The Accidental Premiere

In honor of all things Harry Potter: I thought I'd share one of my favorite Potter moments, which came as a big surprise was I was in London on July 8, 2009.


Things I didn't expect to do yesterday:

1) Get battered by torrential wind and rain

2) See Daniel Radcliffe and Helena Bonham Carter up close

3) Willingly get battered by torrential wind and rain so I could see Daniel Radcliffe and Helena Bonham Carter up close

I was headed for the Leicester Square tube when I walked right into the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince world premiere. No joke. The square had been refitted to look like a quidditch field and crowds of teens were being managed by London police.

I've never seen a movie premiere and I'm not much of a celebrity follower. But I love Harry Potter and I thought, "Hey, how many times am I going to see movie stars walking down a red carpet?" Answer: Probably never again.

So I found a good vantage point and stayed put. Through wrath-of-god wind and rain and lightning directly above our heads. And it was completely worth it, though unlike Daniel Radcliffe I did not have some nice chap to hold an umbrella over me. I did not have an umbrella at all.

But Helena Bonham Carter didn't either.

It's my last night in London and to bring this trip to a memorable conclusion I went to see War Horse at the New London theater. While I had high hopes for this production, I have to say it absolutely blew me away. It could well be the best play I've ever seen. The story follows a boy and his horse as they are caught up in World War I. It is astonishing, the horses are unbelievably real, the story compelling, and the score, a combination of classical compositions and folk tunes, deeply moving. I was particularly inspired as the play was adapted from a children's novel by Michael Morpurgo.

Next post will be from Minnesota, so for the last time pip, pip and cheerio!

Note from the future: War Horse is currently being transformed to film by Steven Spielberg.

My London Tan and Other Strange Events

Being of the far Northern bloodlines (Scottish/Scandinavian) my pale, red-headed self usually shrinks from extreme heat and too much sun exposure. I have a tendency to go from 0 to tomato red in less than sixty seconds, and then straight to peel with no lovely golden stage in between.

This week's heatwave in London has made it impossible for me to hide from either sun or heat. As long as I avoid the tube (which is always at least 10 degrees warmer than the already hot above-ground and always smells of sweaty folk burdened by their dark business suits), it hasn't been too bad.

I noticed with a shock that the result is I have...a tan. Yes, indeed my arms somehow managed to take on the color of a perfectly toasted marshmallow (plus freckles...I am ginger, after all). I keep waiting for this strange skin phenomenon to vanish, but after three days I still have a *gasp* sun-kissed glow.

I'll get back to the States and be accused of taking a beach vacation when I was supposed to be pouring over manuscripts. Good thing I have my BL reader card and research notes to prove my whereabouts.

In other strange events, there's an unsettling movement afoot over here...the 80s seem to be rising from the grave to shape fashion once again. Now if this trend had coincided with the sudden, tragic demise of M.J. I wouldn't have been surprised. But I notice the definite 80s influenced wardrobes the moment I arrived in London.

Now I'm a child of the 80s. I went gleefully to the first and second Transformers movies, and yes I will even be going to see G.I. Joe this summer. (How could I stay away?)


I love 80s pop, and as much as I pray that I will never have fluffy bangs or big hair again, I remember my crimper with a pleasant, if blushing, tenderness.

But when it comes to 80s fashion, I can't see any redeeming qualities. Neon, zipper-jeans, and too much spandex don't help any of us. And ALL of these things are hanging from racks and adorning mannequins in ALL the shops of Oxford Street.


At first I was puzzled. Then alarmed. Now I'm genuinely worried. I knew it would be a serious problem when I saw several acid washed denim skirts in the mix. And there are zipper jeans too. Sigh.

I had an acid washed denim skirt when I was ten. It had ruffles. Many of the skirts I've seen in London have eerily similar ruffles.I like to think that I'm still young enough to at least appreciate new pop culture and fashion trends. But I have to draw the line here. No acid denim with ruffles. This style is not something we want to return to...please, enough.

In my experience it takes four to six months for London trends to jump across the Atlantic and fill U.S. shops. That means we have four to six months to plot a strategy of resistance.

Who's with me? We can even use an 80s slogan: Just say no to bad fashion revivals.

Origin of the Blurb?

Reading through Captain John Smith's* History of Virginia, New England, and the Summer Isles, first published in 1624, I became mired in the excess of testimonials that preface the work. As I perused the glowing remarks of Smith's endeavor I realized I'd seen this sort of thing before.

They're book blurbs.

To give an example (one of the shortest of the four pages of blurbs in this seventeenth-century piece - note: about the spelling, regular English spelling didn't happen until the eighteenth century. In the 1600s "f" was often "s," "i" often "j," and "v" often "u.")

To my worthy friend Captaine Iohn Smith. How great a great of knowledge had wee loft, Both of Virginia and the Summer Ifles, Hand not thy caerfull diligence and coft Inform’d vs thus, with thy industrious stile! Like Caefar now thou wri’ft what thou haft done, Thefe acts, this Booke will lieu wile ther’s a Sunne. Edw: Worfeley.

Quite the endorsement. If anyone ever compared my writing to Caesar's in a blurb, I don't know what I'd make of it. And a work that will live as long as the sun shines? Impressive.

With the rise of the Kindle and e-books much buzz in the writing world focuses on how much have changed in the life of print, but reading these early modern blurbs made me realize just how much remains the same.

*A note on Smith's exploits. Even without taking the "blurbs" into consideration, John Smith was a notorious self promoter. He's most famous known in American mythology for being "rescued" by Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan - the powerful leader of the Powhatan Confederacy. Smith knew how to spin a good tale.


But this (see above image) never happened. Smith capitalized on romantic images of "New World," and particularly sexually exploitative ideas about indigneous women, in order to puff up his own adventures for public consumption. Though many people believe, and have been further convinced by Disney, that some romantic element played into the Smith/Pocahontas episode, that story is the Englishman's own well-deployed smoke and mirrors.

(The early American historian's nemesis: Walt Disney.
This film makes me cringe so often, it's painful!)

Pocahontas would have been about eleven years old at the time of this encounter, and the ceremony that took place wasn't a near-execution, but an adoption ritual in which Smith was given kinship to the Powhatan becoming a brother/father to Pocahontas (a relationship Pocahontas invokes when he runs into Smith in England much later in life).

Sex, Violence, and Hokey Pokey at the National Gallery

As a writer of YA, and particularly YA that has dark themes, I tend to keep an eye on debates about "quality content." I quirk a curious brow at those who deride stories that are "too violent" or boast too much "sexual content." Much of this criticism is lobbed by "Christian" groups, like the one in West Bend, WI who has sued for the right to burn "inappropriate" books shelved at their public library.

I'm both astounded and frustrated by news of hate-filled censorship, so when I was wandering the halls of the National Gallery today I got to thinking about human culture, sex, and violence. I find it interesting that some folks who label themselves as "Christian" are so distant from the history of their own beliefs. The holy texts and tales attached to Judeo-Christian literature couldn't be more full of sex and violence. Please bear in mind as I write this passage that I have a very deep respect for and fascination with religion (this comment isn't tongue and cheek, my father is a Presbyterian minister). I teach the history of religion in early modern culture and I draw much of my material for writing from questions that I have about the blurred lines between the spiritual and the material that cropped up in Western societies from 1500-1800.

I wonder why so many people seem afraid to take a hard look at human sexuality and the role of violence in our cultures, and are especially vehement that children should know nothing of such subjects. All it takes is a short walk through art galleries to see how integral both are to human history.

Here are just a few examples that I saw hanging on the walls this afternoon:

Susannah at Her Bath, Fracisco Hayez. Oh Susannah. What's an Old Testament girl to do when she all she wants is to scrub up and the Elders come in and tell her if she doesn't sleep with them the meanies will accuse her of adultery. Being of the no-nonsense type, Susannah refuses anyway and manages to prove her innocence; thus, she isn't stoned to death (phew!)

Judith in the Tent of Holofernes, Johann Liss. Just call her Buffy the Tyrant Slayer. Judith knew business when it came to getting her people out from under the thumb of Holofernes. She seduced this bad boy and then chopped of his head. You go girl!

Samson and Delilah, Peter Paul Rubens. Uh, if a picture is worth a thousand words need I say more?

Saint Sebastian, Gerrit van Honthorst. I've chosen Sebastian as the emblem for all the martyr works that fill museum collections. Believe me this image is tame when it comes to forms of martyrdom that are out there depicted in all their graphic horror. I'd also like to mention that this painting is only one of six Sebastian portraits that are hanging at the National Gallery (and the National Gallery doesn't have a monopoly on paintings of Saint Sebastian).
I'm not going to put up any pictures of the mortification of Christ, but I'd wager that those paintings out number all others in most art museums around the world.

So - sex, violence, discord, betrayal, tumult: all part of the human condition and something that needs to be part of literature and education not hidden from sight. That's my soapbox for today.

Now onto the hilarity. It seems that my trip is going to be marked by bizarre incidents with children (see it is related to above post).

During my perusal of the galleries today I encountered a National Gallery docent surrounded by a group of young children (ages 4-7 or so) and their parents. The docent was enthusiastically leading the children (and a few of the parents) in a boisterous round of the Hokey Pokey. Yes, I'm serious. When I saw them they had just gotten to the "you put your whole self in" verse.

I'm not certain what this tour was docketed as. Maybe, show your kids museums can be fun? Or, hey parents look at nice paintings while our employee distracts your children!?

Whatever the case may be it was one of the strangest museums scenes I've ever come across.

I Heart the British Library, but the Evil Kid at Kew Not So Much

British Library = Literary Heaven

Having been advised by a colleague that reading rooms fill up quickly, I made the short walk from my residence to the library arriving promptly at 9:25 (library opens at 9:30). Much to my surprise I encountered an already buzzing queue of tweed-clad folks outside the door.

Academics line up to enter the British Library like Tweens waiting for Hannah Montana: The Movie.

I think it's one of the best things I've ever seen.

While not so enticing from the outside, the interior of the library is astounding. Spacious, lightfilled and full of readings rooms, which are equally full of researchers, it is the perfect place to read and write.

The highlight of my day was purusing the library's "treasured collections." I think I was the most excited to view the original manuscript of Alice in Wonderland. Though Jane Austen's writing desk, an Illuminated Christine de Pizan manuscript, and Da Vinci's notebooks were humbling as well. Oh, and they have the Magna Carta.

In the afternoon I took the tube out to Kew so I could register at the National Archives. With that task complete I headed over to Kew Gardens. The Royal Botanic Gardens are beyond impressive, acres and acres of grounds filled with wonderful trees and flora. I spent some time communing with a 300 year old chestnut tree and particularly loved the way the glasshouses have spiral staircases that enable viewing of the tops of giants ferns and succulents as well as walking alongside them. They also have a tree-top walkway that provides views of the entire garden and all the way to London.

It was all just perfect and lovely (it is still unbelievably sunny here) until I ran into the little mean boy. I was walking across a lawn, just having passed three mums pushing strollers when I heard a horrible screech. Making a beeline towards me was a little boy (I'd guess he was about 3 or 4) red faced and crying, behind him was another little boy of the same age with wide gleaming eyes, a wicked grin, and...a stick.

Mum one: Ben, what's the matter? Ben?
Me (thinks): Uh, that other kid is hitting your kid with a stick.
Mum two: A.C. what are you doing with that stick?
Me (thinks): Obviously hitting other kids with his stick. No one brandishes a stick like that unless they are delighting in acts of violence. Note: I say this from lots of observation and storytelling, not personal penchant for stick violence.

In the next moment, A.C. catches up to fleeing child, cackles, and (of course) hits him with stick.

Mum Two (in shock that sounds a little not-too-shocked for comfort): A.C. no! Put down that stick.

I walk on, grasping at a slim idea that A.C. might be adequately chastised and hope not to see Mums and children for rest of time at garden.

Alas, when I took a break to have afternoon tea replete with scone and clotted cream (if you have never had scone and clotted cream, you are missing out). Three mums with 3 boys and strollers take places at next table.

A.C. immediately begins to terrorize pigeons on the cafe terrace.

Mum two (in a lame voice): A.C. no, A.C. no.

Eventually she gets up and brings A.C. back to table.

Two minutes later he is terrorizing pigeons again.
Mum two (again lamely): A.C. no, A.C. no.

She doesn't get up.

Me (thinks): Are you sure his name isn't Damien?
When I leave the cafe and am halfway to the next glasshouse I can still hear A.C. shrieking like a pterodactyl.

So for the record if in 30 years an evil genius named A.C. is holding the world hostage with a giant electro-ray (his proverbial biggest stick of all), you were warned here first.

London: Without the Fog

I have arrived and am now trying to adjust to typing on the British keyboard in the internet centre of my residence, a keyboard that has just enough keys out of place (including two extra character keys to the right of (;) which makes me type # every time I want to hit Enter. Ahh, acculturation.

The weather is astoundingly good. I spent the afternoon wandering through Covent Garden and actually took my lunch outside a French brasserie where the sun blazed down, making it almost too hot. Something that usually only happens on the sardine-packed Underground.

I've enjoyed bustling along reaquainting myself with the city. I have not gotten lost yet. Yay.

One of my favorite things about this British Isle is how beautifully its inhabitants make use of space. On a sun-washed afternoon like today's, every miniscule green space was filled with friends, families, and couples lounging idly in the grass or sharing a picnic. Even my university flat, which is cheap and cheerful minus the cheerful, has its own private garden.

England and its northern neighbor Scotland have a dearth of space. The two countries have been fighting over this little island for a long, long time. And the Scots know full well that though the highlands are sublime, they are the most hospitable to sheep and not metropolitan centers.

I think the multiude of green nooks, hidden flower beds, and luscious parks that thread through Britain's cities offer perpetual resistance to the press of population of this former empire.

Speaking of evil empires, when I tried to Google something on this computer (it's the hall's computer and not my beloved Mac) it refused to let me go to Google and forced my searches onto Microsofts new "Bing" search engine. Even when I typed in http://www.google.com/ and started the search again, the computer overrode my action and sent me back to Big Brother Bing, with no way to escape.

That was when I got scared.

Over the Pond

In a few short hours I'll be winging my way across the Atlantic (on a jet plane, alas I have yet to sprout wings). The next two weeks will see me pouring over very, very, very old books and manuscripts in the British Library.
I love London, and I've been fortunate to have spent a lot of time in this city. But the doldrums of grad school kept me away for half a decade and I'm eagerly awaiting my reunion with the sights and sounds of London town.

I'm staying in Bloomsbury and hope to pull on the lingering spirits of the Bloomsbury group for inspiration as I write and wander the streets.