I don’t know how you single-topic bloggers do it.

Four days of Snape-bloggery, and I’ve had enough. I hate to be tied to a single topic. That’s the real reason why I had to kick him and  Mrs. Snape out yesterday.

That, and my fear that the REAL authors who read my blog will worry that their character will be next! If Hoffman will do Rowling fanfic, no one’s safe. Griffin Calverson might show up to render his version of How to Handle a Woman. Dr. Cherijo Veil could be forced to lecture us on the barbarous medical practices of the 21st Century, and Dubric would feel obliged to investigate that dead body we swept under the rug last week.

Justin Delgado might have to come ’round to pop a cap in my ass, but Lili, with access to so many psychics, you already knew that. On a brighter note, all you erotica writers might each donate one of your characters, and we could have quite the orgy, yessirree. That chick at the top of Selah’s blog can sit on my desk. I don’t care if she’s 96 by now — she’s hot.  Sam, if you would send over Darla’s Valentine, I’d be much obliged.

I’d pimp my own characters, except y’all tend to run the other way whenever Bare Rump has a guest spot.

Anyway . . . I’m back.

D.

Magical hogwash

“Walnut” (and what is it about you muggles and your nicknames? I am reminded of Regina Whitworth, a fellow Slytherin whom I dated during my fourth year at Hogwarts. She insisted on calling me Sevvy, but I put an end to that. Afflicted her with a lengua paralyticus potion; every “Sevvy” produced an array of painful and unseemly spasms. But in the end, Regina had her revenge. No matter how much I wash my hair, it looks like this) finished Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimaeus trilogy today and saw fit to regale me with a tiresome series of quotes and anecdotes.

After an aeon, he noticed my angoisse de vivre and queried, “Did I say something wrong, Professor?”

“No, not at all. I was simply having a painful flashback. Earlier this year, I caught Parvati and Padma Patil giggling over a passage in Ptolemy’s Gate. I made them recount the whole nonsensical mess to me, right then and there.”

“I . . . I don’t think I understand your hostility,” said my host.

“No? Well, let me tell you.”

First, let it not be said that I am immune to the charms of popular culture. Often I listen to Claude Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune on my phonograph whilst sipping espresso and reading Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. I’m not a “total square,” you see. I do, however, object to our young magicians heads’ being filled with this claptrap Mr. Stroud calls entertainment.

I pinned Walnut with my most penetrating stare, the one that makes my Gryffindor students soil their robes.

“It’s stuff and nonsense,” said I. “The magicians in this trilogy are petty, cruel, cowardly, egotistical megalomaniacs. Name me one Hogwarts-trained magician who fits that description.”

“Um, well, there’s He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Not cowardly enough. Try again.”

“Lucius Malfoy?”

“He only plays at cruelty. If Lucius spent more time practicing his Unforgivable Curses and less time preening before the mirror, he might meet the description.”

Walnut squirmed. “Concede the point,” I said. “Without magic, your muggle world would be tawdry. And without magicians, there would be no magic.”

“True enough,” said Walnut. “I rather like Penn and Teller.”

“Grrrrrrr.”

“You still haven’t fully explained your enmity towards the Bartimaeus Trilogy.”

“Imps.”

“Imps?”

“Imps.” I gave a sniff and a dismissive wave. “House elves, by any other name –”

“That’s not true! Stroud’s imps are far more powerful than your house elves.”

“House elves with attitude, I’ll grant them that. And Stroud’s writing –”

“Oh!” said Walnut. “You can’t seriously criticize Stroud’s writing, not if you’re going to compare him to Rowling. Stroud’s a far better writer.”

I growled again and slunk away.

“I know,” said I. “And it galls me mightily.”

I told Dumbledore to audition other candidates for Chief Chronicler, but the fool was quite taken with the woman, heaven only knows why. Perhaps it was her plump, delectable scones.

S.

Easter Eggs

For those of you who don’t play computer games, an Easter Egg is a little extra something that programmers stick into a game to please their loyal gamers. Let me see if I can give you a few.

Demented Michelle has a book giveaway: Hunter’s Moon, a paranormal romance by C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. Here’s Michelle’s summary:

The heroine has just won the lottery, which you think would buy her happiness, but, instead, she wants to kill herself.

But the cold and (supposedly) heartless hitman she hires to do the job, can’t follow through. The mistmatched pair fall into some heavy lust, which leads to a more enduring romantic bond, one that is forged as they deal with the mafia, the heroine’s toxic family, and the small, little fact that the hitman is also a werewolf.

Head on over and sign up.

Some of you may want to check out Bookseller Chick’s roundup of recommended Young Adult fiction. I think I’m responsible for that thread, owing to my rave about the Bartimaeus trilogy, which Kate & BSC both recommended. Jake and I did make it back to Barnes and Noble, by the way, and we picked up  Twilight and The Book Thief.

Is there anyone out there who doesn’t know about Paperback Writer’s Friday 20? Every Friday, PBW answers 20 questions from her readers regarding publishing and writing. Good stuff. She and Bookseller Chick both have recent posts about title-repeats, by the way, which reminds me: high time I checked to see if my collection of three one-word titles are fresh and original or not. I kinda doubt it.

Oops, family is here. Gotta run. I’ll try to add to this later.

D.