{cover & swag}

Have I shown you this cover yet?

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[CLICK TO LET IT EAT YOUR SCREEN]

Is it not stunning? So ORANGE it is. SO orange. I immediately want one of those Outshine Tangerine Carrot ice lollys, as the Scots call them. I want to roll around in that sizzling hue. I love, love, love the vibrant colors. *happy sigh*

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This final cover is the result of a lengthy negotiation between my understanding of the book’s characters, and the designers’ understanding of the job before them. I’ve been asked not to share design “dud” rejected for the official cover – and really, it wasn’t a dud, per se, it just wasn’t right for this book – but the original concept introduced to me was a broad lawn on which two girls lay – separated by a lot of space. Unfortunately, they were separated from the reader as well – we looked down on them from far, far away, and to me, they looked tired, or hung over, or …something passive. This was brought back to me cropped in various ways, lightened, darkened — but it was variations on a theme, and for me, it didn’t work no matter how we angled our gaze. For one thing, there was a glut of books a few years ago that looked like lawn-care manuals with all of that grass. For another, a quick check through internet images will net romantic YA novels like STEALING PARKER by Miranda Kennally and the paperback of THE FAULT IN OUR STARS by that one guy — both with people lying on lawns. And there are more. MANY more. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong a lawn, one of the characters in the novel is not a product of suburbia, and would probably never be found just lying down on nature — not public nature, anyway. You don’t know where that’s been. We take so much for granted, culturally, and we can be quite tone-deaf sometimes about projecting our perceptions. So, it was a “no” from me, over and over.

It is hard enough differentiating a book from the herd; it’s easier when your book doesn’t look like another book that just came out. Hopefully I didn’t frustrate too many people as I quietly lobbied for a whole new design. And asked my agent to help me lobby for a new design – and we got one! And it just pops with that brilliant color.

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The designs you see accompanying this book are MY design duds. Now, I don’t always do as much public PR stuff as I *cough* should with regard to books (still vainly hoping that merely writing them is enough) but as soon as I knew I’d have a book out in February (a discovery brought home to me by the ARCs arriving two months ago – previously I understood there was an Autumn release date, not early-early Spring) I started checking into costs and considerations on creating swag for giveaways.

Aside: There is a wildly misunderstood notions by those outside the industry and some authors who are independently published or published through a small press, that only THEY have to worry with doing their own PR. Haha, no, I am published by one of the BIGGEST of the “Big Six” (which is now Big 5, since two morphed into one RandomPenguin) and this is still something I need to do, and it is my money that goes into it. (While we’re on the topic, did you read that the Author’s Guild reported most writers earn below the poverty line? Unless your name is Joanne and you wrote about wizards whilst living in Scotland, you’re usually not rich. Thanks to Tech Boy, I worry a bit less about this, but…) It’s a choice we all make, how much of our advance we plow back into PR stuff, how helpful and fun it is for readers, etc. Wise writers have advised it’s a better use of time/funds than social media.

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A rummage through Google brought a few helpful ideas to the fore, beginning with Sherri D. Ficklin’s tips on price and practicality, on through the magical Joyce Wan, and into the wilds of Etsy, a dangerous place to go with your wallet. I found quite a bit of fodder for swag, but the most helpful thing has been the niecelet currently living here rent-free being a newly minted graphic designer with an MFA in Advertising and Art Direction from Academy of Art University. I advise EVERYONE to find one of these if they can, trés helpful. (Oh, don’t look like that. I’m not using her, I’m a client. And, I’m going to pay her. Eventually.) We did a lot of brainstorming through the summer on what we could come up with, and… I said “No” to her a number of times, and felt increasingly embarrassed about it. However, as she reminded me repeatedly, at the end of the day, nobody is going to love my book project more than me, so I sat down and did some actual designing myself. Niecelet made it look like it wasn’t done by chimpanzees using broken crayons on a laptop screen, and the upshot is that bags and magnets containing my design should be arriving next month.

I feel professional! And excited! And a little horrified by how expensive it is to get things printed on bags! Never mind, though – it’s a great way to connect with librarians and bookstore owners, and some lucky person in a few months will get a finished copy of the book with a bag or a magnet or — heck, maybe both. Stay tuned, ALL SHALL BE REVEALED…

{some “broad” hints…}

When you get SCREEN CAPS from friends (broads?) to let you know a.) that they’re talking about you online, b.) that they’re talking about you online in a forum to which you have no access c.) that they’re talking about you online in a forum to which you have no access and want to make sure that you know they can say whatever obnoxious thing about you that they want because you’re not there to defend yourself, you know it’s probably past time to join Twitter.

If your agent/editor/book designer gives you exasperated side-eye because you won’t reconsider Facebook… yes, you, too can be shamed into joining Twitter — even if your agent/editor/book designer doesn’t tweet, you can hope they acknowledge that Twitter’s “better than nothing.” Nothing, which you, like I, was perfectly happy doing…

And so resumes the uneasy marriage: introvert and social media.

For however long the ride, it should at least be entertaining. 😈

{goodbye to the wit and wisdom of sir terry}

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Oh, Mr. Pratchett. You were a diamond, too.


And now comes the time for the wearing of the lilac…

It’s a bit of irony that I think would amuse Terry Pratchett: after all of his advocacy for assisted suicide and the right to die, he passed away in his sleep.

He wrestled Alzheimer’s to the ground – and won.

Happy are those who live life on their own terms, all the way to the last day.

Godspeed, Sir Terry, and thanks for all the books, and all the worlds you shared; flat ones atop elephants and a ginormous, improbable turtle, deep ones, in the nap of the carpet, crumbly ones, well dug into dirt, high ones in Dunmanifestin or the Ramtops, and little ones inside our hearts, patrolled by verbose frogs, illogical blue men and irascible – and far more importantly, incorruptible watchmen. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? You. Always. And you showed us how to watch ourselves.

Boy, were you loved, and will be missed and mourned so very much.

{dear mr. handler}

November 20, 2014

Dear Mr. Handler:

I remember the last two National Book Award books I’ve read – the Gene Yang and the Sherman Alexie books both blew me away, so I know BROWN GIRL DREAMING must be STUPENDOUS. So soon after Ms. Woodson’s words during the We Need Diverse Books debacle, this award is a real triumph. I am SO pleased for Jacqueline Woodson! These are my thoughts today, while you’re beating yourself up at home, probably wishing to God that you had never seen a green-and-white striped melon, much less told an allergy joke, expressed lighthearted dismay about not being eligible for the CSK Award, or made light of racial profiling. Today you are possibly feeling a little like the Paula Deen of the kidlitosphere.

Dear Mr. Handler, thank you for acknowledging that you spoke with your mouth full of privilege, and with your eyes blinded by it. Thank you for understanding the extent to which you had erred, and thank you for your apology. I am writing to remind you that the best apologies on earth are non erbis sed operis; not words, but deeds. You made a solid and humble apology – acknowledging what you did, not blaming anyone else or excusing yourself. But, the very best apologies make restitution. Here’s what I’d like to suggest:

First, buy Ms. Woodson a case of high-end champagne or whatever non-alcoholic fancy bottled drink of her choosing. Raise a silent glass to her well-deserved award for sharing such a personal and touching story, and applaud again the National Book Foundation’s good taste in awarding her this honor.

Next, buy half a print run of BROWN GIRL DREAMING. Take it in your mittened hands, and walk it around frigid New York. Press it into the warm palms of school children in large suburban schools. Press it into the hands of middle-aged shoppers at the Mall. Press it into the hands of elderly people coming out of church. Fly to a different state. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Finally, in silence, allow the furor to die. Don’t speak. Let your acknowledgement of your error be your last words to the Outrage Machine that is Twitter on this subject. By your silence, you can assist in directing the attention back to Jacqueline Woodson where it rightfully belongs. The social media world is a vicious critic, quick to indict, quick to a blood frenzy – and you may feel this sting for awhile, but lifting up someone else has always been the best way to mitigate the effects of negativity. Using your influence, your money and your time to boost this talented and lovely author is honestly the least – and the best – you can do.

And, know that this too shall pass.

Still a fan,

-tsd

EDITED TO ADD

As a postscript, I want to respond to the idea of “permission racism:”

I’d previously suggested that Mr. Handler put his head down, close his mouth up, and Do Better. Doing Better may eventually mean an explanation — but how about at a We Need Diverse Books event, and not on Twitter? Perhaps at a public event, in person, he can say why he thought his remarks were funny/edgy, and why he now knows that he’s wrong and what he’s going to do with his newfound understanding. That would be a powerful step in further opening the door on dialogue about race in publishing.

His fund matching to me isn’t giving him permission to be racist after the fact. A part of a good apology is to own what you did, and the final piece is to take steps to make restitution. He can’t restore the whole night – we don’t time travel yet, and he’s not hardly a god – but I think he’s doing so much more than many others would in his position. Which is maybe faint praise, but it’s what I’ve got. For me, this is about US as kidlitosphere people. I don’t want us to be vicious. I don’t want Daniel Handler to be the Paula Deen of the kidlitosphere… I really don’t. And I think we shouldn’t let the Outrage Machine of Twitter goad us into asking him to do unrealistic, ridiculous mea culpas through his whole life, and still act like there is NO forgiveness for him, at any point, at any date, EVER, because Racist! and Let’s Get Him! Here is a truth: EVERYONE has perceptions and biases and comprehensions that are less than ideal. I don’t at all like the concept that “everyone’s a little bit racist,” but I certainly will concede that everyone speaks poorly from privilege at times, from bias, from mistaken attempts at humor and relating that fall painfully flat, or edge toward disrespectful and stupid. We need to be as gracious to him as we would want others to be to ourselves. Seriously.

{and when I have so much to do, of course I have the attention span of a flea in a kennel}

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So many choices of what to freak out about first! So little time!

♦ I would like the toilets in my house to stop backing up. Just… stop. There’s no reason for it, despite the 1948 sewer and pipes. We’ve poured gallons of stuff down it, we’ve gotten it professionally roto-ed, so it needs to just STOP. Surely tree roots couldn’t have grown back again in a year (she says, ignoring how trees grow). I blame the ivy, which we tried to dig out of the garden last year, and it’s coming back and taking us all over. Anyway, the toilets need to just stop mucking about and clear up. We have guests coming for Thanksgiving who aren’t related to us, and so of COURSE the stupid system chooses NOW to back up and make me crazy. *claws the rug* Hiss.

♦ I would like bad news or scary news or worrisome news to take a chill. This past week, one family member had news of maybe cancer, another of maybe organ failure, a third an unknown diagnosis, which should make being thankful around the table – with unrelated guests, mind – especially uncomplicated. This is not to mention a chronically ill friend who is going to try to drop over for thirty minutes – her recent leaving-the-house limit. Good grief. Sometimes… clawing and hissing don’t seem to be enough. I think I need a caterwaul.

♦ I would like to have been smarter than to say “Yeah, sure,” to the myriad things I have, which all seem to have come home to roost within five minutes of each other. Of course this is the year that I get dragged into organizing all the holiday programs for church. So, the weekend before Thanksgiving is a Thing, and the weekend after is rehearsing for Handel (and then off to sing w/ the SF Symphony Chorus Community of Music Makers the following day… because fun, right? Hours of rehearsal was something which I signed up for and thought this will be AMAZING with the chorus and all, but which now seems stressful and time consuming. Which is horrible. I mean, we’re singing the second and third movements of Brahms’ Warum ist das Licht gegeben dem Mühseligen? [it’s based on the Writings of Job] and How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place and traditional Finnish carols [in English], so what’s not to like? But right this second, it all seems like too much effort. I’m disappointed in myself), and then A Thing the weekend following, and then the Handel’s, and then… Cybils judging. Yeah. I am accepting ZERO social invitations in December, just fair warning to anyone. I really feel like I’m unable to focus enough to do anything amazing with this revision, and time… so not my friend right now. *fur explodes all over* Hiss.

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♦ I would like to not be thinking of all of this when I am supposed to be diligently working on my revisions, for which I have forty days (and this is counting weekends, because eventually I may have to work then) left. JUST OVER A MONTH TO COPYEDITING, PEOPLE. Crapweasels. I am feeling just the tiniest bit… fraught. *madly sharpens claws*

WHAT CAN I DO TO MAKE THINGS HAPPEN AS I’D LIKE?

Nothing, of course. What, you thought we had some control over the universe???? HAH. Like a cat tossed from a window, I just have to twist in the wind like everyone else – and pray I land on my feet.


Meanwhile, Cool Things Seen Today:

Oh, sweet tablet, it’s Glasgow. How I miss you, crazy, filthy city.

The People of the Book, yo. The best Bat Mitzvah evah.

Superheroes totally make more sense in 17th century times. No, they do.

Now my writing group is getting iconic votives… Best. Idea. Ever.

Children’s Book Week posters from 1919… for sale!!!! In various forms.

Finally, three words, word nerds: Worldwide. Free. Shipping.

{well, it’s all fun and games ’til somebody gets their editorial notes dropped off}

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It was a long and glorious summer.

Well, goodbye all, it’s been fun… but I’ve got to stop gadflying about and finish this thing called Novel.

Drat, I was so hoping I could finish my current Wreck In Progress before putting it on the back burner for the revising. I’ve been expecting this since September, so it’s been a nice long – unexpectedly long, thank-you, early arriving Editor’s Baby – break from the P&C manuscript, and I’m hopeful that this means I can approach it anew with fresh eyes.

Right now, all I’m feeling is OVERWHELMED eyes. The notes are so polite, and they’re only five pages long, but – oy. Is it really a snarled skein of crap like it sounds? Ugh. Why wasn’t I born good at subtle nuance in detail? Why do my characters suffer from persistent – and apparently unbelievable – innocence? How do I keep creating frustrating fake outs and muddled conclusions? And, why is writing such a BIG. HARD. STRUGGLE EVERY. SINGLE. TIME?

*sigh*

Seems like you and I have had this conversation before.

Welp, it seems I’ve inadvertently entered NaNoFiMo. I’m only eight days late. Yay, me.

Once more into the breach, dear friends,

See you in January.

{when i am crazed, i remember agatha}

WHY must I have Existential Crises at 10:45 on Sunday nights? We even had a long weekend this weekend, I had plenty of time to come unglued about the glacial speed at which my current revision is going — but no. When we needed to be safely asleep and storing up hours of rest against a busy week, I start fidgeting and sighing, and poor Tech Boy says, “So… should I just leave the light on?”

“No… it’s fine, we can go to bed. It’s just that…” Aaaand, we’re off.

My Tech Boy is no stranger to my cray-cray, but rather than rolling his eyes or tuning me out in favor of his book – which, not gonna lie, I might do to me – he actually listens to the words behind the hysteria. He listens until I wind down, and then says a few knowledgeable things which spark something. Somehow, within minutes, I am back on track after spewing invective and doubt all over the room. I grab my bedside pad of paper and pencil, and start scribbling notes. I nod. We discuss. And, finally, much later, I sleep, at last able to actually relax.

Much to my dismay, yes. There’s a moment like this EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

But, then, this is par for the course:

“There is always, of course, that terrible three weeks, or a month, which you have to get through when you are trying to get started on a book. There is no agony like it. You sit in a room, biting pencils, looking at a typewriter, walking about, or casting yourself down on a sofa, feeling like you want to cry your head off. Then you go out and interrupt someone who is busy – Max usually, because he is so good-natured – and you say:

“‘It’s awful, Max, do you know, I have quite forgotten how to write – I simply can’t do it any more! I shall never write another book.’”

“‘Oh yes you will,’” Max would say consolingly. He used to say it with some anxiety at first: now his eyes stray back again to his work while he talks soothingly.

“‘But I know I won’t. I can’t think of an idea. I had an idea, but now it seems no good.’”

“‘You’ll just have to get through this phase. You’ve had all this before. You said it last year. You said it the year before.’”

“‘It’s different this time,’” I say, with positive assurance.

“But it wasn’t different, of course, it was just the same. You forget every time what you felt before when it comes again: such misery and despair, such inability to do anything that seems the least creative. And yet it seems that this particular phase of misery has got to be lived through. It is rather like putting the ferrets in to bring out what you want at the end of the rabbit burrow. Until there has been a lot of subterranean disturbance, until you have spent long hours of utter boredom, you can never feel normal. You can’t think of what you want to write, and if you pick up a book you find you are not reading it properly. If you try to do a crossword your mind isn’t on the clues; you are possessed by a feeling of paralyzed hopelessness.

“Then, for some unknown reason, an inner ‘starter’ gets you off at the post. You begin to function, you know then that ‘it’ is coming, the mist is clearing up. You know suddenly, with absolute certitude, just what A wants to say to B. You can walk out of the house, down the road, talking to yourself violently, repeating the conversation that Maud, say, is going to have with Aylwin, and exactly where they will be, just where the other man will be watching through the trees, and how the little dead pheasant on the ground makes Maud think of something she had forgotten, and so on and so on. And you come home bursting with pleasure; you haven’t done anything at all yet, but you are – triumphantly – there.”

An Autobiography: Agatha Christie, pp. 571-572)

To think that the woman who crafted Marple and Poirot writhed on the point of her pen makes me smile. That she nagged her husband with her crazy makes me laugh. Some of us have to make several false starts to begin our writing; others of us struggle with slump-y middles, and still others of us are in agonies at the end. All of us are, at some point, an absolute joy to live with. I can never say enough good things about my Tech Boy – when I am pulling out hair and clinging to the side of cliffs, he just starts talking me down.

I think I’ll keep him.

{an erudite wordsmith who led the way for the rest}

Resting now, Walter Dean Myers, 1937-2014

from Harper Collins:

In a career spanning over 45 years, Walter Dean Myers wrote more than 100 books for children of all ages. His impressive body of work includes two Newbery Honor Books, three National Book Award Finalists, and six Coretta Scott King Award/Honor-winning books. He was the winner of the first-ever Michael L. Printz Award, the first recipient of the Coretta Scott King-Virginia Hamilton Award for Lifetime Achievement, and a recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award for lifetime achievement in writing for young adults. In 2010, Walter was the United States nominee for the Hans Christian Andersen Award, and in 2012 he was appointed the National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature, serving a two-year tenure in the position. Also in 2012, Walter was recognized as an inaugural NYC Literary Honoree, an honor given by former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, for his substantial lifetime accomplishments and contribution to children’s literature.

“We are deeply saddened by the passing of erudite and beloved author Walter Dean Myers. Walter’s many award-winning books do not shy away from the sometimes gritty truth of growing up. He wrote books for the reader he once was, books he wanted to read when he was a teen. He wrote with heart and he spoke to teens in a language they understood. For these reasons, and more, his work will live on for a long, long time,” said Susan Katz, President and Publisher of HarperCollins Children’s Books.

Walter Dean Myers was born Walter Milton Myers on August 12, 1937, in Martinsburg, West Virginia. Walter’s birth mother, Mary Myers, died after the birth of his younger sister, Imogene. His father, George, sent Walter to live with his first wife, Florence Dean, and her husband, Herbert Dean, in Harlem, along with Florence and George’s two daughters. Walter would eventually adopt the middle name “Dean” to honor Florence and Herbert.

In Walter’s memoir, Bad Boy, he wrote, “Harlem is the first place called ‘home’ that I can remember.” This sentiment is reflected in Walter’s writing, whether via a love letter to the neighborhood in the picture book Harlem; a story of a boy’s trial for a crime committed in Harlem, in the novel Monster; or the tale of two friends struggling to see a future beyond the community they know in the novel Darius & Twig. Walter spent much of his childhood playing basketball on the courts of Harlem and checking books out of the George Bruce Branch of the New York Public Library. Florence Dean taught Walter to read in their kitchen, and when he began attending Public School 125, he could read at a second-grade level. Though Walter struggled through school with a speech impediment and poor grades, and he had trouble with discipline throughout his school career, he remained an avid reader. His love of reading soon progressed to a love of writing.

Walter wrote well in high school and one teacher, who recognized his talent but also knew he was going to drop out, told him to keep on writing, no matter what—“It’s what you do,” she said. Walter did drop out of Stuyvesant High School, though they now claim him as a graduate (which Walter always found funny). At the age of seventeen, he enlisted in the Army. Years later, after his safe return home and while working a construction job, Walter would remember this teacher’s advice. He started writing again…and he didn’t stop.

Walter’s body of work includes picture books, novels for teens, poetry, and non-fiction alike. In 1968, Walter’s first published book, Where Does the Day Go?, illustrated by Leo Carty, won an award from the Council on Interracial Books for Children. Walter and his son Christopher, an artist, collaborated on a number of picture books for young readers, including We Are America: A Tribute from the Heart and Harlem, which received a Caldecott Honor Award, as well as the teen novel and National Book Award Finalist Autobiography of My Dead Brother, which Christopher illustrated. Walter’s novel Scorpions won a Newbery Honor Medal and the Margaret A. Edwards Award, while gritty teen novels Lockdown and Monster were both National Book Award Finalists. Monster appeared on the New York Times bestseller list, won the first Michael L. Printz Award, and received a Coretta Scott King Honor Award. His stunning Coretta Scott King Award-winning novel, Fallen Angels (1988), about the Vietnam War, was named one of the top ten American Library Association Best Books for Young Adults of all time. Twenty years later, Myers wrote a riveting contemporary companion novel, Sunrise Over Fallujah, which was named a New York Times Notable Book in 2008.

In Invasion (2010), Myers once again explored the effects and horrors of war through young protagonists, this time set in World War II. His upcoming books include Juba!, (HarperCollins, April 2015) a novel for teens based on the life of a young African American dancer, and On a Clear Day (Crown/Random House Books for Young Readers, September 2014). A graphic novel adaptation of Monster (HarperCollins) is also forthcoming.

Walter often wrote books about the most difficult time in his own life—his teenage years—for the reader he once was; these were the books that he wished were available when he was that age. Throughout his life, Walter worked to make sure young adults had the tools necessary to become hungry readers, thirsty learners, and, therefore, successful adults. He frequently met with incarcerated teens in juvenile detention centers and received countless letters thanking him for his inspirational words. Walter also worked with and mentored teenage fan and writer Ross Workman, and they published the novel Kick together. As the National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature from 2012-2013, Walter traveled around the United States promoting the slogan “Reading is not optional.” He strove to spread the message that a brighter future depends on reading proficiency and widespread literacy, not only during his two-year tenure as National Ambassador, but beyond. More than anything, Walter pushed for his stories to teach children and teenagers never to give up on life.

“Walter Dean Myers was a compassionate, wonderful, and brilliant man. He wrote about children who needed a voice and their stories told. His work will live on for generations to come. It was an honor to work with him for so many years,” said Miriam Altshuler, Walter’s literary agent.

Walter lived in Jersey City, New Jersey, with his wife Constance. He is survived by Constance, as well as his two sons, Christopher and Michael Dean. He was predeceased by his daughter, Karen.

Probably my favorite Walter Dean Myers conversation was the one he had with his son on Story Corps; that, and hundreds of interviews and articles give us just a small picture of a great man – who never stop talking about diversity in literature, and who was one of the grand old men of young adult and children’s lit. He has left some big shoes to fill.

{like a room without a roof}

Okay.

One of the things I don’t really do is pop culture.

Sometimes, it feels like the world moves too fast — there’s some new It thing every five minutes, and I just cannot keep up. Even when I was a kid, I was still stuck on the Last Cool Thing, while everybody had moved on to what was in… and, honestly? I never reconciled my nerdishness. I felt like a fool, every single time. I didn’t know who Mel Gibson was when I saw him, in person, on the street, in high school. D’oh!

I gave up. After college, I listened to less and less new music, kept up with fewer and fewer shows, watched fewer and fewer movies. I even made it a point of pride. I don’t have a TV. I don’t listen to Top 40 pop music. The last movie I saw was The Frog Princess. I read – because that’s as much as I can keep track of… at least I know all the new books. Mostly. It’s what I tell myself.

It took me awhile to figure out that I was still getting my pop culture news… north-by-northwest. It’s there. It ekes in. I saw that stupid tongue thing Miley Cyrus did (didn’t everyone?), I knew who Macklemore was because he made a thrifting cool. But, it breaks my heart that I missed Pharell Williams until six twentysomthings in Iran were arrested… for dancing to a song innocuously titled “Happy.”

You don’t need to understand the words to feel their defeat. Their backs to the camera, their bodies curved in on themselves, like the contrite on the mourner’s bench, as they’re forced to “confess.” They have shamed their nation, by producing a “vulgar” clip which offends…chastity. An “obscene video clip that offended the public morals and was released in cyberspace,” is the actual charge. Shame. Their bodies are shouting “shame.”

* * *

I watched the video, in which the girls wore wigs to cover their hair, in accordance with their cultural and religious mores, and then I looked up the original song. And then, I cried a bit. The Iranian twentysomethings showed some of scenes of them making their video, at the end, and the hysterical laughter was so… normal.. they laugh like goofy dorks in their country, just like I laugh like a goofy dork in mine. And, I’ve missed this — social phenomenon, of people around the world showing examples of their “happy,” and how it meshes with mine. I’ve missed an awfully perky, fun, infectious and upbeat song for far too long, and how dare I not dance, this very minute, this very day, this very LIFE — because I can???

What a shame, that I’ve been sitting… What a shame to choose to hyperfocus on whatever Issues, and not embrace gladness, at least some of the time.

CNN reports that a few hours ago, the dancers were released – not the director of the video, but sympathy is with those in front of the camera.

(And the one behind? Who can say? I hope he or she is okay…)

As I’ve listened to the song, over and over and over again (oh, yes, I am one of THOSE PEOPLE; poor Tech Boy was SICK of “That’s Alright” from the Laura Uvula CD Jules sent me) it’s like it’s taking over my pulse. Be happy, be happy, be happy. Life is ephemeral, hard things are coming; if you can dance NOW, dance.

I sold a book the other day. I’m happy. I’m getting to where I can run uninterrupted bursts of time on my elliptical machine. I’m darned happy. Tech Boy is funny and sweet and kind. My rent is cheap. I’m paying my bills. I’m honestly …okay.

… I’m happy. This is my new theme song.

And hey! I’m actually in time to be hip with a pop culture movement for once. Whad’dya know. ☺

Let nothing bring you down, my hearts. ♥