I won’t lie; I was a teeny bit worried when I heard that John Green’s next novel was going to have a female narrator, mostly because he does the boy narrator so well, but also because the female narrator of his Zombiecorns novella didn’t sound like a girl to me. However, my fears have been allayed. Bravo, John Green!
Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault. But a hot boy...well.John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
Slightly Hapless Detective Inspector and His Much More On-The-Nose (And Put Upon) Sergeant
Please give me a slightly hapless detective inspector (paired with an on-the-nose sergeant would be great).
At the moment, I am utterly glutted on commercial YA fiction. I don’t want something high concept (and ultimately soulless), I don’t want some epic, steamy romance (I especially don’t want that), and I don’t want a first-person narrator. I have read so many of these in the past 8 months that I’m about to explode.
So right now, I want the antithesis of all that. I want something small in scope, British, adult, and delightful and charming. Right now I want a series with a slightly hapless detective inspector (with a moustache and a trenchcoat, and possibly a pipe) who goes around solving crimes with his much more on-the-nose (and put-upon) sergeant. I want it to possibly take place in the 1970s, and for there to be lots of sly and arch commentary on the class system. Perhaps said slightly hapless detective inspector has a very sharp and intelligent female secretary who has a thing for the sergeant, who returns her affections but while he’s a bloodhound on the job, he’s a daft dog when it comes to women and totally clueless.
Any suggestions?
We are the sons of Adam. It is in our nature to turn and face the faceless, to name the nameless thing. It drives us to greatness; it brings us to ruin.Rick Yancey, The Isle of Blood
I am in love with Dr. Pellinore Warthrop. You know, just saying. I love his crazy, romantic, failed poet, weird, anti-social, socially awkward self. You guys, the level of my fictional crush knows no bounds.
Resist the Urge to Be Pretty
I am slowly but surely making my way back to fiction, after a somewhat self-imposed absence from reading. I’ve been indulging myself with a glut of nonfiction in order to escape what I was beginning to see as a surfeit of tropes in fiction. It’s a bit like being unable to see the forest for the trees; I couldn’t find the merit in what I was reading because every little thing was tripping my WTF WHY wire. It’s always a bad thing when you open up a manuscript or a book and go:
I am finding my faith in books again, thankfully, mostly because I was rediscovering my love of adult literary fiction. I’m usually of two minds when it comes to adult literary fiction: oh god, not another 20-something white male writer masturbating all over the page (which is a corollary to the oh god, not another 40-something white male writer who tries to escape his midlife crisis by having an affair with a younger, generally “exotic” woman who opens his eyes to the magic of the world) and this book breaks my heart and speaks to my soul. The line which divides the two reactions is honed finer than the sharpest razor.
More Waiting
I swear, Pottermore is just an extension of what I did for most of my life with regards to Harry Potter: wait for the next installment.
I’m Magical! At Last!
AT LAST! I always knew I was a witch. Now I’m just waiting for my Hogwarts letter (15 years too late, but hey, better late than never)…
When I’m 80 years old and sitting in my rocking chair, I’ll be reading Harry Potter. And my family will say to me, “After all this time?” And I will say, “Always.”Alan Rickman
Oh god. I think my heart just got ripped out of my chest.
Thursday night, come midnight, I shall be watching the last Harry Potter film with Psychic Roommate, my friend Jen, and White-Harp, and will possibly be flailing and sobbing like a mad Muppet. Remind me to bring a huge box of tissues to because I CANNOT COPE. FEELINGS. I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS.
In Defense of Horror
A stormy weekend at Bear's parents' shorehouse.
Holiday weekends are never long enough to do both what is pleasurable and what is necessary. After having a survived a rather hellish post-BEA month, I thought I deserved a little mental respite, so Bear and I went down to his parents’ shorehouse for a mini-break. It rained buckets the entire time we were there–practically a deluge–but in the end, it was rather nice lounging about watching Syfy’s Twilight Zone marathon with the lights off as thunderstorms rolled in over the bay.
Bear and I have this game called Spot The Goosebumps Original when it comes to Twilight Zone episodes. Growing up, I didn’t watch much Twilight Zone, but I did smuggle home a few Goosebumps books every now and again. My parents summarily banned these books from our house because they were 1) mass-produced and 2) ungodly. (I was raised Presbyterian and attended Catholic school, although my mother is Methodist and my father is a lapsed Mormon–more of an atheist, really. Still, the Devil was en vogue in Korean Bible School when I attended church.) As an adult, I discovered The Twilight Zone and subsequently discovered the best of my childhood “horror” novels ripped off famous Rod Serling plots.
The idea hovered and shimmered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass
Pottermore!
I sincerely thought I had left my obsessive fangirl tendencies behind me, but who are we kidding? I probably never will grow out of my obsessive fangirl tendencies, especially when it comes to the book series that defined my life. (Quite literally. I started reading about Harry’s adventures when I was 12. I’m almost 26 now.) As soon as the announcement went live, I signed up for Pottermore…on my iPhone…before I’d even left my bed this morning.
I suppose we truly are living in a digital age?
But honestly, the level of excitement I’m feeling is rather embarrassing, despite how underwhelming the idea of a pseudo-not-really-MMORPG is, not to mention, “Oh ebooks, ho hum.” However. Oh however! 18,000 WORDS OF NEW CONTENT. Booyeah, that’s what I’m talking about, baby! Woohoo!
Oh wait, I did find a GIF to illustrate what I’m feeling!
Here, have a dancing Ninth Doctor.
Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. :)
Show Me Some Love
