Leigh Bardugo's Blog, page 885

There Can Be Only Some

When I was a kid, we had pirated cable. We had a wacky box with about a thousand buttons that meant we got all kinds of channels for free– the long defunct Z Channel, Cinemax, HBO. I was an only child and a latchkey kid. I watched A LOT of tv with very little discrimination and I was happy to settle for whatever was in heavy rotation. For better or worse, I saw the same films again and again and again.

Occasionally, the results were edifying. (I remember repeated viewings of Bernadette Peters in a delightful production of Sunday in the Park with George.) But at some pivotal stage of my development, I subsisted on a steady diet of Ralph Bakshi's Rock & Rule, Helena Bonham Carter in Lady Jane, and the staple starch of my nerdpop cuisine, Highlander.

Highlander tells the tale of a race of immortals destined to battle it out for the future of humanity. It's a century-hopping, epic battle between good and evil with a soundtrack by Queen and, really, that's all you need know. For many, Highlander comes down to Christopher Lambert in a kilt, Sean Connery as a red-velvet dandy, and the famous phrase, "There can be only one."

But for me, Highlander is all about this image—>

For those of you who don't know, that's Clancy Brown as the Kurgan, the eeeevil warrior who will pursue the hero across time until they battle it out for The Prize. LATER, we'll learn that the Kurgan is a rapist and a murderer and he'll spend the rest of the movie as a gross, sweaty skinhead who wears atrocious leather vests.

But that's later.

In this moment, he is something spectacular. I used to wait for this shot– the lightning strike that first reveals the Kurgan in that mad armor and gruesome helm. Honestly, everything after was a bit of a letdown.

The Kurgan makes a great first impression. Tricked out in truly wicked style, he is an EPIC adversary, a perfect foil to Connor MacLeod's initial oafishness. Sadly, as the heroic Connor becomes more dour and brooding, the Kurgan just gets goofier and, by film's end, he's a silly, sleazy bit of caricature. (To be fair, not even the hero escapes 80s styling unscathed; Christopher Lambert looks suspiciously like a highbrow flasher in his London Fog overcoat and white sneaks.)

Bad.

Very bad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When people ask me how I got interested in fantasy, I should probably start with Tolkien or Tamora Pierce or Idylls of the King. All of those more reputable answers are true– to an extent. But my lifelong love of fantasy really began on that rocky hilltop with a mysterious figure on horseback, part monster, part man, broadsword in hand.

The Kurgan never lived up to the potential of those few storm-lit seconds, but in the end, I owe him. He was my first dark knight.

Superbad.

Sweet Salvage

One of my favorite finds from Saturday's Renegade Craft Fair was Blue Ribbon Salvage. Melissa Abercrombie collects vintage medals from the mid-1800s and early 20th century and turns them into very wearable lovelies.

It was tough to choose but I limited myself to two Marvelous Items…

This medal celebrates 50 years with the Belgian postal service. Okay, not the most glamorous theme, but I just love the image of these two ladies sending letters across the world. (In sheer frocks, of course. That's how I manage all my correspondence.) Front & back:

The second piece is a vintage Knights of Pythias medal that features a stag on one side and a knight on the other. His shield shows the KofP motto: Friendship, Charity, Benevolence, but I'm more a House Baratheon kind of girl. Ours is the Fury, indeed.

I had such fun chatting with Melissa. She's based in Petaluma, and has medals of every variety– divers, deco telegraph priestesses, even geese and pigs.

If there's a specific image you're looking for, drop her an email. She has tons of gorgeous creations that don't make it onto her blog.

Club Med: The Grisha Sells in Greece & Italy!

It occurred to me that this blog isn't just for crazed bleating about Game of Thrones or tinted foundation. I can actually post information about, you know, my BOOK. So prepare for your first Official Grisha Update.

A while back, I tweeted that the Grisha Trilogy had sold in the UK, France, and Germany. Well, Greece and Italy have joined the list! Edizione Piemme will be bringing Book 1 to Italy. Psichogios will be doing the same in Greece. I'm thrilled, delighted, and just generally quite giddy.

I can also share some of the details of the other European deals: The trilogy will be published by Carlsen in Germany and by Bragelonne in France. Orion will be bringing the trilogy to the UK as one of the first titles published by their new YA imprint, Indigo.

Three thoughts on all of this news:

1. It's still hard for me to believe that I'll be published in English, let alone in four other languages. I can't wait to hold all of the translations in my greedy little hands.

2. These are wonderful houses with legendary science fiction, fantasy, and kidlit authors on their lists. I'm truly honored to be in their company.

3. How amazing are foreign rights agents Jaqueline Murphy and Kathleen Ortiz for making these deals happen? (I guess we already knew Joanna Volpe was The Stuff so I shouldn't really be shocked at the badassery of her cohorts.)

Writing YA: My Response to Slate

The most recent YA dustup revolves around author Katie Crouch's take on "Writing YA Fiction" for Slate. It's a cringe-inducing and infuriating read, not only because it is almost aggressively unprofessional (YA readers don't care about good writing! Writing sex scenes makes us squirmy!), but also because it smacks of minstrelsy: "Hey, world. I don't take myself seriously, so feel free not to take me seriously either." Crouch doesn't seem to have read widely in the genre. She's a litfic author, and though she claims "there's no shame in Y.A. these days" (was there ever?), she seems almost giddily desperate to let us know that, for her, writing YA is just a lark.

Poor Crouch has already been taken to task (most brilliantly by Courtney Summers), so I'm going to leave off beating her about the head and shoulders. But I'm often asked about the appeal of writing and reading YA and Crouch's answer is so very far from mine that I need to offer another opinion.

Crouch suggests that the driving force behind the writing and consumption of YA is wish fulfillment: "Writing Y.A. as an adult is a chance to rewrite being a teenager… It's way better than prom."

(I'm going to assume that Crouch is only referring to her own work and so therefore felt free to completely disregard issue-driven YA, horror, much contemporary YA, and the darker YA so railed against by Meghan Cox Gurdon in the last YA clamor.)

I'm not going to deny the pleasures of wish fulfillment in my work. I love great clothes, a makeover, and awesome powers as much as the next girl. Possibly more. But that is not what drives my writing.

In the world of YA fiction, particularly in fantasy, the darkest parts of being young can move from metaphor to reality. The external world becomes just as dangerous and dire as the internal world, physical stakes attain parity with emotional stakes. As adolescents, we get our first real glimpse of power and come to our first real understanding of powerlessness. In fantasy, those personal and the political struggles can be made manifest in the paranormal. You feel like the world is going to end? Well, it just might. You feel like this guy is using you? Turns out he's literally trying to steal your soul.

YA fantasy isn't just about pretty people doing naughty things in mansions or sparkly vampires who love you longtime. It's about the inevitable conflict that arises from learning to be yourself in the world. It's about the havoc our decisions can wreak, the damage we do and the damage done to us. Sometimes the world is a post-apocalyptic dystopia, sometimes it's a glittering palace full of schemers, sometimes it's Brooklyn. But the goal is almost always the same: survive, become better, live unafraid.

That's why I write fantasy. That's why I write YA. And for the record, my prom sucked.

Russian Wives

Last night, I was browsing through the table of contents in a book of Russian folk tales. (I realize how dull this makes me sound. Let's spice it up… How about, "I was browsing through a table of contents while surrounded by meat pies and millionaire spies." Too much? Ah. Well.) Anyway, the listing for "Wife" was just too good not to share.

Wife, 282, 369

   Bad, 56

   Indiscreet, 226

   Lover of Fairy Tales, 308

   Stubborn, 281

   Wise, 521

Obviously, she's a handful, but she also sounds like a delightful party guest.

Cthulhu wants you to relax on the porch!

Crafting is a slippery slope. Start buying wind chimes and, next thing you know, you're wearing a hand-dyed kaftan, 20 pounds of turquoise beads, and answering to "Kiki Sequoia". But for these marvelous creations by Deborah and Richard Bloom, I will take the risk.

These are wind chimes a la Lovecraft, equal parts dream and nightmare, handmade from bone, thorn, seed pods, and obsidian shards. Easily my favorite find at the Contemporary Crafts Market and I want them all.

Glamorous Goo: OCC's Lip Tars

I think we're overdue for a little prettifying, no?

A bit about today's line: Obsessive Compulsive Cosmetics, a favorite of pro artists, is 100% cruelty-free and 100% vegan. "I wear leather," you say. "I enjoy a good steak. Why should I worry about my makeup being vegan?" Perhaps because some cosmetics actually contain gross things like ground-up insect bits and urea. That's right, urea.

Product I Love: Lip Tars. They look like bright little glosses but they are deeply, densely, deliciously pigmented. They're something like lipstick in a tube but with a lot more slide. They leave a satiny semi-matte finish and they have insane staying power.

How to Use Them: Lip Tars are INTENSE. You need only the very tiniest bit of product. I start at the center of the mouth and work out to the lip line with these and I recommend a stiff, short lip brush. I also like them on cheeks– used sparingly, of course.

How to Choose Them: Collect them all! One of the most fun things about lip tars is that they make it easy to customize your own lip color. (So convenient for a pro kit.) Why settle for an in-between shade when you can mix the perfect peach or take your brilliant red to a moody bordeaux? If that sounds too labor intensive, worry not. These people know color. You can play it safe with the prettily pink Hush, try one of their beautiful reds, or consider Grandma, an eye-popping pinky coral that can be used to stain the lips or applied to the cheeks for a blissed out glow. (Swatchgirl puts it in action here– though I would recommend using less product to prevent the feathering mentioned in her review.)

Tip: Follow OCC on twitter. They frequently run 10-20% discounts or offer free shipping.

What's next: Just in time for summer, OCC has launched their silicone-free tinted foundations and they are getting lots of buzz. As soon as I can hunt them down on the West Coast, I will acquire and report back. You know, for the good of the team. To tide you over, consider their sublime nail polishes. (I'm particularly fond of Swamp Thing and Hush but the all-new Echo is calling to me, too. A few colors beautifully swatched by Vampy Varnish here.)

Bridesmaids & Babette

Lately, a line from the Danish film Babette's Feast has been running through my head… "Throughout the world sounds one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me the chance to do my very best."

Here's the thing that struck me most powerfully about Bridesmaids: This is what happens when you let actual comedians do their jobs. This is what can happen in the post-Tina Fey world.

Ten years ago, Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo might have written this movie but Wiig and Maya Rudolph never would have been cast in it. Instead, we would have seen some good-sport-starlet (Cameron Diaz, Jennifer Aniston, Christina Applegate) with dewy skin and passable comic timing doing her best to endure a series of humiliating situations. Meanwhile, Wiig and Rudolph– lovely, but ordinary looking women– would have been relegated to a quirky best friend role or hamming it up as a wacky waiter.

But with Bridesmaids we get two fantastic female comedians owning the story instead of stealing their moments. They go to town on their material, working each beat, commanding each set piece with total confidence. A lot of the film's jokes feel predictable and obvious, but the execution elevates the material. There is something almost elegant in the way that Rudolph crumples to the street in her own excrement, and to watch Wiig consume a Jordan almond in a bridal salon battle of wills is to witness greatness. (Melissa McCarthy is another standout. I was sorry to see the film fall into the "fat women who want to have sex are hilarious" trap, but McCarthy's delivery did wonders.)

I don't know that Bridesmaids is their "very best," but it's a good beginning and a hopeful indication that the world is ready to give Wiig, Rudolph, and others their chance.

Delicious Cringe Part 2

My old diaries continue to provide me with amusement and awful, squirmy feelings of abject humiliation. It's a nice trade-off.

Zoraida's comment on my last post inspired me to share this latest discovery: When I was about 10, every few weeks I would write up a list of "Friend Evaluations" in my journal. They can best be described as profanity and exclamation point laden tirades. This is my favorite (names changed to protect the unfairly vilified):

Micah: Sweet, Hyper, Cute!!!!! I love his spiked hair!!

Owen: Jerk

Ryan: Jerk

Aimee: Sweet, considerate, know-it-all

Jenna: Disloyal, untrustworthy, wining (sic), coniving (sic), manipulative, snobby, rude, ostentatios (sic, oh the irony), inconsiderate, lying, arrogant b*tch!!!!!

Carrie: The same but a touch nicer.

Also, at one point, I refer to a girl as the "Slut of the Century." We were ten.

The funniest/most awful part of these entries isn't just that I felt comfortable passing such harsh judgment on all those around me (which, honestly, hasn't much changed), but how wildly my opinions vacillated. One week, Jenna was an Ostentatios(TM) monster and the next week she was "Awesome! The sweetest!! True friend!!"

But… that was kind of the reality of grade school. I remember my friends and I triangulating constantly, forming and dissolving alliances within our tribe. We were vicious and fickle and often, almost hysterically joyful. We once got kicked out of a movie theater for CRYING too loudly. If you said we were silly and cruel, you'd be right. But we were also glittery little maenads, drunk on scented lip balm, snapping with ferocity. We were that elusive "girl power" in its purest, most unstable form, ready to spit charged particles and change without warning. We should have been more kind. We should have been more cautious. But I guess this is where I shrug and say, "We were free."

(Also, I encourage you to click on the pic because that is, in fact, a painting by Finch of Strawberry Shortcake, riding My Little Pony, after killing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and the details are not to be missed.)

Delicious Cringe

Late on the update this week because I've been in the revisions bunker, but now I emerge with treasure in hand: I found my diaries from 5th grade through college and good gravy they are hilarious/humiliating/occasionally heartbreaking.

The early stuff is just funny. (On exchanging Christmas presents with my 6th grade boyfriend: "I gave him this rad magnetic art thing and he gave me soap!! Lame!!!") But around age 13, I leave giddy exclamation points behind and start making PROFOUND STATEMENTS. My favorite find thus far:

"Boys are like horses. They're bigger and stronger than us, but not smarter. If they sense our nervousness and fear, they either run so fast that we hold tight for fear of being left behind, or they buck us and we're lucky not to land in a pile of shit that they made or get kicked in the head by a stray hoof. And the worst of it is that they do none of this with spite."

So young, so wise, so prone to run-on sentences and profanity. Hmm, maybe I haven't changed that much at all.