“The Graveyard Book” by Neil Gaiman
I know, I know! I promised to review “Goliath” by Scott Westerfeld today. Sadly, it is late arriving in stores so I haven’t been able to get my pre-ordered copy yet. Fingers crossed for next week.
In the meantime: a treat.
Neil Gaiman (who, incidentally, is married to Amanda Palmer of “The Dresden Dolls” – they’re even touring together) is a brilliant writer – one of the world’s best. Sometimes he needs an edit, and sometimes he’s too dark for my taste. This is not one of those times.
THIS book (as you may have guessed from the title) has a wonderful macabre quality, but is nonetheless a great book for children. It never stops being fantastical (most of the characters are dead, for example) but it FEELS as down-to-earth as common sense. The main character is Bod, who we follow from the age of 18 months to adolescence (only Neil Gaiman could break the “keep your main character a similar age to the audience” and “use a short time span” rules so brilliantly; don’t try that at home). He is observant, intelligent, and good. I’d love to meet him.
There are other characters, too, who are instantly recognisable as the kind of people (not that that’s the right word for what they are) that will be remembered forever – Silas, Miss Lupescu, and the witch.
The story has a deceptively rambling quality, but the menace to Bod is clear from the first scene, and it never lets up. The climax shows that not a single scene was wasted. The theme is growing up – being alive – and it is perfectly developed.
Gaiman’s writing is exquisite. I hesitate to call it “literary” because that’s a by-word for “boring” to so many readers (including me) but when someone writes like Gaiman, you fall in love with the language without ever losing sight of the story. (Ursula leGuin and Sandy Fussell can pull it off, and very few others.)
It’s also beautifully (and eerily) illustrated.
Free sample (the beginning):
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you, you might not even know you had been cut, not immediately.
The knife had done almost everything it was brought to that house to do, and both the blade and the handle were wet.
The street door was still open, just a little, where the knife and the man who held it had slipped in, and wisps of night-time mist slithered and twined into the house through the open door.
The man Jack paused on the landing. With his left hand he pulled a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his black coat, and with it he wiped off the knife and his gloved right hand which had been holding it; then he put the handkerchief away. The hunt was almost over. He had left the woman in her bed, the man on the bedroom floor, the older child in her brightly coloured bedroom, surrounded by toys and half-finished models. That only left the little one, a baby barely a toddler, to take care of.
Rating: PG, since it may scare some under-12 children.
Gifts for the apocalypse
As you are no doubt aware, Canberra will shortly be inundated by zombies. Is anyone even surprised?
By way of preparation for the coming apocalypse, my mother gave me a gift:
It’s not a weapon – it’s Aloe Vera, a living medicine. It’s good for minor burns (so VERY good for me – in fact I burned my thumb within days of getting this particular plant), is a mild antiseptic, and if all else fails it’s non-toxic (which, as everyone who ate crayons as a child already knows, is a synonym for “edible”).
To use an aloe vera plant, just cut off and/or slice open one of the leaves, and smear it directly onto the burn. For those curious about the taste, it is almost completely tasteless. (Sidebar: many many years ago, as a child, I overheard my grandmother talking to my mum about the many good properties of aloe vera, and she used the word “semisweet”. Thrilled at the idea of a new junk food, I immediately ran out to her greenhouse and ate a bit. It was extremely disappointing. Such is life.)
Another great zombie-ready plant is the willow tree. The bark is, literally, where aspirin comes from. Women chewed on the bark thousands of years ago to ease the pain of childbirth (it tastes awful, but at least you’d have pain relief options after getting a nasty bite in your arm from your zombified room-mate).
My long-term anti-zombie plan is to grow a variety of fruits and vegetables in my yard, and thus cover many of my important dietary needs (so far I have olives, lemons, and mint). I’d keep chickens for protein, but they smell – so I’ll have to turn cannibal*. Oh well.
This Christmas, don’t forget to analyse your gifts in the light of the coming zombie apocalypse. Tinned goods, edible plants, and weapons are the gifts most likely to keep your loved ones alive.
How are your own zombie preparations coming along?
*Obviously I wouldn’t dream of eating the cats. That would be wrong.
Baby sign language
I’m fascinated by languages in general, so I love the idea of teaching a four or five-month old baby a few useful signs to help them communicate when their hands are more coordinated than their tongues. Here are the signs I’ve learnt so far:
I am now twenty-five weeks pregnant, which means there are just two weeks left of second trimester. I’ve gained 1.5 kilos altogether 🙂 Thanks to that and to my height, my belly is pretty modest (considering), which means I’m not having any real problems with size.
I had a pretty big weekend last weekend (Thursday I had two whole hours of work, Friday I had people for dinner AND then we went to a movie, Saturday I was at Conflux for *gasp* two hours, and Sunday I had a family afternoon tea – all of which were apparently too much for me, faugh!) and crashed badly on Sunday night. So on Monday I cancelled everything and focused on just one thing: drinking water. Over the course of the day I watched TV, read books, watched CJ do chores, and drank as much as I could stand. That meant constantly updating my nausea (every time I felt okay, I drank more water and ruined it). Altogether I drank a litre and a bit of water, and maybe 600mL of milk. That really was the best I could do – and I was much sicker on Tuesday as a result. My body HATES water. Also, it made me so nauseous that I haven’t brushed my teeth since Sunday.
I would probably have been fine today, except I’m desperate to try and skip four ondansetron pills this fortnight (it comes in packs of ten, so if I succeed it means we only have to buy the $80 pack once per pay period), so I skipped it last night – which meant another do-nothing day today. It wasn’t fun, but it was fine.
I’m now getting a cramp or two each day, which may be a return of earlier ondansetron side effects – or the beginning of Braxton Hicks contractions (basically, fake labour). Either way, I have three and a half months more to look forward to. Awesome.
My left leg and the left side of my hips have been painful for four weeks now (as if I’ve overexercised, which I assure you is not the case). It hurts worst at night, which means gritting my teeth in pain every time I turn over (to the peculiar sound of clicking bones). On my 1-2 nightly loo visits the first few steps are a painful shuffle (as I clutch onto the bedside table for support). My right leg and the right side of my hip have just caught on and started to hurt as well.
This is caused by the hormone relaxin (which makes muscles go all loose and unsupportive in preparation for labour), and hip bones moving around (ditto). Which at least makes logical sense.
Pregnancy: the first two weeks are perfectly nice.
I remember saying, long ago, that my anxiety disorder was good preparation for pregnancy (because I’m used to chemical wackiness), and it actually is. I have seven years of practice of being helpless and housebound, and although I can rationally say that it sucks, in psychological terms I’m in great shape.
Strange but true. Despite all the physical and financial stuff, I’m still infinitely happier than I was last year. I can honestly say that life is good.
Tomorrow I’ll be brushing my teeth (and hair), seeing a friend (here), and teaching one student (here). It will be a nice day.
Picnic at Floriade
Every year, Canberra explodes into colour for the Spring flower festival, Floriade. CJ and I borrowed my photogenic nephew and lounged about on the grass just outside the gates (it is free and extremely popular) before going inside.
Floriade is on until 15 October.
Canberra Zombie Walk
Spring has sprung and the time is ripe for the dead to rise (who, coincidentally, are also ripe).
If you’ve ever thought, “Why aren’t there more zombies in Canberra?” it’s time to take your place in the shuffling masses.
When: Saturday October 29
Meet at: The Civic chess pit (Garema Place) at 4:30pm
We’ll stagger along en masse until the shrieks of the public don’t thrill us any more, and then disperse.
YES you may invite your undead friends, family and partners (and give them my email address fellissimo at hotmail dot com).
YES you may mention the civic meeting place & time in psychotic-filled public forums such as facebook.
If you need assistance with makeup, let me know. I have an expert on hand, but you will need to book a spot with her and pay for materials.
Australian Steampunk
Yesterday’s steampunk panel was loads of fun. Myself, Dawn Meredith and Jane Virgo discussed the definitions of steampunk, why we love steampunk, and the little Australian steampunk that is now available (namely, Richard Harland’s “Worldshaker” series, James Roy’s “Ichabod Hart and the Lighthouse Mystery”, Margo Lanagan’s short story “Machine Maid” and a new book none of us have read yet which is called “Wanted: One Scoundrel, Jenny Schwartz”).
An audience member pointed out that no single work of steampunk has truly hit the mainstream in a recognisable way, and we agreed. Which means the market is still a living, vibrant thing – and there for the taking.
Unable to wear my corset, I went for more of a dieselpunk look – and grabbed the best-dressed audience member for this photo:
The audience member happened to be the renowned fantasy artist Marilyn Pride.
Conflux 7
Here is where I’ll be today, particularly at the steampunk panel at 2:30 (and there’s another steampunk panel on Monday). If you’re in Canberra, you can still come.
Middle Earth versus Narnia
I’ve just finished re-reading the seven-book Narnia series by C. S. Lewis*and I’m also an admirer of the Lord of the Rings trilogy by Tolkien. Around the time the Lord of the Rings movies came out, there were heated arguments at parties everywhere**about whether the Narnia series or the Lord of the Rings series is better.
I was going to begin a seven-week series of Narnia reviews today, but I’m JUST about to get my greasy mitts on “Goliath” by Scott Westerfeld, so I’ll review that in seven days’ time and then start on Narnia.
In the meantime, here’s a pre-review review:
CS Lewis and Professor Tolkien were close friends, part of a writing group called Inklings. Many members of the group were killed fighting in World War 2. Who knows what other books might have been written if the whole group had lived.
Leaving aside The Hobbit and all the other works by each author, there are some notable similarities and differences.
Both men were Christian, which is clear from reading their books if you’re into symbols (much, much clearer in Narnia’s Aslan character than in Middle Earth – in which the clearest parallel is the nature of Gandalf’s death). Both Lewis and Tolkien distrusted industry, and featured images of fighting trees (yay) and evil loggers (boo). Both wrote tales of high adventure, personal honour, and selfless sacrifice. Both featured heroes who were flawed but who could not be mistaken as anything but great heroes.
I believe that if the Narnia books were sent to a publisher by an unknown author today, they would be published.
I believe that if the Lord of the Rings books were sent to a publisher by an unknown author today, they would not be published. *gasp*
CS Lewis was writing in the 50s, so naturally women were not allowed to fight in the front lines (they could shoot arrows from the sidelines, but none ever wielded a sword), and baddies tended to be dark-skinned (or, in the case of the Black Dwarves, black-haired). However he has excellent heroic warlike female characters, and gracious and noble dark-skinned characters (Aravis is both).
Tolkien is infamous for having almost no female characters whatsoever, but he does mention (either in passing or in the Silmarilion) some truly awesome females – who fought in battles as well as any man. They did tend to be defined by the men they loved, which is a shame.
The true reason I think Lewis would be published today and that Tolkien would not is that first of all, Tolkien’s fantasy is for adults. Adult fantasy is simply harder to sell than children’s fantasy (and if we’re honest, it’s partly because adult fantasy fiction is just. . . long). But the main reason is that Lewis actually stuctured his Narnia books like modern books – starting with action/danger/conflict within the first few pages and never spending huge swathes of time on decription, rambling tangents, or – cosmic bunny save us – poetry. Lewis also has a brilliant eye for the tiny detail that makes a scene come alive.
Tolkien was predominantly a linguist – not a storyteller. I for one am grateful he was writing back when the market was quite different, and his books didn’t get rejected with the note “Needs editing”. As a modern reader (and I do read), I prefer the Lord of the Rings movies. I’m sorry, but it’s true. On the other hand, I understand that no writer in the past, present or future could create a world as rich and complex and fantastic as Tolkien did. I’m even a little glad that he didn’t get edited (as we all know, Tom Bombadil is largely irrelevent to the main plot, and would certainly be cut along with many other wonderful scenes, characters, and descriptions).
If I’m going to read a book, I pick Narnia every single time. I was pleasantly surprised this last week by how well written they are. No other classic books translate so well to the smart, focused modern reader.
And now I shall duck and cover as the argument continues.
In other news, one of my own books has been at a certain large Australian publisher for three years now. I have just discovered that the particular individual who I knew very well was holding things up has stopped working there. Which means there’s a small chance I’ll get a response in the next month or two, and a very good chance I’ll have a response in 6-12 months (ie the normal response time).
If I’d sent the book in via the slushpile, I’d have had an answer over two years ago. Kids, contacts in the biz aren’t always a good thing.
*Fun fact: The “C.S.” stands for “Clive Staples”. Abbreviation is sometimes a VERY good idea.
**This tells you exactly the kinds of friends I cultivate.
Baby Brain versus the Fuzz
I noticed the cop behind me when I glanced in my rear-view mirror. Sure I was speeding, but only a little. It’d be fine. Someone else’s car drove out of a street on the right too slowly, and I braked in a smooth and safe manner. Everything was going well.
The slow driver pulled up at a set of traffic lights, and I pulled up on their right, not wanting to continue driving behind them. I noticed the cop pulling up on my right (the turning lane) and felt the quiet relief that all upstanding citizens feel when the fuzz leaves the immediate vicinity.
Someone beeped. I looked at the car to my left, wondering if they were so stupid they thought I’d done something wrong. No; it wasn’t them. I glanced right. Surely the police weren’t beeping me? That was just silly.
OR WAS IT!?!?!?!
He beeped again, and motioned for me to wind down my window.
“Your registration sticker is out of date,” he said – in the usual copper monotone, just a shade deeper than the average male voice.
I looked at the lime-green sticker and then back at him, remembering a vague feeling of guilt back when the registration was due – such a long time ago. But I’d paid it – of course I had. “We’re definitely registered,” I told him.
“Pull up somewhere ahead so we can talk,” he said.
I nodded, and watched for the green light.
He followed after me with lights flashing until I pulled over onto the side of the road, wondering if pulling over onto the shoulder was illegal. Was it illegal sometimes, but not for an emergency? Was this an emergency? Should I keep driving until I found a better place to pull over – or would he think I was trying to make a hasty getaway?
I turned off the car and made as if to get out – the shoulder was narrow, and if he wanted to talk to me he’d have to stand in the road.
“Get back in the car,” he said.
I got back in the car, and turned the key so I could open the window (which is electric). The car alarm immediately went off, screaming at that piercing frequency so beloved by insomniacs everywhere. I fumbled for the alarm button, pressed it – nothing. That’s right: I had to turn the car off first.
I turned the car off. I turned the car alarm off with the button. I pressed the button again to de-arm the car. I turned the electrics on. I wound down the window. I switched off the car again.
“Your registration sticker has expired,” said the cop, ignoring my display of incompetence. “Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes,” I said. “But we paid. We always pay.”
“Wait here.”
He went and checked a database. I checked my scrawled notes at the back of my diary. “Car rego” was in my list of large expenses for the month of May – specifically, May 18th. I’d ticked it off, indicating that it had been paid. Thank the cosmic bunny I write everything down. That tick reminded me – the vague guilty feeling was because I’d paid it only one day before it was due – not allowing enough time for the new sticker to arrive before the due date. But the sticker should have simply arrived automatically in the mail. That’s what rego stickers do when you pay rego.
Apparently not this time. And it was more than just the sticker.
The cop returned.
“We paid,” I told him serenely, “on May 18th. Or a day or two before that.”
“According to the database, you are unregistered from that date.”
“Okay, so we have to prove we paid it. That shouldn’t be hard.”
“I’m very sorry about this, ma’am.”
“That’s all right,” I said, with the assurance of my tick-mark dancing before my eyes. “It’s not your mistake.” Or mine.
“Unfortunately I need to issue you with a traffic infringement until you’re able to prove that you paid. It will be for $1100.”
Yowser.
“You’ll need to send it in,” he said. “With that proof of your May payment.”
May, I thought. I was pregnant then.
How sick was I in May? All I remember is lying in bed trying not to vomit.
I did pay that bill. . . didn’t I?
“We won’t need to actually pay the fine, will we,” I asked him, “if we can prove we paid in May?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Unfortunately,” he said again, “because of our records, I can’t let you drive away until the car is registered.”
“All right,” I said cautiously. It was a sunny day, and I wasn’t going to work. I’d already taken a moment to SMS Mum and tell her I was stopped by the cops and thus running late. She was running late too, and asked if I was all right. I hadn’t had a chance to reply.
The cop gave me a number to call and pay three months’ rego over the phone. Since I don’t have a credit card, this meant calling CJ. CJ was mildly concerned that $780 was unaccounted for and that his pregnant and ill wife was in the custody of the police beside a road somewhere, but he paid the bill and relayed back the receipt number.
At that point, I was free to go.
At Mum’s place, I checked back in the day-to-day section of my diary (in which I write EVERYTHING because I know exactly how my mind works – or doesn’t) and discovered that I had “Car rego TOMORROW” crossed out on May 17 – a second indication that I had paid the bill. My system means that if something has a single line through it, it means I have dealt with it. It’s a good system.
When I went home, I found the bill itself in my filing cabinet, marked “Paid 16/5/11” in purple pen. I had literally kept my notes in triplicate. It was very easy from there to find the receipt number.
Baby Brain: 1
The fuzz: 0
The three things you need to buy
1. A car seat (or you can hire them, but you’ll need them for a long while to come).
If you want one that lasts from birth to four years, Choice says the best ones are the safe-n-sound compaq (though not the compaq delux) or the safe-n-sound meridian. The meridian features a variety of colours – praline, grey frost, navy and licorice. They are all grey. Welcome to the bizarre world of retail.
The compaq is significantly cheaper, but my father-in-law is
(a) extremely safety conscious, and
(b) paying
– so we bought the super ultra delux one.
2. A cot (secondhand is okay, assuming it’s up to standard – antique cots hugely increase the risk of SIDS and portable cots aren’t as safe either).
Choice recommends the childcare balmoral as the best buy (it’s hard to find, but Big W theoretically stocks it). We bought the tasman eco siena (still recommended by Choice, but more expensive – only marginally more expensive, thanks to my complicated schemes and bargaining). My obsessive bargaining meant we were able to choose a light wood colour, and have curved ends. All the child-safe cots look extremely similar, but the wrangling gave me such a sense of power it was definitely worth it.
See? Pretty!
NB: Speaking of SIDS – remember to get a mattress that fits, to use NO pillows or cot bumpers (or toys in the cot), and to lie the baby on their back close to the feet end.
We happen to have a bassinet, but some experts recommend putting a baby in a cot from birth.
Most cots convert into a toddler bed. This one also converts into a sofa. How cool is that?
3. Nappies (or I guess if you have a friend who used the re-useable ones you could take those secondhand too).
Choice (and everyone else in the world with a newborn) recommends Huggies newborn nappies (the pertinent phrase is “They catch more than the rest. . . almost always all of it”) but Choice also says that the much-cheaper Woolies select crawler is almost as good, but a whole lot cheaper.
Congratulations! You are now an expert on the best brands to buy.
I’m feeling pretty efficient (and pleased with myself) now we have a car seat and cot. My nausea is largely okay as long as I’m careful. Yesterday I was able to ride our exercise bike for a total of ten minutes, which bodes very well.
Tomorrow: an incident with the fuzz.
