[fiction, instead of lies]

Way back in January (because I am, if nothing else, completely on top of all trends and kidlitosphere conversations) quilting author and blogger Kyra blogged about who actually wins the Coretta Scott King Awards. It was an interesting bunch of statics, and a good post, and it reminded me of an observation I made about the CSK winners this year — all of them were awards for historical fiction.

Someone mentioned that historical fiction is always what wins — and I’d have to suspend comment on that until I could see some type of statistical compilation that backed that up. But I did remember wondering if that’s just the pool the CSK jury had to dip into, or if there’s a preference by the ALA juries and committees to award portrayals of African American history over other topics. Anyway – just an idle thought that I’ll look more into, when I have time. When I am not writing three books at once.

(WHY am I doing that? Because… it’s summer, the light [please note I did not say the sun - we're having the worst gray overcast weather] still comes up at 4 a.m., and I am overflowing with twitchy, nervous energy — usually at two or three a.m., but energy nonetheless. We’ll see if it’s coherent energy, or just the blathering sort.)

Via Tor.com, Prolific paranormal/true crime/vampire writer L.A. Banks scares herself. (Is it wrong of me to snicker loudly at that?) I’d scare myself, too, if I wrote what she writes, in a darkened house, at 3 a.m…. L.A. Banks is one of the very few REALLY successful writers of color in the SFF community, and while she doesn’t write YA fiction… I’m hoping she might someday.

Meanwhile, art continues to flourish in my neighborhood. These are two of a series of toothy computer monitors and TV sets, just down at the corner — in the “back” yard of the same crescent I’m in. And I have no idea why there’s always art in that corner, but it’s usually Banksy-esque and always thought-provoking. This one is a cross between the Little Shop of Horrors Audrey, Jr. plant and those 70′s “Kill Your Television!” bumper stickers.

Wow! And suddenly, I’ve just got a few days to toss things in my suitcase, hie myself to the airport, and come to D.C.!

For those of you attending the Kidlit Drink Night organized by the wonderful Sara Lewis Holmes, Susan Kusel and the other fab people from the DC Kidlit Group, have fun. My plane will be landing about the time you’ve been networking for an hour, and you’ll be leaving before I’ve collected my messages at the hotel. I’m both bummed and a tiny bit relieved; I’m sure I would love to see you all, but after a five hour flight, plus a two hour layover and before a shower? Not so much.

We will see each other around, however! I’ll be schmoozing with other YALSA authors on Monday, hanging around the Random House Booth (#2909), attending the Newbery Caldecott Award Dinner (YAY, Liz & Marla!), and otherwise doing what the folks at Random House have laid out for me.

I haven’t even really looked at who all is presenting. I just found out Gene Luen Yang is going to be there! There’s a whole TON of graphic novel people in the Green Pavilion (wherever that is) and so, so much to see!

Today’s emoticon: Slightly overwhelmed.

(Kinda like “Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief…” only different.)

About a month ago I had a bit of a laugh as well as a bit of a shudder as I realized anew that Google tracks queries.

Sometimes I think there should be some kind of flag that shows up on your computer searches, if you’re a writer. Some kind of universal symbol that says, “NOT A WEIRDO. I SWEAR!” I mean, so what if I need to look up something that knocks people unconscious? Don’t look at me like that when I’m researching flunitrazepam (Rohypnol). (Which, for my purposes, was utterly useless, and darned disturbing to read about.) And if I spend too long on a page describing blunt head trauma, well… I could be a nurse. Right?

How about all the times you catch me eavesdropping?

I need a T-shirt then. “NOT A STALKER. DISINTERESTED IN YOU PERSONALLY, JUST BORROWING YOUR MANNERISMS.”

Being shy works to my advantage these times — most of the time I don’t get caught eavesdropping. I have my head down, my hands and eyes engaged with something else. Also: bathrooms are really good places for eavesdropping, and women seem to forget that all those stalls make a great echo chamber. (Apparently in bathrooms, most men don’t speak at all. Or, at least they don’t make eye contact. I’m going to go with E. Lockhart’s vision of being a Fly on the Wall…) If you can stand to hang out in bathrooms, you do hear the oddest things. But, especially in the bathroom… don’t get caught just hanging out. That whole “WEIRD” label is really hard to shake, no matter that you promise to put the people to whom you are listening in a book.

No one said anything about chasing people…

The Patriot Act really put pressure on librarians to record what patrons were checking out, so they could suspect everyone of everything. Librarians: can I just tell you how sorry I am about that? I totally understand that you sometimes want to tell SOMEBODY about the weird people asking you completely random questions (My buddy Jac at the Seattle Library gets some SERIOUSLY weird ones), but I so appreciate you not calling the Homeland people every day on all the writers you meet.

Okay, so I’m not silly enough to try to check out The Anarchist’s Handbook, despite the fact that this is my Constitutional right — (you can read it online, of course, so don’t bother worrying your librarian – just keep in mind: GOOGLE IS WATCHING), but a great reference book, Hallucinogenic Plants, by Richard Evan Schultes (Golden Press, NY, 1976) now lives next to my Everyday Life in the Middle Ages — owned and on my shelf, so I can leave my “NOT A JUNKIE” shirt at home.

It just got to the point where it was too hard to prove what I was not.

(What? I sound PARANOID??? And? Is that a drug-related …oh. Never mind.)

Some days, it just occurs to me that it’s really weird to be a writer.

I’m wandering the city this gray and cold Sunday, imagining it through the eyes of people who’ve never been here.

A city street in afternoon twilight.

We moved from SF when I was four or five, so I never got to do much more than walk to the laundromat with Mom, and ride the Muni bus with Dad. In the suburbs, the bus stop was too far away for my parents to feel comfortable with me taking public transportation, and so, sadly, I never really did it. I’m making up for that now, in Glasgow. I sold my lovely car and haven’t driven now in almost three years. Makes me wonder sometimes if I still know how.

Though there are plentiful buses and taxis, this is foremost a walking city, and when you get lots of walkers, you occasionally get lots of chaos. Thus there are always police walking the beat. It took me awhile when I first got to this country to figure out who was doing what – fortunately, anyone on foot patrol can tell you how to get to the nearest train station, so you don’t feel as silly as you might in a restaurant trying to order your meal from, say, the bus boy…

These are actual policemen, complete with their radios and telescoping batons. (It disturbed me that the (perhaps slang?) word, “batten” here is the verb form of what happens with that baton when one is drunk/disorderly. Gives a whole new meaning to “batten down the hatches.”)

Ah, those fine yellow jackets.

Other people on the street as we walk are the gloved traffic wardens, aka crossing guards; parking patrol, the ladies in natty navy bowler hats, with checkerboard bands; and the mounted patrol — which are usually seen in pairs all year round, but most thickly in summer and fall, when there are outdoor festivals and the like. Those horses are massive, and truly inspire fear in most city-dwellers; all a patrol person has to do is ride up the street, and crowds bail for side streets and run for cover. I like horses, but though I didn’t run for cover, neither did I rush up to them and beg to pet them.

Sorry for the photo quality – took this with the phone.

Glasgow is a sprawling city — really made up of a bunch of small towns and neighborhood districts that got morphed together sometime in the 80′s; there are people who insist that parts of Glasgow are not Glasgow. The University is in Hillhead, we have friend in Maryhill, Anderson, Finneston, and Charing Cross… and all of that is still Glasgow. Theoretically. Well – not my debate, it’s hard enough not to get lost in the bits that I’m sure are Glasgow! On our walk today, we cruise through Merchant City, which is historically where the middle class lived — the middle class being shopkeepers. I love that so many UK cities have clearly historical neighborhood names. There’s Grassmarket in Edinburgh — where grass-eating things were sold, live — and then Haymarket – horses! There was also a meat district, undoubtedly.

I always have to keep in mind that titled people in the United Kingdom historically didn’t dirty their hands with actual buying and selling — it was acceptable to have your money in shipping with the East India company, but you needn’t actually ever a.) get on a ship, b.) go to India, c.) know anything about what you were shipping, whether it be tea or opium. Our building has a buzzer that’s for “Trade,” and yes, it’s a buzzer for the back door. As I blow past on my way to my flat through the front door, that still kind of kills me.

This is just to give you an idea… imagine if the lights were ON.

At this point in our walk downtown, we’re window-shopping. Merchant City has a lot of great shopping, so there are windows galore. This part of the city is just a maze, and it’s always filled with crowds. As we know that I kind of loathe shopping and crowds, it’s just not my favorite place — but it’s so pretty. All the color and the marvelous architecture, and white “fairy lights” strung between the buildings… With its streets of coffee shops and pubs, offering live music, and fancy little restaurants, it’s a great place for a night walk — but that’s not what we’re doing now! Back to our little trek, and let’s pick up the pace, shall we?

Behold! Our destination!

Today’s trip downtown leads us to the Glasgow Museum of Art. The GOMA has a very iconic horseman dude in front – which most of the time has a very famous hat… an orange traffic cone. It’s a rare day that he’s seen without it, and the city doesn’t bother to remove it very often – if they do, someone will always replace it.

Meet you at the Horse!

Even if you’re not a museum buff, the walk through the lively city, teeming with people, bussing huffing past, random pipers standing on the street corner, busking and begging — is invigorating, if not a little overwhelming. Time for a quiet poke through the bizarre and amusing modern art exhibits, and then, on this cold, gray day, maybe a stop for a quiet cup of tea, and a spot of people-watching.

The perfect vantage point; a perfect end to a cold day’s walk.

Happy Sunday. Thanks for stopping by.

I <3 Candy - a crazy-fun little store.

I’m back.

Some of you tried to stop by while we were hauling the blog out of the mess of Blogger, and I hope you weren’t too frustrated by not being able to comment! THAT wasn’t supposed to happen. Anyway, I’m blog-supported by WordPress now, so all should be well.

Technical difficulties aside, it’s been a rough couple of days. A person most dear to me passed away, and I remain six thousand miles away. Knowing that he had been ill for four years, I’d said goodbye before, but I was fooled by how well he was when I last saw him in January, and I misunderstood the speed with which cancer can move. His death caught me unprepared — so unprepared that I need to delay acknowledging the immensity of the loss in some parts of my brain. (That may not make sense to you, but …well, it’s how my head works right now.) That I heard on my birthday, and I had the devastating misfortune of finding out on Facebook just didn’t help. [Note to Facebooking People: Please. Social networking is not the place for every topic. It is just not.] So, I’m a little scattered at the moment, but I’m fine – no need for more concern. I’m fine. Thank you.

Kites and mobiles at Big Top, best toy store EVER

We’d planned for our dear person to visit us in Scotland, and for awhile, it looked like it was going to happen. And then last September we realized it would not. So, from time to time, I’ll just be posting a few pictures of the places we would have gone, “had we but world enough, and time.”

Café Andaluz, our special occasion tapas place, for when we feel a need for Mission style furniture and a California vibe.

Meanwhile, the revision continues apace! I have the dubious privilege of being what my editor calls a “clean” writer; I don’t always have major revisions to do. But this time there are some fairly significant changes I have to make in a character, including changing her passion. That’s hard — what we love, what drives us, makes us who we are, so now I am essentially looking at a single character, and rewriting her — which in turn rewrites the way she responds and reacts and relates with family and friends. And this is all because my editor is leery of too many musicians lately in YA fiction. Apparently there’s a violinist in When You Reach Me, which I haven’t yet read, and since it won the Big Dance (aka Newbery) my cellist has to go. Le sigh. But, it’s actually turning out just fine so far. I took away her cello, and gave her a blowtorch.

I am liking that change a lot.

Urquhart Castle ruins — Loch Ness in the background!

I’m also realizing — as I’m supposed to be revising — that science fiction has taken over a remarkable percentage of my brain. I am thinking all the time of things I could use, things I could add — I have two notebooks at my desk full of scribbles (plus the back of the odd envelope) and another one next to my bed. This is a very broad work, and it just goes deeper and gets bigger — And after reading the very brilliant Mr. Elzey’s Building Better Boy Books series, acronym-ed HEAVES, where the ‘s’ stands for SHORT? I am really fighting the temptation to write a Rowling-length (Books 4 thru to the end, anyway) sweeping epic. That’s not really my style, and I do kind of feel strongly about a well-pruned, tightly written …mini-epic. Enough to tell the story well, not enough to make camping (HP joke. Sorry.) seem like a lifetime achievement and make the book cost $30. That’s what I’m going for.

Well, enough talking about work, now off to do some.

Until next time…

Edinburgh, from the castle, on a dark, drear day.

Last week, my friend Laura got a horrible, blow-it-up, kill-the-cattle, enslave-the-women-and-children, no-holds-barred horrible, sow-the-earth-with-salt review of her poetry collection from Kirkus Reviews. They write those things with such turns of phrase, including the word “sophomoric,” and “disappointment,” and my stomach turned when I read it — I couldn’t say anything to her for hours, whilst the rest of our poetry group rallied around her and said all the right things.

Another person in our group has gotten a poor review from them before. I’ve only ever gotten a really nice one, and today… a starred one.

It’s probably stupid to feel bad or worried about this; Laura’s going to wish me well like everyone else.

But, ugh. If only her evisceration hadn’t happened just last week.

The Sand Canyon Review @ Crafton Hills College is now accepting submissions for their 2009 issue. Please keep in mind the following guidelines:

- All work must have your name, address and phone number attached to the piece.
- Written work may be no longer than 10 pages in length.
- Poetry must be limited to 40 lines.
- All artwork is limited to 3 entries per person.

Submit your work to SCRsubmissions@gmail.com, subject header: SCR submissions

The city is swimming in glitter (seriously: someone dropped about a half pound in the entryway, and it’s been tracked up and down the whole building) and all the hoochies and lonelyhearts are out in their micro-minis and clunky big shoes. Too bad it’s pouring out, and their hair is soon going to be a raveled mass of sticky hairspray and ick, but c’est la vie. One for the road, then, and happy hunting, everyone.

Superbly Situated

The world is round

may also be only the beginning.

-Ivy Priest

TO: Facebook

FROM: ME

RE: You

“The question authors get asked more than any other is “Where do you get your ideas from?” And we all find a way of answering which we hope isn’t arrogant or discouraging. What I usually say is “I don’t know where they come from, but I know where they come to: they come to my desk, and if I’m not there, they go away again.”

-Philip Pullman