The graveyard of personal literary ambition.
There is only one of me, but I am Legion.
(lazy dot reviewer at gmail)
Over at The Toast, we’re talking about hazy memories of books we read as kids, and crowdsourcing to figure out authors and titles! It’s a lot of fun, and maybe you could help? Here’s my three mystery books:
1. It’s a girl whose mom is dead, and she has, like, a book of leaves that her mom had pressed, and she and her dad move to a new house, and I think her dad marries a new wife with a kid, and the kid destroys the book of leaves.
2. Dystopian underground society, boy is trained from birth to remember strings of numbers, eventually has to, like, use this ability to activate/deactive a weapon? Chilly father figure.
3. This one is NOT Half Magic. It’s a kid who gets sent back to Arthurian times during a field trip, or some such thing, and his mom is too, and she keeps waiting for the cream tea she was promised in the brochure. This one is making me really nuts, so please help.
Reblogging encouraged, because I’m beginning to think I just dreamt up #3.
HANK: “It’s getting harder and harder to awe these inexperienced female teenagers these days, Smitty.”
SMITTY: “Tell me about it, Hank.”
HANK: “Just yesterday, in one of my intro classes, I used the word ‘problematic’ in a sentence — real casual, just to let them know I’m one of the good guys — and not one of them stayed after the lecture to ask me just what I meant by that or to see if they could borrow the conspicuously dog-eared copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed I like to leave on my desk in case any female students want to borrow it.”
SMITTY passes the bottle back to HANK.
SMITTY: “Things are bad all over.”
HANK: “You know, it’s very important to me that I be thought of as down.”
HANK: “That copy has my phone number in it. You know, the old ‘write your phone number on the front page of a copy you lend to female students only under the “IF LOST PLEASE RETURN TO” bubble’ gag?”
SMITTY: “It’s a great gag.”
HANK passes the bottle back to SMITTY.
Every woman must decide how not to sleep with Jonathan Franzen in her own way. I learned from my grandmother, a wise woman who lived in the forest and only very rarely slept with Jonathan Franzen. She told me once, on a frosty winter night, how best to escape his sexual clutches if I ever encountered him on the path that led to the nearest market town.
“You will know him,” she said, “for he shall be riding on a white steed, and his right hand will bear no glove. When you see him, you must rush at him, and throw your kirtle over him, and hold fast to him, no matter what form he may take as he struggles against you.”
“What forms will he take?” I said. She leaned in close to me and stoked up the fire.