Well, this is exciting.

NaNoWriMo

2010-10-19T14:22:00.001-06:00

Um, not to self promote or anything but you should totally check out my profile on the nanowrimo website. And then, you know, check out the rest of the site. It is pretty sweet.

insert clever title here: The last thing you do...

2010-10-09T00:08:00.004-06:00

...is line editing.

You know, line editing. That thing you do where you write a paragraph or two, go back over it, tweak a word or a phrase, maybe write a little more, tweak that, then get stuck, go back through everything you've written so far and tweak that. It's the thing your Inner Editor wants you to do, and it's what NaNoWriMo trains you out of doing. (Am I going to mention NaNoWriMo in every post from now until December? I just might!) You know what I'm talking about.

Well, I'm here to tell you that not only should you NEVER do what I just described, you shouldn't line edit AT ALL until EVERYTHING else is finished. And I don't just mean finishing your first draft (although that's a start). I mean, this type of editing should not happen until you've written at least two or three (or six) drafts. It shouldn't happen until the pacing of your story has been smoothed out, the scenes are all there and in order, and you're so sick of this darn thing that if you have to look at it one more time, you'll puke.

Now can you line edit? Well, no. Puke is bad. When you get to that point, stop, take a break, and come back to it when the sight of it doesn't make you queasy. If the structure is still good, NOW you can line edit. Now you can go through and tweak like you've always wanted. And then you're done. You've done the last thing. You have a novel.

Now it's time to mail it to people and get rejected a lot!

Thinking About Books: Author Edition: Patricia A. McKillip

2010-10-07T23:26:00.001-06:00

Patricia A. McKillip is so awesome I had to make up a new category in my book reviews, just for her. "Author Edition." Sounds fancy, huh? Although, you could just as easily say the reason I made up a new category is because it was too hard to pick just one of her books to review. Because that's certainly true.

But seriously, folks, this lady is super awesome. Do you remember that post I did about Rose Daughter, in which I went on and on about the sumptuous quality of it? Well, McKillip is like that, only the word I use with her is "dream-like." That is to say, her books are full of the unexplained and fantastic, existing peacefully alongside the mundane details of real life.

McKillip strikes just the right note between vague and precise, unfocused and sharp, fantasy and reality. Her books are like an impressionist or pointillist painting. It can seem chaotic and random, yet still beautiful, but when you step back, you realize that the whole thing is a unified whole that makes perfect sense. This is not to say her books are tidy. (I can't stand tidy books.) There are plenty of loose ends once you turn the last page that you can think about the book and its world for a long time after it. And her worlds are so richly painted that, even if you couldn't point to them on a map, or even say what century they're in, you feel like you've visited a real place, and now you're back home, wondering when you can go again.

Bibliography (that I've read)

Winter Rose
Ombria in Shadow
Alphabet of Thorn
Od Magic
The Bell at Sealey Head
Fool's Run (This one is sci-fi, and different from the others. Less dream-like. But one of my favorites. In fact, if I'd gone ahead and picked just one book to review, this one might have been it. I may do so yet.)

Technology hates me

2010-10-07T22:50:00.002-06:00

No really, it does.

I won't go into detail, because frankly it mostly involves me foaming at the mouth a lot. But suffice it to say, three separate pieces of technology have gone wrong today, and I hate to think what life would be like if I had an artificial heart.

insert clever title here: Outlines

2010-10-02T00:50:00.004-06:00

I have always hated the idea of outlines.

They stifle creativity, I thought. They're annoying/boring/too hard to write. They don't serve any purpose.

Wrong.

I've recently learned that not only are outlines not stiflers of creativity, they are kind of necessary. Maybe you don't start off with one, but you're going to need one eventually because novels are LONG, and it's hard to keep track of stuff (especially for me). And they provide structure and guidance, which, on a big, long project such as a whole novel, is really helpful. The best part is, you don't have to follow it if you don't want to. In fact, you might not make one until you're quite a ways in.

Case in point: during my most recent project, when I finally broke down and actually wrote an outline, I was already part of the way through draft 2.5. But it made everything after it so easy I'm starting the next Nanowrimo with one. What it did was give me a roadmap. I'd always started novels with only a hazy idea of where I was going... okay, let's be real here, I'd pretty much do the noveling equivalent of closing my eyes, spinning in a circle, stopping when I got dizzy, and setting off in the direction I was facing. I almost never had an ending, and odds were against me having anything more than a sketch of a character or two, a basic setting, and maybe a conflict. I would discover the territory as I went along, and while that can be terribly exciting, it's more often boring because you can't move half the time, having no idea where you're going. I'd get stuck a lot. With an outline, on the other hand, things were much smoother, and when I did get stuck, I could just look at the outline, and be able to tell what the story needed in this spot here and now, and not have to go blindly forward and then backtrack several times. Instead of stifling my creativity, it helped inspire it.

P.S. I've heard of an extreme version of this, and I've included it mainly for your curiosity. I've never tried it, and while it sounds like it would work in theory, I think I am much too inexperienced to try it myself yet. (Also, it sounds really hard.)

NaNoWriMo!

2010-10-01T18:39:00.002-06:00

nano nano nano nano
nano nano nano nano
WRIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(See, the Batman theme is appropriate, because I'm writing about superheroes this year... anyway, I'm just excited about NaNo!)

Oh, yes I did.

2010-09-28T18:02:00.002-06:00

Titles are hard

2010-09-27T20:46:00.001-06:00

I just finished revising the novel I wrote last year for NaNoWriMo. I am so excited, because this is the first time I've actually finished writing a rough draft for a novel and then gone back and revised it. It was tough, and I had to almost completely rewrite it, but in the end I had 19,000 words that fit together well and that I could actually show people. Not publishers, mind you, but other human beings.

This process has taught me a lot about editing and revising, and it's been a hard road, and I know I'm not even close to the end. I know I have a lot more to learn before I'm even ready to start sending stuff to publishers, but I also know it's going to be a blast. Revising this novel has been so hard, but so worth it.

And I'd like to pass that knowledge on. So for the next few blog posts, and interspersed with the other stuff, I'm going to lay out what my own experience and the advice and experiences of others is teaching me about the whole writing process. I think I'll call this series "insert clever title here."

I mean, really, just look at the title of this blog post.

Foxy Lady

2010-09-20T10:28:00.003-06:00

Foxes were always called Reynard.

She knew this was true. Her grandfather had told her so, and her grandfather always told the truth, regardless of whether her mother thought she should hear it, such as the fact that her older brother had been born somewhat less than nine months after her parents were married. This had resulted in her being banned from seeing him several times throughout her childhood, though the ban was always quietly lifted a few weeks after it had been set in place, and she could start visiting him by the lane again, instead of through the hedge in the backyard.

And he had been the one who told her that all foxes were called Reynard, which was why she was having a particularly hard time accepting this one’s invitation to call him Kit.

Kit wasn’t a bad name for a fox, she had to concede, drinking in his bright red hair and sharp eyes. And really, he didn’t look like a Reynard. He did look like a Kit. He also looked like a fox, and foxes were always called Reynard. She sipped her purple drink and looked at him through her eyelashes.

It was a long time since her grandfather had died (“Don’t let them fool you and think I’m just sleeping,” he’d told her shortly before he’d passed. “I’m dying and you may as well know it.”) and she was a young woman who knew the truth about many things, and one of them was that young men were easily manipulated by pretty young women, which she was. This was partly why she knew he was a fox; he wasn’t responding to any of her usual tricks and devices. The whiskers helped. Most people wouldn’t have been able to see them, she knew, but there they were, like a shadow or a see-through image, bizarrely decorating his handsome human face. She could see the foxy shape of him in his shadow, in his sudden movements, and in the tail that also was and wasn’t there.

He’d bought her a fancy drink and they’d chatted about this and that, but the whole time since he’d entered the room she had been watching him, and she thought she about had it figured out now.

“You know I know,” she said, and was gratified by the way his face did not melt into surprise. Instead he grinned a foxy grin, and said,

“But did you know I know you know I know you know?” And she watched him be gratified at her puzzlement, which didn’t last long.

“Why are you here, dressed like a human?” she asked. His expression faded into seriousness.

“Because I want to have fun,” he said in a funeral voice. She watched him carefully, as she had all night, and could tell he was lying.

“Are you under a curse?” she wondered aloud. “Or a geas? Or banished?”

“None of those,” he said, his eyes like glass and his mouth perfect. “I’m in love.”

She was familiar with that, at least, but she knew enough to be careful with fey creatures. A man could only break your heart. A fox could do much worse.

“Are you in love with me?” she asked coyly, and in answer he leaned over and kissed her. His whiskers tickled softly, in the way of things that are not quite of this world. His mouth was warm and tasted of sweet alcohol. She drew away, and he looked at her like he was the one under a spell.

“How did you do it?” he asked softly. “How did you ensnare me so quickly and completely?”

“Is your name really Kit?” she asked in return. He grinned a saucy grin that she liked better than the empty-eyed look he’d had a moment before.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. She shrugged.

“Not really.” But his grin did not fade.

“Liar,” he said, and she frowned. What he said was truth. She tried for nonchalant.

“Well, I’m not going to pursue it,” she said.

“I will pursue you to the ends of the earth,” he answered sincerely. She mused that it was an uncomfortable thing, to have a trickster’s love.

“That’s so cliché,” she said, and if he’d been human she would have walked out of the bar. Now, she merely turned away. He touched her arm, and she felt his fur. It was soft, and it tickled ever so slightly, the same as his whiskers had. She glanced at him.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Run with me, exult with me. Mine is a purer existence, with no lies, no falsehoods, and no need for them.”

And she ached with longing then, for a way of being that did not permit untruths. But she did not lose her head, and she replied steadily,

“How can a trickster live without falsehoods? You call yourself Kit, but I see you for Reynard. You are not even in love with me, are you?”

He drew back, frowning, and she knew she had spoken truth. It was the first time this had made her sad. But now she could walk out of the bar without feeling like she was leaving behind a part of herself. He did not move to stop her, and by this she knew she would encounter him again. He was not in love with her, but doubtless he was fascinated by someone who saw through him so easily. They always were.

Musings

2010-09-13T16:47:00.002-06:00

I’ve always found the tendency to categorize people to be somewhat silly. Useful, perhaps, and not always inaccurate, but still silly. An example may be in order.

When I was a junior we did a little activity in my English class that the teacher had done ever year with juniors for about ten years, maybe more. She had us list all the different “groups” of people in the school, and then place ourselves in a group. We came up with the Jocks and the Potheads and the Drama People and the Band Geeks and the Artistics and the Nerds, and so on and so forth. But we also came up with a category I don’t think had made it on the list before, and that certainly doesn’t make it on most lists you’re likely to find. We eventually settled on calling them the Normals. They were the people who didn’t really fit in to any one group, but who also weren’t social rejects because of it. They were just… people, who couldn’t be pigeonholed, not because they were super unique and shouted out their unique identities to the whole world in upper case letters (these people had their own group), but because they didn’t have one defining trait and could easily move between groups without taking on the characteristics of any group. They were the masses, the average joes who just went about their existence without worrying about defining themselves too rigorously.

We were all satisfied with this category, and proud of ourselves with having come up with it, instead of just regurgitating accepted social labels. We also came up with a category called Other, which consisted of the people who truly defied description in one word, people who were larger than life and who we all secretly admired even if we thought they were a little weird.

Then came time to place ourselves in a group, and then talk about whether we thought people’s choice was correct. Most people placed themselves without difficulty or argument from the others, and indeed, most of the people in my class placed themselves in this Normal category. When it came to my turn, that was what I did too. But there was a cry of protest, mostly from a group of girls I barely knew, or, let’s be realistic, I used to know very well when we were in Girl Scouts together, and had drifted so far apart from that it was unreal. I thought of them as Popular (even though they placed themselves as Normals and I didn’t object) and kind of above me. They told me I was not a boring Normal, that I was in fact an amazing Other, that I had a unique fashion sense (which they admitted to liking quite a bit) that didn’t take its cues from anything and that I was one hundred percent ME and I didn’t bend under pressure to become what other people thought I should be.

I was very flattered, but I was also very confused. Normal was pretty much how I defined myself. I mean, there was that level of myself that thought of me as a unique and special and mysterious and wonderful. Everyone does. But I also knew it wasn’t true. I don’t know where I was on the continuum of self-esteem at the time, but I did know that I wasn’t really that unique. I thought of myself as a jeans-and-a-t-shirt girl, and not just in the fashion sense. But as I was about to deny it, I looked down at myself and realized that I was wearing an outfit entirely cobbled together from my finds at Goodwill the night before. Big brown boots with steel toes, a blue button up shirt, and green plastic pants. It didn’t really work, and I sort of even knew that. But it definitely destroyed my argument of normalcy, especially considering that I did this Goodwill outfit thing on a fairly regular basis. I stopped arguing and just smiled, and we put my name in the Other category, to my pride and embarrassment.

But it left me thinking. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since. About labels, and other people’s perceptions of me, and their perceptions of my perceptions of them. And I’m still thinking. But one conclusion I’ve come to is that we all think we’re special, but deep down we know we’re not. And, really, they’re both right. As for high school labels, the fact is that we put those labels on ourselves, and then forget we’ve done so and try to live up to our own reputations and what we think other people’s expectations are. And while you’re going through high school, trying to figure out who you are, that’s probably okay. You need to try on different identities in order to make your own. But buying too much into those labels, as though people really are just different flavors of Skittles, is far too simple. Am I Normal? Am I Other? Am I a Band Geek? A wife, a writer, a blogger, a girl, a twenty-something, a Firefly fan?

Yes. And no. I am all of those things, but most of all I am me. A label of one.

Blast from the Past

2010-09-09T12:25:00.000-06:00

This post was originally written on June 4, 2009. It never got published, for reasons I can't remember at the moment, but I stumbled across it recently and thought you might enjoy it.

Since I work at an academic library, I get exposed to a particular slice of the human pie that is often absent from that of public libraries: professors.

I may have mentioned them before, but ever since I moved to my current job working as a secretary, my interactions with faculty have moved from hilarious phone calls and books to renew a thousand times, to (often hilarious) angry emails. Certain professors have something of a reputation around here, as I soon learned. Privacy rules being what they are I can't reproduce full texts here, but I can offer the jist of a recent email from a guy on our Most Wanted List:

Dear Secretaries,

Since I am god and you have Made A Mistake, I will simply tell you to fix it without even asking if maybe the mistake is on my end. I will attempt to demonstrate that I know how to do your job better than you do, while actually displaying a shocking ignorance of basic library usage. I will even be helpful and provide a link to my online account, which, since you need my user name and password to access it, will do you no good.

I expect to be notified the minute all my fines are removed forever and I will be watching for your apology cake in the mail.

Sincerely,
Professor Pompous, PhD., OmG., WtF., BbQ.

Luckily, I was able to pass the buck. I talked to the lady I forwarded this to, just to make sure I was supposed to send it to her and not someone else. When I mentioned his name, this look of long-suffering and distaste came over her face and she said, "Oh. Him."

That, I think, says it all.

Sorry about that.

2010-09-08T11:03:00.003-06:00

I just realized that the last layout was actually kind of painful to read. Sorry about that. I think this is a little easier on the eyeballs. White text on black background works only in small chunks, and I should have known better.

On a related note, I love all these new templates Blogger offers. They're so pretty! And customizable, which is my favorite thing to do. Sitting there fiddling with font colors and such is one of life's delights.

This one's about cats.

2010-09-06T14:00:00.003-06:00

Not dark at all this time. Whew. That was getting scary.

There was no telling with cats.

Sometimes they sat there and watched what was going on around them with moon eyes and tails twitching, and other times they slept through everything. On occasion it seemed they could sense emotions and respond accordingly, but there had been instances when, distraught and in tears, she’d had to pause in her self-pity to let a cat out to do its business. It was possible, she mused now, that this had been exactly the thing for the cat to do, because often when that happened she stood at the open door and looked out, at the trees, the yard, the cat, remembering that there was a world beyond her and her problems, and had gone inside with the cat at the conclusion of its business and been able to dry her tears.

But she had never seen a cat turn into a man, as her newest arrival had just done.

She knew she was a bit young to be a cat-lady, but she just couldn’t help herself. She’d take in any cat who wanted a place to find food and shelter, and they must have some sort of feline grapevine because more kept coming. She was not the kind of cat-lady to name all her cats and keep track of them obsessively, though she did have some idea of their numbers, and had named many of them. But some of them were so obviously passing through that she felt it rude to form attachments like names, and some she was sure had names of their own, and it would have been equally rude to give them a name. There were five that were definitely hers, and they had names she had given them and their own places to sleep or hide and she had spayed or neutered each of them. They even had collars. Then there were a further fifteen or so that came and went on a fairly regular basis, and who had a few collective food bowls set out for them. Then there were the uncountables, the masses that came on occasion or only once or twice, some of whom she had never seen, and could only identify by that much less food and a scratched tree or two.

The man sleeping on her floor was one of the uncountables, who she could just recognize by sight but who had never made himself known to her personally. As a cat he was a slender, black thing, always nervous and wary of her, so she left him a bowl out of the way of the other cats and herself. He had never looked unhealthy, not skinny and ragged and dull-coated like some strays. He looked like he belonged to someone, and that was what she had assumed until now. Today, though, he’d come limping up, streaked with blood and shyly insinuated that he’d like to be let in, which she had done, at which point he had fairly collapsed on the floor, fallen asleep, and turned into a man.

The man was stark naked, of course. If a cat turning into a man surprised her, this fact, at least, did not. He was also covered in the same kinds of scratches that the cat had had, only on a human they were much shallower, and only looked painful, not deadly. She had laid a few old towels over him, but otherwise had simply let him sleep, trying to keep herself calm as she pretended that this was normal, not cause for alarm, and she could definitely wash the dishes without looking at him more than a few times (a minute) out of the corner of her eye. Occasionally he would twitch in his sleep, and she would carefully not jump, and only hold her breath until it became apparent that he was not waking up. Until he did.

He came to instantly, like a cat, of course, and stood gracefully with no extra movement, letting the towels fall off him. She tried to stare only at his eyes, which did not look like a cat’s eyes except in the wild and wary way they were taking in the surroundings. He quickly took stock of the small apartment, and then locked eyes with her. She stared back, not moving, though she could not be certain it was only him she was trying not to startle. He stood like a cat stands, quietly, but always with the imminent threat of movement. He took a step forward, and then stumbled, caught himself, and looked back up at her with human eyes and a human stance. She relaxed marginally.

“Hello,” he said, in a deep, almost purring voice. “I think I know you. I hope I haven’t given you too much trouble.”

She shook her head, automatically, out of politeness. “Of course not.”

There was an awkward silence. She caught herself more than once having to twitch her eyes back up to his face, and he must have noticed this because suddenly, with more than a hint of a cat’s grace, he leaned down and picked up one of the towels and wrapped it swiftly around himself.

“I’m very sorry to trouble you,” he said, and though she was grateful for the towel, she still had to work to keep her eyes on his face (she was sure this tan, muscular man in front of her could not logically have an analogue in the slender thing that had entered her apartment), “but could I borrow use of your shower? And, perhaps, some clothes. I am terribly sorry to put you to all this trouble, but this was the only place I could think of to go. I was sure I wouldn’t change back, you see.” This last was said ruefully, with a little smile that made his face unbearably attractive. She swallowed.

“No problem,” she squeaked, and cleared her throat. “The bathroom’s there” she pointed “and there’s a first aid kit in there too.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly. She was more taken aback at that than perhaps anything else so far, and she almost forgot to mention the clothes.

“Oh, and I think I have some sweats that might fit you,” she added, as he was about to leave the room. He turned with that feline grace, nodded thanks, and went down the hall. She staggered back and leaned against the kitchen counter, hand to her mouth.

He reentered fifteen minutes later, clean, bandaged and wearing her sweats, which were miles too big for her but which always seemed to avoid the consignment pile. They fit him very nicely.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I have another favor to ask you.”

She looked up from the very clean dishes she was drying and putting away, and found herself captivated by him again. She nodded blankly.

“My sister… is like me,” he began tentatively. “She frequents your porch more often than I do, I think. She… comes as a tabby with a white star on her forehead and a pink nose.”

She riffled through her memory and came up with a match.

“I’ve seen her,” she said faintly. “She’s as wary as you.”

He nodded, conceding the point.

“I’m looking for her. Have you seen her lately?”

She shook her head.

“Not in the last few days.”

He grimaced.

“I see.” He looked back up at her. “It was she who gave me these scratches.”

Her eyebrows raised. He continued,

“She… retains less of her humanity as a cat than I do, and more of her feline nature as a woman. She barely comes home these days. She spends most of her time as a cat. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with her, and I think I may have found a solution, but I can’t seem to find her. I finally ran into her earlier, but she wouldn’t have it, and she gave me these.” He gestured ruefully to the numerous band aids covering his limbs and bare chest. She nodded, grateful for permission to stare, if only for a moment. “If you see her, will you keep her? I’ll keep looking, but I think she’ll turn up here eventually.”

She nodded again, then found her voice.

“Of course. Certainly. She often goes this long between visits. When I see her, I’ll take care of her.”

He smiled, and bowed again. She felt her own waist bend in return. Then he left, as suddenly as he’d come. It was a long time before she went back to the dishes.

She saw the tabby the next day, late in the day, and she quietly laid out a plate of liver where the others wouldn’t get it. The liver was laced with Benadryl, which she’d used before on recalcitrant cats who hated the vet. Soon the tabby was asleep, and she carried her inside and laid her down in a nest of towels. She would have put her in a cat carrier, but she was afraid this one would transform too, and her fears were well founded because a few minutes later she went to check on her and found a woman in her place. She placed a blanket over her, wishing she’d gotten some kind of contact information from the man before he’d gone. It took the woman longer to wake up than the man, but when she did she immediately leaped up and looked wildly around the room, focusing at last on her.

Again, she stood very still, waiting for the cat-woman to calm down. Soon, however, the woman was a tabby again, and growling deep in her throat. She set down another plate of cat food and retreated, keeping a corner of her eye on the tabby. The cat cautiously approached the food, sniffed it thoroughly, and then nibbled on it. Soon the plate was empty, and the tabby was yowling for more. She fed her again, and when the cat was full it curled up in the nest of towels and went to sleep.

An hour or so later there was a knock at the front door, and when she opened it she found the cat-man standing on her porch, with considerably more clothes than he’d been wearing previously. He was wearing jeans, a sweater and a scarf, and holding a bouquet of flowers. She blinked stupidly at him.

“I came to bring you these,” he said, shifting awkwardly and waving the bouquet randomly. “As thanks. For your help.”

She nodded, faintly.

“Thank you,” she said. There was a pause, and then she remembered herself. “Oh, and your sister’s here.”

He was instantly more alert. She turned aside out of his way, allowing him in. He handed her the flowers as he strode past her, into her living room. She followed him slowly. When she reached the room he was already kneeling down beside the sleeping cat. She treaded silently to the kitchen and set down the flowers, watching them. He moved slowly, getting his arms in place, and then swiftly but gently put his hands around the cat. She woke instantly and began hissing and scratching, but he only grimaced and stood, the cat firmly in his grip. He looked up at her, and she pointed to the cat carrier she kept by the door. He nodded his thanks, and slipped the cat inside it, withdrawing his hands and shutting the door in one swift motion. She could see a paw batting out through the bars. He stood.

“Thank you so much. I know flowers aren’t enough…”

She waved a dismissive hand, though she wished she had the courage to ask for his phone number. “Don’t mention it,” she said. He nodded again, picked up the carrier, and was gone again.

A few days later she saw a woman on the other side of the street, wearing a dress and battered old sneakers, who caught her eye and nodded to her. She squinted at the woman, lifting a hand to ward off the glare, and barely had time to recognize her before she slipped away with cat-like grace behind some garbage cans and she lost sight of her.

She saw the slight black cat the day after that, slinking around at the back of the group of feeding cats. She smiled at him, and he came up to her and shyly put his head under her fingers, and when she scratched his ears he purred.

What is wrong with me?

2010-08-20T18:14:00.003-06:00

Well, I didn't say I was done with my dark-themed kick.

They were twins.

That was immediately apparent. The twin on her left had bright orange hair, and the twin on her right had on a blue jacket. The twin on her left was speaking loudly, and the twin on her right was using wide hand motions. The problem, she concluded, was that everything that was true about the twin on the left was true about the twin on the right, and everything that was true about the twin on the right was true about the twin on the left.

She looked from one to the other, studying now their hair, now their clothes, now their gestures, and she could not find the differences between them. There were always six differences between two seemingly identical things, and she could always find them within three minutes. The last one was always the hardest, of course, but in this case she could not even find the first one. They even moved the same way. It was infuriating.

Calmly, she picked up her fork, turned to the twin on the left, and brought the sharp tines down decisively into his arm. All loud talk and wide hand gestures stopped, and the twin on the right (the twin without the gash in his arm) grabbed his brother by the shoulders and stared at the bloody wound. Now she could see the differences.

1. The one with the gash in his arm had tears welling up in his eyes, and the one without the gash in his arm did not.

2. The one with the gash was holding his arm and staring at the welling blood in horror, but the one without the gash was staring at her, with a different sort of horror in his eyes.

3. The one with the gash looked very pale, and his freckles stood out on his cheeks clearly. His brother’s cheeks, on the other hand, were growing redder, obscuring his freckles to dim outlines.

4. The twin with the gash in his arm was stumblingly trying to get up from the bench seat, but his brother had already stood and was helping him up.

5. The twin with the gash in his arm could barely walk, so distraught and wounded was he. His brother, in contrast, was supporting him as he helped him walk away.

6. The twin with the gash was focused solely on his wound, but the twin without the gash looked back at her once, twice, three times before she was out of sight.

She smiled each time he looked back, and once they were gone she turned with relief to the two lunches she had bought. Each tray had a slice of pizza, tater tots, a yogurt cup, and a water glass. At first glance they seemed identical, but she was confident she could find the differences between them in under three minutes.

This one's a bit... dark.

2010-08-01T21:44:00.002-06:00

Whew. This is quite a bit darker than the last one. I might have to rate it PG-13, but only for "dark themes and some suggestion of violence." Don't worry, this is me we're talking about. I can't stand anything worse than vaguely creepy and off-screen gore. I'm a wimp, and proud of it.

Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:

When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.

Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.

It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.

This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.

I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.

I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.

I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.

Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.

I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.

I knew it was time.

That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.

The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.

I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.

I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.

The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,

“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”

There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.

I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.

I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.

Short story

2010-07-23T15:25:00.010-06:00

I've decided to give short fiction another try. Working on novels is kind of exhausting, and I'm getting a little tired of my characters. I remember having a lot of fun writing short stories in high school. So I'm going to set a goal (yay for setting goals) to write a short story every [recurring time period]. Every week? Every day? Every other day? Some regular time. To be figured out later. And I'm not going to worry about making these polished works of art. I'm just going to have fun. Here's the first one, clocking in at 928 words. Tell me if you like it.

Being the new kid at school sucks balls, but it isn’t all bad. You can reinvent yourself, but you have to be careful of the way the people at school want to interpret you. Halfway through my first day, things were looking pretty good. No one had decided to beat me up, and there was a certain someone I already had my eye one. Shelby Barnes. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, great body. I was already in love. We had two classes together. In the second one, English, two minutes before ending bell, I finally got up the nerve to make my move.

“Hey, your name’s Shelby, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, you’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I just moved from two towns away with my mom and sister.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you like it here.”

The bell rang, then, and we all gathered our things to go.

“See you later, bro!” Shelby said.

Oh my gosh. He thinks I’m a dude.

GIANT PAUSE IN THE STORY

Okay, I should admit, this shouldn’t have surprised me that much. I’m just writing down what was going through my head at the time, but I’ll admit that, if I had stopped to think about it, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised that he mistook me for a guy.

But it hurt. And that made it shocking.

BACK TO THE MAIN STORY

He thinks I’m a dude. He thinks I’m a dude. Crap. Now what?

Now we go and slink off to the nearest bathroom. The girl’s bathroom. And find some sympathetic female to commiserate with.

Only there was no one in there. And, now that I was a little calmer, I doubt many girls would have anything useful or sympathetic to say about my situation. I am probably the only girl in the history of the universe that has been mistaken for a guy by the guy she likes. So. What to do.

I could see a few options:

1.Tell him I’m a girl.
2.Don’t tell him I’m a girl, and hope he figures it out on his own.
3.Pretend to be a guy to get closer to him.: a.Then tell him I’m a girl; b.Never tell him I’m a girl and love him from afar (across that great gender divide).; c.Hope he’s gay.

None of these appealed to me. Number one would make everything awkward and he would probably hate me. Number two will probably never happen, and just turn into number three, which has no happy endings.

I flushed the toilet for appearances and went to gym, brooding over my fate.
Once there, several other people mistook me for a dude, despite that fact that I very clearly came out of the girl’s locker room. It came to a head when I was sitting next to the fat, asthmatic kid after twisting my ankle during dodgeball.

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” he said politely.

“I am NOT a bro!” I shouted, halting the game for a few seconds. I lowered my head, turtle-like, into my shirt, and play resumed. Crap. I was never going to live that down. The fat kid blinked at me.

“Oh. Huh. I guess not. Now that I’m really looking, I can see—”

“Aw, look, just shut up, okay. It’s not like I didn’t sort of invite this reaction with my behavior.” Somehow I was now pouring my heart out to the fat kid. How did that happen? “I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that people will treat you differently if you refuse to conform to the accepted social norms. But I’m not trying to be a rebel. I just want to be comfortable. Is there anything wrong with not wanting to have to worry about doing my hair or choosing an outfit in the morning? It’s not my fault I also have no curves. At all. Ever.”

Great, now I’d worked myself up into a depression. Smart move, Jennings.

“Well, hey, have you ever thought about changing your appearance to be a little more… girly, without being more uncomfortable?”

The suggestion made sense, but something in me just rebelled against the idea.

“I dunno. How would I do that?”

“Well, you could try wearing more girly colors?”

“Then I’d just look gay.”

“You could try wearing tighter clothes, to show off your feminine curves.”

“I just said I don’t have any!”

“What about skirts?”

“What? No, those are way too girly.”

“No, there are ways to wear skirts that aren’t too girly. For one thing, you wear them over pants. Not like tights, but like jeans and stuff.”

“Hm.” I considered it. I didn’t have any immediate objections. “But will that make me look more like a girl? Or just stupid.”

“We could go shopping and see?”

I turned to look at him. “You and me?” Incredulousness painted my voice. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. I don’t conform to accepted social norms either.” He grinned at me. I grinned back, slowly. I think I liked this kid.

PAUSE

Not like that.

UNPAUSE

The skirt idea was okay, but we decided that afternoon after consulting our older sisters that simply combing my hair a certain way and wearing different, still comfy, clothes would be the best course of action. The fat kid’s older sister, whose name was Melanie, also advised me to simply be patient. She said I would always have a streamlined figure, but that I would fill out enough to look feminine if I gave it enough time. That was the hardest advice to follow.

Thinking About Books: Rose Daughter

2010-07-17T10:01:00.014-06:00

The last few book posts have been about books I just read and had a lot to say about because they were making my mind churn in that delicious way that signals to me "This is a good book." This one is a little different in that it's also one of my all-time favorite, mind-altering, life-changing books and has been since I was 12 or 13.

Rose Daughter is an English garden of a book: cultivated and orderly profusions of flowery chaos. Every time I read it it's like being in a beautiful, lucid fever-dream. Everything is described with gorgeous language. This book sort of defines the word gorgeous for me; not merely "very beautiful," but, "adorned with rich or brilliant colours; sumptuously gay or splendid; magnificent." (Many thanks to the OED.) The gorgeousness of Rose Daughter reminds me that the word shares a root with gorge and engorge, words that mean a delicious amount of too much of something. You could distill the actual things that happen in this book to about four chapters, but instead you get over 200 pages of pure linguistic delight.

I don't remember what I thought when I first read it. I was in Middle School, and Middle School was Hell. I probably was only grateful that it provided an unusually wonderful escape from my life, which is what books were to me then (and still are). Little vacations from life. Rose Daughter is less like going to the beach and more like going into a coma (in a good way). There are some books that almost literally immerse me, to the point that I have to fight my way to the surface and gasp for air when I must come out of them for food or sleep. This is one of them. I read it when I'm sick, in body or in mind, and I come out of it refreshed and strengthened. I believe this was the book that first showed me that words could be put to beautiful purpose. I won't say I wasn't writing before I read it, but I believe most things I've written after have been affected by it. There is a vague standard of quality off in the hazy distance that I try to pursue in my writing, and when I think about it more closely, Rose Daughter is really what I'm striving for. That sumptuous profusion is what I'd like, at least in small measure, to put in my writing. To not merely tell a story, but to tell it gorgeously. I hope I can come half so close.

Because this is ridiculous, not because I care

2010-07-10T11:07:00.003-06:00

Dear "Aaron's" Furniture Store:

I am assuming you are a furniture store, based on the content of the ad I found hanging on my door handle a few days ago. I don't know why you thought putting those up around here was a good idea; yes we're married college students, but we're married college students. What makes you think we have the money to be spending on entire, brand-new living rooms sets, no matter how much they're on sale? But fine, whatever, I understand that in order to make money you need people to know about you, and I admit I'd never heard of you until now, so good job, it worked, and I threw that ad in the recycling first chance I got.

This is not the body of my complaint.

My real beef is with whoever was delivering the dang things, because they apparently found it funny/easier/whatever to leave 10 or 15 extra ads under my door mat. WHAT. THE. HECK. I don't even know what to think about that. I'm pretty sure the blame rests entirely on whatever available teenager you roped into delivering these things; it's not like you would have instructed them to do this. (You didn't, did you?) And I know I live on the third floor, and I know that when it's a hot summer day you get lazy, but COME ON. Is it really that hard to just carry the extras back to the trash can or the Aaron's office or whatever? I'm not even mad. It's no skin off my back to dump them in the recycling with the original one. I'm just puzzled and saddened to find that there are people lazy/irresponsible/whatever enough to leave their problem under some stranger's doormat. Also, I actually am annoyed at having to throw them out. Not that it's that much extra work, but it's the principle of the thing!

Anyway, Aaron's, I'm glad you put your contact information directly on the ad, because I think you should be made aware that whoever you're paying $.50 an hour to deliver these things is not earning their paycheck.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. Dear Readers, do you think I should really contact them about it? I'm really not that angry about it. I think it's kind of funny, actually. And I don't want to waste my time and energy complaining about something that not only doesn't matter in the long run, but that really doesn't matter to me right here and now.

P.P.S. Kristina, don't worry, this hasn't put me off all Aarons. Just the ones with furniture stores named after them.

Unemployment continued....

2010-06-23T18:46:00.007-06:00

My job interview was today. I am optimistic. Well, about the interview part, anyway. I'm starting to have doubts about whether I really want the job at all, despite how pleasant a work atmosphere it seemed to have. For one thing, it might not even be full-time, which would kind of be a deal-breaker because, for the second thing, it's an hour's drive away. This is problem not just for the gas money and wear-and-tear on the car (which is a BIG problem) but also because, as I found out on the way home, I get terribly carsick. We had to stop at Wal-Mart for some Pepto Bismol because I wasn't sure I could make it the rest of the way home without throwing up. I just can't see coming into work every morning and making a mad dash for the bathroom being a good thing. This is mostly jest; if I did get the job, I know for a fact that my body, with its amazing powers of adaptability, would soon acclimate itself and I wouldn't get so sick. Also, I wouldn't be turning around and going home again as fast as I did today. But still. Those first few days would be murder. I'd be chewing on Pepto Bismol like candy. Which it almost tasted like. Did you know it comes in peppermint-flavored chewable tablets now? I do. Boy, do I.

Wry Like Me?

2010-06-16T19:40:00.005-06:00

So I've been watching this TV show called Dead Like Me. It's quite funny, in the dark, sarcastic humor kind of way. Kind of like the MTV cartoon Daria, in that respect, only a little further over into the darkness.

Anyway, this isn't a TV show review. I was just thinking about how much I like the main character, an 18-year-old girl who now has to reap the souls of the dead because she was hit by a flaming toilet seat which had fallen from the Soviet Space Station. She is now known as Toilet Seat Girl. And while I'm glad I don't have such an unfortunate nickname, I do like her apathetic, sarcastic, wry attitude. I wish I could be like that, sometimes.

And at least she has a job, even if it is soul-killing. Ha.

(I have an interview next week; wish me luck!)

Unemployment

2010-06-11T10:19:00.003-06:00

I has it.

Any ideas on how to get rid of it?

Also, this blog is kind of outdated. Like, I don't even work in a library anymore. So either I have to rename this blog or get a new one. And I don't want to get a new one.

So, what should my new blog name be?

The Good Ship Hell's Bees Lay Loose?

The Good Ship Have Buns, Lettuce and Lentils?

The Good Ship what the heck am I even doing with my life?

Aiyiyi.

Thinking About Books: The Hunger Games

2010-03-24T19:43:00.011-06:00

It has been a long time since a book had such a hold on me as this one did. It has been far too long since I couldn't wait to get back to my book, and couldn't think about anything else while I was away, wondering what would happen next. Finishing it was like eating your favorite meal until you were completely satiated, only I'm glad you don't get stomach aches from books because there's a sequel!

I don't like to do plot summaries here because I figure you can find plenty of those on Amazon or other sites, and besides the important thing to me is how a book affected me, not what it's about. I'll be honest and admit I usually prefer to read fluffy books, ones where, even if there is gut-wrenching drama, it's more about the fate of a relationship, not the fate of the world, and all the important things get wrapped up tidily at the end. (This is not to say I don't like messy endings. But something has to be resolved by the last page or it leaves me feeling unbalanced.) I went through a spate of dystopian novels a while back and it soured me on them for a while. But it must have been long enough for me to recover, because even though The Hunger Games is set in a 1984-esque world where kids battle each other to the death, it wasn't a particularly depressing novel, which, now that I think about it, is the thing I hate most in a book, dystopian or not. There was plenty of fear and rage and sorrow and uncertainty, but never depression. The hero and narrator, Katniss, is not a revolutionary, angry at the government. She just wants to get back home to her little sister. And she never, ever gives in to despair, no matter what. She has no illusions about the corruption of her government, but her only goal throughout the book is simply to survive and make it back home (and maybe figure out who she's in love with). The change from a narrator trying to rebel against the evil government was refreshing. Obviously, not everyone living in a totalitarian regime can be ready to pit themselves against it just because it's the right thing to do. Some, most, just want to live their lives as best they can, and though it's clear that pretty soon Katniss is going to have to choose whether she wants to retain the status quo, or openly rebel (okay, okay, I've read the first three chapters of the sequel, but you could have seen it in the first), she is always going to be a reluctant hero, whether it's in the arena of the Hunger Games, or the political arena of her country.

Oh, and it's also been a long, long time since I read a book in first person that was executed this flawlessly. Usually you get a narrator that talks one way to the reader and another way in any actual dialogue, usually sounding more literary or polished in the narration. But Katniss never sounded like anybody but herself. There was also a seamless blend between explaining things, showing what she was thinking and feeling, flashbacks, etc. Often these are all slightly disjointed. A character might start to get bored-sounding or rote as they explain this obscure rule or piece of fictional history you'll need to know later. When they talk about their feelings instead of the action, they sound like a different person. Not our girl Katniss. Seamless. Flawless. But by no means a Mary Sue. Her skills were all believably obtained; no random abilities coming out of nowhere here. It's no wonder this book has been on our shelves nonstop. I have the next one on hold, but I'm 25th in line! I can't wait!

Avox: a = without, vox = voice (I figured it out! I'm so clever!)

Welcome to my brain

2010-03-20T10:51:00.009-06:00

It is a confusing place.

Here's what I think happened: I was just about to take a shower when I thought of something I just had to write down, and even though a normal person might have just tried to remember it through the shower and write it down when they got out, I knew this would do me no good, since my brain is like unto a sieve. So, since I already had a Word document started to deal with that particular topic, I knew I couldn't just write it down on a handy piece of paper. I have too many tiny pieces of paper lying around already. So I had to go to the computer, type it all down (and by the time I was done typing I had about twice as much material as I had started with, because that's what happens when stuff comes out of my brain), then go and dig out my flash drive where the document was because my brain couldn't even wait that long to write it down (type it down?). And then, since I was on the computer anyway, I just had to check the all the comics and blogs I read, and then, of course, since one of the blogs on my blog list hasn't been broken in yet (is, in fact, not being updated anymore), there were plenty of juicy backposts to read, and then there were all those nice links on the sidebar, and then eventually I looked up and realized that I had been about to take a shower two hours ago.

This can't just be me, though, right? I hear about internet addiction all the time. I'm just pretty sure most people get onto their computers on purpose.

I just don't know if this is normal...

2010-03-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

Is it odd that I have my cell phone ring tone stuck in my head?

Your link of the day

2010-03-05T11:31:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOHJUrcVdJk

Enjoy!

Chibi Vampire

2010-01-30T17:37:00.007-07:00

In my last post, I mentioned that I couldn't think of a manga that didn't have a Japanese main character. But then I read the next volume of Chibi Vampire, and realized that the main character, Karin, is a full-blooded European! Of course, she's also a full-blooded vampire. So non-human appears to be all right.

This is one of those instance where I fully recommend the manga but not the anime. For one thing, the opening sequence of the anime is, shall we say... a bit racy. Then, after 6 or 7 episodes of following the manga pretty faithfully, they introduce a totally new character (who has a really annoying voice in the English dub) and go off in a totally new direction, which I'm still not sure I like, though it is pretty funny. (The new character is a vampire hunter who can't stand the sight of blood, and who has proclaimed his undying love and protection against the undead to Karin, who is embarrassed by this in oh so many ways.) All in all, not a bad anime, but the manga is better.

Fruits Basket

2010-01-21T19:09:00.012-07:00

I stayed away from this one for a long time, at least partly because of the name. It just doesn't flow well in English, even though, after learning what it referred to in the manga, "fruit basket" doesn't really work either. I finally started reading the manga a few months ago, and finished the whole 123 chapter thing waaay sooner than I should have considering how much homework I had. I have a weakness for sequential art, what can I say? This happens to me every time I get into a new comic or manga. I try so hard to pace myself, because I know that all too soon I'll be caught up and I'll have to wait two days or a week for the next update just like everybody else (and because I know I have a lot of homework). But I just can't help it. I'll inhale huge chunks of the archives, or just read it all at once, and then I'll be behind in my homework AND wailing because the next update doesn't come until next Wednesday, dang it!

Fruits Basket (which I keep trying to spell Fruists Basket) is about Toru Honda, a Japanese high-schooler (I don't think I've ever read a manga where the main character wasn't Japanese) who is an orphan living in a tent because she has nowhere else to go. She tries to remain cheerful and happy, but then a landslide buries her tent! Luckily for her the land she was staying on belongs to the family of one of her classmates, Yuki Sohma, and they take her in. Yuki is super popular at her school, and a little mysterious. She soon finds out why- after she accidentally hugs him, Yuki turns into a rat! It turns out that all the members of his family turn into animals corresponding to the ones in the Chinese Zodiac. BUT they only turn into animals when they're under a great deal of stress, OR they get hugged by a member of the opposite sex.

This is the other half of why I avoided it for so long. It just sounds like an ecchi (perverted) manga. But it isn't. It's actually a funny, deep, well done story about opening up your heart and letting go of past hurts.

And now the anime is on Hulu.

Goodbye, life.

Okay, I lied.

2010-01-21T19:08:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was my two and a half year anniversary.

And I guess the whole hiatus thing is being put on hold. (Can you put a hiatus on hold?)

New Year, New Post

2010-01-12T17:32:00.002-07:00

Wow...

I should really post more often. Or close up shop altogether.

But I won't do that, because I have so many things I want to write about. Time to write about them, on the other hand, I do not have. So I may just go on an official hiatus until May, after I graduate in late April. Because graduating from school means you have lots of time, right? Right?

(I may have been lying about the hiatus thing. But in case I don't post anything until May, just pretend I really did officially take a break. Because, man, blogging is hard work.)

Nanowrimo update 1

2009-10-18T09:13:00.006-06:00

Fourteen days until Nanowrimo, and my pre-Nano planning is going very well. So far I've basically figured out why my character lives forever (though I need to figure out if moon soil is actually fertile, and if so, how does it compare to earth soil?) and my plot has progressed from a simple character study to a revolutionary sci-fi tale about a reluctant leader who perhaps just created utopia without meaning to. ("Revolutionary sci-fi tale" meaning a sci-fi tale about a revolution. I doubt the story will change anyone's life except mine.)
I plan on updating as things progress, and especially as Nanowrimo itself gets into full swing. Though how I'm going to manage updating a blog when I'm supposed to be writing 2,000 words a day on top of school and work and life:other, is anybody's guess.

Procrastination

2009-10-01T19:13:00.003-06:00

...does wonders for a blog.

I am technically supposed to be working on homework while the husband is not here to distract me, but I am instead blogging, reading other people's blogs, and listening to Peter and the Wolf narrated by none other than David Bowie! Nice, eh? I'm also wondering what I'm going to do for NaNoWriMo, and if I'm really crazy enough to actually sit down November 1st having no prior idea of what I'm to write. Which is one of the options. But I'm definitely buying the t-shirt. Actually, the t-shirt I'm buying first is technically my reward for winning last year. Then I'll need to buy a t-shirt for winning this year. You know, if I do. But I might not get around to that until next year.

Girl Genius

2009-08-19T14:09:00.008-06:00

I have always been an ardent supporter of Agatha/Gil. Tarvek is endearing, but he just doesn't bring out Agatha's best qualities, and there is always the question of his loyalty. Admittedly Gil has more to gain from betraying Agatha (you know, once he has her trust to possibly betray), but it's been made clear time and time again that he will always choose her over his own father, whereas Tarvek clearly has yet to prove himself so solidly.

And then I read today's comic, and I began to glimpse what exactly a world with Gil and Agatha at the head of it would be like. And I admit I am afraid.

Granted they mean well (mostly). And they are brave, and have strong personalities with natural leadership abilities. But they are both sparks, mad scientists, and fiddling around with the boundaries of life and death is not only fun, it's what makes life worth living. Now that they're finally working together, they're starting to feed off each other, and it's making me nervous (in a good way, naturally). What's going to happen when they finally get married and rule the world? They'll be up all night working on their latest unholy creation, and I shudder to think what sort of children they'll have. (Wouldn't Count Wulfenbach make a great grandda?) It's almost enough to make me think she'd be better off with Tarvek, who, once he proves where his loyalties lie once and for all, would probably calm her down somewhat.

But only almost.

Yay Gil and Agatha!

P.S. I promise the men in this comic keep their shirts on most of the time. She was just bandaging him up. I promise. If you don't believe me, go back to the beginning and read the whole thing. You should probably do that anyway, to even understand what I'm talking about here. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Thinking About Books: Moon Called

2009-06-13T16:51:00.051-06:00

My husband won't take a book I've recommended until I can convince him it has enough action to keep him interested. His movies must have at least one explosion and a fight scene, the more the merrier. Needless to say, I don't share his requirements. The only action I care about in a story is the interaction between characters. All the car-chases and explosions in the world won't do it for me if there isn't some corresponding sparks between the people driving the cars or setting off the explosions. That isn't to say I mind the excitement and thrill of watching something blow up. But without human interest, I lose interest. Both combined, though, makes for a completely irresistible tale. Patricia Briggs' book Moon Called has both in abundance.

It's got all the major supernatural creatures in it, as well as a few extras for fun: Werewolves, vampires, fae, and skinwalkers, or Native American shapechangers, which is what the main character, Mercedes Thompson, is. It's also got lots of action (nothing blows up, though). I guess part of the reason I like this book so much is because of the perfect blend of suspense, the supernatural, a hint of romance, and humor enough to keep the scary parts from going overboard. I enjoy anything done well, even something I don't normally go in for, like politics (who knew werewolf packs had politics- and that they were so interesting?). But I think the reason the action was so satisfying to me is that when you get together creatures like werewolves, vampires, and a feisty girl who can turn into a coyote, (and a father whose daughter has been kidnapped), you expect a little violence.

(It occurs to me that this is one of the reasons Twilight and its sequels were so unsatisfying. {Among many, many others.} You get a human girl who's torn between loving a werewolf and a vampire, and they never actually fight? What a rip-off. Even two human guys both interested in a girl come to blows a lot of the time. And don't even get me started on the lack of violence in the last book. Just don't.)

It's really satisfying to see so much world building, too. And I don't just mean fitting werewolves etc. into the human world. Even really good fantasy writers sometimes look a little too much like they're showing off how much work went into creating a world. (See The Rule of Cool for why this doesn't always bother me.) Here the world building looks more like character building. Every character has a rich, detailed history which also adds to the plot. It's not like those pitiful novels where you go the whole book thinking you know everything and then suddenly the main character knows exactly how to disable the bomb and then the credits roll, and you never even make it to the refrigerator. Instead, the author will teasingly mention that the main character was raised by werewolves, which explains why she knows so much about them, but then not say anything more about it for a whole chapter. Then she'll say something that explains a little more, but that brings up its own set of questions. By the end of the book the momentum you gained by wanting to know not just what happens next, but what happened fifteen years ago, launches you straight into the next book, which is what happened to me. My husband finished Moon Called, set it down, and gave me puppy dog eyes so pitiful we drove to Barnes and Nobles right then to buy Blood Bound and Iron Kissed.

Thinking About Books: Beastly

2009-06-11T15:11:00.001-06:00

My favorite fairy tale is Beauty and the Beast. I've loved almost every version I've ever read, even the kiddy one with bad illustrations and the creepy ending where the stepsisters get turned into statues in Beauty's garden. (It helps that Beauty is often portrayed as bookish, which I very much identify with.) So of course when Beastly by Alex Flinn showed up on my desk, I read it. And loved it. But it reminded me of the most troubling aspect of the whole story, in any version, and that is the fact that Beauty and the Beast is a glorified case study in Stockholm syndrome.

Even in the best of versions, even in the Disney version, even in my most favorite version (Rose Daughter by Robin McKinley), the fact remains that Beauty falls in love with the one who kidnapped her. True he was lonely, true he lets her go see her father, true there was no other way to get her to love him without making her stay, but the fact is, he did make her stay, in some stories, for years. He may let her see her father towards the end of the story, but usually with the restriction that she must return or he'll die. That sounds like pretty manipulative behavior to me.

The reason I bring this up is that Beastly is a modern-day version, set in New York City. The beast is the spoiled son of a famous news-caster, and his castle is a five-story brownstone where his father locks him away with full use of a credit card as well as a maid, but no fatherly love (of course). The beauty-figure, having been brought there against her will, is at first afraid of what any sensible New York City girl would be afraid of- what, exactly, does he want her for? With a little earnestness and a change of heart, the beast convinces her that he is not looking for a sex-slave, but a friend, a companion: true love.

Alex Flinn makes the story work, but as someone who has read many, many different versions of the tale, saying this stuff out in the open made me wonder: how is it that a perfectly sensible girl (the Beauty figure almost always has Brains, too, and in most modern versions isn't even that Beautiful) can ever, and I mean ever, fall in love with, or even trust, the very one who is holding her captive, denying her her freedom, and not even telling her why?

I often tell people that my own personal love story with my husband reminds me a lot of Beauty and the Beast, but I can assure you that captivity had no part in it. (He's not ugly, either.) It involved my favorite aspect of the story: getting to know someone's inner self, without being swayed by a pretty face or false flattery. The central characters in the story get to know each other on the deepest level, as individuals separate and distinct from their appearance or status. But why can this not happen without making Beauty a prisoner, if only at first? Think about it: any story that claimed to be a re-telling of the fairy tale, but that did not include the captivity aspect, would be seen as being a radical departure from the original.

Perhaps even the insightful and un-shallow Beauty cannot see beyond the Beast's appearance without having a compelling reason to do so, and time to do it in. He is pretty scary-looking, after all, and usually emotionally unstable as well. In my own romance it took quite a few chance encounters from which there was no easy, socially acceptable escape, before I began to see my husband for who he really is. Perhaps sometimes even good people must be compelled in order to do good, but hard, things.

Thinking About Books: Lady Pain

2009-06-04T20:26:00.017-06:00

I have a confession to make: When reading books I like, I skip ahead to read the ending.

I know, I know! I'm a terrible person. Everyone I've ever admitted this to has practically disowned me, and who can blame them? But I promise you that when I started Lady Pain I did not know it was the third in a trilogy. When the author made cryptic statements I thought she was just really good at foreshadowing. How was I to know that when it said on the cover "Rebecca Bradley, Author of Lady in Gil" they meant, "Go read that one first"!

I found out it was a sequel about halfway through, and by then it was too late to stop and go back. I'd been hooked since the first page, and that's pretty much how I determine whether a book is worth reading (that, or I read the end and determine if I want to find out how they got there, or if I can just figure it out on my own. cringe).

After that stunning revelation, for the rest of the book I was trying to see if the author was genuinely clever, or if I had mistaken vagueness for tasty plot bits dangled tantalizingly out of reach. I concluded that while a few of the things I'd thought were clever foreshadowing were really just a way of re-introducing people to the characters, there were still plenty of really good moments that showcased the author's ability to make a situation interesting, exciting, a bit nail-biting, and funny all at the same time. Moments that could have gotten heavy-handed were toned down with a bit of humor, without lessening the breathless page-turning-ness of the action. It was in first-person, too, which I am generally suspicious of, but this author made it sound genuine, without erring either on the side of being too much like dialog, or too eloquent and author-y, which are both faults I've seen in first person before. (If I didn't love Robin McKinley's style so much, I'd've thrown Dragonhaven across the room in frustration. That cat can ramble.)

When I reached the end, though (which, when I'd read it, had given nothing of the awesome climax away; hooray for epilogues!), I was faced with the question of whether I would go back and read the first two. On the one hand, it was really well written, and there were a few characters that I'm sure we got to know before, because they were too good to have such small parts. On the other hand, now I know how it all ends, and if I'm not mistaken, it seems the action starts twenty years or more before the conclusion. That's twenty years of knowledge about the future that I will have to pretend to myself I don't know while I read about How It All Began. And that's a little mentally exhausting (as anyone who's watched the new Star Wars can attest). So while I definitely plan to return, it may have to be a while before I do. Because while I may be totally scatterbrained and unable to find my glasses when they're on my head (true story), I can remember details I read in books for years.

Thinking About Books: The Book Whisperer

2009-06-02T15:08:00.036-06:00

I just finished a book called The Book Whisperer written by a sixth grade teacher who is tired of school making kids hate reading. In her class, therefore, she assigns kids to read forty (40) books in the school year, which basically means they have to be reading constantly to make this requirement. They can choose whatever books they want, but she does have genre requirements to help broaden their perspective. There are kids who come into her class having read maybe one book in their entire life that wasn't forced upon them by a grown up, and most of them leave her class at least not hating reading anymore, at most having had their ideas about reading completely changed. Instead of some evil chore foisted on them by teachers who think it's "good for them," reading becomes a pleasure, something to do in one's own spare time.

Can you guess why this book caught my eye?

I would have killed for a teacher like that. Killed. I have often expressed to my friends that my husband and I are fully planning on homeschooling our kids, and my own middle school experience is one of the reasons I feel so strongly about that. In the seventh grade I had a science teacher who was a nice enough guy, not too boring or strict. The problem was that I already knew everything he was teaching. (I'm not actually sure about this, looking back. Did I already know it, or did he just go so slowly and redundantly that I could skim the textbook and, using my many years of watching Nature and The Magic School Bus, ace the tests?) In any case, the class was not structured for me, and I was bored out of my skull. I was a dutiful student, but there are limits even to the patience of someone who cares about their grade. I tried to pay attention, I really did, but it soon became clear that my brain was going to start melting and oozing out of my ears if I didn't keep myself occupied somehow. So I read a book.

This seems pretty innocent, right? I even kept it hidden so that you couldn't really see it. I was not distracting the other children or being flagrantly disrespectful. And I got good grades. But this teacher was so annoyed that I wasn't listening to him blather that he stopped his lecture (oh, great idea, derail everyone's train of thought all at once) and demanded that I hand over my book. I protested, of course, but in the end he got his way (I was a Good Kid, remember?) and he told me that I could have the book back at the end of the day. Not the end of the period. The end of the day.

I lived in a rural town. Education was not seen as valuable or important to most people around there, and their kids definitely picked up on that attitude. I had moved there a few years prior from a suburban school near a big city, populated mostly by the children of lawyers and doctors. My parents emphasized education so much that it took me years to figure out that college was optional. I had no idea. It was what you did after high school.

I was also an avid reader. (Still am.) I vacuumed up books like they were oxygen and I enjoyed learning. I had made something of a reputation for myself the year before in the sixth grade by beating, mangling and hanging up to dry the previous reading record of the school. My nickname for years was "Bookworm." (These kids were not very imaginative, either.)

For these reasons (and others, I suppose, but mostly these) I stuck out. I had a reputation among the students, but I also had one among the teachers. They knew I was serious about this school thing, and that learning mattered to me. I'm not gonna say I got special treatment- aw heck, why not? I got special treatment. My sixth grade reading teacher had a no-food policy that he conveniently forgot about when I brought a muffin to class (every day). He knew I wasn't gonna be a pig about it, and I was discreet.

I say all this not to boast (well, maybe a little), but to set the scene. When I got my book out to keep myself occupied, I was sort of counting on the teacher to understand and look the other way. Maybe my head was a little swollen by then, but I think it was more than that. I expected my teacher to understand that I valued my education enough to not let him get in the way of it. So when instead I got punished for doing something voluntarily that teachers struggled and prayed and wailed about for years to get my peers to do, I was understandably angry. I slouched down in my desk and doodled, furiously not listening to the rest of the lecture. (Which was such an improvement, right?)

This happened multiple times throughout the year. It got to the point where they got my mother involved. ('Cause I'm such a bad kid 'n all.) And at the time it instilled in me a bad attitude toward that teacher and that class, and school in general, really. (I still blame him for the fact that even today I have a problem with automatically tuning out the voice of someone lecturing. That helped with reading in his class, but it has not served me well since.) But thinking about it now, I do not see how that teacher could have demonstrated more clearly that school was for jumping through academic hoops, not genuinely learning.

My husband would like to make it clear that he thinks I am reading too much into this, and he is probably right. It was a kind of traumatic event that damaged my pride as "the special one," and the teacher was most likely simply concerned with keeping classroom discipline. But how many of you can share an experience even a little like mine, an experience that cut the wind out of your sails and made you realize that school was not a place conducive to learning about things that were important to you? I mean, how many of you came to love reading because a teacher made you read a book for an assignment? How many adults do you know who don't read, or who read trash because no one ever tried or knew how to develop their reading tastes to something more mature than "The Day My Butt Went Crazy"? (Yes, that's a real book.)

What The Book Whisperer calls for is a change in the school system to emphasize real reading, the kind of reading that people actually do. Not reading one chapter a night for six weeks, and doing activities and filling out worksheets, but devouring books one after another, gobbling up literature and letting it digest. Guiding kids through the kind of reading they're already doing, instead of trying to cookie-cutter everyone into compliance with some arbitrary standard. Letting books teach instead of teaching about books. I wish the author well in her quest to make school a friendly place for reading, but I'm more cynical (actually, she is, too). I don't believe this will ever happen until schools are made to be accountable for how they are ruining our children and producing people who can take standardized tests, but have no idea how to live.

Maybe I Should Get a Bigger Ring...

2009-05-11T10:35:00.005-06:00

Last Saturday I was in Barnes and Noble, minding my own business, kind of checking out the relationships section, which, in this store, is right next to the sex books. This guy comes into the isle, and is a little too close to my personal space, so I scooch over a bit to give myself some more room, and (red flag! red flag!) he moves over too. I move over again, a little more this time, and he moves right with me, keeping the same distance between us. Okay, now I'm a little weirded out, but I keep studiously avoiding eye contact (I don't even know what the guy looked like, I was avoiding eye contact THAT MUCH) and think about leaving to go find my husband. Before I can, though, the guy says, "Find anything good?"

Short aside: when I'm by myself, I often imagine different dangerous scenarios, just to keep me on my toes. What if that guy walking toward me down the hall suddenly tries to grab me? I'll elbow him in the gut and kick him in the crotch. Okay, what if that guy tries something...? And so on. And just before this guy came into the isle I'd been wondering what I would do if someone said something inappropriate to me regarding those very pink books.

So, this is what was running through my head when he says, "Find anything good?" I had imagined a snappy comeback, something like, "Just who do you think you are, stupid?" or even just flashing my ring (because, to be fair, it was on the other side of me out of his sight). But in the second after he said it, while my breath was still caught in my throat, I just decided to be rude, and I walked away without saying anything, without looking at him, as though I hadn't even heard him.

Now my brain turns back on and I starting screaming to myself, "Oh my gosh, what the heck, I just got harassed in the sex isle, I think I'm gonna die, WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?" I found him soon after, and told him what happened. We escaped to the manga section and I didn't leave his side for the rest of the trip. He was outraged on my behalf, but in the end, when I'd calmed down a little, I had to admit that probably the guy was just very socially awkward, or possibly looking for a one night stand, and not actively trying to harass married women. I came to this opinion because I think that this guy (who I did not get a good look at) may have been the same guy who, right before this, rushed into the isle, slammed a book onto the shelf, and rushed away. (The book was something like "How to Make Love to a Woman" or something.) I can just image him thinking desperately of something to say, and I feel bad that this was all he could come up with.

But not bad enough to dignify him with a response.

Fear is the soul killer

2009-04-27T08:52:00.001-06:00

I think I'm afraid of success. Afraid of climbing up too high on my potential and falling off. Afraid of being more visible and therefore more subject to laughter and scorn. Afraid of giving it my all and my all not being enough. Being anonymous is easier. It's comfortable. It's the known. When will I finally work up the courage to put my full effort behind something? To work hard and get past initial failures and succeed? When will I stop being afraid?

If you give a mouse a cookie... it will eat it and infest your house.

2009-03-21T10:33:00.001-06:00

So the other night I saw a ballet version of Romeo and Juliet. There was this really touching scene when Romeo realizes Juliet is dead, and he takes her limp body and tries to dance with it. It was done really well (she did sort of help him a little, but it wasn’t distracting at all) and it was very moving. But of course it made me think of necrophilia (Despite the fact that I didn't want to think about necrophilia, cuz, ew). Which of course meant I had to look up the Wikipedia article on it, which of course lead me to the article on praying mantises, which of course meant that I was clicking around Wikipedia for hours, which of course meant that eventually I ended up at the article for Romeo and Juliet. Of course.

Take that Felicia Bond! Speaking of which, I’m going to go make some cookies now.

(Okay, okay, that’s not how it actually went down, but honestly, would you have been surprised if it had?)

Zzzzzzzzzz.....

2009-03-20T10:42:00.001-06:00

Apparently I have mono, which I was pretty sure I did. The doctor didn’t think so, but when the test results came back he said, “Well, it looks like your instincts were correct.”

Sometimes I hate being right.

Please help

2009-02-18T10:41:00.006-07:00

You may have seen the collection of links on the sidebar of this blog having to do with webcomics. I love reading webcomics, partly because I want to make one when I grow up, and partly because there is such a sense of community involved. I mention this because the person who draws Planet Karen, a young woman who lives in England, recently had her entire apartment building burn down. She has been able to salvage almost nothing. She ran out with her shoes and a coat, and that's about all she has. It seems odd, but I feel like I know Karen. Her comic is a diary comic, meaning she doesn't write about fictionalized characters, she writes about her own life. I have watched her go through learning she has diabetes, battling depression, fighting loneliness, and somehow she always manages to find witty and insightful things to say about what happens to her. But this time, she doesn't just need readership. She needs help. I am going to spare what I can and use the donation button on her webpage for the first time ever. "Donating the price of a pair of socks buys me a pair of socks," she said. "The price of a can opener buys me a can opener." I don't know how many of you who read this blog click on any of my links, but if you have a few spare minutes, please click on the link to Planet Karen. I'm not asking you to donate. I know I would feel weird giving money to a stranger, but like I said, I feel like I know her. I've read her comic every day for years. I just wanted to get the word out. It's about all I can do.

Life, the Universe, and Green Beans

2009-01-27T21:02:00.003-07:00

Just because they tell you it's good for you doesn't make the green beans taste better.

New Job

2008-12-15T19:47:00.002-07:00

Well, sort of. I still work in the same area at the library, but I have different duties. Instead of working the desk, and responding to the beck and call of the unwashed masses, now I get to sit at a desk in the back and oversee the turning in and picking of books people have put on hold. And deal with the whiny emails of the unwashed masses. But there will be a lot less of those than there were at the desk.

Work is kind of weird these days

2008-11-11T16:13:00.002-07:00

So, recently we merged our department with another one, and that means that I am now working in two sections of the library at once. Now they are tearing up the department we merged with and are trying to put a conference room right where all our storage space was. This means that everything is super squished and confusing and disorganized. The good thing is, though, I now have a really good excuse for not knowing where things are in the new section. No one else does either!

I am a geek, but not a huge one

2008-10-25T09:27:00.000-06:00

68% Geek

Wierd...

2008-10-07T18:26:00.000-06:00

It's weird how people can make "It's not your fault" sound so accusatory.

Oh noes!

2008-10-06T09:02:00.000-06:00

Woe and lamentations! Repent ye, repent ye, in sackcloth and ashes lest calamity be laid upon your heads. Woe unto the children of Melvil Dewey who have made such a bad decision. What, you may well ask, is the horror which has been committed by the children of men within these sacred walls of the HBLL? I will tell you, my child, that ye may recant.

They replaced all the old furniture in the girl's bathrooms! Seriously, they had all this great retro stuff that was surely the detritus that came from all over campus as they went about upgrading the "look" of everything, and had to stash the old stuff somewhere. They had bright orange love seats and gray monstrosities with cheese wedge pillows and big, squishy, comfy couches you could really nap in. Now they have all this bland office furniture in professional-looking beige and dark brown with art deco on the back that still smells like new car and looks like the carpets and is about as yielding. They even have coffee tables. COFFEE TABLES. It looks like a doctor's waiting room. They should stock it with year-old magazines and have done with it. Where is the personality and casual comfort that allowed a nursing mother to feel like she could change her baby's diaper and then proceed to fall asleep while nursing? Where can a poor college student, worn out with studying and partying, go, to catch up on sleep while vowing to catch up on homework next? What have they done? Where will it end?!

Well, okay, I do like the coffee tables.

Wow

2008-10-03T17:34:00.000-06:00

Dang, that last post was full of venom. Let's see if we can't brighten things up around here.

Three of my current co-workers are engaged, and one former one is getting married later this month! I am so excited, and the best part is, the ones that have dates are getting married in October, November and December respectively. This will mean lots of cake and presents (cake for me, presents for them)(cake for them too, I guess) which are two of my favorite things in the world, along with marriage in general, babies, kittens, puppies, sunsets, and kissing. Also, world peace.

Is that better? Is the bad vibe gone?

Hello?

The Harried Librarian

2008-10-01T18:35:00.000-06:00

Everybody wants a favor.

Do I look like the favor-fairy?

Do I look like a push-over?

I promise, when I give in, it's only because I want to. It's not because you bullied me into giving you what you want. It's not because it's my job to please idiots.

Except that it is.

Oh, and opening books to their barcodes? Not as helpful as you might think.

Star Wars and Talking Like a Pirate

2008-09-19T21:14:00.005-06:00

Arr, it be Talk like a Pirate Day! And I havin' forgotten to talk like a pirate all day, I have decided to write this here blog post like a pirate. Arr!

So, I be watchin' The Empire Strrrikes Back at work (one o' the perks o' me job) and I be wonderin'- when the giant ice-beast be killin' Luke's ton-ton and be draggin' him away, how come it leave the nice, juicy ton-ton there to rot (or freeze) and drag away the tough, yucky human? An' how come it hang its prey up to freeze? Do it like meat-cicles? Do it have a need for food storage? I just be sayin' . . .

Is It Eavesdropping When They Don't Bother To Lower Their Voices?

2008-08-23T11:30:00.005-06:00

I have complained before about people treating me inhumanely because I stand behind a desk and wear a nametage, but today I experienced one of the perks that this can bring. People don't think of you as quite a human being when you wear a nametag. You're another faceless, nameless machine, making no dent on their day. These two gentlemen were among the less abrasive sort; instead of treating me with inhuman cruelty simply because they couldn't think of me as being on the same level as themselves, they simply ignored me. Perhaps I can take this time to offer a note of caution: just because the person with the nametag doesn't react to your conversation, doesn't mean they're not listening. Observe:

"Those Tidwells, what a nice couple. You know, I went to their 50th wedding anniversary the other day, and I found out something interesting about Bob. You'll never believe this..."

"What? Tell me."

"Well, apparently, when Bob was in the navy those long years ago, he got a tattoo. And not just any tatto, but a tatto immortalizing his girlfriend's name on some unspeakable part of his body. No, wait, get this- it's not her name!"

"What?! No way! Bob? Nice, quiet Bob?"

"Totally! [Okay, he didn't say "totally," but he totally would have if he'd been twenty years younger.] And she told me this, his wife- I asked her, 'Well, didn't he have it removed?' and she said (and with such emotion in her voice! I could tell she hated it.) 'No, I see it every night.'"

"That's crazy!"

And, indeed, it was.

Memo

2008-08-16T11:55:00.005-06:00

TO: the world
FROM: little old me
SUBJECT: putting cards in your mouth

To whom it may concern:
It has come to my attention that some of you are in the habit of putting your library cards in your mouth while at the desk trying to check out books. I realize that trying to handle two armfuls of books with only one set of arms can be difficult, but this is no excuse. Try putting the books on the counter, and then getting your card out from your wallet. I know the sign says "Please have card ready," but I promise you that the clerk won't mind you taking the extra few seconds to get it out if it means not having to touch a slimy card. Try to see things from our perspective. You may have just held it in your teeth, or in some way tried to reduce the amount of slobber on the card, but the mouth is the most germ-filled place in the human body aside from maybe a child's hands, and once you put something in there, it enters the realm of untouchable. Ritual cleanings involving lots of soap can return the object to a state of cleanness, but it is really better to avoid the issue entirely. Thank you for your consideration, and I know things will improve if we all make an effort. If you need me, I will be in the restroom, bathing in hand sanitizer.

2008-08-08T12:25:00.000-06:00

I keep waiting for this to happen.

Fun, fun, fun till the library takes his two books away

2008-08-08T10:41:00.004-06:00

My co-worker just had an otherworldly experience. I share it with her permission.

Faculty member calls up, wants to renew his books. They have reached the online renewal limit, meaning that he has to bring them in. We do this so we know if they've kidnapped the book or not. He is a little annoyed at having to bring his books back. (I don't know why- faculty gets to renew books four times at 6 months each renewal- that's two years without bringing the book in!) He asks my co-worker if she can override it. To me, this is a breach in courtesy rivaled only by farting in public. You do not ask me if I can override something for you. I decide when and if I override things, and you should be on your knees, grateful that I did! Sheesh . . .

Co-worker tells faculty he has to bring the books in. Faculty says, "Well, I can come to the library this time, but I don't want this to happen again."

Excuse me? You don't want your books to expire again? You want to have them forever without need to renew or check them out? Allow me to direct you to a bookstore, sir. That's the big building with lots of books that you can actually buy. You get to keep them. Forever. This is the big building with lots of books that you can only rent. You don't get to keep them. There is a significant difference.

Epilogue

Faculty comes in to renew his books (surprisingly; some would just let FDS handle it, or refuse to come out of their office like a sulky child) and announces that he's had them for two years, and uses them a lot. I think he intends for this to be proof of why he should not have to renew them again. I only take it as a sign that he has confused us with the Bookstore. A common mistake.

I wonder what he would do if someone recalled the books . . . ? Hmmm . . .

Sometimes I just hate my job

2008-08-07T09:00:00.003-06:00

Just got off the phone with an older gentleman wanting to know where the library was. The phone conversation didn't start off well, since he replied to my little spiel with, "Well, lady, this is a guy wanting to know... blah blah blah." I was mortally offended until I realized that "Amy" and "lady" sound something alike... if you've got your hearing aid turned down. (Or if the phone connection was bad, which I think it was for a minute... it was still weird to be called "lady", though.) I tried to give him a sense of where it was in relation to other buildings on campus, but he didn't seem to understand what I was talking about. (My bad for using "student lingo," such as ASB and MOA. Is it really just lingo if they print that on their maps?)

Then I made a big mistake and mentioned that we had maps of campus online. He starts whining (yes, whining) that he didn't want to look up maps online, that was why he had called. I tried to calm him down by telling him that I had mentioned it because I needed to look it up, and he then proceeded to make fun of me for "not knowing where I was." Is it my fault I'm not a spatial thinker? Then he wanted to know which parking lot was the closest one. I gritted my teeth and asked him if he had a parking pass. "I have a handicapped pass, that's why I want the closest parking lot," he replied authoritatively. I gave him an arbitrary answer (they're all about equidistant anyway) and hung up after more teasing about my uncertainty as to my location. Serves him right if he gets a parking ticket.

[Take it to the flip side]

I just got off the phone with a pleasant old man who wanted to know where the library was. He didn't seem to have much knowledge of campus, so I gave him directions as best I could. He was handicapped, poor dear, and wanted to know which parking lot would be closest. We joked for a while, and then ended the conversation.

[Conclusion]

It's true. Bad things are more interesting than good things.

Sometimes I just love my job

2008-08-05T20:13:00.003-06:00

When I'm not working at Circulation, I work at the General Reference Desk, and boy do I get some fun questions. A women called in from Missouri or somewhere once wanting to know how to clean a journal of her father's she had found in her shed. Turns out if you're worried about germs (mice droppings, in her case) all you can do is put the book in a bag with some baking soda, leave it over night, and then brush it off veeeery carefully. ("Don't try this at home," was my suggestion to her. "Also, get it digitized.") I've had people ask me the spelling of words, the definition of words, etc. Just now I got off the phone with a nice woman from Texas who wanted to know what direction Houston was from Tomball, TX. She said she'd tried "the computer," but the way she phrased it (I would not have been surprised to hear her say "the computer machine box thing") I knew that I was starting from scratch.

It was actually pretty easy. I went to infoplease.com first and used their handy distance calculator, which told me that Tomball was 27.6 miles from Houston at 30° 5' 49", -95° 36' 57". But it did not tell me what direction they were from one another. Finally I just googled a map of Texas and looked for Houston. There was Tomball, just northwest of it. The woman was so grateful. "We drive to Houston all the time," she said, "But I can never remember which way to go."

Just doing my job, ma'am.

Books are people too!

2008-07-31T15:22:00.004-06:00

I don't mean to gross you out.... Aw, who am I kidding, of course I mean to gross you out!

I was in the bathroom, innocently washing my hands, when I looked over to my left and saw a library book balanced on the sink beside me. I stared at it in horror, silently praying that the person who had left it there had carefully checked to make sure the sink was dry. But, alas, all my hopes were dashed when the person came back, picked up their book, and I saw the water bead up where it had been released from the pressure of the book.

Books are filthy things, people! But that doesn't mean you can feel free to make them even filthier.

If I hadn't already been washing my hands, I would have again, for good measure.

It's not them, it's me!

2008-07-31T14:13:00.004-06:00

I just had a flash of insight. I don't know what it will mean in the long run, and I don't know how I feel about it yet.

It's not them, it's me.

When I sit at the end computer, the handicapped one that sits at a lower level than the other, standing height computers, people never come to me. They will stand in front of an unoccupied computer for over five minutes if I let them. I have to call them over, sometimes repeating myself a couple times before they even turn to look at me. Then they peer at me myopically as though I'm difficult to look at and ask, "Are- are you open? Can I check out books from you?"

And generally I try to be understanding of this. I can understand the fear of looking stupid and going to the wrong desk. I can sympathize. So it doesn't bother me that much, though it is a little annoying.

But today I was standing at the regular desks, with one of my co-workers at the lower desk, and a patron came up, looked at us, and went for her!

Aaaagggghhhh!

So, it is with great sorrow that I must come to the conclusion that it has never been the patrons who are annoying or insane. It has always been me.

I apologize for any inconvenience.

Pet Peeve, Again

2008-07-30T08:39:00.000-06:00

Since that last pet peeve post turned out so darn creepy, I'm trying a different format this time: simple ranting.

You know what's really starting to annoy me? People asking me to participate in surveys. Admittedly, this isn't something I've encountered much except in the last two weeks or so. I can guess where they're coming from- there are plenty of statistics classes around campus, and it's starting to be crunch time for everyone. And it never used to bother me. I would just politely inform them that, as an employee of the library, I am not allowed to answer survey questions or take part in questionnaires, or be interviewed. And that would be that. But this last time, I realized that they seem to be targeting me. They're deliberately taking advantage of my immobility (I'm truly a captive audience). And now that I'm thinking about it, what makes them think I am a suitable candidate for this anyway? I am working here, people! I do not get paid to help you with your homework.

Well, okay, I do get paid to help you with your homework. But not like that! I have books to check out, directions to give, library help to provide. I absolutely do not have time to sit here and answer questions about my self-image or my ethnicity or junk like that. Nope. Plenty busy sitting here, typing on my blog... talking to my co-workers.... Yup. Very busy. Too busy for you.

"Is this a library?"

2008-07-29T12:17:00.004-06:00

What I want to say:

"No, I just live here."

"It was- until you asked that question. Now we have to self-descruct in 3...2...1..."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I could tell you... but then I'd have to kill you."

What I actually say:

"Yes, it sure is! What can I do for you?"

Inside her mind

2008-07-28T12:11:00.007-06:00

What I wanted to say:

"If I wanted you to call me by name, I would have told it to you."

"Only my friends call me that."

"Actually, it's Rebecca. I'm just wearing Amy's nametag for fun."

What I actually say:

"How can I help you?"

It's not only necklines that plummet in hot weather...

2008-07-25T08:32:00.000-06:00

It is truly amazing to me how my impression of people can take a complete 180 degree turn when something bad happens to them. They can be perfectly pleasant- until you take too long. They can be exceedingly polite and courteous- until they have to pay a fine. What is it that prompts people to make such a dramatic about-face? It's hard for me to understand how someone can be so polite, demonstrating a knowledge of basic human interactions one minute, and so utterly without regard for the people around them as human beings the next. I would rather deal with someone who was out-and-out rude, than someone who thought of manners as a means to an end, rather than something you should simply be in the habit of doing, at the very least, and ideally should derive some amount of pleasure and satisfaction from.

Y'all

2008-07-23T09:50:00.000-06:00

So, I took a linguistics class once, and one of the things I learned was that English has no second-person plural anymore. We have "they," which is third-person plural and "we," which is first-person plural, but nothing to take the place of "ye," which was used in that way until a few hundred years ago when things like "you" and "yours" began to replace such things as "thou" and "thine." And then I realized that English does does a second-person plural: "y'all." Unfortunately, it's dialectal, and use in the mainstream is still limited to jokes or parodies. I predict, however, that someday the need for a second-person plural will be felt in the land, and instead of returning to the old ways, we will embrace this new phrase, and it will become free from negative association and find its proper place in the everyday use of Americans and English-speakers everywhere.

Also, I think "they" and "them" will become the gender-neutral pronoun everyone seems so desperately to be looking for, not werf.

Pet Peeve

2008-07-21T08:03:00.004-06:00

Come here, my pretty. Yes, you have such soft, silky fur. You're a pretty little thing, aren't you? I would never give you up, my pet, even though I secretly loathe you. You come up to the desk and you lean over so far I can smell your halitosis, and then you put your elbows on the desk and hunker down like you're planning on changing residence. I know, my pet, that you probably have no idea what damage you're causing, but really, pretty, why is it so hard to read my body language? Why is it that you read my stiffened posture, my quick step back and my consternated expression as an invitation to lean forward even farther? I promise my wrinkled nose doesn't mean I like being able to tell what you had for breakfast this morning. Please, precious, I'll never give you up, but if you ran away, well, that would really make my day.

Idiot or Genius?

2008-07-05T09:20:00.000-06:00

As a follow-up to an eariler post, where I implied that people seem to think I hold the key to the knowledge of the universe in my hot little librarian hand, let me introduce you to the other end of the spectrum: people who think I'm an idiot with some kind of brain damage. Also, polio.

This type of patron is exemplified by the guy who came to the desk a few weeks ago, wanting to pick up a book his wife had put on hold. Which means I will need to digress into yet another dichotomy among the fine people who visit this desk: people who have actually been in a library at some point in their lives, and people who pronounce it "liberry." It is painfully easy to tell who knows the basic system all libraries have in common, such as: "checking out books," "checking in books," "overdue books have fines," and "you can't check out a book if we still have a search warrant out for the last one you checked out." There are some things that never change no matter what library you're at, and one of them brings me back full circle to the guy trying to pick up his wife's book: you do not have access to anyone's account but your own. No library ANYWHERE allows ANYONE to have ANY kind of access to another person's account except in rare, individual cases, such as, police with a warrant, or a really angry mother. (I jest, of course, for the sake of hyperbole. Not even the police can look at your records.) (I further jest. In all seriousness, not even we, the librarians, are allowed to look at your account. Which is why self-checkout machines will someday rule the world.) (Ha! No they won't...)

In any case, it was painfully obvious that this guy simply did not get the whole privacy policy thing. Not even spouses can have access to their partner's account, and there are some very good reasons for this, but all people can think about is their situation and the inconvenience it causes them. This privacy policy (which, again, for the sake of clarity, is in force at EVERY SINGLE FREAKING LIBRARY IN AMERICA) has kept pregnant wives safe from abusive husbands, pregnant teenagers safe from abusive fathers, and pregnant... cats? Safe from abusive... owners? And the National Pipe Bomb Society safe from the abusive U.S. government. (The... pregnant NPBS?)

So, anyway, back to this guy who is getting increasingly frustrated (and frustrating). He was first helped by a clerk, who told him that he couldn't pick up his wife's book. He then demanded to talk to someone else (which turned out to be me). I calmly explained to him the policy, and when I was done, he gave me a look of condescending arrogance and said in a tone usually reserved for savants and mentally ill children, "Why don't you go get your supervisor?"

I'll tell you why I'm not going to go get my supervisor, Mr. Poopyhead- and I'll use small words so you'll be sure to understand:

1. She is a busy woman who does not have time for the likes of you.

2. She will tell you the EXACT SAME THING that I just told you, and she won't do it as nicely.

3. You're rude, and you've just insulted my intelligence AND my ability to do my job, thereby making it as difficult as it possibly could be for me to work up any motivation to do as you ask.

4. By calling you Mr. Poopyhead I have reverted back to my three-year-old state of mind and am no longer coherent enough to even talk to you, much less my supervisor.

But, of course I can say and do none of this. I must get my supervisor, who is in a meeting with her boss, and tell her I wasn't good enough at screening the idiots and she has to come deal this one personally. My poor supervisor (who is a sweet, sweet lady and who treats all her employees like they are her own children) then proceeds to tell this guy the EXACT SAME THING (see above) that I just finished telling him. He argues with her for a bit, and then demands to see a higher authority, who, since she had the bad fortune to be here at the time, is then brought to meet the idiot. I stick around to watch the show, because as straightforward as my supervisor can be, she still believes in being nice. Her boss, on the other hand, is positively acidic. She tells the guy off in wonderful fashion, giving me a guilty sense of vindication, and he then leaves, humiliated, hopefully having learned his lesson.

But probably not.

Do you ever...

2008-07-02T07:43:00.003-06:00

Do you ever meet people that you instantly dislike, for no discernible reason? I'm not talking burning hatred, just a vague unease at being around them. I know a person like that. I know several, actually, to my chagrin. I like to think I'm mature enough to at least recognize that the fault lies mostly with me. If I were really mature, I'd realize that the fault lies entirely with me, but, hey, one step at a time, right? This one's "defect" is: cheerfulness. That's right. The amount she gets on my nerves is directly proportionate to how moody I feel. The more down in the dumps I am, the more her cheerfulness annoys me. I am afraid of what might happen if I were ever to see her on one of those days better spent in bed, because I might just have to strangle her with my bare hands. I can't even feel vindicated because there's absolutely nothing about her to dislike. Nothing. Isn't that a little suspicious? Nothing out of place, nothing really bad happening to her. Except now that I think about it, some aspects of her life are far from perfect. But you know what? She doesn't let them get her down, that's what!! What right does anyone have to be that amazing? Why can't I be that cheerful all the time? Why can't I work up that superhero motivation and have the powers to back it up? Okay, I guess it's time for confession: I'm a little jealous. Probably more than a little, based on the above rant. In all seriousness, there are two kinds of overly cheerful people: the kind that make you feel cheerful just by being around them, and the kind that just make you feel vaguely guilty for not being a better person, but don't give you any of the energy or motivation to change that fact. I am of the sound opinion that people in the second category (to which the above person belongs) are actually motivation suckers. Like vampires, they steal the life force from those around them, but instead of blood, they suck the very will to live right out of you, and all you notice is a growing sense of depression and a smoldering resentment towards said vampire that seems to have no basis in fact.

Good Example

2008-06-25T08:27:00.002-06:00

I complain a lot, it's true. I do it in real life almost as much as I do it here on this blog, and so I feel like it's time I told a story with a happy ending.

There is a service we provide at the desk where I work called Course Reserve. A teacher gives us a book, or requests that a book we have be put on Reserve, and then students are able to check it out for two hours at a time, thus allowing one or two copies of a book do service for an entire class. We have about four secretaries who deal directly with Reserve issues, and in the interest of my avowed purpose to only tell a good story, I will only say this: I wouldn't take their job for the world. There is only so much stupidity and stubbornness I can take, and I reach my limit enough as it is with this job.

One day a professor came to the desk with the complaint that his students were unable to check out the Reserve book he had placed. I got a cold feeling in my gut as I imagined the fury he would then release on me. But instead, in atypical behavior for a professor, he simply asked me to walk him through the steps I would expect from a regular student trying to check out the book. Could it be? Someone trying to understand how the system works before demanding that we change it? He meekly followed my instructions, and it turned out that the trouble had been nothing more than miscommunication and a few unfortunate coincidences. He left, satisfied, and I rejoiced knowing that there was someone out there who didn't yell first and fail to ask questions later.

These moments are more rare than they should be, but perhaps not as rare as I sometimes think they are. I will try to post more good examples in the future.

Helping Those Who Help Themselves: Priceless

2008-06-24T08:46:00.000-06:00

So. Senior citizens and technology. It's an old subject, the butt of so many comic strip punchlines. I know there are mature citizens out there who do just fine with computers, and some who are even more techno-savvy than I am. And I don't have a problem with older folks who don't know how to use computers. It's not their fault. We've gone from horse-drawn carriage to space travel in about sixty years, which is shorter than the average American's lifetime. People are bound to get left behind, and it's admirable to see them trying to catch up. But please, please, for the love of Pete, whoever he is, make an effort. There is a huge difference between the oldsters who come up to the desk and ask for a short lesson in internet use so they don't have to come and bother me every time they have a question, and the ones who come and bother me every time they have a question. I have no problem giving a little off-the-cuff tutorial to someone who is not familiar with computers. I can't expect everyone to come to me with basic internet knowledge. What I do expect is a willingness to help yourself. Didn't most people who are currently between the ages of 60 and 80 either go through the Depression or WWII? Or were at least raised by people who did? I thought the attitude of that generation was that hard work was key, and that you should always be polite to everyone, even idiots? Because even I, a "lazy, ungrateful youth" know how to do that. I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm surprised by the number of old people who expect me to do everything for them, right now, don't even bother teaching me this silly computer stuff because when the commies finally bomb everyone we'll have to live off the land like our ancestors, and who will be laughing then, eh? It's kind of inexplicable.

Case in point: A week or so ago a lady who was of a certain age, but obviously did not yet have the beauty of the old (Proverbs 20:29) came up to the desk and demanded that I come help her. I hate walking over to people's computers, mostly because I'm lazy, but also because dealing with computers is not really my specialty, and it's not what I get paid for, so I usually end up clicking on a few things, and then going and getting someone else's help. But there was no one else to ask at the time, so I went with her. Apparently someone else had been helping her earlier, a young man with considerably more experience with computers than I have, who was now in his lunch break. The lady (I'll call her that for the sake of convenience) pointed to her computer, and with a dramatic flair that may have gotten results a. when she was about 30 years younger and b. with men, informed me that someone else's graph was on her paper and she wanted me to dispose of it, like asking me to dispose of a dead rat. I peered at her paper, and all I could see was the default settings for a custom graph in Microsoft Word. I use Word a lot, being an amateur writer and all, but I have never been called upon to insert a graph into anything, and therefore had no idea what I was doing. Nonetheless I gamely fiddled around a bit and got some results. I told the patron what I had discovered, and suggested that if she fiddled around for a bit she would be able to get it to do what she wanted.

"I don't have time to 'fiddle around'," she snapped. "This paper is due in two hours."

I, greatly taken aback, told her that I had reached the limit of my ability, and that someone more skilled with computers than I wouldn't be back for about an hour.

"I guess I'll wait, then," she said, and turned away from me. I was clearly dismissed. I went back to my desk, greatly wondering. It was nearing the end of the semester at the time, and so I knew tensions were high and projects were due, but the lady had indicated that the paper had to have a graph in it, no exceptions, and it seemed to me that she had known about the assignment for some time, since it was nearly completed. Wouldn't she, I mused, have had the foresight to try to learn how to insert a graph, a nonnegotiable aspect of the assignment, at some point a little earlier than two hours before the thing was due? It was clear from her attitude that she had expected to be able to waltz in and do this with only hours to spare. It was also clear that she had been working with Word for some time, and therefore should logically know how difficult and arbitrary it can be. Yet more clear was her distress at finding that I would not do everything for her, and instead expected her to figure things out for herself. Pressed for time though she was, she obviously had time to wait for someone to enable her laziness.

I was raised by Baby-Boomers, and this is not what I was taught to expect from my elders.

W.I.T.C.H.

2008-06-12T22:46:00.000-06:00

Respectable-looking, middle-aged asian man walks up to the desk, and the only thing he hands me is a W.I.T.C.H. graphic novel, targeted to girls ages 3-12 and very pink. I hold my breath, trying not to get freaked out, and then I see behind him.... a little girl, and the rest of his family.
Whew....

Genius or Idiot?

2008-06-06T18:18:00.000-06:00

Working at a desk that looks like a reference desk but isn't, has unique problems. For instance, people think I know everything, and become extremely upset, or just pathetically confused when I strip them of this illusion.

Example: I just helped a guy for a solid fifteen minutes with something he could have done much more easily on his own, with no more information to go on than, "I need to watch an opera." See? He has obviously come to this interaction with a preconceived set of notions in his head, a few of which are: I know, off-hand, all the operas in the world, and, more specifically, which ones this library has and where they are. He is also assuming that I know which kind of opera he needs. More likely, actually, is that he has no idea himself, and doesn't want to appear stupid. Therefore, I am put into a dilemma. If I ask, "Modern or traditional? English or foreign? New or old?" and he has no clue, I make him look stupid, and myself look smarter than I really am, since my knowledge of opera, while obviously more expansive than his, is nonetheless extremely limited. You might think that making myself look smarter would be advantageous to me, but nothing could be further from the truth. The smarter I look, the more people will try to use me as a crutch.

For instance, Opera Guy. At first things seemed to be going smoothly. He came to the desk, asked for our operas, and was at least apologetic when he couldn't clarify any further than that. I told him to do an advanced search, and, once I had explained what that is, he happily went off to use the computer. One minute later he was back, completely stumped.

My first mistake, though an unavoidable one: displaying knowledge about how to find things that is superior to the patron's abilities. They will, if they are polite, make a cursory attempt, but if they do not find what they are looking for in a reasonable amount of time (say, fifteen seconds) they will fall back on the assumption they automatically made about me, (i.e., that I have downloaded the library catalog into my head) and come ask me for help.

Oh, that I were an angel, and could shout with a voice like thunder, saying, "Make an effort, people! You're like the little kid with the OCD mom who does chores wrong on purpose so the mom will take over and the kid won't have to do anything. Well, guess what? I'm not OCD."

Actually, if I were an angel, I probably would download the catalog (and all the other knowledge in the universe) into my head, and then I really could answer their questions no problem. As it is, I am then forced to enable their laziness by going on the same website they have access to and using the same search engine to search for the same stupid thing, and coming up with the same stupid result: nothing. Because their question is stupid. Most of the time, if the question is an easy (read: intelligent) one, even the most simple of simpletons can find it. But not even I, super genius though I am, can find the exact opera you are looking for if even you don't know what the requirements for your assignment are.

At least have the decency to NOT come up to me five minutes into an opera by a guy named Giuseppe Verdi and complain that it's all in Italian. Please. Just don't do it. You're only making yourself look bad.

Phones

2008-06-03T11:09:00.000-06:00

It never fails to amuse when patrons (usually professors) give us a call, state their name and place of work, and then . . . pause. That pause says volumes about what the person thinks of themselves. What that pause tells me, basically, is that they think they are so well known that even I, a lowly clerk at the bottom of the feeding pool, ought to have heard of Professor Bigpomp Higginbottom of the Prestigious Primatology Department. An example may help to illustrate:

Me (answering the phone): This is Amy at Circulation, how may I help you?

Professor: Yes, Amy, this is Professor Awesome-sauce of the Obtuse Linguistics Department . . . (pregnant pause)

My expected reaction: Oh my gosh!!!! Professor Awesome-sauce! I am, like, your biggest fan! You've inspired me to become the next Noam Chomsky! I take all your classes and I think I want to have your babies!

My actual reaction: . . . Can I help you?

You see my problem. I can't deliver. It takes all my self control to keep from laughing at their poor, overblown egos. And they all have egos. The more obscure their department, the bigger it gets.
I am not beyond sympathy, however. One can hardly be surprised when a professor, probably lauded in his field for his brilliant dissertation on, let's say, the use of the comma in Milton's Paradise Lost, grows to expect that kind of admiration elsewhere. After all, we are an academic library. Why shouldn't a Circulation clerk, the representative of the library, the first line of defense, the answerer of questions, be expected to be up to date on the latest academic publications? I'll tell you why not! Because that doesn't make sense! We are not hired for our expertise in Academia. We are hired because we have what it takes to refrain from laughing at professors who think they are the morning and the evening star!
Or at least have what it takes to cover the receiver while we chuckle to ourselves.

Introduction

2008-06-03T10:17:00.003-06:00

I work at the Circulation Desk in the Harold B. Lee Library at Brigham Young University. Usually I am too busy to think deep thoughts, but sometimes there is a lull when there are no patrons and all the work is done... and I just think.

These are my thoughts.