Friends, I’m in a bit of a pickle, and I need your help.
You may remember a while back that I made a bet with Scott Westerfeld that he could not put together a group trip to Dragoncon, where we would all sign and do events. I said that if he could arrange it, not only would I go, I would go wearing the Princess Leia gold bikini outfit.
Why did I do this? Because I’m an idiot.
Most of you are smarter than I am, and would know not to make such a bet with Scott. Within days, it was a done deal. So Scott, Justine Larbalestier, Holly Black, Cassie Clair, and I are all going to Dragoncon together—by train. Yes, we’ll be spending 24 hours on a train together, speeding southward, then four days at the con itself. (I should mention though that Suite Scarlett is due pretty much the minute I get back. How will I write a book while doing all of this? I am about to find out.)
I just looked at my calendar and saw that the time for DRAGONTRAIN comes closer. In fact, I really have only a matter of days to settle the issue of my outfit, as I have to go back to the London Office to lock myself in and try to finish the book before then. (On this note—you are likely to see some frantic “how to revise a book” posts soon.)
This is where you come in.
See, I’ve looked for the Leia bikini outfit. I thought it would be easy to get. Turns out, it’s not. Yes, I know some places online have it—but I kind of want to try it on first to make sure it fits. I went to the biggest costume store in New York, and they didn’t even have it. Cecil Castellucci tried to get one for me at that big 30th anniversary of Star Wars a few weeks ago, but I was painting my apartment and missed her call.
I have asked permission and been told that an alternate outfit will be acceptable. But I’ve never been to a con before. It’s all new to me. I don’t know what to get.
So I thought I’d leave it up to you. Below you will see some options I came up with. Please place your vote in the comments. In about two days time, I will have to make the final decision and get the outfit as quickly as possible.
Please give your selection and your reason for choosing said outfit. I will go with the outfit that most compellingly argued or most popular. If you have another suggestion, feel free to write it in.
Here we go.
ONE: THE LEIA BIKINI
Also know as “slave Leia.” I put this first because this was the original promise. Why is this so hard to get?
PROS: Shiny. I like shiny. Can swim in it if necessary. CONS: Hard to obtain. May be cold. (Don’t they keep the air conditioning up high in Atlanta?) May be attacked by Jabba the Hutt.
The elusive gold bikini. Jabba not included. Hopefully.
TWO: CLASSIC LEIA
In second position, here is the “classic” Leia outfit—the white robe that we all know and love.
PROS: I can get this outfit. Will be warmer than the bikini. CONS: Hair buns. I don’t really want to wear a wig. My friend Winchester Grey has a knit hat that looks like the Leia buns, but I don’t want to wear a knit hat around all day either. May be too 1977. Also, may be imprisoned by Darth Vader.
Is this the little black dress of con outfits, or just the last refuge of people who don't know much about SciFi?
THREE: WONDER WOMAN
Why? Ask the four year old mj, who still lives inside me, who used to spin around on the lawn in the hopes that she would transform, just like Wonder Woman did. (Best outfit change strategy ever. Ev-er.)
PROS: TOTALLY AWESOME! Also, Cassie Clare has a friend who actually HAS the outfit and said she would lend it to me. CONS: Would require obtaining red boots. May be ticketed for illegally parking invisible jet. Also, may revert to four year old behavior and start spinning until I throw up.
By the power of Hera!
FOUR: MAGENTA FROM THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW
Why? Well, I know the movie. I like it. And this is a straightforward costume.
PROS: Obtainable. I know the lyrics to all the songs. Would prefer not to Time Warp, but will do so if required. Also, it would allow me to make use of my new, longer hair. CONS: May get dragged off to sing-along with Rocky fans or to spaceship headed back to Transsexual Transylvania.
Dinner is served!
FIVE: DEVIL GIRL
I’m going to Dragoncon to sign and talk about Devilish, so I figured this was at least relevant.
PROS: Costume easily obtainable as is very generic. Relevant to Devilish. CONS: Costume is so generic as to be kind of boring. Frankly, I am not as into this idea. May poke self with horns. Also, when I looked up images of “devil girl” on Google, they were so filthy that the only one I can post is of a stuffed hamster.
Costume not as pictured.
SIX/SEVEN: BELLATRIX LESTRANGE OR TONKS
A bit of a curve ball! I could go with either the evil Bellatrix or the ever-so-good Tonks.
PROS: I am a Harry Potter fan, and know J.K. personally. Also, I could pull either one of these off without too much trouble. CONS: I may be in a sea of Harry Potter characters. This may be too easy.
Will it be everyone's favorite Metamorphmagus?
Or Neville's enemy?
I’m counting on you guys. Please vote! Get your friends to vote! This matter is in YOUR hands now. That’s how much I trust you.
UPDATE AS OF MONDAY EVENING: Tonks has an early lead, but Wonder Woman is catching up.
Magenta and Classic Leia: 0 votes. May be entirely out of the running.
One commenter points out: "I think Tonks would be chickening out some because it's easier and also, not as recognizable, I would think. Also - it isn't as "WOW She's actually wearing that?" which I think was kind of the whole point of your bet." Meanwhile, Cecil has come through with THREE sources of the Leia slave outfit since I posted.
Which will win? I can hardly stand the pressure! I think I'll have to call a deadline on this, so let's say midnight, tomorrow night.
Also, for those of you who get my newsletter, the deadline for the Girl At Sea picture contest is tomorrow! Get your entries in to win signed books in a special edition Harry Potter bag!
I’ve hinted that things in Bartlesville are far from over. Let’s talk a little about that today, as I will be talking about it later. I’m going to be on the radio tonight at 6:15 talking about the Bartlesville situation on The Agenda with Joe Solmonese, which is XM radio channel 120. If you don’t have XM, they should have it in the audio archive once it’s over. (And I’ll post the link here when it appears.)
As you will hear tonight, I have decided to try to fight this as much as I can. The reason is simple . . . this book has been “labeled” because it has homosexual content. Labeling or banning is an unconstitutional mess, full-stop. Labeling or banning an otherwise squeaky-clean book because it has positive homosexual content is salting the wound.
But people get away with it, because sufficient counter-challenges are hard to mount—and because, as we have seen in this case, people do things without telling the public.
So I have decided that my Life Policy is zero tolerance. If you try to take one of my books off the shelf for an insane reason like this, I will come running and flailing at you like a maniac. And I just won’t stop. And I promise it will not be quiet or graceful. And I’m going to bring as many of you who want to come with me along, and we can all run flailing and screaming. Decorum is so 2006.
Us.
To this end, what I’m working on now is contacting the ACLU, which is actually kind of decorous, but I can punch up my efforts later if I actually have to fly down to Bartlesville and do my long-promised improper dancing. I have no idea if this will work, but that’s what I’m doing. And the reason I think this might be effective is that there seems to be precedent in these cases. Look at this, from the ALA website:
Counts v. Cedarville School District, 295 F.Supp.2d 996 (W.D. Ark. 2003)
The school board of the Cedarville, Arkansas school district voted to restrict students' access to the Harry Potter books, on the grounds that the books promoted disobedience and disrespect for authority and dealt with witchcraft and the occult. As a result of the vote, students in the Cedarville school district were required to obtain a signed permission slip from their parents or guardians before they would be allowed to borrow any of the Harry Potter books from school libraries. The District Court overturned the Board's decision and ordered the books returned to unrestricted circulation, on the grounds that the restrictions violated students' First Amendment right to read and receive information. In so doing, the Court noted that while the Board necessarily performed highly discretionary functions related to the operation of the schools, it was still bound by the Bill of Rights and could not abridge students' First Amendment right to read a book on the basis of an undifferentiated fear of disturbance or because the Board disagreed with the ideas contained in the book.
I like it!
Can it be much clearer? Sorry, committee members (including my elusive friend Janet Vernon . . . 84 days of silence from you . . . you sly minx!), you are actually bound by the First Amendment.
The lesson is this, book banners:
No, you can’t violate students’ rights.
No, you can’t just wildly discriminate against other people.
No, you are not the boss of everyone.
No, you may not have a cookie.
Also, just no.
Who’s with me? Let’s fight them off together!
Also us.
So, if you know anyone in the ACLU, any group that fights things like this, law students who are interested in issues like this, or just people who like authors, let me know!
And committee guys in Bartlesville . . . if you just do the right thing and put the book back, a lot of annoyance can be avoided. Plus, you will be doing the aforementioned right thing.
I may fail, but I will at least have gone down improperly dancing. And be warned . . . this guy was my teacher, and I am just as good:
ACTUAL HARRY POTTER SPOILERS REVEALED AGAIN! THIS TIME, WITH MORE TRUTHINESS!
Friends, I am back in NYC. As my plane was landing (literally, at the same time), the water pipe exploded in midtown. This was my welcome home.
Don’t worry! We New Yorkers are a hearty people, and this is about what we expect from our infrastructure. Our standards of what should happen in a day are either much, much higher or much, much lower (it’s hard to tell which way this goes) than pretty much anywhere else in the US. And while we will notice a massive explosion of steam and asbestos, one that cracks a massive crater into the middle of the street and swallows cars . . . it doesn’t necessarily faze us as much as you might think. I’m sure I told you about the time that my bathroom wall exploded into flame as I went out the door, or the time the manhole cover exploded and flames shot out of it, high as a car roof. I like this kind of atmosphere. It makes me feel much more alert.
Before I left the London Office, though, I had another encounter. I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell you about this, so I gave myself the plane ride to think about it. I took the explosion as a sign that I should. Also, with the proliferation of “spoilers” and “important book reviews” coming out, I felt the need to set the record straight.
Some people didn’t believe what happened when I first met J.K. Rowling. As one commenter just wrote:
this is all a load of ****, you didnt see jk rowling, and her editor and pagers was bullshit, people stole copies of the book and told all, like she said, shes a fellow author so shed have no problem making all this up
I could barely believe it myself. Read on, doubtful commenter, and be amazed.
Two nights before I left, I heard a rapping at the kitchen window. At first, I thought it was the mad old lady who walks around outside of the new office. (Did I tell you about her? That’s been very fun. She walks around and around, starting at about 4 in the morning, screaming at the top of her lungs. The other day my alarm clock was literally her voice screaming, “I HATE CHILDREN! EVERYONE HATES CHILDREN!” It’s very soothing. She sometimes appeared at the windows or the door. The flat has a lot of windows, which are quite low, so I could literally turn around to find her looking at me from about two feet away, and that is exactly as reassuring as it sounds.)
But it wasn’t her. Nor was it the cat from the garden, who became my very best friend and ran for me at all times, haunting the windowsills and peering at me while I was working. There was a lot of window activity is what I’m trying to say, so I just assumed it was either our child-loving visitor or our furry-faced one.
But it was neither. It was J.K. Rowling. She was knocking and fervently gesturing for me to open the window. At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Our last encounter had been rather awkward. But I decided that I really had to let her in. I opened the window, and she climbed inside, knocking over all the bottles we had carefully arranged there for the recycling bin.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “What are those there for?”
“What am I doing?” I shot back. “Don’t you think I should be asking that question?”
She ignored this and looked around the room.
“Do you have any cereal?” she asked. “I’m famished.”
She didn’t wait for my reply. She saw the cereal boxes lined up on the counter and shot right to them. She grabbed a box of Special K with yogurt-covered berries, tore it open, and clawed around inside.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, shoveling a handful of cereal into her mouth. “I read what you wrote. My plan worked perfectly.”
“Plan?” I repeated.
“To mislead everyone,” she said. “Everything I told you the other day was a lie. Now I want the world to know the truth.”
“Why should I believe you now?” I said. “Plus, it’s been leaked.”
“Yes. And that’s why I want to set the story straight. If someone if going to leak this, I want it to be me. Now . . .”
She brushed some Special K crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand and pushed past me to get to the fridge.
“Get a pen and paper. And make some coffee. This is going to take a while.”
The following are the chosen bits of information that J.K. chose to share with me on this, our second meeting. Believe them as you will.
HP7: THE SECRET PLOT DEVICE
“When we last met,” I said, as J.K. gulped down some milk straight from the carton, “you told me that Ginny was a robot, Hermoine was Harry’s sister, Ron was a figment of Harry’s imagination, and Harry wasn’t in the book at all because he had gone to Spain. You also told me that book seven was all about Kevin Whitby.”
“Who’s Kevin Whitby?”
“The last person to be sorted in book four.”
“No,” she said. “It’s not about him. At first, I was going to make it all about Tonks, just so I could call it Tonks for the Memories.”
I gave her a murderous look.
“The secret of book seven . . .” she said, lowering her voice, “the thing that makes it different, more exciting than any book ever written, the thing that will make literary history . . .”
“Yes?” I said, reluctantly drawn in by her tone.
“Is that it’s a . . .”
“A . . .”
“It’s a . . .”
“A what?” I snapped. “An emergency floatation device? A tasty sandwich filling? A cure for the common cold? What?”
“It’s a musical.”
Without another word, I reached into the fridge for the gin and took a long gulp right from the bottle.
“It’s not even called Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” she went on. “It’s just called Harry! This was the idea I had on that train ride, all those years ago. All six books have been leading up to a musical finish. Lots of books have been musicals. Mame. Mary Poppins. Cats. Phantom of the Opera. Mamma Mia.”
“Mamma Mia was not a book,” I said. “It was a song by Abba. But that is beside the point. Those were books that were turned into musicals. What you are telling me is that you have written a book that is somehow an actual musical, is that right?”
“That’s right,” she said, slamming down the milk carton. “Do you have any more cereal?”
“No. How can this be possible?”
“I guess you ate it all. Selfish.”
“I mean about the book musical thing,” I said sternly. “What? Does it sing? Does it dance?”
“You just read it,” she said. “And you experience it like a musical.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I am J.K. Rowling,” she said. “I am capable of anything! I am MAGIC!” WHAT REALLY HAPPENED WITH SNAPE?
I decided to let that go for a moment and get to something that all Potter fans can get their heads around.
“One of the things everyone really wants to know—musically or not—is whether or not Snape is evil,” I said. “So what’s the deal with that?”
“Snape,” she said, getting up to go through the cupboards, “is my greatest creation. I love Alan Rickman. Don’t you love Alan Rickman?”
“He’s a very good actor,” I said.
“Sometimes,” she said dreamily, “I have my pilot fly my plane over his house, very low. You should see him run as we come swooping down over his lawn. It is very, very beautiful to watch. I do that with all the actors, actually, but he is my favorite.”
“But what about the question?” I asked. “Good or bad? I mean, he did kill Dumbledore.”
“Who? Alan Rickman?”
“No. Snape.”
“I don’t think Alan Rickman has ever killed anyone,” she said, munching some uncooked spaghetti right out of the box. “But if he did, I would forgive him.”
“Okay,” I said in desperation, “when Alan Rickman is playing Snape, is he playing a good Snape or a bad Snape?”
“You want to know if Snape was actually killing Dumbledore according to a pre-arranged plan . . . maybe even one set by Dumbledore himself. And that’s why Snape simply blocks Harry’s curses at the end of the Half-Blood Prince instead of just killing him, when he clearly could kill him.”
“Yes!” I said. “Yes! That’s exactly what I want to know.”
“Alan Rickman asked me the same question,” she said. “When I had him locked in my basement.”
I stiffened, but she went on crunching the spaghetti and smiling in a very creepy manner.
“The answer is obvious, of course,” she said. “All the evidence is there. Actually if you just read the chapter at Spinner’s End carefully, the one with the Unbreakable Vow . . .”
“I think I follow you,” I said. “Snape takes the Unbreakable Vow in order not to give his position away in front of Bellatrix, but Dumbledore’s death is pre-arranged, maybe part of some prophesy. I mean, Dumbledore knows all about it . . . though he does seem surprised that Snape does it. But maybe that’s all part of helping Snape keep his cover and . . .”
“God, you do go on,” she said. “The thing you need to know is that in book seven, Snape is laid bare.”
“We get to learn his mysterious past?”
“No. He’s naked. I stripped him of his clothes. They’re making a movie of book seven, you know. With the same actors!”
“But what about Snape’s goodness or evilness?”
“Who cares?” she said. “I certainly don’t. I care about his nakedness. Alan works out. A lot.”
I decided to leave the matter alone, largely because I was frightened.
Alan Rickman would like to come out of the basement now.
HARRY: DEAD VS. ALIVE
“Okay,” I said, “since we know that Harry is actually in the book . . . I have to ask you the big question again.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Harry. Does he live? That’s what you want to know.”
“Me and the rest of the world.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you. But we have to discuss this from a musical perspective. You see, whenever I am confused in life, I ask myself, “What would Andrew Lloyd Webber do?” Although, on some days I ask myself, “What would Britney Spears do?” You’d be amazed how many times I get the same answer. Are you sure you don’t have any more cereal? Those breadsticks were awful.”
“Does he live or die?” I finally screamed. “This is not a hard question! Not for you!”
She reeled and stepped back a bit.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s Ron and Hermione. They die. Snape is evil. The final horcrux is Harry’s scar. Hogwarts is destroyed.”
It was my turn to stagger. These sounded like actual, possible spoilers.
“Hogwarts?” I mumbled. “Destroyed? Ron dies? This is horrible.”
“I know,” she said sympathetically. “Ron really dies a very slow and horrible death, too. It goes on for five chapters. Oh, and then Harry dies at the very, very end. Hagrid too. And Hedwig. Basically, all characters whose names start with H, or who you like, die. Neville dies. Luna dies. Ginny seems like she’s going to live, but then she dies. ”
“No!”
“What can you do?” she said with a shrug.
“You can do something! You wrote it! You can make it all better! This is a nightmare!”
“You wanted to know,” she said. “Also, Diagon Alley? That burns down. And the Hogwarts Express? It gets eaten by a dragon.”
“Does anyone survive?” I asked, horrified.
“Sure. Kevin Whitby does.”
“Kevin Whitby again,” I said. “A minute ago you didn’t even remember him.”
“I was testing you,” she said. “To see if you remembered who he was. You passed with flying colors.”
“So, you’re saying that absolutely everyone dies, except Kevin Whitby, and maybe Snape, who’s naked. It’s just rubble, bodies, Snape’s naked butt, and Whitby. What about Voldemort?”
“Have you ever seen Kevin Whitby and Voldemort in the same place?”
“What?”
“Just kidding,” she said.
I opened the window and gestured towards it.
“I think you should leave,” I said.
She shuffled over very reluctantly.
“I like you,” she said, as she climbed back out.
When she was gone, I cleaned up the kitchen and sat down to think it all over. I could hear Rowling scratching at the window, wanting to tell me more spoilers, but I did not let her in. I thought of poor Alan Rickman, running for his life, possible naked, as she barreled down on him in her plane. Power had driven her mad.
Free Monkey lyrics: He's a good boy, loyal friend and companion He came out of a big box of tea Won't wear pants, 'cause he don't have much bottom But he looks good in his sexy white tee
He's a rambler, and he makes friends all over From London to Bartlesville O.K. And you'll want him to be yours forever But don't bother to ask him to stay
Because he's free, FREE MONKEY
Likes good food, don't care where he gets it And like his coffee, he's thick and he's hot And since he sure don't believe in moderation At parties he's a bit of a sot
And he's free, FREE MONKEY
He'll wanna show you how to turn on the ladies Wanna teach you what this world's all about Gonna bring you to his way of thinkin' Gonna get you to let it all hang out
'Cause he's free, FREE MONKEY
Read more about my friend's travels here, on his personal blog. I think I am very jealous.
I stopped in Starbucks this morning while I was out, and I noticed a woman in the corner. She was wearing what seemed like an obvious disguise—an oversized sweatshirt that said “I love London,” a floppy wool hat, sunglasses, and a fake moustache. At first, I thought I was imagining things. Though she was clearly trying to hide, I could tell it was J.K. Rowling.
Now, I know what you're thinking. Just because you are in England dosn't mean you will see J.K. Rowling. But she has to be SOMEWHERE, doesn't she? And apparently, somewhere happens to be in the Starbucks at the end of the road.
To be honest, I was surprised to see her in this state—disheveled, obviously nervous, sitting around in a Starbucks in the middle of the day with fake facial hair on. I bought an extra coffee and approached her carefully. She started when I came near, but when I set down the coffee and identified myself as a fellow author, she relaxed a little. We authors have an unspoken bond like that. She snatched the coffee and drank it in big, sloppy slurps, then glanced around the room with frightened eyes.
“I can’t take it anymore, mj,” she said. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? Everyone in the entire world wants to know what happens in Harry Potter seven. And you know who knows the answer? Me, my editor, and two other people who set the pages. This morning? A van came around, took my editor away. They say she’s being kept in a volcano until the release. They killed the other two. I heard they fed one of them into a woodchipper, and the other was encased in cement. That's how much keeping this secret is worth. I just escaped this morning. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it in. I won’t last until the 21st.”
I wasn’t sure if any of this was true, but I had to admit, it is a lot of pressure.
“Relax, J.K.,” I said, coming closer. “I am the soul of discretion. Tell me all about it and get it off your mind. What happens in the last book?”
She took off the sunglasses and looked me in the eye.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell you. Maybe that’s the only way I can stay sane. But once I tell you, you’ll be in danger, too.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I have plans to get a stun gun. Lay it on me.”
The following is all 100% true. Please don't spread it around too much, or the book will be ruined for everyone.
DRACO AND NEVILLE
“Let’s start with Draco,” I said. “When we last saw him, he was punking out his job. He couldn’t kill Dumbledore. What was with that?”
“You must know where Draco’s headed,” J.K. said.
“Hell? In a handbasket?”
“Try Paris. Milan. New York. Draco goes into fashion.”
“Fashion?” I repeated.
“Draco has always had an interest in labels. You’ve seen him on Diagon Alley. His eventual goal is to design upscale handbags, sunglasses, and footwear. He does all of the outfits for the final battle between good and evil . . . you know, because no more Hogwarts, no more school uniform. Part of this final battle takes place on the catwalk. Guess who does the outfits for good! Go on! Guess!”
“That guy who does the robes?” I offered.
“Neville,” she said smugly.
“Neville?”
“Yep.”
“Wasn’t Neville almost the Chosen One?”
“Yep.”
“And isn’t Draco the kind of evil Chosen One?”
“Yep. And here’s the exciting part. Their conflicting styles and viewpoints result in a tantalizing dance of fabrics and colors. They eventually team up to form the house of Longbottom and Malfoy.”
“Draco and Neville form a fashion company together? That’s really not what I expected.”
“That’s why I am a record-breaking author,” she said. “I give people the unexpected.”
She adjusted her moustache. I was feeling a bit weird about this news, but she was right. She does deliver the unexpected. I decided to move on to a character from a family I admire deeply—the Weasleys.
Draco hates what you’re wearing.
GINNY
“Ginny’s a robot,” J.K. said offhandedly, eyeing the cakes in the dessert case.
“But she’s Ron’s sister,” I replied with a start.
“Robot.”
“But . . .”
“Ron doesn’t know,” she said with a sigh. “That’s one of the major reveals. Ginny gets attacked, and her arm is blasted off and all of these wires come out. Cho Chang is too. All the girls Harry make out with or like are robots. All those French girls in the fourth book were robots. Every last one of them.”
“But . . . why? And how would Ron not know that his sister was a robot? And how would HARRY not know?”
“They are very sophisticated robots. She was adopted from a robot farm.”
“Did you just say robot farm?”
“I am J.K. Rowling,” she explained. “I can do what I want. Now get me a muffin.”
RON
I returned with two muffins. I let J.K. choose which one she wanted, because I wanted to get her in the right mood for my personal big question.
“Ron’s my favorite,” I confessed, giggling and going all pink.
J.K. looked at me with deep compassion. Or dislike. It was hard to tell.
“Then you won’t like what I’m about to tell you,” she said, clawing at the lemon poppy seed muffin.
I gripped the table.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, don’t tell me you killed Ron. That’s my worst Harry Potter nightmare.”
“I didn’t need to.”
“What does that mean?” I gasped.
“There is no Ron.”
I stared at her. She didn’t blink. For like two minutes. I began to wonder if J.K. was entirely human.
“Ron was all a dream,” she said.
I didn’t reply.
“It was obvious,” she went on. “The first person Harry meets. The one person no one else seems to see or talk to . . .”
“Everyone talks to Ron!”
“In Harry’s mind.”
“Ron is there,” I said firmly. “He drives the flying car into the Whomping Willow. He gets taken to the bottom of the lake in The Goblet of Fire and Harry has to rescue him. He becomes the Quidditch Keeper.”
“It’s all in Harry’s head.”
“You’re making this into a poor man’s version of A Beautiful Mind. And the ‘it was all a dream’ device is the worst ending ever! It doesn’t even make sense!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t hear you over my millions and millions of fans. What were you saying?”
I cleared my throat, and she devoured her muffin in three bites.
“Let’s move on,” I said.
“Let’s,” she said.
Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
HERMOINE
“Well, then,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you going to tell me about Hermione? You’ve covered robots and dreams, so what is she? A hologram?”
“Don’t be stupid,” J.K. said. “The fans would never buy that. Hermione is a normal girl.”
“So . . .”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“Surprise me.”
“What, are you dumb?” she asked.
I refused to answer this question. She finally smiled a bit.
“She’s . . . Harry’s . . . sister.”
“You mean . . . like Luke and Leia in Star Wars?”
“What’s Star Wars?” she asked.
“Star Wars!”
“I don’t watch much television. What is that? A reality show? Like American Idol?”
“It’s a movie!” I exclaimed. “A very famous movie. Darth Vader, the Dark Side, the Death Star, may the Force be with you? Is any of this sounding familiar?”
“Vaguely,” she said. “Is this one where, if you get the monsters wet, they multiply? All those little monsters with the cute names . . . Gizmo, Frodo, Bilbo. So they have to go back in time in a 1980s car to get rid of them?”
“That was Gremlins,” I said. “And the Lord of the Rings, and Back the Future. I’m talking about Star Wars. Does the word Jedi mean nothing to you?”
“Is it a kind of cheese?”
“Look,” I said. “Luke is the hero, and Leia is the heroine, and you eventually find out that they are brother and sister after they fight side by side against evil over the course of several stories. And there is a third member of the group, a kind of funny, unlikely hero called Han, not unlike Ron.”
“Completely different.”
“No it isn’t! And Star Wars might be the only thing more famous than Harry Potter!”
For the first time, there was a flicker of concern. Then she swung her arm wide and knocked my muffin to the floor.
“Looks like someone needs a new snack,” she said.
I grumbled and went to the counter for a new muffin. While I was up there, I heard frantic scribbling behind me.
“Like I was saying,” she said, brushing eraser scratchings off the page, “that’s so derivative. Hermione ends up with Ron.”
“You mean like Leia and Han.”
“Who wrote this War Stars, anyway?” she snapped. “And which one of us is getting their own theme park? Hmmm? I rest my case. Next question.”
Somehow related to someone, or possibly dating someone. No matter what, Obi Wan is her only hope.
HARRY
“We’ve reached the big one,” I said. “And I can barely wait to hear what you have to say about this.”
“Oh, right,” she said with a yawn. “Harry, right?”
“Right.”
“People seem so hung up on him,” she said. “I never understood why.”
“Maybe because you called the books HARRY POTTER.”
She nodded thoughtfully, as though she had never considered this before.
“So . . . what’s the story. Does he die or doesn’t he?”
She stirred her coffee for what felt like ages, until I “accidentally” kicked her under the table.
“Oh, sorry . . .” she said. “I was miles away. You were asking about Harry, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“And you wanted to know whether what? Whether he dies or not?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, I have no idea.”
“What?”
“Harry’s not in the seventh book.”
I had to get up and go to the bathroom and put my head in the sink for a moment. When I came back, I caught the last sight of my muffin being hastily shoved into J.K.’s mouth.
“They cleared the table,” she lied, coughing out crumbs. “And your muffin . . .”
“Whatever.” I sat down and folded my hands on top of the table. “So, tell me. What possessed you to leave Harry out of the seventh book, and where might he have gone?”
“I’m so bored of him,” she said, slumping petulantly. “So I sent him off to do a year abroad. In Spain.”
“Spain.”
“Yes,” she replied. “He’s in Spain.”
“And presumably, since Ron is apparently a figure of Harry’s imagination, he’s not in it either.”
“No.”
“So who is in it?”
“The seventh book,” she said, “is mostly about Kevin Whitby.”
“Who is Kevin Whitby?”
“You know. Kevin Whitby. The last student to be sorted by the sorting hat in book four. He’s a bit of a mysterious one.”
“By mysterious, do you mean ‘not really in the books at all except for that one mention one time.’ Is that what you mean?”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” she asked. “That stupid name is all I’ve heard for the last ten years—and it took me seven years before that to write the first book. I am so sick of Harry Potter. So from now on, it’s all about Kevin Whitby.”
“Does Kevin Whitby have an exciting past involving Voldemort? A scar? A destiny?”
“No. He’s just looking for a girlfriend who isn’t a robot.”
“I see.”
We fell into an uncomfortable silence.
“I’m going to go,” I finally said.
“That’s probably for the best,” she replied. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you, will you?”
“Never,” I said. “My lips are sealed until the 21st.”
When I last saw her, J.K. Rowling was running down the street, cutting in and out of traffic, and flipping off the cars that honked at her. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should reveal the contents of our conversation, but in the end, I decided that you had to know, just so you could brush up on your Kevin Whitby trivia.
And read about Free Monkey’s traveling adventure! I think he is currently headed to his last stop in the U.S. . . . Bartlesville, Oklahoma!
Catch up with Free Monkey
When I last left you, I was on my way to Paris. I have been there and back and had even more adventures. You will soon find out how broadly the quality of my experiences can swing.
Mostly, what you do in Paris is eat. And eat and eat and eat. The first time I went to Paris, I was with Daphne Unfeasible, and we were broke college students. So broke, in fact, that we could only afford one part of one meal. If you’re sitting down to a meal in Paris, the general thought seems to be, “Why not just stay for four courses? Why not just sleep under the table, where we can wake you up once every hour or so and feed you more? Why not, indeed?”
I realize now I had never gotten this true experience before. Even when I went to Paris three years ago to research 13 Little Blue Envelopes, I ended up going during hail season, I had a napkin as a companion, and I spent most of my time in the Louvre, getting strung out on little tiny coffees and taking notes.
This time, I was prepared. Before I left, Scott and Justine gave me a book that they used during their trip to Paris.
“This book is good,” they said. “It is full of magical restaurants.”
When Justine and Scott say something is good—it’s good. So I used the book, and it was just as they said.
Here’s something I knew, but that somehow didn’t penetrate until I was actually hungry and sitting down to eat: the French like the meats, and they would like to know if you would like some pork in that. Soup? How about a slab of pork in it? Sandwich? Obviously needs some pork. Cheese? Naked without a spot of pork. How about that bowl of cereal? That glass of juice? That piece of pork?
This is a bit of a problem if you are a vegetarian, and is probably the only reason I am still albe to walk around unaided. I couldn't eat everything on offer. But I could still eat quite a lot.
We did do some other things aside from eating, most of which involved wandering around and occasionally pointing. We stopped in a FNAC bookstore to take this now-obligatory photo (it was still exciting, even if it does look like a whale is coming to eat the book):
We went to the Luxembourg Gardens. If you’ve ever read 13 Little Blue Envelopes, he Luxembourg Gardens serve as Keith and Ginny’s hotel one night. Oscar recreated the scene by lying on a bench at the place where this happened, facing the large fountain where the children can play with the boats.
This would be Keith's view from the bench.
And then we saw PIRATES IN THE FOUNTAIN!
Two of my books collided in this one moment. Thankfully, no jellyfish were spotted in this fountain.
To give you some idea of how much you are served in Paris, this is a picture of our appetizers from the last night. Across the way, you will see that Oscar was given an entire jar of something, and I got the soup. The soup came with a bowl full of croutons (in the front), but the actual soup arrived in a vat which is much bigger than the wineglass next to it. It could fill the soup four or five times over. Not that I tried it. It just never emptied.
Before we knew it, we were running for our train to get back to London. We were seated in some large and lovely seats around a table, and then we were off. Our car, I noticed, had an abundance of staff members, the lead of which was named Jacques. Jacques was very, very happy. It’s possible that living in Paris just makes you that happy. He was a stark contrast to our neighbors. Across the table from us was a rather disgruntled-looking English couple, grumping their way back to England. They did not like Jacques the Happy, or the train, or the countryside, or us. They just sat their with their arms folded, as if to say, “This is how you travel—grimly.” I was getting ready to take a nice little nap with my head bouncing against the window (why is this acceptable when we travel? we do we even like it?) when Jacques the Happy came bouncing down the aisle, tossing out brunch menus like handfuls of rose petals.
Apparently we had purchased fancy class tickets on the way back. Within minutes, we were presented with massive trays of croissants, rolls, jams, juices, yogurts, and about two pounds of silverware.
“I weel be back!” J.T.H. promised with a promising French smile. “I weel take your ordeur for ze brunch!”
So, this half a bakery was just a snack while we waited.
“I’m going to die,” I said to Oscar. But Oscar was already shoveling a croissant down his throat. It was like he had disconnected his jaw like pelicans can when they eat whole fish. Jacques crept back up on us with a cart that contained goat cheese (and ham), cheese flans (with ham). Also, there was just generally some ham.
“And for your waanane?” Jacques asked, waving at a massive cart full of wine bottles.
“It’s ten thirty in the morning,” I said weakly, looking up at him with a wet, tadpole-like stare.
“Yes! Is parfait! No waaaane now? OK! I will be back with champagne later!”
The Grumps did not approve of this AT ALL. When he did come back with his champagne, they shook their heads disapprovingly. We were much more obliging by that point. He kept coming back, with coffee and tea and hot towels and general well-wishes, until we were back in London. Jolly old London, where you are always treated reasonably, where hospitality means a lukewarm cup of tea and a light smack on the back of the head, and no one will tries to put pork on your toast.
So, when a day starts like that, you tend to think it’s going to go supernova, right?
Read on.
As I mentioned last time, the London Office has just moved. The new office is not the sleek modern techoflat like before . . . it is older, bigger, with a fireplace and a cat flap and lots of character. I told you about the Red Cat District in the garden and the general feeling of nature that abounds, despite the fact that it is in the middle of town.
Well . . .
Oscar, though he has many excellent qualities, is not the king of organization. And I am exactly the kind of person who likes to set things Right. So as soon as we dropped our bags to the floor, I clapped my hands and said, “Let’s get to work!” Within fifteen minutes, the champagne bubbles had given way to shredding, sorting, and unpacking. There were things everywhere—papers, wires, general stuff.
“What we need to do,” I said to Oscar, “is go to IKEA.”
I don’t know what my mental problem is with IKEA. I don’t even like the stuff that much when I get there. IKEA is more of a concept in my head—an ideal that can never be reached—a magical land of storage solutions. I seem to forget that every time I go to IKEA, it ends up going horribly wrong. The memory gets wiped away, and ten minutes later I’m begging to go again.
Oscar thought it was a good idea, so we finished up some errands in town and got in his car to go to IKEA LONDON!
Have I told you about Oscar’s car? I must have. It’s a really nice car. Really. It is. But it is a sporty car. And by sporty, I mean that it is small. And by small, I mean that it is possible that you could pop it in a post box and mail it to your auntie. A small bird could lift it away. If you weren’t careful, you could accidentally eat it. Do you get my point? The only shopping you can really do in this car involves a trip to the post office, as long as you don’t buy more than 10 stamps. It’s not really the ideal car for a trip to IKEA. But never let it be said that we will be stopped by these kinds of practical concerns! By evening, we were zooming off to Croydon, with a list and a dream (that’s all that fit in the car).
First, we managed to lose IKEA entirely. This may not seem that hard, except that the London IKEA is built on the site of an old power station and looks like this:
After driving around and around, we finally made it. I was so excited as we pulled up that I suggested to Oscar that I should do a tour of IKEAs of the world. He said nothing in reply.
I was really hoping that the English IKEA would be different, like maybe they would sell IKEA chimney brushes or something—but it mostly seemed like the same stuff. Amazingly, though, this IKEA was actually quite a lot bigger than the New York IKEA. We thought we would be in there for an hour, which was crazy. Three hours later we emerged, having measured everything in the store to see if it would fit in the car. We couldn’t buy half the things we came for, but we did get some storage containers and flower pots and all of the other things that you end up with when you go to IKEA. (Although, they don’t push the votive candles as much as they do in the U.S.)
It was well past ten when we headed back to the L.O. I’d gotten used to four course feasts over the last few days, and I hadn’t eaten anything since J.T.H. had gleefully flung food at us that morning, so I basically began moaning and scratching at the window of the car the entire trip home, begging for food. I was so hungry that it hurt. I do love England, but one thing is a problem in situations like this: things do not stay open that late. Even the service station food shops were closed. I ate mints and watched the clock.
“When we get back,” I said to Oscar, “I am going RIGHT to the kitchen.”
And so I did. I ran to the kitchen, raided the fridge. There was some apple pie in there, so I switched on the oven to heat it up. I was turning on the kettle when I heard Oscar squeal. I spun around to see . . .
A SLUG. ON THE COUNTER.
Not a tiny slug, either. A big sluggy, slug. A slug that had not been there a moment before.
At first, we gave cries of alarm and sadness and did a little sadness dance in the middle of the kitchen, then I grabbed the salt and flung a handful of it and the slug, and it exploded into a gooey mess, as slugs do when you salt them.
This begged the question: where had it come from? Though the kitchen faces the garden, the windows were well sealed. We opened the counter under the sink to have a look and get the cleaning supplies out and we saw . . .
ANOTHER SLUG.
More sadness, dancing, throwing of salt. We also noticed that there was a leaking pipe under the sink. This was a potential slug development area. We looked around the room carefully, keeping away from all surfaces. I noticed something. I thought there was something funny with the finish on the surfaces of the cabinets—it turns out, what I had noticed were OLD SLUG TRAILS.
My hunger had pretty much been quashed by this trauma, but I went to the oven anyway to get out my pie. I reached for the door and it . . . and yes, this really happened this way . . . fell apart in my hand. A bolt had come loose, separating the glass from the metal inner door. So I was stuck holding it while Oscar got a screwdriver, and I turned and saw . . .
ANOTHER SLUG! BIGGER THAN THE FIRST!
This one was zipping up the cabinet that we had JUST LOOKED AT. Slugs are not generally fast moving creatures, so this was extremely upsetting. But I couldn’t move. I was holding the oven door. Oscar had to salt it, then we fixed the door and tightened the bolt, I removed the pie, and then we took the entire kitchen apart. We pulled out the dishwasher and washing machine, we got out the flashlight, we opened every cabinet, and we did it all in a very spooked “Scooby and Shaggy” way.
The good news was that there were no more slugs in that kitchen. What we found was small unfinished spot in the wall behind the dishwasher, which had given away just ever so slightly, where the water from the leaking pipe had made a little pool. This had to be the place where the slugs had come in from the garden. We dumped all the salt in the house around it, and on the floor, and anywhere else we thought of, and then retreated from the room.
So that was how I ended the day that I began by waking up in my Paris hotel room, looking up at the tiny chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and the breakfast of champagne on the train.
The next day, we ripped the entire kitchen apart, and that’s what we have been doing for two days. I’ve been writing during the day, and have spent the nights standing on a counter, bleaching the tops of cabinets. The good news is, it’s a nice kitchen, and it’s really, really, really clean now. We also ordered in a heavy-duty cleaning crew, and the landlord is coming to make a list of repairs . . . because it turns out that this apartment sat empty for a while, so while it is lovely, many things went wrong with it that were never checked. We have found them all, like the oven, and the leaking pipe, and the tiny hole in the garden wall. And when THAT is done, this place is getting decorated. I should really take before and after pictures.
So, I have one more night of this labor, and then tomorrow I let in the cleaners who will blast this place with every cleaning machine known to man. Once they are safely here, I am off to London to write with Cassie Clare (who, I am told, wants to go to the sale at Harrods—can I go without Free Monkey?).
I need to talk to you guys about my Bartlesville plan and book banning in general next time. Until then, I have to keep one eye open for slugs.
Wot? Wot? Wot is this? The 4th of July and I’m in . . . England? On this day of American national freedom, I’m starting it in England, and ending it in . . . wait for it . . .
PARIS.
Yes, Paris. The city that has caused me nothing but trouble in the past. The place Daphne Unfeasible and I don’t talk about.
I arrived here, in England, yesterday. My trip here was made slightly more interesting by the fact that once we boarded the plane and left the gate, we stopped moving. Then the captain came on and told us, in a voice that sounded very sorry, that he was very sorry and that we wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Like, two hours or more. We were so far back in line for takeoff that even the Sky Chef food trucks were ahead of us. I spent a lot of time staring out of the window at them, imaging them charging down the runway and taking flight by accident. The wait was so bad that they turned the video on demand system on (something I have never seen them do before takeoff), so I watched the movie Zodiac. This was good, because I’d wanted to see Zodiac but was much too chicken to do so before. The Zodiac story has always creeped me out to the core—but at the same time, I’m fascinated by it. So I decided to take advantage of the fact that I was completely surrounded by other people, on the most locked up and monitored place I could possibly be, outside of jail. This is the safest zone for the watching of scary movies.
The result of all of this was that the flight was several hours off, and since I don’t really sleep on planes (especially after watching Zodiac), I had been awake all night. I arrived in lovely London, where it was both sunny AND raining softly, and I had the first twinges of delerium.
(By a complete coincidence, my friend Cassie Clare, author of the New York Times bestseller City of Bones also traveled here on Monday. From the report on her blog, she had about as much luck as I did. But now that we are both safely here, we can start UK WRITING KLUB! I hope you have read City of Bones. It, and Cassie, are made of awesome. Cassie and I are going to be roommates on DRAGONTRAIN. From what Scott has told us about the size of the compartments, we think we might be married by the time we get off.)
There were changes afoot.
The London Office has moved. It used to be in a very new, sleek, high tech building. This was nice, but it never felt very English to me. It’s now in an older building smack in the middle of town—part of a little cluster of buildings around a pretty garden. The rooms are big, the ceilings high, the windows massive, and there’s a cast-iron fireplace with lovely tiles and a big bucket of coal and basket of wood all ready to go. That’s more like it! The main bedroom, however, was designed with someone with a very strange view of what the word “restful” means. They walled up the lovely fireplace in there, installed all the solid wood cabinetry they could legally manage without sealing off the door (including several mysterious display cases with glass shelves and focused lightning . . . for figurines? guns? the skulls of your victims?), and finished it all off with maize-yellow textured wallpaper and plaid curtains. Still, it is not as seizure-inducing as I’ve probably made it sound. It is bizarrely charming. I think I am pro the new office, even though I am already working on making changes to it in order to help Oscar. I like to help people do things in their houses, whether they ask me to or not. I give without asking for anything in return, and sometimes, without asking for permission. (Though he says that at no point can the word “sledgehammer” be used in any sentence when referring to the wall that blocks the fireplace. No one lets me do anything.)
I have said before that the London Office is not actually in London, but right outside. I’ve even said, for the literary among you, that it is in the town where Ford Prefect is from. I will go even further today and tell you exactly where it is. It is in a town called Guildford. So if you are in Guildford and thought you saw me, you were probably right. (Unless that Maureen Johnson impersonator has been running around again, committing minor acts of vandalism and ruining my spotless reputation. I’ll get you yet, impersonator!)
I mention where the L.O. is to explain this . . . in order to get to Paris tonight, here is what I must do:
1. Walk out of the L.O.
2. Walk down to the high street to the train station. Meet Oscar there.
3. Hop on the train to London, Waterloo (two stops).
4. Get off at Waterloo. Walk down the concourse to the sign that says Eurostar.
5. Get on the train.
6. Next stop, middle of Paris.
So Paris is literally three stops away on a train. The entire thing will take about four hours, and that includes me walking down the street, stopping in to the store for more batteries for my camera, and getting my passport stamped. There is something about that that is very hard for my American mind to accept. I know France is not that far from here, but it shouldn’t be that easy to get to.
(Crap. While I was writing that, the little string on my sweatshirt decided to jump into my cup of tea and soak. Why didn’t you guys tell me?)
Anyway, I was talking about my arrival yesterday at the new office. Because my setting was different, I decided to do things differently. Whenever I fly over to England (and have therefore been awake all night, even when not watching Zodiac), I immediately crash. It happens every single time. This time, I made myself a strong cup of tea, settled down with my computer, and got right to work.
“Maureen, stay awake,” I told myself. “Look lively. Stay sharp. You can make it until tonight. What’s one night with no sleep? If you make it until tonight, you will reset your clock perfectly and be in great shape for Paris tomorrow!”
A light, pattering rain started. Pat. Pat. Pat. It was kind of nice, soothing, a gentle little noise that . . .
When I woke up, I was slumped on the sofa, still clinging to my computer. I was woken by the sound of what I thought was a fire station siren. It sounded just like the one that we have in my hometown outside of Philly that alerts the local volunteers to come running to the station. And weirdly, it was right outside the window, in the little garden. I was still groggy, pulling myself in and out of sleep. But it was like tar—it just kept sucking me back.
Maybe you know this kind of sleep? It goes far beyond just sleep. It feels like you’ve been drugged, poisoned, like you brain has actually changed and there will never be a time when you don’t sleep, and you can’t really figure out what’s real and what’s not, and you incorporate everything that happens into your sticky dream world.
But eventually this siren that went on and on and on finally registered in my brain as being kind of weird. It was unlikely that there was a tiny fire station directly beneath the window, only two feet or so away. So I clawed for the coffee table and pulled myself out of the ball I had curled into around my still-warm MacBook Pro and went over to the window to see this tiny fire station for myself.
This one was staffed by cats.
Yes, the little garden outside is full of the most adorable cats in the world. All the apartments have little cat-flaps (including this one), so this is a little kitty social club. And yesterday, the club was . . . well, it was THAT kind of club.
That siren noise? Yeah, that was not one, but TWO cats, all puffed up, backs arched. Those poor cats had . . . needs. The other cats were kind of hanging around, looking mildly interested in this action. Then the rain started again. Most of the cats sauntered off to hide in the doorways, but these two cats held out as long as they could, making their demands known.
So, the garden window is pretty much the scene of debauchery during the day. I’ve told Oscar it is only a matter of time before they come in through that cat flap, seeking favors and treats.
He said, “Why would they?”
I silently pointed to the cat flap. It’s very existence means that they will come.
In my limited experience, British cats seem to live pretty debauched lives and run in and out of each other’s houses via these cat flaps. For example, my actor friends Trevor and Grace Dangerous have a cat named Othello. (Trevor and Grace live, or lived, in the house in Islington that Richard’s house in 13 Little Blue Envelopes was based on—they just moved too. This must be “everybody in England, move!” month.) Othello had a little cat flap in the kitchen that lead to a roof, which connected to various other walls and roofs, giving him the run of several blocks. He had several girlfriends he would meet on the roof, the main one of which was Ching Ching Boo-Face. She was so named by Trevor because she wore a little pink bell around her neck that went ching ching to announce her approach, and if you so much as glanced at Othello (nevermind petting him), she would give you this look that could kill, if she wasn’t such an adorable little cat with a pink bell. This “boo-face” clearly said, “STEP AWAY FROM MY MAN!”
This is Othello. Don't let the innocent face fool you. He is one of London's most notorious.
Othello, Ching Ching Boo-Face, and the Kat Gang went in and out of each other’s cat flaps all the time. Because of this, Trevor and Grace closed the kitchen door at night with Othello in it, so that he could go adventuring but not bring half the neighborhood into their bedroom. Trevor and Grace often woke in the morning to find the kitchen covered in multiple paw prints. One time, they opened the door in the morning to see that Othello had brought them a small stuffed animal, a ladybug, still in a plastic wrapper. The next morning, they opened the door to find an identical ladybug, again in its wrapper. This is when they began to be concerned that Othello had added thieving to his life of vice.
This is what we can expect from the cat flap. But this is fine by me. I love cats, even sinful ones.
In any case, Happy Independence Day to my fellow Americans, and anyone else who would like to be wished a Happy Independence Day!
A quick note about Bartlesville: many of you have written in to tell me that Neil Gaiman posted my note about the banning on his site (and welcome, if you’ve come from there). Neil Gaiman won the Defender of Liberty award for working against censorship, and he has raised a lot of money for the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund. He doesn’t like book banning, and his support in this matter has been much, much appreciated. I also saw the Galleycat pieces on my Bartlesville saga, including the one about the flooding. I am very sorry to hear about the Bartlesville floods, and I hope everyone there is safe.
Many people have asked if I’ve sent books down to the school or the library. I have, to both. Those “reserve shelf” copies are presumably the ones that came from my own Shelf of Myself. (The real name I have given to the shelf of my books behind my desk, because really, what else am I going to call it?)
And about the banning . . . like I’ve said before, I’m not half done. I’m working on something right now to try to take this a bit further, and if it works, you’ll be hearing about it. Fighting book banning . . . now THAT’S a good way to spend Independence Day.
