Trilogies

Well, better late than never, I thought that I should announce that my latest book, Wizard: Deceased is out in Kindle and paperback.  You can see it here: On Amazon.

I've also made a new cover for Swallowgate, and one I'm finally proud of.  I've made the cover for all of my books, using Creative Commons images and free fonts.  Although I'm neither an artist nor a graphic designer, I enjoy both.  Writing is far from my only artistic endeavor: I knit, cook, and paint with oils.  I can cross-stitch and sew as well, although I don't particularly enjoy it.  I can play oboe and flute well but also a bit of piano, clarinet, and a half a dozen other instruments.  I just seem to pick up new artistic endeavors, sometimes for only a small while, sometimes long term.

None, however, can compete with writing.

My first ever book that I remember writing was actually a trilogy.  Alas, I have now lost it.  I was six years old and did the illustration myself.  The title was a thing of both shame and beauty, its scatological references scandalous and avant-garde to my six-year-old self, who suggested the title as a daring joke and then was shocked when my mother approved it.  Once she had, wild horses could not have made me change it. 

The titles of the trilogy were as follows: The Poop Monster, the Poop Monster Returns, and the Poop Monster's Aunt.

(Even in those days, I wished to avoid cliché, and so made the relative an aunt rather than father or son.)

That was the first trilogy I ever wrote.  Currently, I'm writing my second.  It will be considerably longer, I won't do any illustrations, and it quite possibly will never once use the word "poop."  Despite these many flaws, I hope it might still engage readers as much as the Poop Monster Trilogy once engaged my mother, who helped with the spelling.

Ridiculous Word Counts

I was recently discussing middle grade books (approx. ages 10-13+) with some literary agents, and discovered to my astonishment that many of them won’t accept a book if it’s over 60,000 words because they consider it unsellable. 

How short! I thought.  Personally, I feel cheated when a book is that short.  But more than that, I was confused.  In my experience, children will happily read a book that is absolutely massive – the longer the better, sometimes, for bragging rights.  Children will devour books.  They’re not like adults, who never seem to have time for that sort of thing (and other silliness).  What has gone so wrong with the publishing industry that they think this?  Moreover, what are they basing it on?  It can’t possibly be experience, because that makes no sense. 

When I think of internationally bestselling fantasy for middle grade readers—books by either first time authors or previously not widely recognized authors—I think:

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone by J.K. Rowling: 77,000 words.

Skulduggery Pleasant by Derek Landy: 67,000 words
The Amulet of Samarkand by Jonathan Stroud: 122,000 words
Percy Jackson: the Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan: 87,000 words
The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien: 95,000 words*

 /*I know it was written decades ago, but it’s still on Amazon’s top 10 bestselling children’s fantasy books/

At the moment, under Amazon’s “Children’s Fantasy and Magic Books” the top ten bestselling books (that I could find the word counts to – so not the Frozen movie tie-in books) have the following word counts:

101,182
101,564
95,022
129,312
43,617
129,725
89,124
132,818
83,432
90,942

 I’d categorize a couple of these as young adult, but most were middle-grade (including some of the longest ones), and the 43,617 I’d call juvenile.

 So . . . why again do agents not want middle-grade fantasies above 60,000 words? 

Stanford Prison Experiment Alive and Well in Reality TV

About a week ago, I returned from a two-week vacation in New Zealand.  Whilst there, I watched an episode of MasterChef: New Zealand.  The next day, I saw an episode of MasterChef: USA.  I had never seen either before.  The difference between the two was stunning and so enormous that I actually plan to watch one again often and plan to avoid the other like the plague.  The reason why?  For the answer, we can look to the Stanford Prison Experiment.

There are plenty of books to read on the experiment, if you’re interested, and it’s part of every major psychology text book.  You can also read about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_prison_experiment

In short: twenty-four male students were chosen at random to take part in the experiment.  Half of them were assigned to be prison guards, half were prison inmates.  All were normal people.  The point of the experiment was to see how fully and quickly the participants adapted and changed to fit their roles.  From the wiki article:

 “The participants adapted to their roles well beyond Zimbardo's expectations, as the guards enforced authoritarian measures and ultimately subjected some of the prisoners to psychological torture.  Many of the prisoners passively accepted psychological abuse and, at the request of the guards, readily harassed other prisoners who attempted to prevent it.  The experiment even affected Zimbardo himself, who, in his role as the superintendent, permitted the abuse to continue.”

In many ways, people tend to act how they’re treated as if they act.  And nowhere, for me, was this more clear than watching the two episodes of MasterChef. 

MasterChef New Zealand: the judges treat the contestants firmly but with respect and as adults with worth and skill.  In return, the contestants respect the judges and treat them as an adult student in a university would treat an admired professor.  They treat their fellow contestants with respect and friendship. 

MasterChef USA: the judges act like abusive parents, constantly belittling and publically humiliating the contestants and otherwise psychologically torturing them for fun.  In return, the contestants act like abused children, crying and apologizing and groveling cringing for the slightest mistake.  The very few who don’t grovel enough are further abused by the judges and given further hurtles to overcome when not outright and unfairly pushed out of the competition.  These contestants regularly scorn and backstab their fellow contestants and are constantly nasty and abusive. 

Is this what television thinks American audiences want?  I can hardly express how deeply ashamed I am to have Kiwis and the rest of the world think of us like that.

Oh Shakespeare, I both like and loathe thee

I was for a long time someone who proclaimed to the skies that she didn't not like Shakespeare’s plays, but that is no longer the case.  I haven’t seen all of them, but I’ve seen enough of each sort (comedies, tragedies, and histories) to make a reasonable judgment on his writing in general.  Of the ones I remember well enough to judge:

 

Like:

Hamlet (Kenneth Branagh)

Richard II (The Hollow Crown)

Henry IV Part 1 (The Hollow Crown)

Henry IV Part 2 (The Hollow Crown)

 

Okay:

Much Ado About Nothing (Kenneth Branagh)

Twelfth Night (1996)

 

Disliked

The Tempest (I was in a school production)

 

Loathe:

The Merchant of Venice (Lawrence Olivier)

Othello (both the play and Verdi’s opera)

Romeo and Juliet (many different versions, including one I was in)

 

*Note: I’ve only seen Verdi’s opera of MacBeth, but I don’t remember it that well.  I’d like to see it.

 

That’s quite a variety.  For most authors, if I like their writing, I like all or nearly everything they wrote.  So what is it about Shakespeare that produces such a vast array of responses in me?  I really do like (although not adore) the plays I like, but I can hardly describe the depths of my loathing for the ones I loathe.  Are there any patterns to the ones I dislike?

 

Production

Well, I certainly tend to prefer versions I’ve seen that are fabulously well produced.  For example, the acting in the Hollow Crown series (which includes Richard II, Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, and Henry V, the last of which I haven’t yet seen but soon will) is exemplary.  It’s very well shot and directed.  The film makers use the film medium to its full advantage instead of simply shooting straight at whoever is talking.  The actors don’t simply stand and face the camera while soliloquizing; they use their bodies and the sets.  The cinematographer keeps his filming varied and interesting.  Even when some of his choices are a little strange (some close close-ups, for example, occasionally with a wide angle lens), they are purposeful, reasonable, and have the intended effect.  So yes, that’s important.  Also important to me is that they stay close to the source material and history.  They don’t fall into the fad that MacBeth has, wherein the Scottish play never takes place in Scotland.

 

Comedy

Even in the plays I like, there are invariably a couple of detestable characters who are meant to pass for comic relief.  I think that that’s part of my problem: there are few things more miserable to watch than something that’s supposed to be funny but isn’t.  What people view as funny is widely varied, of course.  I highly disliked the much adored Despicable Me for much that reason: I laughed maybe once through the entire film, and spent the rest of it thinking, “That isn’t funny.”  How miserable!  And yet none of my really loathed Shakespeare plays are comedies; all three are tragedies.  And of my favorites, all are either histories or tragedies; Shakespeare’s comedies fall right in the middle.  So although I dislike much of his comedy, it’s nowhere near offensive enough to make me loathe a play.

 

Characters and Plot

I think what it really comes down to are characters and the plots they drive.  Are the characters a) believable human beings who are neither heroes nor villains but simply people being people (such as in Richard II or Henry IV) or are they b) horrible, hypocritical, vile, venomous, vengeful selfish morons (such as The Merchant of Venice, Othello, and the Tempest) or are the c) simply too stupid to be believed (Romeo and Juliet, the Tempest, and Twelfth Night)?*

 

Food for Thought

Possibly the most interesting thing is . . . why am I ranting about this?  If I thought I hated Shakespeare (before last week, Hamlet would have been the *only* play on my like list), why do I keep watching his plays?  Why does it matter?  Usually if I don’t like an author, I simply avoid his work.  Of the above, I studied only Romeo and Juliet (about five times, alas, alas) and the Tempest in school—so why have I watched a dozen of his plays?

I’m not sure I’m Coloradan enough for this weather. . . .

I grew up in Montana.  Growing up in Montana, I figured that I could handle just about anything the weather could throw at me, as long as it wasn’t humid.  I’ve shoveled three feet of snow in sub-zero temperatures on Christmas morning.  I’ve baked under the August sun when it’s well over a hundred degrees.  I’ve endured rain and sleet and fog and mist and rain.  Later, when I moved to Texas, I endured scorching heat and endless humidity.  After that, in Scotland, I discovered that yes, it can rain every single day for weeks and weeks on end.

But none of that prepared me for Colorado.

Colorado isn’t wet like Scotland or hot and humid like Texas or a mix of extreme seasons like Montana.  Colorado is all of the above all at once.  (Except it’s never humid.)

Allow me to explain.  Where I live in Colorado, the elevation is about 6500 feet.  Aside from meaning that some recipes need to be altered when I cook, and that water boils at a lower temperature so I have to let the kettle scream for a bit before I make tea, this means that the sun is comparatively hotter here than elsewhere.  There is a very significant temperature difference between shade and sun, and when it’s above freezing even for only a day or two, all the snow will melt.

Montana is hot in the summer and cold in the winter.  In Colorado . . . last week, it was sixty degrees out.  The week below that, it was below zero.  Rinse and repeat.  Welcome to Colorado.  You’ll never get tired of the weather, because it never stays the same for more than a couple of days in a row.

Don’t get me wrong: I don’t hate the weather.  I view the weather in the same way as one views funny old so-and-so who lives down the street and never did anyone any harm, but is a bit odd.  Dear Coloradan weather: you are deeply bizarre, but I am fond of you anyway.

My little sister has a cat.

Growing up, we had a variety of pets in our family.  When I was very young, barely young enough to remember at all, we had two cats, both then elderly.  My parents never got another cat, because it turns out both my elder sister and my father are allergic to them.  The first real pet I remember us having was my elder sister’s iguana, Spice.  Then my parents announced to me that what I really wanted wasn’t a boa constrictor (to this day, part of me still wants one, whatever they say), but a dog.

I had never had a dog.  I knew nothing about dogs.  None of my friends had dogs.  I’d seen them run around the neighborhood, but that was it.

In any case, they got me Lucia from the pound: part Husky, part Golden Retriever, part Rottweiler.  Then my elder sister’s iguana was unhappy, so my parents gave Spice away and got her a German Shepherd/Australian Cattle-Dog: Holly.  Then my dog was given away and my father told me that what I really wanted was a purebred German Shepherd.

I disagreed strongly, but my parents got me the dog anyway: Jenny. I had her until the first year I went away to college, when she was six years old.  Cancer got her.

Throughout these last few years, my younger sister had a succession of five hamsters and then a guinea pig.  They lived in her room, so I was only vaguely aware of them.

Holly, by the way, lived to be fourteen.  She was an extremely intelligent dog and knew it.

Now, as an adult, I don’t have any pets at all.  I hope to again someday.  Maybe I’ll even get a boa constrictor (although I rather doubt it).

But the fact remains: my little sister has a cat.  He’s a Balinese mix and is currently curled up about five feet away from me.  My little sister and I are both staying at our parents’ house for a few days for Christmas, so I have every opportunity to observe this cat up close (the first cat with whom I’ve had this chance since I was about four).  In this time, I have come to the following conclusion:

He acts a lot like a dog.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, he does give me long superior cat stares . . . but so did Holly.

He curls up the way our dogs did, follows us around the same way, begs to be played with, long-sufferingly puts up with being picked up, loves to have his belly rubbed, sits and guards the door, and plays (gentle) tug-of-war. . . .  

This is not what I expected in a cat!  He hardly ever walks through walls, never sits normally on my lap (he likes to be held belly-up, for some reason), only purrs when he’s getting annoyed, and so on.

I think I’ll go pet him some more.

Holly

Christmas Mornings of Childhood

Happy Christmas, one and all.

When I was young, my elder sister and I (and sometimes my younger sister as well) would get up ridiculously early on Christmas morning: often three or four a.m.  We were permitted to go through our stockings as soon as we got up, but had to wait for our parents (and possibly until after breakfast was eaten and snow shoveled) before opening the presents under the tree.

This situation suited us just fine.  Our stockings always had something to interest us, yes, but there was a more compelling draw: the gentle colored lights of the Christmas tree against the silence and stillness of a cold winter’s morning far before the sun.

I hardly remember anything I got in my stocking.  A little money usually, I think: a quarter or, in later years, a dollar.  Perhaps some candy and a fun small trinket that would amuse me until the parents arose.  Another thing I do not remember is speaking much with my sisters.  If my memory is to be believed, we spent most of that very early morning sitting on the floor with our stockings and gazing at the Christmas tree or the fireplace—which, in my memory, is lit, improbable though that sounds.  Perhaps some lingering embers from the night before?

That, to me, is what Christmas is: those early hours of dark and peace and contentment.  Everything after that—arguments, discussions, opening presents, and the endless drive to see our relatives (made more endless by my habitual car sickness) were simply the necessary titbits one had to put up with for the good parts.