Eh, it’s the end of the year according to the calendar. My year starts the day after Samhain, so there’s a weird disconnect in the darkest quarter of the year between candy and the winter solstice.
I am very scattered today, having just finished the third Kismet book. It’s in first-draft form, which will mean a LOT of revising over the next few weeks. So, RANDOMNESS! It makes as much sense as a long one-subject post would from me. Trust me.
* Campaign For The American Reader asked me who I would cast in the Valentine books, if they were ever made a movie. Here’s my reply. Much thanks to Mr. Zeringue, who very kindly didn’t curse when I was over deadline.
* Speaking of movies, I went and saw Sweeney Todd. Twice. I know a lot of reviewers were upset because the movie didn’t have every scrap of dialogue and every song from the play, but I enjoyed it quite a bit. It wasn’t the grandmotherly Angela Lansbury doing Mrs. Todd, but then, what movie could be? There’s a difference in mediums between movies and plays. I thought the film was both a lovely riff on Sondheim’s musical and a work of art in its own right–I mean, come on, Johnny Depp and Alan Rickman singing Pretty Women? *swoons*
I have often thought, and still think, that Mrs. Lovett is the big tragic figure, not the Beggar Woman. The Beggar Woman had no choice but to end up the way she did; she is essentially a passive creature. Mrs. Lovett is practical and active, and suffers the fate of all (implied) sexually-active or even just independent women in film/plays/television. *sigh* Todd is an interesting character, even more so when he’s played well, but he’s not truly tragic–just psychotic and depressed. Yawn. Not that he’s not interesting, as far as that goes–but it’s Mrs. Lovett who really holds my interest, and who I wonder about the interior life of.
* I know a lot of you are wondering when we’ll have a paper Steelflower. It appears that the publishing date for such a beastie is up in the air, instead of kinda definite like I was told. So…sorry about that. I do plan on going back and writing the second Steelflower book, tentatively titled Steelflower’s Song (how’s that for a one-two alliteration) this year.
* I’m getting a lot of mail lately asking about the next Watcher book too. Unfortunately I have no control over when those come out. The next one is Mindhealer, it’s finished and waiting for revision. So, if you want to know when it will be out, drop the publisher a line, because I have absolutely no control and really can’t say.
* Heh. Nureyev plus Muppets equals WIN!
Ohgod, I remember this one. I laughed for weeks.
* I finished Painter’s French Chivalry: Chivalric Ideals and Practices in Mediaeval France and am taking another crack at Holy Blood, Holy Grail. I think I was too young when I originally read it, and furthermore hadn’t read O’Shea’s most excellent The Perfect Heresy about the Cathars. (His picture of Montfort is awesome in its telling detail unearthed from contemporary accounts.) After I knock off Holy Blood, Holy Grail it will be time for another whack at From the Ashes of Angels, which was in its own way one of the major inspirations for the story of Japhrimel and the Fallen.
* Why, I ask you, am I suddenly in the mood to write nothing but fantasy? The sequel to The Hedgewitch Queen (unpublished, and maybe will stay that way), working title The Left-Hand Consort, is burning a hole in my head. Maybe I’ve just had enough tech noir/urban fantasy for now.
* I am not doing New Year’s Resolutions. It’s just too painful when I get to May/June and realize I haven’t even started on any of them. Instead, I’m going to focus on being a decent person every day. Seems to me there’s a lot more mileage in that than in a list of “resolutions.” Hell, even Congress isn’t abiding by its own resolutions anymore. *sigh*
* Be safe out there. I don’t drive from December 30 to January 2, just because of the sheer number of drunks on the road. I strongly advocate staying home, but if you have to go out, please please be safe and cautious out there. People can be nuts sometimes, especially while lubricated.
A happy New Year’s to you all. And to all a good night.
Today is a slow, sleepy day. Everyone is moving slowly and taking their time. I just almost gave myself a charley horse by stretching too quickly. How’s that for an inane, useless fact? In any case, it’s Friday, and I’m starting my weekend early. I’m within spitting distance (four or five scenes) of finishing the third Kismet book, which is awesome. If I get into it today and just write straight through I may have a workable draft by midnight.
Notice it will just be a workable draft, not fit for human consumption until it gets a bit of editing. As Elizabeth Bear points out, it is not necessary to write the perfect story. It’s just necessary to write the damn story, and you can fix whatever’s gone wrong in the second pass. The story will largely take care of itself, it’s always worked before.
Sometimes I wish life was like that. Then I think of reincarnation and think, maybe it is. But that usually spawns a fresh story, and I need another project like I need a hole in the head.
Eh, I’m not one for deep philosophizing today. Over and out.
Oh, the irony. Because I just finished reading Naomi Wolf’s The End of America: Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot. Killing opposition leaders is a time-honored step for a dictator. (Not that I’m suggesting Musharraf had anything to do with such a move, that strengthens his hold on his unruly country after he was forced to step out of army uniform. Oh no. What kind of cynic am I?)
Quite frankly, Wolf’s book scared the hell out of me. Not because she’s an alarmist, but because I recognized every example she used. As an amateur student of history, I do believe you can see the future in the past. And I’ve felt a lingering sense of unease and familiarity with several developments in American politics over the last eight-nine years. That familiarity has grown into horror, the unease into outright fear.
Why yes, I spent most of Christmas reading. Finished three books, as a matter of fact. Well, technically finished two of the books I’m going to review today and one I may review tomorrow. In between the eating and drinking and making pie and opening presents (best gift so far? Bed socks from New Zealand. I’m not kidding.), that is.
Weeks of planning and anticipation have boiled down to fifteen-twenty minutes of ripping and tearing of wrapping paper. The Princess is playing her Hannah Montana video game. (God help me, I bought it for her.) The Prince has gone through his Cooties set, his HyperSlide, and is now occupied with the little rubber ninjas. (There is a ninja war going on at the coffee table, complete with samurai yells.)
The UnSullen One is helping both Princess and Prince, alternately. His wrap job was ooh’d and aah’d. (Especially the wrapped cereal box holding wrapped video games. Heh.)
I am contemplating writing some on the fantasy opus. And I woke up with a story in my head that I’d like to tell, if I could do it without cliche. Even if I could do it with cliche I think I’d like to tell it.
So far, Christmas is going smoothly. Everyone seems content. I suppose it’s not totally stress-free–nothing ever is–but all things concerned, it’s as good as it gets.
Maybe I’ll just sit here. Eat a bonbon or two. And read The Economist. Heh. I am such a geek.
Here’s hoping you day is going as smoothly–or smoother, dear Reader.
I hate this time of year. I am not a Grinch, but I hate this time of year. I hate how people treat their children in malls this time of year–they’re upset and angry trying to keep up with the materialistic excess, and they take it out on the kids. I hate the rampant, crass commercialism. I despise the pretense of perfection that is so many family get-togethers, where simmering resentment lies just under the surface, jealousy shines in the eyes, and people think that pretending to be the perfect family for one day will somehow make the abuse and one-upmanship okay for the rest of the year. I hate how domestic disturbances and suicides spike at around this time.
Most of all, I hate how plenty of people think that doing one kind deed or going to church one day out of the year excuses being a complete and total jacka$$ the other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days. I hate the false, cloying sentimentalism–peace on earth, goodwill toward men? That’s not just one day a year, dammit.
One should be as decent as one can all year round. That’s called being an adult human being.
To that end, I’d like to thank every year-round decent person I know. Like the Selkie, who is stellar as a human being can get. Like my kids, who are wonderful people with occasional bad days, but who doesn’t have those? Like that lady who works at the Chevron on the corner, the one with the son who won’t turn his cell phone on but who always has a smile and a hello for me. Like the peeps at La Bottega and Pho Thanh who recognize me and have a smile for a regular.
You know who you are, you decent year-round people. Thank you. It’s because of you guys that I strive to be as good as I can be–not fake-nice, not false, but as decent and fine a human being that I can be–all year ’round. I have your example in front of me every day, and I thank you.
I hate this time of year. But it also reminds me that being a good person is a daily goal, one that you work on every day, all day, with varying degrees of success but always keeping that goal in sight. Be as good as you can, every day. It’s important.
It’s not peace on earth, but I think it’s the only reasonable way one human being can commit to getting there. Though my pessimism tells me human nature is to destroy itself, maybe being as decent as one can every day might ameliorate that. It may tip the balance, in some cosmic way. It might be the feather that makes that hundredth monkey turn the scales, or something.
Hey, if it’s the season for miracles, that’s the one I’m going to hope for. Dream big, says I. What’s the use of dreaming small?
Happy Solstice to you, one and all. Be good and safe out there.
Ah, the marvelous Interwebs, where I can turn in time of need. No matter how black the mood, the sweet sweet Internet always has something cool for me.
And so, link salad!
* Black Hole Attacks Galaxy, Film at 11! The geek in me just LOVES this to DEATH. Especially the description of what would happen should a jet of radiation from a supermassive black hole hit Earth. That there is what’s called a plot bunny, in my biz.
Jason came out to me when he was fifteen. He and I had long had a habit of talking together for few minutes, when he went to bed.
He’d been doing some dating — going out with girls — and Ed and I just kind of sat back and waited. I remember thinking, “Is it possible he doesn’t know?” And, “Gee, maybe we were wrong…”
But I remember so clearly that one evening. Jason took a deep breath and said, “Mom, I think I’m gay.”
And my heart swelled with love and pride (and relief!) because it takes such courage to say that in our society, even to your mom. But I kept things light. “I know. I love you. I’ll always love you. Where did you put your dirty socks…?”
“You knew?!?” He was actually surprised — and so relieved.
Even Jason — growing up in a home with parents who had spoken openly about their support for gay rights and for their gay friends — was a little afraid of what would happen when he came out.
You see, he had friends who were kicked out of their houses by their parents, because they were gay. It makes me heartsick to think of such a thing. And yet it happens. Too often.
You bet your sweet bippy I never told my parents about my experimentation in high school or my genderbending afterward, for just that reason. Identifying oneself as queer or bi can be dangerous at ANY age. There are still places in America–in AMERICA, for Chrissake–where you can be physically harmed because of any perception of homosexuality.
It makes me sad. But Ms. Brockman’s total awesomeness makes me happy. If there’s hope, it lies there–in: “Mum, I think I’m gay.” “I know, I love you. Where are those dirty socks?”
* There’s a Craigslist post floating around the ‘Net purporting to be from a “nice guy” telling women where all the nice guys went. But you don’t have to read such tripe, because Mightygodking has done it for you and brought back a line-by-line report. (Note: contains adult language and may make you bust a gut laughing. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.) Link courtesy of Smart Bitches, and may I just remark that I too know the dating law that states, “When a man goes out of his way to declare he’s a nice guy…he isn’t.” Oh, and Mightygodking? Go on clefting gerunds, baby. That’s hawt.
Last but not least, the Princess asked me yesterday, “Mum?”
*me, tapping away at a scene of death and destruction* “Huhwhat?”
“How come I have all this Christmas spirit and you don’t?”
“Because it skipped me and you got double, sweetheart. Genetics.” Because I hate seeing the way people treat their kids in malls around Christmastime. Because my mother always broke down around Christmas. Because people think acting “nice” for one bloody day excuses them being total rude jerkwads the other 364 of the year. Because–
Wide blue eyes. “Oh. Would you like some?”
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.“If it comes in the form of a hug, sure.”
“Okay. Can we back sugar cookies?”
Aha! Now we have it.“Very deft of you, my darling.”
Again, big innocent eyes. “What?”
“Never mind. Sugar cookies maybe, hugs definitely.” Closing laptop. “C’mere. I need my hug.”
Kids are cool.
Happy Thursday, everyone. And to all a good night.
I just finished Murdering Holiness last night, a book about turn-of-the-century Holy Rollers in Washington and Oregon and murders sparked by religious belief, intersecting with an examination of the insanity defense as a means for a jury to use “unwritten law” rather than actual law. It was also an examination of gender roles during that time. Needless to say, I recommend it for Candy, though my copy will probably go to my friend Jeff Davis first.
I am also reading Jennifer Stevenson’s Trash Sex Magic, but it’s hard going. I suppose I’ve read too much Dorothy Allison–and been too poor myself at various times–for me to read a book that romanticizes poverty. I understand what Stevenson is trying to do here, but several underlying assumptions in the story just bother the hell out of me. The writing is fine and I suspect would even be lovely if I could get over the romanticizing.
Posted on December 18th, 2007 | Posted in Real Life
My, I am a cranky pussycat this morning. So, five random things:
1. Bless the Princess. While watching a cartoon history of the US (Uncle Sam showing Porky Pig why the Pledge of Allegiance is important) she says, “Why aren’t there any women in this? They shoudl at least be telling their brothers and husbands goodbye.”
My response? “Well, history’s mostly written by men, honey. They don’t focus too much on women.”
“Well, that’s nuts.” A complete change of subject. “Are they British?” (pointing at the marching militiamen on the screen.)
“The funny thing is, the American Revolution started because people over here wanted their rights as British citizens.”
“Huh…” Another long pause. “I’d better get a few books about this.”
*containing my glee* “I guess so, honey.”
2. A friend’s LJ contained some thoughts on weight and appearance issues this morning. I don’t dress traditionally, and since the weight has started to melt off (very little of it is my doing; I’ve just changed my coping strategy from food to Other Things and my body is normalizing) I’ve been the subject of…well, attention. From people who seem to consider me attractive. Which kicks a lot of my assumptions about myself right square in the nuts. It’s been…weird.
I have only two things to say: Diet’s first three letters are a warning! is the first. And the second is, yes, the weight-loss industry is worth billions. IF there was a “magic bullet” that would turn one into an underweight sitcom star or rail-thin model, the entire industry would tank overnight. I am much more inclined to agree with Susan Powter than anyone else when it comes to weight and food. She may be nuts, but she’s HONEST nuts, and low on the bullshit factor. You know we had the same hairdresser briefly? I actually met her and had no idea who she was. She was a firecracker, man. On all the time.
Anyway, the whole thing is a crack-up. It’s meant to separate women from their money and since we only earn seventy cents on the $%&#ing dollar a man earns, I’m not buying it. Period.
3. I know affirmations are silly, but they really seem to work for me. Now let’s see if I can remember to use them.
4. Gmail tried to give me a recipe for Spam Strudel.
*shudder*
5. Today the Princess and I start reading The Hound of the Baskervilles together. Much fun will be had by all.
