Miss Juju Rex

03:22 am: it's baaack...
And, though it may come as a surprise to some of you, so am I. I assure you that this is me, and not just some able-bodied spirit who happened to get its hands on a computer!

Actually, now that I consider it, that would make an excellent horror film – Death Prattle: Death Itself Couldn’t Silence Her! The trailer would be long and set to eerie music: images of hands opening doors would fade in and out, and then there’d be a close-up of someone’s horrified eyes. “Don’t log onto MSN…” the narrator whispers. “Don’t pick up the phone…” A Nokia ring tone. The horrified eyes return! “It’s her,” our Muscular Manly Hero shouts, attempting to wrest a mobile phone from the Dim-Witted Geeky Sidekick. A high-pitched scream, someone leafing through a diary. “It never ends… She’ll talk you to death.” Distraught sobs. “Just hang up!” Buxom Girlfriend weeping quietly into the phone. “Baby, I can’t! There’s no polite way to end our conversation!”

Death Prattle. Coming Soon.

No, rest assured in the knowledge that this is living, breathing me, and that I’d never dream of haunting strangers. After all, that would be classified as rude and intrusive behaviour, and that is frowned upon by the general public. Plus, my transparent ghostly hands probably wouldn’t be able to pick up a phone. I haven’t been dead, just busy – unusually busy – what with moving to another country and attending university there!

During my first term at university, I decided to be a serious and motivated student, and dedicate myself almost exclusively to my one million set texts. Seriously, there were so many! Not that I minded; in fact, I enjoyed them so much that I almost felt a little guilty about it.

Possibly, I enjoyed them so much because it’s worryingly easy to brainwash me into liking things.

In the beginning, I’ll be calm and collected. “Book A?” I’ll say, shrugging. “Sure, Book A is nice, I suppose.” A couple of seminars later, a subtle change will inevitably occur. “Book A?” I’ll cry, stroking said book in a manner that is both possessive and disturbing. “It’s genius! If I have any children, I’ll name them Book A! And my children’s children? They will be named Book A, too!”

That’s kind of what happened when I reread Milton’s Paradise Lost.

( Paradise Lost )

But when I was to return home for the winter holidays, I decided I also needed to take an extended holiday from my set texts, beloved though they were. At the airport, I dragged my stupidly heavy handbag from shop to shop, looking in vain for a book that would make my break Official (with a capital O!).

And after almost tripping over and smashing a cute little girl with pigtails, I found it. “Sorry, little girl,” I wheezed, attempting to manoeuvre the bag back onto my arm. “I just, I need to reach, can you…?”

Speechless with fear at the sight of the wild-haired woman before her, the girl backed away, giving me a full view of the sparkly cover. "Goblins," it told me. "Young adult fantasy fiction. Glitter." I was unable to resist its lure. "Runemarks," I said aloud, plucking it from the shelf, "you shall be my Official Break Book!”

( Runemarks by Joanne Harris )

Finally, do stay tuned for more! In the next two weeks, I plan on updating this thing with posts such as "Vampires Suck! Or Do They?" (Reviews of, amongst other books, Twilight by Stephenie Meyer, The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova, Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindquist and Parasite Positive by Scott Westerfeld); and "Got Demons?" (Reviews of City of Bones and City of Ashes by Cassandra Clare, and The Black Tattoo by Sam Enthoven). Meanwhile, enjoy this brief summary of Wordsworth’s The Prelude!

( The Prelude )

10:11 am: dragons and singers and spies, oh my!

At last I have decided to confirm what you all must have suspected: the reason I keep mysteriously disappearing for long periods of time is because I am a top secret agent. When I’m not writing book reviews, I sashay in and out of top secret meetings where I discuss top secret matters in two hundred different languages. Sometimes I am called upon to act as a bodyguard, and have to protect top secret people and their pets using only my quick wits, my expert knowledge of the martial arts and a pair of really high heels. Don’t be fooled by my easy smile and rather badly applied bright red nail polish: I am a woman made out of steel. I live a life of danger. Each day could be my last!

 

…all right, so I lie.* I am sorry; I shouldn’t have. To make up for what is obviously a blatant falsehood** I bring you gifts: the first is a promise to update at least once every two weeks unless the prime minister needs me for a top secret missi and the other is, of course, a review!

 

Now normally, I am not a girl who looks kindly upon magical talking animals, because they tend to be insufferable know-it-alls and I cannot deal with their sparkly wonderfulness. A chapter into this book, however, and all such reservations vanished completely, because I don’t actually dislike magical talking animals, I dislike badly written magical talking animals. And badly written this was not. Consequently I ended up wailing loudly on the underground during tragic scenes, babbling excitedly about dragons and the Napoleonic Wars and, in one ill-fated moment, attempted to read while doing my eyebrows. 

 

 

* OR DO I.

** OR IS IT.

 

02:28 am: in which our heroine battles dragons, rescues a princess and is back in time for tea. or, 3 reviews!

Look! I am not dead, nor have I been spirited away by a rakish prince to be a slave girl on his barge, only to make him fall madly in love with me and take me to be his wife. No, instead I have spent the last couple of months dedicating myself wholly to literature; during November, I participated in NaNoWriMo (because I am a NaNoWriMasochist), and consequently did not read a word that was not my own. Naturally, I’ve spent December making up for lost time. Most days, one can find me locked up in my room, slopping tea all over the couch and yelling unintelligible things at the pages. Now and then my parents will summon me to dinner, and I will reply in my best icy Garbo fashion, “I vant to be alone.” Then I ruin it all by adding, “With my books! I require no other sustenance!” and giggling happily.

 

My behaviour is perfectly understandable when you consider how I was deprived during November, which was spent trying to write a book rather than reading one. So as to avoid temptation, I strictly forbid myself to go near any bookstores, and this made me unhappy and on edge. Finally I thought that, if I could not have books, then I would at least have book talk. What was a desperate woman to do? I summoned the school’s book club and demanded discussions.

 

Don’t tell me you’re surprised – of course I’ve started a book club! We meet whenever we care to, which is about once a month, and drink tea and eat scones. Now and then, we chat about books and sexy communists and books about sexy communists. Unsurprisingly, I love my book club and secretly refer to us as the Bluestockings. (Secretly, because once I said it out loud and was cruelly laughed at.) 

( Book club! )

Comforted by the discussions, I told myself that once NaNoWriMo was over, I was free to hurry to the bookstore and shop like a wealthy librarian on speed. (Do tell me if you want to see the list of their recommendations, by the way, because it is in my possession! You see, due to a freak accident involving strawberry jam and a complete lack of common sense, I became last meeting’s secretary. Needless to say, this caused unnecessary confusion and anxiety). I deserved a reward for, er, voluntarily writing fifty thousand words in the middle of a writer’s block, does this, it doesn’t sound flawed at all, my reasoning, does it? Good, because I needed those books.

 

But first I desperately needed a pen shaped like a reindeer. I bought one and named him Mr Deercy, for that is my way, and he stood by me during those last two days. Mr Deercy was a shoulder to lean on! Not that he has much in the way of shoulders, of course, but he wrote encouraging remarks in my notebook, let me use his Amazing Reindeer Powers and, when I was bored to tears with my story and just wanted to go to bed now please, he performed an interpretive dance set to the music of his homeland.

( Mr Deercy )

Paul McCartney, you were wrong. Money can buy you love!

So when the month was over, Mr Deercy and I went to the bookstore, where we made a spectacle of ourselves. There were so many titles that I didn’t know where to begin! I was in agony and Mr Deercy was for once not helpful, seeing as he was dozing in my handbag. Finally, I thought to myself, “Baby, what about urban fantasy? It’s what you’ve been writing for a month. In fact, it’s what you usually write.”

 

Surprised, I realised that I was having An Insight. Something about cities fascinate me endlessly – maybe it’s because they are familiar; maybe it’s because they are full of people and possibilities; maybe it’s because they have a tendency to develop personalities of their own. I’m not sure. All I know is that I thought Ulysses was a gripping read and that last time I tried to write a lovely subversive fantasy story set in the highlands, it did not go well.

 

Most of the story was planned out by the time I’d decided to start writing. I was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with a list of my main characters and a friend was at the computer, typing. All that was left was getting into the mood, so I put on a record of lively (yet tragic!) folk music, lit some incense and commenced the Journey Into My Mind.

 

My mind is a disappointing place. Though I managed to find a deep lake and a pink sky, the rest of the landscape completely evaded me. When my hero was about to feel awed by the majesty of nature, I blinked my eyes open only to become aware of the fact that my tea was cold, and also that my friend had emerged from the depths of my dimly lit chambers to give me nervous looks and say, “I’m, I am going to get coffee now. From the coffee pot? Which is, it’s behind you. So… please don’t bite my ankles when I pass by, it could be catching.” After that, I ditched my story in favour of undines in the water tank. In conclusion, I love nature and I love reading and writing about nature – but I am a city girl at heart.

 

“So, urban fantasy it is,” I said to myself, and began an exciting search to the tune of that Mission Impossible theme song.

 

Twenty minutes of scanning the bookshelves later, some things were brought to my attention. Did you know that there are practically no faeries in London? There are rat people in London, and plenty of djinn, but no faeries. This is because most faeries live in New York. I’m cool with that, because I like New York and I also like faeries. So when a book promises me two troubled brothers, elves, monsters in Central Park, a fabulous vampire on the Upper East Side and, I quote, “a troll under the Brooklyn Bridge”, what can I say?

 

Answer: “Please take all my money.”

 

( Nightlife by Rob Thurman )

 

 Having bought and read Nightlife, I realised that I still had some money left and began my quest for an anthology. Why an anthology, you may ask? Hello, lots of stories for a trifling sum! You are right in thinking that I am the Ebenezer Scrooge of bookshopping. Should I find an anthology that offers me five hundred pages of faeries for almost no money at all, then what do you think my reaction would be?

 

Answer: “I don’t think you’ve taken all my money yet. Here is the rest!”

 

( The Faery Reel, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling )

 

The Faery Reel, a couple of pies and some birthdays later, I realised, aghast, that I had no money left. This was a blow to me. More reading had to be done! After all, I had missed out on an entire month of it. Mr Deercy agreed with me. “But darling,” I told him, “if I buy more books, you and I will have to go begging on the streets. I shall be forced to work as a call girl and you’ll be a, a rent…rentdeer? Why, the mere thought is unbearable!”

 

It was at this point I imagine Mr Deercy must have rolled his eyes and said, “I am made of plastic, and still I’m the brains in the gang. Go to the library!” Being the muscle in the gang, I did as I was told.

 

Not that I had any idea what kind of book I was after, exactly. After a while, I just grabbed a couple of classics and some plays, shoved them into a friend’s arms and said, “Just one more…”

 

You know how sometimes a certain book seems to beckon to you? The title catches your eye, the cover shines with a pure light, the artistically ripped pages seem to whisper your name. This was what happened to me. “Dear me,” I said, “what a long title! And what a nice cover. Those artistically ripped pages almost seem to, to whisper…” I placed The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, on the top of the tottering pile of books.

 

Picking up Octavian Nothing, I had no idea what to expect; the summary on the back was vague, I didn’t know which genre it was, and I had never even heard of the author before. Luckily, I was pleasantly surprised. In fact, I lost my heart, half the kingdom and the ceremonial headgear to this book, and I learned a valuable lesson in the process.

 

Sometimes, it’s all right to judge a book by its cover.

  

( The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. 1: The Pox Party by M.T. Anderson  )

 

By the way, I have begun hunting for some of your recommendations! Yes, hunting. Please imagine me fully armed and clad in camouflage, creeping stealthily through the bookshop with a pair of binoculars at the ready. A gang of policemen is standing outside, yelling at me through a megaphone to come to my senses and not do anything drastic. “I’m coming,” I reply anxiously. “I just have to find Temeraire by Naomi Novik, Sir Apropos of Nothing by Peter David, Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh, Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay and something by Patricia McKillip!”

 

At this point, the policemen decide they can’t bother to wait around anymore and go to a nearby café for lattes and pies.

 

Sweet pies, in case anyone was wondering.

 

09:32 pm: so if i rec somebody else's rec, does that make it... rec^2?

Gloom has come upon me! Without me having noticed it, my list of required reading has grown huge and must be dealt with forthwith. No longer can I read purely for pleasure! Instead, I must immerse myself in works that will ‘flex my intellectual muscle’ and do other such vague and disagreeable things to unspecified parts of my anatomy. For the next couple of months, then, I shall be forced to read Serious Frowny Business and Other People’s Thoughts on Serious Frowny Business. (One can only hope that I’ll get Serious Frowny Wrinkles, so that my efforts won't go unnoticed but will be etched on my face for all to see!)

Alas, this means I’ll not be able to read Temeraire, odclay’s rec, for a while yet, and I really wanted to. Especially seeing as odclay’s other rec was so very enjoyable!

07:23 pm: hey, teachers! leave those kids alone.

The times being what they are – "time to wake up and go to school!" and "time to wake up, your face is in my notebook!" – I thought it’d be fitting if I reviewed two books that, in different ways, partly deal with the student-teacher relationship.  They also deal with, amongst other things, the sinister uses of electrical cords, adolescent sleuths and a Woman in her Prime.

 

( Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl )

 

( The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark )

03:38 pm: recs on the beach

It has been some time since I last updated, but this is not because I have been idle. On the contrary! I have been reading like a mad reading thing, and can often be found doing so on street corners, in libraries, on my floor, or leaning against walls in stores. I’ve also been buying a lot of new books, which forced me to finally tackle the problem of my bookshelf. Literally.

 

I regard my bookshelf with equal amounts of respect and wariness. It has a lot of good qualities – it keeps my books for me, it’s a nice brown colour – but lately, it’s grown too big and bad. It’s dominating my room! I am its bitch! These days, when I’ve approached it, it’s buried me under an avalanche of books and, I am sure, snorted derisively. As this behaviour was not to be tolerated, I, armed with only an apple and my own determination, decided to sort it out.

 

I have only myself to blame. I should have had a strategy. Unfortunately, The Campaigns of Alexander couldn’t help me, because they were buried under a lot of other books, and so were my feet.

 

As I wearily sorted through the pile, I thought to myself, “Hmm. I don’t actually need some of these books, do I? So I don’t need to put them back. This is a Great Day for Sloth!” I sorted the books into two different piles, imaginatively called The Pile of Good and the Pile of Bad, and then decided to eat my apple. Then I tilted my head to one side. “They almost look like… If I just shift that one a little…” When I was finished, I could only sit back and admire my architectural skills. 

 

 

Some Summer Books:

 

Anything by Jane Austen, because when the sun is shining and the birds are singing, you want to know that your heroine gets her man.

 

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I read this some years ago, when the windows were shaking with a summer storm, and I loved it. Wit, wizardry and 19^th century London! Clarke’s descriptions of rolling hills and grey skies makes me want stride dramatically across moors, shouting: "Arabella!” rather than “Heathcliff!”

Tithe and Valiant by Holly Black. Faeries! Drama! Mystery and magic and a troll that will make you forget all about Shrek! The only reason I haven’t added Ironside to that list is because I haven’t read it yet – but this must be remedied! I wrote to my library and requested it, and they replied that they had bought the book and could I please stop bothering them? But withdrawal has made me do terrible things. First, I borrowed all the Spiderwick Chronicles I could get my hands on (only two). “They are very popular,” the librarian explained coldly, then gave me a disapproving look because I was depriving the children of Good Literature. At the present, I'm in the process of making a frustratingly sock-like Ravus doll. It’s difficult for me!

 

 

Have you any recs for me? I could write them down and make a List!

 

 

10:42 am: in which our heroine discusses outlines and un lun dun

I am seriously contemplating doing NaNoWriMo again during June, because evidently I have a (until now!) well-hidden, sadistic side with a vaguely suicidal urge. I shall call it Mr Humphrey. Mr Humphrey revealed himself to me last night and said, “Write a novel in June! Or throw yourself in front of a car, I’m not picky!”

 

“Hmm,” I said to myself. “I have a mad amount of work right now, and therefore it would be crazy to write a novel during June. But it would be even crazier to throw myself in front of a car, and so really I have no choice. I must write!” After the amount of tea and sleep I had had (more of the former than the latter), this argument appeared valid. However, I quickly realised that something was missing – and this something was Poole, my trusty manservant a plot. I began to look through old documents in search of something interesting and partly forgotten, but instead I found that I cannot write outlines. My outlines, they are, I cannot even begin to describe, they are terrible in their incoherence! Reading them was a harrowing experience, because I now know that my outlines? Don’t bring the boys to the yard.

 

 

See, I start out very enthusiastically, but then I think about something else and treat the plot very badly. “What can I do?” I thought to myself upon making this discovery. “These things are a mess! They are messier than what the cat did under my bed last summer! What if the boys go elsewhere for their outlines? What if they’re like, ‘it’s better than yours’? I can’t allow that to happen.”

 

Then I reasoned that, maybe, I’m just not good at doing the structured point-A-to-point-B-thing. During Creative Writing last week, we received an interesting assignment: we were to pick a title from a list and make an outline for a story. I decided to do a mind-map instead, and that worked out surprisingly well. For me, anyway. I pity the class, who was forced to listen to my lengthy and enthusiastic monologue that began: “Lies! Deceit! Cucumbers!” and then ended fifteen I am not even joking minutes later with: “Wait, I’m not done! I have another story! Two words, everyone: Vampire. Cowboys.”

Yes; I think that, from now on, I am going to do mind-maps of plots and characters! But out of curiosity – how do you feel about outlines? Do you have special tricks to make them work, or are you just naturals? Most importantly, are the boys in your yard?

( Un Lun Dun by China Miéville )