 Tuesday, February 13, 2007
If you're planning a trip to your local bookstore today (or this week), make sure to look out for a new book that is hot off the presses. Just released is a fun, fantasy-driven adventure inspired by Lewis Carroll's classic novel, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland--It is Un Lun Dun, by China Miéville. Does the title have a familiar ring to it? Say it aloud.  Hey, does it have something to do with the city of London? Indeed!
What is Un Lun Dun, exactly?
It is London through the looking glass--an urban Wonderland of strange delights where all of the city's lost and broken pieces end up (and some of its lost and broken people, too--including Brokkenbroll, boss of the broken umbrellas; Obaday Fing, a tailor whose head is an enormous pin-cushion, and an empty milk carton called Curdle). Un Lun Dun is a place where words are alive, a jungle lurks behind the door of an ordinary house, carnivorous giraffes stalk the streets (watch out!), and a dark cloud dreams of burning the world (uh oh!). It is a city awaiting its hero--a hero whose coming was prophesied long ago, set down for all time in the pages of a talking book.
When twelve-year-old Zanna and her friend Deeba find a secret entrance leading out of London and into this strange city, it seems that the ancient prophecy is coming true at last. But then things begin to go shockingly wrong.
WORD recently had a chance to speak to China Miéville, the mastermind behind this fantasy world. What follows below is our EXCLUSIVE interview! Make sure to read the whole interview to find out how to win a free signed copy of Un Lun Dun!
WORD: How did Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland influence your story? What were some of your other influences when creating Un Lun Dun?
China Miéville: Alice influenced me enormously. The matter-of-fact heroine, the fantasy which is a combination of literalised wordplay and dreamlike fabulation, the grotesquerie, and the way the illustrations have become inextricable from the text in many people's eyes (including my own). This was all stuff that was very inspirational. Other influences included Michael de Larrabeiti's Borribles trilogy, for the sort of punky London kick; Beatrix Potter for her somewhat scary and unsentimental animals; Walter Moers for his explosive imagination and his text-illustration weaving; Joan Aiken for Dido Twite; and others, too.
WORD: Were any of your quirky characters inspired by real incidents or people?
Miéville: Not really. Some were inspired by literary characters, but actual real people, not so much.
 WORD: You did many of the illustrations for Un Lun Dun. Did those come first or did your story?
Miéville: The story came first, but during the writing of the story I was conceptualising it all in very visual, illustrative terms. I always tend to do this, as I do my own drawings for a lot of my stuff, but this is the first time I'd put them out there in the actual text. So while the illustrations came after, they were there in my head from the word go.
WORD: Do you have any advice for young writers and artists?
Miéville: Certainly for writers, I'd say don't be resistant to being edited. That doesn't mean agreeing with everything friends, readers, editors say, of course, but it does mean that the instinctive tug we feel towards defending our own writing should always at least be interrogated. In many cases a writer is not the best person to tell what works.
WORD: If you could live in Un Lun Dun, would you?
Miéville: Absolutely. Why would you not live in a fantastic world if you could?
WORD: If you could write about any other city, what city would you write about?
Miéville: I can write about any other city! That's one of the pleasures of being a writer, you can write about whatever you want. I like writing about London most of all, in various disguises. But I just like writing about cities in general, so I don't want to tie myself down to one other.
WORD: You have a knack for wordplay. Can you give us an activity or exercise that flexes their wordplay muscles?
Miéville: Wordplay doesn't just necessarily mean creating new words, or combinations: it can mean trying to reconfigure existing ones, and making them do new things. So with that in mind, how about this... Think of something generally agreed to be completely adorable. A puppy, or a kitten, or similar. Now write a scene in which that is an absolutely terrifying baddy, but you have to call it puppy, or kitten, or whatever, all the way through.
To win 1 of 5 autographed copies of Un Lun Dun, write a short story or poem about your town... the flipside of your town. Make sure to give your new town a wacky name (for instance, the flipside of Brooklyn could be Broke Lawn). Send your work to word@weeklyreader.com. As well as receiving a signed copy of Un Lun Dun, we'll also publish 5 stories here at WORD!
Read an excerpt of Un Lun Dun and find out more at the book's website.
Also, if you don't like free books, you can always buy one here.
|
|
Monday, February 12, 2007
Today, February 12th, is Abraham Lincoln's Birthday.
The following story of historical fiction was written by 17 year old Sarah Solomon. Excerpts of Sarah's story were published in the February/March 2007 issue of Writing Magazine. Today, we give you the complete and unabridged version of...
John Wilkes Booth
- By Sarah Solomon
April 14, 1865
The sun was a dull yellow against the tops of the buildings across the street, sifting into the hotel room on the sixth floor of the National Hotel. John Wilkes Booth snapped his eyes open and adjusted them against the morning blur as the image of Lucy Lambert Hale arranged itself in front of the half-illuminated window. She stood to the left of the window, slightly behind the plush red armchair which was subtly covered in cigarette burns and tears, and lightly brushing the white curtain in such a way that it swayed every few seconds at her touch. John instinctively ran his fingers through his mustache and let his feet hit the floor.
"You're up I see," said Lucy, as John approached the glass and peered outside.
"Up and ready. What a beautiful day," said John. He took a step closer, took one glance at her back and put his hands on her waist. "Beautiful day."
"I thought we'd go get some tea at the Whitefield's down the street. Then I've got to get going… father said he wanted me home by two o'clock, and I've still got to buy a train ticket down at the station. But we have time for some breakfast."
"Tell Mr. Hale you're stuck in Washington D.C. doing business. What did you tell him you were doing again?"
"Picking up paper work. The other senator from New Hampshire is giving him some trouble."
"I would be too if my partner was preaching abolition left and right, like it had any worth or actual merit."
"Choose your words wisely, John. One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames."
"No need to be so histrionic, darling."
"Speak for yourself."
The sun had fully risen by the time they found themselves on the northeast corner of Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Whitefield's was down the street, located directly center in the sun's glare, as if it had been transformed into a stricken target of light. To its left was Booker and Stewart's barbershop, and to its right an empty store front window, with dust gathering in the corners and a stray black cat scratching its back against the door.
They sat down for tea. Lucy dangled her tea bag in and out of her mug, mindlessly watching the ripples expand and break at the gray ceramic. Her train was due in twenty-five minutes. They sat in the silent hum of the café, one or two men setting tables for the hopeful day's work.
John said, "Michael O'Laughlen is in town."
Lucy dipped her tea bag back into the murky depths. "He said he might stop by." She took it out again, a soggy bag dripping steadily onto her saucer.
"Well I said he could. He's going to be at the National Hotel in a couple hours. I wanted to get my hair cut before then so I'd better get a move on."
"I'll walk myself to the train station."
"Are you sure? I've got a couple minutes."
"Yeah I'm fine. I have quite a headache anyhow."
They said their goodbyes outside the café, not knowing they would be the last, and Lucy hurried off downtown. John felt movement at his feet, and looked down. The black cat was weaving its way around his legs, staring up at him with huge neon eyes. He peeled his eyes away from the creature and headed toward Booker and Stewart's.
"Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done"
***
After a brief cup of coffee, Michael O'Laughlen left John's hotel room just as the maid walked in, wearing a crisp white apron that looked like it would crunch if folded.
John took a good look in the mirror; his eyes rolled over his black shirt, how the unfastened top button glimmered in the glare from the morning sun. He hastily flattened his mustache. He reached over to the mahogany closet and took out his tall black silk hat he had bought up in New Hampshire the last time he had visited Lucy. He carefully balanced it on his head, artfully flattening down a cluster of dark curls onto his forehead.
As he headed for the door, he slipped on his beige gloves, and snuck one more glance in the mirror.
John Wilkes Booth: the illustrious American actor.
He walked the few blocks down to Ford's Theater, a mysterious new spring in his step, as if something wonderful and unforeseen awaited him just around the next corner. In the shadows. Hiding. He walked through the back door of the theater and headed toward the mail room. He placed his bony hand on the iron cast doorknob just as someone opened the door from within. It was Henry Clay Ford.
"Hello Mr. Booth. Good morning?"
"Yes, thank you Henry."
Ford seemed to balancing on tiptoe, rocking back in forth in what was obviously a weak attempt at concealed excitement.
"Are you alright, Henry?"
"Oh yes, yes. Yes, definitely." His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "We've got quite some company tonight! Yes. Quite some company!"
John had a sneaking feeling. It has finally happened...
"Anyone I would know, Henry?"
"Yes, yes, quite! Now I know he's not a favorite of yours, Mr. Booth, and for god's sake don't try any funny business! But it's Mr. Lincoln, you see, Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln!"
John felt like his stomach had unleashed writhing snakes into his body, filling him with an excitement too deep to measure, a delusional feeling, now so infused in his blood, too hard to pinpoint.
"Ah, the Lincolns."
John Wilkes Booth: the imminent future of America.
He said a hasty goodbye to Henry Ford, and waited in a dark corner until he was sure of Ford's departure. He then made his way into the theater.
The crimson curtains hung down ominously, spanning the entire back wall of the theater. The seats were sorted into balconies, staggered slightly so that everyone would have an appropriate view of the stage. To the right of the stage was the President's box, draped with white linen, trimmed with regal gold stitching.
So it's "Our American Cousin" tonight. So the best time to get him would be when Harry Hawk is alone on stage, receiving all the laughter. That will be at approximately 10:15 tonight...
He scanned the room again. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit.
With a swish of his coat he walked back up the aisle to the doors, which he clicked shut with a bang.
"Though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness. Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more."
Click the image of President Abraham Lincoln's assassination above to read the entire story.
|
|
Friday, February 09, 2007
On the back page of the February issue of Writing magazine, we asked you to come here today! Congrats! You made it! I'm glad that you did. Because we have a special treat in store for you...
Allan Knee is a famous playwright who has written a musical theater adaption of Little Women, a PBS miniseries adaptation of The Scarlet Letter, and a children's theater adaptation of Around the World in 80 Days. What Mr. Knee is most known for, however, is his brilliant play based on the life of J.M. Barrie. Barrie was the author of the classic children's book Peter Pan. Mr. Knee's play is called Finding Neverland. In 2004, it was turned into a movie of the same name, starring Johnny Depp.
WORD recently asked Mr. Knee a few questions about Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie, and his professional writing career. Enjoy.
WORD: Can you talk about the similarities between J. M. Barrie and Peter Pan that inspired you want to write your play?
Allan Knee: The purity and playfulness of both Peter Pan and J.M. Barrie caught my interest immediately. Both Peter and Barrie love life, and they love it in a very special way. They love life in its state of innocence and awe. They love play and adventure. And they're both eternally young, eternally hopeful and eternally naive. Yet there is also a sadness in them and about them. For the world and other people continually grow beyond them. And in the end, though they always cling to hope, they are both very much alone.
WORD: Why do you think the story of Peter Pan is so loved?
Knee: Peter Pan appeals to the child in all of us--the child who likes adventure, who wants no part of the adult world, who takes refuge in the magnificence of a place called Neverland, a faraway land filled with fairies and mermaids and pirates and crocodiles and timelessness. It is this innocence of the heart that captures us.
What could be more magical than the moment in which Peter wills the audience to clap its hands to declare its belief in fairies in order to bring Tinkerbell back to life? In an instant we are in a world of blind faith and imagination.
WORD: Why write plays? Is the allure still there for theatergoers?
Knee: I remember seeing a movie a few years ago about a tormented playwright. At a moment of extreme crisis the writer cried out, "I should have been a dentist, so I could have inflicted pain on others." How often I've repeated that line! But the truth is, I love playwriting, pain or no pain. I see life in terms of drama, conflict and resolution. I love creating characters. For me, playwriting is the most emotionally rewarding of all the literary disciplines. It gets to the heart of me.
I enjoy the collaborative aspect of theater a lot, even though there have been instances of great emotional turmoil. And audiences are sometimes terrifying to me. I want to reach every person. I want to please everyone. And I can't. I can't please an entire room, an entire theater. I can't please the entire world. Nevertheless, I want to. And that never stops.
Sometimes an amazing moment occurs when a stranger actually comes up to you and tells you how profoundly moved they were by your work and suddenly it all becomes worthwhile--instant healing. Of course, as a writer, I've experienced bad reviews--terrible reviews. And that never stops hurting. I never stop obsessing over how I could have made my work better. But when it comes down to it, writing plays is what I want to do. This is what I'm here for. Writing is my passion--it's my life. And nothing short of annihilation will turn me from it. That sounds a bit dramatic, but you know what I mean.
WORD: What advice do you have for our young potential playwrights?
Knee: My advice to young playwrights is to prepare yourself for a lot of rejection. Playwriting is an uphill battle. But many goods things in life are. And it doesn't mean you shouldn't do it. And if I had it to do over again, I would do exactly what I am doing. But the truth is, the world isn't reaching out for original plays today. But if this is what you want to do, if this is what brings you satisfaction and joy, then go for it. And don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
You have one life, you have to go where your passion is. And if you fall on your face, pick yourself up, wait a few hours, and start again. And if you smash into a wall, wipe off the blood, change the mood, play some music, do a crossword, and start again. And if you can, if it's possible, write every day, write something every day, keep a journal, free associate, write anything. And it doesn’t have to be good, don’t judge it. Hold back your critical facility, for awhile anyway. Keep the writing muscle alive and working. It's your gift.
|
|
According to a well-worn proverb, a picture is worth a thousand words. In the January 2007 issue of Writing, we published a photograph this photograph in our "I,000 Words" column and asked you: What memory from your own life does this photograph prompt? What places or persons does it remind you of? Write a narrative essay that begins with the words "I remember ..."
OK, so the following piece doesn't officially comply with the above directions. It's a work of short fiction, not a narrative essay. Still, we think it's good writing and a poignant story. It comes to us from Catherine Hass, a 12th grader who is homeschooled in Pennsylvania.
Contrast
Carl was enraged. He walked up to the one-hour photo booth, and stood on line. He had been waiting for these pictures for two days. Apparently no one had taught John, the new employee at Quick Stop, how to use the machine, and they were backed up.
Carl was waiting for the pictures of his apartment building, now burnt and crumbly, for insurance purposes. "How," he thought, "could anyone be so stupid as to leave their space heater blazing so closely to their curtains? Of course this guy had to be right next to me, and the whole floor caught like wildfire."
Fortunately for everyone else, the fire was put out quickly. "Not quickly enough," Carl continued to rant silently. "Because here I am two days later, waiting for the pictures of my destroyed home. The worst part about it is that I’m stuck at my sister’s house for the next millennium."
Finally it was his turn. Carl walked up to the counter, got his delayed pictures, paid the ridiculously pricey amount, and got out of there as quickly as possible.
Once in his car, Carl ripped open the sloppily packaged photos and began leafing through them. They were mostly blurry renditions of the building, tall, looking as though it had been punched right in the stomach with a big charcoal fist. The last few pictures had been taken later to finish the roll; the pictures were of nothing more than the floor, maybe one or two of the leg of a table, or the tip of Carl’s shoe. He sighed heavily and threw them on to the passenger seat, not noticing that one of the pictures removed itself from the others, and flew to floor, eventually resting on its stomach.
When he started his car, the tiny white rectangle on the floor of his car caught his eye. Puzzled, Carl picked it up. At first he was disappointed; he thought that perhaps a lost memory was waiting to be discovered, but it was only another photograph of the day that he was trying hard to forget. He almost threw it back down to the floor, but then he actually surveyed the whole picture.
This one, he remembered, had been a shot he took farther away from the scene to show the last stretch of the extinction of the fire. Because he was so far away, and it was a disposable camera that did not allow him to zoom in, he had accidentally captured a moment in someone else’s life.
The bottom right corner of the picture was illuminated with joy. Inside a café, it was someone’s birthday. A woman was blowing out her candles, and a man stood grinning next to her.
Carl felt as though he was unrightfully looking into someone else’s life. Little did this woman know, two days ago on her birthday, that she had been caught making her wish and growing a little bit older.
Six months later, Carl ended up moving back into his refurbished apartment building. He had his photograph enlarged and placed it in the center of his apartment. It hung there, silently reminding him that wherever there is pain and discomfort, there is also a small corner of happiness glowing somewhere close by.
Editor's Note: What a great last sentence. What are some other sentences and images that stand out in this piece for you?
|
|
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
 On my desk are 15 signed copies of R.L. Stine's book, Dudes, The School is Haunted! It is Book 7 in his Rotten School series. Would you like one? Because I would love to give you one.
Send an email to word@weeklyreader.com. Put "Signed Stine" in the subject line. And tell us how much you love Mr. Stine's work. That's it! That's all you have to do! You'd better hurry though. Before someone else gets your book!
----------------------------
 Also, don't forget, we still have two signed copies of Julius Lester's Time's Memory to give away. Click here to see how you can get one!
----------------------------
It really doesn't get any easier than this. FREE BOOKS! FREE BOOKS! FREE BOOKS! Who does that? And moreover, who gives away free books signed by the authors?? I'll tell you who...
WORD.
|
|
|
|
|