Skype?

Are there any Flux authors out there who are using Skype? If so, shoot me an email. I've got a project in the works . . .

Thanks,
AK

Confederate Flag Controversy

This story caught my eye this morning. Three seniors in the Twin Cities suburb of Bloomington were suspended from their graduation for displaying Confederate flags on campus. They said the flags did not signify any sort of racism, rather a fondness for "Southern lifestyle." Do click the link, at least to see the picture. I have mixed feelings about whether it was right for the newspaper to print that photo. Did the photographer encourage them to pose like that?

I think this Northern adolescent fixation with Ol' Dixie is not unique. When I was a sophomore in high school in Michigan at a overwhelmingly white high school, the Confederate flag enjoyed a period of popularity with a certain population, particularly football players, who wore it as a bandanna under their helmets as well as in school. There was no policy--at least not that was enforced--against this, but I do remember an English teacher telling my mother that she was very worried about teaching Huck Finn (in practice, I don't remember there being any problem).

Another great review for The Shape of Water

I loved The Shape of Water immoderately and immediately, but I know it's not necessarily an easy book, which is why I am so thrilled that reviewers and bloggers are loving it and recognizing its rewards. Here's a bit of the latest from SLJ:

"... this story is riveting, and Spollen's incredibly descriptive prose creates images as clear and alive as those of a master painter."

The whole thing is as positive as the earlier Kirkus review.

Something for Nothing

Robin Friedman's next novel, Nothing, is due out soon, but it's already getting some excellent notice, particulalry in this review from Little Willow.

From the Blogs

Leaving Paradise: "Come to think of it Leaving Paradise is a super nice book . . . ." --Cheesepluscrackers.blogspot.com

The Shape of Water: "This is probably one of my favorite books that I read this year (so far). It was so well-written and really captivating."--Sukiarareader.livejournal.com

More Good News for Barbara Shoup

Leila Roy of Bookshelves of Doom just a posted a fine review of Shoup's Everything You Want. Head on over for the full review (and add her to your feed reader. It's one of my favorite blogs and sources for shamelessly literate T-shirts). Here's the gist: "I really enjoyed this one . . . . Definitely recommended to older fans of Sarah Dessen and other contemporary realistic fiction."

A.S. King on Writing Pissed

A.S. King, author of The Dust of 100 Dogs has a great post on writing over at the Mystic-Lit blog. Do have a look.

"Frankly, I learned to write with my middle finger up. I'd had it with the changing fads I never fit into. I didn't want to do what the how-to books told me to do. I didn't aim or outline. I didn't learn a formula for fiction. I didn't read the right books for pleasure. I didn't join internet writing groups. I stayed away from advice and articles and books about writing. This wasn't about selling. It was about learning. So I wrote – what I wanted to write – with my middle finger extended."

And, for anyone who's interested in seeing what Ms. King's writing looks like when she's got her central digit fully extended, here's a tiny bit Dust.

7 – The Invasion of Doctor Lambert

The psychologist my mother sent me to was a nice guy, I guess. He was about six foot three with a soft, rounded plump in the middle, and he wore a pair of round framed glasses that he would occasionally push up with his middle finger.

My first visit was the slowest fifty minutes I ever lived through. I didn't want to say too much, so I let him ask the usual questions between bouts of silence.

"Saffron, why do you think you're here?"

"Because my mother is worried about me." Short and sweet – try not to show too much angst while already popping his fingernails off, one by one, with an awl.

"Why?"

"Because she wants me to be a doctor."

"And you don't want that?"

"No."

"What do you want to be?" he asked, realizing how condescending he sounded a second too late. "I mean, what are you interested in?"

"Lots of stuff."

"Like what?"

I listed a few things. I talked about my favorite classes, history and advanced chemistry, but didn't name any one thing, then said, "I know what I want to do. I just want to do it, that's all. I don't want to talk about it for months and months before I do it."

"But you can't just go to college without planning," he said quite seriously. "You have to talk about it with someone."

"It's not college."

He smiled at me. He had trustworthy eyes, a brown sort of hazel, with a twinkle. They nearly made me want to stop seeing myself whipping him with his own severed forearm.

"Let's talk about school for a minute."

"What about it?"

"Your mother says you do very well."

"I do. It's easy."

"So, you're bored, then?"

"Yeah. You could say that," I said, looking around his disheveled office. "What's that?"

He turned around to see what I was looking at, and explained, "It's an eighteenth-century chest brought from Europe by my great grandfather."

"Are those brass?" Brass catches like Emer's chest.

"I believe so. Have you seen one before?"

"In museums and stuff," I lied.