I can’t even tell you how much I wish I could afford to get this charm for all of you, who, like me, write and sometimes struggle with the motivation and the reminder that THIS is the most important thing you’ve lined up to do today. Not the laundry. Not the making of the bed. Not even the creation of the balanced meal. This: your thing you do. That’s most important.
Butt in Chair. Hands on Keyboard.
Live it like you mean it!
(Via Smart B’s/Trashy B’s)
I can’t even tell you how much I wish I could afford to get this charm for all of you, who, like me, write and sometimes struggle with the motivation and the reminder that THIS is the most important thing you’ve lined up to do today. Not the laundry. Not the making of the bed. Not even the creation of the balanced meal. This: your thing you do. That’s most important.
Butt in Chair. Hands on Keyboard.
Live it like you mean it!
(Via Smart B’s/Trashy B’s)
WHOOSH!
That’s the sound of a month passing.
Good grief, if the rest of 2008 is this brief, we’ll have a new president before we can get tired of all the campaigning! (Hah. I’m not even in the U.S., and … yeah.)
Busy, busy month ahead, but there are plenty of goodies to anticipate! To begin with, the 28 Days Later promotion at The Brown Bookshelf getting geared to go. Next, there’s Maureen Johnson giving away copies of Suite Scarlett (and sneak chapter previews!) at inside a dog where she’s author in “residence” until the 15th; Ursula K. LeGuin is offering Read By the Author at her site — lovely free MP3’s of her reading chapters from some of her books and her poetry. There’s a review of The Wednesday Wars in this Sunday’s SF Chron, as well as a review of two nonfiction titles for YA: Nic Sheff’s Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines (Ginee Seo Books; 325 pages; $16.99; ages 14-up) and Ashley Rhodes-Courter’s Three Little Words (Atheneum; 312 pages; $17.99; ages 12-up). The three little words weren’t “I love you;” they were “I guess so,” which are very sad words in the case of an adoption. I’m adding those to the TBR list; read more about them and add them to yours.
NPR explores the roots of Pollyanna as a symbol of relentless optimism — and discusses whether there’s any room for that in the modern world. Also, in case you missed their Holden Caulfield retrospective awhile back, it’s well worth hearing.
Finally, over at Shaken & Stirred, we find out that Glenda’s really dying to be a good witch who goes bad (and then gets good again). (I just think she’s warning us all not to piss her off.) As for me: you can find me in the library…
I’m very depressed that my hottie/evil quotient isn’t high enough to make me Spike. *Sigh*
HAPPY WEEK!
Of course, any excuse to post my favorite — and quite nasty — Burns poem of all time!
To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church
Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? (wonder)
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, (strut)
Owre gauze and lace;
Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner,
How daur ye set your fit upon her-
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle; (temples)
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle (horn or bone handled comb)
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight,
Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; (falderols)
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right,
Till ye’ve got on it-
The verra tapmost, tow’rin height
O’ Miss’ bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump an’ grey as ony groset: (gooseberry)
O for some rank, mercurial rozet (resin),
Or fell, red smeddum,(deadly red powder)
I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum.(backside)
I wad na been surpris’d to spy
You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; (flannel cap)
Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy,(perhaps, small)
On’s wyliecoat; (ragged coat)
But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! (balloon bonnet)
How daur ye do’t?
O Jeany, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin:
Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us,
An’ ev’n devotion!
Best read aloud, of course, so take a listen here.
Here’s a sad thing: For the last five months, I’ve lived in Scotland… and I have never really cared for Robert — or as they call him here, “Rabbie” — Burns.
Shh!
I know! ‘Tis a monstrous heresy, and it bein’ Burns Day and all! But studying a lot of rhymed poetry in school — the kind with really tedious forced rhyme, sentimental themes, and hideously long stanzas didn’t endear me to what little I’d read of Burns. I shuddered and pushed him away to find shorter, more readable poetry.
Though much of Burns’ poetry is as sentimental as any poet of his time, and though many of his verses reference specific things that, unless you’re well versed in Ayr and Edinburgh’s history through the 1760-80’s, you won’t get without a bit of digging, there are compensations to reading his work, as plenty of his wit flashes through, even in forced rhyme. He wrote scandalously funny epitaphs, numerous songs, (of which the traditional Auld Lang Syne is only one), a poem to a mouse, one to a haggis — that, yes, people read on Burns’ Night — and more, giving us, through his eyes, a rare vision of the everyday life and vociferous opinions of a man of the 18th century in Scotland. Slowly, I am becoming if not a fan of Burns, an appreciator of his words and his country, and on his birthday, I gift you with this little glimpse from his collected works, courtesy of Project Gutenberg.
Epitaph On A Henpecked Country Squire (1784)
As father Adam first was fool’d,
(A case that’s still too common,)
Here lies man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.
Epigram On The Said Occasion (1784)
O Death, had’st thou but spar’d his life,
Whom we this day lament,
We freely wad exchanged the wife, [would]
And a’ been weel content.
Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff, [cold, grave]
The swap we yet will do’t;
Tak thou the carlin’s carcase aff, [fr. Old Norse, karling, means old woman or witch]
Thou’se get the saul o’boot. [soul]
Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks?
To murder men and give God thanks!
Desist, for shame!-proceed no further;
God won’t accept your thanks for Murther!
Epigram Addressed To An Artist (around 1787)
Dear _____, I’ll gie ye some advice,
You’ll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair, [Archaic for ‘maid’?]
But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel’s kittle wark, [16th c. Scots,’tickle,’ “ticklish,” difficult work]
Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger:
You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face, [kent is past participle on ken, or known]
But no sae weel a stranger. -R. B.
Happy Burns Day! Poetry of a less insulting nature — but probably not necessarily more fun — can be found this week at Mentor Texts & More. Should you find yourself in convivial company this evening, be sure to raise a glass and recite a bit of Burns for your hosts. And enjoy the haggis for me – I don’t think I can…
Burn Engraving courtesy of Encyclopedia Britannica.
Listen!
Can’t hear anything?
There’s a reason for that. This is the sound of Women at Work.
It’s a bit quiet ’round here this week.
Well, if you manage to get your head up, don’t miss this month’s Edge of the Forest, starring The Class of 2k8, and the usual happy melange of book reviews, interviews, and more worthwhile news in children’s literature.
Okay, we’ve all joked about the Cassie Edwards thing, and even had a very fine Toon Thursday about it. NPR even got into the act — twice. But did you realize that all the publicity has actually helped the ferrets? Romance readers/writers = good people. They raised $5,032.75 to further the romantic lives of ferrets and all animals. That’s some serious money, peeps. I will never mock romance novels again. (Until next time.)
Writers: Don’t miss some great contest ideas for this month! UK based Writer’s Magazine sponsors an annual writing for children competition. The theme for March is bullying, and details will be updated on their website closer to the date.
Another UK gem is The Belmont Poetry Prize, whose contest has children as the judges. Details here.
Finally, I know a. fortis will get a kick out of this one — a contest for children’s stories set in Wales. The Alexander Cordell Literature Competition is looking for children’s short story set during the Industrial Revolution in “Cordell Country.” Never heard of Alexander Cordell? Find out more about himhere, and good luck!
Happy cold/wet/rainy/sleety/where’s Spring?!/ weather to you!
Everything about Constantine Jollee was brighter, louder and more alive than anyone else in Gyle Crescent. Where our mothers were as thrifty with words as they were with their hoarded coins, Miz Jollee was profligate with her expressions, lavishing smiles and conversation on any of us who were near enough to be caught in her mischievous hazel gaze. Where our village was redolent with the stink of farms, orchards, honest sweat and hard work, Miz Jollee smelt of soft blossoms and long, lazy summer afternoons on far away islands, even when it was fierce winter cold. She was the new chemist’s assistant, and straight out of school she was, full of university learning and all the newest methods. The old women in the village were ever so glad not to have to ask Mr. Campbell to whisper across the counter to them about their constipation and bunions anymore, and the younger farm wives timidly asked her advice on matters even more discreet. Miz Jollee was forthright and no-nonsense in her profession, but her kindness was a breath of fresh air in our quiet town. It didn’t harm her any that she was a handsome woman, tall as a man with a head of thick, shining brown hair and fine, clear skin.
My Uncle Santry was the first to be mired in the maze of her warm, low voice. He was an old bachelor who lived on the hill above us with only his herds for company. Mam had pounded it into us that he, being Dad’s older brother, was our duty, and we
were to see after him for charity’s sake. She was as crossed as two birch switches when she sent Marla and me up after him one Sunday for supper, and he not sitting there, awaiting for her last minute invitation as always.
“He was what?” she asks us, sharp-like, when we tripped back down the hill to tell her.
“He was up to Miz Jollee’s,” Marla says again, giggles caught in the back of her throat. “He was washed and slicked and everything, Mam.”
Then she did laugh, a bright chortle that danced like birdsong, ’til Mam smacked her on the bum for no reason that I could see.
“Get away to your room with that nonsense,” she snapped, and went stalking to find Dad,leaving the gravy congealing in the pot, the roast drying out in the stove. And whatever Mam had said to Dad had sparked off such a row that we none of us got dinner, not for long hours, ’til it was all ruined, and my stomach was tight with knots and worry.
I liked my Uncle Santry, with his thick rumpled eyebrows, and his wild thatch of wiry hair, and it had given me a turn to see his his homely jug-eared head shorn and slicked into submission, as if to go courting he’d had to wrestle down his wilder,
woollier self. Seeing Uncle Santay so had filled me with anxiety. Is that what it
meant, to have a boy go courting? Had our Dad had to go all meek and humble himself to come courting our Mam? And if so, had it been… worth it?
Neither Marla nor our brother, Nigel was bothered by Mam’s fusses like I was. Nigel, being a boy, was Dad’s problem, and Marla had been having go-rounds with Mam since she’d turned fourteen. She was sixteen now, and I asked if she minded the smacks and the sharp words, Marla just shrugged and said that soon enough she’d be out and gone, and she wasn’t about to let Mam’s old-lady clucking get under her skin.
It got under my skin, though. Everything did. I didn’t know why Mam sounded so angry, and the silence in our house after all the shouting only made it worse.
The village postmaster was the next man Miz Jollee’s coils of curly hair captivated. He wasn’t a bachelor, though, and it was the talk of the downtown busybodies, how Mr. Cullen made eyes at Constantine Jollee, his wife not five feet away, sorting the mail. Going in to get a stamp or send a package after that was a
dicey proposition. The postmistress felt that you were either for her, or against her, and expected loyal Gyle Cresent women to step up and take a side. Mam sent me to check for a package one day, and when I went to Mr. Cullen’s line instead of Mrs. Cullens, it practically sparked an international incident. Apparently Mrs. Cullen said something to Mrs. Airdrie, and she let slip to our neighbor, Mrs. McAuley, that she thought that the McIntyre’s youngest, Avril, would grow up wild.
“Just like that Constantine Jollee,” Mam had finished, eyebrows fairly crackling with lightning as she glared me down, storms brewing in her eyes. “Just what have you to say for yourself, Avril McIntyre?”
“Leave off, Janice,” Dad had intervened, his rare attention surprising. “She has no idea what you’re on about.”
And I didn’t, but Mam started giving me wary looks after that, as if I were soon going to commit some unimaginable wrong.
The men in our village fell head over heels with Miss Jollee, but I no longer cared. I had been betrayed, and felt a deep uneasiness that Mam would take up with the likes of Mrs. Airdrie against me, when she always said that Ethel Airdrie would rattle her tongue past Judgment Day, when a good woman would know to be silent.
I was only fourteen, and not ready to brave the constant battling Mam and Marla went through on a daily basis. I didn’t know how, but I was trying to avoid conflict the best way I knew how. Unfortunately, for Mam, the only thing I could have done to keep the peace was not grow up…
At the Spring Faire, Gyle Cresent was dressed to the nines and filled with little ones running around, begging change from their parents for pony rides and taffy candy. Each year, the local businesses employed their workers to pass out lollipops and balloons, thanking the village for their business and laying the foundation for another good year. The primary school kids worriedly practiced their words for the town spelling bee, and those of us who were older stood behind tables, selling coleslaw and slabs of pie to support school clubs. The air was thick with the savory smells of meat; the 4-H club roasted hundreds of chickens on
spits, and the Greek Orthodox group had a whole lamb being slow basted for the all-county picnic. The Vestry Committee of the Gyle Cresent Episcopal Church set up their yearly cakewalk on the far side of the square, just to the left of the podium where the mayor “blessed” the Spring Queen and her court.
Marla had already run off with her classmates by the time we got to the Faire and met Uncle Santry. Mam stiffened up and went quiet when she saw him, since Miss Jollee was with him, arm linked with his. Dad stopped to chat, while Mam stood in awkward silence, looking across at the Ferris Wheel set up in the field next to the high school.
I couldn’t help comparing them, my small, rumpled mother with her plainly braided hair and her plain white blouse with the embroidered cuffs and the tall, vibrant woman standing proudly at Uncle Santry’s shoulder, her chestnut hair piled high on her head. Next to Miss Jollee’s vivid peacock silk blouse and high-waisted bolero slacks, Mam’s quiet outfit made her look provincial and countrified. Though my own blouse and clamdiggers were plain, I had never stopped to consider that other women my parents’ ages didn’t dress like Constantine Jollee. She looked like she was in costume. I realized that almost every woman that glanced our way looked at Miss Jollee, then looked at her again. Across the square, a group of women were staring at her.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Janice!” Mrs. Airdrie rushed up to us, her fair skin flushed with high color. “I’m gathering all the ladies. It’s time to prepare the Spring Queen’s court.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mam said immediately, stepping back. “I’m too old for that nonsense, Ethel Airdrie.”
“It’s all in good fun,” Mrs. Airdrie insisted, beaming brightly at all of us. “You’ll come, won’t you Miss Jollee?”
Mam’s mouth turned down. “ Ethel,” she began.
“’Course I’ll come,” Miss Jollee smiled. She trailed after Mrs. Airdrie. “What do I need to do?”
“Come on,” Mam said to me, dragging me along after them. “We’re coming too.”
I wasn’t any too interested in the Spring Queen or the Court. Every year before the Mayor “blessed” the court, the townsfolk lined up the Court in all their finery, and sprinkled them with a bit of water from a bouquet of roses. The rosewater was supposed to symbolize dewy youth or fresh beauty or something, but the meaning had been lost years ago, and now, once the Queen was crowned, she was doused with champagne. Inevitably,someone took the “sprinkling” bit with the roses bit a bit far before the main event, and then it was a free-for-all, and the water fight generally left the Court in sopping disarray which the mothers bemoaned all afternoon, even though most of their daughters didn’t bother to change clothes, preferring to drag around their watermarked gowns, disheveled and amused. As far as I knew, Mrs. Airdrie had never bothered with the Court, leaving that to the younger folks, and Mam had never gone anywhere near the whole thing.
“What’s going on?” I asked, as Mam towed me along, but she said nothing, just picked up her pace. Mrs. Airdrie was hurrying Miss Jollee right up to the foot of the platform where the Mayor would make his speech. As I watched, women from the village gathered around, as if by some prearranged signal.
The first splash of water that landed on Miss Jollee came from Marla, flinging her roses enthusiastically. “Hey, Miss Jollee,” she shouted. “Happy Spring!” Her face was gleeful as she liberally sprinkled the people around her with water. There were squeals as mothers straightened their daughters’ tiaras and gowns, and cameras flashed as proud grandmothers and aunties recorded the day.
“Now girls,” one of the mothers called, “don’t mess up your gowns before the picture!”
“Marla,” Mam remonstrated, and Marla turned toward us, grinning and dunking her roses in the little bucket she was holding. I squealed and ducked as the water spattered onto my unprotected neck, but I stood up, fast, as I heard Miss Jollee’s shockingly loud scream.
Mrs. Cullen had hold of her on one side, and Mrs. Robinson from the bank held her wrist on the other. Mrs. Airdrie aimed a full bucket of water into her face, and Miss Jollee screamed again, flinging her thick hair to the side as she struggled between them. The buckets were small, but there seemed to be no limit to the number of women pressing close to douse Miss Jollee. The butcher’s wife, Mrs. Lomond,dumped one on her from behind while the choir director’s fiancée came at her from the front.
Mam sucked in air between her teeth as the water roughened the silk and made it hang limply from Miss Jollee’s shoulders. From across the square, I heard Uncle Santry’s laugh cut off abruptly. It seemed as if all activity in the entire village held its breath, as Miss Jollee fought her way free from the postmistress and the bank manager’s wife, and, holding a hank of her sopping wet hair away from her eyes,
blinked at the women gathered around her.
“Am I the Spring Queen, then?” Miss Jollee asked blearily, wringing a handful of water from the hair around her face.
There was an awkward silence. I turned to catch Marla’s eye. Miss Jollee didn’t know it wasn’t a joke. Shouldn’t somebody tell her?
Mam chose that moment to quickly reach for my sister’s bucket, sloshing its contents all down her blouse.
Mam’s scream of murderous rage galvanized everyone in the square. Every eye was on her, as Marla stumbled backwards on reflex. Girls with roses quit sprinkling and began dousing, laughing at what Marla had started. Miss Jollee got her hands on someone’s bucket,and sloshed half its contents full into Mrs. Cullen’s face. Half the Vestry Committee hightailed it into the church, and cries of “sanctuary!” came from the women running toward the doors.
“Marla!” My mother bawled, fastidiously wringing out her blouse. “You can see right through this blouse when it’s wet. Whatever has gotten into you? So help me God, when if I catch you, girl…”
Marla was still bewildered, had only moved away from Mam’s furious screams by reflex. Now she caught on, and a sly little smile lifted her face. Quickly, she sloshed the last of the water into Mam’s surprised face.
“Now, you’re the Spring Queen, Mam,” she
hollered back, and ran for her life.
So. The picture which inspired this Ficktion was taken from the web somewhere by riotclitshave. Find more Ficktion from the usual suspects at Ficktion.ning.
“Street Moths,” by X.J. Kennedy, from The Lords of Misrule (Johns Hopkins University Press). If you haven’t read any X.J. Kennedy, you’re missing a treat. He writes for adults and children, check out the links!
The Poetry Princesses are a group of poets – and me – who are writing sonnets of young adulthood. Though this isn’t a sonnet, it reminded me of a long play version We Real Cool and adds to the slowly growing pile of poetry I’ve found that records the adolescent masculine experience. I really like the imagery of blundering moths… so appropriate.
Street Moths
Mature enough to smoke but not to drink,
Grown boys at night before the games arcade
Wearing tattoos that wash off in the sink
Accelerate vain efforts to get laid.
Parading in formation past them, short
Skirts and tight jeans pretending not to see
This pack of starving wolves who pay them court
Turn noses up at cries of agony—
Baby, let’s do it! Each suggestion falls
Dead to the gutter to be swept aside
Like some presumptuous bug that hits brick walls,
Rating a mere Get lost and death-ray eyes.
Still, they keep launching blundering campaigns,
Trying their wings once more in hopeless flight:
Blind moths against the wires of window screens.
Anything. Anything for a fix of light.
Poetry Friday is hosted at Farm School.
My brain is scrambled, so you’ll have to excuse this post – it’s kind of all over the board.
This is my brain on revision.
Sometimes the creative process seems like it saps instead of energizes, and those are the days I know I’m working on something stupid… like a title. Yes, Virginia, something that matters less than not at all has kept me up literally blinking sleepless. My editor said the working title The Time of Her Life reminded her of a bad 80’s movie (not that any of the YA readers have even seen it, but…), and so now we’re on the hunt for a title. My favorite at the moment is A. Fortis’ suggestion Along for the Ride. I think that describes my sanity. My latest favorites (in the category of Very, VERY Bad) are Notes from the Middle of the Road and Postcards from a Road Trip Hostage. Hee.
(You have to understand that part of the book is a road trip… Never mind. This is only funny if you’re as tired as I am. It’s one of those “you had to be there” kinds of things.) 
On the up-side, my editor has enough faith in me to have made an offer today, so that’s Book #2 sold, my first for 2008! Yahoo! Of course, there’s a lot of work between now and contract signing, so I should hush and get busy. But first, some observations…
People are posting Take II of their TBR lists. I call dibs on including EVERY SINGLE ONE of Bookshelves O’ Doom’s books (with the exception of my own) for my follow-up list. More Skulduggery! More Hilary McKay!! More Bad Kitty!!! More MELISSA MARR!!!! Diana Wynne Jones, Celia Rees — people, it can’t help but be a happy new year!!! It’s certainly going to be awesomisity in terms of books. And if the sequel to Skin Hunger and Octavian Nothing come out — I may have to lie down.
Whew.
(And speaking of really cool book things, via Bookshelves of Doom, this dictionary wallpaper? I would TOTALLY do. I need to move back to my house and redo the living room immediately.)
Meanwhile, writers have been talking notesbooks, and now the Guardian is stroking that pen fetish. Apparently all writers worth their salt ought to write longhand, with gloriously beautiful pens. At least, that’s the theory. I adore fountain pens as much as anyone. Too bad I can’t really write with them without making a mess.
The 7-Imps interview Book Moot‘s Camille! Drop by and say howdy and thanks for all the Entling-entertainment. Someday I will have cool book-themed names for my entire family like that.
Cybil Sister and über-librarian Sara has been posting lately about great library tech — well, YALSA is inviting teens to make up songs about the library for a contest. THIS should be… unique…
Speaking of library tech cool, Simon & Schuster Children’s
Publishing and Ball State University announced that they’re going into partnership
to take Simon & Schuster authors and illustrators into more than 30,000
schools nationwide through live, interactive Web broadcasts. (Via Ypulse.) While this sounds really cool — why a University? Why not take authors into the classroom this way? The answer: “Simon & Schuster and BSU provide the author’s books to a select group of teachers who then develop grade-appropriate activities for other teachers to use before the live broadcast. Booksource has signed on to be the sponsoring book supplier. To facilitate preparation for the EAV [Electronic Author Visit], Booksource will assist participating teachers with book orders through a convenient link to their site and ordering information.”
Ah. SO it does involve actual children at some point. And then book orders. I guess it’s a win-win?
WOW. What a shot in the arm for children’s nonfiction. Tricia’s blog Open Wide, Look Inside has only been up for about three and a half minutes, and already there are tons of books listed. Way to go Dr. Stohr-Hunt!
Minh’s talking Tolstoy, doing a double-take on the Jon L. Muth adaptation of The Three Questions which has got to be the most unique children’s book yet. Minh, like Nikolai in the book, is seeking answers to these three hugely philosophical and disturbingly open-ended questions:
* When is the best time to do things?
* Who is the most important one?
* What is the right thing to do?
The picture book’s watercolor illustrations are gorgeously dreamy, but I’m still not sure about the “after eating a hot dog” answer to question one. Unless the question is “when is the best time to fall down in a unidentifiable-meat induced panic, choking.”
Oh, all right, all right, peoples, just get OFF Christopher Paolini’s back! The release of “Brisingr” (say that three times fast) on Saturday, Sept. 20, at 12:01 a.m., EDT, is only happening at midnight, says his editor, because bookstores wanted it that way, so they could host midnight launch parties. It has NOTHING whatsoever to do with the world’s frantic search for the next J.K. Rowling clone. Nothing whatsoever.
Sheesh.
It started with the Kaavya Viswanathan thing. It got worse more recently with the Cassie Edwards thing at Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books (and props to Sarah for pointing me to this bitingly sarcastic Newsweek article).
These plagiarizing chicks give me the creeps. Cassie Edwards is seriously giving me nightmares.
I don’t know why it even worries me. I never knowingly try and copy anything from anyone, I didn’t even do it in school (although untold millions copied from me. Yes. I was the Original Wuss Girl). I’m totally above board, and I know it. But I’m completely in a panic when I hear people caught copying saying it was “accidental,” and it was “unconscious.” Writing about WWII means I’m not writing in a vacuum; everybody and his dog has something to say about “the Just War” and “the most violent war in Mankind’s History.” What if I say something someone else has already said? What if my unconscious walks into someone else’s novel and goes shopping?
Today I worked on my acknowledgments for Novel #2, just to settle my nerves. They’re an entire page long so far, as I sought to list every book, website, magazine article, movie, photograph from the National Archives; anything that could have sparked my creativity. I almost feel like I’m trying to say, “No, it wasn’t me, it was the genius of the world that wrote this book!” But seriously: at this point, anything to stop the nightmares.
Geez. If my editor knew how much I get worked up over stuff like this, she would WORRY. Revision makes me loony. Deadline is Monday next; will be glad when this first bout is over…
