it's bean awhile...

thanks to girltakesphoto, i've been inspired by the cappuccino sandwich tumblr:

reading the first ampersand project novel

writing in my lunchbreak

things are hurtling along these days. i'm reading a lot*.

recently:

the convent, maureen mccarthy (loved it)
a corner of white, jaclyn moriarty (spectacular)
friday brown, vikki wakefield (tense-making)
death comes to pemberley, pd james (undecided)

and there's much watching of community. plus coffee...

*writing a lot less

the gentler side of mankind's death wish

To be honest, there's a whiff of arrogant yet self-deprecating affectation about Father John Misty. His lyrics are clever, fun and sometimes moving, though I'm not sure how to interpret his attitude to women.

But he has got one hell of a voice. He is also an absolutely charismatic, beguiling performer (with top dance moves) and his album is compulsively listenable. I particularly enjoy this song for its wry little message.

Now I'm Learning to Love the War, Father John Misty

Try not to think so much about
The truly staggering amount
of oil
that it takes to make a record
All the shipping,
the vinyl,
the cellophane lining
The high gloss
The tape and
the gear

Try not to become too consumed
With what's a criminal volume
of oil
that it takes to paint a portrait

The acrylic,
the varnish
Aluminum tubes filled with latex
The solvents and dye

Let's just call this what it is:
The gentler side of mankind's death wish
When it's my time to go
I'm going to leave behind things that won't decompose

Try not to dwell so much upon
How it won't be so very long
from now
that they laugh at us for selling
A bunch of 15-year-olds
made from dinosaur bones
singing "oh yeah"
Again
and
again
Right up to the end

I'll just call this what it is:
My vanity gone wild with my crisis
One day this all will repeat
I sure hope they make something useful out of me

A superior sound quality version is found on his album Fear Fun.

Father John Misty lives here.

ffor the love of fforde

I would that you'd excuse me my absence. I'm on something of a reading binge. A re-reading binge. A Ffordian, Thursday Nextish re-reading binge. I began with the latest release, The Woman Who Died A Lot, and then had trouble recalling the rest of the series (I suspect a mindworm) and the rest is the last week of my reading history.

First Among Sequels not pictured, and One of our Thursdays is Missing is missing, but you can read a review here.

This series is just delightfful. And so clever. The idea is that Thursday Next is a Literary Detective with SpecOps. They police things like counterfeit Shakespeare plays, bootleg copies of Dickens and stolen manuscripts. But it's when Thursday realises that she has the ability to actually enter books and interact with the characters within that it really gets interesting. The world Fforde has built is bonkers: it's an alternative world where the Crimean War is still ongoing, Wales is a socialist republic, people travel by airship or these ace Gravitubes (UK to Australia in about 45 minutes or so), cheese is a rare commodity - sometimes smuggled illegally across borders - and, best of all, people prize books and literature above most things.

Wouldn't you love a tv series based on these books? I know I would. Kind of Doctor Who meets Lost in Austen with a dash of Life on Mars via your local bookshop.

shelfspy #1

The girl formerly known as The Intern - the real actual Hilary - posted a picture of her bookshelf today. She stopped herself from editing the shelf for her audience, showed it in its real state. It's a funny thing to be intrigued by, in some ways, but it's really fascinating to have a peek at someone's books, how they're arranged, which books look familiar, which ones don't. She said she would like to see other people's bookshelves...

So here, my little nosey parkers, are mine. I photographed them exactly as they were when I got home this evening, I swear. There are many embarrassing books in here, as well as some ace ones. I haven't read them all.

let the wild rumpus start!

once i won trophies for being good at sport. har har.

includes a 'to do' list. and a 'saving-up-for-paris' tin.

the shelves a 21st present from the grandwrinklies,
made from floorboards of a gold rush era pub.

Compared to Hilary's spartan shelves I feel like a mad crazy subject from the tv show Hoarders. I've been living in my current house for five and a half years, which is the longest I've lived anywhere since I left my childhood home in 2001. For five of those years I worked in a bookshop. This is my excuse.

Also, I am something of a hoarder...

Show us your shelves!

yes!

c'est le temps de l'amour, le temps des copains et de l'aventure

Wes Anderson's latest film Moonrise Kingdom is just adorable. I've talked before about how the Tenenbaums remind me of Salinger's Glass family and I also think there's something Mitfordish about his films and the families within. There'll be them that just don't like Wes, and that's fine by me, but his films really tickle my fancy.*

Moonrise Kingdom is about Sam and Suzy, a pair of twelve year olds who are in love and run away - Sam from scout camp, Suzy from her home - to be together. It's set in the 1960s, has a brilliant soundtrack and all the trademarks of a Wes film: the obligatory slow motion shot, long tracking shot that shows a bunch of different rooms, Bill Murray, wonderful colours and costumes.

It felt like a really wonderful middle grade novel. The kind that makes your heart swell and pushes your nostalgia buttons, one that's about innocence and creeping towards the end of childhood. The kind of book that would win the Newbery Medal. For in these books it is always the time of love, the time of friends and of adventure!

In the film, Suzy lives in a most spectacular house called Summer's End, which reminded me of a book I read recently...

In Monica Dickens' The House at World's End, Tom, Carrie, Em and Michael have to stay with their rather unwelcoming uncle and aunt, because their mother is in hospital after a beam from their house (as it burned down in the middle of one night) fell on her and broke her back, and their father is sailing round the world in a boat he made himself. However, they soon con their uncle into allowing them to strike out on their own in a tumbledown house in the countryside (at World's End), a house that becomes the most wonderful lawless refuge for the children - and a menagerie of stray animals.

Michael, who was the youngest, came in like a bishop in a long towel bathrobe meant for a man. They had lost everything when their house caught fire, and although their aunt and uncle had bought clothes for them, Valentina's patience had run out before she finished outfitting Michael.
  'Excuse me.' He stirred the dog Charlie with a towelled toe. 'She says you must go down to the cellar.' Charlie thumped his tail without opening his eyes. He was a part poodle, part golden retriever, part hearthrug, who liked people better than dogs. 'It is your duty,' Michael told him. That was one of Valentina's favourite sayings.
  'It's worst for him,' Carrie said. 'She kicks him under the table.'
  'I kick her back,' said Michael. 'That my duty.'
  'When we're at school,' Carrie said. 'I think She ties him up, and the cats laugh at him.'
  'I don't blame them.' Em always sided with the cats. 'They think he bit through that old electric wire and burned down our house.'
  'After the fire...' Carrie said, looking through the wall at nothing. 'Do you remember? There was just the spine of the chimney and bits of burned framework, like ribs, and our rubbish heap. I did a picture at school of the black broken ribs and the tin cans. Miss Peake called it morbid. I called it "After the Fire".

The slightly anarchic family dynamics, the rueful independence, the gloriousness of these childrens' lives - I love it. The same way I love Glenda Millard's perfect and quietly heartwrenching Kingdom of Silk books, Hilary McKay's mad Cassel family (see Michelle Cooper's recent post). Or the Conroy sisters from McKay's The Exiles (I LOVE!), who just love books, but when they're forced to spend a summer at Big Grandma's house they discover the joys of gardening, badger spotting and fishing in a bucket:

All by herself Phoebe had acquired a new hobby. It was her own invention, nobody had helped her, nobody but Phoebe would even have thought of it. You filled a bucket with water, tied a bit of string on the end of a stick, held the stick over the water, and there you were. Fishing in a bucket...The fisher in a bucket can take liberties that conventional fishermen can only dream of. He can stir the water vigorously with his rod and produce no ill effects. He can carry the water to any more convenient site...It is a good hobby, and cheap, and if more people did it more often...

(I've been on a bit of a middle grade kick of late.)

Watch the Moonrise Kingdom trailer:



*The evil sister and I have been trying to list them in order of our favourites, and we have boiled it down to The Darjeeling Limited right up the top, as well as The Royal Tenenbaums and Rushmore, then Fantastic Mr Fox and The Life Aquatic a little bit below. My sister didn't love Moonrise Kingdom, and she felt that because the film revolved around children that she wasn't able to invest emotionally enough in the story. I think she has an interesting point, though I think she is also wrong.

In defence of YA

You might have listened into the Radio National Books and Arts Daily program a couple of weeks ago when Andrew McDonald, Bec Kavanagh and I were there to champion our Kill Your Darlings YA Championship choices. Such a great chance to promote the championship and, though it was a very terrifying experience, it was great and scary and fun to be on the radio. I was very brave the other day and listened back to some of the program. Michael Cathcart asked us a question that I really wish I had heard properly, and responded better to, on the day. So here goes:

"Young adult fiction is sometimes seen as the poor cousin to adult fiction. Some authors I know get really frustrated when their publishers market them as young adult writers. What's it stand for?"

The idea that a YA novel is somehow inherently less worthy than a novel for adults is a really terrible and annoying belief, and one that has always driven me absolutely bananas. Worse, it ends up being a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the question does highlight what is unfortunately a quite common misconception about young adult literature and hopefully the Kill Your Darlings championship will go some way to enlightening the wider literary world. Let's call this open for discussion.

What does a young adult book stand for? As I said on the show, a YA book is about the teenage experience. The best YA books strive for - and achieve - a strong and accurate reflection of the experience of young adults. A common trait of a YA novel is a conclusion that gives the reader a sense of hope about the future, or at least a clue about how to best tackle life after childhood, after the teenage years. An adult book does the same thing, it's just that the protagonists are older.

Literary young adult novels are sophisticated, clever, philosophical. Their prose is complex, Carver-esque simple, florid, fast-paced, slow and sexy. Some YA is delightful and trashy. Some of it is awful. YA is not a genre, so all young adults novels aren't equal or comparable. A YA novel - and here I'm speaking generally - maybe doesn’t spend quite as long navel-gazing as some adult novels. Maybe. But the navel-gazing is definitely still there, picking at the fluff and feeling sorry for itself. A YA novel will probably have a strong focus on characterisation, because if you don’t get the character right a teenager is going to see right through you. Because a YA reader is discerning and intelligent.

Isn't it a remarkable talent to be able to tap into the unknowable, the complicated, the contradictory mind of a teenager? To understand them, and to create stories about them? And for them? Offer some kind of blueprint for life - without being patronising or didactic? All the best YA books do this, and they do it beautifully. I hate to think people feel frustrated by this label, because writing for young adults requires something pretty special.

So let's have some celebrations and cake for the amazing YA writers, whose characters might not have yet turned twenty! Here's to more beautifully written YA books! Let's see more reviews of YA books in our newspapers! Let's have three cheers for the vibrant international YA community!

My ideas and theories and perspectives on young adult fiction are not all my own. I've been taught and inspired by a brilliant bunch of YA enthusiasts over the years. If you're reading this and thinking it sounds familiar, you can be pretty sure I've been listening to you, and I think you are the bees knees. You might be a YA specialist like Agnes Nieuwenhuizen, Lili Wilkinson, or Cordelia Rice, who are never afraid to say what they think, and who think some pretty amazing things. You might be John motherfuckin' Green, who has a win of Nerdfighters from all over the world never forgetting to be awesome, and who writes books about kids smarter than I'll ever be. Or my mama bear: YA lover and specialist herself, who gave me the best things to read when I was a teen.