Jump on that Bandwagon: My Kindle Epiphany
There is a whole lot of hoohah about e-readers. Some of it is the usual rhetoric about the demise of traditional publishing, which is an emotionally appealing but fictional tale, to which I roll my eyes. People who use e-readers tend to use paper books as well, and the vast majority of readers, including myself, see the e-reader revolution as yet another big noise about a new technology that really isn’t as exciting as a particular kind of person thinks. Books are great: they’re reusable, lendable, reasonably compact, they don’t run out of batteries, and they’re nice to smell and hold. Perfection!
Or. So. I. Thought.
Last night my dad wanted to show me his kindle. I managed to put him off for a bit with this and that, but eventually I picked the thing up and opened the cover. And that’s when it happened: I looked at the screen, and it felt like a book. Not a computer, a book. But this is a book you can use to buy more books with. It’s a book that doesn’t have that annoying inner margin that makes you constantly bend it out of shape. It’s a book that has only one side, so when you lie down and read you never have that awkward position of holding it half off the pillow. The smaller ones cost around $100.
In short, I now want one.
My dad’s one is a larger-size kindle (about the size of an ipad), and it’s a little too heavy for comfort. Also, the amazingly comfortable screen *isn’t* in the newer models, so I’m going to have to examine and compare screens and sizes (and digital rights, because that’s a whole can of worms) before deciding what I specifically want. For example, the larger screen would be more comfortable to read – but less portable. As someone who loves those times when I leave the house with one of those ridiculously tiny handbags, I think the smaller one will be the one for me (and it’s cheaper) – and I suspect that once I have a tiny, incredibly portable library on me at all times, it is a technology that will change the way I live. Suddenly I’ll always have books with me, instead of making the decision on a daily basis whether I should take a book with me or not.
All in all, I’m sold. In the blink of an e-ink-reading eye.
Google Goggles
For today’s Steampunk Sunday I googled “Steampunk google doodle” and sure enough I found this record of the celebration of Jules Verne’s birthday.
If you click through, you can see several more screen shots, and a bit of background.
Small Press: Hero or Villain?
I’m linking you to Lynn Price at The Behler Blog yet again, because she just keeps making so much sense. This time she discusses how, in the migration of definitions, you can figure out whether your “publisher” deserves the quote marks or not.
This section alone is why the world needs more blogs like this one:
Instead of guessing and pondering with a friend who isn’t well-versed in publishing, you should be asking your prospective publisher who distributes their books. If they say IPG, Perseus, Consortium, NBN, IPS, then you know they are working on all cylinders because they have to have a certain amount of $$ coming in to even qualify. They are a proven quantity.
If they say Ingram and Baker and Taylor, then they do NOT have distribution. These entities are fulfillment warehouses. They don’t have sales teams out there pitching their catalog to buyers.
Temeraire: Crucible of Gold
Sidebar: I have now updated the “What’s Wrong With This Picture?” entry to contain the answer.
The historical society featured in the latest installment of the brilliant “Temeraire” series is the Inca. Their dragons feature brilliant, feather-like plumage, and a completely new take on human-dragon society. The rest of this review is at Comfy Chair, where I get paid for it.
Make Baby Food
After going to an early parenthood class on solid food and finding out that you can puree vegies and keep them in the freezer for three months (two months longer than they need pureed food), I seized the moment and made psychedelic carrot mush (ingredients: carrots, water):
A month or two from now, my little girl will be eating this. After a host of feeding problems, that’s super exciting.
Here’s a photo Bonnie took of Louisette, by the way (keeping to the orange colouring of this entry):
Feeding the Monster
This monster:
Rarr.
Since arriving back from China, Louisette immediately began drinking much more formula. After a little while, it was clear that we’d reached the point where any breastfeeding I did was largely symbolic.
I’ve spent the last week working through my feelings about that – mostly surprise at how desperately I hate breastfeeding at all: I hate that feeding Louisette is a feminist issue, and a constant political fight. I hate the social awkwardness of it all. I hate the feeling of violation I get every single time I breastfeed with anyone (excluding CJ, but including my mum) else in the room, whether I’m covered (which is clumsy, uncomfortable, mean to Louisette, and says, “I’m doing something that needs hiding”) or not. I also hate sitting alone in another room while everyone else is happily eating, talking and having fun. I hate that I have to be seminaked, and it’s cold. I hate not knowing how much she’s had to eat. I hate seeing Louisette frustrated by the whole process. I hate feeling like a mammal rather than a mind and heart and soul. I hate that none of my private parts are private any more. I hate that my breasts aren’t just for decoration. I hate that more than 90% of my clothes don’t fit me. I hate that my breasts are now a stupid shape and they’re only going to get less attractive from now on.
I quite like bigger breasts (to a point – I’m currently DD and slightly alarmed – and I urgently need a new swim top but can’t find one). When I’m not crying or psychotic for lack of sleep, I like the secret exclusivity of something only Louisette and I share. I like that, when all else fails, Louisette is sure to calm down anytime, anywhere if I just feed her.
I don’t give up easily (as you can tell by my 14-year novel-writing “career”), and I didn’t expect breastfeeding to be easy (in fact I was consistently more concerned about breastfeeding than birth), so I’m mostly relieved and glad that the option of breasfeeding has been taken away without my consent*. But I also resent that my choice was taken from me. Because that’s how I roll, and because I don’t like the way so many many women plan to breastfeed and then don’t/won’t/can’t.
One thing is clear: Louisette will never be exclusively breastfed. Which begs the question, “Why bother keeping on going?” It’s an excellent question. For now, at least until I feel less traumatised by the whole thing and can make a calm decision, I do a little bit of breastfeeding most feeds – but only if I’m home and there are no guests. I figure a little bit of breastmilk will still help guard against disease, childhood obesity, and so on.
The whole reason people bottle feed is that it’s (in many but not all ways) easier and more convenient. Which is why I was upset when Louisette began crying in pain during feeds. Breatfeeding hadn’t worked, and it seemed bottle feeding didn’t work either. She would cry in pain, I’d put down the bottle and comfort her (putting her on my shoulder as if to burp her did help), then she’d cry in hunger. I’d give her the bottle again, she’d suck hungrily for maybe ten seconds, maybe a few minutes – and then cry in pain again. And so things would continue for about an hour. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t getting full feeds. I tried a few things that didn’t really help, and then last Thursday a nurse suggested it might be reflux. I was immediately sure she was right, and bought infant gaviscon on the way home. I also bought fast flow teats for our bottles (Louisette is the right age for medium flow, but I guessed correctly that she could handle more) so that it’s easier to get down more milk before the pain starts. I’m still nervous about feeding her, because no solution is perfect all the time, but she usually only cries a little if at all, and now that she’s satisfied at her feeds she’s dropped to five a day.
With all the pain and shame and hurt and crying/screaming associated with feeding Louisette so far, I was delighted to discover (based on age and observation of physical skills) that she will be starting on solid foods in just a few weeks. A whole new world of mess and adventure and, eventually, normal independent eating.
This picture is already out of date (because we now feed her sitting up), but in a blink of an eye bottles will be entirely a thing of the past. So it’s both cute and historic.
Louisette is very enthusiastic about practising standing up. She’s not a newborn any more. I love her as she is, but every day she is more fascinating and delightful than the day before. She has suddenly started laughing – sometimes with a lot of random vocalisation a lot like a newborn-style cry, and sometimes with a single delighted squeak.
*To be fair, eating a healthy diet – rather than chowing down on masses of chocolate each day – definitely had a negative effect on my milk production. If I’d known I’d be so fat for so long, things might have been different. I still can’t wear my wedding ring, and I’m not happy, Jan. Next time I think I’ll accept in advance that I will need a full new fat-lady wardrobe for at least six months.
Activate your alliteration addiction
See this?
It’s bok choy with butter and basil.
Delicious AND intellectually satisfying.
Husbands that help
It’s strange that when a mother talks about a good husband, she says things like, “He helps a lot.” I say it myself all the time. It’s strange for two reasons:
First, it is strange that somehow everything to do with raising a child falls on the mother’s shoulders, and the father just “helps” when he could be bothered. And he somehow deserves enormous credit for everything he does – whereas the much larger amount that SHE does is simply her job.
Second, it is strange that a father’s love and attention for his own child is not considered as a grand thing in its own right – it’s merely an addendum on the mother’s love and attention – as if she is the real parent, and he is not.
It is a beautiful thing that, with the exception of feeding, Louisette is mostly CJ’s responsibility during evenings and weekends. In those times, CJ is the “real” parent and I am the helper – if I volunteer to change a nappy or to run downstairs to replace the dummy in Louisette’s mouth, CJ thanks me without irony. Because in those times, it’s his job – not mine. I noticed this phenomenon the other day, and I’m so glad.
In the mornings, he gives me the gift of ten minutes – enough time to cram in breakfast and brush my teeth if I haven’t had the chance – which makes a huge difference too.
Best of all, he actually spends time with Louisette without my supervision.
Steamy Valentine
From 2D goggles, where there are many adorable comics featuring Lovelace and Babbage (if you don’t know who they are, you haven’t been around steampunk long) – your Valentine’s Day card:
PS Nerds will love this (and all the other xkcd comics, although one must be extremely nerdy in particular ways to get every single one).
How to write a sequel
Here, via John Scalzi, is one woman’s cunning plan for dealing with sequelitis. She makes a lot of sense. For example:
3. The plot deals with an entirely new problem. You can often pick detective novels up mid-series because each detective story is a self-contained plot. They start with a new question and then have to solve it, tidily, by the end of the book. Shades of Milk and Honey had a Jane Austen plot structure so the big question there was: Who is she going to marry? That’s no longer a question. Since I’ve sent [person A and B] to the Continent in 1815, the big question in Glamour in Glass is: What are they going to do when the Battle of Waterloo happens?
A lot of fantasy writers (myself included) write book two (or perhaps two and three) of their fantasy trilogy while waiting to hear back from publishers about the first book. The fundamental problem with this is that book one may never sell – and then you’re screwed.
Or perhaps, if you write very carefully, not.
PS Although I think it’s solid advice above, I also think she may have gone too far, since the first book is a romance. That technically makes the two books different genres.
Felicity Banks 