Crushed Easter Eggs and my Crushed Soul
I’m sitting alone in my friend Celia’s house eating a large amount of crushed Easter Eggs (Celia works as a food tester, and brings home peculiar leftovers).
Does anyone else ever wish they had a terminal illness, just so they had someplace better to be?
Note to self: In future, do not travel farther than Sydney unless it is for something genuinely enjoyable. You are no longer well enough to handle the stress and/or despair.
Publisher B still hasn’t responded to my gentle I-still-exist email of four weeks ago. Other than the zombie apocalypse theory, the most likely explanation is they are simply too lazy to actually reject my books. I didn’t think anyone in publishing (especially Australian publishing) was that evil, but I heard on Friday a story about exactly that real-life scenario, so now I know it can happen.
Awesome.
#194: Flee
Here I am again, perched beside the Tim Burton eyeball balloon*.
My first session today is cursed.
I wasn’t able to get the author’s book from the ACT public library (I tried twice). Then this morning, I missed my train.
Cue urge to kill.
Then it turned out to be in a different building – near an alleged river. **
Urge to kill growing stronger.
Then I asked directions twice, and ended up where I started.
Urge to kill becoming problematic.
Now I’m going home before a piano falls on my head.
By “home” I mean that blessed power point near the aforementioned eyeball balloon (see yesterday’s entry for a picture). I should still be able to make it to the session with Jaclyn Moriarty and Lili Wilkinson.
Hey! And guess what’s happening right now (around noon)? There’s a book I need to buy today. Not tomorrow – today. I spent my last $20 on a prepaid internet voucher in order to transfer the money for the book purchase into my account. While wandering around looking for Deborah Abela’s session, I found another power point and went to plug in my laptop (the battery lasts a maximum of 2 minutes these days). I was stopped by a guy with a dangling comm who called his supervisor, and then told me I wasn’t allowed to plug in. So I went “home”. Hello eyeball balloon.
And here’s the thing.
The internet voucher isn’t working. This has never happened before – never. It’s quite likely it’ll never happen again. It’s a one in a million chance.
Hah!
I’m utterly screwed***! Ta da!
Does the universe hate you, too? Tell us how the hatred shows for you – the comments are all yours. (Well, that’s assuming I survive the curse long enough to post this entry.)
*Is it a metaphor for something? Hard to say.
**I do believe that this river exists – somewhere between all the high-rise buildings here IN THE MIDDLE OF A MAJOR CITY. If I ever do actually see it, I’ll let y’all know.
***writing this entry in a word document to post later.****
****later (at 4pm, safely back at Celia’s place): still hate everyone. But here’s a picture I took on the way home to prove that there is at least SOME good in the world:
Aww.
And here’s your final rainforest picture from flickr.com (“Killer Robot Cat” begins tomorrow – anyone got any LEGAL TO USE evil robot pics for me to post? I’ll also accepts pics of your cat – post them to fellissimo at hotmail dot com and make sure you acknowledge the source):
PS A blog must be authentic, and I assure you my sarcasm is that. But how do you guys like it? Too miserable? Or do you like laughing at my pain? I know I do! The up side is that tomorrow is practically guaranteed to be better than today.
#183: Rainbow yay!
And here’s a Daily Awesomeness I prepared earlier, while driving along Kingsford Smith Drive in Canberra (it is truly awesome that these photos were taken five minutes away from the city centre).
And now, the main event: How’d my schmoozing go yesterday?
Now is as good a time as any to admit that I hate schmoozing. Hate it hate it hate it. I don’t even like watching other people schmooze. And I’m a little creeped out by being schmoozed at (although it’s infinitely preferable, yes). I find nothing sadder than a group of unpublished authors oohing and aahing as two or three published authors talk about where they get their ideas.*
The jealousy. . . . drives me MAAADDD!
*moving on*
Yesterday was great. The first session, “Author as Brand” was actually, genuinely relevant and useful (partly because promotion begins before you sell your books, ie now). The second session was as fun as an author talk can get (and believe me, I’ve seen the other end of the spectrum more than once). The third was a lot like the first, but with magazine editors instead of authors. During the day I saw two of my writer friends, which was nice, and shook hands with one of the “Going Down Swinging” editors who I’m sure to see again at the launch party on Thursday.
At the third event I sat next to a drunk businessman who’d attended every single launch in that particular room (one of the “free event” spaces) all day, in unrealised hopes of free wine. I don’t think there’s any more accurate symbol of book launches than that man.
Here’s a pretty picture of the outside of the building where I’m spending most of my time:
The main reason I’m in such good spirits (despite being surrounded by used tissues due to my physical body’s silent but effective protest at my travels) is that I spent literally hours yesterday sitting on the ACMI floor with my laptop plugged in, fielding a gentle snowfall of dust bunnies. I edited “Waking Dead Mountain” (which has just been rejected by the Publisher A editing competition – although I think I made the long list). Mmm. . . editing. I then spent this morning polishing the book one last time and sending it off with the following cover letter:
Dear [name removed to protect the guilty],
My name is Felicity, and I acquired your email address from [name removed to protect the guilty] at “Publishing: The Whole Shebang” at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival last Friday. Hopefully he can vouch for my personal hygiene and general ability to promote myself (I wore an ankle-length red velvet dress so he’d remember me). He had a mild case of getting mobbed so I didn’t ask whether you hate attachments. If you do, just let me know and I’ll snail mail the extract (or book) to you next week.
I’ve attached the synopsis and first three chapters of “Waking Dead Mountain”, a 30,000-word adventure fantasy book for ages nine and up. The story is about an empath girl who works with semi-reformed pirates to solve the emotional issues of an ice volcano with an unfortunate habit of killing people when it feels threatened. It’s fully written and polished (recomended by Driftwood assessors), and part of a trilogy. I’ve also cut and pasted the first 250 words below, so you can see for yourself that my writing is competent before you make the hefty commitment of opening the attachment and/or emailing me back.
When I was sixteen years old I entered the [book competition run by this publisher]. My manuscript was awarded third most publishable after the state winners, and I later sold it to the (then) Royal Blind Society for audio book production. That was twelve years ago, and I’ve made the most of the intervening years to write infinitely better books, and to sell dozens of stories to magazines and competitions including the Katharine Susannah Prichard Science Fiction/Fantasy Award, Sleepers Press, and the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild’s “Masques” anthology.
I wholeheartedly welcome editorial suggestions, and I come promotion-prepared with an online following of thousands.
Yours sincerely,
Louise Curtis
————————————————————
The building is also hosting the Tim Burton exhibition that you may have seen on TV. I did my writing in an alcove next to this little guy:
. . . and I understood when I passed this exhibit that I’d be divorced if I didn’t take a picture (it was used in two of the movies):
And here’s your penultimate rainforest pic from flickr.com:
*There is one sadder thing: The fact that the shiny and adored writers still aren’t actually making a living.
UPDATE A FEW HOURS LATER:
I just received an email from the publisher who just received the beginning of “Waking Dead Mountain”. Here it is, with my comments.
Dear [Louise]
Thanks for this, and glad to learn that [the guy from Friday’s schmoozing] is earning his crust outside of the office! We will log this submission into our system and give it the editorial attention we do all proposals [she’s gently telling me that shaking the guy’s hand isn’t QUITE enough for her to be misty-eyed with appreciation that I’d deign to send her my opus]. We aim to respond within three months and our track record isn’t too bad [lol! These guys take six months for the first three chapters, and six months for the full book – last time, the first chapters took nine months], so look forward to hearing from us by the end of November [probably February/March 2011].
Best wishes
[her name]
——————————————————————
From now on, my novel will have to talk for itself – which, fortunately, it does rather well.
#193: Pat a Lizard
I’m still in Melbourne, but today’s blog casts us back to an awesome event eight days ago, back at CSIRO’s Science Week.
I happened upon their reptile room (eerily decorated with life-size replicas of the animals, so that you look at a metre-long lizard inside a cage, then from the corner of your eye see one OUTSIDE THE CAGE ARRRGGG!!! Oh. . . it’s fake*). This lizard enclosusure allowed patting. . . very very cool. The one I’m patting here had just been lapping like a cat at its water bowl.
This one is just as scaly and lumpy as he looks. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he felt like an alligator-skin handbag.
Today in Melbourne I’ll be going to sessions on author as brand, comic writing, and a multi-magazine birthday party (including “Going Down Swinging” which has one of my tales this issue, “The Clockwork Children” which isn’t child-safe unless your child is seriously messed up). If you’re going to any of those session (the birthday party is free), I’m the tall one in the ankle-length skirt (that’s part of my brand) and red top. I’ll report back on what I learn and whether I find the particular publishers I’m hoping to oh-so-casually run into.
And today’s rainforest pic, from flickr.com:
*Or IS IT???**
**Not joking. It took me a while to be certain, particularly since one of the volunteers was holding a real live snake at the time.
#192: See the sun rise (and, the latest schmoozefest)
Yesterday I got up three and a half hours earlier than usual, after an unusually bad bout of insomnia.
Totally worth it, despite the too-much-excitement hangover headache I now have (and I do mean that literally – I didn’t partake of any alcohol, believe it or not).
CJ’s zombie twin* drove me to the airport, and I flew away as the sun rose.
This is what dawn looks like from above:
Yesterday was day one of the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, and by far my most epic day of schmoozing (at least, until the CYA Later conference on 4 September, on my way home via Brisbane). You may recall my recent epiphany that simply getting a few publisher email addresses drastically increases the odds of getting published. Thus, I went to “Publishing: The Whole Shebang” which featured Publishers A, C, I and K (what a smorgasboard of schmoozely delights!). I approached C and acquired the email of their children’s fiction department head (much yay; probably worth the trip). I introduced myself to the A representative, in the context of my existing dealings with that company (it turns out the three girls I’ve been talking to by email for the last four years are “around” this week, so that has some potential for re-igniting a sagging relationship). Unfortunately I didn’t get to talk to I or K, but at least I know their names and a little bit about them. I know exactly which books I’ll be sending to each one – and I’ll be keeping a sharp eye out for either of them for the rest of the festival. (Just hoping they haven’t gone home.)
I also made two new writing friends, ran into one of the friends from the July conference (and, in a shocking change of my usual habits, remembered her name), and talked to a couple of lovely ladies who organise this sort of amazing and useful thing. One of them asked, “Is that a wedding ring?”
I said, “Er, yes.”
They both laughed, and I was confused – reminded of the woman at the July con who asked when I was expecting.
“Um. . .” I said.
“You don’t look old enough to be married.”
Okay, THAT I can handle.
By the time my Melbourne friend** picked me up, I was stumbling-tired and slurring.
Worth it.
We ate fish and chips with plastic cutlery, and watched “How to Train Your Dragon”. I woke up in the morning remembering a conversation with some scottish guy with a giant red beard, and I wondered who he published for.
This picture is from flickr.com.
*Hottest. Zombie. Ever.
**I shall call her “Celia” in honour of Jaclyn Moriarty’s first book, “Feeling Sorry For Celia” (since I’ll be seeing the shiningly brilliant Jaclyn on Tuesday, and since my Celia deserves our pity for her self-invited guest).
“Peace Hostage” complete tale
The next story, “Killer Robot Cat”, begins September 1. Yay for springtime and naughty fluffy robots!
PEACE HOSTAGE
1
The boar was so close I could taste the stench of it. I pressed the butt of my spear into the rocky ground and shouted a challenge.
The bleeding pig squealed and charged right onto my spear. It hit the crossguard and broke it off. I held on, staring at my death.
Tem covered my body with his. He screamed as the pig gored him. I crawled away, pulling him with me. Dad cheered as the pig bled out.
2
Dad and I lay bloated with pork at the door of our hut. Dad said, “That boy, he’s too stupid for you. Getting gored like that.” I blushed.
Dad turned serious: “Truly, Sawi, it can’t be. Tem returns to his tribe next month, or those Yah will kill us – like they killed your Ma.”
“I know, Dad.” He laid his hand on mine: “If Tem doesn’t heal up and go home, your brother’s life is forfeit – and all our lives too.”
3
“Chief!” screamed my best friend, Iv. Dad stood. Iv wept: “Your son! The Yah have murdered their peace hostage. We are at war.”
Dad ordered Tem and I inside. We sat silently, holding hands. Tem kissed each of my fingers. I said, “My tribe must kill you now.” “I know.”
Tem said, “Everyone dies. My life switched with your brother’s life bought our tribes ten years of peace. That is enough for me. I am full.”
4
Dad stood guard while the village waited for him to decide the blooding hour, and who would make the kill. Tem and I didn’t leave the house.
“Sawi? Will it be your Dad who kills me?” “Don’t speak like-– why are you smiling?” He grabbed my hand and pulled me awkwardly, so I fell.
Tem kissed me, knocking our noses together. I gasped. “You fiend! My Dad’ll kill you—oh!” We dissolved into helpless giggles.
5
Dad saw me staring into our fire and said, “I will stop the blooding as long as I can.” I looked into his eyes, and bowed my head.
“Tem! Wake up!” He blinked at me. I said, “I’m going to go into Yah land – and save you.” He said, “Don’t get killed.” “Same to you.”
Tem said, “My Mum loves me. She’ll help you.” I held his hand, and kissed him carefully. We didn’t knock noses. I crept away into the night.
6
I found the ruined stream where my mother’s bones still lay, with many others from both tribes. The Yah bank was black with shadows.
No-one stabbed me as I crossed the naked grass. I stepped into the freezing water, dislodging old skulls so they rolled on down the river.
7
I dreamed of Tem’s death, and saw him burned until his bones turned black. My fresh water was half gone, and the thick air stifled me.
My foot ached and I found a bloody wound. I pulled out a piece of someone’s skull, wrapped my foot in banana leaves and walked on.
8
I hacked through a thorn bush and came face to face with a young boar. We stared at one another. I saw the rage redden its eyes.
The boar lowered its head and I slammed the handle of my knife onto its snout. It was young and fit – too young to be wily.
I slid through the trees, listening for the boar’s pursuit. It didn’t come. I knew I should return and bring it down, but I didn’t want to.
9
I ate my last food and wished I’d killed that stupid boar. Except I was the stupid one, because it definitely wouldn’t have had pity on me.
Iv always said the Yah drank their pee. She said they preferred it. I’d asked Tem, but he just looked at me funny. If only he’d answered.
I drank the last of my water, and decided not to drink urine. My Dad would never forgive me for behaving like a stinking Yah.
10
I woke up wet with sweat, and knew before I looked that my cut foot was red and swollen. Why couldn’t those stinking Yah live a bit closer?
11
Finally a coconut tree! Food and water all in one.
I tried to climb the tree and failed four times. My body was too weak. I lay back, looking up at the coconuts, and carefully drank my tears.
12
A face breathed into my face, smelling of mangoes. “Ehhh,” she said, and trickled water over my lips. I choked, and she held me up.
She bathed my swollen foot and gave me coconut porridge to eat. I lay helpless, and she sang lullabies. I knew she was Tem’s Mum.
“I will carry you to our village. You will be safe with me.” She slung me over her back and stepped through the undergrowth with sure feet.
13
Tem’s Mum Jil tended me all day and night. Her sister Res fried fish and sweet potato for me. Jil went to speak to the chief.
Res shuffled closer. “Tem is alive. We will go and save him.” “Thank you,” I whispered. She said, “But your father must die.” “No!”
Jil and Res argued for hours, and I slipped in and out of dreams.
14
Jil said, “My husband will see you now.” “What? No! Was it him that killed my brother? I can’t defend myself!” “Hush, child. Wait and see.”
A huge man entered the women’s house and knelt by my mat. “I am Hof,” he said, “and I cared for your brother. He was a mighty hunter.”
My throat closed with grief. Hof said, “Your brother was killed, but not by us. When you are strong, you will come and see.”
15
Hof served me food with his own hand, and no-one called for my blood. Many there showed the signs of mourning, but none showed signs of war.
I ate my fill, and slept until I was no longer tired. My foot was bathed in cold stream water and smeared with honey. It began to heal.
16
I told Jil that I needed to see my dead brother. She took me deep into the forest and dug carefully under a stripped tree. I held his hand.
We brushed off the dirt and lifted my brother onto the dead leaves. I recognised the shape of boar tusk wounds, so like Tem’s side.
“Tomorrow I will go home,” I said, “and tell my people what happened. Tem might still be alive, and I can stop the war before it begins.”
17
My eyes snapped open. Res knelt over me, knife in hand. I rolled and she missed me. She shrieked. “Filthy Bek!”
Jil grabbed for Res, but she missed. I snatched a gourd of water and ran outside. Three Yah waited for me with knives and clubs.
Hof burst from his hut bellowing with rage, and stood between me and them. I shoved Res and ran, but I heard Hof scream like a dying boar.
18
Two of the four angry Yah hunted me through the day and night and day. I climbed the trees and swung through the branches like a monkey.
One of the Yah urinated right beneath me. I watched to see if he drank it, but he didn’t. Too bad. It’s possible Iv was misinformed.
19
At last the Yah gave up the hunt for me, and I stumbled upon a grove of peanut and coconut trees beside a stream. I drank deeply and slept.
20
I washed my foot carefully and feasted on coconuts – and bananas. The fish in the stream winked at me until I caught one.
I slept again, and wondered if I should take my chance to stay far away from war – and live.
21
I dreamed of Tem again that night. He called to me in pain as the goring he’d taken for me festered and swelled like my ruined foot.
I began the long walk home.
22
I was no longer tired, but strong. The pain from my foot kept me from forgetting Tem’s face. I did not need food or rest – just him.
I did not need food or rest – but it’d sure be nice. Especially a good fat boar, spit-roasted with coconut wine to follow.
23
I heard something and stopped dead, my vision blurred with sudden tiredness and fear. A voice whispered, “Today you die.”
It was Res. She lifted her spear. “Men may hunt, but they can’t track prey like I can. You are dead, you stinking Bek fool.”
A young boar thundered out and trampled Res until she stopped screaming. It was the same boar. He nosed at her as she bled out. I crept off.
24
I followed the stream to the crossing point, and watched once more for watchmen with spears – from either side. But I crossed in peace.
The rainforest opened up and I walked a familiar path once more. I hurried, afraid of what I would find when I reached home.
My village lay sleeping. I crept into my father’s hut and saw Dad and Tem side by side, at peace. So I waited.
25
Tem woke up, and blinked sleepily at me. He reached out a hand and touched me. “But you’re real!” he said. I rolled my eyes.
We woke Dad, and I explained all I had learned. “Things have changed. Tem’s Dad was killed. Now Tem is chief.” Tem bowed his head.
Tem and Dad shook hands as one chief to another. They each said, “I will not fight you if I can help it.” I said, “I have an idea.”
26
Dad argued for me to be given the right of blooding, and it was accepted. Tem and I knew we had to fight hard – the trial must be true.
I hit Tem in the face and he fell back, kicking out at me so I fell too. He pushed my face in the dirt until I ran out of breath.
Dad gravely declared Tem the winner: “My daughter is at your mercy. What will you do?” “I will not kill her. I want her as my wife.”
27
The old women accepted Tem’s conquest, and gave me more outfits than I could ever wear. They hassled the men until everyone rejoiced.
Dad performed the wedding, trying not to look smug. Tem squeezed my hand. I looked where he looked and saw his Mum in the trees, smiling.
28
I left my Dad and my friends, and walked to my new home with Tem and Jil – each companion holding one of my hands. THE END
#191: Pick a top five
After reading like crazy for a month in preparation for the Melbourne Writers’ Festival and the CYA Later, Alligator conference in Brisbane, here are my top five picks (limited to (a) people I’m going to see, and (b) books available from the public library):
5. James Roy – Anonymity Jones
As a rule, I get very bored by books about high school/teenage life. This one hooked me by having style. I’m incapable of resisting a fabulous narrative voice. It also turned out to go farther than the norm, dealing with some scary/creepy older man issues.
Rating: M for the possibility of a much older man liking a teenage girl.
Recommended: Teens (especially girls) and up.
4. Prue Mason – Camel Rider and Destination Abudai.
Both of these books are set in or near the fictional city of Abudai, a town based on many oil-rich towns in the Middle East. I liked the high-adventure stories (Camel Rider is better), I liked the setting (it’s not fantasy, but the desert landscapes are wonderfully harsh and detailed), and I liked most of all that Mason really knows Middle Eastern Islam – the good, the bad, and the simply different.
Rating: PG for religion including polygamy (worth a discussion with kids), and mild violence.
Recommended age: 9 and up, including adults. I think teenagers are the best age for these books.
3. David Metzenthen – Jarvis 24
I told you I’m a sucker for narrative voice. Metzenthen may just be the king of the masculine voice (and yes, being a man is an advantage, but no-one writes boys this well). The whole time I read the book, I felt like I was a teenage boy. His thoughts (mostly about girls, and sport, and how to impress girls with sport) were my thoughts, his random conversations were completely involving (and hilarious), and the girl he fell for meant everything to me, too. Metzenthen also handles homosexuality honestly, via another character (it’s not really about homosexuality, it’s about other people’s reactions).
Rating: PG for homosexuality, mild violence, and the world’s most subtle sex scene (I’d consider it child-safe. That’s how subtle it is).
Recommended for: All straight people. All teenage boys. All teenage girls. And everyone else, too.
I buy about a book a year. I’m buying this one – mainly so that in 20 years, when I have teenagers, they can read it. Seriously.
Free sample: So Trav and I go to the movies, and although it’s a long way below our dignity, it is better than doing nothing at all.
“At least we’ll see chicks,” says Trav, as my dad drops us off, somewhat uncoolly, in a Disabled Parking Zone.
This is true, as going to the movies on a Saturday night obviously isn’t considered such a bad option by girls. In fact, the place is packed. Some of them are probably even here to see some of that subtitled arty-farty rubbish where grumpy French chicks shout non-stop, smoke topless in bed, or carry home their shopping through Paris in the dark, often in the rain.
PS I’ve also read the Aussie Bites story, The Really Really High Diving Tower by the same author, for younger kids. It was funny, and one of the best in the excellent Aussie Bites series. And it also had a fabulous masculine energy about it.
I may have mentioned I like boys.
2. Glenda Millard – A Small Free Kiss in the Dark
My heart broke on every page of this book. It was frightening (I absolutely believed that Canberra was getting bombed – although Canberra isn’t specifically named as the setting), and uplifting, and utterly vulnerable. The narrator is a runaway 12-year old boy living on the streets. And then the city is bombed, and it’s wartime. There’s also a war veteran (also homeless), a 15-year old ballerina, and a baby. Most importantly, there is kindness.
Rating: M for sex and violence and both (none of it is graphic, but because she’s a good writer, the bad stuff hurts)
Recommended for: Teens and up.
1. Chris Moore – The Stupidest Angel
This is simply one of the funniest and most eccentric books I’ve ever read. The thing that made it the very best, for me, was a B-movie actress trying not to slip into her delusion that she really is a warrior woman (particularly confusing since she has sword skills, and memories of slaying monsters). It is hilarious, but also (in my opinion) a realistic depiction of those times when you realise, “Oh, I really should be on medication right now. But I’m not. So how do I TRY to act sane?” It’s fantasy in the sense that impossible stuff happens (eg. an evil zombie Santa), but it’s set in the real world. The relationships are wonderfully described – for once, it’s about how to stay in love, and what that actually looks like. I told a friend how much I liked “this crazy, funny book” and when I said it was by Chris Moore, his eyes widened (literally) and he said, “Ah. Yes. He is a very strange man.”
Rating: M. Moore has written a warning himself, that includes, “zombies, tasteful depictions of cannibalism, and people in their forties having sex”. Having read the book, that warning says everything anyone needs to know. I read an edition that added a darker short story at the end – it had a serial killer, and more violence. Still funny, though.
Recommended for: Precocious teens, adults. People in their forties 🙂
I will definitely read more books by this hilarious nutcase. Unfortunately, he’s not actually at the conferences I’m going to – I ordered his book by mistake.
From flickr.com, here’s your pic of the day:
PS Today’s Friday, so normally I’d be posting the twitter tale so far. Since it ends tomorrow, I’ll hold off and post the complete tale then.
Three-Ingredient Thursday: Lunch
This is it: the end of ten weeks of three-ingredient Thursdays. I hope you enjoyed looking at food you weren’t eating, and perhaps making and eating it yourselves.
Today’s is a classic Australian school lunch that for some reason hasn’t crossed the Pacific. Maybe today’s the day.
Yep, it’s a peanut butter and honey sandwich. Aussie readers will be frowning at this, saying, “That’s not a recipe. That’s LUNCH.” American readers will be frowning at this, saying, “But where’s the jelly? Oh, those silly Australians don’t know how to make a sandwich.”
Perhaps we can all try one another’s sandwiches, and unite the world. Peanut butter and honey/jam/jelly (we antipodeans call “jelly” jam – our “jelly” is American “jello”) is delicious, believe me.
If, gentle reader, you have a new sandwich-related cultural experience this week, do come back and tell us all about it.
Tomorrow: My pick of the top five novels that I’ve read in preparation for the mighty writing conferences of August/September. There will be zombies, first love, an evil Santa, a gay best friend, war, and Anonymity Jones.
In other news, “Peace Hostage” ends this Saturday – but I’ll continue posting rainforest pics until the end of the month. On September 1, the new story, “Killer Robot Cat” begins. Personally, I can’t wait.
In the meantime, here’s your rainforest pic for today:
Photos courtesy of www.amazonwatch.org, Thomas Marent, impactlab.com, wikipedia, and Sipa Press/Rex Features
Original Source: Rainforest facts, The Guardian, and cn.dk.com
#188: Edumacation
Last Saturday I went to CSIRO (Canberra’s rather impressive science centre – they invented wireless technology, and a whole lot of other stuff) for Science Week. They have the world’s most awesomest foyer, with live plants and trees, a bridge to walk in on, and GIANT BUGS. Plus, if I’m not mistaken, that’s Joseph Banks walking down the stairs (appropriately, I didn’t notice him when I took the photo – since he is, after all, dead).
During Science Week, one of the many free things on offer was a day of science lectures designed specifically for writers – with ten actual scientists who then answered our specific questions (such as, “So it’s pretty easy for one identical twin to frame the other using DNA, right?”*)
I learnt quite a bit, including the rather disturbing info that indentikit methods of facial reconstruction are not only inaccurate, but they actually impair memory (because we remember faces holistically, so ANY method other than holding the whole image in our heads – including writing down a description – makes the memory disintegrate).
I also found out that DNA scientists bought whale meat in a Japanese market and tested the DNA. Unsurprisingly, they discovered that:
1) Some of the whale meat was from species that are not used for scientific testing.
2) Some of the whale meat was not from Japanese waters.
3) One of the whales was a specific whale that had died in Iceland. . . four years earlier.
So, whaleburgers, anyone?
Someone in Japan has one seriously large freezer. I wonder what’s at the VERY bottom of it. Personally, my freezer has a kind of brown goo. I bet theirs has a LOT of brown goo. And at least one work experience kid who took a wrong turn.**
One of the scientist types answering our macabre queries was actually a cop – the one Gabrielle Lord’s Jack McCann is based on (they’re now friends). He was quick to point out that Gabrielle had changed various details about him – including his physical prowess. He told this story:
After telling the suspect who I was and that he was arrested, I took him by the arm and led him outside, where my car was parked. When he saw my car, he pulled away and bolted. I ran after him.
After a hundred metres, I was slowing down – but so was he. Hoping to psychologically break him, I called out, “You’ll have to run faster than that!”
He turned back, looked at me and said, “No I won’t.”
In the end, the suspect was apprehended, but the poor cop was so puffed he was unable to call it in for half an hour.
Awesome.
We also discovered that CSI is unrealistic (WHAT?!?!?! My thesis is RUINED), and that Gulliver’s magnetic island technology doesn’t actually work (although for a decade or two it was increasingly plausible).
Oh, and I stopped to chat to Charles Darwin (which was weird, when one of our lecturers clearly had a giant crush on him. I felt like I should call her over and say, “The guy you like is here!”)
I liked the dinosaur, too.
And here’s your rainforest picture of today, from flickr.com:
*Well – yes.
**Or DID they???
#186: What’s in the box? Part 2: The father-in-law
Alternative title: Break and enter.
I have a father-in-law. He’s pretty much like Macgyver, but with normal hair and without the bad acting.
So tonight, we took the mysterious cedar-wood box to his house (and his tools. And his many keys).
CJ and his dad did That Man Thing while the mum-in-law and I oohed and aahed over the various jewellery pieces we already had access to.
Can we be any more stereotypical?
The menfolk had dozens of keys (none the right shape) since the dad-in-law is something of a hoarder (the neatest I’ve ever seen). They also had a variety of lights and tools.
Some time passed. We were all having a marvellous time.
“I can see something red,” said the dad-in-law, squinting through the crack. “And something yellow.”
“Is that. . . easter eggs?” said CJ (on the other side of the box).
More time passed. We began to discuss locksmiths. And then. . .
It opened. Pow! Boom! Shimmy!
Helloooo plastictown! And also, some wood.
Here’s how things probably happened:
My mum and I, a little dazed at the collection when Grandma had just died, sorted it out into “possibly valuable” and “certainly not valuable”. We put them in different places. I amused myself by locking the pretty box. We cunningly put the key somewhere safe, since that’s what you do with keys.
Years passed.
And you know the rest. But “all that doesn’t glitter isn’t not gold”, as they say. Here’s a few features I discovered today:
The first is real sapphires and diamonds (definitely real), the second is a wedding and engagement ring set (so presumably a real diamond), the next is opal, then three purple mysteries, then jade, a yellow mystery, possible emeralds and diamonds (because fake diamonds wouldn’t be that small) and a butterfly ring with three diamonds (I think).
I’ll have everything valued (it’ll take a while) and let you know the truth of these 11 pieces when I know it. For now, they’re all in a friend’s safe (speaking of breaking and entering). When I know how much things are worth, I’ll sell almost everything.
And here’s another pretty thing, from flickr.com:
Felicity Banks 