Productivity: An Epic Fail

Because of an IT catastrophe at my office, I've been working from home this whole week. I hoped this would give me more time to work on creative things like the sequel to my finished novel and really cool blog posts.... but somehow it hasn't. I did manage to write a short story on Monday which I really like, but other than that I haven't gotten much non-work work done. I don't know why it is, but I'm much more productive on my writerly tasks when I'm at my office... which is the one place I shouldn't even be working on my writerly projects.

I can definitely see why so many full-time writers don't write out of their houses. Your home is tailor made to distract you from doing productive things. Your favorite books, games, movies, music, and whatever else are all gathered in one place for you. So is a nice comfy bed just begging you to take a nap! So much temptation in one place! I haven't been good at ignoring it this week. Then again, I haven't set myself any specific deadlines for any of my projects, so that probably doesn't help either...

Storytime: More Inspired by Rory's Storycubes

A note: This is a first draft and unedited except to look for typos. The inspiration came from four Story Cubes, which are pictured here. What took shape surprised me both in length and the level of back-story that came with it. I like it, but be prepared! It's a little long...

Okay. It's more than a little long. Hopefully, you like it anyway. :)

Delayed

Switching applications on my phone, I check the timer again. Sixteen hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fifteen seconds. As frustrating as the snow delays were at the beginning, now I'm nearly delirious from lack of sleep and it's almost funny. Maybe I should make it into a game. How long can the weather keep a couple thousand northeastern passengers grounded and locked inside airport terminals? Turning my head to make sure my luggage is still undisturbed, I thank my mother for her fear of lost luggage. Except for food, I have everything I need to survive here for a few days. Hopefully, it won't be necessary.

I sit up, adjusting my position against the pillar that had one of the few open outlets and wishing I had a pillow to sit on. The carpet isn't much of a cushion over what feels like a concrete floor. Stretching my legs out in front of me to ease the cramps out of my back, I fold forward and rest my head on my knees. The position is surprisingly comfortable and I feel myself start to drift into a semi-conscious doze when something hard slams against my ankle.

"Damnit!" I hear someone shout.

Jerking upright, I open my eyes in time to see two books go tumbling just past my feet and a laptop still in midair. Lunging forward, I stretch my arms out and barely make contact with the corner of the computer. It's not enough to stop it from hitting the floor, but it does slow it enough to minimize the damage. A guy with curly brown hair and a black leather jacket hits his knees just after his laptop hits the floor and grumbles something I can't understand. He looks vaguely familiar, but I'm not thinking clearly right now and I can't seem to place him.

Shaking his head, he straightens up and I catch sight of his face.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "But that was a nice catch."

I don't hear him if he says anything else because I'm laughing too hard. If I wasn't sleep deprived, this situation would be anything but funny, but what are the odds that sixteen hours into a massive airport delay the boy who broke up with me for no reason six months ago would literally fall at my feet.

"Lyla?" he asks. Even though I can't see him through my watery eyes, I can almost hear the color draining from his face. "I--umm, I mean I just..."

He trails off, but it takes a minute for me to get myself under control. Nathan Bradley broke my heart and the last thing I want is for him to know that. I wipe my eyes and blink to clear my vision, locking my smile on my face.

"Still can't help falling for me, can you, Nate?" 

He goes from pale to flushed in the blink of an eye.

"I--umm... How long have you been here?"

I smirk, but let him change the subject. Switching to the timer app on my phone, I tell him. "Sixteen hours, forty-three minutes, and thirty-six seconds. Thirty-seven seconds. Thirty-eight seconds."

Nate smiles. "Literal as always."

Shrugging, I drop my phone to my lap and look up into his warm amber eyes. It hits me again, how much I miss him. I try not to let that show on my face as I ask, "What are you doing here?"

He flushes again and looks away to finish gathering the books he dropped. I expect him to make some excuse and walk away, but he doesn't. Instead he drops his backpack and his books into a pile next to my luggage and sits next to me on the hard floor. He still won't meet my eyes, but he hasn't run away.

Nathan and I met at school in North Carolina where he was a graduate student and I was working on my undergrad degree, but we're in New York now and he's not from New York. His family lives in Texas and California. There is no reason for him to be prowling LaGuardia.

Unless he's here looking for you, one pathetic voice in my head suggests. I push that hope away because ideas like that will only lead to heartbreak. Again.

"I met some friends in the City for New Years," he says after a minute.

Even though I expected a reason that had nothing to do with me, the pain of being right still sucks.

I nod and wish he hadn't sat down next to me. Leave, I tell him silently. You're good at it, so just go already.

Another minute passes and he's still sitting there next to me. I can feel the heat of his presence radiating off of him. One of the things I loved about Nate was even when he's sitting there doing nothing, I couldn't ignore him. Something about his presence drew me like a magnet and I was hooked before I even knew who he was. It took three months for me to get up the courage to talk to him, four more months to work up the nerve to ask him out, and then I lived in a strange state of bliss for the next nine months until one day he told me he couldn't see me anymore and walked out of my life. He never explained why and I never got the chance to ask him. The coward transferred schools.

"You mind if I stay here?" he finally says. "My phone is about to die and I haven't seen any other open plugs."

A petty desire to shake my head and banish him from my presence grows, but I squash it down. I will be the grown-up here even if it kills me.

Nate opens one of the pouches on his backpack and pulls out a long, tangled cord. It takes him a minute to unravel the knots, but eventually he gets his phone plugged in and leans back against the pillar. Much too close for comfort. I scoot away and try to ignore him, concentrating on my book, but it's no use. I never have been able to ignore Nathan Bradley and I never will.

We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before he starts digging through his backpack again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar package.

"Want some? he asks, holding out a bag of my favorite trail mix. I'd meant to get some before I got to the airport, but ran out of time. Glancing up at Nate, I raise an eyebrow. He blushes again--I always loved how easily he blushed--but doesn't look away this time.

"You kind of got me hooked," he explains.

"You couldn't stand the stuff when..." I trail off, but I can see he knows the rest of the sentence. When we were together.

He shrugs and looks away. "It grew on me."

I take the bag from his still outstretched hand and try not to turn his words over in my head. Even the week he broke up with me, he protested my choice in snacks. If this trail mix grew on him, it could only have done it after he'd run out of my life. Pouring out a handful, I give him the bag back, trying not to spaz when his fingers brush mine and sparks I'd almost forgotten existed shoot through my arm.

God, I missed that feeling. It was one thing I didn't expect from Nathan, the way a single stroke of his hand could drive me crazy. Closing my eyes, I let my head drop back against the pillar and try not to remember the first night we spent together. My first night with anyone, though I'm still not sure if he knows that. He was so gentle, almost as though he was afraid I'd break or vanish before his eyes. I adored how he treated me like something precious and fragile without making me feel incompetent or ridiculously girly. If anything, when I was with Nathan, I felt like I could accomplish anything I set my mind to because he had complete faith in me. Or, at least, I thought he did. Now I'm not so sure.

"You're heading back to school?" he asks, breaking into my memories.

I nod, but don't open my eyes.

He asks a couple more questions about people we both know, but each word out of his mouth peels away a layer of the skin I'd finally managed to grow over the wound he created and after a while I can't take it anymore.

"Look, I don't know what it's like with your other ex-girlfriends, but I can't do this." I push to my feet and start collecting my things. Another plug will open up at some point. It doesn't matter as long as I get away from him before I start to cry. My chest burns and my eyes are filling quickly. I don't have much time left. "It was nice to see you and all. Bye."

I don't even get two steps before he pulls my suitcase out of my hand, grabs my wrist, and pulls me back to our spot.

"Lyla, please," he whispers, his lips so close to my ear I can feel his breath dance across my skin. "I need--I need to say something. Please don't leave. Let me say what I need to say and if you still want me to leave, I'll go."

Taking a deep breath, I risk looking up into his eyes. His skin is pale, his eyes are wide, and he's biting the inside of his cheek the way he always does when he's nervous. All that is enough to sway me, but when completely does me in is the way he sucks in a shuddering breath and whispers, "Please?"

Without meaning to, I nod. My willpower has completely deserted me and I don't fight when he takes my purse and pulls me back to the floor. I don't care that's we're in the middle of a crowded terminal or that giving him a chance to talk will probably only cause me to fall back into the black hole of depression I barely clawed my way out of, but I can't help it. This guy has been my weak spot since the first time I saw him sleeping in the library after pulling an all-nighter.

Even after we're sitting down, he doesn't let go of my left hand. My skin tingles where his thumb rubs along the back of my hand and I can't seem to keep tears from slowly escaping the corners of my eyes. He sees this and lifts his other hand, gently wiping my cheeks dry and leaving a trail of fire behind. I can feel my skin flushing, but I can't look away from his eyes.

"I lied." I blink and he clears his throat before clarifying. "About why I came up here. I didn't come here with friends. I came because even if I couldn't spend the holidays with you I wanted to be nearby."

My heart stops. I am jelly in his hands already and all I can do is silently beg, Don't say nice things and break my heart again. I can't survive losing you twice.

"I finally worked up the nerve to go see you yesterday, but I was too late. You'd already left for the airport."

He squeezes my hand tighter and cups my cheek in his other hand. The contact sends me reeling and I have to close my eyes to keep from lunging forward and locking my arms around his neck. Once I do that I know I'm never letting go again. I can't let him overpower me this fast. I don't even know where he's going with this yet.

"You don't know why I left."

That's just unfair. I open my eyes and glare into his. "You never gave me the chance to ask."

His hand drops away from my face and I feel the loss like a blow to my chest. "Because I couldn't explain it then. I didn't even understand it."

"Is this supposed to be making me feel better?"

I try to pull my hand out of his grasp, but Nate won't let go. "Let me get through this, Lyla, all right?"

"I don't owe you anything," I hiss, trying to pull my hand away and failing again.

"No, you don't. But I owe you."

I can't argue with that, so I don't try. Instead, I bite my tongue and try not to break down.

Nathan stares into my eyes, his gaze steady and strong even though his skin still looks too pale and his hand is shaking in mine. "No one I've ever dated has dug into my life as deep or as fast as you did. You were outspoken and strong and fearless and gorgeous and you scared the shit out of me. I love you so much it terrifies me, Lyla."

My mouth drops open, but I no words escape. I seem to have forgotten how to speak. He loves me? He's never told me he loves me. Did he really just tell me he loves me?

He swallows and clears his throat, his gorgeous eyes dropping from mine to rest on my lips and then down at my hand. His caresses start again, this time running along my knuckles.

"I felt like all of a sudden my entire life had been decided for me, like I didn't have a choice anymore. Should've just gone with it, but I did what I always do when I can't face reality--I ran away from it."

Nate looks up and his stare is so intense I can feel it burning through me. It always felt like he should be able to read my thoughts if he wanted to, but he never seemed to be able to.

"I am so sorry I hurt you, Lyla," he whispers, leaning closer. His free hand dips into his jacket pocket and he pulls something out, but it's hidden in the palm of his hand. "I've always been an idiot when it comes to you, but cutting you out of my life was like trying to live without my lungs. I can't do it anymore. And I'm really hoping I won't have to."

My breath catches as he opens his hand and flips open a ring box with his thumb. Inside, instead of a diamond solitaire is a flower made of gemstones with a brilliant blue center stone surrounded by diamond and emerald studded leaves and an etched white gold band.

"Lyla Lillian Saunders, will you please let me spend the rest of my life trying to make up for not seeing you were the best thing that ever happened to me?" 

Shock locks me in place and before I can say a thing he pulls the ring out of the box and slides it into place on my hand. It's a perfect fit and it looks like it's always been there. My hand curls into a fist just in case he suddenly changes his mind and tries to take it off again.

I tear my eyes away from the ring and look up at Nathan. He's watching me closely, holding his breath, and waiting for my answer.

"Are you sure, Nate? Really sure? Because I can't live through watching you walk away twice. I don't have it in me."

His eyes brighten and his cheeks flush. "I am absolutely certain. I love you and I'm not letting go this time."

I stare into his eyes and see none of the doubts and dark corners that plagued him before. He's sure. He loves me.

In the next second I throw myself into his lap, press my lips against his, and lock my arms around his neck. His hands come around my waist and he groans softly, that rumbly noise that always makes me smile. His touch sends lightning through my veins and fills my head with a rainbow of lights. I never want it to end. I'm only vaguely aware that people around us are laughing and cheering, that our supposedly private conversation wasn't quite quiet enough to escape the attention of the surrounding crowd, but I couldn't care less. I'm back in the arms of the only man I've ever loved and this time, I'm never letting go.

Books: Why Isn't YA Okay?

I had this conversation with customers many times when I still worked at Borders. One day the line shall disappear completely between YA and "adult" literature and people will realize how many genius writers exist within the YA world.

That is all. ;)

Life: The Ups And Downs

Today started off a good day. I've gotten some fantastic news in the past few days (and I will hopefully share it sometime next week) and I even managed to get to work early this morning (which is a serious rarity for me). But there was an email waiting for me here that deflated my mood pretty quickly. The message was simple, but rude, high-handed, and petty. I can't say the accusations made were entirely without case, but the person blew the whole situation so out of proportion it was completely unjustifiable.

But it eventually got me thinking.

So many writers are looking for these big dramatic moments to change the mood or set someone on a certain path that I think they overlook the small things. A smile from a stranger can give someone hope and a unexpectedly harsh email can ruin someone's good day. That small shift in mood can lead to a shift in perspective and suddenly you have your rising tension or the solution to that scene that never quite worked before.

Don't get me wrong, you still need the big moments too. All I'm saying is don't underestimate the power of something small.

Food: Where To Go In NYC

My recent trip to NYC kinda revolved around eating, and I was totally okay with that! The funniest thing was that some of my favorite places were the ones we discovered accidentally. So, from my recent NYC trip, I bring you places I would DEFINITELY visit again. Just in case you're in the area and are looking for a recommendation. :)

 Plum Pizzaria
157 Second Avenue, New York, NY 10003
Between 9th and 10th Street
phone: (212) 375-9555

Everyone I went here with ordered something different and all of us were in awe of how deliciously delicious it all was. I highly recommend the norma bruschetta with roasted eggplant, fresh sliced tomato and feta cheese. OMG yum!

 Nanking
1634 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Between 50th and 51st Street
phone: (212) 586-3100

I am not always a fan of Chinese or Thai food (Japanese I adore, however), but the salmon dish I ordered here was shockingly nummy! And it came with some kind of ginger curry over rice that I could have eaten a triple helping of.

 Meme Mediterranean 

581 Hudson St, New York, NY 10014

Near corner of Bank St and Hudson St

phone: (646) 692-8450

All I knew was that I was in the mood for Mediterranean food, so we looked online and found this place... AND I AM SO GLAD WE DID! My friend and I ordered a bunch of different things to share and it was all fantastic. 

Trattoria Spaghetto
232 Bleeker St, New York, NY 10014
On the corner of Bleeker St. and Carmine St.
phone: (212) 255-6752

Relatively inexpensive and family friendly, this place was a true accidental find, but it was worth it. Great Italian cuisine set in a adorable neighborhood.

Grammercy Tavern
42 East 20th St, New York, NY 10003
Between Park Avenue South and Broadway

Not an accidental find, but even expecting to enjoy this restaurant I thought it wouldn't be worth the high price tag. I was wrong. The food was incredible and the service made the night unforgettable.

Junior's 
West 45th St, New York, NY 10036
Between Broadway and 8th Ave.
phone: (212) 302-2000

The Junior's website and Google maps can't agree on the address, but the comfort food (especially the cheesecake) is fantastic anyway! 

Alice's Tea Cup
156 E 64th St, New York, NY 10021
Just off Lexington Ave
phone: (212) 486-9200

I'm normally not a fan of English teas or breakfast in general, but this adorable little tea shop was enough to change my mind. Their scones crumble in your hands and their food is delicious! Plus the Alice decor throughout always gives you something interesting to look at.

Halal Guys
Somewhere around 53rd St and 6th Ave
Wherever they set up
phone: N/A

No trip to NYC is complete without street food and this place is one of the best I've ever found. Usually on the corner of 53rd and 6th, they open at 7 pm and run until 5 am serving the best chicken and rice I've ever had. And it's only $6!

Debuts: Why Publishing Your First Novel Is Like Running For Student Body President

Because this is a topic much on my mind lately, I found this post on Writers Digest extraordinarily timely! I also loved the comparisons and the fresh way of looking at things. I enjoyed it so much I'm reposting the entire thing here. :D

Why Publishing Your First Novel Is Like Running For Student Body President

By Michelle Haimoff

Guest column by Michelle Haimoff, writer and blogger whose writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Christian Science Monitor, PsychologyToday.com and The Huffington Post. Her first novel, THESE DAYS ARE OURS (Feb. 2012, Grand Central, starred review from Publishers Weekly), is available nationwide. She can be found blogging on genfem.com and on Facebook and Twitter.

Picture being a new student at a high school where you don’t know anyone (1). And now picture dementedly wanting to run for school president (2). Lord knows why you want to run for school president, but maybe you think you’d make a terrific president. You have really good ideas and if people would just give you a chance you could make this school the greatest school the world has ever seen (3). You know it’s a long shot but it can be done, so you set out to do it.
1 – writing your first novel
2 – publishing your first novel
3 – it is possible that your novel doesn’t suck

You start making signs (4) and trying to get student groups (5) to let you talk at their meetings . But nobody knows you so they tell you that they don’t have time for you to talk at their meetings (6). The kids on Yearbook (7), Model UN (8) and Debate Team (9) won’t even look at you (10) when you approach them. The ones in Band (11) and Chess Club (12) say no way, but the Community Service Committee (13) says they’ll think about it. You make sure to say hi to all Community Service Club members in the hallways (14) anytime you pass them. They never say hi back.
4 – writing emails
5 – newspapers and magazines
6 – review your book
7 – The New Yorker
8 – New York Review of Books
9 – The New York Times
10 – respond to your emails
11 – Daily Beast
12 – Salon
13 – The Atlantic Salmon Journal
14 – retweet their tweets

Your signs (15) are made out of loose leaf (16) and graph paper (17) because you’re paying for them with your own money and you can’t afford oak tag (18). But you notice that other candidates, the jocks maybe, have signs (19) that are professionally laser printed (20) and hang as banners in the hallways (21). You look at your dinky graph paper sign and then at the enormous sign in the hallway and you wonder how you’re ever going to get anyone to vote for you (22). Also, you wonder where they got the money for those signs. But you shrug it off and keep your head up because you’re an optimist (23). An unrelenting optimist (24).
15 – publicity
16 – Facebook status updates
17 – tweets
18 – a publicist
19 – personal websites
20 – really fucking well designed
21 – come up first in a Google search
22 – buy your book
23 – an idiot
24 – an idiot with an inflated sense of self

Every so often you stand at the entrance to the cafeteria (25) and take an informal poll to see how many students are planning to vote for you (26). One day two students tell you that they’ll vote for you (27)! But moments later the captain of the football team trips you (28) causing you to run and hide (29).
25 – go on Amazon
26 – check your ranking
27 – you were ranked lower than #400,000
28 – Amazon recommends that you check out the Fifty Shades Trilogy
29 – close all tabs

At this point you have a moment of sanity and wonder what the hell you were thinking running for office. There’s no way you’re going to win (30), you should just be focusing on your homework (31) and graduation (32). It is at that moment that French Club (33) tells you they want you to speak at their next meeting (34). You have tried so hard for so long and you are overjoyed by this minor victory. You come out of the meeting knowing that you got more votes.
30 – make any money doing this
31 – getting an office job
32 – saving up for retirement
33 – a blog you’ve never heard of
34 – is going to review your book

The election comes and goes and you don’t become student body president, but you don’t get the least number of votes either (35). The kids that voted for you (36) wish you better luck when you run next year (37). And now you actually have some friends in this school, or at least more people to say hi to in the hallways (38). And because you really don’t know when to quit, you think, “Hmmm. Maybe I will run again next year (39)… maybe I will (40)…”
35 – some books aren’t even in the top #400,000 on Amazon
36 – your readers
37 – tell you that they’re looking forward to your next book
38 – Twitter followers
39 – there is this other book idea I have…
40 – and my second novel will definitely sell better than my first…

Bookstores: Not Much Has Changed

Like books themselves, bookstores haven't changed much in essentials in a very long time. Sure most bookstores don't act as libraries anymore (cause we have actual libraries for that now), but otherwise the last century hasn't seen the bookstore changing in leaps and bounds.

Yesterday I found this essay thanks to someone I used to work at a bookstore with. Written by George Orwell in 1936, it talks about one of the most common complaint of booksellers: the customers. I found the whole thing really interesting, so now I'm posting it here in its entirety. Enjoy!

George Orwell

Bookshop Memories

When I worked in a second-hand bookshop — so easily pictured, if you don't work in one, as a kind of paradise where charming old gentlemen browse eternally among calf-bound folios — the thing that chiefly struck me was the rarity of really bookish people. Our shop had an exceptionally interesting stock, yet I doubt whether ten per cent of our customers knew a good book from a bad one. First edition snobs were much commoner than lovers of literature, but oriental students haggling over cheap textbooks were commoner still, and vague-minded women looking for birthday presents for their nephews were commonest of all.

Many of the people who came to us were of the kind who would be a nuisance anywhere but have special opportunities in a bookshop. For example, the dear old lady who ‘wants a book for an invalid' (a very common demand, that), and the other dear old lady who read such a nice book in 1897 and wonders whether you can find her a copy. Unfortunately she doesn't remember the title or the author's name or what the book was about, but she does remember that it had a red cover. But apart from these there are two well-known types of pest by whom every second-hand bookshop is haunted. One is the decayed person smelling of old breadcrusts who comes every day, sometimes several times a day, and tries to sell you worthless books. The other is the person who orders large quantities of books for which he has not the smallest intention of paying. In our shop we sold nothing on credit, but we would put books aside, or order them if necessary, for people who arranged to fetch them away later. Scarcely half the people who ordered books from us ever came back. It used to puzzle me at first. What made them do it? They would come in and demand some rare and expensive book, would make us promise over and over again to keep it for them, and then would vanish never to return. But many of them, of course, were unmistakable paranoiacs. They used to talk in a grandiose manner about themselves and tell the most ingenious stories to explain how they had happened to come out of doors without any money — stories which, in many cases, I am sure they themselves believed. In a town like London there are always plenty of not quite certifiable lunatics walking the streets, and they tend to gravitate towards bookshops, because a bookshop is one of the few places where you can hang about for a long time without spending any money. In the end one gets to know these people almost at a glance. For all their big talk there is something moth-eaten and aimless about them. Very often, when we were dealing with an obvious paranoiac, we would put aside the books he asked for and then put them back on the shelves the moment he had gone. None of them, I noticed, ever attempted to take books away without paying for them; merely to order them was enough — it gave them, I suppose, the illusion that they were spending real money.
Like most second-hand bookshops we had various sidelines. We sold second-hand typewriters, for instance, and also stamps — used stamps, I mean. Stamp-collectors are a strange, silent, fish-like breed, of all ages, but only of the male sex; women, apparently, fail to see the peculiar charm of gumming bits of coloured paper into albums. We also sold sixpenny horoscopes compiled by somebody who claimed to have foretold the Japanese earthquake. They were in sealed envelopes and I never opened one of them myself, but the people who bought them often came back and told us how ‘true’ their horoscopes had been. (Doubtless any horoscope seems ‘true’ if it tells you that you are highly attractive to the opposite sex and your worst fault is generosity.) We did a good deal of business in children's books, chiefly ‘remainders’. Modern books for children are rather horrible things, especially when you see them in the mass. Personally I would sooner give a child a copy of Petrenius Arbiter than Peter Pan, but even Barrie seems manly and wholesome compared with some of his later imitators. At Christmas time we spent a feverish ten days struggling with Christmas cards and calendars, which are tiresome things to sell but good business while the season lasts. It used to interest me to see the brutal cynicism with which Christian sentiment is exploited. The touts from the Christmas card firms used to come round with their catalogues as early as June. A phrase from one of their invoices sticks in my memory. It was: ‘2 doz. Infant Jesus with rabbits’.
But our principal sideline was a lending library — the usual ‘twopenny no-deposit’ library of five or six hundred volumes, all fiction. How the book thieves must love those libraries! It is the easiest crime in the world to borrow a book at one shop for twopence, remove the label and sell it at another shop for a shilling. Nevertheless booksellers generally find that it pays them better to have a certain number of books stolen (we used to lose about a dozen a month) than to frighten customers away by demanding a deposit.
Our shop stood exactly on the frontier between Hampstead and Camden Town, and we were frequented by all types from baronets to bus-conductors. Probably our library subscribers were a fair cross-section of London's reading public. It is therefore worth noting that of all the authors in our library the one who ‘went out’ the best was — Priestley? Hemingway? Walpole? Wodehouse? No, Ethel M. Dell, with Warwick Deeping a good second and Jeffrey Farnol, I should say, third. Dell's novels, of course, are read solely by women, but by women of all kinds and ages and not, as one might expect, merely by wistful spinsters and the fat wives of tobacconists. It is not true that men don't read novels, but it is true that there are whole branches of fiction that they avoid. Roughly speaking, what one might call the average novel — the ordinary, good-bad, Galsworthy-and-water stuff which is the norm of the English novel — seems to exist only for women. Men read either the novels it is possible to respect, or detective stories. But their consumption of detective stories is terrific. One of our subscribers to my knowledge read four or five detective stories every week for over a year, besides others which he got from another library. What chiefly surprised me was that he never read the same book twice. Apparently the whole of that frightful torrent of trash (the pages read every year would, I calculated, cover nearly three quarters of an acre) was stored for ever in his memory. He took no notice of titles or author's names, but he could tell by merely glancing into a book whether be had ‘had it already’.
In a lending library you see people's real tastes, not their pretended ones, and one thing that strikes you is how completely the ‘classical’ English novelists have dropped out of favour. It is simply useless to put Dickens, Thackeray, Jane Austen, Trollope, etc. into the ordinary lending library; nobody takes them out. At the mere sight of a nineteenth-century novel people say, ‘Oh, but that's old!’ and shy away immediately. Yet it is always fairly easy to sell Dickens, just as it is always easy to sell Shakespeare. Dickens is one of those authors whom people are ‘always meaning to’ read, and, like the Bible, he is widely known at second hand. People know by hearsay that Bill Sikes was a burglar and that Mr Micawber had a bald head, just as they know by hearsay that Moses was found in a basket of bulrushes and saw the ‘back parts’ of the Lord. Another thing that is very noticeable is the growing unpopularity of American books. And another — the publishers get into a stew about this every two or three years — is the unpopularity of short stories. The kind of person who asks the librarian to choose a book for him nearly always starts by saying ‘I don't want short stories’, or ‘I do not desire little stories’, as a German customer of ours used to put it. If you ask them why, they sometimes explain that it is too much fag to get used to a new set of characters with every story; they like to ‘get into’ a novel which demands no further thought after the first chapter. I believe, though, that the writers are more to blame here than the readers. Most modern short stories, English and American, are utterly lifeless and worthless, far more so than most novels. The short stories which are stories are popular enough, vide D. H. Lawrence, whose short stories are as popular as his novels.
Would I like to be a bookseller de métier? On the whole — in spite of my employer's kindness to me, and some happy days I spent in the shop — no.
Given a good pitch and the right amount of capital, any educated person ought to be able to make a small secure living out of a bookshop. Unless one goes in for ‘rare’ books it is not a difficult trade to learn, and you start at a great advantage if you know anything about the insides of books. (Most booksellers don't. You can get their measure by having a look at the trade papers where they advertise their wants. If you don't see an ad. for Boswell's Decline and Fall you are pretty sure to see one for The Mill on the Floss by T. S. Eliot.) Also it is a humane trade which is not capable of being vulgarized beyond a certain point. The combines can never squeeze the small independent bookseller out of existence as they have squeezed the grocer and the milkman. But the hours of work are very long — I was only a part-time employee, but my employer put in a seventy-hour week, apart from constant expeditions out of hours to buy books — and it is an unhealthy life. As a rule a bookshop is horribly cold in winter, because if it is too warm the windows get misted over, and a bookseller lives on his windows. And books give off more and nastier dust than any other class of objects yet invented, and the top of a book is the place where every bluebottle prefers to die.
But the real reason why I should not like to be in the book trade for life is that while I was in it I lost my love of books. A bookseller has to tell lies about books, and that gives him a distaste for them; still worse is the fact that he is constantly dusting them and hauling them to and fro. There was a time when I really did love books — loved the sight and smell and feel of them, I mean, at least if they were fifty or more years old. Nothing pleased me quite so much as to buy a job lot of them for a shilling at a country auction. There is a peculiar flavour about the battered unexpected books you pick up in that kind of collection: minor eighteenth-century poets, out-of-date gazeteers, odd volumes of forgotten novels, bound numbers of ladies’ magazines of the sixties. For casual reading — in your bath, for instance, or late at night when you are too tired to go to bed, or in the odd quarter of an hour before lunch — there is nothing to touch a back number of the Girl's Own Paper. But as soon as I went to work in the bookshop I stopped buying books. Seen in the mass, five or ten thousand at a time, books were boring and even slightly sickening. Nowadays I do buy one occasionally, but only if it is a book that I want to read and can't borrow, and I never buy junk. The sweet smell of decaying paper appeals to me no longer. It is too closely associated in my mind with paranoiac customers and dead bluebottles.

1936

THE END

____BD____
George Orwell: ‘Bookshop Memories’
First published: Fortnightly. — GB, London. — November 1936.

Reprinted:

— ‘The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell’. — 1968.

____
Machine-readable version: O. Dag
Last modified on: 2004-11-24

Recap: BEA 2012

The first sight of the Javits Center (I'm not gonna lie) made me a little scared. How in the world was I going to see everything they stuffed inside a building this huge in only three days?! I'm telling you right now, I didn't do it. I missed things. I missed a lot of people, books, events, talks, conferences, and I don't even know what else. For anyone who hasn't gone but plans on attending, it's impossible. DO NOT go there with the hope or the expectation of seeing it all. It won't happen and you'll only be disappointed. Plus, you'll end up stressing yourself out. And that's never fun.

Technically, BEA ran from Monday-Thursday, but the main exhibition hall wasn't open on Monday. In fact, a lot of the displays were still in pieces. I know because Lani and I walked around almost tripping on piles of plywood and rolled up carpets. We used the time to get out badges before the lines got crazy long and also to learn the layout of the floor. One thing I will say for the organizers, the exhibition hall was very well labeled. I rarely had a hard time finding my way around! Having attended more than a few large scale conventions in other industries, I know that this level of organization isn't easy. I applaud whoever was in charge of that exhibition hall. Fabulous job!

Before flying out to NYC, I went online and looked at the schedule of talks to be given during BEA. Unfortunately, I only attended one of them. The picture here is from the YA Editor's Buzz Panel Tuesday morning and even though I got there right on time, the room was so packed I had to stand in the doorway. I take this as a very good sign for the future of YA literature! Interest is strong and only seems to be growing. I picked up all five of the books mentioned on the panel and they all look brilliant. Trying to figure out what to read first is a problem, but it's a really great problem to have! :D

One thing I found amusing every time I walked into the building was the ads. For example, the steps seemed to be brought to you by Cassandra Clare. The entire front entryway appeared to be sponsored by Dean Koontz (seriously--there were posters of his book on the doors, the floor, the walls, everywhere!). And I think a book trailer for one of James Patterson's new books was practically on loop on the TVs. Honestly, it seemed like overkill for already established authors. Just a couple of signs that said, "Hey, don't forget this author you already like has a new book coming out soon" probably would have been more than enough. I did like the steps, though. There was more to it than pictured here and I thought it ended up looking pretty cool.

As amazing as free books are, my favorite part of BEA was the people. Authors, publishers, blogger, book lovers, booksellers, and industry pros all gathering together in one place to celebrate their shared obsession is so much fun! I met authors like Shannon Hale (pictured here signing the new Princess Academy book), Diana Peterfreund, Rebecca Serle, Lauren Oliver, Yvonne Woon, Susane Colasanti, Maggie Stiefvater (who actually recognized me from a signing a YEAR AGO in Coral Gables O.O!), Ally Condie, Kody Keplinger, Elizabeth Miles, Elizabeth Eulberg, Dan Wells, Mike Mullin, Jenifer Armentrout, Jeri Smith-Ready, Angela Corbett, Myra McEntire, Jamie Manning, Tiffany Truitt, and so many more! There's something incredibly inspiring about being around that many creative people in the same week. Inspiring and a little intimidating!  

That being said, free books were still pretty amazing. By the end of the day on Thursday, I'd collected sixty-six books. Sixty-six! And I was selective, taking only books I knew I'd actually read or that I planned on passing on to a family member. If I'd just let myself grab anything I saw, that number probably would have been in the three digit range. Because I promised I would, I added a list below the cut of the books I adopted during BEA. Overall, though, it was awesome. I definitely plan on attending next year. If everything in my plan goes right, I may be using the time to apartment hunt, too! Come hell or high water, I'm moving to that city in 2013!!

Tessa, Brenna, and Maggie signing their short story collection
The Curiosities

Four of the Pendrell authors and their publisher

Recap: NYC

My trip started in the middle of the day on a Thursday (which, apparently, is a great time to fly because the flight had some extra space). I had a seat over the wing that was NOT an exit row. You have to pay extra for those now. Somehow I always end up getting placed one row behind or in front of them so I get to glare at the people with extra foot space. It was actually kind of nice to be trapped on a plane with my mom and my sister since our schedules don't coincide often enough for us to spend hours together in a row like that. We landed in New York just before dinner and headed to one of my mom's favorite Italian restaurants in Manhattan: Daniela's.

Most of the time, our family weekend trips are busy, busy, busy with a lot of time spent in the TCKTS line for half-price Broadway shows. I'm not sure why, but this trip seemed a lot more relaxed. Maybe it was because I knew that even though my family would only be staying until Monday, I had ten whole days to enjoy the sights of the city. And to make the trip even better, the weather while we were there was cool and gorgeous!

One thing this trip definitely did was convince me I need to move to Manhattan. Specifically, I need to move into this townhouse on 10th Street near St Marks Church. And, coincidentally enough, it's for sale! Yaaay! Anyone want to pool some money and buy it with me?

Friday night we went to see a now Tony-winning play called Peter and the Starcatcher. It's based on the books by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson but not having read them I can't tell how closely the play follows the original story. Honestly, though, it doesn't matter. This show is GENIUS on so many levels. The actors were incredible (OMG BLACK STACHE!) and the script was brilliantly hilarious. I'm hoping they make a DVD with the original cast because I will buy it. Like, right now. If you make it to NYC before the cast changes, SEE THIS PLAY! So worth it, even if you have to pay full price for tickets, which after all their Tony nominations and wins, is very possible.

Another amazing thing about Manhattan? You never know who you'll run into! We were walking down 6th Ave when we're suddenly stopped by a man with a name badge and a walkie talkie. Apparently the sidewalk was closed for the filming of a movie called The Secret Life of Walter Mitty directed by and starring Ben Stiller and premiering in 2013! And so we crossed the street to watch for a moment (until more people with name badges and walkie talkies moved us along) and there he was! So I made use of my zoom and took a picture. :D

Saturday morning we walked out of our hotel (which was right on 6th Ave) to find fifteen blocks of the road shut down for a street fair! White tented booths lined both sides of the Avenue and offered so many things. Food, clothes, jewelry, bed sheets, magnets (seriously, there was an entire booth with handcrafted magnets), recycled metal art, paintings, and general knick knacks. I managed to escape without spending more than $5 for which I am very proud of myself. Neither of my sisters were quite as lucky.

The unexpected beauty of NYC is one of the reasons I love it so much. If you keep your eyes open for it, there is art and little alcoves of nature tucked away everywhere. The garden pictured here is behind St Marks church on 10th. There are murals and sculptures in the subway stations and most of the buildings are works of art too. I can understand that a lot of people wouldn't like New York because of the noise, the congestion, the close quarters, but I seriously question the sanity of people who have visited and don't have a single good thing to say. Were their eyes even open when they walked through the streets? It's hard to believe.  

Because it's not just the streets, it's the people, too. The talent you find just on the street corners is more than awe inspiring. It's inspirational. At least, I find it inspirational. And for someone as naturally reclusive as I am, the sense of community and camaraderie I get when I'm in Manhattan is magnetic.

One of the last things we did before my family departed was see a play called End of the Rainbow. Starring Tracie Bennett, this play is about the comeback tour Judy Garland did just before her death. Powerful and tragic, it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion and knowing you can't do a thing to stop what's coming. Before seeing it, someone described it as visceral. After seeing it, I agreed.

More to come! BEA, more shows on Broadway, and a couple of picture only posts because I have more than I know what to do with! :D

Events: NYC in Pictures

It's official! I got home on Sunday and all I want to do is go back to NYC where view like this are possible:

Taken by me from a rooftop in Tribeca on Wednesday, June 6th.

Isn't it beautiful? It was taken from a gorgeous apartment building overlooking the Hudson River during a phenomenal book blogger/author party last week. I want to go back! 

I had hoped my box of BEA books would arrive yesterday so I could do my recap post including list of amazing new TBR books, but alas, no such luck. I'm also still kind of burned out from less than my usual amount of sleep and about triple my usual amount of activity, so my brain is in zombie-mode. To make up for it, here's another picture from my trip. Recap shall come later in the week once I have my book list in hand. :)

More posts to come later! I have to go back to work now.

Events: Almost Home, But Not Quite

I'm still not home, but this is the first time I've had a chance to write something longer than a Tweet.

If you haven't been following me on Twitter, you can still go here and check out my posts from BEA and around NYC the past week. Once I get home I will load my pictures onto my computer and start writing up recaps of the awesomeness that was my entire trip. Even though I already knew I wanted to move to Manhattan one day, this trip convinced me that day needs to come a lot sooner than I thought. I'm in love with the village and plan on living there as soon as financially possible. :D

Look for more on Tuesday or Wednesday!