I don’t make a practice of photographing people in my perambulations through Glasgow, but I thought this guy would go nicely with my post today. He’s Irish. Know how we know? Because that’s an Irish pipe… apparently not a bagpipe. These things are explained to me, and I just say, “Uh-huh,” and keep my bewilderment to myself. (Honestly, does it not look JUST LIKE a Scottish pipe? Apparently if we could see the other side of it, one of the …drone thingies would be over his shoulder instead of hanging down like it would be with a Scottish one. To which I say, “Whatev.”)
Busy days, busy days. Trying to re-imagine one character’s total relationship to another one is about the equivalent of picking out a single thread of color from a tapestry, following it all the way through the under-over-under-over weaving, and …redyeing it. It’s the subtle, small changes that change everything in a piece of art. It’s the kind of fiddly work that sometimes I can only do in small doses, and then I have to get up and wander around. I’ve been working, and in between that I’ve been reading old books — this morning I finished Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks, and sighed in perfect happiness for five whole minutes. Such a good book.
And then, back to work.
I don’t remember who linked to this one first, but I was passed along to the blog of Sara Zarr by several people in the last couple of days. Sara blogs about finding herself Photoshopped for an author photograph she took. She posts Real Sara, Fake Sara shots of herself, and I find myself wanting to quietly batter the photographer over the head with his laptop. Especially for a writer like Sara, who writes about girls learning to love and accept themselves as themselves, the specifically-not-requested Photoshopping is condescending, sexist and …invasive. The photographer obviously has ideas about what makes a woman look better. Too bad he didn’t choose to keep them to himself. Well done and hearty bravas to Sara for making the photographer use the original images of her, and then writing about it.
Of course, the happiest — and most amusing discovery of the last day or so is Neil the Gorgeous Gaiman on Comedy Central. I am eternally grateful to Leila at Bookshelves of Doom for posting it, ’cause I can’t see Stephen Colbert here in the UK (BOO!). I cracked up as Stephen Colbert read the first line of The Graveyard Book, and scolded Gaiman for frightening small children. Wellll. He frightened a couple of big ones, too, but really, I got over it. Bod is lovely.
I also appreciate how The Colbert Show is melding popular culture and literature. When Colbert had poet Elizabeth Alexander on the show after the inauguration, I was hoping that non-political writers would return more often, and YES! They’re on the show in spades now. Way to make literature accessible, people. Smart, smart move.
Meanwhile, the Savage Chickens are pretty sure that Samuel L. Jackson and St. Patrick are the same person. Since I haven’t seen Snakes on a Plane, I’m just not sure…
…Aaaaaaaaaaand now it’s time to go back to work. Ciao for now.