Interesting week. Monday night I was riding the tram and a girl sat down next to me holding a giant box of candy apples. I asked her what they were for. She explained that her sorority (Sigma Lambda Gamma, the national multicultural sorority) was selling them to raise money for breast cancer research, so I bought one. She also invited me to come along to their breast cancer awareness candlelight vigil, so I went to that Tuesday night.
On Friday I managed to find my way over to the Health Sciences campus to see an appearance by Oliver Sacks, author of the book The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat and subject of the film Awakenings. Well over a hundred people came to see him, and the crowds were jammed along the back and side walls of the auditorium. He spoke about some of the strange intersections between psychology and music. People with debilitating conditions such as stuttering or even Parkinson’s often see their symptoms temporarily recede when they do something musical — sing, dance, play the piano, or even just think about music. One of the professors present testified to this — a few months ago she was in a car accident that involved massive head trauma, which rendered her unable to speak to several weeks. When this professor’s mother came to visit her in the hospital, the only way this professor was able to communicate was by singing an aria.
After that I drove over to a bar in Silver Lake to celebrate the birthday of one of my friends from grad school. While there, I met a teacher, who said, “Are you another writer?” I nodded. She said, “Everyone here is a writer. All anyone is talking about is writing. Can you talk about anything besides writing?” I was like, “Um … well, I just went to this lecture by Oliver Sacks. He wrote this famous book called The Man Who Mistook His … oh wait, I guess that kind of has to do with writing. Sorry.”
And speaking of writing, yesterday I went to the West Hollywood Book Fair, which was awesome. I went to panels on thrillers, vampires, and spec fic, ran into a bunch of people I knew, and met some really cool new people, including an SC student who’s working on a memoir about her days as a Vegas showgirl. (She’s already written three volumes, which makes me contemplate the prospect of being in your twenties and having a life that would take up three volumes. I think I’m probably good for a solid novella-length memoir. Or maybe novelette. Oh hell, short story.)
Last year I was talking to another one of my friends from grad school, who told me that one of her best friends had just published a first novel, a fantasy about dragons aboard Napoleanic-era ships. I mentioned it to The Slush God, who was sufficiently intrigued to hunt down an advance copy (and who gave it an enthusiastic review). The author’s name is Naomi Novik. If you haven’t heard of her, you will, because her fantasy series was just optioned by frickin’ Peter Jackson. Holy crap. My friend here was telling me that the negotiations have been in progress for six months, so Naomi has known about this bombshell but hasn’t been allowed to tell anyone, even her parents. Anyway, congratulations Naomi. That’s amazing.
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