Deep Thoughts in B&W, Stories to "Watch" & Etc.

Via SF Signal, Neil Gaiman is offering a sneek preview of “not quite final” Coraline footage!
A few days ago Robin Brande posted about her moral corruption, and linked to this NY Times piece about the generational divide in copyright morality. I have to admit to having been on the fence about a couple of things, but many of Robin’s commenting audience made the situation personal when they talked about their books. Would it be okay for someone to download your books and share them for free? What makes movies and music any different? Thought provoking.

Another thought-provoking discussion started at the YA YA YA’s, and it’s on the subject of class in young adult literature.

Class is something difficult to define. For me it’s often tied into race or education, but reading a novel that’s distinctly about class but isn’t written in medieval times is unusual. I more often find reading on the topic of class in characters of South Asian descent, or novels set in South Asian countries. The striations of class seem much clearer in some cultures. Last year’s YA Cybil nominee, Koyal Dark, Mango Sweet dealt with a girl who faced prejudice in her country not because of her race, but because of the shade of her skin color. This can definitely be seen as a class issue, as lighter-skinned girls in her community were expected to marry better and have more wealth.

Class may not be seen on the surface as an issue which concerns the dominant culture — because pinker skin equals privilege most of the time, and there have been many discussion on the assumption of that privilege that readers make automatically. That’s why Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel Prom was surprising and satisfying to many readers — Ashley was definitely from a blue-collar family — and some of the Australian books I’ve read. Markus Zusak’s Fighting Ruben Wolfe is definitely a novel that shakes away preconceptions about how people live. The protagonist is gritty and rough — but a good person with goals and dreams the same as a suburban character.

Fantasy Magazine had some really interesting things to say on this topic this past week, as they continued their discussion on people of color in fantasy literature. One telling comment to me about class and race came from Nora Jemisin, an African-American writer who’s had a number of fantasy short stories published in Strange Horizons, Helix, and elsewhere.

“Much of the problem with depictions of PoC [People of Color] by white authors is that they fall back on clichéd tropes or ham-handed one-dimensional characterization. Whereas with white characters, they try harder. It’s not just bad writing, it’s bad writing aided and abetted by screwed-up notions of race, gender, etc.”

Class is trickier in fantasy novels, as so many story forms come from Cinderella — the rags to riches, servant-to-king is a classic — and sometimes tiring — story tradition. In modern and urban fantasy, the class issue differs. Who is interacting with the supernatural element? Is it a person of color? If they’re Latino, we can call the story magical realism. If they’re Asian, it’s just Asian literature — after all, ancestors and spirits walking around are normal, as with African American stories, since voodoo dolls and curses are depicted as just part of life. However, if a Caucasian character interacts with the supernatural, that is unusual, and can thus be seen as fantasy (because the default setting of most readers is to see all characters as part of the dominant culture, and the idea is that they’re smart enough to know better than to believe in the supernatural. That’s a racial thing, but class is inextricably linked in there as well, because intellectuals in our society are science-minded. Minorities are not the ones depicted as knowing anything about science…).Interesting, isn’t it? I encourage you to read both halves of the discussion. Some good thoughts for when you have time.

I missed posting this in time for Hanukkah, but Ellen Kushner’s The Golden Dreidel sounds really cool for the chapter book set.

I blogged about digital books last January, and enjoyed reading inanimate alice. It’s a great, three part digital story to explore if you have some downtime this break. Chapter four is supposed to come this month, stay tuned!

Not much of a story, more a fragment…

“Percy, are you ready?”

Scrreeech!

“For the love of God, man, cut that out!”

“What is that hellacious racket?”

“Is everybody all right?”

“It’s Juliette’s gift.”

“What? What’s that?”

“I just brought her flowers, what did you do, rob an orphanage?”

“No, I traded a farmer a couple of hours mucking out stalls.”

“Is that a pig? Giles, you don’t think you’re bringing it inside the house, do you?”

“And he gave you his kid?”

“It’s a fair trade, isn’t it?”

“Aw, and it looks like you, too.”

“Shut up you guys. Everything’s fine, Mrs. Beales. I’m leaving. Let’s go, guys, we’re
going to be late.”

“Giles, did you even ask yourself how you’re going to get on a streetcar with a pig?”

“I’ll stick it under my coat. No one will see.”

“It won’t shut the hell up! Nobody has to see
it.”

“Well, I’ll…I’ll call a cab.”

“Hansom cab will cost you eight quid. Plus, you think the cabbie will take you?”

“You won’t even be able to get on a bus. Those old busybodies will have you strung
up for child abuse.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do? Juliette said she was dying for ham.”

“Ham? Is that what she calls it?”

“She said, ‘Real ham, not that dreadful Spam everyone eats.’ What else could I do?”

“You stole it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, Giles, man, you are whipped.”

“I didn’t steal it, all right? I left the farmer a silver plated lighter, right on
his front porch. It’s worth more than the pig. It had a quarter carat diamond
on it.”

“Giles Hall, you’re a fool. A city fool, at that. Do you even know how to make ham?”

“Well, no. I figured one of you could…”

Sccrreeeal!

“Giles, for heaven’s sakes!”

“Dash it, Kenny, I don’t know what to do!”

“Well, now you’ve scared it. Watch out – it’s pissing down your trousers! Hold it out –
well not like that, I don’t want pig piss on me!”

“You should have brought it a nappy.”

“Kenny… if you’re not going to say anything sensible…”

“A nappy! Kenny, you’re brilliant. Pop round to Mrs. Beale’s parlor, would you,
and grab one of her tea towels. She won’t miss the one.”

“Giles, Giles, you’re weaving a tangled web…”

“Belt up, Percy. Now I’ll just shove the little blighter into my coat, and we’re off.”

“I’ve done you one better than that, Giles. I’ve gotten him his own coat!”

“Isn’t that the jacket from Mrs. Beale’s Churchill doll?”

“You’re a dead man. A dead man walking, you are.”

“She won’t ever know. It’s just a loan.”

She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Griswold?”

The old lady started, then turned and smiled. “I’m sorry dear, where was I?”

“They asked you to come outside to get your birthday gift?”

Mrs. Griswold smiled, her ancient, seamed skin smoothing for a moment as her face
changed. “Oh, yes. That crazy boy dragged me away from my other party guests,
all the way outside. He was standing on the back porch, his hair untidy,
wrestling with the most precious little piglet I’d ever seen. And he said, ‘Miss
Hahnke, I’ve brought you your ham.’ And I just caught my breath. ‘Giles Hall,’
I said, ‘you give her to me this instant!’” Mrs. Griswold smiled again at the
memory, and Adele nudge her tape recorder closer.

“They called me fickle, you know,” Mrs. Griswold went on, dimpling slightly. “Poppa
shouted at me when I refused to see Giles again. Just about everyone in
Marblehead had seen us wedded, bedded and buried; everyone but me, that is. I
took one look at him and I knew he wasn’t for me. Not the way he treated
Arabella.”

“Arabella?” Adele asked, amused at the addition of yet another character to the play.

Mrs. Griswold looked faintly incensed. “He buttoned her up in that awful coat, and poured
sherry down her throat to keep her quiet. And she, not six months old! I knew
he’d be an dreadful father Giles Hall would.”

“The piglet,” Adele said quickly. “Arabella’s the piglet.”

“Of course she is,” Mrs. Griswold blinked at her mildly.

“Right.” Adele smiled slightly and moved the tape recorder mic close to her lips. “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Juliette
Griswold. Marblehead High School values your contribution to our Time Capsule
1974 project. We look forward to opening this capsule in the year two thousand
and four and we know that your descendants, and the descendants of our mayor,
Giles Hall, will look back on this picture, and–” Adele swallowed and glanced
at the black and white photograph, shaking her head slightly, “and… get a
fuller picture of life in Marblehead, Maine in the last century. Thank-you.”

“That’s all right, young lady,” Mrs. Griswold smiled at her sweetly. “I only wish you
could have fit Arabella’s coat into your little box. I still have it.”

“That’s nice,” Adele muttered, packing up her recording kit hurriedly. She’d been
talking to the old lady for almost an hour. Kevin and Chris were probably
already sitting in Kevin’s basement, listening to records, and Chris was probably
making the moves on Kevin. She had to hurry.

“Even after we slaughtered her, I wouldn’t give it back. Giles Hall came to see me
every day for months, trying to get that coat back from me. Promised me he’d do
anything.” Mrs. Griswold laughed, her hazel eyes turning narrowing, catlike. “Anything,
he said.”

Adele glanced at the old woman, whose fingers were delicately threading through her silvery
blonde hair. Her smile was …disturbing. For a moment, Adele felt like this
little old lady might know something more interesting than stories about
piglets. Her finger hovered over the record button.

“Mrs. Griswold?”

The old lady started, then turned and smiled. “I’m sorry dear, where was I?”


The images that inspired this little snippet of ficktion come from this blog, and you can find more experimental flights at Ficktion.ning.

"They Never Honored The Treaties"

WHOA. What an idea, that the Lakota Sioux have seceded. Or, rather, are trying to secede.

When I hear the word “secession,” I think of Ashley leaving Scarlett at Rhett’s BBQ. Honestly, it’s the last time the word was bandied about in the common vernacular, and that during a horrifying period piece filmed over thirty years ago. But the simple statement on the Lakota web page (and there’s something else to giggle about — a nation with a Web page. Wait — I guess the U.S. has tons of them. Is there one for the whole nation? Does the White House website count?) takes my breath: They never honored the treaties, that is the reason we are here today.”

It’s so simply stated that it’s painful. It’s bald. It’s a drop of blood on acres of white paper filled with a jumble of meaningless black symbols. It’s the lie.

And what does it mean? That the U.S. map, as we’ve known it, may not always exist, that the shape of the country we know might change. That the Trail of Tears might not just be something people remember with an historical regret, but something that the Cherokee allow to galvanize them. As they consider the reasons for the Lakota bid for separate nation status, maybe California will finally dissolve its relationship with everyone but, say, New York, or the Québécois and the Scots will declare their sovereignty as well. A group of quietly downtrodden people are making a stand, and others are poised to rise. It might change the shape of the world.

Also, it might change a few zip codes. The Lakota Sioux territory originally was comprised of both Dakotas, North and South, parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Montana and Nebraska. Tribal lands do not just equal reservations.

What an interesting time, to observe a people trying to make history.

Poetry Friday: Observation

Come, Look Quietly

The bird on the terrace has his own name in French, but I don’t
know it. He may be a nuthatch, only he doesn’t eat upside down.
He has a perfectly round small purple cap on his crown and a
slender long mask from his ears to his eyes all the way across. Come,
look quietly. All the way across Paris. Far behind the bird, the globes
of Sacre Coeur form out of the rain and fade again, all by themselves.
The daylight all across the city is taking its own time.
The plump Parisian wild bird is scoring a light breakfast at the
end of December. He has found the last seeds left in tiny cones on
the outcast Christmas tree that blows on the terrace

by James Wright from Above the River: Complete Poems (Noonday Press).


Happy Solstice! May you have time during these busy dark days to look quietly for something meaningful to you.
Poetry Friday is at Gina’s — aka AmoXcalli, where she also shares some really amazing — blindsiding — news about the Lakota Nation… The Lakota Sioux are going to become their own nation. Wow. History being made, people. History being made.

O Picture Book Nerdom, O Picture Book Nerdom…

…we love our picture book nerds…

And today’s coolest picture book nerd has POP UP BOOKS. Robert Sabuda is interviewed by the Wall Street Journal. Via The Book Blog.

I have to admit that the idea that pop-up books are assembled overseas… tarnishes my joy more than slightly. I know, it’s not a Christmassy thought, but I really hope those people who work with pop-up books are getting decently paid and have good working conditions… Actually, that IS a Christmastime thought. Good will towards ALL, y’know?


A Phillip Pullman podcast with The Guardian Bookclub — it’s so much fun to hear English people chatting. There are kids and adults in this book club, and the kids have some great questions. Be prepared — it’s 47 minutes long.

This morning, the temperature is -2°C — twenty eight degrees Fahrenheit. I shall swathe myself in scarves and go forth to the market. Sadly, I have to: I’m out of sugar, and I just gave away the last of five dozen parsnip cookies.

Cookies, you say? Why yes: and they’re PARSNIP cookies, too. I was mildly challenged by the idea of a Cookie Baking Day, a non-denominational holiday where we could all bake and then rescue ourselves from gluttony by sharing. The ladies at the chemist’s, who were so kind to a blundering American trying to figure out how to fill a prescription, the vegetable guy, the neighbors — all of them have saved me from eating these by myself. And I have to laugh at the reaction I get when I say “parsnip.”

“Are these… American cookies?”
Why, yes. Yes they are. An American made them; I think that’s really the only prerequisite.


Speaking of American, Laura Salas has found a fun quiz on American accents. And sorry, sweetie: ‘gull’ and ‘pull’ — will not ever rhyme.

Books into Film

Fans of the Lord of the Rings films are ecstatic that there will, in fact, be a Hobbit movie directed by Peter Graves. Well, you know what I think about books made into films — and this one’s going to have a SEQUEL. Yes. Hobbit II, hadn’t you heard of that?

Sigh…

Amusing Timewaster

Via Bookshelves of Doom, who managed to be Woodstock. I love Woodstock! But I also really wanted to be Lucy — but we all know my true nature…

Your Score: Marcie

Wishy-Washy: 50%, Mental: 71%, Physical: 31%

Marcie is Peppermint Patty’s best friend, and secretly loves Charlie Brown. She is always willing to help Patty through class and with homework, and plays on her sports teams even though she would rather be doing something else. Always address people you respect as “sir”.

Link: The Peanuts Character Test written by timberlineridge on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

S.A.M. is going to Italy — again — in March. I suppose when I’m rich and famous I’ll go to the Bologna Book Faire, too. I may have a long wait.

Cookies and Ladybugs


Yesterday, Jenn let us know that it’s Bake Cookies Day today — and I’ll have to let you know how my parsnip cookies fare later on — if I can find a mouse to whom to give a cookie. But right now, don’t forget to tiptoe over to Proper Noun and wish my Cybil sister — and new Mama Mindy — happiness on the birth of her first child, Ladybug. She’s a little overdue, and Mindy’s a little sleep-deprived, but everything is how it should be, right? Congratulations, Mindy! Joy to you and C. and your little one!

Now I call that the perfect holiday gift!

Blogging from a Nest of Blankets

The high today is supposed to be 1° (34° F), but this morning it was a balmy -2°! It’s beginning to look a bit like winter is on its way, and this Californian is knitting madly, so I’ll keep this quick:

Now that Arthur C. Clarke is ninety, he’s made his gift wishes known on Youtube. He wistfully commented that he wished Earth would receive alien contact. That’d be one heck of a birthday gift.

An interesting study gearing up in the UK — playground song as subversive humorous political commentary. How many playground ditties contain the name “Tony Blair?” Well, they’ll all have to be changed now. Fortunately, Bush rhymes with everything.

Poet Wendy Cope cruises the Web making sites remove her poetry. She’s obsessive about copyright law, and hates the idea that no one is paying her. The Guardian Blog argues that reposting poems is doing no one harm. Poetry People: what say you?

“More careful analysis shows that the entire product line–books, DVDs, ball gowns, necklaces, toy cell phones, toothbrush holders, T-shirts, lunch boxes, backpacks, wallpaper, sheets, stickers etc.–is saturated with a particularly potent time-release form of the date rape drug.

We cannot blame China this time, because the drug is in the concept, which was spawned in the Disney studios.”

WHOA! The online edition of The Nation has nothing nice to say about Disney Princess products.

We’re a little late, but we wanted to wish a Happy Blogversary to Jen Robinson — two years of reading and writing and sharing about children’s literature in her semi-professional capacity. Three cheers for those of us without kids who dare the strange glances of parents and librarians, wade into the kid’s section, and champion books for our favorite age group. Thanks, Jen, for all you do!

And now a cup of something hot is calling me! More soon from the frozen north!