Guest Blogger: Marta Acosta and her Scary Things

BS Chick: Marta Acosta is the author of Happy Hour at Casa Dracula and a long-time contributor to the comments on this blog. She is still afraid of dolls.

Scary Things by Marta Acosta

When I was five, my parents gave me a lavish gift: a life-size doll with long brown hair and glittery blue glass eyes. I was not a girly-girl, so while I was impressed with this doll, I was not enamored of it. One cold winter night, when it was propped by the fireplace, my father told me that it was a witch and would come alive at night and “get” me. My dear father based his child-rearing techniques on lessons he had learned when he joined the Merchant Marines at 15 and later became a paratrooper. Perhaps these institutions were not the best source for information on raising a daughter.

He saw that I was afraid, so he told me to walk to the doll and touch it. You know, the old face your fears, jump out of the plane, land behind enemy lines, and attack approach to life. I refused, which annoyed him. He demanded that I touch the spooky doll, whose eyes seemed to stare at me. Fear beat obedience, and I began shrieking. That’s when my mother came in and restored order. In my father’s defense, he protected me against all actual dangers, but had no tolerance for fear of imaginary dangers.

I gave away the expensive doll at the first opportunity, but I can still remember how blandly malevolent and alive she looked in the flickering light of the fireplace.

By the time I was ten, my fear of things that go bump in the night was a source of great amusement to my brothers. They were horror movie fans, and when they came back from some new gorefest, they would follow me around the house and reciting the tales of terror in excruciating detail. I tried not to listen, but the images they described are still as vivid to me as if I’d seen the movies myself.

I was able to read mildly scary books and watch mildly scary television shows. But I kept all the lights on, checked the locks on the doors, and made sure that someone was around if things became too real. And the line between real and imaginary blurred late at night.

Why do some people enjoy entertainment that makes their hearts pound? The theory is that humans get an adrenaline rush from perceived danger and find the quick hormonal jolt pleasurable. Some of us, however, don’t leave the scary story in the book or on the movie screen. We look out of our windows and see a movement in the bushes. We wake in the night, hear an unidentifiable sound, and assume that it must have a supernatural origin, even when we are the most hardened of skeptics. We toss the sheets over our heads and hope that a headless demon, animated doll monster, or angry poltergeist doesn’t attack.

Little known fact: sheets can protect you against the depredations of supernatural monsters. There is some dispute whether low thread-count sheets work as well as high-thread count sheets.

Logic, reason, high-thread count sheets cannot convince us emotionally that there is no danger when we’ve just made the mistake of reading a really spooky novel. And I wonder if maybe the wiring in our noggins is different, and that is why the imagined danger is as unpleasantly frightening as actual danger.

I wonder, too, if bad wiring might explain why some of us take so much pleasure in reading, because the “reality” of the stories is heightened for us. Or maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better about being a pathetic scaredy cat.

Where do you draw the line between pleasurable fright and awful fear? Do you watch re-runs of “The X-Files,” but start tensing up at the first da-da, da-das of the “Jaws” theme? Do you devour Stephen King books, but refuse to go on extreme rides at the amusement park? And what happens when you take on more than you can bear? Do you have secret fears, like a terror of clowns, or rat-phobia? Inquiring minds want to know.

Guest Blog: Fear and the Other F-Word by Jackie Kessler

BS Chick: Remember when I said there would be guest bloggers? Behold, I did not lie! Bonus points as well since this one written by the lovely Jackie (her book is coming out really, really soon) Kessler on such topics as sex and death makes a perfect SB Day entry. Read on, if you dare, to learn about sex, drugs and succubi. Well, maybe not the drugs…

Jackie Kessler: Fear and the Other F-Word

Want to know the appeal of horror? Sex and death.

You know the scene: a group of horny teenagers pair off to Do the Deed…and then a homicidal maniac or supernatural entity (usually wearing a spiffy mask of some sort) Does Them In, one by one. In a variety of creative ways. In horror, sex equals death.

Talk about killing the afterglow.

Let’s face it: there’s something fascinating about the combination of kinkiness and killing. (Fiction, people. We’re talking fiction here. I am in no way advocating sex crimes, snuff films, or Pee Wee Herman getting his public jollies watching Nurse Nancy.)

Taken separately, murder and lust are über powerful. There’s a kind of catharsis that comes over us when we read about the serial killer stalking his victim—sort of a “thank God it’s that poor slob getting chopped into itsy pieces and not me” thing. And I don’t have to explain the release we get when we read a really (really, really, REALLY) good (hot, steamy, it’s romance I swear) sex scene. (Preferably one in which the hero looks like Matt Damon. Dipped in chocolate.) But like Amazon.com says, some things are “better together”—and in this case, kink and killing is the ultimate winning combination. Hey, a climax isn’t called a “little death” for nothing.

Sex and death, baby. Terror is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Fear is another word for foreplay.

We know this, deep inside. Forget about those bad boys Momma warned us about—give us dangerous men. Evil men. Better yet, evil that’s man-shaped. (Yum.) We do so love those paranormal romances. What turns us on as much as that mesmerizing monster, the lover that we know is going to fill us, thrill us…and maybe kill us? (Well, kill some other chick. And that’s cool, as long as we get to watch.) There are tons of sexy slayers out there on the shelves, creatures that seduce us with words and lips and teeth. Supernatural paramours in all their sizzling, otherworldly glory.

But you know, we gals don’t always have to be the ones that get wooed by the wicked. We can be pretty damn evil too. And we can enjoy every second of that seduction. Women’s Lib, fantasy-style.

Move over, male vampires. Here comes the Era of the Succubus.

I hear some of you saying, “Suck you what? Can you DO that?”

Okay, Demonology 101: according to legend, a succubus is a female demon that visits sleeping men and seduces them in their dreams, sucking out their life energy in the process. (Read: an explanation for wet dreams where yet again, it’s the woman’s fault. Insert Fall of Man Parable Here.)

In other words, a succubus is a powerful woman (cough, demon) who isn’t afraid to take what she wants. As many times as she wants it. And she won’t quit until she’s satisfied. Yeah, so chances are that means when she’s done, her lover sort of died. Shrug. Hazards of the job. The succubus is all about sex.

And death, of course. But this time, it’s the guys who get seduced, the guys who fall into bed with the wrong woman, the ultimate Femme Fatale who’s going to claim his soul.

Hey, the guys ain’t complaining. At least they’re going to die happy.

--

Jackie Kessler is the author of HELL’S BELLES (Kensington/Zebra Books, January 2, 2007), a humorous paranormal romance about a succubus who runs away from Hell, hides on Earth as an exotic dancer, and learns the hard way about true love. Sex, strippers, and demons—what’s not to like? Read the first chapter on Jackie’s website: Jackie Kessler - Paranormal Romance Author.

Rolling Stone Rolls Down Hill?

I had some marketing folks in my store yesterday; a bunch of forty something guys who were looking for information on what magazines attract teen to early twenty athletic males. They’re standing there, puzzled as all hell (one of them even mentioned that his daughter might know this better than he), when one of them reaches for the Rolling Stone. “Rolling Stone, of course,” he said. And they all nodded.

Rolling Stone. Of course…not.

See, I don’t know about the rest of the country, or even in other bookstores, but the majority of my Rolling Stone is sold to people in their thirties or above. Especially when they do retrospective covers like they did not too long ago with the Zepplin/Robert Plant cover. (Oddly enough, this was also one I sold a lot to teens, but only those who fell into the classic rock profile.) My store’s teens and twenty-somethings are much more likely to just flip through RS, until something (a compelling political article, etc) makes them buy it, but the days where we ran out of stock before the new issue arrived are long gone.

At the store we joke that one of my coworkers is going to create the “new” Rolling Stone: a magazine that does for her generations what RS did for its. There’s a general feeling that it doesn’t have the connection, the appeal, to the younger audience anymore (after that first blush, where the kids pick it up because their folks have talked it up so much). I don’t know if this is represented in their sales, or if this is regional, but the generation gap (and lack of generation saviness in this marketing department on this issue) was interesting.

Well, interesting to me, at least.

Can y’all think of anything where you’ve witnessed a generation gap like this? Either the marketing department somewhere failing to appeal to their target base by making assumptions based on out-moded data or where something has fallen out of favor from one group to the next? Are there items (books specifically if you can think of any) that bridge this gap, and if they do, why? Do they have some common themes?

Anonymous Accomplishments

Every once in a while being anonymous sucks. A coworker just did something that may have garnered her minor celebrity in a certain niche audience as well as result in sales for our store, and due to my anonymity I can’t be all, “So-in-so kicks ass and is great to work with. By the way, come by your X at our store.”

Well, that’s not true. I can tell y’all that So-in-so kicks ass. I just can’t reveal So-in-so’s name.

Here’s to So-in-so.

The downside of anonymity also means that when someone I’ve talked to via this blog walks into my store, I can’t reveal myself, which puts us in a rather unequal power relationship. I know who they are (after they’ve introduced themselves, of course. I don’t go around memorizing your author photos), but they don’t have a clue about me. To them I’m just another bookseller.

At first I didn’t think this would be an issue, but after a near miss or two where I walked in minutes after an author had left I began to worry. Don’t think about it, I’d tell myself, the world’s not that small and your store is kind of hard to find. They’ll never come in when you’re actually here.

This was a fluke.

Then an author walked in, went to his/her section but couldn’t find his/her book and introduced his/herself. Never say never, I’ve learned.

The topper was that the book was mis-shelved.

Kill. Me. Now.

(Maybe anonymity is a good thing.)

But back to So-in-so, who is my first step in book world domination. The master plan being to get all my coworkers pimped out into some book niche: YA reader writing YA reviews that garner publisher attention, History buff getting us in with the Academics (Why yes, you can order books in bulk. How many do you need for your seminar?), the Manga Gals continuing to work their Manga magic (I think they have world domination plans of their own), my Kids Czarina getting us in with all the local schools, etc. If we can get everyone maximizing their full potential we’ll be able to bring in more customers, which might mean we’ll survive being in the land of perpetual construction for the next three years.

Oh yeah, and we’ll be the best damn little chain store we can be.

Which hopefully will translate into the book being correctly shelved the next time an author I’ve conversed with anonymously walks through my door.

Gonna need a bigger gun: I frickin’ hate zombies

Zombies freak me out on a very basic level, scaring me more than any other horror character.

The Monster from Frankenstein? Misunderstood.

Dracula? Oddly compelling. Woman throughout history have been falling for serial killers and he must have been mesmerizing to get all those chicks.

Wolfman? Just waiting for someone with enough dog knowledge to scratch him behind the ear and rub his belly. Girl soothes savage beast.

The Mummy? Well, one could argue that he’s basically the walking dead anyway—only with handy linen wrapping—and therefore falls in the zombie category. And what a category it is! Crazed, unreasonable…rotting. Ew, and drooling. I hate drooling. And once you are turned into one of their kind you don’t gain the pale loveliness of being one of Dracula’s chosen or the ability to transform with the full moon. Nope, you begin to rot, mindlessly crave flesh and lose pieces of yourself here in there.

(But don’t worry; you didn’t really need those entrails.)

Yuck. And scary. There’s no reasoning with the brain dead.

Given that I feel this way, I probably shouldn’t have watched the remake of Dawn of the Dead the other night, but I was just flipping channels and I really feel that Sarah Polly should be in more stuff. I watched for only a few minutes a shot (every time there was a commercial break with the other show I was following), but I saw enough to remind me that a.) zombies are still the most scary monster type out there, and b.) they move a lot faster than I thought they did.

Which got me puzzling out zombie biology, which then gave me nightmares because, dude, if they are unstoppable and caused by a virus that spreads rapidly then what the hell is that noise outside my window at three am in the morning?

I’m too young to be a flesh eating monster. My coloring is much better suited to vampirism.

Where’s Dracula when you need him?

Maybe if I read the Undead and Philosophy: Chicken Soup for the Soulless, I would be able to overcome my fear of the zombie hoard. Or at least, if I read Max Brook’s The Zombie Survival Guide I would know how to fight them off. First I would need a contingency plan though. Good thing Kelly Link has a short story all about that in Magic for Beginners. A friend of mine was so taken with the story that she had us all come up with what we thought the perfect place would be to hide out in during a zombie epidemic. A 7/11 in a dangerous area (for the bullet proof glass and the food)? Maybe something larger like a grocery store? How do you protect all the entrances and windows?

These are important things to think about. The Boss, when asked, came up with an excellent suggestion, which I would share with you, but…well…I wouldn’t want to have to fight you for it should this whole zombie thing actually happen.

It’s not that I don’t like you guys and all, but if word got out on the net we might not get in.

Maybe if I read David Wellington’s Monster Island I would come to terms with my zombie fear. If I, like Gary, retained my ability to think and could actually command a zombie army? That could be cool. The power would, of course, go to my head and I would probably commit horrible acts against the still living but, hey, gotta feed the zombie army. Don’t want the troops to get restless.

Of course, the question is whether I read Monster Island or Monster Nation first (as it was technically a prequel although it came out second) since it deals with the human side as the outbreak began.

Maybe I should just read Max Brook’s World War Z: the Oral History of the Zombie War to learn how it all went down in the end, and see who let it happen. First hand accounts of the Crisis as told to the author? What better way to find out exactly what I should be scared of! Once I face the fear I can move on, right? Accept the things I cannot change, etc, etc.

Then I’ll just have to worry about the robots.

Thank goodness they have a book for everything.

So what scares you?

Playtime

It’s one of those beautiful fall days where the sky is so bright blue that it hurts your eyes to stare too long, and it’s just cold enough that you can drink hot cider but not wear a jacket. The last weekend like this before rain resumes, the weather man claims, but sometimes the valley can surprise you, so who knows. I’m sitting on the couch letting my food baby digest and my stomach return to a semi-normal state, waiting on friends to call. Whether we’ll go for a walk, swing in the park, or kick leaves, I don’t know, but the weather and food have me all quiet and introspective. I’m in no hurry. The weather isn’t going anywhere for a few hours at least. I can just sit here and think, remember what it was like when I was a kid.

Right now, in the town I grew up in, I can tell you that someone (several someones really) is burning. The smoke of leaves and stumps and paper scraps is overpowering the smell from the dairies and drifting fog-like through the corn mazes. Somewhere there is a pumpkin farm full of kids searching for the perfect would-be jack o’lantern, and someone is discovering (perhaps for the first time) that carved zucchinis make excellent ghosts.

I know that I read a lot as a kid. I know because I’ve gone through the boxes of books and remember the stacks in my old bedroom. I know because stepping out of the late fall sun and into the dark confines of the library or bookstore (with the manager I would later work for) is clear in my mind. The joy I found in aging and progressing from one reading level to the next, being able to reach higher shelves, and ducking around the movable ladders is all there, but the books themselves? Shadowy, undefined.

I know that I read The Hobbit in third grade. I know that I blew through all Madeline L’Engle’s books, as well as all the Nancy Drew. I remember being chilled by the spooky happenings in Christopher Pike’s books long after they were over.

I remember being absolutely addicted to the Young Indiana Jones chronicles as well as anything starring some young pioneer child as the protagonist.

I don’t remember the plots—couldn’t tell you the characters’ names if you put a gun to my head—but the results? Those I remember.

We built forts in JB’s back acreage with lumber scrap for walls and used vine maple leaves pinned up with blackberry thorns to decorate after JB read Robinson Caruso. After some story or another about a Native American tribe, we refashioned our fort and spend hours chipping away at obsidian with deer bones her father provided to create our own arrow heads. We were pioneer children. We were our own tribe. We took the world of the books and made it our own.

Using old sheets and the clothing line, we created tents. My backyard became a desert and we were explorers moving from oasis to oasis searching for buried treasure. The pits left from where my father dug up trees to ship became an obstacle course we had to transverse as the howls from the greyhound farm next to us spurred us on.

The Egyptian Game had us learning hieroglyphics, digging deep into the bags of costume jewelry and old clothes that my mom provided to dress ourselves like pharaohs and gods. We would pull the Time Life history books my mom bought from the shelves and study the profile style of the art so that we could transform the cardboard washer and dryer boxes into pyramids fit for our god-like presence.

We were invincible, capable of being anyone and doing anything, and each incarnation of our world, each character we played was the result of something gleaned from a book.

I may not remember the books. I may not remember the time I spent reading, wrapped up in a blanket or sitting in a swing. But the results: the times we ran through the trees screaming because the bad guys were after us, the times we went “hunting” to kill the “deer” so we could tan the hides and cure the meat for the long winter. These times all overlaid by the scent of someone’s wood pile burning and the crunch of leaves.

That’s what I remember on these fall days where the sun hurts my eyes, but I just have to go outside and walk or run or laugh with a friend while sipping cider. In my mind that pioneer girl, that adventurer, that Egyptian god that demanded that worlds be built in their honor is there whispering, “It’s time to go outside and play.”

The books will still be there when you get back.

More Ponderings on Reading

Let’s see. Blogger’s being a bitch (and was so yesterday, so I just gave up on the idea that I might actual respond in the comments before I went to work), so I’m going to respond in a post. If you are not interested in said response—perhaps even find them tedious and dull—please scroll down to past Robin’s name:

For all who asked, the book I was reading was The Queen Geek Social Club by Laura Preble (another in my YA reads), which has a very, very engaging narrator (hence all my questions about narrators and plot forgiveness this week). As it stands now, I felt that the ending was a bit rushed and I’m not sure I followed all of Shelby’s highs and lows, but overall the first person narration kicked ass and took names. I very much enjoyed it.

I’m now reading Francine Prose’s Reading Like a Writer, which is also incredibly fascinating and has me considering the evolution of my own close reading techniques (especially because I was so busy taking biology classes in college that I didn’t take a single Lit course). I’m now thinking of applying Prose’s close reading to Preble’s book and seeing what result I get.

As for the rest of you who commented:

Kendell, I looked up The Last Mortal Man and it looks really cool. I don’t tend to read a lot of SciFi, but I just might pick this one up. Please let me know if I should recommend it to customers.

Jackie, feel free to quote any and all odes to coffee from this blog. I probably won’t even remember it was mine.

Jules, I can always use more friends. Especially those who have blogs like yours, which reminds me, can I nominate books for the Cybils?

Trish, welcome to how my mind works. At one time, it was books before coffee. But then again, at one time I was a morning person. I wish I knew what happened.

Robin, I’m so glad that I ruined blue tooth technology for you as well. Think of it as an excuse to walk around with a big ol’ smile on your face.

For the rest of you:

Are you close readers? Do you need the tags telling us that someone is shouting, etc, or do you thrive on the showing (to the point that you worship at the alter of Raymond Carver)?

And, if you feel like digging a little deeper, what made you the reader you are?

I never took an English Lit class when I was in college. Later, when I was just taking classes to keep my brain occupied, I took a couple from the local university, something that could finally explain post-modernism and the different schools of theory. Before then, my only Lit classes were in Spanish, a painstaking process for me wherein I translated word for word trying to discover the true meaning of Lorca and others because I’ve never quite gotten my brain to kick over and just think in another language.

Well, that’s not true. I have, but it is usually when I’m drunk, just about to fall asleep or dreaming (I’ve had whole dreams in Spanish), that my brain relaxes enough that I don’t have to translate everything in my mind. My fault, I’m sure, for never going abroad for very long and forcing my brain into doing my bidding.

But even though I’d never taking the Lit classes that my friends—the English majors—did, I think I had a pretty good handle on the basic concept of New Criticism (the study of the words value by its placement on the page alone without weighing it with the aspects of the author’s life and back ground) due to all the plays I read during Theatre and one Spanish translation class I took.

In plays, you’re given the basic setting and the dialogue. The setting is open to interpretation (Shakespeare can be moved through time and space, each casting a new meaning to the words being spoken), so you only have the words to go on. What do the characters say about themselves in the dialogue? What do they say about others? What hints do they give you about their pasts that the writer does not specifically say?

Open to interpretation? Sure, but so’s anything you do or say since you have the weight of all your knowledge and background making itself known. It’s the reason we’ll all read a book differently.

The Spanish translation class made it clear that it is damn hard to translate humor and irony (so if you know anyone who can do it, go buy them a huge dinner). We would labor over the meaning of each word—to directly translate, or just translate the expression—fighting to capture the meaning without losing the author’s rhythm, meaning, and humor. After hours with our dictionaries, we’d come together and compare before the start of class. That’s a phrase meaning what? I didn’t know. Oh, you rearranged the words like that? That flows so much better.

Each word placement in each sentence was treated with the utmost importance.

And in the end we still didn’t get the irony, reading so closely that we missed the meaning of the piece.

So how about you? Do you read closely, or not at all? And if you do, what do you say to the naysayers that claim that anything non-literary would fall apart under close examination?

How much do you need to be told?

Moments of brilliance followed by the not so much…

You know how it is when you promise to meet a friend for breakfast, only the night before you started reading this book that was really good. Couldn’t put it down good. Didn’t notice the time passing good. And you stay up way too late finishing it because, man, there are just a few more pages until the end. Only there isn’t, and by the time you finish it’s late, you’re tired, and you kinda forget that you set your alarm early for that breakfast thing? So the next morning when your brain sorta kicks in around the fourth time you hit the snooze alarm, you realize you have to haul ass out of bed, take a quick hot shower, and then put on some serious war paint because you look like Death came and beat you about the face with his scythe last night for the hell of it. Only if you put on makeup it means that coffee waits until you get to the bakery.

Beautiful, life-giving coffee that owns your soul with its two lumps of sugar and dash of cream. The first drops of which coat your tongue in caffeination-y goodness and immediately erase the withdrawal headache that had tried to take over the minor function that your brain was capable of. And as you sit there, sipping the too hot beverage and trying for coherence in the conversation with said friend (but failing badly because you forgot to ask how a.) the blind date went and b.) to figure out if you can go to the ballet this weekend; all things she’d patiently asked you when you’d been slightly more aware) you realize that you had stupidly and rashly promised to write a blog entry about something.

Though god knows what.

If life were truly a “choose your own adventure” book told entirely in third person, I could flip ahead to page 64 (write the entry), read the chapter and then flip to page 92 (don’t write the entry) and read that outcome as well*. As I cannot, I figure I’ll just wing it and y’all get to deal with the incoherent ramblings (see page 1, or above).

I am one of those people who can forgive a book its flaws and plot holes for a dynamic character. Like many of you mentioned in your posts, if I read a character that has me engaged and flying through the pages, I may not even notice grammatical flaws or small plot holes. Large plot holes? Well, if they are big enough for me to fall into then I’ll be pulled out of the story, but if it’s a touch of deus ex machina (Word keeps wanting to chance machina to machine automatically. I think it has something against latin) meets coincidence in the grand scheme of this is some good shit then I’m good to go.

And I had a lot more to say on this subject (verging on coherence even and getting out of the land of repetition), but I just got a phone call. One that not only took up my remaining writing time, but allowed me to incorporate the comment “That’s so Mensa” and a Buddhist tale I learned from Zen Shorts.

My mornings tend to be a special kind of kookie even without a breakfast meeting dragging me out of bed before the prescribed time. Hmm, this may explain why those flashes of “brilliance” have become very occasional, verging on nonexistent.

*Page 64 totally would have told me that I was receiving a phone call though, and then I could have skipped ahead to 92 and more coffee.

If form follows function does connection follow content?

A while back someone (I believe it was Diane C. but for the life of me I cannot find the comment) said something along the lines of readers being willing to forgive flaws in an authors style or story if the connect with the character. Of course, I could be wrong in remembering this, but the idea has been playing around in my head for a month or three. Do we as readers forgive obvious errors (grammatical, plot, etc) if we can identify or like the characters we follow? Can we forgive an obvious deus ex machine moment by the author to move along the plot (something that goes against the nature of the characters as they’ve been set forth) because we like the style or the voice?

What is your breaking point as a reader of fiction (scifi, fantasy, romance, mystery)? And when (and why) do you decide you love something enough to recommend it to friends or keep it on your bookshelf?

I ask because I just finished a novel where I did not identify with the main character and therefore could not justify any of his/her actions. I realized that had I liked this person (or even disliked them immensely but found them intriguing none the less), I would have been able to make the leaps in logic that the author wanted me to as well as forgive some shoddy story telling.

So how about it y’all. What works (or doesn’t) for you when you read?

(I put a longer column up tomorrow, but I want to incorporate some of your feedback.)

Future Unclear

Could this be the future of the bookstores?

Read. Discuss.

(Thanks to POD-dy Mouth for the link.)

Where do you read?

The weather’s changed, gone cooler and so very dark early in the evening. Sometimes on Sunday mornings, I crawl out of bed, pull on thick socks and pajama pants, and wander out to my couch with my book. It’s a futon, more a second bed than a couch really, and after wrapping up in a thick blanket, it is the world’s best reading and napping spot. If the book is good I’ll read through the screaming of my tea kettle. I’ll read until the tea I make is cold in the cup and the sun stops fighting to get through my windows. I’ll read until there really is no point in putting on street clothes after I turn that last page—Nope, I should just crawl back into bed.

And if the book is bad? Oh well, the futon really is the best napping place in the world. Rearrange a few pillows, curl down against the side, and perfection. Nap away until the church bells chime that it is time to find some breakfast.

If what I’m reading requires me to sit up and take notice, to closely examine the text or the page for clues to the author’s meaning or the character’s motivations then I sit in the big, green chair. Best garage sale find ever, that chair is; plush and so large it tries to swallow me whole. Wide enough to let me sit cross legged or sideways with my legs draped over the arm. I’ve highlighted many a text in that chair, tried to memorize facts and figures or just understand the classics. Never with the correct posture, of course, but I think that is more my fault than the chair’s.

And if I should need a break from my facts, figures, or classical texts? The bookshelf behind my chair is filled: knitting supplies to Christopher Moore to Elizabeth George to the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I just have to reach back and some book will take me away.

I’ve been known to read in the car—passenger or back seat, obviously—but the motion of the vehicle always makes me sleepy. I’m much too likely to nod off in the middle of a paragraph and awaken to find that I don’t remember what I’d last read.

I do read on the train, in the mornings, but the commute (if you can even call it that) is short and people watching can be fun. Any reading seems to occur in snippets and paragraphs, interspersed with me covertly trying to find out what everyone else is reading (and whether or not I’ve sold it to them), listening to the odd bits of conversation from those around me, and looking for the man who always rides with his cat perched upon his shoulder. I never get lost in a book on the train, but then again, I never have time, but maybe that’s the point. If the book is good enough those snippets will stick with me until I make my way back to my apartment to fall onto the couch or drape across the chair. It will keep me from detouring to a local pub for a snack and a beer or calling a friend.

If the book is good enough I’ll want to find a nice, soft place to return to its world as quickly as possible.

How about you? Where do you read?

Link It To Me

No, not more links in the sidebar. I have more, but I’ve slowed in the initial rush of linking everything out of my Explorer favorites (which happened about the time I was trying to figure out how to categorize the link to my local gym). Let me assure you that massive linkage going on in the sidebar was not the result of crazy caffeine intake or slipping my meds, but several hours of enforced wait time while I waited for friends to either get hungry, wake up, or get their acts together. It was fix the link index, pop in a movie, or play Trogdor, and since I had no ongoing customer rage I did not feel the need to stomp villagers.

The links below, however, are the result of that blessed first cup of coffee in the morning (Arabian Mocha something or other—a gift from Barista Chick), and filled with web-based goodness. Enjoy, and remember that guest columns for Halloween are welcome at any time! If you’re still interested, that is…

Now this is a book trailer that even Bob Dylan would approve of. Go, Daniel Handler, er, I mean, Mr. Snicket. (Thanks, Publishing Insider)

Speaking of book trailers (of which I always am because they fascinate me so), the Book Standard and created a blog on just such a subject know as The Book Trailerpark. Oh, how it fills my little white trash heart with glee. (Chekhov’s Mistress knows the dirtiest things.)

And if you’re tired of all things book trailerish, then how about a play/performance art? That’s what Shira Nayman is doing for one of her short stories “A House on Kronenstrasse” to celebrate the release of her collection Awake in the Dark.

Colleen Mondor of Bookslut (in training) kicks off some Halloween-y goodness with her column “October Country.” Check it out for some great reads for all ages and some excellent reviews. How happy am I that there is a new issue of Bookslut up? There aren’t enough verys to describe.

Via Bookninja (who may have the coolest name ever after Bookshelves of Doom), I found this link to “Julia Golding's top 10 characters from children's historical fiction.” The characters are broken out by period through WWII, and apparently Hobbits either don’t rate or can’t be categorized as they are fantasy not historical. Tolkien rolls in his grave, while Rowling realizes she falls under the heading of young upstart.

Booksquare has broken my heart by linking to this story in the Standard. Apparently you publishing types aren’t lurking out there, just waiting to offer me millions thousands dollars (oh hell) pennies for my blog. *sob* However will I pay for little Timmy’s operation now?

Webcasts, webcasts and more webcasts! See everyone from Bryan Collier to Andrew Clements to Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, and put off working for an entire day. It’s highly overrated anyway (work, that is).

P.S. Now I feel all weird mentioning this because the Smart Bitches were mentioned in the NY Times and interviewed for the Washington Post, but I got a mention in the RT Book Club in the Chick Lit article. Anyone who has never emailed me, but wanted a legit name to go with the superhero persona (one name, and not my first one) might want to check it out.

The Madness Continues!

Yes, that’s right. There are even more links!

Links to other sites.
Links to favorites within this site.
Links to all the Book Sense 101 and “Doing My Homework” postings!

It’s not all there yet; I’ll continue to add new things as I find them, but at this time the link index in the side bar is officially longer than the posts on this page. I think I went a little crazy.

Scratch that, I know that I went a little crazy, but it helped me get organized. I now have a direct link to the website column (the original, not the slimmed down one I’ve been working on for months), the Challengers List (so I can finally finish those recommends), and other things that I need to work on/finish. Not having to search for them is going to make me feel better and allow me to avoid Blogger’s faulty search system (I had to scroll through the last year to find all the “Doing My Homework” columns.

I’m hoping with this new and improved easy access, I won’t let these things get away from me as much and I’ll finally be able to follow through on some of the stuff we’ve talked about here. I still want to work with the Midlist authors (as well as give y’all your recommendations), and I would like to do some more interviews/guest posts with people of interest (author interviews and guest posters of the past can be found near the bottom of the index, witness the insanity). Wading through a year of posts (I didn’t bother delving into 2005, that’s a panic attack for another day), made me realize that I need to clean out my archives and stopping setting myself up for huge projects that I don’t necessarily have time for. So next time I open my big mouth and ask for suggestions, questions or dreams, remind me that while Bookseller Chick would make an awesome superhero name I do not have any superhero type powers to back it up. Be sure to add in that I’m allergic to spandex and would totally trip on my cape and choke myself, just in case I don’t see the lack of powers as an insurmountable barrier.

Also remind me that I’m rather attached to having a modicum of a social life, and friends that will drag my ass out of the house if I resist. Friends who do not find blogging for the enjoyment and education of others to be a valid excuse to sit on my couch.

So, to be clear, we have more links marked with asterisks; we have some links acting as stand ins for columns that I need to get off my ass and finish; and we have a bookseller that mined so many litblogs for links (yesterday and today) that they are a blur.

Thank you, blurry litblogs, you’re links were lovely. I just wish I could remember your names.

Special thanks to Little Willow for the use of her index, and anonymous for pointing out there was an extra period in Evil Editor’s address. I still need you guys to check any and all links you have time for and let me now if any are broken or wrong. I was doing a lot of cutting and pasting towards the end, so it is entirely possible that I’ve royally screwed up a bunch of these.

If you are one of the links in the sidebar and you feel you are mis-categorized, please let me know so that I can move you to the appropriate placement. If you run a review side and would like to be included in one of the review categories then please email me your site name, the name of the sub-category you wish to be in and a brief description of your review qualifications or conditions.

Also if you feel that I left out something from Columns of Note (or included something that didn’t deserve any love), feel free to let me know. I compiled the list as I scanned through the archives while half asleep, and I still haven’t touched 2005.

This work for you?

Yes? No? Maybe?

Whatever, man, I need a break. There’s a whole backlog of emails calling my name before I do anymore web stuff, but first I need a nap. Link compilation is a tiresome thing.

Putting the Books Back in this Blog (Sort of)

Remember when this blog was about books and I had all these idealistic plans to build a link reference section to end all link reference sections? And remember how you maybe, sort of believed me until you realized that I was a flake who moved on a time table similar to that experienced on Neptune?

Yeah, well, guess what, baby? We just made a revolution around the sun and it is time to get busy. Behold the new and improved link section to the right of this post. It is no where near finished, but it is now chock-full of new links, new headings, and even has space designated for things like all those “Doing My Homework” columns, Reader favorites, and when I make the random recommendation so you don’t have to wade through the backlog of all (almost) three hundred of my posts. Simply scan the sidebar and look for the asterisk to find out what new and wonderful (or old and “gee, why the hell wasn’t s/he/it here before”) things have taken up residence.

But wait, there’s more.

Should this rush of creative energy continue before we round the sun again, I would like to add more review sites to the sidebar, reorganize the “Book Workers in the Trenches” column (to pull out the editors and give them their heading a la the agents or not, that is the question), learn to dance the Lindy Hop, and even more writer and reader site links.

All this for the low price of nothing!

Here’s what I need from y’all:

• Use the links and make sure the work. Please report any broken or out of date ones (e.g. the site has moved on to another format)

• Let me know who I missed out on. I’m going to add a guest blogger designation (and some of those who guest blogged while I was on vacation have yet to make it on under the author or reader designation), but if there is some other kind of designation you want to see (like a link to all SB Day entries or a link to all the link entries) pipe up.

• What absolute must haves am I missing? I know, I know, it took me forever to put Maud Newton up there, but look she’s hanging with the Book Workers now. Who else defines/drives the reader/publisher/blogger scene that I’ve left out in my ignorance

So remember, order now and I’ll throw in a car air freshener that smells of old books for absolutely nothing. Operators are standing by.

I Outed Myself Yesterday

As a blogger that is. To the Boss.


Pearls Before Swine

We were just talking on some subject related to books, bookselling and our store, and I just blurted out something along the lines of, “I should probably tell you that I have a blog that has some readers, but it’s anonymous and not representative of the company in anyway.”

Only I may have mumbled/rushed it a little, and first reaction was just to stare.

Not exactly what I was looking for.

Turns out she thought I’d said something about reading a blog, and she was waiting for me to finish with how that related to our conversation. Also turns out that she’s worked with bloggers before. No big deal. Just don’t give away company secrets, and so forth.

Possible traumatic experience diverted.

She told me a little later that she expected this confession out of the blue to be followed with “And by the way, I got a movie deal so I’m quitting tomorrow,” which made me laugh since there’s nothing movie-worthy about this blog. Now if they wanted to set a TV show in my bookstore, I think we would do much better than Pam Anderson’s Stacked. Our only problem is that we don’t have any through plot. Hmmm. Maybe I should look and see what they do on the Office.

Anyway, the reasons for my impromptu confession were many:

1.) She could have very easily run across this site surfing the internet and recognized my “voice” (not to mention any and all actual incidents that took place in my store).

2.) Within the last couple of months I’ve had two authors that I’ve communicated with through this site walk into my store. One left moments before I arrived, and the other walked in while I was shelving, approached me, and asked for his/her book.

3.) I was afraid that soon one of my friends or family members would slip up and say something about the blog within her hearing. Already I’d had two of come in asking for specific books I’d highlighted, which—while great for the authors—manages to send my anxiety spiking.

Anxiety now? Fair to middlin’. I’m slightly freaked that the Boss may have gotten home last night and chosen to toodle around the site and archives. The fear due to content so much as the fact that I write these entries in the morning, often with only a cup of coffee or less in my system, and I’m prone to spelling errors, word switches and unfinished thoughts. I sometimes wonder how y’all suffer through it, but to have this represent me to the Boss makes my tummy a little sour.

It’s nice that I don’t have to hide it from her anymore though. Now I can ask her some of the questions y’all ask me and you’ll benefit from a hell of a lot more bookselling experience.

All two of you.

Wide Awake, Alert, Enthusiastic and as Forgetful as Ever

“Wide awake, alert, enthusiastic.” My old roommate—the Druggie—used to say this when she was trying to convince herself (or me) to wake up as we stumbled around in our living room. Sometimes it was said with heavy, heavy sarcasm; sometimes through a yawn; and sometimes with such perkiness that she endangered her life by merely being in the same room with me.

Today would be one of those life endangering days.

What’s said is that I used to be a morning person, but ever sense this addiction to coffee my early morning awareness and intelligence levels have fallen dramatically.

(As if y’all didn’t know Starbucks was “the Evil” before they raised their prices again on Monday.)

That said, let me preface this with the acknowledgment that I might have asked this before (and boy do I hate repeating myself), but:

When you are reading, do you ever find characters that mirror some of your friends and enemies in real life?

Sure I know that “no character in this story is based on a real life person” blah di blah di blah, but I’ve found myself irrationally loving and hating certain characters just because they remind me of friends, family members or those I would rather not be bothered with. Sometimes it’s their physical characteristics, and sometimes it’s their attitude. I know that I’ve been able to identify with characters many others found uncompromising or those who others claim of TSTL moments because I’ve seen that “thought process/actual outcome” happen to someone I know.

Does this connection with real life work for you, strengthening your connection to the narrative? Or does it pull you out of the story because you can’t separate character from fact?

Please tell me I’m not the only one. That might be a greater offense than asking me if I’m wide awake, alert, enthusiastic.

*Yawn*

SB Day: Proof That Life Is Not A Romance Novel (A Day In the Life of a Bookseller)*

*What follows for this Smart Bitches Day might very well fall under the heading of “Too Much Information.” You have been warned.

In the grand spectrum of romances, the accidental meeting that leads to the romantic interlude is not uncommon. Nor is it strange for that meeting to take place after an embarrassing situation. In real life, however, we rarely want to stick around and meet the people we’ve embarrassed ourselves in front of, let alone strike up a romantic relationship with them.

Take what happened to me just the other day, a little something we’ll call the bra incident. I woke up late that morning and had to rush to get ready so that I could arrive in time for my opening shift. As I pulled out my work clothes I realized that all of my bras were drying downstairs in the laundry room. No problem, I thought, I’ll just put on my shirt, grab my bra, and put it on when I get to work. I was going to have to drive anyway so it wasn’t like I was going to be jiggling down the street as I jogged to the store.

Only the main streets I usually take were blocked by construction, and I was forced to go around. The route I ended up on may have one of the longest lights in the city and I realized after I sat through one—only advancing two spaces during the brief green—that I was going to have do something soon. My original plan to finish dressing didn’t take into account my need to get my caffeine addiction serviced by Starbucks, nor the fact that as soon as I get into the mall I freeze thanks to the A/C. I didn’t exactly want to wander into my local coffee shop with my “headlights” on. Of course, none this would matter if I couldn’t get to work early enough to get some coffee, and traffic was being a real bitch.

A quick scan revealed that the guy in the truck next to me was staring straight ahead and the driver in front of me wasn’t looking in their rearview mirror. Years of theatre, swim team and camp (not to mention the naturally female ability) had taught me how to change/pull clothes on without revealing any bare skin, and so it seemed only logical that I take care of my bra problem there.

Yes, obviously I was not awake yet, but I managed it. Looped the seatbelt around my knee, pulled my arms inside my shirt, wiggled there, jiggled here, a shrug and then I was done. Barely a strip of skin bared, and changing wouldn’t dig into my coffee time.

Yay, me.

It was only as I was resituating my seatbelt that I noticed the guy in the truck: thirties, clean cut, casual business dress, and the biggest grin on his face. His cheeks must have hurt later that day because, good god, that smile was wide. As I made eye contact he raised his hands and slowly began to clap.

I. Was. Mortified. Turned bright, tomato red. In a daze I pretended to bow and then turned to look straight ahead.

Thankfully the light chose that moment to change, and the traffic actually started moving. My “audience” was kind enough to let me cut in front of him so that I could make it into the parking garage, but the entire time I feared that he would (or had to) park there also. If he’d followed me into the garage I probably would have run. If he’d approached me, I probably would have maced him or expired on the spot.

But had this been a romance novel I would now have the number of some stunningly gorgeous man (because, of course, he would have been stunningly gorgeous, not to mention totally impressed by my ingenuity), and he’d be buying me dinner right now at some elegant restaurant. Instead I’ll be running out to the grocery store in a few minutes to snag the veges for stir fry. Had this been a romance novel I could guarantee that this guy didn’t go tell his whole office about the girl he saw performing a bra-Houdini trick in the front seat of her car instead of putting on mascara or liner like all the normal girls.

Life is not a romance novel, however, and I’m really hoping that he has a bad, bad memory for faces because I may die if he ever walks into my store and recognizes me.