McSweeney’s Book-Haul

I’m writing this post essentially to test out the capabilities of Windows Live Writer. I’ve heard a lot about it, and looking at the interface, I can see why people like it.* It’s simple, intuitive, and lets you concentrate on the writing part of the whole thing.

* I know! Praising a Microsoft product without reservations. Who’d have thought?!

***

Around half a month ago, The McSweeney’s Store had a garage sale of sorts. What they did was take out everything in the attic – the old books, the slightly chuffed ones, the ones nobody wanted for that price – and offer them on sale. I bought those on a friend’s credit card (fully intending to pay her later, of course), and she then announced that they were my birthday gift from her. Another friend of mine who was coming over from the US brought them here for me. One of these had a torn dust-jacket, the other two were simply slightly chuffed.

McSweeney’s #13: This was the comics issue of McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern. This was edited by Chris Ware. There are some text pieces in this which verge on, but generally manage to avoid, the hissy ‘comics are literature’ tone. The comics themselves seem to be excellent, ranging from 1842 to 2004 (when this was printed). I haven’t read the whole thing, but it is a lovely-looking hardcover. 263 pages of salty goodness.

Maps and Legends by Michael Chabon: One of my favourite writers writes a whole non-fiction book. Reading Chabon’s non-fiction is always a pleasure. It feels like chatting with an extremely clever, interesting acquaintance. (His fiction, by the way, can be slightly too fluffy or fatiguing at times, but only because he’s always ambitious.) I’ve started on this one, and every reason I like the man’s writing is coming back to me.

Curious Men by Frank Buckland: This guy, it seems, is one of those old English oddities. Except that this one was interested in other oddities. This book is made of 12 essays culled from the thousands of pages written by Buckland. I’ve read a couple of these, and though they are slightly dry at times, they are never less than interesting.

So these are my latest literary conquests. There’ll be more, and you can rest assured I’ll bore you by talking about them.

‘Secret War’ Teaser Image

Here’s a teaser image from the webcomic project I’m currently working on with artist Nitin Veturkar, tentatively called Secret War.

These are the uncoloured ink roughs for the first chapter frontispiece (click on image to embiggen):

I’ll be uploading some development sketches in the near future.

Comments are welcome.

Book-Haul 27/6/2009

I was so close. For the first time in forever, I was going to leave a bookstore with my spendings safely within budget. But then I saw a damn book. Looking at the cover, it was merely interesting. But then I opened it. And there. Fuck you, budget.

This book, as any of you following my Twitter feed at the time would realise, was The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick. This is a gorgeously illustrated mix of prose, picture book, graphic novel and silent film stills. Can’t comment on the quality of the writing yet, but it’s worth the price I paid just to sit looking at it.

Here are the other books I bought. All of these (except the Bradbury) were bought at Landmark’s discount tables, where you get brand-new books for lunch-money prices. Sometimes they are slightly scruffy or something like that, or discounted for silly reasons – for instance, you might find Book 4 in a series of 7 with the other 6 nowhere to be seen in the entire shop. But most of them are just inexplicably cheap.

The Lynne Truss Treasury by Lynne Truss (author of Eats, Shoots and Leaves, which, oddly enough – to me, at least – I haven’t read): Three novels and a shitload of columns (656 pages, as per Amazon). So a lot of bang for my buck, although the customer reviews are not particularly encouraging. We shall hope.

Inner Circle by T. Coraghessan Boyle: Stylistically, this guy has probably been the biggest influence on my writing, and I’m not even that big a fan of his. Maybe I was just at a very receptive stage when I read him. Also, this book was originally on the discount table for Rs. 199, and I skipped it (because I already have two collections of his I need to reread). Today I got it for Rs. 99. So good things come to those who etc.

Just Enough Liebling by A. J. Liebling: Gigantic collection of columns about food and sundry. Browsed, liked the style, bought.

Masterplan by Scott Mills: Landmark, I firmly believe, bought a whole bunch of Top Shelf comics at the same time that I did – at last year’s big sale, when Top Shelf sold off what seemed like half their catalogue for $3 each (that’s TPBs, not single issues, by the way). Now Landmark seems to be moving these books from one store to another hoping someone will take them off their hands. Bring ’em on, Landmark. I’m right here.

Reasons I Won’t Be Coming by Elliot Perlman: A collection of character-based short stories that seems fascinating.

Truth: A History and a Guide for the Perplexed by Felipe Fernandez-Armesto: About the decline about the fundamental quest for knowledge. Bought on the basis of a lovely narrative about an old Sudanese ritual.

Million Dollar Baby: Stories from the Corner (a.k.a. Rope Burns) by F. X. Toole: Liked what little I saw of the movie. This is the original short story collection it was based on. Stories seem punchy, heartfelt.

The Ninth Life of Louis Drax by Liz Jensen: Psychological thriller. Bought based on the darkly funny first page.

The Geographer’s Library by Jon Fasman: One of the most disparaging views on this book was by someone who compares it unfavourably with The Da Vinci Code after telling us how she’s been a voracious reader for over forty years. So there are two possibilities. One, she doesn’t like Dan Brown (the sane option, which would mean I’ve got a turd on my hands). Two, she likes Dan Brown, in which case I’m probably safe.

Ardor – A Novel of Enchantment by Lily Prior: Supposedly a weird little romantic fairy tale with Dahl-level naughtiness. I’m so there.

The Fundamentals of Drawing Portraits by Barrington Barber: I now have 2 more books about drawing (2) than I do sketchbooks filled with drawing (0). Iz doin it rong, I believe.

Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury: Now I don’t exactly consider Bradbury the pinnacle of style in SF. But this seems to be more about ideas, on which I can probably trust him. This is going to be my first read from this batch.

Be Cool by Elmore Leonard: I had to start on Leonard some day. This is supposed to be one of his weaker works. So if I like it, I can probably assure myself that it’ll only get better.

Also, a note: I am extremely glad that no one from the fantasy community has looked at the word ‘Scientifiction’ and thought, We gotta get ourselves one of those, and made up the word ‘Fantastifiction’. I googled it and there are some who use it, but they all seem to be morons of the kind we need not give a fuck about.

NovelRace

Twitter hashtag :: Facebook page

It started with Samit Basu calling for a wordcount race on Twitter. The motive was simple enough – to tell each other, “Write, bugger, write.” And perhaps to point and laugh when you’re ahead.

So here’s where we are right now. Finish a novel (‘novel’ here would mean anything – screenplay, play, graphic novel script, non-fiction or, of course, fiction – exceeding 60,000 words) by October 31st. Meet on Twitter, update, heckle each other, make a tally every weekend, and bitch. Everyone is welcome.

As Samit says, there’s no real group objective beyond going “DAMN, he/she is 5K words ahead again!”

It’s all being done up on Twitter. You can follow the updates and contribute using the hashtag #NovelRace.

Current participants: @samitbasu, @mohaps, @allVishal, @TinyToots, @decemberschild, @thedilettante, @adityab, @sidin, @angadc, @kokobano, @allabtanimation, @rads, @shaaqT, @writefly, @RexTR, @iyermatter, @fubar69, @shesturningblue, @paytfor, @ibanov, @nushkush, @radhika_rayan, @pinkandpop, @sheetalVyas, @vimoh, @FallingDownFast, @flyingfootage, @ArchisM, @captainblubear, @vasudhapande, @triya, @rehabc, @SatsJo, @drqanungo, tired, Mahendra Waghela, Pallavi Kosunam, Rahul Varshneya, Nithya Ravi, Baisali Chatterjee Dutt, Henna Achhpal, Meghna Hazarika, Monica Khatri.

Anyone who wishes to join should give a shout-out to Samit (@samitbasu) or me (@adityab).

Updates will be posted as (usually after) they occur.

June 10th: Participant list updated. Rules edited for clarity.

June 10th Update 2:

Note from Samit Basu:

Perhaps we should also add that this is far less structured than things like NaNoWriMo. There are no rules, no one’s checking your work, what you do with your finished book afterwards is entirely up to you. Also, no real rules as far as eligibility is concerned – you just need to want to finish your book/screenplay/play/comic, it should be a full-length piece that would serve as a first draft that you could show publishers after editing. Thassall.

Even the wordcount guidelines we’ve set up are, like the Pirate Code, just guidelines. Don’t ask us whether your work is eligible. It is. Write it.

June 10th Update 3:

Click here to visit the Facebook page. Join to participate or watch.

Also, a note: This is not a contest. There is no Panel of Judges. The prize is a shiny new finished novel.

Eligibility: Anyone who wishes to join. Yes, even if you’ve already started the novel. Jump in as you like. Start today/start in July – it’s all good.

Non-Twitterers should join and update on the Facebook page.

Further updates once daily.

Number Magic

Satish had always been good with numbers. So he became a magician. The hand moved faster than the eye. Now you saw it, now you didn’t.

But number magic was different from any other. If a stage magician’s trick was found out, he would have to invent another. Satish, on the other hand, had the choice of jail or exile. Now he does his magic on far-away beaches, selling crap in the guise of dreams.

Crossposted at MyPiction.

The Last Defences of Mankind

Inspired by this image by Nicholas Vargelis.

That day, the wine shop at the western end of the street was shut down, I started to learn how to ride a bicycle so I might fit in better, and I saw Ms. Amanda Palmer who lives across the street combing her hair again.

She was gazing into the mirror at the image of a goddess and was running her comb through her hair with a ritualistic intensity. Twelve times with her head bent to the right, twelve times with her head bent to the left. There was a moment when her eyes moved towards the edge of the mirror and seemed to be looking straight at me. But I tried not give my sense of paranoia too much credence.

Later, towards evening, I also had coffee at the kiosk next to the barbershop. Sitting at a table was a young man whose lack of interest in the conversation of his companions was entirely suspicious. I noted this and decided to alert Command when they next contacted me.

When I reached my designated home, I wrote myself a reminder that I needed to extend the decorations in the lobby some way into the living room, because, from a certain angle, a hypothetical neighbour might realise that the room beyond was sparsely appointed, so to speak.

That night, the earth seemed to rumble beneath my feet, shadows passed over the moon, colouring the night in hideous shades painful to the eyes. I wrote out notes at speed, trying to figure out procedures and tactics if the invasion began. Unfortunately there was no way of contacting Command directly. The invasion, if this was indeed it, had not been anticipated as so direct in its approach.

I looked out the window at one particular instant and saw that Ms. Palmer was calmly sitting at her window-sill, gazing at the moon, her legs bent double, her knees under her chin, her arms curled around her shins.

If she did not seem much alarmed, I reasoned, there was no need for me to be frantic  either. It calmed me down on an objective level, but my subjective reactions and the feelings of terror that had come with them took time to subside. I slept as well as could have been hoped for.

The next day, I dropped my notes into the drop-box at Farthing and Seventh (the box shifted from one corner to another every week in a trigonometric progression). By what seemed to have been carefully designed by her to seem a coincidence, Ms. Palmer came up to the box as I moved forward, and dropped a banana peel over my papers. I smiled at her to thank her for the cover, and she replied with a long blink.

Over the rest of the day, I continued to practice riding the bicycle, and, of course, I conducted my usual survey. Of special note: A small Greek restaurant was about to open in place of the wine shop. Since it had to have been Command-approved, I took the location off my itinerary for the following two weeks. The young man was at the coffee shop again, and this time was indubiously engaged in conversation with his tablemates. I assumed the anomaly had been taken care of.

Reaching home, I found a note that had been slid under my door. It had one word written on it: ‘Command’. I sighed and sat down on the bare floor. I appreciated her need to allay any fears I might have, but she ought not to have done so at a risk of somebody connecting us to each other. A moment later, I looked back at the paper and saw that it was now blank. At the very least, she had taken care not to leave physical evidence. I cleaned off possible fingerprints (unlikely, but I preferred not to take a chance) and pinned it onto my softboard.

I looked out across the street and saw that Ms. Palmer was receiving. She was talking to a young man whose back was to what I had come to think of as my window. The mirror was turned at an angle so I could see Ms. Palmer making the accepted gestures of one-on-one social contact. She saw me looking and reached out and rolled down the blinds. Since Ms. Palmer was assuredly a conscientious agent, I realised she had done so to protect me from a stray gaze of the visitor.

The next morning, when I walked to the eastward corner to get the obligatory morning newspaper, I saw Ms. Palmer spread-eagled on the road, in the midst of a brace of pedestrian crossings. She seemed to be staring at the horizon, perhaps waiting for a sign that our functions might receive an early kick-start. She had turned pale and did not seem to be aware of her surroundings. Many are the times when I have, in just such a trance of yearning, gazed out of my window at the stars, hoping one will start moving towards us. I always managed to reign in my emotions before anybody watching got a hint of what I might be doing. I tried to guess what Ms. Palmer could have been thinking. Perhaps she was meditating. She had a second, dark red grin opened on her neck. I thought it suited her.

I gave her a slight nod, just in case she was aware of my presence through astral means, and then I moved on. While I walked, I presented no tics or mannerisms that might have indicated my interest in the woman on the road. Even when I heard someone rushing towards her with a scream, I disregarded it. She could handle the situation on her own.

What You Don’t Know Can Still Hurt You

Image credits:
PDClipart.org
OpenClipart.org

Images used under a Creative Commons license:
y mírate y mírate…
Arthur10242-2
Untitled

Lettering font by Blambot.com

I found this picture in my image search. It does not appear in the comic, but I want to point it out anyway: No queremos ser como los demás

Why Booksales Are the Devil’s Work. Also? Debit Cards.

NB: I am offering my copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Book 1 for sale. Refer to third paragraph from bottom for details. Sold to the James Hetfield wannabe against one bottle of beer.

I was standing in line at the Landmark check-out counter this evening with my bucketload of books. And this guy rushes to the counter in the other line, plunks down one book (which was *shudder* a Jeffrey Archer) and pays in cash, and I think, money looks very expensive when you see it in pieces. There’s three hundred-rupee bills, and it seems a lot to pay for one book.

My conquests, on the other hand, came to around ten times that. But that was okay, because I was paying by card. So I didn’t actually have to see the swathes of money disappear from my account and reappear across town in somebody else’s.

But, while that gave me pause, I finished my shopping anyway. You know why? Because I was getting them cheap. When my friends talk to me about books, it’s sort of like when men taunt women about buying things they don’t need just because they got them cheap. Actually? It’s exactly like that.

Over the last year, at a variety of booksales, I have bought books that I didn’t need because (a) they were shiny-new, (b) ooh look how much they’re cutting the price – never mind that the books had been rotting in the store till I saw them and would continue to do so if I just left, and (c) it’s still fucking worth it. You buy ten books at the price of four. You like five. You hate two. You give/throw them away. You don’t read three. You’re still up one book.

So essentially, I’m unrepentant. Sue me. So what if I always have less money for food, drinks, clothing and computer peripherals? Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about rent. I’d have been homeless by now. Saving is for wusses. Books are where it’s at.

Speaking of which, today’s haul:

2 copies of Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean’s MirrorMask picture-book. Two different editions, both hard-back. One 7×7, one 10×10. I’m going to give one of these to a friend. But I’m deeply conflicted about the one I should keep. The larger version is, obviously, larger. (L: 1, S: 0) But the smaller version looks more compact and readable for me as an adult, and it has a dust jacket with a rather lovely texture. (L: 1, S: 2) But the smaller one’s cover lists the authors as ‘Creators of the National Bestseller Coraline’, which is not sodding true, and the larger version lists them as ‘Creators of the Bestseller The Wolves in the Wall’, which is. (L: 2, S: 2 minus a very large number) And the larger one would be more readable for my niece. Which shouldn’t really be a consideration because, when she learns to read (years in the future), I’ll give her a separate copy which she can tear up to her heart’s content. So I think I’ll keep the large version and give the small one to my friend, who is an adult, and who’d, I think, like something that wouldn’t break if you sat on it (which is more of a danger with adults than with tots).

I also bought three SFF collections.* Also very cheap (one was for 125, against an original price of more than Rs. 1000). One’s a Best of Fred Pohl (refer to this). I’ve read tonnes of his stuff from the school library, but this is only my second buy, I believe. The first was a novel whose copy was so old that it disintegrated at touch.

* I buy a lot of collections. Because theoretically, it takes less time to read short stories than novels. But only in theory. In practice, I find myself choosing the novels.

One book that I didn’t buy, but which I very much wanted to, was a copy of Jasper Fforde’s Something Rotten, one of my favourite funny books. But I don’t have the rest of his Thursday Next series, and this copy wouldn’t fit in the set when I buy it.** So, in spite of being a hardback at a mere Rs. 200, I forsook it for the eventual, more expensive, matching set.

** They had this copy, and the copy that fits in the set looks like this. Also (psst, psst), that one was a US edition. With, as we all know, spelling mistakes.

And, wonderful person that I am, I bought another copy of the first Hitchhiker’s Guide book. In spite of having a boxset. Well, you see, the boxset is like this: Commemorative Editions of Books 2-5, which consist of a photograph of the first edition cover for each, and matching spines. But Book 1 is a film tie-in edition, with a film tie-in cover, and lots of extras – photos, interviews, notes on the making, all that, including in-depth thoughts on how the Arthur-Trillian romance was the right thing to do (to be brief, it wasn’t) – all of which I didn’t really want. So I had a boxset that didn’t match. You can see my predicament? Today, on the other hand, I found a copy of the first book, which was, wonder of wonders, a Commemorative Edition. With cheesy cover with needless embossing, no extras, and (this is where you can almost hear me having an orgasm) a matching spine!

So I’m going to sell off my copy of the film tie-in edition of the book. Anybody wants to buy it? Make me an offer. Note that this is only Book 1. It’s more-or-less pristine (‘like brand new’ in sales jargon), it has a new cover with a still from the movie, and it comes with lots of nice extras (mainly about the movie) which you might like (but which I didn’t). I’d prefer someone from Pune, of course, but we can work something out. My email ID, as also given in the sidebar, is: adibidi (at) gmail (dot) com. If nobody makes an offer, I will probably give this away to one of my non-H2G2-educated friends.

I think that’s quite enough ranting about booksets. I’m not usually that anal about matching editions. I’ve got a hundred different editions of Stephen King books, for example. And I actually avoid the matching cover editions of Michael Chabon books, because the matching design is printed on paper that gets dirty real fast. But I prefer sets of books which are supposed to be sets – such as trilogies (Samit Basu’s books – which I have signed editions of, by the way – for example, or the Alexander trilogy) or series (Mike Carey’s Felix Castor books, Bone***).

*** This actually only comes in one edition, but I wanted to mention it because I also have signed copies of these books. And I got to meet Jeff Smith. It’s been almost five months and this still makes me break out in a grin.

Coffee Table

This coffee table is haunted. Anything you put on it is sucked in and disappears: books, Q-tips, cellphones, table lamps, underwear, ashtrays, reading glasses, babies.

It has created a low vacuum that exerts a pull at the ceiling. The house will fall. Then the universe. The coffee table is an agent of the big crunch.

NaNoWriMo

This post is a few days late, because I was ill and looking at a computer screen made me feel like someone was driving crystal nails through my skull at the rate of 60 Hz/sec.

Anyway, I am taking part in this. I sent the following mail to people who would directly affect my getting through it:

Dear near and dear ones,

This email functions as a combination of a declaration and a request.

In the month of November, I will be embarking on the exciting (as far as that’s possible sitting in one place for long hours) and tiring (which is, well, true) task of writing a novel. From 1st November to 30th November, every day (except for 29th November, as far as I know), I am going to sit at my desk and write. At the end of the month, I am supposed to have written more than 50,000 words. I might or might not write that much. I might or might not finish the book in approx. 50,000 words. If I don’t, I will continue to write in the same routine till it’s done.

I am making a big chart, detailing the book. You (those that live here in Pune) are permitted to doodle on it and make your mark in approx. 1/50th of the chart per person. No more.

Here’s what I need from you. I won’t be able to get out much in this time. I believe this task will take me around 3-4 hours a day. I’m not entirely sure. I will be when I start. So during November, you are required to be comparatively silent about your weekdays fun activities. I will mostly not be getting out of the house on weekdays. I will be getting out of the house on non-working days, mainly because I’ll have enough time to both write and have other kinds of fun. Anyhow, don’t be too tempting. Thank you very much.

Other than that, you will, hopefully, be helping to keep me on track. Once or twice a week, someone should ask me where I am and if I’ve done what I was supposed to have done by then.

That’s mainly it. At the end of November, we will see how it has gone.

Thanking you.

Yours reclusively,

Bidi.

As a show of solidarity to the project, here we go: