Category Archives: Reading

Enid Blyton

Via Garth, this fascinating article comparing Enid Blyton and J. K. Rowling. Here’s the paragraph that made me fall over:

Enid Blyton wrote nearly 800 books over a 40-year career, many of them quite slim, as well as close to 5,000 short stories. She sold 200 million books in her lifetime, with few translations until the 1960s and 1970s, and has sold some 400 million altogether. About half of her titles are still in print, and they still sell 11 million copies a year, including a million for the Famous Five series and three million Noddy books.

Wow! Rowling thus far has sold 325 million. So she will overtake Blyton (within the year I reckon) selling fewer titles (7 as opposed to 800) much faster. For the sake of Rowling’s health and sanity I hope she doesn’t up her output: Blyton wrote 10,000 words a day. The most I’m able to consistently write a day is about 1,500. I have written 10,000 in a day but it was during the sprint to finish my PhD thesis and I was not a sane or happy bunny rabbit doing it.

Enid Blyton wrote the first chapter book I ever read by myself: The Magic Faraway Tree. I adored it so much that she was also the author of the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and etc. chapter books I read on my own. She was my first author crush. After the Faraway books I fell for the Naughtiest Girl books. Only to be disappointed when she learns her lesson and becomes good—goodness? Bleah! Why was she no longer throwing chalk?!

Then I became so deeply obsessed with the Mallory Towers and St. Clare’s books that I begged my parents to send me to boarding school. When they refused I’d bully my sister into having midnight feasts with me. I’m not sure if they ever actually happened at midnight, but. I was very little when I was devouring her books.

I also read Famous Five and Secret Seven but I never liked them as much as the others. Julian was a bully, Dick was a whinger, Anne was unspeakably wet, and George wasn’t nearly tough enough. I kept waiting for her to murder Dick and Anne. Never happened. I guess Timmy the Dog was okay. And the Secret Seven weren’t even memorable enough to rail against.

I’ve never gone back and read her books again. Frankly, I’m too frightened of what I might find. She was one of the strongest influences on my becoming a writer and in particular in becoming a genre writer. My love for the Faraway Tree books led to my being exposed to all sorts of other wondrous books like the Susan Cooper’s, The Hobbit, Alice in Wonderland and Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea trilogy. I didn’t read these books just once but over and over again.

Blyton taught me how to read, how to tell a story, about drama and suspense and action, how girls are better than boys, glasses make you ugly, and how dobbing your mates into the authorities is always best. Some of those lessons stuck a wee bit better than the others . . .

I know Enid Blyton had little impact in the USA, but did you yanquis have comparable authors you fell for as a first-time reader? And non-USians, come share the Blyton love! Testify!

The writer’s life: 1930 compared to 2007

Somerset Maugham meditating upon the writer’s life:

It is full of tribulation. First he must endure poverty and the world’s indifference; then, having achieved a measure of success, he must submit with good will to its hazards. He depends upon a fickle public. He is at the mercy of journalists who want to interview him and photographers who want to take his picture, of editors who harry him for copy and tax gatherers who harry him for income tax, of persons of quality who ask him to lunch and secretaries of institutes who ask him to lecture, of women who want to marry him and women who want to divorce him, of youths who want his autograph, actors who want parts and strangers who want a loan, of gushing ladies who want advice on their matrimonial affairs and earnest young men who want advice on their compositions, of agents, publishers, managers, bores, admirers, critics, and his own conscience. But he has one compensation. Whenever he has anything on his mind, whether it be a harassing reflection, grief at the death of a friend, unrequited love, wounded pride, anger at the treachery of someone to whom he has shown kindness, in short any emotion or any perplexing thought, he has only to put it down in black and white, using it as the theme of a story or the decoration of an essay, to forget all about it. He is the only free man.

Cakes and Ale (1930)

Leaving aside that Maugham is under the delusion that everyone is male except wives and those in need of marital advice, how does all of that apply to us pro writers now? Or, rather, to this pro writer in particular.

Tribulation? Check.
Fickle public? Check. Why can’t all of them love all of us all the time? Or even know who we are!
Mercy of journalists who want interviews? Of bloggers yes. Of journalists not so much. But frankly I kind of like it that way.
Of photographers who want to take the writer’s picture? Hah! If only Maugham had lived to the current day when almost everyone in the first world has a bloody camera and feels compelled to plague everyone else with it and will not accept the idea that some people do not want their photo taken. Is there anyone left who’s never been photographed? Are there any souls left unstolen?
Editors who harry the writer for copy? Oh, yes. Just the same! Bastard editors!
Tax gatherers who harry a writer for income tax? How odd. I didn’t realise that in 1930 only writers had to pay tax.
Persons of quality who ask the writer to lunch? Are my editors and agents “people of quality”? Are librarians? I’m gunna say yes.
Secretaries of institutes who ask the writer to lecture? I imagine that still applies. Not to me though. No secretary of any institute has ever asked me to lecture. Rotters!
Women who want to marry the writer? Now, I’m bummed. No woman or man has ever asked me to marry ’em just cause I’m a writer.
Women who want to divorce the writer? But, here’s the upside: no one’s ever asked me for a divorce on account of I write words that turn into books on shelves. Poor Mr Maugham!
Of youths who want the writer’s autograph? This has happened occasionally. And, oh, how I loves it! More, please!
Actors who want parts? Parts of what? Most definitely does not apply.
Strangers who want a loan? Do letters from Nigeria count?
Of gushing ladies who want advice on their matrimonial affairs? Actually, because I wrote this piece I have had a handful of people asking for advice on their love life. None of them gushed though and they were boys as well as girls.
Earnest young men who want advice on their compositions? Check. Though not all earnest, not all young and not all men.
At the mercy of agents? Check. I guess. But my agents, Jill Grinberg and Whitney Lee, are so lovely and so very good at what they do it’s hard to think of it that way.
Of publishers? Check.
Of managers? Writers had managers back in 1930? I didn’t even think they had them now. How strange.
Of bores? Check. But just a tiny percentage of the number I had to deal with when I was an academic.
Of admirers? Check. There’s one or two. Bless their every breath.
Of critics? Check. One or two of them and all.
Of their own conscience? Huh? What is this “conscience” Maugham speaks of? And why would I be at it’s mercy? I am confused!

As for Maugham’s one compensation:

Whenever he has anything on his mind, whether it be a harassing reflection, grief at the death of a friend, unrequited love, wounded pride, anger at the treachery of someone to whom he has shown kindness, in short any emotion or any perplexing thought, he has only to put it down in black and white, using it as the theme of a story or the decoration of an essay, to forget all about it. He is the only free man.

Maybe I’m more neurotic than Maugham—figures, it’s more than seventy years later, neuroticness has definitely grown—but just writing about a trauma or experience does not expunge it for me. Or maybe that’s just because I haven’t really done it. I haven’t written about the people I love who have died. I haven’t typed for hours to make it go away. I am not free.

Though I’ll wager that my writer’s life is heaps happier than Maugham’s!

I do agree with him, though, that the writing part is by far the most wonderful thing about being a writer.

That, and the champagne.

Cranky readers

The tactic of writing to librarians to make them disappear books has been around for some time. The following is from Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale (1930). The protag’s uncle is talking about his nephew’s friendship with a local author:

“They bicycled together last summer, and after Willie had gone back to school I got one of his books from the library to see what it was like. I read the first volume and then I sent it back. I wrote a pretty stiff letter to the librarian and I was glad to hear that he’d withdrawn it from circulation. If it had been my own property I should have put it promptly in the kitchen stove.”

Wouldn’t it be lovely to think that didn’t happen nowadays? Alas and alack.

Different eyes

I just read five reviews of the same book.1 One praised the sharpness of the dialogue.2 Another said it was sloppy and the dialogue disconnected. One said it was the best book of its kind published this year. And another hoped that this was the limit to how low the genre could descend. The fifth neither loved nor hated it.

I was given an ARC of this particular book. I stopped reading after the first four pages because I found it cliched, derivative and boring. In particular, it’s a very mediocre pastiche of a writer I happen to love. That’s another reason I stopped reading and re-read a book by that author instead.

The book is now on one of the New York Times bestseller lists. I won’t tell you which, except to say it’s a list I’ll never be on. (Not that I fancy my chances getting on any of the lists I’m eligible for. Not writing tickets. Honest!)

This left me wondering (yet again) how very differently we all read. We can pick up the exact same book and find entirely different things in it. So much is shaped by what you’ve already read. Like my dislke of the book being fed by its marked similarities to the much better writer. I raised that point with someone I know who loves the book in question and they said they thought it was better than the original writer. To which I could only splutter, “Are you barking mad?!”

I have never met anyone I agree with about everything. Scott and I come pretty close. But he thinks American Beauty is a good movie. And does not love Elvis the way I do or, actually, in any kind of way. I guess it would be dull if we agreed about everything.

And yet I am still shocked every time someone (whose opinion I respect) hates something I love. Or loves something I hate.

And when I hate something that everyone else seems to love—like a certain Printz honour book from a few years back—it feel strange and uncomfortable.

You’d think that reading all the reviews of my own books (which range from over-the-top praise through to appalled condemnation of their awfulness, paper-thin characters and condescending language) would have finally hammered home how variable and contradictory people’s responses are.

Nope.

Intellectually I get it; emotionally I don’t. I’m starting to wonder if I ever will.

People, why can’t you all just think like me?

  1. Nope. Not telling you the name of the book. []
  2. I’m not using the exact language of the reviews in case you were thinking of googling to figure out what the book is. []

Self-indulgent autobiographies

Okay, the next person I hear accusing an autobiography or memoir writer of being self-indulgent gets a smack in the head, or—because violence is wrong—a pointed glare.

See the “auto” in front of “biography”? That means it’s about the person who wrote it. Very tricky to write one of those and not, you know, talk about yourself.

Beauty

In the Romance discussion Sherwood Smith writes:

I absolutely loathe romances in which all one or the other brings to the relationship is beauty, and the reader is clearly expected to think that sufficient unto itself. Feh.

Oh, yes! Oh, yes, indeed!

I also hate the assumption that beauty=goodness, that beauty is something that everyone agrees about, and that beauty is something everyone aspires to.

Don’t get me wrong, finding someone aesthetically pleasing is kind of important if a romance is to happen. But I have never gone out with anyone (for more than a sec) who didn’t have something else going on as well. And, frankly, smarts and humour are vastly more important to me than anything else.

For a romance to work you have to engage with both of the lovers. If one of them only has beauty then that’s the end of my interest because the only people I’ve ever met who went out with people solely because of their hotness have been shallow and gross and not folks I want to spend any time with. Certainly not a whole novel’s worth of time. Erk.

I’m also irritated by books where everyone agrees that the hero or heroine or both is hot. I’ve never known anyone who was a universally acclaimed beauty. There’s always someone who looks at the so-called beauty and shrugs. For example, I don’t get the appeal of Gwyneth Paltrow, Paris Hilton, Matt Damon, or Leonardo diCaprio. They all look plain and boring to me. I also find it hard to see beauty in stick-thin men or women. I look at them and think, “Oh, honey. I know where we can get you some really good pasta followed by olive oil ice cream.”

So when in a book everyone is falling over themselves about the beauty of one character I don’t believe it. I’ve never seen that kind of over the top response to a person’s looks.1 Not unless they’ve swallowed a love potion of something. I know it’s a cliche but beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.

One of the many things I adore about Pride and Prejudice is that not everyone agrees that Elizabeth is beautiful or Darcy handsome. They don’t even think it of each other on first meeting. Their attraction slowly grows. And millions of readers over the last almost two hundred years have totally bought it.

  1. The only times I’ve seen everyone stop and stare is when a person is Bill Clinton or Halle Berry. Fame is the real head turner. []

Romantic conclusions

Judging from your comments here and those over at Cassie Clare’s lj the following are what you look for in a romance:

  • tension
  • conflict
  • verisimilitude
  • external obstacles
  • geek love
  • banter
  • painful misunderstandings
  • Gender-bending mistaken identity
  • super competence
  • baggage
  • equal partners
  • witty banter
  • wish fulfillment
  • restraint
  • chemistry
  • little things
  • vulnerability
  • choosing happiness
  • Character development
  • lots of witty banter
  • no internal thoughts
  • verbal sex
  • brooding
  • unrequited love
  • undying love
  • enemies in love
  • slow, lengthy build ups
  • humour
  • context
  • best friends falling for each other
  • lots and lots of witty banter

i just love this list! Makes me so happy. I agree with almost everything on it (especially gender-bending mistaken identity These Old Shades I go weak!). Thanks, everyone. Your comments were witty, thought provoking and wonderful.

So why was I asking?

Because I’ve never written a romance.

I’ve never started a book and known that one of the major plot arcs was going to be about people falling in love. But since so many of my favourite books are that way (Pride and Prejudice, too many Heyers and Kinsales to name, The Mountain is Young, Whalen Turner’s Attolia trilogy etc etc) I thought it might be fun to try my hand at it. But I soon realised that I’m really not sure how to do it on purpose. It also rapidly became clear that it’s much much much harder than it looks.

Also of that list above there are two that don’t work for me:

  • Brooding

and

  • wish fulfillment

Don’t get me wrong I was once very much into them. I loved Heathcliff! Bad boy love of any kind! But the Angel/’Buffy romance wound up just annoying me. Angel’s broodingness caused my eyes to roll. He was a WW. A whingeing wanker. Blerk.

I also used to adore heaps of books that were basically that ultimate wish fulfillment: the Mary Sue. But they don’t work for me anymore. Could be that I’m too grizzled and cynical to believe it now. The world is way more complicated than that and often when people get what they want it doesn’t make them happy.

Yet I know wish fulfillment books and brooding heroes work very powerfully for any number of readers.

So I’m struggling with the whole writing about people falling in love thing and was looking for some advice. And what you’ve given me is lots of ideas and a long list of books to check out as well as to reread (like The Master and Margarita which strangely I never thought of as a romance. When I think of that book I think of cats walking upright smoking cigars and demons floating in and out of windows. How dumb am I?) It was wonderful to see how many of your favourites are also my favourites.

It’s obvious, isn’t it? The way to learn how to do any new kind of writing is to figure out how other folks do it. Der!

So, Julia Quinn, you reckon? Or Jennifer Weiner? Or Jo Leigh? Which is the best of their books?

And again thank you so much, everyone, for all your responses. Vastly entertaining and useful. And extra thanks to Diana and Cassie (who are both pretty bloody good at the romance thing) for sending so many smart folk my way. I owe youse all one.

Romance (updated)

What’s your favourite romance? I mean that in the broadest possible sense. It doesn’t have to have been published as a romance. (I think most books are romances in some way or other.) What is your favourite book where a love relationship is a big part of the story?

And what was it about the way that relationship was written that so appealed to you?

What writers do you think do love stories particularly well?

Feel free to give me examples from Young Adult, Adult, mystery, romance, science fiction, mainstream, or whatever. Don’t care. Oh, and don’t forget about manga and graphic novels. I’ve been reading Emma by Kaoru Mori and it’s currently one of my favourite romances of all time. Because of the subtlety of the writing and the interplay between it and the images. The tension just sizzles from panel to panel.

I look forward to your thoughtful long answers! Which is my subtle way of saying I don’t want just titles. I want to know what it was about the romance that worked for you.

Oh, if you can do that without too much spoilerage I’d be very grateful. Unless you’re talking about a really famous book like Pride & Prejudice or Gone with the Wind or something. Then it’s okay to talk about how Darcy gets left at the altar as Elizabeth rides off into the sunset with Charlotte. Or was that Sense & Sensibility? I’m always mixing these things up.

Wow, I am being demand-ery today. Tell me where to buy precious things! Answer my questions! Peel me a grape! French me a fry!

Update: Karmela Johnson in the comments reveals what doesn’t work for her in a romance. Most useful and fascinating. She’s right, it’s just as revealing as what you do like. So, please, feel free to tell me the don’ts as well as the dos.

And thanks so much for all the comments. Fabulous!

David Levithan: Vampire Slayer

The wonderful speech that David Levithan gave at Reading Matters is now available as a podcast. You all should listen to this passionate, galvanising call to arms that left most everyone wanting to go out and slay vampires right that very minute. Or, you know, get the books that kids need into their hands.

I’m still mulling over my response to David’s call to arms. On the one hand, I think he’s totally right. On the other, it’s so annoying to have a foreignor come in, spend a few minutes in the country, and then tell us Aussies what to do! We hates it, we do. Especially when they’re right . . .

Next week

Next week the denizens of blogland what care about kids and YA literature will be interviewing many amazing writers such as Sonya Hartnett and Holly Black and Ysabeau Wilce (and, um, me). Check out the full schedule of interviews. If the smart questions I was asked are any guide I reckon they’ll be corkers.

Next week is also the annual summer American Library Association conference. I sadly will not be attending. Waaah! I went to the one in New Orleans last year (or was it the year before?) and it was just incredible. I had such a wonderful time I’d even contemplate going to the midwinter ALA conference. And youse lot know how I feel about winter.

To make me feel like I’m not entirely missing out I have a question for librarians and non-librarians alike.

For the librarians: What do you love most about your job?

For non-librarians: What do you love most about librarians and libraries?

Starting out

Diana Peterfreund must have a looming deadline or something because she’s written two wonderfully helpful posts for writers who are brand new to the publishing industry. They include a glossary explaining what exactly, for instance, an agent does. Check ’em out!

One of the things she glancingly touches on is the idea that the already published are actively resentful of up-and-coming writers and go out of our way to lessen their chances. If that’s true why then do so many authors’ spend huge chunks of time offering advice and help the way Diana is right now? (I mean other than procrastination reasons.)

Publishing is very competitive. That’s true. Most professions are. But not in the way that most people think. One book being hugely successful can increase the chances of other books. J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books created a boom in children’s and YA publishing. Garth Nix says that before Rowling he was happily paddling along and then he got caught up in a tidal wave. He’s not the only one. I don’t know a single YA or children’s author who isn’t profoundly grateful to Rowling. She made our careers.

If a person really likes a particular book they don’t (usually) just read that one book over and over and over again; they try to find other books they like as much. Many kids who loved Harry Potter have gone onto read Nix and Diana Wynne-Jones and Eoin Colfer and Jonathan Stroud and so on. It’s not the end of the road; it’s the beginning.

Reading Dorothy Dunnett led me to Geraldine McCaughrean’s historicals and so on. Every time I hear there’s a new historical that’s approaching the genius of Dunnett I check it out as fast as poss. Jane Austen led me to Georgette Heyer. You develop a particular kind of reading thirst then you have to find the books to quench it.

Deadly Uni***ns

I’m so stoked to be able to announce that my mate Diana Peterfreund has just gotten herself a new two-book deal and it’s for young adult books. That’s right! Diana is now one of us!

From the Publisher’s Marketplace Announcement:

    Children’s:
    Young Adult
    Author of SECRET SOCIETY GIR Diana Peterfreund’s RAMPANT, about killer uni***ns that can only be defeated by virgin descendants of Alexander the Great, and the teenage huntress whose birthright is seriously messing up her social life, to Kristin Daly at Harper Children’s, in a good deal, at auction, in a two-book deal, by Deidre Knight of The Knight Agency (NA).
    Film: Matt Snyder at CAA.

I read and ADORED the proposal and cannot WAIT to read the completed novel. Congratulations, Diana. You rule!

Overwhelmed + Harry Potter

Thank you everyone for all the posts, comments and emails of congratulations on Magic or Madness winning the Norton. I’m completely overwhelmed. So happy! So dance-y! And so going to knock off some champers with my parents and Scott to celebrate tonight.

The only thing I feel a little weird about is Megan Whalen Turner’s King of Attolia not winning. As I’ve mentioned before the Attolia trilogy has been a touchstone for me ever since I first read The Thief way back when and even more since Queen of Attolia broke my brain in about twelve different ways. If you haven’t read the trilogy than I urge you once again to do so.

So Harry Potter. I’m hearing lots of speculation that Rowling is going to off Harry. Like this exchange reported by the lovely Cassie Clare:

CC: So, book 7. Harry dies?
Bookseller 1: God, I hope so.
Bookseller 2: But I don’t want him to go out like Sirius. He’s got to bite it in a definitive way so we know he’s really dead and is NEVER COMING BACK.
BS1: I want to see internal organs hanging from the ceiling. I want his liver splattered on the wall.
BS2: And then Draco should eat it.

I would like to go on the record as saying that while personally I hope Harry dies cause I find his endless whingeing annoying, professionally I desperately need him to live.

The death of Harry will so deeply traumatise fans that they are very likely to give up reading all together. Which would be a DISASTER!

Think of the drop in book sales! Think of me and Scott and all the other writers and publishers and editors and booksellers and printers and all the other people employed by the publishing industry having to support ourselves by scrounging for the change that’s fallen down the back of the couch!

And if the publishing industry collapses, then surely the paper industry will take a huge hit, not to mention the producers of inks, and everyone who works at libraries and schools. Literacy may end.

If Harry Potter dies the world as we know it will fall apart!

I know the book’s prolly already printed and everything, but if you’re reading this, Ms Rowling, it’s not too late to rewrite the ending if you did, in fact, do that dreadful world-destroying thing. I’m begging you, DO NOT KILL HARRY!!!

Am I wrong? Does anyone else fear a Harry Potter led end of the world?

Top 10 Reasons Banning Books is a Bad Idea

10. It upsets the writers what wrote the books.

9. It upsets the readers what want to read the books.

8. It makes the books cry and books are very sensitive.

7. If you really want people not to read a book, banning it will have the opposite effect.

6. If the content of a book offends you there are more effective ways to deal with your offendedness. Like, you know, engaging with it. Maureen Dowd’s columns frequently drive me spare, but I don’t try to get them banned, I argue against them.

5. Besides banning books does not make them go away. Just ask Chris Crutcher.

4. Banning books might make you feel like you’re in control, but it actually screams of lack of control. You think you can control input but you can’t. Banned books have a way of being passed around mightily and promoted during banned book week and gaining a whole other life they might not otherwise have had.

3. Banning books, you know, it kind of doesn’t encourage literacy. Last time I looked literacy was a good thing that goes hand in hand with increased life expectancy, education, living standards. Little stuff like that.

2. It’s a short step from banning books to wanting to burn ’em. People who burn books, well that is not company you want to keep.

1. Book banning clashes with everything in your wardrobe. Every. Single. Thing.

Still on the road

Tired, overstimulated, happy. I have lots of news but none that I can share. Mostly because I’m too tired to type straight.

Has anyone read any of Somerset Maugham’s writings on writing? You should. I loves him. (More coherent thoughts on it when I get my brain back.)

Also what’s the consensus on Cormac McCarthy’s The Road? I read it on a plane. Started off hating it, warmed to it, got teary, but am now completely unsure what I think of it. I found it kind of slight oddly enough. But I may change my mind. Maybe I’m having hype allergy?

I do know what I thought of Sergey Lukyanenko’s Day Watch sequel to Night Watch. Loved it. More please! For the first time in my life I am tempted to write fan fiction. I mean what would the Sydney Day and Night watches be like? I’m seeing Simon Westaway as a world-weary medium ranked magician—but I’m not sure for which Watch . . .

Tis very strange reading so many not-YA books. They’re not half bad. I guess I should stop being rude about adult books.

Also saw Dreamgirls—yes on a plane—what an amazing film. Incredible sets, awesome adaptation of a muscial, unbelievably good acting, everything was absolutely perfect—except that the music sucked. SUCKED. Worst. Music. Ever. It caused me psychic pain having to listen to it. Aaargh. Is there some way to edit in good songs?

Have I mentioned that both Holly Black’s Ironside and Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones made the New York Times bestseller list? I love both those books. Isn’t it wonderful? And if you haven’t read them you really really really should.

So Pistons-Spurs final?

Oh, and I am deeply in love with Paris. Yet another city I want to live in. Plus now I must learn French!

Another book banned (updated)

Maureen Johnson‘s excellent and extremely clean (no sex or violence) book, The Bermudez Triangle has just been banned in a school in Bartlesville, Oklahoma because it is about (among many other things) two girls who fall in love.

A parent read it, hated it and complained, demanding it be removed from the shelves and suggested the bible as a replacement. I’m very fond of the bible myself, but it has way more sex and violence than Maureen’s book. There’s incest in the bible, people!

There’s also excellent bits like this:

“There is no longer male nor female, bond nor free, Jew nor Gentile, for we are all equal in Jesus Christ.”

—Galatians 3:28

I believe that includes homosexuals as well as heterosexuals.

If anyone who reads this is from Bartlesville, Oklahoma and cares about first amendment rights, you are in a position to be able to complain to the school and to the local newspapers. I really hope you will. Bermudez Triangle is a lovely warm book about the importance of friendship.

For the rest of us, I think now would be a really good time to invest in a copy of Maureen’s book. She’s a wonderful writer and it’s a wonderful book.

Update: Maryrose Wood eloquently explains what the first amendment means when a book is banned in the US of A.

Book evangelist (updated)

Diana Peterfreund has just written a smart piece about authors reviewing. In it she quotes me claiming to be a “book evangelist”. I’ve decided to own it big time over here.

My name is Justine Larbalestier and I’m a book evangelist.

I call myself that because it’s a more accurate term than “critic” or “reviewer”. I rarely go into detail about books I love. I don’t analyse, or critique, I don’t even give plot summaries, I just say, “I love this book! Read it!” If I hate a book I rant about it with friends, I don’t write about it here.

Why?

Lots of reasons. Firstly, writing a serious critical analysis of a book is very hard work. I don’t have the time or the inclination to work that hard on anything but my fiction.

Ranting about books I hate can be a lot of fun, but I don’t want to hurt the feelings of people I’m very likely to run into in social settings. Hell, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I know how much work goes into a novel. Even ones I think are terrible. It’s horrible to have your weeks, months, or years of hard work dismissed by some jerk who read it while they had digestive issues from too much vindaloo the night before.

I have disliked many books because I was in a bad mood about something else when I read them (such as digestive issues from vindaloo). On the few occasions I’ve given them another go, I’ve discover that truly it wasn’t them, it was me. I’d rather not have this blog drowning under the weight of all my retractions.

Some hideously bad books are loved by readers and change their lives in positive ways. Some of the Young Adult books I’ve hated most in the last ten years have had a huge effect on many young readers. Not the least of which is turning them into passionate readers, who in some cases have gone on to discover my books. It would be churlish to publicly eviscerate books like that.

When I hate a book I kind of don’t care whether other people read it or not,1 but when I love a book I want everyone in the whole world to go out and read it and discover its amazingness.

On that note here are the YA books I’ve read and loved recently that I don’t think are getting enough attention, or selling as well as they should. You all must must must read them:

  • Coe Booth Tyrell (I know it’s up for the LA Times book prize but I keep meeting people who haven’t read it and that is just wrong.)
  • Audrey Couloumbis’ The Misadventures of Maude March
  • Kenjiro Haitani’s A Rabbit’s Eyes
  • Simmone Howell’s Notes from the Teenage Underground
  • Maureen Johnson’s Devilish
  • Elizabeth Knox’s Dreamhunter (And it’s sequel, Dreamquake is now out so you don’t have to suffer from massive cliffhangeritis.)
  • Margo Lanagan White Time
  • E. Lockhart’s Dramarama (As it hasn’t officially pub’d yet it’s a bit premature to say it’s flying under the radar. Whatever. I love it.)
  • Jaclyn Moriarty’s Becoming Bindy Mackenzie (US title is The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie.)

Updated to add

  • Megan Whalen Turner’s Attolia trilogy of The Thief, Queen of Attolia and King of Attolia. Can’t believe I forgot it!

Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments. Only relatively obscure books, please. No New York Times or any other kinds of bestsellers.

  1. Though it is fun to have a good old bitch session about a mutually hated book. []

Stop it already

The next Young Adult book I read where all the pop culture refs are from the 1980s when it’s supposed to be set now, well, that book I set on fire.1

I’ve had it with these lazy authors. You wanna write about your teenage years? Then bloody set it then! You’re allowed. There’s no law that says it has to be set in the here and now.

I can buy one or two characters who are obsessed with the eighties (though I have no idea why they would be but, hey, I hear some people are obsessed with cars, and Englishmen, and chewing gum wrappers—people are weird) but I cannot buy an entire novel set in the 2000s where all popular culture came to a grinding halt in 1990. A world without reality TV, manga,2 Micheal Hussey, Antony & the Johnsons, Beyonce, Brokeback Mountain, Harry Potter or Meg Cabot. C’mon already!

Your development may have arrested back then but the world has moved on. Try to reflect that in your novels set NOW. It’s not too much to ask, is it?

Grrr. Bloody buggery eighties. They sucked. I was there. I know.

Is there anything you keep seeing over and over in a particular genre that drives you insane? Rant away! (Though try not to name specific writers. You know how I feel about making writers cry.)

  1. Carbon emissions be damned. (I don’t really mean that. Honest.) []
  2. I know manga existed and was popular in the eighties but not the way it is now. []

Dramarama

On the plane back to NYC from Dallas I read E. Lockhart’s latest book, Dramarama. Once I started I couldn’t stop. All Scott got out of me for the next three hours were “Yes, dears”, “uh huhs”, and “laters”. I’m a big E. Lockhart fan. I’ve enjoyed every books she’s written but Dramarama is by far her best. And that’s saying a lot.
Best book ever!
It’s about kids who are obsessed with becoming actors/dancers/singers. They’ve all been bitten with the performing bug so hard that it has eaten their brains. They meet at a performing summer camp which is the kind of intense hothouse that brings out the good, the bad and the ugly. There are spats, lots of falling in and out of love and friendship, tears, and heaps of really hard work as they put on multiple shows and learn how to be theatre professionals (or not, as the case may be).

I’ve seen some reviews of this book worry that kids who aren’t into musical theatre won’t find anything for them in Dramarama. I’m not into musical theatre—or theatre for that matter—I have zero interest in Broadway and I adored it.

The book’s protag, Sadye Paulson, is my favourite kind: She doesn’t know herself that well. Sometimes it seems like she doesn’t know herself at all or have any clue how she affects folks around her. She makes mistakes, behaves in ways that make you cringe, but manages to learn from it, and not in a Hallmark ewkie way. I can’t remember the last time I loved a protag this much while also wanting to shake her. Shake her very very hard.

What I love most about E. Lockhart’s work—and there’s a lot to love—is the importance of friendship. It’s always at the core of her books even the ones that seem to be about romance. I’ve said before that friendships are as important as romance. And that friendship has to be at the core of a romantic relationship if it’s going to last longer than ten seconds. Lockhart shows it.

Did I mention that Dramarama is also very funny? Cause it is. Complete with laugh-out-loud sections and everything.

Excuse me while I go read it again. Seriously it’s that good.

The Tall One

John Hinde was one of my favourite film critics of all time. He was a wonderfully warm and funny man. He could give charmingly negative reviews to sucky films without a hint of rancour, reviews that made you want to see the crappy film just to see what he was talking about. I always wanted to meet him. When he died I cried.

Now he’s made me cry again by setting up an extraordinary literary prize in his wife’s memory. It’s the “Barbara Jefferis Award for the best Australian novel that empowers the status of females or depicts them in a positive light.” The award goes to an Australian writer, but isn’t restricted by setting or genre, only by the requirement that they postively depict women. (Were Patrick White still alive NO WAY would he win one of these babies.1) So if you’re an Aussie and you write a book set in Uzbekistan about a zombie unicorn apocalypse you’re still in with a shot. That’s in keeping with both the wide variety of films John Hinde loved and with the tremendous range of Barbara Jefferis’ novels.

Barbara Jefferis was brilliant. I read and adored her novel The Tall One when I was eleven or twelve. The book had a huge impact on me.

See, when I was young I was very tall. Much taller than anyone else my age. When I stopped growing at twelve I was 172.5cm (5ft8in). I got teased about it a lot. My aged Old World relatives offered to pay for operations to stop me growing so I’d still have a chance of getting a husband. No, I’m not making that up. My parents were laughing too hard to be horrified. “What are they going to do cut off your knees?”

Despite everything my parents said about the fabulousness of being tall and of being a girl, I was taking in the messages from my insane relatives and the kids at school. I slumped my shoulders and desperately wished to be a boy. Reading The Tall One helped clean that crap out of my mind. It’s about this 182cm (6ft) girl in medieval times in, I think, England (it’s a while since I read it so I’m hazy on the exact setting). Here was someone like me, or, at least, how I’d like to be: Tall and strong, standing up to people putting her down, owning her power, standing straight. And wry and funny too.

I was smitten and started being proud of my height. (After which I promptly stopped growing and ceased to be tall. Whatcha going to do?)

This award is a wonderful legacy from two exceptional and fascinating Australians, John Hinde and Barbara Jefferis. I hope it honours a series of wonderful novels and, even more, I hope it will do something towards bringing Jefferis’ work back into print. I’d love to see The Tall One readily available again.

  1. I am suppressing the urge to list all the prominent living Australian novelists who are even less chance than Mr White. I sit on my fingers. I hold my breath. Must. Not. Be. Bad. []

Of fans and geeks

El and Rachel Brown correctly surmised that the fan half of my question was inspired by the bruhaha about whether John Scalzi should be nominated for a fan writing Hugo or not.

For the record: yes, Scalzi should, and I hope he wins for all the reasons that have been described in great detail here, here and here. I’m also not comfortable with people telling other people that they are or aren’t “fans” or “geeks” or anything else. Those are the kind of labels you get to choose for yourself.

The geek half was inspired by my being asked to contribute a story to an anthology about geeks and geekery. My instant response was to say, “No.” Not just because I can’t write short stories, but because I couldn’t begin to think of a geeky story. (Plus no way am I biting the head off a chicken. Ewww.)

Also I was just curious about how you lot define those words. Part of what’s interesting in the great Is-Scalzi-a-Fan debate is that there were so many different definitions of what a “fan” is, which led to much talking at cross purposes. Seems thesame is true of “geek”. Veronica defined it the way I would, but Cecil defined it the way I would define “fan”.

A number of people take “fan” to mean someone who loves something uncritically. I can’t help but laugh at that when I think of the number of letters I’ve had from self-proclaimed Magic or Madness fans who tell me in minute detail the stuff they don’t like about the trilogy, just as much as the stuff they do. Clearly, these are slippery, slippery terms.

Thanks everyone for such fascinating responses.

So why do I call myself a fan but not a geek?

Let’s take the word “fan” first. I’m not a fan of science fiction, which may sound odd for someone who did a Phd on it, which became a book. To be honest the whole PhD thing was never a passion. All I’ve ever wanted to do is be a writer, but as everyone knows there’s no money in that, so I went for an academic career to support my writing habit. The subject of my PhD was an accident. I’d read sf as a kid but I’d read lots of other things too and, honestly, I think the vast majority of sf (film, television or film) is on the nose. Many of the so-called classics of the genre like the work of Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke or Star Trek or Blade Runner leave me cold.

It’s the world building that does it for me with science fiction, being transported to somewhere that is not like the world I know. I get that just as readily from books about places I’m unfamiliar with: Japanese crime books fascinate me; Australian ones not so much. I also get that button pressed by books from the past (Jane Austen, Tale of Genji,1 Elizabeth Gaskell, Miles Franklin et al) historicals, fantasy, westerns and so on. Raymond Chandler, Patricia Highsmith and Jim Thompson create worlds that are almost completely alien to me. I adore their work.

I love the writings of Samuel R. Delany and Maureen McHugh and Ursula K. Le Guin. But I’m not convinced that it’s the science fictioness of their work that does it for me. I’m just as happy when they’re writing fantasy or memoirs or criticism or blogging or whatever else they choose to write. I love the way they string their words and sentences and paragraphs together. Yum.

If I were to be banned from reading one genre it would be less of a hardship for me if that genre were sf rather than fantasy or historicals. (Naturally, I exempt manga from all these categories.)

I’m also not a fan in the sense that Ulrika is talking about. That is I’m not a member of a community that came together around a love of science fiction in the late 1930s and is still going strong today. Or am I? I definitely feel like I’m a part of the WisCon community. For years I helped with the running of that particular science fiction convention. I was on the ConCom. Can you get much more fannish than that? And, like John Scalzi, I feel very much at home with many members of the science fiction community who definitely consider themselves to be fans.

However, I’ve never written fanfiction. So I’m not part of that thriving aspect of fandom. Nor do I read it. Though there are definitely books and stories I love, like The Wide Sargasso Sea, that are a kind of fanfiction—but the kind that plays around with out of copyright texts and thus gets to be published.

I’m happy to call myself a fan not just because of the WisCon thing, but because there are a lots of things I love. Elvis Presley’s voice. Cricket. Madeleine Vionnet and Hussein Chalayan’s clothes. The writing of way too many people to list here. I love Bring It On and Deadwood and Blue Murder and My Brilliant Career and ES and Nana and Osamu Tezuka and mangosteens and the food of countries like Spain and Mexico and Thailand and Japan and Italy and Ethiopia and the great wines of Australia and New Zealand and Argentina and South Africa and Italy and France and Spain and many other places.

I don’t think the word “fan” implies uncritical love. There are clothes of Vionnet and Chalayan’s that I think are naff, Cricket matches that bore me, Angela Carter books ditto, and Spanish food and French wine I’ve had to spit out.

So why aren’t I geek?

First up, the word is American and doesn’t have much resonance for me. I never heard it as a kid nor “nerd” neither. Not outside of a John Hughes movie. (That’s not true of younger Aussies.)

The people I know who are self-described nerds or geeks have passions for stuff that bores me. Video games, role-playing games, board games and the insides of computers. I have many friends who are into these things and, well, I am not like them in this regard. I do not know what “chaotic good” is, even though Scott’s explained it to me like a hundred times.

I’ve had flirtations with various computer games over the years, but my attention span for them is microscopic, and ulimately I’d much rather be reading a book.

Once I got into Go for about a year, to the extent that I was playing it with a bunch of Go fanatics on servers in Korea, and reading books on it. But it was largely research for a novel I was writing. When I finished writing the book my interest in playing Go lapsed. It’s still by far the best game I’ve ever played, but I doubt I’d even remember how anymore. I haven’t played since 1999.

Many of my geeky friends are also collectors.

I hate stuff. I spend a large chunk of my life recycling and throwing stuff out. I hate things that sit on the mantlepiece and serve no purpose other than to collect dust. I see no point in them. Nor in stuffed animals, or dolls, or collectable cards, or any of that. I love cricket but I have no desire for cricket stuff cluttering up my house and am endlessly giving away the cricket tat people give me (clothes excluded).

If I collect anything, it’s books, but I cull them ruthlessly and often. If I’m not going to reread it, or I’ve had it for more than a year without even cracking the spine and there seems little likelihood that I will, then out the book goes.

Also I have a terrible memory. Always have had. I can’t tell you what year Bring it On came out, or who directed it, or who all the actors are without looking it up. I have to read a book a billion times before I can remember any details about it and even then I’m pretty crap. I just did a test on Pride and Prejudice I don’t think I’ve read any book more times than that one. I got 5 out of 10. I would not be able to tell an original Vionnet gown from a knock off. I do not have the trainspotting gene.

So, yes to “fan” and to “enthusiast” (thanks, Bennett), no to “geek” or “nerd”. I’m also quite happy to be called a “dag”. Yes, I am also a “spaz”. (Though, Christopher, I say to you: Know thyself!) And “dilettante”? Oh, yes, that’s me. I have the attention span of a gnat.2

  1. I confess I have never finished The Tale of Genji despite repeated attempts. The bits I’ve read have been fabulous. It’s just that the book is so damned heavy and hard to read in bed. I know, I know . . . dilettante. []
  2. Except for blogging, apparently. Bugger but this was a long post . . . Sorry! []

Norton nominee interviews

John Joseph Adams doesn’t quite have the full set (that would be Scott who’s not done his bit—he’s too busy writing Extras) but here are his interviews with the other Norton nominees:

I finally took a break from inhaling manga to inhale Susan Beth Pfeffer’s Life as we knew it. Wow. I’ll admit I’m fond of post-apocalypse books to start with, but this is a decidely superior example. I read it in one sitting. Could not put it down. Go forth and read! My only complaint: It’d be nice to read one post-apocylpse where New York City and Sydney were not wiped off the face of the earth. Is that too much to ask?

If I were a SFWA member my head would be exploding trying to figure out which book to vote for. They’re all so good (take it as read that I’m not talking about Magic or Madness). Devilish and Peeps are so funny, Touching Darkness so scary and Life as we knew it made me cry.

But I’m still leaning towards Megan Whalen Turner’s King of Attolia. That trilogy is breath-takingly fabulous. I’ve read the first two books, The Thief and Queen of Attolia, many times and King twice. They get better with every read. I hug them to my chest. I honestly can’t think of a better fantasy trilogy. I really hope it wins.

You’ve read the Morm trilogy, now what?

I just received a lovely letter from a fan saying they’d just finished reading Magic’s Child (that was quick!) loved it and now want to know what to read next. They want something that will give them the same “glowy” feeling. *Blush*

Now because I wrote the trilogy I feel really weird saying what books I think are similar. Might make it look like I’m writing tickets on myself and my trilogy. So can you help out my fan? What books would you recommend as a follow up to my trilogy? Preferably books that are readily available.

Thanks!

Manga! Manga! Manga!

So, as mentioned I’ve been reading of the manga and the graphic novels and there has been much joy and bliss and wonder. As usual I don’t mention those what I’ve read and not enjoyed.

Buddha by Osamu Tezuka (Vol. 1)

Fabulous. I don’t have words for how much I loved it. Especially as I put off reading this one for almost a year. And I put it off for the lamest reason imaginable. See, back in the dark ages when I was in primary school one of my scripture teachers gave us all these Jesus comic books to read. They told the story of Jesus, and, well, there is no gentle way to put this: they sucked. The art was unspeakably bad. They were horribly written in a strange ESL English and they were indescribably boring. Seriously they were the worst comic books of all time.

When I was given Buddha, I had a flash back to those bad vile Jesus comic books, and even though the book in my hands had gorgeous artwork, it was still a comic book version of the life of a religious figure, and, I confess, that my heart was filled with dread.

Needlessly.

Buddha is funny, action-packed, moving, the art is gorgeous and Tatta is my new hero. Go forth and read this! I’m convinced that Tezuka can do no wrong.

Her Majesty’s Dragon Dog by Mick Takeuchi (Vols. 1-3)

I don’t want to tell you too much about this. I read it knowing nothing beforehand and it was full of delightful surprises. Kind of a sweet, wry version of Buffy only without vampires.

One of the things I really enjoyed about it and also Nana and Buddha too, now that I think about it, are all the cool, wry, witty authorial asides.

I suspect that I’ve just made a fool of myself in front of the hard-core manga lovers, haven’t I? That’s like a sign of it being manga, isn’t it? Are there any books about the history and development of manga I should be reading? Please to tell. I want to know more!

Monster by Naoki Urasawa (Vols. 1-7)

Wow. Seriously wow. This one seemed to this ignorant reader to owe a lot to Ode to Kirihito. Another doctor hero, lots of surgery scenes, also completely unputdownable. I can’t tell you what agonies I’m in waiting to get my hands on the next few volumes. It hits so many of my buttons, but I can’t say which without major spoilers.

I’d be really happy to discuss all of these in more detail in the comments thread. Just please please please don’t mention anything beyond the volumes I’ve read. And, um, I guess that constitutes a spoiler warning for the comments.

Here’s my big complaint about manga: it’s almost impossible to get hold of the volumes I want. I’ve tried every book shop in NYC trying to get hold of Her Majesty’s Dog vols 4, 5 & 6. And don’t get me started about Buddha. Is there a volume 2, 3, 4 or 5 available on the face of the earth? No, there is not. Lots of 9 and 10s though! Aaaarggghhh!!!!!!!! It drives me completely spare. I need them now. I do not wish to wait. Even stupid Amazon won’t give me more Her Majesty’s. I kick Amazon. I kick NYC book shops. I want more Buddha. And I want it NOW!!!

In short: Manga = good. Not being able to find the vols you want = bad.

Magic’s Child Screensavers + manga

Now available for your delectation: gorgeous Magic’s Child screensavers complete with animated butterflies. I just tested it and it made me squeal with happiness. It comes in mac and pc flavours. Happy sigh. Thank you, Courtney Wood, for all your hard work!

What better way to celebrate the final book in the Magic or Madness trilogy’s arrival (just eleven more days) then to have pretty butterflies flutter across your computer screen?

And now I will return to my manga binge. I gave myself a much deserved (truly!) holiday: I went out and gathered up armloads of delicious manga and now I’m reading it. Why, oh why, did I only get the first four volumes of Monster?! What was I thinking? Everyone told me it was awesome! I need more. I must have more.

Heh hem. Don’t mind me. I’m off to read more of Her Majesty’s Dog. Mmmmm, manga!

Amazon meanness (updated)

Further to Maureen’s wittiness on the topic, I thought I’d add some (sadly) serious thoughts.

First, I’ve heard from pretty much everyone that reviews by punters on Amazon have zero effect on book sales. Let me repeat that for the amazon-review obsessed writers: Amazon reviews have zero effect on book sales. We writers are tieing ourselves in knots over nothing. Do not worry your pretty little head about your amazon reviews—it will not hurt your sales or your career—just your feelings.1

Update: I was referring to nasty Amazon reviews having no effect. Should have made that clearer. Also I have since heard from folks who have worked at or with Amazon that Amazon’s own research shows that punters’ reviews on Amazon has no stastistically significant impact on sales. They may sway you, but that puts you in the minority (according to that research). The vast majority of people going to buy books on Amazon already know what they want. They do not browse. (On the other hand punters’ reviews seem to have an impact on the sale of appliances etc.)

It’s also important for writers to remember that book sales on Amazon are not a very signifcant chunk of the overall book market. I’ve heard estimates that range from 3% to 7% as to what that share is. You can sell badly on Amazon and still be selling very nicely indeed elsewhere. /end update

The reviews on Amazon that make me crankiest are the toxic attacks on writers which almost always say little about the book they’re purportedly reviewing:

I went to tihs riter’s websight and they are bigheads and narcarsitac adn this book sux and they smell bad and there girlfrend is a ho.2

I have taken to pressing the “report this” button cause “reviews” like that really are inappropriate. Review the book, not the person. We all know some writers are jerks, but that’s got nothing to do with the books they write. Some of my favourite books were written by people I’d rather not ever have a beer with. Or, you know, be on the same continent as. Doesn’t stop them being fabulous writers.

What is it with Amazon reviews that brings this viciousness out in certain people? Would they say stuff like that to the writer’s face? What is it about the internet that makes some people feel free to be mean in a way they never would if the person were standing in front of them?

As it happens this syndrome has a name: “online disinhibition effect” and a bunch of research is being done on it.

So next time you’re starting to add something cranky to a comment thread or on amazon or wherever perhaps you should ask yourself if you would say what you’re about to share with the greater online universe to the person’s face. If you wouldn’t then don’t post it.

I wish someone had given me that advice a long time ago. Sadly I’ve been online since 1993 and, um, I have sent many an email and comment that I really really wish I hadn’t. The worse thing, of course, is that stuff will come back to haunt you. I guess that’s why so much online viciousness is posted anonymously. Wish I’d thought of that!

So, anyone want to share (anonymously if you prefer) some of your online misdemeanours? Anything you regret? Am I the only one who’s succumbed to “online disinhibition effect”?

  1. No laughing matter, of course. I believe I’ve mentioned the horrible condition that most writers suffer from: thin-skinitis. []
  2. In case you were wondering: No, I’ve had no such nasty reviews written about me. I mean I’ve had reviews from folks who didn’t like my books but no attacks on me personally. []

Story read out loud in front of the peoples

The reading last night was lovely. I’m now convinced that around five minutes is the perfect length for a reading. I have a shockingly short attention span, but for five minutes long even I can stay focussed.

Of course now I have a whole stack of books I have to pick up to find out what happens next. Everyone was so funny and sweet and excellent. I do so love being read to. Much better than doing the reading . . .

Three years ago I talked about my very first readings and how not fun they were. I’ve read many many many times since then. I no longer experience blind terror, at this stage the terror has eyes and can spot all the people in the room yawning and looking bored, and instead of convulsing my whole body (particularly my vocal chords) the terror just messes with my hands. I also hardly ever throw up or feel like I’m going to now. A vast improvement, no?

I still don’t really enjoy reading.

The hardest part is the minutes just before I read: the waiting-to-read part. I find myself in this strange hyper uncomfortable space not entirely capable of hearing what is going on around me, except my own name, cause when I hear it that means it’s time. I pick up my papers, read the words, sometimes the wrong ones, sometimes skipping a few, aware that my hands could get so out of control that the pages go flying, or I’ll spill water everywhere, or my stomach could revolt. For the last year or so none of those things have happened. I’ve gotten to the end without making too great a fool of myself. Progress!

My reward is the after-reading feeling. A lovely adrenaline rush that stay for ages and makes me feel like I’m floating and invincible and witty and charming. I can get by on that buzz for hours.

I’d still MUCH rather be read to.

How about you lot? Anyone got any horror stories of readings gone wrong to share?

Readings and 500th post

Next week there are three readings in Manhattan that you all need to get to:

Tuesday, 6 March, 7PM (Doors open 6:30 PM)
Andrea Kail and Lauren McLaughlin
will be reading as part of The New York Review of Science Fiction Readings
Admission is free but if you want to support the series a $5 donation would be lovely
South Street Seaport Museum’s Melville Gallery
213 Water Street (near Beekman)

I don’t know Andrea Kail’s work but she shares a background in film and TV with Lauren and sounds most interesting indeed. Lauren’s work I do know. She’s awesome and her book Cycler is hilarious. It’s about a girl who turns into a boy once a month. It comes out from Random House in 2008 so this is your chance to say you knew all about Lauren way back when. Cycler‘s going to be a hit.

Wednesday, 7 March, 6-8PM
Me and these other fabulous YA authors will be reading our little hearts out:
Eireann Corrigan (Ordinary Ghosts)
Erin Downing (Prom Crashers)
Leslie Margolis (Price of Admission)
Justine Larbalestier (Magic’s Child)
Maryrose Wood (Why I Let My Hair Grow Out)
Daniel Ehrenhaft and Adrienne Maria Vrettos (reading from the 21 Proms anthology)
Tompkins Square branch
New York Public Library
331 E. 10th Street (cnr of Ave B)

That is a mighty fabulous lineup. How could you not venure out into the cold to see us? Also I may be handing out Magic or Madness trilogy bookmarks. If I remember to bring them that is. Are you sure you can go through life without such a bookmark? I didn’t think so.

Thursday, 8 March, 7-8:30PM
A reading and discussion with Yvette Christiansë author of Unconfessed.
A book signing reception will follow.
Labyrinth Books
536 West 112th Street
between Broadway and Amsterdam

I’ve spoken about Yvette’s work before. So I will be brief: She’s a genius. You do not want to miss this!

So that’s what I’ll be doing this week. I hope I get to see some of you lot at one of these events. I’ll be the one complaining about the cold.

Also this is my 500th post on this blog. Not bad, eh? If only writing novels were as easy as blogging . . . Here’s to another 500 posts!


PS My friend says many thanks for all the audio book suggestions. Do keep them coming.

Audio Books

A friend is in desperate need of recommendations for really good audio books. Fiction, non-fiction, doesn’t matter just as long as they’re really good. I don’t listen to ’em myself so I was of no use.

Can you help her out?

Perfect quote

Joan Didion1 is wise:

There was nothing I did not discuss with John.

Because we were both writers and both worked at home our days were filled with the sound of each other’s voices.

I did not always think he was right nor did he always think I was right but we were each the person the other trusted. There was no separation between our investments or interests in any given situation. Many people assumed that we must be, since sometimes one and sometimes the other would get the better review, the bigger advance, in some way “competitive”, that our private life must be a minefield of professional envies and resentments. This was so far from the case that the general insistence on it came to suggest certain lacunae in the popular understanding of marriage.

The only amendment I’d make is that it’s not just popular understandings of marriage but of any close relationships. Siblings and close friends are also popularly supposed to be in competition with one another.

I remember when me and two good friends were up for the same scholarship. One of them won. No one would believe that we were happy for her. They did not understand that we could be disappointed for ourselves and happy for her at the same time. Clearly they feared their heads would explode if they admitted that those two feelings could exist side by side.

To avert said head explosion they questioned us further, adding more “reallys?” and “are you sures?” to their questions. We kept saying that we weren’t jealous, that we were overjoyed for our friend. They changed tactics and accused us of protesting too much. We sighed and backed away.

What can you say when you are asked if you’re jealous of your parent/sibling/lover/spouse/best friend? It’s like being asked if you still beat your spouse.2 In fact, just writing this will convince some people that I’m being defensive. (Or that I’m still beating my spouse.)

This view of the world mystifies me. Mostly because in my experience people who see themselves as being in competition with you, who are cranky when you succeed, and rejoice when you fail are not your friends. They will not do good by you. Flee from them! Let me repeat because I think it’s really important:

People who are cranky when you succeed and rejoice when you fail are not your friends.

When someone asks me if I’m jealous or resentful of someone I care about it feels like they’re asking me to say that I’m not friends with that person. Which is why I find it such a weird question. I still haven’t figured out what to say to the people whose response to my boasting about the achievements of a loved one is to console me. Huh? It’s like we’re not living on the same planet.

Why do so many think spouses or siblings or best friends in the same profession are automatically in competition? Is it because movies such as A Star is Born have trained us to think that way? Are we confusing fictional narratives and plot devices with real life?

Because, me, I really don’t get it. Can any of you clue me in?

  1. The quote comes from her moving memoir of the aftermath of her husband’s death, The Year of Magical Thinking. []
  2. For the record: I have never beaten Scott. Not unless he’s asked nicely. 🙂 However, I have on occasion told him he is a poo-head but only when he was totally being a poo-head. []

Ode to Kirihito

I’ve been dipping my toe in the worlds of manga and graphic novels over the past year or so. Allow me to express some neophyte enthusiasm: WOW!!! Seriously, I’ve loved the majority of what I’ve read and the stuff I haven’t like that much in the early volumes (I’m looking at you, Saiyuki) has become fabulous later on.

I’m pretty sure the 90% rule1 still applies, I just happen to have very excellent guides (thank you, Micole, Rachel, and Doselle). And Anne Ishii of Vertical Books who led me to Osamu Tezuka‘s Ode to Kirihito, which I loved so much I feel compelled to rave about it here.

Ode to Kirihito is like nothing I’ve ever read before. So much so that I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s a medical thriller, it’s a philosophic musing about what it is to be human, it’s completely unputdownable. That’s saying something because it is a very big book. There are depraved sideshow performers, corrupt doctors, scary small town locals, depraved and corrupt crime lords, nuns, as well as racist mine overseers.

From page to page I had no idea what was going to happen next, but when it did, it made sense. It all worked. More than worked, it sang.

And that’s just the story. The art is something else again.2 Although Ode was first published in the early 1970s if I hadn’t known that I couldn’t have guessed it. The art looks contemporary. More than that it looks cutting edge contemporary. It’s so beautiful that I would stop to just stare at many of the pages. And, trust me, I’m not someone who will stop to smell the roses when I’m as caught up in a story as I was with Ode to Kirihito. It was just so gorgeous I could not soak it up.

You all have to read this book. It is gobsmackingly awesome. And weird. Very very very weird.

I am now going to read the first volume of Tezuka’s Buddha. I must now read everything he has ever written. He is a genius and I am smitten.

  1. Otherwise known as Sturgeon’s Law: “Ninety per cent of everything is crap”. []
  2. Not that they’re separable. I know that. I’m just new to this, remember. []

Stop asking already

So apparently knowing my position on zombies and unicorns is not enough for you people. You need to know my stance on all the other important issues. Here you go then:

Werewolves versus vampires

Gotta be werewolves. There’s the whole monthly cycle thing. What could be worse1 than menstruating? Turning into a wolf! The whole metaphor for adolescence: “Ew! My body is changing in hairy and grotesque ways!” Plus wolves! What is not unbelievably awesome and fascinating and wondrous about wolves? Nothing!

Best examples: “Boobs” by Suzy McKee Charnas which is possibly the best short story ever written2 and Ginger Snaps, a most excellent Canadian movie.3

Vampires do not do it for me. The thought of getting intimate with someone who’s not only walking dead, but has (usually) been dead for centuries. Ewww! Call me old fashioned but that does not spell romance to me; it spells necrophilia. (I know that seems to contradict my stance on zombies, but no one’s talking zombie boyfriends.)

Superman versus Batman

Batman. Please! Where is the interest in someone who can do everything and can only be defeated with a really lame plot coupon? Kryptonite can kiss my left eyeball. Plus Batman is campy goodness. I am less fond of his darker incarnations. Plus Eartha Kitt! Julie Newmar!

Best examples: the TV show! Kapow! Zap! Biff! Zonk!

Saiyuki versus Scott Pilgrim

No! Don’t make me choose! I can’t. My brain will explode. The world will break into tiny pieces. I loves them both. I do! A jeep that’s a dragon versus dance fights with evil ex-boyfriends? They’re both so wonderfully cracktastically heavenly. If you haven’t gotten into either you really really really should.

I can give you no more answers. I’m too busy clutching my copies of Saiyuki and Scott Pilgrim to my chest and sobbing over their perfection. (Plus gotta go pack for Houston.)

But feel free to ask more curly quessies and supply your own answers. Though not if they’re the wrong answers, obviously. That’s right, unicorn lovers, I mean you.

  1. Some would say better. There are times when I would rather be a wolf than menstruating . . . []
  2. Except for all the other great short stories. []
  3. I quite like the sequel, but on no account see the third one. In fact, let us just pretend there is no third movie. []

Blurbs

John Scalzi has a post up explaining his blurb policy. He even kindly explains what blurbs are.

I think his policy is so spot on that I’ve adopted it (slightly amended) as my own:

1. Yes, I am happy to look at books and if I love them I will blurb them.

I adore reading my peers’ work and getting to read them ahead of publication is particularly exciting. It makes me feel like I’m really part of the Young Adult publishing world with my little ole finger right on the pulse. Not to mention that being asked for a blurb is an honour.1 It says that someone somewhere thinks my say so might be good enough to sell a book. That’s flattering as hell. I mean, Wow.

So far I’ve been lucky: None of the books I’ve been asked to blurb have been bad. And yet I’ve blurbed only one novel. I’ve not blurbed books I thought were pretty darn good because I didn’t think they’d be a good fit with my audience. Or because they touch on certain taboos or bugbears of mine. (You know, like unicorns or negative portrayals of Australians.)

I have now read and not blurbed several books by people I know and like and who’ve written other books I would have blurbed in a heartbeat. It sucks, but not as much as having my name on the back of a book that I feel uncomfortable about. I can’t have my readership thinking I endorse unicorns.

I have to really love a book or think it’s doing something important or new to have my name on the back extolling its virtues. I don’t have the largest readership in the world, but I want my readers to know that if I’m talking up someone else’s book I’m really into it. That way if they read it, hate it, and call me on it, I can in good conscience say, “I blurbed it because I loved it. I’m sorry you don’t agree.”

2. Requests for blurbs should come from the book’s editor or publisher, not from the writer.

That’s the ideal, but sometimes your editor is too busy, or your press too small to do it, and it falls on your shoulders. I understand. I’ve been there.

Scalzi gives lots of excellent reasons why it’s better for the blurb request to come from the publishing house than from the writer. I’ll add another one: it’s really embarrassing for a writer to have to ask another writer to publically praise them.

I’ve had to ask writers to sing the glories of me. Even if I know they like my work, and are likely to be willing, it makes me feel like I’m going to throw up. I really really really hate having to ask. I’d much rather have someone else do that. I’d much rather not know if a writer chooses not to blurb me. I’d much rather not even know who was asked.

And I’d really much rather have writers not know I’ve been asked to blurb their books so it never comes up that I haven’t done so. Having to explain to a friend why you won’t blurb their book is one of the world’s least fun things to do. Me, I don’t even like hurting the feelings of authors I’ve never met! Scalzi’s right, it’s just like shooting their dog. And how do you tell someone you shot their dog cause you really hate unicorns?

I have several writer friends who have a no-blurb policy. I’m starting to think that’s a really good idea. The reason I can’t adopt it is that so many people have blurbed me. It would feel churlish not to blurb other people. I know from fan mail that people have picked up my books because of blurbs from Holly Black, Samuel R. Delany, Cory Doctorow and Karen Joy Fowler. While I don’t have anywhere near their audience, if a blurb from me will help someone new whose work I love, than of course I will blurb them.

The other scary thing about blurbs—and let’s face it they’re a whole lot of terror for a writer—is that they’re really really hard to write. Seriously it’s easier to write a whole new novel than it is to write a good blurb:

“You should read this book. It is really good. I liked it. Heaps.”
—Justine Larbalestier, author of books that must really suck if that’s her idea of a good blurb.

Gah!

  1. Though who gets asked is a mystery to me, seeing as how I get asked to do it so much more often than Scott “New York Times Bestselling Author” Westerfeld does. What’s up with that?
    []

An interview and some questions

Adrienne Martini interviewed me for Bookslut about Daughters of Earth and Battle of the Sexes. Go have a squiz. Co-incidentally Martini was just interviewed by Scalzi and it made me want to read her book.

The questions:

If Stephen Colbert shook your hand today would you ever wash it again? Just wondering.1

Is Diana Wynne Jones’s latest book, The Pinhoe Egg, her best in years?2 Oh, you know it is. That book made me so happy!

  1. Not that I have any plans of washing while it’s still winter. What if the hot water cuts out while I’m all soaped up? I’ll wash again in June when I leave the flat again. []
  2. Not that the last few books were bad in any way, shape or form—I don’t believe that she could write a bad book—they were just less genius-y than my faves of hers. []

RW4: Novels I despise

Wicked Jenny D requests that I write more

scathing posts about novels you don’t like in which we have to guess what they are and you annoyingly and mysteriously refrain from telling us.

First up I have to establish the rules of this game.

    Rule no. 1: If you are a friend of mine who has heard my rants and knows what books I refer to you may not act like you’re guessing in the comments thread. That would be evil, immoral and wrong.

    Rule no. 2: All guesses must be as vague as possible and not include actual book titles or author’s names. That way no author will get offended that you’re even guessing that any of these dreadful books could be by them. This rule does not apply to dead authors.

    Rule no. 3: No authors may guess that I’m talking about their novel. I adore all novels written by authors who read this blog. Even those I haven’t read.

    Rule no. 4: I will annoyingly and mysteriously refrain from telling you what the books are. Yes, even if you email me and beg.

Despised novel the first:

It starts off and the reader1 thinks it’s going to be the best book of all time. The situation is exciting and funny and wry, but also a little bit sad. It then turns into a blokey stream-of-conscious-my-life-sucks-and-no-girl-loves
-me-especially-not-the-girl-I-have-a-crush-on-who-is-too-good-for-me pile of steaming excrement. Someone is tormenting him. The torments make no sense. He runs around doing stuff. The girl-who-is-too-good-for-him rejects him. The reader is more and more inclined to agree that the girl is too good for him. He does more stuff. The girl unrejects him. The reader is aghast. It all turns out to be a dream. The reader throws the book across the room.

Despised novel the second:

An obsessive bloke ponders whiteness and pursues a whale. Oh, bugger it. The book’s Moby Dick and I hate it so much I cannot express my hatred. Gah! I wish I had never ever tried to wade through its turgidity. Stupid book club.

I do love Melville’s short fiction, but. I’m not a total philistine, people.

And before you suggest it, yes, it’s prolly because I’m not American that I do not get the most genius work your nation has ever produced. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?

Despised novel the third:

There’s a new girl at school. Although she’s worried about how she’ll adjust everyone loves her, even the coolest guy in school. This is fortunate as she loves the coolest guy in school too. They hang out. The new girl falls over a lot. The cool guy picks her up a lot. There are lame unbelieveable obstacles that are quickly cleared. But in the end they are separated for some reason that is not particularly clear to this reader. The follow-up books are even worse and feature more falling over and being picked up. The protag’s real name is Mary Sue.

Despised novel the fourth:

A middle-aged-but-still-sexy-damnit college professor has an affair with one of his students while his wife washes dishes slowly, seeing her life reflected in the suds. Or so the college professor imagines. However, as he rarely speaks to, or pays any attention at all to said wife it’s a puzzle where his conjectures come from. I’m thinking out of his arse whence the novel derives its origin. The protag’s name should be Gary Stu (the male equivalent of Mary Sue). Which is ironic as I bet a gazillion dollars that the esteemed author never heard of no Gary Stu. I confess that I couldn’t even finish this one.

If I get into trouble for this post I would like to point out that it’s Jenny D’s fault. Hate her, not me!

Feel free to rant about novels you hate in the comments. But, please, keep it vague! Very very very vague. We authors are delicate creatures whose feelings can be crushed with even a slightly unenthusiastic word.2 Do you really want to make an author cry?

  1. I say “the reader” because I cannot conceive of an intelligent human being who could like this book or have a different reaction to it. Sadly I have some friends who do like this book, but clearly they were under the influence of a malign star while reading it, so I forgive them. []
  2. Possibly even the dead ones. Sorry, Mr Melville! []

What authors owe their readers

There’s been much debate about what authors owe their readers out there in bloggyland. I think the whole thing is really rather simple:

When I’ve got my writing hat on then it’s very clear that authors owe their readers absolutely nothing. Do you hear me readers? I owe you nothing!

I can write about what I want, when I want, and how I want. If I want to set fire to your favourite character’s hair, push them off a cliff, and then jump on them, I can and I will, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. So nyer!

When I’ve got my reading hat on, then it’s very very clear that authors owe me exactly the book I was expecting. And Mr Pullman in particular owes me big time for the rubbish third book in the Dark Materials trilogy.1 Do you hear me writers? You owe me everything!

You owe me more books in my favourite series even if you’re bored with them. You owe me unharmed favourite characters, or at least not in a fatal way. And if you do kill them then you have to bring them back as a zombie or a ghost and they have to be sexy zombie-ghosts. Also you have to make sure you visit wherever I happen to be, and sign my books, and read to me when I want you to. You are my slave. Get cracking! I want more books and I want them NOW!

There, I’m glad that one’s sorted.

  1. Mr Pullman, sir? I didn’t mean it. Honest. The first two books are so unbelievably good that I forgive you for the, um, less than brilliance of the third. Okay, not less than brilliant. It’s more like it’s differently brilliant. You are a genius and I am not worthy. I tug my forelock.

    Okay, shutting up now . . . []

Faults

I have many faults, but the one I’m feeling baddest about at the moment is my tendency to dismiss a writer on the basis of very little. For example:

  • If I meet a writer and I think they’re obnoxious I won’t read them. This is very very bad of me. Because I am a writer and I can be totally obnoxious (especially if my blood sugar is low), so if other people are as intolerant as I am, and they meet me when I haven’t eaten, odds are they will never read me. To make this even more circular I am most especially likely to decide a writer is obnoxious and I will not read them when my blood sugar is low and I am being obnoxious.
  • I will read one short story, or worse one or two pages of a short story or novel, and if it doesn’t immediately grab me, I will decide the writer is vastly overrated and never read them. This despite the fact that my own short stories in no way reflect the quality of my novels. Or vice versa. And many writers improve. So an early sucky story says nothing about their later quality. Not to mention that my mood (blood sugar levels) greatly affects whether I will keep reading a story.
  • If I hear a writer read, and they’re not any good at it, I will never read them, no matter how much praise I’ve heard. A bad reading kills the writing for me stone cold dead. This is particularly unfair as I’m an erratic reader and suckiness is sadly part of my repertoire (especially if my blood sugar is low).
  • If a friend whose taste I trust tells me a book sucks I won’t read it unless it is the only book available. This is why it took me so long to discover the joys of the Bartimaeus trilogy—a friend I love and trust told me it sucked. They were so wrong! But why are my friends going to be any more consistent than I am? They have their blood sugar issues too.
  • I also won’t read book by people who have dissed writers I adore. I don’t care how much they’ve been raved about, or by whom, or how many people insist that I will love love love them, if they’ve dumped on Angela Carter, or Georgette Heyer, or Dorothy Dunnett, or Patricia Highsmith, or Ruth Park, or any number of other writers, I won’t touch their books with a barge pole.

Writing is a tenuous profession and too many of us passionate readers are certifiably insane. It’s shockingly easy to turn off potential readers. You can do it with a word (use “jasmine” and you’ve lost Margo Lanagan), a bad clothing choice on the part of a character (I put a book down once because the supposedly hip protag was wearing hot pink lycra), a factual error (I have stopped reading otherwise fine books because they had Canberra being a short bus ride from Sydney).

You can also lose readers through no fault of your own: because they don’t like your cover, because they don’t like your author photo, or the way you spell your name, or won’t read paperbacks, or books by Australians.

So you’ll never catch me insulting fellow writers on my blog—too risky! I don’t want to piss them off (we writers have such long memories), or their fans (ditto), nor do I want to rack up any more bad karma (I’m bowed under the weight of what I’ve already got!). And I resolve to make sure my blood sugar levels are where they should be before reading a new book or attending a reading.

Young Adult v Adult

What is the difference between young adult literature and plain old adult literature?

Now there’s a question that should be first on my faq. I sure do get asked it a lot. Invariably by someone who knows nothing about ya, often by someone who hadn’t even heard the term until they asked me what I do for a living, and sometimes by someone with a big ole sneer on their face.

It’s a hard question and my answers depends on how irritated I am by the asker. Here are a few:

  • Unlike adult fiction YA is actually good
  • YA can be read in less than a day
  • YA is never about a middle-aged professor who has affairs with his students
  • Or about anyone moving to Mexico or Indonesia to find themselves
  • YA is commercial fiction where the writer gets to experiment with the form without their publishers’ head exploding
  • A YA writer can write whatever genre they want—romance, crime, sf, fantasy, horror, western, whatever—and still have all their books be in the same place in the bookshop and not lose the love of their publisher
  • YA writers get to meet some of the smartest teenagers around (hi, Erinn!)
  • And hang out with all the cool librarians

Anybody else wanna add to the list?

Summer in Australia

I just came across a lovely piece by Mark Lawrence about the outsiderness of living through Australian summers while knowing very little about cricket:

What [being a migrant] means is that I have very little understanding of the finer points of cricket, and don’t play it at all well. I can’t tell the difference between ‘long leg’ and ‘short leg’, and I have absolutely no idea where ‘mid-on’ is. After over a decade living in Australia, I do have an idea of how the game is played, but only a middling understanding of how it is scored or how a test proceeds. Strategy? Not a scratch. So much so that during the recent Ashes test in Adelaide, I had trouble keeping up with what was going on, while my colleagues could assess exactly how the day’s play had progressed and what the scores meant in an instant. I was left going, ‘What happened? What happened?’.

Of course, as he points out, there are lots of Australians who don’t give a damn about cricket, actively hate it even. Sadly many of them are friends of mine. At dinner last night as I was trying to talk with another cricket-loving friend about Shane Warne’s retirement, the rest of the table stuck their fingers in their ears and starting humming. It is to sigh.

But, yes, during an Australian summer cricket is everywhere. It’s the main headline on the sports page and quite often the front page too. You see it played on television (free-to-air and cable), on the various cricket grounds around the country, in parks, on beaches and in backyards. It’s played at all levels: from muck around family games where the stumps are an esky, through school competitions, grade and state levels, all the way up to international test series.

For me, even more than cicadas, the voices of Alan McGilvray, James Maxwell, Geoff Lawson and the rest of the ABC’s radio commentary team past and present has long been the sound of summer. Cricket discussions with my family, my (non-insane) friends, cab drivers, wait staff, people in queues for the bus are as much a part of summer as mangoes and passionfruit.

What will our side be without Shane Warne? Is Langer going to retire too? What about Hayden and Gilchrist? Is this the end of Australian cricket supremacy? How long before Murali takes Warne’s world record?

Lawrence worries that his cricket ignorance will affect his son’s progress in the game:

To an extent, my concern is whether my son will lack the necessary cricket skills, as I don’t want him to miss out on learning the game and being included in the matches that will invariably spring up at school, or at the beach or park with friends and family as the summer progresses.

But I recognise there is more to it: some of these concerns stem from my anxieties about what it means to be a migrant in Australia and, by extension, being an outsider. It is also an anxiety about whether I can truly prepare my son to be at home in Australian culture – to not be an outsider through no choice or fault of his own.

My father is the son of migrants from a non-cricket playing country (Poland/Ukraine) who knew nothing about the game and cared less. But he grew up loving and playing cricket and passed that love onto me and my sister. (As did my fourth or fifth generation Australian mother.) I grew up listening to, watching, talking about and (very) occasionally playing cricket in the backyard.

In my teens, inspired by the Bodyline mini-series, I started to read about the history of cricket. The first book I read was a very poorly written biography of Donald Bradman. The first book I enjoyed was Sid Barnes’ autobiography, which confirmed my admiration of Bradman the batsman and dislike for Bradman the man. I also discovered Keith Miller and fell in love.

The history of cricket is the history of English colonialism; they brought cricket with them wherever they went. In some place it died out: For my birthday this year Scott bought me two gorgeous American prints from the 1870s. One of them shows international cricket being played in New England. The other shows a game of baseball looking remarkably like a game of cricket.

In some places it did not: A quarter of the world’s population lives in cricket-playing nations. Just read C. L. R. James’ Beyond a Boundary on cricket in the West Indies and Ramachandra Guha’s Corner of a Foreign Field on cricket in India and Pakistan. They are not only extraordinary books on cricket, they are amongst the best non-fiction books I’ve ever read, bringing the complexity of the game and its history alive. They are about race, class, caste, gender, nationhood, politics and colonialism, because it’s impossible to write a good book about cricket without touching on those issues.

The books of Gideon Haigh are also remarkable and have taught me a great deal about the history of cricket in my own country. And thus a great deal about Australia. You don’t have to like, or give a rat’s arse about cricket to be Australian. But knowing a little of the game’s history teaches you a little more about Australia’s. For example, our first team to tour England was Aboriginal, and yet the official Australian team has had almost no representatives of Aboriginal ancestory.

I didn’t start loving cricket because of its happy history of illuminating colonial relationships, but reading its history has made an already rich and complicated sport irresistably fascinating to me. There are few sports with as long and rich a history. And I can’t help but want to share that fascination with other people, Australian or not.

I hope that Mark Lawrence is curious enough to read some of those books. It is truly not necessary to know the difference between “long leg” and “short leg” to enjoy them (or cricket for that matter). Though if he does want to know there’s a rather helpful *cough* *cough* guide right here.

Your book no belonga you

Recently, I’ve come across a few writers complaining about idiotic readings of their work. Which is fine I’ve been known to do the same. But one writer went so far as to claim that there is but one true way to read their work, and that they are the only one privy to it, and yet anyone who reads their work differently is deeply stupid. Excuse me?

Your book no belonga you. If you wrote about the nobility of bad bad banksia men and one of your readers chooses to read your book as a racist attack on bad bad banksia men then that’s their reading and nothing you can do or say will change that reading.

You can write whatever you want, but no matter how finely crafted, no matter how clever you are, some reader out there will read it in a way you find completely inexplicable. Like the friend of mine who persists in thinking that Magic or Madness is a thinly veiled autobiography. What now?

You cannot control the way your books are read. Once a book is published it’s no longer yours. It’s out there being read and interpreted and enjoyed and hated and there’s nothing you can do about it. Not a single thing. Your book no belonga you.

And you know what? That’s mostly a deeply cool thing. I especially enjoyed this review of Magic Lessons by Tansy Rayner Roberts because she talked about one of my characters in ways that surprised me. I honestly hadn’t thought of Esmeralda in that way.

One of the greatest delights of being a writer is having readers reveal your books to you in unexpected ways. Sure, I mightn’t agree with some of their interpretations but so what? They probably don’t agree with some of mine. Cause, you know, my books no belonga me.

How to write a fantasy novel (Updated)

So I was going to write a sequel to my earlier post on how to write a novel specifically about how to write a fantasy novel. There was going to be lots of stuff on world building, on inventing your own languages, not to mention how to build a robust magic system. It would have had all that jazz, but it turns out that such a text already exists.

That’s right, to save me lots of time, effort and typing Diana Wynne Jones has helpfully written the one true guide to writing fantasy novels. That book is called The Tough Guide to Fantasyland and it is a work of unsurpassed genius.

It first came out in 1996, but the recently revised and updated edition published by Firebird books in the US of A is the one you want because it is thing of beauty and surpasses the usefulnesss of the first one a hundredfold.

If you love fantasy you need this book. Because it’s really really really funny. You will recognise every single thing she makes mock of.

If you hate fantasy you need this book. Because it makes mock of everything you’ve ever hated about the genre. You will laugh and laugh and laugh.

If you’ve ever contemplated writing a fantasy novel you need this book. It covers every possible cliche of the genre in long and mocking detail. Once read you will never use any of those cliches. Or if you do you will breathe new life into them. For if you do not Diana Wynne Jones’ mocking voice will leak into your dreams and you will never sleep well again. Trust me, you don’t want that.

And if you’ve never read any of Diana Wynne Jones’ novels then on your bike! I recommend Fire and Hemlock or Archer’s Goon or Howl’s Moving Castle or, you know, pretty much all of them.

She’s one of the best fantasy writers working today and in Tough Guide to Fantasyland she shares all the tricks of the trade. What more could you ask for?

Update: Sharyn November, who edited this edition, reminds me that the original was a Hugo finalist (which means I have something in commone with Diana Wynne Jones! We were both shortlisted in the same category of the Hugos! Woo hoo!) and a World Fantasy award finalist. Sharyn says that the Firebird edition is completely redesigned, has a new map, and Wynne Jones has written additional material.

I’d also add that the Firebird edition is not littered with typoes like the original was. I don’t often notice typoes, but, wow, were there a lot in the original edition.

Best of the year list

Magic Lessons just made a best book of the year list. The insideadog (inky) favourites of 2006. Woo hoo! I’m particularly gratified because poor wee little Magic Lessons has not been getting the critical love that Magic or Madness did. Despite it being the better book. At least I think it is. And I wrote so I should know, right? (Oh, hush!)

What’s more the insideadog list is fabulous! (Not surprising given what a fabbie site it is.) Of the fourteen books on it I’ve read and adored eight* (obviously not counting Magic Lessons). I can’t remember the last time I saw a list I was so simpatico with. I am now going to run out and get the books on it I’ve not already read. You should too.

What young adult books do you think have been overlooked this year? Or not just YA—what were your favourite critically and/or popularly unappreciated books of 2006? Is there a book you’ve been going on and on about that seems to be flying under everyone’s radar? Speak up!


Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist by Rachel Cohn & David Levithan
Looking for Alaska by John Green
We Are the Weather Makers by Tim Flannery
Notes from the Teenage Underground by Simmone Howell
The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie by Jaclyn Moriarty
Dairy Queen by Catherine Gilbert Murdock
Temeraire by Naomi Novik
Peeps by Scott Westerfeld

Reading

The response to my bitching about chapter titles was interesting. Much skiting from the virtuous I-read-evey-single-itty-bitty-little-thing camp. And much guilty admissions from those of us with less patient reading approaches. Thank you! Nice to know I’m not alone.

Though I always read acknowledgments and dedications. Hello! That’s gossip. I adore gossip!

I do however read the acks last and thus prefer them to be at the back of the book. (I insisted on it for the Magic or Madness books.) That way you won’t be spoiled by finding out that the author’s thanked an expert on eighteenth-century Spanish daggers. I mean, please! You might as well scream that the protag is going to be gravely wounded by an eighteenth-century Spanish dagger! What’s the point in reading after you’ve learned that?

But like many of you I never ever read the jacket or cover copy before reading a novel for the first time. Oh, how I hates them! If I’m checking to see if a novel’ll grab me I give it the first-paragraph test. I never turn it over to see what vile spoilers or lies are printed on the back.

Of course, I realise that I—and I bet quite a few of you—prolly do both kinds of reading. The first time I read a novel is when I greedily bolt it down, almost skimming in my urgency to find out what happens. On my second read I’m less out-of-control. I’ll read the copy (marvelling at its lies and/or spoilers) and the introduction. I might even start noticing stuff like point of view, the cunningly little set-ups, and, um, maybe even chapter titles. Though probably not until my third or fourth read.

The sloppiness of my first reads is prolly why I re-read so often. There’s alway a tonne more for me to discover—even on the millionth read. See? Smarty pants we-read-every-little-word people? I’m virtuous too!

What are your fave re-read books? Mine are all comfort reads and they’re almost all by Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, and Raymond Chandler. I know, I know. How predictable!

The Year of Little Reading

Due to lots of very boring reasons, this year I read fewer books than I ever have before. Horrifying but true. I was even worse than I usually am at critiquing friends’ manuscripts, for which I am truly and abjectly sorry. I regret, too, all the books people sent me that I didn’t read. I suck. And, yes, I was also a horrible, horrible, horrible correspondent this year. I really hope next year will be better.

So here are some of the books I did read this year and highly recommend (you’ll notice I don’t give away much in the way of plot—that’s because I hate knowing too much about books before I read them. I like surprises, me, and I’m assuming you do, too!):

M. T. Anderson‘s The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. 1: The Pox Party. I’m not sure I can add anything to what everyone else has said. This book is unbelievably good. Astonishingly so.

March by Geraldine Brooks is another book that’s been hyped so much I became deathly afraid of actually reading it. Not to worry. Believe the hype!

Ursula Dubosarsky‘s The Red Shoe and Theodora’s Gift have been winning every award going in Australia this year. Deservedly. Dubosarsky is the author of more than twenty books for children and young adults. She is a flawless writer whose mastery of storytelling leaves me breathless. I wish I could write like that! She’s not nearly as well-known outside Australia as she deserves to be. You must track down her books. I also particularly recommend The First Book of Samuel to which Theodora’s Gift is a completely standalone sequel.

Xavier Herbert Capricornia. Kind of embarrassing that I’d never read this Australian classic before. Maybe because the words “Australian classic” fill my heart with fear—despite having loved so many of them (My Brilliant Career, anyone? Or The Getting of Wisdom? Or Ride on Stranger? Not to mention Come in Spinner). Capricornia is a wild and unruly mess. It’s bleak and depressing and funny and searing and one of the most compelling examinations of race relations in Australia (or anywhere else for that matter) that I’ve ever read. I may even be brave enough to tackle the 40 million page Poor Fellow My Country now. Or maybe not. Four bazillion million pages is an awful lot!

It’s hard to believe that Notes from the Teenage Underground by Simmone Howell is a debut novel. The voice is so assured, the plotting flawless. It has none of the usual first novel lumps and bumps. I felt like I was reading an account of my school days even though the book is set in Melbourne, not Sydney. I’ve since talked to other readers and they said the same thing even though they went to school in Montreal and Los Angeles. Me thinks Howell has hit some universals in a very readable local way.

The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie by Jaclyn Moriarty. Moriarty is a genius. Pure and simple. She writes fast-paced, hilarious, heart-breaking and shudder-inducing books that are entirely made up of letters, dairy entries, legal depositions, shopping lists. You name it—she throws it into the mix. I don’t know how she does it. Bindy Mackenzie is her most recent and best book to date. Awesome.

The Ghost with Trembling Wings: Science, Wishful Thinking and the Search for Lost Species by Scott Weidensaul is one of the most beautifully written and compellingly readable natural history books I’ve ever read. Every single page gave me a new idea for a novel, but I couldn’t pause to jot my ideas down because I was too desperate to see what would happen, to follow his arguments, and get lost in the wilds of Tasmania trying to find evidence of the continuing existence of Thylacines.

I strongly recommend every single one of these books. Have any of you read them? What did you think?

Also if you have any recommendations for excellent and idea-giving non-fiction books, please do share. No fiction recommendations, though. I got way too many novels and short story collections to catch up on. And frankly all I want to do is read Georgette Heyer.

Adulthood (Updated)

What is an adult?

I mean I’m way over 13 or 18 or 21 or any of the other arbitrary points at which you magically become one. But I know that by certain standards I’m not an adult.

I have no children. I don’t own a house or a flat or any other kind of property. Nor do I own a car. And I’ve never been through any initiation-to-adulthood ceremonies. Or killed any enemies of my tribe.

I have had sex and been drunk though. I’m married. I also have a job. Or at least am self-employed. So I’ve got some claims to adulthood other than my chronological age. But for some that’s not enough.

Those people for whom you have to leap a bunch of arbitrary hurdles in order to be a “real” adult have been around since the very dawn of time.1 They reckon the childless, property-less youngies are layabouts what don’t hold up the previous generation’s standards and know bugger all about responsibility and blah blah blah.

Generations have been bagging the generation that came after them since forever. There’s a famous quote from Thucydides or Herodutus or someone bagging the young uns, but I’m not in the mood to go hunt it down. It sounds exactly like Bill O’Reilly insisting that America is about to be destroyed because of all those young uns and their devil video games.

Utter, uttter, utter rubbish. Chariot racing didn’t destroy the fabric of society and neither has the charleston, television, or the humble ipod.

My dear friend, the multi-talented Kate Crawford, has recently published a book on this very topic. Adult Themes in which she examines how this debate evolved and how very stupid it is. Why aren’t the folks under forty getting married, having babies and buying houses as quickly and as often as their parents did? Because houses are way more expensive, as is raising a kid. Der.

Adult Themes is awesome. Funny, smart and wicked to the point. You should all read it.

Update: and if you wish to buy it go here. As far as I know the book has only been published in Australia so far.

In the meantime. Those of you who are adults—do you feel like one? What is it that makes you feel like a grown up? Or do you feel like an imposter?

And for those you aren’t adults yet—whatcha reckon you’ll need to do to become one?

Update: Sherwood Smith has now written very eloquently and movingly on this subject.

  1. Or, you know, that time when humans were evolved enough to start bitching at one another. []

Magic’s Child preview!

The rumours are true—I am a wee bit under the weather. Thanks for all your kind comments and emails! You make me feel like the Queen Mum. (In a good—rather than dead—way.) Hence the no blogging and not responding to emails and the rest of it.

While I have been coughing up lungs, sweating, shivering, aching and moaning, the lovely Deborah Biancotti has been updating my website. Where you can now

  • Read the first two chapters of the final book in the Magic or Madness trilogy, Magic’s Child. (If you’ve not read the first two books then you prolly don’t want to read these on account of their spoilerificness.)
  • and

  • See what some early readers thought of it. If you are a spoiler obsessive who doesn’t want even the faintest shadow of a hint of what the book contains avert your eyes! Here are some assorted adjectives to whet your appetite: “big”, “lovely”, “heartrending”, “redemptive”, “sad”, “happy”, “thrilling”, “wonderful”, “satisfying”, “powerful”, “spectacular”, “charming” and “true”.

Magic’s Child will be available in the States in March. There’s no word yet on the Australian publication date. I’ll let you all know as soon as I know.

And now back to lung coughing up . . .

The uses of bad fiction

Matthew Cheney has just posted a thoughtful discussion of “Created He Them”, one of the stories in Daughters of Earth. I agree with him that it is one of the best stories in the collection and definitely one of the most haunting. And Yaszek’s essay adds layers upon layers.

Matthew says that he would not describe all of the stories in the collection as “good”. Singling out Wilhelm’s “No Light in the Window” and goes on to remark:

    Indeed, an anthology such as this, one that seeks to examine and re-examine particular types of writing within their historical and political contexts, would do a disservice by including only great stories, because that would create a false picture of literary history. [Which is not to suggest there aren’t great stories here — there are.] The essays are insightful, and the stories provide the material for their insights, thus creating a new context, one in which a discussion occurs between generations and various types of writers.

And that, dear readers, is exactly what I was going for. Bless you, Mr Cheney!

Although I wouldn’t describe any of the stories in the collection as bad per se (well, okay, the first one maybe) I’ve long believed that you can learn just as much from bad fiction as from good. Actually more. When something is badly written its operations are very close to the surface—you can see what’s going on more clearly than in something that’s extremely well-written.

See, Archer girls? This is the advice that I give everyone! Sometime when I’m not in a huge hurry I’ll give some examples.

And now I must race to get ready for Scott’s keynote address here in Seattle.

Milan Kundera & the Unbearable Lightness of Wankery

The 9 Oct New Yorker features an article by Milan Kundera called “What is a Novelist: How great writers are made”. And, um, I really, really hope it was written with tongue firmly in cheek cause otherwise these are the pearls of wisdom Mr Kundera offers:

    Novelists are like lyric poets except that youth is the lyrical age and novelists are old.

    To be a novelist you must tear away your lyrical chyrsalis.

    We are always wearing make-up.

    The novelist must tear through the curtain of pre-interpretation.

    Girl characters are actually based on boy characters.

    Readers don’t read novels they read themselves reading novels.

    We must all embrace the Whole.

    Beat your grandmother.

To which I can only say, “Innit!”1

  1. “Innit” is the one word in the entire world that has the magical property of instantly undoing the pretentiousness of anything previously said. I imagine Mr Kundera must have to use it A LOT. []