It sounds like an Apple product of some kind, with the ‘i’ at the front, but that’s just me attempting to include myself in the phenomenon that is NaNoWriMo. Since it stands for ‘National Novel-Writing Month’, I feel obliged to switch it up for my unAmerican purposes. InterNational Novel-Writing Month. iNaNoWriMo. Catchy, n’est-ce pas?

Perhaps pas.

Anyway, I’m going to strive towards doing it, although November is, naturally, a terrible month for them to pick, given that it’s a month that involves final exams and then ideally as much work as possible. Nobody ever thinks about us poor Southern-Hemisphere-dwellers. My story is currently called The Poetic Life Of Ruby Palmer, Lost Cause – and while this is subject to change, I am rather attached to it, as I tend to be with titles I let hang around my brain for a while. It has elements of real-life influence, obviously – it’s about a somewhat offbeat writerly girl in her last year of high school, which sounds a little like me a few years ago – but I’m pretty sure Ruby’s going to wind up more badass than me, or at least more badass than I was at sixteen-going-on-seventeen, for the most part.

I’ve (barely) survived  my first exam, which involved much prattling about Ovid, and only have two more before supposed ‘freedom’. Colour me stoked.

In the watching/listening/reading realm of things, I have offish finished reading all the Tortallan books (save for Terrier and Bloodhound), having finished reading Trickster’s Queen. And now, in addition to my reading of The Hobbit, I’m lazily getting through the first Circle of Magic book. My Hobbit-y reading has been paired with watching Fellowship of the Ring at this exact moment. They’re about to go into the Mines of Moria. I just had a ‘No, Frodo, what are you saying?! Y’all should try to finish taking the Caradhras pass!’ moment. Poor Gandalf. /nerd.

And musically, I’ve been listening to Voltaire’s Ooky Spooky record, which is excellent indeed, and The Passenger by Iggy Pop has been on repeat (just the one song, because… why not?).

I’ll keep you updated on how iNaNoWriMo gets along, my friendos.

Ég er ekki í raun að tala íslensku en hægt er að nota á netinu þýðendum.

I haven’t said much about music lately, aside from grammatical references in pseudo-indie songs of yesteryear. Sure, this blog is called ‘Raw Library’, but it’s not meant to be exclusively about books. Oh no. Because, in fact, I do a lot more music-listening than I do reading/writing, truth be told – probably because it can be more of a background activity, but still. My eventual career ambitions lie around words of the penned variety, yes, but my musical obsession is also significant. I’m the kind of girl who flies places for concerts, wastes her meagre pay on CDs – actual CDs! they still exist! – and is a somewhat badass flute player. Actually, given that my other ‘primary’ instrument is ukulele, I decided I should call myself a ‘fluke player’. Maybe this should be a thing? Maybe not. And because my iTunes shuffle just threw me a track from an album I hadn’t listened to for a while, I decided that the time has come for a vague let’s-poke-around-music-a-bit type post. And this is it.

The track in question is Pad Sést Ekki Sætari Mey (I hope your browsers don’t turn that into Windings) from Gling-Gló by Björk Gu∂mundsdóttir & tríó Gun∂mundar Ingólfssonar – aka Björk and some jazz-tastic friends. AND IT IS SO GOOD. I picked it up on a Wellingtonian adventure a few years back for $5 or something at the Real Groovy on Cuba Street and have appreciated it ever since. The CD is mostly in Icelandic (which is among the most excellent languages on the planet, and which I intend to try to learn some day) save for a couple of tracks in English, and it’s all jazz-ish, and all fantastic. I particularly enjoy the songs which are standards that one recognises EXCEPT THAT THEY’RE IN ICELANDIC.

Anyway. Go listen to it.

A little more shuffle-based clicking was supposed to present me with opportunities to talk about some other CDs too, but nothing inspired me to write anything much except that I rediscovered one of the few songs on the second Raconteurs album that I really liked (Five on the Five, the album being Consolers of the Lonely. It’s not a bad record, it’s just not a patch on their first one. Go listen to Broken Boy Soldiers if somehow you haven’t yet done so). And also the awesomeness of a few OSTs was reminded. Thus, go find the soundtracks for –

  • Whip It
  • (500) Days of Summer
  • Mean Girls (obviously)
  • Coffee & Cigarettes
  • Marie Antoinette
  • Ghost World

I’ve also been listening to Unicorn Steak and Fino + Bleed by Die Mannequin, and both records are awesome and deserving of your attention. If you’re in a punk-y mood. They’re Canadian, which obviously makes them a little bit cooler than you automatically. Unless you’re Canadian. Or a kiwi. Or, actually, it depends on the individual in question

Thus ends an entry of a musical nature. Somewhat. Back to reading Trickster and debating the merits of tidying my room. PEACE OUT.

‘vampire weekend are full of it.’ or ‘a tale of oxford commas!’

Warning – the entry uses the word ‘fuck’ a lot. Primarily because Vampire Weekend use it in their song Oxford Comma.

Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?
I’ve seen those English dramas too
They’re cruel.

Dear Vampire Weekend,

I give a fuck about an Oxford comma. Or the fucking around of an Oxford comma, at least.

No love*,


*Not to mention that with their accents they sound like they’re saying karma. At least, they sound like a citizen of various Commonwealth locales saying karma. And saying ‘fuck you’ to karma is a Bad Plan, I’m pretty sure. This furthers the feeling of ‘no love’.

Onnnn to the point. Oxford commas, or serial commas, as they are apparently also known (Wikipedia research FTW!) are a little something I’d like to not give a fuck about. In my day to day life, I don’t use them, unless, like Wikipedia suggests, usage makes sense in order to avoid ambiguity in intent. They don’t bother me, I don’t bother them.


So, back story, I’m queen of ‘creative clutter’ AKA I have a very messy bedroom. And I decided that this morning would be the perfect moment to do a little fixing-up of this situation. Me being me, this resulted in retrieving the haphazardly thrown/draped clothing and sticking it in a pile in front of my wardrobe, prior to sorting between washing basket and hypothetical putting-away, and then deciding it was time to sort out my books. Because tidy books are really my main concern. This, in turn, inevitably resulted in my looking through shelves I don’t normally pick things out from – on this occasion, my bottom shelf, which houses books too big for other shelves. So this includes a few textbooks, picture books that I love, art books, a book on the history of riot grrrl leant to me by Katrina-my-American-BFF, a graphic novel or two aaaand this journal called Through a Gap in the Fence which is a collection of art and words by secondary students the whole country over. In which a poem I wrote in my last year of school, called Petra, found itself published. Yay!


Truth is, I hadn’t actually read my poem in these shiny pages. My old English teacher actually submitted it the year after I’d left school, so this is a 2008 publication, even though I graduated at the end of 2007. And the actual printing/sending me a copy took a while too – to the point where it came in the mail while I was on my student exchange in Montreal. So upon my arrival from North American shores, the appreciation of this old-ish poem in a collection of school students’ writing wasn’t paramount in my mind. And I’d kind of forgotten that it had existed, truth be told. So I flipped through, right to the back of the collection where my poem resides (being very last in a collection is kind of a good thing, I think – you don’t get lost in the middle of everything) and read through, admiring some of my work and cringing slightly at my sixteen/seventeen year old attempts at ethereal poetry. It’s still pretty decent, I feel.

Then I got to the last two lines. Read them once, then read them again, then realised what had caused my confusion.


Let me tell you right now, there was never any such extraneous comma in my original poem.

I wrote ‘she is Byzantine, Lenten and loveless‘ – my intended idea being that she encompassed some sort of Byzantine nature of being both Lenten and loveless. The ‘Lenten and loveless’ was in apposition to the ‘Byzantine’.

When they typed it up for publication, they wrote ‘she is Byzantine, Lenten, and loveless‘.

Which is not what I was going to at all. Which is why my face went all angry-like and I wrote an equally angry-like tweet or three about it. Punctuation in poetry is a different kettle of fish to punctuation in prose. Everything is picked for a reason, Sir/Madam Editor, and even if you’re a cheerleader for the Liberation of the Oxford Comma, don’t take it out on my poem. Please. You made me sad.

In reality, I know that editorial slip-ups occur and the like, but it still fired me up enough to warrant typing – wow – 800 or so words about it. Also in reality, I really do like the Vampire Weekend song. So, the moral of the story is – poetic punctuation is important and editors should realise this, that song isn’t REALLY about punctuation, and any publication is worth celebrating.

In case you wanted to actually read the poem in question, here ’tis.


She came in the summer.
The one when Christina turned
Sixteen, and we thought
We had grown up.
When we ate strawberries
Behind the boatshed, listening
To Siouxsie Sioux.
We called it ‘old wave’.

The sky is a petulant blue
cloudless, unforgiving
like us, and clarity
like silver tongues
and Lennon/McCartney songs
seems to exist
for a moment.

Petra, she says, without
the Hellenic splendour
we were accustomed to.
She sits beneath
an Andy Warhol print, Campbell’s Soup
but instead of pop art
she is Byzantine, Lenten and loveless
with eyes flat as unlevened bread.

(The editors in the collection also neglected to italicise ‘Campbell’s Soup‘. Jeez.)

middle earth = new zealand. duh.

I love my homeland an extraordinary amount. We have the best accents (universally loved, it seems, perhaps apart from our Austrahhhhlian neighbours), the best awkward birds (the kiwi and beyond), sauce dispensers shaped like their vegetable originators (tomato shaped tomato sauce/ketchup bottles) and scenery that will kick your country’s scenery (again, maybe looking at our friendly surf-obsessed venomous-animal-attached neighbours who have naught but desert) back to sunrise. Which isn’t hard, since we see the sun rise before anywhere else in the world. OH SNAP!

And the world got to see our shiny pretty (not to mention BAD-ASS) scenery on three little movies called The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers & The Return of the King. Under the collaborative awesomeness that is THE LORD OF THE RINGS. Yeah, I’m a bit of a fan. Not as drastically obsessed as I used to be (my first year of high school was the same year that RotK came out. I may have taught myself how to read and write the Elvish script. I may have obsessively played all the pieces in the piano music FotR book even though I hadn’t actually played piano properly for several years.) but I still appreciate the books and movies alike.

Confession – I haven’t actually read The Hobbit. I’ve read all three volumes of the main trilogy, and churned through a decent part of The Silmarillion, but haven’t, for whatever reason, read the book that started it all. However, I intend to rectify this. Since the movie is finally underway. Or sort of. Which brings me to the ultimate purpose of this entry – The Hobbit film and the fact that it obviously has to be filmed in New Zealand.

It’s possible that before I even finish typing this up they will do the old BREAKING NEWS extravaganza to let the Kiwi populace know whether or not we can still call ourselves Middle Earth. It was the first story of the main 6pm news hour, and they stated that any developments would be brought to light immediately. Our prime minister – the Less Than Honourable John Key, king of Remuera, “Helensville” (since he spends SO much time there) and the centre-right affront to our Parliament that is the National Party – is in discussions with the Warner Brothers execs regarding the future of the film here. That’s right, folks, our nation’s leader gets in on it when our Peter Jackson movie-making gets threatened. Secretly I think this is kind of awesome. I can’t really imagine Obamz getting cozy with Spielberg over location disputes.

There are reasons why the WB suits are concerned, yes – the whole actors’ union boycott didn’t paint the prettiest picture of our local thespians, but now that the whole thing has been put in the past (I’ll personally still be pretty miffed at the actorly public if we get screwed over, though), it’d be nice if they could come to a happy agreement that nowhere can possibly recreate the world conjured for the original films as NZ. Seriously. That little farm out of Matamata IS Hobbiton. I refuse to believe that anywhere else will have quite the same charm as did our Waikato-y friends and their hobbit-holed hills.

The moral of the story is that the movie should stay here, otherwise the entire population of my country will turn into depressed 13 year olds who sit around wearing black mourning gowns whilst rocking slowly humming Lament for Gandalf. Why would you do that to us, WB? WHY? I know we’re sort of know (probably just by us) for our ‘dark’ aesthetic  – cue Sam Neill’s Cinema of Unease documentary, which you should all watch, and readings of every NZ short story anthology ever – but that doesn’t mean you need to further our emo. Let us have our hobbits. We’re so damn far away from everything else.

In other news, I’ve now read the entire Song of the Lioness, The Immortals & Protector of the Small quartets. And I’m switching up between The Magic In The Weaving (apparently also known as Sandry’s Book in some editions – who knew?) and the complete bind-up Trickster (encompassing Trickster’s Choice & Trickster’s Queen). The changing around is mostly due to the fact that I have the former in e-book form on Proserpina Regina Pomi Granatis the Macbook Pro, and I have a copy of Trickster loaned to me by Lola Mulot. This whole Piercian kick has been awesome, and most satisfactory for procrastination purposes.

Also, this weekend is Hallowe’en, obviously, and I’m dressing up as Ramona Flowers from Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World. Obviously. Since I have work on both Friday evening and Saturday, I may mix it up and go for my usual Tonks look. The outfits will probably be very similar, anyway. Easy peasey!

EDITED TO ADD: It also seems relevant to this entry that I mention the fact that every time I’ve been Tamora Pierce e-bookin’ it, my music of choice has been shuffling through the LotR soundtracks. Because moderately epic fantasy is heightened in its epicness by crazy-epic Howard Shore composed tune-age. Seriously. The music of those films is glorious.

the republic of love(ly bones?)

The Lovely Bones is currently trending on Twitter, for what reason, I don’t know, but it’s interesting to see peoples comments about it. Most of them saying that they loved the book but disliked/hated the movie. Now, as an obvious Voracious Reader I’m frequently in the The Book Didn’t Live Up To The Movie camp, but this is an exception. I was not a fan of the book whatsoever. It’s like Jodi Picoult smoked some supernatural flavoured crack. It was the novel my class studied in Year 12 English (my favourite English year at school by far – but this was the low point), and I got through it pretty quickly, but was unimpressed. The end, in particular – the last quarter of the book, really – was terrible.

The movie, on the other hand, I enjoyed. I knew Peter Jackson would create something brilliant, being a fan of Heavenly Creatures, and while TLB wasn’t my favourite PJ film, it was still worth checking out. And Saoirse Ronan was brilliant, as she always is.

That’s all I really have to say about that. Since this is a place of putting opinions out there.

In other news, The Republic of Love by Carol Shields is a good read. I haven’t quite finished it, and might not actually get around to doing so any time soon, as the reason for my reading it (an English test) has passed by. But eventually, I’m sure I will. ‘Literary’ chick-lit, of a sort.

And that’s all folks. Except for the fact that Lola Mulot has also been swept up in the Tamora Pierce obsession of late, and we are collaboratively obsessing over Tortall, and Numair Salmalín in particular. Now, to find my copy of In The Hand Of The Goddess

mission margaret/the atwood adventure.

Though I’m still somewhat engulfed in Tamora Pierce (even if I should be reading ‘The Republic Of Love’ by Carol Shields for an English test…) I’m beginning to think ahead, since this semester is almost gone, and summer stretches out ahead. Said summer is going to be the first since I started university that I won’t be getting myself educated over the January/February months (since this year I did summer school and the year before that I was on exchange and the semester started way earlier than it would have in Auckland-town). I will, unfortunately, be caught up in the painful student trial that is summer work, but money is money, and my particular job will entail not quite full-time hours, so some freedom will be had, plus it will finish up at 3pm most days (though after a 7am start, yikes). So evenings/afternoons will be FREE!

Free to practise driving. Free to teach myself to roller skate. Free to write a Booker winning novel. Free to READ LOTS OF BOOKS.

I think it’s going to be my goal to read every Margaret Atwood novel before semester 1 2011 begins. I’ve got a fairly solid foundation having already read…

  • The Edible Woman (fun fact – I bought my copy of this book at the Clevedon Farmers’ Market for $2, opened it when I got home, and it was SIGNED. SIGNED BY MARGARET ATWOOD. I nearly had a heart attack.)
  • The Handmaid’s Tale
  • Cat’s Eye
  • The Blind Assassin
  • Oryx and Crake
  • The Penelopiad
  • Year of The Flood

Plus I have in my possession (thank you, second hand bookshop perusing!) Alias Grace, and I believe my sister owns Surfacing. So that leaves Lady Oracle, Life Before Man, Bodily Harm and The Robber Bride. Six books over the next four/five months? Easy. Especially since I only need to track down four of them. I also own Moral Disorder, a short story collection, so obviously I should finish reading that one, too.

I should mention, perhaps, that Margaret Atwood is generally held to be my favourite author. This does fluctuate, I went through a period of time when I was 17/18 where Emily Perkins was the only author I would consider putting the ‘favourite’ label on. Atwood was there, just somewhere slightly below the surface. Maybe it was because I’d only read The Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake at that point, and was loathe to put an author who could be misconstrued as ‘sci-fi’ as my numero uno. Then I read The Blind Assassin and The Penelopiad (Classics geek, in the house!).

I still love the prosey goodness of Ms Emily Perkins, but that can wait for another blog entry. For now, let us conclude that Mission Margaret/The Atwood Adventure is both possible and necessary.

wait, what?

Like, you know what Aeneas? I might get slaves to pumice my feet, uh, I might go to Vulcan’s Unitarian Temple, maybe get hit by a chariot full of hot garbage juice, you know? Cause all those things, would be exponentially cooler than going to prom with you.

– Juno


I believe she had this conversation with him via hamburger phone from Dido’s palace.

(Can you tell I have an essay on The Aeneid due? It’s all about Juno’s character. I sorely wish I could enter the realm of orange striped shirted pregnant bellies and dry indie wit, but alas, it’s all about the Virgil. Damn.)

the graveyard mission

I’m calling myself queen of the double-entendre for this moment, even though the secondary element of this was only an afterthought once I’d typed ‘the graveyard mission’ as my title. The first plan was to write something moderately interesting (theoretically) about my finally having finished reading The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman – and the protracted period of time it took for me to do so. Hence ‘mission’.

But then my mind started a-workin’, as it does every so often, and I recalled my own graveyard mission of yesteryear, or more of an adventure, I suppose, and decided that its tale deserves telling in some way shape or form. I’ll get to that later. Probably.

Back to the Gaiman. I really do enjoy what he writes, but for whatever reason I seem to take forever to read his books. And normally I read pretty damn quickly – refer back to my day of As The Earth Turns Silver reading splendour. ButAmerican Gods, as much as I love it, took me weeks to get through. I still haven’t finished Smoke and Mirrors, and I’m a self-described short story devotee. And The Graveyard Book followed that trend. I’d heard an excerpt read by Mr Gaiman himself at the NZ International Arts Festival back in March, and this further cemented the feeling that I Had To Get Around To Reading This Book. Since it was also winning stuff left, right and centre. I got it out from the library. I read the first two or three chapters. And then I got distracted. And the return today suddenly popped up out of nowhere, and back to the library it went.

I somewhat forgot about it. I felt guilty when I saw it on the shelf at work, knowing that I had yet to actually devour this book. But eventually, I did get it out from the library again. And again, I let it loiter, instead choosing to get the other books on my plate read. Every time I picked it up, something would distract me, and so it seemed to take an obscenely long time to read – it’s a children’s book, after all (I will say here that being partially geared towards children does not an exclusively child-appropriate book make, and it’s more than recommended for kids and adults alike, particularly as the NZ Arts Fest session where Neil read from TGB was all about YA fiction and what it does or doesn’t mean). But I powered through, and finished it, and loved it. The whole coming-of-age, following-Bod-as-he-grows thing was part of the reason I enjoyed it more and more as it went along – it’s only natural to form something of a bond with a character who grows before your reading eyes, I guess.

Anyway. That is the story of The (Literary) Graveyard Mission.

And so, a telling of The (Real Life) Graveyard Mission. In part. Since this blog isn’t ALL about the book review-ish-ness.

There’s a gigantic cemetery in Brooklyn by the name of Green-Wood, and this one time I went exploring there with two friends, let us call them K and M. It was late afternoon, and we were told as we walked through the gates that we only had half an hour before closing, to which we nodded. We went to find the Angel of Grief statue (which K and I had found once before – it’s a beautiful piece of sculpture and also happens to be on the cover of records by both Nightwish and Evanescence) and went on wandering for quite some time, whilst I wrung my hands and worried about getting locked in. The others weren’t concerned. We walked and talked (M and I collaboratively bemoaned Jodi Picoult, and talked about the merits of short story writing and the like – I’d only actually met Ms M earlier that day) and took in the beautiful surrounds and the generations marked in stone. Iced cookies from a Puerto Rican bakery were produced from K’s bag and eaten. Our phones spent the whole time switched off, disconnect being crucial to this experience. It got later, and when we saw cars heading the drive we made sure we were well away from road-sight, since it was definitely after hours by now. And we continued to wander. Just wander. Contemplative, appreciative, you know. But eventually, we were noticed by a security gentleman patrolling, who told us we had to leave, after we pleaded having gotten lost (not entirely a lie – navigating that place sans map is a mission and a half – like I already said, it’s huge, and our wandering had taken us across the whole cemetery) and proceeded to slowly follow us in his car after having told us in brusque terms which way to go.

At the gate, before unlocking it for us, we had a lecture – I guess my pink hair and K’s tattoos didn’t really endear us to him – and after saying that no, we didn’t have any relatives buried there, he told us, in all his khakied security officer glory not to come back. Does that make us kind of BAMFs? Three slightly alternative looking girlies wandering a cemetery because it was peaceful and gorgeous and we all had a lot of stuff on our minds at that point in time, I think… and we got BANNED by Mr Security Guard.

No names or anything were taken, obviously. We were in stunned silence as we walked away, before laughing our way to the subway. And that was only the tip of the iceberg for the weird excellence that was that night, since it went on to involve vegan pizza in Williamsburg, after dark Rock Band playing, and a spontaneous walk from Sunset Park to the Verazanno Bridge (some 50 blocks, shuffling down a grassy slope and running across a multilane highway – with concrete divider) to sit beside the river-turning-sea, dangling feet over the edge (this was M & I, we were more foolhardy than K and decided to climb over the fence so we could sit right over the rocks.)

One day that story will be told in more detail and more carefully chosen words. In the meantime, here’s a poem I wrote back in July last year, if you’d like to read it, inspired in part by that evening. I don’t do poetry often, but this is one that I rather like.

east and hudson

We get on well with bridges,
you and I.
We need them in our lives.
Our constant search for lights dancing between dark below
and dark above and
glowing overwhelming civilisation on either side.

We are the bridge between
two sides pulling apart, the bridge
gets a little longer every day
like a glacier slowly encroaching upon a valley.

We are the bridge across a harbour mouth
the beginning of ocean
We are land meeting sea
and man conquering the boundaries
of both.

I am standing on a bridge
but there is no water to cross, only sky
I am a shadow on the ground and
a silver speck in the sky
the bridge was not strong enough
it broke away, I was dragged by steel wings

I would build a bridge
across the water
so we  can walk when we’re too poor to fly,
too weary to paddle
in boats constructed from flax and old clothes
and I would meet you in the middle
and we would toss pennies into the sea

reading more-ah tamora. no, wait…

So… I’ve been continuing my Tamora Pierce bender, having read First Test, the first Protector of the Small book, over the last couple of days, and am now powering through Page. And because I’m a Generation Whatever who is Constantly Plugged In, I did a bit of Wikipedia-ing and Googling, as you do, and wound up at Pierce’s website. And what do you know, as I flicked through her bio, I read ‘Tamora, pronounced like camera’.

Oh dear. You see, I pride myself on correct pronunciation of names, constantly flinching at mispronunciation of ‘Rowling’.  That’s perhaps my biggest pet hate, since I’m of the age that grew up alongside Harry Potter, always very close in age and stage to the H-Pot trio when a new book was released. And am therefore possibly able to be classed as a ‘fangirl’. I’ve done the release day line-up thing, all that jazz. I live, therefore, by the maxim, ‘JK Rowling – rhymes with bowling, not with howling’. If you didn’t know this, now you do. Hence the creation by some sniggering Harry-fan of a Facebook group along the lines of ‘Harry Potter is sliding down a hill… LOL JK ROWLING!’ to fit in with all those terribly ‘blah-de-blah – LOL JK (‘just kidding’, if you are not a frequent user of the travesty that is netspeak) – blah-de-blah’ groups that everyone was hell-bent on joining a few months ago. This was the only one I decided was worth joining. Puntasticness is sometimes appreciated.

I also cannot abide ‘Jodi Pick-olt‘. (her website suggests pronouncing it ‘pekoe – like the tea’ – I’d always said it as such because there was a somebody ‘Picot’, pronounced the same way as Picoult, at school with me, and I just assumed it was the same pronunciation. French background FTW). Actually, I can’t abide Jodi Picoult, pronounced correctly, or her books, either. Edgy chick lit masquerading as ‘literary’ makes me want to punch people in the book-club-attending teeth.

And like I’ve mentioned before, I’m a bookstore dudette in my part-time working hours, and therefore am familiar with and use published names. Hachette, for one. I don’t use my French awesomeness and inflict a fully fledged ‘aSHETTE’ upon everyone, but pronounce the ‘h’ – though I still maintain the ‘sh’ over ‘ch’ sound because otherwise it just feels heinous. I swear I’m going somewhere with this. Multiple staff members realise that it’s French derived – I mean, the parent company is ‘Hachette Livre’ – but are clueless as to the details of linguistic nuances. Thus, my ears are cursed with references to ‘ha-shay’. Oh my lord. This is particularly irksome at present only because we had our Hachette roadshow recently, so the name’s been tossed around by all and sundry. My inner Francophile weeps.

BACK to the point at hand though.  My pronunciation policing, and Tamora-rhymes-with-camera.

Yeah… I’ve been pronouncing it ‘ta-MORE-ah’ for the last… nearly ten years? Whoops. I will go forth and speak only Camera-Tamora syllables from now on.

Now, to return the exploits of Keladry and friends, I think.


As an afterthought, and the kind of afterthought I should have had on day one, really, I’ve made a wee ‘reading log’ type page. You can get to it from ANY page on this little corner of the blogosphere that I’ve called mine, by edging up to the top of the page and clicking ‘the more you read the more you know’. Or, in fact, by clicking the link that I just made there. It’s up to you.