Wonko, human information sieve, informs me that the next Batman movie, directed by the chappy behind Batman Begins, “may very well star Johnny Depp as the Joker and Rachel Weisz as Harley Quinn”. And you see, this is the trouble with movie rumors. Because right now, my little Harley-lovin’, Gotham Girl heart is full of gladness and a wee artificial springtime. And at any moment, the studio could put Joel Schumacher back, write Harley out, make Johnny Depp play the Mad Hatter as secondary villain, and have the main villain be a giant robotic spider (because, as you know, spiders are the fiercest killers in the animal kingdom.) Sometimes I wish I didn’t love movies — because you never know when they’re going to love you back.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who suddenly found that she couldn’t finish anything. She would write an entire story and stop at the last paragraph, unable to write more than one word at a time. She would do all her errands and return home only to remember the most important errand was left undone; she would do her shopping and realize that she hadn’t bought milk. She would start a thank-you letter and leave it untouched for days. Then one day she realized how much it had been happening, and decided to write a special story to finish off the not-finishing. She sat down to write the story, and

I’m kind of a strange mixture of holiday spirit and cynicism. I love to decorate for Christmas, but I’d say my favorite Christmas movies are Bell, Book and Candle and Die Hard. I love old-fashioned carols, but Jingle Bells brings me out in hives. Sometimes, when I haven’t read A Christmas Carol recently enough, I wonder about me and Christmas. If I’m not religious, am I part of the commercialized Christmas problem? Am I co-opting Christmas? A good dose of Ebeneezer and Tiny Tim relieves me of this and fills me with secular humanist Christmas glow, but I think it’s worth saying that it’s a silly worry.

Haven’t you ever wondered why most cultures seem to have a winter holiday? (Most cultures in the Northern Hemisphere, that is. Maybe I should look up June holidays in the Southern hemisphere…) Christmas itself, some scholars hold, should really be in early January, but it got scooched back towards the Solstice, probably to compete with and co-opt existing winter festivals like Yule (I won’t even get into Zoroastrianism). I figure that we need our warmth and merriment, our festivals of light and celebrations of life, in order to get through the dark part of the year. It can’t be entirely due to pagan traditions that they tend to fall on either side of the Solstice instead of marking the end of the cold; it’s like a Hump-Day party for the year — we’re getting through the hardest part. There’s a certain dark humor to it, if you think back to the way things must have been in societies with a meager food surplus, less insulation, and so on. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow our food may run out.

I doubt this is an original thought at all (probably been said many times, many ways), but I find it comforting. I don’t have to feel vaguely hypocritical because my memories of Christmas are about that (pagan) tree, the little family traditions my parents made up, stockings and Santa, waiting for people to open MY presents to them…Christmas belongs to me, too. Christmas, Saturnalia, Yule, Chanukkah, Dong zhi, Modranect, Yalda, whatever. I think we’re hard-wired for winter holidays, to celebrate inside with fire and food while Nature frowns. It’s our right as children of a tilted planet. Enjoy, and happy feastings.

I know you gave me a poor grade on my report on Sharks and Dolphins, claiming that your last name was “not an excuse to foist nonsense on the class”. However, it is my duty as a citizen of the dolphin-protected Earth to tell you that the dolphins have a new ally.

Sincerely,
Elinor Roberts, Grade 4

Update: Now with WORKING LINKS!

I’m beginning to think that I am, by nature, an optimist. Certainly as I sit here on the last day of my visit to my parents, a visit I rashly envisioned leaving plenty of time to write another 5,000 words on my NaNoWriMo novel, I seem to have been irrationally so. After all, I thought, surely I’ll need to sneak off by myself and steal a little time alone with Puck. I’ll need to get away from the bustle of people at Thanksgiving! I’ll have an hour or two to myself after my parents go to bed!

HA. NO. I may manage to squeeze out another chapter tonight, thus pushing me a little farther over a measly 10% of my goal. Why have I failed in the challenge? I wasn’t strict enough with myself about it, of course, but also, I think I failed utterly to just produce without caring much about quality. I rather like my cheesy little story. And for that reason, I shall not leave off as the clock strikes twelve tonight. I shall carry on, I hope, until it is finished. Maybe, just maybe, before November of next year. (I’m trying to temper my optimism…)

Update: 12.466% of goal. Tra-la!

As some of you may have noticed with disapprobation, Saul Jordan, the hero of my NaNoWriMo pulp novel, remains vaguely defined. In part this is because all the world knows the features of Saul Jordan’s face from his previous adventures (sorry, I do love my own pulp pretensions); in part it is because the combined clich— I mean, power— of Saul’s description might bust your noggins; and in part this is because I figure it is unnecessary. However, one piece of his description IS necessary. It shades his firm jaw and sets off his gunmetal grey eyes. However, I cannot bring myself to define it.

Perhaps the problem is that Saul Jordan wears many metaphorical chapeaux. He is a cynical, world-weary private detective; an international man of mystery; a decorated war hero. These roles cannot be subsumed into one hat. Moreover, what hat can I use? Given Saul Jordan’s true-blue history as an ace fighter pilot, I had to have his non-PI wear include a flight jacket. Therefore, he absolutely cannot wear the hat which his PI role would imply: a fedora. Saul Jordan is not a cheap Indiana Jones knockoff! Saul Jordan is a cheap Sam Spade/Indiana Jones/Jack Colton/Flash Gordon/Lucky Starr/Richard Seaton knockoff. (I’m keeping my options open.)

The fedora ruled out, what is a girl to do? He can’t wear a pilot’s helmet to match his flight jacket. That would just be weird, and besides, Sky Captain was too disappointing for any part of it that didn’t involve Angelina Jolie kicking ass to influence my hero.

He cannot wear a cap, as styled by news boys, Eponine, Bertram Wooster and myself. Not only would it be below his dignity, but on Planet Hard-Boiled, only the most coffee-and-doughnut loogan wears a cap. It’s a symbol of the lowliest thug, not the loftiest hero.

So what then? Every other felt dress hat is too wimpy or too evil. Pith helmet? PLEASE. Aussie hat? I do not plan on putting velociraptors in my story (though I keep my options open.) Cowboy hat? Urgh. We are from Chicago, people. We are not every steely-eyed American stereotype. I’m sorry, Johnny Ringo, but that even goes for the best evil cowboy hat evar. (The best good cowgirl hat, incidentally, was worn by Prue on Charmed. I want this hat as I have never wanted a cowboy hat before.)

All this nattering aside, where am I left? Is Saul Jordan, besides being the greatest hero of his generation, the only man in that generation not to wear a hat? In sunny, high-altitude Peru? Would a hero be that stupid?

I have finally followed through and begun the epic tale of Saul Jordan and The Bride of the Golden God. 1,199 words down…48,801 words to go!

Go read it if you’re so inclined!

Autumn is here! It’s pouring and blowing, and even occasionally pelting and wuthering! The grey sky and the silhouettes of trees are shimmering on the wet ground, the world is a constant susurrating drumroll, and every now and then the wind bustles through and rips the leaves away from their swaying branches. No more half-measures and drizzly gestures, this is fall. It has come!

I had meant to inaugurate National Novel-Writing Month/Personal Pulpy Power Month with a first chapter on the first of the month, but, well, I was busy learning some rudimentary bits of css and xsl in order to piece together the cover, binding and title page of The Case of Saul Jordan and the Bride of the Golden God. In order to satisfy my two totally contradictory biggest fans, I’m serializing the NaNoWriMo efforts, but on a different blog. I’ll let you know when there’s more to see.

A first for Faerye Net: the Halloween Special! Pointers on accomplishing Bad Science — be it evil, ill-advised, or both — as taught to me by Professor Television and his lovely assistant, Mlle. Cinema. Sharpen your evil pencils and prepare to matriculate.

10.

Extraterrestrial material always holds the potential to bring humans back from the dead. (But mind the side effects!)

9.

There are two species of brains in jars: Creepius Stagedressingus, and Speakus Sansvocalcordicus. The latter can sometimes claim to use telepathy. The former just sit there and pickle.

8.

Chambers — isolation, quarantine, experiment — are all deathtraps and mutation devices. The wise Bad Scientist will allow only enemies and expendable lab minions to enter.

7.

Bad Scientists are all white or Asian. Only male scientists can be in complete control of Bad Science Laboratories. Female scientists must answer to capitalists or chief scientists. In the latter case, they should try to cultivate a secret love for their brilliant compeer.

6.

Antidotes to virii and poisons must be kept in a rack or case with the virii and poisons, in matching vials but contrasting colors.

5.

Sympathetic magic is an excellent basis for research, and the ultimate explanation for all that goes wrong with that research.

4.

Experiments on insects should be conducted upon social or swarming species, not on well-established subjects such as fruitflies.

3.

All clones go wrong. Sooner or later. They all go wrong.

2.

If you really want your Bad Science to work, it must be some color of green.

1.

Monkeys in cages. All Bad Science must involve monkeys in cages. In the very best Bad Science Labs, THE MONKEYS ARE ANGRY.