Book Launch In The Time Of COVID! Wasn’t Exactly What I’d Planned, But It Was Still Joyous And Exciting!

Once upon a time, each of us was somebody’s kid. Everyone had a father, even if he never provided anything more than his seed. Everyone had a mother, even if she had to leave us on a stranger’s doorstep. No matter how we’re eventually raised, all of our stories begin the exact same way. They all end the same, too.”

Saga Vol. 1 by Brian K. Vaughan, illustrated by Fiona Staples

Anne Rice was an author who had a really complicated (and fascinating) relationship with fans and fandom … but she leaves behind quite the literary legacy, that helped pull a genre and monster into the modern-era.

Condolences to those who loved her, and her words.

People are going to have so many different takes on Anne Rice’s legacy … but one of my favourite odes to her is ‘What We Do In The Shadow’ opening credits and Harvey Guillen’s pure-soul Guillermo de la Cruz character cos-playing as Armand. Perfect respect.

A moment’s pause that tips it’s hat to the fact that you don’t get to ‘What We Do In The Shadows’ without ‘The Vampire Chronicles’

Vale.

The last thing he ever said to me was, "Just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing."

'Peter Pan' by J.M. Barrie 

We’re not the Faster-than-the-Speed-of-Light Generation anymore. We’re not even the Next-New-Thing Generation. We’re the Soon-to-Be-Obsolete Kids, and we’ve crowded in here to hide from the future and the past. We know what’s up – the future looms straight ahead like a black wrought-iron gate and the past is charging after us like a badass Doberman, only this one doesn’t have any letup in him.

'The Spectacular Now' by Tim Tharp

"Your mind will never lose anything forever that's worth keeping."

'A Certain Slant of Light' by Laura Whitcomb

I’m again at a loss for words, and turning to those who know better. I keep thinking of Gloria Steinem’s dedication in her memoir, ‘My Life On The Road.’ I had the honour of listening to her speak about this book when she came to Melbourne in 2016. Her dedication is still one of the most perfect and fierce I’ve ever read:

‘THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO:

Dr. John Sharpe of London, who in 1957, a decade before physicians in England could legally perform an abortion for any reason other than the health of the woman, took the considerable risk of referring for an abortion a twenty-two-year-old American on her way to India.

Knowing only that she had broken an engagement at home to seek an unknown fate, he said, “You must promise me two things. First, you will not tell anyone my name. Second, you will do what you want to do with your life.”

Dear Dr. Sharpe, I believe you, who knew the law was unjust, would not mind if I say this so long after your death:

I’ve done the best I could with my life.

This book is for you.’

✊❤️

-Melina Marchetta, Quintana of Charyn

Let me tell you something straight off. This is a love story, but not like any you’ve heard. The boy and the girl are far from innocent. Dear lives are lost. And good doesn’t win. In some places, there is something ultimately good about endings. In Neverland, that is not the case.

'Tiger Lily' by Jodi Lynn Anderson

I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn't be a mother and it was likely you wouldn't become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of ever being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You'd become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

'Tell the Wolves I'm Home' by Carol Rifka Brunt