May 2007 – Tanita S. Davis

Snippets

May 31, 2007

10:42 pm

On Writing, Random Notes and Errata, Writing Daze

“She has a duty as a writer, she added, to make the world more accessible to children by explaining it to them.” Britain’s former children’s laureate, Anne Fine has written a book about a Russian boy sent to a Siberean labor camp in order to open a discussion with young readers about politics and the ‘slippery slope’ that war, denial of freedoms and lies can lead to. The Guardian has a short piece on it this week, and will follow up with a longer one later on.

I am really intrigued by this – I’m not sure that my writing makes anything accessible to young adults except to validate their own findings about the world… and to prove that it’s survivable. I’m intrigued by the idea of bringing politics to that table.

Jenna Bush’s ARC of Ana’s Story: A Journey of Hope has the traditional ‘decapitated girl’s head’ cover that many YA books seem to sport, and an optimistic first print run of 500,000. Wowza. Coming October 2 to a bookstore near you. AND, I’m ecstatic to discover that the UK Amazon has listed Terry Pratchett’s next Ankh-Morpork book Making Money as being released on 24th September 2007. Another zany little something to look forward to in the fall.

I may be making a mistake.
Well, here goes.
I asked about the Class of 2k8 and the lovely people who run it say, “Oh, sorry, no room, only fourteen spaces and fifteen minutes after we said we were doing it, it was full.” I thought, Okay, no problem, and starting thinking about other things I could do – with people I know (a little, from blogging) whose books are also coming out in 2008, or whose books are maybe at least close in topic or audience to my own… or something. I forgot all about the whole thing.

This week, they said they had an opening.

This week, I turned them down.

It may have been one of the most colossally stupid things I have ever done. It has a low buy-in amount, the 2k7 people have all apparently had a great time and great results, people are lining up to get into the group, AND my editor suggested I run, not walk, to get involved. And I am completely doing something else.

(If my book only sells four copies, you’ll know why.)

Seriously, though ~ as I’ve been working through things like covers (and big props to Mitali on her cool cover choices! – go help her choose the one that goes to print!) and a concept for a website, and thinking about overseas PR visits (my agent came back from Bologna with some “nibbles” for next year from five or six countries, congratulations Jay on the cool languages in which his book will be published), I’ve been realizing that it might be the best thing for me to just figure out what I’m doing on my own, as I really do have my own ideas. (Okay, so nobody is surprised. I’m opinionated. Why else do I have a blog?) I wish The Class of 2k8 the very best — but stand or fall, I think I gotta do this on my own.

Or have I just messed up?

Screaming "Meme"- ies: Eight Truths Meme

by Tanita S. Davis

May 30, 2007

3:23 am

7 Comments on Screaming "Meme"- ies: Eight Truths Meme

On Writing, Random Notes and Errata

It’s the 8 Habits/Truths Meme, and A.F. and I have been tagged by Susan at ChickenSpaghetti, and by Jen from Jen Robinson’s Book Page.The rules of this meme are pretty basic: a player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves, posts the ‘rules’ the beginning before those facts/habits are listed, and ends the post by tagging 8 people and posts their names, and leaving them a comment on their blog, letting them know that they are “it” and asking them to read the ‘tagster’s’ blog. (Right now I’m scouring my brain to figure out who else to ask! How do these things end?)

You have now been warned, so let the games begin:

Eight Random Truths About Myself

1. I am slightly intimidated by librarians. They hold the power of life or death over whether or not they will let me take out my fifty book limit when I visit the library. Especially since I venture into our Children’s room and into the YA section of the library, I think they give me weird looks. I try to sidle in and look

non-threatening.

2. I have never really learned to drink coffee, but every once in awhile I go out with friends and order a cup, then make it 3/4ths soy milk and sweetener.

3. I got a D in 10th grade typing – my worst semester grade in high school. Mrs. Miller should now be pleased that I type 88 words per minute at last test. I am now pleased that in real life, things like that don’t matter.

4. I have always wanted to knit, crochet, paint or play the pianoforte. I would have made a good Elizabethan, but if I’d lived back then, I would have been a slave, so it’s just as well. Anyway, I can now knit – slowly – play the piano – a little, crochet – a chain – and paint – badly. Art is long, and life is short, right?

5. I cry – a lot. I always hope that people can’t tell, but books, commercials, movies, church, classical music, love songs, cute dogs, cute children, old people, fathers and daughters, couples … it’s freaking ridiculous, and the list goes on forever. Just about anything can set me off, and I. Hate. It. It’s ridiculous. I’m not even sentimental. Or not very sentimental, anyway.

6. I am slightly scared of my agent. Remember that thing I said about life and death? Ditto.

7. I am a closet reader. I like small spaces, and you can usually find me under the stairs in the living room with my beanbags and a bag of books. That’s a throwback from childhood, and the days when I had to hide to get a second to read, or someone would find me “something useful to do.”

8. Before it existed as a genre, I started writing “fan fiction” when I was eight- with Anne of Green Gables. Until I was a junior in high school, I never knew there were sequels… (don’t ask) and thus, disgusted with how it ended, I wrote volumes of “what happened next” books – and I changed Gilbert’s life. A lot.

Eight Random Truths about me. As you can see, I am both important and trivial, normal and strange, extraordinary, and just like everyone else. Welcome to my world!

Sadly, I can’t think of anyone to tag who hasn’t already been tagged or who would be willing to play, but I do like finding out all these weird little tidbits about all of you. (I’m still amused that Kelly doesn’t like feet.) Jen and Susan, thanks for including us!

Princess Phooey

by Tanita S. Davis

May 28, 2007

11:35 pm

5 Comments on Princess Phooey

On Writing, Random Notes and Errata

The cool chicks at Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast, by way of Journey Woman pointed out a fun new site for me – Artista, the blog of a cartoonist from Budapest, Hungary. Arista’s evocative little works of art are beautifully emotional in spite of their simplicity.

This little cartoon, of course, reminded me of the Disney Frog Princess kerfluffle and I had a little chuckle over the continuing fervor being raised around this movie.

Initially, I hesitated to voice much more than a passing objection to the fact that Maddy – unlike any other Disney “Princess” character, had to earn a living – as a chambermaid, and had a nickname instead of a name. I wanted to be much more vocal about it, but that was to admit to having seen all the other Disney Princess movies (Cough! I have a younger sister and a niece, give me a break!) and viewing them closely enough for cinematic criticism! Now I am a glad to report that many other people got so exercised about this not-even-near-release film that they called it racist, and wrote letters of protest. Maddy, they claimed, sounded just like Mammy. (And I thought: Whoa. Even I hadn’t thought that far!)

Disney made some rapid changes. Maddy is now a euphonically correct – but dubious Tiana (I don’t know, people, sounds just like tiara…), and said Tiana has returned to the ranks of the idle Disney rich as a non-chambermaid; The Frog Princess, so as not to potentially offend anyone French (!) is now called The Princess & the Frog, and we all will live happily ever after in liberty, equality and fraternity. Or something.

Meanwhile, I rather like this little princess. She still knows how to frown.

Finally, congratulations to Laura from Tockla’s World on the birth of Cassiopeia this past Sunday, the newest star in the firmament, and to Our Ms. Bird, the 8th sizzling Fuse, who is about to explode into a larger audience, blogging for the School Library Journal. Mazel tov, and we’ll see you over there!

Invisible Tea Parties: Social Conventions

by Tanita S. Davis

May 28, 2007

10:44 pm

2 Comments on Invisible Tea Parties: Social Conventions

Musings on Extemporanea

Yesterday, I put up another birth announcement on my cork board.

I have come to the conclusion that a.) there are far too many useless social conventions, and b.) that Hallmark might be a great stock to buy into. To make room for the new birth announcement, I had to throw away an old one. What’s the sell-by date for birth announcements? How long do I need to have a card with date and weight to herald a new arrival? I have determined that a year is enough; one year, then out they go. Forgive me if that is not the way it ought to be done; I’m sure Emily Post covered this in some etiquette book or other, but perhaps I have simply failed to reach that chapter.

I am beginning to be bewildered by simple things such as greeting cards, as well. I actually hate receiving them, because afterward, well, there they are. I have opened them, read their sentiment, and then — ? Someone commented that the back of our front door is still lined with photo holiday cards; well, I assume that the people who sent me photographs of themselves might like me to keep them… thus I need to cut them out and put them into an album or frame… thus I need to purchase said albums or frames… thus the cards are just fine sticking on the back of the door until I get that far.

Social conventions. Bewildering politenesses that we are all meant to exchange.

I am told that I am unspeakably rude at times, because I don’t talk. Sometimes, there is simply nothing to say. For instance, I was recently told, “I told your husband to hurry up and make you pregnant!” followed by much eye rolling and giggling. Oh, how I longed for a quick tongue with which to deliver a subtle riposte with damning accuracy. The woman who plagued me about my reproduction, I longed to impale her air-headed, bubbly good humor with a long silver pin, delivering a shattering, conversation-stopping POP! to her ego… Alas, I was firmly taught and scolded into the belief that not having anything nice to say means that one examines the ceiling tiles until one’s co-conversant has changed the topic. That has saved the skin from being flayed from quite a few people, and an incoherence of ill-temper, which is always unfortunate. Unfortunately, it does not save me from saying the wrong thing anyway…

Dame Edna visited this weekend and with her typical histrionic levels of enthusiasm entered the house and warbled, “What beee-yuuu-tiful floors!” to which I replied, “Yes, aren’t they.” Because… well, yes, they are.

I neither grew the bamboo nor planed it on a machine. I neither sanded it, nor glued it together nor installed it on my floor. I chose it because it is beautiful, and I could not take credit for Dame Edna’s overly effusive praise of them. But I am finding now that I have been cheeky and impertinent, and am meant to have ducked modestly and said, “Oh, thank you,” as if I – in lieu of the floor – were gratified by her notice. Social conventions. And people wonder that I don’t often choose to speak…

I still struggle to wrap my mind around the biggest social convention of all, the act of pretense. There doesn’t seem to be a single-word definition for ‘acting as if all is well;’ though it does have shades of studied non-observance, except that it isn’t emotionally balanced enough to be deliberate non-observance for the greater good. Instead, pretense is for the sake of shoving things under the carpet. It is the pretense that says ‘Since I don’t want to deal with it, it never happened.’ The ‘Bumpy Carpet’ is the consistent pretense I encounter with Dame Edna and Her Landed Lord.

Ours is not a friendly history. Dame Edna once saw herself and Her Landed Lord as Quality, and myself as Other Than Quality, and to her mind, never the twain should have had to meet. Though much of her attitude is only rarely vocalized, a submerged passive aggressive manipulation continues on just beneath the surface of conversation. Yet it is another social convention that some of the most pitched battles people wage against one another are unspoken. Cloaked in good taste and manners, people sit down to invisible tea parties, offer each other one lump or two, extend pinky fingers and sip while snubbing each other all the while. Many of these same people still manage to send holiday cards.

I find this incomprehensible.

Maybe the thing I understand the least, which sends me into this restless introspection, is that I am not yet doing things which require announcements, make Lifelong Enemies, or necessitate falsely cordial interaction. Do not mistake my meaning; I do not wish to post banns nor birth announcements nor invite meaningless witty socialization! There is just a part of me which realizes that I am steadily collecting the detritus of the lives of others which they feel impelled to share, and sending out no signal flares of my own. Have I now achieved all my victories, finished all of my struggles? Or is it simply that I no longer feel compelled to share, to take part in this invisible tea party of polite exclamations, hearty congratulations, and silent competition? Is it more preferable or unforgivable somehow that I prefer to stare into my mirror and try to figure out how to get out of the game?

The lovely picture herein displayed is courtesy of Artista, the work of a cartoonist living in Budapest, Hungary. Her evocative little works of art are beautifully emotional in spite of their simplicity. Visit often!

Ficktion Fridays: Set In Stone

by Tanita S. Davis

May 25, 2007

7:08 pm

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Ficktion Fridays

We could have gone to the beach, and it might have all gone different, I suppose, but Marlee worries about stupid things like sand fleas and the wind drying out her skin, and Mum and Jonah always listen to her, since she’s “at that difficult age,” and they don’t want to hear her whine.

I think Jonah wouldn’t have cared about whining, but Mum is still trying to make it up to us that she stepped out on Dad with Jonah, then left him, and dragged us with her. Mom is always trying to make it up to Marlee, because Marlee talks. When she’s mad, Marlee says words like ‘betrayer’ and ‘cheater’ and ‘immoral.’ Mum can usually buy Marlee off, give her the car keys, or some money for the mall. Mum’s scared of Marlee, but she’s not scared of me.

I’m eleven, and I don’t talk. I can’t find anything to say about Jonah, or Mum, or anything.

Mum says I’m just like Dad, and the way she says it, it sounds like it’s something bad. Dad never says much to anybody either, but he’s Dad, and that’s how it is. He’s Dad.

And Jonah is Jonah. Jonah thinks he’s one of the Good Guys, like in the Captain American comics where there are Perilous Evils, but the Good Guys always win. Jonah says he is an EcoWarrior. I should have thought Jonah would have cared about the things that Marlee says, but he is busy being eco-moral. He thinks people are moral and good when they’re saving the Earth and ‘thinking green.’

Oh. And when they look after their fellow man. That’s me, as far as Jonah is concerned. Somehow, he missed thinking of Dad as a fellow man.

Because Mum told him that Dad and I have ‘trouble communicating,’ Jonah’s taken it on himself to be sure I get “male companionship” that he’s heard boys need. He’s subscribed me to Boy’s Life, and himself to George. Now he’s started bugging me about having ‘man time’ with him, and ‘family time’ with Mom and Marleee, which is how we ended up at the park.

It is generic enough, on the face of things; acres of green, manicured lawns and big green trees. Eco-Jonah is thrilled, despite the fact that this is as tamed a “natural” space as I’ve ever seen. “Nothing like a nice walk on a sunny day,” he says expansively, throwing his arms wide and poking me in the arm. “Get old Mother Earth beneath your feet, toss around the pigskin a bit; you’ll feel like a new man.”

There is nothing to do when Jonah talks tripe like that to me except tune him out. I walk away from him and head toward a stand of trees at the top of a rise. His voice and Marlee’s whining sort of filter out and fade away. At the top of the hill, I see a paved plaza up ahead. Intrigued, I speed up, heading for it.

Mum is puffing along behind me, trying to keep up. “Marty?”

“[ no reply]”

“It’s nice of Jonah to bring us here, isn’t it?”

I keep climbing. There is nothing to say to that.

Artsy stuff was never Dad’s thing, and I’ve never much liked Art Period at school except if Mrs. Cordiss lets me do comics, so when I found out the plaza had nothing but a bunch of stone sculptures, it wasn’t that interesting, except I still look, because they are naked. The people are all twisted up on each other, and some of them are playing, and some of them look like they’re attacking. Some of them look dead, and there are babies there, too. They are huge, which I like. I feel small looking up at them. It is weird looking at stone that can be thought of as so hard, but the bodies look so real.

I wander around staring, sometimes wanting to reach out and touch the smoothness. Down a small flight of stairs I come to a sculpture that stops me cold. It’s Dad. It’s just like him. Dad, and someone else. Maybe me.

The immense figures sit back to back, leaning against each other, but straight. Taking strength one from another, they touch, but strong enough, too, on their own not to lean too hard. I circle the figures, running my hands along the base of the plinth, trying to name the feelings boiling up inside of my stomach. It’s just two guys, back to back, but they’re so big, they could take over the world.

“Marty?” Mum materializes at my side, holding onto my arm with clammy hands. “You can’t keep wandering away like this. Jonah’s taken all this trouble to bring you to a nice park. Don’t you want to tell him thank you? Jonah has been very nice about how you’ve treated him, Marty, but it’s got to stop. Don’t you — “

“Mum,” I interrupt her. “I’m moving home with Dad.”

Mum’s mouth moves. “What? Marty-?”

Dad’s name is Martin. I am Marty.

Mum always used to say Dad and me were just alike, like bookends. This is how we should be, back to back, holding each other up. Dad and I are two halves of the same, set in stone.

I look up at the sculpture. Mum is still saying something, but rocks don’t hear.

Flickr Fiction is out, Ficktion Fridays are in! Visit the websites of the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Ms. Teaandcakes, Elimare, Chris, Aquafortis, Valshamerlyn, and Miss Mari, and find us on find indiviual pages on Ficktion. Ficktion: a new experiment in wordplay.

Changing the Rules: Simon & Schuster

by Tanita S. Davis

May 25, 2007

4:43 am

2 Comments on Changing the Rules: Simon & Schuster

Book News, On Writing

One of my Cybils Sisters, Jackie, pointed out something else really weird going on at a publishing company. Now, not only do Simon & Schuster enjoy the ability to allow people to trade futures on the profitability of them publishing certain manuscripts, now they seem to have also decided to keep book rights… forever. The Seattle Times reports that Simon and Schuster are offering what, on the surface, appears to be something terribly attractive — the ability to never have your books go out of print.

The attractiveness to me, however, stops there — on the surface. Publishing rights are usually purchased for only a certain number of copies of a book, therefore the relationship of any author with a publisher is provisional, based on the number of books sold during a limited time. After this time, the contract dissolves, leaving the author free to revise the work and resell it, or leave it as a part of the literary past, locatable only in libraries and used book stores.

The most important part of that last phrase is leaving the author free. Being involved with a publisher means, in part, having them have their say on your work. We all want to be immortal and be published forever, but it seems a high price to pay to never be the one to own full rights to your own work again.

Author’s Guild, the professional writer’s advocacy group, decries Simon & Schuster/Penguin Putnam’s quiet changing of their contract wording as an attempt to change the face of publishing, and to never admit that a book is out of print. Sadly, both Simon & Schuster’s News Release page and their Discussion Boards page on the company website are down, so I could not get their take on this, though their spokespeople have already accused Author’s Guild of “perpetrat[ing] serious misinformation.” However, I have read their contract, and I can see how Author’s Guild’s interpretation could be understood. I am very much interested to see how this tug-of-war will play out.

Meanwhile, fun linguistic timewasters abound at Kelly’s, and I am so stacking my pile of 48 Hour Reading Challenge books up next to my bed, because seriously: Shakespeare Really Hates My Emo Poems. And I need that Threadless hoodie! (By the way, if you ever want to kill a fun hour, there’s another time waster – that whole website. My next project in my prodigious free time is to design a t-shirt. Glee!)

Poetry Friday is being held at A Wrung Sponge. Until then, I leave you with sinister limericks!

A lugubrious lady of Lawrence
Would regard each new day with abhorrence.
“When I wake up,” she said,
“Just to get out of bed
Seems a good deal more work than it warrants.”

“Sinister Limericks” and “Assorted Pentastiches” by X.J. Kennedy, from Peeping Tom’s Cabin: Comic Verse 1928-2008. © BOA Editions, 2007. Find more here.

Briefly

by Tanita S. Davis

May 23, 2007

3:54 pm

1 Comment on Briefly

Literary Life Observations, On Writing, Random Notes and Errata

Via Read Roger, I have discovered yet another potential client for MotherReader’s BACA Club – poor old Skatey Katy, a book by famously bob-haired 70’s (80’s?) figure-skater Dorothy Hamil, currently being voted on by the …voting public.

How, you may ask, does that work? According to the NY Times:

“Media Predict is soliciting book proposals from agents and the public, and posting pages of them on the site. Traders, who are given $5,000 in fantasy cash, can buy shares based on their guess about whether a particular book proposal is likely to get a deal, or whether Touchstone Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, will select it as a finalist in a contest called Project Publish. If either happens within a four-month period, the value of the shares go to $100 apiece; if not, the share price falls to zero.”

Yeah. I’m sort of horrified, to be honest. (Sort of? Let’s try really horrified.) It’s not enough that writers have to jump through untold hoops to get published at all (Oh, no, I used colored stationery and festive stamps on my query letter. It will get rejected in the mail room, no editor will ever see it!!), now it seems at Simon & Schuster, anyway, that American Idol has become a mindset in which people other than publishing professionals are… betting on my success or failure? Um, hello…? And people are upset with bloggers for daring to express opinions on books!?

I think I like the model – clunky and outdated though it might be – of editors reading book proposals and trying to base their decisions on their own opinions. It’s not foolproof by any means, and it’s based just as much on editorial quirk as true merit, which is hard to divine in any case, but it’s better than the idea of a popularity contest. Even in middle school, I never won any of those…

Besides wishing I were a comic book artist, I’ve also occasionally wished that I were a sculptor, which is why I am endlessly fascinated with the creative use of books — not only are books great as time machines and transport vehicles to spirit you away, they also make good…
clocks. And apparently also birdhouses.

You’ll be glad to note than I am going garage sale scrounging for books to turn into some …thing. A la This Into That, my project is going to be wildly creative and beautiful, will speak volumes (heh) to the world of art and literature, and will leave intellectuals breathless.

Of course, the greater likelihood is that I am going to be the proud owner of a bunch of really old books, but what the hey, huh?

I am still trying to wrap my head around recent news reports. Words fail. For insightful commentary, visit Colleen and CK’s blogs.

Winding Up for the Pitch

by Tanita S. Davis

May 22, 2007

3:10 am

5 Comments on Winding Up for the Pitch

On Writing, Web Wanderings, Writing Daze

Well, my mother always said it took 21 days to start a good habit (Truthfully, the number was kind of random, I think, but since my mother said it, we shall pretend that it Proceedeth from the Mouth of God like all good girls should), so HipWriterMama‘s 7 Day or 30 Day Challenge inspiration is right on the mark. I wish I could be counted upon to actually DO something for thirty days – but I know I’d better not commit to anything at the moment. I will, however, take a minute to celebrate that I am halfway finished with the last page of my work-in-progress! I am completely relieved.

And also completely in shock.

You know, you read all of these author interviews and stuff, and you hear them say that it sometimes takes them a year to write a novel. (And then you read those other ones that say the author dumped the whole thing out in six months. And then you’re tempted to injure someone.) You think, “A YEAR!?” and you sort of — panic. A year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty five days. Gosh, that seems like such a long time. But truthfully, it’s not. Especially given that most of us don’t do one thing for a whole year, it can be a very short time indeed.

Since June 28th of last year, when I started this current work-in-progress, I have a.) finished a second draft of one novel, b.) the first draft of another, and c.) with constant editing, am now just finishing the FirstSecond draft of this one. (Sometimes I write in FirstSecond, that is, I am unable to write in a straight line, and am constantly course-correcting along the way. You’d think this would mean my agent had less to make red marks on in my manuscripts. It does mean that — I mean, I guess the manuscript is better than it would have been if I hadn’t made any changes, but he still has comments to make. Many, many comments. He has to get paid for something, and he wouldn’t have a job if I were perfect. Right? Oh, just nod your head.) I’ve also submitted a short story every week for our Flickr Fiction project, I’ve entered three contests, one of which is for a Mustard… romance novel (oh, you MUST visit this contest – it’s so awful it’s funny), interviewed seven authors ( The Summer Blog Blast Tour, Coming Soon to a Blogosphere Near You – countdown to June 18!), not to mention written thousands of emails and hundreds of personal journal entries.

This has been a weirdly busy writing year. Granted, the last two weeks of writing have felt like where most of the time from the whole year has settled, but I believe I will be done tomorrow! And when I get there, I will enjoy it. I will sit down and savor the newest Carnival. I will check out Sparrow’s Blog, and read her book, I will read some of the hilarious sounding book recommendations that have come my way. I’ll take a hard look at the big picture (and groan) and enjoy catching up on all I’ve missed.

For a day.

Then, I’ll join the Hip People and get on with the next challenge. Maybe it’ll take me 365 instead of 30, but I’m sure I’ll get there. Eventually.

Flickr Fiction Friday: Castles in the Air

by Tanita S. Davis

May 18, 2007

8:33 pm

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Flickr Fiction Friday

It is hazy and sticky out, which isn’t unusual for Shanghai, but is unusual enough for so early in the morning. Even though the sun has not yet risen, the streets are still filled with people, cheek-by-jowl, rushing down the wide streets on bicycles, heading all directions. I wish I was one of them, filled with some kind of purpose, walking briskly. Instead, I am limping along, exhausted, still feeling jetlagged, travel-worn, and weary.

The boulevard outside the hotel boasts a wide, tree-lined walk; the Bund, the concierge called it. Walking along it are many Chinese peoples in plain outfits, doing the slow mantis-like movements of Tai Chi, and getting their morning exercise. A small group of fifteen or so senior citizens are flying kites against the pollution-corrupted sky. I encounter several curious gazes, but do not stop.

My high school had been thrilled we’d been invited to China; our a cappella chorus had worked hard all year, and had gone to the Mozart Festival in Austria only the summer before. Nobody had expected another overseas trip, but Ms. Dunston had a friend well placed in government in Shanghai, and with great excitement, she’d passed along a tour invitation to the school board. The trustees had been impressed enough to bring in the media, and for the last ten days, we’d been traveling with a newspaper columnist and a photographer, as well as with the usual plethora of interested parents and sponsors. We’d been performing every day for two weeks, and had two weeks of tours and performances left to go. Between the jetlag and the sticky, sullen weather, being ‘on’ all the time for the columnist and photographer, we were all exhausted, half-sick, and fractious. Students who were usually quiet and dependable were having screaming fights on the tour bus, and Liesel and Kim had cried most of the way through our tour of the Oriental Pearl Tower in Pudon, which was all aglitz with neon lights and flashing signs. When we got to East Asia Hotel, tearstained and tired, Ms. Dunston announced a curfew, and had instructed us all to go to bed immediately, or risk her wrath. I’d sleep early and deeply, and now, awake before six, I wander the streets with the locals.

Shanghai is beautiful, but strange. As we sing at each outdoor theater and concert hall, I feel too Western and huge, my wide shoulders and full figure the object of blank stares of astonishment by seemingly hundreds of small, compact Asian girls. I realize I am beginning to walk with a hunch, thoughtlessly trying to be shorter, smaller, to blend in. Where is the part of my heritage that is meant to fit here? My face is a flat oval but my skin is caramel crème and dimpled instead of a serene and delicate pale. Jamaica sings out in the bow of my lips, the sway of my steps, in the kinks in my hair. China, had given me only my eyes, which are long and tilted. It seems as if there is something else filling in the blanks, some third cultural fingerprint that only I can see. Even my mother doesn’t understand why I don’t want to be here, why the hair on my nape raised when everyone else thrilled at the word ‘China.’

“It will be such a great experience for you,” my mother, Yasmin had beamed. “Everyone should find out their roots.”

If I wanted to find out my supposed ‘roots,’ shouldn’t I be in Jamaica? The one-drop rule rules the world, I know that; to the Chinese, I am no more one of them than any Westerner. Anyway, I wonder how my mother can be so enthused. My full-blooded Jamaican father didn’t marry her because she is half Chinese, and his parents, as he had told her apologetically, would object – strenuously. He instead contents himself with sending trifles and trinkets from his ticky-tacky homeland, tourist toys meant to demonstrate a love I have not seen.

My mother won’t hear a bad word against him, but I hate my father, and vow I will never go to Jamaica. The problem is, ignoring Jamaica leaves me with my scrap of Chinese-ness, which isn’t enough to count. I am only a quarter, and nobody identifies me as that, either– I am something else. Girls in my class like Lily Wong don’t look at me and find instant sisterhood. Neither can I identify with the ‘one love’ ganja crowd, with their colorful crocheted hats and “Hey, Mon,” speech. I’m on my own island.

And now, I’m in Shanghai.

The air is stained thick with haze, the color of smoke, congestion, and new construction. I look up at the half-finished buildings, the new thrusting up beside the old, as ornate temples and skyscrapers vie for space on the choked and cluttered skyline. I have two more weeks to be here, two more weeks to take hold of something that proves to me that this, too, is my country. I may be only a stepchild, but China, at least, must somehow be mine.

Flickr photographer ^fred^ was the inspiration for the Flicktioning. You may perchance find more with the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Teaandcakes, Elimare, Chris, Aquafortis, Valshamerlyn, and Miss Mari.

Donal Calls it Bookshelf Porn

by Tanita S. Davis

May 16, 2007

6:56 pm

2 Comments on Donal Calls it Bookshelf Porn

Musings on Extemporanea

Ah, books. All my pretty babies on their Ikea porn shelves…

It feels really odd sometimes to come into my own house and just… look at it. Okay, I’m waxing poetic about 1200 sq. ft, really, but when we got this place, we were settling, on many levels. I’ve wanted a house with a swimming pool my whole life. There is no way to justify that, with regard to any kind of an ecological footprint. We’re two people, living here alone, and just because I’m bathing suit/Lycra-ed-body phobic is really no reason to need an entire several thousand gallon pool to myself (On the other hand, my entire family used it when we had one in a house we rented, AND we had a huge garden, which surely counts for something – as you can see, the pool lust can’t-I-have-one debate is ongoing). Secondly, we made the choice to do with less so that only one of us had to work, and one of us could work on her dreams… and the dream is coming along. I don’t know if I’m allowed to post the mock-up of the cover of my book which will be out next summer, but (interested parties should let me know; I’ll send you an snap of the [dreadful] thing) suddenly it’s feeling like this was an okay choice after all.

And that’s a weird place for me; I think I’m most happy when I’m at least a little bit uncharitably discontented. To be truthful, all of this serenity and beauty is giving me a bit of a turn. I look around and say, “Okay… so we got the house where we want it… now what?

It’s not done: we have to figure out how to afford putting something basic and stupid in like, oh, wall insulation, and there’s still the matter of finding a tree that won’t overwhelm our postage-sized yard… but for the most part, we’re on the home stretch. Mac is ready to stretch out and settle in. And I’m… completely confused about what I’m meant to do now.

I suppose I’ll start another novel. That kind of work is never done.