You can read the interview here.
PS. My dear friend kate.o.d over at bean there, read that can often be seen on Fancy Goods too. Check out her latest review here.
PPS. kate.o.d is cool and gives shout outs to her buddies.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Living in fantasy land
I recently interviewed Juliet Marillier for the Bookseller + Publisher blog, Fancy Goods. I was a big fan of her books as a teenager, and was really pleased that the latest one still grabbed me as an adult. You never know, it might even kick off a renewed spurt of fantasy reading - having avoided them like the plague since writing my honours thesis about postcolonialism and stuff (or lack thereof) in Aussie fantasy back in 2006. Those who know me will be pleased to see that I managed to wedge in a (kindly worded) question about why all antipodean fantasy is set in blimming Ireland.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Booktails
Have currently got Antonia Fraser's marvellous Mary Queen of Scots on the go, and have just finished the new Sevenwaters book from Juliet Marillier, Seer of Sevenwaters.
A queen cops a whole lot of bad luck in Scotland, an Irish druid-in-training... also cops a whole lot of bad luck.
4 out of 5 stars.
A queen cops a whole lot of bad luck in Scotland, an Irish druid-in-training... also cops a whole lot of bad luck.
4 out of 5 stars.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
À la recherche du temps perdu (or, Same Same but Different)
It's the strangest thing, coming back to a place you once knew so well, after a long stretch of time. The streets, the shops, the bars and restaurants, the faces of the people, the smells and tastes, the air itself -- it's all somehow so very familiar, yet brand new.
The language comes back to you in spurts, at once known by your tonuge but a stranger to your throat. Some things have not changed at all -- the bartender, Fred, in your favourite hangout, the dog poo everywhere, the waft of cigarette smoke in the air. Some things have changed utterly -- the dingy ancient railway station has been replaced by a gleaming architectural construction like a sweeping spider's web, your favourite pizza place has closed down. And some things have changed only slightly -- the décor in a cafe is new, there are more boutiques and fewer beggars, people wear cool clothes not skinny jeans and chunky shoes.
You convince yourself that that bar, that restaurant, that café, that gym you used to go to have all closed down, and then you turn the corner and realise that they have been there all along, it's just that your memory has failed you. The streets are so familiar, yet you get lost. The neighbourhoods are so familiar, yet you can't remember where you were that one time when that thing happened.
It's the strangest feeling, being back in a place you once knew so well. You want to keep saying "I'm not a tourist! I live here!" But you don't live here anymore, you are a tourist. You find things you never knew existed -- museums, roman ruins, alleyways full of ancient churches and old houses with stone fences and cats among the flowers. You realise that despite all the time you spent here, you never strayed from the same familiar path. Suddenly this place seems so much bigger than it ever did before, and at the same time so much smaller.
You want to come back not to this place, but to that time, that life, that other you. You want not the nostalgia but the reality of the life you once lead -- the people who are now spread all over the world, the feeling of having all the time you need, the knowledge that if you ever felt lonely you could go to that one place and find someone there you know. These are the things you can never get back. You may have the same meal, the same beer, in the same place, but you are not the same, your life is not the same and nothing will ever make it the same again. Not even coming back.
You can never really go back to a place you once knew. All you can do is find a new place. You can reminisce with old friends, you can exclaim with delight over the things that remain the same. But at the same time you can taste that new beer, eat in that new restaurant, make new friends. The past and present can exist together and you can appreciate all the things you know now that you didn't know then. All that you have now that you didn't have then. The old friends remain -- you may not see each other as often as you'd like, but they will always be your friends.
At the same time as everything is changing, nothing changes. I am still the same person, here, in this place, as I was before. I am still the same as I am at home. But I am also new, I have found new things in this place that I once knew so well, and I have found new things in me.
(I have found that I am still capable of staying out drinking until 9 o'clock in the morning).
The language comes back to you in spurts, at once known by your tonuge but a stranger to your throat. Some things have not changed at all -- the bartender, Fred, in your favourite hangout, the dog poo everywhere, the waft of cigarette smoke in the air. Some things have changed utterly -- the dingy ancient railway station has been replaced by a gleaming architectural construction like a sweeping spider's web, your favourite pizza place has closed down. And some things have changed only slightly -- the décor in a cafe is new, there are more boutiques and fewer beggars, people wear cool clothes not skinny jeans and chunky shoes.
You convince yourself that that bar, that restaurant, that café, that gym you used to go to have all closed down, and then you turn the corner and realise that they have been there all along, it's just that your memory has failed you. The streets are so familiar, yet you get lost. The neighbourhoods are so familiar, yet you can't remember where you were that one time when that thing happened.
It's the strangest feeling, being back in a place you once knew so well. You want to keep saying "I'm not a tourist! I live here!" But you don't live here anymore, you are a tourist. You find things you never knew existed -- museums, roman ruins, alleyways full of ancient churches and old houses with stone fences and cats among the flowers. You realise that despite all the time you spent here, you never strayed from the same familiar path. Suddenly this place seems so much bigger than it ever did before, and at the same time so much smaller.
You want to come back not to this place, but to that time, that life, that other you. You want not the nostalgia but the reality of the life you once lead -- the people who are now spread all over the world, the feeling of having all the time you need, the knowledge that if you ever felt lonely you could go to that one place and find someone there you know. These are the things you can never get back. You may have the same meal, the same beer, in the same place, but you are not the same, your life is not the same and nothing will ever make it the same again. Not even coming back.
You can never really go back to a place you once knew. All you can do is find a new place. You can reminisce with old friends, you can exclaim with delight over the things that remain the same. But at the same time you can taste that new beer, eat in that new restaurant, make new friends. The past and present can exist together and you can appreciate all the things you know now that you didn't know then. All that you have now that you didn't have then. The old friends remain -- you may not see each other as often as you'd like, but they will always be your friends.
At the same time as everything is changing, nothing changes. I am still the same person, here, in this place, as I was before. I am still the same as I am at home. But I am also new, I have found new things in this place that I once knew so well, and I have found new things in me.
(I have found that I am still capable of staying out drinking until 9 o'clock in the morning).
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Boo-ees
Pretty much everyone I know has at least one of those cross-cultural stories up their sleeve. Or at least anyone who’s ever been overseas, which is, frankly, most people these days.
This kind of pisses me off I must say. I love travelling. I mean, REALLY love travelling. And part of me just wishes that everyone else would stay the fuck at home. Because I consider travelling to be a big part of who I am. Yes, I’m one of those annoying people who starts every second sentence with “Ah, well, when I was in...”And I’m proud of it, dammit. I should be allowed to show off. I’ve spent thousands of dollars and innumerable weeks overseas, which has directly resulted in me currently being practically the world’s oldest intern. Everyone else in my office is only a year or two older than me, yet they’ve all been working there for seven years and they make a heck of a lot more than me, which isn’t all that hard really, considering I WORK THERE FOR FREE! And, considering I’m working at a travel company, they’ve all been to at least as many places as me and are not in the least impressed by my years spent hitchhiking in Belgium, trekking in Peru, lolling on a beach in East Timor and vomiting up my guts on a 24 hour bus ride in Brazil. I. Have. Been. Completely. Jibbed.
But I do have one or two good stories up my sleeve. You know the kind I mean... the ignorant American in Paris, the Aussie whose nasal tones can be heard wafting over the Mekong Delta, the European who knows nothing about your homeland apart from the fact that there’s this one funny looking animal that jumps there, or that someone once murdered someone else on the other side of the bloody country.
It must be said, most (if not just about all) of these stories are about Americans. I’ve seen a fat man in Venice walk past a spectacular restaurant and moan to his wife, “if only we could find a hawt dawg”, I’ve been asked by a southerner whereabouts in New York Melbourne is, and I’ve been told more times than I can count that I have a very nice English accent.
The thing is, it kind of goes in reverse too. I had, for a long time, collectively referred to all Americans as “Yanks”, until the day my North Carolinean friend shoved me to the ground, sat on my chest and refused to get up until I admitted that she “weren’t no damn Yankee”. Then I had to say “Up With Confederacy”. Then we went and got us some slaves and drank us some iced tea. That was weird, but I had to admit that she got me on a technicality there.
I also had, for the longest time, gotten on the backs of my American friends about pronouncing the word “buoy” (as in, a floating thing in the sea) like “boo-ee” instead of “boy”.
“THIS IS JUST RIDICULOUS!” I exclaimed. “Everyone knows it’s BOY. Derrr.”
Until I looked it up. In fact, the word comes has its origins in Old French, and the pronunciation “boo-ee”, while chiefly American, more closely resembles the modern French bouée.
Yanks: 2. Hannah: Nil.
But actually, my favourite ever cross-cultural travel story comes from the American’s slightly simpler, less often picked on northern neighbours, the Canadians.
I lived in Canada for awhile (yes, that’s right people, lived, I wasn’t just one of those piss-weak travellers who spent an afternoon in the airport there and has ticked it off their list of places to go) and while I was there, a good friend of mine and I had a fantastic conversation in his living room one day.
Him: “Oh Hannah, I just love your accent.”
Me: “Really?”
H: “Yeah, gosh, it must be so much fun to have an accent, eh?”
M: “Aw yeah, I guess so.”
H: “It makes everyone like you.”
M: “Really? I thought that was my charm and wit, and the fact that I buy them beer.”
H: *chuckles at the wit*
M: “Hey, you know, you should come to Australia sometime. That way, you’d be the one with the accent.”
H: “Yeah, you know, that’s not half a bad idea. I guess I would pick up an accent after awhile.”
M: “No, I mean, you’d be the one with the accent.”
H: ??
M: “You have an accent.”
H: ???
M: “You speak differently to the people in Australia. If you went there, they would all be speaking with their accent, and you’d be speaking differently. Ergo, you have an accent. Maybe they would like you for that, because they clearly won’t like you for your intelligence.”
H: “But I don’t have an accent.”
M: “Yes, you do. It’s kind of... American.”
(Note: this is quite possibly the worst thing you can say to a Canadian person ever. Usually.)
H: “No, I don’t.”
M: “Yes. You. Do.”
H: “No, YOU have an accent. Americans have an accent. I’m Canadian, I just speak normally.”
M: ???
H: ...
M: “Are you serious?”
H: “Yep, now let’s get oot of the hoose”
So, I vote we let the Americans keep their boo-ees and give the classic cross-cultural story award to... Canada! Eh?
This kind of pisses me off I must say. I love travelling. I mean, REALLY love travelling. And part of me just wishes that everyone else would stay the fuck at home. Because I consider travelling to be a big part of who I am. Yes, I’m one of those annoying people who starts every second sentence with “Ah, well, when I was in...”And I’m proud of it, dammit. I should be allowed to show off. I’ve spent thousands of dollars and innumerable weeks overseas, which has directly resulted in me currently being practically the world’s oldest intern. Everyone else in my office is only a year or two older than me, yet they’ve all been working there for seven years and they make a heck of a lot more than me, which isn’t all that hard really, considering I WORK THERE FOR FREE! And, considering I’m working at a travel company, they’ve all been to at least as many places as me and are not in the least impressed by my years spent hitchhiking in Belgium, trekking in Peru, lolling on a beach in East Timor and vomiting up my guts on a 24 hour bus ride in Brazil. I. Have. Been. Completely. Jibbed.
But I do have one or two good stories up my sleeve. You know the kind I mean... the ignorant American in Paris, the Aussie whose nasal tones can be heard wafting over the Mekong Delta, the European who knows nothing about your homeland apart from the fact that there’s this one funny looking animal that jumps there, or that someone once murdered someone else on the other side of the bloody country.
It must be said, most (if not just about all) of these stories are about Americans. I’ve seen a fat man in Venice walk past a spectacular restaurant and moan to his wife, “if only we could find a hawt dawg”, I’ve been asked by a southerner whereabouts in New York Melbourne is, and I’ve been told more times than I can count that I have a very nice English accent.
The thing is, it kind of goes in reverse too. I had, for a long time, collectively referred to all Americans as “Yanks”, until the day my North Carolinean friend shoved me to the ground, sat on my chest and refused to get up until I admitted that she “weren’t no damn Yankee”. Then I had to say “Up With Confederacy”. Then we went and got us some slaves and drank us some iced tea. That was weird, but I had to admit that she got me on a technicality there.
I also had, for the longest time, gotten on the backs of my American friends about pronouncing the word “buoy” (as in, a floating thing in the sea) like “boo-ee” instead of “boy”.
“THIS IS JUST RIDICULOUS!” I exclaimed. “Everyone knows it’s BOY. Derrr.”
Until I looked it up. In fact, the word comes has its origins in Old French, and the pronunciation “boo-ee”, while chiefly American, more closely resembles the modern French bouée.
Yanks: 2. Hannah: Nil.
But actually, my favourite ever cross-cultural travel story comes from the American’s slightly simpler, less often picked on northern neighbours, the Canadians.
I lived in Canada for awhile (yes, that’s right people, lived, I wasn’t just one of those piss-weak travellers who spent an afternoon in the airport there and has ticked it off their list of places to go) and while I was there, a good friend of mine and I had a fantastic conversation in his living room one day.
Him: “Oh Hannah, I just love your accent.”
Me: “Really?”
H: “Yeah, gosh, it must be so much fun to have an accent, eh?”
M: “Aw yeah, I guess so.”
H: “It makes everyone like you.”
M: “Really? I thought that was my charm and wit, and the fact that I buy them beer.”
H: *chuckles at the wit*
M: “Hey, you know, you should come to Australia sometime. That way, you’d be the one with the accent.”
H: “Yeah, you know, that’s not half a bad idea. I guess I would pick up an accent after awhile.”
M: “No, I mean, you’d be the one with the accent.”
H: ??
M: “You have an accent.”
H: ???
M: “You speak differently to the people in Australia. If you went there, they would all be speaking with their accent, and you’d be speaking differently. Ergo, you have an accent. Maybe they would like you for that, because they clearly won’t like you for your intelligence.”
H: “But I don’t have an accent.”
M: “Yes, you do. It’s kind of... American.”
(Note: this is quite possibly the worst thing you can say to a Canadian person ever. Usually.)
H: “No, I don’t.”
M: “Yes. You. Do.”
H: “No, YOU have an accent. Americans have an accent. I’m Canadian, I just speak normally.”
M: ???
H: ...
M: “Are you serious?”
H: “Yep, now let’s get oot of the hoose”
So, I vote we let the Americans keep their boo-ees and give the classic cross-cultural story award to... Canada! Eh?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
From the archive
Two poems I wrote while travelling in the US... (Don't stop reading just because they're poems. They're terribly silly, I promise).
An Ode to the Ton of Bos
Boston, oh Boston,
You let me stay here.
For just a few days
You gave me some cheer.
I wandered your streets,
I looked at your art.
The main thing I learned
Was that you have heart.
Out in the sticks
I made some fine friends,
And at the Black Rose
We drank vodka blends.
Your parks and fine gardens,
Your great Freedom Trail,
All of it blurry,
'Cause I sampled your ale.
But when I felt ill
You didn’t just shun me,
You did in fact welcome.
It’s really quite funny.
For with pizza and milk
Your good shops abound,
And you have funny buses
To show us around.
At your Jewish memorial
I thought for awhile
It’s special to Boston
To remember in style.
And of course, alongside,
Non-stop Irish pubs.
At Faneuil and Quincy,
Ay, there's the rub.
For it's hard to see history
When you're soaking up drink,
And in these there bars
I started to think.
Boston, my dear,
Not too snobby or new,
My liver near died
When we were with you.
Meditations in Central Park
How did squirrels get to Central Park?
Did someone put them there?
Did they grow brown squirrel wings
And fly over through the air?
How did squirrels get to Central Park?
Did someone really care?
Or did they stick them on that island
To see just how they'd fair?
Monday, May 17, 2010
Procrastinatrix
I have a confession to make.
I mostly blog (or read other people's blogs, which is far more enlightening really) when I'm supposed to be doing my uni work. Well, it's not like I get to spend much time online at work like other people do 'cause anyone who's ever worked in a shop would know you don't exactly get much random-interwebs-trawling time when standing behind a counter, what with all the folk and their "Hey, do you have that book about that guy who did that thing? I think the cover's, like, blue-ish?".
I also complain about how much time and effort doing a Masters takes up. I mean, really, who'd've thought they were supposed to be difficult? So this morning I got up and opened my latest essay and some online research papers, and the first thing I did was type the following into google:
dog people vs cat people
I don't even know why. I don't know where this came from or what made it so important that at 8.30am it was the only thing I wanted to find out about. So then I deleted the words from the google box and went back to the paper I was reading on typefaces.
Then I went back to google and found out that dog people tend to be more social and outgoing, whereas cat people tend to be more neurotic but "open". Thanks CNN.
So I've come to the conclusion that when it comes to uni work I'm just a Master Procrastinator.
I mean, I do get things done. I even managed to finish my undergrad degree with a bare minimum of all-nighters the day before an essay was due. And these days my idea of being "late" with having an essay finished is that I'm only on my third draft two weeks before the due date. And when it comes to the workplace I'm just fine... This affliction strangely only affects the university study portion of my brain.
But still... How much more fun is it to check Postsecret or Garfield Minus Garfield than to actually knuckle down and get some shit done that you're supposed to get done? How much interestinger is it to write a blog about procrastinating than just do the thing that you're putting off? How much cooler is the word "interestinger" than the phrase "more interesting"? How great is it making up stupid words?
Speaking of awesome words: Tickety-boo.
Proscrastinating ROCKS, and if you can deal with the mostly-consuming sense of guilt, the last minute panic, the sudden realisation that it's 8.30pm and dark outside and you've done nothing all day but look up lost, grainy old Beatles footage on YouTube and various other internet-type-random-datbases that may or may not have given your computer some kind of cold, if not a virus -- well, then, you too are a Master. Rejoice!
Now get back to work.
I mostly blog (or read other people's blogs, which is far more enlightening really) when I'm supposed to be doing my uni work. Well, it's not like I get to spend much time online at work like other people do 'cause anyone who's ever worked in a shop would know you don't exactly get much random-interwebs-trawling time when standing behind a counter, what with all the folk and their "Hey, do you have that book about that guy who did that thing? I think the cover's, like, blue-ish?".
I also complain about how much time and effort doing a Masters takes up. I mean, really, who'd've thought they were supposed to be difficult? So this morning I got up and opened my latest essay and some online research papers, and the first thing I did was type the following into google:
dog people vs cat people
I don't even know why. I don't know where this came from or what made it so important that at 8.30am it was the only thing I wanted to find out about. So then I deleted the words from the google box and went back to the paper I was reading on typefaces.
Then I went back to google and found out that dog people tend to be more social and outgoing, whereas cat people tend to be more neurotic but "open". Thanks CNN.
So I've come to the conclusion that when it comes to uni work I'm just a Master Procrastinator.
I mean, I do get things done. I even managed to finish my undergrad degree with a bare minimum of all-nighters the day before an essay was due. And these days my idea of being "late" with having an essay finished is that I'm only on my third draft two weeks before the due date. And when it comes to the workplace I'm just fine... This affliction strangely only affects the university study portion of my brain.
But still... How much more fun is it to check Postsecret or Garfield Minus Garfield than to actually knuckle down and get some shit done that you're supposed to get done? How much interestinger is it to write a blog about procrastinating than just do the thing that you're putting off? How much cooler is the word "interestinger" than the phrase "more interesting"? How great is it making up stupid words?
Speaking of awesome words: Tickety-boo.
Proscrastinating ROCKS, and if you can deal with the mostly-consuming sense of guilt, the last minute panic, the sudden realisation that it's 8.30pm and dark outside and you've done nothing all day but look up lost, grainy old Beatles footage on YouTube and various other internet-type-random-datbases that may or may not have given your computer some kind of cold, if not a virus -- well, then, you too are a Master. Rejoice!
Now get back to work.
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