Oh, look at that! I’ve been tagged. “Very inspiring.” Considering that I’m not sure whether the nomination comes from Peter Dawes or his, er, friend, Flynn, this could be either touching or ominous. I mean, they’re both okay chaps, assuming one likes guts with one’s poetry.
Anyway, I’m not sure what exactly they think I inspire, but it apparently obligates me to share random facts about myself.
- Display the award logo on your blog. (Check)
- Link back to the person who nominated you. (Check)
- State 7 things about yourself. (In Progress)
- Nominate 15 bloggers for this award and link to them.
- Notify those bloggers of the nomination and the award’s requirements.
I used to be in a string orchestra in middle school and part of high school, and that is the reason I despise Pachelbel’s Canon. The viola part was the same eight quarter notes ad nauseam, which I was forced to practice at home, against my will, when I had far more difficult and interesting pieces waiting for me in my music folder. The result is that my fingers still twitch when I hear that damn Canon piping in through tinny department store speakers every holiday season.
I collect cultures.
Honestly, I’m not even sure what that means, but it sounded good. In practice, though, it means that I devour ethnographies and histories, pick up useful phrases, and dabble in potentially hazardous culinary experimentation. I am an Anglophile, a Scotophile, a Polonophile, a Russophile, a Philosemite…
Anyway, it’s good for a writer to enjoy research. The Wailing takes place in wartime England, and Scotland shows up quite a bit in Daniel’s angsty backstory, which will eventually be written down. I don’t feel as though I’m spoiling anything when I say that Poland will be playing a big, big part in the next book over, the one that follows The Sparrow’s Fall. And of course Aaron, of In the Shadow of the Mountains, is nominally Jewish, though more in a religious than a cultural sense.
My current big side project is teaching myself Polish.
I collect hats. Most of my collection is currently in storage, but I’ve got all of my most awesome ones stacked on top of my chest of drawers. It sort of reminds me of that old children’s book, Hats for Sale. The gems of my collection include a 1911 fur felt bowler, unfortunately a bit frayed around the band; a genuine Indiana Jones fedora that actually says INDIANA JONES on the inside of the crown and which I pointedly wear on digs; two deerstalkers, one in black and cream houndstooth and the other in lovely brown Harris tweed; and a lovely Dickensian bell-crown topper in pecan-brown felt. I do indeed wear these in public, and they have the remarkable effect of rendering me totally invisible to the mundanes.
It is my ultimate life goal to live in a house with a rolly-ladder bookcase, a la Beauty and the Beast.
I have lived pretty much everywhere in the state of Texas. San Antonio, Houston, Huntsville, Amarillo, Lubbock, College Station (whoop!), San Angelo, and now I’m down in the Rio Grande Valley, where it is too hot for me to wear sweaters. Seriously, it’s 90* right now. In January.
I have recently begun to learn line dancing. You know, that bouncy thing they do at Texas Roadhouse. It’s fun, but I think it’s going to kill me. I like self defense a lot better.
My luck is never mediocre. I either have exceptionally good or exceptionally bad fortune.
Vehicles don’t like me. My grandfather used to have a Hobie catamaran, and I was on it all three times it capsized. A year ago, I was in a rollover accident involving black ice in New Mexico. The pickup spun out 180*, rolled twice, and came to rest in three feet of snow. My Doom Jeep used to stall whenever you put it in reverse. Now it stalls at random intervals, usually when you’re going 70 on the highway. I still don’t dare learn to ride a bicycle; something awful would happen.
Sports equipment doesn’t like me. If a ball goes in the air, it comes down on my face.
On the other hand, I have some pretty darn good luck in other areas. I got into the first university I applied to, I’ve won some very spiffy stuff in the past, and I once got a fortune cookie that said “You will always get everything you want.” This last was after I had made a big stink when Mom took my fortune cookie. She capitulated and handed it over, and it decided to be ironic about things. In my defense, I was perhaps seven at the time.
The Chosen Ones:
The Postmodern Bluestocking
The Novel Reviewer
Out of Place, Just in Time
Thousand Single Days