iTunes on Shuffle thing. No cheating. If my life were a movie, this would be the soundtrack:
Opening Credits
Thanks a Lot by Third Eye Blind
hmm, not really a cheery one, but at least there are zombies
Waking Up
Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band by The Beatles
it was twenty years ago today…
First Day At School
Just B’Cos, Machine Gun Fellatio
I see your shape in the crowd
I turn to know where you are
But all around is a stage of high-density housing
Falling In Love
Hernando’s Hideaway by Doris Day (from The Pyjama Game)
I know a dark, secluded place
a place where no one knows your face
a glass of wine, a strong embrace.
I’m going to fall in love in a speakeasy!
Fight Song
Happy Feet by Kermit the Frog
can’t you imagine him kicking someone in the head to this?
Breaking Up
The More You Ignore Me by The Smiths
Beware! I bear more grudges
Than lonely high court judges
Prom
A Little Less Conversation by Elvis (via JXL)
A little more action, please!
Life
Great Southern Land by Icehouse
so you look into the land and it will tell you a story
story 'bout a journey ended long ago
if you listen to the motion of the wind in the mountains
maybe you can hear them talking like I do
Mental Breakdown
Dive by David Bridie
the ocean is rising, i feel the water storming in
the ocean is waiting, it's waiting for me to dive right in
Driving
Sparks by The Who
Flashback
A Menuetto from the Bach Cello Suites, performed by YoYo Ma
Getting back together
Wingspan, by Cymbals.
Spread your wings so wide / Free your mind
Wedding
There is a Light that Never Goes Out, Neil Finn
And if a double decker bus kills the both of us
Today by your side, is such a heavenly way to die
If i ever get married, this is totally going on the playlist.
Birth of Child
Caroline by Old Crow Medicine Show
They say you were born in St. Claire’s hospital
I say you were born up in the sky
You come floatin’ down over New Orleans
To the sweet green levee on the river side
And your voice chirped like old squeaky shoes
Final Battle
Sad Professor, by REM.
Dear Readers, I’m not sure where I’m heading
I’ve gotten lost before.
I’ve woke up stone drunk face-down on the floor.
Death Scene
Every Day Is Like Sunday by Morrissey
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon - come armageddon!
Come, armageddon! come!
Funeral Song
Sing by the Sesame Street Kids.
Sing, Sing a Song. Sing out loud. Sing out Strong.
Sing of good things, not bad.
Sing of happy, not sad.
wow. i totally want that at my funeral!
End Credits
Calling all Angels, KD Lang and Jane Siberry
but if you could...do you think you would
trade in all the pain and suffering?
ah, but then you'd miss
the beauty of the light upon this earth
and the sweetness of the leaving
Hmm. Doesn't sound like it's going to be a feel-good romcom type of film/life. Oh well.
16 June 2007
The Good Fight
At the launch of Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist*, both Ros Price (the publisher) and David Levithan (one of the two authors) said some very nice things.
I don't think it's entirely true to say that the book only got published in Australia because Mike and I pushed so hard for it. The book got published in Australia because it's fucking awesome. We just pointed that out to some people (okay, everyone we met), and Allen & Unwin were nice enough to listen.
It is very gratifying to learn that, when it comes to YA in Australia, my opinions count for something. It's flattering. It also feels like a responsibility.
I have a pile of signed books from Reading Matters, from writers who I respect more than I can say. And many of these authors, above their signatures, thanked me for "fighting the good fight".
This is, in part, a reference to David Levithan's amazing, moving, provocative and inspiring talk about "Killing the Vampires" and making sure the right books get to the teens who really need to see themselves on the shelves of their library.
I can't do justice to what he said with a neat summary. You will have to hear it yourselves. It was a talk for librarians, but everyone needs to hear it. At the conference, it received a standing ovation. I was not the only person moved to tears.
And you need to do more than hear it. You need to copy it, you need to put it on your blog, you need to tell people about it, talk about it, think about it. It has a Creative Commons license, so use it as you will.
Help us fight the good fight.
---------------------------------------------
* review here and first chapter here
I don't think it's entirely true to say that the book only got published in Australia because Mike and I pushed so hard for it. The book got published in Australia because it's fucking awesome. We just pointed that out to some people (okay, everyone we met), and Allen & Unwin were nice enough to listen.
It is very gratifying to learn that, when it comes to YA in Australia, my opinions count for something. It's flattering. It also feels like a responsibility.
I have a pile of signed books from Reading Matters, from writers who I respect more than I can say. And many of these authors, above their signatures, thanked me for "fighting the good fight".
This is, in part, a reference to David Levithan's amazing, moving, provocative and inspiring talk about "Killing the Vampires" and making sure the right books get to the teens who really need to see themselves on the shelves of their library.
I can't do justice to what he said with a neat summary. You will have to hear it yourselves. It was a talk for librarians, but everyone needs to hear it. At the conference, it received a standing ovation. I was not the only person moved to tears.
And you need to do more than hear it. You need to copy it, you need to put it on your blog, you need to tell people about it, talk about it, think about it. It has a Creative Commons license, so use it as you will.
Help us fight the good fight.
---------------------------------------------
* review here and first chapter here
12 June 2007
Ephebiphobia
Dear Mr Schembri,
My friend Jellyfish has just sent me a rather irate email containing a link to your latest offering in The Age.
In response to your '10 key reasons why children should not be allowed in cinemas', I would like to alert you of '1 really key reason why Jim Schembri should not be allowed in print'.
The other day, David Levithan said that homophobia was the last acceptable prejudice. He was wrong. There is another one, and it is ephebiphobia. The fear of young people. (or pedophobia, the fear of children and babies).
Do you think if Jim Schembri had written an article on 10 reasons why we shouldn't let WOMEN or JEWS or BLACK PEOPLE into cinemas, it would have been published?
Why does our society see young people as some kind of lesser species?
Apart from all of the absolute bollocks you see in the media about "teens running wild" and all of the head-shaking and 'in my day'-ing that goes on today, have a think about these 10 things:
1. children as young as 12 can be tried for crimes as adults
2. children can't vote, as they are cited to have a lower level of reasoning. But adults don't have to prove any level of reasoning to vote.
3. the 'lower level of reasoning' line was also used to prevent people with different coloured skins and vaginas from voting up until the 20th century.
4. Senile people have a say in how their country is run. Alcholics and psychotics and murderers and rapists have a say in how their country is run. Not young people.
5. children are forced to attend underfunded schools, have little or no access to free health care, and will have to grow up coping with catastrophic global warming, but have no voice to protest or bring about change.
6. they also have to pay taxes AND superannuation, if they are earning money (not to mention the fucking GST), but with no legal say in how those funds are managed.
7. in the US, poverty among young people exceeds all other age groups, yet the government spends 10 times more on each poor senior than each poor child.
8. you can be a Christian and a child. A Muslim and a child. You can be gay. You can be disabled. You can be poor. You can be homeless. But you're not allowed to have an opinion. (or, if Jim Schembri has his way, go to the fucking cinema)
9. many people in Positions of Influence seem to think that young people should constantly be educated - that books must be either Classics or about Real Issues (see the YA winner of the WA Premier's Award for a recent and tooth-grinding example), television should only be documentaries, and computers are just plain evil.
10. I'll stop ranting now and quote Goosebumps author RL Stine: I believe that kids as well as adults are entitled to books of no socially redeeming value.
Stop picking on the young people. Or at least give them an opportunity to respond.
(With thanks to the NYRA and this episode of the West Wing.)
My friend Jellyfish has just sent me a rather irate email containing a link to your latest offering in The Age.
In response to your '10 key reasons why children should not be allowed in cinemas', I would like to alert you of '1 really key reason why Jim Schembri should not be allowed in print'.
The other day, David Levithan said that homophobia was the last acceptable prejudice. He was wrong. There is another one, and it is ephebiphobia. The fear of young people. (or pedophobia, the fear of children and babies).
Do you think if Jim Schembri had written an article on 10 reasons why we shouldn't let WOMEN or JEWS or BLACK PEOPLE into cinemas, it would have been published?
Why does our society see young people as some kind of lesser species?
Apart from all of the absolute bollocks you see in the media about "teens running wild" and all of the head-shaking and 'in my day'-ing that goes on today, have a think about these 10 things:
1. children as young as 12 can be tried for crimes as adults
2. children can't vote, as they are cited to have a lower level of reasoning. But adults don't have to prove any level of reasoning to vote.
3. the 'lower level of reasoning' line was also used to prevent people with different coloured skins and vaginas from voting up until the 20th century.
4. Senile people have a say in how their country is run. Alcholics and psychotics and murderers and rapists have a say in how their country is run. Not young people.
5. children are forced to attend underfunded schools, have little or no access to free health care, and will have to grow up coping with catastrophic global warming, but have no voice to protest or bring about change.
6. they also have to pay taxes AND superannuation, if they are earning money (not to mention the fucking GST), but with no legal say in how those funds are managed.
7. in the US, poverty among young people exceeds all other age groups, yet the government spends 10 times more on each poor senior than each poor child.
8. you can be a Christian and a child. A Muslim and a child. You can be gay. You can be disabled. You can be poor. You can be homeless. But you're not allowed to have an opinion. (or, if Jim Schembri has his way, go to the fucking cinema)
9. many people in Positions of Influence seem to think that young people should constantly be educated - that books must be either Classics or about Real Issues (see the YA winner of the WA Premier's Award for a recent and tooth-grinding example), television should only be documentaries, and computers are just plain evil.
10. I'll stop ranting now and quote Goosebumps author RL Stine: I believe that kids as well as adults are entitled to books of no socially redeeming value.
Stop picking on the young people. Or at least give them an opportunity to respond.
(With thanks to the NYRA and this episode of the West Wing.)
06 June 2007
5 things to know about my novel
1. The first word is "The"
2. The last word is "story"
3. It is 375 pages long
4. It is, according to Ursula Dubsosarsky: For lovers of reality and romance, history and fantasy - a truly endearing book
5. It is FINISHED.
2. The last word is "story"
3. It is 375 pages long
4. It is, according to Ursula Dubsosarsky: For lovers of reality and romance, history and fantasy - a truly endearing book
5. It is FINISHED.
05 June 2007
Buttonmania
If you live in Melbourne, and haven't been to Buttonmania, now is the time. They're having a sale. Even if you're not into buttons, you should go anyway. It's in the Nicholas Building on the corner of Swanston and Flinders Lane, which is one of my favourite buildings in Melbourne. It's full of twisty corridors and strange little shops and studios, and has a creaky old attendant lift. And a man on the top floor who makes cyber-fairies.This is my haul - under $20 - think of all the creatures I can make!
04 June 2007
Dear Next-door Neighbour,
Hi!
How are you?
I'm great. You wanna know why? Because I have a week off work. I plan to write a lot, see my friends, and sleep in.
EXCEPT.
Except you don't want me to do that, do you?
You have chosen this week to demolish your apartment.
And you seem to like, more than anything, starting work at SEVEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. WITH A REALLY REALLY BIG DRILL. INTO YOUR WALL, WHICH ALSO HAPPENS TO BE MY WALL.
IT'S LIKE YOU ARE DRILLING INTO MY HEAD.
And it's not like I can just go 'oh well, no sleep in for me, I'll just start writing!'. No. It's a bit hard to be creative when someone is
a) yelling to their mates
b) playing crap music really loud
c) DRILLING INTO MY HEAD
Please stop. Please go away. Please move to Altona.
Love,
Lili.
(ps. ok, when i said 'please stop', I meant stop everything, not please stop drilling and start banging.)
How are you?
I'm great. You wanna know why? Because I have a week off work. I plan to write a lot, see my friends, and sleep in.
EXCEPT.
Except you don't want me to do that, do you?
You have chosen this week to demolish your apartment.
And you seem to like, more than anything, starting work at SEVEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. WITH A REALLY REALLY BIG DRILL. INTO YOUR WALL, WHICH ALSO HAPPENS TO BE MY WALL.
IT'S LIKE YOU ARE DRILLING INTO MY HEAD.
And it's not like I can just go 'oh well, no sleep in for me, I'll just start writing!'. No. It's a bit hard to be creative when someone is
a) yelling to their mates
b) playing crap music really loud
c) DRILLING INTO MY HEAD
Please stop. Please go away. Please move to Altona.
Love,
Lili.
(ps. ok, when i said 'please stop', I meant stop everything, not please stop drilling and start banging.)
01 June 2007
Lili's top 10 ways to procrastinate make proofreading fun
1. Eat chocolate.
2. Have a glass of wine.
3. Exfoliate, and apply face-mask.
4. Crochet.
5. Check if term "fired" (as in "you're fired") was used in 1814. (it wasn't. first recorded usage is in the US in 1885)
6. Deliberate on the various merits of the em dash (—) or the spaced en ( – ).
7. Check what font my novel is set in. (Garamond Simoncini. Claude Garamond was a typesetter in the early 16th century, but this particular typeface was designed by a later bloke called Jean Jannon)
8. Check out today's lolcats, lolbots, lolprezs and lolpilgrims.
9. Make lolproofreedin:
10. Blog it.
2. Have a glass of wine.
3. Exfoliate, and apply face-mask.
4. Crochet.
5. Check if term "fired" (as in "you're fired") was used in 1814. (it wasn't. first recorded usage is in the US in 1885)
6. Deliberate on the various merits of the em dash (—) or the spaced en ( – ).
7. Check what font my novel is set in. (Garamond Simoncini. Claude Garamond was a typesetter in the early 16th century, but this particular typeface was designed by a later bloke called Jean Jannon)
8. Check out today's lolcats, lolbots, lolprezs and lolpilgrims.
9. Make lolproofreedin:
10. Blog it.
31 May 2007
Zzzz
So Reading Matters was over, and I was all ready to have a nice, quiet week. Go to work, go home, watch TV, eat mac&cheese, see my friends. Wear pjs a lot.
Then my editor sent me this email on Tuesday afternoon that said:
Scatterheart is going to press on Monday...
Monday.
MONDAY.
That's the day after the day after the day after tomorrow.
MONDAY.
So now my nice quiet pjs and mac and cheese week has turned into a CRAZY PROOFREADING AND LAST MINUTE CHANGES week. With a constant tirade of emails saying things like "I'm wondering if we should delete the possum scene, to increase narrative flow".
(But they wanted more sex! the possums were HAVING SEX! Oh well.)
Okay. I'm going to go and eat a banana now.
Then my editor sent me this email on Tuesday afternoon that said:
Scatterheart is going to press on Monday...
Monday.
MONDAY.
That's the day after the day after the day after tomorrow.
MONDAY.
So now my nice quiet pjs and mac and cheese week has turned into a CRAZY PROOFREADING AND LAST MINUTE CHANGES week. With a constant tirade of emails saying things like "I'm wondering if we should delete the possum scene, to increase narrative flow".
(But they wanted more sex! the possums were HAVING SEX! Oh well.)
Okay. I'm going to go and eat a banana now.
27 May 2007
Reading Matters
I've spent the last few days/weeks/months subsumed in Reading Matters 2007. Reading Matters is the YA literature conference that I organise with my colleague Mike Shuttleworth.
This week, we had a three-day conference of 350 delegates, 25 authors, 1300 kids and about 300 members of the general public. We talked about What Matters (more on that anon). I had the enormous privilege and pleasure of hanging out with Scott, Justine, David, Margo, Ursula and everyone else.
My head is so full of ideas and thoughts, but right now I am tired and emotional and perhaps a little drunk.
I love my job.
This week, we had a three-day conference of 350 delegates, 25 authors, 1300 kids and about 300 members of the general public. We talked about What Matters (more on that anon). I had the enormous privilege and pleasure of hanging out with Scott, Justine, David, Margo, Ursula and everyone else.
My head is so full of ideas and thoughts, but right now I am tired and emotional and perhaps a little drunk.
I love my job.
18 May 2007
Lloyd Alexander
Lloyd Alexander died yesterday, two weeks after his wife. He'd just finished his last book, The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio. He was 83.
I consider the Chronicles of Prydain to be one of the formative texts of my life. I actually came across them in a very Gen-Y sort of way - when I was 7 or 8, my mum bought me the computer game of The Black Cauldron, based on the Disney film. It was the first computer game I ever played, and I seriously don't think one has ever been made to rival it. I didn't see the film until many years later, but I loved the game.
Around the same time, Mum was learning Chinese at Victoria College. She had an evening class, and instead of being babysat by some creepy neighbour, I usually opted to go with her, and hang out in the library. Luckily, it was the same part of the university that taught education, so there were plenty of children's books there.
I have such a strong memory of wanting something new to read, and thinking I'd pick something from the A section, and work my way through to Z. I went over to A, and low and behold, there was a book called The Black Cauldron! And not just one book, a whole five-part series! I borrowed them all and was immediately hooked.
As a tribute and a thank you to Mr Alexander, I'm bumping everything else off my to-read pile and re-reading the Chronicles. I will also re-watch the film this weekend, and perhaps see if there's some sneaky way that my iBook can run the game. I will blog with thoughts.
I consider the Chronicles of Prydain to be one of the formative texts of my life. I actually came across them in a very Gen-Y sort of way - when I was 7 or 8, my mum bought me the computer game of The Black Cauldron, based on the Disney film. It was the first computer game I ever played, and I seriously don't think one has ever been made to rival it. I didn't see the film until many years later, but I loved the game.
Around the same time, Mum was learning Chinese at Victoria College. She had an evening class, and instead of being babysat by some creepy neighbour, I usually opted to go with her, and hang out in the library. Luckily, it was the same part of the university that taught education, so there were plenty of children's books there.I have such a strong memory of wanting something new to read, and thinking I'd pick something from the A section, and work my way through to Z. I went over to A, and low and behold, there was a book called The Black Cauldron! And not just one book, a whole five-part series! I borrowed them all and was immediately hooked.
As a tribute and a thank you to Mr Alexander, I'm bumping everything else off my to-read pile and re-reading the Chronicles. I will also re-watch the film this weekend, and perhaps see if there's some sneaky way that my iBook can run the game. I will blog with thoughts.
16 May 2007
15 May 2007
Three good things for every (three) bad
This is my new tactic to not sound like too much of a whinger.
So first, I present three lovely things that I saw on the train this week, that made me love people.
1. An octogenarian reading a large print Harry Potter.
2. A man doing tai-chi alone, in the middle of a vacant lot, surrounded by early-morning mist.
3. An amazing piece of urban art, where lego-style men made from dozens of coloured milk crates scaled a large building between Victoria Park and Clifton Hill.
Now, three things that make me ashamed to be a human.
1. The Pentagon has decreed that all military in Iraq who blog must submit their posts to a superior officer for approval before posting. They've also banned YouTube, Myspace and a bunch of other sites. Their excuse is that their super-uber-mega-military computers are
being "slown down" by people watching stupid videos of cats playing the piano, and being exposed to viruses (I'm sorry, but if US military servers can be taken down with a virus you get from surfing MySpace, then Georgie, we have a fucking problem). Nothing at all to do with stopping stuff like this getting out. Oh, no.
2. This site. Just go there, and then hang your head in shame and take out the recycling.
3. That our government seems to think that the way to solve education problems in this country is to a) give more money to the schools who are already doing well, and b) give money to parents who have dumb kids.
Here's a conversation I expect will be happening in many an Aussie household if Our Illustrious Leader gets back into power:
Mum: Hi, kid. How'd you do in school this week?
Kid: Great, mum. I got an A.
Mum: You little shit. Couldn't you be a bit dumber? I could really use that $700.
Wow. That lowered the tone. Better have a cheezburger to cheer us all up.
Oh, alright. Just one more.
So first, I present three lovely things that I saw on the train this week, that made me love people.
1. An octogenarian reading a large print Harry Potter.
2. A man doing tai-chi alone, in the middle of a vacant lot, surrounded by early-morning mist.
3. An amazing piece of urban art, where lego-style men made from dozens of coloured milk crates scaled a large building between Victoria Park and Clifton Hill.
Now, three things that make me ashamed to be a human.
1. The Pentagon has decreed that all military in Iraq who blog must submit their posts to a superior officer for approval before posting. They've also banned YouTube, Myspace and a bunch of other sites. Their excuse is that their super-uber-mega-military computers are
being "slown down" by people watching stupid videos of cats playing the piano, and being exposed to viruses (I'm sorry, but if US military servers can be taken down with a virus you get from surfing MySpace, then Georgie, we have a fucking problem). Nothing at all to do with stopping stuff like this getting out. Oh, no.
2. This site. Just go there, and then hang your head in shame and take out the recycling.
3. That our government seems to think that the way to solve education problems in this country is to a) give more money to the schools who are already doing well, and b) give money to parents who have dumb kids.
Here's a conversation I expect will be happening in many an Aussie household if Our Illustrious Leader gets back into power:
Mum: Hi, kid. How'd you do in school this week?
Kid: Great, mum. I got an A.
Mum: You little shit. Couldn't you be a bit dumber? I could really use that $700.
Wow. That lowered the tone. Better have a cheezburger to cheer us all up.
Oh, alright. Just one more.
12 May 2007
09 May 2007
SEX
Apparently, my novel isn't actually about convicts and giant White Bears at all. According to my publishers, it's about SEX, and becoming sexually aware.
And all the bits where I tried to be subtle (like the man who has syphilis, but I never SAID it was syphilis) - they need to go. Just put it all out there.
HEY KIDS! THIS IS A BOOK ABOUT SEX!!*
AND DON'T HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX, CAUSE YOU'LL GET SYPHILIS AND YOUR NOSE WILL FALL OFF!!!
Seriously, though. It is unbelievable difficult to write sexual tension without it falling into a revolting pit of slimy, writhing, throbbing millsandboon cliches.
...her heart swelled...
...she felt a quickening...
...their eyes met...
...he touched her hand, she she felt a tingling...
Yech.
__________________________
(((*there is no actual sex in the book, though**. except for that bit with two very minor characters up against a wall.)))
((((**much like MY LIFE))))
And all the bits where I tried to be subtle (like the man who has syphilis, but I never SAID it was syphilis) - they need to go. Just put it all out there.
HEY KIDS! THIS IS A BOOK ABOUT SEX!!*
AND DON'T HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX, CAUSE YOU'LL GET SYPHILIS AND YOUR NOSE WILL FALL OFF!!!
Seriously, though. It is unbelievable difficult to write sexual tension without it falling into a revolting pit of slimy, writhing, throbbing millsandboon cliches.
...her heart swelled...
...she felt a quickening...
...their eyes met...
...he touched her hand, she she felt a tingling...
Yech.
__________________________
(((*there is no actual sex in the book, though**. except for that bit with two very minor characters up against a wall.)))
05 May 2007
A Week in the Life of a Lili
I have no memory of Monday.
On Tuesday, I walked into a lecture theatre filled with about 120 year 8 girls. They all stood up and chorused 'Good mo-orning, Miss Wilkinso-on'. I nearly turned around and walked out again.
On Wednesday, I saw Keating! (musical about Aussie ex-Prime Minister featuring songs set in the key of Awesome), and will never be able to think of Alexander Downer in the same way ever again.
On Thursday, I did a double-take as I went through airport security in Sydney, when I saw a billboard advertising Schapelle Corby's book. Airport security. Yeah.
On Friday, I submitted some photos for John Green's Brotherhood 2.0 Happy Birthday Hank video. Which is also Made of Awesome.
Today is Saturday. It is the Munkey's birthday party tonight, and he is making us do something Weird and Creative involving Singing. I have busted out the crochet needles again and made him this, as a birthday present:
At the moment his name is Birthday Monkey, but I'm open to suggestions for a better name.
Happy Birthday Munkey!! xx
On Tuesday, I walked into a lecture theatre filled with about 120 year 8 girls. They all stood up and chorused 'Good mo-orning, Miss Wilkinso-on'. I nearly turned around and walked out again.
On Wednesday, I saw Keating! (musical about Aussie ex-Prime Minister featuring songs set in the key of Awesome), and will never be able to think of Alexander Downer in the same way ever again.
On Thursday, I did a double-take as I went through airport security in Sydney, when I saw a billboard advertising Schapelle Corby's book. Airport security. Yeah.
On Friday, I submitted some photos for John Green's Brotherhood 2.0 Happy Birthday Hank video. Which is also Made of Awesome.
Today is Saturday. It is the Munkey's birthday party tonight, and he is making us do something Weird and Creative involving Singing. I have busted out the crochet needles again and made him this, as a birthday present:
At the moment his name is Birthday Monkey, but I'm open to suggestions for a better name.
Happy Birthday Munkey!! xx
28 April 2007
A Crafty Wench
I like craft. There's something very satisfying about making something.
Unfortunately, I'm not very good at it. I'm not very patient, and like every other aspect of my life, I'm not very neat.
So when I finally actuallyget my mum to help try really hard and finish something, I'm pretty darn proud. Like my patchwork quilt made from Japanese Kimono:
So the other night I was sitting around with my Ladies, and we were crocheting, and drinking wine, and watching Doctor Who. (and I wonder why I don't have a boyfriend...) I wasn't really crocheting anything in particular, just trying out some new stitches in rows. Then I started to do rounds, just for something different. And before I knew it, I'd made this:
Ladies and gentlemen, Mistake Bear.
Unfortunately, I'm not very good at it. I'm not very patient, and like every other aspect of my life, I'm not very neat.
So when I finally actually
So the other night I was sitting around with my Ladies, and we were crocheting, and drinking wine, and watching Doctor Who. (and I wonder why I don't have a boyfriend...) I wasn't really crocheting anything in particular, just trying out some new stitches in rows. Then I started to do rounds, just for something different. And before I knew it, I'd made this:
Ladies and gentlemen, Mistake Bear.
26 April 2007
22 April 2007
Saturday night with the parents
See if you can guess what movie we're watching... (hint: it was a kid's fantasy novel first)
Dad: Who's that guy?
Lili: Obi Wan Kenobe.
Mum: Jeremy Irons.
Lili: Aragorn.
Dad: Isn't the blonde one with the mullet Aragorn?
...
Mum: Wow. It really is like Star Wars, isn't it?
Lili: It's like Star Wars, starring Legolas.
Dad: But shit.
Lili: (nodding) But shit.
...
Mum: What's going on? Where is he now?
Lili: I don't know. Narnia?
...
Dad: Come on, the flying dragon is pretty cool.
Lili: Neverending storrryyyyyyyyy, aaaahahaaahahaaahahaaaaahahaa-
...
(the credits roll)
Lili: Well.
Dad: That was... terrible.
Mum: But short. It was short. An improvement on the book.
Lili: Is that Avril Lavigne singing the credits song?
(it is.)
Dad: Who's that guy?
Lili: Obi Wan Kenobe.
Mum: Jeremy Irons.
Lili: Aragorn.
Dad: Isn't the blonde one with the mullet Aragorn?
...
Mum: Wow. It really is like Star Wars, isn't it?
Lili: It's like Star Wars, starring Legolas.
Dad: But shit.
Lili: (nodding) But shit.
...
Mum: What's going on? Where is he now?
Lili: I don't know. Narnia?
...
Dad: Come on, the flying dragon is pretty cool.
Lili: Neverending storrryyyyyyyyy, aaaahahaaahahaaahahaaaaahahaa-
...
(the credits roll)
Lili: Well.
Dad: That was... terrible.
Mum: But short. It was short. An improvement on the book.
Lili: Is that Avril Lavigne singing the credits song?
(it is.)
21 April 2007
Popular
I just read this article in The Age, and as soon as I am wearing something other than pyjamas, I'm going out to find the book.
Was there a single YA author out there who was popular at school? Like, really, capital-P Popular? I can't really imagine it. I certainly wasn't.
I mean sure, I had friends. I wasn't ostracised. Not often, anyway. But I was bullied, a little. Teased, a little more (for having hairy legs in year 7, for being a messy eater in year 8, for not having a boyfriend, for being too smart). The subject of scornful looks and eye-rolling and secret whispers - teenage girls are awful.
I had insecurities - was I pretty? would I ever grow breasts? Was everyone noticing that mole on my cheek? Why didn't boys ever ask me out?
I had crushes on boys - but if or when I actually did talk to them, they were never as articulate or dashing as they were in my fervent, book-fuelled imagination. 14 year old boys are not really articulate, full stop. They also often smell bad. No wonder then, that I found myself falling for (and in a year-long relationship with) my best friend, a girl.
I didn't kiss a boy until Year 12, and then slowly things started to change. He was older than me, so I stopped only hanging out with other schoolgirls. I went to university, and suddenly reading a lot and being eclectic and not listening to Top 40 music was cool. It was like the definition of cool had suddenly been inverted.
I still wasn't Popular, though. But that was fine. I was beginning to realise the terrible, beautiful truth: Popular people are actually a bit Boring.
Of course at my Uni, to be Popular, you had to have a certain degree of what we will call Wankery. You had to do lots of Interpretive Dance (I staged a production of The Little Prince, instead). You had to make Experimental Films (I was more interested in narrative). You had to talk a lot about theorists and theories (actually, I did really like that bit).
Now - post-Uni, at the beginning of what I am a bit scared to call a Career - for perhaps the first time in my life, I am completely proud to be who I am, and I don't feel like I need to pretend to be anything I'm not. The people who love me do so because I'm me.
The lovely Kim Wilkins says this: "Everything that made me daggy and unpopular has turned out to be a blessing", and I couldn't agree more.
Back to being a teenager. Rjurik asked me the other day why I write. I answered that if I didn't I would go crazy. And because I want to make people THINK. Afterwards, I realised what I really meant to say was that I want to make people FEEL (and then think as a side-effect).
If he'd asked why I write YA, I might have said this: To make a connection with the Unpopular ones. To let them know that they're not alone, and that it gets better.
So much better.
Was there a single YA author out there who was popular at school? Like, really, capital-P Popular? I can't really imagine it. I certainly wasn't.
I mean sure, I had friends. I wasn't ostracised. Not often, anyway. But I was bullied, a little. Teased, a little more (for having hairy legs in year 7, for being a messy eater in year 8, for not having a boyfriend, for being too smart). The subject of scornful looks and eye-rolling and secret whispers - teenage girls are awful.
I had insecurities - was I pretty? would I ever grow breasts? Was everyone noticing that mole on my cheek? Why didn't boys ever ask me out?
I had crushes on boys - but if or when I actually did talk to them, they were never as articulate or dashing as they were in my fervent, book-fuelled imagination. 14 year old boys are not really articulate, full stop. They also often smell bad. No wonder then, that I found myself falling for (and in a year-long relationship with) my best friend, a girl.
I didn't kiss a boy until Year 12, and then slowly things started to change. He was older than me, so I stopped only hanging out with other schoolgirls. I went to university, and suddenly reading a lot and being eclectic and not listening to Top 40 music was cool. It was like the definition of cool had suddenly been inverted.
I still wasn't Popular, though. But that was fine. I was beginning to realise the terrible, beautiful truth: Popular people are actually a bit Boring.
Of course at my Uni, to be Popular, you had to have a certain degree of what we will call Wankery. You had to do lots of Interpretive Dance (I staged a production of The Little Prince, instead). You had to make Experimental Films (I was more interested in narrative). You had to talk a lot about theorists and theories (actually, I did really like that bit).
Now - post-Uni, at the beginning of what I am a bit scared to call a Career - for perhaps the first time in my life, I am completely proud to be who I am, and I don't feel like I need to pretend to be anything I'm not. The people who love me do so because I'm me.
The lovely Kim Wilkins says this: "Everything that made me daggy and unpopular has turned out to be a blessing", and I couldn't agree more.
Back to being a teenager. Rjurik asked me the other day why I write. I answered that if I didn't I would go crazy. And because I want to make people THINK. Afterwards, I realised what I really meant to say was that I want to make people FEEL (and then think as a side-effect).
If he'd asked why I write YA, I might have said this: To make a connection with the Unpopular ones. To let them know that they're not alone, and that it gets better.
So much better.
16 April 2007
Harold Pinter, eat your heart out.
INT WEDDING RECEPTION, NIGHT
LILI, CAROLE, GRANDMA, GRANDPA, AUNTY PEG and SOME RANDOM WOMAN sit eating profiteroles around a wedding reception table in Adelaide. The RANDOM WOMAN is singing along to Celine Dion. In the background, people are dancing.
In this scene, nobody is called by their correct name. Possible names to use are Lili (granddaughter), Carole (daughter), Raylee (other granddaughter), Rita (groom's first wife, or Carole and Lili's puppy), Kath (bride), Lingi (a dog that died before I was born).
Grandpa: (heavy working class British accent) It were on Ship Street.
Grandma: Here we go again.
Aunty Peg: No, it were on Luvane Road.
Grandpa: Ship Street. It were on Ship Street.
Aunty Peg: No, it were in that house with the chimney that smoked. It were Luvane Road.
Grandpa: Ship Street. I was workin' at the Academy.
Grandma: No, Jack. You were working at the mental hospital.
Lili: You worked at a MENTAL HOSPITAL?
Carole: I used to love it when you played in the mental hospital's cricket team, Dad.
Grandpa: I didn't work in the mental hospital til after the war. This was before the war, it were in Ship Street.
Aunty Peg: Luvane Road.
Lili: Can we please go back to the mental hospital?
Random Woman: "Cause I'm your lay-deeeeeeeeeeeh, and you are my maaaa-aaaa-aaa-aaan!"
Grandpa: We were so poor then, we lived in sackcloth and ashes.
Lili: Never mind, I'm getting a pretty good idea anyway.
Grandma: Get Li-Ri-Ka-Carole to look it up, Jack. She has The Google.
Carole: It's just 'Google', mum.
Aunty Peg: Maybe it wasn't at Luvane Road. Maybe it was at the Rose and Crown.
Grandpa: It were at Ship Street!
Random Woman: "with the power of Loooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooove..."
(the SONG finishes. the RANDOM WOMAN looks disappointed, but busies herself with a profiterole)
Aunty Peg: The ceremony was nice, wasn't it?
Carole: I remember when Brian was just a cherubic little boy.
Grandpa: When I were a lad... I used to ride my pushbike... all the way... ... ...
Aunty Peg: (to RANDOM WOMAN) Cherubic? What's that then?
Random Woman: (reassuringly) I think she meant cherubISH.
Grandpa: And there were pigs in the kitchen... And mud up to your ears... And chickens... ... ...
(another song starts)
Lili: No. Oh, no.
The RANDOM WOMAN abandons the profiterole, and makes for the dance floor.
Carole: Is that the macarena?
Lili: (bangs head on table) No. They are not going to dance to that.
Grandma: I thought it was the nutbush.
Lili: It's the chicken dance.
BLACKOUT.
LILI, CAROLE, GRANDMA, GRANDPA, AUNTY PEG and SOME RANDOM WOMAN sit eating profiteroles around a wedding reception table in Adelaide. The RANDOM WOMAN is singing along to Celine Dion. In the background, people are dancing.
In this scene, nobody is called by their correct name. Possible names to use are Lili (granddaughter), Carole (daughter), Raylee (other granddaughter), Rita (groom's first wife, or Carole and Lili's puppy), Kath (bride), Lingi (a dog that died before I was born).
Grandpa: (heavy working class British accent) It were on Ship Street.
Grandma: Here we go again.
Aunty Peg: No, it were on Luvane Road.
Grandpa: Ship Street. It were on Ship Street.
Aunty Peg: No, it were in that house with the chimney that smoked. It were Luvane Road.
Grandpa: Ship Street. I was workin' at the Academy.
Grandma: No, Jack. You were working at the mental hospital.
Lili: You worked at a MENTAL HOSPITAL?
Carole: I used to love it when you played in the mental hospital's cricket team, Dad.
Grandpa: I didn't work in the mental hospital til after the war. This was before the war, it were in Ship Street.
Aunty Peg: Luvane Road.
Lili: Can we please go back to the mental hospital?
Random Woman: "Cause I'm your lay-deeeeeeeeeeeh, and you are my maaaa-aaaa-aaa-aaan!"
Grandpa: We were so poor then, we lived in sackcloth and ashes.
Lili: Never mind, I'm getting a pretty good idea anyway.
Grandma: Get Li-Ri-Ka-Carole to look it up, Jack. She has The Google.
Carole: It's just 'Google', mum.
Aunty Peg: Maybe it wasn't at Luvane Road. Maybe it was at the Rose and Crown.
Grandpa: It were at Ship Street!
Random Woman: "with the power of Loooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooove..."
(the SONG finishes. the RANDOM WOMAN looks disappointed, but busies herself with a profiterole)
Aunty Peg: The ceremony was nice, wasn't it?
Carole: I remember when Brian was just a cherubic little boy.
Grandpa: When I were a lad... I used to ride my pushbike... all the way... ... ...
Aunty Peg: (to RANDOM WOMAN) Cherubic? What's that then?
Random Woman: (reassuringly) I think she meant cherubISH.
Grandpa: And there were pigs in the kitchen... And mud up to your ears... And chickens... ... ...
(another song starts)
Lili: No. Oh, no.
The RANDOM WOMAN abandons the profiterole, and makes for the dance floor.
Carole: Is that the macarena?
Lili: (bangs head on table) No. They are not going to dance to that.
Grandma: I thought it was the nutbush.
Lili: It's the chicken dance.
BLACKOUT.
Kurt Vonnegut's Eight Rules of Writing Fiction
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
(I found this at Jane Espenson's blog)
(she found it here: Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons 1999), p. 9-10)
(bye, Kurt.)
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
(I found this at Jane Espenson's blog)
(she found it here: Bagombo Snuff Box: Uncollected Short Fiction (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons 1999), p. 9-10)
(bye, Kurt.)
08 April 2007
Red socks, silver keys and exquisite corpses: A Birthday Story
#1 Jellyfish Books: Matilda by Roald Dahl, Let the People Sing by JB Priestley
Alabama Redsock hated playing the tuba.
It was the most unattractive instrument in the world. When she was playing it, it looked like she was wearing a large, golden dog poo wrapped around her body.
The Walla Walla Middle School Concert Band was hardly the coolest musical ensemble to be a part of, but it would have been more bearable if she'd had a better instrument - a clarinet, maybe, or even a cello. But she'd wandered in to music class late one day as usual, and found Miss Jbunic, her insane Polish teacher, shoving the massive tuba in her direction. 'Remember to practice!' the crazy woman chanted at her, before handing over a 'Learn to Play Tuba in any Key' book that dated from about 1970 and featured a lot of photos of a fat German man called Alphonse in lederhosen.
Great, thought Alabama. I am doomed to years of music practice, trying to draw inspiration from some tubby old Nazi in braces and knee-high socks.
Which was pretty much how it had turned out.
To make matters worse, you couldn't just throw a tuba in your school bag like a flute - you had to drag it along behind you on a trolley.
This must be what it's like having a disability, thought Alabama as she miserably heaved the instrument into the school bus each day.
And so Alabama made a promise to herself: I will find a way to get out of playing the tuba before my fifteenth birthday, if it kills me.
#2: Canoe Books: The Story Girl and Anne of Avonlea, both by LM Montgomery
And so Alabama made a promise to herself: I will find a way to get out of playing the tuba before my fifteenth birthday, if it kills me.
She then sat herself down in the old faded armchair and took up the sheet music she was supposed to learn. Outside it was raining and the colour of the sky was a dark forbidding grey. She took out a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut the sheet music to pieces. She used the notes and letters of the title, pasted them onto black pieces of material and then arranged them on a piece of paper that read:
TONIGHT, THE TUBA PLAYER WILL DIE
The white 'T' on the black background looked particularly threatening.
She placed the note in a box, locked it with a padlock and sent it and the key to the music teacher. The music teacher unlocked the padlock and the lid sprang open.
#3 Snaz Books: The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett and The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer
The music teacher unlocked the padlock and the lid sprang open.
Just as quickly, tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks like a cup too full.
Inside, she had found an infant's sock, red as a pomegranate and as small as the foot of the child she had lost not yet five years hence.
Taking the delicate object in hand, she closed her eyes and remembered.
After one extended, exquisite moment, she opened them again and let the monotony of the past five years flood back in; numb, even and familiar. Her curse.
But then - oh! - she spied one more object, nestled unassumingly in a corner; a tiny silver key. How cruel! How infuriating!
To remind her of a wound long since healed, and scarred over, and then confront her with this...
The key had been her undoing, and it filled her with rage.
#4 The Short Man Books: Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, by Peter Biskind and Away With All Pests, by Joshua S Horn
The key had been her undoing, and it filled her with rage. Intensely, he took the key back downstairs to rejoin the party. After reloading his camera with the film he approached her to confront her about their situation.
After the many months and years working independently on film sets in far-flung parts of the earth, it was obvious that all their indescretions would come to the surface.
The key had been to their best friend's apartment, which they had stayed in numerous times. For him to find the key at that time, in that place, had made it obvious what was going on.
He hadn't even been to the continent for eight months. She had been 'away on business' for a month previous to the party.
With no real destination, flitting from office to office, he never really knew where she was, even though they spoke daily. This situation would be the making of his next major solo photo exhibition. So this had been more than a little fling.
#5 The Munkey Books: The Silmarillion, by JRR Tolkien, and The Pirate, by Some Hack I Forgot to Write Down.
So this had been more than a little fling.
'Damn them both to Hell!' cried the Count, pounding his fist upon the sideboard. For a moment, he was overcome by jealousy and grief at Marion's infidelity.
But quickly this gave way to anger - a white hot malice directed squarely at his competitor.
'How dare that shabby stable-boy have his way with my bride-to-be?' he fumed aloud.
He reflected on the first time he'd met Jonathan - when he had first hired him as a stable-boy at the manor. The Count remembered the cheapness of his clothing, the unrefined awkwardness of his speech.
'It cannot be!' he cried. He ran past the marble statues of the Manor House, rushing into his study.
He dug his finest dagger from the drawer of his desk, and tucked it inside his boot. As he stormed from the house, his blood boiled in his veins. Images crept through his mind, images that made his fury grow hotter and more hateful by the second. The lips of this common country lad had touched his beloved! It was intolerable.
At last he reached the stable-house. He scrabbled in his vest pocket for the key and opened the door. In his rage, without pausing to think, he thrust himself towards the cot where he knew Jonathan slept, drew the dagger from his shoe and plunged it into the sleeping body.
But the shriek from the bed was not that of a man, but a boy.
Drawing the covers back, the Count was appalled to find not the stable boy, but his brother David - just twelve years old. The hilt of the knife protruded from David's head, the blade buried deep in his eyeball. The Count reeled in shock - instead of his rival, he had mistakenly murdered a harmless child.
#6 The Mistress Books: Hollywood, by Charles Bukowski, The Dark Angel, by Mika Waltari
The Count reeled in shock - instead of his rival, he had mistakenly murdered a harmless child.
That night, upon concealing his crime and fleeing on horseback (at such a speed that branches and thorns scratched at his face, his horse's mouth foamed and the cold wind numbed his face), he returned to find a great banquet underway in the main hall.
Beseeched to attend, he sat in morose silence. Consumed by thought of his ill deed and tirtied soul; while those around him caroused and cavorted like garish drunk meat puppets - expelling filthy air from their insides, masticating the meat of slaughtered beasts in their vile, cavernous mouths.
A ruddied blonde, with meaty folds of weathered skin spilling out every which way from the cheap fabric of her ill-fitting dress, tore a mouthful of bloodied beef from her fork and proceeded to lick the oozing red juice from her chin.
He could feel the acid rise in his throat as he fought to calm his heaving stomach. The world was folding in with overwhelming sounds and smells. His head spun. But then, he saw her.
She wore crimson velvet with a matching feather in her glossy dark hair.
Esmerelda, with her long neck and bright eyes.
He thought of velvet ropes twined tightly around her creamy thighs - the golden lock cinching them togheter. Metal and velvet, both biting into her milky skin.
#7 Byron Books: The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton, Biggles Sees It Through
Metal and velvet, both biting into her milky skin.
The pressure on her wrists was almost unbearable. With every movement, the cold steel cut deeper into her flesh.
As she glanced in the mirror opposite, she noticed the colour of her wrists matched the deep crimson of the scarf binding her mouth. She bit down hard, and her tongue stuck momentarily to the warm, wet fabric, stifling her speech.
Her eyes traced their way up. She was mostly intact. Broken in places nobody would see, but outwardly still the same woman who had walked so willingly into this mess. Her hair, slightly out of place, hung limp, framing her angular face like the deep red welts eather side of her.
His foot was the only thing she could see on the other side of the room. The ankle with the strange 'Q' design imprinted deep beneath those first few layers of skin.
Once white, now a greying yellow, it was the only thing she had left of him, both in her mind, and in the cold, damp room with so little light.
So little fucking light! How Where was the key? How on earth was she supposed to locate the tiny silver object on the damp concrete floor?
She couldn't move. She tried to scream, but realised it was perhaps the one thing that would do her no good.
#8 Lili
Books: Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, and The Forgotten Story by Winston Graham
She tried to scream, but realised it was perhaps the one thing that would do her no good.
She was stuck there. Stuck in this trailer park that for the little boy was a house... a home.
She stared at him.
He held up a hand, and she bit her lup.
His fingers were webbed, with a fine greenish film.
He sat in the mud, a webbed, finned child in a trailer park, oblivious to the world around him. In his green webbed fingers he held the key. She felt the knots unravelling before her.
'Really?' she asked him. 'Is this really finally the end of it all?'
The little boy smiled, and held out the key.
She could hear the distant strains of a reality tv show wafting down from the pimped-up caravan. The child scratched his nose, leaving a streak of mud wiped diagonally across his face.
The woman reached out and took the key, sighing.
It
all
finally
made
sense.
Alabama Redsock hated playing the tuba.It was the most unattractive instrument in the world. When she was playing it, it looked like she was wearing a large, golden dog poo wrapped around her body.
The Walla Walla Middle School Concert Band was hardly the coolest musical ensemble to be a part of, but it would have been more bearable if she'd had a better instrument - a clarinet, maybe, or even a cello. But she'd wandered in to music class late one day as usual, and found Miss Jbunic, her insane Polish teacher, shoving the massive tuba in her direction. 'Remember to practice!' the crazy woman chanted at her, before handing over a 'Learn to Play Tuba in any Key' book that dated from about 1970 and featured a lot of photos of a fat German man called Alphonse in lederhosen.
Great, thought Alabama. I am doomed to years of music practice, trying to draw inspiration from some tubby old Nazi in braces and knee-high socks.
Which was pretty much how it had turned out.
To make matters worse, you couldn't just throw a tuba in your school bag like a flute - you had to drag it along behind you on a trolley.
This must be what it's like having a disability, thought Alabama as she miserably heaved the instrument into the school bus each day.
And so Alabama made a promise to herself: I will find a way to get out of playing the tuba before my fifteenth birthday, if it kills me.
#2: Canoe Books: The Story Girl and Anne of Avonlea, both by LM Montgomery
And so Alabama made a promise to herself: I will find a way to get out of playing the tuba before my fifteenth birthday, if it kills me.She then sat herself down in the old faded armchair and took up the sheet music she was supposed to learn. Outside it was raining and the colour of the sky was a dark forbidding grey. She took out a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut the sheet music to pieces. She used the notes and letters of the title, pasted them onto black pieces of material and then arranged them on a piece of paper that read:
TONIGHT, THE TUBA PLAYER WILL DIE
The white 'T' on the black background looked particularly threatening.
She placed the note in a box, locked it with a padlock and sent it and the key to the music teacher. The music teacher unlocked the padlock and the lid sprang open.
#3 Snaz Books: The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett and The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer
The music teacher unlocked the padlock and the lid sprang open.Just as quickly, tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks like a cup too full.
Inside, she had found an infant's sock, red as a pomegranate and as small as the foot of the child she had lost not yet five years hence.
Taking the delicate object in hand, she closed her eyes and remembered.
After one extended, exquisite moment, she opened them again and let the monotony of the past five years flood back in; numb, even and familiar. Her curse.
But then - oh! - she spied one more object, nestled unassumingly in a corner; a tiny silver key. How cruel! How infuriating!
To remind her of a wound long since healed, and scarred over, and then confront her with this...
The key had been her undoing, and it filled her with rage.
#4 The Short Man Books: Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, by Peter Biskind and Away With All Pests, by Joshua S Horn
The key had been her undoing, and it filled her with rage. Intensely, he took the key back downstairs to rejoin the party. After reloading his camera with the film he approached her to confront her about their situation.After the many months and years working independently on film sets in far-flung parts of the earth, it was obvious that all their indescretions would come to the surface.
The key had been to their best friend's apartment, which they had stayed in numerous times. For him to find the key at that time, in that place, had made it obvious what was going on.
He hadn't even been to the continent for eight months. She had been 'away on business' for a month previous to the party.
With no real destination, flitting from office to office, he never really knew where she was, even though they spoke daily. This situation would be the making of his next major solo photo exhibition. So this had been more than a little fling.
#5 The Munkey Books: The Silmarillion, by JRR Tolkien, and The Pirate, by Some Hack I Forgot to Write Down.
So this had been more than a little fling.'Damn them both to Hell!' cried the Count, pounding his fist upon the sideboard. For a moment, he was overcome by jealousy and grief at Marion's infidelity.
But quickly this gave way to anger - a white hot malice directed squarely at his competitor.
'How dare that shabby stable-boy have his way with my bride-to-be?' he fumed aloud.
He reflected on the first time he'd met Jonathan - when he had first hired him as a stable-boy at the manor. The Count remembered the cheapness of his clothing, the unrefined awkwardness of his speech.
'It cannot be!' he cried. He ran past the marble statues of the Manor House, rushing into his study.
He dug his finest dagger from the drawer of his desk, and tucked it inside his boot. As he stormed from the house, his blood boiled in his veins. Images crept through his mind, images that made his fury grow hotter and more hateful by the second. The lips of this common country lad had touched his beloved! It was intolerable.
At last he reached the stable-house. He scrabbled in his vest pocket for the key and opened the door. In his rage, without pausing to think, he thrust himself towards the cot where he knew Jonathan slept, drew the dagger from his shoe and plunged it into the sleeping body.
But the shriek from the bed was not that of a man, but a boy.
Drawing the covers back, the Count was appalled to find not the stable boy, but his brother David - just twelve years old. The hilt of the knife protruded from David's head, the blade buried deep in his eyeball. The Count reeled in shock - instead of his rival, he had mistakenly murdered a harmless child.
#6 The Mistress Books: Hollywood, by Charles Bukowski, The Dark Angel, by Mika Waltari
The Count reeled in shock - instead of his rival, he had mistakenly murdered a harmless child.That night, upon concealing his crime and fleeing on horseback (at such a speed that branches and thorns scratched at his face, his horse's mouth foamed and the cold wind numbed his face), he returned to find a great banquet underway in the main hall.
Beseeched to attend, he sat in morose silence. Consumed by thought of his ill deed and tirtied soul; while those around him caroused and cavorted like garish drunk meat puppets - expelling filthy air from their insides, masticating the meat of slaughtered beasts in their vile, cavernous mouths.
A ruddied blonde, with meaty folds of weathered skin spilling out every which way from the cheap fabric of her ill-fitting dress, tore a mouthful of bloodied beef from her fork and proceeded to lick the oozing red juice from her chin.
He could feel the acid rise in his throat as he fought to calm his heaving stomach. The world was folding in with overwhelming sounds and smells. His head spun. But then, he saw her.
She wore crimson velvet with a matching feather in her glossy dark hair.
Esmerelda, with her long neck and bright eyes.
He thought of velvet ropes twined tightly around her creamy thighs - the golden lock cinching them togheter. Metal and velvet, both biting into her milky skin.
#7 Byron Books: The Enchanted Wood by Enid Blyton, Biggles Sees It Through
Metal and velvet, both biting into her milky skin.The pressure on her wrists was almost unbearable. With every movement, the cold steel cut deeper into her flesh.
As she glanced in the mirror opposite, she noticed the colour of her wrists matched the deep crimson of the scarf binding her mouth. She bit down hard, and her tongue stuck momentarily to the warm, wet fabric, stifling her speech.
Her eyes traced their way up. She was mostly intact. Broken in places nobody would see, but outwardly still the same woman who had walked so willingly into this mess. Her hair, slightly out of place, hung limp, framing her angular face like the deep red welts eather side of her.
His foot was the only thing she could see on the other side of the room. The ankle with the strange 'Q' design imprinted deep beneath those first few layers of skin.
Once white, now a greying yellow, it was the only thing she had left of him, both in her mind, and in the cold, damp room with so little light.
So little fucking light! How Where was the key? How on earth was she supposed to locate the tiny silver object on the damp concrete floor?
She couldn't move. She tried to scream, but realised it was perhaps the one thing that would do her no good.
#8 Lili
Books: Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, and The Forgotten Story by Winston Graham
She tried to scream, but realised it was perhaps the one thing that would do her no good.She was stuck there. Stuck in this trailer park that for the little boy was a house... a home.
She stared at him.
He held up a hand, and she bit her lup.
His fingers were webbed, with a fine greenish film.
He sat in the mud, a webbed, finned child in a trailer park, oblivious to the world around him. In his green webbed fingers he held the key. She felt the knots unravelling before her.
'Really?' she asked him. 'Is this really finally the end of it all?'
The little boy smiled, and held out the key.
She could hear the distant strains of a reality tv show wafting down from the pimped-up caravan. The child scratched his nose, leaving a streak of mud wiped diagonally across his face.
The woman reached out and took the key, sighing.
It
all
finally
made
sense.
Preamble
I turned 26 yesterday.
To celebrate, my very bestest friends came over for lunch. I cooked roast lamb, we opened many bottles, and fun was had by all. They made me a cake with a bear on it (wub!). Then came the Activity.
Everyone brought along a book to read from. On arrival they were presented with a second book, tightly tied up with string. One by one, each person had to go upstairs to my Writing Room, with their two books. Inside the second book, was a hollowed out cavity containing two items (ie. a key, a baby's sock, an eyeball, a roll of film). On page 69 of the book was a highlighted word. Each person had to write a page of narrative which included: the two items, the highlighted word, and the corresponding word in their own book. They also had to use the previous person's last line as their first, but without reading the rest of it.
Later today (or, depending on how many hot cross buns I eat, tomorrow), I'm going to blog the exquisite corps of a story, along with what books people brought, and idealised self portraits
of each writer, executed with craft materials on a coloured egg.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my lovely, lovely friends. Not everyone can say 'hey! I'm going to have a party that involves secret creative writing activities', and have their friends leap into it with such gusto. I heart you all.
To celebrate, my very bestest friends came over for lunch. I cooked roast lamb, we opened many bottles, and fun was had by all. They made me a cake with a bear on it (wub!). Then came the Activity.
Everyone brought along a book to read from. On arrival they were presented with a second book, tightly tied up with string. One by one, each person had to go upstairs to my Writing Room, with their two books. Inside the second book, was a hollowed out cavity containing two items (ie. a key, a baby's sock, an eyeball, a roll of film). On page 69 of the book was a highlighted word. Each person had to write a page of narrative which included: the two items, the highlighted word, and the corresponding word in their own book. They also had to use the previous person's last line as their first, but without reading the rest of it.
Later today (or, depending on how many hot cross buns I eat, tomorrow), I'm going to blog the exquisite corps of a story, along with what books people brought, and idealised self portraits
of each writer, executed with craft materials on a coloured egg.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my lovely, lovely friends. Not everyone can say 'hey! I'm going to have a party that involves secret creative writing activities', and have their friends leap into it with such gusto. I heart you all.
04 April 2007
02 April 2007
Markus Zusak in the Residence
At the risk of cross-posting, I need to mention that Markus Zusak, author of The Book Thief and many other wonderful things, is the current writer in residence on insideadog.
He's being particularly wonderful and interesting, by regularly posting sections of a work-in-progress, with comments on the writing process. It's a must-see for all writers and readers. And everyone else.
He's being particularly wonderful and interesting, by regularly posting sections of a work-in-progress, with comments on the writing process. It's a must-see for all writers and readers. And everyone else.
30 March 2007
More than a game
So last year I read this book which made me determined to learn to like football*.
I had, I realised, been going about it completely the wrong way. I saw it like this:
Football = Louts + violence + beer + pies = boring.
I should have been looking at it like this:
Football = fascinating socio-historical practice + hot men in little shorts touching each other + beer + pies = not-boring.
Why fascinating? I'm glad you asked.
In 1830-something, a kid called Tom Wills was playing a kicking-balls-around game with some local Aboriginal kids, near Ararat in regional Victoria. Part of this game involved seeing who could jump the highest to catch the ball.
When he was 14, Tom was sent to Rugby in England. His ex-convict father didn't want him to grow up with the 'stain'. When Tom came back, age 21, he became one of Victoria's top cricketers.
The problem with cricket though, is it's a summer game. And all the cricketers were getting fat over winter. In 1858, Tom wrote a letter to a local sports rag asking if anyone would be interested in playing a game of football. That game was played in Richmond, and the following week, Tom umpired the first Australian rules match between Scotch College and Melbourne Grammar, on the land that is now the MCG.
Tom became one of Australia's top footballers, until he had to move to Queensland to help his dad look after their enormous property.
One day, after droving cattle around the place, Tom returned to the homestead to discover his family and all the other workers slaughtered by local Aboriginals (thought to be revenge for something nasty that happened).
Tom returned to Melbourne and married. But he couldn't reconcile his fond memories of playing with Aboriginal kids as a child, and the brutal violence that he had witnessed to his family. He became an alcoholic. One morning, when he was only 44, his wife came in with his breakfast. He asked her to pass him the scissors, and as she did so, she knew exactly what would happen. Tom Wills stabbed himself in the heart with the scissors, and died.
That's why I think football is interesting. Also, that it is such a democratic game. Audiences have always been 50/50 men/women, from day one. It's also attracted people from all socio-economic backgrounds. Ooh, and (slightly ironically) it's done amazing things for relations between the Aboriginal community and the rest of us land-stealers. Michael Long, anyone?
The point of this rather long story is this: I went to the footy last night**.
It was not a great game. St Kilda beat Melbourne by an embarrassing number of points, and frankly neither side were particularly impressive. However, the meat pies were still hot, the men were still wearing little shorts and touching each other, and the night air was crisp.
I will return. I may even buy a scarf.
___________________________________
*That's Aussie Rules football, or AFL, in case any non-Victorians are wondering.
**When I mentioned this to my manager yesterday afternoon, he did the kind of double-take I haven't seen since the D-Generation. 'You?' he said. 'Going to the football?' Then he laughed.
I had, I realised, been going about it completely the wrong way. I saw it like this:
Football = Louts + violence + beer + pies = boring.
I should have been looking at it like this:
Football = fascinating socio-historical practice + hot men in little shorts touching each other + beer + pies = not-boring.
Why fascinating? I'm glad you asked.
In 1830-something, a kid called Tom Wills was playing a kicking-balls-around game with some local Aboriginal kids, near Ararat in regional Victoria. Part of this game involved seeing who could jump the highest to catch the ball.
When he was 14, Tom was sent to Rugby in England. His ex-convict father didn't want him to grow up with the 'stain'. When Tom came back, age 21, he became one of Victoria's top cricketers.
The problem with cricket though, is it's a summer game. And all the cricketers were getting fat over winter. In 1858, Tom wrote a letter to a local sports rag asking if anyone would be interested in playing a game of football. That game was played in Richmond, and the following week, Tom umpired the first Australian rules match between Scotch College and Melbourne Grammar, on the land that is now the MCG.
Tom became one of Australia's top footballers, until he had to move to Queensland to help his dad look after their enormous property.One day, after droving cattle around the place, Tom returned to the homestead to discover his family and all the other workers slaughtered by local Aboriginals (thought to be revenge for something nasty that happened).
Tom returned to Melbourne and married. But he couldn't reconcile his fond memories of playing with Aboriginal kids as a child, and the brutal violence that he had witnessed to his family. He became an alcoholic. One morning, when he was only 44, his wife came in with his breakfast. He asked her to pass him the scissors, and as she did so, she knew exactly what would happen. Tom Wills stabbed himself in the heart with the scissors, and died.
That's why I think football is interesting. Also, that it is such a democratic game. Audiences have always been 50/50 men/women, from day one. It's also attracted people from all socio-economic backgrounds. Ooh, and (slightly ironically) it's done amazing things for relations between the Aboriginal community and the rest of us land-stealers. Michael Long, anyone?
The point of this rather long story is this: I went to the footy last night**.
It was not a great game. St Kilda beat Melbourne by an embarrassing number of points, and frankly neither side were particularly impressive. However, the meat pies were still hot, the men were still wearing little shorts and touching each other, and the night air was crisp.
I will return. I may even buy a scarf.
___________________________________
*That's Aussie Rules football, or AFL, in case any non-Victorians are wondering.
**When I mentioned this to my manager yesterday afternoon, he did the kind of double-take I haven't seen since the D-Generation. 'You?' he said. 'Going to the football?' Then he laughed.
Lili vs Shop Assistant
(the following takes place in a bustling clothes shop in Melbourne Central)
Lili: (hands over item of clothing and credit card)
Shop Assistant: How's your day been?
Lili: Fine, thanks.
SA: Got any plans for this afternoon?
Lili: Going back to work.
SA: You work around here?
Lili: At the State Library.
SA: The what?
Lili: The Library. The big one over the road.
SA: ???
Lili: It's that really big old building that takes up a whole city block. Pillars. Lawn. Statues.
SA: Sorry...?
Lili: You really can't miss it. It's been there for 155 years. Just up those stairs? You can pretty much SEE it from here.
SA: No... Sorry.
Lili: Give me back my credit card.
Lili: (hands over item of clothing and credit card)
Shop Assistant: How's your day been?
Lili: Fine, thanks.
SA: Got any plans for this afternoon?
Lili: Going back to work.
SA: You work around here?
Lili: At the State Library.
SA: The what?
Lili: The Library. The big one over the road.
SA: ???
Lili: It's that really big old building that takes up a whole city block. Pillars. Lawn. Statues.
SA: Sorry...?
Lili: You really can't miss it. It's been there for 155 years. Just up those stairs? You can pretty much SEE it from here.
SA: No... Sorry.
Lili: Give me back my credit card.
25 March 2007
Bongo Schmongo
I'm trying to figure out if there is anything more irritating than bongo drums.
Specifically, bongo drums played by some kind of dirty, rhythmless hippy at a party. A hippy who is under the awesomely misguided impression that s/he (although it's usually a he) is providing some kind of jovial, convivial atmosphere.
IT ISN'T, HIPPY.
NOT AT ALL.
IT IS, IN FACT, INCREDIBLY ANNOYING.
THE RANDOM BANGING OF ANIMAL SKINS IS NOT MUSIC. IT IS A VERY LONG WAY AWAY FROM BEING MUSIC.
PLEASE TAKE YOUR INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE, AND YOUR WHITE-BOY DREADLOCKS AND GO AND HAVE A BATH.
(but remember to save the water for your garden)
Seriously, is there anything more irritating?
Specifically, bongo drums played by some kind of dirty, rhythmless hippy at a party. A hippy who is under the awesomely misguided impression that s/he (although it's usually a he) is providing some kind of jovial, convivial atmosphere.
IT ISN'T, HIPPY.
NOT AT ALL.
IT IS, IN FACT, INCREDIBLY ANNOYING.
THE RANDOM BANGING OF ANIMAL SKINS IS NOT MUSIC. IT IS A VERY LONG WAY AWAY FROM BEING MUSIC.
PLEASE TAKE YOUR INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE, AND YOUR WHITE-BOY DREADLOCKS AND GO AND HAVE A BATH.
(but remember to save the water for your garden)
Seriously, is there anything more irritating?
24 March 2007
Verbing Jane: a rant.
(if you can have spoilers for a biopic, then there are probably some below)
So last night I went to see the new film about Jane Austen. It's either called Being Jane or Becoming Jane or possibly Boring Jane, I can't remember which (let's just call it VERBing Jane).
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jane Austen was a genius. One of the many things that made her a genius, was her ability to weave every single aspect of a story together so closely, that every thread affects every other one (this is why Austen films often fall a little short of the mark - because it's harder to cut stuff out to get it down to 2 hours). VERBing Jane was more a loose tangle of threads. What purpose did the deaf brother play? (yeah, I know she HAD a deaf brother, but she also had three other brothers that weren't in the movie.)
(whoever wrote this film was not a genius. not by a long shot.)
Did I fall asleep and not notice, but what made Lefroy turn from being a boxing, drinking, whoring lout into a Sensitive New Age Guy? I was truly shocked when Mr Insulting and Falling Asleep When Jane Reads Her Work suddenly pushed poor Jane into a bush and declared "I am yours". (and don't tell me it was 'love', because i didn't see him fall in love with her. Sometimes, baby, love just ain't enough.)
And was it just me, or did the film seem to be saying she only wrote P&P? Where were the rest of 'em? I know P&P is the most famous, but all the little nudge-nudge-wink-wink references to it in the film were really grating. Particularly since I couldn't see any similarities between Lefroy and Darcy (apart from the fact that Jane didn't like him very much at first). If he's like any Austen character, it would be Mr Crawford from Mansfield Park. Or even Mr Wickham (the flirting and then the sudden engagement to someone else and then leaving that person to elope?). He showed none of the nobility and responsibility that Darcy had.
Jane Austen had a boring life. She had one marriage proposal which she accepted then refused the next day (I wonder why they changed his name from to Bigg-Wither to Wisley?). She also had a brief 'mutual flirtation' with a young man called Lefroy, which didn't go anywhere.
The thing that makes Jane Austen astonishing and wonderful is her writing. To make a film about her rather uneventful life just feels like a mockery. To frame her life as somehow tragic because she didn't get her man is even more so.
If you want Austen, read Austen. Or watch any of the wonderful screen adaptations.
So last night I went to see the new film about Jane Austen. It's either called Being Jane or Becoming Jane or possibly Boring Jane, I can't remember which (let's just call it VERBing Jane).
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jane Austen was a genius. One of the many things that made her a genius, was her ability to weave every single aspect of a story together so closely, that every thread affects every other one (this is why Austen films often fall a little short of the mark - because it's harder to cut stuff out to get it down to 2 hours). VERBing Jane was more a loose tangle of threads. What purpose did the deaf brother play? (yeah, I know she HAD a deaf brother, but she also had three other brothers that weren't in the movie.)
(whoever wrote this film was not a genius. not by a long shot.)
Did I fall asleep and not notice, but what made Lefroy turn from being a boxing, drinking, whoring lout into a Sensitive New Age Guy? I was truly shocked when Mr Insulting and Falling Asleep When Jane Reads Her Work suddenly pushed poor Jane into a bush and declared "I am yours". (and don't tell me it was 'love', because i didn't see him fall in love with her. Sometimes, baby, love just ain't enough.)
And was it just me, or did the film seem to be saying she only wrote P&P? Where were the rest of 'em? I know P&P is the most famous, but all the little nudge-nudge-wink-wink references to it in the film were really grating. Particularly since I couldn't see any similarities between Lefroy and Darcy (apart from the fact that Jane didn't like him very much at first). If he's like any Austen character, it would be Mr Crawford from Mansfield Park. Or even Mr Wickham (the flirting and then the sudden engagement to someone else and then leaving that person to elope?). He showed none of the nobility and responsibility that Darcy had.
Jane Austen had a boring life. She had one marriage proposal which she accepted then refused the next day (I wonder why they changed his name from to Bigg-Wither to Wisley?). She also had a brief 'mutual flirtation' with a young man called Lefroy, which didn't go anywhere.
The thing that makes Jane Austen astonishing and wonderful is her writing. To make a film about her rather uneventful life just feels like a mockery. To frame her life as somehow tragic because she didn't get her man is even more so.
If you want Austen, read Austen. Or watch any of the wonderful screen adaptations.
20 March 2007
123
E Lockhart (author of some fabulous books that I have to make people send me because they aren't yet available here), mentions the 123 book meme, where writers post the first paragraph (or so) from page 123 of their works-in-progress.
Here is mine:
...
She was just drifting off to sleep, when the bunk next to her creaked. It was Long Meg.
Her hair had all been cut off, and her head shaved. Two great red welts streaked diagonally across each of her cheeks, oozing blood. One of Meg’s eyes was blackened and swollen shut, and her lip was split.
‘Meg!’ said Hannah. ‘What did he do to you?’
Long Meg said nothing, just lay down on her bed and turned away from Hannah.
Here is mine:
...
She was just drifting off to sleep, when the bunk next to her creaked. It was Long Meg.
Her hair had all been cut off, and her head shaved. Two great red welts streaked diagonally across each of her cheeks, oozing blood. One of Meg’s eyes was blackened and swollen shut, and her lip was split.
‘Meg!’ said Hannah. ‘What did he do to you?’
Long Meg said nothing, just lay down on her bed and turned away from Hannah.
16 March 2007
Spotted on a placard outside a church
Would you worship Jesus if he scored 10 000 test runs?
Okay. I am a heathen. I need a little help with this one.
Is it a trick question?
Okay. I am a heathen. I need a little help with this one.
Is it a trick question?
08 March 2007
Thanks to Google Analytics, I’ve decided to give you people what you want.*
So there I was, sitting at a very long table, talking to lots of Strange Men.
The first guy I dated was called Magnus. He’d brought along a copy of Where’s Wally, and was looking at me very strangely and… sniffing. I felt a bit like I was being stalked by a Black Rider from Lord of the Rings (albeit a Black Rider wearing a stripy red and white vest and a little red hat).
‘Is everything alright?’ I asked.
He sniffed again. ‘Are you wearing Olene, the perfume by Diptych?’ he asked.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Yeah, I am.’
‘That’s Nicole Kidman’s perfume,’ he said with a nod.
‘O-kay.’ This guy was either a) a stalker, b) a superhero/genetic mutant with advanced olfactory powers or c) gay. But a gay man would have brought a better book.
Boy number 2 was Horatio. He had a copy of Robin Klein’s People Might Hear You, and looked as if he were in Year 9.
‘That’s a great book,’ I said.
He squirmed a little. ‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice breaking a little. ‘I really like that bit with the wedge tail eagles fighting each other.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I said. Surely if you hadn’t read the book, you’d make up a more convincing lie? Like I really liked the thing she said to him when they were at that place doing that thing.
I looked down at my fingernails and wondered if I’d been sucked into some sort of time vortex where three minutes lasted for a whole year. Horatio squeezed a pimple, and grinned at me.
‘Wanna pash?’ he said, wiping the white gunk on the tablecloth.
‘No.’
Man number 3 looked strangely familiar.
‘Have we met before?’ I asked.
He shook his head and smiled enigmatically. His book was Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, and he had a theory that the chapter headings were actually a secret code that spelled out the location of the Holy Grail. His voice sounded like gravel in a blender. There was something strangely appealing about his craggy, brownish-red face and his excess of black hair and his prominent brows. I still had a nagging feeling I’d seen him somewhere before.
He’d just told me that his favourite movie was Sesame Street’s Chariots of Fur, when suddenly there was a deafening high pitched squeal.
‘U-G-L-Y, You aint got no alibi…’
About fifty of the well-known crazed Melbourne Zombie Cheerleaders burst into Experimedia and started attacking the daters.
I got to my feet, knocking over my chair. Could we still count the 80 people there in our KPIs if they were brutally slaughtered at our event?
My date also stood up, and pulled an electric guitar and microphone out of his terribly well designed Mary-Poppins-style carpet bag.
Of course! I realised. It was Mr Lordi, the lead singer of Eurovision-winning Orc Band Lordi!
Then he began to sing the lyrics to Hard Rock Hallelujiah.
The cheerleaders couldn’t handle it. They fell to the ground, clutching their ears and writhing in pain. The other daters rushed over to the zombie cheerleaders and started beating them up with their books, wrapping the decorative fairy lights around their necks and scratching them with the thorns from the roses.
*This blog post is entirely fictional, and should not in any way represent the quality of participants at Text Appeal. You were all really nice.
01 March 2007
WA Kids Dig Dead French Chick
I just heard that Joan of Arc is on the West Australian Young Readers Book Award Shortlist (WAYRBA).
The list is about 30 books (local and international), voted for by Young People.
I'm on a shortlist with Lemony Snicket! Go me!
The list is about 30 books (local and international), voted for by Young People.
I'm on a shortlist with Lemony Snicket! Go me!
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