Music Lit Convergence

Happiness is learning that there will be a musical version of Coraline composed by none other than Stephen Merritt (Magnetic Fields). Sigh, smile, giggle....when wonderful worlds collide.

My Big Fat Geek Movie Weekend

One of the nice things about having a Ph.D. and a job is that I no longer feel compelled to construct an exterior persona that depicts my own self as anything other than the exuberant nerd that I am. (I wish I could have claimed this level of self-awareness and rejection of normative consumption earlier in life, but alas, I was insecure.)

In my younger days I kept my passions close to the chest, reticent except for my vehement defense of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I could no sooner supress than a geyser eruption. But now I frolic through fields of comic books, graphic novels, their web sites, television, and film adaptations. In fits of ecstasy I plot my pilgrimages to children's book conferences, Comic-Con, and Worldcon. And sometimes the convergence of events makes for a particularly exciting circumstance.

Case in point: This weekend features the release of two movies I am dying to see. Coraline is the film adaptation of Neil Gaiman's fantastically scary children's book, and Fan Boys is a road-trip homage to Star Wars fiends like myself.

If you're looking for me this weekend, I will be worshiping the silver screen with much abandon.

Writers Draw Blood

If you'd like to see fangs bared and claws come out, check out the 200+ posts on Nathan Bransford's blog (which I follow religiously) regarding Steven King's public critique of Stephenie Meyer. I've never seen blog posts go up so fast.

Pulling for Milk

I'm not one to get on board with the Oscar build up (if there is one in Minnesota), but this year I'm holding my breath in the hope that Milk will win Best Picture. The historical footage, compelling narrative, and exceptional acting made this film one of my favorite biopics to date.

It's with reluctance that I confess I only made it to the film this evening and not sooner; I was truly moved and reminded of the amazing activism offered by leaders like Harvey Milk, but also the work that is yet to be done.

Winter Sun

February 1.

We've made it. January is gone. I don't know whether I'd go so far as to call January the most challenging month of the year - but in my book it's close. This year in particular, when we only had one day above 32 degrees and far too many below zero, I welcome January's departure with a hearty hurrah.

Yesterday, when the long-awaited thaw finally arrived and 45 degrees felt like being baked on a tropical beach, the hard packed snow was cut through with rivers of slush and innumerable tiny cricks that flowed along the sidewalk.

But that was yesterday. When winter returned overnight and hung around to greet February, all that abundant melting froze. Now the sidewalks are sheets of ice that make dog walking an extreme sport.

The point of all this ranting (though I do believe ranting is a valid end in itself)? As I shuffled (the only safe way to move on the ice paths that line my neighborhood) along with my two dogs this morning, I realized how unfortunate it is that my eyes had to stay on the sidewalk.

The winter sky deserves more attention. A stark wash of blue. The sun pale and always a little hazy. Austere colors made all the more striking by the snaking dark branches of leafless trees that break up the endless expanse above. And at night. Ah night. The stars glitter more brightly against that cold black canvas. Light and oblivion.

Winter conditions draw our eyes down. Stomping boots, breath that materializes before us and then fades away, treacherous slipping feet as we try to make our way forward. Hesitant, irritable, impatient for the spring.

And winter's grace escapes us.

Dangerous though it may be, I'll be looking up more from now on. It's worth the risk.

I Know I Don't Call (But That Doesn't Mean I Don't Care)

True confessions: I have an incredible aversion to the phone. I wouldn't label it a phobia. I'm not overwhelmed by a gut-gnawing sensation when my phone rings, but I do experience a sharp irritation akin to sandpaper on bare skin.

I envy people who can chatter endlessly on the phone because it appears to be a nice way to connect with other people. But that's not me, nor will it ever be. I'm not a phone person. In fact, I am on the other side of the planet from where you phone people live.

I can't offer a sound or rational explanation for the reason phone calls strike me as burdensome. I love talking face to face. I love hand-written letters, emails, Facebook, and of course, this blog. But phone calls - everything from the press of the device against my ear to the raspy metallic sound of the distant voice on the other line - strike me as artificial and forced. I'm not good at it, I don't enjoy it.

So I won't call. But I still miss you and you should write me a letter or email if you want to talk.

It's not you. It's me.

Neil Gaiman at the Grocery Story

Since my last post celebrated Neil Gaiman's Newberry, I thought I'd trot out my too-frequent thoughts about a real life encounter with he-who-I-wish-was-my-mentor. These day-time musings emerged to haunt my thoughts when I learned that Gaiman lives near the Twin Cities (which automatically made me feel cooler by association, since I live in the same place that he does).

So here is the scenario of what would happen should Andrea run into Neil Gaiman at the grocery store, or Spyhouse, or the Electric Fetus, MIA, my office at Macalester (these are places that I go, I have no idea where Neil Gaiman spends his time in the Minneapolis/St. Paul region. He certainly has not shown up at my office):

I am in the produce section holding a pomegranate and thinking about Persephone. A person next to me picks up another pomegranate and turns it over in his hand. I look up and my jaw drops. Neil Gaiman, being a polite person, smiles in a civil way and takes another pomegranate. Because pomegranates are wonderful and of course having more than one is a nice idea.

I stare and wait for the floor to open up so that Neil Gaiman and I are swallowed by Twin Cities Below (is there a Twin Cities Below Mr. Gaiman?). Whenever this happens we wander through the underworld and I save Neil Gaiman from the giant mosquito or rabid loon that guards the labyrinth, which I'm certain is located beneath the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden. Mr. Gaiman returns happily to his family and, grateful for my heroics, offers to critique my writing and introduce me and my novel to his agent.

But the floor doesn't open up and I am still gaping at Neil Gaiman.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman," I say.
His smile becomes gracious. "Yes."
I am still staring. Neil Gaiman shuffles his feet.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman." I say again. I am unable to blink.
Neil Gaiman grips the pomegranate more tightly and looks at the bananas like they are an escape hatch.
The flood gates open. "My name is Andrea and Neverwhere changed my life. I write and I really want to get published, and did I mention that American Gods changed my life. I write YA urban fantasy and did I mention that the Graveyard Book changed my life. And I hope your dog feels better soon, my dog's had a hard time lately too. He's a pug so his sinuses completely freeze in the winter and he can't breathe. And did I mention how much I love Sandman and that what you write about writing helps me to write. Did I mention that I'm trying to be a writer? Congratulations on your Newberry."
I take a breath and notice that Neil Gaiman isn't standing in front of me any more, but there is a pomegranate rolling along the floor. I am devastated because Twin Cities Below must have taken him but not me.

I sigh and wander into the tea/coffee aisle. I convince myself that the conversation went very well. The next day I am served a restraining order.

Alas, alas I should not meet Neil Gaiman, lest I end up a mirror-image of that crazy fangirl from Flight of the Conchords. My writing career would surely be over before it began.