I think this draft of the cover is loverly. Not only did they base it on the book's opening chapter, but I got to help pick the model. And yes, I'm aware the apostrophe in the title is missing, and so is the publisher.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Buccaneer's Apprentice Cover
I think this draft of the cover is loverly. Not only did they base it on the book's opening chapter, but I got to help pick the model. And yes, I'm aware the apostrophe in the title is missing, and so is the publisher.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Mini-Rant of the Day: Flip-Flops
Flip-flops. I understand the appeal, particularly in summer when, despite the evidence in Michigan that it’s going to be yet another chilly, sweater-worthy July afternoon, one is nurturing the belief that one is foot-loose and fancy-free. They take but a second to slip into. They’re inexpensive. They keep the feet cool. For the ten steps between the back door and the garbage pail when I’m on a trash run, they’re dandy. When I’m standing still in the back yard and watching Fred sniff the hostas, they’re perfectly useful.
I’ll be damned, though, if I can wear the things. First there’s the issue of appearance. My are clean and free from both carbuncles and bunions, I’m certain you’re happy to know, but does anyone really need to be seeing the enormous boats on which I walk around? Do I need to feel as if my toenails are on display, and worry about whether I’ve trimmed them any given week? No, I really don’t, and the public should be spared having to spare my prehensile digits, especially given the fact that my unthinking reflex when I drop something non-edible is to pick it up with my toes and pass it off to my hand, so I don’t have to bend over. People really don’t want to see that.
There’s a more important issue, though. How in the world do people walk in them? When this afternoon I took a half-block stroll down to the post box at the end of my block, when I wasn’t keeping my toes curled up in a little ball, resulting in a constipated gait that looked like something might have been approved by the Ministry of Silly Walks, my flip-flops were flying off my feet and onto the middles of my neighbors’ lawns. Chasing after them, picking them up (with my prehensile toes), and silly-walking back to the sidewalk took up waaaay more time than I would’ve spent putting on some real shoes, back at the house.
Ah, flip-flops. I love what you represent. I simply can’t cope with your deceptive simplicity.
I’ll be damned, though, if I can wear the things. First there’s the issue of appearance. My are clean and free from both carbuncles and bunions, I’m certain you’re happy to know, but does anyone really need to be seeing the enormous boats on which I walk around? Do I need to feel as if my toenails are on display, and worry about whether I’ve trimmed them any given week? No, I really don’t, and the public should be spared having to spare my prehensile digits, especially given the fact that my unthinking reflex when I drop something non-edible is to pick it up with my toes and pass it off to my hand, so I don’t have to bend over. People really don’t want to see that.
There’s a more important issue, though. How in the world do people walk in them? When this afternoon I took a half-block stroll down to the post box at the end of my block, when I wasn’t keeping my toes curled up in a little ball, resulting in a constipated gait that looked like something might have been approved by the Ministry of Silly Walks, my flip-flops were flying off my feet and onto the middles of my neighbors’ lawns. Chasing after them, picking them up (with my prehensile toes), and silly-walking back to the sidewalk took up waaaay more time than I would’ve spent putting on some real shoes, back at the house.
Ah, flip-flops. I love what you represent. I simply can’t cope with your deceptive simplicity.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
She Blinded Me with Science!
Science used to be my friend, growing up. Science was the smiling, clean-cut guy in the spanking white lab coat with a humorous gleam in his eye. He put test tubes and beakers out for show, and filled them with candy-colored liquids that implicitly promised if I mixed them together very carefully, something nifty would happen, like a big puff of pink smoke, or perhaps some alchemical reaction that would leave gold. Or at least pyrite.
Science, in the picture books of my youth, was always about fixing the future. I loved the illustrations of the moon bases that were just around the corner, or of the sterile and sanitary cutaways of the human cell, neatly diagrammed and explicated in language I could understand. The universe was orderly. Classifiable. Predictable.
These days, however, it seems more as if Science is a bit of a bummer. He’s a big Gloomy Gus, the guy who hangs around parties a little too long and butts in on conversations with people he doesn’t know to remind them that he’s been ignored all evening. No one is really interested in his talk about the nifty new inventions he’s come up with—we take increasing miniaturization and convenience as a given, and hate to be reminded that we should be thankful. So deprived of that topic, he’s reduced to reminding all the guests that life is rottener than we thought.
Civilization’s inevitable demise seems to be Science’s desperate cocktail chatter, lately. When I was growing up, there was only one little way that the world could end. You know. Thermonuclear war. No biggie. Maybe a little ice age. Maybe, if the crying native American had anything to say about it, smog might choke out Los Angeles. But that was it.
These days, though, Science wants to remind us almost continuously that there are unknown asteroids out there waiting to smash into us at some unforeseen point in the future. He tickles our fears by reminding us that a massive electromagnetic storm from the sun could wipe out our infrastructures and reduce us to baboons fighting for the last can of Del Monte creamed corn. He paints horrible pictures of global warming gone amok. He tells us our bodies are messy, and that he doesn’t have all the answers about why they go wrong. Then he prompts us to remember that the universe isn’t orderly at all, what with all those black holes right near our solar system ready to gobble us whole, and if that wasn’t bad enough, why, there’s a particle collider on the other side of the world ready to create one for us, by gosh!
Mr. Apocalypse, once he’s spread his message of doom and gloom, then moves on to the next little cluster of people and comes up with an even more dire scenario to scare them pantless. He really seems to enjoy making a stir.
Oh, Science. The desperation doesn’t suit you. I liked you better in your white lab coat, and wearing those omniscient, horn-rimmed glasses. Please. Don’t let me find out you’ve been bi-polar, all along.
Science, in the picture books of my youth, was always about fixing the future. I loved the illustrations of the moon bases that were just around the corner, or of the sterile and sanitary cutaways of the human cell, neatly diagrammed and explicated in language I could understand. The universe was orderly. Classifiable. Predictable.
These days, however, it seems more as if Science is a bit of a bummer. He’s a big Gloomy Gus, the guy who hangs around parties a little too long and butts in on conversations with people he doesn’t know to remind them that he’s been ignored all evening. No one is really interested in his talk about the nifty new inventions he’s come up with—we take increasing miniaturization and convenience as a given, and hate to be reminded that we should be thankful. So deprived of that topic, he’s reduced to reminding all the guests that life is rottener than we thought.
Civilization’s inevitable demise seems to be Science’s desperate cocktail chatter, lately. When I was growing up, there was only one little way that the world could end. You know. Thermonuclear war. No biggie. Maybe a little ice age. Maybe, if the crying native American had anything to say about it, smog might choke out Los Angeles. But that was it.
These days, though, Science wants to remind us almost continuously that there are unknown asteroids out there waiting to smash into us at some unforeseen point in the future. He tickles our fears by reminding us that a massive electromagnetic storm from the sun could wipe out our infrastructures and reduce us to baboons fighting for the last can of Del Monte creamed corn. He paints horrible pictures of global warming gone amok. He tells us our bodies are messy, and that he doesn’t have all the answers about why they go wrong. Then he prompts us to remember that the universe isn’t orderly at all, what with all those black holes right near our solar system ready to gobble us whole, and if that wasn’t bad enough, why, there’s a particle collider on the other side of the world ready to create one for us, by gosh!
Mr. Apocalypse, once he’s spread his message of doom and gloom, then moves on to the next little cluster of people and comes up with an even more dire scenario to scare them pantless. He really seems to enjoy making a stir.
Oh, Science. The desperation doesn’t suit you. I liked you better in your white lab coat, and wearing those omniscient, horn-rimmed glasses. Please. Don’t let me find out you’ve been bi-polar, all along.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I Like School Library Journal
Briceland, V.
The Glass Maker’s Daughter
336p. Flux 2009. pap. $9.95.
ISBN 978-0-7387-1424-0. L
Gr 8 Up
In the medieval canal city of Cassaforte, all noble children between the ages of 11 and 16 are tested, once every 6 years, to determine which school they will attend to learn the enchantments that make the craft work of their families so valuable.
When 16-year-old Risa Divetri, a cazarra of one of the seven most important families, is not chosen for either school, she is convinced the gods have abandoned her. Only after those who can crown a new king are kidnapped does Risa begin to realize that the gods may have something greater in store for her after all.
Cassaforte is a beautifully drawn city of piazzas, gondolas, beauty, and magic. The rules of magic Briceland introduces are clear, and enough hints are present at the beginning of the novel to make Risa’s rise to importance natural. Though the quickly paced plot drives the narrative, Risa’s musings (and occasional bouts of temper) are never cut short. Her relationships with her parents, the glassmakers who work under her father, her treacherous uncle, and the beggar she rescues with the help of young guard Milo are well drawn.
Each of the characters has the feel of greater depth than readers are allowed through Risa’s eyes, and the romantic thread between her and Milo is subtle enough that it does not derail the narrative, but still tugs the heartstrings of romance seekers.
Readers will find much to love in The Glass Maker’s Daughter and its stubborn and strong-willed heroine.
–Alana Abbott, James Blackstone Memorial Library, Branford, CT
School Library Journal
The Glass Maker’s Daughter
336p. Flux 2009. pap. $9.95.
ISBN 978-0-7387-1424-0. L
Gr 8 Up
In the medieval canal city of Cassaforte, all noble children between the ages of 11 and 16 are tested, once every 6 years, to determine which school they will attend to learn the enchantments that make the craft work of their families so valuable.
When 16-year-old Risa Divetri, a cazarra of one of the seven most important families, is not chosen for either school, she is convinced the gods have abandoned her. Only after those who can crown a new king are kidnapped does Risa begin to realize that the gods may have something greater in store for her after all.
Cassaforte is a beautifully drawn city of piazzas, gondolas, beauty, and magic. The rules of magic Briceland introduces are clear, and enough hints are present at the beginning of the novel to make Risa’s rise to importance natural. Though the quickly paced plot drives the narrative, Risa’s musings (and occasional bouts of temper) are never cut short. Her relationships with her parents, the glassmakers who work under her father, her treacherous uncle, and the beggar she rescues with the help of young guard Milo are well drawn.
Each of the characters has the feel of greater depth than readers are allowed through Risa’s eyes, and the romantic thread between her and Milo is subtle enough that it does not derail the narrative, but still tugs the heartstrings of romance seekers.
Readers will find much to love in The Glass Maker’s Daughter and its stubborn and strong-willed heroine.
–Alana Abbott, James Blackstone Memorial Library, Branford, CT
School Library Journal
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