I've been meaning to do this for a while.
Nov. 21st, 2004 01:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleSo for those of you who don't know, I've been writing a book for several years now. I have bits and pieces of it in my iBook, but some scattered fragments reside still on my G4. So I thought, in honour of NaNoWriMo-- whch I've probably missed-- I'd post just a little. This is, obviously, right at the beginning.
Books rock.
Obviously, you agree with me or you'd be outside washing the car or on the couch watching a movie or off brushing the cat or something equally enthralling. But books-- now, there's a worthy obsession. With a good book, you can go anywhere. I mean, the book itself can send you on a dream trip: open up the cover of a first edition "Little Lord Fauntleroy" and wonder who the original purchaser was in 1896, and for what hopefully appreciative child they bought it. What's the significance of that spidery copperplate inscription, "For our favourite Spinning Top"? Who read it next? Was it a prize possession or a doorstop? And how did it wind up in a little used book shop in a many-cornered side street in Manayunk?
What, are you disappointed? Were you hoping for a less pragmatic train of thought? Something about how a journey of a thousand miles begins on page one? That's all been done. Any ardent librarian will tell you how a book is a passport to another land, another fantasy-- but I've always been a bit more down to earth than that, I guess. I've always been the type to aim low, fantastically speaking, and thus avoid the inevitable disappointment when the dragon doesn't buzz my house and the intrepid sword-wielding hero doesn't sweep me off my feet. I never roamed the sewers in cotton-poly-bedsheet capes, I never planted pumpkin seeds under a full moon and waited for roses, and I never chanted over a fire on St. Agnes Eve to make the face of my future husband appear in the flames. So it's no surprise, I guess, that I was shocked as hell to find the fairy tale coming up to bite me in the ass anyway.
It all started innocently enough. I mean, I doubt Dorothy woke up one particular morning thinking of midgets in toe shoes. I'd bet she woke with hot doggie Toto breath in her face, and thinking of those damn pigs and that bitch Gulch down the road. The most bizarre stories have to start somewhere fairly inane; this one is no different.
Books rock.
Obviously, you agree with me or you'd be outside washing the car or on the couch watching a movie or off brushing the cat or something equally enthralling. But books-- now, there's a worthy obsession. With a good book, you can go anywhere. I mean, the book itself can send you on a dream trip: open up the cover of a first edition "Little Lord Fauntleroy" and wonder who the original purchaser was in 1896, and for what hopefully appreciative child they bought it. What's the significance of that spidery copperplate inscription, "For our favourite Spinning Top"? Who read it next? Was it a prize possession or a doorstop? And how did it wind up in a little used book shop in a many-cornered side street in Manayunk?
What, are you disappointed? Were you hoping for a less pragmatic train of thought? Something about how a journey of a thousand miles begins on page one? That's all been done. Any ardent librarian will tell you how a book is a passport to another land, another fantasy-- but I've always been a bit more down to earth than that, I guess. I've always been the type to aim low, fantastically speaking, and thus avoid the inevitable disappointment when the dragon doesn't buzz my house and the intrepid sword-wielding hero doesn't sweep me off my feet. I never roamed the sewers in cotton-poly-bedsheet capes, I never planted pumpkin seeds under a full moon and waited for roses, and I never chanted over a fire on St. Agnes Eve to make the face of my future husband appear in the flames. So it's no surprise, I guess, that I was shocked as hell to find the fairy tale coming up to bite me in the ass anyway.
It all started innocently enough. I mean, I doubt Dorothy woke up one particular morning thinking of midgets in toe shoes. I'd bet she woke with hot doggie Toto breath in her face, and thinking of those damn pigs and that bitch Gulch down the road. The most bizarre stories have to start somewhere fairly inane; this one is no different.
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no subject
Date: 2004-11-21 12:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-11-21 02:49 pm (UTC)me too!
Date: 2004-11-21 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-11-22 02:31 am (UTC)