Jeffery Overstreet’s fantasy Auralia’s Colors (which I swear I want to spell with a ‘u’ as in Colours–why?) has been nominated twice for Christy Awards this year. Be it either the First Novel and Visionary categories, Overstreet’s strong work likely win one of them. Bravo. I intend to review it here and have already submitted a positive review of it to Mallorn, the journal of the Tolkien Society in England. His next book, Cyndere’s Midnight, will be released this September.
Writing Out Indiana Jones
Writer James Rollins, whose real name is Jim Czajkowski, is going to be novelizing the latest Indiana Jones movie. “A lot of my books have been compared to Indiana Jones in the past and they just approached me,” he said. “It was a blast. I read the script almost a year ago and security was major issue. I wasn’t allowed to take it home.”
He says his first book was rejected 49 times. “I still am shocked that I am at this stage and one of the reasons that I still practice as a vet once a month is that when people realize I can’t write I have my old profession to fall back on!”
And advice for would-be writers? “There is that old adage to write every day to be successful. I also believe it is important to read every night. By writing every day and reading every night my writing got stronger and stronger.”
Ten Hot Coffeehouses
Rob Baedeker writes in Forbes Traveler:
This is what happened to the unsuspecting gentleman who tried to order an old-fashioned cup of joe at Café Grumpy. The barista enthusiastically explained the characteristics of the different single-cup options on the menu. In the space of a few minutes, the customer’s order transformed from “just a cup of coffee” to a custom-brewed, medium-bodied roast with mild acidity, a blueberry fragrance and lingering chocolate on the finish.
If that sounds like an experience you’d like, check out this list of interesting, possibly beautiful, and definitely aromatic coffee shops in America. If you just want a cup of the black bean no questions asked, go to a diner.
Don’t you think it would be helpful if all coffeehouses decided what menu item of frappu-nappi-mocha-lattes they will give the tired customer who just wants a cup of joe? Does everyone have to have an education before ordering?
Teaching Frost to Juveniles
Koontz on stories
Today is Sissel Kyrkjebø’s birthday.
And no, I didn’t send her a present. She didn’t send me anything last year, and I do have some pride.
I’m currently reading Dean Koontz’ Mr. Murder, which I’m finding even more excruciatingly suspenseful than his usual stuff. Koontz has adopted the wise policy in recent books of making his heroes blue-collar workers, a tactic that’s both fresh and realistic, and I salute it. In this older book, though, he falls back on the conventional author’s timesaver of making the main character a fellow author (saves research). But it gives him the opportunity to make some dramatically appropriate comments on the idea of Story Itself. Here the hero, Martin Stillwater, talks about it with his wife:
He said, “You and I were passing the time with novels, so were some other people, not just to escape but because… because, at its best, fiction is medicine.”
“Medicine?”
“Life is so d*mned disorderly, things just happen, and there doesn’t seem any point to so much of what we go through. Sometimes it seems the world’s a madhouse. Storytelling condenses life, gives it order. Stories have beginnings, middles, ends. And when a story’s over, it meant something, by God, maybe not something complex, maybe what it had to say was simple, even naïve, but there was meaning. And that gives us hope, it’s a medicine.”
Seven Basic Blog Posts
Alt Text: Video, a simple explanation of the meta-narrative behind, above, throughout, whatever, all blog posts. Lore Sjoberg explains. (I also enjoyed his highly intellectual analysis of The Incredible Hulk in this video called, “The Alternative Hulk.” What if Bruce Banner morphed into the Hulk when he had other emotions–not anger, but something else? “Don’t make me curious,” Bruce says. “You wouldn’t like me when I’m curious.”)
Shobhan Bantwal Fiction of India
Author Shobhan Bantwal has two books with stories of brides and mothers struggling against dreadful cultural opposition to women. Her next novel, The Forbidden Daughter, opens:
“Oh, Lord, I beg of you.
I fall at your feet time and again.
In my next incarnation, don’t give me a daughter;
Give me hell instead . . .”
Their Favorite Planet, Pluto
Demoted Pluto from planet to plutoid statis isn’t going smoothly. Jeanna Bryner of Space.com reports, “The fall from grace has teachers, parents and educational publishers struggling to keep up, while kids remain loyal to their favorite, the ninth planet.” She quotes a nine year old who still believes Pluto is a planet and talks about it with her friends. That’s who the know-it-all scientists who thought they could just kick Pluto out of the sky should have polled, nine year olds who have an emotional stake in that cold chunk of rock. Educators appear to be more flexible.
Good thinking
Something about this story pleases me greatly:
A nursing home in Germany built an exact replica of a bus stop in front of the facility. The only difference is that buses never stop there.
It’s a gentle, non-confrontational method for preventing Alzheimer’s patients from wandering off. Good thinking. Compassion. To a degree rarely seen in our day (or any other, probably).
(Hat tip: Evangelical Outpost.)
Stumps and Swedes
Well, that was a novel experience. I’m referring to the fact that we had a pleasant weekend. Sunny skies, warm (but not hot) temperatures, both days. Until it rained, both days. But the rain didn’t last long either day, and didn’t interfere (much).
On Saturday I took the (drill) bit in my teeth and went out and did the job I’d determined to do a couple weeks ago, and hadn’t been able to carry through because I’d been out of town two weekends. I’ve still got that tree stump in my yard, uglying up the neighborhood. I figured I could either get somebody to grind it out, or use the stump-rotting chemicals you can buy at hardware stores, which meant I had to buy a decent drill (I have my dad’s drill, which is older than I am, heavy, and packs a whopping 2 amps of power. I discovered it wasn’t up to the job) in order to drill foot-deep holes in which to introduce the deadly stuff. Money-wise it was a toss-up, but I figured if I bought the drill I’d come out of the deal with a new drill, almost as a free bonus.
Spending money, for me, at least at this point in my decline, is something not to be done without prayer and fasting. But a three-week delay seemed adequate.
Got a 6.5 amp Ridgid with variable speed and a cord (I don’t really believe in those newfangled cordless things) at Home Depot. I was able to drill my holes and pour the stuff in without doing myself serious injury. Next I wait four to six weeks for the stump to rot out. Or that’s the product’s claim.
So that was Saturday’s personal triumph.
Sunday was Svenskarnasdag (Swedish Day) at Minnehaha Park in Minneapolis. We set up an encampment and did three combat shows. I lost more than I won this time, but who cares?
It’s goes against many of my deepest held and most sacred personal beliefs to admit it, but I think the girls at Swedish Day are, all in all, prettier than the girls at Norwegian Day. However, they don’t elect a queen at Norway Day (I think). That accounts for it, I’m sure.
Also observed some very strange people, as one is wont to do in city parks. There was an elderly fellow who wore a sarong (no shirt) and a lei. He spoke to me a little, and I got the impression he was not entirely rational (what are the odds?). Also talked to a man, apparently younger than me, who actually used “Keepin’ it real” and “Right on” in conversation. I’m just dumbfounded at that.
On the other hand, people who wear tunics and carry swords probably aren’t in a position to be very critical of strange dress and behavior in public parks.