*sigh*

You don’t have to sigh to *sigh*.  No forceful exhalation of the air from your lungs, or loud letting of breath, is required.  What is required is the yearning, the desire, the longing, the want of something, anything, or even nothing.  It  can be a simple act of not knowing or the overwhelming of life, choices, decisions, or needs to the point where one simply does not know how else to define the emotion except in the *sigh*.

As we become more adapted to personalities in boxes rather than personalities face to face, the *sigh* will become even more important.  Every tweet, every status update, every text that utilizes the *sigh* allows us to convey a lot of emotion and context in a quick and easy manner.  Will it be overused?  Sure.  Don’t we overuse the actual sigh in daily life?  We all know someone that sighs too much, rolls eyes too much, and shakes their head too much.  I look over the top of my glasses too much.  Can’t help it, don’t want to.

The sigh is universal, much like smiling and laughter.  I’m willing to bet that if *sigh* is not, it will just be a matter of time.

*sigh*

Usually, when I come up with a post, I hit the idea, sit down, and fling it out there.  But, really hasn’t enough shit been flying anyway?  Or has the news flashed in the pan and left Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jessie Misskelly to seek out their lives in a much changed world?  I would like to think that it has, but at the same time, don’t they deserve just a little more of our time?  They’ve certainly had enough of their own time taken away from them.

And what of the lives that might have been for Steven Branch, Christopher Byers, and Michael Moore?  Don’t they deserve more time, more thought, and more investigation?  My heart clenches and my stomach does flips when I think about the terror that filled them during the last minutes of their lives.  I know some people forget about those boys when they talk about the injustice of this case.  I can assure you that I never forget the victims.

I considered digging up a copy of the documentary HBO made, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills. and re-watching it, but I couldn’t stomach it.  I have little physical tolerance of the websites for the same reason.  It just doesn’t sit right.  I’m grateful that there are celebrities aiding the cause, lending their names, money, and support, but when I dig down into the information about the case, I can only think of villagers with pitchforks.

What good is a witch hunt if no one actually finds a witch?  Do witches look different?  Do they act different?  Do they float?  It seems as if there was a needle in the poppet, one that was sewn deep long before it saw the inside of a courtroom.  And the poppet drew blood.  Just like Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, it seems like a witch must be found.

Intolerance must be burned at the stake.

The ones I like best are from my childhood.

My copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends is battered and worn.  I loved the damned thing to death, and I cling to its corpse.  However, the book became extra special to me once I discovered that Shel Silverstein drew cartoons for Playboy and wrote the lyrics to A Boy Named Sue.

I delight at the memory from my early adolescence when I realized that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was written by the same man that created James Bond.  My author crush was compounded in later years when I discovered Ian Fleming knew what he was talking about.  His codename was 17F.  Hells yeah!

Who can think about Roald Dahl without conjuring up the memories of chocolate melting on the tongue, or the perfume of fresh peaches?  You gotta at least have the Oompa Loompa song running through your brain.  I can close my eyes and see him dragging himself from his blazing aircraft after crash landing in the desert.  He buzzed the onion domes of Baghdad in a Hawker Hart!  And all of that before entering the spy game alongside Ian Fleming.

Oh, sorry!  My imagination was drifting into that little game of if you could have a drink with any dead author.  I was in 1942.  A smoky Washington nightclub, just Susie, Roald, and Ian.  Shaken, not stirred.  Ooh, here comes the cigarette girl!  We’ll have some Lucky’s doll, and keep the…. oh, yeah, right. Back to our regularly scheduled post.

While Agatha Christie isn’t usually considered a children’s author, I certainly associate her with my childhood.  I spent an entire summer plowing from one mystery to the next when I was twelve or thirteen.  And now, it has come to light that Agatha Christie was a surfer, dude!  I mean, who knew?

So, what do you know about your favorite authors?  Is it common knowledge, or did you have to dig a little?

Oh, and Aesop was an asshole.  If anyone knows the final straw that incited the citizens of Delphi to drive the bastard off of a cliff, I want to know!

My son, who will turn seven in September.  He has recently discovered the X-Men.  His favorite is Wolverine.  Mine, too!  Happy times.  He’s beginning to exhibit some of Wolverine’s more charming traits at day care.  Not so happy times.  He has also discovered the shock/entertainment value of Sailor Mouth, for which this family knows no cure.  Yes, there’s an apple and a tree in there.

My husband, who will turn seven in May.  Well, maybe not, but you get the idea.  He loves to toss me chainsaws.  Like the cable guy coming on Thursday.  “But, honey, you’re off on Thursday.”  I notice this cable guy isn’t coming Saturday morning when he’s off.  I also haven’t seen him tidying up the living room.  Good thing I’ve lowered my standards in this department.  I still may have to drink to shut up my inner Martha.

My inner writer.  She never shuts up, and is not opposed to waking me in the middle of the night, even if I was only going to get four or five hours of sleep.  She’ll fill an hour before you can blink.  I’ve had to train her like a Pavlovian dog to stop when the iPhone alarm plays a certain song, or she’d never stop.

The bookstore.  Even when I was on vacation last week, only allowing myself to cross the threshold just once, the bookstore was ever present.  Driving our digital business, Sony’s new e-reader, Amazon shipping parts across China for a new touchscreen Kindle, employee buy in, it never stops.  So many of these paths cross into my outer writer, I can’t help but be intertwined.

My outer writer, well, that’s the one who’s supposed to be Tweeting witty things, dashing off blogs, and researching my next steps.  She gets interrupted by the other chainsaws.  Alot.  Then I have to gas her up, pull the cord, and sending her flying again. *insert onomatopoeia of choice*

Throw in the other, smaller chainsaws such as the household, the annoying fact that chainsaws have consumed all the fuel in the house and I have to go back to the store every single week, the extended family, the dog, and the gecko selling car insurance in my shower.  (It’s okay, he was set free.)

Now, juggle chainsaws on a thrill ride, complete with hairpin turns, sudden drops, and bumpy tracks.

And the ride doesn’t stop until someone throws up.

I may be a junkie for it, but that doesn’t mean I’d turn down a Stepford Wife.

(Oh, and click on “Alot” in this post for a bonus chainsaw.  I kind of think he’s cute.)

So, what kind of things do you juggle?  My curiosity is revved up to know!

Go on.  It’s worth your while.  Promise.

Turning Writers Into Motherfucking Rock Stars

If Terry Pratchett shits in Dan Brown’s mailbox, I pray it goes on YouTube.  And if you come away from that with a Chuck Wendig addiction, I’ll take the blame.

Last week, bookstores had a smokin’ week in hardcover sales; this week, Borders will begin liquidation.  On the heels of Jaycee Dugard’s new release firing up the presses for another print run, and George R.R. Martin throwing down a tome hot enough to burn the fingers, the inevitable demise of Borders begins in earnest.  Liquidation will start as early as Friday, July 22nd and be completed sometime in September.

It’s hard for me not to go all Dickens on this.  You know, best of times, worst of times.  Fact is, for whatever my humble (yeah, right) opinion is worth, it’s just change.  And change scares the shit out of some people.  And some people denied change when it was needed most.  Denying change is what killed Borders.  It wasn’t smothered by ebooks, it wasn’t finished off by big publishers who refused to keep extending credit.  It was choked by its own hands.

Of course brick and mortar bookstores can’t offer the same kind of pricing as online retailers.  The rent, the labor, the stock, the toilet paper, it all adds up.  Customers have to be willing to pay for the privelage of hanging out and drinking coffee while reading magazines.  They have to be willing to buy something more substantial than a latte.  Twenty-five thousand square feet is a hell of a lot of overhead for a coffee shop.

But online sales aren’t the only thing that killed Borders. There was that failed expansion into Australia years ago.  The online music revolution gnawed away a substantial portion of their sales.  And finally, their choice of e-reader platform came too late to the party and didn’t bring enough brand with it.  They refused to change, to adapt, to do whatever it took.  For years, I hoped that Borders would retreat home, focusing on their original region to become the Books A Million of the Midwest.  There, in the cradle where they nursed, I thought they could survive.

I’m very sad for the booksellers that will be out of work by the end of September.  The expected job loss is just under 11,000.  That will be just the tip of the iceberg.  Many publishing houses have people dedicated to Borders, some of which may be laid off.  There will be a distinct drop in linear footage devoted to books, which will require smaller print runs.  Smaller print runs require less shipping, and less raw materials, and less labor at the printers themselves.  See how this goes?  Big waves become smaller ripples that extend across the surface.

And yet, it’s a fantastic time to be a reader.  There is so much content readily available that the head swims.  In just a couple of hours, any author can have their e-book online ready to rock.  And, with the right marketing, that author can soar to the tops of the ebook bestseller lists without the courtesy of the big publishers.  No experience necessary.  The authors are still there, water flowing underground.

But for now, if you are sad that your favorite Borders will be closing, I have a suggestion.  Go in, buy a book, and tell the booksellers how much you appreciate them.  And if your favorite bookstore haunt is not a Borders, go in and tell the booksellers how much you appreciate them.  Then buy something more substantial than a damn latte.

It’s been a smokin’ awesome week at the bookstore.  It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a strict on sale title with this much anticipation.  I’m talking about George R.R. Martin’s A Dance with Dragons.  Between the rare comet like frequency of the A Song of Fire and Ice series, and the HBO triumph Game of Thrones adaptation, there’s been a steady fire in the main aisle of the bookstore.  Hotcakes, get yer hotcakes here!  And, I’ve got to say, the excitement surrounding the entire series has been awesome.  Okay, it Fuckin’ Rocks!  Yesterday did not disappoint.  (Full disclosure, I am waiting until they are all out to read it.  I think.  I’ve been holding out for over ten years since I put Game of Thrones on the shelf at home.  I may be getting weak.) (send help)

Then, we had Jaycee Dugard’s A Stolen Life: A Memoir.  I knew it would be big.  I had no idea it would be that big.  Wow!  I hope to get a chance to read this one.  As I was opening boxes, I popped a copy and let the cat take over.  Within two minutes I had goosebumps.  Not the oh shit that’s scary kind.  The she’s just amazing kind.  This one’s got some power to it.

I don’t mean to slight any other book that came out this week.  There’s some excellent stuff there.  But the combination of George R.R. Martin and Jaycee Dugard just made for a fantastic Tuesday.  But, there’s a cherry on top.  And I swear this won’t happen all of the time.  We have Harry Potter.  (God Lord, what do I even link for that one?  Okay, gonna pick Pottermore!)  Indulge me here, and I promise I’ll only blog about Harry when the big stuff happens.  Like tomorrow night.  When my ass should be in bed.  But it won’t be.

See, what makes this so exciting is that every single summer, we have a new group of kids who are reading the series.  A whole new wave of fans striking the beach.  That’s part of what gets me excited.  Sometimes, I get a little jaded when someone wants to buy one of the Harry Potter books.  I mean, seriously?  Don’t you already have it?  Who doesn’t have it?  Come on, ask around, can’t you borrow it?  And then I stop myself and get caught up with them and it is the best feeling in the world.  A kid.  With a book.  A kid with a book and a cauldron full of excitement.  The dedication, the devotion.  The magic.

The magic.  This week has been magic.

Now, I must be off to find something pink to wear.  I don’t wear pink.  I wear black.  But I want to be Delores Umbridge.  In my opinion, she’s one of the most evil characters in the series.  Sugary.  Sweet.  Power hungry.  Doesn’t seem to care which way the wind blows as long as she’s on top.  You know, like a politician.  This pink may be the blackest thing I’ll ever wear.