"I'd get what I needed and take what I wanted, and I'd remember those who helped me and step on the rest. For this, I knew, was the law by which our family lived..."

Nine Prince in Amber by Roger Zelazny

I adore Amber. I've still never read further than Nine Princes - but I have the Great Book out of the library, so I'm going to try to rectify that. Nor have I ever managed to actually play a game of Amber Diceless, though I did make it all the way through the attribute auction in an PBeM once.

But anyway. There's something in that premise that just resonates at my frequency. The ruthless, endless, convoluted twine of Amberrite politics. It's just beautiful.

(Finished The Etched City last night in a hour-and-a-half sprint of hoping that she might bring it home in a satisfying manner. I didn't really find it so, must admit. So now I can go read Tessa's review, and probably disagree. But it'd be a boring world if we were all the same.)

These pants just ain't big enough for the both of us.

I'm into the last third of KJ Bishop's The Etched City and things are finally making me sit up and pay attention. If this had happened about a hundred pages ago, I might not be so vaguely dissatisfied with this book.

My problem, I think, is that everyone I read in this steam-punk-fantasy sort of sub-genre - China Mieville, Mary Gentle, and now KJ Bishop - just seems to be reworking the vision of M John Harrison. Who did that himself, providing multiple facets of his own One True City in different stories. So really, there's no need for me to go to outside sources; I can just re-read Viriconium. Except that I forced Jojo to borrow it. Sshh.

Of course, I'm a fantasy reader. Why should the recycling of themes and tropes trouble me?

Pursuing that line of inquiry brings me back to considering the fundamentals of what I want out of a good story, or the iniquitous "Why do I read fantasy anyway?" question. The answer, I think - but this is liable to change at any moment, naturally - is that I like non-Mundane characters in non-Mundane situations in BIG stories (where the value of BIGness can involve, but is not limited to, the fate of the world and/or reality as we know it).

I like Guy Gavriel Kay. I like Georgie-boy Martin. I adored Jennifer Fallon's Second Son trilogy, which hordes of people including the readers for the Aurealis Awards try to tell me isn't fantasy at all.

I tried to read Perdido Street Station (because, you know, I like to be able to heap vitriolic abuse upon something from a position of knowledge) and failed, because the characters were everyday boring people and I didn't give a fuck. I got the idea I should be boggling at the shiny grungy (but secretly shiny) details of his world, the stunning new sentient fantasy creatures, the "scope" of his "vision" (or whatever the buzzwords are), but frankly, I just did not give a fuck.

Or perhaps my problem is merely that that brand of fantasy is frequently aiming (whether wankfully or with admirable sincerity) at a more "literary" state of storytelling, and as much as I try, I just seem to get bored with "literature". Probably because, it seems to me (correctly or not) that in literature, one is not allowed to deeply and passionately care about the characters. They must instead be Realistic and Flawed. (I adore flawed characters. Yet somehow "literary" characters just make me break out in hives. For hives, read: "spontaneous fits of book-hurling".)

I think I've just swallowed my own tail (and possibly even tale), so this seems to be a good place to conclude this meander into Dee's brain.

Not me: What's the matter?
Me: Well, the last time I said hello to an inanimate object, it flew at my head.
Not me: That was a duck.
Me: What's your point? Ducks aren't animated.
Not me: Daffy is.
Me: Shut up.

Another one of those conversations that didn't happen in this universe.

Help help! Anthony's summer pudding has gone feral and is holding the Doritos to ransom!

In other, slightly more accurate news: The plan for this week involves zero socialising, zero online time-wastage, and zero university (helped by it being holidays). It also, hopefully, involves metric fuckloads of actual writing getting done.

Here's hoping.

I find it amazing that I can have worked with someone for a year and not have found out until this afternoon that he's A) a huge Augie March fan and B) studying International Relations focussing on strategy.

I guess it really comes of not actually working with these people - there's only ever one person on at a time, so our total interaction comes through the communication book and in five minute shift-changes. Unless, of course, ten boxes of books come in that need the contents page stickered with the right numbers by Tuesday, so we have to sit down and stare intently at the stickers while we try to peel the backs off (and the cry of "motherfucking papercuts!" was heard throughout the land).

The moral of the story is: Workmates are cool.

Rummaging through archives of one thing or another, I came upon this quote, apparently by me, and it does kinda sound like me. Why can't I be this witty any more?

'That just goes to show how my thesis is slowing leeching my brain out of my skull and keeping it in a small canopic jar on its coffee table where its friends can come around for cocktails and ask: "Oh, what's that?" and my thesis can smirk and say: "Just a little brain that I picked up somewhere. Have some more caviar."'

Lack of thesis, probably. Thesis unhinges the brain to the point of brilliance on everything but the actual thesis topic.

Did anyone see on the news something about a balcony collapsing and injuring people in Sydney?

Apparently my boss was on that balcony.

And one of our authors had major heart surgery a few weeks back. Brolga Publishing: where the fun never stops.

Afny wishes to disagree with my previous point about the relative ass-kickingness of Sean Bean and Nic Cage. His first reason for dissatisfaction is the issue of the relative Hollywood merit of each actor, such that in any movie situation in which the two of them go ten rounds, Cage will inevitably have higher billing and thus will win.

He also maintains that the only time Bean's ever represented was that one time in that one movie, and then only briefly, before he got owned by the orc who wasn't even in the book.

The Village was not actually as mediocre as Jono would have had me believe it was going to be. (Like the fancy tense footwork in that sentence?)

I mean, I'm not entirely sure Joaquin Phoenix, much as I adore the man and worship the celluloid he appears on, wasn't too old to convincingly play that role, and some of the "let's explain it to the stupid (and the Americans) who might not have figured it out yet" annoyed me a little. And don't even get us started on "the Bad Jam".

But it was a tidy little movie, brilliantly shown if not precisely flawless in its underlying logic, deliciously atmospheric and acceptably conceptualised. Worth a watch, though not particularly rewarding for Joaquin Phoenix groupies.

There was also a preview beforehand for National Treasure, a sort of tacky Indiana-Jones-cashes-in-on-Dan-Brown, starring Nicolas Cage. I squealed "Illuminati!" gleefully a few times, as they made with the Templar and dollar-bill stuff, but ye gods, what a horrific sight the movie looked.

And then - and then - Sean Bean appeared on screen. Bringing a touch of class, as always. But just a touch. Not even him at his ragged best can save that movie. Especially when, I mean, think about it. Bean versus Nic Cage? It's all over bar the amusing part where Bean dangles the American nancyboy by his ankles off something very high saying, "Who's your daddy?"

I just got spam entitled "Penis Launcher".

Well, I know what I want for Christmas!

Now there's something you don't see every day: two schoolgirls handcuffed together.

Well, I don't see it every day. I don't know where you hang out.

Going to see Augie March tonight. Which, considering I'm about as sick as I can get without my head exploding from mucus, is probably not a very good idea. Going anyway, fuck it. I want the music.

When John was down on Monday, he took a break from his hectic schedule of shopping (caveat venditor, when John's in town) to try and recruit me. He wasn't very serious about it, which is just as well, because I don't think things like that are supposed to happen over banana pancakes. Martinis, yes. Black coffee, definitely. (Then again, I don't think they'd let him into MI6 with hair that long and a dragon curled around his little finger.)

Anyway, I mentioned it to Afny, who said he thought ASIO would be more my thing. I didn't say that I didn't want to tred on Jen's toes, though I probably should have. Instead, I pointed out that there were a whole raft of reasons why I didn't go into DFAT in the first place, having quite a bit to do with looking around my Honours group and realising I would be spending the rest of my life with people like this, but mostly having to do with my distaste for the idea of taking variables, feeding them through formula policy, and providing unambitious briefs. For a living. Forever.

I like my diplomacy conducted with a fan and a careful choice of adverb. I was so born in the wrong era. But failing time travel, writing fantasy fiction will have to suffice.

Sometimes the problem with being sick is that one (or at least this one) starts having strange thoughts, like, "I wonder what this inanely grinning Medicare fellow would do if I suddenly pulled out two sawn-off shotguns and started getting all Tarantino."

And then thinking that the biggest problem with this hypothetical is that I don't actually have two sawn-off shotguns.

This post was going to be about nose-blowing and tea-towels, but that's been vetoed by the Management.

Instead, I shall grace you with the sentence in the typeset that made me dissolve into giggles today:

He opened his eyes and raised himself up on his eyebrows.

Original sentence: Something aroused him and he surged erect, eyes wide open.

Ahem?

Suggested alteration: Something roused him and he surged to his feet, eyes wide open.

The delicate art of editing in action!

My top five reasons why I will never be chosen for a reality TV show:

1: I swear too much for primetime.
2: I'm an anti-social, sarcastic bitch who doesn't care about other people, and not in that warm, fuzzy, inclusive way.
3: Sometimes the most interesting thing I do all day is make coffee.
4: I don't drink tea. (This is more important than you think.)
5: When someone mentions "a Brazilian", I think they're talking about a football player.

Any time I've walked into any food place today, Spiderbait's "Alex the Seal" has been playing.

OK, so that's a grand total of two establishments, but it doesn't sound nearly as conspiratorial when I enumerate it.

Further adventures in book retail:

Customer: Do you have any books suitable for someone like me?
Sarah: Well, I don't really know you that well...

Customer (on phone): I need you to re-send me that Christmas list.
Me: ...what Christmas list?
Customer: You know, that list of books for Christmas.
Me: Uh?
Customer: The Christmas book list? For kids? I lost it. I need it resent.
Me: Are you sure we sent it to you?
Customer: Yes.
Me: Boss? Christmas kids book list for ordering?
Boss: WTF??
Me: Sorry, I don't think that was us.
Customer: Oh. Bye then.

Customer: What sort of bookshop is this?
Sarah: The sort that sells books?

Customer: Do you have that book? It was on TV.
Me: ...

But the winner is:
Customer (in the back shelves): Uh, excuse me?
Me: Yes, what can I help you w--OH MY GOD!
Customer's daughter: We just picked up a book and the shelf fell down.
Customer: help?

Also, which part of the French manicure should be done first, the white or the pink?

Also, shouldn't a French manicure be tricolour? (Does it show that I'm currently reading a novel set during the French Revolution?) That sounds much more interesting. Except I don't have any blue nailpolish. A French manicure without... what does the blue stand for, anyway? Liberty, I suspect, judging from the themes of the Three Colours movies.

Help, help, the fraternity and equality of my manicure is oppressing me.

Is there anything as good as cheesecake yoghurt?

Except maybe chocolate cake. Specifically, chocolate cake cooking in the oven while licking the bowl. Yep. That's next.

My eyes are mostly grey, just grey, faintest sheen of gunmetal blue, but pretty much grey. Open wide, when the pupils contract, it's like the tide goes out, leaving this lacy, ragged border of faint brown tones, throwing striations out into the rest of the iris.

It's odd to have a weekend day with nothing in it, no engagements, no Anthony to share the house with. He's off for his Nonno's birthday, and I'm staring at my own eyes in the mirror.

It's delicious, such freeness of time.

Later, I might even give myself a French manicure, if I can figure out what those little bits of sticky paper are for, and whether I have enough white to deal with the talons that my third and fourth left-hand fingers have become.