Monday's Mug of Linkosity

New books in the world today: first, Bay Area SCBWI member Deborah Underwood is the ghost writer on Whoopi Goldberg’s new children’s book (!), Sugar Plum Ballerinas. Doret@ Happy Nappy Bookseller gives it a vote of confidence — surprise, surprise. Apparently, this is NOT a BACA Book (though if you’re in need of some real snark on the topic the Guardian can still make you laugh). Props to Deborah Underwood!

The 2008 Cybils Nominees are all wrapped and packaged and ready for reading. Take a zip through the list, which is thoughtfully broken down by genre, and get ready to do some holiday shopping! It’s definitely going to be a book year in our family; I just found out my wee nephew calls spiders “Kill-its” (thanks to his paranoid and beastly father) and so I shall be forced to buy him a book that displays spiders in a positive role, uses their actual name, counts their legs, etc., until he graduates to Charlotte’s Web and learns of arachnid fabulosity himself. (Since he’s 14 months old, we have a ways to go.)

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was proclaimed 60 years ago, in 1948, by the United Nations General Assembly at the end of World War II, and if you’ve never looked at it, please take a minute to do so! You’ll note that it has a lot of … words in it. Honestly, they’re good words and gorgeous words, and words that will make you put your hand on your heart and close your eyes and dream hard of a better world. But, there’s also a lot of “whereas”-es and “thereins” and that kind of thing in it. Enter We Are All Born Free a lovely children’s edition of the UK version of the declaration (spelled with more u’s), illustrated by the bright lights of children’s literature here, the sale of which will benefit Amnesty International.

This beautiful little volume came out the first of October and I WISH I’d recommended for the Cybils! Since I didn’t, I’m going to flog it here. Go and page through it online and tell me it’s not something that would be really amazing for not necessarily just small children, but bigger ones, who need to know the awesomeness of the dream that was held for the world, once upon a time, before things got messy… What a great, tangible reminder of a way to get back on track, and what a good personal reminder about individual freedoms, and that basically, not even your parents have the right to force you to do things — nor do you have the right to force others. Everyone should know their rights, and relish the right to be left alone, and politely demand from their governments what is due to each.

Ooh, new vampire book from Marcus Sedgewick. I’m still traumatized from the first book of his I read; I may have to wait until summer to read this one.

I’m used to finding the odd (and in the case of The Slidy Diner VERY odd) Random Illustrator Features over at the 7-Imps, but was pleasantly surprised to discover this illustrator interview with Nicole Tadgell over at Big A, little a. No Mush Today is a book by Sally Derby from Lee & Low, and it’s adorable and colorful and full of disgust for squishy hot cereal and squishy, stuffed-toy-stealing baby brothers. (I completely relate to this book as I am still smarting from the theft of a particularly cute lamb toy by my… *cough* a perfidious baby I know. Who is now, like, seventeen. But I digress.) Nicole is a fabulous, lively illustrator, and I love that there are pictures of her working — I can never get enough of seeing regular people at their desks, doing their thing.

And speaking of regular people at their desks, procrastinating, that’s it for me. Happy Monday.

Monday’s Mug of Linkosity

New books in the world today: first, Bay Area SCBWI member Deborah Underwood is the ghost writer on Whoopi Goldberg’s new children’s book (!), Sugar Plum Ballerinas. Doret@ Happy Nappy Bookseller gives it a vote of confidence — surprise, surprise. Apparently, this is NOT a BACA Book (though if you’re in need of some real snark on the topic the Guardian can still make you laugh). Props to Deborah Underwood!

The 2008 Cybils Nominees are all wrapped and packaged and ready for reading. Take a zip through the list, which is thoughtfully broken down by genre, and get ready to do some holiday shopping! It’s definitely going to be a book year in our family; I just found out my wee nephew calls spiders “Kill-its” (thanks to his paranoid and beastly father) and so I shall be forced to buy him a book that displays spiders in a positive role, uses their actual name, counts their legs, etc., until he graduates to Charlotte’s Web and learns of arachnid fabulosity himself. (Since he’s 14 months old, we have a ways to go.)

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights was proclaimed 60 years ago, in 1948, by the United Nations General Assembly at the end of World War II, and if you’ve never looked at it, please take a minute to do so! You’ll note that it has a lot of … words in it. Honestly, they’re good words and gorgeous words, and words that will make you put your hand on your heart and close your eyes and dream hard of a better world. But, there’s also a lot of “whereas”-es and “thereins” and that kind of thing in it. Enter We Are All Born Free a lovely children’s edition of the UK version of the declaration (spelled with more u’s), illustrated by the bright lights of children’s literature here, the sale of which will benefit Amnesty International.

This beautiful little volume came out the first of October and I WISH I’d recommended for the Cybils! Since I didn’t, I’m going to flog it here. Go and page through it online and tell me it’s not something that would be really amazing for not necessarily just small children, but bigger ones, who need to know the awesomeness of the dream that was held for the world, once upon a time, before things got messy… What a great, tangible reminder of a way to get back on track, and what a good personal reminder about individual freedoms, and that basically, not even your parents have the right to force you to do things — nor do you have the right to force others. Everyone should know their rights, and relish the right to be left alone, and politely demand from their governments what is due to each.

Ooh, new vampire book from Marcus Sedgewick. I’m still traumatized from the first book of his I read; I may have to wait until summer to read this one.

I’m used to finding the odd (and in the case of The Slidy Diner VERY odd) Random Illustrator Features over at the 7-Imps, but was pleasantly surprised to discover this illustrator interview with Nicole Tadgell over at Big A, little a. No Mush Today is a book by Sally Derby from Lee & Low, and it’s adorable and colorful and full of disgust for squishy hot cereal and squishy, stuffed-toy-stealing baby brothers. (I completely relate to this book as I am still smarting from the theft of a particularly cute lamb toy by my… *cough* a perfidious baby I know. Who is now, like, seventeen. But I digress.) Nicole is a fabulous, lively illustrator, and I love that there are pictures of her working — I can never get enough of seeing regular people at their desks, doing their thing.

And speaking of regular people at their desks, procrastinating, that’s it for me. Happy Monday.

Binging on Purging and Other Thoughts

It strikes me as odd that I so loathe to gather encumbrances, yet it takes so long for me to be able to throw things away.


In the living room, which is now rather cramped with the contents of the closet that holds the boiler, is a large cardboard box, filled with… paper. Purging the files is a lengthy task, and the horror with which I greet the things that have traveled overseas with me cannot be feigned.

I really should have …packed better. Purged sooner. Left some of the past behind.

For instance: WHY do I have, in a file, the letter from Teresa Og when she “broke up with me” in high school? Good grief, she came out two years later, so that particularly bitter little mystery has been solved for some time. Why do I still have letters from Bill S., where he moaned about how he hated college and he didn’t know how to “take” the things I said to him? He’s been out of school and with someone for at least as long as I have been. Why do I have my autograph book from the sixth grade with sly messages from Karin about the apologies she owed me — which she never gave — and notes I wrote to myself from my imaginary mascots?

I won’t examine too closely why I have saved so many funeral programs, so many holiday cards; both temporary greetings from a moment that has passed; both essentially valueless, once the moment is gone. Dead is dead, and it’s only December a few days out of three hundred or so.

I won’t take too long thinking of the many who have died.

Why is so much of memory wrapped up in razorblades and pipe bombs? Why did Zeus put all that crap in a jar for Pandora to find?


The sun is already not really into …rising, per se. Once I’m finally released from the gentle tyranny of Dr. Christodoulou and can go to the gym, it’s going to be HELL. It’s too dark to be stumbling through the streets to overlit warehouses full of chipper skinny people and bewildering equipment. The fact that no one here has heard of an elliptical machine has had sort of a chilling effect on my desire to go anyway (and no, it’s not a just a cross-country ski machine, Dr. Christodoulou. Trust me on this…) — gym equipment is always bizarre anyway, but bizarre in a country full of things I don’t understand could be humiliating. I’ll probably have to stick to the treadmill. Which is fine. It’s not like I can do any running anywhere else; leaping over pools of vomit isn’t exactly helpful to one’s stride (although here it could be an Olympic qualifier).

Unbelievably, it’s almost November again.

Not at all unbelievably, my mind is not consumed with National Novel Writing Month; I think if we can all get safely to November 5th without anyone or anything being blown up, hacked apart, and otherwise deranged and howling for blood in the streets, I can then begin again to focus on a creative life.It’s sort of horrifying to see just how narrow one’s focus becomes when one is trying to just survive. We have to plug our ears and sing “La, la, la,” so loudly just to maintain our sanity in crisis that there’s nothing left when it comes to creativity.

And without creativity, what the hell is the point? If we all think that our little two-bit jobs where we clock in and clock out are our real careers, we’ll all want to pull up the covers and never get out of bed again. There has to be something more.

I don’t exactly see the world becoming more calm, the nation becoming more sane, and all sinking ships suddenly buoying to lightness again in the coming months and weeks, so I’m going to have to figure out how to cope… fingers in ears leaves me only listening to my accelerating heartbeat.

Poetry Friday: the Writing on the Wall

Epigrams are like the graffiti of the poetic world. They’re not generally more than four lines with varying rhyme schemes, and the only real requirement is that they’re witty and concise, which is what I suppose what people who scrawl things in public spaces think they’re being. (Yet so often, they’re just incoherent. Like this bird…thing). I love them, and enjoyed paging through my Norton poetry book to select a few for today. These caught my eye~

Epigram, by Peter Pindar, ca. 1780

Midas, they say, possessed the art of old
Of turning whatso’er he touched to gold;
This modern statesman can reverse with ease —
Touch them with gold, they’ll turn to what you please.

It absolutely slays me that this was written in seventeen eighty!!!

Epigram, by Matthew Prior, 1710-20

Rise not till noon, if life be but a dream,
      As Greek and Roman poets have expressed:
Add good example to so grave a theme,
      For he who sleeps the longest lives the best.

A more modern epigram comes from Countee Cullen, and while bringing a smile, also brings a bit of a wince:

For a Lady I Know, 1925

She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores,
While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.

I don’t think Mr. Cullen ever bothered trying to straighten her out. I like his wry tone, and how he carefully doesn’t say she’s exactly wrong, but… you get the point anyway.

Finally, J.V. Cunningham reminds us that all things will take place — eventually.

All in Due Time, 1950

All in due time: love will emerge from hate,
And the due deference of truth from lies.
If not quite all things come to those who wait
They will not need them: in due time one dies.

And on that cheery note, I invite to you join the gang at Becky’s for Poetry Friday.

Today's the Day!


The new leaner, meaner (in a nice way) Cybils nominations close tonight at 11:59, Pacific Time. All aboard who are coming aboard!

Although, I have to LAUGH at myself — having left everything to the last minute, I’m finding that MANY of the books I nominated are already taken. Fortunately, there are some great organizers who are helpfully giving suggestions and memory joggers; take advantage of the “what’s missing” roundups here and here; it is not yet too late!!!



So, here’s …a BACA you might not have heard about. The 200 lb. plus actress “Mo’Nique has committed herself to a four book series for plus sized teens. Now, I know my kidlit blogosphere peeps don’t usually cut celebrities any slack for writing young adult literature; however, these books are semi-autobiographical. And probably no one else is writing the kinds of books she wants to write, to the specific audience. Does Mo’Nique still get a BACA OFF? Is it ever okay for a celeb to grab hold of an Issue and make it their own? Perhaps a better question is, could anyone else make an Issue/Problem novel sell in this era??? Inquiring minds…

Via Bookshelves of Doom I found a freebie; Alan Gratz’ Something Rotten is at his blog until November 30th, for free. You’ll want to pick up his new book the minute you can; he really is working this Shakespeare thing really well.


I am just SHRIEKING out my congratulations especially to Laurie Halse Anderson and E. Lockhart for being National Book Award Nominees for Young People’s Literature. Oh, it is SO HARD to choose from so many amazing books. Can I say how deeply glad I am NOT to be on that committee? Again, congratulations, awesome authors!

Today’s the Day!


The new leaner, meaner (in a nice way) Cybils nominations close tonight at 11:59, Pacific Time. All aboard who are coming aboard!

Although, I have to LAUGH at myself — having left everything to the last minute, I’m finding that MANY of the books I nominated are already taken. Fortunately, there are some great organizers who are helpfully giving suggestions and memory joggers; take advantage of the “what’s missing” roundups here and here; it is not yet too late!!!



So, here’s …a BACA you might not have heard about. The 200 lb. plus actress “Mo’Nique has committed herself to a four book series for plus sized teens. Now, I know my kidlit blogosphere peeps don’t usually cut celebrities any slack for writing young adult literature; however, these books are semi-autobiographical. And probably no one else is writing the kinds of books she wants to write, to the specific audience. Does Mo’Nique still get a BACA OFF? Is it ever okay for a celeb to grab hold of an Issue and make it their own? Perhaps a better question is, could anyone else make an Issue/Problem novel sell in this era??? Inquiring minds…

Via Bookshelves of Doom I found a freebie; Alan Gratz’ Something Rotten is at his blog until November 30th, for free. You’ll want to pick up his new book the minute you can; he really is working this Shakespeare thing really well.


I am just SHRIEKING out my congratulations especially to Laurie Halse Anderson and E. Lockhart for being National Book Award Nominees for Young People’s Literature. Oh, it is SO HARD to choose from so many amazing books. Can I say how deeply glad I am NOT to be on that committee? Again, congratulations, awesome authors!

ALL CAPS ALERT: Three Days Left…




CLOSE FOREVER!?
Okay, yeah, that’s overly dramatic.
BUT THERE’S VERY LITTLE TIME to make sure THE ONE BOOK YOU LOVE BEST in each of the GENRE CATEGORIES has been nominated.
What categories, you ask? Why THESE!

STUMPED? Don’t have a book to suggest for every title?
Check out the list of titles that aren’t yet on the list… and let it jog your memory. But MOVE FAST.
TIME is RUNNING OUT!


What’s Missing on the Cybils list? Check here.

Poetry Friday: A Selfless Scourge


Today I pulled out one of my college texts, a Heath Anthology of American Literature. (One semester for some reason we strayed from the Norton, and here almost three thousand pages of proof.) I found a poem by Theodore Roethke, 1909-1963, a strangely troubled man from Michigan who grew up amongst his father’s commercial greenhouses and is described as a heavy drinker who drank to seek oblivion, a rudely aggressive tennis player, and an “inveterate casual pawer of women.” He wrote beautifully of birth and death in growing things, and curiously and eloquently of old women. He won a Pulitzer, a Fulbright and twice the Guggenheim. There is no accounting for who we are and where we come from to what we can produce. A lesson, perhaps.

from Meditations of an Old Woman
Elegy
1958


Her face like a rain-beaten stone on the day she rolled off
With the dark hearse, and enough flowers for an alderman,
And so she was, in her way. Aunt Tilly.

Sighs, sighs, who says they have sequence?
Between the spirit and the flesh, — what war?
She never knew;
For she asked no quarter, and gave none,
Who sat with the dead when the relatives left,
Who fed and tended the infirm, the mad, the epileptic,
And, with a harsh rasp of a laugh at herself,
Faced up to the worst.

I recall how she harried the children away all the late summer
From the one beautiful thing in her yard, the peachtree;
How she kept the wizened, the fallen, the misshapen for herself,
And picked and pickled the best, to be left on rickety doorsteps.

And yet she died in agony,
Her tongue, at the last, thick, black as an ox’s.

Terror of cops, bill collectors, betrayers of the poor, —
I see you in some celestial supermarket,
Moving serenely among the leeks and cabbages,
Probing the squash,
Bearing down, with two steady eyes,
On the quaking butcher.


I wonder if everyone knows an Aunt Tilly; tart-tongued and not suffering fools, putting up with no nonsense, and getting things done. The Aunt Tilly’s and Miss Pross’ (from A Tale of Two Cities of the world …rock.
Poetry Friday is at Picture Book of the Day, Anastasia Suen’s blog.

Toon Thursday, Plus Neil x 2!

And now for something completely different…

This is a historic moment. The reason is twofold (or should that be “the reasons ARE twofold”?). Firstly, though I’ve been writing like crazy this week, apparently the toon part of my brain was watching way too much CNN, so for the first time ever, here’s a political cartoon on Finding Wonderland. I hope it is an entertaining diversion. Secondly, this is a historic moment because this cartoon occupies the very last page in my sketchbook. Said sketchbook is mostly cartoons, too, which made me realize just how dang many of these I’ve posted. But now I’ll have to either start using the giant sketchbook, which is unwieldy but has many blank pages left; or buy a new one. Hmm…


I’ve been meaning to post a few of these links for almost three weeks now, which is very sad. Firstly, thanks to the GoodReads newsletter, I ran across interviews with two authors whom I really like–Neil Gaiman and Neal Stephenson. Definitely two iconoclastic people.

Okay, I guess I wasn’t done with politics for today. Back on a political note, visit ArtsVote2008, a program of Americans for the Arts, to find out both presidential candidates’ positions on arts policy.

Right. Back to lit stuff. I was informed by Gina R. that FW is featured on an aggregator site called Alltop – Top Children’s Literature News–above the fold, no less! Readers’ Rants is on there, too, along with a host of other familiar faces from the kidlitosphere. Lastly, speaking of the kidlitosphere, don’t forget to nominate your favorite books for the Cybils! Now you can also help spread the word–and the love–with a downloadable and printable flyer that includes a list of all 2007 shortlisted titles.

Reminds me I’ve gotta sit right down and come up with MY nominees…

(Girly Poem Alert. Look Away.)

Premenstrual Syndrome
– by Sharon H. Nelson

This is the time of the month when you find

your husband’s a fool,

regret having children, wish

you had studied music, architecture, law, anything but how

to get the potatoes, green beans, roast, and rolls

all hot and on the table together.

This is the time of the month

when your patience has shrunk

to the size of a pea.

This is the time of the month you discover:

the house you live in is unsuitable:

you’d rather throw out the dishes than wash them;

you’ve always detested ironing.

This is the time of the month

when things you usually overlook

irritate you to screaming;

when things you don’t usually notice

take on proportions that drive you to frenzy.

This is the time of the month

when you stomp

out of the house,

drive aimlessly round the city,

just to get away from the noise,

the electricity created by lives

rubbing up against each other,

and also,

to remember

the feel

of your own flesh

on your own bones.

This is the time of the month

when everyone’s wary,

when they smile slyly and shake their heads,

as if only they knew the name

of the dis-ease that afflicts you.

This is the time of the month

when doctors are kind to you,

prescribe tablets and capsules and liquids and rest,

are in sympathy

with those who must

live with this anguish, this tension,

this unfortunate physiological response to a genetic program,

that seems to provoke

witchery, bitchery, shadow, and shades in otherwise perfectly respectable folk.

What if

this is the time of the month

when your perceptions are sharpest?

What if

this is the time of the month when

the illusions you hug round you,

warm and comforting and thick as a rug,

flap in the chill wind of seeing

what actually is?

What if

this is the time of the month when

the normal, the usual, are revealed

as the lies you tell yourself

three hundred and thirty days of the year?

What if

this is the time of the month when

the tears you haven’t time for well up, overflow,

and you know, as surely as you know

what time of the month it is,

that your husband’s a fool,

you regret having children,

you wish to study music?

What if?