10 Years Ago Today....

I was reading today's YA newsletter from Book Riot, which contains an article with a selection of YA titles from 10, 20, 30, 40, and 50 years ago--and it was interesting to see that some of the YA books and authors I most closely related to some 25-30 years ago were actually ones published closer to when I was born, as well as the ones published while I was a tween/teen reader. It's worth taking a look at the article to see which ones you remember!

Then, that inspired me to check out THIS very blog to see what was happening 10 years ago today. Lo and behold, I posted something 10 years ago today, and it was called Obsessions, Links, and News Bits. I used to post a lot more random thoughts and "in case you missed it" links to articles and other blogs. That was before the blogosphere became akin to a rapidly expanding universe spinning endlessly off into infinity. Anyway, in that post I wrote this little tidbit--ah, the memories:

I realized that my personal book-related obsession these days is author photos and jacket bios. One of my favorite author photos is one of Carol Plum-Ucci's, which looks sort of like this only she's lounging on some stairs with a cup of coffee looking like a cranky writer up too early. I actually get sort of annoyed when there isn't an author photo or at least an informative bio. In my head I plan out what sort of author photo I'd want to have, and what I'd write in my bio; I debate whether I will keep with my current plan of having a byline of S.J. Stevenson instead of my full name, and how much information to release to my reading public. Of course, this is contingent on having something book-length actually published. I'm still working on that... 

Well, A) I actually found the author photo in question on Amazon, right here, so you can see what I was referring to, and B) heh, now that I actually HAVE an author photo and bio I'm already thinking ahead to a new one...and C) clearly I did NOT keep with my plan of being S.J. Stevenson--so much for plans! But it was almost exactly 4 years later that my first book came out, so I guess I could be thinking about positive January-related associations like that instead of...yeah.

Flashback Monday! (AKA I Didn't Have Time to Write a New Review)

Can I blame these Cybermen for my time famine?
Photo: (C) BBC.co.uk

It's been A Summer. I know many of you would agree with me on that. The year has flown by too quickly, and the time has been eaten up by, apparently, some sort of Doctor-Who-esque monster villains who consume time and crap out additional stuff to do.

I wanted to write up a new book review for today, but it just wasn't going to happen. I had to spend all of my writing energy on work-related emails about awkward and annoying topics. Now my brain is tired.

BUT! I do have SOMETHING for you. Periodically I like to do a flashback post and look back on words I already wrote, so I don't have to write new ones. So, in shameless imitation of the Book of the Face, I present you with:

FIVE YEARS AGO TODAY! - I reviewed Tender Morsels by Margo Lanagan, a retelling of the fairy tale Snow White and Rose Red. You can read the review here.

TEN YEARS AGO TODAY! - Can you believe we've been blogging that long? Only about a year into our blogging adventure, I posted about Maureen Johnson's 13 Little Blue Envelopes. Interestingly, in our comment conversation in response to my post, Tanita claimed that, of the two of us, *I* was the analytical reviewer... You can read that, and the review, here.

The Comfort of Rereading

James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl: I must have read and reread it at least half a dozen times growing up. Maybe, dare I say, a dozen. Roald Dahl's books were perennial favorites for me, but especially this one and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. They meant so much to me, in fact, that I still haven't seen the most recent movies of either one because I don't want the books to be ruined. (The Gene Wilder movie, though: amazing.)

When I got a bit older—as a tween and teen—I found myself rereading a lot of my favorite Madeleine L'Engle books, in particular A Ring of Endless Light and A Swiftly Tilting Planet. And, though I cringe a little to admit it, I also reread several favorite Sweet Valley High books. (Rereading Sweet Valley High was not only a guilty pleasure but also provided the slight satisfying twinge of schadenfreude resulting from watching them do crazy things I'd never do and suffering the consequences.)

I was actually kind of a reading and rereading machine as a youth. And in retrospect, not only did I reread books simply because I loved them, I also turned to familiar reads when I needed comfort. My parents were divorced, and I regularly spent fairly long stretches of time at my dad's house over the summer and on weekends. If I was upset or missed my mom or was just plain bored, I would draw or read, and often I'd pick up something I'd read before, picturing myself as James finding the giant peach that allowed him to escape the nasty Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker and traverse the world with his new insectile friends who appreciated him for who he was.

As an adult, it's harder to find time or justification to reread books. As a writer, being widely read is encouraged, and between reading broadly and reading deeply within one's own genre, that doesn't leave a lot of room for old favorites. Despite that, I've managed a few rereads in recent years. I "needed" to reread The Winner's Curse and The Winner's Crime to properly appreciate Book 3, for instance. But this past week I found myself rereading purely for comfort for the first time in a long time. Under a lot of stress, and feeling rather unenthusiastic about reading anything that might even remotely remind me of the writing I'm currently failing to do, I flipped through my Kindle books and landed on a newer classic: the Lioness quartet by Tamora Pierce. Determined, spunky girl with sword works hard, then harder; Alanna is truly special, one of a kind, not like the others around her but nevertheless loved and respected for her abilities, her loyalty, and her diligence.

If you know me, you'll know I have trouble resisting the urge to be an armchair psychologist. (A BA in Psychology only earns you an armchair; you need a Ph.D. to get that fancy chaise longue.) But anyway, I can't help reading something into my choices of books that I returned to over and over. In childhood, it's easy to see simple escapism in my selections. Later, I liked reading about characters who were underappreciated and yet special, learning over time to master their skills and prevail. That hasn't changed, clearly—and it probably says something about me and how I see myself. It probably says a lot about how I wish I could be, just as rereading James and the Giant Peach was a reflection of a wish: a wish for escape, for empowerment, for rescue from a situation in which I felt helpless. Maybe now, rereading the books about the kingdom of Tortall, I'm feeling a similar desire to escape from what feels like a lot of externally imposed obligations, just as Alanna was escaping from her predetermined life in the convent by disguising herself as a boy and training to be a knight.

Or maybe I just wish I could hit things with a sword…

What are your favorite rereads? What books could you read over and over and never get sick of? I want to know!

WCOL Wednesday: THE HOUSE ON PARCHMENT STREET, by Patricia A. McKillip

Sometimes I get on a tear and read ALLLLLL The Things from one particular writer. I've been on a McKillip tear, so I have been re-reading all of the old favorites I can find, like THE FORGOTTEN BEASTS OF ELD and THE ALPHABET OF THORN and all of those lovely, ethereal and particularly McKillip-y books, when I ran across one I hadn't seen before. THE HOUSE ON PARCHMENT STREET? I wondered to myself. It had that sort of hideous cover that always says 70's Children's Book to me... and sure enough, that's what it was.

A little research, and I found three covers - one the original lavender library binding, one the original shrieking yellow paperback, and one a paperback re-issue from Aladdin in 1978, which makes the main characters look like they're all about six years old, which is a shame. The earliest covers focus on the historical characters in the novel; on the back cover of the hardback is depicted an elderly woman cleaning a gravestone - taken straight from the text, but a potentially odd choice for the cover of a MG book. However, it was originally published in 1973 - well before we were reading around here - and very much explains the writing style, the prevalence of mustard yellow, and the design choices.

A new-old find, and a particularly toothsome little morsel for Wicked Cool Overlooked Books Wednesday.

CONCERNING CHARACTER:: Honestly, there's just something ABOUT these old-school middle grade novels. There's mystery -- sometimes to the point where the reader is scratching their head, going, "Eh?"

The tale opens with a tall, thin, red-haired girl arriving in a poky English village, on foot. Her hair is a mess, she's barefoot, and she's lugging a suitcase. She stops in front of a large, walled house which is across the road from an old-fashioned cemetery. Abruptly, she is surrounded by catcalling boys on bicycles, circling her, staring insolently, and calling names. When she speaks, it is apparent that she is American, which makes her even more an object of interest.

The tall girl swings her suitcase around and knocks the catcalling boys away (leaving one protesting, and trying to speak) and goes through the gate, into the house - and nearly runs over another boy who is inside, fixing a bike. Still no shoes. Still big hair. Still no real explanation for what's going on.

And, yet, the scene more than sets up the out-of-place, uncomfortable and distasteful emotions in the character. Carol is a California hippie-type who's really not at all sure about this "month abroad to expand your mind" thing she's been sold on. Between the stupid boys, staring at her hair and her height and her thinness - and the glowering boy inside the house, Carol feels like an imbecile. She feels stupider still to realize that she wasn't supposed to pick herself up from the airport - her aunt and uncle are even now searching for her. It's going to be a horrible summer.

Bruce meets his cousin, and is grudgingly sorry for her, mixed together with his annoyance that she's going to be in his way four a month. He suspects he should do a better job of being nice and polite, but as far as he's concerned, once he shows her to her room, he's out. Interestingly, the novel gives us a lot of insight into Bruce's emotional state without giving anything away - but it's clear from his prickly demeanor that something is going on with him - but what?

Bruce is a brat, his friends are imbeciles, and she's not keen on graveyards, even if she is nearly fifteen. Carol would like to go home now, please.

Bruce would like her to go -- or, no, stay. Stay and distract his parents, with her wild red hair and clumsy American awkwardness. His parents right now are driving him nuts anyway - his Dad is harping on his smoking (!) and implies he's a bully, when he's just hanging out with his friends...and bothering people until they sometimes break down and cry (And, this is why to me the image of Bruce on the 1978 cover is ludicrous). However, his friends are driving him nuts, too - following him around, demanding his time, harping on him for not hanging out more. He's fighting with his father, he's fighting with his friends, he's fighting with himself. Everything is annoying, and Bruce hates the house their renting. It's freezing, it's too dark, and his father hasn't listened to anything he's told him about it, at all. And, most of all, Bruce does need someone to listen...

Misadventure seems to follow Carol - she nearly brains her cousin and breaks her elbow messing with an ancient weapon, she breaks things, she stumbles around. After nearly burning down the house the night before - and her bed - Carol finds the English summertime damp and cold - she's left at a loose end, since Bruce seems to be hiding from her,and her aunt and uncle are busy. Glumly, Carol climbs a tree, visits a lady who lives by the graveyard, and wanders the big, cold house behind its gates and high stone wall. It's kind of an adventure - until she sees a man with a sword walk into the wall. Yes, into the wall. She mistook it for a shadow, until it happened again when she was alone... Great. Now, on top of every other misery in trying to fit in with a cousin who doesn't like you, in a country you've never been, Carol is seeing ghosts. Of course, she can't actually tell anyone - it's clear they already think she's crazy...

Both Bruce and Carol feel sure that it's going to be a dreadful summer. As it turns out, on some level, they're both right - and both completely wrong.

This is decidedly no romance in this novel - except the romance of history, and the quiet beginnings of a friendship which maybe-perhaps-someday-a-ways-off could become something else. A quirky, charming tale, this doesn't have the typical McKillip feel quite - but given that it's probably her first or second book ever written for publication, she definitely worked her way into her current style. While I'm not generally that big a fan of the traditional "ghost" story, this is a fairly good one. This book skews younger, and is perfect for younger middle grade - 10 - 12 - who like a dose of old-fashioned mystery in the feel of HARRIET THE SPY. It's a quick read for a cloudy Wednesday afternoon.

---

My copy is an old library selection. Much to my chagrin, I realized just now that Charlotte reviewed this book last summer. Oh, well! Great minds, and all of that.

You can dig around in old bookstores or your public library and find THE HOUSE ON PARCHMENT STREET by Patricia McKillip. It is otherwise a rare find, and not readily available for purchase. Do check Powell's, Alibris, and Amazon.

2005-2013... and onward.

Still amusing ourselves after all this time...

Wonderland, Found: Dame DWJ

Each of us walks a different path when finding wonderland. For us, it has largely been the flight of fantasy which has fueled our imaginations. We delight in other faces, other worlds, the "what if" of science commingled with the "of course we can" of fantasy fiction. Though we discovered Diana Wynne Jones at very different times in our lives, we both had the similar experience of knowing we'd found a friend, an ally, a home.

Wonderland, in connection with other blogs and kidlit writers around the world, most proudly presents our little tribute to Dame DWJ, just over a year after her star went down to "rise upon another shore." She will never be truly gone; she lives on in every story, and thus, in all of us.

---

I was nine years old. Earlier that year, I had moved to a new school district, a new school. I was in the sixth grade. Everyone, obviously, was older than I was, and they'd all been going to the same school for years, already knew one another, already had friendships and factions and alliances and dynamics I knew nothing about. So-and-so had been so-and-so's boyfriend in first grade, and they'd walked around the playground holding hands. Those guys always played basketball at recess, while that girl played football with the boys after lunch.

I was quiet. Oftentimes, I didn't find friends so much as the friends found me. At some point early in the school year, Cindy found me. Yes, she already had a best friend from kindergarten days, already had a small close-knit group, but Cindy was (and still is) friendly and boisterous and talkative and openhearted. What's more, she loved books and reading as much as I did. Her parents were both chemistry professors, but she was like me, willing and eager to be lost in worlds of the imagination.

One day, we were at her house and she asked if I'd ever read some book or other about magic and time travel. We liked a lot of the same books already—from Sweet Valley High to Madeleine L'Engle — but I hadn't heard of the one she was talking about. We went upstairs. Right at the top of the stairs, on the landing, was a small, low bookshelf, right outside the door to Cindy's bedroom. We sat on the beige-carpeted stairs and she pulled a paperback out, then another: Witch Week, and A Tale of Time City, by Diana Wynne Jones.

That was how it started. I felt like Diana Wynne Jones's books filled a reading void I hadn't even known existed, stretched my imagination in a new direction that nevertheless struck a chord of almost primal recognition. They filled me with wonder and made me believe. The characters seemed real, they came alive on the page, and because of that, even the most implausible and fantastical worlds seemed possible. At a time when books were not only a source of joy but an escape from feeling uncertain and new at school, from feeling angry and frustrated by the ongoing aftereffects of my parents' divorce a few years prior, I was more than happy to believe, to plunge headfirst into the adventures of Christopher Chant and Sophie and Howl and everyone else.

What I find most wondrous, perhaps, is that whenever I pick up one of DWJ's books even now, I still feel the same way. I still feel the same willing surrender to belief, the same eagerness to let the waters close over my head and be completely immersed in her worlds. I miss her, but thanks to her written legacy, I am able to find her again and again, as her books found me.

"Things we are accustomed to regard as myth or fairy story are very much present in people’s lives. Nice people behave like wicked stepmothers. Every day."

I met the writings of Diana Wynne Jones much, much later in life than AF. I was seventeen, fully reveling in the opportunity to be away from home and parents, to read what I wanted, when I wanted. Of course, the first thing I’d read had been romances – awful, bad, hideous, poorly written epics full of “what the heck?” and misogyny. I was well sick of them – having figured out after a bit of experimentation that most of them were identical. I was just dipping a hesitant toe into the back shelves of the tiny St. Helena library, to the science fiction and fantasy section, when I happened upon a book that was misshelved from the young adult/children’s area. It was called CASTLE IN THE AIR. It was thick-ish, but not too thick, and with the boy on the magic carpet, I was sure I recognized it. It was a Arabian Nights Tale, right? Maybe a fairytale-ish take on the original? I was, even then, a sucker for a good fairytale – having not read those as a kid, I had a lot of ground to cover, and at seventeen wasn’t too proud yet to read them.

Standing quietly in the library aisle, I just thought I’d scan the back cover and the first few pages.
The first thing I realized was that it wasn’t an original Arabian Nights tale. This was something else…
The next thing I realized was that I’d been standing with one book in my hand for twenty minutes, and that, in no universe, could be called “skimming.” I tucked the book into my bag and edged nervously into the outskirts of the children’s section until I found another – HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE. And another. CHARMED LIFE. ARCHER’S GOON. THE HOMEWARD BOUNDERS.

I figured that was enough time in the children’s section. I retreated, clutching my prizes and my dignity.

In my usual neurotic fashion, I organized the books by publication date, and got started. I laughed and laughed and thought and wondered.

I fell head over heels for Christopher Chant. I read HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE six times. The THEY and the THEM in THE HOMEWARD BOUNDERS became the faceless adult enemies whom I lived to thwart. Quick thinking and thoughtful action turned chaos into clever time and again, and even the books obviously for younger readers were funny and unusual.

After that, I got aggressive. I strode BOLDLY into the children's section. I used the computer. I ordered titles on the interlibrary loan system. My goal was to read EVERY. SINGLE. DIANA WYNNE JONES BOOK. In order, of course.

I never did manage that – a writer who started writing before I was born will have had plenty of books go out of print, and a library as tiny as St. Helena’s was unlikely to have access to them all, even with tapping other branches. But, I tried.

Writing this now, I think it’s time to try again. DWJ’s writing is multilayered, and then as now, appeals to the intellectual and to the instinctive in me. While diverse books are deeply important to me, and DWJ's work doesn't necessarily tick ethnic boxes, I love her books because they are always inclusive, always extensive and welcoming. All wishers and liars and magic-bean buyers of any stripe will find, as I have, a place.

I felt a bit of kinship with DWJ the child – knowing that she didn’t have an easy childhood and sympathetic adults in her world. I suspect that this rocky start gave DWJ the writer the tools to open her imagination further than most, and to force her dyslexia into abeyance and to force better worlds into existence.

And it is a better world. We have Dalemark. We have the Chrestomanci. We have Howl and Calcifer and The Dark Lord. And we can never unhave them.

Her books are a crowbar, prying open my imagination. Because of Dame Diana, there will always be more and better worlds to discover.

---

This little point of light is but the beginning of a very bright universe. There are daily celebrations, memories, fine words and pictures. Check the schedule, and find out who's next for this month's celebration tour.

It doesn't surprise us at all that we know almost everyone on the tour so far. No wonder we're friends...♥

Continuing the celebration of the life and contribution of Diana Wynne Jones, DOGSBODY, FIRE AND HEMLOCK, and A TALE OF TIME CITY are being reissued by Firebird Books, with introductions respectively by Neil Gaiman, Ursula LeGuin and Garth Nix. New covers and new artwork make these works extra-special, as well as the inclusion, in FIRE AND HEMLOCK, of an essay by DWJ not previously published with that book. If you've never read these three titles, you'll want to jump on this chance!

Wicked Cool Overlooked Books: Old Skool Asimov

Aaargh! I'm beginning to get the feeling that I cannot keep up! Surely it's not already April!

But, it is. Last month found A.F. and me doing some ruthless revisions, and I realized with horror that I had nothing for WCOB this month. And then I realized -- I've been reading this cool old book by a guy named Paul French...

By the time he died, science fiction demigod, Isaac Asimov, had nearly five hundred books in a variety of genres to his name. This prolific writer was approached by his editor in 1951, when he'd already written his first handful of books, to write a juvenile science fiction series, with the idea that the book would be used as a jumping off point for a TV series.

Now, Mr. Asimov was not a big fan of TV. I think he and I might have even agreed that the book-to-film adaptation thing is an abomination unto Nuggan. Embarrassed about the series before it even happened, Asimov invented the pen-name of Paul French just so that he could avoid being tied to what he just knew was going to be a completely crap TV series. (Way to have faith in the people paying you, Mr. Asimov.)(Though I totally feel his pain.) It took him a matter of months to craft the first volume in the series, and David Starr was born.

David Starr has a hero's tragic beginnings -- his parents both have died battling aliens, and his mother's last loving act was to shove his infant self into an escape pod, and eject him from their aircraft, all whilst still shooting with one hand. Now a newly elected member of the Council of Science, the governing body for the planets of the Solar System, of which Earth and Mars are members -- this orphaned biophysicist finds his first case dumped into his lap. In a restaurant, he witnesses a man die -- who had only taken the first few bites of his dessert.

He was poisoned, like so many others on Earth are being poisoned; dying quickly and horribly from a substance no one can trace, and no one can survive. The only clue in each of the deaths is that they were eating food from produce raised on Mars. Is someone on Mars trying to kill off Earth? The Council of Science is investigating -- and David slips out from his guardians' protection and travels to Mars to investigate the deaths for himself.

Thus, the hero begins his journey!


A.) With fact that this series was made for a TV series, and B.) with a character name like David Starr, and C.) with name of the series being Lucky Starr, you know very well that Mr. Space Ranger is going to go to Mars, kick some patootie, and solve the mystery. But, of course! But the fun is found in the style of writing -- this is supposed to be Earth in 2100, and the technology of the fifties is clearly visible on every page. All the things that people dreamed of back then are real in Starr's world. When he meets the Martians - bodiless, mind-to-mind communicators, who have surpassed the piddling annoyances of matter, in their triumph over time and space -- their tech is even better.

Each step along the archetypal hero's journey is also carefully illuminated. Starr is an orphaned child, destined for greatness, taking a journey, finding a new name, and then returning with his new position, his new strengths, and his new self all intact. There is something tremendously satisfying about reading a book which characterizes a hero's journey, despite pretty much knowing what's going to happen already from A-Z.

It's old-school science fiction - a little quaint, a little dated especially those HORRIFYING but traditional SF covers -- but spectacularly cool, in the way only Asimov could write it.

Oh, and about that TV series -- it fell through, after all Asimov's panic. The writer, intrigued by his own creation, continued to create the Lucky Starr books, and a few novels in, introduced the three laws of robotics which famously appeared in his short story Runaround, published in 1942, and in every other robot or Foundation novel he ever wrote thereafter -- so his fans soon knew the truth about Paul French.

So, that's my Wicked Cool Overlooked Book this month! There are so, so, so many Asimov books that I could pretty much read on from here to breakfast, but I like that this one has such a backstory to it on its own, and I'd never heard of it until just recently. It's a quick, classic read.

You'll find David Starr, Space Ranger and the other five books in the Lucky Starr series probably at an independent bookstore like Powells or AbeBooks, because they have stuff that's older and out of print. Look for it -- it's still out there.

Line by Line

I caught wind of a new blog around the Kidlitosphere this week--it's The Daily KidLit Quote, and it's an idea I really like. Just a day-by-day collection of blog readers' favorite quotes from books, with a few thoughts on each one. Simple. Sweet. And I couldn't help but get sucked in because of the post about the opening line of Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis: "There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it." I can't help remembering that one, and remembering how much I detested Eustace...

Speaking of great lines from kidlit, this week I also discovered that fellow writing group member Yat-Yee has a regular weekly happening called Grab-A-Line Monday, in which she shares a line or two that has stuck with her from recent reading and invites readers to do the same. The latest installment is here, and it's definitely inspiring and thought-provoking to ponder what makes these passages stick in our minds. As a writer, I can only hope to one day produce a memorable line or two...

A Trip Through the Wayback Machine

These days the media are all about reality TV, and true-life tales of terror, and racy confessions. Well, here's some true-life terror from the teen years. Every so often I find it useful to look over old writings and yearbooks, or brainstorm about what I remember from high school. It's a good exercise for mining those true-life details that make fiction come alive, and it's fun...albeit rather cringe-worthy. For instance, take the poem snippet up there to the right. I wrote it at the tender age of 14. And there's more where that came from. It's a veritable morass of angst, gloom, and unending pathos, punctuated by the occasional faerie or dragon.

So, instead of dwelling on the truly horrible poetry I wrote, I've decided to take a look back at some more...environmental details, if you will. Today's Wayback Machine is taking me back to...my room. Specifically, what I had on my walls circa the early 1990s. Please note that not all of this was up at the same time. But lots of it was.

• On my bedroom door: a poster of a panther very similar to this one.


• On my closet door: a poster of Jim Morrison very similar to this one.


• Also on my closet door: small pictures of various actors cut out of magazines, including but not limited to Charlie Sheen, John Stamos, Johnny Depp, River Phoenix, and Yahoo Serious. (I'm dating myself now!)


• A very large poster of the night sky/constellation map, which glowed in the dark.


• On the ceiling: a bunch of those little glow-in-the-dark sticky stars.


• This Sandman poster by Mike Dringenberg.


• A painted carved-wooden wall hanging that my mom gave me when I was little that said "Girls Can Do Anything."

I think that's about it. In any case, that's all I can remember of what was on the walls. I was never the sort of person who had the walls completely plastered with stuff. That was kind of discouraged in my house, plus I wasn't really inclined to do it anyway. Oh--and the walls were painted light blue-green (my color choice). So there you have it--the teenage a. fortis as reflected by my room decor choices. Just don't ask me what I was wearing.