So maybe I wasn’t being completely honest with you, even if I didn’t know it at the time. Give me a break, kids, I was in the dark about this one, too:
Apparently my toe is not broken.
But before you jump up and accuse me of being overly dramatic and crying curse where there clearly is none, I have an even more WTF injury than a plain ol’ broken toe: neuropraxia, or a condition in which a nerve remains in place after severe injury although it no longer transmits impulses, aka transient motor paralysis.
Um, okay. I’ve paralyzed the nerves in my big toe, which wouldn’t be, you know, a big deal or anything if I was just planning to spend the next few weeks bumming around the house making floral arrangements, drinking Pimms, and re-reading Brideshead Revisited, but that’s not exactly the case.
In 48 hours, I leave for the south of France, because a bunch of us are going out to Cannes for the film festival, and we’re staying on a freaking yacht. Then a friend of mine has his first solo art exhibition God-knows-where in the Midlands, and then I have to go to New York to moderate a panel discussion at the BookExpo. So it would be helpful if I didn’t currently have nerve damage in my foot, the kind of nerve damage that prevents a person from being able to wear shoes.
That’s right. I am unable to shoe myself. Yesterday was the first day in which I managed to half-shove my foot into a slip-on Converse to go to the emergency room. Today I also managed to half-shod myself in same Converse and limp over to Oxford Circus with my housemate Mary in order to pick up some necessities for our Cannes trip.
We went to Primark. Now, I don’t know if you have ever been in a Primark before, but on the off chance that you haven’t, let me describe it to you: Picture the Bronx Target, the ridiculously busy one. Picture it on the Saturday afternoon before Christmas. Now picture all of the people on the packed red line train you had to take to get to the Bronx also crowding into said Target. Now picture the lines at the DMV. Congratulations, you have a complete mental image of what a random Wednesday afternoon is like at the Oxford Circus Primark.
Mary and I wandered around, picking up things we needed. For Mary, these things were pajamas.
“Look, Robyn, this one’s only £2!” It was a pair of pajama shorties covered in green anchors.
“Ah, dahling. You’ll look ravishing on the yacht wearing that one, I daresay,” said I, limping fetchingly through the crowded sleepwear aisle of the bargain superstore.
And so it went, sufficiently ridiculous, with me trying desperately to find a pair of throwaway flat shoes that I could wear until my nerve paralys–thingummy subsided. And then I spotted them: deck shoes, with white soles, the kind that those preppy St. A’s types were always wearing to class at my university, along with their bleeding madras (oh, sorry, that’s a Vampire Weekend song. Nevermind). Except, I actually needed these shoes, as the only shoes you can wear on this boat are deck shoes. At Primark, they were £6. And the line to pay for them was longer than my senior thesis.
There’s something vastly amusing about seriously shopping for boat shoes in Primark, where the sunglasses cost £1 and the line for the dressing rooms is over 100 people long. But then, there is something deeply depressing at how thrilled I was to be able to fit my swollen, sad little toe into said deck shoe–into anything that wasn’t my grody Converse. Nevertheless, I quite like my cheap, melancholy little boat shoes. I like what they represent: the absolute absurdity of my life.
Sometimes its yachts and parties, other times its emergency rooms and nerve damage, and still other times, it’s having a laugh in the boat shoe aisle of Primark. And, occasionally, it’s all of that at once.
Also, I kind of hate Primark. But I can’t help myself; that store is Recession Crack. I think I’m going back tomorrow for beach towels. And I’m sort of hoping they’re 99p.
Well. Despite the fact that half of my blog audience has apparently gotten here through some combination of googling Edward Cullen and Roald Dahl with no pants on, I’ve decided to dedicate this day’s post to a different–but nonetheless equally dapper–young gentleman: Chuck Bass.
Ah, Chuck: He of the expressively evil eyebrows, penchant for purple and preposterous ability to pull off paisley anything. I hate to admit it, but a tiny, terrible part of me has been in love with him since that early episode where he wore the infamous shark sweater:
And now I find out that I am not alone: There is an entire website dedicated to the Sartorial Awesome that is Chuck Bass.
The website, What Chuck Wore, which, by the way, is as shallow and fabulous as Mr. Bass himself, features Chuck’s best outfits from GossipGirl, complete with “commentary” from Mr. Bass himself.
Of course it isn’t real, but it’s fun to pretend. And damn is it a good way to waste 15 minutes when you’ve got work to avoid nothing else to do.
A favorite example from the site:
“Yes, I am wearing the leather gloves. Yes, I am aware that they add a Patrick Bateman edge to the whole look. I’m okay with that. Do we have to go over who I am again?”
Go there now. Seriously, you won’t regret it.
(credits: Photo 1 via: Gossipgirlinsider, Photo 2 via: WhatChuckWore, Photo 3 via: Meesters, quoted text from WhatChuckWore)
Don’t be fooled by the smiles depicted above: The pictures lie. I have a birthday curse.
I turned 23 last week, and, as my birthdays are always thoroughly cursed, I tried to ignore it. My housemates and their cards, presents, and persistent begging to come out and have a good time did not help matters, because the curse can not be thwarted.
I won’t get into the full extent of this year’s birthday curse, but let’s just say that, on the less crappy end of things, my left foot now features a toe that had someone’s drink glass shatter on it, and a toe that is broken from falling up the stairs to the kitchen.
Also, someone ate my entire birthday cake while I was out getting said glass smashed on my foot at Whisky Mist. And I hope they are reading this and feel massively guilty for that offense. Wait, scratch that. Person who ate my entire birthday cake: I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!! Haha, you thought I’d put 3 and 0.14159 together and get pie, but I didn’t, my friend, I put it together and got YOU, you cake thief. And guess what: I am coming for you, in your sweet slumber, and I am going to Kinder Egg your face.
That is all.
So there I was, sitting on the upstairs sofa with my editorial letter and manuscript, the scarf I had draped artfully over my cardigan not so much a fashion statement as a temptation for strangulation, when I happened to glance out the window.
Artistic representation of me glancing out the window, sans piles of paper and face-down container of rice pudding.
It was sunny. I stepped onto the balcony to investigate.
Artistic representation of me standing on the balcony, squinting up at the daylight and thinking, “Ah, the outdoors. I vaguely remember hearing about you once. It would be nice to visit, but alas, I cannot, as I am a writer, and those of us who don’t write novels about vampires tend to avoid the sunlight as though we are, in fact, Cullens.”
Once I had confirmed that the sun was, in fact, shining down on London town and I did not, in fact, turn embarrassingly sparkly in said sunlight, I decided to put down my pile of papers and venture outdoors.
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My neighborhood, as seen from the steps in front of a house where Sylvia Plath once lived.
Once outside my neighborhood, I found myself magically transported to a quaint Victorian country village. (Okay, not really, I just walked up to Hampstead Heath.)
In many fantasy stories, particularly of the English variety, there is an inn. Unsavory characters populate the darkened tavern on the ground floor, their wooden stools sticky with beer, their traveling cloaks drawn about their haggard frames. They will listen to your stories, and then you will have to leave in a hurry in the middle of the night, so if you are a character in an English fantasy story, don’t effing blab your shit in inns, okay?
Ah, the Heath. John Keats, who lived nearby, was inspired to write Ode To A Nightingale by a bird on the Heath. I was not inspired similarly, although if I happen to go out and buy a kite in the next week, I will blame the Heath.
CS Lewis was inspired to write The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe whist walking on the Heath in the snow. I would have depicted snow for you all, but it was sunny outside. If I start leaving my edits behind in order to hike up a snowy heath, then you will probably need to sit me in a chair with forcible restrains and speak very slowly. If I ask you for a kite, do not leave me alone to go and get it.
It is now very late, and I think I will go and fall asleep on top of my edits.
There are some things that should never be combined, for fear of angering the Awesome Gods and having your daily allowance of awesome revoked.
Well, Awesome Gods, get ready to smite: behold, the BABY MOP:
Does it make me a particularly screwed up person that I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING at this, even though I would have totally killed my parents if they’d tried it?
Hypothetical parent: “Mopping the floor is fun! Come here, little Robyn, and put on this lovely little MOP ROMPER so you can help mommy clean the house.”
Little Robyn, aged 1 year: *Ninja stealth attack!* I NOT MOP! Waaahhh!
Hypothetical parent: Frack! Knew I should have bought her that snuggie instea…*bleeds out, dies*
Forgive me for the worst blog-title-pun in quite a while, but I can’t help it: I’m excited! And when I’m excited, I pun.
What am I excited about? BEA, or Book Expo America, which is happening at the end of the month, and which has enticed me to return to the United States from my overseas exile, at least for a few days. As my good friend Caren Lissner put it, BEA is “trick or treating, but with books.” Yes, it really is that fantastic. But it gets even better, because I happen to be moderating a panel discussion, which I’ve been working on since December. Please say you’ll come and see the Panel Discussion of Awesome:
Saturday, May 30th
9:30 – 10:30 am
Room 1E16
Driving Success with Teens & Tweens: Authors Share Online Success Stories
Sure, you’ve got a blog, but so does everyone else. What makes your online brand stand out? With so many networking, lifecasting and social media outlets available to authors, having a dot com, a myspace page, and a regularly-updated LiveJournal are only the bare minimum. This discussion will focus on non-traditional online marketing to teens and younger readers: ever thought about creating a Ning network, a Twitter feed from the perspective of your protagonist, or complimentary online content such as a YouTube channel, fashion blog, embeddable meme or downloadable EP? This discussion features a variety of perspectives from young adult and middle grade authors as well as handouts containing tutorials on how to make your own online book trailer, create an embeddable quiz, start a Ning network, and think outside the textbox.
Moderator: Robyn Schneider, author, Knightley Academy series
Presenters: Jessica Burkhart, author, Canterwood Crest series
Maureen Johnson, author, Suite Scarlett
Sarah Mlynowski, author, Magic In Manhattan series
Julia DeVillers, author, How My Private Personal Journal Became A Bestseller
Oh, and did I mention that there’s a party? There’s totally a party, and I am co-hosting it:
Saturday Night At BEA: MG/YA Drinks Extravaganza
Leave that tempting pile of unread ARC’s in your hotel room (or apartment) and come join us for a massive MG/YA drinks extravaganza on the Lower East Side during BEA.
Where: We’ve specially booked a private back room at the most excellent bar on the LES, Common Ground, which serves food in addition to drinks, and also has shelves of board games for endless entertainment. (206 Avenue A)
When: Saturday, May 30th, from 7:30pm until the awesome starts to fade.
Who: Everyone is invited–authors, agents, editors, librarians, booksellers, publicists, bloggers, fans and enthusiasts. If you’re in town for BEA, we’d love to see you there. The back room can fit 100 guests, and of course there’s the main bar area as well.
Hope to see you there!
Robyn, Julia and Bennett
http://www.commongroundnyc.com/
:)
Remember my dear old former Editor McSteamy (more commonly known as Mark McVeigh, editorial director of Aladdin)? He’s been very busy over the past few months, what with starting his own literary agency and all. Yes, really! I recently sat down with the newest superstar literary agent in New York to find out the truth behind the Legend of Agent (nee Editor) McSteamy:
Me: Why isn’t your literary agency called the McSteamy Agency???!!!
Mark: I actually went through a lot of names before choosing the final one, The McVeigh Agency. Krista Marino of Random House had a great idea–call it The McVagency, but I was afraid that if people misprononuced it in their head, I’d get lots of queries from Susan Powter fans with book ideas about creative placenta craft projects. I thought about calling it The McSteamy Agency, but I wondered if people might wonder what sort of business I was in. Then again, in this economy–who knows? If being an agent doesn’t pay the bills, I might have to broaden my services offered. Anyway, I went with The McVeigh Agency and the logo style becuase I thought it looked like I could be a private dick from a Raymond Chandler novel. Except I don’t smoke or carry a gun. Yet.
Me: What was it like to go from editor to agent?
Mark: It was sheer bliss to become an advocate for creative people and work for myself. There’s no other word to describe it. No more fluorescent lighting, no more endless meetings, no boss–although I’ve always had fabulous bosses, and my last, Ellen Krieger, knows more about book pubishing than just about anyone I know. Plus she’s good company and funny as hell. Ellen–her, I miss. The rest of it, meh. Plus, I do almost as much editing now as i did when I was an editor.
Me: It seems like your agency just opened its doors and you’ve already amassed an amazing client list. How did you do it?
Mark: Once I made the leap, at the suggestion of the Agent Goddess Charlotte Sheedy (the suggestion was something like “get off your ass and start your own agency; what have you got to lose?”) I just bought the domain name and started calling all of the underpaid, under-appreciated writers I’d telling for years that they needed an agent and said, “Hey you STILL need an agent, and now I am ONE.” Most of them–with one exception–signed on. My list grew fast–I’ve lived in NYC for 19 years and have moved in a lot of circles–publishing, fashion, theater, film and TV, the charity world–and a lot of people just popped up with great book ideas.
Me: What makes your agency different?
Mark: Others do this, but I think it’s worth pointing out–I’m still an editor at heart and carefully line edit every manuscript or proposal before it goes out. Plus I’ve edited just about everything, at almost every major house, so I know my people.
Also, and I’ve never heard anyone specifically say this–I truly want to change the lily-white-ness of publishing. The industry rarely does books for people of color, certainly not in proportion to the makeup of this country. African Americans buy millions of books, but not that many from major houses. Most YA for kids of color centers on a horrible isue: rape, drug abuse, guns, but my parents back when I was teaching sixth grade at P.S. 20 in Fort Greene–mostly African American or from the Islands–said their kids wanted books that reflected their own lives. And they lived typical middle-class urban lives, with accountant parents, not gun-toting gangstas. So I have been actively seeking authors of color, with a pretty good degree of success.
Me: What kinds of books are you looking for?
Mark: Adult and children’s: fiction, nonfiction, coffee table art books, picture books, middle grade, YA, biography–you name it. If you can fascinate ME, count me in.
Me: Who would you say is your dream client?
Mark: Loudes Ciccone Leon. JUST KIDDING! Although I hear she did a great job editing THE ENGLISH ROSES. I’m going to go broad on this, and say a strong writer with something to say who can acknowledge the market and its needs without losing faith and drive.
Me: And how about your nightmare client?
Mark: Anyone who can’t see the fun in life, even when things look grim.
Me: With your background in writing and editing, how hands-on would you say you are as an agent?
Mark: Totally hands-on. As I said, I edit everything, but always remember it’s the clients’ book–they can curse me as they make the change, not make the change–it’s their choice. Usually it’s some combination of both.
Me: What are some great books that you’ve read recently?
Mark: You expect me to read actual books when I read all day? Seriously, for the las two months I’ve been working from the moment I get up to the moment I go to bed, so 99.5% of my reading comes from clients or would-be clients. To come down after a crazy day, I have been reading poetry: Emily Dickinson and Ai are two favorites. And I reread TUCK EVERLASTING every so often: and I TOTALLY would drink from the fountain. Wouldn’t you?
Me: What has the response been to your agency so far? Are you already flooded with e-queries?
Mark: FLOODED. I’m catching up, though, and thank you to all of you who’ve been so patient with me.
Me: So, what’s one book you wish you could have agented?
Mark: THE BIBLE? Although with all those writers, the royalty statements . . .
Actually, I wish I’d agented A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES before the author John Kennedy Toole killed himself. Imagine the body of work we might have from him today if he’s been ale to publish the book when he wrote it in the 60s.
Me: Is there anything else you want people to know about The McVeigh Agency?
Mark: Wow . . . what a question. I guess that I am a passionate advocate for my authors and for books I believe in, that I know how to negotiate on their behalf so that they get as much of what they want and need while keeping the publishing house relatively happy, and that I view my clients as partners in what we do.
And that I have 15 tattoos.
Visit the McVeigh Agency: www.themcveighagency.com
Let’s all take a moment here to worship at the altar of an unarguably awesome addition to the crowded realm of blogs that make fun of stupid things other people do. Texts From Last Night, which I stumbled upon thanks to a tip on the always informative Under The Button, is seriously The Most Hysterical Blog I’ve Read Since FML.
Basically, it’s a compendium of stupid text messages, the kind you wish you hadn’t sent when you wake up in the morning, now archived for eternal mockery on the internet, and conveniently tagged via area code. Keeping with my theme of text message inspired blog posts this week, which I didn’t actually realize I was doing, but it’s too late now, here are five of my favorite Texts From Last Night posts:
- (513): Dude someone changed all the contacts in my phone to I Like Eggs
- (719): wanna go halves on a baby?
- (214): dude. I’m so drunk.
(972): pete, this is bryce’s mom
(214): I can’t wait to have my cock in your ass
(972): pete, this is still bryce’s mom
- (405): Dork…….. ………. .. . …… ……….. .. . … …… .. . …. ….. .. …. … ………. …. . . ….. Yeah its morse code, no big deal
- (810): Did you ever notice that cashews look like fetuses?
Read it. Seriously, go there now. You won’t be sorry.
In the churchyard down an alleyway from where I am staying, there are the remains of a graveyard, ancient, crumbling tombstones sagging toward the ground. It’s lovely and macabre and inspiring, but I’m not the first writer to think so: Jonathan Swift once wandered by the gravestones as well, and was so taken with the name of one of the deceased that he borrowed it to use in one of his stories: Gulliver.
This is just a little comic I put together today after reading way too much xkcd. I drew the characters as stick figures in honor of today’s being No Pants Day. Don’t be fooled–I could have drawn extremely detailed cartoons, but those would have needed pants, and, well, you know, PANTS ARE NOT ALLOWED TODAY.
As we progress into the weekend (and carefully ease ourselves back into the wearing of pants, taking away this newfound freedom from our ungirded loins), blog posts will be coming to you live from Oxford, England. Stay tuned!
Oh, and this just in from the Committee on Ironic Happenstance: Oddly fitting that one of today’s top google searches for this blog has been someone searching for pictures of ROALD DAHL WITHOUT ANY PANTS ON. Why anyone would feel the need to conduct this specific google search, I have no idea. But, for a hefty fee, I might be willing to use my amazing drawing skills to produce an EXTREMELY LIFELIKE portrait of Roald Dahl getting dressed. So maybe you have come to the right place after all, disturbing google searcher. Get in touch. I look forward to it.
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